Podcast with Warriors: Kragg's Adventures.

Host: Good morning dear listeners, today's episode is the first of it series where I interview war hardened warriors. Today with have with us "Kragg", also known as the "Immortal zombie brained vampire.". Hello, Kragg, why don't you introduce yourself to our listeners

Kragg: *Ruffled voice* Howdy, its a pleasure to be part of this podcast.

Host: Let's start with a simple question. Whats your favourite wake up routine.

Kragg: That is a tough one, but I know what I love the most in the morning, "The deafening sound of the battle horn, panicked men, gunfire, painful screeches and a cup of brandy".

Host: Interesting and vivid. How long have you been in the war business.

Kragg: If my memory serves me right, it should be close to a 1500 years.

Host: So you are an immortal?????

Kragg: Calling me an immortal would be a stretch. I am from the Inguari tribe, and men in my tribe live upto 5000 years. Humans do not understand our tribe, so they just call us any thing from the  immortal soldiers, vampires, zombies or just some expletives to denote defiled creatures of nightmare. In the recent years we tried UN, but gave up and just accepted one of the names the humans gave us.

Host: That is an eye-opener. I support diversity, inclusion and non-discrimination, so you are always welcome here, brother. Why don't you tell us about your recent war experience?

Kragg: The most recent in my memory is "The war of three states", and I have no clue which three states are the participants of this war. All I do is fight for the highest bidder, collect my payment, and splurge it on immoral deeds, and then wait for the next war to break out. Its a pretty good gig. The payment is good. There is ample amount of blood and gore, and the cherry on the cake is the pillaging. I have raided close to 300 towns, and have partaken in some 1000 pillaging including the smaller villages.

Host: Ooooh, Pillaging, sounds interesting, care to share your observations during these pillaging fests?

Kragg: You are putting me on the spot. The human rights people are not going to like my response.

Host: *Disclaimer* The following are the experiences of the warriors, the channel doesn't support or condone the choices or activities these warriors share during this interview.

Kragg: You are a crafty one. Humans are always a predictable lot.

Host: So with the disclaimer out of the way, we can continue with our story.

Kragg: Well my favorite part of the pillaging is where I get to play with human egos. As long as they are winning, their ego stands out, but the moment they start losing, they bring in their Gods and curses. I have never really grasped the idea of "Gods and punishments", but I like playing with those ideas. That reminds me of one of the pillaging I was part of, and It was a boring event. The other human soldiers were more interested in defiling the living, and it kind of took the fun away from the entire idea of "pillaging". There was no killing of innocent civilian and out of sheer boredom I tried intimidating  one of the inhabitants of that village. He brought up God, and just to humor him, I pretended to feel angst and pain. It was a fun experiment to see despair setting into his eyes, as I tore his limb from limb, while fake-crying in agony of the curses he put on me. It was enlightening. The actual fun started when I brought in his son. The extend to which a parent would go, mostly in curses - I mean, he had no arms or legs left to flail around, to protect their offspring is commendable. The kid I used as a medium to understand the extend of human grit. I pulled out the kids tongue first, along with the vocal chord ......

Host: *Cutting the feed* Due to the graphic description of war on kids, we have to cut short the podcast. Thank you for being loyal subscribers. Your support means a lot to us and people like Kragg. Thank you all, and we will be back with a fresh episode of "Podcast with warriors"

The Litany

 Act V

The pungent smell of gasoline, metallic fumes reveling in back of the mouth with some searing human flesh; not exactly the aromas to knock you back into your senses. The seat-belt dug deep into my shoulders, as I hung upside down in my seat, with the fire melting the faux leather seats.

A click, a smash and a crawl.

Words easily describe the scenario, but those were the longest half an hour of my life, as I slowly crawled my way out of the burning wreckage of a life.

A long sigh later, I tried picturing the scene, piece by piece, memory by memory, memories with holes, but still memories. A gush of tears moistened my eyes, as a face flashed in one of those pieces. Blake, a name very familiar, a name familiar enough to make my eyes water, a name familiar enough to make my gut knot in disgust. He was family, and his face etched itself, as I faded into the darkness, un-beckoned to the distant sirens of hope.

 ...

"The mongrel died!!! What a shame".

A tear trickled down my face as I lay in the burn ward, surrounded by the pigs guarding my escape.


Act IV

Blake was lively that morning, a fresh plan of revenge, a fresh plan to give back to his fellow humans. "Kill two birds with one stone", he kept repeating to himself. He had it in him to make a difference, and he had been pretty hell bent on his idea of making a dent in the society. But, our world is our world. His dents felt more like a verbal jab to a self proclaimed righteous person. Uncomfortable enough to evoke a sense of guilt, but not potent enough to make them act differently based on the guilt. A guilt good enough to help build a resolve, but not powerful enough to keep the resolve. Blake was all talks. A saint at heart.

