Thursday, February 16, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
"Their leader had served as a guard in the city of Mendel, my translator told me, but had been discharged after mauling a rioter during the long eclipse. His fur was less thick than that of the other Molossi in the band - the loud Free Jaw mercenaries and the quiet tribal trackers. It seemed to me that he had something of the street thug about him, the smooth calm of the gutter Hound."
"It is a bleak land: a parade of shadows in the mist."
"It is the belief of some natural teleologists that natural systema - among which are counted forests, deserts, lakes and even cities - are always moving towards perfect stability. There is a goal, a best possible arrangement, and when the systema has reached this goal all change will be impossible: change would be movement away from the goal. This vision of an unchanging, dusty world - with every tree and animal trail in the perfect place, forever - has mockingly been called the museum of life by the theory’s detractors.
There is something of this museum about the Husklands. When the Molossi hunt here it feels like they are disturbing a grave. I am reminded of an argument against the museum theory - that moving towards stability only means moving away from life. A living thing is of course at its most stable when it is dead."
Sunday, October 9, 2016
"So it was that Dor Moshash the geometer king came before the she-worm Brigadora of Garm: for she had taken the city and ruled it wisely as queen.
And the king said to her: coiling worm, who lights the sky with her fire at night. Make me your man, and yours will be the secrets of the curves and the lines and the motions of the stars.
And the dragon answered. You will be my husband and rule this city by my side. But keep those secrets and guard them well. For I already have the secrets of the hunt and the flame and the motions of animals, and I fear what I could become."
Monday, September 26, 2016
What I did for Christmas.
What i did for christmas. At Christmas we got a Dog her name is Molly. She is a Dog baby thats called a puppy.
She is a laberadore ritriver thasts a type of Dogs called breeds.
She is a good Dog but she sometimes she pees inside becuse shes just a baby.
Previously: Road Trip. To be continued...
Monday, September 12, 2016
The barks of the Molossi and the shouts of the crowd bring you to the balcony. The object has appeared in the center of the great square, crushing the fountain and its statue of Fate and her Hounds. The air is filled with steam and marble dust.
You prod the hull with the tip of your sword and the vibrations from within the plast numb your hand. The Molossus soldier on your left snarls and howls and wets herself and is dragged away by the scruff of her neck screaming wards against curses and the Night, pitiful whining dog magic. The sword has made a mark on the thing. It can be cut.
Your soldiers dig their heated daggers into the skin. It melts into the air and the smoke mixes with the steam from the fountain. There is a sharp breath of sweet air when the first dagger cuts deep enough, and the buzz increases to an unbearable din.
You run out of chain sixty cubits in. It rattles and jerks at the harness. The scouts’ chains make the same sound a moment later and you hear them panting through the smoke. You close your eyes against the light and reach for the clasp. The Molossi disappear in the smoke and the light. Their voices fade to nothing.
And then you think you see her.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Monday, August 15, 2016
Got the bike today. ‘42 Monsun. Old piece-of-shit Reich bike. Magic powered, got some rosary beads from the convent down on Reagan that should get me as far as Tucson, maybe. The bastard broke down a couple of miles down the I-10. Pulled over and opened it up and spent two hours in the sun scraping forty years of caked resin from the altar chamber. Having fun.
A man in an old Chrysler Vril helped me jump start the bike. I still lose power sometimes and these slow-ass Chevys and Fords start passing me and honking and I give them the finger. I like this country.
Motel outside a town called Junction. Very quiet, very hot. The motel lady heard my accent and switched to Spanish. Answered her in English. I'm getting rid of the gun. I’m pretty sure the little girl saw it when I was packing the saddlebags. It’s fine. Her own Opa probably has his own gun. Mine sure did.
Long day tomorrow.