A blurry, sleep ridden image of a field moving past. In front are a pair of draw animals pulling a open air carriage forward. The backdrop is ever changing, distant and blurry. The smell of grass fills the nostrals. A woman sits nearby, glowing with the light of the large sun, "It is almost time for your birth day isn't it little star? They don't celebrate it where you are do they?"
Momma...? No, I'm asleep aren't I? Aren't I?
Confusions fills the mind and the heart followed by a sense of nostalgia.
A small farm house becomes visible in the distance, a woman with dark skin stands in front of the house, waving. She stands next to a fair-skinned, but tanned man. "Look, Aunty Linna is waving to you, wave back, always wave back. She's excited for you today. Do you understand why?" Lifting a scarred hand and waving back, the scars are fairly fresh, but healed.
I don't remember this. Is this real? Did this happen?
The scene changes and everyone is around a small table. On the table is several bottles of wine, each one marked with a specific label 'Kita Farm Reserve'. There are plates full of muffins, cakes and other assorted succulent dishes. Looking down, a bright yellow dress can be seen covering the dark skinned body. Long white gloves cover the scarred hands and arms.
Did this happen? Is this a dream? It must be a dream. yes, a dream.
Confusion -- Nostalgia
Polite eating and conversation, most of which drifts by unheard and misunderstood. Food dissapears like smoke, leaving only empty dishes. Things are cleared away, only wine is left, the gloved hand reaches for the crystal glass and sips it politely.
"It is the Anniversary of your Birth little star. We have gifts for you. Hold your glass properly, don't let your hand dawdle, I don't care if you can't feel it, that's no excuse for impropriety at the dinner table. Manners are important." The slight scolding is not ill-tempered, just a reminder.
"Today you are fifteen, that means your are a woman. We know we cannot celebrate it with your wedding, so instead we just have gifts." From the smoke, delicately wrapped presents appear on the table, each one wrapped in orange paper and tied with an orange ribbon.
The gloved hand reaches out for one and it moves away as if of its own accord.
Frustration
The hand moves to another gift, this one jumps into it, as if pulled to it by a similar gravity. It opens by itself. Paper rises from the box like steam. Inside of the tissue paper is a delicate chain, upon which is the symbol of Balor.
Did I ever have anything like that? Is this real? Balor, what is this dream? It is just a dream isn't it?
A motherly hand puts the necklace on and the golden symbol sears itself to the skin over the heart but with no pain, no feeling. For a moment, everything in the vision turns orange, then darkens to red. "Be a lioness. Protective and strong. Be a hunter."
Those who cross the sea change the sky, not their spirit
Slow waves leaving
always leaving
in search of change.
New skies looked upon
with the same spirit
make the heart wonder at the moons
which still hang the same.
This simply is
and we cannot make it
any more real
than our hearts will let us.
Maybe tonight,
we will dream
of truth
in color.
Nightfall
Reaching out
touching black
the sweetest thing to fall from the sky.
Soaking into the ground
leaving the black goddess
invisible.
Tears fall from the heavens
catching nothing but darkness,
undetectable to the eye.
Thin, cold fingers
move, so slowly across
the smooth surface
away from the whispering breath
of grief and loneliness.
As the trees weep,
and the roses drown
in sorrow
forgiveness
sits, so quiet
in between
the heavens and the earth.
An Apology for Colour
There was a time when all colours were the same
and all life was similar.
Greys blending to greys
white frosting us all.
So quiet
So still
So pure
When did colour taint us?
Deep crimson spilling from us
Hungry green filling our bodies
Liquid blue propelling us
forward
sinking
We drown in this colour.
This colour makes us
makes us colourful and real.
So many days I want to say
I'm sorry for the colours I have caused you.
sorry for the colours which made me.
So many days I want to say
I'm sorry for the ink which stains you.
sorry for the colours which made me.
We won't die white.
No matter how hard we try to let things
leave us
unaffected.
"Come with me, we'll never be apart, the Sun you see is me..."
The song drifts over the field where the smell of smoke and blood fill the air leaving a metallic taste in the mouth. The dark smoke rolls upward into the already dark clouds, blending and mixing so they are one. The field is empty, save for corpses and scavengers (human and animal alike).
