Hephaestus

meow

A little hesitant about the theme as some have stated but, this seems interesting to me. Good luck.

A servant of the night-lands juggles a flat-topped skull in the waste of skin and sinew between his fingers. Par for his gregariousness in his life-lived, and goetia — black magicks, false dominion — in the life-not, oftentimes did courtiers of the splintered houses of Karovic navigate the open frontier to deliver publications, brochures, open letters, and anything which might appease him so to impart the, gold or, worse, authority. Literature did not often warm nor soften him. He frowned, as so often he might, brows folding over his eyes in swelling frustration: "What, did they not get the memo? No courier service in the northern wastes? Carrion is no more, be that as it is. The birds of death, the carrion crows, have dropped cold from the tree; only vultures stand the perch of the old houses of Karovic. I will make dead-certain of that."

_____________________________________________________________________________________ NURSING the stalk of a pale, meerschaum pipe, between his gnarled lips, Vladislav watched gouts of woodsmoke curl out from the bowl of his tobacco tube. Often as not, he swatted his fingers in the little fissures between the silvery plumes, intently observing the billows cleave into two, then four, then six clouds feeding the shadow in the drafty ceiling of his hovel which dawned over him like a terrible tempest. … Tut, tut. He clicked his tongue several times over, as if to chastise the foolhardy writer. With a swift, but laborious ascent, he grew to both feet to fetch his pinion-quill. Vladislav entered the head of the feather into a wasted cartridge of ink, correcting the -mir in Vladimir to a sophisticated -slav. "So, they think because I am away, that they can steal my brand? That I, dead and six-feet below, will surrender arms and fade into obscurity? Become only a relic from human antiquity? They are wrong. There is room for only one Vlad. And, he will not be a lizard. He shall be a spider." _____________________________________________________________________________________

You should accept my friend Spoon (2PXY)'s lore, he's a cool guy (a cool guy).

A young Vladislav Carrion sorrows over the loss of taste in his mouth, pondering his humanity. His scholarly ambitions drown out in the static of the Walkman piping through his ears. Strange aeons later, Vlad 'the Bad' surrenders to terrifying, extraterrestrial premonitions, all the while avidly listening through his newly purchased iPod Nano. Naturally, the last of his late lord-father's inheritance. Meanwhile, Sahar of Chaldees quaffs curdled goat's milk as his arms fluttered desperately through a tub of counterfeit gold and coin. The Yong-Ping manufactured stereo system in his pavilion sounds an eclectic selection of Mihyaari and Qalasheen pop. Coolly, Lector Drudo Pasquina whets the edge of his Owynist gladius-sword on the gable of Kaer'Lassar. He delights in his meagre flea market Walkman. Satisfied, he watches over Du Loc. God is good!

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i'm thinking de wees magic

NO ******* WAY OH MY GOD OH MY GOD DE WEES TAPEWORM MAGIC OH MY GOD DE WEES

RINGWORM RINGWORM MAGIC

"Bye-bye, Miss Orenian Pie." It had been two fortnights and some days' change since the mariner unseated his shoddy ferry from twice five miles of sandy shoals. Being that he was, for all intents, the furthest one would hope from a learned man, and by all accounts, a drunk-eyed wastrel, the vessel was no spectacle of watercraft. It did, however, prove ample succor against the whipping of tides and crashing tempests. Soaked in an aerosol spray of water, the old salt's dinghy gondola bobbed on broad Arentanian banks, and oftentimes fell into the tugging ebb and flow of brackish Orenian waters. Village-folk were, as small-people often tend to be, loquacious and firm on superstition, weaving stories of cockatrices which slumbered and existed in the water-body's once sleepy submarine activity; of vengeful visitants and ghost-lords, presences, which glissaded down from the clouds, out from bones and barrows, and gracefully, but with much dread, walked over water and brought with them tempestuous tides. There was no such thing: only tarnished bodies, cloven whole, whose little threads and ribbons of blood fed into a cool pool off the coast of Dobrov which burned red. The ferryman, one Yakov, watched the waters with forlorning eyes. And, so long as he stared, the waters watched back. Perhaps, the townsfolk did not lie. Still, he beat and battered his oars against the little ripples in the ink-black water which curled and combed into the promises of surf which grew to fit into mounting waves which strode into the land. Even small-folk knew, dead men tell no tales.

