What’s the Point of Being Beautiful?

Posted by Rock Kitaro on September 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Food for Thought. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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What is the point of possessing such beauty? Is there a point? Does it matter? I believe so. First off, to understand what I’m about to say, one must be resign themselves to a couple of notions.

The first notion is that there is no guarantee that everyone will be loved in this world. The second is vanity and self-consciousness exists and while I won’t say there’s nothing wrong with it, I will say that they can be used for good.

Recently, I saw an Instagram post from one of my favorite Instagram models where she mentioned that she planned on looking for a good man in 10 years, but first she wanted to have her fun. Surprisingly, I’ve notice a lot of beautiful women on Instagram with thousands of followers having the same philosophy. I see them traveling the world. They post some of the most cliché quotes under revealing photos of themselves. And they all seem to desire the same thing. That elusive, “good man”.

One could say here, “well, those are just Instagram models. Their view of reality is a tad bit distorted because they receive so much of their validation online that they don’t think to seek it from people in the real world.”

Is that true?

Because…one could argue that the same validation Instagram models receive, are also received by women who regularly use dating sites like Tinder and OKCupid. Already, I’ve read a number of articles where women have admitted that they have no intentions on finding dates or partners through the dating sites, but more so use it as a “pick-me-up” throughout the day, like hit of whiskey in the form of adoration from men just to remind them that they are indeed beautiful and wanted.

Everything I’m saying right now…I want you to know that I’m not complaining. I’m not asking people to change nor will I tell them their worldview is right or wrong. These are just observations and a premonition of what’s to come based on my own opinion. That being said, lets get back to that first question.

What is the point of being beautiful?

Here’s my theory… Beauty is the gift given to us in order to attract a mate. I honestly feel that’s it’s the number one purpose. I won’t go so far as to say it’s the sole (only) purpose. But I think that’s why you have it. The problem is…beauty fades with time.

This isn’t to say that you will one day be ugly or no longer be seen as beautiful. But what I’m saying is that the beauty you once possessed in your youth, will fade as you grow older. Depending on your genes and how well you take care of yourself, you can hold on and maintain that beauty for decades. But that’s going to take work as well as the acknowledgment that your beauty will indeed fade. However, and sadly I don’t believe a lot of women do acknowledge this.

I think that there’s a great deal of women who are mature enough to handle the reality. That after they’ve had their “fun” they will have no choice but to settle on men that they would have never thought they’d end up getting married to. And these women go on to live happy and fulfilled lives, because they’ve accepted this. But will all women accept it? Do most women acknowledge it?

So, if it sounds like I’m picking on women here, forgive me. There’s a reason why I’m highlighting women when it comes to beauty. Again, this is just a theory. And you can say, “all I hear are theories and conjectures” and be absolutely right. But trust me when I say I’m not alone in seeing this. A lot of men have come to the same realization, but for these men to speak out, they’ll be hit with “MISOGYNY!” and other attacks on their character for simple just thinking about it.

The thing is, women and men are different. As much as the media and mainstream figures have been trying to break down gender roles and what not, any person with an ounce of common sense can tell you that on a general level, men and women are different. And that’s actually a good thing! Believe it or not, it is. Men and women are supposed to compliment each other. Men are strong, but not in all areas. And believe it or not, women are stronger in ways that men are not. This should be celebrated and appreciated. Not demeaned and frowned upon.

I believe that men are visual creatures. We see something that looks good and want it. I believe that women are visual creatures as well. But most women don’t just see the superficial, they watch for certain qualities whereas men mainly see red flags, not precisely an exact quality that they want. Just what they know they “don’t want.” For instance, if you ask a man what they looked for in a woman beyond her appearance… they’d probably take a moment to think about it. Whereas, I’m willing to bet women could tell you right away, right off the top of her head.

The thing is, times have changed. Once upon a time, a man was celebrated for his bravery, strength and work ethic by going out, building his home, defending it, and providing for his family, protecting his wife, raising his sons and daughters to be respectable, contributing members of society.

Now…the world has become so modernized where machines take care of basically everything a man would have once had to do to display his prowess, unless you’re a policeman, soldier, professional athlete, or any other kind of figure of authority. How then, is a man supposed to display his masculine qualities?

This is actually important. More than I think people seem to realize. Humans aren’t alone in this regard. Anyone who’s seen a nature documentary can tell you that nearly every animal in the animal kingdom has these rites of passage when it comes to mating. Deer, bovines, canines, and even felines fight amongst themselves for the right to mate with the females. Birds put on colorful and elaborate displays to attract a mate. Fish and sharks use pheromones. Etc.

The point is, every animal has some kind of instinctual mechanism to attract a mate. As humans, men were able to do this by showing themselves strong, capable, and dependable. I believe women were able to do this by…their beauty. Yes, we also admire women for their feminine qualities such as the strength it takes to nurture, and believe me, it does take strength. Some men can’t handle being in a room with their sick loved ones, it’s too emotionally distressing, while a woman does have a strength to be right there and not turn away. There are so many qualities women possess that men lack. And vice versa.

But in order for men and women to get to know each other and learn whether or not they have the desired qualities for a long-term relationship, whether or not we’re compatible, we first have to attract each other.

As I’m sure many of you know, men have taken a beating in recent years due to the horrible actions of a few assholes, resulting in the MeToo Movement, and before that, the CatCalling Video. Inadvertently, this has made men more reluctant to approach and even talk to women. And the sad thing is, it seems many women have yet to put two and two together. To this day, it seems women still think men are afraid to talk to women because we’re afraid of rejection. We’re not.

What we are, is afraid of getting fired. Any man who’s gone to college has a student loan debt to bear. I’d say about 70% of us have worked ceaselessly through our twenties and well into our thirties to reduce that debt.

Women have the same debt too, you might say. But traditionally, which of us has the embedded responsibility to provide for our families? The Men? Or the Women? These days, I acknowledge that mainstream society is pushing for both men and women to do so, but many of us men who were raised by parents who could not have possibly predicted the current turn of events, have instilled in their sons that they are to be the head of the household. That it is their responsibility to be the primary bread-winner. And if you’re a true Christian, even the Bible says this.

Again, these aren’t complaints. I acknowledge. I accept. And here comes the premonition. Brace yourselves…it looks bleak.

