by Rink Wester
-You and your sisters conspired to circumvent my plans. Violating my authority and unleashing my winds on the living world in what mission I know not. We’ll get to just how you were able to accomplish that little feat later. I was coming to deal with you soon enough. But for these two, the betrayal of trusts and marital honor cut deep indeed. I dare say I managed to cut them deeper.
-Chÿnáriøn, I’ve cultivated an entirely too healthy hatred of all your elven bluster and its incumbent fetters. I shall cleanse our ill bellied race of your line. Grief shall shake your wives of their wits. My foolish begotten sisters. Foolish but MINE to hurt and no other. Least of all you! Your ignorance truly does shake the senses, you foul git! I would sooner slice my wrists asunder and let their blue rivers run to mingle and drown all of Ëvèr, with all my goodly power drained with them, than to see you rule one more desperate hour upon that throne unavenged. I would put me to my own sword if I did not avenge this insult to all of Mînåthrörn. Stand and be counted oh wooden Heathen of Mênègröth!
Chÿnåriön rose manifesting the Hêmébråu, the moon wand of Færûn. He pointed it at Çåthÿ and relished the carnage he planned to reap.
It’s high time someone put you in your place Queen of Whores!
Just then King Prifddinås stepped through a slit in the spirit plane, the one trick of the military Cådærn, and stood beside Queen Çåthÿ Liin. He kissed her hastily, his mind already gone off to the battle before them. He then looked at Chÿnåriön and said in corpulent pause, Not today Bubba. Even though you have two, no one lays a hand on THIS Queen of Mînåthrörn but me. He materialized his own warrior’s mace staff and touching his belly let loose an orchestra of Cådærnan war fury. Elf legend and lore didn’t describe them as the army to beat all elven armies for nothing. Prifddinås touched the floor with his mace staff, jiggling in protective laughter for his lady fair, and a blazing fist of 100,000 undigested mågÿcks led by the imbibed aural manifestation of his own son, the elf Prince Görûd Fist, slammed into Chÿnåriön knocking him through the wall and into the River Aenuron below.
As Bôkör elders scattered and the room fell into general chaos, Çåthÿ waved her hands and the chains and bruises covering her sisters disappeared. They ran to kiss her all over her face and hands. Prifddinås walked over to them rescuing Çåthÿ from the onslaught of profuse worship and sibling praise. He bent low to her ear, still jiggling in unshed laughter, and whispered,
We still have hours of unfinished business my filly. Your orgasm isn’t going to find itself. Come and let us be about your pussy’s business.
Çåthÿ’s knees buckled slightly as she bit her lips and stepped with her round sexual master through the spirit plane to a plane no sister or vanquished elven Viscounts could follow.
A plane where knights didn’t wear shining armor or rode in on horses but instead ate their armies and wore her until she rode him into sweaty bold and rolled ecstasy.
No safe words here.
