ISRIERI'S PROFILE

Children of the Waves

In the center of the sea where the waves are tranquil, sit the children of the goddess sank deep in the depths. Caught against the wreckage of man and flotsam of beast, they wait for a song melodious and faint. When the call is sent out they emerge from the stone and harken to need, both from cartilage and bone. The drifting, the dancing, the lustful, the morose. The children aid their ambition, and sate their dull hunger. Their tribute is joy in the making of life, the celebration of meaning, the painting of song and the dancing of heart. To see the light in the eyes of intelligence spark.

The Six Grey Men

I saw there in the tomb of the king, six great statues that towered over the sarcophagus.
They bore not the visage of a king nor wore any signs of wealth or nobility. They were dressed in robes, and each had scars.
One bore a great gash upon his face, across an eye that had not even been carved into the rock.
One was missing an arm,
Another held in his right hand a knife, and in his left, a heart.
Another appeared to wear a mask around his mouth, his eyes keen and cruel like a beast's, to match the painted fangs he bore.
They peered down to the tomb of the king, a shaft of light illuminated the runes etched into the relief:

O MIGHTY IN LIFE. THE GREATEST OF MEN.
MIGHTY IN DEED, MAGNIMOUS IN HAND.
THE PATH THOU HATH PAVED SHALT FOREVER BE LAIN
THE LIFE THOU HATH GIVEN, WITH LIFE TOO PAID IN SLAIN

Golden People

In the time before our written history, before kingdoms and war or the pain of harsh winter, there was a golden age. It was a realm without kings or armies. These people lived in harmony with the spirits of the earth, and in all that these people endeavored they too took part, and made to live among the people as equals. When evil came to them, they sacrificed to the spirits and the spirits would aid them. For an eon, the blood of the young and fertile was paid for in the bounty of the earth. But one man ended this age. Upon his lover being chosen as sacrifice, he chose to leave the sacred golden kingdom. Though she would have given her life freely, he could not bear to live in a world where she must be so taken. Her love was such that despite the danger of his choice, she followed him. From their love, was born the first kings, the first kingdoms, and the world as it is. So now, we can no longer seek protection from the spirits, cannot sacrifice for the good of all. We must all sacrifice, for the good of those we love.

Future Legacy

She bent down, and embraced him. Tears filled his eyes.

“Mother, I don't know where I should go. I've seen the world: There's nothing but wasteland.”

She took his hand in hers, and tussed his hair as her mother had so many years ago.

“A wasteland it is. But so was our farm when my father came here. You have so many who love you, my dearest. Two hands can make all the wonders of the world, but only hand in hand may we change it.”

She looked at the young woman behind him. Her dress shimmered the colors of the sunset, and billowed in the desert heat. She too could not hold back her feelings. “I trust you. I believe in you. You will either find happiness, or make it.”

He rose, and held his mother long. Then turned and brought his hand to his wife's smiling face.

She said, “I will be water to a parched throat.”
He replied, “I will be a feast to a starving heart.”

The Lost Button

“Where is it?!?” Came an annoyed voice from beneath a pile of bedsheets, “Where's my damn cufflinks?!”
“Probably in your coat pockets like usual.” droned a woman from behind a book on dog names.
“I CHECKED. THE DAMN COATS.” he could not stop sifting through the sheets even after knowing they were not there – he simply had run out of places to look. “Christ woman, the gala is TO-NIGHT. How am I supposed to speak to the curators without seeming an absolute piss-ant without a proper suit!”
“I'd say that's more your problem than mine.
“It's your own art exhibit I should think its certainly your problem! Do you MIND trying to help? Instead of having your nose in a book?”
“It's a living art piece. I call it, 'Absurdity'.” She lowered the book.
At the end of her long nose, were his cufflinks.
He stared.
She stared.
….
“On a scale of 1-10 dear?”
He walked out of the room.

The Woman and her Honor

Under the light of the full moon, she sat at a stone table in the garden. A satin gown of rich burgundy billowed around her, snug to her petite form. Her hair, coiffed around her shoulder was picked up slightly in the breeze. She sat with tea and saucer in her gloved hand, and across from her...

Well it must be called 'a gentleman.' But in name only. For it was neither.

“I have no use for promises.” he growled. “I would have not your word, but your oath.”

She simply looked at him, her eyes placid and without fear. “Should I go through with this, you guarantee that my boy shall become heir?”

“There is no question.”

“Can I place my trust in you?”

“As much as I can you.” he scoffed.

“Then come, and let it be done.” she slowly lowered the cup to the table, and rose from her seat. Turning to the mansion she said “I would not have the others see me afterward.”

They strode out into the garden. The elaborate hedges were studded with flowers gathered from across the kingdom, and paved with cobblestone mosaics. They stopped at a small shrine that did not even come to one's knee. She knelt, and she was as calm as a still pool even as she heard the hiss of steel from his sheathe.

