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My Elvish

The walking stick

My daughter's brother-in-law, Chris Garza ask me to carver a wizardry old man's face on his walking stick for him. So here goes my next project.

Nasilian Judge

Ember Marie Garza

My daughter is having our Third GRANDchild!!!! A daughter to be name Ember Marie Garza.

Crafting the Voices of of my head!

In my epic novel THE NEPHILIM AGE, the Elven main character Fayendar Kyon leaves the cultic corrupt religion of his youth and finds true love in the adventure as well. I am in the process of writing and devising THE WATCHER's BOOK (which is the "Bible") and the Order of the Brotherhood (which is the religion). As I do more I will strive to publish more here on my blog.

Mike Cope

Here is a drawing I did as a Birthday/ Christmas gift for my oldest and dearest friend. I've known Mick since Sixth grade and still to this day love him as a brother! Lol besides, what do you do with a person like him who know where you've hid all the bodies, lol lol lol 

Working on my Scroll box

The Fool

   For eighteen years Sucram was called a fool by those unlearned of him.  But pitied by those who had enough empathy to learn his ways.  He was a Nasilian man with no tattoos for he was unable to speak any more than "yes" or "no" and his answers were not always correct in the normal manner of others. At twelve years of age most Nasilian boys were eager to receive their adult tattoo of their family history as a sign being a part of a greater community. But Sucram only cared for himself or did not understand concepts like community. He would scream and yell and undress himself before others in the most inappropriate of times,  his anger got the best of him, and mostly at those who did not try to understand him or his needs. 
   He was a thief.  Covered in cuts, scars and was a half starved vagrant boy.

 Wandering  the streets of Lindol was how the merchant Bartal Al-bejnal found the unkept boy.  Having lost his own wife and son to a tent fire, Barthal accepted Sucram as his own.
   Training the boy to care for himself was difficult if not impossible at times.  But Barthal lovingly did so without service from others.  He lived in the tent village of Slaveth, just outside the nearly abandoned Elven city of Mithar. But Barthal had acquired the boy upon a visit while selling his jewelry wares to the people of Orid and Lindon.
   While with Barthal the boy was tame as one would say.  His wants of yes, yes, yes or no, no, no were best measured out by Barthal as most others gave no care to understand him. It seemed Sucram was a boy trapped in a man's body or a demon afflicted fool he was more often pronounced.  Either way Sucram was a man tormented in the mind and no Physician anywhere had the herbs or knowledge to bring healing to him.
   With great effort did he grow into a man, but ever at the side of Barthal who cared for him.  Yet as time has a way of passing on its fate, sadly Barthal died an old man.
   At his death the people laid stones upon his body as a sign of respect, near the edge of the ever growing desert of Eriduah's east.  Sad farewells were given.

   Sucram became severely agitated that Barthal was not around or mainly that others did not understand his needs or wants like the understood their own. 
   After awhile those who tried to care as best they could for kindness sake could no longer care for such a one as Sucram.  For he needed all the time.  Before long even the tribal elders of Slavath grew exhausted with his very name in their ears.  Sucram was thrown before the judgement seat of his grace, Mairithan The Second.

   Silently the Nasilian Judge watched the uncontrollable jerking fits that would so often overcome Sucram without warning.  All day was he watched even as he ate like a ravenous animal gorging itself as onlookers were fearful to behold.  Fit the Judge saw with his own eyes that the tales of the mad man were true.  Mairithan The Second felt compassion in his heart, and yet bewilderment of what to do for the creature placed before him.
   Near nightfall the Judge gave comment to all who witnessed as he the tru actions of the disturb fellow in tattered clothes, "Call forth a midwife to care or him in a house with food and drink as he will, and cloth him better as you may. Guards lay hold with care to do him no harm." Then turning turning his the messenger he ordered, "Bruth-yanel, send word on ahead to The Lord of Mithar that on the morrow shall I bear his case before them for advice or aid."

   The following day, two weeks after the Great Elven Departure from Middle-Earth, did that party and their cause come before that remnant left behind at the Grey Havens, called Mithar.  Beneath a grand, multi-arched pavilion that stood beside the Tower called Varlendur was the council gathered together. Lord Vendumar, Baalyick, and NolMithlon the tall, guarded by Legandriel and Nuthcorlan. I, Adormir the son of Beridan did service as the lord's scribe.  The rest of he Elven Watchers gathered about to observe and measure the deliberation of unfolding events.
   As the Nasilian Judge, Mairithan The Second laid the case of Sucram before them, and his plight of what should be done, The Noble Lady Lyreah came closer. She ignored the caution of the guards as she gave intense heed and observed the un tattooed man before her.
   Disregarding her, Mairithan The Second continued, "Just yesterday did this man strike the very midwife whose charge it was to care or him! So badly beaten was she then even now she recoils in fear of his as tame as you behold him now.
   "His father a wealthy merchant, Barthal by name was the only one who could control him.  Alas, even he has passed away from among the living and no other has stepped forward so willing as he to temper or care for this man called Sucram."
  All the while that his life's account was being laid bear and considered by others, Sucram cared not. He stood the fully disinterested of the whole affair and either burst into laughter of everyone standing about asking about him or he would fall upon the ground and cry from boredom in an angry fit.