By the time men have established themselves, cut their debt in half, and are in a position to finally get married and provide for a family…well…We’ll be attracted to beautiful women. But as I said. Beauty fades. Not to mention, times change. What’s acceptable today probably won’t be in ten years. And on the same token, what’s unacceptable today, people will probably be more tolerant to in the future. Gosh…I’m almost afraid to type what I really want to say here…

Let me put it this way. Think of all the old time couples, of men and women who are in their sixties and up and have managed to stay married. I’ve been blessed with plenty of these role models in my life, so I know it’s possible. If you hear the men talk about their wives, they’d tell you that she is still the most beautiful woman to him. And it gets me thinking.

I believe that beauty is like the hook that draws in the catch. And once the catch is made, it is only then that love can manifest. I believe it’s this kind of unconditional love that allows a man to stay with his woman forever. It’s this kind of love that enables the man to believe he’s with the most beautiful woman in the world no matter how fat she gets, no matter what injury befalls her, no matter what mental disability she’s inflicted with. This is love.

But first…beauty must reel in the catch. Bringing me back to my favorite Instagram model. This idea of “I just want to have fun for ten years and then look for a “good man”. In my heart of hearts, I truly hope she’s just saying this. Meaning, I hope she has no idea what she’s really talking about or what she really means. I truly hope that what she means is, she just wants to have fun until she finds the man who shows her that he’s the one she really wants to spend the rest of her life with. That’s what I hope.

Because this Instagram model…she’s already in her late 20s. And she’s somewhat on the heavy side (I like curvy women). So I can somewhat imagine what she’s going to look like in ten years and sadly, “beautiful” would not be the first adjective that comes to mind. I’m just being real here.

“Well what about men! Men also gonna turn into big fat slobs and they aren’t exactly Brad Pitts as they get older.”

True…this is true. However, when it comes to men and women, to whom is beauty more important? And be honest. Look around at the married couples you know. When you get their wives alone and ask them if they think they’re husbands are the sexiest, most handsome men alive…I’d say it’s about a 50-50 chance of them saying yes. And that’s me being generous on those odds.

I can tell you from personal experience in talking with grown married women, either family or close associates where they’ll admit, that their men were average looking, but the love manifested in other ways. Like through the man’s charm, charisma, their competence, their ambition, their authority, their experience, their leadership, their virtue.

Ladies…these qualities aren’t bound by the concepts of time. For some men, they develop these qualities as they grow older, and for some, they lose them as they get older. But either way, beauty, isn’t the word most commonly associated with men. It’s rare. That’s why you have the phenomena where hordes of women go after a single man and its seen as normal in the public. Like women screaming over Justin Bieber, or Robert Pattinson, or any other pop idol. They are like jewelry. Rare. So women have no qualms competing for the same thing even though there are other gems free for the taking.

So…essentially, what I’m saying is that beauty fades with time and you shouldn’t take it for granted. You can if you want. But I’d just hate for you to be in your mid to late thirties, searching for that “good man” while those same men are drawn to what we’ve always been drawn to…beauty.

And when I said that what’s acceptable today probably won’t be in ten years… It’s my theory that the next generation won’t be on board with the ideologies of today’s third-wave feminists. I suspect that they’ll reject the idea of abolishing traditional gender roles and they will seek men who possess traditional, assertive, masculine qualities.

Thus…I fully suspect that while women are in their thirties looking for the “good men”…the “good men” in their thirties would have found their beautiful brides who are still in their mid to early twenties. I believe prenups will be signed on a regular basis to protect these men from giving up half their stuff in the event of a no-fault divorce. And I suspect there will be a great deal of sadness for everyone failing honor the concept of commitment.

Anyways…these are just my thoughts on the matter. I could be wrong. However, if you think I’m alone in these observations, I encourage you to look on Youtube at the channels of Sargon of Akkod, of Sandman, of Entrepreneurs in Cars and other MGTOW and Red Pill Channels. If you don’t know what MGTOW or Red Pill Men are, I encourage you to explore. As a Christian Conservative, I read about their ideologies and it makes me smile to know, “I’m not the only one seeing this shit.”

At the same time, I really do wish there was a greater conversation about their beliefs. Not just amongst men, but women. For all the clichés and crap men get about not listening or caring about Women’s Issues…haha…let’s just say in order for the thousands of men to comment on such issues…we at least had to hear what your arguments were in the first place. This requires listening. Mulling it over for a second. And then coming to our own conclusions.

And coming to your own conclusion…that’s the key. That’s called taking personal responsibility. Even if your conclusions coincide with the speaker, the point is, you’ve made a conscientious decision to make up your own mind. Everything I’ve said in this little essay…I don’t know if its an accurate portrayal of the future or of the general behaviors of men and women. These are just theories, written thoughts.

The Knights With No Lords: Chapter 4 – Fool Me Once…(Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 31, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Gaheris and Morgan hash out their childhood grudge and once again, a furious Tristan stands in their way.

Then we join Gawain …the very lad Morgan so desperately wants to rescue. He’s riding in a convoy with his Hibernian captors, led by the 21-year-old Princess Isolde herself. Even though he’s assigned to be her bodyguard, Isolde makes it clear that if he tries to flee, she’ll put an arrow through his back. Gawain knows she’s capable of it.

Chapter 4 - Artwork by Wojtek Fusartwork by Wojtek Fus

Chapter 4 – Fool Me Once
By Rock Kitaro

Iron – “Rock Bottom”

In the dead of the night, the torches were doused. Calm had settled. With just the pale moon reflecting off of the wet stone walls, Morgan led the brothers Agravain and Gaheris through the slums of Tintagel. The strong stench of urine and ale was nauseating, but they expected no less from the plebs.

Drunken sailors were passed out on almost every corner. For some reason, a black crow kept following the trio as if it was keeping tabs on them. It made sure to perch on every business sign before releasing a piercing caw, stiffening the hairs on the back Gaheris’s neck. He was very much tempted to shoot it down.

Instead of riding their horses, they guided their steeds by the reins, walking them ever so slowly to mind the clacking of the hooves. All three were covered in dark wool hoods.

Morgan, the determined seventeen-year-old enchantress with her obedient horse, Vebby.

Agravain, the emboldened fourteen-year-old armed with two Roman broadswords sheathed under the round shield on his back.

