The Shovel of Truth

The Shovel of Truth (pictured above) is a +5 golden holy shovel of lie smiting and depression bane. Its use is designed solely to clear away all the nasty crap one's mind comes up with at the worst of times. Like when you think that nobody cares about the things you do.

It's not true.

It never has been, and it never will be. Somebody will always care about the things you are doing. And, sometimes you won't even realize those people are there.

I've been feeling that way recently. I've been kind of in the dumps about a lot of things, and one of those things happened to be my blogging and the results I didn't think I was getting.

Well, I had a real long drawn out chat with a friend of mine and she was telling me about how depression is just one great big lie. It's your mind working against you, telling you things, hateful things that aren't true. It's the voice that whispers about how you messed up that job interview. It's the voice that tells you you're worthless, that everything you've done up to this point has been meaningless.

After a while, those lies get heavy, and I told my friend about how I am. I told her that all I wanted to do was collapse beneath them, let them run me over, just so I could get a little rest. I told her I wanted to give in, and give up. Then I told her what giving up meant to me (and that's not something I'll repeat here), and she told me that I didn't strike her as the type of person who just gave up.

I believe that.

There have been so many points, so many places in my life where I've just wanted to give up. I've wanted to lay in bed and wallow in my grief and self-pity. I've believed the things depression's been telling me. But, I didn't give up.

I kept moving. And, it hasn't always been my own will that's got me going. More than once it's been my wonderful Cupcake pulling me up out of the muck and getting me to start moving again. And, I thank her for that. She like's to say she's a flashlight for me, to help me find my way in the dark. I like to think of her more as a lighthouse, one that shines as bright as any star, and let's me see the world for miles and miles.

And, now I have a shovel to help that lighthouse. Lol. Poor analogy, but I think you get what I mean. I now have a weapon to use to beat that depression back. I have the truth to back me up.

The lie: Nobody cares about my blog/writing.

The truth:

Blogger- On average I get between 20 and 30 hits a day, with one official follower.

Fanfiction.net- One of my stories has 59 favorites, 107 alerts, is featured in 2 communities, and is just shy of 50,000 views.

Hubpages- I have 10 followers, and I haven't posted a Hub in the last three months or so.

People care. The proof is there, and I just need to be patient to get the numbers I want.

So, I'm going to take my Shovel o' Truth, and I'm going to go beat some depression/lie zombies to death. Later.

Ryan
4-23-14

Why Didn't We Start In A Tavern?

So, I’m being a little lazy today. This is something I wrote for my current creative writing project Why Didn’t We Start In A Tavern?. It’s not the first scene, but it’s my favorite scene thus far. I always like baddies like this. Lol.

Ryan

3-18-14

The air in the cave was unlike any else there had ever been. It was eons old swirling in and over itself for all eternity.

Infinity.

A pair of snakes, one eating the other locked in a great loop.

This was how the air thought of itself. It thought it would never change, though that everything about the cave, the paths to and from it, and the clefts that gave it shape and form would never change.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

Some say that the face of death changes with every tick and tock from a clock. The face of death in this cave was pale, white sunken flesh near to translucent and with eyes as solid orbs of cerulean. The face of death had a crack, twisted and broken for a mouth. It was screaming obscenities that even the wind couldn’t hear. Its hair was frozen in thin strands, sticking out in every direction, and the ears were curved and pointed like the cruel tip of a scimitar.

The wind had known this face for eternity. It had always been down here in the depths of the cave: always and forever since the goddess Gaia gave birth to the bastard face of death. Lady Celita, she who is the moon made flesh, ave this face a kiss, a crescent on its brow and made it sleep forever more.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

A hand that had never known the warmth of life flexed inside the ice. The fingers bent and what had once been solid broke free.

The cave and the wind trembled then, as the face of death and the body attached to it moved. First the hands, curling into fists, then the biceps bulging, muscles contracting, and the arms came free. They moved through the ice, were one with the ice, as if it were water, and the fists slammed out through the thin pane of ice and rock.

The wall split, and rock and ice flew like shrapnel, cutting ribbons through the air that thought nothing would change. The hands and arms worked back and forth, clearing the path as it sent rock after countless rock through the air. The wind cried and moaned in pain, but couldn’t stop what came next.

The face of death came free from the ice, and it filled its lungs for the first time since birth. The face of death inhaled, savoring the little joy of killing all that remained of the air that thought things would never change.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

The face of death was free from the wall and from the ice. It stretched and flexed and learned how to use parts of itself it never knew it had. The face of death turned to face the void it had been trapped in and there hid his armor. It was frosted full plate mail, made from an alchemical mixture of black ice and black iron. There was a shirt of chainmail made from the same material, each of the links fashioned to look like hail stones. This the face put on first, then each of the great plates of shaped ice and metal. The face had no need for aid, as the suit knew its master and responded to the call. It smiled as it pulled the gloves and gauntlet tight and at long last drew its helm from the ice.

The helm was a masterpiece, ice and metal shaped into a great polar bears head with a crown of ice sickles rising from the peak. The snout came down to cover the face’s cracked mouth and nose, the bear’s teeth cutting into its flesh. The face of death smiled, relishing in the pain. And, it took one last item from the ice.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

This item was massive with a long rod of adimantium and coiled mithril, spiraling up in a hellish dance till it met the head of the sledge. This was the heart of all ice. It was blacker than coal with a cold that sapped the strength from what air remained. This heart had been mined from the depths of Niefelheim, and fashioned into a weapon fit for the gods.

The face smiled as it caressed the heart of ice with a lover’s touch. The depths captured within the ice gave a start as the ancient magics worked this way and that. The face’s smile grew wider. It turned to the side, swung the great sledge back with all its might, and drove the great hammer back into the void it came from. The world cracked.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

Water swirled behind the ice in a great tornado as a hole was rent in the die of existence. The face of death pulled back and swung again. And, again. And, again.

Things change.

The army was there, standing ten thousand and more strong behind the void, behind the face of death. Long have they awaited this moment. Long have the ice elves kept their hatred burning in their frozen souls. They had been denied the earth, denied the air, and the light of the sun.

Now, they would deprive all things of life.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

It’s the way of the ice elves.