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Poems and Lyrics
Runoja - Poems in Finnish
© Daghrgenzeen. All rights reserved. None of my works may be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, downloaded, re-uploaded and/or sold in any way without my full and written permission.
Jacquez Rénmiere remained seated and cursed heatedly in Azyeri for several minutes: the group of Lions they had spotted earlier had made him queasy, and though he and his men were usually welcome to Víldia, somehow he had a gut feeling that the young Lionborns could be up to something that could go against the traditions and the agreements between north and south. Each to their own was one of the Víldish mottos, and it meant that everyone dealt with their own troubles— if you interfered with someone else’s business, they had the right to interfere with yours in return. You receive what you give and all that shit. If the youngsters weren’t working alone, it could be that the forests nearby were hiding dozens of other Lionborn, eager to let their steel blades finally taste the blood of southerners…
“This storm”, Rénmiere muttered; “it’s no regular storm…” It had been sudden, too sudden, and he was damn aware of what the Víldish were capable of: they didn’t like manipulating people with their powers, because that was the sort of thing the Scaendi Sorceresses had done on their people hundreds of years ago, but the weather was a whole different matter. A Lion would do anything for victory, even use up one’s own lifeforce to call up a storm to halt the enemy.
Mumbling curses, the TASF Captain got out of the chopper, shielding his face from the worst gusts of wind; his boots sank deep into the snow, and then he felt the winds die down. He looked up and saw his men and colleagues kneeling, their hands behind their heads and staring at him with blank faces. Behind them were forty young Lions, all dressed up in light tunics, the males with their chests bare to reveal the ceremonial scars from mating with Lionesses, the women revealing their smooth thighs at least, and some had their firm bellies bared. Quite a many of them wore the hat of a Lionborn, and all of them were carrying weapons: spears, lances, sabers, daggers, swords, bows. Their wolf-like dogs had been standing quiet among them, but the moment they realized they had been seen, the úlvhundar started to growl and bark at the southerners.
Rénmiere lifted his head, knowing better than to speak before one of the Lionborn had adressed him, so as not to insult anyone’s pride; he was a foreigner, so his own pride didn’t matter… and he had his men’s lives to worry for as well. The Víldish stared back with eyes as cold as the environment they lived in, their faces empty of all emotion; the TASF soldiers tried not to show their fear, because they knew the Lions were ruthless towards those who were deemed weak. Everyone in Rénmiere’s team knew they could’ve easily called out their machines to turn the Víldish into minced meat, but that would’ve meant igniting war with the northerners… and no one in the south had the power to fight back magic: no one knew exactly what kind of powers the north held. In the worst scenario the Isenians would forget their own disputes and co-operate against the Alliance… The Isenians had one thing in common—a thirst for victory without a thought for the consequences: if they were to find the legendary weapon, the Divine Sky of Technology… they wouldn’t mind destroying the rest of the world just to save their own pride.
All of this went through his mind as he watched the Lions step aside to let someone through the crowd and the now howling úlvhundar. It was a Lionborn male, tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, his chest scarred from the blades of females who had accepted his challenge, allowed him in their bed and left him alive as a sign that he was worthy of their interest; he moved with the graciousness and stealth of a cat, his step proud and perhaps a little arrogant. Strands of blond hair poked out from under the hat shaped like a lion’s head, and Rénmiere caught a flash of bright, clear-blue eyes; he was carrying a large, strangely-shaped sword carelessly over his shoulder with just one hand, a blade twice the size of himself. He stopped to stand right behind Leroux and Rhynoldes, grabbing the blade with his free hand; Rénmiere knew it was an act to make his own muscles bulge, to appear more formidable, scarier—a common way for a Lion to flaunt before a challenge. The others stepped back, leaving their leader to face the southerners alone.
“Mustarastaita sudenkorennoillaan”, the young male finally spoke, his voice a hoarse and deep grumble. He stood with his legs apart, and Rénmiere took a similar stance, but holding his hands together in front of him. He cursed himself quietly: he should’ve known the storm would be a trap, to force them to land… but had they continued flying, the blizzard would’ve brought them down anyway. “Teidän lauluja ei olekaan hetkeen kuultu näillä main.” The Lionborn eyed the helicopters. “Eikä tommosten surinaa.”
