[Found Story] Gifts

Buddha was walking into the city market one day and near the city entrance an old bitter man was sitting on a box glaring at Buddha, who carried a bright smile on his face. At the sight of him this old man started cursing Buddha up and down, left right and center, telling him how pretentious he was, how much better he thought he was and how he did nothing worthy of the air he breathed in this world. But Buddha simply smiled and kept on walking to the market to get what he needed. The Next day Buddha returned to the market and once again that old man was there, this time his cursing intensified, screaming and yelling at Buddha as he walked by, cursing his mother, cursing his father and everyone else in his life.

This went on for the rest of the week and finally as the Buddha was leaving the market the man came up to him, as his curiosity had simply gotten the best of him. “Buddha, every day you come here smiling and every day I curse your name, I curse your family and everything you believe in” the old man says ” but every day you enter this city with a smile knowing that I await you with my harsh tongue, and everyday you leave through the same entrance with that same smile. I know by speaking to you now that you are not deaf, why do you keep on smiling while I do nothing but scream the worst things I can think of to your face?”

Buddha, with the same smile still on his face looks at the old man and asks “If I were to bring you a gift tomorrow morning all wrapped up in a beautiful box would you accept it?” to which the old man replies “Absolutely not, I would take nothing from the likes of you!”.

“Ah ha” the Buddha replies “Well if I were to offer you this gift and you were to refuse then who would this gift belong to?”. “It would still belong to you of course” answers the old man. “And so the same goes with your anger, when I choose not to accept your gift of anger , does it not then remain your own?”

The Tale of the Feeshdragon


One day, the fragile princess Pepnpenkun was in her tower when a terrible, huge, feeshdragon, known as the terrible feeshdragon Erin, came looking for ingredients for princess stew. With a swipe of his massive, feeshy claws, he kidnapped the fair lady!

At first, the kingdom sent a group of four, red garbed, axe wielding warriors which were promptly eaten.

Continue reading “The Tale of the Feeshdragon”

All my love, my dear Terra.

Never in my life have I felt more desperate to find and hug someone.

One of my friends lost his dad the other morning. I knew it was coming, he had told me that he’d be missing from our general super static stupidity when he had gone home the first time. I’ve offered to be an ear if he needed it and when it first happened, I spent some silly money to get him something he’d be unable to get for a while because that’s all I could really do.

There’s that big ocean thing separating us. Sigh.

All my love Terra, I hope you come back online soon, at least our stupidity can make you smile. It’s really odd and terrible to think about such a generally happy, awesome guy so utterly miserable.

The Siren Meets the Sarooth

This is the next chapter following The Daughter of the Laurel Tree.

Small terms that may be unclear since I haven’t posted the prologue chapters yet: Siren – a large half bird half human creature tamed by the Daliquor. They are considered incredibly exotic, and a symbol of human’s ability to triumph over the Melyion as the original siren, which all siren were born from, was his wife. Siren goods are rare and expensive, and masquerading as a siren is usually reserved for a woman of extreme noble rank, toting herself as ‘exotic’.

Sarooth – a panther like creature with deep, black fur. Inhabits most forestland but are masters of stealth. Are incredibly strong and considered ‘noble’ creatures.

Laurel was no stranger to the drink, however, she was a stranger to wine. She drank the glass in a single gulp. It dulled the pain that lingered in her chest. She shuffled awkwardly, trying not to trip in her heeled shoes, back to a maid to dispose of this glass and gain another. This one she held for a moment.

Her eyes scanned the room in their haze. Hundreds of people, thousands maybe, all dressed in elegance, clad in masks. She looked down at the deep green dress she was wearing, the sleeves that hid the scars on her arms of the same color, she could even see the hellish shoe peeking out under the bellowed skirt. She didn’t feel like herself. The dress was made of such fine materials, things she could have never afforded, it made her uncomfort worse.

Five days prior. Ryo had come with materials for her, only to find her in hysterics over her father’s body. She could barely form a sentence as she stammered through her tears. Ryo assured her he would take care of everything.

The Daughter of the Laurel Tree

Here’s a small background: I’ve been writing a bunch in the same ‘universe’. They all come from the same origin story, which I’ll post eventually when I feel content with the fine tuned details. It’s quite hard to create an entire world, lore and all, and then pack it all into ONE deal. The ideas just kept spewing, so, I expanded

This portion is the beginning of ‘Sapphire and Jade’, a story that focuses on the Calinthian Kingdom. It introduces one of the main characters. There shouldn’t be too much lore-heavy stuff going on here since it is an intro chapter and very much one of the first bits I’ve ever written in this universe, so it’s low on the lore scale. Balor and Musa are the big two gods, often spoken about in curse or praise.

She was born of Rosel, a great Calinthian weapon smith and a simple seamstress. Her mother died in childbirth. She had four children who were born cold, and the one that filled the room with her screams took her last breath with her. As her father cursed the loss of his wife, he celebrated the birth of his only child. A daughter he named in her honor, of the fragrant trees that left the air around the tiny cottage faintly sweet, a blue eyed child named Laurel.

Rosel did not know how to be a proper father to his only child, but with time he did the best he could. Her lullabies were the sound of his hammering, she learned to walk around molten metals, she even learned to speak from the brash customers who appeared at his door. For all this, Laurel loved him so. But, as she aged, so did he. By the time she turned ten years old, the great Rosel was nearly seventy, and his body was simply tired. His hands moved like they worked in gloves of thick syrup. The once rhythmic beats of his hammer became further and further spaced apart and lost their strength.

His tiny daughter came to him one day as he rubbed the oil of her namesake on his hands, relieving the burns his weakened hands suffered. She asked him what she could do to help him. Rosel told her to go to school, to become strong and smart.

Fireworks and Goldfish

Fireworks and Goldfish is something I wrote some time ago but it’s one of my favorite pieces that I feel like I ruin whenever I edit it. It’s also one of the inspirations for my handle of ‘Dream Hostage’.


I fussed over a quiet fire, fanning a meal of meat and some kind of wild berry. I had been recruited as a mercenary to do a search and seizure with a few others. We had obtained our target but deemed it too risky to go on in the quickly fading daylight. We camped a good seven hundred feet away from our targets camp. The monsters we were tracking were known to only move in the daylight hours, preferring their camps while under the moonlight. The group we were tracking had no visible night guards; still, we decided that we would take turns keeping night watch after our meal was consumed.

My companions were vastly different then I. Each one came from a homeland three days travel closer to the empire city then my home. Their combat styles were varied and unique with skills ranging from novice to quite skilled. We talked softly around the fire, pausing at each pop and crackle as fat rolled off out dinner into the flames, scared we had missed a guard in our initial scout.

“These hot nights are going to be the death of me.” Remarked one of my companions.

“This is nothing compared to the days at home!” Responded another. She was tanned by many years of sun.

Another grabbed a hollowed log we tossed aside as poor firewood, drumming out a soft tune about summer heat. He was a minstrel and a mercenary, a talented lad indeed.