Like Larkin.

Okay guys, as promised I'm gonna delve into the journal for today's post. Still on the poetry theme for today (But no, we want more Manmade Man, I hear you cry. Well I'll post that tomorrow for you.) It has to be said, this is possibly the longest poem I've ever written... To put it into a bit of context, I caught the train to Bristol the other day so that I could surprise the girlface on her lunch break. Needless to say, things didn't go quite as well as I'd hoped, but I did manage to see her. Anyhoo, on the train I was reminded of Philip Larkin's "The Whitsun Weddings" and how he wrote a poem whilst journeying on a train, so that's what I thought I'd do. Again, I apologise, this is a rather long poem, and did lead to a follow up poem called "An Errata to Like Larkin" because I realised I'd made some calculative errors. Anyway, here we go, Like Larkin:

Like Larkin.

Taking a lead from Larkin,

I write whilst on the train.

I see the sights go scrolling past

That I know I'll see again.

I'm on this train to see her,

My beautiful darling girl.

We won't have long, but it'll be fun

To once again merge our worlds.

There are many people on this train

As the ticket man wanders by.

I wonder how many will try to hide

So as not to catch his eye?

One station down, five more I think,

Until I'm in her arms.

I'll buy her flowers to make her smile

And set off love's alarm.

She's worried that I won't see her,

That I left the train too late.

But the ticket man reassures me

That she definitely won't have to wait.

Just like Larkin, I watch the fields

As they overtake the cities and towns.

Out here, nature is king of the realm

And causes the modern man to frown.

It's sweet that my girl is worried.

It shows that she really does care.

At the station, I'll hop in a taxi

So I don't give too much of a scare.

I wonder if Larkin had someone

Waiting at the end of the line.

Regardless, I know that I have.

My girl is at the end of mine.

Cheltenam Spa passes me by.

Three stops, three more to go.

Parkway, Yate and Temple Meads,

Just waiting for the signal to show.

A delay, how typical, but we're off again,

No thanks to a kid on the line.

It wasn't long, only five minutes more.

I'll still be there in time.

Larkin, if you could see me know,

I wonder what you'd say?

Do you think I've done the right thing

By seeing my girl today?

I know I'm often a romantic,

But like you I'm a cynic too.

I wonder in this situation

What it is that you would do?

I think that you'd get on the train.

All writers will follow their heart!

Though perhaps like me when you saw your love

You too would not want to part.

Larkin, your words last through the ages

And so too my love for my one.

I'll smile all day while in her arms,

Though I'll grieve when I am gone.

So that's "Like Larkin", and as I mentioned, it spawned an Errata, which I'll post another time, but for now I'm off, so g'night all! Hopefully my house has quieted down and mircaulously become tidy in my absense? I know I'm a man of faith, but some things even I find hard to believe...

Night all,

Love and Peace!!

Craiggy.

September Seems...

Feeling somewhat nonchalant today... Ironic since my weekend has been spent performing two standup gigs and spending time with my lovely girlface. It's just that she's gone back home to her awesome full time job and, it's always difficult when we have to go our separate ways again, regardless of how much we enjoy our time together, however short. Long story short, distance sucks... And it's not even too far away! I have the deepest sympathy for people trying to sustain relationships across countries, nations, even seas!

In other news, I've bought myself a journal. It's kinda like being a real old school writer now! It's leather bound and everything... Well, possibly imitation leather, not sure on that one... Either way, it's such a nice feeling to write in a proper journal. I've already filled a few pages with stuff that I'm going to transfer onto here when I find the time. Also, apologies for not posting in such a long while. I assure you, the Tyree project is still progressing, but I've been working more on Like Clockwork primarily, that and poetry, I've been writing a lot of poetry as of late it seems. As such, that's what I was hoping to write tonight. It's completely off the cuff too, so here we go!

September Seems.

September seems not so far away,

But only if you say it quick.

September's pretty easy to say

When joined by a cheery hair flick.

September, you see, is when I next see her.

At least, that's the way it seems...

Given my options, I'd much prefer

To see her for real, not in dreams...

It's only three weeks, that's not long right?

Though it's longer than we've faced so far.

