Peredhil

Celebrate today - Six-month anniversary Winter, Summer, wed. (It was winter in New Zealand, but summer in the States.)

Just writing pictures out of my head. I need to figure out who they are, where they're going, etc. Archival here, if someone likes them, all the better. The clouds were crimson smears of blood in the dying light. Murders of crows swirled and fought over the tilled fields, recipients of a far different seed than planned in spring. Occasionally one of the dog-sized battle ravens, still dangling fine chains, would move to a new feast, scrupulously avoiding any it had known out of courtesy for the fallen. It was the time ofbirds, although the vultures had not yet arrived. Around the edges, in the uncleared brush and the sapling trees, the furred ones prowled. Their turn would come when true night fell. Both sides would call it a victory in days to come, but only death won the day. A new scavenger crept out cautiously from the underbrush, staying low and slinking from body to body, pausing often. The blackened stiletto ensured that bodies were corpses; an act of mercy given the fowls feasting. The hands were sure and rapid in plundering, skilled in searching the hidden mementos of a soldier or knight. The occasional pause was when a horse's flank trembled in exhausted pain under the groping hands; the blade was sure but the softly muttered curses for those who'd ridden were harsh.The scavenger paused to consider something new to its experience; a body untouched. The horse lay on one side, the bones of its forelocks glinted red in the dying light. It's eye-socket wept blood from the piercing bill of the Battle Raven perched on its head. The raven was ancient, its feathers touched by the hoary brush of time. It was much smaller than the recent fashion, and the chains attached like a hawk's jesses were silvered steel tipped with murderous hooks, well blooded. No other birded dared it's space, the gaily colored barding still gleamed, striking a matching gleam in the scavenger's eyes. The rider must've been wealthy to afford all it saw spread before it, guarded by one (admittedly dangerous) bird. "Water," croaked the raven demandingly, hopping down to peck imperiously at a silver-chased bag attached with leather thongs to the saddle. Fixing an eye on the scavenger, it ordered again, "water!". With a deep bow and sarcastic, "of course M'lord", the bottle was unstrapped and opened and presented to the raven. A flap of wings, and the raven was clinging his front, its beak hovering a fingers-breadth from his eye. He carefully pulled back his other hand from the saddlebag's clasp and the bird flashed to his wrist, seized the bottle, and flew it to the body trapped under the horse, dumping the water on the bloody pale face of the rider. Who moaned. Which changed the situation considerably."Oh no, your Lordship, you may care, but I have no dealings with the living." He backed away slowly, only to stop when the raven did something he'd never seen a Battle Raven do before. And he'd watched many a battle from the treetops, sitting with the crows, and the occasional vulture (queens of carrion), watching the battles laid out for his viewing pleasure. Marking the likely sources of income.Battle Ravens typically pecked eyes, clawed with steel-tipped claws, fouled weapons swings with their chains. Their mortality rate was high - they were trained to throw themselves between owner and a threat. But never before had one hopped into the air, and spun in a blazing clap of wings. The neck of the horse now had a gash through the chainmail barding, and a groove as deep as the second joint of a finger into the flesh from the hooks. What the hell were they MADE from, to cut through armor like a knife through lard?"Stay. Help." The raven was a demanding bird. He stopped his retreat and considered. Perhaps he could ransom this chap. It could happen. He salved his pride with the thought. "I'm not intimidated by an over-sized chicken like you," he advised the raven. He was proud that his voice didn't tremble. It looked back coolly, far too smart for bird. Just how old was this thing?"Help," it advised him, and hopped onto its person's head, and pecked at the horse's corpse. It looked back imperiously. "Help"."Aren't you just the chatty magic mouth tonight? How am I supposed to lift a horse?" The raven flew down next to the saddle and croaked at something there. Moving around the body, he saw that it had been digging next to the rider. "Ah, dig a bit and pull him loose, there's the very idea. You are clever, aren't you? I wonder what you'd sell for in a market, eh?" Itignored him and flapped to perch on the side of the saddle."Help."The soil was soft from the plow to a depth of eight inches, which most probably is what had caused this magnificent horse to stumble and break its legs and neck. A rookie mistake that - galloping over freshly plowed fields. Given the lack of cavalry on the defenders' side, and that every plowshare's width there was a strip of hard soil no farmer would leave, the defenders had plowed the