Ballerinas

The leaves on the trees were like emeralds that day; shining a beautiful green in the sunlight. Something was different. Something that I couldn't explain. There was just a feeling that could be pushed down but never swept clear of my heart. It was there, and was not intending to leave anytime soon. I feared to talk. Maybe it would go away. I was cautious of even thinking anything too defined. The mysterious dreamlike haze was so thin that I feared I would break it - yet so strong that it couldn't be shaken. But I didn't want to, anyhow. It was enough for me to just sit and dream of what it might be - I didn't have to find out what it was, just have the pleasure of knowing that it existed. Knowing it was there, it was real, even if nobody else could feel it. That made it even more special - it's mine. It was an adventure, and dream, creeping ever so slowly, but so gracefully and pleasantly that it felt like it floated - towards my life. Nearer and nearer, it gently danced. That was it...it wasn't creeping, it was dancing. Just like a faerie ballerina with gauzy sparkling wings, veined with swirling sparkling lace, and a white tiara, frosted with shining snow-like glitter. This dream of mine also had another side to it. It was graceful and beautiful, but the exciting, colorful side might have been just as thrilling. This ballerina didn't need wings - it had enough fun without them. It preferred to run and dance and twirl - even recklessly, if that was what it felt like. This ballerina wore red, yellow, and blue on its crown - rubies, topaz, and sapphires. It danced and laughed and always was waiting just around the other corner - just around that last turn - bidding you catch up to the excitement it held in store....but always skipping just ahead to the next one after the one you just reached. Always new excitement to be reached. But if it were found, would you find this mischievous ballerina to be merely a flight of fancy; or even more beautiful and fanciful than you had ever, in your wildest dreams, imagined...?



Silence

Speech was not an option. So she kept it all inside. She could see, and hear. But for the hurt in her eyes and heart, she may as well have been in a world of darkness. A world where she didn't know how to bring light in. A place she struggled to communicate and got more and more frustrated every time she tried. Tears of frustration hammered against her eyes, threatening to spill out, as she wrote out a letter to her one and only friend, the only one who wasn't afraid to come around to her home which was threatened to be ransacked any day - or worse, during the night.

The world of pitch black that she pounded the walls of to be released from was Nazi Germany. And her reason for being unable to speak was that she was mute. Even if she had learned somehow, she would have forgotten for its lack of use due to the terror she faced every day. With all the things kept inside, wanting so bad to be let out, part of her didn't want to communicate one word of what she saw through her eyes every day of her life for the past three years

Trapped

For Millie there was no gravity.....
However, that also meant that there was no air.
When she leaped, she flew. The ten years she had spent somewhat involuntarily in ballet school had taught her that.
But the pressure she felt from her friends and family to continue something she had no passion for fairly made her feel that even whilst in the midst of floating, she was falling, sinking deeper and deeper; and she doubted sometimes that she would ever get out.

Ohpher ~ Daughter of the North Wind

Daughter belonging to none and to all;

Daughter of winds, of cold, and of fall;

Daughter of fate and daughter of change;

Daughter of love and life rearranged.

Visible below was the startling contrasts of green and blue, land and ocean, farm and brook. She knew them all well, having passed by them and over them unfathomable counts of times. She knew every blade of jade spiking from the brown earth. She was familiar with every veined emerald upon the sturdy branches of the trees.

On some days, especially nearing the times of fall and winter, she swept through languished spikes deprived of their gaiety and stirred the lost and fragile leaves which had also been deprived of their jade brilliance. At these times of the year, the organics dangling from trees' branches were nothing more than veins, made cracked and hard from the loss of life. It was her responsibility to take them away. She snatched them from their home branches, relieving them of their life-giving employment. When possible, she attempted to coax them towards piles of their own kind. In time, they would fall to their essential pieces and be returned to the earth. In this way, they were eternal. She felt a gust of pride in having helped bring aid to the leaves - ensuring their mortality and thereby their immortality.

At times, on the way to a gathering of brittle, fluttering leaves, she would take time out to play with an animal or child. She had discovered the interesting fact that young ones of all species enjoyed chasing down things which were borne away from them. She supposed it was the joy of the hunt and not the actual obtaining of the object, for most of the time when she would sweep a leaf in front of a curious child or animal, sending them into an ecstatic, leaping chase, the object of the chase was not held on to for long. The dog would snap at the leaf a few times with his sharp ivory teeth, and then release it, apparently disinterested. Those of the human species would generally gloat for a moment, squeal in delight, and then release the leaf. She was never sure why they enjoyed this catch-and-release so much. However, she herself found much enjoyment in bringing happiness to others. Therefore, she kept at the game day after day, seizing any possible opportunity.

Her love for bringing joy to others sometimes made her unsettled and quite ruffled, and at other times of the years made her perfectly happy. In spring, she was welcomed with upturned, gently smiling faces. In the summer the searing heat was more unbearable in some parts than it was in others, and the reactions of those whose hair she ruffled reflected the fact. For those in the south, especially, it was as if all species unanimously thought of her as the greatest gift from above that could possibly have been bestowed upon them that day.

