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abstracthell · 3 years

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I don’t have a title for this.

The issue is… I have no words. I have years that I don’t write in this blog, so long that having a personal blog, where one did the design and had affiliate links… just, got lost… but that is not why I am writing today. It seems that life does indeed give many turns and if you would have told me when I was very stubbornly focused on the Akashic Records that this would end like this, I wouldn’t even know what to think. I don’t think I can express into words what I want to say, given that nobody is here to listen. I have learned so much and also I seemed to have developed Schizophrenia, but instead of having voices talking to me about far Kingdoms or showing me other universes, I have voices in my head talk to me about a death game called life and you know what I refuse to believe? That everything I have done so far in my life all the Reiki, all the Energetic System all the experiences that had led me to think otherwise, suddenly this is a cero-sum-game, where doesn’t matter what I do, I’m destiny to commit some egregious mistake when I know that life will always prevail. No, creation could display such amount of beautiness and, sure, contrast must exist, because can you imagine a world where there was no evil or people were living their lives singing Kumbayá all day? What a world would that be, I would bet that no innovation would surge and I don’t think that whatever is creating this along with us, is trying to send me to a sure suicide.

I could tell you everything that had happened to me in the last two months, but honestly… it would be the ramblings of a crazy non-binary person, whose powers went on a haywire and now they kind of don’t work and the voices, good lord, I received the knowledge of the universe only to lose it to the void of those who never cared about me. I have like months without proper rest or really sleeping also, I am happy to announce that I was always right and drugs? I am a very good drug consumer, just Mary Jane, though. Everything else has been kind of a drudge disappointment. I learned and I moved on, but right now I feel like I’m… I’m not sure if drowning is the right word, but I feel like I’m losing my religion and you will come to understand that when one says that you are losing your religion, you are simply losing your words. And I know that it says that if you don’t get the enemies then you are not moving towards the right direction, but after a few thousands of dollars, I would like to say… invested because nothing is ever lost without consequences to those who promised… I can’t believe that this is where my so well-earned ‘high-vibration’ has led me to.

Because you know what the voices that are most certainly not coming from the Eternal Sacred Source? That every Energetic System I have brought and every consultation has just been to kill me or hurt me or a death tally, which is just ridiculous, because, why show the beautiness of the Other World, to simply to lose it to the hallowed ground? You know what is my problem right now? Being friendless and I don’t mean, oh, there are people on the internet that know me and is willing to talk to me on a regular basis. No, after everything that happened, that left me with a home visit from a psychiatrist that in the end decided that the people that hired said professional were the one who needed help, well… what can I tell you? Yes, I cannot even shield behind craziness, because I have been declared after all the filthiness I had to literally walk, because I had to break my feet in the hot/cold asphalt until the universe stopped me and told me to turn back or lost myself into the nothingness of the uncreated, that I am mentally sound and safe, which I don’t know how I feel about that. It feels like a betrayal, because I would need a book of the size of the Lord of the Rings to tell my story and the spiritual and mental abuse I’m currently going through, because… quoting a song in Spanish: “Cuando lo manda el destino, no lo cambia ni el más bravo. Si naciste para martillo del cielo te caen los clavos.” Which roughly translate, that it doesn’t matter what you or others do, up or down, you will have whatever it is that you paved your way with and I decided to simply fill myself with beauty and love and being extraordinary and simply keep going forward, because all those wishes for me simply perish or to off myself? They will eventually be my strength to whatever my True Self wants to lead me with.

So, if I have to use this blog again, because I don’t have a voice and nobody that has a physical body can reach me just yet, because the world is changing, make no mistake… of course is changing, to an epoch and what an epoch… I just… I didn’t need to repeat something so inherently vicious, because I have to wait for the world to get on with the times, but I will prevail, because I believe that all that happened to me that lead to my closest enemies to abandon me to a vicious house and a sole psychiatric visit, that what I lived, in that crazed delirium is a future that I will simply see. It is something that I witnessed already and you know what it is when something happens twice? It’s called Deja Vú. And I will wait and I will cry and I will suffer and I will scream if I have to, but everything eventually becomes a Regression to the mean and I just have to search and focus sharply on solutions while the promise I lived for myself, doesn’t necessarily come to fruition, but my natural state, returns and even if I have to wait a year to have a semblance of normalcy again. I shall do so. Because I deserve it because I have seen it. Because I say that so it is.

