Epic Poem (call for a collective project)

[Fixed Cross]

But the question had become: Which of my sons shall lead? The one with the deep set eyes, or the one now taking shape in the belly of my beautiful slave?

[Stoic Guardian]

A swipe of his sword through the air, the sound of the wind being cut.

The muscle in the shoulder then the forearm, a pain, a good pain embodied them.

This ones strength would not degrade, the pain was proof of progress, the cuts had become better, the stabs even more so.

This blade was owned by worthier men and it would not be dishonored by lack of use or lack of a skilled arm.

The glimmer of the blade washed by and from blood met his eyes,by this he lives, by this he eats, by this he conquers.

The spear of course, the weapon of the front, of the charge and vanguard was trained with as well for it is with this many battles rested on.

This instrument of death that met with the foe before he realized his doom, with the charge death comes swiftly to those greeted by the spear rather than by the hoove.

The bright moon and stars had made the solitary training possible, he thanked the Goddess for this peace for he did experiance much of it.

[Fixed Cross]

He did now know who was advancing behind the mist, through the valleys so empty of history or noteworthy acts, that he did not even suspect their existence.

This was Gabron, father to seed spread thin. The moon was thin and silver, he hated this moon. Hate was his blood, and the moon his kin. The metal of his word shone in the hateful light.

He rested his weapon on the ungrateful rock, and stared into the mist, sensing perhaps, but not knowing that he sensed. Soon he would be tested, and perhaps dead.

[Stuart]

A small lark rested on tree branch looking onward after feeding that night. A figure quitely approached another, standing by a large rock. The figure by the rock seemed to be unconcerned with the hunt of the night, nor other petty concerns. The lark recognized the vapors rising from him, subtle vapors that man cannot detect. The figure was concerned for this land he stood on, or perhaps for much more, something that the lark could not understand. The approaching figure had a different vapor. Blood lust, the foul sent of the night for prey or creatures of a kind, somewhat of an amusment for those who were not to be concerned. The lark tilted his head and almost stooped on his perch, perhaps even showed a slow grin. Normally he would have warned the one figure of the other to insure a true fight rather than a quick slaughter which would belay his amusement, but he sensed that this was not to be a surprise attack.

The figure apporached the other sword sheathed, as he got close enough that even such a creature as those figures be could smell each other's scent. The figure by the rock stood still, back straight, but head slightly stooped, perhaps even with his eyes closed. After a few minutes he lifted his head and met the eyes of the approacher. And they staired. One filled with only hate, hate so strong as if to paralyze, the other something that the lark couldn't sense. Not the same vapors as before. Not fear though, the lark knew fear, an appetizing fear that always accompanied him as he ate his prey alive. This emotion was something new.

The two figures stared at each other so long that the lark almost flew away. Then the long still figure lifted up some long object from a rock and pressed it to the other's neck. The other tried a sardonic smile, but choked it back, blood filling his mouth temporarily, he was not to even feign wimzy at this moment. The imprint of the sword too brought blood, a small crease on his neck. The lark's feathers roused moventarily, then the sword was lowered and the other stepped back a dozen paces. With a facial contortion that scared even the lark unused to such visual subtles in humans the other drew his sword and almost leapt forward back toward his enemy.

[Fixed Cross]

Meanwhile, the saddle is drenched by the rancid rain brought on by the vermin in this filthy swamp. God - I hope a storm is rising in the East. See I can't for shit but I know Jupiter rides the path of the reclining moon, truth has weathered him thin... the luck of the moon is pale and the sisters of mystery are treacherous. Still at a pond in the myst I find a dog, small and domesticated. A fire is suspected now and I see that the trail is spreading. They had picked up on the scent for home-dom before I had - desiring it deeper - the depths I drag them true only to meet my match in a suspected cloud of hate.

[Stuart]

I think I'm lost, are you writing about the same character as I am?

[Arcturus Descending]

Behold, what difference? Upon this page I stand, I am my self, your are the other me, I am the other she, you are the other he ~ what cowardly futility to speak of Lost ~ be brave ~ stand tall ~ and go in search of many other selves, of many other characters, for we are legion on the stage of many moments ~ and there upon some other future pages turned, you shall find yourself within the letters ~ ever forming words and thoughts which shape the epic You.

[Fixed Cross]

Stuart - I did not mean to. I figured you were talking about the man with a stronghold in the mountains - the character SG introduced. That was what my post before the last one was about.

AD - No (in case you're asking) we're actually trying to tell a story.
As far as I've understood, there are now two focuses of the narrative. One is the original protagonist, who nearly got killed, then there is the darker person in the mountains who has a powerful interest in swords and reveres a Goddess.

As I see it the protagonist is advancing toward the position of the second man, who is related in some way to the woman with the seeers gift.

[Stuart]

I understand now, if not, I'll wing it anyway.

[Stoic Guardian]

The rain washed over the Stone walls and streets.

The young prince loved the Rain, it was always serene to his eyes, the tint of Blue upon the land, the Fresh smell and soothing Sound.

He requested music to be played while he watched this and contemplated the conflict in his mind, the distress, the anxiety and Confusion.

He seeked to calm his mind from all disturbances and the Rain and Music aided him in this.