In the fall time, some began to bundle up in cloth which protected their arms from the cold winds. Though she felt a little miffed at this at times, the majority of the population still welcomed her and the scents she brought - those of old things dying; those of new things impending. Those were her happiest times of year, though in summer the heat she was laden down with did send her into a sullen mood every now and again. The winter was her busiest and, unfortunately, most upsetting time. In winter she was nearly never welcomed, but rather shunned. Humans used more and more clothes made of increasingly thick fabrics. It was as if they didn't care a whit for her. To her chagrin, she sometimes went into gales of fits and set the windows rattling. This, of course, did not make anyone happy, least of all herself, because her fits only caused the humans to bundle up even more tightly. So she would shuffle herself off to play tag with herself and the brave gliders on the ice newly-formed by the harsh cold. In the skaters she found her solace; though their cheeks were whipped red by the force of the cold and wind, they still welcomed it with a calm and smiling upturned face.

Although her most active times of year were those listed above - fall and winter - she also enjoyed the times in spring when the water was not frozen into sheets of crystal. At those times, she would brush against the oceans, the lakes, the brooks, and the ponds, causing them to stir and ripple. Witnessing how they began in small rounds and grew to become large ones, reaching at times to the utmost sides of the bodies of water, always seemed as a miracle to her even though she had seen the same occurrence thousands of times in the past. She never could be sure when her past had been, or where she would drift to next.

The idea of time was a mystery to her. She was aware that her duties changed depending on the seasons, but she was such an intrinsic part of the lives of the seasons that she was not removed far enough away to properly observe the changes. At times she felt as if she were the most ancient being in the universe. She felt as if she had been living since the first quarter-inch turn of the planets. Yet at other times, usually in spring, she felt as if she had just been born, for all the laughter and strength she felt within and around herself.

If you have come to the assumption that she was a creature who lived inside the wind, your powers of conclusion are rather weak. If you have assumed that she was and is no more, you are also quite mistaken. She is not an inhabitant of the wind; she is the wind. Her busiest times are in winter due to her being the Daughter of the North Wind, the lowest in temperature and most powerful in spirit. Her name is Ohpher; she existed in the past, exists in the present, and will exist in the future; Nonetheless, she never was. She has always existed and never will be.


Chiumbow - Laced Rebel

Chiumbow is born of a wealthy family; not just a wealthy family, mind you. One of the most wealthy fifteen in the nation. Her childhood was limited frequently by such domestic skills as she was required by her mother, father, and numerous governesses to learn; needlepoint, in particular. She found the process tedious and learned to bear within herself a strong disdain for the masterpieces made of fabrics and threads. However, Chiumbow learned at an early age that as long as she cooperated while being watched, she was trusted. This, in turn, led to more opportunities for her to do those things which she more enjoyed and, what's more, persuade her father to purchase for her those things which her girlish heart desired. Although, it must be told that she did not always spend her clothes-money on new dresses, hats, hatpins, ribbons, or any other sort of attire. Once she saved her clothes-money and bought for herself a speedboat. Another time she purchased a sleek red motorcycle. If any of her friends ever found out - save the ones who were inside the small circle of laced rebels - she was sure she would be excommunicated more quickly than she could start the afore-mentioned motorcycle. Which was saying something, seeing as how after the first dozen spills she had become admirably adept on the shining red monstrosity.

While on the topic of colors, it must be noted that Chiumbow quite fancies the color red, which to some may be seen as simply scandalous. Indeed, Madame was of this mind when she first beheld Chiumbow's most-preferred gown; a great work of flounces and bows, every one of them red. And to add to her horrified thoughts, the dress did not even have proper sleeves! This was on the first day of Finishing School, mind you. It was an important day for making first impressions, which, as all those in society know, is a very important impression to make. It would seem that perhaps her teacher would take her as a bold and indiscreet girl of ill repute, for wearing such a thing. Somehow, however, Chiumbow persuaded Madame to allow her the privilege of not being forced to part with her precious red flounced attire. In time, the other girls even began to follow! Some shook their heads at the immodest creatures that Chiumbow seemed to have ushered into society. However, others thought the new style simply ravishing and longed to have a dress of the same making for themselves.

Apparently, as demonstrated by the situation concerning the dress, Chiumbow's nature was rather more like her distant cousin, Dolly, than she had imagined. On this note it is necessary to explain a bit of Dolly's character; determined, slightly mischievous, and quite a trend-setter without her being aware of the fact. Her cousin Dolly is far below Chiumbow in financial prestige; however, this does not appear to nag at either one of their friendly feelings for each other. After all, Chiumbow had never been a properly fine lady to begin with. She simply knows how to 'play her cards,' and which ones to play when she is in various different companies.

Madame's Finishing School For Ladies

Only the very blessed with large sums in the family bank may even begin to contrive to secure a position in Madame's Finishing School For Ladies. It is the top-rated finishing school in the world, and therefore many cultures meet in the ballrooms and halls. Perhaps the reason for the immense popularity and good repute is Madame's reputation for ensuring that many past royal children bloomed fully into their full potentials. It does not harm her at all that she is from a line of Duchesses herself; nor does her mastery of Latin and French, along with arts, have any ill bearing on her repute. Her passion in life is to equip others with the knowledge of all the societal rules and customs necessary to make a debut and - in turn - a grand addition to society.

