𝘾𝙚𝙡𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙩

So let me preface this my pointing out that as far as I’ve been able to gather Celtic culture while holding distinctive characteristics was extremely fluid in terms of cultural practice and politics. I have also taken the liberty of filling in certain gaps in our understanding that strictly speaking we have no way of confirming or understanding the cultural context for. I have listed my primary sources at the bottom of this post and will be reblogging whenever I add new resources or adjustment my headcanons based on new research or sources I find. Our knowledge of the Celts is continually evolving as is my own. 

In regards to terms I’m relying largely on Irish and Welsh as they’re the most relavant to the blog and will try to clarify which specific culture I am referring to within the context of my posts. 

Politics- Celtic politics were extremely fluid. In broad strokes Kings were elected by council though these elections were rarely peaceful with rival factions fighting until one proves victorious. Because of this the Celtic warrior class was extremely powerful with many kings being able to hold power based solely on bribing and offering monetary and other rewards to the warriors in their service. This is explicitly stated to be how Conchobar of Ulster remains in power in the Ulster Cycle. However it should be noted this practice did not guarantee loyalty. It seems to be be that the King was expected to provide for his warriors as well as his people because of social obligation while the Warrior class in particularly was free to leave and give their services to others if they received another offer or came to disprove of their current Ruler’s actions. This fluidity of loyalty seems to have been accepted and to a degree expected. 

Geas/ Geasa and Tynged/ Tynghedau- Perhaps tying into Celtic belief in social obligation a geas/tynged (geasa/ tynghedau are the Irish and Welsh plural forms). In broad strokes it seems to a kind of obligation that one can place on others or themselves as is the case with Cú Chulainn. Irish High Kings could have dozens or more there seems to be a correlation between one’s power/status and one’s number of geasa. I have taken it further by headcanoning that honoring and fulfilling one’s geasa adds to and builds up ones own power as it is frequently shown in Irish lore that violating one’s geasa will result in death or other misfortune. 

The Celtic Pantheon- I have posted about my take on Celtic mythology before >HERE< and >HERE< but suffice to say it is as fluid as Celtic culture and politics. But I want to be very adamant that I am not going to favor one group over the other. There has been a long and frankly very ugly history of dismissing Welsh, Irish and Scottish folk beliefs that I want to avoid perpetuating on this blog. NOTE: In terms of interaction I get the impression one was allowed to talk back to one’s gods and even correct their behavior much as warriors were allowed to do with their Kings.

Religious Practices- This is extremely tricky as most of what we’re given is vague and described by non- Celtic sources so most of what I’m about to describe is strictly headcanon based. All pools and bodies of water are believed to be doors to the Otherworld. It is therefor customary for Celts to provide an offering of some kind to bribe or get a deities attention. (Lancelot himself will use this as a means of communicating with his mother.) Birds are also seen as messengers between the human and Otherworld with sacrifices sometimes made to lure birds to a sites and then carry the prayers offered by the druids and supplicants back to the Gods. 

Heads- While an abundance of writing and other evidence exists that the Celts had some kind of Cult surrounding the head/brain we’re not particularly sure why. I’ve interpreted it that the Celts believed one’s soul/power resided in the head and that by taking and preserving the head or brain one was adding to one’s own as well as keeping your enemy from entering the Otherworld and reincarnating. 

Children- I am admittedly sorry for putting this under the rather graphic bullet point above. But the Celts were not like their neighbors Romans or Greeks and did not view their children as disposable. One was required to look after one’s children, the elderly and disabled. I can think of no better example of this than Amergin mac Eccit from the Ulster cycle who was unable to physically care for himself until his teens with his father Eccit going to extraordinary lengths to protect his son who is later described as a wise poet and warrior despite his disabilities. This is also why Lancelot insists on making Galahad his heir even if he struggles to form a bond with him as it is culturally unacceptable to him to not provide for him on some level. Children were also only considered illegitimate if no one claimed to be their father. 

Relationships/ Sexuality/ Gender Roles- This is likely the most difficult to headcanon and has required the biggest leaps on my part. But it seems to be that the Celts were comfortable and open with queer relationships an taking lovers outside of marriage with the upper classes in particular engaging in seemingly polyamorous unions. All sexes could become Druids or Warriors or even rule in their own right. Boudicca and Medb in the Ulster cycle are excellent examples of this. 

Sources

Cunliffe, Barry. The Ancient Celts. Oxford University Press, 1997.

Koch, John T., and John Carey, editors. The Celtic Heroic Age: Literary Sources for Ancient Celtic Europe & Early Ireland & Wales. Celtic Studies Publications, 2003.

Ginnell, Laurence. Brehon Laws: A Legal Handbook (3rd Ed.).

ANWYL, EDWARD. CELTIC RELIGION. BLURB, 1906.

Eickhoff, Randy Lee. The Red Branch Tales. Forge, 2004.

MacCullough, J. A. The Religion of the Ancient Celts. T & T Clark, 1911.

Paxton, Jennifer. “The Celtic World.” The Great Courses. The Celtic World, 2018. 

Andrews, Elizabeth. Ulster Folklore. Norwood Editions, 1975. 

Arnold, Matthew. On the Study of Celtic Literature, and, On Translating Homer. Macmillan, 1902. 

Leahy, Arthur Herbert. Heroic Romances of Ireland. D. Nutt, 1905. 

O'Rahilly, Cecile. Táin bó Cúalnge: From the Book of Leinster. Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 2004. 

Invasion of the Star Creatures

I promised you guys something truly awful this week, didn’t I?  Well, how about a space invasion ‘comedy’ (big emphasis on the air quotes there) produced by Samuel Zarkoff to be a double-bill with The Brain that Wouldn’t Die?  The closest thing it has to a star is Frankie Ray, whom MSTies might know as the writer of Laserblast.  He also wrote Zoltan, Hound of Dracula, which I really, really need to see one of these days.  Film Historian Bill Warren described Invasion of the Star Creatures as ‘so helplessly bad it’s almost unwatchable’.  Let’s find out if he was right.

Fort Nicholson is the world’s center for atomic research, despite apparently being staffed entirely by idiots.  The two biggest idiots are, unfortunately, our main characters.  Their names are Philbrick and Penn.  No, I don’t know which is which.  No, I don’t care.  I’m gonna call them Rick and Rick With The Squeaky Voice.  The first ‘comedic’ sequence involves Rick With The Squeaky Voice sitting in a barrel pretending he’s going to space, and getting his ass set on fire.

That sets the tone for the whole movie quite nicely. It’s stupid and it’s not funny, and it never gets any better.  In fact, as we shall see, it gets significantly worse.

For some reason, Rick and Rick With The Squeaky Voice are assigned to a mission to explore a cave recently exposed by a nuclear test.  This turns out to be the base for two seven-foot space women, Tanga and Pona, and their tuberous minions, the Vege-Men, and the entire party is soon in their clutches.  The aliens say that they have come to save humanity from destroying ourselves through nuclear war, but naturally the army isn’t into that.  Rick With The Squeaky Voice discovers that kissing the women puts them into a daze, allowing the two idiots to escape, but of course nobody back at Fort Nicholson believes their story.  Is it really up to these two to stop Tanga and Pona from heading back to their home planet with their report?  We’re doomed.

I don’t remember which review it was, but I once invited you to imagine a movie in which every character is Dropo or Watney Smith.  This is that movie.  This is proud of being that movie.  The aliens try to read the two Ricks’ minds and one is completely empty while the other is full of superhero fantasies.  Pona calls what she sees ‘completely illogical and infantile’, which is a fair description of the whole movie.

There’s a sequence where one of the army men shoots a rattlesnake that was about to bite one of the Ricks, and then cries because ‘he might have had a family’.  They try to lampoon the thing in old movies where the characters walk through the same set from different angles by doing it without cutting away or changing the camera angle, but it just looks dumb.  The Colonel gives a long-winded speech about the merits of getting straight to the point.  A forced march stops for a lovely picnic and wine tasting.  A guy gets his ass kicked by a Vege-Man and declares, “that’s the first time a salad ever tossed me.”  There’s a running ‘gag’ about fans of ‘Space Commander Connors’ recognizing each other’s secret decoder rings and immediately going into a full-on geek-out.

None of this is funny, much of it is downright embarrassing, and the worst part is that the writers have no idea how to include their attempts at comedy in the story.  Rather than the hijinks advancing the plot, every time something that’s supposed to be funny happens, the whole thing comes to a dead halt.  This gives the impression that the movie is stumbling around in the dark with no idea where it’s going.  It finally seems to settle on a plot when we find out that the spaceship is about to leave and must be stopped.  After some bullshit the Ricks convince the Colonel (and only the Colonel) to help them take on the aliens.  At this point I was thinking that this movie was pretty terrible but it hadn’t actually pushed me to the point of being tempted to turn it off…

And then it got racist.

The last ten minutes or so of Invasion of the Star Creatures are a downward spiral in which it seems like they gave up trying to be funny in favour of being actively offensive. First, they encounter what’s supposed to be a group of Native Americans on horseback.  Rick With The Squeaky Voice tries to get their attention by saying “hey, Kemosabe, I wanna buy some blankets!”  The Natives don’t speak much English but they do a lot of grunting, and threaten to kill the Colonel because they think he’s General Custer (?!).  Then they kidnap everybody and force them to smoke the peace pipe and drink firewater and the white guys only escape once the Natives have passed out.

Holy shit.  Not only is this repulsive, it is, as previously noted, irrelevant.  It has no effect on the plot other than to waste time.  The Natives do not help them defeat the aliens and neither does the Colonel, who is also in a drunken stupor.  And then, just when we think this can’t possibly get any worse, the defeated alien women declare that they must throw themselves on the mercy of the Earth Men.  This turns out to mean marrying them, and the dialogue specifically likens marriage to slavery, which Tanga and Pona seem to consider a point in its favour!  The end of this movie left my head spinning.  It’s like I watched a guy get ‘comedically’ knocked over by a punching bag for forty-five minutes and then he suddenly turned around and punched me in the face.

(Hey, I just realized… remember how I said the cave was exposed by a nuclear test?  The dialogue emphasizes how this whole area is irradiated and dangerous – and then totally forgets about it.  It’s never mentioned again and the characters take off their protective gear and never put it back on.  So… that was useless, too.)

