The Struggles You Choose

From the moment we are born we are this incongruous matter that is always seeking, seeking to build, refine, expand, and better our forms to continuously grow into something more than what we are in the present. While we don’t always have a say in what the world gives us, we do have the ability to work with it.

So we work, not just against the struggle, but for a dream. We are all visionaries in the sense that we see beyond ourselves, these forms with names. We have to earn it though, it's not just given and something not earned will not sustain the feelings of worthiness or contentedness for long. But what do you call that moment when you're working for something and it's so close that you can almost reach out and grasp it? You can't see it, but a few more moments (that feel like forever) and it'll be yours if you can hold on.

Grind  /ɡrīnd/  - Sharpen, smooth, or produce (something) by crushing or by friction.

You’ve heard people say it, proclaim it, swear by it. They’ve been “grinding”. It’s most often used to portray an individual hard at work, near the point of breaking. Someone who is working so hard that if it were quantifiable, there would be no question that whatever task they’re facing would eventually be surmounted. In powerlifting we often find ourselves, knowingly or not, in the grind.

Throughout the year, across the globe, a small number will gather to spend a day sharing in glory and defeat. All with the same general goal of getting stronger, getting better. In that period they will all do the same. They will all grind. A weight will be placed before them and they’ll be asked to lift it. They will strain, they will grunt, they will  push, pull, fight against a number, and they will either succeed or they will fail. Every lifter will grind because we are all seeking betterment and that does not come without challenge.

What follows are a few examples from the 18th of May at the Drug Tested Long Beach Metroflex Meet:

Christopher Rivas (@kilikarivas) finds himself in his first meet and with nothing to prove, has already put impressive numbers as he approaches the platform for his first deadlift. It drops. In the pit, the other lifters learn that he’s torn away his palm. He asks around for glue and is able to find some. By the time his second attempt has approached, he walks toward the weight with the crowd none the wiser to what has transpired. He pulls, his body strains, muscles bulging and face contorting as the bar bends and leaves its original position to slowly ascend. It is slow, it is steady, it is a grind; suddenly, the bar comes back down to the ground like lightning and reminds us of its weight. His hand is ripped even more now, but he needs to get this weight, he’s done it so many times before. Chris goes up a final time, but the bar fails to move at all, but he leaves knowing full well that they will meet again.

Joel Perez (@hoel727) is a calm man, but a quiet intensity surrounds him. Throughout the day, his squats have been deep, his bench has been fast, and his deadlifts soar. This is a man with a plan and he will not stray. It seems like he’s done this for a while, but it’s only his second meet in two years. He injured his shoulder and knee after the first competition and has been slowly rebuilding to get back into powerlifting. He’s rebuilt his form and spent plenty of time reading into different programs and articles to reconstruct the way he lifts. The calculated return has been just as efficient as his lifts. He’s been careful not to injure himself again and admits that he probably could’ve done a meet sooner, but lacked confidence in himself. Finally, with two weeks out from the meet he buys in, ready to get back into it. Ready to push his body. Joel goes 8/9 that day and increases his squat and bench.

Jason Oregel (@Jaysmyname) is warming up in the back. The plate jumping goes well, it is mechanical, but as he approaches his last warm up the weight is a struggle to get up. His mind begins racing, but even in the fog of adrenaline he is collected enough to realize that he must lower his opener. He’s recently dropped fifty pounds and as expected, it is having a toll on him. He can’t dwell on that now, the meet isn’t over. He chooses to fight another day and get on the board in the present. It is never easy to admit to our shortcomings, but it takes a wise individual to make the call. It’s the right one as his first deadlift goes up. He's in the game.  He’s been here before, his third meet in three years, and as before he’s always looking to improve. He does so, not enough (never enough) but it leaves him hungry for more.

That day they knowingly or not shared in the growth that comes from a meet. They’ve changed from this experience and it might not be the biggest, but it sets a new dynamic going forward. They have learned that this will not be their highest high or their lowest low, because there is more work to do. They’ve already gone back to the grind, different goals and new ways to achieve them, but always committed to getting there. Best of luck in your next prep and thank you for allowing me to share your stories.

So while this article came from the struggle of powerlifting, it speaks moreso to the everyday. Times are difficult, days will be tough, moments seem to last forever, but if you grind, if you stand resolute and do what you can to see a task through, you will stand fucking tall. You have everything you will ever need, yourself, and that is enough. We’ve all heard “Iron sharpens Iron”, but you are more than that because iron does not have ambitions; iron will not move of its own accord. The bar only moves when we make it, and we toil away to make it so and if it will not bend now there will come a day. The bar will not stay motionless forever.

With that in mind, strain your bodies, overstuff your schedules, refine your diet to function better, push yourself and discover that you can squeeze out just a little more. It’s a struggle, but it’s one we freely choose. You will look back in awe, at the moments that shaped you and the challenges you bent to your will, and goddamn what a sight it will have been to witness, but even moreso to live through.

