marox_pass_more_of_the_parade fyn gula "whoa!" nimbia yelled. "mother fuck!" he put his hands up to his mouth and stood incredulous as the parade of nylem continued. behind the crippled renaissance players strode the kingdom of broken glass' honour guards, soldiers of the black draegyn, also known as the branches. they were royally attired in chainmail tarnished to turquoise with silver lances at the ready. they marched in a unison, a twisted form of the two step, that was both beautiful and frightening. when the right foot went down, they shouted, "scib!" and when the left foot went down, they whispered,"scab!" "scib scab," nimbia said, and he mocked their rigid walk. and when the parade stopped from time to time to move an elderly musician who had dropped from exhaustion out of the way, the soldiers hummed in a low monotone, distant thunder precluding a summer storm. following them was the infamous black draegyn itself, anchored to a crude cherrywood trailer with lopsided wooden wheels that creaked as loud as a banshee. twelve bedivean dwarves, each holding tight to braided cords meticulously knotted to the beast's legs, neck, tail, and scales, kept it adequately contained, even so it yanked hard at its constrains and every dwarf wore the look of panic on their face when things are bordering on the out of control. "be ready for anything," maylay warned. "who knows what may happen?" 010614 ... Sol the behemothiod minotoar, scenting the wind tickling the ears of the observers, turned surrepticiously towards them, the first interaction? no more is it a dead and isolated carnival of sorts, its reality is verified to me. the wind again bites at our ears, the tips whitening slightly as her toothless gums attempt to sqeeze blood. the Minotoar seems to chuckle slighly, rattling its heavy cast chains, redblackblue, its fur a dance not to be followed, but to be imagined, forward, back, turn and invert, no more itself or me, the languid light seeping through the thickening air heightens the depth of scent and dust. Carressing us and our sinuses frantically trying to cope, swamped by stimulii a wirligig a passion lost in forgotten night. it walks on, its scent mind contact is no more with us, and the begrizzled dwarven tax inspectors rushing around its ankles, gnawing and lashing at its rubbed and weeping feet, throw us a cursory glance before deciding we are of no interest to them, they do not need us. the soul flight, dark night, gold light,continues 010615 ... log burning fire scib scab 060220 what's it to you? who go blather from