There is stuff in this movie that could have been funny.  The secret decoder ring stuff almost got a smile out of me once or twice, because the characters seemed so earnest in their love for ‘Space Commander Connors’ and his lore.  The ‘Vege-Men’ also had potential.  We get to see a greenhouse room where they’re grown to be the women’s slaves, and the seedlings are hands or feet sticking out of flowerpots with a few leaves around them.  This is fairly amusing and I could see it being the juvenile form of a sentient plant on Star Trek TOS.  Adult Vege-Men are actors in stupid carrot costumes that they obviously can’t see out of very well, which should have been funny just because it’s so terrible, but Invasion of the Star Creatures is so bad you can’t even laugh at it ironically.

The idea of using a bumbling idiot as your main character, let alone two bumbling idiots, frankly baffles me.  Rick and Rick With The Squeaky Voice are supposed to be the guys we, the audience, identify with.  We’re supposed to like and root for them and to perhaps be able to imagine ourselves in their places, but the only thing I feel for them is contempt.  Why would anyone want to see themselves in these guys?  Perhaps it’s an attempt to say that anybody can be a hero, but the two Ricks don’t even qualify as that.  When they save the world, it’s basically by accident.  The ending, which rewards them with promotions, medals, and beautiful wives from outer space, actively makes me angry because they didn’t earn any of that!

Invasion of the Star Creatures works very hard at being pointless, and there’s very little in it that comes anywhere near a theme.  If any such thing exists, its in Tanga and Pona’s insistence that they’re here to save humanity whether we like it or not, and how the humans react to that idea.  The women say it would be a shame to see a young civilization destroy itself because nations were too stupid to work together.  Rick and Rick With The Squeaky Voice reject this entirely, which is supposed to be a joke: these guys are in the army, so if humanity transcends the need for conflict they’d be out of a job.  The rest of the plot then seems at pain to emphasize that humans cannot work together, and do not want to.

After all, the two Ricks’ attempts to summon help come to nothing.  The Native Americans never understand that these men want assistance, and the Colonel thinks it’s all a Space Commander Connors game before sliding under the metaphorical table, having never done anything useful.  The Ricks themselves spent most of their time arguing and complaining and in the end succeed only through good luck on their part and poor timing on that of the invaders.  Usually a story that begins with ‘aliens want to save primitive humans from ourselves’ would end with ‘the aliens were wrong about us’.  Invasion of the Star Creatures seems to want to say the aliens were right the whole time!

So there you have it – Invasion of the Star Creatures.  It started off kinda bad and not funny, then swirled down the cinematic toilet into outright offensive, racist, sexist drivel.  I’m trying to think of some small thing I can say about it that’s nice, but I’m having a very hard time.  I guess I kinda liked the rumbly noises that represent the alien language – that was more fun than just having the actresses spout random gobbledygook.  Other than that, I’m at a loss.  The actors suck, the sets suck, the effects suck, the costumes suck, and everybody involved was a bigoted dickweed.  Fuck this movie.

Unus Annus. Momento Mori.

These were the words we’ve been told since day one. Over three-hundred sixty-five days we got to know two men and two characters more than we’ve ever known anyone. Three-hundred sixty-five days, three-hundred sixty-five videos. Three-hundred sixty-five memories to hold dear, before it’s all gone forever. We all take a collective, deep sigh as we watch the clock tick down more and more each video. We laugh along with Ethan and Mark, with Unus and Annus. Sometimes a year feels like forever, yet other times a year feels like only a few moments. Each moment must be cherished, because you never know when it’ll be gone forever. We knew from day one that once the clock strikes zero, everything will be deleted. All videos, the only things remaining being some fanart and our merchandise. Nothing more. Nothing that is concrete proof to new generations of what this was. In the beginning, the two aforementioned men appeared before us, to tell us the following;

Ethan: We live our lives taking each second for granted…

Mark: But what would you do if you knew how much time you have left?

Ethan: Unus Annus…

Mark: One Year.

Ethan: This channel, much like all of you, has a limited amount of time…

Mark: And every day, we March ever closer to this channel’s inevitable doom.

Ethan: That means we will be uploading every single day until the clock strikes zero…

Mark: And then, it’s game over.

Ethan: Bye-bye.

Mark: Finito.

Ethan: Finished.

Mark: Curtains.

Ethan: Gone, gone.

Mark: Night-night.

Ethan: Dead.

Mark: Forever.

So we knew precisely what we were getting into, correct? ...Right? Well, as the clock further reaches towards zero, I’m unsure. We’ve caught glitches in the clock, noticed little details in the videos. These two aren’t exactly known for just… getting rid of their work. Especially Mark. He never just does something to do it when it comes to his projects, look at “A Date With Markiplier” or “A Heist With Markiplier”. Mark and Ethan are both storytellers, creating whole worlds and lore just with their own personalities. So what I’m getting at… What if there’s some way to turn back the clock? To “hit reset” and flip the hourglass back over?

 “Memento mori; but don’t forget memento vivere - remember to live”

Sean Payton's Coaching Borders on Legendary

If you've ever watched one of those old videos by NFL Films, then you are more than likely aware of some of the legendary head-coaching figures from throughout the League's 100-year history.

Figures like Vince Lombardi, for whom the trophy that's awarded to the winner of the Super Bowl every year, is named for. There's George Halas, who founded the Chicago Bears franchise and was revered by players that were (and are) legends themselves, like Dick Butkus and Mike Ditka.

And who can forget the 1970's, when coaches such as Hank Stram of the Kansas City Chiefs, Tom Landry of the Dallas Cowboys, Don Shula of the Miami Dolphins, or Chuck Noll of the Pittsburgh Steelers, all had their respective turns in the spotlight.

Now some four decades after those men all rose to Pro Football prominence, there's another name that someday is guaranteed to be added among those unforgettable figures from the past.

And that name is Patrick "Sean" Payton.  

Now in his 13th season at the helm of the New Orleans Saints franchise, the effort turned in by Payton thus far through the first half of the current 2019 NFL Season is bordering on being legendary, just like those men in those NFL Films videos.

In the team's first seven games, the 55-year-old Payton has defied the most improbable of odds, by continuing to succeed in one of the worst situations that anyone who is familiar with how things work in the NFL, could possibly ever imagine.

Payton not only lost his starting quarterback, but one who someday will be in the NFL Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio himself, in 19th year veteran Drew Brees.

But instead of pressing the proverbial 'panic button' or throwing in the towel on what could have been written off as a lost season altogether, Payton simply refused to yield to such temptation and declined to take the easy way out. What he did instead, was raised the standards of both the players and his coaching staff.

Now five weeks removed from what most experts believed was a catastrophic consequence when Brees tore the thumb ligament on his throwing hand, New Orleans suddenly finds itself with a 5-game winning streak, a game-and-a-half lead in the NFC South Division, and the current #2 Playoff seed in the NFC.

It's an effort that one can argue, not only makes him an early favorite to earn NFL Coach of the Year honors after this season, but will be looked back upon in the upcoming years ahead as an achievement rivaled only by those coaching legends of 100-year NFL lore.

"I don't know if you ever get used to it, but you understand that's part of the deal", Payton told ESPN beat writer Mike Triplett in a recent one-on-one interview.

"I think there's always that challenge of putting the right plan together. I don't want to say pressure. But you're always wanting to make sure you've seen everything, you've thought through everything."

Payton's effort in keeping New Orleans among the League's best teams, could be viewed by some as not being nearly as impressive as a few other outstanding coaching jobs that have been turned in the first half of the season.

Frank Reich of the Indianapolis Colts, Matt LaFleur of the Green Bay Packers, Kyle Shanahan of the San Francisco 49ers, and Kliff Kingsbury of the Arizona Cardinals (whom the Saints will host this Sunday at the Superdome), all are worthy candidates for the award.

Each have had their own great moments on the sidelines so far this season, and it would be disingenuous not to think that any of their accomplishments are any less impressive than Payton's has been.

But the job that Payton has done — when many had predicted "doom and gloom" and had already began shoveling dirt on top of a Saints season thought to be dead and buried — is the stuff of pure legend.

"What Sean's always done a great job of doing is just playing to the strengths of what's available", Brees told Triplett. "His play-calling, his instincts, his ability to cater to the guys who are out there and put them in the best positions to succeed, are second to none".

Brees' point of view is one widely shared throughout NFL circles, but never has it been more evident than it's been the past several weeks; as Payton has brilliantly demonstrated the wherewithal to sustain success when many believed it was his destiny to fail.

But failure was never an option that Payton would allow his team or the organization to even ponder for a split second.

That in and of itself, speaks to the man that Patrick "Sean" Payton has always been, and will continue to be until the day that he eventually ends what has a phenomenal 30-plus year coaching career.

What Payton has done in the last several weeks, will never be forgotten; and not only by Who Dats and the uber-passionate members of the "Who Dat Nation" Saints fan-base, but football fans in general.

It's a remarkable achievement that not only will be remembered this year for overcoming what was the most dire of circumstances, but one that Pro Football  history someday will look back upon with great reverence.

An achievement that one could even say, borders on becoming "legendary".

Out of the Darkness

Hi everyone, and welcome to "Out of the Darkness"! Just a few things I'd like to get out of the way:

Karalynn Bristow is not a human noble; want to put that out there first and foremost. It's solely a preference thing; you'll know what she's about pretty soon.

I will take liberties with a few canon details here and there, and I'll be happy to point them out or even offer explanations if anyone wishes me to.

This story is the first of three total stories encompassing the Inquisition storyline. HOWEVER, there will also be what I like to call "deleted scenes" that I'll post as separate works; basically little snippets here and there that don't necessarily need to be in the main story.

This will eventually lead to Cullen/Inquisitor, though the bulk of the romance will begin in the next story. If you're familiar with the romance from the game, you'll likely know what I mean.

I want to thank my good friend @veridium-bye!. She helped me a great deal in editing this thing, and indulged me in my ideas and rants about lore and whatnot. Please check her out, she also writes great fics! 

Generally, I will post a chapter every few days; if that changes, I will let you know.

All right! Thanks for reading my schpiel, let's get into it!

P.S. - some of you might wonder why I describe Leliana as wearing "dark armor" - I envision her in my head looking like she does in the "Dark and Worn - Leliana Remade" mod: (minus the green eyes the mod gives her)

Also, here’s a link to the story on Ao3!

Forward

The Chantry, the dominant religious organization in Thedas, is law.

It is rooted in four core principles which shape its very rule:

Firstly, magic is a corrupting influence in the world, and it should only be used to serve man; never to control him.

