Crisis

In response to Daily post’s Crisis.

I will be writing these daily post responses from a character’s perspective.

 

Crisis to me is a state of mind. Some deem it impractical, involuntary, destroying-I don’t; I find it relishing. The state of when your primal instincts are pushed to a new level of awareness. In whatever scenario, whether you’re surrounded by your enemies, lost in the woods with a bear, or a pack of wolves. Whether you have lost your home, or escaping the reaches of wild-fire; it is a rich, empowering feeling. I understand for some it can be fearful, but as deceptive as it is, if you understand it, and adjust your body to it… it can become addictive.

Crisis, like when I was surrounded by soldiers, ruthless, ungrateful idiots who called me a monster, and tried to strike me down. I remember it well. There was something about it which allowed me to enjoy it. Though I felt in peril, and the need to protect my wife, my family, I found myself surrounded by those soldiers, and something inside me was released. It was though a part of me which I felt disgusted with came to the brim of existence. It was a crisis that could’ve been avoided. I was the one to walk away from that situation. Here is my story.

-Seraph

The Monster Within (Daps Story)

I spent the last five years running away from everything I knew. Five years… I fell to my hands and knees weeping my very soul out. I begged the gods for a quick death; a quick death was all I asked, but none came. I walked for weeks upon weeks, sluggishly stumbling through the snow like an old, pale-faced frost giant. When I collapsed, the real Ice Queen found me… Esmeralda was her name? No, Emerald. I think. She had beautiful green eyes, oh, I remember those eyes well. Those eyes were the ones I woke up to; after dying in the snow – or at least I thought I’d died. Her hair: thick, long, light brown. That shade, light enough to reflect the light of the fire that warmed us. I was sure I was dead, blood everywhere, absorbed into my clothes. Where did my clothes even go?  Ah, I remember. She washed and repaired them, that’s right.

She gave me hope, a renewed sense of conviction. That being said, I’ll always remember her soft lips. Her kiss, untouched by the cold. She was the one who ignited my fire by telling me news of my Freya. My lady. Such a beautiful woman, not only for her looks. Some spoke of her being the incarnation of the Goddess Freyja, herself.  Once I heard of her being pawned off to the brother of the prince that killed my mother, my eyes lit up with a boundless rage. I spent no more than a month training my body, my mind, and my soul. I left Emerald at her house to embark on a mission to save Freya. I owed her that much – ever since we were kids. She was the only girl who would go near me, never mind dance with me. I threw on my grey, laced tunic, and black leather trousers. I noticed Emerald watching me as I dressed, wrapping my legs with the cloth bandages that held my family seal in its stitching; surely a reminder of the shame I brought to my father. I stood in ankle-high boots and turned to face her. She handed me my father’s cloak, weaving words of wisdom that would stay with me for the remainder of my days, “You don’t have to wear this cloak. You’re not him. You’re not your father.” In her boldly spoken words my eyes uncomfortably glistened, expressing an uncontrollable emotion seeping from my heavy heart.

I was so sensitive back then, though that side never left me – it grew worse. You see, I had a monster inside me. My own shadow. It walked alongside me every step of the way, and I see it now I look back. My father gave it power. My father gave it rise. He taught me how to control it or did he hope to unleash it? My head shakes at the thought of it. Were they all that? So twisted, and broken that they wanted me to kill them all? I always felt this presence in my heart protecting me from such things like the first time my shadow reached for my body. Let me tell you the story.

Freya, and I were running from the soldiers hunting us down like wild dogs we ran through what seemed the heaviest of rains I had ever had the pleasure of enduring. My mind, lost. My body reacted on its own, empowered with adrenaline. My mind searched for answers, piecing puzzles together. Freya always noticed. I remember the way she looked at me when I caught her falling through the mud. My cloak covered in dirt, and heavy with water; stained with the blood of many men by this point. Though I had not yet taken a life in the name of revenge. I looked into those eyes, just like every other time watching the sea flow around them. I still remember those crystal blue eyes so clearly, so vividly, and just thinking about them makes my own eyes flow like a fresh water river. I clung to her bust, sliding through the mud myself. I found I held her away from the mud, I was protecting even when I, myself stood broken.

She saw the sadness in my eyes; and I watched her long, raven-black wet hair stick to her face, and clothes. I don’t quite understand why it fascinated me, perhaps it was that even with her hair stuck to her face I could only see beauty. She was the only person I had left. I felt my heart beat pound in my chest like the hammer of a blacksmith battering the hot, burning anvil. My breath weakened, my balance swayed. My hair fell in front of my face and I stood in the mud, Freya in my arms. I felt the touch of her hand on my cheek which brought me back to her, “I’m sorry you lost your father, my love.” She announced, swallowing her sadness with a strong gulp, and wiping the tears rolling down my face. How did she know? The rain covered my face, and with the sweat squeezing through my pores it should have been undetectable. Is this what love means?

I carried her through the rain, using my father’s teachings to keep my balance. My pupils must have seemed wide, or at least I think that was why Freya looked at me with such a tilted gaze. Whispers of my past showed me the way to a village I used to visit, I hoped I still had a friend there. Was he still a friend? I had no choice; my dearest Freya was in no condition to be slushing through the mud, and rain – unlike myself. I liked to think of myself as the hero… oh, I wish I could. I’m really sorry I couldn’t save myself. I couldn’t keep the part of me you longed to keep… could I?

After squelching through the softened earth, much like my calmed heart I reached an inn. I carried Freya inside and whispered the words that liars, pretenders and heart-breakers sing. I was good at that. While she rested and the rain calmed down I sought aid from my childhood friend Vincent, son of the Raven. I always used to win the little duels we had as children. I made him so envious of me; I miss those days. Again, tears ran down my face, crafted from the darkest trenches of my heart. Why can’t I understand my tears?

I knocked the door twice, and opened it enough to peek inside. I shouted, “Vincent!” The door creaked open revealing the great hall inside. Something came over me when I entered, like the memory of the future engraving the ink of the world onto my back. Alarmed, I tried to close the door and walk away but he had already heard me. In front of me stood a larger man than I. He still stood over me, even with a crooked back and bum leg. He looked like he had been through more of Hel than what I had been through. He invited me in, and we drank a horn of wine together. I explained my story, and he explained his. I hid details from him to protect Freya, of course. He seemed very welcoming and it was a nice change. I did notice his mood changing, however. I could not help but feel the tension of the room getting stronger. I noticed his focused eyes, stiffened upper-lip, cautious movement, restless leg.

