Hell hath NO fury like Sir Trollington the Third scorned

Oh damn, Sir Trollington the Third had awoken and it was hotter than the seven sacks of satan. The feeling that over took him was not one of sadness or anguish, but one of sheer anger and disgust. He had no idea where he was but it was pretty toasty and dark, but not like ocularly dark, more like Marilyn Manson, I like to touch myself to the nsync, kinda dark. No, that specific comparison wasn't dark enough to get the point across about this place. While it was quite dry and hot, not very much unlike what the good Troll thought to compare it to now. Yes, Rosie O'Donelle's vagina was a great piece of symblance for this twisted place. The smells of burning flesh tried, to no avail, to act as a sort of inscent to deter the far gone feel of the place, but what was burning flesh to the screams of the damned? Not a damned thing! A thought crossed the mind of the good Trollington in that or this instance though. Wherever he was it was a place that held a time of homely warmth to it that he couldn't help but want to describe. What was this place that felt torn from reality, but real enough to cause the twisted thoughts that coarsed through the dimensional being. A light yellow flash brought him to his knees as pain flowed through his skull at the sight, but as flashes usually did it instantly disappeared and left the royal Sir stupefied, if only momentarily. A shrill screech brought the male back to reality and in reverance to his snap back he was calmed to see that he still had his cane in his hands, but where was it? Where was the one thing that meant more to him than life it's self? Rage overtook the good Troll who was now a bad Troll for when he couldn't see his beloved top hat in his possession an infernal and hell like rage overtook him.

It was like his soul was ripped from his very head and shoved into the ass of satan only to be shat back out at him like it meant nothing! How?! What could have possibily happened that he angered the fates so to rip from him his very own piece of the world. the one thing that he loved more than any human alive could ever understand? The one piece of him that was eternally replacable, yet not so at all? The God's played a game that he didn't want a single part of and ye tthey had eternally ensnared him in for now. But what if they weren't the workings and machinations of the Gods that brought this upon him? Fuckin' A, it had to be the Druids again that brought him to this unholy place without his top hat! HOW COULD THEY TAKE FROM HIM THE ONE SYMBOL THAT HE HELD CLOSER TO HIS HEART THAN ANY AND ALL OTHERS?! A deep scream elated with a rough growl found it's way from the deepest depths of where the Troll's soul should have been, right where his top hat was, and escaped his lips rocking the very foundation of where he was! It was vicious to see or hear, but then again anything involving something from a dimension past the six was something to refer to as unholy and fear bringing. Oh well, the Troll was now on a mission to find something that moved as he did to discern the location of this hell he seemed to be trapped in, the top hatless HELL. There was no sun to draw power from, but he had surplusses of it himself and a boost of his own momentum filled leap brought him from one ledge to another. Luckily his cane hadn't loosed it's self from his hand because in all of his frustration filled sprinting the good Sir, or bad Sir or whatever, hadn't noticed that the gap he had traversed was filled to the brim with lava. Yeah, fucking lava ran through this place like a fucking river through a canon, or again, like dust through that thing Rosie O'Donelle calls a vagina. The thought was more than sickening to the Trolltastic Troll that was Trollin' through this place.

What seemed to be fate was nothing more than immesurable bad luck for whomever he had encountered first, for in all honesty when the Troll was of a mood such as this he was there to stay and wouldn't be out of it for quite a while. In his mind his rambles and praddles were the only things keeping his sanity, but as he ran the first he saw was a man in a fucking robe! Why would he be in a robe lest he was a fucking druid? The way the fires from the ceiling of this specific cavernous walk was shone brightly from the head of the male, who seemed to have a couple of issues seeing, what with the fact that his eyes were naturally more squinted than a rats, yeah, he had those beady eyes. Well, now it was eye as he screamed out on a continuation of his war path, pulling free his Cane from the eye socket of the buddist monk that had to be a druid just because the Troll believed him to be. The only thing truly worse than a Druid was a pitiful fool who faked being a druid! Or rather something or some one that faked not being a druid when they really were, masking it with some other religion like it was all fine and dandy or some shit like that. Sad sad day when the druids even hated the druids enough to hide being a druid but wanting to be a druid for all of the bullshit druid powers. But if the fates had brought him here, why not bring the leader of the druid as well? It was a natural question that deserved a natural answer, right? Or was the good Sir Trollington the Third too UN natural for this place and these beings? The inner working s of his mind were something that the Troll truly needed to address, especailly since he had now oficially slaughtered ten different beings in this place from ten different races, all of which he falsely believed to be druids, but then he had come upon it yet again. That bright yellow flash that so bothered him earlier and now was meager and futile compared to the rage that he felt for all things of this realm and not. For the anger that he felt for every thing that was would and could be DRUID!

