Joshua Cox-Steib's Blog, page 3

Peculiar People

Reptilian eyes gazed at her from within a hooded, serpentine head. Not unlike the cobras that often entertained her father’s guests. The creature had a long neck that matched its hooded head in crimson scales. That was where this creature’s resemblance to her father’s snakes ended, though.

   The child stared in awe at the adventurous contortion of beasts that comprised the rest of the strange creature’s body. One front leg was clearly that of some great hunting cat, while the other was akin to the knobby limb of a flamingo except for a disturbingly human-like appendage at the end of it. By craning her neck, the child could clearly see that it’s back legs neither matched the front ones, nor each other: one, the leg of a goat, the other like that of a mouse grown to monstrous proportions.

   Charcoal-grey fur covered the creature’s body, starting at the base of its neck—where the scales began—and ending just before the large, striped barb that crowned its long, thin tail. The child stepped back a pace, eyeing the creature with fearless wonder. Amused chuckling escaped the animal’s shadowy mouth, a forked tongue darting forward from that darkness in punctuation of its humor. Words followed and the child’s eyes lit with startled delight.

   “What iss your name?”

   “Claudia, sir monster.”

   Claudia had a curious thought. “Do you have a name?”

   The creature hesitated, its lidded eyes registering the faintest sign of shock as they regarded this young human. After a moment of doubt-filled consideration, it answered.

   “I do, but I have never shared it. The world sees me as you have described me; a monster. We are all defined, and named, by how we look to others, and by the shapes of thought available to them.” The creature paused. “It is for this reason that I chose my own name. I cannot control how they define me, but I can strive to define myself. By the rules of others, this conversation would never have happened. For being brave enough to see differently, I will tell you the name I have chosen for myself.”

   Claudia leaned forward, turning her head slightly as the creature whispered its name into her ear. With a squeal of delight, she hugged the startled creature, exclaiming as she did so. “It’s wonderful! And so are you!”

   Claudia had understood her new friend’s words with an insight that balanced any lack of intellectual comprehension with the visceral conviction of empathy. At such a youthful age, she had not yet been taught by the few to fear the many. Neither scarred in body nor mind by the world or the actions of others, Claudia had yet to learn of the dangers that came with life.

   On that day, a great friendship began. One that blossomed over the years and played no small part in the events that would later encourage historians to refer to Claudia as the greatest empress of an era. She never lost the open-mindedness of her youth. Not for lack of pain or strife, but because of her own resilience, and the support of a wonderful and unusual friend. The emblem of Claudia’s rule was composed runes that translated to: “past fear is peace”. And though fear within her people was never eliminated, her reign dealt it a harsh blow. It took a lifetime of effort, and the greatest seat of power, but before she died, Claudia saw a land come true where there were no more monsters. Where all were accepted by simple right of existence.

Fen Telum: Volume 2, Urban Dispute

 

Arrows shattered against the low, road-side wall that sheltered Fen Telum. Arcane chanting rolled towards her from across the urban street, carrying with it a powerful wave of magical pressure. Fen cursed. She couldn't deal with the mages while the archers were shooting at her, and she couldn't eliminate the archers while her powers were busy deflecting that of the mages. What should have been a simple morning job had become a pointedly irritating afternoon.

        Fen quickly scanned through her options, considering her adversaries, her surroundings, and her own abilities. With a scowl, she realized she was going to have to use the sword. She’d have maybe ten minutes before it rendered her unconscious. In that time, she would have to neutralize two dozen archers and five mages. Fen grinned. Even though the decision she’d just made guaranteed her a week of painful recovery, Fen couldn’t help but feel a vicious joy at how much worse it was going to be for her foes.

        The magical pressure battered against her shield of spells, seeking to do little more than keeping her powers occupied and on the defensive. Arrows rained down at shifting angles as the archers slowly circled, splitting into two groups so as to round the wall on both ends and catch Fen between them. The mages began a cautious walk forward as the archers neared the wall’s openings.

        Fen felt the fingers of her right hand clench the sword’s hilt with such force that hairline fractures crawled through her knuckles. She grimaced at the pain yet to come and drew the fabled Blade of Vi Scelerata. Agony swept through her body, muscles spasming until it felt as if her bones would shatter. A sound that only denizens of the deepest depths of hell would call music filled her head as the blade battled her for control; demanding, with the arrogance of the inanimate, that she become an extension of its will.

        Both groups of archers rounded the wall at the same time and immediately loosed a barrage of arrows at the seemingly immobilized sorcerous. As the arrows flew, the mages dropped their barrage of magic and switched to independently cast, more specific, sorceries of destruction. Energy, in all its forms, tore through the air between the five mages and the small section of wall that hid Fen from them.

