Jane Wants a Boyfriend

When most people watch this trailer, they see a quirky romantic comedy. But for me it's something more. As I've stated numerous times on this blog, I'm Autistic. I've seen both trailers countless times and every time I tear up because I see so much of myself in the titular character.

There is a scene where Jane says to her sister, "You don't care about what I want. You've never cared about what I want." I lost it at that point, because that's how I feel towards many people in my friends group.

They say they care but it feels empty. I've been told that I should talk to a counselor. But god damn it, that's not what I want. I want my friends to realize that talking to a counselor isn't the solution to my problem. The solution is for to try to learn and understand about what I'm going through. I just want someone to read the articles I post. To learn about Autism with out me pushing them too. In my mind: If they really cared, they would do that.

Military Science Fiction- JSgt. Jeanne Lankford- Part 2

     The Mess-Deck was mixture of khaki and olive uniforms. Info-screens were positioned in periodic intervals above the tables, displaying a commercial for the Interplanetary Marine Corps. They grabbed their trays and slopped food that reminded Jeanne of the stuff she was served in secondary school. Jeanne looked around for the familiar faces of her platoon. She spotted the silvery head of Platoon Sergeant Aesgir. She made her way past a pair of Ensigns discussing technical specs, and sat down at the table.

     “Ah look! The rest of Kitty Squad is here! Had a good sleep?” greeted PSgt. Asgeir.

     “I’ve had better,” replied Jeanne. 

     “How’s Ivanova?” asked a woman with orange frizzy hair. 

     “I’m fine Rolland,” rasped STpr. Ivanova as she plopped down next to Jeanne.

     “You don’t sound fine.”

     “She just had some trouble with the oxy-fluid, that’s all. I’ve already talked to Mom to give her a check up,” stated Sgt. Marlowe as she slid onto the other side of Jeanne. 

     “That’s the last thing Mom needs, another reason to worry,” japed Senior Trooper Noyla Rolland.

     “Don’t let him know that. You’ll get a firm scolding,” grunted Sgt. Marlowe chewing on a particularly tough piece of meat. “What the fuck’s this supposed to be?”

Jeanne leaned over to look, “Steak… I think.”

     “Mmph, it feels like rubber.”

     “Maybe it is,” grunted Ivanova.

     “Work continues as the search for survivors of the Government Complex Bombing drags on. Numerous people from dozens of planets have flocked to Jorrig in an attempt to help.” The Info-screen now broadcasted a news bulletin. Jeanne turned her attention from her food to the display. 

     “It’s been nearly two months since the bombing and work to clear the damage is still in progress. The official casualty count has not be released, but rumors estimate the total to be over two hundred thousand.” Jeanne’s eyes glazed as she remembered the letter she had received shortly before they shipped out of Port Erikson. It was from her mother. The contents informed her that her father, a government official, had died in the bombing.  

     She called up the memory of the last time they had all been together. She and her brother, Jack had been relaxing in the family pool, while her mother in her seemingly impossible youth sunbathed on the beach chair on the deck. Her father stood at the grill supported by a mechanical pair of legs, made visible by his shorts. The smell of freshly cooked burgers filled her nose as she asked her father how much longer it would be until they could eat. Before he could answer, Jack had performed a beautiful cannonball right next to her, spraying water over her and the pool deck. She remember taking a swing at him. She grinned, but that faded as she remembered how much she missed them.

     Then she was back on the mess deck, staring at canned corn, mashed potatoes and rubbery steak. She absent-mindedly pushed the kernels around with her spork.

     “Lankford? Lankford!?” Someone was calling her name.

     “Huh?” she looked around. Marlowe’s hand was on her shoulder.

     “Are you good?” asked Ruby.

     “Y-y-yeah,” she stammered, pushing a loose lock behind her ear, “I’m good.” Marlowe looked from her face to the Info-screen. She reached up and changed the frequency.

     “I can’t know how you feel Jeanne,” whispered Marlowe, “But I’m here for you, we all are.”

     “Thanks,” mumbled Jeanne.

Military Science Fiction- JSgt. Jeanne Lankford- Part 1

A while ago I wrote a piece called "Are You Sure?". This follows Jeanne Lankford, the wife in the couple depicted in that piece.

*****

     As she awoke, she was blinded by the fluorescent light overhead. She quickly blinked the tears from her lavender eyes as she tried to focus. Her stomach twisted. She leaned over the edge of the cryo-tube and gagged as oxy-fluid spilled from her lungs onto the floor.

Fuck, I hate cryo-travel, she thought as she swung her legs over the edge of the tube and straightened. She sucked her teeth as her bare feet hit the frigid metal. The film coating her skin began to peel as she stretched. She shivered and hurried from the cryo-bay and into the adjacent showers.  As the door hissed open, she was hit by a wave of steam; a pleasant change from the bitterly cold cryo-stasis chamber. 

     Her eyes barely open, she shuffled over to one of the spigots and punched the button. A heated jet of a mixture of cleaner and water rained down on her shoulders. She scrubbed her chestnut hair, washing out the stasis-gel. As she let the liquid wash over her body she felt someone move next to her. A girl with shorn mousy hair leaned against the shower wall, her eyes still squeezed shut.

     “Ivanova, are you okay?” she asked.

     “I… hate… cryo-travel,” hacked the girl. 

     “Me too.” She finished washing the residue off her body and headed into the locker room where her platoon had stored their gear before leaving Port Erikson. She pulled on her fatigue pants and slipped the suspenders over he shoulders. She pulled on her undershirt and jacket. She jumped as someone hugged her from behind and kissed her neck. She spun around and was greeted by the smiling face of Sergeant Ruby Marlowe.

     “Good Morning, Lankford! You’ve sleeping in again?” asked Marlowe grinning.

     “You know how cryo effects me, besides, I’d check on Cal, she was looking rough in the showers.” 

     “I’ll get Mom to check on her. You hungry?” asked Marlowe. Jeanne hadn’t thought about it. Her stomach growled.

     “Yeah… What’s on the menu?”

     “The usual, garbage.” joked Marlowe, “Though, it’s probably better than the shit at Fort Slyborn.” Jeanne smiled, she leaned forward to kiss her partner, but they were interrupted by a harsh cough. They stepped apart as Senior Trooper Calinka Ivanova, stumbled into the locker room. 

     “Cal!” cried Marlowe, rushing over to the wheezing girl.

     “I’m fine!” barked Ivanova, “Just give me a moment for fucks sake!” 

     “I want you to get Mom to check up on you. That’s an…” Marlowe was interrupted as another coughing fit over took Ivanova. The message got through though, as the mousy girl nodded between breaths. Jeanne smiled. She loved how Marlowe looked after the squad, kind of like a big sister. She scanned the locker room.

     “Where’s everyone else?” she asked. 

