Reed Logan Westgate's Blog

The Raven

July 13, 2023, started like any normal day for me. I was tired; it was Thursday. I was behind at work with tasks and due dates stacking up like cordwood in late autumn. I pulled into the lot of my workplace, finished my call with my brother, and exited my vehicle begrudgingly, wanting nothing more than to be home writing. With my latest work in progress fresh in my mind and stories to tell, I was looking forward to the weekend.

I looked up to the roof of the Cathedral, the building in which I work, which sits just up from the ocean in the harbor of Portland Maine. Normally the roof is littered with seagulls, all too eager to swoop down from the peaks of the building for whatever morsels they can steal. They are the rats of the city, enormous rats with wings, and mostly the nemesis of my freshly washed car. In the ongoing battle of bird droppings, they had been winning this week and my car direly needed a wash.

Today was different. Three black birds sat on the roof above my office windows. It was such an odd sight I snapped a picture. In good spirited fun I sent my co-worker Amanda, who had already arrived a text.

“Can’t come in today. There is a murder of ravens on the roof over my office. Bad omens. Heading home.”

Without a second thought, it was into the office and back to the tasks and stresses of the day. At 1:00 pm, I missed a call from my brother. I called back at 1:08. He was upset and could barely get the words out. “Mom is dead. Her heart stopped this morning and they couldn’t revive her.”

In the Norse shamanic tradition, Odin’s ravens represent the powers of necromancy, clairvoyance, and they are the guides for the dead. In Irish mythology, the raven is closely linked to the Morrigan, one of the most complex deities in the Celtic pantheon. A “triple” goddess, whose sphere of influence includes fertility, birth, and death, she is also known as Badb Catha (Battle Raven), Macha (Sovereign Queen), and Nemain (Terror).

It is amazing, this funny fragile thing we call life. The shared experiences that unite us as a people. My dad passed long ago and while I contemplate the realities of the arrangements, the final duties at the funeral home, I take solace in my beliefs. I have no actual evidence, no proof as such, but I know... as sure as I know, the sun will rise... that our spirits are lasting if our flesh is not. I don’t know which religion is right, whose god’s name is wrong, and honestly I don’t believe in the end that it matters. I think what matters is how we live, how we raise our children. Whether we leave our little corner of the earth a better place because of our trials and tribulations. The lives we touch, that is what matters.

So whether you believe it was a sign from the God, Allah, or Odin, matters not. In my heart, it was the universe reaching out. It was the moment to say it’s alright. The child who was lost here on earth for a brief spell is returning home.

Judge a book by its cover!

The Baku Trilogy

The Baku Trilogy trailer...

Updates to the Baku-Verse

Hello Folks,

Many things happening in the background here. I'll shed some light on a few of them...

1. Dark Messiah is coming into the home stretch. I am eager to share this leg of the journey with everyone. Pre-orders are looking solid and I have a meeting set up with marketing to discuss launch strategy and growth

2. I am working on a table top rpg set in the Baku world that will take place after the events of Dark Messiah. I have been talking to multiple folks and it looks like this will be coming down the pike in 2023. I am super excited to share this with everyone. More details coming!

3. Website is undergoing a redesign and we'll be adding merch. I have a bunch of artists working on T-shirt and branding designs and look forward to offering some great Baku content.

4. Next series. We have already had cover reveals for the Soulstealer series which will be the prequel origin story of Oxivius spanning from BC to his exile in the 1600's. I love this world of monsters and magic and am staying true to the course. There will be 3 books in the Soulstealer series and I am committing to another 3 book series following the events of Dark Messiah. In total that's 9 books in Baku universe... but wait there's more! I tried the vella format and it just wasn't for me, but The Druid of Morrigu isn't done. I'll be pulling down the Vella series and giving Arrivan and Owen their very own book spanning Baku Trilogy and beyond.

Thank you for all your love and support. I'm not ready to give up on this Baku-universe. In fact, I am going all in.

