Prayer of the Plazèràth

Beyond the rippling ocean of a veil that we can not breach lay a world much as our own. It is different in many aspects, from Names and styles to a plethora of historical events. So many that they can not be adequately documented here.

On the continent of Lyria there is a village named Hono Solla in the nation of Fenrüt. The village is simple, but ambitious. They belong to a sect of social and religious followers of the ancient people of Prima Solla. And call themselves Socia î Sollea. The citizens there are made up of people from around the world, and while it is not large, it grows.

In the far-off nation of Plazèràth are a good deal of followers of the Prima Solla Gods and Goddesses, separated by hundreds of miles from each other.  The dream to live in a community of fellow followers of The Sollea, as the Gods and Goddesses are called, is like a flame that burns in each of their hearts.

A couple of Plazèràth citizens involved in the higher offices of the Socia î Sollea decided to move to Hono Solla. It wad a matter of delight, and no small honor that they shed the cloak of their Plazèràth citizenship and make their way to Hono Solla within that nation of Fenrüt.

Feasts were made in celebration, and members of the Socia î Sollea still in Plazèràth watched in awe and a fair amount of envy as the expats were accepted in great joy and festivity. What a great honor, they thought jealously. Sacrifices were made. Libations were poured, and the Socia î Sollea knew joy and merriment.

However, Lyria was not just a home to the people of Fenrüt and the colony of the Socia î Sollea. It was a decent sized continent with multiple nations. One such nation being the Kazrýç. 

The Kazrýç eyed the Fenrüt as not an enemy to be conquered, but rather, a territory filled with brethren to be Reclaimed to restore the honor of their once great empire, fallen so long ago.

Lyria, then, was soon heard echos of marching columns as Kazrýç moved into action.  

In hushed tones, some Socia Î Sollea in Plazèràth exchanged conversations outside the ears of leadership. There was pride that Plazèràth Socia î Sollea would be able to defend Hono Solla. They remarked that either Fenrüt would notice their commitment to their new home and the Sollea would receive honor and glory by this....or perhaps, in a loss, the Kazrýç would recognize their Valor and determination and the Sollea would be honored by virtue of the struggle.

As Kazrýç and Fenrüt marched to war, the Socia Î Sollea in Plazèràth were dismayed to see that their former countrymen were fleeing Hono Solla. Not everyone fled, but the leaders from Plazèràth did, and did so as quickly as they could. 

With great horror and embarrassed shame, libations were poured and Sacrifices were made to the Sollea for the protection of Hono Solla, now all but abandoned to both the Fenrüt who would never trust those following the Sollea from Plazèràth again. 

Sacrifices made and libations poured that Hono Solla would be protected from the Kazrýç as it marches across Fenrüt.  

Sacrifices made and Libations poured that the honor of the Socia î Sollea would not be entwined in the eyes of the Sollea with the dishonor of the cowards who fled. 

Now safe in a new harbor of refuge, far from the abandoned village, those disgraced in The eyes of the Plazèràth Socia î Sollea commented on social affairs...world affairs...religious affairs... so arrogant as to not even entertain the idea that their thoughts and opinions...even their titles within the Socia Î Sollea were muddied with the filth of their cowardice. They would, for all of their boisterous blubbering and sense of self worth would hold the title of Çovæti (dishonorable) within within hearts and prayers of their Plazèràth colleagues. 

The evening prayer would often end thusly: "...and may the eternal Sollea and all of their servants and spirits see me and mine apart from the Çovæti. May my ancestors speak for me.  May the spirits of my land speak for me. May the Sollea save the Hono Solla, and may we have the opportunity to build a Solla within Plazèràth. Built by true Socia Î Sollea, of proud Plazèràth nature. Never to fall to foe from without or Çovæti from within."

Spanish Sunset

Recently, I was playing a game called Supremacy 1914. Addictive, frustrating, fun, boring...it all depends on the game you choose.

I started as España, and at my Empire's peak, I stretched across Europe into Poland. But it all came tumbling down in the end, with a massive united front from a Terrible Triumvirate of Britain, Germany and Poland in the North, an insurgency of Italian troops from some far flung colony, and the Algerians flooding from the south. 

