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tual, one that could give you the edge. Your blood, prince, the power within is not fully realized. I can unlock that power for you. Your father, the false king refused it. You are far more understanding than him." "And the cost?" Prince Ragar asks. Lorthander motions to the prisoners in the cages. "All of them." Prince Ragar ponders a moment. "There's no telling how many more my father would continue to kill with an extended lifetime. It could be infinite. Their one-time sacrifice will not be in vain. I will be a better king than my father. Do it." "As you wish...my king." > Back "You, Lorthander, created the Unbroken?" you ask as you come back to reality. Ragar was the first, but he is not the last. I know you hear the voice. I can sense the power within you. "What do you know of the voice?" It's a side effect of the ritual. The blood of the hellspawn wants to control the host. It wants to feed, and left unchecked, it will consume the host in a neverending blood rage. Some urges are stronger than others. I'm sure by your age you know that by now. "If you created it, perhaps you can cure it," you say. There is no cure. It's in your very blood. The blood of the hellspawn mixed with Osborne's 'divine' lineage, always at odds within, coaxing the host to draw on its power. The dark figure, the shaman, Lorthander, releases you from suspension in the air. Your feet hit the ground with relief. "I'm not some young prince to be misguided. It's clear you want something from me, otherwise you would have attacked me same as the others," you say. Another false king sits on the throne. The Emperor has spread rumors that he is Unbroken. He's not, I can assure you of that, even if he desperately wants to be. I am bound to the throne. I am bound to you, the true ruler. "I am not royalty, and I have no desire to rule. I'm afraid your loyalty is to the wrong man." The best leaders are those who do not strive for power. They have nothing to prove. They only do as they must. "I know what you're asking, Lorthander. I've been fighting the Empire my entire life. If I could simply stride into the Emperor's throne room and slay him, I would." You can now, with my aid. Together, we will overthrow the Emperor. I will teach you to control the power, to control the voice. If left unchecked, it will consume you. > You allow Lorthander to teach you "Alright. I will do whatever it takes to bring the Empire to its knees...but our partnership ends with the Emperor's life. Don't think for a second that I trust you, Lorthander," you say. A slow chuckle emanates from underneath the hood. As you wish. The threat neutralized, if you could call it that, you immediately check on Seth. His fall wasn't as graceful as yours. Both of his legs appear broken, judging by the size of the boulder on them. Seth's eyes are closed, but at least his chest rises and falls with breath. He's alive, though in bad shape. Your hands grip underneath the boulder and using the strength of your legs, you manage to roll it from Seth's legs. "Sorry, kid. (cough) I lost myself for a second there," he weakly whispers. "Why is it that I always find you injured?" you say trying to lighten the mood. "You're getting slow in your old age." "You know me. I like my rest," Seth answers. "What of the shaman? Is he dead?" "Not exactly..." The dark shape of Lorthander towers behind your kneeling body. The gnarled staff hits the ground near where Seth lays. Seth immediately throws one of his swords at the shaman, which harmlessly flies through Lorthander and bounces off the wall behind him. It's unwise to attack your healer. "Keep your sorcery away. I can manage on my own," Seth says. We don't have the luxury of time. Our leader needs you, all of you. You look up to see members of the company staring down through hole in the floor where Seth and you fell. The spell that affected their mind is gone, and they watch you with interest. Lorthander brings his staff to Seth's legs. Green wisps swirl around the gnarled staff, lingering for a moment, and then they project into Seth's legs, repairing and strengthening bone and muscle. Seth bends his knees, testing the strength and then rises, still kicking his feet. "What have you gotten ourselves into, kid?" Seth asks. "This is the same being that allied himself with the Empire and helped slaughter our friends." "Only what is necessary. While I mourn for our friends, everything has led up to this moment. I will use all available tools to defeat the Empire, even one made from its own hand." You regroup with the rest of the company. Lorthander heals each man who sustained injury in the mental attack. They have the same mindset as you; the Empire must be stopped by any means necessary. For the first time in the war, the tide is turning in your favor. With the power of the Unbroken, you will topple an empire. > Chapter 4: The Power Made Manifest My strength grows. Not only the power within, the one Lorthander created, but our military might grows as well. I've never witnessed anything like it, the closest would be the holy sigils inscribed on some of the monks' weapons. It's like the feeling of running and never getting tired. There's a point when you sprint towards a target when you reach your quickest speed. It does not last long as exhaustion takes over. The energy pool I rely on is inexhaustible. The monks taught me to move with frightening speed, to have instinct and reaction times far greater than the average man. Now when I think on their abilities, they were truly the average ones. I do not allow it to consume me, though. I'm well aware of the shadow nature within. If left alone, it will be like a spreading wildfire, burning everything in its path. No, I temper it will discipline. My power may be growing, but I control it. It does not control me. It iss the same thing every man experiences, the battle within between good and evil. It's just amplified within me...and the consequences are much greater. I have asked myself if I'm trading one evil for another, if I am becoming the embodiment of everything I oppose. Such thoughts are detrimental. I cannot burden myself with questioning each action. I can only act in accordance with what I believe to be the right action. Still, I keep a healthy level of introspection, but similarly to the power, I do not let it consume me. Each attribute is but a tool at my disposal. I use it when it is necessary, but never allow the tool to become me. I am the master of my fate. > Knocking on the Empire's door The pitiful defense of the Imperial soldier is no match for you. Your sword tears through the white and gold armor, dying it in a burst of red. You become a blur, moving through the battlefield as a typhoon, wreaking havoc in your wake. The Empire commander orders his men towards you, normally a sound tactic to surround the enemy's leader, but all he does is bring more men for you to slaughter. Those that try to run from your sword receive a shadowy blast through their chestplate. From behind your ranks, Lorthander weaves his psionic magic, causing turmoil and fear within the Empire soldiers. You signal your officers to charge forward, each one a member of the company. It's taken years, but more have rallied to your side. The members of the company each lead a battalion, all under your ultimate command. Your military force grows along with support from the people. A child of tragedy growing up to oppose the same Empire that massacred his peaceful adoptive family? The people ate it up. It's the type story that would be etched into history, especially if victory was achieved. It wasn't easy, but after Narrow's Edge fell, a direct route into the Empire was created, allowing you to travel in and out of the territory quickly. You are still vastly outnumbered, but the quality of your soldiers are equally overshadowing of the Empire's. You recruit and train real warriors, rather than conscripting farmers and laborers. A smaller force requires you to prioritize mobility and to strike hard, fast, never fighting the beast head on. The capital city lies in the distance. Today, you will burn it to the ground. > The plan "Are you sure dividing our force is the best option?" you ask, feeling your chin in thought. "Our growth in the past few years allows us to," Seth answers, both hands placed firmly on the table in front of him. He adds on, pointing to the map. "I'll lead the prime army into Urchin's Hook, posing as a direct attack on the capital. The Empire will have to send a sizable number to meet us or they will risk surrendering the capital, a defeat even the Empire cannot recover from." "That's a lot of men in the open," you comment. "Exactly! When they march on our position, we'll retreat into Yen's Passage. The narrow road through the hills will force the Empire to lose their numbers advantage. In the meantime, you will take a battalion and lead a firestrike on the capital. They'll be caught defenseless...well, as defenseless as possible." "It could work," you say. "What do you think, Lorthander?" It's a sound plan. I will aid the attack on the capital. "I would also like to be in the firestrike," Horne says, the cloak covering his lower face muffles his voice. You look around the room at your advisors and trusted commanders. They've stood by you faithfully, helping you win countless battles against the Empire. After more than thirty years, you will finally have justice for the monastery massacre. You weigh the risk in your head, taking account for every outcome as well as judging the Empire's strength against your own. "Very well," you say. "In five day's time, we bring the Empire to its knees. Seth, don't take unnecessary risk. Fall back and preserve the prime army if things turn south. They'll likely have wyverns, but their aerial assault counts for nothing in the tight passageway." "I thought of that too," Seth answers. Your eyes draw back to the map and the wooden figurines representing both your army and the Empire's. You symbolically knock the Empire's to the ground. > You continue on You cut your way through to the Imperial commander. Off in the distance, you see Horne masterfully backstabbing fleeing Empire troops. His talent for blending in extends to the battlefield, using the chaotic setting to catch his enemy unaware. The commander stands between two fully-plated knights with kiteshields. The commander's thick mustache covers his top lip, but even then, you can see the tremble underneath. "Stop!" he shouts. "Lay down your arms and you will be given a merciful death." The two knights beside him point their spears in your direction for emphasis. You eye them for a moment, then wave your hand. Dark missiles fire from your open palm, bursting through the heavily plated knights. They crumple to the ground with a clash of metal brought on by their armor. Their spears roll harmlessly on the ground away from their limp hands. "The Emperor will deal with you. It's my honor to die in his service," the Commander says, charging forward. You wait until he's almost upon you. The commander's sword is arced back, ready to strike the killing blow for his leader. You stand, unmoving, at the threat in front of you, so long that the commander actually believes his blade will strike true. At the last moment, you spin to your right and swipe your sword out in the his path. His charge takes him full force into your sword, separating his upper half from lower. "Your taste for the theatrical is most amusing," the muffled voice of Horne speaks. "An enemy with nothing to lose is more dangerous than an overconfident one," you say wiping the blood from your sword. "I have a hard time believe either pose a danger to you," he answers. "I have a realistic understanding of my abilities," you answer. "Though I'm not prideful or short-sighted enough to believe I cannot be beaten. No man is untouchable, not me, not the Emperor." "Speaking of which," Horne says. "The capital is ours for the taking." "Rally the men. We march forward." The capital is built in a circular manner. The main keep lies in the center, surrounded by varying sections of the city. Besides the city walls, the residential and merchant portions of the city aren't defendable. The keep is where the true defense lies. Tightly packed buildings, built more vertical than horizontal, fill the city. As the city grew, it looks like the only option was to build up rather than out. There's only so much space within the city walls, even for a city as massive as the capital. As you enter the city walls, alarm bells ring throughout the city. You don't see many civilians; the shut doors and closed shutters alert you to their location. It seems the news of your arrival traveled quicker than expected, although it's likely the people boarded up as the Empire's main force went to meet Seth. Several groups of the city's watch attempt to stop you, but they give less of a fight than the Imperial soldiers. There is little resistance up until the keep. The main gate into the fortress is shut, and you can see lines of soldiers standing at the ready within the courtyard. Archers stand overlooking the fortress' walls, firing down on your force as you draw close. You order your men to scatter into nearby streets to avoid being freely fired upon. Leave them to me. Lorthander raises his staff into the air and shouts incoherent words. Magic pulses into the air in a ripple, as if a stone dropped into a body of water. The ripples extend from the staff and pulse through the archers. The heavy rain of arrows stop for a moment, and then you hear cries from the keep walls. You see some of the archers lifelessly fall from the top, leaving behind red stains and protruding bone on the ground below. The top of the keep becomes a chaotic mess of infighting. Imperial soldiers fire on their own and take up arms against one another, similarly to your first steps inside the crumbling ruins Lorthander resided in. No longer exposed to arrow fire, you charge the front gate. Simultaneously, you and Lorthander blast the gate with magic. The mix of shadow bolt and psionic wave shatter the metallic gate. With a screech of metal, the gate implodes, unable to bear its weight in the weakened condition. White and gold armored soldiers stand at the ready, but don't meet your attack. They assume a defensive position, waiting for you to enter. "Ki--" you begin to command before resisting the voice. You feel it build within you. It wants to be released. It coaxes, wanting to let you rest and take control for awhile. And why shouldn't you? You've fought hard enough up until this point. Why not allow it to finish things? > You give in to the voice It comes again, harder this time. You lower the mental defenses that you've spent a lifetime building up. "Kill them all!" you shout. The men cheer at your command and rush through the gates. Their charge meets waiting white and gold, crashing into their defensive posture and ripping through their ranks. Through the mix of steel and bone, you remain focused on the inner gate to the keep. The soldiers are but a nuisance in your way. Your mouth opens, and a piercing scream emits. The world before you turns a dark, primal color as you take the role of hunter. Strength pours into your limbs unlike anything you've felt before. Not even the training "unlocking" the Unbroken feels like this. It's exhilarating, like pure nirvana. With your heightened senses, you view the battlefield before you with clarity. It's as if you know the exact outcome of each action before it happens. You start to shout commands to your men and then... Silence. The words don't appear. A sickening feeling appears through the rush of power. You feel it deep within your consciousness, yours, not the Unbroken controlling your body. You've simply become the vessel in which the dark power lives, a puppet to the Unbroken. Dark energy materializes at your hands as the Unbroken tosses your sword aside, letting it clang harmlessly on the courtyard floor. Dark purple flames extend from your palms, solidifying, becoming translucent weapons, an axe in one hand and a sword in the other. With a supernatural leap, the Unbroken is whirlwind of shadowy sword and axe. The otherworldly weapons tear into Imperial soldiers' armor with ease. Each kill entices the Unbroken to greater heights of zeal, cutting down the Empire with vigor and thirst. You see your men hesitate to draw near as they can clearly tell you're acting differently. The dark form of Lorthander watches with interest. Then you see him. The Emperor. He sits atop his wyvern, peering over the war-torn capital city from the next fortress tier. His pauldrons curve up in a crescent moon shape, flickering sunlight, matching the gold mask covering his face. You will your body to move, but it doesn't. The Unbroken is in command. Through the eyes of the Unbroken, through your physical eyes, the world turns red, focused on a single target, the Emperor. The summoned weapons at your hands disappear as your body comes into a full sprint. Another supernatural leap takes you to the fortress' walls. Like a four-legged beast, you climb on all fours, traversing the vertical wall. The Unbroken climbs with frightening speed, unnaturally, like a lion closing in on his prey. Another leap takes you atop the Emperor's wyvern. Immediately, the Emperor summons a sword, similarly to the way the Unbroken did. "False king," your mouth lifelessly speaks. "Your simple parlor tricks may fool the common soldier, but they don't fool me." "Such power lies within your blood," the voice behind the golden mask speaks. "You are not a worthy vessel. I am the true Unbroken!" The Emperor grabs for the amulet at his neck, and even though its been decades, you recognize it. The Grandmaster's amulet. At the same time, the Emperor's wyvern jumps into the air, flapping its leathery wings. You're taken higher in the air. Wind rushes into your face, stinging your eyes, drying them with the sudden burst. Down below, the clashing armies are but insects, two waves of color molding into one. The Unbroken raises a palm and clamps your fist shut. The air around the Emperor's hand fills with a dark purple cloud. Sizzling, like meat on a stovetop, starting around his hand. The flesh around the Emperor's hand rapidly decays, deteriorating, swept away like soft bark in a hurricane. He screams and loses hold of the amulet, letting it fall from his grasp down to the ground below. The Emperor regathers himself, and lets loose a shadow bolt towards you. The bolt squarely hits your chest. Every instinct in your body screams for movement, to dodge, to evade the magic, but you're no longer in control. Instead of tearing a hole through your chest, the shadow bolt hits your chest and fades like a drying puddle. "Did you really think your imitations would stand up against the real thing?" the Unbroken speaks. "You will not take everything I've built! I created the Empire and it's only through me the free lands have been conquered," the voice behind the mask shouts. You realize the scenery below is different. Instead of the battlefield below, the wyvern's flight has taken you far from the capital city and towards the Moon Bluffs. Blue water stretches as far as you can see. Green-tipped cliffs overshadow the liquid body like a tall tree on a sunny day. Waves crash against the rocky slope in small explosions of white foam. "History will not forget you, the fool who believed himself capable of possessing my power," the Unbroken speaks. "I will make them remember as a cautionary tale. You may have convinced the people, but once they see me, and the true power I hold, they will discard you. You will become nothing. All this you built? It's fucking mine." "There would be no return without me. You owe me everything! I'll have you slowly bled out, like a slaughtered animal, and take your power for myself," the Emperor shouts back. "Enough! I tire of this game," the Unbroken screams. The Unbroken summons a sword from your palm and drives it into the neck of the wyvern. In a distressed cry, the beast descends in a dive straight for the edge of the bluffs. Gathering speed, your eyes water at the rush of air. Your hand grabs one of the wyvern's horns in order to keep your body from flying from the wyvern's back. The ground is fast approaching. There's no way either you or the Emperor can survive the impact. In a crash of dust and rock, the wyvern hits the bluff, its momentum leaving behind a long line of crater as if a dry canal. Unable to stop or grab a foothold, the beast slips over the cliff and disappears to crashing waves below, the Emperor along with it. You watch the scene unfold, still in the air. Shadowy, dark purple wisps emanate from your shoulder blades in the loose form of wings. Unlike the wyvern, the wings don't flap, they merely float, swaying up and down, weightless, like a cloud. The Unbroken wills your flight path downward, and you feel your feet touch the ground. "Speak, vessel. You are not without value," it commands. The power enables you to speak, you, not the merely the voice within. "Here I thought to use your power for myself, a tool to be used and discarded. In reality, it was the other way around. Were you always destined to be reborn through me?" "My return was inevitable. It is a great honor to be the vessel in which my return manifests. In time you will learn the truth of that statement." > Epilogue: Vessel of the Empire The Unbroken returns you back to the capital city. You arrive to find your army is full control of the city. The keep, without leadership of the Emperor, fell to your invading force. Countless fires burn throughout the city as your men have taken the initiative to burn every Imperial banner and coat of arms in sight. The Unbroken walks through the courtyard of the keep, stepping over the bodies of fallen Imperial soldiers. Your men stop what they're doing, and salute you as you walk past. You find your commanders gathered underneath the high arches of the main hall. A man in an armored dark crimson robe turns his head, noticing you. "You're back. And the Emperor?" Seth asks. "Taken care of," the lifeless voice speaks. "That's my boy. We're in the process of abolishing the Empire, giving freedom back to each territory. With the Emperor's death, the remaining army should fall apart. We might have a few warlords, Imperial commanders trying to assume leadership, but they will be dealt with." "No," the Unbroken speaks. "What?" Seth asks. "No. The Empire is mine." Seth's eyes narrow, gauging yours. "So it's true then. You've returned. I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it, but seeing you now, I know I must...for the sake of the man I once knew." A flurry of crimson and blade flies through the air toward you. Translucent weapons appear in your hands, just in time, blocking the sudden assault. The other commanders in the great hall draw their swords, but don't attack yet, unsure which of their two leaders to aide. "I should have done this years ago. I've seen small appearances of you rearing your ugly head, but I always thought he was strong enough to resist. The fault lies with me for not ending his life, and the line of the Unbroken, sooner," Seth says in another assault. "Your treason will be dealt with. You'll be made an example of, and your death will dissuade any further enemies of the state," The Unbroken speaks, blocking Seth's attack with ease. "I will pull each nail from your body, then work my way up your limbs, peeling your skin from your bones and putting flame to the exposed flesh underneath. Your teeth will be pulled, one at a time, slowly, deliberately, each one placed in front of you like spoils of war. Next, your tongue will be severed and mouth sewn shut, so your false words don't spill into listening ears." The other commanders overhearing the words from your mouth visibly object. They know you and Seth well enough to know the actions and words from your mouth aren't your own. As one, weapons are pulled from their resting positions. Seth stands before you, the commanders of your army behind him. The man in the crimson robe, the man who you've followed your entire life, raises his sword to end your life. They slowly surround you, creating a deadly circle with you at the center. You see the faces of men you've fought beside, bled with, buried your comrades with. They don't recognize the man before them, the vessel filled and embodied by evil. Their leader is gone, and his replacement is the very darkness mothers scare their children with. You cannot scream, you cannot move, you cannot react. The Unbroken is in control. He strikes them down with pleasure at your lips. He doesn't finish them fast, each man is given several cuts before finishing the final blow. Slowly, one by one, each man drops, a victim to the dark power. All that remains is Seth, standing among the fallen bodies of his allies. His eyes briefly dart to their bodies, taking in their death as motivation to continue. Seth's twin blades arc low, then high in a sweeping motion, always working, intertwined, to find an opening in your defense. The Unbroken parries and deflects the blades away, even allowing one high strike to narrowly miss just above your head. You understand it's turned into a game, one that the Unbroken will finish as soon as he's done toying with your mentor. Seth lunges forward. The translucent weapons tear through the back of Seth's heels, sending him sprawling to the floor. Seth's pair of blades fly from grasp, sliding just out of reach from his outstretched hands. He turns to your approaching footsteps. He starts to say something, but slow piercing from the translucent sword point turns his words into a soft gurgle. Immediately, the Unbroken covers the wound with dark magic. "Don't think you're getting off that easy," the voice lifelessly speaks. They are waiting for you, my Emperor. Lorthander stands in the opening to the great hall, leaning against his gnarled staff. The Unbroken wills your body to meet him. Long have I awaited this day. In the keep's courtyard, rows of soldiers are lined up in perfect unison. At your presence, they drop to their knee as one. Dead men from the siege line the courtyard walls, creating a second inner wall built from mangled bodies and fallen soldiers. It's then that you notice the soldiers in line are both from your army and the defending Imperial force. A subtle, raven-colored mark appears above their eyebrow, the mark of the Unbroken. They are devoutly loyal. The mark compels them. "Rise," the Unbroken commands. "We have much work to do."

[Themes: fantasy, action, war, fantasy] You cut your way through to the Imperial commander. Off in the distance, you see Horne masterfully backstabbing fleeing Empire troops. His talent for blending in extends to the battlefield, using the chaotic setting to catch his enemy unaware. The commander stands between two fully-plated knights with kiteshields. The commander's thick mustache covers his top lip, but even then, you can see the tremble underneath. "Stop!" he shouts. "Lay down your arms and you will be given a merciful death." The two knights beside him point their spears in your direction for emphasis. You eye them for a moment, then wave your hand. Dark missiles fire from your open palm, bursting through the heavily plated knights. They crumple to the ground with a clash of metal brought on by their armor. Their spears roll harmlessly on the ground away from their limp hands. "The Emperor will deal with you. It's my honor to die in his service," the Commander says, charging forward. You wait until he's almost upon you. The commander's sword is arced back, ready to strike the killing blow for his leader. You stand, unmoving, at the threat in front of you, so long that the commander actually believes his blade will strike true. At the last moment, you spin to your right and swipe your sword out in the his path. His charge takes him full force into your sword, separating his upper half from lower. "Your taste for the theatrical is most amusing," the muffled voice of Horne speaks. "An enemy with nothing to lose is more dangerous than an overconfident one," you say wiping the blood from your sword. "I have a hard time believe either pose a danger to you," he answers. "I have a realistic understanding of my abilities," you answer. "Though I'm not prideful or short-sighted enough to believe I cannot be beaten. No man is untouchable, not me, not the Emperor." "Speaking of which," Horne says. "The capital is ours for the taking." "Rally the men. We march forward." The capital is built in a circular manner. The main keep lies in the center, surrounded by varying sections of the city. Besides the city walls, the residential and merchant portions of the city aren't defendable. The keep is where the true defense lies. Tightly packed buildings, built more vertical than horizontal, fill the city. As the city grew, it looks like the only option was to build up rather than out. There's only so much space within the city walls, even for a city as massive as the capital. As you enter the city walls, alarm bells ring throughout the city. You don't see many civilians; the shut doors and closed shutters alert you to their location. It seems the news of your arrival traveled quicker than expected, although it's likely the people boarded up as the Empire's main force went to meet Seth. Several groups of the city's watch attempt to stop you, but they give less of a fight than the Imperial soldiers. There is little resistance up until the keep. The main gate into the fortress is shut, and you can see lines of soldiers standing at the ready within the courtyard. Archers stand overlooking the fortress' walls, firing down on your force as you draw close. You order your men to scatter into nearby streets to avoid being freely fired upon. Leave them to me. Lorthander raises his staff into the air and shouts incoherent words. Magic pulses into the air in a ripple, as if a stone dropped into a body of water. The ripples extend from the staff and pulse through the archers. The heavy rain of arrows stop for a moment, and then you hear cries from the keep walls. You see some of the archers lifelessly fall from the top, leaving behind red stains and protruding bone on the ground below. The top of the keep becomes a chaotic mess of infighting. Imperial soldiers fire on their own and take up arms against one another, similarly to your first steps inside the crumbling ruins Lorthander resided in. No longer exposed to arrow fire, you charge the front gate. Simultaneously, you and Lorthander blast the gate with magic. The mix of shadow bolt and psionic wave shatter the metallic gate. With a screech of metal, the gate implodes, unable to bear its weight in the weakened condition. White and gold armored soldiers stand at the ready, but don't meet your attack. They assume a defensive position, waiting for you to enter. "Ki--" you begin to command before resisting the voice. You feel it build within you. It wants to be released. It coaxes, wanting to let you rest and take control for awhile. And why shouldn't you? You've fought hard enough up until this point. Why not allow it to finish things? > You fight it off No. You've spent your entire life building up a defense against the voice. The mental barriers you've built must remain strong. For the most part, you've kept it under control and surrendering now would make that all for nothing. It would be the easy way out. Instead of relying on your own resolve, on your practice, it would be cowardly to surrender now. You shake your head as a visible commitment to your decision. There's no going back now. You must press on. A wall of white and gold awaits you. You tear through their ranks like a sieging ram. Your sword cuts through Imperial soldiers, finding vulnerable spots in their armor. Each swing of your blade either sets up or finds the killing blow. Using the power Lorthander honed, you back up the deadly display of swordsmanship with dark magic, illuminating your sword in a shadowy purple flame. The magic eats through the Imperials' armor like flame into dry parchment. Roaring, you look up to see the Emperor himself riding atop a wyvern. The beast flaps its wings in the air, bearing its fangs in your direction. A golden mask stares at you, as if contemplating the outcome. The Emperor, wearing a mask of gold, commands the wyvern forward, flying over both armies, abandoning his. The wyvern becomes a small dot in the distance, and the defending force, crippled by the sight of their leader fleeing, lay down their arms in surrender. "Take them prisoner. Enough blood has been spilled this day," you order. "Are you sure that's wise? In our position, they would put us to the axe," a nearby soldier comments. Your gaze falls on the man speaking out. He nervously looks around, hoping someone nearby will support his decision. Calmly, you address him. "That's what separates us from them. There's no honor in execution, in defeating an unarmed prisoner. The day is won. We mustn't stain the glory of our victory with massacre." Their cheers keep you up. Late into the night, inebriated shouts following unintelligent laughter fill the air. You sit, kneeling, in a room deep in the servant corridor in attempt to find peace and quiet. You don't. The city is alive; fires burn in the streets, illuminating the destructive behavior of the men, your men. Even here, in the corner of the keep, the night breeze carries their drunken cries, partially mixed with smoke from the fires. A knock at the door appears, distracting you momentarily from the army's celebration. Standing outside is Seth holding two tankards. He offers you one, which you take with gratitude. "We did it. The Empire is no more. Tomorrow we'll abolish the unified government and allow each territory to rule themselves. It's taken decades, but we finally made it," he says. "History has changed for the better," you answer. "Any word of the Emperor? Well, I should say, the former Emperor." "There's been sightings of a wyvern heading towards the Ellehorn Forest. It's as good of a place for someone who doesn't want to be found," Seth replies. "Can't say I don't blame him," you say, taking a small sip from the tankard. The ale tingles on your tongue, bursting with a sweet, frothy flavor. "You don't mean that. Sure, they're overindulging a little bit, but this is the greatest day of their lives. Let them celebrate, and not to worry, their penance will be a splitting headache in the morning." "I couldn't have done it without you, Seth. Your guidance kept me on the path, even when victory felt far away. I have no illusion that your part is equally, if not more, instrumental in the Empire's defeat." "You'll get no argument from me there," Seth says with a smile. Suddenly, you know what you must do. You place the tankard on a nearby table and strap your sword on. Your possession are few, and you pack them in a traveling pack. The small lantern illuminating the room is extinguished, leaving you in the night's darkness. Seth's figure stands at the doorway, still. His crimson robe looks ceremonial in the backlight of the hallway's torches. "My part is over here. Politics don't interest me. I didn't come all this way to rule over my fellow man. I saw evil and had to act. The Empire is no more, and perhaps we can live in a peaceful time. I've witnessed the good of man, along with the darkness that can inhabit one's heart. Ellehorn forest you say? Nature has always been a welcomed ally, which is more than I can say for the city here." Seth's eyes meet yours. "This is it then." "It is." "Let the bards sing of the last mountain monk, survivor of the monastery massacre, and conqueror of the Empire." You place your hand on Seth's shoulder. "Let them sing what they will. A man's actions are his own, not to be influenced or swayed by others." > Epilogue: The Wandering Conqueror Daylight. The rising sun peers over surrounding hills, sending its golden rays long on the green hilltops. You sit, cross-legged, waiting for the light to appear. Eventually, it rises high enough for the rays to land on your face, sending its warmth throughout your body. Off in the distance, a crow squawks, disturbed by another animal. Your sword is laid out in front of you. You eye the familiar sheathe, the protector of your most treasured possession. As if still at the monastery, a voice rings in your head. Not the Unbroken voice, the one tainted by darkness, but the voice of the monks. Form one! You move into action, performing the technique as best as one can do. Still, you identify areas to improve. Each time you flow through the forms, you see certain ways to progress. The work is never finished. Form two! Strength pours from your limbs. Your muscles are strong, built up from practicing each morning. It doesn't feel stale; it never bores you. The practice flows through you as you flow through the practice. You become one with the forms. They push your body to greater levels, and you gladly welcome the challenge. Form three! Your breath becomes heavy, labored by the intensity of the practice. Still, you press on, not allowing your physical limitations to hold you back. It's even more of a motivator, not letting your physical form affect the forms. Your jaw clenches as you deepen your breathing to continue on. Each movement is paired with a breath. You time it perfectly, allowing the fresh morning air to fuel your muscles. You spin, using the momentum of your body to power your heel kick, finishing the movement with a jumping overhead swing. Sweat drips from your forehead, creating a small mud puddle at your feet. Taking a sip from your waterskin, you take another deep breath of morning air. It's cloudy, but you can tell the sun will soon burn through, transitioning the sky into a bright blue. You've not yet reached your destination, but damn if you won't enjoy the journey along the way.

"You, Lorthander, created the Unbroken?" you ask as you come back to reality. Ragar was the first, but he is not the last. I know you hear the voice. I can sense the power within you. "What do you know of the voice?" It's a side effect of the ritual. The blood of the hellspawn wants to control the host. It wants to feed, and left unchecked, it will consume the host in a neverending blood rage. Some urges are stronger than others. I'm sure by your age you know that by now. "If you created it, perhaps you can cure it," you say. There is no cure. It's in your very blood. The blood of the hellspawn mixed with Osborne's 'divine' lineage, always at odds within, coaxing the host to draw on its power. The dark figure, the shaman, Lorthander, releases you from suspension in the air. Your feet hit the ground with relief. "I'm not some young prince to be misguided. It's clear you want something from me, otherwise you would have attacked me same as the others," you say. Another false king sits on the throne. The Emperor has spread rumors that he is Unbroken. He's not, I can assure you of that, even if he desperately wants to be. I am bound to the throne. I am bound to you, the true ruler. "I am not royalty, and I have no desire to rule. I'm afraid your loyalty is to the wrong man." The best leaders are those who do not strive for power. They have nothing to prove. They only do as they must. "I know what you're asking, Lorthander. I've been fighting the Empire my entire life. If I could simply stride into the Emperor's throne room and slay him, I would." You can now, with my aid. Together, we will overthrow the Emperor. I will teach you to control the power, to control the voice. If left unchecked, it will consume you. > You refuse his offering "No. I've spent my entire life battling the urges from the voice. I will not give in to its power." I urge you to reconsider. "I've survived this long on my training alone. The darkness within me must be suppressed, not unleashed," you adamantly state. So be it. I'll be needing your blood then. Once again, the unseen power pulls you into the air. You try to fight, squirm, but you're held captive, unable to fight, conventionally, the opponent before you. Weapons in the armory begin to shift, floating on their own, gathering in the air. Swords, battleaxes, and spears rearranged themselves into a makeshift, jagged cage against the wall. Your body flies into the center, upside-down. The cage door squeals shut with the groan of metal bending. In the cage, upside-down, a sword point pricks your skin, creating a continuous flow of blood to the ground. You look down to see a ceremonial bowl placed underneath the cage collecting your blood. Unable to move, unable to break free, your death comes, slowly, drop by drop.

[Themes: fantasy, fantasy] Chaos. The portal takes you into the monastery's courtyard. Arriving, you quickly dodge from a flying spear. The bodies of the invading soldiers are beginning to completely cover the courtyard floor. You breathe a sigh of relief when you don't see any fallen monks. The monks appear to be fighting well, but the sheer number from the mountainside is too many to count. Through the doorway to the main hallway, you see Kassi engaged with several soldiers. Their armor is nowhere as neat as Seth's, if you could call it armor. It's more like rags, with some areas of reinforced leather, than actual armor. The long hair and unkempt beards of the invading soldiers make them seem more animal than man. They fight with the same savagery that you've seen in your encounters with woodland creatures surrounding the monastery. Not wasting any time, you rush towards Kassi picking up a scimitar from one of the savages. Solely focused on Kassi, you impale the closest invader from the back. The sudden rush of blood and fallen ally alert the others of your presence. Savages on either side of you swing their swords at your head almost simultaneously. Dedicated to your training, you instinctively bend your torso backwards. Two blades fly harmlessly overhead. Recovering upright, you slash one's throat and gouge a deep cut through the other's chest. Now that you've drawn the attention of the others, Kassi picks them apart one at at time. She's only armed with a small dagger, and you realize she's fighting as if unarmed, the dagger striking the killing blow. "Are you ok, Kass?" you ask. "You're seriously asking me that? Don't forget who taught you everything you know," she says confidently. "Ok, sorry I asked. What should we do?" "I saw Brother Trevor and Seth head towards the library. If anyone knows what to do, it's them." You make your way through the hallways, fighting off soldiers whenever they come near. Though you are well younger, the soldiers fight with little technique. Their swords moves as if through water. You stick to your training and finish most with a single counter. A slight redirection of their sword leaves them vulnerable to the killing blow. You do not hesitate, even though it is your first time in real combat. You do as you are trained. After several turns, you arrive to the library's double doors. The library is normally kept spotless, but the inside looks like a hurricane hit the room. Books, bookcases, and bodies cover the floor. In the center of it all, you see Seth. King Aeric's emissary appears to be unfazed by the battle and fights alone, no monks by his side. His red armor looks freshly made still, and then you realize the entire robe is blood-soaked; it's just hidden in the red color. His twin short swords work magnificently together. They glide through the air removing limb and whole heads for those who get too close. He notices you and Kassi and begins to fight his way down toward you. Arriving near you, and still fighting off several enemies, he shouts. "There are too many of them. We must regroup at Aeric's keep. Gather all who you can and let's flee this place." "No, we will not abandon our home," Kassi states. "There's no time to argue, girl! Let's go!" Seth begins to whisper into a ring on his finger and punches his fist to the ground. Waves of flame fire from the position and sweep into the surrounding soldiers. Kassi screams at the collateral damage. The books in the area instantly light up and the fire begins to spread. With the fire spreading, you exit the library following Seth. Seth leads you back through the hallways, although in the opposite direction of the courtyard. After a series of twists and turns you end up in the meditation sanctuary. Rows of mats line the open room. A sizeable shrine sits in the center, covered with religious trinkets and sacred flowers. There are no signs of the battle here. Seth walks up to the shrine and examines it. "I never enter a building without an escape plan. Ah, here we are," he comments. Seth bends one of the candlesticks near the shrine sideways and pulls another towards him. As he stands back, a low rumble begins from the shrine. Scraping heavily, the top of shrine starts to move to the side. You can see a short staircase from where the shrine used to lay, leading to an underground passageway. "We must make for King Aeric. If the western border has collapsed, we must inform him," Seth says jumping down. "Come with me. It'd be best to have monk acolytes accompany me to answer any questions." "We can't just leave. The others need us," Kassi replies. "All is lost. We can only hope to avenge them. If you decide to stay, you will be choosing death. "I'm not going," Kassi firmly states. "What about you?" Seth asks. "Answer quickly, we haven't much time." > You stay with Kassi "I'm not going either," you say. "Gods, you're going to get yourselves killed. Not my problem anymore." With that, Seth disappears down the short staircase. You feel Kassi's arms wrap around you. "I thought you were going to go for sure," she says. "And leave you? No way," you answer. "Come on, we better rejoin with the others." You and Kassi exit the meditation room and navigate back through the hallways. You hear battle sounds almost immediately. The fight is working its way deeper into the monastery. You run into a few eager soldiers along the way. You can only guess they tore away from the main force to claim treasure first. They don't get the chance. You and Kassi don't leave any breathing. Suddenly, the monastery's tower bell begins to ring, leaving a sinking feeling in your chest. In these circumstances it can only mean one thing: surrender. Voices bring you back to reality. The clash of steel fills your ears no more. The battle has subsided. The voices appear to come from outside. You gaze out a window overlooking the courtyard to see what's happening. Monks stand in the center of a circle, surrounded by the invading soldiers. The Grandmaster is near the edge, fiercely arguing with one of the invading soldiers. You assume it to be their leader by the way he's dressed. Instead of the ragged armor, he's in full chain mail and the spear in his hand is far more intricate of a weapon than you've run into. Instead of the generic sword, it's dyed completely black. In fact, it's the only weapon of the soldiers you've run into that looks as if thought was poured into creating it. The argument between the soldier and the Grandmaster continues until a war horn pauses it. The horde of soldiers seem to understand the war horn's signal because they move back to the courtyard's walls to create more space. Through high arched entryway, you see a platoon of soldiers enter wearing white and gold. Unlike the invading force, these ones are well-equipped. They march in unison. The large tower shields they bear create an impenetrable wall. If you had to guess, you'd bet their combat strategy keeps the same synergy as their march. The white and gold soldiers part in the center, and one of their own walks to the front meeting the Grandmaster face to face. Unlike the others, this one doesn't have a shield. A sizable greatsword hangs on his back and a full helm with two horns sits on his head. He addresses the Grandmaster, and luckily you're just in range to make out his words. "It is finished. Swear your fealty to the Emperor and you will be granted life." You catch a twinge of pride in his voice. "We serve no one but the divine," the Grandmaster answers. The soldier with the greatsword crosses his arms. "Keep whatever archaic beliefs you may have. The Emperor only demands your service in this lifetime." "I am afraid we cannot oblige. Our worldly alignment is already devoted to King Aeric. We simply cannot turn our back on promises made, despite the circumstances," the Grandmaster answers. "Such a shame. Apparently the rumors of the deady mountain monks are simply not true." With his reply, the soldier pulls the greatsword from his back and swings through the air in a single motion. The jagged blade cuts through the air and then stops. The Grandmaster's open hand catches the blade mid-air. A layer of magic emanates from his palm, protecting his skin from the deadly sword. "Not even your mysticism can protect you from the Empire's might, monk," the soldiers speaks. The greatsword begins to emit sparks as if from a blacksmith's hammer. The Grandmaster's eyes start to grow wide as he experiences the power of the weapon. The blade slices through the Grandmaster's open palm, removing the hand, and leaving a large gouge in his chest. The Grandmaster's body his the ground with a solid thud, his severed hand closely following. The group of herded monks look shaken at the sight of their leader's fallen body. The Grandmaster, the spiritual and mystical leader of the monastery, lies bleeding on the ground. The piercing gray eyes that frightened acolytes are now lifeless. From within the herd, you see Brother Samuel step forward. "We will do what you say. Just don't harm anyone else," Brother Samuel says. The soldier with the greatsword removes his helm and shakes out his shoulder-length hair. He's much younger than you expected. He couldn't be much more than thirty years old. "The Empire has no room for misguided ideologies," he states to the army around him. On his command the onslaught of soldiers commences. The sheer number surrounding the monks overpower the seasoned monks. Though an average monk may be able to slay tens of men, thousands surround them. You witness several spears piercing Brother Samuel's gut. Before you can cry out at the death of your mentor, Kassi's open palm covers your mouth. "I hate to say it, but we need to run," she whispers. You nod. "There's nothing we can do," you softly speak through tears. You and Kassi leave the window's vantage point and sneak down the end of the hallway. One of the open windows leads to the rooftop. With most of the focus on the gathered monks, you're able to silently walk on the rooftop opposite the direction of the courtyard. No sentries block your way as you climb down the outer edge of the monastery's walls. Your life at the monastery is over, and a war-torn country lies before you. The life you once knew would never be the same. > Chapter 2: Thorn in the Empire's Side I'm not sure I would have survived the war if not for Kassi. Fate is a strange idea. Was I merely lucky she happened to be walking past Brother Trevor and I, or were we destined to cross paths? The monks believe in a divine being. They believe this divine being has a life laid out for them. The older I get, the less I believe in a predestined path. Men forge their destinies. Life-altering circumstances are everywhere if you know where to look. I mourn for the loss of the monastery. True, I was not the model acolyte or star pupil, but the monks gave me a home. They taught me the skillset I needed to survive violence...and in this world, violence is common. Brother Samuel was a father to me. I hope he knew that in the end. My early adult years were full of adventure. Each new day brought excitement, a new opportunity to experience something new. Kassi and I were two young adults with an entire world before us to explore. We were not meant for monotony. We sought to give life meaning...and get revenge on our fallen brothers. We hunted for the men who massacred the monastery. Little did I know, I was the one being hunted... > You arrive at Estabrook Two horses trot side-by-side along the weathered road, their riders completely cloaked. As the riders draw near to the village, the townsfolk gather their kids inside and shut their doors. Estabrook didn't receive many travelers and with the war going on, strangers usually meant trouble. The riders stop at the village's only inn. The building sporting a wooden sign with a carved tankard and bed was usually the first place people stopped. The brothel next to it was a close second. You tie your horse to a post and look to Kassi. "Not the friendliest looking place, eh?" you comment. "Nowadays I consider any time we're not greeted at swordpoint as friendly," she replies. As she dismounts, the light rain collected on her cloak scatters in a puff of droplets. Her bright blonde hair is now dyed a dark autumn red. It's tied into several loops all ending in a single tie in back. If she were to untie it, you know it would reach near to her waist. Your own has grown out considerably longer than the cropped monastery cut. You eye the white and gold sigil posted outside the inn: a wreath crown at the hilt of an upside down sword. Every town, village, and city you've encountered in the past few years has flown the empire's colors. Places that openly rebelled against the empire were burned. Surrounding areas learned quickly to post the sigil...and their allegiance. The land may have been conquered, but King Aeric's keep remains standing. Even the Empire's seemingly endless resources have fallen short in capturing the capital, though it's been laid siege for many years. No one knows how King Aeric could have survived being holed up for that long. A group of armor clad soldiers march by. Their footsteps stomp on the muddy path at exactly the same moment splashing drops of mud into their well-polished greaves. "Seems the Empire's influence has grown in Estabrook," you say after they pass. "Kind of hard to resist when your king is holed up in his castle," Kassi answers. You finish tying up the horses and enter the inn. Long bench-like tables fill the interior. You see the kitchen almost directly behind the bar. A few downtrodden patrons sit milking their cups, scattered at the tables. No one appears to be conversing with one another. The bar looks empty, save for a traveling merchant. You catch a glimpse of graying hair as the waitress rushes past carrying an armload of dishes. You find two empty barstools and sit. The wooden seat is only slightly less comfortable than your saddle. The warmth of the inn makes up for it, though. Your eyes focus on the bottles in front of you. Brother Samuel had let you try a sip of his mead once. Besides that, the drink hasn't touched your lips. Part of you is curious, and the other wants to keep your senses sharp. "You're not thinking about ordering that junk, are you?" Kassi asks noticing your gaze. "I admit it's crossed my mind. More than a few times, actually, but I need my wits," you answer. The merchant, overhearing your conversation, butts in. "Good. More for me then. Say, you two look a little young to be traveling alone. Where're your parents?" You eye the merchant. A subtle sway in his head alerts you to his drink level. The slurring of "your" confirms it. "Respectfully, our parents' location doesn't concern you," Kassi answers. "Don't give me lip, girl," the Merchant's voice rises. "I'll not be spoken down to by a kid." "That's enough, friend," you step in. You place a coin on the bar top. "Have your next on me." The act seems to calm the man, and he returns to his drinking. "I can handle myself," Kassi says to you. This time quieter, so the Merchant won't hear. "Kass, I'm more than aware of that fact," you answer. "I'd just prefer to not gather any more attention than we already have. By the villagers reaction to our arrival, we're probably the talk of the town. It's only a matter of time before the local authorities come knocking." "Which wouldn't be a bad thing for our contact to see. I imagine that conversation to be less than pleasant. Speaking of our contact, where is he?" Kassi adds. "Not sure. The message said he'll approach us." "Probably watching us to see if we're empire spies or not." "Wouldn't you?" She shrugs. "Depends. The average person probably assumes they're being watched and likely is on their best behavior. If you really want to know their loyalty, you're better off backing them into a corner and forcing them to decide." "Speaking of which..." you begin to say as the inn door flies wide open. Two soldiers enter followed by a tall, thin old man. The man's robes are fine quality. He moves with a certain air of authority, and you guess he's not someone who likes repeating himself. The trio marches up to the bar. "So this is the man selling empire secrets," he comments disapprovingly. "Take him." The two soldiers grab the drunk merchant and pull him from his seat. The Merchant attempts to say something, but a fist from one of the soldiers quiets him. He gazes towards you pleadingly. "Oh no, I don't like that look on you," Kassi whispers. "Last time I saw that look, we were given chamber pot duty for a month." "Follow my lead," you say with a wink. You turn towards the soldiers and put on your best performance. "Please don't take my father," you beg. "He's an honest man, he's just trying to take care of our sick mother." Kassi does her best to support you, although she's a little stiff in your opinion. "Yes, uh, that's right. We'll starve without him." The soldiers loosen their grip a bit and turn to the old man for direction. "Magistrate?" one of them asks. The Magistrate squints his eyes towards you. "You're too well-dressed to be related to this swindler. He'd sooner steal your cloak than feed you or your 'sick mother.' Take them as well. I do not know what game you're playing, but it's against the law to interfere with official government business." "Nice try, kids," the Merchant manages to say before receiving another punch. "Guess we better try the backup plan," Kassi says. "Which is?" you start to reply. Before you finish speaking, Kassi grabs a nearby plate and smashes it into the Magistrate's face. Shards of glass shatter into the air as the old man crumbles back. The soldiers look surprised at the sudden violence and toss the Merchant aside to focus on you and Kassi. Your right fist nails one of the soldiers on the chin. As his body falls to the floor, your knee meets his face mid-air. Kassi fires a series of punches and kicks into the other soldier. He tries to keep up, but slowly begins to fade as the flurry continues. Taking mercy on him, you knock him out with a hook to the jaw. Kassi looks at you, a bit surprised, and then draws her dagger. "Wait, Kass, I don't think--" you begin to say before she cuts downward with the razor sharp blade. Just before the blade pierces the soldier, it's suddenly stopped. The Merchant stands between the two with his dagger drawn. The two stand unmoving, without speaking for a few seconds as you take in what's happening. "You're the contact," you state. "That's correct!" the "Merchant" answers with a grin. "And you've passed the test. Man, I thought for sure you were just going to stand there and do nothing." "We aren't alone here you know," you say looking towards the waitress and the silent patrons in the room. "This entire inn is devoted to the cause, friend. They're all in on it. Now I'd prefer it if your pretty sidekick here would put away her blade." Kassi scoffs at his remark. "Pfft, sidekick? You really have no idea what you're talking about." Feeling the need to calm things before they get out of hand you quickly jump in. "Let's get on with the meeting. I believe you have some valuable information to share with us." The "Merchant" nods. "That's correct. We've a cellar in this place. Many a good scheming is done in cellar. Oh, and call me Vishal." > The cellar You follow Vishal through the kitchen into the back pantry. He opens a large cupboard and reveals the hidden back to a staircase below. The cellar is lined with barrels and debris. In the center, sits a single table with a map spread over the surface. Vishal kicks around in the debris and finally pulls two lanterns from the junk. He lights and sets both on the table. "So," he says. "You want to join the resistance." "We want to fight the Empire, yes," you answer. "An enemy of the Emperor is an ally in my book. "Ahh, so you have a personal vendetta then. That's the only reason you'd be here. What tragedy occurred in your short lifetime to project you into a life of violence? Dead parents perhaps?" "My reason is of no concern to you." "That's where you're wrong, my young renegade. I always know who I go into battle with." "Have you even been in battle?" Kassi interrupts. "Have you?" Vishal retorts. "You're looking at the only surviving members of the monastery massacre," Kassi answers. "We've have plenty of experience in battle." "The mountain monks..." Vishal begins to say, awestruck. "I didn't know any survived." "We've proven ourselves, spy. Now it's your turn." "Very well," Vishal sighs. "I specialize in knowledge. I know things and have friends in the most unattainable positions in the nation. I admit I'm a bit surprised, not even I knew about your survival. My friends and I strive towards the same goal." "Which is...?" "Freedom." "You might find that a near impossible goal. The Empire's might is vast, and their power is spreading," you answer. "Exactly. I'm counting on the Emperor's conquest to be his biggest weakness." Vishal eyes your confused look and continues. "The Empire is unsustainable in the long run. They have to import goods from the farthest nations in order to keep it supplied. It's gathering territory, too quickly, and does not have the resources to manage its upkeep. Eventually, it will implode on itself. I'm here to speed the process along. A shipment goes missing here, a food supply rots, an inventory tally gets miscounted. I'm in the business of sabotage, my friend. Why has no one been able to resist the Emperor? They tackle the Empire's strength head on. It's like running straight into a charging bull. I'd rather stand on the edge of a cliff and watch the bull run itself over the edge." "We're warriors, not skilled in the art of deception. How can we help?" Kassi inputs. "Muscle is always needed. Even the most cunning of plans sometimes go south. > Question Vishal "You said you never go into battle with someone you don't know. You do realize we know nothing about you," you say. "Fair enough," he answers lighting up with a smile. "Ask away then." "What do you have against the Empire?" "You mean besides their merciless killing all over the continent? I've witnessed personally the horrors of their conquered tribes. You do realize the Emperor's actual army, the ones in white and gold, are only a small portion of the soldiers at his command. They're his elite force and only deployed in special circumstances. The rest of the time, the Emperor sends the armies from his conquered territories to do his dirty work." "We've seen such tribes. They seem more beast than man," you say. "Exactly. They're undisciplined, violent men who get to run lawless because they bring more captured land to the Empire. The Emperor allows, even encourages, evil men to roam free and he's just as bad as them in my opinion. Perhaps a bit worse because he has the power to stop them." "Makes sense. Were you in covert operations before the war?" "In a way...my guise as a merchant is simply wearing the costume of my previous life. Before the war, I had an extensive trade network. A little favor here, a little favor there sort of thing to important people. I always know who I get into business with." Kassi rolls her eyes sensing Vishal's theme. Vishal continues. "Most people wanted to help after seeing the evil actions of the Empire. Others needed to be convinced. In the end, it's an impressive organization if I should say so myself, and we've been a thorn in the Empire's side for many years now. Anything else?" You shake your head. "Good enough for me. Let's get on with it." > You join the resistance "Get some rest. Tomorrow we travel to the Narrow's Edge Outpost," Vishal says. "I have a room prepared for you upstairs." One of the "soldiers" stays behind talking with Vishal while the other, Yuri, leads you upstairs. He gives a nod to the waitress as you pass back through the main room. The small in only boasts five rooms upstairs for travelers. "I'm sorry, but we only have one open room. I suppose you're used to sharing a room though," Yuri says finishing with a nervous half cough, half laugh. "We're grateful just to have a roof over our heads," you answer shaking Yuri's hand. The door opens with a nasty squeal, and the room itself mirrors the small size of the inn. A single bed in the center takes up almost half of the floor space. To the right wall, a tiny desk is wedged in the corner. You walk in and place your traveling gear on the floor. Kassi lights the lantern on the desk. "Rather tight quarters, huh?" Kassi comments. "More space and privacy than in the monastery barracks," you answer. The mention of your childhood home turns both of your moods somber. Outside, you hear a stray dog barking. "It's been almost 15 years since we were there," Kassi comments. "And the Empire's strength has only grown since." "We've had our fair share of victories. Enough to get noticed by one of the leading organizations resisting the Empire. Soon the 'thorn in the Empire's side' will cripple it to its knees." "Practice your forms with me?" she suddenly asks. "Sure, Kass." You flow into a meditative state allowing your martial abilities to empty your thoughts. You aren't nervous about the mission. You have no personal feelings towards Kassi. You only know the practice. The cramped room doesn't allow you to move much, but that allows you to adjust the technique to fit the environment. Time has no meaning in your state. You finish by sitting cross-legged in front of the bed in reflection. You open your eyes to find the room completely dark. You hear soft breathing coming from the bed. Kassi. You feel on the ground for bedding and find nothing. Either Kassi didn't think to leave some for you or she fell asleep before throwing down a blanket and pillow. > You stay on the floor While you've shared a bed numerous times, you think climbing in unannounced might signal the wrong message to Kassi. You did not need to distract your minds with such thoughts before the mission. You refocus your mind on the monk's teachings. Your physical body is not who you are. It's merely a sanctuary for your Spirit. We train the body to be a better home for the Spirit to reside. Giving in to bodily pleasures are a denial of the Spirit. Protect the Spirit at all costs. You know you require sleep, but put Kassi's interests ahead of your own. You shut your eyes still sitting cross-legged. Meditation could last for hours in the monastery, so you weren't unaccustomed to long periods of time spent in this position. You attempt to align your thoughts with the Spirit within. Your mind draws to your past. The countless hours spent training with Kassi before sunrise and after sunset. You had trouble keeping up at first, but each day you'd improve. Eventually, you arrived to the point where the training sessions were less one-sided and turned equally beneficial for each of you. Your thoughts continue to draw from your past, towards the days in the monastery. You feel as if you're living the moments in real time. You find yourself in the training room, Kassi stands your opposition. The thin pad of the mat beneath your feet is a familiar texture. She charges toward you with her wooden dagger in attack position. You easily side-step the assault, at least that's what she wants you to believe. Your step to the right brings you into the trap she set. One quick pivot brings the wooden dagger into your stomach and then gently touches your neck. "Yield," she commands. "Nice move, Kass. I yield," you say dropping your wooden sword. It falls and bounces a few times on the mat. The wooden dagger presses harder into your neck. "I said yield," Kassi says again. The way her voice deepened at the end sends a chill down your spine. It was not her voice, but otherworldly, sinister. "Kassi, what's going on," you start to say backing up. Kassi's face begins to distort. Her skin droops from her face, and her eyes turn black. She walks towards you flinching as if an unseen needle is piercing her body. Then you realize you've lost the ability to move. You try to cry out, and find your voice is gone as well. Frozen, dread falls over your body as if someone's holding your head underwater. Kassi walks up to you and stares into your eyes with two onyx beads within her skull. Her head tilts slightly. Then she breaks into a mad cackle as if mocking your inability to react. She holds one of her own fingers to your face and snaps it sideways. Her laugh intensifies with each finger she snaps. The pure white teeth within her mouth have turned to a decaying black. She holds her hand of broken fingers closer to your face. Her laugh splatters spit onto your face. Suddenly, she crumbles to her knees staring towards the floor. Her arms fold in her lap clutching the wounded hand supportively. The mad cackle slowly turns into light sobbing. You've never heard Kassi cry before, and hearing it for the first time brings tears to your own eyes. The power that prevents you from moving releases and you fall to all fours in front of her. You both sit there crying until you notice she's stopped. You slowly gaze towards her still-drooped head to see why the crying stopped. A figure, masked in shadowy wisps stands in front of you holding Kassi's lifeless body. One of its arms reveals a curved blade. The shade slices upwards and splits Kassi's body in half. The pieces fall on either side of you. It walks towards you, but does not use the blade. It places a hand to your cheek, almost as if consolation. Its touch feels like diving into a frozen lake. Then it grips around your neck and pulls you to its eye level. A slow, resonating laugh begins in your mind. Its hand curls around your neck tighter as the laugh grows deafening. You awake to Kassi gripping both of your shoulders. "What?" you plainly ask. "Your body was shaking uncontrollably against the bedpost. It woke me up," she says. "I had a nightmare, like the ones I had as a child." "I'm sorry," she touches your cheek. The act reminds you of the shade. "Come, let's meditate until morning." She takes a seat next to you cross-legged. You try to refocus your mind on the Spirit, but all you can think about is the shade's grip around your neck. You think of nothing else until sunrise. > Morning A knock at the door brings you from the meditation, or at least your attempt at it. You rise and answer the door. Yuri stands outside holding a tray of food. "Eat quickly and then let's move," he says. "How'd you sleep?" "I've had better nights of sleep," you answer honestly. "Heh, I'm sure you have," he says glancing towards Kassi behind you. "Thank you, we'll be down soon," you say shutting the door. You place the tray on the small table and begin to eat. It's mostly bread and cheese, with various berries scattered throughout. Kassi and you silently eat, not mentioning the events of the night. When you finish, you pack your traveling gear and carry the tray downstairs. The waitress gives you a thankful nod as you set the eatery down in the kitchen. Vishal, Yuri, and the third man, Gregory, are waiting outside prepping their horses. Vishal notices you approaching. "It's about a four days ride to the outpost," he comments. "Then let's not delay any further," you answer. The five of you ride from Estabrook. No one notices the hooded figure watching from the shadows. > Narrow's Edge A few days later, you arrive at the base of the mountains. On the way, you had met with one of Vishal's contacts who had a cart prepared full of freshly harvested fruits. Vishal explained you needed a valid reason to be crossing through the Edge. Vishal assumes the guise of merchant once again and you, Kassi, Yuri, and Gregory, the hired protection. You turn a bend and the outpost appears before you. Built partly into the mountainside, you immediately understand the strategic location of the fort. No army would dare marching along the road. The road's only wide enough for around 10 soldiers or so to march side by side. The treacherous conditions are too much for hauling siege equipment. Whoever controls the road has a firm hold on transporting troops and goods in and out of the territory. You couldn't have chosen a better place to attack, at least not one that isn't a castle full of soldiers. You focus on your breath to calm your nerves. When you approach the front gate a voice shouts out. "State your business or be on your way." You look up to see a woman with chestnut hair peering down at you. "I run an orchard on the outskirts of Estabrook," Vishal answers. "The Emperor's troops have kindly provided me with a wealth of business. So much, in fact, I can't keep my trees producing quickly enough to meet the demands." "Then what brings you to the Edge?" "Expansion," Vishal smiles. "You have a lot of protection for an orchard farmer." "Last harvest, one of my carts was set upon by resistance members. They stole an entire shipment 'for the cause.' I'll not leave my cargo undefended any longer. Costs less to hire a few swords, than lose a whole cart." "Can't have too many swords nowadays," the woman replies. "Follow the directions into the inspection zone. No sudden movements; our archers fire first, ask questions later." The gate swings open with a squeal. You cautiously enter into the fort. Above you, archers train their bows on the cart. Their steady hands, along with the confidence in their eyes, make you believe the woman's threat is not a bluff. One of the fort's guards leads the cart into an open area of the outpost. Satisfied any hidden attackers would be fully exposed, he pulls the canvas back uncovering the cart's contents. Bright orange, red, and green shine in the morning sun. The fruit provided by Vishal's contact fit your story. The soldier motions to the surrounding soldiers, and you see them ease up. The archers still keep their arrows nocked, but release their draw. A man with short cropped hair and graying beard approaches Vishal. "Greetings, farmer. I am the commander in charge. Will you join me in my office?" "What seems to be the problem, commander?" Vishal asks. "Nothing at all. I simply have a few questions for you. Not to worry, you're completely safe here and can leave your hired help behind." "Very well," Vishal answers. He follows the commander for a few steps and then stops. "Commander, might I bring my niece and nephew with me? They are inexperienced and must be exposed to the world of men." "They can come. Surrender your weapons to the Lieutenant." The woman who first yelled at you from the gate walks over and takes your swords. She exchanges a quick look with the commander. Vishal notices the look as well and you see his lips curl into a small smirk. "These are fine quality for people so 'inexperienced,'" she comments. "Stays sharp if you never use it," you answer with a smile. The Lieutenant grunts a reply, which you can't decipher, and nods to the commander. Vishal tosses her an apple on the way past. The commander leads you through a narrow tunnel. Soldiers salute as you pass by. The two stationed outside the office pat you for hidden weapons and then allow your entry. The Commander sits into a leather-padded chair placed behind a sturdy-looking desk. His leather armor settles against the similar material at his back. He folds his hands on the desk. "You're the first non-military traveler we've seen in months. How does the war fare for civilians?" "Good for business, bad for life-expectancy," Vishal answers. "Such is the nature of war," the Commander speaks. He trails off for a moment and then returns. "Listen, I did not bring you aside to discuss the hardship of war. I have a favor to ask." "Which is?" "I have a letter for you to deliver. My wife and kids are in a small city on the outskirts of the capital." Vishal takes the sealed envelope and weighs it in the air. "Must be an important note. Must be long too, judging from the weight." "It is. Listen, I hope I can depend upon your discretion. Do this for me and you'll be in my favor. It's no small thing to have favor from a commander in the Emperor's employ." "You have yourself a deal," Vishal shakes the commander's hand. "By the way, do you have any idea when the war will end? I much prefer traveling without risk." "Sadly, it doesn't look like the conflict will end any time soon. Luckily, we're quite a distance from the front lines." "I'm sure you get your fair share of action. This is a key location for mobilization." "Not as much as you'd think. The taking of this outpost would require substantial losses to their numbers." "There's that military mind of yours, always thinking in terms of numbers and superiority. You haven't considered a well-defended spot such as this is vulnerable to a small team's infiltration," Vishal says. "Careful, farmer." "All it takes is one poisoned apple, and you have an entire military fort at your disposal." The Commander's face goes white. He remembers the apple Vishal tossed to the Lieutenant. He springs from his chair and grips Vishal by the collar. You and Kassi start to react, but Vishal waves you off. "Give me the antidote," he spits. "I'm not daft enough to have it on me," Vishal answers. "Then you could simply torture me for it." "That's not a bad idea." "It is if you want your precious lieutenant to live." "Fine," the Commander loosens his grip. "What do you want?" "I want your undivided loyalty. You strike me as an honorable man and I'm willing to give you the antidote if you swear to me." "What's to stop me from killing you after I receive the antidote?" "Your honor, of course." The Commander releases his grip in defeat. "I swear my loyalty to you and your cause," he speaks barely louder than a whisper. "Just give me the antidote." "No need to look so downtrodden. I always take care of my friends," Vishal says. "Now we must be off, I have a letter to deliver. You'll receive the antidote later this week...along with your new orders." When you arrive back to the wagon, you see the soldiers have eased up. A couple of them are even engaged in conversation with Yuri and Gregory. Now that you're back in the open, your weapons are handed back. You strap your sword on and something feels different. The familiar weight feels off. You remove the blade and examine the sheath. Tucked between where your hilt and sheath meet is a piece of paper. "Everything ok?" Kassi asks noticing you removed the sword. "Yeah, just making sure those soldiers didn't tamper with anything," you reply. In order to hold true to your story, you leave the Narrow's Edge outpost and travel deeper into Empire territory. Vishal explained you'd spend have to spend at least a week there before returning back the way you came to Estabrook. Unsurprisingly, Vishal had people to meet during that time. Later that night during your watch, you unfold the piece of paper mysteriously attached to your sword. Swordmaster, I know who you are, survivor of the monastery massacre. Your talents are better spent on the battlefield, not parading as a spy's personal bodyguard. I happen to know you'll be in Searing Rock this week. There's a tavern on the eastern wall, Craven's Refuge. Meet me there if you're interested. Signed, M. > You disregard the note You do not trust the mysterious note. For all you know, it's a trick to lure you into an ambush. Although you prefer the direct approach, something about the note feels off, like it's intentionally deceiving. You rip the note into small pieces and bury it in the dirt. The next day you're back on the road to visit Vishal's next contact. Vishal explains you will make a small loop, hitting Searing Rock, and then circle back through Narrow's Edge to return to Estabrook. Nothing exciting happens during the meetings. Vishal would show up, inquire status, and depending on the response, he'd issue new orders. Your revenge against the Empire ends up being a series of small attacks and sabotage. You're a thorn in the Empire's side, but the beast lives on despite your minor annoyances.

[Themes: fantasy, war] A few days later, you arrive at the base of the mountains. On the way, you had met with one of Vishal's contacts who had a cart prepared full of freshly harvested fruits. Vishal explained you needed a valid reason to be crossing through the Edge. Vishal assumes the guise of merchant once again and you, Kassi, Yuri, and Gregory, the hired protection. You turn a bend and the outpost appears before you. Built partly into the mountainside, you immediately understand the strategic location of the fort. No army would dare marching along the road. The road's only wide enough for around 10 soldiers or so to march side by side. The treacherous conditions are too much for hauling siege equipment. Whoever controls the road has a firm hold on transporting troops and goods in and out of the territory. You couldn't have chosen a better place to attack, at least not one that isn't a castle full of soldiers. You focus on your breath to calm your nerves. When you approach the front gate a voice shouts out. "State your business or be on your way." You look up to see a woman with chestnut hair peering down at you. "I run an orchard on the outskirts of Estabrook," Vishal answers. "The Emperor's troops have kindly provided me with a wealth of business. So much, in fact, I can't keep my trees producing quickly enough to meet the demands." "Then what brings you to the Edge?" "Expansion," Vishal smiles. "You have a lot of protection for an orchard farmer." "Last harvest, one of my carts was set upon by resistance members. They stole an entire shipment 'for the cause.' I'll not leave my cargo undefended any longer. Costs less to hire a few swords, than lose a whole cart." "Can't have too many swords nowadays," the woman replies. "Follow the directions into the inspection zone. No sudden movements; our archers fire first, ask questions later." The gate swings open with a squeal. You cautiously enter into the fort. Above you, archers train their bows on the cart. Their steady hands, along with the confidence in their eyes, make you believe the woman's threat is not a bluff. One of the fort's guards leads the cart into an open area of the outpost. Satisfied any hidden attackers would be fully exposed, he pulls the canvas back uncovering the cart's contents. Bright orange, red, and green shine in the morning sun. The fruit provided by Vishal's contact fit your story. The soldier motions to the surrounding soldiers, and you see them ease up. The archers still keep their arrows nocked, but release their draw. A man with short cropped hair and graying beard approaches Vishal. "Greetings, farmer. I am the commander in charge. Will you join me in my office?" "What seems to be the problem, commander?" Vishal asks. "Nothing at all. I simply have a few questions for you. Not to worry, you're completely safe here and can leave your hired help behind." "Very well," Vishal answers. He follows the commander for a few steps and then stops. "Commander, might I bring my niece and nephew with me? They are inexperienced and must be exposed to the world of men." "They can come. Surrender your weapons to the Lieutenant." The woman who first yelled at you from the gate walks over and takes your swords. She exchanges a quick look with the commander. Vishal notices the look as well and you see his lips curl into a small smirk. "These are fine quality for people so 'inexperienced,'" she comments. "Stays sharp if you never use it," you answer with a smile. The Lieutenant grunts a reply, which you can't decipher, and nods to the commander. Vishal tosses her an apple on the way past. The commander leads you through a narrow tunnel. Soldiers salute as you pass by. The two stationed outside the office pat you for hidden weapons and then allow your entry. The Commander sits into a leather-padded chair placed behind a sturdy-looking desk. His leather armor settles against the similar material at his back. He folds his hands on the desk. "You're the first non-military traveler we've seen in months. How does the war fare for civilians?" "Good for business, bad for life-expectancy," Vishal answers. "Such is the nature of war," the Commander speaks. He trails off for a moment and then returns. "Listen, I did not bring you aside to discuss the hardship of war. I have a favor to ask." "Which is?" "I have a letter for you to deliver. My wife and kids are in a small city on the outskirts of the capital." Vishal takes the sealed envelope and weighs it in the air. "Must be an important note. Must be long too, judging from the weight." "It is. Listen, I hope I can depend upon your discretion. Do this for me and you'll be in my favor. It's no small thing to have favor from a commander in the Emperor's employ." "You have yourself a deal," Vishal shakes the commander's hand. "By the way, do you have any idea when the war will end? I much prefer traveling without risk." "Sadly, it doesn't look like the conflict will end any time soon. Luckily, we're quite a distance from the front lines." "I'm sure you get your fair share of action. This is a key location for mobilization." "Not as much as you'd think. The taking of this outpost would require substantial losses to their numbers." "There's that military mind of yours, always thinking in terms of numbers and superiority. You haven't considered a well-defended spot such as this is vulnerable to a small team's infiltration," Vishal says. "Careful, farmer." "All it takes is one poisoned apple, and you have an entire military fort at your disposal." The Commander's face goes white. He remembers the apple Vishal tossed to the Lieutenant. He springs from his chair and grips Vishal by the collar. You and Kassi start to react, but Vishal waves you off. "Give me the antidote," he spits. "I'm not daft enough to have it on me," Vishal answers. "Then you could simply torture me for it." "That's not a bad idea." "It is if you want your precious lieutenant to live." "Fine," the Commander loosens his grip. "What do you want?" "I want your undivided loyalty. You strike me as an honorable man and I'm willing to give you the antidote if you swear to me." "What's to stop me from killing you after I receive the antidote?" "Your honor, of course." The Commander releases his grip in defeat. "I swear my loyalty to you and your cause," he speaks barely louder than a whisper. "Just give me the antidote." "No need to look so downtrodden. I always take care of my friends," Vishal says. "Now we must be off, I have a letter to deliver. You'll receive the antidote later this week...along with your new orders." When you arrive back to the wagon, you see the soldiers have eased up. A couple of them are even engaged in conversation with Yuri and Gregory. Now that you're back in the open, your weapons are handed back. You strap your sword on and something feels different. The familiar weight feels off. You remove the blade and examine the sheath. Tucked between where your hilt and sheath meet is a piece of paper. "Everything ok?" Kassi asks noticing you removed the sword. "Yeah, just making sure those soldiers didn't tamper with anything," you reply. In order to hold true to your story, you leave the Narrow's Edge outpost and travel deeper into Empire territory. Vishal explained you'd spend have to spend at least a week there before returning back the way you came to Estabrook. Unsurprisingly, Vishal had people to meet during that time. Later that night during your watch, you unfold the piece of paper mysteriously attached to your sword. Swordmaster, I know who you are, survivor of the monastery massacre. Your talents are better spent on the battlefield, not parading as a spy's personal bodyguard. I happen to know you'll be in Searing Rock this week. There's a tavern on the eastern wall, Craven's Refuge. Meet me there if you're interested. Signed, M. > You visit the tavern Just as the note said, your journey with Vishal takes you to Searing Rock. The city lies at the base of a dormant volcano. You can think of many places you'd rather build a city than at the base of a volcano. When voicing it to Yuri, he offers a reasonable explanation. "Some folks figured out to use the place for smithing. They built several deep underground forges. The city just sort of built around them." "Might as well be building on sand," Kassi comments. Vishal leads your small band to a middle-class inn to keep appearances, even though he could afford the nicest place in the city. As his "niece and nephew," you and Kassi get your own room. You practice your daily forms in the room, this one having more floor space than the dinky room in Estabrook. Once Kassi is asleep, you quietly sneak out. You thought about asking her to come with you, after all, you did everything together, but you decided it best she could speak her uninvolvement, truthfully, if things turned south. You navigate through the city streets towards the eastern wall. After being the recipient of two drunken threats, invitation from an alley whore, and catching a thief's hands in your pocket (one of them was promptly removed), you see the sign for Craven's Refuge. The two-story structure is partly attached to the city wall behind it. The inside is almost pitch black. Seating booths line the walls. Features are hard to distinguish, and you assume that is by design. A well-dressed man in black greets you upon entry. "Reservation?" he asks. The tone of his voice subtly suggests he knows the answer to his question. "I believe that's been arranged. I'm here to see M," you answer. The man's gaze briefly floats to your sword before returning. "Very well. The lady will see you now. Please do not do anything to disturb the other guests." The man leads you to the back corner of the room. As you pass by various booths and tables, guests pause their conversation until you're out of range to hear. He brings you to a booth at the far wall that looks exactly like the others. Both seats are empty and the man motions for you to sit on the right side. You take your seat and wait patiently. Suddenly, the seat swivels 180 degrees and the shadowy interior is replaced with a normally lit room. Your seat is facing a familiar woman: Lieutenant Mathers. "Narrow's Edge not treating you well enough?" you ask. "Heh, it has its moments. Like, for example, when the entire military outpost was brought to its knees by a single woman's actions," she answers. "I take it you're not simply a lieutenant in the Empire's army." "Now where in the world would you come up with that crazy idea?" Seeing your unchanged reaction to her sarcasm, she continues. "Sorry, I forget that you're young and haven't experienced the world much." "I've seen my fair share. I've experienced enough to know that having a strong sword arm and close allies are necessary for survival," you reply. "Hmm, perhaps I was wrong to judge your blank look as naivety. I suppose you're also someone who would rather get straight to the point instead of dancing around the edges. That's why you're here. I'm taking the fight straight to the Emperor. I'm done with bleeding the Empire slowly. I want to remove its head with a single blow." "Easier said than done," you comment. "True," Mathers says. "But a lot easier with a high ranking officer at your disposal." "Where do I come into all of this? There are plenty of swords to hire." "None like you." "Flattery won't help. I have a realistic notion of my skill and its relation to others. I have never faced a superior opponent since leaving the monastery, but that does not mean superior opponents don't exist." "I'm glad you mentioned the monastery. Don't you want to know how I learned of your survival?" "I did not survive alone." "Yes, I know. The girl had no small part in the matter, but it's ultimately you I am, and the Empire, is interested in." "Why? Kassi and I are equals." "Ha-ha! The monks never told you, did they? Oh this is just too good. How do you think you arrived there in the first place?" "As a child, I told myself loving parents gave me up in hopes for a better life, though even then, I knew that was a lie. I knew I was different from the other kids. The monks never shared the details, and I have no memory before arriving. My current state leads my actions, my past's details are less important." "If I didn't read the reports myself, I think you would make a solid argument. Your past is more important than you assume." Her face darkens. "--because it's what haunts you now." Mathers' words paralyze you. Your mind wanders to your night in Estabrook, to your nightmare. "What report?" you manage to ask. "Kid, you look like you've seen a ghost, although this is you, so that wouldn't be too far-fetched. Tell me, what do you know of the first Emperor, Ragar?" > Ragar the Unbroken Flames. The world before Ragar is consumed by the arcane inferno. His soldiers run through the capital city, slaughtering men and performing acts on women, desperately wishing for the blade instead of the next soldier in line. Ragar's black hair flows in the wind. His view atop the wyvern gives him full vantage over the battle. Laughing, he casts another fireball into a nearby church tower. The ringing bell is silenced in a short burst of collapsing stone and metal. Straight ahead of him, though masked by the burning city's smoke, lies the stronghold tower of King Osborne. Even a mere glance at the king's stronghold builds rage inside Ragar. "He betrayed me," Ragar lifelessly speaks. His voice is drowned out by the battle below. With a snarl, he guides the wyvern towards the tower. He doesn't care that the act will put him into enemy lines, far beyond the reach of his army. Osborne is near and Ragar will have his revenge. Arrows and arcane projectiles fly through the air at him. They dissolve into the barrier of dark magic Ragar maintains around the winged beast. Ragar allows them to keep firing into his shield. As he nears a siege weapon, he unleashes the stored energy burying the weapon and surrounding soldiers in a heap of rubble. Terror begins to spread in the minds of the defending soldiers. Ragar the Unbroken is here! Ragar has little trouble navigating to the throne room. The pitiful soldiers tasked with defending their king fall at a simple wave of Ragar's hand. He raises their dead bodies up in hopes they might offer better protection to their new master. Ragar boldly walks the long pathway to the throne's steps. His newly raised soldiers escort him. King Osborne solemnly sits on the throne. The golden crown sitting on his wavy brown hair suddenly feels a lot heavier. Beside him sits the queen and his daughter, Catherine. "Has your quest for power satisfied you, Ragar?" the King projects into the merely empty throne room. His words give a slight echo, a result of the room's emptiness. "I will not be satisfied until you're dead," Ragar answers. The Queen rises from her seat in anger. "Ragar! Enough of this! You have betrayed your family, your own flesh and blood. If I had known what you would grow up to be, I would have ended your life in childbirth." Ragar utters a contemptuous laugh. "No, you would not. The true evil sits beside you. None of you have the strength to grasp the power our blood offers, even more so with the ritual I've discovered; the same one you banished me for." King Osborne interjects. "You gave me no choice, son. You're lucky to have received banishment and not execution." "Enough of this. Now you die," Ragar spits. With a wave of his hand, the undead escort charges the throne's steps. Osborne grips his two-handed hammer in anticipation. Holy magic fires from the Queen's open palm. The blast burns right through the undead soldiers. The remaining few receive fatal blows from the King's mighty hammer. Ragar expected the outcome. The undead soldiers provided him with enough time to finish casting the spell. The throne room fills with banshee screams. The royal family is forced to cover their ears. An invisible grip pulls the Queen towards Ragar. The grip begins to compress, the Queen cries out in pain. Ragar laughs as the Queen's bones snap under the magical compression. At the top of the throne's steps, Catherine screams. As the Queen's body drops lifelessly to the floor, Ragar turns to the other members of the royal family. "And to think, your, our, divine blood couldn't save her..." "...It won't save you either." King Osborne charges down the steps with his hammer raised overhead. His sudden assault catches Ragar off guard; he is barely able to raise a defensive shield to absorb the blow. The powerful strike sends Ragar flying across the floor. Holy sigils on the hammer emit a golden glow. The divine power of the artifact surges through Osborne, and his eyes emit the same glow. The power inside Ragar, the one he devoted his soul to, wills him to roll to his left. The hammer crushes through the floor in the place Ragar just was. Snarling as if a rabid dog, he springs to his feet. Ragar fires several shadow bolts towards Osborne. The King is able to defend against each one. Suddenly a blade pierces out the front of Osborne's throat in a burst of red. The King drops clutching his wound. The undead Queen stands over the body of her fallen husband. Shadowy wisps begin to form in her eye and mouth holes. Ragar smiles at his mother. The seed of black magic he planted have begun to grow. The igniting agent: her death. His eyes draw to young Princess Catherine. Ragar hesitates a moment, and then surrenders his will to the dark power within. "We must preserve the divine bloodline." > ... "What does the story have to do with me?" you ask. "You can't be that thick-headed. There is only one reason I'd tell you that story," Mathers replies. "You're a descendent of Ragar the Unbroken." "Surely, you can't be serious," you say. "It's the truth." "There must be others then. Ragar lived hundreds of years ago." "Mm, perhaps there are others. Rumor is the current Emperor might be. Siblings that don't end up ruling tend to be disposed of: rivalries, throne claims, and all that." "How did you come by this knowledge?" "Most know the legend of Ragar the Unbroken. Not many know the tragedy of Princess Catherine, but that's a story for another time." "I still don't understand how I fit into any of this. I've been fighting the Empire almost my whole life." "Join me, and we will bring the Empire crumbling down. No more of this 'thorn in their side' bullshit. I will strike a blow not even the Empire cannot recover from." > You say "My mind is a sea of questions..." "My mind is a sea of questions right now," you say. "As expected. I will do my best to answer them," Mathers says. > You join Mathers "I still have questions, but I intend to join you. My talents are better suited in combat. Just no getting around that fact," you answer. "It was destined to be so," Mathers says. "There is the matter of your friend, Kassi..." "She will join us, I can assure you that. She prefers action almost more than I do." "Excellent. Meet me back here tomorrow." She nods to an unseen guard and the booth once more turns 180 degrees. You find yourself back in Craven's Refuge. The man who greeted you at the front stands outside of your booth. "I do hope you enjoyed your visit. Allow me to escort you out." The man leads you back to the entrance and gives a bow once you exit. Your mind is consumed with thoughts of the information Mathers shared. Can you really be a descendant of the Empire's dynasty? Your mind is so distracted you almost don't notice the two thugs that have blocked your path. "Empty your pockets, now," the ugly one speaks...well, the uglier one speaks. "I carry no valuables. Only a few coins for meals and a sword to protect me. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can afford to hand over," you reply. "We'll just have to take what you have then," the ugly one answers. They attempt to wrap you up in their superior size, but you easily evade the grapple. A quick draw of your blade removes a hand in its trajectory. The other, attempting to avenge his partner, bull rushes you. Pivoting to the side, you slice the blade in front of you spilling the thug's guts into the city's streets. You approach the thug clutching his severed hand. "I will enjoy killing you," you lifelessly say. As suddenly as the voice compelling your speech entered, it leaves, breaking the trance. A woman passing by screams at the sight of two dead bodies. If it came down to it, you could argue self-defense to the authorities, but you didn't want to bother explaining. You take off down the street back towards the inn. You creep silently back into the room and find Kassi sitting cross-legged on the floor facing the door. Her eyes peer open as you walk in. "Nice night for a walk," she comments. "I didn't want to wake you, Kass. I just had an interesting meeting with Mathers of all people. She wants to fight the Empire head on," you say. "Great, I'm tired of all the sneaking around. I much prefer a direct fight." "I knew you'd say that. I already told Mathers we're both in." "Vishal might not be happy about it." "We'll be fighting the Empire. He should understand. Besides, you know as well as I, he can't stop us." "I hope it doesn't come to that. It does not do us any good fighting amongst ourselves." You fill Kassi in with the rest of the details, including the questions you asked Mathers. You leave out the section about Ragar the Unbroken, though. You're not sure how she would handle the news, and you aren't even completely convinced it's true. The pair of you, excited by the journey ahead, don't even notice the being outside your door listening in... > Chapter 3: The Executioner's Axe As I think on my younger years, I can't help but feel sorry for my former self. I was a man of action. I relied on strength of will to accomplish most things. I had a solution to every problem strapped at my hip, and I kept it well-sharpened. I realize now that I lacked understanding. I could perform great feats, but for what? I had been fighting the Empire my entire life, and I never stopped to question why. Up until the moment, it was for revenge of the monastery massacre. There must be more, a deeper meaning behind my life. I told myself they were evil. I'm sure they said the same thing about me. As I grow older, I'm understanding there are few absolutes. Almost nothing is ever certain. Truth is relative for each individual, even in false beliefs. I searched for a deeper meaning behind life. We were successful in our attacks against the Empire. There was no doubt in my mind the Empire would crumble in my lifetime. Once we slew the great beast, would there be anything worth living for? I pray that I find my meaning. > The capital "The day is finally here. Tonight the Emperor dies. Doe everyone understand their position?" Mathers asks leaning with both hands on the table. The surrounding faces nod their heads and murmur their agreement, you and Kassi among them. Yuri stands with you as well. It turns out Vishal's man is actually Mathers'. The deadly blow Mathers discussed with you took several years of planning. There was the matter of getting people staffed as royal servants as well as scouting the layout of the fortress. Every tiny detail of the assassination was planned out ahead of time. Things seemingly insignificant, such as learning the

names of each stablehand, were addressed. Mathers ran a tight ship and didn't want any weak links. You exit the tavern's basement to stroll to your home. You and Kassi moved to the Empire's capital city almost immediately after joining Mathers. There, you posed as newly weds in search of a better life. In fact, your cover included getting a job at a nearby fencing school. Mathers warned that someone is always watching in the capital city. The Empire keeps close tabs on its citizens that reside close to the Emperor, not that anyone could visit him. The Emperor never leaves the fortress, and the only way in is to be invited. It just so happens, you've received such an invitation. Kassi walks by your side, and you put an arm around her for appearances. The capital city is far cleaner than Searing Rock. Streets are regularly maintained, and the increased amount of patrolling soldiers keeps thieves away. "I can't believe we're finally here," she says. "It's all been building up until now. Keep your blade sharp--" "--and your mind sharper," she finishes for you. You arrive at your home. Your house is tall and narrow. There's limited amount of space in the capital city, and most buildings are built with such proportions. The first floor consists of a single room with a winding staircase that leads to the upper. As soon as you enter the doorway, you feel a cold chill run down your spine. You sense a presence you have not felt since the monastery. "Something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost," Kassi says. "It's nothing," you blankly state. A subtle, mocking laugh subsides in your mind. "Alright then. Let's prepare," she says. "Let's just hope that graceful footwork of yours holds up on the ballroom floor." You climb the staircase to the third floor. Hanging in front of a changing curtain is two magnificently designed outfits. The clothes are made with the current fashion design, though a little too tight in your opinion. You remove your clothes to clean up for the occasion. When you finish, you gaze in the mirror at the unrecognizable figure looking back. Though still on the young side, your face has long matured into manhood. Your clean-shaven face would require a razor's attention if it were to keep its form this time tomorrow. Your tailored coat hangs to your mid-thighs, its black material matching the pants. You adjust the light scarf around your throat that seems to melt into the coat. "Are you really that uncomfortable? I've never seen you fidget that much, even including that time we spent three days hiding in the treetops of Langly Forest." You turn to see Kassi. Her hair is back to bright blonde. The few golden strands that have purposely escaped her hair tie hang loosely on her bare shoulders. Her raven-colored dress hugs tightly against her athletic, but still womanly, body. "You look..." you begin to say before blanking on the words. "I'll take that as a compliment," she smiles. She picks up a gold-tipped cane and hands it to you. "Don't forget this. Every proper gentleman has a cane." You grasp the metal-reinforced wood and swing it in the air as if a sword. "Reminds me of Brother Samuel," you comment. You activate the locking mechanism, releasing the hidden sword blade underneath. "Although I don't think his did this." Kassi eyes the blade. "Samuel's cane was much more powerful. The holy sigils were placed by the Grandmaster himself. I think it's oddly poetic you should carry a cane tonight, the night the monastery will be avenged." You nod. "It's been a long road, but we're finally here." The sound of a horse carriage brings you from your contemplative state. You exit the front door to find Yuri, finely dressed, and sitting in the driver's seat. "You look wonderful, Miss Kassi," he says. Turning to you, he adds, "Couldn't find a larger size jacket?" "My jackets are always tight around the shoulders," you retort mentioning to his belly. "While yours tend to be tight around the stomach." "Ha-ha! Come, we have a party to attend," Yuri says opening the carriage door for you. The carriage take yous from the residential district, through the merchant quarter, and finally to the front gate of the fortress. A long line of carriages wait in line, while elite guardsmen take their time to search each guest. When it's your turn, the guardsmen pat you down and search for weapons. The mage with them casts a spell on your jewelry searching for magical artifacts that could be a threat. You get waived through without any issue. Several stoic battalions are positioned in the entryway of the gate. At a moments notice, the entire fortress could be on lock down, and any intruders stuck inside. As soon as you pass through the gates, the same chill washes over you. You try to ignore it and continue inside. > Inside the Emperor's keep The main hall is ceremoniously decorated. Lights hang from the high arched ceiling. Live music with various stringed instruments play at the center of the room. The musician's seats are arranged in a circle to evenly hit the room with music. You estimate there's about two hundred guests, all dressed in their finest attire. Servants pass by with plates of food and drinks. One notices your lack of cup, and places one in your and Kassi's empty hands without asking. You sniff the cocktail and smell hints of orange followed by a strong alcoholic smell. In order to fit in, you take small sips being careful not to overdo it, especially since your body isn't attuned to its effects. Dancing seems to be the main attraction in the room as most of the guests are either taking part or watching from afar. There is no sign of the Emperor, although you didn't exactly expect him to be mingling about. You make your way to the crowd gathered around the dancing guests. Not that you supposed anyone suspected you of anything, you just felt it best to keep a low profile. The grand spectacle before you is certainly something you're not used to. Seemingly unlimited food, drink, and every pleasure imaginable is present. You doubt anyone here would survive a week at the monastery, save for the high-ranking military members. You feel a pat on your shoulder. "Swordmaster, I thought that was you. Fancy seeing you here. My, you look incredible. I didn't think you owned anything besides that old robe of yours." You turn to see Priscilla, the daughter of General Hathis, one of your students. Her full-bodied red curls flow lightlessly down her back. In contrast to the white dress below, her sanguine hair looks even brighter. Your eyes are drawn to the gold rapier at her hip. "Surprised you managed to bring that needle of yours," you say. "I should have brought mine too." She smiles. "Being my father's daughter has certain benefits. Besides, any guard who would confiscate 'Verna' knows I would report them for being too handsy, a quick way to an early retirement." "Perhaps next lesson we should go over proper sword naming technique." She attempts to give you a playful shove on the shoulder, but instinctively, you parry the blow aside. The guard tasked with protecting Pricilla, her father's man if you had to guess, warningly slides his hand to his sword hilt. "Ha! No wonder you're the top instructor in the Empire," Priscilla says. "The Empire?" Kassi inputs. "As if my husband needs a bolster to his ego." "That's enough, you two," you answer. "A swordmaster knows when he faces superior opponents." "Speaking of which," Priscilla says. "I'm sure the lovely people here would enjoy the spectacle of a sword demonstration. It might be good for your business too. Should we give them a show?" > You give them a demonstration "Sure, why not. Just remember your training," you answer. "Excellent! I'm afraid you're not allowed to pick up a sword, so you'll have to use that walking stick of yours," Priscilla answers. On much vocal direction from Priscilla involving the words "my father," "whipped," and "public shame," the dancers clear from the area. The gathering crowd whispers among themselves in excitement at the upcoming display of combat. "So much for not drawing attention," Kassi whispers in your ear. You shrug. "It's part of my cover," you whisper back. You remove your coat and roll up the sleeves of your tunic. As you walk to the center of the gathered circle of people, you loosen up your shoulders. Man, it feels good to be out of that damn jacket. You give the cane a few twirls to test the weight and balance. The crowd "oohs" at the simple motion. The slow, stringed music shifts to an upbeat tune with consistent low notes setting the tone for the fast and loose melody. A barefoot Priscilla meets you in the center with the golden rapier drawn. She acts like she's about to say something, and then suddenly lunges forward with the rapier in attack position. You easily knock the blade aside and step back out of range. The cane, while not extremely heavy, is definitely a lot slower to wield than a rapier. You take a mental note to adjust for the speed difference. Using more theatrics than you're accustomed to, you twirl the cane and spin into your attack. You weave high, jumping overhead, striking with long and low thrusts. The crowd seems pleased and a cheer rises from the acrobatic movements. You're acutely aware of Priscilla's ability and don't give her more than she can handle. Before each strike, you subtly give a "tell," so Priscilla is alerted to your attack. One heavy thrust removes a large section of the metal from your cane. The shiny piece falls to the ground with a clatter. You and Priscilla stop for a moment at the broken section. In the break in action, the chilling presence once again falls over you. For a brief moment, you see the flash of a skull behind Pricilla's face. The image sticks in your mind for several blinks after. "Don't worry, I'll pay for that!" she shouts and begins another assault. > You end the demonstration Wanting to finish the show quickly, you wait for Priscilla's next attack. As performs the cut, you catch hold of her sword hand mid-swing. You use her momentum to throw her body to the ground. The crowd gasps at the sudden change in tactics. The guard assigned to Priscilla, steps into the center with his sword out. At the last moment, you shoot your leg out and squat to ground level. Priscilla lands harmlessly in your grasp, your hand supporting her upper body and your leg, the lower. She sits, unmoving, as her mind tries to understand how she ended up in that position. A big smile stretches across her face. "I told you he was the best!" she shouts to the crowd. Her guard relaxes his sword. You help Priscilla to her feet and bow to the crowd. Several members pat you on the back as you rejoin Kassi in the sea of onlookers. "The way you played with her reminded me of our early years," she says. "We've certainly come a long way since then. Look at us, all dressed up and attending the most exclusive party in the Empire. I did not imagine our future would look this way," you say. "Just remember why we're here," she answers. "My mind is focused," you reply. "Ahem." You turn to see a dignitary with two elite guards at either side. His long flowing green hair and smoothly-shaved skin gives a youthful appearance, yet his eyes look more mature. The guards at either side stand stoic, their polaxes at the ready. "Yes? Can I help you?" you ask. "The Emperor summons you for a personal audience," the man says with an air of superiority. "The Emperor? What does he want with me?" you ask. You're not used to being caught off guard, and the man's statement is not expected. "I am not here to answer your questions. Only to bring to His Majesty. Come along now. Alone." You give Kassi a shrug and follow behind the green-haired man. The guards "subtly" arrange themselves to your front and back. The man leads you up a massive, winding staircase of red carpet. Gold lines the banisters. You continue down a narrow hallway, stopping at four different checkpoints for clearance. The man keeps the same posture throughout: shoulders back and chin high. The personnel at the checkpoints seem to recognize the man, but still thoroughly search him the same as you. Your cane is confiscated at the first point. You reach a series of steel double-doors and the man motions for you to enter. The green-haired man and guards stay outside. You enter the room and take in your surroundings. It's mostly open-spaced, though on the narrow side. Two balconies run on either side, and you can see a series of bookcases on the floor above. White marble fills the ground. At the far end, you can see a spherical object on what appears to be a shrine. Behind it, a small staircase on either side lead to a viewing platform. You can't see out the windows from your position, but you can guess the half-circle of clear glass gives a view over the entire capital. A figure stands at the viewing platform gazing out, his back turned towards you. The room is silent, but for your echoing footsteps as you approach the platform. "Do you know why you're here, Swordmaster?" the figure says. His voice is deep, though not in an aggressive manner. "I'm here at the invitation of my Emperor," you reply. "And you do not have an ulterior motive?" For the second time tonight, you're caught off-guard. "I do admit, attending tonight is beneficial to my school, not everyone can be taught the art of swordplay from a master in favorable grace with His Majesty." "No," the Emperor says. He turns around and you catch sight of him for the first time. Long strands of black hair hang well below his shoulders. His eyes are green, something you've never seen with an individual with black hair. His face is sharp as if his attention is kept unwavering on the object of his choosing. You imagined the Emperor to be old, though he looks just a few years older than you. "You're here to kill me," he finishes the statement. > Meanwhile... Kassi wanders around the great hall. Since you left, she's tried mingling, but the Emperor's summon is problematic. The night is planned out to the smallest detail. A summon from the assassination target himself isn't something the group prepared for. A passing waitress stops in front of her. "Another drink, my Lady?" Mathers stands in front of her with tray of colorful drinks. "Yeah, just give me a vodka," Kassi answers. Lowering her voice she adds, "What's the plan now? He's been gone awhile." "Here you go. Please try to enjoy the night, everything is planned for your entertainment," the waitress, Mathers, says and leaves. Kassi sips at the surprisingly good-tasting drink. She would enjoy the ability to partake tonight, keeping in full control of her senses. She didn't know the next time she'd allow herself to taste the drink. It's distracting to her training, after all. Kassi puts on her best cheerful face and attempts to interact with the citizens of the Empire. She hates each and every one of them, but sees her conversations as a test of discipline. Every instinct within her wants to enact revenge on the Empire for massacring the monastery. Kassi take a deep breath, forces a smile, and merrily greets the next citizen. She takes solace in Mathers' words: everything is planned. > You Continue "Do not deny it. My spies are everywhere, even in the sanctuary of your inner circle," the Emperor states. He slowly steps down the left side of the arched staircase and continues. "It's a suicide mission, I'm afraid. In a few moments, your friend -- oh what's the name she's going by now...Mathers. Mathers will be taken into custody along with any accomplices, including your precious wife." The man speaks with utter conviction. You can tell the difference between a bluff in an attempt to gather information and a man speaking the truth. You deal with it routinely in swordplay; there's always a slight sign of a man feinting. It may be subtle, but it's there and you've trained your whole life to spot it. There's no mistaking it, the Emperor knows about the assassination attempt. "Then why are we still alive?" you ask. "The obvious action would be to execute us, publically, to dissuade future attempts." "All that can be arranged later. I'm more interested in the man who survived the monastery...and more importantly, the child who survived the shade." "You'd have plenty of witnesses if you didn't order them all killed," you retort. "Yes," the Emperor mulls. "It's a shame those barbarians allowed bloodlust to take over. Their orders were to capture Aeric's throne. Instead, they rampaged throughout the land, slaughtering all in their way. I had to order a battalion of my own to put them down. I'm sure you find comfort in knowing the monastery's attackers were all executed. Not quickly, I might add." "They're all your own. The way I see it, you ordered the attack. The monks were peaceful. They did nothing to deserve the attack." "Ahh, spoken like a true devotee. It's no secret the monks in the mountains bred the finest warriors in the territory. Tell me, Swordmaster, who protected the monastery?" "Aeric was supposed to." "And what did Aeric receive in return?" Suddenly, it's clear. The monks provided their finest warrior to Aeric each year after the Grand Melee. The monks were actively providing King Aeric with elite soldiers. In other words, they were supplying a nation in opposition to the Empire with troops. "I'll take your silence as agreement," the Emperor says. "The monks were in opposition to the Empire. I'm not justifying the action of those animals, but I'm simply stating true neutrality is a false ideal. You're either an ally or enemy, which brings me to you. I know what hunts you. I know the nightmares you've been having. I can help you if you merely align yourself to me." You feel a familiar shiver down your spine. "What do you know of the nightmares?" you ask. "I know of your past and the great power that lies within. A descendent of divine blood mixed with the hellspawn of the Unbroken. I also know of the unrelenting curse that follows. I know because I am the same. We are brothers, you and I. Give up your futile vendetta against the Empire and let's raise the curse that follows our family." Suddenly, the double-doors swing open, and a blood-stained Mathers enters the room. The white on her waitress outfit is turned red. Followed behind her is the green-haired man and Kassi, both armed and just as stained. The trio walks up next to you and faces the Emperor leaving behind a trail of red footprints. "Thank you, Swordmaster, for distracting the Emperor's watchful gaze long enough," Mathers says. "I don't think we would have made it through without. Heh, seems you overestimated whose inner circle was compromised." "You'll not survive this night. And you, Saric," the Emperor addresses the green haired man. "Treason is punishable by death." The Emperor jumps past you, summoning a sword in either hand. He engages the trio with a flurry of strikes. Kassi easily blocks the blows, though Mathers and Saric look to be barely surviving. You don't react right away. The Emperor's is not the embodiment of evil you imagined him to be. Plus, he seems to know about your past. He might be the only one who can answer the questions of your past. You look back to the skirmish in front of you. The Emperor is slowly losing momentum. You can tell he realizes it too. He draws on arcane energy, and sends a blast of pulsing dark power towards Kassi. The blow knocks her sprawling across the room. The other two combatants, after seeing the magical power, attack fervently back. "Don't just stand there, do something!" Mathers yells. It's time to choose. Will you take the Emperor's side in hopes he can help you uncover your past, or will you stay true to your allies and risk the worsening nightmares? > You stand by your allies The past is the past. The Emperor may offer the ability to confront your past and your dark nature, but your present allies are more important. You decide to act, pushing the Emperor back with a kick. Mathers instantly releases a series of strikes and cuts towards the off-balanced Emperor. Saric cuts his sword at the backpedaling Emperor -- at least, he attempts to. Saric's sword slices through a wisp of black smoke; the dark mist dissolves and reveals the room empty, save for you and the three assassins. "Is he dead?" Kassi asks, recovering from the magic blast. An alarm bell echoes throughout the keep and you start to hear footsteps approaching. The stomping of boots steadily rival the constant ringing. "I don't think so, unfortunately," Mathers answers. "We're about to be if we stay here any longer," you point out. "Come," Saric directs. "I know a secret way out." Saric leads you, Mathers, and Kassi to the eastern balcony. He nonchalantly gazes at the bookcase, mumbling numbers. "Ah, here we are," he says, stopping at a series of green leather-bound books. He presses a few of the books in towards the back of the bookcase. Each time, a mechanical click echoes in the room. Suddenly, the entire section of the bookcase swings open, revealing a hidden passage. Saric looks at you and the other two expectantly. "Well. Don't just stand there." You take the lead with Kassi right behind you. She gives your arm a small reassuring squeeze. You enter the darkness, not knowing what the future has in store. One thing's for certain: you would not let the Emperor escape a second time. > Chapter 4: Renegades The Emperor was within our grasp and we let him slip through our fingers. In the end, it was my hesitation that allowed the Emperor to escape. I vow to never allow thought to disrupt my actions again. Everything was riding on that moment; my entire life was building up to that confrontation. And what happened? My personal feelings stayed my sword arm. Still, I am a student of my mistakes. I've pondered many times why my arm was so affected. I've trained my whole life to sharpen my instincts, that my actions would be swift and sure. I could blame it on surprise, and perhaps that played into it. The Emperor surely did not turn out to be the aged, embodiment of evil I build him up to be. No, that can't be the sole reason for my failure. The failure is mine, not my friends'. I will continue to look, introspectively, for the root of the problem. Once identified, I will cut away, with scalpel-like precision, the thing holding me back. I return back to my practice for answers. My mind is quieted only by the forms. I flow through my sequences to calm the storm of questions inside. There is much I don't understand, even at this stage in my life. There is not much else I can do. I return to my practice. > Imperial pursuit! "They're gaining on us!" You kick the stirrups, signaling the horse to quicken its pace. The road kicks up a dust storm behind you as the trees to your sides become a blurry green. Behind you, the white and gold riders slowly close the distance, their lances at the ready. Steadily, the wind rushes into your face, mirroring the labored breath from your horse. Your instincts tell you to duck, which you quickly act upon without a second thought, narrowly missing a javelin thrown from the closing Imperial riders. To your left, Kassi shouts, "It's no use! We should turn and fight!" "Nonsense, girl. We're almost there," Saric inputs from your right. Saric rides, framing the limp body of Mathers in front of him. Mathers' back presses firmly ag

ainst his chest, holding her upright in the saddle. The arrow wound to her side is a deep pool of red, the shaft still pointing out like a patriotic plant of a flag. You take another glance back. "I agree. There's too many of them. Lead on, Saric!" The green-haired man kicks his horse forward, taking the lead among you and Kassi. Up ahead, the path sharply turns to the left. Trees on either side make up a narrow alleyway. Around the bend, you spot your destination. A deep ravine lies directly ahead, barely visible, unless you know it's there. The ground angles up slightly before dropping steeply down the edge, creating a natural camouflage. As you pass by trees near to the edge, you catch the painted faces of your allies, hiding in the forest. Your horses clear the zone and veer right following the poorly, on purpose, maintained trail. The trap is set. Tripwires lift from the ground, held by your allies hiding off the path. The Imperial riders slam into the traps, sending soldier from horse, and rendering their horses incapacitated. The riders at the front are thrown from the ledge, falling down the steep slope. Those in the back quickly meet their end by the sudden rush from the forest. Your allies easily cut down the riders, who are mostly too shaken to fight back. "See? Why make things harder for ourselves?" Saric asks. "Because it's less fun," Kassi answers. "Quick. We need to attend to Mathers' wounds," you say. The allies from the forest, many of them green-haired like Saric, approach and lift Mathers from the saddle. You follow them to the sanctuary. > The sanctuary Deep in the Ellehorn forest, away from any main roads, crossings, or even hiking trails lies the camp. Well, with the amount of non-soldiers, refugees from the war, it's turned into a small village. Naturally hidden by the overgrowth, it's a mixture of hanging structures and huts. Narrow bridges connect the hanging structures to centralized platforms with simple rope and wooden planks. The trees here are unlike any you've ever seen before arriving. Their trunks are several times thicker than the average oak. The trunks themselves are a dark brown, almost black despite the many pockets of sunshine firing through the canopy gaps. Heavy spots of moss line the base of the trunk, steadily rising to the structures' height and above. As you arrive, several of the members greet you and take Mathers to the healer. Finally back home, you rub your aching shoulders and head for your hut. Your hut is among the hanging structures and suspends from one of the many massive branches growing from the oversized tree trunk. Due to its conditions, it takes on a natural sway, almost a bit like being on a ship. It feels normal now, comforting even, but it took some getting used it. The entryway is a simple piece of cloth blocking view from within -- it's less private than a door, but lighter and more accommodating for the hut's design. Inside, you have a bedroll and not much else. There's little room and the space you do have, you use to practice your forms. Exhausted, you drop your gear next to the bedroll and collapse within it. Footsteps alert you back to consciousness. You lie still, unmoving, as not to draw attention to the fact that you're awake. Through a thin slit in one eye, you see it's now dark. The steps grow louder, although you can tell they are deliberate, attempting to be soft. They stop just outside the cloth door. "Your presence is not unnoticed. Who's there?" you call into the dark. Silence. Heavy drowsiness falls over your eyes, and you fall back asleep. The events of the night are nothing more than a dream, fading from memory, forgotten by the morning. > You go hunting Silently, you creep forward. Your familiar sword remains tucked away in place of a longbow. You glide through the forest floor as if a spirit. Your prey lies in front of you, unaware of your presence. Keeping your eyes remained on the target, you draw the bowstring back, feeling the arrow feathers tickle your cheek. In an instant the arrow disappears from its nocked position and lands squarely in the neck of the buck. "You're a natural. I can't believe you'd never picked up a bow before coming here." You turn to see Cara, lead hunter of the village. Her dirty blonde hair, neatly tied back into a single braid, spills from the left side of her hood like a snake. A thin line of dirt is faintly visible on her cheek. "I never said that. I just feel a lot more comfortable with a sword in my hand," you say. "Although I must say, I'm taking a liking to this." "Nothing like your arrow landing true," Cara says. "I wouldn't go that far. Come on, help me with the carcass." The two of you head towards the fallen deer. You pull a knife from the back of your hip. You make a long incision from the neck down the deer's front side to empty the unneeded organs. Your mind drifts to events from the past two years. The Empire eventually broke through King Aeric's castle, the last remaining territory. Now, no one publicly opposes the Emperor's rule. You've found refuge with Saric's contacts, misfits, refugees, and former soldiers who have taken to Ellehorn to hide from the Empire. They've created a small village in the trees, led by Gilcrest. If there's ever a place you don't want to be found, Ellehorn is it. Mathers' organization is all but disbanded; the Imperial raids made sure of that. You're unsure if Vishal is still carrying on with his "thorn in the side" business. The Emperor's intel makes you think not. The latest ambush on an Imperial cargo transfer didn't go well, and ended putting Mathers out of commission for a while, though you're grateful her wounds didn't end up being fatal. "Done!" Cara exclaims. The thin spot of dirt is joined with a few splashes of blood from the deer. "I'll let you have the honor of dragging it back to camp. You did fell the 'great beast,' after all." She holds her fingers out in a mocking gesture. "You speak highly for someone so empty handed," you reply. "You make the task a lot more difficult, stomping around with those heavy footsteps of yours. It's a wonder we found anything. I'm willing to bet this here buck has hearing problem." "Had hearing problems," you correct. "Close enough. Now pack up your little friend, and let's get back to the others." > That night Your hut sways comfortably in the night breeze, gently willing you, rocking you to sleep. Every few minutes, a strong burst rustles the leaves hanging around the structure. Softly, as if on a ship, the nearby bridge, suspended by rope, creaks with motion, then returns back to silence. Your simple bedroll invites you in, warms you like a mother's arms. Inside the cover, your feet settle in and find cold, leathery-smooth skin. Instantly, you flip from the bedroll and peer inside. Darkness: the same that's outside is all you find, an empty bedroll, still warm from your inhabitance. Taking a deep breath, you slide back inside and try to forget what just happened. You're sure you felt something at your feet. As you re-settle in, your toes briefly touch, and for a second you imagine you feel it again, but...nothing. Whatever it was, a strange dream most likely, it's gone now. > The next morning You rise early, before the sun even. The thick forest doesn't allow you to view the sunrise very well, but there's a clearing a short hike from the village that offers the best view. The clearing is your destination, as it is most mornings. Cool air fills your lungs as you trek through small animal trails. A song bird sings to your right, and as if a duet, another to your left, though it sounds far off in the distance. Rusting of leaves alerts you to a woodland creature scurrying off at your presence. You see a familiar Y-shaped tree, the trunk splitting into two separate branches. Another 100 steps or so, and you're there. You hear breathing before you see her. It's like you're kids again back at the monastery. It was Brother Trevor's punishment that made you start rising early to train, but you and Kassi kept the habit going. You remember the times you beat her to the training room. She'd arrive shortly after, visibly disappointed for allowing you, or anyone, to beat her. Without a doubt, the next morning she'd be there first, never allowing two mornings in a row to take place. Through a break in the leaves, you peer through watching Kassi's form. She moves intently, never wasting stamina in large sweeping motions. Each motion is deliberate as she shadowboxes an unseen opponent. She feints forward, attempting to pull her imaginary foe off balance, then quickly steps back at the same time throwing her counter. "It's not polite to spy on a woman from the bushes," she calls out into the morning. You abandon your position and step into the clearing. "'Spying' suggests intentional deceit. I have nothing to hide." "No, but you were hiding." "Out of courtesy. I don't mean to interrupt your practice." "Now that you're here, care to join?" "Of course. That's why I'm here." > Keep training It's like you're children again. The forest clearing is filled with the sound of your footsteps and breath work. Abandoning your weapons, today you're focusing on hand-to-hand combat and grappling. Your hands grip the back of Kassi's neck as you throw light knees into her torso. She easily blocks the strikes with her forearms and twists from your grasp, smacking the back of your head with an open palm, holding back, but calling the blow "gentle" would be an understatement. With a smile, and ever-so-slight intensity increase, you duck under your arms and tackle Kassi to the ground. She instantly wraps her legs around your waist to control your posture. Using one knee, you break the grip at her feet, prying her legs open and pinning one of her legs to the ground. One leg pinned, you easily slide past her guard and begin to isolate an arm, using both of your hands to interlace the joint lock. Gradually applying pressure, she eventually taps your shoulder signaling her surrender and unwillingness to suffer a broken arm in order to preserve her pride. You obey the voice. You snap Kassi's arm at the elbow joint and release the broken limb to the ground. She screams in pain and grabs for the injured arm. Horrified, you back up, keeping both arms raised displaying your intention to cause no further harm, but the damage is already done. Kassi's face curls in pain and disbelief at your actions. You try to comfort her, but she kicks at you, wanting nothing to do with you. "Hello?" Reality snaps back. "I tapped. You can release my arm now." You're back holding Kassi's uninjured arm, which you promptly release in fear of your vision becoming real. "Sorry," you manage to mumble. "You've been acting strange lately. What's going on?" Kassi asks. "I just lost myself for a moment there," you answer. "Yeah, well, don't let it happen again. Focus your mind. Remember your mantra," Kassi instructs as if you're a kid again. "Yes, Grandmaster," you say, forcing yourself to smile. You eat a playful punch to the gut in reply. > Council meeting You sit at a circular table joined by the other members of the council. You see the familiar faces of Saric, Kassi, and a bandaged Mathers along with Cara, leader of the hunters, and Gilcrest, the village head. Cara's dirty blonde hair rolls from the left side of her hood in a single braid like a snake. Gilcrest is dressed in brown robes, priestly garments from his previous life before the Empire took control. The six of you make up the council, tasked with defending the village and organizing fire strikes against Empire soldiers wandering too close. "The fact is, the latest raid was too risky. You brought the Imperial riders to our doorstep! One of our own was injured," Gilcrest speaks, calmly, though passionately. His shaved head reflects light from the candles on the table. "It was well worth it," Mathers answers. "One of my former contacts shared valuable information. Horne is the best assassin there is. Shame his wounds kept him from joining us the night of the confrontation... Anyway, it's only a matter of time before the Empire finds us here. They have plans to level the entire forest." "Ellehorn is massive. It's too tall a task, even for the Empire," Cara inputs. "I wouldn't be too sure," the voice of the green-haired man speaks. Saric pulls a parchment and rolls it open on the table. "A prototype for a new type of tool. A forest-leveler." The drawing shows a magical device of sorts, drawn from several angles. Some show it head on, others are the side view. There's even a glimpse inside the device. It's a series of small blades on a round track. "What are we looking at exactly?" Kassi asks. "It looks like a saw of sorts," you say figuring out the item's purpose. "I'm uncertain to how it's powered, but it looks continuous, and uninhibited by a man's fatigue." "That's right," Saric says. "They are being mass-produced throughout the Empire and only take a matter of seconds to topple the thickest of tree trunks. Ellehorn is vast, but it's only a matter of time until the entire forest is bare." "If these are being mass produced, what can we do? It's not as simple as burning a factory and destroying the prototypes," Cara says. "Excellent point," Saric answers. "I vote for relocation. Underground. I'm told there's a place near the late King Aeric's keep." "And I suggest we move quickly. Based on the intel, the Empire will be here by mid-Summer." "So soon," Gilcrest comments, more to himself than to the others. "This has been our home for many years." "It won't be ours for much longer," Mathers says. "Take a night to reflect. Tomorrow, we'll vote on relocation," Gilcrest closes the meeting. > You discuss with Cara Like your hut, Cara's is one of the hanging variety. You travel up the spiral ramp built around one of the tree trunks, crossing a few of the wooden bridges to reach it. Since there is no door to knock on, you call out, "Cara!" Her head pokes through the canvas door. "Oh, it's you. Come on in." Inside the small hut, Cara's bow leans against the corner wall, her leather quiver in front. Pure white feathers stick out from the opening, extending from the arrow shafts. Her bedroll is in the opposite corner of the bow, strangely enough, as you wouldn't dare sleep that far from your weapon. Then again, Cara's bow is more a tool, a means to provide food, rather than weapon of war. A few strands of hair fallen loose from the braid hang at her cheek as Cara looks at you, expectantly. "You're probably wondering why I'm here," you say. "I'm interested to hear your thoughts on the relocation. As someone so well versed in the forest, living underground can't sound too enticing." She gazes from the open window, overlooking the entire village. You join her, peering out from the window. You can see almost every hut from here. The buildings on ground level look miniature, like a child's play toy. "I must admit, I'm not thrilled by the idea," she says. "I mean, look at this view! What would we be trading it for? A dark view of dark rocks?" "It's safe at least," you answer. "A dark view of dark rocks is better than no view at all." "Is it?" Cara questions. "Depending on the person," you clarify. "That's just it. I don't know if it's worth it for me. The forest is my home. I'm happy here. I love walking through the trees, feeling the same breeze that rustles the leaves. Plus, the hunt. I've never felt so alive. There's nothing quite like tracking a beast, seeing their prints, reading the forest's clues on which direction the prey lies. I was born for this." "And would you die for it?" you ask. "I don't know. Probably," Cara answers. The voice appears from your mouth, otherworldly, sinister. Cara turns, facing you to see the disruption at your words. Your hands grab her shoulders, gripping them tightly, fingernails digging into her skin. In a single motion, you throw Cara against the hut wall. The entire structure shakes in the impact, beginning to sway side to side. A lifeless laugh escapes your lips as you stomp towards the collapsed woman. She rises to her knees and begins to crawl towards the bow, but you catch her first. Your foot presses into Cara's back, flattening her to the floor. With one hand, you grip around her throat and lift Cara into the air. Step. You walk towards the open window. Step. Cara's eyes meet yours, afraid, confused by the actions of the man she thought she knew. Step. Your grip tightens, restricting the air flow of her breath. The miniature buildings below call to you. They call for a worthy sacrifice. Fortunately, you possess just that. > Sacrifice Cara's frightened eyes glance down then return back to meet yours. She tries to shake her head, signaling you not to do it. Your lips curl into a smile as you throw her from the window. Her scream starts loud, then fades as she falls lower and lower, eventually silenced by the impact. Already, villagers gather around her fallen body. Someone points up, and the entire group around Cara's body looks up to see you in her hut, in front of the window. Reality snaps back. The episode over, you're now back in control. Expecting to see Cara in front of you, as the episodes often end, the horrible vision replaced with a peaceful reality, she's not there. A chill runs down your spine. Was she really dead? You gaze around in the empty hut, still swaying slightly from the impact of Cara against the wall. You peer from the window and see more of a crowd around Cara's body. Some of them begin to climb the ramps, obviously heading in your direction. This has never happened before. At least not to this degree to someone you care about. Usually the episode leaves you with frightening thoughts, but it's never reality. The horrible nightmares and visions are simply that, dreams. You feel sick to your stomach, realizing the actions, the blood at your hands, are very real. The voice completely took over, despite your mental barriers and lifetime of building up a defense. Men's voices draw near. They're coming for you. > You turn yourself in There's really no choice in the matter. You aren't one to shift the blame from one's self. Despite not your actions, it's by your hand that Cara lies dead. You doubt the others will want to hear the story behind. All they know is a woman is dead and you're likely the one who caused it. The thought occurs to you, not a thought that you're proud of, that you could simply say Cara fell, that it was an accident. The others would always suspect you, but do they really have any proof it was you? No. You cannot lie about such an event. You're a man of your word, and by the same token you'd rather die with the truth than live a lie. Footsteps approach, steadily getting louder. This voice, whatever it is inside you, is the cause of many deaths, innocent or otherwise. Part of you wonders if siding with your allies really was the best choice. You'd choose them over anything, your actions displayed that, although you wonder if they are better off without you. The Unbroken blood, the thing Mathers told you about, rises within, taking over, spilling blood by your hands. You await your punishment. They lead to you to village square, tied at the wrists and stripped of your tunic. Your bound hands are moored to a post, securing you like an animal. Men rush into buildings, gathering the council members and explaining the events that just transpired. Often they finish with pointing a finger directly at you. Then you see her. Kassi appears from behind a crowd of people. Her bright blonde hair cuts through the crowd of people like rays of sun through trees. She looks concerned and uncertain how to react. The council members surround you. "Is it true?" Gilcrest asks. "It was my hand, yes," you answer. "Why?" While thinking of a response, of a possible explanation, Mathers fills in. "He can't control it. You're looking at the last descendent of Ragar the Unbroken." "And you did not think to tell us who was within our midst?" Gilcrest questions. "We thought his training suppressed the darkness." "Obviously not. What am I supposed to do? He's too dangerous to be kept alive. God forbid he bears children." Gilcrest bends down to your level, gauging your intentions. "He is a man of character, despite the darkness within. I think we can all agree on that fact. Yet, he is a danger to us all." Shouts of "kill him!" rise from the crowd. Gilcrest silences them with a wave of his hand. Kassi remains quiet. "I can think of two options for such a crime. Death, the Unbroken line dying with you." Gilcrest pauses to let the crowd finish their cries. "Or exile, with the mark of the Unbroken carved on your forehead. That way all who you meet will know exactly who you are and to stay away. As a man of character, I'll let you decide your fate." > Death "I have lived long enough. This is not the first death caused by my shadow nature, and it likely won't be the last if I remain living. I choose death." The crowd cheers. Not so long ago, they would do anything for you. The faces of the villagers you've helped countless times cry out in triumph at your death sentence. You don't blame them. They don't understand the full picture, but you're glad. They will live on and the darkness within you will finally be silenced. "So be it," Gilcrest answers. "Say your final words. Speak your peace, and we will remember you for the man you are, not the tainted blood within." You rise from the kneeling position, hands still bound to the post. "What they say is true. There is an evil that lives within me. I've done my best to hold it at bay, but even with my lifelong training, it still rears its ugly head. I am no different than any of you, though my actions may have greater consequences if chosen poorly. There is a battle within each self, one between good and evil, right and wrong. We are the same in that matter. I see your looks of hate. You look at me as if I'm the embodiment of evil. I did not choose this. Do you think I chose my lineage? Did any of you choose your parents? I've tried to do what is right. Nothing more, nothing less. If my death will bring benefit to you, if my death will put you in a safer position, then I am in accord. I do not fear death. I've battled it my entire life, witnessing my home, those who raised me slaughtered like beasts. Many of you experienced the same. If my death will bring a better world, then I am ready." Gilcrest unsheathes his weapon and raises it overhead. An arm stops him from finishing the blow. Kassi. "No," she whispers. "It should be me." "I can think of no one better," you whisper back. Kassi's hand grips the back of your head, softly massaging your scalp with her fingers. Her face gets inches from yours. A breeze of air blows strands of bright blonde in-between you. She gazes into your eyes and yours into hers. "You know I would do anything for you, even this," Kassi manages to say through a wavering voice. "I know, Kass. I know." Kassi's lips meet yours, surprising you with warmth. Softly, tenderly you embrace the kiss, filling your senses with the taste of her lips. She drives her sword through your heart. The sharp pain, the loss of breath, you hardly notice. Your vision fades. The warmth of Kassi's lips are replaced with coldness. The world is closing in now, tunneling your vision on to a single focus point. Kassi.

There's really no choice in the matter. You aren't one to shift the blame from one's self. Despite not your actions, it's by your hand that Cara lies dead. You doubt the others will want to hear the story behind. All they know is a woman is dead and you're likely the one who caused it. The thought occurs to you, not a thought that you're proud of, that you could simply say Cara fell, that it was an accident. The others would always suspect you, but do they really have any proof it was you? No. You cannot lie about such an event. You're a man of your word, and by the same token you'd rather die with the truth than live a lie. Footsteps approach, steadily getting louder. This voice, whatever it is inside you, is the cause of many deaths, innocent or otherwise. Part of you wonders if siding with your allies really was the best choice. You'd choose them over anything, your actions displayed that, although you wonder if they are better off without you. The Unbroken blood, the thing Mathers told you about, rises within, taking over, spilling blood by your hands. You await your punishment. They lead to you to village square, tied at the wrists and stripped of your tunic. Your bound hands are moored to a post, securing you like an animal. Men rush into buildings, gathering the council members and explaining the events that just transpired. Often they finish with pointing a finger directly at you. Then you see her. Kassi appears from behind a crowd of people. Her bright blonde hair cuts through the crowd of people like rays of sun through trees. She looks concerned and uncertain how to react. The council members surround you. "Is it true?" Gilcrest asks. "It was my hand, yes," you answer. "Why?" While thinking of a response, of a possible explanation, Mathers fills in. "He can't control it. You're looking at the last descendent of Ragar the Unbroken." "And you did not think to tell us who was within our midst?" Gilcrest questions. "We thought his training suppressed the darkness." "Obviously not. What am I supposed to do? He's too dangerous to be kept alive. God forbid he bears children." Gilcrest bends down to your level, gauging your intentions. "He is a man of character, despite the darkness within. I think we can all agree on that fact. Yet, he is a danger to us all." Shouts of "kill him!" rise from the crowd. Gilcrest silences them with a wave of his hand. Kassi remains quiet. "I can think of two options for such a crime. Death, the Unbroken line dying with you." Gilcrest pauses to let the crowd finish their cries. "Or exile, with the mark of the Unbroken carved on your forehead. That way all who you meet will know exactly who you are and to stay away. As a man of character, I'll let you decide your fate." > Exile "I choose exile," you say. "So be it," Gilcrest answers pulling a knife from his belt. "I take no pleasure in this. You have chosen your fate, and I will respect your decision." "You'll not carve him up like some beast," Kassi interjects. "You heard him yourself. This is not by my own choosing," Gilcrest answers. "There wasn't much of a choice. What man would choose death over exile? He's done nothing but help you since we've arrived. If this is his reward, then I deserve the same," Kassi replies kneeling next to you. "Kass. No," you say. "This is my burden. I choose life, but it's only just people know the danger I present them." "You and I are one. If you are exiled, so am I. If you bear the mark, so will I. You chose for yourself. I'm doing the same," Kassi reaffirms. Before anyone can react, Kassi pulls a knife from her boot and carves into forehead, using her own sword as a mirror. In a matter of seconds, the mark of Ragar the Unbroken, your ancestor, bleeds down her face. Your decision has left her scarred and mutilated. "Get on with it then," you say, clenching your jaw at seeing Kassi like this. Gilcrest grabs your face holding you in one place. The point of his knife carves into your forehead, inscribing the horrible mark for all to see. "Now begone with you. Death awaits you if you linger here longer." Your bound hands are freed and your tunic is thrown at your feet. It's ripped, but it's better than nothing. You're given your traveling gear and escorted out of the village. You place your arm around Kassi in attempt to reassure you both that you made the correct decision. One thing's for certain, this is not the destiny you imagined when siding with your "allies." You set off into the forest along with Kassi, scarred, displaying the shameful mark for all to see. The two of you, together, just as it should be. You silently hope she doesn't end up resenting you for the outcome. She chose, same as you. Still, it was your decision that put her in the circumstance. She would stand by you no matter what. Did you really think she would let you into exile without her? After everything you've been through, it's just the two of you. Together. As it should be.

[Themes: fantasy, fantasy] Cara's frightened eyes glance down then return back to meet yours. She tries to shake her head, signaling you not to do it. Your lips curl into a smile as you throw her from the window. Her scream starts loud, then fades as she falls lower and lower, eventually silenced by the impact. Already, villagers gather around her fallen body. Someone points up, and the entire group around Cara's body looks up to see you in her hut, in front of the window. Reality snaps back. The episode over, you're now back in control. Expecting to see Cara in front of you, as the episodes often end, the horrible vision replaced with a peaceful reality, she's not there. A chill runs down your spine. Was she really dead? You gaze around in the empty hut, still swaying slightly from the impact of Cara against the wall. You peer from the window and see more of a crowd around Cara's body. Some of them begin to climb the ramps, obviously heading in your direction. This has never happened before. At least not to this degree to someone you care about. Usually the episode leaves you with frightening thoughts, but it's never reality. The horrible nightmares and visions are simply that, dreams. You feel sick to your stomach, realizing the actions, the blood at your hands, are very real. The voice completely took over, despite your mental barriers and lifetime of building up a defense. Men's voices draw near. They're coming for you. > Flee Time is running out. They'll be here soon. You don't have the luxury of thinking of a solution. You run, first grabbing Cara's bow and travel pack. As the voices draw near, you hide in a nearby, luckily empty, hut. The footsteps pass, and you make for the wooden bridge, quickly and quietly. Most of the attention on Cara's fallen body, you're able to sneak from the outskirts of the village into the forest. Part of you wonders if this is the correct decision. You could always turn back and try to explain yourself. No. Turning back now, would only solidify your guilt in their mind. Only guilty people run, despite the conscious they listen to later. This is only temporary, you tell yourself. Once the dust settles, you'll find Kassi. You know their likely destination, or at least the area: the territory around King Aeric's castle. Not far from the monastery. You imagine they will come after you. You're not unaware of the dark irony of the situation. Only their best hunter would be able to track you; their best hunter lies dead at your hands. No, you can't follow the villagers. You can no longer endanger those who you care about. You're on your own now. You trek through the forest until darkness settles in. You don't dare light a fire for fear of attracting your pursuers. Coldness stings your bones as you hug your knees into your chest for warmth, rubbing your palms together for some feeling of heat. You're no stranger to living on the road. You're a stranger to traveling alone. There's always been two of you. Kassi and you, never separated, a lifetime spent together. Now, you've left her. The night feels even more colder at the thought. Perhaps it is better this way. The next time the voice appears, taking over, it might be Kassi who lies dead on the ground. You mourn for Cara, but you can't imagine if it were Kassi. That would be an unforgivable action, despite your choice in the matter. The fact is, you're well aware of the voice, and it's your choice who you surround yourself with. They are in danger because of you, because of your lineage. You had hoped through strict training, the voice would be silenced. It's been getting worse your entire life, even if you do manage small victories time to time. No, this is the best decision. You'll not endanger those you care about. You're prepared to live in solitude for their safety. This is not how you thought fate would play out, but your friends', especially Kassi's, well-being is far more important than your own. You take a deep breath and exhale out into the night air. There are worse fates that can befall a man.

