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.

Sweet dreams are made of this

I want to inspire. Anymore, I believe that is what I'm good at. Though I have many passions and a wealth of knowledge in fields that are really not pertinent or applicable to anything profitable ( an encyclopedic knowledge of fighters and key fights they've been hardly reaps any kind benefit on my part, monetarily speaking). The inspiration thing wafted into scope about an hour ago when I spoke to a friend, encouraging her to go to college. I helped pay for her to get her G.E.D and she has a penchant for website design (read: she's damn good at it) and she's living, essentially in destitution right now and has been since the age of 17 when she emancipated and began living on her own. I help her whenever possible and believe that college would be the best course of action for her. The ease of spurning others to better themselves comes to such a degree that I wonder if being a caustic, sarcastic, combative and somewhat abrasive motivational speaker is a viable option. Dennis Leary has a job I guess that should incline me to concede, but the reality is I'm not entirely sure what I want to pursue in life. With many loves comes a certain amount of mediocrity in each, neither excelling nor retarding in any one of them. Makes me wonder if I'm capable of any. Business isn't bad, in so much as it's an avenue to pursue other endeavors. I could utilize it, to some degree to seek a number of opportunities, but far too often each opportunity leads to certain questions. How will it be different, what will make me successful or the business as a whole in comparison to those who specialize in the field? It's easy to get caught in the tides of thought towards the future. Focus too much and you drown. Sometimes it is difficult to put faith in tomorrow when today fails you. They seem to hold a kinship as if one slowly grows, becoming the other. I'll depart to bog and all his lovely angels on that note.

Testify.

Death Before Dishonor

"What the hell does that even mean?" I spoke with every intention of sounding like the rugged group of peers I've traveled with, but my lack of facial character and a voice that borders on naive lends to a far different opinion. "Omerta? It's a code of silence. Randall Blythe once spoke to me at length on the matter." Whenever Randall was spoken of, it rarely deviated from the topic of violence, especially when concerned with province he called home. Cinquedea started as a den of thieves, a haven for the less than savory fringes of society gathered together. Since its inception it has grown into its own industry, a place where I've been told anything can be secured. Anything. I had heard tales of the lawlessness and moral desolation that found respite there but I hadn't the faintest clue there was structure to the madness of Cinquedea. Mr. Hightower continued.
"I believe Randall stated it as such:

Whoever appeals to the law against his fellow man is either a fool or a coward.
Whoever cannot take care of themselves without the law is both.
For a wounded man shall say to his assailant,
If I live I will kill you, if I die, you are forgiven.
Such is the rule of honour."

By his posture and tone, it was evident that the phrase was recited verbatim, as if it had been reposited to be soliloquized on command. I imagine this "code of silence" held some kind of authority in its own right, a recognition of those privy to what it entails.

I'm taking back control (with my knuckles)

The statue seemed less imposing than the figure itself. If you were to ever stand next to him, consider yourself negated. His presence alone is domineering enough to punctuate any sentence in his vicinity. His smile is facile at best, I can attest to this because I have seen him there. The battlefield breeds a very different beast and I believe the only proper way of describing his methods are of "animalistic origin." Savage doesn't even begin to encompass what this man does on the field. Felling men as if carving a path in the jungle, he leaves a trail of limbs, much akin to bread crumbs. There are two possibilities to this method: either in his rage he becomes lost to his surroundings or, in a much darker tone, they act as a reminder of the cost, the payment he makes every day he fulfills his duty. The portrait he paints during conflict have made it impossible for me to discern the man from the soldier. For every handshake he makes, and every nod and amicable response, I half-expect the poor sod to be partitioned according to the angle of his blade. Is this what I want to see? Am I responsible for the corrupt effigy of him or has the all consuming reality of his nature tainted me? I want to believe the former because he is more than a man..... he's a hero.
As name's go, you will hardly find a more fitting one for him than Samson Hightower. His appellation alone acting as an imposition in his absence. It was as if his parentage decided during conception to predispose him to greatness. And though I am compelled to ascribe a figure of tremendous magnitude, the truth is, he had a figure consisting of a little more than 14.6 stone, but the length and breadth of his shoulders and the sheer amount of weight that they could carry is enough to challenge anyone unfortunate enough to be set before him. A writer best surmised him as "the monster within far supersedes the monster without."
You'll forgive me if I reminisce a bit when describing Samson, putting into ink my thoughts conjures images of our shared past, events which shaped not only our lives but those in all of Fort Henders. It was my first battle, the first of three at Hiros. A fierce three day long reckoning filled with conflagration, and towards the end, decay. At the time, I only knew the role of Hero as a figurehead. A general in battle designed to lead through action, to aid the city-state in its defense against foreign prosecution. Idol, rallying symbol, soldier and leader rolled into a single profession. Few choose hero as a profession because it entails so much. An undertaking only a select group can survive. Post-battle, Samson burned a look into me that haunts me to this very day. With the angle of his head positioned to what I believe is a three quartered gaze, he responded to the words I had yet to speak: "No mercy is the way of the fist."

