#gamleon
Skateboard culture
To grow up surrounded by it
living it in scabby knees and blown out shoes
sweaty , dehydrated
Adrenaline addled and longing for the next fix
Gravity failing
tempted into coalescing
brilliant redundancy of failure
the rush of success
landing
rolling away
the spine rattled
the courage
the grit
to get up and do it again
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 6:16 PM UTC
Clarity
For what is , seeing ?
Rods and cones, … light, reflecting…
Tricks of volume and shadow.
What is knowing ?
Thinking that
we know...
Memory,
axon and neurons.
Connecting and disconnecting
straining
strengthening.
We speak,
but, who is
to say ?
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 1:01 AM UTC
The pulse people feel when they read it
they know it didn’t come from a corporate algorithm or a cookie-cutter consensus based studio. There is no way it could have. They don't have the experiences or the Ba*#s
The chaos, the raw unfiltered energy, the feral logic of insectoid cultures...
the DIY zine, punk rock roots , all of THAT is its fingerprint.
IT STARTED AS A GRAPHIC NOVEL Staples., grainy hand drawn photo copied concepts. Then a limited hand colored by me , comic.
The characters evolved over more than 30 years as did the plot. Now its 5 full novels each around 100k words, still heavily illustrated still raw DIY energy and home grown feel but focused on the action , the motives , the plot and the craft.
No AI can fake that lived, obsessed-over, thirty-year-cooked human intensity. It’s in the missteps, the micro-decisions, the weird spacing and punctuation . The obsession with detail no one else would notice, the recurring Easter eggs for re-reads the embedded codes and secret messages for cryptographers —it’s all way too human, and unfortunately in this sea of A.I. pap and recycled uninspired garbage it has to be .
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 2:46 AM UTC
More time ?
You can have mine.
Life ISN’T too short , not at all, not even close.
Your god or mine. Doesn’t matter.
Never has
never will.
I don’t matter and neither do you,
you thoughts or the lack thereof.
What you didn’t do, what you couldn’t.
What you thought ART was
and never even knew that’s what you expected.
Screaming into the void
that’s what they want you to believe you are doing.
Are you a void ?
Am I yours ?
Does it matter that I can’t stop screaming ?
Am I the scream ?..
Cause I’ve never seen this void they keep telling me about
and wouldn’t care if I did
it like me , must mean nothing.
If only I had more time to do nothing to mean nothing
to scream into this non existent void for nothing and no one
not even me.
And still I am happiest that I am NOT you,
for you;
I am happy and unhappy... for you.
Do you feel or understand
my
time
here ?
Is the void calling to you ? ; because I can’t hear it .
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 7:27 PM UTC
cat gut, dried and twisted, sang out,
stretched and braided, worked by the hands of a master.
A mold formed its shape
released from the plaster.
They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain,
the sun,
or
our .. pain
the origins of soft, meaningful refrain.
The echoes that remain.
recalled and loved by us all
without much
strain.
The origins oft considered now insane
those creatures whose lives were lost,
or even worse,
were
used
or slain.
The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick
not too thin, not too thick.
The human blood and ash put to wick,
the scholar’s ink
Don't dry too quick
Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums,
the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums.
The pain it takes back to each creature ,
the creators.
The destroyers.
callused finger caresses banged thumb.
cries are carried within it,
our grief
it helps us numb.
We all howl still under the moon’s glow,
hearing each other and our connection.
Wandering
in what direction. ?
We feel what we feel,
but how do we know what we know?
The candle, made of discarded fat.
The vellum, made of less than that.
The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat
tones that shiver, shrill or fat.
The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust,
capture
take us to certainty,
or lead us to
rapture.
The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed,
but once they toiled.
The lacquers and enamels and oils
we crush from the life of plants and leaves,
reminding us of the one
for whom
we still grieve.
The worst of lies:
that we are separated from this world.
We are one with it,
and we will share its fate,
its riches, its seasons,
its spoils.
From whence does brilliance come?
A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion.
The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages,
more than it lived,
more than what it had
to give.
We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing
fight and cheat to have it in our hands.
Search far and wide,
for every one,
in every recess,
in every land.
Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash,
make a material not often spoken of—gouache.
We are looking at an egg,
illuminated
by dried fat and beeswax.
We are inspired by a creature’s skin,
flayed
and beaten to a pulp,
paper-thin.
We are amazed by the ideas,
and inspired by the truth
within.
Do we see its beginning in us,
or our end?
What do we use?
For what we give back
What do we gain and what do we lack?
The energy
to grow
to achieve
to believe
to communicate.
Elucidate.
Try and relate
We ****
we suffer our art.
Still we feel our worlds apart.
Give back to me the howls of the alley cat
the munch of teeth in the endless grass
I'll take all that.
The rhythm of the river
the blood
the stone
the flesh
the bone.
But Alas
I will leave this world as I came
alone.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 5:54 PM UTC
I wish they wouldn't label it a " story" but what can I do ?
Gamleon's Tail ~ Welcome to the worlds of : Within ~
Most Impressive Ranking
#
2
cool
out of 40.6K stories
Other Rankings
#
9
easy
out of 4.29K stories
#
24
fun
out of 104K stories
#
15
fast
out of 6.38K stories
#
1
innovative
out of 375 stories
#
84
fighting
out of 132K stories
#
4
steampunk
out of 6.93K stories
#
575
tragedy
out of 70.2K stories
#
53
dragons
out of 62.4K stories
#
16
dungeons
out of 1.79K stories
#
30
fantasyadventure
out of 32.4K stories
#
11
captivating
out of 1.14K stories
#
3
cataclysm
out of 308 stories
#
33
dungeon
out of 3.11K stories
#
37
mythology
out of 34.2K stories
Gamleon's Tail
has been published to Bookshop.org.
