Tuesday, 30 September 2025
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https://audiomack.com/mark-antony-2/song/storytime-8
https://audiomack.com/mark-antony-2/song/storytime-8
Sunday, 21 September 2025
Twlight
The other day whilst going For a walk I defected on my journey with weights which started in the year 1984 in Essex .I used to train 3 days a week and walk roughly a mile there and back to get to the gym.it's here I did a power lifting competition in 1987 in which I came last.T hen through to present day I have done various forms of weights,a few times I could not due to various reasons.I am know in the twilight of my weights journey and to come to that conclusion was a hard decision but I shall do what I can until no longer able.
best deadlifts s-330 lbs -245 lbs for 2 reps
in local leisure centre gym I could do full stack of all the machine s -80-90 kg
dumbbell up to 30 kg
due to various reasons I don't go to local leisure centre gym anymore I am at a different place with different set of of thought
I do train at home although the weight is limited .
I don't believe my own bullshit about being strong with good muscle anymore as I realise this was is just my own ego boost.
New Dawn
The city was a skeleton, picked clean by fire and fallout. Twisted rebar clawed at a perpetually bruised sky, and mountains of pulverized concrete and shattered glass formed a new, treacherous landscape. A perpetual twilight hung heavy, the sun a distant memory swallowed by the ash and dust that coated everything.
Elara led the way, her silhouette a grim, determined figure against the backdrop of ruin. Her faded military jacket was patched in a dozen places, and the rifle slung across her back looked as much a part of her as her own arm. Behind her trudged Jonas, a man whose gruff exterior hid a surprising tenderness, clutching a battered first-aid kit. Lena, her face perpetually etched with worry lines, held the hand of Finn, a boy no older than eight, whose wide, innocent eyes absorbed the devastation with a terrifying, silent acceptance.
Their destination: the old Central Library's underground vault, rumored to be blast-proof and deep enough to offer respite from the lingering radiation. It was a twenty-mile trek across what used to be a bustling metropolis, now a necropolis.
"Are we close, Elara?" Finn's voice, small and reedy, broke the oppressive silence. He tightened his grip on Lena’s hand.
Elara glanced back, her gaze softening slightly. "Close enough, Finn. Just a few more sectors." She didn't add that "close enough" meant another eight hours of hell.
Each step was a calculated risk. The ground was a shifting mosaic of glass shards and pulverized concrete. Buildings loomed like hollowed-out giants, their facades stripped away to reveal the intimate, tragic details of lives abruptly ended: a child's forgotten swing set on a balcony, a half-eaten meal decaying on a kitchen table, preserved by the initial blast's sterilization. The wind, when it stirred, carried the metallic tang of irradiated dust and the faint, sweet smell of decay.
Jonas pointed with a scarred hand. "Looks like a clear path through that arcade, Elara. Might shave off an hour."
Elara squinted at the skeletal remains of what had once been a glamorous shopping mall. The glass roof was gone, leaving jagged teeth of metal framing a treacherous descent into darkness. "Too risky, Jonas. Too many blind spots. Could be… anything down there." Her voice held a note of caution born from brutal experience. They’d encountered other survivors – some desperate, some animalistic – and the occasional mutated creature, a grotesque echo of the world that was.
They stuck to the main thoroughfares, or what remained of them. An overturned bus, its frame contorted into abstract art, blocked their path. Elara scouted ahead, her movements fluid and silent. She found a gap in the rubble, a precarious climb over a pile of twisted girders.
"Okay," she called softly, "one at a time. Jonas, you first, help Lena and Finn up. I'll cover the rear."
Jonas, despite his weariness, moved with surprising agility, his large hands careful as he guided Lena, then Finn. The boy, surprisingly nimble, scrambled up, his small face streaked with dirt but his eyes bright with the thrill of the climb.
As Elara prepared to follow, a sound ripped through the silence. A high-pitched, metallic shriek that echoed off the skeletal buildings. It wasn't human. It wasn't anything they'd encountered before.
"Down!" Elara hissed, pushing herself against a crumbling wall, rifle raised. Jonas and Lena instinctively pulled Finn close, shielding him.
The shriek came again, closer this time, followed by the clatter of something heavy scuttling over rubble. A flash of movement in the shadows of a nearby building. Too fast to identify.
Elara held her breath, her finger hovering over the trigger. Her mind raced, cataloguing threats. Was it a pack? A lone hunter? The urban environment, once their protector, was now their enemy, a maze of hiding places for unseen dangers.
The sound faded, replaced by the thumping of their own adrenaline-fueled hearts. Nothing else stirred. The silence returned, heavier, more sinister than before.
"It's gone," Elara whispered, though she didn't lower her weapon. "But it was watching us."
They moved faster after that, the unseen threat a palpable presence at their backs. The hours blurred into a haze of exhaustion and hyper-vigilance. Finn, uncomplaining, walked with a new, quiet determination. Lena hummed a tuneless lullaby to him, a desperate attempt at normalcy.
As the bruised sky began to deepen into a darker shade of charcoal, Elara spotted it – the unmistakable, reinforced concrete structure of the old Central Library. It looked like a tombstone, its grand entrance swallowed by debris, but its general form was intact.
