The debut of Die King's Band launched on Arpril 2013 with Elijah King and Tompeet Friedecksen as bass and drummers, respectively.
In the vein of ZUB HUM ANZ, NIRVANA, und The BUZZCOCKS, with a lemon twist of Elijah's former band, Drop In, and Tompeet's experience as a skool of wock teacher, the duo, gratefully, added Kevin "The Butcher Take Us to Space" X, the band wocked und wolled outside in the steady mountain, unsteady as owlways.
"Long live Die Kings", said the twees.
EK from E-2 Mountain HQds.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
+The Knights of the Band of Peace or (Why Apes Have Hair)
by Elijah King
The old story of the Fwrmads, that mystery to man, is one unto you I shall unfold indeed. The Gods spake und I and my kin answered the calling to the Great Fwrmad, Geezer. I Awyan, a Knight of the Band of Peace, an ancient Aegytian order entrusted by the Gods to tale the ancient battle of twenty-five mellenium bepast and the Nine Signs that were built in honor of the Etlants, the Twolls, the Alfar, the Gwiants, the Wizards, the Men, the Trogs, the Valkr, and the Sen that is behest of this oltime. And the secret for which they died to keep alive. Owlways.
I come from the nomadic tribe of Isuls, an integrated band of Oldmen from Midgard and Alfan from Isengard. We lived in the land of Aesir, after the war of my mother’s people and their ancestrial Etlans. But that is another story. My father, Isahl, was Isa, a short breed, strong as beasts, mighty hunters and wizards. My mother’s people, the Van, were said to be descendent of Alfan, with their king, Freyr, who in turn were children of the Etlants, said to come from a Isengard-Western sanctuary, not Azgard, and had powerful magic. Together, while the wars in Azgard and Midgard, between the hordes of Trogs and Newmen rose in fury, our two peoples, following the joining of Isahl and Kyerta, became one, the Senmen, the Isol.
The joining of my parents’ two bloods was good. The Isa knew many secrets of the old ways of the world, plants, and beasts, were better adapted to hunt the massive beasts they fed upon in the cold regions of Icey Midgard, and were patient and kind and doting to the Van, as if the Isa’s very survival depended upon the success of the Van. The Van were agile, tall, fast warriors, artistic, ritualistic, and youthfully ambitious to fulfill their forefathers predictions. I was the first of this union, tall, strong and possessing both people’s magic. I have persevered through this short life to share the story of both my kinfolk and their struggle when the world turned over.
The world was changing very rapidly in these days, signalling what the elder Etlants predicted as The Coming Down. The Trogs of the south, for millenium a simple and peaceful race, were driven to a frenzy due to the increase of the Newmen and their unwillingness to breed with the Trogs, spelling an imminent demise for the formerly thriving race. Rising en force the Trogs warred against the Newmen of the south for resources and ultimately survival of their species. What neither race knew was that a horrible and sinister mutual enemy, another of the billions of alien races was coming to descend upon the world and the course of their battle would weaken Newman’s own chance for survival.
The Etlants, said to be descendants of the Gods and born from the stars, were a magical and ancient race. My mother told tales of an old, frozen kingdom, made of crystalized sun houses, who fed from the sea, and how that world melted into the sea when the time of The Coming Down came. They journeyed to the inner sea of the mainland of Midgard and with the ability to fly in chariots and to move stones with song, they were considered Gods. When convienenced, peaceful, when opposed, invincibly warrish. After several millienium they became the natural nobles of the Isa. The Isa in turn became a close ally of the Vans until many of their kind could be interbreeded, which is, of course, why I am here. The Etlants and the Vans, in their knowledge of magic, created stonemen in their likeness that could walk and breathed icy stone breath, who were quite jovial, boistrous and playful. They could move and shape mountains with their hands. These were the Twolls. They would critical for the survival of The Knights of the Band of Peace and the telling of the secrets of the Etlants, the continuation of our race and the horrible war of the dark alien enemy of your not too distant future’s world. They wood west upon the showers of the Far West.