  As the three Mitharian leaders conferred among themes elves as to the odd case set before them, they even added the possibility of housing Sucram in the newly occupied dungeon of Varlendur.
   Suddenly the Lady Lyreah stepped forward with her outstretched hand and called his name. As he smiled several yeses at her, Lyreah laid hold of his shoulder and they both became as rigid stone! 
   The guards ran forward to catch them before the fell apart onto the ground.  The gapping silence of all the gathering was broken as Lord Vendumar leapt from his seat and exclaimed, "Behold the ma!"
  For in that moment not only was there total awareness upon face and in his eyes, but all his scares were gone as well.
   Mairithan looked upon the man once called deranged and demanded of him, "Speak man! If ever there were a time to honor yourself let it be now!"
  To the shock of all Sucam calmly replied, "What would your Grace have me to reply?" His voice was unfamiliar, confident and strong as all eyes looked upon him in fearful amazement!
   By now the uninjuried and smily Lyreah stood fully recovered as well, when Mairithan added, "Seems he is free!"
  But Vendumar quickly injected a reminder of an oath sworn allegiance upon his people. So Mairithan asked the healed man before everyone there gathered, "Oh man of the street what say you? Where shall you venture?"
  Then forgetting all others he turned his eyes lovingly upon the Elven princess and softly said, "If she would but command me I am her loyal servant for always." Then dropped to both knees, kissed her hand and bowed his head.

   But the Lady Lyreah knew full well the deceits of both parties upon the Oaths taken and said to Sucarm, as he complied, "Rise. If you are truly mine as you swear and the faces of these gathered here do attest in their agreement that you are mine to command. Then I release you of any bond, made now or when you were not yourself and others pressed their will upon you. Go in peace ever in love."
   Looking about that silent gathering of nobles Sucram acknowledged, "Blessed Lady for evermore unto me shall you always be.
   "Having played the part of the fool my entire life as others beheld my unstable mind, I am indeed free.  I tried hard to be like others.  With no tattoos of my own I would deeply cut myself both day and night. No tattoos upon me meant I had no family history to call my own. I had no family , and no one to care for me in those bleeding days of pain. But now that I am whole, and free to find myself shall I go upon the and explore its truths for myself." With that he left Mithar unhindered and never seen in those parts thereafter.



   The insightful tale of NomJoleeth Shimzabar is one of encouragement and personal triumph to anyone who has ever felt that there was no purpose, no higher power or that they had been forgotten and totally discarded in life. For those are just lies.  Even in the darkest of times there will always shine a shaft of light beaming hope for the hope-less.
   NomJoleeth Shimzabar was just one of the twelve sons of Joleeth, a lonely woman of the night with no husband; and every son had a different father.  Love was not enough to feed all the mouths Joleeth brought into the world.  Nor was she the best teacher to illustrate how to deal with life's adventures.  Shimzabar and his brother raised themselves best they could on the rugged streets of the ancient city of Lindon.  A crossroads place between the Iron Mountain of the northwest and the growing deserts of the east of Eriduah after the shambles of the Great War of the Ring of power.  Thirty years before the Great Departure of elvendom from Middle-Earth, the population of Lindon began to change with the arrival of he settling Bedouin people.  Leaving their tents behind for brick homes.  The city showed its own sets of challenges to overcome for the likes of Joleeth.

   Shimzabar stowed away on a hip he invested all his hopes in that would lead him out and beyond The Great Sea. However as it made sight of Mithar's harbor the boy was discovered, badly beaten, and thrown overboard.  The laughing fisherman shock their heads at the drowning rat of just twelves years old.
   Mithar had seen its own swelling share of desert Bedouins entering the city as well.  Another child of the street was just another face in the crowd, was a common phrase among the disillusioned.

The WATCHER's BOOK : A "Cult" fiction-fantasy


   This volume of The Watcher's Book is hereby acknowledged as the sole authorized and complete version thusly sanctioned by The Third Goverening Body of Mithar.  Sixteen of thoses twenty-one original elves who remained behind at the Grey Havens, refusing to leave Middle Earth as the countless before them had done wrote accounts of why and what transpired afterwards.  This is the full and collected body of those efforts.  Witnessing the passing of the old world and accepting a new order brought challenges and eager hope during those epic times.  It was those very documents that have been canonized and accepted as Holy Writ from the very beginning, and are upheld to tis this very day in high esteem as more than mere histories.
   The Order of the Sacred Brotherhood of The Watcher's Book created a new society and renamed that bay city Mithar.  Those collected works in a single volume of Scripture are worthy of great praise. For the past 175 years The Order has proctected, studied, taught and continued to transcribe handcrafted copies into the common tongue of men.  That the wealth of those Ancient fathers would not fully diminish from the world.
   The Order itself was first alluded to in the original cloth Scroll of Seariphim.  Later, in part because of his singular account others, such as Baalyick, and Vendumar expounded in greater detail upon The Order's origin and Rites.  Histories, Songs of Praise and Proverbal sayings which encouraged others to remain faithful to their cause began to be written by the others that remained behind as well.  The first elven child to be born after The Great Departure grew to be an amazing adult. For unlike his peers that came after him, Nadan of Mithar lost none of his Elven graces but seemed endowed with greater gifts as well.  In The book of The Chronicles of Nadan, The Great Exampler is true lily manifested as The Purpose Incarnate before the reader of The Watcher's Book.
   Yet it was through the many letters of Nadan's bravest disciple, Aratimtus that attention on The Prophet's life and miracles is given greater insight.  For by Nadan was the way of The Nephilim Age brought into being. Those sages seen as the Sons of God herald in a golden era through the daughter's of men, fulfilling the Watcher's mission for ignoring the call of the Arrogant Ones who fled.
  May all wo learn of Nadan from this great book draw close to The Order of The Sacred Brotherhood .  For in doing so many one gain accurate knowledge of the sole source of truth, thereby being able to press forward, ever keeping your eyes on the prize of eternal life on paradise earth.