This flash turned into a being of pure red with flowing black hair and a sense of fashion that was much like Sir Trollington the Third's own. If the situations were reversed though, the Troll would have rather worn a tie than keep the shirt open, but to each being his own. The Troll's first rage enduced instinct was to attack, and that was a move that he was surely about to make before a yellow flash again ensued and he felt himself lifted from the ground again! Wait, it was the first time that was actually physical, but it was whatever to the dear Troll, something held him by the next and it felt long. He didn't quite give a shit as long as it was NOT a penis and it wasn't! It was a tail, the tail of the thing that dressed rather well to be from this hot and mundane place. The being spoke oddly with an accent that seemed to be romanian, but then again, thE Troll was never good with placing accents. "You are a new comer to my domain of Hell. On this plane I reign supreme and while i care not if you attack the lesser beings of this land I must say for your sake as some one with moderate power, you mustn't destroy your self by making a feeble attempt to destroy me you, understand?" Through a husky attempt to gain breath and speak simultaneously it could kinda be heart that Sir Trollington was Speaking his great language of Trolltastic proportions. " I will destroy whatever I wish even if it is myself to get to the fucking druids that placed me in this fucking Dimen - - wait, I am in Hell? Really?" The creature not known to ST3 as Azazel laughed a bit before throwing the good Troll a ways off to a wall. it wouldn't have been bad had he not wished to not be thrown but he did and it was, but it was apparent that he wasn't meant to be caused too much harm by the move. The only matter that mattered was that it fell, it fell from atop his magnificent cranium from the throw and it was about to hit the ground. Unable to allow that to happen, Sir Trollington the Third dove and slowed the momentum of the hat a great deal, catching it, rolling, and placing it back at it's rightful place atop his head. A new feeling washed over him, a thankfulness to Azazel for the miracle that he had preformed in reuniting the two that were ironically never parted. Taking a moment to bow to the demon or whatever he was he disappeared in a yellow light yet again and this time the flash brought with it a jackhammer to break the flood gates to Akisame's memories.

In an instant the last hours prior to his death flashed before the Troll's eyes all at once. It was hard to tell what was what as what that which was what was what had happened and what wasn't happenening and that he was dead, but oh well it didn't too hot matter either way. All he really needed to do was analyze what was going on in his own twisted brain. On this very bright and sunny Chicago morning the temporal traveler was called upon by his 'leader' to do a mission that involved him sitting atop a sky scraper two blocks from a diner with a sniper trained on some person that wouldn't be there for hours until he was meant to leave or even move. The whole situation seemed situationally odd for a site such as this was something that seemed socially screwed. The great Troll knew not why he was rhyming so much, but as the sun rose at a quaint six a.m. that day and from that moment he was forced to be stationed and meditation, taking in the power of the sun, and it all lasted for what? A measly six hours? That was only enough juice to make him something like the hulk in terms of raw physical power, yeah, the good sir was a trump card, but there was something about his being here that would have or rather should have been disturbing to the sniper next to him with the rubber rifle and the rubber fifty caliber round loaded into it. He should have been able to been informed that any disruption of the meditation of the other dimensional being there with him would result in an immediate canning for the male and probably a whippy come back.