        Past the thunder of the blade’s song, Fen saw the arrows and sensed the spells. She drew power from the blade, just a trickle. It wasn’t enough to cede her self-control, but that was ultimately inconsequential to the sword. Even more than a living vessel, the weapon sought to be used. It had only one purpose: to destroy with overwhelming force. Lore held that it had been crafted in a time when magical skill and might far surpassed what even the greatest were capable of now and that the final requirement for the sword’s creation had been its consecration in the lifeblood of an entire continent. The Island of Desolation fit the location and description provided in the old scrolls, though it had apparently been called Paradisum at the time.

        All this flashed through Fen’s head, along with the rest of the blade’s ruinous history, as the tiniest trickle of its vast power entered her veins. Small fractures spread throughout her bones, even as the same force destroying her kept the injuries from slowing her. Her mind and throat screamed with the agony of it, and, as always, the pain brought on a fury within her that was a match for anything, even the fabled Blade of Vi Scelerata.

        The sword cut forward, slamming into the brick wall with monstrous force. Debris flew outward from the massive cloud of dust that arose, even as both arrow and spell closed on their target and disappeared within the cloud. The mages cast quick protective spells, or dove for cover, to avoid the onslaught of flying wreckage. The archers, clear of the blast, had redrawn their bows and stood ready to fire the instant they saw form or movement.

        Fen darted from the cloud, sword held before her as she charged towards the mages. Two were cut down before the rest realized the futility of their defenses. Magic was no barrier to the Blade of Vi Scelerata, not any that could be cast by those of modern times, at least. Three violent spells lashed out towards Fen as the second mage died. She spun, letting the instincts of the blade take charge, opening that trickle of power just a little bit more, and feeling indescribable agony as her body tried to tear itself apart, but couldn’t.

        The blade darted forward, slashing in a diagonal cut that intersected with the spells as they neared Fen. When spell met sword, there was an explosive impact. A brilliant, multihued cone of energy erupted from the collision, staggering Fen backward and obliterating everything in front of her for a good fifty feet. Behind her, the archers had taken cover on the other side of the wall where they could fire from relative safety.

        Arrows flew towards Fen’s staggering form. The bones in her right arm shattered as the blade whipped around to slash the air between her and the incoming projectiles. A wedge of visible force launched from the sword’s cut, destroying the arrows and smashing into the wall. Shattered arrows, fragments of brick; all tore into the archers, slaughtering them in an instant. The entire wall was destroyed, and the structures behind it showed considerable damage.

        Fen fought through the haze of pain that was her body and forced the fingers of her right hand to slowly loosen their grip on the sword, unclenching the broken digits one by one. As her last finger relaxed, the sword dropped to the street and Fen let out a gasp as the force that had been sustaining her fled; leaving her huddled in a broken heap, struggling desperately to remain conscious through waves of overwhelming agony.

        With a supreme effort, born of pain-induced fury and indomitable will, Fen formed a sequence of runes with her left hand, and gasped out the trigger word to accompany them. A gentle haze of light descended upon her, blanketing her broken body until she faded from sight and nothing remained of her presence there except for the shattered bodies of her enemies and the ruined structures around them.

Fen Telum, Sorceress for Hire

CRASH! The iron gate slammed shut before Fen Telum, sealing away the the throne room and its precious contents. A slow grin lit the scarred woman's face. A quiet chuckle escaped her lips. After all she'd shown them, what did the fools expect this to accomplish?

   Fen lifted her right hand negligently, her fingers flashing through a series of contortions. A rushing sound filled the hall as air flowed towards her palm, condensing into a visible sphere. She made a flicking gesture and the sphere shot towards the door with a clap of thunder, denting the center and tearing the whole thing from its hinges. There were curses and screams from within the throne room.

   Iron clanged underfoot as Fen strolled over the fallen barrier. She looked around the room, appraising the remaining guards and locating the huddled form of the terrified King whose castle this was. She didn't care about the guards, though she expected the need to kill them. The king was the one who mattered, just the way his kind liked it.

   Some of the more experienced guardsmen collected themselves enough to launch an attack. Arrows flew towards Fen from five bows even as six men charged her with sword and shield. In that moment of commitment, Fen's eyes finished their sweep of the room and confirmed that there truly were no mages with the king. No magic of any kind, in fact. Her informant had just earned themselves a fat bonus.

  The arrows slowed to a halt as if sliding through thick gel instead of air. Fen stomped her right foot, hard, and screamed one of the minor names for Earth and Stone. The floor erupted upward with jagged shards that ripped through the charging soldiers, lifting them from their feet as they were impaled.

   Panic and terror reigned over the rest of the room as Fen casually walked past the small grove of gory stalagmites towards the king and the few soldiers he had left. There was no resistance when she reached them. No fight left in those that remained. Fen made sure of the king's face, nodded once, and snapped her fingers.

