A passage from the exploits of Habib al Taib.

Habib enters the hall of the Formian queen and stares at the great alien presence before him. He feels that it somehow falls into a certain sphere of the natural order of things. He does however concede that whilst his knowledge of nature is normally undisputed, the Seerdomain and Akaron in general do indeed present an interesting variation of the natural laws. He realizes that in this place he must maintain an open mind.

The creatures before him are neither ant nor human. They resemble both and neither, and this fact ensues a conflict within himself concerning weather or not the Formian race represent an abomination in the eyes of the natural order. He ponders not too heavily upon this matter, and deliberately turns a blind eye. The creatures have offered aid, and against their devil opponent, clearly an evil, unnatural creature who would destroy existence as he knows it, all aid must be accepted and graciously exploited.

His companions begin to question the Queen about the metal beasts, denizens of the Devil Shadowthrone. A consensus has been reached that the best way to weaken the enemy defenses would be to attack its allies. The metal beasts are an abomination and a threat to the mission. They must be eliminated.

The Formian queen is unable to provide much information that is not already known. The metal beasts eat anything metallic with delight, and have a weakness against organic means of destruction. Habib realizes that the fight will most likely center around himself and his pet Jackal. With this in mind he begins his meditations entreating the forces of nature to grant him specific magics to best exploit the enemy weakness. He plans to employ the use of a great wave of slime capable of eating through metal, as his primary means of attack. He is confident, for there are few who would be capable of countering this tactic, as a means of offense.

As a final warning, the Queen informs the group about Zalatium, Shadowthrone’s second. Zalatium, she explains is a fallen angel, a Trumpet Archon who despite his fall from grace, is still capable of employing his angelic abilities, along with new Devil powers. He is a force to be reckoned with, and as such, the party should prepare to deal with him should they assault Shadowthrone’s fortress.

The companions leave as the queen grows irritated at their noncessant interrogation. It matters not for they have obtained most of the necessary information for completion of their quest, and to remain longer would only invite unnecessary repetition.

Habib lands on soft eagle feet having scouted the area and finding it deserted. He consults the forces of nature, entreating them for answers, but none are forthcoming. This is strange to him, however he quickly remembers that in the Seerdomain, nature might very well answer to its owner only. He motions the party forward, weapons drawn and ready for anything. His anticipation is heightened when he spots very fresh tracks metal beast, and if not for the quasi-godlike eyes of Valenkel, he almost flies straight into an Orc hiding in the brush, accompanied by two tigers.

Remembering that things are different in Akaron, Habib speaks to the Orc in his own tongue entreating a discussion away from the potentially dangerous proximity of the metal beast lair. The Orc agrees, and the party follows him to a nearby hidden tunnel.

The Orc is called Munroot. Munroot is covered from head to toe in a bone armor with weapons made of similar material. Not an ounce of metal exists on his person for the metal beast smell the substance and revel in consuming it orally. He is sworn to avenge his brother, fallen victim to the head metal beast. Munroot assures the group that the power of the creature is such that a “sacrifice” must keep the beast at bay whilst he prepares a magic arrow to slay it instantly. Munroot explains his intentions to sacrifice his pet tigers, companions of his own fallen brother, whilst he prepares the spell. He spots Kay decked out with metal weapons, and understands him to be the group’s “sacrifice” against the beast. Kay concedes with a smile and irony, already confident of his own immortality. Meanwhile Habib attempts to befriend the tigers who, much to his surprise reply back in common tongue. Habib understands that Munroot’s brother was a Shaman, and had awakened tiger companions. In order to strengthen Munroot’s trust in him, Habib proclaims himself a powerful shaman. Munroot is pleased to have found a “friend of nature”.

A consensus is reached, and an alliance formed. They will work together. Habib finds working with an Orc repulsive at first, but retains an open mind. Akaron is a strange place indeed.

The companions creep carefully towards the lair. Early on they are jumped by the metal beasts who are quickly dispatched. Whilst the fight is short, it causes a ruckus. Munroot is quick enough to employ some form of magic to stifle the noise. The creeping resumes.

The lair of the metals beasts is, like the creatures, entirely constructed of metallic substance. Its walls are riddled with lookout spots where some of the monsters await to jump lesser creatures for food. The first of these sentinels is dispatched without incident. The second one proves more problematic as Habib foolishly orders his earth elemental to pound at the walls seeking to pulverize the beast lying in wait behind an illusionary. The noise sends a powerful resonance down into the pit of the cavern and warning is heard. The beasts are aware of their presence.