Becoming a fine lady, princess, duchess, or otherwise is not as easy a role to fill as some may have been led to believe. It requires dedication to one's studies; it requires a unique love of beauty; it requires patience while learning the fine arts. Fine arts alone include the learning of the piano; of painting; of ballroom dancing, and a myriad of other various and lovely pastimes. If one believes that one has all the qualities required, in addition to a wealthy family, one should attempt first to attend Madame's Finishing School For Ladies before casting a sideways glance at any other school on the planet.


Details, my dear!

♠ Sixteen years of age - a bit late to be beginning her second year of finishing school, but Madame feels she has done quite well. In fact, Chiumbow passed her beginning year with flying colors...in spite of her independent spirit.

♠ Five-foot, seven inches in height. Quite above average, but Madame promises her dedication to the refining of all young ladies. In particular, those who are of a willing disposition to learn from her expertise in all things dealing with society.

♠ Chiumbow quite fancies the color red, as described before.

♠ In concern to her eye color, she possesses two bright windows which are a dark color of green.

♠ In concern to her hair color, she possesses a wealth of shining brown locks. Not nearly as wealthy, of course, as her father; for it was he who paid the ludicrous tuition for Chiumbow's finishing.


Gongorian - Socialite King of Hearts

Introduction

Due to my impeccable ratings in my studies, I have been hired on for one year to Madame's Finishing School for Ladies. I shall be teaching, primarily, the Dance class. This class shall include any and all ballroom dances, and any sorts of dance which may be shown to be of necessity to the highly social and busy lives of those I will be teaching. The students are a mere three years younger than myself. It is my hope that I shall be readily agreeable to them and easily related to, due to this fact. I have heard tell of a spit-fire who belongs to the class I will be teaching. I look forward to overcoming this new and exciting challenge. I am not much one for giving up once I set my sight on a goal.


The Arrival

Whump!

went the automobile as Alexander pulled into the half-circle of rocky driveway in front of Madame's Finishing School for Ladies. Thunk! went my head against the back of the cushioned interior of the back seat. Thankfully for me, it wasn't made of anything too frightfully hard or injuring, else my head would have been highly displeased with the treatment it was receiving. As it was, my neck was not in the best of moods, and protested - in a rather hissing sort of tone - at me that I had better not whip it around like that again, or it would make me sorry for it later. I rubbed the back of it consolingly and promised it a warm rag or some such thing later to lessen its annoyance at me. With a few twists side to side it was loosening up a bit and grumbling that maybe it wouldn't be quite so harsh on me. Which was quite agreeable in my sight, as I dreaded beginning my first day with so many flowers of the female race looking like a stiff, stuffy old man with a bad neck.

'I'd prefer to be able to nod my head in greeting, thank you very much,' I thought with a decisive nod of my head and a determination to ignore any setback to this particularly glorious afternoon. Even if that particular setback may be Alexander's driving, the poor old jolly soul,' I mumbled fondly as the said driver came around so as to open the door and release me into the adventure which awaited.

"Good job, old fellow," I grinned at him. "One more fabulous performance like that and I'll be about as stiff as you are!" I slapped the back of his shoulder jauntily.

"Indeed, Sir, I don't see as that there was much way to prevent the jostling in the rear end of the car. It was acknowledged in my quarters as well, be comforted by that fact if you may," he protested, trying to sound formal, detached, and indignant; as well as looking characteristically as high-strung as a taut wire, as straight-backed as a church pew, and as serious as a comedian trying to play the role of priest. Trying to be stuffy and deep-voiced and nasally about any and every thing which he could be 'high-fallutin'' about, as they say, but failing miserably for the slight twitch always tugging up at his wrinkled mouth - as if he really were a puppet and someone were tweaking the strings incessantly.

"Oh, dear me, how I am going to miss your flexibility of manner and exceptional sense of humor," lamented I, mockingly. Then, frowning a bit as the thought of being parted for a twelvemonth, "But in all seriousness, old man, I'm going to miss you about as mightily as a mother hen misses its chick," I admitted, with a strange feeling in my throat and in a tone more solemn than most occasions found me. It was true that I would, perhaps, miss the old fellow as much as a mother hen would miss its baby chick, but the roles were, in reality, quite reversed. Alexander had been with our family since before I was born, which translates to over nineteen years. When I was beginning to learn to drive on my own, it was he who taught me. And before that event, when I was much younger, even then he would amuse me by setting me up into the front seat to allow me to toot the horn and twist the steering wheel this way and that in a rapid way one would never use on an actual road. He had been, in a way, my playmate. And then as I grew older, my mentor, so to speak, in many ways. He was a second father figure, though more accurately perhaps only an uncle. Still, one would miss their uncle nearly as much as their father, surely, if they had lived with their uncle all their life, would they not?

