#use a snake to catch fish in a pit deep in the ground

[psalmonesermons]

The dimensions of God's love Part 2

The width, length, depth, and height of God's love Ephesians 3:18-19

Picking up from Part 1 in Ephesians 3:18 we see that there is a supernatural order of the dimensions of God’s love.

The Holy Spirit directs our attention as follows.

A. What is Breadth? We have some difficulty in seeing the breadth of God’s love to all men of every race and colour, every age from a foetus in the mother’s womb to a man on his death bed, embracing each one of these. In all time past, back to Adam and forward to Christ’s second advent. This breadth tells the Jewish believers of God’s love for the Gentiles and tells us now of His love for all the various parts of the body of Christ. In my Father’s house there are many mansions. God’s love is so broad it embraces His whole family beyond any man-made barriers. He is not a respecter of rank or position. His love is so broad it includes from the humblest to the most exalted of his people.

B. Length, this invites us to meditate on the eternal nature of God’s love. Christ loved us before we got born again. 1 John 4:19 tells us that we love him, because he first loved us and as his love knows no end, so it has no beginning and is from everlasting to everlasting. Jeremiah 31:3 Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love, therefore with loving kindness. I have drawn thee the Lord says this to each one of us. His drawing of us unto himself is the effect of his love. John 13:1 Jesus loved his own which were in the world, he loved them unto the end. Romans 8:35-39 Nothing can separate us from God’s love. Are you catching a glimpse of its length?

C. Depth, another way to look at the depth of God’s love is to look back to where we came from, dying and on the way to eternal death. Each one of us can take a minute to meditate on how deep our Father’s love was to raise us up out of the pit of our sinful lives. We were children wrath by nature see Ephesians 2:1-6. Does this not speak to your heart of the Depth of our Father’s love?

D. Height, so far, we have seen the love of God has a boundless breadth, an endless length, a fathomless depth then surely its height is measureless? In trying to comprehend the height we may look to both our present privileges and our future promises as clearly identified in the word of God. 1 Samuel 2:8, Isaiah 56:5 Romans 8:16-17, 1 John 3:1, and Revelation 22:4-5,19 that we might know the love of Christ which passes knowledge by the Holy Spirit that you might be filled with all the fullness of God.

Did Paul get carried away with it here or was the Holy Spirit showing us the summit of the prayer?

Are we not heirs of the Father, joint heirs of Christ?

If we ask for bread, will he give us a stone or a snake instead of a fish?

This is the point; the word of God tells us that God wants us at filled with all His own fullness.

Our hearts and minds must constantly be occupied with the love of Christ to be prepared for the being filled with all his fullness.

Do you hunger and thirst for righteousness as in Matthew 5:6?

The Greek for ‘filled with all the fullness’ suggests a continuous process, a progressive and enlarging experience. As a vessel is filled to the brim the vessel then expands and the process continues thus our hearts will grow and take in more of him on an ongoing basis.

Suggestion: Let us agree not to pray any more weak and feeble prayers!

Pray for yourself and others in this manner.

Prayer Father God we bow our knees to you in the name of Jesus Christ. We ask that you grant us, according to your riches, that we might be strengthened with your mighty power in our inner man. We pray that Christ may be dwelling in our hearts by faith, and that we are becoming rooted and grounded in your divine love. We ask that we may be able to comprehend with all your saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height of your love, and to come to truly know your love which surpasses mere human knowledge, that we might be filled with the love of God as you are Lord.

Lord, we know you can do much more above all we can ask or even think because your power is at work in us, and we say.

Amen

[wildviral]

Amazing fishing technique used a snake to catch fish in a pit deep in the ground

fishing technique used a snake to catch fish in a pit deep in the ground

[magicatnip]

Chapter 1

Lyra examined the bracelet on her upper arm. It was made up of intricate whorls, like waves, or wild grass, and the gold shone like new against her tanned skin. A ruby, with a bloodred center and crimson edges, caught the sun. There were tiny facets and imperfections in the stone, and they kindled in the light like fire. But she found her eye inexorably drawn to the ruby’s heart. It was so dark and vibrant, it almost appeared to flow with lifeblood. This was a piece of jewelry worth more than a house. The deep red stone it contained was a Blood Ruby, and any fool worth their salt would recognize it for the unnatural glow, which many stories still spoke of. 

Normally, Lyra hid the piece under long sleeves. Today, the weather was much too hot to bother. But she would not remove it. It bolstered her spirits, strengthened her, grounded her. On her forehead was a much more natural yet still valuable stone, the light green color of wave caps, which held light like an opal. Three small, perfect pearls rested to either side, all fused to a strand of White Silver thin as a hair. It was the sort of thing that any monied lady might wear, except that there was a spell wrought on it. It was from her mother. 

Lyra drew her eyes back to the trail, to the sand and rocks and the greenery that increased with each step. There were evergreen trees as far as she could see, now that she’d reached inland. You’d never expect such, for the shore had the usual palm trees found on tropical islands such as this. The air also continued to grow cooler, though the sun was bright and golden as ever. Lyra inhaled deeply: pine needles, spices reminiscent of cinnamon and chai, sun-warmed wood, peat, and the ever-present salt from the sea, still not so very far. This was an ideal place to rest. Lyra walked a little ways off-trail. All that she saw was soft moss, however, fluffy and covered in tiny sprouts that looked likely to flower. She heard the occasional calls of birds, from high above in the branches, and, barely, the gentle chiming of running water. This piqued her curiosity, and she turned her feet in the direction of the sound, hoping for fresh spring water. 

She was not disappointed. There was a small river, hidden amidst river grass growing so wildly that she could see barely see its glimmer. Looking back to keep the trail in-sight, and the direction of the sea, she followed along the bank until she found a spot where the grasses opened up. Half in shadow, a picturesque river flowed by, the ripples catching a ray of sunlight, and losing it again. Evergreen trees still stood round like pillars, and when she looked up, she could not see the tops, only a streaky expanse of shadow and sunlight. The needles of the trees closest to the bank were shaggy and gray as if covered in years of dust. The bark was red, curling like paper, and oozing sap that was a bloody red-amber. Lyra had never seen trees of the sort. They were beautiful, though the feeling that they gave her… As she examined the branches, twisting over each other like snakes, she wondered what they were. Some sort of pine, of cedar, or fir, if the needles were anything to go off of. Yet, the needles grew in pairs of 6, and up close, they looked not just gray; the young, growing tips were silver. 

A cool, gentle breeze passed through, carrying the wintery scent of crushed pine needles, and a hint of frost, amidst green grasses, hidden woodland flowers, pure water. The needles shook in its passing, shimmering, and dust fell. Like a fine powder, it sprinkled atop the water and was carried away. Lyra turned her eyes lower, to the roots of the trees, and saw that some ventured past the water, into it, burying themselves deep. Sap rolled down the exposed roots, cooling and stopping as it reached the water. But as Lyra watched, a piece of it fell from far above, entering the surface with hardly a sound. 

