To Cliché: These Tacks are Made Of Brass.

So many an event has come to Young Mistress. And Young Master. Young Master broods on his own. I know my presence would only aggravate him. He grows strong with his will, though I do not think he knows it.

Young Mistress grows strong in her will, too, though not as one would imagine. A reflection of comfort. She is capable all her own, though she seeks others, mirrors, to relay said comfort to her. Her will is her own, though strengthened by the belief that others are around. A sign of weakness? No. Merely a condition that affects the vast majority of us. As such, she is never truly alone.

She has lost a close one.

Maya, for a brief moment, stops laughing.

Young Mistress’ current condition? Shit-faced. Not that that makes you a bad person. Her awareness of womanhood has also been reinforced. On a side note, I should applaud her stamina. And her creativity. I can smell the amount of effort she has applied to her previous, drunken-stress-relieving task. I will not speak of where, upon her person, those smells originate. Again, bad person, not making, et cetera.

I need to stop repeating myself.

Maya shows an attempt at a smile, her gaze returns to Young Mistress.

If my ears were as good as my nose I believe I’d hear a serpent’s heart rattling, shaking in concern for another. Shaking in a way it has not felt in hundreds of years.

She comes to me for advice. I only beget her melancholy. I say to her a truth: One must become lost, or one must become accustomed to losing those around you.
My heart won’t let me tell her the truth.

I am a bad mentor.

I am a good Hanumasha for I prepare her for misery.

But I am a bad mentor and I don’t prepare her for the ultimate painful truth: There Is No Point. Accept Pain.
For some: Create Bad Poetry.

If Maya weren’t so absorbed into Her Own Being she would laugh at me now.

Crudeness is my Bedfellow

Undying yet Unblemished
A fish doth swim it’s bucket
I think that I do but, O-

Goddammit- I- shit- fuck it!

I lay in the crows nest. A ship thinks to close in. Illusion, Illusion. It shall begin.

Onward to Battle,
O Soldiers of Light
Sweep the decks of carrion
What a glorious night

Or perhaps just a monotonous night.
More sounds of battle. Apparently this treasure seeker has better eyes than many. This means the noise will be longer but only die down to…

To…

That smell. Familiar, but not. A distant, warped memory. Vague flashbacks and a strong stench of sweat, steel, womanhood… a tinge of pirate swill… a faint scent of…. Home?

Young Mistress? Abigail?

Return!

Her Embrace: Much larger than I remember. No longer merely reaches my thigh.

She is no longer a child.

Her scent, of course, belied she has had many Adult Adventures.

I am not here to judge.

I am Hanumasha and I will not fail.

Existence Forward / Time Falls Still

There is a weight laying upon me. I know, as my poetry has degraded. Meddlesome tripe not fit for the least creative of schoolchildren.

Children.

Perhaps this quest was ultimately false. I will not fail. It has been ages since I’ve seen the Young Master and Mistress.

They are children no more, I’m sure. Though their blood has more knowledge of the other realms than I.

Maya laughs again. This time I agree.

My time with the High Borne has taught me many things. Self-Pity, one of them.

I am not High Borne, I am not of The Blood.

I will not accept failure. I will succeed. My wards still live and I will find them.

Melancholy returns to bid good greetings. I bid farewell. He will return when I chose it.

I am Hanumasha and I will not fail.

Day Three Gajillion Whatever

Woke up this morning
In a sickly pit
I sneezed so hard
I had to shit.

Another day turns and my heart is still heavy.

I curse.

One of the true shipmates of mine is quite adept in his distilling craft. He was capable at conjuring what he has dubbed “Demon Rum.” If I were a paranoid soul I’d question my identity had been revealed. My confusion: It works on my spirit. It works well, and today is welcomed with the still embrace of Melancholy. He smiles at my arousal. “It has been awhile,” says He. “Quite too long,” says I.

Now these damnable sea-folk have got me speaking like them.

Perhaps said craftsman shouldst be best left on the nearest dock. His brew would serve only to lengthen my search for the lost children.

Maya laughs a shrill laugh that strikes fear in the passing gulls.