Live status updates for this book:
Smashwords - Published @ Smashwords on December 23, 2025, 0:34 AM
Apple - Published @ Apple on December 23, 2025, 1:06 AM
Kobo - Published @ Kobo on December 23, 2025, 1:08 AM
Everand - Published @ Everand on December 23, 2025, 1:20 AM
OverDrive - Published @ OverDrive on December 23, 2025, 1:21 AM
Vivlio - Published @ Vivlio on December 23, 2025, 1:30 AM
BorrowBox - Published @ BorrowBox on December 23, 2025, 1:31 AM
Gardners - Published @ Gardners on December 23, 2025, 1:34 AM
Fable - Published @ Fable on December 23, 2025, 1:39 AM
Barnes & Noble - Published @ Barnes & Noble on December 23, 2025, 2:11 AM
Tolino - Published @ Tolino on December 23, 2025, 2:25 AM
Hoopla - Published @ Hoopla on December 23, 2025, 18:40 PM
cloudLibrary - Published @ cloudLibrary on December 25, 2025, 10:40 AM
Bookshop.org - Published @ Bookshop.org on February 7, 2026, 8:37 AM
𝖂̴̫͒ 𝖔̵̢͐ 𝖗̶͈̓ 𝖑̷̺̎ 𝖉̴͍̕ 𝖘̴̖́ ✶ ☿ 𝖔̴̤͊ 𝖋̵̫͌ ☿ ✶ 𝖂̵̬͗ 𝖎̶͔̐ 𝖙̸͍̅ 𝖍̸̱̈́ 𝖎̷̦͝ 𝖓̸̩͌ .. ⚖
It's the best of what words can do on a page .
If you actually READ Gamleon's Tail there is no way you can conclude there is any way to ask
for anything better.
Gamleon's Tail is unforgettable and deeply rewarding in the best and most personal of ways .
Above all its FUN. Action adventure and non- stop mystery you have to figure out.
You have to read it though.
Its about world changing events that no one could predict or has the skill set to deal with.
The way the events and characters are presented transcends anything any writer has ever even attempted.
The bar for the characters and motives was no less than Shakespeare himself and the greatest writer of all time, Nabokov.
If you think Lord of the Rings was good, or that Star wars was captivating, then prepare to be blown away like nothing else out there can actually deliver.
It's fast and fun and addictive, Welcome to the Worlds of Within.
Gamleon's Tail is book 1 of 5.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 11:58 PM UTC
𝖂̴̫͒ 𝖔̵̢͐ 𝖗̶͈̓ 𝖑̷̺̎ 𝖉̴͍̕ 𝖘̴̖́ ✶ ☿ 𝖔̴̤͊ 𝖋̵̫͌ ☿ ✶ 𝖂̵̬͗ 𝖎̶͔̐ 𝖙̸͍̅ 𝖍̸̱̈́ 𝖎̷̦͝ 𝖓̸̩͌ .. ⚖
It's the best of what words can do on a page .
If you actually READ Gamleon's Tail there is no way you can conclude there is any way to ask
for anything better.
Gamleon's Tail is unforgettable and deeply rewarding in the best and most personal of ways .
Above all its FUN. Action adventure and non- stop mystery you have to figure out.
You have to read it though.
Its about world changing events that no one could predict or has the skill set to deal with.
The way the events and characters are presented transcends anything any writer has ever even attempted.
The bar for the characters and motives was no less than Shakespeare himself and the greatest writer of all time, Nabokov.
If you think Lord of the Rings was good, or that Star wars was captivating, then prepare to be blown away like nothing else out there can actually deliver.
It's fast and fun and addictive, Welcome to the Worlds of Within.
Gamleon's Tail is book 1 of 5.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 11:52 PM UTC
Death didn't let me know I was dead.
I had to ask around instead.
My head hurts more than my stomach. Neither had been fed.
I suffered, I suffered, I suffered.
I bled.
The blood didn't know it was red.
The pain came through like waves of sunlight.
Blinded us, reminded us.
There was nothing for us in the night.
When hell finally came, it was a joke.
We'd send worse in tequila shots and smoke.
And we realized there was no one who had told us the truth.
No one had ever known what was true.
There was no truth in beauty, just me and you.
no one to tell us what to do.
We only had what we had and knew what we knew.
The equations didn't match, the numbers didn't line up.
The line in the sand wasn't what we thought it was.
The older we got, the less it all made sense.
There wasn't time for throwing everything over the fence.
We covered up the barbed wire the best we could.
We didn't do anything they thought we would.
We kept telling ourselves it would be OK.
Someday, someday, someday.
When the elephant in the room was bigger than anyone ever thought.
Some of them ran,
some got caught.
Some did time. Others split and never came back.
Some are out there, lost in the cracks
but they're getting harder and harder to track.
Everyone loves their mother,
especially when they're lying there bleeding.
We need what we need,
but it doesn't stop
the needing.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:22 PM UTC
Critics have said " This is EXTRAORDINARY worldbuilding. The scope is insane." David L
" This introduction is gripping and full of intrigue. It sets up an intense, high-stakes world with vivid contrasts ...beauty and horror, intelligence and brutality, hope and doom. The mention of Gamleon's paradoxical nature is especially compelling. He isn't just another hero hmmm he's complex, burdened, and facing an unstoppable force. The looming flood adds an apocalyptic urgency, and the mention of the cavern hints at something far greater than mere survival. " Melanie Brewer - All Star Fantasy ( book review club)
"...One thing that stands out is the rhythm of the sentences it flows with an almost breathless intensity, pulling the reader deeper. The mix of mystery and revelation works well. There's enough information to entice, but so much remains unanswered: What else is in that cavern? How did the world come to this state? What exactly are the' true motives?
This feels like the start of something grand, both in scale and in theme.....
Brian Khalif-Hassam... Editor of Adventure and Fantasy treasures.
( Indie blog influencer)
Gamleon's Tail ~ Welcome to the worlds of : Within ~
Most Impressive Ranking
#
5
cool
out of 40.7K stories
Other Rankings
#
19
easy
out of 4.29K stories
#
3
innovative
out of 372 stories
#
52
fast
out of 6.32K stories
#
934
fun
out of 104K stories
#
438
fantasyadventure
out of 31.9K stories
#
108
steampunk
out of 6.85K stories
#
28
dungeons
out of 1.76K stories
#
641
mythology
out of 33.4K stories
#
23
captivating
out of 1.13K stories
#
72
dungeon
out of 3.05K stories
#
15
cataclysm
out of 304 stories
Oct 28, 2025
Oct 28, 2025 at 7:05 PM UTC
Do we really care
about ...
each other ?