Lyra stared for a moment in mute wonder. Glancing around her to make sure she was alone, she sat on some cushiony, clean moss a couple of feet from the river. She removed her pack and bow, stretching her shoulders and feeling the sweat on her back. Her dark hair was in a braid, but strands were coming loose, and on her skin, she could feel an unpleasant grit of dirt and oil. So, choosing a place sheltered by the lowest of the branches, Lyra removed her shoes and stepped into the water, still clothed.

The water was bracingly cold, with warmer spots where the sun touched the slow current. It was only 4 or so feet deep, so she hunched over to submerge her entire body as the waves rippled past her. The water smelled of pine sap and snowmelt, so refreshing that she lowered her head to the surface to drink. It was cold enough to hurt her teeth, but she greedily swallowed a few gasping gulps. It tasted incredible, like life itself. She would fill her bottles with it, and make sure to come here again in her travels. How had she never heard of such a place before? You could sell such water. Not that she ever would. She didn’t want this place to become ruined. She’d keep its secret. 

Lyra undid her hair, and it drifted like seaweed alongside her. In the sun, floating locks turned auburn, the color of an autumn leaf.

Her eyes widened as she gazed into the water. Among various-hued mosses, there were hundreds of droplets of water-cooled and hardened amber-red sap. Some were large and misshapen, others were tiny and shaped like perfect raindrops. The sun was beginning to angle through the needles, turning them also to amber. Soon it would be dark. Lyra tore her eyes from the breathtaking scenery, reaching for the soap she’d brought from her pack. It was of her own making and would not taint the water. Quickly and efficiently, she removed her shirt, pants, and smallclothes, and scrubbed off. She raised foam in her hair and rinsed it.  

Her head breaking the surface, Lyra scanned the surrounding forest. Her knife was near, but she saw no cause to use it. As fast as she could move, she climbed from the water, grabbed a cloak, and wrapped it around herself. The sun was becoming darker and richer, and the air was perceptibly beginning to chill. She ought to make camp sooner rather than later.

Once she’d dried off and dressed in her usual practical but inordinately fine attire, she looked around the small clearing appraisingly. Animals would come to the water to drink. That didn’t seem safe to her. At least, not from the ground. Lyra smiled slightly, eyeing the lowest branches on the trunk. They were enormous, easily wide enough for multiple people to walk across. And they were 20 feet up. A challenge. Reaching again into her pack, Lyra brought out a rainbow-colored rope she had purchased from a merchant who claimed the feather-light material was strong as steel. He’d allowed her to hack at the rope to see for herself; not a nick. 

So, she wasn’t worried it would break as she tied it to an arrow and sent it arcing into a branch with a well-aimed shot from her bow. The bark was at least a couple of inches thick; it wouldn’t harm the tree itself. But the arrow was sharp enough that she knew it would strike true, and stick. 

Without further ado, she tied the rope to her waist, slung her bow and pack on her back, gathered her damp clothing and shoes, and began to climb. It was easy enough, with the rope to support her. The bark was also quite pitted, providing plenty of handholds for a canny climber. The sun grew brighter and less obstructed as she made her way up. Once she reached the branch, she climbed it like she had the rest, and stood. Around her, all she could see were needles, except for a patch that looked over some hills to the West, where the sun was descending now. The distant leaves glittered as if they were beaten from bronze. 

Lyra sat and took a blanket from her pack, rolling the end up for a pillow. She laid this out along the branch, then contemplated a fire. If any time called for Feyrin’s Flame, it was this, she thought. She’d just have to stop by her procurer’s shop for more sometime in the near future. Lyra fished a small box from her pack, a simple golden coffer about the size of the palm of her hand. Inside was an innocuous brown powder. Lyra took a pinch of the powder - a few pinches still left for later - and snapped her fingers. An unearthly violet flame jumped to life, and she held it for a moment, watching it bob and glow, creating only a gentle, hot-but-not-too-hot feather-like sensation on her skin. She set it down on the tree. It enlarged slightly and continued to flicker happily. It was not very bright, only illuminating a few feet around, and the warmth was as if it were her own, personal little sun. She felt it saturate her. 

Feeling camp was properly set up, and peering down every so often to watch for unwanted visitors, Lyra set about making herself a tisane, and dinner. Her pack had a few near-bursting bags hanging from the sides of it, and these were full of mushrooms, herbs, berries, and other woodland bounties she had gathered as she passed through the forest. No one could starve in the woods at this time of year, right before the harvest. 

She set about warming a simple foraged mushroom and garlic soup in a pot, and then a tisane made from rose hips, violets, lavender, marshmallow roots, and the pine-flavored spring water. She poured carefully, from a tiny, one-serving pot. The water’s surface created its own mist, a rising vapor that she inhaled deep into herself. She took a sip, burying her face in the fog, eyes closed, and felt like she could taste the whole forest harvest in that one cup. For a moment, she felt that she was a part of the forest, as surely as any leaf, branch, or root.

Lyra slept well that night. She had always loved sleeping in trees, far above any of the world’s danger or trouble’s. Up here, there were only air, wind, leaves, birdsong, and glimpses of sky amidst gray-and-silver needles forming a stained glass work of art. Still, she unraveled bells and draped them down the trunk. If anyone or any animal tried to climb it, the sound would wake her. So she slept without fear.

And when she roused during the night, she hardly knew if she was truly conscious. It was not the bells that woke her. The world seemed to have turned foreign and dream-like. She had slept to a world of bronze and gold; she had awoken to a land of white and silver. 

Moonlight touched the needles, the bark, transforming them to precious metal, and the river below became a thing of even greater wonder. Its surface was dazzling moonlight and a backdrop of the indigo night sky, sprayed with stars, all rushing and shifting with the water. As she watched, moonstruck, a figure rose up in the water. Lyra saw only her silhouette, and she seemed to shine like the moon, then change into darkness. Her white hair fell down her shoulders like a waterfall, barely visible as it turned to a white halo around her. She looked over the water. And then unerringly up, looking right at her with eyes the color of pearls. As Lyra froze, the spectral figure bent to pick something up out of the water. She held it in her hand, and it caught the moonlight, became a little moon itself. As it winked, she was gone, like a star at dawn, and indeed, the sky began to lighten and the moonlight to fade as Lyra found herself drifting into sleep. She lay down, pulling her blanket’s warmth over her. She forgot.

[author-morgan]

Phobia ☤ Alexios

twenty-one - a family’s legacy

masterlist

“Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.”