#life #there are just some evil people in life #resilliance #I'll hang up in there don't worry

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ernestdescalsartwok · 3 years

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RAMBLAS-LA RAMBLA-BARCELONA-ART-PINTURA-RAMBLES-ACUARELA-ARTE-GENTE-QUIOSCOS-ARBOLES-PAISAJES-CIUDAD-ARTISTA-PINTOR-ERNEST DESCALS por Ernest Descals Por Flickr: RAMBLAS-LA RAMBLA-BARCELONA-ART-PINTURA-RAMBLES-ACUARELA-ARTE-GENTE-QUIOSCOS-ARBOLES-PAISAJES-CIUDAD-ARTISTA-PINTOR-ERNEST DESCALS- El tránsito que nos lleva de otoño a invierno también se vive en LAS RAMBLAS de BARCELONA,las hojas se van tornando en amarillentas y otras caen al suelo dejando las ramas de los árboles casi desnudas, logrando unos efectos mágicos que la luz retransmite en su vibración, pinturas con acuarelas de los paisajes de La Rambla, buscando la atmósfera que se impregna en nuestros ojos a través de la insinuación plástica, entre los quioscos van paseando las personas en su deambular impreciso, formando un mundo de los muchos que existen en la ciudad que es la capital de Catalunya. Pinturas del artista pintor Ernest Descals sobre papel de 50 x 70 centímetros, pintar Les Rambles se antoja como algo totalmente infinito en sus posiblidades plásticas y emocionales.

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azulblue9 · 4 years

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How Prince became Prince, told by Prince.

Deia, Bizkaia News.

"The Beautiful Ones" arrives Thursday at the bookstores in its Spanish version

JAVIER HERRERO - Wednesday, November 13, 2019 - Updated at 6:52 p.m.

"The Beautiful Ones", a first-person account of "how Prince became Prince", in his way of seeing life and art, arrives Thursday at the bookstores in its Spanish version when three and a half years have passed death of one of the most relevant and influential music figures.

MADRID. "Several people he loved and admired were beginning to fall ill, which had made him aware of his own mortality. Now more than ever he understood the value of telling his own story," explains Dan Piepenbring, chosen by the star to help you in the narration of this work.

Among unpublished photos, diaries and intimate notes, the book starts with an introduction prepared by this writer and editor who became responsible for completing it after the unexpected death of the musical star by an overdose of fentanyl. He talks about this reconstruction process long and hard.

"I spoke with Prince for the last time on a Sunday, April 17, 2016, four days before his death," he recalls after becoming an orphan of the essential vertex of the project and after three months of sporadic calls and just 30 pages of hand notes that are reproduced in the book.

From the annotations and documents found in the residence of Paisley Park, in Minnesota (USA), it took years to conclude "The Beautiful Ones" (Reservoir Books), in an attempt to fulfill the original will to serve as a manual on the creative process and the music industry and even as a speaker against racism.

"The enormity of his archive gave us hope. There was a way of giving nature's letter to his ambitions without compromising the integrity of the project ... If we only included objects that had been his, we would know that we had something authentic in our hands. Only the things he had saved transmitted something to us. The voice of the book could be his, "Piepenbring says.

Divided into four parts, the first contains the autobiographical testimony he left. "Every new school year, the children and the teachers made fun of my name, but it never bothered me because it was unique. No one had the first name Prince. Except me," he says in his ramblings about the singularity.

"Many artists fall through the rabbit hole of their fantasies and never return. There have been many who have censored this as a form of self-destruction, but I prefer the term free will. Life is better lived. The path one takes us. away from the rest. Those we considered different were the ones that interested us most, "he says in this first part.

In the second, newspapers and scrapbooks discover their formative years, just before their first album. The ascent to the top is the matter on which the story of the third part is built, while the fourth has been expressly consigned to shelling "Purple Rain", taken here as "the conclusion of the process of creating oneself" .

A good part of the exploration lies in finding a formula to define "funk", a musical genre capable of messing up the body of those who recognized themselves as a lover of order in the rest of the spheres of their lives. "The space between the notes, that's the good part," he used to say.