I'll toil and I'll slave and I'll grift and I'll fight

If it means I see those eyes like stars.

Time, it seems, is not our friend.

It laughs as we try to keep this love strong.

But love, my girl, it has no end

And shall never be proven wrong.

But now, my girl, I end this rhyme

So that I might dream of you.

And know, my love, that I'd gladly climb

The highest heights for this love so true...

Yeah, I'm sorry. It got a bit schmaltzy back there but I guess that's just where I am right now. I promise to have some new and exciting stuff for you too! And to prove it, here's a quick extract from another project that's been spawned in my journal which currently has the working title of "Manmade Man." Enjoy!

Reploids don't have the luxury of funerals. Hell, Reploids don't even have the finality of being buried to look forward to, in whatever morbid train of thought that that might be construed as a comfort in life... The final comfort I guess. No, when they die all a Reploid has to look forward to is having their genetic code broken down, analysed and recycled to produce more; a stream of never ending soldiers! It seemed the perfect solution at the start of the military's implementation of synthetic soldiers, but now that the war's over, now that the Reploids lost and struggle through existence as third class citizens, we don't even get the right to share the soil with our human kin...

I've lost count of how many people, people I considered friends died on the battlefield by my side, only to see them then hauled off by the carrier ships and sent back to the replication chambers to be remade into the perfect toy soldier. Do you have any idea - can you even begin to imagine how numbing it is to continue seeing and standing by, fighting alongside people who to all extents are those who you used to call friend? The same faces, the same voices, the same hair, eyes, breath, everything! Only, it's not them. They're just another Reploid off the factory line, 'born' into a life of chaos, misery and violence. They leave the replication chambers with nothing more than a serial number, a uniform and a gun. They have no memories of their past self, of who they were, and that's where it hurts the most. You know that no matter how much you want it to happen, you will never have your friends back; they simply stand and walk and fight alongside you with those all too familiar faces haunting you, crying and bleeding and dying all over again beside you, just for it to happen again over and over and over...

Sometimes, I wish it would happen to me... That way, maybe I'd stop seeing their faces when I try to sleep. There's a reason I wake up with a gun in my hand every morning... It's because every night before, I stare down its barrel, and I dare myself to become just another face in the Reploid crowd...

Like Clockwork - A Steampunk Interlude.

Okay guys, these past few days I've been busy ferreting away on a new fiction project which, to be quite honest, I'm having a whale of a time writing and might actually see if I can go the whole way with this thing and chapterise it and maybe get a novel or at least a novella out of it. So, here's a brief snippet to wet your appetites for the project that I am currently calling, in case the title hadn't given it away, "Like Clockwork.":

A golem, that’s what they called it; Franklin recalled this as the clouds in his mind cleared, just in time for him to duck the colossal fist that hammered into the wall where he had previously been slumped. He rolled to the side and fumbled for his sidearm. Standing, Franklin took a moment to aim at the behemoth before him. This ‘golem’ was the culmination of Professor Ivan Meldvasser’s research into biomechanical adaptive construction. He’d created a humanoid figure standing at close to eight feet in height and combined a mixture of actual preserved tissue and muscle with flexible copper cabling and brass plating to create synthetic muscle mass and limbs and powered by a gyroscopic dynamo linked to preserved brain matter to process, regulate and transmit the electrical signals throughout the body. The whir of gears could be heard through the beast’s body as it stood upright once more and turned to face Franklin, its eyes glistening with the white-blue crackle of the residual electricity within its skull. Franklin pulled his trigger; the faint hiss of compressed gas being released from the vent at the side of his pistol whistled as he loosed three bolts from his sidearm.

Two of the bolts pattered harmlessly off the golem’s chest plating, but the third lodged in the flexible material joint that linked its neck to its clavicle. The golem gave an inhuman howl as it staggered back. This was Franklin’s chance; he knew he had to lure the beast away from the museum. Whether this creature was here by accident or had been sent here for some ulterior motive was irrelevant to Franklin, he just had to distract it, and that bolt in the neck finalised the monster’s attention, securing it firmly on Franklin. This was both good and bad, he mused as he reloaded his hydraulic crossbow pistol; good in the sense that he could reduce the amount of collateral damage from the golem, but bad because this thing hit hard; he’d already experienced a right hook from the golem that had left him seeing stars.