Two Million Years Ago
The steppes were covered in ice and to the sacred Isengard, the wall of ice radiated the lights of unseen Sen, Giver and Taker of Life. Far, a Bjar Trog, surveyed the stretch of mountains and sought any black specks, indicative of Mammoth herds. Further to the West, Far scanned the planes for sign of his burly cousin beast. While the day was young he would kill a Mammoth grazing in the trees or on the prairies. He would then call his people to help him with his offering. Far was known to hunt alone and was admired for his ability to do so. The Bjar Trog saw many moons of meat, warmth and fire from the Mammoth kills from Far alone. He thought it the only true way to kill.
Far, Son of Bear, was squat and strong and fearless. A long torso and powerful hinds gave him the strength to hurl his body and spear into the Gwiant, thick coated Mammoths. Long and thick fair hair covered nearly his entire head except around his eyes of ice like the frozen land he had gazed upon since birth. His skin was leathered and bronzed from the snowy reflection of Sen. Such were his peoples’ traits two million years ago when the Trog roamed Midgard.
A long rumble made Far’s senses excited and he turned to see a herd of Gwiant Moose treading across the prairie to the East. They were coming his way. Far nimbled down the wooded, rocky slopes and toward the approaching herd. He came to the flatland and could see the huge antlers of the lead moose, hairy, snortyng, charging in a fury.
“They are running from something,” thought Far.
He would use their panic to cut one of the bulls off from the herd. Far began a slow gait towards the flank of the beasts. There were over a hundred of them and their thunder was great. Raising his spear over his head he gave a loud battle cry. “Arrgghhh”. He stepped solidly into the snow and thrust his spear at the first passing bull, catching the horns. Holding tightly Far was pulled off his feet as he leapt up onto the back of the huge bull. Wresting his spear between the horns, he used his powerful arms to turn the head of the bull; towards the woods. Growling and snorting the stubborn beast reluncantly turned it’s body to follow it’s gaze and away from the herd they went. Had it been a cow, there would likely have been a bull on his heals. Darting and crashing through the woods, Far ducking, steering, and his own wooly frock protecting his skin from the thrashes of the branches. Turning with his great strength, Far led the bull, now approaching exhaustion and panting from t he weight, the struggle, the break from the herd, and the previous flight from whatever predator had startled the herd, towards two tightly grown trees. Leading the bull towards the two trees, he fell off the moose and guided it’s head between the trunks in a sideways spin, trapping the bull. Panting, snorting, trapped, but still with fight. Far was weary as he skirted the Gwiant Moose to avoid it’s tthrusting kicks and twisting head with the horns longer than his stout body.
The wind howled and a chill fell through the air causing both Far and the bull to shiver, though the bull continued to shake uncontrollably in fear. Far’s blonded, ape-long, hairy-burly arms fell full of blood to his twelve inch hands, and tingling hunger for the Gwiant Muse’s meat; oh how he did hunger for the bull’s flesh, to slaughter him now and eat his flanks, trip, liver, heart, all raw he would! Were it not for his care for his kin, he would, yes, Far slaughtered Kow, for I, for Hi-kin, for Ourn-follkt, and for Sen to see, but right now ‘twas only the Gwiant Moose bull and I, well, wouldn’t he prefer to eat my flanks.
“Harharhar,” Far laughed.
“Klear for launch,” said Kaptain Krin.
“Kooper,” said Korporal Kom.
Far stared the bull in the eye. He picked up the biggest rock he could lift. The bull watching intently, the dark grey sky, the black trees, the distant roar of the reproaching herd, the frigid air, the hunger of both prey and hunter. Hefting the bolder over his head Far cried out and crashed the skull of the moose between the two antlers. The Gwiant Moose let out a loose sigh, it’s body sagged to the ground, snapping it’s neck as the antlers stuck between the two trees. Blood poured from the dead Moose’s crushed skull.
Far stared at the Gwiant Moose and breathed heavily. A stirring built in his chest. He looked around the forest and saw nothing. Far let out a high-pitched wail, repeating it three times. He listened, then heard the responding cry from one of his brothers. He repeated the process until he heard a responding cry, this time from another. They would be tracking the moose tracks into the forrest and arrive to help carry the huge carcass to their kin.