   The surviving guards squealed like pigs as their sovereign's head slid from his shoulders in a dense spray of blood. They waited their turn, petrified by fear. Fen was gone before they even noticed she was leaving.

   Fen looked back at the castle as she rode through the deserted town that surrounded it. One more piece to the job and the contract would be fulfilled. She focused upon the fragment of rock held between her fingers; a bit of worked stone from the castle’s foundation. Her eyes burned with a fey light and she shouted arcane words in an inhuman voice.

   There was a deafening roar as the proud structure, home and seat of power to ten generations of kings, collapsed inwards upon itself; pulled downward with such force that stone fused together, leaving red veins of molten rock burning dimly across the mountainous pile of rubble.

   Fen whistled sharply, leaped atop the unnatural creature that appeared in response, and was gone. In her wake, the fresh corpse of a kingdom crumbled.

Of Books and Slumber

I had a thought

But then I lost it

 

There was a dream

Right before waking

 

A time of marvel

Prior to mundanity

 

Yearning for its return

I sought out new worlds

 

Through books and slumber

I found them

Gearing Up

Gregor leaned across the table, pushing his tankard aside and spilling beer as he showed off his new vambraces. Gems studded the dark metal, fey light flickering within their depths.

            “How about that, huh? Bracers of strength. All the better to wield my new sword.”

            The fighter reached under the table, and then placed upon it a massive, two-handed sword, bereft of scabbard. The blade shone like a clear night sky; twinkling glimmers, like stars, glittered in scattered isolation across the black steel.

            “It’s called Night Kisser, and it ate up nearly all of my stipend. It doesn’t matter though, with these bracers and this sword I’m going to be unstoppable.” He leaned back, crossing his arms and looking at his companions around the table. “What about you two?”

            Kerrin smirked and pulled two short swords from her side. She set them upon the table, then reached to her scalp and untied a ruddy bandana. It joined the swords. She then leaned down and unclasped a metal anklet, adding it to the rest. She paused, eyeing the others briefly before pulling a small crossbow from where it hid on the small of her back. She raised an eyebrow at Gregor.

            “Swords of blocking and piercing, respectively. Bandana of perception. Anklet of agility. And an arcane crossbow.” She raised an eye at Gregor. “I’ll take you and your two magic items on any time, old man.”

            “Bah, I’m hardly your senior, Kerrin. And it’s not the quantity of items that will decide our battle, but the quality of them and the skills of those wielding them.”

            Kerrin smiled but didn’t say anything. After a moment, Lorensk cleared his throat. When he had the others’ attention, he lifted a trench shovel and set it upon the table. Next to it, he laid a coil of rope, and a strange looking dagger—no bigger than a cheese knife. He then unclasped his nondescript cloak and pulled a dim ring from his finger, setting both upon the table.

            “Here we have the fabulous shovel of digging, an endless coil of the coarsest rope, the infamous dagger of whittling, an ever-boring cloak of disguise, and a cantrip grade ring of illusion—who’s only real limitation is one’s own imagination. See my versatile arsenal, mighty warriors, and tremble before me.”

            Kerrin laughed. “You have the strangest mind, my crafty friend. If I’d not seen your work before, then seeing what you’ve bought would have me believing you the biggest fool this side of the dragon-spine mountains. As it is, I do hope you saved enough of your stipend to purchase an actual weapon.”

            Lorensk smiled, spreading his hands expansively. “What need have I of weapons when I have such industrious tools as these? My will is their command and victory is my will. So, fear not dear friends, Lorensk shall fare far better than yourselves, for whom he harbors great concern upon seeing such impetuous expenditures for sake of pomp and posture. Crafty Kerrin, as Dull Gregor has unintentionally noted, did indeed make the better choices. Yet, Lorensk can’t help but wonder and worry at his dear friends’ most evident and disturbing fixation upon violence, both taken and given. Alas, Lorensk has known these two warriors long enough to accept that they shan’t ever feel the blissful embrace of peace within the tumultuous battlegrounds of their minds. It is so, yet still, Lorensk calls them both friend.”

            Kerrin had burst into deep belly laughs before Lorensk was halfway done speaking. Gregor’s face had grown redder by the word and when the monologue ended, he shot to his feet, kicking his chair back and leaning both hands upon the table as he loomed over Lorensk.

            “Keep talking, fool, and I’ll show what violence my mind holds.” Gregor’s eyes were dilated, his breathing heavy. A vein pulsed angrily along the corner of his forehead.

            “Dearest and loveliest of friends, you do yourself harm. Here, sit. Let Lorensk, in all his eloquent compassion, retrieve a fresh and refreshing beverage to cool and calm the temptations of your temper.” Lorensk rose as he spoke, deftly dancing away from Gregor’s reaching grasp, and sauntered up to the bar.

