Her Dark Baron

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My mind is in the dark.


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Not my body. It knows. I am ready for whatever comes next. This straddles and kicks at, blurs the lines of what many consider sacred and secular, pretty and potty mouth, adventuresome and aimless. Community covenant keeper—in death, in life, in mystery. Like Jesus, with Jesus, I am invited to bear witness to all. For all of this vitality, know what though? I have trouble connecting with my own heart. I get clogged in my head. I position myself around those whose hearts I emulate. First heart, then guts, and then our brains! My friend Stephanie made this alcohol ink heart. I was trying to make a guy like me, a lil Hallmark witchcraft.

Grown-up couples, fingers C-shaped around a setting sun after a marriage proposal? Bubble pink art work on canvases, mugs, event posters? I am learning heart-speak by mimicking others who speak it fluently like this tree. In language acquisition, it takes years to be proficient. Yes, and.


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  5. Both, and. Not the despairing dark. This is darkness that is part of a whole day, a whole life, a universe. Life happens in the dark. We rest, restore. We dream. Roots deepen. A seed cracks open. The womb gestates. The tomb vibrates. We can see stars. Love sings over us. The moon waxes and wanes. This is what I heard God say.

    Breaking bread matzoh! One word, one bite, one hug, one raised clinked glass, one table, one prayer for freedom. One person inviting another to the same, one table. The table expanding for more to sit. The gift of exhaustion? I have enormous privilege in this world. I know this thank God. Write a gratitude list. Then, I get quiet. Fortunately, it fits well with Holy Week. Been listening to the Holy all around. This will be my 19 th Passover Seder. Most years, we host a full house of friends and family. We take time to note who, in this world, especially needs to hear and experience the story of freedom from bondage this year.

    So many too many. I love it all, down to the moment we celebrate in light of Jesus as the Passover Lamb. Hybrid story-ing, like our mixed family. As I cradle two of the biggest, briskety Costco briskets, a hefty bag of rainbow carrots to roast and swim in matzoh ball soup. This weekend is a full-er Reflection: Redemption, Resurrection, Remembrance. Swiss cheesy Hole-y. So in class, I got quiet as our English class worked on their timed essay. We had rigorously practiced how to craft this specific rhetorical analysis and play the Ivory Tower transfer test game.

    Everyone, game day and game faces, ready. One by one, students turned in their essays, proud and relieved. The young woman who normally raises her hand to share all the answers handed me an incomplete essay. She began to toss a word salad at me. I stared at her fingers pointing up and down the paper, as if directing an army of block printed letters to stand at uh-ten-SHUN! Well-dressed but shell-shocked word soldiers, standing 32 shoulder-to-shoulder lines down a page [i.

    A sharply dressed but aimless army. Not one following order.


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    8. I smelled the alcohol. How could I know why she drank at 8 in the morning before class or why it was evaporating her skin from a soaked night? Good thing this is a low stakes practice for the transfer exam. Knowing this changes everything. I despised History classes in high school. It had a lot to do with rote memorization. It got worse when our 11 th grade teacher tried to make me interview my Papa about his experience in the Vietnam War.

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      Speak their culture. For some American soldiers who took these Listening Orders to heart, it meant learning ancient Afghan poetry as a bridge. An American captain who is fluent in Dari a common language in Afghanistan urged the military leaders to learn their poetry. She recited a 13 th century Afghan poem on how all of humanity is one family.

      How I recognize stages of grief, but the nuances are sneaky sabotage. I feel like a disordered essay in my body—aimless army. A trial, a weight. Who will invite each other to tea, to the table? Christians call it Good Friday. What about Saturday? This year, the converging calendars will also have us remembering our history of Waiting for freedom. Around several folding tables in our living room, the Seder becomes our Passover war poem.

      We follow the Haggadah, each person reading from the script. Grown ups—supposedly the ones who know better, who have sat at the table longer, who are more fluent in listening, learning, and speaking the language of humanity—will try to answer. I walk to class, leaving my pre-planned handouts at Duplicating. There, the shadows of brown and black faces in the hallway, many veiled in hijab.

      Some smiles. I zoomed in on his 12 year old daughter.

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      Watching a girl stomping, so focused, made me want to yell with her. Then of course I zoomed out to enjoy the whole spectacle. Fifty praying Muslims murdered by a white supremacist. A Friday, a time when Muslims and their families pray together. Two mosques. Dozens in the hospital. He wrote a something page manifesto blaming Muslims for everything.

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      The man livestreamed his rampage. I look at my Somali student in hijab sitting against the window. Brown eyes widen then squint. She turns toward the window, starts writing in her notebook. A cohort of young Latinas in the back are whispering. Sometimes, I have learned, one of them is translating for the others, from English to Spanish.

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      This haka, a beachside full of barrel-chested, boisterous Australians. Eyes bulge, tongues thrust, muscles twitch and pound. The second haka is by a guy in a baseball cap and hoodie, white tube socks and white workout shoes, one untied. He quietly breaks off of a small group of locals paying homage at the Al Noor mosque site. He uses a walking stick branch and pours his warrior haka out onto the street, a few feet from the police-tape. He chants and yells towards what we imagine is the mosque. His open fingers and hands shake. As his chanting subsides, his right hand still quakes at his side.

      I feel my hands quivering too, as when my whole person joins the stream of prayers for healing over a sick friend. Paga is the Hebrew word for this type of intercession. To take something violently by force; to strike and hit the mark. It is lightning—both solid and gas, human and supernatural—the same form Jesus took standing on the Mount of Transfiguration.