Crawl, Limp, Walk, Run, Fly. Struggle. Grow.

Grind.

Static Interference: One of Nurture & One of Nature

Reflections on Irrelevance

Can he tell that I’ve stared into the void, the dark tunnel of the iron before?

Different angles, different ages, but the same questions all the time.

Is this a precursor to the end, the beginning of all there is?

The all-consuming darkness before me doesn’t seem so inviting this time.

I wonder what he sees when he closes his eyes in the moment.

I’ll never find out.

Maybe I’ve always known, I’ve looked in mirrors before.

Instead, he learns.

A life isn't always a candle. A life isn't always a wildfire.

He learns that I am somewhere in between.

Death is not a whisper. Death is not a tempest.

I learn that he is somewhere in between.

Like wine on carpet, or a water-stained book,

We are always there.

I’d jolt from sleep or toss and turn

Struggling, tense, wondering still.

If it really came down to it, could I do it?

Could I kill or would I be killed?

Does it really matter, in the end?

Maybe that’s the point, either way we end up the same.

Maybe we learned the truth, we’re all awaited. Six feet deep.

Sometimes I dreamt we might be brothers, we stood there for ages.

Bonded by the steel between our hands.

Neither wanting to be without it, unsure of what we would do with it.

More real, and there for us, than God and maybe in that moment it was.

As we fall on knees, together in prayer, fervent worship of death.

We can’t help thinking it might be an Alpha and it sure as hell was the Omega.

Its answers are resolute.

Maybe a part of us did kill the other that day.

On Cold Dreaming Desert and Warm Waking Waters

Forlorn desert does not ask why it is

devoid of soft droplets, kisses from heaven.

Gifting life, so wanted. Instead it goes

for time uncounted enduring in heat.

Blinded, or growing numb from the cold nights.

Never truly finding comfort or peace

in its own domain. So it must abide.

Maddened by imagined limitations.

Sand dunes climb, always reaching, yearning so.

Sunkist hands that will never grasp the sky.

Mere fact, but perchance an untold promise

and so the desert does not ask why? How?

It must go without rain, it does not ask.

It chooses to create life, birth beauty.

Chuparosa, Mariposa Lily,

Apache Plume, and Desert Marigold.

It knows of the rain, though it knows it not,

and maybe that is where all things reside.

Cycles of selfishness and selflessness

The desert will be around for the rain,

like a river will carve through a canyon.

At the mercy of the rain, but not tied.

Grateful when it decides to come around.

Alas, such is the nature of nature.

Drown me in your waters, flood me so that I am never without you again.

Complacency The Slow, Ever-Tightening Noose

The Lost King

The ancient sun began to rise over the Kavali Mountains, bathing the town of Savoy in a warm, red tint. The air hung damp and the streets were empty.  A crooked, thin, black tower overlooked the streets--once a shepherd, only a grave marker now. The buildings were silent, no interest to rise from the dead and join the sun, but they could not rest forever. Savoy would not let them, the tower would not let them, and their king would not have it.

In time, the denizens slowly lumbered out of their homes. They moved stiffly, as though unaccustomed to their bodies and set about their daily duties. Nothing ever felt right in Savoy.

Wagons slowly rolled down the streets, squeaking and filling the air where voices cared not. Shades of greys and browns walked to and fro with heads bowed low and spirits lower. Wrinkled faces and squinting eyes looked ahead and hardly bothered to recognize neighbors. One would wonder if they could. Everything else was a  backdrop to each person's internal suffering and nothing would pull them from those depths. Nor could it, for this was a town that was caught just beyond death’s veil, but could not move on. The people all seemed aware and resigned to this fate.

Inside the looming tower, having risen before the sun and having shared the silence with the moons of Iknaron and Hurgasnin, sat a figure on a throne.

A large milk-white throne carved from a living tree that drew every eye towards its majesty. One could be forgiven for missing the figure seated atop; he had become a shadow of his former self and now, it was all the throne could do to not swallow him in its grandiosity. Though it certainly tried.

Here in the emptiness of the darkened hall, with tapestries abandoned to time and dust, and devoid of the bodies that had once given it an allure-it was almost enough to draw one to tears. There were no more tears though, in Savoy all had forgotten how to cry.

The figure on the throne was High King Malik Arc de Leon. He stared through the emptiness of the hall, just as he had done the day before,  the day before that, and much longer than any other living being cared to remember. None survived now on Das’il that could remember how it had happened and so they stopped caring, content to shuffling about their days.

Back when people still wondered, they told of how he had simply lost his mind. Before that they proclaimed how he was lost in thought, stumped by a question without answer and that the throne contained the wisdom of everyone who had ever sat in it. How High King Malik swore to use all his energy in solving the question.

The reason for his status was more pathetic than that.