69
This newest spate of blackouts had brought him to this strange precipice. He had taken a momentary break from his remote viewing of Gærüt and his secret perestroika to peer into the worlds of the unwitting and unwinding. He stood at the Vœrtëx and wondered at this next bit of his exciting and puzzled plan. He peaked through the void and watched the Bôkör horde of the Łöå. The undead coven of the Elven races. The 10 Firstborn Elven clans of the Fields of Fæ were nearly all gathered in this place. Trapped. They were the first to walk through the World Gâte. Before men crawled Nänå and Gærüt’s new world, the elves were there erecting great moments to tree and stone. Culled, unlike other Cryptid demigöds, from the vine of not one but the bastard mågÿcks of all seven Øgdöåd brothers of the Sky Father. Their dripping essences intermingled to create the whole of elfdom,, their species deeply corrupted in the end in dastardly deed by Ôlörûn, the eternal göd of The Never and Elsewhere. Cursed to walk as the vodou wraiths of the Łöå. The hated Bôkör. But at one time they were The Ruling Light of the Cryptid demigöd world. The Örišhå Tàrdíäd. In the Cryptid dynastic order, they were second only to the Øgdöåd in power and fierce breadth. The largest and most ruthless kingdom of Mênègröth. The second largest kingdom of Mînåthrörn and the witch sisters three. The Ãmlœdd. The infamous North Pole clan of crystal singing and forging the finest staff and wand weaponry in all of elfdom. The military lords of the Cådærn. War clan of Assassins, melee warriors, slayers and Masters of the Spirit Plane. The Iôwërth. Tropical clan of poison and potion specialists. The umbilical Cœrrëlôn Light wielding kingdom of Lîöthiél. The Amazonian all female Crwÿs clan of tree sprites and elven maidens of the brown and green under. The marine dwelling Mëîlÿr. The underwater clan kingdom of island fire and ice. The Trååëhærn. The dancing dirvish desert clan of mining and runed metalwork. All elven swords and daggers of the greatest mågÿcks passed through their sand bitten hands before all others. And lastly the frightfully hostile Gielinor. The mountain clan of insane wind riding elementals.
Such beauty and majesty molested and forced to wear the shame of darkness, trapped in this hallmark realm of dream and crushing illusion. Thanks to Gærüt’s gargantuan ego and a war gone horribly wrong. For eons they had rooted around in filth and mågÿck like a sounder of feral swine bred for greater things lessened.
Feral swine. Such succulent game.
He tried not to eat the flesh of living things. Not often. Enough. He liked to joke to himself when no one was looking that he was only a vegan between meals. What he wouldn’t do and who he wouldn’t kill right this moment for a pork bun, zi’ran yang’rou, a leg of lamb from China’s Xinjiang region, and a tall frosted glass of Fanta Apple, Fanta Orange and Tsingtao beer all mixed together in a disgustingly refreshing concoction. Succulent game indeed.
He hovered there above the rim of their world and strained to hear what he thought was music being played. At first faint and staticky, the notes beat back solemnity and rewired something fundamentally lost in this realm of absentee joy. Some wayward shade far below and on the other side of the veil, with no messages to park in the dreams of the living, played on and on to a crescendo of Ever’s emotional damage. The notes admitting that without them he was a bent nickel someone finds on the sidewalk, but with them, he was again small and new like the penny that invented worth itself. His music remembered the tortured and emprisoned elf in his soul, the wind of the non-living world playing in his straight silver locks, as it stole that rhythmic melodic joy from him. A soulful dirge in this dingy place that broke his entire heart. There were stretch marks on his own joy that had brought him here to this Vœrtëx to hear. He knew that now. The headaches and the blackouts and the constant puffing up and tearing down in his war with Gærüt. It was all more than enough that song punctuated and ended the tale. He could destroy that song and the captured elf singing it or he could release that melody on the world of the living. Release the Bôkör to reclaim their elven heritage and help him fight the Sky Father. He shook his head and decided on the latter. He would undo Gærüt’s sorcery and give the convicts a long overdue furlough. How thankful they would all be. Thankful enough to pick up elven sword and wand to help along the destruction of Ôlörûn and his domination. And besides, he laughed, this will seriously fuck with Gærüt’s zen. That’s always a plus.
He entered the void, floating midair in its breach. He flexed his fingers, stripping the sheath from the dagger of Ädårønh Tir and pricking his finger, he spread his blood down the length of its blade, coating both sides.
<ඔළඝනදපරොවෙමෙ!>
ave been. Not him. Not here.
The Vœrtëx stress cracked and began to crumble, sending aftershocks of thwarted Gröötslâng mågÿck and malicious chainletting through the crust of Ëvèr. Like a throbbing molar being yanked out by its compacted root, that realm shook and broke as the warden laid keys on the table and just walked away. The Vœrtëx began to disappear as the auction of the living world began, suctioning every being in Ëvèr through the eye of its glorious storm. Bôkör from the very corners of Ëvèr reformed and reclaimed their beauty as skin and powers long ago diminished returned in a flood of mågÿck and maelstrom. Ëvèr was dying so they could once again live. The Vœrtëx was vacuuming them all up and depositing them once again in the living world where they all landed in heinous, confounded thanks to their new benefactor.
