gundbhall.

He could barely walk with his arms covering his eyes into the dreadful snowstorm. It was common to have such storms at this time of the year in Olthos-Namos, but even for his Nordic eyes; shelter was nonetheless needed.

He was from the nearby town Shih originally, but after the devastating thunderstorm striking the city about six nìen ago, he had to move to south. Shihian survivors were so convinced that the thunderstorm was the wrath of the Gods. Besides, these disasters were so common in the recent years that the people of Olthoborhen were desperate. They simply did not know what to do, because their prayers to Lyca'nae did not really work. Apparently, that was the wrong address. In any case they did not know who to ask forgiveness for. Thus, they could not.

His ice-blue eyes were wetted from the strong storm. When he eventually saw his ice-home, he sighed softly. Bryn, home, he thought.

He was one of the common fishermen living just south of Olthos-Namos, and just like the majority of the locals, he lived in a wooden-ice hut. As he walked through the treshhold, he dropped his backpack. He closed the door.

He looked inside his dark house, as if looking for something. "The colors," he thought, "are like the shades of black today." It indeed was. The sky was a flawless dark gray, and the shades inside his hut were even darker tones. It all was like a black and white dream, merging into gray in the most desperate moment if it.

The only sound heard was the snowstorm's mourning, and the crunkling wooden material of the house. He sighed, and lid one of the almost-burnt out candles on his small table. He sat on one of the chairs slowly. His mind was busy - a lot.

He spent the rest of the day thinking about vagueness. He knew he had to think, but he had no idea what to think about. Eventually, he found himself meddling in unknown, being suffocated by guilt, overwhelmed with almost everything surrounding him. Blinking, even, was a burden now. He had this hardly avoidable urge to rush back out. "If only," he said aloud. "If only I had another way to contact her."

He heard a thunder. It was like the wake-up signal for him. He realized how abstract he had become, how isolated he was from the reality. He was afraid, as well as amused by where the state of thinking brought him. It was nonetheless another world, and now he was back home again.

He realized that the candle was burnt, and the sky was undisputably dark now. There were no stars above, Mastras was not visible either. A subtle red was in a perfect harmony with the darkness, and he found himself thinking again; as if his sleep was disrupted for a couple of minutes.

He woke up in the morning with the blinding red light of Xyor just above the horizon. He first opened one eye, then opened the other - he was, however, too exhausted to stand up from the chair he fell asleep on. "A bright day," was the first thing that ran through his mind. "I realize now."

He helped himself to stand up slowly, and headed towards the outside door. He stepped on the flawless plains of snow. Delicate. Pure. White. Amazing.

He lifted his head up to the sky.

"Seems like you haven't had the best evening, brother," spoke a familiar voice. He looked at the direction where he thought the voice came from, and he saw Iunor.

"Hello," he said. "Indeed, it was mentally tiring."

"You are not wasting away on those iceweeds again, are you?" Iunor smirked.

"No, no," he said. "They ruined me the last time. I was merely thinking."

"Of what?" Iunor asked, as he approached more to him.

"Of everything," he said, then stopped with a weak smile. "And nothing, I suppose."

"Regret, I sense in your tone," Iunor said. "Tell me, brother."

"I was as gray as the sky above yesterday, as windy, chaotic," he could say. "This morning, with the rising Star, I have hope again. I wish to go back to her."

Iunor looked at him with blank eyes for a couple of seconds, then he smiled. However, he did not speak.

"Hope should be longer than a day for you," Iunor said. "It may rise up with Xyor. But it should not disappear with it. We find lessons of life within pain and suffering. We let people suffer for their own sake. How sincere can it be, tell me, if we do not let ourselves suffer for the greater lessons?"

"It can not be sincere at all," he said.

"I will not ask of your sins, or your crimes," Iunor said. "Your face tells me. Your soul reflects on these snow plains. You regret it. Regret brings pain, my friend. Pain means experience to the wise. You are wise, thus experienced now. Gods witness, you will not be the same again. You will not regret what you have regretted before, you will not commit the same crimes once more. Go. She will not turn you down."

"My heart lies within hers," he spoke. "My feet takes me back to her every morning. Sorrow fills me everytime I walk away from her. My love turns into selfishness - I wish not to share her with anyone else. I wish her to be mine, and mine only."

"She is, indeed, yours and yours only," Iunor said. "How much you feel it, how much you reflect it to her will determine it and give her strength. She will let herself have you. She will be yours fully, when you honestly believe that she is yours. Then you shall see how your fears will fade away. How your insecurities will drown in her."