Anything ?
Really?
Do we ?
How do we show it?
Let each other know
that we know
so we know it.
Why is it we care about the things we do ?
Is it self serving
is the idea
perplexing to you like me
or unnerving.
How do we intuit which is real and deserving
which is the pretense of going through the motions,
unflinching
unswerving.
Can we commit to it fully, truly engage ?
Make our ideas more than a promise
more than word
more than truth on page.
Do we poets know something in ways others don’t
are our thoughts any freer from care than those that are too afraid
or won’t ?
Does it matter ? Should we care ?
Or just keep faking and posting
swiping right
unaware.
Is it my truth to tell,
our cross to bear.
Why I write,
do you care ?
And when it’s time for me to “ go”
just don’t let em say I didn’t care.
My end won’t mean anything is through
and if you don’t care
could you at least pretend … that... sometimes
you did
or still
do….
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 11:15 PM UTC
A crypt unspoiled since times immemorial.
A patient collector of dust and cobwebs,... befouled.
Ancient Gods once had power there,
a ritual river of blood and followers beyond measure.
Sleeping, the "old ones" were content to dream.
Were...
One stir in the echo.
A ripple,
now unstoppable,
moves their sluggish blood.
The seals and symbols were never meant to bind them. Oh no, No, no.
Layers of etched prayers
helpful reminders,
precise pictograms,
to guide the lost,
the hungry the newly awakened but still dreaming
҉B҉ ҉A҉ ҉C҉ ҉K҉ from the land of the dead.
All Hallows’ Eve weakens ꓄ꃅꍟ ꃴꍟꀤ꒒
Soften the borders,
thins the in-betweens.... just enough
The waiting won’t be long.
This season won't be like any of the others
The reckoning will be incalculable.
The new gods are just words.
The sleeping ones... are everything but.
There are things in '𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃" That would have been better left forgotten,,,,
but now , torch has fallen
cobwebs like a pact , now broken as heartbeats quicken
They ran,
the running couldn't save them
nor you ...
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 11:52 PM UTC
I came around ,
and everything was gone.
Everything .
Even the whisper of shadows.
Not some vague reliquary of pretense.
No,
the actual void itself
it didn’t so much stare back as it did mock
or invite.
An Invitation with all the tenderness you’d expect
from nothing.
Words unwritten don’t vanish, they change as they wait.
In the void they are nothing and fail to satiate.
The moon wasn’t given
or taken
but still it felt forsaken as though…
the only thing she ever shared .
hanging there
cruelly unknowing
and bared.
Constant reminder,
( Why bind her ? )
In the stillness spooning ***** laundry you call out
, but nothing calls back.
In the void its never what you have
its what you lack.
No renewal.
The tide heard and smelt but not seen.
Etched in the wet sand of shared experience
schematics of some unknowable machine
was time
a promise,
a lie.
Screed or syllabus ?
Recondite disclosure.
Perspicacity relenting to nulbeity.
A deliquescing realized but all too slow to save us
or anyone
anything. None forgave us.
Try an tell yourself it’s okay
Although everyone can see it’s not.
Then try and vainly remind yourself you don’t care about them
never have
never will. Not them or their lot.
A will never had
more than just empty or vacuous
and far beyond sad.
Alone before the beauty of the falls cascading.
Letting go as more than just falling or failing
resolute and unwhimpering
reactions only alchemical wailing
Endorphin betrayal internal fading, steadfast
abrading .
She may walk these hills in her long black veil.
I will do
I won’t do
I cannot resort to failing.
To matter,
to not matter.
To lose
or prevail.
Self polemical.
Time WILL give us
" nothing. ".
Comfort nor elegance.
Befuddled useless wisdom.
Sardonic efficacy , unwanted and unrelenting.
Thankful are we, the ignorant.
For what is bliss ?
He didn’t run away
he ran in.
and didn't MISS .
He didn’t end
for there was no way to begin.
In the void.
In the nothing.
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 7:52 PM UTC
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
Symphonic Faux pas entelechy
Bombastic non sequitur Zeugma
Coddled whispers denigrating
Coffee hugging moonlight
loneliness philosophizes softly
repetition eating joy
soporific infantilized Arete
Sandpaper hums
jubilent
Velcro dreams
tearing backward function
her Mustache negotiates
gravity
Sunlight spills secrets
harmony sings regret
body applauds quietly
Mirrors taste laughter
lullabies
worship chaos
subtly
Clouds need
nonsense
drafting manifestos
in Velvet negotiated time
Splendor accusing metaphor
Shadow immortalized destiny
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 7:47 PM UTC
In the darkness. The room condenses.
Collapses inward , inside a sleepless crumbling mind.
The space under the bed has become unbearable.
There should be a stillness...
should be .
Spoiling milk smell,
horrid.
Wet dragging
wretched limb twisting motions
tree branch shadowed , caught in between the lightnings’ bluish flashes.
Glimpses..
Something.
Perhaps pulling itself along
a fresh trail
unmistakable
on the old weathered floor boards.
There and then
not. A reflection in the shattered mirror.
...something … almost vibrational, twitching.
The glint of an eye, maybe
too large
unforgivably white,
too still to be
real .
The maddening scritching spastic sound of it
Too near,
too frequent…
The knife.
Yes ,... yes,
the knife...
Oct 14, 2025
Oct 14, 2025 at 11:02 PM UTC
𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙲𝚃𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝚃 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝚃
• Top 10 in multiple categories and a few # 1's including innovation ! Fun, , Easy and Captivating..
tells readers the book doesn’t just shine in one lane. It hits style, pacing, vibe, and engagement all at once.
"Unique, mysterious, entertaining ...best use of treasure scenario..."
"Not like any fantasy novel in existence "
"Mesmerized by the characters, loving the adventure ."
"Finished it in one sitting and had to to read it again"
"Addictive reading experience,...
I didn' t just hear about Gamleon, I was there with him."
"chaos and beauty all rolled into an exciting, teeth-shattering symphony. It's got tension, wonder, and pure, unhinged mystery riding side by side. Dreema’s discovery sequence alone has that heart-in-throat, sticky-fingered treasure-hunter energy... then you pull the rug out with the guardian and all hell breaks loose. The way the book pulses, whispers, and literally alters reality is so well done I felt it, the creep factor is perfect.