 As I pushed my forces at wave after wave of invaders, I watched it all tumble down in helplessness. 

I couldn't help but write this before the end and post it to the 'Newspaper' in the game.

Please enjoy my sorrow...

Spanish Sunset

The world appears darker,  doesn't it now?

For As the sun sets on the age of Spain, 

While allies ask themselves why And how

Civilization recoils in pain. 

Barbarians seize what is not theirs

Railways, and harbors that caused them no sweat, 

Factories that build for the seas and airs,

The barbarians celebrate.  And yet...

Deep in their souls, there is something that stirs,

A small voice that whispers into their ears

That their triumph will make their lives way worse,

But they drown it out with boisterous cheers.

And now..

A bow.

For the jewel of Madrid has fallen,

And the living know that death is nigh

For the souls of the dead are callin'

And the Red and Gold can no longer fly

Arriba España once cheered in the streets

Now whispered by ghosts of the dead at your feet

Arise, dear allies! Correct this disgrace.

Avenge the fall of the Great Spanish Race. 

¡Arriba España! no longer for cheers.

Arriba España... a whisper with tears.

Chow in Jinan

           “This is awful, Sir. Are we sure this stuff is even still good?” Jones asked, stabbing into his rice his finger.”

“No clue, Jones,” Charlie responded, taking a bite from his own small pile of half cooked rice. “We aint dead, so I don’t think its poison. It just tastes like it.”

“I don’t think Thompson cooked it long enough,” Jones pressed.

“I never said I was a cook,” Thompson retorted. “Nor did I say you had to eat it.”

“Is it supposed to be crunchy?” Drake chimed in. 

“You know what…” 

Drake continued on like he didn’t hear Thompson’s protests. “You know, I had some good rice with some of this amazing spicy sauce when we were on the island. I don’t know if it was chicken or cat they had in it, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t delicious enough to not care. Washed it down with some sort of liquor a fella kept buying me when he realized I was a soldier. I wanted to go back when this was over…”

No one spoke. No one wanted to think of Taiwan at the moment. Or what was left of it, at least. Most had only heard horror stories from others in passing. There were only a handful who had been with Charlie on the Island before “Operation Dragonclaw” as they found out it had been called. The number had been higher, but of those who made it off Taiwan to regroup into a counter offensive, so few remained.

“If I ever have to eat rice after this, I’ll eat a bullet instead,” Thompson said after awhile to no one in particular. He scooped a spoonful of clumpy rice into his mouth, and leaned his head back against the wall. 

“I used to love Chinese food,” Charlie said when no one else spoke. “The family and I would go to this place called Crazy Buffet in town, and it was the biggest Chinese Buffet we had ever been to. They had about eight different types of rice...I never knew there were that many different types, you know?”

A couple men snorted. Drake just shook his head, sullenly chewing a mouthful of rice. 

“We would make a big ‘to do’ about it. First was church, and after, we would all load up and go down to the buffett. They have a giant buddha when you first walk in, and the walkway is decorated with this Wooden stand that had them little lantern thingies hanging from it. Usually, a nice old Chinese gal would ask how many people in the party, and how old the kids are. All that usual restaurant jazz. However, we became such regulars that after a time she knew us. She would light up, and talk with us about her family, and ask us about how we were doing while she walked us back to our favorite spot in the back room.”

“I’m not big into the stories about old women,” Jones laughed. “Got anything younger?”

Charlie smiled, and ignored the quip as he continued.

“They had a long table filled with dozens of different chickens. General Tsao, Kung Pow, and Mala Chicken...and the sauces were so damned thick and flavorful, that I always had enough left over to drag my rangoon through at the end of each plate.

The kids would always be grossed out by the crawfish, sitting up there, staring at everyone, and they would pretend to shriek every time I pretended to put on or two of em on their plates...” 

Charlie gave a sad chuckle and then fell silent, head drooping. The men around him were startled to hear a soft sob come from him. Jones pulled out a rag and offered it to Charlie. When Charlie wiped away the tears, it wiped away a layer of dirt and grime that had built up since that morning. 