I felt my empty scabbard now, more than ever. I left my sword next to Freya’s bed. How stupid could I have been. I bowed my head, ever so slightly, humbly thanking Vincent for the food, and then left to attend Freya. When I closed the front door of the inn, I heard a horse outside whinny, and the sound of galloping pursued. At first I silenced my mind and shrugged it off. I couldn’t leave, as Freya was asleep, and her clothes still soaked. She rested by the fire, and I thanked the inn-keepers. My father and I met them when I was young, before all this.

My mind opened up, my eyes slowed down time they moved so fast. My heart raced. I was studying my memories. The ones from my past and the ones of my future; counting the days to my death. You’d call me stupid for staying, wouldn’t you? My dearest Freya. I could have woken you at the first sign of trouble. I didn’t. You needed your strength. You do not have my endurance, nor my resistance to the weather. You’ve lead a soft life. Not like mine… Oh how I admire your innocence. My hands are coarse, scarred and filled with the blood of innocent people.

Whether directly, or indirectly, I have caused the end of my closest friends, my allies, and the people I’ve considered family. I ran, I always ran. I’m still the same fool I was when I left the breast of my mother. I should have listened to the warnings. I should’ve followed you, Lisett. You knew me, before we even met. Maybe things would have been different if you took me with you. I can’t change my path now, though. I’ve been set in clay. I’ve been re-heated, and re-worked too many times. My nails brittle, body cracking, pieces of bone chipping away from my arms and legs. I feel like that to say the very least; the innocent souls were growing each passing day; they are beginning to engulf my soul; soon, they will swallow me. I am sinking into a sea of nothing, becoming no-one, where nothing but darkness resides. I am okay, as long as I am not the cause of another person’s death. I cannot let anyone else die, I simply cannot run away anymore. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Dad.

My eyes closed for a moment. I fell asleep, one hand gripping my sword tight and the other holding Freya’s hand. Moments like these seemed perfect, euphoric even. The inn-keepers walked in and told us we had a bed upstairs. I thanked them graciously, took Freya upstairs, and we sat in our room. She always knew when I was strategizing, learning, overcoming my fears, unlocking doors, and walking through the corridors of my mind. She put her hands on my cheeks, and held my face still. She forced me to look into her eyes, and asked, “Are you afraid?”

Every bone, and every cell in my body tried to procure the strength, and guile to tell a white lie – to protect her. I announced with streaming eyes, clenched fists and a gulping tongue, “The only thing I am afraid of” She took me closer, interrupting me, “Is yourself?” she pulled my head to her chest, and clutched me tightly, embracing me in her arms. I couldn’t help it. There was nothing I could do. I wept. My eyes flowed like a mountain steam, snot shamefully dribbled out of my nose. My hands quivered, and shook. I felt weak, and I held this unbearable pain in my chest. It felt so tight like the blade of a knife piercing my lungs. I cried out, and I’m sure everyone in the inn heard me whimper. It was pathetic.

I fell asleep in her arms after almost an hour of humiliating myself. My dreams manifested in my mind. It produced an over-bearing feeling. I came face to face with a green eyed devil through my mind’s eye. He had the skin of a snake, face of a human, and the eyes of a fox? Perhaps it was too dark to tell. It scared me. It talked to me, scratching the walls of my corridors, my halls, my peace. It tormented my very foundations. It was so angry, bitter, and wild. Are you my anger? My hatred? My malice?

I gasped for breath and woke to not a single soul in my room. “Freya?”, I called out, but received no response, not even an echo to console me. I tightened my leg wraps that kept my body strong. The bandages on my arms were gone, revealing the long eight armed tattoo that stretched down the sleeve of my wrist, from my elbow to my hand. The engraving of scar tissue proved a dark memory. The gruesome sight of my bare skin, defiled by the magic of blood left a sickening taste in my mouth. I had used it, defiling my soul. It made me strong, too strong. It made me a monster.

I had no choice but to find Freya, arms bare, and scars vulnerable to others. Christians would crucify me for the path I walked. Most Nordic people would fear me for my knowledge, my ways of old, pre-dating the ways of the new world. She knew it would be dangerous for my tattoos to be shown. Why did she take them? I walked down the set of wooden stairs, leading into the main hall. I stood, aligning my arms with the oak banister that curled at the bottom of the stairs. I saw my bandages hanging over the fire, drying. She had to wash them at a time like this…

I knew what she would say, “They were dirty.” Or, “Someone had to wash them. You wouldn’t, would you?” That was her way, always demanding me be clean. I found myself giving a soft smile at the idea of her arrogant, cleanly ways. I waited on the stairs as she talked to the inn-keeper. He was nice enough, a short haired man, stubble hanging off his chin. He was an honest bloke. A family man, two children, a wife. This type of setting made me forget, forget about myself, my stained past.

I heard the sound of a galloping horse moving in the opposite direction to last time. Could it have been a messenger? I had hoped it was just a traveller. I looked outside and felt the darkness reaching out. It wanted me. I saw nothing but the wilting trees, and heard little else. I caught glimpses of the full moon hovering in the sky, breaching the soft skinned, floating defenders we call clouds. That was the moment. The moment it talked to me.

“Thomas… Thomas!” it spat out words, like a ghoulish revenant, “They are coming for her. They are coming. Let me in. I’ll save her.” I shook my head. Freya clocked it. My hands shook, I gripped the other hand tight. Tight enough to leave bloody marks in my palms. I closed my eyes, and chanted an old tune, recycled with time. “In our darkest days, our darkest nights,” the voice hauntingly spoke, “We will run the colour sanguine down the walls of the world of men.” I tightened my grip, pushing my nails inside my skin. I continued, “We shall overcome, for all to see, the power of our own devils.” I repeated this, and repeated it. Until the voices stopped. Freya came up to me and spotted the dripping blood.

“What are you doing!?” she shouted, so refined, so confused. I looked at her, and breathed so soothingly,

“It stopped.” I announced, wiping the sweat from my brow.

Her sorrow for my soul was true. She fiercely approached me, brimming to the rim with bravery, “You will tell me what in the name of our ancestors you were doing!” I smiled, I found this side of her so lovely. “Don’t you dare smile, what aren’t you telling me!?” she shouted with a crunched up brow and sharpened eyes.

“I’m running from my-” Every bone in my body stopped. A pain ripped through my head like no other I had ever experienced.  Everything was quiet. I raised my hand to Freya and the world grew silent.