Second, Humankind’s sin of pride destroyed the Golden City, the seat of the Maker, and created darkspawn. The darkspawn are the living embodiment of that sin, and it is these creatures that released the taint upon the world.

Third is that the blessed Andraste was the bride of the Maker, a prophet and martyr whose ultimate sacrifice must be remembered and honored.

And finally, Humankind has sinned and must seek penance to earn the Maker’s forgiveness. When all people unite to praise the Maker, He will return to the world and make it a paradise.

Every Chantry in Thedas preaches this, and yet Thedas could not be farther from the Maker’s return. Humans are the only race to openly practice and participate in this religion, and as such, they are quick to segregate themselves from the other races of the land. Elves, dwarves, and Qunari; few members of each race may claim to believe in the Maker, but as such, none would be allowed to serve in the Chantry under any capacity.

And let us not forget those who are most segregated from the world under Chantry law; the mages.

In Thedas, with the exception of Tevinter, humans and elves born with the ability to wield magic are quickly taken into Chantry custody and housed in Circle towers. It is there they are taught how to use their abilities under the watchful eye of the Chantry’s templars. They are evaluated, monitored, and eventually undergo a harrowing to prove their mettle. It is considered a true success for a mage to pass their harrowing, but even so, becoming a full-fledged mage in the eyes of the Circle does not guarantee their freedom. No, under Chantry law, mages are deemed too dangerous to live amongst regular civilians and must remain confined to the Circle tower for the rest of their days. And despite the Chantry’s claim that it is only to ensure the safety of civilians and mages alike, it has been considered an outrage by the latter for ages.

And in 9:37 Dragon, a mage who had been living outside of the Circle, better known as an apostate, was finally driven over the edge by this injustice. He was called Anders, and his rage drove him to a breaking point which caused him to destroy the Chantry of Kirkwall in an explosion that shook the whole of Thedas.

And with that, the Mage Rebellion was born.

One by one, the Circle towers fell. Mages everywhere cast off the shackles of the Chantry and fled to their freedom. But it was not without resistance. The Templars of the Chantry, whose services were long taken advantage of, answered the call to arms and began hunting down these apostates. Their efforts were long taken for granted, however, and eventually they, too, rebelled against the Chantry.

By 9:40, the Chantry’s infrastructure was crumbling and on the verge of ruin. It’s leader, Divine Justinia V, made a final desperate attempt to end the violence once and for all. She called the mages and the templars to meet at her Divine Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes in Haven. If both side of the war could not reach an agreement here and now, Thedas would most assuredly be doomed.

At least, that is what most people thought. That the Mage-Templar War was the greatest danger they faced.

Little did they know that the true danger had yet to reveal itself.

A danger, despite knowing the core principles upon which they are based, that the Chantry did not expect.

Lucky for them, however, that in the face of an unexpected danger, there comes the opportunity for unexpected heroes.

Perhaps, then, the Maker has not entirely turned His back on Thedas after all…

 Chapter 1  

 Everything hurts.

 My head, my back, my knees, my…hand…?

 My left hand…

 Where am I…?

In her groggy waking state, Karalynn Bristow attempted to comprehend these thoughts – though her crippling exhaustion was not making it easy. All was made clear, however, as her eyes drifted open to reveal an unfamiliar sight.

She was kneeling on the floor in the center of a dungeon. It was dark, cold and damp; and she wasn’t alone. Surrounding her were four men, presumably guards, and their swords were drawn and pointed directly at her. Not only that, her wrists had been tightly shackled and chained to the floor.

This realization woke her up just a bit more.

Kara whipped her head around to look at each guard as she tried to figure out who they were. Their armor was unfamiliar, and their faces covered by their helms, but they guarded her with purpose. But what the hell could their purpose possibly be? Where was she? How did she even get here? And why was she in shackles?

These questions swirled around in her head, and her panic started to worsen. She was ready to open her mouth and demand answers, but any attempts at speech were immediately cut off by a sudden green light flashing out of nowhere. From what she could tell, its origin point came from the floor, and after her eyes adjusted to the brightness she lowered her head to investigate. Fortunately, it didn’t take her long to realize it’s true source.

 What the fuck is in my hand?

The green light flashed once more, and this time it was accompanied by a searing pain in her palm. She cried out, clenching her hand into a fist. The pain subsided after a few seconds, as did the light, but she felt no relief.

The door to the dungeon flew open with a bang. The lighting was low, even through the door, so she could only make out two silhouettes. Two women, it appeared, both tall, one donning a hood while the other carried a sword on her belt. The woman at the front approached her with purpose, and her features revealed themselves clearly.

She was indeed tall, with short black hair and a long scar adorning her pale cheek. She couldn’t quite make out the color of her eyes…only that they were drilling a hole into her very soul. Whoever this woman was, she clearly wasn’t happy. She slowed her pace as she approached and began walking around the back of her. Kara was certain she was going to feel a blade through her spine at any moment.

The other woman approached her, though most of her features were hidden by her dark hood. She donned dark armor from head to toe, and from what Kara could tell, she was glaring at her as well.

It was now becoming clear that these people, whoever they were, thought she was a criminal. Why, however, she had yet to find out. In truth, she was more concerned with the glowing shard embedded in her left palm.

In the midst of her internal concerns, however, she almost didn’t notice that the dark-haired woman had leaned down close to her head.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now…”

A more foreboding sentence could not have been spoken, and the woman’s thick accent made it twice as menacing. All Kara could do was turn to face her and furrow her brow in confusion. As much as she hated to admit it, she was scared.

No, with everything that was happening, she was terrified.

“The Conclave is destroyed,” the dark-haired woman continued, resuming her slow strut around her. “Everyone who attended is dead…”

Her tone was clearly laced with grief, but it made her no less intimidating. She stopped suddenly, turning on her heel and thrusting a finger in the young woman’s face.

“…Except for you.”

Kara was more confused than ever. What Conclave? What did she mean everyone was dead, except for her? How did this happen, and what does it have to do with the mark in her hand?

 …Wait.

 The Conclave…The Divine Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I was there…

“What do you mean ‘everyone is dead’? What happened?” she finally managed to choke out hoarsely.

The dark-haired woman grabbed her shackled left hand and held it out in front of her, glaring. The mark flared up once more, and Kara winced.

“Explain this!” she demanded, thrusting it back down to her knees.

“I can’t!” she shot back, sharper than she’d intended.

“What do you mean you can’t?” she questioned, her tone indicating she was growing impatient.

“I mean I don’t know what the hell this thing is, or how it got there!”

Kara couldn’t help but yell, as she was growing more and more frustrated. She immediately regretted it, however, as the woman lunged forward and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“You’re lying!” she growled, tightening her grip.

A mix of fear and anger boiled within Kara. It was clear this woman wanted to kill her for a terrible crime she didn’t commit; and there currently was no way for Kara to prove otherwise. As this woman continued to rough her up, Kara thought about her options. She could conjure a fireball, throw it in the woman’s face…but she wasn’t the only adversary in the room. The soldiers surrounding her would cut her down in a second. And no matter what she did, she was still locked tightly in her shackles.

But before she realized it, the hooded woman stepped forward and pulled the dark-haired woman back. Kara exhaled quietly.

“We need her, Cassandra!” the hooded woman told her.

Cassandra…

Cassandra nodded, stepping back even farther and straightening up. The hooded woman then turned back to Kara, studying her. If there were ever a chance to talk her way out of this, it was now.

The problem was, she didn’t know what to say. Then she remembered what the dark-haired woman said a moment prior.

“…everyone who attended is dead…except for you…”

“Are…are all those people really dead?” she asked, her voice still hoarse.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” the hooded woman asked.

Kara thought for a moment, though she worried her exasperation was beginning to show on her face. She could probably tell these people she knew nothing until she was blue in the face, and it wouldn’t satisfy them. It frustrated her even more than it frustrated them, her not being able to remember a damn thing before…

Wait…there is something…

“It’s all really fuzzy…” she began, staring at the floor as she tried to concentrate. “but I remember…running.”

Breathing heavily, her chest on fire, Kara took off as fast as she could. Where she would go, she had no clue. She had no idea where she was, how she had gotten here from the temple. All that mattered was that she outran the-

“Spiders. There were these giant spiders chasing me,” she continued. “There were at least a dozen of them, and they chased me to this-“

Rock face. There were what appeared to be steps embedded within, sticking out enough for her to just barely get a grip. She scaled the rock as fast as she could, but the spiders were gaining. She looked up, desperately searching for a sign that the top was near. The spiders were at her heels, and she could feel herself getting weaker. But then-

“…I saw a woman,” she remembered, clearly surprised by her own memory.

“A woman?” the hooded woman repeated, just as surprised.

“Yes…I-I don’t know who she was though. I couldn’t make out her features…but she…reached out to me…”

It was clear that the hooded woman’s curiosity was piqued, though Kara was having trouble remembering further. Cassandra then stepped forward and ushered the hooded woman towards the door.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” she instructed. “I will take her to the rift.”

The rift?

The hooded woman nodded, then disappeared down the hall. Cassandra then turned back to Kara and approached her once more. Kara leaned back slightly as she knelt down in front of her, but was surprised when she began unlocking her shackles.

“What did happen?” Kara asked her. She realized that they didn’t tell her how the Conclave was destroyed, and she was genuinely curious. More than that, she wanted to know how she herself survived it; more than the rest of them did.

Cassandra quickly pulled a smaller set of shackles from her belt, fastening them to Kara’s wrists so that they were now locked closer together.

“It…would be easier to show you,” Cassandra explained, pulling Kara to her feet.

She turned and headed through the door, Kara quickly following suit. It was when she began to move, however, that Kara realized just how weak she was. Her knees still hurt, as did the rest of her legs, and she was fighting off a relentless pang of dizziness. She then wondered how long she had been unconscious…and just what exactly she went through before she was taken to the prison.

When they finally reached the front doors, Cassandra pushed them open. As Kara walked out slowly, she realized it was nighttime. She recalled entering the Temple during the day, so she knew it had to be at least a few hours later…

A flash of light caused Kara to avert her eyes for a moment, but when she looked back up she was met with a terrible sight. High up in the sky, a decent distance away and up above the mountains, there was a gaping hole in the clouds. It was massive, and the clouds around it morphed into a cyclone and glowed a blinding green. More than that, there was more of the green glow pouring out of it into the valley below, and green debris flying out of it in all directions. It didn’t even look real; it couldn’t be real.