"Over? Or, not over?" The far-from-literate, by a landslide, Lector Drudo Pasquina arched a quizzical brow, folding down the corners of his tabloid to catch his acquaintance, Lector Dharas, in the corners of his eyes.

______________________________________________ Par for the course of his day-to-day morning routine, SAUL SANGRIA, known in certain circles as Archie Goodman, or Archibald Cornelius, applied his herb-mint facial mask. At first, only modest dabs along his jowls, which soon crescendoed into kneading and scrubbing into his vacant pores, forehead high beyond dimensions, and eyes fashioned on his face in a way so sunken and hollowed that they sparkled with memory. Saul watched the ramshackle patio just off the lintel of his window with a high voltagw stare, moseying himself out from the abode in the buffer time for his ointment to sink in. A shilling and some were all which would prove sufficient for the courier-boy's recompense, where he spilt a letter into the venturist's hand. Overcast by most of other startling features on his pockmarked face, a long dialogue seemed to relay through his mind, as his eyes — which were, by the way, fringed with long, sweeping lashes — regarded the sorry death-letter with teary-eyed disinterest. He slid the parcel into the envoys hand, thinly veiled, but tough skin folding over his eyebrows as they tentatively knit into one another. "Hey, don't you shoot 'th'messenger, sirrah." The courier complained. It was typical for message-bearers, in this neck of the woods, to make up for the better part of illiterates and yardbirds. "I was not planning to." The high-brow Saul purred back. "You tell them who to call, though." Returning into the callused, weatherbeaten hand of the message-envoy a business card, Saul stepped back below the lintel of the door, only warning to slam it: "Tell 'em, they better call Saul." Slam!

"Yes, yes. Touché." From the inner recesses of the earth, Exalted Saint Vladislav Barrow, His Bastardship Lord-Supreme Barrow, purred a low and fathomable purr. He fixed the stem of a martini glass between his knuckles. Shaken, of course; not stirred.

______________________________________________ FOR THE SANCTITY OF STEEL ______________________________________________ The dispatch of dead-men. Click-clack-click… — floats of skeleton-men and bug-bogeymen march from and between highways and holdfasts, parading through boulevards and barricades in lands east through west. The couriers peered out from dung-dark pits in the sides of their skulls, from within whom they cast long, foreboding stares over townsfolk and tribesmen, boney facial-composition falling grave in the presence of taxpayers and burghers. Saturated by soot and other wretched magicks, doubtless, each of the thousand-and-some hauled reams of paper and pamphlet, distributing the memos into the hands of every man, woman, and no-good. Not one of which, by the way, stunk of anything less than manure, piss, and booziness. And, when all was done, the profusion of living-dead men sunk back into the bones of the earth, plunging earthward wherefrom they came. They all read as follows, save for inconsistencies in spelling and egregious handwriting: ______________________________________________ FOR THE SANCTITY OF STEEL FROM THE DESK OF THE EMISSARY OF THE PROPHET IN RED, Recorded on Hexicanum stationary, Rh’thoraen pine paper: Let the metalworkers, weaponsmiths, and armourers of the realm be addressed hereinafter. This address is written and overseen on behalf of the Prophet in Red, Adunakhor-from-Adria: For those who hold stock in the surety of steel, the sanctitude of iron, allow me to introduce myself. I am Pharzankhor-from-Petra, Champion of the Abyss, Bellkeeper of Rock Tower, Keeper of the Crypt-in-Kraija, the Grand Prince of the Raevir (yes, those Raevir). I have a home, but do not sleep. A heart which does not beat. I can take his or her home and build another, and love to play games with my many brothers. I can promise many silks and many golds, and enviable wardrobes. Grant premium w**res, and cloaks from boars. Most of all, I bid to you, metalworkers and swordsmiths, power. And, better yet, championship over the elements: over death. For fourteen days and fourteen nights, I will take from coast-to-coast. If you can bend steel into many fantastic fashions, and wring and wrench bronze, and heat and treat iron, then prove your finesse over those other, battered weaponsmiths which you call brothers. Repute yourself, or otherwise become swept away by the current, and lose all trace of importance. Be advised that I am improbably paranoid of birds. A critter which is able to track and identify individuals from many miles abreast? Something is amiss. Take any necessary measures to speak with me first-hand. I am partial to the drink. In witness hereof, I set my seal, HIS GOOD GRACE, Pharzankhor-from-Petra, Champion of the Abyss, Prince of Petra Turris, Grand Prince of the Raevir, Apprentice of Adunkahor, Bellkeeper of Rock Tower, Keeper of the Crypt-in-Kraija. ______________________________________________