My eyes clung to something in the shadows. Something stood in the darkness looking back at me.

That was the moment I became something else.

I bore my teeth, witnessed my breath mark the window. I clenched my fists, and felt no pain. I looked at Freya, and even she took a step back. Had my eyes changed? I pointed to the top of the stairs, “We’re not alone, now hide!”.

My pupils widened, my eyesight focused. I felt it coming. What was it? What was this shiver, this sinister sensation, this pain creeping up my spine? The lights needed to die down. Freya needed a chance to hide. She shouldn’t witness this, not this – not now! Don’t be silly, let her see. Let them all see. I won’t, I can’t, I refuse! Let me out, I’ll protect her, save her. She’ll die here otherwise. Face it, you need me. No, I can’t. I stepped away from the window, feeling uneasy with this place. What was that smell? Oil? Burning? Oh no… Not again!

I grabbed the bucket of water and sprayed it over the fire dowsing the flames. Everything turned black. There was a flicker of a candle near the window but it was too risky to show my face now. I needed my shroud, this black fog. I could feel my shadow beckoning, tainting me, and pushing me to let it in. I couldn’t… could I? What would happen to me? Who would I become?

The door knocked.

I questioned everything, my existence, even whether this was a dream. My hands were bleeding, blood had covered my fingers, and I smeared it through the centre-point of my tattoos. I smeared it well, smudging it from my palm to my elbow. The ritual, complete.

I looked to the right of me, watching the world slow to a stop as the inn-keeper approached the door to answer. I felt Freya’s stare tickle the hairs on the back of my neck. What am I? To feel such things? I closed my eyes, but there was never a moment I saw more. I had a clear space around me. I clenched the handle of my sword, and grew ready.

I inhaled and everything disappeared.

The door knocked.

I exhaled, and the sun shone? No, too orange, too fiery. Torches.

The door knocked louder.

It was symbolic, a message. Was I to answer deaths door?

You’ll never protect her like this. Look at yourself…

Myself? I thought. I looked at my hands, only seeing the colour of sanguine coating my arms from my elbow, to the tips of my fingers. I let go.

The door opened.

I watched as the Inn-keeper fell to the ground. He fell into the table, knocking it further away. Why are my arms not moving? Why can I not do something. Move, Damn it!

I felt calm, my heart beat stopped. I tilted my head down, and breathed easy. Soldiers rushed in, surrounding me in a tight, ring formation. There were six of them. My father’s tactics. These ridiculous excuses for soldiers’ dare use my father’s tactics against me… they dare use THAT, his specific formation… the one where my body got broken, and bruised trying to defend, blindfolded against six of the best warriors this world had ever known…

Let me deal with them.

I stopped his words rattling around my head, I agreed, but I waited. My patience was at the precipice of exploding. My vision blurred with anger. Blood wormed its way around the handle of my sword, slowly slithering down the sides of my once white steel blade.

Then I saw her.

I saw that wretch. The woman who condemned us, the one who cast us down. When I saw her face… when I saw the flickering of the flames in her eyes, everything I knew was gone.

Finally, I am free of these chains… I shouted to my foe, I beckoned her, standing isolated in a circle of food, “Katherine! Why do you follow me so blind, so daring? Your reach, too far. You come for me? The boy you protected, practically worshipped. Have you come to beg for your life?” Disrespectful, disreputable, waste of life.

She threw her weight around, chanting nonsense. My ears turned off. My eyes closed. I grew weary of her screeching voice, demanding my head. She called a familiar name, “Vincent!”. My eye twitched. She noticed. He expressed a repugnant laugh, a bitter, and cold look. A large, fictitious smile, bearing his teeth in my direction. Oh how he looked at me with such distain, such malice. I warned them, “If you take another step…!”

“Or else what?” she taunted me. She kept my eyes focused on her, though my eyes were everywhere. I heard every single step he made. I saw the smirks sitting on the noses of these soldiers. These poor saps, pillars of mud that will melt away under my dirty boot.

I laughed, and I laughed.

I warned, and waited.

My hands still dripping with blood. They thought me weak.

Katherine’s voice hummed another command, “Kill him.”

At last…

The soldier to the right of me came rushing in, left knee vulnerable, right arm weak. He aimed for a downwards slash? At wood? Childs play. I let him come closer, and closer. Until he was but a step from cutting my throat. I let him swing. I moved towards him, and pirouetted around him. By this moment, the soldier next to him tried to protect him. It was a decent effort, I suppose. I reached for the dagger out of the first one’s boot. Open, vulnerable. Mistake.

I pulled it out and stabbed his sword at the base of the blade. I altered his direction. He spurted blood everywhere. I liked it. First soldier, dead. Second soldier, covered in the blood of his friend. I threw the knife to the other side of my circle blinding the soldier. The blade pierced his eyeball… Third soldier, dead. I smiled. I kicked the bodies of the bleeding corpse, and the second soldier to the floor. The second soldier fell into the blade, still standing out of the wooden floor, held up by a bloody corpse. He wouldn’t have died from just that; so I pulled my sword out, parried the sword of another, and pressed my boot on the back of him forcing his neck to slowly, slowly slice by the blade of the sword… dead.

When I lifted my foot they fell flat. The Inn-keeper watched me, horrified by my change. I enjoyed it. I laughed so hard. Clearly, they had enough? But they kept coming. So I parried the fourth, broke the nose of the fifth, dodged the six, cut the fourth’s arm, gripped the fifth’s throat – pulling him in front of the sixth’s blade, dead. I wasn’t satisfied. I quickly dropped the remaining two soldiers in a pool of blood.

By this point Katherine had ran outside. I followed, covered in the blood of my hunters’. They were stupid, weak, senseless and unworthy. “You are just like your mother” I vaunted, echoing back from the trees that stood around us. She screamed injustice, injustice, like a child that had just had her sweets stolen. I took another step closer until I left the darkness of the room and entered into the light of the standing torches placed outside.

“Why are you walking away? Don’t you want to play!?” I laughed, enjoying the look of peril she gave. I loved it. It excited me – made me lust for the sight of her blood splattered along the off-road. I had a chance to return her to the shit she belonged to. “Your life is forfeit, your soul, mine.” I stood in front of her gazing into her eyes reflecting a figure covered in pints of blood, soaked in hate, dancing with death. I whispered into her ear, “You wanted a monster? Come on then. Have your monster!”