"Somehow, funk music was also the ideal vehicle for expressing his dilemma. Prince was the vivid image of contradiction, the synthesis of his mother and father. Funk worked the same way, fusing momentum and structure." , considers Piepenbring in his personal reflections on Prince.

Some of the keys to his compositional process and musical philosophy are here discovered by the genius of Minneapolis, as when he says that "a good ballad should always encourage you to make love" or that "the best songs are in a vibrant imagination, in fantasy characters who wear fantasy clothes creating memories together and calling that life ".

For all these reasons, "The Beautiful Ones" is not a catalog of vital nonsense like other autobiographies, but a tool for personal growth, as he himself defined: "I want to tell people to be creative. Simply, start creating your day And then create your own life. "

The ONE & ONLY__________________ Prince 4ever! O(+> 💜🎵💜

De cómo Prince se convirtió en Prince, contado por Prince

"The Beautiful Ones" llega este jueves a las librerías en su versión en español

JAVIER HERRERO - Miércoles, 13 de Noviembre de 2019 - Actualizado a las 18:52h

"The Beautiful Ones", relato en primera persona de "cómo Prince se convirtió en Prince", de su manera de ver la vida y el arte, llega este jueves a las librerías en su versión en español cuando se cumplen tres años y medio del fallecimiento de una de las figuras más relevantes e influyentes de la música.

MADRID. "Varias personas a las que amaba y admiraba estaban empezando a caer enfermas, lo que le había hecho consciente de su propia mortalidad. Ahora más que nunca comprendía el valor de contar su propia historia", explica en esas páginas Dan Piepenbring, elegido por la estrella para ayudarle en la narración de esta obra. Entre fotos inéditas, dietarios y apuntes íntimos, el libro arranca con una introducción elaborada por este escritor y editor que se convirtió en el responsable de completarlo tras el inesperado fallecimiento del astro musical por una sobredosis de fentanilo. De ese proceso de reconstrucción habla largo y tendido. "Hablé con Prince por última vez un domingo, el 17 de abril de 2016, cuatro días antes de su muerte", rememora tras quedarse huérfano del vértice imprescindible del proyecto y después de tres meses de llamadas esporádicas y apenas 30 páginas de apuntes a mano que se reproducen en el libro. A partir de las anotaciones y de documentos hallados en la residencia de Paisley Park, en Minnesota (EEUU), llevó años concluir "The Beautiful Ones" (Reservoir Books), en un intento por cumplir la voluntad original de que sirviera como manual sobre el proceso creativo y la industria musical e incluso como altavoz contra el racismo. "La enormidad de su archivo nos dio esperanzas. Había una manera de dar carta de naturaleza a sus ambiciones sin comprometer la integridad del proyecto (...). Si incluíamos únicamente objetos que habían sido suyos, sabríamos que teníamos algo auténtico entre manos. Solo las cosas que había guardado nos transmitían algo. La voz del libro podría ser la suya", sentencia Piepenbring. Dividido en cuatro partes, la primera contiene el testimonio autobiográfico que dejó. "Cada nuevo curso escolar los niños y los maestros se burlaban de mi nombre, pero nunca me molestó porque era único. Nadie tenía como nombre de pila Prince. Excepto yo", señala en sus divagaciones sobre la singularidad. "Muchos artistas caen por la madriguera de conejo de sus fantasías y no regresan nunca. Ha habido muchos que han censurado esto como una forma de autodestrucción, pero yo prefiero el término libre albedrío. La vida es mejor vivida. El camino que uno toma nos aleja del resto. Aquellos a los que consideraban diferentes eran los que más nos interesaban", destaca en esta primera parte. En la segunda, diarios y libretas de recortes descubren sus años de formación, justo antes de su primer disco. El ascenso hasta lo más alto es la materia sobre la que se construye el relato de la tercera parte, mientras que la cuarta se ha consignado expresamente a desgranar "Purple Rain", tomada aquí como "la conclusión del proceso de crearse a sí mismo". Buena parte de la exploración radica en encontrar una fórmula para definir el "funk", género musical capaz de desordenarle el cuerpo a quien se reconocía como un amante del orden en el resto de esferas de su vida. "El espacio que hay entre las notas, esa es la parte buena", solía decir. "De algún modo, la música funk era también el vehículo ideal para expresas su dilema. Prince era la viva imagen de la contradicción, la síntesis de su madre y de su padre. El funk funcionaba de la misma manera, fusionando impulso y estructura", considera Piepenbring en sus reflexiones personales sobre Prince. Algunas de las claves de su proceso compositivo y de su filosofía musical quedan aquí al descubierto por el propio genio de Minneapolis, como cuando afirma que "una buena balada siempre debería animarte a hacer el amor" o que "las mejores canciones se encuentran en una imaginación vibrante, en personajes de fantasía que visten ropas de fantasía creando recuerdos juntos y llamando a eso vida". Por todo ello, "The Beautiful Ones" no es un catálogo de despropósitos vitales como otras autobiografías, sino una herramienta de crecimiento personal, tal y como él mismo definió: "Quiero decirle a la gente que sea creativa. Simplemente, empieza creándote el día. Y luego crea tu propia vida".