“Maker…” Kara muttered in horror, unable to peel her eyes from it.

“We call it ‘The Breach,’” Cassandra explained. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour.”

Kara looked at her with disbelief. “’The world of demons?’ You’re talking about the Fade?”

Cassandra nodded. “Yes, and it’s not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

So it was an explosion…but how could an explosion blow a hole through the Veil?

“How could an explosion possibly do that? And you said it’s growing?” Kara was beginning to panic, but Cassandra was surprisingly calm. They may have been dealing with this longer than she thought.

“We are unsure. But unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

Just as she finished her sentence, a large crack erupted through the air. A shockwave of bright light shot outward from the Breach and lit up the sky. Not even a second later, the mark in Kara’s hand erupted in the same fashion and sent a burst of pain through her entire left arm. She cried out, extending her arms out in front of her and fell to her knees. She grit her teeth as she rode out the pain, and after a few moments, it was gone. Cassandra knelt down in front of her as she attempted to slow her breathing.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you,” she explained, gesturing to Kara’s hand.

 “Killing me?!”

“It may be the key to stopping this, however, there isn’t much time.”

Kara’s patience was running thin, especially now with the realization that this mysterious mark was draining her very life away. She wanted answers, but Cassandra merely wanted results. Either way, the confusion of it all was really starting to piss Kara off.

“What do you mean ‘it may be the key?’” Kara asked her, trying to keep her tone steady. “The key to doing what?”

“Closing the breach. Whether that’s possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however, and yours.”

With her last sentence, Kara finally started putting the pieces together in her head.

“I see…you people think I’m responsible…not just for the explosion, but for this thing in my hand,” she declared.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Someone is responsible for this, and you are our only suspect. As for the mark on your hand, all that is clear is that something went wrong. You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way.”

Kara exhaled. As much as she hated to admit it, especially with her very life on the line, this woman was right. If everyone at the Conclave was indeed dead (which seemed likely considering the gaping hole right above where the Temple once stood), and she was the only one to miraculously survive, why wouldn’t they suspect her? She also thought about the obvious aspect to it all; that there is a danger threatening the world worse than anything she had ever seen. Whether she was in shackles or roaming free in the wilderness, she had to do something. She had to help close this Breach and save the few people she still had left in the world.

“You really think this mark can help close that thing?”

“That is what we believe,” Cassandra replied plainly.

“All right. If that’s the case, then I want to help. I don’t know if this thing will even work, but I know I have to try.”

Cassandra nodded, and the slightest hint of a smile crossed her lips as she helped pull Kara to her knees. Kara nodded in response, and the two of them began to make their way towards the camp nearby. There was still something nagging in Kara’s mind, however, something big enough to stop her dead in their tracks after just a few paces. Cassandra turned and looked at her in disbelief.

“What is it?” she asked impatiently.

“I’m sorry, I just…” Kara began, hesitating. “It’s…Cassandra, right?”

“Yes…” she replied slowly, confusion spreading across her face.

“Right…before we go, Cassandra, just tell me one thing. Who do you work for?” She was almost afraid to hear the answer. Cassandra sighed. “I am…was the Right Hand of the Divine to Divine Justinia V. I am an agent of the Chantry.”

Damnit...