Oh, how the troll was good with the whippy come backs, but as he thought to himself a moment of disdain drew upon him. The sniper rat had opened his mouth to inform the man of another man's arrival, the target. The first words the spotter spoke were "Cloak sir!" or rather that's all that the man in the top hat took from it. THAT drew the D, or the first one for despicable. The R that the leader of the agency drew was in reverance to his actions causing a report of him bringing fear to a hapless trollette of a waitress. SIMPLY REPUGNANT! The U came with the usurping of the weapons that were controlled by the patrons of the diner because theivery was just not nice or acceptable unless prefromed by those knighted in the court of Trolltastity. There was something the good Sir did not like about this man and besides his shitty decorum and infallible failure in the art of fashion his I came from I CAN'T STAND THE WAY YOU FUCKING HOLD YOURSELF! The last D was a damn, you gonna start all this shit and run? It was a simple process of elimination really, the man was what the dimensional troll hated most, a Druid, or at least in his eyes he was, but that didn't matter. He had no order cause or clamor to attack the man known as the leader of one of the worlds greatest organization formulated in the name of peace, no sir he did not. Rapping his cane lightly against the head of the sniper he had propelled himself high into the air before the small man could even look away from his scope. His last words were, "Sir the man is making an attempt at leaving!," but they were registered to Sir Trollington the Third as, "The druid is trying to run away from the power of the sun!"

Akisame Sakake was armed with surplusses of energy and with that he had no reason to attack the leader of whatever loser group was trying to make ammends with his, but there was a druid about and he could not at all let that go un checked. He did what a skyscraper always wanted to and scraped the sky, jumping high enough to equal two and a half of the modern sky scraper heights(much like the one he was on) and used both his powers in unison to accomplish a few things. Number one was to use some of his solar energy to augment his momentum power and double his own descent speed. Two was to increase his body's own strength so that the fall wouldn't harm him. And even though the second would take the focus of much of his reserve of stored solar energy the third was the best of all. It was aiming himself to land right upon the thing that he believed to be a druid, one of the whelps that landed him into this plane of existance to stay for a short while, that time being a millenia or two. It was hard to tell how fast he was going from his point of veiw, but the speed had to be pretty fast given the power of his jump and of course that all mighty gravity that effected all things as it normally did. A fourth thing came to the mind of the troll mid fall, his bloody wooden cane was still in his right hand as it usually was and that wasn't good. He couldn't leave it on the sky scraper as the ceiling caved from his jump, and now there was that moment where the weight of the world was upon him as he had a decision to make. Placing his cane in his mouth he used his power once more to augment his other power to slow down his target's momentum by half as it left the diner's main entrance/exit. Either way it went there was a good bit of noise making, and screaming, and praddle about police and the impact of blah blah blah crushing blah blah blah. Standing up, the great Sir Trollington the Third being the great troll that he was brushed himself off a bit and moved to playfully kick(attempt to punt the fucking thing to the sun) the head of the SHEILD leader as his first "legitimate" attack against SHEILD and all of it's cohorts. But twas the way of the troll and as such he removed his cane from it's horizontal position clenched between his teeth and placed it upon the ground walking towards the less obliterated sides of the diner smiling quaintly at the waitress, "May I have a slice of apple pie with the works ma'am? I just killed me a druid!" Walking to his boss' table which were one of the few that didn't become one with the destruction he raised his brow slightly, "Do you really think this 'Sunny D' allows you to taste the power of the sun?" Turning his head a bit he saw a piece of purple garment that looked to once be attatched to a cape and simply asked his symbiotic friend, "Da fuq is Prince doing in Chicago?"

Remembering his actions now there was no way that the good troll could regret them as he had killed the king druid. The head honcho of druidism was dead and the cocky prick was probably somewhere in hell, but that being said his being in hell was something he had to verify before that little monkey ringing the gongs in his head did a flip and he was propelled in the direction of the finding and re assimilation of said druid. Oh that would be the day, the one where he could again meet with he leader of the druids and destroy him and the rest of them, but as for right now the one who came and went in the yellow flashes was back and with his rearrival came more information, the conformation that he was right and that leader druid boy man dude was actually in hell with him, but now he was curious to see the face of a man as dead as him and how said man would react to t new ss that they were in hell. From what he could tell, the good Sir was and would be entertained until he found a way out of this area and back to his own world, but he had not enough time to waste any for he had to get out of here and make it back before the whole thing with the phoenix wanting to destroy the world coming about. It was truly hard to be a royal Troll in hell, but even the best of the best trolls had to do what they had to do to get things done and this was something that he had to do for himself, his position, his people, and most of all for Earth because any place plauged by druids needed them assimilated with extreme prejudical force. while it was an opinion of the man he knew it in his very heart, soul, and most of all, top hat that he had to do this for the very sake of the eternal everything. it was a momentus moment of finding his true calling in life, but in that same instance a being just magically appeared as if by means of something so farfetched in this realm as teleportation. Indeed, such an idea made no sort of sense at all in any way.