After reloading the drum of his pistol with eight fresh bolts, he flipped down a small microphone from his bowler hat and clipped an earpiece into place, “Kro, are you listening? Kro! Get off your arse and help me out here. This thing hits harder than you and is tougher than your mother’s suet dumplings...” He ducked behind a pillar and peered out to see if the golem was pursuing. It was. He span out from the pillar and fired off two more quick shots accompanied by the familiar whistle of escaping gas and the cycling click and thud of his ammunition drum rotating around. Again, the bolts seemed to have little effect other than frustrating the golem further. It paused and picked up a bust of someone; Franklin didn’t have time to notice who as he ducked to avoid said bust as the golem threw it at him. “Bollocks. That’ll probably get charged to me somehow. Doesn’t this thing have any idea how valuable these art pieces are?” Franklin continued to run and mentally paused to ponder why he was talking to himself, putting it down to the adrenalin and anxiety of the situation.

“Kro, I swear, if you’re not here to help me out then I’m going to have to-“ Franklin never got to finish that threat as a door crashed off its hinges and slammed into the golem’s side. Through the dust stepped a large, muscular framed man with jet black hair, startling emerald eyes, torn leather trousers and heavily worn boots. Upon the man’s broad chest was a heavy iron chain bound around it like a vest of mail and in his hands was a shaft, also iron, roughly five feet in length and tipped with a machete blade at one end and the other was crowned with a double head, one being a wickedly heavy sledgehammer and the other, a large crescent axe blade. “Well, you took your bloody time Kro. Look at this mess! You’ve done nearly as much damage to this place as the bloody golem!” Kro looked to him and grunted before advancing towards the golem as it recovered from the confusion of being blindsided by a flying door. Kro roared and swung his weapon in a wild overhead arc, slamming the hammerhead firmly into the golem’s chest and leaving an immense dent in its wake. With a twist and an upward thrust, Kro proceeded to slash through the copper tendons at the golem’s left hip before then spiralling on the spot, twisting his weapon once more and following through with a vicious axe swing that collided in precisely the same point as the machete blade, tearing through the tendons and material joint casing, sheering off the whole leg of the golem. It crashed to the floor and scrabbled around, gears and pistons whirring and whining, sparks flaring from the wound and its eyes as it tried to figure out a way to right itself.

Franklin sighed, wiped his brow and strolled over to the lamed construct. He levelled his pistol and placed a bolt firmly into one of the eye sockets, rupturing the brain tissue and causing the golem to cease its functions. He exhaled with relief and looked to Kro, “Okay, fine, I admit it. Without you that would have been a little bit harder.” He recovered what few bolts he could and replaced them into the drum. Kro grunted and clipped his weapon into a harness upon his back before looking to Franklin, “You owe me. I expect extra on my cut for this.” He cracked his knuckles and gave a hearty chuckle which, from a man his size, was almost as unsettling as facing up to the golem. Franklin removed his hat to check the transistors of his communication relay, “Well, this is working fine, so you were bloody ignoring me.” Kro just smirked and adjusted the chain around his chest, “You still owe me more.” Franklin placed his hat back on his head and dusted off the lapels of his jacket before straightening his cravat, “Well I can’t bloody pay you more, because this isn’t a paid job.” He yawned and looked at the rubble around the wreckage of the golem, “Would you believe I just happened to be here to look at the paintings?” Kro gave him a disbelieving stare, “What? I like art. I am a man of a modern cultural palette. Is that so hard to believe?” Kro simply shrugged and pulled a hatchet from his belt before he hacked away at the golem’s face casing, “Consider this my cut then.” He gave a disturbing smirk at his pun as Franklin quirked a brow and watched, “What’re you doing? That’s evidence. The ol’bill’ll be here in a bit and they’ll want to know why the thing that wrecked the Royal Museum and Art Gallery is missing its ruddy face!” Kro shrugged once more as he held the brass face casing over his own face, “Trophy. Besides, this will help if goons start thinking sense and aim for my head.” Franklin chuckled, “What, thick skull like yours? You shouldn’t have anything to worry about, y’lummox.”