I hovered my sword above her head. The light shimmered from my bright, white steel sword that I held in my left hand, in judgement. Blood dripping from the tip, onto her face, “Is there anything you wish to say before I take your head?” I saw the fear in her eyes, sweat pouring from her face. The sweet aroma of a bladder failing, “F-F-Freya…” she uttered in my ears. Then I heard it, so clearly, so loud. It echoed around the world and back.

I heard the wailing scream, “Thomas!” from inside; My monster and I stood aligned as one. We ran. Our eyes glance at the bodies we butchered but we do not stop to pay any respect. We skip steps, running up the stairs as we reach for Freya with every breath, every stretch. We reach the top and see Vincent strangling her near the window facing the river. We run our fastest. We bolted down the corridor like Thor’s hammer, roaring like thunder. My right fist cracked his cheek-bone, I felt it. My left – his ribs. My knuckles broke, but I did not stop. He defended against some but not all of my attacks. I fractured his nose, chin and shoulder bones. I chipped away at his arms, brutally, forcefully swinging my fists with a fury, that even the Gods not capable of.

He broke my relenting attacks and pushed me back. My knuckles broken, blood covered every inch of me. I stood there like a demon, no… I stood a monster. I couldn’t let Freya see me. She had fallen to the floor, gasping for air. Vincent aimed for my neck, squeezing my throat with his enormous hands. He threw me into the wall which tunnelled my vision. I had to close my eyes.

I knew what I had to do.

I did what I must.

Without a second thought, I acted.

I broke his guard, performed a hay maker, causing him to stumble towards the window. I threw myself into him, and launched him out of the window, myself included. I landed on him in the water, hearing one of his bones crunch as he hit the bank first. I hoped for the back, but perhaps the leg. We rolled into the water. We were swallowed by the river, a fleeting idea that once darkness claimed you; it would take you straight to Hel. I held onto him, at first; strangling him in the water, ensuring his last ounce of breath was taken from him by my hands. We both fell under the water, and my grip loosened. He drifted away, as did I.

 

 

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Sanctuary

In response to Sanctuary

Sanctuary…

Sanctuary is the place you feel most safe, a place away from the dangers of the world. A haven, from the living, and the dead. A sanctuary is a place where we find comfort, a place where we find peace.

I will write about sanctuary in the terms of Thomas’ story, in the universe of the novel I’m planning.

There was once, once upon a time, where I found sanctuary. It felt brief, almost like the fleeting warmth of a beautiful dream, or the disappearing memory of someone’s touch. I did not feel safe in my home. A place where much death had taken place, and the place where my father taught my how to struggle, and how to kill. That place, took what innocence I had left-no, it was not my sanctuary. I did not feel safe in the biggest castle, or out on the furthest reaches of the sea. I did not find comfort drinking myself to sleep, in the merriest of inns, or the drunkest of halls. I thought I felt at home, when I stood on top of a mountain side, but when I stood there alone, I felt nothing but whispers in the wind. That was the moment I realised I had already found my sanctuary, but also lost it, too. That was when I had discovered that my sanctuary was you. For me, my sanctuary was a person, not a place. The person who you felt safest with, most at home. That person who made everything feel right. My sanctuary was always moving, for it was not something built, or part of the ground we walked on. Even in my darkest moment, or when I stood facing my strongest adversary, or even when I was broken into a hundred pieces, what kept me together was you. For that, I will never be able to repay you.

So, that is what sanctuary means to me. Is it a place for you? Or is it a person you’ve already met, or have yet to meet?

The head of the family P.1

[Parental advisory]

The mud had soaked every drop of the rain, and it ruined the earth. It was soggy, and wet. There were patches where the ground was hollow, and one would sink deep. The no longer wore hard protective skins, even they had been treated to the wickedness of the rain, the flooding. It had been three months now, so far. It seemed fitting, for Thomas was to confront the man he had been running away from these past years. It had been three years since he set eyes on his father, once more.

Thomas had the eyes of his father, a set of piercing green. He had a few whiskers on his hair that differed, but shared the same facial hair, a mix of colours in his beard, but primarily dark brown. Thomas had a rough set of hair that fell down to the bottom of his neck. It had been several moons since he had a chance to cut it. He did not believe in long-hair meant strength. He had enough strength, he would argue. He walked through the stretches of mud, squishing through the plains.

There he was.

There, he waited.

“Has he been waiting for me all of this time?”

A man sat in the rain, his cloak, and trousers on the floor beside him, and his sword in his hands. Thomas’ father was hunting him. This time, Thomas decided to meet him, face to face, to end the hunt once, and for all. He was tired of running, and he was tired of being called something he was not.

“You’re a monster” the ghosts of his past beckoned. “You’re a beast!” they would shout, creating a very large gap between themselves and Thomas. All because of his father’s legend, as the bloodied white wolf.

Thomas however, was the one wearing the cloak now, the one that had seen so much blood it still had the dim colour of sanguine seeped into its fur. Thomas slowly approached the man, standing bandaged, and temporarily fixed together. He had suffered through much, since they last had met. He had fixed his broken bones, and mended his bruises. He had even cleaned his face, before this confrontation. He cleaned his clothes, even though it was raining, and when he was close enough for him to see his father, he could not help but clench his fist. He held his fingers so tightly, he thought they would break. He fixed his stare on his father, and allowed his anger to protect him, and put a wall of strength up between them. He had no time to be soft, not now.

“Thomas, my son. I knew you would not run away forever. You’re not that type of person.”

Thomas thought of something to say but was too slow. Trinson stood up, put his clothes on, and fastened his grim, grey coat to his back.

“How is my sword doing? Are you keeping it in good condition?”

Thomas eyed the sheath he carried on his side for a moment before looking back at Trinson.

“It suits you well.” Trinson announced.

Trinson had a pony-tail that collected most of his hair away from his eyes. There were one or two tufts that fell down the front, but nothing that bothered him. Trinson picked up his scabbarded sword. It laid sheathed in a metal scabbard. the design was intricate, and had his family house imprinted onto the side.

“When you left me, I had to make this sword, a black steel blade. Do you know how hard it was to make?” Trinson refused to let Thomas speak and continued, “No, of course you don’t. You haven’t had a hard day’s work in your life. You had it easy. My mistake. Now, it has come to my attention that you have been sullying our family name. You have struck down a guardian, a friend of mine, and it is something I won’t be able to let go of. You’re my responsibility. I will clean up the mess I made all those years ago.”

