12 April 2023

I’d just watched Tolkien again, about his life, and it struck me that for as iconic a creature as the balrog was in Lord of the Rings, it never really shows up anywhere else. Probably because it has too much in common with the aesthetic of the traditional demons in Christian lore? regardless of the reason, I kind of wanted to do something with it.

That said, I’m pretty dissatisfied with this attempt. It doesn’t feel true to what they were, and is all sorts of weird. It was worth exploring, but I won’t be doing anything with these ideas directly, at least.

It is said that the first balrog formed the moment man first tamed fire. For before that the flames held no malevolence; they were but a force of nature, destructive as they were. But no, under man’s control, it was only a matter of time before someone used them with ill intent.

In our world, they remained largely unseen, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there. There beside the first man who committed arson; every “witch” burned at the stake. The many, often literal, flames of war, up to and including the nuclear bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

But here, in the world of [Lordran], they were not content to keep to the shadows, to whisper into the ears of men. No, here, they stalked the realm in physical form., giant horned beings of ash and flame. Few knew they’d ever had a master, and none but them knew if they served another after his death, or if they worked towards their own inscrutable ends.

There was no killing one, either; at least, not permanently. The great heroes had struck even the mightiest of them down at various points throughout history, earning a century or two’s reprieve from the beasts’ tyranny, but they lacked the divine power required to slay them for good.

25 September 2022

This one also got a little dark. I really like the idea that Hansel and Gretel grew up to be badass, and they took something from the witch when they escaped. From their, it made sense they would pay dear old step-mother a visit, but… Yeah, as much as I enjoy darker stories like Arcane, I don’t think I have the right mentality to write them.

Also, I had that stupid song stuck in my head all day at work one day, and this was how I put a spin on it to keep my brain occupied.

“The cat came back, the very next day.

The cat came back; she thought he was a goner.

But the cat came back; he just wouldn’t stay away.”

The older woman seated on the couch stood and whirled to look at the man who’d been singing. He leaned against the doorframe, one arm folded, while in his other hand he juggled a single knife. He had dark hair and wore a black duster over a similarly dark outfit.

“Who, who are you?” the woman squeaked.

“Ah, you do not remember me? My heart is wounded!” The man clutched his chest, but his mouth slipped into a smile that never reached his eyes. “Did you hear that, dear sister? She does not remember us!”

From across the room, in the hall beyond the doorway, a young woman’s voice lilted through. 

“Oh, the cat came back, the very next day.

The cat came back; she thought she was a goner.

But the cat came back; she just wouldn’t stay away.”

As the chorus finished, a woman in her mid- to early-twenties, same as the dark-clothed man, entered the room. She, too, was dressed all in black, save for some dark red accents. She wore pants, which would have made the older woman aghast were she not so terrified. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a braid, and she wore a feathered tricorn hat. Strange, arcane accouterments hung from her belt.

She smiled cruelly. “And after you tried so hard to kill us all those years ago? You’re going to break my heart, mother dearest!”

The older woman’s eyes went wide. “That’s not possible!”

“Hm. You would think so. Yet here we are, aren’t we, Gretel?” The man slowly began to walk towards the older woman.

“But, you were both dead!” The woman backed away from the two, and her eyes darted for some way out of the room. Unfortunately, the only two doors were the ones the siblings had used to enter.

Gretel stepped closer. “No, though the old witch certainly gave it her best shot, didn’t she, Hansel? Still…” She raised her hand, and a ball of ghostflame flickered into existence. “I did manage to pick up a few of her tricks, so I should thank you for that I suppose.”

The old woman had backed herself into the corner by this point. “No! Please! I, I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” Hansel asked, one eyebrow raised.

“So, if, for example,” Gretel asked, and traced a finger down the old woman’s face. “If I said I felt peckish, and that I’d always wondered why that old witch was so eager to eat children…”

The blood drained from the old woman’s face. “No, please! They’re only children! I beg of you!”

Hansel’s eyes flashed. “What were we, then, when you sent us to the witch?”

“You should have seen her salivating,” Gretel added. “Children must be quite tasty.”

The woman wailed and fainted. Both of the twins looked down on her in disgust. Gretel almost went to kick her, then thought better of it. Instead, she crouched next to the woman and held a hand over her head as she recited words from an unknowable language.