Alexander's deep grayish-blue and tired but merry eyes softened. "Ah, lad, I'll miss ye as well," he nodded, his voice coming a bit gruffly as he resorted to his more natural way of speaking - how he spoke when he was not attempting to be 'high-fallutin'.' "Ca'mere," he said, gathering me into a hug which consisted of each of us squeezing the other's shoulders briefly and then stepping apart. It did not appear to be overly significant, but we did not need blubberings about our emotional longings to remain in the same state as we had been, or other such things. That is left to the female race. And mighty attractive it can be, too, though I hate seeing anyone upset. We men, well, either we have not the skill in the art to blubber as we should, or we simply do not handle things in quite the same way as a woman would in the same situation.

"Wall, then..." Alexander began, taking a decisive sort of 'let's-get-going,' breath. "Let's get yer bags and git 'em up the stairs, eh, me boy?" he suggested, then rounded his way to the back of the automobile to pop open the trunk to obtain my suitcases which were, if I say so, rather handsome. They had been bought only a fortnight before my departure from home, and they were made from the finest quality material. I was hopeful of their lasting quite some time. But, ah! No matter. I cannot help it if quality and fineness is something I admire. I am not spoiled, I assure. Only appreciative of what is good and beautiful in life.

"Well!" came a voice from the porch beyond the front stairs. The voice was high, clear, and pleasant-sounding; yet, it was obviously indicative of one who held power and commanded herself with the utmost poise. And it was, apparently, surprising as well, if my sudden start and Alexander's narrow escape from thwacking his head upon the trunk door was any indicator. Though, to be fair, we hadn't expected the voice. So perhaps it wasn't always the herald of injury resulting from surprise. Or at least, I should surely hope not. I was to spend a twelvemonth living in her school. I'd hope not to be injured every time I heard her speak, or I'd come back a right rainbow of colors. (On a side note, would that make me any more attractive? I do know how women love colorful hair ties and such fripperies. However, maybe the same is not necessarily true for a human face...) Anyhow!

"Well!" called the voice, as aforementioned. "How lovely to find you here, all safe. I expect you had a pleasant trip?" she inquired pleasantly. Which struck me as amusing, somehow, that the same word could fit both purposes so suitably.

"Indeed!" I called back. "A quite pleasant trip, if I do say so myself, aided much by the expertise of my driver. Things always do go smoothly with him," I grinned, casting a (hopefully unnoticed) wink towards Alexander, at which his mouth twitched and his eyes gave a slight rolling motion. I daresay he would have full-out grinned, except for that this fine lady had arrived, and all such coarse nature must be replaced with the unnatural refinement once more. Our time of being comfortably ourselves had found itself an end.

"I am glad to hear it!" the woman called back. "I am the Madame of this school. On behalf of us all, I welcome you. Let us bring your things in," here two male servants in nice, dressy sorts of tuxedos rounded either side of her and descended the stairs to aid Alexander, "and then we shall all have for ourselves a pleasant cup of tea and a treat or two," she smiled. 'Pleasant.' This woman liked the word, apparently. I supposed in time I'd associate it closely with her. That is, of course, unless her power-holding side won out and I'd smile a little wryly at it. Only time could tell, to be sure.

(*and then several weeks or months later...you see, I'm not finished with the story yet)


The Self-Confession

At last the day came to put my students to the test. And my own skills at teaching, as well. The students were assembled in neat rows as usual. I began the music playing, and turned towards the class. "Now then! It has been a pleasure teaching you all the basic steps for a refresher course - whether for you or for myself, I hardly know sometimes," I said in jest. A few of the students laughed, and I nodded towards them. "But now it is time for us to compile our experiences thus far and assume the beginning positions of our dance. Everyone, choose your partners!" Once again I found myself searching out Chi. And then I was striding towards her. Stopping. Bowing now and taking her hand. "Pardon me, Madame Chiumbow, but may I have the honor of this dance?" I requested, as is customary. An amused, yet somehow hard, light flickered in her eyes, and I felt my mind take leave of me for a second...and then it came crashing back down towards me. "Don't think I haven't caught on to you," she replied in a whisper. "You playact at being smitten but I know your type, sir. You are a flirt and a thief of affections and I will not be taken in by you," she finished in a rush, sounding as if she thought I were the scum of the earth and leaving me feeling as if I'd been smitten, all right. Smitten with a croquet mallet, perhaps, and knocked out of my senses, because I had no idea what she was talking about. But I was not only smitten in that sense. I felt as if I'd been smitten right through the heart with a poker freshly out of the fireplace. I had to keep myself from gaping at the extreme feelings of both emotions - confusion and...whatever that poker one may have been called. More loudly, Chi said, "No, sir, I shall not accept your request, as you do not at all suit my fancy," and turned on her heel. I felt ridiculously embarrassed and all I could think was one word - What!?'

