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TGB - Things Fall Apart
2 season-cycles ago, North-Western Nandryx, Pre-Tribal Period
Thistles – though Hubris’d never given them much thought, he didn’t mind them as flowers went, unsightly as they were. Prickly, graceless, guileless – there was an unaffected, honest ugliness about them that pleasured him deeply. Not that he gave them so much thought. There was just something admirable one could observe in their erect, thorny stalks and sickly purple, taloned blooms. Their ugliness didn’t deter the bees at least, and they were only brought down by a few of the swamp’s more hard-paletted herbivores – and so were more than a little prodigious. Unsightly survivors, not unlike himself. Of course this never crossed his mind, even when he was midst the very plants – not having a mind for their kinship with him, but for the prey that warrened amidst them.
It was a lazy afternoon. Hubris’s pelt was half-shade
TGB RP - Battle-Lust - Fadri, Mar, and Neytiri Takethra
Mar was pleased to finally be at it again. It had been a long time since he’d last had a chance for a good battle, since the tribe-cats had driven most of the other rather more hostile creatures out of Nandryx. Of course, the tom he would be in combat with was rather a smaller one, smaller than him, at least, and only a miner, hardly more than a youngling – certainly biting off more than he could chew. And pathetically enough, he was only a primary, in the way of tattoo skill – on top of his unimpressive fighting skills, only able to do little more than make a few seeds grow in winter. What Neytiri saw in the little tom was beyond him. The chausie snorted at the thought. This would be no great fight, but fight it would be, at least, and his claws sank into the earth he walked upon at the thought of it.
Now, where was that little twerp? A tree, he said – that was where he said he would be waiting. But there were many tr
I AmI am an artist,
But my handiwork is trampled on.
I am a mother,
But my sons vanished with the dawn.
I am a father,
And my daughters go ripped
Naked in the streets.
I am a father.
I am the mourner of the World,
I am the World’s most abhorred.
I am the weeper of the rain,
Though renewal rises like a rainbow,
Always to follow,
After thousands of years, always to follow.
My smiling face over all penitent,
Though I am returned always with betrayal.
My mercy is raped.
All my friends faithless.
Those taken into the chambers of my soul,
They violate my heart.
I am the one who returns from war,
Only to find his lover lying with another.
I am the one whose children slay themselves at her breast,
I am the one whose brothers always turn their backs,
I am the one whose sons thrust their brother off a bridge,
I am the one whose daughters speak their sister into suicide.
He hanged himself, he who kissed me in deceit.
And I saw my own children incinerate
Roots Unsevered - Denton and RamsesTakethra:
For the fourteenth consecutive time in the last three hundred and eighty seven days, Ramses watched as the convoy finally disappeared into the urban rubble, out of his sight from the hill. Blighted sedge bristled against his face as he caught a final glimpse of the final dog’s tail.
He would not follow this time. His memories were coming in too raw, now.
He blinked, laying his head on his paws; when he shut his eyes, all he saw was the glint of their gasmask screens in the red sunlight. So he did not shut his eyes long.
But even still, blue eyes open, the familiar faces paraded by in his consciousness. They’d walked by, or rather beneath him, not an hour ago, in the moors that led up to the scavenging city; he’d been perched in his usual spot, belly to the ground on a hill, to watch them pass, from the spindly foliage that was cover. It was from here that he always watched; he tried never to miss a convoy, but to be their punctually as it passed, to a
Blood and Fool's GoldYour scar tissue
Shines like veins of fool’s gold
Ever to be mined in pursuit of charlatan peace.
The stripes on your wrist
Are like the tally marks of a prisoner
A stranded soul’s count of days.
Your mind revolts against your heart
Your heart revolts against the world
And you end the quarrel
The noise and fire in your head
With a blade.
You have your flesh cry the tears that will not come.
Breaking urns of ashes against the temple walls.
Those who have ears, let them hear
Past the iron maiden of their hands:
No one’s red can heal their wounds
No one’s red but one’s.
Hunting For Vendetta - Strike and GrisTakethra:
The night was dark, as usual, made no more lucid by the green tint in Gris’s goggles; the scorched and bitter smells of the wasteland came through a veil of purification through her respirator. In short, she was reduced to only three senses in the Wastes, and only two, if you didn’t count the useless sense of taste.
In short, the wastelands sucked. And they sucked even more at night. But that was never a deterrent for her. It wasn’t a deterrent for raiders, so she could not allow herself rest over so minor a handicap. The moon was shining, anyway, and that was light enough for her.
Despite her size and skill, she hardly entered the city in her nightly wanderings. Too many things could go wrong therein, and signs of passage are harder to discern in the star-shadow of the buildings and their trackless black trails.
The places with cold dirt underfoot, brittle sprigs of grass and weeds, and unbroken flow of air; the places with a horizon. That was where
It's NotIt's not the lipstick gloss
that makes a kiss
the warm pulse beating through
It's not their size
but the words they whisper,
It's not the color
nor the length
nor the glint
of her hair
that makes her special
it is her smile
in the falling rain
reflecting the joy
of yet another Spring,
It's not the time
she spent getting beautiful
that makes her so
but in fact
it is the hours
she was besides my bed
when I was sick
and in fact
it is the minutes
I could hear her breathe
in my embrace
AND in fact
it is the seconds
I saw her cry
(out of happiness)
Because she's beautiful.
