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starspatter · 5 years

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WIP Challenge

Tagged by: @summertime-children

Tagging: @astrologista, @atsushishelteredinmoonlitjasmine, @benditlikegumby, @cryptoriawebb, @ibmiller, @iceperialprincess, and @otherwise-uncolonized

Challenge: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous.

I'll also do what deta did and post comments + short fragments. (Be warned it'll be very long though, and most of these are actually Pokémon fics since I was a much more prolific writer when I was younger, and that was the fandom I wrote mainly for.) I also won't be including "Heroes and Thieves" on here (or any DC/superhero stuff really since I’ve essentially “done” everything I had planned for now), as *technically* it is all already completed in draft form, and I'd like to keep things a surprise for whenever I do end up posting~

Hero and Seek

“Well, we’re all together now, so let’s have some fun, all right? Don’t worry, it’s really simple. One person is the ‘demon’, and the others have to hide from him.” “Eh? A ‘demon’? But that’s scary!” Three pairs of eyes turned up to her in fear. Those eyes, which screamed and streamed the stark color of blood the first time she saw them – not just from tears, but from the ‘monster’ they believed dwelled deep within. She thought for a moment, then removed her scarf. “How about this then? Whoever’s the ‘hero’ has to find and rescue the others. It’s a very important Blindfold Brigade mission!”

I’ll start with the one Kagepro fic I did attempt at least, which I described previously here, but is basically about Ayano + the Meka Trio playing “Hide and Seek” for the first time. (I actually had it originally titled as that but just came up with this new version on the spot lol I’m so clever~) For some reason I’ve always been hesitant about reading/writing Kagefic, but I actually got a fair bit farther in this than I thought, so perhaps I should try to finish it someday... Princes and Frogs

“K-Koizumi-senpai… Um… Please go out with me!” Itsuki stared down at the tiny underclassman, watching a rose mantle spread slowly over her cheeks as she gazed back with shy, but determined hope in her bespectacled eyes. The older boy could make out his own handsome face reflected off the lens, a virtual image embellished by sparkling hearts and stars. With dim satisfaction and relief, Itsuki ensured that his bright, patient smile betrayed no hint of the weary sigh that whispered behind it.

This is an intro excerpt of the first chapter I planned to write for an ItsuHaru fic from The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, which I only ever posted the prologue for. ItsuHaru was my first obsessive OTP, and I still think about returning to this story someday (especially since I have now proven to myself I *can* finish a full chapter fic if I put my mind to it), but it’s been so long I feel like I’d need to refresh my memory of the whole series/am still holding out hope for a Season 3 to motivate me again. *shot*

Fall to Pieces

As Itsuki stared at Yuki’s vacant visage, his resentment kept building. His hands clenched, rigidly gripping the edge of the table. Somehow, it just didn’t seem fair. That she could so easily ignore the madness fate had dealt them, never reveal any signs of suffering or bitterness towards her situation, and yet always, always wear the same damn expression on her face. How could she possibly stand it? He can’t stand it. (any more)

An ItsuYuki one-shot, where Itsuki basically blows up at her from pent-up frustration over having to wear a mask all the time and his hidden feelings for Haruhi. The two start to form a connection over their respective “unrequited loves”/understanding of each other’s pain, and one thing leads to another... Like “Heroes and Thieves”, this is in fact technically “complete”, since I actually used the leftover steam from the former towards finishing at least one thing I started a long time ago - although I’m still not sure I’m totally satisfied with it/kinda want to wait to figure out what I’m doing with my other ItsuHaru fics before I publish it by itself. (Incidentally the working title comes from an Avril Lavigne song lol.)

Little White Lies

“Perhaps the best thing for the princess would have been to fall in love. But how a princess who had no gravity could fall into anything is a difficulty--perhaps the difficulty.” -George MacDonald, The Light Princess - Haruhi Suzumiya was walking on air. Itsuki could tell by the way she glided into the clubroom, sailing like a paper airplane – or a balloon with an inflated ego to match.

...Yeah that’s as far as I got with this. This was meant to be a “White Day” story, which is Japan’s “answer holiday” to Valentine’s Day, where guys reciprocate by giving gifts to the girls who gave them chocolates. I always wondered how the boys actually responded in-universe, and I imagine Itsuki secretly stressing out a lot about taking care to not upstage Kyon, but at the same time wanting to sincerely express his genuine appreciation and feelings towards Haruhi - whatever they may be. In the end, he settles on a copy of “The Light Princess” by George MacDonald, which I highly recommend reading since it reminds me so much of this pair, and in general is such a fun and snappy “tongue-in-cheek” take on the fairytale genre. Sora in Wonderland

But wait- this one was a bit different from all its brothers and sisters. For one thing, it was wearing a fancy waistcoat with pockets- and sleeves that were far too long for it. As soon as it passed by her head, it stopped and slowly turned its head around to stare directly at her with its huge circular yellow eyes. Sora stared vacantly back for a full five seconds before the information registered in her brain and she suddenly yelled, “Hey!”, and sat bolt upright. The Heartless panicked upon hearing her voice and fled at top speed across the white sands, headed towards an opening in the rocks; Sora jumped down off her perch and immediately chased after it, no longer caring about the heat. The Heartless hastily disappeared inside the cave, and Sora soon followed after, determined to catch the freaky little thing and ask it some questions, like what it was doing on the island at this time, and where on earth did it get a waistcoat.

OKAY SO I TOTALLY FORGOT THIS WAS A THING but apparently I tried to write a Kingdom Hearts parody of “Alice in Wonderland” lmao. I’ve never actually played the games (aside from half of CoM), but it was probably inspired by a crossover art my friend drew? ^^; Also Sora is a girl in this bc that’s my headcanon and I’m sticking to it. XP *shot* Note: The following fics are all Pokémon-related so I’ll just be listing them in roughly chronological order (from most recent to ancient, although they’re all pretty old at this point). Stranger

The elder slowly rose to his feet, gazing at the boy, the champion, the stranger. “In all this time, why didn’t you come back? You could have seen for yourself how she was.” Lance wanted to yell something defiant, like a child. But he wasn’t a child. Children were forgiven for their mistakes. And he didn’t want to be forgiven. The professor’s ancient hand came to rest on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s the way this town works. We don’t talk about things that happen outside our own world. Maybe it was too long ago – too late for you to understand.” Lance didn’t say anything. “At least talk to Delia. She’s been wanting to see you.” “Sorry. It’s too late.” “You’re a bastard.” “I know.”

So this looks to be among the last things I’d written before taking a long break from fanfiction circa... 2007, jeeze. Over 10 years, huh. But, I think it speaks a certain amount of maturity that it’s the piece I liked most upon rediscovering. It’s based on an idea I once had that Lance was (unknowingly) Gary Oak’s father, and he was friends/rivals with Ash’s father, who originally won the title of Champion but relinquished it so he could be with his “wife” and kid (or rather, then-pregnant teenage girlfriend). *Something* happened though (I forget what I had in mind) and he ended up dying, leaving Lance bitter and depressed so he refused to return to Pallet Town because of too many painful memories. (Though he *cough* “comforted” their other female childhood friend for one night of drunken grief before he left. ;() What I like most about it honestly is the parallels bw Lance’s relationship with Ash’s dad and their sons’, and that amidst all the angst I enjoyed portraying the earnest energy and optimism of Ketchum(?) senior (”like father like son” after all). I was definitely inspired by Mitsuki’s father in Full Moon wo Sagashite/Maes Hughes from Fullmetal Alchemist by making him a total “dork dad” who’d brag about his (illegitimate) family on national TV during the championship tournament lol.

Ihavenoidea

Either way, I get the feeling this really wasn’t what I had in mind when I made my decision to quit training. I mean that in an intuitive sort of way. Like, sometimes I feel as if I’m not meant to be here, like my life should have ended up differently someplace else. Perhaps this is just one of those weird inconsistencies I told you about. Perhaps not. Even after all that’s happened to me recently, I still can’t really be sure about it.

...No seriously, I have no idea where I was going with this. As far as I can tell it’s written from the POV of Gary Oak, whom I’ve always had a lot of... “complicated” feelings towards. It probably has something to do with another concept I’ll discuss next, although for some reason it sounds like I was going for some sort of AU? *shrug* By contrast to the above, it reads like a whiny teenager complaining about his life - which makes me cringe but is probably an accurate portrayal of who I was at the time. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ This one was actually dated a little after the previous, so my best guess is it was some kind of vent rant where I would “give up” writing/creating and “childish” ideals for a while, as I was wont to do - but I still always come back to it somehow... RainbowMolly

Molly stepped out from the car and onto the dusty road, her heart beating wildly. She could hardly believe she was actually here, of all places. The ride had been long and mind-numbing with anticipation, and now that they’d finally arrived at the destination, it all felt somewhat surreal to her. A small bear clambered out from the vehicle, joining her as she stopped to take in the rustic view that met her bright blue eyes. She smiled and picked up her Teddiursa, cuddling its warm, fuzzy body close to her own. Her gaze traveled down the road which stretched in both directions, houses lining up against its margins. She followed it with her eyes towards a hill in the distance, on top of which sat what looked like a quaint little farmhouse with a windmill, turning in the summer breeze. She breathed in the country air, catching whiff of a faint salt smell from an ocean in the distance. So this was Pallet Town.

...Why I didn’t actually name the file “Chasing Rainbows” - which was the title I had planned for this - I don’t know. This dates back to an old idea I had where I believed Molly Hale from the third Pokémon movie was secretly the true “God” of the Pokémon world - in the sense that the entire universe was an unknowing fantasy of her own creation, similar to Haruhi Suzumiya (ok fine this was totally a crossover/rip-off of the same concept so sue me OTL). In a place where children never seem to grow up and can go on grand fantastical adventures forever, Gary always struck me as an anomaly who willingly *chose* to forego such a life to pursue more “adult” interests by becoming a researcher. So I saw him as filling the role of “Kyon” - the cynical narrator who was destined to ground “God” and bring her back down to earth, but at the same time be won over by her innocence and charm and learn to appreciate “kids’ stuff” again. However, the Legendaries were actually aware of the power Molly holds, and so saw Gary as a threat to their very being - as by “waking” the dreamer and having her face reality meant erasing their kinds’ entire existence. As the “apocalypse” nearly occurred in the third film, Mew and Celebi took on human disguises (in the form of May and Max respectively) to investigate Ash, who was able to calm Molly and “save” the world by “perpetuating” the delusion (and whom Molly totally has a crush on btw *shot*). So it’s a bit of a love triangle lol, with Mew and Celebi (*cough* an alien and a time traveler, get it? *shot*) acting as mediators/interference. (Although Mew might’ve secretly shipped Gary and Molly herself. ;O)

Betrayal

And these blades, these damned scythes that attached themselves to my arms when I was born, a curse upon me since birth, though it had not been apparent up until now. They were covered with blood, the vital crimson liquid that flows through our bodies, now dripping down the steel surface in a webbed pattern, drops beginning to splatter the pure, emerald grass below. The arm felt heavy and weak as I tried to lift it, as if it did not belong to me, but that was only a wishful thought. I gazed calmly at it, inspecting the intricate designs the flow of the substance had created, as if it were an abstract piece of artwork. Tentatively, a pink tongue rolled out and caught a small droplet of it just before it fell from the sharp edge, just to convince myself that it was real. The semi-sweet, metallic taste confirmed this. I had indeed taken these men’s lives, just as I had taken hers.

So I remember this was written from the POV of a Scyther who seemingly went on a murderous rampage. I only know that I wanted to give him an “Edward Scissorhands”-like story, since the idea of having such sharp objects attached to one’s limbs so that one could never directly “touch” another without being a danger is pretty tragic. I suspect “her” was someone (a human?) he cared about but killed by accident, and after that he was only seen as a symbol of power/treated as a tool to incite fear before eventually rebelling against his “master”... Roses

“If you love someone, you should give them something that’s yours. That shows how much you care for them.” In the darkness, I pictured his smiling face, explaining to me as he wrapped a present for his girlfriend. His blue eyes were shining with a sort of spirit unfamiliar to me; I guessed, a feeling of love.

Another “dark” take on a Pokémon’s biology (I really liked writing explorations of those back then lol), this time of Roselia. The idea was that a Roselia was so in love with her trainer that she would do anything for him - including allow him to cut off her arms so he could give them to his girlfriend. I actually ended up turning it into a poem at one point:

Love is like a rose they say, And affection leads to grief they warned. For in the end love betrays, Its Beauty maimed by a poisoned thorn. You gave me pure water with a smile. Your cheerful face became my sun. I offered up my blood to you, And in return demanded none. Chop off my wrists, and tie them together. I’ll gladly bleed myself to death. In order to give you that which I hold most dear. My dear, my dear, Won’t you accept this bouquet? You take it, smiling warily. A blush creeps onto your face. And in those eyes I can see A garden of roses stretched out, Composing a wondrous place. Then you bound my hands in lace, And brought them to the girl next door. You presented them to her with grace. … My blood continued to pour.

Fanfic

She smiled at me, although something about her expression indicated something wasn't quite right. I watched as she glanced over towards the west, her gaze lingering momentarily on the setting sun. The glowing, orange sphere was slowly sinking behind the distant mountains, peaks cloaked in a pale, lavender haze illuminated by flickering beams of gold and scarlet cast across the horizon.

More accurately, I found this buried in a “catch-all” file where I had several (mostly finished) fics saved. This was meant to be from the POV of an Eevee who had just evolved - supposedly into an Espeon due to happiness and bond with her trainer, which is what both wanted. However, since it took place at sunset, she didn’t realize she had become an Umbreon instead, and her trainer ended up abandoning her for it. ;( It was a warm

Children’s shrieks and laughter echoed across the park as they flocked towards each other, and soon were chasing one another round the playground, weaving in and out between the swings as they partook in an innocent game of Tag. One child was It; she was trying desperately to catch one of her friends so that they would take over the job instead. Then it would be her turn to run away, for none of them wished to play the loathsome role of It. Or was it because they feared being tainted by the person’s touch? It must have been one of the two, for while she would struggle to reach them, catch hold of them, they would only flee, thoroughly enjoying the fact that they were vexing her. Twice she nearly caught one. Her fingertips were almost within reach of one of the other girls’ dresses, whose russet tresses were flowing wildly from the rush of movement and shining with golden highlights as the rays of the sun struck individual strands. The target shrieked and shook her head, whisking her skirt free in time to escape capture, laughing with glee at the sight of the girl left behind, miserable and alone.

Yeah I totally just went with the default beginning of the first sentence lol. I guess this comes full circle with the first Kagepro fic I mentioned (although I’m not even sure I was aware back then that the Japanese version of the game literally called “It” a “demon”, which is even more fitting). I believe this was part of a Pokémon series I was writing involving a creepy little girl and Mewtwo who would bring about the end of the world or something like that, but generally I guess I was just going for a “Catcher in the Rye” feel. *shrug* Golden Lights

The pale, rosy fingers of dawn were filtering in through the Granite Cave entrance, basking a small area near the opening in pinkish illumination. Just out of reach of its expanse sat little Mika, huddled in the gloom of the shadows, watching the light creep steadily towards her as the glowing ball of fire rose slowly towards the East. She knew about the Light that came from Outside. There were plenty other small apertures broken into the cavern walls and ceiling that allowed some thin streams of gold brilliance to trickle through. She had always done well to avoid them. The brightness was like poison to her skin. But they weren’t the Lights she’d had described to her by the old Crobat that always resided now deeper within the underground chambers, dozing now, most likely. He wouldn’t awaken until night came round, and she did not wish to rouse him and perhaps disturb him from a pleasant dream. She was very wise about things like that, being the young child that she was. Still, she would have liked to hear a story to comfort her just then.

Last one I could find, about a Sableye who, like Icarus, literally “flew too close to the sun”. In this interpretation I imagined that Sableye were creatures who could not stand sunlight at all, as it would cause their skin to burn. But Mika (pronounced like “Mica”) always dreamed of going outside to see the “Light” anyway. She was eventually tempted by Mew to leave the cavern under her angelic PROTECTion and step into the Light, who was acting as Ho-Oh’s messenger to “recruit” souls to “live eternal as an element of Ho-Oh’s Guarding Flame“, as the PROTECT faded and a “holy fire” began to spread. I guess I was going for a Biblical/”Rapture”-esque reference. (...Man I sure was obsessed with the endtimes as a kid. *shot*)

#Kagerou Project #Tateyama Ayano #Mekakushi Trio #Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuuutsu #ItsuHaru #ItsuYuki #Pokemon #Gary Oak #Molly Hale #fanfiction #starstories #astrologista #atsushishelteredinmoonlitjasmine #benditlikegumby #cryptoriawebb #ibmiller #iceperialprincess #otherwise uncolonized

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honeylikewords · 6 years

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luminous beings (poe dameron)

a fic from out of nowhere talking about poe, what goes on in that head of his during quiet hours, and the aging process. it’s a little odd and a little unexpected, but i wanted to do it so... here it is!

no warnings, as far as i’m aware, except for some brief existentialism and mentions of the concept of death. but it turns out alright: i promise.

to think that we could stay the same // but we're two slow dancers, last ones out. (mistki - two slow dancers)

Some planets have such a dense atmosphere that it can be hard to see the stars. Others are so widely populated, or have such congregated cities with such intense light pollution, that there’s nothing but grey-white skies, even at night, the clouds reflecting back the light like a great, gaseous mirror. Thankfully, D’Qar is nearly entirely uncolonized, spare for the Resistance base, so as Poe balances his arms on the railing of the balcony, the skies are free of any obstruction, and the stars are all on view, as crystalline and clear as they are when he flies among them.