It had been a long day of work, Malik had finished with his council when he sat on his throne and stared into the emptying hall. Everyone could sense his fatigue and they left him alone, assuming time and solitude would lead him to rest and recover for the following day. If one had taken the time to truly look at him, they might have been able to understand what leeched the High King of his strength, but that is irrelevant now…  

The rising sun, and his council, found King Malik still on his throne. He hadn’t moved an inch since the day before. He would not blink, he would not stir. Unsure if this had been a nefarious plot, his personal Magus called for her coven to investigate what had happened. They would not find much beyond disappointment, but they knew it started with the throne.

The throne and the king were bound by sapling roots. They dug into his flesh from the throne, tiny white veins grown into silver-silken cape and seafoam blue breastplate. He did not stir when pried and the coven  soon found that the roots could not be severed by the mightiest swings or the sharpest of adamantine blades.

The roots would eventually begin to grow thick as branches, over time, burrowing through him and even the Obseverden, with all his druidic might and influence over nature, could not push them back. The throne would grow into the ground and through him, all the while leaving him seemingly undisturbed, in fact he would’ve been thought a statue if the leaves growing through him did not shudder every time he drew faintest breath. A fair and troubled statue: his soft, blue eyes looking beyond any who looked into him, autumn wheat skin garbed in lavish silvers and blues framed by the overbearing white of the throne. His brow perpetually furrowed from his copper and ruby, sunflower-circled crown. It had grown in radiance along with his power and now caressed his head like a lion’s mane. One could hardly see the actual meir who had united the three territories, he had become shrouded in glory.

Hundreds came to visit the unmoving High King from the farthest reaches of the continent. Malik Arc de Leon had traveled far and had many adventures in his youth. Before the burden of adulthood shackled him to the throne. He had often imagined how heavenly and comfortable it must be. How wrong he had been. They came and offered prayers, tears, hopes, and curses. Savoy had never been so crowded in the beginning and it would never achieve the same population again, but this was High King Malik Arc de Leon! He had been a dream that all agreed was worth the effort. Stories were spread of his majesty and hardly anyone could be found that was not aware of a single tale that told of his bravery, his faith, or his nobility. Many found themselves distraught at the sight of their king and could not stay long in his presence. The poets once swore more hearts were broken by the High King and that even the gods cried out for him.

“Will you stir for me father? Little Hamatsu misses you and Xtanil cries for you nightly. Elika’s heart gave out yesterday.”

Meiji Arc de Leon once tugged at his father’s robe, as he had done for four days. His voice broke into a pained whine as he was greeted again by the silence. He swallowed the pain and buried it deep inside where it would eventually drive him to bottle and scooped his sister into their father’s lap. Hamatsu was still young enough to remain ignorant, but she still cried as the figure ignored her. This memory would haunt her half a world away in her later years as she sought to make a name for herself and bury the past. The Dragon Keeper stepped up next and pitifully placed Elika’s collar on the High King’s lap. Elika had been with him since his years in the cradle and by all rights should’ve followed him into the beyond; unfortunately, the loss of her master had been too much to bear.

The High King had commanded such loyalty that others decided to take action. His greatest warriors gathered before him, promised to restore him, and journeyed to the farthest reaches of the world to find a hint of a cure. Those gathered swore on the twenty Divines to undo the High King’s cruel fate. A priest from each God blessed the warriors and a large crowd had gathered to see them off. In the great hall, empty promises and future broken oaths were made.

“My lord, if it was an enemy’s will that has done this, we would know their name and release the secret to your antidote from screaming mouth and bloodied lips. Not even Zugachava or his twelve furies could shield them from our own.”

The large host of men stormed outside of Savoy to a shower of banners and flowers. Many felt that this was where the king’s greatest hope lied and were prepared to await the meirs’ return by keeping watch every sunrise and sunset. In the beginning, stories of their deeds reached the city, but became sparse as they went further and further toward uncharted lands beyond the Steaming Sea. They would keep watching for twenty-three years.

One dark day, years after their departure, a single Dragosi knight limped into town. It wore strange orange chitin armor,  a sword that crackled like a storm was sheathed at their side, and they carried a large bundle in their hands. Many believed it to be a haunt, but the High King’s aide recognized the knight from his childhood. The Dragosi’s scales had lost their green shine, turned to dark greys and blacks, many scales had simply fallen from its body. Their face wore an expression of fatigue and tears had long stained the sides of their face. Their head was bowed in eternal shame and their tail had been cut down to a stump while they hobbled on feet that had endured leagues of travel. The aide’s hope was immediately dashed, it took all their power to not cry and he did not bother to ask. The Dragosi limped to the High King’s hall and fell to the ground. The large bundle fell to the floor, banners. A banner of each warrior who had originally set out.

“I have failed them, Arc de Leon. We have failed you and the Gods abandoned us to failure. Such strange lands. We are none the wiser from when we first left and now we are no more.”

