by “J”
“For my Kinnermen”
A shadow consumes Eion: the tanned visage of Human Diadems. Though they were nothing but refugees from their own feckless monarchs, they had the same primal instinct that made them Gods far away from Terra. This same disposition that had oppressed them made them masters of lesser beings. They started with their women of course. Then they moved on to justifying everything with a faith: Eugenics. Now that’s a term to wonder, their own monarchs claimed right by God so they claimed right by race. Who complains really? They give us silver-groats, we give them work, they give us wages, we give them women. But don’t mention that out loud, lest you catch las-fire in the neck- and no, the militia wont help you.
Its right- millit-dogs get poor wages- but you can bite anyone on the side. It’s how they keep the treaty actually- give them a reason, they take everything and no one speaks up. Everything with a tit, crotch and groatsis fair game- even Humies.
And then, by the treaty that bound them and us: Humies became the cockroaches dwelling within their automaton slaves: breeding swiftly and hounding your mattress while you sleep.
Stars, Meteors, Castles- even the chaotic warp where nothing grew swelled with Brown skinned men. By the same logic that nearly killed them, they pit us against ourselves- Drow to Greenmann, Dwarf to Elf and each against the Hell-kin until the tides simmered down under the bitter memory of the last war.
The Allfather had a saying: “When the tides turn, the Greenmenn ride”. True, but with our Craftworlds burnt to a hellish hue; we were driven to a nomadic existence, cruising the Celaphis vacuum with Copper hued barges alongside uneasy compatriots.
There’s no way to look back and say how it started, but it did.
The Star-Ark beat the clouds as sullen faced Navigator-nymphs flit away from the twilight sun to begin another evening. The hovering fortress did not rock- but rather glided on the polluted haze of Tethys for the third day fleeing spent Caesium mines. Barely any light penetrated the black nimbus covering, less so through the electric storms that swayed the ship.
Amidst magenta dyed veins of lightning, droplets of precipitation gathered on the sides of the Mechroom.
The engines quietly ground faerie bones while the Mechmen and their wight friends puffed cigar smoke at mewing spawns. A thousand of the feykin brood whimpered inside ‘muffin trays’ whether for the flashing lights or for the their turn for the red-stained hammers you make your mind.
The droplets would slide- a viscous acid green that nestled on the sides of the trays giving reflection to faces the spawns never see.
Bottled feykin bred like rabbits and with less diplomacy or warheads they proved an answer to the Petrol-Wars. Of course no one questioned whether the mushroom sized feymenn had thought (and they did, even forming See-courts, but whether such fancies carried weight is another matter).
Outside the mechroom Banshees wailed in the crevices and the wendigos- more nuisance than their sighing kin stayed within walls. Asleep but hunting fellow fey-kin and anything- even each other- flesh or not that haplessly found their grottos.
The mechmen and their wights took care to never disturb then and with swift hammer strikes synced with thunder flash would silence a especially loud fey.
Wights and their masters haven’t lost the cravings all Hell-kin had: everything palatable. Though what separated them from the wendigos and Banshees chiefly relied on how their food was made. For those with teeth like daggers filed to a dull point, that often meant something soft, and bony, for the wights with teeth rotted to the gums: soft, bony and burnt to ash. Which of course drove all of them to the bad end of the other fey since that always meant children.
Amidst wails and hammer strikes, chaffed gangrenous hands in pairs of one floated bodiless- illuminating black lanes with raised lanthornes driving hellkin back to the shadows-should the relatives grow bold. After all all fey were related- but without exception hated each other. If ever chance favored the wretched bodiless turncoats- purple screens flashed to existence to chuck silver groats at their direction.
Sometimes. More often the Draugr caught them first- their Nordic pride destroyed by vain attempts to cross to the “After-Dream”: coin and axe in decayed hands.
The hands fanned out turning crisp corners shining light to push back their hell-kin.
A lanthorne fell- its bodiless master alerted by the glint of unveiled axes.
A flurry of thuds like boots on cement rang around the corners drawing other hands to the alleyway. The lanthorne rolled- glass smashed to pieces but light still flickering illuminating fumbling hands, axes and coins stained with blood.
The brawl that ensued gave brief respite to their hell-kin: both wendigo and banshee to glower and scoff at their prior confederates. The Lichmancers in former glory sat with feigned regality atop stained roofs glaring with bemused eyes- taking care not to notice their own ripped and crow shit covered trappings. At a cowardly pace, they slink out of the dark with their squalid incisors once meant for silver knights flaying for their cousins.