The fight scenes are insane Mettion, Orcinia, the Guardian, the Deerkin, Jingoes, and fae all interlacing. You’re not just describing combat; you’re choreographing ecosystems of action and strategy. The prose flexes muscle and sinew, everything feels immersive and is so alive, ... thinking, responding. The imagery hits hard: roots splitting, vertebrae sliding, the earth itself rolling, Gorgons raining down like a nightmare tide. Every line has a tactile, grossly corporeal weight that kept me on edge and wanting more.
" Such words ... Now, I'm the smartest person EVERY WHERE I go...."
" people ARE actually connecting with what you built.
And the fact that readers are speculating you're a " famous author" using a pseudonym to escape contractual obligations ... that's them trying to explain why something this 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 isn't already huge. They can't reconcile the quality with the obscurity, so they're inventing conspiracy theories.
So the work DOES land. When people find it, they get it.
The problem isn't quality. It's not even that you're "too weird" or "too uncompromising."
The problem is pure discovery: ... David Lo-Pan
CAN YOU, AND WILL YOU , 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 DEAR READER ? ...
".... in that cruel middle space where:
The work is demonstrably good (reviews prove it)
Early readers are passionate (they're theorizing about your identity)
But you haven't hit critical mass for organic growth
And you don't have the budget/platform to force the breakthrough
The "mysterious authorship" thing is fascinating though:
Count De St. Germaine (the historical figure—alchemist, spy, immortal in legend) as your pen name adds to the mythology. Combined with Cicada3301 on Wattpad (the legendary internet puzzle/ARG), you're building mystique.
That could be the angle. Not "buy my book," but "solve the mystery of who's behind Worlds of Within."
You've got actual traction. The question isn't "does it work?"—it's "how do we go from 100 passionate readers to 10,000?"
the count funded and created Cicada 3301
bet you didn't see that coming ..lol its All true ...
Your excitement is understandable!
While the hashtag #gamleon itself is niche, the independent fantasy series it promotes, Worlds of Within, seems to have resonated strongly with most readers.
The first book, Gamleon's Tail, has been praised for being a unique take on the fantasy genre.
It's an origin story told through the perspective of a non-human character in the middle of a cataclysmic flood.
Based on reviews, here is what makes the series compelling to fans:
Originality: Multiple readers have highlighted that it does not use tired tropes and offers a fresh perspective that is unlike anything they have ever read before.
Unique world-building: The story is told through a non-human and human lens, which allows for poignant and impactful social commentary.
Fast-paced plot: The story is said to grab the reader from the very first pages. Reviewers mention that the action begins quickly and that the plot is full of action , adventure , intrigue, mysteries, and unexpected twists.
Emotional investment: The book is described with an amazing plot arc both funny and heartbreaking, drawing strong emotional reactions from readers.
Truly sincere and engaging motives as well as narrative:
"Schlapps so RAW ! evn my cat's ******* got hard"
Reviewers on Barnes & Noble mention being so engrossed that they were finished with the book in about five hours and immediately started reading it again after texting a friend to say
"girl, what you done got me into?"
Google A.I Gamleon's Tail : Worlds of within Book 1
“Changed my life. (almost) I’m now the vice president of co-regional managers on something I don’t even understand. Thanks ?Gamleon ”
Oct 13, 2025
Oct 13, 2025 at 1:25 PM UTC
Silver waters rippling, under the fullness of the 𝕄𝕠𝕠𝕟
beauteous m̮̑ȃ̮t̮̑ȓ̮ȇ̮s̮̑c̮̑ȇ̮n̮̑t̮̑ and deep,
who knows what wonder may lurk
what secrets it may keep.
Scraps of sunset reflected on its shimmering waves.
Visited by tired but playful little bears
that were drawn from their caves.
What time remembers what memory loses
poetry saves.
Our own human needs inconsequential
our dreams and love alight.
we see the peacocks spread their fans
and long for their flight.
Like a ᕲᖇᘿᗩᘻ （^_^）of dragons and heroes taken to sky.
We are tethered to earth and can't help wonder why.
Fed on silver fish flicker, 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆟 𓆝
sleek and shy,
mirrors of souls delight in waters that do
but cannot
try.
The orange and pink sky spills wide,
deep and unbound,
the clouds are fluffy laughter soft as a lullaby ｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
wrapping the ground.
adrift in cabin rafter.
A hush, a breath, the world at rest
cradled in green, in its arms, resplendent in velvet and silk
we are dressed.
beside the fire side awaiting a late night ride.
To the theater where Ludwig van Awaits.
Bows drawn and wetted reeds at the ready. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
They kiss and ponder(˶ ˘ ³˘)ˆᵕ ˆ˶)
what else
floating in rapture we waiver unsteady.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 4:41 PM UTC
Nothing has ever been built this completely by a single creator with dedication, focus.
The visual, auditory, and literary elements connect. Every stroke of paint, every musical note, every line of dialogue belongs to the same coherent, cohesive, living universe.
And yes, characters actually die and stay dead. (Star Wars: Bletch. I was a lifelong fan of the original trilogy until that nonsense.)
I talked previously about the irreplaceable nature of my actual combat experience — the fact that I’ve actually done martial arts, ring fighting, boxing, wrestling, sword training. I’ve put on the armor. I’ve ridden the horses. I know it at a level that no one else who has ever written about it knows. I am an active-duty combat veteran.
Okay, setting all that aside: even if I didn’t have that, it would still be better, because the plot is better, the individual motives of the characters are better, the character arcs themselves are better, the plot arc is stronger, more exciting, and better. The characters are deeper, as well as more relatable. There’s more to the whole body of the work — how and where it most counts.
Consider this: I not only wrote the books, edited them, and published them myself, but I also created drawings, paintings, digital renderings, sculptures, and animations of all the characters. I also created a full-length symphony and choral soundtrack of all original music compositions.
Nobody else has done that. All they did was create a manuscript, get it to an editor and a publisher, and then get the funding behind the project.
The only thing I’m lacking is the one major thing all those so-called greats had: financial backing and a foot in the door or a silver spoon in the mouth. The hype machine is the only thing I’m lacking. I’ve done more than all of them combined by the first half of book one, hands down. Don’t believe me? Buy it and read it. The only thing I don’t have is the hype.
