I’m starting almost from zero - I did last year’s Summertime Fine but only exercised sporadically since then. Maybe 1-2 Sydney workouts a week if any, ramping up a bit the last month or so.
It is insane the results I am already seeing and feeling! My quads and hamstrings feel strong as fuck. I had a jump scare today when I brushed against one arm with the other and it was HARD? I don’t feel like I’m dying during the workouts and I am actually looking forward to them.
Usually it takes at least a month for me to get to that point but I’m so encouraged so far! My main goal is to lose weight but I’ve had to ignore the scale because I have a hunch the muscle I’m gaining is throwing it off. Yay!

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Synopsis:
Juliette Contzen is a lazy, good-for-nothing princess. Overshadowed by her siblings, she's left with little to do but nap, read … and occasionally cut the falling raindrops with her sword. Spotted one day by an astonished adventurer, he insists on grading Juliette's swordsmanship, then promptly has a mental breakdown at the result.
Soon after, Juliette is given the news that her kingdom is on the brink of bankruptcy. At threat of being married off, the lazy princess vows to do whatever it takes to maintain her current lifestyle, and taking matters into her own hands, escapes in the middle of the night in order to restore her kingdom's finances.
Tags: Comedy, Adventure, Action, Fantasy, Copious Ohohohohos.
Chapter 241: Until Now
The doors to the Hartzwiese Adventurer’s Guild opened.
Before, the sound of raucous laughter could be heard flooding the street outside, filling the quiet of a spring night with all the debauchery the local drunkards had to offer.
Despite the halls of adventurers not being formal drinking establishments, those within were ready to compete in boisterousness with all the taverns, inns and pubs of the town combined. And also win. Handily.
And yet–
The moment the doors parted and I stepped within, a hush as quiet as any grave fell over its inhabitants.
A woman balancing with her derrière upon the head of another became still, the alcohol in her cup the only movement as it dribbled onto a stunned face below her.
A man slurping from the communal cauldron stared wordlessly, the stew pouring in, and then out of his mouth as the muscles of his throat forgot the means to swallow.
A bartender asleep upon a row of kegs quietly rose, the sudden din of silence waking him where the sound of debauchery and those drinking from the taps beside him had failed.
Here, there, and everywhere, eyes widened as the sudden silence was filled with the sounds of my footsteps as I strolled past, my loyal handmaiden and my brother’s attendant in my wake.
And also–
Mreow.
Mrewowow.
Meww.
Cats.
Tabby cats.
Calico cats.
Ragdoll cats.
Cats with twirly whiskers. Cats with puffy faces. Cats with slightly rounded ears.
Behind me, skipping around my legs while taking turns to sit upon my shoulders and very occasionally my head, were a legion of cats of various shapes, sizes and colours.
But no matter the springiness of their whiskers, the shine of their coat or the liveliness of their tails, one thing to bring them all together was the anarchy they caused.
This was no neat line of ducklings following after their mother.
This was a barbarian horde.
With no sense of organisation other than a shared drive to claim everything as their own, they immediately skipped amidst the stunned adventurers, scavenging for all the copious scraps while still turning their noses away from the alcohol forming sticky traps upon the floor.
Saying nothing, I allowed their demanding cries to fill up the hall as I swept forwards, pausing before a wall plastered from end to end with faded notices and requests long gone unanswered.
One by one, I systemically tore every request featuring a crudely drawn image of a cat, gathering into my arms a pile of parchment large enough to reach my chin.
Then, I made my way to the wooden desk.
A receptionist waited with a smile at the ready.
“Greetings! Welcome to the Hartzwiese branch of the Adventurer’s Guild. I see you’ve removed several notices from the–”
Poomph.
Silenced but unperturbed, this latest clone watched as I dropped the stack of requests onto her desk, before promptly topping off the stack with a copper ring.
“Do what must be done,” I said, my voice defiant. “I am ready.”
The receptionist answered me with a smile more permanent than the wall the notices were torn from.
A moment later–
“[Identify].”
A green hue appeared in her clasped palms as she assessed the ring.
“Juliette. B-rank. Your registered branch is Reitzlake.”
The sound of several cups clattered against the floor.
“Welcome again to Hartzwiese. I see from your commission history that you have an extraordinary amount of completions for recovering lost cats. May I assume the significant number of cats now roaming the branch hall relate to the notices removed from the wall?”
I pursed my quivering lips.
“Maybe.”
“Wonderful. And how many cats is it that you’ve rescued?”
“... Lots.”
“I see. Please give me a moment while I confirm the requirements of our commissions.”
The receptionist swiftly retrieved a stack of parchment from a drawer.
As she flicked through, her eyes simultaneously went to every cat roaming, napping and clawing in the hall. A skill not even monstrous overseers from the abyss with their dozens of eyestalks could match. But that’s only to be expected.
Wherever these receptionists were found, it was from a level deeper than any monster dared roam.
Eventually, she gave a nod.
“Thank you for waiting. There appears to be an excess of cats in relation to the number of commissions we have available. We’ll endeavour to ensure that every cat is rehomed at the earliest opportunity through our partner agencies and charities. But unfortunately, I can only provide official acknowledgement for cats rescued through a formal commission.”
I sucked in a deep breath, hoping that patience was one of the things I accidentally inhaled.
“Fine. And how many commissions does that end up being, then? … 10? 15?”
The receptionist flicked through her bundle of parchments once more.
“94.”
“... Excuse me?”
“I can confirm the successful completion of 94 simultaneous F-ranked commissions. Congratulations. This is a new record, breaking what appears to be one earlier set by yourself. A remarkable achievement befitting a B-rank member of the guild.”
The receptionist’s professional smile never wavered.
I thought that would be the worst of it.
But then–
She slowly brought her hands together … and started applauding.
It was the leak which broke the dam.
At once, she was joined by all who were present to witness this crowning moment of regret.
I turned around in time to see a riot in motion.
“W-Wooooooooooo!!!!”
“In … Incredible …”
“A new record … I … I heard it was broken in Trierport … to think I’d witness it broken again!”
“A B-rank adventurer … ?! Where … Where did she come from … ?!”
There was no polite, respectful applause here.
It was the wild cheering of a crowd at a tournament. The whooping cries of theatregoers calling for an encore. The acclaim of my father as he elbowed others to delight in the poetry I’d written when I was 6 and thus now regularly attempted to burn.
Everywhere I turned, I saw and heard the acclaim mixed with shouts of horror as mugs of alcohol were spilled on purpose and by accident. The layabouts stomped on the floor, doing their best to murder decorum under the strain of unbridled emotion.
Only a few falling teardrops formed any hint of more dignified revelry, the glimmer of admiration running down cheeks as sniffles were hidden amidst the raucous cheering.
And then I bore witness to the most morbid sight.
Like a tidal wave of soiled clothes and snotty faces, they suddenly came as one, hands reaching out for me with dripping mugs still in their grips. Horror struck at my soul. And unlike a farmer who’d scarpered into the night, I had nobody who could heal a wound caused by hooligans accepting me as their own.
“A-Amazing!! Take my drink! Take anyone’s drink!!”
“So many cats rescued … even my allergies can’t believe it!”
“My gods, it’s a legend! An adventurer among adventurers!”
This.
This right here.
This was the lowest point of my life … were I not an unparalleled genius.
“Oho … ohoho …”
At once, the wave halted.
Faces which were lit up in unabashed delight turned to looks of mild confusion against the tinkling music of my laughter.
They needed to cycle through the expressions until they reached horror and shame.
“Ohhohohohohohoho!!”
… For I was no drunkard seeking to join their ranks!
No … I was Juliette Contzen, 3rd Princess to the Kingdom of Tirea!
And that meant every action I took, every word I spoke, and every cat I saved was for a reason beyond the hopes and dreams these hoodlums had of wanton debauchery and rusting swords!
Indeed!
A lesser princess than I may slink away into the night, cowed by the utter shame, humiliation and disgrace of completing so many F-ranked requests that I somehow broke a record I’d only just set!
But I was made of greater things!
Of schemes and subterfuges so deep that it would take too long to explain! The plots I weaved were a silken web more intricate than any cogs which made up Coppelia as she doubled up, desperately trying to stop herself from succumbing to more pain from laughter!
And that meant with every cat request now denied to these louts … they would finally do some work!
“Ohoho … ohohohohoho!! Behold and be afraid! Witness before you the coming of a new dawn, here to lift you from your days of boundless reverie! Unfurl the shutters and gaze upon a radiance so pure it brands your dallying minds! The scorching sun has come to test the snail’s back, and all that your bleary eyes see is a great salt lake to devour you whole! Shrivel as you cling upon the sweat which drips upon your brow, for that is the proof you’re yet alive!”
A sudden silence met my proclamation of their coming ordeal.
And then–
“Wooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
“I don’t understand! But what a speech!”
“If she can do it, so can we!”
I raised a hand to my lips, barely covering my smile.
“Ohhhohohohohohohoho … !”
Here it was!
Operation: Gainful Employment!
An entirely new strategy, as bold as it was uncharted!
By removing what was surely the vast majority of missing cat quests available to the adventurers of this town, they would have no choice, utterly none whatsoever, but to engage in actual work! The type of work adventurers openly advertised themselves as doing!
Monster subjugation! Crime prevention! Fetching artifacts from hidden dungeons and then succumbing to their wounds at the entrance while the Royal Treasury pocketed the treasure!
Yes, this was clearly a highly experimental tactic.
But what was I, if not a bastion of creativity?
At the very least, I utterly refused to accept the status quo! An organisation dedicated exclusively to rescuing lost cats or elbowing into my kingdom’s sovereign affairs was no good to me!
Thus … I could not cower like some towngirl nauseous from the smell of their revelry.
Instead, I would squeeze the Adventurer’s Guild dry until the day I replaced them with an army of trained poodles. Until that joyous day, I could never tear my eyes away when they waited to be robbed.
To do so was more than a dereliction of duty …
Why, I’d be an accomplice to their drunken escapades!
My vow remained unchanged. For my goal, I would brave any indignity. The ring I was hoping the receptionist would forget to return was proof of that.
And thus–
I stood tall as a summer reed, proud in the knowledge that I had no need to feel even an inkling of embarrassment over completing 94 simultaneous F-ranked commissions! …
“Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft.”
“S-Stop at once! You are not to laugh!”
“Pffffttt~”
“C-Coppelia!!”
Clearly not seeing the angel of self-sacrifice who I was, Coppelia held one hand tightly around her mouth. Even so, she failed to stop either the sound of her amusement or the tears falling from her eyes.
My only salvation was that it came at significant cost to her. Even now, she careened between laughter and painful regret.
I decided to offer both her and myself mercy.
Turning to the receptionist, I found a modest pouch already waiting upon the wooden desk. As well as a copper ring waiting beside it.
“Thank you for your service to the Adventurer’s Guild,” said the receptionist, her professional smile undaunted by the commotion. “Your total remuneration is 102 gold crowns, 7 silver crowns and 9 copper crowns. I’ve taken the liberty to compile all your separate payments together.”
I took the pouch and ignored the ring.
The receptionist pushed the ring forwards.
A long moment later, I collected it, uncertain what a receptionist would do if I tossed it into the communal cauldron, but knowing it would somehow still end up on my finger regardless.
With my head held high, I bravely ignored the chorus of voices unknowingly cheering for their own hardship as I swept past. Renewed tears and applause filled the hall. A few cats attempted to follow me. I stopped to shoo them away.
And then I was outside, the door closing behind me.
“... Goodness, that was quite the sight,” said Renise with a bemused smile. “It reminded me somewhat of the inns of Reitzlake’s docks. I wonder if all the halls of adventurers are like that, or merely those which you frequent?”
“Please don’t insinuate I’m responsible for the debauchery which occurs wherever the Adventurer’s Guild is concerned. That’s something I can claim no credit for.”
“You say that … but to me, it seems that you caused quite a stir. That really is a remarkable number of cats you rescued, after all. Even I can tell that 94 simultaneous F-ranked commissions–”
“Miss Renise.”
The maid’s smile wavered against whatever fatigued expression I was making.
A moment later, it fell away entirely as she switched to her role as my brother’s attendant and the leader of whatever scoundrels he’d charged her with herding.
“... Yes, I suppose there’s time for idle conversation later. There’s a guardhouse nearby. We should report on all that’s happened tonight.”
I gave a nod of agreement.
Hopefully, the baroness hadn’t woken from her stupor yet. But if she had, I was certain the single portrait of myself I’d returned to the wall of her gallery to smile down at her gagged and bound state would calm her nerves.
Renise hummed towards the direction of Hartzwiese’s centre, before returning her attention to me.
“If you wish to keep your identity incognito, I can see guards sent to where they’re needed using my own authority, and arrange for the appropriate seizure of the goods and crowns we’ve discovered.”
I beamed at once.
My, so prudent! It’s little wonder she was chosen by Roland!
“A judicious offer. And one I’ll accept gladly, providing the burden isn’t too severe.”
“This is merely an administrative task, and little burden compared to what both yourself and Miss Coppelia regularly perform. In any event, it is only efficient. I expect I’ll be spending a significant amount of time at the baroness’s farmstead. It is quite extensive. If possible, I would like to make use of it for Rose House. I imagine having such a facility close to the Granholtz border would have its uses.”
I nodded, already forgetting the barn’s existence.
“I encourage you to use your discretion as required. My brother has put his trust in you, and so I both expect and know that you shall not disappoint in furthering the kingdom’s prosperity.”
The young woman smiled. One filled with appreciation, but also lacking ambition.
Good.
An excellent combination as far as retainers were concerned.
“Thank you. Although I worry you place too much trust in my abilities. In truth, those like Baroness Arisa would have made for a greater asset to the kingdom. Her resourcefulness must be acknowledged.”
“It is not resourcefulness my kingdom requires. It is loyalty. And hers is a pit so empty it drains others.”
“That’s true. But at least we were able to acquire some useful things from her nonetheless.”
Renise pulled out a tiny vial from the belt around her thigh.
A golden liquid was stored within, glimmering with an unnatural light.
“These were in her chamber,” she said, her eyes lacking emotion as she surveyed the bright liquid. “When we met, she actually attempted to purchase my loyalty with this.”
“A suspect vial. How quaint. And what miracle did she promise?”
“One that would wake my parents from their curse of eternal slumber.”
“... And is it?”
“I don’t believe so, no. This is one of many identical vials I found in her chamber’s desk drawer. All prominently labelled with instructions to only drink as required to stave off the effects of bloating.”
Renise returned the vial to her belt with a slightly embarrassed smile.
“It’s still useful,” she admitted. “But just not for what I require.”
I gave a simple nod as my reply.
Nothing else needed to be said.
She hoped to see her parents wake from their prison of dormancy. An understandable wish. And one I wasn’t required to supplement with the comment that no pair named the Smuggler King and the Smuggler Queen were likely to receive as light a sentence as their daughter.
I could not speak on behalf of Roland. Although I imagined that as a kind man, he would prefer not to pass judgements which were total. But as the Crown Prince, he did not have the luxury of kindness.
It would take much to change their fate.
But perhaps that’s why Renise was here, still proving true, and not accepting stomach ailment potions from a baroness.
A moment of silence followed.
Renise gave a short sigh. And that was that.
She set her eyes on the task ahead–at least until whatever words she’d parted her mouth to say were interrupted by Coppelia’s humming instead.
“Sooooooooooooooo … you just want to wake up two people eternally sleeping, right?”
A small smile met her optimistic voice.
“If a cure were readily available, I’m certain I would have found it by now. I believe one might be possible, but it would take skill and ingredients beyond any apothecary I know of.”
“Well, sure, you could go that way. But what about going straight to the source instead?”
“The source?”
“Sure. They’re asleep, right? So just ask the one in charge of where they are now.”
“I’m … not quite sure I follow?”
Coppelia clapped her hands together and beamed.
“The Spring Court is the realm of dreams. Chances are, they must have shown their faces around a few times by now. If you ask the Spring Queen nicely, she might do you a favour.”
“The Spring Queen? … The fae?”
“Mmh~ luckily, we have someone with connections here!”
Renise was startled out of her reply.
It was nothing compared to me. The one being pointed at.
“Coppelia!” I said, truly aghast at the suggestion. “The fae are not to be taken lightly. Why, I still have nightmares about my conversation with the Winter Queen! I learned a side to royalty that day which I shall never forget … and I’m quite poorer for it!”
“You met … the Winter Queen?” asked Renise, her eyes suddenly wide.
“Unfortunately, yes, but I had zero intention of meeting her, and I’ve just as little intention of meeting any other fae as well. Including the Spring Queen.”
I waved away the coming query to declare what was just as important as my lack of enthusiasm.
“Besides, I’ve not the foggiest idea how I would even hope to use these supposed connections I have.”
“Oh, that’s the easy bit,” said Coppelia, her casual disregard for what counted as ‘easy’ more terrifying than any lout I’d met today. “The hard part is getting them to do what you want. But meeting them? The fae are creatures of stories. If the time is right, they’ll speak to you–one way or another.”
“Then they must book an appointment. One which I can formally reject.”
“I mean, I don’t think you have much choice. You didn’t last time, right?”
“The last time, I was sat beside the Winter Queen’s crown. I see no fae artifacts to hook me away. And that means utterly no scenario in which I could be abducted without my express–”
I suddenly stopped, clasping my hands around my mouth.
A moment later, I raised my arms in a martial art I’d just invented, turning repeatedly on the spot.
Renise blinked at me.
“Excuse me, but what are–”
“Shhshhshh!!”
I paused, gazing intently around at the quiet, dark streets of Hartzwiese, all the while ignoring Coppelia’s giggling at my near miss.
That … That was close!
“O-Oho … oho … I almost invited something terrible. Truly, it’s perhaps best not to needlessly voice things which Fae Queens and their deviant brand of magic could use …”
Coppelia nodded at me, as proud as she was clearly disappointed.
“You’re lucky. If the Spring Queen had a sense of humour, she’d have snagged you right there and then.”
“No. If the Spring Queen had a sense of humour, she’d wait until–”
Click.
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So I started doing dips. And I bench.
I have this weird thing that started where if I move my arms back, or my shoulders back I can feel my muscle fibers in my chest like readjust or lock back into place or something.
It’s not painful but it’s definitely startling. And I’m wondering if I pulled something or what…I dunno any thoughts?