Fate decrees two kindred souls from two different empires will find one another, and the spear shall be made whole again

THE ADRESTIA'S CREW encircle Alexios and Irene on the deck —Barnabas and Herodotus watch from the helm. As of late, they all have started making bets on who will win the sparring matches between them. The Eagle Bearer wins most of them, but that doesn't stop a handful from always betting on the princess. All it takes is for the commander to get distracted by a wayward smile or salacious glint in Irene's sapphire eyes and he is on his back.

She dodges his swing, slips under his arm and lands a blow to his back. He grunts, spinning around and finds she is already gone. The princess hooks her leg around his, throwing him off-balance. Alexios begins falling backward, but he grips onto her chiton and twists. Irene lands on her back and he catches his weight on his forearms. "You almost had me," he breathes, a slight smile playing on his lips. She is pinned beneath him on the ship's deck —chest heaving in exertion. Alexios hovers above her —his breathing coming in soft pants. It had been a good match.

Several of the crew toss drachma to one another, grumbling as they return to their tasks. "Not going to finish me off, commander?" Irene asks, fluttering her lashes.

Alexios rolls his eyes as he stands, offering her his hand. "Later," he promises, pulling her up from the deck with a wink.

The remainder of the day is uneventful —a pleasant change from the usual chaos. A warm breeze fills the sails and the crew sing hymns to Poseidon and Ares. Eppie and Barnabas are deep in discussion about myths and old legends. Herodotus transcribes his work onto papyrus scrolls. It's but a preview of a simpler, more peaceful life.

By sundown, everyone has gathered into small groups of four or five around the braziers, sharing wine and stories. Ikaros perches on Alexios' shoulder and the princess spoils the golden eagle with strips of fish and pieces of fresh fruit. "If you keep feeding him, he'll be too fat to fly," Alexios chides, and Ikaros squawks his disagreement, hopping from foot to foot on the misthios' shoulder. Irene laughs and ruffles the eagle's feathers the way he likes, silently promising him a few more treats the next time Alexios looks away.

Silver moonlight reflects off the dark surface of the water —a hundred stars are shining down as though the gods are smiling upon Alexios and Irene. The princess settles back, and Alexios wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Ikaros circles high above them in the night sky. "Do you think strangers will hear our names long after we are gone and wonder who we were?" She asks softly.

Alexios traces a faint line connecting freckles on the inside of her forearm, deciding it looks almost like one of Artemis' arrows. "People will remember us," he assures her, placing a quick kiss to the corner of her jaw, "what we are doing will echo across the ages." Irene shifts in his arms to face him —he looks at peace, though she knows a storm is brewing within him the closer they sail to Thera.

The pad of his thumb traces the fading scratch on her temple. Her eyes slip shut and reopen when his touch fades only to be replaced by his lips pressed to hers. Alexios pushes the fabric covering her shoulder aside and follows with a line of open-mouth kisses. Ikaros lands on the sternpost of the ship and looks down at the pair then screeches. "I don't fancy an audience tonight," she breathes with a soft laugh.

Alexios tries to shoo the eagle away, but Ikaros' call is louder this time and now he can see burning braziers moving closer, illuminating a black sail with a dragon's head. "Malákas pirates!" He curses, springing into action —regretting having ignored Ikaros' first warning.

"Pirates!" Irene calls and the crew begin to spill out on the deck —most are half-dressed with little armor and by the time everyone takes their stations the galley as turned. The bronze ram glints in the moonlight, pointed at the Adrestia's flank, oars diving into the water propelling it across the water.

"Brace!" Alexios shouts —crouching with Irene under his arm. The impact almost knocks them off their feet. Several of the crew are launched into the air and sea. The churning waves settle and then it becomes a race. The Eagle Bearer leads the boarding party with a fierce shout, Irene and several others join him. It's a quick and bloody affair —they leave none alive. Alexios searches the deck and finds the princess kneeling next to one of the deckhands.

Thekla pushes Irene's hands away. She already knows this wound will be fatal —not even Hippokrates himself could repair the damage the pirate's blade had done. Alexios kneels next to the woman and grasps onto her hand in camaraderie. "A quicker death is all I ask," she chokes, blood trickling from her mouth. He frees the broken spear from the sheath on his back and Irene rises, turning away —unable to watch. Eppie pulls her into an embrace and watches over her shoulder as Alexios slips the spear between Thekla's ribs. A soft gasp escapes her lips before unending serenity overtakes her expression. The crew wraps Thekla's body in a cut of the old faded sail. They will bury her once making landfall.

A THICK SULFUROUS haze lingers over the Volcanic Islands. Thera is the largest of the three islands and desolate, though ruins of a once-great people remain. On the dark shores, the crew takes a moment and lays their fallen companion to rest in a pit of black sand. Most return to the Adrestia after the short ceremony, but Irene and Alexios search the ruins for any sign of his father. They come to a gateway nearly identical to the one on Andros, but this one is larger. Recalling how he'd opened the gate, Alexios frees the broken spear from his quiver and touches it to the dark stone —nothing happens.

Something behind the door draws Irene closer. She lays her hand flat against the smooth rock and warmth spreads over her limbs. "The light," she says stepping back then pointing to one of the reflective mirrors at the pinnacle of the southernmost ruins. A puzzle. 

Aligning the mirrors does not take long, especially since Ikaros had taken care of the snakes littered about the ruins. A focused beam of light shines on the gateway, illuminating a blue-white triangle before the stone starts grinding. The triangular entrance gapes open, leading into darkness. "I don't even know if I'll come back," he admits, looking into the depths of the dark passage. Alexios is not one to show or admit fear readily, but Irene knows him well enough to spot it, and there is no point in trying to conceal it.

The princess guides his dark gaze back to her. In comparison to the black volcanic rock and ruins, she is a ray of light. "This is not where your journey ends, Alexios," she assures him. Deep down, Irene knows fate has more in store for both her and Alexios. Their fate does not end here in the ruins of Thera. "Nor where our ways part," she adds.

A smile crosses his lips. "You sound so certain," Alexios breathes —he wants to share in her optimism, but the unknown keeps him from doing so.

"I am," Irene says, placing a short kiss to his cheek. For a moment, he gapes at her —if this is to be his end, he wishes for her fair face to be the last thing he sees before the Keres take him. She nudges him toward the door, breaking him from the trance. Alexios disappears into the ruins —the gateway closing behind him— and Irene wanders along the barren and destroyed streets of Akrotiri.

Light breaks through the haze and catches something both crystalline and metallic. The object is heavy in hand given its size and reminds Irene of the metal of Leonidas' spear. She reaches behind her back for the broken spear. The tip of the blade begins to glow as it nears the ingot. At the same time, the strange markings she's seen before surface on her skin, though this time there is no pain.

Irene takes the opportunity to look at them closely. The lines and smooth curving arcs are a mix between silver and gold and run from her fingers to her toes. They are smooth but feel warmer than the rest of her skin. A part of her is tempted to ask Herodotus what these markings mean, but after a moment of silent thought, the princess decides some questions might be better left unanswered. Still, she cannot help but wonder if this has to do with her father.