"I shall," he said. "Leave then. To meet her again."

"You shall indeed," Iunor said. "Godspeed, Giun."

And Giun left his hut, on a bright, crystal clear morning; to meet her, the Sea, the infinity; to be one with her again, to get lost within her waves.

Noone has seen him in Olthoborhen after that morning.

how gods live.

"Iara Enàa, the Motherland. The Goddess of Nature. Actually, the Nature herself. Created by the passion of the Fire. Unleashed what is known as Love from the fiery heart of Lyca'nae Verd. Sprankled her seeds all around the world. Created fornication.

She is a bitch, pretty much."

- Annor Welraen, Scholar, 72 ABTP.

I admire my parents. They were always pious people, committed to the Temple.

Eventhough the Kingdom is at war with Siblion Valley to avenge our dead King Elruud Teleane, Rolinbragh isn't much different from what it used to be. We are sure to hear some war cries behind the Heights of Lyca'nus, but we are living our usual, everyday lives. My father carries on praying at the Temple every end-day of the week and attended to seasonal ceremonies at the end of every nìen. I remember the first day I attended to those prayers with him, but that I will speak about later.

My father was a fylla. He was from the depths of forests of Midland Ossax, a village closeby to N'ya City. When he moved to N'ya to learn politics and diplomacy, he was relatively young. He worked in N'ya for many years, then they relocated him to Queendom of Wundh. He was then moved to Giuio to the Frozen North. Eventually he was relocated to Dwese, where he met my mother.

As you can presume, my mother is an eila. She is originally from Guern-Vent, she was born there when the Island was an independent realm. With the War emerged there, she moved to Kith'lath. With the civil war emerged there some years later, she fled to Dwese; where she eventually settled and lived for some years.

My mother could not study; either in a Khia or in an Academy. She never had the environment and the chance, for her youth was never stable; she had to move elsewhere forcefully all the time until the time she settled in Dwese.

When my parents met, Ulban Teleane was planning to start the reconstruction of burnt-down Rolinbragh. Good times, I presume.

Long story short, they met and fell inlove; lived in Dwese for about thirty years until my father was eventually relocated to the newly built Rolinbragh as the N'yaian Ambassador. Then, I was born.

My father always worshipped Gosto He'uch like the rest of the N'yaian Society, when my mother was a Lyca'naen. It is not a heritage though, for her Guern-Ventese parents were Dol'sharoc worshippers. I didn't know she was converted. N'yaian prayer customs and Lyca'naen customs are pretty much alike, so they only visited the Temple on end-days of the weeks. They had seperate altars for all the recognized beliefs in the Kingdom, my father always took Gosto He'uch's, when my mother was praying at the biggest altar at the Temple. My father was content, cold-blooded and scheduled as every other fylla; but I have watched my mom somehow get older and older everyday in front of that altar. She was in pain, just like a sinner. She was begging for mercy in her motions. She grew gray hair in one-two years, at the age of fourty three. She lost a lot of weight.

Eventually, she died of despair. My father showed no signs of sorrow at her day of death. He looked like he was expecting it, and he sort of had this expression resembling "something I expected just happened" satisfaction. He just carried on praying. My mother was, just like every Lyca'naen, cremated.

When I was thiry-six, at her death anniversary, I visited my mother's shrine at the Rolinbrag'hyxnar, the big City Graveyard. My father never visited the shrine, and I never questioned him. But at that day, I have seen him there. Crying, in front of her shrine, speaking in fyllian. That was the first time I have seen my father cry - pretty much the first time I have seen any fylla cry, actually. I slowly walked closer, and as he was weeping, I touched his shoulder. He was over one hundred and fifty years old, but he still looked younger than me.

"I have seen the Gods," he said. "I have seen them. I have seen how they have forced your mother to fade away."

I have to admit, that sentence did not make any sense to me. I was confused.

"What, how?" I could say. Then he told me the true story about my mother.

She was one of the few tribal worshippers of both Iara Enàa and Marvyll Dengraid in Ollgaer Plains, Soutern Wundh. One day, one of her sisters sinned in the eyes of Marvyll Dengraid, Wundhian Goddess; for she fell in love with a Wundhian man. Wundh was and still is a very strict and despotic Matriarchy, and they only see men as sex objects who they can fornicate. The entire aim is to enjoy sex and give birth to strong, healthy Wundhian women. Then, most of the time, the fornicated men is slain and cremated. Anyway, let me tell you the story now.