     “Oh, they’re already at the mess. I wanted to make sure you two were awake first.” explained Marlowe, “you can head over, I’ll take care of Cal.”

     “I’ll wait,” said Jeanne. Ivanova eventually coughed up the last of the oxy-fluid in her lungs and pulled on her fatigues. Marlowe gave her an another once over before they all headed for the elevators.

MacLismore Cycle- Part One

   

     The fields surrounding the keep of Gaer’Lismore were usually empty, save for the herds of highland cattle and sheep. But today, a small city of tents and stalls had sprung up as the clans under the Great Clan MacLismore gathered for the Comdhail and the following games. Caelach, a man of short stature and auburn hair wandered through the passages between the assembled pavilions. 

     By his side, a new addition to the clan; Bjorn Thal Velson, a replanted Skaldi from the north lands. Bjorn was much taller than Caelach, standing at least two heads greater. His fair hair  and beard danced in the breeze coming off of Loch Lismore. His chest was broad and his arms thick. 

The pair found their way to the central market, where clansmen peddled their wears and traded goods. Young children dashed in and out of the bustle of their elders, laughing, screaming and shouting. Caelach’s face darkened and he searched for the closest ale cask and filled his horn. He could feel Bjorn’s steel eyes watching him as he drained the horn and replenished it. The Skaldi moved in, brushing Caelach aside as he filled his own horn.

     “You drink very much,” grunted the northman. Caelach wiped a dribble of ale from his chin with his sleeve. He gave the northman a sideways grin. Bjorn had yet to fully grasp the Caerbic language, and it still made Caelach smile.

     “That is a deep praise coming from you.”

     “As I say in the north, you is éngi tvagallmák,” laughed Bjorn.

     “What does that mean?” chuckled Caelach. Bjorn’s face screwed up trying to come up with the Caerbic words.

     “Not weak gut,” he hammered out. Caelach raised his horn.

     “Kalg!” exclaimed the northman. They both pointed their horns to the sky and drained them of ale. Bjorn clapped Caelach on the shoulder.

     “Methinks you have found eyes,” whispered the northman.

     “Huh?” blinked Caelach. Bjorn jerked his blonde head towards a nearby stall. Caelach peered through the throng towards the direction indicated. His eyes fell upon a woman with hair like the feathers of a raven, and eyes of a summer oak. Their eyes met for a moment before her face turned red and she looked back down at the bolts of cloth she was inspecting. He recognized her instantly. She was Flora MacAmbraise-Evinyn. Bjorn looked down at Caelach.

     “She know you?” he questioned.

     “Hmm?” murmered Caelach turning his head, but his eyes were transfixed on Flora.

     “She know you?” repeated the northman.

     “Oh, yes. I’ll be right back,” said Caelach taking a swig before making his way towards the raven maiden.

     Caelach casually slid up next to Flora. Her emerald eyes shot towards him and blush filled her cheeks and she kept inspecting the folds of plaid. 

     “Hello Flora,” he smiled. Her face burned.

     “Hello Caelach…” she muttered. Caelach could feel the grin of the weaver. He looked at the greying woman. She beamed, winked, and stepped out from behind the stall, leaving the pair to themselves. Flora wore a simple blouse and bodice with a blue and purple tartan skirt. 

     “You look very beautiful this day,” said Caelach. Flora twirled a loose jet strand around her finger and bit her lip.

     “Thank you,” she grinned meekly.

     “Are you going to compete in the games?” she asked.

     “Of course!” boasted Caelach. He leaned close. “I plan to fight for your hand in the melee.” She gave him a weak smile and rubbed her neck.

     “Just be careful…” she murmured.

     “I always am!” he proclaimed. She allowed him a small chuckle and turned back to the fabrics.

     “They are so beautiful! Elfyn is so talented,” praised Flora.

     “Thank you lassie.” The greying weaver had returned.

     “What would you like for this one?” asked Flora, holding up a red and purple tartan. 

     “Hmmm, that one would be four boars.” Flora’s face fell.

     “Oh, I don’t think I could afford that…” she lamented. 

     “Here.” Caelach reached into the folds of his kilt and withdrew five golden coins with a relief of a boar etched into once side and handed them to the weaver. Elfyn counted the coins and made to give one back, but Caelach refused.

     “Keep it,” he grinned. The weaver’s face lit up.

     “Much appreciated!” she cried before lifting the bolt of cloth and handing it to Flora.

     “Here you go lass, you better make something beautiful with that!” she winked.

     “Caelach! How could I ever thank you!” she cooed. Caelach grinned, leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. 

     “Like so,” he said, giving her a wry smile.

What's it like in my mind.

So, here we are. Once again drained of energy and irritable. I have to retreat into a fantasy world where only I exist and have control. A world hidden from the sounds, trivium, and stress of what neuro-typical people call "reality".

I recently (as in about two minutes ago) discovered a series of videos with similar titles along the lines of "What is it like to have Aspergers". I decided that it would be easier for me to explain in words. These videos basically depict what it is like for someone on the spectrum to deal with the sensory input that exists in our world. It's incredibly difficult for me to listen to these videos due to the massive amount of sensory input they give off. It almost makes me physically ill.

As an example of what it's like for me: I am sitting in my room alone with the door shut. It is approximately One in the morning. No one is awake except for me. I am aware of each breath I take. I can hear the humming of the furnace, my brother shifting in his bed in the other room. I am insanely aware of the keystrokes and fan of my computer  and the creak of the processor as I type this. I can hear a cat slinking across the floor towards the water bowl over my head.  I can hear the a car driving by the mail box. The furnace just turned off. I can hear a cat's claw getting stuck in the carpet.

All this is happening, not to mention my own thoughts that I are whirling like a dervish around my brain.

This may seem normal but for some people being able to pick out distinct sounds in the silence of the night. But for me these sounds are so clear and distinct to me that it's hard for me to fall asleep. I have to play music to drown out the ambient noise and my own thoughts.

Blood Shadow: Chapter One- "Ms. Skinner"

I can still remember the day this whole thing started. It was a pleasant sunny afternoon. I had drawn the blinds and popped open my windows, allowing for a brisk breeze to blow through the office. The cream and olive wallpaper was peeling around the edges, and the door had been misaligned when some lug attached it to the hinges; you couldn’t get it to stay shut unless you pulled up on the brass knob. A pane of frosted glass was set into the oaken exit; bold lettering across the window read, “Shadow Private Investigations”. 

The radio was rebroadcasting the Corsair-Tigers game from a couple of weeks ago. The Tigers were up two runs at the bottom of the 6^th. I didn’t care for baseball all that much, it was just something to pass the time. I was more of a fútbol fan myself.

I leaned back in my chestnut chair, and propped my feet up atop the mahogany desk. I had found the thing in a backstreet in Rooktown. I couldn’t believe myself when I found it. It was perfectly good except for the ink stain on the corner, I liked the stain, gave the thing character. I had a black rotary telephone. I hardly ever used the thing I usually waited for someone to call me, someone always did. The lamp was opposite the phone and was joined with the glass ashtray. A glass of whiskey was perched within easy reach.