“And what will that do?” Hansel asked.

“Nightmares,” Gretel said, “every night, for the rest of her days. She will watch her children being eaten by monsters over and over again. I felt she should get to see for herself what she put us through.”

He nodded once, and the two left, with no trace they’d ever been there except for the unconscious woman in the corner.

21 September 2022

As I mentioned in the previous post, thinking about what made the god-kings tyrants messed with my headspace. The Phoenix, which this short was about, was one of the most fascinating and sympathetic to me, but still very twisted in her own way.

I think one of the problems I had was I was both unwilling to let her and the others be anything other than tyrants, but I wasn’t fully willing to commit to how terrible they could be, either. And a lot of that was I didn’t want to have to imagine what they might do and the reasons behind it. There are certain lines I won’t cross because of my personal beliefs; however, there’s still plenty I could do within those limits.

I do plan on coming back to this story; I want find something to help balance the scales in my head, though, so I don’t get so focused on the negative I lose the point of the story or have it start impacting the rest of my life. I think it’s important to acknowledge evil exists, bad things happen, and even good people do things they regret, but it’s also important not to dwell so much on those things we can’t see the beauty in life.

Also, random fun fact for the day, in the “language of flowers”, dahlias represent commitment. Or so the Internet says.

This was part of my series inspired by a song called Godhunter by Aviators (link here). It’s also on Spotify.

Finally, WARNING! As you may have gathered from context, this post has scenes with implications of torture and abuse. Please DO NOT CONTINUE if you cannot, or do not want to, read such things. Thank you.

They were lovers, once, the Phoenix and the Conqueror, back when they were still human. Mortal. Back before everything around her burned, back when he was still capable of feeling. When they’d dared to dream of robbing death.

And then they did it. And everything went wrong.

No one, perhaps not even the man himself, know whether the Conqueror’s feelings for her were ever sincere, or if he’d just been playing her from the beginning for her skills. Whichever the case, only a few scant years passed after their transformation, he rejected her and ordered her to leave.

At first, she couldn’t believe it. She plead. She begged. She wheedled, and wailed, and bargained, until in rage he cut off her head and shoved her body into the moat before it could smoke up his castle when it burned.

Once she revived and crawled out, wet and pathetic, the Phoenix finally believed him, and she wept. Her tears turned to steam trailing from the corners of her eyes. Then, her sorrow turned to fury, and hell rained down on the lands. And thus the first of the God Wars began.

By the time the wars had ended, the Phoenix had claimed a kingdom of her own. Hers was a court of decadence; exotic foods, fine wines, and anything else one could desire. Every so often, some young man would catch her eye, and she would have him brought to her chambers. She couldn’t touch him, but she would order him to entertain her, leaving the question of what would happen if he couldn’t unanswered.

Some of her “partners” resented their forced servitude, and several managed to kill her once. One even made it outside the city before she revived and turned him to ash. Still, she tried to be kind to them, when she wasn’t in one of her fits; these men offered the closest thing to companionship she could get.

The women of her city were less lucky, however. And the more beautiful, the greater the danger. While most times the Phoenix maintained enough rationality to avoid harming her subjects, sometimes she would fly into a rage and attack. “Is it you?” she would scream, “Are the one who seduced him from me!?”

At other times, instead of rage, panic would cause the Phoenix to shake. She would slowly walk up to the woman while muttering, over and over, “No… no, can’t let him see you. You’ll take him away, like all the others. Mustn’t let him see you…”

Either way, she would grab the girl’s face, ignore her screams, and hold it long enough to leave a scar.

One day, however, a young man bowed before her and actually asked to be her servant. Shocked, she asked why. He said, “Because I want to see for myself who you truly are.”

The Phoenix eyed him appraisingly. “And what is your name?”

“Terrence, your Majesty.”

Despite feeling unsettled by the request, the Phoenix gave her permission.

And so he served her. He quickly learned her likes and dislikes, and when to prod for more information about a request or to leave her alone for a while. He painted her pictures and wove her stories, all while trying to glean what lay behind her mask of flames. In time, he came to see the hurt, lonely girl she’d hidden away.

“Who was he?” he asked one day.

The Phoenix froze. “Who?”

