|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
(Plated Seastrider, Izzy 1993-2010) "The Neurok buried entangling cables just under the Quicksilver Sea. One Seastrider harvest can provide an army's worth of armor and shields." (15 min writing August 17, 2011)
The Neurok buried entangling cables just under the Quicksilver Sea. One Seastrider harvest can provide an army's worth of armor and shields. I watched from the high cliffs overlooking the sea as at least three dozen men worked to stretch the thick black cables over the bottom. The task did not look easy, they almost tipped their enormous boats several times. When they finally finished laying the lines, they anchored them with giant steel poles so that the Striders wouldn't pull them out running by.
After the Neurok departed, I stayed to watch, to see their success. Our village elder said that catching Seastriders is a near-impossible task. The Neurok know too, but with war looming nearer to our boarders each day, they
(Surveilling Sprite, Terese Nielsen 1993-2005) "Their natural curiosity, combined with a knack for trespassing, makes sprites excellent spies." (15 min writing August 15, 2011)
Those who dabble in the arts of guile and deception in the shadows have a saying about sprites; Their natural curiosity, combined with a knack for trespassing, makes sprites excellent spies.
Vail'an smiled to herself, peering through a stained glass window. Although she found purchase on the narrow window sill, her wings continued fluttering to keep her balanced. If the watchers of the king's keep knew such an old saying they might have taken precautions against her kind.
She gave the glass an experimental tap, ready to take flight at a moment's notice should she trigger a trap. When nothing happened, she produced from her breeches a tool the sly Market Crawler had devised for sprites. The item looked like nothing more than a small twig until she twiste
(Demystify, Veronique Meignaud 1993-2011) "Behind every mage is a trail of shattered lies" (15 min writing July 24, 2011)
Rahl stood on the edge of the mist-ridden abyss. The castle floating in the clouds was abandoned long ago by its people. He raised his hands and began his solemn work. Soon the castle would be just a myth, snippets of memory of something that once was.
Immediately the enchantment surrounding the castle became visible to the mage. The bubble-like appearance didn't fool him, he knew the dangers of the echoes of magic and already took the necessary precautions. If the barrier broke prematurely, the ones he'd wrapped around both his physical and inner self would hold.
Rahl remembered when the flying castle came into being. He knew that mage well back then.
The Rose is DeadThe Rose is Dead, it didn't stand a chance,
The world it knew is ruined, broken, gone
And life moved too fast for its small roots to flee
It tripped and failed to get ahead in life's long dance.
The Rose is Dead forever, it couldn't get away,
The world's great Dark swooped in too fast,
Clouded up the day and poisoned the Rose's Earth,
Darkness was much too clever and now we have to pay.
The Rose is Dead and gone, there's no going back,
The Earth is left in shambles in Darkness's wake
It tore Earth to her very core and took away her soul,
Nothing left to move along in the now disheveled wreck.
And the Rose is Dead a while, it's nothing but a lie,
None can see the shattered shards or the missing heart,
None will fix the broken earth, too busy with their lives-
We all live in style and then we start to die.
Death of the Inocent RoseThere stands the ripe red rose,
the velvet beauty lasts,
Washed in glory from the sun-
a treasure for the world.
People stop to touch it,
the ever lasting beaut',
And never really think about
the road that lies ahead.
The days are growing longer now,
the rose begins to fade,
Didn't really stand a chance-
not against the fate.
Those who stand there over it,
they block away the light,
And smother that red tender rose
in their unyielding grasps.
The rose has lost its petals now,
it's just a stem long dead,
Had never really known the world-
the one that lay ahead.
All is lost f
Four SeasonsWinter, a weeping maiden, brings about the snow-
Soft white cotton floating down, putting Earth to sleep.
She weaves her caring spell and locks up everything
And once everyone is sleeping, she watches over them.
Fall, a charming gentleman, brings down the leaves-
Quiet colors falling, carpeting his stage.
He works to bring soft smiles to every face,
And practices his dancing even in the night.
Summer, a colorfully gowned goddess, brings out the sun-
Warm and tender in all ways, welcoming to all.
She ushers in the joyful birds and teaches them to sing
And blesses every living soul with a happy grace.
Spring, a playful puppy, brings up the buds-
Tiny pods of fragile life, greeting the world.
It frolics with the butterflies and lies down with the sheep
And wakes up every creature to face the world again.
If I Were a PoetIf I were a poet, I would write about the stars,
Tell you of their many colors, and how bright they are.
I would write about their relation with the moon
And yell about the dreadful way they always scorn the sun.
If I were able to be a poet, I would write about the sea,
Tell you of the many fish, and how they sing with glee.
I would whisper about her darling children
And tell about the way she's charmed by the handsome moon.
If I were to become a poet, I would write about the sun,
Tell you of his many feats, and how they were all done.
I would tell about his lovely goddess
And whisper about the way he rises every day.
If I were a poet, I would write about the Earth,
Tell you of his many people, and their words of mirth.
I would tell you about its many creatures
And write about the beauty kept within the gates.
Elation Frustration Drawn OutFor her, just for her.
My hand trembles,
Am I ready for this?
Elation, long pencil strokes cross the page,
Gray lines connect into two faces,
They're sketchy, too sketchy,
I can't give this to her.
Frustration, there's not enough time.
I push forward, a train on it's tracks,
This picture will be finished.
she'll love it, I know it, I hope
Doubt, is it too bold?
The rough sketch is finished,
Where to from here?
I take up my pen and my paintbrush,
Hesitation, which way is better?
There's not enough time,
I cast off the brush and uncap my pen.
My lines can't be rushed, they won't look just the same.
Worry, if my pen slips up it's ruined.
I'm racing as fast as the black ink will go,
So close to the end but still too far,
There's still too much time for error.
Stress, there's no time for error.
It's done, the huge drawing,
Done just for her and her Birthday
But wait just a second, does it look like her?
Scrutiny, I stare at my work and follow it's flaws.
I tuck it away where it's safe from
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
Keep in Touch!