Eye of Shiva

To shackle a (burning) tiger ...

Normal burning tiger

To be continued

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Dreams of the damned …or Damned dreams?

…the sound of breaking waves was almost drowning out Bandit’s happy barking, Gordon ran up the dunes as Bandit danced around him, jumping up soiling Gordon’s trousers with his dirty paws … Gordon!! A stern voice suddenly cutting through the sound of the waves, Yo – Mind you clothes! You clot!! his stepbrothers disapproving gaze, the burning sensation on his cheek as a reminder to respect the authority given of his seniority by 4 years over Gordons 10 years of age … the easy sunny afternoon suddenly seeming dark and cold as Gordons gaze flared with suppressed hatred as he looked up …then boved his head … Thomas’s laughter filling his ears …

…All was dark, Gordon lifted his head … he was in a room, the sound of waves … no, not waves … the sound ..the noice of crowd .. came from ahead … through the balconies of the room …- big empty room, …gilded .. with a massive throne in the middle … something lying upon it .. the symbols of power; the apple the scepter and a sword .. Gordon knew ..think he remembered what the scepter was .. but the apple he had never really been able to figure that out …- the sound of the crowd sounding expectant, as if waiting for something …someone … – moving forward Gordon realized he couldn’t move freely, something tugging on him … suddenly realizing he as in a thin web of golden chains, barbs and wires … flimsy but with sharp hooks and razers .. digging into his uniform, his beautiful blood red offers coat … – what sort of prison is this? What sort of dream …The Witch!!? Gordon loving stroked his sleeve contemplating – then steeled his jaw and pushed ahead with one quick jump … his uniform tearing to threads leaving him stumbling forward naked save for his briefs – striding forward picking up the sword, holding it aloft with a satisfied grin, then turning to the throne and its emblens of office and power … What game is this Witch??? Stuffing the sword in his belt … I make MY OWN path!! – Gordon gripped the armrests of the towering throne .. with bulging triceps hefting it above his head and with a powerful throw sent it hurling – crashing through the balcony doors …

Suddenly the light flickered … Gordon looked up from the candle … What ..where? .. He was back in the tent …the Witch was gone!!

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In Fond Memory

Pzo9009 rakshasa
Of Mr. Shahruhk Rajaprajna, Who Died For Empire

“False as thou art, and more than false, forsworn, Not sprung from noble blood, nor goddess born, But hewn from harden’d entrails of a rock! And rough Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck!”

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New posibilities

This is wonderful.

I see the world in a new light, see the emotions of people, see all the little strings that can be pulled.
Gordon – so beautiful you can be when you act without thinking, if I didn’t think you would chop off my head I would tell you about the gift you have been given. I am tempted to use my newfound gifts on all those around me – but no – I sense this is a gift shared in moderation.
Last night we met a creature of darkness and dreams, it had stolen our Prince so we went to retrieve him. The creature – or spirit if you will – a Rakshasha, was ordered by someone else to interfere with the plans of the Camarilla i Bombay.
Gordon acted in a manner true to his nature and soon enough we found ourselves in battle with a headless giant wielding chains and a flaming tiger. We got thrashed a bit until Gordon started beating one creature with the other and that was the end of that. Well Isabel got the last strike in on the giant – if I am ever to fight her I better make sure she doesn’t see me coming.
There are strange things happening in this city, if only I could see a pattern. I wish I could hear Thomas but he seem to have wanishished from my mind, I almost wish he was here…

Oh well. Off to sleep- Good Day everyone.

Finally a breach in her defenses – I … almost … have … … CONTROL

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Foreshadowing shadowplay

Meanwhile… somewhere in India

The inner sanctum, the most holy of holy shrines within a vast subcontinent hallowed to millions of deities and demons alike was quiet as the grave that could never hold the being meditating within it.
A faint hint of incense and sandalwood clung to the heavy, turgid air, nearly drowned out completely by the rich, coppery scent of freshly spilled blood that coated the pure pink marble of the altar upon which countless symbols, tokens and figurines where scattered in a maddeningly chaotic order.

Before the altar, the small, humble figure of the sanctum’s sole inhabitant sat in motionless meditation, eyes so filled with terrible Abyssal darkness that even the light of the sun would drown in them sooner than burn them out focused intently on the impossible complex array of playing pieces arranged across the blood-stained altar.
With all the speed of a glacial drift the tiny, wizened man moved a single frail finger to touch a perfectly carved tiger-headed figurine of the purest ivory, sending the priceless piece tumbling to the ground with but the most careless flick of his nail.