      Lightning rod truth.

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      We sit for a minute. A few students gulp. One wipes their eyes. I ask to move our seats into a circle. I think of surfers who paddle out to sea in memorial of lost ones. Like those at Surfers Paradise. I can tell by body language, we have moved from watching to bearing witness. He slaughtered the dwarven occupants, raising them as undead. When the remaining dwarves came to reclaim the castle he repelled them for three times until, in order to send a clear message to them, he kidnapped the daughter of the king.

      He turned her into a vampire, charming her in order to love him like a father and renaming her Irini Sengir. This definitively broke the dwarves' spirit and they abandoned the castle, vowing revenge. At this time, the dwarves decided to keep secret the existence of a planar portal in the dwarven city under the castle. However, the Baron quickly found hidden stairs leading from his throne room to the Dwarven Gate.

      Even though he knew little of true magic, the vampire knew that a planar gate was a dangerous thing. None of the minions he sent through the gate ever came back. Searching the undeground city and torturing dwarven prisoners proved useless in discovering what lied on the other side of the planar gate, so he decided he would get through only prepared with an army.

      He would forge this army from the inhabitants of the Homelands. Searching the rest of the plane, he reached far in the Dead Zone where he discovered a crumbled spire and, inside it, a sealed coffin. From it, he freed an old crone, completely mad: the two didn't recognize each other, but this was his childhood friend Ravi.

      In any case, the baron quickly sensed the magical prowess of the woman and he brought her to his castle , renaming her Grandmother Sengir. She became his teacher of black magic, wisdom, and lost knowledge. Sometimes later, the Baron started sending his vampires against the citizens of Aysen : his intention wasn't to conquer them, but instill fear in them and erode their morale.

      At one point, the Baron had his servants kidnap humans from Aysen, as well as a vessel carrying thirty one families from Onella to Kerselin. He had them set up small villages in the swamp of his Dark Barony, where they lived under his influence. Even if he didn't need the short lived humans for any purpose, dominating them kept him entertained through the long years, and turning their dead into handservants and vampire warriors made them useful.

      He instigated firm rules: if one person tried to flee the Barony, he would murder ten people in their place. He was aware of the presence of Serra on the plane. After the arrival of Feroz , the Baron meet the two planeswalkers and invited them to his castle. Here, he told them that, since his summoning centuries ago, he has considered Ulgrotha his new home, and warned the two not to interfere with this decreee.

      Obviously, Serra and Feroz didn't agree with him, and started to help out the peoples of the Homelands to develop, in order to be better able to repel the Baron. Later, when Eron became the immortal King of the Goblins, the Baron tried to tempt him, to no avail. So, the two worked out a deal: Eron would ensure that the Sengirian Villagers were getting food and necessities that the growing population could not create themselves, and Baron Sengir would take no more hostile actions against the denizens of the Koskun Mountains.

      Also, with the coming of the Autumn Willow , Sengir sensed a new presence in the Great Wood , hostile to him, and started sending his Royal Hunters through the forest, in order to find out its secret. Around AR, the Baron was confronted by a peculiar Serra paladin.

      Lord Ihsan asked the baron to make a vampire of himself, hoping secretly that in this way he would have had the power to kill Sengir. The Baron, however, saw through the plan of Ihsan, and instead of turning him into a vampire, he made him into a shade and faithful servant. Thanks to Ihsan, the baron learned that his raids of terror were giving the people of Aysen strength and purpose, instead of fear, and that they were united by his hatred of Sengir.

      Thus, he stopped his obvious attacks, in order to wait and see if the citizens of Aysen, without a common enemy, would collapse and turn on themself. In a few years, it began with the persecution of the Death Speakers by the Serrans, a schism fueled by the agents of the Baron. After Feroz's death, he saw Serra botch a rescue attempt of an old man in the market of Onella. With his poisonous words, he remprimended her for having interfered, just has Feroz did; shortly after, Serra left Ulgrotha. Later, he sensed the death of his old enemy, and planted a tree on Feroz's grave, in a sense envying the two lovers their eternal sleep.

      With his most powerful enemies gone, Baron Sengir remains the true mastermind behind every trouble on the plane. He has spies in Aysen who fuel the rift between the Serrans and the Death Speakers. Some of the students in the Wizards' School have begun to succumb to his offers of dark power. His faithful hunter Veldrane endlessly stalks the wood, searching for the fabled grove of Autumn Willow. The thieves Joven and Chandler sell the artifacts they steal to the highest bidder, unaware that this is none other than the Baron, arming himself for the future.

      Even Eron is unaware that his trade agreement with Aysen is tenuous and that many of his guards are secrets servant of Sengir. The great plan of the Baron proceeds smoothly. He will wait until the population of Aysen is firmly divided, then eliminate Eron once and for all, throwing Koskun Keep into chaos. When thousands of Goblins will begin to starve, they'll go where food is easily available: Aysen. Many will die traversing Autumn Willow 's wood, but enough will live to destroy many of the villages and farms of Aysen. After a few more years of complete misery, the Baron will reappear, turn the weak leaders of the Homelands to his control, and offer them a choice: follow him to a new world where they can do as they wish, or die here in misery.

      When the plane was visited by Leshrac in AR, the planeswalker saw a great army of vampires, marching at the order of Ihsan's Shade, probably hinting that Sengir's conquest of Ulgrotha is finally complete.



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