Generic Poetry

Original: Darkest moon had soon forgot The utter danger of the Plot To answer call of Banshee Queen A heightened and a highly mien Servant of Shadows, Isabel Black Dark Grimalkin call the attack! As shadows whirl around thy head Fear me, I am Sogton Kottr, and I fly as one dead Her beauty dark as Winter's lace She touched you once and left no trace But still anon her footsteps fall In hidden valleys, mountains tall 'Tis the ice queen, you said That shatters souls and heals the dead The ice queen sitting on her frozen throne In halls of frost, no sun shone Yet still one man dared to challenge the queen Though his life, until now, was but a dream His ambitions even less Yet he saw the moonlight reflected in her pale tress Did you stop to judge the time With what reason or rhyme Did you come to these far flung shores Under a blood rime, with sea foam Disguising the treacherous rocks below This the ice queen said To the englishman Better to fly than die In icy roam Though the allure of the beauty and the beast was strong, lo Yet how could this adventurer resist the guile And slight smile, disguising the fury of the queen Such was his doom underneath the throne and light sheen. The ice queen imprisoned him, yet herself was bound With ring though nonphysical, still struck her round And love melted her accursed heart Yet could not entirely bind the art Of shadow, devilish magic Pagan shadows in the sick And eldritch dark She acquiesced to him Could she be grim? Under this amourous adventure The lure of green shores, and grass under hill Broke her out of her spell, And though uncertain, tarrying under the snow She came to knell And the thatched cottage of his home Shadowy still She bargained with goodness, helped the peasant and uplifted the half breed Yet the honeyed mead of her bargain seemed false And allayed by grief, she stole his life And became his wife Now Ragna Kottr For this was the ice queen's name Unhuman daughter Of sin, not flesh Rebelled against God And was caught in the mesh Of those who transgressed the Divine White hair, white raiment To cause the unbeautiful to lament She married John Westley, sailor Parlor magician, sometimes purveyor Of childish dream The glowing rainbow orbs of fairy tale Unfeasible, ephemeral, unsubstantial How such a man would have tamed the proverbial lion And gone From the comfort of England's green and pleasant land Sunny under fertile river band To the cold shores of island dreary No one knows, yet he was not weary And maintained the hand of the seductress in marriage Yet God had a plan Grim tidings yet nevertheless melt under the ban Of Heaven Such is what happened In England, the lovers made their home Yet from the early rebellion, the bone and flesh of humanities' transgression Was relieved by Jesus, and through fission Like that which the stars undergo, The force of goodness in Ragna's soul Formed humanistic nature The fool yet dreams of empirical power Domination of men in dark hour Yet Sogton Kottr cast aside such aspirations Living in Nippon, a frugal life Castle undecorated, free of imperial strife A simple black robe to match the sadness of her home Attended she was by lantern carrying mountain Gnomes The dark haired lady Sogton challenged the ice queen Out of jealousy, but not vanity, like the demon She cast down the London squallor, But was deposed by the englishman and his dread wife's palour. Now our tale comes to a close, as the Nymph rests imprisoned in the teapot. Yet not forgot. The Samurai wandering from the lands of feudal dominion Does not become the minion of his desires Yet stokes the fires Of nobility Strange certainty A generous mien, a wanderlust so deadly To those without the greed And desperate failure of lust But in God we trust At least, at the beginning Not all was evil then Some may say that none in the beginning was evil But when the Creator transpired that each being should give their all to art and music One great song before the fall, the Demon conspired To bring the Sephirot down A clown Yet still noble, would end up redeeming humanity. Come and see If anyone dares to pursue the rhyme to it's just end Lend aid And give the thirst land it's due sacrifice in newborn seed laid To growth If a moat bridge Was built on sand, it would fail And so the witch Ragna Kottr, Though could control hail and cold Yet had no idea of good's power for defeating the old And sending the rot to rack and ruin Still imprisoned in a teapot, the Light Sprite made a ploy To destroy the bind with eldrich abomination Manipulated for good For even the ugly shall avoid damnation, though bound in dark Away from the light, but not evil She suffered the blight, to make the ill witch pay. The day broke. John thought Sogton saved them, when really a cunning ploy Sending the assassin to a vain threat, inconsequential Met with trivial acting A emotionless play So putting forth a small fraction of the powers The flower Of youth and holy vengeance Sogton Kottr, Divine Fooled the fearful englishman into adding her to his party Not smart For Ragna, Yet hearty in the eyes of the wise The trio was amended Some ragged band of adventurers, lended To grand pursuits, a man who wanted the best for his country And two sisters at each other's throats Knife in knife, parry for parry, without heraldry or pomp But John was oblivious to this Not envious, he could not comprehend evil Until it was at his doorstep And it was not Not yet. The last chapter of our adventure unfolds at a manor In the woods Shadowy, of ancient built When the Romans still roamed Britain's isles Ragna had her fill of shadow She would strike soon Yet the doom of Sogton was not vanquished just yet. Ragna struck, claws outstretched Yet with luck John turned around and stabbed the witch And she died, in spirit, if her physical body could not be vanquished. Yet spiritually she was still present. Until Sogton manipulated time. The past was restored. And our rhyme ends on the western ocean. Like the legendary tale The pair set sail To greener pastures Under a sun that was glowing. Sakura Blossom falleth oh Cruel Woe, Cruel Woe As soul of weary Wanderer to the Otherworld doth go The Golden Tether breaketh and the chain shatters like glass As soul of weary Wanderer to the Otherworld doth pass His soul alights on Fuji san and knows not where to go With aching heart he hears the call of those trapped down below Of Barrow Gnome, and Lonesome Elf, with lanterns bright up the mountain In pitch black night they walk, while below, the Sun shines on the plain Past Tori shrine and uttering rhyme he leaves an offering And finally at Mass he came to grass where Nightingale doth sing With aching heart he passion asks the Spirits gathered there If any Kami ever saw a Girl with Snow White Hair? Then Kitsune comes, to perilously lead the chase And pursue Ragna through the wrack and the waste With regal mien the White Sorceress dwells by Willow Tree And fast meandering River brings the Naiads free The Raven, Amaterasu's Eye, watches the fields with red gleam And as he spies, utters a cry, to below the Moon Sheen The Wanderer Comes to this Sacred Site And with Sign and signet and sapphire performs the Sacred Rite And at last the Mist parts And Kitsune leads him up a Hill to vanish with a pure heart And John meets his Goddess Not the less, does Ragna Blush, and twist her hands, with courteous White bands Her heart pines, and not like the cruel rime Was the place, yet blessed in Strands Of Divinity. Now with surety, John approaches her,  And with Mist, she could not resist, the leaves parted, They kissed. Folk: Excalibur, The blade was forged in water sweet And hot in realms where flagons flowed with mead And dreaming damsels had some Faerie Magic While tempestuous seeking psychic Roamed over the forest emerald and tourmaline The fresh clean white tabbard, the ringing sound of the tambourine The drum beat rapt a military tune In pleasing dells, the horn and flute brayed till noon And the evening fell with hot caress on the pastures quaint And night yet beautiful the stars illuminate The realm of Arthur's home, free from Taint The Quest For The Grail was set! Excalibur, Oh Excalibur! Shall I fain discard this haliberd? And have I failed the bet? The drumbeats of war no longer soothe my heart And peace calls to me in the song of Bard Yet I cannot subside and rest Vengeance calls me hence! Shall I ever see the white walls of Camelot In ravenous glee? Or with jovial Mordred, forget the plot? Gram, Arondight Half light Such Arthur's bane was The blade of the King Saint sanctum Laundsalin With tempered steel and moon silver it was forged A blade to rival Elementium's cursed lores And dark to subdue the murmuring of Elves And fairy Hobgoblins in desolate shelves The ice forms around the huddled leaves in glade Shading around like frightened maidens in pallourous afraid The design of Shadowy Ghouls and intelligent princes The Blade Was forged by witches, And succinct Demons, kind of Lich And All Soul's Night is saved We pray to you, King Lancelot And Mordred too, with Dark Sheen Thy noble Arms is not forgot We pray thee, Grace Our Halloween Viking Sunset In burdened perfection Our burning inflection of regal splendor Waves crash against the shore of our ferric and fearsome dragon ships As we reach the siege of seas Tell me wise man once you left the farmland meadows Was God and Glory hiding in the shadows? was there anything waiting in treasure or compensation as you stared at the stareless and blank oppression at subjugation of the vast encircling dark? Hark At the end of the world The Jormungand Jaws turn around our screaming vessels The elves wait with vipers engulfed with the rapture of boiling magma, black ambrosia Sundown has come on the wailing and lashes of mortals that fend and impartially perish in the cold dark Loki alighted on Svartalfheim Brash, black, busy buildings Cutting through the air like a frosty magic spire Challenging the grace of God A dismal prospect in the rime ocean Such was the grace in those times A hard life, given only to those worthy, and with good will Yet much was holy and soothing about then, and those that lived through evil conquered the weakness The Vikings knew the sadistic style of Sigurd Now Loki had travelled through the mists of Niflheim to get there Musing not, more morose was his bane in the frost fire of the arcane Void, Where not much lived, and he would be hard pressed Living through the rapid transformations and tests of the Primal Realm thusly Destroyed in body and mind, though not in spirit. Loki endured this. And as a damsel in distress, a dastardly graceful dame, dressed in elegance, with decorum abound, virtuous if wicked, and containing an evil heart yet smiling countenance, thus Loki orange corseted attained the corsairs of Svartalfheim The Dark Elves there were brash, but eager to serve the Tyrant, and with cherries and wrath she was fed, and attained in her throne, and nursed back to something resembling health. But her face, recovering illsomely from the serpent's Venom, distorted and became disfixed in the eternal stream of time. It was a monstrous array of color and rainbow light, and mercuriously shifted like some pouring poison to the confine. Ragna, as we shall call her now, for she took a name of revenge and damned resolution, pridefully angry stood, and slapped the hame of the Doctor. "Grant me alms!" she screamed, and her Banshee shriek was soon obeyed. Now Linsom Lauflett, the slave and bellows master, told the thralls to brutally heat the magma, having necessary cauterizing properties even for God Venom. Loki was placed on a bench, stone carved the table was, and the heat steamed from the fire of the lake which coldly rested above the vulcanous mountain that led to the cavern of the Elves. Ragna screamed as the fire magma dropped on her and redressed her face in a symphony of pain, and she convulsed like one half mad with visions of grandeur. Phantoms came to her, and she began to walk like one half incensed in a fantasy. The spirits were darkly conquered, however, and the magma solidified into a mask, forged into a clown smile by her indomitable spirit. The danger was through. She rose triumphant, a dawn of man and Beast, this Godtrivested part responding to her eternal domination of the mortal races. Artemis Star Bow Vanquisher of the dark below Thy eyes contain sweetness The dew of the earth, is a cascade of river on thy illustrious halo The triumph of man The conquiesence of a conception of dignity The Trinity Reflected in thy light The return of Gods and Giants and Demons full bright A sad array of abandonment for the parched fallen Earth Too many failures lay in that dark dirt Thy hair, is a band that circles around the entire plane A uniting of ends, the Jormungand serpent eating its tail A sign of stability in Midgard And Beyond To the greater Stars that sit on the gate of the Elder Dark A sad and stark reminder OF RESTITUTION The dissolution of mortal binds A rhyme, to pierce even the chaos within the river of Andromeda And the song of Philomela, echos to the Divine In this clime, not much sits, but ever flows, In increasing heat, as Dante knew Until how tempered and beat like gold he returned to the eternal New Dawn. A triumph of humanity. With clarity, to analyze events. He saw Diana bathing in the vents and hot geysers of the Greek Arcadian peek And with a sleek look, was caught in her wiles, and devoured by dogs Necessary of penetrating the fog of human indecency Such a pennant monk thou hast never seen in the penitentiary Or Rosary, of Indus monk, who nurses on Ram's knee and Sita's breast Far removed, but still containing the glory of the West So Kipling mused while in field of guns, amid a sulfur cloud And even the darkest evil always passes by when Angel shroud Illuminates the plain. Be with me, Queen, and I shall tolerate pain. Now in that bright City Where knows know sadness, nor gloomy pity Related the call of Giants and the Horn of Sylphs With deep births, their dominance over the mortal races was unchallenged With Queenly garland, their Kingdom uncommon Rose to compete with the heights of Heaven Their bronze City competed with even Olympus And the Thunderer was brashly impressed Not such a glory Has occurred since the Heathen Kings Of Atlantis in the West Who worshiped Christ though they knew not his face And were the only ones in Limbo saved Praise be to the Glory The resounding Allfather, that Pity, and Judgement Of sin, not a gentle hand, but resounding fire that refines and burns away impurity Devoutly to be wished Sister, can though comprehendest the