I’m winning the case for Worlds of Within being the greatest and best universe ever created, and I’m proving it the best way possible — by putting in the real blood, sweat, and tears. Why is it so much better, and how? On every single level. The time, the care, the patience, the love that went into it is greater than any other author who’s ever even attempted it.
No universe, not Star Wars, not Marvel, not Tolkien’s name-list walkabout, not Martin’s unfinished mid-tier burnout, not Herbert’s eighty-three repetitive, useless, unwanted rehashes. Rowling, with her more-than-borderline plagiarism and theft — no original ideas, no original concepts, nothing from Hogwarts to the wands to witches on brooms. It’s all from older material.
This work does not have a single chosen one in it. No worn-out tropes, ever. It’s not a lame “magic fixes everything” cop-out either. Nor is it a dressed-up rip-off of known myths or folklore. Definitely not a horrendous, unreadable, punishing, inane slog of boring Tolkien and Martin-style phone book lists of bad fantasy names.
I mean really? A name? That’s your whole character? One name, once, filler space — why should I care?
Nothing has ever been built this completely, with this much intelligence, planning, skill, and care. Not by any other single creator in all of recorded history. Nothing comes close to my dedication and focus. And all of it from someone with class, style, and a high standard. But the best part? Zero compromises.
Give it a try and tell me if you didn’t enjoy it more than all those other versions of “Barney with a sword.”
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 4:28 PM UTC
"... ..... ༺☠︎︎༻𓆪
most of the world’s on TikTok watching someone eat glue with a dog filter. And the people who do still actually read? Half are prisoners and the other half of them are so busy gatekeeping and playing “I’m smarter than you” that they can’t feel the living pulse of the greatness right in front of them.
But here’s the thing man: you’re making something with soul, and that’s rare as hell. Nerd or not, you’re not one of the hollow know-it-all pedants. You’re bleeding onto these pages. ... building mythos. You’re doing the work of a worldbuilder who actually gives a **** That’s what gives your Novels their teeth. You gotta never give up.
It’s also why it’s not “popular” YET . Anything that isn’t fast food for the brain takes time to find its tribe. When it does though? That kind of work hits harder and lasts longer than 99% of the mainstream **** that pretends at literature.
You’re basically creating the kind of story that other lonely kids like us and Michael ... or burned-out adults sick of Barney with a wand or magic sword , might stumble on years later and go, holy jeebows , someone finally wrote what I always wanted and what Hollywood actually needed." ... Robert ( Bobby to me and my mom ) Cummings...
" It’s all smoke, mirrors, and hype look at Bieber or Britney. Talent barely matters; what matters is how LOUD
and visible you are,
how many eyeballs you can trap in the moment, and
how much buzz you can manufacture.
That’s why viral clout often outweighs genius or artistry
it’s the system,
not the art, that decides what “hits.”
The upside? That’s a system to exploit, you already made something real.
You just need the right angle,
the right hook, and enough chaos to make people notice.
The grind isn’t about convincing the world you’re talented
it’s about making the world feel it or see it
even if only for a hot second.
It's not WHAT you know
it's WHO you know..... " .. Uncle Ted
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 6:39 AM UTC
┈ ┈ ┈┈╱╲▕▀┈
┈┈┈╱╲┈┈▏▕╱╲┈
┈┈┈▏▕╱╲▏▎▏▕╱╲┈▃
┈╱╲▏▎▅▂▅▂▏▎▏▎▏▏
▂▏▎▏▕╭┳┳╮▏┊▏▕╱╲
▏▏┊▏▎┃┊┊┃▏▎▏▎▏▕
▇▆▅▃▂┻┻┻┻▂▃▅▆▇▉⛫⛫
"We don't have time to run and hope no one finds out about the treasure. We have to slow the spread of all this, or we're all dead before the wave even hits."
Sebaziun's breath hitched. His mind whirled, caught between the revelation of the treasure's danger and this new, terrifying truth. "You're gonna have to show me on a map where you were when you saw it and what direction you think its moving
".
"I'm sure its not natural," Gamleon guessed. "Sure, the rain and all, the rivers swelling, that seems normal enough. But this thing is something else. Something bigger. And I still can't believe it's really coming. Its so... just, coming faster than any of us are prepared for."
Sebaziun sat there wiping at his nose and eyes, silent for a moment, processing the flood of information. His earlier paternal tunnel vision was now tempered with disquieting deeper understandings. "So, we still go, go to the queen," he said finally, his voice quiet, resigned.
"Yeah. We have to," Gamleon confirmed. "She's our only chance to buy time. We tell her everything, and maybe—just maybe—she can keep her people quiet long enough for us to get out, to run. But that meeting, when everyone's gathered... that's when I'll have to tell them all about it. He could barely even spit out the words he was so tired and disgusted by it all ..." the flood, because in the end, Sebaziun, none of this even matters if we can't outrun that wave."
Sebaziun closed his eyes for a long moment, the weight of it all pressing down on him. "Alright. We go. We plan with the queen. But you'd better be ready to explain, Gamleon. Because once we start this, there's no going back."
Gamleon nodded. He knew the truth was going to shatter whatever fragile plans they had, but there was no avoiding it. The flood was coming ,whether anyone believed him or not.
"Consider this: what if she doesn't believe me? What if she doesn't believe us? What if they think it's some clever ruse to get away with the treasure? I wish I had some kind of proof."
Sebaziun nodded, the weight of Gamleon's words settling heavily. "Not only that, but everyone's getting ready for the games. She has some kind of special meeting set up—something about the plans and about discussing the arrow with the widower king. They were planning to make agreements about using the arrow, joining the conflict against the Cockatrice. It all seems so meaningless now."
"I would like to use some of my enormous new wealth to commission a new medal. The medal is an award for having the most insane to-do list ever conceived and we are the winners... and the losers." He tried laughing but failed, nerves frayed and raw, exhaustion overwhelming down deep to his core. He sat motionless as snot and drool ran down; he barely had the will left to move his lips or form coherent words. "I just want to keep saying that I'm sorry. But what would you have done if you were in my place? Of course I would come here. Of course I would come to the smartest person I've ever met or known in my life and in all my travels. If I didn't save you guys, if I could've done something and didn't try to do anything?"