The Dragosi groaned and ceased to move. The aide ran to its side. He would’ve told the High King of the famed-knight turned bitter- messenger's tale, but he knew they would fall on deaf ears and so instead he prayed to the Gods. The same ones who had abandoned the noblest warriors and brought them to ruin.

Some years before that incident, when the people were truly at their most desperate, the churches held prayer and the kingdom eventually increased the bounty. Neither did anything for Malik Arc de Leon and after a time many stopped caring, having to turn their attention to their own hardships and accepting that the world had taken another piece of hope from them. That they were cursed to suffer and the few years of respite had been a gift that had been squandered. They prepared for the tumultuous years that would come.

Savoy was not so quick to abandon the meir that had led them to prosperity and peace. They figured that they were lost without him and that their only hope lied in his deliverance. Those citizens eventually succumbed to a similar fate as the lost king.

When his most devoted servants proved unable, his flock losing hope, and his most loyal followers spent, the treasury called upon the darker magics to try and save their High King. They called upon the infamous practitioner of magick, Anaro Ichaval.

“In this bag, I have in my possession a thousand demon princes. Not one would dare touch you without my permission. In my heart, I hold the secrets of three-hundred spirits. They would all rather pass into the unknown than fail me. My eyes have beheld dozens of worlds and their births and their deaths. Nothing escapes my eyes. If evil itself is unable to help you, High King, you must be thrice-damned. Do not fear, I will sacrifice all these and more to help you.”

Anaro Ichaval, Arch-Summoner of the Ivory Tower, began to prepare for the task that lay ahead. He inscribed the strongest protective runes all over his body, more than he had ever used, and encircled the room with silver and aloe to trap the spirits and demons within. The Magus and her coven looked on, some of the last remaining supporters of the High King.

Anaro ignored them, there were more pressing matters at hand. He did not know if this would work, but his grandfather had once served alongside the High King Arc de Leon and he had to try. He anointed the High King in blood vodka and spring water from Sunken Gardens of the maiden Rhiannon. The Arch-Summoner then called on his three most trusted apprentices-his children Nari, Eyli, and Ro. They were tasked with retrieving the inhabitants of the bag should the incantation fail.

They all accepted his request as he knew they would, he had raised them after all. The old meir tried not to cry as he drew blood from each of their thumbs and placed it on the pommel of his dagger. He solemnly stared at the blade in his hand as it melted. Now the only way for his apprentices to join their family in the afterlife was to recapture the thousand demon princes and three-hundred spirits.

To this day they continue on the task, having long abandoned names and all ties to Ichaval.

If only Das’il had not been plagued by troubles, a remedy might have been found, but there was war on the horizon and plague in the fields of Old Killasser. Meiji was crowned King and he was tasked with keeping order. He would fail, just like his son and granddaughter would. The Arc de Leon’s would eventually be driven out by Pirate Lord Loghain and the once grand halls of the keep would be butchered to keep Loghain and his crew drunk enough to burn most of the city down in a fire.

These days, Savoy was a death trap. Travelers avoided the land and town altogether. It was not difficult, the very ground had been warped by the king’s predicament. Acres of grass and a mighty river were reduced to badlands. The only ones that populated the town were those that had been warped as well. They could not die, but they did not live. They merely went about their days as they had done at the height of Savoy. Perhaps fooled into hoping that those days would come again. They would not and so they “lived” under the forsaken tower inhabited by a forsaken king who ruled over long-forsaken lands.

Forsaken, but not forgotten. At least to one. She found herself descending into the town’s center, her horse nervously trotting beside the inhabitants of Savoy. She had come from across the Steaming Sea where a few still remembered the damning of Malik Arc de Leon. A wide-brimmed hat protected her ashen-grey face from the sun and she was garbed in a long, white poncho. The stranger had a blue tattoo of a mandible on her lower jaw. Those who were knowledgeable in the practice of the hunting of the undead and their corrupting influence would know her as a Muertero.

The Muertero and her horse reached the black tower and she dismounted. It was quiet, but she could feel the death rattle all around her. She placed her hat on her mount’s head as she had since they were first bonded.

“Don’t get used to it, looks better on me.”

The horse whinnied softly, she stroked his head once to calm him and he nudged her chest goodbye. Were it not for the tight bun her long curly grey locks would have fallen at her hips. Her face was lined with experience and hardship. Her wrinkles had edges holding the years of journeying she had weathered, but her skin looked unbreakable. Her eyes had been lost to the glory of Iknaron, they hummed a soft milky blue. This was a person who would not be denied their task. The clanking of her boots resounded around the empty hall, booming in her own ears; gifted a small mouth unable of the slightest flourishes, she grit her teeth and pursed her lips as she climbed the steps before her.

No echoes. Even as she ascended and her iron-tipped boots hit each step there was no echo. This place was old. Too old.

Delusions often hold out longer and stronger than hope.  