Prince 4ever! O(+> 💜🎵💜

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lumeha · 7 years

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My town voted at 40% for MLP

I am really disgusted about that

#rambling glaceon #on the other hand Caen did better #u did a good Caen

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tsugumihalberd · 7 years

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Quiero que Iván sea el primero en morir

#bea ve el internado #es el mismo que hace de francisco #ambos personajes me caen mal #bea rambles

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d-thorin · 7 years

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❦ Ramblings of a Dwarf ❧

My name is Galrock. I hail from the illustrious mountains of Ruhl. Although this is my birthplace my father would have you believe that our family came from some distant land across the stars, which is a bit of tomfoolery that I had never believed until now.

Not long after I came of age my father informed me that he had to return to The island where the Rogue Mistress was shipwrecked. This being the fabled ship that brought him to Caen. My two older brothers followed but my sis and I remained. She and I both had studies to complete.

After quite a few months without word my sis was gettin worried so to slyke her concerns I set out to find him. At least that’s what I told her. In truth I set out for any place that wasn’t Ruhl.

After leaving home I fell in with a band of mercks. Who had a bodged, Gobber driven, warjack. The life of a brigand and highwaymen suted me well. I could for the first time take full advantage of our families little secret. That being The ability to transform myself into a Farrow or even a wild boar if need be. It was the perfect alias. I could walk amongst men as a dwarf and then rob them blind as a Monster.

It was Great fun until one evening I came upon a Signarien officer. taking a wee. As he turned I first produced my Rapier then my pistol. I then commanded him to stand and deliver lest the Devour Worm may take him. As he instinctively went for his shiny blue Service Pistol I fired both barrels of mine and hit him square, and down he went!

After that all Ercaen broke loose. Unbeknownst to me and my crew there was a hole military unit over the next rise and I had just shot their captain. It wasn’t a very large unit. We probably could have taken them if it weren’t for the two Warjacks. The first thing they did was blast our Kahdorin rustbucket to smithereens, Gobbber and all! At that very moment our mary bunch was abruptly disbanded.

I fled into a swamp with soldiers hot on my tail. I could have just shifted into a common swine once I was out of their site but I had just built that double barrel and I was wearing my favorite coat. I was moving pretty quick threw that bog but The sods weren’t lettin up. Then I came sliding to a stop from a full run when I saw her…

Before me stood a very shapely young lass of short stature, barely a foot or so taller then I in my natural state. She had long raven hair with dusky features and was wearing little but mud and moonlight and her name was Molly. The girl was surprised to be sure, but at the site of a large, half man, half bore toting a double barrel coming to a screeching halt in front of her, she did not seem frightened in the least. We bothe just stared at One another for a long moment she then gently snapped of a bit of swamp read and shoved it in my snout. Then proceeded to grab me and forcefully push me beneath the water of the bog. It was very uncomfortable but I soon realized that I could breathe through the read. Then there was commotion above The water. I waited for a while. Then I rose. As I wiped the mud from my eyes I saw that the men had past but the lovely girl was still there.