It’s a beautiful night. No clouds, no flybys. The base is quiet. He’s able to take some time for himself, just gazing up at the skies and thinking slowly, letting his thoughts flow one into another, amorphous, untethered. Currently, his thoughts are sliding between the concepts for strategy and formations, and the concept of unity, belonging, destiny. He slips and slides between deep internal thought and solidified structures, unsure of what he wants to think about.

He gets introspective and silent when left alone for too long. He knows this about himself, but he forgets, sometimes: he’s hardly ever alone, these days, between his being always on-call and on-guard, always needed, always thinking about the current moment. He can’t remember being truly relaxed, actually. Poe’s been so busy being a functioning cog in this vast machine that he doesn’t remember what it’s like to be unwound, at ease.

Sighing, he pushes a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar tug of his thick locks. His fingers work at some knots that he’s neglected to brush through, and as he pulls them apart, he accidentally tugs out a hair, prompting him to let out a quick, quiet “youch”. He stops himself mid-tug to take a look at the hair, and notices that it glints in the light.

Another grey.

He breathes out tiredly through his nose and slouches further onto the railing, twisting the hair in his fingers and watching it glimmer in the starshine.

It’s grey, alright. It reminds him of the old men he’s seen through his travels; the weary, withered old bodies, their faces deserts of wrinkles and ridges of skin. He glowers at the hair and furrows his dark brows, his eyes squinting at the silver thread held between his fingers.

“Gettin’ old,” he murmurs to the night, still inspecting the hair. “Lucky me.”

Lucky indeed, he thinks. Some people aren’t lucky enough to get to having grey hairs. Some lives get cut short, robbed of their rightful growth. Some have their silver stolen from them before it’s even had a chance to show itself.

Poe turns the hair and watches it appear and disappear in the light, his mouth set in a line as he chews his lower lip. He thinks about the people he’s seen live to turn grey, and the people he’s seen who didn’t.

He has to admit, shamefully, that part of his frustration with the greying stems from vanity. He’s always been handsome: ever since he was young. People always remarked that he was noteworthy and striking in his appearance, even when he made no effort. It had become a backburner sense of identity; Poe Dameron, Pretty Boy. If he starts to turn visibly grey, he wonders if that opinion will change.

Will he be forgotten? Moved aside? Will he become obsolete? Part of him worries that people will love him less if he isn’t attractive: if he can’t be commodified by his looks, made digestible, maybe he’ll be less well-liked. He gnaws at his lip and wonders if the woman he loves will lose interest in him now that he’s getting old.

Just as he’s starting to fret to himself, he hears the hydraulic-lock doors behind him slide open and he turns to check over his shoulder. He feels himself slip back into present-minded-Poe, and he flashes a quick, half-intended smile.

“Hey, you,” he says, turning fully.

“Hey, yourself.” Poe’s sweetheart is standing in the doorway, watching him as he leans on the balcony. “You okay?”

She always sees right through him. Poe’s semi-smile falters, and he lets himself ease back into his thoughtfulness, a sigh slipping out between his teeth. She walks over to him and puts her hand on top of his, squeezing it as they rest their forearms against the balcony railing.

“You need to talk about it?”

He glances over at her and sees her face outlined in the moonlight, the white light shining off of her skin. There’s something unspeakably beautiful about her like this; maybe Poe’s been too alone in himself, but now that she’s here, he feels different. Strange. He feels like he’s not supposed to be standing here, looking at her like this, admiring her the way he does. But he also can’t bear the thought of being anywhere else.

Poe lifts her hand a little and interlaces their fingers. He feels the steely weight of his mother’s old wedding band around his neck as he moves, the ring bouncing on its chain inside his shirt, and he smiles to himself. It’s like the ring knows that it’s near its intended owner, like it’s calling to be given, but now’s not the moment, he tells himself. He squeezes her hand, then lifts their knotted palms up and kisses her knuckles, sighing out against her skin as he presses his big nose to the flat back of her hand.

“I’m just… you know how I get,” he murmurs. “It’s good to be quiet for a while. But when I’m quiet too long, the, uh, thoughts get louder to make up for the difference.”

“I know, sweetie,” whispers the woman at his side.

She raises her hand and gently brushes her fingers along his temple, nails gently grazing through his curls. He closes his eyes and lets his lips rest against their hands, still and silent. She pets his hair, and as she does, he can hear her breathing, hear the rhythmic ins and outs of her gentle sighs. His eyes open and he stares at her, sees the worry flickering on her features as she strokes his hairline, his jaw, his cheeks.

“I know you… you’ve been through a lot,” she says, breaking the silence between them. “I wish I could understand. I do. I know I never will, but I just wish, sometimes, that I could get inside your head and figure out what it is that’s going on in there.”

Poe pulls his lips off her hand and shakes his head, smiling weakly at his feet, rocking their hands back and forth.

“Not a lot of good stuff, darling.”

“Hush.”

As she continues her fingercombing, Poe becomes acutely aware that her fingers are running over the spots where his hair is more starkly grey. His temples, naturally, are where the greys congregate, but he also recalls that he’s grown an odd little patch of silver right on the top of his head, near the crest of his skull, as if he’d been struck by lightning in that singular spot.

Embarrassed, he ducks his head away, hoping that the move seems like a natural kind of faltering and not evasive. But her hand hovers in the air, a few inches away from him, frozen, and he knows he’s jarred her. He chews his lip anxiously, his eyes skating on the ground.

“Poe?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you… want me to go?”

“No, honey, no,” he stumbles, standing up straighter and putting his hands on her biceps, squeezing with what he hopes is reassurance. God, he feels like such a jerk. “No, I just… it’s gonna sound stupid.”

“It won’t,” she says as she shakes her head at him. “Talk to me.”

“...I’m going grey.”

“...Well, yeah, Poe, I knew that.”

He flushes hot across the face, feeling terribly ashamed. What a vain little thing he is, he thinks.

“Is… the grey what’s bothering you?”

“I just-- I dunno, it makes me feel like an old man. I’m not used to thinking about getting old.”

He realizes too late how grim that sounds and scrunches his nose in frustration, rolling his eyes at himself.

“No, god, I meant… I mean… it just never came up. My dad didn’t go grey until he was well into his fifties, and I’m not even close to fifty yet, not even forty, and I worry… I worry that I’m losing my touch. With all this--” he gestures loosely at the base-- “--with.. With you, and I don’t wanna, you know, let anyone down. I don’t wanna let you down. And I worry that I’m gonna get old and senile and screw this all up and then I won’t have anything left.”

There’s a pause, and Poe’s chin sinks down, his gaze locked on the ground as he knots his brows together and he bites bloody divots into his lips, frustrated and running out of words. Then he feels her hand break free from his hold and come up to cup his cheek; the cheek with the little crescent scar, compliments of Kylo Ren.

“Oh, my starboy,” she mumbles; Poe can feel her thumb smoothing the circle beneath his eye. “You worry so much, don’t you?”

“I worry about all the wrong things,” he laughs, his voice a little derisive. “I don’t worry enough about the practical things and get my pants in a twist about the dumb stuff.”

“Give yourself a little more credit, Poe. You’re just worrying, and worries build on each other. And it’s normal to see that great big pile of worries and feel so small compared to it. But, sweetheart, you’re not going ‘senile’, for god’s sake.”

Poe looks up from his boots, meekly meeting her eye, and he sees that potent half-smirk, her eyes warm and full of Light and goodness. He feels his heartstrings being tugged by the corners of that smile of hers, and he lets himself lean on her, his face tilting into the warmth of her hand on his cheek.

“You’re not going senile just because you’re getting a few grey hairs. Because, first of all, everyone knows that some people are just more likely to get grey hair early, and it has nothing to do with aging or mental faculties. And, second, you’ve been through enough stress for a thousand lifetimes in the span of less than a single lifetime, so that’s enough to throw a little salt into all this pepper.”

She tousles his hair playfully, and Poe can’t help but roll his eyes and smile along.

“You have been through… so much,” she reiterates, pausing her strokes to rest her thumb over the scar on his cheek. “More than anyone should have to go through. But you’re not losing your touch, and you’re not going to let anyone down. I promise you.”

“You don’t know that,” says Poe.

“I do know that. And I know that because I know you. I know that you’ve never, in all your life, failed anything or anyone because when you set your mind to something, you don’t stop until you have it the way you want it. And all of this? This war, this Resistance? You are the fire burning at its center, keeping this thing running. I don’t think any of us would be here without you.”

Poe makes an embarrassed, dismissive huff, but he closes his eyes and listens to her, taking her words in thoughtfully.

“You’re not going to get old and suddenly lose that magic inside you. And I know that because we have some very old, very important people still with us, and they matter, don’t they?”

“Of course they do,” murmurs Poe, his mouth pressed against the heel of her palm. “Of course.”

“Then why wouldn’t you?”

“Dunno. I just… worry.”

“I know. But that’s why I’m here.”

She steps in closer and wraps her arms around him, pulling him in tight. Poe feels her hand skate up his neck, fingers passing through the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck, then course through his dense curls up to the base of his skull and press his face into the crook of her neck. Poe lets himself give in, crumpling into her and letting his desire to be held, comforted, cared for, overtake his need to be the hero. He sways with her, taking deep, slowing breaths, and hoping that she can understand what he means, even if he hasn’t quite found the words, yet.

They rest in each other’s arms for a few moments, her hand gently scratching his head. He sighs into her and smiles placidly against her skin, listening to the night air rustling in the trees as it matches up with the rise and falls of her breaths. Somewhere, distantly, birds call to each other in the dark.

“You still think I’m handsome, right?”

Poe chuckles at himself as he rests his cheek on her shoulder, shaking his head.

“Don’t answer that, actually. Don’t feed my vanity.”

There’s a silent, heavy pause, and Poe starts to lick at his lips nervously, aware that perhaps he’s pushed the envelope a little too far, this time.

“I think you’re more handsome than ever, actually.”

“...What?”

He lifts his head from up off her shoulder and looks at her from under thick brows, his eyes scanning for the tell-tales of a lie, of sarcasm, but her face is placid, honest.

“I really do.” She smiles at him warmly, then presses her forehead to his, her eyes closing as his remain open. “You know I do.”

“But, like, with all this?”

One of his hands shoots up and passes through the spots where the grey is showing most prominently, his fingers looping around some of the silver spools.

“With all that. And more,” she responds, her eyes still closed. “The grey is handsome. It makes you look, hmm… rugged.”

“Rugged,” he repeats. His voice is more than a little deadpan.

“Yes. And silver-foxy. And besides, you know it wouldn’t matter to me if you were as ugly as a Hutt. You’re you. And I love you for what you do and who you are, not how you look.”

Opening her eyes at last, she looks at him, playful and coaxing.

“You being the most handsome man in the Galaxy is just a very pleasant bonus for me.”

Poe pushes his forehead against her, like a ram butting heads, but he feels the broad smile pressing on his features as the first few bubbles of laughter escape him. She seems to know how to worm her way through his walls every time, and he feels a little reassured. Not entirely-- he’ll have to handle some of this inside of himself-- but enough. Safe in her arms, Poe kisses her nose, soft and sweet.

Bent at the angle he is, Poe can feel the ring bounce off his sternum, swinging out on its chain through the dip of his shirt collar, and he watches it dangle between them. Shara Bey’s steel ring, glittering in the remnants of starlight. He gazes at it with tender eyes, then sees gentle fingers raise up to graze the ring’s outer edge. He looks back up at the woman held to him, curious.

“You’re like this,” she murmurs, staring at his ring. “Forged in hardship. Steel and silver... you’re unbreakable, unbending. Still beautiful. Still important.”

His breath is gone. His words fade, forgotten. He just lets himself look at her, his heart full of wonder and love, his feelings so complex and yet so simple.

Poe pulls her in to a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around her fully, his nose buried in her hair as he grips her perhaps a little too strongly. But he’s unwilling to let go, unwilling to let a fraction of his love go unexpressed. He holds onto her like she’s the last solid thing in all the Galaxy.

They stay like that for a good, long time, rocking in place, swaying to the natural rhythm of their muscles. Everything feels so nebulous around them, distant and far away, and Poe wants to hold on desperately to just her; he needs to stay tethered to his heart, and his heart is held in those hands of hers.

“You’re… very sweet to me,” he mumbles after a while, his hand rubbing at the base of her neck, fingertips grazing her hair.

“Only as sweet as you deserve. You’ve had enough bitter years to earn this.”

He pauses, pulling back to look at her, to study her face. Then he lets himself smile fully at her.

She’s something else. Something bright and phosphorescent. Something worth fighting for. The two of their hearts mingle together into some kind of wondrous, luminous reaction, glowing, and there’s nothing that compels him more than that light. He feels her with him wherever he goes; whether that’s the Force, or it’s love, he doesn’t care. He knows that his life is bigger than himself, and he’s inexorably tied to her.

So, he’ll get old, he acquiesces. He’ll age. He’ll get more scars, more marks, more grey hairs. But so long as he is loved, and so long as he continues to do the work he has determined to do in his heart of hearts, then it doesn’t matter what he looks like. Nothing is quite as beautiful as the Light, which lives in the glow inside warm hearts. It shines out through even the most scarred faces, turning everything it touches into something beautiful. He knows that because he sees it in every good, living thing, but most especially in her: that inherent, beaming brightness.

He’ll let his luminous nature shine out through these starlight hairs, and through his deeds, through his dedication to her. Nothing will quell him now that he’s made up his mind. He may get old and grey, but his grey will be the grey of fire-forged steel, something only made stronger with age, not weaker.

Poe knows he owes a great deal of his strength and courage to the one he loves; the light they make together is inextinguishable, and its burning fire is what pushes him beyond what he knew he could be. He feels the fire she ignites in him as he takes her hand and squeezes it, letting her guide him back inside so he can get some rest: in that moment, he feels nothing but pure, strong, positive energy racing back and forth between them, a connection unlike any other he’s ever felt.

Love and Light, he realizes, are what guides him. And there will never be anything strong enough in all the worlds to steer him away from his greatest love and brightest light: her.

#long post /#gif warning /#original #poe dameron #star wars #this was the thing i was writing last night which went from 'short expose on poe's greying hair' to #'8+ page document about poe's existential anxiety and desire to make a difference as seen through the lens of age and vanity'#and as far as im aware poe doesnt have his grey hairs in the movies so far but fingers crossed that they wont dye oscar's greys for the next #god ANYWAY im tired and anxious and worried and the Foolishness that has been transpiring lately has made me #uninterested in writing for anyone other than myself because !!!!! good lord !!!!!

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the-harvester · 7 years

Note

What was your Pink Diamond like?

:: Long Answer under the cut.

Pink Diamond [Who is, in this canon, who we know as Rose Quartz] was sweet, calm, and loving. She was the youngest of the Diamonds [she emerged last], and could be a bit. Naive with certain things. She was like a sister to White, Blue, and Yellow, and she was especially close with Yellow. They were best friends. They’d spar, have tea, gossip. She was incredibly affectionate and was very personable with her gems. She loved making new gem types, like Morganites, and was the type to try or collect things just because they were ‘fun’ or ‘cute.’ Pink, because of her naturally immature personality, had a bit of a hard time being a leader, which is why it took so long for her to get her first proper colony. She made gem types and was able to grow her part of the capital, but aside from a few cities here and there on other planets, she never got her OWN planet until Earth. Unfortunately, Pink could also be... very idealistic. Too idealistic. It’d be one thing if she went to the other Diamonds and calmly tried to talk to them about her viewpoints on keeping Earth uncolonized, and about her views on gems being more free to choose their own paths... But no. She just ditched them and sided with Earth. It was a rash and immature decision that led to a massive war that the Diamonds are just now starting to get over.

Pink Diamond believed, over time, that gems should have just as much freedom to be ‘themselves’ and to make their own choices as the Diamonds did. They all had varying personalities and dreams and interests, so why couldn’t their subjects? Back then, White, Yellow, and Blue all still held VERY true to ‘gems are made for a specific purpose, and it’s in their job to follow their coding.’ It kept order, and it made life simple. Everyone knew what they were supposed to do. Free will complicated things.Because of the war, though, they started rethinking that. Pink eventually went into hiding, disguised as a Rose Quartz. They never found her. They gave up on Earth, shattered the galaxy warp, and never looked back. They left Pink to the Earth, and all they ever do is send a Red Eye every 1000 or so years to make sure Pink isn’t planning some uprising. The Red Eyes only check for army-sized gem signatures, though, so the Crystal Gems have gone completely unnoticed.

Nowadays, the Diamonds are trying to have a more open view about letting gems be themselves instead of following a strict code. It’s very much in the early stages of this mindset, though. Yellow especially doesn’t adhere to this view very much in the grand scheme of things, because her gems especially like order and structure. Blue is probably the most open-minded about the ‘individuality of gems’, which is why she took in a lot of Pink’s subjects, and why her district, while very loose and generally happier, also has the most dysfunction. Free will comes with chaos, and they’re all trying to figure out the balance.

[Alternate Universe notes: Pink Diamond was never shattered. Rose Quartz, the gem we see in SU, is not actually a Rose Quartz. Nobody collected up humans for the ‘human zoo’, either. She did still have Steven, who in all technicality in this AU is ‘Pink Diamond’, but those are where anything having to do with The Harvester stops. Peridot never went to Earth, Rose didn’t act QUITE the same as she does in SU’s canon, and the CG will never have to deal with Homeworld. Basically, past chapter 8, there’s NOTHING involving Earth anymore. The Diamonds aren’t the ones who caused the corruption on Earth, and the Cluster is dormant. It was a failed project. Earth is completely separated from the plot, aside from one other possible visit to the planet in the future.]