[Arcturus Descending]

And of a sudden, all things which afflicted, disturbed and haunted the young prince were slowly seeping out of him - washed away by the magical ethereal blendings of sound; and thus, it appeared, that his Spirit rose up and took on another form, another shape. He looked about him and within his new calm composure and the freshness of his eyes' perceptions, everything seemed as if it had been re-created in the moment, including the prince himself. He felt the Phoenix within rise up and he sought impatiently to continue on with his journey. A lark, as if sensing this deeper more meaningful metamorphosis of a man, and its own essence within that man, flew to the prince's shoulder and there perched, thereby joining its fate and allegiance to that of the prince evermore.

[Stuart]

The lark resting on the Prince's shoulder; gone from the two combatants, weary of such an unnatural sight, a battle that seemingly would never end, two equals that couldn't let the fight be for another day.

The battle then unseen now lied in the casm of history, only one remained that we can be sure, one that rested, bled and even gained new resolve, but resolve to come much later.

[Orbie]

But the one that remained bleeding on the field, seeped into the moist ground, and the lark sang twice, in order to remind his true mission. Out of the ground like a plant a pod grew formed out of his blood..

He opened the pod and closed it immediately because it contained his likeness.

He remembered a long time before the battle that it was prophesied that those who go down into battle and survive alone, have to bear the brunt of ridicule and exile. Which meant choosing one of three paths. Monastery, exorcism, or flight. He knew flight was out of the question, monastery did not take in anyone except hermetic virgins, so there remained exorcism.

The exorcist recently left the western town, so he thought only of training the man inside to be his exorcist.

The man was his perfect likeness except his hair was like of Medusa, and he remembered the warning : never ever to look at him.

The castle in the foreground was ominous, and he cut off the pod because it was almost ripe, took it up upon his back and slowly trudged toward the silvery lined beclouded castle, with turrets into the vast sky disappearing until he came to the moat, where the draw-bridge, as if on cue, slowly descended.

[Stuart]

Aware of the old myths he knew that a mirror may be of paramount importance, but thought better of it; to turn to stone was not his worry, not one anyway to compare to looking into his own reflection, one who's hair to him too resembled serpents and who's visage cemented his heart as any mythical curse.

His own visage, that face that while aged still resembled that of his youth, the one that upon sighting would cast him into himself; that being who he would be for eternity.

No scars and weathering could erase that risk, the risk that the bygone days still would show through, pressing him, into an eternity, a destiny; that for which he feared greater than any other.

[Fixed Cross]

No birds prowled the death ridden air. No prey on this side of the horizon. Slaves died every day, a child was born on the second moon after our departure. Great evils this kid must overcome, even if his death allows him to flee before we reach our destination, the lord of Hawks, the iron fist of the north, the keeper of the mine.

[Fixed Cross]

In the castle of the Wolf, the Prince Archibald was playing with a golden ring. His right hand was a bit bloody.

[Arcturus Descending]

The Princess Adenah had caught her Archibald flirting with the scullery maid and felt the angry fire within. She flew over to him in a rage, appeared to lovingly take his hand, but bit down so hard she broke skin and left his hand a bloody mess. Alas, his own anger took control of his animal nature and he slowly began to morph into the large wild black wolf that he tried to hold at bay. His howl could be heard echoing through the chambers of the castle.

Slowly, he returned to his human nature, picked up the bloody ring, put it on his finger and walked to the bedchamber of his great love. "Aye, I shall slowly appease the fire within her belly.

[Fixed Cross]

one line at a time
________________________________
The light disappeared from the roads

In the yearly years, there was nothing to drink either, so all life died.

[Pedro I Rengel]

Fire! Fire makes the vines bleed.

[Fixed Cross]

But ice cracks rocks and makes caves where fire can dwell.

[barbarianhorde]

"That's what we called the pods over the genetic combinations of horse and elephant that we had created. Sarcophagi... the chariots pulled by steeds of Hell."

One of the sarcophagi exploded in the night and caused many deaths among our slaves and animals and some of the sons were wounded and blood penetrated into the crevices of the lifeless tomb which we traversed and which once was called Earth and now Cloud Alpha Zero after the neural net that had caused all this assimilation and the resulting erosion of life; a medal on the chest of the great King who as we speak travels by only lightcenturies off, nearly colliding with out plans, and thereby ruining his own future sons chance to figure in a heroic tale worth the salt on our backs.... so it came that we had to stall our efforts to disclose the bridge across yet another hellish crevice of warped fates and sit at the edge for a while, contemplating our luck and smoking cigars as we called the dried leaves in which we wrapped the herbs we had brought from the Vaults in orbit Q.

[Pedro I Rengel]

The light disappeared from the roads.
In the early years, there was nothing to drink either, so all life died.
Fire! Fire makes the vines bleed.
But ice cracks rocks and makes caves where fire can dwell.
O Hera! Woe to those who cast steel onto water

[Fixed Cross]

The light disappeared from the roads.
In the early years, there was nothing to drink either, so all life died.
Fire! Fire makes the vines bleed.
But ice cracks rocks and makes caves where fire can dwell.
O Hera! Woe to those who cast steel onto water
For steel must be cast unto steel, by Ares

[Pedro I Rengel]

The light disappeared from the roads.
In the early years, there was nothing to drink either, so all life died.
Fire! Fire makes the vines bleed.
But ice cracks rocks and makes caves where fire can dwell.
O Hera! Woe to those who cast steel onto water
For steel must be cast unto steel, by Ares
Or by Hefaestion set to rock

[Fixed Cross]

Where old Kronos holds it fast, before the day breaks in a new king.