Tag Archives: blood

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #62

(Something a bit different, a break in the story that explains a bit more about the politics of T’Sing Tarleyn. Thankfully short!)

For more information on the early life of Chang-X, see Rise of the Supremacy – Its Military Strategy – Melkiar Invasions and Aftermath by Michele Dellman, freelance journalist and Supremacy chronicler with contributing annotations by Deles Kotmallo of Parnako. The following report is intended to help the reader understand how Elbre was ruled and what that meant for the women of that land, in case there are still doubts.

End blog post #61
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Begin blog post #62

 As found in earlier writings by chronicler of T’Sing Tarleyn history, Michele Dellman

 re: King Jestor Tassard of Elbre by Michele Dellman.

 King Jestor (Yes, it is  pronounced ‘jester’) Tassard the One Thousandth Three Hundred and Three was the king of Elbre until the hundredth day before the arrival of An’Tierra on T’Sing Tarleyn {ref: Avatari and WindWalkers – the tales of Al’Tara by Deles Kotmalo}  At that time he was deposed through the simple but expedient and definitive process we call murder, by his own son who became king Jestor Tassard the One Thousandth Three Hundred and Twenty Eight.  It must be noted that the son only followed his father’s example.  Jestor the “OTTHT” (not to be confused with his son, Jestor the “OTTHTE) had also murdered his own father to gain access to the throne.  It’s a little family tradition that has served them well, so why should we question it?

The number, by the way,  does not refer to how many “Jestors” have ridden the throne of Elbre to ignominy and infamy, but to the year of investiture of power of that particular Jestor. 

 “Old” king Jestor Tassard (Jestor the “OTTHT’) is an avid spectator and promoter of organized sports – of one organized sport, actually.  On the day of his bloody climb aboard the throne of Elbre – a kind of coronation à la Napoleon that included the sudden, inexplicable but timely death of his father–(the inexplicability of it already explained) he held the most lavish of feasts.  It became known in the Annals of the King Elbre as the greatest display of state sanctioned pleasure-killings ever organized in the kingdom city.

 As per the records kept by the Arena Council of Hyrete, three hundred and eight female fighters, concubines as well as hapless birth mothers, female sex slaves and worker drones, were officially butchered in the Hyrete arena, most of them under the approving eyes of the new king, his jealous uncle and heir apparent and their respective retinues.

The event lasted from sunrise to sunset over a period of exactly six days.  It is assumed by this researcher that on the seventh day, the poor king desperately needed an extended rest period.  The very last victim to grace the arena and titillate the entirely male spectator crowd was the king’s own beautiful young concubine whom he personally escorted, with a complement of twelve aides, down unto the bloody sands of the arena floor where she was stripped and handed a weapon – a staff actually – with which to defend herself from, and attack to kill, her challenger whom as you have likely deduced, was none other than king Jestor himself.

The petrified trembling girl dropped her staff in utter terror of striking the king and for that little mistake was promptly decapitated by her reproving lover.  In a final tribute to the supremacy of malehood, the king then proceeded to have sex with the decapitated body.  A fitting end to a perfect week to commemorate the enthroning of Clown Prince Jestor to king of the fair land of Elbre.

(Note: my use of the word Clown rather than Crown is deliberate)

“M. D.”

End blog post #62

A Trail of Vermillion Blood

 

I thought I’d end the day with a poem… and thinking about the times, and how we got here, a poem about blood.

    A Trail of Vermillion Blood
           a poem by    ~Sha’Tara~  

 
There’s a trail of vermillion blood
freshly painted in the sand – and
for a brief moment the wind holds –
still, silent, perhaps in awed recognition
of a billionth blood-bathed sacrifice
by some nobody of no consequence
needed by the map-makers
to draw a thin red line of destiny
in the desert map of man’s desire.
 
Anyone can follow the map now:
follow the red lines of history: roads
have grown, following man’s desires
long after the leaves fell from spectral trees 
under sand where nothing grows
since the beginning of time.

The very first red road you recall, 
they named Abel: it led to the land of Nod.
It was there they built forges for tools
and cities made of taller buildings
for lives trapped by shorter years.
 
There are so many red lines now,
criss-crossing each other, confusion in time,
not by the substance used:
the blood is as real as ever, of course,
but by its corrupting weight:
the map sags, bowed to ripping.
Have you ever bent down and listened,
ear to the surface of the painted desert,
there, in infamy, heard the death-rattle
of man’s billionth child sacrifice?
 
Another thin red line worms its way
a hundred ways from the back country
to where they continue to build the ever-taller city,
firing the forges churning out weapons
programmed to seek and destroy the sacred;
to blacken the skies and hide the stars:
the stars must be hidden – their light
too often troubles man’s dreams
with imaginings of possible change: that’s
a no-no.  The culprit (there is always one)
will be punished. (Of course, is there another way?)
 
It isn’t man’s fault, any of this you see,
for he was told long, long ago
that maps were essential to life
and the most important highways
to be drawn in bold red lines – for thus the Lord
would find his way when he returned. 

Thus would he know of man’s faithfulness
and payback time it would be
for those who failed to draw out and pour
the stranger’s blood upon the holy sand.

Oh,
let us prey,
for the Lord draweth nigh.
Would we have Him find us idle?
Bring out the blasphemer: 
Behold, the holy sacrifice!