#epicfantasy

----( Recommended reading music: Baki OST - Determined (Extended) On Youtube )----

Book 1. Chapter 1: Part 2 The Tide of Tydius Flow 1. The next day

A tall adult male was sleeping shirtless on a futon. Coiling-tossing. On the Temple's third floor, which belongs to the masters as their shared bedroom space, 5 large futons lying on hard wooden-boards. All 4 futons looked used recently, besides 1 futon clean and dusty closer to the southwest wall—5 meters away, from the tall animal—in morning grey. The buff animal starts to make noise, waking up in the morning, slowly transitioning from yawning, lying-stretching, bed-stretching. Then slowly—standing, walking over and looking out the south window, finally-muttering gibberish. Stretches right arm to the sky, left on elbow. Yawns, at the same time his mundane morning turned to thoughts = "Training brats. {A smirk forms as it fades.}. The rice rats is rewarding.. {His arms dropped, as he stood tall.} Mountain sword. {He looks over and behind his right shoulder, to the northeast corner, a large war coffer—eight foot long—four feet tall—six feet wide, old wooden box decorated with orange, yellow, and light brown fabric—falling off.} Sword mastery going—{His head slowly turned forward then stopped half way.}—nowhere. {He faced out the south window.} innovating my stylish style.. Is almost a fantasy..!" For a fraction of a second his lips shook. He then gave a tired smirk. Then he said in a low quiet voice = "Well! Time for morning sword training. {His smirk to a smile.}. His muscles blooming under the sunlight, waking with no shirt—and thin light PJ-pants. A man with long straight black hair, just past his shoulder blades, white with dark blue eyes. 5'11 tall, well-shaved face from heaven, presence from hell, for he had, like us all, a story to tell..!

The-Waking-Master slouched—walking almost stumbling, muttering morning frustrations over towards the war coffer. He then bent over, and unlocked the four-number combination lock on the war coffer. He gently opened the box, his right knee to floor. Beneath a sword and shield, his right hand reached for a mountain sword in its sheath. 165cm end to end. The Blade length was 120cm. At the base of blade 2.7 inches wide. Near the tip 1.65 inches wide.

The-Waking-Master turned and walked to his futon—Then faced north wall. He sat criss-cross applesauce, sword in the sheath—a-blade's buried teeth, leaning like an embrace—resting across his right shoulder—hilt at soul ease on the ground, between his right leg. pounds to hold material felt whole, cold steel as warm. Indexes and thumbs in a circle. He closed his eyes.. To meditate...

Silence!

No will release. To self appease.

In the silence

----(Recommended reading music: Japanese traditional metal — Gakusaku Shiki On Youtube )----

Inside eyes open! A world for his demise! A pitch-black-world in smoke. An elevated circular arena barely visible, embraced haze, for his scream without a sound! Surreal, locked, focused, seen through eyes. The-Waking-Master felt-saw shadows pulling. From all around. The emanating smoke! Forming! A man, an enemy slightly shorter yet buffer—vapors rising to sky—crawling down low, a wish—warrior to-test war of the soul.

The shadow of h-a-z-e, had two one-handed swords, each about three feet long in blade, blades four inches wide at hilt... A thick slash-and-slide!

In deep focus, his sword of choice a sword held past the wish, through meditation in embrace, in both hands. His mountain sword. In hand now he stands. Facing his enemy.

The shadow enemy circles, crouched over—mist vapor trailing to skies, motions-to-ties. The-Waking-Master stands his ground on guard, facing down the shadow—leading stream of steam. A planet's pull does not orbit—the moon; a shark swims around its prey—in battle, too soon to know the cascade—of the winning blade! Focused like his soul only sees, feels, body-mind-relives, flow, motion, emotion-of-instinct, ocean-of-truth!.. I write philosophical essays, hypotheses, and fantasy fiction book Crownose Chronicals.

One of the strangest parts of being a fantasy writer is watching the news and realizing reality has shambled drunkenly into your notes folder yet again.

Circa April 2025 I began writing a setting built around maritime trade routes, strategic chokepoints, economic warfare, aging empires, and the idea that whoever controls the shipping lanes controls far more than the territory itself.

Come 2026 I open the news and have the deeply unsettling experience of going:

"Fuck..."

To be clear, Raptoraem isn't based on current geopolitical events. But the awkward truth is that current events keep being based on the same handful of human habits i.e.

Empires overextend.

Trade routes become pressure points.

Governments discover that maps are suggestions but geography is forever.

Everyone insists this time is ~different~

Mama Oceana, meanwhile, sighs and continues to collect receipts.

Hi Peeps! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

The past few years, I’ve been buried in studio work, juggling deadlines, and pouring a lot of energy into projects that, while rewarding, left little room for my own creative voice. Somewhere in all that busyness, I realized how much I missed creating just for me, and for us here.

So… I’m easing back in. Slowly. And I’m happy to be returning to this space, where I can share the quieter, more personal side of my work.

No pressure, no huge announcements. Just a cozy corner to grow things again.

If you were here, or are still here, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your support, your presence, even your quiet lurking, means more than you know.

Here’s to stories that come from the heart.

Vel

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