A Metaphor

[junkboy75]

The warrior stood on the precipice, sweeping the desolate landscape before him with forlorn eyes made wary through the years, as he waited. Another bout of reckoning is at hand. Many times he has descended into this barren enclave, to wage war with the heathens, to indulge in the seething cauldron of battle lust, to reclaim what is rightfully his. Their banners, red, purple, blue, yellow, have time and again been torn asunder. Unlike his opponents, the warrior fought with a streak of valour and courage that belied the terrible carnage wrought by his enemies. Many times he has been bested, the icy fingers of the Death Goddess ever close to his inviting heart, but always has he dashed aside his demise and, like the raging phoenix of yore, arose again and again to sweep aside his foes and smash the biting tongues of the naysayers who predict his doom.

A noise! Suddenly, a shimmering force erupts from the valley, a shapeless energy source of myriad colours. It roared, and took the form of a leonine mass of energy, talons clawing and seeking the purchase of flesh. The warrior screamed a blood-curdling war cry and charged the would be usurper of his demesne. A deafening noice, the force of a thousand peals of thunder, resounded as the two combatants clashed in a perverse dance of power. The metaphorical lion roared and pain coursed through the body of the warrior. The leonine energy mass seemed to gleam with malevolent delight as it sucked the living lifeforce from the warrior’s body and threatened to envelop him completely. He dug into the wells of his being in an attempt to draw forth the power necessary to overcome his adversary, but found it to be dry. Suddenly, he senses a presence. Where once beat the singular pulse of one heartbeat in his mighty chest comes the echoing rhythmic heartbeats of many. He shuddered as a colourless host filled his visage and imbued him with strength. Almost at once, he tore asunder the energy source that seeked to end his existence with an almighty force. Victory, total and utter, was his again.

The warrior panted after his victory. Time stood still as he fathomed what had just occurred. He could find no answers. All at once, clarity dawned. In his mind’s eye, the colourless host shifted, assuming the form of a corporeal but distinctly ovarian shape streaked in black and white. He pondered at this. The echoing heartbeats continued, and he counted. Twenty-two times his own. He wondered if the leonine metaphor was indeed metaphorical. Thought clouds lifted as the truth emerged from the bowels of nothingness. It was a calling; an act of visceral camaraderie. He surmised that, as the host had imbued him with strength, so too could he reciprocate the deed, and the favour done unto him will in turn await its repayment.

He wondered if, at their time of reckoning, this fact will help those twenty-two hearts slay their own metaphorical lion.


"everyone's a winner hot pies"

[This message has been edited by junkboy75 (edited 10 July 2001).]

[magpie joffa]

Now junkboy

When are we having that drink !!

no excuses please!!

WE MARCH WITH PRIDE,WE MARCH WITH LOVE,WHEN IT COMES TO OUR COLLINGWOOD WE FOREVER MARCH ! we will never forget our great number #42...GO YOU BLOODY PIES yeaaah LETS KICK ASS.lets kill the bloody bastards !!
http://www.mp3.com/joffa

[junkboy75]

Ahead, the mighty monolith loomed, a citadel of immense strength from which spires of light spewed forth in a vain attempt to caress the darkening sky, painting streaks of halogen on a velvet palette. A storm cloud, engorged with the precipitous matter of nature, slothfully drifted, from whence, suddenly, a cacophony of lightning ignited. A deep rumbling sound, akin to the stampede of a thousand horses, signalled the marching of the myriad vassals of the “Bonum Vestustus Pica”, the hoary host of enlightenment, the bringer of light. Colourless war paint adorned their faces, their dress and honour badges forever singing silent praise to the Pica god of yore. Slowly, they seeped into the interior of the mighty citadel, to await the impending judgment. The emerald heart of the fortress was enshrined by the masses. Here, judgement shall be meted twixt the warrior of twenty-two hearts in ebony and pearl, and the myriad coloured energy of the metaphoric lion. In this, the moot court of bravado and courage, shall there be a realignment in the rivers of destiny.

One stands among the many. A troubadour of tenacity, a conductor of courage, his visage is one of grim determination, his being never yielding. The prized scalp of a vanquished black wyvern proudly adorned his head. In a booming voice, the chant master sang to the heavens, a sonorous chant rendering the citadel silent save for the rhythmic allegro. The vassals were powerless to the hypnotic siren song that is rendering the very fabric of space and time, preaching, nay, DEMANDING, the reparations of a deed past done. The colourless army joined in the chanting, feet stamping, a chorus of strength that struck fear into the hollow hearts of the enemy. The wyvern pelt shifted in colour, first black, then a spectrum of colour dazzling to the beholder. Finally - a glowing bright light. The wyvern was no more. In it’s place, a helmet fashioned in the visage of the noblest of gold dragons, golden wings arched in a stance of power, jaws and teeth gleaming with feigned malevolence.

The chant master smiled a wry smile. The ancient power has answered with this sign. The sign of triumph. The sign of valour. The sign. Of victory.


"everyone's a winner hot pies"