#;;The Harvester #;;Yellow's Archives #;;Astire's Archives #Pink Diamond #Anonymous

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pensarelvirus · 4 years

Text

Rethinking the Apocalypse: An Indigenous Anti-Futurist Manifesto

The end is near. Or has it come and gone before? – An ancestor

Why can we imagine the ending of the world, yet not the ending of colonialism?

We live the future of a past that is not our own. It is a history of utopian fantasies and apocalyptic idealization. It is a pathogenic global social order of imagined futures, built upon genocide, enslavement, ecocide, and total ruination.

What conclusions are to be realized in a world constructed of bones and empty metaphors? A world of fetishized endings calculated amidst the collective fiction of virulent specters. From religious tomes to fictionalized scientific entertainment, each imagined timeline constructed so predictably; beginning, middle, and ultimately, The End. Inevitably in this narrative there’s a protagonist fighting an Enemy Other (a generic appropriation of African/Haitian spirituality, a “zombie”?), and spoiler alert: it’s not you or me. So many are eagerly ready to be the lone survivors of the “zombie apocalypse.” But these are interchangeable metaphors, this zombie/Other, this apocalypse.   These empty metaphors, this linearity, only exist within the language of nightmares, they are at once part of the apocalyptic imagination and impulse. This way of “living,” or “culture,” is one of domination that consumes all for it’s own benefit. It is an economic and political reordering to fit a reality resting on pillars of competition, ownership, and control in pursuit of profit and permanent exploitation. It professes “freedom” yet its foundation is set on lands stolen while its very structure is built by stolen lives.

It is this very “culture” that must always have an Enemy Other, to lay blame, to lay claim, to affront, enslave and murder. A subhuman enemy that any and all forms of extreme violence are not only permitted but expected to be put upon. If it doesn’t have an immediate Other, it meticulously constructs one. This Other is not made from fear but its destruction is compelled by it. This Other is constituted from apocalyptic axioms and permanent misery. This Othering, this weitko disease, is perhaps best symptomatized in its simplest stratagem, in that of our silenced remakening: They are dirty, They are unsuited for life, They are unable, They are incapable, They are disposable, They are non-believers, They are unworthy, They are made to benefit us, They hate our freedom, They are undocumented, They are queer, They are black, They are Indigenous, They are less than, They are against us, until finally, They are no more. In this constant mantra of violence reframed, it’s either You or it’s Them. It is the Other who is sacrificed for an immortal and cancerous continuity. It is the Other who is poisoned, who is bombed, who is left quietly beneath the rubble. This way of unbeing, which has infected all aspects of our lives, which is responsible for the annihilation of entire species, the toxification of oceans, air and earth, the clear-cutting and burning of whole forests, mass incarceration, the technological possibility of world ending warfare, and raising the temperatures on a global scale, this is the deadly politics of capitalism, it’s pandemic.

An ending that has come before.

The physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual invasion of our lands, bodies, and minds to settle and to exploit, is colonialism. Ships sailed on poisoned winds and bloodied tides across oceans pushed with a shallow breath and impulse to bondage, millions upon millions of lives were quietly extinguished before they could name their enemy. 1492. 1918. 2020…

Biowarfare blankets, the slaughter of our relative the buffalo, the damming of lifegiving rivers, the scorching of untarnished earth, the forced marches, the treatied imprisonment, coercive education through abuse and violence. The day to day post-war, post-genocide, trading post-colonial humiliation of our slow mass suicide on the altar of capitalism; work, income, pay rent, drink, fuck, breed, retire, die. It’s on the roadside, it’s on sale at Indian markets, serving drinks at the casino, restocking Bashas, it’s nice Indians behind, you.

These are the gifts of infesting manifest destinies, this is that futured imaginary our captors would have us perpetuate and be a part. The merciless imposition of this dead world was driven by an idealized utopia as Charnel House, it was “for our own good” an act of “civilization.” Killing the “Indian”; killing our past and with it our future. “Saving the man”; imposing another past and with it another future.

These are the apocalyptic ideals of abusers, racists and hetero-patriarchs. The doctrinal blind faith of those who can only see life through a prism, a fractured kaleidoscope of an endless and total war.

Its an apocalyptic that colonizes our imaginations and destroys our past and future simultaneously. It is a struggle to dominate human meaning and all existence. This is the futurism of the colonizer, the capitalist. It is at once every future ever stolen by the plunderer, the warmonger and the rapist.

This has always been about existence and non-existence. It is apocalypse, actualized. And with the only certainty being a deathly end, colonialism is a plague.

Our ancestors understood that this way of being could not be reasoned or negotiated with. That it could not be mitigated or redeemed. They understood that the apocalyptic only exists in absolutes.

Our ancestors dreamt against the end of the world.

Many worlds have gone before this one. Our traditional histories are tightly woven with the fabric of the birthing and ending of worlds. Through these cataclysms we have gained many lessons that have shaped who we are and how we are to be with one another. Our ways of being are informed through finding harmony through and from the destruction of worlds. The Elliptic. Birth. Death. Rebirth.

We have an unknowing of histories upon histories of the world that is part of us. It is the language of the cosmos, it speaks in prophecies long carved in the scars where our ancestors dreamed. It is the ghostdance, the seven fires, the birth of the White Buffalo, the seventh generation, it is the five suns, it is written in stone near Oraibi, and beyond. These prophecies are not just predictive, they have also been diagnostic and instructive.

We are the dreamers dreamt by our ancestors. We have traversed all time between the breaths of our dreams. We exist at once with our ancestors and unbirthed generations. Our future is held in our hands. It is our mutuality and interdependence. It is our relative. It is in the creases of our memories, folded gently by our ancestors. It is our collective Dreamtime, and it is Now. Then. Tomorrow. Yesterday.

The anti-colonial imagination isn’t a subjective reaction to colonial futurisms, it is anti-settler future. Our life cycles are not linear, our future exists without time. It is a dream, uncolonized.

This is the Indigenous anti-future.

We are not concerned with how our enemies name their dead world or how they recognize or acknowledge us or these lands. We are not concerned with re-working their ways of managing control or honoring their dead agreements or treaties. They will not be compelled to end the destruction that their world is predicated upon. We do not plead with them to end global warming, as it is the conclusion of their apocalyptic imperative and their life is built upon the death of Mother Earth.  We bury the right wing and the left wing together in the earth they are so hungry to consume. The conclusion of the ideological war of colonial politics is that Indigenous Peoples always lose, unless we lose ourselves.   Capitalists and colonizers will not lead us out of their dead futures. Apocalyptic idealization is a self fulfilling prophecy. It is the linear world ending from within. Apocalyptic logic exists within a spiritual, mental, and emotional dead zone that also cannibalizes itself. It is the dead risen to consume all life.

Our world lives when their world ceases to exist.

As Indigenous anti-futurists, we are the consequence of the history of the colonizer’s future. We are the consequence of their war against Mother Earth. We will not allow the specter of the colonizer, the ghosts of the past to haunt the ruins of this world. We are the actualization of our prophecies. This is the re-emergence of the world of cycles. This is our ceremony. Between silent skies. The world breathes again and the fever subsides. The land is quiet. Waiting for us to listen.

When there are less distractions, we go to the place where our ancestors emerged.

And their/our voice.

There is a song older than worlds here, it heals deeper then the colonizer’s blade could ever cut.

And there, our voice. We were always healers. This is the first medicine.

Colonialism is a plague, capitalism is pandemic. These systems are anti-life, they will not be compelled to cure themselves. We will not allow these corrupted sickened systems to recuperate. We will spread.

We are the antibodies.

+ + + +

Addendum: In our past/your future it was the unsystematic non-linear attacks on vulnerable critical infrastructure such as gas utilities, transportation corridors, power supplies, communications systems, and more, that made settler colonialism an impossibility on these lands.

Our organizing was cellular, it required no formal movements.

Ceremony was/is our liberation, our liberation was/is ceremony.

We honored our sacred teachings, our ancestors and coming generations.

We took credit for nothing. We issued no communiqués. Our actions were our propaganda.

We celebrated the death of leftist solidarity and it’s myopic apocalyptic romanticism.

We demanded nothing from capitalists/colonizers.

Fuente: http://www.indigenousaction.org/rethinking-the-apocalypse-an-indigenous-anti-futurist-manifesto/

[Publicado 19/marzo/2020]

#Rethinking the Apocalypse: An Indigenous Anti-Futurist Manifesto #Manifesto #manifiesto #covid-19 #coronavirus #crisis #indigenous action #action #society #sociedad #worldpolitics #reflexión #Repensar el apocalipsis

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bornfromscarletcords · 6 years

Text

Unfortunate Fate (Reigning Dragons And Peculiar Circumstances)

Now it should be said that Roger wasn’t much of a somebody, or at least not by the average human's standards. He was kind of a scrawny guy, not all that physically imposing. Not exactly well groomed either, he had that careless “just risen” vibe which seemed to cling to him at all hours of the day. And not in the good way. No, Models, and movie stars, and those pretentious (in a good way) hipster lover boys can pull off this look no problem. On Roger, it just looked sad, sad and aggravating. If his poor grooming wasn’t enough you had to take into the account the sheer monstrosity that was Roger in conversation. He was not at all confident in the way of speech, lots of stuttering stops followed by groans and moans that were more or less incomprehensible. Really, it was usually not at all pleasant for anyone involved, even those just barely in earshot. Words like “Could someone put down that dying frog already” would not be uncommon responses. You couldn’t really blame people who said things like this, interactions with Roger were confusing at the best of times, and if you met him, you would probably understand what I am talking about.

Many were uncertain about the nature of Roger’s intelligence, no one could deny that he was surrounded by a rather obscure aura of luck. For all his incompetence (real or imagined) he had a stable income, a house in good order, and a rather fortuitous relationship that didn’t seem to be in the way of ending anytime soon. That being said, he was a scatter brain if there ever was one. Always misplacing things, losing time, and finding trouble wherever he could. It always worked out okay, I suppose, in a way these circumstances even bettered his rather odd livelihood, but that wasn’t always easy to see, especially if you were Roger.

Roger was an Architect, and was more or less decent at his job. In his youth he dreamed of being a great explorer and charting wonders unimagined. He sold this dream to his parents as, “I want to be an Archeologist”. Well, being parents (creatures subject to odd whims masked with the self-legitimacy of “education” or a martyr like outlook towards “future interests”) they told him to choose another profession starting with the letter “A”. So an Architect he became, though occasionally he wondered how serious, or more relevantly, how right his parents had been with their suggestion.

Roger lived on the countryside surrounded by plains and mountains, and a sea breeze that could guide you to wondrous beaches and an ocean forged of salty dreams. It was all in all a good place to live, that is if you excused the people who also resided there. Roger’s house was located near the top of a hill that was not all that treacherous, but still very impressive. Roger had built himself though he was a bit unsure about who had helped him on this endeavor. He was pretty sure that it was some of the construction workers alligned with his company, but no one was claiming responsibility. Not that it was a bad thing to claim, in fact in many ways it was a marvel of the ages. Roger’s sporadict mind and ignited passions (certain activities could bring out a typically dormant side to him) gave way to an ode to ages lost and yet to come. Here or there you would see a homage to victorian england, Moorish Spain, an ancient and uncolonized Africa, Native tribes of America’s eastern coast. It was like a totem in itself, a harolding of miracles hidden between the lines (so to speak). But Roger was not only interested in the agreed histories of the world, he was interested in the contradictory realities of obscure and persecuted beliefs. Here or there you would see a nod to paganism, animism, Christianity, Islam, Bhudism, and so on and on. But Roger could be forgetful as we’ve said so, although sometimes he remembered certain things standing tall within his hall (so to speak) from one moment to the next they could be “gone”.

Roger suffered near crippling migraines and nothing set them off worse than when something he thought was there no longer was (But don’t get me started about when something he thought was there but no longer was decided to be there again, oh boy, were those migraines the worst). In fact it wasn’t until he stumbled on his rather fortuitous relationship that he discovered a pure and loving cure to his pain.

Alessandra (Alice for short) Starcatcher was a beauty if one had ever been born. Her existence in Roger’s life was an anomaly to say the least. Roger was not what you would call, a casanova, if anything he was a casanever (at least as far as most humans were concerned). Seeing the fair Alice soak in his presence and even embrace the pure enigma that was Roger inspired a disturbing sense of dread in many when they weren’t in the throes of Jealousy or an embittered sense of annoyance at this thwarting of the status quo. Alice didn’t mind though, in fact she may have enjoyed there rather contradictory emotions towards a person they’d rather forget more often than not. Roger could tell you best that Alice was unlike most things he had ever seen (or that anyone had ever seen). People were just drawn to her, but most simply bounced off the way a moth might to a light bulb, the only one who could be consumed by her fire was Roger himself. It was hard to say whether she was conventionally attractive (Whatever that means) all societies and peoples had different conventions but even in her flaws (if she had any) Roger found an intoxicating appeal. If her characteristics had to be summed up, you could say that she was average height, with startling blue eyes, palish skin, and a crown of rambunctious scarlet curls that could almost reach her waist. Roger liked her lips especially when she was smiling, which she did often around him, and he liked her laughter which seemed to inspire sunshine even in the dead of night. He liked her words which were always warm and eager and spontaneous. He liked the way she sang into his ears when he was sleeping. Of course there were other choice attributes that he was more than a fan of but perhaps those are a little too personal.

If people were in the way to speak to visit Roger, it was usually only so that they could love Alice while simultaneously hating the waste that Roger was on her charitable and bountiful heart. Both emotions came easily. Roger didn’t mind. Although he was painfully aware of his standing amongst the citizens for the countryside Alice and him would often make games of their odd obligations in the lives of others. Roger would often wander out of sight, or at least out of mind of most and Alice would make a habit of Posing in flattering if erotically ridiculous positions usually augmented by some tongue wagging, or long very wide yawns (miraculously no one seemed to notice her behavior). Needless to say the two were often in the way of cutting out early, or at least disappearing for an hour or two.

After escaping to a nearby haystack (they had been invited to a party by some local farmers) and tossing about in a sweaty display of passion, lust and somewhat misplaced humor Alice looked down into Roger’s eyes and said “I love you more than time and its sorrows” which inspired an explosion of activity causing the depth of the words to be appreciated at a later more relaxed moment. Said moment was when they returned to the party. Specifically while many of the other guests admired Alice’s apparent “glow” of sorts and condemned Roger’s aura of grime and what they mistook to be shame. In reality he was just very confused. Alice’s words held beauty, which wasn’t uncommon, but there was a certain sadness, a foreboding anchor of despair that put him in less than a great mood (but still pretty good all things considered). He was afraid, afraid because Alice had been afraid, and Alice didn’t seem to be afraid of anything.

With time, Roger lost this sense of dread like he lost more than a few things and I would like to say things were simple and good for our unlikely pair after that, but then we really wouldn’t have a story.

So it was that Roger came home one day and things were not quite right. He heard some noises in the kitchen and began undressing for what he assumed to be a standard (yet lovely) midday, mid-dweek foreplay-luncheon (set for two of course). You could imagine how embarrassed he was when he found not Alice in the kitchen, but four men garbed in what was more or less intimidating black suits (though they weren’t intimidating because they were black…). Roger thought there might have been something wrong with his eyes because he couldn’t tell if suits of armor, business suits, suits of cards, or the suits of a federal agent. It was all very confusing an emotion compounded by his own sense of nakedness (physically and mentally, though the mental aspect was, more or less, just his state of being). Roger looked from man to man to man in such a compelling order that even a few of the suits began to look at one another as well. All very comedic (quality slap-stic)

“Who are you?” Roger said.

“That’s your first question? Not where’s my wife? Is she safe? What are you doing in my house. Or better yet ‘get the fuck out’. No. Its ‘who are you’ as if you’d all like us to wank you off over a cup of tea.” Said one of the men in suits.

“They aren’t married sir.” Said another.

“Oh do shut up, this shithole has me tired enough without all your corrections.” The First man said.

“Perhaps a better term for him would be flesh toy.” Said the third man, looking to Roger as if he was honestly trying to help. Roger felt compelled to nod/shrug in agreement. The first man just gave the third a look.

“Uh...why are you here?” Roger said.

“It’s too late now, you’ve already disappointed him.” The second man said.

“Right, sorry about that.” Roger said. The first man gave him a look before peering out the window. It was a look that summed up most of the fatherly abandonment/strife/disappointment that Roger had experienced in his twenty-something years of life. Oddly enough it instilled him with a sense of familiarity.

“To answer your first and poorly crafted question. We are the Scales. Consider us as something like honored vassals to your lord and lady Alessandra.” Said the first man.

“We watch over her, you know, make sure she’s safe, well fed, gets a dog every once in a while. Ya know.” Said the third man. He had a pleasant smile.

“So you’re Alice’s baby sitters?????” Roger said. They could sense the extra question marks.

“Did you...did he just call us babysitters.” The first man said as if he had a gun he should have been reaching for.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve never sat on a baby, not for money or fun, and I’ve lived a long time.” The second man said pointing a deadly finger at Roger.

“Sorry, you’re like her guards???” Roger said; his question marks decidedly less audible.

“Yes, we’re ‘like her guards’”, The first man said in a somewhat hurtful imitation of Roger’s voice “we are the line in the sand that stands between rule and ruin. Before her enemies can even witness her form we will be their to pluck out their eyes.” The first man said. The third man nodded along like it was an awesome set of stories from an epic road trip.

“So you know where she is?” Roger said. The Fourth man nodded yes (he was the only one wearing a helmet, or were they just really extravagant shades. “Will you tell me where she is?” The fourth man nodded no.