My thoughts drifted to my partner. Well, former partner, David Wolfe. He was one of the best gumshoes money could buy. He retired, found himself a cute bird named Mary, and decided to settle down. He had bought an automobile service shop up in Sabine; he sure did love his cars. He loved working on the things. He had a strange fascination with anything that had mechanical workings.

When he had decided to retire from detective work, I found a smaller office. Not out of spite or anything, I just couldn’t afford a larger one anymore… See, when you have two private dicks on a case, you can wring a bit more bread out of the client.

Mary was a nice wren. She was a laekanorn, or a mender as most people called them. You know, a healer. She was alright in the looks department. Just to be clear; what I mean is, she wasn’t a model or anything; just an average cluck. 

 Last I talked to him, he and Mary, were trying to have kids; that was almost five months ago. I wondered if they had been successful yet.

Anyways, my skin was pale with a tinge of red, though not for over exposure to the sun; it was always like that. A pair of dark-wine horn-nubs protruded from my forehead, just below my hairline; and my tail hung off the seat and toward the floor, flicking rhythmically. Yeah, I’m a Djollfolk. I know us tieflings can make people uneasy (thanks to our uncanny similarity to the demons and devils of popular mythology), but there is nothing I can do about it.

I pulled a pill from the pack in my breast pocket. I flipped open my lighter, and held the flame to the tip. I puffed on the fag and a wisp of smoke floated upwards, but was soon dispersed by the cross breeze. I heard the creak of the floorboards out in the hall and there was a short rap on the door. 

“It’s open!” I called. I quickly pulled my feet off the desk and hastily smoothed my blouse. The door swung open and a well-dressed floozy walked in.

Now understand, usually I don’t make scissors, but I’m not opposed to kissing fish; this dame though. If I had met her down at the bar after I’d dipped my bill a bit, you can go all in on me chatting up this chick. 

I gave her a once over. She dressed conservatively, not like those roundheels that you can find down in the Pearl District. Her gams would make any jasper swoon, and I felt my thumper quicken. She wore a muted cerulean dress, and a matching jacket. Her tawny curls framed a beautiful and mature face. A hand bag was slung over her shoulder, and a pair black suede gloves were clutched in her finely manicured mitts. She tried to close the door, but it hung open.

“Here, let me get it, please have a seat” I said, getting up from my chair. As I stepped around her, I could smell jasmine and rose. She sat daintily in one of the leather backed chairs positioned in front of my desk. She smoothed her skirts as I made sure the door was closed. 

I saw her eyes dart towards my diploma from St. Vincent’s Academy, which hung  next to a withering cork board which hung over a dark leather davenport. The davenport was another item I found in a back alley. It’s amazing what those rich types throw away. A flat pillow clad in white cotton with a red strip around the opening was tossed haphazardly on the leather cushions, accompanied by a knit blanket. I turned off the radio before returned to my seat.

     “Sorry about that, the damn thing never closes properly. What can I do you for Miss…?” 

     “Skinner, Kathleen Skinner. But my friends call me ‘Kat’.” Her voice was like a babbling brook, bubbly and cheerful. She smiled as she talked, putting that perfect row of ivories on display; they made me think of my more defined canines. She held out her hand.

     “Vera Shadow, Private Eye,” I said, taking her hand. She had a surprisingly strong grip, which took me by surprise. Most twists don’t give you a good shake; their arms are usually like over cooked spaghetti.

     “So, what can I do for you today?” I asked, stamping out my cigarette.

     “I need you to find someone.” My eyebrow raised. Usually when a dish comes in asking for me to find someone it’s because she thinks the lug she’s hitched too has run off with some young bim. The dish’s hunch is generally correct. 

I noticed her eyes dart to my piece, which was tucked into it’s holster that hung from my shoulders. It was an Arnurson .45 Runekaster Double Action Revolver. (In layman’s terms, it’s the style of gun that Felix Steel uses to fight outlaws in the flickers, and double action means, you don’t need to cock the hammer every time you want take a pop at some one. A .45 was more powerful than the .38 that the coppers would carry; couple that with hex-slinging… Hell, I bet it could take down a aurochs; don’t quote me though.)

     “Who’re you looking for Mrs. Skinner?” I asked, leaning forward.

     “Miss, I’m not married,” she corrected. 

     “My apologies.”

     She continued, “A student of mine disappeared a couple days ago. See, I’m a professor down at the Dorwich Institute of Magik. Ms. Morse hasn’t been to class, and no one has seen her around campus.”

     “How do you know she’s not just ran off with some husky?” I asked taking a sip from my pony glass.

     “She isn’t that kind of girl. She would never do such a thing,” she admonished.

     “But how do you know?” I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the rim of my desk, my cigarette balanced between my fingers. 

     “When I was in school, I knew tons of broads who ran off to shack up with their sugar daddies.” Her nose wrinkled at my language and stiffened in her chair. 

     “She’s on scholarship. Her very attendance of the school depends on her making good grades. I’ve seen how she studies. In fact, she’s so focused she cut off her relationship with this young man she met during the summer once school started!” 

     “Now how does a teach know that stuff?” I questioned.

     “I’m her advisor. She often comes to me with more than just school work. She’s loner, in a way. I guess she’s comfortable talking with me; more so than her peers.”

     “Let me guess, you think… What’s her name? Morse, did you say?”

     “Violet Morse.”

     “So, you think Violet has been kidnapped by some punk she broke up with?” I challenged. Her hand jumped to her kisser, as a facade terror washed over her.

     “I surely hope not! But it is one of my suspicions,” she exclaimed.

     “If that’s the case, why didn’t you go to the cops instead of rashing me?” 

     “I did.” She withdrew a cigarette from her purse. I whipped out my lighter and lit the pill.

     “Thank you.” She puffed. “They gave me the same answer you did, and then they told me they’ll put out a reader for people matching her description; but it could take weeks for something to show up. I can’t wait that long! She’s like a daughter to me.” I pulled another smoke out of my pocket and lit it up. 

     “Did you call her folks?” I asked the cigarette bouncing like a busty woman’s tits as she walked.

     “Yes. They live upstate. They said they would give me a ring if Violet showed up.” I finished my hootch and set the glass on the desk.

     “I still don’t see why I should get involved with this.” I commented, “I don’t usually work missing persons. I leave that to the cops.”

     “Please! I’ll make it worth your while,” she pleaded. I thought about that. The last time someone they would, ‘make it worth my while’, I woke up in a hotel, up in Livrem City, with a pair of joy-girls in the bed.