Be that as it may, however, I had to recover from this somehow. "Now, ladies," I said abruptly, turning away from Chi's retreating form and trying to keep a pleasant countenance as best I could. Addressing the rest of the dance class, I attempted to make a lesson if the ordeal. "This is a perfect example of how not to behave in an ideal societal setting," I admonished, punctuating this with a condescending smile, and nodding appreciatively at the girlish giggling that ensued. Perhaps they thought it a joke and not a lesson, but at least they were listening, and their merry voices helped to bring me back to reality. But my eyes flickered over to Chi's and I was hit again with that blasted feeling of my mind taking leave of me. I felt as if I hadn't ever seen eyes before I'd seen hers. They were eyes, just regular, stupid old eyes, nothing special at all. Or so I told myself. But this little niggling at the back of my brain kept poking and prodding at me, whispering that they were indeed special...and that if I could not win the heart of the one to whom they belonged to, I'd wish I never had had eyes at all so I would not know what I had lost. All this went through my mind in the time of one eighth of a second, probably, but it seemed like at least ten minutes. My smile faltered, and - curse her - she saw it. She gave me a look with raised eyebrows and a lifted jaw, a smug smile plastered on her face and her green eyes glowing with a sort of triumph. Suddenly I felt flustered. I needed time alone to set things straight in my mind.

"Alright, then," I enthused, clapping my white-gloved hands twice. "Back to the task of learning how to be graceful! Please pair up and practice. I'll give you all a treat and leave you to yourselves for a bit. No headmaster types staring down their noses at you while you work, eh?" I smiled. To my slight amusement, there were a few groans. I suppose I could not fairly judge them all as a group just yet, but they seemed to be the typical fine ladies. All in a hurry to either be married or 'bag a bird.' That is, at least find a beau. Or several. That is, they all appeared typical except for...well...except for her, of course. And it drove me positively batty. Whether it was her not being typical or them being typical that was bothering me, I wasn't quite sure. Ah, enough pondering in the middle of the dance floor,' I chided myself. Yes, I definitely needed time to myself. The girls were now scurrying about, finding their best friends. Or, in some cases, two would find their best friend and they would fight over whom would have the one as a dancing partner. They appeared busy enough for me to slip out. So that's just what I did. And nobody saw me. Not even Chi. For some reason unbeknowest to me, my eyes had darted about the room until I'd found her before I made my escape. I don't know what I'd hoped for. To see her regret my leaving as well, I suppose. But no luck such as that. She was very pointedly turning her back towards me.

I try not to 'storm' often, but I'm afraid I did, once I was free of the dance hall. I couldn't help it. I had to get away from the dance hall. Away from her. It was her fault I was feeling so bloody horrible for no reason at all. And yet I hated to leave where she was, even if she was making me feel all in a turmoil. Which made no sense whatsoever, that I should want to be close to someone who had just called me out as undesirable to her in front of my students. So yes, fine, I did 'storm' down the hallway. The marble floors clacked loudly in protest, but I barely heard them. The red wallpaper could have been white or purple or black-and-green-spotted and it would have escaped me. Somehow I made it up the cushioned stairs and to my quarters, though if asked how I got there, I'd be at a loss for an explanation. I was simply suddenly there. Sitting at the edge of my mattress, elbows on knees, face in hands, eyes closed. I could see nothing but her. I could think of nothing but her. I could hear nothing but her voice. I could feel nothing but loss, and for what reason? None of this made any sense at all. There was so much occurring of late that I was not at all accustomed to. I'd just been rejected for the first time in...well, I can't remember when. I had been rejected before. Nobody can live for nineteen years and never face a rejection from a lady. It's nigh on impossible. But still, I had not been in quite some time, so this stung a bit more than usual, perhaps. And if that weren't bad enough, I had been rejected by the only person I would ever have minded being rejected by. The mere fact that I minded at all would have been surprising. Generally, I would count it as the girl's loss.

But this....this I did not merely mind. It positively crushed me. And I had no idea, no inkling, could not fathom at why in the world it would mean that much to me. Surely what she had insinuated - that I was smitten with her - could not be the truth? Surely not. "Alright, so I can't seem to take my eyes off her, but that doesn't prove a thing," I muttered to no one in particular besides myself. You see, the thing is, if it had been a possibility that I was smitten, I may have considered it. But I don't become smitten. People become smitten with me. This happened to other people. Namely, other people whom I made it happen to. This didn't happen to me. I can't help it if I'm charming. I can't help it if I'm a heartbreaker. It comes naturally, I suppose. I've always felt proud of it, but all of a sudden I saw what it was like to want and not be wanted, and I felt sorry for all those girls I'd laughed at before. I felt like sending a hand-written note to each of them in apology. Perhaps ask for advice on how to get around feeling crushed, too, while I was at it...

Blast. I'd just more or less admitted to myself that I was smitten with her. Well, fine, say I was. Wasn't being in love - even puppy love - supposed to be pleasant?

If I was smitten, why did I feel so bloody awful?

Tikyl

Along the Road...