Habib recognizes orders being shouted. He is capable of understanding the language of the beasts and is able to warn the party of a pending attack. The beasts howl a metallic screech which resonates in the cavern as if its very walls had been engineered to amplify the sound. Its effects are excruciating but Valenkel throws a silence stone to nullify the noise. Battle is engaged.

The fight is brutal, for the metal beast leader is huge and intimidating. He is also unexpectedly agile as he dodges Habib’s slime wave. However knowing his role, Kay assumes an incredible display of taunts at the beast. Kay is a seasoned warrior and a cocky one. He understands that he must keep the beast distracted long enough for Munroot to prepare his arrow. He approaches battle weaponless, armed with a sturdy coral shield for defense. His taunts infuriate the sentient Metal Leader into a frenzy of powerful attacks absorbed by Kay’s body, reinforced by Estand’s magics. Whilst the Tigers are quickly destroyed by the lesser metal beasts, the rest of the party is capable of engaging them competently. Munroot smiles and proclaims the end. In, but a few moments the beast will be destroyed when a lesser creature slips by his attackers, disrupting Munroots’s concentration. Munroot goes pale with fear, but the warrior within him retains control. He raises his bow and begins again, awed by Kay’s resistance against the Leader’s furious attack.

Kay is brilliant, and it is only the sternest duty which prevents Habib from collapsing into a heap of feathers in tears of laughter at Kay’s taunts. “Ohh is that all bitch? Are there any females of your race? Cause you hit like a girl! Common! I’m just a measly human with no weapon? Is that it? I can dance all day bitch!” So insulting are the taunts that this monologue will not do it justice, and the beast doesn’t even realize as Munroot’s soul seems to flow into his arrow, piercing his powerful metal body.

The Metal Leader exploders into a myriad of shards. A creature rises from the remains bearing two marks of blue and red which Habib recognize as marks of ownership. He suspects that one must belong to Shadowthrone, for he himself bears a similar red symbol from a different devil lord. The second one, he believe belongs to Zalatium. The creature is weakened but not defeated, and it is by chance that Habib understands the metallic orders which eschew from the beast. “Summon him,” he urges, and smaller creatures run quickly to the back of the room.

“Kill them!” Habib screeches with a bird like screech, unleashing another slime wave. The party recognizes the threat for the slime is of Habib’s most potent curses. They fly. Alas one beast succeeds in reaching its destination, opening a portal. A few moments later a trumpet appears at its mouth. Habib orders a summoned earth elemental to block the sound with Valenkel’s stone of silencing, for the Archon’s trumpet can destroy mortals with its pure notes. The plan functions temporarily, but the Archon is wise and powerful. He projects a manifestation of himself and blows.

The sound is not unpleasant, crystal, clear, beautiful, but somehow tainted. Whilst the companions are unaffected the metal leader explodes once again, this time into a mess of gore and guts all over the back wall.

And then….

Along the river of neglect,
Lying futiley in peaceful ignorance,
Whispering reactions of freedom,
Finally dig into shadow,
Of blissful misfortune.
Every dooryard which appears,
Begins the fear,
Of loathing crosses,
And we fall.

We are the dense men!
We are the heavy men!
Headpiece filled with lead!
Alas!

Reminder of that which was,
Remind me of times one could cope
And joke
Of fleeting things,
Remembering,
Nothing of that at hand.
Understand,
It is nature made this way,
And pray,
I sink not deeper,
Into cement.
Lament,
My loss.
Praise,
My success.

Faced with that which I most feared,
Makes me wonder growing beard,
Would help.
I shall shave my head again,
I shall change myself again,
I shall, I shall.
It is impossible to express myself!
But as if a man stood on another,
I’ll take another,
And steal his work.

Look into a mirror mirror.
Close your eyes.
And face yourself.

Mister Alexander was a gentleman like none other. His manner was smooth, his words appealing, his dress cordial, and he moved with a certain finesse and grace, a certain je ne sais quoi. However the gentleman in question was a mystery to the good folk of Bodington, and when his untimely demise arrived, most people couldn’t help but wonder where or what or how this somewhat special, yet unobtrusive man had met with such an unfortunate accident. Naturally the local authorities were suspicious that one so well known by the people in the small town, were able to provide such little information about him. He was after all relatively sociable, amiable, approachable. However not one person knew anything about his past nor had had the curiosity to enquire as to how such a remarkable fellow such as himself, would have come to settle in the quaint little village of Bodington, nestled in the Many Mountains.