     “Alright. I’ll take the case. But it’s going to cost you thirty krones a day, plus expenses.” I watched her face. I had told her three times the scratch I usually charged for this type of case. The absurdity of her story bumped up the price; also I wanted to see how she would react. Surprisingly, her lips curled into a grin.

     “I can give you a hundred now to get you started, and I’ll pay the rest when she’s found.” She pulled a C-note from her purse, and slid it across the desk. I nipped the bill off the desk and held it up to the light. 

     “Just a moment.” I’d been slipped one to many split bills and it had become a habit.

     “Your folding is in good order; looks like you got a private dick on the case! What’s the girl look like? Do you got a photo?” I questioned.

     “Yes, of course!” She reached into her handbag and passed me a photograph. It showed a young woman in her early twenties, with shoulder length brunette curls.

     “The dormitory is on the edge of campus, on the corner of South Bayville and Kenter Street. It’s not easy to miss, it’s the only gothic building on the street. I’ll tell the guard you’re coming,” said Ms. Skinner.

     “Guard?” I’d never heard of a dormitory having a hard boy watching the door.

     “The academy isn’t co-ed. It’s against the school’s policy to have boys in the dorms. Besides, the city isn’t a safe place for young girls to be left unprotected.”

     “Alright… How can I going to get in touch with you?”

     “Oh yes, of course. I’m the head of the Psychic Department at the Institute, but I’d prefer that if you need to get in touch with me please call my home number: D-274-4166388.” I opened the middle desk drawer and withdrew my notebook and pen. 

     “What was the number again?” She repeated it and I scribbled the digits below her name. I also made sure took note of the location of the dormitory.

     “Thanks, I’ll be sure to toss you a line if I find something,” I said.

     “When.”

     “When?”

     “When you find something,” she said. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

     “Sure thing, Ms. Skinner.” She closed the clasp on her purse and stood. I matched her.

     “Please, call me Kat,” she requested. 

     “If you insist,” I agreed and showed her out. I couldn’t help but watch her pendulum hips as she walked down the hall towards the stairs. 

As I ducked back into the office a dull pain formed in my right knee. I had mussed it during my years of sprinting over uneven cobblestones, through alleys, and jumping fences, et cetera. I hobbled over to the window, and looked out towards the bay. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, a storm was coming.

A Dream

A great man once said, "I have a dream..." I too have a dream.

My dream is not to different from that of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. My dream is that one day, we can cast aside the nonsense that blinds us from seeing the world as it is. A dream that one day we can stop being petty, and self centered. A dream that one day, we can accept everyone as they are.

"And what is everyone?" you may ask. Well, it's actually quite simple. We are Animalia Chordata Mammalia Primates Haplorhini Hominidae Homo Sapien. In simpler terms, human. We are all human beings. When you strip away the nationalities, religion, diagnoses, race, sexual orientation, and gender, we are all the same. Human.

Now, you are probably asking, "Galen, what brought this on? What makes you say this?" To be completely honest? The shallow malarkey that is a game we all play; ever since we reached our teen years. The ever lasting quest for companionship, the game of love, dating.

I may be only in the first year of my second decade, but this does not mean that I am stupid or immature. I learned about death when I was six. I distrusted "God" when I was eight. I finally gave up on the belief in "God" when I was fifteen. I searched for answers that the Catholic Faith couldn't answer. I learned about religion, and history. I strove to find the answers to the questions that possessed my young mind. I found Asatru, but even then, it's not enough. I turned to fantasy and daydream to hide from my ignorance. I steeped myself in made up worlds filled with monsters I could slay because I couldn't slay the demons that haunt me.

I have another quote from a great man.

"Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do."

This one is from Steve Jobs, the creator of Apple Inc. This quote is something that I listen to everyday. Because as narcissistic as it sounds, I believe I embody everything this quote says. I see myself as a misfit, a rebel, a troublemaker, a round peg in a square hole. Thus, I am one of the crazy ones. Why? Because I believe that I can change the world. I believe that I can show people that we are all just human.

I had someone tell me, "You can't though [change the world] You'll drive yourself insane. Just be happy with what you can't change."

Bullshit. Absolute bull hockey. Nonsense. Malarkey. Stupidity. Rubbish. Poppycock! What if all the great people that we praise were just happy with what they couldn't change? Where would we be as humanity? I don't know, and I don't want to find out.

A saying I heard as a child, "Can't never could." Why should I think that I can't change the world. If I did, I never could.

So this is my dream.

I dream of a world where I can not be afraid of speaking my mind. A world where I don't have to worry that I'll be judged or laughed at because I'm Aspergers/Autistic. A world were others won't be judged on how they dress, or what sexual orientation they identify as. A world where we stop focusing on what we have, and on who we are. And who are we? Humans.

This is my dream.

The Big Cheese: A Hardboiled Parody

It was a dreary and rainy morning. The rain came down in grey sheets, and the shop was empty. I was alone, left to my thoughts. I pondered why people do the things they do. What makes a man order a pie with extra cheese with light sauce? Or what makes a peckerwood tip nothing for a large order? I'm not quite sure, but it keeps me up at night.

I was in the back room cutting tomatoes when I heard the ringing of a bell, that signaled someone entering. I stepped into the front to great the customer. She was dressed in a crumpled sweatshirt and black yoga pants that clung to her calves. Her face was plain and but something about the dame's expression made me excited. She watched me with tired eyes, like a kitten that was trying to stay awake.
"Good Morning!" I said with a practiced smile, "What can I do for you this rainy morning?"
"I need a pizza." She spoke with a kind of grace that rivaled a ballet dancer's footwork.
"Someone always comes to me with such problems," I muttered, "What kind of pie would you like?"
"I'll have a large cheese." Ah the Big Cheese. That's how things always started. It was either that or one of the specialty pies that they asked for.
"Would you like anything else on it?" I inquired. There was always something more.
"No that will be it," she said. That couldn't be it. There is always something more to pizza orders.
"Alright," I began to jot down the order.
"Could I have a large soda as well?" she asked.
"Of course." I said. As I said, things are never as they seem.
"That will be fifteen bucks," I said. She didn't seem fazed by the price and she reached into her purse and slid me the dough.  I counted it and thanked her.
"It'll be ready in about twenty minutes."

Fool Like Me

She has a pair of azure twins

Eyes a man could get lost in.

They make my heart spin

And I can't help but grin

Something about her smile

Makes everything worthwhile

She's a wonderful lily of the nile

Haven't seen such beauty for a while

I met her on the street

And I nearly lost my feet

I felt the desire to retreat

And accept defeat

For how could she,

Go for a fool like me?

A ship lost at sea

How could it be?

This Morning

This morning I woke up and couldn't move. I felt tired, but couldn't fall back asleep. It took every bit of my strength to get my phone and call my manager. I was hungry but couldn't get up to get food. I got scared. I didn't know what was happening. I thought I had gotten sick. But as the day went on I began to realize that something was wrong. I did some research and figured I must be going through Autistic Burnout. Even now, I don't know how long this will last. What if I can't go to my job? I just don't know. I'm scared. I can't...