3172 words

"OooooOOOOoooo I am the ghost of trolling past, ye will be visited by three ghost's before your stay is finished" it was Hiim, yet it was not instead of being black and white he was a ghostly bluish green. It truly was not Hiim as the man was still alive but in the hallucination filled world of Akisame he would be completely convinced that it was in fact his boss man, the symbiotic son of a bitch known as Ray Morino or Hiim. The being was intangible and if trollington wished to play his rage out on a familiar face he would become extremely disappointed but hey at least it was a ghost and not a druid. Nasty things those, worshiping something that was not even remotely close to them, something they truly knew nothing about. Rather foolish if you asked the specter which was now haunting Trollington through his visit to hell.

Hell was a fucked up place it truly was, and the beings trapped inside were the fucked, the beings that wished to be there were the fucked up. The later grouping was the one which Hiim-Specter belonged to and so as it's form wavered he removed the previous ghostly shackles for the choice of a top hat, monocle, and a mustache. All of which looked completely foreign on Hiim and thus made him look extremely ridiculous.

"First we must bring you back to your childhood" this was a lie that was uttered from ghostly lips it would not be the childhood of Akisame but instead a cookie cutter one.

It was snowing in the place they now magically were, they stood outside a two story house that was a pale bird egg shell blue, with about three windows that one could see from the front. The two beings (Hiim-Specter, and Trollington) stood about ten yards in front of the house where they could see a shoveled walk way and cracked cobbled pavement below what little flecks remained attached to the pathway. Shovels could not get every bit of snow off after all, only heat could and although they remained in hell, here there was no heat. In fact it was rather cold and as such the Hiim-Specter now wore a down parka, making him look even more silly.

The house stood silent as a sentinel and inside was the warm blue glow of a television that revealed a family sitting on a couch, there was a father and a mother and one child. Their guardian, a golden lab sat quietly curled on the rug below as the family moved about and chuckled sharing some sort of bonding moment.

"Do you remember your gift that christmas? Your very first training bra, you were so happy" the Hiim-Specter said with a smile on his face as he pointed towards the house that like him was intangible.

-477-

Hell was a really weird place for a being such as Sir Trollington the Third. Not only because of what it meant for him to be here, but because he had this inkling that he could and would escape. The thing was though, that he was going not only moderately but extrememly insane, not to say that he wasn't just to imply that there was a reason for what the fack he was seeing before him. Or rather, there should have been at least, right? As he tried to explain the ghostly figure in front of him and discern his Jibba Jabba he realized that he couldn't and swiftly gave up, tilting his cap to the male and blowing hard to rid himself of the odd trepedations of the cold weather that the ghastly ghoul had brought up. It was clear that since he had come from the mind of the Troll that he couldn't be a druid, but what he was doing was too much for the man and that being said something had to be done to quell the flames of hellfire and predition that seemed to follow Trollington around down here. That and the seven foot tall bright red demon would probably not like snow and Trollington was one to please, not anger those who ran blah blah blah and could bleh bleh bleh in the plain of who gave a fuck that he was on. Yes, he had to be duly respectful and the good Troll knew just how. The little hampster that was running on the wheel of his brain and powering the dust filled thing tried and tried until it's little legs exploded and with that gore came the horrific spilling of blood to run red from the good good Sir's nose. It mainly had something to do with the facty that in the back of his twisted mind he was re-imagining the last time he had bed a human woman and the simple thought made the flood gates open, but then again that was neither here nor there at the moment. The point was that the Troll was here and he had to do something better than nothing because nothing would only furth the failures of the something he was trying to produce.

