A Trobadour in Ferike

A Trobadour in Ferike
by Angelo Ventura

Story Notes

Author e-mail: angeloventura@iol.it

Spoilers: Wraeththu histories and chronicles. Set after Ghosts of Blood and Innocence.

Canon characters: Panthera, Zack, Calanthe, Caeru, Pellaz

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Not mine. These characters belong to Storm Constantine. No copyright infringement is intended.

A Trobadour in Ferike

First Chapter

As autumn regaled its lavish colours on the forests of Ferike, Loven was torn between the desire to wander in the woods of Castle Jael, feeling the carpet of leaves gently crushing under his feet, and the desire to roam the castle library. Jael’s was one of the largest in Ferike, comprising old volumes from the human era, even some centuries old .It was thus he learned of trobadours.

His hostling¬† Panthera didn’t know very well what they were.

“They were singers, I think.”, he answered one golden windy morning, leaves whirling outside the √≤iving room of he castle.

“Oh, they were more than that. They composed their own songs and they had a juggler who played an instrument, like a banjo or ukulele…oh, yes, a mandolin”

“Well, that would be very interesting”, said Panthera, who had never heard of those things. “But for now you’ve got to go to school”.

“Will they ever teach me how to play mandolin?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, tell my preceptors I want them to teach me that, instead of that impossible “meditation technique”. It makes me fall asleep”

“Shh, don’t tell that to your grandfather .And hurry, now!”

“But will you give me a mandolin?”

“We’ll see, Loven. Now you go!”

Panthera was puzzled. What had Loven been reading?

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Ebony and Ivory

Ebony and Ivory
by Angelo Ventura

Story Notes

Originally written Sept. 20o5.

I was waiting for somebody to do this, but… guess I have to do it myself.

Featuring: Panthera and Zack

Ebony and Ivory

My chesnari Panthera, Crown Prince of Jael, urges me to try to write a story.
Here at Ferike all hara are very learned, almost nohar is without an artistic skill, be it pictorial, poetic or musical. Panthera is a very good painter, and he urged me to try that, too. Well, my efforts were labeled “interesting and original” by my beloved. I know what those words mean. He’s the most thoughtful and gentle har I’ve ever known. An exquisite person, who doesn’t want to hurt me with a frank appraisal.

Where do I begin, then? My inception? I don’t remember it very well, some white guy called Orion (or something like that) telling us we will finally rise over stupid white men who despised us.He seemed something of a white man, but he was more than a man..He seemed to glow with an inner light. He was beautiful, kind and gentle, more than any white man I’d known before.

Unfortunately, it was not he who incepted us. He left us with our already incepted leader, who shortly succumbed in an attack led by a brute called Wraxilan and his goons. His tribe was a motley very cruel band of a cruel tribe, called the Uigenna. The juice of Gehenna, they were, apt name. Their blood infected me, I was possessed by a savage lust for blood and revenge against white men. Still, a white har caught my young fierce heart.

Ah, Cal! Fair as I’m black, savage and fierce, my soul mate…at least so I believed.. I suffered exile from the Uigenna with him, and then it was only two of us, alone against a maddened, crumbling world. Cal, my lover, my addictive, poisonous pleasure.

I wish it had been different… Read the rest of this entry »

The Seducements of Chaos and Order

The Seducements of Chaos and Order
by Tessa

Story Notes

Editor\'s PickDisclaimer: All characters, the universe and concepts belong exclusively to Storm Constantine. I receive no profit and no gain from this amateur story. No harm is intended in any way.

Rating: NC17 – For adult themes and m/m content. Profanity. Violence. Rape. Please be warned. If you are under age in your area, or this subject matter offends you, please press the ‘delete’ key now.

Credits: Warmest thanks to Storm Constantine for creating these wonderful novels and characters.

Author: Tessa (tessa_5000@yahoo.com)

Please Enjoy.

The Seducements of Chaos and Order.

Chapter One.

The Present

Straightening his silken collar, Calanthe cast an apprehensive glance over at his son. Jaden.

Jaden was just over seven now, and he was about to go through his formal Feybraiha Celebration, which would mark him as a Har. Would mark him as an adult. And for some reason it was making Cal nervous. He released a breath, moving to stand in front of the long wall mirror. Its reflection only mirrored the concealed ache – confusion and pain in his soul. The knowledge that …

So much had happened in the last seven years, most of it good, but some he wished he could erase the memories completely. Forever.