We then exchanged the particulars of our current circumstance. She informed me that she was a Druidus but generally had very little to do with her order, the Circle of Adoo-lahmah-da or somesuch. I told her of my fathers stories and his mad quest. Then she gave me a quick lesson on how healthy mud is for your skin. I always did like mud.

Her an Umbrean Wildwoman and me a shape shifting dwarf. We were inseparable. We traveled northward through Lleal doing well to stay far from the Kings Highway. We accosted a coachman and his fair although no one was harmed I could tell she hadn’t the taste for it.

We then came to the city of Riversmet. Where in, I sent word to my sister. I told her of Molly and asked her if she would be able to come and meet us at the Cork and Kerry. It was a local brewhouse that my father owns a flat above. Molly is definitely not a city person but the old river town seemed a bit sparse for this time of year and we were happy no matter where we were. We spend our days in the local markets and pubs and our evenings taking in shows or sneaking in to galas and balls.

It was quite grand until one morning I came to mollies chamber still quite drunk and weary from the night before. when I open the door I was greeted by the Watch Captain clapped in irons and thrown in prison. Where I spent all of about two days until the Kahrds decided to raise The city to the ground.

That day I hadn’t seen the guard all morning so I picked the locks on my cell door and that blasted ball and chain that was attached to my ankle with a set of quail bone pics that I keep in my hat. Then I made my way warily to the guards office where I knew they’d stowed my stuff. Which was fairly easy seeing that most of them had abandoned us at that point. A little searching and I had my gear and then some. My better sense told me I should’ve been heading for the door but I didn’t know if they nabbed Molly before they’d gotten me and I had to be sure. As I cautiously ventured down each cell Corredor, encountering no resistants what so ever the severity of the situation began to dawn on me.

The stocks of Riversmet are housed in The cities main military Garrison. Although the prison is housed at the complete opposite end of the structure there are often plenty of soldiers and watchmen Manning or at least passing through the stocks. Today there was none.

In the distance over the the profane howling of the prisoners I heard the distinct sound of keys. As I listened closer I realized it was soldiers opening sell doors. they were offering conscription for freedom but in reality they were simply looking for cannon fodder. It must’ve been gettin pretty bad out there.

I then made my way up acrossed the pitch of the roof and into the Beltower where I swiftly greeted The old man feverishly ringing the bell, with my boot. I then proceeded to relieve him of his weapons and attire. Donning them myself. I Tell ya I make a right shabby watchmen, but it was all I could think to do at the time. As I fastened his mental over my coat I gazed from the belltower over the City wall. What I Saw stole my breath and made me snort.

I’d heard that Kahdorin soldiers are like rabid dogs willing to attack anything whether they believe they can defeat it or not. Many times I’ve heard tail of The Karhds infringing upon Lleal for no better reason than to test the Metal of Lleals Signoarian protectors but with the entire Western end of the city ablaze and the city gate in splinters beneath the Kahdorin warmachines feet. This was not the case here on this day.

Riversmeant was under siege.

I vaulted over the small iron gate and made a mad dash to the Cork and Kerry.

All around me was madness. Not far behind me the sounds of desperate screams and cannon fire were ever present and worst of all, I had no idea where Molly was.

As I rounded the corner of Cobble Street I stepped right on a young Rinish girl sending her rolling to the ground. I saw the horror on her mother’s face and instinctively helped the girl to her feet and apologized. I was then puzzled when the woman began begging me for help. Then I realized that I was still where the old Watchmans uniform. It was not long before others started asking me for help. At first I attempted to explain that I was no watchman. I then tried to remove my helmet and shift back into a dwarf, but the visor of the old rusted pot helm was wedged under my Tuskes and every time I tried to shift I got jabbed and tasted cold steel in my mouth. It was stuck.

It was then that I noticed the young Rin girl was limping. Thoughts of home my brothers, my sister, my father and his mad stories raced through my mind. I then scooped the small child up, wincing as I did. My shoulder was reminding me of earlier events. Beckoning her mother and all who Took notice of me to follow me down the street to the Cork and Carry. I so hope that Molly would be there when I arrived but she was not. I lead a small mob down into my father’s friend Barlows seller. For I knew that no self-respecting dwarf would liv among men and not have a Stow. Which is a vault or safe room with a Hidden door of exquisite dwarven craftsmanship. It took me a few tence minutes but I soon found Barlow’s stow and had it open To my surprise The iron door with a thick stone plate affixed to it opened to a spiral staircase leading directly into the putrid sewers. After a bit of tromping around in slick disgusting tunnels, we were soon on the eastern riverbank far beyond the city wall. At this distance it looked as if the entire city was engulfed in flames. We were a lucky bunch.