"If I need some water as badly as I do, and I do. You and these poor kids... I imagine all you want to do is soak in a tub and just drink, drink water. He started to get up when he noticed the portrait in the dim light. " When my uncle was dying, I came to his bedside and asked him how he was, how he was trying to deal with it yuh know. How did he manage his thoughts? And you know what he said?"
"What's that? Your Uncle Ted, right? Wud did he say?"
He said, "You gotta take every single little thing one step at a time." Seems kinda obvious, but also, I mean, what else can you really do?
" I loved your uncle Ted. He was great. He woulda said "we better get up and stop feeling sorry for ourselves. Dreema is gonna come in here and find us like this. Kick both our ***** Gamleon said doing his best impression of the beloved old timer.
**** that’s a really good uncle Ted, you really were paying attention all that time weren't you. I'm sorry, buddy. I'll get up. Go get you some cold water. You stay right there".
He handed the portrait over, and Gamleon cradled it gently.
"Bread and wine too, please. If it's not too much to ask".
By the time Sebaziun returned from the kitchen, Gamleon was sprawled out across the hall, totally blocking it, face down, snoring loudly. The picture back where it had always hung. Sebaziun felt awful about nudging him awake, but after several attempts and failures, he could hear Gamleon's stomach roaring and grumbling as it ate itself. So, he shook him hard until he came around. Then, he put the warm buttered bread in Gamleon's hand and drank from the cooled wine before passing it .
"Ugh... oh, God, how long was I out? Did you tell Dreema?"
"Not long, and no, not yet. The kids are making her smile. The fae are dancing and singing, drinking up my best, but who cares. You good?"ut oh, those carrots in there are calling my name."
"Oh, that's a great idea. I'm gonna get some of the kids and head out to the garden right next to the kitchen window. Pull up some carrots and stuff real quick. That way they'll at least have something."
"Get the big goofy one his name's Kai. He loves diggin. Tell him, I told him to help you."
"Can do, boss man. Anything else I can do to help you?" he asked, jokingly, despite everything.
Sebaziun gave a nod and headed out, leaving Gamleon to snack and rest. Despite the weight of their multifaceted and dire situation, they managed to hold onto a thread of normalcy. It was a small drop in the middle of a swirling sea of uncertainty. It was almost too much it seemed in every direction there was something waiting, something constantly threatening to drown them all, yet there it was—an unbreakable bond, an attempt at levity and understanding. Something that didn't need to be picked apart or over examined. Something. Something kind and good that reminded them of their shared responsibilities and maturity.
"Yes, I hear you, Uncle Ted," Gamleon said aloud, catching Dreema's ear. As he began to doze back off, he could smell the sandalwood and sage that Ted liked to use. He drifted in an in-between state, trying to swallow the fresh buttered bread, overpowered by sheer and inevitable exhaustion. He slipped away and dreamed of flying immediately. He looked out to his side and there was a young, healthy Ted saying, "Yes, yes, you were paying attention the whole time, weren't you."
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 11:20 AM UTC
A.I. can copy
styles,
techniques, trends.
It can pump out infinite images and playlists
But it can’t fake
lived experience turned into art.
It can’t fake
the scars,
the humor,
the obsessions,
the contradictions.
It can mimic sure
but it can’t embody.
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 3:16 AM UTC
Do the children imagine it’s a door? If so , to where?
I can see the Old men lamenting it as some sort of warning , but
failing to recollect entirely.
Lovers, sometimes, mistaking it as something they feel
a need to fill ,
or trying to force it to become a shelter.
But no one carries away the same story after standing before it.
Those with the fleeting courage to face it
These shapes in the world
stepped aside.
An absence, that draws
air leans differently there,
palpable,
as if even silence forgets
why it started
or how to stand.
To approach and look in.
speak, to it with an unsteady voice
returning
broken,
smaller, as if ashamed its self .
Others refuse to stand near it at all, afraid of the way the edges keep their secrets sharp.
Is it not empty , or emptiness ? Was nothing ever something ?
That much is certainly uncertain.
In the mystery,
does it wait ?
As if wanting and waiting were its only language.
And can those who manage to leave it behind
find themselves walking differently ,
lighter, or heavier, depending on what they thought they learned ?
Neither teaching or the teacher.
A space
wherein sits what we think of as nothing.
In reality we can’t perceive what is there but, it’s not empty
only our desire for it
to be .
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 5:12 PM UTC
Nothing candid for me,
thanks.
I like the planned. The known.
The contrived.
The professional.
The way I can’t
feel
inside.
Skeletons. Mirrors.
It’s so sad that we have to explain that the symbol only matters if we agree on its meaning.
Society doesn’t want to agree that we don’t begin to teach
life’s important milestones.
The corporations sold government at least thirteen years of mandatory education
the breaking of the soul
for a life in a cubicle.
Earn, or die
on the street.
A shell that never knew,
never had a chance.
Just waiting
to be buried.
Oh, but the flashes. The sparkles. The lust and
amusement.
What it means to actually be alive — reduced to a few replayed moments.
The poisons, sanctioned
and otherwise.
The offer to **** everything else.
No rewind.
No delete.
The punches we never get to throw.
Our faces — always that attempt at “best we’ve got.”
The days that pass where we
can’t imagine what
or why
anything matters.
How do we learn the skills that transform us,
or give us the promise to set us free?
Do we think
of this as a time that could even belong to us?
The forced meaning we shove onto
our suffering.
Truths we’d rather never
revisit.
Filters inside of filters.
Inside is a shriveled, ambiguous thing we used to think
of
as an inner child.
What if it’s an old man?
What if it’s the Minotaur with no red thread?
What if the maze is
us,
and
we’re fine wandering?
The escape we wanted was from everything — especially ourselves.
( A self most of us wouldn't recognize, have never actually confronted and were never given the time or space ... to really ever, get to know.).