Murdered by Trade

The Straight of Nia is a small strip of the andal sea that is the only pass through to the three great ports in the steppelands. Decorated with carved statues embossed with gold, studded with emeralds, garnets, and pearls. Ornate houses tiled with painted clay and wattle walls, some homes even carved straight into the rock of the straight. Slums ran right over the tiny palaces the wealthy called home. Beautiful evergreen trees swished in the storm-born winds, filling the port with the smell of spice, rain, salt, sweat, the old wood of well-worn ships, hot food wafting from the many taverns dotted across the cliff face. It was the home of stout traders and merchantmen made hardy by their choice of purveyance: Only the shrewdest could manage not just the price of spice, but the fees and associated purchases without being up to their necks in debt. Bottles and crates for shipping and the fees for the men to carry and transport. What were a few men lost? A seaman borne over the railing by a cresting wave? A drunk trader mugged by the thieving rats of the port? One more asterisk on the ledgers.

The Wind that Never Speaks

White is the world of silence. Pure white and cold.
The crunch of snow and the tinkling of ice disturbed by the frigid breeze
Never a force, always a thought. Still in the air, soft and prodding.
Swinging to sleep the old redwoods and the thrumming hares warm in their dark burrows.
A forest of dark wood against a grey sky. It's life is an old and slow one.
A forest's breath is quiet and still. Heard only by the sharpest of ears. In the absence of the bright life that grows and is felled in a single season.

The Seventh Gift

The girl stood behind the others and clutched her parcel tightly. The young boy sat on the floor as his friends partook in the joys of the morning.

A wooden airplane, carved from ash wood and fixed with a little wooden propeller on the nose.

A tin of crunchy cookies, that snapped as you bit into them.

A bag of marbles painted with all the colors of the shimmering city.

A new pair of shoes that shone bright against the hearth fire.

And a little wooden sword that the boy had proudly tucked into his belt.

The smiles and jokes simmered to a dull murmur as the boy turned to her, she gave her parcel with both hands and he took it gladly. The twine snapped, brown paper flew, and the box uncovered.

Within was a little plush bunny. White fur and a little button nose, with a yellow ribbon tied around it's neck ending in a neat perfect little bow.

The boy looked up at her, and smiled. The tiniest sigh of gratitude escaped him as he clutched it tight to his breast. The girl beamed back at him.

From North the Escape Came

Bats! The ceiling was covered in a blanket of bats, as my lantern flickered in the darkness they seemed to fidget and squirm, feeling my presence but unwilling to acknowledge it.

I stood seized with a sudden fear. A tiny squeaking, first barely perceptible from it's high-pitch, grew and grew until the sound filled my ears. I dropped my pack and furiously rummaged through it, no longer caring to hide and only seeking escape. Escape! Where was it? Move the tins of beans, underneath the bar of soap? Toothbrush? Potions? It wasn't there!

The bats started fluttering to and fro, their whims taking them on whatever blind routes pleased them, stirring the horde into a fervor. Small teeth glinted against the gaslight, and some flew down to examine the annoyance. I dropped my face to the pack and threw up my coat over my head. I heard the bats descend, their wings grazing against rock, the noise of the horde swelled to a pitch, and they tore feebly at the coat. I peered into all corners of the bag when... there! In a small bag buried at the very bottom - was the rope.

It was small: Only about 2 meters in length. I yanked it out, tugged it taught, and spoke the triggering word while sliding it out as far from under my coat as I dared. The rope stood on it's end and seemed to extend, and as I gripped to it tightly for dear life, so too I seemed to slide up it. Up and up, past the bats, past where the ceiling would be, until I could feel the warmth of the daylight and the gravel of the mountain path. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The Midnight Lane

Frigid, icy, cold. Blazing lanterns swinging in the wind. The crunch of heavy footfalls against the turgid snow.
He was bundled in scarf and overcoat, beard frosted and wet with his heavy breath. Round the corner off the main street, sliding into the shadows.
Out of the wind he shifted his pack and lowered his scarf to the night air. Brisk and burning in his throat. He walked to the fifth door, and gently (but insistently) knocked.
Heavy footfalls. Then silence.

“Ehh?? Go on then.”

“I'm the doctor.”

“Doctor Arinson?” The door cracked open. “I thought you weren't here till morning.”

“It is morning. Let me in will you I'm half-dead fer pity's sake...”

“'Course! Of course!”

~~Oh goddamn it I ran out of time. This is a lot harder than it looks. Well you get the gist. Sick son, concerned father, virtuous doctor.~~

The Far Off Hills

When I was a little girl, my father would take me out to the lake to fish.
A special place where his father took him when he too was young.
I can smell the sweet azaleas; see the white tree petals dancing on the cool breeze.
Fields of golden wheat stretching their arms to the boundless sky.
He and I would spend the day eating and talking. And my heart was filled with joy.

To reach the lake, you must climb over a hill.
I always begged father to take me. Though I had no interest in fishing,
his stories about his special place filled me with elation.
A strange land, untouched by the passing of seasons.

I followed the dirt path, and ran to the top. My heart filled to burst with the sight.
Before me was a realm untold of. A pure and good place worth protecting and chershing.

I returned to that place as a woman.
I could see over the crest of that hill before I reached the top.
The lake's old beauty had now been dimmed; as though the color had been washed.
The warm air I remembered was replaced with a sweaty haze.

Nothing had truly changed. All was the same as it was those years ago. And yet.