My mother's sister, after one of the countless fornications she have had with a prostitute in their town, left the Graen'dolas (the Public House in Wundhian dialect) to go back home. It was, according to what my mother had heard from her sister, a cloudy night. As she walked, she felt heavier, somehow happier. She realized that she somehow was focusing on that guy she just had sex with, and the more she focused; the more she was happy. This was an entirely new feeling for her, and just like every new feeling felt for the first time, it makes one uneasy. That is how she felt, too. It somehow resembled falling in love with a woman - but hell no, why feel the same things for a man? It didn't make sense. She had to stop, because she realized her heart was beating like mad. She sat on some bench.

"This is Love to a male, my child," said a soft, incredibly soothing voice. Then she saw a blinding green light in front of her.

"Who or what are you?" my aunt could ask, grabbing her small axe.

"You cannot harm me, Schael," she said. "I am here to guide you. I am here to explain you what you feel. What you feel is Love, you are just aware of it. You are in love with a man."

"It is a sin, witch," said my aunt. "We Wundhian do not fall in Love with petty males, and slay the ones who do so."

"Ignore it all you want, may you realize the beauty of your feelings soon. You are now-"

"CURSED!" yelled another woman, unlike the first voice, it was tough and furious. "Iara Enàa, my Mother, stop poisoning my brethren! Take your Love and leave this realm!"

With the witnessing of Marvyll Dengraid herself, my aunt was immediately convicted of falling in love with a male and executed shortly. With this low reputation, my mother's family could not stay there much longer and left Ollgaer.

With the death of her one and only sister, my mother started questioning the ways of Wundhian Matriarchy. After a while, she realized that falling in love with males did not seem any more absurd that falling in love with females. She even made a valid connection between sex and love in her mind, for sex required an attraction in any case. She always found the male body attractive, but she never thought she could actually think of 'liking' it. It was a tool. A fun, pleasant tool. That's all.

As she grew older in Arthea, a coastal city in southwestern Wundh; she wrote articles about love and sex. She tried to publish them, but she never revealed her name for she knew she would be immediately slain if she did so. She managed to publish them somehow, with a fake name, and her theories of love roamed the streets of Arthea. She was known by the name Maryv Aarhus.

One night, Marvyll Dengraid appeared to her in her dream.

"Infidel," the Goddess spoke. "Infidel, you shall pay for it!"

She woke up from her nightmare, she immediately left Arthea and took the first boat to Guern-Vent. She was literally attempting to run away from a Goddess. She somehow made it. She lived in Guern-Vent, she managed to survive there. Everything I told after that was true. Kith'lath, Dwese, my father, Rolinbragh... Somehow apparently, her curse followed her all those years into Rolinbragh, when she eventually started praying. Lyca'nae Verd was furious at her for abandoning and running away from her true Goddess, no matter how untrue Marvyll Dengraid's ways seemed to my mother.

Then I have realized that my mother was trying so hard to convince the Gods to forgive her. Just because she opposed to an idea, and just because she wanted to be able to justify how love should exist.

Lyca'nae Verd is known as the most merciless God. Eventhough he thought my mother was right in idea, just because she opposed to a God she was created for, he punished her for life. My mother died trying.

I am at the age of 100 now, and that is a remarkable age for a half-fylla. Being half-Wundhian and half-fyllian, I possess a perfect physical strength, especially for the other women I see around. I have seen many things, many men in the past - no matter how you forge your self in idea, being of Wundhian blood forces you to have sex emotionlessly and you automatically avoid falling in love somehow. Yet, I have fallen in love with a man. Weaker, thinner and shorter than I am. That little man is the reason why I am not a Wundhian woman anymore.

I am Gaon Rea.. and I am never going to go to pray again.

a man and the sea.

He used to have a family, they say. Before the War.

Most people, like me, survived the War with most of our loved ones; since the invaders did not intend to wipe us out. It was just to make a path inland to reach the major cities. It was easy for us to hide, since noone was looking for us. Most of the people thought all the citizens around the first landing, Gulf of Caliptiche, was wiped out; but most possibly the least casualty was there.

He, however, was among the unlucky. Noone knows what or who he used to be. I will tell you what he is, right now.

He lives by the cliffs of northeastern of the Bay, northern Beijon. He has a small hut, a torn windmill and a barn. I doubt he has any animals. His house looks like abandoned for the people who glance at it for the first time, but I know he lives there.

I watched him. I watch him all the time since the War. He did not live there before; one day, he appeared. He, despite the fact that he practically lives in a rabble, looks charming and neat. He is apparently a hunter: he sharpens his double-axe, he checks his bow and fetches his arrows, he tidies his clothes, he always shaves - every morning. He walks proud and straight. He poses a strong gesture. He looks invincible.