Walking -- Moving
Increasing speed with time, the onlooker moves forward. The grass is slick with blood and the ground soft with it. In the distance, the sound of a music box can be heard. Its metallic music blending with the taste of blood in the mouth. There is no other sound. No crying, no screaming, everything is silent, save for the sound of the music box. Even the scavengers are silent, ghostly. They fade in and out like red mist, ghosts that are real, yet distant, as if they drift between this realm and the next.
"No more fear, my heart is ever still, the Sun won't set on me..."
In hand - a man's hand - is a spear stained red with blood.
This must be a dream, I'm not a man. This must be a dream...
The onlooker continues to walk, yet goes nowhere. The field remains the same with each step, the point of view, the angle, never moving. The mist creatures fade like smoke, stained red by blood. The bodies on the field slowly sink into the ground. The grass turns red, growing taller and taller until it nearly reaches the sky.
"No more pain, no memories remain, I am the Sun you see..."
The sound of the music box grows louder, the hollow sound childish as it's song moves through the blood grass. The scene remains somehow serene, calm. The heart still and silent like the field. The mist creatures now run through the grass, bending around each blade, flowing between them and reforming.
Who am I? Where am I?
Walking, eternally walking forward. Soon, the onlooker turns to red mist like the creatures dancing between the blades of grass. Flowing with each step, becomnig aware less and less of himself and more and more aware of the music that dances so lightly atop each blade, as if the song itself is a part of the blood grass.
"This is fate, the dying congregate, follow the Sun to me..."
The mist creatures all walk together now, slowly moving to the goal, the onlooker with them. With no warning, a large hand scoops everything up. The mist creatures held firming within it. Below, the blood grass is covered in red flame, melting everything away. The sound of the music box fades from the grass and sings from some unseen child's lips.
The hand stretches outward, becoming a new ground. The mist creatures begin to fight to avail. Weapons, fists, everything passes through the red mist that was once men. Looking up, the only thing visible is the blue sun in the sky, watching down like an eye. The sky is hued red, the ground and even the air as well.
This is a dream...just a dream...
"Walk this way, the dream will end one day, the Sun will fight with me..."
The red mist creatures evaporate into the air all at once, the onlooker along with them.
Wake up.
Well, I think I am reasonably pleased with the look of the blog now. It could be better, a lot better really, but I don't really want to mess with it anymore for the time being.
I added a new picture of Tzoli I drew up yesterday. This one is much better than the last as her eyes aren't all wierd looking and I think the proportions came out better as well. She also has a big arse hammer now instead of the mace and new clothes. Sadly, when I tried to make the leggings studded, they looked pretty stupid, to I removed that detail.
Anyway, I may further tweek with the look, but, it will all depend on what I come up with I suppose.
Also, I'd like to thank Strega for the encouragment!
As you all can see, I am working on updating the look of my blog. To be honest, I am not sure I like how it is laid out right now, so, over the next few days I'll be playing with it a bit.
I sort of like the leathery background, though I may go with something different as well. I'm just not sure yet. If you have any suggestions, comment them! I'll see what I can do to update to make it more readable for you all.
Tzoli walks to the center of the mat and grips her hammer in her left hand. She stands still for a moment and closes her eyes. She feet plant firmly on the ground a shoulder length apart and she takes several, slow, metered breaths. She remains still as if waiting for something.
You think to yourself: 'Balor, guide my feet so that I may step sure. Guide my legs to that I may move quickly with the flow of battle. Guide my hips so that I may confuse my enemy with my movement. Guide my chest so that I may keep my breath in the heat of battle. Guide my arms so that I swing true and my hand so that my grip is strong. And Balor, please guide my mind so that I may learn something as I train to be a stronger and better warrior in Your Name.'
Tzoli opens her eyes and lifts her hammer. She holds the emmense hammer outward, the thin muscles in her arm flexing as she does. "Balor, give me strength to wield this weapon and the insight to aim true." She slowly, languidly moves her right arm over to the carved handle of the warhammer, gripping it slowly. Now both arms flex, holding the weapon outright. She closes her eyes once more and takes several deep, calm breaths.
