Weaver

"Sir, if I may; Why do you tell these tales? I mean, I understand certain aspects, like illustrating to the men the meaning of battle, companionship, the story of man an all that rot, but what do you get out of it. I don't mean to be blunt, but.....I guess I feel like some of these stories pain you to tell." To him, my response was an eternity away, words that would finally release him from his burdensome curiosity. I'm glad to lead men like him, those that are aware of substance beyond the shallow skin of reality. " Is pain not a commonality of our profession? I don't mean being a soldier, or a Hero, I mean being of persona; the act of being a person. Stories to me are the ties that bind: they operate as an avenue, a connection to the moments in my life I want to know, as well as the ones I don't. They give me the opportunity to provide wisdom, be it in those decisions I made rightfully or ones that fall otherwise, either course they gain recognition and I cannot hide from the fact they exist no matter how much I want to hide from them. Knowing you know my story is enough for me to face the errors of my past rather than hide. You remember Phaea don't you? He was a very real man and a very real illustration of what I never want to be. I'd rather be a man faulted for his honesty, but lauded for his allegiance to his comrades rather than one who abandons the moment matters get difficult. When times are in their harshest state, would you rather be allegiant to those who were with you in difficult times or those who only know the joys of your company rather than the sorrows?

As surely as I've found my footing, illness has crept her withered hands into me, and I will be interred for the time being. Apy polly wogies.

She bore the armor of the Insecta, a tribe that modeled itself on what is normally considering the smallest of creation. The plates fit together seemingly perfectly, allowing movement and protection. I came across her the night prior, hunting in a wooded area just off our course. At first I had mistook her for a large animal, nestled into the ground, slumbering to the sounds of nature. The thought did occur to me to hunt it, but I restrained myself when I realized what adorned it was armor. Piercing it would be more pain than necessity. The movements were subtle at first, and since the beast was foreign, at least to me, I wouldn't have known the difference between that of the creature as opposed to that of imitation. When I found the creature's eyes with my own, there was a realization; we were hunting the same prey. i wasn't about to forsake the large Cervidae, the beast was capable of feeding a scouting troop if the hunter wrests properly, and today I was that hunter. In retrospect, the hunter and the hunted held many meanings that epoch of kismet.

The One

Following orders can mean many things to many people. To some, it is a stringent stance, textbook in hand and the vocals of a superior resonating in the dome. To others it is a varied mistress who situates herself in the realm of circumstance. Trust me when I speak; no textbook will prepare for battle. None. And that means any battle at that, be it matters of love or matters of war. Preparation is only the art of fine tuning the senses to what will inevitably happen. A binding with never prepare you for the true nuances in life, this I attest with my life.

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.