"There," she breathed, a shard of hope piercing her weary resolve. "We're here."
Relief washed over the group, but it was fleeting. The front entrance was impassable. They spent another hour meticulously searching the perimeter until Jonas, leveraging a rusted crowbar against a loose slab of concrete, revealed a service tunnel entrance, half-buried but seemingly untouched by the main blast.
The air inside was stale and cold, smelling of damp earth and decaying paper. Elara led the way, flashlight beam cutting through the oppressive darkness, revealing shelves of moldering books, preserved records, and finally, a heavy, blast-proof door. It was locked, but a schematic pasted next to it showed a manual override.
Working together, their tired muscles screaming in protest, they cranked the heavy mechanism. With a groan of tortured metal, the door swung inward, revealing a deeper, darker void.
They stumbled inside, collapsing onto the cold concrete floor, too exhausted to light the emergency lanterns they carried. For the first time in days, the air felt still, safe from the unseen terrors of the ruined city.
Finn, nestled into Lena’s side, finally broke the silence. "We made it, Elara."
Elara, leaning her head back against the cold wall, closed her eyes. "We made it, Finn." But her voice was heavy. She knew this was just another temporary shelter, another pause in a never-ending journey. Outside, the city waited, a silent, ravenous beast.
As the echoes of their labored breathing filled the vault, Elara knew one thing had brought them this far: the fragile, tenacious spark of humanity, stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. And tomorrow, the fight for safety would begin anew.
Asylum
The rusted gates of Blackwood Asylum shrieked in protest as Marcus forced them open, a metallic groan that echoed unsettlingly in the twilight. Behind him, Liam, the de facto leader and architectural history student, shivered despite the early autumn chill. "Remember the rules," he said, adjusting the headlamp strapped to his forehead. "Stick together, no unnecessary risks, and if something feels wrong, we pull out."
Chloe, already filming with a professional-grade camera, scoffed. "If something feels wrong, Liam, that's when the real fun begins!" Her eyes, bright with an explorer's thrill and a documentarian's hunger, gleamed over the viewfinder. Sarah, a medical student with a healthy dose of skepticism, merely adjusted her own lamp, her expression a mix of curiosity and mild apprehension. "Let's just get in, get the shots, and get out before anyone calls the cops."
Blackwood Asylum stood like a petrified beast against the bruised sky, its Gothic-revival architecture crumbling into disrepair. Fifty years of abandonment had taken its toll: shattered windows like vacant eyes, ivy strangling the stone, and an palpable air of decay that clung to the very bricks. Legends painted a darker picture: stories of cruel treatments, forgotten patients, and a superintendent whose "experimental therapies" veered dangerously close to torture.
Inside, the air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth, rust, and something indefinable – a stale, ancient sorrow. Dust motes danced in their headlamp beams, illuminating peeling wallpaper, overturned furniture, and the ghostly silhouettes of forgotten lives. The main hall was a cavernous space, a grand staircase spiraling into shadow.
"Impressive, even in ruin," Liam muttered, his historian's heart captivated.
Chloe's camera hummed, capturing every detail. Suddenly, a strange feedback squelched through her audio recorder. "Did you guys hear that?" she whispered, lowering the camera. "Sounded like... a child crying."
Marcus, ever the daredevil, grinned. "Probably just the wind." But even his bravado faltered as a sudden, icy blast of air swept through the hall, extinguishing Liam's headlamp with an audible pop.
Darkness clamped down, thick and absolute. A collective gasp rose from the group. Liam fumbled with his lamp, then swore. "My battery's fine, it just… died."
Sarah, though unnerved, tried to rationalize. "Old wiring, maybe a freak draft."
Just then, a faint, rhythmic tapping echoed from deeper within the asylum, like a small fist repeatedly striking a metal surface. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Alright, that's not wind," Chloe breathed, her voice tight.
They regrouped, their headlamps casting nervous circles. Liam, now using his phone's flashlight, led them towards the sound. It led them into the patient wards, a labyrinth of long corridors lined with identical, empty rooms. Each door was ajar, revealing a desolate space with a single, rusted bed frame. The tapping grew louder, coming from the last room on the right.
As they neared, the air grew heavy, pressing down on them. A faint, sweet smell, like wilting lilies, permeated the space. Liam pushed open the final door. The room was identical to the others, but in the center, a child's worn, wooden rocking horse rocked gently, tap-tapping against the bare floor, despite no visible draft.
A small, spectral figure, barely more than a shimmer in the corner of Liam's eye, flickered into existence, then vanished. Sarah cried out, clutching Marcus's arm. "Did you see that? A little girl... in a faded dress."
Marcus, for once, was speechless, his face pale. "This isn't just an abandoned building, is it?"
They stumbled back into the corridor, shaken. The rocking horse continued its mournful rhythm behind them. Chloe's audio recorder suddenly emitted a cacophony of whispers, overlapping and indistinct, yet filled with an undeniable agony. "Get out... leave... it hurts..."