Chapter 3: The Nightmare Made Flesh
The full moon cast an eerie glow over the quiet streets of Willowbrook as Sheriff Ethan Blackwood patrolled the town, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of the creature that had been terrorizing the community. The past few days had been a waking nightmare – the brutal attacks, the mounting fear, the desperate search for answers. And now, with the revelation of the glowing eyes and otherworldly growl that Deputy Sarah Harding had witnessed in the woods, Ethan couldn't shake the feeling that they were dealing with something far beyond their understanding.
As he turned onto a deserted side street, a sudden movement caught his eye. Ethan slammed on the brakes, his heart pounding as he peered into the darkness. There, illuminated in the harsh glare of his headlights, stood a figure that defied all reason and sanity.
It was humanoid in shape, but there was nothing human about the creature that loomed before him. Standing at nearly six and a half feet tall, it had a bipedal stance that was uncannily human, but its body was a grotesque parody of the human form. Its limbs were elongated and disproportionate, with a hunched, unnatural posture that spoke of a twisted, inhuman anatomy.
The creature's skin was a sickly grayish-brown, mottled with patches of dark, coarse hair that sprouted in uneven clumps across its body. Its face was a nightmarish fusion of human and bestial features, with sunken, feral eyes that glowed an eerie yellow in the darkness. Its nose was flattened and broad, with large, flaring nostrils that twitched and quivered as it caught Ethan's scent. And its mouth...its mouth was a jagged maw filled with misshapen teeth that protruded at odd angles, giving it a perpetual, horrifying snarl.
As Ethan watched in mute horror, the creature began to change before his eyes. Its body convulsed and twitched, bones snapping and reshaping beneath its skin. Flesh rippled and bulged as muscles grew and shifted, and the sickening sound of tearing skin filled the air as the beast's form stretched and contorted into something even more monstrous.
The creature's arms elongated into long, spindly limbs that ended in gnarled, clawed hands, almost human in appearance but tipped with wickedly sharp talons. Its legs grew more powerful, more canine, with digitigrade feet that looked capable of propelling it forward with terrifying speed and agility.
And through it all, the creature's eyes never left Ethan's, burning with a malevolent intelligence that spoke of a human mind trapped within a monstrous form.
Ethan sat frozen, his mind reeling with the sheer wrongness of the thing before him. This was no animal, no mere beast. It was an abomination, a perversion of nature itself.
Then suddenly the creature threw back its head and let out a howl that shook Ethan to his very core – a sound of pure, unleashed bloodlust and fury. Then, with a speed that defied belief, it lunged forward, its jaws snapping and its claws outstretched.
Ethan barely had time to react, throwing the car into reverse and slamming on the gas. The tires screeched as he careened backwards, desperate to put distance between himself and the nightmare made flesh. In the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of the creature bounding after him, its powerful legs eating up the ground with terrifying speed.
Ethan's hands shook as he fumbled for the radio, his voice cracking as he called for backup. He knew how it would sound, knew the disbelief and terror his words would inspire. But he had no choice. The people of Willowbrook were in mortal danger, and it was his sworn duty to protect them.
Even if it meant facing down a monster straight out of humanity's darkest nightmares.
As he waited for his deputies to arrive, Ethan's mind raced with questions. What was this creature? Where had it come from? And most importantly...how could they hope to stop it?
He didn't have the answers. But one thing was clear.
The hunt was on.
And this time, the prey was a twisted fusion of man and beast, a creature of fang and claw and insatiable hunger.
Ethan took a deep breath, his hand tightening on his gun. He didn't know what horrors the coming days would bring, what nightmares they would have to confront.
But he knew one thing.
He would not rest until the streets of Willowbrook were safe once more.
Until the creature lay dead at his feet, and the long night of terror was finally over.
No matter the cost, he would see this through to the bitter end.
For the sake of his town, his people.
And for the memory of all those lost to the beast's savage hunger.

So I've had health issues for 20 years ever since getting h.pylori and it going untreated for 6+ months. I also have IBS, had PCOS and in 2022 yeeted my uterus and all its little friends. (It had everything hut cancer growing in it )
Before my hysterectomy my colon spasms went to a ridiculous level and they put me on muscle relaxers for it. Still have issues to this day, when my estrogen dips low it flares it up.
I've had post exertion malaise for years but thought it was just my wonky body.
Last Nov I got my 6th 'rona shot (I'm pro science and doctors). I sailed thru the first five shots with nary an issue other than a sore arm. I thought I sailed thru the 6th one as well until 48 hours had passed and the colon spasms of death hit me. I ended up being off work miderabl in pain, exhausted, nauseated, you name it for two months. When I went back to work after Christmas I was still exhausted and still am to this day.
Im at the point where I only work two days a week, (I'm a private music teacher) and teaching one day wears me out . Shoot just showering and putting on makeup does me in most days.
I got a referral to an Endocrinologist and saw her and went thru testing for Cushings and Lupus. Negative on both but have a positive ANA that is speckled. She referred me to a Rheumatologist to try and figure out what is going on with my body. But the rheumatologist won't make an apt with me until I have a diagnosis and supporting evidence. Who exactly is supposed to diagnose me Sir? I'm trying to find out what I have! SO frustrating.
Apparently I should have went to med school because now I'm having to be my own doctor and do all the research which is great when youre exhausted and barely functioning.
My Endo thinks (and I agree) that the last shot woke something up in me or activated/flare up an existing autoimmune disease. But what, we don't know. And again I'm pro science and vaccines so please don't think I'm some crazy nut job.
All that to say, does anyone have any suggestions on things to test? My PCP is great about ordering whatever labs I ask for. Endo couldn't order the ENA panel bc of INS so PCP had to order it. I really thought I had lupus so to find out I didn't, and be back at square one is really disheartening.
I just want to be able to live my life a little bit more than constantly being on the couch or in bed.

This is going to be a long post but whatever, some doctors think i do, others dont, others are confused as shit and when i ask if i have hEDS they go ‘well no?’ And then when i ask ‘so i domt have hEDS?’ And they go ‘well no you do, you have hypermobile syndrome’ (trying to translate best i can, in portuguese its confusing. They say no to hEDS but also say no to not having it)
Anyways here some are my syproms, id appreciate your thoughts and shit and if i should contimue trying to figure this out or not. Its going to be another 8 months before i can dream of seeing a specialist so yeah. Thanks a lot. I removed the pics because its a lot of pics and i guess you guys get the gyst of it

• Hyper mobility/unknown conective tissue disorder related symptoms:
  • Blood pooling (picture inserts bellow)
  • 7/9 beightons scale
  • Meeting the 2017 diagnostic criteria (1, 2b, 2c, 3)
  • Skin writing
  • Popping joints back into place
  • Semi loss of bladder control leading to a few incidents and going to the bathroom up to 10x a day
  • Extreme muscle fatigue in my joints leading to severe nerve pain and muscle spasms that have lead me to uncontrollably bash my knees against tables, jerk my arms and throw pencils across rooms or to the floor and then searing nerve pain that makes my muscle feel as if its on fire
  • Either feeling constipated or having dhiarea with no aparent reason
  • POTS partly caused veins not being able to constrict due to lax conective tissue which then causes nausea and even with medication because my heart isnt beating as fast i still get light headed and blood pressure drops
  • Research on the conection between POTS and conective tissue disorders such as EDS for reference:
    • https://www.standinguptopots.org/EDS
    • https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7282488/
    • https://normalyte.com/blogs/news/the-eds-pots-connection
    • https://connect.mayoclinic.org/blog/ehlers-danlos-syndrome/newsfeed-post/eds-and-pots/
  • Orthostatic intolerance due to veins not being able to constrict and control blood flow leading to blood pooling and pre syncope
  • Getting bruised extremly easily, a light bump can cause a bruise and i find random bruises with no cause
  • Extreme joint and muscle pain
  • Severe joint instability that keeps progressing despite 4 years of physical therapy and 1 year of clinical pilates
  • Feeling like holding my head up properly is extremly painful for prolonged periods of time (an hour) aswell as back pain despite proper posture and excercise.
  • Joint subluxations
    • Elbows (worried about it progressing to a full dislocation)
    • Hips
    • Lumbar spine
    • Knees
    • Ankles
    • Finger tips
    • Wrists
    • Thumbs
    • Jaw
  • Easily rolling ankles
  • Knee pain and subluxations when walking and primarily climbing up stairs
  • Ankle rolling constantly multiple times a day when walking
  • Constant heart burn
  • Having trouble swallowing food which is being looked into by my gi as an issue caused by my conective tissue not working properly and making swallowing difficult
  • Constant joint clicking and having to manualy pull and fix a variety of joints on a monthly basis and most notibly during strength and stretching exercises in clinical pilates especially with my knees and elbows
  • Yoga mats having in good condition having caused a scar that lasted up to 2 weeks pretty visibly (pictures bellow from day 1 to week 2
  • Scars taking a long time to heal
  • Easily irritated skin (pictures bellow, example of what happens after i take of my braces despite using lotion and leggings to ptotect my skin)
  • Stretch marks without any weight growth or loss
  • Inflamed joints when waking up
  • Shin splints
  • Choking while drinking water Or breathing
  • Struggling with swallowing (GI doc thinks its related to hypermobility and lax conective tissue)
  • Having odd and unussual reactions to medication such as it not affecting me or having weird side effects such as medication of sleeping waking me up or
  • Chronic widespread pain related to fatigue, muscle exhaustion, joint instability
  • Chronic insomnia since childhood caused a lot by discomfort while sleeping because my shoulders keep going to far and it hurts but i cant keep them in place and my neck hurts and no pillow or position helps releive the pressure
  • Foot papules
  • Blue sclera
  • Teeth overcrowding
  • Slightly narrow pallet
  • ribs popping in and out of place
  • needing to move my throat around because it keeps getting stuck and uncomfortable
  • possible cci

So yeah give me your opinions please, would really appreciate it thank youuuuu

Cody approached her door, his hand poised to knock, this is wrong. I'm coming here with such bad news and on top of that I'm thinking about how I can use this to my advantage. Cody sighed as he knocked, there was the sound of movement inside, a click, then the door cracked open to reveal. . . Piercing red eyes glaring at him.
“What do you want?” Skarlet grumbled, Cody placed his hand on the door and pushed. Her eyes widened in surprise as he opened his mouth.
“Aiko and Amethyst have been kidnapped, can I come in?” After his words her resistance disappeared as her face was shadowed in a dark look. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. “why don't we sit down and talk.” Skarlet nodded as she sat down on her bed, he couldn't help but look at her eyes as he sat down on her desk chair. She had a swirl of emotions, a nervous toe tapping. Her tail was flicking with anxiety while her ears were displaying alertness, pointed outwards with a slightly lowered stance.
This wasn't really his expectation, he'd never seen her shy from a fight like this, she always seemed to run at a fight. Though the way she ran towards fights was more like she was running from something.
“Spit it out, what happened?” She spoke like normal, crude, but this time with a hint of hesitance and maybe was that fear.
“I don't know the specifics, I was a bit too late, I saw it though. Aiko and Amethyst were heading home from the Guild like me when. . . They got snatched and dragged into an alley, I immediately moved to help and I did hear fighting. They didn't go silently, well until they did. Suddenly it got really quiet, when I arrived in the alley they were both gone. I was surprised, teleportation is an extremely advanced spell.” Cody explained what he saw, but it only brought more anxiety and fear to Skarlet. “I'm Here to ask you to help me.”
“No.” She spoke almost instinctively, and it was such a fast response that Cody was taken aback. “I-I mean, I can't. . . I can't do that I'll only make it worse.” She explained as her voice cracked, he was further surprised as tears seemed to be pushing against the edge of her eyes.
“Uh, I um. . . I never expected that answer.” Cody was surprised, Skarlet didn't seem to care as she flipped over and curled up. He frowned but a decision surfaced. He decided to push.
“Skarlet, if you're making the decision not to participate because your conscience rests easy, I'll save them. You shouldn't use that crutch. I won't be saving them.” Skarlet's entire body froze, previously she'd had little movements like her tail anxiously twitching, her ears seemed focused on him even as they pressed against her head. But when he said that she completely froze, even stopped breathing for a moment as she exploded out of her ball. An intense rage and bloodlust exploded before dissipating as a deep longing and desperation filled her eyes. The tears no longer threatened to fall, no they poured.
She was off the bed, clutching him as her eyes tried to pierce his soul. The look on her face as she desperately uttered a cracked hesitant “why?” Stabbed his heart and tried ripping it to shreds.
“Cause they aren't my friends, why would I go out of my way to help strangers. Their adventurers, they're supposed to take care of themselves.” He spoke coldly, hardening his face as her hands shook. He could see it in her eyes, her mind was reeling.
“So let me ask you again, are you gonna save them, your friends will die tonight if you do nothing.” As he said that she fell back, her back making a thud against the bed frame. She didn't react though, her mind was processing. The tears got heavier, she shook her head and dug her nails into her skin. Blood dripped down her arm, she was struggling against the desire to help someone conflicted with her fears. Cody wasn't sure what she was so afraid of, but Even he could tell that he was seeing the fear that always kept her running towards the next fight.
“I. . . No, I shou- nooo, I can't I can't. I. . . This is my. . . I'm sorry.” A broken unintelligible sentence came out as she broke down into sobs.
Finally, his heart shattered, he couldn't do it anymore as he slipped from the chair and sat beside her. He sighed and felt like shit as he pulled her close. For the first time since he met her she didn't resist, no she leaned into him. Going from the fierce resistance of a knife to his throat just for suggesting they run a commission together to this was. . . Shocking. She sobbed as he ran his fingers through her hair, I did this, I riled all her emotions, pushed her to the brink, then kicked her off it. I can't leave her like this. He thought as he finally spoke.
“I'll save them, just promise me one thing.” She didn't stop crying, or respond. But her tense muscles relaxed as she leaned into him further. “After this, we're friends and you gotta stop trying to kill me whenever I wanna hang out.” He couldn't smile even as it was kinda silly that he had to say that, though he didn't need to smile as a low chuckle among the sobs told him she realized the irony. She suddenly pulled herself back, aggressively wiped her tears as a small smile was trying to hide as it rested on her lips.
“Tha-nk you.” Her voice cracked in the middle as she turned away to hide her mess of a face.
“You sure you won't help.”
“I. . . Want to.”
“But you can't. Yeah I know, I'll save them. This is not your fault Skarlet. This town hates you, but you are not what they say you are. So, next time something like this happens. I want you beside me as we resolve it.” Cody spoke gently, but with determination as he stood up, then he turned to leave.
“How are you gonna find them?” Skarlet asked, Cody smiled in response.
“I know someone who can find them, I'll just have to persuade them.” Cody frowned after he turned. damn, after that confident speech I can't screw this up. But convincing her to help won't be easy, she's practically my enemy. Working against us constantly, how can I get her to help me?