19 of these. 7 of those. 4 of the final ones. And then the bisque would be complete.
His work was momentarily done and soon the king would be dead.
Long live the king.
*****************************************************
Victor slept and dreamt. In stabbing reels of mountain rock and cryptid warfare he sank down to vision and a fleet of omens. Something far denser and older than nightmare stalked him. And Vickie. Like a bloodless comet and with blade of bone it would claim them. That force begged his gifts to remove heart and barrel and restore dark soldier to body unknown. He and Ulghana Yemoja’s phase two betrayal of the Sky Father was now moot in the sun of this coming threat.
There in that land of faces on a rocky mountain beachhead of bluest ridge, indecency would capture and wreck them like ducks among the reeds. In the shade of peachtree göds they would drown at the water’s edge and be no more.
Below Victor and off to the right he saw eyes burning in blue black shadow, a turquoise, gold and ruby red pendant atop a dagger’s hilt stirring the air like a ladle, and upon Victor’s head was a raised halo. He knew the face of this mortal exit but his tongue would not pronounce it. His fear walked in cool mud, pulling at the roots of his own private mangrove, unraveling to crumbled grit what failing stones of plan and purpose still remained.
In dream he saw it all stretched out in practical color. Their neck would wrench and the red guardian warlord of their body and soul would shut and open its last.
Vickie’s life would end and Victor, in the lonely abhorrent vacuum of death, would follow.. They would die and give the merry go round turn for a new master.
Forgive me Father. Forgive me Mother. Forgive us Vickie.
Forgive and forgive and may the apology serve what peace persists.
70
Monday. January 15, 2018. 2 pm. Martin Luther King Jr Day.
The Ájøgün amalgam, Înköngönzélô, stalked Åpsät and his new human Despoiler, the former Detective Tony Mozee. It was harsh and utterly consumed with its master’s crude purpose. It moved through the shadows of downtown Atlanta, its senses made uniquely tameless, Gærüt’s message blaring through its quadrant mind like an emergency broadcast system of singular motive. The mega-antlion göd closed its eyes and scanned the surroundings for any hint of Øgdöåd energy. Gærüt’s purpose had become its purpose. Their purpose.
Its form was in spatial flux, feeling at once like singular A and plural B. Each of its four genetic host identities potentiating the other, uniting and corrupting its fused nature. Moments like now, invisibly walking the halls of the W Hotel residences listening to children on Xboxs, dinner on another floor being bulimiced up and a husband in the penthouse above smacking his wife with the business end of a pair of Knipex pliers, the gestalt failed, and the true moment of any-lion beast and göd synergy misaligned. Ptøshä ’s power flared and Înköngönzélô’s body softened around its curved and jointed carapace, remolding its harsher male form to a more feminine specification.
Such obedient evil, what remained of Ptøshä ’s conscious self thought.
Ptøshä-Înköngönzélô stood at the door to penthouse 54H and listened. There was a news segment on in the background. Breaking news of a human mother in Charlotte, North Carolina who slew her two children before jumping from a bridge overpass and killing herself. Murder suicide the human news called it. The grandparents were on saying how wonderfully loving the daughter had been and how much of that overwhelmingly loving world her children had been. They wanted everyone in tv land to know how loved she was. But where is the truth, Ptøshä -Inkongonzelo thought, that news report firmly hijacking her moment as she stood and fumed. Why did truth end in death? That mother...that daughter...that insane woman was a hateful and bathed in evil. I don’t want to know how loved she was. I don’t need to know how much of her world her children inhabited. She murdered their beauty in cold punctuation and ended their trip around the sun. Fuck her! I spit on her. She represents all species in that same cold stellar regard it would seem. Even the göds. So much about family and truth rested in the outliers. Those truths that are hardly ever told. Like the outlier that had brought Înköngönzélô to this door on this afternoon to answer the baleful “I love you brother” of brothers loving brothers but feeding the betrayal nonetheless.