"We need to find the administrative offices," Liam declared, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "Maybe there are records, something that explains why this place is so... alive." He believed that understanding the history was their best defense.
The journey to the offices was a gauntlet. In the hydrotherapy room, claw marks appeared on the condensation-streaked walls, accompanied by the sounds of desperate splashing. In the common room, a phantom piano played a discordant, mournful lullaby. Marcus swore he saw shadows writhe and coalesce into gaunt faces in the periphery of his vision. Sarah, losing her scientific composure, began to openly pray.
They finally located the superintendent's office, a remarkably preserved space compared to the rest of the asylum. A grand oak desk dominated the room, covered in a thick layer of dust. Liam's light fell upon a leather-bound journal, oddly pristine, sitting atop the desk. He reached for it, a strange compulsion driving him.
As his fingers brushed the aged leather, the temperature in the room plummeted. The lights on their headlamps flickered wildly, threatening to die again. A low, guttural growl vibrated through the floorboards.
"Don't touch it!" Chloe shrieked, her camera lens suddenly filled with static.
But it was too late. Liam had already opened the journal. The first page bore a name: Dr. Silas Thorne. And the date: 1918. He began to read aloud, his voice trembling. " 'The patients of Blackwood are not merely ill; they are vessels of impurity, and it is my divine duty to cleanse them. Conventional methods fail. Only through profound sensory deprivation, through the severing of the mind's errant connections, can true purity be achieved.' "
As Liam read, the very air around them intensified. The whispers from Chloe's recorder turned into screams. The asylum groaned, the building itself seeming to constrict around them. A heavy metal door slammed shut down the hall, followed by another, and another, sealing off their path back to the entrance.
"He's talking about lobotomies, electroshock, torture!" Sarah exclaimed, horror dawning on her face. "He wasn't treating them; he was destroying them!"
Marcus, looking frantic, tried to open the office door, but it was jammed. "We're trapped! The doors are locking!"
Liam flipped through the journal, his eyes scanning feverishly. He found entry after entry detailing the doctor's descent into madness, his "experiments" growing crueler, more sadistic. He wrote of a specific patient, Elara Vance, a young artist institutionalized for "hysteria," whom he targeted with particular fervor, believing her creative spirit was a manifestation of impurity. Her final entry was chilling: "Elara resists, but her spirit will break. She will be a testament to my ultimate triumph."
As Liam finished reading Elara's entry, a chilling, triumphant cackle echoed from the corners of the office, cold and malevolent. It was not the sound of a patient, but a doctor. Thorne's presence.
Suddenly, a terrifying apparition materialized before them: a gaunt, skeletal figure in a stained white lab coat, its eyes burning with a sadistic fire. It lunged towards the journal in Liam's hands.
"He's trying to stop us!" Chloe screamed, her camera, now miraculously clear, pointed directly at the apparition. "He doesn't want his secrets exposed!"
"We need to get this out!" Sarah shouted, grabbing the journal. "We need to expose him, give these poor souls justice!"
The asylum responded with a furious roar. The ceiling above them cracked, showering them with plaster. The very walls pulsed with a dark energy. Marcus, seeing a small, boarded-up window high in the wall, sprang into action, using his parkour skills to scale a stack of unstable shelves. "Get ready to throw it!" he yelled, kicking at the rotting wood.
The spectral doctor, screaming silent curses, lunged again, its translucent hands reaching for Sarah. Just then, a wave of desperate, angry spirits rose from the floor, swirling around Thorne, intercepting him. They were the patients, finally finding strength in the hope of exposure.
Liam, remembering an old emergency broadcast system schematic he'd seen earlier, pointed to a dusty, console-like device in the corner. "Chloe! The PA system! If we can connect your camera, we can broadcast this to the outside!"
Chloe, her hands shaking, fumbled with the cables. Marcus finally kicked through the window, revealing a narrow, ivy-choked ledge outside. "Hurry!" he yelled.
Thorne's spirit, temporarily held at bay by the other patients, surged forward with renewed fury. The asylum itself seemed to twist, the floor cracking beneath them. The exit door they'd hoped to use was now completely caved in.
"It knows!" Sarah cried, holding the journal tightly. "It wants to keep us here, keep its secrets buried!"
Chloe, with a final, desperate push, slammed the camera's auxiliary cable into the PA system's input. A blast of static ripped through the asylum's ancient speakers, then Chloe's voice, amplified and terrified, filled every corner of Blackwood. "This is Chloe Miller, live from Blackwood Asylum! We've found evidence, a journal detailing unspeakable horrors, the crimes of Dr. Silas Thorne! He tortured his patients, he murdered them, and his spirit is still here, trying to silence us—"
Thorne's shriek of rage was unholy. The entity coalesced, a monstrous, distorted parody of a human, and lunged. But as Chloe's voice echoed, powerful and clear, a chorus of ghostly whispers rose to meet it, growing stronger, clearer, finally breaking free. They were the voices of the victims, given form by the truth.
"—Elara Vance, her spirit is here! They all are! Their pain is real! They need justice! We have the proof!"
The asylum bucked and groaned, as if tearing itself apart. The ceiling began to collapse in earnest. Marcus grabbed Sarah, pulling her towards the broken window. Liam snatched the journal, clutching it to his chest.