Head Overseer of the Fith House of Varlendur,
and Chief Councileman of Mithar's
Order of The Sacred Brotherhood
Holders of The Watcher's Book


The feast of lights


Tragically to admit with each passing year our grace of enchantment dwindled away as we faded more and more from the world in which we had chosen to remain a part of.  Our people fled beyond The West; yet, we who remained became as mortal as men by each dying year's end.   Even in our new customs we took on that mortal garb of their affairs.  For death had its own day of remembrance.
   The very day that the first among us fell into that eternal slumber; Lord Symodare himself, the ending of our days began.  
   We so marked the occasion as a solum day of fasting and joyless song with a single evening meal.  The Feast of Lights it came to be known on every October's New Moon, because candles were set afloat upon paper swans.  They sailed beyond the Bay's cliff gateway just as the real ships had done before.  We recounted each name and deed, while crying in our hearts knowing some day our own would be listed among them as well.  Upon that beach amid the gathered people stood The Watcher's Urn beside a torch for each one so inturned. 


If the Silmarillion is the Bible of Middle Earth then mine is the Cultic Watchtower version.


Elven deer and the Scroll Box


   “Greetings!” Came a woman’s voice from behind them.
   The two friends turned about startled.  Before them stood a deer; yet, its neck and head were replaced with the upper half of a naked female-elf.  Her long hair covered both of her petite breast.
   “To you as well.” Said the male stranger, who added, “I am Fayendar’Kyon, and this is my companion, Saleeth.” He was amazed by the sight of the creature before him.
   “I am Lyreah, an elodreen from the yellow woods of --” Her words were interrupted.
   “Kinderval!” Exclaimed Saleeth.  She added, “I have met some of your kind before.” Sounding insightful.
   “Elodreen!?” Breathed Fayendar with wide eyes. “I had always heard and been taught they were fictitious -- I mean no offence, but horrid creatures from children’s bedtime stories.”
   “You have lived a sheltered life indeed, Fayendar’Kyon.” The elven-deer smiled angelically back at him as if at a child, “For we are neither horrid nor fictitious.”  Then adding in a lower tone and cutting eyes to Saleeth, “Yet, I assure you our spell-charms are quiet real.”
   “You are a good distance from your own woods --” This time Saleeth’s defensive words fell short.
   “Just as you are from the Grey Havens, Saleeth of no House name.” The Elodreen’s manner was poignant.
   Saleeth caught the intent and asked, “Are we familiar?  Do you know me, eldren?”
   “What brings The Fallen to our woods?” Dismissing her Lyreah looked to Fayendar.
   Breathing courage he answered, “We fled the Western Sea Port and sought an alliance with those of the northern hills…”
   Her expression raised, “Dwarves?  How fascinating indeed!”
   The wonderer continued his brief-story, “After a season of years a force from Mithar lay siege upon Mount Ipstha as few escaped.”
   Reading between the lines as if she herself new more detail than were being given, Lyreah asked, “I see, and you must be ‘a remnant’ of that few.” Sharpening her words again up Saleeth, “The others, where are they?”

  “A half mile back, we were hunting when --.” She answered, trying to avoid the intense stare.
   Politely demanding the greater truth, “You were talking, not hunting, and in your discussion you came upon something?”
   Fayendar injected, feeling subdued, “Yes.  Yes, we -- saw an island just off the southern cliffs of this mainland’s coast.”
   Cocking her head slightly to the side with a wicked grin cautioned him with, “Wary now, what else did you spy?”
   Saleeth’s words came out on their own, “A light.  There was a tree that gave off its own light.  Did you not see it Fayendar?”
  Yet being totally honest Fayendar admitted, “No.  No, I did not, but we --”
He walked a little behind her and had not seen what she had.
   Nevertheless, Lyreah injected upon them, “You must return to your people and turn their hearts to this island, for it shall prove to be that which you have so long sought after.”

. . . . . . .
=You spoke of other matters as well, before your discovery of the tree, did you not?  Come now, and let us sit together and speak of such things.  For I am eager to enlighten you both upon our shared history, and from it you shall learn the truth that has eluded you both for far to long.  The Truth that even Murelen’Fay himself rightly uncovered.

