[Rambling]

2213 AC

I decided

NOT

to throw out a public statement.

To tack onto that shit show.

It really doesn't need it.

But still... my words for the yapping dog:

So much as put a scratch on 
my nieces and nephews,
and you'll find out what happens to
bad little wolves, mutt.

[Rambling]

2216 AC

65 beats per minute. That is the rate of my heart. Very healthy.(1) This is important, in life and in hemomancy. The heart pumps its rhythm, the percussion of the body. As a song is ghostly without a drum to guide it, we are dead without the drumming of the heart. Beat after beat to keep the blood moving about on the solemn duty of self-fulfillment. The blood is pumped so we may live and to live the blood must pump.(2) Few can see this in practice but that rhythm is actually rather noteworthy. The spells that send forth crimson happen on the second beat of the pair. Ba-BUMP.(3) The heart fills and empties, and when it does - that moment is when network aligns, that cross between the potency of the physical blood, the intent within the magical circuitry, and the unconscious acts of our own flesh does power manifest.(4) Unconscious control over the rhythm of the heart and blood will give the impression of blood magic being cast upon a whim;(5) The impression that the beating of the heart doesn't have any sway over the timing of a spell's activation. 65 beats per minute. 65 windows of spell activation per minute when I am calm and not forcing my heart to beat at a low rate. In action I have not measured but it is easily around 100 beats per minute. More moments. Shorter windows, but more of them.(6) The blood continues to march along, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year.(7) It keeps happening. It will continue to march on.(8) Some erroneously say some pithy claim that the natural complete amount of beats a heart is capable of is something like 500,000 or 1 million but there is no hard cap on the amount of times a heart might skip a beat when I think of her. There is no set number of beats just as nobody has a set number of years - expectations notwithstanding. The medium of the blood, alas(9) being born of the flesh will wane in efficacy with one's vitality as age advances us into more mature and elder periods of one's life.(10) Nevertheless it remains potent at all stages. So often is it spilled in excess and driven out of the body, coating one's hands slick and red as they bleed out and realize that's not her hand in theirs.(11) Being the most active center point organ of the chest gives the symbolic precedence over organs that arguably do much more for the body - the brain being the seat of the soul, the lung filling with air, and the liver that filters poisons and illness (the liver is my favorite - damage to the liver is caused often by material that could have harmed the whole body, thus it sacrifices itself for a tragic cause).(12) The heart, the symbol of love and courage. Courage is fear denied command over the soul as grief is love with nowhere to go.(13) Magi in war, their hearts all pumping as hard as they can risk it all and often sacrifice themselves to a tragic cause.(14) The pumping of their own blood guides them and spills upon their own hand. The hand that held the hand of their heart's other half (oh, the heart has TWO chambers it should be known). The crimson stain where her palm ought to rest,(15) reddening with the excited pumps of blood that continue to march - every other beat an activation and moment one realizes they will never feel that hand again some day. Someday. Someday that crimson shroud(16) is going to come and takes us from each other forever and there is nothing that can be done about it. Once I was content with this, but now my heart races. 100 beats per minute. The blood pumping to fuel every action and spell, and every work of imagination.(17) One imagines the touch of her lips on theirs and the sound of children laughing. One imagines the final day - when it will be for the last time and never again. It cannot be predicted like 500,000 heart beats in a lifetime. It cannot be predicted. It could not be predicted when the last glance on a friend in a ballroom came.(18) It could not be foretold that the final words to the child grown were nothing but vitriol before his heart that beat it solemn duty was devoured for the benefit of parasites.(19) The parasites that come and bid one to lay down their duty to ensure such a thing never happens again.(20) The ones that float in that crimson shroud(21). The ones that could take your, or I, away forever. Coating the hand in blood that pumped for the sake of you. One day, and we will never know it, we will say "I love you" for the last time. Until then, until THEN, every second may very well be that last one.(22) Every moment with you must be treated as if it were the last. The fragile heart of the Aerodyne breaks when her beloved passes.(23) The heart of the Wolken, formed by clouds, threatens to fade into mist when his is gone.(24) Every moment, my Raven. Every minute. 65 beats per minute are made for one.