“Strict orders you see, it’s on a need to know basis” Said the second man.

“I’m her flesh toy...I mean partner, I deserve to know.” Roger said.

“If she wanted to tell you she would have.” Said the First man.

“What makes you so sure of that. For ‘honored guards’ I don’t know why this is the first time I’m even hearing about you.” Roger said. The second and third man gritted their teeth and moved towards the corners of the room. The fourth just looked to the first who was all but fuming. Roger was almost certain he saw steam rising from his head.

“That’s a bit of sore subject.” The second said looking to a wall for safety.

“She kind of sent us a way. Freedom and all that.” The third said in barely more than a whisper. The first looked like he was going to speak, but just when he opened his mouth, the house began to shudder as if it wanted to break. He closed his mouth and left the room. The shuddering stopped. The others looked a lot more relaxed, even the fourth. The third walked over to Roger and placed his arm about his shoulders and guided him to a seat.

“You see its nothing personal, not really. Lady Alessandra was in the ways for a vacation, or something like that, I’m not really sure if there’s a word for it in your tongue. There was no real set time limit, but she’s been called back. Such is the way of things ya’ know.” Said the Third man.

“Well, when can I see her again.” Roger said, still a little stunned by the sense of dread permeating from the very nature of this scene.

“Uh, never...and mostly after that as well, but by then people start to forget some of the more important things” The second man said.

“Nothing personal.” The third man said.

“It feels very personal. Why are you doing this?” Roger said, feeling negative eleven.

“Orders.” The Second one said.

“Straight from the High Queen herself.” The third said.

“Who the hell is that?” Roger said.

“Lady Alessandra’s grandmother, she didn’t tell you?” The third said.

“She said she had money, but I didn’t think royalty...I think she said her grandmother was dead.” Roger said. The third and the second looked at each other for a moment as if discussing Kipling’s take on the dichotomy between man and beast.

“That was probably something like a hurtful jest.” The Third said.

“Lady Alessandra is very funny.” The second said.

“Don’t you think I know that.” Roger said, his stress was almost legible.

“I know this is a stressful time for you my friend, but sometimes stuff like this just happens, ain’t nothing you can do about. Ain’t no one to really get mad about either. Just the way it is.”

“I can be mad at you people.” Roger said.

“That wouldn’t do you much good.” The second said.

“Odds are you’ll never see us again, and my friend, listen closely when I say this, if you do see us again, it will be a very very bad thing.” The third said, and Roger felt something of that deep, almost instinctual fear that he felt when he first saw them and their shifting suits.

The first man stepped back into the room, looking calm-ish.

“We’re late.” He said and the fourth followed him out of the room.

“Well thems the brakes.” The second said before doing the same. The Third gave him a wave as he left.

Roger just sat there for a couple of hours drinking in the the sheer amount of dread that was escaping the pores of his home. It was around the time that the moon was high in the sky that he realized he should probably clothe himself, so he did that. Then he tried calling Alice’s phone. It didn’t so much as ring, apparently the number had never existed. He looked up a couple of her articles (she enjoyed life as an investigative journalist for one of the local agencies) and thankfully they were still there. Her piece on the symbiotic relationship between a forrest kitten and a nest of snakes was remarkable to say the least. That being said, the website said that she would be gone on an indefinite sabbatical, and had been since three o’clock that morning. Already she was getting comments of how dearly she’d be missed. It would seem that strangers were more on the ball about his relationship than he was.

It didn’t get much better after that. There was crying...a lot of crying. Roger decided to replace sleep with a compulsive need to search for signs of his lost beloved. He made posters, and opened chatrooms that might produce some clues. He got called a pussy in every third comment, and at first it was only one guy doing it, which Roger called him on, only producing an army of digital trolls ready to call him on his pussiness when ever they saw fit. To be honest that was not the most hurtful thing that was said. It was the honest question of thirteen year old Jane Fernman who said “Are you sure she didn’t leave you for someone else?”. There was a bit of interlude between this question before someone replied to it with a “Yeah dude she definitely left you for someone else”. It was not going well for our friend Roger.

The weeks came and went and it was still not going well. In his moments of weakness, shame and confusion, Roger took down one of the few remaining photos of Alice that he had left. He began to sob profusely and in between said sobs he attempted to pleasure himself. Not one of his best moments, no. He had already spent more than a few days isolating himself in his house. The streets were too full of judgement and nods from fate that told him that his beloved was probably being pleasured by a score of much more satisfying lovers (somehow, all bearing a resemblance to the people he had grown to hate in his life, not excluding his grandfather), that he was, in fact, less than nothing without her presence to give him legitimacy, and that suicide was probably the only redeemable effort that he could put forward at this point (not by much though, it was more of a service to the world than anything).

So, in his house Roger did stay with only his despicable circumstances to keep him company. Wanking and crying, crying and wanking; seemingly unseen. Now Roger planned to relieve himself into a sock or a napkin or something, but just as he was about to reach his conclusion he noticed that Alice’s picture winked and pursed her lips together at him. The mixed feelings of lust, hope, and fear must have confused him because he ended up just making a mess all over the place.

That night, after some cleanings and ruminations, he tried to sleep easy. He would ultimately fail, which wasn’t surprising in itself, only the reason behind it. Just as his eyes were beginning to close down into what would be about fifteen minutes of fitful napping, Roger saw a face. Roger saw a face, a body, and a tail descending from (or was it through) his ceiling. The creature (though a number of much more favorable and delightfully improper words could be used to describe it) wavered through the air like a serpent below the water’s surface. It landed atop our fair Roger here and nearly made him piss out his heart. The creature had eyes of pure black, an infinite night unlike any that had ever been seen, augmented by an iris of a gilded tourquoise. Its skin held the appearance of crystalline scales with a certain pale seduction stuck between blue and violet. It sported a crest of horns that curled about its head like a crown or a weapon made for gorging. It’s hair held a similar lilac hue mixed in with an impenetrable darkness, that made so much as brushing against it a feat fitted for titans. Its tail was long and from the way it swam through the air Roger got the odd sensation of man readying a dagger. Are you scared? To be honest I can’t tell you whether what you’re feeling right now is appropriate, I would like to say that the next couple of sentences should provide some clarity, but in truth, they might just make this more confusing.

Now this creature was a marvel, definitely assorted with the odd features of monsters, but then again you haven’t heard about some of its...other features. In Roger’s eyes this monstrous creature also sported the body of one of the most beautiful women he had ever had the gall to see or even imagine. With that said, it was not making any motion to free itself from the proximity of his skin. In fact it seemed to want to press itself against every inch of his body. As it cooed and sighed with sounds that seemed both animal and utterly desirable, Roger found himself assaulted by scents of delectable fruits and flowers and lusty machinations. The creatures skin did not feel like whatever Roger’s repressed senses thought a spawn of hell and evil incarnate would feel like (which was what he was expecting). It felt like a heart beat, like a fluttering flame that comforts a woodsman throughout his treks into the wilderness (like an old friend). It had an energy, a sort of calling and pulse that brought life to Roger wherever she (or was she an it?) touched. The creature was garbed in a veil that evoked the colors, or at least essence of blood, but it in no way hindered the rather generous view of flesh that Roger was becoming accustomed to. The tail whipped around, like a raptor who had scented its prey.

“Um, hello.” Roger said, after finally finding words. The creature stretched up his frame and slowly looked to his eyes. It groaned a peculiar and foreign sound that nearly had Roger in the throes of what could only be called, ecstasy.

“No, but not far off.” The creature said in a voice that seemed to echo with the voices of Roger’s greatest loves, becoming, in itself, something entirely new.

“What?” Roger said, he couldn’t quite recall five worded sentences.

“Not pleasure, not even love. Passion is my path, my cause. In it you will find my beginning, my becoming, and my end.” The creature said nuzzling beside his ear and sending his neck afire.

“So, Passion, that’s like your name?” Roger said.

“If names please you.” Passion said, toying with one of his hairs and breathing delicious scents along his face.

“What are you exactly?” Roger said.

“Why, does this form displease you?” Passion said, rearing above him with a look of doeful questioning.

“Not exactly.” Roger said, slowly recalling that feeling of winking photographs.

“Perfect.” Passion said, letting a smile that Roger couldn’t help to interpret spread along her face. Leaned in close again, her lips almost touching his. She placed a finger of a blackened and rather sharp looking nail to his temple.

Roger felt something squirming through his head, evoking something not quite good, and not quite bad. Something electric, a thing prone to ignition.

“What are you doing?” Roger said, his mouth a buzzing tool of nonsense.

“Searching for a word, this world is different from how I remember it. Things have changed. Oh...this one’s pretty, it should do.” Passion said.

“Which one.”

“Demon.”

“Why that word.”

“Because that’s what I am.” Passion said, and oddly enough, Roger felt that his life was finally beginning to settle into place. (Bear in mind, a wartorn family traveling about an apocalyptic wasteland might feel the same if, when the smoke cleared, alien invaders started walking about)

“You don’t seem surprised.” Passion said, her tongue slithering along the nape of his neck.

“Sorry, it’s just that I think my heart has gone into a coma. Is it still beating?”

“Yes, eagerly by my account. It’s so...fresh.” Passion said with a hunger that was no way lost on Roger. He might have thought of trying to move out of room. You know to get away from the demon that had invaded his home, but it seemed that his flesh was more or less glued to wherever Passion wished to touch him. For this reason he both thanked and lamented the fact that he had stopped sleeping completely nude.

“There is another on your mind. A creature more fair than, I. I couldn’t imagine it.” Passion said. Roger felt that squirming in his head again and he could see it trying to overtake his memories, and he might have let it, but then an image flashed in his head. An image of Alice standing on a cliff looking out to the ocean crashing on the rocks below. She was smiling as if the world began and ended with her on that cliff, loving him. Passionate demon that she was, the creature could not have the love of his life, not her face, not her soul, and not her life.

“Fairness has nothing to do with it. Life isn’t about fairness.” Roger said sluggishly, but with a strength that was usually lost in his more public interactions.

“What?” Passion said.

“I don’t know, it made sense in my head.” Roger said.

“Just relax my love, you are safe in my arms.” Passion said.

“No I’m not, I’m not safe at all. Outside of the fact that I’m beginning to think you want to eat my soul or something, no one is ever safe. Shitty things happen all the time, and just when you think you’ve found a perfect solution, the solution to all the BS in the world, it gets snatched away from you.” Roger said, sitting up causing Passion to right herself by straddling his lap. She looked at him with eyes that turned, almost contradictorily, predatory and cold.

“You know this isn’t very sexy.” Passion said.

“I don’t care.” Roger said.

“I’m serious, I’m trying to take it easy here, it’s been a long time since I’ve had...what do you call it, a proper shoreleave, and I’m not trying to spend shredding your more complex bodily functions.”

“You haven’t even denied wanting to eat my soul.” Roger said. The demon scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“I wouldn’t start with your soul. Probably your heart or something, by the end it’s all rather painless.”

“That depends on what you say is the end!” Roger shouted. The demon started giggling with a look that was both patronizing and innocent.

“Well, yeah.” She said. Internally Roger gave the audience a look that said, did you just see what I just saw. (The audience being you...partly)

The demon began to move her hips along some rather choice parts on Roger’s lap, and she was not as uncomfortable with the idea of nakedness as he seemed to be. As sounds of carnal slickness invaded his mind, Roger felt himself slipping closer and closer to an edge he didn’t think he could escape from. But then somehow, and someway he was at the door to his bedroom and flowing into the hall away from the demon so rudely tossed onto his floor.

The next few days were not simple to say the least. These newfound strength of character came at a brutal cost for poor Roger. Passion was relentless, when she wasn’t trying to trap in reality warping scenarios of desire and debauchery, she was more or less trying to break his mind and spirit with an onslaught of annoyance and terror. His house was more or less a warzone, between bleeding walls, screaming spectres next to kitchens straight out of a torture chamber, and the occasional swapping of door knobs with gaping bodily orifices (and not always the good kind). Roger hoped that he’d find some reprieve at work but wherever he went Passion would follow.

Eventually he stopped responding when he drew, not water from the dispenser, but a strange thick green fluid. At worst he would shrug and down it, it didn’t even taste that bad. The photocopier seemed to be set on producing little except ghastly sights from what could only be brutal and malevolent massacres. Roger stopped caring, in fact he was even collecting some (he was thinking of making a mural out of them). Using art as a coping skill aside, it should not be implied that he was completely immune to the demons tricks, it was just that there was the strong case that they were both becoming a little weary of the exchanges. Once he went into one of the local cafe’s to unwind. He ordered a cappuccino with whipped cream, but before it was delivered he took a trip to the bathroom. Not three seconds into his loathsome glaring at his own reflection, the waitress walks in empty cup of cappuccino in hand, with the almost incorporeal imprint of a crown of horns hovering about her head.

“Your cappuccino is ready sir. Hot and Creamy, but there’s one catch, you’ll have to drink it out of me.” The waitress said. (I won’t tell you where she put it, but there are probably just some places where coffee shouldn’t go) Roger just squinted his already shadowed eyes.

“That’s just disgusting...and lazy.” He said before walking out of the restroom. He left some cash at the counter and left.

Roger started drinking tea after that which was fine because Alice and him had a lot stockpiled in case they got sick (he doubted that coffee would ever be the same to him). He thought it might actually have been working too because he remembered having a relatively good morning. Some laughs, a sense of relaxation, and some well needed pleasent conversation. He and his guest toasted each other until he remembered that he lived alone, and that, by custom, people did not like him.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Roger said tossing his tea away as the alluring woman before him melted away into the equally (if not more) alluring demon he’d been trying to avoid.

“No, you’ve got to be fucking me. Literally and metaphorically, like what is this crap?” The demon said standing tall as reality began to fluctuate and buck with her rage.

“How long have I been under your…” Roger said but words were not coming easily these days.

“Spell, illusion, womanly wiles. Get over yourself its only been like three days, and don’t worry. Nothing happened.” The demon said looking at him with a disdain he thought reserved for Stalin and the DMV.

“Three days! What about my job?” Roger said.

“Don’t worry, you went, and you played the proper little minion as always you overly complacent bastard. I figured a little bit of ease and relaxation might make you more...malleable. But no, the most amount of warmth I get from you is from this damn tea, which is shit by the way.” Passion said.

“That woman you were just now, who was that?” Roger said.

“If you’re wondering about that aching sense of familiarity and loss don’t worry about it. I modled her after your dearly departed, or at least you did. For some reason you don’t want me to replace her for you. Which I could do in like a fucking second, if you’d get that stick out of your ass.”

“I am fine with the proverbial stick, up my proverbial ass.” Roger said. The Demon just crossed her arms. “Words aren’t coming easily right now, kind of something you should expect, when you’ve been haunting a person almost non stop for...two months. Two Fucking Months!” Roger said as the true nature of his situation began to settle in. One could not count the amount of prayers he had sent off to sweet baby jesus (like Santa Clause, he has a tendency not to write back).

Roger started walking to the door.

“And where are you going?” The demon said.

“To get a priest.”

I will give a bit of forewarning, bringing the priest into the equation, may not have been the best idea. There are just some things you don’t wish to know about a person. Roger returned to the house with Father Clayne in tow. Father Clayne, was a short kindly looking man. He was balding but felt the need to dye his hair a dark silvery color as if to accentuate that he was old, but not that old. He was, in fact, that old but few were in the mind to tell him this. Now Father Clayne would not normally be in the mind to help Roger (just in general) but the young man had made a convincing show of his outreach and the severity of his problem. Plus wasn’t the job of a kindly Father to help out the untouchables of society.

Well, anyway, they get to the house, and Father Clayne starts mucking about, oohing and aweing, all the while prepared to hear some confession about what was the “real” root of Roger’s problem (probably excessive masturbation or some sexual harassment in the workplace, but then again Father Clayne had not heard any tales of buried bodies in a long time). The good Father was just about to declare the house clean and sit Roger down for a “real” talk when the demon reared her head. Well, in all fairness, Passion had always been there it’s just that strictly speaking she wasn’t visible to many people (unless she wanted to be). She appeared as the woman Roger had mistaken her for with long black hair, lucious curves, and an assembly of red paraphernalia (red dress, earings and ring). She reached out to shake the Father’s hand, and he couldn’t have reached faster.

“Yes and you must be Alice’s cousin, Roger has told me so much about you. It’s a shame that she had to go, she really was the life of this place, though you hardly fall short my dear.” And the two shared a couple of laughs, real chucklers that lot.

Well, needless to say Roger’s heart sank faster than an anchor through a vat of boiling butter. In a matter of seconds Passion had warped Father Clayne’s memories and all but embedded herself in the town’s past, if not its future. She began guiding the Father towards one of her doors, all the while shooting Roger vicious and suggestive glances. Father Clayne reached for the door but Roger put his body against it.

“Do not open that door, I’m pretty sure it leads to tartarus or some other depth of hell, and don’t listen to that woman, she’s a goddamn demon.” Roger said.

“Now son, I will not have you speaking the lords name in vain and to insult his kind young woman no less. You ought to be ashamed.” Said the kindly Father.

“Ashamed.” Passion said while nodding in agreement. She began guiding the father down a different hall. Roger tried to take off after them, but he tripped, fell, and landed in the basement. How exactly he couldn’t quite explain to you, but such is the way of a world without words. There is a funny thing about people who mysteriously land in basements, despite the nature of their arrival many look for stairs as a means of escaping, as if logic could help you out of that situation. For example what if the thing that put you down there is just waiting at the top.