+I was raised in The Truth, and obtained the fourth degree of Accurate Knowledge; for the Founder’s Book was the foundation of all our
=Then all the more reason for you to hear my tale, Saleeth.  For, Seraphim, the author of that work was gravely biased by his own agenda, and those who adhere to its premise are just as flawed.  Seraphim later regretted his version of hope, and sought the eastern homeland of our people, long before Fay’Valen’s brave declaration.  After Seraphim’s departure he was never  heard from again, except for the one time he and I met in Kinderval.
-Lyreah, how do the Elodreen know of Murelen?
=lol=Surely I am not alone in the world, and the House of Fay is older than Murelen?

   Rubbing her hands clean, Lyreah knelt the front portion of her deer body down into the grass, as her powerful hind legs followed into a seated, then laying posture.  With that Fayendar was prompted to sit down on a nearby fallen tree trunk as well. Saleeth remained standing off to the side, a few paces to the left of the scribe. They watched the Elodreen vigorously rub some twigs together, and gently blow on them. In no time a tongue of fire leapt up into a blaze.
   The quickly lit fireside soon dispelled the oncoming of night with a warm glow. Its orange radiance gave Lyreah's lightly furred facial features an even more exotic look. She smiled with pride, from the fire up into the watching eyes of the scribe and said, “All these lands are our home, and like you, I too am on an errand of my own business, Fayendar.” Then to his companion she replied, “But come, let me share a tale with you of our mutual beginnings.” Gesturing, with an outstretched hand, she added, “Saleeth, may your heart not be troubled and your mind set at ease, please -- sit.” With that she crossed over the fallen trunk and sat down on the ground, making the three of them into a circle.
   “Listen well, my fallen children.”  She withdrew a small handful of fine power from the pouch that hung across her shoulder, and suddenly scattered it over their campfire that soon became the center of their attention.  Its flames roared twice as high and shimmered with a multiple of various colors as sparkling lights danced deep within the blaze, causing it to leap higher.  As she spoke to the them their minds wandered and their heads felt light and airy as if they had drank too much wine.  Then, without being told they somehow knew that they had been transported back to the days of their founding fathers.

   The port city of Mithar was virtually empty. Its vast fleet of swan-shaped sailing ships had already departed for the journey of no return, past the great bookend like, mountain-cliffs of Isil-riena and Anar-alca; the harbor's gateway to the sea. Their 'Great Departure' would soon see the last of Elvendom fade from the world of men; crossing over, beyond the rim of the endless sea to the divine paradise of the nether-world. They would go unto that happy fair-land where crystal towers spiraled into the heavens, and where endless days of joy were to be spent in unimaginable bliss and song.  A realm where dew and mist fell, but never a harsh rain.  A place where dead loved ones still lived and waited eagerly to greet those yet to arrive.  For such was their hope, and our remembrances of their now faded dreams.
   Yet, there remained a single ship. Docked to the old world, like a great bird withheld from flight, tethered to the ground, still bound to the illusionary world of our mundane concerns of the here and now, with all its bitter sorrows.
   Off - in the distance - a bell in the highest tower of that ancient city had begun to ring out the wind's solemn tune.  It was a slow and sad mournful sound indeed.  Just then a handful of richly-clad figures stood arguing at the end of the pier, as storm clouds rolled in over the bay's horizon.
   The white ship belonged to the Lord of those Grey Havens, and it was he who went briskly down the boardwalk, as his silent boots turned left onto the weathered planks to go aboard. He stopped, half way in-between both worlds it seemed; one foot on the pier and the other on the gangway. From the corner of his eye he noticed that the others had not followed him. They gathered, mid-way on the faded deck, and waited -- some with hands staunchly placed on their hips, but all with grim expressions.