[Themes: fantasy, fantasy] "Do not deny it. My spies are everywhere, even in the sanctuary of your inner circle," the Emperor states. He slowly steps down the left side of the arched staircase and continues. "It's a suicide mission, I'm afraid. In a few moments, your friend -- oh what's the name she's going by now...Mathers. Mathers will be taken into custody along with any accomplices, including your precious wife." The man speaks with utter conviction. You can tell the difference between a bluff in an attempt to gather information and a man speaking the truth. You deal with it routinely in swordplay; there's always a slight sign of a man feinting. It may be subtle, but it's there and you've trained your whole life to spot it. There's no mistaking it, the Emperor knows about the assassination attempt. "Then why are we still alive?" you ask. "The obvious action would be to execute us, publically, to dissuade future attempts." "All that can be arranged later. I'm more interested in the man who survived the monastery...and more importantly, the child who survived the shade." "You'd have plenty of witnesses if you didn't order them all killed," you retort. "Yes," the Emperor mulls. "It's a shame those barbarians allowed bloodlust to take over. Their orders were to capture Aeric's throne. Instead, they rampaged throughout the land, slaughtering all in their way. I had to order a battalion of my own to put them down. I'm sure you find comfort in knowing the monastery's attackers were all executed. Not quickly, I might add." "They're all your own. The way I see it, you ordered the attack. The monks were peaceful. They did nothing to deserve the attack." "Ahh, spoken like a true devotee. It's no secret the monks in the mountains bred the finest warriors in the territory. Tell me, Swordmaster, who protected the monastery?" "Aeric was supposed to." "And what did Aeric receive in return?" Suddenly, it's clear. The monks provided their finest warrior to Aeric each year after the Grand Melee. The monks were actively providing King Aeric with elite soldiers. In other words, they were supplying a nation in opposition to the Empire with troops. "I'll take your silence as agreement," the Emperor says. "The monks were in opposition to the Empire. I'm not justifying the action of those animals, but I'm simply stating true neutrality is a false ideal. You're either an ally or enemy, which brings me to you. I know what hunts you. I know the nightmares you've been having. I can help you if you merely align yourself to me." You feel a familiar shiver down your spine. "What do you know of the nightmares?" you ask. "I know of your past and the great power that lies within. A descendent of divine blood mixed with the hellspawn of the Unbroken. I also know of the unrelenting curse that follows. I know because I am the same. We are brothers, you and I. Give up your futile vendetta against the Empire and let's raise the curse that follows our family." Suddenly, the double-doors swing open, and a blood-stained Mathers enters the room. The white on her waitress outfit is turned red. Followed behind her is the green-haired man and Kassi, both armed and just as stained. The trio walks up next to you and faces the Emperor leaving behind a trail of red footprints. "Thank you, Swordmaster, for distracting the Emperor's watchful gaze long enough," Mathers says. "I don't think we would have made it through without. Heh, seems you overestimated whose inner circle was compromised." "You'll not survive this night. And you, Saric," the Emperor addresses the green haired man. "Treason is punishable by death." The Emperor jumps past you, summoning a sword in either hand. He engages the trio with a flurry of strikes. Kassi easily blocks the blows, though Mathers and Saric look to be barely surviving. You don't react right away. The Emperor's is not the embodiment of evil you imagined him to be. Plus, he seems to know about your past. He might be the only one who can answer the questions of your past. You look back to the skirmish in front of you. The Emperor is slowly losing momentum. You can tell he realizes it too. He draws on arcane energy, and sends a blast of pulsing dark power towards Kassi. The blow knocks her sprawling across the room. The other two combatants, after seeing the magical power, attack fervently back. "Don't just stand there, do something!" Mathers yells. It's time to choose. Will you take the Emperor's side in hopes he can help you uncover your past, or will you stay true to your allies and risk the worsening nightmares? > You join the Empire You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and silently hope you've made the right decision. You intervene the skirmish at the last possible moment. Mathers knocks the Emperor off balance and Saric drives his sword into the undefended Emperor -- or at least he attempts to. You anticipate the attack and catch Saric's hands before the swordpoint can drive home. Twisting his wrists, with a sickening snap, you drive his own sword into his chest. "What the--" Mathers begins to say in surprise before the Emperor removes her head. Kassi stands near the double-doors in horror of the scene before her. "How could you?" she questions before slipping out. "Thank you, my friend. I will not let your act go unrewarded," the Emperor says, dispelling his two summoned blades. "I think you're the only person in the world who would call me that now," you say. "Not so. The Empire is vast and deeply loyal to its citizens." "Perhaps in the capital. I've traveled all over your Empire, and the people seem more loyal to themselves than others." "I don't think you intervened to discuss the Empire's loyalty. I imagine you want something in return. I don't take your action lightly, Swordmaster, I will see that you have everything you desire." You nod. "Riches and comforts don't interest me. I seek knowledge and the ability to undo whatever lies in wait." The Emperor offers his hand for you to pledge loyalty. "You shall have it and more." > Chapter 4: Right Hand of the Emperor Am I a monster? My entire life led up to the confrontation with the Emperor. The evil man I imagined him to be wasn't the man who stood before me. I was faced with someone human, someone like me. Often, there are no solid lines between a good decision and a bad one. The edges are blurred, and we must do our best to navigate. Was my decision the correct one? Many times I have asked myself that question. Kassi certainly doesn't think so. The correct decision, the incorrect decision, at this point it does no use to wonder which path was most right. That, for sure, is the correct decision. In some ways, the monster I imagined the Emperor to be was simply a projection of my inner demons. I had opposition, I identified the enemy; if only I had discovered, sooner, the true enemy was the corruption that lives within me, my shadow nature. My target has been realigned. My true enemy lies within. > An Imperial battle camp Rain pours on the encampment, souring the battalion's mood. Steady rainfall turned the ground into a brown mess of mud. The same could be said for traditional white and gold armor of the Empire's troops. The mountain stood a tall, ominous shadow in the distance. Through the cloudy night sky, only the base could be seen through the downfall. The conditions didn't help the men's morale; your struggle is quite literally an uphill battle. You sit in your tent, listening to the beat of the raindrops. The thick drops hit the canvas with a low-pitched thud. As far as mobile tents go, yours is much more extravagant than you'd prefer. The Emperor is a smart man. He knows the large structure will improve your standing with the men. Nothing shows authority like having a larger tent. Inside, you have ample room for a bed, traveling gear, armor stand, weapon stand, and a practice mat. The mat is where you spend most of your time. It's your place of refuge, your place to transcend the day. While your fellow commanders drink the good wine, eat the good food, and fuck the good women, you devote yourself to your forms, to your practice. You sit on the mat cross-legged, meditating on the word that your mind is obsessed with. The word, your mantra, appears whenever you shut your eyes or take a deep breath. It's the thing that keeps you going, even when the shadow nature feels as if it's taking over. The word, mastery. Footsteps sound from outside your tent, followed closely by a man entering through the tent flaps. "Commander Dawson. How kind of you to join me," you say. Dawson removes his helm and shakes out his dark curly hair. "If I'm going to be still and shut my eyes, I'd prefer to do it in my bed after a few cups of wine." "We all have preferences, Commander. Some beneficial, some detrimental," you respond. "I did not come here to debate," Dawson states. "There's been an incident. We've captured the spy from Narrow's Edge. I think you've met. Saul is his name. He's been brought here to face judgement." "He was brought all the way here?" you ask, surprised. "The Empire's protocol is for immediate execution." "That's right," Dawson sighs. "The protocol needs the jurisdiction of a higher-ranking member. Saul was the fort commander, very high ranking. Someone at his level needs an equal or higher-ranking judge. We are the closest that meet the criteria. Plus, I'm sure whoever caught him knows the Emperor is in camp. Probably came all the way here for an extra reward." "You fit the criteria. Why don't you execute him and be done with it?" "The Emperor wanted you to do the honors." "Who am I to pass up the 'honor' of holding the executioner's axe? I will be there shortly," you say. Commander Dawson bows, equips his horned helmet, and takes his leave. > The execution You don't leave your tent right away. You leave soon enough that it wouldn't seem disrespectful, but not right as Dawson requests. Where is the honor in execution? Killing an unarmed prisoner isn't exactly your idea of the word. The more you think about it, the more you justify the action. The honor does not lie in the deed itself, but in the obedience of the order. Devoting your allegiance to a ruler and following their command is honorable. The infantryman outside your tent leads you to the center of the camp, where Saul is held prisoner. The man before you is almost unrecognizable from your previous meeting. His well-maintained beard is a bushy, scraggly mess. The slight graying of his hair, once a symbol of orderly intelligence, is now pure white and unkempt. His left eye is bruised, so much that it looks stuck in a shut position. His hands are bound by rope, but his feet are untethered. It's something you've seen before, the will to escape beaten out. The tiny slimmer of hope is gone. There's no hopeful chance at breaking free. There's no "if only I could break from my chains, I could run free" thoughts. There lies only a broken man, beat and scarred. Saul looks up with his good eye. "Fate truly is a cruel mistress," he croaks, recognizing you despite your maturity. "Fate, destiny, is but a reflection of your action," you answer. "You know why you're here, what brought you to this moment. You didn't magically appear a traitor out of nowhere." "I had no choice!" Saul yells, coughing a few drops of blood in front of him. "It was either die back then or die now." "And so you chose to buy yourself a few more years. The price: your name will be uttered with contempt. Your name will be associated with traitorous action. Tell me, spy, was it worth it?" "Just...end it." You think it best to put the broken man out of his misery. You remove your sword from its sheath and raise it overhead -- then the voice appears. You lower your blade and a small chuckle escapes your lips. The Empire soldiers around you look at each other in confusion. No! Fight the voice! You take a breath and lift the sword again. You struggle, then the voice takes over. Your mind is not your own. It's like someone else, something else has taken the reigns of your existence. You helplessly watch through dead, unblinking, eyes. "You want to know the fucking beauty of it?" you ask. "She was resistance. Mathers was resistance the entire time. You spent your tenure as an outpost commander informing the enemy when you didn't have to. She played you, Saul. She played you fucking hard." With a cry, Saul charges towards you. Suddenly, control is back in your body. No longer are you watching from the outside. The last thing you are is helpless. You wait until he's almost on top of you. The surrounding Empire soldiers stand and watch. No one lifts a finger to help you. At the last moment, just before Saul can attack, you spin down to one knee and arc your sword behind you. You don't see the cut, but the head landing in front of you is the sign your aim was true. You hear clapping from behind you. The Emperor, enjoying the show, gives you a slight smile through the rainfall. "Only you could make a play out of an execution," he says. "Consider me a fan. I eagerly await the sequel." "Thank you for the honor," you say with a bow. On a more serious note, he says, "Come to my tent. We should discuss your condition." If you thought your tent was too lavish, the Emperor's is infinitely more. The interior is filled with finely-carved furniture, including an entire dining table. Somehow, the Emperor managed to bring a collection of books, which line an entire section of the squarely-shaped canvas. The chandelier and sculptures are also a bit much in your opinion. The Emperor removes his cloak and hands it to a servant, who silently hangs it on a rack. The Emperor sits at the dining table, and you take the seat across from him. The rest of the table stretches out, empty and lonely. He stares at you with his piercing green eyes. "It's getting worse, isn't it?" "Not in number, but in severity," you answer, honestly. "Just as I feared. I promise you, we're close to finding a cure." "How close?" "I believe the secrets we search for are in Aeric's castle. There's something dark powering their defense. That's why they have resisted me for so long." "I can still hardly believe they've held out for decades now," you say. "Sure, it's a fortified position in difficult terrain, but still, to resist your might for so long. There must be something else at work." "Exactly. We will break through their defenses together, capture the last remaining resistance stronghold, and free you of the voice," The Emperor says, rising to his feet. He clasps your hand, reassuringly, and continues. "Rest up, my friend. Tomorrow all our goals will be accomplished. I leave you to your sleep unless you have any questions for me." > You take your leave Dawn brings hope of a new day. The rain has subsided, and long rays of sun shoot through the partly cloudy sky. Though the ground is still muddy, the Empire troops' spirits are elevated by the mostly dry march. Battle horns ring through the camp, signaling the men for organization and movement. A man introduces himself to you as Captain Wren. "We are a special unit designed with taking down casters," he says. "There's four of us total. Myself, Dodgy, Rexxus, and Big Sue. We've been through more than enough action and look forward to being led by someone so close to the Emperor," he adds with a salute. "I as well, Captain," you reply. You look behind the lean captain at the rag-tag trio. The skinny man with the darting eyes you assume to be Dodgey. The other two are easily as distinguishable. Rexxus is a tanned, bald man built like an ox. Big Sue is portly and looks to have not shaved in years. You walk up to the trio. "Glad to have you here, gentlemen. Follow my lead and we'll live to bring more glory to the Empire. Even you, Dodgey," you say, lightly slapping his arm. "I'm Big Sue!" he exclaims. "I'm Dodgey," the portly man bellows. "Sure you are," you answer, surprised. "I'm honored to lead you. I've heard stories of the famed Breakers. You've taken out more than your fair share of mages, priests, and sorcerers." "And look good while doing it," Big Sue says, using a sizeable knife to motion combing his hair back. "Do you have knowledge of how we work?" Rexxus inputs. > Yes "I am familiar with your type," you say. "Prepare yourselves. We march with the army." The march continues up the mountain. The dull brown landscape is replaced with battalions of soldiers, each with their stained white-gold armor. Surrounding trees block your vision from the front of the march. The mood is solemn. Any man that's experienced battle does not get cheerful when it approaches. These men are not recruits; these men are battle-hardened. The steady incline gradually decreases into a slight slope. Then, the trees break, revealing the castle. Across a narrow bridge lies King Aeric's castle. Sinister it sits, staring at the approaching soldiers. Its windows are dark and lifeless. It faces the bridge as if mocking the siege attempt. The castle rises high above the narrow pathway and harbors several levels for archers and ballistae. The march ceases, awaiting order from the Emperor himself to storm the gates. A cheer rises from the Empire's troops. They part, allowing the object of their outcry pass through. Wyverns! An entire squadron of them. As far as you knew, they were extinct. Clearly that is not the case. Somehow the Emperor managed to breed a dozen of the flying beasts. The Emperor leads the group of wyverns, sitting atop the largest one. "Today is the day, my friends. The fortress before us has never been conquered. Its inhabitants have never known defeat, until this day. This is the day we do the impossible, together. Count yourselves lucky, men, the story of this battle will be told for generations, and its soldiers will be crowned heroes. Remember this day, men. To arms!" The Imperial soldiers scream at their Emperor's speech. They clash their swords against their shields and pound their spears into the dirt. The Emperor points his sword forward, and the soldiers start their march across the narrow bridge. > Meanwhile... "My king. They are here!" the baby-faced squire exclaims, rushing into the throne room. He instantly places his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Of course they're here," King Aeric spits. "They've been knocking at the door for four decades now." The slight slurring of his words alert the throne room the cup in his hand isn't his first, though in the King's defense, his hand was rarely empty. King Aeric rises from the throne. His back hunched, he points a bony finger at the squire. "Get this pup out of my presence. This is a place for real men." Two guards at the entryway not-so-gently lift the squire under his arms and toss him through the door. They slam the door shut behind him. The slam echoes, intensifying the silence insueing in the room. "Does that mean I need to leave as well?" a woman's voice rings out. The woman sits cross-legged in a chair not designed for someone to sit cross-legged in. Her knees stick out underneath the arm rests displaying her flexibility. The loose bun tied behind her head is bright blonde. Her face, though youthful for her age, is starting to show signs of wrinkles. "Kassi, my dear. You're always welcome in my hall," King Aeric answers. Two men swing open the throne doors, both dressed in dark red. One is clean-kempt with a buzzed head, and the other looks as if he hasn't touched a razor in years. "It's bad, my king," Seth says. "Mordecai's birds spotted wyverns." "Pfft, 'wyverns.' They're all long-gone by now," King Aeric scoffs. "It is true, my king," the other man, Mordecai, says. "And it gets worse. The Emperor himself is here, along with your little friend," he directs the last part to Kassi. "He's here?" Kassi sits up and uncrosses her legs. "Good. All my enemies have come to me. Saves me weeks of riding. Ready the defenses. Today we kill an emperor," King Aeric says. The slurred speech seems to have disappeared. > You Continue Midday sun. The bodies piling up on the bride are nearing the height of the structure. Pretty soon, the ground below will be overflowed with the dead. Still, the Imperial troops march on. The battering ram consistently clashes over the rain of arrows hitting the shielded troops. "It's time," the Emperor decides. His wyvern, the largest of the group, roars into the air. The others, enticed by their leader, rear their heads too. The beasts fire into the air, snarling, eager for battle. The wyverns fly fast and low, using the bridge as cover. They weave seamlessly through the columns, staying out of arrow range. Upon reaching the base of the castle, the wyverns fly directly upward, hugging close to the castle walls. The Imperial army, energized by their leader's assault, rally and continue their siege on the main gate. The ram clashes against the gate. Men thrown from the ramparts by the wyverns scream as they fall past the bridge. Clash. Arrows and spears, aimed at the winged creatures, miss harmlessly as the riders avoid the return fire. Clash. The Emperor flings bolts of flame at the defending soldiers, causing chaos within their ranks. Clash. A crack in the gate appears. Clash. Two of the wyvern riders swarm a ballista and rip the anti-siege machine apart. Clash. The gate is breached! You watch the battle unfolding before you from the other side of the bridge. There's not much you can do before the gate is breached. The main force of the army gathers, uniformly, in line. The first few soldiers rushing into Aeric's castle are met with spears and arrows. Eventually, due to sheer number and continuous flowing, the Emperor's troops start to overwhelm the defenders. You motion to Captain Wren. It's time to join the battle. As you make your way to cross the bridge, the Emperor lands in front of you with a few other riders behind him. "Not so fast, my friend. I can't have you run about as a normal foot soldier. Climb on." The riders behind the Emperor motion the same to Captain Wren, Dodgey, Rexxus, and Big Sue. The wyverns take the same flight path to the castle, weaving between the bridge's support columns. As you fly up the castle walls, you can't help but admire the view below. Despite the violence, the view below is like a painting. The white-gold rush of Imperial soldiers blend into the drab, earthy defending force like fire spreading over a parchment. The Emperor drops you off atop the castle walls. "Go! Take out as many as you can. I will join you inside with the main force." You shield your eyes from the gust of wind caused by the Emperor's takeoff. There's a single doorway at the opposite side of the walkway. After receiving the "ok" nod from Captain Wren, you enter into King Aeric's castle. Stone walls line the interior. While not nearly a fraction of the elegant Imperial capital, Aeric's castle isn't un-elegant. Simple banners hang from the walls displaying the various clans and families aligned to King Aeric. It's clear that the place was built for defense rather than looks. The hallway is empty of soldiers, and you're careful not to be loud enough to fill it. You follow the passageway to the end of the hall and then turn the corner. There, you find a very surprised-looking mage. > You attack without question No words are shared between you and your squad. You move into attack position. The mage, thinking the same thing, weaves his hands into a casting position. Dodgey and Rexxus lead with their defenses raised, allowing room for you to close the distance without fear of the arcane assault. The robed arms finish their motion, and a blast of flame projects down the corridor in your direction. The fire hits the light kite shields carried by the guardians. You run into a wave of warm air as you rush past the two defending members. Your movement alerts the mage as you come into fun view, running in front of Rexxus and Dodgey. The mage pulls the talisman hanging from his neck for a quick burst of energy, rather than taking the time to cast. Before he can finish the action, Captain Wren's short spear impales through his bicep, pinning his arm to his side. The tip of your sword meets his chest a couple quick steps later. "Damn it. We're supposed to take them alive," Captain Wren says. "Not to worry, Captain. There'll be others," you reply. > You continue on With most of the attention devoted to the siege at the front gates, you're able to navigate throughout the halls seemingly unnoticed. The six mages and 18 foot soldiers you encountered certainly aren't raising any alarm in their state. The task given to you by the Emperor isn't enough in your mind. You feel that wandering throughout the castle walls, hoping to run into more spellcasters and high-ranking members isn't the most optimal use of the squad. Not that you'd disobey a direct order from your leader, the circumstance inside the walls aren't as expected. You decide to take the fight to the throne room. As you near the throne room, guard activity is too high to go unnoticed. It's also too high to simply cut your way through. Everyone has their limits, and sheer number goes a long way in battle. Dressed now in the colors of King Aeric, you walk freely among the enemy. Now that you're not in the outskirts of the castle, the sound of battle rings throughout the hallways. "How long do you think the disguises will hold?" Captain Wren whispers to you as a group of guardsmen rush by. The fully-masked helm muffles his voice as if he was speaking from the other side of a door. "Long enough," you whisper back. "As long as we don't run into anyone too highly ranked. The common soldier doesn't have the time nor authority to question us." "I'm itching to end this quickly," Big Sue adds in. "We all want to kill Aeric as soon as possible," Rexxus replies. "No, I'm really itching. These uniforms are a little stiff," Big Sue answers. "Quiet down. We're almost there," Dodgey cuts into the conversation. > Meanwhile... The Imperial troops storm through the front gates like an endless wave. Despite their heavy casualty, more soldiers continue to pile in Aeric's Castle. The inner courtyard, littered by the dead, is a remnant of its once pure state. Stone benches are stained red and chipped. The lush, well-maintained plants are trampled and left broken. The defending force, starting to realize the futility of their efforts, retreat deeper into the castle. The Emperor's wyvern lands in the center of the courtyard. The beast screeches into the air, terrorizing the fleeing soldiers even more. Green eyes from atop the wyvern stare directly into the statue of King Aeric. The statue, looming over the front entrance, is a symbol of King Aeric's watchful gaze and protection. Travelers, diplomats, and artisans all know of the famed statue. The symbolic nature of the stone and Aeric's unmoving, unbeatable defense is built into the statue. All know it, especially the Emperor. In a whisper, a dark flame appears in his hand. Outstretching his arm, the shadow bolt flies through the air removing the statue's head from its body. The Imperial troops cheer at the sight and rally forward. The day is theirs. Today, they kill a king. The Emperor's lips curl into a smile at one corner. Today, is the return of the Unbroken. The true Unbroken. > You Continue The two soldiers stationed outside of the throne room offer little resistance. In a fair fight perhaps they would, but the unsuspecting soldiers didn't stand a chance. You swing open the double-doors, expecting to be met by more soldiers. Instead, only a handful remain. A man, King Aeric, sits on the throne watching you enter. Silent, you walk forward, Captain Wren and the others at your back. "You insult me wearing that armor," King Aeric yells. His voice echoes in the large, empty room. You remove the masked helm. "No disrespect, it's simply out of necessity." King Aeric motions to the man at his side dressed in the same dark red that you remember Seth wearing. "Mordecai, is this him?" The man pulls a strand of dark hair from his face. "Yes, my king." "Strange. You're the last person I expected to side with the Emperor. Many years ago, I heard tales of your success fighting the Imperial army. And now look at you, the famed warrior is but an attack dog for the Emperor," King Aeric directs towards you. "Things are never as they seem. Like, for example, the protection you supposedly provided the monastery. Your military strength came from the very place you failed to protect. That's why you're here. Your four-decade failure has finally caught up to you," you answer. "Ha-ha! You really have been brainwashed by the Empire's propaganda. There is nothing that could have been done that day." "Armies of that size don't travel unnoticed. I'm certain you had reports of their activity well in advance of the attack. And what did you do? Hide in your castle. There's no where else to hide, false king. You've been exposed for the coward you are. King Aeric, visibly angered by your insult rises from his throne and spits on the ground in your direction. "I'll not be spoken to like that in my own throne room. You speak of cowardice, and yet you raise your sword against an old man. That, is true cowardice." "Shall I put the dog down, my king?" Mordecai asks. King Aeric fixes his gaze on you. "Put him down." > Kassi's defense An endless wave of white and gold lay ahead of her. She would hold back the tide just long enough for the next crashing. It was a losing battle and deep down, Kassi knew it. She had no illusion of the outcome; she'd been fighting far too long for any false hope to grip her. Victories don't magically appear. They are won with superior tactic or sheer number. Before the battle even began, she knew the outcome. Parry, feint, strike. The Imperial soldiers all fall to her simple technique. It's like they had no formal training. Each after the next falls prey to the trident maneuver. Kassi draws in each opponent, unsuspecting, though now a little more cautious at the body count beneath her feet. She lets them attack first. Kassi stays deceptively a half step, no a quarter step out of their range. Their attack brings them off-balance, her feint brings them more so. Finally, the strike. Quick, deadly, like a viper she drops another. Kassi's aware of battle fatigue. She's careful to not expend her energy needlessly. Perhaps, her younger self would have indulged in fanciful swordplay at the cost of endurance. No, she had to think of the long haul. Imperial troops would fall either way. She doesn't need to defeat herself. "Kassi!" A voice draws her attention. Seth. The man looks as young as the day of the monastery massacre, still dressed in the same armored robe and twin blades. He points to the sky as one of the wyvern riders lands where she once stood. The jaws of the beast clamp air, narrowly missing Kassi rolling to the side. The rider in all black armor stares at her, blankly, from behind his horned helm. Kassi notices the greatsword in his hand and recognizes it instantly. She sees it swing through the air and meet the Grandmaster's open palms. She sees sparks as if from a blacksmith's hammer emit from the blade. She will have revenge on the man who killed the Grandmaster. Seth takes the offensive first, weaving his twin swords into attack position. He slides underneath a swipe from the wyvern's tail. Seeing her chance, Kassi flanks from the side, attempting to draw the rider's focus in two different directions. Before she can strike, she gets intercepted by several Imperial soldiers. Parry, feint, strike. Just like the others, they fall to the three-pronged maneuver. Danger. Kassi senses it -- a moment too late. The greatsword swings at her undefended back. Like a thundercrack, it meets the dual defense of Seth's blades. In the distance, the wheelcrank of the inner gate starts to lower. Crank. The sound draws the attention of Aeric's soldiers. They retreat towards the gate in fear of being locked out. Crank. Kassi regroups and lets loose a barrage of attacks at the wyvern rider. The rider manages to block some of the strikes, while the others bounce harmlessly from his plate armor. Crank. "It's no use. Get out of here!" Seth shouts. "Yeah, like you're doing any better!" Kassi replies back. "Kid, I'm just getting warmed up," Seth answers, despite her age. He whispers into one of his rings and twirls his swords in the air. Both weapons ignite in searing, cold blue flame. Crank. "Go, now! You'll just get in my way." Reluctantly, Kassi retreats for the inner gate. No longer controlled by youthful impulse, she understands the truth of Seth's words. Her weapons are ineffective against the plate armored wyvern rider, and she won't throw her life away in a state of senseless revenge. She makes it to the other side of the gate just as it slams shut. Streaks of blue meet the white-hot sparks of the greatsword. The approaching Imperial army gets waved back by the rider. His dull, monotone voice rings from behind the helm. "I wonder, Myrmidon, if the girl would abandon you if she knew who you really were." Blocking the greatsword, Seth answers, "She's no longer just a girl." > You engage Mordecai A whirlwind of red robe and black hair assaults you. Mordecai moves surprisingly quick for someone who looks as if he spends most of his time in books. He spins his quarterstaff expertly, keeping Captain Wren and the rest at bay with his reach. There's no doubt in your mind that he is enhanced by magic. "Form up!" Captain Wren commands, realizing the current strategy isn't working. Rexxus and Dodgey, the guardians, assume a defensive front line and march toward Mordecai. Mordecai's staff bounces off their shields, creating an unexpected sound of metal clashing. Enhanced, indeed. As Captain Wren and the squad play containment, you take the opportunity to approach the undefended King Aeric. You'd never witnessed him in his glory, but the man before you looks as if a shell of that. The large, headstrong king you heard stories about is absent. Instead, a white-haired man with hunched shoulders and black-ringed eyes sits before you. The King's body may be brittle, but his eyes are stern, unflinching as he meets your approach. If King Aeric was never defeated in battle, he's losing the war to old age: a strange thing for a king in times of war. Your first step up the to the throne is met with a vine-like bind around your ankle. Behind you, Mordecai rips you backward, his quarterstaff now in the form of a whip. Sharp pain grips your leg, and you discover the attack shredded through the top section of your leather boot. Mordecai slings the whip against the guardians, each impact holding them at bay or even knocking them back. Finally, the same vine-like grip wraps around Dodgey's neck. The big man drops his weapon and shield and grabs at his throat. Mordecai activates his weapon once again to change form. The whip, now rigid, births a crescent moon blade at the end. The sharp edge of the scythe rests on Dodgey's nape. Then it's gone, replaced with an empty hole where Dodgey's head once stood. "You're a dead man!" Rexxus yells after seeing his fellow guardian fall. Instead of keeping the controlled pressure, he abandons the tactic for a bull rush at Mordecai. Captain Wren and Big Sue follow closely behind in support of their comrade. Now is your chance. Keeping an eye out for any more surprises from Mordecai, you make once again for the throne. Still, King Aeric sits, watching you the entire time. His calmness in the face of immediate death worries you. He's too calm for what's about to happen. Your senses are on high alert, ready to react if there's some sort of magical trap. King Aeric addresses you as you get within an arm's reach. "I've been waiting for this day for a long time." "You and me both," you answer. You raise your blade in the air to kill him, you raise your blade to kill a king. "It's a shame she doesn't have your gift," King Aeric says. "When I heard the child from the monastery was within my walls I thought it was you. Unfortunately, it was just Kassi. Oh well, I suppose we made it here either way." > You kill him Whatever trick King Aeric is trying to pull, it won't work on you. People at sword point will say anything if they think it will save their life. Still, you have to take into consideration King Aeric's calmness. He's not acting like someone trying to preserve his life, and his words may hold truth based on that fact. Not that it matters, he still needs to die. It's time to end this. The voice stays your blade for a moment. Then, you shake your head in attempt to clear the thought. You will not let the voice control your actions. Not now. Not in the moment of your Emperor's glory. You drive your sword into King Aeric's chest, piercing the seat cushion behind him, and quickly retract the blade. A sliver in King Aeric's chest appears, oozing dark liquid. But it's not blood. Black liquid, too thick for blood, rolls into the king's shirt. The voice appears -- wait no, this time it's audible. The mocking laugh, the one that echoes within your mind, projects from King Aeric's mouth. You realize then the laugh isn't from the voice within, but of a distant memory, one from your childhood. Behind you, the skirmish between Mordecai and the others halt as they notice the event happening at the throne. King Aeric's body floats in the air, his feet hanging limp mere inches from the ground, his head cocked to his left shoulder. King Aeric's body rises higher in the air, leaving a puddle of black sludge beneath. "Commander, what's going on?" Big Sue asks. You notice he's standing right next to Mordecai, peacefully, despite the circumstance that just occurred. "Our task remains unchanged," you answer. "All threats to the Empire must be eliminated." "And what if you are that threat?" Mordecai interjects. Before you can answer, a sharpened talon grows from the underside of each of Aeric's forearms. In a swirl of black mist, King Aeric, vessel of the Shade, dives at you. The Shade's attack is blocked by your sword, and the impact drives you sliding across the throne room floor. Just then, a pair of women burst through the double doors, one with red hair and the other bright blonde. At the sight of the Shade dressed in King Aeric's loose skin, the red-haired woman freezes. The woman next to her, Kassi, is taken aback for a brief moment and then continues on. The Shade flies high in the air, leaving streaks of black mist. It winds around several hanging chandeliers. Each one it passes extinguishes, leaving the room barely visible as if soft moonlight shining through thin clouds. Kassi, eyeing you, shouts, "First the spirit, then the traitor!" For the time being, the small group of warriors inside the throne room unite against a common enemy, against a common evil. The Shade dives down in a black streak. You raise your sword in preparation. This time, however, it vanishes just before its attack. Silence. You survey the room for some indication where it will reappear. Off in the distance, the outside siege rumbles softly, though louder than before. The battle is drawing nearer to the throne room. Suddenly, the chandeliers relight in flash of bright light, forcing you to turn your eyes in the shift. "What unspeakable evil. Estella..." Mordecai whispers. Body parts hang, skewered, from the octopus-shape chandeliers. The woman's face is frozen in a mix of horror and surprise. Her red hair hangs down too close to one of the candles. It ignites in a burst of flame, filling the room with the smell of burnt flesh and hair. There are too many limbs impaled to be Estella's. You see another head, Rexxus'. The weight of his thick neck slides his head down the chandelier like a bead on a string, and the firmness of his muscular arms hang limp, powerless. i can help The voice speaks in your head. For the first time, it's not forceful. It's calm, suggestive, not born of impulse. "No, you'll not control me," you speak, confusing your allies. you can't hope to win without my power, our power. unleash us. "I'll not trade one evil for another." it's the only way The shade reappears, the wrinkled skin of King Aeric still hanging from its shadowy form, unnaturally stretched. The place where his wise eyes once sat are replaced with pure black, so dark that his sockets look empty like the opening of a cave. > You give in to the voice You break down your mental defenses, allowing the voice to take command. In an instant, the fortitude that you've built up is demolished. While you haven't been able to block the more powerful urges, you're certain your training has defended against the smaller, more subtle influences. This is the first time you've allowed it to take over, and aren't sure what the consequences will entail. All you know is that a terrible, and powerful, evil stands before you, and you'll do whatever it takes to defeat it. The voice creeps in to portions of your mind that were previously blocked off. It's intrusive, and yet strangely comforting. A scream escapes your lips, and the world before you turns a dark, primal color. Like ink soaking into parchment, your eyes shift solid black. Strength pours into your limbs. It's unlike anything you've ever felt before; it's exhilarating, like pure nirvana. Your heightened senses allow you to view the battle before you with clarity. You know exactly what you must do to obtain victory. You open your mouth to issue commands. Silence. The words you try to speak don't appear. "What's going on? What's wrong with him?" Kassi yells at Captain Wren. "I— I don't know! I've never seen this before," The Captain replies. A sickening feeling starts deep within your consciousness, yours, not the power controlling you. You have no influence over your body. You're just the vessel in which the dark power lives. The voice has full control. The suppressed Unbroken blood within you has surfaced with a vengeance. The Unbroken tosses your sword aside, letting it clang harmlessly on the floor. Dark energy materializes at your hands. Shadowy, dark purple flames extend from your palms and solidify, creating a translucent axe in one hand and a sword in the other. The Shade, flies forward for another assault. You see everything in perfect clarity, not that you can do anything about it. The Unbroken rises to meet the Shade. In a supernatural leap, the Unbroken is a whirlwind of sword and axe. The shadowy weapons tear into the Shade. It screeches, only enticing the Unbroken to increase the zealous attack. The Shade collapses on the floor, a black hole appearing at its center. Black mist and wisps surround the hole, drawn in like a magnet. In an explosion of light, the Shade vanishes, leaving behind King Aeric's disturbed, mutilated corpse. "Holy shit. I'm glad you're on our side," Captain Wren comments. "Speaking of which," he adds on, "What should we do about them?" Kassi and Mordecai stand your opposite. They do not have their weapons raised, but their unwavering gaze indicates they are at the ready just in case. The voice speaks from your mouth, and you're helpless to stop it. You try to scream, to regain control in any sort of way. Nothing. Your body is but a puppet for the voice to work. "So be it," Kassi speaks raising her blade. "Consider this your final lesson, 'Swordmaster.'" Beside her, Mordecai spins his staff at the ready. Captain Wren nods to you and charges forward. Big Sue follows closely in suit. Kassi easily dismantles the assault, spinning to her right and parrying away each blow. Mordecai steps in with his staff to intervene. The Unbroken walks towards the skirmish with your palm outstretched. Dark purple energy briefly crackles before a thunderous crack fills the throne room. The sudden burst of sound pauses the action for a moment. A body collapses. Mordecai. A sizable hole in his chest is visible, the result of the Unbroken's dark bolt. Both of your palms outstretched now, the Unbroken turns his attention on Wren and Sue. An unseen force pulls their bodies into the air. Your hands close into knuckle-whitening fists. At the same time, their bodies fold inward with a sickening crack. As your hands release, the lifeless bodies of Captain Wren fall to the ground, their limbs outstretched in an unnatural manner. "You truly have become the monster the Grandmaster was afraid of," Kassi speaks. "We adopted you as our own, to teach you how to master your mind and body so this wouldn't happen." "You are lost. I see that now. I will put an end to your life out of mercy. Goodbye, my friend...I love you." Kassi rushes forward. A bolt fires from your palm. Kassi evades the attack and swipes at your neck. Her attack is too quick. There's no way your body can physically dodge in time. Suddenly, you're viewing Kassi from her backside. A small puff of smoke floats from where you once stood. You see her exposed back and the shadowy axe raised. i hope you enjoy this as much as i do. The voice speaks inwardly, mocking you in the soothing tone it used earlier. She attempts to turn. Damn it, she's quick. Not quick enough. The blade of the axe cuts through her back, exposing her severed spine. Kassi falls face-first, twitches for a moment, and then lies completely still. Clap, clap, clap. The Unbroken turns your head to view the doorway of the throne room. The Emperor stands in the entryway, clapping at the turn of events. "My, my, I'm impressed," he speaks with glistening green eyes. "In all my research, to witness the power for myself...it's remarkable." The Unbroken brings you body to stand before the Emperor. One side of his face is blood-soaked from the siege. The red liquid partially mats his long strands of hair. From within your body, you know exactly what will happen next. "False king." The words from your mouth are in your voice, though controlled by another. "So you can sense it. I shouldn't be surprised. After what I just witnessed, nothing you do should surprise me," the Emperor says. "Such a shame, I had high hopes for you." From within his cloak, he draws an artifact. The Unbroken snarls in recognition: the Grandmaster's medallion. The Emperor's eyes close as he draws upon the holy power. The sigil on the medallion emits a bright white light, mirrored in the Emperor's eyes as he opens them. Searing pain fills your body, and your mouth emits an unworldly scream. The screech builds to the point where blood spills from your ears, the result of shattered eardrums. "I'm sorry it has to end this way. I really did want us to conquer together," the Emperor says. The pain is so great that you lose consciousness. > Awaken > You Continue Pain. That's all you know. Magically enhanced shackles hold you prone, limbs stretched out. A cage around your neck prevents you from tilting your head sideways. Years. For years, your vision has been the same stone ceiling. A metallic device fills your mouth, keeping your lips in a constant open shape. Twice a day, a scarred man arrives and shoves liquid down your throat to keep you alive. You're powerless. The Unbroken still guides your body, not that it moves. The shackles around your body were created by the Emperor himself. It resists the Unbroken's power, holding your body firmly in place. A man enters the room, the Emperor. Dark rings circle his eyes, not from lack of sleep, from the power he siphons from your body. "Hello, 'brother,'" he lifelessly speaks. "Ready for another session?" His hand spreads over your body, drawing on the dark energy. Silently, you scream from within your body. Your eyes widen, and tears roll down your cheeks. You can't move, you can't talk, you can't even shut your mouth no matter how dry your tongue gets. The Emperor's piercing green eyes meet yours. He winks as if to say "until next time."

[Themes: fantasy, action, fantasy] Whatever trick King Aeric is trying to pull, it won't work on you. People at sword point will say anything if they think it will save their life. Still, you have to take into consideration King Aeric's calmness. He's not acting like someone trying to preserve his life, and his words may hold truth based on that fact. Not that it matters, he still needs to die. It's time to end this. The voice stays your blade for a moment. Then, you shake your head in attempt to clear the thought. You will not let the voice control your actions. Not now. Not in the moment of your Emperor's glory. You drive your sword into King Aeric's chest, piercing the seat cushion behind him, and quickly retract the blade. A sliver in King Aeric's chest appears, oozing dark liquid. But it's not blood. Black liquid, too thick for blood, rolls into the king's shirt. The voice appears -- wait no, this time it's audible. The mocking laugh, the one that echoes within your mind, projects from King Aeric's mouth. You realize then the laugh isn't from the voice within, but of a distant memory, one from your childhood. Behind you, the skirmish between Mordecai and the others halt as they notice the event happening at the throne. King Aeric's body floats in the air, his feet hanging limp mere inches from the ground, his head cocked to his left shoulder. King Aeric's body rises higher in the air, leaving a puddle of black sludge beneath. "Commander, what's going on?" Big Sue asks. You notice he's standing right next to Mordecai, peacefully, despite the circumstance that just occurred. "Our task remains unchanged," you answer. "All threats to the Empire must be eliminated." "And what if you are that threat?" Mordecai interjects. Before you can answer, a sharpened talon grows from the underside of each of Aeric's forearms. In a swirl of black mist, King Aeric, vessel of the Shade, dives at you. The Shade's attack is blocked by your sword, and the impact drives you sliding across the throne room floor. Just then, a pair of women burst through the double doors, one with red hair and the other bright blonde. At the sight of the Shade dressed in King Aeric's loose skin, the red-haired woman freezes. The woman next to her, Kassi, is taken aback for a brief moment and then continues on. The Shade flies high in the air, leaving streaks of black mist. It winds around several hanging chandeliers. Each one it passes extinguishes, leaving the room barely visible as if soft moonlight shining through thin clouds. Kassi, eyeing you, shouts, "First the spirit, then the traitor!" For the time being, the small group of warriors inside the throne room unite against a common enemy, against a common evil. The Shade dives down in a black streak. You raise your sword in preparation. This time, however, it vanishes just before its attack. Silence. You survey the room for some indication where it will reappear. Off in the distance, the outside siege rumbles softly, though louder than before. The battle is drawing nearer to the throne room. Suddenly, the chandeliers relight in flash of bright light, forcing you to turn your eyes in the shift. "What unspeakable evil. Estella..." Mordecai whispers. Body parts hang, skewered, from the octopus-shape chandeliers. The woman's face is frozen in a mix of horror and surprise. Her red hair hangs down too close to one of the candles. It ignites in a burst of flame, filling the room with the smell of burnt flesh and hair. There are too many limbs impaled to be Estella's. You see another head, Rexxus'. The weight of his thick neck slides his head down the chandelier like a bead on a string, and the firmness of his muscular arms hang limp, powerless. i can help The voice speaks in your head. For the first time, it's not forceful. It's calm, suggestive, not born of impulse. "No, you'll not control me," you speak, confusing your allies. you can't hope to win without my power, our power. unleash us. "I'll not trade one evil for another." it's the only way The shade reappears, the wrinkled skin of King Aeric still hanging from its shadowy form, unnaturally stretched. The place where his wise eyes once sat are replaced with pure black, so dark that his sockets look empty like the opening of a cave. > You suppress the voice No. You've spent your entire lifetime training your body and mind. You will not surrender for fear of death. The discipline instilled in you resists the temptation. If this is truly where you're meant to die, at least you'll die as yourself and not the puppet of some dark force. You breathe through the voice's enticing. Each inhale brings you to the next moment, and every exhale is the death of that moment. No longer are you concerned with the voice taking over. Your focus is on each breath and the present moment. Silence from within, it seems to be quieted for now. "Commander, are you with us?" Captain Wren speaks. "Yes. I am," you answer. Gesturing to Mordecai, you add on. "That staff may be the most effective weapon against this spirit. When we create the opening, strike hard and fast." Mordecai nods his agreement. "Here it comes again," Kassi warns. A black streak of smoke dives down from the ceiling. Instead of standing your ground, you take off in a dead sprint in the opposite direction. So far, the shade has only targeted you in the aerial assaults, and you suppose it would target you again. Captain Wren steps in to engage the shade only to have Kassi push him out of the way. "You're mine to kill, Imperial," she spits. Still running, you take a peek back over your shoulder. The shade is almost upon you. The mutated face of King Aeric stares blankly toward you. Just before it strikes the killing blow, you leap in the air and kick off a column to extend your range higher. The shade crashes into the column right beneath you. A crack through the air echoes as Mordecai's whip wraps around the shade holding it firmly in one place. Your feet touch the ground near the bound shade and you approach it. The shade squirms, trying to break free, but Mordecai holds it down. The whip glows a soft red, fueled by Mordecai's incantation. "Long have you hunted me. No more. I'll not subject myself to your dark magic," you speak. The familiar resonating laughter fills your ears, though not in its mocking form. It's distressed, like a wolf caught in a snare. It speaks for the first time, and through its twisted, muffled voice, it's apparent it's a woman's voice. "Ironic...you speak of dark magic with distaste, while housing the vilest within yourself." "So I've heard," you answer. "Although I do not allow it to control me." "You can try to resist, but the Unbroken bloodline eventually will reveal itself. I'm sure it has already." Kassi joins in. "The only darkness affecting him is you. I witnessed the nightmares brought upon by your hunt. My respect is all but lost for this one, but I'd still not see you possess him." "Ha! I'm not looking to possess him, girl. I'm looking to end the bloodline...even if they are my descendants as well." "Princess Catherine?" Mordecai asks, in full recognition of Ragar's history. "Once upon a time." "And so you sold your soul for vengeance, trading one evil for another. Your tormenting ends now, Catherine," you say, raising your sword. You drive the point through King Aeric's face, piercing the shade underneath. The shade, Catherine, shrieks, filling the throne room with sharp noise. A black hole appears at her torso, drawing in streaks of black mist and wisps. The shadowy form of Catherine fills the hole for a moment, and then bursts into an explosion of light. Upon the light's subsiding, King Aeric's mutilated body lays bound by the whip, the shade nowhere to be seen. "I still don't forgive you," Kassi breaks the silence. "After everything we've been through, you just...abandoned us, abandoned me." "I'm sorry it came to that," you softly answer. "The Emperor isn't an evil man. We're bound, he and I. We share the same bloodline. My episodes were getting worse. You might have been the victim of them." "You must not know me well at all if you think you'd ever beat me." "Kass, I'm serious. Innocent people around me die." "I'm not so innocent." Mordecai walks up to you and places a hand on your shoulder, reassuringly that he's not a threat. "Even I, my king's most trusted advisor, did not see he was possessed by a spirit. You have my gratitude. I see the monastery has trained you well. Glad to see it was vigilant until the end, it certainly was during my days there." "You were the king's emissary once?" you ask. "Emissary? I won the honor to serve King Aeric through the Grand Melee. All who wear the dark red robe were once from the monastery. Speaking of which, where's Seth?" Mordecai asks. "Didn't make it," Kassi answers. "Damned fool," Mordecai whispers to himself. "Go, Swordmaster. There is nothing left for you here. The day is won, the fortress is yours. Report the King's death to your Emperor. "Get yourselves to safety," you answer pulling two small objects from your cloak. "These seals will allow you to pass through the Imperial army unharmed." Kassi offers a small laugh, a sign of the woman you once knew. "Please. Like we need your trinkets to move unhindered. Still though, the thought is well-received." She takes the seals anyway. "So, I guess this is it," she adds on. You clasp her hand. "I guess so. Be safe, Kass." She looks into your eyes, gauging your intentions. For a brief moment, you flash back to the monastery and remember the passionate, bright blonde-haired girl who trained you. The girl who feigns lack of emotion to appear strong. The girl who is the perfect embodiment of the balance between discipline and joy. The girl who was the only one you could share personal thoughts with. The girl you turned your back on. You release her hand and gently squeeze her arm. "Go now." Kassi and Mordecai leave together, while Captain Wren and Big Sue silently watch. They do not vocalize their protest, though you can tell it doesn't sit well with them. Captain Wren approaches you. "Are you sure we should just let them leave? They are the enemy, after all." Your eyes meet his. "If they were truly your enemy, you would not be breathing right now." > In reality... Red. Your entire vision is filled with red. A driving, insatiable force drives you forward. You can't stop, nor do you want to. The weak, the undevoted, the blasphemers. They all will pay for their wrong. Like separating wheat from the chaff, you will forge a better society, one that is not unencumbered by the weak-willed and naysayers. Each cleansing blow from your sword brings you one step closer. Each foreigner that falls brings a surge of energy and a curved smile to your lips. Your blade eats into flesh and drinks the flowing blood. "More!" it screams, and you satisfy its desire. You do not see faces, you do not hear their words. You simply kill. You kill for the Empire. You kill to cull the weak. You kill because it's all that you know. The bloodlust gone, the voice gives back control, and you see the result of your actions. You're in the center of a red pool, your hands stained the same. The blood is warm, like clutching a soothing cup of tea between both palms. Then you see her. She lays still as if asleep, one arm crossed at her chest, the other stretched out beside her body. Her bright blonde hair, the color that reminds you of sunlight, is dyed dark crimson. The two slashes at her throat are like a jagged, sanguine necklace. The others, Mordecai, Sue, Wren, lay next to her. You hardly notice them; your gaze is on Kassi, unmoving, unable to look away. Your stoic, expressionless demeanor vanishes as your screams fill the empty throne room. Just as suddenly as it disappeared, you regather your blank, emotionless demeanor. You close your eyes and focus on your training, using long, drawn-out breathing patterns to calm your heart rate. When you reopen your eyes, the Emperor stands before you. "A great victory has been won this day," he comments. "What of the cure?" you ask. "Have you uncovered the secrets to suppressing the voice?" The Emperor eyes the mess of bodies on the floor. "Not yet, I'm afraid. The collection of books here are not nearly as extensive as my spies informed. Still, I will have my top researchers work on it. There is one ritual that might work, but it involves giving in to the voice..." "Not going to happen. I've been controlled by it for too long. I'll not willingly surrender to it, even at the slight chance of eradicating it forever." "I thought you'd say that," The Emperor says. "We'll find a way. I've had my men prepare a room for you here. Come, rest up. Tomorrow brings the promise of greater glories." The Emperor motions to a man standing near the entryway. With a bow, he approaches. "Follow me, Commander. I'll show you your quarters," the youthful man speaks. You can tell by his clean appearance, he did not take part in the battle. "No," you say. "I need to bury her. I need to bury Kassi near the monastery." "I understand," The Emperor replies. "I will arrange a battalion to accompany." "With respect, that would dishonor her memory. She fought the Empire to her last breath," you say with full clarity of the statement. While you are technically a part of the Empire, an Imperial force near the monastery would be symbolic of the initial attack, something you'd rather not think about while putting Kassi to rest. "I'll not allow a high-ranking member of my army travel alone, especially in newly conquered territory. The threat is too high. You will go with a battalion or not at all," The Emperor adamantly states. > Travel with the battalion "As you wish, my Emperor," you say. "We'll depart right away." "Excellent. I'll instruct my men to meet you at first light," the Emperor replies, turning to leave. "With respect, I don't think you understood me," you say. "When I say depart right away, I mean now. There is only a short window while corpses still look like themselves." "I understand, my friend. I have important matters to attend here, otherwise I'd go with you. I'll make the arrangements." You wade through the puddle of blood to Kassi's corpse. Her lifeless eyes stare, endlessly, towards the octopus-shaped chandelier above. Softly, you shut them closed and scoop her underneath your arms. You silently mourn the loss of Mordecai. He was your enemy, a damned tough one, but more importantly, he came from the monastery. In another life perhaps you would have been close. You shake the thought from your mind as quickly as it appears. There's no use in dwelling on the past. The past is dead. All that matters is the present moment. You arrive at the front gates of Aeric's castle still holding Kassi. The path is littered with fallen soldiers, their victors fighting over treasures of the dead. It's not uncommon for fights to break out over bounty, at least among the lower ranked members. "I see some things remain the same." The ragged voice comes from above you. You look up to see a man bound to the archway almost directly on top of you. His arms are held out like a "T" wrapped and suspended by rope. The remainder of his naked body is exposed for all to see. At his belly, three arrows. You count the broken shafts of four more scattered in his body. He coughs, creating a crimson waterfall down the front of his bare torso. After a moment, you recognize his face. He's hardly aged since last you saw him. Seth. "Who did this?" you scream to the nearby Imperial soldiers. One of them offers a shrug, the rest simply pretend not to hear. You stomp towards the one who shrugged, who is likely regretting the gesture. "I won't ask again." The man nervously avoids your direct gaze. At first it's unfocused, but then it becomes fixed, targeted at someone. You turn to see a pair of horns mounted on a helm, black armor beneath. A dull, monotone voice speaks through the helm. "I did." You let the nervous soldier leave. He takes off quickly, not looking back once. "I know who you are -- and what you did," you state. "Dresden, at your command. People die in war," the voice beneath the helm answers. "Like that?" you point up towards Seth. "All kinds of ways." Seth coughs again, distracting you from the conversation. "Pay her my respects, will you, kid?" You nod, a reply absent from your lips. Turning towards the horned helm you ask knowing the answer, "And I suppose you are to accompany me?" "That is correct, Commander. No one knows these mountains like I do." You depart for the monastery ruins along with Dresden. The image of Seth bound, and slowly dying, burns in your memory. Several times during the journey, you notice the reigns to the cart unconsciously wrapped around your hands in a bind. You lead the battalion from the head, Dresden follows overhead by wyvern. You don't turn to look upon the coffin at the back of your cart. You want to, but don't, and keep your eyes forward on the path, hoping your physical metaphor will transition to the non-physical. You don't speak to the Imperial soldiers. Not that you really ever did, but this journey more than others you desire silence. Now that you're here, in this moment, were your actions worth it? Your training, your discipline deters such thought, and yet, you brute force through the mental barriers and habits accrued over a lifetime of practicing. Your oldest friend is dead, and the thing that originally separated you, was the exact cause of her death. Perhaps, events are prewritten. Perhaps, you cannot escape destiny. A shiver runs down your spine as you connect with the thought that your destiny is intertwined with murdering your loved ones. No, there has to be more at work. Call it coincidence, bad luck, whatever -- anything that's not a pre-arranged set of circumstances. You are in control of your fate, of your destiny. You have to believe that's the case. Three days later you arrive. At first a black dot in the distance, the ruins slowly begin to take shape as you draw closer. The monastery had certainly seen better days. While the place is mostly intact, signs of decay can be seen, even from afar. It's as if the nature surrounding the structure is steadily swallowing the monastery from the lack of upkeep. Still, decades later, you don't see any sign of bandits or people taking shelter within the place, a testament to the monastery's reputation. Part of you wants to order the Imperial troops to camp outside. Their presence near the monastery is bad enough, and what are you supposed to do? Welcome the same invading force to take refuge in the sacred place of your childhood? Such thoughts are born of attachment. The monks taught against such behavior. You don't like it, but you allow the Imperial soldiers to use the shelter that the monastery provides. Alone, you take Kassi to a nearby mountainside, the same place where the Grand Melee took place. You travel up the rocky slope to the section where the mountain jettisons out, flat, as if cleanly cut. You briefly admire the view from the high vantage point and begin collecting rocks. The view is exactly as you remember it. Your life is drastically different decades later, while the world in front of you remains the same. Once you've gathered enough, you place them in a pile where the lifted stage once stood. You gently lay Kassi in the center and begin building the stone grave. "Was everything in vain?" you softly speak to Kassi. "Was this moment truly unavoidable?" She remains silent. "I contemplate each action before deciding, weighing each potential outcome against another. We were taught to accept our position, no matter what. We were taught to let go of any attachments as our selves, our true selves, are not dependent on things or people. You were always much better than me." The grave complete, you take a step back and kneel before the rocks, your hips on your heels and hands in your lap. Your eyes flutter shut and you take long, drawn-out breaths. Each inhale, you feel your stomach, ribs, and chest expand, followed by the retraction of exhalation. The rocky ground digs into your knees, creating a dull pain. Ignoring it, you continue to meditate observing the thought stream that flows in your mind. The wind softly blows, drawing your awareness to the world around you. The breeze whispers at your nape, promising to remain consistent. She's chaotic, seemingly random at times, but steady and steadfast to her word, much like Kassi. A bird flies overhead, wings outstretched using the wind for guidance. It does not weigh its actions; it follows its instinct. No ideology or self-story holds it down. It simply exists. Kassi to rest, you journey back down the mountainside. Their drunken cries ring into the night air, animalistic, more than the woodland creatures you just crossed paths with. The ruins, lit by bonfires built from monastery remains, warm and encourage the primal behavior. You stop at the nearest fire, staring at the six soldiers huddled around. "Commander! We discovered a sizeable amount of mead in the cellar. Join us in celebrating the Emperor's victory." The young-faced soldier offering the invitation holds a cup out for you. Not much more than a boy, it's not surprising the mead is affecting him so. > You cut them down It's not out of hate. You don't harbor ill-will towards the Imperial soldiers -- they're on your side, after all. It's a matter of respect and discipline to the highest degree, both of which the soldiers lack. Just as the bird flying overhead, you do not contemplate. You simply do as you must, what you're born, what you're destined to do. Kassi's sword has a familiar feel, as if the two of you are clasping hands. You offer her memory a funeral of Imperial blood. Before the drunken soldiers can react, you arc Kassi's blade through the air, showering the earth with blood and mead. The drink slows them down, pitifully so. The few that manage to unsheathe their weapons are met with your tribute to Kassi. Parry, feint, strike! You knew Kassi's movements almost as well as the woman herself and channel her fighting spirit to guide your blade. Shouts echo from other fires as the soldiers notice your actions. An alarm bell rings, signaling the Imperial soldiers into mobilization. The flames at your back, you eye the soldier's preparation. They're undisciplined, unprepared. You stand a dark figure framed by the fire, a sword in either hand. Two blades have never been your style, but tonight the union between Kassi's and your sword would be complete, sealed by the death of Empire soldiers. You do what you could not forty years earlier. You smite the invading army from the monastery. Dresden appears in simple chain mail, his normal plate armor too bulky to don for the sudden attack. You almost don't recognize the man, besides the greatsword at his back. His face is scarred as if a burn victim, hairless save for two thin eyebrows. "It seems the Emperor's dog isn't as well-trained as we were meant to believe. No matter, I have strict orders to put you down if this place brought out old habits," he speaks, unmuffled by the absence of his normal helm. "Do what you must. It's the only thing a man can do," you reply. Dresden's greatsword swings through the air, the weight sending off low-pitched tones. You redirect the greatsword, not wanting to directly block the blows. The powerful weapon would easily eat through your arm strength if met head-on. You allow your training to guide you. The flow takes over and the world slows down around you. Each swing of the greatsword appears labored as if the wielder is out of breath. Things appear with clarity. The present moment, all that matters, is before you. Plans of the future, past failures: they don't matter. Your entire reality becomes the current battle. Your sword finds the back of Dresden's hamstring, dropping him to one knee. For emphasis, you slice open the other. He kneels before you, using the greatsword to prop himself up. "End it, dog. You cannot escape the Empire's grasp. Soon you will join me in the afterlife. The Emperor will make sure of that," Dresden speaks through ragged breath. "Perhaps so. Whatever fate has in store for me is irrefutable, whether that's my death or otherwise. One thing's for certain, your journey ends here," you answer. The tip of Kassi's sword enters through the front and exits the back of Dresden's throat. The strength gone from his limbs, Dresden falls forward and collapses face first into the dirt. Chained in the distance, Dresden's wyvern cries out. The beast roars over the battle-readying Imperial troops. You approach the beast, eyeing the chain at its neck tied to a tree trunk. It returns the stare with yellow lizard eyes, sensing your intention and threat presence. Using Dresden's greatsword you break the chain holding the wyvern in place. Instantly, it flaps its wings and jumps into the air. Now free, it heads in the direction of the surrounding mountains. You do the same.

Red. Your entire vision is filled with red. A driving, insatiable force drives you forward. You can't stop, nor do you want to. The weak, the undevoted, the blasphemers. They all will pay for their wrong. Like separating wheat from the chaff, you will forge a better society, one that is not unencumbered by the weak-willed and naysayers. Each cleansing blow from your sword brings you one step closer. Each foreigner that falls brings a surge of energy and a curved smile to your lips. Your blade eats into flesh and drinks the flowing blood. "More!" it screams, and you satisfy its desire. You do not see faces, you do not hear their words. You simply kill. You kill for the Empire. You kill to cull the weak. You kill because it's all that you know. The bloodlust gone, the voice gives back control, and you see the result of your actions. You're in the center of a red pool, your hands stained the same. The blood is warm, like clutching a soothing cup of tea between both palms. Then you see her. She lays still as if asleep, one arm crossed at her chest, the other stretched out beside her body. Her bright blonde hair, the color that reminds you of sunlight, is dyed dark crimson. The two slashes at her throat are like a jagged, sanguine necklace. The others, Mordecai, Sue, Wren, lay next to her. You hardly notice them; your gaze is on Kassi, unmoving, unable to look away. Your stoic, expressionless demeanor vanishes as your screams fill the empty throne room. Just as suddenly as it disappeared, you regather your blank, emotionless demeanor. You close your eyes and focus on your training, using long, drawn-out breathing patterns to calm your heart rate. When you reopen your eyes, the Emperor stands before you. "A great victory has been won this day," he comments. "What of the cure?" you ask. "Have you uncovered the secrets to suppressing the voice?" The Emperor eyes the mess of bodies on the floor. "Not yet, I'm afraid. The collection of books here are not nearly as extensive as my spies informed. Still, I will have my top researchers work on it. There is one ritual that might work, but it involves giving in to the voice..." "Not going to happen. I've been controlled by it for too long. I'll not willingly surrender to it, even at the slight chance of eradicating it forever." "I thought you'd say that," The Emperor says. "We'll find a way. I've had my men prepare a room for you here. Come, rest up. Tomorrow brings the promise of greater glories." The Emperor motions to a man standing near the entryway. With a bow, he approaches. "Follow me, Commander. I'll show you your quarters," the youthful man speaks. You can tell by his clean appearance, he did not take part in the battle. "No," you say. "I need to bury her. I need to bury Kassi near the monastery." "I understand," The Emperor replies. "I will arrange a battalion to accompany." "With respect, that would dishonor her memory. She fought the Empire to her last breath," you say with full clarity of the statement. While you are technically a part of the Empire, an Imperial force near the monastery would be symbolic of the initial attack, something you'd rather not think about while putting Kassi to rest. "I'll not allow a high-ranking member of my army travel alone, especially in newly conquered territory. The threat is too high. You will go with a battalion or not at all," The Emperor adamantly states. > You disobey the Emperor "As you wish, my Emperor," you say. "We'll depart at first light." The statement feels strange. It's the first time you've ever intentionally misled the Emperor. In fact, it's the first time you've intentionally misled anyone for years. You take pride in your practice, and that practice includes being direct and forthright. Still, this is a special circumstance. Even considering it "special" puts a damper on your mood. It's not special, your fucking world is turned upside down. You allow an Imperial soldier to lead to you the quarters provided. It's not as extravagant as the Emperor's tent, but it serves its purpose. It wouldn't be your place to dwell in a living arrangement that's nicer than your leader's anyway. The room itself is long and narrow. The ceiling is arced like a cabin would be, two sloping walls meeting at the center. Earth tones line the interior, nothing is fancy, but serves its purpose to the highest degree. You drop your things near the heavy wool-skinned bed and kneel on the floor beside it. Sitting on your heels, you close your eyes and meditate on your upcoming actions. The Emperor wouldn't be happy. Perhaps he would understand. You doubt it. Disobeying is disobeying, despite your place in the Empire. Once the light shining through the window fades to black, you prepare for the journey. You pack light, taking only what is necessary. Without the aid of Imperial transport, you'll need as little as possible weighing you down. Your sword is hung, familiar, on your hip. On it's opposite, you hang Kassi's sword. Two swords at your side, something you've never preferred, feels right in this moment. The blade was an important part of Kassi, her most prized possession. Having it at your side is a good reminder of your reasons for going against the Emperor. It's almost like having her at your side. Almost. The horse and cart is already prepared for the journey. You made sure to have it prepared the night before. A lone Imperial soldier stands guard at the stables, light for an Imperial patrol, but the rest of the "on duty" guards are most likely celebrating the victory. "Evening, Commander. Thought that was you. What can I do for you?" the baby-faced soldier speaks in to the night. "It's Ostus, right?" you ask. "That's right!" he beams. Adding on with a salute, he says, "Fredrick Ostus at your command." "You're a good soldier, Ostus. But you are needed elsewhere tonight. There are more high priority places to watch," you say. "Maybe so...although Dresden himself gave me this position. I can't disobey a superior, even if there is something better to do. It's how we stay functioning," Ostus shrugs. "Trust me, I'd rather be at with the boys celebrating. Don't tell Dresden that, but my job is to watch the stables and prevent any disorderly conduct." "You're a good man, Ostus. I hope when you wake, you'll forgive me." "Forgive you for wh--" Before Ostus finishes his sentence, the hilt of your sword smashes against his temple. His body crumples limply to the ground. You prop his body in a comfortable position, and take the reigns of the cart. It's a small cart, only driven by a single horse, but it's more than enough to lug the contents in the back. You signal the horse forward and ride off into the night. > You continue on They arrived sooner than you expected. At first they appeared as birds flying in the distance. Black wings steadily gaining on your location, and that's when you recognize the "birds." Wyverns, three of them. Your traveling conditions offered almost no ability to conceal your path. It wasn't hard for them to find you — it's their hastiness that surprised you. Two of the winged beasts land at your front and one directly behind you. The trail is narrow, leaving almost no room for you to veer off to avoid their pursuit. Thick trees lie of either side, preventing the cart from being able to travel through. The first thing you notice is the horned helm. Sending flashbacks to your childhood, the day of the massacre, you instantly recognize the figure. The greatsword at his back, the one that stole the life of the Grandmaster hangs at the figure's back. Beneath the helm is a dark set of plate armor. "The Emperor had a feeling you might betray him," the voice behind the horns rings into the cool morning air. "There is no betrayal, only what must be done. A woman lies dead and must be buried," you say. "That's not what I heard," the dull, monotone voice answers. "Is that what you heard, Larkus?" The rider next to the horned helm shakes his head. "Not what I heard at all, Dresden." "Be on your way. I will rejoin the Emperor after a proper burial has taken place," you say. "Your intentions are no secret. The way you've positioned yourselves speak to only one outcome. Battle." "Newly conquered territories always are dangerous. There's no telling how the locals might react. Like, for say, they might set upon a lone Imperial member. It's dangerous to be alone, even for a well renown warrior such as yourself." Your hands let go of the reigns and their grip is replaced with sword handles. "Then let us not delay. I have a funeral to attend to. Seems I'll need to attend to yours first." With a snarl, the horned man, Dresden, attacks. His greatsword swings through the air with a low hum. The other two riders follow closely behind, their spears at the ready. You abandon the cart for open ground. The first wyvern dives down with frightening speed. It's only through your lifetime training that you're able to narrowly dodge the attack. A little luck never hurts too. You realize in the open, you're too exposed, and likely would be run down in a matter of time. Once again moving ground, you trade the open road for the surrounding forest neutralizing their aerial assault. Three men follow you into the thicket. Light is minimal in the forest. Overgrown branches, roots, and stumps fill your vision. It's hard to navigate through, even in your light armor. Going through with heavy plate would be a nightmare. You allow the environment to influence your battle plans, familiarizing yourself with the area. Long lunging and high overhead sweeping techniques would have to be discarded due to the overgrowth. Heavy footsteps draw closer. You lie in wait. They don't see you, not at first. In the open road you were their prey. Here you are the predator. Here, you will hunt them down. The first spear wielder doesn't even have time to react. From behind, you silently sneak up. Kassi's blade finds the front of his throat, the slight gap in armor where the helm doesn't quite reach the breastplate. His body collapses in the clanking of armor, alerting the other two. Through the thicket you see the twin horns heading in your direction. Quickly, you move to find cover. His plate boots stomp heavily on the forest floor. You wait until the sound reaches its highest point to strike. As if from the crow's nest, you swing down, one hand gripping a vine, the other around Kassi's hilt. The powerful strike, backed by the swinging momentum is difficult to land. You have adjust mid-swing to find the gap between armor. The blow sends both of you sprawling to the dirt, the horned helm knocked from Dresden's head. You almost don't recognize the man. Despite being decades ago, the youthful appearance of Dresden is replaced by a scarred, hairless face as if he suffered a terrible burn years ago. The scars extend down his neck disappearing into the black plate. Immediately, you land in a front roll and prepare for the next series of strikes. The helm missing, you have more exposed area to work with. Dresden knows it as well and keeps his greatsword high to block your upward-aimed advance. You're careful not to focus solely on one target, and mix in quick thrusts and a slices towards the plated body of Dresden. The strikes may bounce harmlessly off the armor, but the distraction non-linear approach is what you're aiming for. You unleash a barrage of well-executed strikes, sweeping low then high, weaving both blades through the air always moving forward, always setting up the next maneveour. When one blow is absorbed, you use the other sword to strike an undefended area. No defense is perfect. Eventually there's always an opening. You're alert, coiled like a serpent searching for exposed flesh where you will inject your deadly fangs. The opening is there, and you take full advantage. Almost simultaneously, pain rips through the side of your body. You look down to find a spearpoint sticking through the left side of your torso. The third rider, Larkus, stands over you with both hands clutching his spear. He rips the weapon back, tearing the point through the initial wound. A cry escapes your lips as you collapse in front of the fallen Dresden. Kassi's sword falls to the dirt and you use the open palm to cover the bleeding. Seeing you drop, Larkus rushes to Dresden's side. He cradles the man's head in his arms and attempts to treat the wound at his neck. You try to stand up. The most you can manage is placing one knee beneath you. Pain surges from your side. It's like grabbing a hot plate, except you can't let go. Larkus notices, and abandons his medical care of Dresden. "You deserve all of this and more," he says. "For what? Burying my oldest friend?" you answer. "Yes. The only loyalty you should have is for the Emperor." He approaches, spearpoint at the ready. Here, in your last moments, you don't feel the sense of regret most others would have. Death is not something new to you. For many years you've accepted that fact. It's truly the only certainty in life. You don't even regret siding with the Empire, the same Empire that's about to end your life. Everything's numb. Nothing really matters. The inevitable end has arrived and the gap between your birth and death is but memories soon to be dissolved with your last breath. "I'm ready," you state more to yourself than Larkus. Your vision blurs, then becomes blackness. > ... Two bright eyes stare intently at you. Instinctively, you sit up in the bed only to rediscover the pain at your side. You're in a small hut. Soft embers burn in the center of the room, rising through a gap in the rooftop. The eyes belong to a young girl, not much past ten years. "Rose. Go fetch our guest some tea," a man's voice rings from the doorway. The outside light, illuminating his frame, leaves his face mostly dark, although you see signs of a thick moustache. He approaches the bed, rolling the sleeves of his woodland-colored tunic up his arms, revealing sturdy forearms that are likely the result of years of workmanship. He sets a bow and quiver down next to the bed post. The bow may be of simple design, although the craft and quality of the wood are the finest you've ever seen -- and the Empire spares no expense when it comes to war equipment. "You have no love for the Empire," the man speaks, partly questioning. "In fairness, it has no love for me," you speak truthfully, carefully. You're uncertain if Dresden chased you down by direct command of the Emperor. He didn't strike you as someone who acted rogue. Then again, no one expected that of you. "Why were those men after you? It's not often for a wyvern triad to chase down a single cart." The man's eyes narrow, seeking signs of deception in yours. The cart! Kassi. "I must be on my way," you answer. "In the back of the cart, I was transporting the remains of my..." The words escape you. What was Kassi to you? "Friend" wouldn't do her justice. It wouldn't be an accurate description of the decades you spent joined at the hip. It wouldn't be telling of the fact that you knew everything about one another, your tendencies, what got under your skin. It wouldn't speak of the countless near-death experiences you shared, up until the moment your hands finished the tally. Your lover? You loved her, and she you. Still, your bond was deeper than the bodily connotation attached with that word. You find yourself at a loss for words. There is not a single word that would accurately describe your relationship with Kassi. "Wife." Close enough. That will have to do. The man finishes the sentence for you. He continues. "Brought your horse and cart out back. This is as good a place as any to bury a wife." Rose comes back with two cups. She hands one to you and one to her father. She looks up, expectantly, for you to take a sip. After thanking her, you raise the cup to your lips. Cool mint washes against your tongue like a fresh breath of air. The warm liquid instantly soothes and compliments the herbal flavor. Your hands fill with the warmth of the cup, comfortably drawing your attention away from the pain at your side. "The tea helps. I can speak from experience," the man says, lifting his shirt to reveal a sizable scar along the front of his mid-section. "My reward in service of 'King' Aeric. I have no love for the man, but I'd rather see him on the throne than some Imperial puppet." "Aeric is dead. You're now a part of the newest territory under the Empire's rule," you answer. "Thank you for saving my life. I really must be on my way. I need to put Kassi to rest." You attempt to rise from the bed, but the wound proves stronger. The combination of the blood loss and relaxing effects of the tea gently sooth you back to sleep. You slip in and out of consciousness for a few seconds, willing yourself to take back control. A pair of bright eyes watch your head fall to the pillow, peering from behind the sturdy frame of her father. You stand at her grave, one hand on her blade and the other at your cane. Your spear wound is mostly healed, though it still gives you problems. The walking cane, carved by Richard, helps with the sudden jolts of pain. Using the cane as support, you kneel into the dirt and place your palm on the simple tombstone. "Was this truly unavoidable, Kass?" you whisper. "You know I only left you to confront the darkness within me, to protect you from it. Perhaps I was always meant to end your life, destined even. By the same coin, no one knows how long they are destined to live. Our joined strength may have well extended both of our lives -- there's no way of knowing if this life, if both our lives, were tragedy or otherwise." The grave remains silent. You sense a pair of bright eyes watching you from behind a nearby tree. "Either draw near or don't. There's no use in second guessing yourself, girl," you speak. Shyly, she leaves the protection of the tree and kneels down next to you. "What's your name girl?" you ask. "Rose." "Well, Rose. You remind me of brave warrior I once knew. Would you like to hear about her?" Rose nods, her eyes shimmering aquamarine. "I knew her when we were about your age. Can you believe someone old like me was once young? Strange is the flow of time. In moments it feels as if a pond, still and unmoving. Other times it's a flowing river, with treacherous rapids to navigate. This warrior, Kassi, was truly special. She taught me almost everything I know, while being only a few years older than me. It was a great burden she bore for my sake, having to deal with my undisciplined self and not let it discourage her own progress. I was saw her fight off ten men with nothing more than a small dagger. That's the mark of a true warrior, always finding the path to victory, always willing to do whatever it takes." "You were in love?" Rose asks. "I loved her more than myself -- that's why I left her. Listen, Rose, love is tricky sometimes. You'll find that out in a few years. Sometimes it's in the best interest of the other person if you're not around them." You grab a handful of dirt from the burial mound and feel it slip through your fingers, feeling the soft tingle as it passes through. Your fingers and palm are left empty save for a small stain. "It's like this soil. I could clutch onto it tightly, protecting it from outside forces, but that would be detrimental to its purpose. No, better for it to be on the ground, at the risk of being trampled or washed away by rain. It's the only way for growth to happen." Leaning on the cane, you place your shins on the ground, sitting on your heels. You motion for Rose to do the same. She follows your example, and looks up, expectantly with bright blue eyes. You place your hands on your lap and take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the air around you, with the final resting place of Kassi. The soft breeze whistles leaves into motion. The earthy smell from the dirt is still in the air, and you draw it in, putting the aroma to memory. You do as she taught you many years ago. You're uncertain of what your future has in store for you, but you will continue to practice. You will continue to honor her memory. "Want me to teach you to become like the brave warrior?" you ask. Rose nods.

[Themes: fantasy] A whirlwind of red robe and black hair assaults you. Mordecai moves surprisingly quick for someone who looks as if he spends most of his time in books. He spins his quarterstaff expertly, keeping Captain Wren and the rest at bay with his reach. There's no doubt in your mind that he is enhanced by magic. "Form up!" Captain Wren commands, realizing the current strategy isn't working. Rexxus and Dodgey, the guardians, assume a defensive front line and march toward Mordecai. Mordecai's staff bounces off their shields, creating an unexpected sound of metal clashing. Enhanced, indeed. As Captain Wren and the squad play containment, you take the opportunity to approach the undefended King Aeric. You'd never witnessed him in his glory, but the man before you looks as if a shell of that. The large, headstrong king you heard stories about is absent. Instead, a white-haired man with hunched shoulders and black-ringed eyes sits before you. The King's body may be brittle, but his eyes are stern, unflinching as he meets your approach. If King Aeric was never defeated in battle, he's losing the war to old age: a strange thing for a king in times of war. Your first step up the to the throne is met with a vine-like bind around your ankle. Behind you, Mordecai rips you backward, his quarterstaff now in the form of a whip. Sharp pain grips your leg, and you discover the attack shredded through the top section of your leather boot. Mordecai slings the whip against the guardians, each impact holding them at bay or even knocking them back. Finally, the same vine-like grip wraps around Dodgey's neck. The big man drops his weapon and shield and grabs at his throat. Mordecai activates his weapon once again to change form. The whip, now rigid, births a crescent moon blade at the end. The sharp edge of the scythe rests on Dodgey's nape. Then it's gone, replaced with an empty hole where Dodgey's head once stood. "You're a dead man!" Rexxus yells after seeing his fellow guardian fall. Instead of keeping the controlled pressure, he abandons the tactic for a bull rush at Mordecai. Captain Wren and Big Sue follow closely behind in support of their comrade. Now is your chance. Keeping an eye out for any more surprises from Mordecai, you make once again for the throne. Still, King Aeric sits, watching you the entire time. His calmness in the face of immediate death worries you. He's too calm for what's about to happen. Your senses are on high alert, ready to react if there's some sort of magical trap. King Aeric addresses you as you get within an arm's reach. "I've been waiting for this day for a long time." "You and me both," you answer. You raise your blade in the air to kill him, you raise your blade to kill a king. "It's a shame she doesn't have your gift," King Aeric says. "When I heard the child from the monastery was within my walls I thought it was you. Unfortunately, it was just Kassi. Oh well, I suppose we made it here either way." > You question his meaning Your blade lowers. "What is the meaning behind your words?" King Aeric laughs. "You truly will do anything for her, huh? It's a shame it has to end this way. Everything could have been so much simpler if you arrived instead of her." "Explain yourself," you command. "You've eluded me for too long, and now you've arrived on your own. I'm overdo by a few decades. Oh well, I have plenty of time." King Aeric's face melts away. His skin droops down like melted wax. Shadowy wisps appear within his eyes, turning a glowing crimson. Through his forearms, two angled spikes appear, tearing through his own flesh. Aeric seems not to notice as the laugh continues through his drooping skin. The laughter turns mocking, reminding you of...your childhood. The shade. The thing that's hunted you your entire life is before you. Hunting is much easier when the prey arrives on your doorstep. Before you can react, the angled spikes pierce through your gut, lifting you into the air. A pair of red eyes meet yours, taking pleasure in your suffering. The shade tears its spikes from your body, splitting you in two. It's taken nearly a lifetime, but the shade has finally finished the hunt.

"Sure, why not. Just remember your training," you answer. "Excellent! I'm afraid you're not allowed to pick up a sword, so you'll have to use that walking stick of yours," Priscilla answers. On much vocal direction from Priscilla involving the words "my father," "whipped," and "public shame," the dancers clear from the area. The gathering crowd whispers among themselves in excitement at the upcoming display of combat. "So much for not drawing attention," Kassi whispers in your ear. You shrug. "It's part of my cover," you whisper back. You remove your coat and roll up the sleeves of your tunic. As you walk to the center of the gathered circle of people, you loosen up your shoulders. Man, it feels good to be out of that damn jacket. You give the cane a few twirls to test the weight and balance. The crowd "oohs" at the simple motion. The slow, stringed music shifts to an upbeat tune with consistent low notes setting the tone for the fast and loose melody. A barefoot Priscilla meets you in the center with the golden rapier drawn. She acts like she's about to say something, and then suddenly lunges forward with the rapier in attack position. You easily knock the blade aside and step back out of range. The cane, while not extremely heavy, is definitely a lot slower to wield than a rapier. You take a mental note to adjust for the speed difference. Using more theatrics than you're accustomed to, you twirl the cane and spin into your attack. You weave high, jumping overhead, striking with long and low thrusts. The crowd seems pleased and a cheer rises from the acrobatic movements. You're acutely aware of Priscilla's ability and don't give her more than she can handle. Before each strike, you subtly give a "tell," so Priscilla is alerted to your attack. One heavy thrust removes a large section of the metal from your cane. The shiny piece falls to the ground with a clatter. You and Priscilla stop for a moment at the broken section. In the break in action, the chilling presence once again falls over you. For a brief moment, you see the flash of a skull behind Pricilla's face. The image sticks in your mind for several blinks after. "Don't worry, I'll pay for that!" she shouts and begins another assault. > Keep going You meet her assault with a series of overemphasized blocks. The crowd continues to be entertained by the unnecessary movements. You can almost feel the eye-rolling coming from Kassi as she watches the spectacle. Such technique would be ridiculed in the practice room, but it puts on a damn good show. Confident you've entertained the crowd long enough, you start to end the spectacle. You knock the rapier aside with enough force that the sword flies out of Priscilla's hand. "Verna" clatters harmlessly to the floor, at the feet of the surrounding crowd, much to their delight. Priscilla stands in front of you with her arms up. "As expected, you win," she says with a smile. "Not while you're still breathing," you say, lifelessly. "Ok, not funny," the smile drains from Priscilla's face during her answer. You remove the hidden sword from the cane. The crowd collectively gasps in horror. Priscilla begins walking backwards with her arms raised in surrender. You drive the point through her heart. Her white dress fills with the spreading blood stain. The crowd erupts in a mad frenzy. Soldiers immediately rush to Priscilla's aid, although most of them attack you instead. Kassi joins your side with the gold rapier. "Gods damn you," she speaks through a clenched jaw. "This night's ruined, thanks to you." More soldiers file into the room surrounding you with full-bodied tower shields. Their spears all point toward you. You know your skill level as well as Kassi's. The surrounding, growing force around you is too much, especially without your real weapons and armor. This is it, and you were so close to completing your lifelong quest.

[Themes: fantasy, fantasy, war, humor, action] You! Yes, you. Are you looking for a life of adventure? Do you want your name to live forever in history? Join the High King's army today, and all that (and more!) could be yours! *the High King is not responsible for any bodily harm or fatalities allegedly caused by this message. Another poster on a billboard littered with hundreds of them. The entire wall is covered with similar messages, the High King's insignia proudly displayed in the middle. It's a simple insignia for a man who is the most powerful in the world. Your neighbor to the east, Supreme Leader Fargrave, might not agree. Still, it's your High King who is leading and profiting from expeditions to the New World, not Fargrave and the territory of Magda. Back to the billboard in front of you; another catches your eye. And yes, in the center is an upside down sword with a golden crown at the top. The gunslinger's life is a hard lonely road. The High King offers abundance in both food and comradery! Safety in numbers! Not the most creative of slogans, or the catchiest, but something's doing the trick. Your peers are enlisting by the thousands. At this point, it's easier to remember who hasn't enlisted rather than who has. And who wouldn't join? There are countless stories of treasures discovered, battles won, and wealth sent back to families. The town crier wails every night on the High King's victory in the New World, seeping his message into the very dreams of the citizens of Alteran. Rumors are that the New World is even larger than the Old. The High King's Alteran and Fargrave's Magda take up about sixty percent of the landmass of the Old. The rest is littered with various republics and "the people's blah, blah, blah." Who even keeps track of those small territories? None present an actual threat in either trade, military power, or--well, that's all that matters. Give it a hundred years or so and they'll all belong to either the High King or the Supreme Leader (spit). You've never had the best of luck in the gambling den, but you'd put your money on that bet every time. Fools. Some things are just too good to be true. The New World speaks to a man. It whispers tender secrets of possession and satisfaction, lining the message with a good ol' fashioned appeal to man's stubbornness. Come to me, it says. Your efforts will be rewarded. It's a hard life, but the payout is well worth it. Or stay put. Live the rest of your life wondering "What if?" Men with no military experience sign up for the frontlines. For what purpose? To avoid asking themselves that very question. What if? Fools. They can't think for themselves, needing the High King's expedition to lead them into a life full of adventure, putting their life in danger for material wealth and prosperity. And you? Heh. You're the biggest fool of them all. You enlisted before the New World expeditions even began. "Were you going to join us or do you prefer the company of the billboard?" You turn to see Corporal Redding. The man's scraggly beard, now graying, is stained with ale, the top two buttons of his uniform open. The High King's military uniform. At times, it looks too proper for the messiness of war. Still, that's how the High King governs, with a proper chain of command and regal attire. A long sweeping coat accompanies the uniform, reaching nearly to the standard issue knee-high boots. It's a dark navy color, stitched with golden trim, seven buttons down the front, gold as well. Redding takes a large gulp of ale as he expectantly awaits your answer. > You say "These posters are getting worse everyday." "These posters are getting worse everyday," you comment. "Look at this one. 'I lost my father to sickness, but gained another through the High King.' Do people actually enlist because of this shit?" Corporal Redding laughs. A few ale droplets from his beard take flight in the air. "Ha! Those would be your esteemed brothers-in-arms. If anything, they can distract the enemy long enough for you to find an opening." "That's not exactly a winning strategy. The High King will soon run out of meat shields." "Careful with that," Redding lowers his voice, sobering for a moment. "You shouldn't say such things in cities like this one. "The High King's superior weaponry and engineering vastly overshadow any of our shortcomings." "It's a road of ups and downs," you say. Pondering a moment, you continue. "Actually it's more like a circle. Wizards used to rule the battlefield. Then we invented the flintlock. Then breastplates were worn without a full suit of armor as people realized the majority of bullets were hitting the chest area. Since that's the case, why weigh yourself down with steel greaves and gauntlets? But then these partially armored men found themselves severely underprotected against full armored knights, and guess what? More emphasis was put on training wizards, coming full circle." "Makes you wonder what's next," Redding comments. You sigh. "Probably something similar to what we've seen before, only to a much deadlier degree." "Can't say I disagree with you there. Come on and enjoy the company of the men. Who knows when we'll get another chance." "Is that an order?" you lightheartedly ask. "Damn right it is." > You Continue There are twelve of you total, including Corporal Redding. The High King is about order; he's about structure. There is a clear chain of command in the army, and you best follow it. Often jumping rank, not reporting to your immediate superior, ends with blame on the one jumping, even if the subject of discussion is your immediate superior. It's not a perfect system, but it's a clean one. Neat and orderly, just the way the High King likes it. "And he shat his pants mid-swing!" While the High King values pristine order, his soldiers have a different emphasis. Staying alive for one, the gentle manners of a gentleman coming second, and second is being generous. "Bastus, I was there. I seem to remember you being the one with the loaded trousers," another soldier chimes in. Lionel, perhaps the most proper of you all. His clean shaven head and face speaks to keeping military standards. You prefer to keep your hair long and a little scruff. "No, I don't think that's right," Bastus ponders, placing a hand on his chin in thought. It disappears into the thicket of his foot-long beard. "Hard to say what really happened. If only we had eye-witnesses." "I was there!" "Ok, ok, does it really matter who exactly wore the loaded trousers?" This went on for another thirty minutes. Your mind began to wander early on. It's a story you've heard before, one of Bastus' favorites to tell at the ale table. Man does he like telling stories revolving around a fecal focal point. As night slowly creeps in, you excuse yourself from the table in order to rest up for the morning. Your journey to the New World embarks in mere hours, and you'd rather not spend the first day nursing a hangover. You'll save that for midway through when boredom settles in, one of the perks of enlisting in the army rather than the navy. The High King's sailors will be hard at work; you just need to stay out of their way. Caught deep in thoughts of tomorrow, you almost don't see them. Two brigands brandishing large knives step into your path, abandoning their hiding place in the comforting shadows of a nearby alleyway. Their clothing is poor. Not even boasting simple leather as protection, the bare minimum. Booze reeks from their breath, likely the only reason enough courage is mustered to approach a soldier in the High King's army. Even then, they seem a little hesitant. "Can I help you gentlemen?" your voice fills the silence of the night. They glance at one another. "We're a little down on our luck, good sir, and could aid in the form of coin," one says. "Seems you have enough luck to afford a bottle," you comment. "Surely, that doesn't mean you're too far down on luck." "Fortunate we came across it," the other one inputs. "What about tomorrow? What about--" As he speaks, he walks towards your flank. You cut him off mid-sentence. The distinct click from your flintlock echoes from your palm. "That's far enough. Now I'm tired and a little drunk and I have to be up early tomorrow. I can't speak for you, but I highly recommend finding easier prey. You see, I'm one of those soldiers who notch their kills." Briefly you flash the grip of your pistol. "That's only this year. The High King likes to ensure his soldiers have pristine equipment. You should see my issued flintlock from last year. The handle was a god damn puzzle piece by the end. Now I have no problem shooting you dead and continuing on my way. What will keep me up at night, is deciding whether or not your miserable bodies are deserving of being notched. I'm leaning towards no, but a kill is a kill." "Just looking for a spare coin is all," the first one answers. "You have a good night, good sir." "You as well, gentlemen," you say, allowing them to move out of your walking path. Perhaps when they're sober tomorrow they'll realize no soldier in their right mind would notch a flintlock. Perhaps they'll realize the High King doesn't refresh equipment every year. Perhaps they'll realize you were lying through your teeth. Perhaps they knew you were lying just now, but they caught the one and only truthful statement from your little monologue: you have no problem shooting them dead and continuing on your way. > The next day You didn't get as much sleep as you hoped. Such is the life of a soldier. When not touring, you're out late drinking. When on duty, you're fighting for your life. Sometimes those two actions feel the same. Either way, you're used to operating on minimal sleep. Despite how you feel, it's time to get up. There's a parade for your send-off, after all. It's not specifically for you, of course. If anyone could claim that honor, it'd be Captain Briggs, the ranking officer in charge of the entire battalion. Still, you doubt much of the man's commands are his. The High King loves structure. Orders are likely passed, trickling down like a pail of water spilled at the top of a hill. The result is a stage of stringed puppets, with the High King (and his trusted advisors) holding the strings. You prepare for the parade with the rest of the company. Messenger boys arrive early in the morning to pick up equipment for the voyage. The High King's soldiers can't be seen lugging their own cargo. No, that wouldn't be proper. It's their duty to dress nice, to reflect the High King's honor in their apparel. It took a few times, but you're finally used to dressing as if you're attending a classy wedding when shipping off to war. Thankfully, since the tour is first by sea, you don't have to strap on armor. Seems even the Alteran citizens will question the logic of a bunch of armored soldiers piling into a boat. The last border dispute your company took part in required marching through the streets in full plate. A few miles out of town, you were allowed to remove it. Whoever issued the command obviously has never marched in full plate before. The little show made the company a day late to the border. Corporal Redding sure got an earful for that, not that the man cared. Your long navy coat is buttoned completely to the top, tight against your neck, but not overly so. The length of the coat nearly touches your knee-high boots, which are freshly shined thanks to the High King. You holster your flintlock to your thigh. It melds underneath the length of your coat, poking its head through with each step. Your longsword crosses your back from right shoulder to left hip. The twelve of you, led by Corporal Redding, looking as classy as royal butlers, though a little more heavily armed, make your way into the street. The parade takes you down the center street of the city. On either side of you, citizens gather to see the spectacle. Wizards, strategically placed, fire spells into the air. After a few of such parades, the High King learned fireworks get too messy. Someone's got to pick up the remains. With each explosive spell in the air, the crowd oohs and ahhs, the occasional child hiding behind their mother. > You focus on the crowd It may not be your first one of these, but damn if you won't enjoy it. It's not every day thousands upon thousands of people are cheering for you. As you march down the cobbled streets, you raise a hand and flash a smile towards the sea of faces. The result is a cheer from the crowd, their incessant cries raising in volume. That's neat. You're about to send them another wave when Corporal Redding stops you. "Enough of that, man." "I'm just giving the people what they want," you answer. "I wouldn't draw too much attention to yourself." "Why?" Redding marches in silence for a few seconds, then whispers back. "In the field, danger comes in the form of opposing colors. The city doesn't afford such a luxury." Strange. Corporal Redding is someone who typically enjoys the finer things in life, like a mug of ale and...well, sometimes that's all you need. What's got him spooked? Despite his tendency to drink, something that ails most soldiers, he's always been good to you. If he doesn't want you to react to the crowd, then you won't. An order is an order, even those arriving in cryptic form. You continue your march taking on a stoic demeanor. Citizens love that version as well, a soldier mulling over the gravity of his situation, possibly marching through the streets of his city for the final time, a life risked for the glory of the High King. Eyes. Yes, there are countless upon you, but you suddenly get the feeling of being watched, not from a cheering member of the crowd, but from someone with an ulterior motive for attending the parade. Your eyes quickly scan through the crowd, searching for danger. It may be nothing. It may just be all in your head, but as a soldier you've learned to trust your instincts. They've kept you alive so far, so might as well continue the streak. All you find are cheering citizens, nothing of the sinister nature you felt. It may be nothing. But you continue to stay alert just in case. > You continue marching The street leads directly to the harbor. Along the way, a little girl breaks from the citizen barriers and runs up to you. She hands you a small flower, a single stem with blooming white petals, then quickly runs back to her mother. Out of the corner of your eye, you see members of the city watch approaching the mother. They engage in an argument, and you know full-well who wins in the end. The path of the parade takes you away from them. As you set the flower into your coat pocket, you silently hope the repercussions wouldn't be too great on the mother. Still, it's the watch's duty to preserve order. They can't have people rushing past barriers, children or no. Your home for the next few weeks stares back at you. Devastator, a galleon of tremendous size, boasting enough space for several companies to reside, while still maintaining ample firepower. Smaller ships, brigatines, travel in the fleet as the main defense, their smaller bodies able to navigate the sea for quick aid should trouble arise. The company, led by Corporal Redding, takes to the boardwalk and onto the galleon. They have you stand at the ship's rails, along with the other companies aboard Devastator. Just in front of the docks lies a stage and podium. It wouldn't be a proper send-off to war without a speech from the damn mayor. The mayor takes position at the podium, dressed in a neat blue suit, his hair perfectly combed to the side. Next to him, a wizard casts a spell to magically project the mayor's words over the crowd. "Good citizens of the High King! Greetings! (A cheer rises from the crowd). We have before us the finest men and women created by God, those possessing an unsurpassed bravery and call of duty. They have answered the call of their God and High King to bring our, yes all of our, glory to the New World. Unlimited wealth lies on the other side of the sea, a land so vast that it puts ours to shame. (Murmuring ensues.) Yes, really. It is imperative that each citizen does their part. After all, our enemies seek the same wealth. They seek to steal it from between our fingers. (Cries of anger). I know, I know!" The mayor's arms move up and down like a little bird flapping its wings, motioning to quiet down the crowd. "This battalion isn't the first, and it won't be the last! With each voyage sent across the sea, the High King's claim is solidified even further in the New World." The mayor's voice quiets down as if he's speaking softly to a friend. He even leans on the podium with one elbow. "This time next week another fleet is departing for the New World, a place of promise with endless possibilities. Do your duty. Enlist. Secure your future now. The world is in a time unlike another other, a New one lies before us, untamed and unkempt. Do your part." A bony finger from the mayor suddenly points at a single city watch member sitting at a table off to the side of the docks. Shining gold reflects sunlight, a perfectly fitted gold ring rests on the mayor's finger, drawing even more attention to his outstretched finger. "Sign your name on the list. Be a part of the High King's army. Bring glory to your country!" With the mayor's final word, the naval captains take that as their cue to set sail. Sailors follow orders barked from the helm, scurrying to untie rope and raise anchor. God damn there's a lot of rope on a ship. As the fleet sails away, you can't but notice the sheer look of horror on the face of the recruiter. A single man at a single table, hundreds of citizens rushing towards him. You can almost make out the faintest One at a time, please! The enlistees may be gathering like animals, but the High King's army would sure as hell put some civility in 'em. > Voyage It's been weeks since departing from Alteran. During that time, your days have largely been the same: Wake up to yelling sailors, attempt to fall back asleep--to no avail, then visit the ship's cook for stew and tea. After a few friendly exchanges, the cook switched your morning tea with morning ale. It pays to have friends in high places, or at least in charge of rations. Today is no different. After your morning routine, you find yourself sitting at the bow of the ship, dangling your legs over edge, sipping at your "tea." Footsteps heavy on the deck cause you to turn around. Corporal Redding approaches, holding an entire pitcher of ale. "How'd you score that?" you ask, nodding towards the pitcher. "Command brings its benefits," he replies, taking a seat next to you. After glancing in your cup, he tops it off. "Strange times we live in. A whole New World to discover. There could be others we're missing as well." "Could be," you answer, taking a sip. "Or this could be the last undiscovered region of the earth. Who knows? One thing's for certain, if another world is found, the High King will send us there, too, on his behalf." "Some things never change," Redding says with a laugh. "I've noticed you staring out over the sea of late. The other men busy themselves at the card table. Well, it's just a storage barrel, but it does the trick." Seems your absence has been noticed, again. As if anything goes unnoticed stuck on a ship with one another. Your gaze turns from Redding's scraggly beard to the open waters before you. Sally III is sailing next to you, a schooner armed to the teeth meant to be the primary defence for the now-transport galleon you ride on. White foam crashes against its bow, spraying into the air like a child jumping into rain puddles. Blue water, far as the eye can see, surrounds you, painted with a fleet sent by the High King himself. This view is much preferred to your drunken colleagues, gambling what few possessions are theirs. Before you can put the image before you into words, Redding speaks again. "I get it. You know, kid. Sometimes I think you're too smart to be an enlisted soldier." "I wouldn't say that," you answer. "I'd rather just spend what little luck I have on staying alive." "Point proven," Redding smiles, leaving you to your thoughts. You notice he also leaves the pitcher of ale. As you pour yourself another, a shout from the crow's nest draws your attention. "Sails!" Sure enough, two pairs of them are barely visible on the horizon. They're a long way off, too far to tell which colors they fly. The High King isn't the only one taking advantage of the New World. The seas surrounding it are breeding grounds for pirates, hence Sally III and similar ships of the fleet. The ships could be harmless. Or they could be scouts for a larger force. There's also the possibility that Supreme Leader Fargrave (spit) is preying on the High King's vessels, masquardering his men as pirates. The two rulers may be at odds, but no blood has been shed as far as you know. Who knows, the wealth of the New World may warrant such a thing. Funny how man's search for wealth often paints a target on his own back. > You pursue the sails There is but one option for the threat before you: flag down the vessels and assess their intention, and if that intention turns out hostile, sink them to the bottom of the ocean. It's a foolproof plan. Too bad you aren't in control of the fleet. As luck would have it, the fleet admiral motions for the ships to pursue the sails. Perhaps you should have spent your time gambling with the others. The expedition redirects their course, turning towards the two pairs of sails. Lady luck is truly on your side as the fleet is aided with the wind at its back. Each captain shouts orders to their crew from the helm, causing sailors to scramble into their position. Awful timing for you, downing a considerable amount of ale for how early it is, but there's no going back now. In the case you find an opponent before you, better keep that in mind. Ale-induced confidence has been the downfall of many men. Soldiers aboard each ship strap on leather armor, meant for traveling, and form ranks, you among them. One by one, a designated man runs down the line, placing spears in the soldiers' hands. It's not your usual weapon, but it's not unfamiliar either. Your longsword and flintlock rest comfortably in their position, should they be asked to play. The sails draw closer. Downwind, the ships know they can't escape the approaching fleet, so they patiently await your arrival. As you draw near, the color of their flag appears. It's purple with three red stars in the corner: Fargrave's colors. The fleet stops just outside hostile distance, but still keeps its cannons and spellcasters aimed at the two ships. We may not start a fight, but we'll sure as hell finish one. "Hello, captain," a voice rings out over the water from one of the two ships, pronouncing the word as cap-ee-tan. "Admiral," Admiral Conway correctively answers. Conway is a woman with tight, pursed lips. Direct. Straight to the point. Captain Briggs stands next to the admiral. While technically being a captain, he's an army captain with no vessel to his name. "Admiral," the voice rings again (as add-meer-all). "Quite fortuitous timing you have. Stay your artillery a moment. I would have a word, one that doesn't strain my voice or disturb sea life." Conway shouts back. "I will honor your parley. Remove all weapons and your overcoat. You may row a single transport boat over with one in accompaniment, also visibly unarmed." As Fargrave's man bows, you see Conway whisper something to Captain Briggs. Whatever the man is told, you can tell he doesn't like it. After a few shakes of his head, he finally nods, then starts to scan the fleet watching the two leaders. His eyes lock with Corporal Redding, who is standing to your right and apparently the only one in command not averting his eyes from Briggs'. "Fuck," Redding utters. "Dust off your fine coats, gentlemen. We're dining like civilized men tonight." > A frock coat and white gloves The coat is your standard military issue, but the gloves are a little much in your opinion. What's even more puzzling is the fact they packed white serving gloves on a voyage. Soldiers are an extension of the High King, so it's your duty to portray his civilized and proper mannerisms out in the field. Too bad you don't actually get to dine on the food in front of you. No, instead, you and the rest of Corporal Redding's soldiers get to play the role of servers tonight. A small dining table, though too large to be packed on a voyage (another opinion of yours), is placed in the center of Admiral Conway's vessel, Yarden's Lot. The galleon deck boasts more than enough space for the VIPs of the evening, which include the admiral, Captain Briggs, and Fargrave's man. Unsurprising at this point, fine dining ware is placed upon a satin table cloth, complete with lids for each plate. Utensils are put on the left side of the plate, obviously, and dainty wine glasses shine brilliantly behind each plate. It's standard practice between the High King and the Supreme Leader (spit) to present their best during a parley, often each side attempting to outdo the other in mannerisms and civility. The result is a fancy feast and your hands inside white, spotless gloves. As you pour wine into one of the dainty glasses, Fagrave's man meets your eyes. He is of dark skin, hair cut almost to a shiny bald, like the beard length of a mountain man who had a clean shave in the morning. He's dressed in extravagant purple, frills lining the lapel and sleeves of his overcoat. A large hat rests on his knee, complete with a feather sticking out. What is that? Peacock? Apparently, "remove your overcoat" means "put on a fancier one." You don't see his accompanying ally. Perhaps he's relegated to boat-watching duty. "Delightful," the man comments. (Dee-lite-fool.) "Now," Admiral Conways speaks through a set of pursed lips. "What are the terms of your surrender?" Fargrave's man laughs, placing his wine glass on the table. "Ha ha ha. You are mistaken, my dear. I'm not here to discuss any sort of surrender. I'm here to discuss partnership." "There will be none. Discussion ended," Captain Briggs inputs. "Wait just a moment, cap-ee-tan, and hear me out. Pirates. Brigands. Men of nefarious nature." "Go on," Conway directs. "They've been causing us trouble on the seas. They think far out here, away from civilized nations, they can prey on whomever. It's in our best interests that they don't think that. I know where they are operating out of, but firepower is currently lacking." "He does make a fair point," the admiral comments to Captain Briggs. "The New World needs to be established as a place of order. Lawlessness and piracy cannot be allowed to thrive. The High King knows this." "As does Fargrave." "If we were to aid you," the admiral begins. "All repossessed wealth is claimed by the High King." "If I were to accept your aid, the good High King can have half," the man answers. "Unacceptable. The High King will have the entire cache." The man looks around. "And just where do you expect to store it? Your fleet appears to be transporting at capacity." Dump a few dining tables and boxes of white gloves, and we'll have room, you think to yourself. "Allow me to make a proposal. You need transport ships. I have two with plenty of room for cargo. We'll serve as your transports for, say, thirty percent of the wealth. We'll surrender all artillery of course, which will be returned upon landing." Admiral Conway sits back in her chair, pondering a moment. The man is right. She can't hold much more cargo. There's likely not even room to hold Fargrave's cannons, although the fleet can hold some, dispersed among all the ships. Continuing to the New World will mean risking the pirates' escape, allowing them to roam freely on the sea plundering as they see fit. No, she'll have to address them now. "We are in agreement," Admiral Conway says, offering a hand out. The man shakes it. "Oh, and we'll need muscle to move everything." Inwardly, you groan. Somehow, you know you will be volunteered, yet again, for the duty. > Pirates! The agreement made, the two men are sent back to their ships. Soon after, you see their cannons being retracted from trained positions. Fargrave's man is holding up his part of the deal. First, the schooners and brigatines, the ones carrying heavy artillery, navigate to surround the two ships, putting their full broadside facing the two ships as if to say, one wrong step, and ka-boom. The galleons pull up, placing boardwalks between the vessels for transporting cargo. There's only room for less than half of them, which is more than enough to put Fargrave's men at a serious disadvantage. Outgunned, outmanned, any sort of betrayal would mean their end. As part of the "muscle," Corporal Redding's team is assigned to travel with Fargrave's men. "Now that we are comrades," Fargrave's man says, "you can call me by name. Captain Lugo, at your service." Lugo finishes with a deep bow. "That's Jerkins over there," Lugo adds, pointing at the man who accompanied him earlier, though remained from sight. Noticing your attention, Jerkins stops, flashing a gap-toothed grin, and turns to wave, much to the dismay of the others attempting to transport a cannon to Admiral Conway's galleon. Lugo fills you in on the details. "The pirates are holed up in a cove half a day's journey from here. We'll be able to land at night and sneak up on the bastards. I'm sure your leaders want the glory for themselves, so we'll act as the reserves, supporting as necessary. Once the way is clear, we'll get to work transporting the goods, good?" "Good," Corporal Redding answers on your behalf. "Good," Lugo finishes. A little bit aways, Jerkins flashes you another smile. Great. "There are many smaller islands such as this," Lugo explains as you row silently in the night. Moonlight glints off the water, reflecting the stars sparkling in the night sky above. "Unnamed, mostly uncharted. Perfect place for holing up pirates." The sea is filled with boats transporting soldiers to the cove. The main fleet is anchored on the opposite side so as to not alert the pirates to your presence. At a moment's notice, they could be called upon to rain cannonfire down on the place. For now, however, Admiral Conway is content to use Captain Briggs' men. Sure enough, several ships are moored on the island's inlit. The light from the moon barely allows you to see a small beach behind the ships, and behind that, is a series of primitive structures, likely in place before the pirates settled here. Built by who is up for speculation. "They fly under our colors," Lugo adds on. "Damn scoundrels. They don't deserve to wear Fargrave's sigil." "Supreme Leader Fargrave," Corporal Redding corrects, rowing next to you. Notably, he doesn't spit. "Yes, of course," Lugo answers. The first line of rowboats land. Soldiers exit with deliberate attempts to keep from splashing water. Once two or three men exit, they drag the rest of the boat to the sand so the others have a quieter place to step off. Your rowboat does the same. The beach, now littered with the High King's men, ready to enact justice on lawless thieves, feels foreign on your feet. You realize it's the first time in weeks that you've been on "solid" ground, and it will take some time to adjust--time that you don't have. A few awkward movements from your fellow soldiers alerts you that they are experiencing the same thing. The primitive structures are built in a series of ramps and huts. A few fires shine from within windows, not many on the open ground itself. As you draw closer, you realize the huts have a central tube that runs through all levels, a community chimney of sorts. Perhaps it's not so primitive after all. "How do you handle an infestation problem?" Lugo asks. The answer comes in the form of a bottle and oil-soaked rag. Lugo takes a heavy swig from the bottle's contents, stuffs the rag down the opening, and flicks a match. Lugo chucks the bottle into the nearest hut. An explosion, rivaling that of a fire mage, erupts, filling the dark night with a sudden burst of light, like exiting a cave into the noonday sun. Immediately, those in your company follow Lugo's direction. Apparently, acting as "reserves" means starting the skirmish with a bomb. Men's shouts fill the once-silent night air as the pirates scramble to muster a defense. The High King's soldiers surround the burning structures, cutting down men who seek to escape the fire within. "These folks have a firm grip on things," Lugo observes. "Might as well get started on loading the boats." Redding looks like he wants to protest, but then realizes, or perhaps, thinks about loading cargo deep into the morning. Better to get it done now. The pirates rushing from the burning structures don't even bother donning their false armor showing the sigil of the Supreme Leader. Corporal Redding nods, and those under his command follow the lead of Captain Lugo. Like any good pirate, the wealth is hidden far away. In this case, it lies in the furthest structure on the highest level. Burying it deep in the sand underneath an X is too much work for a temporary location, which is what you take the cove to be, a short-term hideout until a buyer can be found. Lugging around wealth is asking for it to be stolen. Probably how the pirates came into possession of it in the first place. Along the way, you're met with haphazard resistance; some pirates are more concerned with surviving the fire, while others find a deep sense of honor within themselves and attempt to stop you. Either way, led by honor or survival, you cut them down, casually shooting a few with your flintlock. After traversing a winding ramp, wrapped to one structure like an overgrown vine, you arrive at the top level. A single platform lies at the top, a canopy above it for shade and protection against the occasional rain, leaving the sides open, a potentially lethal fall from this distance. Broken legs for sure. "Lugo, you mad dog," a grizzled voice greets you. Its origin is an older man, wrinkles displayed on his face like war medals. Hardened by years of combat. Like the others, he's not wearing armor, save for his weapons belt tied around his waist. "How the hell did you convince the High King's men to aid you. This is an act of open war between states." Curious. He speaks as if... "It's been too long, Porter. Wasn't hard, really," Lugo answers. "I simply explained it's better for all parties if you are, let's say, unencumbered by that treasure chest of yours." There are several behind the man along with trinkets and artifacts infused with precious gems. Strange...Lugo speaks like there is a singular chest he means to take, one that is the cause for the entire raid. "Fools. Do you know what you have done? There is peace between our nations only because the New World expeditions are treated as if a competition, not open warfare. You have upset the balance finely keeping the generals at home, while explorers lead missions. All that is gone now, thanks to your little agreement with this pirate. Pirate. Captain Lugo. Suddenly, it all makes sense. The fleet was so concerned with their rivalry with Supreme Leader Fargrave (may you spit), they didn't question the story fed to them. Law. Order. Competition. Conway attributed the ways of the Old World to the New. That's the problem with tradition: it makes the mind stagnant, somehow creating universality where the relative needs precedent. "Shame. You've learned my dirty little secret," Lugo says to Redding and the company. At once, those under command of Lugo act from their strategically placed positions, pressing you and the High King's men to your knees, blades and flintlocks placed threateningly against the back of your necks. "Now I will spare you the usual compelling speech as we're pressed for time. I'll just read you the main parts." Lugo searches within his coat pockets, humming, as if he were looking for his last match to light a smoke. "Ah, here we are," he says, finding a crumpled piece of paper. "Wealth. Equality. Freedom." He couldn't have memorized that? Still, the choice presented is blindingly obvious. Join his crew or die. > You Join You're presented with a choice, although it's not really a choice at all. Either you follow this path, or you finish the game (of life) prematurely. No, it may be presented like a decision, but it's sure as hell not one. You realize that you're not done living. Then again, rarely does a man decide he's done with life. Usually it's the other way around, occasionally the subconscious takes over, guiding him down that path, slowly, taking years, but eventually landing there. No, this is a simple choice. You choose life, even if that one brands you as an outlaw, an enemy of the state, oathbreaker. Hopefully your fellow soldiers make the same choice. A fraction of them do. Three of you remain, Corporal--well, just Redding now, Bastus, and yourself. "Splendid!" Captain Lugo exclaims, taking on a tone much too cheery for someone who just ordered the deaths of nine men. "My man, Jerkins, will show you the ropes later. We have many aboard the ship." Jerkins flashes you a signature toothy grin. Better get used to that. "Now there's a small matter of proving your loyalty. Trust goes both ways. I've shown that I keep my word; you're still breathing after all. Now it's your turn. Unfortunately, this man must die." "Don't listen to this pirate!" Porter, Fargrave's real man, pleads. "If you do this, you will thrust the New World into a war zone. Gods, the Old World will become a war zone. For what? To secure wealth? Your selfishness and greed will thrust both worlds into chaos." The three of you eye one another, the weight of the man's words hanging heavy in the air. Your actions could have a much bigger impact than the current moment. Still, nothing's changed since choosing sides. It may be a life originating from greed, but it's life nonetheless. Better than death, at least to you personally. In the grand scheme of things it may not be... A flash of light. Gunpowder burns your nose. Smoke rises from the barrel of your flintlock. The man looks down at his chest, surprise clearly shown on his face, before collapsing to the floor. The decision was already made, Porter's fate sealed simultaneously. You gain the ability to keep on living, but time will tell if the world is better off for it. Then again, you're only responsible for yourself; the world has managed just fine on its own, and it will continue to do so. "Looks like we have quite the eager recruit, don't we, Jerkins?" Captain Lugo comments, lightheartedly. Jerkins nods his agreement with a grin at his lips. "Now, grab that chest and let's be off. Don't want the Alterans to pick up on our little ruse." With Lugo's direction, his men make for the chest the captain alluded to earlier. Wanting to keep yourselves busy or at least appear busy—something you picked up in the High King's army—you gather nearby trinkets and valuables, stuffing them into a canvas bag. Your fellow recruits do the same. As you busy yourself, your eyes catch sight of the beach. Several pillars of flame rise where the crude structures once existed. The High King's soldiers slaughter their leader's biggest rivals. Should the tale reach it back to Fargrave, there will be repercussions. Silently, you hope they all die. The world, both the New and Old, are better that way. You return back the way you came. Briggs and Conway are busy with the skirmish and don't pay attention to the line of "Fargrave's" men transporting plundered goods. That's the plan, after all. Their ships can transport the wealth, the agreed sum going for the honor of the High King. No one says anything until you load the cargo back onto the ship, a few words offered, directing you where to place the wealth. Then, a statement that's usually followed by a pull of a trigger, a swing of the sword. "Any last words?" In your case, it's the pull of a trigger. You don't even see who fired the bullet. Damn pirates.

[Themes: fantasy, humor] The agreement made, the two men are sent back to their ships. Soon after, you see their cannons being retracted from trained positions. Fargrave's man is holding up his part of the deal. First, the schooners and brigatines, the ones carrying heavy artillery, navigate to surround the two ships, putting their full broadside facing the two ships as if to say, one wrong step, and ka-boom. The galleons pull up, placing boardwalks between the vessels for transporting cargo. There's only room for less than half of them, which is more than enough to put Fargrave's men at a serious disadvantage. Outgunned, outmanned, any sort of betrayal would mean their end. As part of the "muscle," Corporal Redding's team is assigned to travel with Fargrave's men. "Now that we are comrades," Fargrave's man says, "you can call me by name. Captain Lugo, at your service." Lugo finishes with a deep bow. "That's Jerkins over there," Lugo adds, pointing at the man who accompanied him earlier, though remained from sight. Noticing your attention, Jerkins stops, flashing a gap-toothed grin, and turns to wave, much to the dismay of the others attempting to transport a cannon to Admiral Conway's galleon. Lugo fills you in on the details. "The pirates are holed up in a cove half a day's journey from here. We'll be able to land at night and sneak up on the bastards. I'm sure your leaders want the glory for themselves, so we'll act as the reserves, supporting as necessary. Once the way is clear, we'll get to work transporting the goods, good?" "Good," Corporal Redding answers on your behalf. "Good," Lugo finishes. A little bit aways, Jerkins flashes you another smile. Great. "There are many smaller islands such as this," Lugo explains as you row silently in the night. Moonlight glints off the water, reflecting the stars sparkling in the night sky above. "Unnamed, mostly uncharted. Perfect place for holing up pirates." The sea is filled with boats transporting soldiers to the cove. The main fleet is anchored on the opposite side so as to not alert the pirates to your presence. At a moment's notice, they could be called upon to rain cannonfire down on the place. For now, however, Admiral Conway is content to use Captain Briggs' men. Sure enough, several ships are moored on the island's inlit. The light from the moon barely allows you to see a small beach behind the ships, and behind that, is a series of primitive structures, likely in place before the pirates settled here. Built by who is up for speculation. "They fly under our colors," Lugo adds on. "Damn scoundrels. They don't deserve to wear Fargrave's sigil." "Supreme Leader Fargrave," Corporal Redding corrects, rowing next to you. Notably, he doesn't spit. "Yes, of course," Lugo answers. The first line of rowboats land. Soldiers exit with deliberate attempts to keep from splashing water. Once two or three men exit, they drag the rest of the boat to the sand so the others have a quieter place to step off. Your rowboat does the same. The beach, now littered with the High King's men, ready to enact justice on lawless thieves, feels foreign on your feet. You realize it's the first time in weeks that you've been on "solid" ground, and it will take some time to adjust--time that you don't have. A few awkward movements from your fellow soldiers alerts you that they are experiencing the same thing. The primitive structures are built in a series of ramps and huts. A few fires shine from within windows, not many on the open ground itself. As you draw closer, you realize the huts have a central tube that runs through all levels, a community chimney of sorts. Perhaps it's not so primitive after all. "How do you handle an infestation problem?" Lugo asks. The answer comes in the form of a bottle and oil-soaked rag. Lugo takes a heavy swig from the bottle's contents, stuffs the rag down the opening, and flicks a match. Lugo chucks the bottle into the nearest hut. An explosion, rivaling that of a fire mage, erupts, filling the dark night with a sudden burst of light, like exiting a cave into the noonday sun. Immediately, those in your company follow Lugo's direction. Apparently, acting as "reserves" means starting the skirmish with a bomb. Men's shouts fill the once-silent night air as the pirates scramble to muster a defense. The High King's soldiers surround the burning structures, cutting down men who seek to escape the fire within. "These folks have a firm grip on things," Lugo observes. "Might as well get started on loading the boats." Redding looks like he wants to protest, but then realizes, or perhaps, thinks about loading cargo deep into the morning. Better to get it done now. The pirates rushing from the burning structures don't even bother donning their false armor showing the sigil of the Supreme Leader. Corporal Redding nods, and those under his command follow the lead of Captain Lugo. Like any good pirate, the wealth is hidden far away. In this case, it lies in the furthest structure on the highest level. Burying it deep in the sand underneath an X is too much work for a temporary location, which is what you take the cove to be, a short-term hideout until a buyer can be found. Lugging around wealth is asking for it to be stolen. Probably how the pirates came into possession of it in the first place. Along the way, you're met with haphazard resistance; some pirates are more concerned with surviving the fire, while others find a deep sense of honor within themselves and attempt to stop you. Either way, led by honor or survival, you cut them down, casually shooting a few with your flintlock. After traversing a winding ramp, wrapped to one structure like an overgrown vine, you arrive at the top level. A single platform lies at the top, a canopy above it for shade and protection against the occasional rain, leaving the sides open, a potentially lethal fall from this distance. Broken legs for sure. "Lugo, you mad dog," a grizzled voice greets you. Its origin is an older man, wrinkles displayed on his face like war medals. Hardened by years of combat. Like the others, he's not wearing armor, save for his weapons belt tied around his waist. "How the hell did you convince the High King's men to aid you. This is an act of open war between states." Curious. He speaks as if... "It's been too long, Porter. Wasn't hard, really," Lugo answers. "I simply explained it's better for all parties if you are, let's say, unencumbered by that treasure chest of yours." There are several behind the man along with trinkets and artifacts infused with precious gems. Strange...Lugo speaks like there is a singular chest he means to take, one that is the cause for the entire raid. "Fools. Do you know what you have done? There is peace between our nations only because the New World expeditions are treated as if a competition, not open warfare. You have upset the balance finely keeping the generals at home, while explorers lead missions. All that is gone now, thanks to your little agreement with this pirate. Pirate. Captain Lugo. Suddenly, it all makes sense. The fleet was so concerned with their rivalry with Supreme Leader Fargrave (may you spit), they didn't question the story fed to them. Law. Order. Competition. Conway attributed the ways of the Old World to the New. That's the problem with tradition: it makes the mind stagnant, somehow creating universality where the relative needs precedent. "Shame. You've learned my dirty little secret," Lugo says to Redding and the company. At once, those under command of Lugo act from their strategically placed positions, pressing you and the High King's men to your knees, blades and flintlocks placed threateningly against the back of your necks. "Now I will spare you the usual compelling speech as we're pressed for time. I'll just read you the main parts." Lugo searches within his coat pockets, humming, as if he were looking for his last match to light a smoke. "Ah, here we are," he says, finding a crumpled piece of paper. "Wealth. Equality. Freedom." He couldn't have memorized that? Still, the choice presented is blindingly obvious. Join his crew or die. > You Die You begin a response, filled with themes of loyalty to one's country and how civilization can only thrive with clear, distinct leadership only to get cut off--well, shot off?, mid-sentence. The choice presented was blindingly obvious. Join his crew or die. Seems you've chosen the latter. Come on, though. What did you expect to happen?