Roger looked for the stairs for a moment, but then, for some odd reason, he thought one of the vents in the walls would serve as a better route. He put his hand in one and fell into his bedroom. He was too tired for surprise, and too angry to really be nervous when he started hearing the screams. All he did was burst into a stumbling run that took him towards the source of the sound which turned out to be the same room as his tea stores.

What Roger saw in that room will not be repeated, neither will what he felt and knew from looking. Moments later Father Clayne crawled out of the room, clawed, whipped and most assuredly broken (if not outside then inside). He looked to Roger with tearful eyes.

“You are a sick sick man.” Roger said, and he was right. When, or if, his own problems were settled, Roger would set out to try and right some of the numerous wrongs (the word being an understatement) that the kindly Father had committed in his lifetime. A gust of wind knocked the Father into the air and, from the sound of it, carried him out of the house and into the unforgiving night. Passion was in the room laughing, masked in human form and looking especially delicious.

“That was fun, we should have people over more often.” She said doing this odd clucking motion with her tongue that made her throat sort of constrict in a nostalgic motion Roger wasn’t prepared for. He closed the door and went back to his room to sleep, while Passion laughed herself silly.

In the morning Roger saw the eye of the storm. Passion was sitting in the living room, observing one of Roger’s carvings with a tentative care that had either gone unused or overlooked in the time that she was with him. She still wore the face of Alice’s “cousin” but Roger wasn’t deceived.

“I don’t sense the usual aura of fire and brimstone, you on your period or something.” Roger said.

“Technically I don’t have a gender, or a cycle of ovulation.”

“So...that a no?” Roger said, only half jokingly, (his brain really wasn’t at its best).

“Our little dalliance with the good Father Clayne,” Passion began.

“Please don’t mention that man’s name, I’m still trying to scrub his evil from my eyes.” Roger said but he was afraid there were certain things you couldn’t unsee.

“It inspired me, you could say. After all this time with you and no real headway, I thought I might be losing my edge. All the powers seemed to be there, but where was the effect. Where was the worship, the bouts of rapturous carnality, the despair, the proselytizing.” Passion said, waving her hands in a way that wasn’t un-cute.

“Proselytizing?” Roger said.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve been pretty sad since you’ve came here.”

“You’re just saying that. You don’t really feel it. Sure I’ve batted you around but that mostly just makes you angrier. Bitter too, but that just gives more bite to the bark. You’re all wrong.” She said in a way that was lost on Roger (he didn’t see that she hadn’t got the words quite right).

“I can��t say I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you.” Roger said, for some reason there was a mug of tea in his hand and he felt in mind to drink from it.

“I decided to take a break, to be honest I thought about leaving entirely but I thought that’d give you some inflated sense of self, as if your little exorcism had succeeded. I went out and had a ball with these country faring folk.”

“What the hell did you do?” He said cringing.

“What didn’t I do, would be the question. Or, what didn’t they let me do? It was so easy Roger, like herding cattle, or lemmings. I saw their hatred of you, and I thought, finally, my kind of people, but they don’t even know why they dislike you. They just respond to whatever ingrained environmental response has been coded into them like moths to a...to a”

“A lightbulb.” Roger offered.

“Exactly!” Passion said, her eyes alight with a humor and warmth Roger hadn’t chanced to see in a while.

“Weren’t you just calling me overly complacent not a day ago.”

“Yes, but you grew complacent with something extraordinary. You’d rather mourn Alice for the rest of your life then accept that she could no longer be in it.”

“She is something special.”

“I know.”

“Some things you have to see with your own eyes.” Roger said.

“No, you don’t really get it do you. I know Alice...Alessandra. We’ve met a lot more than once.” Passion said.

“What the hell does that mean, you aren’t really her cousin are you?” Roger said.

“Um...perhaps the word rival would be more appropriate, but maybe you desire my familial relation to your lady love.”

“No thanks, and Alice doesn’t have rivals. She’s in a league of her own.” Roger said.

“I suppose I can’t argue with that, I’ve never met anyone like her. When I heard she had left her roost on this plane, I thought, hey why not screw with some of her stuff. I didn’t think I’d land right in her place of power on the first try, or that her plaything would prove so...sturdy.” Passion said with an odd sparkle in her eyes that would have put Roger on edge a couple of weeks ago. Instead he just sipped some tea.

“Yeah I’m getting like every fifth word over here. Stop Speaking Crazy, Woman.”

“I’m not crazy, and neither are you, which I know might be hard to believe after all this.” Passion said, which seemed odd to Roger because he was beginning to accept that this would simply be his state of being for the remainder of eternity, you know, until god graced him with death...or a coma.

“Does this change of heart mean you are finally going to leave?” Roger said.

“You aren’t that great of a listener are you? I’ve been inspired, revived. You are my mission. Alice chose you for a reason, and I will find that reason and more.” Passion said, a quiet flame in her eyes and almost reserved smile on her face. Roger just nodded, chucked his cup down the hall to hear it shatter and left for work.

“Tastes like Sin.” Roger said. One of his office mates had made a coffee run and Roger was almost sure that they had pissed in his cup. If they had, then he supposed he might have to use more piss in his drinks from then on, it was the best cup of coffee he’d had in awhile. Roger lounged about his office, thinking and such. It had been a while since he’d had a clear thought, but his break from words and sensible sentences had left him...fresh, if you’re willing to accept that word. Roger was an architect, but the life he had designed for himself was not quite what he had wished from the world. All this disappointment, annoyance, pain, sadness, corruption, it just didn’t seem very purposeful. The only good thing about heartbreak was that he knew there was something worth breaking his heart over, but he didn’t even know if he’d ever see it again. Was death and possible eternal damnation by, how did she phrase it, rapturously carnal demon sex the worst way to go. Who could say in this economy. All Roger knew was that the past hadn’t been too great. The current future he was looking down had the semblance of a shitstorm that threw up an abortion. And the present? He looked about his office, and he knew that so many things could go wrong, were currently going wrong. But what about all the things that could go right. The present was for possibility, and Roger didn’t think that was such a bad thing. He downed his coffee and decided to settle into something of a siesta (because irony).

It was late and Roger was almost sure that he was dreaming, so he didn’t mind that it was dark out, and that he was alone in a wilderness that was known to rear some pretty sizable wildlife. He just wandered, going where his feet took him, not really caring about anything. Not the world, not himself, not Passion, not nothing really. So it was that when he found a downed dear with a good portion of its stomach ripped out that he didn’t really put much mind to the fact that its eyes were still opened, and its lungs were still pumping air.

“Rough night huh?” Roger said, but the deer didn’t answer him. Roger shrugged and thought about moving on until he saw something move. He couldn’t place why, but it looked like a creature like no other (if that makes sense). In form it seemed simple possibly a big dog, but most likely a wolf. But a wolf of golden sheen, with eyes like an ocean at dawn, a celestial blue. It padded over to the deer, blood dripping from its mouth and sank heavy jaws into the creatures neck. It was fluid, and primal, as if a power incarnate, or a scion of nature. The deer was dead then, and the wolf continued to eat, never taken its eyes off of Roger.

“Well goodbye then.” He said with a wave, continuing on his way. By the end of the dream he hadn’t been made into some beasts dinner, so that was a plus. Besides that he had woken up in his kitchen, which had lost its torture dungeon feel, and had adopted something out of a suburban house warming kit. Roger walked up his stairs and went to his bedroom where Passion was waiting, which was not all that surprising. He figured that if his dream self had faced down a wolf without dying a real life demon shouldn’t have been all that different.

“I’ve been doing some thinking, this doesn’t have to be a completely terrible relationship. Perhaps some symbiosis, I’ve already fixed the kitchen, just think of what we…” Which was about as far as she got before Roger put his lips to hers. Some things don’t require words.

In the morning Roger was a little jittery, in the way that a man who diffuses a nuclear bomb might be a bit fussy during his victory bender. Passion wasn’t long in joining him, and when he saw her they instantly came together for yet another kiss, as if by instinct. She turned away from him in that unknowing way before taking a seat across from his. His jitters started to settle. He saw her notice this and they both started smiling, then laughing and they looked like proper idiots. Cute and magnificent idiots.

All in all things were pretty good for a while. Passion made navigating life oddly more enjoyable. Who knew that a union with an extradimensional entity could make people want to do the things you want them to do. Roger had never gotten more free stuff in his life. But of course, he never forgot the emptiness of life without Alice, and just as an icon must adapt to new media, Roger felt himself drawn back to center stage.

She had hair of gold and eyes that sang of oceans. And though Roger felt him drawn to her, as if by instinct or some equally inexplicable phenomenon (despite all things Roger was still only a novice in the romantic) her expressions held a certain disdain for all things soft and out of place. Like an open dismissal of the inferior. Roger was not sure what she saw when she was staring him down with the myopic guile of a pitbull gnawing on a rabbit, but he did not see much shift in her features.

“You, you are the one I am looking for.” She said. She was wearing brown leather over a standard blue shirt and black jeans. The picture of normality, but then again Passion had a way of looking normal sometimes too.

“I think you have the wrong person.” Roger said in the most honest way as possible.

“I know why I am here.” The woman said, stalking towards him, eyes squinting and becoming...something more than human.

“I really think you have the wrong person.” Roger said, pulling on that other portion of his brain where Passion had taken up residence. This mild tug could have sent a whole room of the townsfolk scattering to the wilderness, but it didn’t so much as phase this woman of gold.

“I have no time for your games,” The woman said, she looked him up and down, and seemed at a loss for words, and not in the good way, “Creature.”

“I just came to get some milk.” Roger said. There was nothing like having a surplus of cereal without any milk.

“Is that what you desire? Where we go there will be rivers of milk, if you wish. It seems like mild payment for what I require of you.” She said. He tried to think of a response, but he couldn’t fight the growing sense of despair and dread that seemed to be filling up the space between them. So much so that he didn’t see Passion rising to the surface. She began to leak out of his body and though his mouth moved it was not him speaking.

“Some conversations are best held over coffee.” Said the Demon. It reached out, past flesh and substance and in a matter of moments not, the woman and Roger sat sipping coffee in his kitchen.

“What in the name of Wolf, was that.” Said the woman, jumping to her feet, and readying herself into a stance that seemed to speak of death to the mind that Roger and his demon shared.

“First, why are you here?” Roger said.

“Because you brought me here.” The woman said, her voice leaking out something beyond human. Roger cursed his inability to ask the right questions.

“Well then why are you here in general, like this region?” Roger said.

“The answer is the same.” The Woman said, not necessarily becoming at ease, but somehow Roger was beginning to feel less and less safe within his own home.

“She’s a scary one.” Passion said, though Roger doubted the woman could hear those devilishly subtle and charming sounds.

“I severely doubt that I brought you here.”

“About a year ago, I saw a spirit wandering the woods near my kill. I thought it was a spirit of some kind, possibly seeking to heal what I had claimed as mind. I ended the creatures life, and it passed by without incident. That night left me with something to think about. Spirits can govern elements, regions, concepts even. They have power, but they are not things of substance, and shouldn’t be if balance is ever hoped to be maintained. Things of essence. So I thought to myself, what type of thing would force me to end the pain of a soul I had placed in torment, and yet still allow me to keep my meal.

“A creature of ambivalence?” Roger suggested.

“I think you meant, Indifference.” Passion suggested, kissing his cheek from an angle unseen.

“No, a creature of mercy, of charity, clemency even.” The Woman said, a sharp eagerness coming to her face. Roger wondered if that was her “joyful” expression, because if it was he’d rather her stick to bland humors.

“That sounds nice.” Roger said.

“Nice...yes nice and useful.” The Woman said, as if she had never used the word nice before and was willing to see if she could fashion it into a weapon.

“Did you ever see the spirit again?” Roger said.

“I’m staring right at it.” The Woman said. Roger and Passion did a mental stare at the other for a second.

“I don’t think that’s quite right. I’m human first of all, and a year ago I was pretty much nesting with the love of my life. We weren’t prone to watching nearly dead things. At least I wasn’t.” Roger said.

“Well, a few days after that night, I went looking for the spirit. I traveled to sacred grounds of my people, and something pulsed. Everything shook, there were colors I’d never seen and my head got assaulted with this strange influx of memories. I woke up in a place I’d never seen before, with a language I’d never used before, and I’ve been searching for you ever since.” The woman said.

“For a year?” Roger said. The woman nodded. “And you’re just showing up now?”.

“This world is a strange one. Odd people, odd customs, it took time to navigate but I made my way.”

“I’m just not seeing how this could make sense. It just doesn’t seem to line up.” Roger said.

“After everything you’ve seen you still don’t trust in what you can’t explain?” Passion said to him.

“I just want this woman out of my house, she looks like she wants to forge battle armor out of my bones or something.” Roger said with devilish subtlety.

“Your senses are trying to mask a truth they learned before you even knew your own name, let them follow a path only your imagination can track.” Passion said and he felt a violet and intoxicating fog bring life to the world.

The Woman was no longer a human fleshling of wasted breath. She was a hunter, moon bound fulcrum of the union between dreams and their antithesis. She was a Wolf, in soul and form. The fog began to settle, but Roger doubted that it would ever truly disappear.

“Yeah, I think I get what you were talking about now.” Roger said. The woman smiled, which was a terrible and beautiful thing.

“Then you will help?” The woman said.

“Look, I’m not a spirit. I still maintain that I am mostly human, though, I suppose, recent circumstances could call that into question. To be honest, I’m all out of charity. Most people just haven’t earned it.” Roger said.

“A human could not drag me to this realm, or to this kitchen in the way that you have. Charity is not about what you have earned, it’s about something that exists within everyone.” The woman said in the way a runaway teen might recount scripture she’d been forced to recite for years.

“There you see, not a spirit.” Roger said.

“Maybe, maybe not. This world is a strange one.” The Woman said. She walked about the room, sniffing, and from what Passion could tell, feeling out the memories of the foundation. “There was much strife here, and love, though it is carefully hidden. You have yet to provide an interpretation of your power.” The woman said. Roger looked to his demon but she only shrugged, trying the mask the slowly spreading smile on her face.

“My house was invaded by a demon, I settled the matter.” Roger said.

“How.” The Woman said.

“We came to an agreement of sorts. A seeing of eye to eye.” Roger said. The Woman shot him a sharp look, and Roger saw the beast within her glare in a way that had gone hidden throughout the majority of their conversation.

“Some things are not meant to be seen in such a way. Only slashed, burned, and forgotten for the good of all who endured and would endure it.” The Woman said, drifting closer. If Roger had hackles they would surely have been raised. “But you do not seem in the way of...evil. And if what you say is true, conquering a demon is no small feat.” The Woman said.

“The proper conqueror.” Passion said while running her hands through his hair.

“I have decided, You will follow me back to my world, and assist me in my endeavors.” The Woman said.

“I’m glad that you have made this executive decision.” Roger said but his sarcasm went unnoticed.

“As am I. It is a difficult decision. My kind do not enjoy the meddling of outsiders, but you seem capable for all your...uncertainty.” The Woman said.

“What is wrong with you, what part of I’m not going is not getting through.” Roger would have liked to have said but Passion hid his words.

“Think well, love of mine. This world has done nothing for you, only pain and sorrows. The light of your life was not born here, and even now she resides in realms far beyond your reach. Why not leave, and make a home of wilds untempered.” Passion said, and he was overcome with a flood of sights and wonders he dare not dream of before. Roger couldn’t help but lick his lips at the deliciousness that was waiting.

“I think that’s a swell idea, but before we embark, I must know your name.” Roger said to the woman.

“I’m not sure if there is an easy translation in this world, though I have tried to find one. I have gone by Sundew, or Heartstar, but they do not feel right.”

“Perhaps a new interpretation than” Roger said, and Passion was strong in his veins. The Woman smiled again but Roger was not so disturbed.

“A suggestion then?” The Woman said. Roger pushed a number of visions past that barrier called, the real, and he could see something like a somber delight invade the woman.

“Oceandawn.” Said the woman.

“Perhaps Dawn for short.” Roger said. The woman nodded.

“Now if we could be on our way.” Dawn said. Roger reached within himself, infernal depths waiting to be unleashed in lusty waves of violet destruction. Beside them, and within his home, he conjured a door, in every way a reflection of the power that bore it.

“After you.” He said. The wolf didn’t hesitate.

Roger found himself splayed on an unforgiving floor, and there was not a gold wolf in sight. He was too busy rubbing the soreness from his cheek to truly admire the images that had been emblazoned into the tiles but he assumed that they were the products of fine craftsmanship. At once he could sense eyes turning towards him, it was an ability formed from years of mismatched fight or flight reflexes. There were many folk passing by with scrolls, baskets, and garb that would have placed them somewhere in the eleventh century (though if we’re being honest many places did not change much give or take a couple of centuries). This was all rather fine and dandy, he’d been expecting something ludicrous like this, so he just sort of waved them by and started walking towards the largest set of doors he could see. Along the way he had the odd fortune of stepping in front of a mirror and boy, did he catch a fright. You see Roger finally saw why the people had been staring. Not counting the handsome set of roguish leather he was sporting, the impressive dagger at his hip, and the longsword strapped across his back, Roger had never looked better in his life. In truth he appeared, despite all sense of reason, honestly and thoroughly attractive. What were the chances?

“Passion, what the hell is going on?” Roger said in the subtle tongue of devils and demons alike.

“Shhhh. It’s best that we not speak long in a place like this. These people aren’t as dense as your folk, or at least, they’re dense in a different way. Find someplace secluded.” Passion said giving him a pat on the rump for good measure. Roger turned around to see if anyone had witness this display but those that were looking his way seemed to be more distracted by his smouldering features rather than anything. So Roger paced outside of the doors, and into the open air which smelled of dog and spices (though hopefully not a combination of the two). He passed by what appeared to be a marketplace of some sort formed by carts and buildings of thatch and stone and all manner of wood. It looked like the proper RPG, and Roger even thought of going to buy an enchanted staff or something, but then he thought that’d be silly. He walked down a secluded alley and gave Passion a mental tap.