   Shelda’Mar's blue-grey eyes were almost tearful as they gazed into those of his twin brother, Vendu’Mar. It was he who lead their dissent.
   "Our time has passed." Shelda’Mar said, as the winds increased the breaks the waves multiplied. He was tall, and very pale complicated. Beautifully attired in his formally embroidered robes, and green-velveteen over-sized cap slanted on his head. "You know we must leave; the others have gone already," he added with an extended hand that accented the desperation in his usually calm voice.
   Vendu’Mar's mirrored image refused the gesture, and with a slight tilt of his head, called back to his twin brother, not so loudly, "Nay, Brother! We have need to stay. To guide the councils of these weaker men." He said the last phrase with contempt in his voice, as his slanted eyes narrowed on his slim face.
   Shelda’Mar was calm, but firm, "There is no need for that; for their time has arrived, and ours finished. The Elder days have ended, and the Lesser children's already begun." The hem of his cloak rippled in the growing breeze, as its shimmering fabric lifted behind him. "The Lords of the Elder lands have returned home, and we are the next among their great houses to follow; come brother, I implore thee to be wise." His words held no malice, as his blonde hair swept across his somber expression.
   Almost with a rage just beneath the surface, Vendu’Mar's squinting eyes flared back at the copy of his own, "They fight constantly among themselves, are easily led astray from their destinies, and are wayward! No - no, we must stay. We must stay and guide them to Illuvathian’s Light." Vendu’Mar took a step backward, into the chest of the white robed figure that stood behind him.
   It was Sal’Gilvan's cue, and it was not lost on him to speak up next, "Our losses in the War for their freedoms was high, and I for one shall not be moved!" His left hand toyed with the pommel of the sword resting at his side, while the other stroked the length of the scar along his right cheek. Gilvan had lost his wife and seven children, and both sets of parents in a single night. Those deaths had embolden him to speak his mind without fear.
   Yet, Shelda’Mar, motioning with his hand, missing its own thumb, had great losses in his family as well -- as they all did. He pointed to the ship beside him, "Our reward for that cost, is admittance into Valithnor, that Undying Land shall be veiled hereafter from the eyes of mortal kind." But Gilvan and the others remained bitter and undaunted.
   From behind Gilvan, Veth’Dema pushed his way forward. The only one with dark hair, and dark eyes, and a fat belly; he stayed for his own unannounced reasons, begun to shout at the ship master, "Then ye, may wait for our arrival, in our own good time." A contemptuous smirk grew on his round face.
   But Shelda’Mar grew frustrated with their stubbornness, and looked directly at Gilvan, "Thou knowest well, I hold not the key of that realm. It was given unto Gan’Meirith, and it was he who bade us come, for we are now the last to heed that call."
   Gilvan disliked Meirith, that messenger from across the sea. He disliked him because he had not partaken in the War, nor witnessed the transitions of the last few months, and so Gilvan waved off the sound of his name like an annoying fly searching for a resting place, "Then be gone. We will remain 'til we are called again."
   But Shelda’Mar felt compelled to restate the former's admonishments, "Remember his final call? I warn ye now: henceforth shall all your days dwindle to naught, for the doom of men shall fall upon you as well. For if ye depart not, then ye too will know the tears and sting of sorrow and pain. The longevity of your lives has been cut short by death's touch. None shall see more than one hundred and twenty years; after this day."
   But they just stood there looking at him with disgust and disbelief, firm in their convictions to remain behind.

   Seeing that they were all unwilling to leave, the High Lord of the City turned about and once again headed for his waiting vessel. It was a massive ship -- two hundred and fifty feet long, with its three huge, slanted sheets unfurled, waiting to be turned into the growing winds. Its foremast was draped with the emblazoned, seven-pointed Silver Star of the elven people. Its bow was ornately carved with the head and body of a great swan, whose wings formed the entire length of the grey-white hull. Its reflection was broken up by the foaming waves slapping the pier that it was moored to.  An ornate vessel that declared the workmanship of a now fading people, to those who refused its heritage. Its crew, however, readied the lines for whenever the word was given.
   Shelda`Mar's pale face was moist from the mist of the salty air, as his clear blue-grey eyes tearfully viewed the entirety of the city for the last time. With its solitary tower reaching skyward, and its uniquely designed Great Hall in the foreground, the grey havens suddenly took on the appearance of a graveyard to that departing Captain. The wind blew strands of his long blonde hair; through which, Shelda`Mar sadly looked down upon those who remained on the pier below. They murmured among themselves while staring up at their last chance slipping away. He tried to convince his kinsman to join them one last time, but their silent stern faces was his only answer. He knew then that leaving his brother, and the others, was difficult, but they had made their choice.
   As the evening shadows lengthened, the pale moon rose brighter. Moments later the enormous canvases of the frail ship were filled with life, as they breathed in the westward winds, and were drawn out through the cleft gateway to the Great Sea beyond. The remnant they left behind only watched, with mixed emotions. It was now too late for a change of heart as the vessel grew small against the setting sun's horizon for the last time.  Soon it joined the awaiting twelve of the White Fleet. With the final rays upon that fading armada they disappeared, never to be seen again; and in that breath the bell began to toll, atop the solitary tower, as the sun covered the blackened city.

   Those who remained behind, came to believe that they did so only because they later wanted the others to return and create a paradise, grander than the old world. Yet, even as they stared upon that silent departure, they knew in their hearts all their hopes were in vain. They would become a diminished and forgotten people.

   Slowly they turned back to their abandoned city.  In the bright, full moonlight they watched as the waters of the bay had strangely gone placid again, without even the hint of a ripple or cloud above. Upon leaving the pier, they saw the reason for the bell's sounding; for a darkly cloaked figure approached, from its now reticent direction.
   Upon clearly seeing the disappointed face of the one who hurried to meet them, Vendu`Mar broke from the group and angrily shouted, "Meirith! Why have you stayed behind?"
   Pulling his pointed-hood back, he replied, "All is not lost: perhaps a signal may yet be heard -- "
   Gilvan cut him off with, "Your advice was not heeded the first time, what makes you think it would be welcomed now? You did not understand our plans before they left, and with every argument you fought against us at every turn, do not start up again."
   Veth`Dema admonished him with a hiss and pointed finger, "Be gone, you unwanted Apostate, and trouble us no more with your tainted words of a false hope."
   Seeing that they were all in agreement against his presence, Meirith retorted, "So mote it be! Yet, others shall now be offered the chance to glory in your misstep." He replaced his hood and headed for the southern gate, toward the Blue Mountains.