It had now been almost eight and a half years since his whirlwind arrival in Immanion: since his confrontation with Thiede, and his transformation to Tigron with his heart’s desire, Pellaz.

Almost a life time ago.

So much had happened, and he could look back on the early memories now with pleasure, remembering how awkward and unreasonable both he and Pellaz had been during his first year in Phaonica. Initially they had accepted each other, not really knowing if their dreams of love were still valid, which ultimately had led to arguments. Yet as Tigron there had been no doubt of their unity, of their strength and power. Neither could deny the rightness of what Thiede had attempted, just his methods. And as a whole the Wraeththu nation had, and was still, benefiting.

Yet personally, he and Pellaz had lost their way. Thinking about it now brought a half smile to Calanthe’s lips, and he looked at himself in the mirror again.

Vividly, he recalled how things had gone wrong, how they had fought and argued privately, neither wanting to concede. It had amazed him as to how contorted Pellaz’ view of his life had been. How twisted the other’s memories had become. How well Thiede had manipulated them both so that when they finally did reunite, the dream had faded and bitterness had blossomed. He had moved out of the Tigron’s official rooms and into his own suite within the first month. The Hegemony had breathed a collective sigh of relief with his move, just as sick as he was of their private bickering. He just could not reconcile the image he had of his Pellaz with the creature who inhabited the body he desired. Pellaz’ cold, business-like attitude and finely perfected art of manipulation had initially horrified him until he forced himself to look under the facade. He found shock… Pure and simple shock at being faced with the past, and being given the unobtainable had devastated Pellaz’ exquisitely honed sensibilities.

It had taken them both a while to come to terms with everything that had happened, initially forcing them to remain apart. Ashmael had delighted in the change and seized upon him to tour in order to reinforce the new rulership changes. Ashmael and Arahal. Those two Hara seemed to be always working toward some hidden agenda which neither he nor Pellaz were privy to, and it had not taken him long back then to learn how to sidestep the strategist and exert his own control.

And of course, inevitably to add to the confusion already crowding his life, Tyson had arrived in Immanion to search out his Hostling. Even now Cal found himself cringing in memory as he looked around for a cigarette. Lighting it, he sucked in a deep breath, obscuring his image in the long mirror as he exhaled.

Tyson. His son to Tersian. A Harling he had consented to have for purely selfish reasons. Because Tersian wanted it so badly… Because Cobweb feared it so badly… Because he no longer cared.

Caeru, predictably, had had hysterics, feeling threatened by this new arrival. He had not felt too comfortable himself about Tyson’s presence, yet…. Yet it was Pellaz who had taken a perverse delight in the chaos created by the pure-born’s visitation. And that was only because Caeru had bitched to him about the Parasiel Har, making him curious. From there things had degenerated as Pellaz deliberately charmed his son. But what had started out harmlessly as another personal dig at him by Pellaz had turned out affecting them both more than either cared to acknowledge.

Just another spark in their privately created hell.

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Ronin

Ronin
by Araquiel

Story Notes

Title: Ronin
Chapter: One Chapter
Spoilers: None, but it helps to have read the first trilogy to understand the events.
Date Posted: January 2006

Author: Araquiel
Contact: ara_kadir@yahoo.com

Author Note:

This story is about a human hermaphrodite in the early days of Wraeththu. I have used the location of Forever and the character of Zack to give some indication of time period and locale. The location names in the beginning of the story are U.S. and “real world.”

Ronin

I was born the day the levy broke. My father awaited my birth pacing in the den, gulping fine bourbon and sucking down cigarettes. His eyes were glued to the television, watching his hometown drown under the awesome fury of Katrina. Mother pushed me out in the ballroom that had once hosted her debut, temporarily turned into a new age birthing room complete with water-birth tub, piped in Tibetan chants, and a small army of long haired, organically clothed Wiccans. We dwelled in the house that would become Forever, but that was a distant tremor in our future, unimaginable at the time. The race of beings that would overcome our world had surely begun, but had not yet made themselves known.

The midwife was a priestess, with a frail, bird like appearance and large, spacey blue eyes. As she pulled me out of the water and onto my mother’s panting breast she cried, “look at that hair!” – an exclamation I would hear like a greeting the rest of my life. My crowning glory, with black and glossy bottom layers and white and wavy ones at the top, was already four inches long when I emerged from the womb.