[Themes: fantasy, humor, fantasy] It's been weeks since departing from Alteran. During that time, your days have largely been the same: Wake up to yelling sailors, attempt to fall back asleep--to no avail, then visit the ship's cook for stew and tea. After a few friendly exchanges, the cook switched your morning tea with morning ale. It pays to have friends in high places, or at least in charge of rations. Today is no different. After your morning routine, you find yourself sitting at the bow of the ship, dangling your legs over edge, sipping at your "tea." Footsteps heavy on the deck cause you to turn around. Corporal Redding approaches, holding an entire pitcher of ale. "How'd you score that?" you ask, nodding towards the pitcher. "Command brings its benefits," he replies, taking a seat next to you. After glancing in your cup, he tops it off. "Strange times we live in. A whole New World to discover. There could be others we're missing as well." "Could be," you answer, taking a sip. "Or this could be the last undiscovered region of the earth. Who knows? One thing's for certain, if another world is found, the High King will send us there, too, on his behalf." "Some things never change," Redding says with a laugh. "I've noticed you staring out over the sea of late. The other men busy themselves at the card table. Well, it's just a storage barrel, but it does the trick." Seems your absence has been noticed, again. As if anything goes unnoticed stuck on a ship with one another. Your gaze turns from Redding's scraggly beard to the open waters before you. Sally III is sailing next to you, a schooner armed to the teeth meant to be the primary defence for the now-transport galleon you ride on. White foam crashes against its bow, spraying into the air like a child jumping into rain puddles. Blue water, far as the eye can see, surrounds you, painted with a fleet sent by the High King himself. This view is much preferred to your drunken colleagues, gambling what few possessions are theirs. Before you can put the image before you into words, Redding speaks again. "I get it. You know, kid. Sometimes I think you're too smart to be an enlisted soldier." "I wouldn't say that," you answer. "I'd rather just spend what little luck I have on staying alive." "Point proven," Redding smiles, leaving you to your thoughts. You notice he also leaves the pitcher of ale. As you pour yourself another, a shout from the crow's nest draws your attention. "Sails!" Sure enough, two pairs of them are barely visible on the horizon. They're a long way off, too far to tell which colors they fly. The High King isn't the only one taking advantage of the New World. The seas surrounding it are breeding grounds for pirates, hence Sally III and similar ships of the fleet. The ships could be harmless. Or they could be scouts for a larger force. There's also the possibility that Supreme Leader Fargrave (spit) is preying on the High King's vessels, masquardering his men as pirates. The two rulers may be at odds, but no blood has been shed as far as you know. Who knows, the wealth of the New World may warrant such a thing. Funny how man's search for wealth often paints a target on his own back. > You stay the course Not that you have any choice in the matter, but your destiny lies with the New World. Let the High King's navy take care of threats on the sea another time. As most of the fleet is designed for transporting soldiers, rather than geared for battle, it's best to mind your own business. It seems Admiral Conway holds the same thoughts that you do. She orders the men to stay the course. Her orders are to drop the soldiers, you, at the New World outpost. Like every good military man—or woman—in the High King's service, she follows orders. The sails, realizing the fleet isn't approaching, stick on the horizon for a bit. Then they disappear from view. Truthfully, you're glad. You have no doubt there will be plenty of battles to fight in the New World, ones that are better fought sober and with solid land under your feet. As minimal as "minimal losses" are, it's never zero. No matter how one-sided a skirmish may go, good men always die on the winning side. As your services are not needed this day, you return focus back to the pitcher of ale. Kind of the corporal to leave it for you. The conditions don't allow it to be kept in a cool cellar. As such, it's lukewarm to the tongue. Lukewarm ale: better than no ale, barely. It has a slight citrus taste to it, unlike the full-bodied malty flavor you typically enjoy. The day is yours to enjoy. Soon, they will belong to another. You lean against the side of the ship, careful to find a place that is out of the way from sailors. It's not completely, there's no place like that aboard a ship, but it's damn close. Every so often a sailor will step within personal distance. For the most part, they're respectful about it. You're all in service to the High King, after all. Relaxed by the drink, the sun starting to shower its warm light across your face, you gently close your eyes. It's not quite sleep. But it's not full wakefulness either. Somewhere in-between, your mind draws to the past... "Father is angry with you again." You watch the scene unfold before you. It's your life, but you look from the outside, unable to control the actions of the child you once were. Oddly enough, when you were that child, actions still felt outside your control. A third party witness, you are familiar with the interaction between you and your sister. It's an event that reappears often when your eyes are shut. You, barely eleven, respond. "What did I do this time?" Though only a few years older, your sister is mature for her age. Smart, too. She easily sees through your feigned deception. "Really, now. Don't play games. You're bad at them. Master Gavin finished reviewing your test scores. You must be failing on purpose. No one scores that low. You got half of the questions wrong." "Mathematics don't interest me," your younger version answers. "Who cares?" Your sister throws her arms up in disgust. Her robes, displaying her class rank, dance in the air for a moment. Blue robe, three purple lines sewn at the shoulder. Blue for her class, purple, the highest, for her level, three lines signifying she's at the top. "Your grades reflect on the entire family. You know Father is up for election this year. People won't vote for him if they think his son is causing trouble." Underneath a plain gray robe, no stripes, you respond. "But I'm not." "Anything less than near the top is causing trouble. You know Father's rivals will spin this against him." "If Father needs this much help getting elected, then maybe he doesn't deserve to be councilman." Her face falls. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that...him, though, is another matter." You turn to find Vladimir, your father's right hand man. Whatever Father needs, Vladimir gets done. In this case, a child needing discipline. His face is stern, unreacting to your insolent words. He simply offers a hand, motioning for you to follow him inside. You know where he is leading you. Vladimir, never Vlad, has his own room in the manor. On his wall hangs a certain club. You remember it well. Not more than two feet in length, marked with metal knots. From the outside, you watch the child take Vladimir''s hand. They both know what awaits them; the child holds the same blank look. It's not the first time, they both seem to think. And it won't be the last. You try to scream. You try to warn the child, your younger self. It's ineffective. The course is set, and there's no straying from it now. In reality, the destination was already reached. But still, you can't help but warn the child. Just as always, you're unable to protect the child. The pair enter the manor, hand in hand. You're left alone, phantom wounds appearing in your mind, the pain a very real memory. "Wake-y, wake-y." Bastus stands over you. The large man, your fellow under Redding's command, motions to the jug at your side. "We're out." He directs your gaze towards the card game happening across the deck. "Mind if we borrow some of yours?" Your mind briefly takes the view of your eleven year old self, standing beside your Father's man, Vladimir, discipline about to ensue. You shake it off. "Still at it with the cards?" you ask. Bastus shrugs. "What else is there to do?" The recent memory brings you to your next words. Gesturing to the jug, you respond, "This should be enough for a buy in." "You would join the game?" Bastus asks, surprise clearly on his face. The distraction will serve you well, something normally the ale is meant for. However, in this case, it's not quite doing the trick. Where one sin fails, another takes its place. You nod. "I see a chair empty...and wages to take." Bastus laughs and offers a hand. His laugh is a hearty thing that carries on the galleon's deck. "We'll see about that. You might be a little out of practice. Don't worry, there are many lessons to learn." > Voyage (cont.) Despite your trash talk, you didn't fare well in the card game. It wasn't even close. Thinking back on the hands dealt, there wasn't a single one that you would have won, bluffing and bets aside. Each player has the same odds of receiving a winning hand, often the case for games of chance, but not a single was dealt your way. If the reason you shared with Redding earlier still applies, it seems you've got plenty of "luck" left for staying alive. Either that, or you never had any to begin with. You decide to go with the former. Another day. Another endless stretch of blue water before you. Blue water, blue sky, brown deck. The view, magnificently beautiful at first, is starting to wear on you. Each day is the same. Some men enjoy not having responsibility to fill their time. Not you. You've always found it best to keep your hands busy, preferring work over extended amounts of leisure. That's part of the reason you enlisted in the first place, among other things... While the others continue their lounging, you do the first work-related thing that pops into your mind: cleaning your flintlock. The others are still sleeping, so you use their card "table," really just a barrel with small stools around it. You place your flintlock on top. It's not flashy by any means, especially compared to the pieces the Royal Guard carries. Theirs is more jewelry than weapon, although that's not an opinion to voice out loud. One doesn't make it into the Royal Guard by their fashion accessories. With the High King's emphasis on appearance and decorum, it's a bit surprising the standard issued flintlock isn't more extravagant. Maybe it's because the common person can't tell the difference. Maybe it's because above all else—even appearances—the High King is focused on winning battles. You examine the flint. Shaped well, held firmly in place by a piece of darkened leather. Maintenance always begins with the flint itself. Unless a spark is made, it's nothing but a dull club. By the time you've dusted off the trigger and cleaned the barrel, your fellow soldiers are starting to wake. Expecting ridicule, you're pleasantly surprised as two others wordlessly join you, taking seats as if opposing card players. Bastus and Lionel, contrasting demeanors. One man is brazen and charges head first into the fray, while the other prefers to use his head before committing the body to action. The High King's army demands all types of men. Where do you fit in? That's the goddamn question of the century, isn't it? It's no secret that Corporal Redding holds you in high regard. Out of all in your squad, he's opinion is worth the greatest, although in the grand scheme of things it might as well be that of a recruit. Redding is in charge of 12 men, sure, but the High King's army spans hundreds of thousands. Even Captain Briggs is low on that totem pole. Your chest may not be decorated with ribbons or accolades, but your actions seem to have direct influence on the soldiers around you. For now, that manifests itself in a positive light: weapon maintenance. The thought appears in your mind, what if you had chosen a self-destructive activity? Would the others join you then? A small chuckle escapes your lips, causing Bastus and Lionel to briefly glance up from their work. You've been engaging in that sort of activity the entire voyage, aggressively attacking the Devastator's ale stores. Drinking, gambling, it might as well be in the job description for a soldier. As quickly as your introspective thought streams flow, they dry up, leaving your mind to focus on the standard issue flintlock pistol. > Bastus Later, you find the big man standing behind the helmsman, overshadowing, like another mast to the ship. The wheel isn't handled by Admiral Conway, even though she holds the rank to do so. In fact, you haven't seen her take command of the vessel the entire journey. Delegation of responsibility, another useful skill in service of the High King. Controlling the entire galleon seems like it would be fun, but maybe it's all romanticized. Due to its size, it's not like the ship can switch directions quickly. Commanding one of the smaller ships, one of the accompanying schooners, would be much more enjoyable. The helmsman doesn't appear to be having fun, most likely due to the giant standing over him. "Any ships on the horizon?" Bastus asks. "No," the helmsman flatly answers, obviously annoyed at Bastus' presence. "You sure about that?" "Yeah." "Because there were some earlier." The helmsman finally turns towards Bastus. "Listen, everything's handled. Don't you have a card game to get back to?" Bastus laughs, a deep roar belted from underneath his lengthy beard. "Look-y here," he comments as he notices your approach. "The stones on this one. Funny how sailors can only grow a pair on the water." You nod towards the helmsman, signaling he's got nothing to worry about. Bastus' questioning is bad enough without a partner-in-crime. "You seen Redding anywhere?" Bastus shakes his head. "He's not up here. There aren't many places to hide on this boat." A fact that agrees whole-heartily with the sailor manning the helm. "What did you need?" "Strategy," you answer. "The voyage is nearing its end. I know little of the enemy that awaits us in the New World. I've heard the reports. They border on ale room rumors. 'Blackbirds,' they're called, the savages that inhabit the land. Their way of life is primitive. Only the strongest survive, and that's why they boast strength and size far greater than our own." Bastus' face falls, at least that which manages to show through his beard. He's used to being the one spoken of in that light. You continue. "And yet I can't shake those posters from my mind. You know, the ones stating fortune can be found in the New World. I certainly haven't witnessed any of my fellow soldiers returning with bags of gold, have you?" "Don't forget about the colonies," Bastus points out. "The wealth may be being spent in expansion." Although he looks like a typical brute, Bastus is smarter than he looks. It makes you wonder if he tells crass jokes to hide his intelligence, masking it until use for the greatest reveal and effect. The helmsman, for instance, is unsuspecting of such mental ability. "Fair point," you concede. "Tell me you have not held the same thoughts." With a sigh, Bastus responds. "The High King rules, and we soldiers fight. It's the way of the world, both New and Old. Whether one enlists to bring glory to the High King or advance his personal pursuit, the outcome is the same. We're crossing the sea to fight the High King's enemies. The path is set. There's no changing course." That's it. His viewpoint set, there's no need to further the conversation. After all, if things are what they are, according to Bastus, then speculation is useless. You tell Bastus you're going to continue looking for Corporal Redding. He'll certainly have more to say on the matter. As you leave, you catch the annoyed face of the helmsman as Bastus refocuses his energy entirely on the sailor. > Lionel The bald man sits below deck studying a map. If you didn't witness his activity—and heavy activity at that—at the gambling table, you would consider Lionel to be the most disciplined soldier out of the twelve. You figure the others would name you as such, although that mostly stems from your tendency to be alone. The High King must truly be proud of his army when the most disciplined are those who drink and gamble to a lesser degree than most. He sits cross-legged, back against the wooden side of the ship, map sprawled out before him. It's not a high quality piece, colored with differing shades of oily yellow. It depicts Alteran, the High King's land, and fades into nonexistence where the New World begins, but not before listing the one location that you're familiar with: Frontrunner's Camp. It's become somewhat of a small city now, however it still holds the same established name from when it was nothing but scattered makeshift tents and a stick in the ground to tie horses to. The first colony claimed by the High King, every soldier knows of Frontrunner's. Not looking up from his studies, Lionel says, "We're almost there. Judging by the time spent at sea, and the distance to the New World, we're a matter of days out." "You know there's a sailor aboard whose job is to figure that out," you comment. "Bah, sailors. Second-class soldiers. They enlist in the navy because true battle scares them. Glorified wagon drivers, if you ask me." Eyes still on the map, specifically the section that fades into nothingness, you say, "Is this the most recent edition? I had thought more was discovered beyond Frontrunner's." "There has been," Lionel responds. "But they have not been approved to be official as of yet. I'm sure there are copies floating around in Frontrunner's, unofficially, if you are that interested." "No need for one as long as the command has it. They'll direct us, and we'll go. Knowing the territory doesn't change much." "Spoken like a true soldier." Lionel's words rub you the wrong way, not for the first time either. It's nothing against the man himself. Put two people in close proximity for a while and they're bound to find a way to get on each other's nerves. His words indicate mindlessness on your part, whether on purpose or not, it's received the wrong way. That's part of the reason why you're unmarried, or at least that's part of the story. In your experience, the allure and attractiveness of being with a uniform, from the woman's perspective of course, wears off quickly. Generally it just takes a few nights. Once that's done, she's left wanting and you can't provide. The present situation with Lionel is different, obviously. "There's not much else for us to do," you answer. "You know as well as I that the High King values obedience and the chain of command. Let's say I knew of a better strategy than my immediate superior. If he's not willing to listen to me, then there's no use in sharing it. Gods know I'd never step outside of the chain." "Even if stepping out saved more lives of the men?" Lionel questions in a calm tone, unlike the rising volume of your voice. "Even if. Each one of us knew the risk when enlisting. That's a possibility when joining the High King's military. Why should I put myself in harm's way to prevent an outcome that sure as hell didn't stop the men from signing up in the first place, an action that I am certain no one else would do for me. We soldiers follow orders. Simple as that. Rank and command can't afford to be undermined. Men die. Mistakes are made. That's just how the world is." Lionel is quiet for a second. Then he responds, eyes never looking up at you. "Interesting. And here I thought you were one of those 'by any means necessary' men. Achieve the goal 'by any means necessary.' Strive forward 'by any means necessary.'" The final one hits home. "Save lives 'by any means necessary.'" You have no desire to keep arguing with the man. You cut the dialogue short, something you probably should have done a few moments earlier. "Well, you've been wrong before, and you'll be wrong again. Glory to the High King." You leave before Lionel can respond, not that it would matter. No Alteran citizen would dare to not return the statement. A perfect way to end any conversation. Gods, that man can be frustrating sometimes. > Voyage (cont.) "Land ho!" The two words you've wanted to hear most finally ring through the air. It's mid-morning, the sun almost reaching the highest point in the sky of clouds, matching the fog floating near sea level. The air is cold. The temperature has been consistently dropping each day, or at least that's what it feels like. The days themselves have melded together without a steady routine, forced to stay within the same hunk of lumber. Leave the ships to the sailors. You prefer dry land. Anything for the High King, right? Right. Admiral Conway starts barking orders and, in response, her sailors rush to perform the tasks assigned. Captain Briggs does the same, giving instruction to the officers underneath his command, Redding being one of them. Military discipline takes over. The card game is abandoned. Cups of ale tossed overboard. Uniforms buttoned from belly to neck. However undisciplined a soldier in the High King's army is on his own time doesn't affect his service when on duty. Countless hours drilling and training takes over. The twelve of you, under Corporeal Redding's leadership, line up on the Devastator's deck, three rows of four. Each man knows their place. Second row, left edge is yours. Soon, the entire deck is covered with formation, the soldiers doing their best to remain still during the steady rocking of the waves. It appears off in the distance. A large shadow looming ahead. As the fleet sails closer, the fog parts a bit, like the opening of a curtain, revealing the land mass behind it. Its lush green looks black at first, dark color in contrast to the white fog it hides behind. The New World is a place full of life, full of opportunity. Soon, like the Old, it will be tamed, domesticated by the High King. Until then, you'll have to traverse the rugged overgrowth. "Steady, men. Follow your commands," Corporeal Redding states as he paces in front of the formation, hands clasped behind him. "Beach landing. Then RV at Frontrunner's Camp. That's all you need to remember." A large wave crashes into the galleon, causing a riptide effect on the deck. Soldiers near the impact stagger, regain balance, then resume their stoic positions, the same motion repeated across the deck. The galleons, with their heavily armed escorts, press on. Your destination is unlike the stories suggest. The stories promised wealth and adventure. They seemed to suggest fortune is at your fingertips, if you could just reach out and grasp it, leaving enough for the High King, of course. Instead, darkness awaits. Each listener knows the stories to be some measure of hyperbole, but the land mass suggests an entirely different narrative was shared. No clear rivers await. No finely-trimmed fruit trees. Just rampant overgrowth, like the fog, hiding more secrets within. It is not your place to question. You imagine the same thought is running through your fellow soldiers. Probably for the officers, too, although they suppress it with strength of voice and confidence in command. The High King points and we march. He provides for us, and we bring him the means to support an entire nation. Questioning soldiers are cracks in armor. They're a sword crafted from impure steel. Their duty is to serve. Leave the decision-making to the superiors. Captain Briggs takes center stage as you close in to land. He stands next to Admiral Conway at the helm, who has finally taken the wheel of the Devastator herself, something she was content to have others do the entire voyage. As with your send-off from Alteran, protocol calls for a good old-fashioned speech. "Soldiers of the High King! Glory is ours for the taking. There is a New World to bring under the High King's rule. At long last we've finally arrived. Untamed land and savage natives await. 'Blackbirds,' they're called, more beast than man. Not only does the land itself bring threat, so does our enemy!" Around you, the more outwardly loyal soldiers spit on the deck. They know who Captain Briggs is talking about. Fargrave, Supreme Leader of Magda, the second most powerful man in the Old World, next to the High King himself. "Following our glorious leader's action, Fargrave (spoken with distaste, intentionally leaving out Supreme Leader) has funded voyages to the New World as well. The jealousy of Magda is apparent. Their inability to think for themselves is well-known. Not only is it imperative we capture wealth and resources for the High King, it is equally as important to deny it to Fargrave." More globs of spit hit the deck. "You know your orders. We march to Frontrunner's Camp. You've had plenty of time to rest your legs and polish your boots. The camp is a three day journey inland. I expect us to make good time. There is an entire world to discover! Together, we will--" Your vision ignites in a burst of flame. The previously gray, cloudy setting around you suddenly flashes in the red-orange light of fire. Next to the Devastator, an escort schooner steadily makes her way underneath crashing waves, leaving behind a trail of black smoke, the center of her deck boasting a crater, its edges still burning. Fireball. Much larger than the average wizard's, like the size of a siege engine's projectile. "Brace yourselves!" a voice cries out. Another blast of fire hits a transport galleon, thankfully not your own. Soldiers on the deck are thrown from their neatly-organized formations. Upon recovery, they look unsure whether to return back to formation or look for cover. The sun peers through the clouds, burning away the gray world around you. It grows bright, far too bright. You glance upward and breath escapes you for a moment. The sun hasn't appeared. Rather, the sky above is filled with burning flame. Gradually it rises, reaching its highest point in the sky, a slow climb, then crashes down in a fraction of the time. "Take us in now. Go, go, go!" Captain Briggs shouts from his post. Next to him, Conway spins the wheel, shouting commands to her sailors. Behind her, a communications officer signals the rest of the fleet by flag. Globs of fire rain down upon you, like spit hitting the deck, as the fleet takes you as close as it dares. Wind rushes by your face as you host the same inner debate as the soldiers aboard the galleon hit. Your eyes scan the quickly approaching land mass, searching for an origin of the attack. You find nothing, until the slightest moment catches your attention. "Fire back or be damned with the rest of us!" Conway yells from the helm. Her eyes land upon the same movement that yours did moments earlier. Sailors cheer their acknowledgement and ready their cannons. Up on the land mass, high above sea level, you see many small figures, their dark form melding with the overgrown forest. The source of the attack, and the admiral knows it. One hand on the wheel, the other as a lever in the air, one she quickly switches to a downward position, signaling the cannons to fire. Explosion. Black smoke. This time, it originates from the fleet, the blasts a deep echo across the ocean water. Another impact rocks the speeding galleon, sending those on deck sprawling. "Soldier!" a familiar voice carries through the noise. You look up to find Corporal Redding standing, his hand firmly gripped around rope tied to the Devastator's mast. He offers a gloved hand out, which you quickly take, allowing the corporal to pull you to your feet. His hand is then exchanged for rope, bound to the mast like the squeeze of a large snake. More blasts of fire. This time you remain standing. The fleet sails forward at full speed. The goal is clear. Your large transport galleons must dock in order for their soldiers to have any effectiveness. Though they are fearsome warships, their current designation is nothing but a glorified transport. Their escorts, however, weave through, nimble, sailing circles around the transports, firing their broadsides with each passing, always in motion, readying their cannons for the next approach. Fire rains from the sky. Wind, sprays of water hit the deck with equal ferocity. Another schooner sinks beneath the waves in an explosion and trail of black smoke. "Steady yourselves! We're coming in hot!" Admiral Conway shouts from the helm. She expertly spins the wheel to minimize the inevitable impact. The land mass grows larger and larger, like that of an approaching caravan. What was once a small dot on the horizon, now towers high above you. Dark green, almost black, overgrowth awaits, a visible line of contrasts starting at the edge of a sandy beach. No docks. No civilized structures await to safely anchor the fleet. Just sand and sea. > The New World The transports separate in the water, breaking off from one another. They'll be sitting targets while the soldiers unload. Your defensive vessels, receiving signals from the admiral, move into their position as well. Cannon fire begins a steady volley, almost continuous. Their booming echoes across the water, firing now in staggered groups. While one ship reloads another fires, soon to swap their actions. The High King's discipline takes over. You and your fellow soldiers quickly organize back into formation. Each unit has a designated member to pass out equipment, Bastus being yours. Twelve of you in a line receive gear one at a time. In the chaos of battle, the soldier's training must be present. Standing still while fire falls from the sky is no easy task, and yet not a single man is out of place. A pack is thrust into your hands as you follow the man in front of you preparing for landing. Brown, simple leather, the High King's sigil pressed into one flap. They should be water resistant, at least if the military enchanter did his job correctly. Nothing like trusting your life in the hands of another's work. You jam your flintlock and accessories into the main compartment. No way in hell are you going to let water damage render the weapon useless. Admiral Conway spins the wheel a final time, and shouts, a tinge of glee in her voice. "This is as far as I dare get." It's still a swim to the beach. But still, comparing the Devastator to the others, you're a lot closer. She continues. "Take the fight to them. Get vengeance for the High King. Briggs?" Captain Briggs, now on the deck, looks up to the helm and nods. Whatever plans they discussed is silently confirmed with a simple head gesture. "Very good. Now off with you! For the High King!" Among the crowd of soldiers, you stand near the deck's railing and look down. It's not a far jump by any means, especially not into water. But still, it's at least fifteen feet to the bottom. The last thing you want to do is lose travel rations or something as equally necessary underwater. Saying a silent prayer--noticing it's only in situations such as this that you suddenly become religious, your feet step over the railing into the open air. Wind rushes at your face. A sudden gust. Your body drops quickly. It's the feeling as if you're leaning too far in a chair, finding the moment just before tipping over backwards, only continuous. Cold air. Cold water. Disorientation accompanies submergence. For a second, you lose sight of which way is towards the surface and panic. Then as quickly as the confusion appears, it's gone. Others drop next to you, signaling the direction to swim. Your legs kick, arms weaving out in front of your face like a blind man feeling for objects to avoid walking into. Your chest begins to burn, crying out for oxygen. A few more strokes and you reach the surface. The water's surface is littered with swimming bodies. It's a wonder no one landed directly on top of you. You follow the other soldiers swimming towards the beach, holding your pack in one arm as if it were a man you're saving from drowning. Your breath turns slow and deliberate in energy conservation. Flailing in the water is a sure way to arrive exhausted, considering you'd even make it to the shore. Deep down you know the swim is only the first bit. No doubt you'll be marching towards Frontrunner's Camp without rest, that is, if the Captain's orders are to make it to the RZ. There's always the chance Briggs orders you to march directly to your attackers. Whatever the decision may be, there's only one in your current position. Breathe and swim, breathe and swim. Relief rushes through your body as the water becomes shallow enough to stand. It's still difficult, wading through neck-high water, not to mention the cold spray from each passing wave, but it sure as hell beats swimming, as do most things. Your hand instinctively reaches for your right shoulder. A second wave of relief hits you as your wet palm finds the handle of your longsword. Miraculously it didn't drift away during the plunge. You glance around at your fellow soldiers. Apparently, it's not that much of a miracle as about half still hold weapons in their sheathes. Still, that leaves the other half with empty hands. Hopefully they were smart enough to stash something into their waterproof pack. Without your immediate superiors in the area, you're content to stand still and catch your breath while you wait for orders. The only thing the High King's army hates more than a non-busy soldier is one who thinks for himself outside of direct orders. Since there are no current ones, you take the former approach. Admiral Conway's fleet grows smaller on the horizon, the ships retreating away from the land mass. Out of range, the fiery destruction is halted. The beach must be too close as no fireballs fill the sky above you. They did originate from elevation. Firing straight down toward the beach would have a rather awkward angle. That, or your attackers are concerned about setting the entire forest on fire. Perhaps, both. The crowd of gathering soldiers begins to part. A lone man walks down the sudden aisle. Captain Briggs. His heavy overcoat is drenched and matted down, like that of mutt spending all night in the rain. The man doesn't look happy at all. A constant frown curves each end of his lips downward. You wring out a few drops of water from your shoulder-length hair as he speaks. Expecting another grand speech, you're surprised with the lone sentence that comes from Briggs' mouth. "Welcome to the New World." > You take stock With time before Captain Briggs commands the battalion to move, your immediate concern is with the company. There's different types of lost. There's lost in the night without lantern light. There's lost in the woods, far from the trail without a map or compass to guide you. And finally, there's a soldier separated from his company lost. The High King's strict adherence to chain of command leaves the common soldier without the authority to act on his own. What then does a soldier do with no command and the inability to act? Well, pretty much what you're doing now. You're damn aware of that fact and pride takes over. You decide to look for Corporal Redding first. As the leader of the company, your best chance at finding the others lies with the man. You search through the battalion. Some soldiers remain standing, others taking the chance to rest on the sand. Either way, the beautiful uniforms of the High King are wet, sandy, and anything but regal. The same goes for the men wearing them, including yourself, the reality of conflict that remains unspoken to civilians and politicians. It's much more inspirational to have a well-dressed army, neatly-groomed, a proper soldier. The number of enlistees might harshly decline if they saw this side, and once you do see this side, it's much too late to back out. There's a reason why the enlistee contracted service is more years than the others. Your fellow soldiers hardly give a second glance as you continue your search. In other circumstances, a few insults and quips would come your way. However, now, each man is much more concerned with survival, checking their equipment, catching their breath, mentally preparing for what comes next. Their gaze is far from the present moment. Yours might be, too, if not for the present task you set for yourself. They stare sightlessly at the sand beneath their feet. It's not much different for those who do meet eyes; they notice the presence of others, and yet, recognition is absent. Brotherhood isn't apparent. Battle-shock. Exhaustion. You search, and search, and search. Nothing. Not one familiar face is seen. Welcome to the New World, indeed. > You await orders Unable to find your company, you await command from Captain Briggs. The rest of the battalion does the same, those finding their fellow squad members organizing themselves into a rough formation. Exhaustion starts to creep in on you. The swim plus trudging around the sand in water-soaked boots takes a considerable amount of energy, especially when the only thing in your belly is a small amount of rations, and of course the morning ale goes unspoken. No, the events since breakfast have certainly been sobering. Awake, alert, and drenched, you await command. You don't have to wait long. Briggs is huddled with the platoon leaders, at least those that aren't lost to sea. You catch sight of Redding's unkempt beard among the others. He stands out being the only one without a close shave of both face and head, which would normally bring scrutiny except for his measure of success. As long as you've been in the company, there hasn't been much failure. Whether that is reflecting of Redding's leadership or the men themselves is up for debate. One thing's not debatable, however: the man would be quickly replaced if his record was not as well-kept as his colleagues' grooming. The commanding officers break and address their designated sections. Corporal Redding doesn't head exactly in your direction, so you follow to where he walks. You find the others nearby, only ten still remaining. Two lost in the fiery assault and swim. Large Bastus gives a nod towards you as you approach. The man's left sleeve is torn, blood soaking down the exposed arm, by the looks of the wound, shrapnel from a fireball explosion. It doesn't seem to bother him as his lips spread into a wide grin. "The lone wolf survives. And here I thought your legendary tale was cut premature by a little dip in the sea." His demeanor quickly changes, taking in the present situation. Two lost. It wears heavy on the men. You try to fix his light-hearted outburst, and the effect it has on the others. "Not the landing we expected. Still, at least you've gotten your wash for the year." "Enough of that," Corporal Redding interjects. At his voice, you all seem to stand a bit taller. The High King's soldier isn't a sloucher, after all. He stands tall and proud, chin and chest raised high. "We're marching to Frontrunner's Camp. The battalion has lost a considerable amount of men and arms. Damn Blackbirds." Corporal Redding spits on the ground, similar to the way a decent man would react to mentioning Supreme Leader Fargrave. "There, we'll regroup and rearm. And don't you lazy men worry, there'll be time for rest, too." "How soon until we march on the hills?" Bastus asks, obviously wanting to settle the score with your ambushers. "I don't know," Redding admits, truthfully. He's never one to withhold from the company. "Half span or maybe a full? I wouldn't be too hasty if I were you. We've only just arrived after a long voyage, and the arrival wasn't quite what we expected... There will be plenty of time for vengeance. I suggest you rest up, acquaint yourselves with the New World. You've all heard the rumors. The New World is supposed to be substantially larger than the Old. There are things here we've never experienced. Vengeance lies in the future, yes. But for now, rest is more important." Despite his words, rest doesn't come right away. Officers shout their commands, and you form into lines, first a little scattered. Each soldier steps to his normal spot in the formation, although gaps are apparent from those who've fallen in the skirmish. The space is quickly closed, formations becoming tighter, but the damage is done. Along with exhaustion, death hangs heavy in the air, coupled with near half of the battalion being unarmed. Sheathes lie empty, quivers absent of arrows--even the occasional one-boot soldier. The battalion marches toward Frontrunner's camp, broken and beat. The journey is supposed to be three days. It takes four. The pace is slow, overgrowth halting progress several times. Exhausted soldiers take turn chopping vines down, clearing the path for the battalion. Similarly at night, shifts are taken to watch against threat. Military tactic states now is the perfect time for a follow-up ambush. The enemy, you, is scattered and lacking firepower. Those still wearing armor is nothing but light leather, only able to protect a surface slash. There's not protection against arrows or direct piercing, not to mention fireballs. But still, the march is quiet, both from the enemy and among one another. There's no laughter. No triumphant chants or songs toward the High King. Simply, marching. You step one foot in front of the other. You stop when Redding tells you to stop. You start again when he says. Your mind's gone to auto-functioning, the body reacting to orders while the conscious sleeps. Step, breath, another. Step breath, another. Perhaps if the arrival was different, you'd be interested in the setting around you. The overgrowth and all that it holds is foreign to you. After a while, unrecognizable plants and sounds stop standing out. At first, the eye and ear instantly drew to each, abandoning all else for the New World's novelty. That faded after the first day of marching. Now, they all blend together in a mix of confusion, curiosity and excitement gone. Your only concern is stepping one foot in front of the other, breathing in-between. The fourth day, just after the sun's peak, Frontrunner's Camp appears. It's nothing like the name suggests, being more city than camp. It's filled with solid structures. In the New World's overgrown state, lumber is plentiful, allowing the "camp" to have actual buildings, even if they are only from wood. No doubt they will be reinforced with brick or stone once resources allow. Still, it's a huge upgrade from a collection of canvas tents. Merchants know it too. Many from Alteran made the voyage as well, seeing the same opportunity in the New World as the High King. That's where their similarities end, however, as the city is obviously military-driven. From what you can see, at least two-thirds of the people walking the street wear military garb, whether that's armor, robes, or ceremonial attire. One thing you do notice that's not military-driven is the wall, or rather, lack thereof. A place such as Frontrunner's should be reinforced defensively. Instead, it's just a cluster of wooden structures. After the way the fireballs greeted you, the organization of the city feels wrong. It feels damn wrong. Still, though, it's not your place to question things. Your job is to follow orders. They tell you to march, you march. They tell you to rest, you rest. They tell you to put your things down in Barracks Four, you put your things down in Barracks Four. "B-4" isn't much as far as lodgings go. You get assigned a bunk and a small chest. Calling it a chest gives too much credit. Your sole storage compartment holds as much as a single drawer of dresser, not that you have anything to place in it for now. Your waterproof pack, property of the High King's, was returned back for however the High King sees fit, although since arriving to Frontrunner's it would have just taken up space. There's not much use for a waterproof traveling pack in the comforts of a city. B-4 itself is just as compact as your storage space, only offering enough bunks for the twelve of you, rather, the ten of you. Two beds rest empty, their assigned inhabitants doing the same at the bottom of the sea. > You explore Frontrunner's Camp The entire battalion is given a few days to recover. Instead of taking the time to rest, you rather explore the camp. It's your first time here, after all. For all you know it may be your last. Eventual death aside, you would rather be out than sit in a crowded barracks all day, even if your body is screaming for more sleep. Like a traditional military camp, the higher-ranking officers bunk near the center. The farther out you go, the lower-ranking members you see. Fol

lowing suit, the finer establishments are located near the center since that's where the wealth is, and the farther out you go...yeah, you're beginning to understand the layout of the camp, city, whatever the place is. B-4 is located at a mid-range, if not slightly lower. Not a horrible place to be, but not upscale either. It's all relative anyway. You're sure those at the edge view you similarly to the center-dwelling folks, the inverse no doubt happening. That stuff has never really bothered you. Comfort has a way of corrupting a man's resolve. You'd rather have your principles intact than money in your pocket. Of course, that's the mindset of a man who's never truly had his pockets empty. You find yourself on a main street. Not the main street, a main street. With Frontrunner's Camp built center-out, there's a circular layout, referred to as Rings. There's one street called Main street that cuts through the center, but it doesn't reach the outside edges. It's left solely for the upper-class to travel. The closer a ring is to the center, the smaller it is. So, there had to be a way of connecting them together, hence Main street. Beyond that, "main street" is simply the largest street that inhabits a ring, circling through an entire set of buildings. Standing on a main street, you decide to visit... > Tavern Easy decision, huh? Some are harder than others. This one is a no-brainer for a soldier. To be fair, "R&R" is commonly referred to as grabbing a drink. Soldiers in the line of duty tell their immediate officer they need a little R&R, and everyone knows what that means, at least until you reach a certain threshold, captain, the one in this case. It's an inside joke between infantrymen, but it holds some truth to it. Officers respect it. They understand. Soldiers don't abuse it. It's the unspoken agreement between those with an undecorated military career. Captain Briggs ordered you to rest? Hell, you could use some R&R. It's been a strenuous journey, to say the least. You walk down the main street. It's large enough that the circle format doesn't feel like one. The angle is slightly enough to notice that you can't walk in a straight line. But still, it doesn't feel as if you're heading across bends. At this point, you're not picky. You weren't before departing from Alteran, and you aren't now that you've arrived in the New World. Starting your search, you silently commit to entering the first tavern you come across. You find the Hanging Bridge after a few hundred steps. Either B-4 has a perfect location or there are many taverns in Frontrunner's. You guess it's the latter. Like the buildings surrounding it, along with every other in Frontrunner's, it's built from wood. However, the Bridge is a darker shade, giving the tavern a shadowy effect, a place of refuge from the beating sunlight. Only in this case, the sky is cloudy, but still, refuge is most welcoming. You enter through the front door. Inside is similarly dark. The hearth burns a low ember. Various candlesticks are strategically placed in the room, spread out enough so that light is not overwhelming in one area, but still close enough for the edge of their glow to touch each other. The bartender stands behind the bar, a dark wood one of course, polishing it with a rag. His face is shrouded in darkness, although white teeth appear, revealing a smile as you approach. "Fresh off the boat?" he asks, his voice the sound of grinding two rocks together. You can't tell if he's trying to be friendly or make a joke. You suppose it could be both. "Something like that," you answer, plopping down onto a bar stool. It's then that you notice how empty the establishment is. To be fair, it is rather early. "What do you got?" "What don't I got? Fine reds from the Alteran Vineyards--imported at great expense, mind you. Brandy from Sars Hillside that will burn the back of your throat and soothe it at the same time. And New World whiskey, distilled myself. A few shots will have a horse stumbling back to the stables." "I think you answered your own question," you respond with a smile. The bartender reaches for a bottle, plainly shaped compared to the others. Its label isn't bright; it doesn't catch the eye. Its contents are near the bottom, which is telling in itself. Someone enjoys the drink. That's a good sign, unless the bartender is dipping into his own supply. A small shot glass crashes down hard on the bar top, and the distinct sound of a cork echoes throughout the empty room. The bartender fills the glass almost to its brim, spilling a few drops. "Interested to hear what you think, soldier," the bartender says, expectantly. Your hand grabs the glass. It's cool to the touch. Smooth. You toss back the drink in a single gulp. The whiskey itself is unlike the glass, and could hardly be classified as smooth. Rough. Scratchy. Rocky. Those are more accurate descriptions. But the flavor is something else. It follows a second after the initial shock, hints of handcrafted oak barrel and, oddly, campfire smoke. It's both jolting and relaxing at the same time, painful yet comforting. "Gods above and the malicious devil below. What is this stuff?" you ask, staring into the empty glass. "My own special blend," the bartender says. "The New World offers more ingredients than I ever imagined before making the voyage across the sea. It's a place of wonder and discovery..." The man trails off at the end. You know a cue when you see one. "And...?" "...and great danger--as most places where wealth is to be discovered are." "What sort of danger?" "Now, now. That's confidential information, shared in the sacred oath of silence between bartender and patron. Let's just say I'm glad to be tending bar, rather than back out in the wilderness." "So you were a soldier then," you conclude. "Something like that," the bartender returns your words back. It's silent for a moment. Then an idea pops into your head. "I'd like to try the brandy after all." As the bartender reaches for a bottle unseen underneath the bar, you stop him. "No, not the Sars. That one." you point to one behind him, near to the floor." He nods and reaches for the bottle. He tries to hide it, but you see it clearly now that you're searching. One leg, too stiff to be natural, unable to bend at the knee. A prosthetic, and one unenchanted by his movement. It might as well be a peg leg. You're willing to bet it's the same dark wood that the tavern is built from. The bartender pours you another glass. You raise it up. "To the cruel mistress we call fate and the 'blessings' she showers upon us." "I'll drink to that," the bartender says, grabbing a glass for himself. You clink them together and toss back the brandy. > Duty calls A few days later the company is called upon. Given ample rest time, which you gladly made the most of, your commanders now expect contribution, and after a few days with no orders, the company is ready to give it. At the start of the voyage from Alteran, the soldiers were content to sit idle, drink, gamble, and sleep the day away. After many weeks of it, along with the landing, you're ready for action. There's a major difference between a soldier who's trained for battle versus a soldier longing for it: the company is both, and desperately wants to bring the fight to the Blackbirds. Passion fueling training, a man's heart aligned with the command of his officer; that, is a scary enemy to face. The Blackbirds will feel the High King's vengeance. Uniform neatly cleaned, pressed as well as possible, the ten of you organize under Corporal Redding's command, packing equipment for a march inside B-4. The grizzly company leader says it better than anyone. "Time you lot earned your keep. Drinking the ale stores aboard the High King's fleet simply won't cut it. Glory for the High King, glory to your lineage." Not the most inspiring as far as speeches go, but Redding holds an unconventional style that speaks to a man. Genuine. One man to another, rather than top-down. Lionel speaks up. Straight to the point, as always. "Orders, sir?" "We've got something of a special assignment," Redding answers. Bastus cuts him off before he can continue, perhaps a result of Redding not leveraging rank, not that he ever seems to mind. "Special? So we won't be marching on the Blackbirds that assaulted us?" "Not directly," the corporal says. "We've noted their location for the Frontrunner scouts. Those who have settled into their tour are better suited to march to combat. This goes above Captain Briggs, even. Rest assured, they will be dealt with." Silence hangs over the men, each likely thinking they would be involved in the High King's retribution. Two members were lost in the landing. Promises were made. Revenge was to be yours. Seems command has another idea, however. "Our orders, then. Sir," you keep the conversation going. "Run-of-the-mill patrol," Redding speaks, pulling a piece of string from his tunic. Satisfied at its removal, he continues. "There's a set of ruins northwest of Frontrunner's. Command hasn't been able to spare enough soldiers to explore the area. That's where we come in." "Patrol? No combat?" Bastus asks, the shoulders of the large man seemingly slumping with his rhetorical question. "No hostiles anticipated, no. You know as well as I that there's always the possibility." "What's so special about these ruins?" you ask. Corporal Redding looks right at you with his response. "It's some sort of fallen temple, a holy place once used by the natives here." "And what's so special?" you ask, again. "You mean that an order from an officer in the High King's military isn't special enough for you?" Redding lets his words sink in for a second, a grin appearing at the edge of his lips. "Ok, here's added background detail, so you can bring greater glory to the High King, of course. The fact is, our wizards, scholars, and tacticians haven't been able to figure out the source of the Blackbird power. The current hypothesis is that it lies with their religion. If we can learn something from their beliefs, then it may help with nullifying their power." "You mean besides the fact that they stand a full head taller than the largest Alteran," Lionel points out. "Speak for yourself, little man," Bastus instantly retorts. Redding waves a hand to silence the two before the conversation deteriorates into bickering. "Have you already forgotten our landing? The natives, the Blackbirds are crude in their technology. And still, they were able to sink our ships. It doesn't matter if they stand two feet from the ground if their magic allows for the destruction of ships. We may not be engaging those who stole the lives of our two brothers, but we could very well discover the secret that will collapse their entire military might." You take the opportunity to sum up. "So we're to patrol a set of ruins, ones that may hold the secret to an ancient power of a New World, into uncharted territory, while it's uncertain whether traps or enemies lie in wait, ready to ambush us?" "When you put it that way, it does sound like a rather important assignment," Bastus comments. "Agreed," Lionel can't help but say, a murmurous echo from the rest of the company. Corporal Redding simply holds his grin. > You Continue Equipment packed, you depart from Frontrunner's Camp shortly after Corporal Redding's "inspiring" speech. Despite the fact that your company is down two men, you aren't reinforced to the normal 12 members. The New World forces must be thin if protocol is to be broken that way, which only reinforces the need for green soldiers to patrol a set of ruins. If there were anyone to spare, they'd have explored the area already. It's not often the Alteran military finds itself thin. In the Old World, it possesses more might, resources, and land than the rest, although Fargrave may dispute that point. Here, however, it seems things are different. The land is vast and the number of enemies are unknown. Truly a place the High King's soldiers have no experience with. Surprisingly, no other company joins you, only adding to the afore-mentioned facts. You can't think of another time where the company went on its own, certainly not for an entire mission. But still, it's not your place to think. That job is left for soldiers with more ribbons on their chest, their families with heavy coffers. Redding leads the company from the front, the rest of you arranged two-by-two. Bastus takes the rear by his lonesome, the large man counting for two on his own. The forest is thick. Like the overgrowth to which you arrived, the journey makes for slow going. It's just thin enough to cause the occasional swipe of the sword to clear the way. Luckily, you aren't required to chop your way through the entire jungle-like growth. Trees and plants, unlike you've seen before, lie in your path. At first they blended together, a mix of unfamiliar flora becoming one. But now that you've been up-close and personal, on two occasions now, you're starting to see recognizable overgrowth, a tree trunk wrapped with vines spreading to its branches, small ferns that close in on themselves when touched. The ferns in particular made a few soldiers jump at first--along with a joke from Bastus about filling one's trousers. As the journey continues, you step on them without a care, unblinking to the movement underneath your feet. As full of life as the forest may have first appeared, there's something off-putting about it. Overgrowth is just plantlife flourishing rampantly. While it should signify just that--life--it doesn't give that sort of feeling in the slightest. Quite the opposite, actually. It's the light, or rather, lack thereof. Thick canopy above, the overgrowth doesn't allow sunlight to peer through. Instead, you're left to trample through the forest floor in a dusk-like darkness, eyes long adjusted, the mind is slower to follow. It's a wonder that the plants can even thrive in such a place, without sunlight. The scholars at the High King's University would fill their trousers at the chance to study them. You silently commit to laying your bedroll as far away from Bastus after that thought appears in your mind; his poor taste in jokes is contagious it seems. A day of trudging through the forest waning down, you begin to set up camp, something that must be done earlier in the day thanks to the shady canopy above, and it's not like you can simply light torches and continue. Despite the increased chance of drawing attackers, you run the risk of setting the whole damn place on fire. You estimate the day isn't yet three-quarters down, and you're settling in for the night. As you find a nice spot, free from roots poking their heads through the dirt, Bastus notices and puts his roll next to yours. "Looks like we're bunkmates again," the big man comments. "Lucky me," you utter. > Sleep The trek begins late in the morning, unable to start at standard military march time due to the lack of light. The other men in the company take the time to catch up on sleep. The thing is, you've had plenty since arriving to Frontrunner's, enough to recover from the landing. Alone you sit, back rested against the trunk of a tree, the world dark and formless around you. It would be peaceful except for the restlessness that seeps into your being. resting when you should be acting, sleeping when you should be awake, patrolling when you should be fighting. But you're a soldier, paid to follow orders, not think. The restlessness channels itself into the constant shake of your leg, able to stop when focused upon, but quickly starts its steady rhythm subconsciously. It's quiet. Unlike the forests of Alteran, full of wildlife making themselves known, the forest of the New World is silent, like a predator stalking its prey, a thief in the shadow of an alley. Your thoughts are interrupted by the sudden need to relieve yourself. Like the trees around you, you step without a sound over the sleeping bodies of the others, your coat hanging from your shoulders unbuttoned. You find a lucky tree, one of the varieties with vines wrapped around the trunk as if a serpent. Your trouser buttons soon are in the same state as your coat, the pressure in your bladder slowly subsiding. The silence of the forest is interrupted for a few lengthy seconds by the sound of your stream. You turn to head back to camp-- --and find yourself staring face to face with a woman. She's a native. Despite the first Blackbird you've seen up close, your mind is very far from her strange attire, the color of her skin, the shape of her face. Oddly enough, you think of the unbuttoned state you were just seconds ago, your manhood out in the morning air. It's not the same as being caught with your pants down, but it's damn near close. You flash a smile, hoping the embarrassment is too apparent on your face. The moment passed, you finally get a good look at the woman, noticing that she does not return your smile. She wears a dress of tanned leather, not meant to accentuate her womanly parts--they are doing quite a good job on their own. The woman's hair is black, like the darkness on a moonless night, loosely tied with a single braid running down the left side of her face. Unfamiliar symbols line her ankles and wrists, black tattoos almost unseen in the low light. She's unarmed, yet the lean muscle on her sleeveless arms clearly shows that she is not deterred by the fact. You guess she's a few years older than you. Your hand tenses in a half reach towards the flintlock at your thigh, like that of a duelist, watching, ready to burst into movement. Your eyes meet the woman's. Hers are a bright green, a reflection of the canopy overhead. Yours, a deep brown like that of a sturdy trunk. She whispers a string of words unfamiliar to you. All that you've heard about the Blackbirds never included their language spoken. Perhaps no one has gotten this close before. "I don't understand..." you whisper back, motioning your hands and shrugging your shoulders in a way that would be apparent to any Alteran of your meaning. The woman's face is blank; no sign of recognition appears. Although she may have spots of dirt on her, as well as not keeping up with the latest Alteran fashion, she's undoubtedly beautiful, her skin like that of her dress, tanned, each side of her face a mirror of the other. She whispers again. You recognize some of the words, but only because it seems to be the same string as before. "I don't understand," is all you can muster for a response. The Blackbird woman stares at you for several seconds, her green eyes steady and focused, her mind searching for a solution. She finds it. Her voice in the common tongue is broken. Simple. Straightforward. Stripped of unnecessary inflection. There's a strange tone to it. It's sharp. Direct. Higher pitched as a woman, but yet carrying the strength of a stage performer required to project. Unwavering. All of this you catch in a single word. "Go." Before you can respond, the Blackbird woman scampers off into the trees. You know better than to chase her. There could be others lying in wait, the woman herself the bait. Even if she's alone, there's a risk of becoming lost in the overgrowth, separated from your company without a hope of rescue. No, your mission is to patrol the ruins, not run after local natives through the trees. Still, the meeting itself felt...friendly? That's as best as you can describe it for now. Go. Was that a warning? A threat? A plea? Hard to tell without knowing Blackbird social customs. Being the veteran of many tours, you're well-aware of different mannerisms that accompany different territories. Meeting the eyes is considered rude in some, while it's perfectly polite in another. The offering of a left hand is as good as a slap in the face, while it's the crudest gesture to use the right. That sort of thing. After making the mistake of forcing Alteran custom on your first tours, it's not a mistake you plan to make again. Your eyes deeply attuned to the dark, you start to notice the smallest signs of light appearing through the forest canopy. You will be traveling again soon. It would be best to return back to camp. You retrace your steps, a little more carefully this time in the case the Blackbird woman wasn't alone. Luckily, you don't run into any others. As you reenter the camp, the distinct sound of a flintlock click fills the morning air. You raise both hands up defensively instinctively. "Gods, boy. You can't go running off like that," Corporal Redding says as he holsters the weapon. "Had to find a nice tree to water. Besides, I didn't want to cause jealousy," you reply. The joke causes a small chuckle among those standing near. You think about sharing the encounter with the Blackbird woman, but you hold off. Now that you've had a longer chance to think about it, it seemed more of a warning than a threat. She did not carry any weapons or show aggression. She was alone, meaning she intentionally did not bring warriors with her, not even for protection. Strange that one of them would go out of her way to help. Your first encounter with a Blackbird is not what you expected. For one, you're both still alive. These thoughts rest on your mind like a word escaping memory recall, a puzzle missing a key piece. The company packs their gear, doing their best to hide the camp's presence, and marches on. The ruins await. > The ruins It takes two more uneventful days until they appear. The time spent in the forest is just enough to where you feel yourself growing accustomed to the overgrowth, knowing which vines can be swept out of the way, which ones are more trouble than worth to cut. You even feel as if your eyes can see better in the constant dim light, although part of that is due to your mind's recognition of your surroundings, not needing to focus on single things to identify. Just a glance is enough. Still, you've kept quiet about the Blackbird woman. The encounter sits within your thoughts, a new mind tenant who's taken up permanent residence. If there was a time to bring it up, it was two days ago. You still think it was better not to share. The mission is the ruins. If you're being totally honest, your masculine bravado has a small sliver to do with it as well. The damsel in distress, the princess needing rescuing, the beautiful native: the story trope doesn't escape you. When the situation arrives in reality, there's something captivating, enchanting. They're stories told from the beginning of time, read to sleeping children. To face it in real life thrusts the mundane into fable. The ruins themselves are built within the overgrowth, a part of the forest, their foundation as deep as any root. Dark stone, almost pure black, blends in the fallen structures to the low-lit environment. In their former glory, the ruins would no doubt be built in square stones stacked upon one another, creating sharp corners and a sturdy defense. Now, however, they are crumbling, decaying in the forest. Vines, trees, and overgrowth use the deteriorating walls for support, growing, twisting and climbing up the dark stone. There appears to be four, maybe five, main structures--it's hard to exactly tell in their fallen state. "This is it?" Bastus breaks the silence, ever the one charging forward. "We've marched here for a whole lotta nothing." "Hush yourself," Redding whispers. "We don't know if any natives are in the area, taking shelter within." "Where would they be taking shelter? The trees offer more cover," is the big man's retort. Corporal Redding doesn't address the question. He doesn't give it validation. "We'll break into two quads. Sweep the perimeter, opposite directions. Observation only. Engage only if engaged upon. Meet on the far side and wait for my command." "That only accounts for eight men," you aptly point out. Just the right time to open your mouth. "Thank you, Mr. Mathematician," Redding answers. "You'll stay put with me. We'll scan the ruins. If the quads cause movement from within, we'll relay a warning to the others. One for each quad. Any questions?" The men only shake their heads and organize themselves into two groups of four. Lionel leads one and Bastus the other. Crouched, weapons drawn, the men creep off in their respective directions, each quad covering half of the perimeter. You take cover behind a fallen tree overlooking the ruins and wait. You do not draw your weapons, but check your holster and sheath, ensuring they will not stick. A few minutes of silence passes. You do not break it. Neither does Redding. The corporal suddenly digs inside his pocket and reveals two thin cigars. They are a deep brown, like the color of a well-brewed mug of liquid chocolate. "You really can't expect us to light those up now," you whisper, eyes turned back to the ruins. "Are you disobeying orders, soldier?" "No." He places one in your hand. "I'm told these are rolled with native leaves," Redding explains. "The Blackbirds supposedly smoke the leaves through long pipes, often staying lit for hours." "And?" you can't help but question. "And it's a familiar smell. It's a friendly smell. Who knows what sort of strange scent we give off. Have you ever wandered into a field with unfamiliar smells? It draws the senses." You see where Redding is going. "I wouldn't say I often journey through unexplored flower fields, but I get your point." He hands you a match next, which you quickly light on the side of your boot, finding a small section that's uncovered with dirt. A puff of smoke fills the air. Redding places the end of his cigar against yours, inhaling and lighting it without wasting a second match. The flavor is new to you. A freshness accompanies, like the bite of an apple plucked directly from the tree, a cold gulp of water taken from a spring. Then relaxation ensues, a sudden calm rushing through your body quicker than any crashing wave, its subsiding like the tide returning to the ocean. Another puff. Another rush. "I have known you for how long now?" Redding asks. A strange question for the moment. "Nearly four years, give or take a few months," you answer. "And have I ever given you reason to doubt my judgment?" "Yes. But not for my own well-being." The answer brings a grin to the corporal's lips, one that is rarely absent. "Wise choice of words. You are not afraid to speak your mind, and yet you follow orders. Both must be present in a good soldier. Without questioning, a soldier is but a body armed. Without following, he is undependable. You are both armed and dependable. It's sad to say, but that is not the same for the company. Bastus is the former, Lionel is the latter. You are both parts combined." "Sir, I appreciate the compliment, but this is hardly the time and place for such reminiscence." "It is exactly the time for such a thing. I will ask something of you now, and you must speak your mind and follow orders." You do not speak. Corporal Redding continues. "I am going into the ruins, and I need you to follow. I have been less than truthful with the others. Our patrol is simply a cover for another, more important assignment. I need a man I can trust, one that will speak his mind and follow orders. Are you that man?" With a puff of smoke, you say, "You know that I am." > You speak your mind "But also, you need someone you can trust. How can I trust you when you have deceived the others?" you ask. "Must I reveal all to all men?" Corporal Redding retorts in a voice that reminds you of your childhood teachers. "Does a commander disclose his entire charge to the battalion? No. The burden of leadership is keeping secrets. Compartalization. We have a mission. It is not every man's burden to bear, only the one designation for such a thing." "Withheld information is one thing. Blatant deception is another," is your answer. The small grin on Redding's face grows larger. You can't help but feel you've stepped into his trap. "Imagine you have a child of your own. A son who dreams of becoming a soldier. You read him bedtime stories of conquers, of warlords accomplishing great deeds. And yet, he possesses a weak body, one that has difficulty holding a sword, lacking the endurance to hold a proper shield wall. He asks if he has what it takes to follow in his father's footsteps and join the High King's army. What do you tell him?" You ponder a moment. "I would tell him it's no easy thing. I would tell him that he must train his body to become a soldier. I would pour myself into seeing that he accomplishes his task. Your analogy is not a great one. If limited by physical means, even after devoting himself to training, I would tell him the truth to save his life. I would say he does not have what it takes." "And if you know he will enlist anyway?" You know the damage it would cause, a father instilling doubt in a young mind destined for battle. A soldier needs resolve, the willingness to press through any adversity. Still, you stand by your answer. "If he is my son, then he will not care. He will enlist anyway to prove me wrong. He will fuel the fire within to make me eat those words." "So either way, the outcome is the same, perhaps the lie is better suited to prevent hurt. The lie would preserve the relationship between father and son." "Perhaps." "The men's outcome will be the same. I have deceived them for the greater good, for their own good. I need you with me. I share the truth so you do not enter into battle with doubt." Your course is set. There's no use in further debating with the corporal. You've already given your word to follow. There is no sense in delaying the inevitable. But there is still a small part of you that wonders if the truth disclosed is the real thing, the entire thing. If he is willing to deceive the others for the greater good, it might be the same for your situation. Nearly four years, give or take a few months. He's not led you wrong yet. You hope he doesn't change that fact. "Your point is well taken. Shall we?" Corporal Redding's grin turns into a full-toothed smile. "I thought you'd never ask." > You follow orders Cigars both at your lips, you survey the ruins a moment longer before moving. Confident that you will remain unseen, you swing your legs over the fallen trunk and land softly on the other side. You guide your longsword from its sheath, slow, as not to send its ringing into the silent air. With your sword in a comfortable, ready position, you sneak forward, Redding just ahead of you. The overgrowth covers your approach. More than a few trees and plants lie between your hiding spot and the ruins, more sprouting from within. Redding leads you past the first structure. Its walls are brought to the ground, only showing signs of its former life in sporadic areas in jagged edges, like the coastline of a map. As you pass, you catch sight of decaying items: chairs, tables, even what appears to be a religious figurine, all of which have been long exposed to the elements and show it. The same thing happens for the second. The third is where Redding stops. It's clear to see why. It's the largest of the fallen structures, appearing to be nearly twice the size of the first you passed by. Like the others, its crumbling walls display signs of life, long abandoned. Besides the sheer size, another factor separates it from the others. It's littered with human skeletons. Their sharp white bones stick from the ground, keeping pace with the rampant overgrowth surrounding them. Some lie scattered, skulls far from their spines; others are more or less intact. All appear to be human bones, likely Blackbirds, long gone from the world, not a single one with skin attached. Interesting. Their skeletal structure looks the same as Alterans. Not that you're a man of science by any means, but it's grimly fascinating. Despite the large size of the Blackbird males, they are still human, as if you needed to see their skeleton to reach that conclusion. The thought causes you to pick up a nearby bone and compare it to your own forearm. The bone is nearly a size and a half larger. Noted. Don't entangle with a Blackbird strength vs strength; you may have a fair amount of lean muscle, but you also have a realistic idea of your own skill set. A schooner doesn't broadside a galleon without outmaneuvering, after all. "Put that back," Corporal Redding sharply whispers. "Over here." You look up to see Corporal Redding holding open a trapdoor. The square piece of wood is hinged completely open, revealing a square darkness below. A shiver runs down your spine, the cause of realization, the feeling of being watched. You immediately drop the arm bone. Experiment over. Redding stands behind the door holding it open for you. As you draw near, you can see a thin rope ladder attached near the door's opening. The feeling rushes through your body again, the feeling of a close friend lying to your face, the unfortunate truth of a woman turning down your advances. Redding motions for you to take the ladder first. Hopefully that's not the reason he brought you along--to test the strength of a thinning rope ladder. Who knows how far the fall is? Your thoughts quickly return back to the Blackbird arm bone. If the ladder could support someone of that size, surely it can support you. You hope. As you step towards the trap door, a pattern emerges. The skeletal bodies strewn out, seemingly random, appear to have an epicenter: the trapdoor. Like Frontrunner's Camp, they're arranged in rings, circling around the trap door. "See you at the bottom," you casually comment to Redding. "Not too quickly, I hope," the corporal replies. After seeing your face, he says with a grin, "Bad joke. The ladder's fine. Once you're at the bottom give the rope a few tugs, and I'll make my way down." "Not too quickly, I hope," you return the jest, taking both hands on the rope ladder. Thankfully, the ladder is more sturdy than it appears. But still, there's a slight sway as it holds your weight, a steady rocking with each step down. As you travel down fifteen, maybe twenty rungs, you're enveloped into complete darkness, the sole source of light a square opening where Redding stands. However, by that point, you've become accustomed to the spacing, muscle memory serving to place your feet and hands exactly where they should be, exactly where the next rung appears. You take it slow. There's no sense in rushing down. You don't know how far down it does, and you aren't thrilled with the idea of finding yourself a hundred feet up in the air drained of endurance. By the same coin, you aren't thrilled with the idea of encountering enemies at the bottom drained of energy either. You continue your steady pace until finally your boot hits solid ground rather than a rope rung. You breathe a sigh of relief, stretching out your arms and legs from the excursion. Looking up, you can still see the square of light fairly well. It's about fifty, sixty feet up if you had to guess. A tug of the rope, and it starts to sway slightly, supporting the weight of Corporal Redding. The square of light is darkened completely. Redding must have shut the trapdoor. You silently hope he has a way of reopening it. Surely, he must. Doors aren't usually locked from the inside, especially those that sit at the top of a sixty foot climb. But it's the New World, after all. Stranger things have been seen. In less time that it took you, Corporal Redding's boots land on the ground with a solid thud, his hand making a similar sound on your shoulder in reassurance. There is no light...wherever you are. Redding flicks a match, and soon you can see minimally, but far better than before. You find yourself at the end of a tunnel. Wherever it leads, there's a single path forward. This must be some sort of escape route leading from underneath the ruins, hence the trapdoor. There's not anywhere else to go, so you and Corporal Redding follow the tunnel. It winds, taking you around a few broad curves, but for the most part, it's a straightforward path. Whoever dug the tunnel probably meant for the quickest route possible, only twisting out of the way of large unseen rocks. You're content to allow Redding to take point. He hasn't shared anything else with you, why he deceived the rest of the company--or at least details why. His reason is rather vague, and you trust the man to lead you despite his secrets, although you're sure to keep a healthy amount of skepticism. Nothing crippling, just enough that outlandish requests will be seen as such. There's enough blind devotion in Alteran. The first match dies. Another is lit. Before the second one dies, another light source appears. It's the light of dusk, a black-raven shade allowing the eye to see with ample strain. It originates at the end of the tunnel, dark flame unwavering with the shadow, instead becoming a part of it. Torchlight, as demonstrated through the dwindling match, dances with shadow in perfect unison, the glow and darkness just out of reach from one another. This flame, however, is born of darkness, wrapped in shadowy embrace. It's both light and shadow, visible and unseen. The tunnel opens into a small room, a religious place by the looks of it. Small pads and mats rest on the floor, long covered by dust and dirt. A small altar sits in the center. To one side, a single torch hangs on the wall. It's not made from wood wrapped in oil-soaked cloth. Its handle is a jagged black metal, giving it the appearance of a stem with thorns. The top radiates ravenlight through four blade-like points, the source of its energy remains a mystery. "What is this place?" you wonder aloud in a whisper. "Halls of the dead," Redding answers, surprising you with an answer, and an honest one at that. "A resting place for fallen Blackbirds." "I did not know they were so...religiously organized," you say glancing around the room. "The stories say they are uncivilized cannibals. I expected more human sacrifice rather than a reverent temple." "There are those, rest assured. If it's savages you're looking for, there are plenty of those." Seeing your puzzled face through the dusklight, white teeth appear between Redding's lips. "Oh don't tell me you assumed the natives were all the same. They have different tribes and practices. True, they are united under 'the Raven,', but each tribe expresses their faith differently. This one is clearly one of their more...civilized ones, if that word can be applied to them." "And what are we doing here then?" The smile disappears. "There is an artifact of great power hidden within. One that will turn the tide in the war. It's crucial that we claim it for ourselves." "If it's so powerful, then why is it hidden among the dead?" "Simple. The natives believe it to be cursed." Corporal Redding motions you forward. Besides the tunnel, which looks as if it were dug in a hurry, a single door leads out from the small chapel, or whatever the Blackbirds call a place of worship. Redding opens the door, and similar ravenlight fills the hallway. What's left of the underground structure is likely lit the same; the jagged torch doesn't show signs of wavering. The thought causes you to pull it from the wall before exiting the chapel. Torch in hand, you step into the hallway. The walls are lined with sarcophagi. Redding was literal when he said these were the halls of the dead. The stone resting places are squarely built from the same stone of the crumbling ruins above. Small inscriptions line the top, traveling around the exterior. The lids themselves are smooth, the stone grinded down to a surface like an icy lake. They line the hallway in rows of two, the second row being carved into the wall a few feet above where their counterpart rests on the ground. You flash the torch in front of a sarcophagus. The language is unreadable, written in unfamiliar symbols that look more like small pictures than actual words. Despite the visual aid, you still have no idea what is carved into the stone. The military doesn't exactly teach Blackbird as a second language, although you're wondering if they should. Your mind quickly draws back to the mission, to the artifact that you are recovering. Curiosity brings you to think of the artifact's form, whether it's a tome of secrets, infused item, or a physical weapon. Your guess is a tome as Redding said it'll turn the tide. Something with such an impact must be the powerful words of a sorcerer written long ago. Deep in your curiosity, you almost don't hear it. A crack. The sound of stone breaking apart in the slightest amount of sound is picked up by your ears. The hair on the back of your neck rises, the feeling a sailor gets as the subtle signs of an approaching storm appear. You stop mid-step. Redding does the same. The two of you glance at each other, and you know the same thought is on your mind. Half a second later, you both break into a full spring down the hallway. Crack! Chunks of stone sarcophagi explode into the air with a puff of smoke like fireworks, clouds of smoke hiding the contents from being revealed within. Then you see it. Dark hands gripping the side of their respective sarcophagus, embalming tape hanging from decaying fingers like a stubborn flag unwilling to be torn down long after its citizens are conquered. They are slow to rise from their resting place as you sprint past. A few fingers manage to reach out and touch your coat along the way, the unsuccessful reach of a drowning man without floating remnants of a shipwreck near to keep him afloat. However, the end of the hallway is a different story. Dark figures crowd in front of you, gathering more by the second. Dead men and women stand in your way, more behind you no doubt. You see them in flashes, your sprint and ravenlight not affording clear vision of the dead. You see them in flashes. Their skin hangs loosely from bone, threatening to abandon skeletal structure for the floor with each movement. You see them in flashes. Soulless black holes rest where eyes used to be. You see them in flashes. Empty gaps as mouths. > Longsword There are too many of them for the double-barrelled flintlock. You need to depend on something more reliable, a weapon with no down time, lest you be overwhelmed. Torch in your left, your right hand pulls the longsword from your shoulder. Its handle is a thin strip of leather spiraled around steel, specially modified to your suiting. Most prefer a soft grip, the ability to hold their weapon with comfort, a grip that muffles the clashing of steel. Not you. The leather strip brings no comfort; it's only designation is to keep the blade from slipping from grasp. On brisk mornings, you can feel the cold steel as if nothing stood in-between your palm and the metal. Your arm welcomes the impact with each blow, toughened, conditioned by years of training. They gather in front of you, no doubt more doing the same behind, a wave of dead men and women ready to crash upon you. You cut through them like a sparrow in the wind, like evening sunlight through a gap in the forest. The undead cannot meet your onslaught, their own bodies betraying them. Brittle bones snap under their weight, collapsing a few to the floor soon to be trampled by the others. The undead moan a dull vibration, long losing the ability to articulate words, the sound pouring from empty gaps where mouths used to be, soon to be silenced by your blade. Corporal Redding compliments your attack with perfect unison. It's not the first time you've fought side-by-side, and your experience shows it. His movements are precise, careful not to exert too much energy. Yours, on the other hand, possess a little more flair, the excitement of youth displayed through your swordsmanship, your body possessing more than enough endurance for such attacks. No words are shared between you two, but the assessment is clear. Keep moving. Put down the undead quickly. On their own, the undead don't give much of a fight, but if allowed to overwhelm you--if they could overrun you with numbers then you would find yourself in a difficult position. They are unarmed and undefended. As soon as you cut down one, another takes their place. Finally, the end of the hallway appears. The number of undead are dwindling, each swing of your sword adding to the bodies piling up on the floor, a trail left behind you and Redding. You cut down the remaining few in your way. The hallway of the dead is behind you, your disturbance of the Blackbird resting place left with broken sarcophagi and severed limbs. > You Continue The hallway opens into a large chamber, carved in a round shape. There is not a single corner to the walls; they wrap around the center like a banner twisting in the wind. Here, there are more ravenlight torches on the wall, so you abandon the one you carry, p

lacing it on one of the hooks designed--at least you assume that's their use--for easy placement of torches for those wandering the halls. The very center of the room boasts a sizable sarcophagus, larger than any of the others you encountered before. The room is built on a slope, a series of stone steps, leading to the resting place. Unlike the ones encountered before, the lone sarcophagus is intricately engraved, covered completely with writing unknown to you. There's a weighty silence that accompanies the chamber, one that is felt inwardly, one that makes your heartbeat sound like war drums. "Care to explain why the dead rise from their graves?" you whisper to Redding. "Protectors of the artifact," is his reply. "...that's it?" Redding turns to face you. "Fine. They're ancient rulers, each a former possessor of the artifact. Their soul was given in service, so here, even in death they serve to protect the artifact from falling into the wrong hands. Our hands. They're buried with their lifemates--that's why there are two resting places created on top of each other. They're bound to protect the artifact together, lest the souls of their lineage be forfeit. Happy now?" A fabricated story if you ever heard one. It's too perfect. A good lie must have an aspect of being a lie, along with elements of truth, of course. Stories can't address every question. That's the sign of someone who knows they'll be prodded--and the preparation made beforehand. Still, it's a little satisfying if you're being honest. You nod. "Of course." Redding stares at you a moment before turning his head back to the lone grave. "What? My most curious soldier doesn't have any follow on questions? I bet there are a million things running through your mind right now." "Two million, actually," you whisper. "But they aren't important right now. If we escape this place with our lives, rest assured we're going to have a long talk." "When we escape this place, I'll answer every single one, and I'll buy the first round." "First two rounds, you mean." "Fine. First two." He asks again. "Happy?" "As a nobleman with aged Alteran brandy." "Good," Redding says. "The artifact awaits us." Your footsteps disturb the hanging silence. You can't help but count each one, twenty-three in total. The stone sarcophagus sits in front of you. It's made from a similar dark stone as the others, although it appears to have more of a sparkle. Upon further examination, there is some sort of crystal infused with the stone. They shimmer in tiny specks as if ground crystal was mixed with flowing magma, then shaped to its square shape. At least that's your best un-educated guest. In reality, it could be something entirely different. Magic, perhaps. "Help me with this," Corporal Redding says, gripping the stone lid with both hands. You do the same, standing opposite of him. It resists at first, and then gives way to your combined strength. With a grinding screech, one that disturbs the silence far greater than your footsteps, the lid slides from its closed position, one end landing on the ground, the other remaining posted against the sarcophagus at a diagonal angle. No sooner than the lid hits the ground, a soft thunderclap echoes, the sound completely different than stone hitting the floor. Sound in a visible wave expands from the sarcophagus, as if the ripple of a rock thrown into a pond. Instantly, the ravenlight torches extinguish, sending the room into a darkness far greater than that of any night. Something pierces your mind, nothing you've ever felt before. It's as if someone were tapping your mind with an impatient finger, waiting for your thoughts to catch up. Darkness abounds. You lose yourself to the void. > ... Like your dream on board the Devastator, you become a third party witness watching the scene of your younger self. You float above your body, unable to control the events happening below. Your body wears the gray robes of your class rank, still absent of lines. It doesn't get any lower than gray with no lines. Luckily, you aren't alone in that regard, although the other childrens' fathers aren't up for re-election for Judicator. Your younger self walks alongside another boy, Prinn, both of you on the short side for your age. His golden curls reach down his forehead just enough to touch the top of his, similarly golden, spectacles, causing the boy to have a consistent habit of touching his face, either to adjust his glasses or sweep his hair from his eyes. Like you, Prinn wears a gray robe, although his is decorated with three purple lines sewn into the shoulder. Top rank. "Isn't Master Gavin's lecturing just fascinating?" Prinn exclaims. "He breaks down the subject like a surgeon, cutting only as deep as necessary. It makes the assigned reading all the better, familiarity without redundancy." Along the path, one that you know well, a stretch of dirt that runs through an area of the school's well-landscaped forest, you turn to face Prinn. "Of all the words to describe Master Gavin's class, 'fascinating' is last on the list." "Yeah, you'd know all about that, huh?" "Funny." "I thought so." Prinn turns more serious. "Listen, if you need help..." "Not this again," you cut him off. "Studying doesn't interest me. Although I'm sure my father would throw a feast if I asked him to hire a professional tutor." "So you'd get good food and raise your status in the class. Seems like a no-brainer to me. No offense or anything." "No offen--" you start to question, then realize his meaning. "Damn you, Prinn." You walk in silence for a few steps. The school campus is built with modern design, tall many windowed buildings, yet there are many small sections of forest that still remain, as if warning Mother Nature herself that she could be conquered and contained. Most, like this one, have small trails known to a few students. Sure as hell beats walking around. Sturdy oak rises around you, their leaves attempting to resist autumn's invading color. A voice rings out in the air, different from yours or Prinn's. "Well, well. What do we have here? The runt and his bookbag carrier." From behind a tree, three boys step in front of you, the one who spoke, Kelle, the ringleader, stands almost an entire head taller than Prinn and you, as is the case for most boys who hit their growth spurt early. His black hair is shaved close, arm displaying two purple lines. "Are you lost, Kelle?" Prinn says, adjusting his glasses. "Perhaps looking for a higher test score..." "In a manner of speaking. I assume you've finished tomorrow's assignment for Master Gavin?" Kelle takes a step towards the two of you. "What do you think," Prinn states rather than framing a question. "I think it's in your best interest to...study with me. Compare notes." After a nod, Kelle's two goons, boys whose names you've forgotten, lunge to grab at Prinn. With a yelp far less confident than his quips, Prinn attempts to duck from their grasp. Heat rushes through your body, a white burning within. It spreads, and you feel small beads of sweat begging to appear on your forehead. You fan the flame. Instead of helping Prinn, you focus on the ringleader. It's no secret that academics aren't your strong suit, but you've learned at least one thing from Master Gavin's biology lectures: sever the head and the body dies. Your younger self charges straight into Kelle, your shoulder planting into his gut. The force of the blow causes a reactive gasp from the boy's lips. The two of you go sprawling on the forest floor, dirt kicking up with your impact. As soon as you hit the ground, you fire a fist into Kelle's exposed face. The strike causes his head to snap back and hit the ground beneath him. Before you can land another, his two goons wrap up your arms and force you to your feet, well, to an upright position; they hold you in the air so your feet are barely grazing the forest floor. Kelle, now with a smile, stands on his own strength. A line of blood runs down the side of his face, mixing with dirt. His gray robe is stained. Yours is likely its match. "Wait, we can exchange notes!" Prinn yells from behind you. "Yes we will," Kelle comments, mindlessly. His attention is focused on you. "After I teach a lesson of my own. Perhaps you'll learn something today after all, no-stripe." His fist hits you in the center of your body, just between where the rib cage is connected. You feel like a bird in flight suddenly losing its feathers, the air taken from you--no longer an ally. Before you can even make sense of the analogy, another blow lands in the exact same place. You would crumple over, you would have from the first punch, but the two goons continue to hold you up. All you muster is a cough as you try to fill your lungs back up with air. Floating above, watching your young body be beaten, you can think of several avenues of attack. Headbutt to stun, explode in movement, focusing to free one of your arms, then using that arm on the offensive. Instead, you watch another punch land, the memory, the emotional tie is almost physically felt. Watching the scene overhead, you take deliberate breaths, the air suddenly feeling rather thin. Footsteps. They trample through the forest in heavy stomps. Twigs snap. Leaves are ruffled. The shape of a man appears through the trees. Kelle and his goons drop you to the dirt, taking off in the opposite direction, not before throwing a last threat your way. "We'll continue the 'lecture' later!" Prinn does his best to catch you, but he is neither quick nor strong. You feel the full impact along with your friend awkwardly trying to help. You push his hands away in response, moving to stand on your own, your right arm clutching at your stomach. Vladimir, your father's man, appears, the one who was stomping towards your one-sided skirmish. "Young master. Prinn," he speaks. "Some timing you have," Prinn answers, pushing a curl from his eyes. "I'll see Kelle expelled for this." "No you won't." Prinn glances at Vladimir, surprised. Vladimir answers. "If our young master here (he nods toward you) can't keep up with his studies, then his brawn should make up for his 'brains,' for lack of a better term. That is spinnable. Failing in the classroom and failing with schoolmate brawls, well, such a thing is best left hidden." "But Kelle can't be allowed to get away with it," Prinn says as you pull yourself up without his help. "He won't," you speak in a voice a little louder than a whisper, the intake of air still difficult. "Do you trust me, Prinn?" He nods and adjusts his glasses. "Good. This is what we must do..." Vladimir pretends not to hear you. He walks back towards the direction he arrived. After a few steps he stops and speaks without turning around. "Young master. Remember what I said. Do not allow anything to trace back to you or your father. He is up for reelection. After all, the people of Magda expect their Judicator to have his family in line." > You Wake (A man far from home. A traitor within their midst.) I'm no traitor! (And they'll believe you? Your blood is their enemy.) I've served them well enough. My actions speak for themselves. (I sense you're barely convincing yourself, let alone Alteran.) It'll have to do. > You Wake "Kid? Silence. "Kid, wake up. We're in some shit." Corporal Redding slaps your face lightly. Your senses are lost, seemingly floating just from your grasp. The slap brings a small fuzziness, the feeling of sleeping on a limb all night. Another slap. Harder this time. The second one helps put things in order, a sharp stinging where the fuzziness was felt. Sight comes next. Corporal Redding's scraggly beard is inches away from your face, examining your eyes for signs of life. Behind him, the accuracy of his statement settles. Dark raven light in long ribbon-like strands fly across the tomb, filling the place in the glow of dusk, the torches remaining unlit. Light, instead, pours from within the open sarcophagus, its origin. Ravenlight spirals in the air with a soft whistle--one that appears to be picked up one ear at a time, twisting, braiding with one another, a dark purple web with two Alteran soldiers caught at its center. A shadow hangs heavy in the midst of the ravenlight. The shape of a human body rises from the open sarcophagus, floating in the air the way one would casually lay on lake water, as if an unseen rope binds the body from the waist. It's in the shape of a man. Hard to tell at first with long strands of black hair, although the shoulders are too broad to be a woman's. The floating shadow slowly turns upright, like a man sliding out of bed in the morning, his feet hanging mere inches over the sarcophagus. Dead, black orbs for eyes meet yours. His skin looks as if it's barely attached to his face, as if a quick turn of the head would result in its undoing. The figure is dressed in a tattered robe, purple and black, the robe itself shaped like a swordpoint at the bottom, a gold medallion resting at his chest in contrast to the dark robes beneath. Wrinkly fingers, long lost their healthy color, grip around a wooden staff, carved to proudly display a raven at the top. Like the others, an empty hole sits where a mouth should be, the bottom jaw detached and lost long ago. A Blackbird high priest, a shaman. A Blackbird lich. "I've got a bad feeling about this," you utter, feeling those seven words sum up the situation perfectly. Who disturbs the hallowed halls. Who calls the dead from their sleep. The lich shows no indication of speaking. His voice simply...is, a deep rumbling like a thousand boots marching to war, like the warning grumble of a volcano before erupting. The lich doesn't phrase his words in a question. There's no inflection; each word resonates exactly the same as the others, like the steady groan of the undead. "It's simple, really. Is there more than one reason anyone would venture here?" Corporal Redding answers, drawing his sword. The lich doesn't respond to the obvious threat. Perhaps that's his nature. Perhaps he doesn't see one. To visit the famed resting place and find inspiration for one's life. Was that humor? It's hard to tell with the lich's featureless demeanor. You could see it as such, although it could be the case that liches are over-the-top serious, a trait likely caused by binding one's soul to an eternity between life and death, unable to die, yet not quite alive. Yeah, if you took such binding, you'd probably speak in the same manner. "We're not here for inspiration," Redding affirms. Ah. So be it. I accept your challenge, outsider. You will soon join the bones of those who have tried before you. You will be another body lost in a sea, no grave to your name, no memory of your passing. What you think is honorable is nothing more than grasping at the wind. "You're mistaken again," Corporal Redding says. "There's no honor here. Only the grim reality of what must be done. Now, kid!" Your hand is resting by your side, feigning a calm demeanor. Hidden underneath is tension, building, stored energy ready to be released. The trick is keeping a blank face--any duelist will tell you that--a slate wiped of all emotion, unwavering. Your expressionless face carefully watched the words spoken between Corporal Redding and the Blackbird lich. Your hand, itching for movement. Your flintlock, desperate to play. The familiar grip is placed against your palm. The hammer's distinct click rings into the tomb. Your eyes are focused on the target, the small amount of space between the lich's endless-black eyes. He floats just above the sarcophagus, a direct shot. Your eyes do not leave your target, not when you draw the flintlock, not when you press down the hammer, not even as your arm moves to firing position. There lies only the target and your shot. Cool metal presses against the inside of your pointer finger, the trigger pleading to join the fun. You oblige. It takes little more than the strength to scratch your head, the strength required to pluck at a lute. How easily death can come. For an instant the tomb's ravenlight is joined by another source, a small spark, then fiery reddish-orange combustion, followed by black gunfire smoke. Before the hole appears at the lich's forehead, you know the shot to be true. There's a feeling that accompanies perfect aim, a premonition of sorts that's brought about by the muscle memory of countless fires. Any small deviation is felt, a stickiness of the holster, trigger pulled too soon. There is nothing of the sort here. Only pure marksmanship. One moment the lich floats above the sarcophagus. The next, a round hole appears between its eyes. One moment the lich floats above the sarcophagus. The next, it crashes down, hitting the side wall of the sarcophagus, then collapsing to the tomb floor in a heap of robe, its staff flung from grasp. Only then do you allow your gaze to wander. It finds Corporal Redding, who meets your eyes with his own. He doesn't speak, and neither do you. Redding walks to the fallen lich, blade still drawn. He raises it overhead, and for an instant the lich's body twitches, a small movement, perhaps as it looks to regather its strength. Redding's sword cuts down, severing head from body. The lich's head rolls on the floor a moment before resting against the base of the sarcophagus, gaping hole for a mouth facing you. "Well," you break the silence. "What now?" "Now we take the artifact," Corporal Redding replies, stepping over the fallen lich to peer inside the sarcophagus. Curious, you follow closely behind him. Peering inside, your eyes take a second to adjust. It's dark, unnaturally so. A single item lies inside, small of size. Corporal Redding snatches it up with one hand. "Are you sure that's safe?" you ask. "Kid, nothing in the New World is safe." Fair enough. Your attention draws to the item in Redding's palm. The artifact is in the form of a small dagger. Its hilt is ravenblack and wing-shaped, the point sharper than any talon. The blade itself is a midnight black as if attempting to meld into the shadow cast by the hilt. But still, it's a dagger. How can Redding expect a dagger, even a deadly one, to turn the tide of the war? You can't help but voice the thought. At least your mouth opens, the words ready to flow, when Redding beats you to it. Your thoughts must have shown on your face. "Trust me. This is no ordinary dagger." "How so?" Redding gives you a patented grin. "You'll see." Great. "Come on," Redding gestures with the dagger. "The others must be done with their task by now. We have what we came here for, thanks to you." You twirl the flintlock around your finger before sliding it back into the holster at your thigh. "Another day in the life..." You turn to leave, Redding by your side. (This day is not done with surprises quite yet.) "What did you say?" you ask Redding. "What? I didn't say anything," is his answer. Undead rising from their graves, liches, and now voices: you're damn glad to leave the place. Never before have you looked forward to returning to a military camp. You could use an ale, perhaps a little music, and a full night's rest. Bad things supposedly happen in threes. Luckily the same holds true for the good. > You leave the halls You travel the way you came. Back through the hall, stepping over the dead, keeping a steady eye on the fallen to make sure they don't rise again. Once is enough for you. In the small religious room, you place the ravenlight torch back on the hook where you found it. How polite. How civilized. Two steps into the tunnel, you undo the good deed, needing the light to guide you back to the ladder. There's no sense in wasting another match or two. Corporal Redding volunteers to take the ladder first, which you take no argument with. You slump down, back against the tunnel wall, and pause a moment while he climbs up. It's hard to formulate thoughts on what you just experienced. Necromancy is not unheard of. It's rare, sure, but it's not something of myth or fable. It's just what you weren't expecting from the natives. The stories in Alteran made them out to be large beasts without the knowledge or intellect for such magic. That's two occasions now, counting the voyage landing. Mentally you agree to block out such stories going forward. They can only result in underestimating your enemy, something many dead men are guilty of. Mid-thought the rope ladder suddenly sways back and forth. You shelve your thoughts for another time. Now you need to focus on climbing. It's not a difficult task, but you'd rather remain in the present moment to prevent a fall resulting in broken bones, or worse. Just as you came down, you intentionally go slowly to preserve strength and endurance. After several minutes, you reach the top. An outstretched palm greets you at the top, thrust through the square amount of sunlight shining through the open trap door. Palm meeting palm, you allow Corporal Redding to pull you up. Only it's not Corporal Redding. You arrive face-to-face with a soldier of Magda. Magda, the territory at the High King's heel. In contrast to the long blue overcoat of the Alteran soldier, the soldiers of Magda wear deep crimson tunics, tucked into their pants to allow for their steel breastplates to shine magnificently. You see, their hearts belong to Supreme Leader Fargrave (spit), and they will make sure their leader's property is well defended. To that effect, each wears a small hand buckler at their waist to pair with a broadsword resting on the opposite hip. This man in particular has sharp features, thin nose, a thin chin seemingly trying to stretch away from his face. His brown hair is slicked back and tied at the base of his neck. In reaction to seeing your country's rival, you allow your other hand to greet the man in return, although yours is in the form of a fist to his jaw. The man crumples to the ground. It's then that you see the rest of the company bound by rope, more soldiers standing guard nearby. Bastus appears to enjoy your shot, despite the cloth gag tied at his mouth, the approval written in his eyes. Good. At least they're still alive. Can the same be said for... Corporal Redding. He's engaged in discussion with the Madga superior officer, showing off the artifact. Since you know the man, you can tell he's doing his best not to hand over the artifact, subtly gesturing with the dagger as if it were in the hands of the officer. Then again, can you really claim that you know the man? First, the deception with the company. Second, the apparent friendliness towards the soldiers of Magda. Hopefully that's it. A betting man might toss money towards a third. You briefly entertain the idea of drawing your flintlock and firing upon the soldiers. As quickly as the thought appears, it vanishes. You know how that story ends. Two, maybe three soldiers would go down with you. Now's not the time or place for such heroics. Besides, after the left hook, the soldiers seem to rest their hands a little closer to the hilt of their broadswords. Plus, the High King never gave permission. A punch is excusable. Even a duel with swords is. But outright killing? No, that's against the rules of civilized war, especially when the Alteran leader hasn't declared it in the first place. When struggles happen between Alteran and Magda in the Old World, the import and export of POWs become their main business, minus the factories creating weapons of war, of course. The soldier you hit rises from the ground, anger visible on his face, one that is turning a crimson to match his tunic. His arm cocks back to return fire. His emotions cause him to wind up, something that all hand-to-hand combat instructors warn against. It's the easiest punch in the world to dodge, brought upon by untempered emotion and the desire to knock an opponent the fuck out. Such techniques, if you can call it that, are only effective when set up with another strike or with your opponent stunned, dazed, or bound. Two sturdy hands grab for each of your arms simultaneously, reminding you, again, of a childhood memory, pinning them against your body, soldiers unseen from behind you. You manage to twist your head to soften the blow, but it still hits, glancing off your cheek. If the man wasn't angry before, he sure as hell is now, clearly noticing your ability to slip from the solid punch. He winds up again, another slow telegraph, but it's not like you're going anywhere. "That's enough!" The man speaking to Corporal Redding silences the skirmish with two words. Instantly, the soldiers release your arms, the one in front of you bringing both hands to his sides, although you notice his fists are still clenched. The apparent leader of the Magda soldiers walks forward. He's a large man, but not overly so, possessing natural strength while, perhaps, not displaying the physique in a cut manner. In contrast to Redding's scraggly beard, the man has his trimmed short and neat, matching the way his black hair is styled. "These are our guests, Benjamin. Our allies." Benjamin, the soldier you hit protests. "But he struck first!" "Merely startled him is all," Corporal Redding interjects, much to the obvious disapproval of the leader. "The fault lies with me for not warning him ahead of time." "Is that so?" Corporal Redding now has the scrutiny of the soldiers' commanding officer, not an unusual thing by any means. What is unusual is that it's from a Fargrave loyalist. "You didn't share the plan with your most trusted soldier? What if he pulled a sidearm? What if he killed one of my men?" "One question at a time. Please, Alexander," Redding answers. "Obviously because it's my 'most trusted soldier,' I knew what his reaction would be." "He hit me," Benjamin retorts. "Did you know that would happen?" "Well?" Alexander, the leader, comes to the aid of his man. "It was a coin toss," Redding says. "And to be fair, I knew you'd hit him back, probably worse than you received. Seems I was right about that." Alexander simply shakes his head. "Redding you old bastard. You're still the same unconventional mastermind after all these years." All these years? Those two knew each other before? They must. The turning of one's coat doesn't come easily, at least not for a man like Redding who you've known for years. He's never been one for material wealth. No, he considers experience far above possessions and a heavy coin purse. Suddenly, you realize why he's taken such an interest in you over the years. It hits you like a crossbow bolt to the chest, an unexpected appearance of a lover, the news of a close friend's death. He must know your past. A family line born of Magda. That's the only explanation. Still, you resolve not to disclose damning information that isn't expressed explicitly. As soon as Alexander bargains with Frontrunner's Camp, you'll be back home, or at least the New World equivalent. Best not to whisper anything that will punch your ticket to the gallows. While POWs are easily returned back to their country, spies are hung by the neck. Battling to death in the field of battle is honorable; lying to one's neighbor and selling country secrets is much the opposite. The fact that the company is alive and witnessing everything, doesn't speak well for you--even if you might have been at odds with Benjamin. They'll be returned, spread the story of Redding and his prodigy's betrayal, and a picture of your face will be posted at every tavern, bar, and inn with the amount of money your life is deemed worth. "Now that's settled," Alexander continues, gesturing towards the Alteran company. "Form up. Ensure those ropes are tight. The garrison is stationed only a few miles from here. But still, I'd like to have a nice and peaceful march there. Can you do that for me, men?" The soldiers of Magda shout their agreement along with a salute. Despite your small scuffle, they don't tie you up. They don't take your weapons from you. Whatever arrangement Redding made must have included you as one of their turncoats, or spies, or whatever--it doesn't really matter. Compliance with Magda will result in Alteran marking you for death, and you're not exactly in the best position to refuse. Still, you're armed, and the element of surprise can turn the tide, especially if you can free the rest of the company. > You comply with Magda No, you dare not attempt any sort of rescue. The lives of the company aren't in any danger. As such, it would be the most selfish thing you could do in the current situation. You would be, essentially, putting their lives at risk in exchange for a pardon in Alteran. How could you face your countrymen, returning back to serve by their side, after doing such a thing. No. The best thing for your fellow soldiers, bound, is to play the part, keeping the lives of the company higher than that of your own. The soldiers form up. There are 17 of them total, including Alexander, which means there are 16 under his command. A few more men than in a typical Alteran company. From what you know about the two superpowers, Alteran boasts more overall soldiers. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for their numbers to be grouped at a higher number than Magda, although that's not the case--that difference is made up with the sheer number of companies, units, battalions, garrisons, etc. Smaller-knit groups of soldiers learn to work well together, and that cohesion is kept as the High King's commanders piece them together. Your mind draws to the scenario of a revolt. Outnumbered, outmatched. It likely wouldn't go well. Patience. There'll be a time for confrontation, and you'd rather it be when the soldiers of Magda think you among them, docile, like a declawed pet. The soldiers of Magda line up, four rows of four. Alexander takes the front along with Redding. They motion for you to join them. Putting on your best friendly face, you join them. (Like a declawed pet, indeed.) There it is again, the voice. You decide to answer back, in your head, of course. The situation is already dicey enough without you convincing both friendly and enemy soldiers alike that you're not quite right in the mind. Who's there? Can you hear me? Silence for a moment. You begin to feel like a fool. Then, a response. (Quite the interesting conundrum you've found ourselves in.) Ourselves? (You and I are in this together. So, yes, 'ourselves.') Who are you? (You'll find out soon enough.) With that the voice goes silent, and honestly, you're glad of that fact. You march at the front, knowing exactly what it signifies. It means you're technically the superiors of the Magda soldiers that fall in line behind you, or at the very least you're considered a "guest," "ally," whatever--the soldiers can't cross you without disobeying their commanding officer. The Magda company, along with yours, tied up and bound, travel through the overgrowth of the New World. > You make conversation The march is largely silent except for the sounds you'd expect, stomping of boots, the constant rattling of swords in their sheathes, the heavy breathing of Mada soldiers wearing full breastplates. You're glad to have nothing but leather: wearing steel while traveling through difficult terrain feels like a command gone wrong. Still, you don't know the environment. Your feeling would be the opposite if a Blackbird ambush occurred. "So, kid. You must have questions," Redding says without turning towards you. You have enough discretion to speak knowing your audience, more specifically, the Magda commanding officer standing mere feet away. "I always have questions," you say. "You know that. So we have the dagger. We've joined up with the...others. What's next?" "My, my, Redding. You do like to compartmentalize. You've been under the leadership of Alteran for far too long," Alexander comments. Redding, of course, ignores the man, even though he's the commanding officer. Old friends, they are, which affords him a long leash, not that Redding ever needed slack doing his own thing. "Surely you have some sort of idea with what I've disclosed." There's no use arguing with the man. You indulge. "We've journeyed to the New World, a place where the laws of the Old seem to be guidelines at best. We've been tasked with patrolling ancient Blackbird ruins, which I'm not certain is even an Alteran direct command at this point. But that doesn't really matter either way since news of your--our--'change of plans' will reach Frontrunner's Camp regardless. We've discovered a secret weapon in the halls of the dead, defeating its guardian in the process." "Very good. You have a firm grip on reality," Redding dryly comments. You give him the same treatment that he just gave Alexander. "There must be a different sort of war taking place on the New World soil, one that wouldn't be allowed in the Old. The rules of war differ here." "Good, good. Now keep going." "The dagger will turn the tide somehow. Without knowing exactly what it does, what it is, it's hard to say what's going to happen next. Perhaps an utter dismantling of Alteran presence in the New World, although that may be thinking too large a scale." Redding and Alexander glance at one another. Redding speaks first. "Told you he was worth having." "Indeed you did," Alexander idly says. They don't share any further detail, but their approval must mean that you're spot-on with your speculation. The rest of the journey is traveled in silence, save for the sounds of boots, swords, and breathing. > The Magda garrison Alexander wasn't lying when he said the garrison was close. It doesn't even take a day's journey before it appears. In a section of the forest that loosens up on density, the New World Magda garrison joins the scattered trees with large wooden walls. Unlike Frontrunner's, which holds true to its camp-like layout, the garrison boasts sturdy walls, fashioned from layers of sharpened timber. Those daring enough to climb them risk impalement as the walls are like that of shark teeth, several rows, the next rising a bit higher than the previous. Your instant reaction is that the Magda presence in the New World is much more established than the Alterans. Either that or they have the appearance of it, which is almost as good in your opinion. The color of the walls are the same as the jungle that surrounds it, likely meaning the clearing was man-made. Trees felled in order to be carved, sharpened, and placed exactly where their roots are currently decomposing in the dirt beneath. A horn rings through the trees, a deep rumble like a wild animal challenging another. One of the soldiers behind you answers with his own. Much more established indeed. The gate to the garrison is reinforced wood. Upon your return horn, voices shout from within the fort, commands being issued. A moment later the gate draws up, men from inside turning a pulley system. "Put them in the dungeon," Alexander waves to a group of soldiers in greeting. They salute, and take the bound and gagged Alterans to an unseen location. "You two. Come with me." He doesn't wait to see if you're following. Alexander turns and takes off through the garrison. Redding, shrugging towards you, follows closely behind. Without any immediate superiors watching, you allow a sigh to escape your lips, one that's been building for several hours now. The prisoner exchange better happen sooner than later. You're not thrilled with the idea of your fellow soldiers remaining behind bars. Just because they are spared their lives, doesn't mean the holding situation is any level of comfortable. The inside of the garrison is filled with many buildings built from the same wood. They're square, compact. Most of the windows are simply open, metal bars running across as to prevent unwanted entry, similar to the way the walls are sharpened. If there's one thing for certain, the Magda garrison is controlling about who they let in or out. Several groups of crimson-clad soldiers, decked with steel breastplates, march by. You roughly estimate the garrison holds a little more than half of the population of Frontrunner's, but they're obviously more supplied and defended, each leader of the Old World having different avenues of conquest in the New. The next day your meeting with Alexander continues. Reuniting in the courtyard, he, once again, expects you and Redding to follow him. After passing by more buildings, Alexander stops at one, compact and square like the others, only this one is composed of many stories. There's at least five, six of them, each level probably not more than two rooms each by looks of the foundation. Makes sense. Space is limited inside a fort. If you can't build out, you build up. Alexander nods at the soldier posted at the door, a man with a jaw as square as the building he's guarding. The soldier offers no friendly nod to you or Redding, merely stares at your approach. The three of you enter inside. Soft magelight greets you with a crimson glow, matching the shade of the Magda tunic. It's a library. Bookshelves line the walls and fill the center in rows. Off to the far wall rest a few small desks, each with a small mage lamp sitting on top. The library is partially populated. Scribes by the look of it. Rather than steel breastplates, the inhabitants wear flowing robes, most with small gold-rimmed spectacles hanging from the tip of their nose. They pay you no mind; their research takes all of their attention. "Up here," Alexander whispers, as not to disturb the peace, motioning towards a ladder. Seems a staircase takes up too much room. The three of you climb a, coincidentally, three stories before stepping into a mostly open room, this one built like a study. A large desk takes the center. Surrounding it are, of course, bookshelves and open cabinets to store loose scrolls. "This used to be the top floor, my personal study, "Alexander explains with more volume to his voice. "But we needed more room, and thus, a few more stories were added. Command still can't believe I didn't move to the top floor." If there's any influence of Redding on the man, there it is. You silently wonder if more will be revealed as you get to know the man. Alexander sits down behind the desk, his large frame keeping up with the piece of furniture. The man himself, Redding, spots a small table at the far end of the study with a wine pitcher. He strides over and pours two cups, handing one to you, knowing that Alexander would refuse the offer. Cup in hand, you settle into the two guest seats, large lounge chairs, occupying the front of the desk. "Show it to me again," Alexander speaks again. Redding shifts, drawing the dagger from his belt. Ravenblack. Winged-shaped handle. He sets it on the desk in front of him, noticeably not sliding it across towards Alexander. With the same unenthusiastic reaction that you held, Alexander continues speaking. "It doesn't look like much. This is what those natives have been throwing their lives at to protect?" "Even the lives of those already fallen." Redding answers. "But they dare not disturb the ruins. Luckily, I'm--we're--not bound by such superstition." "How does it work?" Alexander asks. "You'll find out soon enough," Redding says with a grin, one that quickly fades. "No. You'll show me now." (To be used for party tricks, am I?) Straight-faced you ignore the voice. (Your commander is in for a surprise.) He's not a commander; he's a corporal. (So he does know how to answer.) Redding and the voice are interrupted. A Magda runner, out of breath, enters the study. Young boy with a face a similar shade of red as his tunic. "They're gathering again. More than we've seen before." Alexander waves his hand dismissively. "Take the 12th and 19th. Two should be enough to handle a simple raiding party." "Sir, I don't think you realize. It's not a raiding party. It's a war party." > Blackbird war party "Alright, son. You have my attention. Spill it all out," Alexander commands. "Outer scouts have caught sight of a large number of Blackbirds, much larger than any raiding party we've come across so far. "Yes, yes. You said that already, boy. How many are there?" "Scoutleader Prinn discovered them. They snuck through our first perimeter, somehow. They meld into the forest, even with such a large amount." (Prinn!) You notice he's not "Scholar" or "Scribe" Prinn. "How many, boy. I won't ask again." "At least a thousand," the messenger whispers. His voice slightly cracks with the word. "Gods. They must have unified tribes." "So," Corporal Redding starts. "You wanted me to demonstrate the artifact..." "Looks like you'll get the opportunity in a practical setting. You two," Alexander points at Redding and you. "Change out of that Alteran garb. We don't need any accidents on the battlefield. Find the quartermaster. Tell him I sent you. And you, boy," Alexander turns to the messenger. "Run to Lieutenant Benjamin at the gate. Tell him to hold and await my orders." With a salute, the messenger leaves. You and Redding take off after him down the ladder. You find that you've had your fill of ladders for the near future. The messenger points out the quartermaster's post before heading for the gate. Soldiers are running about in pairs to join their formations. It's not a unique system; each soldier has a designation "war companion" to help with armor, ensure each other gets to formation in time, etc. Command can't keep track of every individual soldier, so that task is delegated between the soldiers themselves. The fort must have been warned of your arrival, but stil, many passing Magda soldiers give you strange looks, no doubt looking at your Alteran uniform. You enter the quartermaster's post, a small square building, unsurprisingly, and a burly man with a thick chestnut moustache greets you with the barrel of a flintlock, clicking the hammer back almost as soon as the door closes. "Gods, you startled me, gentlemen," the quartermaster speaks through a voice that is present in taverns everywhere. "You must be Captain Alexander's 'associates.' What'll it be, uni, weapons, armor?" "Just the tunics for now. And any leather you have lying around," Redding answers. "Leather, hmm. I might have some lying around," the quartermaster rubs his chin. "Are you sure you don't want steel?" "The leather will work fine," you reinforce Redding's request. "Alright then. It'll work fine until an arrow pierces right through. I'll see what I've got, hmm." The quartermaster leaves into an open doorway behind him, likely equipment storage. A little while later, which feels a lot longer than it actually was given the present circumstance, he returns with two crimson tunics and boiled-leather chestplates, along with matching bracers. "See how these fit." You drop the deep blue overcoat, now in less-than-pristine condition after trudging through the jungle, not to mention the Blackbird halls of the dead. The tunic slides on easily enough, although its shade is a bit too bright for your liking. Like the other soldiers, you tuck the tunic into your trousers and slide the armor on top, your longsword being the finishing touch, traveling from right shoulder to left hip. "It'll have to do," the quartermaster ponders aloud, still rubbing his chin in thought. "At the very least you don't have to worry about one of your allies stabbing you in the back by accident." He laughs, yet you remain straight-faced. The implication of the joke, although unintentional, is clear to a man who just discarded his soldier's uniform for another. "Now off with you. There's no savages to kill here." Looking the part of the Magda soldier, you leave the quartermaster's office. Alexander didn't give you official orders, but there's only one place to be. The war party gathers outside the fort. You follow the soldiers gathering near the gate. Horns, possessing a similar cry as during your arrival, ring in the air, filling in the gaps between boots crunching the earth underneath. A sea of red washes towards the gate, the dam, battle-ready. Somber is the mood, the thing of seasoned warriors. There's no excitement. No one who's tasted battle yearns for it, at least those who still carry the mind of a sane man. Not having strict orders, a command, a unit--you name it, you and Redding take position near the eastern wall, at the corner, where it connects with the main gate. You stand still for a moment, not wanting to be in anyone's way, then you notice space on the rampart. A switchback staircase later (you're surprised it's not a ladder) and you find yourself overlooking the would-be battlefield. It's not a clear view; the forest blocks most of your view. Then like the creeping blackness of dawn, they appear. Shadows, the figure of men, creep from behind trees, ducking underneath vines. Unlike the Blackbird woman you found

yourself face-to-face with, every instinct screams enemy! Sinister, they are. A formless mass of warriors. Even from your vantage they appear large in stature. Rumors tend to embellish; not in this case. Like the stories say, the natives stand a full head taller than the average Alteran. Suddenly, the light leather you wear doesn't seem as protective. Still, it's the armor you're used to fighting in. You're silently glad that the company is locked up away from sight. One, they are bound and defenseless. Two, they can't see you wearing the colors of the High King's rival. The sea of soldiers part, and Alexander strides forward, his feathered steel helm underneath one armpit. On the ramparts, archers still survey the battlefield, although you can tell their focus is on their captain as well, like the trained ears of a mother when a child acts out. Their arrows are nocked but not yet drawn. Alexander takes the staircase, and at the top, a figure meets him. You're surprised you didn't see him before. Unlike the other soldiers, the figure is dressed in a forest green cloak, which boasts a sizable collar, rising to the tip of the figure's nose. A bow and quiver lies on the figure's back, one of fine craftsmanship, far past the quality of the archers next to you. Alexander addresses the soldiers. Seems a speech before battle is a custom in Magda as well. "Men of the Supreme Leader, today you will bring honor to Magda. You've fought and defeated the savages of this land many times already. There may be a greater number of them now, an entire war party, but that makes your victory for the Supreme Leader even greater. The first victory has already been won. They expected to find us unawares. They thought they could show up on our doorstep and barge inside. That is not the case, the furthest thing from the case. Scoutleader Prinn here (Alexander puts his hand on a green cloaked shoulder) discovered the savages' plot, tracked them. Scoutleader-- --Prinn takes another look at your crudely drawn battle plans in the dirt. It's nothing more than a simple line with an arrow pointing in its side, signaling "ambush." "I don't know," he says, adjusting his glasses. "It might just piss them off even more." Your younger self smiles. "Interesting choice of words there. Oh it will piss them off for sure." "And you're sure it won't come back on us?" "You mean splash damage?" "You know what I mean." "Fairly certain. You're the one that built the pressure plates anyway." You sigh. "We'll be wearing masks. Unless they catch us and tear them from our face, they'll never know. They'll assume, sure. But they won't have any evidence. Prinn smiles. "Let's just hope there aren't any in-depth investigations as to the series of chamber pots that have gone missing. 'Constable Marburry And The Case Of The Missing Chamber Pot.'" Childlike laughter escapes your lips. "How the hell are you the smartest in our class?" "Because it's filled with students like yourself." You throw a punch into the boy's shoulder. "They should be coming down here soon. Kelle always takes this route after lecture to save time." The two of you, wearing green cloaks to blend in with the forest, hunker down behind a tree. A silence ensues, one that often appears before combat, not that you recognized it at the time. A little while later footsteps, faintly, fill the forest air, growing louder with each step. Kelle and his two goons come into view, wearing their school robes. "Ready?" you whisper to Prinn, sliding a black cloth mask over your face. "I think so," is his reply, also covering his face. Your hands grab for the basket of spoiling vegetables sitting next to you, a squishy tomato ends up in your palm, a rotten apple in Prinn's. Motioning your head to signal now! the two of you break from your hiding place, arms cocked back like a professional Runball player. Shock. Freeze. Kelle and his two goons don't know how to react to the sudden ambush, another lesson you would learn in the military. Your tomato explodes in a splash of red, leaving a juicy impact on Kelle's robes, the splash damage hitting his face as well. That seems to bring them back to reality, just in time for Prinn's rotten apple to hit one of the goons, splattering like a wine jar falling from the table. Surprise turns to anger. "You both are dead!" Kelle shouts. You take the chance to throw another rotting vegetable his way before turning and high-tailing it deeper into the forest, Prinn already far ahead. Your vision becomes a blur of trees, leaves, and branches, coming into existence just in time for you to blow by. Your breath is heavy. But still you run, adrenaline pumping through your veins, scared, yet thrilled at the rush of emotion, half of them you probably couldn't even describe. This is true living, not sticking your nose in a book for ten hours a day. You run the course, Kelle after you, not knowing the designed route. You pass by a sturdy oak, then a sapling, then a fallen tree. The fallen tree. It lies across the path, covering the other side, framed by overhanging branches. A perfect tunnel. A perfect place for a trap. Instead of leaping over the fallen trunk, you use your momentum to kick off the trunk. Your body flies high in the air, far quicker than when you practiced--a result of fearing for your life versus simply training. There's a sturdy branch off to the side of the path, one whose sister branch bears a series of chamber pots that "mysteriously" went missing from the school. Before you have time to register your flight, your chest smacks into the branch, and you barely manage to wrap your arms around it. As you pull yourself up, the pressure of your grip shaves bark from the branch, and like a loose handhold for a rock climber, it goes tumbling down to the ground, you soon to be shortly after-- --A hand clasps with yours. Prinn! He's already in the tree, one arm outstretched, his blonde curls in his eyes, but he does not dare attempt to adjust it. He's not strong enough to pull you up, but he halts your downward momentum, allowing you to slowly climb back up. Before you can thank him, footsteps, pressure plate. The mechanism tethered to the sister branch flips, and several, full, chamber pots overturn, spilling their contents onto three young boys below. First, again, surprise. Then rage, far beyond the reaction to rotten vegetables thrown their way, rage in only a way a young boy can express with the inability to formulate coherent sentences, simply guttural sounds mixed with tears, the rage of a boy who doesn't understand the present situation, yet feels white hot blood pumping through his veins. Thick brown liquid slides down the side of Kelle's face, mixing with tears. Their rage causes them to pick up rocks. While you threw soft, spoiling fruit, they choose fist-sized stones, upping the ante. Like a thick hailstorm, a wave of projectiles fly towards you. Exposed, without anywhere to hide, you're a victim to their assault. One hits you in the shoulder, another glances from your forehead. Prinn gets the same treatment. If you stay put, you're dead, so to speak. If you jump, at least there's a running chance. Silently you curse, using a word that you've heard your father whisper when he thought he was alone. Your plan ended with dumping the chamber pot contents on Kelle. Damn you for not thinking past that. With a cry, Prinn falls from the branch, a large rock doing more than glancing from his brow, his mask knocked from his face, glasses, cracked and bent, knocked from his head. Prinn! --and it's because of his bravery, and loyalty to our Supreme Leader Fargrave that we are prepared to meet the savages head-on. Gods bless the Scoutleader Prinn. Gods bless Supreme Leader Fargrave. Gods bless Magda!" Alexander's speech ends and draws you from the memory. The Scoutleader, Prinn, standing next to Alexander looks nothing like the scrawny boy you remember. You wonder if he'll recognize you. Probably not. It's been many years, just over a decade. People change. They attempt to keep up with the wheel of time, putting up a good fight, but never end up victorious. Over the years it weighs on a person. They grow wrinkled and ache in places they've never noticed before. It happens to a degree when leaving childhood behind, and is magnified tenfold in less than that many decades. The man that stands before you is proud and strong, confident, the exact opposite of his childhood self. His blonde hair is buzzed and there's no sign of his glasses. After his speech, Alexander meets with several of his officers. Prinn's gaze lands on you. (Is that recognition?) He strides atop the ramparts to where you and Redding stand. You notice his eyes don't shift from side to side, they don't watch his boots as he walks. They are focused directly on his targets: you. Prinn stops just in front of you. Up close you see he wears light leather underneath his cloak, and his belts--one at his waist two across the chest--are covered with pockets for storing small items. Gone is his boyhood face, replaced with a hardened face of a man who's faced the realities of combat. He does not introduce himself, speaking a question is more of a statement. "You possess the artifact." "The one and only," Redding answers. "Good. We'll have a...special assignment in the battle. Come with me." > You go with him Prinn leads you back down the switchback staircase. As your foot hits the last step, you hear the distinct sound of bowstring thwungs! a volley of arrows sent raining down on the gathering natives. If you didn't experience the rough landing to the New World that you did, you would think them foolish and unprepared for the battle. From your brief glimpse on the ramparts, they didn't appear to have any siege weapons with them, nor (ugh) ladders to scale the walls of the fort. Still, somehow they managed to sink Alteran vessels moving in the water. A stationary fort, though with strong walls, may be at the mercy of such firepower. And despite Magda's well-equipped garrison, you didn't see any cannons or counter-siege weapons of their own. They may have a defensive fort, but their power is severely lacking. An Alteran fort of this size would have no less than 10 guns pointing down the road to the single gate. Sticks and stones may break bones, but cannonfire puts an end to the discussion. Back through the main yard, past a few square buildings, Prinn silently leads you without a word. Redding doesn't seem to be willing to break the silence either, likely both are listening to the battle sounds, determining the events by sound alone. Another thwung! A second volley is loosed at the natives. They'll be cut down before even reaching the garrison walls. Finally, Prinn stops at an, uncoincidentally, square building. He opens the single door, and waves you inside. The battle sounds are deadened here. It's the top level of a jail. A lone Maga soldier sits behind a table next to a reinforced locked door. The soldier looks up upon your arrival, his face glowing orange from the single candle burning on the table, dangerously close to a thick ledger. If this is the dungeon where the company is being kept, it's aptly named. "Appointment," the guard speaks. "Prinn, Scoutleader, two guests," Prinn states back. "Mhm. Mmhmm. Ah," the guard scans the ledger with one finger, oblivious to the battle happening just outside the front door. "Here we are. Prinn, Scoutleader. Two guests." The guard stands, a long drawn-out sigh escaping his lips. From his belt, he pulls a sizable keyring. You imagine if one more key were placed on the ring, it would burst apart. However, the guard pulls the exact one he's looking for with the first draw. He unlocks the door, and like Prinn just moments ago, waves you inside. "Enjoy your stay. Two feet from the cells, please." The three of you enter the dungeon. You notice the door gets locked behind you. Worst comes to worst and you need a way out, it won't be the way you just came. Somehow you think a "guest" doesn't have much leverage behind locked doors. Prinn grabs a torch hanging on the wall, a normal burning one, unlike the one you carried in the halls of the dead. Shadows dance just out of reach as you're led down the narrow corridor. Cell doors pass on either side, the torch highlighting their barred frames. Most are empty. Some have thin creatures squatting in the corner, which you catch mere glimpses of, far away from the door itself. The dungeon is orderly, so much in fact that the High King might tip his crown to the way it's run. Whoever resides here has long since been conditioned not to approach anyone walking out their door. Still, you don't take any chances and keep more than an arm's reach away. Upon reaching the final cell door, Prinn reaches inside his cloak and produces a key. It's not one he gained from the jailer as you never saw them exchange any such thing. The cell creaks open, disturbing the ominous quiet, yet adding to the uneasy feeling that's accompanying such a place as this. Prinn strides inside, and you can only keep following. "So this's what's become of you, eh?" You turn to find Bastus leaning against his cell door, directly across from the one that Prinn opened. His beard is matted with some sort of liquid, too thick to be water. It's been but a day, and yet the man looks entirely different than he did the previous morning. Only dressed in a loincloth, the large man looks thinner than before. Your mind tells you weight isn't lost that easy, but your eyes see another story. You choose your words carefully as Redding and Prinn are within listening distance. "I do as I must. That's all any man can do." Laughter spills from within the beard. It causes liquid to shake from Bastus' chin, like a mongrel after retrieving a bone from a body of water. "The lie told by a traitor, the one he tells himself is true." You do not know what to say. Any defense will raise questions with Prinn and Redding. The thought briefly enters your mind that you could drop them now; the Alteran standard flintlock is double-barreled, after all. You could then lead the company back to Frontrunner's Camp with the Magda garrison busy dealing with the Blackbirds. No. For the same reason you didn't risk escape earlier. Bastus may be treated poorly, but his life isn't at risk. The murder of two Magda members would set the garrison aflame with burning vengeance. They would hunt you down. Better to wait for the POW exchange. Do things the proper way. For now, you'll just have to endure and carry on as normal. (Quite the young hero we have here. I wonder if they would do the same in your position.) Doesn't matter. (Oh it matters, whether you're willing to admit it or not.) As you enter the cell, you leave Bastus with final words. "There is much that happens outside our narrow view." You cross into the open doorway, Bastus cackling at your back, likely more liquid sprayed in the air. The cell is meant for one, maybe two prisoners. It's empty, however, save for your two companions. Chains hang from the wall, a pair of them, answering the question of how many prisoners would occupy it. The walls are square stones. So far, the dungeon has been the only structure in the garrison built from more than lumber. Steel reinforced doors and cell walls; now stone, as the interior. Which begs the question, why are we-- "You're probably wondering why we're here," Prinn says, barely louder than a whisper, the voice two parents would make over a sleeping child. "There's an escape route of sorts dug into these walls. It leads to an underground tunnel that will take us just beyond the assembling natives." "I didn't think the glorious scoutleader would be interested in running from a battle," Redding digs. "You misunderstand," Prinn answers, taking the opposite approach of Redding. "Which is the most effective way to swing a sword?" You've heard the saying before. "When your enemy least expects it." Prinn nods. "Exactly." Then his eyes narrow. "Have we met before?" Panic floods through your body. As with any lie, the words must be spoken with full confidence. "I think I'd remember meeting a scoutleader in the Supreme Leader's military." "And I a turncoat to his country." (Shouldn't he be more happy with the color of your coat?) Infinitely so. (He meant it as an insult.) I'm well aware. (Why didn't you tell him of your past?) The company is within earshot. Besides, the past is the past. Besides, why am I answering you? (Because you're used to me in your head.) Not a reassuring thought--words--whatever. You suppose the voice is right. It does feel more normal, at least as normal as a mysterious voice in your head can be. Hopefully the "conversations" stay normal, and you don't have the voice tempting you to commit a deed that will end up putting your body in a place such as this, permanently. The click of a switch, and one section of the wall reveals a small tunnel. Prinn goes first, Redding closely behind. As you enter, leaving the company behind locked up, you silently hope there aren't any more ladders that await you, although reality has a funny way of spoiling the wine in your wineskin. > You Continue There's only enough space to travel single file, so you take your place in the rear. The tunnel is barely high enough for you to walk without crouching, though that's mostly because your head is in a constant dip. After a while, the strain starts to tense up your neck, like that of sleeping at an awkward angle. One foot in front of the other, matching the pace of the boots in front of you, your mind starts to wander... He falls from the branch, just out of reach from your grasp. Your childhood hand swipes at the open air. He falls gazing up at you, mouth wide open in a mixture of horror, surprise, and pain, both hands outstretched for your hand that missed by a fair margin. With a deadening smack, Prinn meets the forest floor like a pile of books discarded after a long lecture. His glasses, broken and cracked, hang loosely from the tip of his nose, the rock knocking his mask completely from his face. Three boys approach your fallen friend. Three boys, riled beyond all belief, revenge on their minds. Righteous revenge. The damage they mean to inflict is warranted. Justified. You see it in their eyes, glossy and unfocused on anything but Prinn's fallen body. A flintlock could fire a few feet away, and it wouldn't register in their minds. It's your plan that brought you here; the damage to Prinn, on you. Your boots hit the ground next to your fallen friend. "Knowing the runt's identity is as good as knowing yours," Kelle speaks, his words like a blacksmith's flame. "You'll get yours too." You pull the mask from your face. Your young mind is aware of what must take place next, and the face covering will only get in the way, blocking out portions of your peripheral vision. Slowly, Prinn rolls over and pushes himself up, managing to stand by bracing himself on one of your arms. "Dareisay, Kelle, piss on your cheek, shit in your hair, and it only improves your looks." In a situation such as this, only Prinn would offer insults. Though to be fair, he offers them in almost any situation. Reminded of the chamber pots, rather than the identity reveal, Kelle's teeth grimace, both hands balling into fists, joined by four others. You raise your own fists defensively. "Come on then. Unless you're scared." That angers Kelle more than Prinn's jab. Nothing sets a young boy who fancies himself a young man off like calling him afraid. Good. As one yourself, you're not surprised when Kelle charges forward, abandoning his superior numbers to a reckless rage. He winds up to throw all his power into a single right hand, telegraphing it in the process. Even untrained boys are able to dodge something as that, which you, in fact, are. Kelle's arm swings high. You duck underneath and pivot to the side, managing to shove Prinn out of the way in time. Kelle's charge takes him past you, back exposed, and for a brief moment everything is clear. You're aware of each of your opponents as well as Prinn, who probably couldn't take any on his own. The only way out is to end the skirmish quickly. Otherwise, the boys would regroup and use their superior numbers and strength. It's not honorable. It's not pretty. You surely wouldn't brag about it afterward. You muster all your strength into a single kick. Your shin lands in-between Kelle's legs. Kelle's hands reactively grab for his crotch as he crumples to the ground, fetal, knees tucked into his chest. Before you can celebrate your victory, as minor as it is, Kelle's goons rush to his aid. If you took the time, you're sure you could remember their actual names, but their importance is equal to the amount of time you spent remembering. They're followers, lifelong "yes" men, too afraid to speak their mind, hiding behind their leader's power and pretending it's their own. But still, they're boys, boys who bear the same rage from your prank, boys who are larger than you and Prinn. One of them tackles Prinn to the ground in a flurry of dust, the contents of the chamber pot mixing with Prinn's cloak and exposed skin. The other heads directly for you meaning to use the same tactic, strength over skill, both of which you are severely lacking as a boy. Your enemy charges, both arms outstretched to wrap you up. He's a wild animal, a crazed bull, a body long absent from his mind, thanks to the ambush. His thoughts are primal. He sees a threat, and he charges, giving his own well-being not a second thought. Before the boy can reach you, a match is lit within your mind. Within the timeframe, less even, of a single step towards you, a new feeling overwhelms your senses in a rush, like standing on a rooftop and feeling the wind against your body. The present moment may suggest you're in the wrong, dumping waste on top of three boys, but the struggle started long ago, and not by you or Prinn. Kelle and his goons have been a thorn, no, more than a thorn in your side for the entire year; they've been a bramble thicket growing rampantly across your path. There's but one remedy: they must be cut out, uprooted. A fire burns within you, not as untamed flames in a forest devouring all in grasp. It's a focused beam of energy, a harnessed energy that you can draw from, tuning the mind and pouring strength to your limbs. Rage fills your body, and unlike the three boys, you master it, control it. The rage serves you, not the other way around. You bend it to your will the way a horse tamer breaks a wild stallion. You may not be the smartest, nor the physically strongest either. But the fire burns, stoked to last far greater than any other. The intelligent are powerless when they encounter someone more intelligent, the strong with someone stronger. You are not burdened by such flaws. The boy closes within striking range. You keep a sturdy base in your feet. At the last second, you tuck your chin and line your forehead up with the bridge of the boy's nose. A sickening crunch echoes, even above the sounds of the skirmish. A geyser of red appears on the boy's face, mixing with the contents of the chamber pot. His momentum still carries into you, however, and the two of you go tumbling to the ground. The fire focuses you. Before you even hit the ground, you're scratching, throwing short punches. After a few rolls, both of you trying to gain the upper hand, you end up on top. Like with Kelle, you feel the need to end it quickly. Your left hand holds the boy's throat, holding his head steady, your right winds up, telegraphed, but your target isn't going anywhere. Pain explodes into your knuckles. The boy's eyes roll back in his head. You raise your fist again, meaning to rain down another devastating blow, one to an unconscious opponent. Prinn's cry draws you from the act. Arm cocked, you turn to find Prinn pinned down, the other goon blasting ape-like fists down both at once. By now Prinn's glasses are a crumpled mess, twisted, bent, and shattered nearly beyond recognition. A deep sound resonates through your throat, primal, the tone not needing coherent words to infer its meaning. You imitate the rush of the three boys, charging head down, arms propelling you to greater impact. Your shoulder drives into the boy's side, knocking him from Prinn. Your arms reactively reach down as you land, giving yourself two handfuls of dirt and fallen leaves from the forest floor, the leaves dead and scratchy in your open palms, which, naturally, you use to greet the boy's exposed face. Blinded, coughing, he tries to locate you with his arms. You easily step past them, rising to your feet and sending a foot into his gut. And another. And another. Finally, you finish by kicking more dirt into his face. "It's over!" you hear Kelle shout. He's managed to recover from your kick, and stands holding Prinn by the back of his hair. That's not what catches your eye, however. What does, is a heart-sized stone raised overhead. Over Prinn's head. "One more move and I pound the little runt's face into oblivion. He's almost as bad at fighting as you are with exams." "Put the rock down," you try to state calmly. You notice a slight tinge to your voice and hope Kelle didn't catch it. "Fat chance. You're going to watch." Terror seizes your body, overtaking the rage that beset you earlier. "Watch what?" Grinning, Kelle says, "On your knees, runt." Prinn complies with a small amount of help from Kelle. The hand holding Prinn's hair releases for a moment, but Prinn doesn't move. The rock still threatens from above. Kelle reaches inside his robe, and although it's hidden from behind Prinn's head, you know exactly what he pulled out. Kelle's grin grows wider as the sound of water dripping fills the sudden silence. Prinn's face is a combination of disgust and shame; it's a shade of red deeper than being tongue-twisted speaking to a girl. Kelle intentionally sprays a little to the side of Prinn's head, making sure to get some on his ears and cheeks. You watch, helpless to help your friend. Kelle ends with a shake. "Next time I'll save some for you." The deed done, the fighting over, the victors apparent, the two goons gather themselves and limp to Kelle. They suffered more damage than you or Prinn, but sometimes victory isn't by raw damage alone. A defeated morale makes for an easy opponent, it's the wind taken from their sails, the breath from full lungs. You don't really know what to say. There are no words that are comforting in a situation such as this. All you can do is offer Prinn a hand to his feet. Prinn meets your eyes, and you see a look you've never seen in the boy's face. It's the face of an adult that learns he's unable to provide food for his family, the face of a slave facing the gallows, the face of a boy who just was pissed on in full view of his best friend. The constant jokes, even when inappropriate, are long gone. The book-smart intelligence, top of the class smarts, served him no purpose in a fist fight, the grim reality of that fact settles on Prinn's face. His name may be at the top of the list, but the boy himself is vulnerable. "Never again," he whispers. The tunnel opens through a small door, about half the size of a man, hidden by shrubbery at the base of a small creek. Bright green, though slightly dulled by the low light, bursts into your vision. At least there aren't any ladders. Scoutleader Prinn shuts the door and pulls a padlock from the inside of his cloak. First a key, then a lock--you wonder what else is hidden inside. The creek is almost peaceful. Water runs (the shame on his face) at a comforting level, the kind that soothes a child to sleep. Smooth white stones peek through the top of the water, their size revealing to the water's depth, grassy moss spreading across the surface of each. "Is it safe to have such a tunnel lead into the garrison?" you ask. "And the trespasser would do what? Lock himself in jail?" Prinn answers, the humor from his voice long gone--by many years if you had to guess. "Yeah, forget the obviously unguarded entry into your fort," you utter to yourself. Both men ignore the comment. Prinn looks towards the canopy. "We haven't much time. I hope you're ready to put that thing to use." Redding flips the dagger in his palm. "More than." "Very good. This way then." You follow the route that Prinn climbs, stepping on the same stones as you leave the creek behind. In another time, it would be a relaxing place to spend an afternoon, especially with the company of ale and a woman. But now that's the furthest thing from your mind. Back in the New World wilderness, you find yourself wishing that you weren't given the crimson tunic of Magda. For one, it sticks out like a soldier in the wrong formation. For two, the long Alteran overcoat is better suited for the elements. Through the forest you go, led by the scoutleader. It's hard not to notice the way he carries himself in the environment opposed to Redding, for example. It's less of a military march, more of a casual stroll. Part of it could be that there are only three of you, not an entire company of soldiers, but you imagine Prinn would have the same manner whether he were alone or had a thousand men behind him. Comfortability. Ease. Prinn travels as if the forest were his bunkhouse. Being a scout, that's often the case. As you continue, the sounds of battle fade back into existence. They start light, like footsteps off in the distance growing louder with each step forward. "We're going to flank an entire war party as three men?" you whisper. Prinn turns, and for the first time since you've seen him, he has the semblance of a smile. It's not quite yet a grin, however. Just the beginning of one. Prinn simply points up towards the canopy above. You glance up to find 13, maybe 15 pairs of eyes staring back at you. They're at least several stories up. Like their scoutleader, the rest of the Magda scouts wear a forest green cloak and carry bows. Unknowing to you, they had been escorting you the entire way, lightly jumping between tree branches. Still, the fact remains. "We're going to flank an entire war party as fifteen men?" you adjust your questioning. "Not quite. We're going to shadow them to their camp. We haven't been able to find where they travel from. I've been all over the area, and there's no sign of their tribes, not to mention an entire war party, stopping anywhere." "The dagger is bait," Redding says. "You knew the Blackbirds would be upset by our...claim of the artifact." The scoutleader nods. "And we assumed, right, that they would send numbers to retrieve it. We've pulled them out of hiding, and they'll take us back to their camp. Then they'll face the full might of Magda." "Then why are we here?" you ask. "If it's the artifact the Blackbirds want, then it's out here, exposed, far from the safety of the fort. We aren't trackers, nor expert woodsmen. It seems risky to include us on a mission you're more than capable of handling yourselves." (Such boldness. Never afraid to speak your mind, are you?) "Captain Alexander thought it best," Prinn says with a sigh. "You might wear the colors of Magda, but there may still be questionable feelings among the soldiers. I heard about your run-in with the lieutenant, Benjamin." "But still," you answer. "The dagger is bait. Usually with bait a trap is waiting to be sprung. We're exposed," you say for a second time. "Orders are orders," Prinn replies. Besides, the war party is currently busy throwing themselves at the garrison. They'll be too distracted, with their tails tucked between their legs, to be aware of us. Enough talk. We draw close." No more words are shared. The three of you, along with the scouts above, creep forward, taking extra caution now that you're near to the Blackbird war party. You use the overgrowth to your advantage, never stepping out into the open air. There's always another area of cover to hide behind, and you allow yourself to bounce between cover to cover. Wind rustles through the trees, the creaking of branches holding against the unseen element, sounding not unlike the way a galleon settles into the water. Now that you're aware of them, you recognize the sound as the scouts, although the tiny sound they make blends in with the environment. You can almost make them out through the trees now. Shadowy figures standing taller than any Alteran, their backs turned towards you. Their armor is crude. It's a kind of leather far thinner than the one you currently wear. You wonder how fearsome a Blackbird would be donned in full plate, swords and arrows useless against the heavy armor. Luckily, their "armor" can barely be classified as such. Tromping through the forest, you understand why, not to mention they probably have no engineers or inventors like a civilized society boasts. Suddenly, a pair of boots lands between the three of you, a whirl of green follows like a flag raised to the top of a pole. One of Prinn's scouts. "Sir, the Blackbirds..." "The Blackbirds what, soldier?" Prinn narrows his eyes. "They've broken through the main gate." (Out of the frying pan, into the war party?) "Gods," Prinn curses. "Orders, sir?" "There's no sense in learning of their camp's location if there is no garrison to counter attack. We come to their aid." "The fifteen of us?" you interject. "Sixteen, actually," Prinn corrects. It doesn't bring any relief. > War! They thought they were safe behind their walls. They thought their shiny armor would protect them. Fools. The Raven is above the craftsmanship in which they take pride in. They are godless men, outsiders from across the Great Sea. The Harri'ar treat them as such. When a tiger preys on your livestock, it must be put down. The tiger thinks itself a mighty predator until the very moment of its slaying. When the spear is raised high, only then does it understand. The same goes for the invaders. Trespassers, defiliers. The Veil protected the warriors, a gift of magic from the Raven itself. The faith of their people rewarded them. Arrows fall harmlessly to the side, same for javelins. The men at the walls don't possess any of the black smoke, large cylinders exploding in a burst of fire and smoke, tearing destruction through all in its path. No, these ones only possess simple weapons, and they do not know them like the Harri'ar. A warrior is a warrior despite the weapon in his hand. The outsiders feign as warriors, using black smoke and sharpened steel as their strength. Left without either and they are but jungle vines to be cut from the Harri'ar path. Fire from Father Sun Himself tore through their walls like a rock dropped into a pond, rippling, spreading flaming destruction. Let them hide behind their walls now. Their safety, like their gods, are false. Bodies thrown from the crumbling gate, soldiers frantically trying to douse the flames. The high priests in their--in our--collective faith brought victory. Still, they mustered a defence, small men listening to the shouts of their chieftains. Horns sung in the battlefield, their sound bringing meaning to the invaders. Let them try. Let them struggle. Let them die. The Blackbird war party is entirely in the clearing, the area where the Magda garrison cut down the forest to mere stumps. You're able to creep to the very edge of the treeline without encountering any warriors. They're all concerned with attacking the keep and have not posted guards at their rear. Bodies clash. The ground is littered with countless bodies already. Like the trees, they've been cut down, also becoming stumps in many cases. And the day is still young. Like the sun high in the sky, a massive hole exists where the gate once did, its edges a reddish orange. The sight of the fiery impact draws you back to the voyage, fire raining down from above, ships sinking down to the ocean floor below. (It's almost time.) Countless bodies on the ground, countless more still breathing, attacking. Like sand running through an hourglass, the Blackbird warriors pour through the narrow opening of the gate, through the blast, the wind caused by their rush helping keep the flames alive. It's not the most thought-out plan. It's not by bravery or a sense of heroics. It's simply all you can do. You charge from the brush, weapon drawn, fifteen other soldiers at your back. Arrows whizz past your head, friendly ones. The scouts fire a volley to guide you towards the enemy. Normally, the thought of arrows shooting this close to you would make you uneasy; however, after experiencing the scouts' silent way in which they move, the flawless way they blend into the forest itself, you are completely comfortable. Relieved, even. Your longsword, in both hands, cuts through three Blackbirds before they even notice your presence. Now that they're aware of the sixteen man flank, you put a bullet in two more, the boom of your flintlock no longer an issue. The Blackbirds are fearsome, standing a full head taller than you. What they aren't is efficient. Heavy swings, telegraphed swings. They fight with full emotion, as a single warrior in a sea of them. Although it's the first time fighting with the Magda scouts (although not the first with Prinn), the discipline of a soldier takes over. Redding and you are as unified as they come, and the scouts have the good instinct to supplement your onslaught with arrows, creating a finely sharpened dagger that cuts as finely as an experienced battlefield surgeon. Speaking of dagger... Redding wields it in his off-hand, letting Blackbird warriors taste the artifact that their ancestors died to protect, bound in un-death to protect, the very thing the war party came to reclaim. As far as "turning the tide," it doesn't appear to be anything more than a dagger, albeit one that's quality is beyond all. It's just a dagger. (We'll see about that.) The Blackbirds that recognize it harbor a frenzy beyond belief. They swarm like bees disturbed in their hive. Suddenly, a sinking feeling starts in your stomach. The plan is going very wrong. The Blackbirds were lured here, yes, although losing the fort wasn't accounted for, neither was rushing into a Blackbird war party as sixteen men. To make matters worse, the company is still locked in the dungeon, vulnerable to the attacking natives. You allow the feeling to fuel your sword arm. The rage rises in your blood. Not here. Not now. Frustration, anger is a source of energy unlike any other. It burns within, focusing the mind. The world around you seems to meld into a single scene; no longer are there Blackbirds, defending soldiers, and fallen bodies. Instead, there's just you. Your mind becomes only concerned with each swing of your blade, the trigger of your flintlock. All else be damned. The Blackbird warriors that dare challenge you are handled with ease, the flow state allowing you to smoothly tear through their defenses without a second thought--without a first one either. Your body simply reacts to whatever is in front of you, the mind far removed from taking the reins, is but a passenger through the carnage. You're slightly aware of the primal grunts that spill through your lips, a deep throaty sound that accompanies the swing of your sword. Deep in your state, words have no meaning. None could express yourself as clearly as the primal sounds. The guttural tone is communication enough. Tens, perhaps even a hundred, lie dead behind you on your path towards the garrison. More, still, stand in your way. More will die. A horn sounds in the distance, the same one that rang on your arrival to the garrison. From within the fort's broken walls, the rallying cry of men shout. Alexander! He is organizing a counter attack. The horn brings you from your flow state. Instantly, thoughts begin to pour back in a great tidal wave. The company, the counter attack, the artifact, Prinn, the scouts, the High King, your standing with Frontrunner's Camp--you shake your head in an attempt to dam the thoughts. "Kid!" Redding shouts. "We've got to move." "Otherwise we're directly in their would-be retreat path, I know!" you shout back. > You cut your way to Alexander With the Magda forces gathering, you're safer off rejoining with them. The only issue is that it's through an entire Blackbird war party. You've gained no small amount of success, however, and press on. With the scouts behind you firing arrows, you continue the momentum forward, cutting through the forces like a spearpoint finding a gap armor. The Blackbird warriors are great in size, yes. But they lack the precision and efficient movements of an Alteran or Magda soldier. You keep cutting onward to the gate, reloading the flintlock between short gaps of opponents. Soon, the time between is growing less and less. You're barely able to finish one warrior before the next is standing in his place, often more than one. The momentum halts. Instead of driving the spear into the armor gap tearing into flesh, it finds sturdy chainmail underneath. Heavy swing of axes, stabbing of spears. They rise in frequency to sheer physical impossibility to defend against them all. Not two minutes into attempting to cut your way to the garrison, a spear makes its way past your defenses, and unlike the aforementioned analogy, there is no chainmail underneath. Pain shoots throughout your body, originating from the wound between your chest and shoulder. Instantly, your left arm loses its strength, and you're forced to wield your longsword with just your right. First things first. You chop down with your longsword, snapping the spear shaft into two pieces, the point side still sticking from your torso. Next, you slice low, running the edge of your blade against the Blackbird's thigh. As he drops, unable to support his weight, you imitate the maneuver to his throat. He falls. Two more take his place, and they sense blood. Gritting your teeth, more primal sounds humming within, you don't allow them to attack. Instead, you take it for yourself, charging forward swinging the longsword more frantically than before, urgency screaming in your brain. The spear still sticks from your chest like a small sapling in a clearing. Two warriors stand in your way, one wielding two axes, the other a spear. They hungrily await your attack. > Axes The one wielding the axes must be taken down first. He possesses the most danger. You're witnessing first-hand the ability to continue with a spear wound. An axe wound--or several--may not be as manageable. You eye the axe heads, sharpened stone to a razor's edge, tied with leather to the wooden handle. One hit from either, and you'd be done, the head creating a deep, lengthy wound, a deadly one at that. But still, you must keep an eye on the spear as well. Can't be too focused on what's in front of you, not on a battlefield. Swinging with one arm, you attempt to use the length of your sword against the axe. Your weapon has more reach. The surface area of its blade is much greater. Without both hands to support the weapon, however, you're forced to use wide sweeps and swings, creating force with the weapon's momentum. If the warrior in front of you bore a shield, it'd be for naught. Two axes, not much in terms of defense-ability, the tactic is sound. Pain throbs at your shoulder. Your right arm starts to tire. Still, you attack. The Blackbird is able to deflect your assault, sliding back just out of reach from your follow up attack. You swing, he parries and steps back. Rinse and repeat. The skirmish takes you further into the war party's forces, away from Redding and the scouts, too contained with their own skirmishes to aid. You realize what is happening, although you're also aware what happens if you stop the assault. As long as you continue attacking, your opponent cannot return his own, especially when he does not have time between parries. The tactic is sound, save for the other Blackbird warriors. They know your death is near. Deep within your mind, you know it as well, but you aren't willing to acknowledge the thought. The others allow you to continue the duel with the axe bearer, interested in who will reign victorious. At least most of them are. Movement flashes in the edge of your vision. Instinctively, mid-attack, your left hand reaches for your flintlock. You scream in pain, but still, somehow, manage to draw the weapon and cock back the hammer. Click. Nothing. Click. Nothing. Click, click, click. The flintlock is empty; you weren't able to reload after the latest firing. The new Blackbird understands this, a smile forming at his lips. He towers above you. They all do, gathering closer and closer. Like the forest canopy preventing sunlight from reaching the surface, the Blackbird warriors do the same to you. They draw near. Click. Nothing.

[Themes: fantasy, action, war] With the Magda forces gathering, you're safer off rejoining with them. The only issue is that it's through an entire Blackbird war party. You've gained no small amount of success, however, and press on. With the scouts behind you firing arrows, you continue the momentum forward, cutting through the forces like a spearpoint finding a gap armor. The Blackbird warriors are great in size, yes. But they lack the precision and efficient movements of an Alteran or Magda soldier. You keep cutting onward to the gate, reloading the flintlock between short gaps of opponents. Soon, the time between is growing less and less. You're barely able to finish one warrior before the next is standing in his place, often more than one. The momentum halts. Instead of driving the spear into the armor gap tearing into flesh, it finds sturdy chainmail underneath. Heavy swing of axes, stabbing of spears. They rise in frequency to sheer physical impossibility to defend against them all. Not two minutes into attempting to cut your way to the garrison, a spear makes its way past your defenses, and unlike the aforementioned analogy, there is no chainmail underneath. Pain shoots throughout your body, originating from the wound between your chest and shoulder. Instantly, your left arm loses its strength, and you're forced to wield your longsword with just your right. First things first. You chop down with your longsword, snapping the spear shaft into two pieces, the point side still sticking from your torso. Next, you slice low, running the edge of your blade against the Blackbird's thigh. As he drops, unable to support his weight, you imitate the maneuver to his throat. He falls. Two more take his place, and they sense blood. Gritting your teeth, more primal sounds humming within, you don't allow them to attack. Instead, you take it for yourself, charging forward swinging the longsword more frantically than before, urgency screaming in your brain. The spear still sticks from your chest like a small sapling in a clearing. Two warriors stand in your way, one wielding two axes, the other a spear. They hungrily await your attack. > Spear The one wielding the spear must be taken down first. He possesses the most danger. Case in point, the spear shaft that's still sticking from your shoulder. The weapon has more reach than your longsword; the Blackbird behind it could poke and prod and keep you at distance while the axes close in. He must be taken down first. With one arm you swing forward, taking the offensive while careful not to allow another point to find its way through your defenses. You're able to keep going for now, but another wound like the one at your shoulder would mean certain death. The spear, sharpened stone to a razor's edge, deflects your attacks, the shaft itself taking the majority. A few more swings, a few more deflections. Then, the counter. A flurry of stabs. You barely have time to register them. Your left arm useless, you're unable to keep up with just your right, so instead of parrying them all, you give ground. It's all you can do, unless the shoulder wound wants friends. However, the act brings you deeper and deeper into the war party, far away from Redding and the scouts. Mid-parry, a nervous feeling starts in the pit of your stomach, like the sudden news of a family member passing. In a way, it's the very same: the death, your own. Each step back, each foot further into the war party, you're acutely aware of the circumstance. Stand ground, die. Give ground, delay the inevitable. But damn if you won't go taking a few more warriors with you. The others, a gathering crowd, stand and watch, interested to see who will reign victorious. A mistake in battle. You jump back, farther than ever before outside of the spear's range. Wildly, you arc your longsword behind you in a series of cuts. Three spectators fall. The act furies the war party. You might have just spat on one of their customs, three warriors finding themselves in the splash zone. Duel be damned. They close in, a mob of angry natives chopping their axes, stabbing their spears. Off in the distance you hear Redding shout your name. Just before the Blackbird warriors shut your vision completely, you see recognition on Prinn's face. He remembers. You die.