As Xlina would say we'll see you... "In your dreams."

Do you hear what I hear?

I am so excited and pleased to announce The Infernal Games has arrived in Audio format. Narrated and produced by the talented Zach NeSmith, The Infernal Games is the beginning of the Baku Trilogy.

What comes after Dark Messiah?

As I finish the Baku Trilogy with Dark Messiah coming in June 2022 the most common question I get asked is... What's next? After thinking long and hard on where to go.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/f87659_aebb79ff5aee4d74ba166cb83e70590a/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

Planning for fall of 2022, you know Oxivius Soulforge. Necromancer, Death Eater, friend. Now learn the Origins of Oxivius Soulstealer. -Reed

A look into Oxivius Soulforge

Oxivius Soulforge, the cannibal necromancer. Exiled to otherworld during the Salem witch trials Oxivius is everything Xlina's father taught her was evil in the magical world. Ox challenges Xlina to reconsider all her preconceived notions of good and evil. Oxivius serves as a mentor and friend to Xlina who guides her into finding and realizing her true potential. But who is the wily necromancer and where did he come from?Oxivius was born a descendant of the Lamia. The ability to consume the flesh of others grants Oxivius a prolonged life, the ability to experience memories of those he consumes, and most importantly the consumption of organs allows Oxivius to steal a portion of his victims soul. The soul appears on his flesh in a living tapestry of writhing and anguished faces.

Over time the combination of his long life and the storing of souls in his flesh drove the Death Eater to the brink of his sanity. After seeing his wife burned at the stake for witchcraft Oxivius became the feral monster he had always feared. Reveling in bloodlust and slaughter he was saved by the Burglecuts who vouched for him before the Counsel of Magic. The counsel however deemed that Oxivius and his hunger for flesh were too much to control and he was exiled to Otherworld. In the Baku series we see Oxivius recently returned to earth realm with centuries of training under the Witch of Endor in otherworld. The Witch of Endor is intended to be the same necromancer consulted by Saul in the bible. At this stage in his journey Oxivius has become a powerful necromancer in his own right and has learned to harness the souls trapped in his flesh to fuel the dark arts. Thus instead of burning his own soul, he forges the souls trapped in his flesh into powerful necromantic magic.Many readers and reviewers have become captivated with the mysterious necromancer and so I have decided to go back and tell his Origin story when I wrap up the third book in the Baku Trilogy. Thanks for sharing in this world with me,

Reed

#dirgeofthedead#baku

#Lamia#necromancer

Reflections

I came across this piece I wrote in college for an point of view assignment. I hope you enjoy it. Reflections I have seen many people over the course of my existence, but none that I have wanted to help more than Randy. He was a young boy whom I first met when at the tender age of six. A more ambitious soul has never existed. His dreams consisted of a myriad of philanthropic endeavors. Randy wanted to be a doctor so he could heal those suffering in the world; he wanted to be a farmer so he could feed the hungry. He wanted to be a millionaire so he could help the poor. Indeed, Randy was full of hopes and desires for the future, as are all young people I would imagine, but time like the society of man changes everything it touches.

It was in late autumn when I first suspected the change. Randy, no longer a boy, now a young man of sixteen, visited me every morning. Over the past few years, I had watched the carefree youth grow up, and it seemed as the vibrant tides of youth subsided in the boy, so too did his happiness. He now stood in front of me with a somber, expressionless face similar to the one he appeared with when he was 9 and his dog had died. His golden brown hair, once containing the very rays of the sun, had long since become a sullen mat of lifeless mass. His bright blue eyes seemed to carry the weight of the worlds as he stared at me with utter disgust.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself this morning?” Randy asked in a dry, lifeless tone. Unable to give an answer, I just listened to what he had to say. “Every one hates me, you know. I don’t fit in, don’t belong, but at least I have Cindy to pull me through. Dear Cindy, heaven knows what she sees in me.”