Songs… So they wanted information. Rénmiere clenched his jaws. “You are of Den Snön Patrullen.”
The Lionborn cocked his head. “Niin.”
“And what did we do?” Rénmiere asked as calmly as he could. But he had already recognized the four Lionborn: the male who stood before him, and the female and two other males. His hidden vizor confirmed his suspicions after a quick scan on their physical and facial features. He’d make Kerberoz an eunuch if he’d survive this encounter. Damned, horny dog.
Blue eyes flashed, and then the great sword’s tip was pointed towards Rénmiere; the male was shaking, but not with effort—anger radiated from him, turning his usually invisible aura into a light-blue flame surrounding his body. “Missäs se punanen kojootti on?”
Rénmiere resisted the urge to start cursing: goats-fucking gods, he should’ve known this day would come! “Jacht Kerberoz”, the Captain said gritted teeth; “ei mukana.”
The blade was flipped and pressed against Leroux’s cheek; to the Azyeri man’s credit, he didn’t even flinch as blood trickled down his skin, and the Víldish murmured with approval for a short while. “Sokeanako pidät minnuu? Totta hitossa huomasin ettei se ameebanjätös mukana ole. Mie kysyinkin että missä se on.”
“Kotipesässään siis piilossa.” The young male grimaced, then turned the sword in his hand and pressed the blade on Leroux’s throat; his chest was heaving, and there was a flash of worry in his eyes. “Entäs se naaras jonka se pölli?”
Rénmiere lifted his chin. “It was in my understanding that those who leave this land are seen as weak, and that the weak are left behind, not just physically but in the memory as well.” He saw the dark-haired Lionborn female from earlier step forward and whisper to the male’s ear.
“Se naaras ei ole heikko”, the male finally replied. “Miks muuten mie kyselisin sen perään?”
Rénmiere tilted his head; there had been a strange undertone to the lad’s voice, betraying some fear the young male held in his heart. Had the girl grown stronger… or weaker? Had she given up the way of the warrior and turned into a songbird, allowed herself to be put in a cage? “What do you want?”
The Víldish Lion grinned, then spoke in broken, slow Technis: “Take me… to Varyon.” He put the sword back on his shoulder, his eyes burning with a blue flame. “To Zharinnian Eisaisvais.”
Liz Anne Edwinton woke up to a snowy day. Snow in Azyer… She wandered outside and held up her palm, and a snowflake landed on it. Suddenly the snowflake seemed to grow in size, and its middle was torn open into a mouth with rows and rowds of small, sharp teeth which snapped at the woman before the snowflake took off, sniggering as it flew away, spinning and whirling as it went. Liz Anne swallowed, closing her palm. Lushnohi… a servant of a Scaendi Sorceress. But the sudden snowfall in so far south worried her the most—she had chosen to live in Azyer just because it never snowed in there, so that if it ever did, she’d know something was wrong.
And now it was snowing in Lyónez.
Children were pouring out of their family homes, baffled by the sight and eager to get a feel of it. Their parents came out as well, looking around themselves in awe; most seemed happy, but some called their children back in. Maybe it was just her imagination, but Liz Anne saw a few throw a hasty, hateful glance in her direction. She turned and went back inside their own house, then hurried to the bathroom. She combed her long, sandy locks while the water ran into the tub, then slid in with a pair of clippers and scissors in her hand; she clipped her nails, murmuring quiet, almost forgotten prayers to the spirit of Rhaidohr and Aelgeas, to cleanse her, bless her, protect her. Liz Anne soaped her feet and washed them with care, because the gods had given them to her for transportation.
Something rather strange happened in the room: there was a breeze of fresh air, though the small window near the ceiling was closed, and so was the door. A voice echoing with hundreds of others whispered: “Kuka sinä olet? Kuka kutsuu meitä? Ah, ah, lintu… vanha haahka jo.” There was despise in their tone.
“Ei”, the woman replied, lifting her chin. “En ole lintu.”