A hand falls onto her shoulder, and instinct takes over. Irene lashes out, sweeping her leg around and knocking the would-be assailant to the ground. He falls to his back with a groan —he should have known better than to sneak up on the princess. "Alexios!" She reprimands, offering him her hand. Alexios takes hold of her hand, but tugs her down across his lap instead of rising to his feet.

There's a distant look in his eyes. "Atlantis is real," he breathes. Irene isn't sure she'd heard him right. Atlantis is just a children's story. Hydarnes used to tell her stories of the lost city when she was a girl. Before she can say anything or question him, he meets her gaze and recalls what Pythagoras had told him. "My father is down there," Alexios whispers and he is less than happy with the revelation.

WAVES BREAK AGAINST the Adrestia, rocking the ship as a mother rocks a babe in her arms. On the horizon are dark clouds, though. It will be a stormy night. Irene is left to wonder if the gods can sense the storm growing within her.

Alexios has been nigh silent since returning from the depths beneath Thera. It is clear the weight on his shoulders has increased tenfold. He sits atop the sternpost watching the last of Helios' light disappear beneath the waves. Irene is speaking with Iola —a former smuggler and Barnabas' new flame. The two women laugh, though when the princess shifts her gaze up to him her smile fades.

Nearly the entire crew goes below deck, urged quietly by Herodotus and Iola to give the commander and princess a moment of solitude. It's obvious there are things between them that need to be said and are not meant for the ears of others. Alexios jumps down from the sternpost, comes to stand next to her at the helm. "You're troubled," she notes gazing at the blackened horizon. He does not bother denying the accusation.

"I just-" Alexios tilts his head back, looking to the heavens and draws in a deep breath "-have a lot to think about." I was never going to raise you. Anger pulses through his veins at the thought of Pythagoras. An obligation to preserve the bloodline. He drapes his arm over Irene's shoulders and presses his forehead into her temple. Right now, she is his anchor in the calamity of life. "I'm glad you're with me," he breathes.

Irene steps back. "I know you're hiding something, and I won't press you to say anything-"

"I don't know how to tell you," he says in turn, cutting her off as he starts to pace the deck with arms crossed and a pensive expression. It should be easy to say, and she needs to know.

Irene steps into his path and presses her hand against the center of his chest. His arms uncross and his shoulders fall. Irene knows he is not a wordsmith and does not expect an eloquent verse. "Just say it," the princess tells him, voice just above a whisper.

Alexios grips onto her arms and meets her gaze —stormy like the sea around them. "You're a demigoddess." A playwright or poet would have fashioned the words into art. He is neither. Even Pythagoras managed to word the revelation more adroitly before he spoke of the princess as a broodmare for the bloodline. Alexios watches her expression, but she has always been able to mask her inner thoughts —it's what made her a skilled orator and politician. "Apollonides was a guise for Asklepios," Alexios explains. "Your father is the God of Medicine."

People called him a demigod, but his is not the blood of Olympus. Irene though is truly descendant from the heavens. She suspires, turning from the helm and takes a seat on one of the benches at the stern. Alexios follows and kneels in front of her. "I always believed he was just an Asklepiad." Irene absently touches his cheek, fingertips ghosting over the stubble on his jaw. Her soft laugh is filled with bitter emptiness. "He must be ashamed of me," the princess notes, "all the lives I've taken." Instead of saving people from Hades, she sends them to him.  

[dunmerofskyrim]

43

When they came to the rivermouth the water lay low on its banks. Wide and widening towards the strait where it let out into the sea, the river was spread too thin over too much bed. Long ago smoothed by the river in high-flowing months and years of springmelt, rocks stumped up from the ground, dry now. Fallen weeds and stranded reeds, silver with frost. And what of the river still ran was skinned with a sheen of ice. A veinwork of currents, ankle-deep, travelled sunbright towards the sea.

“Ought to mean we’re halfway,” said Simra.

He leaned on his spear, both hands gripped high on its shaft just below the hook that spurred back from its head, and hunched with elbows crooked towards the river. If you could call it that anymore. He wouldn’t if it weren’t on his map.

“To Davon’s Watch?” said Noor.

She still rode her guar, albeit at a walk. Vereansu pride; why walk when you can ride. They’d spent two days in the woods and coves in ground too rough to ride through. She was making up for lost time now and it bothered Simra. The deepening cold was cruel on the guar, and Tammunei and Simra reined theirs along on foot to rest it. It carried only their packs. The slackening sack of millet; the skillet hitched to its empty and arse-worn saddle.

“Mhm.” She was about to complain, Simra reckoned — didn’t take a seer to say so. He pre-empted her. “Before you say a fucking thing, yes it’s slower going than I said before.” His teeth barely parted to speak and they grit again straight after.

“Three days already,” she said.

“This is the third,” he corrected. “You wanna thunder on ahead alone? Lame your guar into the bargain? Just as well throw twenty drams down the first ditch you find — only buyer’ll buy him in Davon’s Watch after that’s the butcher. Or the knacker.”

Her face stiffened. Steam from her nostrils as she let out a huff. Chastened though, Simra reckoned. If half of Vereansu pride’s in their riding beasts, worst thing you can do is threaten to waste one.

“Nothing?” Simra cocked his head at Noor. “No further contentions to shove at me? Good. Glad we’re of a mind.”

The wind struck up whistling and stung at Simra’s ears. Grease them, his mother would’ve said, else they’ll snap straight off. She’d have shelled out on pork or mutton for that very purpose. Whatever seemed better marbled at the Gulleybottom market; more likely pig after Redrunsday, and cuts of heart and black pudding, going cheap before they soured. Cooking them, she’d render out what fat she could to rub her children’s eartips. You smell like a bad candle, Soraya would say after.

Around them the land was heady, rolling, trapped with ditches and gullies half-hidden in yellow and red heather. Streaks of snow bright amongst the scrub. Stones and spars of rock, starting to look like seacliffs, but no gulls any more to shriek — not so far east. Mountains rose to right of where they stood, days away in the distance and bleak already with snow. The rivermouth began to yawn if you looked off to northward, a growing confusion of stillwater and sea.

“Cross?” Simra jutted his chin at the shallow river. “Nice not to have to ford or ferry over for fucking once.”

His mood was sour by then. He forced sunshine into his voice, hoping to drive it off, repair the bitterness built up between he and Noor. Wouldn’t do to sour her towards him worse than he needed to. Wouldn’t do to have nothing tying her here but debt — and Tammunei, he supposed, but what if she took them with her? What then? Simra thought of the rattling pouch in his gathersack, useless without someone who could use it, and sure as snow he couldn’t.

“I didn’t know we were going to sell them,” said Tammunei. No sorrow in the words. Not quite. Only a strange weighted surprise.

