Intrusion

"We don' want you around ere" she said. The words felt hostile and ignorant. We were simply trying to save them, to defend their village from aggressors. We had no need to, it wasn't a mission required of us, we just happened upon the active ransacking of their village on the way to Cinquedea. A local mafioso was attempting to impose its will on them, forcing currency out of them through violent method. I was the first to catch a glimpse of a girl, not more than five years of age being handled. Her taker, a Mudono, held her by the wrist and was guiding her to an end housing, long since abandoned and positioned on the end of the row. When my eyes met hers, i knew what had to be done. I left from our caravan, sprinting across the field wielding my twelve cutter. I reached the door, which in reality was nothing more than a warped piece of wood dangling from a single hinge, and arrived to find the her tear stained face screaming as he held her hands. Murder was in my eyes, I ached the possibility of beheading him where he stood but resigned myself to my position and unkindly removed him from the building. Being Mudono, his leadership status was evident by the Caroko skull on his shoulder. Seeing this, I dragged him to the square, in view of the other mafiostas and proceeded to fisticuff him mercilessly. I left him breathing, though barely, and in the hands of the locals. A mafioso doesn't function without their leader, so they scattered, like so much filth in the wind. Expecting a thank you, I instead received insults and sediment, a heft combination for a modest soldier. At the time I felt disdain for them and for their horrid response to what I felt was gallantry. Now I realize what it meant. A single act doesn't compensate for years of being ignored, cast aside by the State and left to fend for themselves. A single act can break a heart. The same cannot be said of healing it.

Interim

I know I declared a sabbatical, and as for the inkings, I have, but after watching the news concerning the polygamist sect, I found the need to put in print my sentiments on the matter. The video I'm speaking of is an interview of three ladies, Janet, Rosie and Sally, three women who are members of said sect who are pleading to re-secure their children after a raid of their compound yielded every child above the age of five in order to get a true testimony from the children, unadulterated by parental presence.
And so the circus begins. This cult has already been brought under fire time and again for their "beliefs" which include their approach to interracial marriage: "the black race is the people through which the devil has always been able to bring evil unto the earth." Guess they were tired of being beaten at Basketball and having their women satisfied by the help. They also believe in the doctrine of blood atonement. Don't know what it is you say? Obviously you're not a god-fearing Christian who subscribes to the philosophy that certain core sins can only be atoned for by the sinner's death. Not satisfied? Well let's look into their history of birth defects, that is to say they have the worlds highest rate of birth deficiency leading to mental retardation. Imagine that? Could it be that of the 10,000 or so inhabitants, 75-80% are descendants of one or both of the town's founders, Joseph Smith Jessup and John Yeates Barlow. Joseph Smith you say? That name sounds eerily familiar. Did I mention they were mormon. Not just Mormon, fundamentalist mormon. Oh sweet christ can such a travesty of existential doctrine exist? Why yes, but as I mentioned before, lots of re-re's so I wouldn't be too horribly concerned of it spreading, but trust me on this note that any amusement is superseded by the level of obscenity and abuse brought about by ignorance and years of interbreeding.
What spurned me to discuss this fundy mormon cult was the interview given to Janet, Rosie and Sally as well as a follow up by a separate news network at the "Ranch" itself. Janet, Rosie and Sally I think were optimal representations of the age bracket: early twenties, mid forties, fucking dying. It was their speaking mannerisms that drove me to pen. Their sentences were brief, and felt rehearsed, as if they were coached to make certain statements. It became quite evident when they made it a point, no matter the question, to talk about how awesome it is living there, often speaking in unison. When questioned on matters or when large words (see: relatively) were thrown at them, they had the purest look of ignorance I have ever found on anyone above the age of three. It was as if they were confronted with information normally left to their shared husband, as all they could do was feign a smile. With a limited vocabulary and knowledge of the world, there were moments that almost amused me. Janet the Mid-Forty was asked how long she lived on the ranch. Apparently she came from another sect, but made it a point to say "I lived in the outside world for several years," though she wouldn't divulge a specific number (god only knows if they even believe in numbers) and being an older women, I couldn't help but wonder. Several years? You are easily 45-46 years old, I'd like to believe at that point several years could easily mean the first 10 of your life. If it were the case where it was most, I imagine you would have said as much. Do you really think you can say you know the outside world based on childhood? My guess is she was moved to a ranch at a young age and recently relocated to that specific compound to....broaden the playing field. yeah I imagine being polygamist every guy wants like 8 wives, I'm sure sharing gets fierce after awhile, nobody wants sloppy 8th's and I doubt triple penetration is even on the menu. There have been cases of up to 400 men excommunicated from the group for various infractions and it is pretty easy to see that being a method to limit competition.
Send in the clones
Another media outlet managed to reach one of their bloody log cabins where the women of the sect put themselves on the forefront ( I swear it looked like a pioneer version of Episode 2) complete with women who are only differentiated by a pallet-swapped dresses. Not a man in sight, can't imagine why. The women were petitioning to receive their children back, then came the questions. Whoooooo boy.
Reporter:Are underage women married to older men?
Maureen: This is about the children.
Reporter: Well yeah, that's why they were taken. There were reports of abuse and statutory rape. are underage girls being married to older men?
Maureen: This is about the children. We want our children back.