[Themes: fantasy] They thought they were safe behind their walls. They thought their shiny armor would protect them. Fools. The Raven is above the craftsmanship in which they take pride in. They are godless men, outsiders from across the Great Sea. The Harri'ar treat them as such. When a tiger preys on your livestock, it must be put down. The tiger thinks itself a mighty predator until the very moment of its slaying. When the spear is raised high, only then does it understand. The same goes for the invaders. Trespassers, defiliers. The Veil protected the warriors, a gift of magic from the Raven itself. The faith of their people rewarded them. Arrows fall harmlessly to the side, same for javelins. The men at the walls don't possess any of the black smoke, large cylinders exploding in a burst of fire and smoke, tearing destruction through all in its path. No, these ones only possess simple weapons, and they do not know them like the Harri'ar. A warrior is a warrior despite the weapon in his hand. The outsiders feign as warriors, using black smoke and sharpened steel as their strength. Left without either and they are but jungle vines to be cut from the Harri'ar path. Fire from Father Sun Himself tore through their walls like a rock dropped into a pond, rippling, spreading flaming destruction. Let them hide behind their walls now. Their safety, like their gods, are false. Bodies thrown from the crumbling gate, soldiers frantically trying to douse the flames. The high priests in their--in our--collective faith brought victory. Still, they mustered a defence, small men listening to the shouts of their chieftains. Horns sung in the battlefield, their sound bringing meaning to the invaders. Let them try. Let them struggle. Let them die. The Blackbird war party is entirely in the clearing, the area where the Magda garrison cut down the forest to mere stumps. You're able to creep to the very edge of the treeline without encountering any warriors. They're all concerned with attacking the keep and have not posted guards at their rear. Bodies clash. The ground is littered with countless bodies already. Like the trees, they've been cut down, also becoming stumps in many cases. And the day is still young. Like the sun high in the sky, a massive hole exists where the gate once did, its edges a reddish orange. The sight of the fiery impact draws you back to the voyage, fire raining down from above, ships sinking down to the ocean floor below. (It's almost time.) Countless bodies on the ground, countless more still breathing, attacking. Like sand running through an hourglass, the Blackbird warriors pour through the narrow opening of the gate, through the blast, the wind caused by their rush helping keep the flames alive. It's not the most thought-out plan. It's not by bravery or a sense of heroics. It's simply all you can do. You charge from the brush, weapon drawn, fifteen other soldiers at your back. Arrows whizz past your head, friendly ones. The scouts fire a volley to guide you towards the enemy. Normally, the thought of arrows shooting this close to you would make you uneasy; however, after experiencing the scouts' silent way in which they move, the flawless way they blend into the forest itself, you are completely comfortable. Relieved, even. Your longsword, in both hands, cuts through three Blackbirds before they even notice your presence. Now that they're aware of the sixteen man flank, you put a bullet in two more, the boom of your flintlock no longer an issue. The Blackbirds are fearsome, standing a full head taller than you. What they aren't is efficient. Heavy swings, telegraphed swings. They fight with full emotion, as a single warrior in a sea of them. Although it's the first time fighting with the Magda scouts (although not the first with Prinn), the discipline of a soldier takes over. Redding and you are as unified as they come, and the scouts have the good instinct to supplement your onslaught with arrows, creating a finely sharpened dagger that cuts as finely as an experienced battlefield surgeon. Speaking of dagger... Redding wields it in his off-hand, letting Blackbird warriors taste the artifact that their ancestors died to protect, bound in un-death to protect, the very thing the war party came to reclaim. As far as "turning the tide," it doesn't appear to be anything more than a dagger, albeit one that's quality is beyond all. It's just a dagger. (We'll see about that.) The Blackbirds that recognize it harbor a frenzy beyond belief. They swarm like bees disturbed in their hive. Suddenly, a sinking feeling starts in your stomach. The plan is going very wrong. The Blackbirds were lured here, yes, although losing the fort wasn't accounted for, neither was rushing into a Blackbird war party as sixteen men. To make matters worse, the company is still locked in the dungeon, vulnerable to the attacking natives. You allow the feeling to fuel your sword arm. The rage rises in your blood. Not here. Not now. Frustration, anger is a source of energy unlike any other. It burns within, focusing the mind. The world around you seems to meld into a single scene; no longer are there Blackbirds, defending soldiers, and fallen bodies. Instead, there's just you. Your mind becomes only concerned with each swing of your blade, the trigger of your flintlock. All else be damned. The Blackbird warriors that dare challenge you are handled with ease, the flow state allowing you to smoothly tear through their defenses without a second thought--without a first one either. Your body simply reacts to whatever is in front of you, the mind far removed from taking the reins, is but a passenger through the carnage. You're slightly aware of the primal grunts that spill through your lips, a deep throaty sound that accompanies the swing of your sword. Deep in your state, words have no meaning. None could express yourself as clearly as the primal sounds. The guttural tone is communication enough. Tens, perhaps even a hundred, lie dead behind you on your path towards the garrison. More, still, stand in your way. More will die. A horn sounds in the distance, the same one that rang on your arrival to the garrison. From within the fort's broken walls, the rallying cry of men shout. Alexander! He is organizing a counter attack. The horn brings you from your flow state. Instantly, thoughts begin to pour back in a great tidal wave. The company, the counter attack, the artifact, Prinn, the scouts, the High King, your standing with Frontrunner's Camp--you shake your head in an attempt to dam the thoughts. "Kid!" Redding shouts. "We've got to move." "Otherwise we're directly in their would-be retreat path, I know!" you shout back. > Retreat to the treeline Through your bloodlust, you're still able to think clearly. You'll not allow emotion or a false sense of honor take you into certain death, which is guaranteed if you attempt to cut your way to Alexander. You've amounted no small measure of success with the war party's back turned towards you; facing them directly, you're simply sixteen men against hundreds. It's not pretty, it won't be written down in warrior tales, but you prefer life to a "glorious" death on the battlefield. You turn and run for the treeline. Arrows whizz past your face. Your heart stops for a moment, your mind screams at you to duck, find cover, flatten yourself on the ground, hands in front of head. The scouts, between you and the treeline, have another volley of arrows ready to fire, and you're running straight towards them. Fourteen bows drawn in your direction, fourteen razor sharp arrowheads pointed at you--it doesn't settle the mind, to say in the least. Like a hornet flying near, the worst thing you can do is react, swat at it, so you try to force the image from your mind, though it wanders a little, imagining what it'd feel like if one scout misfired. Like a gentle breeze against your skin, you actually feel one of the arrows fly dangerously close to your face. Still, you keep your sprint towards the trees. The horn rings through the air again, and more soldiers cheer over the sound of battle, a triumphant roar unified as one. Your sword in one hand, the other pumping, propelling your body forward, the sound of your breath a steady cadence in the chaos of war, you enter back into the jungle. The scouts let loose another volley before entering; they take to the trees, including Prinn, leaving Redding and you alone on the ground. You take the opportunity to glance back. Through the flaming hole in the gate, the Magda garrison is managing to drive the Blackbirds from within. Instead of the native warriors pouring through, now, crimson-colored, steel breastplate soldiers march forward in tight formation, their shields creating an impenetrable defense, leaving the natives at mercy from the archers firing on the ramparts. Whatever power causes the blast in the fort isn't using it on the soldiers, who would be at their mercy. The Blackbirds are split. Some continue to attack, throwing themselves recklessly against the well-armed soldiers, some sprint for the treeline, same as you. That's more than enough motivation for you. You turn back and keep running, following the exact trail Redding sets before you. The journey is familiar. Redding seems to be heading in the direction in which you came, to the small creek and tunnel back to the garrison. The rest is a blur of tree trunks, overgrowth, and dirt. Your vision is mostly down to step exactly on Redding's bootprints. The man keeps a quick pace for someone who is several years your elder. Redding has never been one to solve problems by physical means, but now you're starting to think he could if he preferred, which is surprising, but not nearly as surprisingly as everything else you've found out recently about the man. Your mind briefly wanders from thoughts of Redding to the company. The garrison took significant damage, and you hope that didn't extend to the dungeon. If you are heading back to the tunnel, perhaps you can check on them. A little while later you're back at the creek. Smooth stones, moss crawling on top, the gentle sound of running water. Peaceful, almost, your bloodstained hands and body disturbing the serenity. Redding's sitting on a stone, drinking out of his waterskin. You collapse on a stone of your own, but not before splashing a few handfuls of cold water on your face, a refresher as good as any. "Well, that didn't go as planned," you break the silence, dryly. It's all you can think of saying. "Didn't it?" Redding questions in his usual manner. "You know after all we went through to claim that dagger of yours, I thought it'd have more of an impact." The humor leaves Redding's tone. "Me too, kid. Something's wrong with it. Its power is dormant. It's there within. I can feel it. But it didn't awaken. It should have once tasting blood." "You owe me answers," you say, directly. "That I do," Redding agrees. "Starting with these," you gesture at the crimson tunic underneath your leather armor. "Tell me why the hell we wear the colors of the High King's rival." Your passion, your anger rises. It happens during combat, and it happens in conversation. "Tell me why you, we, betrayed the company and they sit locked up, maybe dead after the Blackbird breach. Tell me why the FUCK we are traitors to Alteran and can never go home again, or else the noose will greet us rather than family and friends." "Fair enough," Redding says. He takes a gulp in preparation. The running water of the creek fills the silence for a moment as if begging you to stop fighting. "The Old ways are dying. You know that. The ways of the High King and Alteran are quickly becoming obsolete. The days of blindly following the chain of command, government, superiors--whatever--are passing away. Think back to the night before our departure for the New World, to the tavern with billboards covered in Alteran propaganda. Is the New World anything like you were promised?" He actually waits for you to shake your head before continuing again. "The Old World is built on rules, laws, and regulations. Structure is in place to suppress the free thinking individual. The Alteran citizens are told who to hate, who to love, never allowed to think for themselves. The 'rules' of war are bullshit. It's a way of keeping conflicts going, while preserving the lives of soldiers so citizens never learn the reality of war. All that is rendered obsolete with the discovery of the New World. This is a place for a man's life to be his own. There is endless possibility, endless wealth. And what do the High King and Supreme Leader Fargrave, both, want? To apply the rules of the Old to the New. See, they seek to claim the New World as an extension of their own. Their interests are aligned in that regard. When it comes to the New World, they are more ally than enemy." You spit on the ground, a reaction caused by years of conditioning. Comparing the High King to his rival is like someone telling you a pot of boiling water isn't hot and it's safe to place a hand inside. "So then aiding Magda, turning coat, is no different by that logic. If you take issue with serving the High King in the New World, then serving the Supreme Leader is exactly the same. If both their interests are aligned, then either way you're bringing the Old to the New." The Redding grin creeps slowly to the corner of his lips. "And who says I'm serving Fargrave?" Once again you motion towards your tunic. "Means to an end," Redding says. "Now I know the location of both Alteran and Magda in the New World, safely uncovered the artifact, discovered a secret entrance into the Magda fort, and once Scoutleader Prinn and his green cloaks return, I'll know the location of the Blackbird war party's camp. If there's one thing you should take from all of this, it's that my allegiance is to the individual. I sense it's largely the same for you, despite the High King's attempt at brainwashing. I've seen how you're different from the others. You know that I'm right. I may be breaking the laws of the two most powerful nations in the world, New or Old, rendering myself an enemy and fugitive of the state, but it's all for the greater good. Together, we can sever the ties of the Old World and ensure they don't bind the New World." So that's why. Originally you had thought Redding chose you because he knew of your past with Magda, but instead, it's due to your ability to think for yourself. Since he mentioned it, your mind goes to the tavern, the night before departing for the New World. You were off by yourself questioning the posters encouraging the Alteran citizen to enlist into the military. That, in addition to your aim with a flintlock and strength with the sword, made you a likely candidate to join Redding's Free Thinking Army. That all makes sense. The artifact, however, is still a question mark. "The artifact," you say. "How did you learn about it?" "Let's just say a certain Alteran messenger 'lost' a very important parchment meant for Captain Briggs, one that told the story of a hidden weapon buried in Blackbird ceremonial crypts or something like that. A mysterious weapon that could turn the tide of the war? Alexander was more than willing to offer his support and aid in the matter. Means to an end. Truthfully, it's rather disappointing, but at the very least it'll serve as a symbol between us and the Blackbirds. Until I learn to draw on its power, of course." "Your 'symbol' is in the shape of a target on our backs," you point out. "You summoned an entire war party by disrupting the burial place." "Ahh, that's not the case for all tribes. Some will join the cause of the wielder. The Old World's poison is affecting the Blackbirds too. They've been united under a single leader. This dagger," he pulls it from its sheath, "will separate them from their collective thinking. They believe it is sacred, you see. Above any chieftain or priest." You entertain pointing out that they'd be leaving, "blindly following," one authority for another. Redding isn't a leader in that sense. Despite his secrets and ulterior motives, you can't imagine him wielding the dagger simply to rule the Blackbird tribes. If anything, they are a means to an end in his own words. Before you can speak again, footsteps approach. Prinn and the scouts return. "Back so soon--" you start, then cut off. Encircling the creek is not Prinn and the green cloaks, but a small band of Blackbird warriors. Their weapons are drawn, crude axes and spears. They stand a full head taller than you, donned in simple leather too thin to be considered armor. Ashen war paint covers their face and bodies, giving them a ghastly appearance; these warriors have accepted death already. They are spirits wandering the forest, causing death in their wake on their way to their eventual end. Their destination is the afterlife, and they mean to take as many along with them. "Finished asking questions?" Redding says, rising to his feet, sword in hand. "For now," you answer, pulling your longsword from your back, the weight of the blade familiar in your hands. The creek, again, protests in the background. One of the Blackbird warriors steps forward. You count eight of them in total, eight warriors who are very much aware of your presence. Mentally you take a note of the creek and stones that would potentially trap or trip you up. Some will also separate their superior number into one, maybe two at a time. "You disturb what is not yours, tek'usan." (No argument here.) You're unfamiliar with the word, but you know an insult when you hear one. They speak common. Strange. "You know our language," you address him. "You are not the first to travel across the Great Sea. You will not be the last." The warrior speaks with a heavy accent. Each word is articulated slowly and deliberately, it's own, not the smooth cursive speech of an Alteran. The Blackbird woman you encountered alone in the forest days ago didn't appear to speak common, although perhaps she didn't want to reveal that she understood your language. The warrior continues. "You have invaded our land and not come in peace. You will return to your ancestors." That you do understand. There's no avoiding what comes next. Now is as good a time as any for Redding to discover the power hidden within the dagger. Otherwise he might not get another chance. With a cry, they attack. Their voices are loud, an attempt to posture, intimidate and affect your sword arm. You're no recruit. The tactic is obvious. Snarling, you meet their attack with your own. You both speak common, and yet the incoherent words of battle are understood far greater than any words you might have shared. Two jump down near to your position, their axes at the ready. You feel the weight of your flintlock holstered at your thigh. (Not yet.) Best to save it if you need a quick resolution. For now you'll test their expertise in melee. You start with a series of slashes, using the length of your longsword to keep them at bay. You're careful to keep it technical, however. The last thing you need is to get into a strength match with two warriors far larger than you. Taking the offensive, you don't allow them the opportunity to get in attacks of their own, unless they're willing to risk a cut sneaking through their attempts to block. Cut left, then right, lunge forward, feint high then cut low. The series taught by a former teacher speaks in your head, simultaneously, while you perform the technique perfectly, which would earn you the approval of your teacher, but in this case you're content with the felling of two opponents. Two down. Six to go. Two engage Redding, leaving four more for you. They mean to overwhelm you first, then Redding. Taking you out of the equation means they can focus their attention on the one bearing the dagger, keeping Redding busy in the meantime. You hop between stones. Tiny streaks of water kick up in the air, trailing from your boots, followed by the heavy splashing of the large Blackbirds. They chase, their speed not on equal levels as one warrior reaches you first. You greet him by turning on your heel, thrusting your longsword backward. The point hits the warrior mid swing, his axe raised high overhead. For an instant you make eye contact. You don't see the savage, uncivilized barbarian that the stories of Alteran tell. Instead, you see a man, the utter realization of reaching the end of his life. Three more for you. Click. Before they can reach you with their spears, your flintlock is in your hand, hammer cocked back. Your hand is steady, like that of a surgeon. You stare down the doubled-barrel, lining it up with the quickly approaching warriors. One second you see them, the next black smoke crowds your vision, the smell of gunpowder, the smell of death. Click. Your second shot fires where the second target would be, despite your inability to see. The smoke clears. Two bodies lie facedown in the creek, staining the crystal water with red streaks. One. Behind the native, you can see Redding isn't as successful. The two warriors engaging him must be a higher caliber than the ones sent your way. Redding swings with far less discipline that you've come to expect of the man, untraditional tactics or not. Something's wrong. With his next maneuver, you see it. A dark pool at his side, underneath his arm. A wound suffered at the gate, hidden by the crimson tunic and a good card player's face. However, all bets are off. There's no bluffing the hand dealt, in this case, a compromised sword arm and a short amount of time. You barely have enough time to block. The swing of the last native's axe hits your sword at the last moment. The strength of the blow sends you falling backwards, not having time to set your feet. Your flintlock flies from your hand and bounces off two stones before landing in the water. Luckily, you hold onto your longsword. Water splashes in the air, soaking your boots completely through, the last of your worries. The warrior approaches. Drops of water spill from your hilt as you raise your sword defensively. Steel greets stone, the impact felt through the thin grip you keep at the hilt, echoing throughout the length of your arms. (It's time.) A startled cry erupts from Redding's mouth in a sound that would normally be humorous. Given the present situation, it's more along the lines of a dog's yelp when beaten with a stick. Suddenly, the remaining Blackbird warriors pause as if a frigate pulling up her sails and dropping anchor. The dagger in Redding's hand glows ravenlight, the same black purple hue from navigating the halls of the dead, followed by a dark fog of black smoke, like small thunderclouds encircling the dagger's blade. It flies from Redding's hand, pulled by some unseen force and flips several times in the air, blade over hilt, before landing squarely in your open palm, the very hand that dropped the flintlock not seconds before. (Dormant power, he says. my power has never been more alive.) Who-- (Yes, yes. Who are you? What are you? How did you...? Let's not waste our time with meaningless questions. I do believe there is someone else that wants your attention, yes?) The dagger pulls your arm up, leaving behind a trail of dark smoke, blocking the swing of the Blackbird who has since recovered. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, he appears to be furied by the dagger's action, rather than showing reverence towards the "sacred" artifact. You wonder if he'd feel the same if he heard the voice it spoke through... (Ready? I don't really care either way.) The very blade of the artifact grows in length. One moment it's a dagger, the next it's the size of a short sword. (That's better. Like stretching your legs after a long nap.) You wonder how the voice knows what that's like. A problem for another time. The next motion of the artifact is by your own strength, the sudden growth of metal giving the warrior in front of you pause. The black blade rips through the warrior's axehead, leather clothes underneath, and stops halfway through his torso, giving him the appearance of a tree suffering wounds from a lumberjack just before toppling over. Not a second later, the warrior does just that. (You seem hesitant. Let me help ease your mind into things.) The dark blade retracts back to dagger size, and keeps compressing. A flash of ravenlight, followed by black smoke. Then, familiarity. In your palm, not lies a short sword or dagger, but the grip of a flintlock. Well, not exactly a flintlock, although the weapon bears the same basic shape. A cylinder chamber rests just above the trigger and the barrel, a single one, is much shorter in length. It displays the same shade of black, and the handle has two carved wings at the tips, just as the dagger did. (Go on. try me. I know you want to.) Well...if you insist. Redding and his two enemies stand still, transfixed at the weapon changing shape within your very hands, the former corporal with his mouth gaping wide open. Might as well test out the strange gun that the artifact shaped for you. Its weight is light, far beyond that of your flintlock. You raise it to a firing position, surprising yourself with how quickly it draws. In a fraction of the time it takes to aim the flintlock, the artifact fires twice, the second shot coming nearly simultaneously, the effect of slamming your left hand down on the hammer before seeing the result of the first. Ravenblack smoke. Two Blackbirds drop with a thud. The smell of the smoke is nothing like the gunpowder you're used to. It's somehow sweet, providing the smallest hints of vanilla and tobacco. Eight bodies stain the once peaceful creek, weapons strewn out, limbs displayed in angles only the dead would keep. For the second time, you grab a few handfuls of water and splash it on your face. Redding needed to learn how to activate the artifact's power. Well, it's dormant no longer. As if knowing he crossed your mind, Redding slumps down against a stone, leaning his weight against it to limit his own energy expenditure, even for something as little as holding posture. Voice? (Yes?) Care to explain? (Haven't you had enough questions and killing for today?) Not nearly enough. (Another time.) You think the voice--the artifact--sounds playful there. (I think your friend needs medical attention more than you need answers.) You rush to Redding's side to access the damage. The man is breathing through ragged breath, clutching his torso. Through his cupped hand that covers the wound, you see red starting to pour through. Without speaking, you calmly remove his hand to see. The wound appears to be from a spear, judging by the size and entry point. An axe would have broken a few ribs on impact and left a far greater cut. A miniature waterfall of blood pours out as soon as you check, so you instantly place Redding's hand back. The artifact, which seems to have sensed your next thought, resumes back to a dagger, one that you use to cut a strip of cloth from Redding's tunic. You use it as a field tourniquet. It'll have to do until you return back to the garrison. The garrison...is that truly your next destination? It has to be. It's the closest means to find real medical help. Frontrunner's Camp is too far away, even if you could convince the Alterans that you were set upon by Blackbirds. The story would hold up long enough for Redding to be treated. POW transfers take some time, after all. Any way you can shape into something to help treat the man? (Do I look like a tool used for healing?) "So that's why it wasn't working for me," Redding utters through a cough. He spits on the ground, adding more blood stains to the creek. "Kid, you now wield the power to turn the tide." (Great. Another mortal to bend me to his will. Heard that story before.) "Do you know anything about the origin of its power?" you ask. "It's like there's a...living being inside." "Hearing voices?" "No, just one." Redding tries to laugh, but all he manages is more blood through a fit of coughing. "Damn it, that's funny." Without missing a beat, you say, "Then your condition must be far worse than I thought. Come on, I'll get you to the garrison." "I'm in no position to move. And those green cloaks are out there somewhere. You're better off going on without me." "But there could be more Blackbirds wandering around." "I'll take cover in the tunnel until you return. I'm going to let you in on a little secret." You physically move your head closer as if there are listening ears nearby. "The artifact can change into more than just weapons." (The old man's right, you know.) Shush. "I see where this is going," you comment, stepping towards the hidden door. It's locked shut with the padlock that Prinn pulled from his cloak earlier. It's high quality, but like any lock the mechanism inside will give way if you manipulate the tumblers just right, something a skilled thief can do with a set of tools. There's no need for lockpicks. The solution is clear. So, uh, how does this work? (Close your eyes and count to three. Dream really, really, really big now.) ... (Alright, fine. And here we go!) Thunderclouds. Smoke. Instead of a dagger in your hand, a black key appears. Sure enough, it fits the padlock perfectly. Neat trick, one that you plan to use in the future. It's not that you find yourself facing locked doors often, but now that'll never be the case. You help Redding to his feet and support him with one arm. It's slow going. Eventually, you leave him just inside the door. "I'll be back in no time," you say. "Hang tight. The surgeons will no doubt have their hands full today." You flip the key in the air, willing it to change back into a dagger. Mid-flight, the increasingly familiar black smoke appears, and a dagger lands in your palm. "I'm sure this thing will help persuade any uptight field physician." "Don't return without a jug of ale," Redding says. (Don't even think about it.) You've used up enough time already. Redding's card face returns, but the damage has been done. He's in bad shape, truthfully. You roughly estimate he has a day left without treatment. The hidden door shuts behind you, causing Redding to be exactly that. The signs of your earlier violence greets you upon entering back into the creek. It's not the first peaceful place to be stained by battle, and it sure as hell won't be the last. You best get moving. > Back to the garrison You sprint back towards the garrison quicker than your retreat. The prodding of a war party heading in your direction isn't as much as your leader, perhaps a friend, bleeding out. Your side aches. Your legs feel as if running on sand. But still, they are small nuisances compared to the feeling Redding has. It's not a day's journey by any means. However, you're acutely aware of possible complications upon arriving back to the garrison. Returning without your scout escorts--possibly labeled a deserter. You wonder if Alexander's protection will still fall on you without the former corporal. Benjamin, for instance, probably wouldn't mind another crack at you. First, you've got to arrive at the garrison. The complications come second. Halfway there, you realize that you never re-holstered your flintlock. It's probably ruined by water damage by now, not that you need it any longer. The artifact seems to fulfill that category, and more. You briefly entertain dumping your longsword as well as it's unnecessary weight. Surely, the artifact can become one. (I can.) Thanks for your input. The voice can hear your thoughts somehow. You're bonded in a manner you can't explain. Even when it's silent, you can feel its presence, a low humming of energy ready to be unleashed. After Redding is taken care of, you plan to have a long conversation with the voice inside your head, not a comforting thought in the least. Redding mentioned ale. Yes, you imagine there will be plenty of that when the time comes. You arrive back to the edge of the treeline. The garrison lies ahead. The soldiers that occupy the former battlefield are not of Magda. They are not Blackbirds. They wear long blue overcoats, buttons of gold. Their boots rise nearly up to their knees. The Alteran battalion. A grin comes across your face as you step forward, but then stop. You glance down, taking a double glance at your attire. Sure enough, it's the one issued by the Magda quartermaster. A thousand soldiers of your allegiance stand in front of you, and yet you cannot draw upon them for help. You wear the colors of the enemy. You've hurried here, only taking a fraction of time. Patience will serve you now. There's no sense in rushing in. Let the scene play out before you, then act accordingly. If only you weren't wearing red while trying to hide in the forest. Oh well. The battalion stands in formation just outside the gate, which still boasts a sizable hole in the center, although the fire's long been put out. We've got some time. Speak. (Another mortal who thinks me his pet. Cute.) You possess sentience. Is that of your own doing? (How refreshing of a question. I'm used to 'can you do this? Can you do that?' difficult question to answer there.) It's straightforward enough. (You possess sentience. Is it of your own doing?) ...fair enough. Was there a time that you did not occupy the artifact? (That, is a better question. Once upon a time, I had a body of my own.) What happened? (A story for another time. I believe your attention is needed elsewhere.) Crouched under the cover of trees, you see Alexander emerge from the fort, two soldiers at his side. Surrendering? It's hard to tell with his back turned towards you, but the commanding officer leading the Alteran battalion appears to be Briggs. Same height. Same build. Strange that the Alterans are content to stand outside of the gate when the Magda garrison is in obvious poor condition. The rules of war don't state anything against taking advantage of an opponent. In fact, it encourages it as long as they are treated humanely. "The two tribes are now one." A woman's voice speaks behind you, heavily accented. As such, each word bears deliberate articulation, similar to the way the Blackbird warrior spoke not hours before. The voice sounds familiar. You turn to find the same Blackbird woman that you encountered days ago. You're starting to think it may not be a coincidence. She's dressed in the same tanned leather, feet bare, displaying tattoos around her wrists and ankles. Long black hair flows down her back, a single braid running down the side of her face. Unarmed, just as before. You suppress your initial questions for now. "No. They're bitter enemies. They'd never join as allies." "What is that then?" Glancing back at the fort, you catch Alexander and Briggs clasping hands. Partnership? No, it still could be conquest. Terms of surrender must have been met, and the two leaders are shaking in agreement, like the way a merchant would to a supplier. "That could mean many things," you say. "Axes greet enemy. Words greet friends." It's a strange take on a well-known saying. In common, save your words for friends, enemies deserve only the sword. The quote is old. If you paid more attention to your studies as a youth you might remember how old or who it's attributed to, not that it would really make a difference in the present moment. (She's a priestess. Devoted to an older sect of the Raven by her markings.) "And which one are you?" you ask. She smiles, gesturing with her arms. It's like the sun peeking through a cloudy day. "Do you see an axe?" "Fair enough," you answer. "Listen, any other time I'd love to sit down and chat. Buy you an ale, maybe. But my...friend is wounded and needs help. I came to find a healer." "Which tribe?" "Good question..." you answer trailing off in thought. She's smart, this one. On your first encounter, you wore the long coat of Alteran. This time, however, you're in Magda crimson. There may be a peace brokered between nations, even if that's in the form of surrender, but spies, turncoats can still expect no mercy, especially those who traded their coat for the losing color. The Alteran arrival may complicate things more than you first expected. Magda won't stick their neck out for you. None but perhaps Alexander favors you, and that's only by association with Redding. Alteran hangs turncoats. Yes, the arrival of the battalion is problematic, indeed. "I have seen this before," the woman says. "Tribes becoming one with a single enemy in mind. It is happening now." "You think they're reuniting against the Blackbirds?" You don't mean to call her that. Hopefully it doesn't sound like an insult or slur. It just sort of slipped out. "We are the Harri'ar," she answers sharply, sunshine now hiding behind storm clouds. "Many tribes have been made one under the S'umbra, false priests." She spits on the ground, similarly to the way an Alteran soldier would after the mentioning of Fargrave, although that habit is likely vanished here. "And you do not agree with the S'umbra?" "No!" The outburst causes you to glance back to the soldiers. None seem to have heard. Mentally you take a note not to bring up the S'umbra again, at least if you can avoid it. She speaks again, more calmly. "They are poisoning the minds of the chieftains. They have twisted the Raven to their own pursuit." The woman doesn't exactly say "the Raven." You're aware the words from her mouth sounded different, yet the artifact somehow translated it in real time. "Listen," you say for a second time. "I really can't delay any longer. My friend." "We have healers," the woman states, the rest of her meaning is understood. She awaits your response. Could be easier than convincing two nations that you're not a turncoat. Could be a trap. Could be both solutions are not ideal. Could be that you need to make a decision, fast. Could be that Redding doesn't have much time. > Blackbird healers You know it's the best choice. It seems like the only option that doesn't put you immediately in the gallows. There's a chance it puts you in the Blackbird equivalent--whatever that may be--but that's all it is, a chance. Approaching the fort is all but guaranteeing your fate, Redding's along with it. No, you'll have to trust the Blackbird woman, who appears friendly enough. You silently wonder if her beauty is swaying your decision. It probably is, truthfully. Good-looking people always tend to be more persuasive. "Alright then," you say, taking one last glance toward the fort. "I could use the help of your healers. My friend's nearby. We best hurry." "Show me the way," the Blackbird woman answers. (Surprising that you side with the beautiful priestess.) Send your judgement elsewhere, voice. (You're mistaken--I would have done the exact same thing.) Glad that I know I have your approval. (My approval? No. I just said I would have chosen the same.) You notice the woman looking at you expectantly. Two hazel eyes stare intently through a frame of black hair, the eyes themselves shining brightly for the dark shade. If you're going to have internal conversations in your head, it'd be best not to be more aware of your surroundings, and those that are watching. "This way," you say, turning back towards the creek. The Blackbird woman follows. The journey is traveled mostly in silence. Your mind is occupied with other things rather than conversation, the top of the list being the sudden Alteran appearance. If there was any hope of returning back to the battalion and explaining the situation, it's gone now. No doubt Captain Briggs will find your former company members locked up in the dungeon who will have a condemning tale towards you and Redding. There's no returning back to either Old World superpower unless it's with Redding's head in one hand and a white flag in the other. You have but a single ally left in both the Old and the New World. Redding. Or do I have two now? The woman is happy to remain quiet. If only Alteran women possessed the same quality...the inappropriate joke, both for the situation and content, brings a slight grin to your lips. Somehow things seem funnier when they shouldn't be, like recalling a punchline at a funeral or getting the giggles during prayer. Jokes aside, you're grateful to travel in silence. It's a new (New?) change of pace. In Alteran not speaking with someone in your proximity is considered rude. The Blackbirds don't appear to be bound by such a rule, speaking only when necessary. Either that or you've grossly overestimated the woman's ability to speak in the common language. Likely not though. Some time later you arrive back at the creek. The Blackbird woman--perhaps you should ask for her name--eyes the fallen native warriors, but doesn't address it, seeming to figure out the events that transpired in the once-peaceful clearing. It was a bit of a gamble, bringing her here to Redding. After all, the man is only wounded due to fighting her own people. But you imagine the apparent disagreement, even hatred, towards the S'umbra are far greater. If the fallen warriors were following the false priests, then she'd be more than willing to offer aid. You reveal the hidden door, hoping that showing the secret entrance to a native won't come back to haunt you, and come face-to-face with a sword point. Redding's. The man behind the sword is in bad shape. Sweat drips down the side of his face, like that of a day laborer during a heat wave. After recognizing you, the sword lowers. "Shoulda said it was you," Redding manages, his card face increasingly falling. "And look, you've brought a friend." The Blackbird woman--you should really ask her name--steps past you, gently moving your body out of the way with a guiding hand on your shoulder. She examines Redding for a moment, taking in his condition. She utters incoherent words under her breath, ones that not even the artifact picks up and translates for you. She doesn't speak to Redding, just waves a hand motioning him to lie down. "So you're one of those clerics. Got it," a supine Redding chuckles. "Silence," is all the woman says to him. She turns to you next. "Bring water. Make sure it is upstream of the..." She says another native word that appears "fallen" in your mind. Even without the artifact's translation, you'd be able to understand by the context. That and only the village idiot would draw water downstream from bodies currently poisoning the creek. You leave with waterskin in-hand to draw from the creek. Blue light glows softly in the tunnel's exit as you turn, healing magic emanating from the priestesses' palms. The tattoos on her wrists and ankles shine the same, the markings on her body being for more than simple looks. The woman's head raises in concentration, her eyes closed. That's all you need to see. You rush to fill up the waterskin, stepping to a section of the creek far from the skirmish that took place earlier, perhaps a little too far, but better safe than sorry. It takes less than two minutes before you're back to the hidden door, waterskin full of fresh creek water. It takes less than two minutes for the woman to heal Redding's wound. As you return, your eyes draw to the wound at Redding's side. It's almost completely gone. The place where red ran openly, threatening to burst through your makeshift tourniquet, is a dark crimson, the color of dried blood as the body seeks to naturally close its own wound. With the proper medical attention of an Alteran field surgeon, this sort of recovery would take days, less of course with holy magic, but magic healers are few and far between in Alteran, certainly not taking place in battle for the common soldier. In less than two minutes, the Blackbird woman has Redding almost completely healed, although you imagine there might be a constant ache in his ribs for a few days. "Here, drink this," you say, offering the water to Redding. Before he can outstretch his arm, the priestess snatches it from your hand. She takes a swig, and another, and another. As she drinks, you and Redding glance at each other, both giving the eyeball equivalent of a shrug. Soon, the waterskin is empty again, a small dribble of water running down from the woman's lips. She offers the waterskin back to you, which you take and immediately head back to the creek. This time, it takes you two even minutes to return, no longer worried about rushing for Redding's sake. After looking at the woman, gaining her silent approval, you offer the waterskin to Redding. He reaches out, and before his fingers can touch the waterskin, you pull it back, chugging it in its entirety. It's not a small pouch by any means, and you have a few-found respect for the Blackbird woman. Luckily, your years of downing much stronger liquid, a skill acquired in the military, serves you well. The startled look on Redding's face is worth the cause, incoming stomach ache or no. "You two are meant for each other," Redding comments. "Now go on, you can't expect a wounded man to draw his own water. Bet you didn't think that far ahead, did ya?" The woman simply shrugs. With a sigh, you stand and head to fill the waterskin for the third time. This time, it takes nearly three minutes. You feel a steady onset of a stomach ache approaching, although it may just be in your mind for briefly thinking about it moments earlier, like when a family member becomes sick and suddenly every itch in your throat sets off warning bells. You did it as a joke, but silently you wonder why the woman took the water first. Not to say the native people of the New World are without humor--it's just not what you expected. But also that's the best time for humor, in your opinion. What did the bartender say to the horse? Why the long face? As you return back, you say to the woman, "So when you said your tribe has healers, you meant yourself." She gives a warm smile. "Something like that. The Raven's wing of protection extends to His devoted." "Any other secrets I should know about?" The smile maintains. "Not at this moment." Great. You remember what you should have asked earlier. "What's your name?" "E'ffy." When she pronounces it, it sounds like ay-fee. "Pleasure to meet you," you say, offering out a hand, using your best Alteran manners. She stares at your hand, unsure of what to do with it. Next to you, Redding offers a chuckle, but no helpful input. After looking at your hand a few seconds longer, E'ffy slaps your open palm with hers, which only encourages Redding. "Close enough," you utter. (Typical outsider. Not everyone holds to the same customs, you know.) Typical voice. Doesn't help, but still gives criticism. Suddenly your mind is rushed with images of a Blackbird greeting. It's like y

ou're watching a moving picture of yourself completing the gesture. Two fingers tapped against the throat, followed by outstretching the hand, palm open towards the sky. You attempt to mirror the motion with your physical body. E'ffy's eyes grow wide, the small moment of surprise before recognition appears. She returns the gesture, running the tips of her fingers across your open palm. "Unfurl your black wings and wait..." you start "...Let the wind carry you home," E'ffy finishes the greeting, a phrase that strikes you as a farewell too, another insight from the voice. "So it has begun already." "What has?" you ask. "The bonding of Amir'sshan. He has chosen an outsider. This has never happened before. He has chosen you as his bondsman." "You mean the artifact?" you say, drawing the dagger for a closer look. "I mean the god trapped within a mithril prison," E'ffy corrects. Ignoring the god comment, although that'll quickly be addressed next, you anwer. "The first bond to an 'outsider' shouldn't be that hard to believe. We've only just discovered this World, after all." Both E'ffy and Redding give you the same look at the statement. "Should I tell him or do you want the honors?" Redding says. E'ffy points towards the former corporal giving him permission. "Kid, the New World may be new for you and I, but it's not in the grand scheme of things." E'ffy nods, understanding the position that you're in. You challenge Redding. "And I'm supposed to believe that you had knowledge of a New World all along, and you didn't claim discovery or wealth in Alteran? The first explorers came back with trunks and trunks full of gold." "A hoax," Redding says. "Do you see gold lying around, waiting for you to snatch it up? I wasn't the only one that learned of the New World's existence. Tell me, kid. You've had some level of formal education. Do you remember Jeremiah Reddish, famed explorer of Alteran?" "Vaguely," you answer. "Then allow me to fill the gaps in memory." Four years at sea he's been. Not the entire time was spent on the Frontrunner, Reddish's schooner and lady of the sea. No, the ship captain loves the boat more than--no, not more than Liza and the kids, although she might argue that's the case. He loves the ship as well as anyone loves anything, a dog his bone, an artist his painting, a father....no, best not to go there. Finally, he's home in Alteran. It wasn't the welcome he was expecting. The ship captain had ventured where no one dared before. A New World! As dangerous as they come. Yet he survived with most of his crew. Half stayed back to build a new life for themselves. Reddish allowed them to. Rations back to Alteran would have been tight anyway. And he may be captain of a vessel, but he's not captain of their lives. Each man steers his own life ship. Reddish would not take away from that. The Frontrunner pulled into harbor mid-morning. The docks were bustling with cargo ships and many fishermen scrambling to find today's catch. Reddish guided the schooner into the appointed place and dropped anchor. No fanfare. Not even a second glance besides the bookman, who immediately tracked Reddish down and charged an enormous amount for simple docking. A lot has changed in four years. They've forgotten me, Reddish thought to himself, a similar thought that echoed through the minds of his sailors. In their defense, four years is a long time, almost double of the time the expedition was supposed to take. Complications. There are always complications. Meandering through the streets of the capital city, Reddish took in the sights and smells. It's dirty. Fucking dirty. The cobbled streets hold traces of horse-drawn carts, tracks left not by wheels. Too many people crowded so closely together, the smell from each spreading to the next. And the beggars. When did so many appear? They line the streets and alleys like birds on a tree branch, squawking for spare coin. After spending four years away from the Old World, suddenly civilization felt...wrong. Too many people packed together like...well, like how the Frontrunner's cargo bay currently sits, not a sliver of space between goods. An abundance of wealth lies in the New World, not in gold or jewels, at least not in the sense most men seek. In the New World lies a treasure that is nonexistent in the Old World, a treasure that no amount of gold can purchase: a life of freedom. True freedom. That's why half his crew stayed behind, the other half planning to return with their families, Reddish among them. Through the winding streets, Reddish wanders until he's finally reoriented himself with Alteran. It took a few hours and a few ales, but he's arrived. He almost headed straight for the King's castle. If he did, this story would have been cut prematurely, a limb severed from the body of possibility, world events changed forever, both New and Old. But something, perhaps guilt? (longing?) caused Reddish to detour his journey at the final moment. Instead of heading straight to the castle, always his first destination upon return, Reddish cuts down Crow's Lane to a certain two-story house with a certain family inside. His. It boasts a new coat of paint, a stone gray. Martha was always on his ass for a new coat. Seems she finally went through with it on her own. One door. Five windows. Reddish took a deep breath in preparation, still unwashed from his four-year expedition, still exhausted from the journey. But he's home. Finally. Fucking, home. Reddish took the first step and then stopped. Someone moved inside the house, briefly passing by one of the five windows facing the street, a man, a man who looked perfectly in place in Reddish's home. Did Martha move without telling me? The explorer wondered. And how would she tell him? He'd been unreachable by letter or pigeon. Then, a second movement. One that stopped Reddish's heart within his chest. Martha. She's laughing. She's dolled up nice. Are they going out? Her chestnut hair is curled, reaching just past her shoulder blades, covering the space of bare skin that her little black dress exposed. A flash of light drew Reddish's eyes towards her hands and the rings that seemed to cover each one, all falling short of size and glimmer of the diamond around her purity finger, in the place where Redding's own, smaller, diamond once rested. Replaced, both with the ring on her finger and in his very own home. Four years exploring the New World, finding all sorts of weird creatures and wildlife, fearing for his life during encounters with the natives, Blackbirds, journeying across the sea, unsure if food and water rations would see him to Alteran alive. Four years, and he never expected this. He doesn't know how long he stood there, outside, watching his (ex) wife rush back and forth getting ready. It must have been awhile--Reddish remembered how long Martha usually took to get ready. Felt like (four years) hours. But when the distinct sound of the doorknob clicked, HIS doorknob, Reddish, moved by instinct alone, quickly side-stepped behind a nearby lamppost. It's unlit now. Cold. At dusk it would be lit by torch. The two of them, arm in arm, travel down the stone steps to their home and take off down the street in the other direction. "Mr. Reddish, sir?" a childlike voice, unsure of itself, rings softly behind the man hiding. Reddish turned to find Gabriel, the neighbor boy who often played with his own son. That was years ago. Gabriel appears to be 11 or 12, the age his son would be by now. "Gabriel, you recognized me after all this time?" Reddish can hardly get the words out. Rather than met by his family, he's met with the boy who played tag with his son, the boy who would discover mischief along with his own heir. "You are wearing the same coat, Mr. Reddish," was the reply. The mention caused Reddish to glance down. Sure as hell Gabriel's right. It's tattered. Frayed at the edges, and like his home was, the color was faded. He could afford a new one. Now that he's returned with news of the New World, Reddish could afford 50 new coats if he wanted. But he doesn't want to. He liked the one he wore. Money will never be an issue again in his life, he's sure of that fact. But he's on the outside, a man thought dead and cut from the lifeline of his family. He wouldn't put them through his return. They seem at ease. Happy. Martha got her new coat of paint. All he would bring is pain to their lives. In four years Reddish became a man who gained the world, a New one at that, and somehow lost everything in the process. "How's Jack doing, Gabriel? How's my boy doin'?" Reddish uttered, managing to hold back emotion. "He's good," Gabriel answered, a typical response for someone of that age speaking to an adult. "I'm going there now. Want to come?" Want to come? See his son after four years. The answer is a whole-hearted yes, yes-fucking-please, yessir, lead the way! But that's not what Reddish said. He couldn't do that to Jack, who had a new father now, a new life. A boy needs a stable home. Reddish would only cause chaos, disruption to a life that boasts a sturdy foundation. Martha got her new coat of paint. Reddish had no doubt she got a lot more than that. I...can't, Gabe," Reddish whispered. "I have something for Jack, though. Would you give it to him?" Gabriel nods. "Good. Come with me. We'll be short, I promise." Gabriel nods again. Just around the corner. Yes! It's still there. Macagans. The old tavern was a favorite of Reddish's, unless Cliff changed the menu drastically. Knowing the old barkeep and owner, Reddish doubted it. As a regular, he couldn't even persuade the man to serve water for free. Reddish told him it would keep patrons there longer to purchase other food and drink. The barkeep simply said, "If I pay for it, they pay for it." Can't argue with stubborn. It's not late enough for the usual night scene to arrive yet, which was fine with Reddish. Macagans was built from an old docking bay and warehouse. Two giant barn doors serve as the entrance, the inside large, open, and full of fresh air, something that a seasoned tavern patron can appreciate. Often establishments are too tight. High risk of bumping into another and spilling a drink. Like the New World he just arrived from, Macagans gives the freedom to move and sit where he pleased. In the reorienting process, Reddish was grateful for the former warehouse. "Is that Reddish or do my eyes deceive me? Damn those restless orbs if they do." Cliff spotted him almost immediately, coming from behind the bar, same apron and by all appearances, the same tunic as he wore four years ago. Besides a little more around the gut, the barkeep looks largely (ha) the same, long sideburns, hairy forearms. "And is this your kid. Oh..." Realization seemed to fall upon Cliff. It's as if he spilled a secret he wasn't supposed to say. His face becomes like the explorer's, reddish. "You know then," Cliff spoke again. Reddish ignored the statement. He didn't want to think about that now, definitely did not want to talk about it either. The letter will be difficult enough to complete. "You still carry that dark ale, Cliff? The one with the frothy top?" "Aye," Cliff answered. "Keep 'em coming. Anytime you see my cup empty, replace it with another." Glancing down at quiet Gabriel, Reddish added on. "And a candied apple for Gabe here." "Aye. Sit anywhere you'd like. I'll get the first round." Reddish picked a spot in the corner. Facing the bar, it presented an entire view of the tavern, back to the wall. Exactly how the man himself felt. A single table, two chairs. Reddish took one. Gabe the other. From within his coat (she got her fresh coat), Reddish pulled a parchment and quill. He might not be able to be in Jack's life, but damn if he wasn't going to leave him with something to remember his father by. His real father. Where to begin? How can a father pack all that needs to be said in a single letter? A tankard is placed on the table. That'll help. That's for damn sure. Reddish starts by getting the hardest part out of the way. Often the most difficult step is the first one. Then momentum builds, carrying. This was the path he's been forced on. Like in the New World, Reddish sees fit to explore it. "Reddish...Redding, what's the relation?" you ask. "My grandfather," Redding answers. "My father, Jack Reddish--Redding changed it in early adolescence." "Why?" you start to ask, but then lessons from your history book creep in. If you remember correctly, the explorer was executed for crimes against the king. Treason. "Were the charges justified?" Strange thing to ask, but it already left your lips. It's like a friend disclosing an argument they had with a stranger and taking the stranger's side. Luckily, your strange question is directed towards a strange man. "Some. Although there was some embellishment of course, as there are with any trial. Treason aside, my grandfather was silenced. He spoke the truth about this place." Redding kicks the dirt beneath his boots for emphasis. "There were those from his crew that stayed behind. It's a hard life, but a free one. Damn if those under the shackles of civilization don't deserve the chance to break free." "The first outsiders," E'ffy comments. "They moved west. The tribes drove them from the coast." "I was wondering about that," Redding says. "No doubt the High King would have put them down if they stayed. By the time the military organized and settled here, it left too much time in thought for the crew. Too much freethinking time. The Old ways only work when each link in the chain is content to do their job without questions. Once they start asking them, however...then it threatens the entire structure of civilization." "And yet they named Frontrunner's Camp after Reddish's vessel?" you ask. "And yet they did," Redding utters. "That's why you're so hell-bent on changing the New World," you add on. "The High King's father wronged your family. It's been revenge, slowly building until the opportune moment. Your father, Jack, could not accomplish it in his lifetime. Now the burden rests on your shoulders." "I'm so hell-bent on changing the New World because it's the right thing to do," Redding retorts. "Or did you already forget the way Alteran citizens are treated. Links in the chain. Spokes in the wheel. Cattle under yoke." You're tired of arguing with the man. It never accomplishes anything, and you're certainly not going to get anywhere debating the task that was passed down from his father's father, not that you're against it anyway. Secrets. There seem to be too many, even withheld from your closest allies, which in this case is a single man, perhaps a Blackbird priestess in addition. I'm talking about the god trapped within a mithril prison. Secrets. Too many of them. One problem at a time. "Where does this leave us?" you wonder aloud. "I need your help," E'ffy answers without a second thought. You glance at Redding. He offers a shrug. "How can we help?" you ask. > You Continue "The S'umbra have taken over. They have poisoned the mind of the chieftains. The tribes are united, yes. But they are bound under the false priests' rule." The similarity is not lost on you and Redding. The ways of the Old might not be limited solely to the world itself. It seeps in, the corruption of leadership, a steady deluding until the creek is pure no more. You need only to look around you to be reminded of that fact. A place once peaceful, unstained with blood is littered with the fallen. Perhaps that's the byproduct of civilization. No, there's more to it than that. Evil men taking power, allowed to. Without common men standing up, they're allowed to flourish in their closed-fist approach. Reddish's, Redding's, your mission can first be accomplished with the natives on the land. The New World in its rampant overgrowth seems to have a few thorns, a thicket choking the lifeblood of the Blackbirds. The Blackbird priests, the false ones, need to be pruned, cut away from their constricting path. First with the Blackbirds, then, perhaps with native allies at your back, you can turn your attention to the soldiers from the Old World. Receiving Redding's approval, you answer E'ffy. "We'll do what we can." (Ever the hero. I once was like that. We have a lot in common, you and I.) Except I'm not considered a god. (Just a title. Nothing more, nothing less. I sense the Harri'ar will not approve of my bonding.) I have a feeling they won't approve of anything when it comes to me. (You and the girl, you mean?) Did I say me and the girl? (It was implied.) You're reading into things. (Eyes on the prize, hero. There'll always be another set of tits. Trust me.) E'ffy waits for you to continue. If she has knowledge of the artifact and its power, then she shouldn't be surprised by instances where you apparently space out...you might need to check your surroundings more when the voice speaks. No, not the voice; the god trapped in a cage, one that has bonded with you for some reason. Amir'sshan, E'ffy called him. Hey, having the six-shooter isn't a bad deal, especially when compared to the standard issued Alteran flintlock. The voice is simply an annoying side-effect. Nothing more, nothing less, as it would say. "The war party hunts the artifact?" You phrase your statement as more of a question. E'ffy answers, "Yes." "Then wouldn't returning back with you be heading straight for our deaths?" She smiles. "Under my protection you will be safe. The Raven extends a protective wing over those who do its work." "Yeah, but I'm not so sure the others will see it that way. They are 'false priests' after all. Who's to say they won't bend the law to..." You make a motion with your finger across your throat. The motion causes E'ffy to laugh. It's a pleasant sound, a clearing in the forest, an oasis in the desert. "Then they would have to..." She runs her finger across her own throat. "...me as well." A reassuring statement if you ever heard one. "Alright then. That settles that," you say, a meaningless comment in its own right. "Ladies first." E'ffy eyes you puzzlingly, likely not hearing the phrase uttered before. Once it registers, she takes off from the creek. Ignoring the fallen Blackbird warriors that you slayed. It's a nice place, not the first, and it sure as hell won't be the last to be ruined by mankind. You make it a point to discover a similar place...and leave it pristine. Beautiful. There's bound to be many such areas in the New World, yet untouched by civilization. The creek softly sings its farewell as you take off after E'ffy, a sad song of melancholy and loss, the cries of an innocent victim. E'ffy leads you through the forest. You and Redding follow behind, single file. She takes you straight into the heart, journeying farther away from Frontrunner's and the garrison. If you could see through the canopy, you'd see that you're heading uphill. The overgrowth masks the climb some; you're already needing to step over fallen trees and wayward roots, the forest floor on the other side being at a slightly higher level than where you came. Part of you wonders if you're walking towards your execution. E'ffy seems to know what she's doing, however. After all, she healed Redding's fatal wound in mere seconds. The woman could have more surprises; women often do. And there's still the matter of the god trapped in your dagger...one with a, let's say, unconventional demeanor. She leads you to a cave overlooking the sea. From the elevation, you're afforded vision over the trees from which you just traveled. They look as if blades of grass, unlike their towering trunks when standing next to them. Here, though, here they are small specks in your vision, nothing but pine needles, small green-tipped matches. Leaving the forest canopy, you're left in the same darkness. This one is a true dusk, not the false dusklight of the thick leaves. Two great rocks rest on either side of the cave's opening, like soldiers standing guard for their king. Starlight starts its first shimmer, the way a small diamond would sparkle turning it over from different angles. Soon the sky would be full. E'ffy does not travel with any equipment. All you and Redding have are your weapons, waterskin, and a few odds and ends that fit in your belt pouch. More odds than ends, matches included. After receiving approval from E'ffy--campfires draw attention, unwanted or no--you flick one and light a small flame just outside the cave's mouth. Orange glow meets dusklight. Warmth fights the creeping coldness of night. E'ffy didn't disclose if you're close to the Blackbird tribe or not. You're assuming not if you're stopping here for the night, although arriving in the middle of the night with two Old World soldiers probably wouldn't sit well with the Blackbird warriors. Likely you'd be greeted with an axe. Or hundreds. You settle down next to the flame. No bedroll or pillow for your head, so instead, you use one of the great rocks to lean against. E'ffy takes a place next to you. Redding, unsurprisingly, takes the other rock for himself uttering something about a boat only having two oars. "If your tribesmen haven't spotted us before, they surely have now," you comment, eyes glued on the flame. A piece of wood cracks in the fire as you finish your last word. "They have spotted us hours ago," E'ffy says. "I told you, the Raven--" "Yeah, yeah, takes those under his wings of protection," you cut her off. E'ffy glares at you in response. Framed within the part of her black hair are two smoldering orbs, pupils as dark as the artifact you carry. "You would do well not to mock the Raven." "Who says anything about mocking? You've lectured me on your doctrine before." (Yeah! You tell her!) E'ffy continues her glare, gauging your intentions. From what you can tell, she settles on mistrustful forgiveness. Or something like that. Something about her look says, I'll let this one slide. Next time, however... "Why don't you two kids get some sleep," Redding says from across the cave's opening. Speaking of the cave, no one in your little trio went to explore it. There could be wild animals inside. Or worse, angry Blackbirds. In either case, the artifact would appear in your palm, a small thundercloud along with it, and death would rain from the six-shooter's chamber. Your other companion flashes you a look much different from E'ffy's. Two hour shifts. You take first. It's a traditional sleep watch schedule. Makes for a low energy day the next, but better to have low energy than no energy, life (and energy) taken away in the unsuspecting night by blade. > You talk with E'ffy "Hey," you whisper. Redding is softly breathing, either asleep or faking it rather well. E'ffy turns your way, whispering even lighter than Redding's breath. "What?" "We're arriving at the war camp tomorrow?" "Yes." "Have you ever had outsiders before?" "None that weren't prisoners." "Is this going to be the classic case where you pretend to bind us, masquerading two captured soldiers around to gain entry, while feigning as prisoners allows us to enter the camp without issue?" It's a good trope. Unfortunately, it hasn't made its way to the New World quite yet. Give it a few decades, and you're sure more than one heroic adventure will involve it. In this case, you're stuck with solely a beautiful native princess, probably a virgin, too, if you had to guess. E'ffy voices her confusion. "I do not know of what you speak." "Nevermind," you say. Turning more serious, you add, "You know, this is probably the place--or at least a hill nearby--where the Blackbirds fired upon our ships. There's a perfect view of the water from here. If it were light, that is." "Why do you call us that?" E'ffy asks, sounding truly interested. Her eyes, losing the previous glare, look at you the way a child listens to their father telling a bedtime story. "Blackbirds? I don't know. It's what everyone calls you back home. Has something to do with your religion. The Raven, I mean. As far as I know, there hasn't been any friendly contact between our people. So someone along the way called the people here, your people, 'Blackbirds,' and that's what we know you by. I'm sure you have a name for us outsiders." E'ffy smiles. Her teeth shine more brilliant than any full moon you've witnessed. "To be polite we call you outsiders to your face...between the Harri'ar you are the tek'usans, 'stunted pale skins.'" It's the same word the Blackbird warrior called you at the clearing. Your face grows long. "You're not taller than me. Maybe just an inch or so." She points towards your boots. "Take those off and it is more." Right. E'ffy walks around barefoot. The bottoms of her feet must be conditioned beyond belief, for the forest floor of the New World isn't soft by any means. True, it's mostly dirt. But still, rocks, roots, and thorns aren't a rarity. You imagine it's a little like walking barefoot in the backyard of your home, having a familiarity with the environment to the point where protection isn't necessary. Not all backyards have poisonous plants and wild animals though. E'ffy's might, but yours sure as hell doesn't--didn't. "Fair enough," you answer. "Tell me something as our lives are in your hands... Are you in good standing with the tribe? If we are going to help you take the false priests out of the picture, will there be support from any others?" "Mmm," E'ffy ponders, fingers grasping at the single braid down the side of her face in thought. "Very few. My beliefs are...traditional. They hold true to the sect of the Raven that has brought us flourishment. The S'umbra are different. They bind the chieftains together like a crude water raft, riding safely atop while our people take the brunt of the waves." "If you are a priestess, then you must have a temple. Is it large? Do many (Blackbirds) visit?" "It is sizable, yes," E'ffy says. "I believe I already answered that question." Very few. Great. So you're about to bring religious revolution to a native people that have currently assembled all their tribes together to hunt the very thing that rests on your hip, the artifact. Amir'sshan. The fucking whipped cream on top of the pie is that the people, the natives themselves, aren't in support of the revolution. If anything, you're attempting a tyrannous overthrow, backed with six shots in the chamber and a ravenblack blade. Though to be fair, that's probably how the S'umbra came into power in the first place. Power begets power. Once you gain momentum, perhaps the tribesmen will turn towards the cause. The cause...what exactly in the fuck is the cause? The individual. Collective thinking, a poison upon both the New and Old World. "E'ffy, I have so many more questions for you," you say, exhaustion settling in. "Save them for tomorrow. Tonight we need rest." Truer words have never been spoken. The warmth of the fire lulls you to sleep, normally something that doesn't come easy. Tonight, it hits you like a gust of wind. Absent one moment, then present--in full force--the next. The last thing you remember is E'ffy mindlessly running her fingers down her braid. And comfort. Comfort from the fire. Comfort from companionship. It's not a feeling you're used to. > Sleep The first thing that draws your attention is the wind, a howling gale that would have Alteran women holding the hats upon their heads. The second thing is the moon, full and bright, covering the world below in its lunar glow, shining far brighter than any moon you've witnessed before. It's as if you're closer, brought together by the nature of the New World. So close, in fact, that you can see and identify dimples on the moon's surface, craters brought upon by a celestial beating. And the third thing, the thing that rises far over the rest, is that something is wrong. Something is very wrong. It's the feeling of being watched, the feeling causing you to shut your window blinds at night, the feeling brought from a pair of eyes in a crowd full of people. The hair on your arms rises, as if reaching out themselves towards the moon. Adrenaline pours throughout your body. High alert. Your eyes scan the wilderness around you; your finger rests on the six-shooter... ...it's gone. The artifact is gone. After a quick, if not rapid check for the others, you discover they are gone as well. In response, you draw cold steel. You pull the longsword from its sheath, noticing the hollowness it brings compared to the artifact. The difference between the two weapons is like a fresh batch of ale opposed to an unfinished tankard that's been sitting out for days. But still, like the two-day old ale, it'll do the trick in a pinch. And you're in a goddamn pinch, to say the least. You rise from your seat. After leaning against a rock for what, two-three hours, there's a stiffness in your lower back. Let that be tomorrow's issue. Tonight has plenty of its own. The moonlight affords you vision of your little camp. The fire's long burned out, black embers and ash lie in the place where flame once danced. Prints on the ground reveal your presence. You never tried to mask them anyway. Off in the distance, the sea, the Great Sea as the Blackbirds would call it, crashes against the shore. The sound doesn't reach you in your elevation, although your mind fills in the gap, imagining the sound each time a cloudy white line of foam touches the New World beach, the place that almost killed you with a little help from the Blackbirds. The footsteps. They lead into the cave. Sword drawn, senses high, you follow. Not four steps in, the moon, shining brighter than it's ever before, abandons you to darkness. You've stepped from its watchful gaze, from a place of light where misdeeds and lawlessness can be witnessed into a place where the shadows thrive, a place with no accountability for one's actions. The floor is dirt. You feel its soft impact on your feet, almost sand-like, it's so loose. You pause a moment to allow your eyes to adjust. They don't, at least not entirely. What was dark and formless is now dark and slightly-less formless. You can't see any hard edges, the specific shape of those sharing the cave with you, but you receive a rough outline, spots in your vision that are a shade lighter than the constant darkness. It'll have to do. The cave, with its serpent-like entrance, winds around a few twists and bends. Large stones line the interior, similar to the two standing guard just outside. At least that's what you silently think they're for; instead of royal guards, standing post outside their king's throne room, they could be something else entirely. Jailors, for example, making sure no one escapes the cave. After a few more turns, no branching tunnels or other paths, luckily, the cave opens into a wide cavern. It must be deep as you can't even see the ceiling. It's dark, and like dropping a pebble into a body of water, once it goes beyond your depth of vision, it might as well be infinite. There's a small torch lit, however, a tiny flame standing alone against the impending darkness of the cave. It's not a normal torch though, but it's one that you're well familiar with. Ravenlight. It highlights the other figures in the cavern, shadows brought to life, one free, one bound. Their backs are towards you. Even then, it's easy to tell who they are. Who else? Redding and E'ffy. Redding is tied to a pillar. HIs arms and legs are spread like the four corners of a compass, bound at the ankles and wrists. Ravenlight dances. The sudden shift in light reveals that Redding has been stripped of all clothes, exposed to the world. More importantly, exposed to E'ffy. She remains in her tanned leather dress, standing completely still in front of Redding. Something in her hand flashes in the ravenlight. The artifact. It's a dagger in her palm, the wing-tipped handle poking out just outside of her hand. Not that you've felt particularly bonded to the artifact, even if that's the term used for unlocking its power, seeing someone else, E'ffy, holding the artifact (IT'S MINE) feels wrong. It feels very damn wrong. She speaks without turning around, perhaps sensing your presence, perhaps not caring if you watch what's unfolding. E'ffy carries the artifact, after all. How could you dare stand up to such a power? (Worthy is the one who sacrifices himself for the Raven. Under the protective wing, the Raven covers those who follow its will. There is no greater glory than the surrendering of one's life for the greater good.) Her voice stops you in your tracks. It's a mixture of the woman herself and the voice you hear in your head. "E'ffy..." is all you can utter, the rest of the words lost to you. (The second coming is near. All that stands in the way of the Raven will be smote. Let the thunder ring. Let the clouds pour black rain. Its return is here.) "E'ffy," you say a second time, finding the strength of your lungs. You grip the longsword tightly through both hands, raising it defensively. Nerves run through your body. It's the feeling before an unavoidable argument, the feeling standing in formation waiting for the battlefield commander to wave you to march upon the enemy. The eventual battle is coming. She finally turns around. You wish she didn't. You wish to every god that was or has existed that she didn't turn around, that she kept looking forward, fixed on Redding's bound body. But she does. She turns to look at you, the one with your weapon drawn, knuckles tightly wound against the handle, the blade itself growing increasingly heavier by the second. She turns to face you, and that's when you see her in all her passion, a religious devotion to bring the Raven's will about by any means necessary, a hurricane of a woman destroying all in her path to do the Raven's work. Her eyes are solid black, pupils hiding in the shadows. No. Ravenblack. E'ffy's braid, once perfectly weaved together, is completely loosened at the end, strands of hair escaping in single-piece runaways, like the way a sister's hair looks after a brother ruffles it for fun. A thin line sits where her mouth once did, both lips pressed together tighter than a workman's vice. Her chest breathes heavily, bouncing up and down, something that would perhaps send your mind into a man's imagination under normal circumstances, but this is anything but. A dark pool of sweat accompanies her dress, wet blotches near the underneath of her arms and stomach, matching the glistening drips at the base of her neck. (Would you join me in bringing about the Raven's will?) She--they--don't wait for your response. (The end of the drought is here. Those who have taken up in my Father's house will be driven from it. Wolves in sheep's clothing. Predators in the night. They now face one far greater than their own. The Raven returns.) E'ffy's face seems to melt, features rolling down her head like a mudslide, twisting and mixing with one another. Her skin drips from her face like melted wax from a candle that's long been forgotten. Ravenblack feathers appear, the woman herself becoming the exact creature that she worships. Sharp talons pour from her fingers, blending in with the artifact; wings sprout at her back. The transformation is almost complete. Her eyes, no longer E'ffy's, land on you. They're shifty, the way a bird stares, then cocks their head a few seconds at a time, far quicker than a human eye can follow. With a cry, E'ffy, the bird-like creature bears down on you. Your longsword is useless. > You wake up A hand on your shoulder, a head resting on the other. You awake face-to-face with Redding, squatting to eye level. He holds up two fingers. Time's up, sleepyhead. You nod and turn to the head resting on your shoulder. When you see her, it takes every instinct in your body not to startle, jump, run. E'ffy's sound asleep, shifting in the night to use your shoulder as a makeshift pillow, body leaning on one hip the way a woman sits on a picnic blanket in order to save those downwind from an unsavory flash. You suppose it's a natural position to sit, considering her traveling companions are two men. Then, Redding and you have the same thought. It's the instinct that animals seem to have when an earthquake is near, the bones of an old grandmother alerting her to rain clouds on the horizon. Your vision collectively draws to the subtle place E'ffy's hand has wandered. Whether by accident or not, it rests on the handle of the artifact. Worrisome, to say the least. Your bet is that it's accidental, unintentional, whatever. After all, she didn't--or at least it appears she didn't--try to draw the weapon itself, the artifact currently asleep in its dagger (talons) form. Redding gives you a shrug, one that's becoming just as patented as his constant smirk, as you gently slide from underneath the woman, lightly placing her hand from the artifact. (Concerned I'm cheating on you, hero?) Ignoring the jest, you think back, Do I need to keep an eye on this woman? (Have you ever not had eyes on her?) You're useless. I'm in no mood. (Well you certainly seem like you're in some sort of mood.) The voice's demeanor reminds you of an older sibling being difficult on purpose. It seems to sense the thought...or hear it. (I would not concern yourself with the priestess. She's but a wolf pup seeking to take on the pack.) That's exactly what her allies want to hear after throwing in their lot. Redding interrupts the dialogue, whispering, "If you're going to have conversations in your head, do it while I sleep. I can only assume that's what you're doing since your mouth is moving in small patterns, but no words are coming out." Right. It's your shift. You decide to take Redding's position on the other rock. Perhaps some separation between you and E'ffy will help your thoughts flow freely, even if they are altered by the voice. Taking a seat, you glance at the night sky. A cloud layer hangs over you, a steady, well, cloud of dark gray, glowing in the section nearest to the moon, who's seemed to take a backstage position tonight. The voice, helpful as always, quiets down, allowing you to focus on your watch. Small animals cry out in the night, their howls, chirps, and oddly enough, clicks, unfamiliar to your ears. The night passes without any further interruption, at least not any that don't occur every two hours on the dot. The next morning you awake famished. The events of the previous day took precedence over hunger. It's a shame you don't have any travel rations, not even a small amount of dried meat for a quick fix. You voice it to the others as they awaken. E'ffy takes the chance to volunteer to teach you which plants are safe and which are fine to eat from. WIthout equipment to pack up, there's nothing else to do than follow her. Surprisingly, last night was warm. Warm enough to rest comfortably without blankets or a sleeping roll. The morning is a bit brisk, however, making you think exhaustion won the warm/cold battle the previous night. You doubt you'll return back to the campsite, if you could call it that, and take one last look at the two giant stones guarding the cave's entrance; the mouth of the cave itself sits dark and void. Will you join me in bringing about the Raven's will? E'ffy leads you cheerfully down the path; there's almost a skip in her step. You'd consider yourself a morning person. Being in the military forces you to be one, although you've never felt energy like E'ffy in the morning. You think you catch Redding rolling his eyes a few times, and confirm he's never felt the same either. It's the endless energy of a young child, yet unaffected by the weight of life and the tendency to lean on the bottle. E'ffy stops and plucks a few bright berries from a nearby bush. "Dark red is good. Bright red is bad," she says, handing the berries out. You look down in your palm. The fruit she placed in your hand are red, yes, but different shades of which one could consider both dark and bright. "These ones are...ok?" you ask. Next to you, Redding pops the entire handful into his mouth, the way one would toss back a shot of vodka. "Dark is good. Bright is bad," she repeats again. You slowly raise your hand to your lips. E'ffy watches intently. At the last moment, she nods her approval, upon which you toss back your handful as well. Flavor bursts into your mouth. Juice squirts out from the berries like a puncture in the side of a ship. It's sweet. Fresh. Like the inside of a pastry. "Not bad," you comment. "Way to understate it, kid," Redding says, plucking more berries from the bush. You take a few more for the road. Today you'll arrive at the Blackbird war camp. They assembled an entire war party to march on the outsiders, tek'usans, who disturbed a sacred resting place. You've burned bridges with both superpowers from the Old World and can't rely on their support. You doubt even Prinn, a childhood friend with whom you've survived much, would come to your aid. That is, if he even recognized you. You arrived in the New World with a thousand soldiers as your allies, traded them for the Magda garrison, and now you stand with a single Blackbird woman to count as an ally. (Don't forget me!) And now you stand with a single Blackbird woman and a mouthy...voice as allies. (You're too kind.) Be serious for a moment. Are we rushing to our doom? A pause. (I know not. In my current form, I've been passed from user to user. Spent centuries as a royal heirloom, given from father to son. There are only a small number that I've bonded with. Those who I bond with hold possession far longer than the others.) Yeah, possessing a gun with endless bullets tends to preserve one's life. (And this is what you heroes live for, is it not?) Don't call me-- (--your type lives for odds stacked against them, a lone man against an army, standing against the onslaught of enemies.) Sounds romantic and all, but I'd much rather have an army at my back. (Well, you don't.) Well, I don't. The voice turns quiet, almost reflective. You draw closer to the Blackbird war camp. It's not their traditional home, at least that's what E'ffy makes it sound like. Rather, it's a temporary dwelling to unify as a war party, ready to mobilize at a moment's notice. It's around midday, just past, when you arrive. This close to the war camp, you're surprised that you haven't run into any warriors. They must be watching though. There's no way three people are allowed to wander this close without several eyes, and likely arrows, pointed in the direction. The land itself bears the dense overgrowth that you've grown (ha) to expect from the New World. No stranger to military camps, the Blackbird's presence is unexpected, or rather, their lack of presence. The numbers that you fought at the garrison were a significant amount. Holding that many members in one place should be telling in the environment around it, heavily marched trails, lessened wildlife noise, the occasional discarded item or smoke. Nothing here. Unless E'ffy was leading you here, you'd have no idea you're able to stumble upon hundreds of Blackbird warriors. Twisting vines run across the path you take, mirroring tree roots that have rampantly grown underfoot, poking their heads up from underneath the ground. Then, a rush of water. It's soft at first, barely heard through the trees. With each step it gets louder, a steady crsssh of white noise. The air itself becomes misty, like that of a morning dew. The jungle opens up to a clearing not much more than ten feet deep. "Gods above," Redding blasphemes under his breath. Directly across from the cliff's edge, a large waterfall crashes down to a pool of water, the impact of the water creating white mist. The waterfall itself gracefully falls from a sheer cut of blackened rock, the color of rock that you'd imagine seeing next to a volcano. Jagged edges guide the waterfall, sharp edges that frame either side like armed guards escorting a prisoner of war. Surrounded by green, the blackrock waterfall is a deadly oasis in the New World forest, a clearing in the woods, the eye of the storm. "The camp is here?" you comment, eyes glued to the water like the way one stares into a fireplace and the flames that dance within. "You will see," E'ffy answers with a smile. She steps to the cliff's edge with both arms outstretched. "May the Raven protect us in flight." She waves you and Redding to imitate her. "You're--you're not going to leap, are you?" you ask, glancing down. It must be at least a hundred feet straight down. "Are you coming or not?" E'ffy asks. "Ladies first," you answer without a beat, arms similarly outstretched in flight position. Redding simply shakes his head, but also does the same. "Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and--" A hand at your back. And suddenly you're falling, falling, falling... ...and land on your back not two feet behind the cliff's edge, pulled down by E'ffy's grip at the back of your shirt. A dazed look shines on Redding's face before the patented grin appears. It's brief, but you catch it. You probably have the same look on your face minus the grin. E'ffy's laugh fills the air, a womanly tone mixed with childlike glee. "It is a common trick we play on coming of age warriors. 'In order to test your loyalty, jump.'" "Yeah, and did we pass the test?" Redding utters under his breath. E'ffy shrugs. "So how do we get to the camp then?" You try to get things back on track. For the mission that you're on, you're finding it strange that you need to. Chalk it up to words lost in translation or something like that. The clashing of cultures. Men and women...that one's a bit more of a stretch. "I will show you," E'ffy says, back to being serious. "The path leads down here." Off in the distance, not nearly close to "here," there's a break in trees. The overgrowth parts just enough for several bodies to pass through side by side. It appears to be a natural break; there aren't signs of Blackbirds chopping away at vines, branches, and bushes, not that you'd expect them to anyway. The natives are much in tune with the New World's overgrowth, and even though you aren't completely understanding of their religion and customs, you're fairly certain taking an axe to the jungle for a simple walkway isn't something they're keen on doing. As you pass through the break, the air itself feels different. Cooler. Fresher. The first breath is like that of walking in the night air after being tightly packed in an alehouse for hours, the difference between icy spring water and water that's been left in your waterskin for days. Of course the war party would reside here. If you had a choice, you would too. The path leads downhill, twisting, spiraling. Overhead, tree branches hang

across the path, meeting in the middle, touching those on the opposite sides creating a tunnel-like feel. It's like you're being led along the path. Sure, you could stop; you could turn around, but you don't want to. "You feel it too," E'ffy says. "The Raven's embrace." "I feel something, that's for sure," you comment back. Sharp shadows grace the path downward, sunlight managing to pierce through the canopy and the tunnel ceiling in small specks at a time, like glittering diamonds, highlighting the darkness of the trees, their trunks and branches a deep brown, a solid foundation for the sea of green to grow upon. The three of you subconsciously step lightly so as not to disturb the peaceful aura that lives here, as if the sound of your boots on dirt will send the calming path into chaos. The creek was once peaceful too. Now it's littered with the dead. The path opens into a poolside clearing, a meadow of sorts. Tall grass, at least a variant of grass, stands between the path and the waterfall's pool. Small flowers grow on the long blades of grass in various colors, red, yellow, and purple, the white crash of waterfall mist their backdrop, a blank canvas on which the meadow can paint its colors against. There's a cool breeze, one that you weren't expecting at the base of a waterfall. It's light, comforting, unlike an annoying wind that can't help but blow strands of hair out of place. E'ffy leads you through the meadow. The path is a direct path through, straight as an arrow. It leads to another part of the jungle, the overgrowth beginning against where the meadow rudely interrupted its flow. After a single bend, you see where she's taking you. A cave sits dead ahead, its rock the same black as the waterfall falls from, the mouth of the cave itself far blacker, the kind of black that bears no contrast, no structure. SImply, black, an endless void absent of color. Your mind draws back to your dream. The cave. The sacrifice. The artifact stolen. A premonition, perhaps? Or the mind filling in gaps. Who's to say dreams have real impact, actual influence on reality. The mind does at it pleases, often taking you along for the ride. In battle it's the opposite way, however. The flow state takes over, putting the mind as a passenger along for the ride, instinct and training taking command. "You got a light, miss?" Redding breaks the silence. "In a way," E'ffy answers. You're starting to realize that she likes hiding things. Tricks, misdirection, they seem to excite her. It can't be a Blackbird thing, not that you've actually spoken to any other native still living. There's no way you can imagine the warriors you slew playing practical jokes, although it could be the setting of battle. Either way, you're sure to find out soon. Hopefully their sense of humor isn't executing two outsiders for disturbing a sacred burial place. It wouldn't be the best of humor, but they're damn sure to have the last laugh in that scenario. All the laughs, in fact, minus a chuckle or two from Redding, perhaps. E'ffy whispers under her breath, bringing her palms to her lips. It looks as if she's whispering in the ear, sharing a well-kept secret to her hands. You're unable to decipher what she's saying. A second later, ravenlight emanates from her palms. She takes the lead, both hands turned towards the ceiling, sending the area around her in a dark purple glow, your bodies at least; the cave itself remains black, not even the ravenlight can soften the void. It's into the void E'ffy walks, you and Redding closely behind. Whatever hides in the shadows of the cave will soon be revealed. > The war camp Light appears in the distance, a long-lost ally that has been absent for some time, other than the glow at E'ffy's palms, that is. It's a shade that's burned into your memory. A dark purple, almost black glow. Ravenlight. It brings structure to the darkness. Contrast. Now, you can see what lies ahead, at least more than a few around E'ffy. The tunnel gradually becomes less narrow, opening up into a wide section that could fit an entire Alteran company side-by-side in your estimate. Dark green vines, mostly unrecognizable, grow on the walls. Seems even within the caves of the New World things are growing. The ravenlight grows in luminosity. Dark figures appear in front of you. Blackbird warriors. Each wears an axe on both hips. Each stands a full head taller than you. "Have you captured these tek'usans all on your own, priestess?" one says. He speaks in the articulate tone that you've come to expect from the natives. "No. They are free," E'ffy says. "He is the bondsman. Amir'sshan has chosen." You know a cue when you see one. You pull the artifact into view, spiraling the dagger around the palm of your hand a few times. Unlike most daggers, it doesn't flash with being brought into light, ravenlight or natural. Rather, it shines with true darkness, the cave around it simply an imposter darkness shying away from the black mithril. "Are...are you sure?" the other Blackbird speaks. You're not used to such timidity from the natives. His tone reminds you of a child asking a parent to visit a friend's home. You didn't miss the first cue and you sure as hell aren't going to miss the second. Small thunderclouds. Black smoke, true black smoke, appears in the darkness of the cave. The artifact becomes a weapon that the blackbirds would recognize--well, that they would appreciate. The blade transforms into an axe head, keeping the same wing-tipped handle, although it grows in length to keep balance with the axe. (Looking for a round of applause, hero?) "E'ffy, Terr'ok is not going to like this." "Or us letting you pass," the other inputs. "Then take it up with my father," E'ffy quickly answers. She seemed to have that one locked and loaded like an Alteran flintlock, standard issue. Double-barreled. It's definitely not the first and probably won't be the last time the priestess got her way by involving her father, whoever he may be. You can't help but notice the threat was backed by tribal standing rather than religious. Although being a priestess, even for an older sect, she does not use that to get her way. Whoever her father may be holds more influence than her status as a priestess. "We hold no quarrel with Chieftain Malic'ant. Pass through, quickly. And do not mention our names." "Thank you, brothers," E'ffy says and waves you forward. Redding flashes a smile towards the pair of warriors as you pass. They don't return the gesture. After passing by the initial scouts, you come across four more checkpoints, each one holding more Blackbird warriors than the last. The encounters are handled similarly, each one becoming more smooth than the last now that you know the questions asked and the answers to get waved through. The resemblance between the way the warriors act compared with the chain of command of Alteran is uncanny. In an entire New World, men know their places and aren't willing to risk upsetting the CO, commanding officer, above them in rank. The High King loves his chain of command, sure; the Blackbirds appear to love it as well. And at the top, rules E'ffy, with her father, Chieftain Malic'ant's name on the tip of her tongue. The path opens up into a--cavern would be the wrong way to describe it, not that it wouldn't be completely inaccurate. It's essentially a large city, albeit underground. It's a large a space that you've seen; the ceiling itself can't even be witnessed. The top lies somewhere above where the abundance of ravenlight can't even reach. It might be a few feet in the darkness. It might be five-hundred. Like the opposite of a deep body of water, the height of the ceiling is endless. Ravenlight is in abundance, but you see very few actual torches. "The plants," E'ffy explains. "They blossom light." Sure enough, as you're becoming accustomed to in the New World--even underground--plants are everywhere. Here, however, they are root-like vines that touch every building and structure, which themselves are built from stone blocks. The Alterans may consider the natives a primitive people compared to their own "civilized" culture, but there's no denying the Blackbirds aren't the stone hut simpletons that they're made out to be...even though their houses may be stone huts. The huts themselves are circularly built, like a large version of a Magda buckler. There are less of them than you imagined. The war party that attacked the garrison was large in number, yes, and it appears that they didn't have any reserve soldiers. Which makes you wonder if the Blackbirds lack military strategy. Perhaps. They stand taller and physically stronger than the average Alteran. Put together, though, the formations of Alteran are an impenetrable shield, and on the offensive, a dagger piercing between links of armor. You see warriors helping with daily chores, a few watering domesticated animals, harvesting rows of planted food. Only in the New World could one farm underground. "This way. To the temple." You and Redding allow E'ffy to lead you to the temple. Everywhere you look, eyes are fixed upon you. It's eerie in a sense. All attention is drawn towards you; it's as if you're walking through the hallways of the High King's palace buck naked. Most hold confused stares, others look as if they want to draw their axes here and now. Under E'ffy's protection, you guess that would be a big disobedience of their laws. Lucky you. You're not sure what exactly you were expecting or how she planned to remove the S'umbra from the equation, but you didn't imagine waltzing directly through the center of their war camp, which itself, doesn't much keep to the "war" part of war camp. The temple's in the corner of the war camp, built against the wall of the "cavern" itself. Like the other buildings, it's built from stone with round walls. There's an outer layer. An outer and inner sanctum of sorts. You pass through the unguarded gate, not much more than an open doorway leading into a series of altars and mats lying on the floor. It bears resemblance to the halls of the dead, the mats are the same, even the altar looks like the one where you first discovered the ravenlight torch many days ago. The inner sanctum is an empty room, built, unsurprisingly at this point, like the tomb where you battled the lich, although instead of a sarcophagus, a large stone altar lies in the center, the rest of the room arranged around it. It's empty minus a frail-looking Blackbird dressed in a tattered brown robe. The man looks about your height, a runt for the natives. Rather than the long braided hair of the warriors you've faced--even E'ffy wears a single braid, the Blackbird has his black hair cut bowl-like, as if shaped like the huts of the war camp. (A few nails missing in the construction of this one, I think.) You know, we might actually agree here for once. "My priestess! You can not allow these, these, these...outsiders to enter into such a holy place!" "Calm down, Onng. These are our guests," E'ffy answers with a practiced patience that you're sure she's built up over a timespan spent with the man. His name is Onng. By the High King's pristine chamber pot, even the man's name is different from the other natives. "If the others learn of this...this, abomination! Then they will surely force us from serving the Raven." "They will do no such thing," E'ffy says with a casual demeanor, like that of swatting a buzzing fly. Redding strides up to Onng. No stranger to peculiarity, he offers a hand in greeting. "Onng, is it? You can call me Redding. And you can call him," he points to you. "You can call him--" "I will call you outsiders, is what I will call you," Ongg cuts him off before you can be properly introduced. He seems to take pride in his words as a great big ol' smile appears at his mouth, highlighting a few gaps within his teeth. "You will call them guests and nothing more," E'ffy says as if scolding a child for not getting into bed on time. "All right, 'guests.'" "Thank you kindly," Redding answers, taking a sweeping bow, a gesture that Onng tries to imitate. E'ffy laughs. "Onng has been serving the Raven since birth. His parents...are not with us." What started out as a friendly statement quickly turned sour. "Make yourself comfortable. There is food and drink over there. (She points to another doorway at the end of the room.) "With respect," you say. "I think I'd rather hear of your plan to defeat the false priests before settling in. I don't think I could be 'comfortable' otherwise." "You are WHAT?" E'ffy ignores the outburst from Onng. Probably something she's used to doing. "Are you sure? It would be good to replenish your energy." > You Refuse "So let's hear it," you say, resting on one of the floor mats. Man it feels good to take a load off. There's been a good deal of walking over the past few days; a lot of exertion ever since arriving to the New World and getting rained upon, likely from the very Blackbirds that you share a camp with now. "Hear what?" E'ffy asks, innocently. "The plan," you snap back, a little annoyed. Instantly, Ongg's face curls into a frown. It looks like a small mutt trying to be menacing to a war hound. "How we are going to remove the S'umbra from their clutch over the tribes, how we are going to free your people to live by their own chieftain." "It is simple," E'ffy starts, "we issue a challenge by the ways of Harri'katan." "Which is..." Redding prods with his question. "They do not know, priestess," Onng whispers. E'ffy ignores the man. "Harri'katan, once the prized jewel of our people," E'ffy says. "Imagine a city the size of a nation, built from the very earth itself. These are our ancestors. They drove the outsiders west many centuries ago. (Redding nods his agreement). But they have fallen from favor. Our people, the Harri'ar are lost. It is the S'umbra leading them astray. Without the false priests, they will revisit the laws of tradition." "With respect," you say. "That does not explain it at all. And you mean to call the laws of an ancient city? Isn't the point to allow the tribes to rule themselves no longer under the thumb of the S'umbra?" "Each tribe has a choice. We are stronger united by the Raven." You're becoming a little frustrated at this point, with good reason. E'ffy seems to be taking you round and round with her logic. "Then what the hell are we doing? Exchanging one leader for another? If it is freedom that your people want, then they should take it themselves, not surrender themselves to the yoke of servitude." "You would do best to soften your tone in a holy place such as this," E'ffy hisses. Her face turns from a sunny sky into approaching storm clouds. "E'ffy," Redding speaks in a calm tone. "Tell us about the challenge." The storm clouds hold a moment, but linger. An overcast priestess answers Redding. "A challenge issued, the challenger must run the trial. If they survive, then they must face the ruler's champion." "See? That wasn't so hard." You intentionally shift your tone after your initial words, hard as it may be in your current state. "What entails the trial?" "The gauntlet of the gods," E'ffy says. "The challenger must prove they are worthy among the divine before they can face the champion in combat. Otherwise the greatest warrior would always rule.. and only hold it for as long as their strength allowed it. The ruler must be strong, but also chosen. They must win over the people before being considered." "But what exactly is it?" "A sacred tunnel in these caves. It is no accident that the war camp has taken place here. My father had some influence in the matter." This brings a smile to E'ffy's lips. The weather changes quickly in her presence. "And what lies within the tunnel?" you ask. "I do not know," she answers. "The trial hasn't been run in many years." "Well... when was the last time it was won?" Redding inputs. "Generations." (You know the simpler plan would be to stroll into the S'umbra's hut and allow me to...talk with them.) And what would that solve? Those loyal would take their place. (A show of strength. That you are above their laws.) Somehow I don't think that would help the Blackbirds any. (It'd help you...and the priestess. You have, what do they say, bigger fish to fry?) "Hello?" E'ffy says. "Don't mind the kid," REdding jumps in. "he tends to do that when the artifact whispers to him." "Amir'sshan..." E'ffy utters, in awe. "What does he say?" (I'm flattered, but you don't need to ask for my permission.) "He says that we could end the S'umbra without the challenge. With the artifact--err, Amir'sshan--we have all the firepower we need to remove the S'umbra from their place of rule. I ended the undead defender with a single bullet. I could do the same for these priests of yours." "Amir'sshan, brutally straightforward as always." She speaks as if she knows you. (They all do. I'm somewhat of a legend myself.) Enough of a legend to justify executing a sect of native priests? (Not all legends are heroes, hero.) "The way I see it, is that we have two options presented in front of us," Redding says, taking on a familiar tone that you're used to hearing as he addresses the company. "Take the difficult path leading into a treacherous tunnel, unknown danger hiding in the shadows. Or we can do what we soldiers do best: draw blood and keep drawing until it no longer flows." (I know what I vote for.) Good thing you don't get one. "Those in favor of the trial?" Redding asks. E'ffy raises a hand in her decision. Onng, seeing his priestess' gesture, quickly raises his own palm. "And those for the direct approach?" Redding raises his hand while speaking. He waits for you to raise yours. "Amir'sshan counts as two," E'ffy says. "Even if it goes against my own belief. I would not choose against Amir'sshan in anything other than this," she affirms. "In this, I am set. The Raven guide us." "What'll it be, tiebreaker?" Redding says, his hand still raised. "The trial or the soldier's approach?" > The trial Before you can answer, a loud knock appears on the door, a dull thud echoing just twice; the door swings open instantly upon the second knock, the newcomer(s) not willing to wait for someone to answer. It's a temple, after all. The fact that they're knocking on the door is as puzzling as only knocking twice, as opposed to the civil Alteran three, maybe four knocks. A lone man enters the temple. He may enter alone, but you see Blackbird warriors, escorts, in the outer sanctum. The man is dressed in dark purple robes, tattered at the edges. A deep hood rests lightly on the crown of his head, deep enough to hide the features of his face if pulled low. It doesn't take the option, however. Here, in the war camp, you doubt it's ever utilized for such a purpose. Hard to hide from those who already know your face. Thus enters Terr'ok, high priest of the S'umbra, acting chieftain of chieftains of the Harri'ar, enemy of E'ffy. "E'ffy, my girl," he purrs, a voice that would be soothing coming from anyone but the current man in front of you. He's far younger than you imagined, likely not having forty years to his name. The wisdom he, perhaps, would have gained with more years is replaced with the prime of youth, both in mental capacity and physical prowess, something that normally isn't attributed to a man of the cloth. Terr'ok rests on a wooden staff, a raven carved at the very top. "Terr'ok," E'ffy confirms his identity. Tare-ock. "Have you come here seeking salvation?" "I'm afraid, my dear, that has already been secured for me. Yours, however..." He speaks differently than the other Blackbirds. The Blackbirds you've heard speak all have used short, articulate words. Terr'ok's, however, draws his words out, sliding them into one another like the oral version of a diplomat's signature. (END HIM HERE! Draw me. Put six bullets in his head. He-he. Oh yes, make him bleed. Bleed! BLEEEEED.) The strength of the voice collapses you to your knees, both hands clutching on either side of your head. Pain. It's as if someone fired a flintlock next to both ears, then whipped you across the back of the head. An incoherent groan escapes your lips as Onng, surprisingly, rushes to your side and helps you back to your feet. "Such is the strength of those in opposition to a true devotee of the Raven!" Terr'ok points the ravenhead staff towards you, who currently lean against, again--surprisingly, Onng for support. "Such is the strength of the tek'usan you would call ally." E'ffy glares at the high priest; the storm clouds approaching again, threatening to shower the world in rainfall and lightning. "What are you doing here?" "I came to see the tek'usan that you have brought under the protection of your flimsy wings." You notice the play on words. Typically the phrase is brought under the protection of the Raven's protective wing. A clever one, this Terr'ok. (Stand. Rise. Draw me. Cut. His.Throat.) "And this is the bondsman?" Terr'ok turns his attention towards you. You're currently wishing that E'ffy didn't tell every Blackbird warrior from here to Alteran that the artifact bonded with you. "The one that Amir'sshan chose? He is the mad-god, indeed." "Out!" E'ffy bursts with a finger pointed at the door. "You do not come into a sacred place and blaspheme. You know better, high priest." Is that really so offensive? (Blood must be spilled. It is justified.) ...I'll take that as a yes. "My sincerest apologies, priestess. I look forward to our next meeting. "Terr'ok performs a haphazard bow, turns, and leaves. Through the door, you see the two Blackbird warriors tail closely behind the high priest, each flanking one side of the man. You continue leaning on Onng for a few moments before strength returns to your body. It's quiet in the temple, its inhabitants still registering the sudden confrontation of the man you plan to kill. He dare visit you unarmed, leaving his escort outside? Either it's overconfidence or he knew something you didn't, a thought that E'ffy confirms. "It is good you did not try to kill him." "I was a little busy," you answer. "I was not talking to you," she says, looking at Redding. "Terr'ok had many unseen protections around him. Your weapons would have had no effect on him." "Not all of them, I suppose," Redding answers, gesturing at the artifact. "What the hell was that? You're not one to get jumpy before battle." "The voice was screaming at me. It was like someone was hammering nails into my skull," you say. "It didn't seem...all together there." You're careful to avoid words such as "insane" or the Raven forbid, "mad." You saw the way it set E'ffy off, even speaking on it now makes you nervous. "What was it saying?" "It wanted me to kill Terr'ok." "He will answer for what he has done. But we will defeat him by honorable means," E'ffy affirms. Redding counters. "Honorable means don't exist in war, only the victorious and the defeated." "W-we have a path forward," Ongg gathers the foursome back together. "L-l-let us stick to it." The man with obvious ailments refocuses you. Funny how someone with apparent shortcomings, a mind stunted, can speak the exact words needed. A path was determined, its beginning interrupted by the sudden appearance of Terr'ok, but it's still in motion. It's what you believe to be the best chance at defeating the priests. And it will be the first of many victories, for your journey does not end with the Blackbirds, despite your feeling that you're nearing the end of this chapter. As a whole, the journey's only just starting out. (You missed your chance.) Wasn't much of one with your impairment. (Promise me one thing.) Which is...? (You'll use me to end the man's life.) I promise. Why do you hate the priest? (Your oath binds us. I am not simply bonded to you. But now you to me. I will reveal all when the sun sets.) > Path forward The path set forward, the rest of the day is largely uneventful. Preparation is in order, and there are no more surprise visitors. That said, there's tension in the camp. You may not understand much of the Blackbird--the Harri'ar--people, but there's an uneasiness that hangs in the air, affecting the way natives walk, talk, and to a degree, stare. It's as if they're afraid to show any sort of support, while at the same time afraid to show any lack of support. True neutrality. They almost don't deserve your actions. You are risking life and limb to free them from blindly following the S'umbra; but you've forgotten how much people like to be blindly led, a responsibility-less life where the weight of decisions are not cast upon their shoulders. It's no way to live; despite your many wrong choices, it's led you here, and having your life story placed on a narrow path is one of the worst fates you can imagine for a person, a life as decaying tree, absent of any branches. Dinner ends up being New World rice, an unidentified type of meat, wrapped in a flat tortilla, different colorful vegetables chopped and sprinkled within. Whatever the meat is, or whatever it was seasoned with, burns like a strong whiskey in your throat. Spicy flavor isn't exactly common in Alteran. They prefer sweetness across the pond, and your unconditioned palate causes you to take to the wine glass a little more than you planned on--but that's how it usually works, isn't it? At the very least, the extra cup or two or three helped against thoughts wondering what type of meat you're eating. Some things are better left unknown. As a foursome, you enjoy the company of one another. The unspoken fact is that it might be the last time you have the opportunity to. Tomorrow is when your plan goes into action; tonight, however, you'll enjoy the presence of both old and new friends, a journey that began in the Old and ended, well--found itself--in the New World. There is still much journey to be had, and who's to say that it ends here? After one chapter ends, another begins, for the story doesn't end simply because the words THE END appear in front of you. Like a play performed on stage, THE END isn't really that. The actors and actresses continue living, same with the audience. And afterward, the experience manifests itself within an individual, a silent but subtle whisper in the mind swaying decision and action; the same can be said for every story told, whether spoken or read. These things shape you into who you are today, a former soldier in the New World at the center of a religious revolution with the native people of the New World. From a childhood that began in the High King's rival nation, a dual citizenship to opposing sides of the world's greatest superpowers, to a deserter, a champion of the Harri'ar, bondsman of Amir'sshan. Tomorrow will bring unfolding if your name is spoken with awe or accompanied with a ball of spit, the way Alterans hear the Supreme Leader's name mentioned. You find yourself resting atop the temple. A, you guessed it, ladder, leads from the storeroom to a trap door. You can almost see the entire war camp from the vantage point. Countless ravenlight shines in the darkness, like stars in a cloudless night. Smoke trails upward from various huts, their inhabitants warm and fed, the people that you will free from tyranny. One by one your companions drift off to sleep, taking their leave of the rooftop first starting with Redding and then Onng. All that's left is you and E'ffy. She sits on one hip, supporting herself upright with her hands, and you, cross-legged, forearms resting on your knees. There's no ravenlight near you, however, and the woman next to you lives in the shadows, a phantom of beauty in the night. It's mostly quiet. The camp's all but winded down until morning. Blackbird warriors patrol, and that's about it. No stranger to patrol detail, you track their cadence, their route. It's not as rigid as militaries in the Old World. You're pretty sure one of the warriors stopped in a certain hut for evening pleasure. It makes you wonder if they walk the streets by choice rather than by command. It's mostly quiet. Typical sounds of the night don't cry out here, underground. No wild animals chirp or howl at the moon. No breeze gently whistles through tree leaves. It's simply dark and silent, absent of both moonlight and sound. You're content to sit and enjoy the view in silence. The vantage point overlooking the Blackbird war camp is not an experience you've had before, and you're unsure if it's one that you'll experience again. There's no telling what tomorrow may bring, which is not a completely unheard of statement, although you're certain it originated from circumstances such as this, a plan set forward into motion, surely defeat meaning death. For the first time in what feels like years, maybe ever, you're at peace. There's a specific reassurance that comes from knowing one's path, unencumbered by the corruption of the unknown. Rather than a faceless enemy, you know who would plant the dagger in your back, a position much more affirming than it sounds. Belly full, head tipsy. Not a bad way to spend an evening. Finally E'ffy breaks the silence. "The end draws near." She sure knows the right words to ruin the moment. But the priestess isn't wrong. Perhaps it would be good to think of tomorrow and the possibilities it brings. Perhaps it would be better to simply enjoy the present moment. There's too much planning in a lifetime, and not enough time spent in the quiet present, a fleeting thing like the wind passing by. But still, that does not mean you have to completely ignore the upcoming confrontation. Presence doesn't demand the forsaking of the future. It's the means to bring you there, after all. "The end of one thing. Another will take its place." E'ffy turns to you. Her eyes sparkle in the distant ravenlight, a shade of black, usually void of such shimmering. "Do you really believe that?" "Isn't that the course of all things?" you ask, but then quickly continue. You're not sure how well the native would understand the rhetoric. "Stages of life are like a wheel and people are often caught up in a specific spoke. There's another after that. And another. And another... Removing Terr'ok and the S'umbra from their hold over the tribes is only the beginning. I--Redding and I--plan to do the same with our people who are journeying to the New World." "There are more of you coming." The priestess doesn't word it as if it is a question. She probably didn't need an explanation on the rhetoric then. "They will be sent west with the others. This is our land." "One thing at a time, E'ffy," you answer. "I have no doubts that your people will try. If the tribes are no longer united, though, will they have enough strength to stand against...them?" You almost said us. That, certainly, would have caused some problems. "You arrived on the latest wooden horses. How did that turn out for you?" The arrival. Fire raining from the sky. Ships fell beneath the sea. Those who couldn't swim, drowned. Fair enough. You voice it. "Fair enough. I was there at the garrison though, when the war party attacked the soldiers in red. They were beaten back, and that is only a garrison. Imagine if it were an entire regiment. The war party itself might not have survived. What then?" "The Raven will guide us. He always does." You take the chance to ask a question that's been burning in your mind. "The artifact has something to do with the Raven, doesn't it?" In the shadows, you see E'ffy's head bop up and down in response. "And the voice that speaks through it?" "Some say it is the Raven. Others say it is his son, the Raven incarnate." "And what do you believe?" The white of the priestess' teeth shine in the dark. "I believe it is him. The S'umbra know it as well, and that is why they trapped Amir'sshan in his prison. They know the tribes will follow the Raven. They use his name to bring power to themselves. With Amir'sshan trapped, he can not retaliate. Until now. Until the bondsman does something about it." The High King of Alteran may not be a deity, although often it seems like that when speaking with a devout loyalist, but you can see the similarity. The symbolism, the similarities between the people of the New and the Old World are striking. You may practice different customs, but the same struggle for power is displayed eerily the same. All this has happened before and will happen again. Life itself is a wheel, always destined to return back to itself. Here, many thousands of miles away from Alteran, the same propaganda appears. It might as well be a billboard in an Alteran tavern wall stating You! The High King needs your service! The S'umbra use the Raven as their billboard, and the common person mindlessly follows. Without intervention it'll continue down the path, unchanging. Until now. Until the bondsman does something about it. Got anything to say about any of this? (If I admit to who she says I am, does that make a difference?) It makes a difference for my curiosity. (I won't share just to satisfy your curiosity.) You know, you'd think we'd agree a lot more being 'bonded to one another.' (You'd think.) "You were quiet just now. What did Amir'sshan say?" "Oh you know, the usual. The voice thinks one way, me another." "It is good that you are bonded." She smiles again. "You are good for each other. The power of a god and the grounding of a man." "Lady, if you partook in the constant inner debate, you might think otherwise." "Show me then," E'ffy says, scooting closer to you. She moves next to you, the edge of her arm touching yours. It's subtle, but you both feel it. Subtle enough to claim ignorance if the other points it out. Neither does. When she speaks next, the air around you feels different, like her words themselves are imitating your touch. "Speak to me through Amir'sshan. Let me hear the Raven's words." (...well?) You better not disappoint her. (I was going to tell you the same exact thing.) You turn towards E'ffy, your face mere inches away. Her skin smells like the air before rain falls, the first refreshing breath of the morning. You draw the dagger and hold it in your palm. E'ffy places her hand around yours, her skin like liquid silver, gentle as a lover's whisper in bed. "Are you ready?" you find yourself saying, your heart beating like the way it does before entering the battlefield. She squeezes your hand in response, a good enough answer as any. You will the artifact to speak. It doesn't. Well don't begin being quiet now. That's something you should have started days ago. The minor insult does the trick, as you knew it would. (It warms the heart to know there are still true devotees. I've had to put up with this fellow) You find yourself rapping your chest with a finger. (But as far as bondsmen go, I could have done a lot worse.) E'ffy's face lights up unlike you've seen before. She's one to always display her emotion. Whatever she's feeling, you're going to see it on her face, minus the times she's being intentionally deceiving. The priestess does like her practical jokes. Her eyes widen to the size of a child's when a father returns home from war, gifts in hand. Her smile becomes that of a newly-labeled fiance, the words I do still hanging in the air. E'ffy places a hand on your chest, as if feeling your heartbeat will bring her closer to her god. "We will rid the Harri'ar of the ones who trapped you here, Amir'sshan. You will reign again." Wait. What? As soon as your distrustful thought appears, it vanishes. Her hand on your chest, you can think of nothing else. No battle. No shortcoming. No fear that lies in the future. Simply, the present. The two of you on a rooftop overlooking camp, shades of ravenlight scattered before you like shells on the seashore. (And you will be by my side.) The words flow from your mouth, not of your own volition. Before you can question it, the world starts to spin from view. Blackness rolls in from the edge of your vision, guided like a river to a waterfall. Ravenblack shades swirl, mixing with one another, twisting and distorting in front of you, like the world spinning after a hefty session at the ale house. Blackness rolls in. Just as it overtakes you completely, the artifact whispers in your mind. (It's time you saw.) > Amir'sshan, chieftain of chieftains Long ago before the first outsiders arrived, the city of Harri'katan was the world's greatest empire. Alteran wasn't even a thought in the founding member's minds, for they wouldn't come into existence for many centuries. There stood but one city, one nation of note: Harri'katan. The city itself was built into the very forest of the New World, as if it grew naturally along with the trees, vines, and overgrowth that surrounded it, intertwined it, part of it. It stood a city, yes. But most cities aren't the size of entire nations. Take Magda and throw in a few territories of Alteran, and you have an idea of the size of Harri'katan. There, the people were united under a single banner. All the tribes of Harri'ar were one. And not only were they allies in battle, they were family. You see, it's a simple matter to throw a bunch of young men in uniform, slap a sword in their hands, and say "charge!" The goal is clearly defined. Battle forges bonds that a peaceful life simply cannot keep pace with, minus the occasional sick community member who finds themselves in an early grave. So, perhaps, it is not battle that forges bonds, but death, the only inevitability in life. Yet without the constant threat of death facing the Harri'ar--a strange thing how it's always threatening, but it largely goes unaddressed--the tribes were united under one chieftain. The man-god. Amir'sshan. Amir'sshan, undefeated in a thousand battles. Amir'sshan, a harem boasting a number greater than entire tribes. Amir'sshan, chieftain of chieftains. The odd thing was, no one can quite remember how Amir'sshan took rule. He's been chieftain as long as the elders had been alive, longer even; the ancient ancestors knew of the man-god and spoke of him through story, passed down from generation to generation. The Raven incarnate, they said. Whether true or not, the chieftain has kept the same complexion for a thousand generations. Ageless. Timeless. Who's to say he is not the Raven's second coming. An organization underground, that's who. Behold! The godkiller, a weapon of black mithril. It took a hundred years to recover the mithril ore needed to forge the weapon. The metal broke the most sturdy of blacksmith tools, sat in the fire of the forge like it was a cool bath. It took the magma of a volcano and the pressure of a waterfall to shape the mithril, but they did it. By the Father Sun above, they did it. A dagger, ravenblack blade, wing-tipped. The godkiller, infused with all the combined strength of all their faith, not to mention binding spells, auras, and holy magic. Deep in the utmost layer of Harri'katan, they resided, beneath the slums, even. It didn't feel safe enough to the members, a council of nine. Eight of them were priests. One, a renown warrior in the city. That's the thing about religious authority. They have power over any individual, minus Amir'sshan and his royal guard, who, interestingly, don't seem to be religious, despite their honor-bound duty to protect the man-god with their lives. Perhaps it's because their deity lives and breathes before them, walking the same stairs, the same hallway that they wander. Perhaps it's a more practical approach to reverence. They have a task, and they complete it to damn-near perfection. Not perfection, mind you. Enter, the godkiller. A starless night was when they came. Clouds covered the heavens from sight of their own, the man-god. At exactly the same moment, the poison in his guards' drinks took hold, the man-god's servants, which were actually the organization's servants, unlocked the hidden entrance. They took Amir'sshan's palace in a great wave, his guards too affected by the poison to muster a fight. The suddenness of the attack, the ferocity of the assassins. Unmatched, in all history. They found the god-man sitting upon his throne, well, laying across his throne, sideways, like lounging on a couch. His face is not that of a strong chieftain or prince. It's symmetrical, yes, without any malformed or unproportionate features. There's something about it though, off-putting. It's the face of a man who sets upon travelers mixed with the understanding eyes of a high priest. It's the face of a caring father, a drunk beggar in the street, the commander on a battlefield. Amir'sshan's face may be symmetrical in shape, but it's far from balanced. When they breached his throne room, a place with arched ceilings as high as the eye can see, he paid them no mind. The assassins strode past each column, supporting beams thicker than any tree in the forest. When even reaching the first of the seven steps to the throne, he didn't glance up, simply examined his fingernails like they were the most interesting thing in the world. "My subjects," he spoke through a voice soft for a legend. "How polite of you to disturb your sleep in order to give me company." Amir'sshan wore nothing but his a'lta, a blanket-like garment tied around his waist. The chieftain's a'lta was black with embroidered white. Without armor, the man-god left his chest exposed; his torso, lean muscle and tanned skin, unmarked with tattoos unlike most of the Harri'ar. The leader of the organization stepped forward. Rels'umbra, his face shrouded beneath the shadow of his hood. With both hands curled around his staff, a raven carved at the top, the priest, the ringleader, the would-be assassin, spoke. "Your rule is at an end, Amir'sshan." His lack of reverence was duly noted. It's been decades since Amir'sshan hadn't been addressed by any number of his titles, least of all in the throne room itself. Violent executions have a way of solving matters of respect...or lack thereof. For a time, at least, until it united people to meet in the shadows, plotting one's downfall. Case in point, Rel'sumbra and friends. "Is it now," Amir'sshan raised an eyebrow. It touches the tip of his chieftain's headdress, ravenblack feathers stretching down the sides of his face and back. "My chair and hat would speak otherwise." The assassins remained steadfast. For they have grown to expect certain...oddities from their "chieftain." "A chieftain who doesn't age brings stagnation to a people. The Harri'ar need a chieftain who was raised up with the people he rules. To understand their needs. Their struggles. You do not relate to the tribes. Once upon a time, perhaps, but you are too far removed. For the good of the Harri'ar and the Raven's will, you must be removed. Will you go quietly?" "Have you come quietly?" Amir'sshan swung his legs on the ground, sitting on the throne normally now, both elbows resting on his knees. "Have you come with ulterior motives? Power? Someone has to take my place. Would it be you, Rel'sumbra?" "The council has decided, yes. I'm to be your replacement. The Raven's will be done." "YOUR will be done," Amir'sshan spat. "You are no more aligned with the Raven's will than the heretics who worship demons, transfixed by a small display of power." "You speak falsely. I can understand your frustration. It's no easy thing to surrender rule after such a span." A cruel grin appeared at Amir'sshan's lips. "You speak falsely if you think I am surrendering rule." Rel'sumbra, calm as always, spoke beneath the shroud of his hood. "I had a feeling you would say that." One hand left his ravenheaded staff and reached within his robe. The dagger he pulled, hiding underneath his robe, doesn't shine or gleam being brought into the light as most daggers would. Instead it seemed to eat the light, devouring rays normally cast into reflection. Recognition appears on Amir'sshan's face, starting first with his eyes, widening larger than normal, then cascading down the rest, flaring nostrils, paralyzing lips, holding breath. Behold! The godkiller. As quickly as recognition appeared, faster even, rage took its place, a righteous fury that arose during times of forced injustice. It's the flash of anger when learning about a loved one's rape, the heat that surfaces when shameful actions are exposed to the public eye. Quite a motivator, that. Paired with nine individuals who would remove the man-god from rule with a blade in his back... Yes, it'd been many moon cycles since Amir'sshan faced combat. No one dared challenge him. He had an army to conquer in his stead. He welcomed the battle back like a long lost friend. His oldest friend, returning. The man-god would share the joy with nine of his subjects. Amir'sshan leaped from the throne, above the small steps that lead to it, and landed in the center of the nine, unarmed. His fists became a blur; Rel'sumbra, with eyes dexterous as they come, could hardly keep up. Like one cloud melding into the next, edges undefined, Amir'sshan's punches blended into the next. The unfortunate priest who Amir'sshan focused on first likely didn't know which hand was raining upon him. Red mists of blood splashed in the air, showering on Amir'sshan and the nearest assassins. The priest crumpled underneath the flurry, his back bending over first like a bridge, exposing his chest and throat to the world, to the man-god; his chest was caved in from the blows, like an inlet on the coast. A sickening snap. A sigh--at least something similar to it, the final breath left the priest's lungs, hanging in the air, sobering the other assassins. Do they not know? They seek to kill a god. Before the fight had even begun, one of their members lay dead, beaten to death in front of his allies. At the sight of their dead, Rel'sumbra and the other assassins acted. Holy magic spilled from the priests; the warrior, Gh'enna, covered head to toe in black bone armor, charged, battle-axe raised high overhead. Amir'sshan rolled to his left, a white bolt of magic landing in the place he stood a moment before, a white bolt that left behind a blackened scar on the stone floor. From nowhere, two blades came into existence in Amir'sshan's hands, longswords that dwell beyond the void called--no, commanded--into service by the man-god, their edges translucent, ethereal. Either by Amir'sshan's speed or the blurred sword edges, perhaps both, his blades seemed to double in number. Before Gh'enna could bring his battle-axe down on the man-god, no less than ten cuts appeared on his legs, running up the length of his torso, the final one landing at his throat. The warrior staggered for a moment, the realization of his fatal wounds settling in. Then, in what would cause a cloud of dust on the bat

tlefield, he collapsed backward with a solid thud. There was no dust cloud, however. Only emptiness and a traitorous warrior slain by the hand of his chieftain. "Thought this would be easy, did you?" Thought you could take power for yourself, did you?" Amir'sshan spoke, walking towards the priests, sword points used in emphasis. Rel'sumbra could see the edges of the blades now. By the Raven he could see them, for they were highlighted red with Gh'enna's blood, a crimson stain on otherwise flawless weapons. "More still stand against your tyranny!" Rel'sumbra slammed the butt of his staff into the floor, his way of emphasizing his point. A small rumble echoed upon impact, the sound of the release of magic. Visible ripples spanned out from the staff, like that of throwing a rock into a pond. Amir'sshan thought he heard the flutter of wings. The remaining priests, now six excluding Rel'sumbra, screamed into the air. No, that's not right. They screeched, a primal tone as wild as any animal in the jungle. Ancient, even compared to Harri'katan, even compared to Amir'sshan himself, magic flowed from Rel'sumbra's ravenheaded staff. Before he had used holy magic to attempt to smite Amir'sshan. If Gh'enna didn't die instantly, he would have used it in healing. This magic is different, however. Far from the realm of holy, good, farther even than "gray" areas, the realm of morally ambiguous, a mixture of both holy and evil. The priests' hands curled in pain, in power. Fingers grasped at unseen objects in their palms, flexing their palms turned skyward. The very bones within their body seemed to reorient themselves, sickening cracks confirming the fact, bulging in various sections of their neck and limbs, threatening to burst from the very skin that contained them. Black wisps of magic encircled the priests' feet, spiraling up their body like a poisonous snake wrapping itself around a tree branch. Ribbons of black magic hang in the air like sparks leaving the safety of their flame. Amir'sshan noticed Rel'sumbra was unaffected by the ancient power. As the black wisps spanned upward, covering the priests entirely in a dark shroud, Amir'sshan spoke again. "Tyranny, you say. Perhaps you do deserve to rule. The way you volunteer those beneath you to sacrifice their body for the cause." "They knew the cost and gladly paid it," Rel'sumbra answered, both hands back on the staff. A casual posture for the way his allies screeched in pain not five feet away from his position. "The Harri'ar are willing to lay down their life to remove you from rule. Can you say there are those willing to do the same to keep you here?" Amir'sshan muffled a laugh. The priests cry out in pain. "There's a reason you had to plot in the underground. You've removed those from the equation." "That is their duty, not their belief." "The two are mutually exclusive?" "Enough! Your time is at an end. For the good of the people." "For the good of Rel'sumbra," Amir'sshan corrected. "Those two are mutually exclusive?" Rel'sumbra fired back. "Ahhh, now you're learning," Amir'sshan said. Movement caught his eye, the dark wisps starting to vanish from sight, fading from existence the way spilled water evaporates after an amount of time. Upon subsiding, it revealed the abominations beneath. In the place where hooded priests stood, bird-like creatures, tall as a man. Talons took the place where praying hands once did, also bursting through their boots. Their heads became the very Blackbird that they worship, the face of a raven staring back at Amir'sshan, their hoods able to contain the transformation as well as their boots. Black beady eyes reorient themselves with their surroundings. Amir'sshan knew the transformation never took place before, not with the specific men in front of him; it's a one-way journey designed to turn the tide in a single battle, in this case, to turn the tide against him. It would not be enough. "I noticed that you remain un--" Amir'sshan started to say before the ravenheaded priests leaped towards him. They had no wings, but possessed strength beyond that of Harri'ar's greatest warrior...excluding the chieftain of chieftains, that is. To Rel'sumbra's dismay, instead of fear, a smile crept across Amir'sshan's face. It's the smile of a laborer as he took his first sip of evening ale. Subtle. Present. Six dark figures flew in the air towards Amir'sshan, talons ready to carve the eyes from the chieftain's skull; six figures, to rip the innards from his body in a series of blasphemous strikes. In a sight that future bondsmen would recognize, one of the translucent swords in Amir'sshan's palm became a spear. Small thunderclouds. Black smoke. Transformation, the furthest thing from an abomination, far more graceful than the priests before him. It was meant to be. The sword was no longer meant to be a sword. It was meant to be a spear, and surrendered its form to the man-god. Then, quicker than the shape shift, quicker than the swords first appeared in his hands, it left Amir'sshan's palm, singing a sinister whistle along its flight path. It impaled the nearest priest through the chest--no, that's not accurate. It tore through the nearest priest, both spearhead and shaft passing through his body with no more ease than dipping an oar into water. It impaled the second nearest priest, stopping the momentum of his leap, reversing it entirely, skewering the former holy man against the wall like a proud banner sending glory and exaltation in bright colors. One spear. Two dead. Four remaining. They fell upon him, four abominations seeking blood. A funny thought occurred in Amir'shhan's mind: in their eyes, he is the abomination. He might not have twisted his body into half bird, half man, but there's no denying his existence is unlike that of the Harri'ar. The man-god, they called him, living for centuries, never aging, keeping the same complexion. There's something sure as hell unnatural about the man(-god) himself, yet it lies underneath the surface rather than expressing itself in the physical, at least not in the way that would capture the honest, if not rude, attention of a small child with the ability to point fingers. After a few generations, however... Small thunderclouds. Black smoke. The remaining weapon in his hand became a greatsword, two hands needed to swing with any strength behind the large blade. The head of a Blackbird rolled to the floor, its body finding a few more steps before collapsing behind it. Like a headless chicken. Amir'sshan can't contain it. "Ha-ha-ha-ha!" His laughter is maddening to the remaining others. He's laughing. Laughing! As he cut through their ranks with no more ease than shaving in the morning. This was supposed to be their triumphant night, one that had been planned for years. The perfect night to (Amir'sshan drove the point of his greatsword into another Blackbird. Two.) catch the chieftain unaware, exposed. Yet he considered their threat nothing more than a minor nuisance. Laughing. Laughing! Thunderclouds. A nine tailed whip now rested in the chieftain's palm. The swing caused a crack rivaling a real storm, snapping in the air like a bolt of lightning seeking a tree trunk, leaving behind a blackened husk of where life once stood. Amir'sshan's whip left behind a similar figure. It took several swings, but the result was the same. Lifeless, hollow figures remained. A bolt of lightning possessed mercy. A single strike, and it's over. Quick. Painless. The opposite could be said for the man-god's nine tail. Unable to hide his glee, he overwhelmed the two harri'ar with furious swings, each one marking their body with cuts. Soon they were unrecognizable, a four-limbed frame underneath a thousand bleeding cuts. The room was filled with the crack of the whip. And laughter. Plenty of laughter. All his support dealt with, Amir'sshan turned his attention towards Rel'sumbra. Only the assassin is not there. Then where did... Pain bursted through the man-god's back. He holds no vision, yet images rush into his mind, Rel'sumbra standing behind him, hand gripped firmly around the (godkiller!) black mithril dagger, seeking to drive it further into the exposed back of the chieftain, its blade already sunk deep into Amir'sshan's lower back to the hilt. A coldness overtook Amir'sshan's body, like stepping out from the safety of a warm hut into snowfall. Unsuccessfully, he tried reaching behind him to grab the dagger. The attempt caused Rel'sumbra to twist--pain flashed. Thousands of years entered Amir'sshan's mind, hanging a moment, before vanishing. Life. Love. Lost. He'd been alive far longer than most. He'd loved few in the timespan, all early on, for he quickly learned that they would die while he kept going. After his third love died, he cut himself from such emotion. Instead he built a harem, allowing the physical manifestation of such feelings to be quenched with women as replaceable as a blunt dagger. Never the same one more than a few times. Amir'sshan couldn't trust himself to lay with the same one too often, otherwise he risked love rearing its ugly head, setting himself down a path that leads only to death. Lost. He'd lost more than a man could ever seek to gain, even in his wildest imagination, loved ones only being a fraction of the loss. Hot breath touched Amir'sshan's ears in spoken word. Their tone, violent. "Thus ends the rule of Amir'sshan, tyrant of the Harri'ar. Your death will cause a parade in the streets. Tears of joy will fall. For tomorrow begins the rule of the just Rel'sumbra. And after my lifespan, another will take my place. It is the natural order of things. You have stagnated our people for too long." Amir'sshan forced a chuckle, which ended up being a cough of blood. "Poor Rel'sumbra. The people will follow whoever wears the headdress. They are sheep as afraid of their shepherd as wolves. Your ideology means nothing. Whether I lead or you lead, they care little...as long as you do not disturb their simple, boring lives." "I'll live without their gratitude. You on the other hand..." Rel'sumbra ripped the godkiller from the man-god's back. Amir'sshan dropped to his knees. Soft hands grabbed for the chieftain's throat, hands unaccustomed to performing laborious tasks themselves. Before sliding the mithril dagger across Amir'sshan's neck, the assassin pulled the chieftain's headdress from the crown of his head. "Farewell, man-god." Before the godkiller could bring finality to the evening's skirmish, Amir'sshan briefly glanced heavenward, the whites of his eyes exposed, unfamiliar to the feeling of helplessness. It'd been a while since he felt that. Father Sun, it felt good. A new experience. The preciousness of mortality. An ending to make the journey sweeter. Men spend their lives avoiding death. Amir'sshan, the man-god, chieftain of chieftains welcomed it with open arms. Finally, restfulness could greet him. Finally, an end to everlong suffering. Rel'sumbra cut Amir'sshan's throat. Blood flowed out like a waterfall. > ... But he didn't die. "Ha-ha-ha-ha..." But he didn't die. Ha. Ha. Ha. But he didn't die. Ha... ha... But he didn't die... Ha-ha-ha-ha. But he Ha-ha- Didn't Ha. ha. Die. > ... Imprisoned in a world of blackness. The void called Amir'sshan's name, and took him to a place of undeath. His body was no longer. He was the man-god, after all. His body could be destroyed the same as any, despite its youthful and inability to age. One moment the end was inevitable, peace was coming for Amir'sshan. The next, imprisonment. An endless sea of blackness to dwell within. No colors, no life. Just blackness without a comforting purple shade. Foolish Rel'sumbra! The godkiller couldn't destroy the soul of Amir'sshan. Years spent compiling enough ore to craft the weapon; many men paid their lives to forge the dagger. And yet Amir'sshan still lived. Curse the day! Death would not bring mercy to the former chieftain. The peace he sought escaped him, perhaps would always escape him. Ha-ha-ha... Trapped in a darkened world with only his thoughts as company, as much a depiction of hell as there's ever been. He would have gladly chosen the lake of fire, the eternal bodily suffering. For this kind of purgatory is the worst kind: the constant exposure of one's mind without escape. It's Amir'sshan and the void. Amir'sshan and the void. Amir'sshan and the void. Amir'sshan... Father. Silence. Father, can you hear me? Silence. If he still possessed a body, a grin would have appeared at the corner of his lips. If he still possessed a body, his stomach would hurt from laughter. If he still possessed a body, he would drink himself into oblivion. Ha-ha... Seemed he already found himself there without wine. Everlong darkness. Not the kind the eyes ever adjust to. There's no shade. No contrast. He can't even call it a sea of darkness, for a sea holds waves. Structure. His entire prison might be small, it might be larger than the world itself. Color, time, size held no meaning. Simply, darkness. He might have been here decades, centuries, minutes. Nothing held meaning. Nothing mattered. There was darkness, and there was Amir'sshan. Father Sun holds no dominion here. Simply, darkness. Then Suddenly Awareness. Phantoms appeared from nowhere. Gray, ghostly shapes like the weapons that Amir'sshan could summon. He saw the throne room. He saw Rel'sumbra standing over the fallen man-god's body, pondering what to do next. The assassin priest's entire life was centered on ending Amir'sshan's life. Once he accomplished the task, what then? He saw Rel'sumbra place the chieftain's headdress upon his own head. For the first time, he saw his killer's face. Rel'sumbra removed the hood that covered his face. The priest possessed angular features, the crook of his nose seemed to bring the tip of his nose below his nostrils, beak-like. His face was marked with lines of aging; the assassin looked far beyond his age. His eyes, youthful. His face, elderly--the price of dark magic, likely taking years from his life in order to feed the ancient power. By whatever means it took. If Rel'sumbra only lived a year longer--and it looked like that was a stretch--to remove Amir'sshan from power, then it gladly paid the cost. Commendable, really. Just as his allies had given their lives, so too, did their ringleader. Amir'sshan spoke from his imprisonment (Bondsman.) and bonded with the first one to wield the artifact, for even presence with his killer was preferential to loneliness with only his mind to keep him company. And soon, he would learn to despise the bondsmen, only pairing himself with the select few over the next thousands of years. But for now, upon being cast into the void, imprisoned within the artifact, he couldn't be alone. No. Better that he had died. Better that he had been smote into non-existence. Hell was a very real place, once housed within the physical mind of Amir'sshan; now it followed him beyond death, a constant predator, a stalker in the night. And it laughed in his face. Laughed. > You Continue You awaken in an unfamiliar bed. It's nothing but a small padded mat with a single blanket spread out over your body, no frame, placed directly on the floor. You're in a small room. Blank walls, no windows. A small fireplace is opposite of the mat, the wood that sits within blackened, small traces of embers underneath. Recently burned itself out, by the looks of it. That's not what draws your eyes, however. E'ffy lays in front of the fireplace on her side, one arm supporting her head as a pillow. No blanket. No padding. Simply, her, the floor, and the fireplace. Not one to have poor manners, allowing a woman to take the floor while you have a "bed," you try to remember the previous night's events. And suddenly it rushes in: the story of Amir'sshan. They assassinated you. Trapped you in a prison of black mithril. (A long time ago, yes.) And now you can enact your revenge on the cult. (Will you aid me in this, bondsman?) You do not answer right away. There's more to the artifact than being a weapon of immense power. A living being, an immortal god resides within, despite centuries--perhaps millennia--of twisted thoughts taking hold. E'ffy was right. And suddenly, it's all clear to you. You believe. The voice within the artifact is greater than your own. Amir'sshan, the man-god, chieftain of chieftains. The two of you are bonded to one another, a mortal body and an immortal soul. Man-god. Perhaps this is the way it was always meant to be. One foot in the realm of mortality, another in the divine. It's balance. Grounding. The S'umbra will regret the day they turned on Amir'sshan. Amir'sshan does not answer you, but you sense the man-god's gratitude. The two of you, though bonded, have been at odds ever since the artifact landed in your possession. The combined strength, the alignment of your minds. A relentless soldier seeking rest in battle, the battered sanity of a god. Together, Terr'ok and the S'umbra have no chance. E'ffy stirs. She sits up and looks in your direction. "You are well?" You nod. "Amir'sshan has spoken to me. The path is set before us. We will enter the gauntlet, and the S'umbra will be no more." You roll out of the bed. "Did you bring me here yourself? It's E'ffy's turn to nod. "You were deep in the vision and you needed rest for today." "Well...thanks." "Come. Eat. Gather your strength. The day will be long." In time you would look back on those five words, the day will be long, and discover the truth of them. Now, however, you pay no mind to them and make your way to the storeroom for breakfast. Belly full, and a few cups of tea down, you gather your equipment for the day. It's not not much as you travel light. Your longsword is strapped in its typical spot, running from right shoulder to left hip. It doesn't get as much use nowadays, one of the side-effects of possessing a black mithril dagger with a god's soul trapped within. Still, you've kept it all this time. Dependable. Trustworthy. It's not an extravagant weapon by any means, but it's exactly how a sword should be. Finely crafted and doesn't dull easily. If something were to happen to Amir'sshan--and you're not the kind to rely on magical artifacts--you'll be glad to have the traditional weapon, as handy as any dagger hidden in a boot. You've abandoned the crimson tunic of Magda, and you're glad for it. The shirt made you an outsider to both the Blackbirds and yourself. Not that representing your birth country is confusing to your identity; it just brings a certain uneasiness that you'd rather not weigh you down, especially not now. Bastus, Lionel, and the rest of the company probably still consider you to be traitors to the High King. With the Alteran occupation of the Magda garrison, you're sure your traitorous position is set in stone, along with the number of gold pieces for your head. Luckily, bounty hunters aren't running rampant in the New World as they are in the Old. That'll change in time, you're sure. Instead, you've been given a shirt woven in black thread, its shade close to raven (although not quite). It's one of Onng's. Any other and it'd extend down to your knees. You strap your leather armor over the top; you're not as quick to toss the armor away even if it were given by a Magda quartermaster. On your thigh, where the Alteran flintlock used to rest, is where you leave Amir'sshan. The edge of the winged-tip grip sticks out of the leather holster, begging to be drawn, silently of course, although that can change in an instant. Belly full, and a few cups of tea down, you exit the temple. E'ffy leads you through the war camp. She strides confidently ahead with Onng taking up the rear. It's the silently agreed upon order of walking as it's a risk to have you or Redding on either edge. The Blackbirds seem to keep to their customs well enough, not a lawless people in the least, but there still could be a disgruntled warrior or two mourning from their defeat at the Magda garrison. Having two outsiders in their war camp offers the opportunity for retaliation, and you can't think of a worse ending to things than suffering a mob attack. So you play the part of respectful guest, allowing E'ffy to escort you to your destination: Chieftain Malic'ant, her father. Everywhere you go, eyes follow. It's not everyday the war camp receives visitors. You're surprised by the amount of non-military activity happening. In the Old World, soldiers are full-time. Sure, there are other tasks to do besides battlefield training, but those are focused on military maintenance, keeping equipment clean, always ensuring the High King's army is in tip-top shape. Here, the warriors are a mix of civilian and soldier, like a militia--almost--but without the casual approach to battle. They are fighters to the core, but they are also farmers, tradesmen, and family men. Not only do you receive their distrustful gaze from a warrior's perspective, you also receive it from a protective father's eyes, which is, perhaps, simply a warm-up for what awaits you at your destination. You're about to meet E'ffy's father, a chieftain, who will no doubt be skeptical of the "outsider" company that his daughter is keeping. Like the other buildings of the war camp, the chieftain's structure is built in a circle of stone. Malic'ant's hall is larger than the others. Larger, even, than E'ffy's temple. It's reached by a long stretch of road, ravenlight evenly spread out on either side. Blackbird warriors, their face painted in ash, stand guard outside, casually leaning on spears. Unlike the previous warriors you passed, these appear to be full-time; their job is to keep their chieftain from danger. Despite the apparent friendliness with the chieftain's daughter, or perhaps because of that, they eye you with a disapproving gaze, more than ready and willing to jump to her defense should the tek'usan get out of line. Through the outer line of defense you go into the main gates of Malic'ant's hall. The inside is an open room, built around a single focus: a training pit. It's made from dirt. Torches, real torches, line the perimeter, sending shadows to spar in the center. Behind the pit sits a throne. It's constructed of animal bone, white jagged points jut out the way a thorn protects its ros. Resting on top is Chieftain Malic'ant. The first thing you think is-- (Old.) I was about to say that. (Not out loud, I hope.) Malic'ant had certainly seen better days. To say the Blackbird's skin is covered in wrinkles would be understating it. It's more like his wrinkles have skin. Long, thin white hairs hang from a ring around his head, the top itself bare. Blackbirds on average stand a full head taller than an Alteran. Besides the two that escorted Terr'ok earlier, who likely stood two heads taller, Malic'ant, if he could stand and straighten his back, would be at least that. Perhaps more. Now, however, he sits with a rounded back, one hand resting on a knee for support, the other holding a feathered spear, which has likely turned into more of a walking stick in recent years. "E'ffy. Daughter," he rumbles across the hall. His body may be failing him, but you see the life in the chieftain's eyes, an untamed fire threatening to scorch all that stands in his way. "Who are these outsiders?" "They are our freedom," E'ffy answers, stopping squarely in the center of the training pit. You and the others stop as well. "Are they now. And I didn't realize I was in chains," the chieftain dryly says. His voice is the warning of lightning, the sudden appearance of storm clouds. He is his daughter's father. Somehow you know the mother is out of the picture. "That is the problem, is it not? The S'umbra--" "I KNOW WHY YOU'RE HERE, GIRL." Malic'ant's voice booms in the hall; it's a gunshot in the night, the dagger finding a weak place in a set of armor. The chieftain quiets down. "I know why you are here. And you dishonor yourself by not holding custom." "They are outsiders and do not hold the same." "They are under your wing and will follow our ways." Somehow, and this intuition comes easier than the one about E'ffy's mother, you imagine this type of exchange happens often between the two, perhaps in cause of E'ffy's mother. The priestess turns to you. She quickly whispers to fill you in. "I am sorry for this. Defend yourself." The words themselves don't fill you in as much as the sweep that accompanies it. Her arms push you off balance, while her foot blocks you from taking a step back to keep your feet underneath your body. Instinct takes over, and as you're falling over backward, you clutch on to E'ffy's arm, dragging her down with you. WIth your legs wrapped around her torso to hold her into place, your arms work to isolate a limb for submission, both hands locked around a single of E'ffy's wrist. And that's when you learn that striking is allowed. E'ffys free arm blasts a fist into your face. Your vision sparks for a second, just enough time for you to see a second incoming punch. You shift your weight in order to dodge the second punch, giving E'ffy the opportunity to twist from your grasp, even if the punch itself doesn't land. The both of you find yourselves standing, facing against one another in the ring. In the corner of your eye, you see Redding and Onng have quietly excused themselves outside of the ring. Good. This is just between you and E'ffy. Chieftain Malic'ant watches intently, no doubt a legendary warrior in his time, his rule built from spoils of war. One must prove themselves worthy in order to receive an audience. "E'ffy," you whisper. "Who's supposed to win this?" "The one who is stronger," she answers back, rather unhelpfully. > You take the offensive She said it herself, the stronger one is meant to achieve victory here. Being the daughter of Malic'ant, you're certain that E'ffy had significant training, perhaps even beyond your own. But training decays over time, a sword rusted and brittle from lack of use. Better to possess a sword of well-maintained quality rather than an initially well-crafted one, poorly handled. You shake the analogies from your mind as you take the offensive. Better is the quick cut of a surgeon, an emotionally-surgical sever than the unsure hands of a novice afraid to make a mistake. Another analogy slipped through. You make it the last, feeling the ever-familiar flow state take hold. It's not limited to the battlefield and forged weapons. It arrives during any fit of combat, hand-to-hand included. You may seek to end the show early, but you'd prefer to avoid knocking E'ffy out senseless. As soon as the thought appears, you almost turn back on it--a cross, designed to knock you out senseless barely misses, fired from the chieftain's daughter. She's quick, dangerously so, always sliding just out of reach, closing in before your defenses can fully manifest itself. And you realize she has to be. The woman herself can't outmuscle you; the strength discrepancy must be even greater between her and a Blackbird, standing a full head taller than you. E'ffy fights like a floating butterfly, a hornet from a disturbed nest. You, on the other hand, stick to your training. Countless hours of drilling instilled within, emerging whenever the flow calls upon. E'ffy dances about. You cut her off. She presses. You give ground. She feints. You don't bite. You act like you're moving left but then quickly switchstep to catch E'ffy unaware. Both arms find an entry, hands locking behind the woman's torso. She'll not break from your grasp easily. Her style only works if she never finds herself caught, pinned down, which is exactly where you take her. You use your superior strength to wrestle E'ffy to the ground, hand still clasped holding the priestess in place. "There is only one way this ends," she whispers, too soft for anyone else to hear. "No mercy. Give no ground. Show strength." (Knock her out.) She's at your mercy, held down by your grip. Knock her out? The sparring matches of Alteran end here, with one member subdued by the other. Knock her out? It's dirty. Unsportsmanlike. The goal of sparring is to improve one another's skills, not seeking to harm the other by any means, besides harm that naturally occurs in training, that is. Furthermore, and not that you've been the most chivalrous of men, but there's the fact that E'ffy is a woman, a beautiful one at that. Something about knocking her senseless just doesn't feel...right. You sense the eyes of Malic'ant, her father, watching your next move. It's time to pass judgement. > You knock her out Despite your feelings, you know what must be done. The Blackbirds are a people that rely on the strong. Not only the physically strong, but those with the warrior spirit as well, those who would accomplish their task by any means necessary. For the good of the tribe, even if it's at a personal loss. There is only way this ends, a warrior's defeat and victory to offer to the chieftain, a symbol of the uncertainty of war. Loss and gain come hand in hand. Not one without the other. Chieftain Malic'ant is as tested as they come; and by similarity, the grit to do what must be done, as an offering, is the greatest gift you could bestow upon the chieftain. Pearls, gems, and heirlooms be damned. One hand curls into a tight fist, the other holds E'ffy's face into position, like readying the sacrificial animal for an altar. She looks up to you and nods her agreement. Your mind whispers an apology, desperately hoping she receives the message, as your hand lifts for the finishing blow. (It must be done.) Pain erupts through your knuckles, insignificant. E'ffy's head snaps back. Her body crumples to the ground--or it would--but you catch her limp body and gently guide her to a comfortable prone position. "Step forward, outsider," Chieftain Malic'ant orders. You comply. As you reach the end of the sparring pit, movement flashes behind you. Redding and Onng rush to take care of E'ffy. Nothing permanent is likely to affect her. However, she suffered trauma to the head--and with such a blow, treatment is better sooner than later. You've witnessed, personally, the effects of such trauma: slurred words, reduced cognitive ability. Causing such an impairment to the priestesses, by an undeserved blow in most opinion, would be an unforgivable act in your mind. You reach the edge of the pit. Hard packed sand gives way to stone. The floor is natural cavern rock, scrapped to be smooth, although it's not perfect. You can view more than a few ridges and bumps in the ground, nothing too extensive, although it'd be considered a mortal sin to designers in Alteran. "Closer. I'll not bite." You're not sure of the truthfulness in the chieftain's words. Or it could be one of those technicalities. I'll not bite, but you didn't say anything about stabbing you with my spear! Technically correct, still the undesired outcome. You're allowed to walk right up to the chieftain. The two large Blackbird guards stand at attention, ready to act in a moment's notice should you act less-than-savory. Under a throne of white animal bone, tusked skulls lining the top, Malic'ant addresses you. "You are made of sturdier stuff than your countrymen. Tell me, how do you fare against them?" "Against my fellow soldiers?" you ask, quickly answering your own question. "I win more than I lose. The same can be said for the battlefield against other armies." "Hmm," the chieftain ponders aloud. The sound of his thinking is like the low rumble of an aftershock earthquake, the steady pour of rain clouds lingering after a storm. "You are not the greatest warrior." You shake your head. "Nor the quickest." Another shake of the head. "Or the smartest." (Some points are proven in the words themselves.) "Hmm." Malic'ant's grip tightens around the spear. The speartip protrudes from a shaft of many feathers, from underneath a makeshift wing, if you will. "Not the strongest or the quickest or the smartest. Tell me, outsider, what do you offer then?" (Time to dance. What shall I be? Six-shooter, sword?) Nothing. (What, you think you have something to offer besides me?) You picked me despite a lack of magical artifact. Are you telling me you didn't see anything? (They call me the mad-god for a reason.) You hate that name. (I do.) Malic'ant respects the strength of the individual. (And you defeated a woman in battle. You possess strength, indeed.) No easy foe. Likely trained by the chieftain himself. (That's not enough to impress the man though.) I know, I know. Thinking. (Think quicker. We've been--) "Silence caught your tongue?" Malic'ant breaks the inner dialogue with Amir'sshan. Your companions are used to the gap in responses when Amir'shan speaks. Others aren't. "Apologies, Chieftain," you respectfully answer. "Amir'sshan speaks to me in moments such as this." "It is true then. You are the bondsman. You possess a weapon greater than any of the Harri'ar. That is your offering, then?" "No, Chieftain," you respond back. "The weapon is merely a tool. (Hey, now...) I would not offer something that another can merely take from my grasp. That is the same as equating my strength to the armor strapped around my body or the warriors that I call an ally." "Go on," the chieftain says, interest in his voice. "I am not the strongest, physically. Nor do I possess the mind to outthink my opponents at every turn. Yet Amir'sshan chose me for the bond; the man-god saw an unrelenting spirit, one that never strays from the path. I'm an arrow, Chieftain, set upon its course, fired true. There's no going back once the bowstring is released. I'll not hit my target unless plucked from the sky itself. And in order to do so, those must answer to Amir'sshan. I will do what is necessary to achieve victory, even if that means striking my own...ally," you call E'ffy that for lack of a better term. Chieftain Malic'ant doesn't answer. Instead, he rises from his skeletal throne, both hands leaning on the spear for support. The guards behind him don't flinch, but you can tell they're ready to rush to their chieftain's aid should his decrypted bones fail him. Interesting, isn't it? He rests on a throne built from others' bones, yet his own seek to betray him. Such is the course for all, however, and not all conquer the amount Malic'ant has during their time. Even with an arched back the chieftain towers above you. A weathered face examines yours, wisdom in Malic'ants eyes, the kind that is born from experience, the kind that outvalues all others. "Ask something of me and I will grant it. I give you my word as chieftain." It strikes you that you could ask for anything, wealth, comforts, the hand of his daughter in union. All far short to the mission; they're but minor distractions pulling you from greatness. There's a task to accomplish, first starting with the native people of the New World then moving to the Old. With your answer, you seal in every unanswered question of doubt, smiting away all that takes you from the path. "We are challenging Terr'ok and the S'umbra by the trial of the old ways, to run the gauntlet of the gods and challenge the S'umbra's champion. We need your support." "And you shall have it," Malic'ant affirms, slamming the butt of his spear into the stone floor for emphasis. "You shall have it." With Malic'ant's support, you gained the right to challenge Terr'ok by the old ways. Yet you need more. The chieftain brought support from the tribe; the gauntlet will bring support from the gods. For a people so obviously devoted to the Raven, you're a bit surprised to hear of other gods existing. Amir'sshan only made sense because of his alternate reference, the Raven incarnate. According to E'ffy, there are many in the Harri'ar's religion. The Raven is above all, but another, subtier of gods exist, including figures that turned Alteran tavern rumors and borderline stereotypes into reality, gods such as the sun, earth, etc. The chieftain dispatched one of his warriors to call a meeting of the tribe's leaders, which consisted itself of chieftains puppeteering under the S'umbra and Malic'ant. No one challenged Mali'cant's backing. They didn't lend additional support, however, but no one openly disagreed with the legendary warrior. Respect, honor: it lasts far longer than the brittle bones of man. The Harri'ar are not a people bound by the sundial. They live lives free from the constraints of mankind's contribution to tracking time. They call the trial to happen that very day. If, indeed, the Harri'ar are being led by the wrong leader, then change needs to happen immediately; the gauntlet will determine if that's the case. Your body timer, speaking of time, tells you it's just past midday, despite the lack of natural sunlight in the war camp. As the one who made an audience with Malic'ant, and the bondsman of Amir'sshan, you'll be the one running the gauntlet. No surprise there. They painted your face in ash and stripped you of all armor, minus something called an a'lta, a blanket-like garment wrapped around your waist. On your head, a headdress of feathers was placed, only all the feathers have been plucked. The result is a headdress of spikes, white thorny stems that usually hid underneath the comfort of its feathers. You are allowed to keep your weapons, though, which includes Amir'sshan. Shirtless, face marked with ash, they set you upon the path, into the mouth of the cave: the gauntlet of the gods. > The gauntlet of the gods Darkness. Darkness abounds. Never has the light abandoned you as this. Not even on the blackest nights, during the nightmares brought on by childhood, or even worse, those occurring as a man. The mouth of the tunnel leads you down a narrow path, no signs of alternate routes or branches exist here. You walk forward, hands stretched out in front, feeling the stone walls as you continue into the darkness. It's cool, the kind of temperature that greets you in the morning, a sign, perhaps, that the trial is only just beginning. The journey takes you around several twists and bends before you arrive at a clearing. Small gemstones saturate the rocks here, a full nightsky in each stone, sending the entire clearing into a lunar glow, although the darkness still sends the ceiling into an endless black. You stride forward, aware of the crunching of rocks underneath your boots, the sound of every breath. It's dead quiet in the gauntlet; every movement from your body brings defilement. Like all the Harri'ar architecture you've seen, the room seems to focus on a single point, centered around an object at the center. In this case, it's a sarcophagus. It's built like... ...you've seen it before. It's a replica of the one in the halls of the dead, the place where you and Redding first discovered the artifact. If the scene will play out similarly, then-- --Stone shatters. Rocks separate, lighting bolt cracks running through their bodies. The lid of the sarcophagus follows suit, a large crack twisting down the center like a painted river on a map. In a shower of rock, a hand reaches out from within the sarcophagus. Not a second later, the other grabs a handful of air as it, too, breaks out. The arms themselves possess a layer of decaying skin, gaps showing all the way to the bone. Another shower of rock. Feet, skin hanging to the bone like a poorly-stitched tunic. A mouth without a jaw. Empty gaps where eyes should reside, the same for its nose. The creature rises to meet you, not a lich. Not an undead priest. But, Redding. Hiyya, kid. His voice appears both in your mind and through your ears, audibly. It's different, though. And not due to its medium, although that's another point to quickly address. It reminds you of your childhood, the way a classroom friend would speak to you. A certain innocence, or perceived innocence accompanies it. Here's a man speaking like he knows every goddamn truth to grace mankind. Whether childlike ignorance or a good cardplayer, you're sure to find out the answer soon, the undead Redding patiently awaits your reply. Take your time; I've only got...eternity! Ha ha! "You aren't him," you flatly state. Am I not? This is how you view me. You bite down on your tongue. Answering "Redding" would give credibility to his statement. Instead, you scan the area for a path forward. None exist, or at least none that are visible. The cavern walls hide in the shadows; they could be either a foot or a hundred paces and you wouldn't know for certain. Want to see my bunkmate? Before you can answer, another pair of arms reaches from within the sarcophagus. It must be deeply built, if two bodies can fit within, assuming it's actually there. Hands grab for the outer edges of the sarcophagus like the way one would rise from a bathtub, skin hanging loosely from bone. The new figure rises, and you can see a long ring of black hair around its skull. Dead, decaying, there's no mistaking the second undead man. It's like looking into a mirror, minus the obvious difference in health. It's you. The artifact. All that matters is the artifact. You would abandon your allies for it. Abandon. Betray. Whatever it takes. "You" dialogue with Redding, and it strikes you that the exchange sounds very similar to the way you and Amir'sshan speak. That's where the thought ends, however. Whatever meaning you're meant to discern from the symbolism is lost on you. The undead version of yourself now addresses you. You betrayed your family. "The company is fine," you answer, this time, thinking of Bastus and Lionel. "They were rescued by the battalion's takeover." You betray them even now, not even acknowledging their presence. Oh. So it meant your real family: A father too concerned with his work for your well-being, an overbearing mother, an older sister with achievements far beyond your own. Hell, Vladimir felt like more of a family figure than those who share your blood. Your name presented too much renown in Magda to escape to the military there. Even operation under a false name would eventually be discovered. Magda may be a large territory, but its social ladder makes it operate like one much smaller, everyone of reputable position knowing the dealings of other families. In Magda, both enemies and allies alike are invited to dinner, just remain vigilant of missing table knives. "If my actions are considered a betrayal, then it's only justified. I didn't start...whatever disagreements we had, but I certainly wasn't going to hang around as the family scapegoat." You left your father with no heir. "He's fine in that regard. My sister would lead the house better than I ever could, and I mean that. They're better off with me gone." Your house is no more. Dissolved. Consumed by a rival house. Vladimir was assassinated in the streets. Your sister was forced to marry into the rival's bloodline, a former classmate of yours. Do you remember a boy named Kelle? Remember him, the boy stands at the very center of a memory long forgotten, suppressed over the years and medicated with drink and other...distractions, a story that is the nightmare of every adolescent. That is not this story, however, and you are no longer an adolescent. So your father's house fell apart in your absence. Perhaps it was always destined to set upon that course. Who knows. There's no determining for sure, although the loss of Vladimir might have been the beginning of the end. Your father's man performed every task for his master, including serving as a sliver of what a father figure might be. "Their fate is their own," you find yourself saying. "As well as mine is my own." Flesh and blood is a lifelong bond. "No, it's a strong bond, but it's not lifelong," you answer. Your hand subconsciously travels to Amir'sshan. "I know what a true bond is, felt." It's taking him over already. I see it happening too. The allure of power, blinding. He cannot see what's occurring before his eyes. "Quit the riddles. Speak plainly," you address the undead. Plainly, then, the undead version of you speaks. You're the boss, undead Redding adds on. Amir'sshan will consume you. A mortal body he desires. The mad god feigns as an ally. But he seeks to trap another within the dagger. "You lie. You attempt to break me from my bond when I need it most. You work with the S'umbra and seek to remove our greatest weapon before the challenge." Come on. It's just us three. Amir'sshan holds no place here. It's your one safe place from the mad god. Stay awhile. Stay with us. > You Stay "I...I will stay with you," you say, the words barely pouring from your mouth. Exceeelent. You'll find that it's rather peaceful here. And suddenly you find that a great weight has been lifted from your body. The burden of the task is a heavy load to bear. True, you aren't--weren't--carrying it alone with allies such as Redding and E'ffy, but the main weight still lies on your shoulders, and they're in a constant state of stress because of it. For the first time in your life, at least since you can remember, you surrender. Give up. Part of you could blame it on not knowing. Rare is the decision that you know the outcome. If you're being honest with yourself, you knew what this choice would bring: a sudden end to your journey. Your mind draws to the people you'll never see again. E'ffy, Redding, of course, but there are smaller players in the grand story of your life that appear now, oddly enough. Your favorite barkeep, soldiers that you've trained with--hell, even the sailors that were aboard the Devestator on your voyage to the New World. Strange what appears to the mind when faced with finality. And that's what faces you now, the end. (So close, and yet so far. Another bondsman who failed to complete his duty.) There will be another. There is no shortage of those who desire your power. (And you're fine with that?) Whatever I feel won't matter in a manner of seconds. (Spoken like a true mortal. Eternity is but a romantic notion. You know nothing of the torment of time...) (...But you soon will.) The undead version of yourself closes in, Redding close behind. You see them. You could attempt to stop them. But you've made your choice, and there's no going back now. Amir'sshan's final warning rings in your mind. You soon will. The void closes in. You surrender to it. Your journey may be ending prematurely, but finally, the restlessness is gone. It's not the end you imagined, but damn if you're not relieved that it's here. Whether right or wrong, you'll have time to reflect. The last thought on your mind is the fresh smell of morning dew, one of those lesser experiences that seems to be screaming at you now, another feeling you'll never have again. Darkness closes in. Finally, you can rest.