fields the night before the battle. A subtle trap if so. The soil was also sticky from the amount of blood that it had absorbed, which made digging both easy and messy. He dug quickly, with both hands at first, scooping it out between his legs, to either side of the downed knight. As he rounded the horse, he stopped to pack the dirt on either side, wiggling a hand in and slamming it outward. Eventually, he thrust in with a leg and kicked at dirt, and hooking and pulling out foot-fulls to where his hands could reach. Finally, covered in mud to the point that only his eyes were clear, hereached under the knight and pulled, as the raven hopped from foot to foot in agitation. The knight slipped a foot or two and stuck. Pausing to breathe and look the situation over, the scavenger swore. The knight must be rich; there was a stirrup attachment to the saddle-strap-thingie that went under the horse, and a small bolt and latch on the tip of the armored boot holding it in the stirrup."He'd better be worth this," he dourly warned the raven, and set to widen hole on the front of the leg enough to wedge an arm and hand into it. Muffled cursing gave way to coughing and spitting as a mouthful of mud intruded, and the raven cawed in laughter. Several butt-wiggles later, the scavenger was out and ready to pull. The raven flew down to the knight'sshoulder, and set its hooks into the chest plates. They both pulled, the knight moaned, and the leg slipped free, setting the scavenger back on his heels, then an ass over teakettle roll."There cannot BE enough water for this," he muttered, abet warily, at the raven. The raven ignored him, landing to stroke its beak against the knight's face and gently nip his nose. "Wake, wake!" The knight moaned again, a singularly poor conversationalist, and managed to roll to its back. His face was black with mud and blood, the helm's nasal had shattered, and the left temple plate was smashed in like an egg."M'lord Raven, I'm sorry to say that with that hole in his head, the best I can do is offer a mercy knife." He gestured with his knife. Which a moment later was quivering in the horse, victim of one of those spin-flights. "Or, I could help you until he dies on his own, eh," he smiled, backing away slowly with hands showing. "Perfectly honorable profession, recycling, andhelping the wounded on to the other side. I like to think that some of the things I sell make it to their owners eventually. It's a service I do, and now I'm a nursemaid. I'd love to pluck your feathers and eat you. I know crow tastes nasty, but you'd make a great -" He broke off his angry refrain as the raven landed on the knight's helm and mantled its great wings. Interspersed in the black were silver, grey, and white feathers, in no particular pattern. Amazing how a pair of flat black and yellow eyes could hold so much expression."Help. Reward.... Death.""Lovely choices you offer, M'Lord. I choose reward." Swearing to settle his nerves, he used his own water to clean long spatulate fingers, and searched the saddlebag (under a constant beady eye) to find a cloth. He wiped the knight's face clean, noting that the last embers of the sun lent it a ruddy flattering look. He avoided the crushed helm and skull for now."Stay," croaked the raven, and it flew a short way away, landing on a corpse, and watched the scavenger. Who in turn examined the knight more closely - neither leg was broken, nor were the arms. Soft soil, the horse's bane, the knight's fortune. The raven flew to a fallen knight, then returned to drop a ring on the scavengers head. "Reward." It repeated thisprocess, for a while, moving unerringly to a corpse, and returning with chains, bracelets, pouches, and rings, citing, "Reward" each time. Occasionally it was a water bottle that was dropped, each one bouncing off the scavenger's head regardless of how he ducked. He was sourly grateful. Clearing the ground a bit, he used tinder from a pouch to start a small fire of broken lances and spears. They began reluctantly, but burned with clear steady flames. He took a vanbrace off one of the fallen and formed a shallow dish, in which he boiled water, which he used to sponge away the blood from the crushed helm. Using his stiletto, he carefully pried away the pieces of metal, which left dented unbroken skin, which he bandaged with pad and strips as best he could. If the knight didn't wake by morning, he'd most probably never wake, and the damned raven would probably kill him. Hewallowed a moment in misery at the injustice of it all, then set about securing his rewards in various places in the shapeless bag of a mud-caked garment he wore. The rings he wrapped in rags to keep from chiming and clinking, securing them in various pouches. He kept a weather eye out for the coyotes and wild dogs sure to come. Rarely there would be wolves, but only when hunting was particularly bad. Apparently humans tasted poorly, although they'd think nothing of eating the downed horse.Using a belt-knife whose owner would never miss it again, he scraped mud off the knight's body. A sword