tale? So with Sail. Earendil, desperate Mariner Beseeched the Valar for Salvation But few was given, for they were wrought by Melkor And the evil that well deep poisoned the dawn of Creation in the Gigantomachy That slaying of kith and kin that poisoned the world Enoch speaks of it, When he allayed in Mesopotamia Of the fallen Angels, and those deceitful kind Who poisoned the minds of Genius Gloria, was far gone Yet not forgotten Enoch still had wisdom enough to measure the circumference of the world When fools talk of conspiracy deep, and decry the Ice Wall, that division of Heavenly Rule and earthly desire, they hit close to the fact Yet with tact they have not, they would do well to remember the words of Milton, as he describes Mic'hael, talking to Adamas as he searches in the tree Reading the books, the sacred note, that scroll winding through the Garden of Eden Free he was, though far fallen And in time he would come to repent of his transgression, become good again. That was not now. "Turn away from misdeed, Adam, what reason do thy have to examine the Stars? Turn away from needless speculation, the Heavens are not thy to understand, and instead work on improving the race of mortals on earth. The planets are not yours to will, the movement of them is Eternal." so those lost, and ephemeral Flat Earthers, would do well to remember the will of God. We shall go back to Enoch. The King, knew of the demise of the Earth And how the Giants were rebelling So with thought spelling He turned to Jesus He was on the world in those days A king with Sapphirical stone A halo shrouded his appearance, his limbs were wan And gave the appearance of one not human The earthly races would do well to remember that he is not on of their kind Although Man Made in his image Have some terror before a superior mind Fear of God is the beginning of Wisdom Jesus said thus "Behold, Enoch, the extent of my rule." And he showed him the far Earth, The Angels, with their multiple eyes and fast wings and cutting angles, amid a substance translucent, a mineral neither gem nor firmament, but one containing transmorphic powers: the wheel span, fire was below. Now in the face of these mind crushing Abominable, the parasites that fed on human will, Enoch may have quavered, but he was strong. He saw the sky beyond, and realized that it was dark, yet stone and life still grew near the mark, minerals silver and red and adamantite, a bright and fell green fire was on the white. He moved on to the Ice Wall, where death was, not even Fingolfin could come to the end of the World, without suffering great terror, this was why the Eldritch Abominants dominated the world, and the Crossing was so perilous. In Denigrous, and pale transition, the realm of Hell crossed into mortal splendor. Mark now, Reader, how the world was not separate, nor a hallow sphere, but a deeper dark expanse, ranging on Parallel Planes, this eternal Interdimensional dance, was transcribed in legend, but most ignored it. The bleed was evident, Spectres sat on the realm of human, and fed on their Souls, the alchemists seemed not to care. The stare of death was upon them. Now with desperate prayer, Enoch turned to Jesus. The Lord, in infinite mercy sent an army to help him. The Giants were rebelling, and the Angels descended and curtailed the revolt. With much blood was the field won and spilled red. Ragna bound and at that time serving Jesus rejoiced at the slaughter, although the seeds of this envy would copulate throughout the Ages, and Lucifer would revolt. Female insight and necessary expansion was always thus. Now, the plight solved, yet many ill humans still relented. For the Giants were sealed, but the teachings of bad Angels remained, and Augury was high, Science turned to sin. With the within caverns, ancient information was sealed, with gold walls, although the information would be later ignored, yet God would still give men the chance to save themselves, thus was his Mercy wont. Now a great flood was set upon the world, and we shall return to No'a, or Gilgamesh, as he was known. This mortal, would save humanity. Jesus grace the masses, Thus we relate the tale of the Garden of Eden. Eve transgressed, and ate the forbidden fruit, And for that much good was done But she also suffered And evil was allowed to creep into the world So mortals would do well to veer away from Telperion's boughs And Laurelin's cursed sap, will make Humans venomously bleed, and transform, though with heavy regret and much convulsion Let not the repulsion allay you from following the path of Good. Eve was cursed and then became known as Lilith, and thou knowst the tale How she was eternal animous to Sogton Kottr, as well as her darker more resonant and familiar personality, Astarte That sacrificer of innocent, murderer of children, in Hedonistic Uruk She was a breeder of Orcs and Hobgoblins in heated depths The breadth of her transgression was not Known to Her Long would she suffer And in the End, justly so. Let us return to the harrowing of Good in Anatolia John Westley, a King in those days Built the gates of Uruk Before it was turned to evil Wise was he wrought, and crafted the bars out of True Silver Not yet Oricalc, For Atlantis had died. Ragna had alloyed with Aztec sacrificial mask And killed everyone inside Then burned the bodies on the pyre of Satanism Though she was not as evil as Astarte, she did not kill children They drowned, and came to the Kingdom, and Jesus saved them. Thus is related in the Atlantiad. John Westley, calling himself Gilgamesh Built the walls sturdy, beyond mere bricks But polymers of steel, and technological innovation Was high, though the lying scholars of false study want you to believe not learned And unintellectual cretins built the gates with chisels and dust How could Egyptians move the Obelisks? Perpetual fools. The ramparts were laden with iron, Of garlands were the houses decorated A stone was on the welcome step Vast clean streets held a variety of commerce The bazaar was always laden with silk And fruits juicy with melons that dripped water Although perfectly ripe Such a glorious paradise Has never been on Earth since the Telemacy And Arcadia Now the King ruled supreme But Astarte had plans for him, And turned him to corruption It started with prostitutes, And before long he was Hedonistically crumbled and fell to Rejection And renounced the religion of Innana Ragna for her part turned to vengeance And made the clay man Enkidu to subdue him Breathing her own breath into the Wild man, like Odin of old Greater than any gold were his manly primitive treasures Leather and waste, a strong rope, his hands instead of a bare sword The idealism of the country was on Enkidu And like Charles went to comfort John in his trip to Svalbard Years later The bards, weakened the pride of the king and turned him to gentle dreams once more Enkidu then taught him the ways of war, and for the first time drew blade Though despising violence There was nothing ill in slaying savages The glade Of Lebanon was their target The pines were the rarest in the world And they slayn the Etin Ubaba That large hybrid Which inspired the speculation of Bigfoot [No Nephilim was he, cursed be to America] in later Lays. The Days drawn on in bliss. But the flood was coming. And Astarte cruelly slain Enkidu. As the water raged through the city Through Gilgamesh's knees He saw that a part of it was slight stained with Wild man's blood And coldly cried to the wind. He then took his beloved's body, and buried it in Sky Palace, and his grave remained above the waters, like the Lone Island of Beleriand. Gilgamesh journeyed to the shore of Israel, and saw the stars spin They wheeled unnaturally in phosphorescent agony There was deep trauma, illness in the Universe He sought the Old Man how to rectify it But was told "Look within thyself" Then Gilgamesh learned from Inanna, And saw her hut And saw that humility was the best respite from the burdens of Demoniacal destruction With locomotion he built a Boat, and took the fruit of the Gods To Elvenhome, and withsustained the legacy And the immortal blood was not shed And he was in bliss, until the Slave of Sogton, that Snake Mephistopheles', sadistically stole the Fruit, and brought about the Race of Dagon So two beings, Dragon and Elves, divided Domination of the Earth As Sogton and Ragna divided the Heavens. Yet dark came upon the deep. The race of Man was doomed, for they were rude, and died alone, and no one cared about their death Thus saith the Lord. Tolkien: Part I: The Death Of Lailath Oh Muse, sing not of pleasant times Field with tended grass, soup under a fire, handmaid red dressed, gold shiefs of barley waving in the wind This is not my intent. Instead, sing of violent war, the tempestuous rage within man, the conflict unceasing, yieldless pride and incessant chattering, which leads to blades. This is what happened in Beleriand long ago, as the house of Gil Galad, long suffering and held in bright weariness, attested. In Western Lands beneath the Sun, Where clear the Nor'land waters run In mingled light of silver gold Where Valar slept in days of old Until Morgoth, relenting Destroyed the Twin Trees, and caused all woe to plague this earth Yet a slight venting For Redemption was possible, through Christ, and Men alone for Elves eternal beyond death and rebirth. In Mandos suffering lies, But the Race of Men can redeem themselves, in due time. Thus was the subject of our epic poem. Turambar dwelt in a glade, a simple ranger No stranger to toil or danger Yet a kind heart, he did not let his grief overcome his part In the Glorious Honorable play Which forged the world. Morgoth turned an eye evil towards this light, dark gathered And battered, Turambar was tested Still, in the West. Now Delu Morgoth doth attest To wicked deeds, though was once blessed But never baser crime he done, than slain the daughter of the Sun, and Moon Too soon, was this taken from our noble isles The wiles of Morgoth were intense Though past tense, thankfully he is banished beyond eternal Night Still strife, and pestilence extreme, plagued the lands In Hithlum, by Godly hand, was fire started Mist boiled, water turned to steam But the elves resisted. The strength of Fingolfin was on these lands, though he is long since dead A legend to fade in the light of the moon What a Godhead His fairness knew no bounds, and compassion abundant Blonde curles allayed his head But his descendants were fraught with redundants, and dunces, mostly because of strife with the sons of Feanor Who was a brute, although abhorred evil Such is the scene for Morgoth's second greatest crime, The unleashing of poison And fell smoke, black as death in Northern Clime He unleashed this on the Noldor, and struck Humans For he despised the Race of Man even though they were weak And harmless to him, they feared him, but he feared the power of their speak To this end he intended to obliterate the bands And brigands of roving adventurers. Turambar's sister, Lailath, was consumed She sickened, and in hot fever was doomed Cursed be Morgoth for this transgression. So, with hands cursed from the sickbed, Illness breeding, and not much hope in light and farmstead Turambar undertakes a journey East and South To mouth of Ossiriand, and wonder forest in Doriath But first he stops by the grave of his sister With aching heart he missed her, but knew he could not bring her back Men were fated to suffer for Mandos cold was grim and cruel The Reaper does not suffer fools. He forges the sign of the cross Made a cross of ash to stand above the grave and the grass And never be inviolate, though in death For Morgoth was a failure And Turambar cursed Shadow with his last breath. Part II: Turambar's Stay In Doriath Now Turambar travelled through the forest, many rocky climes, rivers fast which almost undertook him, the way was grim But thankfully the blessing of Ulmo allayed him, Who had not abandoned Middle Earth Although Manwe tried to convince him of the dangers of death, and disease to be found in the dim That possessed Mortals and Immortals alike with Demon in the Scattered Lands It was a strange time, those immense shattered deserts And forests, they were mixed light and dark, to dwell in the sorrow of Damnation from God Such a bleak future was almost unable to be mentioned. So Turambar was guided to Doriath, and safely came under the watchful gaze of King Thingol, and Mel'ian spied on him from her crystal ball. It must be paused here reader to display the politics of the Kingdom. Although egalitarian, an Eden on Earth, there was much Tyranny and distrust from the Elves. King Thingol was a Tyrant Kindly, but not all displayed this will to rule benevolently, and many fell to violence. Saeros was one of these vile folk. Under yoke of Melkor he was not But forgot the beauty of the realm. He hated men. So began Turambar to approach the palace. So we must describe the forest's splendor, although wickedness hung above it like a pall And Mel'ian's leaves, although glorious, were dark and droll. Like a sickly sweet Christmas cake. The baker was an unstable man. Saeros' malice followed Turambar, although he was not permitted to be killed And no blood would spill Doriath, until the Dwarves in their realm were culled But this was by Beren and Luthien A noble massacre, a slaughter of thieves and dirt and assassins. Thankfully we do not have to get into this sin yet. Turambar was accepted by the King, and under Angel's wing, was nourished and nurtured by glorious Mel'ian. He flourished, under her hand. A compassionate and emotional young man, he learned from great scholars, but could not stay for long. Dread doom was upon him. So with aching heart he turned to the King's feast. Thingol raised a glass, but Saeros with an ass, compared it to Turambar. The beast was distraught, for Saeros' cruel whip had made it wrought, but Turambar was quite righteous about this animal cruelty. Taking up a goblet, he smashed Saeros' gullet, and killed him, sending him below the sea into the Halls of Mandos. Such was well deserved on his part. The Heavens glorioused, but such an ill of spilling blood in Doriath, although it was immortal blood and not evil, was not to be forgiven easily. Thingol banished Turambar with a heavy heart, but repented half way though the march, and sent a letter to him. It was too late. Turambar knew the King's intent, but was going to kill con men. Part III: The Outlaws Turambar ranged onthrough the thicket, with brambles the whole thing was a shambles, outside the Range of Mel'ian's Girdle and resembling the forest in it's original primal