The Muertero finally reached the great hall and stopped to take in the throne. It was large, it was spindly, it made her nervous. She almost felt as she should bow, but scoffed at the idea. She ascended the throne steps and stopped at the final one. Her eyes stared through the High King and he looked beyond her. If she were able to, she would’ve seen him slightly tremble. She felt familiar.

She slowly exhaled, years seemed to pass to the High King and sweat accumulated at his temples and forehead. A few of his nails snapped from the pressure he exerted on the throne’s arms. In the passing of six hundred years, this was the most he had moved and all for a familiar stranger. The Gods are cruel.

The Muertero, taking this as permission to speak pulled slightly at the breastplate under her poncho with her left hand.

“Your story is known to us. I have come to tell you that you’ve wasted your life. Your time has come and the world has worse troubles than a fool’s yearning. We will not have you corrupting the land. If you were a flicker of the man you once were, you’d realize that too.”

She placed a hand behind her back, reaching for a strange device that was hanging from her belt. The Primavera’s had asked her to do all that was necessary to end the terror of Savoy. She had agreed to the task, but hoped it would not come to violence. The weapon hung heavy off her belt. Now she waited.

A few more sounds of snapping, but not from his nails, these were softer and could’ve gone unnoticed, but she heard them and jumped down a few steps. Her nose wrinkled at the smell. She was familiar with it even before she had lost her vision. She imagined it now.  

A single red tear forming under the High King’s eye. She quickly blinked and shook her head; she didn’t expect it to be simple, but she had hoped he would’ve realized the uselessness of his endeavor.

She climbed back up and reached out at the meir she had heard so much about, but would never get to truly see. His skin was soft, delicate like marzipan, a large wiry beard grew down to his chest. The hairs crumbled as her hand brushed them. His cheeks were gaunt, sharp like hers. She paused when she got to his eyes, she had heard so many tales about them. She wondered what laughter they could have held. He breathed, or at least the leaves growing through his chest fluttered. She then heard the tear fall down his cheek and pictured a red trail, like a comet, down his cheek.

The Muertero reached for her pistol and pulled out a bullet from another bag tied around her belt. It was gilded and etched with a rune, “life”. She grumbled to herself as she fiddled with loading the bullet to take her mind off of things. The most forefront of things being that she did not want to do this. Her heart felt heavy, but she knew this was just the High King’s attempt at swaying her. She hated him for it, she hated herself for allowing it to work. The pistol was successfully loaded and she snapped it up and aimed at Malik Arc de Leon’s face. She stood in the silence for a while, trying to remember a tune and when she did she began to hum.

Memories. Pain. Happiness. Confusion. Obsession. Lamentation. Anger. Fear. Sorrow.

It all came back to him in an instant. The world was reborn in his eyes and the knowledge of six life-times proved to be too much. His throat began to crack and for a second, the Muertero heard an all-too human sound.

The moment did not last, the throne began to rumble and snap asunder,  throwing splinters and spears of wood around him. The Muertero turned and ran back down the stairs, but not before a splinter the size of a bolt impaled her left hand. Covering her head, she dove behind a column before a final snap and the throne and the king exploded, a thin red mist covered the hall. It echoed. She lay on her back and blankly stared at the ceiling until the echoing stopped. She tried clenching and unclenching her fist before feeling her left hand with her right, two of her fingers were severed. Fuck.

“And so it comes to such end. Your fate touches me, but it was of your own doing. I will pray that Arallu and her Infinite Choir honor your passing and all that shit…”

Her voice trailed off. She was tired, but she wasn’t finished. The Muertero picked up the discarded pistol and walked down the blood-misted hall, down the dark steps, and into the light of a dying sun. Savoy was finally at peace as its undying inhabitants now lay strewn about the town, finally accepting the fate that had eluded them six centuries prior. The Muertero and her horse did not look back or hang around as she exited the mass grave, having learned what the king and his people had not as she moved toward another adventure.

Reanimating the Undead Podcast: Is that a Tribe Reference?

June of last year there was an attempt to start a "cultural" podcast. Maybe it was an excuse to just hear ourselves speak or perhaps it was an attempt to immortalize our ideas. Either way, hear us drone about shit we enjoy. Also, yes, the name is a Tribe Called Quest reference.



Vibes & Stuff: Modern Music Videos!

In this one we each discuss 5 modern music videos we like and throw in a random one for the hell of it. Best enjoyed while using minimal brain cells. It's pretty good though, I don't know what that says about my tastes though.

Vibes and Stuff: Anime, Thor, and Dungeons & Dragons

In this one we talk about My Hero Academia, Jason Aaron's Thor, and an outdated stream of Dungeons & Dragons. This one is pretty good too, but I might be biased? Ooof.

Who Shall Judge Us Worthy of Living, Worthy of Dying?