“Well we can’t ride them over the Inner Sea…” Simra answered, careful. He might have said more – unless you’ve got some better idea as to how we can afford to take ship then I’d love to hear it, but no, of course you don’t because who else thinks this shit through but me? – but he held his tongue.

“We’ll leave them with the right person then. Someone who’ll ride them,” Tammunei said. “Feed them.”

Simra pointed a glance at Noor, over a hunched shoulder and the tall line of his knotwooded spearshaft. “If I can.” Not a hard thing to almost-promise. Selling them as riding guar would bring back a better price than selling them as meat or leather and bones. But a riding guar has to be ridable.

Tammunei joined their look to his, but blunter, harder. A slow persistence of pressure, like the dropstone lid on a jar of preshta-lo, crushing by patience the wet from the leaves. Vereansu pride, it seemed to say; had she any left, or was she as clanless in heart as in line and in name?

Noor’s face went hard like she was holding her breath. A leathern creak of stirrups. She dismounted. Flat shoes on the frosty ground and then she reached down to take those off too, and stood barefoot like some much-suffered saint.

Simra looked down. Fixed his gaze on his wrist. Prayer beads he’d never prayed with, in a string of clay and lacquer, red and blue and black. The copper coiled snake bracelet. Two thin rounds of etched silver, locked each into the other. The six-faced pewter ring, warm on his left middle finger. Eyes dropped like it had humbled him, or stirred up some scrap of penitence. But inside he was bitter-pleased. With himself; with Tammunei for siding with him on this small and sticking thing. So long as he had Tammunei, he had them both in hand.

I had hiding places all through Dyer’s End by then. The stoved-in top of the store-tower, well out of the way, and safe and steep in peril as only high places feel, but airy and cold. The colour shop low in the depths, with its weights and scales, and its rust-screeching iron grate that covers the door. A factoring pit in a dusty and dim dyer’s workshop, where I buried myself on the wintriest nights of that closing year. The overhang between two roofs, where ill-planned buildings crowded together, its entrance hedged with weeds grown up from the silt and the ash of a gutter, and looking out and down towards the citadel’s eastern harbor and the slate-grey sea.

In each of them I cached goods and supplies. Jars of rain- and well-water; scraps of good cloth or metal; grain and gram and the compact of saltfish I found breaking into another basement. And in each of them – whichever was nearest – I hid at the first sign of life beyond the life I was living. Runners across the rooftops or scavengers down on the streets. Quiet and careful folk who moved like hunters — with them I feared the worst, remembering the glassgarden, and the savour of meat in the pot.

I remembered they’d asked me about the coat I wore. Known by name the one who’d worn it. The eggfarmers — gone, are they? All but one, I knew. Drosi and Guls were dead by my hand, the life burnt out from both their bodies. But of Tepa I knew nothing; not even a face to remember, let alone a fate to put to it. Tepa with their pack of nix and their hiss-clumsy voice. And each time I heard the pitchy rilk or chatter of nix in the night, I still thought: They’ve scented me out. They’re coming for me.

That was part of the reason why I struggled to not stay put. One night in the warehouse tower, the next in the dye-pit with its purple walls and purple-dust floor and the stains that stuck to my elbows and knees til the next rain washed them off. I didn’t know then how a nix tracks prey, tasting the air and tasting the dirt. I only knew that if my passing was to leave traces, I’d best leave a mess of traces, a confusion of them. My tracks would lead nowhere but back on themselves. Or so I thought.

Still I wondered: How long before they find me? How long before the sound or shadow I jump at turns out to deserve my fear? Not long, it turned out. I proved far better at outrunning my hunger than I did the last of the eggfarmers.

Past trampledown earth and underbrush scarred with the cookfires and foraging of an army on the move. Past saltwater ricepaddies clinging to the coast, to the small stilt-hut or stone-perched houses of farmers, seen from up on the way they walked. Past the rough hard-crossing country that lay inland, all pink-grey stone and the distant shapes of herders and their nix on the low sharp hills. Winding along the seacliffs, between banks of dirty-blond heather and rills of silt where the ocean rushed in at high tide, the narrow road led to Davon’s Watch.

The millet ran low after crossing the first river, but they camped the next two nights close to some beach or small rocky bay, and each time Tammunei caught dinner from the water. Pale flat sandeaters with mottled wings and squashed alien faces that hovered into Tammunei’s hands as they waded knee-wet in the shallows and came back legs glittering with salt. Sea-shalk from traps of woven twigs and flotsam, cobbled together more to keep fishcatching magic in than to catch fish themselves. Tammunei sang soft as they worked and only Simra went taskless as night set in, using the time to write. They made soups of salt and kelp and bony fish. They cooked the shalk in their shells, sucked out the bitter-rich meat, and Simra saved the chitin to sell. They fried the flatfish in red oil from Simra’s jar of preshta-jan and scraped the flesh from off the hundred fingers that skeletoned their wings.

Only the guar went hungry, got skinny. This was bad land for grazing, and what grass there’d been was burnt or champed to the roots by the army that had passed this way. Tammunei tried to feed them white soft fish, kelps from rockpools. Said they remembered Ahemmusa guar would graze from the sea just as well as from grasslands, scraping barnacles from stones with their blunt flat teeth and searching out snails and weeds at low tide. But these guar were Vereansu. They wouldn’t eat. Simra wouldn’t have thought somewhere sparse as the Deshaan Plains could leave a beast or a person spoilt but here they were all the same. Stupid animals. Probably wouldn’t fare well on a boat, even if they could pay their stabling over the Inner Sea.

Fifth day out from Senie, another deeper river struck across their path. A gorge deep enough that falling down it would likely break your legs if not kill you outright from the impact. At the bottom, rocks and coursing water, impatient to get at the ocean and kicking up a rise of freezing spray. But on the far side, a spur of land leaned down toward the sea.

Simra made out the far-off prickle of jetties and piers, shapes reaching out into the water. The far-off shows of boatsails, and flashes of paint-bright hulls. A cram of tiled roofs, parched yellow in the vacant sun, and streaked here and there with wild herbs blown as seeds from off the hills and growing up now in their gutters. Every roof sloped seaward, like a shieldwall braced for a hail of arrows — angled to cast off ashfall from Vvardenfell. And beyond the town roofs and the harbour, paddies stretched past seeing, out along the tiderace of the seal-black beach.

“Pretty,” said Simra at the hem of the gorge. The water roared below as it scrummed against the rocks. “Hadn’t expected it to be pretty.”

“So what did you expect?” Tammunei asked.

They leaned over the gorge to look down and Simra had to silence the urge to snatch them back from it. They’re older than you by who knows how much. Older and wiser in every way but the worldliest. Stop making them a child in your mind just for the sake of feeling needed.

“Nothing,” said Simra. “A name on a map, on the other side of a river. Didn’t know the river would be like this either.”