You think to yourself: 'Balor, I know these are not the excercises my mother taught me, but I wish to grow stronger and those have done all they can for me. I think I should grow now and gain in strength of heart and body. Balor, guide me to become stronger. Guide me to be a stronger warrior. Guide me to walk your cause. *focus and concentration as the wieght of the hammer takes its toll on the muscles holding it up* *strain and focus* Guide me to become stronger, I pass my Fate on to you. Pull the strings as you will. Guide me.'
Tzoli opens her eyes, slowly taking a step forward. She bends her body slowly, swinging the hammer down and to the right in a large graceful arc. She steps forward with the other foot, lifting the hammer upward and then swinging down and to the left, completing the figure eight movement. She does ths again, one swing per step forward. She focuses on her movements, making them slow and deliberate, yet at the same time languid and smooth. Slowly, she spins around on her toe, letting the momentum of the swinging hammer guide her around clockwise.
You think to yourself: 'Balor, guide my body to be stonger. I want to be stronger so that I may do you proud. Guide my heart to be more sure so that I do not waver in battle. Guide my mind to become clear times of trouble so that I do not lose focus. Balor, I am your warrior. Let me be strong in my purpose despite my shortcoming as a woman and as a person. Let me walk the path of my Fate without doubt.'
Tzoli starts to move faster now, her muscles straining against the movement of the emmense hammer as she attempts to control it. She moves languidly, her body rolling like water between the stones. She moves as if in battle with some unknown force, dodging its blows and retaliating swiftly. She moves with her eyes closed, her feet falling in sure steps as she shadow fights the unseen enemy. She lifts her hammer upward and brings it down, the head slamming into the floor causing the wood to reverberate through the room.
You think to yourself: 'Balor, let me become strong. Let me focus on my goal -- on my purpose. Let me be your warrior here. Let me be strong enough to honour your name. Balor, as the Suns rise and set, I will work to become stronger. I will work to be better, to make up for my shortcomings which are many. I will work harder so that I can be one with my purpose. I will work harder to be stronger so that I can fight the Darkness that plagues the land. So that I may fight the demons that sully this land. Guide me to be stronger so that I may fulfill my purpose in Your name.'
Tzoli kneels on the ground where her hammer hit the ground. She opens her eyes and bows her head, her breath coming hard and fast. Her dark skin glistens with perspiration from her strain and practice. She stands slowly, lifting her warhammer from the ground. She stands still for several moments, her hammer resting loosely in her left hand as she once again takes a fighting stance.
You think to yourself: 'Balor, I am here to serve you and I wish to make a sacrifice in your name. Guide me to want you want and I will see you get it. I have sacrificed the heart of a demon to you, tell me what else I should give to you so that I may make you happy. Tell me what else I should offer besides myself and I will see you get it.'
Inside a rather large house, before the fire. Large stuffed couches covered in violet velvet. The house is warm, not only in temperature, but also in spirit. The fire dances not with a plain yellow flame, but rather with a violet one.
This is not real...This is a dream...
All at once, five smiling children run up, ranging in ages. The eldest of the children looks at the onlooker, sitting on the large couch beside her. She places her hands on the swollen belly, her creamy chocolate skin running over the soft purple silks of the dress.
"Momma... will it be a boy or a girl?" she asks, leaning her ear against the large belly. "You always seem to know, like you did with Little Niko and little Tzoli. And Jeri and Silvia too. Will this one be a boy or a girl? I'd like another little sister."
A large dark hand rests on the smaller one, "A little girl? I'll see what I can do." She looks into the child's face and smiles, rubbing her cheek. "Shall we brush your hair then? You can do your Silvia's." A small baby, barely able to walk stumbles into it's big sisters legs. "Dor-dor, pig-pig piggy tail." The baby giggles as she speaks, her skin dark like her mother's.
The boys gather around, "Momma, how much longer do we have to wait for our new brother?" the eldest asks, his smooth black hair slicked off of his face. He wears purple pantaloons and a clean white shirt. The youngest boy looks at his older brother and grabs at his shirt, "Niki...tell momma tah makah boy." The older brother ties to remove the hand from his clean shirt, the toddler instead leaving a grubby handprint on his clean shirt which he looks upon with distaste. "Momma...tell Jeri not to mess up my clean clothes."