(Think) Different: Redux

Let’s see. Where should I begin? How about with a quote?

"Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do" ~Apple's 'Think Different' Campaign

Well, I always knew I was different. I wasn’t like the other children; I rarely made eye contact, I preferred to read opposed to play outside. To me that was normal. As I grew older I struggled to find my place… Hell, even now, I still don’t know where I should be. But I do one thing…
I know who I am. I can do things most people can’t. But yet again, I can’t do things most people can. I'm just a bit different.

Different… In my short years on this bizarre and alien place we like to call Earth, I have learned some interesting things. Society seems to praise brilliance and innovation in just about every field. They praise; hell, glorify even, the people who think outside of the box. Just to name a few, Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, JFK, Tesla, Darwin, and Einstein. All of these people were different, they make you think, they challenge your preconceived notion of reality. They pushed society forward, forcing us to change. They made you listen to what they had to say. I have a few words out to describe these people, extraordinary, interesting, brilliant, amazing, fantastic, intelligent, creative, and innovative.
People try to fit everything into these tiny little boxes with specific labels. Why? Because even though, we as humanity praise the extraordinary people who have changed the world for the better, we are fucking terrified of anything new or different. Humanity is programmed to hate anything different. It is a savage hangover from our primal pasts, and because of this we try to force out anything or anyone that might cause unrest. We all try to be “normal”. We hate anything bizarre, strange, queer, or different…

Normal. What does “normal” mean? According to Dictionary.com, Normal as an adjective means, “conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural,” -or- “serving to establish a standard,” -or- in Psychology, “approximately average in any psychological trait, as intelligence, personality, or emotional adjustment,” -or- “free from any mental disorder; sane.”
Sounds rather boring to me. But according to what I have seen and experienced; being made fun of for: being interested in dragons, elves, and goblins, being bad at most sports, loving the idea of traveling through space and discovering new and exciting places, not being interested in anonymous sex, etc… Normal must be the greatest compliment someone should ever be given. Right?
Oh contraire, the compliments we give are along of the lines are, “You are amazing,” “That was awesome!” What if someone told you, “You are really normal!” It’s laughable, because no one does that! We praise the extraordinary but then we cut down those who are different because they are different.
Just look at homosexuals and transexuals. The LGBT people that I know are some of the best people I know. They are loads more interesting than a lot of the people I periodically come into contact with. Here we have these incredibly different people, and guess what? They are cast out by their own families and friends, just for being a little bit different. Do they not bleed when they get cut? Do they not breath the same air as everyone else? Are they not human beings? Then why do we prosecute these people? Why do we try to make them into this thing called “normal”? Oh, because they like to have sex with members of their own gender? Because they aren’t happy with their gender and want to change it? What?!
Why does it matter that Jim likes to have sex with guys? Why does it matter that Lisa likes to sleep with girls? Why does it matter that Jackson/Jackie isn’t comfortable in their own skin and they are taking the steps to become comfortable? Guess what? It doesn’t.

Now that the Supreme Court ruling, we have taken a step towards acceptance of those that are atypical.

The same goes for people on the Autism Spectrum. Here we are, being made fun of not because of who we like to have sexy-fun-time with, but because we look at things differently, or we don’t behave exactly like everyone else. People on the spectrum are as diverse as everyone else in the world. Not one of us are exactly the same. We are as diverse as fingerprints or snowflakes. We share a lot of the same traits, but we are all unique. We just want to be accepted the way we are.

Crazy

I must be insane. For my whole life, I've refused to conform to societies pre-conceived notions of reality and what is acceptable. I saw no need to dress "in-style". No need to force my beliefs on anyone. I spoke my mind, and didn't care what people thought of me. I tell things how I see them. I am brutally honest. I notice the small things, like the smell in the air, the sounds that surround me, the texture of my seat, the tastes of the food I'm eating. I don't bother with petty social situations and small talk.

I create worlds, places, and landscapes. But I don't consider myself a god in anyway because those worlds, have their own gods. I simply gave life to something, out of nothing. I am in no way divine. I create languages that have never and probably won't ever be spoken out loud. I disappear into worlds that solely exist in my mind and in the billions of words I write.

I want to share these worlds but no one wants to visit them. So I become frustrated and upset. I become angry, because I see people with "less interesting and detailed" worlds have others flock to visit. What's so special about those places that mine doesn't possess? I don't really know.

Alienation is the product of non-acceptance. Most days I feel alienated because of how I think or speak, and thus, the cycle of rage and frustration continues. I don't understand why things happen or why people think the things they do. I get angry because no one sees what I see. I think they are all blinded by "what is socially acceptable"; so worried about what is appropriate or what is taboo, that they miss all of the small yet important things in the world.

Thus I must be crazy; because I refuse to conform to societies pre-conceived notions of reality and what is acceptable. I see no need to dress how everyone else does. I speak my mind, and don't care what people think of me. I tell things how I see them. Autism is my super power.

So many songs express these emotions...

Oingo Boingo- "On the Outside"
"They laugh at me out loud, they say I'm just a clown
That I ain't got no ride, I'm on the outside
The girls look really cute, they really make it work
They think I'm just a jerk, I'm on the outside"

The Beatles- "Nowhere Man"
"He's a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody"

"Doesn't have a point of view
Knows not where he's going to
Isn't he a bit like you and me?"

Joan Jett- "Misunderstood"
"It was hard to get along when I was still in school
I never meant to do no wrong but I broke all the rules
An' I was prone to non-conformin', but what harm did I do?
I could see the world was crazy an' I was crazy too
Misunderstood with no one I could tell
Misunderstood by people I know well!"

Dream Theater- "Solitary Shell"
"He seemed no different from the rest
Just a healthy normal boy
His mama always did her best
And he was daddy's pride and joy"

"As a boy he was considered somewhat odd
Kept to himself most of the time
He would daydream in and out of his own world
but in every other way he was fine"

"He struggled to get through his day
He was helplessly behind
He poured himself onto the page
Writing for hours at a time"

Saga of the Bear-Folk: A Strange Forest Part II.

And thus, the Bear-Folk followed the directions of the pixie, until they came up upon a massive ebony fir tree. A silver finger of flowing water drifted lazily through the clearing.They could see that there was a door crafted of planks nailed together covering the entry in to the hovel.
Blooma called out, "Mieselk! Are you home?" But no one answered. The Bear-folk searched for signs of the mysterious guardian who was supposed to dwell here.


Suddenly a great booming voice called out from behind them, "WHO TRESSPASSES ON THE HOME OF THE MIGHTY MISELK!?" The party spun to see who uttered the words. They spied a great albino elk with antlers stretching out further than any man could.
"We are not tresspassing!" called Blomma, "I need help!" The great elk blinked and looked at the pixie.