Darkness. Darkness abounds. Never has the light abandoned you as this. Not even on the blackest nights, during the nightmares brought on by childhood, or even worse, those occurring as a man. The mouth of the tunnel leads you down a narrow path, no signs of alternate routes or branches exist here. You walk forward, hands stretched out in front, feeling the stone walls as you continue into the darkness. It's cool, the kind of temperature that greets you in the morning, a sign, perhaps, that the trial is only just beginning. The journey takes you around several twists and bends before you arrive at a clearing. Small gemstones saturate the rocks here, a full nightsky in each stone, sending the entire clearing into a lunar glow, although the darkness still sends the ceiling into an endless black. You stride forward, aware of the crunching of rocks underneath your boots, the sound of every breath. It's dead quiet in the gauntlet; every movement from your body brings defilement. Like all the Harri'ar architecture you've seen, the room seems to focus on a single point, centered around an object at the center. In this case, it's a sarcophagus. It's built like... ...you've seen it before. It's a replica of the one in the halls of the dead, the place where you and Redding first discovered the artifact. If the scene will play out similarly, then-- --Stone shatters. Rocks separate, lighting bolt cracks running through their bodies. The lid of the sarcophagus follows suit, a large crack twisting down the center like a painted river on a map. In a shower of rock, a hand reaches out from within the sarcophagus. Not a second later, the other grabs a handful of air as it, too, breaks out. The arms themselves possess a layer of decaying skin, gaps showing all the way to the bone. Another shower of rock. Feet, skin hanging to the bone like a poorly-stitched tunic. A mouth without a jaw. Empty gaps where eyes should reside, the same for its nose. The creature rises to meet you, not a lich. Not an undead priest. But, Redding. Hiyya, kid. His voice appears both in your mind and through your ears, audibly. It's different, though. And not due to its medium, although that's another point to quickly address. It reminds you of your childhood, the way a classroom friend would speak to you. A certain innocence, or perceived innocence accompanies it. Here's a man speaking like he knows every goddamn truth to grace mankind. Whether childlike ignorance or a good cardplayer, you're sure to find out the answer soon, the undead Redding patiently awaits your reply. Take your time; I've only got...eternity! Ha ha! "You aren't him," you flatly state. Am I not? This is how you view me. You bite down on your tongue. Answering "Redding" would give credibility to his statement. Instead, you scan the area for a path forward. None exist, or at least none that are visible. The cavern walls hide in the shadows; they could be either a foot or a hundred paces and you wouldn't know for certain. Want to see my bunkmate? Before you can answer, another pair of arms reaches from within the sarcophagus. It must be deeply built, if two bodies can fit within, assuming it's actually there. Hands grab for the outer edges of the sarcophagus like the way one would rise from a bathtub, skin hanging loosely from bone. The new figure rises, and you can see a long ring of black hair around its skull. Dead, decaying, there's no mistaking the second undead man. It's like looking into a mirror, minus the obvious difference in health. It's you. The artifact. All that matters is the artifact. You would abandon your allies for it. Abandon. Betray. Whatever it takes. "You" dialogue with Redding, and it strikes you that the exchange sounds very similar to the way you and Amir'sshan speak. That's where the thought ends, however. Whatever meaning you're meant to discern from the symbolism is lost on you. The undead version of yourself now addresses you. You betrayed your family. "The company is fine," you answer, this time, thinking of Bastus and Lionel. "They were rescued by the battalion's takeover." You betray them even now, not even acknowledging their presence. Oh. So it meant your real family: A father too concerned with his work for your well-being, an overbearing mother, an older sister with achievements far beyond your own. Hell, Vladimir felt like more of a family figure than those who share your blood. Your name presented too much renown in Magda to escape to the military there. Even operation under a false name would eventually be discovered. Magda may be a large territory, but its social ladder makes it operate like one much smaller, everyone of reputable position knowing the dealings of other families. In Magda, both enemies and allies alike are invited to dinner, just remain vigilant of missing table knives. "If my actions are considered a betrayal, then it's only justified. I didn't start...whatever disagreements we had, but I certainly wasn't going to hang around as the family scapegoat." You left your father with no heir. "He's fine in that regard. My sister would lead the house better than I ever could, and I mean that. They're better off with me gone." Your house is no more. Dissolved. Consumed by a rival house. Vladimir was assassinated in the streets. Your sister was forced to marry into the rival's bloodline, a former classmate of yours. Do you remember a boy named Kelle? Remember him, the boy stands at the very center of a memory long forgotten, suppressed over the years and medicated with drink and other...distractions, a story that is the nightmare of every adolescent. That is not this story, however, and you are no longer an adolescent. So your father's house fell apart in your absence. Perhaps it was always destined to set upon that course. Who knows. There's no determining for sure, although the loss of Vladimir might have been the beginning of the end. Your father's man performed every task for his master, including serving as a sliver of what a father figure might be. "Their fate is their own," you find yourself saying. "As well as mine is my own." Flesh and blood is a lifelong bond. "No, it's a strong bond, but it's not lifelong," you answer. Your hand subconsciously travels to Amir'sshan. "I know what a true bond is, felt." It's taking him over already. I see it happening too. The allure of power, blinding. He cannot see what's occurring before his eyes. "Quit the riddles. Speak plainly," you address the undead. Plainly, then, the undead version of you speaks. You're the boss, undead Redding adds on. Amir'sshan will consume you. A mortal body he desires. The mad god feigns as an ally. But he seeks to trap another within the dagger. "You lie. You attempt to break me from my bond when I need it most. You work with the S'umbra and seek to remove our greatest weapon before the challenge." Come on. It's just us three. Amir'sshan holds no place here. It's your one safe place from the mad god. Stay awhile. Stay with us. > You Refuse "That is not happening," you answer. "I'd rather stick around with two Magda soldiers than with you two. Now, I'm moving on, and you can either watch me go or you can take it up with Amir'sshan." You pat the artifact again, feeling the buzz of power that emanates within. They lied. As bondsman, you feel the artifact's energy. Amir'sshan might not have spoken during the exchange, but he was present. You're sure of it. They sought to weaken your bond; instead, they've strengthened it beyond all fraying. As you wish. We warned you. With that, the two undead men before you twist in motion. Bones snap, loose skin falls to the ground at their bony toes. Redding starts to cackle a witch-like laughter, the kind that supposes meaning in the taunt. The sarcophagus draws to them. It pulls the undead creatures like a riverbed around a large stone. An unseen power takes them back, two pairs of feet sliding backward on the cavern floor. In another explosion of stone, the undead are shoved back into the sarcophagus, a marred lid the only evidence of the tomb's brief escapees. You're back alone in the gauntlet. Then, a light appears. It starts soft, a low glow in the distance. Like the first signs of the morning sunrise, it creeps forward tentatively, an orange-red hue. You decide to meet it. You walk forward, leaving behind the sarcophagus. At least there are no ladders this time around. The world around you vanishes from sight. Darkness settles in for a moment as if pondering amongst itself. Then, the light returns. Red-orange framed by shifting shadows. A throne appears at the center of the light, like in the spotlight of a play. Instantly, you know it is Amir'sshan's, his place of rule of Harri'katan. And if there's something you've learned about the man-god, he has a taste for the theatrical. You sense a presence. It's the feeling like you're being watched, an unknown, unguided intuition that you're not alone. "Come forward," you speak into the darkness. Are you prepared? Your hand instinctively reaches for the artifact. As you draw it, you affirm your position. "Are you?" A spirit reveals itself from behind the throne. Like with the throne, you can only think one name: Amir'sshan. He towers above you, near the same height as Chieftain Malic'ant back in his day. Like you, he wears an a'lta and a headdress, only his is extravagantly embroidered, full of feathers without a single marred or plucked from its stem. It's in that moment that you're aware of your faults, your own shortcomings. You've never considered yourself short, unsmuscular, or unattractive, and suddenly, you're all those things in comparison. When Amir'sshan speaks again, you tack on unintelligent to the list, sure that there will be more to add momentarily. Bondsman. It is a rare thing for us to meet face to face. Well, in your case, face to chest. "You're--taller than expected," is what you manage to say. The spirit laughs. Yes, yes. Tall for someone trapped for centuries in a black mithril dagger. Feels good to finally stretch my legs a bit. Had a nasty kink in my back. "How are you allowed to escape?" you ask. "And why not do it sooner?" It's the 'gauntlet of the gods,' is it not? You may not know this, but they call me the man-god. "Of course I know that," you snap back. If you thought dealing with the voice was frustrating, dealing with the man(god) behind it is even worse. "You know what I mean." Careful, bondsman. One cannot simply assume another knows what they mean...but in this case, I do. The prison is deteriorating. Breaking. Behold. Your hand, still touching the artifact, jumps back instinctively. The artifact moves on its own, a low rumble grows from within. You draw it for a closer examination, and as soon as you do, a black puff of smoke appears. It's the last exhaust of a dying man, a mere shadow of the powerful thunderclouds that accompany a shape shift. Then it crumbles in your hand. Its wing-tipped grip fades to dust, a black sand that escapes your hands, flowing down the sides of your palms and in between your fingers. A gust of wind catches it on the way to the cavern floor, a chilly gale that loses the artifact forever. "So you'll be free. No longer imprisoned." I'll be lost to eternity, my soul swept away like dust of the earth. I have no body to contain my soul; the godkiller took the form of a placeholder, so to speak, without the ability to move of my own accord, but alive. Very much alive. And I intend to keep it that way until the S'umbra are dealt with. "Why do I sense there's a but coming?" Ahh. Not a bad sense for the harem, but, perhaps not what you desire now. That's because there is one, bondsman. You're careful not to think the phrase "mad-god." Amir'sshan can likely read your thoughts just as the artifact did. Since you're faced with his spirit--and somehow you imagine your longsword won't be effective--you'd rather not start anything that could lead to a confrontation. You're confident in your skills as a soldier; however, this is unlike any battlefield you've been a part of. The walls are coming down. Their container of my soul is burnt through. But there is a way to preserve my power. You. "Me?" Your body is a suitable vessel. The bond is growing deep. The others could not have held my power without destroying their soul in the process. You are different. The bond unites us in body and spirit. The 'artifact,' as you say, is crumbling. The only way for Amir'sshan to survive is if we connect, body and spirit. Now it's your turn for the but. "But what will happen to me?" Typical Old World mindset, always thinking about themselves...I jest. You'll still be...around. More of a passenger on a boat rather than the one who steers the ship. "You address the topic easily for one who's discussing the takeover of one's body," you comment. "Are you certain you've never gotten this far before, just with those unwilling to depart from their shell." Don't play the jealous farmgirl, asking if your lover's laid with another. "Your answer's yes, then. In my experience, that sort of response is telling in itself." Think yourself sly, do you? I've been around long enough to know someone's preference to--oh what's the Old World phrase? 'Play second fiddle?' You may be in possession of your vessel, but you're anything but the steerer of the ship. Amir'sshan's articulate speech feels like it's slipping. Often the different (mad) style of speaking is lighthearted for the most part, the result of being hundreds, thousands of years old relating to modern times. There's more than a few generation gaps in place. It's been direct, downright odd during moments, but never aggressive like this. True, there may have been an outburst or two; never so obviously towards you, however. "You don't know what you're talking about," you answer, feeling your face becoming hot. When faced with confrontation, you've never been one to shy away. "I'm here alone, aren't I? Running through the trial all by myself, no one else to 'steer my ship.' I stand on my own two feet, whether that ends in victory or death, at least I know that I've chosen to make my stand. And you cannot take that away from me." The pup bears fangs after all. Interesting. You are in no more control of your life than I am of the High King's. Yes, I know who he is. You are here because I've guided you here. You stand alone? False. I stand by you, lead you, as I have no doubt that your companions would try to convince you otherwise, perhaps minus the priestess. She's a looker, isn't she? No doubt will want to lay with Amir'sshan's vessel. Isn't that what you want? Ignoring the obvious prodding, you reaffirm your stance. "My decisions are my own, as E'ffy's are her own. You have not brought me here any more than I worship the Raven." Ahh, blasphemy in the face of the gods. Truly, you are special. It's fun to poke a resting bear until it wakes. Behold! The cavern ceiling illuminates above, showering the two of you in a cosmic glow. Stars twinkle into existence, small grains of sand with the heavens as their backdrop. Above, the nightsky appears projected on the dome-shaped ceiling, constellations displayed exactly as a winter night in Alteran. You see the Warrior, his arms extending into "swords," two streaks of stars forming themselves into straight lines. It's as if you're a god yourself, an equal to those Alterans pray to at night, the heavens standing before you, not as a faraway, untouchable thing, but with the closeness of a friend, a welcoming and comforting presence. You are but a passenger on the ship. Who brought you to the New World? Who led you to the artifact? Who brought you to the Harri'ar war camp? Who put you on the trial? The frightening part about Amir'sshan's words, besides the truth that accompanies it, is that you hadn't shared those things with the voice. You never discussed details of your past. The fact that he knows is concerning; no memory, no thought is safe in Amir'sshan's presence. Such is the bond between the man-god and his bondsman. "So I've ever had companions. That does not mean they swayed my actions. It just means I've had the support of others." Support? Bah! A true warrior stands on his own. His strength lies in his own sword arm. All others will fail you. Their shields grow heavy in their arms, wilting. They cannot be trusted to cover your flank. Better to watch your own back. That's, truly, the only way to live. Stand or fall, it's by your own making. "And how did that turn out for you? Strong words for a soul who needs help now. Dare I allow you to stand on your own, then? FIne. Find another vessel to reside in. You ask for my help and then spit in my face for accepting the help of others. Good luck with your next bondsman." Fool! If you will not offer it freely, then I will take the vessel myself! The spirit of Amir'sshan dives forward, both arms stretched in front of him. The feathers on his headdress trail behind him, a wing in flight. You meet the attack with equal ferocity. Your longsword rests in your hand, a foreign weapon since coming into possession of the artifact. It feels heavy in your hand, outdated. The spirit approaches, two ethereal longswords appearing, one in either hand. Amir'sshan moves as if the wind, a flurry of strikes committed before you, barely, have time to muster a defense. He fights as if an angered hornet's nest, a bear who protects the well-being of her cubs. Amir'sshan sweeps low, then finishes high, his blades in constant motion, the edges themselves a blur. You do your best to maintain distance. The longsword you carry at your back is aptly named, better suited to wield with both hands due to its size, which means you can strike from a greater distance. If Amir'sshan--or any opponent for that matter--is able to get in close, then you'd have a difficult time, not to say the act of keeping the spirit of Amir'sshan at distance is any easy task by any means. It takes great footwork and quick reflexes to keep him away, both of which you pride yourself in. Still, they call him the man-god for a reason. The spirit does not relent. It does not falter. It does not tire. Both of Amir'sshan's blades ring across your defensively-raised longsword. Three swords remain stagnant in front of you for a moment; the strength of both wielders pressed against each other. Amir'sshan's face draws close to yours. His face is young, yet his eyes speak of years well-beyond his looks, a time-tested mixture of stress and wisdom displayed in them. I've nearly forgotten the thrill of combat, the feeling of the clash of swords. Heh. And it will feel even better once in my new vessel! He nearly overtakes you after finishing his words. "The artifact will be your grave," you answer with a grimace, the strength of the man-god increasing. Sorry, old friend. Your companions will understand. The world will understand. I will not forget you. There'll be a grand feast in your honor every year. The Last Bondsman, friend of Amir'sshan who sacrificed all for the man-god, the chieftain of chieftains. The way Amir'sshan switches tones, addressing you as enemy one second and friend the next is concerning. Your thoughts circle back to the mad-god. Perhaps both are equally true. All other thoughts escape you as the spirit's boot catches itself behind your heel. Just as you have time to register it, you're sent sprawling to the cavern floor, two blades following quickly behind. Your life flashes before your eyes, as cliche as the statement itself is. It's not like the stories you've heard: events flashing quickly together, a mash-up of important moments in your life. Rather, your mind runs in the opposite direction. The possibility. What could be. What could have been. Missed opportunities. Experiences you'll never have again. There is regret, sure, but that's not the theme of it. It's as if clarity has finally settled in for the first time, unfiltered, unmuddled by other distractions and worthless things that life brings. It's the feeling of passing into manhood and realizing the petty squabbles and desires of boyhood don't matter. They never mattered. In the moment, however...in the moment it felt like the fucking world was on a knife's edge. You feel it on a grand scale. There are things you'll never get around to. There are people you'll never express your true feelings towards. And that's fine. It has to be. It's not as if you can change it now. Clarity. It speaks. You battle, yes, but Amir'sshan can't kill you. He needs your "vessel." Instead of fighting back, you accept the outcome. Supine, you toss your longsword away and raise both hands in surrender. The man-god stands over you, both swordpoints at the base of your neck. "Go on. Do it," you whisper. Don't tempt me, Bondsman. "Do it," you utter a second time. "End me here. I've betrayed those who've grown close, my blood family, the Alteran company I've spent years fighting beside. It's only a matter of time before the same thing happens to E'ffy and Redding. You'll be doing the world a favor. I'll not beg. I'll not plead for mercy. You win. You've bested me. End it here. End it now." The spirit raises both swords overhead. Here it is; the restlessness you've spent your life avoiding will finally be silenced. Amir'sshan pauses a moment, then he stabs both blades down. As hard as you try, your eyes shut with the sudden motion. The world turns into darkness. > Light appears Your eyes open. It takes a second to register sight. Blood lines the edges of Amir'sshan's ethereal swords, red drops falling from the points. It's not yours, however. You remain unscathed. Two bodies fall shortly after, Blackbirds dressed similarly in a'ltas, their faces painted with ash. While your exposure to the natives has been short, the ability to distinguish between them is not lost. You recognize the pair of bodies, each carrying two axes. Terr'ok's bodyguards, the sizable warriors that accompanied him to E'ffy's temple. Amir'sshan meets your gaze. He winks, then gestures towards your holster with his head. As you look down, you discover the artifact intact, back in the shape of a dagger at your thigh. Upon return, the spirit is gone. You're alone, save for the two dead Blackbirds lying next to you, the fabricated nightsky still shining overhead. Realizing there could be additional threat, you rise to your feet and draw the artifact. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. The six-shooter manifests in your hand. A footstep drags on the cavern floor behind you. You wheel, cocking the hammer back. Click. It echoes in the gauntlet, a warning to all who would approach. Terr'ok, high priest of the S'umbra, ancestor of the Amir'sshan's assassins, stands before you. He carries the wooden staff with a raven carved at the top. His dark purple robe is frayed at the edges, fitting for the Blackbird. You somehow can't imagine a native of the New World wearing extravagant clothing--at least what the Alteran nobility would consider extravagant, Amir'sshan excluded. Unlike when you met previously, his hood is pulled low, hiding his features behind a wall of shadow. Terr'ok's voice speaks from underneath the hood, a lion purring in the jungle. "Made it this far, I see. Most don't make it past the crypt of self-reflection." Whether that's the actual name for the events at the sarcophagus or strong symbolism, you know his meaning...and his intent. There's only one reason why the high priest would meet you here, intervene. The S'umbra were content to sit back as you first entered the gauntlet. Although as you made progress, you imagine nervousness settled in, uneasiness. They took matters into their own hands, as blasphemous as it is. Intervening in the gauntlet of the gods. Kill him. Kill him now. (You know, we agree for once.) You do not answer Terr'ok. You do not pause to spill words, highlighting your revenge or the journey that's reached its climax. Your mind does not run to E'ffy, dedicating the shot to the priestess, a friend, perhaps even more. Strange as it sounds, your mind, instead, is filled with images of training. The first time a flintlock was introduced in your hand. How comfortable it felt, a weapon of deadly power with only two pounds of pressure needed to release. Countless hours spent at the range, honing the craft. There were plenty of misses. Many more than the number of hours you practiced. But still you kept at it. After a while, drawing the flintlock felt like lacing up your boots, buttoning your military jacket. Natural and necessary. Pulled from its holster, slamming down the hammer, firing. All in one smooth motion. You do as you've done countless times. You do as you defeated the lich to claim the artifact. You aim. You fire. Smoke appears at your face. As it clears, you expect to see Terr'ok's body blown apart. He remains standing, however, and you imagine a grin shining underneath the hood. Your bullet falls harmlessly at his feet in a sound no louder than a needle dropping, although here, in this moment, it sounds like stormy waves slamming into the side of a ship at sea. Amir'sshan screams in your mind. It's all you can do to hold a straight face. His sudden outburst affected you before. You'll not let it happen again. "The Veil," Terr'ok explains," protects me." "And here I thought it was supposed to be the Raven," you retort. The mention of their god sets him off. "Who do you think bestowed the power upon me," Terr'ok hisses. "Your accusation is full of blasphemy. The Raven helps those who helps themselves. I do not worship and expect the Raven to fulfill all for me. One must be willing to fight for their belief." You ignore the obvious point of blasphemy as Terr'ok is currently interrupting a test meant to prove the gods' favor. And you know what? Perhaps he's simply a part of it. The Blackbird people aren't ones to ignore customs; that was seen clearly with the tradition in Chieftain Malic'ant's hut. Intervening on the trial meant to be judged by the gods: that's more than enough cause to remove the S'umbra from power. Terr'ok's done you a favor. Your enemy has come to you. In one fell swoop you can prove the Blackbird gods support you and the S'umbra aren't worthy to lead. You'll need to survive the encounter, of course, and you have a strong feeling that Terr'ok isn't planning to allow you to simply walk out of the gauntlet. "Your people will be better off without you," you say. Amir'sshan becomes a blade in your hand. You emphasize your words by pointing the sword tip at Terr'ok. "You will be remembered as a group of power-hungry priests using your religion as a weapon against your own people. Parents will tell bedtime stories to their children of the evil S'umbra, of Terr'ok, the coward who hid behind the name of his god. They will celebrate your death. Their only mourning will be that you weren't removed from power earlier. You will be nothing but a stain on your people's history, a name accompanied with spit. Your fate runs much deeper than bodily death. I will destroy your very being." The hood prevents you from seeing Terr'ok's response, but you can tell he's seething. You imagine his teeth grinding together, eyebrows narrowed. His grip around the ravenheaded staff grows tight. White color starts to show at his knuckles, the staff itself threatening to snap in pieces. "You, my misled outsider, will pay for that." Terr'ok's staff raps against the cavern floor. It echoes softly, the sound appearing all around you, diminishing in volume. Then it grows larger, louder. Another tap. It appears behind you. All around you. Tap. It's joined by others. The S'umbra, more than just Terr'ok. Tap. More hooded figures step out from the darkness, wearing the same dark purple robes as their high priest. Tap. They carry the same staves; their faces hide in the shroud. Only you stand, exposed to all; you and Amir'sshan. (I am myself again.) Not entirely, but I know what you mean. (Kill them?) Kill them all. Six of them stand before you. Six proud men, confident in their abilities, never tasting the bitterness of defeat. Soon. It's a flavor that'll soon overwhelm their senses. Curious, the thunderclouds appear. Black smoke subsides in Amir'sshan's shape shifting. The six-shooter, fitting name for the circumstance, lies in your palm. Terr'ok may be protected by the Veil, but, perhaps, the others aren't. There's only one way to find out. You attempt to fire at all the newcomers. Your hand slams against the hammer, hard enough to bruise, firing the weapon directly from the hip. You don't watch to discover if your bullets land true. Rather, your eyes fix on the next target, the next victim. And just as you hoped, they aren't covered by the Veil. At least not at first. Three fall to the dirt, their hoods removed from covering their faces, exposed like you. Perfect bullet-sized holes lie in the center of their foreheads. A crater of blood starts to pour down the sides of their faces, soon to grace their bodies in a crimson pool. Three. You're able to drop three before the Veil extends to the remainder. Terr'ok screams in fury at the sudden loss of his brethren. "Your own" screech projects from your mouth, drops of spit fly from your lips, brought upon by the rage building within Amir'sshan. You use it as fuel, a source of energy yet untapped. The remaining S'umbra won't be dropped by marksmanship; they'll have to be handled with a more hands on approach. Fine with you. You've been relying on the six-shooter too much. Might as well put your sword skills to the test. They've felt a little neglected as of late. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. The black blade once again threatens the S'umbra. It's a weapon they recognize, something that was buried deep within the halls of the dead, hoped to be lost to eternity. Amir'sshan will not stay buried. Amir'sshan will not be forgotten. The man(mad)-god makes his presence known, felt, in the form of a black blade with a wing-tipped hilt. The Blackbird priests don't just allow you to cut them down. Flames, real fire, not from ravenlight, ignite at the tops of their staves, near the carved raven. In an instant, you know that they are the ones who greeted the Alteran voyage on arrival to the New World. The fire does not arrive in siege form, however; that might bring the entire cavern down. Streaks of small flame, like piercing arrows, fly towards you. Amir'sshan shapes into a tower shield, a defensive tool that covers your body from damn near ankles to neck. Fire impacts against the shield, each a bright flash of light, each a steady impact against your arm. Underneath the cover of the shield, you rely upon the feel of battle. Unable to view with your eyes--unless you risk exposing your face to the flame--you draw upon other senses to guide you, the cadence of the flame against the shield, the sound of the high priests casting their spells, knowledge that they can't continue at this pace for much longer. It's only a matter of time-- --daylight! Figuratively speaking. A window of opportunity opens before you, and like any good thief scouring the streets of Alteran's capital city, you don't squander the chance. The flame lets up for just a brief moment, the pause between each inhale and exhale, the moment when eyes see but the mind does not register: the moment when magic is spent, making the caster vulnerable to an ex-soldier and a god trapped in a mithril weapon. The six-shooter will not help you with the Veil in place, so, instead, you allow Amir'sshan to do as he pleases. Rather than sticking with weapons that you're familiar with, hold mastery over, you give Amir'sshan the freedom to shape as necessary, for the desire to cut down the priests are equally shared between you two. His, a revenge building over thousands of years in torment, trapped. Yours, a conviction to remove such people from power, starting first with the people of the New World, then moving to the Old. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Spear. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Longsword. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Axe. Black smoke. Thundercl... Death. Standing around the fallen S'umbra, you focus your attention on Terr'ok. The bodies of his fellow priests lie scattered at your feet, limbs in unnatural positions, all mysticism absent from their now exposed faces and shattered staves. There stands only two now: you and Terr'ok. "The Raven whispers to me," he utters. "It comes to me in my dreams. Amir'sshan is my destiny." "Not all fates are desired," you answer. "You dream of your death. And the nightmare is upon you." You charge forward, Amir'sshan becoming the state of his prison's origin, the dagger sought after by Redding and Alexander. The man-god, trapped and buried in the Blackbird halls of the dead. The destiny of Terr'ok, high priest of the S'umbra. The artifact. Amir'sshan and the last bondsman. Terr'ok twirls his staff as if a martial monk of the Old World, the kind who spend a lifetime secluded in a monastery preparing for combat. The carved raven becomes a blur, the staff itself melding into a streak of brown. The flow emerges. It reigns above all else. The mind is of no ally here; it brings overthought, past memories that hold no place on the field of battle. All that matters is your next breath. The present. Training takes over. The flow gently soothes your mind to sleep, allowing the body to rely on its own reaction time--far quicker when operating solely. The staff twirls, attacks appearing seemingly out of nowhere from the blur. Then, understanding. The body catches the cadence of Terr'ok's movements like a child jumping rope. There's a steady pace to his attacks...and a steady opening. Sure enough, all it takes is waiting for the next opening and-- --the black mithril dagger, the vessel that Terr'ok's ancestors trapped Amir'sshan within, buries deep into the priest's neck. In an instant, the staff stops in motion, falling from Terr'ok's hands. It falls to the cavern in a crash, bouncing from end to end before finding its final resting spot, much like its owner soon will. Terr'ok takes a step forward, his hood falling from his face. His face exposed, the priest's eyes are wide in surprise as often is the case for one meeting their end. Terr'ok takes a final step forward, both arms stretched out, empty, seeking to land on your shoulders for support. You take a step back and let the man fall to the ground, never to rise again. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Amir'sshan becomes an axe in your hand. The Blackbirds will demand proof of the S'umbra's intervention. You'll provide it. > Epilogue: The Last Bondsman They're waiting for you as you exit the gauntlet. A man entered the trial, an outsider from across the Great Sea. The one that stands before them now is a legend, a name to be spoken for all eternity. The gauntlet of the gods is a trial few have withstood over the span of the Blackbird people--and never before has an outsider passed. Gripping Terr'ok's severed head by his hair, loose tendrils of dripping blood mark your journey, spilling from the priest's open neck. You raise it high for all to see. They stand as a crowd, backed by natural ravenlight of the cave, a fitting shade for the present moment. The gauntlet opened up to the top of an underground hill. At the top, you look down at the crowd before you. It's mostly filled with warriors, yet that much is true of the Harri'ar themselves. For the first time, they look up to you, their large size paling in comparison to the hill, both physically and symbolically. Amir'sshan, once again as a dagger, rests on your hip. He speaks through you. (Blasphemers!) Compelled by the man-god, you toss the severed head of Terr'ok into the crowd of Blackbirds. A roar erupts, the sound of rumbling thunder coaxed into existence by storm clouds. Hands grip axe handles and tighten around spear shafts. The Blackbird warriors await your (Amir'sshan's) next words, for they will dictate whether you will be allowed to live or not. (Is this who you would worship in my absence? Priests masquerading as true devotees of the Raven, ones who would use my name for their own gain?) The words themselves are much like the initial word screamed by Amir'sshan. Blashemper. Looks, born of puzzlement and rage, are met in return. Did the outsider claim to be the Raven? More than a few weapons are drawn now, warriors deeming your words poorly chosen, a disrespect spoken to the Raven that must be answered in blood. Several of them attack. They charge the underground hill with a cry, a scream of righteous fury to their god. You cut them down. The very spirit of Amir'sshan possesses you, and you move like the man-god himself, the chieftain of chieftains. You discard the headdress that was placed upon your head; its feathers plucked, you have no time for impurity. It falls to the ground in the same manner of the S'umbra. Amir'sshan wishes to remain a dagger. You can work with that. You meet the charge of the Blackbird warriors, not with one of your own. Instead, you walk towards them, casually, like the way a nobleman strolls the streets of the capital city, eyeing shops and mannequins displaying the latest, finest overcoats. Their swings are telegraphed, born of rage and wildly arced. You dodge, sidestepping just out of range, mere inches away from their axes. The artifact finds a home in their necks, each Blackbird warrior felled with a single thrust of the blade, all dying by the same wound, the very one that ended the life of their leader, Terr'ok. With bodies of those in opposition around you, the words spoken from Amir'sshan have great effect, the message behind them clear: join or die. (Your god has returned. Behold! The Raven incarnate!) What are you doing? I thought the vessel was breaking. (Did I say that? Oops. I lied.) You tried to have me willingly surrender my body. (Once again, oops.) You'll not have me. (We'll see about that.) The Blackbird crowd, if they weren't in an uproar before, now definitely are. Hands gripping weapons now raise them against one another. Like a fissure splitting the earth, the Blackbirds become two parties, one in support of Amir'sshan's claim and the other ready to succeed where Terr'ok failed. Their shouts are louder than any Alteran market, each voice seemingly louder than an Alteran quartermaster barking orders at sailors. Infighting ensues. Blackbird on Blackbird, tribe against tribe. They were united under the S'umbra's rule. Now, however, they're split. Able to think freely for themselves, yet their thoughts spill blood against one another. More charge the hill, those in support of your claim at their heels, chopping at ankles and attempting to hamstring their fellow people. Through the madness E'ffy appears. Her face is like the sun peering through a cloudy day, a warm welcome in an otherwise dreary day. The tattoos are her wrists illume with magic, her holy power smiting those who stray too close, Redding next to her doing the same with his longsword. They cut their way towards you, having to avoid the pile of growing bodies at your feet. "Kid, why the hell are you claiming to be their god?" Redding shouts over the swing of his sword. Before you can answer, E'ffy interjects. "Because Amir'sshan is seeping into him. Becoming him. The bondsman is finally fulfilling his task." "Becoming me?" you question. "I refused his offer." E'ffy laughs, normally a comforting sign. In this moment, however, it sends chills down your spine. It sounds wrong, somehow, an innocent tone in the face of cruelty, like a troubled child giggling as he kills small animals. "Amir'sshan does not ask. He takes. Consumes. It is the duty of the bondsman to bring the second coming." Anger rushes into your body. Anger at being lied to. Anger at being used. After all you've been through, your life is thought as nothing, simply a soul in the way of the man-god's. Damn the artifact. Damn the Blackbirds. You're through with both. You wish that you'd never chosen to come to the war camp. Your grip tightens around the dagger. With a yell, you throw the artifact in to the sea of fighting natives. You're done with it. Let another, a true devotee, bear the burden. You don't even believe in the Raven, and you're sure there's more than a few present who would gladly surrender their life for Amir'sshan, E'ffy counted as one of them. "That's what I think of your sacred artifact," you shout, your voice ringing above the sounds of battle. Finally, you're rid of the thing. Let the natives fight each other to determine the next wielder. Suddenly, weight appears in your palm, a familiar wing-tipped handle rests in your hand. A sickening feeling rumbles in your stomach, and the meal eaten the night before threatens to jump ship. The artifact, it returned. (Not so fast, hero.) Your mind screams a pitch similar to Amir'sshan's, taking on his demeanor the way spending long amounts of time with another cause picked-up habits. Seems you're stuck with the artifact for the time being. Redding extends a worried glance in your direction; E'ffy displays the exact opposite, a constant grin at her lips. Her arm reaches out and touches your shoulder. It's comforting, reassuring. "It is a great honor to be in your service, Raven." You do not respond at first, though you sense Amir'sshan allowing you to do so. Allowing you. Allowing you to speak for yourself. The man-god spent centuries trapped within a prison of black mithril; it's early, yet you have a feeling you're taking the first few steps onto his path, the prison being your own body. No. You'll not surrender easily. You never have. You'll not start now. The battlefield has simply shaped form, much like the artifact itself. Rather than fighting by traditional means, you'll be battling for control of your mind, of your body. You sense the disapproval within and send your own in response. One body. Two souls in constant struggle over one another. You're not quite done living yet. There's much you haven't gotten around to due to military service. An entire New World lies at your feet, a freedom surpassing all that you've experience before. You'll not be chained, conscripted, bound to any other. A mental surge overtakes Amir'sshan's hands playing puppeteer. You're in control. You'll do as you want. "I'm not who you think I am," you state flatly. "The man-god is under my control, not the other way around." E'ffy's face turns dark. Backed by ravenlight, it almost becomes formless. "Only the S'umbra threaten the Raven in that way." "The S'umbra are no more. Same for the 'second coming.' There is only me and my ambition." (EEEEEEEEEE) Turning to Redding, seeing his face still shows concern, you add, "Our task here is complete. There is much work to be done, is there not?" Redding's expression becomes blank, his card-playing face. "There is always work to be done." "You are leaving then," E'ffy speaks. You nod. "Then I am coming with you." You offer her another gesture. This one, a shrug. "Not a bad idea," Redding says, "to have a Blackbird ally along with us." E'ffy doesn't correct the term. Old habits. You glance at the battlefield before you, the physical one. Infighting between tribes, a people raising axes and spears against one another. It is necessary for change. You have a feeling you will be doing the same with the people of the Old World as they voyage to the New. It's the natural order of things. The Old must die for the New to survive, like a snake shedding dead skin. Within, Amir'sshan settles down, the sudden outburst from the voice calmed for a moment. The internal struggle will continue. That's for damn sure. For now, however, the external struggle must be the main focus. Blackbird warriors climb the hill towards you. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. They climb to their death. You'll cut your way through the Blackbirds and leave the war camp, Redding and E'ffy along with you. The S'umbra are no more. Each Blackbird tribe is free to act on their own, and with their new-found freedom, they seek to end your life. So be it. Some lend their support, but not nearly the majority--not even near half of them. You'll cut them down as free men; they've chosen their path, and you, yours. Their choice leads to a dead end. Yours, on the other hand, is just beginning. The New World awaits you. Best to not keep it waiting long.

[Themes: fantasy, war, fantasy, humor, action] She said it herself, the stronger one is meant to achieve victory here. Being the daughter of Malic'ant, you're certain that E'ffy had significant training, perhaps even beyond your own. But training decays over time, a sword rusted and brittle from lack of use. Better to possess a sword of well-maintained quality rather than an initially well-crafted one, poorly handled. You shake the analogies from your mind as you take the offensive. Better is the quick cut of a surgeon, an emotionally-surgical sever than the unsure hands of a novice afraid to make a mistake. Another analogy slipped through. You make it the last, feeling the ever-familiar flow state take hold. It's not limited to the battlefield and forged weapons. It arrives during any fit of combat, hand-to-hand included. You may seek to end the show early, but you'd prefer to avoid knocking E'ffy out senseless. As soon as the thought appears, you almost turn back on it--a cross, designed to knock you out senseless barely misses, fired from the chieftain's daughter. She's quick, dangerously so, always sliding just out of reach, closing in before your defenses can fully manifest itself. And you realize she has to be. The woman herself can't outmuscle you; the strength discrepancy must be even greater between her and a Blackbird, standing a full head taller than you. E'ffy fights like a floating butterfly, a hornet from a disturbed nest. You, on the other hand, stick to your training. Countless hours of drilling instilled within, emerging whenever the flow calls upon. E'ffy dances about. You cut her off. She presses. You give ground. She feints. You don't bite. You act like you're moving left but then quickly switchstep to catch E'ffy unaware. Both arms find an entry, hands locking behind the woman's torso. She'll not break from your grasp easily. Her style only works if she never finds herself caught, pinned down, which is exactly where you take her. You use your superior strength to wrestle E'ffy to the ground, hand still clasped holding the priestess in place. "There is only one way this ends," she whispers, too soft for anyone else to hear. "No mercy. Give no ground. Show strength." (Knock her out.) She's at your mercy, held down by your grip. Knock her out? The sparring matches of Alteran end here, with one member subdued by the other. Knock her out? It's dirty. Unsportsmanlike. The goal of sparring is to improve one another's skills, not seeking to harm the other by any means, besides harm that naturally occurs in training, that is. Furthermore, and not that you've been the most chivalrous of men, but there's the fact that E'ffy is a woman, a beautiful one at that. Something about knocking her senseless just doesn't feel...right. You sense the eyes of Malic'ant, her father, watching your next move. It's time to pass judgement. > You show mercy When it comes down to it, you aren't like them. There wouldn't be a single Blackbird warrior in the camp to make the decision you're about to. E'ffy's completely at your mercy, and you don't finish her off. It's not the way you treat an ally. On the field of battle, there's no mercy. Simply, it can not exist if death is to be escaped. Here, however, there's room for it; need for it, a trust that's built between fellow members. Instead of ending the skirmish with a single blow, you hold back. Visible anger appears on her face. E'ffy's mouth becomes a tight slit, eyes following closely in the shape. The redness on her face, a subtle shade of crimson, begins to glow brighter, adding to the physical proof of exertion. The whites of her eyes expand, nostrils flared. "That is a mistake, bondsman," she utters. (I whole-heartedly agree.) With a cry, she then takes the offensive against you. E'ffy charges forward, arm cocked back to throw all of her weight and momentum into a single punch. You welcome it. Best to let the woman take her aggression out, even if her aggression might take the form of a bruise on your cheek the next day. Chieftain Malic'ant's voice stops E'ffy mid-step, like the wind was taken out of her sails, the anchor dropped at the exact same moment. She stops, turns, and faces her father. You remain where you are, noticing Redding and Onng watching from a distance. The chieftain's hall becomes silent as any grave, as any morning after burying the dead the day before. "Step forward, outsider," the chieftain orders. You comply. It takes exactly twelve steps to reach the other side of the training pit towards Malic'ant. With a half grunt-half groan of annoyance, the large Blackbird stands to his feet, pulling himself upright with his spear, at the same time waving off his royal guard, or whatever the chieftain protectorate is called. Crippled from age, Malic'ant still towers above you. Standing in his shadow is like finding a great oak in the midday of summer. "You showed my daughter mercy," he flatly growls. You find yourself nodding. "She is not my enemy, a worthy opponent, however." (Suck up.) Chieftain Malic'ant ponders a moment. His hand raises to scratch at his chin, the other remains firmly grasped around his spear. Up close, the spear is razor sharp, expectedly so. Feathers line the top, sending the blade protruding from underneath a wing, a common analogy for the Harri'ar. Malic'ant's eyes scan you for signs of deception, the look every father gives his daughter's guest, especially that of a male variety. "You do not have my blessing." Behind you, E'ffy spits on the ground. She doesn't look surprised, however. She must have known the path your actions set you upon. Onng wears a similar expression; Redding, oddly enough, looks disinterested. His mind is made up either way. Having the blessing of the Blackbird people is simply a formality in his mind. Whether having the backing of E'ffy's father, he's still going to take the fight to the S'umbra. After all of this, the struggle that you've undergone, making yourself enemies of both superpowers in the Old World, to find yourself here, at E'ffy's father's hut denied, sends more than a single thought of rage into your mind. Not to E'ffy's extent, but you've not exactly shown a containment over passion yourself. The two of you are similar in that way, yet one is but a sliver of the other. "And just why is that?" you find yourself saying. "You do not hold the strength to do what is necessary," the chieftain says. "You have skill, yes. But in the moment when action was required most, you did not do what needed to be done." "It's your own daughter!" Despite the lower volume, his next words seethe with more rage than the words shouted. "Bondsman or no, you do not have what it takes. Find another's support." You know there's not a single other chieftain in the war party that would lend support. The ability to defeat the S'umbra by lawful ways ends here. You've still got Amir'sshan and Redding who would die fighting by your side. E'ffy, you know, won't approve of any unlawful means. Breath still occupies your lungs, but you've found yourself strayed from the path. Your journey may still continue, but among the path of the storyteller, it dies here.

"So let's hear it," you say, resting on one of the floor mats. Man it feels good to take a load off. There's been a good deal of walking over the past few days; a lot of exertion ever since arriving to the New World and getting rained upon, likely from the very Blackbirds that you share a camp with now. "Hear what?" E'ffy asks, innocently. "The plan," you snap back, a little annoyed. Instantly, Ongg's face curls into a frown. It looks like a small mutt trying to be menacing to a war hound. "How we are going to remove the S'umbra from their clutch over the tribes, how we are going to free your people to live by their own chieftain." "It is simple," E'ffy starts, "we issue a challenge by the ways of Harri'katan." "Which is..." Redding prods with his question. "They do not know, priestess," Onng whispers. E'ffy ignores the man. "Harri'katan, once the prized jewel of our people," E'ffy says. "Imagine a city the size of a nation, built from the very earth itself. These are our ancestors. They drove the outsiders west many centuries ago. (Redding nods his agreement). But they have fallen from favor. Our people, the Harri'ar are lost. It is the S'umbra leading them astray. Without the false priests, they will revisit the laws of tradition." "With respect," you say. "That does not explain it at all. And you mean to call the laws of an ancient city? Isn't the point to allow the tribes to rule themselves no longer under the thumb of the S'umbra?" "Each tribe has a choice. We are stronger united by the Raven." You're becoming a little frustrated at this point, with good reason. E'ffy seems to be taking you round and round with her logic. "Then what the hell are we doing? Exchanging one leader for another? If it is freedom that your people want, then they should take it themselves, not surrender themselves to the yoke of servitude." "You would do best to soften your tone in a holy place such as this," E'ffy hisses. Her face turns from a sunny sky into approaching storm clouds. "E'ffy," Redding speaks in a calm tone. "Tell us about the challenge." The storm clouds hold a moment, but linger. An overcast priestess answers Redding. "A challenge issued, the challenger must run the trial. If they survive, then they must face the ruler's champion." "See? That wasn't so hard." You intentionally shift your tone after your initial words, hard as it may be in your current state. "What entails the trial?" "The gauntlet of the gods," E'ffy says. "The challenger must prove they are worthy among the divine before they can face the champion in combat. Otherwise the greatest warrior would always rule.. and only hold it for as long as their strength allowed it. The ruler must be strong, but also chosen. They must win over the people before being considered." "But what exactly is it?" "A sacred tunnel in these caves. It is no accident that the war camp has taken place here. My father had some influence in the matter." This brings a smile to E'ffy's lips. The weather changes quickly in her presence. "And what lies within the tunnel?" you ask. "I do not know," she answers. "The trial hasn't been run in many years." "Well... when was the last time it was won?" Redding inputs. "Generations." (You know the simpler plan would be to stroll into the S'umbra's hut and allow me to...talk with them.) And what would that solve? Those loyal would take their place. (A show of strength. That you are above their laws.) Somehow I don't think that would help the Blackbirds any. (It'd help you...and the priestess. You have, what do they say, bigger fish to fry?) "Hello?" E'ffy says. "Don't mind the kid," REdding jumps in. "he tends to do that when the artifact whispers to him." "Amir'sshan..." E'ffy utters, in awe. "What does he say?" (I'm flattered, but you don't need to ask for my permission.) "He says that we could end the S'umbra without the challenge. With the artifact--err, Amir'sshan--we have all the firepower we need to remove the S'umbra from their place of rule. I ended the undead defender with a single bullet. I could do the same for these priests of yours." "Amir'sshan, brutally straightforward as always." She speaks as if she knows you. (They all do. I'm somewhat of a legend myself.) Enough of a legend to justify executing a sect of native priests? (Not all legends are heroes, hero.) "The way I see it, is that we have two options presented in front of us," Redding says, taking on a familiar tone that you're used to hearing as he addresses the company. "Take the difficult path leading into a treacherous tunnel, unknown danger hiding in the shadows. Or we can do what we soldiers do best: draw blood and keep drawing until it no longer flows." (I know what I vote for.) Good thing you don't get one. "Those in favor of the trial?" Redding asks. E'ffy raises a hand in her decision. Onng, seeing his priestess' gesture, quickly raises his own palm. "And those for the direct approach?" Redding raises his hand while speaking. He waits for you to raise yours. "Amir'sshan counts as two," E'ffy says. "Even if it goes against my own belief. I would not choose against Amir'sshan in anything other than this," she affirms. "In this, I am set. The Raven guide us." "What'll it be, tiebreaker?" Redding says, his hand still raised. "The trial or the soldier's approach?" > The soldier's approach "I only know of one way," you answer. "Cutting with the sword and firing with the sidearm. It's clear that the S'umbra must be removed by physical means. Lucky for us, that's what we're best at doing." "That'sa good kid!" Redding exclaims. Before you can expound more, a loud knock rings through the temple, a dull thud echoing two times. Instantly, the doors to the inner sanctum swing open, which is not how you would expect someone to enter into a religious place....unless....unless the newcomer isn't concerned about disrupting the holy place because they hold themselves to a different religion. E'ffy did say there weren't many supporters for her sect of worship. A lone man enters, leaving his Blackbird escorts behind. The warriors stand guard just outside, which means either they're more concerned with keeping people out than protecting their master. Which also means the man isn't worried about the danger that stands before him now, the four of you. He's dressed in purple robes, dark and tattered at the edges. His face remains hidden in a deep hood. The man removes it though, revealing Terr'ok, high priest of the S'umbra, acting chieftain of chieftains, enemy of E'ffy. "E'ffy, my girl," he purrs, a voice that would soothe coming from someone else's--anyone--else's mouth. He's not old for a priest, perhaps nearing forty, giving him ample years to hone his craft while still maintaining the vigor of youth, a dangerous foe indeed, likely in the prime of his lifetime, where both body and mind are still sharp. The man leans on a wooden staff, awaiting E'ffy's reply. The very tip of the staff boasts a small carving of a raven. "Terr'ok," E'ffy confirms his identity. Tare-ock. "Have you come here seeking salvation?" "I'm afraid, my dear, that has already been secured. Yours, however..." Terr'ok trails off. As he starts speaking again, a cry escapes your lips. It's not of your own doing. Its compulsion is that of grabbing a smouldering coal and the instinct to drop it immediately. THe same compulsion brings you forward, artifact appearing in your hand as a blade. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. If the man is surprised by your actions, he doesn't show it. Your companions seem more surprised by the sudden move, minus Redding, who joins your attack. A man of action, that Redding. Terr'ok remains in place with both hands on the wooden staff, you and Redding bearing down on him with weapons drawn. At the last possible moment, the high priest bursts into motion. The staff in his hands whirls as if a leaf in the wind; his footsteps carry him a perfect two steps backward. Not just a man of the cloth it would seem. Perhaps that's the Blackbird way. Terr'ok's steps take him just out of reach from yours and Redding's blades, both swinging through empty air in the place where the man stood a second earlier. The voice thunders in your head, and like watching events play out in a dreamstate, you're merely a spectator as the words of Amir'sshan pour through your own mouth. "The mad-god holds true to his name," Terr'ok fires back, his hands returning to resting on the staff, a symbol of his strength originating from his deity. The artifact seems to shut you out. You cannot move or talk of your own accord, trapped beneath your body's new driver, the reins now firmly held by a being, possibly immortal--possibly mad. Perhaps both. By now the Blackbird escort rushes into the temple, drawn by the commotion. They're protected by leather armor, each carrying an axe in either hand. You've grown used to looking up at the warriors; they stand a full head taller than the average Alteran, after all. The two newcomers are a different breed, however. They stand two--maybe two and a half--feet taller. Black paint covers their faces, the whites of their eyes and snarling teeth giving them a phantom-like demeanor. They may tower above you, but they'll fall just like the others. Amir'sshan changes shape within your palm. The black blade becomes the six-shooter, by far your preferred weapon and the artifact sure as hell knows it. Since you first felt the standard issue Alteran flintlock in your palm, you've felt comfortable with weapons powered by gunpowder, which is not something all soldiers of Alteran are drawn towards. Redding, for example, rarely fires a side piece, preferring the steady swing of a fixed blade. Just as the lich fell, just as countless others, you see your targets. The six-shooter raises. And you fire. Two shots ring in the temple, a loud blast like a ship crashing onto the shore. One moment your targets stand in front of you. The next, your targets still stand in front of you. As if coins dropped into a collection pot, two lead bullets drop onto the temple floor, highlighting the sudden silence that followed your shots. The Blackbird warriors remain in front of you, unscatched. Smiling. Mocking. "Amir'sshan...the Veil," E'ffy whispers. That's when you notice it, a transparent shield hanging like a cloud layer around Terr'ok and the warriors. Terr'ok offers a smirk. "You've been out of the mortal realm for too long. There are new powers, real powers that are beyond your shape shifting tricks." White hot anger sparks within you. It comes from the artifact's bond, yet you feel it as if it were your own. It's the feeling of learning a family member was set upon by highwaymen, a righteous passion by association. The six-shooter won't help you here. You'll have to defeat the man by traditional means. Another cry escapes your lips. You charge with the black blade in hand, Redding by your side to accompany your strikes. The two of you have fought side-by-side many times. Even in your brief time spent in the New World it's paid off, Redding countering after your defense, complimenting your movements with your own. Only, your movements aren't your own; the artifact steers the ship, and Redding is unfamiliar with such an ally. You stumble over each other's steps, your now long, sweeping strikes with the blade--fueled by emotion--taking the place where precise, disciplined training once resided. The spirit of Amir'sshan drives you forward; the style itself would normally be effective. Truly, it would if you stood as tall as the Blackbirds, if the hand guiding the sword possessed the same ancestral body type. You've always been strong for an Alteran. You've always been quicker than most. The Blackbirds are different, however, physical specimens born to battle hand-to-hand, forged by the constant danger of the New World and uncivilization. An axe catches Redding in nearly the same area that he suffered not days ago. You wonder if he's completely healed or not, even if E'ffy's healing magic closed up the wound. His body may not have the same strength as before, the byproduct of knocking on death's door and finding no one home to answer. The man, the former corporal collapses to the floor after a stumble forward, both hands clutching his side, his sword falling from grasp. Suddenly the anger becomes your own, spurred on by the sight of watching, perhaps, your oldest friend fall to the natives. You charge, willing the longsword to extend into a two-handed greatsword. If the artifact is going to affect the way you battle, then damn if you won't have a say in what form it decides to take. Besides, the heavy two-handed weapon is better for the large swings of Amir'sshan. (This body is weak. It cannot hold my power.) Then go somewhere else and leave me alone! In the middle of the battle, you catch a brief glimpse of E'ffy. She and Onng have moved to the back of the temple, unwilling to take part in the fight. She abandons us. (She doesn't agree.) This is who we choose to fight for? (Ahhh so we're a 'we' now.) Yes, as in WE would be better off if you controlled yourself. (Focus, hero. They--) The voice is cut off. The same can be said for your right arm. One of the Blackbird's axes found an opening in your defence, the axe blade cleanly severing your limb from the elbow down. Battle shock takes over. You feel nothing. It's as if the sight of your severed arm at your feet isn't registering in your mind. Oddly enough, all you can think of is the way a fish flops on the ground after it's caught from the water, and you swear you see your arm twitch. The greatsword, only supported with one arm, seems to double in weight. Not that you have any faith in the outcome, the six-shooter appears in your left palm. If this is the end, you're going to go down firing. The Blackbirds close in. Terr'ok smirks. E'ffy watches. You fire six shots. Their axes tear your body apart.

[Themes: fantasy, war] You sprint back towards the garrison quicker than your retreat. The prodding of a war party heading in your direction isn't as much as your leader, perhaps a friend, bleeding out. Your side aches. Your legs feel as if running on sand. But still, they are small nuisances compared to the feeling Redding has. It's not a day's journey by any means. However, you're acutely aware of possible complications upon arriving back to the garrison. Returning without your scout escorts--possibly labeled a deserter. You wonder if Alexander's protection will still fall on you without the former corporal. Benjamin, for instance, probably wouldn't mind another crack at you. First, you've got to arrive at the garrison. The complications come second. Halfway there, you realize that you never re-holstered your flintlock. It's probably ruined by water damage by now, not that you need it any longer. The artifact seems to fulfill that category, and more. You briefly entertain dumping your longsword as well as it's unnecessary weight. Surely, the artifact can become one. (I can.) Thanks for your input. The voice can hear your thoughts somehow. You're bonded in a manner you can't explain. Even when it's silent, you can feel its presence, a low humming of energy ready to be unleashed. After Redding is taken care of, you plan to have a long conversation with the voice inside your head, not a comforting thought in the least. Redding mentioned ale. Yes, you imagine there will be plenty of that when the time comes. You arrive back to the edge of the treeline. The garrison lies ahead. The soldiers that occupy the former battlefield are not of Magda. They are not Blackbirds. They wear long blue overcoats, buttons of gold. Their boots rise nearly up to their knees. The Alteran battalion. A grin comes across your face as you step forward, but then stop. You glance down, taking a double glance at your attire. Sure enough, it's the one issued by the Magda quartermaster. A thousand soldiers of your allegiance stand in front of you, and yet you cannot draw upon them for help. You wear the colors of the enemy. You've hurried here, only taking a fraction of time. Patience will serve you now. There's no sense in rushing in. Let the scene play out before you, then act accordingly. If only you weren't wearing red while trying to hide in the forest. Oh well. The battalion stands in formation just outside the gate, which still boasts a sizable hole in the center, although the fire's long been put out. We've got some time. Speak. (Another mortal who thinks me his pet. Cute.) You possess sentience. Is that of your own doing? (How refreshing of a question. I'm used to 'can you do this? Can you do that?' difficult question to answer there.) It's straightforward enough. (You possess sentience. Is it of your own doing?) ...fair enough. Was there a time that you did not occupy the artifact? (That, is a better question. Once upon a time, I had a body of my own.) What happened? (A story for another time. I believe your attention is needed elsewhere.) Crouched under the cover of trees, you see Alexander emerge from the fort, two soldiers at his side. Surrendering? It's hard to tell with his back turned towards you, but the commanding officer leading the Alteran battalion appears to be Briggs. Same height. Same build. Strange that the Alterans are content to stand outside of the gate when the Magda garrison is in obvious poor condition. The rules of war don't state anything against taking advantage of an opponent. In fact, it encourages it as long as they are treated humanely. "The two tribes are now one." A woman's voice speaks behind you, heavily accented. As such, each word bears deliberate articulation, similar to the way the Blackbird warrior spoke not hours before. The voice sounds familiar. You turn to find the same Blackbird woman that you encountered days ago. You're starting to think it may not be a coincidence. She's dressed in the same tanned leather, feet bare, displaying tattoos around her wrists and ankles. Long black hair flows down her back, a single braid running down the side of her face. Unarmed, just as before. You suppress your initial questions for now. "No. They're bitter enemies. They'd never join as allies." "What is that then?" Glancing back at the fort, you catch Alexander and Briggs clasping hands. Partnership? No, it still could be conquest. Terms of surrender must have been met, and the two leaders are shaking in agreement, like the way a merchant would to a supplier. "That could mean many things," you say. "Axes greet enemy. Words greet friends." It's a strange take on a well-known saying. In common, save your words for friends, enemies deserve only the sword. The quote is old. If you paid more attention to your studies as a youth you might remember how old or who it's attributed to, not that it would really make a difference in the present moment. (She's a priestess. Devoted to an older sect of the Raven by her markings.) "And which one are you?" you ask. She smiles, gesturing with her arms. It's like the sun peeking through a cloudy day. "Do you see an axe?" "Fair enough," you answer. "Listen, any other time I'd love to sit down and chat. Buy you an ale, maybe. But my...friend is wounded and needs help. I came to find a healer." "Which tribe?" "Good question..." you answer trailing off in thought. She's smart, this one. On your first encounter, you wore the long coat of Alteran. This time, however, you're in Magda crimson. There may be a peace brokered between nations, even if that's in the form of surrender, but spies, turncoats can still expect no mercy, especially those who traded their coat for the losing color. The Alteran arrival may complicate things more than you first expected. Magda won't stick their neck out for you. None but perhaps Alexander favors you, and that's only by association with Redding. Alteran hangs turncoats. Yes, the arrival of the battalion is problematic, indeed. "I have seen this before," the woman says. "Tribes becoming one with a single enemy in mind. It is happening now." "You think they're reuniting against the Blackbirds?" You don't mean to call her that. Hopefully it doesn't sound like an insult or slur. It just sort of slipped out. "We are the Harri'ar," she answers sharply, sunshine now hiding behind storm clouds. "Many tribes have been made one under the S'umbra, false priests." She spits on the ground, similarly to the way an Alteran soldier would after the mentioning of Fargrave, although that habit is likely vanished here. "And you do not agree with the S'umbra?" "No!" The outburst causes you to glance back to the soldiers. None seem to have heard. Mentally you take a note not to bring up the S'umbra again, at least if you can avoid it. She speaks again, more calmly. "They are poisoning the minds of the chieftains. They have twisted the Raven to their own pursuit." The woman doesn't exactly say "the Raven." You're aware the words from her mouth sounded different, yet the artifact somehow translated it in real time. "Listen," you say for a second time. "I really can't delay any longer. My friend." "We have healers," the woman states, the rest of her meaning is understood. She awaits your response. Could be easier than convincing two nations that you're not a turncoat. Could be a trap. Could be both solutions are not ideal. Could be that you need to make a decision, fast. Could be that Redding doesn't have much time. > Garrison field surgeon You shake your head towards the woman. "I'm sorry. I need the aid of these men." What you don't mention is your skeptical feelings towards Blackbird medicine. Perhaps they're capable of treating Redding by natural means, but you're not willing to take the chance, not when you know several experienced field surgeons lie a few hundred feet in front of you, despite your circumstance. (Way to let her down easy.) Shush. "Fine," she says. "Unfurl your black wings and wait..." "...Let the wind carry you home," you complete the farewell in her native tongue. (You're welcome.) She looks surprised at first, just barely more than yourself. Then the smile appears, flashing quickly, before turning stoic again as if remembering something grim. She says a final thing before disappearing in the forest in a blur of tanned leather and black beautiful hair. You find yourself hoping there'll be a third meeting. Only time will tell. "The Raven wills it. Amir'sshan will guide you." Any thoughts of youth depart. You're required to be a soldier. You harden your mind for the task at hand. Damn! If you had known the Alteran battalion would be here, you would have traveled through the hidden tunnel into the garrison dungeon. The artifact would be able to unlock any door along the way. It's too risky now. Hours there, more hours back as stealth is slow going, and then more hours there. Nothing is ever easy. If you're being honest with yourself, there's only one way to approach. Whatever deal is made between Alteran and Magda doesn't negate the fact that there are wounded soldiers to attend to. Redding may be a distance away, but he falls into that category, just as long as it's a Magda doc treating him and not an Alteran. As you know, turncoats aren't well thought of. You step out from the treeline into the open clearing. Almost instantly you're flagged down by two Alteran soldiers wearing navy blues. They rush over to you, swords in hand. "Stop! Hands up" one of them shouts. You instantly comply, throwing up two open palms. You don't recognize the two Alterans, and they don't seem to either. One of them, the same who spoke, grabs your shoulder rather forcefully and draws you toward the battalion like the way a mother would scold a son. The other pulls the longsword from your back. The artifact! (Please. I've been disguising myself from mortals long before your precious High King was even a high babe. Look to your arm.) Your inner arm, close to your wrist, displays a black marking. The tattoo is similar to the ones the Blackbird woman possesses, a crown-like band wrapping around the entire limb. Not bad. Little suspicious for a random tattoo to appear, wouldn't you think? Tingling runs through your arm. It's as if a blade of grass were blowing against your skin in the wind. As you look down, the tattoo is gone. Instead a small dark ring, ravenblack, encompasses your pointer finger. Better. Just as long as there aren't any jewelry thieves around. (You better hope not. They'd find it easier to take the finger than pry me from my perch.) Great. You give the equivalent of a mental groan. "Sergeant. We found him wandering the outskirts." As expected, the two soldiers bring you to their commanding officer. The High King loves his chain of command, after all. You already know how this story goes. The sergeant will pass you to his superior, who will do the exact same thing until a certain rank is reached, one that has actual decision-making authority. Until then, it's puff, puff, pass. "Put him with the others," comes the grizzled voice of the sergeant. Interesting. His superiors must be busy with more important things. Well, there's a first for everything. Wait. The others? The two soldiers, your escorts, take you past the rows of Alteran soldiers, neatly arranged in formation. There doesn't appear to be any signs of battle, save for the one with the Blackbird war party. The garrison must have surrendered upon seeing the Alterans approaching. Their fort couldn't stand otherwise. They lead you into the garrison through the hole in the gate. Inside the fort for the second time, things look very different. To be more accurate, it looks as if it were set on flame. Many of the square buildings display blackened burn marks, some burned down completely, large piles of ash. All the fires appear to be put out now, save for the one near the eastern wall, using logs built from fallen bodies, sending the scent of charred skin and hair into the air. Up on the ramparts, you spot Captain Briggs and Alexander. A table's been brought out, and they occupy opposite sides. The captains sip small cups of tea from the spotless white table cloth, the tiny clinking of tea cups sounding out of place for the chaos before you. Rules of war. The surrendering party must host their conqueror. (Time's running out.) You think I don't know that? To the western wall you finally see where your escorts are taking you. A few hundred, if you had to guess, Magda soldiers are grouped there, some seated on the dirt, others leaning against the wall. They're nothing like the well-armored soldiers that fought previously. Most don't wear their steel breastplates--actually, none of them do. Terms of surrender. Like you, their weapons have been taken, although none of them likely have an ancient artifact at their disposal. The Alterans don't take your leather armor from you, so the removal of the steel breastplates must be a slight at the Supreme Leader, exposing the Magdan's hearts vulnerable. A shove, and you're just another conquered soldier in the crowd. It's a shame they didn't throw you in the dungeon. Then there would be a direct tunnel to Redding, and no locked door would stand in your way. Damn! Instead you're in the open for all to see. True, you're not locked up, but constant surveillance dampens your attempts far greater than any prison cell could. Already, you're scanning the fort for areas of escape. You've already noted the dungeon. Perhaps you could cause some commotion to get you and another locked up...a field surgeon perhaps. Though it would need to be the right amount of disruption. Nothing too excessive, otherwise you risk the noose. "Still making friends, I see." Before you can respond, a punch lands in your gut. Instinctively, you retreat a few steps in the case of follow up blows. Safely away, your eyes find your attacker. Benjamin, sharp features, thin nose and chin. Without his steel breastplate and buckler, you see his body type matches his features. "I seem to remember you already paid me back," you say. "I did," Benjamin says with a smile. "That one was because I wanted to." "Oftly good spirits for a soldier who just surrendered his fort." The smile disappears instantly, like sandy footprints washed away with the tide. "And who's the blame for that? Interesting coincidence that not shortly after you 'defect,' the Alterans show up in full force. I wonder who led them here." "Oh please," you start. "That's right. And after leading the Alterans to victory they took my sword and rewarded me with your company." "That's because you can't be trusted. You and that Redding. Where is he, by the way, deciding which army to betray next?" "He's..." you trail off, realizing that you're getting sidetracked with the bickering. "What are they planning to do with us?" "Us? We're probably going to be sent back to Magda under the terms of never setting foot on the 'High King's New World' ever again. Rules of war, you know. The Supreme Leader will be furious, but I suppose, technically, no bloodshed actually took place, breaking the peace. You?" Benjamin motions a finger across his throat. "Great," you utter. You silently wonder how difficult it would be to kidnap a field surgeon in front of two armies, that is if none will accompany you freely. If they are marching you through the forest, it's not a bad idea. The more seconds that go by, the more you're starting to think none will go freely. And why would they? Their life is currently not at risk. Rather than tromping through the overgrowth to save a turncoat's life, they get to go home. An Alteran surgeon could fix Redding up, but you have doubts on how convincing you'll be. They believe you betrayed them, after all. People tend not to listen to defectors, not that it's your fault your coat turned colors. Unfortunate, indeed. > The dungeon There's no telling how soon the garrison will be sent packing to the Old World. You don't have time to find out either. You need to act, and fast. You scan the crowd of Magda soldiers, looking for a doc. Off in the distance, you hear a laugh echo from the ramparts, followed by clinking of tea cups. Rules of war, you know. Still, it seems a tad insensitive for the garrison's leader to show such obvious enjoyment while his men are herded like farm animals. Finally your eyes land on a man near the edge of the soldiers. His build is thin. Like Benjamin, and a lot of the Magda soldiers, his features are sharp, a thin pair of spectacles sitting at the edge of his pointy nose. One look and you know he's not a soldier like the rest. Arms are too frail for a sword. Better suited for a scalpel. He's the small puppy barking directions at war horses. Just what you need. (I've seen that look in many mortals before. You're about to get us into trouble, aren't you?) No more than usual. You hear the sound of Benjamin spitting as you walk away from the man. At least he's content to stay put. You don't need him following you around and causing problems. You imagine you'll have enough problems of your own, by your own making no less. Through the crowd of Magda soldiers you go, taking notice that you are the only one in motion. The rest simply stand around, waiting. They're about to have a hell of another show. The man's hair is in the process of becoming more silver than brown, straight and combed back. Not long enough to be tied, but close. He notices you approach as most of the soldiers do. "A man could get nervous with a fellow approaching like that," he says lightly. The good-natured voice likely has calmed more than a few "excited" patients in his day. "Perhaps in the dark of night. Here, however..." you display your arms out towards the hundreds of eyes upon you. "What is it you want." The doc abandons his friendly opening. "Spear wound under the arm. Clean, but deep. Very deep. Marginal loss of blood. How long can a man last?" you ask. The sudden question relating to his expertise draws the doc from his antagonist demeanor. He scratches his chin. "For a soldier in good health, assuming that's what you mean. Hmm. Oh I'd not give the man more than a day unless treated properly." "Good. That's all I needed to know." You fumble with your hands a bit to draw the doc's eyes downward. Now comes the fun part. (Comparatively, I sense.) You move quickly, far quicker than the doc can react to. You slide your body forward, while still keeping proper posture, the only movement a slight shifting of your feet, without long, winding motions of your body. The doc's gaze still down, he doesn't register it until it's too late. The bridge of your nose rams straight into the doc's forehead. By all intents and purposes, without the eyes deft enough to catch the entirety of the motion, it appears that the field surgeon headbutted you, a cheap shot. You withdraw with, perhaps, too much of a dramatic flair, but it's attention you seek. And attention is damn well what you receive. "Bastard!" you shout, clutching at your nose. The doc doesn't seem to realize what is happening, and why should he? Who asks a medical question and then rams the soft part of their face into another's skull? He certainly doesn't realize you're firing "back" a shot of your own until your fist slams into his gut, doubling him over. You avoid his head for obvious reasons. He still needs his wits about him to heal Redding. Also, nine times out of ten an opponent doubled over will-- --his body tackles yours to the ground. The odds land true. His shoulder lands in your stomach, sending an audible groan along with your air from your lungs. You eat a punch. And another. You take one more before hooking the doc's arm, trapping it, before reversing the position. Any time now... They don't break you up right away so you take the opportunity to place both hands around the man's throat, not tight enough to choke him completely, but just enough to make him squirm. Finally, you're pulled up by an Alteran under each arm. "Did you see that? He headbutted me for no reason!" you yell, playing the part of the righteously wronged. The blood pouring from your nostril adds a nice effect. "The boy is mad," the doc spits back. "It doesn't matter who started it," an Alteran soldier says, dressed in navy blue. The statement flows with the ease of a father. "You're soldiers. Act like it. Now I want you to sit quietly until the meeting is over. Or else." He gestures towards the two captains sharing a pot of tea on the ramparts. "No! I won't let this...poor excuse for a surgeon get away with it! He let three of my friends die, and then attacked me when I brought it up." (Ease back, fellow.) "I have no idea what he's talking about!" the doc exclaims. "I have never seen him before in my life." "ENOUGH," the Alteran's voice booms across the garrison. In the corner of your eye, you see the tea party casually glance your way. "You two give me no choice." The soldier motions to a few others, who wander over. A group of them huddle together, deciding your fate. It seems they will collectively decide to lock you in the dungeon as none possess the rank to decide it by themselves. After a few moments of whispering and head nodding, your favorite Alteran soldier returns. "You're going in a place where you can't cause any more disruption. Your uncivilized behavior, the both of yours, means you're a danger to others. If you're going to behave like animals, you'll be locked up like animals." Then he says a few words that wipe the internal grin from your mind. "The hanging cages for you two." Your actions have gotten you locked up alright. Locked up in a single cage suspended from the top of the fort for all to see. The lock is not troubling. The constant supervision of a thousand soldiers, is. You doubt the artifact gives the ability to fight an entire battalion. The cage is irrelevant. But still, you're not going anywhere for a while. > Hanging cage They suspend you from the ramparts after the tea party finishes. Your cage, little more than the size of a coffin, is hung by a single chain. All in all, it's not a far drop to the ground. Meaning, if you get a moment to yourself, then the artifact could let you out, and broken legs wouldn't be waiting for you at the bottom. There's still a chance though. There always is. The drop, while not fatal, isn't exactly something you're looking forward to. It's probably been two hours since the "fight." The doc ignores you with silent hatred, learning to hold off engaging with you. Since another incident likely has you hanging from a noose rather than in a cage, you understand. Alteran soldiers guard the ramparts above and patrol the ground below. Yep, this isn't exactly how you imagined things would go. They stripped you of your armor and weapon sheaths, not noticing a lone black ring on your finger. They're soldiers after all, not scavs. The cage offers just enough space for you to sit with your knees pulled in tightly to your chest, as long as you don't mind steel digging into your back and toes. There's a decent breeze, one you never noticed being inside the garrison or in the overgrowth. Exposed in the air, however, it brings a chill, increasingly so, as the cage slowly drops in temperature. Any ideas, voice? (Yes, but I'm more interested to see what you come up with.) Lotta help you are. (More than you are. I'd like to see you become a key.) Time passes as you try to think of possible solutions. If the Alterans were somehow distracted, then you could escape into the trees. Problem is, the only distraction you could cause would draw attention towards you rather than away. Do you have the ability to move on your own? (Apart from you? Not in this state.) As you're thinking, a voice carries from below. It's one you recognize almost instantly, one that you hoped wouldn't notice your presence. "Your deeds have finally caught up to you. Where's that traitor of a corporal?" Bastus. He looks better than when you saw him in the dungeon. More color appears to be in his skin, the difference a few hours of sunlight and stretching can do. But still, he's more frail than you're used to seeing. "Bastus..." you start, not sure what to say. There are no words to right the wrong in his mind. A betrayal, as sudden and unexpected as they come, is all he sees, deepened by years of shared battle and living. The bond forged between soldiers is not easily broken, yet when it is, it's damaged beyond all repair. A soldier must learn to deal with loss. There's no redemption for a liar. Cut ties and move on. You could tell him how your actions saved the life of the company. How you had no choice in the matter. That your actions brought about the greater good. Shit, now you're starting to sound like Redding. "You always did fancy yourself smarter than the rest of us, didn't you?" Bastus starts. "Not smart enough to trade uniforms for the losing team, though huh?" "You have to understand, it was all to--" "All to betray your company? Your friends? Your family? Redding was always an odd one. There's less of a surprise when an unconventional man makes an irrational decision. But you, you were supposed to be the opposite. It pains me to say so, but your death is well-deserved. You've taught me--the entire company--a valuable lesson: you never truly know who your friends are." There's no response to that. Shame builds inside, not because of events that occurred, but because you're unable to formulate thoughts and words to accurately convey your side of the story. A man that you've lived closely with over the last few years thinks you are the most despicable of people, and you're unable to convince otherwise. Bastus' words hurt, a small sliver of what he probably felt seeing you in Magda crimson. For the greater good, you tell yourself. It's a burden that you have to bear, even if the company doesn't realize you're bearing it for them. Bastus speaks again. "I'll be there during your hanging. Though I won't be as joyful as the others." He leaves you alone, his words hanging heavy on your heart. Not the most immediate problem, however. Redding still needs you. If there's any redemption to be had, it's in saving his life. The company thinks you a traitor. You are, technically, and it's that fact which keeps them still breathing. One member of the company still needs your help. Let Bastus and the others think what they want; you can't control that. You only control your own actions. You've made peace with them so far. After all you've been through, the story can't end with Redding bleeding out, alone, and you facing the gallows. The possibility of a premature ending, a quiet death after the firestorm you've endured, brings a tinge of rage within your bones. LIke that of your battle flow state, it comes, a persistence, the inability to quit while you still can act. True, your options are rather limited, but damn if you won't do something about it. > You wait patiently Time is short, yes. But acting too hastily would not only be condemning your fate, but Redding's as well. Yours are both aligned; the heart pumping in your chest might as well be pumping blood through his veins. You had hoped the company wouldn't discover your presence until you're long gone. That's the tricky thing about fate, huh? She's a cyclone upon the sea, going where she damn-well pleases, no matter the destruction left in her wake. "All makes sense now. No true Magdan would act like you." The doc, listening to Bastus, seems to have put things together. Alexander's "two friends" weren't exactly meant to be secret. If anything, it was a strong inspirational message to kickstart praise for the Supreme Leader. If two Alterans decided the join the Supreme Leader, what can you do? Eerily similar to the posters placed on the billboard all those weeks ago before departing from Alteran. True creativity is hard to find. Most everything is imitation, colored and presented differently. "Guilty as charged," you utter, not exactly in the mood to start a verbal debate with the man hanging next to you, which causes your next words to flow. "And yet you've received the same treatment. Surely, no true Magdan would act in such a way to find themselves here." "Ah, piss off," is the reply. So much for the argument. No, there's nothing more to do than wait for an opportunity of escape. One that normally is low odds, lowest of the low, but the artifact changes everything. It's the winning card up your sleeve, the dagger (quite literally) in a fist fight. Now if there is just a way to remove the eyes that stare at your cage... Hours pass. You find yourself growing increasingly anxious watching the sun travel across the sky. You had a level of comfortability before, the knowledge of having minutes to spare; they grow smaller and smaller, the window of opportunity quickly closing upon itself. There's a small measure of reassurance in the fact that causing your own scene would likely bring a premature end. And that's just it. The end is here, premature or otherwise. If you had known both paths led to death, perhaps your decisions would have been different. The thought causes a small laugh within your body, the kind that occurs during inappropriate times, a lecture hall, when being scolded, when faced with the most unfortunate of circumstances that somehow the only reaction is to laugh. All paths lead to death. Ha ha ha. Here, in the forest of the New World, what does it matter? In a few hours the problem will solve itself, and your anxiousness, dispelled. Not ten minutes later, your cage begins to lower in height, the way a sailor would loose an anchor. A steady grinding of steel sounds in the air, complemented with the cranking of a pulley-system. The ground approaches, not quickly. It's the same speed as a man, knowingly, eating his last dinner before facing the gallows: it might be the same for you, minus the meal. An Alteran soldier fumbles with the lock, before swinging the cage door open. A pair of hands pull you out, more clasp on your shoulders in warning as if to say escape is futile! The voice is silent, perhaps in protest to your actions. You still feel its presence, however, the constant buzz of energy, which makes the silence even more impactful. It's letting you know of the power at your fingertips, yet denying you the use. It's as if you're dehydrated without coins in your pocket, staring through the window of an open tavern, its patrons spilling as many drinks on the ground as they manage to get down their throats. The artifact that will "turn the tide," isn't doing much turning currently. It might as well be a ring on your finger; at least in that case you could sell it for a sword (or a final meal). They march you right back up the switchback stairs to the top of the ramparts, where all traces of the previous tea party are gone. Captain Briggs stands, hands clasped behind his back. Bastus is next to him, and on the ground watching, you see Lionel and the rest of the company. "I think you know why you're here," Captain Briggs states. His eyes narrow at you, the way a teacher would look at a disobedient student. "Yeah, I do," you say, looking at the hands on your shoulder." "Quant. I'm sure you understand what has to happen next?" "Yeah, I do," you repeat with more sincerity. "Any last words?" It's a cliche question, but still, you find difficulty uncovering an answer. Last words. Whatever pours from your mouth will be the last, the words those in proximity will remember you by. Your life will be forgotten, a distant memory in others minds. Your thoughts, feelings, emotions--gone in an instant. Yet a remnant will remain, the areas in which those such things crossed, intertwined with others' thoughts, feelings, and emotions, not to mention experiences. Experiences like this one, the hanging of a man, noose tied around his throat. What you say now will echo long after you stop breathing, live on further than you. The same goes for your actions. Briefly, you entertain fighting your way out. To what purpose? That would be undoing all that you've done. The reason for going along with Redding's plan in the first place was to preserve the life of the company, of your fellow Alterans. And what now? You're thinking about killing Alterans to preserve your life, and that's assuming you can cut your way through a thousand men. No. The decision's already been made. You're already a turncoat in their mind. Better to die a turncoat than a turncoat and murderer. As you're thinking, they place a noose over your head. It rests on your shoulders for a moment before getting cinched tight. It's a lot heavier than you expected, tightly-bound rope. That's something you never hear, though to be fair the people actually having such thoughts rarely have another chance to voice it. And suddenly you have it, the words to speak, ones that have gone unspoken. You'll be the first. You'll not result to begging, pleading to save your life. All paths lead here. All decisions lead to death. Expecting a speech, you're a bit surprised how quiet it is. Standing at the top of the ramparts, again, you notice details that you didn't before. The gentle breeze upon your skin, the gentle sway of tree leaves signaling that the forest is experiencing the same. The nervous way in which men glance, unsure of themselves, a few such men stare at your boots rather than in your eyes. You wonder what they're thinking, if they're putting themselves in your place, pondering the final moments of their life and the final words they'll speak. Lastly, the quiet itself. It's nothing like the bustling cities of Alteran, overcrowded streets and population. The New World, yet as dangerous as they come, is somehow at peace with herself. It's not even the calm before the storm; it simply is to her nature, both peaceful and dangerous. "They never tell you how heavy these things are," you state, thinking of the noose, but then noticing how it applies to the execution itself. "Not to worry," Bastus says. "You won't carry the burden for much longer." He's right. Over the edge of the ramparts, you're falling. Then, silence, save for the steady sway of your body in the wind.

[Themes: fantasy, humor, fantasy] They suspend you from the ramparts after the tea party finishes. Your cage, little more than the size of a coffin, is hung by a single chain. All in all, it's not a far drop to the ground. Meaning, if you get a moment to yourself, then the artifact could let you out, and broken legs wouldn't be waiting for you at the bottom. There's still a chance though. There always is. The drop, while not fatal, isn't exactly something you're looking forward to. It's probably been two hours since the "fight." The doc ignores you with silent hatred, learning to hold off engaging with you. Since another incident likely has you hanging from a noose rather than in a cage, you understand. Alteran soldiers guard the ramparts above and patrol the ground below. Yep, this isn't exactly how you imagined things would go. They stripped you of your armor and weapon sheaths, not noticing a lone black ring on your finger. They're soldiers after all, not scavs. The cage offers just enough space for you to sit with your knees pulled in tightly to your chest, as long as you don't mind steel digging into your back and toes. There's a decent breeze, one you never noticed being inside the garrison or in the overgrowth. Exposed in the air, however, it brings a chill, increasingly so, as the cage slowly drops in temperature. Any ideas, voice? (Yes, but I'm more interested to see what you come up with.) Lotta help you are. (More than you are. I'd like to see you become a key.) Time passes as you try to think of possible solutions. If the Alterans were somehow distracted, then you could escape into the trees. Problem is, the only distraction you could cause would draw attention towards you rather than away. Do you have the ability to move on your own? (Apart from you? Not in this state.) As you're thinking, a voice carries from below. It's one you recognize almost instantly, one that you hoped wouldn't notice your presence. "Your deeds have finally caught up to you. Where's that traitor of a corporal?" Bastus. He looks better than when you saw him in the dungeon. More color appears to be in his skin, the difference a few hours of sunlight and stretching can do. But still, he's more frail than you're used to seeing. "Bastus..." you start, not sure what to say. There are no words to right the wrong in his mind. A betrayal, as sudden and unexpected as they come, is all he sees, deepened by years of shared battle and living. The bond forged between soldiers is not easily broken, yet when it is, it's damaged beyond all repair. A soldier must learn to deal with loss. There's no redemption for a liar. Cut ties and move on. You could tell him how your actions saved the life of the company. How you had no choice in the matter. That your actions brought about the greater good. Shit, now you're starting to sound like Redding. "You always did fancy yourself smarter than the rest of us, didn't you?" Bastus starts. "Not smart enough to trade uniforms for the losing team, though huh?" "You have to understand, it was all to--" "All to betray your company? Your friends? Your family? Redding was always an odd one. There's less of a surprise when an unconventional man makes an irrational decision. But you, you were supposed to be the opposite. It pains me to say so, but your death is well-deserved. You've taught me--the entire company--a valuable lesson: you never truly know who your friends are." There's no response to that. Shame builds inside, not because of events that occurred, but because you're unable to formulate thoughts and words to accurately convey your side of the story. A man that you've lived closely with over the last few years thinks you are the most despicable of people, and you're unable to convince otherwise. Bastus' words hurt, a small sliver of what he probably felt seeing you in Magda crimson. For the greater good, you tell yourself. It's a burden that you have to bear, even if the company doesn't realize you're bearing it for them. Bastus speaks again. "I'll be there during your hanging. Though I won't be as joyful as the others." He leaves you alone, his words hanging heavy on your heart. Not the most immediate problem, however. Redding still needs you. If there's any redemption to be had, it's in saving his life. The company thinks you a traitor. You are, technically, and it's that fact which keeps them still breathing. One member of the company still needs your help. Let Bastus and the others think what they want; you can't control that. You only control your own actions. You've made peace with them so far. After all you've been through, the story can't end with Redding bleeding out, alone, and you facing the gallows. The possibility of a premature ending, a quiet death after the firestorm you've endured, brings a tinge of rage within your bones. LIke that of your battle flow state, it comes, a persistence, the inability to quit while you still can act. True, your options are rather limited, but damn if you won't do something about it. > You break out Time is short. Too short. If the noose waits for you, certain death, then you're not going to sit and wait for the rope to be placed around your neck. There is a time to act, and there is a time to bide your time. Redding's condition doesn't afford you any more slack. The time is now. You will the artifact to mould to the shape. It's not exactly a command; it's something different, like recalling a memory, the subsiding of a dream when awakening in the morning. In order to mask the maneuver, you stretch your arms out, feigning like stiff shoulders are starting to wear on you. Both hands grip the cage, which is oddly just an oversized cage for a bird. Or rather, it's a Blackbird cage. Disobedient soldiers get thrown in the dungeon, the same goes for prisoners of war. True enemies get the cage, a status you find yourself in currently. Click. You unlock the cage door, but don't escape just yet. Let it come as a surprise. "I saw that." Now the doc is speaking to you. "What the hell kind of sorcerer are you?" "One that means not to die imprisoned," you answer. "And if I cause a commotion and ruin your escape? I'm only here because of you." A Redding-esque grin appears at your lips. "A commotion is exactly what I want from you." Before the doc can respond, you will the artifact into the strange gun, ravenblack, wing-tipped with the rotating cylinder. How many shots, again? (Six. Then nearly as many seconds to recover.) You put the first of six into the chain holding the doc's cage. For the second time today, he has no idea of the sudden events transpiring, both of which are very unfortunate for the man lucky enough to draw your attention. His mouth is wide open, the same for his eyes. Wide in surprise, horror--perhaps a mixture of the two. Both of his hands grip the cage, tight, like the way a sailor climbs the mast for the first time. One moment he's suspended next to you. The next, empty air. The sound is like a galleon discovering a coral reef with her underbelly. Every Alteran soldier within sight rushes towards the fallen cage, whether to check on the doc's well-being or integrity of the cage is up for debate. Just what you need. You take the chance to slowly open the cage door so as not to cause a sudden squeak. You climb to the top, using all four limbs the way a squirrel or similar forest creature would scamper up a tree. Before heading up the chain, your foot deftly nudges the door back to its position. You're more likely to be seen if the cage door is wide open. You straddle the chain, hugging your body close. You'll likely be facing more than a few men in combat, and so you disperse the energy expenditure throughout your entire body rather than gassing out your arms. Men shout. They rush down from the ramparts towards the collapsed cage, leaving the top of the wall mostly unguarded. Mostly. Swinging your legs over the side, two Alterans examining the chain's anchor look up as soon as your feet hit the ground. Two Alterans, your countrymen, your fellow soldiers. Can you even claim that? Well, you don't have time to think through your status thoroughly. All you see is two men who will throw you back inside of a cage, and likely stand outside eyeing you the entire time. Black smoke. Small thunderclouds. A wing-tipped club smashes into two skulls. A few missing teeth in exchange for many more years of life? You're doing them a favor, even if they'll need to eat mush for the next month or two. You abandon the Magda tunic and replace it with one of the Alteran's navy overcoat. It's not a perfect fit. Little loose around the torso. Better than nothing, and you'll have the ability to blend in with the now-Alteran fort with ease. You understand it's not as simple as walking out the front gate. Not when there is a gathering crowd of soldiers checking on the fallen cage. Your best bet is through the dungeon tunnel. But first, you'll need to pilfer supplies. You might not be able to bring an actual field surgeon, but you'll settle for the tools of one. In all your battlefield experience, you've never had to do more than wrapping a tourniquet or one or two cauterizations. Redding needs to be stitched. With a surgeon's needle and thread, you'll have to do your best. Hopefully there's a bottle of brandy lying around for anesthetic. You could use some yourself after the day you're having, although it's not nearly as bad as the day the doc is having. On the ramparts, you eye a few wooden crates. They're mostly empty, no more than two feet across. Whatever contents they carried has long been emptied and put to use. Waste not. You shut one of the crates, sliding a wooden panel on its designated track. It's empty, but the passing Alteran won't know it. As far as they know, you've been tasked with delivering the crate...somewhere. Chain of command, the High King loves it. It also means those directly in your chain won't step out of line to question you. Thank you, High King. Crate in hand, you know exactly where you're going. You may not know where the medical center is, but you know where all the supplies are kept: the quartermaster's office. It'll be run by an Alteran now, but everything you need will be there. You put on your best blank face and make your way there, treating it as if it's your very duty. It is, in a sense, but not like the soldier's will assume, which is fine with you. Along the way, you give a few nods to those who make eye contact. It's unspoken, yet those wearing the same rank give their version of a sympathetic look. Running cargo isn't the most glorious of positions, especially after taking over the fort of the High King's greatest rival. It's not exactly the glory-filled task to write home about. Standing in place of the Magda quartermaster, is a shrewd-looking Alteran, the type of person that always assumes whoever's talking to them is lying, complete with over-compensating eye contact and distrust towards newcomers. "I didn't order any more uniforms," he states as you enter. "That's what I assume those are, are they not?" You glance down. Sure enough, there's a small marking on the crate identifying its previous contents. Coats. It holds the insignia of the High King, so the battalion must have packed extra for their invasion. "I don't care what you ordered or not. I just do as I am." The now-Alteran quartermaster's eyes narrow. "As you are...oh, ordered." He sighs. "Place them in the back, near the far wall. The former 'proprietor' was very loose with his cataloguing. It's a mess. Luckily, those awful crimson tunics can be burned along with any flags or banners." "Here?" you say, placing down the crate. "No! Not there. There." The quartermaster points pretty close to where you are already. "Here?" you say again, moving the crate slightly. "No! Half-wit," he utters under his breath, although it's not as subtle as perhaps he intended. He sighs. "Must I do everything myself?" The quartermaster takes the crate with both hands, bracing himself to lift a heavy object. When he picks it up with little struggle, a laugh almost escapes your lips. It's similar to the way a tug-of-rope opponent may release tension on the rope, sending the other sprawling backwards. The quartermaster stumbles, gathering himself. "Here?" you say for a third time, not before landing a fist squarely on the quartermaster's jaw. Lights out. Out cold. No time to tarry. You enter the stockroom, scanning down aisles of equipment. Swords, bucklers, armor, uniforms, boots, and finally, medical equipment. There are bundled cloth, different types of knives and cutting tools, bone saws included. You snatch a needle and thread along with a bottle that smells like spoiled wine mixed with drops of brandy. As you're about to leave, you catch men's shouts and stomping of boots. You know exactly why: a certain cage must have been discovered to be empty. That, and perhaps two soldiers were discovered taking a nap on the ramparts, one of whom is missing a coat. Took them long enough. The good news is that you know protocol. Each company will be instructed into formation. Any stragglers, men wandering on their own will be detained. The bad news, of course, is that you aren't assigned to a company, and even if you took place in one, it's a small enough group that you'd be noticed as an imposter. For the second time, you're faced not with a locked door or looking the part of Alteran soldier, but instead, your problem is concerned with the placement of one's self, exposed, alone. Hard to blend in when there's no one to blend in with. If your stay in the quartermaster's office will be longer than expected, and it seems that way, you might as well get comfortable. You tie the sleeping quartermaster up in the stockroom with rope that he's accountable for, notably not logging it in the books. The white strips of bandage cloth make for a decent gag as well. The artifact and you, back to a gun in your palm, crouch near the door to listen outside and ambush any soldier that would wander inside. Through the small windows, the street outside becomes filled with navy blue. The formation takes place in rows down the main walkway. Protocol says they will be directed down towards the main gate, which is where a thorough examination will take place. Once all the blues are verified, then an in-depth sweep will take place, meaning you'll need to be long gone by that time. The ordeal will take nearly two hours, you estimate. There's a thousand soldiers to count, after all. Man by man. The entrance to the fort's dungeon isn't too far away. There's the small matter of getting there unseen. Got any more surprises that may help? (Surprises, yes. Helpful? Maybe not so much.) A sudden feeling of helplessness falls over you, though you'd care to not admit it. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Stay put, and Redding bleeds out. Make for the dungeon, or any place other than the office, and you get cut down in the street. All outcomes seem to point towards death, a sentiment that can be applied towards any point in your life. No matter what you do, death will come. At least you have the choice to decide how you may greet it. And who knows, maybe you'll be able to slam the door in death's face. > You stay put Walking outside means certain death. No question about that. Getting yourself killed is condemning Redding to the same fate. You must wait for the opportune moment. You briefly entertain playing the clueless soldier tasked with transport again. Surely it couldn't work now, right? You don't want to risk it. One mistake, and you're done, the both of you. Time passes. More footsteps echo from outside. They grow softer. You glance outside again. There's still a large amount of soldiers in formation, but the majority seem to be near the gate. Despite the smaller number, it's still too many to risk leaving the quartermaster's office. Might as well get comfortable. You're not completely out of time for Redding yet. He's in decently-good shape. The retreat from the Blackbird war party proved that. The problem is you don't know his condition on the inside, whether the spear tore into a vital organ. Likely not, but it wouldn't be the first time the man's card playing face fooled you. Suddenly, footsteps. Not in unison, marching away from your location as the soldiers lining the streets. But irregular, with a purpose, growing in volume. If they decide to visit the quartermaster for supplies they'll be in for a wing-tipped surprise. The artifact becomes a dagger in your hand, just as you found it. Full circle, like you throwing on the Alteran coat. Louder and louder they become, like a wave slowly building before the crash. And crash, they do. The front door to the office swings open. You're hidden from view, ready to flank the newcomers as soon as they step foot inside. You dare not breathe heavily for fear of being heard. Instead your breath becomes slow, deliberate. Your body screams at you to act, to release the building tension. Yet you wait for all, sounds like three pairs of boots, to enter. It's actually four. Four navy coats enter into the office. "Quartermaster!" one of them, you're not certain who shouts towards the stock room. If they were to wander in, they'd find the man bound and gagged. With the fort on high alert, silence from the quartermaster isn't a good sign either. You don't give them the chance to discover him. You creep forward, dagger in hand, crouched as to absorb the weight of your steps through your legs. His back is turned, a long sweeping overcoat, navy blue, just as the High King commissioned. You dye it the same color as the Magda tunic. Back turned, the Alteran doesn't have time to react. In fact, you don't even have time to think about killing a fellow Alteran, someone who journeyed with you from the Old World into the New, experienced the landing and march to Frontrunner's. Two men on the ramparts didn't bother you; they could be disposed with less-than-fatal means. But four. Four is a different story. It's either me or you, and you know who wins every time. One drops, drawing the attention of the others. It was unrealistic to quietly take out one without alerting the others. You see that now. Even without a floorboard creaking, a hand covering a mouth, there are still audible signs--as muffled as they may be. Three heads turn in your direction. Thunderclouds. Smoke. The dagger becomes a longsword. You take the offensive, meaning to put an end to things before they can officially begin. The ravenblack blade tears through flesh. The next soldier drops before managing to draw his own sword. The other two, however, meet your attack with equal ferocity, propelled by the sudden death of their two companions. They're good. Better than most. The instructors in the Alteran military are truly the greatest in the world. Unfortunately for your opponents, you, also, have instruction from the greatest, and you took to it more than most. The ravenblack blade becomes a dark blur, not letting the Alterans time to counter with their own attacks, else they risk one of your swings landing true. The artifact in both hands, you feel the tide turning in your favor, just like Redding foresaw. Redding! The thought of the man fuels your attacks, finding openings in both man's defenses. Four Alterans walked in, four lie bleeding on the wooden floors. "There he is! Quartermaster's office!" A shout rings from outside. Through the still open front door, you've managed to draw the attention of every soldier in formation outside. Rather than a stoic demeanor, eyes and head straight forward, all gaze towards the open door, towards you. A split-second later, they break formation. In less time, you make for the back. There's got to be a back door, second entrance. Hell, you'd settle for a small window at this point. There's no such thing. It's essentially a warehouse, a building designed for stocking large amounts of material, not needing sunlight or second entrances, which only make for alternative solutions for thieves to break in...or murderers, traitors to escape capture. You run down the aisles anyway, desperate for anything. All that greets you is rows and rows of equipment, along with one smug looking quartermaster, despite his current state. You can feel his eyes upon you, likely knowing the curses that would flow from his mouth should you remove the gag. Footsteps grow louder. They're nothing like before. Four men first approached. Now, there's hundreds. They can't all fit into the office, but enough can, enough that will eventually overwhelm you, artifact or no. A sinking feeling starts in the pit of your stomach. You've been faced with perilous, hopeless situations before, some since arriving to the New World. This feels different, like saying goodbye to a friend you won't see again. More footsteps. The smile underneath the quartermaster's gag is almost palpable. Soldiers pour into the stockroom like a water pump with a broken valve. There's no going back. Many pour through the opening , many you will put down before joining them. That's all you can do. The voice is silent, perhaps in protest to your decisions. It's not the ending you wished for, hoped for. But it's the one you receive now.