Something swelled electrically on Far’s neck and he turned and sniffed at the air. Drawing his spear, he crouched low. It appeared he had found what the herd was running from. A Cave Lion. Spotting one another, the Cave Lion let out a hollow, rumbling growl, revealing it’s massive fanged jaws. Far let out his own snarl.
“This is my kill, Lion,” said Far. “Be gone or die.”
A loud, vicious roar was the huge lion’s response, stalking around to try and find an opening to the moose. The Twog and the Lion circled round the dead moose. Staying between his kill and his opponent, Far stared fixedly at the big kat and creapt on his haunches, clutching his sharpened stone spear. The kat growled and made high pitched hisses.
A thrashing through the woods caught both of their attentions, the lion suddenly on guard towards the sound. Three of Far’s brothers, Tro, Bjr, and Gar, booted and covered in wooly, quickly formed an angle and edged around the lion, but left it an open out. The Cave Lion let out a threating roar, which the four Twogs responded to in unison, shaking their spears and hurling insults at the lion.
“Your mother is a minx and your father is a panther,” shouted Gar, the shortest.mexico
“Harharhar, and your other father is a cougar,” piped-out with oh a high-ninnying, neighing-throated vibrator -- Bjr, the skinny.
Tro, the nextbiggest next to Far, picked up a big rock and with a cry struck the lion in the jaw, cracking one of it’s protruding fangs. The lion roared, but being outnumbered, decided to trot away after Gar, Bjr, and Far began chucking large, strongly propelled stones at the kat. The four brothers roared after the kat and continued throwing stones and insults and laughter upon him until they were sure he was out of fight.
This is a land of clarity, simplicity, and without taint. The people are filled with a natural knowledge of goodness. The women are strong hearted, loving creatures full of kindness for their men and their children. The men are honest, fun loving, and generous. A walk through the dwellings around and in the caves yields a feeling of well-being, that this people is my people, my brothers, my sisters. The sun is hidden behind the veil of white and grey clouds, but the sun of our warms hearts is never chilled by these times. These are times like no other, before the Fall and after the gift of the Life Fire from the Gods. This is the land of my awakening and of my origin. This is Midgard.
The Bjar Trog brothers sledded their kill back to the cave and the wifmen immediately set about building a spit and fire while the hunters relayed their story of the herd, the moose, and the lion to the Bjar Trog, with the especial attention of the children who stared wide eyed, wondering what they would do had they encountered a Cave Lion alone. Some of them envisioned themselves as brave and as strong as Gar, Tro, Bjr and Far as they relayed their feats while the tribe feasted.
No one loved telling stories, nor had as many as Far. Even the old Eddas gleed from his feats, especially when Far danced out the tail and his eyes got wide and his fist pounded on his heart showing the speed and ferocity at which it beat.
“This Lion, not giving, only taking. A taker!” Far shout outed and extended his arms to the fyre. “This is my kill. For Trogs, not Lions. Get your own moose! Haaor, haaor, haaor!” Far gleemed brightly and his huge teeth protruded and with his laugh the Bjar laughed for their bellies were full and it was Far who killed the moose, not Cave Lion. Let the lion get it’s own kill. Haaor, haaor, haaor.
“Pfa,” said Arn Farsen. “Was the bull taller than yourn?”
“Yes, Arn,” said Far. “Like this.” Far raised his broad, hairy arm up to the heavens. “Tall. And big!” Far hefted Arn to his head and nuzzled the young boy.
“Moder would have been proud,” said Arn.
“She is proud,” said Far. “She lives in the God’s Hall and is skinning the Gwiant Moose’s spirit hide and telling jokes with the wifmen.” Far imitated the banter and tickled Arn’s ribs to the child’s glee.
“Gw’on now,” said Far. “Hear the Eddas.”
“Nye Pfader,” said Arn. “I want to stay here with you and hear your stories.”
Far nodded his head and mussed the boys rascally head. A wifman came to Far’s side, beside Bjr and his wifman, Fiya.