Thomas no longer denied his anger, and let it flood through, “I’m your mess? You self-righteous, arrogant bastard.” Thomas reached for his sword, and untied it from around his waist. He took the white-steel blade out of the casing, and when he pulled it out, it rung with the sound of a perfect blade. It had no dents, and was not battered. He pointed the sword to his father and said, “You damned our family the day you let Katherine perform that ritual on our grounds. Mother, she is a part of that tree, alongside those monsters who killed her. Do you realise that? No, of course not. You do not understand the ways of our world. You just like to pretend to.”

Trinson took his sword out of the casing, imitating Thomas, but without a hint of anger in his heart. He pulled a dark grey sword, a ‘black blade’ out of the scabbard. “This blade, is an attribute to my weakness. It is my revenge, and my darkness. The reason for its creation, was to bring you back home.” He faced his sword in the opposite direction to Thomas, affixing his eyes on him, changing his stance, and burying his feet in the mud, and pointing at him, “Dead, or alive.”

Part of Thomas understood this, and let go of part of his anger, as he put himself into this position. He knew he had to be more intelligent than his father, if he was capable of beating him. He had not put in the years like his father did. He had not seen multitudes of battle. He had some catching up to do, but was younger.

They stood head to head, with clothes that weighed on them heavily. They stood with their cloaks fastened, a true marvel to watch. You would have thought they would have died from the cold alone. Both Thomas, and Trinson had been given the markings of the old ones down their arms, and legs. So much so, that they bandaged their body, to hide their markings. Even if the amount was small, that was the thing they had in common, a disgusted feeling of what they had become, by accepting their gifts.

Thomas stood aligned in a good place, not just in body, and though he was furious, he was one with his monster. If you could see their spirit, it would be like the light, and darkness of a person, wreathing around one another, both clutching the sword, together. They stood opposed to the person that created his monster to begin with.

The rain softened for a moment.

That was the moment the battle started.

Both Thomas, and Trinson ran at each other. Thomas stepped heavy, lunging so hard he slid through the mud on his third step, and Trinson swung his sword around. It sliced the hairs over Thomas’ forehead, but Thomas did not falter. He did not blink. He thrust his sword forward, and forced Trinson to move to the side. They met swords on the second bout and sparks from the two blades shot everywhere. The impact of the swords were epic, and after the hit, the blades ran across one another, as the men prepared for the next move. Thomas grabbed his first knife from his pocket, and so did Trinson. They let loose the parried swords, and swung with their alternate hands. Thomas dropped his blade, and grabbed Trinson’s arm, squeezing his wrist so tight, that he caused him to let go of his blade. Trinson dropped his sword, and threw his fist. His sword landed downwards in the mud. Trinson punched Thomas, his fist, connecting to Thomas’ cheek, a punch so hard that it freed Thomas’ feet in the mud. Thomas lost his grip in the floor. That was when his father grabbed him around the waist, throwing him to the floor. He leant on Thomas’ back, and fastened his arms around his neck, “I’m sorry it had to end like this son.”

Thomas gasped, reached for something, anything, he tried to wriggle. The rain, worsened. He was losing his breath.

Thomas unfastened his cloak, he swung his head back as far as he could. He hit something, but could not see. Trinson loosened his grip. Thomas slid out of his cloak, and rolled away from Trinson. He grabbed his sword, and stood up. Trinson did the same. They took a step back, before Trinson took his own cloak off, to imitate him.

They stood opposing one another, like two different colour flames. They panted, but quickly calmed down. Trinson’s nose had blood dribbling from his right nostril. Thomas got lucky, hitting him in such a place. Thomas had two straps, one from his shoulder, down to his waist, and one wrapping around his waist. The straps had three sockets, for his knives. Two of which remained. Trinson, had a knife on a belt around his leg, and two around the strap on his shoulder. One of which, was missing.

They seemed like equals.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have taught me how to fight. You can go home, if this is too tough for you, father.”

Trinson smiled. “That’s the boy I remember, still a cocky little shit.”

Trinson raised his sword to his left, and Thomas did the same. One sword face the right, and one the left. They moved around each other, like wolves fighting for leadership.

“I don’t want to be the bloodied white wolf, I don’t want to be remembered as you.” Thomas cried.

“Then you should have thought of that before you stole my sword, and cloak!”

“What was I to do!? You were killing me! Do you realise what you were doing, trying to pull my monster out of me?”

Trinson refused to believe him. He trusted his own word, and his own word, was right, to him.

Thomas could see the look on his father’s face. He could not believe that his father did not believe him. He purported it was time to show his father why he was living up to his father’s name.

Thomas dug his sword into the mud beneath him. He started untying his bandages with his teeth, and laid them on the ground.

“Did you not think about the weather? You will die if you take your under-layers off.”

Thomas smiled. His stare, still aimed at his father.

“I met Grandfather during my spiritual travels, you know.”

Trinson clenched his weapon tight, “You don’t have the right to speak of him.”

Thomas took out the ritual blade, he had in one of the three pockets of his straps. He cut his hand open, a very fine cut. He slid the blood down his wrists, down his arms, and through every marking he had on his body. He stood there, and though his eyes were green, something about them felt wrong. He looked at Trinson, as if he saw six of him. Trinson gulped, “When did you mark your whole body? Why would you do such a thing? This thing was dangerous enough with the arms and legs.”

“I am the son of the bloodied white wolf, but I am not him.” Thomas grabbed his head. A sharp pain pulsated through head.

That monster within him, that was so balanced, completely took over. In an instant. The markings around his body gave them both enough energy, for his monster to come out.

“What vile nature is this?” Trinson asked.

“Thomas, what have you done?” Trinson pleaded.

Trinson held his sword with two hands, and faced what was in front of him. Thomas stood, in a strange fashion, a little crooked, “We, come from a place much older than your gods, Trinson. We are older than the first ones, and certainly stronger. We may not seem like it, and you may have chose to bury us in the ground as a failure, or a monster, but we are not so. Here, we are weak. Thanks to you, for the first time in the dozens of lives that we have had, walking on this earth, I have been able to hold this body, as my own, and not be a part of him.”

Trinson looked in awe. It was something he had been searching for, for a very long time. Answers to the questions in his head, but suddenly, he felt a horrible, stomach churning sensation in his stomach.

“No, you’re not him. Thomas, fight it!”