It's not the clothes,
nor the jewellery,
nor the colored nails,
nor the drawn-in brows,
nor the words she says
to other people,
and neither it is
It is her mind
that entertains my poems,
it is her charm
that paints my cheeks
and averts my shy eyes from her
It is her soul,
that I love.
The Origins Of The Ice Queen (Story)
As the Duke slammed into the cold, hard ground, Elsa knew that she had only made the accusations worse. As the fear began to consume her she ran out of the castle's huge, wooden gates, her breath increasing in speed and intensity the whole time. She heard a familiar voice shout after her. "Elsa! Wait!" It was her sister Anna. She was 2 years younger than Elsa and had a beautiful young face with a rosy complexion and had strawberry blonde hair with a white highlight in it. She wore a green and black royal gown with a flowery pattern over the torso. It was perfect for the coronation that had taken place that day. However, it was not so perfect for chasing the new Queen. "Elsa please! Stop!" Anna shouted at her terrified sister. Elsa started to sprint even faster now, she flicked her wrist and created an icy path in an attempt to slow down her ever worrying sister. Anna slipped and fell onto her behind. She let out a small yelp as she sat, stunned for a moment. She looked up and saw Elsa
SevenEach day is a new struggle.
Each day is an uphill fight.
I go out, and I wage war against them,
And I lose.
Then I come home,
Beaten and bruised,
They won the last one,
They'll win the next.
They'l win all the rest,
Until I'm finally dead.
But I am a warrior,
And one who will protect,
One who will serve,
Until his dying breath.
And why do I go out each day?
Why dawn my dented armor?
Because I know what I'm fighting for.
And though they may have victory,
And the sparkling spoils of war...
I have you,
And that is enough
To make me get out of bed each day,
To walk out the door,
To draw my sword and fight them,
To come home beaten yet once more;
But then I see your face
And I know I'd go through it all again
If it meant I won your love,
If it meant your affection.
For you I would fight this many battles:
Seven times seven times seven.
Sexual TensionI see the lust in his eyes,
a whirlwind of locked desire,
looking for a way to be unleashed
There's hidden intentions in all he does
He's always finding an opportunity
for our skins to touch
I want him to cross the line
I want to feel what he feels
I don't want to be forbidden anymore
I want to be his sweet meal
To feel different hands on my body
would awaken what I've been trying to hide
The fact that I want him to take me
I can no longer deny
I wish I could touch his body,
feel him up with my hands;
rub myself against him,
do his every command
The Voice of HeavenThe sweetest music fills the atmosphere
The voice of heaven itself
Surfing on waves of air
Sound so pleasant, beyond orgasmic
Listen to the subtle facets of its audible splendor
Every measure, every crescendo, every lick
Everyone is savored
Never have ears been so graced
Graced by such a precious lullaby
Transcendent silvery tones caress the soul
Knees begin to buckle
Everything fades in haunting mist
Oh, harmonious ballad!
The notes sparkle along their silky path
So smooth, so lovely
Sing them forever
Sing sweet love,
Your beautiful heart let shine!
Light up the darkness
Play your songs again and again
Play your songs in my heart
In the heart you've captured and chained to yours
If only everyone could know their magick
Those notes will resonate in me til I die and ever after
I love you, voice of heaven
Songs“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?”
Those aren't my words, what can I say?
Your laugh, your smile, your way with words,
Your song is borrowed by the birds…
sugarclawyou sang, watermystic
rosehips swaying two hearts
to a shell
and i, niagara
fell beneath, earth tesselate
seeping in infinite squares
but this is no desert love
story you are telling, lies
stretched over acres
o' your sweetscented mouth
what love is not.it was a s l o p p y first kiss where
my drunk lips fumbled against yours.
the dull thwack of my heart,
locked behind curved ribs
cleared my groggy brain,
clouded with lustful premonitions.
it was an e l e c t r i f y i n g first kiss where
you entwined your hands in my hair.
your mouth encompassed mine and
my breath became lost in the steady
of your chest.
it was a s h y first kiss where
i pulled away before you could explore.
your tongue grazed my teeth,
searching for a way past the ivory gates.
i dug my finger into the stubble along your jaw,
my nail lulling your carnal desires.
it was my first kiss with you.
The Heart of a StrayEyes, misty jasper,
A misty sun over mire.
Scars as uneven as the broken metro tracks,
But like tracks they lead to somewhere,
Running parallel to a scarred heart.
Paws and a broken tail that bleed,
The scent of sorrow and happiness,
Mingling on a grey pelt, ledger of fear and anger
And fought-for hopes wrote red on skin.
Eyes, the misty jasper, the misty sun,
That look away and back, and away again.
Eyes as round as a wheel, a marble, a life,
Perfect in all its scars and self-smote red,
Perfect in all its imperfections, perfect,
Because two broken parts can make a whole,
Broken parts like cracked ice
Merging in the frost of winter, broken, but
Perfect, and sad and fearful, and hopeful
And finding peace, finally finding peace.
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
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