"Go! Get out! I'll follow!" Chloe screamed, her voice still echoing through the PA system, now intermingling with the liberated, vengeful cries of the spirits.
They scrambled onto the ledge, debris raining down behind them. Marcus helped Sarah climb down the ivy-covered wall. Liam, just as Chloe turned to follow, saw the floor beneath her buckle. He grabbed her arm, pulling her back just as the PA system sparked, exploded, and the floor gave way, swallowing the superintendent's office.
They fell, tumbling through darkness, landing hard on a pile of rubble in a previously unseen maintenance tunnel beneath the asylum. Liam coughed, dust filling his lungs, but he clutched the journal. Chloe groaned, her camera still in her hand, miraculously intact, though offline.
Above them, the asylum continued its terrible collapse, a final, guttural roar of defeat and fury.
They emerged into the moonlit woods, bruised, battered, and trembling, but alive. The Blackwood Asylum, a gaping wound in the earth, stood silent behind them, its secrets laid bare, its malevolent presence perhaps finally shattered.
They didn't speak as they walked, the terror still fresh, the echoes of screams still in their ears. But they had the journal. They had Chloe's footage. The voices of Blackwood had finally been heard. And as they drove away, Sarah swore she saw a faint, white light flicker in the remains of the asylum, like a grateful sigh, or a final, knowing glance. They were out, but Blackwood Asylum would forever be a part of them.
Mirrors
Elias Thorne was a man of precise angles and controlled lines. An architect by trade, he found solace in the ordered logic of blueprints and the clean sweep of a T-square. His apartment was minimalist, his routine clockwork. Until the mirrors started lying.
It began subtly, a fleeting shimmer in the bathroom glass one Tuesday morning. As he lathered shaving cream, his reflection's eyes seemed to hold a fleeting, glacial glint, a predatory amusement entirely alien to his own weary gaze. He blinked, and it was gone, replaced by the familiar, slightly stressed face he knew. Lack of sleep, he chalked it up to. The looming deadline for the Beaumont Tower project was playing tricks on his mind.
But it didn’t stop.
The next day, catching his image in the polished steel of his office toaster, he saw it again. A smirk – thin, cruel, utterly devoid of warmth – curving his reflection’s lips as he reached for his toast. Elias froze, his hand hovering. The reflection held the smirk, its eyes locking onto his with an unsettling hunger, before snapping back to his own neutral expression the moment he consciously registered it.
This wasn't just distortion. This was a presence.
He started avoiding mirrors. Shaving became a tactile exercise, eyes fixed on the ceramic sink. He walked through shop windows with his gaze firmly on the pavement. He learned to navigate his world by inference, by memory, by anything but a direct visual of himself. The fear wasn't just of what he saw, but of what it saw in him. It saw his anxieties, his self-doubt, the gnawing regret of the compromised design for the old library, a project where he’d let corporate pressure stifle his vision. It saw the fear of a repeat failure with Beaumont Tower.
The sinister Elias, whom he silently dubbed 'Elias-Primevil', grew bolder. It no longer merely flickered. It held. In the elevator mirror, Primevil would lean in, eyes narrowed, a silent, knowing judgment. Its head would tilt, a gesture of mockery, as Elias silently berated himself for a minor drafting error. Sometimes, when he was particularly stressed, Primevil’s lips would move, a slow, deliberate whisper that resonated not in his ears, but directly in the hollow space behind his eyes: "Weak. Afraid. You'll fail again."
He became a recluse. His perfectly ordered apartment started to fray at the edges, mirroring his internal chaos. Takeout containers piled up. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that Primevil seemed to relish, making the glass of picture frames and the glossy surface of his TV screen shimmer with potential menace. His project suffered; deadlines blurred, and his meticulous attention to detail gave way to panicked, often incorrect, revisions.
His friend and colleague, Sarah, noticed. "Elias, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost. And your work… it's not you."
He snapped, a sudden surge of Primevil’s venom rising within him. "Just leave me alone, Sarah! Worry about your own deadlines!" The words were harsh, uncharacteristic, and the fleeting glimpse of Primevil in the shiny surface of her coffee mug gave him a grotesque, satisfied nod. Elias immediately regretted it, but the damage was done. Sarah retreated, hurt etched on her face.
That night, alone in his apartment, the truth hit him with the force of a physical blow. Primevil wasn't just a reflection. It was the manifestation of every single negative thought, every crippling doubt, every buried fear he had ever entertained about himself. It was the unacknowledged monster of his self-loathing, given form by his refusal to confront it.
He stumbled into his bathroom, the one room he’d tried hardest to avoid. The large, framed mirror above the sink gleamed, reflecting the dim light from the hallway. He stared at his own haggard face, at the dark circles under his eyes, the tremor in his hand.
Then, Primevil solidified.
It stood there, perfectly mimicking his posture, but its eyes burned with cold fire. Its lips were drawn back in a sneer, revealing teeth that seemed just a little too sharp. "Look at you," it hissed, the words echoing not in the room, but in the prison of his skull. "Broken. Alone. You drove her away. Just like you always do."
