FamilyMauri had always known he was a foundling. He was fast, but he could never run far. He grew sick of bright sun. His mother did her best to protect him. When he tried to wrestle with the other boys, he broke his arm. He was different. He had always known where he had come from. His parents had tried to set up a colony on their land. They had been invaders, therefore righteous to slaughter. But the Ean-Ratk had found him, and asked of each other "What is the crime of this one? What has this creature done to us?" And so, he was kept, and raised as one of their kin. As one of the proudest clans of orc.
Though he were never to become a true warrior, a man of Ean-Ratk, he had grown among them, and was raised to battle. Knowledge of war came from the gods, and denying their wisdom from a child, any child, would have been a blasphemy. So he knew how to carry an axe, to wield a sword, and load an orc bow. He could put on, carry and ride to battle in an armour. Given a forge and a and a workshop
NightIt was so dark outside, the windows of the apartment looked like they had been painted black from the outside. Alesha spread concealer on her lips. "Why don't you just use lipstick?" Marya asked, and Alesha smiled at her through the mirror. "It doesn't look good on me, dear. I don't have pretty lips like you." Marya looked at her feet. She had tried to paint her toenails yesterday, she had wanted to use red, but Alesha had told her to put light green. She said it suit her skin tone better. She knew these things. "I don't have pretty lips." She felt a cold, bony hand pet her hair. "Yes you do. Are you ready?" She shrugged, and started looking for her shoes.
She had never learned to walk in the pink high heels. "Alesha, wait", she begged when the pale, dark-haired girl was almost out of the door. "You should really practice that. That isn't cute." She advised, with warmth and affection glowing from her voice. Marya knew she was frustrated with her, but she knew Alesha sincerely cared for
Seeking SolaceThe lush, green trees sighed as a warm summer breeze blew through them. Marcellus stepped down from the bus with a heavy bag on his shoulder, and let his eyes sweep the view before him. He could have gotten a car, but he wanted to walk. The town of Whitting was a small, beautiful place, far from the capital. Marcellus felt like he had stepped into an era of the past, in a place of innocence nothing could mar or corrupt.The houses scattered around, resting on the round hills looked old, they had been lived in for generations. And between them crawled a dirt road patched with the shadows of the oaks bending above them. This was not the kind of a place he would have expected a guy like Albert to come from.
The road leading out of the town was long, and the day was hot. Marcellus didn't mind it, he had always been a walker, even before the army and its marches. Even as a young boy, long before moving to the city, before finding himself in what his mother called 'bad company'. The fields sp
LoveMikko stared drowsily into the campfire as the winter night surrounded them. The midwinter was cold, and the nights dark, but it didn't bother him. In fact, right there, under the starry sky, surrounded by nothing but dunes of snow and a tree every now and then, he felt like home. Looking at his own breath rising as steam, feeling the frozen air burn his lungs, he felt like he belonged. More than ever before. The wind was settled, and there were no birds nor other wild animals that would make a sound, the only thing breaking the silence was the hum and snapping of the fire. For ten years, he had not trusted the idea of happiness, but at that moment, he felt good. His uncle threw another log to the fire.
"This is where your grandfather used to come to hunt", the man broke the silence, drawing a lungful of his cigarette. He had offered one for Mikko, too, but he had refused. He knew his uncle had smoked at his age. It seemed like everyone had done something incredible b
The PaintingAndrew was a normal university student studying art history. On his freetime he loved visiting all kinds of flea markets, second hand boutiques and pawn shops both in hopes of finding something truly valuable, and just for his own joy.
One day in a flea market he encountered a curious painting. It was a portrait of a family, painted clearly in the victorian era. The father, an elder man with greying hair, sat in a leather arm chair and held a cane, and around him stood the mother - around the same age, two young men just about old enough to be his sons, and a young girl, maybe nine or ten years old. There was something very strange about the portrait, even though it could have been the stern, cruel look of the father, and serious, almost morunful expressions of all the others. Andrew, who felt the burning need to study the picture closer, bought it, and took it to his flat.
It was clearly painted during the era of realism, and the detail was amazing, though what baffled him was that it
The queen welcomedCome, daughter of darkness
Welcome, mistress of death
And bring along your black skies
Join us, mother of despair
Let us dance, sister of beauty
Turn our breath into pale souls
Let us know the meaning of strength
With your grace, you bring pain
With light, you bring your shadows
Through suffering we learn to love
The pain you taught our souls
Who made us weak
She made us strong
Come, winter, once again
And show us the meaning
SleepOur little girl, dear sweet darling
You had no need to awake again
We told you all our stories
Lay down and dream sweet
Dear lovely angel, our little love
You don't need to be scared
We sung you all our lullabies
Go back and go asleep
Dear little one, our precious baby
Go back and let us dream again
We laid you the sweetest bed
To the soil by the lilies
Please go back to sleep