“The one the rest of us are meant to replace.”

For a long moment the Phoenix offered no reply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t push the issue, but he didn’t fail to notice the glass in her hand begin to melt and mold to her fingers.

Several days passed, and again he asked, “Who was he?”

This time, she didn’t bother to lie. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Still, he noticed the steam streaming from the corners of her eyes, and for the first time, he recognized them as tears.

Two weeks passed before he was willing to try again. This time, they were strolling through a garden, the Phoenix carefully avoiding everything, but admiring its beauty all the same.

“Who was he?” he dared to ask.

For almost a minute, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. “He was a man, once. We decided to challenge fate itself together, along with our friends.” She scoffed, then let her finger rest on a dahlia. The flower immediately burned to ash. “Unfortunately, we succeeded. And I… I guess I didn’t matter anymore.”

Once more, whisps of steam rose from her face up towards the sky.

20 September 2022

The next two entries are based on a song called Godhunter by Aviators (link here. It’s also on Spotify.). Something about the song always fascinated me and sparked my creative juices ever since I’ve heard it.

So, I started writing it. I’ve got a whole collection of potential god-kings for this Godhunter to slay, and all the ways it’s ridiculously hard. It was actually a lot of fun to plan out; the problem is, as part of designing the god-kings, I also needed to envision what made them worthy of being called “tyrant”. There are a couple exceptions, but they’re not good people, at least in the version I would write. And living in the same headspace as that messed with my head. So, for now, until I can find some thread of hope to make that world a place worth being/saving, I’m taking a break. I’ve had a few thoughts, but nothing definitive enough to come back to it yet.

Still, I did have fun writing and planning it, especially the entry below, which serves as a “begin at the end” kind of prologue.

She looked up at the black fortress before her, scythe resting on her shoulders. It had been grand, once; a symbol of strength, or fear, depending on who you were. She’d been, once, exactly a century ago. Banners had fluttered in the breeze, and people had bustled about. Merchants, peasants, but mostly soldiers, doomed to die in a pointless war.

Now, though, it was empty. No more banners. No more crowds. No more soldiers. Just black walls, wreathed in shadows and silence.

Unperturbed by the gloom, she pushed through the front gate, each footstep echoing into the night. She could have softened the, moved silently, but for this target, there was no need. He already knew she was coming. He was the last, and he knew it. Let her footsteps announce her arrival; his fear would serve her better than any advantage surprise could offer.

She paused in the courtyard, trying to guess where her prey might be lurking, before she focused on the central tower. Nodding to herself, she strode inside and marched up the stairs.

At the top, she found a sad excuse for a throne room. Faded drapery hung limp along the walls and ceiling, thread-bare and moth-eaten. Half-rusted suits of armor paraded down the walls on either side, most of them missing at least one piece or another. And in the center, a man with greasy black hair and sunken eyes sat on a tarnished throne. A sad excuse for a beard marred his face.

He met her eyes and croaked, “Have you come to kill me?”

“Yes.” She made a show of looking around the room again and added, “Although, it looks like you’re already halfway there.”

He coughed out a laugh, a raspy, painful sound like the screech of unoiled metal. “Go on, then. Finish it.”

She flipped the scythe off her shoulder, and slowly brought the blade behind his neck. There she paused and stared at him. “So was it worth it?”

He sneered and spat, “Go to hell.”

She shrugged, and pulled her scythe forward. And the last of the god-kings fell.

How does one kill a god? Some will see the future and avoid it; others won’t die no matter how severe their wounds; and others will simply turn to ash, only to reborn moments later, unharmed.

She began by watching. Watching daily hunts of men and women for a war god’s amusement. Watching the jilted goddess fawn over her latest object of affection. Watching the god-priest compel his followers into a mad frenzy of unholy wrath.

It was fortunate, then, that she called the reaper herself mother; for as death always lurks just out of sight, unnoticed by all but the most wary, so too could she lurk unseen. And it was for her mother she would kill them; for how else would they have gained immortality had they not ripped it from her mother’s corpse?

The seeress would be hardest. Unfortunately, that meant she also had to be first; if she targeted one of the others, the seeress would foresee it and warn them. The question was, how could she prevent the seeress from foretelling her own doom?