            Gregor turned to Kerrin after the other man had left. “Are you serious about this guy?”

            Kerrin took a moment in answering, looking away from her brother as she considered her reply. When she spoke, it was with a quiet, serious tone. “I was on a job with him. There were thirty or so enemy soldiers hiding out in a forest and only ten of us. Our mission was to find them and flush them out.” She paused, a distant look on her face. “While the rest of us were debating strategies, Lorensk simply disappeared. Two hours later he walked out of the woods and told us the job was done. Of course, we didn’t believe a word of it. Not until the screams started. There were other sounds as well. The cries of wild animals mixed with the shouts of soldiers and the roaring crashes of falling trees. Eventually, all that sound was drowned out by a fire that spread from the forest’s far edge. It turned the whole place to ash. Don’t let him fool you with his nonsense, brother; that man is incredibly capable and completely ruthless. Trust me, he’ll make himself useful.”

            Gregor grunted but didn’t argue. He stared across the bar at this odd new ally of theirs. Lorensk was holding two mugs behind his back with one hand and waving the other in wild complaint at the bar keep. The warrior sighed, righted his chair, and sat back down to wait. He trusted his sister, but her story had only made him more suspicious of the man who was to be their third in this grand endeavor.

I get it, now get over it

I remember being twenty and thinking the equality movements were eroding my social status. I remember being confused and angry and wanting an easy target to blame. I remember struggling with the intense difficulty of recognizing and studying my inner self, trying to determine who my enemy was. And I remember figuring it out.

My enemy was myself and my forbearers that had set me up to have a position of disproportionate privilege at the expense of others. My enemy was a society that raised me to believe that I had an objective right to the privileges that a subjective series of social actors and social constructs granted me at birth. A society that taught me through demonstration that I had an obligation and responsibility to hoard the agency of others as my own, and to do so for their supposed well-being. A society that taught through display that white, tough men are the only ones who can be trusted with power. Realization was not, at first, a relief.

Instead of feeling the burden of a societal bred Jesus-complex slide away, leaving me free to be an honest human, I felt disenfranchised and angry. I felt lessened, because that's what our society teaches its young white males. It took time and effort to get past the toxic socialization and begin to resemble something that might be a decent human.

So, if you're an angry white man who feels some of these things, don't point that anger at the centuries worth of victims that we've wracked up, nor at their descendants which we've kept as vulnerable and exploitable targets; instead, point that anger at yourself and the people who made you this way. If you want to do something about it, then learn who you would be without the fear, hatred, and anger that guides your actions. If you can figure that out and act upon it, then you will be resolving your own unhappiness and disrupting the elements of society that truly causes all of this in the first place.

The present will always be more important than the past.

Changing the names on a building, removing statues from public grounds; these things don't delete history. Modern societies have more historical artifacts by far in museums than on the street.

 

The world changes faster than any given generation of humans, and we always have a hard time with that. History is overflowing with examples of this. What's happening now is not a changing of history but a reckoning with it.

 

People don't want their identities entangled with that of a failed rebellion that was based on greed and inhumanity. They want to redeem themselves from the history of abhorrent actions committed by our ancestors. This isn't a rewriting, or, changing of history. This is the painful process of healing an infected wound. That wound is our cultural identity, and the infection is white supremacy.

 

White Americans (retro-active label) slaughtered an indigenous population for the land we call home. We committed the greatest act of genocide that I know of, and it was for property theft. We replaced their world with our own through blood and violence.

 

This, like the ideologies of the confederacy, is an element of history to be studied and learned from, not something to inspire pride. It should also be a strong indicator to those feeling sympathetic to white supremacist rhetoric that their views are ones of hypocrisy that ignore their own history of violent imposition and theft.

Simple Truth

Women aren’t weak

They are weakened

Darker skin doesn’t mean less intelligence

It means barriers to education

Non-binary identities aren’t threats

They are threatened

Fearing differences isn’t sane

Keeping an open mind is

Human suffering isn’t inherent

It’s human perpetuated

What's in a label?

I met a man recently

who lived under a bridge

he shared with me his story

and within was the knowledge

of how little truth our eyes can see

Mr. president

Mr. president

 

With one eye closed and both ears deaf

You claim your views have supremacy

Carried by fortune and left bereft

Of honor, shame, and decency

 

With corruption your norm

Your truth formed from lies

You are in striking form

With your political ties

 

Lobbyists have long bent politicians

But you’ve gone and hired their boss

Letting CEOs set the conditions

Of who and what will be lost

 

Mr. president you really must know

Your reign was a mistake

A new American low

That puts our very world at stake