FlamessonHammersmith

Wordsmith

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Those Who Hate 3- The Gravediggers by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those Who Hate 3- The Gravediggers

"I still don't understand why you speak perfect Flame Tounge and sound like frog someone dropped into a latrine when speaking anything else." The blonde had found out the giant's speech impediment bothered him. She'd been picking at it for the entire trip and didn't seem likely to drop it any time soon. "Yez put a dent in m'skull I kin poke a knuckle int'ae. Yez break half m'damn face n'shatter m'jaw. M'lucky I didnae bite m'tongue off n'swallow it given whit m'mouth looks like..." The giant snapped his maw full of filed, needle teeth to punctuate the point, making the mass of razors click. "An les get sommat else strait. Yez not the

Those who Hate 2- The Survivors by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Hate 2- The Survivors

The smith had been hanging upside down for almost an hour. This wasn't too bad. After being on his back for the better part of a week the change of view was welcome. The blonde had been feeding him water and soup through a cloth, keeping him tied down while she waited to see if the wound to his head, or the crack in his jaw, would start to fester. When it had become apparent that he wasn't going to suffer from blood poisoning she'd started trying to get him to talk. First with threats. Now upside down with a hot poker waving in front of his remaining eye. "Would be a pain in the ass to lead you around blind." The smith's blood coloure

Those who Hate 1- The Lion and The Hunter by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Hate 1- The Lion and The Hunter

"Wake up sunshine." Words shouldn't feel like someone was putting a knife in your skull. "I said wake up. You're worth less dead but that doesn't mean I won't just chop your damn fool head off just out of spite. You owe me. You owe me everything you've still got." Might be better if they took the head, whoever they are. Everything hurts. Everything above the neck. Can't feel anything below that. That's probably not a good thing in the long term. "Nnnnngh...." Right now it's a blessing. Can't talk. Nose is clogged with blood clots. Jaw's broken. One eye's swollen shut. Can't feel the left side of my face at all. Only hearing who

Those who Doubt 3- The One Left Behind by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Doubt 3- The One Left Behind

I don't like writing letters home. I know the book is instant and quick but I'm not going to be using the book for much longer. It's served it's purpose, it's almost full, which means I'm going to need another one if you want your updates on the madness outside the Merrhutz borders. More importantly: I'm done handing you updates on that Oath Circle I joined. There's only one of them left. I did what you asked in the Spring. I didn't' find out what happened until Winter. He was looking at the other graves as I got there. I think he'd been carrying Lihta's ashes around for most of the year because by the time I got there there was a fres

Those who Doubt 2- The Oathbreakers by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Doubt 2- The Oathbreakers

It was spring again. Time keeps circling no matter how much one might regret that certainty. It's been a few months since the graveyard and the announcement. There's been a lot of paths walked. A lot of talking done. A lot of rumors chased. What mattered was that they lead to Hammersmith. The satyr's perch on a stump offered a view of the winding plains road that his ruby-splinter eyes couldn't pass up. There was someone else behind him. Clad in little more than cloth wraps and the tattered remains of a mendicant monk's robe. A someone with one shattered horn and red stained hands. "Wiz 'spectin t'ae find yez further down. Closer

Those who Doubt 1- The Ghoul and the Ghost by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Doubt 1- The Ghoul and the Ghost

Watching a grave is never easy. We don't really have a choice though. The fates have decreed this is our point of view. Our place in this tale. We can't do much more than sit and wait. There's a candle on a carved plinth. There's a name that's not a name on it. A name we already know: Flamesson Henkersbeil. There's the remains of his corpse scavenged helmet, the burnt and shattered hole in a breastplate, the shattered remains of a weapon. Memories that rust will eat. Remnants that time will consume. Just watch though. It was getting cold when the three left here. Snow stalks into the cleared field and the solitary monument's vigi

Those who Worship 3- The Mourners by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Worship 3- The Mourners

"Yez think Henk care much what we do?" The growling mix of tar and pitch that was Hammersmith's voice echoed out of a hole that was yet half dug. Between every word a grunt and a shovelfull of earth arced out of the ground and into a pile. "Not proper to leave a body in a forest for the wolves." Lihta had sprawled herself out on the opposite side of the earth pile, in a throne of dust and dirt, humming to herself between words. "Could of been us. Will be us eventually." "What she means is it's better to put him in the ground and know where we left him than wonder what might of happened. Gives us a place to remember him as well." Minn

Those who Worship 2- The Fanatic and the Pilgrims by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Worship 2- The Fanatic and the Pilgrims

