Leveling with Labels
Conventions Pt 2: The Art Show
August 2006; Water
Heraldry, Pt 4: Charges
Invictusby Apis Teicher and Amy Edwards
There was a time where things did not disintegrate. There was a time when such as we were we knew where we could stand, forward while our shadows guarded rear. And yet, it is oddly disquieting to know that, is it not? That our peace of mind existed at some point and now it's gone, like random snippets of an old worn heart.
I was there the morning that they broke through the flanks, masses, swarms that overwhelmed, and even fair riders, stalwart mounts could not withstand them. It was then, oh it was then that I forgot to name you, and lost my own name to the hordes.
The river dam broke, I remember that much, I remember running through the onslaught of men, to be nearly drowned by the onslaught of waters. Perhaps they thought it best, the mage-gifted, that we should brave the fury of the waters rather than the certainty of death under their blades. Perhaps, perhaps, but no weaver survived to answer queries.
I woke later. The waters had receded, and I hung limply from an oak branch that had withstood the waters, allowing them to deposit an unconscious parcel before they moved on. Ribs cracked, and it was all that I could do, to lay there for hours, till night fell. It was then that I pushed up, looking at the odd calm that descends after violent storms. Clear skies, starlit and impassive as they gazed down upon the idiocy of the creatures that crawled upon the land.
Angus. My name was Angus once, was it not?
I don't think that I can move, not yet. Perhaps the branch will break, and with it the remainder of my bones. Perhaps down on the ground night creatures roam the carrion and the mud, feeding on the dead and dying.
Perhaps I'd simply prefer not to move at all, and watch cool stars illuminate the land. It is almost autumn, almost autumn . . . the leaves begin to tint, I can tell that even by moonlight . . . or perhaps that is the color of the harvest moon alone, that tints the world blood red.
Hela's Bane, I think my wings are torn. I cannot move them at any rate, but with the onslaught of the waters, perhaps they are simply stuck to one another. Given time, they may dry out, and separate . . . unless they freeze with frost.
A look to the ground, the spiderwebbing powdered ice. I musn't fall asleep like this. . . .
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