“It’s impressive,” said Noor. “Anyone with a mind to raid in from this way would have hard work ahead of them.”

Simra shrugged. “The best fortifications are those the world gives you. Why dig a moat when you can build near something like this?”

Tammunei leaned further. Closed their eyes and stretched out a hand over the drop. Again the need to steal them back from the fall. But they sat down, feet hanging into open air.

Simra almost spoke.

“Wait,” said Noor. “Something’s being given.”

“A vision?”

“A memory, I think. When the ghosts speak, you listen.”

“They’re hollow,” Tammunei said at last. A voice not quite their own. “The walls of the gorge. Passaged. At low tide the ways in are dry. Caverns combing the cliffs underneath the town. Pored and chambered like a seasponge. From the sea to the stream to the shrines below. From the sea to the stream through the stone…”

Tammunei came back to themself as the sun moved westward and past them. They stood and dusted themself down.

Simra stirred from one foot to the other and tried not to show his discomfort. But it had seemed to hurt Tammunei. This was what he’d hoped travelling with Noor – learning from her – might help prevent, and all to no end. The ghosts still knew where to find Tammunei, and Tammunei still let them in — or perhaps couldn’t keep them out.

“Tunnels under the town,” he said. “Your ghosts say anything about where we can find a bridge?”

“This way,” Tammunei said, leading off. No dream in their voice so much as the tiredness of one who has slept overlong. “Something else too. Someone, but they’re waiting. They’ll make themself heard when they’re ready.”

Hasten the day, Simra thought, bitter as salt-pickled plums.

[boothinjapan]

As a late spring vacation, I decided to catch a plane and head on down to Okinawa – a group of islands in the south part of Japan. The islands of Okinawa are famous for its subtropical climate – and is often referred to as ‘the poor man’s Hawaii’. But don’t let that perturb you, Okinawa is a fantastic getaway spot with plenty of sea-side activities to enjoy.

Historically, the Okinawan Islands were a part of the Ryukyu Kingdom – an independent kingdom that ruled the region until the area officially became a part of Japan in 1879. Therefore, while Okinawa is officially a part of Japan now, it’s history and culture are often viewed as separate – being heavily influenced by both Japanese and Chinese cultures.

In the modern day, Okinawa Prefecture has become a fantastic holiday spot – with historical sightseeing places in the capital city of Naha, as well as snorkeling and scuba-diving on the smaller islands. And if none of those things tickle your fancy, then you can always enjoy the cool ocean breeze as you sip on a glass of Orion – Okinawa’s original beer.

So, for those of you wondering what to do if you’re down in the south islands, then check out this list of the best things to do in Okinawa!

Sightseeing

For my trip, I spent most of my time in the capital city of Naha. Truthfully, this city is nothing special – it’s much like any other city in Japan. However, there are still some sights that are definitely worth seeing and on my first day in this humid city, I made my way to the most famous building in Naha:

Shurijō (首里城) is a large vermilion-coloured castle in the heart of the historical Shuri district. The castle grounds cover a vast area where visitors can follow the ancient stone roads to the Seiden (the main hall), which is perched at the top of a hill overlooking the whole of Naha.

Unfortunately the front of the castle was under renovation when I visited.

The castle itself once acted as the administrative and residential center of the Ryukyu Kingdom – before officially becoming a part of Japan in the late 1800s. Although the castle was originally built in the 1300s, a series of fires and destruction have caused the castle to be rebuilt numerous times – most recently during the Battle of Okinawa in WWII. Since then, this famous castle has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

A view of Naha and the stone walls of Shuri Castle

If you’re interested in history and ancient buildings, then I recommend following the winding paths in the castle grounds before visiting the Seiden. Taking a tour of the main hall is definitely worthwhile (only 300 yen) and you get a great sense of how the powerful lived during the Ryukyu Kingdom. In fact, there is a gorgeous little tea-house in the heart of the castle where you can enjoy local Okinawan tea and treats, all the while learning about how the very same tea-house was used to entertain powerful guests from other cities and countries.

The throne inside Shuri Castle

Located near Shuri Castle, this ancient stone path is a definite must-see. Not only because it connects Shuri Castle with other local sightseeing spots, but because the 300 meter path itself will transport you back to the 16th century.

For my visit, I walked this path at dusk – a less crowded time when local cats come out to play. Indeed, I had more fun playing with the cats than soaking up the ancient feel of the stone paths. But if you love exploring then this place is definitely for you – just be careful in the rain, the limestone gets very slippery!

Fukushu-en (福州園) is a traditional Chinese garden that is located near Naha Beach. Although the garden was built in 1992 to celebrate the links between Okinawa and China, the designers of this space attempted to be as authentic as possible. With water features, ponds, fish and turtles, Fukushu-en is a very relaxing and calming sightseeing spot.

For some reason there are a ton of cats in Okinawa – many of which roam the streets while their masters are away. So, if you’re into cats, then you can spend a lovely afternoon trying to stalk and capture the cats on camera – much like I did:

Activities

While sightseeing is not everyone’s cup of tea, there is still plenty to do on the tropical islands of Okinawa. Here are just a couple that I managed to actually do:

Not wanting to spend all of my time in Naha, I took the opportunity on my second day to travel to Cape Maeda – where plenty of fun activities are available. However, I had the misfortune of going on a particularly rainy day, which meant that such places as Forest Adventure and Bios Hill were off the table.

A rainy day at Cape Maeda

Luckily, the main attraction of Cape Maeda – The Blue Cave – was a still a viable option. This is because The Blue Cave is an excellent snorkeling and scuba diving spot – in other words, a place where you don’t have to worry about getting wet from the rain.

Because I was a bit wary of scuba-diving, I decided to go snorkeling at this local cave. And after taking a short boat ride, I was able to snorkel into the cave where a dazzling blue light is visible – along with a multitude of brightly colored tropical fishies. In fact, although it was raining, I was actually able to see more fishes than usual as the swell of the warm ocean brought them forth.

There are many companies that offer tours to The Blue Cave – both for snorkeling and scuba diving – so it can be a little bit daunting finding the right place. Personally, I recommend Pink Mermaid as they are really friendly and offer a wide variety of activities – all of which can be booked the day before.

If you’re more interested in chilling on the beach, or participating in some water sports, then I highly recommend taking a short ferry ride from Naha to Tokashiki Island (渡嘉敷村). Not only is this a great way to get away from ‘the big city’, but it’s also a stunningly quiet and serene island.

Photos cannot do this island justice – they all turned out darker than expected!

On my third day in Okinawa, the clouds had thankfully parted and allowed some strong sun rays to peak through. So in order to take advantage of the situation, I traveled to this tiny island where I was able to find a nice quiet beach and take part in many water sports – including snorkeling and swimming in the bluest and clearest water you ever did see!