The Rookie

Traversing the web seems to be my new secondary profession, next to, apparently, consoling victims of faulty ipods, making irreverent commentary about my new boss (deemed Jewvis due to his physical appearance being the lovely man child of a jew and the king of rock and roll), and general tomfoolery. Recently, I've ventured into the realm of the oft-dreaded R word: religion. The subject is a realm well traveled in my circles, footprints of myself and me droogs trample the landscape, so much so, it visually lends the belief that we in fact vacation there, or at the very least visit often. The specific religion in question (they seem to be as numerous as stars in the sky) is Atheism. Yes, you read that correctly. Atheism. I have always held the notion that atheism was a belief (as opposed to a lack thereof) much in the same vein as black being a color instead of being vacant thereof and if the pattern that is emerging continues at its pace (as fast as a distinctly small sect, especially here in the activist oriented nation of Merica) Atheism will supersede Mormonism and Scientology in pure idiocy of following. Bucolic tendencies are obvious to the deity loving crowd, be it goddy god god or Captain L. Ron himself, but to unite in nothing under the guise of "intelligent mental faculty," crusading against those dreaded theists and their fundamentalist rhetoric. In order to combat such a notably large beast, a group has been assembled. An ambitious, rag-tag group with everything to prove, they seek to confront these theists in open forums in order to sway the populace into subscribing to their ideology. they are on a mission, you could go as far as to call them "missionaries," seeking to educate these mal-informed, barbaric heathens into the ways and methods of civilized society.
Sadly, where this wonderful portrait of colloquial life ends is in the inspiration (or lack thereof). I'm rather curious as to how one goes about motivating the masses into....nothing. Fiery sermons, choirs in an uproar, organs blasting, and the coffers fill. All because they have a subject matter that allots such a privilege. There's a mythology backing them, a story told time and again about this fellow who seems to be universally recognized in some regard as this bearded fellow who had a penchant for speaking and died horribly, the very image of his death pasted bloody everywhere. He most certainly is not alone in his sphere of influence, however his impact cannot be denied, for better or worse. The detractors of the poor fellow seem dead set on negating his words, even at the cost of (especially at the cost of) the people who found respite and influence in his words. Granted, his name has been used in everything from the mundane to the absurd to the downright obscene, but, as a whole, has it really been that bad? For every zealot and denouncer, there is a former addict or otherwise downtrodden who found rest in him. For every ignorant creationist there is a caring citizen who donates 5% of their income to aid those in foreign countries. With every abortion clinic bomber there is an aid volunteer working in destitution in another country. I could go on and on, but time seems to be communicating with slumber, and both have it out for me. The question is then asked to this upstart rookie, this greenhorn in the veneration game, how will you rally the fickle, capricious masses into bettering humanity as a whole? What tools and figure will you use as a battle cry to ignite the embers in the ashes of fields you laid waste to get there?