And Gaheris, the annoyed fifteen-year-old archer who wasn’t entirely on board with Morgan’s plan. He felt it lacked sufficient details. Well…either it lacked details or Morgan was deliberately withholding them.

Leaving on a moment’s notice, Gaheris had no choice but to steal back the handcrafted bow he made for King Mark. His quiver was jam-packed with razor sharp arrows. A lightweight short sword was strapped to his waist. And as that gut-wrenching feeling began to churn in his stomach, he chuckled with a hopeless smirk.

“What’s that, Constantine? Oh it’s funny you should ask. I’m only about to sneak out of one of the most impregnable fortresses the world’s ever seen. Why, you ask? That’s funny too. You see, whenever someone promises the liberation of my brother, I’m almost bound by sacred oath to venture forth. Ogres, you say? Errant knights and elfish demons galore? Nah, I’m not scared of all that. It’s my brother, you see. He’d want this. He’d want me to venture forth and–”

“For crying out loud, Gaheris! Do you want get caught or don’t you?” Morgan snapped.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that. Just keep walking before I change my mind. And why such haste? I’d feel a lot better if we had more time to prepare,” Gaheris grumbled.

“It must be tonight. The rest of the lords will be returning home in the morning. It’ll be buzzing with activity so no one will think to look for us. This will give us enough time to make distance before they figure out we’re gone,” Morgan whispered.

“Well it’s a good thing we arrived when we did, isn’t it. Or did your foresee such events and expect it? Wait, am I under a spell right now? Go on. Tell me. I won’t get mad. I promise,” Gaheris sulked.

“Such spite and for what?” Morgan said, rolling her eyes.

“He still blames you for killing Merlin,” Agravain snickered.

Gaheris let out a harsh guttural growl.

Morgan sighed, “Honestly, Gaheris. That was years ago. Won’t you forgive me?”

When he didn’t respond, she glanced over. His frown made her spit with laughter.

Gaheris threw up his hands. “That’s it. I’m out!”

“Wait! Stop!” Morgan whispered as she tackled Gaheris and Agravain into a pile of hay.

Two patrol officers were passing by. It was odd. They heard the muffled noise of but completely overlooked the fact that they were three idle horses left unattended to. It was their duty to return them to the stables on the other side of the castle, but that must have been way too much trouble. The patrol continued on and pretended not to see them.

As soon as the patrol was out of sight, a disgruntled Gaheris emerged from the hay and began pulling straw from his hair. “All I’m saying is Merlin didn’t deserve to die. It was childish.”

“Well. In my defense, I was a child,” Morgan noted.

“No! You knew better!”

“It was just a stupid dog!” Agravain stressed.

“You’re on your own. Good luck!” Gaheris said with the snap of his fingers.

Agravain latched on to Gaheris’s shoulder and quickly realized Gaheris was serious by the way he yanked himself free. Morgan hurried over and stared up at Gaheris with remorse in her eyes. She pouted and released something of a whimper. Gaheris knew it was an act but appreciated that she was at least trying.

“I’m sorry, Gaheris. Truly, I am. Please come with us. We could use your strength, your cunning, your guile.”

“Tell me, why do you care so much? He’s not your brother. He’s barely a nephew.”

Morgan squinted as if she was prepared to slap him. “How can you possibly say that? I love your brother as I love you. We’re family. If you or Aggie were captured I’d make the same fuss. Honestly, I never knew you to be so heartless.”

Gaheris turned to Agravain. “And you’re set on this, are you?”

“It’s been too long, brother. I know you feel the same. It’s time for Gawain to come back.”

CLICK TO CONTINUE READING

 

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 3 – Meritocracy (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Original Stories, rock kitaro, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

For those still scrambling for the pieces, allow me to introduce special investigator, Cloud Beaudry. When people think of spoiled, entitled, Millennials with bad work ethics who complain about everything…let’s just say that Cloud forces everyone to rethink those stereotypes. And it probably has something to do with the fact that he’s tormented by a curse that allows him to hear and see ghosts all the friggin time. And of course, when you know secrets that are supposed to be buried, you tend to make enemies among the living.

Five years ago his mother was killed and the local police was quick to pass it off as an accidental suicide. It was a dark, depressing time in his life where Cloud was on the verge of ending it all. Then he met Maggie. And for seemingly no reason at all, she helped him avenge the death of his mother. Cloud was grateful. So grateful, in fact, that he vowed to hunt down those responsible for killing Maggie back in 1959. And unfortunately, there are still names on the list.

Chapter 3 - Meritocracy

Chapter 3 – Meritocracy
By Rock Kitaro

It’s a brisk morning, just before the auburn glow makes its ascent. I was once told that this is the best part of my day and it goes downhill from here. But that’s just a matter of perspective, one I choose not to entertain. There’s nothing like busting out a 5K at five in the morning. There’s no one around. Barely any traffic. With Korn’s “Take a Look in the Mirror” album blasting through my earbuds, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come. It doesn’t make me proud, it just… it strengthens my resolve. And I need that strength. Else I would have killed myself a long time ago.

For those still scrambling for the pieces, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cloud Beaudry. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always been able to hear, see, and feel the presence of the dead.

It started with my ancestors during the Salem Witch trials. The family matriarch wasn’t a witch herself, but was hanged for speaking up in their defense. Since then, a wretched curse has been passed down the Beaudry line from generation to generation.

This curse…you can call it a curse, however, I choose to believe it’s just some twisted sick coincidence. For instance, every generation in my family gave birth to just one scion. Every family member died before they reached the age of forty-five. And nearly everyone has been regarded by his or her peers as crazy or delusional. I’m probably the first to embrace the paranormal instead of letting it drive me insane.

To me, the traditional concepts of weird or normal are no longer relevant. I’ve trained this ability to interact with the dead so well that it’s now about as familiar as my sense of sight or sound. I know. It sounds unbelievable. That’s why there’s only one person on Earth I’ve told this to.

I’m only thirty but the atrocities I’ve faced have advanced me well beyond the years of any average Millennial. That might sound like I’m bragging but I’m not. Dread doesn’t even begin to describe my life. When I was growing up, I couldn’t remember a single night that I didn’t hear people screaming for help. Dark twisted faces, weeping dead children, relentless murderers and the toe curling sounds of ripping flesh and wet hacking…I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.