The hugely pregnant woman leans down and scoops up the little boy. She runs her fingers through his kinky hair. "You really like your brother, don't you?" she asks him instead of scolding, "Who do you want to be like when you grow up? Niko jr or daddy?" The toddler screws up his face, his violet eyes glinting against the strange firelight. "I wanna be like momma!" he says, looking rather pleased with his answer.
This isn't real...
The children cry out briefly, then return to smiling and asking about the new baby. Fear enters the heart, spinning around it, then chased away by the little hand of the child that rests on her knee. "Who want to help momma with setting the table? Today is poppa's birthday so let's make it extra nice, okay?" The older children scamper off, led not by the eldest, but rather by the middle child, a dark eyed, dark skinned boy. He doesn't speak much, but wears his emotion openly on his face. "He's just like me. He's just like me, little Tzoli is just like me." The though dances and the boy turns around and smiles at his mother.
This is a dream... don't end, please don't end...
Breath catches in the throat as the two hold their dark eyes to one another. "Thank you momma...I try to make you proud." They blink at one another, then the boy turns, walking toward the dining room with his brothers and sister to set the table.
This isn't real, I'm not one of them any more. This isn't real...
The baby walks over to her mother and tries to crawl into her lap along with the little boy. "Jeri, make some room for your sister." He scooches onto one knee and the baby climbs up the thick skirts. She rests her face on the swollen belly. "Momma gunna giveee a sissy," she says, her little face lighting up.
"You think so? Well, maybe, maybe so."
The baby looks up at her mother and tears start to roll down her face. "This not reeel momma, we gotta go away now."
Tears blur the vision and everything fades away save for the violet flame of he fire. The stomach shrinks, laying flat, almost concave, the expensive skirts turn to leather and pants. "Come back, please come back. Don't leave me alone here. My babies...please come back."
The violet flame warms the body, calming the heart. It looks the same through clear eyes or those floating with tears. The flame grows, glowing brightly for a moment, then fades away.
You knew it wasn't real. This is a dream.
Wake up.
LIVE
From the heavens, the visage of a fire bird can be seen. The warmth of its light flows through everything. The burning feather dance indigo on it wings, its tail. The line between fantasy and reality blurs just a little more. The line between past, present and future.
"Story, I thought it was a story."
The bird takes flight, flying over a stone fountain of a dragon that slowly transforms. The cobblestones grow taller, longer, more fluid, the fountain sinks into the ground, the carved stone uncarving itself. The long fluid cobblestone slowly turn golden, no longer stone, but rather to grass. The fountain is but a pond, the sound of water rippling blends with the gentle rustle of wind blowing through the field.
The onlooker also shrinks, aging backwards, turning to a child. The grass, while not long, comes up to her waist, enveloping the girlish skirts she wears. Layer upon layer of fabric also rustles, but not with the wind, with movement.
Running -- Following.
"Firebird! Wait! Take me with you!"
Chasing after the quickly shrinking flames of indigo. Running through the grass, ignoring the whipping blades of grass on the dark skin of the arms. The flames of indigo do not halt, nor change direction and chasing is futile.
But the chase goes on until the lungs burn with indigo flame.
A sense of panic overtakes the body, the landscape foriegn. Shifting all around, changing on it own. Time itself seems fluid as plants grow and shrink, live and die. The mountains tumble into boulders, boulders crack into stones. In the distance, the Suns rise and fall so fast, they are a blur across the sky.
The field turns once again to city: the grass to cobble stone, the pond to a fountain. The sound of screaming can be heard coming from all directions, inky darkness pours into the streets, pushed back by burning light. Then ice falls from the sky, pelting everyone. Blood runs between the cobbles, mixing with the melting ice.
And the indigo flames puts it all out, washing over everything, blinding the sight. Eyes close against the brilliance and when they open, they are home. Not the home of the present, the home of the past. In bed, covered by a thick blanket.
"The fire bird momma...the firebird. I wanted to go with it."
"Hush now, hush...the fever will be gone soon." A cool rag preses against the skin, but the indigo flame burns in the body, bringing with it only pain. The muscles tighten into rocks (that were once boulders).