One evening I decided to set out for the new land everyone had been making such a fuss about lately. 'Moltara,' (*a fictional underground magma-based society) I believe it was called. At the gates to my destination, I was met by a strange-looking old Gnorbu (*in-game creature). White-bearded, cloudy-eyed, mysterious smile upon his face...to some he may have been frightening, but I was entranced. And by the way he looked at me, I could tell that beyond his dim eyes lay a treasure trove of secrets, of tales. Somehow I seemed to know, by his beckoning nod, that one was for me. And as I stepped closer to him, I knew it was going to leave me changed. Still, I continued forward until I was close enough for him to reach me. Slowly, he raised his arthritic hand. It wavered, fluttered like a bird's wings, and come to a perch on my shoulder. "My child," he croaked in a fatherly whisper, "Come. Listen to my tale." It was a request, yet a demand. Glancing about me for a rock or some type of seating, I came up short. Instead, I sat down on the ashy earth and crossed my legs, Indian-Style. I placed my palm to the ground, amazed at its warmth, then nodded to the elderly, blue-robed Gnorbu, a sign for him to start his story. I have my doubts as to whether he could see my nod or not; however, he started nonetheless. And as I obediently listened, I felt myself get swept away on a cool molten tide. This was no longer a story. It was a vision, a hallucination, a first-row view to an event that took place one thousand years before my birth.

Shenkuu (*similar to Asia)

"Strange things have been known to happen in strange, far-off lands," the elderly Gnorbu began, his hands flitting here and there as he spoke. "They have been known to happen with warning and without it. They have been known to happen to those who are talented, to those who are not. To those who are indolent, and to those who are industrious. To those who are weak, and to those who are strong. The strange ocurance my tale will unfold to you was to happen without warning; it was to happen to all. This is the legend of the creation of Moltera...

Flowers were dropping from the cherry trees, the blossoms falling...falling. It was strange, really, how they fell. Some fell lazily, and some fell as if their entire goal in life was to reach the unlikely destination that was the ground below them. They seemed to understand that no matter where they were, they would show beauty. It was a strange observation, but Tikyl had never been known to be normal. He pondered often on the meaning of life, which now is a typical question but which in his day was not. You were a warrior, or you were a farmer, or you were a merchant. Your life was to work, to sell, to buy, to eat, to use the nutrition to work some more; to cycle and cycle and never complete they cycle until you were six feet under. And then your son would take over. Tikyl had been born into a warrior family. Which was unfortunate for him, as he had no intention of harming another living being. For that matter, he revered even the plants. They may not speak, but they were alive in his eyes. He had always felt a connection to the earth. A strange sort of thing, especially for a warrior. Usually it was farmers who spoke to their crops as they harvested them. It was the farmers who loved their tended fields as if they were children. Tikyl's connection went deeper even than this. It was almost as if he WAS the earth.

Thoughts of this nature flitted through his mind like flurries of snowflakes - melting as soon as one was grasped - as he sat beneath a cherry tree, catching and observing the blossoms as they fell. He sighed, leaning his head against the tree and closing his blue-scaled eyes. Scaled, of course, because he was part of the warrior clan; all of them were Grarrls (*T-rex type creatures) or Chombies ("long-neck" type creatures), some variation of what the elders called 'Dinosaurs.' At that moment, Tikyl wished very much that he were not scaled. He wished he could close his eyes and be in no danger of anyone finding him, telling him to train, commanding him to lift boulders, dig trenches, build walls. It was exhausting, more mentally than physically. But there were rumors going around...

As this thought crossed his mind, his brows creased in concern. The rumors were that there was a terrible disaster about to erupt, about to be unleashed upon their entire nation. Some said it signified the beginnings of a new nation, not the end of the world. Some took it even further and said that their people were destined for higher things, and the impending disaster would bring them closer to it. Whatever it was, it was almost bound to happen, simply because the calendars said it was so. Even though Tikyl was by no means a superstitious person, he did put a certain amount of stock into the elders' calendars. All the villagers did. The calendars were always right when they predicted the crops' outputs, the attacks from other nations, the rainfall. At times Tikyl thought that some day they might be punished for all this knowledge. It didn't seem quite right that a mortal know so much. He only hoped tha --- ...he never completed his train of thought, before the winds and the blossoms lulled him into a sleep.

Suddenly, with a jerk, Tikyl's eyes flew open and his head was no longer leaning against the trunk of the tree.

The Promise

Bleary from having been asleep, he at first thought it was because he had lifted his head from it. Glancing behind himself, he stared in wide-eyed horror. Between himself and the tree was nothing. No ground. The earth itself had split into two, leaving a rift nearly twice Tikyl's entire length from head to tail. Something rang in his ears, like a siren or alarm. It took him a moment to realize it was screaming. From farmers, from warriors, from merchants. From the young. From the old. From the teenagers, the ones Tikyl had known all his life. And with startled realization, he felt his own throat sending vibrations through the air in a scream of his own. Suddenly, as if a top had been dropped on the ground and spun, a shapeless whirlwind gusted and blustered around him. His head, his ears, his eyes. He saw nothing, he felt nothing. He heard...a voice.

