#steven patrick

 '“Next time we play, we’re knife-fighting afterwards,” Sciena said, resting her head on her arm.'

'“Yeah? Why’s that?” the sharp-jawed Kul Tiran asked, rubbing his stubbly chin.'

'“Because you’re a fucking cheat, that’s why.”'

'“I’m a cheat? Gwideon, do you hear her?”'

'The dark-skinned sailor laughed, his belly rumbling like an earthquake as he too settled for sleep. “I never saw anything of the sort. I’m not sure how someone with a face such as Steven Patrick’s could ever cheat.”'

'The first time he had ever boarded a vessel was only three years ago. Gwideon had been sailing for ten years, and Sciena for six, but they were welcoming enough to the woodsman once he proved his worth on deck.... He remembered those first few months, picking fights with other privateers when they mocked him as Pretty-Boy Gaeler until he’d proven his usefulness on deck—and efficiency with a knife. The months beyond that were easy.'

Sketch Portrait by @afoolarts

It has been many years Since Gilnean merchants  Crossed the sea And conquered peoples there; The Drust and other ones. Celebrate Our wars and rage, wanton; Turning seas black and red With their blood. Salute the admirals Bathed in our Lady’s words. Kul Tiras, Wrap yourself in green flags; Golden anchor, flashed bright ‘Cross oceans Over the west and east, A new wake of our sea. Speak the words: It is Kul Tiran pride. Celebrate and speak them, Kul Tiras.

-- Privateer Portrait by Soleilloo (https://www.deviantart.com/soleilloo)

I watched my father break the wood Of the trees that secured our forms. That night, moon abright, the cries Of our quarry howled like a wind Past the trees and to a free meadow Blanketed by a crisp, white snow. My father dug his hands into its body; What’s left of its life flowed warmly  Out onto the ground onto my cold feet. He kneeled with his knife, toes arched In his heavy boots. The knife glided Like a kite all along the deer’s fur And the last of its blood spilled, boiling  Away the snow beneath. He told me then, “Watch, boy.” I was only a child. “The blade does not drag. It runs  Along the flesh of the animal Like shears across a paper.” I stood distantly. The deer’s blood Flowed from underneath its body To my shoes yet again, as I watched My father’s work. Skinning was not Beautiful, but like a seamstress  Stitching the sides of a extravagant Dress, it was necessary; a way Of life and love. Some danced, Some wrote poetry, but we  Skinned with a knife.

This blade is drawing a sequence In the air as it comes unsheathed.

The steel after it all is sheathed Into home at my bleeding hip.

-- Side-Portrait by Lulu

I tended to the breeze With the beautiful god Who showed me what I need

I was lain in its arms With a heart that was warm That had not felt the cold 

The hate was so easy The lies simple as salt But the warmth felt right there Struggled on the shoulders Of a thousand tired men 

But the smoke whence we came With a captured moment  Of the breeze I tended  Could not move me away From these arms around me And would not ‘til I die

A man throws away his life And the life of the earth; he drinks Its life, steals its life, but gives life To the two things that remind him That everything he’s done in his life Has been right.

He grows like a tree, sappy and sovereign, Until each drop of blood falls from his fingertips Onto earth he doesn’t own. But it’s the two faces He makes and wakes that ensure he’s  Done everything in his life right with  No mistakes along the way. 

The man calls them, and in peace they  Come; he greets with his lips and arms and feeds  Them the life of the world. And when they grow, Learn to tell jokes, stories, and keep one another safe, It’s the fabric of knowing that everything he’s done  In his life has been right.