Screaming -- Burning
The blue flames fill the body with fevered dreams.
...this too is a dream...
Outside, white falls from the sky.
Inside, indigo flame absorbs the body.
The firebird is gone. The mind blurry.
...it was only a story....
An image of the sky drifts by. White, puffy clouds float in the blue sea of the sky. Cool, relaxing water rolls over the body in small waves from the light breeze blowing over the surface of the pond.
Swim
Floating -- Flying
"...be like water little star..."
The eyes shut and the feeling of floating takes over, moving with the flow of the water. Hanging on the surface as if flying. The eyes open again and the sky can be seen once more. The sound of breathing echoes in the ears, the watery surface covering them and reflecting sound back. Each breath pulls in the scent of water and air and calmness.
With little effort, the body stays afloat, moving with the wind and the current of the water. The Suns arc across the heavens, dancing behind the clouds and casting shadows on the face. The clouds are shaped like animals, like food, like anything one can pick out of their mind.
"...learn to move like water, feel the flow around you..."
The waters pulls the onlooker down, but there is no sense of panic, no sense of urgency. Just peace and calm. The clear water reflects the surface of the sky, casting it blue.
Above, the surface ripples the clouds and breathing comes naturally. The mind empties and all that remains is the blue surface above. Fragmented clouds float on the surface of the water and a hand reaches out to grab them, plucking them from the water... from the sky.
The clouds are soft and maliable. They change with the thoughts, shaping like clay.
The clouds changes, the hand molding it without thinking. Soon it comes apart, floating away into the water. The white wisps flowing into the water's tide, into the current. The hand reaches up to grab another, molding it into a doll.
On the surface of the water above, the dark featured face of the onlooker is reflected back down into the depths. Dark eyes, dark skin, broad lips, broad nose: these features mimic those of the doll being molded. With a breath, the doll comes apart and so does the reflection.
All at once, water is all there is. Everything becomes a part of it. The flow, the current, the will of fate is all that guides it.
"...be like water..."
Soon, everything comes back together and the image of the pond can be seen below. The onlooker a cloud rolling over the sky. The suns smiles, warming the puffs of white that form hands, that form feet. The cloud is swallowed up by another, then another, becoming one with the sky. The surface of the pond reflects you back, a fragmenting mirror.
flow
A hand plucks the cloud from the sky, pulling it under the water. Soon it is molded into a doll of the face that lays beneath the surface. ulling apart, it becomes a part of the water and the cycle continues.
flow
peace
"...like water..."
The smell of spring dances on the air, fresh and blooming. The chirp of birds and brays of the animals creates a symphony of sound, a symphony of life. The melody carries with it hope and joy. Life grows and blooms and rejoices in the buds of spring.
The feelings of rebirth grow into feelings of freedom, dancing merrily on the heart and on the soul.
In the distance, the onlooker watches a group of men till the fields, sowing the seeds for the year. The Suns remain high in the sky, casting down a warm light, a muted green. Before the fields lays the yard of budding grass. The sheep chew the tender shoots from within the pen. She onlooker runs her freshly scarred hands over the railing, leaning against it.
The sound of singing fills the air, drifting in from the fields in the distance. Men and women sing in chorus, their songs of the earth and rebirth merry.
A voice from behind beckons with its sweet song. The voice like a bird's soaring in the air calls the attention of the sheep and the person on the fence. The sighs pans around to face the singing voice, scanning over the mountain on the horizon, the house nearby and finally landing on an elegant woman. She sings along with the workers in the field, her green dress catching in the light spring breeze. A scarf round her hair gets caught in a gust and floats away, drawing the eye.
The scarf dances on the wind, flying upward on an unseen wing. Soaring like a song. The translucent green silk floats, catching the rays of the Suns. Floating away like a bird in its first flight.
freedom
A voice in the back of the mind echoes softly it warnings against the heart that yearns to float away with the scarf. And the sound of singing grows louder for a moment.
"...and the flowers dance upon the breeze, the heart floating in spring song, the melody dances upward, singing freedom on the heart as spring rebirths the land..."
