no matter what they say, I am still the king
The world was waking up. The fervor and magic on the battlefield seemed to stir the loins of the reckless souls who had wandered away. The decree of the Fairies seemed to carve out a space for the old to return again. In the past year, it seemed that the shackles of time had shaken off – that the dead had ruptured the cragged earth from where they lay and shaken off the dust to rise again. The stagnant wasteland was bursting forth in a bloom of bodies – and the Valley was no stranger to greeting them. It was no surprise that the Kingdoms of Beqanna took a hold of a soul – they wrapped their arms around it and held tightly. You could wander, you could roam – you could even venture to hell and back –and yet you always came home.
The Valley was no different. She was a Nightmother, a dark lusting vengeance on your soul. She kissed you with an open mouth and ignites a lust in your body that will never die out. It may fade, the years may pass and you realize that lust is just another deadly sin – another way to die. But it will never extinguish – and the moments you hear her calling (her sweet, rough voice an orchestra in your heart), you will come running. And you, Gunsynd, are not immune. You have come to ruminate on that fiery bursting in your body once again.
Eight had guarded the Valley for the last twelve years – for most of which he had spent making love to the shadows, carving out a home in the tall and course walls of the mountains. He was a figment, something felt but not seen – an idea but not an idol. He had been useful, his magic a tally of might and power – to throw up protective walls, to hush the Valley from outside ears, and most recently to drive Yael to a loss so powerful that her magic had obliterated her own self in her very hands. More than anything, he seemed to be a weapon – an ace card up the Valley’s sleeve, her very own God in play.
The Valley was his snow globe – a little world that he peered down upon and shook up whenever he saw fit- and so as you were birthed from the air into the Valley’s heart, Eight watched from above. The new soul Seastory approached first – demure and delicate, a soft flower to be plucked (but aware; each flower may have thorns). And then, Topsail, her heft like a solid warship biting through the storm. Inside her lay the three gifts Eight would lay upon the world- no doubt fighting tooth and nail for the position of first to come out. We have all fucked and fleed – all lain our seed without adhering to what may come (Eight was no stranger in this animalistic act) – but to create a dynasty is no time for absconding. The three would need Eight’s power in order to learn their own, and so he had stayed.
The tension below is bitter, a taste that Eight can eke out from the skies above. Topsail had not been keen as of late for any diplomacies or elegances – and you, Gunsynd, exuded the very tang of female revulsion and pretentiousness. There was no menace in your stature – no pulsing desire to reign mighty among the lands or even to inflict harm upon the two before you – you were, for all intents and purposes, innocent in your return. And for this, Eight remained above. Yes, you were quite a creature, malicious in persona, but no malcontent in your desires. But the fervor in your voice, the glint in your eye, that radiating thirst to feast yourself on the power of the Valley – now that was what called Eight to the milky soft grounds of the Valley floor.
He appears with a sudden thrust of air and the electric of magic pushing outwards in a circle, walking quietly up through Seastory and Topsail. “What has not happened here.” He has never met Seastory, and the last moments with Topsail had been on the edge of the plains, conjuring the trio inside her – he gives a small throb of magic to them, acknowledgement to them both (because of course, the magician could never be rude), the magic crawling inside them before dissipating quickly. He is Gunsynd.- he sends the information towards Seastory, knowing that communication with a telepath was none too easy, best to keep her in the loop.
“The throne has changed hands thrice in the past decade, although Topsail has stayed steady throughout the past five years. Raiding has demolished the Deserts. The magic of the Kingdoms has diminished. The Kingdoms are rebuilding from dust and ash.” Was this enough justice to the past decade of Beqanna? Did these clipped sentences truly encompass all that these souls had seen? You have been gone, cavorting far away from the tremors of the Valley – from the trials and tribulations that her weathered walls have seen. “And what, pray tell, has happened to you?”
The Valley was no different. She was a Nightmother, a dark lusting vengeance on your soul. She kissed you with an open mouth and ignites a lust in your body that will never die out. It may fade, the years may pass and you realize that lust is just another deadly sin – another way to die. But it will never extinguish – and the moments you hear her calling (her sweet, rough voice an orchestra in your heart), you will come running. And you, Gunsynd, are not immune. You have come to ruminate on that fiery bursting in your body once again.
Eight had guarded the Valley for the last twelve years – for most of which he had spent making love to the shadows, carving out a home in the tall and course walls of the mountains. He was a figment, something felt but not seen – an idea but not an idol. He had been useful, his magic a tally of might and power – to throw up protective walls, to hush the Valley from outside ears, and most recently to drive Yael to a loss so powerful that her magic had obliterated her own self in her very hands. More than anything, he seemed to be a weapon – an ace card up the Valley’s sleeve, her very own God in play.
The Valley was his snow globe – a little world that he peered down upon and shook up whenever he saw fit- and so as you were birthed from the air into the Valley’s heart, Eight watched from above. The new soul Seastory approached first – demure and delicate, a soft flower to be plucked (but aware; each flower may have thorns). And then, Topsail, her heft like a solid warship biting through the storm. Inside her lay the three gifts Eight would lay upon the world- no doubt fighting tooth and nail for the position of first to come out. We have all fucked and fleed – all lain our seed without adhering to what may come (Eight was no stranger in this animalistic act) – but to create a dynasty is no time for absconding. The three would need Eight’s power in order to learn their own, and so he had stayed.
The tension below is bitter, a taste that Eight can eke out from the skies above. Topsail had not been keen as of late for any diplomacies or elegances – and you, Gunsynd, exuded the very tang of female revulsion and pretentiousness. There was no menace in your stature – no pulsing desire to reign mighty among the lands or even to inflict harm upon the two before you – you were, for all intents and purposes, innocent in your return. And for this, Eight remained above. Yes, you were quite a creature, malicious in persona, but no malcontent in your desires. But the fervor in your voice, the glint in your eye, that radiating thirst to feast yourself on the power of the Valley – now that was what called Eight to the milky soft grounds of the Valley floor.
He appears with a sudden thrust of air and the electric of magic pushing outwards in a circle, walking quietly up through Seastory and Topsail. “What has not happened here.” He has never met Seastory, and the last moments with Topsail had been on the edge of the plains, conjuring the trio inside her – he gives a small throb of magic to them, acknowledgement to them both (because of course, the magician could never be rude), the magic crawling inside them before dissipating quickly. He is Gunsynd.- he sends the information towards Seastory, knowing that communication with a telepath was none too easy, best to keep her in the loop.
“The throne has changed hands thrice in the past decade, although Topsail has stayed steady throughout the past five years. Raiding has demolished the Deserts. The magic of the Kingdoms has diminished. The Kingdoms are rebuilding from dust and ash.” Was this enough justice to the past decade of Beqanna? Did these clipped sentences truly encompass all that these souls had seen? You have been gone, cavorting far away from the tremors of the Valley – from the trials and tribulations that her weathered walls have seen. “And what, pray tell, has happened to you?”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in