She pressed the scissors against her left shoulder, closing her eyes. Explaining the white patch on her skin to her husband had been difficult, but now there was no use in hiding it anymore: Haegealaz and Yjerah would come collect her soul, and it would not matter. She squealed as the blades punctured her skin, tearing it as she pulled them down. “Mannaez, anna minulle viisautta tehdä se mikä on oikein. Thuresaez.” She twisted the blade and sobbed quietly. “Anna minulle voima tehdä se mikä täytyy.” Panting, she pulled the scissors out of her shoulder and pressed it against her right one. “Láegujs, anna minulle takaisin syntymänimeni ja -oikeuteni, sekä voima joka minulle kuuluu.” She lowered her head as she dragged the blades across the white stretch of scar tissue; her blood spilt out, and she dropped the scissors on the floor, immediately lowering herself into the bath tub, into the waters. “Aelgeas, suojele… Rhaidohr, ohjaa minut oikealle tielle…”
“Mikä on nimesi?”
“Liz Ann— Ei”, she gasped; “Lysannian. Lysannian Taikavais.” Her shoulders begin to burn with excruciating pain, but when she rose from the waters the blood was gone, returned to her body, her skin intact from the wounds. She stared into the mirror, into her own wide eyes, then slowly turned her back to the mirror, looking over her shoulder, gasping with relief. The roaring lion on its hind-legs, holding a sword and a torch was back in its rightful place, and so were her name runes. “Kiitos”, she whispered to the gods. They had listened, answered to her prayers!
Her shoulders were still tingling when she dressed and went to look for her daughter. “Esmethe”, she said, brushing the girl’s sandy, curled hair. “I must go for a journey. Be a good girl, Esmethe. I won’t be gone for long.”
“Where are you going?”
Lysannian didn’t want to touch the girl, but Liz Anne pressed her lips against the girl’s forehead for a quick kiss. “To Satham. There is someone there I must meet. An old acquaintance of mine…”
“Are you going to see father?”
“No.” Not your father. “I will give you a call every night, to make sure you’re alright.” To make sure you haven’t drawn the life of anyone else. Lysannian walked out of the house and out of the town with the solemn intention of never coming back.
The room was covered in thousands of screens. In the middle stood a little girl with long, platinum hair and red eyes without pupils. Each screen was divided in two: one showing the people in their First Reality, the other showing their Second Reality creations. She had used to feel nothing, watching them: now, now she felt pity. Emotions were for humans, she knew. She hadn’t been human, she couldn’t be human: humans consisted of flesh and blood, stretches of deoxyribonucleic acid, while she was stretches of complex algorithms made by a set of computers.
Maybe it was the millions of minds that were now connected to her systems, she thought; maybe it was their dreams, their feelings and memories, their experiences, that had given her a sense of having emotions… a sense of existence. She wanted to be there, in the First Reality. She wanted to touch. To taste. To feel. She raised a hand, and a mirror appeared in front of her; she turned her hand around with her palm open, and a sharp knife materialized on it, her fingers curling around it tightly. Is this how holding a knife feels like? Is this how it’s supposed to feel like? Slowly, she pressed the blade against her own skin, running it across her own wrist.
She tried again, but her skin remained intact: there was no blood. Red eyes searched through the screens and finally found the scene she had wanted to see—a man getting stabbed in the streets of TC. His shirt turned dark with blood, his hands trying to stop the bleeding crimson as he cried for help, but the stabber didn’t care, just kept on stabbing until the man fell on his side, unconscious from the shock and loss of blood. He’d die without help, but the girl knew the Towerguards would not aid him: he was just a citizen of the Outer City, poor and unable to pay for his medical treatment, let alone the bribes for TG. She watched him die, feeling a pang of sadness.
Or was it really a feeling? Maybe it was just a calculation, made by the computer, imitating the physiological reactions of the humans it had been commanded to examine, to enhance their Second Reality experiences? The girl pressed her hands on the sides of her head. It was maddening, to be unable to tell the difference… Nouns and pronouns. Human terms for themselves.
A scream was building up within her. A desperate howl no one would hear nor understand. She kept the scream inside, as well as the tears. “I am no human”, she told her mirror reflection; “I have no identity. No personality. I am a machine. I am a machine.”