Dark eye circles of sleep deprivation stayed with me until I was at least twenty-one. It was during that year that something snapped in me. My mother. She was raped for the second time and nearly beaten to death. I’ll never forget sitting by her hospital bed with a permanent scowl lined with crusted dried tears. I never had any best friends. I never had a social life where people sought me out. But paranoia and fear followed me every day of my life almost as constant as the sun and the moon.

It was fear of letting shit like that happen to my mother again, the paranoia of forever being a loser, the butt of the jokes, and everyone’s punching bag. It was fear of failing to make something out of myself. The fear of going mad by watching the rotten assholes move up in the world while decent honest hardworking individuals are stepped on because they lack “ruthless ambition.”

I won’t say I embraced the fear. I only use it as motivation. I turned this negativity into a fuel for production. It’s what prompted me to take my fat ass in the gym and shed 140lbs over the span of four years. I dropped from 320lbs to a healthy, athletic180. Working out and martial arts became a source of therapy for me, an outlet for my frustration. It was fear that prompted me to stay in shape, which is why I’m on this exhilarating jog around my subdivision.

As far as my encounters with dead people, I’ll not go so far as to say I’m no longer terrified, but it’s more like I gradually adopted an air of defiance. I strengthened my mind and stopped worrying about what ghosts could or couldn’t do to me. I laid awake on countless nights watching the blinds rattle and the shadows crawl along the ceilings. Then I’d close my eyes and drift to sleep, fully aware that I may never wake up again. If any demented phantom stared at me from the fog or through some milky reflection or behind that dead tree in the distance, I’d glare right back at them.

If they wanted to kill me, they were more than welcome to try.

After my mother was raped, I switched majors and enrolled into law school. I would’ve preferred to send assholes off to prison as a prosecutor, but defense attorneys made way more money. The idea was to get a good paying job so my mother could quit waitressing and stop sleeping with every flannel-wearing cowboy who just so happens to throw a wink at her.

That plan went up in flames just days before I was about to graduate. After four years of endless studying, of sacrificing the holidays and weekends to climb my way to the top of my class, someone went off and killed my mother. Her body was found floating beneath a bridge on the outskirt of Athens.

The police heard about her promiscuous reputation with men. They also heard from neighbors and co-workers that she believed in aliens and claimed she could speak to ghosts. Eventually, the detectives ruled her death as an accidental suicide. They said she got drunk, bumped her head on the railing, and tumbled over to drown. She was only forty-two.

I can’t even begin to describe how livid I was. My worst fears had come true. This woman was my life! She was the reason why I toiled so hard, put up with so much shit, why I sacrificed so much. Nothing else mattered. We had come so far! Only for it to end like this!?

No one showed up for her funeral. It was just me and fifty white chairs on a cold rainy day. The rage in my heart, it forced me to ask questions no decent human being should ever need to ask themselves. The police were wrong. I knew it from the get-go but as a mere law-grad I was powerless to do a damn thing about it. The outcry of inner demons demanded an audience and to be honest, I was about ready end the torment once and for all. Perhaps it was hitting rock-bottom that lured me to Maggie.

Click to Continue Reading

Knights with No Lords: Chapter 3 – The Violent Orphans (Fantasy Teen Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 24, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords, Original Stories, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Brooding in the shadows, Morgan begins plotting her escape from Tintagel Castle. Under the watchful eye of Tristan, this is easier said than done. Then, a glimmer of hope shines through in the form of two teenage boys fresh from the battlefield.

Gaheris is an inquisitive playboy while Agravain’s an arrogant upstart who’s quick to draw his sword on even the slightest offense. The two make up Gawain’s little brothers and they’re the only ones Morgan can depend on to help her escape. Just be careful. There’s more to these brothers than meets the eye and the last thing you want to do is call them orphans. The castle lads find this out the hard way.

Chapter 3 - Orphans

Chapter 3 – The Violent Orphans
By Rock Kitaro

SIMS – “Crows” (Gaheris and Agravain’s theme)

It wasn’t the first time Morgan was laughed out of a room, but still, it was getting old. The blatant disrespect for authority was no longer cute and she knew it. For two days, Morgan kept to the darkest towers where no one could find her. The cackle of Tristan’s laughter haunted her. She couldn’t shake the sight of his cold blue eyes staring down at her wherever she went. It was maddening.

In the depths of her despair, she wrote poems and limericks, scribbling down all the harm she wished upon him. She made a list of all the times the lion had foiled her plans and designed a punishment for each incident.

For hours, she stared at the ceiling from the stone cold floor and fantasized about beasts feeding on his carcass. She dreamt about his lengthy crucifixion. She smirked wondering how loud he’d scream if he had to burn at the stake. Such thoughts were therapeutic. It seemed to be the only way to pacify the screaming Furies chained within the depths of her heart.

For two nights, Morgan sulked in the shadows of the royal banquet hall. It was here that the Council of Gold Clovers held their lavish feasts, joking and laughing as if they weren’t just at each other’s throats mere moments earlier. Musicians played their fiddles and flutes. Squires dazzled their maidens. Wine drizzled from beards and wives dined on gossip.

The tables were arranged in a U-shaped formation with the king’s platform raised directly in the center. King Mark, Duchess Igraine and house royalty lauded Tristan for his bravery. Morgan watched it all with her back against the wall, glaring with torchlight blazing from her eyes. Their laughter made her sick. Their smiles made her snarl. She remembered a hundred dirty old men laughing at her, how Tristan called her insolent and mistempered.

She crossed her arms and grumbled, “You want mistempered? I’ll give you mistempered.”

While everyone was asleep, Morgan confined herself to one of the storage closets. Her tiny book of spells and potions were written with coded languages and symbols, made legible only to those trained in the arts of Lake Avalon. For hours, Morgan would grind crystals and brew concoctions in a black cauldron. She poured these shiny potions into small milky glass vials, tiny enough to fit into the pockets of dagger sleeves she planned to strap over her shoulder like a bandolier. If the men weren’t willing to save Gawain, Morgan was prepared to do it herself.

The third night…

It was the third night since Morgan was humiliated in front of the Council of Gold Clovers. It’s been three days since she saw the vision of Gawain chained in a ship. It was the final night of feasting, after which, the lords were scheduled to depart in the morning and return to their domains.

Again, Morgan stationed herself in the solace of the shadows. Then the giant doors of the banquet hall opened. The herald announced a new visitor. No one was paying attention. The music and revelry was so loud that no one heard.