“I suppose this will do, but you couldn’t have found a place that smelled a little less...plauge-ish” Passion said. She stepped out of the shadows as a woman of dark features with a dress of violets (the color, though she did have a few of the flowers tucked into her hair).

“Just tell me what’s going on.” Roger said.

“Well, you did it. You abandoned your world and jumped to a new one by embracing some of your more hidden...desires,” Passion said the last word as if she wanted to wink or something, “This place is well connected to forces that often go suppressed in your world. Magic, divine light, Curses all that jazz. As a magical being you’re naturally inclined to sort of absorb the supernatural energies in the air. I imagine that has something to do with your...alteration in complexion.” Passion said snickering.

“Magical being?” Roger said.

“What do you call holding a demon in thrall, let alone Alice.” Passion said, but Roger had a look like he didn’t know if he could claim either of those things.

“If this place is all about magic, then why would they care if I was talking to you?” Roger said.

“People don’t often respond well to the word demon Roger, at least not in most of the worlds I’ve visited, and the ones that do typically aren’t a great place for anyone. I have power here for sure, but there are others with power as well, and certain rules that are best manipulated with a little tact. For now just trust that we want to be a bit discreet with the nature of our union. For now I will play your humble servant, and you my master.” Passion said. Roger felt an odd set of memories laying lightly on his mind, surface things more fluff than any true distraction, but it still left him with a sense of unease.

“I saved your life?” Roger said. Passion batted her eyes and pretended to swoon.

“A young damzel in distress who was waiting to be rescued. People eat that shit up around these parts.” She said.

“Why a servant, why not my wife or something.” Roger said, but then he saw a wicked gleam in her eyes and instantly regretted the question.

“You asking?” She said.

“Wondering.” Roger said, slowly and unsurely.

“Wives cause too many problems, these society’s require a certain set of freedoms to navigate. Plus, can’t you just picture me in chains.” Passion said, flooding his mind with a graphic set of images, disturbing in their appeal.

“I thought you said servant not slave.” Roger said.

“Slave, servant, it’s splitting hairs as far as these people are concerned.” Passion said.

“Sounds like a great place.” Roger said with a bout of sarcasm.

“For you, it could be. I would love to show you more of this city, but we probably should go find that wolf. This may be her world but I doubt she’s used to the refinement of civilization.” Passion said. The two were distracted by the sight of a woman pooring a bucket of cruderies onto the street below. It was just a foul, foul sight.

“You got to listen to the energies. Everything has a voice, the streets, the air, the stone they’ll lead you to her if you try.” Passion whispered to him as they turned corner after corner.

“Sorry, I have years of not speaking to inanimate objects to un-repress right now.” Roger said.

“Can’t be too different from speaking to a conceptual voice in your head.” Passion said.

“Touche.” He said. And it was around that point that he spotted the golden girl herself.

Dawn was dressed in the modest garb of the peasant folk, and looked the proper and docile homemaker. This worried Roger more than you could imagine.

“How the hell are you doing that.” Roger said.

“Deception is one of the first tools I was given. It is how my kind survive these...people. Though your world did give me some experience in navigating the strange and impeded.” Dawn said softly before smiling and waving to some passersbyes , almost like a nice person.

“So they have no idea what you are?” Roger said.

“These people couldn’t tell their ass from their ear.” She whispered through her smile clenched teeth. Roger noticed her nose move. “You smell...better...very good.”

“What she means is more correct.” Passion said.

“I’m not sure how to interpret that.” Roger said.

“Do as you will, I don’t care.” She said starting to move. “Who is this one?” She said nodding to Passion.

“The friend I mentioned earlier, my servant of sorts.” Roger said. Dawn stared at Passion with the eyes of a able huntress.

“Yes well, keep your distance.” Dawn said.

Before leaving the city (which they moved through without incident...more or less) Dawn felt the need to “appropriate” a few items. She ghosted into a house and returned moments later garbed as what Roger would describe as “a barbarian woman”. She had on furred hide garments that left much of her navel, arms, and legs exposed.

“Didn’t have your size?” Roger said.

“Yeah i thought it was a bit big.” Dawn said adjusting the piece about her chest. After some thought Roger thought it was just fine.

After donning her new clothes Dawn seemed intent on leaving unseen so the three left through a blind spot in the city watches patrols, which was all a pretty simple affair. From there Dawn seemed to initiate a mugging of some sort, resulting in the gaining of a couple sacs of coin, some fruit, water, ale, and two horses. It was all a bit of a blur for Roger, and he found that he was still doing double takes more than a few miles after the fact.

“It’s not worth thinking about.” Passion said, nuzzling against his back. They didn’t stop until night approached.

Dawn gathered firewood, and Passion made a fire out of them with some hocus pocus.

“So why are you dressed like Ghenghis Khan’s grand niece?” Roger said.

“I’ve spent enough time around your people to know that is probably a racist statement of some sort.” Dawn said. She was right on the money. “Many people hate my kind in this world, but they enjoy mimicking or even flaunting stolen aspects of our culture. I scented something marked with our essence, my wolf thought it prudent to reclaim what I could before rejoining my pack.” Dawn said.

“Your pack?” Roger said.

“You seemed aware of my wolfness, was there some miscommunication?” Dawn said.

“It’s just, I pictured you as more of a loner or something.” Roger said.

“Ah...your sense of character needs work. I was second in my pack before setting out on my mission.” Dawn said.

“And just how large is this pack?” Roger said.

“It varies. Great hunts and disasters can dwindle our numbers but its usually in the range of 20-98 members.” Dawn said.

“That’s oddly specific.” Roger said but she just gave him this annoyed expression that was undercut by rosy cheeks.

“Your name, I require it.” Dawn said.

“You got this far without knowing my name, what were you doing?” Roger said.

“My wolf tracked your essence.” Dawn said.

“What the hell does that mean, are you just hiding some big ass creature somewhere I can’t see.” Roger said.

“In here,” she said pointing to her head, “and here” she said grasping her chest with her hand. Roger was sure that it was supposed to be a show of strength and grit, but it evoked quite different response inside of him.

“She is using the word ‘wolf’ in a context I believe you are unfamiliar with. She in no way thinks herself seperate from that inner beast that can become quite outer. I can’t say the same for all of her kind however. In this case the wolf is a general range of instincts, emotions, and...spirtual beliefs that exists far outside your current ability to comprehend. More time amongst her and her people may correct this.” Passion whispered in his ears without a sound escaping the two.

“Right, so yeah, my name is,” Roger began but it seemed that time was brought to a standstill. The rhythm of the world altered with violet vibrations. Passion dawned before him in the form that she had first appeared, producing an odd sense of clarity.

“A little note on names. In any place they have power, hell its how you know yourself from a rock half the time. In this place I would be cautious of giving out your true name so easily. It is from another world for one thing, so it could cause some...discrepancies that we don’t need on our backs right now.”

“There are no people named R***r in this place.” Roger tried to say but oddly enough there seemed to be something masking the sounds of his name.

“There are no people carrying your perception of that name, with all of its ‘your-world-baggage’. All its memories, all its faults, all its repressions. Its a dangerous thing to invoke at this time. Best to try something slightly different. Like a middle name or a nickname you haven’t gone by in a while.” Passion said, caught in a ray of light that might never change. Roger thought of something and whispered it to her. She smiled a truly terrible and beautiful smile. “That would be perfection.” She said. Time resumed and Passion took to her servant form as if nothing happened.

“My name is, Regor.” Regor said.

“Why’d you say it like that, like you skipped a beat or something.” Dawn said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Regor said. Dawn shrugged and bit into an apple or something, it was some kind of fruit.

In the morning Regor was greeted by a rather large and golden beast. Part of him wanted to jump right of his skin when he saw it, but the other part was just way too tired.

“Good doggy.” he said in that half dream haze, that Passion tended to leave him in. The wolf didn’t rip out his sockets but to its credit, it only leaned into his petting slightly, he knew how to scratch behind the ears.

Passion worked as something of a go between Regor and the wolf, though he pondered the accuracy of her translations (she was a fan of mischief). It seemed that Dawn wished to go hunting, something she would have done the night before if she hadn’t been so tired. Regor didn’t mind, he was in no real rush. Hell, he doubted he’d ever be in a rush to do anything ever again. Regor minded the horses and the supplies as they traveled through the more woodland terrain. Dawn usually ranged several yards ahead, but Regor thought he might be getting the hang of the whole many voices one world thing that Passion had been chatting about. The trees and the breeze seemed to want to keep him well informed about the whereabouts of the golden wolf.

“I thought werewolves could only transform on the fullmoon.” Regor whispered to passion.

“Werewolf is kind of a racial slur here so I’d avoid using it if you want to keep that pretty face. Besides that these wolfened folk don’t always adhere to standard b-horror movie rules,” Passion said, though Regor thought of them more as classics, “The term Warg is accepted though tends to be more regional, Wulfing is good, Wolfenkinder is probably going to be your best bet. Touchy folk, don’t want to get on their bad side.” Passion said.

“And you called me racist.” Regor said. Passion just licked his face. “Why do you know so much about these werew...wolfenkinder anyway. I know you travel dimensions and all, but aren’t their like infinitely many.”

“I mean sure but whose counting. We aren’t measuring our dicks here Regor, we’re talking about the chaos of eternity. To answer your question, I’m a demon so I think it wise to be well informed on any potential…” Passion looked at Regor like she had caught herself from saying something potentially and crucially damaging. “friends,” She finally said. “Plus I’ve been catching a bit of her thoughts every now and then, she dreams very loudly, would be distracting if it wasn’t so entertaining. She’s a lot less wordy than you.” Passion said.

“What does she dream about?” Regor said.

“It’s a lot of sound and scent and pictures, not coherent unless you adopt a certain style of living I believe you are still unaccustomed too. I’ll show you them sometime, but as a warning I would suggest that you do a bit of hunting, or at least recall your impression of that tiger in the zoo that you saw when you were five.” Passion said. Regor nodded.

Regor found that he could tell when Dawn had made a kill, a chill of sorts would settle through the air followed by a feverish heat as if the forest itself had morphed from preyful terrain to converging predator. She didn’t eat everything that she ended, instead waiting for Regor to collect and carve up the corpse so that they might have food and materials for their travels. He was thinking of joining in on her games himself that is until he heard a more than unsettling sound.

Imagine a room of first graders who have just been denied lunch, recess and have been given a surprise math test. Now pair that with the wailing of death itself. This was more or less the type of sound that Regor had heard. His horses started bucking and whinnying so he had his demon subdue them. He took to foot and it seemed as if the world had slowed down quite a bit. In no time he found Dawn, as well as the unfortunate beasty that had made the noise. It was easily ten feet tall, built like a clawed rhino with opposable thumbs and what appeared to be a capacity for bipedalism. Its face was a mess of sharp teeth and horns without much sign of eyes. Dawn didn’t necessarily look small next to it, but it seemed that the predator prey relation had been severely altered since he’d been gone. Her mouth was curled back in a blood snarl but her eyes just glowed with that terrible terrible focus. As if she were more than wolf, or woman. As if she was a divinely ordained spectre of hunters come and gone. The arrow of artemis herself. Oddly enough, Regor started feeling bad for the creature.

“It’s a troll. Don’t use the dagger, that’s mostly for things of darkness, and trolls are more misunderstood than anything. The sword will do, it is blessed by carnage.” Passion said with the cadence of someone eating sugared popcorn. Regor drew the blade like it was second nature, a mere extension of his body that he could sheath at will. It’s hilt was black, and its edge clear and unmarred steel, but it always seemed to catch the light at an odd angle, as if it wanted to burn red whenever possible. Perhaps it was just thirsty, he thought. Regor and Dawn moved together, circling the beast and hacking and slashing, with claw, teeth and blade. Regor found himself blessed with a fluidity and grace that he had never known as Roger, augmented with a capacity for destruction that was refreshing in the moment but would probably grow disturbing in his less wakeful hours.

Dawn clamped down on one of the trolls hind legs and sent it tumbling with its own weight. It landed in in armored heap along its back. Regor was quick of feet and took to the air. Perhaps the glory of the moment inspired him because he let loose with a battlecry that would scare fate itself back into its lonesome chambers. His blade plunged into the creatures bucking mass, and after a twist or two a certain light left its eyes and its form went still. Regor felt powerful. Dawn came to nuzzle against his leg.

“It was wounded and frightened.” Dawn said inbetween bloody mouthfuls of rabbit meat. She hadn’t bothered to cook her portions.

“What could frighten that thing, let alone wound it.”

“You two I imagine.” Passion said sipping blood in the shadows.

“Ogres probably. Trolls are important to their culture, like totem animals or something. They hunt and capture them frequently. Ogres are brutal, but they tend to employ gentler methods of interacting with trolls, you know, by troll standards. This thing was terrified.” Dawn said.

“How do you know that?” Regor said. Dawn seemed surprised by the question, not because of the words but because of that other something that was tone, scent, soul and things that couldn’t be explained.

“My wolf told me.” She said, and Regor nodded as he was beginning to understand.

“Perhaps they are feral Ogres.” Regor said

“That borders on racist, but only slightly, they are ogres after all.” Dawn said, while Regor now suspected that his words had gone farther than border racism. Dawn yawned, “What ever it was we probably shouldn’t face it a lone. I scented signs of my pack, they should be close, I’m sure they’ll be interested in our findings.”

“I suppose we’ll find them in the morning then.” Regor said. Dawn just nodded with a glazed look in her eyes that made her look...well, adorable. She got up and dissapeared into the shadows of the night. A wolf returned in her stead with some furry hides skins in its mouth. The wolf dropped the hideskins and made its way over to Regor’s side, pushing him to the ground as it settled beside him. She was asleep in moments.

In the morning the wolf was a woman who was very eager to continue on with their travels. They didn’t have to range far, in fact they were only three miles or so into their run, that they were stopped.

“Ho, there wolf. By who’s fangs do you claim rights to these terrains.” Said a giant of a man. He seemed to be more muscle than flesh and dressed in similar hideskins as Dawn, both lacking in what would have been an appreciated modesty.

“Have you forgotten my scent already brother. I could not have been gone that long.” Dawn said.

“By Ocean’s Dawn it is you sister. We’ve been looking for you for almost a month now, we thought you were dead.” The man said. Dawn and Regor exchanged glances.

“No, not dead. A month, really?” Dawn said with notable but not involved confusion.

“Yes we double checked, you know how time can escape us.” The wolf said as if keeping track of the hour was a daily chore that no one wanted to manage.

“Him and me both.” Regor said to Passion.

“Opening doors can open possibilities, some more confusing than others.” Passion said.

“And who’s that pretty bitch over there.” The man said.

“I mean she’s not a picnic but you can’t…” Regor began.

“He’s talking about you Regor. Try not to look so bitchy, please.” Dawn said. Passion laughed.

“I am Regor, of house…” To be honest he was blanking.

“I don’t care about houses and titles I need to know if you are friend or dinner. Or have you not yet decided sister.” The man said to Dawn.

“No I’ve decided, he’s friend more or less.” She said, though Regor sensed an exchange that went over his head...more or less. The man gave a giant grin, that did nothing to reassure Regor of his chances of surviving this whole ordeal.

“Well, that’s good. Breaker will want to see you.” The man said but Dawn started frowning.

“I do not answer to him.” Dawn said.

“Things have changed sister.” The man said.

“In a month?” Regor said. Both wolves just shot him intense glances. He threw up his hands and went back to minding his horse.

“Perhaps I should see for myself.” Dawn said riding ahead of the man.

Regor soon learned that “brother” and “sister” were just a general colloquialism used by most wolves of the same pack. For a second he had a more disturbing idea after seeing the large size of the pack but Passion assuaged his fears. They seemed to have settled in a small plain but his senses told him that their were a stretch of similar encampments scattered throughout the forest and other more obscure locations. Dawn did not so much as mingle with her kin, but intensely subdue them with the commanding presence of a warrior queen on a road to conquest ( you could either get on board, get gone, or get dead). Even so Regor could sense a certain sense of enjoyment coming off of both parties. That was until Dawn met Breaker.

The man, well wolf, wolf seems more appropriate, that would Regor would know as Breaker was just a hair shorter than the giant of a man that they first encountered, but he looked about a thousand times deadlier. Passion had been teaching him how to sense magic, and from what Regor could tell, Breaker was all but made of the stuff. It was like his muscles were built for its mass production. He was a man of dark hues be it his skin or His hideskins of some dark-green color. He sported odd bands along his arms and ankles, as well as a necklace of sorts.

“What is this farce that you have devised, Breaker. Are so irresponsible that I can’t leave you be for ten minutes.

“A bit more than ten minutes Dawn of Oceans. Quill was weakened without a second to keep him afloat. Old and half mad, you should have claimed the right of alpha long before me, now your chance has passed.”

“What has happened to Quill?” Dawn said. “I killed him.” Breaker said. Dawn spat into the dirt.

“Quill was worth a hundred of you. You have fine magic and pretty words Breaker but you are no Alpha.”

“Yet here I stand, and there you wait to be welcomed as pack or as traitor for slaughter.” Breaker said. Many of the wolves growled, and though more than a few were in human skin there seemed to be no trace of humanity in those sounds. Breaker raised his hand and Regor sensed the magic burst in a wave, there was silence all around.

“What have you done to yourself?” Dawn said as if struggling to see through a persistant and annoying haze. Regor knew the feeling.