For the briefest of moments the muffled “clink” as the fallen figurine hit the floor was all the sound that dare breach the sanctity of this the holiest of blasphemous lairs, but soon after, void-black eyes still locked on the new positions and possibilities that had now revealed themselves across the board, the terrifying, soul-freezing laughter of the Devil Brahmin rang out across the sanctum…

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On dogs & Politics

Insolent dog – Gordon’s lip curled up in a sneer as he regarded this cowardly dog of an Afghan staking a claim to Bombay – pompous bastard, ever since their cowardly sack of the British train of supplies and camp followers following the humiliating retreat from Kabul the afghans had been insufferable, cadle or kindred alike, the dirty dogs should learn their place …_So, I see the Afghans once again seek a fight with women rather than men!_ …insufferable, perhaps I should stake my own claim? Certainly Doctor Marmaduke seems to believe I as British officer should step in to fill the vacancy …Gordon was thoughtful for a moment, before his thoughts once again returned to the present confrontation with Abdul Khan… Not sure what to do good Sir? Yes I know its complicated when faced with men rather than frostbitten civilians, perhaps if you go back to your mountain pass you will be lucky and come upon some!? …

… and so if you should choose to accept the mantle of Prince, it shall be my honor to serve as your sheriff putting my meager abilities at your service to keep the peace and uphold the independence and safety of the Sikh as well as the British affairs … – Yes, better to have a local as Prince, let the locals squabble over Bombay …as Britain …and I …pick up the pieces … and India …quite a piece … – Even as Gordon bowed to show his respect to Singh the new prince of Bombay, a smile crept up the inside of his mouth …threatening to break free in a grin … yes, not a bad plan at all …

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Wish You Were Here

Perfect medium2Bound to your service by Internal Chymestry,
“a small unleavened, undefiled Cake”

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To Those who uphold The Convention of Thorns:

You might want to keep an eye out for Assamites trying to kill you.

On a slightly more cheery note, we have finally managed to get something done, mostly due to Mistress Thomas. The locals seem given to amusing themselves by means of Camarilla Princes, & thus saw fit to invite us, to what passes for their Elysium, so as to elect a new one. I & my curse-born Childe, Senorita Isabel Inmaculada de Heredio(whom, to your, one is sure, ineffable relief, managed to arrive safely at the shores of this land of idolatrous murdererous depravity) showed up just in time to observe Mistress Thomas lob her extensive knife collection at a Mr. Abdullah Can, apparently of the Tuna tribe, illustrating to the natives that we, too, know how to amuse ourselves.
Ones own amusement, at least, was slightly dampened by the disclosure that Mr. Cans Tunas were what we would call the “Assamites”. After blustering a bit, he took off, clandestinely escorted by Mistress Thomas. Though not universally in agreement with her solution to “lifes” little problems, to wit, stabbing them with her extensive knife collection, in the case of mortally offended Assamites, one is willing to make exceptions; & even went so far as to ask my shameborn Childe to assist her therein.
The rest of the court session went swimmingly-one chatted with some interesting people, including a Miss Capreocorpus, who seemed not uneducated, though given to Swedenborgian rantings & the inviting of likely Gentlemen into her “Inner Sanctum”; as well as he who Captain Ashe gracefully allowed the title of new Prince of Bombay, His Royal Highness Naam Singh. So far, the new Prince has given one no reason for complaint: he has a fine, firm hand-or should one say, paw?-shake, looks one straight in the eye (a most useful habit, that), valerously declares himself Camarilla, & even bears an uncanny physical resemblance to our heraldic lion.
Mistress Thomas & my poor childe, on the other hand, or paw as the case may be, were found outside, after the coronation was well over, in a state of insensibillty. That it was not, Thank Providence, that of Final Death, should tell sufficently what account they gave of themselves to the Assassin Clan; Can, nevertheless, is still at large, & even more exitable. Hence my initial piece of advice. whilst on the subject, do Assamites traditionally transform themselves into giant cobra snakes when on a Cleopatran rampage? Captain Ash had to fend such a creature off, a few nights before the election-we might be able to use that as an excuse, combined with the right sort of “bakeesh”, of course. One has made approaches to the local Nosferatu leader, or “leper-king”, who, though of a self-effacing manner, has enough discreet integrity to publicly proclaim himself Camarilla. As a physician, one has never shared in the vulgar errors as to this, medically so fascinating, Clan; & have been given to understand that they have some experience in Assamite handleling.
More, so far at any rate, than my otherwise so martially able Childe, or even Mistress Thomas-who, as it happens, claims to act upon a Voice within her head-one who, also, claims a High Place in our Invisible Pyramid.
Fancy that.