The elks head twisted unnaturally and the beast contorted, as the sounds of breaking bones and snapping tendons echoed through the timber stands. Then an old man with a long argent beard stood in front of them. He appeared as human save for the pair of antlers extending from the sides of his head. He hurried over to Torgar, who's shoulder the Blooma was perched, and plucked the pixie up and hurried into his hovel. Kol and Torgar peered inside.

The strange man bustled about and pulled ingredients off shelves and tossed them onto the table. When he was satisfied with what he had gathered he chanted in the eldritch language of the Huldrfolk. A light glowed around the pixie and her wing was restored. She joyfully zipped around the room, sprinkling glitter behind her.

The strange man, who was called Mieselk, beckoned the Bear-folk inside. He seemed to speak their language. He gave them a tea made from herbs. They all drank it except for Kol and Mjorla, who remained cautious.
Miselk puffed on a large pipe the size of an aurouchs horn, and the room was filld with an oily-smelling smoke. He asked who they were and where they came from. When they told him their story, he became startled. He explained that they were in the Huldrskegg, the ancient forest of the Fae. He cried that the must get too Brunkornskegg, one of the gateways back to their homeland.

But before they could leave, there was a sound of what sounded like the mix between a horse and a bull.
"Quickly! You must leave! She is close!" cried Mieselk, "Follow Blooma, she will take you to the stone!"
Following the Pixie, the Bear-folk took off towards Brunkornskegg.

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**This is my account of the events of the Saga of the Bear-Folk

Opening Verse of the Saga of the Bear-Folk (Revised)

I recently updated my opening poem to the Saga of the Bear-folk, with that I needed to update the language. Here is the updated poem! I've also begun to create the language of the Fae creatures in the adventure I've been writing.

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Skarrn:

Lo!

Hjer byrja ferdhalakkar fra Bjorgdunar

Jog fra aegisagr thaejar…

Thekksagr byrja

Hvenr runekorn avsolja

Idh Rytarrskegg

Harrik, viedunnath-megg

Rugla megg skjirkorn

Seiflath fra Bjordunnar, Ivrik Arnbjorg dun nuldorn

Nefingja brrodhath halkur dhing

Tala fra gothing

Avsulta hultn

Brrodh fra gultn

Bafudhra tredhorn

fra runekorn

Harrik fra viedunnath-megg sorn

"Ath finga korn,

Sjodmad, sithur Nartr-frottr

Strarg fra assmattr.”

Thar a mokkithr vittegg

droppen far mugg fjltegg

fjltegg sithur himokk

Unni gothing slettlokk”

Translation:

Lo! 

Here begins the journey of the Bear-Folk,

and their Epic Saga

This story does begin,

When a rune-stone was discovered

In Rytarrskegg

By a fisherman called Harrik

Bemused by the strange monolith,

The Bjordunnar Chief, a man named Ivrik Arnbjorg

Called forth the the clan for a meeting

To discuss this discovery

It was decided,

That a group of warriors,

Be sent to investigate 

The rune-stone

Harrik the Fisherman said,

“That to find the stone,

One was sail north-east

along the coast.”

Until a great white tree

is spotted at the mouth of a river

Then one must sail up river

Until you come across a placid lake.”

Saga of the Bear-Folk: A Strange Forest Part I.

The Bear-Folk were awoken by the warble of a loon and the trickling of a creek. They discovered they were no longer in the hall of Faeinuldi and his wife Astra. They were on the banks of a babbling brook. Another runestone, though this one only had one rune displayed, was cloaked in moss on the opposite bank. Whispers could be heard among the leaves and branches of the timber stands surrounding them. The ship they traveled up the river in was nestled among some trees. Ivrik cried out, “What sort of Fae hell have we been sent too!?” 

Mjorl was the first to stand and as he reached for his sword, his belt mysteriously undid itself and fell to the ground. The whispers among the trees turned into laughter. Mjorl drew his blade and called out to the voices, demanding they show themselves. Kol decided to go back to sleep, but there was a cracking and a branch fell and hit him in the face! An acorn was tossed from among the branches and hit Ivrik in the temple. This was followed by a chorus of laughter.

Suddenly the laughter stopped and the forest was silent, save for the flapping of large wings. There was a horrendous screeching and a monstrous creature crashed through the canopy. It had the body of an elk, and colorful feathered wings instead of fore-legs and it’s back legs had the appearance of an eagle. Screams of horror come from the branches and the zipping sounds fill the forest as the beast snapped at what appeared to be empty air. 

The beast spotted the band, and lunged at them. Riddare and Mjorl fired arrows into it’s side, while Ivrik, Kol, and Mjorla’s blades sang. The monster flew up and streaked towards Ivrik, knocking him to the ground. It’s jaws gnashed at Ivrik who swung his great blade and severed it’s head. Blood splashed over his face.

Once the beast was felled, Torgar noticed something near the stream, a sparkling light. He discovered a pixie weeping on a rock, whose name was Blooma. Her crimson hair was mangled and tiny tears streamed down her cheeks. One of her wings, which appeared as those of a butterfly, had been torn off. 

Riddare looked over Torgar’s shoulder and asked, “What is it?Some sort of bug?” Torgar informed him that it was a pixie. Torgar asked the pixie if she was okay.

“Halugaashi tsauttaa minaashni! Nie suyotaarve etta mimasaa Mieselk…” wept the pixie. Torgar scooped up the pixie, and she gripped his hand and her hand glowed, and then he could understand her.

“Please help me!” she repeated, “I need to see Mieselk!” When the asked who Mieselk was, she told them that he was one of the guardians of the forest. She was afraid of the dead creature. When Torgar asked her about the runes and began to draw the runes in the dirt, she got scared and erased the marks, saying that Torgar shouldn’t draw those. Because the “Queen” would appear. They asked who the Queen was, but the pixie wouldn’t say. 

Thus they set off to find the guardian named Mieselk.

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**This is my account of the events of the Saga of the Bear-Folk

Saga of the Bear-Folk: The Mysterious Runestone Part II.

They drank, mead, ale and beor, and told stories of their adventures. Kol told of how he slayed a great sea serpent, but Ivrik discounted the tale, saying that he was releiving himself and Kol was drunk and mistook Ivrik’s manhood as a serpent. This story made Faeinuldi giggle, and Astra blush. Torgar told a story of how he once had an owl but it escaped. Faeinuldi roared with laughter. 

The Twins, Mjorl and Mjorla were suspicious of Faeinuldi and Astra. Mjorl, sulked in the corner and Mjorla noticed something moving beneath Astra’s cloak, that despite the room being very warm, she did not remove. Mjorl made to grab Astra’s cloak off but Astra’s grip was tight. Faeinuldi explained that Astra got cold easy.

“But I saw something moving under the cloak!” exclaimed Mjorla.