[Themes: fantasy, fantasy, humor] Time is short. Too short. If the noose waits for you, certain death, then you're not going to sit and wait for the rope to be placed around your neck. There is a time to act, and there is a time to bide your time. Redding's condition doesn't afford you any more slack. The time is now. You will the artifact to mould to the shape. It's not exactly a command; it's something different, like recalling a memory, the subsiding of a dream when awakening in the morning. In order to mask the maneuver, you stretch your arms out, feigning like stiff shoulders are starting to wear on you. Both hands grip the cage, which is oddly just an oversized cage for a bird. Or rather, it's a Blackbird cage. Disobedient soldiers get thrown in the dungeon, the same goes for prisoners of war. True enemies get the cage, a status you find yourself in currently. Click. You unlock the cage door, but don't escape just yet. Let it come as a surprise. "I saw that." Now the doc is speaking to you. "What the hell kind of sorcerer are you?" "One that means not to die imprisoned," you answer. "And if I cause a commotion and ruin your escape? I'm only here because of you." A Redding-esque grin appears at your lips. "A commotion is exactly what I want from you." Before the doc can respond, you will the artifact into the strange gun, ravenblack, wing-tipped with the rotating cylinder. How many shots, again? (Six. Then nearly as many seconds to recover.) You put the first of six into the chain holding the doc's cage. For the second time today, he has no idea of the sudden events transpiring, both of which are very unfortunate for the man lucky enough to draw your attention. His mouth is wide open, the same for his eyes. Wide in surprise, horror--perhaps a mixture of the two. Both of his hands grip the cage, tight, like the way a sailor climbs the mast for the first time. One moment he's suspended next to you. The next, empty air. The sound is like a galleon discovering a coral reef with her underbelly. Every Alteran soldier within sight rushes towards the fallen cage, whether to check on the doc's well-being or integrity of the cage is up for debate. Just what you need. You take the chance to slowly open the cage door so as not to cause a sudden squeak. You climb to the top, using all four limbs the way a squirrel or similar forest creature would scamper up a tree. Before heading up the chain, your foot deftly nudges the door back to its position. You're more likely to be seen if the cage door is wide open. You straddle the chain, hugging your body close. You'll likely be facing more than a few men in combat, and so you disperse the energy expenditure throughout your entire body rather than gassing out your arms. Men shout. They rush down from the ramparts towards the collapsed cage, leaving the top of the wall mostly unguarded. Mostly. Swinging your legs over the side, two Alterans examining the chain's anchor look up as soon as your feet hit the ground. Two Alterans, your countrymen, your fellow soldiers. Can you even claim that? Well, you don't have time to think through your status thoroughly. All you see is two men who will throw you back inside of a cage, and likely stand outside eyeing you the entire time. Black smoke. Small thunderclouds. A wing-tipped club smashes into two skulls. A few missing teeth in exchange for many more years of life? You're doing them a favor, even if they'll need to eat mush for the next month or two. You abandon the Magda tunic and replace it with one of the Alteran's navy overcoat. It's not a perfect fit. Little loose around the torso. Better than nothing, and you'll have the ability to blend in with the now-Alteran fort with ease. You understand it's not as simple as walking out the front gate. Not when there is a gathering crowd of soldiers checking on the fallen cage. Your best bet is through the dungeon tunnel. But first, you'll need to pilfer supplies. You might not be able to bring an actual field surgeon, but you'll settle for the tools of one. In all your battlefield experience, you've never had to do more than wrapping a tourniquet or one or two cauterizations. Redding needs to be stitched. With a surgeon's needle and thread, you'll have to do your best. Hopefully there's a bottle of brandy lying around for anesthetic. You could use some yourself after the day you're having, although it's not nearly as bad as the day the doc is having. On the ramparts, you eye a few wooden crates. They're mostly empty, no more than two feet across. Whatever contents they carried has long been emptied and put to use. Waste not. You shut one of the crates, sliding a wooden panel on its designated track. It's empty, but the passing Alteran won't know it. As far as they know, you've been tasked with delivering the crate...somewhere. Chain of command, the High King loves it. It also means those directly in your chain won't step out of line to question you. Thank you, High King. Crate in hand, you know exactly where you're going. You may not know where the medical center is, but you know where all the supplies are kept: the quartermaster's office. It'll be run by an Alteran now, but everything you need will be there. You put on your best blank face and make your way there, treating it as if it's your very duty. It is, in a sense, but not like the soldier's will assume, which is fine with you. Along the way, you give a few nods to those who make eye contact. It's unspoken, yet those wearing the same rank give their version of a sympathetic look. Running cargo isn't the most glorious of positions, especially after taking over the fort of the High King's greatest rival. It's not exactly the glory-filled task to write home about. Standing in place of the Magda quartermaster, is a shrewd-looking Alteran, the type of person that always assumes whoever's talking to them is lying, complete with over-compensating eye contact and distrust towards newcomers. "I didn't order any more uniforms," he states as you enter. "That's what I assume those are, are they not?" You glance down. Sure enough, there's a small marking on the crate identifying its previous contents. Coats. It holds the insignia of the High King, so the battalion must have packed extra for their invasion. "I don't care what you ordered or not. I just do as I am." The now-Alteran quartermaster's eyes narrow. "As you are...oh, ordered." He sighs. "Place them in the back, near the far wall. The former 'proprietor' was very loose with his cataloguing. It's a mess. Luckily, those awful crimson tunics can be burned along with any flags or banners." "Here?" you say, placing down the crate. "No! Not there. There." The quartermaster points pretty close to where you are already. "Here?" you say again, moving the crate slightly. "No! Half-wit," he utters under his breath, although it's not as subtle as perhaps he intended. He sighs. "Must I do everything myself?" The quartermaster takes the crate with both hands, bracing himself to lift a heavy object. When he picks it up with little struggle, a laugh almost escapes your lips. It's similar to the way a tug-of-rope opponent may release tension on the rope, sending the other sprawling backwards. The quartermaster stumbles, gathering himself. "Here?" you say for a third time, not before landing a fist squarely on the quartermaster's jaw. Lights out. Out cold. No time to tarry. You enter the stockroom, scanning down aisles of equipment. Swords, bucklers, armor, uniforms, boots, and finally, medical equipment. There are bundled cloth, different types of knives and cutting tools, bone saws included. You snatch a needle and thread along with a bottle that smells like spoiled wine mixed with drops of brandy. As you're about to leave, you catch men's shouts and stomping of boots. You know exactly why: a certain cage must have been discovered to be empty. That, and perhaps two soldiers were discovered taking a nap on the ramparts, one of whom is missing a coat. Took them long enough. The good news is that you know protocol. Each company will be instructed into formation. Any stragglers, men wandering on their own will be detained. The bad news, of course, is that you aren't assigned to a company, and even if you took place in one, it's a small enough group that you'd be noticed as an imposter. For the second time, you're faced not with a locked door or looking the part of Alteran soldier, but instead, your problem is concerned with the placement of one's self, exposed, alone. Hard to blend in when there's no one to blend in with. If your stay in the quartermaster's office will be longer than expected, and it seems that way, you might as well get comfortable. You tie the sleeping quartermaster up in the stockroom with rope that he's accountable for, notably not logging it in the books. The white strips of bandage cloth make for a decent gag as well. The artifact and you, back to a gun in your palm, crouch near the door to listen outside and ambush any soldier that would wander inside. Through the small windows, the street outside becomes filled with navy blue. The formation takes place in rows down the main walkway. Protocol says they will be directed down towards the main gate, which is where a thorough examination will take place. Once all the blues are verified, then an in-depth sweep will take place, meaning you'll need to be long gone by that time. The ordeal will take nearly two hours, you estimate. There's a thousand soldiers to count, after all. Man by man. The entrance to the fort's dungeon isn't too far away. There's the small matter of getting there unseen. Got any more surprises that may help? (Surprises, yes. Helpful? Maybe not so much.) A sudden feeling of helplessness falls over you, though you'd care to not admit it. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Stay put, and Redding bleeds out. Make for the dungeon, or any place other than the office, and you get cut down in the street. All outcomes seem to point towards death, a sentiment that can be applied towards any point in your life. No matter what you do, death will come. At least you have the choice to decide how you may greet it. And who knows, maybe you'll be able to slam the door in death's face. > You make for the dungeon It's not the best of plans, but it's a plan nonetheless. How many times have you been told the artifact will turn the tide of the war? Feels like at least a dozen, although you know that might be an exaggeration. It may not be war on a grand-scale, but it might as well be for you, grand, the climax of your life as a soldier, first starting in the Old and traveling to the New World. (Suddenly, I'm regretting the decision to bond with you.) Shut up. No you're not. (Fine. Let 'the artifact' fall into the hands of another.) It'll be a simple dagger, like Redding possessed. Pick another after I'm gone. I don't care. (So this is it then. Shame.) Blaze of glory. But still, you don't have to lead with fireworks. It's served you before, might as well try it again. You creep towards the stockroom and look for equipment that will suit your needs. Weapons, no. Armor--actually, yes. Finding leather that fits, you strap it to your body underneath the Alteran coat. You're heading towards the dungeon, so you decide to gather equipment that a jailor may require. Shackles, chained about four feet in length is what you set your eyes on. Heavy, sure, but topical. And it's not like you need mobility, at least not without the ability to drop the shackles first. It's a plan nonetheless. With two chains over each shoulder, you exit the quartermaster's office. Almost instantly, you feel all eyes draw to you. It's only eyes, not heads. It wouldn't be proper formation if soldiers turned their heads at a simple motion in the corner of their vision. You pretend not to notice them, heading straight for the dungeon, not too quickly, but just enough urgency to signal that the shackles are needed sooner rather than later. You make it halfway before a voice calls out, much farther than you first expected. "Stop! All are to report to their immediate commanding officer." It's a lieutenant by the sound. Not too much authority, but just enough to flaunt it. You turn and find your suspicion is correct. Of course the lieutenant's head and face are shaved perfectly to military preference. You gesture at a shoulder with your chin. "I was told to run these to the dungeon." "And who exactly told you to do that?" "Why the quartermaster, of course. He seemed reluctant to depart with these, if you ask me. But orders are orders." "No one asked you," the lieutenant quickly says. "Company?" You give the name of another that journeyed from Alteran in the fleet, not that you actually met them before. "Company leader?" You give the answer, Corporal Nueman. The lieutenant ponders a moment before saying, "All right then. Be quick about it. There's an imposter among our midst." "Don't have to tell me twice...sir," you say. "Oh and one last thing, soldier." "Yes, sir?" you ask as you're about to take another step towards the dungeon. "I'm Corporal Nueman. Well, previously. It's Lieutenant now." Shit. "I've found the imposter! Take him!" Blaze of glory time. Two soldiers on the ramparts received the non-fatal approach from you. Surrounded, in the midst of hundreds of soldiers, you can't afford such limitations. You'll likely be hung anyway, so it's not like offing a few soldiers will worsen your fate. Before you can give another thought to killing men that you've gone into battle with, instinct takes over. It overrides any sort of rational thought beyond the present moment. It'll be another weight on your conscience later. That is, if you still have breath at the end of the day. (Ha ha! Let's play. Step right up. Who wants to dance? I've got enough for everyone. Comere, you. Ha ha!) The voice, gone is the curious, questioning mind that you've dialogued with. Instead, you hear the fragmented thoughts of a broken mind, pieced poorly together. Yet another problem for another time. Seems to be a lot of that running around lately. All you can do now is focus on surviving. The rest is secondary. Six shots fire from the pistol almost immediately, six bodies dropping in the same amount of time. Internally you count. One, two... Swords draw in front of you, the same happening at your back. Can you? (Yes!) The artifact is back into a longsword in your palm, black smoke clears in front of you, fading into clear air. Three, four. Its recovery is due to the bullets then, not the shape of the weapon. Beyond it, you can see the confusion on the soldiers' faces, the artifact's power appearing to bypass their strict discipline, along with a pistol that fires six times, instead of the standard issue double barrelled flintlock. They meet your charge. It's you who has to keep moving. You'll need to engage and disengage quickly. If you can make it to the dungeon, you give yourself good odds. Down a tunnel their numbers will mean nothing, especially if you possess a weapon with superior range, ammunition, and accuracy. Yes, if they follow you to the secret tunnel, then you'll close their end with a pile of bodies. If you get there in one piece. Steel clashes against the ravenblack blade. It doesn't ring the same way as steel. It's a duller sound, more dense, the difference between knocking on a wall stud or empty wall. There's no sense in trying to be defensive. That'd be delaying the inevitable. Your only hope is to cut a path through. Like the forest of the New World, a trail must be forged by your own doing. Instead of overgrowth, living men stand in your way. You do as you are trained to do. You lose yourself to the moment. It doesn't fail to arrive during battle, the flow state, as if another takes the reins of your mind; you're simply a spectator along the way, like the flashbacks of your past, like a dreamer while asleep. The black blade sweeps through the air in a blur in motion. It doesn't flash in the sun. It doesn't ring like steel. It's something else. Sinister. Powerful. Chipping shards of steel from Alteran sword edges, absorbing each blow without a shock to your arms. Once you have ample space--small thunderclouds, smoke. Six shots. Then the longsword appears again. You sweep through the Alteran formations, not taking direct confrontation with any one soldier. They're either quickly disposed of, or you move on to the next. After two full rounds of shots, they must understand the limitation of the gun, yet they don't swarm once the longsword appears, seemingly hesitant as if a step forward would result in the six-shooter's appearance. Finally, you make it to the door to the dungeon. As if protesting your sudden arrival, two flintlock shots land near the door frame, one on each side. The shots may not exactly be in protest, but the jailer behind them sure is, especially once the clean shot is missed not once, but twice. You don't recognize the man, but in your state it wouldn't have mattered. They aren't your countrymen right now. They aren't your fellow soldiers--still something to address later. They're obstacles in your way. The black longsword cuts the jailer's flintlock into two pieces right down the center, splitting the double barrel into two singles. The jailer holding the weapon receives a similar treatment shortly after, from shoulder to crotch. You don't bother searching his belt for keys. Footsteps behind you. The tunnel lies ahead. Redding's time is short. > Redding They attempt to follow you into the tunnel. Quickly, they learn it's certain death. The artifact fires true from your palm, its bullets always straight. Black smoke fills the tunnel, traveling towards the dungeon cell, the air closest. Bodies pile up. To stick one's nose in the tunnel, even for a quick glance, is to risk losing the nose, an eye, or worse. Their numbers mean nothing here, and no one knows where the tunnel exits. None but Alexander, Prinn, and perhaps a few other key Magda members who aren't the ones after you. Freedom is yours. Now you'll just have to stitch Redding up in time without making the wound worse, although death is guaranteed if you don't try, so there's some small measure of reassurance there. You can't believe you made it. Into a fort blown to bits, occupied by the very army that labels you a traitor, escaping a prison suspended in the air, fighting your way through rows and rows of soldiers in formation, all while finding a surgeon's needle and thread to save your friend and mentor. It's almost too good to be true. Redding's ever-contagious grin creeps along the corner of your lips, becoming more of a natural occurrence. It's true what they say, taking on the mannerisms of those you're close to. There are far worse traits to take on. (Is the action over already? I was just getting started!) For now. (Awww.) You press on. The footsteps and voices of the Alteran soldiers in pursuit have long faded away, bringing the only sounds in the tunnel of your own making. You're not exactly hiding your presence--who would hear your approach in an enclosed space--but you have the mindset of a fugitive, of a criminal breaking out of prison, which, funnily-enough, is exactly what you're doing, counting two escaped locked doors: the suspended cage and the dungeon itself. You try not to dwell on the sudden character shift of the artifact. It can sense your thoughts, which you'd rather remain a secret. One problem at a time. They seem to be piling up by the second, but a single one remains at the top of the list. Redding. A soft amount of light suddenly appears. You're briefly entertained, inappropriately, by reaching the light at the end of the tunnel before remembering why you're here in the first place. Although to be fair, it's something that would have entertained Redding too. Will entertain him, you remind yourself. Your pace quickens now, careful not to scrape your head on the tunnel's ceiling. Your head finding a jutting stone at nearly a run isn't the ending that this story deserves. At least you procured a needle and thread to stitch yourself up if that's what fate decides. Luckily, it doesn't take the bait, and you manage to reach the light at the end of the tunnel, where the small hidden door lies. Redding should be right here...except he's not. The place where you left him is completely empty. There are small marks in the dirt where he sat. You need more light to inspect, so you crack the hidden door open for more natural light to spill through. Imprints on the dirt all right, smooth sections where his legs sat on the dirt, in contrast to the random arrangement of dust and dirt. You're no tracker. You can't judge the time frame, whether or not multiple bodies were here. If anything, you'd confuse your earlier marks and bootprints with an unknown assailant. Well, there's one thing you know for certain. You just traveled down the other opening of the tunnel and didn't run into Redding. There's only one other direction he could have gone. Out the hidden door (the light at the end of the tunnel). Once again you find yourself back at the creek for the third time. There, your lack of tracking ability is nullified. Redding is bound at the hands. A long trail of rope leads to his captor like a leash. Holding the opposite end of the rope, binding Redding to his fate is Prinn. He casually glances over his shoulder, noticing your appearance. He likely heard you long before exiting the tunnel, such are the skills of a woodsman, a scoutleader no less. "I was wondering when you would show up," he comments, eyes focused on an object in his hands. His green cloak hides the object. Speaking of green cloaks, you don't see the others, but that does not mean that they don't see you. There are fourteen of them, something you mentally note in case things turn ugly. (Yeah! Turn them ugly, ugly.) "He needs medical attention," you start, pulling the needle and thread from your pocket. As you rush towards the two, you catch sight of Redding's wound, taken care of by Prinn. First aid, another skill set required of a woodsman. "As you can see, that's already taken care of," Prinn says in the manner of one swatting a fly from his dinner. "I can also see his hands are bound." "How perceptive of you." The dig gives you a flashback to your childhood and the boy who couldn't help but hurl insults every chance he got. The adult in front of you is the furthest thing from the good-humored boy, despite the brief similarity in mannerism. "And why are they bound?" you ask. "Can't you tell, kid?" Redding manges to say. You notice small sights of bruising appearing on his face. The freedom-speaking, government-abolishing Redding apparently didn't take the bindings without a struggle. There probably wasn't much of one in his condition. "The garrison fell, did it not?" At this, both men turn to look at you. The lack of surprise on your face is telling enough. "How did you know?" Prinn says, "We lost track of the Blackbirds. They cover their tracks well. We'll find their war camp. You can bet on that. After we lost the trail..." "...then you returned back to the garrison," you finish. "Exactly. And discovered a thousand Alteran soldiers in occupation, the white flag and surrender hosting taking place. The true surprise came when I started to sneak back into the garrison through the tunnel." "So what next?" you ask. "That depends," Prinn answers. "What are the Alteran's plans?" There's no point in withholding information. Besides, informing a Magda scoutleader is technically keeping alliances. "The garrison's getting sent back to Magda. I'm uncertain when, but the men will be spared as long as they return to the Old World and never voyage back." "That's a traditional term of surrender during colonization," Prinn comments. You're already well-aware of that fact. "But the rules are different here. There is a common enemy within the trees of the forest. Magda and Alteran should not be squabbling together while a war party threatens our people." "That sounds good and all, but there's no convincing the commanding officers," you say, feeling Redding's gaze of approval. Might as well keep going. "They're only concerned with beating their leader's rival in the New World and gaining credibility and climbing rank. The Blackbirds are an afterthought, a nuisance." "You and I both know they're more than that." "No argument here. I'm not the one who needs to be convinced though." Prinn scratches his chin in thought. "Hmm..." Hmm. The blond-headed boy scratches his chin in thought, feeling at imaginary whiskers. You both stand before Vladimir, your father's man, his enforcer. For the first time you see the man clearly, noticing detail. Before, he was simply part of the background, like a horse carriage passing by in the street, a butler in a wealthy manor. His overcoat is of good quality brown thread, reaching nearly to his boots. Underneath is a pure white tunic, open at the top exposing a few chest hairs trying to escape. At his hip rests a long rapier, its handle intricately weaved of intertwining metal. Vladimir's expression is firm. Fixed. Hardened. Some men see only the physical. Others, like Vladimir, see into the soul. "Do you know where you went wrong?" Vladimir asks. It's been a full week since the events with Kelle and his goons. Prinn didn't speak to you for the first half. It took a few days from there to get him to his normal self. Normal self. There is something different about him now. It's the difference after witnessing the gallows for the first time or surviving your first battlefield. The naive way of thinking, the one a child views reality through, is gone, replaced with a sense of the ugliness of life and the people who possess it. And he has you to thank for it. "I didn't think through the plan well enough," you answer, child-sized hands clasped behind your back playing soldier. "No," Prinn interjects. "We didn't plan thoroughly enough." Vladimir nods, finding the answer that he's looking for. "Fixed on revenge, you didn't account for what happens after it was achieved. So focused on getting back at Kelle that you allowed him to return fire. Revenge. Ambush. When you take your enemy down, be sure that he can't rise up again." "I won't make that mistake again," you reply, again taking the fault on your own shoulders. Is that what you're really doing though? Or are you planning to leave Prinn behind on your next attack? Of course your singular speech draws Prinn's attention. "We won't." "Is that what you want, then? To try again with Kelle?" Vladimir questions. Both of you answer with an emphatic "Yes!" "You may find that revenge doesn't solve your problems. If there are things you seek to bury, revenge won't keep them underground." "It's not a long-term fix," Prinn admits. "But it's a hell of a field tourniquet." Upon his answer, Vladimir rolls back his head in laughter, the same kind that you'd expect at a busy tavern. "Ha ha ha. Alright then, young masters. Remember," he grows serious, stern, rather quickly. "Don't let any further disgrace fall on your father's name." "Yes, sir. 'Don't embarrass your father. Don't let anything stain his good name.' I know, I know." you answer. Your untrained eyes don't register the movement until it's too late. One moment Vladimir is leaning against the desk in his study, the next he's crouching over your fallen body, knee putting pressure on your chest pinning you in place. Prinn knows better than to help. You can see it in his face. You made the bed; now you gotta lie in it. "It's not a joke. It's not a game," Vladimir breathes fire. "I'm allowing this to happen only because Kelle needs to learn what crossing your family means. You won't follow in your father's political footsteps, that much is clear. There's still hope for you, however, as an enforcer for your sister. Crossing your family means grave consequences. Better to have Kelle learn that at a young age." Vladimir's head turns towards Prinn. "You. You're the smart one here. Make sure our young master doesn't do anything that will fall back on his father's name, ok?" Prinn nods. Footsteps. The door to the study swings open without a single creak or settle, the only sound being the doorknob and gust of wind. Vladimir likes to keep his business well-oiled and practical. It's your sister. She's dressed in the robes of the school, marks on her arm signaling top rank in class. Your eyes meet for a split-second before she focuses solely on Vladimir. "Father needs you. There's a...difficult client." "I will come now," Vladimir answers, removing his knee from your chest. He points a finger in your direction and again, he says, "Don't let any further disgrace fall on your father's name." With that, he leaves you and Prinn alone in his study. He doesn't warn against disturbing the place, messing with his desk and books like a normal adult would when leaving two children on their own. His possessions, and life, are owned by your father and by extension, you, despite your lack of authority in that regard. Your sister, however, doesn't seem to mind giving orders. Then again, she'll likely be the one taking over your father's business. "Well," Prinn says, offering a hand. "Anything comes to mind?" "A plan is starting to emerge" you answer. "One fully thought through." "You mean thorough?" "Yeah, that's what I meant." Master Gavin's lecture is running late. Odd for one as punctual as the teacher usually is. Must be on a roll, you think to yourself. He doesn't like to stop the flow, even when going over time. You and Prinn wait outside in the hallway. The lecture hall is built from deep chestnut, shined and dusted to perfection. Crown molding lines the ceiling and floors. A few sculptures, faces carved reflecting previous teachers fill the opposite end of the room. Master Gavin likely aims to have his own sculpture one day, his academic career displayed in timeless stone. The two of you wait outside. In a few moments students will pour from the lecture hall, Kelle being one of them. You've rehearsed the plan beforehand. You failed in physical altercation. Prinn is a liability in that regard. In verbal, however, you might just make a fool of Kelle in front of the other classmates, witnesses who will spread the tale and ensure Kelle doesn't resort back to physical means. Suddenly, the double doors to the lecture hall burst open. Students pour through like a hole in a dam, ready to leave the lecture hall as they're long overdue. They pass by you like water around two river stones. Then you see him. Kelle, without his two goons, surprisingly, not that they'd be able to help him out in something like you're about to start. His eyes fix on you immediately, and a grin stretches across his face, no doubt remembering your previous encounter. "The runt and his braindead friend. Haven't flunked out, have you?" His adversarial words gather the attention of the other students. You notice they move slower now, listening to the conversation, but trying not to make it obvious. "Not yet," you answer. "I was actually hoping you'd be able to help me out in that regard." "Me? Help you? You can't be serious," Kelle answers. "Quite serious," you say. "It's no secret that you're the smartest one in our class, even if you manage to perform poorly on your exams." As you were hoping, the backhanded compliment rings as an insult in Kelle's ears, yet they could be considered friendly to the passerbyers. "I perform better than you," Kelle replies. His face appears to be turning a shade of red. He, too, notices the others watching. "See?" you say to Prinn, emphasising your words by knocking on his shoulder lightly. "I told you he was smart. It's surprising that you're top rank, not Kelle." Around you, you hear a snicker from a few students. Good. Let them make their presence even more known to Kelle. He's a limit tester. Hit him once, he'll hit twice back. Dump an old chamber pot on him, and he'll piss on your face. "You better watch yourselves," Kelle warns. You notice his hands are clenched into fists now. "I hear someone's been stealing chamber pots and I've drank a lot of water today." At that, the other students appear confused as, unlike Prinn and yourself, they have no idea what Kelle is referencing. If anything, it's a crude joke, base humor. Not something that an upstanding family should ever utter. You hoped he'd bring it up. You lean into it. "It's a fortunate thing for you. Rumor is that your performance anxiety translates to standing over an empty pot too." "But not to your friend's face it would seem." Kelle's grin widens, his mind reverting back to the moment he sprayed Prinn's head with shame and dominance. That is what you are going for, the line obviously being crossed, persuaded by insults and the memory of taking shit and piss raining from above. The other kids don't know it and will obviously take your side, rumors are likely already spreading from those who are exiting the hall already. Don't bring dishonor on your father, Vladimir said. Kelle, unfortunately, wasn't warned the way you were. Kelle thinks he's won because of your previous fight. He's losing the fight now with the crowd. In a place of politics and social standing and family honor, he's committed the gravest of mistakes: losing the people. "I withdraw my request," you say to Kelle. "Clearly, I'm better off finding a tutor who doesn't revert to base humor and threats better suited for the common workman." With that, Kelle finally realizes his mistake. He quickly utters a polite, if rushed, farewell and half walks, half runs out the lecture hall. The other kids crowd around, offering their condolences for Kelle's behavior and promises that they'll support you if you were to report him to Master Gavin and the school's administration. A man (well, boy) of the people, you tell them that you're not planning to elevate it, that you're just wanting to focus on your studies, taking the higher path and the position of someone wronged, which will only increase their favor. "You're rather silent," you say to Prinn once the hall is empty again. "Thought you of all people would want to get a dig in or two." "Perhaps next time," Prinn answers, his voice soft in tone, wavering. "Listen, I'm going to call it. See you tomorrow?" "Sure." Prinn leaves the hall. You stand a moment in victory, then go your own way. Little did you know it would be the last time you saw the boy. Until now. Scoutleader Prinn stops scratching his chin. "Perhaps the Alterans can be persuaded to waive the terms." "Good luck with that," you say. "They want nothing more than to send the garrison packing." "Oh I'm not so sure that's the case." Prinn's eyes fall on the bound Redding. Oh. A whistle escapes Prinn's lips, like that of a bird chirping in the forest, sounding eerily similar to ones you heard when first traveling through the New World jungle. Were the scouts following you the entire way? It matters little at this point. Leaves rustle in the wind, although you know it to be more than that. One of the green cloaks following his scoutleader's command. More still lie hidden around you. You're sure of that. "I'm flattered you would think of me so highly, but I'm with the kid. I seriously doubt turning me in will cause the Alterans to keep hundreds of Magdan soldiers around," Redding says. "They will...because the true enemy, the Blackbirds, requires both of our nation's focus. They will be receiving a strong ally as well." "Alteran was only able to capture the fort because of his--our--actions. Instead of chains, they may place a laurel on Redding's head," you say, leaving yourself out as part of the deal. So far it seems like Prinn is only interested in Redding. Placing obvious emphasis on the single man's exchange, will let you know Prinn's intention, whether or not you're to be included as well. You're not. "If that were the case, then you'd have a small force of Alterans with you to rescue your war hero," Prinn easily answers. "This man is a fugitive, simple as that. You are too, but what's the expression? 'Bigger fish?'" "You're set on following this through, aren't you?" Prinn replies with a nod. "And nothing I say or do will change your mind?" "No. You could try to stop me. Perhaps, you even could. But no, nothing will change my mind. I don't suggest you try, however." Your eyes briefly meet Redding's. He seems content where he is. Most men would struggle, show animosity towards their captor. Redding's expression is the same as sitting in an ale room, minus a little color in the cheeks. He seems interested to see how you will react, play the hero or the gambler, letting the cards fall where they may. You're not entirely sure yourself. But still, you are leaning towards one, if not slightly. > Hero You've been a man of action your entire life, from childhood devising plans to get back at Kelle, to enlisting in the army and surviving many battles. Sitting around, letting others decide your fate, is nothing that you've done before, and you're sure as hell not going to start now. (I know that look.) You wanted more, artifact. You're getting it. (Ha! Yes! FIre me away. Let me taste them, drink their health, oops, I mean to their health!) Slightly worrying. Bigger fish. Prinn hasn't seen the artifact in action, the way it can reshape itself into various weapons, your favorite being the six-shooter. He doesn't know that the black ring on your finger is the dagger that Redding previously fought with, the very one that Alexander lended the aid of the garrison to recover, the one that the war party is after. He doesn't know until it's too late. The boy with blonde curls, now shaved, the boy who wore glasses, now apparently not needed, the boy whose life was changed forever by your childhood actions are once again changed by your willingness to act. His head, the one that Kelle shamed, stained with piss and tears, appears down the sight of the black barrel. Black smoke fills the air. For a split second, the image of Prinn as a boy appears, down on his knees, unable to look you in the eye. The next, the image dissolves, replaced with one of the adult version, a red bullet hole squarely in the middle of his forehead. Prinn's body falls over backwards, landing with his green cloak spread out as if a picnic blanket. A few arrows spill from his quiver, the rope holding Redding falls from grasp. You don't have time to reflect, logging it to the list of questionable actions that you've recently committed. There'll be a time to contemplate, pay for your deeds. Now, however, there are unseen enemies in the trees, deadly with the hunting bow. (Aww no fun!) The artifact becomes a tower shield in your hand, a solid slab of black, like staring through an open doorway in the middle of the night. Thwunk, thwunk, thwunk! Almost instantaneously, arrows land against the artifact, less than you expected, which only means that Prinn has a number of the green cloaks elsewhere, likely thinking that there wouldn't be much trouble at the hidden doorway. You and Redding already handled most of that, the bodies of the fallen Blackbirds still staining the creek with their blood. Before another volley can be fired, the six-shooter appears in your hand. Best to make it quick. For a brief moment you'll be unprotected. Then again, so are the green cloaks. You fire several shots into the trees, using the angle of the blocked arrows as an imaginary line back towards the origin. You're rewarded with at least two small grunts and as many bodies plunging from the canopy, breaking branches and leaves along the way down. They hit the ground with a solid thud, a much deeper, fuller sound than their arrows ever made. (Mmm, gimme more to taste!) There's no shortage of that, I assure you. The artifact turns back into a shield as you await the next volley of arrows. It doesn't come. The forest is silent, save for background sounds of nature, the wind rustling through leaves, the occasional song of wildlife. Your breath becomes slow and steady, each exhale lasting for seemingly minutes at a time. Your eyes scan the trees looking for unseen enemies. They remain exactly that. If the green cloaks are reorganizing, you don't have much time. Free Redding and move on. Luckily, Prinn took care of Redding's wounds. You might have made a mess of things. There's at least one positive aspect of the current outcome, a second being that you escaped with your life. Speaking of Redding... He stands exactly where Prinn left him, not even taking cover for the trees during the volley of arrows. He motions towards his bindings. "Care to help me out, hero?" With the black dagger, you cut through the rope in a single slash. That word, "hero," doesn't sit well with you. "Don't call me that." "Suit yourself," Redding says, stretching his arms and rubbing his wrists for blood flow. "You're becoming dangerous with that thing. It's like second-nature, the way you seamlessly cycle between forms." "If I need a flintlock, I shoot. If arrows are fired at me, I need a shield. It's as simple as that," you answer. "What's next for us? There are two armies, three if you count the war party, that are out to get us. We have no allies, no aid, no support. There's an entire New World in front of us and no friends to help accomplish the mission." "But we have each other," Redding says, placing a hand on your shoulder. His eyes meet yours for a few calm seconds, then he breaks into a grin. "Damn near had you going there, didn't I?" "Yeah, damn near had me questioning my decision to ever help you," you return back. You scan the creek. It's littered with bodies, weapons, arrows. It's once-peaceful demeanor is replaced with the violence of man and the tools of destruction, perhaps a small example of what the New World would turn into, a glimpse into the future. Once a place filled with life, with nature content to mind to its own business is stained, marred by the invasion of man. Redding is right. The ways of the Old can't be brought to this place. There must be a new set of rules, a new way of living. The Old World is dying; the New can still be kept alive. > Epilogue: The Ways of the New A cave, deep in the New World forest, overlooks the sea, facing towards the Old World. Nearly a year ago, you arrived by ship, a soldier in the High King's army. Now you take the role of fugitive, hunted by your former nation as well as the native Blackbirds for the artifact you possess, an artifact that plays on your thoughts, speaking to you. Enemies are everywhere. Friends are few. But there are some, a small number, yes, but more than the one you started with. Speaking of the one, Redding emerges from the cave, his scraggly beard showing obvious signs where trimming is needed, even more so with its long length. "We best get a move on," he says, alluding to the fact that you're unable to stay in one place for very long. The Blackbirds can sense the artifact, somehow. It's the reason they attacked the garrison shortly after recovering it in the first place. You didn't realize it then--thought it was just a coincidence; however, the hideouts you've built for yourself over the next few months all were discovered by the Blackbirds. You've honed in on their timing, spending only less than two weeks at any given location. It's not ideal, but there are more important issues. Voyages from the Old World seem to arrive by the day. An exaggeration, but still, they've definitely picked up, civilian ships starting to join the navy vessels. You sit outside of the cave stoking a small fire. After spending most of your time under the forest's canopy for the past year, you've come to enjoy the time spent in the open air. The sky is a blanket of gray, coupled with snow-white fog, which hangs near the tops of the forest's trees. Full of life. Sinister. The New World is a place unlike any other. One moment it brings the thrill of discovery, the next, you're staring death in the face. (Enough reflection. 'Best get a move on.' There's blood to spill he-he...) You ignore the voice, which has become your normal response over the past months. It's...changed, only concerned with battle, killing, and it doesn't matter whether it's Blackbird or Old World blood. It thirsts. The frightening part is that you feel it too, a dry scratch at the back of your throat like waking up in the morning after a few too many ales. Satisfaction comes during skirmishes, but you haven't had any grand-scale battles since the garrison, small drops to wet the tongue; not enough to quench the thirst completely. The water nearly to a boil, you pull a small pot away from the flame. Searching through your bag, you pull a small pouch of ground coffee, perks of your few friends. The warm liquid soothes your mind, a small comfort in a world of death and uncertainty. You offer some to Redding who shakes his head. "There's only one other thing I'd rather drink than water and the ale room doesn't open until mid-morning," he says. "That and your face is probably a poster on the wall, a sizable sum underneath it," you answer. "True, true." No, there haven't been more grand-scale battles. To the artifact's dismay, your war is being fought on a different battlefield. Rather than finding victory by strength of sword arm and superior numbers, you're forced to fight on an individual level, your words of persuasion more of an ally than any sword, black blade or not. Oh sure, you're glad to have it when your words meet deaf ears, or those ears who find it their duty to cross blades against those who whisper such treasonous language. Then the artifact is momentarily happy, letting you hear each gleeful bite into the flesh of a man. With more civilian vessels arriving, it at least allows you to infiltrate the Old World colonies with ease. Rather than needing a clean military uniform and names of a company and commander, you can pose as a common merchant, an explorer from the Old World journeying to the New to find fortune and fame. It's a good thing Frontrunner's Camp didn't build walls; it would have long expanded past them. In only a year's time since you arrived, the stain of Old World civilization is starting to affect the New. It starts with Frontrunner's, but you know there are plans for many more colonies, which makes your mission that much more urgent. Get to the people while they are expanding before anything firm can be established. The World as a whole is on a knife's edge, could swing either way. You and Redding are doing your best to topple it in your favor, in the collective people's favor. (Too much sitting around. Need more action.) "There'll be a time for that, don't you worry," Redding answers. Wait. Redding answered the voice? The man doesn't look at you as if some strange circumstance just occurred. He packs his bag, examining his longsword to see if it needs sharpening, a low hum of a tune emanating from the back of his throat. Care to explain? (Sometimes 'voices' are overheard.) You feel the mental equivalent of a shrug. But whose voice was that? Mine or yours? (The man didn't seem to hear anyone besides his loyal sidekick.) Frustrating. You're sure to make the voice more talkative after battle. You log all your questions for another time, a time when the black blade is wet with blood. It's tight-lipped now, keeping secrets of its own. But after slaying several men, it'll sing at the tops of its lungs, mostly figuratively speaking, of course. Many questions you still have, and not enough answers to keep up with them all. But still, the mission takes precedence. The mission is what matters, otherwise all those who stood in your way were removed for nothing, some, like Prinn, never to move again. Your reputation in Alteran, not to mention Magda, is ruined, at least when it comes to the chain of command. Rules, laws, regulations would put the noose around your neck without blinking an eye. To the common man, each individual link in the chain, you might find understanding for your actions. Empathy. Perhaps even an ally or two. You have found allies, and they're continuing to grow. The High King may love his chain of command; let's see how much he likes it when you pluck specific rings to your cause. "Come, our contact awaits. The Blackbirds close in," Redding says. You finish the remainder of the coffee and snuff the fire. You answer in a voice not entirely yours. ("Good. My legs are cramped from all of this sitting.")

[Themes: fantasy, humor] They attempt to follow you into the tunnel. Quickly, they learn it's certain death. The artifact fires true from your palm, its bullets always straight. Black smoke fills the tunnel, traveling towards the dungeon cell, the air closest. Bodies pile up. To stick one's nose in the tunnel, even for a quick glance, is to risk losing the nose, an eye, or worse. Their numbers mean nothing here, and no one knows where the tunnel exits. None but Alexander, Prinn, and perhaps a few other key Magda members who aren't the ones after you. Freedom is yours. Now you'll just have to stitch Redding up in time without making the wound worse, although death is guaranteed if you don't try, so there's some small measure of reassurance there. You can't believe you made it. Into a fort blown to bits, occupied by the very army that labels you a traitor, escaping a prison suspended in the air, fighting your way through rows and rows of soldiers in formation, all while finding a surgeon's needle and thread to save your friend and mentor. It's almost too good to be true. Redding's ever-contagious grin creeps along the corner of your lips, becoming more of a natural occurrence. It's true what they say, taking on the mannerisms of those you're close to. There are far worse traits to take on. (Is the action over already? I was just getting started!) For now. (Awww.) You press on. The footsteps and voices of the Alteran soldiers in pursuit have long faded away, bringing the only sounds in the tunnel of your own making. You're not exactly hiding your presence--who would hear your approach in an enclosed space--but you have the mindset of a fugitive, of a criminal breaking out of prison, which, funnily-enough, is exactly what you're doing, counting two escaped locked doors: the suspended cage and the dungeon itself. You try not to dwell on the sudden character shift of the artifact. It can sense your thoughts, which you'd rather remain a secret. One problem at a time. They seem to be piling up by the second, but a single one remains at the top of the list. Redding. A soft amount of light suddenly appears. You're briefly entertained, inappropriately, by reaching the light at the end of the tunnel before remembering why you're here in the first place. Although to be fair, it's something that would have entertained Redding too. Will entertain him, you remind yourself. Your pace quickens now, careful not to scrape your head on the tunnel's ceiling. Your head finding a jutting stone at nearly a run isn't the ending that this story deserves. At least you procured a needle and thread to stitch yourself up if that's what fate decides. Luckily, it doesn't take the bait, and you manage to reach the light at the end of the tunnel, where the small hidden door lies. Redding should be right here...except he's not. The place where you left him is completely empty. There are small marks in the dirt where he sat. You need more light to inspect, so you crack the hidden door open for more natural light to spill through. Imprints on the dirt all right, smooth sections where his legs sat on the dirt, in contrast to the random arrangement of dust and dirt. You're no tracker. You can't judge the time frame, whether or not multiple bodies were here. If anything, you'd confuse your earlier marks and bootprints with an unknown assailant. Well, there's one thing you know for certain. You just traveled down the other opening of the tunnel and didn't run into Redding. There's only one other direction he could have gone. Out the hidden door (the light at the end of the tunnel). Once again you find yourself back at the creek for the third time. There, your lack of tracking ability is nullified. Redding is bound at the hands. A long trail of rope leads to his captor like a leash. Holding the opposite end of the rope, binding Redding to his fate is Prinn. He casually glances over his shoulder, noticing your appearance. He likely heard you long before exiting the tunnel, such are the skills of a woodsman, a scoutleader no less. "I was wondering when you would show up," he comments, eyes focused on an object in his hands. His green cloak hides the object. Speaking of green cloaks, you don't see the others, but that does not mean that they don't see you. There are fourteen of them, something you mentally note in case things turn ugly. (Yeah! Turn them ugly, ugly.) "He needs medical attention," you start, pulling the needle and thread from your pocket. As you rush towards the two, you catch sight of Redding's wound, taken care of by Prinn. First aid, another skill set required of a woodsman. "As you can see, that's already taken care of," Prinn says in the manner of one swatting a fly from his dinner. "I can also see his hands are bound." "How perceptive of you." The dig gives you a flashback to your childhood and the boy who couldn't help but hurl insults every chance he got. The adult in front of you is the furthest thing from the good-humored boy, despite the brief similarity in mannerism. "And why are they bound?" you ask. "Can't you tell, kid?" Redding manges to say. You notice small sights of bruising appearing on his face. The freedom-speaking, government-abolishing Redding apparently didn't take the bindings without a struggle. There probably wasn't much of one in his condition. "The garrison fell, did it not?" At this, both men turn to look at you. The lack of surprise on your face is telling enough. "How did you know?" Prinn says, "We lost track of the Blackbirds. They cover their tracks well. We'll find their war camp. You can bet on that. After we lost the trail..." "...then you returned back to the garrison," you finish. "Exactly. And discovered a thousand Alteran soldiers in occupation, the white flag and surrender hosting taking place. The true surprise came when I started to sneak back into the garrison through the tunnel." "So what next?" you ask. "That depends," Prinn answers. "What are the Alteran's plans?" There's no point in withholding information. Besides, informing a Magda scoutleader is technically keeping alliances. "The garrison's getting sent back to Magda. I'm uncertain when, but the men will be spared as long as they return to the Old World and never voyage back." "That's a traditional term of surrender during colonization," Prinn comments. You're already well-aware of that fact. "But the rules are different here. There is a common enemy within the trees of the forest. Magda and Alteran should not be squabbling together while a war party threatens our people." "That sounds good and all, but there's no convincing the commanding officers," you say, feeling Redding's gaze of approval. Might as well keep going. "They're only concerned with beating their leader's rival in the New World and gaining credibility and climbing rank. The Blackbirds are an afterthought, a nuisance." "You and I both know they're more than that." "No argument here. I'm not the one who needs to be convinced though." Prinn scratches his chin in thought. "Hmm..." Hmm. The blond-headed boy scratches his chin in thought, feeling at imaginary whiskers. You both stand before Vladimir, your father's man, his enforcer. For the first time you see the man clearly, noticing detail. Before, he was simply part of the background, like a horse carriage passing by in the street, a butler in a wealthy manor. His overcoat is of good quality brown thread, reaching nearly to his boots. Underneath is a pure white tunic, open at the top exposing a few chest hairs trying to escape. At his hip rests a long rapier, its handle intricately weaved of intertwining metal. Vladimir's expression is firm. Fixed. Hardened. Some men see only the physical. Others, like Vladimir, see into the soul. "Do you know where you went wrong?" Vladimir asks. It's been a full week since the events with Kelle and his goons. Prinn didn't speak to you for the first half. It took a few days from there to get him to his normal self. Normal self. There is something different about him now. It's the difference after witnessing the gallows for the first time or surviving your first battlefield. The naive way of thinking, the one a child views reality through, is gone, replaced with a sense of the ugliness of life and the people who possess it. And he has you to thank for it. "I didn't think through the plan well enough," you answer, child-sized hands clasped behind your back playing soldier. "No," Prinn interjects. "We didn't plan thoroughly enough." Vladimir nods, finding the answer that he's looking for. "Fixed on revenge, you didn't account for what happens after it was achieved. So focused on getting back at Kelle that you allowed him to return fire. Revenge. Ambush. When you take your enemy down, be sure that he can't rise up again." "I won't make that mistake again," you reply, again taking the fault on your own shoulders. Is that what you're really doing though? Or are you planning to leave Prinn behind on your next attack? Of course your singular speech draws Prinn's attention. "We won't." "Is that what you want, then? To try again with Kelle?" Vladimir questions. Both of you answer with an emphatic "Yes!" "You may find that revenge doesn't solve your problems. If there are things you seek to bury, revenge won't keep them underground." "It's not a long-term fix," Prinn admits. "But it's a hell of a field tourniquet." Upon his answer, Vladimir rolls back his head in laughter, the same kind that you'd expect at a busy tavern. "Ha ha ha. Alright then, young masters. Remember," he grows serious, stern, rather quickly. "Don't let any further disgrace fall on your father's name." "Yes, sir. 'Don't embarrass your father. Don't let anything stain his good name.' I know, I know." you answer. Your untrained eyes don't register the movement until it's too late. One moment Vladimir is leaning against the desk in his study, the next he's crouching over your fallen body, knee putting pressure on your chest pinning you in place. Prinn knows better than to help. You can see it in his face. You made the bed; now you gotta lie in it. "It's not a joke. It's not a game," Vladimir breathes fire. "I'm allowing this to happen only because Kelle needs to learn what crossing your family means. You won't follow in your father's political footsteps, that much is clear. There's still hope for you, however, as an enforcer for your sister. Crossing your family means grave consequences. Better to have Kelle learn that at a young age." Vladimir's head turns towards Prinn. "You. You're the smart one here. Make sure our young master doesn't do anything that will fall back on his father's name, ok?" Prinn nods. Footsteps. The door to the study swings open without a single creak or settle, the only sound being the doorknob and gust of wind. Vladimir likes to keep his business well-oiled and practical. It's your sister. She's dressed in the robes of the school, marks on her arm signaling top rank in class. Your eyes meet for a split-second before she focuses solely on Vladimir. "Father needs you. There's a...difficult client." "I will come now," Vladimir answers, removing his knee from your chest. He points a finger in your direction and again, he says, "Don't let any further disgrace fall on your father's name." With that, he leaves you and Prinn alone in his study. He doesn't warn against disturbing the place, messing with his desk and books like a normal adult would when leaving two children on their own. His possessions, and life, are owned by your father and by extension, you, despite your lack of authority in that regard. Your sister, however, doesn't seem to mind giving orders. Then again, she'll likely be the one taking over your father's business. "Well," Prinn says, offering a hand. "Anything comes to mind?" "A plan is starting to emerge" you answer. "One fully thought through." "You mean thorough?" "Yeah, that's what I meant." Master Gavin's lecture is running late. Odd for one as punctual as the teacher usually is. Must be on a roll, you think to yourself. He doesn't like to stop the flow, even when going over time. You and Prinn wait outside in the hallway. The lecture hall is built from deep chestnut, shined and dusted to perfection. Crown molding lines the ceiling and floors. A few sculptures, faces carved reflecting previous teachers fill the opposite end of the room. Master Gavin likely aims to have his own sculpture one day, his academic career displayed in timeless stone. The two of you wait outside. In a few moments students will pour from the lecture hall, Kelle being one of them. You've rehearsed the plan beforehand. You failed in physical altercation. Prinn is a liability in that regard. In verbal, however, you might just make a fool of Kelle in front of the other classmates, witnesses who will spread the tale and ensure Kelle doesn't resort back to physical means. Suddenly, the double doors to the lecture hall burst open. Students pour through like a hole in a dam, ready to leave the lecture hall as they're long overdue. They pass by you like water around two river stones. Then you see him. Kelle, without his two goons, surprisingly, not that they'd be able to help him out in something like you're about to start. His eyes fix on you immediately, and a grin stretches across his face, no doubt remembering your previous encounter. "The runt and his braindead friend. Haven't flunked out, have you?" His adversarial words gather the attention of the other students. You notice they move slower now, listening to the conversation, but trying not to make it obvious. "Not yet," you answer. "I was actually hoping you'd be able to help me out in that regard." "Me? Help you? You can't be serious," Kelle answers. "Quite serious," you say. "It's no secret that you're the smartest one in our class, even if you manage to perform poorly on your exams." As you were hoping, the backhanded compliment rings as an insult in Kelle's ears, yet they could be considered friendly to the passerbyers. "I perform better than you," Kelle replies. His face appears to be turning a shade of red. He, too, notices the others watching. "See?" you say to Prinn, emphasising your words by knocking on his shoulder lightly. "I told you he was smart. It's surprising that you're top rank, not Kelle." Around you, you hear a snicker from a few students. Good. Let them make their presence even more known to Kelle. He's a limit tester. Hit him once, he'll hit twice back. Dump an old chamber pot on him, and he'll piss on your face. "You better watch yourselves," Kelle warns. You notice his hands are clenched into fists now. "I hear someone's been stealing chamber pots and I've drank a lot of water today." At that, the other students appear confused as, unlike Prinn and yourself, they have no idea what Kelle is referencing. If anything, it's a crude joke, base humor. Not something that an upstanding family should ever utter. You hoped he'd bring it up. You lean into it. "It's a fortunate thing for you. Rumor is that your performance anxiety translates to standing over an empty pot too." "But not to your friend's face it would seem." Kelle's grin widens, his mind reverting back to the moment he sprayed Prinn's head with shame and dominance. That is what you are going for, the line obviously being crossed, persuaded by insults and the memory of taking shit and piss raining from above. The other kids don't know it and will obviously take your side, rumors are likely already spreading from those who are exiting the hall already. Don't bring dishonor on your father, Vladimir said. Kelle, unfortunately, wasn't warned the way you were. Kelle thinks he's won because of your previous fight. He's losing the fight now with the crowd. In a place of politics and social standing and family honor, he's committed the gravest of mistakes: losing the people. "I withdraw my request," you say to Kelle. "Clearly, I'm better off finding a tutor who doesn't revert to base humor and threats better suited for the common workman." With that, Kelle finally realizes his mistake. He quickly utters a polite, if rushed, farewell and half walks, half runs out the lecture hall. The other kids crowd around, offering their condolences for Kelle's behavior and promises that they'll support you if you were to report him to Master Gavin and the school's administration. A man (well, boy) of the people, you tell them that you're not planning to elevate it, that you're just wanting to focus on your studies, taking the higher path and the position of someone wronged, which will only increase their favor. "You're rather silent," you say to Prinn once the hall is empty again. "Thought you of all people would want to get a dig in or two." "Perhaps next time," Prinn answers, his voice soft in tone, wavering. "Listen, I'm going to call it. See you tomorrow?" "Sure." Prinn leaves the hall. You stand a moment in victory, then go your own way. Little did you know it would be the last time you saw the boy. Until now. Scoutleader Prinn stops scratching his chin. "Perhaps the Alterans can be persuaded to waive the terms." "Good luck with that," you say. "They want nothing more than to send the garrison packing." "Oh I'm not so sure that's the case." Prinn's eyes fall on the bound Redding. Oh. A whistle escapes Prinn's lips, like that of a bird chirping in the forest, sounding eerily similar to ones you heard when first traveling through the New World jungle. Were the scouts following you the entire way? It matters little at this point. Leaves rustle in the wind, although you know it to be more than that. One of the green cloaks following his scoutleader's command. More still lie hidden around you. You're sure of that. "I'm flattered you would think of me so highly, but I'm with the kid. I seriously doubt turning me in will cause the Alterans to keep hundreds of Magdan soldiers around," Redding says. "They will...because the true enemy, the Blackbirds, requires both of our nation's focus. They will be receiving a strong ally as well." "Alteran was only able to capture the fort because of his--our--actions. Instead of chains, they may place a laurel on Redding's head," you say, leaving yourself out as part of the deal. So far it seems like Prinn is only interested in Redding. Placing obvious emphasis on the single man's exchange, will let you know Prinn's intention, whether or not you're to be included as well. You're not. "If that were the case, then you'd have a small force of Alterans with you to rescue your war hero," Prinn easily answers. "This man is a fugitive, simple as that. You are too, but what's the expression? 'Bigger fish?'" "You're set on following this through, aren't you?" Prinn replies with a nod. "And nothing I say or do will change your mind?" "No. You could try to stop me. Perhaps, you even could. But no, nothing will change my mind. I don't suggest you try, however." Your eyes briefly meet Redding's. He seems content where he is. Most men would struggle, show animosity towards their captor. Redding's expression is the same as sitting in an ale room, minus a little color in the cheeks. He seems interested to see how you will react, play the hero or the gambler, letting the cards fall where they may. You're not entirely sure yourself. But still, you are leaning towards one, if not slightly. > Gambler You've never been much of a card player. Those you've played with fellow soldiers over the years have never amounted to much. Sure, there's been a few lucky nights, but not as many as there should have been. It's not even that you're unable to keep a blank face when need be. Bluffing, lying is actually something that you're fairly decent at. It's simply that lady luck has you in the perpetual dog house, feeling as if a woman scorned towards you, the odds never falling in your favor. Lady luck, a bitch if you ever knew one. And that's what you've been doing until now, isn't it? Playing your best with the hand dealt to you. That's all anyone does. Or is that simply the lie we tell ourselves? Life is a card game. You can't control the hand dealt, a random shuffle. But you can do the best with what you have, even if it's a losing hand from the start. You know all about that from actual card games. No, life can't be the same. You'll not allow it to be the same. The analogy assumes one's life is set according to a specific set of rules. You won't play that game. You've never had success with the game. Instead, you remove yourself from the equation, and allow circumstances to play out. "You may run into enemies on the way," you start. "But I'm not to be included as one of them." Oddly enough, Redding smiles at this. You just sealed the man's fate for execution, and he...smiles. Part of you realizes the struggle you've made it through to save his life--just to throw it away now. But you're not throwing it away. That implies action. You're simply letting the circumstance play out according to the actions of each player. Besides, what are you going to do? Shoot a childhood friend, fight your way through more than ten unseen scouts? No. Redding knew the risks. His plan was well-thought out, but it wasn't thorough enough. It didn't account for the Alterans invading. On the plus side, that's something that would have never happened in the Old; it'd take a lot for a direct confrontation to occur. Perhaps the ways of the New are blossoming on their own. Perhaps that's why Redding is smiling. "No fight? I must admit I'm rather surprised," Prinn says, checking the bonds of Redding, making to depart back to the garrison. (And I'm disappointed.) "There's been enough bloodshed between those who I wouldn't count among my own enemies," you say. Prinn just nods and makes for the trees. It's silent between all speakers for a moment, sending the small sounds of the creek into your ears like white rapids. "I remember you, you know," he says at last. "A distant memory. It's foggy. But you're there." "I remember you too," you answer. "Although my memory is clear. You disappeared. There one day, gone the next. It was the talk of the school for years." "Yes...I went somewhere," Prinn says, distant, like a man waking from a bad dream. "I remember laughing, not laughter of my own, not laughter in joy. Just, laughter. At me." "Kelle?" For a second, Prinn's face flashes ugly. It's the face of a husband finding out his wife betrayed him, mixed with the face of the wife herself, shame and secret bore for all to see. Then it's back to blank and expressionless, a slate of a man not yet sculpted, empty. "Kelle..." he ponders. "I do not remember that name." Redding and you glance at one another, forgetting the fact that he's a prisoner sentenced to death for a moment. No words need to be shared between you; it's obvious to him that Prinn remembers the name, whether it's suppressed by the mind or not, a spotty memory like that of a trauma victim. "Do you know what happened to Kelle?" you repeat the name again. Mixture. Flash. Blank. "I do not know of who you speak of." "What happened to Kelle?" Redding, this time, asks. The third mention of the name breaks through the barrier. Prinn's face returns to the mixture, but does not revert back to the slate. His skin turns red, hot. Like a sticky gear finally finding its groove, recognition appears. Another quick glance between you and Redding. His eyes seem to shrug. "Kelle...I remember now... He was evil and (was) bullied those smaller than him. Smart, yes. But not the smartest. Strong, yes. But only towards those weaker than himself." You attempt to guide Prinn's thoughts. "He disappeared. Not long after a couple of...disagreements between us." "Yes...that's right," Prinn speaks to the empty air. "He was no doubt planning retaliation. To hit us worse than we hit him." "That was the plan," you say. "To damage his reputation in front of the other students and let Kelle, himself, finish the deed. We put him in poor standing. One attempt at revenge, publicly known, would have him thrown from the school, despite who his father was. Except he disappeared before that could happen. You--" "We both did," Prinn finishes your next words. "What happened?" "I adjusted the plan. Made it so he could never prey on the weak again." "And exactly how did you do that?" Redding asks. You briefly imagine him raising an eyebrow. He doesn't, of course. Prinn turns to him. "Isn't the answer obvious?" Isn't the answer obvious? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Of course it is. Young Prinn, after leaving the lecture hall, can't stop a feeling deep within. It's like an itch that can't be scratched, the tingling of a limb when falling asleep at an awkward position. It's so simple. Prinn knows how to make it so Kelle doesn't retaliate. A plan truly that's thorough enough. End Kelle, end the suffering. It's as simple as that. He wishes he kept the green cloak with him, the one that he wore in the forest a week earlier. It made him feel powerful. Strong. Not like the brainiac everyone believes him to be. But he is, though. Why should he pretend to be someone else? Because brainiacs get bullied. Pissed on. The strong don't. Prinn's best friend, despite not testing higher than the bottom 10% of the class, proved that fact. And Prinn's memory retention is second-to-none. A mere glance at a page, and he can recite the words flawlessly. Facts, history, mathematical formulas: they appear to him in his mind, easily located like finding one's horse in the stable. He's glad to have learned it early in his life before any more time is wasted: knowledge is useless without the authority to act upon it. He's spent his entire life, albeit a short one so far, focused on discovering knowledge. Useless, without the strength of the arm as a foundation. For the first time Prinn doesn't have a plan. What good are plans anyway? They're a tunnel, forcing the planner into a single-lane road. Prinn's mind is quick. Better to leave all options open and adapt to the circumstance. It clicks in his mind the way a buckle clasps for the first time. Infinite choices are at one's fingertips. The likelihood of accounting for every option, having the plan go according to...well, the plan is slim to none. Account for nothing, adapt, and you'll never find yourself at a loss. Kelle ducks into a building. Prinn knows it well. It's a place designed for experiments of science. Students, with the proper credentials, can use a laboratory for themselves. Most use it for alchemical purposes, the rare few at Prinn's age know chemistry. There's no guard. No doorman. If you hadn't received a key from the main office, you can't enter. Kelle has a key. So does Prinn. Waiting a few minutes after Kelle, Prinn takes the small five-step staircase to the building. The hallways are empty. Occupants are either in their labs or unable to be called as such. Prinn always hated the floors here. Black and white checkered tile. Unlike the rest of the campus, built from polished wood, the laboratory has a cold feeling with it, lifeless, like the students are mere pieces on a board game. Prinn doesn't have a plan, although thoughts are starting to emerge. He's adapting. Each laboratory is mostly private. There are no windows, for safety reasons. Any experiment gone wrong is contained in the room. All that connects the lab to the outside hallway is a small slit in the door, a rectangle chunk carved from reinforced steel, oddly reminiscent to the small opening a prisoner would receive moldy bread and cheese. It's through the slits that Prinn scans through the labs. Cold, lifeless, his body adapts to the very building itself. He passes by a few, creeping along on the balls of his feet. A few older students are working on potions, the occasional firework. Citizens love fireworks, and the school will pay good money for a student who makes them. Not as good as the school will sell them for, but hey, it's better than sticking your nose in a book at a deficit. Finally, Prinn finds his mark. His experiment. His prey. Through the slit in the door, Prinn watches Kelle, unaware of the boy looking into his lab. The room itself is a slice of nature. Like the slit, it's a rectangle in shape, two long walls, two short ones. Unlike the rest of the building, however, it's a jungle; stepping into the lab is like being in a small clearing. Vines and trees fill the walls and ceiling, complete with a dirt floor, mimicking a real jungle floor. Various plants fill the "clearing," shapes of bright red, purple, and white shine brilliantly against the dimly-lit lab. In the center, built from wooden planks, is an alchemy table. Tubes, beakers, and smaller vials rest on top. More underneath. Prinn watches Kelle grab for a few ingredients, plucking them from their artificial spot of growth. Once he's collected enough, the boy returns to the table, finding a mortar and pestle. His target distracted, Prinn decides to act. He studies the cadence of Kelle's mixing. One, two, three, Prinn unlatches the door to the lab at the exact moment Kelle would engage the next motion of the mortar. It's not the best, but it's the best in the current situation, which Prinn has no problem taking advantage of. He slides the door open to a small crack, just enough to where he can slip through unnoticed. The door closes without a sound, the boy, himself, following suit. The light is low. Dim. Mimicking natural light from an actual jungle. It helps the students focus, according to Master Gavin. Out away from magelight or candlelight, it forces the alchemist to be immersed in the environment. Prinn, a shadow between trees, a silent stalker in the jungle, creeps forward. End Kelle, end the suffering. Simple as that. His target's back is turned, busy mixing and grinding different ingredients to dust. Prinn, but a boy who would grow up to lead the scouts in the New World, briefly steps into his future self, channeling his studies, focusing them in his mind. Strength of body. Strength of mind. Prinn's relied on the latter for too long. It's about time he became one of the strong. The knife briefly flashes in the artificially-lit room, a twinkle of steel like the first stars of the night appearing in the nightsky. Kelle doesn't turn. He doesn't face the boy in the eye, the boy who he bullied, shamed. Quick and efficient. Prinn thrusts the dagger forward without drawing it back. Quick and efficient, he slides it into Kelle's lower back. It cuts easily into the boy's skin as if a farmer digging through fertile soil. And just like that, it's over. There's no rush of panic that falls over Prinn's body, the coming down after a passion-fueled deed. His hands are steady. His mind is clear. Prinn scans the lab for the necessary ingredients. Cleaning up will take awhile, but everything he needs is present. Blood begins to darken the dirt at the base of the table. Prinn takes a deep breath and readies himself for hours of work, mentally running through each task needed to be performed in order. Kelle isn't even breathing and he's causing problems for Prinn, still. The gruesome thought brings small curves to the corner of Prinn's lips. That soon won't be the case. End Kelle, end the suffering. It's as simple as that. "End Kelle, end the suffering," Scoutleader Prinn finishes, trancelike. You and Redding glance at each other. You're not used to seeing Redding without words lining up to leave his mouth. The line's empty now, and the same can be said for your own. Three shadows, donned in green, become a blur in the corner of your vision. The scouts drop down from trees towering overhead, two of which draw their hunting bows and aim them at you. They aren't as concerned with Redding, who is still bound and tied. The third scout pulls an object from his belt, something small that fits in the palm of his hand. He walks over to his scoutleader, takes one of his hands, and places the object in his palm. Prinn looks at his palm like a card player playing with known cheats. Recognition appears in his eyes, like the act of scanning a crowd and finding the person you're looking for. It seems to take him from the trance. He is back to the stern, if not expressionless, leader as before. He hands the object back to the scout, hiding it from your view. He places a hand on the scout's shoulder in appreciation, the way an aging father treats a son. "It was the talk of the school for years," you break the silence. "Both you and Kelle suddenly vanished one day, and you know how kids like to spread rumors." "I left," the scoutleader says. "All that I could have learned during months of studying, I learned that day. I pursued knowledge in a more...applicable setting. Kelle," he spits the name, "was (was) the first of many. When I accomplished all that I could in the city, I came to the place where the world makes sense, both of them. Nature. Uncivilized land. It runs on rules far greater than the ones that we create for ourselves." (he sounds a lot like...) ...Redding, I know. "But you," Prinn continues. "You ran away to Alteran and actively opposed the Supreme Leader. I suppose I should be asking you why, but now is not the time or place. Just answer me this: why did you run from Magda in the first place?" The question hangs heavy in the air. Prinn looks at you expectantly. Redding the same. It's the question that's hunted you from a young age. It first appeared in your mind as a youth, an itch of a thought that you couldn't scratch, not until you actually left the country of your birth. Why did you run from your home? The answer is simple, more simple than something of this magnitude should be. When you trace the origin, the root, however, it's the cause behind everything. You open your mouth and speak. "Restlessness." Prinn simply nods, understanding. "Then I hope you find the rest that you seek." Redding puts his thoughts to words as well. "Remember what we spoke about. See you on the other side, kid. Don't do anything...stupid." With that, Prinn leads Redding, his prisoner, out from the creek. You have no doubt that the scouts are following in the trees overhead. You stand alone. No allies or nation to run back to, alone in a New World far from your beginnings. They say the New World is many times larger than the Old. An entire world lies before you ready to be discovered. Tamed. The cards have revealed destiny for each player. Prinn rose from a schoolboy to a scoutleader. Redding, ever the idealist, finally caught up with--and not seeming surprised or scared to face the music. Perhaps that was his plan all along. One man's death can have more impact than another's life. For the third time you scan the creek, marred by your presence. Forever stained with the blood you spilled. Smooth stones with moss. Running water, once clear. Bodies strewn exactly where you ended the Blackbird warriors. Off in the distance, a bird chirps, filling in small gaps of silence between the creek and wind, softly whispering at your neck. For the third time you scan the creek; in this case, it's the last. > Epilogue: The Martyr Nighttime falls. Rather than magelight, traditional flame torches line the interior of the fort, sending shadows dancing in the wind. The Alterans, in occupation of their rival's fort, have cause to celebrate tonight: the capture of a turncoat; the execution of a traitor. In a matter of minutes, Redding's lifeless body will hang from the ramparts. Such is the punishment for betrayal. Once again you find yourself in a place you thought you'd never revisit, and like the creek, you have a feeling it will be your last. It wasn't hard to catch an Alteran patrol unaware. Standard protocol doesn't leave much room for deviation. No, you knew exactly where the four soldiers would be patrolling and exactly the distance around the keep. By the time their bodies are found, you'll be long gone. Keeping pace with your environment, you're dressed in Alteran blue, a generous gift from one of the patrolling soldiers. It's a little tight around the shoulders, but hey, free is free. They've gathered you, the majority of the Alteran occupation, in the center of the fort facing the ramparts. Alterans like their speeches, after all. Rows and rows of blue stand perfectly at attention, patiently waiting for the three men on the ramparts to begin the festivities, Captain Briggs, Lionel, and a third that you don't recognize. At their feet sits the object that's brought you here. It sits a coiled snake, a predator lying in wait. The noose. You have a hood pulled, covering the top half of your face. Not that you expect to run into someone that you know, but better safe than sorry. It's for their sake. Any recognition of Redding's "sidekick" would likely be swiftly met with an introduction to your own "sidekick" sitting on your hip, a black, wing-tipped artifact craving more action. You don't have to wait long. This is the military. Schedules are followed. Maintained. Gather the battalion an hour after dusk. A quarter-hour later, hang a man until dead. Back in the bunk by nightfall. (Any chance you'll be needing me?) A chance, yes. You feel the equivalent of a mental sigh. The artifact may be a weapon of immense power, but often the voice appears as an immature child, even more concerning considering what could happen if it decided to act out like immature children tend to do. Movement on the ramparts. Captain Briggs raises a hand to silence the soldiers, who aren't even speaking amongst themselves. "By the High King's guidance, we have arrived across the sea to the New World, a vast, primal place that seeks to claim our lives. The land itself is in direct opposition to our homeland. It's uncivilized. Its natives, the Blackbirds, are without discipline and order. They are cannibals. Pagans. And as the land will be made New Alteran, so too shall the natives become Alteran...or perish." The soldiers offer a cheer. They know when one's expected. You do not, however. Another hand raise. "Yet, there is one among us who would throw away the High King's good grace. A traitor. One that would trade his navy for crimson, the color of the High King's greatest rival. (There's visible disgust at this. More than a few spit on the ground.) His company was put in chains, herded around like animals. That's not how a soldier of Alteran should be treated! Enter, traitor. Enter, betrayer. Enter, Redding." Captain Briggs spits Redding's name worse than when he mentioned the Supreme Leader Fargrave. You suppose turncoats beat rivals when it comes to levels of disgust. Checks out. The formation of soldiers part like running water in a creek, moving around smooth stones. Rather than a moss-covered piece of earth, they make room for a man clad in chains, a pair at both his ankles and wrists. The man doesn't look disheartened in the least to be arriving at his execution. If anything, he looks pleased, a signature grin at the corner of his lips. You're not in a town square filled with citizens who would scream curses and throw rotten fruit. You're at a military camp of the World's most disciplined army (although the Supreme Leader would disagree); the soldiers are stoic, causing a somber tone to fall over the men. It's eerie, a thousand men silent, save for the shuffling of feet and clinking of chains. A man is to be put to death. A man who once stood in their place. Perhaps they are imagining themselves in Redding's boots. After what seems like an eternity, Redding and his escorts travel the switch-back staircase and arrive at the top of the ramparts. From your position--in the middle of the formation--you can hardly see the features of those standing on the ramparts. Redding, you know, likely holds the same grin. There's a good chance Briggs does as well; it's a great honor to end the insurgence of the soldiers under your command. No doubt word will get back to Alteran of the great and legendary Captain Briggs, conquering the New World under the High King's name, putting a traitorous soldier to death as an example to all who would follow in their footsteps. Five now stand, overlooking the Alteran battalion. You watch from the center of the formation. Captain Briggs takes a step forward, stares Redding in the eyes, as if determining what to do with the man. Theatrics, of course. He knows damn well what he plans to do. But this is a show for the battalion. A show of dominance. An example to all. He slaps Redding in the face. It couldn't have been that hard. Slaps are more damaging to the ego than anything else, but the sound rings over the silent crowd in the pitch of an overboard sailor landing flat against the waves of the sea. You can't hear the words, but it appears Redding fired back with a few choice words. They must have been good ones, from Redding they typically are, as Briggs seems to be affected with the next portion of his speech. Part of theatrics is going off-script. It works well when done effectively. However, when emotion is the cause, it falls flat. "This...this...traitor," Briggs spits again, "is to be hung until the breath in his betraying lungs fails. The High King will always triumph against those who would seek to tarnish his good name." You can't help but notice the lack of enthusiasm from the soldiers. Typically, whenever the good High King's name is mentioned, there are visible agreements, at the very least murmurings of affirmation. There's no such accompaniment. "He will be an example to ALL. The High King's gaze is vast. He sees all--even the whispers of treason. You, turncoat, any last words?" Redding takes a step forward. His toes must be hanging over the rampart's edge. "Yes, a few. More than a few, actually, but I'll keep it brief. I know you have a date with your sword arm tonight." Only Redding would crack a joke like that during his execution. (Kinda wishing I bonded to him now. The man's anything but a bore.) No you don't. Otherwise you'd be resting on Briggs' hip. (...fair point.) "They call me a traitor. They charge me with treason," Redding continues, then pauses for effect. "And they're right." There wasn't a reaction to the High King's mentioning, but there sure as hell is now. Low murmurs start between the soldiers, perhaps thinking Redding was originally falsely accused. Here it is, though, confessing to his crimes. Redding's voice suddenly cracks with thunder, quaking the very ground beneath their boots. A chine runs down your spine. Silence. "Let the High King govern Alteran. Let him sit and gain weight, fat on his throne. Alteran boasts the best tailors in the world. Surely they can hem his royalty's robes a few inches out." You hear one or two snickers. No one would willingly disrespect the High King, although laughter is hard to contain, especially during inappropriate moments. "What right does he have to dictate our lives in the New World? What does he contribute besides helping ease ourselves of the burden of wealth?" Behind Redding, Captain Briggs motions to Lionel. Your former company member reaches for the noose and examines it before slipping it over Redding's head. The former corporal doesn't seem to notice. "Tell me, have any of you actually seen the High King? Have any of you actually felt his good will? It's a lie! It's the whip upon your back, the hand in your coin purse. Your lives are not your own. You're simply a piece in the machine; the only value placed on your lives is dependent upon how well you perform your part. I've taken a step back. I've removed myself from the machine entirely. I'm truly free. The High King doesn't control my life." Someone shouts from the crowd. "Bold words, a man claims to be free while shackled awaiting execution." You can almost feel the grin widening to a full-toothed smile. Redding set the trap perfectly. He raises his arms up, and the soldiers can't help but audibly gasp. It's as if they've become spectators in a wizard's light show. The shackles around Redding's wrists fall from their place, tumbling down the rampart's staircase in a loud crash--or crashes; you count six in total, a number that you've recently become accustomed to counting. "I am bound by no man. By no idea. I answer only to myself. As should you all. A New World lies at your fingertips and yet you're content to stay shackled. You're but oxen doing the bidding of the farmer, docile cattle, with no mind of their own. The World is yours to discover!" Briggs and the others rush to reclasp the chains around Redding's wrists. He doesn't pay them any regard, just continues speaking, words increasingly becoming heard among the battalion. "I choose my own path. I choose this. I choose to serve as an example, yes--Briggs is right. I face my death as a free man, bound by no unseen leader, free from simply playing a part in a collective machine. No man commands my life but my own. No man commands my death but my own. Freedom is yours for the taking. You've got a short amount of years left. Take it." With that, Redding scans the crowd. Somehow, some way, standing within a thousand soldiers his eyes seem to meet yours. It's as if he sensed your presence, knew that you would follow him to the death. His death. See you on the other side, kid. Redding leaps from the ramparts. Time slows in that moment, his arms outstretched in the air, Briggs and the others unable to completely lock the chains around his wrists. Your eyes, like every single pair in the battalion, grow wide, unable to believe what they are seeing. A man free. A man who has the ability to escape from his shackles--and likely his holding cell--willingly throwing himself to death. The man is choosing to die in the exact way he chose to live: on his own terms. A sickening crack echoes over the battalion as Redding's neck snaps on impact, shortly followed by the steady creak of rope, like a ship settling in at sea. Redding's body lifelessly sways back and forth, the momentum from his jump still carrying his body in movement, like the way a street performer would sway a pocket watch, attempting to hypnotize a volunteer from the crowd. In a way, it's exactly that. Hypnotizing. The words of power already have been spoken to the crowd. Now it's up to them to act. And they do. Chaos ensues. Not six seconds later, and you're counting, the battalion bursts into motion. Soldier against commander. Soldier against soldier. A thousand soldiers split into two different categories in an instant, those who would be free and those clinging to the ways of the Old. Steel is drawn against former allies. Flintlocks are fired. The roar is unlike anything you've ever heard. It's as if standing underneath a rushing waterfall. It's louder than any battlefield you've fought on, louder than a battering ram punching through a main gate. You take part to the artifact's great joy. (Finally, finally, finally. I told you that man isn't--wasn't--boring!) With the surrender of one man's life, he's gained the hearts of hundreds of soldiers to his cause. Redding's body hangs overhead like a religious symbol, and the initiating rites are taking place in the battalion. The artifact becomes a blade in your hand as you don't have enough time to wait for the reload. Here and there, however, the six-shooter appears to ring quick death before transitioning back to a longsword in small thunderclouds. A few recognize you. It appears on their face in two parts: paralyzing remembrance, then heightened fury. You put them down just the same. The ways of the Old World are dying, and you expedite the process with each swing of your sword, each shot fired. Redding must have planned this all along, you think mid-swing. That's why he was content to be taken prisoner--it afforded him the platform to send his message to the entire battalion. Say what you will about the man, there's something commendable about possessing an ideology that surpasses death. Most men spend their lives avoiding the end; the rare few focus on their mission, placing more emphasis on accomplishing it than avoiding death. Redding used his own death as a tool. The man was right. He's not bound by anything, even ending his own life. You parry a longsword aside and lunge forward, allowing the black blade to taste Alteran blood. Two more stand in your fallen opponent's place. You don't wait for them to attack. You meet their sudden appearance with a fury fueled by your mentor's death, losing yourself to the flow of battle. Thoughts are distant. You know only the next breath, the next swing of your sword. Clarity. Your mind becomes its own, guiding your body; you're but a passenger on the journey of destruction. Yesterday, it was two men with an idea to transform an entire New World. Today, you're hundreds, yet even more lie in opposition. WIth the artifact in-hand, the black weapon that will most assuredly draw another war party attack, you cut through the ranks of those holding to the Old ways. You'll be prepared for their next attack. If they can track the artifact, perhaps the artifact can track the Blackbirds...Redding's message will transcend nation and borderlines. There are bound to be more in Magda's tattered garrison that would join the cause, and more are no doubt on their way, voyaging from the Old World. Yesterday, two. Today, hundreds. Tomorrow, thousands.

[Themes: fantasy, humor, war, action] You travel the way you came. Back through the hall, stepping over the dead, keeping a steady eye on the fallen to make sure they don't rise again. Once is enough for you. In the small religious room, you place the ravenlight torch back on the hook where you found it. How polite. How civilized. Two steps into the tunnel, you undo the good deed, needing the light to guide you back to the ladder. There's no sense in wasting another match or two. Corporal Redding volunteers to take the ladder first, which you take no argument with. You slump down, back against the tunnel wall, and pause a moment while he climbs up. It's hard to formulate thoughts on what you just experienced. Necromancy is not unheard of. It's rare, sure, but it's not something of myth or fable. It's just what you weren't expecting from the natives. The stories in Alteran made them out to be large beasts without the knowledge or intellect for such magic. That's two occasions now, counting the voyage landing. Mentally you agree to block out such stories going forward. They can only result in underestimating your enemy, something many dead men are guilty of. Mid-thought the rope ladder suddenly sways back and forth. You shelve your thoughts for another time. Now you need to focus on climbing. It's not a difficult task, but you'd rather remain in the present moment to prevent a fall resulting in broken bones, or worse. Just as you came down, you intentionally go slowly to preserve strength and endurance. After several minutes, you reach the top. An outstretched palm greets you at the top, thrust through the square amount of sunlight shining through the open trap door. Palm meeting palm, you allow Corporal Redding to pull you up. Only it's not Corporal Redding. You arrive face-to-face with a soldier of Magda. Magda, the territory at the High King's heel. In contrast to the long blue overcoat of the Alteran soldier, the soldiers of Magda wear deep crimson tunics, tucked into their pants to allow for their steel breastplates to shine magnificently. You see, their hearts belong to Supreme Leader Fargrave (spit), and they will make sure their leader's property is well defended. To that effect, each wears a small hand buckler at their waist to pair with a broadsword resting on the opposite hip. This man in particular has sharp features, thin nose, a thin chin seemingly trying to stretch away from his face. His brown hair is slicked back and tied at the base of his neck. In reaction to seeing your country's rival, you allow your other hand to greet the man in return, although yours is in the form of a fist to his jaw. The man crumples to the ground. It's then that you see the rest of the company bound by rope, more soldiers standing guard nearby. Bastus appears to enjoy your shot, despite the cloth gag tied at his mouth, the approval written in his eyes. Good. At least they're still alive. Can the same be said for... Corporal Redding. He's engaged in discussion with the Madga superior officer, showing off the artifact. Since you know the man, you can tell he's doing his best not to hand over the artifact, subtly gesturing with the dagger as if it were in the hands of the officer. Then again, can you really claim that you know the man? First, the deception with the company. Second, the apparent friendliness towards the soldiers of Magda. Hopefully that's it. A betting man might toss money towards a third. You briefly entertain the idea of drawing your flintlock and firing upon the soldiers. As quickly as the thought appears, it vanishes. You know how that story ends. Two, maybe three soldiers would go down with you. Now's not the time or place for such heroics. Besides, after the left hook, the soldiers seem to rest their hands a little closer to the hilt of their broadswords. Plus, the High King never gave permission. A punch is excusable. Even a duel with swords is. But outright killing? No, that's against the rules of civilized war, especially when the Alteran leader hasn't declared it in the first place. When struggles happen between Alteran and Magda in the Old World, the import and export of POWs become their main business, minus the factories creating weapons of war, of course. The soldier you hit rises from the ground, anger visible on his face, one that is turning a crimson to match his tunic. His arm cocks back to return fire. His emotions cause him to wind up, something that all hand-to-hand combat instructors warn against. It's the easiest punch in the world to dodge, brought upon by untempered emotion and the desire to knock an opponent the fuck out. Such techniques, if you can call it that, are only effective when set up with another strike or with your opponent stunned, dazed, or bound. Two sturdy hands grab for each of your arms simultaneously, reminding you, again, of a childhood memory, pinning them against your body, soldiers unseen from behind you. You manage to twist your head to soften the blow, but it still hits, glancing off your cheek. If the man wasn't angry before, he sure as hell is now, clearly noticing your ability to slip from the solid punch. He winds up again, another slow telegraph, but it's not like you're going anywhere. "That's enough!" The man speaking to Corporal Redding silences the skirmish with two words. Instantly, the soldiers release your arms, the one in front of you bringing both hands to his sides, although you notice his fists are still clenched. The apparent leader of the Magda soldiers walks forward. He's a large man, but not overly so, possessing natural strength while, perhaps, not displaying the physique in a cut manner. In contrast to Redding's scraggly beard, the man has his trimmed short and neat, matching the way his black hair is styled. "These are our guests, Benjamin. Our allies." Benjamin, the soldier you hit protests. "But he struck first!" "Merely startled him is all," Corporal Redding interjects, much to the obvious disapproval of the leader. "The fault lies with me for not warning him ahead of time." "Is that so?" Corporal Redding now has the scrutiny of the soldiers' commanding officer, not an unusual thing by any means. What is unusual is that it's from a Fargrave loyalist. "You didn't share the plan with your most trusted soldier? What if he pulled a sidearm? What if he killed one of my men?" "One question at a time. Please, Alexander," Redding answers. "Obviously because it's my 'most trusted soldier,' I knew what his reaction would be." "He hit me," Benjamin retorts. "Did you know that would happen?" "Well?" Alexander, the leader, comes to the aid of his man. "It was a coin toss," Redding says. "And to be fair, I knew you'd hit him back, probably worse than you received. Seems I was right about that." Alexander simply shakes his head. "Redding you old bastard. You're still the same unconventional mastermind after all these years." All these years? Those two knew each other before? They must. The turning of one's coat doesn't come easily, at least not for a man like Redding who you've known for years. He's never been one for material wealth. No, he considers experience far above possessions and a heavy coin purse. Suddenly, you realize why he's taken such an interest in you over the years. It hits you like a crossbow bolt to the chest, an unexpected appearance of a lover, the news of a close friend's death. He must know your past. A family line born of Magda. That's the only explanation. Still, you resolve not to disclose damning information that isn't expressed explicitly. As soon as Alexander bargains with Frontrunner's Camp, you'll be back home, or at least the New World equivalent. Best not to whisper anything that will punch your ticket to the gallows. While POWs are easily returned back to their country, spies are hung by the neck. Battling to death in the field of battle is honorable; lying to one's neighbor and selling country secrets is much the opposite. The fact that the company is alive and witnessing everything, doesn't speak well for you--even if you might have been at odds with Benjamin. They'll be returned, spread the story of Redding and his prodigy's betrayal, and a picture of your face will be posted at every tavern, bar, and inn with the amount of money your life is deemed worth. "Now that's settled," Alexander continues, gesturing towards the Alteran company. "Form up. Ensure those ropes are tight. The garrison is stationed only a few miles from here. But still, I'd like to have a nice and peaceful march there. Can you do that for me, men?" The soldiers of Magda shout their agreement along with a salute. Despite your small scuffle, they don't tie you up. They don't take your weapons from you. Whatever arrangement Redding made must have included you as one of their turncoats, or spies, or whatever--it doesn't really matter. Compliance with Magda will result in Alteran marking you for death, and you're not exactly in the best position to refuse. Still, you're armed, and the element of surprise can turn the tide, especially if you can free the rest of the company. > Rescue attempt The soldiers form up. You count 17 of them, including Alexander. That leaves 16 under his command, a few more bodies than the typical Alteran company. They do strange things in Magda. Of course that means there are too many to fight on your own. Your first objective is to free the men. With numbers evened out, along with the chaos that your surprise will bring, the odds are fairly good. The act isn't to save the lives of the men; they'll be returned safely. The act is to save your own life within Alteran. Redding be damned. He's already made his choice. The hell you won't make your own. Four rows of four line up, the bound Alteran soldiers sent to the middle to be closely guarded. That leaves eight in front, and eight behind if you exclude Alexander and Redding from the equation. A plan begins to form in your mind. With the company free, tearing through eight surprised soldiers of Magda will be no problem. You've seen how deadly the company can be. Introduce a little urgency from prisoner's bonds, and they'll fight like crazed animals to be free. They may have questions in your involvement, but once the action begins their training and instinct should take over. They put you next to Corporal Redding, perhaps so he can keep an eye on you. You suppose it's just Redding now, or whichever rank he holds in Magda. You've never heard of a spy holding such a low rank as corporal. Typically, they're above even that of a captain's rank. Another realization hits you. If Redding was posing as a lowly corporal, then of course success followed the man since he's operating at a level far below his station. Hopefully that's the last one for the day. Truthfully, you're damn tired of discovering truths that long hid themselves as lies within your life. You use the overgrowth of the forest as your ally. As the group travels through an especially thick section, you act, suddenly turning on the soldiers marching behind you. The first one's breastplate makes a perfect kicking target. You push the sole of your foot out, stamping it onto the breastplate, leaving behind a dirty imprint of your boot. Unprepared for the assault, he staggers back into the waiting arms of Bastus. Then the swarm begins. The bound company use their tied wrists as clubs, some reaching for the man's broadsword. With the broadsword in hand, one-by-one, each removes themselves of their bonds. You pull your flintlock, press the hammer back, and fill the jungle air with gunpowder smoke. The shot blasts through a Magda soldier's face, and he drops to the dirt like a board, his legs stiff. You toss his broadsword to the company. There's no going back now; blood has been spilled. You repeat the process with another nearby soldier. Alteran flintlock, standard issue. Double barreled. "Redding, you daft fool. Control your man!" Alexander shouts from the front of the group. Through the chaos, you barely hear Redding's response. "Been trying for years. The kid's a wildfire." Probably not the one Alexander was looking for. A scream from the company. One has fallen. You cut your way towards them, then a soldier of Magda blocks you off. Benjamin. He looks pleased to see you, no doubt approving of your decision to fight. It's written all over his face. He'll put you down, and they'll probably slap a goddamn medal on his chest for doing so. There are harsh consequences for breaking the civility of war. Benjamin stands in front of you, broadsword and hand buckler gleaming from the small amount of light that made it through the canopy. It might as well be a cloudless sunny day for you after traveling through the underbelly of the ruins and the darkness within. The sight advantage, yours. The superior numbers, weapons, and armor, his. The inside of your mouth suddenly feels rather dry. > Longsword They outnumber you, and the flintlock only holds two bullets at a time. You're pretty quick at reloading, quicker than most soldiers you've served alongside, but no one's that fast. It's loaded, ready to spark death, but you leave it in your holster. Should you find yourself in an...unfortunate position, it'll be ready to come to your aid. Until then, it'll be your little secret. You carry it on your back. It runs from right shoulder to left hip. Your right hand reaches back and finds the hilt of your longsword. With a sound that you've heard many times, the sound of imminent struggle, the sound that warns your arms for the upcoming beating that's about to occur, you draw the blade. It can be wielded with one or both hands. You opt for both. You take the offensive, knowing that you can't afford to engage with a single man longer than necessary. The trick to fighting outnumbered is to strike hard and fast. Take down each as soon as possible before being overwhelmed. It requires aggression. It requires the ferocity of a caged animal. You swing low, then prod the blade forward looking for holes in Benjamin's defenses. He raises the hand buckler expertly, deflecting each swing of your sword. You engage again, running through a series of feints and thrusts. Again, he merely blocks your advance, not even attempting to counter. A smile begins to spread on the man's face. You realize why. Superior armor and numbers, not to mention swords, Benjamin is taking the patient route towards your death. He does not need to out-duel you with the clashing of blades; he merely needs to keep you busy until the others can run you through. Realization urges you to a greater level of focus, feeling very much like the aforementioned caged animal. You switch from quick prods and thrusts to full-blown swings and life-ending attempts, knowing that you must drop the man in front of you soon. Each successful defense grows the smile on Benjamin's face. You're both thinking the same thing. The end is near. It causes you to slash with the longsword, perhaps a bit more recklessly than your disciplined training would have liked. However, it's now or never. Like your training warned against, such "technique," if you can call it that, are telegraphed, easy to see coming and defend against. They also, often, bring the user off-balance by putting too much of their body into one powerful swing, as is the case here. Your slash precedes your footwork, leaving behind its sturdy foundation in the dust. Benjamin takes full advantage, attacking for the first time, drawing blood. Pain appears at your side as you fall to one knee, clutching at the broadsword-sized hole just below your left ribs. "Hit me first and I'll hit back, worse," Benjamin says, alluding to your punch from earlier, echoing Redding's words. He doesn't give you the chance for a retort. His sword arm raises overhead. You close your eyes and think of home.

[Themes: fantasy, humor, fantasy, action] The soldiers form up. You count 17 of them, including Alexander. That leaves 16 under his command, a few more bodies than the typical Alteran company. They do strange things in Magda. Of course that means there are too many to fight on your own. Your first objective is to free the men. With numbers evened out, along with the chaos that your surprise will bring, the odds are fairly good. The act isn't to save the lives of the men; they'll be returned safely. The act is to save your own life within Alteran. Redding be damned. He's already made his choice. The hell you won't make your own. Four rows of four line up, the bound Alteran soldiers sent to the middle to be closely guarded. That leaves eight in front, and eight behind if you exclude Alexander and Redding from the equation. A plan begins to form in your mind. With the company free, tearing through eight surprised soldiers of Magda will be no problem. You've seen how deadly the company can be. Introduce a little urgency from prisoner's bonds, and they'll fight like crazed animals to be free. They may have questions in your involvement, but once the action begins their training and instinct should take over. They put you next to Corporal Redding, perhaps so he can keep an eye on you. You suppose it's just Redding now, or whichever rank he holds in Magda. You've never heard of a spy holding such a low rank as corporal. Typically, they're above even that of a captain's rank. Another realization hits you. If Redding was posing as a lowly corporal, then of course success followed the man since he's operating at a level far below his station. Hopefully that's the last one for the day. Truthfully, you're damn tired of discovering truths that long hid themselves as lies within your life. You use the overgrowth of the forest as your ally. As the group travels through an especially thick section, you act, suddenly turning on the soldiers marching behind you. The first one's breastplate makes a perfect kicking target. You push the sole of your foot out, stamping it onto the breastplate, leaving behind a dirty imprint of your boot. Unprepared for the assault, he staggers back into the waiting arms of Bastus. Then the swarm begins. The bound company use their tied wrists as clubs, some reaching for the man's broadsword. With the broadsword in hand, one-by-one, each removes themselves of their bonds. You pull your flintlock, press the hammer back, and fill the jungle air with gunpowder smoke. The shot blasts through a Magda soldier's face, and he drops to the dirt like a board, his legs stiff. You toss his broadsword to the company. There's no going back now; blood has been spilled. You repeat the process with another nearby soldier. Alteran flintlock, standard issue. Double barreled. "Redding, you daft fool. Control your man!" Alexander shouts from the front of the group. Through the chaos, you barely hear Redding's response. "Been trying for years. The kid's a wildfire." Probably not the one Alexander was looking for. A scream from the company. One has fallen. You cut your way towards them, then a soldier of Magda blocks you off. Benjamin. He looks pleased to see you, no doubt approving of your decision to fight. It's written all over his face. He'll put you down, and they'll probably slap a goddamn medal on his chest for doing so. There are harsh consequences for breaking the civility of war. Benjamin stands in front of you, broadsword and hand buckler gleaming from the small amount of light that made it through the canopy. It might as well be a cloudless sunny day for you after traveling through the underbelly of the ruins and the darkness within. The sight advantage, yours. The superior numbers, weapons, and armor, his. The inside of your mouth suddenly feels rather dry. > Flintlock Alteran flintlock, standard issue. Double barrelled. It's gotten you out of trouble more times than you can count. It dropped the Blackbird lich not hours before. Once again you call upon the weapon. Two shots already fired, you need to reload quickly. Reloading the weapon during combat is no easy thing. It requires focus. It requires steady hands. Fortunately, the Alteran version of the weapon helps in that regard. Rather than stuffing bullets down the barrel, your finger finds a switch to the outside of the weapon, in-between the trigger and safety. The flintlock hinges open, the barrel angling down towards the dirt, revealing the open chamber. You pop two bullets in, taken from the ammunition at your belt, and snap the weapon closed with a jerk of your hand upwards. A feeding mechanism within the gun automatically refreshes the gunpowder needed, considering the compartment holds ample volume. The days of an infantryman carrying loose gunpowder are long in the past. Your eyes draw to the man's forehead. It becomes your entire focus. The target. Nothing else matters. The flintlock is raised to firing position, your arm conditioned to hold the weight of the weapon from countless hours of use. Your pointer finger on the trigger is patient. It's been disciplined over the years, at first wanting to pull instantly. No, you make it wait for the perfect moment. You slow your exhale, eyes on the target, the space between Benjamin's two eyes, and fire. Expecting a hole to appear through his head, you're surprised when, instead, a gleaming hand buckler blocks your vision of the target--and the bullet itself. Frustrated as the set up was perfect, you cock back the hammer. One bullet left in the chamber, not enough time to reload again. Benjamin advances, a predator heavily defended and armed with his broadsword. In a few steps he'll be upon you. The next bullet must land. His vitals protected, you do the only thing you can. Your vision lowers. So, too, does the flintlock. You put a bullet through his thigh. With a scream, he collapses to one knee. You take the opportunity to step around him, as your main goal is to reunite with the company, now freed. Sharp pain ignites throughout your body. Somehow Benjamin managed to lunge several feet, wounded, and strike back. His arm is extended out, the length of his broadsword traveling the rest of the distance between you, the point piercing your lower back. The pain freezes you for a moment, and a rush of clarity soon follows the pain. The other soldiers of Magda are closing in around you. "Hit me first and I'll hit back, worse." Benjamin utters Redding's words before strength leaves his arm. He slumps down clutching his wounded leg. The others close in. There's not enough time to reload.

[Themes: fantasy, action, humor, war] It takes two more uneventful days until they appear. The time spent in the forest is just enough to where you feel yourself growing accustomed to the overgrowth, knowing which vines can be swept out of the way, which ones are more trouble than worth to cut. You even feel as if your eyes can see better in the constant dim light, although part of that is due to your mind's recognition of your surroundings, not needing to focus on single things to identify. Just a glance is enough. Still, you've kept quiet about the Blackbird woman. The encounter sits within your thoughts, a new mind tenant who's taken up permanent residence. If there was a time to bring it up, it was two days ago. You still think it was better not to share. The mission is the ruins. If you're being totally honest, your masculine bravado has a small sliver to do with it as well. The damsel in distress, the princess needing rescuing, the beautiful native: the story trope doesn't escape you. When the situation arrives in reality, there's something captivating, enchanting. They're stories told from the beginning of time, read to sleeping children. To face it in real life thrusts the mundane into fable. The ruins themselves are built within the overgrowth, a part of the forest, their foundation as deep as any root. Dark stone, almost pure black, blends in the fallen structures to the low-lit environment. In their former glory, the ruins would no doubt be built in square stones stacked upon one another, creating sharp corners and a sturdy defense. Now, however, they are crumbling, decaying in the forest. Vines, trees, and overgrowth use the deteriorating walls for support, growing, twisting and climbing up the dark stone. There appears to be four, maybe five, main structures--it's hard to exactly tell in their fallen state. "This is it?" Bastus breaks the silence, ever the one charging forward. "We've marched here for a whole lotta nothing." "Hush yourself," Redding whispers. "We don't know if any natives are in the area, taking shelter within." "Where would they be taking shelter? The trees offer more cover," is the big man's retort. Corporal Redding doesn't address the question. He doesn't give it validation. "We'll break into two quads. Sweep the perimeter, opposite directions. Observation only. Engage only if engaged upon. Meet on the far side and wait for my command." "That only accounts for eight men," you aptly point out. Just the right time to open your mouth. "Thank you, Mr. Mathematician," Redding answers. "You'll stay put with me. We'll scan the ruins. If the quads cause movement from within, we'll relay a warning to the others. One for each quad. Any questions?" The men only shake their heads and organize themselves into two groups of four. Lionel leads one and Bastus the other. Crouched, weapons drawn, the men creep off in their respective directions, each quad covering half of the perimeter. You take cover behind a fallen tree overlooking the ruins and wait. You do not draw your weapons, but check your holster and sheath, ensuring they will not stick. A few minutes of silence passes. You do not break it. Neither does Redding. The corporal suddenly digs inside his pocket and reveals two thin cigars. They are a deep brown, like the color of a well-brewed mug of liquid chocolate. "You really can't expect us to light those up now," you whisper, eyes turned back to the ruins. "Are you disobeying orders, soldier?" "No." He places one in your hand. "I'm told these are rolled with native leaves," Redding explains. "The Blackbirds supposedly smoke the leaves through long pipes, often staying lit for hours." "And?" you can't help but question. "And it's a familiar smell. It's a friendly smell. Who knows what sort of strange scent we give off. Have you ever wandered into a field with unfamiliar smells? It draws the senses." You see where Redding is going. "I wouldn't say I often journey through unexplored flower fields, but I get your point." He hands you a match next, which you quickly light on the side of your boot, finding a small section that's uncovered with dirt. A puff of smoke fills the air. Redding places the end of his cigar against yours, inhaling and lighting it without wasting a second match. The flavor is new to you. A freshness accompanies, like the bite of an apple plucked directly from the tree, a cold gulp of water taken from a spring. Then relaxation ensues, a sudden calm rushing through your body quicker than any crashing wave, its subsiding like the tide returning to the ocean. Another puff. Another rush. "I have known you for how long now?" Redding asks. A strange question for the moment. "Nearly four years, give or take a few months," you answer. "And have I ever given you reason to doubt my judgment?" "Yes. But not for my own well-being." The answer brings a grin to the corporal's lips, one that is rarely absent. "Wise choice of words. You are not afraid to speak your mind, and yet you follow orders. Both must be present in a good soldier. Without questioning, a soldier is but a body armed. Without following, he is undependable. You are both armed and dependable. It's sad to say, but that is not the same for the company. Bastus is the former, Lionel is the latter. You are both parts combined." "Sir, I appreciate the compliment, but this is hardly the time and place for such reminiscence." "It is exactly the time for such a thing. I will ask something of you now, and you must speak your mind and follow orders." You do not speak. Corporal Redding continues. "I am going into the ruins, and I need you to follow. I have been less than truthful with the others. Our patrol is simply a cover for another, more important assignment. I need a man I can trust, one that will speak his mind and follow orders. Are you that man?" With a puff of smoke, you say, "You know that I am." > You follow orders Corporal Redding looks at you expectantly. He takes a deep inhale from the cigar, the exhale seemingly lasting longer. "Well?" he says. "What do you have for me?" You mimic the action. "Nothing worth the moment. I'm ready." Redding's eyes narrow. "Really, now. You're willing to charge in without further questions?" You shrug. "Four years, give or take a few months. Enough has been answered in that time." "Interesting way to view things," Corporal Redding muses, one hand absent-mindedly scratching at his beard. "But I cannot use you, then. I told you what I needed. You're to stay put here." Anger suddenly sweeps through your body. You feel your face get hot as if sleeping too close to a campfire. The anger is built from the feeling of being wronged, like a man adamantly speaking the truth and yet a mob believes him to be a liar. Still, you manage to keep your voice down. Somehow. "That's it? After all this time, after what you just shared, you're going to leave me behind? I've passed your test--you know it--and yet, you change the answers." "Keep your voice down," Redding speaks in a hushed whisper. Perhaps your voice wasn't as down as you thought it was. "Yes, that's it. Four years, give or take a few months...it was a hell of a ride. You're ordered to stay here. Will you obey command, soldier?" You nod. It's all you can do. You fear opening your mouth will result in another outburst. "Good." Redding's face is absent of his normal grin. The small sign of mischief, of amusement is gone. In its place a blank look appears, one that you've never seen on the man. It's the face of a soulless sculpture, the face of a man dying in his sleep. It's then that you realize the test didn't change: it just wasn't over. You can't help but feel you've disappointed the man. He clearly was banking on your success. What's done is done. There's no point chastising yourself for it. "Stay put here," Redding says another time. His voice is emotionless. It's the voice children fear lies under their bed. Again, you nod. The anger still burns a heavy weight within your chest. Suddenly a pair of weathered hands wrap around your throat. The surprise causes a brief moment of shock, and for a second you forget your training, kicking your feet out and flailing like a recruit. Redding's hands tighten around your throat, the pressure bringing you to your back. Your head knocks against the fallen tree trunk in the motion, the least of your worry in the current moment. His fingers are like shackles, his pressure constant. As you fell back, you relieved just enough pressure for a sip or two of air. Now, on your back there is no such space to be found. The pressure deepens. A gurgle escapes your mouth then stops, no longer possessing enough air for a simple choking sound. The feeling of drowning assaults your senses, the feeling of being lost underwater without the means of reaching the surface. You try to kick him off. Redding counters. You try to shift your weight for a grasp of air. Redding counters. You try to pry his hands from your throat. Redding counters. "I'm sorry, kid," he whispers as the edges of your vision fade black, taking over entirely at an alarming rate. "It's for the greater good." The last thing you see is Corporal Redding's face, absent of his ever-present grin, eyes lifeless, a state which you soon take. Your journey to the New World ends at the hands of your corporal.

Select the gender for your main character. YOUR HEALTH: 100% > Female Select the first letter in your character's name. YOUR HEALTH: 100%[Themes: mystery / thriller, serious, true story] You are a Private Detective living in Victorian London. Crimes are common and you are frequently called upon to assist the policemen in Scotland Yard. You have been a Detective for a few years now and by combining hard work with intelligence you have had a few successes in uncovering the information that has enabled the Police to arrest wanted criminals. This has earned you a good Reputation but you must be careful not to lose it: if you do Scotland Yard will no longer trust you to help them. One evening you are at home when Commissioner James Monro, an experienced Policeman, visits you. "We would like your help again," he tells you. "A lunatic murderer called James Kelly escaped from Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane ten days ago. My detectives have investigated and found no trace of him. Perhaps if you look into the case you might be able to find something?" What do you do? [Author's Note: "Jack the Ripper is dead / Jack the Ripper is dead / He's lying on his bed / Bleeding through his head / Jack the Ripper is dead" - A Victorian Children's Skipping Rope Song. Death stalks the fog-shrouded streets of London as prostitutes are killed and mutilated in the darkness of the night... As a Private Detective working alongside Scotland Yard you will be faced with the most challenging adversary of your career, a man who's very name has become a byword for terror: Jack the Ripper. Are you smart enough to catch him? BEWARE: This game is 200+ pages long and will take about 30-60 minutes to read through. Do not read if operating heavy machinery, juggling chainsaws or entertaining small children. Author's Note: This story will require some thinking and the reader might want to make notes, though with a bit of cleverness and logic readers should be able to correctly identify the real Ripper. About 95% of the information in this story is historically accurate. Finally as you'd probably guess a story about hunting someone who killed and mutilated prostitutes is not a feel-good family comedy, if you are under 13 I don't recommend that you read this. Certainly do not google "Jack the Ripper victims" if you suffer from nightmares :D] > You search for the escaped killer "I'll see what I can do," you tell Monro who nods. "I'm glad you can help," he tells you. "I'll send a telegram to Dr Orange, the Superintendent at Broadmoor, asking him to meet you tomorrow. He can tell you more about Kelly." The next day you take a train out to the Asylum in the heart of the Berkshire countryside. A servant from the Hospital meets you at the station and takes in a horse and carriage through the sleepy village of Crowthorne and up to the gloomy and looming concrete walls of the Hospital. You are shown directly into Orange's office where the Doctor shakes your hand. He is a middle-aged profession with a no-nonsense manner. "I got Commissioner Monro's telegram and I will be glad to help you in any way I can," he tells you. "We are all rather concerned here: James Kelly was one of our most clever patients and I believe him to be a real danger to the general public, especially women." You nod and consider which questions to ask first. > What is Kelly's criminal history? "Five years ago Kelly stabbed his wife Sarah in the neck with a knife killing her," Dr Orange tells you. "He believed she was a prostitute who had infected him with a sexually transmitted disease. He surrendered at once to policemen and became very remorseful afterwards, claiming he was mad. At the trial he was originally sentenced to be executed but at an appeal he was found mentally unfit and sentenced to life imprisonment at this facility. During his time here Kelly has shown no violent tendencies and in fact displayed no signs of insanity whatsoever. I would say he was one of the cleverest patients we've ever had here." You nod, considering what to ask next. > You say "How did Kelly escape your prison?" "Kelly and another prisoner called George Shatten both play instruments in the Asylum's band," Dr Orange tells you. "On the evening Kelly escaped they went out into the garden where the band meet to practice. When the rest of the band joined them an hour later only Shatten was still there. When we searched him we found two keys that he and Kelly had carved made out of some metal they found in the asylum's garden. Kelly used this to let himself through a gate in the inner wall and afterwards climbed the six-foot high outer wall. He vanished without a trace but guards do report seeing a man called John Merritt near the Hospital during the day yesterday. He is an old friend of Kelly's and visits him occasionally." You nod, considering your next question. > You say "Where do you think Kelly will go now?" "I have no idea," Dr Orange says heavily. "The house he lived in and where he killed his wife Sarah is in Shoreditch, London. He has told me he was born in Liverpool and may still have family there. Two of his old friends, a Mr John Merritt and a Mr Walter Lamb, used to visit him from time to time here at the Asylum. Unfortunately we have no registered addresses for either of them. The only address we have on file is Kelly's former residence in Shoreditch." You nod, considering your next question. > You say "What is Kelly's criminal history?" You are not interested in trying to find Kelly and turn the case down. Two months later two policemen visit your home introducing themselves as Constables Wildey and Dillworth. "A lady called Ada Wilson has been stabbed in her home in Mile End" Dillworth tells you. "She is in hospital in a serious condition but hopefully she'll pull through. My colleague and I have been tasked with finding the assailant and Commissioner Monro recommended we talk to you. Would you be willing to help us?" > Agree to help search for this mysterious knifeman You agree to help the investigation and the Policemen smile. "Thank you sir," Dillworth replies. "The attack took place at Mrs Wilson's residence on Maidman Street. She is currently under the care of Dr Wilson at the Mile End Hospital. The attacker stabbed Mrs Wilson twice in the throat but fortunately the windpipe was not severed. If you tell us where you will go we will accompany you." What do you do? > You go to Maidman Street You travel to Maidman Street where the Constables identify Mrs Wilson's house and you knock on the door. It is opened a crack by a nervous young lady who looks relieved when she sees you are accompanied by two uniformed policemen. Opening the door wider she introduces herself as Miss Bierman. "I live here with Mrs Wilson" she tells you. "Last night I heard her come home with a man but I was upstairs in my bedroom and did not see them. At around midnight I heard the most terrible screams you could imagine! I ran downstairs and as I was coming down the stairs Mrs Wilson shouted to me 'Stop that man for cutting my throat! He has stabbed me!' She collapsed in the hallway and as she did a young man ran to the front door, threw it open and raced outside." "Can you describe this man?" you ask Miss Bierman who nods. "He was young with fair hair and had a light coat," she tells you. "I only caught a glimpse of him, after he left I ran to help Mrs Wilson who was bleeding badly. I don't know what to do now, it is just me and my mother here. What should we do if he comes back?" The policemen reassure her that she is perfectly safe and after thanking her for her help you walk away, considering where to go now. > You go to the Mile End Hospital Traveling to the large Mile End Hospital you find the ward with Ada Wilson on and approach her bed. Mrs Wilson is a young lady with a blood-stained bandage wrapped around her neck, she is very pale but greets you with a hoarse voice. The policemen explain to her who you are and ask her to describe her attack. "I was at home when I heard a knock on the door," she tells you. "When I opened it I saw a man I did not know waiting. He demanded money from me and told me if I didn't give him any I would be dead in a few moments. I refused so he drew a clasp knife from his pocket, stabbed me twice in the throat and ran off. He was about 30 years old, five foot six inches with a sunburned face and a fair mustache. He was wearing a dark coat, light trousers and a hat." Thanking Mrs Wilson you think about what to do next. > You wrap up the investigation You decide you have done all that you can for now, you have a description of the attacker but in a city the size of London there are probably thousands of men who match it. Constables Wildey and Dillworth are disappointed but thank you for your help, promising to keep looking for the man who matches the description of Mrs Wilson's attacker. A few days later Constables Wildey and Dillworth visit your home again. You ask them if they have had any luck looking for their man but they shake their heads. "We've just heard a woman called Annie Millwood has collapsed and died at a workhouse in South Grove," Dillworth tells you. "It seems last month she was stabbed numerous times and had only recently been discharged from a hospital in Whitechapel. If you have time perhaps you could investigate this murder for us?" > Agree to look into it "Mrs Millwood's body has been taken to the mortuary at Baker's Row Infirmary" Wildey informs you when you agree to help. "The Workhouse where she died is the Whitechapel Union Workhouse in Southgrove, apparently she had been living there for ten days prior to her death. You will want to start your search at one of those places. I'm afraid me and Constable Dillworth will not be able to accompany you personally as we have other duties to attend to." > You go to the Bakers Row Infirmary Going to the Baker's Row Infirmary you make inquiries about Mrs Millwood to a nurse at the front desk. "Ah yes, poor woman" the nurse says sadly. "Dr Wheeler treated her when she was first stabbed and Dr Arthur has just finished conducting the autopsy on her body. You will want to talk to one of those gentlemen." > You ask for Dr Arthur You are directed to Dr Arthur's office to find the Doctor is a grey-haired professional. Identifying yourself you ask him if he conducted the autopsy on Mrs Millwood. "I did," he replies heavily. "Mrs Millwood died from a sudden effusion into the pericardium from the rupture of the left pulmonary artery through ulceration." "Pardon?" you ask, completely baffled, and Dr Arthur smiles. "Natural causes sir. Mrs Millwood died from natural causes unrelated to her previous knife wounds." It seems there has been no murder at all so you return home and that evening inform Constables Dillworth and Worthey that Annie Millwood died from natural causes. They thank you for your good detective work, increasing your reputation with the police. 1 has been added to your Reputation Points. Again after just a few days Constables Dillworth and Worthey return to visit you, looking concerned. "There has been another attack," Dillworth tells you. "A prostitute called Emma Smith is at the London Hospital in Whitechapel with what I'm told are horrific injuries. It does not seem likely that she will survive. Unfortunately my partner and I are unable to attend to this case ourselves as we are involved with another investigation, could you look into this for us?" > Agree to help them "It seems that Miss Smith was attacked on the corner of Brick Lane last night at around 4am," Constable Worthey tells you after you agree to help. "She managed to walk back to her lodgings on George Street in Spitalfields where two ladies helped her to the Whitechapel Hospital. She's there now in a serious condition. You will probably want to start your investigation in one of these three places." > You go to the crime scene on Brick Lane You make your way to Brick Lane which is a busy street in the heart of London's East End. You make your way to the corner where the attack hapenned but there is nothing to be seen in the light of day, not even any blood on the ground. After examining the area where Emma Smith was attacked and not finding any trace of evidence you consider your next move. > You go to Miss Smiths house in Spitalfields You travel to George Street in Spitalfields and knock on the door of Miss Smith's house. It is opened by a pale-faced lady who watches you carefully as you identify yourself as a Private Detective. "I'm Mary Russell, I'm the Landlady of this lodging house" she tells you. "I've known poor Emma for about two years and helped her when she came home this morning. It was me and Emma's friend Margaret who took Emma to the Hospital and I've never seen so much blood in all my life..." > You question Mrs Russell about the attack You ask Mrs Russell to describe Emma's appearence when she returned. "It was terrible," Mrs Russell tells you. "Emma got in at around four or five o'clock and woke me up. She said she had been attacked and raped by three men. They'd given her black eyes and half-torn off one of her ears. She was bleeding so much that the shawl she'd put between her legs to soak up the blood was soaked and dripping. How she managed to walk home I've no idea. Me and Margaret helped her to the Hospital and left her with Dr Haslip." You thank Mrs Russell for her information including the important fact that Emma was attacked by a gang instead of just one person. You return home and share this information with the Constables when they visit. "The East End is dangerous at night with all these street gangs roaming around," Dillworth tells you. "Still, at least we know Mrs Smith's assailant in probably not the lone man who attacked Mrs Wilson. Thank you for finding this out for us." You reputation with the police has improved slightly and you gain 1 Reputation Point. Two days later you are saddened to read that Emma Smith has died of her injuries. You have added 1 to your Reputation. The next four months are quiet ones for your Detective Practice until one morning your breakfast is interrupted by the arrival of Detective Inspector Edmund Reid, a senior figure in the Metropolitan Police. Serious and matter-of-fact he comes straight to the point. "I would like your help," he tells you. "Last night a woman was brutally murdered in the George Yard buildings in Whitechapel. She has been stabbed some forty times. When this reaches the newspapers there will be a lot of public interest in finding the murderer. I am aware of your abilities and would like your assistance in this business." > Agree to investigate "Good man," Inspector Reid says briskly. "As I understand it this unfortunate lady's body was found inside the George Yard building at around 5am by a man who informed Constable Barrett. Barrett in turn notified Dr Killeen who has taken the body of the deceased to the mortuary on Old Montague Street to perform an autopsy. Constable Barrett is over at H Division's Police Station and we can either go to the scene of the crime, collect the results of the autopsy or talk to Barrett." > You go to the crime scene in George Yard You and Inspector Reid walk out to the George Yard Building in Whitechapel, an old factory that has been converted into an apartment block. Reid leads you through the main entrance and up a flight of stairs onto a landing. "The body was discovered lying there" he says pointing to a large circlular pool of dried blood at the foot of the next set of stairs leading up. Apart from the blood there is no trace of any evidence at the scene. Just a few feet from the blood is a door. "The Superintendent of the buildings, a Mr Hewitt lives there with his wife," Reid tells you consulting a notebook. "Mr Reeves, the man who discovered the body, resides in room 37 in this building." > You talk to Mr Hewitt You knock on the door next to the pool of blood and it is opened by an old man. You are startled to see a short way from the door is a bed on which an old lady, undoubtably his wife, sits. From the bed to the pool of blood it can only be a few meters. Inspector Reid introduces you both to the couple who look understandably nervous. You ask them if they heard any sounds of a struggle or of voices last night and they both shake their heads. "I didn't hear anything all night," Mr Hewitt tells you firmly. "It seems a bit strange that a woman was stabbed forty times outside your bedroom door and neither you or your wife heard anything," Reid says skeptically. "At one point last night I heard someone cry out 'Murder' in a loud voice but it seemed to me that the sound came from outside the building," Mrs Hewitt says suddenly. "This is a rather rough neighborhood and cries, screams for help and loud drunks can be heard round here most nights," Mr Hewitt puts in. "We don' think much of them. Personally I think this poor creature crept up the staircase accompanied by a man for... immoral purposes, that a quarrel took place for some reason or another and that he stabbed her." You and Reid exchange glances and thank the pair. As you turn to go Mr Hewitt holds up a hand. "You might want to talk to Alfred Crow in Room 35 or Elizabeth Mahoney at number 47. They have told me they moved through this landing at different times last night and may have seen something. John Reeves who found the poor lady lives at number 37." > You talk to Mr Reeves Going upstairs to room 37 you knock on the door. A burly man with a beard opens the door and introduces himself as Mr Reeves. "Yes sir, I found the body sir," he tells you in response to your inquiries. "I generally go down to the docks around 5am to start work. This morning I saw that woman lying in a pool of blood on the landing. Her skirts were hitched up to her stomach and she looked like she'd been raped... it was a tough thing to see. Well sir I ran out into the street right away and found this copper Barrett walking his beat. I brought him straight here and he sent me to fetch Dr Killeen from Montague Street. After that your man Barrett told me to stay in my room today so that I might be available for any inquiries." "Did you see any evidence of weapons at the scene?" Reid asks him, taking notes. "Anything like footprints or personal belongings?" Reeves shakes his head. "No sir, nothing like that." "Did you hear any disturbances last night?" you ask him. Reeves frowns. "There were two fights on the street outside before and after midnight" he tells you. "I heard people shouting 'police' and 'help' and there was some screaming, terrible screaming. I looked outside and there was some crowds out on the street fighting but policemen came and cleared them away. There was another fight around two am and some more screaming. I looked outside again and there was some drunks out there fighting but they moved away after a while and I didn't hear anything else." You and Reid thank Reeves for his information. > You get the results of the autopsy from Montague Street Mortuary You and Detective Reid walk down to the mortuary on Montague Street where you meet Dr Killeen, an elderly and professional medical man. The body of the murdered woman is lying under a bloody sheet on a table nearby, judging by her face she is a plump, middle aged woman. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open as if in surprise: she looks surprisingly calm like she is sleeping. After introducing you Reid asks Dr Killeen for the results of his examination. "This lady was killed by thirty-nine separate stab wounds to her body," Dr Killeen says monotonously. "The killing occurred around two thirty this morning I should guess. This lady is around thirty-six years old and well fed. She has seventeen stab wounds in her breasts, six stab wounds in her stomach, five stab wounds in her left lung, five in her liver, two in her right lung, two in her spleen, one in her groin and one in her heart which I would identify as the fatal wound. This injury penetrated her beast bone and must have been inflicted with some force by some sort of dagger or bayonet." "A bayonet?" you ask surprised and the doctor nods. "Most of these injuries could have been inflicted by a right handed man armed with a pen knife or similar weapon except for that one. In addition to her other wounds this subject has been stabbed nine times in the throat. These injuries were all inflicted on her while she was still alive and her death was the result of massive blood loss. I found no evidence of recent sexual intercourse." The image of a man hacking this lady to death on a darkened landing with nearly fifty stabs is a grim one and her death must have been very painful. You and Reid thank Dr Killeen for his work and quietly leave. Outside you breath in the fresh summer air and pause to brace yourself so you can continue the investigation. > You go to the police station to talk to PC Barrett Detective Reid takes you to the H Division Police Station where you meet with PC Barrett, an honest looking middle-aged policeman. "Please describe your experiences last night" Reid tells his deputy. "I was walking my beat last night which takes me past the George Yard buildings on Wentworth Street," Barrett begins, consulting his notebook as he speaks. "At approximately 2am I was walking past them when I saw a soldier waiting next to the building's entrance. I would describe him as a Private wearing the uniform of the Grenadier Guards, aged between 22 and 26, approximately five feet and nine inches tall with a fair complexion, dark hair, a small brown mustache and a good conduct badge but no medals. I asked him what he was doing and he told me he was "waiting for a chum who had gone off with a girl.'" You and Reid exchange glances, your excitement mounting. "Approximately three hours later this man John Reeves ran up to tell me he had found a dead woman lying inside the George Yard Building. We went there and saw a plump woman lying on her back on the landing in a great pool of blood. Her hands were tightly clenched at her side, her legs were spread open and her clothes were pulled up leaving her lower half exposed. She was approximately thirty five years old, five feet three inches with a dark complexion, dark hair and wore a green skirt, brown petticoat, black jacket, spring-sided boots and a black bonnet. Her clothes were all old and stained. I sent Reeves to fetch Dr Killeen who arrived, pronounced the unfortunate lady dead and I helped remove her body to Montague Street before coming here to make my report." "This is a model of good police work Barrett," Reid says happily. You thank Barrett too and consider your next step. > You wrap up the investigation You and Detective Reid are thoughtful as you return to your home that evening. "Well, we've received a good deal of information," Reid tells you. "Where do you think we should focus our search for this murderer?" > In the pubs near the George Yard Building You suggestion is a commonsense one but you've overlooked important information and consequently the police inquiries in the pubs lead nowhere. When a photograph of the murdered woman is published in the papers she is identified by friends as a prostitute called Martha Tabram. Ten days after her murder DI Reid arrives at your home looking tired. "We have been concentrating our search on a soldier who was allegedly with Mrs Tabram around the time of her death" Reid tells you. "I have been at the Tower of London and to the Wellington Barracks with PC Barrett and a lady called Pearly Poll who was with Mrs Tabram at the night of her death. They've picked out several soldiers between them as the one that went off with her but all the men they picked have solid alibis for the night of the murder. We've spoken to Mrs Tabram's husband Henry Tabram, Mrs Tabram's boyfriend Henry Turner, Mrs Tabram's sister-in-law Mrs Morris and Mrs Tabram's former landlady Mrs Bousfield as well as this woman Pearly Poll but the investigation has ground to a halt. I'd like you to talk to some of the people on this list to see if you can get any information which might help us." You nod, considering who to approach first. > You talk to Martha Tabram's friend Pearly Poll Traveling to Pearly Poll's home on Dorset Avenue you arrive to find she is a big, red-faced woman smoking a pipe. After you convince her that you work with the police she reluctantly talks to you. "Sure I knew Martha though round these parts she called herself Emma Turner. Known her four or five months. I was with her the night she snuffed it, we was drinking ale and rum first at The Two Brewers and later at The White Swan. We met two soldiers there and were drinking with them for a few hours. One was a private and one was a corporal. They had white bands round their caps. Just before midnight we separated, I took the corporal up Angel Alley and Martha took hers towards the George Yard Building. That was the last I saw of her." Pearly Poll sighs. "Me and the corporal did our thing and then we had an argument over payment and he hit me with a stick. The first thing I knew about the murder was when I read it in the morning papers. Poor Martha! Since then I have been to two parades with DI Reid to try and pick out the soldiers we were with but all the ones I thought I knew have proven they was elsewhere. I don't know what to do now, same as always I guess. Least Martha's out of this terrible life now." You thank the woman for her help and quietly leave. > You talk to Martha Tabram's husband Mr Tabram Traveling out to a nice part of London called River Terrace you knock on the door of the house owned by Mr Tabram. He turns out to be a short, well-dressed man with iron grey hair and a mustache. You identify yourself and try to ask him about his wife but he cuts you off pretty quickly. "I have not seen her for eighteen months," he tells you shortly. "We were married and had two sons but we separated thirteen years ago on account of her drinking. I used to send her twelve shillings once a week but I stopped doing that when I learned she was living with another man. When I saw her photo in the papers I went down to Montague Street and identified her body. She has...she had... well she'd sunk very low in life." Before you can ask another question Mr Tabram slams his front door shut. > You talk to Martha Tabram's boyfriend Mr Turner Traveling to the Working Men's Home in Spitalfields you meet with Mr Turner. He is a little man with a light sandy mustache but very dirty clothes and hands. "I was with Martha on and off for about twelve years," he tells you. "Since we lived together her drinking has picked up. If I gave her money she'd spend it on drink, any money I gave her she would spend on drink. I do not drink and when she was sober we were fine but when she was drunk I would leave her to her own affairs. She was usually out late drinking most nights and I knew how she made her money when I gave her none.." You nod sympathetically. "When did you last see her?" you ask. "Well I moved in here a few weeks ago and last saw her alive three days before she died. I gave her a shilling and a half to help her get by. I saw her photo in the newspaper... I had hoped that if she could just stop drinking we could get back together again. Guess that won't be happening now.. my Martha is gone and I'll never see her again." Mr Turner turns his head away to try to hide the tears in his eyes and thanking him for his time you quietly leave. > You talk to Martha Tabram's sister-in-law Mrs Morris Traveling to a respectable-looking house in Mile End you find Mrs Morris's house and knock on the door. It is opened by a serious-looking woman dressed all in black who turns out to be Mrs Morris. "I didn't see very much of Martha on account of her heavy drinking" Mrs Morris tells you after you identify yourself. "I've never known her to work for a living and I knew she was a prostitute. She was always asking me for money to spend on drink... I last saw her at 11pm on the night of her death. I was walking down Whitechapel Road and saw her going into the White Swan pub with a big ugly lady and two soldiers. I didn't talk to her and I don't think she saw me. The first thing I knew about this tragedy was when I read about it in the papers. I can't say I'm surprised, just a bit sad I guess. Me and my husband always hoped Martha would pull herself together." You thank Mrs Morris for talking to you and leave. > You talk to Martha Tabram's former landlady Mrs Bousman Traveling out to Dorset Street you knock on the door of a house which is quickly opened by a middle-aged lady who introduces herself as Mrs Bousfield. She readily answers your questions when you tell her you work with the police. "Mrs Tabram and her man Turner were living here earlier in the summer for three months," Mrs Bousfield tells you. "They snuck out one night owing me rent money. I would describe her as the sort of person who would rather have a glass of ale than a cup of tea but she was not always drunk and she never brought any man home with her except Mr Turner. You could tell how she made her living though. She was always very good helping me with my children and I was sad to hear what happened to her..." You leave after thanking Mrs Bousfield for talking to you. > You wrap up your investigation That evening you return home weary and unhappy: your latest investigations haven't revealed anything new except the details of Martha Tabram's life. Once she had a family and a prosperous life: after a dozen years of suffering her life ended in a frenzied assault at the foot of some stairs in a crappy apartment block. DI Reid is equally pessimistic when he calls the next day. "It's no use," he confesses. "We can't identify the soldier Mrs Tabram was with. It might not even have been him who killed her but someone else entirely." This theory will gain strength very soon: just a week later a second brutal murder occurs which signals a monster's reign of terror over a frightened city and will catapult you into the hunt for the most ruthless killer London has ever known... At this point you might want to save the game or take a break: your hunt for the Ripper is about to begin. > Are you ready? One night you cannot sleep. Restless and feeling unaccountably anxious you rise from your bed with a sigh after several hours of trying and failing to fall asleep. A glance at your watch tells you it is 3am. Pulling on your clothes you set off for a walk down London's dark and lonely streets with thoughts of buying some snack somewhere. Some time later you are walking down a lonely alley called Buck's Row when you see a man walking just ahead of you. He looks like a cabman on his way to work and a second cabman can be seen just up ahead standing in the middle of the street looking at a strange shape lying in front of a gateway. From a distance it looks like a tarpaulin. "Come and look over here," the stationary cabman calls out to you and the other man. "There is a woman lying on the pavement." With a foreboding feeling you approach cautiously and see a middle-aged little woman lying on her back on the ground, her eyes wide open and staring blindly at the night sky. She does not appear hurt but the first cabman kneels next to her. He picks up her hands in his. "I think she is dead," the cabman says looking up. You lean over the woman's round face and greying hair and are startled when she gives a faint sigh of breath, the air brushing against your face "She is breathing but only just," you reply nervously. Hearing footsteps you spring to your feet and see a policeman walking down the street at the mouth of the alleyway, a lantern held in his hand. The two cabmen run up the street towards him. > You follow them Your hurry after the two cabmen and call out to the policeman that there is a woman lying in the alley. "She looks either dead or drunk but I think she is dead," you tell the officer. The cabmen explain they are late for work and hurry off so you walk back down the alley with the policeman and show him where the woman is lying. Almost simultaneously two other policeman arrive with their lamps, attracted by the commotion. After looking at the motionless woman lying on the ground one of the policeman tells his companion to fetch the local police doctor, Dr Llewellyn. > You go with the officer to fetch the Doctor You hurry off with a Constable at a steady jog to a house a few streets away. The policeman knocks on the door and calls for Dr Llewellyn to come quickly as there has been a murder. After a few minutes an old doctor emerges from the house pulling on his coat and orders you and the officer to fetch a stretcher from a shed across the road. Together the two of you find the stretcher and follow the Doctor quickly back to the alleyway. The crime scene is as you left it with the two policemen still standing there alongside the murdered woman. The Doctor takes one glance and shakes his head. "Move her to the mortuary," he instructs. "She is dead and I will make a further examination of her." You are shaken as the woman's small body is lifted, revealing a large pool of dried blood beneath her head. The policemen place the body on a stretcher and hurry away with the Doctor leaving one policeman to guard the crime scene. You consider whether you should lean on your status as a Private Detective to try and accompany the body to the mortuary or go home for a stiff drink. It can be difficult enough sometimes investigating murders but discovering one is so much more worse. > You remain and examine the crime scene As the Doctor's group leave carrying the corpse on the stretcher between them you are left in the alleyway with the policeman guarding the small pool of blood on the ground. Suddenly the gate in front of the blood opens and a middle-aged woman in a nightgown appears there with a half-dressed teenage son at her side. She asks what has been going on and looks astonished when the policeman tells her there has been a murder. "I never heard a sound though and I'm such a light sleeper," she says in surprise. "Look my bedroom window is right there," she says and points to a window right alongside to the gate and just five feet away from the pool of blood. She shakes her head and then says something to her son that you don't catch. He hurries off and returns a few moments later with a bucket in his hands. Before you can intervene he tosses it's contents of water over the pool of blood on the ground, washing it clean away. "What on earth do you think you are doing?" the policeman exclaims in alarm. "This is our stable back here," the woman exclaims jabbing her feet at the yard behind her. "Do you think anyone will want to keep their horses here again if they hear some poor unfortunate was murdered in the gateway?" The woman and her son go back inside their home leaving the policeman looking horrified at the now clean cobblestones of the street. You decide there is nothing more to be learned here now all the evidence has been washed away. > You hurry to the mortuary to view the autopsy You go to the mortuary where you find Dr Lewellyn is preparing for the autopsy. Two assistants are stripping the body of it's clothes and as they remove the dead woman's upper shirt they suddenly give a sudden shout of fright. You and the doctor spin around in alarm. Across the dead woman's stomach are several fresh slashes running diagonally downward from left to right. Someone has slashed savagely at this woman's stomach with a knife of some kind, partly disemboweling her. One of the assistants staggers away pale, his blood-soaked hands shaking "You might want to step into the yard for a time," Dr Lewellyn suggests to you. "Autopsies can be difficult experiences. I'll have my men provide you with this unfortunate lady's clothes and possessions for you to examine." > You insist on witnessing the autopsy You insist on staying in the room while the Doctor examines the woman's body. With infinite care he opens the dead woman's mouth and finds she is missing several teeth, though these seem to be old injuries as our bruises on her face. The Doctor reports that the dead woman's neck has been slashed through to the backbone by a single slash, the windpipe completely severed. Apart from the various slashes to her abdomen these are the only injuries, the Doctor tells you he thinks it would have taken a knife at least eight inches long to inflict such w

ounds. > Feeling sick you go into the yard to examine the dead woman's possessions In the yard of Dr Lewellyn's home you examine the dead woman's things. Her clothes are dirty and blood-soaked, you find that the petticoats have "Lambeth Workhouse" stencilled on the labels. In the pockets are a comb, a handkerchief and a broken shard of mirror, the meager possessions of a tough life, indeed the only thing that looks new and clean is a pretty black bonnet. You turn it over, looking at it thoughtfully as the dead woman must have. You are still thinking when a man strides into the yard; you recognise him as a Police Inspector you have worked with in the past called John Spratling. "This is a terrible business," he tells you. "The Doctor says this woman had her throat cut by a man with a knife who then slashed up her stomach. You best take yourself home and get some rest, if I'm not mistaken someone will call on you later." You nod and walk through the doctor's house, passing the motionless and practically decapitated corpse on the way out. > Already know these memories will haunt your dreams for a long time to come You don't have the stomach to investigate any more. Returning home you pour yourself a whisky with nerveless hands and as the morning sun rises over London you stay awake, turning the night's events over in your mind. You are still in your armchair when a tall officer with a mustache and sharp, intelligent eyes calls on you a few hours later. "I'm Inspector Frederick Abberline of Scotland Yard," he introduces himself. "I understand you are one of the men who found the murdered woman's body in Buck's Row last night? We have identified her as one Mary Ann Nichols, a prostitute well known in the Whitechapel area. Dr Llweyllen tells me she had her throat cut and was also disemboweled. That makes the crime particularly worrying because that means her killer wasn't just trying to kill her, he wanted to cut her up as well..." Abberline is silent for a moment before looking at you carefully. "I understand you have had some success in working with us in the past. Well I have been given charge of this investigation and I am officially hiring you as a Private Detective to help us track down whoever was behind this killing and bring them to justice. This is the second prostitute killed in a month and the police must be seen to be taking action. All your expenses will be reimbursed and you can rest assured if you help me in this investigation I will certainly help you." Abberline pulls a notebook from his pocket and opens it. "Now I already have quite a few leads I would like you to help run down some of them for me. Let me see... we have traced Mrs Nichols's father Mr Walker to an address in Camberwall. Her ex-husband William Nichols is living in Old Kent Road while a woman named Mrs Holland has made herself known to us as a friend of Mrs Nichols. Already a number of witnesses have come forward, Mr Birch, a milkman, claims to have encountered a suspicious man, another man Mr Ede claims he saw a suspicious man with a knife in the street, a Mrs Colwell says she heard someone screaming murder, and a Mrs Lilly who lives in Buck's Row claims she may have heard the murder occur. Interview who you think best, learn what you can, and I will return tomorrow morning to compare notes on this investigation." You nod, wondering who would be best to talk to or whether you should play it safe and talk to everyone. Past experience has taught you that not everyone will have equally useful testimony and it is up to you to determine what is important information and what is not. > You talk to Mary Ann Nichol's father Mr Walker Traveling to Camberwell you go to the home of Mr Walker who turns out to be a big man with a gray beard. "Well I haven't seen Polly for about three years but I recognized her in the mortuary when I heard the news," he says gruffly. "She was a drunk who I knew would come to a bad end. I turned her out of my house five years ago because of her drinking. She had no need to be like that when I had a home for her. I got a letter from her about four months back saying she had found work as a maid but I heard she got fired soon after for stealing... I was surprised when the police told me she had been murdered like that though. She had no enemies in the world: she was too kind for that." Thanking Mr Walker for his time you head on. > You talk to Mary Ann Nichols's ex-husband Mr Nichols You go and find Mr Nichols in his home on Old Kent Road, who turns out to be a somewhat bitter middle-aged machinist. "We have been apart eight years and I haven't seen Polly for three," he tells you tersely. "She left me for a man called Drew who soon threw her over for another woman. She left me with five children to raise on my own and no help to give. If it hadn't been for her drinking we would have gotten along just fine." His story of moral outrage is slightly ruined by the sight of a scantly-clad woman passing through the room behind him, counting coins in her hand. You head on quickly. > You talk to Mary Ann Nichols's friend Mrs Holland You meet Mrs Holland in Lambeth Workhouse; she is a big, tough-looking woman who insists that you call her Nelly. "I've known Polly for years," she tells you. "She's been in and out of workhouses the whole time when she wasn't sleeping rough but she was a quiet woman who never argued with nobody. We were lodging together for a bit but on the night she was killed she couldn't afford the room. She told me 'Never mind Nelly, I'll soon get money. See what a pretty bonnet I've got now.' I remember that because she had no money and the bonnet was new so I was puzzled where she'd got it from." Nelly frowns briefly before going on. "I saw her about an hour before her body was found. She was very drunk and slumped against a wall, she told me she'd been drinking all day. She looked unusually worried. 'I've had money three times today and spent it all on drink,' she told me, ' but it won't be long before I'm back'. She go up and staggered off down Whitechapel Road and that was the last I saw of her before I heard a woman had been killed, went to the morgue and saw Polly lying there..." Nelly falls silent and thanking her you turn away, your mind whirring. You remember Mary Ann Nichol's bonnet quite clearly, it was lying next to her body when you found her. It was a black hat with a velvet band, quite expensive and smart compared to the rest of her clothes Nichols's. If she didn't have enough money for a room (which in the Workhouse is far cheaper than a bonnet) how did she buy a new hat? Frowning you consider where to go next. > You talk to Witness Mr Birch who saw a suspicious man You make your way to Commercial Road where you find Mr Birch, an excited, young milkman with a story to tell. "Well it goes like this sir," he says eagerly. "This morning I was at my milk stand when a man in smart clothes with a black bag hurried up, asked for a glass of milk and drank it down in one. He asked if could step into the yard behind me and when I let him he pulled trousers and a jacket out of his bag and pulled them on over his existing clothes. Seeing me watching him he said 'that was a terrible murder last night wasn't it' before adding 'I think I've got a clue'. He snatched up his bag and ran off." Birch smiles happily at your bemused expression before plunging on. "At first I thought he might be a detective or something putting on a disguise but I spoke to my mates and they reckoned detectives don't behave like that so I thought I'd better tell the coppers. The first set of clothes wore was a blue suit, a hat and a watch chain. The overalls were like engineer overalls or perhaps something a sailor might wear. He had no beard but he had a black mustache and a sunburnt face. Do you think he might have anything to do with that woman killed down Whitechapel way last night?" Withholding your opinion and thanking Mr Birch for his strange story you consider your next step. > You talk to Witness Mr Ede who also saw a suspicious man Visiting Mr Ede at his place of work at the East London Railway you find him hammering a new track down with a few work-mates. Identifying yourself as a private detective you ask for his story. "I was walking down the road when I saw a suspicious man standing outside the Forester's Arms Pub," he tells you. "He had a wooden arm which was hanging at his side. He moved his other arm and I saw about four inches of a knife sticking out of his pocket. He walked off when he saw that I'd seen him, he was about thirty-five years old with a dark mustache, brown jacket, dark trousers and he had a wild look in his eyes." "I told you Tom that was just Henry James," one of his companions says with a laugh. "He's a local idiot but harmless and he don't have no wooden arm! He always looks that crazy but he's got the mind of a child. A stupid one." Thomas Ede just shakes his head stubbornly and insists it wasn't an idiot he saw. > You talk to Witness Mrs Colwell who may have heard the murder Going to Brady Street you knock on the door of Mrs Colwell's house, which stands a short way from Buck's Row. Mrs Colwell is an excited young lady who launches into her story as soon as you identify yourself. "On the night of the murder around Midnight I heard a woman running down the street outside shouting 'murder, murder, police,'" she tells you breathlessly. "Soon after I heard someone trying to get into this house and then the sounds faded away as the woman ran towards Bucks Row. It might have been that poor young woman, to think if I had only opened the door to my house she might have lived!" With a sigh you thank her and head on. > You talk to Witness Mrs Lilly who also may have heard the murder You go to visit the home of Mrs Lilly on Buck's Row, she lives just a few doors down the alley from where you found Mary Ann Nichols's body. When she opens the door you find she is a scared-looking lady. "I didn't sleep very well on the night of the murder and in the middle of the night I heard a strange sound," she tells you looking pale. "It was a painful moan, two or three gasps and then silence. I've heard fights before but they were nothing like that, I am sure it was the murder. Soon after I heard whispering in the alleyway, I couldn't hear what was being said because it was too faint. I think I fell asleep soon after but I woke early, went out and heard about the murder. I thought I'd better tell someone what I heard..." She trails off into silence. Thanking her for her time you thoughtfully leave. > You wrap up the investigation You return home and ponder all that you have found out. The next morning Inspector Abberline comes calling and asks if you have uncovered any important evidence. Thinking carefully about the different testimony what do you think is the most important thing to tell him about? > Mrs Holland's testimony about Mary Nichols's new bonnet Inspector Abberline listens carefully and when you have finished he looks impressed. "Do you think that the murderer gave Mrs Nichols's this new bonnet as a gift to earn her trust?" he asks you. "The deceased lady's clothes were removed prior to her autopsy. I will go to Dr Lewyllen's house and see what became of them." Abberline leaves and returns a short time later. "The clothes have been thrown away and burnt," he says unhappily. "Still I believe the new bonnet may be a significant clue. Good work!" Your Reputation with the police has increased by 1. > Less than a week later he strikes again. Early one morning you are woken from your sleep by a loud knocking on your front door. "Another woman has been killed sir," a voice calls out and looking out of your window you see a policeman standing in the street. "Inspector Chandler says your to come to 29 Hanbury Street as quickly as you can please." Springing from your bed you pull on your clothes and race downstairs to find the policeman has already gone. You race to Hanbury Street to find a large crowd has already gathered outside one of the houses. Pushing your way through the crowd you spot Inspector Joseph Chandler, another veteran you have met before, who recognizes you and calls for his officers to let you through. "It looks similar to the Buck's Row murder," he tells you leading you across the hallway of the house from the front door to the back door. "I've sent for Dr Phillips and questioned the people who live here. None of them heard a thing and one of them found the body at 6am this morning when he came downstairs and saw the front door was open. One of the residents went through the backyard a little before 5am and saw no sign of anything then so the murder must have happened between 5 and 6. I must warn you sir: it's not a pretty sight." You stop at the back door at the sight of a woman's body lying just below three stone steps that lead from the house to the yard. She is a wide but thin woman with brown hair and is lying alongside a wooden fence. Her legs are drawn up and her skirts pulled up, her left arm resting across her upper chest. Her throat has been cut and blood has pooled not only around her head but sprayed across the fence alongside as well. A nest of fat purple worms lies next to the woman's left shoulder it takes you a moment to realize they are her intestines. The woman's lower chest has been completely torn apart and many of the organs removed. You turn away and swallow an urge to be sick. You hear footsteps behind you and turning around you see a middle-aged man in civilian clothes hurrying up followed by two policemen carrying a stretcher: Dr Phillips has arrived. He makes a quick examination of the body and makes the fairly obvious deduction that the woman is dead. He orders her taken to a nearby mortuary for an autopsy. As she is carried away you consider whether to search the crime scene or go and view the autopsy. > You search the crime scene You walk through the little yard, carefully avoiding the large puddle of blood at the foot of the steps. Using a tape measure you find that the blood sprays on the fence go as high as fourteen inches. Half-hidden in some weeds near the fence you make a very interesting discovery. Two small objects are glinting near the pool of blood. Stooping you pick them up and turn them over in your hand. They are two farthings, perhaps the price a cheap prostitute might accept for her services. You wonder if you are holding the payment passed by the killer to his victims... sensing this is an important discovery you pocket the coins. > Rising to your feet you head over to the mortuary At the mortuary Dr Phillips wastes no time in instructing his assistants to remove the dead woman's clothes in preparation for his autopsy. The workmen are visibly disgusted: the blouse and upper clothes of the body are saturated and literally dripping with blood and removing them reveals horrific injuries on the dead lady that extend well down to the groin area. Despite your disgust you can stay and assist Dr Phillips with the autopsy or examine the dead women's clothes and possessions in a nearby room. > You stay and help with the autopsy You remain at Dr Phillips's side as he examines the body, muttering to himself all the while. "Old bruises on the face, tongue swollen and protruding slightly... neck severed by a knife at least six inches in length and probably longer... body eviscerated with intestines, uterus and bladder removed. Hm, I think whoever did this had some medical training or knowledge at any rate. I could not have made these operations in less than a quarter of an hour and if I was doing a deliberate surgical operation it would have taken at least an hour... ah this is interesting." Fighting your disgust you force yourself to pay attention. "There used to be rings here," Dr Phillips tells you holding up the dead woman's right hand. Sure enough there are three white bands clearly marked on the lower portion of the middle finger. "This woman has worn rings here but they have recently been removed. Unless she removed them herself, which seems unlikely, they must have been taken from her by the killer." With a jolt you realize this could be a very important clue: if you can find the rings perhaps you can find her killer too. > With nothing more to learn here you go to look at the dead woman's things The woman's blood-soaked clothes are piled into a heap. Picking through them you find nothing interesting and go through her possessions. In the dead woman's pockets were found two combs, a scrap of cloth and interestingly a small scrap of envelope wrapped around two small pills. On the envelope are written the words "London, 28, Aug, 1888...M...2...S." Above these words is an engraved stamp of an emblem of some kind. As you are turning the scrap of paper over in your hand Inspector Chandler enters the room. You show him your discovery and he becomes very excited. "That's the seal of the Royal Sussex Regiment," he tells you. "This could be an important clue! We'll take it from here, good work! Go home and have a rest and I'm sure someone from Force will be in touch with you very soon." You step out into the mortuary room as Dr Phillips is finishing his autopsy. The dead woman lies still, eyes closed and head turned to the side as if asleep. You get one last glimpse of her before Dr Phillips throws a blanket over her, hiding her from your sight. > Feeling tired but determined to catch this killer you return home "We have a serial killer out there." Inspector Abberline looks deadly serious when he calls on you the next day. "This killing and the murder of Mary Ann Nichols are too similar to be the work of different men," he insists. We have identified the deceased woman as a local prostitute called Annie Chapman. The scrap of letter you found is a dead lead, it seems Chapman picked up the scrap herself from her lodging house and the pills inside are medication for a terminal lung disease she had. We've got to get moving on this, all over Whitechapel fear is spreading and private citizens have started forming vigilante societies, giving us their theories and offer rewards for the capture of this monster dead or alive." Abberline produces his notebook and clears his throat. "We have traced Mrs Chapman's brother Mr Smith to an address in Knightsbridge. A man called Mr Donovan ran the lodging house in Spitalfields where Mrs Chapman was living at the time of her death. A resident of the same house, Mrs Palmer, has identified herself to us as Mrs Chapman's friend. A Mr Cadosch, who owns the house adjacent to where Mrs Chapman was murdered claims he may have heard the murder. A Mrs Chappell has reported seeing a suspicious man in a pub to us. Finally a Mrs Long claims to have witnessed the deceased talking to an unknown man shortly before her death. You know the drill: I want you to investigate any of these leads which seem promising to you and report back to me tomorrow." Inspector Abberline closes his notebook and turns to go before hesitating. "I should tell you that Sir Charles Warren, the Head of the London Police Force, spoke with me this morning stressing how important it is that we find and arrest this killer. I will be conducting my own investigations alongside yours and I will share information equal in value to that which you share with me. Hopefully if we both do good work we can solve these terrible murders quickly and capture this brutal, but so far frighteningly successful, murderer." As the Inspector leaves you consider who to interview first. > You talk to Annie Chapman's brother Mr Smith You travel to Knightsbridge and meet Mr Smith, a youngish well-dressed man who looks on the verge of tears throughout your interview. "She was such a lovely person, I can't understand why anyone would do this," he says sadly. "It all went downhill after she split up with her husband, they both used to get drunk and fight. He died a few years back and she never got over that, she never had any money afterwards neither. I saw her a few weeks ago and gave a little money. Did you know she has three children? Our mother takes care of them now. We hoped one day she'd find a steady job and come back to us but... now..." Mr Smith's voice breaks so thanking him for his time you leave. > You talk to Annie Chapman's landlord Mr Donovan You head out to Annie Chapman's lodging house in Spitalfields and going you find Mr Donovan, a young man with a serious air. "Annie was normally a lovely, good-natured lady but she got a black eye in a fight a little while back," he tells you. "On the night of she died she came up to my office around 1.30am and said 'I haven't the money for my bed but don't let it: it won't be long before I'm in.' I could see her swaying a bit and told her off for finding money to get drunk but not for a bed. 'Never mind Tim' she said, 'I'll soon be back. Keep that bed for me.'" She headed out soon after, before she left I saw her put some of her tablets in a scrap of paper which she put in her pocket. She took the medicine for a bad lung condition she had but she never complained about it." Thanking Mr Donovan for his time you head on. > You talk to Annie Chapman's friend Mrs Palmer You find Mrs Palmer in Spitalfields, a middle-aged woman with a prematurely lined face. "I knew poor Annie well," she tells you. "She had a bad fight with another woman over a man a little while back and got some bruises from it. She was terribly ill in the days before she died and the evening before her death she could hardly move for the pain. 'It's no use my giving up Amelia,' she said to me. 'I must pull myself together, go out and get some money or I shall have no lodgings.' She went out for a coin or two but she never came back... I've lived here all my life and seen what can happen to the women round here but I've never seen anyone hurt so badly until I saw Annie lying in that morgue... whatever did that to her wasn't human." Thanking the old woman for her time you head on. > You talk to Witness Mr Cadosch who may have heard the murder Traveling to 29 Hanbury Street you meet Mr Cadosch, a middle-aged Frenchman. He lives next door to the house behind which Annie Chapman was killed and he wastes no time in leading you into the backyard of his house. A wooden fence separates the yards of 27 and 29 from each other, it was on the other side of that fence that Annie Chapman's body was found. Mr Cadosch stands next to the fence as he tells you his story. "I got up for work at 5am and about fifteen or twenty minutes later I went into the yard to use the outside toilet," he says indicating a little shed at the far end of his yard. "As I walked back through the yard I heard a woman quietly say 'no' and then soon afterwards something fell or leant against the fence. I guessed it was trouble but I didn't want to be caught up in anything and I had to go to work so I went back into the house and headed out." You look at him startled, this man might have passed just feet away from the murder as it was happening. The fence is only six feet high, if he had just peered over it he would have seen the killer. On reflection you realize perhaps if he had though the amiable man standing before you might not be alive now. Thanking him for his time you move on. > You talk to Witness Mrs Chappell who saw a suspicious man You meet Mrs Chappell at the Prince Albert Pub, she is an excited, young, barmaid with a story to tell. "In the morning an hour or two after that poor woman was murdered I was standing in this bar talking to my friend when a man came in," she tells you. "He wore a dark coat and had a hat pulled low over his eyes. He asked for a pint of ale from me and took it into a corner to drink. I saw spots of blood on the back of his right hand. He drank the beer in one gulp and left quickly. I didn't like the look of him so I went to the door and saw him walking away to Bishopsgate." You thank Mrs Chappell for her information and move on. > You talk to Witness Mrs Long who have have seen the killer and victim together You go to see Mrs Long in Spitalfields, she is an old and serious woman. "I was walking to the Market at 5.30am on the morning of the murder when I saw a man and a woman talking in front of 29 Hanbury Street where this dreadful murder occurred," she tells you. "The woman had her back to me but I saw the man quite clearly, he wore a dark coat, a brown hat and looked about forty. I think he was a foreigner. I heard him ask the woman 'Will you' and she said 'yes' as I walked by. I often see people standing in that street talking but when I heard about the murder I thought I'd better tell somebody what I saw." Frowning you consider the value of her information as you bid her farewell. > You wrap up your investigation You return to your apartment that evening and the next morning Inspector Abberline drops by. "There have been some important developments in this case and I can't stay long," he tells you. "Is there any aspect about Mrs Chapman's that particularly strikes you?" What evidence that you may have uncovered do you think is the most important? > The two farthings Quickly you tell Inspector Abberline about the two farthings you found near Annie Chapman's body. "That's interesting," Abberline agrees when you have finished. "Do you think the killer used them to pay for Mrs Chapman's services before killing her? It's possible I suppose, very well: I shall share a clue with you. I have heard that an American Doctor has been asking around the medical colleges to see if he can obtain a woman's uterus for his studies. He has been refused quite naturally but I have been informed by Dr Phillips that Mrs Chapman's uterus was one of the organs the killer took from her body. Is this a coincidence? I don't know yet but I think we had better keep an eye out for this American doctor." You nod your head and as you do you hear a voice calling Abberline's name from the street. Looking down you can see an excited Policeman standing there. "Inspector!" he calls up. "They have arrested the Ripper!" > And Abberline set off at once for the nearest police station Hurrying to Leman Street Police Station you find the suspect that the police have arrested, one John Pizer. He is short, thick-set and ugly with a face covered in black hair and an undeniably unpleasant look about him. A Police Sergeant shows you a large knife he found on the man when he was arrested. "This is him sir, old Leather Apron as he's known around these parts," the Sergeant says. "He is notorious for beating up prostitute in the area after he has had his way with them." Inspector Abberline grants you permission to conduct a quick interview. What do you ask Pizer? > You say "Is it true you have a history of hitting prostitutes?" "Of course I don't beat up prostitutes," Pizer protests. "Those are lies spread about me because I'm a Polish Jew. Sure, I've slapped a couple of girls around every now and then, if they are going to sell themselves I want to get what I pay for or I want my money back. But I've never met this Chapman woman." You look at him with disgust. > You ask him where he was on the night of Annie Chapman's death "I was a lot of places the night that woman was cut up," Pizer tells you. "After midnight I went to go see a big fire at London Docks and spoke to a policeman I know there. I walked back to my home on Holloway Road, had a smoke with my brother until 3am and then slept in until 11am when I got up and ate lunch with the other people I live with. You can check with all of them, I didn't even learn about the murder until I read about it in the papers." > You ask him why he is called Leather Apron Pizer grins. "I polish boots for a living and I wear a leather apron so my day clothes don't get dirty. Sometimes I cut the leather off boots or cut laces to trim them to size which is why I always carry a knife." He begins talking enthusiastically about shoe-fitting until you stop him. > You end the interview You stop the interview and leave Pizer's cell to talk to Abberline. "Well," the Inspector asks. "Is he our man?" > You say "Yes" You declare that John Pizer a.k.a. Leather Apron is Annie Chapman's murderer and he is held in prison. You are publicly humiliated when his brother and several others including a policeman arrive within hours to confirm his alibis that he was at home in bed at the time of her murder. This has cost you a great deal of respect among the police. > That could have gone better... A few weeks after Annie Chapman's murder Inspector Abberline drops by your home. Neither of your investigations are going anywhere and Abberline looks tired. "On top of everything else we have started receiving these strange letters," he tells you. "Listen to this one we got the other day: 'Dear Boss. So now they say I am a Yid, when will they learn Dear Old Boss! You and me know the truth don't we? You can look forever, you'll never find me but I am right under your nose all the time. I watch them looking for me and it gives me fits ha ha. I love my work and I shan't stop until I get buckled and even then watch out for your old pal Jacky. Catch me if you can. Jack the Ripper. Sorry about the blood, still messy from the last one. What a pretty necklace I gave her!" Abberlne shakes his head, lays that letter down, picks up a second one and reads it. "Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won't fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan't quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can't use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady's ears off and send to the police officers just for a jolly. Wouldn't you keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck. Yours truly Jack the Ripper, don't mind me giving the trade name. PS wasn't good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. Ha ha." Abberline looks up wearily. "We're getting dozens of these every week, most of them signed 'Jack the Ripper'. Some we've tracked down to crazy people or journalists trying to start a story but more keep coming. Just yesterday we had a fellow named Fitzgerald told all his friends he had killed Mrs Chapman. We arrested and held him for three days until several of his friends and family confirmed he'd been in his home in Hammersmith at the time of the murder. This Ripper killer is causing panic and I've got a feeling more trouble is on the way." > Abberline is right and you are in for another night of hell "The Ripper has killed again!" The familiar cry launches you from your sleep. Pulling on your clothes you rush downstairs to find a pale young Policeman standing outside. He looks plain terrified. "This one's in Dutfield's Yard on Fairclough Street sir," he tells you. "She's not been cut up as badly as the other ones." You both hurry there as fast as you can but it is still nearly 1.30am by the time you arrive. Several Policemen and the police surgeon Dr Phillips are already at the scene while a cabman stands nearby wringing his hands together. A woman is lying just inside the open gateway that leads into the yard, her feet pointing out towards the street. She is a tall woman with brown curly hair and is wearing black clothes. Her eyes are closed and she looks as though she is sleeping except for a savage slash across her throat and a pool of blood under her head. Instantly your sharp eyes spot several interesting things on and around the body. Pinned to the dead woman's jacket is a fresh red and white flower. In her left hand is a packet of Cachous (a type of breath mint), which she is clenching in a tight death grip. Apart from the slash to her throat she has no other injuries which is unusual to say the least. You listen as the cabman nervously describes his discovery of the body to the police. "I was driving my cart into the yard at about 1am to put it away from the night when my pony suddenly gave a yelp and refused to go forward, pawing the ground in terror and becoming mighty agitated. I peered forward and saw this woman lying there in the darkness. I thought she was drunk or asleep so I immediately backed my cart out of the yard and ran to the nearby Working Men's Club to get some help. When I came back I found she was dead." "Do you think your arrival interrupted the killer before he could mutilate the victim?" you ask him. The driver hesitates before nodding. "To tell you the truth sir I think he might still have been hiding in the yard when I arrived. My pony was mighty agitated, kept looking into the yard and trying to back up. He might have slipped away when I ran off to get some help but I didn't know then that she was dead, I swear I didn't." You are still digesting this information when another Policeman runs up. "They've found another body over in Mitre Square sir. This lady... begging your pardon sir but it's fucking terrible there." Instantly several of the policemen hurry off towards the Square while Dr Phillips and the remaining policemen gently lift the dead woman's body onto a stretcher to take it to the mortuary. > You stay and search this crime scene You remain behind briefly and explore the small yard for clues. Entering the darkened space you know you must be standing pretty much where the killer stood less than an hour ago but he is gone now leaving no trace behind except the pool of blood on the ground. With a brief sigh at the killer's terrifying effectiveness you hurry off to the next crime scene. > Mitre Square The policeman was not exaggerating. When you arrive at the square you see a little woman with brown hair lying on her back in one of the square's corners. A savage slash through her neck bubbles with blood and her mouth is open in a silent scream of agony. A purple and blue mound of fat worms that is her intestines have been extracted from the carnage of her stomach and thrown across her shoulder. Her face has been slashed so savagely that parts of her right ear and nose have been cut off. With a jolt you remember the words in the last letter Inspector Abberline read to you, purportedly from Jack the Ripper "the next job I do I shall clip the lady's ears off and send to the police officers just for a jolly." Feeling sick you sit down on the pavement and take several deep breaths. As you do a local Doctor arrives on the scene joining the crowd of policemen already there. The Policeman who discovered the body is sitting on a step nearby looking just as sick as you. You barely hear what people are saying as they crowd around the body and try to put it back together so they can load it onto a stretcher. The Ripper is now killing women as such a fast rate it seems impossible that he can be stopped but you know you have to keep trying. The possibility that the Ripper killed another woman after his mutilation of the first was interrupted just to obtain her ear and organs sickens you. You barely hear as a Policeman asks you if you want to help search the scene. > You join the search of the area Mentally fortifying yourself you join the search of the area. You have found nothing for about an hour until suddenly a Policeman shouts out that he has found something as you are searching about several streets from Mitre Square. He holds up a scrap of dirty white apron that is covered in blood stains. The apron has been found beneath some chalk graffiti on a wall that reads "the Jewes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing". You stare from the blood-soaked apron to the graffiti. At a guess it instinctively occurs to you that the killer may have carried the dead woman's missing organs away in the apron before discarding it beneath the graffiti. Is the graffiti a red-herring or a clue or is it coincidence that the killer dropped the apron there? You stare at the writing on the wall wondering if it can be matched to the writing in any of the l