"Indeed, the Ides of March are nigh." Protested the one known as the Imp of Dobrov, Yves Carrion. All the while, the dual pans of his silver scale bobbed up and down as coins and shillings slipped to and from, calculatedly.

"It's an honour, of course. One oversight, however: I am already the Anti-Count of Susa." In his fit of summwrwine drunkenness, Vladislav the Evil complained to himself.

Ihievhii'thilln Maeyr'onn sorrowed night and day, watching his Elibar'acal compatriot sealed and wound tight behind brass bars of sky prison; then, his friend Veluthri Elibar'acal. Low amber eyes boiled with regret. "It's... over!"

______________________________________________ HOUSE OF BARROW THE BONDS OF BASTARDS ______________________________________________ An illustration of the author and publisher, alleged by the pamphlet. Bone-clad skeletons, animate from head to hoof, wreathed by gore and flesh in varying capacities, pace from place-to-place along the Almarican peninsula. A stalwart clack, clack, clack accompanies the couriers as they make haste to deliver some dozen parcels and pamphlets. All of which, as it so happens, secrete the stench of beetroot and dung, and are recorded in atrocious font and handwriting, flip-flopping proses — traditional Raevir slang, then proper colloquialisms. The bone-men herald themselves with a ‘hek-hek-hek’ cackle, and the babbling of bone-on-bone, wearing their hearts on their sleeve in the torn-and-tattered Carrion regalia. Said pamphlets read as followed: ______________________________________________ THE HOUSE OF BARROW The Bonds of the Bastards of the Houses Carrion und Karovic “Spell-checked and dictated. This publication is of impeccable verity, the likes of which are unseen.” — SERGE FRANZ VON TOLLEMACHE-UND-TOLLEMACHE, AUTHOR OF THREE, FATHER OF FOUR. “Strong-arming the campaign into a better future, for all Raevir. New and old..” — M. FERDINAND FÜRST ZU SKELETONE ESTEEMED SCIENCMANCER. ______________________________________________ TO THE VALUED SUBJECTS OF THE HOUSES OF CROW, CARRION, AND KAROVIC, OF WHAT RANK AND DEGREE SOEVER: Whereas the Raevir realm has, as evident, come to a juncture in recent years, given the separation of Luceafă from Carrion-Woldzmir, the splintering of Tuvyic, the enthronement of Sigismund the Third, the re-vestment of Pompourelia, etcetera, it is seen fit that this amendment be made. Once Count-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow, has resolved — while, there was not necessarily a last straw broken in the camel's back — to sever the bloodline, definitively. His Bastard-ship cited the silliness finally in letting live what once died, now, four-hundred and some years prior. And then, letting live multiple times over, ad nauseam. It is unclear to the courtiers thereof whether the former Count-in-the-Running recognised the irony of the above, in his case. Henceforth, from the day, the twenty-first of the Sun’s Smile, 1864 Anno Domini, ad infinitum, the Lord-Supreme Barrow and company pledges and renders: I. That all Crow houses (that is, characterised by descent from the lines of Karovic), including, but not limited to, Carrion, Barbanov, Sarkozic, Ruthern, and Vladov, be terminated and dissolved II. That the subjects of aforementioned houses be liberated of designations pertaining to them, or other whatsoever Karovic stylings which may constitute titles or nomenclature. a. That the collective subjects hereinabove be known by the name, and inherit the pedigree of ‘Barrow,’ bearing on a bastardisation of the name ‘Carrion,’ which is to refer to a tomb, prior designated to Karovics sired out of wedlock. b. Titles and heirships hereinabove shall cede forthwith