“Nothing that concerns you, She Who Is Not Quite Pack. You will have to prove yourself if you even hope of regaining your rank.” Breaker said. Dawn grit her teeth and turned to Regor and he heard what could not be spoken. If they fought now, they would die. Regor was a fan of not dying.

“I’m with you.” He said to her, and it seemed that something within her soul had settled. She turned back to Breaker.

“What would you have of us, Alpha.” She spat out the last word. Breaker smiled the type of smile Regor thought he might see on Father Clayne in his darkest hours.

“You’ve noticed the odd Ogre activity in the area?” Breaker said.

“We’ve seen signs. They appear to be agitated, possibly sick.” Dawn said.

“That and more. We believe a vampire has taken up residence here with its Noch. It may have corrupted the local Ogre band as a source of border defense. Wipe out its forces and bring me the master’s head, so to speak.” Breaker said.

“Then so be it.” Dawn said, turning her horse around and heading towards the outskirts of the encampment. More than a few wolves followed.

Passion explained that a Noch was a vampires retinue full of familiars, thralls, and lesser vampires. She also explained that what Breaker was suggesting was more or less a suicide mission, though Dawn seemed confident enough in their chances in that, I’ll eat death before dying, type of way. She wouldn’t allow any of her packmates to accompany them on their journey. Passion seemed to think it had something to do with her presence.

“Perhaps she does not want me corrupting some of her weaker willed kin.” Passion said.

“Tell your demon to mind its place vampires are tricky. We don’t need numbers of brawn, we need tact.” Dawn said.

“Plus you aren’t sure who is still loyal to you. Last thing we need is a coup in the last leg of our mission.” Regor said.

“You aren’t wrong.” Dawn said, and he could sense that the idea of betrayal by her own kin pained her.

They treked on foot leaving their horses within calling distance at one of checkpoints closer to wolf territory. Dawn was had a suspicion that the local vampire wouldn’t fully turn all, if any of the ogres. He would want to keep them at least partially diurnal so that his terrain could be monitored during daylight hours. Dawn figured that the best time to strike would be well, in the dawn. The vampires would be settling for sleep and the Ogre’s would probably be just rising and still a bit groggy. She was right more or less. The first ogres they saw were a male and female pair and they were still lounging between a couple of large boulders.

“Their magic, it feels solid and jagged.” Regor whispered to Dawn but she didn’t respond.

“Ogres use their magic instinctively, they have their shamans, but many warriors and scouts go their whole life without organized training. Works out fine of course, the forests love them and they are proper berserkers.” Passion told him. The ogres were large, though mostly humanoid in appearance. They sported deep green skin as well as horns of varying styles. There hair seemed to be dark, almost black but it could easily have been blue or purple. They were large as well, the female may have been seven feet to the male’s eight, and it appeared that their forms had been battle honed to use every portion of their mass. Regor sensed something like respect leaking off of Dawn.

“You can taste the corruption if you try hard enough, it is faint but I imagine that is all he needs to push these pieces across his board of wicked games.” Passion said. Dawn loped downhill in such a fluid blur Regor doubted that his eyes alone could have tracked her. From one second to the next the males neck was snapped and the female’s neck was bleeding out soundlessly. She lingered only for a moment to sniff at the blood.

“If we can kill their master we might be able to free them of his hold without unecessary losses.”

“I take it you know an entrance.” Regor said.

“Now, yes.” Dawn said.

The three made their way around a convoluted bend of rocks and trees that nearly sent them tumbling to their deaths on more than a few occasions. They reached a thicket of oddly arranged branches that looked more than a bit ominous. Dawn walked right up to them and placed her hands to them. The branches moved, digging into her palms slightly, but in many places. The blood didn’t drip, but flow into the wood. The branches parted and they walked forward.

“The forest wants its children freed. Had this been night I doubt we could gain entry so easily, but today the sun favors us.” Dawn said. They looked down the large tunnel that they would have to walk. It was pitch dark.

“Yay for us.” Passion said

Regor swiped up and around with his dagger, gutting the Ogre as he simultaneously slit his neck. Dawn had been slightly more cautious with her slaying.

“Too much blood will rouse the vampires. Show restraint.” Dawn said.

“I’m not as confident in my neck snapping abilities.” Regor said.

“If you strike the heart at the correct beat you can cause it to burst and they will bleed out from the inside.” Dawn said.

“Thanks...I’ll try and remember that.” Regor said hoping to keep his heart beating at as random of a pattern as possible. So far they had killed seven of the ogres but Dawn was sure there were at least 35 more wandering about the territory. The tunnel had led to a cavern of twisting paths. It could have been an underground city if anyone had been awake to use it. They suspected that it had been the ogre’s nesting grounds before the vampire had augmented it.

“We’ve spent too much time down here, we need to find the heart of the lair and quickly…” Dawn began, unfortunately she was interrupted by an odd burst of shadows which carried her out of sight. Regor wanted to scream after her, stealth be damned, but he didn’t get the chance.

“This is pretty rude you know, to attack a person in their own home, while they’re trying to enjoy a good snooze.” Regor turned to identify the voice and he was not a fan of what he saw. The man was dressed in dark robes with red covering hanging about his waste (it looked to be armor of some kind). His skin was deathly pale, almost grey. He wore his hair long and brown, almost as if its main purpose was to curtain his face. In his hands were twin sabres. Regor drew his own blade.

“I take it you’re the vampire king or whatever.”

“Please, king, no mild nobility, I don’t aim above my station. Hard to when your forces are comprised of savages and women.” The vampire said.

“Sexist and racist, my dagger’s going to love you.” Regor said

“Is that some type of innuendo because I’m the vampire here, blood sucking and oddly placed sexual remarks kind of come with the territory.”

“He has a point.” Passion said giggling to herself. Regor leapt at the creature and they danced to and fro bashing steel against steel, and rending magics against magics. For a moment it seemed like our hero had the upperhand, until the ogres came. There were at least ten of them and the vampire did not waste time evading when his creatures could fight for him. There’s no shame in losing as a concept but Regor did have to endure the ass whooping of a lifetime, or at the very least, a decade.

When he came to he was bloody, bruised, naked and straped to a spike in the ground like a sacrificial offering. The vampire was staring at him, and so were other creatures from the looks of it, though he couldn’t focus.

“So I’m going to sacrifice you. I’ve already mixed a bit of my blood with yours so even if you come back after you die, which is highly unlikely, I’ll still get to fuel off of your pain and torment.”

“What did you do with the wolf.”

“Oh that one, yeah she’s definately a keeper. She’s been fighting those ogres almost nonstop for like two hours now. She’s not really making any headway, but its entertaining to watch. I plan to have lots of fun with her.” The vampire said as if he were making weekend plans.

“I’m going to gut you like a codfish.”

“yes , yes and the world is just a pearl within a metaphysical Oyster’s shell. Anyone can make an analogy.” The vampire said. He started walking away oddly jovial in his nonchalant manner. “Feed well girls, you got to keep your strength up.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Regor said but he didn’t have to wait to long to figure it out. They abandoned the shadows as if they were shrouds to be worn. Becoming visible from one moment to the next. They were dressed in all manner of dark clothing, from nightly garments to intricate dressware. Some even sported armor. All had flesh of utter paleness, from grey to ruddy porceline. They held eyes of ruby gems and hair of stark white horror.

“Kinda sexy though.” Regor said to himself, some of the creatures had the nerve to blush. The compliment was well earned though, they were all beautiful, in the way that wild tigers and anacondas are beautiful. The first to approach wore nothing more than her bra and panties (all black of course). She had a shaggy mane of white curly hair and there was a particular delight in her eyes that gave Regor an idea.

“Before you enjoy your delicious meal, so rightly earned, my dear, may I make a simple request?” Regor said as the vampire began to sniff at his skin, licking here and there at his wounds. She was all but purring, though it sounded more like a lions pleasure than a house cats.

“You may speak your words, and perhaps I will consider.” She said pressing herself against his more sensitive regions and evoking a rather distracting response. He practiced controlling his breath and keeping his thoughts on target. By then others had neared and began to grumble and lick.

“Sweet, ethereal creature of dreams. I wish only to partake of your blood so that you and I may be bound by the red elixir, through death and beyond.” Regor said. The vampire clutched him close and looked into his eyes, she looked very flattered. It was a good thing they couldn’t hear Passions laughter.

“If you wish it, my delicious thing.” She said and she craned the pale of her neck beneath his mouth. “Drink and be drained. You will have to use your teeth.” The vampire said.

“Gladly” Regor said, with Passion flooding his senses. His teeth sharpened for the nature of the deed and he dug in deep, drinking in as the vampires did the same, and there was much purring and moaning.

A note on blood magic. Blood freely given and lovingly given can forge some rather interesting properties which is often why some vampires favor seduction over coercion. Blood magic can also be slightly addictive in the way that potent power can spawn an almost arrogant need for sensation. Vampires often overlook their roots, or at least their common ancestry with other practictioners of blood arts, like demons for example. Now passion was not specifically a wizard with the blood craft but when the moment struck her, she could do some pretty amazing things.

So Passion flooded the room, this nest of depraved creatures of crimson nights, and not one supple form was left standing as a pulse of bloody ecstasy sweapt through their bodies, one by one. Well, all except Regor, who didn’t have much of a choice on two accounts. With his magic he was able to free himself from his restraints, but before setting off after the master vampire, he felt compelled to leave a very long kiss about his lady vampires lips. He had never heard such eager purring.

He reached through his demon and found his blades, as well as a shell of armor forged from the redwater of his own wounds.

“This should be fun” Passion said.

When they found one another, the vampire had Dawn caged in earthen crafts, painfully wounded. There were a few ogre corpse scattered about, but Regor got the sense that she had been trying to not hurt them in her own psychotic wolf way. The master was lounging in a bed of earth.

“Dude, you are so not chill, If you hurt too many of my girls I’m going to be so pissed, they don’t grow on trees ya know.”

“Just like your nuts.” Regor said.

“What?”

“The implication is that I will castrate you.”

“That’s dark dude, and I’m all for poetic justice, I mean we are in an underground cavern isolated from the light and all, and I am a vampire...but c’mon.” The vampire said as if I was really crashing his buzz.

“What is wrong with you?” Regor said.

“I’m desensitized. You would be too if you had to deal with these people all the time.” The Vampire said gesturing to the caverns in general.

“Somehow I think I know the feeling. Even so you still got to die.” Regor said.

“Oh no...stop...oh wait,” The vampire’s sarcasm was almost as pointed as the image numerous ogre’s popping up from the ground.

“Technical foul my friend.” Passion said rising as the ogres had done, she sent another pulse through the arena, this one more pointed in its purpose. The Ogres dropped to the earth unconcious.

“Well...that was dissapointing.” The vampire said. He grabbed up his blades and moved in to attack. He motioned with an almost newfound swiftness, it seemed that he did care about his un-life after all. The shadows sought to hide him as he swerved and juked with harrying swipes. Regor parried every blow; he could sense the creature’s blood, and it was weak. Regor reached out into the secrets of the shadows and off went the vampire’s arm in a burst of scarlet delights. He stumbled to across the ground but Regor lifted him up by the neck.

“As a last hoorah of sorts I will allow you a parting gift.” Regor said even as the creatures blood was draining into his palm. By the time he turned him skyward he was already little more than a withered moody corpse.

“Embrace your bane and only love.” Regor said to the creature as Passion opened a portal to the immortal rays of the sun. The Vampire turned to grinning ash.

“So best mission ever?” Regor said next to the campfire. Dawn had eaten a fresh kill which helped most of her wounds heal up pretty nicely. In fact, she looked great, so lively and...appetizing. She ended pushing Regor nearer to the ground so that she could rest on him, golden hair decorating his chest.

“I would say so, my delicious master.” Said the lead Vampiress. Though the others did chime in with similar notes. Killing the old master disrupted his bond to the ogre’s minds, but the rest of the Noch had been more thoroughly tethered, both to Regor and their master, though the former carried much of the latters blood in him.

“They’re a very noisy bunch. Are you sure you want to keep them.” Dawn muttered, half asleep, she had the cutest tones.

“It seems wrong to just abandon them.” Regor said as one of the vampires nuzzled close inside his arm.

“Of course it does.” Dawn said, too tired to really care.

“So you guys are just cool with following me around now, that seems a little strange.” Regor said. The lead vampiress, who seemed to go by Shell decided to explain.

“Vampires are instinctual, our hunger for blood is as much a necessity as it is an addiction. We are creatures of indulgence. You hold our masters blood, as well as our own, and you have proven yourself beyond measure.” Shell said.

“Plus you are very...desirable” Said another vampire almost at a lost for words.

“And merciful.”

“Generally extraordinary, our old master was not like this.” Said another. Shell gave a pleased nod as if they were discussing the theory of relativity.

“All these things.” Shell said.

“And more. Is what she would like to say, but she’s a predator by nature and too much vulnerability might leave her unnecessarily exposed.”

“That’s a lot of kind words for a person who might have killed them.” Regor said.

“They live in the present, or at least try to, the past holds too many sorrows and wraths. You should not underestimate the power of blood. You’ve provided them with years worth of instinctual trust and care. I doubt that another could replace this bond” Passion told him.

“I suppose I should thank you for that.” Regor said.

“No master, thank yourself for having an unconquerable will.” Passion said.

“Could everyone just be quiet.” Dawn said, a bit of her beast in her words. Regor was a little surprised but ultimately he decided it was probably a good time for rest.

“What should we do about them, I doubt the Ogre’s want us anywhere near their nesting grounds.” Regor said.

“I’m searching through the information coded in their blood. Their is a type of magic that could be useful, though it might feel a bit strange.” Passion said.

“If you think it will help.” Regor said. The demon just smiled.

In the morning there were no vampires to speak, though some of the thralls were still lounging about.

“Did they burn?” Dawn said stretching. She didn’t seem too bothered by the idea.

“They’re in here.” Passion said, tapping on Regor’s head.

“What does that mean.” Regor said.

“The vampires weave night and evil into their den’s. It gives them access certain abilities as well as tieing some of their places of power into one network. I made a slight alteration to the process. They are being housed in a mentalscape, where they can rest to escape the sun. You can summon them as you please, though I’d suggest staying well fed on redwater if you want to keep them all sated.” Passion said.

“That is...disturbing.” Regor said.

“No, it’s actually quite nice in their, they have a good sense of style.” Passion said. Regor got the vaugest sense of a number of lips pressing against the back of his skull.

“So what do we do about the thralls. I’m sure you didn’t put them in there for a reason. Besides the no burning thing.” Regor said.

“They aren’t powerful enough. Don’t get me wrong, they have skill, but they aren’t pure vampires. You could cleave them from your network, but that would probably hurt you a bit, and it might kill them. I would suggest finding some territory for them to settle down.”

“The pack has plenty of spare terrain, we’re a bit xenophobic but we don’t often turn down allies who can pull their weight. The wolf blood might even be able to remove their corruption.” Dawn said, though from the bared teeth and snarls it didn’t look like the thralls liked the latter part of the idea very much.

“I’m not sure if Breaker would enjoy that idea very much, and unless we’re going back to conquer It might not be best to bring any of the vampires.”

“Breaker will have his day, but I suppose not on this one. I will return to report my findings. While I’m with the pack, I will need you to go to SeaShore City. I have a friend there who can probably help us. It does not feel wise to give out her name freel, but commonly she is known as the Lunar Wizard. She is hard to...misplace. I suspect she can help you set up accomodations for your thralls, but more importantly I would like her to find a way to unweave Breaker’s enchantments.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with that bastard.”

“I’ll be fine, the pack needs stablity, needs to know why they’re fighting as much as what they’re fighting for. As I said deception is one of my specialty’s.” Dawn said, giving him a smile that would carry him through a thousand storms. “Passion, pass this on to the wizard please.” Passion reached out to touch Dawn’s fingers, there was a moment of passing light that Regor could not interpret. “And you,” Dawn said turning her full attention to Regor, her eyes of chrystal oceans cut an ultimate path through his soul, “You pass this on to your heart.” She said before pressing her body and her lips and her tongue against Regor’s more than willing form. She broke the kiss first pulling him by his collar like a ragdoll. She placed her forhead against hers as if she was in the midst of a titanous struggle. After a few moments she just licked his cheek and got up to leave. Regor only spoke when she was long and gone.

“I think I’m going to marry her.” He said.

“What about Alice?” Passion said.

“Somehow I feel like multiple wives would not be my worst indescretion. I mean they can only hang you once, right?” He said. “Right?” he asked again since he hadn’t felt as confident in his words as he probably wanted to be. The thralls thought about it, but eventually they nodded in agreement. For some reason, what he said just seemed to make a lot of sense.

#Dragons Strangeness Happiness Comedy Destiny

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tortuga-aak · 7 years

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How US foreign policy helped feed the rise of global jihad

Pablo Martinez Monsivais/AP

Chatting with Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull at the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit in November 2016, Barack Obama mentioned Indonesia, where he spent part of his childhood back in the 1960s.

The country, he noted, was a changed place. Where Muslims once adopted elements of Hinduism, Buddhism, and animism, a more austere version of Islam had taken hold once Saudi Arabia began pouring money into Wahhabist madrassas in the 1990s. Where women had formerly gone about with their heads uncovered, the hijab began to spread.

But why, Turnbull wanted to know, was this happening? “Aren’t the Saudis your friends?” To which Obama replied, “It’s complicated.”

That c-word covers a lot of territory, not only with regard to Wahhabism, the ultra-fundamentalist Saudi ideology whose impact is now felt across the globe, but also with regard to the United States, the Saudis’ chief patron, protector—and enabler—since World War II.