“Far, a good kill, I thank yourn,” said Kara putting her hand on his chest.
“What is good for me is good for yourn,” said Far, returning the gesture.
Kara smiled. Her broad fair head, high cheeks, and toothy smile gave Far the Fire and he laughed heartily.
“The Gods made the Bjar Trognen strong,” said Far to the Bjar at his fire.
“And brave,” Tro.
“Arrggh,” said Bjr.
“And hairy,” said Tro’s wifmen, Isa, shaking the hearty, golden beard of Tro and drawing laughter.
“Arrggh,” said Tro, laughing.
“But were it not for the Trogvin,” said Far. “A Trog would have only a warm Moose hide and his brothers to keep him warm.”
“He would lose Lifefire,” said laithe and tallest Gar, “and wonder like a lost bear.”
“And die alone in the snow,” said Bjr, “for their would be no prye to the Gods.”
“Better to die in battle than alone in the snow,” said Tro.
“Arggh, better to live in bed than to die in it,” said Isola.
“Oh, I’d say it’s the Trogvin who gets beaten in bed,” said Tro.
“Beaten, aye,” said Isola, “and such a pounding and bloodly slaughter that it’s all a Trog can’t do to shut it’s ears from the piercing cries throughout the night. Oh, but in truth, it’s the Trogman who dies at the end of the Great Battle.” Isola stuck her index finger up and then watched sadly as it went limp, to the great humour of the Trog.
“Aye, but it’s proof of the Gods favor that a Trog can rise again from death and live in the Great Battle once again,” said Tro, standing up and extending his broad chest and waving his fists to the stars.
“Hmm, mostentimes,” said Isola, her dirty blonde hair, flittering over her pointed ears, showing her part descendence of Alfar. “Unless the Trog had been grogged by the fog of the dog and can no longer find the ax or the log.”
“Arrggh,” said Tro and laughter encircled the fire.
Bjr pulled a plant out of his pocket, put it in a clay pot and poured water into it. He set it over the fire. In ten minutes the pot was passed around to the Trogs. Far, Kara, Tro, Isa, Gar, Bjr and Ira, drank wine and Fireplant tea and ate Gwiant Moose meat into the night and Arn heard the stories and fell asleep staring at the stars in Kara’s lap.
A Dire Wolf howled from the neighboring tresshold.
The alignment from Twoy’s heart was only in a dream, yet he did not choose to wake from the deep sleep of the night’s debauchewy. No, Twoy only wanted to capture this vision, this centered feeling, understanding, so that he could hear what the Gods would tell him and so he would know how to build this devine structure, this monument in honor of his tribe, this telling of the story. Three Etlans pointed up to Sen, each aligned with the elements of Twoy’s upbringing: the sea, the iceland, the woods. Sen was the highest land, the Fire of Life, where his Gods wesided.
Twoy peaked up at the dancing mowning light shining through the window and nestled against a Woahmb’s warm body, slipping cozily back into the dweam. A happy walk through the village, new fwiends, greetings, twades, salutations, acknowledgments and thanks. Then the sound weturned, a high pitched and low wesonating dwone, at the same time, shaking the Kowal of Twoy. The vibration was a upload;p the voice from the Gods spoke to Twoy.
Twoy Founghtaingar. His bare bones, flesh, and hair against the entiety of a wace ov people who had waged war upon a bweed he was belowed of: The Stone Twibe -- The Twolls.
Twoy had fallen in wove with her from the stawt. Veewing her face in the wock, Twoy, a Gwiant, and taller than most to top that, saw the beauty in the wock as soon as he laid eyes upwon her. Twoy felt in his two stolid, puwple bweathing hearts that Woahomb woved him too. Her eyes watched upwon him and captuwed a glazed glee that was fiwst and fowemost a dazzling moment betwixt the two wovers to be a wove that wood go down in fiwer and remembwance of my Eldews, for Twoy and Woahamb are my kin and the first builders of the Fwrymads: The Knights of the Band of Peace.
