weirdo writes things

Shield The Skies Exponential Wind Blows leaves and twigs down the mountain  iF iT haD thoughtS  woulD thE winD bE A swarM  oF beeS, nO differencE tweeN  needleS oF pinE anD brancheS oF honeY-sloweD saP ; thE naturaL worlD, kniveS ouT  oF carapacE, resortinG tO thE daggeR iN thE bacK : thE onE motheR knowS wilL destroY herselF The Trees Are Gone, Now A Princess of Needles Makes her first mistake Defending her secret self From the mountaineers in search of Every Beautiful Foot Of Elevation.  exponentiaL windS  cuT aT theiR fingerS,  holloW theiR eyeS , theiR deeP, endlesS eyeS  fulL oF lovE sO curiouS And The Mountain, The Ever-Royal Mountain falls asleep alone once more

The Verbal Riposte: A Personal Recounting of Words as Steel “Then just leave!” The shout echoed through my veins as my heart thumped at its place where I had been stabbed. A straight thrust from Alber, the Fool’s Guard. I had fallen for the exact trick the position was made for. Of course, with one second on the clock left and me a point or two down, I had forgotten. Alber is one of my favorite guards in longsword: it is an invitation to the opposition, a friendly gesture, if you will; yet it is physically such a position in which a strike could come out with unrelenting speed. The blade pointed towards the ground like a hand held out, but the wrists lay turned inward to propel the sword with strong biceps if the opponent should reach to shake. It’s sneaky, it’s clever, but it is not dirty. It suggests exactly what the opposition might do and gives time to plan and react. But lately, whenever I have failed to counter a thrust from Alber, or any sort of strike for that matter, I onl...