Like any imperialist power, the United States can be a bit unscrupulous in the partners it chooses. So one might expect it to look the other way when its Saudi friends spread their militant doctrines into Indonesia, the Philippines, the Indian subcontinent, Syria, and numerous points beyond.

Saudi Press Agency

But Washington did more than just look away. It actively encouraged such activities by partnering with the Wahhabists in any number of hotspots. They include Afghanistan, where American- and Saudi-armed jihadis drove out the Soviets in the 1980s. They also include Bosnia, where the two countries reportedly teamed up in the mid-1990s to smuggle hundreds of millions of dollars worth of arms into Alija Izetbegović’s Islamic republic, today a stronghold of Wahhabist Salafism.

Other notable examples: Kosovo, where the United States joined forces with “Afghan Arabs” and other Saudi-backed jihadis in support of the secessionist movement of Hashim Thaçi; Chechnya, where leading neocons such as Richard Perle, Elliott Abrams, Kenneth Adelman, Midge Decter, Frank Gaffney, Michael Ledeen, and R. James Woolsey championed Saudi-backed Islamist rebels; Libya, where Hillary Clinton personally recruited Qatar to join the effort against Muammar Qaddafi and then said nothing as the Wahhabist kingdom funneled some $400 million to rebel groups, many of them Islamists who proceeded to turn the country upside down; and of course Syria, where Sunni head-choppers backed by the Saudis and other oil monarchies have turned the country into a charnel house.

The United States pronounces itself shocked—shocked!—at the results, while pocketing the winnings. This is evident from a famous 1998 interview with Zbigniew Brzezinski, who, as Jimmy Carter’s national security adviser, did as much as anyone to invent the modern phenomenon of jihad. Asked if he had any regrets, Brzezinski was unabashed:

Regret what? That secret operation was an excellent idea. It had the effect of drawing the Russians into the Afghan trap, and you want me to regret it? The day that the Soviets officially crossed the border, I wrote to President Carter: We now have the opportunity of giving to the USSR its Vietnam war….What is most important to the history of the world? The Taliban or the collapse of the Soviet empire? Some stirred-up Muslims or the liberation of Central Europe and the end of the Cold War?

Or, as Graham Fuller, former deputy director of the CIA’s National Council on Intelligence and later a RAND Corporation analyst, put it a year later:

The policy of guiding the evolution of Islam and of helping them against our adversaries worked marvelously well in Afghanistan against the Red Army. The same doctrines can still be used to destabilize what remains of Russian power and especially to counter the Chinese influence in Central Asia.

What could possibly go wrong? Less a specifically Saudi phenomenon, the great Wahhabist offensive of the last 30 or 40 years is best understood as a joint venture between oil imperialism and neo-medieval Islamic revivalism. On its own, such an austere doctrine would never have made it out of the badlands of central Arabia. Only in conjunction with outside powers, first Britain and then the United States, did it turn into a world-altering force.

Flickr/David Brossard

Still, a bit of pre-history might be helpful. In order to know how Wahhabism arose, it’s necessary to know where it arose. This is Nejd, a vast plateau in central Arabia that is nearly the size of France. Ringed on three sides by desert and on the fourth by the somewhat more fertile Red Sea province of the Hejaz, it was one of the most isolated and barren spots on earth until oil was discovered in the 1930s.

Less isolated now, it remains extremely barren. The English explorer Lady Anne Blunt described it in 1881 as consisting of “vast uplands of gravel, as nearly destitute of vegetation as any in the world,” dotted with occasional settlements that were nearly as cut off from one another as they were from the outside world. It was one of the few third-world countries still uncolonized by the 19th century, not because it was unusually strong or well organized but because it was too poor, wild, and inaccessible to be worth the effort.

It was a land that no one else wanted. It also was home to an ideology that no one else wanted. This was Hanbalism, the most severe and unforgiving of the four major schools of Islamic jurisprudence. It arose in Baghdad in the 9th century and within a few decades was wreaking havoc as adherents plundered homes to confiscate liquor, musical instruments, and other forbidden items; raided shops; and challenged men and women walking together in the street.

Expelled from the metropolis, Hanbalis found themselves relegated to the most primitive and distant outposts, Nejd most notably. But then, in the mid-18th century, they found themselves under attack by a wandering preacher named Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab, for whom Hanbalism was not severe enough.

Reuters/XXSTRINGERXX Xxxxx

Moving from village to village, “the Luther of Mahometanism,” as Lady Blunt described him, denounced such folk practices as worshiping at saints’ graves and praying at sacred trees. Theologically, Wahhab’s great contribution was to take the concept of shirk, or association, which traditionally referred to the worship of any deity in conjunction with Allah, and expand it to include anything that distracted from the single-minded focus on the one true god.

Seeking the intervention of a saint, wearing a good-luck charm, even adorning the interior of a mosque—all were shirk. The goal was a religion as bare as the landscape, one that allowed nothing to come between man and God.

Presumably, Wahhab was not the first mullah to inveigh against superstition. But what distinguished him was his energy, his fanaticism—he made a name for himself by ordering the stoning of an accused adulteress—and an alliance he made in 1744 with a tribal leader named Muhammad bin Saud.

In exchange for military backing, al-Wahhab provided bin Saud with the legal writ to rob, kill, or enslave anyone who refused to bow down to the new doctrine. Backed by fanatical Bedouins known as the Ikhwan, or Brotherhood, Saud and his sons set about conquering the desert interior.

A new dynasty was born. The Saudi-Wahhabi alliance amounted to a “constitution” of sorts in that it laid down basic rules that the new kingdom would have to follow. The al-Saud gained untrammeled economic and political authority. But the clan also acquired the religious obligation to support and defend the Wahhabiyya and struggle against practices that they regarded as un-Islamic. The moment it faltered, its legitimacy would vanish.

AP/ Saudi Press Agency

This explains both the strength and weakness of the Saudi state. At first glance, Wahhabism would seem to be the most untamable of ideologies since the only submission it recognizes is to God. But after being briefly toppled by the Ottomans in 1818, the al-Saud could only claw their way back by garnering outside support. The regime’s survival therefore hinged on balancing a fierce religious establishment against international forces that, as the dynasty knew too well, were infinitely more powerful than any horde of desert horsemen.

The tidal wave of oil money that washed over the kingdom in the 1970s compounded the problem. Not only did the al-Saud dynasty have to balance off the Wahhabiyya against the United States, but it also had to balance religious austerity off against modern consumerism. In the 1920s, mullahs had raged against foreign travel and telephones. A member of the Ikhwan once even struck a royal servant of the king for riding a bicycle, which the Wahhabists denounced as “Satan’s carriages.”

But now the mullahs had to contend with Rolls Royces, Land Rovers, shopping malls, cinemas, female newscasters, and, of course, the growing ubiquity of sex.

What was to be done? The answer became clear in 1979, when three epochal events occurred.

In January, the shah of Iran fled by plane to Egypt, paving the way for Ayatollah Khomeini’s triumphant return to Tehran two weeks later. In July, Jimmy Carter authorized the CIA to begin arming the Afghan mujahideen, prompting the Soviet Union to intervene several months later in support of the embattled left-wing government in Kabul. And in November, Wahhabist militants seized control of the Grand Mosque in Mecca, holding it for two weeks before being dislodged by French commandos.

Thomson Reuters

The last was particularly shocking because it was quickly apparent that the militants enjoyed widespread clerical support. Juhayman al-Otaybi, leader of the assault, was a member of a prominent Ikhwan family and had studied under the grand mufti, Abd al-Aziz ibn Baz. While the Wahhabists condemned the takeover, their language, according to the journalist Robert Lacey, “was curiously restrained.” Support for the royal family was beginning to waver.

Plainly, the Saudi royal family needed to mend relations with the Wahhabiyya while burnishing its Islamic credentials in order to fend off criticism at home and abroad. It had to reinvent itself as an Islamic state no less militant than the Persian one across the Persian Gulf.

But the burgeoning conflict in Afghanistan suggested a way out. While the United States could funnel aid to anti-Soviet forces, it obviously could not organize a proper jihad on its own. For that, it needed the help of the Saudis, which the kingdom now hastened to provide.

Out went the multiplexes and female news presenters, and in came the religious police and 75 percent discounts on Saudi Arabian Airlines for holy warriors traveling to Afghanistan by way of Peshawar, Pakistan. Thousands of bored and restless young men who might have caused trouble for the kingdom were shipped off to a distant land to make trouble for someone else. Saudi princes could still party as if there were no tomorrow, but now they had to do so abroad or behind closed doors at home. The homeland would otherwise have to remain pure and unsullied.

(AP Photo/Christopher Gunness)

It was a neat solution, but it still left a few strings untied. One was the problem of blowback in the form of hardened jihadis returning from Afghanistan more determined than ever to battle corruption at home.

“I have more than 40,000 mujahideen in the land of the two holy mosques alone,” Osama bin Laden reportedly told a colleague. It was a claim that could not be entirely laughed off once al Qaeda bombs starting going off in the kingdom beginning in 1995. Another problem concerned whom the militants targeted abroad, a problem that initially didn’t loom very large but would eventually prove highly significant.

Still, the new partnership worked brilliantly for a time. It helped the al-Saud regime mollify the ulema, as the mullahs are collectively known, which had come to see the umma, or community of the faithful, as besieged on multiple fronts. As Muhammad Ali Harakan, secretary-general of the Saudi-sponsored Muslim World League, put it as early as 1980:

"Jihad is the key to Muslims’ success and felicity, especially when their sacred shrines are under Zionist occupation in Palestine, when millions of Muslims are suffering suppression, oppression, injustices, torture, and even facing death and extermination campaigns in Burma, Philippines, Patani [a predominantly Muslim region of Thailand], USSR, Cambodia, Vietnam, Cyprus, Afghanistan, etc. This responsibility becomes even more binding and pressing when we consider the malicious campaigns being waged against Islam and Muslims by Zionism, Communism, Free Masonry, Qadianism [i.e. Ahmadi Islam], Bahaism, and Christian Missionaries."

The Wahhabiyya would overlook the princes’ many sins if they used their newfound wealth to defend the faith.

REUTERS/Muhammad Hamed

The arrangement also worked for the United States, which acquired a useful diplomatic partner and an auxiliary military force that was cheap, effective, and deniable. It worked for gung-ho journalists traipsing through the wilds of Afghanistan, who assured the folks back home that the “muj” were nothing more than “ornery mountain folk who have not cottoned to a foreign power that has seized their land, killed their people, and attacked their faith,” to quote William McGurn, who went on to prominence as a speechwriter for George W. Bush.

It worked for nearly everyone until 19 hijackers, 15 of them Saudis, flew a pair of fuel-laden jetliners into the World Trade Center and a third into the Pentagon, killing nearly 3,000 people in all.

The 9/11 attacks should have been a wake-up call that something had gone seriously amiss. But instead of pressing the pause button, the United States opted to double down on the same old strategy. From its perspective, it had little choice. It needed Saudi oil; it needed security in the Persian Gulf, global commerce’s most important chokepoint; and it needed a reliable ally in the Muslim world in general.

Moreover, the Saudi royal family was clearly in trouble. Al Qaeda enjoyed wide public support. Indeed a Saudi intelligence survey reportedly found that 95 percent of educated Saudis between the ages of 25 and 41 had “sympathies” for bin Laden’s cause. If the Bush administration had walked off in a huff, the House of Saud would have become more vulnerable to al Qaeda rather than less.

Reuters

Consequently, Washington opted to work on the marriage rather than splitting up. This entailed three things.

First, there was a need to cover up Riyadh’s considerable role in the destruction of the Twin Towers by, among other things, suppressing a crucial 29-page chapter in a joint congressional report dealing with Saudi links to the hijackers.

Second, the Bush administration redoubled efforts to pin the blame on Saddam Hussein, Washington’s latest villain du jour. Need “best info fast,” Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld ordered while the towers were still burning, according to notes taken by his aide Stephen Cambone. “…Judge whether good enough [to] hit S.H. at same time—not only UBL [i.e. Usama bin Laden]. Hard to get a good case. Need to move swiftly—Near term target needs—Go massive—sweep it all up, need to do so to get anything useful. Things related or not.” Washington needed a fall guy to get the Saudis off the hook.

Third was the need to prosecute the so-called “War on Terror,” which was never about terrorism per se but about terrorism unsanctioned by the United States. The goal was to arrange for jihadis only to strike at targets jointly approved by Washington and Riyadh.

This meant, first and foremost, Iran, the Saudis’ bête noire, whose power, ironically, had grown after the U.S. invasion of Iraq had tipped the formerly Sunni-controlled country into the pro-Shi‘ite column. But it also meant Syria, whose president, Bashar al-Assad, is an Alawite, a form of Shi‘ism, and Russia, whose friendliness to both countries left it doubly marked in U.S. and Saudi eyes. Ideologically, it meant taking Wahhabist anger at Western powers such as America, Britain, and France and directing it at Shi‘ism instead. The doors to sectarianism were thus opened.

US National Archives

The “redirection,” as investigative reporter Seymour Hersh termed it in 2007, also worked brilliantly for a time. Hersh described it as the product of four men: Vice President Dick Cheney; neocon Elliott Abrams, at the time deputy national security adviser for “global democracy strategy”; U.S. Ambassador to Iraq Zalmay Khalilzad; and Prince Bandar bin Sultan, for 22 years the Saudi ambassador to the United States and now the kingdom’s chief of national security.

In Lebanon the goal was to work closely with the Saudi-backed government of Prime Minister Fouad Siniora to limit the influence of the pro-Iranian Shi‘ite militia Hezbollah, while in Iraq it entailed working more closely with Sunni and Kurdish forces to rein in Shi‘ite influence. In Syria, it meant working with the Saudis to strengthen the Muslim Brotherhood, a Sunni group locked in a ferocious struggle with the Baathist government in Damascus since the 1960s. Indeed a secret 2006 State Department memo made public by Wikileaks discussed plans to encourage Sunni fears of growing Shi‘ite influence even though it conceded that such concerns were “often exaggerated.”

The “redirection” program soon imploded.

The problem began in Libya, where Hillary Clinton spent much of March 2011 persuading Qatar to join the effort against strongman Muammar Qaddafi. Emir Tamim bin Hamad al-Thani eventually agreed and took the opportunity to funnel some $400 million to rebel groups, many of them Sunni Salafists who proceeded to turn the country upside down. The result was anarchy, yet the Obama administration stayed mum for years after.

Thomson Reuters

In Syria, the Defense Intelligence Agency determined in August 2012 that “events are taking a clear sectarian direction”; that Salafists, the Muslim Brotherhood, and al Qaeda “are the major forces driving the insurgency”; and that, despite this fundamentalist surge, the West, Turkey, and the Gulf states still backed the anti-Assad uprising. “If the situation unravels,” the report went on, “there is the possibility of establishing a declared or undeclared Salafist principality in eastern Syria … and this is exactly what the supporting powers to the opposition want, in order to isolate the Syrian regime, which is considered the strategic depth of the Shia expansion….” Eastern Syria, of course, became part of the Caliphate declared by ISIS—the recipient of “clandestine financial and logistic support” from both Saudi Arabia and Qatar, according to no less an authority than Hillary Clinton—in June 2014.

The war on terror turned out to be the longest route possible between Sunni terrorism and Sunni terrorism. Once again, the United States had tried to use Wahhabism to its own advantage, but with consequences that proved nothing less than disastrous.

What went wrong? The problem is two-fold. Wahhabism is an ideology of Bedouin zealots who may be adept at conquering their fellow tribesmen but who are incapable of governing a modern state. This is nothing new. It’s a problem discussed by Ibn Khaldun, the famous North African polymath, in the 14th century and by Friedrich Engels, Marx’s collaborator, in the late 19th, but the bottom line is an endlessly repetitive cycle in which nomadic fanatics rise up, overthrow a regime that has grown soft and corrupt, only to grow soft and corrupt themselves before succumbing to yet another wave of desert warriors. The result is anarchy piled on top of anarchy.

The other problem involves U.S. imperialism, which, in contrast to the French and British varieties, eschews the direct administration of colonial possessions for the most part and instead seeks to leverage U.S. power via innumerable alliances with local forces.

REUTERS/Jonathan Ernst

Unfortunately, leverage works the same way in diplomacy as in finance—i.e., as a multiplier of both gains and losses.

As part of its alliance with the Saudis, the United States encouraged the growth not only of jihad but of Wahhabism in general.

It seemed like a good idea when the Saudis established the Muslim World League in Mecca in 1962 as a counter to Egypt’s Gamal Abdel Nasser. So how could Washington object when the kingdom vastly expanded its missionary effort in 1979, spending anywhere from $75 billion to $100 billion to spread the word?

King Fahd, who ruled from 1982 to 2005, bragged about all the religious and educational facilities he built in non-Muslim lands—200 Islamic colleges, 210 Islamic centers, 1,500 mosques, 2,000 schools for Muslim children, etc. Since the aim was to combat Soviet influence and promote a conservative view of Islam, U.S. fortunes received an immense boost.

It seemed like a good idea for some 15 to 20 years. Then bombs started going off, the 9/11 attacks rocked America, the United States rushed into the restless Middle East, and radical Saudi Wahhabism metastasized beyond its spawning ground. U.S. fortunes haven’t been the same since.

Daniel Lazare is the author of The Frozen Republic: How the Constitution Is Paralyzing Democracy (Harcourt Brace, 1996) and other books about American politics. He has written for a wide variety of publications from The Nation to Le Monde Diplomatique, and his articles about the Middle East, terrorism, Eastern Europe, and other topics appear regularly on such websites as Jacobin and Consortium News.

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