Elias felt a primal urge to smash the mirror, to obliterate the tormentor. His hand twitched towards a heavy glass tumbler. But then, he remembered Sarah's hurt face, his own uncharacteristic outburst. This wasn't merely a reflection; this was a siren song to his darkest impulses.
"No," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Primevil laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "No? You think you can deny me? I am you, Elias. Every failure, every regret, every moment of weakness. I am the truth you drown in your perfect little plans."
Elias looked deeper, past the fear, past the revulsion, into the cold, empty eyes of Primevil. He saw the library, the compromised design, the shame he’d buried beneath layers of professional detachment. He saw the fear of disappointing his parents, the anger at his own perceived inadequacy. These were his demons. And Primevil was their amplified, monstrous voice.
"You are a part of me," Elias corrected, his voice gaining strength, "but you are not all of me." He took a shaky breath. "Yes, I made mistakes. Yes, I compromised on the library. I was afraid. I was angry. I was… human."
Primevil’s sneer wavered, a flicker of surprise in its cold gaze.
"And yes," Elias continued, stepping closer to the mirror, "I hurt Sarah. That was my anger, my fear, lashing out. But I will apologize. I will make amends." He looked directly into Primevil's eyes, meeting their challenge. "You feed on my self-loathing, on my refusal to forgive myself. But I won't let you anymore."
He raised his hand, not to strike, but to place it gently on the cool glass. "I acknowledge you," he said, his voice firm, "I acknowledge the fear, the doubt, the anger. They are real. But they do not define me. They are not my master."
Primevil roared, a soundless scream that shook Elias to his core. Its features distorted, twisting into a grotesque mask of rage and agony. The cold fire in its eyes flickered, then dimmed. Its sharp teeth receded. Its sneer softened into something akin to pain, then confusion.
"I choose to learn from my mistakes," Elias said, his eyes unwavering. "I choose to forgive myself. I choose to be better."
As he spoke, the monstrous distortion in the mirror began to unravel. The sharp angles softened, the cruel lines blurred. The predatory glint in its eyes faded, replaced by something weary, something resigned. Primevil shrunk, coalesced, until it was nothing more than Elias's own reflection – tired, yes, still bearing the marks of his struggle, but undoubtedly his own.
He stood there for a long time, simply breathing, looking at his true reflection. The perfectionist lines of his life had been shattered, but in its place was something more honest, more human. The demons hadn't vanished entirely; he knew they would always be there, whispers in the dark corners of his mind. But now, he understood them. He had looked them in the eye, and he had claimed back his power.
The next morning, Elias called Sarah. He apologized, truly and humbly. He started working again, his designs still precise, but now imbued with a newfound depth, a willingness to take risks. He still saw his reflection, in shop windows and car mirrors, but now it was just him. Sometimes, a shadow of the old fear would linger, a phantom smirk or glint in his periphery, but Elias would meet it with a quiet, knowing gaze. He had confronted the monster in the glass, and in doing so, he had begun to rebuild the man within. The lines of his life were no longer perfectly straight, but they were, finally, his own.
Date With Dragon
The sun, a benevolent eye in the azure sky, usually blessed Oakhaven with its gentle warmth, ripening the wheat fields to a golden embrace and making the River Eldoria shimmer like a living ribbon. For generations, Oakhaven had known only peace, its stout homes nestled in a valley carved by ancient glaciers, its people content with their simple, hardworking lives.
Then came the shadow.
It began with distant plumes of smoke, clinging to the peaks of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains, a range long thought dormant. Soon, the smoke grew thicker, tinged with an unnatural, acrid scent. Then, the roars. Deep, guttural vibrations that shook the very foundations of Oakhaven, sending livestock stampeding and children screaming. Skarrgoth, the Flamebringer, had awakened.
The dragon was a nightmare made manifest: scales the color of molten obsidian, wings like tattered sails of old leather, and eyes that glowed with an infernal, hungry light. It descended upon Oakhaven not once, but thrice, scorching fields, toppling the mill, and consuming anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its fiery breath. Despair settled over the village like a shroud, extinguishing hope with each terrified glance at the looming mountains. Their valiant, if ill-equipped, militia had been decimated, their pleas to passing lords unheard. Oakhaven was alone, a feast waiting to be devoured.
It was into this pall of terror that Sir Kaelen rode.
He was a figure almost out of ancient tales: tall, broad-shouldered, encased in practical, well-maintained steel that bore the honorable scars of many battles. His shield, emblazoned with the crest of a silver griffin, was strapped to his sturdy steed, a warhorse as resolute as its master. Kaelen's face, though weathered, held eyes that were both weary from travel and sharp with an unwavering sense of justice. He didn't speak much, merely dismounted, his gaze sweeping over the charred homes and tear-streaked faces, the weight of their sorrow heavy in the air.
Old Man Hemlock, the village elder, his voice trembling, recounted their plight. "He demands tribute, Sir Knight," he croaked, "the finest of our flocks, and soon…our youth. We are broken."