I stared vacantly at Randy who, with a disgusted sigh and shake of his head, lumbered off to face his day. These comments were becoming more and more common with Randy, and they left me feeling helpless and confused. What would I say? What could I say? That he might listen to me and become that eager little boy again, ready to grasp life with both hands.

The weeks ebbed by with little sign of improvement. Autumn had gone and so too were the carefree days of fall. The tapestries of colors had faded as the leaves left their homes on the trees to litter the ground. The snow came at night and a marvelous sight it was, too. Nature is a splendid artist. First dazzling us with an array of reds, yellows, and oranges showing us the unmatched beauty of color, then stripping all that color, leaving a blank canvas on which to start anew and start anew nature always did. This time in blacks and whites as the snow fell. The treetops took new forms burdened with snow and ground was covered with a blanket of white, which even on days when the sky was as gray and black as the smoke from the chimneys of the houses below seemed to sparkle with its own light. Unfortunately, just as the air grew cold and uninviting, so too did Randy.

“Well Cindy left me,” He blurted out through a pained face. He tried his best to stand before me without shedding a tear, but his efforts were in vain. He collapsed in front of me in crying withered ball, helpless to the world around him and yet still I was unable to say a single word. “I hate myself. She was the only one who cared, the only one who loved me. Now there is nothing for me.”

The next couple of weeks only seem to worsen; Randy had locked himself away from society and now was confined to his own inner torment. I had never seen him this bad before and began to fear that he might do something rash. My fears were justified on Christmas morning a time in which most people are happy bustling with excitement, eager to spend time with their loved one. Randy however had forgone going with his family to visit relatives and had wondered aimlessly around until finally coming before me.

“This is it,” He said in a confident voice that made me very nervous, “don’t be afraid, don’t worry, this here is my Christmas present to myself.”

Randy’s hand floated down to his right pocket and disappeared for a moment. Mere seconds later his and reappeared clutching something small in his hand. It was difficult at first to make out what it was; but then, as if by some insight from God, I knew what it was. I had seen one before when Randy was younger. He had been very sick, and the doctor gave him a similar-looking container full of pills that were meant to help him feel better. I knew that whatever was in that bottle was certainly not intended to make him feel better at all.

“Quiet now,” Randy continued softly. He opened the lid of the bottle and spilled its contents out on the counter in front of him. I have never seen so many pills in all my life. There were reds and blues, purples and pinks, some were ovals and some were circles. There were tablets and capsules; indeed, a colorful array of death lay before me. “Now I give myself what no one else can, freedom from my hurt, my pain, from my life”

It happened so quick, Randy started shoveling them down by the handfuls. In a fevered fit of rage, I watched helplessly as he swallowed pill after pill continuously until his body could take no more. I watched as his mother came home with tender, loving calls to a voice that was unable to answer back. I watched as she entered the room screaming at the sight, crying hideous wails of agony that I shall forever carry with me and still I was unable to make a single move. Days later, I had a new visitor, Randy’s mother.

“Why?” she asked in a mumbled voice shadowed by a sea of tears. “You should have been there. You should have done something, said something. You saw it all happening and you failed to stop it!”

Her words pierced my very being. How I wish I could have done something. I wish I could have said I loved him many months ago. I wish I could have told him he was a good person that he had so much to give. I wish I could have screamed from the top of the highest mountain that he was special, unique, loved. I wish I could have shown him what he could not have seen through his veil of depression. But who am I to say anything, who would even listen to me, for I am just a mirror on the wall and I have no voice, no voice at all.

First Day Redux

A little over a year later and I am please to announce the launch of my second book in the Baku series Dirge of the Dead. I am very eager to share this book with all of my readers as I truly believe the story far exceeds The Infernal Games. Written during the worst of the Pandemic my feelings of isolation and loneliness definitely come through in the work. I am eager to hear your thoughts on the book. Please feel free to share with me how it made you feel? Did you love it? Did you hate it? I want to know.

Finale for Chateau of Time

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQUoq7YfcGE