“From the Kingdom of Lothian and Orkney, I give you Duke Tiburne and his companions, Gaheris and Agravain!” announced the herald.

A smile slowly surfaced for the first time in so long that Morgan’s cheeks began to hurt. The loud crash of shattered wood got everyone’s attention. King Mark’s longtime herald was a large man, well over three hundred pounds. And yet, a fourteen-year-old pup of a lad was now standing over him, having just broken a chair across the herald’s back.

“That’s not how you say my name, you idiot. It’s Agra-vain. I’d commit it to memory if I were you.”

“Vain, you say? You have it right!” Jonah of Mon scolded.

Agravain looked the baron up and down before walking on, as if he didn’t have time to address every shit stain he happened to come across.

– Click to Continue Reading

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 2 – Horrid Sounds (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 20, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Original Stories, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Florence meets Maggie. Or rather…they’ve already met. And last time Florence checked, Maggie was dead.

Warning: Contains a Graphic Haunting

Chapter 2 - Horrid Sounds

Chapter 2 – Horrid Sounds
by Rock Kitaro

Florence gets an uneasy four hours of sleep before waking up in a cold sweat. It’s just a few minutes past midnight. Her throat is parched but it’s the discomfort from her drenched blue nightgown that prompts her to open her weary eyes. She doesn’t get up right away. She’s too tired. The AC is set to 70 degrees on an already frigid November evening but her bedroom feels moist and warm. So she lies there, contemplating if she should try and sleep through it.

It isn’t until she raises her knee that her heel drags along the bed. She feels an alarming puddle of fluids as if her foot was sinking into a soggy sponge mattress. She sits up, whipping off her sheets with a frantic gasp before the cracking bones in her back reminds her of her age. Shadow stripes from the window blinds line across her face as she sits on the edge of the bed, planting her balmy feet to the wooden floor.

She wipes the bangs from her forehead with a puzzled look. The beads of perspiration once there was now gone. She reaches over and slides a hand across the sand colored bed sheets. It’s dry. She checks the dent in her pillow. It too is dry.

After a soft confusing chuckle, a relieved Florence lies back down and pulls the sheets over her body. As soon as she does, a thousand fingers rush up from the mattress desperately trying to grip at her flesh from her shoulders down to her ankles in a straight line like a tidal wave approaching the shores of her body. The fingers stay submerged under the bed sheets but violate her with the unnerving strength of a groping maniac trying to peel at her wrinkled skin.

Florence gapes open with a groaning shriek. Entire hands jolt through the sheets to wrap around her legs, slithering, grabbing, closer and closer up her thighs like a determined molester on a mission. In a frantic struggle, Florence’s thrashes herself off the bed.

She lands in a hard thud before crawling to the wall. Her heart’s racing. She’s crazy-eyed and panting like a jarhead in boot camp. The patio light goes dim. She reaches for the lamp on the nightstand. It’s not working. The digital clock says zeros in all slots.

Suddenly, the entire house begins to tremor. Rocks grind with the loud tenacity of a jackhammer on cement. The wooden floorboards crack and splinter as they shift and bend upward of their own volition. The walls contract, popping streams of chalky white plaster like water bursting from a pool. A web of cracks stretch across the windows and the bed sheets bulge as if a monstrous anaconda was emerging, slithering from one corner of her bed to the other, slowly approaching Florence.

“AAAAAAAAACK! NO!”

The defiant shout comes from the other side of the closed bedroom door. It was a deep bass-heavy voice, hollow and it echoes. Splintering bangs boomed one after another. As if someone was pounding a nail gun into the floor.

“NO! NO! AAHAAYAK!!! OW-HOW-HOW-HOW!!!”

Florence’s imagination takes her to a dark place where murky death invaded and demanded her attention. All of her worst fears consume her at once.

The screams get louder, more desperate, more dire. The hard mechanical pumps of the nail gun were driving sharp metal into someone’s flesh. She hears it, the tearing of tendons, the wet patter of blood splattering on the floor. The harsh guttural cry was from her husband… Her husband! Florence recognized the voice to be that of James Leach crying out in agony.

“JAMES!!!” She screams.

“RUN” James screams back.

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Knight with No Lords: Chapter 2 – The Lion of Dumnonia (Fantasy Teen Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 17, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords, Original Stories, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Here, we’re introduced to the prestigious King Mark of Tintagel. Morgan interrupts his annual conference, begging the king to send an emissary north to rescue Gawain. While King Mark is sympathetic, there’s one person who stands in Morgan’s way.

23-year-old Tristan is the Champion of Cornwall, the strongest fighter in the kingdom and an unspoken big brother to the youngsters. In Tristan’s own words, “I’ll not risk the lives of my men based on the whims of a mistempered brat playing at alchemy!”

Of course, Tristan should have known better. As if Morgan’s about to accept “no” for an answer.

Chapter 2 - Lion
Chapter 2 – The Lion of Dumnonia
by Rock Kitaro

“Aria” by Susumu Hirasawa –

“YOU, SIR, ARE A COWARD!”

“I DARE YOU TO SAY THAT AGAIN!”

“EVERYONE SIT DOWN! NOW!”

“YOU CAN’T REASON WITH THESE MEN! THEY’RE NO BETTER THAN ANTS WITHOUT A CAUSE!”

“I GOT YOUR CAUSE!”

“ENOUGH!!!”

All class and decorum went out the window hours ago. Spit flew from beards and bugling eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their skulls. Ambassadors from over thirty volatile kingdoms had convened at Tintagel Castle. It was the final week of August. For eight years, this “Council of Gold Clovers” congregated in an annual attempt to resolve differences with diplomacy. With the honorable King Mark presiding, the initiative was supposed to spark hope for a greater future.

However, as of late, the council had turned into nothing less than a competition of who could talk the loudest. Empty words and false promises were passed out like playing cards in a pub. Their resolutions were always unrealistic and there was a running joke that the only reason why people kept coming back was to gorge themselves on the food.

The throne room was large enough to shelter an army of 2,000, yet for some reason it felt congested. Over 150 disgruntled knights, barons, and chancellors had broken from their assigned tables and were now separated in conspiring huddles as if anarchy was in the works.