Oh, how magical it was that no one, barely even the illustrious Sir Trollington the Third, could understand the machanisms of the good Troll's brain. Yesh, it was really hard to understand, but either way it was fair to say that he had two paths set in front of him as to ways to handle the situation at hand. In his mind neither was feasible and so he ran down the central path without choosing a side. He was duly confident that by standing on his own they'd see the truest form of a Troll when he was shining through and the area seemed to warp around the two of them again to a collesium setting. In Trollington's right hand was a cane sword and in his left a hardy jar of dirt. A true blast from his past was the time he spent in the gladitorial sands and with that he looked at the ghost and watched said apparition gain the armorments of a true ghost, a loin cloth and a sheet. This would be the true setting for his bout with the past to get to understand himself, that or the dicky the douchey ghost would try to make him a school girl bent on having a snow day again. To that thought came an audible scoff and a sneer in the direction of the ghost. On the day in question the crowd seemed to want to demand blood and that was or rather would be doable, if ghosts bled, but ectoplasm would have to do it seemed and Trollington was sure it was just like milking a cow. A memory of his last attempt at doing so flashed into his mind and the giddy chuckle was quelled long enough for the eerie sight to be mentally portrayed to the entirety of the crowd oddly. The mixture of disgusted ewws and odd puking noises sort of confused Trollington, but he didn't let the confusion get the best of him here. The scariest part though, was that the ghost had it, he had the sheet of fucking destiny and there was nothing that Trollington couldn't do about that. Oh DAMN, there was nothing he could do about that this instance that he couldn't do elsertimes, but he didn't or rather didthe one thing that seemed most prominent, which was nothing. Oh yeah, fucking nothing was the best way to go this time. In his eyes was the power of the tiger and they weren't the eyes of the tiger, no. There was tiger blood coarsing in his veins and unlike Charlie Sheen he didn't need to be on copious amounts of cocaine to relish in the fact that he did have this power. There really was no bonus power, it was just the way he liked to view situations like this to occupy more time and his mind further to really get the full experience of his psycho experiences such as this. It wasn't quite that he was completely crazed and insane, just that the man couldn't get a grip of himself completely until he came back to life. Or what he knew as a life since his accident that perma banned him to the earthly plane, but that again rekindled his hatred for the druids and although the ghost wasn't a druid he would get the business if things didn't hurry along and he was freed very quickly. A few more thoughts would bring the male to the point where he needed to be of Trolltastity to jump and land amongst the crowd and unleash a monstrous scream from the bowels of his gut. It wasn't meant to be an intimidation factor, actually the exact opposite, an attempt to attract the females of ancient rome, but that didn't mean anything. With a large jump and a slash he was ready to attack the good ghost of Troll's past like he was a druid!

Word Count 1035

WHY WAS IT LIKE THIS?! WHY COULD THE DREAM NOT CONTINUE LIKE IT HAD STARTED WITH THE GOOD SIR TROLLINGTON ENGAGING HIS PSYCHO VISION IN MORTAL KOMBAT?! Eh, Trollington didn't give too many shits about this factor of the situation. It was the truth in the matter of the fact that he was now kidnapped in a hell in which he didn't truly belong. He knew he believed the druids were real because he killed them and that the realms were supposed to be split, but here he was chained to a rock above a sea of flames waiting for a fucking break through in his master plan that involved nothing less than the blood of the God of the Underworld who had him chained to this rock spilt. In the midst of his mind altering day dream with a figment of his imagination, the king of tartarus came and crashed a fist over the back of Sir Trollington's neck. The situation in it's entirety angered the good Troll besides the fact that Hades was smart enough to not ever touch the male's top hat. That would cause a war of the worlds to ensue. Even though the hat proved to be hot at times all of the women found it hot all the time and it gave a sense of regality to ever situation that he was in and that was enough to make him want to do a quick dance, something like a shuffle. Ah, back in his dimension, the twelfth, the Troll shuffle was something that all the buxom beauties fell for instantly. It was more than enough for every time it was done to cause a massive orgy to break out with Trollington being the only thing with a hulking mass of cartilidge mating with several women in the room, since that was what had to happen when there was only one man in an orgy. Yeah, that was the good stuffs right there, Trollington and his orgies were something of legend to anyone that had been to the sixth dimension or higher, but on Earth his massive sexual conquests against women that made theirs look like chicken fodder meant little. The thing was though, that the good Sir wasn't wearing his top hat and that in of it's self was troubling to him because when he didn't have his top hat he was placed in a bad mood. And by bad mood he had now officially considered the ruler of this domain a druid and by druid he meant that he wanted to fucking kill the flame headed retard. I mean come on, even me as the narrorator can tell you that if you were chained to a rock hotter than hell and completely naked, stripped of the items that you so deeply loved, you'd be pissed beyond belief. But I digress more than I should from the story. So stripped naked, chained to a rock, left soulless, and given no excuse were all ways to describe what was going on with Akisame right now. For some reason it was thought to be smart to piss off someone like this and while he had to deal with the phoenix force he knew that it was going to get stinky if he didn't get the fuck out of there sometime soon and even stinkier if he killed the God of death so he chose not to. Nope, not even now as he did this, but in a room there were doors, as all rooms had. There was one on the opposing side of this area with the door cracked open a bit and while that didn't worry Trollington he could hear something, the voice of the dark one that had ensnared him here. In a few narrow flashes of light the good Sir was free and with his clothing and for that he had to thank the demon Azazel for now he had time and opporotunity to strike with his will in tact. As he placed the top hat on he couldn't help but listen to the failed Serenades of the fucked up ruler of the greek underworld. They were words that he knew well from living through that period and something inside of the great Sir Trollington the Third, quite possibly the poet in him as he at Shakespeare's real left eye after they wrote a play together, forced him to sit there and recite the words along with Hades. It was like something out of a weird porno seeing as Hades was doing it to get laid. I.