So that's just a small morsel of what I already have written. I'd very much love some feedback on this one as I'm hoping to properly get this project off the ground. I might even post a bit more of this in the future, if I feel like it.

But for now it's adios from me,

God bless!

Craiggy.

The Legend of Tyree: Part 5 - A Clash of Souls.

Well, like I said, it'd be a while since my next post because I've been away on holiday (Which was lovely by the way) but then this past week has been a bit manic too with my Dad going into hospital for heart surgery. He's recovering well now though, so there's no cause for concern, immediately... But enough life stuff, on to why you're here - the writing! So it's time to continue with the action in The Legend of Tyree...


The sound of steel on steel rang through the throne room as Tyree and Osterman fought viciously. Tyree's face remained stoic and focused, a fitting mask to cover the relentless rage he felt towards his foe whereas Osterman returned this expressionless exchange with a mocking sneer as he parried and feinted, baiting the young warrior into tiring himself out. Tyree winced as one of Osterman's lunges scratched across his cheek. He growled and span, swinging his own blade around in a low circle to try and sweep Osterman's legs, but the veteran hopped backwards and stamped the flat of Tyree's blade, knocking it from his hand. Left with few options, Tyree backed away from Osterman and looked wildly around him for some means of gaining the upper hand. He noticed the guards advancing on Kelni to restrain her and with a ferocious growl, he turned and charged them, forcing them bodily to the ground with a horrendous clatter of armour. With a dexterous roll, Tyree stood once more, now armed with one of the guards' spears.

Kelni blinked as Tyree rushed towards her. She hadn't realised that she was being flanked by two guards. She crouched and covered her head as Tyree rushed past her before she stood to see the two unconscious guards on the floor. She frowned and wisps of white misty energy began to form around her palms as she turned to face Osterman, but his blade had already reached her throat, the tip of it resting gently above her sternum. She blinked and whimpered, the energy fading into nothingness. She glanced back to Tyree, unable to speak for fear, but gave him a pleading stare.

Tyree glared at Osterman, "Let her go! This is our fight." He advanced three steps and braced the spear at his chest, "You've done nothing but backpedal and delay throughout, and now you hide behind a girl? You have no honour Osterman, face me!" The throne room fell deathly silent; not even the slightest of breezes passed through as Tyree and Osterman stood eye to eye less than ten paces from each other. Osterman shrugged and pushed Kelni aside. She fell to the floor and winced, looking up to Tyree once more. He gave the slightest of nods and threw his spear, immediately running behind it. He hadn't aimed to hit Osterman directly, but still the attack was true enough that Osterman had to swing his sword to deflect the point of the projectile. This was enough of a distraction for Tyree to dash past and retrieve his sword from the cold stone floor behind Osterman. He crouched, grabbed the weapon and turned on his knee, thrusting upwards. Osterman couldn't turn in time and Tyree's attack landed true. Blood began to weep from the gash on Osterman's side and he staggered backwards, moving a hand to hold his wound.

Tyree stood, a bold smirk playing upon his lips. He flicked the blood from his sword blade and held it in a point towards Osterman, "That's a deep cut, the flow of blood will continue and you'll start to slow down. I've seen it, it's how a wolf toys with their prey before killing." Tyree took a step closer. Osterman stood agape and stepped further away, his back now touching the drapes at the side of the chamber, "It's not possible! I am a trained man of the military, you are nothing but a lowly maggot, a farmhand, a peasant!" He paused and coughed, blood spattering onto his chin, "How can you best someone like me in a duel?!" Tyree sighed and stepped closer, the point of his sword pressed firmly onto Osterman's chest, "True, I'm not a soldier, or a military man like you say. I am a farmhand, also true." He glanced aside to see if Kelni had recovered; she was standing now and had dusted off her clothes, "But growing up on the plains, tending to animals taught me well. I have to defend those animals, fight off predators. That's all you are, a predator. You act tough, you prey on the weak, but you crumble when faced with true strength, with true resolve." Tyree pressed his blade into Osterman's chest, not deep enough to be fatal, but far enough for him to feel Osterman's body shudder with the pain as he twisted the point slightly, "Weakness, that's all you have in the end. You killed my mother and ransacked my home to uphold your facade of strength and superiority, but look at you know..."