Trust me

, it whispered soothingly. And somehow, Tikyl knew that there was no malice in the voice. You and yours are meant for a greater purpose,

the whisper continued, seemingly excited. Now is the time. The legend is about to begin. I'm so sorry for the inconvenient way of doing things here, but you see, there was no other way,

it reasoned with him. Smiling and suddenly tired, Tikyl nodded...and nodded off, as the whirlwind ran its course, comforting the others around him in their descent to the cores of the earth, far below Shenkuu, turning a little left, perhaps a little right. No one was awake to tell. They were asleep as their bodies were lowered towards the magma, asleep when they became part of it. It did not wake them, for it did not cause pain. They were unaware of the buildings, the houses, the fortifications which the mysterious wind chipped out of the half-molten rock walls. Seeming satisfied with its work, the whirlwind sent comforting dreams to the minds of the dreamers. Do not worry,

it whispered to them. Your stories are just beginning. Your nation will do great and wondrous things. Made of molten stone, you, the Molterans, will be the things of legends. When the time is right.

With that, the whirlwind was gone. What it had said was a statement. It was a fact. It was a promise...


The Legend

For now, Tikyl would rest and be transformed, as they all would, to suit the conditions of their new home. But little did he know that a decade later, when their transformation was complete, he would be the great leader, the Founding Father, of the Newly-Awoken Molterans. Little did he know that far into the future, ballads, songs, and poems would be written of his life.


In Honor Of -

Hypnotic eyes of flame
Lapping tongue of molten fire
Strange recesses in thy flesh,
Formed of ancient cinders blazed.
Belonging to thee; strength of brutes.
Yet thy compassion takes the stead of troops.
Residing inside thee; thine Stonehenge heart.
Regal, brave, living inside our molten hearth,
Long before the light, while 'twas yet dark.

Chikabruce

Transforming from a trusting, innocent young princess into someone who must be by cause of circumstance always on guard is not typically something that happens overnight. But then, when has my life been typical? Being born into a royal family is not a typical way to start a life. Being born into the most loved royal family that this side of the century has known is even less typical yet. Growing up being known as a beauty and going to endless dances of all sorts is also not typical. Meeting a stranger in a masquerader's mask was, strangely, very typical. I was, of course, at a masquerade, thus it was only to be expected. What was not expected was what an intrinsic part of my life this stranger behind the mask would become.

At the masquerade is where the weaver started weaving and wove not neat patterns but knots. It is where the puzzle pieces were torn one from another and scattered abroad to the four winds and, if possible, beyond. The winds blew so harshly until it bewildered me as to whether or not I was even trying to collect pieces for the same puzzle anymore.

In little over a year, I had gotten to know what had been a stranger on a first-name basis. I had learned to trust him. I trusted him with my thoughts. I trusted him with my secrets. He did not know it, but I had come to trust him with my heart. I should not have, because I had no knowledge of who he trusted. And being a part of royalty, you must know not only whether or not you trust a person, but also know who that person trusts. For with trust comes a babbling mouth. And in cases of kingdom security, a babbling mouth is not something that it is recommended to have.

I babbled to him, and he babbled to one of the Underground Anarchists, who really are not anarchists at all, for they have a leader. His name is Urkensito, and he is the only outright antagonist against my father. Many times we have tried to send him away, but somehow one of the Anarchists always finds a way to cover his tracks. Thus every illegal act, every threat, has had to be tolerated by my father. It wore on him greatly, but did not destroy his courage of heart. However, I now worry about how much longer Daddy's heart can possibly go on in these circumstances. He is almost 70 years old, without a male heir, coping with the possibility of military attack by a now-small but ever-growing band of Anarchists, and with a daughter who is being eaten from the inside out by the fangs of guilt.


It was my fault.

I trusted Tenakha far beyond reasonable bounds, given my birth. It was Tenakha's fault, too, for betraying us. He had no right to snoop through documents. He had no right to be in my father's office, and he had no right to speak of what he found. The night before my father removed me from the palace to keep me safe in a land far removed from the kingdom, Tenakha told me to meet him in the garden. Part of me feared for my safety, and yet the note seemed so sincere....so I went. He tried to explain that he hadn't meant for this to happen, that Urkensito had always treated him like a son and so he trusted him. He spoke of some promise that Urkensito had given him, some deal they had made, if only he would deliver a certain folder, without reading the documents which were stored inside. Had Urkensito kept his promise, Tenakha said, then it would have been worth giving him the documents. That is, if they were the documents that he had thought they were, and not the military tactics folder. When I asked him what the documents were supposed to have been, he would not look me in the eye. Dropping his head, he simply whispered, "It does not matter now," and took a step back. Something about the way he did it told me that, though Daddy did not know he had been the one to betray us, he was still letting go. Of this land. Of the kingdom. Of our friendship.

And that he hated letting go of any of it with every fiber in his being.

With clenched fists, he nodded a farewell. "Good day, my lady," was all he said before turning around and running. His words were so formal. Like a stranger. I watched until he was out of sight, bewildered, hurt, and half-blinded by tears that welled up in my eyes but would not spill over. I didn't even get to say goodbye, farewell, or anything words of the sort. Maybe because, deep down, I didn't want to face the reality of it being time to say goodbye. Or maybe....because this simply isn't goodbye.

It has been months. I have not received the slightest hint concerning Tenakha's whereabouts. But I know where I am.

Though I am distracting myself by studying law and philosophy, I am still in that garden.

And I will be in that garden until he returns.