She snapped. Rosuka seethed with such anger that she violently shook. She struggled to stand as every muscle in her body flexed, tightened, and strained against some invisible force. Still, she stood up and reached for the only weapon in sight, a nearby axe. There was nothing special about the weapon, it was a remnant of some past war. It had a simple, weathered wooden handle and a rusting, blunted double axe-head. It was built to strike through heavy armor; however, now it was intended for a different target. Though with the same purpose in mind.

A heavy growl brewed in her throat until she could not hold back her anguish and words and blood spewed from her mouth, they rained down blessed like an unholy aspergillum. The words were volleys of poisonous arrows.

“I have overcome my fears, darkspawn. I have faced the turmoil of being a stranger in my own body. I am not bound by the chains of uncertainty; I am fueled with knowledge of my own self and the reality is that I am a fucking monster."

Rosuka beat upon her left breast in blind rage, denting the already-damaged plate armor, and charged toward the Womb-Tearer. She closed the gap in two strides, nobody thought she could move so fast. It shouldn’t have been possible, she had taken so much damage.

The Womb-Tearer realized two things in that instant, the first was that Rosuka’s eyes had clouded over and were marred with red. She had finally allowed herself to give in to the rage that had boiled under the surface for so long. The color began to trickle down her cheeks and onto the floor as she soared toward him, axe leading the charge. The second thing he noticed was his overwhelming sense of fear. Something he had not felt since before he had become Anuctila the Severed Promise’s vessel.

He tried to react. Tried.

He never even got a chance to scream; skin was split, muscle was torn, ribs were splintered--his lungs were hewn by the axe-head and exposed to the biting winds of the eastern coast. His right arm flew a dozen paces before slamming into the charred, curled remains of a burnt tree, the victim of a missed fireball. The howling wind screamed in place of the Womb-Tearer as he unceremoniously slumped to the ground, released from the prison of his existence. Alone, as he had been born.

Mahnya released the furies of Uut, allowing the fire that surrounded her to die out and leaving them in darkness. Geis quickly reacted to that by illuminating the room before sitting on an overturned barrel. There he wiped away the sweat that clung to his neck and forehead, this was all too much for the aging Stotian. Furthest from them, Reinta leaned against a crumbled wall, her gauntlets long gone or destroyed and the chains snaking behind her like the past she sought to abandon. She heard the scuttling of feet and a lone whispered word beyond the wall and grimly smiled.

Though the life of the Womb-Tearer was finally ended, his body received no peace. Rosuka's axe kept biting into the corpse as she continued to hack into it. The wailing of the winds became a dirge that surrounded the survivors, accented with the crunch of bone and chipping of stone as the axe now struck the floor under the body.

*Chink*

The others still could not believe it was finally over. They expected to die and a few of them had come to terms with that, now they watched from a distance--unable and unwilling to do anything more. Reinta and Mahnya because they knew so little of Rosuka; they thought she might attack them if they interfered, and Geis because he knew exactly what she would do. They looked on, helpless and guilty by association. A small part of them understood the arguul’s anger.

After a while, the axe broke under the force of the blows but still she continued, unfazed. She began using the handle like a pestle, determined to hammer away the remains of her kill.

*Thump* *Thump* *Thump*

The handle too splintered under forceful blows as wood cannot pulverize bone as much as one might wish. Rosuka continued to bash at what remained of the body. The splintering of the wood scratched at her hands as they began to bleed. Rosuka’s face was obscured by her locks as she peered over the butchered remains of her foe. She was blind to everything but the red. She did not see how nearly all her companions had looked away. She did not see them shudder in fear. She did not notice their empathy turning into disgust. She only saw the red.

*Squick*

*Squick*

The splintered handle soon fell away to nothing and fell from her grasp. The arguul's fist clenched—and she continued to beat at the bones and remains on the ground into a thick gruel. The dull crunching of bone against the stone caused those who had looked away to flinch and cover their ears. They did not know if this would ever end. The wind howled in protest, the only sound beside an atrocity being committed. How long they stood there in evil they did not know, but eventually there was no evidence of this ever having been a body.

Geis, the only one to keep looking on, wondered if it was possible that she had lost her mind. It was the only reason for her behavior as even the most barbaric arguuls would keep enough of their senses to realize they were hurting themselves.

Finally deciding he had seen enough, Geis took a step toward Rosuka, but stopped just as suddenly when her body began to heave and it seemed that she may become sick; instead, she reared her head back and exposed red-tinged tears that began to readily fall while her lips stretched across her face in pain.

“Why! Was this all that was dreamt for him? He was a good soul and you didn’t listen. You never listen to me, you’re never there. I begged you and you promised you would protect him. I hate you, I hope you never come back. I hate you!”

Rosuka screamed at the heavens until she was breathless. She folded over and inhaled greedily, her breaths were short, quick, and labored. She suddenly collapsed to her knees and held her palms skyward. Blood and bone and flesh covered them—they had ceased to look like hands. It seemed that she was done with the Womb-Tearer, though not much remained of him except memories and those would never be erased.