despondency. The liturgy of literature and wealth of stories on the savagery of the forest is well known, handling Dinosaurs in ancient days, while lays of minstrels and dragons were sung. It is not a fairy tale of modern hippie, although many will say that Mel'ian's magic was the responsible force for this damn distillation, and thus is true, although is not as nurturing as thou might hope and Elves are fey and Death Dealing, a Doom for Pagan Rites. With blades they cut the shadows, so Turambar, waddling in the part pitch of the shallows, of a stream, was assailed by the Elves' artistry in their primitive habitat. With mat of fur he spent the night, and in the morning was assailed by bright and cold. Such was the wild. Turambar came to a mountain, not one to give up, hardy as his foes and twice as noble and rough. But even he could not assail the glade, it resisted him with thorn and flax. As Shadowfax, in Gandalf's times, was a messenger of Heaven, so Turambar's salvation was from a rhyme. He heard song in the dark. It was Beleg's voice, penetrating the mark. "Elbereth we sing of thee Those who wander under trees And shadowy in lost and gloom But still we remember the tune Though Abandoned by God, we are not lost We trust in Holy Crusade and the Cross" So Turambar agreed with. But he had to continue. With dark trees, he made for shelter. It was not long until outlaws and brigands in the trees he saw. They killed one another, rough, base. It was not enough to coexist in peace and comradery, the race of nature would not allow such weakness. With blessed eyes, Turambar exhumed the scene. It was some teens, paltry but emotional things, setting up camp against some invaders. So mean Turambar sliced the foes, and sent them hurrying, many he sent to Mandos, where they would be saved by God but kept outside his nourishing rays. In elder days, mercy was given, but Turambar pulled a blade on the children. The teens were Outlaws, wicked and immoral, but contained some noble virtue and were beautiful. They were of the lesser class, whom Scientists deemed inferior and Racists perverted into a subworth nature, although this was false, it was based on observation. So Eastern man has often done strife. Although justified, he came under ire of luxurious whites, and moralists basking in hypocrisy chastised. We must ignore politics for now. Turambar was ready to kill them, fearing his life, but seeing their happiness repented in emotion. Sentimentality came over him, but he was not entirely overcome with fool, he maintained a warning against those who would betray him, friends and Outlaws too. But he fed them stew. Outlaws embraced him as brother, and Turambar with joy acquiesced, returning their compassion, and he joined the crew. Part V: Turin In Nargothrond Now Turin was overcome by grief, by grief Turambar besieged, and spent many hours mourning the Death Of Beleg. This is when he abandoned his friends and turned to the mountains, returning to his home in Hithlum. The road was long, and many evils besieged him there, like the ill ghoul that dwells in the wells of the ravine stream, and the mountain trolls which were large like the size of pines. Our adventurer was greeted by his old home in Hithlum, covered in snow. Many winds flurried, his eyes were blinded by frost. But for naught, was his visit, for he could not find his mother Morwen, and again was lost to the ice. Yet another vengeance spurned his mind. He met several Easterlings, Asian Kings, Oriental Lords of the Realm. They had sold his family into slavery, and he killed the underling of Morgoth, a tan Lao Feng, who died with a tobacco wand staining his yellow teeth. The eyes bulged, and a pool of blood, overcame the slaves, who fled to the mud. Turambar mowed them down. No mercy was given to the Outlaw defilers of his treasure and kin, and with no sin was this evil committed. Yet Turambar still repented, for he had lost valuable time. He almost died in the rime, and at length came to Nargothrond, where he was rescued. The Elves of this Stone City, guarded by moat and taking boat on the river, were the Greatest warriors in Beleriand. Not since Fingolfin have we seen a ruler as genius as Felagund, who with rod, instructed the noble force of the Valar's army. He was Fingolfin's cousin, and quite the charming man. Alas, this could not last. Turambar's visitation spelt Doom for the Elves of Nargothrond, for Gurthang plotted to bring the City to the ground, such was the evil within the blade that passed on to Turambar's mind. Turambar became a mighty King, and had a black mask made from obsidian and molten lava, with emerald gems in its sockets, and was a horror to behold. The Dwarves called him Death Knight, and he slayed friend and foe alike, and was rumored to be unkillable saved for an arrow. Within the City, Turin fell in love with Finduilas, an Elf. He was not to be content with her self, though, for his eyes turned to other methods than peace, and in the east, he was going to sin with his sister, a King overturned like Oedipus to incest and strange danger. The story came to an abrupt war, for Glaurung the Red Dragon Emerged from the burrows. In fire he came, a Wyrm, quite wingless and large, with eyes that burned with alchemy that could petrify his foes, or trap them in a dark illusion. Such was his talent. Chapter VI: Glaurung The Dragon Now Turin had some intelligence with him, and sealed the blade with iron, but the irony of his fate could not escape him despite how self aware he was. Finduilas became his love, and noble love it was, yet love is often self destructive. We should aim above paltry emotions and wit, and save the Divine Grace of Spirit for viewing who we admire, not petty Altruism. Now, the battle began. An army of Orcs came from the North, and the City was besieged, fire coming to the thatched bazaars. It was bizarre, but no Dragon yet came from the burrow, for Glaurung was biding his time. Such a rhyme he had and rhythm that he could confuse mortals merely by talking to them. Turin was no fool, and had Countenance Divine, but even he could not resist the Dragon's wiles. Fafnir plotted. The blade, Gurthang, allotted sentience, a noble Demon, although corrupting and cruel, shifted in its sheath, hungry for Dragon's blood. The Mephistopheles would not escape with ease, however, for Turin had bound the sheath in runes, and the struggle was futile, although did empower the Iron Of Death with breath of corruption. Turambar went to war. With a swing of his blade, Mormegil decapitated twelve Orcs, for the Gurthang's energy was long, and could spit lightning as easily as it spit emotional distress. The battle bridge became a vortex of wind and storm, and Turin became the first to utter the command to lower the gate. Foolhardy was this, and too late. Fafnir emerged from his burrow, and immolated several of his own crew, being hungry. The Dragon emerged into the dawn, and unlike other Wyrms of his genes, was not harmed by the light, or burned in his pale skin. Therin was a shadow curse of Morgoth, having bred immortals into the Dragon's flesh, and created a creature that was neither Beast nor Intellectual, but something greater than either. Terrifying was he. Glauring, Master of Fire and ruler of land and sea, immolated the town, steaming the water and leaving the parched grass brown. He then dislimbed several fighters, and with claw and spike tail he mightily dispatched the protective bulwark. Turin went out to fight him. "Hail, Turin son of Hurin Thalion" he uttered. "Well met, although thy father will curse the day your face comes to him in dark dream from the dregs he is imprisoned in. Repent!" The words, although Turin saw through them, hit their mark, and Turambar relented. The hesitation was enough for Glauring to make his move. "Thy mother goes in rags. Tarry for her, and thou shall not be able to save Finduilas, whom thou lovest. I am Fafnir. Marvel at my cruelty." Fafnir took a claw and snared Finduilas, who was flung from a window by an Orc. Thus Turambar was ensnared, either choice having an element of failure. He cried, and upon seeing Finduilas brutally treated he swung his blade widely, enough for Fafnir to easily dodge. The scales were hard enough to break iron, and even Gurthang had a hard time for it. In a moment of selflessness, Gurthang whispered harsh to Turambar. "Do not look at his eyes." Too late. Turambar was lost, and gazing in the emeralds wished himself dead. Even worse was the shame from his father. He collapsed. Glaurung retreated. The battle was won, Nargothrond burned. Part VII: Turambar And Niniel Turambar emerged from his stupor, his memory gone, his thoughts a blurr, but gradually remembered the events that took place as he foolishly lay in misery and some half noble idea of valour. "Thy idiot," Gurthang said, "You are a weak Lord and she is gone. I would be much better off with some type of indignant simpleton hero, rather than a betrayer of kin, Sigurd the Volsung." So the sin hit Turin. Like a pall, he realized that he had to rescue Finduilas, but fate was not so kind. For Sigurd, Turambar, Mormegil, Turin, Beowulf, was a weak King, with the moral certainty of a mortal that wavered like a feather in the breeze. He would easily leave Finduilas his lover to death if it meant saving his mother, whom selfishness dictated saving, although they were quite unlike in temperment and Turin never got along with her. And his sister, that was who would truly confound him off the Godly path, but not due to ties of family, but a perverse love which matched his own cruelty and desire for dominance. He was fated for Niniel, and the last front came to be which would put Man against Deity and the virtues of morality against the sin of Hedonistic God. So Turin crashed through the plain, and eventually came to a small town. He met a man, Brandir, who took him in, but also saw Niniel. He fell in love with her instantly, and not all was evil, for it was the greatest love of mortal Men. God allayed that man should love and all love be good, but incest he did not allow to be, and even normal sexual relations were sinful because they distracted from the mind. Therefore, though Turin was pure of heart and Niniel willing, they committed the greatest sin of humanity, but it was not all his deceit, Morgoth was responsible for this. Ever since he killed the Two Trees, evil came into the world, and all wicked ill was his responsible for through his intentional malice and wrongdoing. Therefore Niniel and Turambar would be forgiven of transgression, and celebrate in Heaven. First, the conflict therein. Brandir was jealous, and with distrust he viewed Turambar as an usurper, for he loved Niniel. Not without reason, for Turambar was a fraud, and with vainly regarded word Brandir tried to convince the council that Turambar was evil and implored them to serve God. Turambar was ready to smite Brandir there, but restrained himself. In dark of the night he and Niniel kissed, and became some of the most hated individuals in history. But also the most loved. Glauring gleamed in a cavern. He had expected this. With impassionate heart he impaled Finduilas on a spike on a tree and gave the signal to lead a path for Turambar to follow her. The Wyrm smiled. Everything was going exactly as it should. Part VIII: Dragonsbane Turin came to the clearing, having followed Orc tracks and drearily packed the tools necessary for high hunting, following the clear signs of Orc attack. Gurthang warned him it was a trap, but Turambar did not listen, disliking the Iron of Death, but also pride confused him and far under the ills of Glaurung's spell, he ached for Finduilas. To make sure she was safe, although he did not value her much, but some love still remained in his heart. This part was the hardest. He cut his foot on a thorn plant, and the blood, which was spelled  to deter any form of danger, was touched by a single leaf, making that spot on the foot weak. The shadows gathered around tall pine trees. Glaurung saw this, and gloated. With ease he came to the burial sight of Finduilas, where she was Crucified like the Christ, arms spread wide like an eternal Angel gone to peace in God's beauty with a spike shoved into her chest. The roots were binding her hands and feet, showing she had been mind attacked, and the blood attested to her torture. Cruel lure was Glaurung, a master of psychology. He wounded Turambar so much that it would be easy to capitalize him. The Volsung screamed and in the forest, owls flew, to green pastures and hard mountains that were better than this forest, which was cursed. Forever that place would become known as Finduilas' Haunt. None dwell there but gaunt Imps and Banshees. Now Turin returned home, but Brandir was waiting for him, warning that Turambar had fallen in love with his sister, for he found news from the North, and Elves of Gondolin friends with Hurin, who told Brandir of the son's lineage. Turambar did not believe him, but in his heart he knew it was so, and with aching heart filled with woe, he went insane, and slew Brandir, the Black Blade feasting on the blood of innocent as kindness died and compassionate bliss was ruined by Lust. Volsung delighted in his murder and became smiling as a Demon. Glaurung ambushed Turin, but the son of Odin had other plans, and was aware of treachery, the fell murder pushing him to unlock his Divine lineage and ascend to the ranks of the Godhead. He stabbed Gurthang into the Dragon's fleshy belly, past the hard scales, and Gurthang extracted lightning, killing Glaurung in a torrential downpour of blood. The blood was strong enough to make a rain. Finally, Turambar was immortal, but the leaf still stuck to his flesh. He tripped on a rock, limping on his injured foot and impaled himself with Gurthang. Entirely  surprised and angry looking at the Heavens, Turambar collapsed from the unintentional blow and died looking at a single Star. The Star that had Abandoned him. Niniel, having been told of her incest by Brandir and that she was with child by Sigurd, came to his corpse and cried, caressing his face, natural sisterly love finally breaking the curse of sex that had haunted the pair ever since Glaurung's emerald eyes shone on them. "Master of Doom By Doom Mastered. Oh happy to be dead, beloved brother, I shall join you, wait for me in Valinor." She flung herself into a waterfall, and the Elves of Gondolin made a monument, a memorial to evil and good intention, and it still stands strong amid a phantom doomed forest while the Heros that fought and fell there rejoice in God's Eternal Mercy and compassionate redemption.