“Astra, did you hide another snake under your cloak again? Hehehehe!?” asked Faeinuldi. Astra nodded, and Faeinuldi told her to take it outside. 

Mjorla made to sneak after Astra, but Faeinuldi wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Ivrik upon seeing this drew his great-sword and pointed it at Faeinuldi.

“Unhand her! She goes where she wishes!” he growled. Faeinuldi’s eyes twinkled, as if he sensed Ivrik’s interest in the shield-maiden, and he released her. Mjorla stole out the back door, but could not see if there was truly a snake beneath Astra’s cloak.

Astra then made to tell the party’s fortunes. She tossed an oily smelling herb into the fire, and the putrid smoke filled the hall. Ivrik choked and had to leave to regain his breath. Once he returned, Astra’s eyes rolled back in her head and she shook and twitched and then she began to speak.

From forests dark,

To rivers deep,

And through eldritch,

And strange lands

You will face many hardships,

But should you succeed,

Your names will be remembered,

In song and poem.

Cattle die, Giants die,

One day you too will die,

But a brave soul will never perish,

When a man earns praise and fame.

That night, every one of the party except for Ridarre and Kol, who chose to sleep in one of the beds offered by Faeinuldi and Astra; chose to sleep by the hearth of the main room. Mjorla decided that they should keep watch and she would stay awake, and wake her brother in a few hours.

While Mjorla sat there, watching the flickering tongues of fire, she saw a head fire-hair appear in the corner of her eye. Astra had appeared next to Mjorla, pale skin, and buxom breasts illuminated by the hearth light. Astra seductivly began to kiss Mjorla’s neck. Mjorla felt something brush her other arm and looked to see the tale of a cow extending from Astra’s backside. She pushed Astra away, and upon doing so discovered that Astra’s back was hollow, like a rotted log. Recoiling in fear, Mjorla reached for a weapon, but before she could do so, Astra firmly planted her lips on Mjorla’s; and Mjorla knew no more.


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**This is my account of the events of the Saga of the Bear-Folk

Saga of the Bear-Folk: The Mysterious Runestone Part I.

Lo! Here begins the journey of the Bear-Folk and their Epic Saga. This story does begin when a runestone was discovered by Harrik the the Fisherman, on the banks of his favorite fishing spot. Bemused by the strange monolith the Bjordunnar Chief, Ivrik Arnbjorg called forth the clan to discuss this discovery. It was decided that a group of warriors be sent to investigate the mysterious stone. Harrik the Fisherman said, “That to find the stone one must sail north-east along the coast of the Joraklokk, until you spot a great white tree on the banks of a river. Then sail up the river until you come across a placid lake.

Now the warriors who were sent were:

Ivrik Ivrikson, the chief’s son.

Riddare, the huntsman

Kol, the berserker

Torgar Holslakket (Goat-Puncher), the sage and healer

and the twins, 

Mjorl, the woodsman, 

and Mjorla the stealthy one.

They followed Harrik’s directions, sailed north-east from Bjorgsulla, and found the great white tree. They turned up river and began to row. The trees grew dark as they sailed up the twisting river. They came across an arch made from twisted branches and vines and as they passed through they were blinded by sunlight.

The found the crystalline lake. White stones made up the beach, and a great stone, twice as tall as any Dunvig jutted from the shoreline. The band was cautious, and were nervous to wade ashore.

Ivrik was the first to jump into the lake, when he spotted a beautiful maiden coming out from the trees. The maid, whom was called Astra, had hair of fire, and skin of freshly fallen snow. She was surprised to see the Bear-folk and dropped the basket of clothes she carried. Ivrik called out to Astra, asking where they were. Astra spoke with an archaic voice and told Ivrik that he was at Kristaltarn, and she lived at Kristaltarn Halkkr. Now, Ivrik nor any of the others knew of a settlement by that name in the area.

Emboldened by Ivrik’s bravery the rest of the party came ashore. Kol, and Mjorla joined Ivrik in speaking with Astra, while Torgar, Riddare and Mjorl inspected the runestone. Torgar had seen the runes that covered the monolith, before and identified them as the runes of the Fae and Faeynir, though they came from the time when the world was still young.

While their conversation with Astra, a pack of wolves leapt out of the trees. Astra screamed and ran to hide behind the Bear-Folk. The wolves fell upon the warriors. Mjorla was bitten but was able to slay her attacker with help from Kol and Ivrik. One of the beasts clamped it’s jaws around Mjorl’s helm, but was able to finish the creature off with the help of Torgar; who single handedly beat one of the wargs off with just his staff! During the fray Mjorla was touched by Astra and her wounds were magically healed. 

Astra graciously thanked the brave band, and asked them if they would like to stay and have dinner with her husband. Ivrik asked Astra who her husband was and she simply responded with a list of many personal names; saying that her husband had many names. The party warily headed towards the hall, carrying the carcasses of the wolves, so that Astra may skin them later.

They walked along a path that lead up to the Hall. During their trek they discussed how things didn’t feel like. Torgar, being a druid was the most unnerved by the seemingly magical things that were happening. 

They halted when Mjorl spotted a tall lanky man with balding hair and a scraggly beard perched atop a log, watching them. He called out and weapons were drawn.

 Ivrik called out to the man, “Lo!who goes there!” The man stood and came towards them. 

He giggled as he approached. “I should be asking you the same things! You are on my land! Hehehehe! I am called Faeinuldi!” 

“Why were you crouched on that log?” questioned Torgar. 

“Hehehehe! Why do you carry a staff?”retorted Faeinuldi. They spoke for a little longer, until Faeinuldi lead them to the hall.

The ‘hall’ as Faeinuldi called it was little more than a longhouse. The Bear-folk did not enter, but instead discussed among themselves. They did not trust Faeinuldi and his wife, Astra. The decision was made that Mjorl, Torgar, and Riddare, would go back and check on the boat and try to learn more about the runestone, and Ivrik, Kol, and Mjorla would entertain Faeinuldi.

Mjorl, Torgar, and Riddare headed back towards the beach they met Astra returning from the lake side. She smiled at them and few words were exchanged about the evening meal. Mjorl warned Torgar to not touch the stone, but Torgar’s curiosity got the better of him. He felt a strange energy around the stone and when he touched it he felt power course through his body. They headed back to the hall as the sun began to sink below the trees. Every young Dunvig knows that Rytarrskegg is a dangerous place at night, especially among unfamiliar trees.

Back in the hall, Faeinuldi happily played the good host. “Skroll to the host! A guest in the hall, where should the stranger sit down? Hehehehe! To make a new friend, quickly give him the bench nearest the fire! Hehehehe!” He offered them horns and drinks. Kol and Ivrik gulped from horns of an aurochs, while Mjorla suspiciously sipped from her own flask.