The day started with everyone dressed in their second-best suits, but by noon, they all looked like sweaty peasants from having stripped off their outer garments. Collars and capes of all colors were discarded like dismantled decorations. Spilt wine lined cracks of the floor. Daggers were driven through tables. It was as if a tornado had ripped through the room and the look on King Mark’s face was priceless.

Mark, the King of Tintagel, just sat there on his gold throne with his head held up by his fists. The black banners hanging above his dais displayed the sigil of fifteen gold coins in an upside-down triangle.

Four knights in full metal armor stood behind the king with their hands resting on the pommel of massive swords. Sixteen servants waited in the wings, ready to tend to the king’s every need. Unfortunately, what the king really needed was some sense of civility, not these animals looking to exert their dominance.

In spite of his position and the veneration bestowed upon him, King Mark’s appearance was far from impressive. He was nearing fifty, shorter than most with a potbelly, bristly hair, and a thick black beard that concealed whether he was smiling or not. Perhaps King Mark’s most endearing feature was his sympathetic gray eyes. He was relatively soft-spoken and hardly yelled, even on the battlefield.

To his left was an empty chair reserved for his wife. However, the queen passed away decades ago and King Mark had yet to remarry. The chair to his right was occupied by the Lord Chamberlain, Sir Cador, a no-nonsense taskmaster. Cador was also Duchess Igraine’s cousin by blood and a strict but doting father to the sixteen-year-old Constantine.

The bickering was unbecoming but everyone knew the topic of discussion would produce such reactions. The main grievance on the tip of everyone’s tongue was the ceaseless terror by the Hibernians.

Unlike Britannia, which was fractious and split with a myriad of formidable warlords, Hibernia was a singular powerhouse of unified clans just beyond the Celtic Sea. It was home to some of the deadliest warriors the world has ever seen. She was a seafaring nation, ruled by a matriarch whose fame and reputation was almost revered and worshiped as the pharaohs of old.

Her name was Iseult, Queen of Hibernia. She benefited from the division and strife amongst the British, fighting for the kingdoms that paid the most. In her web of lies, Iseult orchestrated a number of political murders and framed rival generals, effectively pitting them against each other like pawns on a chessboard. The blood money was steady revenue that made Queen Iseult one of the wealthiest women in the world. She’d promise loyalty and discretion but at heart, the Hibernians were loyal only to Hibernia.

During Iseult’s near thirty-year reign, Cornwall has remained Hibernia’s main rival. Back in the day, King Mark had some powerful allies on his side. Big names like High King Uther, Duke Gorlois, King Leodegrance and even the sorcerer Merlin. But due to a series of unfortunate events, Duke Gorlois was murdered, Uther died, Merlin parted ways, and Leodegrance had to defend own kingdom against legions from an usurping King Vortigern.

Hoping to capitalize on the chaos, Queen Iseult launched a massive siege upon Tintagel Castle. King Mark prevailed in his defense but it cost him dearly. Two thirds of his army was devastated and thousands of villagers loss their homes in the crossfire.

That was nearly sixteen years ago. Queen Iseult’s hatred never faded. Systematically, she’d send hunters across the sea to kidnap sons and daughters from indiscriminate villages. They were brought back to Hibernia and forced to slave labor.

Bereaved parents fell to their hands and knees begging the courts to do something, anything to bring back their children. It was a reoccurring nightmare. To date, all sixteen rescue attempts were crushed at sea. The one vessel that managed to reach Hibernia’s shores fell prey to a massacre that was so barbaric it was omitted from the scrolls.

Thus, the Council of Gold Clovers debated. They argued. They pointed fingers and accused one another of cowardice.

“Are your knights not brave enough?”

“Where’s your courage?”

“Where were you when my daughter was swept off in the night!?”

“Insolent cur!”

“Arrogant knave!”

“I dare you to say that again!”

“You sir, have no class!”

“To hell with you and your antiquated, highborn sensibilities!”

“Let’s see your tongue wag after I’ve split it with my ax!”

“I have five arrows thirsting for your blood!”

“Then draw!”

“Don’t tempt me!”

“LET’S HAVE IT!”

It was all the same with no end in sight. Duke Guinea slammed his fist on the table every time he felt someone was “missing the point.” The loud bang caused Sir Cador’s shoulders to jerk forward like a pit bull on a leash. King Mark would notice and smirk. The mild amusement was about the only perk King Mark derived from the meetings.

An unexpected knock began to crawl over the overlapping conversations. Initially, no one heard it but its persistence began to annoy the competing speakers. The double doors croaked open.

To the king, Morgan was a sight for sore eyes. As soon as he spotted her in that cotton pink dress he was immediately filled with joy. The cluster of old men glowered down at her as she weaved her way to the throne. She wanted to present herself as a young lady should, humble and modest. But no matter what, she couldn’t stop herself grimacing at the nauseating stench of wine and sweat.

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The Slave Quarters: Chapter 1 – Old Smiles (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 12, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Original Stories, rock kitaro, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The elderly Florence Leach has a dark secret she’s kept buried for over 50 years. She’s been able to move on, get married, have children and even grandchildren. Then…one day she welcomes Cloud Beaudry into her home. And let’s just say he didn’t come for the tea.

Chapter 1 - Old Smiles
Chapter 1 – Old Smiles
by Rock Kitaro

I should’ve known better. Smiles are so deceptive. Even in her advanced age, it seems wisdom has yet to falter. Still sharp as a whip. Makes things tricky, a bit difficult, but not impossible. Just take notice and tread with caution. For behind those disarming eyes is a tomb fill with secrets. But I’m a man on a mission and I’ve come to dig.

Florence Leach is a longstanding resident of Macon, Georgia. Her children and grandchildren are all of adult age. Each of them well established, either in college or pursuing some profession. The husband, James Leach, died in 2001 not long after the Towers fell.

Those were some depressing times. But from what I heard, the community rallied around her and gave her the strength she needed to carry on. Since then, she’s gone on to publish a number of whimsical children’s books good enough to give Mother Goose a run for her money.

Yes, if she were my grandmother I’d have every reason to be proud of her. Indeed her grandchildren were very proud. In an effort to maintain such affections, Florence made sure to keep her Southern two-story dream house in order.

Her front lawn was mowed recently, groomed, and edged behind a white picket fence. She must have hired a cleaning crew for the five bedrooms and two baths. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the cabinets or the gilded framed portraits adorning the walls. The area rugs were vacuumed, especially the hazelnut carpeting over the staircase. The kitchen had dark hardwood flooring and there was an exquisite dining table that was so polished you could your own reflection.