Upon further investigation it became apparent that Mister Alexander had left no will, no instructions, no testament as how his fortune was to be distributed, and indeed it was a remarkable weight of coin which the Prefecture acquired from Mister Alexander’s modest estate. Eventually the coin disappeared, probably eaten up by the establishment itself. The Man profited from Mister Alexander’s demise, but no could conceive of any possible motive nor method. And yet one cannot help but think at how unlikely an event it would be for a ten ton boulder to randomly fall seemingly out of an un-rocky mountain, onto a moving vehicle at precisely the same moments, once again proving that two objects cannot coexist in the same place at the same time. By the time the bureaucracy finally reached the crash site, the destructive force of fire had already taken most of what was once a polite, elegant young gentleman with no past or identity.

His estate was seized, and almost immediately auctioned off along with his belongings, for the investigation led no where at all, and since Mister Alexander kept his abode in tip top shape, no renovations were made. Mister Alexander’s belongings sold well. The people of Bodington acquire quality coats, canes, weed pipes, ornaments, objects pertaining from cultures not known to them. A wandering tinker gypsy troupe which came by every year identified most of the objects as hailing from a country far across the Great Sea. Most of the villagers scoffed at this idea.

The Gypsies were sneaky buggers not to be trusted, since things did have a manner of disappearing when they were around, however they did bring to the villagers wonders not seen in any nearby land. And since they had to date not been implicated, the lull of some of their extraordinary wares and shows was far greater than the fear of theft. It was however agreed that the Gypsies could not be trusted, and that the Great Sea went on forever and ever so that a sailor could be birthed upon his craft and his offspring, and his offspring, and his, and his, and his, perish from ripe old age before the craft would rot, and its cargo drown. They knew this because Patrick the Potent had indeed dared the adventure and returned twenty years later with no news. What was affirmed was that the winds made the return trip far quicker that the going, for Patrick had sailed nineteen years and eight months before perishing from a broken piece of mast to the noggin, which resulted in his crew turning back. His men were surprised to discover, four months and a day later that Gaia was once again in sight. Since everyone knows that sailors are incapable of deception and masters of their craft, no one sought to question the validity of their claims.

But alas, it seems to be that I have entirely digressed from the matter at hand, and gone off into the telling of another tale.

Mister Alexander’s sparse remains were cremated shortly after forensics determined that the boulder had landed directly on top of the late gentleman killing him instantly and sparking up a fuel in his petroleum tank. His ashes were scattered on the four winds, so that his soul could wander in any direction it pleased before ascending to the beyond, and just as soon he was forgotten.

Years passed, Seasons turned. And by the time a Mister Alexander settled in a quaint little estate on the edge of Bodington, none could recall a similar scenario occurring but a few short fifty years earlier. Mister Alexander was tall, and charming. Eloquent, and chivalrous. He gave off the feeling of total decency and civilization. His manner was smooth, his hat, elegant. And since it is not considered polite to question a gentleman too closely this Mister Alexander also didn’t leave behind any information concerning his past, when a boulder collided precisely with his transport as he was making his way to town. Mister Alexander’s belongings were auctioned, along with his estate. His fortune, having not been bequeathed to any next of kin, seized by the local authorities, and just as quickly as he perished. The memory of Mister Alexander vanished like smoke on a cold winter day.

Now the minds of man are imperfect, and memory a fleeting thing. However it was perhaps around the twentieth, fiftieth, or maybe millionth Mister Alexander that the good people of Bodington found themselves with more hats, and canes, and relics from “Across the Great Sea” as the Gypsies so aptly put it, and began to wonder how it was, that hamlet had managed to amassed such an unprecedented rate of growth compared to neighboring cities. Indeed it appeared that the local coffers were limitless in providing funding for some local project or another, that by the time they began to question, the phenomena, Bodington had grown to a sizeable metropolis complete with any sort of local public good man could conceive. Why they even had machines scouting for all but the slightest blemish on the shiny town, eradicating the offending spot in mere minutes. Neighboring communities grew fearful and jealous at Bodington’s success. And it was only shortly after Bodington’s declaration as an independent state, that old Farley stands up one evening and says, “Hey anyone remember what happened to that ol’ Mister Alexander feller?”

One of life’s greatest revelations came to me when I took a course on Spanish Romantic literature at McGill University. I had walked out of a bad breakup about a year or two prior and was still feeling sorry for myself at the time. I must have been about 20-21 years old. Yeah late bloomer. Anywho I minored in Hispanic Literature and Culture in order to keep up my recently acquired mastery of the Spanish language, which has severely deteriorated over the years, but that is another story for another time. A digression if you will.