Although I was distant, I could see one thing: he never had any expressions on his face. He was neither happy, nor sad. He was happier when he returned home with a prey. I might add, he was lucky, too. He always returned home with a worthy prey. He was either very lucky, or very talented. Or maybe both.

Every night, he locks his door and lights the candle at his living room. The northern cliffs of Beijon are always windy; especially the edges can easily take you down all the way to the Northern Channel. With a spooky, chilling mourn; wind blows. Sometimes it rains, too; but do not underestimate it, it rains good. Seastorms occur, fishermen flee back to their safe homes, to their wives' warm bodies.

He, on the other hand, never gazed at the sea once. One man living at the edge of the sea and somehow not talking to her. Irony.

Every windy night at the edges of Beijon cliffs, I heard a mourn. First, I thought it was merely the wind, but I was wrong. It was a voice. A crying, male voice. Every windy night, he cried; mourned in a language none of us ever understood.

We always thought it was him, but whenever we visited his home next morning to check and observe him, he was as neat and self-esteemed as always. It can't be, we thought. That hunter may never have cried. I mean, look at him, fellows!

I am writing those on another windy, stormy and rainy evening in Beijon, and the winds of the North bring us the mourns again. A male voice, my brethren; a male, crying every night. It is as loud and sorrowful as the wind itself.

It may be the spirits of the dead from the War.

It may be the wind.

It may be him.

the bottle from french duty-free.

Jameson. A whiskey I have never tasted before. Irish, presumably malt, supposedly one of the best whiskeys around. Untasted before.

A whiskey-wine freak like me should've tasted it long before, thanks to Turkey and her lack of alcohol variety, I apparently missed it. No worries. Ol' Jamie wasn't the only thing I missed to taste before that was abroad.

In fact, how I tasted it, it made the taste double-awesome.

When Raven flew down from the skies of a dark Solia into the barrens of Northern Wultan, had she the whiskey at her talons.

Pristine it was, just like the very carrier.

First sip taken in Rolinbragh, when she took her break. Ravens, too, have body aches; they take painkillers as well.

The difference is that, they take painkillers with whiskey.

Then she flew for another 5-6 hours, oh the joy, she was so bored! She found me during my stay in Akaramedia, I was collecting tomes for my library to take back home. Then opened her talons, dropping the whiskey to my hands. She hooted once, it was sweet. She even let me touch her, she apparently liked it.

I drank that whiskey, the bottle/box you see above, in different times for the last 1,5 month.

Oh, did I mention it already? I live at a lighthouse in a town called Dwese; coincidentally I called it the Ravenwind, for it is always windy; even at the hottest day of summer. I watch the gulf, the skies; I observe the stars. Some call me the Stargazer. I travel a lot, for I enjoy seeing new realms.

It was noon when the Raven flew through my balcony, that was the second time I saw her. She looked for the bottle she gave it to me. She didn't make any sounds, she hooted once - I saluted her.

She lingered around me, flying in circles. We had a pleasant time together. She watched over me, I protected her. I, every now and then, sipped that whiskey. I swear, if I had more of it, I could fly; just like her, stretching my black wings.

One day, she hooted again. This was different than all others; it was sorrowful, unwilling. I could not understand why. She, then, left one day.

Then I realized, next to the empty bottle of Jameson, she left a dark, shiny feather of hers; promising me that she will come back again.

I, Stargazer; will be waiting. At the windy top of Ravenwind, for that dark angel to come again, take away my loneliness, fill me with joy with her dark feathers, lift me up and show me how it feels to be in the skies I longed to be in for all my life.

I will be waiting.

june.

June, I don't like this month. Not at all. Summer starts with it, and comes along all the other side effects of the hottest season of the year - I hate it. I mean, look at it now; all sticky, hot, suffocating. Depressive, in a different way.

That is, of course, unless you have some other reason to cope with it - or to ignore it. I had, this year.

It has been three months since I have reunited with Urnyras Jael, which, as we have spoken about it; feels both more and less than three months now. I have seen her one single day in April, waited for two months and saw her again on a hot (literally) night in May, at AŞTİ; the bus terminal in Turkish capital, Ankara. After a sighing hug, we took a cab and went back home.

I had finals about the time she arrived in Ankara, and thus she had to cope with some solitude at a point - I was studying, and at the times I wasn't, I was at school. It always felt refreshing and relieving to knock the door and see her smiling at me. Selfish as it may sound, but definitely supportive when it is your senior spring final term, ergo graduation finals. As she told me later on anyway, it wasn't as boring as I thought it would be for her, so no harm done.