etters the police have received. You will never find out: senior police officers fearing the graffiti might inspire hostility against the Jewish community in London order the chalk washed away hours later. > With much to think about you head home You go home and have a strong drink to recover. Inspector Abberline arrives at your house just hours later as the morning sunlight is creeping over London. "We need to move fast if we are to find evidence that will lead us to this bastard," he tells you, looking more angry and determined than you have seen him yet. "We have identified the dead woman in Dutfield's Yard as Elizabeth Stride and the woman in Mitre Square as Catherine Eddowes, both prostitutes working in the Whitechapel district. I want you to investigate Mrs Stride's murder while I will handle the investigation into Mrs Eddowes's killing. Dr Phillips has conducted an autopsy and also listed Mrs Stride's possessions and can supply you this information if you visit him. We have also traced Mrs Stride's partner Mr Kidney to an address on Commercial Road." Abberline opens his ever-present notebook. "We have been overrun with eyewitnesses. A Mr Gardner, Mr Marshall, Mr Packer, one of our own Policemen Constable Smith and Mr Schwartz all claim to have seen Mrs Stride with a suspicious man on the night of her death and Mr Coram has found a bloodied knife in the street that may be relevant. I would like you to chase these leads up and see which are credible. Depending on your findings I may have some useful information to share with you." Feeling slightly overwhelmed you prepare yourself for your latest investigation. > You talk to Dr Phillips to learn about Elizabeth Stride's autopsy and view her possessions Going to Dr Phillip's mortuary he presents you with a very brief autopsy report: Elizabeth Stride was killed when her throat was cut and no other wounds were inflicted. You go through her possessions, in her pockets were found a key, a pencil, several buttons, two combs, a spoon, a hook, a strip of cloth, a thimble, a reel of thread, some handkerchiefs and a few scraps of paper. Her clothes are likewise unremarkable, shabby and blood-stained. Two interesting objects were found on her however, the packet of Cachous and the flower pinned to her dress. "She never had time to swallow one as none were found her mouth," Dr Phillips says indicating the breath mints. "The flower is interesting, her friends say she was not wearing it at the time she left her lodging house about five hours before her murder. At some point in the intervening time she must have brought it or had it brought for her as a gift from someone." You examine the flower closely, it is a beautiful and fresh red and white fern. Laying it down you thank Dr Phillips for his help and move on. > You talk to Elizabeth Stride's partner Mr Kidney You go to Mr Kidney's house on Commercial Road to find him a drunk and emotional man. "I've known Liz for years," he declares. "She came here from Sweden twenty years back, she told me her husband and children drowned when the Princess Alice sank ten years ago. We've stuck together through the highs and lows, been arrested a few times for being but who hasn't round here? We had our fighs sometimes and split up, it was always the drink that made her go away but she always came back. She said she liked me more than any other man." He pauses to take an impressively big gulp from a bottle of gin at his side and blinks at you. "We spoke about this Ripper you know? She told me 'Me and my friends, we're all up to no good, no one cares what becomes of us. Perhaps some of us will be killed next.' If you gave me a dozen coppers I would find this murderous fuck. I'd get him right in the act and see him hung like a dog from a noose in Tyburn for what he did to Liz... she never did any harm to anyone and helped many who didn't deserve such kindness. She was a good girl." Thanking Mr Kidney for his time you leave. > You talk to Witness Mr Gardner who saw the victim with a suspicious man Going to Chapman Street you meet Mr Gardner, a burly dockside laborer. "I saw this woman Liz Stride who I knew near the door of the Bricklayer's Arms Pub when me and my mate went in for a drink around 11pm," he tells you. "She was hugging and kissing a man and me and my pal were surprised by how much they were getting into it. The man wore a suit and coat, he was a short man with a dark mustache and hair. I'd already had a few drinks and thought this was pretty funny so I called out to her "that's Leather Apron getting on your good side Liz." They left soon after." You thank Mr Gardner for his information. > You talk to Witness Mr Marshall who saw the victim with a suspicious man You go to Berner Street where you meet Mr Marshall, a middle-aged labourer. "I was heading home just before midnight when I saw this woman Elizabeth Stride standing with a man in a doorway just down from my house," he tells you. "The man wore a suit and was on the stout side, he also had on a small peaked cap like a sailor might wear but his suit looked more like a clerk. I recognized the woman the photo in the papers only when I saw her she didn't have no flower pinned to her jacket. The couple were kissing and as I walked by the man said to her 'you would say anything but your prayers', I didn't linger to spy on their love-making but went right into my house and off to bed." This might be linked to other testimony you have heard. > You talk to Witness Mr Packer who saw the victim with a suspicious man You go to see Mr Packer, an elderlr man who runs a fruit shop on Berner Street close to where the body was found. "I saw this Catherine Eddowes... no Elizabeth Stride woman at 11pm... or was it midnight?" he says in a confused, halting sort of way. "She came by with a young man with a black coat, a hat and a rough voice. She was playing with a sort of red and white flower and after he brought them both grapes they moved off. This happened last night... or was it the night before? Anyway I saw the man again in the street this morning, he stared at me for a while before running away when I challenged him." Unsure what to make of this old man's confused statements you thank him and move on. > You talk to Witness PC Smith who saw the victim with a suspicious man You go to talk to PC Smith an experienced officer with a professional manner. "I was walking down Berner Street just after 12.30am when I saw a man and a woman standing on the pavement opposite the entrance to Dutfield's Yard where the dead woman's body was later found," he tells you consulting his notebook. "I am certain the woman I saw was Elizabeth Stride. Her companion was a young man in dark clothes in an hat, overall he looked respectable. He was carrying a parcel about twenty inches long and several inches wide. The woman had a red and white flower on her jacket. I didn't hear them say anything as I walked by but they didn't seem in any way drunk. When I walked back down the street thirty minutes later two police officers and a small crowd had already gathered outside the yard to view the body. I remember seeing you there sir but I don't know if you remember me." You don't but pretending you do you thank PC Smith for his interesting information. > You talk to Witness Mr Schwartz who saw the victim with a suspicious man Mr Schwartz is a nervous little man who hurries you into his home in Backchurch Lane when you visit him. "I was walking down Fairclough Street when I saw a stout man in a black coat and hat leading the dead woman down the road," he tells you looking frightened. "She said 'no not tonight, some other night'. They turned into Berner Street. By the time I arrived I saw them standing in the gateway where the murder happened. The man seized the woman and threw her down on the pavement and she gave some quiet cries of alarm. Across the street a second man was lighting his pipe." Schwartz takes a deep breath and goes on. "This second man was middle-aged with dark hair and a brown mustache. He wore an overcoat and an old black hat. I didn't see the first man clearly. The man who threw drown the woman called out to the one with the pipe 'Lipski'. I turned to walk away and the second man, the one with the pipe, began following me. I ran as fast as I could and the man stopped following me. About fifteen minutes later I heard the first cries of "murder" in the street and saw people running towards Berner Street." You frown at Schwartz unsure what to make of him and uncomfortably aware that he is suggesting that the Ripper does not work alone. Thanking him you move on. > You talk to Witness Mr Coram who saw the victim with a suspicious man Going to Plumber's Row you meet Mr Coram, a warehouse packer. "Soon after the murder I was walking along Whitechapel Road in the morning when I saw a knife lying on the edge of the street," he tells you. "It was about ten inches long, blood-stained and had a white blood-stained handkerchief tied around it's handle. I gave the knife to a policeman who said he had passed the spot fifteen minutes before and that the knife had not been there then. He told me later that he took it to Dr Phillips who said it was probably not the weapon used to murder those women. I don't know where the knife is now." You thank Mr Coram for his interesting information. > You wrap up this investigation Feeling tired after hearing so much confusing testimony you go home and the next day Inspector Abberline calls on you. He looks tired too. "We've now got at least a dozen witnesses including a pony who may have seen the killer and I'm not sure any of them are reliable," Abberline tells you, shaking his head. "Apart from the bodies we've got precious little physical evidence and the public are not helping: everybody has a theory. I even had to deal with one woman who kept insisting that Elizabeth Stride was her sister until two of my officers found her sister living alive and well in a nearby street. Still, out of all the witness descriptions of the men with Elizabeth Stride on the night she was killed who sounds most likely to be the murderer?" > You tell Abberline about the stout man in the suit who Stride was seen kissing Abberline listens to your description and sighs. "A little man in a suit with a sailor's hat with dark hair and mustache who was embracing and kissing Mrs Stride in front of a crowded pub and in a busy street? I think he sounds more like a boyfriend or client than a potential killer to me and besides he'd left the scene by midnight when the other men were seen with Stride." Your poor detective work damages your Reputation. > Abberline tells you about his investigation of Catherine Eddowes's murder "Now as you know I have been looking into Catherine Eddowes's killing and we have a pretty good idea of her movements on the night she died," Abberline tells you. "It seems she spent most of the night in a jail cell for being drunk and disorderly but was released less than an hour before she was killed. Her belongings are with Dr Frederick Brown of the London Police and we have traced her partner John Kelly to a lodging house in Flower and Dean Street. Sergeant Byfield was the Desk Sergeant at Bishopsgate Police Station who discharged Mrs Eddowes while a Mr Lawende and some friends claim to have seen Mrs Eddowes talking to an unknown man near Mitre Square just ten minutes before her body was found." Abberline looks up from his notebook at you. "I think you might find it useful to talk to some of these witnesses to see if you can uncover any facts I've missed. Specifically I want you to visit Dr Brown and take a look at Mrs Eddowes's belongings... I am forming a theory about the way our killer operates and I want to see if the evidence you find supports this theory or not. Hopefully we can start to get the upper hand over this brute if we can understand how he thinks and operates." Agreeing to help you set out once more. > You talk to Dr Brown so you can see Catherine Eddowes's possessions Going over to Dr Brown's mortuary in the City of London (the heart of the financial district) you go inside. You get a shock when you see Catherine Eddowes's naked body hanging from a hook on the wall directly opposite the door, it's savaged face drooping lifelessly. A massive pile of clothes and possessions lie on the floor in front of her. Dr Brown gives you permission to look through them: among her belongings are two small bags, two smoking pipes, two boxes containing tea and sugar, a matchbox, fifteen rags, six chunks of soap, a comb, a small butter knife, a tea spoon, a very expensive-looking red leather cigarette case, a ball of string, a dirty apron with a piece cut out of it, several buttons, some receipts for selling a shirt and boots, a pair of glasses and a cheap red glove. You look carefully through the items as some are more important than others. > You talk to Catherine Eddowes's partner Mr Kelly You meet Catherine Eddowes's partner Mr Kelly at their home on Flower and Dean Street, he is a sickly-looking middle-aged man with a wracking cough who is so overwhelmed with sadness he can barely speak. "I took up with her several years ago after she split with her last partner," he says hoarsely. "We took one of her two children in to live with us, the other stays with her mother. Catherine liked a drink but I swear to you she was no prostitute. We've been hard up lately and she had to sell one of my shirts and a pair of boots a little while back. I left her at 2pm on the afternoon before her death and heard that evening she'd been arrested for being drunk. I don't know how she got the money to buy drink as she didn't have any when we parted. That was the last I heard of her until I saw- I saw her in the morgue... and-" Kelly breaks into sobs and buries his face in his hands. You quietly leave. > You talk to Sergeant Byfield who was one of the last people to see the victim alive You go to Bishopsgate Police Station where you find Sergeant Byfield, a sensible middle-aged police officer he gives you a straight-forward account. "Mrs Eddowes was brought in just before 9pm sir," he tells you. "She was hardly able to stand and fell asleep as soon as we put her in one of the cells. Soon after midnight she woke up and started singing loudly before asking me to release her. She seemed steady enough so I let her out around 1am. She asked for the time and I told her it was too late for her to buy any more drink. 'I'll get a damn fine hiding when I get home,' she told me. 'It serves you right, you had no right to get so drunk,' I told her. She said goodnight to me and went out the front door, shutting it behind her. Forty-five minutes later her body was found in Mitre Square." You thank Sergeant Byfield for his information. > You talk to Mr Lawende who saw the victim with a suspicious man You go to Norfolk Road where you meet Mr Lawende, a surprisingly wealthy-looking gentleman in a suit who speaks English with a Polish accent. "Me and my friends came out of the Norfolk Club just after 1.30am," he tells you. "Near the entrance to Mitre Square we saw this lady Mrs Eddowes talking to a man. I only got a brief glimpse of him as I walked by but I suppose he was around thirty with fair hair and mustache and a suit. He wore a red handkerchief across his neck which made me think of him as a sailor. The couple weren't arguing in any way, just talking. I passed them by and didn't think anything of it until I read about the murder the next day." You are impressed by Mr Lavender's matter-of-fact description and thank him for his help. > You wrap up this investigation Having finished your inquiry into Catherine Eddowes's murder you return to your home where Inspector Abberline drops by in the evening. You ask him how his investigation is going. "Not well," he admits. "We had three men in custody at the time of the double murder a few nights ago: a crazy butcher called Jacob Isenschmid, a lunatic who was screaming he hated all women when we arrested him called William Piggott and a German man who threatened his friend with a knife called Charles Ludwig were all under arrest under suspicion of being the Ripper but we had to release them after somebody else killed Stride and Eddowes. That is by the by though, more importantly did you find any interesting items in Mrs Eddowes's things?" You think back to the large collection of items taken off the dead woman to try and recall if any particularly stood out. > You talk to Abberline about the expensive red cigarette case Abberline smiles and nods. "Exactly," he declares. "Mr Kelly told me he and Eddowes were so short on money they had to sell one of his old shirts and a pair of shoes. If Mrs Eddowes had no money how did she come into possession of an expensive cigarette case and find the money to get drunk the evening of her death? My theory is that the Ripper gave her this item and probably the money too. My theory is the Ripper meets his victims beforehand and gets to know them, build up a trust if you will before he kills them. Even now my guess is there are prostitutes out there who know his face, maybe even his name. These women are in great danger though, we must find him." Your good work has improved your Reputation with the police. > Abberline produces another letter "We have just received this postcard from the killer today," Abberline tells your and reads it: "I was not kidding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jack's work tomorrow, double event this time. Number one squealed a bit, couldn't finish straight off. Ha, not the time to get ears for police. Thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again. Jack the Ripper.' "I'm convinced it was written by the same man who wrote the earlier 'dear boss' letter promising to cut one of his victim's ears off as he did with Mrs Eddowes," Abberline tells you." This killer is toying with us and the bugger's enjoying himself." Abberline is interrupted by a Policeman bursting through the door into your study. "Sir they've found another body, this one right inside the grounds of Scotland Yard!" "But that's the third in three days!" Abberline exclaims looking thunderstruck. Your legs suddenly feel weak and you sink into a chair. > The three of you rush to Scotland Yard When you arrive at Scotland Yard you find yourself confronted by a real mystery: the decomposing torso of a woman has been found in one of the police headquarter's old vaults partly wrapped in paper. The limbs have been sawn off but otherwise all the organs remain inside. It is estimated by doctors the victim has been dead around two months and they do not think this is the work of the Ripper. Later the woman's arms are fished out of the Thames and strangely enough police doctors suggest they thinks the victim died of natural causes but can't explain why she was disposed of in this terrible manner. Inspector Abberline decides it must be some medical students playing a horrible prank. In the weeks following the double murder your investigation goes nowhere and still hundreds of letters, most allegedly written by the Ripper pour into Scotland Yard. Abberline sends you the most credible to read. One addressed to an unknown source reads says "You thought yourself very clever I reckon when you informed the police. But you made a mistake if you thought I didn't see you. Now I know you know me and I see your little game and I mean to finish you and send your ears to your wife. If you show this to the police or help them... if you do I will finish you. It's no use your trying to get out of my way because I have you when you don't expect it and I keep my word as you soon see and rip you up. Yours truly Jack the Ripper PS you see I know your address." The most chilling letter is sent to George Lusk, a prominent London resident who has personally offered a large reward for the killer's capture. The most chilling of all these letters is sent to George Lusk, a private citizen offering a generous reward for the capture of the Whitechapel killer. Accompanying the letter was half of a woman's kidney, kidneys being one of the many organs removed from Catherine Eddowes. The letter reads: "From Hell. Mr Lusk, sir. I send you half the kidney I took from one woman and preserved it for you, the other piece I fried and ate. It was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a while longer. Catch me if you can Mister Lusk." When Dr Openshaw, a Police Doctor, publishes his opinion that the kidney may have come from Catherine Eddowes he too received a letter from the Ripper. This one reads: "Old Boss you were right, it was the left kidney. I was going to operate again close to your hospital, just as I was going to draw my knife along her throat those coppers spoiled the game but I guess I will be on the job soon and will send you another bit of innerds. Jack the Ripper. O have you seen the devil with his microscope and scalpel looking at a kidney with a slide?" You are beginning to find yourself unable to sleep at night, knowing another lady's life hangs in the balance. Abberline is just as stressed, one week he has to travel up to Birmingham where a drunk called Alfred Blanchard claims to be the Ripper (several friends come forward providing alibis). Soon after two London men, William Bull and Benjamin Graham both claim to be Jack the Ripper as well and again Abberline has to waste his time interviewing them only for friends to clear them. One promising lead, a French criminal called John Langan, is found to have been in Boulogne at the time of the murders. > Inevitably the Ripper kills again and you are unable to stop him You are not prepared for the horrors you will witness today. You are eating lunch when a visibly shaken Policeman calls you from the window. Though it is nearly noon you know at once what has happened and hurry with him to Millers Court on Dorset Street. Several policemen are standing outside the ground floor door of one of the rooms. Incredibly though there are six experienced veteran Policemen on the scene not one of them is willing to enter the room. Two are sitting on the ground and one is actually crying, tears running uncontrollably down his face. As you approach the window you know it's going to be bad but you have no idea how bad. Whatever is lying on the bed in that room has not been killed. It has been obliterated. The shape lying on the bed is only vaguely recognizable as human. The face has been completed hacked apart and the chest torn open, emptied of it's organs which are scattered around the room. The bed and walls around it are drenched with blood. The only thing that has escaped destruction are the legs. A badly slashed left arm rests inside the open chest cavity. A full set of women's clothes are lying neatly folded on a chair near the bed. You have never even heard of one person doing this to another person before and now you have just seen it. It is little wonder the Policemen outside don't want to go into the bedroom. When the Police Doctor, Dr Bond, arrives even he looks stunned by the level of carnage. He declares he has treated train wreck and coal-fire victims but this is the worst he's ever seen. You're as brave as any other person but you've had enough. You can't deal with this. Returning home you sit in a chair and cry uncontrollably for forty-five minutes for this unknown woman you've been trying to save but couldn't. You manage to pull yourself together when Abberline arrives. The tough old Inspector looks sick. In robotic movements he draws out his notebook and opens it. "Mary Jane Kelly," he says flatly. "Twenty-five. Her friends say she was beautiful. Her partner is a Joseph Barnett. Witnesses Mrs Cox and Mr Hutchinson saw her with a man. Witness Mrs Prater heard someone cry out "murder". Witness Mrs Maxwell claims to have seen Mrs Kelly this morning though Dr Phillips is certain that she was killed in the night. These are the people I want you to talk to." "I'm out," you tell him. "I've had enough. We'll never catch him." "Yes we fucking will," Abberline says ferociously. "Because if we don't he'll never be punished. He'll just keep on killing and killing. You have to get out there and help me find this cunt. He's human. He'll make mistakes. If someone does enough bad then soon or later it will come back to get them, a criminal can't do anything against people who are in the right and who keep on after them. All they can do is run. Sooner or later we will catch up to him and when we do... he's dead." Gritting your teeth you set out once more. > You talk to Mary Kelly's partner Mr Barnett Joseph Barnett is a man of medium height, about thirty years old with a mustache. He clutching a bottle of ginger beer looking utterly destroyed when you find him sitting near the entrance of Miller's Court. "I've been with Mary for about a year," he tells you in a monotone. "She was born in Ireland but grew up in Wales. She had a husband before me but he died in a fire. I lost my job a little while back, I was a porter in the market, and Mary went back on the game... I left her after that. She was a good lass, beautiful and not an alcoholic but she knew how to drink. She had lots of friends and everyone liked her... I don't know why someone would do this to her. I can't understand it. I just can't." You thank Mr Barnett for his information > You talk to Witness Mrs Cox who saw the victim with a suspicious man Mrs Cox is a middle-aged widow with a pale, thin face and she tells you her story through tears. "I knew Mary well," she tells you. "Last night I headed to my home in Millers Court just before midnight to get something when I saw Mary walking ahead of me with a stout man in an overcoat. He was about 35 with a blotchy face, a mustache and was carrying a pint of beer. He led her to her room and said 'goodnight' and she said 'goodnight, I am going to sing.' Mary was very drunk and soon after I went to my room I could hear her singing the lament 'A violet for my mother's grave.' I went out again soon after and she was still singing... I got back in at three. At that time there was no sound or light coming from Mary's room. I went to bed, during the night I occasionally heard people going in and out of the Court but nothing to until the alarm was raised at lunchtime." You thank Mrs Cox for her information and move on. > You talk to Witness Mr Hutchinson who saw the victim with a suspicious man You find Mr Hutchinson, an unemployed labourer, at his home on Commercial Street where he has a very interesting story to tell. "At 2am I was walking down Flower and Dean Street when I saw Mary who I knew well enough," he tells you. "She said 'Mr Hutchinson can you lend me sixpence'. I told her I couldn't because I'd spent all my money visiting Romford that day. 'I must go and find some money,' Mary told me. She walked on past me and met a man who put his hand on her shoulder. He said something quietly to her that made her laugh and reply 'all right'. The man told her 'you will be alright for what I have told you." Hutchinson nods and smiles at your keen interest. "I was interested too, it was strange to see Mary with such a well-dressed man so I followed them towards Dorset Street. The man had a small parcel in his left hand. He had a mustache, dark hair, a hat pulled low over his eyes, a dark coat and a black neck tie. He wore a gold chain on his waistcoat and I would put his age at around 35. They walked to Miller's Court and stopped there talking for a bit. Mary said 'all right my dear, come along. You will be comfortable.' The man hugged Mary who kissed him before suddenly saying 'I've lost my handkerchief'. The man pulled a red one out of his pocket, gave it to her and they went into the Court." You stare at Hutchinson, mental alarm bells ringing. The man with Mary Kelly gave her a handkerchief! If you're investigations have taught you anything (and hopefully they have) it is that the killer you are hunting is in the habit of giving little gifts to his victims. You are a little surprised by the level of detail in Hutchinson's description, your guess is that he had more than a friendly interest in Mary Kelly which might be why he was keeping such a close eye on the well-dressed man who was with her. Thanking him for his information (which may be the most important you have heard yet) you head on. > You talk to Witness Mrs Prater who heard someone cry "murder" Mrs Prater, a middle-aged woman with a bad hangover, looks shell-shocked when you interview her outside Miller's Court. Her room is directly above Mary Kelly's. "I went in to bed at around 1.30am," she says quietly. "I passed Mary's room but heard nothing and saw no light. In the middle of the night, around 4am, I heard a woman's voice call out 'murder' once or twice, not as a scream as such but loud enough to be heard. I paid no attention because we often hear such cries in this neighborhood, also I was very tired. The next morning I went out at 5.30am for a drink, I saw no one and went back to bed until 11 when I got woken up by all the policemen outside Mary's room. I went down and looked in... I only looked for a second but if I live to be one hundred I'll never forget that sight." You understand exactly what she means > You talk to Witness Mrs Maxwell who claims to have seen the victim this morning You go to Mrs Maxwell's home on Dorset Street and find she is a practical and fast-talking woman. "I do not know the murdered woman well but I am certain that I saw her at 8.30am this morning," she tells you straight away. "She was leaning against a wall and told me she felt bad. I suggested she get a drink at the Britannia Pub, she told me she already had and pointed to a patch of vomit. I went into a shop and when I came back Mrs Kelly was talking to a man outside the pub. He was about thirty and dressed like a market porter. About an hour after that I'm sure I saw her inside the Britannia drinking with some people, that would be around 10am. "You are saying that you saw Mary Kelly alive and well an hour before her body was found and several hours after the Doctor said she died?" you ask to make sure. Mrs Maxwell nods. "I know how it must sound but I am sure it was the murdered woman. I had only spoken to her twice before but I am sure it was her. I have seen her around Millers Court for the last four months." You nod thoughtfully and thanking her for her time you move on. > You wrap up this investigation That afternoon you return to your home to await Inspector Abberline's inevitable visit. When he arrives a few days later he looks exhausted. "We're getting a lot of contradictory claims and wild theories about when Mrs Kelly was killed and even people claiming it wasn't her who was killed at all as because of the incredible amount of damage done to the body it's proving difficult to identify her. When do you think she was killed?" > You tell him Mary Kelly was killed in the night by a man she brought back to her room Inspector Abberline listens thoughtfully to your opinion and nods slowly. "I agree. I have spoken to this man Hutchinson and I think if any witness testimony we've heard yet is to be believed it is his, his description tallies very closely with the man PC Smith saw with Elizabeth Stride. Hutchinson mentioned the man gave Mrs Kelly a red handkerchief, it is likely he is the same man who I believe earned the trust of the other victims with little gifts including money. I think if we know what he looks like we are much closer to catching him. You have done good work here." Your Reputation with the police has improved. > It is time to take back control from the Ripper Inspector Abberline pulls out a cigar and lights it, the first time you have seen him smoke. Clearly the stress of this case is getting to him. "Let's look at what we know," he declares. "In the last three months this killer has murdered at least six prostitutes if we could Martha Tabram and eight if we include Emma Smith and the body fragments we found in Scotland Yard. We are no nearer to identifying him now that we were three months ago, our most reliable witnesses describe him as a dark-haired well-dressed man with a mustache around 35. He may carry a package with him that contains his knife. We know how he operates: he earns the trust of his victims with little gifts and money before going some place secluded with them, slitting his throat and killing them." Abberline suddenly throws the cigar to the floor in a flash of irritation. "God that tastes like shit. We know how the man works, we've got people who've seen him and heard him speak, god-damn it we've even got letters from the bastard! How the hell have we not caught him yet? We've been close. When that cabman found Elizabeth Stride's body the Ripper was there, hiding in that yard. When he killed Tabram (if that was him), when he killed Nichols and when he killed Chapman people heard him, but for an opened door, a glance out a window or a peek over a fence they would have seen him in the act! Still he eludes us. We've been going in the wrong direction perhaps. Let's look at our suspects." Calming down Abberline opens his notebook. "First there is James Kelly who killed his wife with a knife five years ago and escaped prison earlier this year. We raided his old home this morning and found no trace of him. Next we have all these men who have come forward claiming to be the Ripper, the latest was a drunk soldier called John Avery who we arrested yesterday after he claimed to be the Ripper. We've sentenced him to two weeks imprisonment for wasting police time and hopefully that will send a message." Abberline looks thoughtful. "I think it is time we approached this killer from another direction my friend. We will make a list of likely suspects and track each of them. If one of them is the Ripper there will be clues and signs, I imagine it's quite hard to be entirely normal in day to day life if you spend your nights cutting up women and taking their organs and whatnots. Together we'll come up with a list of suspects, you and I, and go after each and every one of them until we find our man. The Ripper's clever, he's ruthless and he's effective but we will catch him." You are about to begin the final and hardest part: the search for the one correct Ripper suspect out of many. With perception and persistence you WILL find him. Again you might want to save the game or take a short break at this point. > You know what to look for, now you have to find him After a week of working together you and Inspector Abberline manage to come up with a list of five possible Ripper suspects: James Kelly, Joseph Barnett, George Hutchinson, Alois Szemeredy and Dr Francis Tumblety. James Kelly is of course the man you unsuccessfully tried to track down after he escaped prison earlier this year after being incarcerated for killing his wife by stabbing her through the throat with a knife. Since escaping detectives in Liverpool he vanished are unknown though rumors put his current whereabouts in anywhere from London to France. Then there is Joseph Barnett, Mary Kelly's boyfriend. Abberline has actually put together a rather strong case on him: generally his apearrence tallies with various descriptions of the killer. Mary Kelly's room was locked from the inside, either the killer reached through the broken window next to the door to lock the door from the inside and took the key with him (a perfectly possible scenario) or Barnett used his own key to lock the door. Finally there were ginger beer bottles in Mary Kelly's room, in letters most likely to have been written by the Ripper he mentions keeping blood in ginger beer bottles. George Hutchinson, one of the witnesses who saw a suspicious man with Mary Kelly came to Abberline's attention as his description of the man with her seemed a little too detailed and it seems strange that he followed the pair of them around for some time. Abberline suspects if Hutchinson was the real killer then this was a ruse to throw you off the scent. Alois Szemeredy is an interesting man you learn about in police records. Twelve years ago in Buenos Aires, Argentina a prostitute called Carolina Metz had her throat cut by an unknown man. Szemeredy, a notorious thief and certified lunatic, was arrested on suspicion of murder but eventually acquitted after a long and closely-fought trial. Afterwar

ds he fled back to his native Hungary where he vanished again three years ago, Abberline has heard rumors that he may be in London now. Finally there is Dr Francis Tumblety. Tumblety is currently wanted by the London Police for "committing indecent acts with other men" (as Abberline diplomatically puts it). Tumblety has skipped bail and fled to France where he has booked passage on a ship back to his native America. Because Tumblety is an out-spoken woman-hater he is being tracked by Abberline's officers who want to question him in connection with the Ripper murders. You will have to move fast as all of these suspects are constantly on the move and in the cases of Kelly and Szemeredy you are not even sure of their current locations. It is up to you to consider who you want to investigate first. > Joseph Barnett With some reluctance you return to Millers Court to talk to Joseph Burnett only to learn from the landlord that Burnett has understandably moved out of his and Mary's old room. The landlord explains that Burnett just couldn't keep bring himself to live in the room where his girlfriend met such a horrible death. Unfortunately he did not leave a forwarding address and the landlord has no idea where he has gone now. Your efforts to locate him are unsuccessful. > Another attack You are still trying to trace your various suspects, all of whom have vanished, when you read in the newspapers that the Ripper may have struck again in a bizarre attack. A prostitute named Annie Farmer took an unknown man to her home where he promptly cut her in the throat with a knife and fled the scene. The cut itself is described as a mere graze and the article describes how arriving officers found Farmer hiding several gold coins in her mouth leading to them to conclude she robbed the man and faked the attack on herself. The incident bears few similarities to the Ripper's own horrific killings but if you want to investigate the papers do list Mrs Farmer's address in Spitalfields. > You look into this unusual case Traveling out to Spitalfields you find Annie Farmer's house and knock on the front door, it is opened by a nervous young woman who identifies herself as Mrs Hall, another resident of the house. "I heard everything," she tells you. "I sleep in another room and was woken by a yell. Running upstairs I saw Annie partly undressed and holding a bloodied rag to her throat. I asked if she knew her attacker and she said "yes, I was with him about twelve months ago and he hurt me then." She told me the man had a black mustache, dark clothes and she thought he was a saddler. He brought her drinks until she was drunk before she invited him to her home. He cut her a little in the throat and ran away yelling "what a cow!" Yes, it's true Annie had coins hidden in her mouth but she told me she didn't steal them." > This does not sound like a Ripper attack Soon after the Annie Farmer attack Inspector Abberline drops by. "We're not getting very far in our investigations," he admits to you. "Joseph Burnett and George Hutchinson have vanished into London, we can't find James Kelly or Alois Szemeredy and Francis Tumblety has escaped into some part of America. The one good piece of news is that the Ripper seems to have stopped killing. You heard about this Farmer woman's attack I suppose? That doesn't sound much like our man to me." Abberline scratches his head thoughtfully. "A new suspect has come to our attention though. We've picked up a young Polish Jew roaming the streets of London babbling incoherently in Yiddish. He became violent when we arrested him so we've transferred him to the lunatic asylum at Colney Hatch. We can't identify him so for now we're calling him David Cohen. There's nothing to prove he's the Ripper per se but he's definitely insane, somewhat violent and it's possible the depravity of his crimes have caused his mind to break altogether. In fact my superiors are leaning towards the likelihood that a lunatic such as this Cohen boy is responsible for these horrific crimes. You can go to Colney Hatch and talk to him if you like but I don't think you will get much sense of him." > You go to Colney Hatch to talk to this lunatic You travel to Colney Hatch and are shown into David Cohen's cell. He is a plain-looking young man in a straight jacket sitting in the corner babbling incoherently to himself. "Don't let him fool you," a guard warns. "He's a spiteful little sod. He'll lash out and scream without warning and we often have to put him in a straight jacket to stop him tearing his clothes off. He spits out food if we give it to him, tears down piping if he can and smashes windows. Don't get too close to him." Cohen completely ignores you the whole time you are there, muttering and hissing to himself endlessly and occasionally laughing. > Not getting anywhere here you go back home A month after Mary Kelly's death Inspector Abberline visits you looking worried. "We might have another murder on our hands," he tells you. "A prostitute called Rose Mylett has been found dead under suspicious circumstances. One of my officers found her body in a disused yard. She didn't have any injuries as such but our police doctors aren't sure if she died from natural causes or strangulation. We're pretty sure the Ripper's not behind this one but you might want to look into it anyway. We're still getting bombarded by suggestions and theories from the general public and as soon as news of this unfortunate death hits the papers we'll get a whole lot more." > You do some investigating into Rose Mylett's death Your investigation into Rose Mylett's death leads you to her house on George Street where you talk to her friend, the exotically-named Mr Ptolomey. "I saw Rosie around 8pm having an argument with two sailors yelling "no, no, no"," he tells you. "I saw her later at 3am with two different men, she looked very drunk. I heard the Police found her body just off the high street around 4am, they don't know if it was murder or natural causes or what. Rose was a pretty girl but she had a terrible fondness for drink. I don't know how her health was but she was drunk most nights." > This doesn't look like a Ripper crime to you The year ends with no more killings and all of London seems to breath a sigh of relief. It seems the Ripper has definitely moved onto other parts and now you and Abberline have the difficult job of tracking him down. After a few months Abberline visits your home with a new lead. "Officers in Dundee have just arrested a man called William Bury for killing his wife," Abberline tells you. "It seems he strangled her with some rope and then stabbed her repeatedly in the abdomen with a knife. That's not the clincher though: when police searched his home they found some childish chalk scribbles in the basement that read "Jack the Ripper lives in this cellar." I've done some digging and it seems Bury was living in London during the Ripper killings but moved up to Dundee soon after Mary Kelly's death. Bury's scheduled for trial and an execution looks likely so if you want to interview him you'd better set off for Dundee at once." > You go up to Dundee to talk to this suspect You journey up to Dundee in Scotland and arrange to see William Bury in his prison cell on the eve of his execution. He is a big bearded middle-aged man with a hard look about him. "I'm not the Ripper," he tells you as soon as you start asking questions. "But I never killed anybody except my wife... we had a fight when I was drunk and I got angry. A red mist came down and when it cleared she was lying there dead with that rope around her neck. I wasn't thinking clearly. I tried to cut her up with a knife but the blood coming out of her stomach made me feel sick. I went to the police and told them she'd hung herself but when they saw the knife wounds in her chest they knew the truth right away. I deserve to be killed I suppose but I wish to God I hadn't done what I did." Twenty-four hours later Bury is dead, hung by an ominously silent crowd. > You return to London Spring turns into summer and it is now nearly a year since the first of the Ripper murders. You know he is out there somewhere but where? William Bury is dead, executed in Scotland for his wife's murder. Joseph Barnett, George Hutchinson, James Kelly, Alois Szemeredy and Francis Tumblety remain elusive. David Cohen is still in Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, incoherent and insane. The Ripper could be one of these suspects or one you have yet to uncover. It is very, very frustrating. Then the killings begin again. The first is a prostitute called Emma Jackson whose dismembered body is fished out of the Thames one piece at a time. Newspapers speculate that her murder is another Ripper killing but you and Abberline agree it does not sound like his work. Then one morning while reading the papers you are stunned to read of another killing that sounds just like his earlier victims: a prostitute called Alice McKenzie has been brutally killed and mutilated. You read the article in a state of shock. It seems McKenzie's body was found in an alley by a patrolling policeman at 1am that morning. The unfortunate lady was killed by two stab wounds to the throat and several knife slashes were also made across her chest. Though it does differ in some ways from other Ripper murders (her throat being stabbed rather than slashed for instance) it does bring back vividly memories of your discovery of Mary Ann Nichols's body. You consider whether or not to investigate. > You look into this killing Finding Alice McKenzie's address listed in the article you make your way to her home in Spitalfields where you meet her partner, John McCormack, who is an old Irish labourer. He looks devastated. "She's been my girl for nigh on seven years now," he tells you. "She never did a bad thing in her life except smoke like a chimney when she thought I didn't know. It's all my fault she ended up where she did, I came home from work at 4 in the afternoon and gave her some money to pay the rent. She went out and spent the money on drink. She was drunk when she came back and we had a row about it. She went back out and said she'd get the money back one way or another..." McCormack sniffs and carries on. "I heard from friends she went back to a pub and carried on drinking. They last saw her around midnight hurrying down Whitechapel Road. They asked her if she was alright and she said "Yes, I can't stop now". They said she looked like she was late for some sort of appointment. She hurried off and... and... they found her body soon after that. What do I do now my girl is gone? In a few days London will lose interest in her murder but for me this is my life. It's fucked now." Offering your condolences the best you can you leave. > Is this another Ripper killing? Soon after Alice McKenzie's murder Inspector Abberline turns up unexpectedly one evening at your home. To your amazement there is a faint smell of whiskey about him and he is swaying slightly. "Sometimes I hate this city," he says wearily accepting your offer of a seat. "As a policeman you only see the worst of it, never the good. The day after this McKenzie woman was killed a man called William Brodie got drunk and told everyone in a pub he'd killed her and was Jack the Ripper. It's taken us three days to prove he's been in South Africa for the last year. Did you know we've found another body? This one hasn't even made the papers." Abberline pulls a hip-flask from his pocket, takes a gulp and replaces it. "We found a woman's torso under a bridge, we think it might be a missing prostitute called Lydia Hart. You know that's the third dismembered body we've found in the last year? We don't think it's the Ripper so that must mean there's another serial killer out there and we don't have a clue who either of them are. Where's Burnett? Where's Hutchinson? Where's Kelly, Szemeredy or Tumblety? I've just heard David Cohen's died in Colney Hatch from what the doctors are calling 'manic exhaustion'." Abberline forces himself to his feet. "Still, we've got to keep trying I suppose. We keep going, keep searching then eventually we must find the Ripper. We must. I found another suspect you might want to investigate, a man called Hyam Hyams. He's has been in and out of lunatic asylums in London since shortly after Mary Kelly's murder and doctors say he's an uncontrollable drunk. The other night he cut his mother in the head with an axe and stabbed his wife with a knife. We've certified him as insane and incarcerated him in Colney Hatch. Perhaps you'd like to talk to this charming fellow?" > You talk to this latest suspect Going up to Colney Hatch you are shown to Hyam Hyam's cell. He is a middle-aged man in a straight-jacket with grey hair and beard. "It's very nice to meet you," he says pleasantly. "How do you do?" "Be careful of him," the guard warns. "He is a dangerous maniac and he's already stabbed one warden in the neck with a piece of sharp steel. He covers the walls in filth and screams death threats to staff when the mania is on him, at other times like now he can be as nice as you could hope for." Hyams laughs pleasantly and shakes his head. When you try to talk to him further he just smiles, shakes his head and hums to himself. After five minutes of this you get the hint and leave. > Is this the Ripper? Time passes and still the Ripper remains as elusive as ever. Abberline drops by your home one morning, you are surprised to see his black hair is starting to turn grey. "Another suspect," he says unenthusiastically. "A man called Jacob Levy has just been sent to Colney Hatch. He's insane and possibly violent. He could be our man, who knows? Anything's possible." Even Abberline is starting to sound defeated by now. > You go to Colney Hatch and interview Levy Going to Colney Hatch you are shown to Jacob Levy's cell, which is quite close to Hyam Hyams's cell. Levy is a pitiful sight, a naked man with overgrown beard and hair crying uncontrollably throughout your visit before suddenly breaking into fits of laughter. It quickly becomes clear he is unable to answer any of your questions. > This is not getting you anywhere Later that year you read in the papers about an unusual double murder that has just occured in London. A woman called Mary Pearcey brutally slaughtered a rival called Phoebe Hogg and her eighteen-month-old baby with a poker and a knife. Arrested almost immediately what catches your attention is that Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of the Sherlock Holmes detective stories, has claimed he believes that Mary Pearcey is in fact Jack the Ripper, using her gender to lull her victims into a false sense of security. Mary Pearcey has been sentenced to death for her terrible crimes so if you want to talk to her you'd better move quickly. > You go to Mary Pearcey's prison and interview her You go over to Holloway Prison to talk to Mary Pearcey. You find her in her cell, a very strong-looking woman who is chanting softly to herself the same words over and over: "killing mice, killing mice, killing mice". She refuses to talk to you or acknowledge your presence at all and you examine her wondering if she is capable of inflicting the horrific injuries the Ripper did. The fact that all the witness sightings of the Ripper's victims describe them as being accompanied by men rather than women making it seem a bit unlikely she is the Ripper. > Days later Mary Pearcey is put to death After Mary Pearcey is executed at you continue your search for the Ripper. One morning you are flicking through a newspaper when you are stopped by a headline that screams RIPPER KILLS AGAIN! The article goes on to describe how a policeman was walking down Chamber Street at 2am when he found the body of a prostitute called Frances Coles lying on the ground. As the policemen knelt to examine her Coles suddenly opened her eyes and stared at him but couldn't speak because her throat had been slashed apart. Though the policemen heard a man's footsteps running away down a nearby street he tried to staunch Coles's wound rather than pursue the man but she died moments later. Apart from her slashed throat Coles had no other injuries but journalists covering the story are convinced her murder is the work of the Ripper. You frown wondering whether you should investigate for clues. > You look into this murder The article mentions that a man called James Saddler has already been arrested for Frances Coles's murder. Going to a local police station you find Saddler, a middle-aged Irishman with a bruised face. "Like I keep telling everyone I had nothing to do with that woman's death, I only met her two days ago," he insists to you. "We had been drinking all day and on the way back to my lodgings I got attacked by two thugs and robbed of all my money. I couldn't afford money for a bed so I went out again. I got into two more fights and I suppose I was in a pretty bad way when I booked myself into the London Hospital at 5am. The first I learned that Frances was dead was when those coppers came round and arrested me." Saddler sighs and shakes his head. "It couldn't have been me. Frances was with her friends until half hour before she was murdered. They said a man came up, a little man with a dark mustache and blue trousers who looked like a sailor. He was looking for some fun and when one of the girls turned him down her punched her. He spoke to Frances and she went with him. They walked off down White Street and that was the end of her. Her friends will clear me, they know it wasn't me." As it turns out Saddler is right, the testimony of Coles's friends help acquit him and he walks free. > Is this the work of the Ripper or just another prostitute killing in this rough town? Not long after Frances Coles's murder your is caught by an account of a newspaper article about another violent murder, this time across the Atlantic in New York. A prostitute called Carrie Brown checked into a hotel room with a man and was found the next morning strangled and mutilated. According to the doctors who examined her body she had been slashed and hacked savagely and it appeared that her killer had tried to remove her organs. The description of the man that checked in with Brown sounds familiar to you: around thirty years old with a light mustache, slim build, dark suit and hat. The article is light on details making you ponder. You know Dr Tumblety was last seen in America, though where he, Barnett, Hutchinson, Kelly or Szemeredy are now is anyone's guess. Jacob Levy has recently died of syphilis at Colney Hatch leaving Hyam Hyams your remaining suspect incarcerated there. Once more Inspector Abberline visits again, balding now and weary. "Another suspect," he tells you. "Thomas Cutbush. He's a medical student who has been certified insane after stabbing a woman with a knife in a fit of madness. He's being held in Broadmoor Hospital currently if you want you to go and talk to him there." > You talk to Cutbrush You go to Broadmoor where you are introduced to the medical student Thomas Cutbush. He is a fair-haired young man who sits in absolute silence, refusing to talk to you for the whole time you are there. "He's been catatonic since he arrived," a guard explains to you. "Never says a word." > Your suspects don't seem to be very talkative One evening Inspector Abberline pays his last visit to you. "He's beaten me," he says wearily. "I have no more idea who the Ripper is now that when we began this investigation. I've just announced my retirement, I'm handing the entire case over to you. The police are drawing a line under it, no one's investigating now. Out of our suspects Bury, Cohen, Levy and Pearcey are dead, Cutbrush and Hyams are in asylums and Burnett, Hutchinson, Kelly, Szemeredy and Tumblety are who knows where. It's all in your hands now but I am certain that if anyone can find and unmask this monster it is you." Determined not to let the man who snuffed out the lives of several women go unpunished you keep searching. Soon you read about a man called Frederick Deeming who has just been arrested in Australia for cutting his wife's throat and smashing her head in. What links the case to London is that the bodies of Deeming's first wife and there four young children are found rotting beneath the floorboards of a London house where Deeming lived prior to emigrating to Australia. Their throats had all been cut. Predictably the newspapers are full of speculation that Deeming is Jack the Ripper. You could travel to Australia and interview him but as he has already been sentenced to death you will have to go as fast as you can. > You go to Australia to interview Deeming Crossing the world by steamship you reach Deeming's prison cell in Melbourne on the eve of his execution and manage to secure an interview with him. The ruthless killer is a fierce and tough looking man who laughs loudly when you ask if he is the Ripper. "How could I have been?" he asks. "I was in Cape Town, South Africa mining diamonds out of the Transvaal the year those prostitutes were hacked up. I didn't get back to England until a year afterwards. Hang on, you don't reckon if I say I am the Ripper they'll stay my execution and send me to a new trial in England? It'd be nice to see the old girl one last time." Nothing comes of his idea: Deeming is executed the next day before a cheering crowd and you return to London. > So ends another suspect lead Your search for the Ripper unearths another suspect a few months after Deeming's execution when yet another serial killer is arrested in London. You read in the papers Dr Thomas Cream was arrested after poisoning and killing four prostitutes with strychnine over a six month period for his own enjoyment. It is later found he was also responsible for the poisoning murder of a man in Chicago in 1881. Again the papers are full of claims that Cream is the Ripper, though his method of killing with poison is far different than the Ripper's brutal slaughter of his victims with a knife. Still, when Cream is sentenced to death in Newgate Prison he is only a short way from where you live if you want to visit him. > You go and interview Cream Going to Newgate Prison you meet the murderous doctor in his cell. He is an amiable middle-aged man with a moustache and glasses who is amused by your suggestion that he is the notorious Whitechapel murder. "How could I be killing prostitutes in London in 1888 when I was serving a ten year sentence for murder in Missouri until 1891?" he asks with a smile and sighs. "I wish I had been Jack the Ripper. His killings were the sort of thing us medical fellow can appreciate, so skillfully done!" Cream dies unrepentant at the end of a noose soon after. > Another one bites the dust After searching for them for so long you finally begin to get some closure on your missing suspects Burnett, Hutchinson, Kelly, Szemeredy and Tumblety. You learn from police reports that Alois Szemeredy has surfaced in Hungary. After committing a series of burglaries, one of which resulted in him beating a shopkeeper to death, Szemeredy is finally tracked down and arrested. As he is taken into custody he produces a hidden razor blade and cuts his own throat, bleeding to death before help can arrive. Whatever secrets he might harbour go to the grave with him. It is not so with Dr Francis Tumblety, who to your excitement finally surfaces in the town of Rochester in New York where he is practicing medicine and giving newspaper interviews insulting the London Police and ridiculing claims that he is Jack the Ripper. Now you have finally found him your first thought is to go to America and interview this important suspect at once in case he slips away again. > You travel across the Atlantic to interview Tumblety You book passage on a liner across the Atlantic and within months you are standing in Dr Francis Tumblety's house. The doctor is a man of medium height with graying hair, a mustache and wears a suit. When he shakes your hand you notice three cheap brass rings on his fingers which look strangely out of place alongside his gold watch chain and diamond stickpin. Weirdly various organs float in glass jars of alcohol on different tables behind him. He sees you looking at them and smiles. "That's just my collection of wombs," he says as if wombs are normal household decorations. "Anyway you say you are from London? I have no idea why the London Police considered me a suspect in these Whitechapel killings. They hadn't one single piece of evidence against me. I have never done a single human being any harm and there are many I have helped. Though I don't care much for women personally but I have often helped many of them out of difficulty. I am no woman hater, in fact there are some parts of them I rather admire." He smiles benignly, playing with the three cheap brass rings on his fingers as he does so. > Slightly unnerved by this strange man you return to London One morning out of the blue you are surprised to receive a note inviting you to visit Scotland Yard. Once you arrive you are led into the office of Chief Constable Melville Macnaghten, a rising star in the force despite only having joined the police recently. He shakes your hand briefly and invites you to sit down. "I understand you have continued to investigate the Ripper Case even though everyone else seems to have given up on it," he tells you looking pleased. "I understand you have some suspects but I want to see this investigation concluded and have found some suspects of my own I'd like you to investigate to see if we can bring a case against them. There is a lawyer called Montague Druitt who drowned himself the month after Mary Kelly was killed, a highly suspicious coincidence eh? There is a Polish Jew called Aaron Kosminski who was certified insane soon after Mrs Kelly's murder, I consider him a likely suspect as well. Finally there is a mad Russian Doctor called Michael Ostrog who was in London at the time of the murders. I would be very glad if you could investigate these suspects for me and report back your findings." Your attempts to get him to listen to who you consider the most likely Jack the Ripper suspect is politely ignored. > You investigate the background of Montague Druitt You look into the case of the lawyer Montague Druitt who drowned himself on the last day of 1888. You quickly discover that at the times Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman were being murdered Druitt was playing cricket and when Stride and Eddowes were killed when he was in Cornwall. The only murder that occurred while he was in London was that of Mary Kelly. Following these discoveries you turn your attention elsewhere. > You investigate Aaron Kosminski A search into the background of Aaron Kosminski reveals he is still alive and living in a lunatic asylum. You visit him there and find he can't speak any English except "hello" and "bye bye" and seems to have the mind of a child. He seems quite peacefully content and weaves a wicker basket the whole time you are there while his guards cheerfully inform you he is never any trouble at all. He doesn't seem like Ripper-worthy material to you. > You investigate Michael Ostrog Your search into the background of Michael Ostrog reveals he isn't quite the "mad Russian doctor" Macnaghten apparently believes he is but rather a fairly unsuccessful criminal who has been in and out of prison ceaselessly for petty burglary charges. Though he has a history of insanity his records show he was serving time in prison for the theft of a metal cup at the time of all the Ripper Murders. It doesn't seem likely at all that he is the Ripper. > You wrap up your final investigation When you return to Scotland Yard and tell Chief Constable Macnaghten that you have not found any credible proof linking his suspects to the Ripper Killings he looks unhappy. "Each to his own opinion I suppose," he says grumpily. You tell him your own theory about who you think the Ripper is most likely to be but Macnaghten just shrugs and tells you it's a nice theory. You are frustrated by his lack of support but there is nothing you can do. After so many years of research it seems the Police are unwilling to help you catch the Ripper at long last. You feel utterly failed by the London Metropolitan Police. Despite your frustration with the lack of support you continue to watch for Ripper-related news. In 1894 a man called Carl Feigenbaum slashes the neck of his landlady in New York and is promptly arrested. His lawyer claims he is Jack the Ripper soon after his client's execution but there is no real evidence to prove it one way or the other. Far more interesting is another article that you read with a jolt: the murderer James Kelly who you have hunted since the start of your career has walked into the British Consul in New Orleans in America and offered to surrender himself and return to prison in England after eight years on the loose. Immediately your first thought is to go and meet him. > You interview Kelly when he returns to England You take a train up to Liverpool and weeks later you finally meet the man you have hunted for so long. James Kelly is a handsome man with a mustache who greets you with a handshake. As you stare into the killer's face you become uncomfortably aware that you are the only person who has come to meet him when his ship from America docked, no police officers or officials are on the scene presumably because Kelly's ship has arrived a day early. Kelly has noticed this too and sighs. "I guess they're not that interested in me after all," he says. When you eagerly ask him about the Ripper murders Kelly just smiles. "I was in London at the time but I didn't kill anyone," he replies. "In December I went to France and then America. I guess if no one is here to meet me I'll just take a walk. It was nice meeting you." Kelly shakes your hand and that is that, the pair of you part ways once more. By the time the police show up the next day the killer has vanished once more. > One last suspect The years pass by slowly, after arresting officers missed him in Liverpool James Kelly continues to elude capture. You never do find Joseph Burnett or George Hutchinson. Thomas Cutbush, Hyam Hyams and Aaron Kosminski remain in asylums, Michael Ostrog remains in prison following further thefts. Dr Francis Tumblety remains at large in America. Finally, fifteen years after the Ripper murders, one last suspect emerges. A Polish man called George Chapman is arrested on suspicion of poisoning and killing his three previous wives. He is found guilty of the murders and sentenced to hang, it quickly emerges in the papers that as a young man he lived in London during the time of the Ripper Murders. The shop where he worked was just opposite the George Yard buildings where Martha Tabram's body was found. Inspector Abberline, by now in his 60's and looking quite healthy now he is free from the stress of his job, drops by your home brandishing the article. "Well, they've caught Jack the Ripper at last," he tells you happily. "I'm sure this is the man we struggled so hard to catch fifteen years ago." Though you are not a young man yourself anymore you consider making one last trip up to Wandsworth Prison to interview Chapman before his execution. > You go and talk to your last suspect Going to Wandsworth Prison you meet George Chapman. He is a ruthless looking man with dark eyes and a mustache. He looks quite capable of the three murders he has been convicted of. When you ask him about the Jack the Ripper murders he says nothing, he simply faces you with blank eyes and a cold smile. Feeling glad he is to be executed soon you return to your home. > Time to close this case Soon after George Chapman's execution, you are invited to the office of Private Investigator John Littlechild and he looks excited. "Sir, I have just come from a meeting with Chief Constable McNaghten, former Inspector Abberline and the Home Secretary and together we have decided to act on the evidence you have been gathering on the identity of the man behind the Whitechapel murders, the killer known as Jack the Ripper. If you can supply us with enough evidence me and my private team of Detectives will act on it to arrest the person you name." This is the moment you have been waiting for! You run your list of suspects through your head to decide on the one you think is most likely to be the killer. So, who is Jack the Ripper? > Joseph Barnett Joseph Barnett could have been Jack the Ripper. Eagerly you explain your theory to Inspector Littlechild, that Barnett may have started killing prostitutes with increasing savagery to discourage his girlfriend Mary Kelly from entering that particular line of work. When she did not change her ways he slaughtered her with unimaginable savagery. His apearrence matches many eyewitness descriptions but Inspector Littlechild is quick to point out the main problem. "We don't have any proof whether this theory is correct or not," he says unhappily. "No one has seen Barnett for fifteen years and we are unlikely to find him now." You are forced to concede that this is true. > You settle with this one You are disappointed that your hunt for Jack the Ripper could not have ended more satisfactorily. As the years pass you find yourself interviewed ceaselessly by journalists fascinated with the mystery of Jack the Ripper. The killer's victims, mother of four Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman who battled terminal illness in her struggle to survive, Elizabeth Stride, who once ran a successful coffee shop, Catherine Eddowes, who battled alcoholism while trying to hold a relationship together and Mary Jane Kelly, a beautiful and social party girl, are all but forgotten while towering over them is the killer whose name has become synonymous with brutality and mystery: Jack the Ripper. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. > If for some reason you want to know more about your research and thoughts on Jack the Ripper click here For my research in writing this story I mainly used casebook.org, a one-stop world about Jack the Ripper. It is no wonder Jack the Ripper remained uncaught as the police at the time were awful. They believed the Ripper was literally a foaming-at-the-mouth madman and because they were anti-Semitic they guessed he was probably Jewish too, hence "the mad Jew" theory that crops up in police documents like the Macnaghten Memorandum. Frederick Abberline was probably the best of a bad bunch while I think the later detective John Littlechild was on the right track too. Since the Victorian era literally hundreds of books have been written naming possible Ripper suspects. Though anyone who was in London and alive at the time could be a suspect I think there is something in believing that the Ripper could have been a known serial killer like George Chapman. Strong cases have been made for non-killers, books like Miriam Rivett's and Mark Whitehead's Jack the Ripper (naming suspect Joseph Barnett) and Donald Rumbelow's The Complete Jack the Ripper (naming suspect Francis Tumblety) particularly stand out. Though Tumblety is the most likely of all the suspects to my mind it's certain the mystery of who Jack the Ripper was will never be solved. I have included sixteen suspects in this book but there are literally hundreds including artist Walter Sickert, Lewis Carroll (who wrote Alice in Wonderland), Thomas Bernardo (founder of Bernardo's children's homes) and of course members of the Royal Family who usually get blamed by someone when bad things like car crashes and mad cow disease happens. One thing I don't like is that while killers like the Ripper, Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer have become celebrities their victims are forgotten. All of the Ripper's victims left behind families who had to cope with the pain. They were trapped in a cycle of alcoholism and prostitution, if you go to the red light district in Soho, London (as me and my friends sometimes would in our uni days, purely for research purposes of course) you will see things have not really changed much since the Ripper's time except it's drugs rather thank drink that fuel the sex trade now. In dark worlds like this it's easy for modern-day serial killers to operate anonymously in the shadows just as the Ripper did. If you're still reading by this point either you're very polite or have become interested in Jack the Ripper, if you have your own theories I'd enjoy hearing them.

[Themes: mystery / thriller, serious] You are a Private Detective living in Victorian London. Crimes are common and you are frequently called upon to assist the policemen in Scotland Yard. You have been a Detective for a few years now and by combining hard work with intelligence you have had a few successes in uncovering the information that has enabled the Police to arrest wanted criminals. This has earned you a good Reputation but you must be careful not to lose it: if you do Scotland Yard will no longer trust you to help them. One evening you are at home when Commissioner James Monro, an experienced Policeman, visits you. "We would like your help again," he tells you. "A lunatic murderer called James Kelly escaped from Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane ten days ago. My detectives have investigated and found no trace of him. Perhaps if you look into the case you might be able to find something?" What do you do? > You turn down this case You are not interested in trying to find Kelly and turn the case down. Two months later two policemen visit your home introducing themselves as Constables Wildey and Dillworth. "A lady called Ada Wilson has been stabbed in her home in Mile End" Dillworth tells you. "She is in hospital in a serious condition but hopefully she'll pull through. My colleague and I have been tasked with finding the assailant and Commissioner Monro recommended we talk to you. Would you be willing to help us?"[Themes: modern, drama, true story, horror, serious, western] I'm sorry, Jane, that I wasn't older, stronger and wiser when we met. You were a brief illumination in my otherwise bleak existence. I know now that the circumstances were out of our hands and that you would want me to be happy, but I've lived with this guilt for so long. I need to share you with everyone... [Author's Note: After his best and only friend's brutal death, a seven-year-old boy sets out across the country hell-bent on fulfilling her dream. Along the way, he must overcome his deficiencies—both real and imagined—to assuage his own pain and guilt. Winner of the 2018 EPIC Contest! Thanks to everyone for pushing me throughout the contest so I could actually finish something for a change—especially the other contestants who were both helpful and competitive. And thanks to BradinDvorak for help with CSS.] > Into the past... You haven't eaten anything since early this morning and the walls of your stomach are grinding together. You have to get your mind off of it somehow and the water fountain on the far wall beckons to you. You've been on the road for days and it feels like the better part of it has been planted in this seat—even though you've only been here for the last couple of hours. The skin on your back and the backs of your bare legs rip free of the hard plastic seat as you stand and your flip-flops slap and smack your heels as you plod across the room. You freeze midway when you see a cowboy roping a calf from horseback. It's the most wonderful thing you've seen for days even if it is only a poster. And it's not the only one! Scanning the room you see many, many more of far off magical places with waterfalls and cliffs and mountains and dark caverns. Some of cityscapes with towering buildings and some at night with only the lights on and still more of endless rolling plains. From somewhere behind you, you hear a garbled voice fighting it's way through crackling static, droning on and on about things that only old people care about. You zero in on the source and discover that it is a tiny coin operated radio affixed to the arm of a terminal seat. Neat! Just then a clammy hand clamps down on the back of your neck and you're whisked toward the double glass doors. "It's time to go, mister," comes the all too familiar voice of your mom and she only releases her grip—with a surprise thrust that causes you to whack your shin on the bottom step—to allow you to clamber up and into the bus on your own. A shiver runs down your spine and the back of your arms prickle as you make your way down the aisle between tall and comfy-looking seats. You're not used to air conditioning and it brings both pain and relief. You pass by an elderly couple. The woman looks up and smiles at you warmly so you give her a wide berth. You doubt that she would, being a stranger and all, but you sure don't want her squeezing your cheek like Grandma does. You're nudged into the row behind them and you take the farthest seat. Your mother sits beside you and puts the bag with everything the two of you own at her feet. Her lips are pursed and her eyes drawn. She's been tired every day since the divorce and when she gets tired, she gets mad. You have a hard time even recognizing her now. A hiss and a lurch later, the bus pulls out onto the highway and with your face plastered to the side window you watch as the fence posts strobe past with only the occasional bush or sapling breaking the pattern. "There's a storm coming," remarks the old man to his wife, "and it looks to be a bad 'un." "Mm-hmm," she replies absently, not bothering to look up from her needlepoint. Your eyes drift upward from the fence to a draw on the horizon and there the sky is beginning to boil and bristle with blue-white sparks. You can't shake the feeling that you are at the very beginning of the greatest adventure—and worst nightmare—of your life. After only a mile or two, the droning of the engine and the rhythmic beat of its tires thumping over the seams in the concrete soothes you to sleep and you sleep the whole rest of the way. You are shaken from a pleasant dream of opening Christmas presents with your parents to stumble and trip over your feet as you're dragged toward the front of the bus. It pulls over, dumping the two of you out on a deserted street. You know it's only your reflection, but the ghastly and pale boy is all you can make out in the store window before you. It brightens and fades, brightens and fades with each pulse of the stoplight on the corner. You take a step backward and the wind from the bus pushes you forward as it pulls away. "You tryin' to get yourself run over?" Your mother cups the back of your head and shoves you toward the boy with hollow eye-sockets, "Get over there and sit down against the wall." You do as your told, although you can't help but look up at the glass expecting him to be standing there looking down at you. An eternity goes by with your mom standing slumped against a signpost and staring off into the night. Your butt burns as the bones chew their way to the cement. You rock slowly from one side to the other to relieve the pain and she flashes her eyes at you. You melt. "Sit there and don't move," she barks as she leaps toward the flashing light. A car has stopped at the corner and she waves her arms as she sprints toward it. It begins to pull away, but stops short and the window tentatively rolls down. You can't make out her words, but there's happiness in your mother's voice again as she crouches there with her elbows propped against the car door. Maybe she's not mad anymore. You stretch your legs out as far as you can and wiggle your toes. She stands as the car pulls away and turns toward you. You can't see her face, but there's no mad in her walk now. You let out a long breath in relief. "C'mon, I've found us a place to sleep tonight," she beams snatching up the bag, "and tomorrow I start job huntin'. We're gonna do jus' fine you an' me. You wait an' see." She wraps her arm around your shoulders and the two of you skip off around the corner and into the crisp night air. You sit with your shoulders slumped, dragging your feet in a circle as the swing's chains lazily wind and unwind and then wind up again. You've already walked around the park twice and sat on everything here so now all you can do is wait. "You wait here an' watch our stuff," your mom had told you, "I've got a lot to do today an', with any luck, things'll be a whole lot better from now on. And don't you leave the park! You hear me? I'll be back as quick as I can." Your stomach grumbles. The two half-crushed cheese and peanut butter crackers your mom gave you before she left didn't do much to satisfy it. At least the gnawing emptiness is gone. You hear a squeal and giggles so you look up. Some little kids are playing in the dirt at the bottom of the slide as if it were a sandbox. A dozen steps away from them sits a plump woman with her nose in a book. You survey the park for other signs of life and spot a group about your age. Three boys in a circle around a dark-haired girl. They're pushing her back and forth between them like some demented form of 'Hot Potato'. "Where do you think you're going?" jeers the fat one. "Yeah, you ain't goin' nowhere you little bastard," cracks the snotty runt. "Let me go!" she hisses, "Leave me alone!" The tallest of the three quakes from head to toe and nearly loses his breath in a fit of really annoying breathy laughter as he shoves her back toward the other two. The girl turns beet red from anger and lashes out with flailing, non-connecting slaps which only seems to feed the boys' hysterical laughter. You have the sudden urge to attack them, but that might be a little hasty. Perhaps you should find some other way. > You wade into 'em "Leave her alone!" you command as you trot over to them with more brass than you really possess, "You like picking on little girls?" Their shock fades instantly when they see you and Chortle begins to jiggle. They either aren't that impressed by you in the slightest or they're extremely good at hiding it. Chortle grapples the girl as Tubby strides up to you, heeled closely by Snots. You suddenly feel smaller and more helpless than at any other time in your life, but you refuse to show any sign of it. "Who are you?!" demands Snots. "Is this your little girlfriend?" jeers Tubby, "Have you come to rescue her?" You feel your face flush red, but not from embarrassment. You are livid! "Look here, this guy's here to save his bastard girlfriend," spits Snots. You lunge forward and Tubby grabs you in a meaty "bear hug", but not before you put your fist in Snots' mouth. He falls back in horror with a tooth dangling below his upper lip and starts tearing up. Tubby swings you around in an arc and falls on you with every ounce of his weight knocking the wind completely out of you. You struggle against his massive frame, kicking and thrashing, but there is no escape. It'd take a bulldozer to move this tub o' guts. He crawls upward and pins your arms with his fat legs and starts drilling your forehead with his meaty finger. "Wanna be a tough guy, huh?" The girl manages to land one of her backward kicks and Chortle falls like a sack of potatoes, screaming in agony as his face goes purple. She turns and darts between two houses on the far side of the street. "Get her," wheezes Chortle, "Get that little bastard!" Snots runs to his aid and tries to pull him to his feet between sobs, but can't muster the strength. Chortle is in no condition to stand just yet anyhow. Tubby turns back to you and pounds a couple of stinging blows to the side of your face, then smooshes your head into the soft earth as he hoists his lard back to his feet and saunters over to his friends. You roll onto your belly, push yourself up and limp away in the other direction. Looking over your shoulder to make sure the trio aren't watching, you dash between houses and start making your way back toward where the girl went through. The alley is shrouded by trees arching overhead and you make your way to the end of it. Seeing no sign of her, you cut through to the next street. Still nothing. She's long gone. You suddenly remember the bag tucked under the picnic table that you were supposed to be watching. If something happened to it, you'll be in big trouble. You sprint like the devil is after you. A hedge claws up your arms and face as you dart through it, which you barely even notice. Turning down the alley, a dark figure steps out from behind the corner of the hedge directly in your path. Your mouth goes all coppery and dry, and you skid to a stop. You're all set to flee when you realize that it's the girl from before. She looks sheepish and a bit winded, but no worse for wear. She hangs her head, but her eyes remain fixed on yours. As you cautiously approach her, you detect the faint hint of a smile. "Hi," she barely more than whispers. "Are you okay?" you ask. "Yeah. They didn't hurt me." "You sure hurt that one." She chuckles. "Who were them boys?" "Just some boys from school. They always pick on me." "How come?" "Just 'cause. They've always been like that." "What's your name?" you ask, scrunching your toes and noticing how dirty they've gotten. "Jane. What's yours?" "Billy. We just moved here." "Where's your house?" "We don't have one yet." "Oh," she says, turning her gaze to the side, then back to you. "My house is on Hill Road." "I don't know where that is. We just got here last night. We came in on the bus." "It's over there," she points over your shoulder, "on the edge of town. C'mon. I'll show you." "I can't right now. I have to watch our stuff so Mom can find a job." "Oh." After a pause, she asks "What grade are you in?" "I'll be in Second this year." "Me too. Maybe we can sit together." The very suggestion makes you feel queasy and uncomfortable. "I better get back before she comes back," you say stepping past her. "Okay. See ya later." "See ya later." You cut between two houses following their shared ribbon driveway. As you get to the front, you peek down the street and see that the gang is gone. The park is empty now with no one in sight. You cross the street and see that the bag is still right where it's supposed to be. You climb the cement picnic table and plop down on top of it with your feet on the bench. All you can do now is wait. > The Way Things Were "What happened to you?" your mom asks from out of nowhere making you jump. You stand up and whirl around making eye contact before looking down at your arms and legs. "I got scratched up going through the bushes." "What bushes?" she says squinting, "There aren't any in the park that I can see." You squirm, knowing full well what is about to happen. "Over there in the alley," you mutter, pointing. Snatching you by the hair and ramming your face into hers, "I thought I told you to wait in the park!" she hisses through clenched teeth. "An' I hadn't even noticed the scratches. I was talking about your face!" Your eyes start to tear up and your lower lip begins to quiver. "A big boy hit me." "You've been fighting?" she demands, "Why were you fighting? Why can't you even go one single day without getting into trouble? What do I have to do to make you listen to me an' use that head of yours for something other than a hat rack? Huh?!", accentuating every other word with a jerk of your hair. "An' stop your damned blubbering or I'll give you something to really cry about," she says through her teeth as she gives you a couple of thrusts even more violent than before. You slam your eyes shut and grit your teeth in an attempt to stifle the involuntary spasms. "Ugh!" she roars in disgust, flinging you prone on top of the picnic table. "Now get over there an' sit down! It's time to eat." She unrolls a paper bag and slams down a small boat of shriveled, dried up shrimp and a larger one half full of crispy fries (the small ones that no one wants and are generally tossed out instead of being served to customers). You begin to pick at them one by one, but your hunger soon takes over and you start to cram them into your mouth by the handful. "Slow down. They're all yours. I had mine already on the way back," she says in a more pleasant tone. "I got a job today. I had to sweep the parking lot of the café I'll be working at to pay for this an' I'll be waitressing starting tomorrow. An' I got us a place to stay, too. Another waitress I'll be working with is gonna let us stay in her garage until I can get back on my feet. An' she's gonna give us cots to sleep on for a change." You look up at her as you pop the last shrimp in your mouth and she smiles at you. You can't help but smile back. "Time to get going, mister," she beams, snatching the bag from under the table. "I wanna be there when she gets home an' see what we can do to help her out around the place. We're not gonna be bums." "Why don't you go out back an' play while I talk to Honey," says your mom, "An' don't leave the yard." It is a tidy house with a neatly trimmed yard. A small flower garden runs the length of the sidewalk connecting the kitchen door at the back of the house to the one on the side of the garage. Beyond it, there are white painted, metal lawn chairs and set squarely between the house and a row of short evergreens marking the property line stands a wooden swing set. You walk around for a few minutes and, finding nothing at all to do, flop into one of the swings where you spend the next few hours. You can't hear their words, but can see through the kitchen window how much fun your mom is having laughing and talking with her new friend. It makes you both happy and a little sad. She hasn't laughed like that with you for a long, long time. You really miss the old days. > Unexpected Visitor You pull the freshly baked muffin out of the Tupperware bowl that Honey had brought over for your breakfast when she and your mom had left for work, absently weighing it in your hands while you try to think of something to while away the hours until they return. "I'll be home before dark. Stay here," your mom had said, "I don't want to have to go looking for you after working all day an' I'm warning you now you'd better not get into any trouble." You're only a little bit hungry right now so you decide you'd better save it for when you get really hungry later. You put the muffin back in the bowl and snap the lid closed. You are startled by a knock on the door. No one knows you are here. You creep over to the door and try to peek through the gap between the edge of the window frame and the dark vinyl curtain, but can't see anything. Imagining the worst, you pick up a small spade from a wooden tote and wield it like a knife. If whoever it is kicks the door down, maybe you'll be able to get in a jab. "Billy?" comes a familiar whisper. You drop the spade back in the tote and open the door. Jane is wearing cut-offs and flip-flops just like you, but she's also wearing a yellowed, button-up shirt that's much too large for her, tied at the waist. "How'd you know I was here," you ask, a little confused. "I followed you here from the park yesterday." "You did?" "Yeah. I saw that lady pull your hair. Is that your mom?" "Uh huh," you say looking down at your feet, "she gets like that when she's tired." "My momma does that to me, too. Gramma says I have to love her and be patient, but I still don't like her." You try to think of something to say, but can't. All you can do is stare at her. Finally, she breaks the silence. "Wanna go get a pop? I got a quarter from the change jar. We can share it," she grins at you. "Okay. We gotta hurry, though. I'm not s'posed to go anywhere." "It won't take long. The store's only a couple blocks from here." Ten minutes later, the two of you are on the sidewalk staring at the vending machine in front of Fredrick's grocery. Jane plunks her quarter into the slot and whips open the door on the side. "Pick one," she says. You lean in and squint at the selection and then tentatively say "I like root beer." "Me too! It's my favorite!" she exclaims as she grips the bottle's neck and yanks it free—allowing another to roll in to take its place. Then, gripping the bottle with both hands, she pokes it into the rectangular hole and pops the cap off without even spilling one single drop. She then presents it to you saying "You're my guest so you get the first sip." You grin from ear to ear. On the way back to your house she informs you "I've lived here my whole life. I can show you all the neat places and all the places to stay away from. There's not a whole lot." "That's how I was at my old house before my mom and dad got divorced," you say, handing the bottle back to her. Jane doesn't respond, but stops you short by sticking her arm out in front of your chest. She's staring intently down the street and you follow her gaze. The three boys from yesterday are crossing a block ahead of you. "We better go the long way 'round," she says, "I'll show you where my house is." > The Secret Place "That's my house," Jane says, pointing to a ramshackle place covered in old and warped wood siding with peeling paint. The yard is waist high in grass and weeds with a worn path leading up to a sagging corner porch that looks like it could collapse at any moment. "C'mon, I'll show you." You follow her up the path and onto the porch. The boards creak and moan under your feet. You hold the screen door open while she heaves against the heavy entry door sagging on its hinges with her shoulder to unstick it from its jamb and shoves with all her weight to plow it open. "My momma's not home right now," she says, stepping inside "but that's okay. I can have friends over if I want to." You follow her in. By what little sunlight filters in, you can tell that the inside isn't much better than the outside. The filthy carpeting is littered in bits of trash and the furniture is piled high with wadded clothing. The air is a stale mixture of cigarette smoke and vomit. You manage to quell your gag reflex by taking shallow breaths in through your mouth. She watches you for a minute or two as you look around and says "It's just a house." After another minute she says "Okay, let's go." You help her drag the door closed and are stepping off the porch when she suddenly stops and says "Wait. There's something else I wanna show you." You pause and then follow her around the corner of the house, watching carefully for snakes in the tall grass. "This is my 'secret place'," she whispers, "Nobody knows about it. Not even Momma." Bending down, she pulls the grate loose from the foundation and slides it partway to the side, then slips through into a dark crawlspace. "C'mon," she says over her shoulder, "It's cool in here." You follow her inside and can barely make out anything other than her. She has turned around and now sits facing you. You hear a rattle of bottles as she puts the now empty one with some others. Gradually, you're able to see a little more, but nothing in detail. "This is the 'change jar'," she announces, holding something out in front of her, "I keep all the money Gramma gives me in it and what I get for all the bottles I find and take back." Picking something else up she says in a hushed and mysterious voice "This is my treasure chest. It's where I keep all my important stuff." Your eyes finally adjust to the dim light and you can see she's cradling a cigar box tied with a ribbon as she crawls past you to the opening. "Here, I'll show you." She begins pulling the contents out one by one and handling them gingerly. "This is me and Gramma when I was little," holding out a yellowed Polaroid of a grim-faced woman holding the hand of a toddler, "and this is when I went to her house when momma went to the hospital," showing you a slightly fresher one that's probably only a couple years old, at most. There are several more and all with the same grim-faced woman standing with Jane, holding her hand. There are several black-and-white postcards with scenes from various parks and tourist attractions. Each one is addressed to Jane and tells what a wonderful time her Gramma is having and signed 'Love Gramma'. Then there are a few fancy buttons and ribbons and such things that in all likelihood have sentimental value known only to her. You smile and nod as she excitedly tells you about every detail. The most interesting to you are the pictures on the post cards. They pull at something primal inside of you and you feel a strange longing to see many of the places for yourself. After she has quieted down a bit you say "I don't have anything important anymore. We lost everything we had moving around so much and now we have to start all over." Jane's expression grows dark and she only looks at you without saying anything for the longest time which makes you very uncomfortable. Finally, she looks away and changes the subject "I sleep in here at night sometimes. I have my covers in that burlap sack over there." "You sleep in here? How come? Ain't you afraid of snakes and spiders and stuff?" Jane just shakes her head. She gently places her treasure chest back in its place and says "The boys are probably long gone by now so we can go back to your house." You crawl out behind her and she puts the grate back in place. The two of you walk in silence and you can't figure out for the life of you why she'd ever sleep under her house instead of inside it. > Wishes and Secrets When you get back to Honey's house, the first thing you do is run into the garage and grab your muffin. It's almost dinnertime now and your stomach has started to complain. You tear it in two as carefully as you can and say "Here," handing Jane the slightly larger half, "It's all I have so we'll have to share it." "Fahnk mhu," Jane says through a mouthful, beaming at you, as she tears into her half like a wild animal that hasn't eaten in days. After inhaling your half, you wipe your hands on your cut-offs. Jane smirks and wipes her hands off on your shorts, too. You jump back in shock and she tackles you—straddling you and instantly pinning your wrists down above your head. You are caught completely by surprise! This is the first time she's been physical with you and you aren't exactly sure how to react. You decide to play along by feigning escape. She giggles maniacally and pushes your head back down with her own. You stare into her wild eyes as you wriggle about and her shrieks of excitement grow louder and louder. Her eyes are the color of new grass and despite her current playfulness, reveal that she is much older than her years. Her hair is long and oily black and shimmers blue in the sun. For the first time you notice how beautiful she is. Through squeals and giggles she begins pecking kisses all over your face. The more you pretend to struggle the more she seems to enjoy it. Her expression suddenly changes to one of extreme seriousness and her eyes narrow. She dives in and gives you a big smacking smooch right on the cheek. You freeze for an instant before rolling out from under her and dashing around the swing set—keeping it between you and her as some kind of protective barrier. Every time she darts one way, you go the other and her shrill laughter only increases. She chases you all around the yard in a one-sided game of tag. You are quite a bit faster than she is so you can easily stay out of her reach. She really seems to enjoy the pursuit and she's unwilling to give up her quarry. Eventually, things settle down some and the two of you sit in the swings where you manage to catch your breath. She's still smiling devilishly at you so you keep your guard up and watch her warily from the corner of your eye. "When's your mom coming home?" Jane asks. "'Bout dark, I think." "Wanna go get another pop?" "Sure." "We'll have to return the bottles 'cause I'm all out of quarters. If you'll carry half of 'em, we can take all of 'em down." "Okay." After nearly running the whole way there, you two are puffing as you crawl through the hole into the damp coolness of the 'secret place'. "I need a rest," she pants, dragging the plump burlap sack out between the two of you. She flops over onto it and stretches her legs out, crossing her ankles. "Me, too," you say, rolling over and laying your head down beside hers, stretching your legs out in the opposite direction. The warmth of her ear and cheek are comforting to you as you stare up into the darkness trying to make out the floorboards. Her steady, rapid breathing gradually slows and your eyes start to glaze over. You haven't had an afternoon nap since you were in kindergarten, but you are beginning to see their appeal. Jane finally breaks the silence in a soothing tone, "Gramma has a giant photo book filled with pictures of all kinds of neat places she's been to from all over the country. My favorite ones are from her honeymoon to the Grand Canyon. She was just a girl back then—even younger than Momma." "It looks like mountains," she says, "but it's not. It's a big hole in the ground a mile deep. It's so big that you can't even see the other side! I'm gonna go there when I grow up. I'm gonna see everything in Gramma's book for myself." Even in the dark and with your eyes closed you can feel the smile on her face, but it's short-lived and her voice becomes a hoarse whisper, "I wish I could live someplace else. Momma hates me. Gramma told me that Momma was in love with a boy that didn't love her back. That's why I don't have a Daddy and why Momma couldn't even look at me when I first got borned. The doctor named me Jane 'cause that's what they call girls when they don't know their name." The feeling you had of drowsiness has completely and utterly faded now. You haven't felt this much sadness since the last time you saw your dad—driving away from the courthouse in his pickup truck and not looking back. "C'mon," Jane says, sitting bolt upright, "let's change in them bottles." > Mr. Freddy Jane spills her armload on the front counter by the cash register. After she's righted all of them, she starts pulling them two at a time from yours. "You've got quite a number this time, little lady," says a gruff heavy-set man, smiling. "You're gonna run me clear out of money if you keep on like this." Jane shoots him a wide toothy grin. "Let's see now. Nineteen bottles at three cents apiece... That comes to fifty-seven cents. Does that sound right to you?" "Sounds right to me," Jane beams back at him, "Can I get it in quarters so we can buy pops?" "Sure thing. Let me just put 'em in the crates and then I'll get you your money," he says, stepping from behind the counter and walking over to stacks in front of the big plate window in front. While his back is to her, Jane snatches a Moon Pie from the impulse buy rack and slips it into the fold of her tied shirt. Stepping toward her, you whisper "You shouldn't do that. What if he catches you?" You glance over to see if the man noticed and, sure enough, you see that he's watching her in the convex mirror hanging up front in the corner. Before you can say anything, he's already back at the register and putting the bottles in the crates he's brought back with him. You're shaking like a leaf and expect him to drop the hammer at any second, but all he does is smile at you knowingly and wink. He turns toward the register, pushes a button to release the tray, and slips several coins into his other hand. "Here you go, little lady," he says, dropping the stack into her open palm. "That's fifty-seven cents. You'd better count it to make sure it's all there." "Thanks!" she says, poking the coins deep into her pocket. "By the way, when's the last time you ate something? I've made up a few too many sandwiches in the back and it looks like you two might be just the ones to help me get rid of 'em. Whaddaya say?" You grin from ear to ear and nod vigorously. Jane's face turns red as she looks off to the side and squeaks "Thank you, Mr. Freddy." "C'mon, let's get at 'em then," he says, flashing his eyes at the two of you while clicking the drawer closed on the register. On the way to the back, he grabs three small cartons of milk from their refrigerated case without breaking his stride—with you right on his heels. Jane is a reluctant half-step behind. When you reach the meat counter, he steps behind it and pulls up a white butcher paper package from underneath. He opens it revealing three ham and cheese sandwiches stacked high with lettuce, tomato and pickles and proceeds to cut them corner to corner, then fans them out on the paper sheet. "Dig in," he says, opening the milk cartons and handing you each one, "There's more'n plenty to go around." While you're eating, he bugs his eyes out at you and makes goofy looking faces. You can't help but laugh at his antics and Jane spews milk from her nose once. Mr. Freddy has picked up a broom and is sweeping up behind the meat counter by the time the two of you have had your fill. He seems particularly interested in the dark corner beneath the bench that holds his slicer, grinder and saw. "Thank you, Mr. Freddy." "Thank you, sir," you say. "You're quite welcome," he tells you both without looking up or turning around as you're heading toward the front of the store a step behind Jane. When you get to the register, Jane pulls the Moon Pie out of her shirt and puts it back in the rack without looking back. You couldn't be more pleased. You look back toward Mr. Freddy, but he's still bent over behind the meat counter and doesn't see. Once outside, Jane fishes out a quarter, drops it in the slot, and pulls out another root beer. You are too full to even think about drinking any of it and, on the way back to your house, take only tiny sips before passing it back to her. You're sitting in the shade of the garage on the opposite side as the house, staring vacantly at the overgrown lot crowding in on the neatly trimmed edge of Honey's yard. "You wanna come with me and Gramma to see the Grand Canyon when I grow up?" asks Jane out of the blue, hugging her knees to her chin. "Uh huh. Okay." "We can take Gramma's truck and drive the whole way there. She said I can have it when I grow up 'cause she'll be too old to drive it by then. I know how to drive it, she lets me drive it on the farm road when I'm at her house. She has to push the pedals for me, though, 'cause I can't reach 'em. I'll teach you how and then we can take turns. She's got a big camper on the back for sleepin' in, but we always sleep in the house on the big bed 'cause she's got tired ol' bones and she needs her rest." "We need to make up a map of all the different places," you say, excitedly, "And we can stop at bus stations to find even more. The one we stopped at had posters from all kinds of places. I want to go see them places too." Jane looks over at you and smiles. For the next little bit, the two of you talk about the various places that you know about. The whole idea of adventure really appeals to you and you're probably even more excited than she is about it. Every time you look over at her, she's staring back at you through glassy eyes that say more than words ever could. Jane notices Honey's car pulling into the driveway before you do. She leaps to her feet and says, "I better go so you don't get in trouble. See ya tomorrow," she throws over her shoulder as she heads toward the back, carefully keeping the garage between her and the driveway. "See ya later," you holler to her as you watch her dash off between the evergreens and disappear down the alley. You walk around the back of the garage to greet your mom when she gets out of the car, but just as you round the corner another car pulls in behind Honey's. You duck back and peek around to see two scraggly looking men get out. Honey walks over to one of them. He throws his arm around her waist and pulls her to him. The other walks up beside your mom and leans back against the trunk of the car next to her. You stay hidden until they've all gone inside and then you go sit on the swings and watch them through the kitchen window. They are laughing and you see them drinking beers and passing a cigarette back and forth. You didn't even know your mom smoked! You watch her go sit on the man's lap like she used to with your dad and kiss him every now and then. Maybe he's her boyfriend now. It's good that she has friends again. Maybe she will be okay. > You find something to do There's nothing to do and you've been sitting here so long that your butt has fallen asleep. You need to do something—anything—, but what? You get up and begin taking a stroll around the yard. You turn over a couple of rocks at the edge of the flower bed and pluck a stiff, dry grass stem to herd the pill bugs you find crawling around under them. You usher them first one way and then another before it grows tiresome and you replace their stone shelter. Standing up, you wipe your hands off on your cutoffs and walk around some surveying the area. There is absolutely nothing here for a boy to do. You sure aren't interested in looking at flowers even if they come with their own bugs. When you get to the edge of the front yard, you turn down the street and pace back and forth the half a block between Honey's house and the lamp post on the corner. It doesn't take long for this to get very, very old. You hear a buzz overhead and look up to see the light beginning to flicker to life. Already, there is a swarm of mosquitoes and a moth flitting around it. You study the sky and see that it will still be hours until nightfall. You're not sleepy yet, but might as well head back anyway. > You head for bed You go into the garage and flip on the bulb. You flop down on your cot and lay there staring up through the ceiling joists at the shadowy undersides of the boards above the rafters. In the swirls and squiggles of their grain and knots, you make out tiny little faces—each with their own unique expressions. It's a gift you've had since before you can remember that has served no other purpose other than to make you feel not quite so alone all the time. "Wake up sleepyhead," your mom says, shaking you. You slit your eyes open and stretch your arms as far back over your head as they'll go. "Here's a dollar so you can buy your lunch at the grocery store," your mom says, dropping the bill on your chest. "It's three blocks that way," she points in the direction of Fredrick's, not knowing that you've already been there. "Make sure you come straight home, okay? Today's payday, but I got a few dollars in tips yesterday so we'll spend that so we don't eat up all of Honey's food." You try to blink the sleep away. "Are we getting a house when you get paid?" "I'll probably start looking for one in the morning, but I don't think I'll have quite enough yet. We might be here for a little while." You look over at the garage's bare wall studs and can see spots where light seeps through. You sure hope you don't still live in here in the wintertime, because it might get really, really cold. "I'm going out dancing tonight after work. I probably won't be in 'til late so you be in by dark. I'll be here when you wake up." "Okay." "Oh! an' before I forget, Honey left you some bananas for your breakfast. They're in the sack by the door. I'll see you when I get home." And with that, she's out the door. A couple minutes later, you swing your feet over the side and slide them into your flip-flops. Standing, you stretch one last time as you lurch stiff-legged toward the door, grabbing the sack on your way out. As you round the corner to Jane's house, she bolts out of the front door and hop-skips over to you. She grabs your hand and drags you toward her house. "Hurry up!" she says, nearly yanking your arm out of its socket, "I made something for you." She practically dives through the hole into the "secret place" and you scurry in behind her wondering what all her excitement is about. She flips open the "treasure chest" and hands you a folded up sheet of notebook paper. As you're looking at it a little confused, "It's a card, open it up!" she demands. You carefully flip it open. Inside are the words "Bestist Frend" drawn with a careful hand in crayon and signed "Jane". "See?" she asks, "I made it the color of our eyes, blue and green!" "Nobody ever gave me a card before," you say, looking back and forth from it to a beaming Jane, smiling. "My pleasure!" "Ain't never had a best friend before, neither." You barely even manage to get the words out before she throws her arms around your neck, hugging the daylights out of you, and kisses you right on the mouth! This time you don't pull away because you know it's out of happiness. When she finally lets go, you say "Better put it back in the 'treasure chest' to keep it safe." "Okay." While she's carefully arranging everything in her collection, you remember the sack and say "I've got bananas for breakfast. Want one?" Her face lights up and, nodding, she shuffles forward on her knees over to you. You snap the one off of the bunch that doesn't have any soft, brown spots and hand it to her. You've been walking around and talking for a couple of hours, not having any specific destination in mind when Jane says "Wanna go see the school? It's closed up for Summer right now, but I know where Second Grade is. I can show you." "Yeah, okay." A couple of blocks later, you're cutting through a corner gas station when a display rack just inside the door catches your eye. "They got maps here," you say, pivoting toward the door. Jane holds up and then reluctantly follows you in. You're slowly spinning the display carousel, trying to discern the meaning of all the different shapes and colors when a lanky, bearded man in oil-stained coveralls and wiping his hands on a greasy rag steps in through the side door from the garage. "What are you kids doing in here?" he says, a little too gruff. "I-I'm l-looking for a m-map to the Grand Canyon," you stammer. "There ain't no Arizona maps in there," he says, pushing you to the side and taking control of the display. "It might be in the Central and Western U.S. road map, here," handing you one. On the top corner, you see "25¢" printed in the center of a circle and you debate buying it out of the dollar you have shoved in your pocket. "What do you want it for, anyway?" he asks. "I w-wanna s-study how to get there for when I'm growed up, 'cause me and Jane are gonna go see it someday." He furrows his brow looking the dirty pair of you up and down and finally says, snatching the map from your hands and returning it to the display, "Wait here. I think I have an old one in my glove compartment that I'll just give you. I need a new one anyway." When he's out of earshot, Jane gets right up close to your ear and whispers "He came home with Momma one time. He's not nice." "Whaddaya mean?" Jane only shrugs and looks away. The man comes back with a folded, tattered map and hands it to you. "There you go, son. I don't expect I'll need one for a while so I'll just get a new one when I do." You reluctantly take it and say "Thank you", but it worries you not knowing what Jane meant. You turn and follow her as she steps quickly outside. Before you stands a long red brick building surrounded by a native stone wall with a built in sag between sturdy pillars. "That's the school," says Jane, "C'mon I'll show you the Second grade. It's on the other side right next to the playground." You follow her around the end of the building and see a half-dozen children a few years older than yourself lazing around in a chain-link yard. Jane freezes. "Hello," comes a sweet womanly voice from behind you, making both of you jump. "You two aren't here for Summer School, are you?" "Nope," you say, "I don't even go to this school yet. I just moved here." "I was gonna show him the Second grade," says Jane. "You go right ahead." Jane grabs your hand and pulls you toward a long set of windows. "That's it right there," she says, pointing. Cupping your hands to the side of your face, you peer through the glass and see rows of small desks, blackboards and the large teacher's desk. It looks basically the same as your First Grade classroom did last year. "If you two want to eat with us, you can," says the woman from behind you. "I brought plenty of sack lunches to go around." You and Jane swap glances, then you both nod in unison and say "okay" with giant grins on your faces. You turn around to see that she's holding out a small paper sack with its top neatly folded down to each of you. The two of you sit with your backs against the school building while you devour your bologna with mustard sandwiches, carrot sticks and an apple half. The other kids have their lunches sitting on whatever playground equipment they happen to be on when the nice lady delivers their sacks to them. > It Begins You wander around town for a while and end up back at the secret spot. The two of you are scrutinizing over the faded and torn map and begin planning your route. "Here it is! The Grand Canyon is almost straight across and only a little down," you say. The two of you trace roads with your fingers trying to find the most direct route and puzzling out all the different town names. When you've grown weary of it, you have Jane put it in the treasure chest. You remember the dollar bill in your pocket. "Mom gave me a dollar to buy lunch with," you say as you dig it out and slick it down across your leg to try to get all the wrinkles out of it before handing it to Jane. "Probably better put it in the change jar so it don't get lost and we can buy something to eat with it later." She smiles at you and carefully folds it before dropping it in with the rest of her money. "Wanna go get a pop?" "Sure," you say. Jane fishes one of the quarters out of the jar and the two of you are on your way. Half a root beer later, you find yourself at the park just idly swaying back and forth on the swings. The place is deserted due to the afternoon heat and you try not to let the dark, rusty chains touch your sides because it nearly takes the hide off whenever they do. "Back before the divorce, Dad used to borrow the Tompkin's boat and take us to the lake on hot days like this. We'd go fishin' until it got too hot and then we'd cook whatever fish we caught back at the campground. Dad would clean 'em, mostly, but he showed me where to cut. He just wouldn't let me hold the knife by myself because I might get a bad cut. And then when it got too hot we went swimming in the lake." "I can't swim," Jane says. "I can teach you—it's real easy. Is there a lake anywhere around here?" "No. Just the swimmin' pool over on Broad Street. It costs a dollar to go in and you have to have a bathing suit. They don't allow no cut-offs." You pass the time idly and soon discover that the street lights have come to life. The shadows under the trees have become full black. "I didn't know it was so late," Jane says, "we gotta get home so we don't get in trouble." "Mom isn't coming home tonight so I

'll be there all by myself." "Wanna spend the night at my house?" "I better not. She's supposed to be back in the morning." "Well, you can come over for a little while. Momma never comes home on the weekend and it's always boring with nothing to do." "Okay." You follow Jane up the front steps of her house and stop at the wide open door. Every time before now it has been closed. You hear a woman cough from the blackness within and see a tiny orange ball of light swing in an arc and bounce off of something, exploding in a shower of sparks. "Shit!" the voice says, and then a lamp flips on and you see a ragged, dark haired lady wearing a thin white cotton dress that's twisted halfway around her middle sitting spraddle-legged in the recliner in the far corner. Jane opens the screen door and takes a small step inside. A drunken slur whips out like a pistol shot, "Why are you so late?!" It's obvious by the tone that she doesn't care about an answer. "I was playing at the park with my new friend—" A flat pint bottle whistles past your heads and shatters on the porch column. "Don't give me that shit! I've had it with you! If you get the cops out here again, you'll regret it!" she spits venomously. "I wouldn't do—" Jane starts apologetically as the woman springs from her chair like a cat, snatching her by the arm and starts waling on her in a flurry of slaps. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" you scream, hitting the woman at the waist and grappling with all your strength, trying to force them apart. She flicks you away like an insect, but loosens her grasp just long enough for Jane to slip free. Screaming in half terror, half frustration, Jane flies out the door and into the dark street. You dodge around the crazy lady who doesn't give you a second glance as she steps out onto the porch in pursuit of Jane. She stops at the edge, clutching the column to keep from falling on her face, and screams "You better run you little bitch!" You run out into the dark street in the direction you think Jane went and have gone more than a block when you decide she must've gone a different way. Now you've done it. You can feel someone or some thing watching you and you're pretty sure it isn't Jane. You're about to turn around when you hear sobbing up ahead. To your relief, you find her crumpled in the grass between the sidewalk and the street. She's pounding her fists and half squealing, half moaning in her rage. You crouch beside her, putting your hand on her shoulder and she looks up at you through swollen, tear-filled eyes. "Are you alright?" you ask. She opens her mouth to say something, but can't seem to form the words so she ends up just nodding. "C'mon. You can stay at my house tonight. I'll tell Mom what happened when she gets home in the morning. It'll be okay," you say, helping her to her feet. Jane shakes her head and says between hitches "Not there. With her. She might come back early." You walk with your arm around her for a few minutes, half carrying her as she regains herself and somehow end up in a dark alley. You hold on to her a bit more tightly than before. Her warmth and presence is enough that you feel safe. About halfway down the alley, Jane grabs your hand and pulls you through a leaning gate—held up somewhat by its bottom hinge which is only still barely attached—toward an eerie and desolate looking, boarded up house. "C'mon," she says, "I know the way in." "W-wait. What if something's in there? What if someone catches us?" "Don't worry. No one ever comes here. This place is 'bandoned." There are strange dark shapes crouched in the high, unkempt grass that you really hope are only bushes. You look up at the attic vent and can feel eyes peering back at you from the pitch black gaps between the louvers. "Here," Jane says, stopping cold and pivots you around on legs that desire to keep moving. She swings a section of plywood to the side exposing a window. "Go on in. I'll hold it open for you." "I don't like this," you say looking over your shoulder toward the front of the house. "C'mon. Ain't nothin' to be afraid of," she says, hiking a foot up on the windowsill and slithers her way through. After another cautious survey, you grip the windowsill on either side and hoist yourself up and through into a darkened and vacant dining room. Overhead hangs a chandelier—the only thing in the whole room. "See? Told ya," she says, throwing her arms wide in presentation, "There's not even any furniture." You creep softly past her to the door to the front room and look from side to side. Light filters in through cracks in the boarded up front windows from the street-lamps somewhere outside. Jane plops down with her back against the wall. "I think I'll stay here tonight. I sure ain't goin' home." "Come home with me," you try again, sliding down beside her, "Everything will be better tomorrow. I'll make a pallet on the floor and you can sleep on my cot." "Nope," she says, shaking her head, "I don't like your mom." "She won't do anything to you. She only gets mad at me sometimes—not all the time. She never does anything to anyone else." Jane shakes her head and you can tell by the look on her face that she means it. "I'll just stay here with you then," you say. Jane frowns at you. "You'll get in trouble." "I don't care. You're my friend and I won't leave you here all by yourself." Jane smiles and clutches your hand in hers, folding her fingers around yours and scoots tight up against you. She lays her head on your shoulder and lets out a long, slow sigh of relief. "I'm happy you're my friend," Jane says wistfully as she drifts off to sleep. You softly lean your head against hers as her breaths deepen and slow. > No Haven You've only just drifted off when a booming man's voice jars you awake and you very nearly leap out of your skin. "What are you doing in there? Come out of there, you two," he commands, piercing your eyes with his flashlight beam. You stagger to your feet and help a groggy Jane to hers. You saunter over to the window and help steady Jane as she picks her way through. "Oh, it's you again. You shouldn't be in there. This place is falling apart and you could get hurt." "We were just exploring," pleads Jane, "weren't hurting anything." "Looked like you were sleeping to me." "We just took a little nap is all 'cause we got tired." The man grabs you by the arm to steady you as you hop down to the ground. He's wearing a dark uniform and you see a shiny tin shield pinned to his left breast pocket. "How many times have I told you to stay out of places like this, young lady? Maybe I should take you to the station and let you sit in a cell overnight to let you think about it. Maybe then you'll listen when an adult tells you not to do something." Turning toward you, he says "I don't believe I know you, do I?" "N-no, sir. I-I just moved here," you say, trembling. "Well, let me tell you that we take a mighty dim view on breaking and entering and trespassing around here. You look old enough to me to know that if something doesn't belong to you you should just leave it alone." "Y-yes s-sir." Your eyes begin to well up. You've never met a police officer before and now he's about to arrest you and throw you in jail. Jane stands there, rigid and glaring. She seems so strong and defiant—something you could never hope to be—looking as if she could attack at any moment. After a couple minutes that seem more like hours, he says "Now you two get on home right now and don't let me catch you around here again or I will take you in. You understand?" "Y-yes sir," you say, backpedaling before he can change his mind. You take a couple of steps backward, but Jane only stands there, boring holes in the officer. You snatch her by the hand and drag her along with you. Her gaze remains fixed on him until he's completely out of sight. "What were you trying to do, get arrested?" you ask. "He don't scare me none," Jane fumes. You take your sweet time, wandering along first in the direction of your house one minute and then Jane's the next not really wishing to end up at either place. Somehow you reach the railroad tracks on the edge of town and the two of you absently turn and follow them. You look warily over the dark embankment not knowing what may be lying in wait in the undergrowth just waiting to pounce. You wouldn't even be able to hear it the way the gravel is crunching beneath your feet. You take a half-step closer to Jane. Even though it doesn't help all that much since she's not as big as you you somehow feel that there's safety in numbers. You reach the edge of town and the wide spot that passes as a railroad staging yard. The street lights are behind you and everything here seems somehow darker even though your eyes have adjusted more to the lack of light. There's a short string of boxcars on the side track and the shadows under and between them are completely black. If there was someone or something hiding in them, you wouldn't be able to see it until it was too late. Jane doesn't appear to be bothered by this even one little bit. While you're busy keeping an eye out for movement, Jane steps up to the side of the second boxcar where its door is open a couple of feet—jumps up, pokes her head in and cranes her neck from side to side trying to glimpse what might be inside. You step beside her and shield your eyes with your hands from errant light and can't make out anything but more blackness. "Boost me up," she says, lifting her leg and holding her foot out to you. "I don't think we should." "Don't be such a fraidy cat. There's no one around." You grab her foot with both hands and hoist her up. She's as light as a feather. "C'mon." After double-checking to make sure there's nothing that will grab you from underneath the car, you plant your hands on the floor and jump up, but it's still a little too high to throw your leg over. You try again jumping with all you have and still no dice. On the third attempt, Jane grabs you under the arm and heaves just enough that you manage to hang your foot. You can feel yourself sliding back out and under the car, but she snatches you behind the neck and you strain against her hands gaining just enough leverage to make it up. The two of you shuffle your way toward the end of the car where you find a few scattered and crushed cardboard barrels. You step around them and make your way toward the corner where you hear Jane slide down the side wall on the same side as the door and you turn and seat yourself against the end so that you are facing the door. "When Momma drinks she gets mean. She's not always like that. Mostly she acts like I'm not even there." "My mom's starting to get like that. She spends all her time over at Honey's house and now she's got a new boyfriend." "Your mom will never be as bad as mine. She doesn't hate you." "Maybe, but things keep getting worse instead of better." It's too dark to see Jane's face, but you can tell she's staring at you. It makes you a little uncomfortable. "Maybe we should just leave and go somewhere," Jane finally says, "Maybe we could live at Gramma's house. She's really nice." "I'm not sure." You lean your head back and think about what it would be like without your mom. You've never been away from her for long. It's a little scary, but also a little exciting. You'd get to be with Jane. That's also exciting and scary at the same time, too. While you ponder all of this, you drift off to sleep. > Unexpected Journey You are jostled awake, but the rhythmic clacking and gentle, soothing rocking makes it difficult to keep your eyes open. Slowly, you begin to drift back toward dreamland when you come to a sudden and horrific realization and your eyes pop wide open. "We're moving!" Jane moans softly in her sleep. Goose-pimples peak the length of your arm and the tiny hairs on the back of your neck come to attention. You reach out toward her sleep sounds and your hand finds Jane's cheek with more force than you'd intended. She bolts upright, swinging and lands a hard slap to the side of your head. "We're moving," you repeat, cradling your ear, "The train's moving!" She jumps up and the two of you stumble over the debris as you dash for the partly open door. Outside, the ground whizzes by at breakneck speed. You can barely even make it out as it passes by in the darkness. There is no way you'd be able to jump out at this speed—especially when you can't see where you might land. "We're stuck here," says Jane, "We'll just have to wait 'til we stop to get off." "How will we find our way back?" "We'll just follow the train tracks. They go straight back to town." "Yeah..." you say, staring blankly toward the horizon—seeing the land zip by faster and faster in your imagination as it rapidly approaches a blur. You return to the front of the car and sit back down next to Jane. With each passing clack, you know that you are getting farther from home and deeper in dutch with your mom. There's no telling what she'll do to you this time when you get back. "My mom is going to be really mad when she finds out I'm not in the garage," you say. "We should just keep going and find somebody nice to live with. Gramma doesn't have a phone, but maybe we might could find her house." "I don't know. What if she doesn't like me? What if we can't find someone who likes both of us?" "Then we'll keep looking 'til we do." You lay your head down next to Jane and think about what she said. You've never been away from your mom before. What if everyone turns out to be just like her? You can feel the vibrations through the wood in your teeth. It feels really weird. You wake up and the car is still once more. Maybe it was just a dream. You reach out your hand in the darkness, find Jane's shoulder and gently shake her awake. "Are we stopped?" she groggily asks. "Yeah. We should probably get off the train in case it starts moving again." You stand up and help Jane stagger to her feet. Looking out the door, you see the street-lamps on the wrong side of the track. The diesel engine drones idly in the distance and you can see a rhythmic flashing light coming from that direction, but it's too far away to make out more than that. You hop down onto the crunching gravel and quickly make your way into a stand of trees that are silhouetted against the predawn sky. You sit there until the train resumes its journey and see the sun peek out above the horizon. When you're sure that the coast is clear, you make your way in the opposite direction that the train was headed. A short distance down the tracks you find a similar looking yard to the one you'd left last night. A line of metal buildings that serve the railroad runs along the street of whatever town you're in now and the two of you rattle doorknobs in hopes that you'll find one unlocked. They are all locked up tight. You resume your trek. A few blocks down, you come to a crossing and see a highway sign a short distance away. You see the numbers 281 printed in big block letters inside of a white shield. If only you had your map with you, you might be able to figure out where you are and how far away you are from your home. The sun is at your back and your shadows stretch into nothingness ahead of you. Jane carefully steps on every cross tie as she walks along while you step on every other one with your other foot on the rail—matching her stride for stride—which makes you appear to have a bad and pronounced limp. Your foot slips every now and again on the rail's dew covered surface. "I don't like Momma's boyfriends. Sometimes they're mean to her and sometimes they're mean to me." "Your Mom has boyfriends?" "Yeah, lots of 'em. Every time she goes out and gets drunk, she gets another one. Sometimes it's the same one, but not always." "Why does she have so many?" "She has to. Kids cost a lot and it's the only way she can make money. Each one only gives her a little money and sometimes they give her stuff when they don't have any money. I wish she could find a job like your mom has. Nobody wants to give her a job, though." "Why do they give her money if they are mean to her?" Jane shrugs. "Because she needs it, I guess." "Why are they mean to you?" "Nobody likes a bastard. It's just the way it is." "What's a bastard?" "Somebody that doesn't have a dad." "I don't have a dad anymore, either." "But you had one so you're not a bastard. It's only kids that never had one." "Oh." You've walked in silence for quite some time when you come upon an iron trestle bridge that spans a wide, muddy river and just beyond it you see a lineman's shack. The cross ties are wider spaced across the bridge and you aren't really looking forward to crossing it, but there's no way around it that you can see. "I need to pee," says Jane. "Me too," you say, relieved that you can put off crossing the bridge for a few minutes at least. The two of you step just into the trees, find a spot where the other won't be able to see and do your business. "Hi girly," croaks a hoarse, grating voice, "What're you doin' out here all by yerself? Er you lost?" You nearly jump out of your skin. You can't see the speaker, nor Jane. "Ahhh!" Jane screams, "Let go of me!" You sprint through the underbrush toward the sound of her cry and stumble out behind a wiry and hunched over, dirty looking man who has Jane caught by the arm. You run up and kick out as hard as you can as he's turning around to see what the commotion is. "Let her go!" you shriek, connecting with his shin. He momentarily loses his footing and Jane falls away from his grasp. You snatch her by the hand as she stumbles to her feet and the two of you race off deeper into the woods. After a few minutes, you both stop—bent over to catch your breath—and hear no sign of the scruffy old man in pursuit. You head back in the direction you think the tracks are in, but at an angle and—after trudging through the underbrush for quite some time—discover that you are in fact hopelessly lost. Mosquitoes swarm all around you and it's impossible to wave them off. Your hair drips with sweat and trickles the fine dust that covers your face into your eyes causing them to swell and burn. Your arms and legs are covered in swollen bumps from hundreds of itchy bites and the underbrush you've been plowing your way through has left tiny cuts and scrapes everywhere your skin is exposed. Both of you are a mess. > Surprise Guests You've been walking for what seems to be hours without sight of the tracks or the river when the sky starts to darken overhead. You look up to find menacing looking clouds fringed on the edges with lightning. You quicken your pace and just then the heavens decide to open up. The wind nearly knocks you off your feet and the rain scours your skin. Soaked to the skin and shaking like a leaf, you step out into a clearing where way out in the middle of it, you spy a quonset-style barn that's open at the ends. The two of you drag yourselves over to it with lightning striking all around, accompanied by instant and deafening thunderclaps. You feel extremely vulnerable out in the open like this, but you have to get out of this sweeping rain. Inside you find that it's stacked high on both sides with bales of bright green hay. You squeeze your way between the front wall and the stack and find that there is a short and narrow crawlspace behind that runs the length of the building. The bales are stacked at a slight angle which makes a narrow shelf at the top of each layer. Still dripping and now covered with dried grass, the two of you wring your clothes out as best you can and spread them out on the shelf of hay to dry and you sit huddled and shivering in the near darkness. You notice how frail Jane looks. Her ribs are prominent and she looks somehow more drawn than you had ever seen her. She looks like a skeleton. You feel rage welling up inside you at the abuse she's suffered at her mother's hand. How could anyone be that evil? Jane still looks worried. The narrow escape was still obviously weighing on her. When she looks over at you you smile and she smiles back. Though you don't see it, you know that the sun has set due to the complete darkness outside. The wind has subsided, but the rain is still coming down in a deluge. Exhaustion takes hold and you pass yawns back and forth. You rake hay into a rough pile and make yourself as comfortable as you can. Clutching each other for warmth, you try to force sleep in spite of your misery. And eventually you do. You're jolted awake to the sound of a revving engine just outside the barn. You jump up and jerk on your damp clothes as quickly as you possibly can and stealthily make your way to the opposite end of the barn. When you are sure that the coast is clear, you bolt—only to crash into a big man in faded overalls who latches onto you more out of surprise or instinct than anything else. "Hold on there, kids", his voice bubbles, "where do you think you're going?" "Let go of me!" Jane demands. "What're you two doing in there?" "Nothing...", you sheepishly respond. "Where're you from? What's your name? Where're your folks?" Realizing the futility of it, you both stop squirming and he eases his grip on your arms. You share a momentary glance with Jane and in that very instant, know that neither of you are about to tell this stranger anything. After a couple odd minutes of silence, the farmer decides that he won't press you, but he sure isn't about to let a couple of young kids just run loose when he doesn't know who or where you belong. He steers you over to his idling tractor and makes you climb up—one on either side—beside his seat, then climbs up behind you. He shoves the tractor into gear and makes a beeline over the hill to his house. "Martha! I caught a couple of rats in the barn!" bellows the farmer from behind you as he ushers you through the door of the small farmhouse. "What's that, Earl?" asks a stocky, gray-haired woman entering the room from the far door. "Lan' sakes! Where did these children come from?" "I told you. I found 'em sneakin' 'round the barn. They're pretty scraped up, too. Could use some of your doctorin'" "You children get caught out in the storm last night?" You both slowly nod. "Let's have a look and see if we can't get you cleaned up." You look at each other and then move slowly in her direction. "Come now," she says, putting an arm around each of your shoulders, "Why! You're still soaked! Earl, go get a couple of your shirts so the little ones can get out of these wet clothes." "Yes, dear," he says, turning and quickly walking down a hallway. "Now come this way. You can change in the other room." She ushers the two of you into the short, dark hallway that Earl just went down. By the time you reach the second door, Earl is coming out of the one in the very back. "Here ya go," he says holding a shirt out to each of you. "Now you go in here and I'll be right in to collect your clothes, sweetie. Jus' let me get the ointment and we'll take care of those nasty scratches while we're at it," she says to Jane. "And you go with Earl and he'll bring me your clothes." "Come on, little man," he says, scooping you toward the back room as he turns. While you're getting out of your wet clothes, Martha taps on the bedroom door and hands a tube of salve, a washcloth and a white ceramic basin of water to Earl when he opens it. "Have you seen how emaciated these children are?" she tries to whisper low enough to Earl so that you don't hear. "I don't think they've had more than scraps for weeks." "Ayuh. They're pretty scrawny alright," he says quietly, "They must've been through quite the ordeal." When he gets back to you, he gives you a quick rub down with a wet cloth and then smears salve all over your abrasions. It really stings due to his large hands being so rough and calloused, but the ointment itself is cool and soothing. With the sleeves being much too long for your arms, you have trouble buttoning up the shirt and Earl ends up having to take over for you. > Departure Jane looks ridiculous in Earl's gigantic shirt. It drags the ground around her feet as she plods back down the hall in front of you—doing her utmost not to trip on it. Of course, you must look equally funny since the one you're wearing is nearly trailing the floor on you and the cuffs dangle nearly a foot below your hands. "I bet you two are starving," Martha says in a chipper tone, "Come on in the kitchen and you can eat some breakfast with us. It's almost ready. All I gotta do is set out two more places." When you step through the door, you can't believe your eyes. You've never seen so much food on a table at one time. There are biscuits, eggs, both bacon and sausage, fried potatoes and gravy, and most of a left over ham in which a few slices have already been cut. There's a big block of butter and a loaf of light bread. Arranged next to each plate, is a bowl of oatmeal, a short glass of orange juice and a heavy round glass with a foot and stem full to the top with fresh milk. You can't imagine how any more could even fit on the table without things tumbling off on the floor, but Martha does just that when she sets a place for you and Jane. And the table doesn't look any more heaped than it did already. The four of you sit down and before you dig in, the elderly couple takes hold of each of your hands and bows their heads. "Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty," says Earl with his eyes closed, and squeezing your hand he adds, "And thank you for bringing us these dear little ones that they may share in our feast. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen." "Amen," parrots Martha as she reaches out and starts heaping food on your and Jane's plates before she even does her own. Everything is so, so delicious and you cram in more than you ever have in your entire life. Jane is stuffing food in and matching you bite for bite. Earl and Martha pick at theirs and appear to be enjoying watching the two of you eat. When you finally push back from your plate it looks as if it has barely even been touched, but your belly feels like an overripe melon. There's no way you could possibly poke in another spoonful. Your eyes have a mind of their own and you watch as the dinner table quickly disappears. You start to slump forward and are prevented doing a face-plant into your plate by Earl's massive hand. As everything goes black, you hear him chuckle and say "I guess this little guy's had plenty." "So has this one," laughs Martha. You are startled awake by a loud rapping on a door. You find yourself half-sunken into a big fluffy bed and Jane has an arm and a leg draped over you. Her warmth is so comforting and you don't want to move out of this very spot. The shades are drawn and let in only a pinstripe of blinding light making everything else in the room too dark to make out. "They're sleepin' in the back room," you hear Martha say, "Poor little dears were starving and plumb tuckered out." "Do you know who they belong to?" asks a strange man's voice. "They wouldn't say. I s'pose they've run off and I can't blame 'em. They're jus' skin 'n bones." "Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of it." The door cracks open and spills light into your eyes. "Oh, you're awake," Martha says quietly, flicking on the light. "There's someone here that wants to talk to you. Let me get you your clothes so you can get dressed. They're all clean and dry now." After Martha has closed the door, you shake Jane awake. "Someone's here to talk to us," you tell her. "Who is it? What do you think they want?" "I dunno." Martha comes back in and lays your clothes out on the foot of the bed. "Hurry and get dressed and you all come on out." "Who is it?" Jane repeats to Martha, but she closes the door without answering. You both heave yourselves over and roll off opposite sides of the bed and drag your clothes on, leaving Earl's crumpled shirts behind. You follow Jane down the hall and she freezes as she steps into the front room. You lean forward, peering around her and see a policeman framed in the outside doorway. He's wearing a brown and khaki uniform and has a star pinned above his breast pocket. "Step in here so I can get a better look at you," says the deputy. You both take tentative steps into the room—being careful to keep your distance. "I don't think I've seen either of you before. Where are you kids from?" You look at Jane and her face is like stone. The policeman would probably take Jane back to her house so her mom could hit on her some more. It might be for the best if you stay silent and not tell him anything. After a couple of minutes, the deputy takes you each by the arm and says "Well, I guess we'll have to do this the hard way then. Come on and let's go." You and Jane are ushered along and both of you walk stiff-legged out to his car. "You kids take care of yourselves," calls Martha from the porch as the car door is being closed behind you. You look over and see her and Earl waving to you, but you don't feel at all like waving back. You've been sitting on hard wooden chairs in the station for quite some time. Beyond the little glass window to the next room, you see several people moving around and you hear the occasional crackle of static mixed with garbled speech every now and then. "We should run away," whispers Jane without turning to you, "before they can take us back." "They'll just catch us," you whisper back, "We don't even know where we are." "I can't go back home now. I have to find Gramma." "You should tell them where she lives so they'll take us there." "They won't. They'll only take us home." "Not if you tell 'em how mean your mom is to you." "They don't care none about that. They always take me back home." > You run away "Okay. Let's get out of here," you say. You wait until the dispatcher's head is turned and both of you bolt for the door. You don't hear any ruckus coming from behind you so you figure you made it. You don't have a clue where you are or where to go, but you run. There are quite a few more people on the streets here than back at home. You try to keep out of sight at first, but there's just too many and not enough places to hide. If you knew the town it'd probably make things much easier. Eventually, you don't even bother trying to conceal yourselves. Why bother? It's not like anyone is paying you any mind, anyway. After several blocks, you spot another one of those highway signs with 281 printed on it—only this one is smaller and way up high on a lamp post and has an arrow. Maybe you could find the train tracks again if you follow the little arrow. "I think the tracks are down that way," you tell Jane. She gives you a puzzled look. "See the sign? I saw one like that, only bigger, when we were at that train yard." "Okay. Then that's where we need to go. No one knows how we got here. They won't know where to look." You both grin at each other and turn the corner. About a block out of town, you find the highway. You don't see any sign of the tracks and decide to follow along it at a safe distance away so any passing cars won't notice you. "We should get some food," says Jane, "we might have to walk for a long way and we don't want to starve. There's a store right over there." "We don't have any money, though." "We don't need money. I'll just grab something when no one's looking." "I don't know. Mr. Freddy saw you last time. He just didn't say anything." "Mr. Freddy's my friend." "Then why would you steal his stuff?" Jane shrugs. "'cause I need it, I guess." Against your better judgment, you follow Jane over and into the store. While she walks down the aisles picking things off the shelf and acts like she's looking at the price tags, you pretend to look at the magazines in the rack. You don't like this at all, but you can't say anything now. It's too late for that. Suddenly, a hand clamps down on your shoulder. "Here you are. Now where's your little friend?" You look up to see the deputy looking toward the back just as Jane steps around the corner. "There you are, little lady. C'mon, it's time to go." She sheepishly walks over to the two of you. "You two are beginning to be quite the handful, you know that? I guess we should've put bells around your necks." Jane glares up at him. You know your goose is cooked. There's nothing you can do now. It's all over. "Just out of curiosity, how'd the two of you manage to get this far from home? I can't imagine that you walked over eighty miles. Did someone give you a ride?" Jane says nothing. If you tell him you'll only get into more trouble so the only explanation you give him is a shrug. "I guess it doesn't matter. There'll be someone here shortly to drive you back. And I'm sure there will be a lot of questions for you two." A couple of hours later, you are back to your town. It was a long, quiet ride and neither you nor Jane gave more than a yes or no answer to the man that drove you. You only looked at each other attempting to communicate with only your eyes. All that she—and you, no doubt—could convey was sadness and a sense of hopelessness of the situation. You sit slumped—craning your neck to peek through the patrol car's rear window—and watch as the officer who ran you and Jane out of the abandoned house a couple nights ago turns away from Jane and her mother, and walks back to the car. No sooner than his back is turned does she turn and shove Jane inside the house, slamming the door shut behind her. The officer throws a glance over his shoulder, but doesn't break stride as he continues on his way. After he closes his car door, you say "Is she gonna hit Jane?" He turns sideways in his seat and looks back at you. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's not able to sit down for a week after pulling a stunt like this. Do you understand how dangerous it was for the two of you out there all alone? We're lucky that we found you before something bad happened to you. You don't know what some people are capable of doing to children." "She hates Jane. I don't want her to hit her anymore." "No mother hates her own child. She's just having a rough time raising her on her own—being a single mother and all." "You don't know." "Listen. I'll swing back by after I drop you off and look in on her, okay?" He starts the engine and pulls it into gear. "Everything will be back to normal as soon as this mess blows over." As you pull into the drive, the door opens and your mom steps out on the porch. She rushes over to the patrol car and snatches you by the arm—dragging you out and pulling you close—as soon as the policeman opens the rear door. "Here he is, safe and sound. No one knows how those two managed to make it so far away on their own." "He's always been a handful. I can barely keep up with him most of the time. An' with this new job, I'll have to work extra hard at it, I guess," she says, flashing her eyes at you over a wan smile. "I'm just glad he's home." "That's why we're here, ma'am. Glad to be of service." He walks with you to the door of the garage and watches as the two of you step inside. "Thanks again, Officer," your mom says, ushering you in and closing the door. "You're quite welcome," he says, turning around and walking back the way he came. She lifts the corner of the vinyl curtain to watch him get into his patrol car and pull out of the driveway. When she turns around to you, her face is a deep shade of red and skewed beyond all recognition. "If things are so bad here that you felt the need to run away, then why didn't you just stay gone!?" You don't have an answer. You take a step to the rear as she lifts the solid metal rod from the window and yanks it free of the curtain. She is on you before you even know it—whipping you side to side like a terrier does a rat by a handful of hair in one hand while she whacks at your butt and the back of your legs with the curtain rod in the other. Every so often, an errant strike lands in the small of your back and your vision momentarily goes black. You can feel it cut deep and glance off bone with each blow. "Why can't you do anything right? Why do you always have to go out of your way to make me mad?" You try to lessen the blows by deflecting them with your palms, but it only forces her to swing harder. The flesh on the underside of your hands soon feels tight and swollen, and you no longer have control enough to maneuver them into a position of any benefit at all. All you can do is grit your teeth and bear the pain. If you make even the slightest sound of whimpering, she'll "give you something to really cry about". The stinging pain finally lessens as your vision fades and grows more and more distant as the world goes dark around you. You don't know how long you've been lying here in the darkness. Your whole body throbs from one end to the other and you want nothing more than to return to sleep. What about Jane? She was right. You and she need to just run away together and find her Gramma or else somebody nice to take care of the two of you. You don't have a choice anymore. You know that now. Your mom will end up killing you if you don't get away. You slowly open your eyes. You drag your arms under you and shove yourself to your knees. You see no sign of your mom and can only guess that she has gone back to the party in Honey's house. You pick yourself up off the floor. You can't straighten your legs and your back is in an uncontrollable hunch, but you manage to maintain your balance and not topple over despite the impossible angle you are leaning. One determined step after another, you make your way to the door. The curtain is now back in its place over the window. You look at it for what seems like a long time debating whether or not to do something about that impromptu weapon. It would do absolutely no good, though, because she'd just grab something else to use on you the next time. You reach out and grip the knob with all the strength you can muster. It doesn't give easily, but you manage to turn it enough that the latch lets go. You hobble on one foot through the open doorway into the bright afternoon sun and pull the door closed behind you. You can hear music coming from Honey's house, but don't see any movement through the windows. You limp around the garage and through the back yard to the alley. It's about mid-afternoon by the time you reach Jane's house. The place looks locked up tight. After calling into the "secret place" and getting no response, you amble up to the front door and rap on it several times with the same result. Where could she be? > You check the Places You Know You try to find the abandoned house that Jane took you to the other night. You wander down several alleys, but nothing looks familiar. Maybe it just doesn't look the same in the daylight. You are about to give up when you spot the broken and leaning gate about a half a block down. You shuffle to it as fast as your legs will allow. The house just looks like any other house in the daytime. The grass is taller than most and there are scraps of trash in the yard among the bushes that are in dire need of trimming, but there's nothing ominous at all about it. You stagger up to the window that you crawled through the other night and see that it has been nailed down tight since you were here. "Jane? Jane, are you in there?" you call as you rap on the boarded up window, but you hear only silence from within. Your legs and back are starting to buckle so you drag yourself along the wall to the cement and brick porch on the front corner and kneel down on the steps. You suck air in through your teeth to try to ease the pain away, but with each heartbeat your skin twinges with sharp stabbing needles. You give it a few minutes before striking out for somewhere else. You head over to the train yard to see if she might be hiding out there and find that the place is completely deserted. There are no railroad cars in sight. There aren't even any buildings here like there were in the other one. It's just a wide gravel lot with two sets of tracks running through it. It looks so different in the daylight. She could be almost anywhere and you barely know the town at all. You haven't even lived here for a whole week yet. You have to take a break so you head over to a small grove of saplings just beyond the right of way and ease down to your knees in the sparse shade they provide. You don't know if you'll be able to get back up again, but you know you can't stand any longer. It takes a good while for your back and legs to slow their spasms, but you've come down with a case of the hiccups. With each one, your back tries to curl back on itself and sends a new flood of agonizing waves of pain. Eventually, they subside and you heft yourself back to your feet. > You head for the Park You've made your way to the park only to find it completely deserted. Not a soul in sight. Your legs are sluggish and you're having a difficult time staying on your feet. You have to rest a minute so you amble over to the swings and hang a knee on one. You slump stiffly forward—hanging onto the chain so you don't put down too much weight. All of your energy is gone and your vision is starting to blur. You can't help but close your eyes for few minutes. You hear a crunch nearby and jerk your eyes wide open. You see movement off to both sides and someone is standing directly in front of you. It takes a couple seconds, but it dawns on you that it's Chortle from the first day you got here. If he's come to finish the job, there's no way you'd be able to defend yourself. You look up at his face expecting to see the same nasty grin plastered across it that he had the other day, but he looks really sad. You look side-to-side and see the other two boys standing there with their heads slightly bowed with nearly the same expression on their faces. "We just heard about Jane," Chortle finally gets around to saying. "Yeah. It's real sad news," says Tubby. You squint up at Chortle—knowing full well that he's got to be up to something. It's all some kind of twisted joke he's set up. "What do you mean?" "Don't you know? She's dead. Her mom killed her and they threw her in jail." "Nah. You're lyin'. Get away from me," you say, heaving yourself back to your feet. "No I ain't," he says, stepping over to the side when you lurch toward him with your fists doubled. "Why would I lie about something like that?" "Get away from me. I'm not gonna listen to you." "But it's true!" he pleads. "Yeah, it is," says one of the other boys. You keep walking and they don't follow. You've never been this mad in all your life and if your muscles weren't so stiff and on fire, you would've hit him right in the nose. > Dire News You hobble into Fredrick's Grocery and see Mr. Freddy slumped and leaning heavily on his forearms over the counter by the register. He turns his head and looks up at you as you enter. "My God, son! What happened to you?" You shake your head intending to not say anything, but the words slip out before you can stop them. "I got in trouble for running off." That doesn't sound quite right so you add "but I didn't. It was just an accident." Mr. Freddy looks confused and even more concerned. "Come over here boy and let me look at you." You take a couple of slow steps toward him and he meets you over halfway, taking you by the shoulder and leaning around to look at your back. "My God!" he whistles through his teeth, "Someone needs to do something about this." You struggle to get out of his grip, but he doesn't let go. "Come over here and hop up on the counter while I make a quick phone call." "I can't. It hurts." "I'll help you up and you can roll over on your belly." He gently lifts you up on the counter before heading off somewhere. You can hear his clapping footfalls and after a moment of silence you hear him speaking, but his words garble and run together as you drift off to sleep. "Aaahhh!" You jolt awake when a searing pain arcs through your back. You whirl around and see several people standing around you—an older couple that you guess are only customers talking with Mr. Freddy and a couple of firemen. "Sorry about that," says a fireman wearing latex gloves and scrutinizing your wounds, "I guess it is as bad as it looks. I'll try to be more careful." "...first the little girl and now this," says the woman, "What is this world coming to?" "She was his friend," says Mr. Freddy under his breath, "Never saw one without the other since he got into town. They've been like two peas in a pod." "What a shame," says the woman, "what a cryin' shame." "Somebody should do something about it," says the old man. "I intend to," says Mr. Freddy, "just as soon as Jarvis gets back. Joan said he was looking into a trespass out at the ol' Simon farm and she'd send him over the minute he got in." "Young people these days have no business having children," says the old man. "Well, I don't think there'll be any permanent damage," says the fireman who's been working on you, "let's get you over to the station and we'll get you all cleaned and bandaged up. What d'ya say?" You're staring at the old woman puzzling over what she'd said and finally can't help but interrupt "What little girl? What do you mean?" Mr. Freddy's head snaps around and he locks eyes with you, working his jaw without making any sound. "He doesn't know?" gasps the old woman behind her hand, "Me and my big mouth." "No. I guess not. All this must've happened around the same time," Mr. Freddy finally manages to say. "What happened to Jane?" Focusing back on you he begins to stammer "I— I'm sorry, son. She— she was—" before turning away and stalking off toward the back of the store. The hairs on the back of your neck and arms prickle. "What happened to Jane?!" you shriek at the other dumbstruck faces. > In Hiding Everything is kind of a blur. You remember being led to the firehouse and worked on in the back of the ambulance. You remember how everyone was busy coming and going around you and there were new faces popping up every now and again, but you can't recall everything that went on there. You don't even know how you got here. You must've run when no one was looking because they never would've let you out of their sight in the condition you were in or the danger you could face if your mom had gotten her hands on you again. You are laying face down on Jane's bag of covers in her "secret place". You can feel the cool dampness all around you and it is so soothing. There is something "safe" about this place. Y