Bound to your service by Internal Chymestry,
“a small unleavened, undefiled Cake”

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Fighting Withdrawel

….FIRE !! Second rank to the fore …Ready-Aim-FIRE!! …First rank to the fore … – time suddenly slowed to a crawl as the mob of roaring savages surging forward suddenly turned into a chaotic sea of men falling and stumbling as a hail of bullets fell the those foremost and those behind stampeded over them …many falling themselves to be trampled by those behind …. – Second rank to the front …Ready-Aim-FIRE!! The shots echoed across the open space, vision obscured by gunsmoke …the teeming mass of men driven on by anger, rage and now also the terror of mutilation and death …being driven against the English line as those behind pressed them forward …driving them upon the waiting bayonets…bulging …then breaking the English line …as troopers found their rifles torn from their grasp then struggling to avoid being knocked over, trambled, torn limp from limp by the mob as it surged forward ….

RETREAT …Fire-And-Pull Back In Steps!! Gordon waved the men … His Men …back … A soldier reloading his rifle next to him fell to the ground, his head smashed in by a heavy tile dropped from a rooftop – Up on the roofs locals – men and women alike …had taken to pry off the roof tiles, 3-4 stories up, dropping them down paltering the English as Gordon was trying to lead his men back to safety at the garrison …

Conduction a fighting withdrawal, several times at risk of being cut off as crowds surged from some side alley … Gordon commanded his men forward while leading one counter charge after another – cutting men down left and right … Coming up to the big market square where Gordon had detached a squad of Sepoys, Gordon was first happy to spot them … then noticed the body of an cannoneer lying on the ground next to his Grasshopper light cannon …with several nearby civilian savages waltzing around in looted red uniform jackets …. A broken salve of shots suddenly rang out from the Sepoys …bullets hitting the building behind Gordon …a man going down screaming, his knee smashed …a smack to the side of his face …his head knocked violently to the side as the bullet glanced off … – Gordon waved his men forward … Pointing towards the exit on the opposite end of the square behind the sepoys – where another mob carrying all sorts of improvised weapons was starting to form …We Cut Through!! Advance at the Run!!

Sepoy sergeant
Gordon charged ahead, his men close on his heels …screams in a multitude of accents and shots rising up as the two groups collided. Gordon cut his path towards the Sepoys and the fallen cannoneer … A mixed group of civilians armed with various tools and one guy carrying a flaming torch ….put themselves between Gordon and his destination. …A slash, a stab, a quick punch into a body leaving it a soft broken mush , left Gordon facing the man with the torch … baring teeth .. hissing …trying to fight down the primal panic welling up within him at the sight of the flames being swung at his head … Gordon easily dodged the feeble swing, taking the mans arm off at the elbow with a counterstroke …catching the now severed wrist, with the torch still held in the hand, before it hit the ground … Smiling an evil smile at the Sepoys charging towards him, as he picked up the Grasshopper aiming it from his hip as if it was a scattergun …

Red fort
Covered in gore, his uniform scorched and torn … Gordon saw his men charge out of the square towards the safety of the garrison at the Red Keep … – having witnessed what was left of his men make it to relative safety, Gordon turned his attention back to the man stabbing him in the stomach with a big dull knife … the man’s eyes and mouth still open in shocked disbelief at the lack of apparent effect … as his head tumbled to the ground …and a hearty laugh escaped Gordons lips…

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Thinning the red line

Dear Diary

I fought my first battle this night, and it was the most wonderful experience !
Who did I fight you ask? Why the brave soldiers of her Majesty the Queens army, all dressed up and ready to kill the Indian. As an Irish lass I love the sight of a soldierboy in red and white – especially with a knife in the heart.

So through the streets I went, I got separated from the Prince but he gave me a precious gift – a knife of purest silver that, eventhough I threw at at many a foe, always found its way back to my belt. Alas with the rising sun it turned to mist and is now lost, perhaps forevermore.

The brave people of Bombay, fought like tigers,rushing the british lines and getting killed by the score. I on the other hand climbed and snuck behind them and killed them one by one – only once did I miscalculate and took a shot to the chest. Fortunately with all the blood spilled there was more than enough sustenance.

At some point during the fighting I Thomas’ voice, which I had succesfuly shut out during the fight, started giving me advice ! And good advice it was. He told me to kill their leaders – to go to their fort and cut the head of the snake.

And so I did.

When the soldiers returned to their camp, I had prepared a present for them: the head of their commander on a plate, a gentle reminder to the tyrants of a far away island that they are not welcome here, or anywhere else they set out to conquer in the name of Queen and country.

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