Once outside the city I told the refugees to head toward Vauxanary. I don’t really know much about the place except that they make great cigars, but it was the exact opposite direction of the smoldering remains of riversmeat.

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t double back and search for Molly, but it was to no avail. So it was, with my heart as heavy as the mountain itself I trudged back to Ruehl. All the while my brain squirming with terrible thoughts of what might’ve happened to my sweet Molly and constant questions of how I could’ve changed it. Dammit I knew first hand that Allied Forces were moving northward from Cignare. I also knew The Khards were advancing through Lleal. Dammit I did! It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before a but they had never come near Riversmeat. Dammit, dammit all to Cien!

On returning to my homeland I did what any self respecting broken hearted dwarf woud do. I tried to drown my sorrow in thick ail, dark malt liquor, and work. I was a metallurgists apprentice at Stone House Dhurg before leaving Ruhl. On returning I use this skill to gain employment as an accredited Smithies assistant. Here I began plans on a new breech-loading rifle with four rotating barrels that I lovingly dubbed the Kard Killer. Although I was back in the Dwarven heartland I was no ware near our Family home of Far Hollow and I had made no attempt to contact my clan except to insure the swift delivery of a letter to my sis warning her of the fate that befell Riversmet. This letter did not include my werabouts, which was quite intentional.

This fact played a very small role in why I was so surprised to see my father’s old friend Barlow and my sister stroll into the forge one evening. For it is a rare occasion that I am caught off guard. So surprised was I that I stood straight up dumping my tools from my bench and dropping the pepperbox I was working on, to the floor. when the small pistol landed it misfired and put a pallet size hole square between the eyes of an old Satixie Raiders skull. Luckily The Old skull wasn’t attached to a living being. It was the pommel hilt of a rather expensive knife of Ogrin design, Which Gaull The Smithie, informed me that I had just bought. At that moment though I didn’t care. He could have kicked me in the teeth and then charge me for the whole shop it wouldn’t of made a difference. For all of my attention was directed on with whom my sister and old friend had in there company.

Not long after I came of age my father informed me that he had to leave home and venture far away to the island where the Rogue Mistress was shipwrecked. This being the fabled craft that brought him to Caen. My two older brothers followed but my sis and I remained. She and I both had studies to complete. Quite a few months passed without word and my sis was gettin worried so to slyke her concerns I set out to find them. At least that's what I told her. In truth I set out for any place that wasn't Ruhl.

After making my way round the kingdoms of man for a bit I fell in with a band of mercks who had a bodged, Gobber driven, warjack. The life of a brigand and highwaymen suted me well. I could for the first time take full advantage of our families little secret. That being The ability to transform myself into a Farrow or even a wild boar if need be. It was the perfect alias. I could walk amongst men as a dwarf and then rob them blind as a Monster. It was Great fun until one evening I came upon a Cignarien officer. taking a wee. As he turned I first produced my Rapier then my pistol. I then commanded him to stand and deliver lest the Devour may take him. As he instinctively went for his shiny blue Service Pistol I shot him with both barrels and down he went.

After that, all Ercaen broke loose! Unbeknownst to me and my crew there was a hole mess af blu-backs over the next rise and I had just shot their captain. It wasn't a very large unit. We probably could have taken them if it weren't for the two warjacks. The first thing they did was blast our Kahdorin rustbucket to smithereens, Gobber and all! At that very moment our mary bunch was abruptly disbanded. I fled into a swamp with soldiers hot on my tail. I could have just shifted into a common swine once I was out of their site but I had just built that double barrel and I was wearing my favorite coat. I was moving pretty quick threw that bog but the sods weren't lettin up. Then I came sliding to a stop from a full run when I saw her...