      As the weeks passed in silence, the harbor remained empty. A quiet somberness fell upon that remnant who stayed. Slowly we grew used to our new solitude.
   Eighteen days later, it was decided that an eternal flame should be made, and continually kept burning atop the solitary Tower.  Some thought, just in the event that the others might return like a thief in the night. Galadir`Mar, the nephew of Vendu`Mar, was charged with its continual care, which he did with loving and grave vigilance.
   The day that the flame was to be lit, also marked the Conception Day of Lord Fay`Symodare. At one hundred and twenty years old he was counted as the eldest among those twenty-one Watchers who remained behind and saw their brethren leave. However, as the youngest among them, Seraphim was sent to awaken him; yet, upon arriving at the door of his chamber, Symodare was discovered lying dead in his bed. His serene face mocked the frightened ones that gathered him up for his burial.
   As a bed of acacia wood was erected, Symodare's lifeless form, was bound with cords, wearing his most elaborate of red robes, and laid upon the bier. The hood-covered face of the shrouded figure gave no response, as the eternal flames were lit high in the heights of the tower above; likewise, to those that engulfed his final slumber. As his cold body burned before those gathered, the smell of fragrant herbs, anointed oils and consumed flesh had begun a new and somber rite for them. For the prophesied words of Gan`Meirith had now been fulfilled, and the reality of their folly, set in. But none could turn back now to unring the bell of fate; so -- Seraphim rang it anew to mark the occasion, and every year thereafter, on that same day was it rung twenty one times, for each one of us who stayed behind.
   After the body of their peer had been fully consumed, the ashes of his crushed bones were gathered. We, each in turn, took a handful and scattered them in the direction of the bay's gateway to the sea. The remainder of his ashes were placed in a brass and ivory urn, into which the others pledged their own would some day join.
   Nol`Mithlon, the half-brother of Sal`Gilvan said, "May these words ever be spoken at the passing of one of us, and may they be remembered before any of our future children: 'Long have the days of Elvendom passed, when their frail beauty and longevity inspired the heart, for the fires of forgetfulness have consumed them, and their hope of immortality, lost.' " Those words too, were carved on the Watcher's Urn.

   Of all the Watchers who remained behind in the port city of Mithar, I was the only female among them.  For I am Lyreah, the older sister of Seraphim. I was the first to grow disenchanted with their reasons for staying behind, and after the passing of Symodare, was the first to leave those Grey Havens.
   The morning after his funeral rite, I announced to that gathering, during breakfast, "I can no longer stay here and watch as we all perish into forgotten ashes, one-by-one."
   At which Gilvan sounded surprised, "Where would you go?” he said to me.  “Surely not to the dwarves?" Then glanced around to see if any of the others agreed with him, that the possibility of my going to the mountain dwellers was an evil choice.
   But I said, as if the answer should have been obvious to everyone, "No. I feel the need to return to the ways of nature.  For, we once had many friends among that kingdom as well, before our hearts became compassionless."
   Then the green eyed, Baal`Yic smiled, and with a hand over his heart nodded, "Blessings to you then, may we all meet again in Valithnor." From a raised goblet he drank to my health and leaving.
   But I was too newly-bitter then, and much surprised by his words, and replied, "Blessings to you all; though I fear we are all doomed never to see that happy fate." As I left the marbled dinning hall of Varlendur in silence, and for the last time; my plate and glass remained untouched, for I had had my fill of their tainted “spiritually-incarnated” food and self serving lies.

   Know this and keep it secret no longer; that I was the last of our people to possess the ability to use the morphing craft of shape shifting, and in the Yellow Woods, east of those Havens, I became one with the animal kingdom.  The speed, agility and strength of deer-kind had won my heart as it was to them I was drawn.
  My offspring came to partially possess that morphing gift as well, yet by their second generation the merging of our two races became the mixture you see in me now; and the Elodreen race of Kinderval.  We are loners, and treated as outcast among both our original people.  Feared for our differences and new ability to charm, as you have seen; yet, it will be our doom that we are to perish.  But before we are gone from the world know that we were indeed here, and know too the truth of your own people as well.
   For, no one can tell me what the Truth of the Nephilim is, or what they believe, because I was there. I know first hand what happened. And all the stories and versions I have heard since are only embellishments made by fools seeking a name for themselves.”
   Slowly the flames of the campfire died down to mere embers of glowing coals in the now early morning light.  With the breaking of dawn, the spell of enchantment faded.  Lyreah was no where to be seen.

They woke up in another location different than where their original camp had been

Dazed and confused not only that their camp had been displaced, but also astonished by the group of onlookers staring down at them asking a multitude of questions: ranging from Where have you been for two days to Why were you sleeping here, and are you alright?

The only thing that told Fayendar that he had not dreamt their encounter with Lyreah was when he noticed the pouch she had been carrying had been left behind and was now at his feet.


