As we we commence our journey together. I thought it would be beneficial to explain to my readers the difference between robotica automatons and mechanika or steam jacks. Robots offer ease of repair and programming. But they require electricity and Advanced Metals they can be much smaller than either of the other two. Automations run entirely on Clockwork. Most robots are a combination of automations and true robotica. Mechanika is different. Mechanikal devices or steam jacks as I will call them for the rest of the article. Are unique. They run on Arcane energy. Usually drawn in some form from alchemical concoctions. Or from the direct expenditure of energy. Their power sources can be far smaller then even robotica. And generally do not require recharging. Or fueling. For decades at a time. But their bodies must be considerably larger to store the multiple systems which must function in tandem to keep a steam Jack running. Steam Jack’s have the steam in their name because that is how they generate power the source of magical Energy Fuels the fire in the fire boils water into steam. After that they run like most steam plants with the addition of energy Harvesters connected to an alchemical recharge system. The unique energy source can use the power many other functions. It is common for these devices to incorporate complex magical energy and artifice into their workings. They are not however considered otherwise Clockwork. The ability of magic interact with life and the existence of living metals enables us to create file systems and integrate them with these steam Jacks enabling them to support complex thinking patterns. And to regenerate themselves. And to build musculature like a human or beast. mechankia is primarily alchemical in design therefore. The use of it to create steam jacks enables us to accomplish Feats not achievable with normal technology. Such as hybridized human Androids. Or learning railways.
there was, a beautiful son in one barbarian city, in a time before things became proper, his fire was strong, and his red hair showed this to all who saw him, and the strength of the fire meant that none could tame him, though many tried, all failed. the city could not contain there son, so he left them, and sought out the witches of the farther north. he sought to learn there craft and thus tame his own fire, but the witches wished HIM tame, And so they did not come to rest in all the time he was in that place.
Once there was a hill, it was high and tall, and touched the lightning and thunder in the storms, and it was green and growing and the goats grazed there. On the top of this hill was a great rock, and at eh bottom was a village.
On season, a great storm struck the hill, and broke the rock asunder, in to many parts, leaving nothing but dust.
And the villagers turn up to the rock and asked each other, “where is the rock now?’
The man who grazed his goats on the hill said “it I must be in the grass, because the grass held it up, and this is where the stone is now”
The woman who taught the children of the storms said “it is with the wind, for the wind destroyed it”
The old man said “it is in the sky for the sky makes the wind”
And a young girl said “it is in the earth because the grass grows in the earth”
And the man who grazed his goats said “it is in the sky for the water grows the grass”
And the woman who taught the children of the storms said “it is in the earth, for the earth guides the wind
and then the old man said “It is in the stone, for the stone is in the center”
A mountain stood for a score of scores of scores of seasons. one day a young boy ventured to its foot, he looked up at it, and swore that he would become like that mountain.
when his parents herd what he had promised , they laughed,
“the mountain is a score of scores of scores, you are not yet two score seasons in your life, you will never be like the mountain”
so the boy was dejected, and for a time he forgot the mountain, but the mountain did not forget him. Every year on the night he had sworn to be like the mountain, he dreamed of the mountain, and of himself, becoming like it.
this went on until the boy was an old old man, he grew wizened, and frail, and he could no longer draw his bow. one day the son of his son came to him, in tears
“why do you weep?” the old man asked
and the boy replied, “I weep because i am not like the mountain”
and the man replied to the boy
“do you know the sound of wind over grass?”
and the boy said “yes”
“do you know the feeling of a rock in your shoes?”
and the boy said “yes”
then the old man said
“do you know the taste of the wind in your throat?”
and the boy said “yes”
then the old man said
“if you know all this, and nothing more you are a mountain, but if you know the time to lie down, the mountain, is you, for then you are more than a mountain”
There was once an old woman, her family was all gone, and she was no student of any home, so she was cared for by the village
one day this woman died, and the choice came of whom would own her home, the first to speak was the smith.
“I mended her pots, and made her hinges, so what was hers should be mine”
then spoke the shepherd,
“I gave her wool to make her clothes, and milk for her to drink, so what was hers should be mine”
then the baker spoke
“i gave her bread to eat, and coal for her stove, so what was hers should be mine”
then the wind spoke
“i gave the forge its fire, and made the grass grow under the sheep, and raised the grain for the bread, so what was hers is mine”
and then the wind, swept her home away, though it had stood strong, leaving nothing for any other.
what is unknown dose no harm
what is known to one harms
one harms only one
secrets harm us
lies more so
you can be both assertive and submissive,
the sub respects by obedience and HONESTY
the dom respects by listening and ENFORCEING
if you don’t tell your dom how you feel about something, you are not submitting.
don’t write the spirt of the salt of the soul of my aunts ass
just say fucking phosphorus. keep the art accessible you meat heads
waiting is like a bad taste in your mouth
waiting is like a cold wind on a cold day against a cold sweat
waiting is like a cherry pit stuck in your throat
waiting is like a hole in your hand that no one will agree exists
waiting is like a shirt with the word thistle written on the front glimpsed for a half second
waiting is like waking up from a dream you cant remember but wished you cold
waiting is like an unheard final farewell
Flight is a thing I’ve never dreamed
Far too futile it’s ever seemed,
The loft of heaven lifts me not
Joys of the land I’ve not forgot
I stand on floors and sandy shores
Staring out to things untoward
The knives will fill my dreams
Kinesthetic memories wake as I walk
I judge the distance to a heart,
Or consider murderous trains of thought
And even if I cease to talk
Or my finger gives a sudden start
I try to forget what I’ve fought