Context:The Ushmengar are a Chaos warband dedicated to Vashtorr. They were initially part of the Astral Claws, but when Huron was defeated during the Badab War, they decided to forge their own path instead of following him to the Maelstrom. These Space Marines in particular were some of the first Astral Claws that the Executioners slaughtered during the Badab War, and the Warband was formed by the survivors of their rampage.
In this short story, the Executioners, having just finished a Penitent Crusade, were hunting for the Ushmengar. They had managed to pinpoint them to a Mechanicum forgeworld, and the Death Speaker of the chapter, an Astartes named Razel, a Librarian named Igikura, and a group of Bladeguard descended onto the planet. When they found the Chaos lord of the Ushmengar, named Kagal, this is what happened

The Chaos Space Marine cocked its head to one side, eyes boring into Razel’s. When the Death Speaker was within reach, it nodded and spread its arms wide. The Executioner swung his crozius. The fractal form of the Heretic Astartes shivered as Sharur connected with it. There was the roar of a vast furnace underscored by the shriek of overtaxed bellows, the clanking of gears and the hammering of pistons, and the Ushmengar vanished like smoke blown in the wind, leaving only a chorus of trailing screams.

After this, Razel and his men continued to go deeper into the Manufactorium and ended up fighting a bunch of other Ushmengar

The Death Speaker swung his crozius, but the Chaos Space Marine dodged the attack. The strike went wide, cracking the side of the furnace. Razel punched out with his pistol and sent his opponent’s bolter flying off. Undeterred, the Ushmengar ripped off a piston hammer from a slain ogryn and arrested Razel’s downward swing. Muscles strained, his sinew coils contracted and he drove the Heretic Astartes onto one knee. The Ushmengar’s composure broke and he roared at the Death Speaker. With a burst of vigour he regained his footing and shook Razel off. Burst fire from the Executioner’s pistol stitched an arc across his helmet, which cracked, exposing his metallic face beneath. The delineation between the organic and inorganic had become blurred to the extent that they had become one and the same. Oil bled from ruined armour and unclean flesh-metal.
A storm had broken out at the end of the hall. Lightning flashed, lancing out from furnace to furnace as a rain of brimstone fell. An unholy radiance pulsed in the penumbral gloom, accompanied by the skirling of bronze horns lining the altar. The light rose out of the chancel of the command fane and drifted towards the Death Speaker and the Epistolary, who had advanced ahead to the binary-etched plaza. Within the pulsing storm was Kalag.
Molten metal was siphoned off the blast furnaces, forming fiery wheels into an armillary sphere spinning around the floating Ushmengar. The skitarii shrieked in binharic as they were lifted from the raised walkways, torn towards the eye of the churning storm. They were disassembled, their flesh withering into ash whilst their bionics melded into the spinning rings upon which bleeding eyes had formed. As Kalag moved towards Razel and Igikura, a forge-vault vast beyond imagining spread out behind him, the hellish vision overlapping the reality of the manufactorum. There was the roar of colossal furnaces, the heave and gasp of monumental bellows, and the clang of countless hammers, thudding pistons and clanking gears, underpinned by the screaming of tortured souls fuelling the forges.
Whereas Kalag’s form had been ephemeral before, a charcoal sketch jumping in and out of focus, now it was wholly corporeal. His armour was burned black, running with unclean oils and unguents. Mechadendrites writhed from between the plates like fungal growths, straining for some dire unity with the emergent daemonic mechanism. Around him were the rings of the armillary sphere, which were both armour and a mechanism to unravel reality, spinning faster until they were a blur as the warpsmith approached them
Up ahead, Igikura stood alone, defiant. The crystalline matrix of his axe blazed, focusing his power before it lanced upwards into Kalag. For a moment, the spinning rings slowed and fire raged down upon the Epistolary, enveloping the Executioner. The apotropaic sigils upon his armour shone migraine-bright as they earthed the worst effects of the warpsmith’s attack. The Librarian’s mind was in the throes of a fever dream, the backwash of the Ushmengar’s barrage bruising his soul.
Sensing his brother’s agony, Razel rose and swung, striking again. A resonant peal shivered through the armillary sphere to no discernible effect.
Kalag, whose attention had been thoroughly upon Igikura, glanced at him, his quasar-like gaze boring into Razel’s own. A high-pitched screech preceded the obliteration of Razel’s helm display. His armour felt heavier. The fibre-bundle muscles tensed and servos halted, keeping him upright. Straining, he raised his hands and took off his helmet. When he beheld the ashes of penitence streaking down Razel’s defiant face, the warpsmith sneered. ‘Lapdog of the False Emperor.’ His voice thundered like the hammer of a god striking an anvil
Razel bared his teeth in response, glistening with blood. ‘You were supposed to die at Badab.’ ‘Oh but you see, I did die. We were marooned in the immaterium after our warp drives failed. Bereft, betrayed by a rotting Imperium and an unkind god bedecked in fool’s gold. Where was Lufgt Huron then? His promises and his lies? We no longer need him, nor your carrion god. We have a new divinity to serve!’ Kalag turned towards the growing portal behind him, his arms encompassing the hellish scene and the towering daemonic figure with scythe-like wings who was looking down at the Executioners with an amused interest. ‘Behold the Arkifane! Our salvation! We will deliver this forge-temple of Mars to him!’
"Brother…" Igikura’s voice was straining with titanic effort. "I will not make it to the end." The Death Speaker growled. The Librarian forestalled him. "Spare me your protestations. I will distract him and hold the rings, but I am not strong enough to make the final blow. That falls to you. May your own Penitent Crusade be over after this."
Igikura’s mind soared in the warp like the rising sun. He burned with immaterial energies. Coruscating lightning cascaded down his limbs and flared off him in streamer arcs, with a branching spark earthing itself in the Death Speaker’s crozius. One last parting gift from brother to brother.
Razel wasted no time. With the warpsmith’s attention upon the Epistolary, his armour was free. He trudged forward, pausing only to pick up Igikura’s axe whilst hefting his crozius. Breaking into a run, he leapt upon one of the stilled rings. Razel hurled the force axe. It spun, blazing, still saturated with Igikura’s psychic might and sacrifice. The blade wedged fast into Kalag’s breastplate, tendrils of darkness slithering out of the wound. A few moments later, Razel was upon him with Sharur, imbued with a shred of the Epistolary’s empyric strength. The warpsmith raged, blocking the Death Speaker’s strike with a cog-toothed, daemonic axe. Mechadendrites speared through Razel’s armour, biting deep into his flesh. Gurgling blood, the Executioner drew the mace back and slammed it forwards, again and again, shattering his foe’s armour in a frenzy until his corrupt essence could no longer be contained. The unravelling of Kalag was like that of a collapsing star. The death throes screamed out from his unwinding body, black flame rising between the plates, his flesh unmade into ash.

26 Male 6’1 200 lbs
I’m in shape, fit, and exercise and eat well regularly. No drugs, no alcohol (only socially once in a blue moon).
I recently got diagnosed with a C5-C6 spinal hernia after ive been living with excruciating pain for the last year and my doctor dismissing me for “Anxiety”. I went in one day and basically told the Doc I want a fucking CT scan now. After the CT I got my diagnosis. Anyways… Last night I noticed that my right calf is numb.
I touch it and it feels like I’m touching someone else’s calf, but strangely when I pinch it I can feel the pain, it’s as if the muscle inside is numb and the numbness is radiating to the outside.
Today it feels like there’s pressure in there, the numbness remains. I went to gym and worked out normally, I have no weakness in my arms or legs nor my affected calf. When sitting down I noticed a “vibration” shooting from my calf down to my ankle, no pain, just a tingly vibration. Imagine how your stomach gurgles when you’re hungry, but in my calf.
Anyways, I fell into the Google trap and now I’m worried about MS and a whole bunch of other crap, knowing that it doesn’t even run in my family.
Given my history, physical condition, and my diagnosis of herniated disk, can any physician please tell me what this numbness may be caused by? Is it the hernia or another underlying condition that warrants a visit to the GP?
Thank you
TLDR; Diagnosed with spinal herniated disk, feeling numbness in my right calf for the last two days, and would like to know if that’s related to the hernia or something else that I need to go get checked

PC

Reddit Account: u/TheSacredGroves
Discord Tag: justinkayce
Name and House: Roland, of House Arryn
Age: 28
Cultural Group: Andal
Appearance: Tall, lean, well-muscled, handsome, fair - Roland is the portrait of a Knight of legend, of the Winged Knight come again. Harsh sky-blue eyes, severe cheekbones, and the familial aquitaine nose give him a cold and distant look - but one frequently broken by his warm and gentle smile. He keeps his pale-blonde hair long and his jaw clean shaven, accentuating the lines of his face. Roland is always neat and clean, his armour burnished and his threads well-tailored and fashionable.
Trait: Blademaster
Skill(s): Swords (e), Andal Knight (e), Essosi Blademaster
Talent(s): Dancing, Hawking, Singing
Negative Trait(s): -
Starting Title(s): Knight of the Gate
Starting Location: King's Landing
Alternate Characters: n/a

Bio-Timeline

• 3 BC: Roland Arryn is born to King Joffrey I Arryn and his wife, Queen Sharra. The third son, Roland's birth firmly secures the succession - fortunately timed considering his father's death later that year.
• 1 BC: The Conquest passes the two year old Roland by, the only impact on him being the squall he raised when Vhagar landed atop the Eyrie.
• 1-4 AC: The post-conquest world is the only one Roland knows, and he grows up in a household dedicated much to it. House Arryn in this period is an odd family, to say the least. Sharra Arryn's attentions are much divided and she has less time than a mother normally would for her third son; Roland is mostly raised by the medley of the Arryn Household and Court and is well-moulded by that as the expectations of maester, septon, courtiers, knights, servants, begin to be shape him into what an Arryn 'should' be in the eyes of their people.
• 5 AC: Roland struggles to find his place as a third son with little direct supervision. It is decided early that he does not have the smarts to become Septon nor Maester... but even as a youth Roland has a keen interest in the training yard, often an annoying shadow to his eldest brother and his squire friends. However, even at eight years old it is clear there is a natural talent to the boy - and when he defeats a squire four years older than him in a training bout in the presence of Lord Corbray, the famed Raven Knight, takes the precocious boy on as a page.
• 6 AC: Roland is by Lord Corbray's side when he tracks down the Root Father. Now a newly minted squire, Roland ignores his knight's orders to remain with the horses and sneaks after them. He kills his first man there, taking a clansman from behind as he in turn tried to attack the Raven Knight from the back. It is not an honourable kill or a clean death, and Roland is badly injured in the scuffle - but he survives. Lord Corbray is furious, and fiercely instils in Roland the importance of fighting with chivalry and honour. He almost abandons Roland, but his tearful begging convinces the Raven Knight that Roland is genuine in his regret.
• 7 AC: Visenya Targaryen's visits to the Eyrie become more frequent, and Roland's wariness of the stern, dragon-riding pagan is overcome by his fascination with said dragon, her skill with the blade... and his mother's growing closeness to the Queen. Visenya becomes something of a second mother to Roland, and her influences war with Lord Corbray's own. From Lord Corbray, Roland learns chivalry, honour, piety, and how a true Andal Knight should act. From Queen Visenya, Roland learns the importance of victory, and an understanding that wars must be won - he learns practicalities and realities. It is a schism within Roland that troubles him, but from both he learns the blade and even at ten it is more and more obvious there is something special about Roland. He quarrels sometimes with his brothers. Jonos, as even at ten, Roland could find little but disdain for his scheming, sneering, brother, and Ronnel as again even at ten, Roland already began to see himself as the better sword (and grows envious that Ronnel gets to adventure and party while Lord Corbray keeps Roland on a much tighter leash).
• 10 AC: Roland learns of his mother's death while at Heart's Home. He returns home swiftly, and his grief is overwhelming. There are few Roland can turn to; Ronnel is concerned with his marriage and rulership, Arwen retreats into the forests, and Jonos is Jonos. Roland relies further on Visenya, who has experienced such grief herself recently and guides Roland through it. Her place as a mother to Roland is confirmed in utterance. To distract himself, Roland throws himself fully into his training and an ensuing victory at a squire's melee at the age of ten and three sparks his reputation as a squire to watch across the Vale.
• 12 AC: Roland, at ten and five, wins the squire's tourney at Maiden’s Bay. He is stopped from sneaking into the higher tourneys by Lord Corbray, much to Roland's chargrin and his demand to be knighted is refused. His calamitously sized ego is rapidly deflated by the Eyrie's Septon and Queen Visenya, who pick him apart and teach him between them the values of humility, and the value of letting ones abilities speak for themselves. Roland does his best to control his pride in the future; ego is rarely ever an issue from him.
• 13 AC: While the honour of the day goes to the Cavaliers, Roland Arryn wins his spurs when the Painted Dogs are crushed under the Moon Gate, killing near as much as the Cavalier Superior herself. That his knighthood was overshadowed by an order of women warriors initially irritated Roland, but recalling his lessons from the last year, he happily shared the honour alongside them and was one of the voices that petitioned his brother to replace the Keeper with the Cavaliers. Knighted, Roland joins the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights and although young, is a key figure in helping rejuvenate the Brotherhood.
• 14 AC: Roland is betrothed to Alayne Waynwood; their romance is one from the storybooks, an instant and deep connection from the moment of meeting.
• 15 AC: Roland and Alayne wed as soon as they turn ten and eight. Part in celebration and part as dignitaries, the pair go to King's Landing together as guests of Lord Orys' great hunt for his son's coming of age. At the Kingswood Catastrophe, Roland saves Orys' life, but Alayne is slain defending other noblewomen. Roland hunts down, duels, and kills the King of the Wood afterwards. He is offered the Whitecloak for his service; on advice from Visenya, he declines, claiming his family needs him and he can defend Laenor and Visenya just as well in the Vale.
• 16 AC: Roland withdraws into mourning for a year, taking up a brutal campaign of bandit hunting in the Vale to cope with his grief.
• 17-18 AC: Roland returns to his brother's side, continuing to help rebuild the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights and slowly coming to terms with Alayne's death. He begins to more keenly ride the tourney track between his duties, earning a reputation as a fine lance alongside his growing reputation as one of the greatest knights in the realm.
• 19 AC: With Roland settling into his knightly role, Ronnel names him Knight of the Gate, with the downside of forcing Roland to have to keep a firm hand on Jonos from time to time when their brother is exiled to the Gate for yet another slight. The relationship between Jonos and Roland sours; where Ronnel threatens Jonos with exile or the Wall, Roland threatens him with death.
• 20 AC: Requested personally by Visenya, Roland tries to take on Prince Laenor as a squire. They are utterly ill-suited to the role, and after many frustrating failed training sessions in the yard, Roland gives up, labelling the Prince untrainable. The relationship between the two almost-siblings sours, but Roland works to repair the rift he created between them with much kinder words.
• 21 AC: Roland develops a relationship with a fellow Knight of the Vale, Colmar Corbray - the son and heir of the aging Raven Knight. Colmar has a fire in him that Roland can't help but seek, and he excuses Colmar's many flaws far too readily. It is a secretive bond, and toxic, but Roland does not believe he deserves better after letting Alayne die.
• 22 AC: The Winged Knights are whipped into fervour as yet another piece of the ancient armour is found. Roland himself dreams of perhaps finding more. Inspired my tales of the armour, the Brotherhood grows even further and in order to keep a firm hand on them, Ronnel makes Roland their Commander.
• 23 AC: Roland and Colmar's relationship deteriorates, ending in a duel that sees Colmar humiliated but, thankfully, alive. The two men hate each other from then on.
• 25 AC: Roland rides by his brother's side to King's Landing.

