Michael Mayr
Bio
Stories (31/0)
The Pact
Part I: The Summoning of Xanzu I wait until the stars are right and the portents most favorable. I lock myself within a chamber in my sanctum, one that I have dedicated to summonings – here I have called creatures from dark and distant realms, beings that are mind rendering horrible or heart numbingly beautiful. These are what common folks would refer to as ‘demons’ and ‘angels’. I assure you that these words are an oversimplification. Such beings cannot be encompassed by mere words. However, this time rather than just call something to our world, my overall plan is to travel to another. A dimension of chaos and rage. A place of horror. I will travel there to bargain for the answers that I seek.
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Nine Crimson Stones
This was then… Ezokarrian longed to rest. The march in the wilderness had been hard. The cultists had been determined, and their losses had been heavy. Dozens of his warriors had fallen to the witch-cult and their twisted minions. Oh, they had defeated them, put them to the sword all right, but they were a determined foe, to say the least. Determined, and... disturbing.
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The First Time We Met
The woman is younger than me. Much. At least 20 or more years. But her eyes are old. Old, tired and brown. She is dressed like one of those proto-hippie, ren-fest types. Loose clothes, frumpy looking, her nose is pierced. A ring in the right nostril. Her ears are also pierced multiple times – in fact, a lot. Her hair is straight, straight and brown. She is not pretty. Nor is she ugly, just…plain. She smells. A bitter spicy smell, mixed with human stink. I do not like it. She is a witch. I do not know HOW I know this, but I do know it, it is almost like I feel it at an instinctual level. Not in the hipster Wicca sense, I mean the real McCoy. I also know that she is scared…no, not scared. Terrified. I do not know HOW I know this, but I do know it. Maybe that is what I smell on her? The stink of fear?
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Kindly Grandmother
The house was old, very old. Cluttered and lived in. It looked like something from an old black-and-white picture in the country. A place from an earlier, better time. Oh it was a harder time to be sure. People were poor and they had to work hard. But it was a better time. A time before the rot took hold and we became the dystopian degraded folk we are today…
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Seeker in Crimson - A Fragment
The Seeker in Crimson - A Fragment: In my dreams my mind touches his - a repository of sour alien thoughts and ambitions. And to think he fears me? "He" is Viz'Magyar, or that is the closest my fragile human mind can translate his name. He is the Seeker in Crimson. For human generations he has traversed the darkest corners of space and time seeking the location of Yrr'Maleek, the Ebon-king. Imprisoned for aeons in the heart of a long-dead star.
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Obsidian Cube
The Obsidian Cube
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
Requiem for an Unloved Hero
Requiem for an Unloved Hero: No one knew from where the Dark Man came…or for that matter, from when the Dark Man came. A forsaken corner of space and time? Some outre dimension of woe, despair and fear? Was he even from this universe? It was doubtful that even he knew from whence he originated. But did it matter? Certainly not to him…he always was and he always would be.
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Demon's Game - Part the First
Part the First: Plans Go Awry The last year has been hard. Very hard. The damnable nuns of the Silver Sisterhood have pressed their attacks, again and again. Leading mercenary companies and militia levies deep into the eastern wastes, destroying many fortresses and holds of the Demonancers, as well as depleting the cannibal tribes that the Demonancers have relied upon for their troops and support. In fact, the campaigns against them had been so successful that the Demonancers have been forced to retreat back to their last redoubt, a keep deep in the eastern wastes. It is a desperate time for the Demonancers, and their leaders, the Black Triumvirate, are preparing to take desperate measures…
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
Rhialla Drin
Rhialla Drin had always been special, born the seventh daughter of a seventh son and reportedly descended from the fey, it seemed hers was to be a charmed life. Her beauty, intelligence and grace were further complimented by a divine singing voice. Yes, everyone said that Rhialla would not only steal the hearts of many a young man, but that she was destined for great things
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
A Message to the Past
Daemonic ichor had sprayed the walls, the floor and Zavar’s gold and azure armor, as well as his violet-hued crystalline arm. The dismembered bleeding devil-corpses were piled high. However, it had not been a one-sided battle. The mangled and desecrated forms of Zavar’s bannermen were intermixed amongst the daemonic dead. And besides Zavar himself, only his second-in-command, Azadak, still lived. And Azadak was gravely injured, as a burning hellforged blade had pierced his right lung. Even now Azadak sat with his back propped against the chamber wall, and Zavar heard an ominous whistle with each labored breath that Azadak drew.
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Old Friar’s Tale
The old friar walked using his staff for support. Truth be told, he did not want to reach his destination, as he fought back tears, he knew this was to be possibly the hardest journey of his life. However the woman at his side would not allow him to slow his pace, let alone stop.
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ghulahans
My father was a blunt man, blunt in his attitudes and his thoughts. Oh not stupid, not by any means, he just came from a time when people were poor and people had to work, REALLY work to survive. And this had made him…blunt. Being blunt, he was not given to flights of fancy – he once told me he didn’t believe in ghosts, or aliens or the para-normal. Why? I asked. “Because, where are they?” He replied. “Of all those people who have died, many in pain and in fear, where are these millions of ghosts? If aliens were real, then why didn’t they make themselves known to us as either teachers or more likely conquerors? After all, ranchers didn’t fight range wars so they could teach bulls to wear jeans and not to fuck in public. They fought these wars for land, territory and wealth. This is the way of the universe, not some little green men helping people for no good reason”. So that is why he did not believe. Because he could not see it. Being a disrespectful smart ass, I countered with “what about God? You can’t see him, don’t you believe in him?” He looked at me with his stern, annoyed face and simply said: “that’s different”.
By Michael Mayrabout a year ago in Fiction