Kaelen listened, his hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword, 'Oathkeeper.' He saw not a broken people, but a people terrorized. "Gather your able-bodied," he commanded, his voice a calm counterpoint to the village's panic. "Show me its path, its lair, its habits."
For two days, Kaelen moved among them, observing, asking questions, and studying the scorch marks left by Skarrgoth's passage. He learned the dragon preferred the twilight hours for its raids, that it seemed to lair in the highest, most isolated peak, and that its fiery breath, while devastating, often left it briefly vulnerable to a quick strike. He honed his strategy, not with reckless abandon, but with the cold, precise logic of a seasoned warrior.
On the morning of the third day, as the sun began to cast long shadows across the valley, Kaelen prepared. He donned his full plate, the metal gleaming, a quiet testament to his resolve. He sharpened Oathkeeper until its edge sang. He accepted a simple meal from the villagers – not as a last supper, but as sustenance for the arduous task ahead.
"I go to face the beast," he announced, his voice carrying through the hushed square. "When the sun sets tomorrow, look to the highest peak. If you see no fire, know that Oakhaven is free."
A young boy, barely seven, ran forward, clutching a small, wooden carving of a griffin. "For luck, Sir Knight!" he squeaked. Kaelen knelt, taking the charm with a rare smile. "For Oakhaven," he corrected softly, tucking it into his gauntlet.
His journey was arduous. He climbed the treacherous slopes of Dragon's Tooth, his armored form a stark silhouette against the darkening sky. The air grew thin and cold, reeking of sulfur and burnt rock. As he neared the summit, the heat became palpable, the ground scorched black underfoot.
He found the lair: a cavernous maw in the mountain's face, wreathed in smoke and the oppressive warmth of a vast, ancient heat. Gold, silver, and the glint of countless stolen treasures formed a shimmering, formidable bed for the beast. And there, curled amidst its hoard, was Skarrgoth.
The dragon lifted its head, its eyes, like twin pools of liquid fire, fixed on the lone figure. A low growl rumbled in its chest, a sound that promised oblivion. It unfurled its massive wings, pushing itself to its full, terrifying height.
"Skarrgoth," Kaelen proclaimed, his voice steady despite the thunder in his chest, "You trespass on the lands of men. Your reign of terror ends here."
With a shriek that echoed through the mountain, the dragon lunged. Fire, a torrent of pure, liquid damnation, erupted from its jaws. Kaelen, moving with astonishing speed, rolled to the side, his shield deflecting a lesser burst of flame. The heat was immense, searing his very armor.
He knew he couldn't outmatch the beast in brute force. His strength lay in speed and precision. He darted forward, a glinting dart against a mountain of scales, aiming for the dragon's softer underbelly, the folds of its neck, any place less protected than its armored hide.
Skarrgoth roared again, its tail, thick as a tree trunk, sweeping through the cavern, sending treasure flying. Kaelen ducked, feeling the wind of its passage. He saw an opening as the beast momentarily craned its neck to unleash another torrent of flame.
"Now!" he bellowed, charging.
He plunged Oathkeeper deep into the soft, unprotected skin where the neck met the shoulder, a brutal, precise strike. The dragon shrieked, a sound of agony and disbelief, its fire flaring wildly as it thrashed. Kaelen, his sword still lodged, held on even as the beast writhed, trying to dislodge him. He clung on, his gauntleted hand gripping the hilt, twisting the blade deeper.
With a final, gargantuan roar that shook the mountain to its core, Skarrgoth staggered, its eyes dimming, a fountain of black blood gushing from its wound. It toppled, its immense weight shaking the cavern, its scales clattering against its hoard, the flames in its eyes finally extinguishing.
Silence descended, broken only by Kaelen's ragged breaths and the drip of blood onto the cold stone. He stood, weary and smoke-stained, but victorious. He retrieved Oathkeeper, its blade dripping black, and then, from the dragon's vast hoard, he took nothing but a single, lustrous obsidian scale, proof of his deed.
The next morning, as the sun rose, its golden rays struck the highest peak of Dragon's Tooth. No smoke billowed, no fire lit the sky. And the people of Oakhaven, who had waited through a long, anxious night, saw it. The mountain was silent, still.
A cheer erupted, tentative at first, then soaring, echoing through the valley.
Hours later, Kaelen rode back into Oakhaven, his armor scarred, his face grimed, but his eyes alight with a quiet triumph. He held aloft the obsidian scale. The village square erupted. Children cheered, women wept tears of joy, and strong men, once broken by fear, embraced him. Old Man Hemlock approached, his eyes full of awe and gratitude.
"You have saved us, Sir Knight," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Oakhaven is forever in your debt. What can we offer you? Gold? Land? A place of honor?"
Kaelen shook his head, looking around at the smiling faces, the blossoming hope in their eyes. "I require only a silent departure," he said, his gaze lingering on the young boy who had given him the wooden griffin. "And to know that Oakhaven, once more, knows peace."
He ate a simple meal that evening, witnessing the unbridled joy and relief of the villagers. Then, under the cloak of night, as the stars began to pepper the sky, Sir Kaelen, the brave knight who saved a village from a dragon, mounted his steed and rode silently away, leaving Oakhaven to rebuild, to flourish, and to remember the hero who brought back their sun.