Silence. Tyree held Osterman pinned to the wall as the man who murdered his mother whimpered and mewled, begging for mercy. Tyree pulled his blade from Osterman's chest. Osterman dropped to the floor, clutching his wounds and sobbing. The sobs slowly shifted, turned into a chuckle, then had been completely replaced by laughter as Osterman looked to Tyree, "You're a fool, farmhand! What I did? The people I killed, everything else, I did it for him! I did it all for my master, and he knows what you've done here; he knows who you are, what you are, why you are!" He slumped even closer to the floor and pulled a knife from his boot, he looked back to Tyree, "With my death, your fate is sealed, farmboy!" Osterman shook and rose unsteadily to his feet before tracing the blade of the knife across his own throat. Blood trickled slowly at first but then began to flow mroe freely. He coughed and spluttered, covering his teeth and lips with blood before smiling and staring into Tyree's eyes. He went to speak, but only a wordless gurgle came forth as Osterman fell face down on the floor, motionless in a pool of his own blood.

Tyree stared at the body. He'd never intended for Osterman to die, and could now only ponder as to his dying ramblings. This mention of a master confused Tyree. He shrugged and turned to face Kelni; she looked at him with a similar expression of confusion, "You okay?" he asked her. She nodded and looked to Osterman's body, crouching by it and removing a necklace from beneath his shirt. It bore the sigil of the Reldanian empire. Tyree saw this and his face fell; Osterman was in league with Reldania... Without any more words, the two of them turned and left the throne room. With their captain dead, the guards stood dumbfounded and wracked with uncertainty, leaving both Tyree and Kelni to depart whilst they hurried to tend to their former captain's corpse.




So, that's all you get for now. It's a little sketchy in parts, I know; I'm not sure I'm too happy with this post, but would love some feedback from you all... I might give Tyree a bit of a break for now and work on something else, or I might just carry on; again, feedback and opinions greatly appreciated!

Adios and God bless!
Craiggy.

The Legend of Tyree: Part 4 - At the Foot of the Throne.

Wow, has it really been that long since my last post? I didn't realise I'd been that busy... Well, firstly I'd like to give a quick recap of what's been going on to keep me so distracted. I've finished my second year of uni, yay me... What's more is I passed my second year of uni, slightly bigger yay... I've been working on several writing projects which I'm submitting for entry into this year's Bridport Prize for poetry & short fiction but unfortunately, due to the submission rules of the competition, entries cannot be published anywhere before being judged in the contest, which included online publication such as this blog, so until the competition's passed I've got to keep those projects hidden from you lovely people. So now that that's out of the way, here's the next installment in Tyree's story. Hope you enjoy! And once again I apologise for not posting more.




Tyree strode boldly, sword strapped to his back, scarf billowing on the breeze as he stood before the steps. He glanced to Kelni and took a deep breath before looking at the two guards at the top of the stone stairs, polearms crossed to bar entry. He nodded, adjusted his scarf and made his way up the staircase. Someone needed to deal with the growing issue of Osterman within the town.
"Halt!" The guards moved in to block the door with their bodies and lowered their polearms toward Tyree's chest. He glared between the guards and Kelni stood close behind him, half hiding behind him. She did not take kindly to humans with weapons, or authority. They had a tendency to throw their weight around and make her feel even smaller than her already sleight frame. Tyree ran a hand through his hair and looked back to Kelni before taking a step closer to the guard that addressed him. He raised an eyebrow and stared intensely into the guard’s eyes, “You will let me pass to see the Thronelord. I have matters to bring to his attention and will not allow for the injustice of Osterman and his thugs!” The guard shivered and eyed Tyree once over. Tyree knew these men worked for Osterman, but he gambled on the fact that if he and Kelni were here on official business then the guards weren’t about to attack them on the steps of the Thronelord’s halls of office.
The guards took several more moments of silence, deliberating between themselves with nervous glances before they pulled their polearms aside and stepped away from them. “You may enter, but be quick about it. The Thronelord is a very busy man and should not be troubled by the menial issues of farmhands...” Tyree moved his hand to rest upon the hilt of his sword and stared through the guard as he spoke. The guard looked to the floor and muttered something inaudibly about the attitude of the peasantry in society.