It’s all a lie. A beautiful generous lie.
Phasing through the door, it stood watching Åpsät and the 6 other göds of the Øgdöåd staring up at a ball of swirling runes in a language completely foreign to Ptøshä-Înköngönzélô but relaying itself in psychic snatches across its mind. It coughed, instantly becoming visible, as the Øgdöåd septet and the human despoiler floating in that swarm of light and runes all raised the threat level of their powers to greet her imposition.
Speak with the speech of göds and speak plainly lest we destroy you where you stand, creature! Why have you come here?
We…I…am here to deliver you orders of grave import. My Lord Ôlörûn requests your presence. All of you. I bid you acquiesce so that what must need happen finds willing ears even if hearts are yet reluctant.
Ptøshä -Înköngönzélô raised a talon hand, raking the air with a claw and sliced an opening in the thick fabric of that hotel comdo’s time and space, through which she stepped as the Øgdöåd septet and Detective Tony Mozee followed suit, that tear sealing itself with a faint pop leaving that news anchor to drone on alone about loving mothers and the full murdered worlds of sons and daughters.
*****************************************************
Ptøshä-Înköngönzélô made a mental note to share with their lord and liege, Gærüt, what she heard as she phased through his brothers’ penthouse portal surprising their cabal and that psychic human despoiler centered seance that had them all gathered and huddled together. The message that memoed and stenciled across Înköngönzélô’s mind about Gröötslâng blood, death shrouds, crashing shores and lighthouses.
Her Lord would want to hear of this. Especially the last line whose portent Înköngönzélô had pokerfaced as it did as it was commanded and opened the portal back to the Sky Father’s lair.
That last line that had given Înköngönzélô pause and issued a new writ of dread for the great göd Ôlörûn,
<...තෙ ම්ස්ර්හ් ඔෆ් මොතෙර් චිල්ඩ් අන්ඩ් ෆොඑ ස්ටන්ඩ් ට්ස්ල්ල් විත් ඩග්ගෙර් රෙනෙවෙඩ්ස්ජල්ල් ස්ක්ය් ෆ්ස්තෙර් ෆ්ස්ල්ල්>
<..the math of Mother, Child and Foe stand tall, with dagger renewed shall Sky Father fall>
71
Music from the Whiskey Blue rooftop bar and terrace split the air of the W Hotel and convinced traveling patrons and wayward natives of their own drunken priority. The lobby of The W, known as the "Living Room" swarmed in an afternoon rush of adultery and business meetings capped by a sea of nubile youngsters on an out of state high school field trip. Bong concealing teenagers rushed to and fro, checking in and clamoring for a swim in The W’s swimming pool, affectionately if not very originally referred to simply as "Wet". Their teachers handed IDs and school
documents to the "Whatever Whenever" concierge themselves counting the milliseconds until they could visit the Bliss spa or join the misanthropic masses in the Whiskey Blue for a cocktail or three.
Detective Tony Mozee and that corrupted bit of the Mother molesting and infesting his body both hovered under the Swarovski crystal chandelier in the W Hotel transcribing on the dust and dead skin cells floating in the air their pilfered mågÿckal message. Days ago he had been a mild mannered tough as nails public servant but through a promise made in haste in that dark Pörø cell, he had tumbled into this supernatural storyboard whose frames he no longer recognized. He was no longer Tony Mozee. No longer that mild mannered detective. Lacking any fidelity to its script, now they all called him Räzáråc. The Despoiler. A name attached far too easily and predictably, Tony thought sadly.
Eyes only see the paint but never the canvas.