Soldiers on the move are dusty. Miles of marching soldiers and supply wagons churn roads and fields to dust and soldiers wade through the clouds. Even in the rain that fine grit from weeks spent in the field clings and hides in clasps, hair, creases in the skin. It forms a surreal mask of earthen warpaint on the face of a marching soldier. A paint that mixes with blood, sweat, sky and smoke to shade their face and hide their eyes from the heavens above. It's a fingerprint plastered on the face of everyone in the line. Look long enough and you could account for every soldier just from the war's mark on their face. Look harder though. Yo

Those who Worship 1 - The Devil and the Priest by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

Those who Worship 1 - The Devil and the Priest

Another fire. Another time. Another dark. "Yez tell me padre. Why gods? Seem awful temperamental to put faith in. Better off with a sword in hand than praying sommat dies. So yez tell me: Why bother" Another face. Someone other than the War Dog. Hunched over the fire, sucking on a pipe. Sharing it with the giant satyr between words. "Respect." Sharing a certain numbness of spirit, tongue, and morals. "Dun follow." The stranger's small. Slight. Compact and nothing but edges and joints and sharp lines. "Maybe you don't, but I guess what matters is that I do, eh? It's what clergy do. Follow after. So maybe you're more intere

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The Terrible Tale of One Eyed Jack 2 by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

The Terrible Tale of One Eyed Jack 2

But just because it's gone doesn't mean the world here stops. Keep listening and you'll hear something else under the silence. It's skittering through the grass at a frantic pace. It's a panicked stampede through heavy stalks, it's a pair of things tramping through the stalks and the fibrous scrub of the clearing full tilt trying to outrun whatever's after them. "Póg mo thóin y'wee hairball!" It seems one of the things that's running has a mouth on it. The abuse, however, does not stop whatever's chasing it. The chorus of trampled grass continues, burrowing a line through the standing stems. Perhaps it's this insistence that causes th

The Terrible Tale of One Eyed Jack. Chapter 1 by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

The Terrible Tale of One Eyed Jack. Chapter 1

Look at the forest here. It's a nice forest. Green. Lush. Close to a major road which leads to a major city but still far enough off that the locals can't get to it without, at least, a little effort. The city isn't important. The road isn't important. The Forest is important because of what's sitting on it's edge, at the end of a winding path that leads up a hill. It's what's on top of that hill that's important. There are some buildings that weigh in the world as a ball bearing does in a sheet of rubber. Their presence is noted by how they distort the landscape. The feeling of space and the mass of the act of being push them deep d

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The Autumn people (Prelude) by FlamessonHammersmith, literature

Literature

The Autumn people (Prelude)

What the hell do you say in a letter like this? No. Really. There's no way to do this sincerely. So I'm going to just ask you to calm that rancorous choir in your head, just for a moment, and listen. Because this needs you listening but it doesn't need the ravenous maggots of your insecurity gnawing at your attention while you read this. What it needs is a clean, quiet, sincere attempt to understand because it's a lot of feeling trying to squeeze itself into a very little space and that's not going to happen if you come into this with a head half-full already. Alright. Done with the mom-talking-to-a-child-bullshit. It's time to treat

The Autumn people (Prelude)

FlamessonHammersmith

About FlamessonHammersmith

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United States
Deviant for 11 years

Badges

I Heart DeviantArt Gear: Proud supporter of deviantGEAR

My Bio

I'm a grim bloody fable with an unhappy bloody end.

Favourite Visual Artist

Anything Sandman, Miyzaki/Ghibili, Sin City Miller

Favourite Movies

Dredd, Bond Flicks, otherwise Eclectic

Favourite TV Shows

No.

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Cake, Gorrillaz, NiN, Swing, Jazz, Industrial, Near anything

Favourite Books

Dark Tower Series, LoTR series, Known Space

Favourite Writers

Niven, Asimov, King,

Favourite Games

Too many to count

Favourite Gaming Platform

PC, Nintendo Platforms

Tools of the Trade

Keyboard, coffee, fury

Other Interests

Stunt Kites, Photography

Posts

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FlamessonHammersmith

May 7, 2014

Seeking Collaborations.

0 min read

Let's get something strait: I'm not a visual artist. I can think in a palette of the absurd, obscene, and the fantastic. However putting that to picture is not a thing I can do.  All I have is words.  It's a hell of a collection of words but they're words none the less. And I like pictures.  I like art.  I like being involved in it and it's an oft frustrating thing to have a wealth of verbal description and no visual vent for it. These chapters I'm turning out right now arn't the best I can do.  They're warm ups.   Rust-breakers.  Wheel turners.  Axel greasers.  Old stories I'd never crystallized.   Some of them take a while to turn into