from the same source enabled him to shift the fire over. After a bit, he shifted it again, then put it out. No point in advertising presence. On the dried spaces, he spread several cloaks, and rolled the knight onto them. They'd have been no chance of survivalspending the night in the cold mud, not wounded as he was. As the knight rocked to a rest, he began retching miserably. The scavenger swore sizzling oaths and quickly rolled the knight onto his side, looking warily for the raven. All he needed was for the knight to purge the evil spirits in him and drown in the process. It depended on the spirit, but he'd seen it happen. Using the sword, he scraped the cloaks as clean as possible; the smell was enough to make his stomach turn in sympathy. He scrounged more cloaks and robes, and covered the both of them with them. The raven could keep watch, he was cold and exhausted.He awoke with a start, and disentangled his limbs from the knight's body, then winced as cold air came under the dislodged cloaks. The knight was laying on his back, eyes open and mirroring the empty blue sky. He was still spirit possessed; one pupil was enormous, but he was alive - he blinked occasionally. When water was presented, he drank without focusingeither eye. He lay there while the scavenger make neat bundles of the cloaks and other pillaged items, and secured them with slipknots about his person. When the raven croaked, "up!", he slipped lithely to his feet and stood swaying, then held a hand to his crushed head and moaned. Gabbling a few words, he pawed at the bandage on his face, then stopped, automatically adjusted the hang of his sword, and just stood waiting. The scavenger also waited. The raven imperiously ordered, "walk!" and all three began slogging across the battlefield, as a morning mist decided to rain softly."Wonderful, your Lordship, can you do anything about the weather?" The raven ignored him, flying short distances, landing, and cawing, "walk" repeatedly. As the scavenger slipped and slid in the icy mud and bodies, he felt it quite unjust that the blank-faced knight glided across the field as if it were one of his Great Halls.They reached the road down which the invaders had come. There were remains of tents, cast off shoes, and other debry of a fleeing army. No horses, no predators here yet. The scavenger's hands twitched in greed. Those fleeing for their lives had odd priorities on what was left behind. He bowed smoothly to the raven, who stopped to watch him."We need food, M'Lord raven, and I've none. May I search some of the remains here?" He was more and more convinced the raven was a spirit enfleshed and perhaps in league with the spirit of the knight's head. The bards were convincing that once bound by flesh, spirits could be tricked. He paused, then made a show of lifting a fallen tent to search, keeping awary eye on the raven, who didn't stop him. Much to his delight, he was immediately rewarded with the fallen remains of a meal. Salvaging the bread, he offered prayers to Rent, patron of thieves. He was careful to moisten the bread with water before putting it in the knight's hand, and guiding it to his lips, and was rewarded when the knight ate mechanically.He might just survive being caught up in all this yet. The continued on their way, occasionally stopping to pillage. The scavenger was looking fatter and fatter as he arranged things in the bags strapped to his front and back - although his access to his stiletto was always kept free.Making their way along the road, they stopped for lunch (bread), and to rest in the afternoon (bread). On toward twilight, they were ambushed, of sorts. The throb of a bowstring, accompanied by two rogues stepping out from trees (silhouetted against the sun) and crying for them not to move. The scavenger immediately dove for the brush to watch the shakedown. Where the first arrow went, he never thought to find out, being astonished at the scene playing for his benefit before him. At the arrow's flight, the knight had drawn his sword, holding it upright before him, hilt at elbow height. The raven disappeared into the trees and brush on the other side from the scavenger. The two rogues, confronting disobedience, stood with weaponsready, trusting the archer to end this. An thrumming string, an arrow's flight, the sword twitched, the arrow deflected, the knight gliding forward, uncannily smooth. The sword flickered, again, swept in a circle, thrustright into empty air as the knight turned, thrust right again (stabbing a rogue), step up over the body, block air, block air, block the remaining rogue's blade, circle, and suddenly the knight was alone, twirling and thrusting in a strange pattern, careful to step over the bodies of the rogues, and bodies visible only to the demon's spirit-eye. Almost the scavengercould see the opponents fought, until the knight came to a stop, bowed, and with a flourish that shed blood in a whirling arc, sheathed his blade and stood passively again, until the raven flew to his shoulder from the trees, dangling blood chains.Yrranas' holy shit.