Somewhere in the distance, heavy thunder rolled through the valley, the lightning illuminated places that had not seen light in years. A change was coming. The screaming wind had suddenly ceased, becoming a soft breeze that pushed Rosuka’s hair across her face. Geis looked on in shock as her hair fell from her head in clumps.  The midnight-blue hair fell to the ground and shattered like a dropped porcelain plate. Rosuka made no hint of noticing and continued to look skyward, waiting for an answer she would never understand.

Mahnya slowly approached Rosuka, unsure of how close she would allow herself to get to the fearsome destroyer, but eventually she shook her head and walked up to kneel beside the arguul. She placed a gentle hand on Rosuka’s forehead, who turned her face away and attempted to clear her throat, a squelching of saliva and blood caused her to spit out the concoction. Snot clung to her upper lip and she attempted to brush it away with the back of a hand, but only succeeded in smearing blood across her mouth. Such is life, the arguul thought to herself.

Mahnya meanwhile recalled a similar situation in which her youngest sister had gotten a hold of a bowl of raspberries before their uncle’s inauguration. Mahnya wished she could smile at the memory. It had been a good one, but Atrina was dead now and it only succeeded in souring her heart.

So much death, so many undeserving of the darkness.

Mahnya looked upon the arguul and observed the countless cuts and bruises that covered her thick skin. Rosuka’s chest still rose in short, powerful bursts, but her breathing was calm. Mahnya could sense the change inside Rosuka, this was not the same individual that had first fought to protect Kristos and her; even so, Mahnya could also see the pathetic state she had left herself in. Some of these wounds would never heal right.

They dwelled in silence for a moment before Rosuka whispered so only Mahnya would hear,

“I don't hear her anymore. She has released me. I am alone.”

Mahnya made to lay a reassuring hand on Rosuka but thought better of it and shook her head,

“Brightflame, you are-“

Rosuka’s voice cracked like a whip and Mahnya flinched as Rosuka looked up at her from the ground.

“I AM ALONE. I lost this child, I lost his father and I lost my oldest friend. Three loves in such a short span, my heart is broken, I no longer wish to feel. I hurt so much more than any wound!”

Rosuka’s voice wavered at the end. She immediately felt really tired and could hear all the protests her body had made during the last few hours renew their cries at once; she was overcome with exhaustion and fell on her ass. Rosuka looked around, lost and confused as to how to proceed. Her body, her sight, her God had betrayed her.

Maybe Iao Chal had been right.

She buried her face in the remains of her hands. The others slowly and carefully made their way to Rosuka.

She was a terrifying sight, but Mahnya had unfortunately seen worse. Now was not the time to dwell on them.

“ I don't know what to do…,” the slayer admitted to nobody in particular.

Behind Mahnya, Geis’ throat began to ache as a long-buried memory pulled at his mind. He began to pet Azi on his head and hum to the wind. The song was one Azi had heard many times. Memories accompanied the song, both good and bad. Geis looked down at Azi’s wiggling nose and empathized with Rosuka, he had once felt as lost as her.

“You can say goodbye.” A squeak arose from behind them all.

Rosuka’s head snapped in Lemma’s direction with renewed vigor. Lemma’s small body was a giant in the blood-vision. Rosuka began to crawl on her bloodied hands and knees to try and get to the thief. Reinta quickly jumped up and swung the chains at Rosuka, they whipped around her arms as the Iron Lord ran in the opposite direction, hoping to pull her back. Mahnya pounced on the arguul as well, wrapping her long arms around her neck and digging her feet into the ground.

Rosuka’s breaths were once again short and ravenous, the veins on her neck were visible as she strained against her allies. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Try as she might, she could not get through them and for the first time in a long time, the berserker who had slain a Colossi bare-handed, gave up. She stopped trying and fell to the floor, Mahnya falling on top of her. Still, she glared at Lemma.

“Do not test me, plague. I will kill you for abandoning us, you piece of shit. You don’t deserve your children, it would do better for them to grow up without you.”

Rosuka’s reply was charged with as much disdain as she had mustered for the Womb-Tearer, but it lacked bite, laden with the kind of tiredness that comes from a broken heart asked to work again so soon.

Lemma showed no sign of her fear, an altogether impressive feat, and could only sigh in annoyance and admission,

“Yeh, you’re right and they know this, but Kristos…”

“No! Say his name again, I dare you.”

“... He knew that I wasn’t the bravest. It's not like he had options. If that had been the case none of us would be here. Look, I ain't ashamed of what I am and I don’t plan to change. I just want to do this for him.”

“I've lost my sight, the red is all I see,” murmured Rosuka, her face turned away to be illuminated by a growing blue light that was breaking through the darkness of the sky. The second moon of Iloveth, Iknaron, had finally broken through. The land of Gostalo was alit for the first time in a long time.

Geis glazily stared up at the sky as well before he shook himself from his stupor and began to recite a lesson of old,

“A berserker who fully commits is sometimes known to contract blood-blindness or blood-vision. The blood overwhelms them. Whatever you wish to show her will not be seen. She only sees pain.”