to the former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow. III. That the subjects of aforementioned houses be stripped and barred of any privileges or prerogatives which pertained, in particular, to their familial Karovic nativity and/or roots. a. Prerogatives hereinabove shall cede forthwith to the former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow. IV. That the houses Karovic be discontinued here-and-for-all, and any descendants bearing to or boasting Crow lineage be disallowed revival of the houses, for any reason. V. That the former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow, be elevated to, and henceforth bear the distinction of, Lord-Supreme Barrow. a. That the Lord-Supreme Barrow be distributed the Karovic titles and stylings (refer to catalogue 2.a), unimpeded, including but not limited to, Anti-Holy Orenian Emperor, Anti-King of Hanseti, Anti-Count of Dobrov, et. al. VI. That the houses Karovic be disassociated with their bearing as nobility in all states and fiefs, nor affiliated with the triumphs of its members, predecessor or otherwise, as casus for nobility, futurely. With additional — thespian — justifications from His Bastard-ship: I. The Barrow is the grave of all Karovic Crows, ever, which are and were. II. The Barrow is where all lines of Karovic, be they Carrion, Sarkoziv, Vladov, Barbanov, et. al, former and future, converge in termination. III. The Barrow is the stub of all lines of Karovic, with special urgency of those of Carrion. IV. The Barrow is the stump of the vast Karovic tree: that which supports its immense weight in its longevity, and that which remains of its weight when the rest is gone. V. The Barrow roots run far and broad. ______________________________________________ In witness hereof, our seal is set, in Dobrov. Penned and delivered, HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, Vladislav Barrow, Anti-Emperor of the Holy Orenian Empire, forever august, Anti-King of Oren, Haense, Hanseti, Renatus, Alras, Salvus, Savoy, Galahar, and Ruska, Anti-Grand Prince of the Raevir, Anti-Prince of Altion, and Dules, Anti-Archduke of Herendul, Anti-Grand Duke of Kaedrin, Anti-Duke of Kraija, Abresi, Corazon, Aldersburg, Furnestock, Kingston, Carnatia, Akovia, Vekaro, and Adria, Anti-Count of Pravets, Kovagrad, Kralta, Petrus, Ager, Owynswood, Sabrinsky, Werdenberg, Brelus, Ayr, Bihar, Kvasz, Karovia, Royce, Siegrad, Susa, and Dobrov, Anti-Viscount of Galmore, Anti-Baron of Woldzmir, Amaury, and Montfort, Protector of the Skeletons, Ghouls, and Jesters, President of Barrow Brokerage Investment Centre, Vice President of Carrion Pharmaceuticals, Chairman of the Dobrov Neighbourhood Committee, and Woldzmir Parents’ Association, former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Darkest Lord, etcetera. ______________________________________________ The same ensemble of living-dead couriers break to a gallop back to their master, re-distributing copies with even more titles tacked on, by the hour. ______________________________________________

pulp > blur > gorillaz

"Farce. There is no such thing." Sir Eiffel surmised, worming and wiggling from outside the pewter outhouse. Occasionally, he banged his fist along the splinter-stricken door, producing a vibratory creaking throughout the entire shitter-structure. Still, the occupant read the memo aloud. "Hurry up. This empire may be unbreakable, but my bladder is not!"

Bolnor Bentley, aptly dubbed the 'Buckshot of Bosara,' quietly mulled over n'wah slander and libel of his home province. "Oh, ho! Now, these fellers' seem to think they know a lot about my home. My home. Let me tell you sum'n': you know nothin'!"