Then her attention moved to one of the screens again: there was a woman, a single-mother from the Rehnah, a thin area stuck in the between of the Main and Outer Cities, its residents not rich enough to live in the Main City but not poor enough to be accepted by those living in the Outer City. She was dreaming in the girl’s realm, and everytime the drug’s effect would wear out, she’d wake up long enough to shoot up more of Illusine in to her veins, ignoring her young daughter completely. The girl in the Second Reality felt pity for the daughter, and anger at the mother. I would look after you better. The girl pressed her hand against the screen.
The woman’s body jerked, going stiff, her neck strained back. Her body trembled. Intrigued, the red-eyed girl pressed harder. A black hole appeared in the middle of the screen, surrounding her wrists, and her fingers could feel a stack of chords inside. She tugged at them, and the woman jerked again. The girl’s eyes widened. Then she closed them, concentrating as hard as she could; but though her eyes were shut, she could still see the screens in her mind… she saw a red trail spring out from herself, from her chest down her arm and into the screen, running over the chords and reaching out to the woman. The woman’s vizor flashed in red, and for a short moment, just for a second
Her body felt strange, it was hot, something was sloshing inside her, drumming in her ears, her pores oozing sweat; her nose picked up a scent, the scent of her own filthy body. She tried to move her arms, but
there was a zap, and suddenly the girl was back in the room, holding the torn chords in her hand. The screen had gone black, and she knew what it meant. The woman was dead.
The girl clutched to the chords: white, yellow, and red. For a short moment, she had been inside a human body...
© Daghrgenzeen. All rights reserved. None of my works may be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, downloaded, re-uploaded and/or sold in any way without my full and written permission.
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life update (and features galore)hey everyone! it's been awhile since i've posted one of these journals so i figured i ought to post one tonight because school for me starts tomorrow (and classes tuesday) and life can be a bit crazy in general nowadays so since i've got some time now i should speak up!life update (and features galore) by chromeantennae
well, the biggest news of august easily has been Lissomer and I becoming a couple. and i really could go on and on about that but i think i've done quite a bit of that through my poetry. sophia has been quite literally the best thing in my life right now and has been for the past month. well, the past year and some change that i've known her she's always been right at the top of my list. but especially now, of course.
it really has been so incredible to finally realize this with her. i can't talk enough about it, honestly. so, in keeping with that, i ought to stop myself before i ramble on. beyond that i've just been working and preparing myself for school (i'm taking a business class, an american lit class, a music hi
RELEASE THE ANIMAL DUDE
11:59:44 PM <Daghrgenzeen> but now I can return to stare at the gif
11:59:46 PM <Daghrgenzeen> I mean
11:59:47 PM <Daghrgenzeen> to write
11:59:49 PM <Daghrgenzeen> to write a story
12:00:05 AM <Pakaku> about a man in a gif
12:00:10 AM <Daghrgenzeen> Pakaku: ...noooo
12:01:05 AM <Pakaku> Daghrgenzeen: "The Guy In the GIF" a cyberpunk erotica set in the age of 1990s internet
namenotrequired after I changed my account/username for like the 4th time: Daghrgenzeen, confusing the world since the name change feature!
Behind the name:
[dʌg-r-gɛntsɛn] - originally randomly produced username, modified with an extra (silent) 'e' due to username availability reasons.
[laʊ-rʌ] - derived from the bay laurel plant, which in the Greco-Roman era was used as a symbol of victory, honor or fame.
Dreamer. Reader. Writer. Picture-taker. Gamer. Escapist. Student.
On dA since 2005. Blabbering on #devart since 2006. Rather friendly.
In a relationship since 2008.
Engaged since 2010.
Loves nature, taking walks and cycling and swimming.
Wishes to do her best to protect the ringed seals of Lake Saimaa.
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Family members on dA - real life family members.
People have written poems about me, and it's just... People!!
daghrgenzeen.she puts rose petals at the ends of her
LauraDearest Laura! I - or
They Call Her DaghrgenzeenDaghrgenzeen, Finnish mistress of
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