The battle betwixt Agnon and Aron was a personal bullshit feud that meant two egos battling their families’ asses versus their in trutherst, their Own. Biullten was the field where these brothers waged war, though it was relly a spar or skirmish. A bunch of blunt fucking swerds and insulting Mother jokes. Quick and fun for the lads, though a capture the flag was found ultimately on the side of Aron and Agnon was p8issed. And got dwunk too. He bruised heads with three of his captains in the course of night and woke up to find half his herd of horses had been captured by Aron as an additional sting to his already bleeding pride.
I died the day Iltlas of the Knights took me. Part of me did. Though I died many times before for far journeys and endless chasing haunts. I warred with the Men of Asphix. I killed many of those Small Arms. I looked into their eyes as I crushed, axed, and impaled their skulls. In my village by the sea, Azerland, there was little farming and the air was always cold and damp. So the Azer Valkr set to raiding the growing race of the Small Men. I was part of many raiding parties to the coastal lands in the West and South East seas.
I wondered off after during the Departure Celebration and ate a cactus flower that was full of the Milk of Fyre. I explored deep into the Aegypxion desert and fought through many lighted demon messengers from Fl’Okay. With my sword on my chest I prayed to Woaoahdin Kom and his devlish brother to give me strength in battle for sure that was going to be my lot. But most of all, I prayered for wisdom in friendship and trusting my brothers in hour cause; the Fyre War and the keeping of Azerland, the home of my birth. I had heard from Knights passing through Azerland, the cause against the future enemy of us all, Asphix, the Dark Xrangler Priest. Above all, I wanted to kill, with my mind and body and spirit, the Immortals’ Dark Priest and his kin.
I was taken by Iltsa Fromdottir after the battle between Agnon and Aron. Agnon was my uncle and my father, though kin, was aligned with Aron. Father promised that if Agnon were ever to find himself in less favorable circumstances as village leader, he would do whatever it took to right it. So, when Iltsa of the Knights came recruit for an offering to the gods, Father sent me, rather than force Agnon to weaken his band of warriors. The requirements for the posting were that one was of Alfan blood and that they must be of highest physical abilities and of age. It was known that the Knights kept their own offspring in the Band of Peace. Awyan, another Azer Valkyrn, whom I had known since a child, was also chosen to join the Sacred Order. It was a high honor for both of us, though I cried like a little girl upon parting with Mother and Father.
The two masters, along with their two students, left the land of the Azer Valkyrns on Giant Horses, called Gharshes. Their head’s were taller than each of the riders seven foot plus frames. So tall, Jessayin had to take a short running leap to mount her beige neighing beast. Iltlas, the tallest and the oldest veteran of the Fyre Wars, easily hefted his eight foot and three thumbs frame onto his Gharsh, simply by swinging up and over. His Gharsh was a massive, black and blonde beast with a wise eye and a vicious snarl and would let no one other than Iltlas get near him without snapping. He was trained to do battle and that he had. Jessayin noticed the many scars on the Gharsh along it’s flank, rump, and even chest and near it’s eyes. Bite marks from other Gharshes as well as sword slits. Proof of the raging battles that were yet to come for Jessayin.
Though she had, like Awyan, joined in many of the raids on the Small Men, as was expected of all Valkyrn of age, it was known that the battles of the Fyre Wars were the fiercest and that many of the Small Men troops contained rogue Gwiants, Dark Wizards, and various Halvmans that Asphix had hired to fight in his war against the Alfars, Twolls, Valkrs, Troggs, Gwiants, allied Halvmans and Etlan Wizards.
Etlans -> Alfans
Twolls -> created with magik by the Etlans
Troggs-> Descendent Breed of Gwiants and Alfans -> Valkyrs
Men -> Descendent of Valkyrs, Warriors of The Fall
Gwiants -> The natural born lords of Midgard.
Fren the Twoll
The Long Years and the Showt Years, battled at the Isle of the Twoll monument, Warp Ne’er.
Fren heard a stirring in the rocks around him and for the first time in a million years, felt a distinction between himself and his sleeping kin. The witch’s song was strong and there was the smell of blood, the howls of warriors sacrificing themselves in battle, the song of frantic priests and priestesses and the low hum of the masses. The offering was that of the dying or the dead of heart. A compassionate send off rather than a senseless shedding of strong warriors’ blood.