1. Healthy per the norm of the average adult male Wolken, of which I am not. Technically, at the age of 38, this is healthier than expected. Diet and exercise (mountain climbing, gardening, constant outdoor work) is a contributing factor to this health. No studies yet on the effects of the Ritual of Giant's Wane, but an effect was felt.
2. The heart beat sends blood through the body to facilitate other actions such as repairing muscle and fueling muscle with nutrients, among many many other purposes. If the heart does not pump, the body dies. Without a living body, the heart does not pump. Common sense but an amusing dissection.
3. Erroneous. It's more emphasized on the first beat: BA-bump.(3.5)
     3.5. Matter of opinion. Subjective observation.
4. The many cogs of the clock turn to allow the time to be told. The many hands that serve the realm clutch at a better future.
5. If these things took no effort there would frankly be no non-magi. On a minuscule scale there is effort so intricate and complex that the performer does not realize how amazing they are. The average person is blissfully unaware of the wonders of their own body.How much damage you can take that would be devastating to many other lifeforms that are magically unaided, even if you lacked magic entirely yourself.(5.5)
     5.5. Sarradians, Neries, Synthetics notwithstanding.
6. Gods I can be so damn frantic on the field. Izmael looks at be scrambling about and sighs in pity. Pity for scampering. For the man with a uncertain amount of hearts and the tendency to skitter his nerves. I aim to end things quickly, not drag the matter out for ages.
7. Happy birthday, everyone. This year I am 38 years old. This year, you are all still teenagers. I can barely remember your vices and faces when I try now, but I know them.
8. We have no choice but to endure. Our hearts have no choice but to keep beating. So she would say when she isn't napping in Sir Richter's arms.
9. Use "alas" less. Pretentious shit.
10. Following the performance of the ritual of Giant's Wane which has clearly shown who allies with the void in this hel hole of a continent, those whose races are blessed by the pantheon have experienced an uncertain increase in their life expectancy. How long do I have left is nebulous and not worth considering. Not worth considering. Not worth thinking about. Not worth remembering.(10.5)
     10.5. Alys died at 40.
          10.75. Galahad wasn't even 20 I think.
               10.88. See note 7.
11. We were just resting in that dream realm under that illusion of Solais. I knew then I wanted to ask for your hand someday. Instead it would you who took my hand in yours and committed your heart to me in a jail cell while the neighbor(11.5) threw a tantrum.
     11.5. And I hate myself most of all for the day I assigned that name unto It, the lover of Bargiel, weapon of Amarti, the Parasite among Parasites.
12. Incomplete, spent too much time rambling about the liver and forgot I had a point to make.
13. It is said that among the pantheon, Caius and Nemea may share at the very least some common understanding as one is the God of Death & Love while the other is the Goddess of Grief. Veracity of whether or not they truly have such an understanding is questionable. More likely they disagree on choice of beverage.
14. The crusade will go on until completion. Beyond its purpose. There is a torn heart to avenge.
15. That day when we spoke over tea so long ago and we took our armor off. I never appreciated how good shedding the weight felt. How we talked about our woes and hopes and fears. The way the light glinted off your feathers as you groomed. To this day, seeing you kissed by the glow of Solais shatters my heart and rebuilds in ecstatic seconds. Every day like the first.
16. 
17. I am asked how I feel and I tell my heart's truth. They chastise me for my impotent fury. Now I say little. I sit. I act grumpy. Inside, I see each of the parasites that vex us drowned in their own blood. The sound of the cracking of bone and the rip of flesh. The anticipated satisfaction of this conclusion. But no, I am told, this is not the way. No one to speak to about this. Who am I to speak with? Izmael, like the Duchess thinks I ought to? I will not trouble my Raven with it. And oh my patron is ever out of reach.
18. One true injustice in your loss is that it gave the loud parasite Veythar an excuse to stain your memory. Now, your killers work with him. I never should have tried to stir a single Sanctuarian heart at your funeral.(18.5)
     18.5. Never.
19. You deserved none of this. This should never have happened. It is impossible to go back to the way things were now, or even to attempt something close to that. It's impossible now. It's impossible to ask you to forgive me. It will never happen. Ever trace of the parasites could be erased from the world and you would still be beyond hearing. I can never atone for this.(19.5)
     19.5. NEVER.
20. Veiled threats to one and one's family does not stir the heart in the way Vendal of Speira thinks it does. Perhaps it's because he lacks one entirely?
21. Me?
22. Perdegrine is hardy and enduring in climates most flowers freeze in. Humble and small, yet key in alchemical rejuvenation. Something that heals after enduring harsh winter. Do you see it, my Raven? Why I would consider it the best flower I could ever gift unto you?
23. Verifiable statement if somewhat folklore-like in presentation.
24. My heart is made of muscle, sinew, blood, anger, and a pinch of fear of losing you. All of which fades like a morning fog, in the end.

[Rambling]

The end of 2221 AD

In my dream I was drowning in a shallow tub. There was no fight in me because I didn't fear how it filled my lungs. The gaps in my sinuses filled with it. My chest screamed as my lung swelled with fluid. Flowing like water, but tasting like blood. I went limp. Lifeless but not dead. Not one move or twitch from my fingers. The tub drains. My lungs clear. I do not move still.

A scalpel unseen carves into my side. Opens me up. Cuts through the wall. Performs sectio transversalis. Ground up charcoal is stuffed onto my ailing lungs and onto the incision. I hear the blades click click click. Claws, not a blade. Nails. I am revived despite never dying.

But there is no coal. There is no scalpel or claws. Non potes redire. You made me proud when I had failed you. You persevered where I faltered. Nothing remains of you now. Just like back then with her. Fifteen years. Time, a flat circle. The world, the stage. The same play, every night, under the gaze of the conqueror worm it is the same, the same. the same five acts. Each night. Just like this dream. 

Come to the stage no more. Let the curtain fall. Let the dream end. Go find your new role.

There is no coal. There is no scalpel. Not even the tub, or the room the tub was in. Only one thing remains.

Blood.

The binding agent.
The means and the end. 

The Sangre Sagrada.

The work will be completed.