Sleeping Sam


THE VERSE of the Scroll Box

{ The Original Version }
© 2011 David DeLane Snow

Sinenya translation/ font

1     “Beneath that evening star dome, lead/
Nui tanya lome elen telluma koromindo

2       Lord Elrond with his people shed/
Mem Elrond yassen ho gwaith dwat

3  the woes of a war torn land/
Ianef eneohta ydil ndor

4   healed by a fulfilled king’s hand.//
Yiyhia edematulos ahanan cam

   5  Aboard their swan-carved ships/                                                                                                                   Eyuth ron aqua yicular kirya

 6      with praises high on ruby lips;/
Yassen valuca taum noiriador

   7    one - with Halflings dressed in vests/
Er yassen gwalfeth yiratha miecolan

 8      rewarded for a legendary quest.//
Yimanr tene ryarnut arsta

9       Yet some later said by madness of pride/
Amques luta equ edcesarta enarwel

10  those brothers fought and lied/
Eska ahdara maruk aryigulcata

11   their bonds they broke and took/
Ron ahvere ronka tamis artwyun

12       all loyalties of oaths forsook.//
Ilya ivustal enahvanda arquenta

13       Shelda`Mar implored we few to come/
Sheldamar yimqunt eme nnir atula`

14       aboard the ship of Valithnor, Cirdan’s drum;/
 Eyuth ikirya envalithnor ahcirdan danut

15   to the Undying Lands of hope and grace./
Aizesfirful ahndor enestal areruanna

16       yet outraged, Vendu`Mar abandon his place.//
Am hecah VenduMar arquita hoyamen

17       On the worn-out piers Vendu`Mar was arguing/
Ni sul sillium sudetsegsid iaf udnetnimagre VenduMar

18       drew against the command of his brother/
Elenis erenuc li udnem id as sunemrih

[STILL "translating"]
19       harsh words like a bitter sword that bites,/

20   though Shelda`Mar in sorrow took flight.//

21       The wizard Gan`Mereith admonished us/
Li ugem GanMereith sun etruxi

22       to be wary against our growing lust;/

23       Sal`Gilvan and Veth`Dema barked back/

24       with their own words of black.//

25   We stayed like an anointed remnant,/

26       who saw it our goal to rule as imminent,/

27       teaching a new history to lesser men/

28       with a diverse tongue, Sinenya I Seraphim penned.//

29       Like unto Sindar was Sinenya made/

30   with new characters and words I laid;/

31       letters designed for new purposes crafted/

32      for initiated secretes were they drafted.//

33      For the greed of some soon railed apparent/

34      as our original cravings became too variant;/

35  instead of being counselors to students in need/

36      many wayward misguidings did breed.//

37      Celegreth of the elven Crystal Caves,/

38      and Kwandol the dwarven mason, made;/

39      a Great Hall like greeting hands/

40  domed six hundred years, still stands.//

41      Close to the bay a watchtower stood/

42      with a bell’s tolling alarm it would;/

43      chime forth the hours of the Great Hall/

44      for secret Brothers to heed its call.//

45   In that kingdom’s darkened hall we met/

46       among fireside rituals fussed and fret;/

47       knowing inwardly we hoped against hope,/

48       preaching failed expectations, we groped.//

49       High in that Watchtower’s nest/

50   its bell replaced we thought best;/

51       with a pyre set eternally aflame,/

52       for others to return without shame.//

53       On the day the oil-soaked wood was lit,/

54       by Fay`Symodare’s death all were hit;/

55   the shadow that fulfilled Mereith’s woe,/

56      the nightmare of mortal man became our snow.//

57       From his ashes we gathered a portion/

58       entombed in an urn with grave distinction;/

59       the rest we scattered upon the sea/

60       and pledged our own ashes would mingle.//

Kicking back that feeling

The Dark Times are approaching,
When winter comes and swings that cold ax,
Of frozen winds and solemn tunes
naked trees and silent birds.
Cold nights and unnerving days,
When inside gatherings come along

and yearning for family times
old memories creep in and
stretch slowly out.

The Scroll Box

I have been working on a project for quiet some time, at least fermenting in my head and coming out as several sketches. Years ago I began writing an Epic Novel. THE NEPHILIM AGE: The Watcher's Requiem.  It is a complex tale, but basically a Fantasy.  A man learns of his lost brother and develops a relationship with him.  In doing so inherits an unusual gift.  One of which is a manuscript that tells about an ancient "pre-flood" people.

   I am crafting a Scroll that will be placed in a specially carved box.

The Cloth.  One day as I took the trash out I noticed an old couch had been discarded near the dumpster. I had been thinking a lot about the idea of crafting the Scrolls of Mithar and upon seeing the upturned couch knew immediately where the "cloth" would come from. Taking my pocket knife I removed the underlining of that old discarded couch and a year later am only now beginning to design the artwork to put on them.