Veins
The first sign was a whisper, a faint spiderweb of violet against the pale canvas of Elara’s calf. She dismissed it as a trick of the light, a common, harmless little thing. She was active, healthy, too young for such trivialities. But then came the tendrils, faint at first, then thickening, rising from the surface of her skin like subterranean roots pushing through dry earth. They were faint blue lines that felt like nothing, mere shadows.
Soon, the shadows gained substance. They became ropes, twisting and coiling beneath the thin, translucent skin. Her left leg, then her right, began to resemble an anatomical diagram, only rendered in grotesque, living detail. The veins, once hidden, now pulsed with a sluggish, insistent rhythm, dark rivers winding their way up her calves, behind her knees, and creeping, inexorably, up her thighs. They were thick, gnarled cords, the colour of bruised plums and old blood, forming tributaries and deltas that distorted the very shape of her limbs.
The ache began as a dull throb after a long day, escalating to a constant, burning pressure that never truly receded. It was as though her legs were perpetually encased in an invisible, tightening vise. She’d lie awake at night, listening to the insidious thump-thump of her own circulation, a trapped, struggling thing within its failing channels. Closing her eyes didn't help; she could still feel the internal landscape of her legs, the blood pooling, struggling against the collapsed valves, a viscous, heavy tide rising and falling.
Her skin, once smooth and supple, began to change. It became thin and papery over the most prominent ropes, stretched taut and unnaturally shiny. Elsewhere, it darkened, a mottled, angry red-brown, like ancient, sun-baked leather. The itching was relentless, a crawling torment beneath the surface, driving her to scratch until her nails left angry, red welts that refused to heal. Each scratch felt like a tiny violation of the fragile barriers separating her from the pulsing network beneath.
Then came the weeping. Tiny pores, overwhelmed, began to exude a clear, sticky fluid. Her socks would cling, damp and unpleasant, and the smell, initially faint and metallic, grew sharper, a cloying sweetness that hinted at stagnation and decay. She started wearing long skirts, even in summer, not just to hide the horror, but to contain the constant dampness, the faint, sickening scent that she imagined everyone could discern.
One morning, she found it. A small, innocent-looking red patch on her shin, where one of the thickest ropes snaked beneath the skin. It wasn't just red; it was angry, warm to the touch. By evening, a blister had formed, filling with the same weeping fluid. She knew, with a cold certainty that settled deep in her bones, that this was different. This was the turning point.
The blister burst, not with a pop, but a sickening squelch. What remained was a crater, shallow at first, but deepening with each passing day. The edges were ragged, the base a sickly yellow-grey, rimmed with the angry red-brown of dying flesh. It was an ulcer, a gaping mouth on her shin, refusing to close. It bled sporadically, a dark, viscous ooze that stained bandages and clothing, carrying with it a new, more profound odour of infection.
She tried to clean it, to sterilise it, but every touch sent agony lancing up her leg. The pain was no longer a dull ache; it was a constant, searing burn, radiating from the raw, open wound. It pulsed with her heartbeat, a rhythmic torture that never let her forget its presence. The other leg, not to be outdone, began to sprout its own horrors: more darkening patches, more papery thinness, and then, inevitably, more ulcers. They appeared without warning, small pinpricks that widened into craters, some shallow, some deep enough to hint at the structures beneath.
Her legs were no longer hers. They were grotesque parodies, monstrous things that sagged and swelled, covered in ancient, rope-like veins, mottled skin, and an ever-increasing number of weeping, festering wounds. They were heavy, dead weights, refusing to cooperate, each step a testament to the agony she was forced to endure. She could feel the blood, black and thick, struggling to move, the pressure building, building, always building within those failing conduits. It felt like something was being pumped into her, rather than flowing through her.
Sleep was a luxury she rarely afforded. When she did drift off, she was plagued by nightmares of her veins ripping free, of her skin sloughing off in great sheets, of the blood inside her legs turning to sludge, solidifying into inert rock. She would wake with a scream, tearing at the bandages, convinced she could feel the tiny, unseen creatures that must surely be feasting on her deteriorating flesh.
Her world shrank to the four walls of her room. The smell of antiseptic, pus, and old blood clung to everything. She couldn't bear to look at the mirror, knowing what awaited her: a gaunt, hollow-eyed woman with limbs that didn't belong to her, limbs that were rotting while still attached. The varicose veins, once a minor aesthetic concern, had become sentient, malevolent entities, slowly, deliberately consuming her from the inside out. They were no longer just veins; they were a living, sprawling disease, an invasive network that held her captive.
There was no cure, no relief. The doctors had shaken their heads, muttering terms like "chronic venous insufficiency," "stasis dermatitis," "intractable ulcers." They offered palliative care, antibiotics for the inevitable infections, but the underlying horror remained, an expanding, irreversible blight.