Suffice to say the conversation didn't get very far. After watching clone after retarded clone dodge pertinent questions while pleading for their children, I began to realize that they probably use their children as a subconscious outlet for their fucked up state. their eyes carry a child-like gleam, with a strong shine of vacancy. As if any real soul was lost long before memory came into effect. They all look as if they are dying inside, actively, at every waking moment and are feigning happiness as a coping mechanism. The term Stockholm Syndrome comes to mind. I'm sure there will be more to come on this. Sadly.

Sabbatical

Sadly, though my comrades spurn me, I am incapable of producing any materials at this time. Business school is wrapping up, I have one single project, one group project and one exam this week alone and the next two don't bode well either. I apologize brothers, but this is not the end, it is more of a delay in the inevitable. Come May I will be back home and in full form, ready to dedicate myself to whatever ramblings may follow. The regime will be immense, but well worth the effort. Monday-Wednesday-Friday is how it will roll and trust me when, barring excursions such as WizardCon, it will be dedicated, be it here or the other 3 I will spawn related to a distinct story in each.

Oh my brothers,

Testify.

Until now I had never heard him speak of the subject. In retrospect it'd make sense that he was a Practitioner, after all he excreted state mandate as if it naturally occurred in him. The state mandated attendance to ceremony through the mother, believing maternality to be intrinsically based in matters such as hope and faith which, in turn, allows the father to maintain his status, no matter the profession, as a stoic and upright figure, or so I believe. My mother died giving birth to me, and her absence wrought more than a simple complex. It's not to say I'm speaking negatively of her death, but the results were bore more on my father's shoulders than my own. The fact is, I didn't know her for it to reap the results it did on him. I don't know what he was prior, but I can tell you he now exists at half that capacity. Most don't notice, but few are as observational as I am. It would be difficult anyway to view the despair in the eyes of a man who moonlights as a bard. Strumming his steel hippodrome, painting tales with his voice of joyous times, moments in history where men saved the day, where good triumphed over evil, where the knight gets the girl. To me they were cliches, to the public they were memoirs. He had given up on the notion of Deity and, without my mother, found comfort only in the free drinks given by satisfied patrons. I was of the opinion that if God did nothing for him, he probably had little room for a child such as myself. As I grew I developed a sense of self reliance. In times of grief, others turned to the Church of State for advice and console while I simply moved on and dealt accordingly. I never felt as though I was missing something until I began my trials with Sampson. To me, being a practitioner meant weakness. A reliance on the intangible to relieve suffering, mandated to instill hope. They perked my curiosity after watching them commune before our meal. It wasn't simply practice to them. I could feel the passion. It was as if being a practitioner gave them unified purpose in being, bringing them to a level I wasn't even aware existed. I decided to pursue matters further.