Family Tree

AC

Name and House: Marla of Gulltown
Age: 34
Cultural Group: Andal
Appearance: Broad and strong with well-calloused hands, Marla is as obvious a blacksmith as Roland is a knight. She keeps her brown hair tied severely back, framing her dour face with its squinting brown and wide mouth that wears an almost perpetual frown.
Trait: Artisan (Weapons)
Skill(s): Craftsman (e weapons; e armor)
Talent(s): Whittling, singing, maintenance of arms and armour
Negative Trait(s): -
Starting Title(s): King's Landing
Starting Location: Master of the Armoury of the Bloody Gate

Timeline

• 9 BC: Marla of Gulltown is born to a master-armourer in Gulltown
• 1 BC: Marla begs her father to help as his assistant as he tries to deal with the massive increase in orders thanks to the Conquest; he reluctantly agrees. Her older brother dies when Vhagar burns the Vale's fleet.
• 2 AC: Marla secretly goes out to work her father's forge at night, practicing at smithing - and finding herself something of a prodigy.
• 6 AC: Her father dies of a weak heart. Marla and her mother discover his great gambling debts, and no money saved for them. They keep her father's death a secret as Marla works the forge to complete his current orders - what comes after that, no one knows.
• 7 AC: Somehow, the charade is kept up. Marla's father is portrayed as a recluse who has devoted himself to his work and the Smith and will see no one in person. This mystery increases the shop's popularity, and many marvel at how greatly his work has improved since taking up this holy vow of solitude.
• 10 AC: A young merchant attempts to woo Marla and is rebuffed. Spying on her, he discovers her secret, and spreads it through Gulltown. The reputation of the shop collapses, and Marla and her mother flee ahead of those furious at the deception, the Faith angry that they had been used, and the law's punishment for fraud. They flee to Pentos.
• 11 AC: Marla finds work with a Qohorik blacksmith, an old master, now drunk and washed up. He teaches her all he knows. Helping each other back to their feet, the pair set up a proper shop, once more, together.
• 15 AC: The old blacksmith dies; Pentos proves to be unfriendly in its business to a woman by herself without the old master by her side. Despairing, Marla hears about the Cavaliers of the Vale, and reckons that if her home will now accept female knights, surely they'll accept a female blacksmith.
• 16 AC: Marla returns to the Vale with her mother. She avoids Gulltown and instead heads to the Gates of the Moon, seeking to offer her services to the Cavaliers. She is accosted by vengeful Painted Dogs on the way, and saved by the miraculous intervention of Roland. He offers to accompany her to the Gates of the Moon, where Marla is gladly accepted.
• 17 AC: Having forged arms and armour for Roland as well, which Roland raves over, Roland has his brother take her on as the Arryn's personal smith and armourer.
• 19 AC: When Roland is given the Bloody Gate, he begs Marla to come with him, who agrees in part. The smith spends her time between the two Gates and the Eyrie, overseeing the arms and armours of all the Arryn forces. Mostly remaining at the Bloody Gate, Marla becomes an integral part of the Winged Knights.
• 20-24 AC: Marla is regularly persuaded to accompany Roland to yet another tourney to help maintain his arms and armour. She grumbles, but secretly enjoys the competitions. Tales of the Winged Knights armour fascinate the Blacksmith, and with her small amount of Qohorik experience she helps verify the pieces as true Valyrian Steel. Her and Roland worsen each others obsession with tracking down the rest.
• 25 AC: Marla rides to King's Landing with her Lord and Knight, ready to work her magic if Roland breaks his armour yet again.

Supporting Characters

• Septon Gernot, 41 (Medic) - Septon of the Gate
• Maester Guy, 42 (Scholar) - Maester of the Gate
• Ser Martin Donnerly, 36 (General) - Castellan of the Gate

"Princess, please remain close to me now, these woods are dangerous. Infested with goblins."
Anastasia, second captain of the royal guard, was an impressive woman any day of the week, large, with broad shoulders, muscular arms and legs. But now, in full plate armor, her helmet hiding half her face, which warm, friendly expression normally helped to ease her martial experience, and im combination with her wide hips and chest had led to her soldiers giving her the respectfull nickname "Momma bear", she looked outright terrifing.
"But surely, you three are more than a match for any goblin we might encounter?", the princesses best friend, the Lady Kyra asked with an amused puff and waved at the three guards accompaning the two highborn girls.
She was wearing a beautiful blue dress, tight on her curvy upper body, but flowy past her hips. She sat elegantly and with thr confidence of any young highborn woman who spent more time in the sidesaddle ontop her horse, than in her studies. Her long flowy dark hair in perfect curls as always, her slighty tanned skin just above what would be considered appropriate for a nobelwoman who didn't have to work the fields.
"Aye, a single goblin is not a threat, Mylady, but they tend not to come alone", the second guard Athena chimed in.
Younger and less massive than Anastasia, she was still a force to be reckoned with, with an athletic body, tight and lean, though not without a decent amount of muscle. Her bronzed skin almost matched the color of the bronze-armour her knightly order was famous for still using, even after Steel having become wildly known and wildly used, her short black hair matching the Lady Kyra.
She gestured towards the woods. "There are probably a dozen of goblins in those woods, just waiting to swarm unsuspecting, ill prepared victims. They attsck always in huge groups. Since a single goblin would barely reach to my chest and weigh less than half of me, a single one would be easily overpowered. Also, since they are sneaky by nature, the don't attack in the open, prefering to ambush they victims."
"Are... are you sure we are save to enter this forrest at all? Shouldn't we circle around it?" The princess asked, guiding her horse - maybe instinctively - closer to Anastasias. The princess` looks stood in stark contrast to her best friend. Where Kyras was curvy, the princess was petite, her hair - though as long as Kyra - was red and straight with only a very light natural curl. Also, while she wore a wide green dress matching her eye color, the dress was so flowy, she could ride a normal saddle - something her mother - the Queen - had insisted on she learned, due to the possibility of needing "to ride for real" like her mother had called it. But with her pale porcelain skin, the high cheekbones, the full red lips and those big, round eyes she was without a doubt one of the greatest beauties in the realm.
"We will be safe, my princess" the big woman calmed her down, reaching for her and putting her heavy plate-gauntlet on the young womans shoulder. "We are on our guard and heavily armed. I doubt they will pick a fight 12 on three. It would be suicide for them.“ As if to stress her words, she reached for her sword and loosened it it its scabbered, with Athena following her example.

Medea, the third member of the small group of guard, who had fallen back slightly previously to check up on a trail, caught up to the other four women. Her gorgeous face was radiating, her joy lighting up an already great day. Clearly, the woman who had been a huntress not long ago, reveled in being out in nature, and not locked in a castle of stone. In contrast to the other guards, she didn´t wear plate armour, but instead leather armour with metal scales fixed onto it. Also, she was significantly smaller than the other two women. Shooting her heavy bow had given her muscular shoulders and back, as well as toned arms, but also her legs and butt were very well trained, looking even bigger, considering the woman was barely 5 feet. Her short brown hair was only be kept together by a single leather-headband. On her saddle hang a bow and on her back a big knife.
„I have never been to these woods myself“, she explained. „But I have heared gruesome tales of more than one unfortunate woman who went into them unprepared and was ravaged and massacred by goblins. And not necessarily in that order“, she remarked, as she let her eyes wander over the trees right in front of the small group.
„Enough!“ Anastasia cut her of, as she saw the princesses face getting even paler.
Medea raised a hand in aknowledgement. While she was a very capable warrior, she was still new to the demands of appropriate behaviour around noblewomen.

The shadow of the big leaf trees fell over the five women, as they followed the path into the wood. The path itself was well maintaned, with the plentiful undergrowth of the forrest having been cut away. It was a nice, peacefull atmosphere. The big trees to both sides of the road gently swayed in a gentle breeze, their branches forming a dome-like ceiling over the path, birds chirping, and several small animals to the side of the road to be seen.

Suddenly, Kyras horse, a beautiful white stallion, started to prance, and whicker. „Keep him calm, Mylady!“ Anastasia ordered and looked around on high alert. Kyra pulled on her horses rains and struggled to stay on top of him, as he clearly tried to break out, making a jump sidewards and buckling, almost throwing her of. „I can´t! Damn, he is going crazy!“, she squealed, fear creaping in her voice just as much as pure surprise, since her well trained Hose normally never acted that way. Than, the stallion reared, and jumped, loudhly neighing forward and ran along the path, before he took a small gap between trees and dissapeared into the undergrowth, his rider screaming curses, though clearly not less scared than angry.
„Gods be damned. Medea! After her!“, Anastasia commanded and drew her sword. She reached for the princesses horse and grabbed the rains. „Stay close, your highness!“ The princess, scared, clang to her horse and didn´t even dare thinking about going anywhere.

Medea spured her horse on and galloped after the girl, whose screams they could still hear in the distance. „I am coming Mylady!“ The small woman yelled out, as the horse jumped of the road into the woods, where Kyra had dissapeared.

Athena drew her sword as well and gestured towards a small forrest clearing a bit further ahead and to the left – the opposite side to where Kyra and Medea had dissapeared to.
„We should get of the path, we are sitting ducks here!“ she shouted.

Anastasia nodded in agreement and the three galloped onto the forrest clearing.

Please remove if this is not something I can post here.
Looking for some pointers and to share my experience.
Providing a trigger warning here as I get descriptive.
Short back story - total CK high since March 2023 (symptomatic) hasn't returned to normal. Started after becoming unwell with a virus of some sort (Never had C-19). Weak positive p-anca. EMG mild findings. Don't know if any of this is relevant, but those are the investigations my doctors have requested.
I had an open muscle biopsy left deltoid under local anaesthesia yesterday.
I was told I was having general anaesthesia which I was happy to go ahead with. I then was made to have local anaesthesia at the end of the day and I am so traumatised by my experiences and I do not know what to do.
The local anaesthetic did not work I felt everything. I understood that I should have felt pulling pressure or tugging but I felt pain, I felt every cut, sutre and the thread being pulled through each incision. The surgeon was struggling and communicating that the instruments were too blunt. My face was covered with something that should have been a curtain but quickly became a face covering. My face and my chest were lent on with instruments and the hands of the people around me.
I felt I wasn't listened to. I cried aloud and the promises of more anaesthetic were an empty ruse to continue the procedure. Every time the needle went into my skin I was gaslit and told it was the thread pulling. There was a clear sensory difference between every action and I was told it was something else with every wince I made. The pulling and snapping of the contents of my arm constantly relays in my mind.
I was made to feel like I was overreacting, whilst being told I am doing well which was patronising.
My cries fell on ears that did not care and I cannot stop thinking about it. It was barbaric!
I am sitting here in my bed in pain trying to understand why this happened, trying to distract myself with research. I've even gone as far as to audibly document my experience as I need to do something so that this never happens to me again.
What can someone do once they've experienced local anaesthesia resistance? Was it an issue with technique? Have any of you experienced this before? How would you communicate such experiences? How do I make sure this never happens again?
Your thoughts, expertise and experiences are welcome. Thanks for reading.

Hi everyone,
I wanted to share with you my response to the introduction found in the only edition of Use of the Self currently in print. I believe it's a rather misleading intro to FM Alexander's work, so I'm sharing this in the hope that I can help clear up misconceptions people may have about the Alexander Technique, not derived only from Anthony Kingsley, but many bland blog posts one tends to encounter when researching the Alexander Technique. That said, this is not intended to be an introduction of its own, but rather something experienced students, teachers, and anyone enthusiastically learning the Technique may find useful. In the tradition of Alexander himself, I've included extensive footnotes, some painfully long. I'm happy to answer any questions or otherwise discuss what I've written. Understand these are my own interpretations and opinions about what some call "the work," so take them as you will. I've taken lessons for a number of years and currently am training as a teacher, so my view of the Technique is based on these experiences, as well as my interpretations of Alexander's writings. Some of these interpretations you may object to, but I hope you find my arguments reasonable.
Response to Anthony Kingsley's Introduction to The Use of the Self
The Use of the Self may be FM Alexander's most important work, since it contains his own account of how he developed what is now called the Alexander Technique. While Alexander's other volumes are available from Mouritz, the only edition of The Use of the Self currently in print is published by Orion Spring. This edition replaces the philosopher John Dewey's introduction—which praises the technique's "genuinely scientific character"—with one by the contemporary teacher Anthony Kingsley, who is heralded on the book's front cover as a "leading Alexander Technique teacher." Therefore it is probable that many readers' first impressions of the Alexander Technique will be framed by Mr. Kingsley's opinions. I submit this is problematic, since his introduction is in my view contradictory to fundamental principles of the Alexander Technique. I write this response to address the introduction's two most dire faults: Kingsley's misrepresentation of the concepts inhibition and direction, and his dismissal of the concept of the primary control. I'll begin with the second, since it is a more straightforward error.
Primary Control
Kingsley opens his paragraphs on the primary control with the opinion that the concept should be "recast," then describes Alexander's definition of the primary control as a "particular relationship of his head, neck and back [that] acted as a master reflex that conditioned his whole organism." Then he discards this definition, claiming the head-neck-back relativity should instead be "regarded as an indicator[sic] of overall health rather than an area considered in isolation." He concedes the "region of the neck and back is a [...] barometer of our state of being," but concludes that "no single element is actually primary," since our eyes, breath, digestive system, and all other psychophysical elements are "simultaneous and interdependent" and also like barometers. Finally, he reveals his "recast" of the primary control, defining it as "the unknown and unseen self-righting and self-healing mechanism that can be restored and vitalized."
In sum, Mr. Kingsley has presented the primary control—which Alexander wrote extensively about and considered central to his technique—with an ill-defined mystical force which, accordingly, Alexander must have unwittingly stumbled upon and mistaken for a certain relativity of the head, neck and back.
Ironically, it is in The Use of the Self where Alexander wrote of discovering the necessity to first free his neck in seeking a better condition for his vocal apparatus, since that was the sine qua non of taking his head forward and up, of widening the back, and so forth, which are in turn the necessary conditions of freedom and stability in the limbs. This is the genesis of Alexander's use of the word "primary" in describing the head-neck-back relationship, and in my experience, as in Alexander's, it holds true: the sequence of directions given to oneself matters greatly, since tense feet, for example, can hardly flatten on the floor if the head is taken back and down, whereas the head can be taken "forward and up"1 to a fine degree even if there is tension in the lower extremities, particularly while sitting. Further, and maybe most significantly, the relativity of the head-neck-back rarely need change during any manner of activity, whereas the arms and legs are constantly bending, rising, stretching, and so on. Small wonder Alexander considered this relativity primary.
Of course, Kingsley is not wrong to point out the interdependence of all processes in the body. It is certainly true that undue tension in the feet creates a downward pull on the head, neck and back. Yet what is crucial to understand here is that in the context of learning and teaching the Alexander Technique, the primary control is an indispensable concept. It instructs the pupil to guide his or her attention through the body in the sequence most fit to facilitate proper relativity of all the parts, and it names succinctly that natural, visible, dynamic yet enduring relativity of the head, neck and back observable in little children and animals as well as many great musicians and athletes. Thus Kingsley discards a practical concept in favor of a truism about "interdependence;" and so we come to his second, graver error.
Direction
Here it begins to seem that what Kingsley writes of in his introduction is not the Alexander Technique at all, but in fact the Kingsley Technique, since he has redefined not only the primary control, but two other conceptual pillars of the technique: inhibition and direction.
First, he takes aim at direction, neglecting to elucidate Alexander's own definition of the concept before setting out the axiom that "aiming for postural improvements using postural directions leads to a bodymind[sic] attitude of effort and trying, which simply reinforces the problem." Dismissing as superfluous all "ideas and images about heads, necks and backs," he declares that "the trying[sic] self is the obstacle, and the shift towards a non-trying[sic] self is the solution." Finally, he offers his own definition of the directions as "the natural flow of energy and vibrancy that exists within the organism," directions which are interfered with "when we are in a condition of stress and reactivity."
Here, again, Kingsley takes a practical concept which Alexander developed based on careful observation of his own muscular action, and replaces it with a kind of mystical or spiritual phenomenon which, implicitly, only the initiated can perceive.2 Thus the famous directions are not, as Alexander described repeatedly, a series of mental orders or intentions projected to oneself before and during muscular activity along lines one has reasoned out in advance, but a "natural flow of energy and vibrancy"—just as the primary control is not, as Alexander saw it, a concrete, observable relativity of the head, neck and back, but an "unknown and unseen self-righting and self-healing mechanism." These pseudo-spiritual definitions do a massive disservice to neophyte readers, and reveal Kingsley's muddled seeing in relation to the central problem addressed by the Alexander Technique: how to shed habit and coordinate the bodymind through reasoned conception and conscious awareness.
But for a moment let us leave aside direction, since a subtler and more misleading error still lurks in Kingsley's presentation: his dismissal of conception itself. He explicitly warns that "ideas, concepts and cognitive efforts reinforce the very mental instrument that is the problem in the first place," he advises us to simply trust that "the prevention or inhibition[sic] of reaction, maintains or liberates this stream of energy [or direction] in the body."
To understand Kingsley's error, we must return to Alexander. In Man's Supreme Inheritance, Alexander sets out four stages to the "performance of any muscular action by conscious guidance and control:"

1. The conception of the movement required;
2. The inhibition of erroneous preconceived ideas which subconsciously suggest the manner in which the movement or series of movements should be performed;
3. The new and conscious mental orders which will set in motion the muscular mechanism essential to the correct performance of the action;
4. The movements (contractions and expansions) of the muscles which carry out the mental orders.