She entertains me in the formal study with afternoon light flowing through the windows. Silver platters gleam from the China cabinet. The luster fluctuates from clouds moving in and out of the sun’s way. It’s all so very quaint, really.

Before this day, Florence and I had never met. She didn’t know who I was or what I was about, yet she welcomed me in with such zeal. Perhaps it was my well-groomed appearance, my youth, combed blond hair or unblemished tan. Perhaps it was the sincerity she saw in my brown eyes that lulled her to trust and confide in me as so many have done before. She knew I was an agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, but that’s not why she granted me an audience.

Ms. Florence was simply lonely. And I was new. The intrigue was mutual.

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Knights with No Lords: Chapter 1 – The Vision (Fantasy Teen Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 10, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords, online stories, Original Stories, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Morgan le Fay has a vision. In the middle of a storm, she sees Gawain shackled and bound aboard a slave ship. At last, he’s coming back to Britannia. It’s been four years since she lost him and now she wants him back. But what can a teenage brat known for her mischief do? Who will believe her after all the craps she’s pulled in the past?

Chapter 1 - the Vision

PVRIS – Chandelier (Sia Cover)

Chapter 1 – The Vision
By Rock Kitaro

“It feels like I’m sinking. There’s a swarm of bees in my stomach. The trickle in my ear is nauseating and for some reason these stupid flashes of light blur the lines every time I come close to making something out. Honestly… It’s all beginning to get very aggravating.”

…

A tempest unleashed hell over the vast turbulent seas. It should have been pitch black, but blinding cracks of lightning stretched as veins for miles. Gale force winds howled like demented ghosts over the abyss. Stone-black waves with white crests moved like snowcapped mountains swaying in restless aim. Torrential rains made visibility poor and the dark clouds appeared to be getting closer and closer as if to smother the earth in her sleep.

It was madness to be caught in such hazard, and yet, there! Cruising down the valley of two massive waves was a single frigate carrying the fate of over seventy souls.

A brave crew of twelve wrestled with the riggings. A bearded captain and his second-mate manned the rudder from the wheel deck. They were approaching the Isle of Man, a massive iceberg of an island responsible for more shipwrecks than serpents or sorcery. Navigating through the veils of heavy rain in the middle of the night should have been next to impossible. Yet, there they were.

Prayers whispered below deck as teeth rattled and toes curled. Deafening blasts of thunder kept everyone wide awake. No one wanted to be asleep should the ship capsize or ram against any number of protruding rocks that breached the surface like siege defenses. Falling overboard or being swept out to sea spelled instant death. It didn’t matter if they held hands or clung to floating chunks of wood. In this deluge, drowning was inevitable.

There was royalty on board, a princess accompanied by three of her maidens. Oddly enough, while the maidens trembled with trepidation, the princess remained poised with a hardened sense of determination. She wasn’t about to let herself drown. Even if the ship did sink, there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that she’d find some way to survive. It’d make for a good story and maybe even convince her people that she was more than just some dainty little girl.

Out in the main hold, disgruntled soldiers with broad shoulders and thick beards sat with their backs against the wall. They spat and grumbled all sorts of blasphemies, begging for the worst to be over. Cold water leaked through the cracks, extinguishing all hopes of lighting fires. It was so dark that they could barely see the hands before their eyes. Tormented horses neighed as they struggled to break free. Someone needed to calm them down but no one was willing to risk getting crushed.

And there, past the horses, past the sacks of grain, and gold, and shields, and armor…was a single slave, shackled and chained upside down to the ceiling as if he posed a formidable threat to his masters. Every time the ship jerked, his shoulders would bang against the wooden hull, causing him to wince with intense pain but he never screamed. Nor did he cry out for mercy or ask for help. He was so young, but strong and full of pride that he kept buried deep down inside.

This young slave was dressed like a soldier but marked by a patch of mustard brushed across the chest of his tunic. After slamming against the hull once more, the slave finally opened his eyes. His long hair was brown and curly like that of a Saxon. His skin was olive as if he hailed from the Italian peninsula but those eyes… In his eyes she saw a myriad of herbal hues, mostly jade with a burst of auburn.

Water dripped to his face but the young man didn’t blink. He peered through the cracks, slowly hypnotized by rolling clouds that made it seem as if the ship was already submerged. Lightning struck. He saw it and immediately felt the boom of thunder rattling his core, detonating a migraine he tried so desperately to shake.

It was then that hopelessness crept in. Whatever dignity or confidence once engrained in this young man had deteriorated to the point that he could only think of one thing, one person, a single source of bliss that carried him far away from the pain and sadness. As his jaw slacked and the cool air tickled his parched throat, the young man whispered.

“Morgan!”

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Here’s Why Authors Should be concerned about Sarah Jeong

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 3, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Food for Thought, News and Updates. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Here’s the issue with Sarah Jeong. For those who don’t know, she made racist posts about white people in the past, and despite this, the New York Times has hired her as an editor. Like the author of this video, I agree that people shouldn’t be fired or have their careers ruined for things they said in the past. People change. They improve. And i’m not on board with the mob mentality.

The problem is…this is the New York Times. Right now, journalists and the publishing industry are taking a beating battling the accusations of being biased and unfair leanings. If you’re in charge of a company like the New York Times, why would you hire someone who clearly has a racist past? And then go so far as to defend her by doing as so many have done, just pull the victim card.

This affects me directly because as many of you may know, I’m an author. Since I was 23, I’ve been trying to break into the publishing industry and have made huge gains. I’ve long since seen how the publishing industry has increasingly become left-wing in their politics. Most of the Literary Agents are women and if you look at their wish-lists, most of them are in search of stories with “strong female protagonists,” stories about LGBT characters, and intersectional conflicts.

I have no complaints about that. These are the cards I’ve been dealt. So I accepted the challenge and rose to the occasion, producing stories with a strong female protagonist that tackle many social issues. I’ve seen books published with horrible proses and age-old tired premises. These make the best-seller lists. They make the bestseller lists based on advertising, online marketing, and reviews. Therein lies the rub.