***

Varashnir sighed upon his throne as he watched trails of living shadow writhe around his fingertips. The shifting black mass coiled up his arm like a snake before reaching his brow and solidifying in a circlet of crystalline black ichor around his head. He stood and immediately similar shadows sprang forth and formed robes around his naked form. He looked around his chamber and closed his eyes. Visions of war danced in his head; he recalled the tales he was told as a child, of heroes and dragons. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked to the mark upon his hand as he rested it upon the ledge of his chamber window. The dragon had moved further along the shaft of the spear and was staring at him, as though the mark upon his flesh had gained sentience and was now mocking him, knowing that soon a hero would rise according to the prophecy. That rise was to signal his fall. Varashnir slammed his fist onto the cold stone window ledge and looked back to his throne. ‘There must be a way,’ he mused, ‘a way to find this so called hero and stop them before they find me.’  He looked once more out of his window as the sun set over his Empire. The shadows clung tightly around him as he let out a growl, his gaze moving once more to the dragon, mocking him with its unmoving gaze. With a wave of his hand, the shadows shifted to wrap around his hands like gloves. He may not be able to do anything about the prophesy yet, but he at least could cease the dragon’s stares...

***

Once within the throne room of the halls of office, Tyree looked in awe around the vast chamber before him. The walls were draped with crests of the previous Thronelords on fine silk and velvet banners; there at the end of the hall was a large pair of red velvet curtains bearing the crest of the current Thronelord, Belsis. Tyree knelt and set his sword upon the ground in respect for the Thronelord before looking back to Kelni and gesturing for her to do the same with a nod; she knelt, but had no weapons to place before her.
“Lord Belsis. I, Tyree Dalfnen, appear before you now to request the dismissal and arrest of Guard Captain Osterman.” Tyree looked to the curtains which hid the throne from view. It was tradition for the Thronelord to not be seen until he deemed the curtain to be drawn aside. “My Lord Belsis, I implore you... Osterman has long since used our homeland as a domain for his corruption and advancing his own sinister ideals and desires,” he bowed his head once more and paused, “I fear that this may not simply be a matter of Vaymouth anymore, but within the whole of Galastia. Please my Lord, invoke your power to investigate Oster-“ The curtains began to move; there upon the throne, lounging to one side and with a smug grin upon his face sat “Osterman!” Tyree stood, sword sheath held firmly in hand, his other moving to grip the hilt, ready to unsheathe the weapon at a moment’s notice.
Osterman stood and clapped slowly. The noise of these three solid claps echoed around the hall which seemed to have taken on an impending sense of emptiness now as Tyree stared at the face of his mother’s murderer. “Well done young Farmhand, you have gained the attention of the Thronelord and made him reveal his face. That is a great honour you realise?” Tyree snarled and stared at Osterman’s face, meeting his eyes, “Why are you here, slug? That seat is for the Thronelord alone!” Osterman took a step closer, one hand moving to his crested dagger, the other resting upon his hip, “Don’t you understand, whelp? The Thronelord is dead; he has been for years. I have ruled this state for nearing four years now. Those public appearances from the Thronelord? Magic; illusions crafted by the state’s guild of wizardry... Long live the Thronelord, eh whelp?”
Tyree readied his sword and moved closer to meet Osterman, the demon scourge that killed his mother; that destroyed his childhood and all he held dear. This was his moment. If Osterman was ruling this state, then there was nothing left for Tyree here but to avenge his mother and reclaim this state from its corruption. He charged. Osterman drew his blade to meet Tyree’s charge. Kelni stared in nervous anticipation as these two warriors clashed blades and fates for the first and last time.



So there you have it folks. I'm away on holiday next week so no posts unless I can maybe find an internet connection and tear myself away from enjoying myself on the beautiful east coast of this lovely country! (he says as he stares at the rain outside...)