“They always say that the ethnic food always tastes better in the land that its from...more authentic flavors, they say...” Charlie said softly as he regained a bit of his composure. He stared through the still pooling tears at his own small container of rice. “But I hate it... I hate Chinese food...the stuff here…it all tastes like shit.”

Silence once again fell over the small shanty, and Charlie sighed. He knew every man there had just started thinking of home, and he had not meant to distract them. He was attempting to think of something else to say to snap them back to the tasks at hand when Thompson stood up. After dusting himself  off, he held his hand out to Charlie to help him up.

“I wouldn’t mind trying some American Chinese food, Lieutenant,” he said. “What do you say after we finish this tour, you treat us to it?”

Charlie saw a new determination had replaced the fatigue and fear on the faces of the men as they stood, ready to get moving again. He smiled, and patted Thompson on the shoulder. 

“It would be my pleasure, Sergeant.” He smiled. “If we can stomach to try it when the time comes.”

The others chuckled and murmured in agreement. They looked out of the crumbled shell of a building that they had taken cover in for their meal. Charlie squinted out at the remains of the city that lay ahead that they still had to get through. Beyond the rubble that he could see, there were miles more awaiting them with misery and malice. After scanning every potential nest in the closest vicinity, Charlie waved the men out of the building. They had miles to go before they could get back into somewhat friendly territory, and there was no guarantee how long it would be friendly territory.

Untitled

Immortal gods of our ancestral kin

From Hallowed temples to our humble hearth

Come walk among your people once again

And renew your presence upon our Earth.

Where piles of broken stone lay askew

And altars have given way to the weeds

Reform the rubble and make the old new:

A new Mos Maiorum to meet our needs.

Where Temples once stood in glorious pride,

and shrines were tended with purest piety,

Cast the cobbled renovations aside

And restore our loss from society.

And with sacred altars thus rekindled

With flames of our ancestral faith's fire 

And our birthright, though long ago swindled

Reclaimed and Protected from the pyre,

We'll recrown with Honor the once maligned! 

Casting off the shackles of damnation:

A Golden Dawn will rise for all mankind.

A new world built on the old foundations.

Fortuna

Did your mind turn to her in that hour?
When you saw the walls begin to give way,
under the relentless firepower,
did you offer a prayer to her that day?
Fortuna, fair Goddess of your city,
Cast aside and ignored so long ago…
Did you hope, perhaps, to gain her pity,
and now, in your need, her blessings bestow?
With a flourish of that fair divine hand,
her light could through the dark clouds of war
and strike the enemy swarming your land
sweep them away, and divine peace restore!
Or did you call Mighty Jupiter’s name,
to beg he save his people one more time?
Or did you cling the new faith in vain,
and become the very last of your line?
A prayer, an utterance, or a word
breathed to Fortuna to invoke her aid
and the Gods, with great zeal, would have returned,
forgiving the people for having strayed…

If only, Emperor, you gave it thought,
and with repenting supplications sought
aid for your people from the Gods of old,
How differently this story would be told:
As the walls tumbled, you cast off your crown,
tore off your garments, threw them to the ground,
and with one last defiant battle cry,
you rushed with your men,  to fight and to die.
No shrine or marker to denote your grave
in the renamed city you tried to save.
Now we must mark this day every year
with sorrowful thoughts, and eyes filled with tears
If only you had breathed her name at all,
The last of Rome would not have had to fall.    

To the Victor go the Spoils

“This is a duel to the death! The only rule is that there can be no interference from the crowd!” The orator shouted. “This is your last chance to bow out. If you accept fate, draw your weapon and…”

Preston could barely hear the words after that point. His opponent drew his sword, and the crowd around them burst out into thunderous approval. His hand tightened on the hilt of his own sword. This was it. If he drew it now, there would be no turning back.

Almost on its own accord, as if it knew that he was contemplating submission, his hand pulled his sword from its sheath, and leveled it towards his opponent. The crowd went wild. There would be death.