Trinson rushed forward, swinging his blade, in a fury. He swung from his right, and Thomas seemed to move underneath it, without a second thought. Trinson swung again, from his left, but Thomas pushed his fingers against the sword, and pushed it away from him.

Trinson jumped a step back.

“Everyone, it’s him. He finally reached for control. I need your help” he bellowed a shout that stretched to the trees behind him.

Thomas was faced with more than one foe.

Berenger ‘the bear’, Delbert ‘the stag’, Griswald ‘The Raven’, Nilvar ‘The boar’, Rodric ‘The fox’,

Six of them stood in front of Thomas.

Six of them, took their cloaks off. They stood as the people who protected their nation, from both humans, and anyone who threatened their mother’s world. By mother, a woman called Lisbett created this order. She stood as one of the last remaining völvas. She knew something was going to come, but wasn’t sure when. It looks like it found them in the end.

“So these, are the six bastards that no parent wanted. I bet you must have thought she really loved you? Aren’t there supposed to be nine of you?” Thomas beckoned,”Trinson, why is it that you received a last name, but the others didn’t, if you’re all equals?”

Trinson whispered words in an archaic voice. There was a battle to happen here, and it was going to be the end of all of them, or the end of one.

A thousand apologies

What do you say to someone who asks you why you no longer have a smile on your face, or joy in your eyes? How do you tell them its because your heart is closed, perhaps, even broken? What do you say to those people in the street, who you pass and they shout, “Smile!” What do you say? I doubt I’ve cracked a smile in the last eight years. Since the day they took you from me. Since I lost myself, driving them away.

It is hard not to become a monster, not to plunge your teeth into your enemies, and take from them everything. But, we do not start like this, in fact, I wonder whether I even noticed at the time, that I was losing my mind, and becoming a monster. I wonder whether I had known what would happen to me, but knowing me? Knowing the great Thomas Vargr, the great ‘fool’, I did, do, and always will know the path in front of me. I often wonder whether there is a small fraction of myself that hates me, that really hates me; whether it pushes me down paths like these for fun, or just to see if I would break, or grow stronger.

I don’t know whether it is jealousy, but I know it is there. There’s something. When I look into a clear lake, and see the reflection of myself, I notice a small glint in my eye, even when I’m at my lowest, my darkest, or my hardest times. It is like some part of me, somewhere, is enjoying my pain. Could it be so? Something inside of us all that stands against us? I hope it isn’t just me.

It’s something I wish I could talk to Lisett about. It is something I wish I could ask her. She seemed to know more about me than anyone else. She seemed to understand that darker side. I remember when I walked with her, even when we fought, we both had that sinister darkness inside us. We enjoyed the fight, the pain we caused, and the pain we received. The cuts, the slashes, the bruises, the broken bones. We were like vampires of the soul, manipulating the un-shielded, the weak.

I caught up to her for a while, but even she too, could not handle those chasing me. They are still hunting me down, after all these years. It had been eight years since I had killed their king. Even though, I could have stayed around, and usurped the throne, I would be no better. I would be no proper, and decent King. I am not my father, and even though he was no king, he naturally brought people together. He could have handled it, this, but not me.

What I would do, for another conversation with you Trinson. I wonder what your words of wisdom would be like. Probably something like this “Get up boy, stop being foolish, and start being strong. Your grandfather would be disappointed that his grandson looks at the world in such dis-taste. You get up, peel the mud from your body, clean the blood, forgive, and forget, and then confront the ghosts of your past, the demons of your mind… and conquer them.”

I lost to my demon though. I mean, it was a fair fight, but circumstances tore me in half, and my stronger half won. That was all. I lost what was most important to me, and something in me snapped. I couldn’t hold in my anger anymore, and it consumed me, until I took my revenge… then all I had left, was sadness.

I tried seeking out the witches who tried to find me. I came across one in a pub down south. She was crazy,

“Thomas, There are people coming for us, people, like you and me. They are coming to destroy us, take our souls. You must not let them. Please, we’re gathering the remaining covens of witches, and fleeing to a place deemed safe. One of our members owns an island to the east. Come to us when you feel most alone. We won’t shy you away.”

I didn’t believe her. I scoffed at her, mistakenly. And, when I didn’t go with her, I found a deep sorrow, for reasons I was not aware of at the time. It was like, the chains of my soul, which connected to all things, lost something I deemed precious. I visited the island last year. Nothing was left, except the hanging bodies of women, crucified, hung from the trees they cultivated, and left on the floor, in pieces.

What was I supposed to do with this sadness, this knowledge? Was I responsible? My actions, as the second white wolf? The devil of the North? or would it have happened regardless of my actions?

I should have performed a ritual on them, to cleanse the area, and release them from this world, but part of me grew so dark, I felt I was not able to do such things, that I had no right to, anymore. Alessandra, Beatrice, Kristel, Linnea, Lucille, Sera, Thara, Valencia, I am sorry. I hold no right to seek forgiveness, for not being there to protect you. Even though I made those vows to you, as a protector, when I was a boy. I didn’t see it as something serious back then, but I am sorry.

As for my last apology… It is directed at you, my lady, my Freya. I don’t know what pulled me to you in this life, and it didn’t matter who I was attracted to, or who held my attention, none held it quite like you, and you were everything I needed to fight back my demons, and you made me strong. Protecting you, was what held me together, and gave me purpose.

I am just sorry I failed you… please don’t chase me anymore… please, don’t follow me, for when I look at you, I see regret, and I see failure. I cannot take your pain, not can I take your scars away. I failed. I am not the man my father thought I was. I can barely protect myself…

I am at the end of my travels. I will try my best to end the revenge-killings, and then I will leave this world, for good, this time.

 

 

Awakening

“Thomas, Thomas!” a voice beckoned.

Whispers crawled down the corridor of the ancient, grim-coloured stone castle like a shadow stretching at the glimpse of moonlight. It reached for him. It searched every room for him. Each step the boy took he could feel the shadow of the voice creeping closer. He could feel his heart beat, and swallowed the saliva rising in his throat.

“Where are you, boy?” the voice demanded.

Thomas dared not look behind him. He just kept trying each and every door as he crept through the dark corridor. The only light being that of the moon, piercing the gaps of the ceiling. Thomas could not open a single door. He carried on going, hopelessly pulling the handle of each door. Tears began rolling down his face, and his hands shook. He hit a red door to his right so hard with his fist that he broke two of his knuckles. he let his hand lose, and it dangled beside him.