The cries and broken glass offered a nightly signal that filled the Big Ben’s absent office for three months to hush the mercurial rain and signal to cozy human girls to stay inside the Palazio ramparts and to their valiant suitors to rush them under the covers, pause and chance a vigil façade in effort to appear stouthearted before scampering in after them clawing the covers much tighter than their lady friends.
The women pretend not to notice- but always do. “Oh well” they would decide- better than the savage Greenmenn.
This was the hour of the Hanging man- when nether-feys take the streets under newborn starlight. The lanthorned hands were the night-watch, their hell cousins their charge and the occasional man their prey.
No moon penetrated the haze- only the light of luminescent algae dwelling in the beating clouds and the occasional sun flash gave slight hope to the scene.
Boggarts- those without homes sleep behind bricked gates choosing this night to pull gobs for a horrorshow under metal walls. The coitus sweat could ferment and bring subcutaneous shapes to existence- distant cousins of protocells- the first of the living before evolution made them less noble.
Below empty streets- where highway men dwell the haze grew thick- thicker around a cowled figure so green it blended with the wall-moss and the tinge of algae.
Shadow among Shadows the figure stalked the metal asphalt between the copper hued barracks lit only by dim sheens of luminescent saplings.
Crouching low- it paused and pulled its coif tighter on its cowl concealing its already obscure face save for two barbed tusks portruding upwards and a purple beam that shone like starlight.
“Sturmgeists laying on trap behind corners” It coughed.
” And Troll pimps…… Drow fault. All Drow Fault”
Briskly it turned a lane-curve that revealed two figures leaning on a Bil-Barge.
Noting the sweat-cells dangling crawling downwards from the bricked wall- it stayed- carefully within shadows but not too close to give the cells a host.
Mutely it skulked out of the shadows into the first beams of the new-wake.
Both turned with disinterest-gauntlets tuning to ‘cripple’ and streamlined uniforms distinct of Elven-wear faced the stranger.
“Prey” It thought unhooding its patte to reveal an imperial face hardly befitting a youthful Greenmann of a hue close to pondlgae.
“Loka hier- a gruna-skun widda sheeny ocooyar” cackled one.
“Periwinkle paeyntad. ‘Spensive” clucked the other’s tongue. “Who ye nick it fram ah?
Feeling their piratical eyes on his monofocal (worth less than twelve groats he mused) he couldnt help but leer on the inside. “Call themselves peacekeepers” he snickered silently.
In slacken grace they raised their gauntlets- intoxicating hues pouring from the fingertips- smiles of vicious certainty composed on their faces.
Readying himself he whispered “For the Allfather”
They paced skillfully to both of his flanks as if the move had been well practiced- or well used.
“I shot the Sheriff!” he cried.
Taken aback- the two Drows paused briefly.
Abruptly, four beetle-hands found his shoulders and plunged him into the pavement.
“Whoot!” Demanded a static voice still shocked by the declaration.
“Dammad Gobloons!” Screeched the another.
“Who- You.Mean.WHO- Soddy Elf!” the Greenmann retorted.
“Pykey Skin-theef!” squeaked the static.
The beetle-hands tightened and drove him into the pavement’s alloy.
His cheeks brazed the oxium-ingots.
“Poch Hardah!”
His face brand tasted the bitter mercury of the rain puddles as the neon lights danced on the acidic mist that settled on the spiked helmets of the Elven Millit-dogs.
“Sharp ears!” he spat.
“Hell-Speech- propak-ith- Speken- ouw Roud! Grot!”
His head bounced on the cement as windows closed and roadway lights swiftly extinguished.
He yelped.
“Cinder blocks?” He sniggered half amused between loose teeth and surging Berserker Fury.
The Green-Pride sundered through and pounded his eyes to fire and sun.
“Blood and Thunder” He had pledged to the All-father.
A short Millit-dog tilted his brass ringed ears and leaned closer to the Greenmann’s battered grin.
“Whika Sharroff? Grun- Skun?!” He repeated- softly now- with boot replacing hands to stamp his cowled back in and beetle-hands raising yet another block.
“Either. Or.” the Greenmann grunted-turning to glare at the Drow’s guise.
Cloudy Mind.
“Frail. Elves be Frail. Green be steel” declared he.
The short millitdog flopped back-lifeless- yet its boot and pair of beetle hands still gripped his shoulders but only the embedded lodestones held them steady.
“Thunder” He snickered ignoring the collapsing torso and spun all the while a gore-soaked sneer at the other.
“And Blood”
A shadow fell on ringed ears.
Green paws shot and thunder clapped.
Boggarts howled and Faery-kin danced.
Cinderblocks flew and loose teeth dug deep.
“Jesus wept.” He thought.
He didnt even notice himself giggling.
“Fur Das Vaterland.”