I.

WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.




II.

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me still;
My better angel is a man right fair,
My worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell:
For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell;
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.




III.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;
Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,
Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?




IV.

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear;
She showed him favors to allure his eye;
To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there,--
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer:
Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:
He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!




V.

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd:
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd.
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful
thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,
To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.




VI.

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an osier growing by a brook,
A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen:
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim:
The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.
He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood:
'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I a flood!'




VII.

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she coined,
Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing!
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.

She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth;
She framed the love, and yet she foil'd the framing;
She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.




VIII.

If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lovest the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.




IX.

Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,

* * * * * * *

Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild;
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill:
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;
She, silly queen, with more than love's good will,
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds:
'Once,' quoth she, 'did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!
See, in my thigh,' quoth she, 'here was the sore.'
She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.




X.

Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon vaded,
Pluck'd in the bud, and vaded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded!
Fair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting!
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,
And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have;
For why thou left'st me nothing in thy will:
And yet thou left'st me more than I did crave;
For why I craved nothing of thee still:
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.




XI.

Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her
Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him:
She told the youngling how god Mars did try her,
And as he fell to her, so fell she to him.
'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god embraced me,'
And then she clipp'd Adonis in her arms;
'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god unlaced me,'
As if the boy should use like loving charms;
'Even thus,' quoth she, 'he seized on my lips,'
And with her lips on his did act the seizure:
And as she fetched breath, away he skips,
And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.
Ah, that I had my lady at this bay,
To kiss and clip me till I run away!




XII.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee;
O, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long,




XIII.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it gins to bud;
A brittle glass that's broken presently:
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemish'd once's for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.




XIV.

Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share:
She bade good night that kept my rest away;
And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come again tomorrow:'
Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:
'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,
'T may be, again to make me wander thither:
'Wander,' a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.




XV.

Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with sorrow;
For why, she sigh'd and bade me come tomorrow.

Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the hours;
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succor flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:
Short, night, to-night, and length thyself tomorrow.




* * * * * * *

Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music

-

XVI.

IT was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.

Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight,
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight:
To put in practise either, alas, it was a spite
Unto the silly damsel!

But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain
That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain,
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain:
Alas, she could not help it!

Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away:
Then, lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;
For now my song is ended.




XVII.

On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen, gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath,
'Air,' quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas! my hand hath sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet:
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.'




XVIII.