It’s relatively easy to book a ferry ride to Tokashiki Island from Tomari Port, and once you’re there, you’re free to explore the island as much as you like. However, I recommend organizing a day trip package before going to the island – this way you can enjoy many types of island activities without having to worry about transport or finding rental shops, etc.

  Personally, I suggest Marine House Aharen. Not only do they provide transport to a lovely beach with bright blue water, but they also offer many activities and water sports – all for a reasonable price. In fact, if you’re keen on staying on an island like Tokashiki, then Marine House Aharen also offers accommodation.

Food, Drink and Shopping

This street in central Naha is famous for its shops and restaurants. It’s a great place to wonder up and down in order to find the perfect souvenirs for your friends and relatives at home. All the stores along this strip are practically bursting with local items and delicacies – so make sure you set aside a few hours to explore this area.

And once you’re done ‘shopping til you drop’, then you can relax at one of the many local restaurants and enjoy some delicious local meals. And speaking of which…

There are many types of local Okinawan food that you can enjoy in and around Naha. Personally, I recommend trying the spicy Okinawan soba noodles, as well as the local goat sashimi (raw goat) – both of which are mouth-wateringly delicious.

Try some raw goat at this awesome restaurant that overlooks a calming zen garden.

And to wash down this delicious food, you can always be adventurous and try habushu (snake wine) – the alcohol that’s famous for submerging large pit viper snakes in its bottles. Or you could stay tame and stick to Okinawa’s local beer, Orion.

If you’re feeling the heat of the humid Okinawa summer, then you should definitely cool down with some Blue Seal Ice-Cream – a delicious product that was “born in America and raised in Okinawa”. There are plenty of local flavors to try and you can find Blue Seal Ice-Cream stores on many of the islands around Okinawa and Southern Japan – so keep your eye out!

What Not To Do

Of course, just like any other city or town, there are some places and activities that you should definitely avoid, and Naha is no different:

One of the biggest disappointments in Naha is definitely Naminoue Beach. From pictures, I was expecting an idyllic beach with a view of the lovely deep blue ocean. But unfortunately, I was met with a great view of a concrete highway – not exactly something you want to see on an island getaway vacation!

However, if your flight is early in the afternoon, then this is a great spot to get in one last swim before departing Okinawa – so it is completely up to you.

Overall, Okinawa is a great place to visit. And although some people might think it’s a bit ‘touristy’, it’s still a great place for a tropical getaway.

Okinawa: Things to Do on this Island Getaway As a late spring vacation, I decided to catch a plane and head on down to Okinawa - a group of islands in the south part of Japan.

[knightrepentant]

His Red-Stained Wings pt.6

No sun greeted me upon my return to consciousness. All I could glimpse far above the towers that loomed large around me was a darkening sky. But it was not the tattered clouds above that intruded upon my thoughts. As feeling trickled back into my limbs, I realised I lay upon a narrow ledge overlooking a flooded courtyard, my arm hanging limply from its edge. The stench assaulting my senses told me that that the dark pool below was not at all a reservoir, but a cistern. What truly held my attention, however, was whatever kept trying to grasp my bruised fingers. I turned my head, tasting stone wet with rainwater and blood, and caught sight of another stomach-turning horror. A long, spindly arm reached up from the muck towards me, the flesh hanging in the barest strips from rot-stained bones. The creature to which it belonged held the look of a sodden corpse long left to stew in this pit. Eyeless sockets and black teeth gaped as I rolled with a grunt of pain onto my side.

My perch was safe enough. Every bone in my body seemed ablaze as I struggled to my feet, retrieving my cane and pistol from where they lay. From my new vantage, I saw the pit awash with the foul crawlers, and beyond the lot of them, the only way out.

I need blood…

 My limbs still burned from the fall, but beastly blood had cleansed me of my hurts before. Once again, the only way out is through. Wind rushed past my head as I leapt, light flashing upon the cane’s dark steel as it cracked open a rotten skull like porcelain. What little fresh viscera was left within sprayed forth. With a click, the cane uncoiled and the toothed whip lashed in rings about me. Their time rotting in this filth had made the beasts sluggish, and they died easily to the whip’s bite. Blood and slime adorned my coat, and I waded towards a winding passage, ears straining for the growling of beasts. Hunched black forms turned their glassy gaze upon me from the upper level, but the crows let me be. I felt their eyes upon me until I reached the mouth of the tunnel. The meagre light of dusk was just as reluctant to venture in as I, it seemed, for the darkness seemed as a wall standing in my way. No other way was open to me, however, and I kept the pistol raised as the shadows folded around me.

               Water beat an uneven tune on the muck that slithered around my feet. Again I was thankful of the neckerchief wrapped around my face, for it held the worst of the stench at bay. The muzzle of the pistol wandered back and forth before me, trembling as I was, until it met something solid. Something that stirred. The tunnel blared with a scream, one that conjured memories of the abattoirs back home. The darkness thundered towards me, bellowing and throwing me to the ground. My limbs burned but I rolled to crouch in the mud. The beast had charged from the tunnel, and my stomach churned at the sight of a monstrous pig. Its skin was grey and riddled with sores, and two tiny white eyes rolled in their sockets. My resolve wavered as it screamed again, and I fled down the tunnel. The thunder of hooves pursued me until the gleam of metal rungs answered my fervent prayers. Trembling fingers scrambled on slick iron as my flight carried me up out of the dark. The terror-swine bellowed its frustration far below.

               The top of the ladder gained me a view of another bridge, crowded with more misshapen townsfolk. At the near end, one of the hulking troll-men waited beside a…an enormous ball of straw? The scent of lamp oil was thick in the air, and I guessed easily the trap that had been set for me. A wicked grin sprang to my face, and I pulled from my coat the last bottle of oil. The firebomb sailed gracefully to shatter on the side of the troll-man’s head, which erupted in a sphere of clinging flame. The giant shrieked and thrashed, crashing into the oil-soaked straw. I felt the blast of heat even where I stood, content to watch the roaring pyre in a moment of peace. Behind yet more towers, I saw the shadowed bulk of a cathedral waiting for me above. I kept the pistol ready as the alley closed around me once more.

               The snap of steel boot-heels on cobblestone gave way to the rustle of sickly grass, and my eyes looked around at a veritable thicket of headstones. Mist lay thick upon the ground, pooling around twisted trees, only disturbed by the shudder of a flayed corpse at the garden’s heart. Whatever manner of creature it had been was unrecognisable now, suffering as it had the brutal attentions of a scarecrow-like figure wielding a greataxe. The sickening thud of the crescent blade into flesh sent tremors along my spine. Tremors that only deepened when I realised at whom I was looking. The holy man from the bridge, who had held me in such contempt. I held the pistol close as I stepped forward, close enough to be noticed.