The New York Times is one of the most influential entities when it comes to that advertising and the reviews. Yes, some conservative authors have made it onto their lists, no doubt much to their chagrin…but its a small percentage. And if companies like the New York Times are hiring editors, basically the gate-keepers to commercial success, with clearly racists, misogynistic, gynocentric ,…basically anyone who has proven that they can’t possibly be perceived as fair and impartial…what’s the point?

That saying comes to mind. “If you’re so smart, then why aren’t you rich?”

To me, the answer is clear. It’s because I’m not willing to do “just anything”. I won’t stoop to bashing others for shock value, I won’t pander to an audience and contribute to the illusion that’s continued to keep the young and impressionable blinded from the truth. And more importantly, I won’t jeopardize one of the few things I actually love about being alive. And that’s writing about what I want, because I want to.

That’s why I’m so glad I’ve been able to reconnect with my heavenly father. In my twenties, I was so distant from him. I cared so much about being seen as great and wonderful in the eyes of “the world.” But I’m not part of the world. Ever since my parents embedded me with a Christian foundation, I never have been, no matter how much I tried to run from it.

The Lord is my salvation, my shield, my king, my shepherd, my judge, my refuge, my fortress, my vindicator, my creator, my deliverer, my healer, my protector, my provider, my redeemer.

Thank you Jehovah for stretching out your wings and bringing me back to the fold.

Well, Rock! If you endeavor to do what is good in God’s eyes, then why do you care about the New York Times and Sarah Jeong?

…I never said I stopped caring. I still want to be a published author and until the day I die, I won’t give up on that dream. But I no longer care “so much”. It isn’t a priority. Now, I seek first the kingdom of heaven. If you don’t know what that means, send me a message and I’ll happily point you in the right direction.

Character Bios – The Knights With No Lords

Posted by Rock Kitaro on July 25, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Character Bios, Knights With No Lords, Original Stories. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Screen shot 2018-07-23 at 7.01.28 PM

Morgan – Age 17: Ever since she was a kid, Morgana or Morgan has had magical powers, abilities that no one could ever understand. Being the youngest daughter of Duke Gorlois and Duchess Igraine, she was expected to grow up a lady of the court but her heart was too wild for all that. Rebellious, spiteful, and stubborn, the only one who seemed to accept and appreciate Morgan was Gawain.

When the Hibernians abducted Gawain, they essentially stole one of the few precious things she could say she loved about her childhood. With each day that passed without him, Morgan’s hatred and resentment grew. Soon after, she was shipped off to Lake Avalon where she was trained to master her powers under the tutelage of Vivian. There, she learned how to speak to animals, cast spells, summon fire, and cook up an array of concoctions. Her potential as an enchantress surpassed Vivian herself when she demonstrated an unbridled ability to peer into the past.

Morgan is known for her dazzling purple eyes, dark hair, and near permanent resting bitch-face. She has a personal Percheron horse named Vebby and she’s the younger sister to the Lady Elaine and the Queen Morgaus. Also, Morgan is loud. Like…really loud. She can’t help yelling when she speaks.

Gawain – Age 17: In a dark world where nearly every kingdom is plagued by death and destruction, everyone seems to think the virtuous Gawain will one day be pivotal in restoring peace and prosperity to Britannia. This burden…it lands heavy on the lad.

You see, when Gawain was nine, Duke Gorlois convinced his eldest daughter Morgaus to adopt Gawain and his little brothers, Gaheris and Agravain. While she was initially appalled by the thought of it, one glance at the three boys instantly melted her heart. Gawain knows how fortunate he is and it’s been a chip on his shoulder ever since. No matter what, he has to do the right thing, to honor Duke Gorlois and protect the nation of Cornwall.

That’s easier said than done when you have two little brothers who can’t seem to stay out of trouble. And then there’s Morgan. Even though Gawain was adopted into the family, a special bond cultivates between the two. At the age of 13, Gawain was abducted by the Hibernians and forced into a life of slave labor. And it seems, even the Hibernians can’t help but find something special about Gawain. It doesn’t take long for Princess Isolde to take Gawain as one of her personal attendants.

Princess Isolde – Age 21: Isolde of Hibernia has the type of smile in which you’d never know whether she was impressed or just mocking you. With crystal blue eyes and golden blonde hair that beamed like rays in a forest, Isolde’s beauty was famous far and wide. As the only daughter of the all-powerful Queen Iseult, Isolde was born into a life of luxury, surrounded by some of the fiercest warriors the world’s ever seen. Her confidence is compounded by her own skill as negotiator. She’s used to getting what she wants. Also, she’s somewhat of a masochist.

Tristan – Age 23: The Champion of Cornwall, the Lion of Dumnonia, Tristan has many names and they’re all well deserved. Not only is he King Mark’s favorite, he’s the strongest warrior Tintagel Castle has ever seen. Golden haired and handsome, Tristan is doted on by all the ladies. However, he has the eyes of someone who’s stared death in the face one too many times. As a child, he lost his parents to the Hibernians during one of their many raids.

Ever since Gawain and Morgan were children, Tristan has taken on the big brother role even though no one’s asked him to. Thus, Tristan has always been a thorn in Morgan’s side, always getting in the way of her plans, thwarting her plots. It seems Tristan is just about the only one who isn’t afraid to put Morgan in her place. And of course, unbeknownst to Tristan, the battle isn’t over until Morgan says it is.

Gaheris – Age 15: Younger brother to Gawain and Prince to Queen Morgaus and King Lot of Lothian and Orkney. Gaheris is the cool, level-headed brother who will one day grow up and become the most handsome knight in all of Britannia, a Casanova of sorts who’s also a sharp-shooter with the bow.

Gaheris’s good looks obviously draws a lot of envy from other men, but no one is dumb enough to come at him with feared swordsmen like Gawain and Agravain by his side. And aside from that, Gaheris is a natural born skeptic who hardly ever takes things at face value. When he was younger, Morgan possessed his dog to drive it off a cliff. Ever since then, Gaheris has doubted her motives. Even when she’s telling the truth, Gaheris knows she’s only telling enough of the truth for it to still remain a secret.

Agravain – Age 14: Youngest brother to Gawain and Gaheris, Agravain prodigy swordsmen and natural born athlete. Impulsive and prone to fights, Agravain is the type to throw-down now and ask a few question later. Thankfully, Gaheris is always there to keep him on a leash. Agravain knows this and doesn’t mind.

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