Rise of the Ice Kings: The Dream"Play for me, Brandhol." Rathiel begged upon the second evening of eldest brother’s short respite at home."Play your whistle again, please? It's been so long since you played!"
"That's because I've been gone so long, silly," he replied, digging out his tin whistle from an inner pocket of his thick cloak. After a few short trills to warm up his fingers, he began to play a song that seemed to grow and mature as it progressed. Rathiel grinned and began to dance a few bars into the seemingly light-hearted tune.
The children's uncle, Hedhel, sent home from war on permanent furlough lay on the rug, dozing before the dying fire. At the sound of his nephew's playing, he bolted upright, staring wildly at Brandhol for a moment before calming slightly. "I think it's time that you find your bed, Rathiel," he said hoarsely.
Silien looked up from her darning in surprise,"Goodness, child!" she exclaimed, "You should have been in bed almost an hour ago! Hurry and change now, I'll be along
The Final StrawJason Rathen almost ignored the gentle taping on his office door, thinking that the sound originated from further down the hall, but the hesitant sound came a second time, only slightly more audible. Rathen stood and opened the door to be greeted by the person that he least expected and most hoped to see. "Hello, Jessie!"
Jessie nodded, worrying her lower lip in thinly veiled distress. "I... I'm sorry about practice, earlier," she said, rapidly forcing the words out.
"Why don't you come in," Rathen suggested, gesturing towards the other chair in his prop- and book-stuffed office, "and we can talk about what happened earlier this afternoon, if you'd like."
The suggestion was more of a mild order, but Jessie either didn't notice, or ignored it as she nodded and gingerly perched on the edge of the offered chair, grasping her books against her chest.
Professor Rathen took his time in mostly closing the door, and resettling a stack of papers that had been distu
A Slightly Dramatized AccountA Slightly Dramatized Account of a Very Real Feeling
I woke up to despise the world that I once loved. The sound of the fan in the next room is deceptively similar to the sound of the gentle rain that has gently woken me these past few mornings. For one blissful moment longer, I can pretend that things have not changed, and that when I open my eyes, the dim autumn lights will be filtered through the thick canvas wall of my rug lined pavilion. The thought is a comforting one until the undisturbed quiet is broken by the harsh blaring of my painfully electronic alarm, reminding me that cannot be so. Blindly, I reach out and silence it before rolling over, pulling my heavy wool cloak back over my head in the same motion. It is entirely too early to face the fact that I'll be pouring myself a bowl of overly processed, prepackaged and artificially preserved cold cereal instead of the usual boiled grains prepared over a crackling fire, built from yesterday's carefully covered coals. It is an
No LongerIt was too warm, the blankets of clouds too comfy for the sun to rise. We'd told ourselves he wouldn't be long, he'd be up soon. We've been telling ourselves that for three years. I, for one, am tired of lying. Because I dared to voice this one thought, this one collection of innocent words, I found myself instantly at odds with everyone whom I had once held in great esteem. Truly, I am a castaway in these swiftly dying lands- so close to home, and yet so utterly far away.
They will not hear the truth, even when the world shouts it with every struggle for each new day. We have ravaged the lands that we should have cherished, and now we pay the price for our sheer stupidity. Poisoned ash coats the once fertile fields, soot lines our lungs, and the skies are filled with clouds that are colors that they never should be. The truth is so clear, and yet no one will name it for what it is, for fear of facing our inevitable fate, the cost of our indifference.
No longer will I live this l
The AwakeningI’ve been set loose; drifting in search of my lost self. The words only began to hint at the hopelessness that surrounded the young girl. Things hadn’t always been this way, Calricia knew, but even that memory was fading. At first, the staff were gentle with the frail child, not quite nurturing, but taking enough time to notice her and to ensure that she felt some form of support. There was a regular routine, and every person there had a part in it’s ebb and flow throughout the day. The orphaned children wordlessly accepted their matching outfits of either all dull blue or all dull back- orphans didn’t wear (the unspoken thought lingered that they didn’t deserve to wear) colors- from a heap of such articles. After dressing, each child resumed their occupation of their place against a wall on the floor. For a short, comforting time, the staff member who regularly adjusted the unmarked bank of switches near Calricia’s unofficially assigned
Mountain KingsIn the valley of the mountain-kings
Where the winds blow ever fierce
And the sky remains ever clear
Where the birds cry their songs to the heavens
The realms unknown to all.
In this haven peace reigns ever free
Save for when the kings of old
Make their presence known
Among the woodlands and the streams.
Then does strife rear its head
And war come crashing down
Citizens young and old alike
Band together as never before.
In the the valley of the kings
Ringed by mountains proud
And winds blowing fierce
The kings of old wait.