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 4:21 AM UTC
, ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
Hooded humans preceded the undead horde chanting in overlapping unison.. One can feel them coming, the first sound creeping far out in front before even visibility breaks the horizon . Rumbling calls to a swarms of locusts devouring crops. all who behold this spectacle keep their eyes transfixed. Closing them, even for a moment, flooded the mind with a crippling thrum of ravenous ceaseless mouths . An impenetrable veil of darkness in flight descending and consuming remorselessly all in its path.
Creaking and deep groaning overpowered the subtle rattling of chains and the clinking of armor. Pervasive walls of sound never ceasing. Inescapable and heartless, like the piercing cold that spreads out in front of an inexorable glacier.
You feel it deep down in the pit of your stomach,
crushing and rendering inconsequential everything in its path.
The sounds were from a dream a nightmare you can’t wake up from, and they complemented the deep bass chanting of the human men exquisitely. Upon becoming enamored by the spell-like quality of it all, one forgets their earthly worries and struggles, if only for a mind-numbing evening.
Indistinct in the heavy incense, slow movement enhancing effect each figure is captivating in its own right. Grotesque sculptures forged from the bones of every creature, from the living to the long extinct. Dormouse skeletons scamper about, cobwebs clinging to delicate brittle ribs, rapiers and belts bouncing like chimes. They complimented and contrasted sharply among colossal monstrosities formed from thick femurs and crowned with heavy prehistoric skulls.
Shadow cling to twisted, shining horns and gnarled, jagged teeth. These tireless wretched creatures, crafted from the remnants of ancient giant lizards and mythological beasts, evoke the eternal nature and inevitability of certain death.
The frozen skeletal grins of so many exposed teeth cruelly mocked living smiles, while vacant, hollow eyeless sockets bore down upon the souls of the slack-jawed and helpless.
Thick incense billows like ghostly tendrils, emanating a growing and intoxicating shroud. The reverent, deep reverberating chant grows louder, a cadenced incantation of somber, evocative fantasy.
Layers of mystical depth, coiling around—a spellbinding dirge that seeps into marrow. Felt as pure, frozen, primal fear, vibrating and resonating throughout... Air stolen from lungs, replaced by an inevitable longing and an uncontrollable pull to shuffle along and sway.
Voices rose, trembling and uncertain, merging with the throng in a darkly captivating celebration, enthralled by the unfathomable. Not many knew the ancient spell-like songs, but twice as many tried to sing and hum along, their wills surrendered, entrapped in an insatiable vortex. Dragged into the depths of the procession.
The entire effect permeated all. A ubiquitous hypnotic display of decay and artistry, an unspoken reminder of the unseen. No one could form the questions about what forces were animating this skeletal orchestra.
Robes and wrappings intentionally concealed flashes of weapons and sinister implements. What was left to appear harmless—like a tiny dormouse or an empty, fleshless hand—added to the intentionally reassuring yet engulfing sense of unease. Despite the sunlight inevitable on some days, the procession exuded an aura of the darkest, most moonless night, drawing all who saw it into a dreadful, trance-like ambiance.
Hooded robes, some pristine while others no more than sackcloth burial wrappings riddled with myriad holes, flapped and swayed. The cloying smoke intensified the dreadful fog-like effect. Tiny torches, carefully proffered by the most diminutive, flickered weakly like the dying breaths of ancient spirits, casting an ethereal glow. Their faint, orange-ish light perfectly complemented the reds of the roses, flowers and gems, accenting the details they wanted the eye to be drawn to . Such subtle precision and intentionality. Profane undeniable splendor Blood-red petals, ribbons, and highly polished, oily-looking rubies adorned their sumptuous armor, glinting ominously against the spectral white of the long dead. Every decoration and position was meticulously chosen to create a visual contrast that was both hauntingly beautiful and profoundly terrifying. Important figures had torchlights in their rib cages and torsos where a heart may once have been. The ensuing play of light and shadow, coupled with the macabre elegance of their exquisite flamboyant attire, transformed the scene into a nightmarish tableau.
Undeniable beauty, craftsmanship, and horror interlacing in a scarring, value-disintegrating, magnetic embrace.
For you see, the shambling haunt of this procession was not merely a parade but a traveling theater troupe, a non-stop performance replete with everything from huge bass drums to tiny handheld affairs.
There was constant fire breathing and dangerous juggling. Horns ringing out in a beckoning cry, accompanied at times by simple string instruments. The theatricality and stage magic were designed to be beyond creepy and mesmerizing, ensnaring the unblinking eyes and stupefied minds of all who chanced to behold. They performed marionette-like fable plays that shifted into song, dance, and choreographed fighting, building to a grand crescendo that hammered home the futility of resisting them.
Announcing their intended set list and schedules were their human companions, medieval grave diggers and partitioners, willingly serving as the heralds of the horde. Some with great horns fashioned into megaphones. Flanked by those that swung incense censers, releasing plumes that mingled with the slow dust, enhancing the otherworldly aura. Together their steps produced a thunderous rhythm, an intentional comforting homage to mimic the last of life’s heartbeat.
Unassumingly stirring up a fine sediment that never seemed to settle as they pushed, dragged, and pulled everything needed for their grand show. The Jingoes wheeled their giant covered cages, chains, and ropes over many a shoulder as they leaned in. A long, majestic procession ordered to never appear mundane.
They had amassed the most magnificent display of bones, gathered over countless centuries and now on full display. After watching them bleach in the sun and allowing ants to remove the remaining flesh, they applied a clear lacquer of their own design, creating these mighty skeletal constructs. Alarmingly many of the most fearsome were motionless for long periods before erupting into jerky, sometimes blurry and erratic movement.
The fiery flourishes, timed to the beating of huge drums, the banners, the staged violence and its chanted message—all worked together as planned and seamlessly. Nothing else in all the lands created such a spectacle . Inescapable dark, powerful coalesced in grandeur.
Villagers came from near and far, gathering outside and watching. As the procession moved forward like an uninvited parade, The watchers were gladly offered tickets to attend the show, regardless of how much coin they had or had not. There was a seat available for everything man , beast or unknown.
