Thread: The Mere Tide
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Old 04-10-2018, 09:48 PM
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bluewpc (Offline)
The Next Bard
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Lord I trekked a painful valley
Ive got the wallowing hard blinds
I got the blind valley shadow blues
You know I got the shadow valley blues
The valley tryin blues
Ears blacked by the news
*
You know I trekked a terrible valley
I got friends I aint seen in a thousand years
Ive got a thouand tears a thousand tears
I got the valley tryin blues
I got the cryin gravedirt blues
*
God I trekked this valley
You dug it up god
Dug up every thorn
Every thorn I ever stepped on
Since the day I was born
*
God Im walking down your valley
Aint got no pews to kneel on
All I got is thorns
These blues I cant give away
God theres some burdens Jesus cant take away
You know these blues are mine
You know these blues are mine
All down the valley theyre mine

Not part of the story but I was listening to blues


In her sleep she was bridled in the carrion mux out which she'd been incarnated but from atop his moraine the dread heresiarch watching her struggle segued her into wakefulness with a query she could not hear. She felt fallen from a height into sour nausea and sweat drip. Gripping tightly her pillow in her fists and beset with the primitive fear that inspires awe of the welkin. And yet the fractal dawncast could not undo her somberness. The pilot found her in gray dolor staring at the barren snow blown waste without her painted window.

Come on, she said wrapping an arm around her.

Caning through a necropolis of a slaughtered eparchy. An uneven gravescape spread over several hectares. Battered menhirs run of their marl or pocked with shallow tafoni. The gated lots of more affluent parishioners. Rows of crosses or headstones combed back. The sole inhabitants a few ice cowled angels perched downhearted upon headstones with lichen toupees, their reluctant benediction belie some uncertainty as to the destinations of those theyd been elected to vigil. Even Jegudiel in his lithic depiction appeared reluctant to commiserate. Farther on into the purlieus of the mausoleum gazebo or templet. Life boat sepulchers that disdained to be committed to the unders. Stainless steel sepulchers in a columbarium as though the dead would not risk these outer shelves again when the trumpet sounds.

I employed a man in the profession of a caretake but hes months late. I presume hes retired without notice. Anaya touched off an avalanche of snow masking a graveface and read the inscription.

Adam Whitley Mauder
2422-2497
Magis Ignis

What she made of it could not be told but it put her to regarding the ordered perfection snow imparts with a sense of its subtle profanity for given that it is idyllic yet even in carnage the peace is not gone. Oceans of blood having soaked these estates ere any ideal was watered.
They moved on. Fallow acres surrounded the basilica, flatting out to barricades of trees or arcs of the ambit where skysill and rim sewed up with nary sign of tracery. In the east very small deer browsed for knotweed or tulips frozen in the snow. A single cloud hovered over them. The child might have shot one but then she realized they were unarmed. She turned to warn Anaya but as she did a weight of cold duffed the top of her head.

Small oversights do end us. She uttered a cry. Felt the wound. Was it bleeding was it mortal. And saw the pilot erasing the evidence from her ends with an exaggerated feign of innocence flourished with a whistle tune.

Ye fuckin cocksucker, she shrieked.

The pilot's hint of smile turned contrite. She started to apologize but Dachni bent and balled a scoop of snow and powdered it against the pilot. The pilot's legs grew unsteady. She began to wobble in a drama of dead moans and spinning before finally collapsing in the snow. Dachni gawped to see her enemy so easily vanquished. She wiped her nose. She threw another snowball to be sure she were dead. Then yelled: Ets ya own falk!

A grinning betentacled head lifted out of the snow. She whipped upright and molded another snowsphere and slung it laconically and the child followed its arc and swatted it angrily out of the air in a white puff and scrambled a janky three legged scramble and tripped and shaped her own projectile and hurled it at the pilot.
In a few minutes they were constructing forts from behind which they exchanged a worried artillery and from where they negotiated a tense armistice and they drew angels in the snow and made a snowman with pebbles for eyes and though a last paleness was flickering over the mackerel clouds torsioning in from the west they made this figure a companion that he might not be lonely.

Even then Dachni had not quite forgiven the pilot. They suppered in a tense quiet as one who has found herself not quite as betrayed as thought. Afterwards when the pilot sank the dishes to wash Dachni webbed her fingers with soap suds and scampered back to her room. She sat on the bed edge watching the door expectantly. Her grimness souring more each moment gone when no shadow trailed up its jamb and after a while she laid down and switched off the nightlight but a few minutes enclad in the bleak brunette twilight fertile to incertitude proved vector to an increep of despair that yawned through the blacker savanna hours coming and she groped for her cane and went out almost in tears.

Vacant dorters are of her hall. On the walls Ganymede in fresco consecrates the tongue of lupus with the decanting of his urn. Here is water in the mountains and water amongst the rocks. Here is the royal library flying burning pages like luminary dove flocks out its lecture halls and reading rooms whilst upon the great steps and the peripatos the stoics tear out their hair.

She waddled bandy legged hastily her backtrack to the lavatory and went to the library to wait on the couch. Here nothing was unadorned. Gothic columns fluted and pearl white rose in triplicate to the high triptych ceiling of earthly delights, their capitals relieved of painted seraphs armed of gladius or pilum and their pedestals a pastel blue with gold inserts and gilt at the vertices. Silent ash lilted over the brushstroke veins of cold calacatta underfoot and the sterling longhand of the mantel clock stuttered over the archipelago of gold numerals, its shadow invisible upon an ebon dial no darker than the orbs that perceived them. Something is being moved towards and what is it and what wilt it? Has it mind to barter? Or has it the sistren dread implacable? And what its desire? Or desires naught? Force racing cross the margins of the world feasting upon capsized souls. It is a thing to be got from and a thing that moves and needs move not. A cyst in time waiting for time to stop.

Along other passageways. A door letting out into a bifurcated atrium where amaryllis and anemone peek out of the snow. Two baths in the communal style of Rome save divided by a high lime wall. She made a circuit of the gallery and went back inside.

At the labyrinth she beheard the wont of wind hunger seething in the infraclavicular fatsness to this plateau plane. Its respire innocent of fleshrot and blood and this worried her the more for if it has not eat when shall it and what?

She checked the library again. A game room. In the eastern storage closet she moseyed through the strew of boxes and fallen shelves and hustled to the refectory restroom and its stalled pots and peed the noisome dregs of her bladder and coming out heard the faint echo of a guffaw. She stopped a tip toe to divine its origins. The sound seemed to be coming from the nave where were hearable the guttural snippets of a python lingo. She followed them to a stairwell off the shrine of the shawled intercessioness spiraling up to an ambulatory running along the triforium with its murals of martyrdom and scriven ivory balustrade. At the choir the image of Michael paused her. Majestic in the parquet and thong athwart the dragon's mazzard.
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Last edited by bluewpc; 04-10-2018 at 09:58 PM..
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