“I can’t do this anymore, I can’t keep coming here… Why do you keep bringing me here?”

A faceless man stood in the shadow ahead of him. What Thomas could spot was that his face was bandaged. The man stood silent, distant, and something about him brought a feeling of insecurity, despair, and disgust. Something wasn’t right about this man. He lifted his bandaged hand up, and bent his fingers back, making a palm sign with his hand. It caused Thomas to step back. In a whim Thomas tried the red door he had hurt his hand on, and it opened. When the door creaked open, another faceless, bandaged man, stood there, looking at him, with a crooked spine, and smelt of death.

Thomas stepped back. He no longer knew what he was running from. The faceless man stepped out of the door and crept towards Thomas like a disease. Thomas stepped back, and came closer to the shadow…

“Come to me, I’ll protect you. Thomas, where are you?”

Every door in front of Thomas, the ones that stood in the direction he had been running opened. The same, faceless, bandaged man came out. The red doors, the blue doors, the black doors… Every one spewed the same disgusting creatures. Some had holes in their face, other had blood dripping from their body.

Drip… drip… the squelching of footprints through the now bloodied floor was a prominent sound, though they moved silently. Thomas sweat in panic. He stepped into the shadow behind him, and kept going. With each door he passed, another faceless, creature reared its ugly, rotting head.

They walked closer, breathing breath that intoxicated the air, so foul that clouds of gas seemed to dissipate as they exhaled.

“Let me in, Thomas… I’ll protect you…”

Thomas shook his head, as he stepped further back. Before long, he backed into something he could not pass. He dared not look behind him. It felt like a wall, but he was sure that nothing was holding him there.

“Let me in, damn you. I will save you from this. I will protect you.”

Thomas shrieked, letting out an exasperated cry for help, but no help came. They came closer, and closer, and with each step he felt his heart rising, and his breath getting heavier. Before long, he felt his chest pound, his eyesight blur, and there were so many hands. They all showed that same palm, blood seeping through the bandages. They were coming for him.

Thomas closed his eyes as he heard the voice one more time. “Thomas, let me save you!” It cried.

He took one final gulp, and agreed. Everything came crashing towards him, the faceless men started running, but something took over… something stopped them. Thomas blinked, and they were all cut down in front of him. He stood at the end of the corridor with a beating hand in his heart. He observed the ripped limbs, rolling heads, and other pieces of their bodies that were still twitching, and moving in the darkness.

Thomas woke up, he sat against the root of a tree, and gazed up at the moon. He looked down at his bandaged hand “What have I done?” he asked. His hand was covered in the blood of the ghosts from his past. “What have I become?” he cried. Though he crouched, his shadow grew long, and watched silent.

It grew still. When the wind blew, he heard the giggling of a child, “You became me.”

 

 

The blood of the soul

I held my hand out in front of me; it was full of blood, dripping down onto the glyph I drew with chalk. A bag of salt made a large circle outside of the glyph. It remained complete; it remained true.

They say, “When summoning spirits, or seeking out knowledge that only the dead are aware of, you must be ready to sacrifice your blood.” I had been reluctant for far too long, tip-toeing between this world and the next, our parallel, and many others. I had delved into the past, and witnessed our world history, as well as my own history. I had read the words on the pages of the great books in my hall, and bore the wisdom of the future… but I had yet to take this jump, this leap of faith.

I took a step forward, and squeezed my hand tight. I turned around until blood sprayed between the chalk octagon. The blood mixed in with the drawing. My blood, it irradiated a strange energy. It was like I could feel the power. I stood in the middle, in my symbol, 2 horizontal lines in the middle, and two vertical lines running through the centre, meeting symmetrical half-horizontal lines on the top and bottom.

I smeared my blood through symbols on the outside; each one symbolising a different thing, a different person, a different ideal.

I was ready, I close my eyes, and moved my hands back in. I knelt down, and felt a gentle breeze caress my face. It took every ounce of concentration I had not to be provoked into opening my eyes. I had to see with my soul. There were more than just breezes around the room now. Some moved my hair, and pressed into my body.

“What have I done?” I pondered. I felt fingers touch my skin, and my hands elevate. I had to pull out a parchment, a note of the person I was calling. I pressed my bloody hand on it, before I was taken.

I was warned, “Blood acts like nectar to the souls on that side. When you bleed, with intention to call them, it is like offering them a feast. Always have a specific purpose; always have a clear mind.”

I re-affirmed my concentration and sang the words that sealed my fate…

You never know where the wind walks

 

So, I’ve had half a week of mixed emotions. Some would ascertain it would have something to do with my headaches, or this tension I’ve been feeling, and others would perhaps suggest the cause may be the Protein shakes and diet programme. But, aside from the tension my week has been a little lazy; still working on the concept of hard work.

Well, I would say yesterday, and today have been a little bit of an under-achievement. I wrote two character bibles yesterday and that was all.

“Olsen the Lion, a manipulator with deep blue eyes, and a hint of green. Standing at 6″2, the man was someone to be feared. He was once a proud, and courageous man who towered above others in honour, but had let fame, and fortune take his mind. He escaped to Denmark, where he rose to fight in the ranks of Danish officers, and pilfers Swedish secrets. He is second to none in Denmark as a warrior. He loses control of his pride when faced with a chance to kill the son of Trinson Vargr, and goes out of his way to chase him, like a mad dog.” (short character description, actual character bible is 6 pages long)

And…

“Lennart Haroldsson, an unhinged boy who witnessed the white wolf kill his father in front of him, then mock him by telling him to grow up and seek revenge if he dared. He did. He fled as far as Rome, and was taken in by the Catholic church, provided an education, and when Pope Pascal II realised that he would not be persuaded to give up his revenge. He helped him train with the Pikemen residing in the Vatican. He trained, and in the ten years it took him to grow up, at the age of 18 he stood 6″8 and towered almost any man around him. He was strong, and wild. He carried a pike five meters long and handled it like a dagger. He was quick, and shot across the battlefield. Even young, he was determined, and was a fast learner. He was to meet his adversary Trinson Vargr, at Trinson’s home after skulking past the boarders, and into the forests so vast one can lose oneself in.” (another 6 page character bible)

Today, I went to the gym, and aimed to reach 170BPM, this for some reason was very difficult for me. I kept getting distracted, and my heart rate lowered. It really annoyed me, so much so that I tried my best to work and on a cross trainer, to the point where I had to move 26.9kmph just to raise my heart-rate above 150. Ugh, but hey, it worked for a little while at least. I do wish I could get back into the swing of strength training. I’ve never really been in the swing of it and would love a helping hand in it but people seem so… isolated in the gym it’s hard to disturb them.