The course was excellent. It was taught by a Catalan gentleman, who I thought had lots of class. He clearly liked and was liked by the ladies. We were perhaps 20 females and 3 males taking the course, so you know I felt pretty good every time I walked in.

We began reading story after story concerning men, and women who had fallen hopelessly in love with each other, but denied its reward. Either it was a priest and a woman, a commoner and a lady, or a playboy and some innocent, etc… Either way it was always soppy, tragic, and invariably ended with someone dying of tuberculosis, the death of a broken heart. Unique suffering, sensitivity, understanding, supernatural love, all these were recurring themes. The people in the stories were weak and pathetic. And then it dawned upon me that I was exactly the same.

My conclusion at the time lead me to the realization that extreme romantics become so obsessed with their unique sensitivity and lack of understanding from their peers, that it dominates their lives and ego. One can build self esteem exclusively based on their unique ability to feel, and when you are a romantic, the emphasis tends to be on suffering.

“I am misunderstood by humanity! The world is full of insensitive barbarians with no emotions comparable to mine! Look how great my sensitivity is! Look how evolved I am to be able to feel such powerful emotions! But somewhere, out there, there exists a kindred spirit who longs for the same things. Who feels and suffers as I do. And when we meet, we can turn our backs against those who are too blind to understand us. And we shall live our lives happily ever after, content in each other’s loving company!”

When your self esteem is built entirely on this sort of thing, you tend to feed off your depression, and get even more depressed. I realized at the time that I was basking in the glory of having been cheated on. For two years I appealed to the pity of others, which of course I didn’t get since being cheated on is no big deal these days, and the more people laughed at me, the more it strengthened my resolve. A very destructive loop indeed. I suffer therefore I am great, therefore I suffer.

I’ve spent years trying to take a more practical approach to life. I tried the opposite extreme of complete emotional mastery and apathy, but that also has strong negative repercussions such as being a dick to everyone around you. Bad idea guys. So now I’m somewhere in the middle. I have my sensitive side, but I don’t let it destroy my life. I’ll pout and complain maybe a little bit more than most people, but not nearly as much as before thank God.

I have since then, been dumped and dumped a couple people. In the immediate aftermath I always tended to feel sorry for myself, but I accept that as human nature. Understanding from another is a rare and difficult thing to achieve, and just as some relationships were meant to work, we also observe that most of those same relationships are meant to fail. I don’t know if true love exists, however I have ascertained with certainty that ‘chemistry’ does. And even if it is doomed to fail, the good times are always worth it. True happiness in life lies in experiences. If you bitch and complain all the time, you will never find a moment to enjoy life.

I believe that in this respect I have achieved balance. Booyah.

It begins in the diaphragm. Like a pit, so vast that vertigo is felt when one ponders upon its nature. The sensation is kept in check only by practiced reason and sanity. A twisting feeling. A sense of urgency. There are barriers there. Walls that hold back an anguishing energy of complete despair and loss of control. At some times the barrier is weaker than at others. Sometimes a crack or two allows genuine fear to seep through, and the faster you try to plug the leak the more furious the boding sensation of pending doom grows. It dominates the entire body when it does. Breathing, motor skills, the head, the heart, the strength. You want to run, but you can’t. How do you hide from yourself? How do you conquer that which your mind plays against you? How can you win? What can you do but escape? Sleep! Yes, my dreams will liberate me yes it will, and I can run away into some corner where they won’t catch me! Yeah right. Ever heard of nightmares? Ohh shit! Ok, so I just have get my mind off it. If I can think of something else it will go away! But I can’t concentrate. I’m afraid. I feel like I’m dying! I don’t wanna cease to exist! I want to be like before! Take me back to before! Build the wall! Protect me! It’s horrible! Help me!

Drugs don’t help. Alcohol doesn’t either. Exercise? But I feel so weak! I can’t do it! I can’t handle it. I can’t deal. Everything is so depressing!

And then, just when it hits you hardest, you drown.

And then a hiccup, and then a sigh, and then a wail so profound. The flood. The remnants of the barrier gush unto the floor, unto your wiping hand. A handkerchief. A mess. And slowly but surely the barrier reasserts itself as you surrender to the emotion, stop fighting it. Accept it. Let it wash over you, like a storm.

And then when tears dry, and half the world’s Kleenex lies as your feet in an organic lump, pain subsides. Dreamless sleep. Suspension of consciousness. Disexistence.