After the initial excitement of my arrival, the midwife took me to a warm little bath to clean and examine me. As her assistant helped my mother deliver the afterbirth, to be planted in the garden, Willow the midwife marveled at my perfectly formed, long limbs – more like a doll’s than a squishy newborns.

As she cleaned between my legs she emitted a little gasp. My mother, though she came from money, had eschewed the medical establishment for both of her births. She didn’t need the cold and sterile hospitals to do what her body was made to do. She had not had an ultrasound, had not even gone in for check-ups during pregnancy. With an androgynous name selected, she wanted to be surprised on my birth day.

As my mother was cleaned, dried, and wrapped in a robe, she looked at Willow expectantly. Willow carefully wrapped a blanket around me, leaving it looser around my bottom.

“It’s…beautiful,” Willow beamed, handing me into Mother’s waiting arms.

Terrance, my elder brother by five years, had spent the birth hiding under a chair. The sight of it ruined women for him thereafter. He ran out to retrieve my father shortly after I emerged. Glass of bourbon and two cigars in hand – one banded “it’s a boy” the other “it’s a girl,” my father stumbled in as my mother unwrapped me from my blanket. Ten fingers. Ten toes…One penis. One vagina.

“It’s a miracle!” she exclaimed.

My father’s glass crashed to the floor as he saw me over Mother’s trembling shoulder. With shaking hands he lifted both cigars to his mouth and lit them, inhaling the pungent smoke before leaving the room.

My father married above him. A charming Italian gambler from New Orleans, he knew how to dress and behave around the wealthy, snaking himself into their lives and beds for long enough to pay his gambling debts before slinking into the next one. My mother, vacationing during Mardi Gras on break from her all girl boarding school, didn’t stand a chance when they met.

Mother’s family lived in Savannah. They were of a dying breed of Southern Old Money, one of the few whose wealth hadn’t disappeared during Reconstruction. After his careful seduction, she agreed to marry my father, who perhaps felt genuine affection for her as well as her inheritance. With a host of ghosts in every closet, my father moved into my mother’s family home, Montclair, known as “the Big House” to the rest of the town.

Generations of incest had created a tradition of anomalies in my family tree. Sprinkled with the fruits of aristocracy, that my mother and brother represented – fine featured, fey beauties with the amoral ease of privilege in their eyes – were the freaks. The mad ones, the dwarves, pinheads, buried blobs of protoplasm, Siamese twins, and, finally, me.

Most people have a very limited knowledge of human gender. X and Y. Male and female. There are actually at least five known genders in the spectrum of human sexuality, and I was born in the middle. Fully formed in both of my aspects, I was a bit of a celebrity in the limited field of medical gender research. I was poked, prodded, photographed and studied by the best, the only known of my kind. In my heart I was sure there were more of me running around, maybe in the shanty towns of Appalachia, the ditches of India, the whorehouses of Thailand, and anywhere else people too far from society to follow it’s recommended rules of propagation dwelled. Of course, if anyone had told me in my formative years that armies of intersex youths would eventually take over the Earth, take over Montclair, even, I would have laughed and spat in their faces.

My mother didn’t see me as a freak, but as a miracle. She saw me as a living yin-yang symbol, an expression of cosmic balance. Her and my father fought constantly about my upbringing. I would not be a he or she, she decided. I would dress in unisex clothes. I would be me, and I wouldn’t conform, she would make sure of it. While my father would yell, “just have them cut it off!” my mother would shoot smoldering looks and bang doors around Montclair until he came begging for forgiveness. She, the frail and dark eyed witch of the house, would always prevail. In her quiet way, she never let my father forget exactly where he came from.

And where he came from was submerged, in that year of disasters. Hurricanes, earthquakes and tornadoes tore the land apart as nature fought back against the cars, the buildings, the feeble constructs of our society. My mother would watch the destruction with fire in her eyes, welcoming it. “The judgment is coming,” she would say, clutching me to her side. “One day the tide will come, wiping the atrocities of man off the streets.”

I’m glad she didn’t live long enough to see the real tide, the one that wiped man and woman off the streets. She was washed up in it herself, perhaps a willing sacrifice to the New Gods.

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