His ideals were weird, but somewhere I connected with him. The lives of others who suffered with him mattered more to him. He would give away his meal to the hungry, while with hunger he made his bed.

"We are just taking from the rich and giving our brethren what they deserve." His words were always filled with care, and that morning too. His self was motivated with the love for his fellow beings, who like him had been deprived of the life that they deserved.

The plan had been brewing in Blake's mind for some time.

We were given our own roles to play. I knew to drive, so I drove, as Blake rolled down the glass, and let the air breath a promise of new life.

He made us believe - stealing the heaven was easy, but, getting away alive was difficult.


Act III

 
"Pain makes devils out of the saints"

I had seen the change in him. I had seen the change as he buried each of our brothers.

"They take everything and give us morsels to live on, but we should endure, a bit more, we should endure."

Those were not merely words, but those were the words which changed him. Death added weight to these words.

We were a generation of the war, orphans of war, born fighting a war, a war of rights and wrongs. Not our war, but the war of the righteous, war of the saints - we were forced to believe that. The war of those who slept in their silken robes, while we slept with hunger as our companion.

"Peace is the time when the rich plot the next war", Blake would often say, and we were sick of this war, and sick of this peace. We wanted what we deserved. Our own heaven.

Blake was convinced he could bring a change, and we were to play a part in his plan. We were four horsemen of the Apocalypse, Blake often remarked.


Act II


I am the personification of death, I drive a hearse. My guide is our fate, a hand crafted map.

Blake rode shotgun, his arms resting on the rolled down window, the wind ruffling his hair.

Jeremy was the arms expert and Craig did what he was good at - "Intimidate", the war had made him tough.

The car rolled into the parking lot, as each of us took our positions. I was instructed to keep the engines warm, as the others disappeared into the womb of the greed.

Our target was the richest of them all. An oligarch who had made a lot of money selling weapons in the ongoing war.

Blake, Jeremy and Craig entered through the back door. Gun fire was expected, and I clenched the gas peddle with each pounding lead.

The battle was quick, and I heard the gunfire drawing nearer, as Blake and Jeremy exited the building. "Craig is dead, they killed him." I could hear Jeremy wailing as they entered the vehicle.

I drove like a mad man. I was justified in my driving. I drove like a mad man, as we were pursued by the minions of the oligarch.

The first rocket hit the rear wheels, reeling us forward, but the second was not so merciful. It hurled us over in the air. The ensuing blast engulfed the passenger side of car, and I saw Jeremy lashing out in pain as the fire snuffed the life out of him.

Blake smiled at me, as we were thrown up in the air. His gaze deep and painful, he wiped a tear that trickled down the corner of my eyes.

Act I

"Read it backwards, you will feel the pain I feel."  He said, as we crashed.

Soundtrack: https://youtu.be/1qKS51qh4OY

Rhythm of the Southern Chimes

The broken hymn,
Rippling through the time,
Splitting across, solace it seeks.
Solace it offers.

The goddess of war,
With her risen swords,
Saint in her own right, stained with blood,
Blood she offers.

The southern wind chimes,
Hymns of the forgotten souls,
Waiting by the gates of heaven,
Should they fall, should they raise.

The echoes of the lost shores,
Waves of the hidden peace,
Crisp with sounds of a new borns' cries,
She raises, a mother of two.

The birth was a pain, she recalls,
The war gave birth to death,
Blood stained cloths she cleans,
Humming to rhythm of the Southern chimes.

The Black Horse

Step on the shadows,
Ride to the edge,
Take the reigns, 
Let go of the fear.

Step on the light,
Ride the darkness,
I am the night,
I am the knight.

Step on the blaze,
The burning thunder,
A hundred years,
Of cringing pain.

Step on the blades,
The death makes sense,
A millennium, passed,
Decades I count.

Step on the dead, 
I am lost,
Lost, lost I belong,
The rider of yesterday.

The Six Months Of Summer

The gray shades of darkness gone
through the empty sky,
Nothing but the light remains
as the birds fly by
she looks to the southern sky, with hope in her eyes,
The nights are gone, no sorrow nor lies.

The smile of the woman he loves,
The warmth of her breath,
Nothing more can give him peace
a peace unto death
In his arms she lays, safer than she thinks,
No harm would come her way, as long as she lives

Vows were made,never to depart
like the earth and sea
Love would have never been true
if it wasn't for thee
Oh just if the Summer would have lasted long,
The winter would've never brought the misery,

But the summer won't last for long
nor would the birds song
For the winter would come soon
and true love it will prune.
The promises were broken and the silence prevailed
When with the summer to the seas he sailed.

In the kings army, fighting for peace.
sailing on in a hope, to reunite,
but how would he have known,
That the six months of summer,would have taken her.
To the land of the unknown, from where no one returns