Once regrouped, the Bear-folk learned that Faeinuldi had put the stone their and had created the runes during a flash of insight while swinging from an ash tree, and that Astra could use the runes to see into the future, as most sages and seers do. They agreed and decided that they would hear the fortunes to be told after the evening meal.

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**This is my account of the events of the Saga of the Bear-Folk

Sometimes

• Sometimes I feel so alone, yet I am surrounded by people.
• Sometimes I shout out loud, but I am rarely heard
• Sometimes I hide, but want to be found.
• Sometimes I smile, yet still cry.
• Sometimes I am calm, but on the inside I am furious.
• Sometimes I reach out, but think "What's the point?"
• Sometimes I dream happy dreams, where I'm dying.
• Sometimes I pretend, just so people won't worry.
• Sometimes I try to love, but all I can think of is the pain that is sure to come.
• Sometimes I'm trapped, but don't want to be free.
• Sometimes I feel scared, when I should feel safe.
• Sometimes I wonder what comes after death, but I'm scared to find out.
• Sometimes I wonder who really cares, But I can't think of very many.
• Sometimes I have a lot to say, but other times I have no words.
• Sometimes I hear "Get over it", but that makes me hold on even tighter.
• Sometimes I try my hardest to succeed, but still fail over and over again.
• Sometimes I wish to be normal, but normal is boring.
• Sometimes I wish that the people who call themselves my friends would take the time to listen, but no one ever does.

Creation Myth of Heimurinn (Complete)

Here is the Creation Myth of the world called, "Madstrag" or "Duintraile" depending on who you ask.
But for simplicity, we will refer to it as "Heimurinn". The differing names are those given to the Companions by the Skaldar and Caerduine respectively.

*****

At the beginning of time, there was nothing. The Void, as the sages call it, was what existed; a great expanse of darkness. Despite the darkness of the Void, it was not empty. Creatures of unknown shape and figured dwelled here. This period of darkness continued for a millennium. The creatures of darkness wallowed in the grime and filth of the void.

This is when newcomers appeared in the Void, the Eight Companions. With them, they brought light. The creatures of darkness hated the light and recoiled from it.

Now like the world, the Eight are known by different names.

The leader was called Worgi -or- Wathain. He was the eldest of the group, and bore a blond beard.
The second was Valling -or- Malla. She was so beautiful that she glowed with radiant light.
The third is named Velfur -or- Spairod. These three were sibilings, though it is unknown who begat them.

Then there was Riggsi -or- Farthach. He was the biggest of the Eight, and stood twice as tall.
There is Fryigg or Dorcha, her hair was as black as the Void itself.

There are the twins, Kjallisi -or- Oghear and Bjarndur -or- Faohier. These two brought two of the most powerful things into the world, Ice and Fire.

The last of the Eight was, Laturan -or- Baseag. He was queer. Quiet and sneaky, he loved the darkness.

So the Void Creatures hated the Eight. They cursed the light and fled from it. One of the creatures, whose name has been long forgotten decided to try and kill the Eight. He gathered and army and plotted to wipe light form the Void forever.

Not there was one being who like the light and did not like the idea of it being snuffed from existance. His name was Madur -or- Duin. He told the eight of of the Forgotten One's plan. The eight began to argue. Worgi, Valling, and Velfur, trusted Madur; but Kjallisi, Bjarndur and Laturan didn't. Riggsi and Fyrigg wanted nothing to do with the conflict.

The Forgotten One, seeing the divide decided to corrupt the Eight. He poisoned them with a dark spell. Those who trusted Madur were able to fend off the poison, but those who didn't, succumbed to the pestilence and joined the Forgotten One.

Thus the battle began. Worgi, Valling, and Velfur were fallen upon by the hordes of darkness. Surrounded on all sides, the three fought valiantly, but it appeared that all was lost. Untill Worgi pushed his way through to the Forgotten One.

The Forgotten One raised his axe and mace and charged at Worgi. There in the middle of the field they clashed. The Forgotten One cleaved Worgi's shield in twain, and shattered his sword. Worgi stumbled backwards, feeling for a weapon. The Forgotten One Raised his weapons to the sky in victory and made to strike Worgi down. But luckilly Worgi's hand found the shaft of a spear and jabbed it into the Forgotten Ones throat. He fell and disappeared.

Upon their leader's death the armies of darkness fell away in retreat.

The three who had been poisoned returened to their natural state and the day was theirs. But battle is not with out price. Madur had fallen during the battle. The Eight gave him a funeral, which all funerals of man mimic.

Lyla Jones, Bounty Hunter

     Lyla couldn’t remember what woke her, the screeching of metal on metal and the sudden jolt of a halting train, or the nudging of the ebony mustang that shared the boxcar with her. She pushed the brim of her hat away from her face and she squinted to make out her surroundings from the slivers of light that filtered in from the cracks of the doors.The gelding nudged her again, making a quiet whinny. 

     “I’m awake!” she groaned sleepily, pulling herself off the floor, and dusting off her canvas trousers. She pushed a strand of orange hair away from her face and behind a pointed elvish ear. She stretched and yawned. 

     She tightened her gun belt and slid the retention strap off the hammer of the revolver secured to her leg. She unholstered the pistol and flipped the cylinder out. All six chambers were filled with brass .45 caliber rounds. She clicked the cylinder back in and returned the revolver to the holster. A large knife encased in a leather sheath also hung off the belt.

     She found her mahogany coat, atop one of the shipping crates that took up a good portion of boxcar, and pulled it on. The horse nudged her again. 

     He pawed the floor and snorted.

     “Alright! Alright! Gimme a second,” she grunted, “You need not be so impatient Ashes.” She slid open the car’s doors and blinked as the bright light hit her face. She lead the horse out of the car and onto the loading platform. She put her boot into the stirrup and pulled herself atop the horse. She rode her way off the platform and around the station. A wooden sign hanging outside read, ‘Bywater Station & Telegraph Office’. 

     She reached into her breast pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and stopped to read it. The letterhead read, ‘Soldera Telegraph Service’. 

RECIEVED AT:

COLBY’S RIDGE TELEGRAPH OFFICE

7.14.89

TO: L. JONES

EMPANEL, MEET MR. DWYER AT WASP CLUB, BYWATER, TO DISCUSS JOB OPPORTUNITY.

     She had received the telegram three days ago, and had hopped aboard the train from Colby’s Ridge, to Fork Junction and then onwards to Bywater. 

Bywater was the fourth largest town in the Bowl, after Beaconsville, Colbert’s Point, and Sullivan. It had everything an up and coming town needed, an airfield, a station, a jail, a town hall, several clubs and bars, a park, docks, an airship port, and it even had paved roads.

     She hated coming to Bywater. As a rule, she avoided it as much as possible. It felt claustrophobic with the automobiles puttering about, and sidewalks filled with people. But the prospect of a job, was reason enough to visit.