 Though not enough to seem as a threat…one hopes…

 The axe came down again, biting deep in a flower of red. Thin lips revealed more teeth than they should,

               “So, the whelp still lives, does it? Perhaps there is a spine in there after all…” I let my gaze dart from his bandaged face, to rest upon a sight most unwholesome over his shoulder. A woman in red, now if not before, lay upon a low roof. Her ruined form, evidence of a most gruesome fate, bore a token that stirred a fresh memory within me.

 “S-she wears a red-jewelled brooch, it’s so big and beautiful; you couldn’t miss it!”

 And my weary heart sagged as my chest seemed to grow close around it. The holy man watched as I began a wide circle around him, “A sorry night this is, but fitting for such sorry business as ours.” My eyes darted from the dead woman to my unwelcome guest,

               “Perhaps,” I managed, the words had to fight their way free so tight was my chest, “but t’is all for the best, is it not?” Those cloth-swaddled eyes never left me, and I grew desperate in the deepening silence, “My name is Finch, who might you be?” My words may have been the wind for all he acknowledged them, and his seemed more for his own hearing than mine,

               “Beasts…beasts all over the shop…” The woman was near now, I saw the brooch glinting red upon her breast, within arm’s reach, “You’ll be one of them, sooner or later.” My hand froze halfway extended and in my gut I knew my time was up. As the wader-bird spears a fish, my hand flashed out and snared the brooch. I heard the singing of steel on the air before even turning my head, and palming the cane against the flat of the axe blade, I let it smash against a gravestone in a burst of sparks. The holy man lunged again, and blood-stained metal sliced through my sleeve. Yelling, I ducked behind a tree only to be stung in a hail of splinters, the axe hounding me over and over as I rolled and fled across the garden. Gaining a lead of a few yards let me turn at last to my foe. I felt the breeze of the axe’s flight over my head, and the cane swung hard into the man’s ribs. Gasping, he stepped back, unbalanced. I pressed my advantage in a flurry of vicious slashes, that skin should tear and bone should crack. Then a burst of hot metal shredded the chest of my coat and stung my body. A gnarled hand swept around to bring light exploding across my vision. The sodden muck of the garden struck my back. The light faded to a thin crescent, a glint from an axe blade lifting above me. I scrambled back, only to hear a brief chime ring from my pocket.

 “It plays one of Father’s favourite songs, we play it when he forgets us, so he remembers.”

 Could this be you?

I turned the handle and that sweet song wove between the headstones. I felt again a pang of sadness take root in my heart. My foe found the melody far less pleasant. Crazed shouting gave way to sobbing and incoherent whimpers, claw-like hands clutching his head in seeming agony. Too great an opportunity to miss. The cane skewered the priest in the gut, twisting for good measure. Claw-like fingers seized my coat and the scene tumbled before my eyes, until a gnarled tree crashed against already bruised limbs. Dazed and with ears ringing, I heard the clunk of metal and saw the holy man rush towards me bearing a much extended axe. My roll was swift enough that the crescent blade split the tree in two, rather than my head. The axe whirled in great arcs towards me, humming shrilly as I dodged as best I was able. Sharp teeth were bared as air was sucked between them, “That smell...the sweet blood, oh, it sings to me…”

A headstone was smashed to dust as I fled up a broad set of steps, “…it’s enough to make a man sick.” The dance of steel led us to the edge, where a ragged gap in the railings led back to the graveyard below. The axe sang in the air and I felt the breeze catch at my hair as I ducked, seeing once again the ruined corpse of the woman beneath the ledge. Anger blossomed in my chest. It was a hot, dark rage that bubbled below my heart. I bared my own teeth and held the music box before me like a shield, and this time its wistful tune lent me no joy. The man howled in despair and my rage crystallised into grim resolve. I kicked him hard in the back, sent him toppling from the ledge like a felled tree. I stood above, like some accusing judge,

               “Would you slay me as you slew her?! You, who names me beast?!” I leapt, my coat unfolding like the wings of a bird, the cane descending like the bolt of some wrathful god. Steel met skin, met bone, met earth, and blood sprayed upon the gravestones. The man coughed more crimson upon the soil, his hands clutching at the air, at the cane that skewered his arched frame. I tasted copper on my tongue and spat into the dirt, “your blood will serve to wash hers away.” The cane was withdrawn, and a hand snapped around my throat like a snake. Bone cracked and popped, the man’s features contorting as my feet left the ground.

The sound of tearing cloth was lost in the climbing shriek that split the night. I hung now in the grip of a hideous caricature of the man I had fought. The malformed jaw gaped wide to scream and howl as I was lifted high, to be smashed to a pulp against the rubble. The cane flailed frantically as lights bloomed again before my eyes. I felt my left arm swing around, and heard the crack of the pistol. I was released to an agonised screech, and rolled as my feet hit the earth. A clawed hand struck my back but by some miracle I yet kept my feet. There was a sharp click and the whip uncoiled. I whirled with my arm outstretched, and saw the steel teeth of the whip lash across the beast’s face. I struck again as it flinched, flaying cloth and flesh alike, over and over. Hot blood rained upon me and I tasted again the burn of copper on my lips. My flight around a group of headstones proved futile when they were crushed to powder by the thing’s frenzy, by its relentless pursuit. I felt claws tug at my coat-tails, and sent the whip lashing out once again. But those shining teeth never found their mark, but instead found a trap. Crooked fingers seized the whip, and I, too slow in relinquishing my grip, was flung hard upon the stone steps.

Orange light flickered above me. My right hand snatched at empty air, for the whip was nowhere to be seen. I saw the scarecrow silhouette rise to blot out the ashen sun, one ruined hand clutching the traitorous whip. My pistol remained loyal, but could do little but slow this thing for an instant. Indeed, I had only one weapon left to me. Trembling fingers held out the battered and bloody box, “Please remember! She’s waiting. She’s waiting and I promised that I would…I…” But though the creature wailed in anguish, it still lifted the whip to smite me. The pistol fell useless from my hand, and the teeth fell upon me. Fire bloomed in deep red across my body, and again I was lifted, limp as a doll. But that orange light came with me and I stabbed the torch at the beast’s chest. A scream of pain rang in my head as flames consumed the beast’s twisted form. The whip was cast aside, and I leapt again with fire in my hand. 

The stench of burning hair and skin choked me, and the beast tore across the cobbles in panic. But the flames clung tight, biting and tearing, until the thing’s rages slowed, until at last it collapsed in a pathetic smouldering heap. Taking up the cane and gun, I limped over to the smoking ruin, and put three quicksilver bullets into what remained of the head. I saw the way forward, lit warm and inviting by more torches it led onward and upwards. My stride began slow and sure, but that waiting portal seemed to grow no closer. Discordant notes echoed as my foot struck the broken music box, as my knees struck the stone, “No…no I can’t…I don’t want to dream…” The stones were cold and slick against my cheek, “She’s waiting…”