Alexander considered "conception of the movement required" the very first stage in his technique, to precede even inhibition. Thus he made clear, if indirectly, that in the context of his technique, clear conception is essential to achieving a desired end. Incidentally, this is a fact any competent artist can attest to; if a composition is not unambiguously understood and organized within one's memory, it cannot be brought to fruition. Even the most simple act, such as extending one's arm to grasp a nearby object, requires a detailed conception of distance, weight, strength, and so forth; if the object turns out to be heavier than expected, the conception of these variables and their relation to one another, and hence the muscular action, must change. This is direction in action, albeit subconscious.
Yet Kingsley belittles conception, instead leaning on concepts like "ease," "letting go" "acceptance," and the like. He is not alone in this among teachers, but in my opinion, they overlook the influence of what Alexander termed "erroneous beliefs," a concept closely related to that of "unreliable sensory appreciation." Both could be read in the spiritual lexicon alongside "letting go," etc.; but that would place their referent outside the realm of what words and concepts can describe. On the contrary, Alexander was pointing to something concrete and empirically observable: to errors of spatio-motor perception able to be observed phenomenologically and in other people's behavior; not to transcendent truths about observation itself. Thus the classic example of an Alexandrian "erroneous belief" is a person who raises their arm and believes their shoulder has remained still when it has not. The key for the pupil in this instance is to gain an accurate conception5 of their own muscular action, in reference to bodily sensations; not to simply "let go" or "do nothing."3 And this conception must come about through active tutelage—e.g. Alexander Technique lessons—or, dare I say, the way Alexander himself did it: by reasoned experimentation, conceiving hypotheses based on careful register and analysis of his own sensations, and also by watching the behavior of others. John Dewey called the technique scientific for a reason.
All of this is not to understate the importance of concepts like "release" and "effortlessness," including in the context of the Alexander Technique. Seeing more or less what is meant by them is doubtless the key to mastery of all activities, all practices, all techniques. Yet those spiritual concepts should not blot out the very concrete technique Alexander developed for improving what he called "the use of the self:" that coordination of the muscular system, achieved through conscious reason, which influences for better or worse the functioning of the whole organism.4
Inhibition
So much for direction. What about inhibition? Under the heading "Inhibition and Non-Doing," Kingsley describes Alexander's understanding of inhibition as "an artificial pause between stimulus and reaction," after which he could "give directions to himself." Then he lays down the gauntlet, stating that in the "real world […] life does not offer us the choice to inhibit:" since according to neuroscience research, "neural reactions take milliseconds and are faster than conscious thought processes." In other words, "we either react to the stimulus, or not." So, with inhibition proven impossible, Kingsley is left with no choice but to "reformulate" another of Alexander's concepts, offering us a supposedly scientifically enlightened6 view that inhibition is really "a quality of non-doing[sic] that needs to be already available in the organism before the receipt of a stimulus." This is "a way of being[sic] rather than a way of doing[sic]."
This Kingsleyan inhibition turns out to be the essence of the technique, since it is this very "condition of non-doing[sic]" the teacher is supposed to transmit, through a touch Kingsley describes as "a dance of poetry and a symphony of silence." With it, the teacher imparts a "deep sense of acceptance" by which "change emerges in the pupil."7 He goes on to compare the Alexander Technique to "Zen Buddhism, mindfulness and the philosophy of non-duality," identifying the uniqueness of the Alexander Technique in "the transmission of immediate experience." In fact, there is no Alexander Technique as such, but only inhibition:
The Chinese Tao has a concept of Wu Wei[sic], which translates as surrendering to the effortless flow of life[sic], or non-doing[sic] action. Ultimately, the Alexander Technique needs to reinvent itself and relinquish the Technique. The Alexander Teacher really teaches nothing[sic!]. But this nothing or emptiness is in fact the deepest essence of being and the fullness of life. Like grace, it drops onto us and into us when the conditions are ripe.
The problem is that Alexander's own writings indicate that inhibition is not a "quality," a "condition," or a "surrendering to the effortless flow of life." On the contrary, according to Universal Constant in Living, it is "the act of refusing to respond to the primary desire to gain an end, [which] becomes the act of responding (volitionary act) to the conscious reasoned desire to employ the means whereby that end may be gained." As clear as day: inhibition is an action in response to the stimulus of conscious desire: a conscious, continuing refusal to do a thing the way one normally does it. Alexander saw that this inhibitory act had to precede in every instance any attempt to change his habits. Everyone is well familiar with the inhibitory act. The act of not indulging an immediate desire, however small, is it. So, inhibition is not an "artificial pause," but a phenomenologically observable process within the organism, a process that can be made habitual through practice. It is no more abstract and transcendent than blinking or moving one's finger.7
Here Kingsley again takes something ordinary and concrete and makes it mystical, going so far as to "relinquish the Technique." The trouble is that there is a good reason the Alexander Technique came to be known as such. A technique is a skillful way of doing something; a mental tool; a procedure. Ways of doing can be found everywhere: techniques for dance, for romance, for healing, even for attaining nirvana or enlightenment. Each has a goal in mind and is based on what worked in the past; each resorts to concepts to explain itself; each prescribes action, or doing something a certain way. Yet Kingsley dismisses the idea of doing anything at all. Equating the Alexander Technique with "nothing," he tosses out the concepts Alexander spent decades refining, when Alexander's genius was precisely to conceive a useful, coherent way of doing things through patient observation of the phenomena he termed inhibition, direction, primary control, and the rest.
So, the technique may encompass all the acts of living, but it is still a technique. Alexander often used the term "procedure" to describe it, and I think procedure is as apt a word as any to describe the application of his technique to the acts of living. He constantly stressed the technique's sequential, stepwise nature and recorded countless practical examples of it in action, both in hypotheticals and accounts of lessons. The technique is not a metaphysics or a philosophy like non-duality; it is a practical procedure with a clear purpose: restoring
advantageous, natural relativity of the head, neck and back.
Conclusion
The technique is blindingly simple but surprisingly subtle and difficult to master; and, as far as I am aware, it is unique. Unfortunately, Kingsley is not alone in overlooking the uniqueness and subtleties of the technique in favor of spiritual truisms and platitudes. I suspect there are two main reasons for this.
The first is the tendency of serious pupils of the technique to become more open to "spirituality," both philosophically (e.g. non-duality) and in terms of sadhana (e.g. meditation, yoga, self-inquiry). Many are enthusiastic about the similarities between the Alexander Technique and, for example, mindfulness practice. It is certainly true that the technique requires the pupil to have some degree of "mindfulness," or the ability to realize when the mind has wandered; and it is also true that a few people who devote themselves to the technique come upon some of the same insights one might find in spiritual practice. Yet spiritual insight is not the purpose of the technique. In my opinion, the Alexander Technique is a relative of energy practices such as Hatha yoga, qigong, and TRE (trauma release exercises). Such techniques are often used in tandem with spiritual practices meant for the cultivation of insight, but their purpose has traditionally been preparatory and salutary, not "spiritual." One need not stray too esoteric to encounter the idea that the real goal of spirituality has nothing to do with "ways of doing." On the other hand, Qigong explicitly aims to regulate qi in the body; kundalini yoga is concerned with the flow of prana; the Alexander Technique seeks to restore the good use of the primary control. More practically, the technique teaches mental discipline, and ultimately the ability of the nervous system to regulate itself. Such a practice may lay the groundwork for spiritual realization, but it is by no means indistinguishable from it.
While there is no point speculating about Alexander's private insights, one thing can be certain: he left us a definite procedure with a practical, concrete purpose—not a transcendental one. Yet Kingsley's introduction continually implies the Alexander Technique is an essentially spiritual practice with heavenly fruit. Disparaging the core concepts that constitute the Alexander Technique, he invites us instead to simply "surrender," "let go in faith," and blindly trust that its real essence—nothing less than Wu Wei—will be transmitted through the "rare, "unconditional" touch of the teacher.
The second, more obvious reason Alexander has been so misunderstood is that he rarely wrote concisely, and in any case, recognition and conception of the primary control can never be refined through words, but only through unfamiliar sensory experiences—either reasoned out, as Alexander did, or in the hands of a good teacher. Hence there is more than a kernel of truth to Kingsley's view of the "supreme value of guidance with the hands;" yet I differ from him in that I insist the Alexander Technique cannot be divorced from intellectual understanding and, indeed, conception.
The Use of the Self and Alexander's other works certainly were not without their flaws, but at their best they illuminate concepts which are nuanced, rich, and useful when applied. Primary control, direction and inhibition are three such concepts. Whatever their flaws, Alexander's books point the way to a wonderful technique, and they deserve thoughtful, probing introductions like Dewey's—not dismissals.
1 Like many other Alexandrian terms, the concrete meaning of "forward and up" seems incredibly controversial among Alexander Technique teachers. While I conceive it roughly as freedom of the atlanto-occipital joint, the term cannot be understood in isolation from the rest of the parts—namely, from one's conception of the primary control. It seems to experience it, one must discover it, as Alexander did, or be shown it by a teacher.
2 This is not to say there are not phenomena only some people perceive.
3An overemphasis on "letting go" and the like obscures the fact that Alexander always described the technique as consisting of stages or sequential steps, which in my opinion constitute the "means whereby" he wrote of.
4 "Use of the self" is another problematic term. Related to the concept of "good form" and "good technique" among athletes and musicians, it refers essentially to coordination of the musculature along reasoned lines, which is not separate from conception of the primary control. Equal and opposite is the term "misuse," since one's idea of misuse depends on one's idea of good use. Different teachers understand the term differently. Kingsley states that "bodily tensions and distortions become fixed and reinforced as we react to the general stimuli of living." True enough. Yet he goes on to imply it is associated only with fear, anxiety and distress. Again he couples this concept to the language of contemporary spirituality, trumpeting that it "alienates us from our own true nature." This is to completely ignore the point Alexander returned to again and again in his own writing: that the use of the self is inextricably linked with conception. No doubt, tension and imbalance are very often inextricable from fear. But there may be another class of misuse: one based on misconceptions about the body, unexamined movement patterns from childhood which have little or nothing to do with manifestations of stress or emotions in the body. I suspect one may experience profound psychophysical quietude yet still tend to throw their head back and down in relation to their neck and back, especially in movement.
5Kingsley writes that the teacher's touch indicates the "negation of trying and doing within the pupil." Even a token mention of guidance viz. the relativity of the body parts is nowhere to be found. Yet in my opinion this discussion of touch is misleading, since nothing like it can be found at all in Alexander's writings. On the contrary, Alexander stressed that the teacher's role was to demonstrate manually the proper relativity of the pupil's parts, with the means whereby of the technique; not to transmit "a way of being," nor indeed enlightenment or gnosis.
6 Neuroscientific findings relating to will and volition have proliferated in recent years. They may raise fundamental questions about the nature of self and will, but in my opinion they have little to do with the Alexander Technique, no more than they do with dancing or playing an instrument. If there are really recognizable activities Alexander termed "inhibition" and "direction," then his writings are timeless, since they speak from direct observation and experiment, not philosophy about "free will" and the like.
7 In spiritual literature one encounters, almost universally, the idea that there is no "doer" of action, or no "doer" but God. Hence Kingsley is implying that Alexandrian inhibition is somehow related to this concept, which Buddha famously summarized: "Events happen, deeds are done, but there is no doer thereof." In my opinion, the Alexander Technique has nothing more to do with this than does reading, writing, or playing a game. There may be "procedures followed, but no follower thereof."

I’m 34 years old, 5’5”, M, 117 lbs.
I have a non-strenuous manual-labor job and walk about 15K steps a day. Until recently I did not exercise. But now I want to start cardio for heart health and get a bit of my abs / arm muscle back.
Currently on weekdays I probably eat almost 2000 calories a day. Weekends maybe 1100. (Eating is hard)
I think I’m burning basically what I’m consuming each day. But when I start running that’ll go up to 2500+ calories which doesn’t include any other exercising.
I guess my goal weight would be about 125lbs.
How many calories a day should i eat? Feel free to suggest protein too which is probably just as important.

 * * * * * * * 

Poor Heinrich
Peasant Militia start, guy has almost met his maker twice. I have high hopes for him, so I guess I owe him a round at the tavern.