Lauda Verdum

In Praise of the Word.

And I felt more myself when I wasn't existing for myself; for when my mind ceased to think is when I came to life. And I felt more myself when I wasn't experiencing myself; for when my mind wasn't aware of itself is when consciousness began.

Opening the Book at the spine, from my bond I am released as my thoughts fly across dark skies contrived by Minds far greater than my own. Spirited away into realms timeless and vast, my corporeal station upon the chair as if suspended in place, while I seep into the pages and stepping into strongholds of fantasy and lore I allow the current of flowing words to carry me on and beyond into tales that no grave will can hold fast under earth: the Word shall never perish as long as minds do pen and tongues do curl. Tales and histories entire, sweeping across the earth travel and travail in mouth to mouth from land through land to teach the lawe of the word. Kingdoms and empires that live on past enth score of mortal men, but that reside only in as many minds as will harken to hear them. The spine cracks open and the pages softly flutter as if by magic that were beckoning me softly to enter them. To read the Word is to read myself. And it is truly then — when sprawled thick far and wide upon the paper, and consciousness is not my own but that of an awed observer of lands and peoples that no matter the valour or dread of their deeds will never take a seat in flesh and blood beside me — I am able to experience myself. Yet, even as the Unseen Seer, a keen shadow in these foreign lands that goes on undisturbed by all and observed by none, I recognise myself in the fates of the fairest faces conjured by the Greats, and at once know myself and what I am about. I am keen observer and acute listener of the stories told between the brambled lettering and lines, voice’d wisps within white thin spaces that contain opulent halls of worlds doomed but ne'er forgotten.

Worlds impossible to forget once the eyes have witnessed them in the black nettles and white lines of light, the black and white teachings of a page that upon proper imbibition, digestion and reverence sires forth a most dazzling blossom of colour such as the common eye cannot hope to see (but which the human mind is blesse’d to conceive) unless it be with the keen seeing eye of the Soul that opens third and wide upon witnessing the words of genius and the holy.

An unparalleled joy is to read a Grand Word. A lofty page and fast held story so splendidly binds the innocent reader to the Word as to emote much more than simply affinity awe and affection for the material so carefully thoughtfully crafted upon the page, so that the power of the word forms in the heart of hearts a crux of terrible Love for the pages read with a full and heady soul. And to imagine a world without the words of the Greats the heart grows heavy and eyes do weep. Wandering in and out of pages and gliding along lines, shuffling amidst phrases, at times giddy on suspense while others slow from worry or soft with care, the Unseen Seer picks apart each letter shredding sentences to bits, razing punctuation marks, shedding light along blurred murky passages, plotting the gaps in paragraphs, mining meaning from the pits. Inhaling deeply the must of paper pulp, enchanted engaged and entwined the Seer lies low at the altar of the consummation of words to consume them like air and light, distinctly discerning a paper heartbeat in the recorded and printed imagined fancies of Greats Minds. The names of lands and faces of folk that fathom wider and larger than the mean mortal's imaginative faculty cannot be shut down upon the closing of the cover. And stories cease not when the page is ash or dust but permeate inexorable, howling through the mind's windy corridors of entire generations, as is the wont of genius and language of memory and lore.

The unfettered Word travels on a plane entirely its own unbothered and unhindered by all space and time. The Word is superimposed above all, outliving us and outgrowing itself as it alternately lives and dies in the countless mouths of life: remembered and spoken then hushed and forgotten; then rememoried once more to be told retold on again on set forth as ever to be one with the weather.

~ Nov 4, 2020 (c) DMA

More Notes on Celtic Mythology and the Various ‘Fairy Courts’

Celtic gods can die. They can however be reincarnated in a sense. They are heavily fractured and to a degree always have been however after Rome invaded and subjugated Britain/ Britannia and destroyed several cultic sites as well as a majority of their priesthood the Druids these are the major factions or Courts that developed in the aftermath:

The Tuatha de Danaan- Easily the most powerful of the factions. This group fled to Ireland where they soon disposed and intermarried with the previous pantheon. Lugh Lamhfada there sometimes leader was born from one of these intermarriages but was raised in the court of Avalon before being elected King of the Tuatha de Danaan in Ireland. Their relationship with the court at Avalon however has been tumultuous with it tending to depend on who is serving as their elected King and the relations of the people they watch over. 

The Court of Avalon- When the Romans took hold of Britain, the Druids who could- fled to the holy island of Avalon. Originally Avalon was home only to the Nine Daughters of Taranis who tended the golden apples of immortality. Tailtiu the middle sister of the nine has since then become de- facto Queen of this faction and has periodically attempted to meddle in Britain’s affairs both spiritual and political.

The Seelie/Unseelie/ Tylwyth Teg courts- Predominantly made up of minor deities and nature spirits. The Tylwyth Teg are led by Gwyn ap Nudd and are based in Wales. They are loyal to Avalon unlike the Seelie/Unseelie courts based largely in Scotland. The Seelie/ Unseelie courts are frequently at war with each other and rarely engage with the other factions nor are they taken particularly seriously by the two Courts mentioned above.

The Minor Courts- These Courts are largely relegated to the continent where minor nature deities have banded together to form loose bands intent on watching over Nature and the humans within their domains. 

Quick Note on How I write Celtic Deities 

As a general rule I don’t write the Celtic pantheon as being either organized or particularly hierarchical like it is in say Greek or Roman mythology. There are ‘courts’ which is to say different groups each with their own leaders and internal politics but even that is very fluid. 

My reasoning for this is primarily to reflect actual Celtic politics which were incredibly fluid and clannish. 

It also allows me to include the fairy lore of different regions such Ireland, Scotland, Wales etc relatively equally and not pit one against the other.

Also yes I will be using fairies some what interchangeably with Celtic gods/deities since as far as we can tell most ‘fairies’ were in fact just that- gods. 

General Note on Reincarnation/Memories

The general rule is the people with the closest ties to the otherworlld/Avalon are the ones most likely to recover their memories. Galahad is the most prone to remembering given his heritage (Corbenic is in the Otherworld it makes the most sense imao). But Lancelot and Percival will also recall their memories if given the right trigger. It’s much harder for someone like Guinevere or Tristan to remember though they might be able to if exposed to the right magic. 

Also note that regardless of if they remember their memories or not everyone does retain the ‘character development’ they experienced during their past lives. 

Also Arthur was several months old when the coup against Uther happened. It was well known that he had a son and that son was legitimate. It had simply been assumed that he died along with Uther and Igraine. 

Uther and Igraine- Known Facts

Uther and Igraine were cousins. They more than likely knew each other as children with Uther seeking refuge in her father’s household with Excalibur before fleeing on to Brittany likely with his aid. 

However it is important to note Uther was very young when these events happened and spent most of his formative years with soldiers trying to build an army to win back his father’s throne while also dealing with the trauma of seeing his mother and older brother Pendraig murdered. 

He added the Pendraig or Pendragon name to his own and passed it on to Arthur to honor his older brother. 

He and Igraine had three children total- Morgause and her twin brother (that brother later dying while still a toddler) and Arthur who was initially named Pendraigg but later given the name Arthur by Ector. 

They were married roughly fourteen years before both were killed in the coup carried out by several of the northern Kings. 

Note on Religion

I’m going to be downplaying the Religious conflict. Based on my understanding Sub-Roman Britain would have been too diverse in that regard with the various factions bleeding into each other. The best comparison I can make is to 12th century Mongolia which was also mired in personal/external conflict but remained extremely religiously tolerant because of the diversity in religion. 

Ambrosius Aurelius’ own relationship with Celtic paganism is also not unlike Genghis Khan’s relationship with Tengrism. It’s vital to his worldview, ties into his mystic as king but he’s also not interested in forcing it on anyone. It like most pagan religions doesn’t require ‘conversion’ merely acknowledgement.

The Red Hilt and Excalibur

The Celtic gods were never masters of men. They bargained, argued and wooed their worshippers. They could be deceived and often were. 

When the gods forged Excalibur for Taranis men watched, they waited. And each time a spark flew from the anvil, or a scrap of the sword was shaved away they scurried about like ants, taking all those remains and forging another blade. But when the gods discovered what man had done they grew angry, such a sword was too much power for men so they cursed the sword and any who wielded it. 

And when men realized what had been done the gods had done they cut down the sacred groves and drained the sacred lakes. Did the gods not have enough? Must they take what men had won through their own cunning and skill? So men and gods fought until their were such mountains of gods and men alike they blotted out the sun. Those who were left could only bargain. The Red Hilt was cast into thee sea, should god or man find it they would have to be judged worthy by the blade’s own magic. Still they were cursed, their own blood staining the blade. 

Taranis was deemed worthy of Excalibur though it was agreed by both gods and men that as The Red Hilt been cursed so too would Excalibur. So the scales for a time between gods and men was kept. 

Some Notes on Bors

Bors and his brother Lionel were raised among Tylwyth Teg. The exact circumstances of their true parentage and why they were taken is unknown. Bors himself has a noticeable scar on his forehead but no memory of how he received it. 

Lancelot very took both boys under his wing when they came to Camelot and helped them acclimate to life outside a fairy court though thankfully they didn’t experience the same degree of culture shock Lancelot did as the Tylwyth Teg aren’t as isolated as the court at Avalon. 

He and Lionel are not related to Galahad and Lancelot. Lancelot refers to them as ‘cousins’ and does consider them family given their shared background but that’s it. 

Bors wasn’t the only knight Galahad was attracted too. He was just the one he was closest to and thus experienced the brut of Galahad’s confusion over his feelings the most. 

Bors was also definitely gay and was likely attracted to Galahad hence his willingness to put up with his behavior. Bors reads as really gay in what I’ve read up on him in general. Granted he’s very much a cistercian self-insert character much like Galahad but frankly I’m on a role now running my queer little hands over all this propagandizing, woman hating monkish self inserts.  

Tying into the above- Bor is responsible for Lancelot’s feelings softening toward Galahad. Lancelot initially kept his distance from Galahad only doing the bare minimum he felt obligated too (acknowledging him, making him his heir etc.). But as Bors confided his own confusion/ frustration over Galahad’s behavior Lancelot began to realize how troubled Galahad was and very tentatively began to reach out to him. I’m not sure how receptive Galahad was to this or if he was even aware of what Lancelot was doing. 

Bors is also the only person Galahad/Goro might intentionally seek out in a reincarnation scenario given both his unresolved feelings for him and out of a desire to repay/thank him for being the closest thing he had to a friend/lover. 

On the May Day Massacre

It’s not apart of my headcanon. While I’m happy to work with those who do have it as part of their headcanon (with certain limits, it’s wholly out of character for how I write Arthur) it’s just not a tradition I’m interested in exploring myself with my writing.