Fren felt his arms, head, feet and torso stir with Fyre. Slowly, with a crackling, thundering and falling of bits of rock, the huge Twoll arose from the side of the volcanic mountain. He stood and gazed up at Sen, giver of Fryre, his stone eyes gradually awakening from a million year slumber. Fren stretched and yawned, though judging from the awed silence of the onlookers, it was a tremendous rumbling growl. The Twoll took a step towards a level on the mountain and surveyed the scene. The Navel Island. Yes, that is where he last went to sleep. What had happened before then? Time for that now that consciousness had returned.
Below, the tropical forests were spread thick throughout the island and the blue vision of the ocean was dancing with waves, birds, fairies, halvmans, and fish. Far below him, there were Valkrys, Gwiants, Wizards, and Men hurtled in a circle, which was surrounded by many of his kin, standing in immovable guardreadiness. With a great leap, Fren tucked into a spin and rolled down the side of the mountain, bouncing and shaking the earth on the way down. There were screams from wifmen and children below as he approached the harkening. At the last moment, he unfurled his seventy foot stone body and landed crouching on one knee. The land thundered and echoed in the valleys.
“Fren here,” he rumbled and with a smile, “at your service m’lords.”
His stone eyes were met with void and awe. A child spoke up.
“Mader, is that a talking wock?”
“Shhh,” said the mother.
The Frentwoll let out a gleeful, howling laugh that shook all present to their Koral.
Fren put his face to the child who continued to stare at the Twoll indifferently.
“What is your name,” he said.
“I am Isul,” said the Valkrylas.
“And I am your friend, Fren, the talking wock.”
“I like you,” said Isul.
“Good,” said Fren. “Then I am your friend.” Fren put out one finger and the lasses tiny hand touched it.
Isul laughed after recoiling from the cool lava finger, causing Fren to go into another laughing frenzy. The Gwiants joined in with their booming laughs, the witch who had summoned him smiled and laughed back, and then the whole village was smiling and talking and laughing and pointing at the great Twoll, Fren.
“It is good to be alive,” said Fren. “Now, what can I do for you good friends?”-------------------
Awyan - The Ghost, the God, the Goat, and the Good
The night Jessayn with the god, Ost, was the day her life began as that of a Mod - a mother warrior.
“Why did you come,” said Jessayn.
“Because you are on a spirit quest,” said Ost.
The Story of the Dead
Not sound, not site. Not wave, not lite. For some, whoe’ers doomsay, say yonder ist friend, xor here ist foe, what for Aragon’s Catherine, gone, for all foxssake, and for but a cry in the nite, transitions from noble York, to brandish Lankaster, to alien Tweder. Oh, fowl-biting King, thou hast du’nhast, far ‘twer ownly five score mellenium thou dad had’st this self-same inclination to thwart and pund, bend und lay, seek and find, all so many a giving friend in maidenhood unto brotherhood unto boodahood.
‘What,’ quothe he, ‘are thy in thine majesty of bugs!’
“Thy hast spun enough webs for this royal fly,” sayeth the King, “and who’shalt ever proclaim that a spider hath reigned, say’st too that it hath not only poisoned itself, but also hath poisened itsy’s entire realm. Thine dominion of webs and morsels left and right sickness and all thy rats, for if ye sayest ‘cut’ of this would be fly, then flyest thou to hell and speak no longer than eight, nor no shorter than one, nor brand not in healednesses, nor prune not in saltywaters, nor hear not, nor see not , but for the nocturnal infernal for which thou art have ever’st been, I say ’Yay, say’est thou, owlnly I say’st: be food for an entire family of ants!”
“Fame of kourdon, I’m the heavy life that witch ist thine to lose” said Jessayin’.
Awyan looked above at the milky stars and saw Otin, the half-blind warrior king.
"I am going to kill myself," said Archer. "I have owlweady witten a note."
"What doest yourn note say?" said Fryr.
"Thist world ist nine mine und I will it all to you."
Posted by Elijah King at 3:21 PM