He didn’t hate his opponent. He didn’t even know the guy. He merely got the luck of the draw in the duel rotation to be put against each other. He looked as fierce as one could imagine. He was big and hulking, and well fed.  He was obviously a veteran of the duels, as his sword was steady with no trace of a tremor, and he had cast his shield off to the ground beside him.

Preston’s own shield was a lot heavier than he imagined, but he held onto it for dear life. A lot rode on this duel. He stood still, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. He tried ignoring the pounding in his chest, the roar of his blood in his ears, mixed with the noise of the crowd.  The tremor in his sword betrayed him, and his opponent smiled. He’d obviously seen similar tell-tale signs, and like a cat moving in on its prey, he moved in for the kill.

The first sword strike might as well have killed him. He flew backwards, and landed roughly on the dirt. He felt as if his entire left arm had been cleaved from his torso. Everything that didn’t hurt was tingly and numb, but a quick look down, showed everything intact. His shield was dented in, and his forearm was held in place by the dent and the handle.  He tried to shake it off, but it held tight. His opponent merely stood there, several paces away, a smirk on his face. He was waiting for Preston to stand up. He was going to toy with Preston before he killed him.

Shakily, Preston used his shield to prop himself up on one knee, and then stood. The crowd cheered again. The show continued.

Not waiting on the guy to end him, Preston charged, sword overhead, shield in front of his chest. The man laughed, and with a superfluous twirl, stepped out of Preston’s line of attack, and merely brought his foot out to trip him.

Preston fell. The pain in his shield arm exploded. He had never known a pain quite like this. It had to have broken, but he couldn’t get it free form the shield to see. He swung the shield up, to prop himself on it, screaming through his pain, he tried to stand again.

Just as he gained his footing, his feet were kicked out again. He landed on his shield again, and realized in horror that it was the only thing he was holding. His sword lay several feet away from him, and his opponent had just put himself in his way.

“Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!” The crowd cheered.

His opponent, now standing over him, stretched his arms out in triumph as Preston knelt in front of him. This had probably played out for him multiple times, and he was obviously relishing the moment. With one burst of energy, fueled by desperate rage at his impending death, Preston swung his shield.

Screaming through the pain, he brought its corner up into the groin of this surprised opponent with enough force that the man dropped his own sword in pain. The crowd fell silent as the man fell sideways, screaming as he clutched his groin.  Preston did not waste his time trying to grab the man’s sword. He climbed onto him and brought the edge of his shield down on the man’s throat. Again and again, ignoring the blood as is sprayed onto him.

The screaming man was silent.

The crowd was silent.

Only for a moment. It roared back to life with surprised enthusiasm. The orator ran out to Preston and helped him to his feet.

“The champion is deposed!” The orator shouted above the noise. “Behold our new winner!”

The man led Preston away from the dead champion who now had several men over him pulling at his belongings.

Preston was led to a room with a table, guarded by several men where he would be able to accept his prize for winning the fight. As a man helped pry the dented shield off of his arm, the distributor looked at him with some surprise, but began gathering his items.

“Here you are,” the distributor said. “This is ten pounds of meat, ten pounds of vegetables, and five rolls of toilet paper.”

“Thank you,” Preston mumbled, as he felt his now free left arm.

“What were you before, Gladiator?” the distributor asked, curious.

“Office clerk,” Preston mumbled again as he moved the bags of food and toilet paper into his cart.

The guard who had taken his pistol when he walked into the building returned it to him, along with the sword and shield of his dead opponent.

“These were his, and they are yours if you want them. Spoils of war,” the man said with a smirk. “Besides, you will need them when you come back for more provisions, right?”

He had no desire to return, but with a family to feed, he didn’t know how the next few weeks would go hunting wise. He had been told many duelers return again and again until they are killed by someone else. Just as his opponent had done.  Preston gave a halfhearted nod, and took them from the man. He still had an immense amount of pain in his arm, but he could move it, and he could at least push his cart.

He left the building, pushing the cart with his prize. He was wondering how he would explain the risk he had just undertaken to his wife when he heard the cheer of the crowd as a new duel began.