All right here it is finally, thank you all for your patience and let's hope chapter 5 is a little more expedient. As usual I hope you enjoy and would love to get everyone's thoughts.
4: Memory transcription subject: Zeak, Harchen orphan, citizen of the Venlil Republic. Date: standardized human time July 13th 2136.
The sky was a roaring mass of fire and pungent black smoke that choked out the light of the sun. As I ran down the street, green blood flowed like a broad shallow river. It splashed up with every step I took, sticking to my scales, the smell of it made me feel sick. As the piercing wail of the emergency sirens seemed to grow louder and louder with every step I took making my ears ring and filling my head with a thunderous pain. My heart pounded, my lungs were on fire, and my legs felt like they were made of lead.
A herd of towering blurry figures appeared out of nowhere and ran past me, some almost knocking me down. In their panic they began to look more like crazed wild animals than people. I cried for help but they couldn't hear me. I waved my paws then grabbed one of them a male Venlil, tightening my grip with all the strength I had hoping this would get his attention. He threw me off like I was trash, less than trash. I turned around and continued pleading for anyone to help me, reaching out for others. But their frantic idiot eyes looked only straight ahead and not down, never down, as the herd passed me.
I turned back around and continued to run, blood splashing up soaking me all the way to my knees. I stumbled, my legs were so tired I could barely stand, and I fell down catching myself, plunging my paws into blood as deep as my wrists. I felt myself scream but I couldn't hear it over the ringing in my ears. A scrap of paper gently floated past me, a single word written on it that echoed in my mind “Weakling.” It passed and four more took its place, “Coward”, “Liar”, “Oath breaker”, “Murderer.” I screamed in rage and slapped the pieces of paper aside, blood splashing onto my snout, but the meanings of those words remained. Getting back up I stumbled forward, and fell down again. Then with an effort born out of sheer desperation I managed to stand again lurching forward. My legs were too tired to run but I had to keep going, I had to save them. Or at least her, please Protector if you're listening please let me save at least her.
It felt like I was searching for an endless time. Lurching forward, stumbling, falling down, getting back up, lurching forward once more. Eventually I saw it and my heart fell into the pit of my stomach. My family's car was turned over on its roof, the driver's side had been caved in. It was engulfed in fire and thick black smoke that rose up into the sky. I struggled forward and when I reached it I collapsed, my knees hitting the hot pavement. The smell of burning metal and something else I didn't know assaulted my senses making my stomach turn. Every muscle in my body begged me to run away. Calling out their names l looked inside, and a wave of nausea and horror flooded through me.
I turned away and vomited, then reached up with my blood soaked paws and covered my eyes. Those words thundered in my head making me think it was going to burst open, as hot tears welled up. “WEAKLING! COWARD! LIAR! OATH BREAKER! MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER! “I'm sorry I'm sorry, I should have stayed, I should have helped. Why did I run?” I wailed, still unable to hear myself. Someone rested a delicate paw on my shoulder, and the world went quiet. As the pain in my head melted away.
My eyes snapped open and I was greeted by the gentle ringing of my alarm. In a rush of adrenaline I leaped out of bed not even bothering to wipe the sleep out of my eyes. Running out of my bedroom and down the narrow hallway towards the living room. Convincing myself It had all just been a horrible, horrible nightmare and everything was alright. Mom and Dad would be fixing breakfast, Dad softly singing a Harchen folk song while making something savory and delicious as mom sang along in harmony, preparing something special for my baby sister Naila. Oh yes and Naila, she would probably be sitting on a cushion in the sunny part of the living room. Holding her crooked tail, a birth defect which my parents said could be fixed when she was older. And making excited chirping noises at my arrival, while sunlight shone against her emerald scales. I loved my baby sister, I knew other kids resented having a younger sibling. Dismissing their responsibilities and spending less time with their family and more with their friends. I never once felt that way, the moment Naila hatched I devoted every spare minute I had to her. Finding music that would help her fall asleep, watching over her when my mom needed a break. Excitedly telling her about the day's events and what I learned at school, especially what I learned in computer science which was my favorite class.
“Mom! Dad!” I yelled bursting into the living room. “I just had the worst…” My voice trailed off as I was greeted with nothing “dream.” My heart tightened painfully in my chest, as I frantically ran through the house throwing open every door, knowing that they had to be here somewhere. They were just playing a game on me that was all, a game I would tell them I didn't appreciate. After the final door had been opened and no one was there to yell “Surprise!” My body slumped and I felt heavy as reality set back in, and the memories of what happened hit me like a hammer. I made my way back down the hall to my room, tail dragging behind me as I crawled back into bed. Wrapping myself tightly in a blanket, trying to find some comfort.
It must have been hours I lay there feeling numb all over, wishing I could get up the energy to just cry. I think I might have fallen asleep at one point. If I did it was a dreamless sleep, thank the stars for that. Eventually I did get up, sitting cross-legged on my bed, resting my chin in my paws, staring holes into the wall. I took a deep breath and side numbly looked out the window, searching for anything to distract myself with.
It was overcast, and eerily quiet. The emergency sirens had stopped blaring yesterday mere hours after everyone had gotten to the bunkers. The bodies of the dead had already been collected and their blood cleaned from the pavement. So as to not attract any predators into the neighborhood. I saw my neighbor A'shul was home, his white vehicle was sporting some new dents. I wondered, when he got into his vehicle yesterday morning and drove to the nearest bunker; did he try to help anyone? Or was he thinking only of himself? I suppose it didn't matter really. Nothing mattered.
I turned my head away and looked around my small room taking in everything, every trinket, misplaced item, my old second-hand desk, a big green crackle finished monster. Better suited for a Venlil than a young Harchen, heck I needed a stool just to use it. I had gotten it for basically nothing about a year ago, when the local extermination office was getting rid of their old furniture. All it took was a small bribe and they put it in my bedroom when no one was home. My parents, but especially my mom we're not happy when they saw it the next day. They would tell me at least once a week that It was too big for me and they were going to get rid of that eyesore. “Wouldn't you like something a little more modern dear?” My mom would ask, practically pleading for me to say yes. I used to pray that my parents would just shut up and stop bugging me about that stupid desk. I thought it was great, it made me think of private detective Bal from the exterminators show. Bal was a no nonsense Harchen who was so often pivotal in tracking down the predator or predator diseased person. My desk was very similar to his and that's why I wanted it. But at that moment, I would have given anything to hear those words again.
On the desk there was an ornate wooden box, with a fruit tree in full bloom delicately carved into its lid. There were also scuff marks where it had been dropped, and a deep crack running down the center. It was known as a blessing box, Naila's blessing box to be specific. When she hatched nearly ten months ago the whole neighborhood had been invited to come and write a blessing on a scrap of paper and put it in the box. I had written one too, not a blessing but a promise, a promise I couldn't keep. The belief was that if kept near the infant, the combined power of all those blessings would keep the hatchling safe until their first birthday. Where on that day the box would be set on fire and burned to ash. Releasing those blessings back into the world so they may protect someone else. It was an old tradition and not commonly practiced anymore, but as my dad always said “It is important to keep the old traditions alive my son. Both in song and action.” I remember asking him why? And he looked at me like he had been waiting for that question for a long time. “Because” He said, his tail moving with authority. “Someday when you lose your way, and you don't know where to turn to. You will always have something to guide you back to your center.”
Looking away from the box not wanting to look or think about the damn thing, I shifted my gaze down to my bedside table. There was a little holographic projector showing pictures of me, Mom, Dad and Naila on holiday back on Fahl, the Harchen home world to see family. I was born and raised on Venlil prime, so I didn't really know any of my extended family. There was a picture of my mom and Naila sleeping at the beach. Naila’s crooked tail coiled around mom’s arm, their scales a deep emerald in the light of the sun. The picture changed to me and Dad putting the finishing touches on a sand skyscraper taller than him. I had to sit on his shoulders to place the last bucket full of sand on top. Both of our scales were as blue as the ocean. My tail flicked sadly thinking of that day. I reached over and turned the holo protector off.
My holopad lay next to me flashing, alerting me to an urgent message. I hadn't really looked at my holopad since yesterday morning. Picking it up I tapped the flashing icon. It was an official government statement signed by Governor Tarva herself, saying that the humans Noah and Sarah were peaceful explorers, and that they only wished to be our friends. ‘No, that's impossible, they’re predators. Predators don't want peace, they want to conquer, kill and eat us,’ stunned and confused I kept reading. The rest of the message stated that the two human scientists were completely unaware there was intelligent life of any kind on Venlil prime. ‘No! Lies! Predator lies!’ I yelled inside my head. Something hot began to form in my chest as I read the last bit. Governor Tarver had shown the two predators footage of the Arxur torturing Venlil pups. It said that the humans were capable of empathy and felt deeply saddened and angered by what they saw. They vowed to do everything in their power to get their united nations into the war against the Arxur.
I scrolled all the way down and what I saw stopped me cold. Standing in her office being flanked by General Kam, stood Governor Tarva. Beside them looming over the two Venlil one bigger than the other, both of them covered in some sort of protective suit. Their faces were obscured by dark visored helmets. It said that the larger of the two Noah was male, and the smaller one was Sarah female. Sarah had her hands clasped in front of her, while Noah kept his to his side. Neither were acting threatening, and neither Tarva or Kam looked to be harmed in any way.
Something in me snapped, that hot thing inside my chest erupted and I could feel my scales turn black. I very carefully set my holopad down beside me, then I uncrossed my legs and got out of bed. I stood there in the center of my room shaking slightly, feeling terribly calm as white hot rage flooded my body, spreading to my paws and all the way out to the tip of my long tail. It never had to happen, the panic, the stampede, the death, we could have stayed home and avoided those people. ‘No… no not people,’ a bitter thought came over me. ‘They're not people at all, people stop and help, like that Venlil girl Kayleik, she was a person maybe the only one. But the rest of them were just wild animals, masquerading as sentient beings. ‘Do you really think you're any better, coward?’ Some internal voice said.
A sudden impulse took control of me and I grabbed my desks stool and hurled it against the wall. It dented the wall and bounced off still in one piece. Enraged, I leaped forward grabbing it by the legs, then turned around and slammed it into my desk. The sheet metal dented and the green crackle finish paint flew off, but the stool made of good dense wood from the string fruit tree stayed whole. “DAMN THEM! DAMN THEM! DAMN THEM! DAMN THEM!” I screamed, slamming the stool down again and again, my tail whipping wildly, striking the bed and the floor. The tip of my tail began to hurt, which only fueled my anger. Finally I heard cracking and wood began to splinter off. They didn't have to die, we could have stayed home. The muscles in my shoulders burned and my heart pounded as hot tears began to well up. I brought it down one final time narrowly avoiding the blessing box, and the stool broke in two. I hurled the pieces away from me, one slamming into the corner the other crashing through the window.
I leaned against the desk catching my breath as tears flowed freely. ‘Well that definitely showed them didn't it. Hey I got a great idea! Let's go break some more stuff, that will definitely make you feel better. Idiot!’ That internal voice said all coldness and bitterness. As I cried, the burning in my chest cooled, and I was filled with the same numbness as before. After a while my stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since yesterday. I moved sluggishly out of my bedroom and went straight to the kitchen, quickly grabbed some fruit and left to go and watch the view screen or something. The moment I entered the living room, memories came flooding back. Mom and Dad laughing, Naila sleeping peacefully, the lingering aroma of breakfast, and the warmth of our home. But now it was all gone and I was alone. For the first time in my life, I had no one to go to.
It was right then I realized I couldn't stay here anymore. This place felt like a tomb, all cold and filled with the memories of the dead. Besides, if I stayed here someone would eventually send the authorities to come and get me. Ship me off to an orphanage, foster care or maybe to my extended family back on Fahl. I balked at the idea of being forced to live with people I didn't know or trust. Memories of yesterday's stampede invaded my mind and I shuddered. I couldn't trust any of them not anymore. No, there was one person I could think of that maybe I could trust. Turning around I went back to my room, found my backpack and grabbed my holopad, the blessing box, the holo projector and my blanket stuffing it into my pack. Then I went to the kitchen and filled my pack up the rest of the way with dried fruit and vegetable snacks. With my backpack looking like it was going to burst I shouldered it and made my way to the front door. When I rested my scaly paw on the door handle I stopped and looked back at the place that was once my home. “Goodbye” I said in a shaky voice, knowing this would be the last time I would never set foot in this house. With my head low I opened the door and stepped out, into the dim light of a new unfamiliar world.
Previous First

There are so many things I could improve on if I just had discipline and tried harder. I lost a lot of weight and I’m 102-104 pounds now but I’m just skinny fat. I hate it so much because I feel super small but also fat at the same time. I have no muscle definition at all, so I just look super jiggly but skinny at the same time. If only I had the discipline to go to the gym but I’m so lazy and stupid. Most of my insecurities are about my face but if I was leaner my face would be skinnier, and if I had a perfect body then my face would matter a little less. I have access to a gym but I have no idea how to get started I only know how to do cardio. I don’t know anything about arm, leg and back days. I don’t know how many workouts I need to do or how often. I have zero idea about anything, I’ve watched videos but all the routines are different.

SYNOPSIS: Walking your OP monster girlfriend home is easy. No one messes with you. Getting back to your house on your own? That's the tricky part.
What's worse than an eldritch building? How 'bout a bigger one?
First Previous (See NEXT>> in comments)
Chapter Cover Art (From Mood Writing Sample)
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Norman took one look at the towering building to his left. Then he took off.
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“̷̵̵̷̶̷̶̶̸̶̶̸̴̡̛̮͉̹̪̼̙̤̲̤͔̗̮̥̣̜͓̟̞̃̔̈́̑̈̍͌̂̂̐̋͛̉̓G̵̶̸̷̴̸̵̵̴̶̸̷̸̴̶̨̢̧̞͈̠̜̳̪͎̬̜̱̫͚̝̩̑̒͐́͆̃̿̉̆̉̃̓̀̎̐͂̎̒̕̕͘͝͝Ǵ̷̷̷̴̸̸̷̷̷̷̵̨̢̞̥͓̰͖͙̰̝͖̩̺͍͎͉͌̽̂́͐̓̀͒̐͗́M̴̷̶̵̴̷̵̶̵̴̷̷̢̡̧̢̛̫̲͕͇̗̯͚̥͙͓͓̀̒͑͒̂̊̅̐͛̂̄͌̈̚͝M̴̷̶̵̴̷̷̶̷̬̼̭̗͍̺̳̩̱͍̂̄̾͂̔̽̇̀͝͝͝͠M̶̯̙̥͕̞̰̗̗͐̔!̸̞̞̬̼̖̩̈́̇͊͐̾͑͋̉!̷̧͈̘̬̆͑͝!̶̤̜̔̓̆̅̔͆͘͝”̸̨̧̼̭̫̒͜

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The new hunting cry boomed through his body. It was much louder than the first building’s, albeit shorter, like a tap on the shoulder from a titan proclaiming its presence to the world.
Of course, the tap of a titan could flatten a man.
Norman fell. His legs had simply stopped working. Jaws clenched, he forced his will into wobbly muscles. His palms slammed into the waterlogged street, stopping the fall. With a sharp push, he sprang back to his feet and ran on.
Norman yanked out the remaining two flash grenades on the go, strung them together, armed and drew back for a throw.
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“̷̬̳̙̍̎̆G̴̥͇̥͔͕̫̈̀M̵̛͇̜͙͇̫͔̭̩̝̜̓̈̏̓̓̀͛̚͜͝͝M̷̩͈͉̘͙̿͌̃̽͂̃̏̏̓̾̈́͌̈́̉̅̄̉͘!̷̢̧̢̤͓̭̖̝̏̏̄̓̾̉̆͋͘͝!̵͍̱̼̮̯̺̲͙̖̮̗͓̻̓̊͂̒̔͐̎͘͘̚!̵̙͍̟̌͒̃͂̎͠”̶̡̛̠̱̭̞̹̟͉̒̎̎̂͂̐̈́̓̄̚̕

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That quick boom pounded through him. His fingers faltered. The flash grenades slipped from his grip and fell. He was still recovering from the sound when they went off at his feet. The nightsight filtered the flash, so he didn’t go blind. He’d gutted the flash grenade’s speakers, so he didn’t go deaf. The peeping building could deafen him all on its own … no, this wasn’t a peeping building. He’d slew a peeping building. They were small fries by comparison.
This was an eyescraper.
Tentacles the width of busses unsheathed from its sides. Even if he’d managed to launch the grenades and bathe it in smitelight, he suspected that wouldn’t be enough.
Norman sliced at its eyes with a focused beam. It barely flinched. Maybe if it got close enough, he could affect it a bit. By then, it would be too late.
Throbbing chuffs thundered from the monster. It sounded like a laugh.
Norman shot it a defiant glare. He bolted. Not fast enough. He could feel the giant closing in. So, he moved faster. Then faster, and still faster. His muscles blared their warnings. Rain lashed his face. He felt the air begin to resist his movements as he reached a speed at which it mattered. It was in his way, so he pushed through it too. No one was there to tell him he was moving far faster than any human known to history. All he cared about was hearing that thing fall behind him, and so it did. The tremours of its tremendous movements grew fainter.
At the end of the street, an apartment building came into view. Norman threw himself against it, climbing with the reckless abandon of a madman. He was halfway to the top.
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“̷̧̨̭̹̘̥̮͖̤̻̥̬̌̀͒̔͌̊̀̚͜͜͠Ǧ̶̨̨̧̺̘̰̗̘̥̝̗̦̩͖͎͋̈͑͐̒̽̉̔͛̾̒́̕ͅM̴̨̉́̾̉͂͆̔̿̀̃̇̎̍͆̂̽͗̔͘͠ͅM̷̝̻̱̆̍͜!̴̮̬̯̮̦̖́͂̆͋̿̇̎̄̄̅̂͑̎̀̕͘͝͝͝!̸̲͎̲̼̠̮̱͖̥̭̤̩͓̘̜͈̟̖̮̰̦͖̀̂͗͂̽̈́̋͌͂̐̓̈̕!̸̜̆̿̋̔̽̕”̷̢̦̜̰̼̳̝͓̆͗̈́̆̆̑̃̾͑̀͗͒͆́͐͒̈́̿̽̕̕͜

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His grip went limp. He fell. Struck the ground. His head bounced. The world grew fu...z z y.
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W
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w
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_CHAT

• LEMMY.OUTA.HERE: (Stupse) Well, he ded.
• BAJANETTE11: ARN74, JUST GO AND FIND HIM!!!
• ARN74: HE DIDN’T SEND ME DE PIN! DIS BAAARE STRESS! NORMAN, YOU PUNK! YOU EMOTIONALLY INVESTED ME IN THIS CHANNEL! IF YOU DIE NOW I’M GONNA KILL YOU!

Something was yapping in the background, but it wasn’t important. He felt fine. Everything was fine. Why not rest? Why was he even-?

_CHAT

• ARN74: YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULDN’T LEAVE AMY!!

What? No he didn’t! Promises weren’t for trolls! Why would he leave Amy anyway?
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“̸̼͔̖̜̫͍͚̊́̽͆̓̂̋̋͐̕Ģ̴̢͕͉̯̺̗̖͔͙̪͓̻̯̫̭̙̱͕̠̭̩̌M̸̨̧̘̟̹̖̻̲͍̭͓͉̰͙̦̣̜͉̻̎̅͗̇̈́̈̏͌̓̾̀̈̈́͜M̵̢̢̖̯̦͍͕̝̯̥̹̪̠̥̰̝̖̊͛̀̇͜!̵̢̡̡͚͕̘̟͕̥̦̪͆̈́̿͆!̴̛̹͈̜̥͔̬͎̪̩͚̦̯̟̘̩̰̳̍̑̂́̌͌̎́̒͋̽̿̑͌͝͝!̴̛̥͕̪͂̂̂̈̓͆͗̇̄̈́̌̅̎͂̕̚̕͝͠”̷̧̧̛̠̝̰̞̘͙̥̖͎̭̞̜̳̟̓͆̌̊̃̔́͒͋̇̈́͘̚͠͝ͅ
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Oh, right. There was a skyscraper running him down. To think he lived in a world where that made any sense. He rubbed his throbbing head. It was hard to think, though.

_CHAT

• ARN74: TRY AN CLIMB DE TING OPPA!