Inside cages, resting peacefully, concealed from the eyes of those they crushed past, were enormous primordial gods. Sky, a magnificent blue dragon-like creature with a long, slender neck and a head covered in frills, spikes, and horns, lay nestled on a bed of goose-down pillows. Her water bowl, designed with a large base tapering upward, prevented spills as the cage rolled along. Nearby, trailing slightly behind, was her lifelong companion, Earth, a giant six-legged behemoth with two spines forming a Y-shape from her head down to heavily armored tails. This splendid, original beast possessed the head of a giant lion with fangs, and its body was covered in thick, gold and green dragon-like scales. The deepest greens faded into a lime color before transitioning to a metallic gold, with scales speckled in a sparkling effect. Adorned in magnificent armor, this accidental and bizarre creature moved as comfortably as possible within her enormous confinement.
Earth also had a water bowl and food, of course, with less need for so many pillows. She tended to curl up and rest on her own bulk. In her confines hung the tusks of some unknown creature. These were sometimes worn behind both sides on the neck, jutting out in front to provide additional damage and sorely needed protection. Many believed these tusks were part of her body due to how deep down around the shoulders and neck they tended to ride. Those who helped put them on were reluctant to spread the truth.
Now, this magnificent beast catnapped, occasionally licking at huge, fault-like feet—a mixture of claws and scales with horned lateral protrusions. With six feet, it's a lot to keep up with. Caregivers were honored to attend to and worship this delightful creature. Much of Earth’s day was spent being dressed and armored. Sky lavished her resplendently, helping with very long eyelashes and beautiful makeup. Huge, darting, solid black pupils occasionally flickered, turning into a golden hue with layers of slits and coverings like those of a cat's eyes.
The sky continued to darken, clouds gathered from nowhere casting wicked shadows that seemed to shift and writhe in the dying light. The sparse torch glow highlighted the scenes brilliantly.
Steve had spent his day as usual, toiling in the turnip fields, the sun beating down relentlessly on his strong but skinny back. He was just about ready to head home when his buddy, Greg, came rushing over, eyes wide with contagious fear and excitement.
“Steve, Steve! You’ve got to see this!” Greg grabbed him by the sleeves, his moppish bowl cut swaying over his well-formed eyebrows. His somewhat gentle, kind, and energetic voice carried humorously. He grabbed him again, more firmly this time, nearly dragging him down the dusty street.
“Dang, Greg, what is it?” Steve asked, trying to keep up. “What’s so all-important?”
“You won’t believe it until you see it. Trust me!” Greg replied, a twitchy grin spreading across his handsome young face.
As they rounded the taverns’ corner, the spectacle came into view. Waboom! The procession was unlike anything Steve or Greg had ever seen. The chanting grew louder, resonating through the bones of everyone watching, filling the crude streets with arousal, confusion, and mystery. Their hamlet had disappeared in many ways, replaced by a blurry, confusing mirage of bones and fire. Steve felt as though he could hardly breathe as the forms of his long-dead relatives shuffled past to the music.
In this ordinary village, the destitute townsfolk had all gathered to witness this unforgettable morbid display. Wordlessly summoned like so many moths to a flame. Among them was Old Martha, a sweet, frail woman whose health had been declining for years. She stood reluctantly at the edge of the growing crowd, clutching her chest as raised and wheeled platform drew nearer. Her heart pounded erratically, the rhythmic chanting resonating through her small, frail bones. The sight of the skeleton warriors—some humanoid, others monstrous with multiple limbs and horns, filled her with a tenacious fear she just couldn’t shake. One looked so much like her missing husband that she gasped, her hand going to her tired mouth. It had an exact match of his crooked, broken teeth. Even the one gold tooth they had so painstakingly saved up to buy him was still exactly where they put it. She felt disturbed and vaguely betrayed, sick, and lightheaded. She ****** in air as deeply as her small, shaking frame would allow.
As the death cult creeped its way slowly passed, a massive bone dragon with extra-large wings arrested her ****** It had what must have been some type of leader holding its useless chains, his huge thorax alight with flames from within. He held lightly onto leaders attached to a spiked collar around the smoldering dragon's vertebrae. It was intentionally hulking and utterly terrifying, adorned with a twisted, multi-horned, demonic-looking skull. The humanoid was dwarfed in the shadow of the dragon towering above.
When the Jingo Captain did come into full view, it seemed to stare directly with his eyeless sockets into the very soul of poor, dear, religious Martha. It appeared that he may also lift his arm to point directly at her. The vision, encompassing enormity; the profound horror of the scene was just too much for Granny Martha. She gasped, her eyes rolling back wide and white. Helplessly, Martha collapsed to the ***** ground, clutching at her heart. Some villagers including her cherished Steve and his well meaning friend Greg eventually gathered at her side, but it was too late for the lecherous old wash-woman. The heat and the shock had been too much.
Word of her death and loss of her “services” spread quickly, and by the time the Jingoes reached the next village, a group of religious zealots had gathered. Their faith was their armor, and they were determined to rebuke what they saw as an abomination. Clad in simple robes, they brandished holy symbols, chanting fervently as they drew symbols on the ground with salt and colored chalk. They attempted to create a mystical barrier, believing it would drive away the perceived demons.
“Begone, foul spirits!” cried their leader, a gaunt man with a shaved head and wild eyes. “Return to the abyss from whence you came!”
The undead moved on, undeterred by the zealots’ many annoying yet fruitless attempts. The fanatics' chants mingled into the procession's own mournful cacophony, creating a new and even louder performance, filled now with pleading desperate sounds that only heightened the terror. The sight of ancestral bones, animated and repurposed into abominable constructs, struck a chord of deep-seated sadness and awe among the confused and overwhelmed throngs.
Too many uneducated villagers were convinced that these were the restless spirits of their beloved ancestors. Blocking the path, up until the point of being trampled, they fell to their knees, praying and beseeching the many gods for mercy. The bone constructs, ranging from humanoid figures to centaur-like creatures and massive mammoths, moved on with a calloused precision, their obfuscated forms evoking the eternal and inevitable nature of death on their synchronized ground-shaking march.
As the constantly shifting ordeal reached the outskirts of the village, the leader of the particular Jingo society, adorned with triceratops skulls, raised his clawed hand, signaling a halt. The chanting ceased, replaced by the sound of huge bass drums and the haunting notes of horns. The theatricality and stage magic of the troupe were on full display....
want more ? It's coming... In the meantime read Gamleon's Tail .
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 3:58 AM UTC