Before me stood a very shapely young lass of short stature, barely a foot or so taller then I in my natural state. She had long raven hair with dusky features and was wearing little but mud and moonlight and her name was Molly. The girl was surprised to be sure, but at the site of a, half man, half bore toting a large smoking pistol coming to a screeching halt in front of her, she did not seem frightened in the least. We stared at one another for a long moment. She then snapped of a bit of swamp read and shoved it right into my snout. As I cringed frome the sudden intrusion she grab me and shoved me under the murky water. It was unsettling to say the least but I soon realized that I could breathe through the read. There was commotion above The surface. I waited for what seemed like forever. When I rose and wiped the mud from my eyes I saw that the men had past but the lovely girl was still there. We exchanged the particulars of our circumstance. She informed me that she was to be a Druid of the Circle of Adoo-lahmah-da or somesuch but had given her cruel git of a master the slip. I told her of my fathers stories and his mad quest. Then she gave me a quick lesson on how healthy mud is for your skin. I always did like mud.

Her an Umbrean Wildwoman and me a shape shifting dwarf. We were inseparable. We traveled northward through Lleal doing well to stay far from the Iron Highway. We accosted a coachman and his fair although no one was harmed I could tell she hadn't the taste for it.

Soon we came to the city of Riversmet. Where in, I sent word to my sister. I told her of Molly and invited her to meet us at the Cork and Kerry. It was a local brewhouse owned by my fathers friend Barlow. Molly is definitely not a city girl but the old river town seemed sparse for this time of year and together, we were happy anywhere. I had plenty of ill-gotten coin so we spent our days in the local markets and nights taking in shows or exploring the many unique pubs of the Three Rivers Town.

It was quite grand until one morning I came to Mollies chamber still quite drunk and weary from the night before. As I open the door I was greeted by the Watch Captain, clapped in irons, and tossed in prison. I spent all of about two days there until the Khards decided to raise The city to the ground.

That day I hadn't seen the guard all morning so I picked the locks on my cell door and that blasted ball and chain that was attached to my ankle with a set of quail bone pics that I keep in my hat. Then I made my way warily to the guards office where I knew they'd stowed my stuff. Which was fairly easy seeing that most of them had abandoned us at that point. A little searching and I had my gear and then some. My better sense told me I should've been heading for the door but I didn't know if they nabbed Molly before they'd gotten me and I had to be sure. As I cautiously ventured down each cell Corredor, encountering no resistants what so ever the severity of the situation began to dawn on me. The stocks of Riversmet are housed in The cities main military Garrison. Although the prison is housed at the complete opposite end of the structure there are often plenty of soldiers and watchmen Manning or at least passing through the stocks. Today there was none.

Suddenly my ears were wrecked buy a terrible explosion. Searing pain shot through my shoulder and I was face down on the filthy stone floor! As I lifted my Head I saw fresh snow flakes falling through ash an daylight. I was surrounded by what was only a few moments ago a large portion of the roof and upper wall. It's bloody Hurt. It hurt bad. In the distance over the the profane howling of the prisoners I heard the distinct sound of keys. As I listened closer I realized it was soldiers opening sell doors. they were offering conscription for freedom but in reality they were simply looking for cannon fodder. It must've been gettin pretty bad out there.

With the fear of death by the Kahdorin army and white-hot searing pain of my shoulder to motivate me I shifted and I was up that wall and outs the hole in the roof before my would be conscripters ever got close. I then made my way up acrossed the pitch of the roof and into the Beltower where I swiftly greeted The old man feverishly ringing the bell, with my boot. I then proceeded to relieve him of his weapons and attire. Donning them myself. I Tell ya I make a right shabby watchmen, but it was all I could think to do at the time. As I fastened his mental over my coat I gazed from the belltower over the City wall. What I Saw stole my breath and made me snort.

I'd heard that Kahdorin soldiers are like rabid dogs willing to attack anything whether they believe they can defeat it or not. Many times I've heard tail of The Khards infringing upon Lleal for no better reason than to test the Metal of there Cignaarian protectors but with the entire western end of the city ablaze and the city gate in splinters beneath the Kahdorin warmachines feet. This was not the case here on this day. Riversmeant was under siege.