Brain fog would have to wait.
In two twos he jumped onto the side of the building and kept going up and up without breaking the momentum of the leap. Adrenaline had challenged gravity. Gravity lost. There was no pause to assess handholds. There was no rain stinging his face. In his mind, there was only ‘CLIMB, CLIMB, CLIMB!’ Crest the rooftop. ‘RUN, RUN, RUN!’ Descend the other side ‘JUMP!’ Gravity greedily reclaimed Norman, dragging him 4 storeys down at breakneck speed. He hit the ground in a parkour roll. Bruised a bone. Nearly fractured a shoulder. Wrenched his spine. Joints, muscle, ligaments almost popped. They didn’t.
He was running again.
Norman had never heard a building shred like paper. He’d never thought to wonder what it sounded like.
*( ( BMMM! ) ) ( ( BMM! ) ) ( ( BOOM! ) ) \*

SHHHHHRRRRRRMMMM!

Now he knew.
Those booms … was it the eyescraper’s tentacles breaking the sound barrier, or punching holes through the apartment building? Maybe both. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was tearing the building in two with the ease of one parting curtains. Buildings were not designed to be parted. Two became legions as the sundered building collapsed.
Norman rushed for an abandoned truck, slid beneath the trailer. Not quite fast enough. Most of the rubble didn’t reach him directly, but upon hitting the ground? It pulverised into a blast of cloud like a sandstorm. Hissing beneath the trailer, the dust stung at his ankles. He ignored it, racing for the truck’s cabin at the front. Perched on the step beneath the door, he braced as the dust raced beneath, around and above him. The cabin was his shield. He flinched to a duck when its windows shattered as the dust cloud blasted straight through them. The truck rocked and slid slightly, bombarded by wind and dust. It lurched as a chunk of debris finally reached it, crumpling the trailer like cheap foil.
Time to move.
Particles prickled Norman’s eyes, finding their way through the nightsight. He took a fresh glimpse of the path ahead before clouds of grey engulfed it all.
Memorised.
He dashed on. A split second later, the cabin was levelled under a larger slab of concrete. More sporadically thundered down around him. His eyes were squeezed shut, denying entry to any more particles. He scrambled through the street, dodging obstacles from memory. As for the concrete rainfall that couldn’t be seen? He had some prayers about that, but it probably came out like half-baked gibberish.
Norman chanced opening his eyes. They watered like crazy. At least most of the dust was gone. Behind him, the eyescraper’s menacing silhouette was picking through the rubble. Finally, an unblocked street was in sight. He rounded the corner.
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“̵̨̢̮͕̻̲̺́͠G̵̣̒́̓̽̅̊͘͝Ọ̷̝̣͓͙͔̀ͅͅǪ̷̜̺͚̲̯̭̈́̍͂͑̋̋̅͂̅́M̷̨̤̭͈̯̤͋̾̏̈̅̉̀̏͘M̵̡̢̙̱͌̊̓͒́͌Ḿ̸̳͗̀̀͐͒͗́͠ͅ!̷͍͉̣̪̫͙̳̲̤̎̀̾̅̈́̔̎̑͘͜͝͝!̴̨͈͖̘̖̅͛̋̽͠!̸͎̩͓̫̥̼̫̊”̵̫̗̞̣̝̃̅̕͘͜͜͝ͅ
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Another peeping building, rumbling in from the new street. Alright. Straight it was.
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“̷̢̧̻̹͚͔̾G̵̳̭̾̃̎̍̌̂̈́̂͛͘M̶̧̠͇͔͚͉̮͈̰͒͊́̏̔̄̾̊͐̒͂͜M̸̳͓̋͋̔͑̔̔̕͝Ő̷͓̟̱̮͓̍̂̾̽̇͘͠Ô̸̧̫͉̮͚̥̥̯̈̾͋̅͂͘̚M̶̢̫̥̰̮̪͙̬̙̗̺̽͒͐͌̋̈̄͆͝M̴̢̧̧̛̗͔͓̫̭̳̱͑̉!̵̡̛̛͍̲̓̅̑̈́̿̏͘̕͠!̸̧̖͔̣̩̏́͋̀͛͂̏̀̇̑͐!̴̧͕̝̮̤̱͈̬͋”̸͓̉̈́̑̎͊̌
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Maybe not. A third building emerged from the rainfall ahead. All streets blocked. He glanced about. All alleys still blocked. This really was a hunting net, but this much energy for a tiny human? Predators weren’t usually like this.
He ran for the nearest building that wasn’t occupied by eldritch calamari.

( ( BOOMM! ) )

The eyescraper’s tentacle crossed his path. Its supersonic shockwave sent him flying.
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Norman came to. Rain poured against his face as he lay on his back. How long was he out? Why was it so cold? The atmosphere didn’t quite feel right. It didn’t look right either. Something about the colours, or subtle lack thereof. Everything seemed a bit desaturated. Norman sat up and coughed his lungs out, evicting a mix of dust and rain water collected in his slackly gaping mouth. Buildings towered above him on every side, a bit too close for comfort.
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“̸̮̼͍̻̯̲̹͓̬̻̓̍G̷̛̖̙̰̰̟̓Ḿ̸̧̨͊̊̔͒͌̆͆͘͠͝M̷̧̺̏̿̆͑͆͋̅͌̕͝G̵̰̺͇̺̯̲͇̠͖͂͜M̸̡̨͕̹̗̥̎͑́̾!̸͇͙͚̝̩͕̙̒!̵͙̬̮̪̏̍!̶͔̪͉̙̘̃̐̄͝”̶̡̡̥̫̻̝̜̫͙̩͛ͅ

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Oh, right, those weren’t just buildings.
Norman raised a finger, gesturing to wait. “Could you *kaff!* quit subwoofin’ at me for, like, ten seconds!”
“Plucky.̵͚͐͝ for all seasons I .̵̦̺͐̅see,” came a skin-crawling voice from behind him.
Norman swung back his smitelight. It barely moved half a foot, then it stopped. Rather, something stopped it. That ‘something’ was cold. So cold. His wrist felt the chill without even touching it.
Norman turned, slowly, so as not to trigger further attacks. He found himself looking up.
Eight feet tall. Dark grey skin. A grin that went a little too wide. Dagger teeth. An open-chested jacket, revealing sinewy muscles with luminous markings like tattoos. His ebony eyes bore penetrating white pupils. Of all his traits, the dreadlocks stood out most. They belonged in a nightmare, dancing through the air with a life of their own. Somehow, they looked blacker than black, absorbing every ray of light or heat that came their way. That icy chill in the air shifted with the movements of his dreadlocks. They seemed to drink life from the air itself. Norman almost found it hard to breathe. One dreadlock clutched Norman’s smitelight, only by the tip, but its grip was iron.
Norman stared the tall man down.
The nyctal’s grin grew by a smidgeon.
Taking a calculated risk, Norman released the smitelight. Perhaps a peace offering would do good.
“Good.̷̧͋͌̎̿ boy,” the tall man nodded, admiring the smitelight as the dreadlock rotated it. “Clever.̴̧̤̩͈͓̖͂ͅ toy.”
Norman noted an understated Jamaican accent in his voice.
More dreadlocks slithered across the smitelight, as if tasting its every nook and cranny.
Norman did his best to look casual as he scanned for an escape route. The eyescraper’s tentacles had wrapped around the street, fencing him in.

_CHAT

• BAJANETTE11: 😳
• DARCIE222: okay, i’m back
• HARD-BACK-M8N: who you is again?
• DARCIE222: i left after the twilight angel sleep paralysis
• LEMMY_OUTA_HERE: And you’re back for more?
• DARCIE222: wonna know it impossible to stay away from a channel like dis

Norman looked at the tall nyctal again.

_CHAT

• DARCIE222: 😲 WHO IS THAT?!? AND WHY IS HE KIND OF …??? 😍
• MUNSTER-VERSER: I KNOW!!!
• BAJANETTE11: HE LIKE A VAMPIRE RASTA MAN! ❤❤❤
• ENTO_MOLLY: MOVE OVER MIGUEL O’HARA!! 😍🥰😘
• BAJANETTE11: NORMAN ASK FOR HE NUMBER!!!
• NORMAN: I HERE ABOUT TO DIE AND WONNA WANT HE PHONE NUMBER!?!

The nyctal’s eyes shifted to Norman inquisitively. He frowned, raising an eyebrow as the comments piled up. Finally, he smirked mischievously.
“Your fanbase has peculiar tastes,” purred the tall man.

_CHAT

• ENTO_MOLLY: 😳 Is … he talking about us? HE CAN SEE THE CHAT???
• DARCIE222: THE WAY HE SAID IT!!!
• DARCIE222: HBVJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJKL;K''
• LEMMY_OUTA_HERE: Did she just pass out on the keyboard?
• LIKKLE-BOY: lol!
• ARN74: you’re simping. Norman’s about to die, and you’re simping

The tall man handed Norman his smitelight.
Norman’s suspicious gaze flicked between the nyctal and the weapon. Finally, he reached out and took hold of the smitelight.
It crumbled in his fingers like ice-cold ashes. If not for the insulation gloves, he might have gotten frostbite.
The nyctal laughed.
Norman didn’t find it particularly amusing.
The tall man sauntered towards the eyescraper. Beyond it was a darkness even the nightsight had difficulty piercing. He beckoned Norman as if it were an afterthought.
“Please come in, .̵̭̻͌̓̂Norman.̶̲͕͇̅̑̚,” the nyctal instructed.
Norman stared stubbornly, hands in his pockets as he rocked on his heels. He felt for his smartphone. It wasn’t there. When had he lost it?
Without looking back, the nyctal held up Norman’s phone. It disintegrated between his fingers as he rubbed them together.
Norman glared. At least the guy hadn’t pickpocketed deeply enough to find other things.
“Hey. To whom do I owe the … pleasure?” Norman almost had to push the last word through his teeth.
The nyctal stopped in the eyescraper’s doorframe. Shrouded in shadow, little could be seen of him, save the piercing white pupils peering out. Then the glint of his Cheshire grin.
“.̴̜͓̭̻̤̍̈́̆͑͑John Crow.̸̻̮̓̈́̏̓͘,” he answered, before receding into the darkness.
The eyescraper’s tentacles dragged in across the street, corralling Norman towards the building. With an exasperated groan, he trudged towards the main entrance.
“I want my bed,” grumbled Norman.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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So basically i have this like, reaction whenever I stand up or start moving when ive been still for a while and when I do usually like my arm( its usually one or the other) and often times my thumb and eyebrows will move, like the muscles involuntarily contract. It only lasts a few seconds but is really strange. My vaguest thought is its something blood pressure related but tbh i dont really have the faintest idea