Corporal Long

A lot has been on my mind of late,
Concerning Life, Choices, and of Fate,
Paths not taken, Regret’s crushing weight.

And though I’ve tried to just let it go,
each day offers a bit more ammo,
allowing tormenting thoughts to grow.

Like these things do, it came to a head,
one night I found no comfort in bed,
With a bottle of whiskey, I fled

Into the night, not sure of my way,
Knowing only that I could not stay
and listen to what my doubts would say,

As I stumbled out into the night,
Staggering beyond the City’s light,
I found myself awash in moonlight.

Comforted by the moon’s silver glow,
I stumbled along, steady and slow,
my whiskey continuing to flow.

I found myself in a field of stone.
Newer ones polished until they shone,
Older ones abandoned, on their own…

I paused at a slightly tilted one,
Weeds all around, almost overrun.
Corporal Long, Died in World War One.

A mere boy, nineteen, still in his youth.
I sat on his grave, drunk and uncouth,
Slurring my words, asking for a truth.

Then I poured him a shot of my drink,
gave my bottle to his stone to clink,
then sat back against his stone to think.

Then I saw the most curious sight,
a sober man would have taken flight!
before me rose a small ball of light!

Before I could shout out in surprise,
at the scene playing before my eyes,
the small orb halted its rapid rise.

Quick as a flash, it took a new form:
A Boy stood there in Dress Uniform,
I then shivered though the night was warm.

He looked at me with curious eyes,
and then to the bottle at my side,
He motioned to pour: I poured it dry.

He gave me a smile, his face aglow,
“Fine libation, you chose to bestow!
Now, sir, what is it you wish to know?”

“What is it like, sir, to know glory?”
His face turning sad, he sat before me,
and almost whispered out his story.

“Born and raised in our dear Hoosier State,
Too young for the war, I had to wait,
my thirst for glory would not abate.

Many a night I would lay and dream,
Of guns, and swords, bayonets agleam,
of medals, honor, and high esteem!

I turned of age, and rushed to enlist,
saluted my Pa, gave Ma a kiss,
then deployed overseas to assist.”

He looked at the stone behind my back,
words nearly faded, stone chipped and cracked,
above a faded engraved lilac.

“I died over there, you may have guessed.
Took a Kraut Bullet right to the chest.
It broke Ma’s heart to lay me to rest.

There is no glory in what I sought,
I was handed a gun and I fought.
And why I joined? It was all for naught.

Sure they will speak highly of your name,
and for a spell will hold you in fame,
give you medals, but it aint the same.

Soon enough, their memories will fade,
of who you are, and the price you paid,
what you fought for…and where you are laid.

Soon enough they will always forget,
no human eye will ever stay wet,
for souls caught in the War Reaper’s net.”

He turned to me, and shook he shook his head.
“I dreamt of glory, and now I’m dead,
My dreams died with me, and share this bed.”

“But you served and died a hero’s death!
You gave it all, even your last breath!
You loved your nation more than yourself!”

With that, he gave a sigh and he stood.
“Now you listen, and you listen good:
If I could change what happened, I would!

“I should have worked hard till I could buy
that little piece of farmland nearby
and made me a life before I died.

Maybe found myself a loving wife,
raise us some children, no less than five,
and see what they accomplish with life.

There is no glory among the dead,
their only reward is the grave bed.
Just ignore what is otherwise said.

For everything that you do in war,
has all been done countless times before,
and when you’re gone, will be done some more.

My advice is simple, my good man,
Stay a civilian, long as you can,
Embrace the fullness of your life span!

Fight, should the necessity arise,
but don’t throw away your precious life
chasing war’s glory, and other lies.

As I watched him, his glow grew dimmer,
returned to an orb and its shimmer,
Till he disappeared altogether.    

Just briefly, I continue to lay
Still stunned, and now sober as day
before I stood and went on my way.

As I walked home, I felt calm inside,
the conflicting feelings swept aside,
New focus from an unlikely guide.

Now, weekly, it is my solemn deed
To pour him a shot, and pull up weeds
Honoring the aid shown in my need.

~x~