The lazy spirals of the incense were memories, The red tips smug eyes now. The moonlight kissed flesh that never glimpsed sun - Intertwined, inseparably, drying sweat initiating sensual shivers. The silver-yellow made fractal rainbows inside the curtain of crystal beads. A sudden shiver, a murmur, a lazy kiss, and by the ancient alchemy of lusts Tumescent rises from slumber and the dance begins again. The moon smiles slyly, never surprised. ------------------------------------------------------------------ foolish, smile, defenestrated

Part of the problem a highly intelligent and/or creative person has is being able to comprehend perfection, while remaining a fallible being. It sets impossible standards, and fails them, leading to "if only"s. If only I worked a little more, tried a little harder, could get it right. The average person looks at the mountains of perfection, and sees the base, the trees, the clouded misty heights obscured. They're content to climb the slopes and look back out on life, before returning to it. But we wordsmiths, (cut us and do we not bleed words?), we ascend to where we can see the thin-aired heights and the stars beyond them, and are every discontented with all we do. It can lead to a double-standard of excellence, which contains a hidden condescension and arrogance - "50%! Oh that is wonderful [for you, an average person (and it is)]. Me? Oh, I failed again. Only a 96%. I was so close!

That's MUCH better. I never played with formatting, much.

I like the rhythms and it "feels" satisfying to recite it aloud (one of my poetry tests). Took the liberty of moving it from the Assembly Room (short stories) to the Banquet Hall (poetry)

Hmmm, good feedback, H'

I like this and I know the feeling. The second-to-last line feels a bit awkward to me, but I'm not certain why. (How's that for substantial feedback? ) Let me try to do better by you; Let's look at a syllable count and rhyme scheme. 4 A 5 B 5 C 2 D 6 E 4 F 6 G 8 A 5 A The letters and uneven counts would lead to blank poetry, free form. In the meters of an Occidental mind, an uneven count of "A"s is going to feel incomplete. Also in the context, "cease" isn't quite standard. Perhaps change it to "surcease"?

a "third eye" is a frequently used trope for the "mystical eye" or "spiritual eye". In humans, it is supposed to be behind the forehead, directly on line with the pineal gland. I'd assumed that the lizard's third eye was a mystical one.

evocative and lyrical.

The drink-bottle was empty of faerie wine '69, That famed brew, bad for you, drunk to last drop. It wasn't orange, it wasn't silver; it's flavor didn't rhyme, It dissolved goblets in fuming clouds sitting on the bar. A very upper-class high-brow elixir with quite a kick, It is hardly thorough, quite expensive in cost - definitely not rural. I paid a fortune for one drink-bottle (it was all I could afford), I took a sip, I took a gulp, I thought "oh my lord!" My arse is bleeding, my eyes popped out - they rolled upon the floor - They' ve leapt back into my head, and now I'm stumbling out the door. My drink-bottle's empty of faerie wine '69, I'll drink it no more. twitch, four, fish

I'm enjoying this.

Hjolnai, that was brilliant.

Heh. This could be built into a really cool short story.

That sounds famili- squirrel!

<3<3 Beagle. A fun read is the White Plume Mountain trilogy. Set in the world of Greyhawk, it breathes delightful character life into D&D character classes. I believe it is by Joe Kidd. Anita Blake Vampire Hunter - I think that was the one where I lost $5. I was challenged to pick any of her recent books, open to a random page, and not see sex referenced.

I miss my Honey Bear... so true.

Her complexion each morning is fresh without make-up (washed clean by the tears of the night). She showers a lovingly bright smile on all she meets (a shield against showing the pains they don't want to know). She gives the best advice a friend can give (but cannot take it herself because she's not worthy) She's the one you call at any hour knowing she'll be there (because her sleep isn't worth your consideration) She's the one who is always strong (if she is ever weak, she may break forever) She's the one you take for granted, the one who has always been there, the one who will always be (neglected unless needed, disrespected despite words of thanks, always the friend).

Really convey so much with the terse structure. The line breaks and format give visual impact to the words. Can't believe I haven't seen this thread before. Do keep writing!

This makes me ache. One reason I hug so much, virtually and in real life, is that touch is my primary love language. I see someone in pain, and I ache to just hold them and give them energy. You really captured, for me, the longing to feel that special touch of a lover. I do so enjoy your poetry. *Polite huggles!*

Just found this. I too would like more. Engaging.

Heh. My Beloved, Mynx, and I both liked this, and both laughed aloud. *Polite Hugs of glee*

Heh, fun read!

bouyantly, joyfully, I live in the love of my Beloved, drawing deeply - only to give it back threefold.

You're one of the ones whose writing gives me the energy to keep coming back to the Pen to read. Evocative and lyrically painful.