Scott Masterson had first met Scarlett at a rooftop party in downtown Dallas. Their age and the time of year were both in late springtime, them in their mid twenties and the date in early May. He had on a sharp yet breezy blazer and she astonished in a thigh length sleeveless blue dress.
“Oh hey Scott I don’t believe you two have met…” his then happily married friend had remarked with a slow swinging open hand toward her.
“Scott Masterson…reluctant friend to this knucklehead” he said with a tight lipped grin, trying not to be so obvious with his instant rapture.
“Scarlett…a pleasure…”
Her hand was so delicate to Scott’s touch. They locked eyes. It was like looking back through centuries of connection, endless days of laying in the sun next to the Seine River, or rising to Hollywood fame in the 1940’s and only having each other who would understand the glory and the pain of it all, or generations of quiet, simple country love that would bear such beautiful, happy children that would go on to raise beautiful, happy children, all with their dark blue eyes. Yes, the memories of every love story since the beginning of time was swirling right there in Scarlett’s irises. Scott had to catch himself before he stared embarrassingly too long.
“Sorry Scottie here doesn’t get out often” his friend quipped, which Scott appreciated actually, it helped him snap back to professionalism.
“Well I don’t either…at least I prefer not to.” Scarlett’s words flowed through the air like a flock of rose petals.
“Hey, kindred spirits.” Scott was really sensing a rising energy out of her, they had barely broken eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two have at it, I got a wife around here somewhere. Hey…Scott and Scarlett…not bad, not bad.” His friend exited stage right with a sly chuckle.
“Nice guy…so…what are you drinking, Scarlett?” Scott looked around for the emptiest corner of the rooftop bar, hoping to find a nice place for them to be able to hear each other. This night had just become something.
“That depends, Scott…what do you like?”
Oh man.
Well, as you can expect, the evening blossomed into a beautiful, long winded conversation that etched a long list of similarities between the two. They both lived in the city, had never married, and had dreamed of stable, simpler lives far away from tall buildings and busy streets. The next morning Scott awoke in her arms, which warmed much deeper than just his skin. He could feel her soothing his very identity, his future, everything. Her arms were tailor made to fit his very soul, and he had never felt more safe and at home.
“Mmm…you can stay right here…” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“I will…I will”
They both fell back asleep, into a dream that wouldn’t end upon waking.
Two years passed and suddenly they lived that simple backwoods life, way out where acres of land far out-populated the few and far between people. They took a lovely home, which happily looked over a long backyard, right up to a lively yet mostly undisturbed river. Their only neighbor within a mile was an older ranch worker named Charles, who rarely made himself perceivable. Days were spent way on into town where they both had offices. They didn’t mind the commute. Nights were spent mostly like this night, cuddled outside near a lovely little fire, with a slowly shrinking amount of wine sitting between them. Enjoying their Kingdom. Tonight, however, would prove to be a special night, for many reasons, all unexpected.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking…” Scott began, sitting up and opening his hands to the warmth of the fire.
“Oh?” Scarlett also sat up, eyes widening.
“So look, Scarlett, the last two years have been the best of my life. An absolute dream…”
She held her breath, her focus darting between his eyes and mouth.
“Yeah?”
“We have everything we ever want out here. But…what if there’s more?”
“More?” She had envisioned this very conversation hundreds of times.
“Our dreams have come true, but what if we…made some new dreams?” Scott turned and embedded his eyes into hers. He burst into a big smile.
“Scott…I thought…”
“Nevermind what I said” he cut her off, which he always made a point to never do, but this was a good exception.
“I’m ready, Scarlett…let’s have a family.”
“Ohhhh Scott, oh Scott”
They hugged tight enough to where it hurt.
“Well, in that case, we may need to open another bottle.” She said playfully, bouncing her eyebrows twice.
“Excellent. I’ll be right up. I’ll put this fire out and then start yours up.”
“Oh stop!” She bounded away girlishly, up the snowy back steps and into the house.
Scott let out a big sigh that he could see in the cold air and sat back in his chair, taking in his decision. He really was ready. He had secretly been keeping a long list of names that he liked and that he thought would work in front of Masterson. Especially little girl names. He stared into the campfire flames, getting lost imagining the three of them sitting right here, a little girl resting securely in Scarlett’s arms, as Scott had found himself, and stayed within these past two years.
Suddenly his trance was broken when, from the road in front of their house, came the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. Scott snapped his head back toward the house to get a better listen. He could see, around the house and through the trees, a large truck barreling down the country road, its headlights racing and bouncing with intensity. In an instant, it had passed up the road and out of sight.
“Huh?”
Soon, after a moment of silence, another sound echoed into the night. This sound rattled Scott to the bone and tore all that was right in his world into pieces. A sharp, bellowing squeal. His eyes shot over to his neighbors house, which was about a tenth of a mile to his right but still had a couple dim lights on that he could see. The shriek seemed to come from there.
Then, more squeals. It was hellish. More than animal but not quite human. Scott stood up. He heard crashing and tearing and further destruction coming from Charles’ house.
“Scarlett!! Scarlett!” He yelled toward his house, where he looked and could see her silhouette behind the curtains at the kitchen window. She didn’t seem to hear him.
He turned back toward his neighbors. The chaos had gone quiet. Not a half a moment after, though, he heard something big barreling through the trees as fast as that truck had been sprinting. Running, running furiously between the two houses. Searching, hunting. Scott was taken aback so hard that his heel had caught the edge of the fire pit, throwing him down only inches away from severe burns. He had knocked his head in the whiplash, making him groan and take a moment to regain his bearings.
“SCARLETT!!!!”
He screamed out toward his home as he sat up, rubbing a quickly rising bump on the back of his head. He heard a loud breaching on the side of his house. The patio door. No. No. Then, all hell broke loose. Scarlett started wailing and crying and he could hear crashes of plates and glasses and deep guttural roars coming from the kitchen inside. Shadows danced in a frenzy from the curtained windows. Sounds of instinctual survival seemed to be thrown from Scarlett inside. Sounds of defeat. Sounds of agony. Sounds of insanity. Scott sprang to his feet, his equilibrium being more damaged than he realized after his fall. He had to catch his hand on a chair to stabilize himself. Scarlett’s symphony of pain had gone quiet. Soon after something burst back out the patio door again and off in the same direction as that truck before.
Scott struggled back up to the house, slowly climbing the wintered, crunching stairs that led to the patio. He no longer yelled for Scarlett. In fact, the only thing that came to his senses was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Everything else had been turned off, save for a heavy and sudden dread that he had prayed he would never feel. He came to the side of his house where indeed the patio door had been busted and forced open. It laid inside the kitchen, its hinges snapped like toothpicks. Scott, with eyes wide and twitching, slowly entered his home and looked into the kitchen.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t even change his breathing. He didn’t blink. He just got a good long look at what laid before him.
Everything was broken. The fridge was on its side, the door hanging open and food and drink scattered all over the floor. The table was upended, its legs to the ceiling. A chair was resting on the counter, possibly having been thrown in defense. And Scarlett. Oh Scarlett. She…was…everywhere. She was all over the floor. She was sprayed against the walls. She was stuck to the window. She was in the sink.
Scott gently walked through the carnal mess and sabotage of his world. Long ago he had known exactly what he would do if something anywhere near this bad were to happen to him. He politely stumbled through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He opened his closet door and lowered a fire safe from the top rack. He unlocked it with a passcode. 511, after that warm May date when he had first met Scarlett. In the safe was a Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Scott took it out, along with a box of bullets, loaded one into the gun, put the safe back on its rack, and walked out of the closet, sitting on his bed. Their bed. Where they should’ve been laying right at this very moment, working toward a happy future. Where he would’ve kissed her forehead and put a hand on her growing midsection. Where they would have awoken on Christmas morning to the sound of children who were way too excited to remain asleep. Where they would’ve grown old. Where they would’ve smiled at each other through wrinkles, satisfied with all the love they shared and passed on to the next generations. Where they would’ve held each other in deep peace as they finally fell asleep to this world.
“I will…I will”
In one quick motion Scott pulled back the hammer and stuck the barrel of that pistol right up against his Governor and blew himself away, far away, right back into Scarlett’s loving arms.
Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett quickly yet stealthily made his way back to his Uncle’s house. He hugged the sides of the dark country road, keeping his eyes and ears wide open as to notice any sounds pertaining to the event that he had just witnessed there in the field next to the huge blaze. His only thought was Uncle Chuck. His house was right on the warpath of that horrible thing and Smallmouth had to go to him and make sure he was safe. He dared not go back to his truck, which would bring a lot of unwanted attention. No, Smallmouth walked and walked and finally saw the lights of his Uncle’s house. He carefully approached the front door from the shadowed driveway. Suddenly it occurred to Smallmouth that something was very wrong here. The door was busted in, having been plowed through by something very large and very strong.
“No…no…no”
Smallmouth slowly entered the house. The kitchen and living room were a disaster, chairs and tables and bottles strewn about and shattered. Bloody hoof-prints covered the floors, each of them the size of dinner plates. Smallmouth heard no noise. He felt himself well with tears, his nose a faucet that he began to sniff up as he worked his way through to his Uncle’s room, the door there also being broken in. A small whine growing in his throat, Smallmouth peaked into his uncles bedroom.
It was all in tatters. The bed had been attacked and shredded, the mattress being ripped up and thrown about as if it were made of cotton candy. More bloody hoof-prints were painted all over the brown carpet. Smallmouth trembled and put a hand up to his wet face. He didn’t see a way that his Uncle was anywhere near alive, knowing what he knew about the monster that had been in this house.
Smallmouth slowly walked to the living room, to the only little table that had been untouched in the attack. It was almost as if the bottle of whiskey teleported into his hand from the overturned cabinet, unopened. He fixed that real quick.
Soon he was several pulls deep of the only thing in the world that he knew would make him feel better, even if only for a few hours. He found his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and lit one up, although he was indoors. What did it matter? He sat in a chair that he had turned right side up and set the bottle on the table and looked out the back window into the pitch black. He cried for his Uncle and he cried for the world. He cried for himself. He cried for broken promises and his own weakness. He drank and drank until his vision shook from right to left everywhere he looked. At first he didn’t even notice the figures on the back porch. Then his vibrating focus did pick up on them, but by then it was too late. It was so dark out there but in their outlines he could see they wore long robes and hoods.
“HA!! COME AND GET ME! HAHA!! YOU COME AND YOU GET ME!!” Smallmouth boasted with a delusional amount of courage.
A creak escaped from the kitchen and he drunkenly slung his head over toward it. Three more figures stood there. Or was it just one? Smallmouth was none the wiser. All at once the hooded intruders from both inside and outside began to chant a strange, twisted rhyme in strikingly low and dissonant harmony:
“A sliver…of liver…goes down…with a shiver… …and gives…your gullet…to gall… …but drink…the Cider…that drowns…the Spider… …and you…will be free…of it all… …so tighten the grip…that loosens your lips… …O raise…the bottle…of brown… …and wake tomorrow…to find…in sorrow… …ANOTHER…SPIDER…TO…DROWN”
Smallmouth groaned at them in dissatisfaction and turned his bottle up again and began to chug the whiskey. As he did they repeated the chant except this time it was louder and closer. By the time Smallmouth had finished his bottle he was quickly losing consciousness. This wasn’t just whiskey. As he closed his eyes he felt hands grabbing him from all sides.
Smallmouth pulled open his sticky eyelids. His head felt like someone had bowled a strike into it. Wind froze his face. The smell of sickly, wet iron stung his nostrils. His vantage was higher than usual. Way higher. He was looking out into another field, but from easily ten feet up. He saw an old church, formerly painted white but now a flaky pale-beige. He heard the friction of a quick pull of rope below him, matched with a slight, tight pain at his feet. He looked down. A red-robed figure was fastening him against a wooden structure of some kind. His feet sat on a small flat platform perpendicular to a post that went from the ground up past smallmouths head. He couldn’t move his arms, so he quickly shot his eyes side to side. They were also tied to another horizontal post. A cross. He was being tied to a crude wooden cross. His shirt had been removed, exposing a hairy, overweight belly. Smallmouth tried to speak, but all that came out was a slow, unintelligible grumble. He was still drunk. No, this was more than that. He was under the influence of something strong and absolutely inhibitive. He wallowed again, and took in a deep breath. The smell of iron once again hit his nose. He looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick, red liquid. That wasn’t just the smell of iron. He had been splashed full body with blood.
“Now now, young servant…” the figure at his feet had finished his task and took a couple of steps out to admire his own handiwork.
“Ahh…perfect. The picture of martyrdom. Yes, you will always be remembered, Brother Bassett. You are to be the first Saint of The New Bible.” He opened his arms in his declaration.
Smallmouth looked up into the cold night sky. The moon shown down, giving everything a midnight spotlight. It was a gorgeous waxing gibbous, big and bright but not quite full. Yes, he was in a great big snowy field that housed an old worn down church. From the windows of the church he saw candles glowing, showing dark heads and shoulders looking out to him, also covered in loose hoods, hiding faces. He was hanging on a cross about one hundred feet from the old church. In front of the cross was a partially covered pit, a couple of two by fours supporting double armfuls of branches and dead leaves.
The figure at the base of the cross put his arms back to his side. He was still looking right at the drugged Smallmouth’s dumbstruck face. Even with a veiled mouth you could hear the twisted smile in his voice.
“Tonight you will help us finally defeat this legion, Smallmouth. You see, it may have the evil spirits within it, but at its core, it is still an owned animal. An animal that knows its Master very well. An animal that will remember the smell of its Master. You, my friend, are covered in its Master right now. And you are hanging on a cross, the symbol of this brute’s most hated enemy. But take heart, young Brother. Before you is our pit of spears. Yes you will attract the beast, but our Divine plan will intercept it and the beast will fall and be pierced. And then, oh dear brother, you will forever be immortalized. You will be purified in fire by the hands of your church brethren. Out of your screams and into the smoke the iniquities of all will be released. We will go on to preach your good example and your sainthood forever and ever.”
Smallmouth began to drool and hum pathetically. He could hear and understand the words of the robed man but he couldn’t fight back. His body was useless, limp inside its rope confines. All he could do now is think, and watch, and wait, and dread his fate.
The figure turned away from him, walking over near the pit and gathering up a bundle of brambles and throwing them over the last open area, covering it completely. He then crunched through the snow over to the front door of the old church, groaning open the door. He stood at the dark doorway for a few seconds in silence, and then began to make a noise. An over exaggerated pig squealing noise, high pitched and infuriating. Soon after other voices from inside the church began to do the same, their wailing echoing out of the building and all across the field, loudly signaling, calling out. It may as well have been a dinner bell. Not a half minute after they began the distress signal it was loudly answered by a distant squall. A furious squall.
This was it. Either way it happened Smallmouth was about to die. Experience terror, and then die, and not even have the ability to put up any kind of defense. It wasn’t fair. He just slowly lifted up his head and watched out far into the moonlit, white field. He then raised his heavy head further and took a good gander at the moon and stars for the last time.
“God,” he thought to himself, still having full inner monologue yet no outer motor function, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for being what I am. I am so sorry for ending up in this place. It’s only my own fault. If it wasn’t for me being so stupid and messy and drunk and terrible then this wouldnt be happening to me.”
He began to shed tears that washed lines into the blood on his face.
“Please forgive me God. Please, please, please forgive me for all of my sins. This is it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!” He yelled inside his own mind, hoping and trying to send his silent words as far up into heaven as they could go.
He lowered his eyes back to the ground. He looked over at the church again. The windows were empty, the candles were extinguished. Those hooded cowards were hiding from their own handmade sacrificial service. All was quiet for a long pause until a much louder, closer bleating began at the edge of the forest not even three hundred feet away from Smallmouth’s glazed over eyes. It was time, and it was too late for a miracle.
Out of the woods, slowly and heavily, stomped the massive hog. As it marched closer and closer Smallmouth could see its white, boiled over eyes and black-burnt skin. Its jaws were flying open and snapping its sharp, pocket knife-sized teeth together in an intimidating “clack”. It was now less than a hundred feet away, the dark old church to its right shoulder. It stopped, its pale glowing eyes fixed right on Smallmouth on the crude cross. It truly was a monster. It stood as tall as a man and as long as a canoe. Around its murderous mouth were stains of red, the remnants of all that it had taken from the world on this unholy night. In its clanging jaws were bits of flesh. It snorted and scowled.
Then, in a fury, it wailed that horrible squeal and started off into a dead sprint. It galloped and galloped toward Smallmouth at a high, blistering speed. It kept yawping and howling as it cut the distance from the cross down to fifty feet, forty feet, thirty, twenty. All at once it passed over the covered pit and plunged in. In his doomed, dead eyed stupor Smallmouth could hear what sounded like paint being dumped from a rooftop onto concrete. Trails of black liquid squirted and splashed up from the pit, which had been uncovered in the fall of the beast. Unbelieving, Smallmouth saw dozens of steel spear tips standing up from the dug-in ground. Right in the middle of them the beast was stuck. The sheer weight of the animal had caused the spears to pierce through its tough skin, sticking out of its back, soaked in black blood. One spear had stabbed right under the hogs chin, passing up through its jaws and out its black snout. It made agonized sounds. It roared and roared and shook the spears inside it, beginning furiously, then growing weaker and weaker within seconds. Finally, it let out one last weak little squeal, before it went still and quiet.
Smallmouth was frozen both physically by drugs and constraints and mentally by shock. His mouth hung open toward the pit of spears, his vision blurry. He took in a deep, troubled breath and let out a moan of disbelief and relief. The old church doors sprang open, and the sound of jubilation within flowed out into the night. The red robed figures flocked out of the building toward the pit, arms raised in celebration. They surrounded the hole, getting a good look at their success and their enemies defeat. Some held additional spears and began further stabbing the dead animal, causing more black blood to be shed up at them. They all yelled loudly and triumphantly. Some danced around the pit. Some skipped over to Smallmouth on the cross and danced around him, slapping his legs and spinning in circles.
Smallmouth looked on at the raucous celebration, both in utter disbelief of their trap actually working and also in turmoil. How long now until they fully execute their plan.
A taller robed man, whose voice matched the same one who spoke to Smallmouth as he tied his feet, spoke up, sounding almost happily intoxicated.
“Ahh yes my Brothers!! It is done!! We have won!!!”
They all whooped and cheered.
“Brother Norman, go into the church and bring me the small tank of fuel. Let us send our dear Saint Bassett to the Holy lands, where he will be adored for all eternity!”
They all clapped and hollered. One figure began childishly skipping away from the pit and over toward the front door of the church.
Then, it happened.
From the pit all of a sudden a great blaze erupted instantly. It stood as tall as the cross, and it burned a furious red and blue. It raged and raged, blinding Smallmouth and making him clumsily turn his face away from the heat.
All of the figures panicked, screaming and scattering away toward the church. They didn’t get far. Up from the fiery pit, dozens of long, long, black arms, adorned with six hooking claws emerged and stretched out of the flames and latched on to the legs of those trying to escape. Smallmouth heard crying and wailing from the men as the black, razor clawed-hands of the legion grabbed them and began pulling them back, into the blazes. One by one the red robed people were dragged into the flames, their clothes catching instantly. Smallmouth could see violently shaking bodies in the evil furnace. Oh, the screams. Above the tortured howling, the sound of laughing broke out. Deep, menacing laughter, hundreds of voices, echoed up into the air from the burning hole. Then, in one extinguishing squeeze, the ground swallowed the entirety of the fiery pit, leaving it completely covered in dirt, still and quiet. Soon after, and just like the pit of spears, the old church building caught in an instant and raging fire, quickly toppling the walls and dropping the steeple into its ruins. The smoke towered high in the night sky, which had just began to hint at a pale morning blue. Smallmouth hung on his cross in utter horror and surprise.
As the late evening hours glowed into early morning the smoke eventually tapered off, as Smallmouth’s drugs finally began to wear off as well. The fires of the church did garner long distance attention, though. Just as Smallmouth was able to regain control of his muscles and voice he heard emergency sirens call out into the cold morning air. Not long after, two fire trucks, an ambulance and a sheriffs truck tore into the field and toward Smallmouth on the cross. Not long after Smallmouth could feel the tied ropes being cut loose by firemen, their uniforms easily the best red clothes he had seen all night.
“What on God’s green Earth happened here son?” A bearded man with a dark hat and brown shirt and pants asked Smallmouth once he had been lowered down from the cross and sat on the ground with a shock blanket around his shoulders. The Sheriff, no doubt.
“God’s green Earth. It really is God’s, isn’t it?” Smallmouth whispered, staring out across the cold field. Then, at the very place he was staring, an old, familiar truck came barreling out of the gravel road in the woods and through the field in the steadily growing morning light. It was Uncle Chuck’s truck. It hurried over toward the other emergency vehicles, parked, the driver’s side door burst open, and Uncle Chuck came bounding out over to Smallmouth, his eyes wide and his mouth a wonderfully shocked “O”.
“JEREMY! JEREMY!!!” He basically fell on Smallmouth in a tight, warm hug. Smallmouth was caught off guard by Chuck using his real name.
His Uncle held him for several seconds and then let up, but kept his hands on Smallmouth’s shoulders.
“I thought you were dead.” Both of them said at almost the exact same time.
“I came back and your house was a mess and there was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.” Smallmouth weakly spat out.
“Well, I woke up and you were gone, son, so I walked to the ranch to get my truck. I was worried bout ya son. I came back home and the whole place had been turned upside down. Blood on the carpet. I just thought the worst. Then I tried my neighbors house. Buddy, they’re dead. Looks like some wacko murder-suicide if I ever saw one. Scott probably tried to come kill us too and wrecked the place when he found it empty. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that you are right here! You are okay Jeremy!! Ahhh Praise Jesus!!”
“It’s not that, Uncle. That isn’t what happened out here. It’s..it was a..a, uh…”
Smallmouth’s fried brain couldn’t even comprehend what he had witnessed over the past few hours. It was all a violent blur.
“Dont worry bout it son, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital. We gotta go get you checked out and cleaned up. C’mon.” He helped Smallmouth up and they walked over to the ambulance, his Uncle’s arm thrown around his shoulder.
Smallmouth would be sent home later that afternoon. It would take him and his Uncle a long time to sort through the chaos of that deadly night and rebuild their lives. But life kept on. Smallmouth would remain living with his Uncle, and would begin a job working with him down at the ranch. Together they started to attend a local church. Smallmouth never touched a drink or a drug or even a cigarette ever again, and remained steadfast in his newly revitalized faith.