Other than the gym, I was supposed to read today, and ended up falling asleep for 2 hours, took a shower, and decided that it was time to go get my new bank card. So, I went shopping with a friend, who finally told me something that was going on in her head, instead of hounding me for information; for a change. It was a pleasant surprise, and aside from that I found myself realising something today.

There’s something I’ve been lacking lately, and seeing as I don’t tend to have much of it, I haven’t thought it was a problem until today. The thing is, I’m an awkward mix between loner, and socialiser in the fact that I do enjoy company, I mean, really… who doesn’t? But at the same time I don’t want to be attached to someone by the hip, but the thing I’m okay with is being inside one another’s heads. I mean, when you enjoy someone’s company, and you get to know them more each time you talk one would purport that you would find yourself on the same wave-length, and then things just click.

I find myself in this position with a very few people, but I’m lucky to have at least one person I’m like this with, though without a certain level of depth to a person it’s hard to find such doors into a person’s mind, never mind at a level where you would trust them undoubtedly.

This is my predicament… some days are easier, and I get my fix of in-depth conversation, whether I/they talk about dreams, or problems, or decisions, or worldly issues like religion or politics; it really shows you the type of person they are, and when you value nothing, share no view, have no opinion… there’s nothing to create something out of. What do you do then? Well, like a dying flame burning out, seeking out a breeze to give it a push… does it breathe again? or does it die?

I’d rather not get extinguished like a flame, and whether this relates to you, or someone you know, comment below. Have you ever felt like you’re reaching out but not being answered? Crying out without tears? It’s a difficult thing to think about. And to those I know who this does effect… if it bothers you just talk to me about it, and if you get annoyed with my words… either don’t read, or just talk…

The rest, is up to you.

So I was told not to scrap anything I write.

So, I was told to keep everything I write, as sort of a learning experience, and if ever needed to look back I can see what I’ve written. So, I thought, why not add them here?

How does one start a story—when a man’s story has a thousand beginnings, a thousand ends, and a thousand journeys? How does one begin, when this man’s story began far before the prickling hands of thieves, deviants, or the young god? Before the grand-father, the great clock, the mother. This man’s story began before the whispers of mankind, but still, he finds himself revelling in the misery of man, scouring for truth, yet hiding from his shadow—his reflection. “What am I?” he would ask, a thousand times over. He who commanded the will of blood, drew the symbols of the ancient ones across his body. He defiled it, in exchange for a short-lived life. He never needed much time to sow his seeds, nor reap them. Though he was the first one of his kind, he was not the first being—Let me tell you, yes, you’re ready. Let me tell you the story of the twin—known by many names, remembered as a whisper on the tongue, a shadow in the dark, the instrument of death. He was known well—as a reaper, a demon… a monster.
This is the story of Thomas, the twin of the world, the moon to the sun, and the sun to the moon, he symbolised a mirror, a connection, an inter-locking chain of duality. He was the same, yet different from us all. And this story, begins with his fall from the so-called heavens. This story, begins at his end.
In this world, long before mankind was cursed to devour life, long before Norse met its end, and long before the war between the Aesir and Vanir; it was long before the Babylonian floods, and before Gilgamesh took his reign. It was long before Enki, and long before the invasion of Green-skins, lizard-men, Annunaki, Chitauri. This… monstrosity—no—this hell stood before Chronos stood, spinning his wheel of time. There stood a group of people, some would say Gods, others would say the first ones, but he would call them friends. That is, until they found out he was different. Until, he broke the rules.

Well, that’s it for now.

Interesting fifteen minutes.

Diaries of a Madman V

Now, listen ‘ere… I got a story to tell…

 

I’ve ‘ad an itch for several moons now.

 

Not the type of itch ye get from squeezing ‘yer mere pecker into a bottle, but the type o’ itch you feel the urge to reach for your Flintlock pistol. It sends shudders down me spine.

 

Though, I have quite the smile attached to me mug.

So, enough pirate. I didn’t even start this post aiming for pirate, but here we are. Let me tell you my thoughts through the eyes of a character from my book.

“You know me, you’ve always known me. You’ve held my heart, and I’ve held yours. We traversed many journeys together, and succumbed to the magic of blood, together. We’ve lived many lives, and laughed at death in the face. We’ve been stabbed, cut, and we’ve bled, together. One time, we died, by each other. Literally. You put your hands on my curves, and called me yours. You always came to find me, but for this time; this time, I came to find you.”

I blew out the torch I carried. As much as I loved the warmth of the light, it hindered my sight, and I felt this plaguing urge to feel the cold against my skin.

“I like your preparing moods. I’ve watched you spend time with your friends, and your lover. You’re having mood swings, going through motions as if you’re bracing yourself for a challenge. Warning: You should watch what you say, and what you do, because kittens have teeth, well, at least claws. You’ve always had this nine-point view, and as much as it is admirable, it is hellish to watch. Part of me wants to hit you every time you get into these things.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, and let out a sigh. My breath lingered in the air like a plume of fog, slowly dissipating.

“I wish you’d look in front of you, rather than twenty steps ahead. Sure, you have your end goal, but it’s no good without the push for the hard-work in front of you. You read each page, hoping for distractions, dying to be social, but wanting to be alone. It seems you’re at an impasse. I wish I could help, like I did when I picked you up off the floor, way-back-then.”

“I do pick-up the gawking. The admiration you have for one or two others around you. It’s reminiscent of the way you looked at me. It’s like a devotion, a trust, a bond that you seem to silence. For all your words, you have none for it, or at least not any more.”

I stopped, and backed up to a tree, feeling an icy-cold touch on my cheek. I shuddered, tightening my grip on my cloak, and covering my head in the fur of my hood.

“Just tell me one thing… can you justify an hour at the gym, 15 pages of one book, and 30 pages of another? Shouldn’t you be trying harder? Getting stronger? Faster? you always did act like quite the copy-cat. Maybe, what you need, is someone better, stronger, faster, to compete with. Maybe, you miss the competition. It’s time like these, where I wish Trinson would stand against you.”

Well, hopefully you won’t forget everything we taught you, and everything you taught us. Remember me as the woman you could never catch up with.

Please, remember to write this story of ours. Not a single soul will do it for you.

The Red Rose.