I then swiftly descended the stairs of the belltower all the while trying to squeeze my boorish head into an old pot helm. For I know no dwarves who have ever been watchmen and I am much closer to a mans size as a Faarow. Luckily I did not have to put my awkward disguise to the test. The ground floor of the beltower exited into a small empty courtyard.I vaulted over a small iron gate and made a mad dash for the Cork and Kerry. All around me was madness. At my back the sounds of desperate screams and cannon fire were ever present but worst of all, I had no idea where Molly was. As I rounded the corner of Cobble Street I stepped right on a young Rin girl sending her rolling to the ground. I saw the horror on her mother's face and instinctively helped the girl to her feet and apologized. I was then puzzled when the woman began begging me for help.i had forgotten that I was still whirring the old Watchmans uniform.

Shortly there were more people asking me for help. At first I attempted to explain that I was no watchman. I then tried to remove my helmet and shift back into a dwarf, but the visor of the old rusted pot helm was wedged under my Tuskes and every time I tried to shift I got jabbed and tasted cold steel in my mouth. It was stuck.

It was then that I noticed the young Rin girl was limping. Thoughts of home my brothers, my sister, my father and his mad stories raced through my mind. I then scooped the small child up, wincing as I did. My shoulder was reminding me of earlier events. Beckoning her mother and all who Took notice of me to follow me down the street to the Cork and Carry. I so hope that Molly would be there when I arrived but she was not. I lead a small mob down into Barlows seller. For I knew that no self-respecting Ruhllfolk would liv among men and not have a Stow. Which is a vault or safe room with a Hidden door of exquisite craftsmanship. It took me a few tence minutes but I soon found Barlow's stow and had it open. To my surprise The iron door with a thick stone plate affixed to it opened to a spiral staircase leading directly into the putrid sewers. After a bit of tromping around in slick disgusting tunnels, we were soon on the eastern riverbank far beyond the city wall. At this distance it looked as if the entire city was engulfed in flames. We were a lucky bunch. Once outside the city I told the refugees to head toward Vauxany. I don't really know much about the place except that they make great cigars, It was however the exact opposite direction of Khador.

I would be lying if I said that I didn't double back and search for Molly, but it was to no avail. So it was, with my heart as heavy as the mountain itself I trudged back to Ruehl. All the while my brain squirming with terrible thoughts of what might've happened to my sweet Molly and constant questions of how I could've changed it. Dammit I knew first hand that Allied Forces were moving northward from Cignare. I also knew The Khards were advancing through Lleal. Dammit I did! It wasn't like it hadn't happened before a but they had never come near Riversmeat. Dammit, dammit all to Ercien!

On returning to my homeland I did what any broken hearted dwarf woud do. I tried to drown myself in thick ail, dark malt liquor, and work. I was a metallurgists apprentice at Stone House Dhurg before leaving Ruhl. On returning I use this skill to gain employment as an accredited Smithies assistant. Here I began plans on a new breech-loading rifle with four rotating barrels that I lovingly dubbed the Kard Killer. Although I was back in the Dwarven heartland I was no ware near our Family home of Far Hollow and I had made no attempt to contact my clan except to insure the swift delivery of a letter to my sis warning her of the fate of Riversmet. This letter did not include my werabouts, which was quite intentional.

This fact played a very small role in why I was so surprised to see my father's old friend Barlow and my sister stroll into the shop one evening. It is a rare occasion that I am caught off guard. So surprised was I that I stood straight up dumping my tools from my bench and dropping the pepperbox I was working on to the floor. When the small pistol landed it misfired and put a hole between the eyes of an old Satixie Raiders skull. The skull was the pommel hilt of a rather expensive Ogrin size cleaver that Gaull The Smithy informed me I had just bought. He could have kicked me in the teeth and then charged me for the whole dam shop and I couldn’t have cared less. For at that moment all of my attention was directed on with whom my sister and old friend had in there company.

She was quite short by human standards but still towered over my sis. She carried a long gnarled staff bearing runes carved by my own hand. Over her she wore a thick fir mantled cloak that was once my mothers. Her Long dark hair was woven tightly into braids that hung over her shoulders framing her perfect neckline and then some, and Her deep golden brown eyes were leveled squarely on me... Oh. and her name,was, Molly.

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