Kingdom of Isthin

Queen Maoika

The sliver of night and the quieting hush
Goes undisturbed by the treading in the underbrush
Her tread is a graceful wild waltz, yet her strides are commanding and long.
Silent and true is her hunting song
Elegant and fierce, her discernment and spear both pierce.
Her rule is just, her arm is long,
To heal or to defeat the weak or the strong.

Meet Maoika, Warrior Queen of the prosperous,
colorful, and vibrant war-tribe in the forests of Isthin.

Her noble character is undisputed.
Her voice rings unquestioned.
Her kindness is unrivaled.
Her judgement is honest.
Her reign is celebrated.


On The Hunt

As the moon shone down its silver beams, bathing the world in an icy liquid light, several dark shadows marred the unity of the illumination. Strangely to say, this was all they marred. The trees' leaves did not sway by their cause, nor did the twigs break asunder. This band of beings were far too skilled and lithe to have made noise enough to startle a dormouse; for this was the Hunting Party, the renowned warriors who were so familiar to the depths of the forests of Isthin that the grass all but parted respectfully before their silent tread. At the current moment, nigh on ten of the hunters crept through the underbrush, having sighted a stag in the moonlight and trailing after the creature. Quietly, quietly...part the branches of the bramblebush. Silently, silently...ready the arrow adorned with the rainbow-colored feathers. Skillfully, skillfully...narrow the eyes, draw back the death-bringer, take aim. Swiftly, deadly, the arrow flies steady and true, the path ruler-straight, towards the heart of the stag. With a dull thud and barely a startle from the creature, the Hunting Party has felled its first kill of the night. Small nods and smiles of congratulations and victory are passed around the ten hunters. It is an unspoken rule that there is to be no verbal communication on a Hunt. One reason for this is because it disturbs the night. Another is because the noise may startle an animal, causing it to bound away, and the Hunting Party to lose a kill. The third reason, and the most important, is that it would be disrespectful to their prey. The need for sustenance was great, but the need to honor the life around them was greater. Far from being a rule that the hunters were forced to live by, it was instead almost magnetic, the need to treasure the life flow abounding around them. If the need arose to either kill in brutality and reckless abandon, or starve a slow death, any warrior or hunter of honor would gladly take the latter before they would pierce the heart of nature by such disrespect.

The leader of tonight's Hunt bounded forth into the clearing where the felled stag lay, his motions nearly as trained as the now-lifeless creature's had been only moments before. The man crouched before the stag, placing one rough hand on its hide where barely a trickle of blood flowed. It was in the best interest to all involved to attempt to make the puddles as infrequent and small as possible. Firstly, for protection of hunting grounds. If another tribe were to follow a trail of crimson, they could very well be led towards the Hunters' Camp - or worse, the Monarchical Court. Secondly, it was not the Hunters' wish that the creatures who met the fate of the death-bringer to lie and suffer, to spill its life. The sight of the liquid was not gratifying to the Hunters.

Even as the man who was leader of tonight's Hunt crouched next to the stag, he searched for any sign of a flow. Finding a slight bubbling, as if from a brook, he stoppered it with his hand. Leaning forward, he took the stag's head in his other hand. Meeting its nostrils with his, he breathed into the creature. Life for life. Acquainting the stag with who its life would transfer into upon being consumed. It was said that there were times when a creature would deem a warrior, hunter, tribesman, or royal unworthy of having its life transferred into. On those occasions, the kill would awaken in anger or confusion. Depending on the nature of the creature, it could react by any way from fleeing from its near-captor or by trampling or tearing him or her. Given these consequences if found unworthy, one was expected to be diligent in matters of integrity, lest he be found lacking.

Leaning outward again, the man who had breathed into the stag swayed on his haunches, gazing up towards the moon, and whispered a chant. The whisper was so soft that the slightest of breezes would capture it and carry it away. This was the only time speaking was allowed on a Hunt; when the kill and the life flow was thanked for its transfer from one body - the creature's - to another's - the Tribe's. Glancing downward once more at the stag, he applied more pressure to the hand stoppering the flow, and with the other which had been on the head, he deftly pulled out the death-bringer from the flesh of the stag, cleaned it on the brown leather of his pants, and returned it to the quiver. Gently, his arms stretched out beneath the warm body heat of the kill, which was quickly fading. Making use of the strength acquired on many Huntings, the man lifted the body, repositioned it, and draped it over his strong shoulders. They could not help but to be strong, and yet, they were not broad, for it was not in the Tribe's narrow build.

The Hunter could have just as easily beckoned to a fellow Hunter to carry the stag for him, especially since - for tonight at least - they were under his leadership. However, it was the expected conduct for the killer to serve the killed in this small way; being the first to carry the body, at the very least. Some went further and would not allow any but themselves to carry their kill back to Camp. There were those who did this in order to display their strength, especially when one had felled several large creatures in one night. Others, however, did this for the reason of true integrity and respect to the creature.

Turning towards the rest of the assembled and waiting Hunting Party, the man nodded slightly, his dark green eyes sparkling darkly in the moonlight.

It was time to track their next kill.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.04.2011

Alle Rechte vorbehalten