I have completed my finals, and we started going out to Bestekâr Street, where I have spent my entire university life; and some other nearby places. It was mostly to hang out, we almost all the time had my close friends about. She met some of my closest friends and fortunately liked them. Well - that is important to me as it should be important to almost anyone, because if friends and relationship don't go well together, it is a bitch for the guy in between.

She had lived in Ankara for four years until 2006 and somehow came back there for various reasons after that; it is a city that she is, in any case, familiar with. Around the last days we've spent in Ankara, we had some sort of a crisis, some lack of enthusiasm even to move, and extreme boredom. With a fast presumption that this may have been caused by the city and/or the house we are in (because it is not the best decorated house *ahem*), we decided to move to Değirmendere, Kocaeli; my home town. At first she was rather anxious about going there (because my parents live there, eh) but eventually she agreed; still anxious however.

She left for her father's place for a week in İstanbul, when I left for Değirmendere; and she came to Değirmendere eventually on June 17th. If you put aside the lack of (ultimate) privacy, it was one of the best two weeks I've ever had. Not that we've had so much fun (objectively), but we were together, able to see and touch each other, and we had a nice balcony where wind always blew in. That was more than enough for me, and she seemed okay as well. We had these walks on the coast, took like three hundred photos; drank the cheapest wine we could find (5 Turkish Liras = 2,5 Euros) at the coast, then the other day drank a huge bottle of Jack Daniel's at the schoolyard, many other stuff. I do not know how it will sound, but even watching that stupid Canadian comedy show on Kanal D, watching Cribs or the Osbournes or the True Life on MTV, laughing at Justin Bieber and going "Baby, baby, baby uuu" or singing "Immabe" along with Black Eyed Peas was fun and remarkable for me, and it will be remembered even many years later.

We, of course, had arguments too. That time we spent together from May 23rd also brought the opportunity of inquiring our past bilaterally and digging into it, somehow finding unpleasantries for both of us. I am a person who had learned to surpress the disturbation I might have from the past occurings, but my fear was what if they somehow prolong themselves to the present day. That still is my fear, looking at some of the people she is surrounded with. Because that, by all means, is my limit.

There are things I will never understand about her, her life and her social relations with other people, and she has things that she will never understand about me, presumably because of the lives we've had up to that point. No wonder we have to live with them, at least up to that point where we can't take it anymore. None of them are beyond my tolerance, so we're all cool.

We have almost no common features, not even the music we listen to, we can easily start arguing about the flight companies at a cab, no problem. But we, at least, have a common meaning for the word "commitment", and we both know what consequences it may bring if acted otherwise. As lame as it may sound, we are both in love. We both believe in each other, we both trust each other. The rest, is just a proof of how colorful and strong our relationship is, and will be.

Then July came. You know, it is there to make what June brings even worse. It, indeed, made it more sticky, hot and unbearable; and I got into studio with my band for three days to record a 5-song demo we call "Flashlights Beneath the Dust" in İstanbul. She was there all along, other than the times she left to see her parents in Taksim. She was there with me, in the day, in the night, almost to the last moment of the last three days I've had in İstanbul.

At the second day of recordings, we took the boat from Karaköy to Kadıköy. Such a nice breeze we had up on the deck, she lied on my lap. That is one of the moments I will never forget.

1,5 months is not much. Not much for two people loving each other, even if they spend the entire time together 24/7. That is what happened for us, and I have re-met the person I dated four years ago as a 17 year-old teenager. I have seen her cry, I have seen her happy, I have seen her pissed (although I am sure I could see her much more pissed), I have seen her jealous, I have seen her bored, I have seen her enthusiastic, I have seen her almost in every natural emotion a person may have, as much as a person might see in 1,5 month. I could somehow predict her in several aspects, now I have seen how unpredictable she can be, alongside with that.

In any case, I know her better, she knows me better now. That's what I call a "relationship boost", for it is definitely not the amount of information you would trade in a month and a half. We knew each other more every day, after every night spent, and with that, our love only accelerated. So did the trust.

She is probably at the Atatürk Airport in Yeşilköy, İstanbul now; waiting for her flight for Paris. Most possibly bored already, and thinking about how bored she will get during the flight. I am sure she will get her iPod and listen to Lady Gaga's Alejandro, and I am sure she will read that blog entry sometime close and laugh while reading that paragraph.

Long story short, it was a perfect 1,5 month, at least for me.

When I look back, there is only one single motto I have in mind:

"More and more everyday."