 An Elven-teacher, Seraphim by name; the "creator" of the Scrolls themselves, (in the story).  The handwritten Script, shown in this drawing I did, is called Sinenya.  It is my own vocabulary mixed with variation of Tolkien's Elvish Sindar. 
  [Not pictured here is the Language of Nasil, the common speech of men. With Nasil (which looks like Sumerian cuneiform), is a translation of my poems into Spanish, reversing the letters, and dropping the vowels by one and changing the font.] Dan Smith created the FONTS for me.

    The Great Hall of Mithar; shaped like cupped hands with interlaced fingers. The "thumbs" of the building are supported with pillars and the main door just beyond them.

THIS is a Photoshopped design I did of viewing inside The Great Hall of Mithar.

 The Watchtower of Mithar, with an eternally lite bon fire atop. (An original sketch done awhile back).
 The Cultic hand-sign of the teacher's of Mithar's Tower, (with tattoo of their full titles).
The setting sun between the gateway to the sea beyond the Bay of Mithar.

Some of the Elves of Middle-Earth stayed behind and devised a new Cultic Society.
The Grey Havens of the City of MITHAR of Eriduah
 (another photoshopped picture I crafted).

The High Lord of the Grey Havens of Mithar died and was cremated; the remaining Elves kept his ashes in a special Urn. From there after those who passed away of the original remaining 21 Elven fathers were added to his upon their own death. The Watcher's Urn. Each one of these sketches will be a panel with elvish script telling the story.

"...These are but needless things we do here, unto them who understand not the majesty of the lives once lived and now thusly enshrined as sacred ashes within this Holy Urn." ~ Baal`yik Dormath Second Priest of Mithar.

Afterward, Murelen approached his throne picking up a resting pouch, and shared its contents with his silent scribe, “Upon my father’s death everything he owned came to me. This was among his most prized possessions, and spurred him toward his deepest desire; which has now become our journey to new beginnings.  I wish to give it to you, Fayendar as a token of our friendship, love and the deep respect my father had for you.”  Smiling, he added, “Something tells me it is more a part of your destiny than my own.  Keep it well.”
   It was the leather satchel that the king had always carried across his shoulder.  From it, Murelen removed a velveteen green-bag.  Supporting it with both hands, one on top the other below, he presented it to Fayendar.
   Accepting it, Fayendar said, “In the receiving alone, am I honored, milord.”  While untying the wrapped-around gold-cord and unfolding the bag, he slowly withdrew the object within just as the King added, “It is the original Watcher’s Requiem, written by the very hand of Seraphim himself.  I feel it will validate all that you have already come to believe, my friend and strengthen you for that which is yet to come.”
   Seeing his genuine surprise, the king smiled back as the scribe’s face lit up, “Thank you, for such a unique gift indeed, sire!”

   It was a small wooden box, almost the length and breadth of Fayendar’s hand.  Its lid was latched closed with a simple metal flip-lock, which needed no key or peg.  The lid’s top surface was ornately carved with deeply drawn vines. A windowed opening was accented with a hand carved swan-ship riding upon the waves, whose three unfurled sails pointed upward.  A small cloth scroll was rolled onto two pine-wood spindles that were locked in place by the closed lid.  Framed and showcased by the ornate window, Fayendar noticed that when he turned the left spindle the illuminated text was written in such a way that the lid’s carvings pointed out certain passage details: either chapter, verse or circled letters.

   Interrupting the inspection of his new gift, Murelen told Fayendar, “I am pleased you are so taken with it; however, I must now attend to other matters pressing upon me. For the tribal leaders will soon be arriving with a multitude of questions.”
   Returning the boxed-scroll to its bag, and returning it to the leather case, Fayendar quickly nodded as he was leaving through the tent flap entrance, “Certainly, and again, thank you, milord.” 

   Later that evening, in his private tent, Fayendar read the scrolls in their entirety, studying every word and its many detailed drawings with great interest.  After decoding the circled letters, Fayendar read a message that really astounded him.  For the author had written a warning not to add or take away from his words. 
   The tale he read on the scrolls were almost identical in every detail to Lyerah’s personal account.  It was written in poetic form in the tongue of Sinenya.  The version of the Watcher‘s Book he had studied those many years ago at Varlendur paled in comparison to the beautiful simplicity of the original cloth scroll.  For it contained none of the additional embellishings about the family and priestly lineages who followed the Watchers.  Neither were there any of the proverbial sayings and ceremonial songs nor the lyrical prohibitions against associating with dwarves, and venturing into the western woods of Kinderval.  
   Fayendar began to remember all his ‘sacred service,’ the mundane ceremonial duties he had preformed, and how they were labeled as ‘theocratic secrets,’ forbidden to be shared with even his non-priestly family members.  Strangely his eyes began to tear up.  He felt confused inside.  A scene of loss, and a feeling of gain all at the same time.  He had been told by so many people his entire life what the book said, that finally being able to read it for himself was an almost overwhelming experience.  A scene of disappointment made his shoulders drop because of the story’s difference was so different, so plain and simple, yet believable.  Suddenly, he realized his tears were of joy.  For he felt an inward growth, and the weight of all his guilt and frustration had finally lifted from his mind and heart.  The king was right, learning the truth about, ‘The Truth’ had validated his new beliefs, and strengthened him with a resurgence of confidence.