“Uut could cure-,” Mahnya began to whisper in Rosuka’s ear before she was cut off again.

“No, no gods! I will not crawl so low again. I must head eastward still. I can smell the coast. I will walk into the sea until I cease to float.”

Mahnya was not used to being interrupted, and being cut off by a groveling berserker was a shock the first time, but now she had reached her limit. Mahnya pushed the arguul into the floor and stood to her full height, easily overshadowing the arguul. She rolled Rosuka over with a push of her foot so that she was on her back, and placed her boot on the arguul’s chest then looked down at her with her piercing yellow eyes.

“No. You will not head south, because your job is not done. Your life is not done…”

Mahnya turned around and addressed the other three. She stepped off of Rosuka and quickly surveyed the land. It was strange, probably devoid of life and not one to grow a kingdom. She turned her mind to the matter at hand as it required her full attention, she was not used to speaking to such a small and uninspired crowd and was forced to change her demeanor. The pride and the fury were gone, instead, she looked solemnly at them and lowered her voice.

“...I realize that you have all traveled far and been through so much, but… I need you. All of you. Rosuka. Geis. Reinta. Lemma. For a little while longer. Kristos is dead and that means there is nobody to avenge Old Killasser and its people. I’m a Lantern Knight of Uut, but I was also a good friend of Kristos. I must right the wrongs I witness. You say that he was poisoned? Well, I have learned that the Womb-Tearer was corrupted. I cannot let these injustices go unanswered, but I cannot do it alone right now. Kristos accepted you into his company because he did not have any other options. I want you in my company because you have all proven yourselves to be better than what one could hope for.”

Iknaron now drowned the valley with her blue light. The rocky terrain of Gostalo created many shadows and things that did not want to be seen had many options to still continue to hide, but on this hill, atop of this watchtower, truth was traded freely and openly.

Lemma was the first to speak.

“No. I’ve got better things to do than to fight another lost cause. My offer stands, berserker. If you should ever see again…”

Her tail cracked behind her, opening a ripple in the air and she stepped back into it. They would never see her again.

Geis merely nodded. The old Stotian had nowhere else to go and he had a promise to keep.

Reinta stepped forward and looked up at Mahnya. She was beautiful; the long thin horns that accented the sides of her head made her appear regal, while the roaring burgundy curls cradled the angular face like magma spewed from a volcano. Then she got to her eyes. Damn those bright, yellow eyes. Reinta was nearly enthralled, but the eyes contained a brutalness that would have to be watched. It was a cold brutality, the opposite of Rosuka’s. Reinta wondered if it was the best thing for these two to be paired.

“Kristos was a good meir. It would have been interesting to see him grow in these trying times. It’ll be interesting how I grow in these trying times. I will help bring justice to Kristos. I do not have the stomach for vengeance.”

Reinta bowed and turned to look at Rosuka, she watched the arguul with deep interest.

Rosuka did not stir from her position on the floor; instead, she stared off into the horizon, toward the unseen coast. She might’ve been blind but she could see her companions clearly and that made her hate them. She did not want to be around those like her. She did not wish to be reminded. She slowly stood up, legs still buckling beneath her, and made her way to the ghastrobak that she had first killed by the stairs. Her cleaver was buried in its sternum. She looked down at her hands and chuckled. Rosuka could not close her hands. She could not retrieve her favorite weapon.

Another loss.

Mahnya stepped up behind her and clasped her hands together. She inhaled deeply to feed the flame inside her, she felt it stir and fed it all the anger, guilt, and pain she felt. The flame gladly consumed it all. A roaring flame consumed Mahnya’s head and ran up the side of her head with her horns. Her yellow eyes shined through the flame and she reached out to touch each of her allies shoulders.

Her companions were instantly warmed, they felt the weariness of the long journey dissipate and saw small scars fade and wounds stitch themselves closed. They were captivated by the power and ease by which she had done that for them.

She saved Rosuka for last and hugged her tightly and whispered in the arguul’s ear.

“You will die when I let you, Rosuka. Don’t expect that to be anytime soon. Let us go, Brightflame.”

The arguul felt the smallest bones in her hands snap and meld back together, skin that had been pierced and flesh that had been torn also healed up. She couldn’t make a strong fist but, as she discovered when she picked up the cleaver, it was enough. She looked at ubslopen’s edge. The blessing runes were gone, it was merely a cleaver. Rosuka smiled.

A new name is needed for such a plain weapon. Akkisl. The Great Shame.

Rosuka faintly smiled and sheathed her weapon before turning to look at the others. Geis nodded at her as he released Azi into the air to scout ahead. Reinta greeted her gaze with a jovial smile. Mahnya had already begun to head back north, to the gates of the Screaming Tower. The rest followed, unaware that they had traded a doomed leader for a damned one.