My flocks feed not,
My ewes breed not,
My rams speed not,
All is amiss:
Love's denying,
Faith's defying,
Heart's renying,
Causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady's love is lost, God wot:
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love,
There a nay is placed without remove.
One silly cross
Wrought all my loss;
O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame!
For now I see
Inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.
In black mourn I,
All fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me,
Living in thrall:
Heart is bleeding,
All help needing,
O cruel speeding,
Fraughted with gall.
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal;
My wether's bell rings doleful knell;
My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd
Plays not at all, but seems afraid;
My sighs so deep
Procure to weep,
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound
Through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight!
Clear wells spring not,
Sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not
Forth their dye;
Herds stand weeping,
Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping
Fearfully:
All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for Love is dead
Farewell, sweet lass,
Thy like ne'er was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan:
Poor Corydon
Must live alone;
Other help for him I see that there is none.




XIX.

When as thine eye hath chose the dame,
And stall'd the deer that thou shouldst strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy partial might:
Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young nor yet unwed.

And when thou comest thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,
Lest she some subtle practise smell,--
A cripple soon can find a halt;--
But plainly say thou lovest her well,

And set thy person forth to sell.
What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will calm ere night:
And then too late she will repent
That thus dissembled her delight;
And twice desire, ere it be day,
That which with scorn she put away.

What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say,
'Had women been so strong as men,
In faith, you had not had it then.'

And to her will frame all thy ways;
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy lady's ear:
The strongest castle, tower, and town,
The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,
And in thy suit be humble true;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Press never thou to choose anew:
When time shall serve, be thou not slack
To proffer, though she put thee back.

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.
Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman's nay doth stand for nought?

Think women still to strive with men,
To sin and never for to saint:
There is no heaven, by holy then,
When time with age doth them attaint.
Were kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.

But, soft! enough, too much, I fear
Lest that my mistress hear my song,
She will not stick to round me i' the ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long:
Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewray'd.




XX.

Live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love.




Love's Answer

If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.




XXI.

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry;
'Tereu, tereu!' by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain!
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead;
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find:
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call,
And with such-like flattering,
'Pity but he were a king;'
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have at commandement:
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown
They that fawn'd on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep;
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

These thoughts once again made him become ensnared in the memories of how he was brought to his death. On this very bright and sunny Chicago morning the temporal traveler was called upon by his 'leader' to do a mission that involved him sitting atop a sky scraper two blocks from a diner with a sniper trained on some person that wouldn't be there for hours until he was meant to leave or even move. The whole situation seemed situationally odd for a site such as this was something that seemed socially screwed. The great Troll knew not why he was rhyming so much, but as the sun rose at a quaint six a.m. that day and from that moment he was forced to be stationed and meditation, taking in the power of the sun, and it all lasted for what? A measly six hours? That was only enough juice to make him something like the hulk in terms of raw physical power, yeah, the good sir was a trump card, but there was something about his being here that would have or rather should have been disturbing to the sniper next to him with the rubber rifle and the rubber fifty caliber round loaded into it. He should have been able to been informed that any disruption of the meditation of the other dimensional being there with him would result in an immediate canning for the male and probably a whippy come back.

Oh, how the troll was good with the whippy come backs, but as he thought to himself a moment of disdain drew upon him. The sniper rat had opened his mouth to inform the man of another man's arrival, the target. The first words the spotter spoke were "Cloak sir!" or rather that's all that the man in the top hat took from it. THAT drew the D, or the first one for despicable. The R that the leader of the agency drew was in reverance to his actions causing a report of him bringing fear to a hapless trollette of a waitress. SIMPLY REPUGNANT! The U came with the usurping of the weapons that were controlled by the patrons of the diner because theivery was just not nice or acceptable unless prefromed by those knighted in the court of Trolltastity. There was something the good Sir did not like about this man and besides his shitty decorum and infallible failure in the art of fashion his I came from I CAN'T STAND THE WAY YOU FUCKING HOLD YOURSELF! The last D was a damn, you gonna start all this shit and run? It was a simple process of elimination really, the man was what the dimensional troll hated most, a Druid, or at least in his eyes he was, but that didn't matter. He had no order cause or clamor to attack the man known as the leader of one of the worlds greatest organization formulated in the name of peace, no sir he did not. Rapping his cane lightly against the head of the sniper he had propelled himself high into the air before the small man could even look away from his scope. His last words were, "Sir the man is making an attempt at leaving!," but they were registered to Sir Trollington the Third as, "The druid is trying to run away from the power of the sun!"