And the world around grows. The suns setting and rising as fast as the eye can watch. The grain grows gold against the green grasses, bringing life. Sheep are born and birds sing their songs of spring.
Rising -- Falling
The Suns draw their breath each day, bloowing a cool breeze of life across the land to the sound of singing voices, each one singing the green melody of life and rebirth.
"...to sleep, to dream, to live, to die, the song of spring draws freedom onto the heart, fly away, fly away with me, dance to the Suns on silver wing, dance to the voice of freedom..."
And the taste of apples explodes in the mouth, their ripe green taste filling the heart with joy that has no words. The song sings on as the world rolls by, unhindered by the future.
"...sing freedom on my heart, make it the green of spring, sing freedom on my heart and let my soul rise up with the Light of the suns on gilded wing..."
A breath of release can be heard as the Suns set beyond the horizon, the song drifting off into the darkness.
"...the rebirth of spring sings freedom on my heart..."
For a brief moment, the heart knows this is not real, but feels the urge to sing anyway. To truly be a part of the dream.
"...I sing the freedom on my heart, I sing freedom and fly away..."
You think to yourself: 'Balor, what is left for me now? Have I finished walking my line of fate? Have all the strings become unraveled now? Why do I feel this overwhelming lonliness? Why do I feel so alone and separate from everyone? *pause* Oh...a fish. I should pay attention, reel it in, catch another, continue the cycle.'
An image forms in your mind, it isn't quite a memory, and yet it could easily be one, so real does it seem. A scene of destruction, one of the small townships that had sprung up around the mountain of Yarsin in recent times, you watch as it is overrun by a wave of demons only a few hours after darkness had consumed the skies above it.
Tzoli nearly drops her rod as her hand begin to shake. She closes her eyes, placing her other hand atop the one that holds the rod, trying to stop the shaking. She takes a deep breth and opens her eyes again.
You think to yourself: 'Gods...what was... Home..? *feelings of nausea and anxiety* No, not quite home. [image of a woman with dark skin and soft features holding a strong hand out to the onlooker] Mother... you must have been there.. What was that?'
A single figure stands at the centre of the townsfolk, facing the opposite direction. They stand alone, even as everyone else flees; it becomes apparent that this lone figure intends to fight. They don't seem to mind that they are on their own, they don't seem to care that the odds are they will die fighting.
You think to yourself: '*admiration pushing aside the feelings of anxiety* Such strength of heart. If only I could be so strong. Balor, how can I ever be that strong...? It's what I aspire to.'
Tzoli lowers her rod, resting it across her lap. She rests her hands on either side of her, each one resting on the bark of the fallen tree. She tilts her head back and stares at the cloudy sky. Her black eyes search through the canopy and the stars for the moons that must be hanging in the sky beyond the obscuring blanket of leaves and clouds.
As you watch the lone warrior fight against the rampaging demons, you sense a single word; Purpose. The warrior, after some time, finally falls to the demons, and yet, you sense that far from being unhappy with that fate, they welcome it, to fall in battle, to face impossible odds, to die a warrior.
Tzoli smiles slightly, looking down from the sky pulling her hands into her lap. She looks at them for a moment, tracing her scars with the tips of her fingers. She closes her eyes and exhales softly.
You think to yourself: 'Purpose... To die in battle. To fight. *admiration* To fight...alone. Maybe that is why I am so separate from the rest of them. I wish I was stronger, smarter. Then I could fight harder. Its all I've ever been good at. Balor, I pray to you every day, perhaps somewhere in the back of my (heart) mind I knew that is what my purpose was.'
You think to yourself: 'So, I suppose I am to die alone. It could be worse I suppose. I always had the feeling I would be alone when I died. After Niko died, I always felt that feeling that no one would ever get close to me. Truly listen to me, understand me. I wonder if I'll be happy.'
Tzoli picks up her rod in her hand and checks the line. She prepares it to cast out once again, running the line over her fingers, checking for kinks and knots in it. Finding one, she breaks the line above it with her teeth. She reties on the hook and sets the bit of broken line near the fish by her side. She starts to hum to herself, the song jaunty and bold. She throws her line out and sits, waiting for something to bite as she hums her song to herself.