Wherever Thorns May Grow

I'd like to preface this by declaring I know nothing of love. The word is as foreign as the enemies I've fought and given that I'm a mere 18 year old, having lived a life around the prospect of military service, the labors of passion are far seated from my personal junction. What I do know of it has been taught to me by my fellow officers through the use of quips and quotes that should, supposedly, educate me all I need on the subject. Phrases such as "Love is like war, easy to begin, hard to end." and "It is impossible to love and be wise" paint this portrait where I imagined love to be the highest state of suffering, where a man becomes accepting of his fate and resigned to live his days at the constant nag of another. Up until this point, it held the appearance of Pascal's Wager: no matter how terrible it was, life without it was undeniably worse. Then I saw her. Her first name, Contessa, was a contradiction to her gentle nature, a moniker generally reserved for the elite and the haughty. Born to a typical upper-lower class family, she was offered as a gift to keep her family's land from being claimed. Her beauty, however, defied her status. More than any gold could purchase, or deal that could be struck, it resonated to the very core of a man. There was something so natural, as if a deity had taken its finest ingredients, scarcity matched to their status, and molded this symbol of what man desires most. Heroes from across the land gathered, an event itself that remains a scarce spectacle, to lay claim to her as a bride.
In my youth I had heard tales of this majestic wonder. The conflict that came, all for her hand. What motivates heroes, figures who rest in the bosom of combat, who have dedicated themselves to the conflict to wage a metaphysical war.....for a woman? What purpose did they serve other than procreation? To my militant mind, any woman would suffice to act as a genetic vessel, and I found it silly to hold a woman above any other, nonetheless be willing to fight for her hand.
Now I see my own naivete. I see it in the way she cups the coffee she offers me, as if elegance occurred to her naturally. Even after several years of marriage to him, her poise and demeanor are still that of a humble farm girl, content to the simpler aspects of life rather than that of privilege. Her smile was remarkable, capable of healing any wound inflicted by the harsh mistresses of the land, offering respite to the battle weary, and to those such as myself, hope: hope that we may be so lucky as to be delivered one such as her.
i felt to be a child among men in presence, barely capable of audibility which forsakes the potential conversation that could ensue. Instead I admired, albeit meekly, from the shadows of his lavish house. Of course I say his house because, as with all the best life has to offer,it belongs to him, just as she does.
You can see it in her eyes, the glint whenever his name is mentioned and, most of all, when he arrives home from our sojourns. Her eyes evoke far more than any words could surmise. She looks at him as if she couldn't possible have existed without him, his mere presence making her whole again. That is when I realized what love is and for the first moment I felt something other than admiration for him: despair. No longer did I hold hope that one day she would forsake everything and depart with me to a place far from battle, a simpler life built on the foundation of our mutual adoration, because, as with all good things, her heart belonged to him and therefore could never be mine.

Conflagration

"So the fire burns in you I see. It's everywhere you know, fire that is. Mundis Ex Igne Factus Est. Latin, a beautiful language, it finds itself among the elite or dead. I envy those Latinites who once roamed here, calling the language their own. They have a way of encompassing what should be said into a wonderful set of syllables. Oh yes, I should probably expand on what I said before, shouldn't I? Mundis Ex Igne Factus Est. The world is made of fire. It is not only the symbol of struggle, but survival. It represents strength, it divides, it conquers, it pleases, it consumes, it destroys, it births, but most of all, it forges. It tempers the body and soul of what it touches, turning raw materials into tools, making what was useless, purposeful. If steel could feel, if it had sentiments as to what it goes through, I imagine its coherency would dissolve in a sea of agony but, eventually, it would regain composure and feel renewed, as if its life developed meaning, and it owes everything to the flame."

"That is what he calls entertainment?" I spoke in my ever exuberant sense of curiosity and respect. Curiosity for the information being granted and respect for he who grants. "He is not alone in his enjoyment of the sport." Can you even call it that? I left my thoughts to myself, lest I receive the reward ignorance deserves. "That look on your face, it's the same I had when I was first exposed to the notion of the Federacy. There is more to it than you think." If only he knew my thoughts. The images of men parading about in an infrastructure reserved for real combatants, costumes designed to fit the character they are meant to portray, a ballet of sorts for men, that is what I thought. "There is more to it than the oversimplified public view on the subject. There is depth and breadth found only by the fan, the observer willing to look past the mock combatry and see the story within. The excitement, the progression of character, there is much you could learn and enjoy from the sport. true the combat itself is questionable, but the amount of attention, focus and athleticism it takes to put on such a show on a regular basis. To entertain the crowd, get them involved without actually being physically involved, the dedication and adoration, that is what it's about. To some it is a pageantry of men, to others combat incarnate. Those who appreciate it, recognize the truth in its presence and why it would call Cinquedea home. Though the combat isn't completely real, what it represents is. Through stagecraft and show they facilitate the needs of its audience: the desire to indulge in the art of war.