Akisame Sakake was armed with surplusses of energy and with that he had no reason to attack the leader of whatever loser group was trying to make ammends with his, but there was a druid about and he could not at all let that go un checked. He did what a skyscraper always wanted to and scraped the sky, jumping high enough to equal two and a half of the modern sky scraper heights(much like the one he was on) and used both his powers in unison to accomplish a few things. Number one was to use some of his solar energy to augment his momentum power and double his own descent speed. Two was to increase his body's own strength so that the fall wouldn't harm him. And even though the second would take the focus of much of his reserve of stored solar energy the third was the best of all. It was aiming himself to land right upon the thing that he believed to be a druid, one of the whelps that landed him into this plane of existance to stay for a short while, that time being a millenia or two. It was hard to tell how fast he was going from his point of veiw, but the speed had to be pretty fast given the power of his jump and of course that all mighty gravity that effected all things as it normally did. A fourth thing came to the mind of the troll mid fall, his bloody wooden cane was still in his right hand as it usually was and that wasn't good. He couldn't leave it on the sky scraper as the ceiling caved from his jump, and now there was that moment where the weight of the world was upon him as he had a decision to make. Placing his cane in his mouth he used his power once more to augment his other power to slow down his target's momentum by half as it left the diner's main entrance/exit. Either way it went there was a good bit of noise making, and screaming, and praddle about police and the impact of blah blah blah crushing blah blah blah. Standing up, the great Sir Trollington the Third being the great troll that he was brushed himself off a bit and moved to playfully kick(attempt to punt the fucking thing to the sun) the head of the SHEILD leader as his first "legitimate" attack against SHEILD and all of it's cohorts. But twas the way of the troll and as such he removed his cane from it's horizontal position clenched between his teeth and placed it upon the ground walking towards the less obliterated sides of the diner smiling quaintly at the waitress, "May I have a slice of apple pie with the works ma'am? I just killed me a druid!" Walking to his boss' table which were one of the few that didn't become one with the destruction he raised his brow slightly, "Do you really think this 'Sunny D' allows you to taste the power of the sun?" Turning his head a bit he saw a piece of purple garment that looked to once be attatched to a cape and simply asked his symbiotic friend, "Da fuq is Prince doing in Chicago?"

Da fuq was prince doing in Chicago? THAT WAS THE ANSWER ALL ALONG! PRINCE! Bursting through the large double doors he jumped in the bed between the two. All it would take for him to come back to life is being banished from hell or at least kicked out for the time being and the rest would be rinkity dinkity. He threw a kick at the head of the lord of the area and landed it, sending him reeling a little bit. It was a good feeling in all actuality and Persephone, the whore that she was, lay naked upon the bed. Shaking his head a bit the Troll decided to show her his 'disco stick' offering her a ride, but retracting it seeing as he could feel the punch coming for his top hat from behind due to the anger displayed by the woman's husband. It wasn't too much to duck under it and use his own powers to speed it up using the excess momentum to launch the lord if the realm out of the double doors and into the fires that he left on the floor under the good Sir before he had made his demon attributed escape. It was great how he did these things, but in the end it was a matter of yes or no. He didn't care much for impressing the woman, but the fact that his turning of his hips created a circular motion strong enough to blow her hair a bit, the legendary helicopter dick. He did it and she seemed dumb struck, dumb struck enough for the good Sir to become bored. Boredom caused the Troll's mind to go into an area where as it shouldn't and with that he felt as if the queen of the underworld was short a few tomatoes of a salad. In all honesty some sane part of the troll knew that she was fine and knew what he was doing was wrong but it was to spite Hades. He pressed the tip of his cane to her forehead lightly and used his powers to slow the reaction time of her brain enough for it to move at only twenty five percent of it's natural pace. It was a sweet parting gift as the Troll felt his time in hell was up and with another yellow flash he was gone and placed back where he was left, ready to get the fuck out of wherever he was and into where he wanted to fucking be. Oh how sweet it was to be back, top hat and all.

TOTAL WORD COUNT 10176 Fuck you Hell, ST3 is OUT