Until next time!
Craiggy. :D

The Legend of Tyree: Part 3 - The Form of Fate.

Wow. These past few days have been hectic to say the least... Lectures, Spotlight Theatre, work and above all else *drumroll* getting published! For those of you who haven't heard already, I've had a collection of my work published, which you can purchase here.

Anyhoo, apologies for not writing as much as I'd have liked to on this project, but yeah, life has been a bit manic recently... But without further ado, I'm returning to my current project, The Legend of Tyree. Enjoy!



Varashnir reclined, his hand moving to rest beneath his chin as he sat upon his onyx throne. He scowled, deep in thought as before him, within his court, a troupe of dancers and jesters tried in futility to entertain the lord of the Reldanian Empire. He closed his eyes and issued a deep, drawn out sigh as he waved the hand from beneath his chin, dismissing the performers from his presence. He stood, his emerald coloured velvet robe cascading down behind him and trailing along the marble floor at his feet. He glanced over to his attendants on the periphery of his throne room and ran a hand over his shaved scalp. His eyes, the deepest of greens, matching his robe, shifted between his two aides. They nodded and bowed at the waist in acknowledgement of their lord before opening the ornate double doors into his personal bathing chamber.

Within this chamber was a large pool of clearest water, scented with oils and scattered with herbs, spices and aromatic petals. The water was heated by ancient dwarven runes inlaid within the tiles of the pool's floor. Varashnir's attendants led the way, stepping slowly into the pool. Their own ceremonial gowns drifted lazily within the water and clung to their young, nubile forms. They too had shaven heads, as was Varashnir's will for all of his servants. He strode into the pool after them, his own robe settling atop the water until it too became sodden and sank, limply hanging in the void that was the water. The two girls - for they were nowhere near advanced enough in years to be called women - proceeded to remove the garment from around his shoulders and began to tend to his body, cleansing it of the day's wear and grime. He sighed once more, glancing down at the mark which resided upon the back of his left hand, that of a dragon coiled around a spear. He frowned. His prophets had been fortelling for some time now of a new age, a new hero rising from the people to seek his downfall. He had been told that he would know the time of this new hero's coming by the dragon's moving around the spear. Once fully coiled, so his prophets claimed, that would be the time when he would be confronted. So far the dragon's neck had only just begun to move around the base of the spear's shaft, but it had moved so much in such a short time to reach just this point that it had caused Varashnir to ponder this matter more closely. His prophets had never led him astray so far. It was due to their wise counsel that he had attained his position at the head of the Empire and had gained so much in the way of wealth and land. He sighed once more and looked to his attendants.

"Leave me..." The girls paused and looked to their lord, confused, but not willing to disobey their master. They gave a slow nod and waded toward the edge of the pool and left promptly, leaving Varashnir to his thoughts. Energy began to form around his shoulders, shifting upwards towards his head in a cloud of inky blackness, like a halo of negative candescence arcing around him. Veins grew tighter and were visable beneath his olive skin, his teeth clenched and his eyes screwed up as though he were wracked with pain. With a gutteral roar, the darkness exploded from his person, extinguishing the lanterns within the chamber, leaving Varashnir to ponder within the pool, both in solitude, and in darkness...



So there we have it, the next portion of Tyree. Hopefully there won't be too much of a delay on the next update, but right now there's a bath back home with my name on it and I can't wait to soak the rest of the day away. Please leave any feedback you want about this, or any of my pieces. It's always appreciated!

Thanks,
Craiggy.

Advertisment!

Okay guys, sorry I've been behind with the blog recently. There's nothing new today, but I am going to advertise something. If you like the things you see on this blog and would perhaps like to read it at more leisurely times, well now you can, because I've now been published!

That's right! I've now got a collection of my poetry and short stories published. A lot of the stuff in there is stuff off the blog, but a lot of it is brand new too so even you, my trusted followers, won't have read them! So please, it would mean a lot to me if you clicked the button below and bought a copy of my first ever published collection!

Mr. Craiggy's new book!

Thank you all,
God bless!
Craiggy.