Elara lay on her bed, her legs propped up on stained pillows, the only position that offered a fleeting respite from the pressure. Her room was dark, save for a sliver of weak morning light that dared to pierce the gloom. She shifted slightly, and a fresh wave of pain shot through her shins, where the deepest ulcers gaped, oozing their putrid secretions. She could feel the cold, clammy film of fluid on her skin, the constant, sickening dampness.
She closed her eyes, but it did little good. The horror was not outside her, but within. She could feel the pulse, the slow, thick beat of blood struggling in its ravaged pathways, the burning, itching, throbbing symphony of her own decay. Her legs were no longer a part of her, but a separate, monstrous entity, dragging her down, consuming her in a slow, agonizing process. There was no escape, no peace, just the relentless, unforgiving progression of the veins. They had won. And tomorrow, they would continue their victory, one painful, weeping, rotting inch at a time.
NWO
I brought this retro wrestling t shirt as I loved the original version of this group in WCW.
So technically I now a member of the NWO
Tuesday, 16 September 2025
Richard John Hatton Rest In Peace
Richard John Hatton (6 October 1978 – 14 September 2025), also known by nicknames such as "the Hitman" and "the People's Champion", was a British professional boxer who competed between 1997 and 2012, and later worked as a boxing promoter and trainer.[6][7] During his boxing career he held multiple world championships in the light welterweight division, and one at welterweight. In 2005 he was named Fighter of the Year by The Ring magazine, the Boxing Writers Association of America, and ESPN.
In 2000 Hatton won the British light welterweight title, followed by the World Boxing Union (WBU) title the following year; he made a record fifteen successful defences of the latter from 2001 to 2004. He reached the pinnacle of his career in 2005 by defeating Kostya Tszyu for the International Boxing Federation (IBF), Ring and lineal titles. This was followed up later that year with a victory over Carlos Maussa to claim the World Boxing Association (WBA) title (Super version), thereby becoming a unified light-welterweight world champion.
Making his welterweight debut in 2006, Hatton won a tough fight against WBA champion Luis Collazo to win a world title in his second weight class. A return to light welterweight in 2007 saw him win the vacant IBF title for a second time, as well as the International Boxing Organization (IBO) title. In the same year, Hatton had his career first defeat against Floyd Mayweather Jr. in an attempt to win the World Boxing Council (WBC), Ring and lineal welterweight titles. This defeat took a severe toll on Hatton's wellbeing, as did a second defeat in 2009 when he lost his IBO, Ring and lineal light welterweight titles to Manny Pacquiao.
After Hatton's career was put on a long hiatus, rumours of a comeback continued to circulate in the media over the next several years.[8][9] In 2011, Hatton announced his retirement from the sport,[10][11] but in 2012, more than three years after his last fight, he confirmed his comeback.[12] A loss to Vyacheslav Senchenko in his first match back prompted Hatton to immediately announce his final retirement.[13] He remained retired for 13 years before announcing a comeback in July 2025. Hatton died before he could make his ring return.[14][15]
Hatton has been lauded as one of the most beloved and popular British boxers of all time, with a raucous fan base that travelled in their tens of thousands across the Atlantic to support him.[11][16][17] He was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame as part of the class of 2024.[18]
Charles Robert Redford Rest In Peace
Charles Robert Redford Jr. (August 18, 1936 – September 16, 2025) was an American actor, producer and director. He received numerous accolades such as an Academy Award, a BAFTA Award, and two Golden Globe Awards, as well as the Cecil B. DeMille Award in 1994, the Screen Actors Guild Life Achievement Award in 1996, the Academy Honorary Award in 2002, the Kennedy Center Honors in 2005, the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2016, and the Honorary César in 2019. He was named by Time as one of the 100 most influential people in the world in 2014.[2][3]
Redford started his career in television acting in Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Twilight Zone before making his Broadway debut playing a newlywed husband in Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park (1963). Redford made his film debut in War Hunt (1962) before reaching finding leading man stardom acting in films such as Barefoot in the Park (1967), Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969), Jeremiah Johnson (1972), The Candidate (1972), and The Sting (1973), the later of which earned him a nomination for the Academy Award for Best Actor.
Redford's stardom continued with roles in films such as The Way We Were (1973), Three Days of the Condor (1975), All the President's Men (1976), The Electric Horseman (1979), Brubaker (1980), The Natural (1984), and Out of Africa (1985). He later acted in Sneakers (1992), All Is Lost (2013), Truth (2015), Our Souls at Night (2017), and The Old Man & the Gun (2018). Redford portrayed Alexander Pierce in Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) and Avengers: Endgame (2019), the later of which served as Redford's final on-screen appearance.
Redford made his directorial film debut with the family drama Ordinary People (1980), which won four Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director. He went on to direct 8 feature films including the drama The Milagro Beanfield War (1984), the period drama A River Runs Through It (1992), the historical drama Quiz Show (1994), the neo-western The Horse Whisperer (1998), and the sports fantasy The Legend of Bagger Vance (2000). Redford co-founded the Sundance Resort and Film Institute in 1981. He was also known for his extensive work as a political activist where he was a champion of environmentalism, Native American and indigenous people's rights, and LGBT rights.
Thursday, 11 September 2025
Tuesday, 9 September 2025
Thursday, 4 September 2025
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