ou understand now why Jane would hide and sometimes even sleep overnight in here. With every stretch and adjustment you make, the bandages on your back and legs relax and constrict. This, too, is both soothing and comforting. Your eyes have long since adjusted to the dim light filtering in through the grate—which you must've closed behind you when you crawled in, but you can't remember doing that, either. It's got too much of a greenish tint to it to be sunlight. It must be coming from the street lamp on the corner. You look over toward the dark corner of the concrete foundation and see a couple empty pop bottles propped up against the change jar which still has your dollar resting on top of all the different coins. You remember sharing those root beers with Jane. Next to them is the 'treasure chest' all tied up neatly in the ribbon just the way Jane had left it. Your stomach is growling and twisting in knots. You haven't eaten anything since the feast you shared with Jane, Earl and Martha early this morning. You can't risk going back the garage for food and if you went to the store, Mr. Freddy would likely call the cops for your own protection. You don't know what else you can do other than just tough out the hunger like you've done so many times before. You close your eyes and try to sleep, but the gnawing and churning won't allow you to drift off. You'll have to suffer through it or else find some way of taking the edge off. You crawl over to the grate and see that outside it is full dark. You shove lightly on the grate and it groans loudly against the concrete foundation. You nearly jump clean out of your skin. When you finally catch your breath again, you lift up on it on the side and slide it over sideways. The high grass outside is dimly lit and shadowy things move about just outside your vision. Your hands and feet go numb, and you get that all too familiar coppery taste in your mouth. You crawl out and drag the grate back over the hole, keeping your eyes on the deeper shadows all around you. One step after another, you make your way to the corner of the house and—instead of going around the front to the steps—climb up the side and slink your way past the window to the door. You gently swing open the screen door—propping it with your foot—and heave up on the doorknob like you remember seeing Jane do, then push inward with all your strength. The door plows the carpeting with a ripping sound that makes a whole new battalion of tiny hairs rise to attention on the back of your neck. Inside, you see that it is darker than dark. When the pounding in your ears subsides, you take a short step through the door and strain your ears against the silence. The only sound you hear is that of your own heavy breath going in and out. Looking over your shoulder only makes the panic grow, so you focus on finding the door in the back wall. You tiptoe through the room with your hands out in front of you and hoping that whatever is lurking in here doesn't grab you by the arm or ankle from the dark. You find the door facing and pull yourself around it, putting your back against the wall and slamming your eyes shut. Your tongue has swollen two sizes and scrapes leathery against the roof of your mouth. You slowly open your eyes and can see the kitchen sink from what little light filters in through the window above it and the dim silhouettes of the cabinet doors flanking each side along the far wall. The linoleum floor is brighter than the dark carpeting in the front room and you can just make out that there's nothing creeping around in here—at least, not in the open. You step lightly over to the sink and slowly make your way toward a wooden box on the counter. Taking another look behind you, you reach out and pry open the small doors with your thumbs. You reach inside and feel a soft bread wrapper with only a couple of slices left in it and a tall, square, cardboard box. You take both items and turn toward the front door. The frame is much brighter from this side and is the only thing you can see clearly. Each step you take toward it gets longer and longer until you are at full gallop. On your way through, you manage to snag the knob and jerk the door closed behind you—trapping whatever it was that was behind you inside. You cross the porch—carefully skirting the dark window—and slip back around the side of the house, then crawl back inside to the safety of the "secret place" and drag the grate back into place. Tearing them into chunks, you cram the two stale bread slices into your mouth and choke them down. You then turn your attention to the box. It is still unopened and you rock it lightly in your hands. You can feel the packed contents bounce against the sides. If you're very careful with them, you can stretch the crackers out for a couple of weeks. After you prop it and the wadded bread wrapper against the wall beside the bottles, you flop face-down on the bag of covers. Your thoughts turn back to the last few days and of Jane as the world around you fades into dream. You wake up feeling a bit too warm and your mouth is dry and dusty. You are desperate for something to quench your thirst. As you push yourself to your knees, your whole body screams out in agony. You'd forgotten all about yesterday, but it all comes flooding back to you now. You reach over and pick up the change jar, but it's mostly pennies and the pops in the vending machine cost a quarter. You can't risk going there, anyway. You might not be able to get away this time. After putting the jar back, you crawl over to the grate and peer out as far as you can with your face pressed against it. As far as you can see, all there is is tall grass and weeds so you push it out and to the side, and crawl out into the harsh sunlight. Then you carefully drag it back into place. There are no houses beyond this street so you decide to crawl to the back of Jane's house before standing up. There aren't any close neighbors, but you can see a house a little distance on down the road. At the far corner of Jane's house, you spot prefab concrete steps leading up do a back door. It's beyond where the kitchen lies and must open into a room you haven't been in. The house doesn't seem nearly as spooky in the light of day. You decide to see if you can open it and get inside so you can maybe find something to drink. The door barely moves inward and bumps hard against something up high. You can't see beyond the light pink curtain so you release the knob. Unless you can find an open window, you'll have to go in through the front. All the windows are latched from the inside so after you make certain there is no one in sight, you dash for the porch and shove your way in as quickly as you can—closing the door behind you. After taking a second to let your eyes adjust, you walk across the room to the kitchen which is much brighter that the living room now. You stretch up on your tiptoes to reach the faucet knobs and find that they do still work. You catch handfuls of water and lose most of it bringing them to your mouth, but it doesn't matter. There's plenty more where that came from. When you've had enough, you look around for something to catch water in for later. You find a couple of pots on the stove, but they're filled with moldy food. There are no plastic milk jugs in the garbage that you can rinse out so you start looking around for anything else that will work. The only other thing there is are whiskey bottles with screw on caps so you rinse them out as best you can and—even though you can still smell the alcohol in them—fill up six of the tallest ones. You rummage through the cabinets and find a couple of cans of green beans and a can opener. They won't be as good uncooked, but since you have no choice you'll just have to eat them straight from the can. The refrigerator is bare except for half a stick of butter which might help the crackers slide down easier, but you leave it where it is because it would only end up melting and making a mess. You head over to the door in the far back corner that you thought was a closet and find that behind it is a small room with a water heater being the only major thing in it. There is also a broom, a mop, a dustpan and a bucket and other such cleaning tools that you suspect haven't been used on the place in quite some time. The floor is buckled and crinkles under your feet as you step lightly over to the back door. You see a lock mounted to the top of the back door well out of your reach and it takes some fancy maneuvering of the broom handle to slide the bolt out of the barrel, but the door is now usable so you don't have to go around to the front and be spotted by random passersby or the neighbors. You make sure everything is back to exactly the way you found it before closing the door and carrying the water bottles and other items back around to the "secret place". You've been hiding in here for the last two days when you hear footsteps coming from inside the house above you. Voices drift down to you through the floorboards. You hold your breath and don't move a muscle in case they can hear you as easily as you can them. "This place is a filthy pigsty. How could anyone live in this place? Why was she allowed to even keep a child here?" you hear a woman say. "No one knew. They mostly kept to themselves," says a familiar sounding man's voice, "You should hurry and get what you need because I'm not really supposed to let anyone in here until after the trial." "I don't know how I'm ever going to find something for her to wear in all this mess. And even if I do, it'll have to be cleaned before the service." "I've heard it's gonna be this Thursday, but have they decided where they're going to hold it, yet?" "Yes, Thursday. It'll most likely be in the school gymnasium since there are so many people who've already called and want to send flowers. Since the story hit all the papers, there'll probably be a big turnout, too. It's always sad when someone so young passes." "It was right in front of my eyes and I couldn't see it. The boy even warned me when I dropped her off and I thought he was exaggerating, like kids do. I wish I'd have listened. Really listened. I told him I'd look in on her, but by the time I got back it was too late." That's who it is! It's Officer Jarvis. Now you can put a face to the voice. "Don't blame yourself. The whole town new what shape the little girl was in and just sat on their hands. We're all to blame." "But, it's my job to notice these things. I should've done something." "We all should've done something more for her." There's a few minutes where all you can hear is footsteps above you and then the woman finally says "I can't find anything in all this mess. We need to just take up a collection to get her something decent—even if I have to buy it all myself." A short time later, you hear a car pulling away. You let out a long sigh of relief as you roll over onto your back. You spend the rest of the afternoon looking over your map and at Jane's postcards. Everything you and Jane dreamed about seems so hopeless and so far away now. You only knew her for a few days, but it feels like you knew her your entire life. Sometime long after dark, your grief finally gives way to sleep. > The Farewell You sit on the bleachers at the edge of the school's soccer field, staring over at the gymnasium. The parking lot is packed tighter than if there were a game going on inside and the cars stretch clear down both sides of the street beyond where you can see. It looks like there might be more people here than even live in this whole town. The funeral won't be for a while yet, but people are paying their respects and viewing her remains. You want so much to see her one last time, but not like that. So you just sit here—feeling more helpless and alone than ever before—and just stare at the building. You hadn't seen the policeman since he'd dropped you off with your mother on that fateful day, but you can make out his face every now and then when he looks out at you from just inside the glass double doors. He's wearing a dark blue suit now instead of his uniform. When he opens the door and starts walking toward you, every instinct in your body tells you to flee, but you haven't the will to even stand. You are too tired and sad way down deep to run. You don't even care what he does to you at this point. You just close your eyes and wait. You can hear his heavy footfalls as he approaches and then a hand on your knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. You open your eyes and see through your tears that he has knelt before you and is struggling against his own tears for words. It takes him a couple of minutes, but he finally manages to speak. "We've been looking everywhere for you and thought something bad might've happened. I'm glad to see that you're alright. I guess you're here to say goodbye to your friend. We can get you to the station and take care of everything afterward. Would you like to go in?" You widen your eyes and your jaw slackens at the very horror of the suggestion. "No, huh uh," you manage to weakly get out. "You really should, you know. She was your friend and she would want you there," he coaxes softly, "It'll be the last time you'll ever see her and you really should say goodbye." Your eyes start to burn and you can't hold in your grief any longer. You scream from way down deep and fall forward as all of your strength falls away. He catches you before you hit the ground and scoops you up tight against him. "I told you. I told you," you say hoarsely, between sobs. He mumbles something, but you can't make out the words through your hysterical squeaks. You feel his chest heaving as he tries to hold back his own flood of emotions. Eventually, you manage to get hold of yourself and so does he. He pulls you to your feet and wraps his arm around your shoulders. "C'mon. I'll go with you. This is something you have to do. I won't leave you. I'll be right there beside you the whole time." Officer Jarvis reaches past you and pulls the door open. It is standing room only inside the building. Beyond the partition separating this area from the main gym, there are rows and rows of little white folding chairs reaching from one side of the basketball court all the way to the other where a long white box lays on its back with its lid standing open and draped in a filmy white shroud. There is a line of people snaking its way back and forth between silver poles attached together at their top by thick red velvet ropes and up through the center of the packed seats. There is a dull roar permeating the building, but you don't see anyone talking. He walks behind you with a hand on each shoulder, steering you toward the back of the line. Everyone else is dressed in nice clothes and suits, but you still have on the same ones you've been wearing since the first night you got here. The line moves along at a snails pace. By the time you finally approach the open box, you are rocking back and forth from one leg to the other. It's not that you have to go so much as it is the anticipation of reaching the end of this line. "She is so young," you hear the gray-haired woman in front of you say, "It's a real tragedy." When the last of the people part in front of you and wander off toward the far end of the basketball court, you feel Officer Jarvis' hands give your shoulders a light squeeze. You know you have to walk the few remaining feet to look into the box, but your feet no longer want to cooperate. You stand there frozen — needing to see, but not wanting to with every fiber of your being. "Come on," he says, "you're doing just fine." He finally steps up beside you and wraps his arm around your shoulders—gently lifting and half carries you the last remaining steps. You squinch your eyes shut as tightly as you can and your whole body starts to spasm from the bottom of your feet all the way to your scalp. The moment stretches on and on, and just when you feel like you might make it, your eyelids slowly begin to part of their own accord. Everything is blurry at first, almost as if you are looking through a sheet of water on a window pane. The ultra fine netting gives the contents an almost supernatural feel—as if looking through a wispy cloud. Your eyes slowly follow the contour of the fabric sewn to the inside of the lid and come to rest on the sweetest face you have known in your short life. She looks so pleasant, as if she were only lying there, sleeping. The stern expression she always wore is completely gone from her face now and she looks so content, so peaceful. She's wearing a dark blue dress spattered in tiny white flowers and her fingers are laced together below its wide lace collar. Her hair is combed out neatly and drawn back in a white ribbon that's tied in a bow off to one side. You feel like you could just reach out and gently shake her awake, but you know you really can't. She's not merely asleep now—she is gone. And with that realization, your eyes begin to burn and you feel a flood cascading down the sides of your face and dripping off your chin onto your bare chest. "Okay, we can go now. We need to find us a place to sit for the service," he says, curling your trembling body into his as he walks you around the far end of the room. All the seats on the court are filled so he takes you back toward the stairway leading up to the bleachers where many people have already seated themselves. As you round the corner, you see an exit sign over a door with a shiny metal bar across it and another closer one hanging from the ceiling that reads "restrooms" with an arrow pointing down a hall. You point up at it and he nods. "I'll be up in the stands. Come find me when you're done." You nod up at him and head down the hall. You feel somewhat better after relieving your bladder, but you stare into the steel mirror at a boy that you don't recognize any longer. You slap some water on your face to wash away the dust and slump forward with your hands on the edge of the sink. Nothing about this is right. The world just doesn't make any sense anymore. You pound your fists against the top of the sink and then turn toward the door. You see a paper towel dispenser and grab a couple on your way out. When you reach the end of the short hall you turn toward the gym, but instead of walking that way you push against the steel bar with your back—feeling a twinge of pain as you do so—and step through into the sunlight. You have to get away from here. When you get back to the "secret place", you've already decided to head West. You don't have a choice any longer. You have to do this for Jane. And you have to do this now. It can't wait. You begin carefully packing everything into the bag of covers. You dump the change jar into the bread wrapper to save space. You fill two of the screw-top bottles—and the root beer bottles, in which you have crammed wads of waxed paper that you found in the cabinets as makeshift corks, since you'll be able to sell them somewhere along the way—with water. The last thing you pack is an old paring knife that has its very tip broken off. It fits perfectly in the 'treasure chest'. You'll leave as soon as it gets dark so no one sees you. Maybe there will be another train in the staging yard. If there isn't, you'll just keep on going until you do find one. > Into the Night You try to focus on staying between the tracks and not on the darkness that is slowly swallowing you. Every once in a while, the side of your foot glances off one metal rail or the other and you take a step more toward the center. You have to be careful not to turn your ankle since you can only feel your way over the unevenness of cross ties and gravel. There is no moon or even a single star in sky above you, but you can't risk taking a look upward in case something should brush against you and you should need to suddenly run in the opposite direction. There is a fine mist in the air and every once in a while a small droplet smacks into your clammy skin making you wince. Your heart is sprinting, but your feet take their own sweet time. You have to make it as far as you can before the sun peeks over the horizon. You don't think you'd be able to survive another beating. You hear a low, rumbling growl coming from all around you. You can feel it more than hear it. The skin behind your ears tingles and your neck hairs prickle. You spin around and around, swinging the bag like a baseball bat and desperately roar as loud as you can to scare off whatever it is that has you surrounded. Your tears burn your eyes and your heart tries to escape through your ears. It's getting closer. You scream at the thing in the darkness and hear it reverberate back to you, growing louder and louder. Your feet will no longer obey and your skin has become so stiff that if you could somehow move it would probably rip wide open. You close your eyes and grit your teeth. Your whole face feels swollen. The rumble has become so loud now that you can feel it welling up from the ground and into your feet. You can't even draw in breath anymore. A sudden trumpeting roar blasts from behind you and you spin around to see shining eyes in the blackness. They are so bright that you can barely even look at them. You turn on your heels and can see the tracks stretching out ahead of you. You run. The thing is getting closer and closer. You spot a ravine shrouded in blackness off to the side and dive for it with every ounce of your being. Gravel plows through your forearms up to your elbows and you strike the side of your head on something solid. It is on you now. The wind swirls all around you threatening to rip you from the ground. You flip over and shield yourself with the bag as the thing races past. Through the flashes of light in your vision you can make out a shuttering silhouette and a slow realization bubbles its way to the surface. It is no vile beast, but a train moving at breakneck speed. You roll over onto your belly and push yourself up to your knees. You can see the light on the front piercing its way through the night. You turn and look back toward the other end and can see red lights bringing up the rear. Your burning skin begins to gradually freeze as your breath slowly returns to you and your heartbeat softens and slows. You gently caress your gritty forearms and pluck tiny stones from the soft fleshy underside. You get back to your feet and climb the grade as the final car zooms by. In the dim glow, you can see the tracks clearly. After looking back to make sure there isn't another one coming, you step back in the middle and continue on your way. You keep your eyes on the train until the tail light finally winks out of sight allowing the darkness to flood back in around you. You are exhausted. You've been walking all night and your muscles are stiff and aching—almost feverish. You need sleep, but the sky has only started to gray behind you. You can barely make out the ground around you, but still can't see anything more distant. You'll have to find some place that you won't be discovered as soon as there is enough light for you to see by. The bandages are pulling at your skin from the middle of your back to halfway down your legs and the burning emanating from under them sends a jolt from the base of your scalp all the way to your feet. With every step, the bag you have slung over your shoulder pounds more pain through your body. It finally gets light enough that you can see. You spot a stand of high grass over by a barbed wire fence that will easily conceal you from sight. Not caring about snakes or whatever else might be lurking in there, you wade right into the middle of it and fall face down. You barely manage to pull the bag under your head before sleep takes you. You wake up with the bright sun on your face and it's too unbearable to open your eyelids. You shield your face with your hand as you roll over onto your side and when your leg strikes the ground it burns like fire. You forget all about the burning brightness and look down at your leg. It is beet red all the way up to your cutoffs and starts again at your belly. Your whole front is sunburned and even lightly touching it makes you wince. You carefully shove yourself to your feet and look as far around you as you can see. Just beyond the pasture on the other side of the fence, the trees are thick and you can only see darkness within. There are no houses or roads within sight—only the train tracks. You are extremely thirsty so you pull one of the screw-top bottles from the sack and gulp down several swallows before picking up the sack and slinging it over your shoulder. You head back to the tracks and—after taking another look around—continue on. > A New Normal You've walked for most of the day—going off the embankment and crouching low whenever you spot a farmhouse, someone toiling away in their field or a car on a nearby dirt road—and the light is leaving fast when you hear yipping coming from behind you. When you turn to look, you see a pack of dogs. No, not dogs, because these are all gray. They don't look as big as the ones in the movies, but they must be wolves! What else could they be out here in the wilderness? You quicken your pace and keep looking back at them over your shoulder. Even though they are definitely following you they don't seem to be gaining. Maybe they're waiting for it to get dark before they sneak up on you and attack. They can probably smell the dried blood on your bandages and want to eat you. You look around for somewhere to hide, but there isn't any place. All the trees nearby are scraggly and you don't really like the idea of trying to stay awake in a tree all night anyway so you keep moving. Before long you start to notice the stars coming out and the night insects are starting to come to life. You turn around to look at how far back the wolves are and can't see any of them. Maybe they are sneaking around to ambush you or maybe they lost interest and moved off in a different direction. Either way, you quicken your pace a little more just to be safe. You happen to spot a long heavy stick at the bottom of the embankment and quickly rush down to get it. It is rather light and just a little longer than you are tall. It's a perfect walking stick and will make a nice weapon in case the wolves decide to attack. Your weariness catches up to you. You have to stop every couple of miles to get off your feet and take a breather. The grassy embankment feels so cool and invigorating against your bare skin. You don't dare stop for long or you'll fall asleep for sure. Eventually, though, you do. Your sleep is disturbed by the train screaming by in the night, but you are so tired that all you do is roll over away from the sound. You don't have the strength to even raise up to look at it. Then it is gone into the place where dreams live. When you wake up, it's still full dark and you have no idea whether you only slept for a few minutes or for several hours. You decide to eat a few crackers and polish off your first bottle of water before you set out again. The bottle isn't worth anything so you decide to save some weight and pitch it aside. Your leg muscles feel like blocks of wood from complete exhaustion and you have some trouble controlling them. You also take the time to carefully tear the tape from your back and legs. It's been on so long that it feels as if it has grown into the skin. Most of the tenderness is gone, but there are still slimy scabs underneath. You can't see them in the dark, but you can guess that they are all different shades from blue-gray to yellow-green like they were the last time your mom got really mad at you. After about an hour or so of walking you see the first rays of dawn on the horizon. There is a faint mist blanketing the field off to your left and a dark, dense thicket of trees to your right. Either place could be concealing all manner of things intent on doing you harm, but you don't have the time or the energy to dwell on it. Mosquitoes whine all around your face and you can feel them lighting on your bare skin. It isn't long before the itching begins driving you mad so you take to jogging in the hopes that they can't keep up. It works for the most part, but in rays of the cresting sun you can see wispy clouds of them swarming off to the sides and on down the line. All you can hope for is to avoid the biggest share of them. The sun has barely cleared the horizon when up ahead, you see a train parked on the side track of this town's staging yard. There are a couple of men milling around so you step over the rail and head down the short gravel slope to the ditch filled with stagnant water. There is a line of trees several yards beyond the slough which looks like the perfect cover to make your way up the line without being seen. You take off your flipflops to wade through the ankle deep muck and on the other side you drag your feet through the knee deep grass until the slime and mud are mostly wiped away before slipping them back on. Concealing yourself behind small trees, you make your way up to the train. The doors are closed on the few boxcars you see at this end so you keep moving until you find another short string. They too have their doors pulled shut so you keep moving. You finally near the front end and can see the engine idling beyond the switch on the main track. You can barely hear any other sounds over its rumble. So that you aren't spotted by someone up there, you duck back behind the boxcars and make your way back toward denser cover. Since all the boxcars along its length appear to be locked up tight, you'll either have to come up with some other place to board or else continue your journey on foot. There are several flatcars loaded with timbers and other things that are tightly packed and don't offer any cover, a few with truck van trailers, but the ones that interest you most are two together with new farm implements chained down. Some of them appear high enough off the bed that you could squeeze under them where it would be hard for someone to see you unless they were really trying. > From the Jaws of Death You start to head over to one when you notice a pair of legs walking on the other side toward the back end of the train. You squat back down to wait until they are far enough away that you can make it over unseen, but you hear the engine rev and a couple of jerks later it is moving. You give it a few more seconds while you look for movement on the other side before getting up and running over to the flatcar. It is still moving slower than you can walk so you sling your walking stick and bag up on it before grabbing a chain to haul yourself up. You throw your leg over the deck and when you try to wriggle up it slips off. You try again and again as the train slowly picks up speed, but you no matter how hard you try to climb up you can't get enough leverage with the train moving like this. You jump up to try and snag your stuff, but it's just out of reach so you desperately look around for another stick or anything that would allow you to reach it. There is nothing but gravel so you give it one last try with everything you have. You make a run at it again and try to swing your weight up over the side, but fall and land hard on the rail. A shooting pain courses through your ribs making it hard to catch your breath. You lay there for a second to let the pain go away when you remember that the train is moving. You glance over and see the steel wheels are nearly upon you so you roll away as fast as you can, but you can't move fast enough and they keep getting closer and closer. You try to scream and all that escapes is air. Just then, large hands clamp down on your shoulders and you feel yourself being yanked from the jaws of death. One of your flipflops slips off and you try to reach back and grab it, but it's too late. Your heart is pounding and the world is swirling all around you. Everything within your field of vision has taken on a hellish red hue. Before you even know what is happening, those same hands pick you up and sling you on up on the deck. You tumble and roll until slamming into one of the farm implements brings you to a sudden stop. Stunned, you finally manage to look around to see what in the world just happened and you see a tall scraggly man in a old gray sports coat with leather elbows on the sleeves pulling himself up on the side of the car. "It's a good thing I happened along or you'd have been cut clean in half. You would've definitely missed your train." "Wh- what?" "I was waiting for the train to start moving before I hopped on when I saw you sneaking around out there," he says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the trees, "Didn't look like you were gonna make it so I decided to give you a hand. Didn't anyone ever tell you how dangerous it is to mess around with trains? You could get hurt or maybe even killed. If I hadn't been here you'd be dead right now." You stare at him in silence. "What's a kid like you hopping a freight for, anyway?" "I have to get somewhere. It's real important." "It must be if you're willing to risk your life for it," he stares at you for a brief moment then continues "I guess since we're going the in same direction, we might as well get to know each other. I'm Harvey." You aren't really sure you should be talking to a stranger let alone tell him your name, but he did just save your life and he's standing there smiling at you with an eyebrow lifted expecting an answer. He doesn't really look dangerous and he did help you get on the train so do you tell him the truth or do you lie? > You tell the Truth You reluctantly say "I'm Billy." "Nice to meet ya, Billy. I guess we're gonna be here a while so might as well find a spot to get comfortable." He sits down between two of the implements—putting his back to one and props his foot up on the other—where he can't be seen from the ground. You bring your bag over and find a nice comfy place out of view from the side. You sit down beside it—leaning on it with your elbow—with your walking stick laying across you lap while keeping a wary eye on Harvey. "I saw you a ways back down the line and can't believe you made it this far. You've really covered some miles in the last couple of days." "Yeah. It's a long ways to where I'm going." "Where's that? If you don't mind my asking." You study his face. You're still not sure if you can really trust him or not so you make up something on the spot. "I have to find my uncle in Arizona so I can live with him." "Hope everything turns out okay for ya. I kinda like to keep moving. Don't like to stay in one place too long. Figured I'd head for the coast since this area is mostly played out now. It's not a bad place to Winter." Your belly starts growling so you reach into your bag and pull out what's left of the pack of crackers you've been eating on for the last couple of days. You only have one more pack left and they're mostly crushed, but you won't mind that a bit when you get hungry again. You stuff one in your mouth and grab a few more for good measure. You consider putting the pack back in the bag, but decide you ought to share so you offer Harvey the last of the package which he quickly accepts. "Thank ya," he grins, "I haven't had anything on my stomach since early yesterday." You both eat in silence and after a while you drift off to sleep to the sounds of the clacking rails. > A Hobo's Life You are awakened by a gentle shake to your shoulder and see that the stars are out. "It's time to get up. We're slowing down and the train might be stopping up ahead. We need to get off before it does." "Huh?" "There's no telling what they'll do if they catch us riding their train. Sometimes they just run you off and sometimes they call the police." You stand up, pick up your bag with your free hand and stand next to Harvey at the side of the flatcar. Still wiping the sleep from your eyes you suddenly think about the jagged gravel that you know is down there where you must jump, but can't see in this light. "I don't know if I can jump. I lost my flipflop back when we got on." "You need a pair of shoes. We'll worry about that later. It's not that far to the ground so you should be just fine. Just try not to land too hard on your bare foot." You nod, but it's dark enough that Harvey wouldn't be able to see it. "Okay," he says, "time to go." Then he steps off the side and disappears. You take a deep breath and jump as far away from the train as you can so you don't get run over. The shock to your knee shoots a bolt of pain through your leg, but it goes away as soon as your bare foot touches down on the jagged chunks of rock. You grit your teeth even though it isn't as bad as you thought it would be. You sling your bag over your shoulder and—leaning hard on your walking stick—limp back toward where Harvey jumped off. It isn't long before you find him since he's walking up to find you. "Are you okay?" "Yeah, but it's hard to walk bare-footed on these sharp rocks." "Here, climb up on my back until we find softer ground for you to walk on," he says, squatting down on one knee in front of you. You fumble for grip because you don't have enough hands to hang on. "Let me have that," Harvey says, snatching the stick from your grip before you even know what is happening. "Hey, I need that!" "Not right now, you don't. You can have it back later." A short time later, you come to a dirt access road and Harvey sets you down. He's bent over huffing and puffing and it takes him a while to get his breath back. It's obvious that he's older than he looks. The lines in his face have deepened and there are shadows under his eyes. Eventually he catches his breath and straightens up. "There has to be a better way," he says, "Whatcha got in the bag? Anything you could use as a shoe or wrap your foot up with until something better comes along?" "Just some covers and postcards." "Let's have a look at them covers." As you pull the blanket from the bag, the bottles clink together. "What's that?" "Just some old bottles that I keep water in." "Let's have one. I'm parched." You don't want to risk losing one of the trade-in bottles so you pull out the other screw-top one and hand it to him. He gulps down half of it before cutting his eye at you and stops himself. You can tell that he wants more, but he screws the lid back on and passes it back to you. "Thanks, kid. I needed that." You take a couple of swallows for yourself before putting it back in the bag. The bottles clink and clank against each other so you roll the bag up tight against them to keep them from breaking. You do your best to tie the wrapped blanket around your foot, but can't make it stay on so Harvey takes over and by the time he's done you look like you're wearing a golf bag on your leg. You feel like Frankenstein when you walk with your leg stiff like this, but it beats jabbing your foot on sharp things. "I guess we oughta find some food. What do you feel like, kid, steak or lobster?" chuckling to himself. You just stare back at him. "That looks like a fine place to eat," he says, pointing through the trees to a small house. "I hope we don't need a reservation." You follow him through the trees curious as to how he's going to get someone to give him food. You're at his heels when he raps on the door and as he steps back he nearly runs you over. When no one comes to the door, he knocks a little louder the second time. "Doesn't look like anyone's home," he says, turning toward the steps and leans against the railing. He stands there looking around the yard for a few minutes before walking over to a short board fence and hopping over. He snatches a couple of ripe tomatoes off the vine and pulls up a couple of decent sized carrots. "This oughta hold us a while. We don't want to get too greedy." As you and he walk down the tracks eating your measly meal you can't help but feel a little guilty. It wasn't you that stole the food, but you are eating it nonetheless. It's so delicious that you can't help yourself. > Christmas in July You've been walking for a couple hours and things look eerily familiar when up ahead you spot the old trestle bridge that you saw when you were with Jane. "Too bad we don't have any fishing gear," Harvey muses, "or we could be eating catfish tonight." You look over at him and then follow his gaze to a small group of people fishing on far bank of the muddy river. "Maybe they could spare a couple of hooks and some line so we can make cane poles." "Do you think they might let us have some?" "There's no harm in asking. C'mon, let's go see." You follow him as fast as your stiff-legged limp can take you. He stops at the bridge for about a minute looking up and down the tracks until he's satisfied that there's no train on its way, then walks at nearly his walking pace across. You look down at the muddy, swirling water and wonder what might be lurking under its surface. You don't really like high places and wish there was another way around. After gritting your teeth, you step out onto the first tie. You have trouble keeping up and have only made it halfway across when he reaches the other side. Luckily, you make it across without falling between the cross ties and aren't surprised by a speeding train. "You look like you need a breather," he says, "Why don't you go sit in the shade over there while I go talk to these people." You almost protest, but decide it might be better if you're seen by as few people as possible. Even though you are with an adult now, there's no telling what might happen and you certainly don't want to be taken back to your mom. There's no telling what she might do to you this time. You walk over and find a comfy spot and sit down. While you wait, you pull out your map and look for the highway number that you saw when you were near here with Jane. You were focusing your attention on Harvey this time and didn't notice it this time. It doesn't look very far away from home on the map, but the deputy had said it was eighty miles and eighty miles is a long way. You put the map back in the 'treasure chest' and lean back—soaking up the coolness of the shade. Your eyes start to glaze over so you sit up and give yourself a couple of light slaps to make the sleepiness go away. You've been sitting here a long time and start to wonder what's taking Harvey so long to get back. It shouldn't take this long to ask for fishing line and a couple of hooks. Maybe he decided not to come back. Maybe he figured it would be better not to have to travel with a kid. Getting to your feet and picking up the bag, you decide you should at least take a peek and see if he's anywhere to be seen. You walk about halfway back to the river when you hear a hushed "Hey, psst" from behind you. You turn around and see Harvey stepping out of the trees so you walk back over to him. He's got a rolled up paper bag under his arm and is grinning at you as he motions for you to follow him into the tree-line. "They were nicer than I ever would've expected. Look at all the stuff they were willing to part with." He pulls out a brand-new package of treble hooks and a whole roll of bright blue fishing line. "Looks like we might be eating fish tonight. And here's something for you," he says, pulling out a rolled up green shirt and flipping it open to reveal a pair of pink and white tennis shoes. You crinkle your nose. You don't want to wear girl's shoes. He smirks and says "Don't worry. After you wear 'em a couple days, nobody'll know the difference. Oh, and this here shirt is for you, too." He helps you untie the blanket and repack your bag. He doesn't open the 'treasure chest' and only packs it in tight with everything else. You mentally let out a sigh of relief. If stealing stuff from a house didn't bother him, what would he have done if he'd found your money? It makes you wonder if those people actually gave him this stuff or if he stole it, too. The shoes are a bit loose on you, but you lace them up good and tight and they only flop a little bit when you walk in them. Your put your lone flip-flop in the bag in case you might need it later and notice that the bag is considerably smaller now which will make it much easier to carry. Harvey must've had a lot of practice packing stuff since he moves around so much. "We should head off down the river that way to do our fishing. We don't wanna be too close to other people fishing if we expect to catch anything. You ready to go?" You nod. "Then let's go catch us some supper." Harvey steps into the trees on the other side of the tracks and you follow close behind. It's been so long since you wore a pair of shoes that you forgot how good they can feel and the branches raking your sunburned chest as walk through the brush doesn't bother you quite so much now that you have a shirt as an extra barrier of protection. It seems like you've been walking in the woods for a long time and you begin to think that you might be lost again like what happened when you were with Jane. Harvey stops several times to listen and look around like he doesn't know where he's going. You are about to ask him if you might be lost when he steps out on a bluff overlooking the river. He crane's his neck to look upstream and can't see beyond the bend. "This looks like a good spot," he says. > Gone Fishin' Both of you put your stuff down and Harvey pulls out an old pocket knife and flips out a blade that looks to have been sharpened way too many times. He walks around looking until he finds a couple of straight enough saplings to whack into poles and ties line and hooks to the end. "We don't have any worms or grasshoppers," you say. He raises an eyebrow at you. "We won't need 'em." You look at him a little puzzled as he reaches into the neck of his shirt and rips off the tag, then does the same to yours. "Here's the best starter bait in the world." You shake your head. What fish would want to eat cloth? Maybe he doesn't even know how to fish since he doesn't know what fish like to eat. He stabs a hook through each square white piece and hands you your pole before dropping his line in the water. You move a few yards down the bank and find a place where you can sit with your feet hanging over. Might as well get comfortable since you are going to be here a while. You drop your line in and lean back against a tree. You notice that your back doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it did. It still itches a little, but you are careful not to scratch it so you don't open

the scabs and start it bleeding all over again. You look up at the clouds floating by and realize that it has been a long time since you took the time to really stop and look around at anything. You find yourself swinging your feet and whistling softly through your teeth—just like you used to do when your dad took you fishing before he and your mom got a divorce. Everything was perfect back then and everyone was always so happy. You long to be back there because now the whole world has gone crazy and you're having a hard time just keeping up. You don't notice the slight tugging at your line, but when it is nearly jerked from your grasp you yank on it with too much force. You know better than to do that. That's how fish get away. You look down at your line and see a tiny perch flopping on the end of it. You can hardly believe your eyes. The little fish must've really thought that your shirt tag was something to eat. "I got one! I caught a fish!" "Shh. Not so loud. You don't want to scare off all the other fish, do you?" Harvey says, craning his neck to look upriver. "Bring it over here and let me see it." You do as he asks. "It's only a little one so we gotta throw it back." He shakes his head. "This one's gonna be our catfish bait." He worries the hook out and guts the tiny little fish. After baiting your hooks with its innards, he hands you back your pole and pitches his line out as far as it will go. You walk back to your spot and throw your line back in. You remember your dad telling you that you have to turn the little fish loose so they can grow up to be big fish. If you didn't, there wouldn't be any big fish for other people to catch. You look back over at Harvey and wonder if he really has any idea what he's doing after all. After spending the whole day fishing, there's only one channel cat and a couple of medium perches to show for it. Harvey did end up throwing several small fish back so it eased your mind about that somewhat. When it came time to clean and cook the fish, he showed you how to tie a fish to the end of a forked stick and stake it on with smaller ones sharpened into little skewers so it wouldn't fall off in the campfire. You are basically roasting them like marshmallows which was kind of neat and fun. It reminded you of the camp-outs you had with your parents when you were little. To round out the meal, you sift through the shattered crackers and pick out the biggest chunks. Harvey eats most of the fish and crackers and before he is through you feel like you wouldn't be able to hold in even one more bite if you wanted to. You collapse into a heap and begin thinking about how almost the entire day was wasted. You could be a long way from here right now—even if you had to walk to do it. Sure, you needed the rest, but not as much as you needed to cover the ground. You'll have to try to make up for all this lost time tomorrow and if that means going on alone then so be it. Getting to the Grand Canyon for Jane is the most important thing. It's the only thing that matters. > Life on the Road You wake up before the sun and begin readying your pack for the road ahead. Harvey occasionally grunts in his sleep and you don't dare wake him unless it is a real emergency. That's just the way it is with grownups. When you get tired of waiting, you decide to throw your line in the murky water. It isn't that you are hungry, but you are nearly out of food and if you had a fish to tide you over in the afternoon it would save time—and the hassle—in the long run. You find a decent looking gut that isn't too big or too small to skewer onto your hook and pitch your line out as far as it will go. After more than an hour, you still haven't had even a nibble and are about to give up when the sun finally peeks over the horizon. The warmth is overwhelming and the world around you sort of melts away. It is so comforting to just stand here and bask in the rays of the new day. Just then, your pole snaps and you are startled back into reality. "Ahhh!" Something big has tied onto your line and with the way it is thrashing, you don't know if you'll be able to haul it in. You dig in with your heels and strain with all you have, but the mud is slick and you are being dragged toward the water. The surface opens up in a geyser revealing the biggest catfish you have ever seen. It is a sleek and silky, bluish-gray catfish and you can only stand there while the spray engulfs you in slow motion. "Wha- What's going on?!" you hear from behind you along with quite a ruckus. Harvey scrambles up beside you and is still rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes when it finally dawns on him that you need help so he reaches out and snags the end of your pole. "This guy's enough to feed an entire army!" By the time all the chunks have cooked the sun is already high. You've lost so much time already that when you finally do head off down the tracks you have to continually slow down to let Harvey catch up even though your paces are two to his one. You try not to even stop to rest when he suggests it, but he's not as young as you are so you have to give him the occasional breather. The miles tend to run together and then the days. It's a long way between towns and by the time you finally get within sight of one that is little more than a far away dot, you've long since eaten the last morsel of fish. Harvey has pointed out a few edible plants along the way—none of which are very appetizing, but they don't kill you or even make you sick—which is better than having nothing at all on your stomach. He shows you how to skin prickly pears so you can eat them, but they are so bland that you can only stand to chew them until all the moisture is gone and then spit out the remnants when he's not looking. It's about midday when you run up on another farmhouse about a half a mile from the tracks. "Wait here," Harvey says, "I'll be back in a jiff." You watch as he crosses the over-grazed pasture and strides up to the front door. After a couple minutes, you see him disappear around the side only to return a few minutes later cradling something in his arms. When he gets close enough, you can see that what he's carrying is eggs. "I got us a real treat, boy." You look up at him and give a half-smile. "I haven't had eggs in a long, long time. How are we gonna cook 'em? We don't have a pan or anything." "Leave that to me. Where there's a will—there's a way." After a short ways, he picks up an old tin can and peers into it while holding it up to the sun. "This'll do nicely. You got any of that water left?" "Yeah." You reach into the bag and pull a bottle out. "It's the last one." "It'll be more than enough. We'll get some more the next place we run on to." He steps off to the side of the tracks and kicks an area bare with his foot. He starts piling dried grass, twigs and whatever else he finds and then lights it. You quickly run around gathering more bits of dried wood and before you know it, the can is boiling away so he pulls it off to the side a couple inches—enough that it can still get heat, but not so much that it loses all of its water. Then, the two of you sit back and watch it for a few minutes. "That oughta be enough." He pulls his hand inside his sleeve and uses the cuff like a hot pad. After dumping the water on the fire, he kicks it around a little bit to make sure it is completely out. "We'll let these cool off while we walk and come supper time we'll have us a real treat." You don't really want to wait, but you know he's right so you do your best to put it out of your mind and think about other things. All at once, you notice that there are suddenly more houses around. You didn't even realize how much you'd traveled since you first saw this town as a far off speck. "With any luck, we'll be able to catch a train out of this bump in the road. I don't think my feet can take too many more miles." "We need to fill up the bottles with water." "We oughta find a milk jug or two instead. Those glass bottles you got are empty weight. If you're going to be lugging something around, it oughta be more water." You nod in agreement. > Wrench in the Cogs Crossing the street to a gas station, you spot a police car coming toward you from down the street. You step up your pace and put Harvey between you and it. You look around for a place to hide, but there isn't anything close. You prepare yourself in case he stops, but all you can hope for is to run as fast as you can and hope that you can get away. You let out a sigh as it goes on by and the officer behind the wheel doesn't even look over at you. Stepping through the open door, you are hit by a blast of not quite so hot air. A big shop fan rests against the back wall and is aimed directly at the door. A nice looking man in thick glasses and stained coveralls sits just to the right of it and has his nose buried in a newspaper. "Ahem," Harvey clears his throat to get the guy's attention. "Howdy," says the attendant, leaning forward so that the legs of his folding chair touch the floor, "What can I do for you?" "We were hoping to get some water. Drinking water. And maybe a jug or something to put it in." You can see the disappointment on the attendant's face as he draws his lips back, but it quickly shifts into a forced smile. "Sure thing. I think there might be one around back by the dumpster." "Thanks," Harvey says as he heads back out the front door. You hang back and stand there looking at the guy with a sheepish smile until you finally build up enough nerve to blurt out "Do you buy bottles?" "Sure thing, little man. You got some you wanna trade in?" "Uh huh." You dig through you bag and pull out the two root beer bottles. You stand there looking down at them and remember sharing them with Jane. You knew you'd have to sell them eventually, but now you aren't sure that you really want to. "Just the two, then?" You wipe the film from your eyes that has started to develop and look up at him. You nod. "I think I have it right here—" he says, digging in his pocket. "Yeah, here you go. Six cents. You can put 'em over there with those," he points after handing you the coins. From the little wire rack by the front door, you grab a couple plastic tubes of peanuts. They are marked twenty-five cents and you think you have more than enough in change. You pull out the plastic bread wrapper and start counting out pennies on the only bare spot on the counter. The attendant watches you and drums his fingers impatiently. "That's it." You look up and see him sliding the pile off into his hand. "That's not fifty cents." "Yeah, it is. You must've just miscounted." You grin up at him. You'd only given him a little over thirty cents so either he is really nice and doing you a favor or else he just doesn't want all your pennies. He smiles warmly back. You quickly twist the bag of money and shove it way down deep in your pocket before Harvey comes back. He seems that he's on your side so far, but if he can steal from random strangers he might just take from you, too. You drop the peanuts into your bag for later in case you have to go too long without food. You're leaning with your back against the metal door frame when Harvey returns with two jugs. He and the attendant talk briefly before the two of you head around the side of the building to the faucet and fill the jugs. You have a huge lump in your throat and barely even take notice of anything around you for quite a little while. Even bending down and taking giant gulps straight from the spigot doesn't make it go down. It just sort of hangs there. The last thing you do is pitch the last whiskey bottle in the dumpster before the two of you head back toward the tracks. It's several hours before a train comes into view. You hear the blasting horn from miles away and you sit staring in the direction of the blast. It is going the wrong way, however, so you have to keep waiting. You and Harvey have found yourselves a nice comfy spot in the shade of a metal building in some scrub brush where no one can see you. Harvey has been leaning with his back against a small tree and every once in a while he lets out a snort that would wake any normal person from a sound sleep. Not him, though. Even though he's had much more rest than you, he still looks like an old, old man. His gray doesn't end at his hairline, but keeps going all the way down his face subcutaneously. Sometime before dark and just when you finally feel like you could stand some sleep yourself, you hear a long, blaring horn from the opposite direction. "That's our ride," says Harvey, opening his eyes and stretching to get the kinks out. You watch as the engine finally enters the yard, but it keeps going and doesn't slow any more than a fast walking pace. Harvey cranes his neck and strains to try and see further down its length. There are no boxcars. All you can see are flatcars and hoppers. A long stretch of flatcars are loaded with sea containers probably bound for the coast and don't offer any space at all around them, but one of the last cars is only half full at the back. Harvey trots toward it and you dash around him. After lofting your bag over the side, he grabs you around your middle and hefts you up. He tosses his coat and the water jugs at your feet before trotting up to the very front where there is a step. "Hey! Get away from there!" you hear coming from the tail end of the train. "That's private property!" You duck into a corner made by the slightly mismatched cargo containers and watch as Harvey takes a step backward. He looks up at you as the train whisks you by and turns away from the tracks. You peek around the container to see two men rush up to him. They take him by the arms and lead him back across the tracks. One of them is talking on a walkie-talkie. What are they going to do to him? Did they see you? You have no idea. If they did, they might call ahead to stop the train and then what would you do? > You go back for Harvey You shove Harvey's coat into your bag and wait until the yard is out of sight before jumping off. The train has picked up a little speed and you end up rolling headlong in the gravel, but only end up with a couple of small scrapes. There will be other trains or maybe Harvey will have another idea. You can't just bear to take his stuff and go on without him. By the time you get back to the train yard there is no one in sight. You don't know what to do. You can't just start walking around town looking for him. What if that cop sees you? He'll take you back to your Mom and after what she did last time—well, that's just too awful to even think about. You hang around the train yard for a little while being sure to keep out of sight until it is full dark and then walk over to the street where the gas station is. You don't see any sign of Harvey. In fact, the street is completely deserted so you head back to the tracks. There's a strange sense of deja vu as you walk between the rails. It's not quite as scary this time, but things are still creeping around out there just out of sight. You wish that you still had your stick with you. You must've left it back at the river. That's the last place you remember seeing it. About a mile or so away from town, you see a small cinder block building with a light on the front of it above a blue door out in the middle of a field and just behind it there's an earthen dam. It looks like it might be a good place to stay the night. You walk over to it and try to open the door, but it's locked so you go around to the side where it's dark and slump down against the wall. You are getting rather hungry so you reach in your bag to get a package of peanuts when you remember the eggs. Too bad Harvey isn't around to enjoy them. You take out two and take your time eating them. You fiddle with the shells—not wanting to go to sleep out here in the open, but there is a little light to see by so you don't feel quite as skittish—and end up crumbling them into tiny bits only slightly bigger than sand before finally casting them out into the wiry grass. You aren't sitting there long before the day catches up with you and you drift off to sleep. You wake up before the sun and find it right nippy out so you put on Harvey's coat. Your legs are stiff and there's a crick in your back. Your arms feel like they are about to fall off from carrying the extra weight of the water jugs. There has to be something you can do about it. You can't keep juggling all this stuff and expect to last very long. At long last, the sun finally pops up and the dew steams off the tracks. It won't be long until it gets warm enough that you won't need the coat anymore and that gives you an idea. You pull your arms out of the sleeves and tie a jug to each one—letting them flop in front of you while you keep the coat on like a cape. It's not pretty, but it frees up your hands so that all you have to worry about is holding onto the bag. It isn't long before you polish off the rest of the eggs and while getting them out, you find the hooks and line. With any luck you'll run into another river or maybe a lake somewhere up ahead. You trudge along for mile after mile as the sun creeps steadily overhead and just hangs there baking you. You keep wishing you had some kind of hat when you see something between the tracks up ahead that looks just like a dusty, smashed cowboy hat. You pick up your pace and are nearly on it when it suddenly moves! It's a snake! And it's big one. It has a pattern of criss-crossing lines along its back and starts to make a rattling noise. You drop the bag as you fall backward. You see it draw back its head as you crab-walk the heck out of there as fast as you can. When you are a safe distance away, you get back to your feet. What are you going to do now? You have to get your bag back, but it's much too close to it now. You look around and the only thing there is is the crushed limestone gravel. Perfect! You pick up a couple handfuls of the biggest chunks and start lobbing them at it to drive it away. Every single stone—whether it be a hit or miss—is a hit because the rattler strikes them when they get close. Every single time! And then it shakes off the impact kind of and gets ready for the next one. Before long the bottom of its mouth is kind of drooping to one side and its head is mangled, but it hangs in there. You ease a little closer being careful to stay well out of range and start pelting it with everything you have until it is little more than a pile of mush. It finally slinks over the rail and slithers into the sparse grass where it disappears completely. You creep up and pick up your bag giving that area a wide berth before continuing on your way. > Any Port in the Storm You only now realize how late it is getting. It seems like only a couple hours ago the sun was directly overhead and now there are not even shadows at all anymore. You look around for some place to hole up for the night and the only place you see is a small grove of trees in the corner of the field some distance from the tracks. There are no people or animals within sight and you debate whether you should head over there or keep going and hope for a better spot to present itself. Just then, a loud crack nearly knocks you off your feet and everything around you is immediately thrown into high contrast. You duck instinctively, even though you are a second too late. You look up to see the sky overhead is near black and brimming with static. The horizon behind you fades swiftly to nothing in a dingy gray curtain. You are about to get soaked! Nature has made your decision for you. You don't want to be anywhere near trees during an electrical storm. And you certainly don't want to be standing on these metal tracks higher than all the ground around you for as far as you can see. You can see a dirt road about a half a mile ahead. Perhaps you'll find some cover when you reach it. In any case, you'll be off the tracks and will no longer be a sitting duck for lightning strikes. You run. As you near the crossroad, you look both ways for any sign of shelter and see a bent over mail box at the end of what appears to be a driveway so you veer in that direction cutting across the ditch before even reaching the road. There is a stitch in your side, but you keep moving. Thunder is clapping all around you and a sound like running horses is growing louder and louder. You turn into the driveway without slowing down and find it nearly overgrown down the center. It is canted downhill and looks more like an old wash than something carved out by human hands. Only vague tire wear paths along each side show that it was once used. The spindly saplings on either side stretch out and their branches knit together overhead throwing the path into unnatural darkness. Your stomach lurches at the prospect of having to venture down such a lane, but you don't have much choice and hope that there is still some form of shelter when you reach the end of it. As you run along weaving back and forth through the tall grass and weeds down the center of the lane from one worn path to the other to avoid the darkest areas and shrubbery that threatens to conceal any manner of creature, you hope that something isn't lying in wait just out of your vision—to trip you up or is crouched and ready to pounce. The path finally widens into a clearing and with it your spirits—for across the unkempt yard you see an old derelict shotgun house whose roof has collapsed in at the back. It might not be much to look at, but it will definitely serve its purpose to keep you dry while you weather the storm that has just now caught up to you. Snow white stones pummel the ground around and in front of you and will soon tear their way through the spindly branches overhead so you have no choice but to run the gauntlet and hope that you can make it to the cover on the other side. With giant strides, you cover the ground with ice pelting you from above and ricocheting off of your shoulders and arms—stinging as they bounce high and away—and sure to leave welts the size of goose eggs. A couple or three times a stone smacks into your head and your vision goes fuzzy, but you are too focused on your goal to give it much thought or to succumb to the blinding pain. Finally, you spring up onto the gabled porch and dart through the framed hole in the wall that once supported a door. Everything is shrouded in a dim gloom and there is a mustiness that permeates the place. You don't see signs that anyone has been in this place for possibly years. You set your bag against the wall by the door so you can look around. Beyond the front room is a short hall on the left that leads into a darkened room. As you make your way down it, you come to a wood panel door with cracked and peeling white paint that has greened slightly with age midway and see another a little further on with a more yellowed tinge to it. Both are standing wide open and you can see only darkness in the slits between them and the door frame. Inside the first room you see the remnants of a mattress leaning against the far wall partially covering a window whose muntins hold only shards and fragments of turquoise shaded glass still trapped by its web of caulk. It was probably placed there to prevent the room from being damaged by weather or overrun with critters when the first of its lights had been knocked out. The bed frame is still in the corner and the pile next to its head was most likely a nightstand that didn't fare too well with time. A pile of debris layers the floor of the built-in closet. It was undoubtedly shirts and dresses and things once upon a time and has become shredded by moths, rodents and mildew until it could no longer cling on to the wire hangers still suspended on the bar. You wrestle the door away from the wall enough to peek behind and find nothing at all there save cobwebs and decades of dust. You shove it back against the wall and step into the room for a more thorough examination. Still hanging from a crooked nail in the closet, you find a narrow leather dress belt. You bend and wrench it and find that it still has life left in it. It could come in handy sometime, so you buckle it to its tail and sling it over your head—letting it dangle at your hip like a sash. There are a few other things like a brass ash tray that's tarnished black with age, but you can't imagine a use for it and it would only weigh you down. You check the next door and see that behind it is a tiled bathroom. There isn't much of value in here, but as you are about to leave you spot a new vinyl shower curtain still in its wrapper. It sounds a bit crunchy when you bend the package, but it might still be good enough to keep you dry if you get caught in a sudden downpour. The back room is the kitchen, but you can't get through it or even tell what might be in there since the roof has collapsed and draped the ceiling over whatever might've once been in here. It doesn't look too safe to even go near so you head back to the front room where you seat yourself by the open doorway and snack on a few peanuts. The storm outside is raging and seems to be growing more violent with every passing second. At least you found a dry place to weather it. You might as well try to get some rest since it looks like you're going to be here a while so you draw the coat up as tightly as you can and slump your back against the wall. > Ghosts From the Past Sleep doesn't come easily with all the thunderclaps. And you keep seeing movement with each flash of lightning. Sometimes it's down the dark hallway and sometimes through one of the windows. Each time you spin your head in that direction it is already gone—whatever it is. You'd move to a better angle to see everything, but it would only put you at a disadvantage. If you move even a foot to either side, something could grab you through a window and if you move over to the far wall, the hallway would be at your back. As it is now, something could reach through and grab you from the doorway so you draw your feet under you and are poised to spring away. Something is scraping around in the kitchen now. You can barely make it out above the howl of the wind, but it is there. You still can't make anything out through the darkness—which only deepens with each strobe from the storm. Something is watching you. You slowly turn your head to one side to see out of the windows along that wall and only see blackness. Your hands are all sweaty so you try to wipe them off on your shirt, but it is still damp and doesn't do much good at all. Lightning flashes overhead and you can see that there's nothing outside the windows. You slowly pivot your head toward the windows on the opposite wall and notice how much blacker the room has become. Your ears begin to burn and prickle. You don't dare make any sudden movement. You hear the ambient rumble emanating from all around you with only slight variances every now and again. What happened to all the lightning? Why is it taking so long? Then it is suddenly and briefly daylight outside and you can see that the windows are empty. Does it know when the flashes will come and only hide until it gets dark again? Something moves in front of you! It is only a black shape against the darkness and you can see it getting taller—as if it is getting to its feet. Your legs won't work and your chest feels heavy. You can't see its face, but can feel the too wide grin creeping slowly across it. Its eyes burn into you though you cannot see them. You can see more of them writhing in background, waiting. They slither this way and that, but aren't drawing any closer. The thing is still just black on black, but it is drawing ever nearer as it glides toward you. It is getting larger and larger. You can feel it reaching its long bony talons out toward you and its shriveled lips part open. Don't worry. No one ever comes here. This place is 'bandoned. You nearly jump out of your skin and your eyes snap open. Was it a only dream or did you actually just hear those words? You rapidly swivel your head back and forth trying to get a handle on where it is. All you can see is blackness that goes gray with each heartbeat. The rumble outside has become more distant and there are no longer any lightning flashes to illuminate the room. You pick up your bag and hold it in front of you as a makeshift shield. Get that little BASTARD! You are on your feet and running through the night in the direction that you believe the driveway is. It is so dark that you can't see your hand in front of your face and you can only hope that you don't slam into a tree or anything. The jugs of water are beating against your thighs with every step. Your eyes burn and tears stream down your cheeks. You better run you little BITCH! You run like the devil is after you because it most certainly is. With each step, you slog through the ankle deep water. You can hear it slosh and spray all around you. You expect you foot to drop into a hole or get stuck in the mud, but find solid footing among the submerged grass and weeds. You have your arm outstretched ahead of you to help deflect anything in your path, but there is nothing. The grassy slough gives way to solid ground—possibly a road—and you turn back in the direction you believe the tracks are in. You run and run until you run yourself completely out of packed ground and find yourself surrounded by dense grass. You no longer have anywhere to go but down. You fall in a heap attempting to stifle your wheezing sobs and clinging to the bag for dear life. The pounding in your ears blocks out all other sound and you wouldn't know if something was coming up on you in the blackness—no matter how much racket it was making. Eons pass and you finally see the first twinkle among the clouds. The sky slowly withdraws its veil letting more and more tiny lights shine through. All around you there is a comforting bluish glow. The grass seems to be lit from within and it feels like you can see for miles and miles—as if you are in some supernatural sea. The serenity seeps into your soul and your previous terror is completely replaced with awe and wonder. The sun spills over the horizon and washes across the landscape and you are momentarily blinded by the glint of steel. The tracks are but a short distance away. You must have turned and run along beside them in your panic. A great double rainbow cinches the whole world together and everything is suddenly new again. You feel like you can take the entire universe on single handed. You pick yourself up and sling the bag over your shoulder and once again hit the rails. > Train Wrangler After a day and a half, you come within sight of a town. It is just getting dark and the street lights are beginning to glow orange as far as the eye can see. This is no ordinary town—it stretches out for miles and is already giving off a glow comparable to that of the setting sun. Another track stretching off into the far yonder joins with yours and up ahead you can see yet another. They cling to each other and swap back and forth between switches. There are trains up ahead—some coming and some going—and beyond that a vast highway arcs in perpetual leap from one side of this river of rails to the other. You make your way over to the far side to keep out of sight of the headlamps of the oncoming trains and follow the tracks for nearly an hour—careful to stay with the majority as they snake their way westward—doing your best to not get sidetracked. Up ahead and on the same side of the arteries of tracks as you you see a train just sitting there alongside a string of small warehouses and aimed in the right direction. You can hear the engine reverberating and there are bright lights on tripods scattered all around. There are some flatcars with men busy loading large crates onto them using forklifts from the loading dock and in the gloom between them and the engine is a string of boxcars. You can see from here that their doors are wide open. If only you could make it inside one without being spotted. You sneak up behind the metal buildings and then through the gap between until you are right across from the darkest one and watch the men carefully for your opening. The door is only a few inches higher than the platform so you won't have any trouble getting inside. You only have to wait for the right moment. After the crates have been chained down and the forklifts have gone away, the men start taking the lights down one by one and you hear the engine slowly rev up. You'll have to time this just right. Luck is on your side. There is no one in sight when the train starts inching forward and you make your dash. You make your way as quickly between the slatted crates and the wall as you can to the front of the car where you find just enough crawl space to conceal yourself and your stuff. The smell is overpowering and your mouth begins to water uncontrollably. The crates are packed full with cantaloupes and you haven't eaten anything since the remainder of peanuts you had last night. You are famished! You don't even bother with getting the knife out of the 'treasure chest'. You just reach in and punch a hole in one with your fist. You pull out handful after handful of slimy goodness and cram it into your mouth. It's so dark that you can't even see it, but you know how light and orange it must be. You'll definitely be filling your belly this night. The thought strikes you that you could take a couple along with you for good measure when you leave the train so while you're filling your gullet you also pry off enough of the slats to pull out a couple of good sized ones and pack them in the blanket in your bag. When you're finally lulled to sleep by the clacking rails, you are returned to the night you and Jane spent on that train and all the plans you and she had made. Only this time, the two of you are on your way to see the Grand Canyon and are without a care in the world. She gives you a huge grin and throws her arms around you—planting a big kiss on your cheek—and hugging you for all you are worth. The day comes much too soon and you stagger over to the open doorway to relieve yourself. You stand there and marvel at how far you can see. Snaking its way through a long valley is a river so blue that it makes your heart stop. On both sides it is lush with trees and you spot a large flock of birds winding and twisting like dust devils above the dense foliage. All is right with the world. You know you are going to make it just fine. > Where the West Begins After the long slow grade up from the river bottom, you find yourself in an entirely different landscape. The closest thing to trees are the tumbleweeds attempting to go unnoticed by entwining themselves in the nearly evenly spaced barbed-wire fences. A gentle breeze blows waves through the seeded out short-grass on the endless rolling hillsides as it ebbs and eddies. You are careful not to get too close to the open door that you can be seen, but you manage to drag one of the crates close enough that you catch the breeze and sit there dining on cantaloupes as you watch the world whisk by. The short-grass is soon replaced with only tufts of desperate hangers-on and sprawling prickly-pear patches. There are colorful rocky outcroppings jutting out from everywhere and you see a herd of small deer pawing and licking at one of them. You watch small towns drift by in the distance and for a while the train runs alongside a highway filled with car after car from one end to the other for as far as you can see and wonder how there can be so many people. How did they all get here and why? Where did they all come from and where are they going? Soon after, the flat desolation opens wide and the land reaches up in supplication to the heavens. Mountain after mountain looms in the distance and slowly each one in turn makes its way from its incorporeal plane into reality. You've never seen anything so amazing. From all the pictures you've ever looked at, you never realized how awesome mountains would be up close in real life. The train takes forever to reach the bottom of a long grade and your ears pop every couple of minutes. Your eyes feel swollen and like they might end up bursting from the pressure if something doesn't give soon. The sun was just beginning to set when you started your descent, but now you are in deep shadow cast by the mountains. The early lights of a large city come into view so it won't be long before you have to leave the train. You've been walking around for hours and still have no idea where to go from here. You've gotten all turned around and don't remember which direction the sun was in. You aren't exactly sure what town you are in right now, either. You haven't been looking at your map and you've lost all track. You've just been following the sun since it seems to know where to go. It'd be best if you could board a train at night, but you may have to wait until morning to regain your bearings. There isn't really any place to lie down here. There are houses immediately beyond a high chain link fence that runs the course of the tracks through town and a gatehouse at each entrance that you are forced to skirt. The street lamps offer little light this far away and those blinding security lights on the front of the little buildings only extend out so far. You can either wait until morning or attempt to board one of the random trains that sit idling on the tracks. > You wait until morning Not wanting to risk hopping a train to God knows where, you decide to find a place to curl up and sleep for the night. Over behind the steel buildings across from the road, you find a patch of high weeds that will do nicely. You settle down and catch a few winks during the short breaks between the interruptions of the normal commotion of loading and unloading the freight cars and hitching and unhitching. It's exhausting to say the least, but you have faith that in the morning you'll be able to catch a ride and there'll be plenty of time to rest then. When the sky finally starts to gray in the East, you begin juning around. There are plenty of trains to choose from pointed in the direction you wish to go. It's just a matter of getting on board without being spotted and as luck would have it, there aren't too many people bustling about right now. Still, you have to be careful. You glide quickly over to the closest one and climb up the ladder on the front of a side dump car on the tail end of the train to look inside. Except for a bit of what looks like gravel here and there and dust, it's completely empty. You pitch your bag over and climb in. There's no way someone will be able to see you unless they climb up and look directly in. You make yourself cozy and settle in for the ride. The sun becomes unbearable around midday and you end up having to spread the blanket out to be able to even stand the radiating heat from the floor of the car. Every so often you have to stand up and let the blast furnace air flow over you to try to cool down as much as you can. You can only stand for a few minutes at most each time because the tracks run parallel to a highway and if you are spotted by a passing car, you'll no doubt be reported. You end up going through more of your water than you wanted and end up having to soak your T-shirt and wrap around your head to even begin to bear the heat. The sun finally drops down low enough that it casts a shadow in the front end of the car. Every hour brings with it more and more relief as the temperature seems to fall a degree or two until it has cooled down enough—or perhaps you are just that tired—that you find yourself getting sleepy. You stretch out and the rhythm of the tracks sends you tumbling head-first into dreamland. You wake up before dawn and find the train still once more. You make up your bedroll and repack your bag before peeking out to see if the coast is clear. The engine is gone and the short string of cars you are in seems to have been unhitched on a siding. The track stretches northeastward over the hill and there's a tall barricade of railroad ties where it stops abruptly at the west end. You could head back up the tracks, but that would mean backtracking and it's anyone's guess how far. Or you could head for the mountains at the far end of the valley. Surely you'll run into a road or more tracks before too long. > Backtrack Maybe you should stick to the tracks. There's no telling what may be out in the desert. It might take longer and be more out of the way, but there's less of a chance to get lost. The track rejoins one running East to West and you continue on to where the sun sets. It's blazing hot and only gets hotter with each passing hour. You try to conserve water as best you can and it only makes you thirstier. You'll have to go back to traveling only while the sun is down or you'll never make it. You've run yourself completely out of water, but still you trudge on. The iron rails stretch out ahead of you into infinity. There's no turning back. You've shed every single item that you can afford to do without in order to lessen your load. The only thing you are unwilling to part with is Jane's treasure chest. It's all that is left of her. The sun is blazing down on you and yet you are freezing. If only you'd kept the coat. Your knees are shaking so furiously that you can barely keep them under you. Just when you think you won't be able to take another step, you see a gravel road up ahead crossing the tracks. You dig deep and force yourself to continue on. You must reach the crossing. You have to. You are still fifty yards or so shy of it and cannot go on. Your legs are cramping something fierce and no longer obey your wishes. You have to stop. You have to rest. A dark green sedan covered in dust pulls up to the crossing and stops momentarily. After everything you've done to keep out of sight, you have no choice now but to get help. It no longer matters whether they send you back or not as long as you don't die—and you know you will if you don't get assistance. You raise your arm to flag the car down and the ground starts spinning. Your vision goes black. > Francisca There is soft music playing far, far away. Even though you can't make out the words, it is so soothing and you feel enveloped by it like a warm blanket on a cold winter night. You struggle to open your eyes against a piercing white light. You try to shield them from it with your hand and find that it is captured by a soft, thick blanket. The light is still way too bright, but you force your eyes open despite it. They eventually adjust and you find yourself in a very sterile-looking room. There are framed rubbings on the walls from what appears to be tombstones flanking a large, hand-carved wooden crucifix and on the nightstand next to the bed you are tucked into is a pitcher and basin, and a blue vase exploding with yellow flowers. The bed is so soft. You've never felt anything so soft. It feels like it could swallow you up. That you might could even drown in it—and that wouldn't be half bad. Not half bad at all. You reach out from under the covers and stretch your arms high over your head. A cool, damp washcloth slides down from your forehead and onto your cheek. It's a bit startling, but feels good all the same. You smush it back so that it stays in place. You pull yourself up even though you'd rather not and find that you haven't got a stitch of clothing on. You desperately look around and there's not a single thing other than the blanket to wrap yourself in so you scrunch back down. What in the world are you going to do? You hear a "click" and determine that it came from the door a mere moment before it swings open a crack. You can see movement in the darkness beyond the door and then suddenly an eye is looking in at you. You scrunch down deep. You have nowhere to run. You only hope that whoever—or whatever—it is isn't here to hurt you. The door slowly creaks open revealing the monster! It's in the form of a short, dark-skinned woman with long black hair and a broad, warm smile pasted across her face. She's carefully balancing a wooden tray so that several dishes she has neatly arranged on it don't go sliding off and onto the floor. "¡Buenos días!" You eye her suspiciously from under the covers. What does she want? "¿Tienes hambre?" she asks, nodding and motioning toward the tray with her lips. "eh ... eat food?" You nod slowly. "¿Sí?" She whisks over beside the bed while you slowly unravel yourself from the blanket and push yourself back making sure not to let anything that shouldn't come uncovered. She sits beside you and gently places the tray on your lap—keeping her hand on the edge of it for balance. Other than the short glass of orange juice and taller one of tepid milk you have no idea what any of this is, but it sure is delicious. You can't help but cram even more into your mouth before you've even had time to swallow the previous bite. "¿Sabe bien? eh ... es good?" she asks, smiling. You give her a broad smile and a vigorous nod. "Mmm hmmm!" When you can hold no more, you push back with a groan. "Thank you. That was the best food I ever ate." She places the tray on the foot of the bed and then turns back to you and lifts the blanket before you even know what she's doing. You start. Extending her finger and gently touching one of the scars on your back she asks "¿Quien te hizo esto? eh ... who hurt?" You give her another suspicious look and decide that it probably wouldn't hurt to tell her. It's not like she'll be able to tell anyone else. She can't even talk right. "My mom..." "¡Dios mío!" she says, looking at you in horror, "¿Tu madre?" She leaps from the bed and begins pacing back and forth with a wild look in her eyes. She's rattling on so fast that even she wouldn't be able to pick out her own words. She finally stops and turns to you. "Nadie te pegará más. Serás mi hijo ahora," she says in a steadier and more soothing tone. She rushes over and throws her arms around you—nearly dragging you from the bed—and gives you such a squeeze that she nearly crushes the air right out of your chest. "Estás a salvo aquí." Days go by and turn into weeks, and weeks into months, months into years. You keep meaning to get back to your journey to the Grand Canyon, but you feel so safe here and Francisca is so, so nice. There's not one mean bone in her whole body. Jane would've really loved it here. Someday—when you're old enough and have a car of your own—you intend to make good on your promise to Jane. But, for now this is... — The End

[Themes: modern, drama, true story, western] Not wanting to risk hopping a train to God knows where, you decide to find a place to curl up and sleep for the night. Over behind the steel buildings across from the road, you find a patch of high weeds that will do nicely. You settle down and catch a few winks during the short breaks between the interruptions of the normal commotion of loading and unloading the freight cars and hitching and unhitching. It's exhausting to say the least, but you have faith that in the morning you'll be able to catch a ride and there'll be plenty of time to rest then. When the sky finally starts to gray in the East, you begin juning around. There are plenty of trains to choose from pointed in the direction you wish to go. It's just a matter of getting on board without being spotted and as luck would have it, there aren't too many people bustling about right now. Still, you have to be careful. You glide quickly over to the closest one and climb up the ladder on the front of a side dump car on the tail end of the train to look inside. Except for a bit of what looks like gravel here and there and dust, it's completely empty. You pitch your bag over and climb in. There's no way someone will be able to see you unless they climb up and look directly in. You make yourself cozy and settle in for the ride. The sun becomes unbearable around midday and you end up having to spread the blanket out to be able to even stand the radiating heat from the floor of the car. Every so often you have to stand up and let the blast furnace air flow over you to try to cool down as much as you can. You can only stand for a few minutes at most each time because the tracks run parallel to a highway and if you are spotted by a passing car, you'll no doubt be reported. You end up going through more of your water than you wanted and end up having to soak your T-shirt and wrap around your head to even begin to bear the heat. The sun finally drops down low enough that it casts a shadow in the front end of the car. Every hour brings with it more and more relief as the temperature seems to fall a degree or two until it has cooled down enough—or perhaps you are just that tired—that you find yourself getting sleepy. You stretch out and the rhythm of the tracks sends you tumbling head-first into dreamland. You wake up before dawn and find the train still once more. You make up your bedroll and repack your bag before peeking out to see if the coast is clear. The engine is gone and the short string of cars you are in seems to have been unhitched on a siding. The track stretches northeastward over the hill and there's a tall barricade of railroad ties where it stops abruptly at the west end. You could head back up the tracks, but that would mean backtracking and it's anyone's guess how far. Or you could head for the mountains at the far end of the valley. Surely you'll run into a road or more tracks before too long. > You head for the mountains You set out through the barren waste, using the highest peak in sight at the far end of the valley for your bearing. Not having to watch your step to keep from tripping on ties makes it much easier going. You skirt large patches of low-lying bushes and piles of rock so you don't have to worry about snakes. The sun climbs slowly overhead and you start putting away the water. You still have nearly a gallon which should more than do to cross this valley. The mountains are right there, after all. You can almost reach out and touch them. Just in case, though, you pick up your pace. You don't want to be out here alone after dark. When it starts getting too hot, you wrap your T-shirt around your head like you did back on the train and imagine yourself as Lawrence of Arabia crossing the desert. You wonder if there might be an oasis out here. Wouldn't that be something! The sun continues to swing across the sky and more than makes it to the finish line of the peaks before you. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. You look back from whence you came and can't tell how far you've come or even where the railroad cars might be. You haven't even left tracks as far as you can tell across the hard and scorched landscape. There's no going back. Night falls and with it the temperature. The coat isn't enough so you pull out the blanket and wrap it around you as well. You continue on until the peak fades into the night sky and you are no longer able to see it. You have no choice now but to stop here until morning. You can't even see the ground anymore so you could step right in the middle of a snake before you even knew it was there. Wrapping up tightly in the coat, you lean back against the bag. Night insects chirp and buzz even out here so you don't feel quite so alone as you thought. Somewhere in the far distance, you hear a lonesome yelping howl. It's so far away that you have nothing to fear from it. But, what about the things closer in? The things that might not even make a sound? Your eyes finally close on their own while you are straining to listen. You sleep through the night. > Cast to the Winds You've been without water now since the day before yesterday. Or was it the day before that? You can no longer remember anymore. You can't go on. Your legs have lost all their strength so you allow yourself to crumble to the ground. You don't really have a choice in the matter. Looking out across the barren landscape, the mountains appear no closer than they did when you first set out. Everything has its own tint of blinding white and you can only make out what you think you are looking at by its vague shape. You pull Jane's card from your pocket and unfurl it in your hand. It's difficult to make out the lines on the page, but you don't really need to. They have been seared into your mind since that very first day when she presented it to you. You did your best. You only wish you'd have been able to complete your quest so that her dream would have been realized. A slight breeze snatches the page from your grasp. You are helpless to stop it. It flutters for a second where it gets caught on a dessicated plant before the wind works it free. For a moment, it blots out the sun just long enough that you can see her standing there—beckoning to you. Those spindly legs and knobby knees ending in flipflops beneath those faded and ragged cutoffs. The stained, white button up shirt tied at her waist. That toothy grin stretching wide across her face beneath that long and cascading raven hair. Those eyes the color of new grass. She reaches down and folds her fingers over yours. — The End

[Themes: modern, horror] After the long slow grade up from the river bottom, you find yourself in an entirely different landscape. The closest thing to trees are the tumbleweeds attempting to go unnoticed by entwining themselves in the nearly evenly spaced barbed-wire fences. A gentle breeze blows waves through the seeded out short-grass on the endless rolling hillsides as it ebbs and eddies. You are careful not to get too close to the open door that you can be seen, but you manage to drag one of the crates close enough that you catch the breeze and sit there dining on cantaloupes as you watch the world whisk by. The short-grass is soon replaced with only tufts of desperate hangers-on and sprawling prickly-pear patches. There are colorful rocky outcroppings jutting out from everywhere and you see a herd of small deer pawing and licking at one of them. You watch small towns drift by in the distance and for a while the train runs alongside a highway filled with car after car from one end to the other for as far as you can see and wonder how there can be so many people. How did they all get here and why? Where did they all come from and where are they going? Soon after, the flat desolation opens wide and the land reaches up in supplication to the heavens. Mountain after mountain looms in the distance and slowly each one in turn makes its way from its incorporeal plane into reality. You've never seen anything so amazing. From all the pictures you've ever looked at, you never realized how awesome mountains would be up close in real life. The train takes forever to reach the bottom of a long grade and your ears pop every couple of minutes. Your eyes feel swollen and like they might end up bursting from the pressure if something doesn't give soon. The sun was just beginning to set when you started your descent, but now you are in deep shadow cast by the mountains. The early lights of a large city come into view so it won't be long before you have to leave the train. You've been walking around for hours and still have no idea where to go from here. You've gotten all turned around and don't remember which direction the sun was in. You aren't exactly sure what town you are in right now, either. You haven't been looking at your map and you've lost all track. You've just been following the sun since it seems to know where to go. It'd be best if you could board a train at night, but you may have to wait until morning to regain your bearings. There isn't really any place to lie down here. There are houses immediately beyond a high chain link fence that runs the course of the tracks through town and a gatehouse at each entrance that you are forced to skirt. The street lamps offer little light this far away and those blinding security lights on the front of the little buildings only extend out so far. You can either wait until morning or attempt to board one of the random trains that sit idling on the tracks. > You board a train You find a string of flatcars loaded with brand new pickup trucks. All of their doors are locked and you don't want to risk being spotted by hiding under one of them so you climb up in the bed of one and hunker down. You hadn't noticed it before, but your skin feels thick and rigid. You have your knees drawn up as tightly as you can in the old coat and it doesn't seem to be helping so you drag out Jane's blanket—carefully unraveling it from everything in the bag—and wrap yourself in it. As you gradually start to warm up, you watch the stars creep by overhead and can't help but yawn uncontrollably. A peppering of raindrops on your face wakes you and you find that the train is moving. The sky overhead is mostly clear, but you happen to be under the one cloud that is leaking. You don't fancy the thought of getting soaked so you jump to your feet and cram the blanket into the bag. The land is sweeping by at high speed and your heart skips a couple beats when your foot slips on the bumper while you're climbing over the tailgate. You fall on your butt before you can catch yourself and only after you realize that you are safe do you look over and see that you aren't anywhere near the edge of the flatcar. You roll under the back of the truck and pull the bag in behind you. The orange sun hangs in the sky in front of you and to the right of the train. No! You are going the wrong way! There are huge dark mountains on the other side of the train. You drag out your map in the desperate hope that you are somehow mistaken and try to locate where you are. It doesn't show railroad tracks, but maybe you can figure it out some other way. There's a highway way out in front of you, but it is too far away to ever hope to be able to read the signs. Until you know what town or highway to look for on the map it is utterly useless. You spend the next several hours watching the terrain sweep by knowing that you'll have to backtrack all these extra miles and your spirits keep sinking lower and lower. By the time the train begins to slow down you have regained your resolve. You absolutely refuse to give up. You've come this far and there's no turning back. There's nothing to go back to anyway. No matter what it takes, you are going to see this thing through to the end. After jumping from the train you immediately turned and head back to the south. There wasn't anything in view when you came within sight of whatever that mountain town was and you didn't feel like hanging around waiting for something to come along. You feel so exposed here. There's no cover of any kind along the tracks. The mountains appear to be close, but are, in fact, far away and whole communities—maybe cities, but it's difficult to tell—look like narrow white lines running along their base. Tiny, ant-like cars creep along on roads that you can barely make out if you squint really hard and the dessicated yellow grass fades to blue in the distance giving you the sense that you are on some tranquil sea. Even with everything so spread out and far away, you still feel the need to somehow conceal yourself and hunch over as much as you can get away with while still being able to walk fast. Day turns into night and night into day. There's no need for clocks or calendars out here so you haven't the faintest idea how many days it has taken you to recover the lost ground of one simple mistake. It just all seems to blur together. You eat on the go and only stop for the occasional catnap—heading well away from the tracks so as not to be spotted from one of the many trains that whiz by. Even with being really conservative, you've still eaten the last of the melons and used up all of your water with no hope of replenishing either of them. You can't afford to make the long trek across the barren landscape to one of the towns for being spotted would definitely put the old kibosh on the whole shebang and everything you've done and went through so far would all be for naught. As nightfall nears, you spot a small farmhouse not too far away from the tracks and decide to take a closer look. Leaving your bag near the tracks, you crawl on your belly up through the dried grass as far as you dare and try to spot a hydrant somewhere in the junk heap that passes for a yard. There are tires strewn around that may or may not belong to the half dozen or so old cars that are up on blocks. A discarded refrigerator sits propped against an old and rickety-looking wooden fence and there are a few mangy looking mutts staked out next to makeshift doghouses fashioned from oil drums whose tops have been removed. There's no sense in trying to fill your water jugs. The dogs would only alert whoever is inside and then your goose would be cooked. Near the back fence, you spot an overgrown garden and can see quite a few freshly ripe tomatoes mixed in with the green ones clinging to the vine. Your mouth waters just thinking about those delicious fruits. You kick back and wait for the residual sunlight to leave the sky and close your eyes for a few minutes. Every little bit of rest you can get here and there helps. > Oases The lights just went off in the farmhouse so you crawl your way through the grass toward the garden—trying to keep as low to the ground as you can. It is full dark, but you can't take the chance that someone might catch a glimpse of you. Something moves off to your right, but you can't see what it is. You just hope it isn't a snake and if it is, you hope it's moving away from you instead of toward you. The dry grass crunches under your hands and knees so you slow your pace to not make any more racket than you can help. You are so, so hungry. It's been days since you've eaten anything—anything at all. The hard, dry ground suddenly becomes loose, damp earth and you look up to see three dim strands of barbed wire. On the other side, you can make out the dark shapes holding their orbs out to you. You wriggle your way under the bottom wire. Halfway through, you reach up and pluck the first one you see, then another and another. They all look the same in this light so you grab as many as you can and bag them up in the bottom of your shirt. You hear a bawl coming from the direction of house, joined by a couple more as the bulb above the back door flips on and the door is thrown open. "What is it, boys?" you hear a man say, "What's out there?" You are dragging yourself backward with your knees and shoving with your elbows when you see an orange flash near the house. You hear the boom a split-second later. He's shooting at you! You scamper with everything you have and don't stop until you're back on the other side of the embankment. You lay prone with your eyes peeled for any sign of movement coming over the rise and, when your heart finally slows, you look down at the single piece of fruit in your hand. At least it's something. You take a bite and feel your face attempt to implode. The tomato isn't ripe, but it doesn't matter. It's food and moisture all in one and you've been without either for much too long. After all the commotion and dogs' barking finally peters out, you creep back to retrieve your bag and continue on down the tracks. You see the back of a big truck stop over on the highway up ahead of you about a mile or two away with a constant stream of vehicles coming and going. The moon is just coming up and from the glint on the tracks it looks like they might come really close to it. It would be a good place to fill up your water jugs. You might be able to blend in among all those people and them not even suspect that you are all alone out here. You don't have a lot of money, but maybe you can find some food that you can afford with the little bit of change you still have in your pocket. A couple of cheese crackers or the peanut butter kind would go really good right about now. When you get to a spot that is almost directly behind it, you set your bag down in the grass off to the side of the tracks and—taking just the jugs in hand—set off across the field. As you approach the crumbling asphalt of the back parking lot, you see a water faucet next to the pay air hose. What luck! You rush over and—after gulping down as much of the sweet liquid as you can—fill both jugs to the brim. You lug them back across the parking lot to the knee-high grass and set them down before heading around to the front of the building. Before going in, you pull the bread wrapper out of your pocket and sit on a yellow concrete curb to count out the change. You need to know how much you have before going inside. At long last, you decipher that there's eighty-six cents—a small fortune. You still want to hold onto the dollar for a real emergency so you are only willing to spend the change. You've got to be careful not to spend all of it, though. You might really need it later on. As you step through the front door, you are blasted by frigid air. You'd almost forgotten that such a thing even existed. Several pairs of eyes are on you, but you pretend not to notice. "His mother should be ashamed of herself. Letting a boy get so filthy," a woman with her face stretched back in a bun says to her friend who only nods in agreement. You glance down at your hands and can't tell where the dirt ends and your skin begins. She's definitely right about how dirty you are, but if she were a nice person, she wouldn't have said it loud enough for you to hear. Maybe you should clean up before doing any shopping. You walk up to the stocky woman behind the counter and quietly ask "Do you have a bathroom?" She squints at you before saying "Sure do. It's right down that hall over there." "Thank you," you say, walking as quickly as you can so you can get out from under all the judgmental eyes. It's a tiny little room with only a stainless steel toilet and sink. Above the sink is a cloudy mirror that reflects what little it has to and in the corner is a tall, skinny trash can with a flapper on top. You lock the door before stripping off you shirt and shorts so someone doesn't walk in on you. You do the best you can with wet paper towels and have to climb up on the sink to make sure you got everything off of your face and neck. After getting dressed, you sop up the floor as best you can. By the time you finally head back out the door, you are feeling fresh as the morning. The trash can, however, has seen better days. You walk down each aisle slowly looking at what is offered. Too bad you don't have more money, because there is a lot of really good stuff you wouldn't mind having. You finally choose a big plain bag of tortilla chips that are marked "3/$1". It's big enough that it should last you a good long while. The cashier eyes you with a smirk as you count out thirty-four cents to her. You can't help grinning back at her every time you make eye contact. "Thank you, sir. Please come again," she says handing you back your bag of chips and giving you a wink. You feel your face getting warm and you nod to her as you turn toward the door. You can't remember the last time you felt as relieved as you do now to get away from people. If it wouldn't seem suspicious, you would run. Wrestling the two jugs while trying not to crush the bag of chips too much, you head back to the tracks and fetch your bag before continuing on your trek. You come to a fork in the tracks and don't know which one brought you here. One continues on to the south and the other angles off into the distance in a more easterly direction and looks like it goes right through a distant town. If it's not just a mirage you might try hopping a train down there, but you aren't sure that it would be going the right way. Maybe there will be another town somewhere up ahead on the one stretching south. > You continue south You've been walking south on this line for several days now and haven't actually run into a single town. It might've been better to wait for a train heading in this direction, but who could've guessed that it would be so far between settlements. It was never like this back where you grew up. The land has gradually shifted from short grass to barren and rocky with only patches here and there so you know you're getting close to where you were before taking this unfortunate detour. It's not as easy going as it has been so far and you find yourself taking more and more rest breaks. It's much easier traveling around dawn and then again at dusk so you've been lying around and sometimes napping during midday and when it gets too dark to see snakes that might be in your path. You've eaten over half of your chips and drank most of your water. You'll need to find somewhere to replenish your supplies so you don't end up back in the sorry shape you were in a couple of days ago. Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, you spot a mournful glow all by its lonesome out in the middle of nowhere some distance from the tracks. It takes a while for you to figure out that there is a house not too awful far from it, but it's hard to see since there are no lights on within. You decide to stroll on over to find out if it might be vacant, but catch a glimpse of a reflection about midway there. It looks like the windshield of a pickup. There's probably someone sleeping in the house. Not wanting a repeat of the last time you tried to sneak food away from a farmhouse, you walk around until you find a shelf of rock jutting out of the ground that's just the perfect height for surveilling the place. It isn't too long before the sky begins to gray with dawn, but you wait until the sun is full up and watch the house down below carefully from your perch on the rocky outcropping. After a few hours of biding your time, it happens. You watch as the old pickup pulls out of the drive and turns onto the highway. It's far enough away that you can't make out the driver and the cloud of dust billowing up from it soon makes it impossible to even make out the vehicle itself. You don't see a garden growing anywhere and the yard is nothing but sand and rocks. There is a rectangular patch of weeds up against the side fence and it seems like the only place anything is growing at all. You sling your bag over your shoulder and walk carefully across the barren field, and then right up to the house like you owned the place. You try knocking at the front door in case someone might be inside, but no one comes. You try to open it without any success. You find that all the windows and the back door are locked up tight as well. You notice a pipe sticking up near the weed patch with a bucket hanging upside down over it. Sure enough, you find a spigot hiding under that little devil. You fill up your jugs again and drink what you can before turning your attention back to the house. You don't really want to smash a window, but you are getting desperate. You pick up large stone and draw your arm back when you spot something in the reflection of the glass you are about to break. It looks like a large wooden door laying at a slight angle on the ground behind you propped up by a short concrete wall. You know exactly what it is — a storm cellar, just like the one at your grandmother's house. With any luck, there'll be jars and jars of canned food just like she stores in hers because it is cooler down there and they won't go bad nearly as quickly. You trot over to it and drop the bag. You hook your hands under and heave with all your strength. The one at Grandma's has a cable attached to a bunch of window weights strung through a pulley which makes it much easier to open and close. You have to lift the full weight of this one and it doesn't give easily. You stand it up to more than a forty-five degree angle, but can't get it to go any further without risking falling down the hole underneath it. You try to flop it on over, but you can't give it enough push and you are already at a rather precarious angle, yourself. If you could fling it on over, you'd probably wind up tumbling in head first. Desperately, you look around for anything that might help and you are about to let the door go when you see a shovel leaning against the wall at the bottom of the steps leading down. You inch your way over to the top and carefully reach down with one hand while the door threatens to buckle your other arm. You manage to snag the end of it and drag it up enough that it tips over at your feet just as your other arm tires out, but you save the door from falling down and pinning the shovel by catching hold with your free hand and letting it rest against your chest while you take a minute to catch your breath. You pick up the shovel, jab it into the ground as best you can and lower the door onto the handle. There's just enough room for you to slip through and over the side. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust. There are shelves down here along one wall, but not a single jar on them. You are about to turn around when you notice that they aren't exactly empty and look a little lumpy so you go over to investigate. You've hit the jackpot! The shelves are covered in potatoes, onions and turnips—more than you could ever hope to eat. Making a couple of trips, you gently drop several handfuls out the door and then clamber out behind them. You stand up and dust yourself off before picking up your bag. You are just starting to drop the vegetables in when you hear a low growl off to the side. Slowly turning your head, you see the biggest hound you've ever seen in your life. He comes up to your chest and is at least as long as you are tall. You stare back at one another and neither of you make a move. You are trapped! You can try to stand here and hope he decides that you aren't a threat or you can try to come up with something else. > You distract him You look down at your bag and see the lone flipflop wedged in just inside the top beside the blanket. It gives you an idea. You're not sure it will work, but it's worth a shot. You slowly reach in and—being extremely careful not to make any sudden movements—draw it out. You take a deep breath and hold it out in a trembling hand toward the massive beast. "Fetch?" Keeping a wary eye on you, he leans forward and gives it a sniff before returning to his previous position. You can't tell one way or the other whether he's interested in it or not. Still, you have to give it a try. You shake it lightly to get his attention. When his eyes leave you and train on it, you shake it more vigorously. You draw your arm back, snap it forward and just as you let go, you holler "Fetch!" The flipflop sails across the yard while both you and he just stand there watching it glide. It skips a couple of times before spinning to a stop. You look back at the hound and he looks back at you. He doesn't appear to be even the slightest bit impressed. You have no choice now but to stand here and hope that he finally decides that you are not a threat. > You wait him out After waiting for an eternity for the dog to do something, he finally does. He turns, walks stiff-legged over to the back porch and groans softly as he plops down. He looks so old to you now that your fear has turned to pity. Keeping a wary eye on him, you start packing the vegetables into your bag. You hold out a turnip to eat on the way because you are half starving after all that hard work. You don't want to overstay your welcome so as soon as you drop the last one in, you turn tail and head back the way you came toward the tracks. You've walked nearly a mile when you hear a strange sounding cough behind you. You whirl around only to find the hound several paces away. He stops and stares up at you. "Go home," you command, but he only looks at you. "Get!" You take a couple of steps backward and he takes a couple forward. You think about picking up a rock and chucking it at him, but he's as big as you are. If you made him mad, you wouldn't stand a chance. The best thing to do would be to ignore him and he'll head back home on his own when he's darn good and ready. Over the course of the day, you grow more and more comfortable around your new companion and when you stop for a rest you discover that embroidered in his faded collar are the words "Ol' Sam". "It's nice to meet ya, Sam. I'm Billy. I bet you're hungry." You pull out a handful of chips for Sam and a turnip for yourself to munch on. He greedily wolfs them down. You're tempted to give him more, but you can't afford to since they're the only thing you have that will keep the longest and he'll probably leave soon anyway. When night comes and it gets too dark to see, you find a decent place to bed down and give Sam another handful of chips while you wash down an onion with lots and lots of water. You give Sam a drink in an old tin can that you found on the tracks earlier so he doesn't get too thirsty either. Sam lays down alongside you and his body warmth is somehow comforting. You drift off to sleep more easily than you ever remember doing and don't stir even once in the night. The sun is already peeking above the mountains when you wake. Even though you have kinks all over from sleeping on the ground, you feel absolutely wonderful. It's the first good nights sleep you've had in a long, long time. After both of you have eaten lightly, you set off once again down the tracks. Sam isn't hanging back like he did yesterday. He walks right beside you—matching you step for step. You try to take it easy on the old guy and stop for regular rest breaks, but you cover a lot more ground than usual. The day just seems to fly by and by the time night comes, you are completely worn out. You start looking for a good spot to sleep when Sam suddenly stops and lets out a hair raising growl. You flinch instinctively and look down at him—frozen in your tracks—and see the hackles standing up from the top of his head to nearly the length of his back. He isn't looking at you so you follow his gaze and see something really big and tan colored crossing the tracks up ahead. It is long and has a tail that looks as long as its body. It takes you a moment to realize that it's a cat. A big cat. It pauses and stares at you for a few moments while Sam's growls steadily grow in volume and pitch. Something about that thing clamps you down deep in the core and you can't move a single muscle. Your skin tingles and your muscles burn. Then all at once the cat shoots off like a rifle shot across the field toward the mountains in tremendous leaps until it finally fades into the background. Your legs let go and you crumple right where you stand. All your strength has evaporated and you feel cold chills running all through your body. It's a good thing Sam was here with you or that thing might've decided you were dinner. You throw your arms around his neck and squeeze with what little you have left in you. He just stands there looking in the direction the great cat ran and doesn't move. When you find a spot and settle in for the night, you give Sam a double helping of tortilla chips. He finally eats the last one, but doesn't seem quite as interested in them as he did last night. You wish that you had something else you could give him, but he wouldn't like the raw vegetables nearly as much. The next time you see a gas station or store, you're going to buy him something with meat in it. You lie down like you did last night and he stretches out against you just as he did before. You feel warm and safe and once again you sleep right straight on through. Morning comes early and as you lie there stretching the kinks out, you notice that Sam isn't there. You sit up and call "Sam?" and don't hear anything. You jump up and look all around as far as you can see and still there is nothing. "Sam!" Your ears prickle as you start to think the worst. You quickly shove those thoughts aside and jump to your feet. You run up on the higher ground of the tracks and look all around. You finally spot him way back up the tracks walking back the way you came. "Sam!" He pauses for a moment without turning around and then continues on his way. You want to run after him, but that would only make it worse. He's been gone from his home too long already and just needs to go back. You watch him until he's little more than a speck before returning to collect your gear. You're more wary as you go now. Your senses seem heightened and for the first time on this trip you feel more like a wild animal than a person. Your eyes are in a perpetual squint and are constantly sweeping over the terrain from one side to the other. Every far off movement of a bird or hare doesn't escape your notice and you feel more alive and in tune with the world around you than ever before. With the long nights returns the restlessness and you resume the catnaps during midday. Where the track you've been following veers alongside another, you peer down the slope at the great train yard you'd left days ago. You've finally made it back and can continue on with your journey into the west. You find a garden hose curled up on the side of the first house you come upon and there's no one in sight. You refill your water jugs and take off before someone spots you. You're well stocked up again for a while at least. The train yard looks so different in the light of day. There are so many things going on and machinery loading and unloading the cars that you are a bit afraid to try to make your way through. You'll either have to bite the bullet or else skirt around it and hopefully find another opportunity somewhere down the line. > You watch for an opportunity You decide that the best option would be to hide under the overpass up near the end where it meets the incline. There's a shelf that would offer you a nice vantage point to get the lay of the land. Taking your sweet time, you make your way over to it and then when you figure that the coast is as clear as it's ever going to get you skedaddle your butt up the slope as fast as your legs will carry you. As you hike a leg over the short barricade, you smell cigarette smoke and hear a cough from not too far away. "Well, well. What do we have here?" You look up to see two slightly older boys looking down at you from one of the cubby holes up top. They hop down and stride up to you just as you pull your other leg over. Each one is at least a full head taller than you. "What have you got there?" asks the heavier of the two, ripping your bag away from you. "Give that back!" "Or what, little man?" "Or he'll kick your ass!" cries the other kid, laughing. You lunge forward and attempt to wring the bag from him, but he gives it a yank and you lose your grip and go sprawling. He starts pulling things out and pitching them to the side. "What's this?" He pulls out the treasure chest, drops the bag, and holds it up to his ear, shaking it as he and the other kid turn their backs you. "Nooo!" you roar, "That's Jane's! You can't have it!", leaping onto the kids back and grabbing his face with both hands—his ear with one hand and the inside of his cheek with the other. Your legs instinctively grapple him around the middle while you heave back with both hands in violent jerks. "Aaa-aaa-aah!" He tries to shake you off, but you have a death grip on him. There's no way he can get loose without getting his ear and cheek torn off, and his friend sure isn't stepping in to help. In fact, his friend looks terrified and confused and has taken a couple steps to the rear in wide-eyed panic. "YOU CAN'T HAVE THAT! IT'S NOT YOURS!" you shriek just before you clamp down on the side of his neck with your teeth. He screams bloody murder, dropping the treasure chest and strewing its contents, and starts raking at you with both hands. "Get him off! Get him off!" The other kid swings over the side of the barricade and drops out of sight. A warm trickle runs down your chin as you clamp down harder and sink your teeth deeper and deeper while you're flailing back and forth trying to rip his face open with your bare hands. His screams turn to sobbing shrieks as he pounds in futility over his shoulder at you. He stumbles toward the barricade and just as he's about to go over you shove back with your feet, sending him tumbling over and down the slope. You land flat of your back, but jump right back to your feet in case he decides to come back for you. The other kid is standing at bottom of the slope with eyes the size of goose eggs and looking like a deer caught in the cross-hairs. He rushes over and helps the kid with the bloody neck to his feet and they rush off across the tracks and toward the houses on the far side of the street. "YOU CAN'T HAVE IT! IT'S NOT YOURS! IT'S JANE'S!" you scream down at them at the top of your lungs, letting the foamy spit in your mouth fly and run out however it feels like. They don't look back. The tiny hairs on the back of your neck and partway up your scalp still bristle and your heartbeat still pounds alternating white and dark patches in your vision. You take in deep lungfuls of air and let them out slowly to try to settle down. It helps some, but only slightly. You can't stay here. You have to go before someone comes back to look for you. You start picking things up and cramming them into your bag as fast and as best you can. You crawl back over the barricade, dash up the hill on the far side of the overpass and follow the high chain link fence that separates the highway from everything else. Then, when you think you've gone plenty far enough, you head off at an angle back toward the tracks—aiming for much farther down. > Flight Even though it's risky with all the men down there, you decide to go ahead and chance it. You can't wait around here in case the boys come back with the cops. You creep down behind a short row of buildings and look for a train aimed toward the west. There aren't any really close by, but there are a couple not too far away. They're mostly long strings of hoppers and in a few places there are sections of flatcars. All the boxcars seem to be locked up good and tight. You're still trying to find just the right one when a large hand clamps down on your shoulder and whirls you around. "You shouldn't be back here, boy," booms a deep gravelly voice. You are staring into a drawn face covered by a dark beard with gray streaks down each side. Besides the withered face, he fills out his overalls with a body three sizes too big and could quite possibly be just as thick from front to back as he is tall. "Let's see if we can't figure out who you belong to." Despite your resistance, he propels you along in his meaty grip and it feels like your feet only touch the ground every second or third step. You manage to hang onto your stuff, but only barely. He leads you through the door of one of the guard houses and says to the guy in uniform "I caught this kid prowling around out there. Do something with him, would ya?", shoving you forward. Without waiting for an answer, he revolves around on his heels and steps back through the door. "We've found a young kid playing in the yard and need someone to come pick him up," says the guard to someone on the telephone. "I don't know. Never seen him before. Okay, I'll keep an eye on him until he gets here. Bye." He hangs up the phone and turns toward you. "You got a name, kid?" You just stare back at him. There's no way you're going to tell him anything. "Okay... It might be a while, you want a soda or something?" You just stand there with as blank an expression as you can muster even though you are stewing inside. It isn't long before an officer arrives and hauls you down to the police station where you're forced to wait until they finally figure out who you are and where your home is. It takes them several hours and all the while you're watching for any opportunity to escape that never presents its self. You're led to an unmarked patrol car and—after the officer in a business suit places your bag in the trunk—ushered into the passenger seat. "Climb in and make yourself comfortable, it's going to be a long ride." You reluctantly climb in and he closes the door behind you. After he slides the key into the ignition he says "You can call me Jim, by the way. If you need anything, just say so." He starts the engine and backs out of the parking space. You're just pulling out onto the street when you finally can't hold it in any longer. You already suspect what the answer will be, but have to give it a shot anyhow. "I need to go to the Grand Canyon. It's real important. Can you take me there before you take me home?" He looks over at you and perks an eyebrow. "Is that where you were headed? I must say that you made it farther away from home than anyone would've guessed. Why is it so important?" "I have to go there for Jane. She died and never got to see it." You see him swallow a huge lump in his throat. It takes him well over a minute before he can speak again. "I heard about your little friend from the officer I spoke to from back in your home town. He didn't know whether you'd just run off or if something bad had happened to you. The whole town's been combing the entire countryside for you." After wiping his eye with the back of his wrist, he brings his palm down hard against the steering wheel. And then he pounds it hard a couple more times. "I wish I could, son. I really do. But, that's nearly a whole state away in the wrong direction and they already know we're on our way." You lean back against the seat and stare out the side window. You've come too far to be turned back now. All of your stuff is locked in the trunk so you have little choice but to sit here and accept your fate. The mile markers on the highway click by like the incessant ticking of a metronome arm. It's hopeless. It's all over. > Escape You can't go back. You just can't. You will not be put through that again. You have to do something—anything. You reach down and pull the door handle and shove the door out with your foot. "What are you doing?! Stop that!" "I'm not going back and you can't make me!" He grabs a handful of your shirt, but you're not about to let that stop you. You strain with every ounce of your being and feel the fabric slowly begin to tear down from the neck. All at once it lets go and you leap from the door. You soar through the air and it feels like you're flying. You've never felt so free before in all your life as you do right in this moment. This must be what birds feel like. The wind pushes back hard against you and you start to go down. You see it coming and there's nothing at all that you can do to stop it. You hit the pavement just as you hear the brakes squeal on the car. The world tumbles over and over and you feel your bones exploding inside your flesh. Your skin burns briefly, but goes numb almost instantly. You try to suck in air and can't. When you finally come to a stop, you hear hard leather soles clapping the asphalt and getting louder and louder as they approach. "Oh my God! Oh my God! What did you do?!" You see the horror slowly stretch its way across Officer Jim's face. And you see Jane standing right there beside him—smiling and beckoning to you. Those bright green eyes are the last thing you see in this world. — The End

[Themes: modern, drama] Even though it's risky with all the men down there, you decide to go ahead and chance it. You can't wait around here in case the boys come back with the cops. You creep down behind a short row of buildings and look for a train aimed toward the west. There aren't any really close by, but there are a couple not too far away. They're mostly long strings of hoppers and in a few places there are sections of flatcars. All the boxcars seem to be locked up good and tight. You're still trying to find just the right one when a large hand clamps down on your shoulder and whirls you around. "You shouldn't be back here, boy," booms a deep gravelly voice. You are staring into a drawn face covered by a dark beard with gray streaks down each side. Besides the withered face, he fills out his overalls with a body three sizes too big and could quite possibly be just as thick from front to back as he is tall. "Let's see if we can't figure out who you belong to." Despite your resistance, he propels you along in his meaty grip and it feels like your feet only touch the ground every second or third step. You manage to hang onto your stuff, but only barely. He leads you through the door of one of the guard houses and says to the guy in uniform "I caught this kid prowling around out there. Do something with him, would ya?", shoving you forward. Without waiting for an answer, he revolves around on his heels and steps back through the door. "We've found a young kid playing in the yard and need someone to come pick him up," says the guard to someone on the telephone. "I don't know. Never seen him before. Okay, I'll keep an eye on him until he gets here. Bye." He hangs up the phone and turns toward you. "You got a name, kid?" You just stare back at him. There's no way you're going to tell him anything. "Okay... It might be a while, you want a soda or something?" You just stand there with as blank an expression as you can muster even though you are stewing inside. It isn't long before an officer arrives and hauls you down to the police station where you're forced to wait until they finally figure out who you are and where your home is. It takes them several hours and all the while you're watching for any opportunity to escape that never presents its self. You're led to an unmarked patrol car and—after the officer in a business suit places your bag in the trunk—ushered into the passenger seat. "Climb in and make yourself comfortable, it's going to be a long ride." You reluctantly climb in and he closes the door behind you. After he slides the key into the ignition he says "You can call me Jim, by the way. If you need anything, just say so." He starts the engine and backs out of the parking space. You're just pulling out onto the street when you finally can't hold it in any longer. You already suspect what the answer will be, but have to give it a shot anyhow. "I need to go to the Grand Canyon. It's real important. Can you take me there before you take me home?" He looks over at you and perks an eyebrow. "Is that where you were headed? I must say that you made it farther away from home than anyone would've guessed. Why is it so important?" "I have to go there for Jane. She died and never got to see it." You see him swallow a huge lump in his throat. It takes him well over a minute before he can speak again. "I heard about your little friend from the officer I spoke to from back in your home town. He didn't know whether you'd just run off or if something bad had happened to you. The whole town's been combing the entire countryside for you." After wiping his eye with the back of his wrist, he brings his palm down hard against the steering wheel. And then he pounds it hard a couple more times. "I wish I could, son. I really do. But, that's nearly a whole state away in the wrong direction and they already know we're on our way." You lean back against the seat and stare out the side window. You've come too far to be turned back now. All of your stuff is locked in the trunk so you have little choice but to sit here and accept your fate. The mile markers on the highway click by like the incessant ticking of a metronome arm. It's hopeless. It's all over. > You accept your fate You have no choice but to accept your fate. If when you get back and if you manage to survive, you will try again. It might not be for a long, long time because you will be watched like a hawk—provided your mom doesn't kill you this time around as soon as there's no one around to see. The landscape flows by in a constantly changing sea. You barely pick at the food that is given to you. You just don't feel eating. Days turn into nights and nights turn into days. You get your own bed in motels where Officer Jim stops each night—which would be exciting any other time, but not now. Now, everything feels like it has a dark cloud hanging over it. It only takes two days to get home, but it feels like an eternity. And in all that time you don't utter even one syllable. You just have to get this over with. I'm sorry, Jane. I failed you this time, but I will try again if I can. I promise you. — The End

After waiting for an eternity for the dog to do something, he finally does. He turns, walks stiff-legged over to the back porch and groans softly as he plops down. He looks so old to you now that your fear has turned to pity. Keeping a wary eye on him, you start packing the vegetables into your bag. You hold out a turnip to eat on the way because you are half starving after all that hard work. You don't want to overstay your welcome so as soon as you drop the last one in, you turn tail and head back the way you came toward the tracks. You've walked nearly a mile when you hear a strange sounding cough behind you. You whirl around only to find the hound several paces away. He stops and stares up at you. "Go home," you command, but he only looks at you. "Get!" You take a couple of steps backward and he takes a couple forward. You think about picking up a rock and chucking it at him, but he's as big as you are. If you made him mad, you wouldn't stand a chance. The best thing to do would be to ignore him and he'll head back home on his own when he's darn good and ready. Over the course of the day, you grow more and more comfortable around your new companion and when you stop for a rest you discover that embroidered in his faded collar are the words "Ol' Sam". "It's nice to meet ya, Sam. I'm Billy. I bet you're hungry." You pull out a handful of chips for Sam and a turnip for yourself to munch on. He greedily wolfs them down. You're tempted to give him more, but you can't afford to since they're the only thing you have that will keep the longest and he'll probably leave soon anyway. When night comes and it gets too dark to see, you find a decent place to bed down and give Sam another handful of chips while you wash down an onion with lots and lots of water. You give Sam a drink in an old tin can that you found on the tracks earlier so he doesn't get too thirsty either. Sam lays down alongside you and his body warmth is somehow comforting. You drift off to sleep more easily than you ever remember doing and don't stir even once in the night. The sun is already peeking above the mountains when you wake. Even though you have kinks all over from sleeping on the ground, you feel absolutely wonderful. It's the first good nights sleep you've had in a long, long time. After both of you have eaten lightly, you set off once again down the tracks. Sam isn't hanging back like he did yesterday. He walks right beside you—matching you step for step. You try to take it easy on the old guy and stop for regular rest breaks, but you cover a lot more ground than usual. The day just seems to fly by and by the time night comes, you are completely worn out. You start looking for a good spot to sleep when Sam suddenly stops and lets out a hair raising growl. You flinch instinctively and look down at him—frozen in your tracks—and see the hackles standing up from the top of his head to nearly the length of his back. He isn't looking at you so you follow his gaze and see something really big and tan colored crossing the tracks up ahead. It is long and has a tail that looks as long as its body. It takes you a moment to realize that it's a cat. A big cat. It pauses and stares at you for a few moments while Sam's growls steadily grow in volume and pitch. Something about that thing clamps you down deep in the core and you can't move a single muscle. Your skin tingles and your muscles burn. Then all at once the cat shoots off like a rifle shot across the field toward the mountains in tremendous leaps until it finally fades into the background. Your legs let go and you crumple right where you stand. All your strength has evaporated and you feel cold chills running all through your body. It's a good thing Sam was here with you or that thing might've decided you were dinner. You throw your arms around his neck and squeeze with what little you have left in you. He just stands there looking in the direction the great cat ran and doesn't move. When you find a spot and settle in for the night, you give Sam a double helping of tortilla chips. He finally eats the last one, but doesn't seem quite as interested in them as he did last night. You wish that you had something else you could give him, but he wouldn't like the raw vegetables nearly as much. The next time you see a gas station or store, you're going to buy him something with meat in it. You lie down like you did last night and he stretches out against you just as he did before. You feel warm and safe and once again you sleep right straight on through. Morning comes early and as you lie there stretching the kinks out, you notice that Sam isn't there. You sit up and call "Sam?" and don't hear anything. You jump up and look all around as far as you can see and still there is nothing. "Sam!" Your ears prickle as you start to think the worst. You quickly shove those thoughts aside and jump to your feet. You run up on the higher ground of the tracks and look all around. You finally spot him way back up the tracks walking back the way you came. "Sam!" He pauses for a moment without turning around and then continues on his way. You want to run after him, but that would only make it worse. He's been gone from his home too long already and just needs to go back. You watch him until he's little more than a speck before returning to collect your gear. You're more wary as you go now. Your senses seem heightened and for the first time on this trip you feel more like a wild animal than a person. Your eyes are in a perpetual squint and are constantly sweeping over the terrain from one side to the other. Every far off movement of a bird or hare doesn't escape your notice and you feel more alive and in tune with the world around you than ever before. With the long nights returns the restlessness and you resume the catnaps during midday. Where the track you've been following veers alongside another, you peer down the slope at the great train yard you'd left days ago. You've finally made it back and can continue on with your journey into the west. You find a garden hose curled up on the side of the first house you come upon and there's no one in sight. You refill your water jugs and take off before someone spots you. You're well stocked up again for a while at least. The train yard looks so different in the light of day. There are so many things going on and machinery loading and unloading the cars that you are a bit afraid to try to make your way through. You'll either have to bite the bullet or else skirt around it and hopefully find another opportunity somewhere down the line. > You go around It wasn't worth the risk to you so you head around the yard and make your way toward where the tracks resume. By the time a train leaves the yard, you find that it is moving much too fast for you to board it so you set off once again down the tracks on foot. Every couple of hours you have to ditch the tracks and hide behind a boulder or in a shallow ravine until a train passes. This is the busiest set of tracks that you've been on and if anyone spotted someone your age out here alone they would certainly report it. You have to take a break so you find a nice clear spot away from the tracks to kick back in and lean back on the bag. You have a sudden urge to pull out the card Jane made for you and look at the old postcards while you rest. You trace each line drawn in crayon on the page with your finger and think back to those few magical days. It seems like so long ago now. A lot has happened and every day that has passed seems to have steadily grown worse than the last. After you do this one thing, you should find someone nice to live with like Jane dreamed of. Surely there's someone out there that would love and take care of you, someone you can depend on. You carefully refold the letter and slip it into your pocket and put everything else back into the treasure chest before giving your eyes a rest. You don't even notice when you start to drift off, but you are rudely awakened by a brutal gust and find that a strong wind has kicked up. The dust and sand scour your face and you can barely breathe even with your shirt pulled up over your face. You stagger around trying to find some kind of shelter behind a rock or something, but there doesn't seem to be anything nearby and you probably wouldn't be able to see one anyway unless you were right on top of it. Your foot suddenly finds nothing but open air and you tumble headlong down a steep embankment. Your bag disappears as it goes one way and you go another. And then the world slips away into blackness. You wake to find your arm twisted under you—your shoulder screaming out in agony. You have scrapes and tiny cuts from the side of your face all the way down your legs. It takes a couple attempts before you're able to roll over and sit up. You push yourself to your feet and look up at the steep incline that you fell down and don't think you'd be able to climb back up there even if your arm wasn't throbbing like it is. You can see the coat caught on a rock protruding from the ground near the top. One of the plastic jugs tied to the sleeves is crushed and the other one looks like it just exploded when it slammed into the ground. You don't see your bag anywhere. You pace back and forth along the base of the cliff looking for any trace of your stuff and finally have no choice but to give up. You head down the wash and hope that it doesn't dead end. The feeling finally comes back in your arm. You can move it, but not without pain and there's a huge black and green bruise that goes from your shoulder to half way across your chest. The wash spills you out on the edge of a two-lane highway and there isn't a car or a sign or anything at all except brushy desert and rocks for as far as you can see. The train tracks must be somewhere beyond the ridge behind you, but you'd never be able to get back to them that way. You look up at the sun and figure that you might as well keep following it since it has already led you this far. You close your eyes, take a deep breath and then set off down the road. You've been walking for hours when a car pulls out onto the blacktop from a gas station up ahead that you didn't even know was there. The hot blazing sun reflecting off the pavement has made you half blind and has given you such a raging thirst that it feels like no amount of water could ever hope to quench. You don't know if you'll even be able to make it as far as the gas station. You're torn between whether or not to flag the car down when it gets close or to find somewhere to hide until it passes by. > Flag down the car You stagger up to the edge of the road and raise your hands. The car slows down for a moment as the rear passenger window rolls down. As it gets nearly even with you, a bottle flies out and hits the pavement halfway to your feet. You don't have the strength or energy to jump to the side so you can only stand there and watch as it bounces off the asphalt and hits you dead center in the chest before you can react. The pain is so sudden and intense that the wind is knocked completely out of you. Your face feels like it swells to nearly twice its size and burns all the way to your ears. You slump and fall to your knees. The car screeches to a stop and the driver's door opens. "Why in the hell would you do that to a kid?! I oughtta kick your ass. You could've killed him, you know that?" You gasp for breath and can't take in any air. You want to cry due to the immense pain, but your eyes are so dry that they can no longer produce tears. Your vision starts to waver and you fall forward. Just before you eat the blacktop, you feel hands grab you and swing you back into a seated position. "It's okay. I'm here to help. He was just being a dumbass and didn't know that he might actually hit you." You wheeze and can feel your lungs slowly start to fill with air. Your vision is still fuzzing in and out, but it's slowly beginning to clear. "What's your name?" asks the teenage boy with closely cropped hair. You rock back and forth trying to help force more air into your lungs, and only wheeze louder in answer to his question. You look around to see several more teenagers standing around you. "Take it easy, man. Don't try to rush it. I'm not going anywhere." You're not sure you want to tell them your real name. After all, one of them just tried to kill you. Maybe it was an accident and maybe it wasn't. You try to think of a name—any name—and a sudden image of little Timmy that lived down the street from you before your parents got a divorce pops into your head. You remember how he used to say his name and before you can correct it, out comes "Tim-O-tee." You take a deep breath and try hard not to laugh or even smile. "Timothy. My name is Timothy." "What are you doing out here all by yourself, Timothy?" "I'm lost. I don't know where this is." "Where do you live? We'll take you home," says a slightly gruffer voice off to the side. You shrug as you try to come up with something to tell them. You look around, trying to come up with a story they might believe and your eyes settle on a far-off vertical rock piercing up through desert floor. "A long, long ways from here. I was s'posed to stay by the camper, but I wanted to look at the rocks." One of the boys sucks air in through his teeth. "That wasn't very smart. Kids get lost out here all the time and die," says the one crouched down by you. "Where were you going? Maybe we can find your parents or get you to someone who can." If they take you to the cops, you'll never make it to the Grand Canyon. You have to change the subject. "I'm so thirsty. I need water." The boy reaches up and snatches a bottle from one of the others and says "Here, drink this. We'll get you some water." You tip the over half full bottle and guzzle the orange soda down without stopping. It burns like fire and doesn't help even a little, but it's wet and wet is better than nothing. "We've gotta get back. We can't take him with us," says another boy under his breath. "We're not leaving him out here, alone," snaps the one you've been talking to, "Not here!" "There's a gas station right there! It's not like he's lost out in the middle of the desert." "We can't go driving all over the country looking for his folks," says another. "You shoulda thought of that before you chucked that bottle him!" he hisses up at the boy with slicked back hair—who just pivots around on his heels and stalks back to the car. Turning back to you, he says "C'mon. We'll go find a phone or something," picking you to your feet and helping you to the car. You hang back as the boys head into the gas station. If they call the police, they'll take you home and you'll never get to the Grand Canyon for Jane. As soon as the door swings shut, you dash to the end of the building and swing around the corner toward the back. There is a stack of oil drums at the base of the hill out back and you run in behind them. You hope this will be enough because there is no other cover close by that you can see. You squeeze into a hole between two of the drums that are resting on the ground and wait. It isn't long before you hear them talking from not too far away from your hiding spot. "Where could he have got to?" asks the boy that's been trying to help you. "I dunno. He just ran off, I guess. Maybe we just imagined the whole thing." "Maybe he's a spook and just went invisible," laughs a third. "Don't be a moron," says the first, "He's just scared." "We can't go traipsing all over the desert looking for him. When he gets tired, he'll come back. We're already gonna be late as it is." "I guess. I just wanted to help the kid out, is all." "Let's just go before we get into trouble, ourselves." You hear the car engine start and gravel raining down in their wake before you poke your head out. You can't risk going inside because they probably already told whoever is in there about you and the police might still show up. You spot a coiled hose on the ground by the corner of the building that you must've run right by without even seeing. It's just what you need. You trot over and reach for the faucet, but the handle has been removed. You study it a minute before picking up the hose a little at a time—working the contents out to the end—and manage to get a good mouthful of scalding hot water. You fight the pain and as soon as it's cooled enough, you choke it down. You can't go any further in this heat so you look for any kind of shade to get out of this blistering sun. You spot a low-lying rock a little ways up the hillside behind the building and judging by its angle it might offer some shelter from the sun. You drag yourself over to it. It looks like it would be the perfect place for a den of snakes, but peering under the shelf you see no sign of anything. You wedge yourself underneath where you'll wait for nightfall before heading off again. You open your eyes to find that you are shivering. The temperature has dropped considerably. If you don't end up freezing, it'll at least be a welcome relief compared to that awful sun. After pulling yourself out, you stand and slink down the hill. Your feet are like bricks, but you have no other choice other than to go on. The gas station parking lot is deserted except for a run-down old pickup truck loaded down with all kinds of junk and covered with a tarp. It's parked in the shade of the pump lights around the corner of the building and you have to walk around it to get to the highway. As you pass by it, its yellow license plate catches your eye. It says Arizona in green letters across the top and Grand Canyon State on the bottom. You peek around the corner of the building and see an old hunched over Indian man with a pony tail halfway down his back stepping up to the cash register. This could be your lucky break. You could try asking him for a ride, but what if he says no? Maybe hiding under the junk in the back and hope for the best would be smarter way to go. It won't be long before he's heading this way so you'd better hurry and make up you mind. > You ask for a ride You lean against the corner of the building to wait for the old man to step out and when he finally does, you rush over to meet him just as he reaches the corner. Even though he's walking crooked, he's still manages to jump back like a cat about to be stepped on. "Can you take me to Arizona?" He cuts his eyes around the dark parking lot. "No." He starts walking toward his truck. "Please? I need to go to the Grand Canyon." "No." "Can you take me to the railroad tracks? I can walk the rest of the way." "No." He opens the door and climbs in. "Can you take me to the next town, then? I gotta find a new map 'cause I lost my all my stuff." "No." "Do you have any water?" He pulls the door shut, starts his truck and pulls it in gear. You watch as he backs up and then drives off into the night. By the pump lights, you can see the trail of dust he left in his wake. Maybe you scared him or maybe that's just the way he is. It doesn't matter now. You look around at the door to the gas station. There's no way you can go in there. You'll have to think of something else. Maybe you can climb up the ridge behind the station and from there you might be able to see the tracks. It's dark enough that you wouldn't be able to see them until morning—which means that you'll have to find a place to sleep for the night. You could keep going down the highway and maybe figure something out along the way. You don't have any water so you'll have to walk only at night and find cool places to sleep during the day. Whichever way you go, perhaps you'll run into another farmhouse along the way to get more stuff. > You take the road You can probably make more miles on the highway than you could climbing the mountains and crossing the desert. Surely you'll run into railroad tracks sooner or later. There are probably more houses along the road, too. You head around behind the gas station to stay out of the light and then make your way to the blacktop. There are no yard lights within sight, but you'll probably see one before too long. You just have to make as many miles as you can while it's still dark. You can still feel the heat of the day leeching out of the asphalt and the occasional slight breeze feels good against your clammy skin. Your mouth is dry, but you can probably manage to make it through the night since it isn't really all that bad right now. You should make it just fine. You watch a shooting star that traverses nearly the whole western sky before burning itself out far to the south. Your wish is the same as you've had from the very beginning—to make Jane's dream come true. It isn't until a little while later that you start kicking yourself for not tacking a little water onto that wish. Oh, well. Surely you'll find some before long. Even though there are no landmarks to go by, you somehow know that you've covered many a mile. There's a blacker circle in the sky that looks like it might be a moon in a day or two. Until then, you'll just have to make your way as best you can in the dark. The night has somehow become a comforting friend instead of the dreaded enemy you once feared. You don't even know how it happened. It just—all of a sudden—did. Mile after mile and you don't see much more than a vague dark shape every now and then out some distance from the side of the road. They would've been monsters lurking and ready to pounce only a few short weeks ago. Now, they're just big rocks. > Migration In the lights of an oncoming car, the highway looks like it has little rippling waves on it. They're flowing from one side of the blacktop to the other. This must be some kind of dream, but you don't remember falling asleep. As the car gets closer, you can see that they aren't waves at all. They're snakes! Dozens of snakes. They move weird, though, throwing a loop and dragging themselves up to it before doing the whole process all over again. Snakes don't move like that. They slide along on their bellies as they slither along. This has to be a dream. Still, you wouldn't want to be bitten by a dream snake any more than you would a real one so you try not to let them get too close. You look up and the headlights flash in your eyes. You can't see anything. You don't know whether to get off the road or just keep going. It is a car, though. You'd better at least get off the road so you take a step sideways. Zzzht-zzzht-zzzht! You know that sound! And it's much too close! You leap backward, but—whap!—it's too late. Your leg is on fire! "Aaaah!" You fall sideways and—whap!—another hits your arm. Whap! Whap! Whap! You're being struck from all sides now. Your arms, your legs, your face. Even the top of your head. The headlights are on you now and you hear the brakes squeal to a slow stop. Your whole body feels like you've fallen into a campfire and you can't pull yourself out. Your body starts to quake and you're helpless to stop it. "Oh my God in heaven!" shrieks a woman getting out of the car. "It's a kid and he's been snake bit!" Your tongue grows two sizes and wedges tight in your throat. You can't breathe and you feel like you might pop from the building pressure. Even counting the beating you got from Mom, you've never felt such intense pain. It crashes through your body like a tidal wave. The headlights waver and grow steadily brighter and brighter until they fill your entire field of view. In the intense light, you can see Jane standing there looking down at you. She's shaking her head. She reaches down and takes your hand—cupping it in hers. The only thing you can see now is her face against the blinding white light. The burning sensation swallows you whole. — The End

[Themes: modern, serious, true story] You lean against the corner of the building to wait for the old man to step out and when he finally does, you rush over to meet him just as he reaches the corner. Even though he's walking crooked, he's still manages to jump back like a cat about to be stepped on. "Can you take me to Arizona?" He cuts his eyes around the dark parking lot. "No." He starts walking toward his truck. "Please? I need to go to the Grand Canyon." "No." "Can you take me to the railroad tracks? I can walk the rest of the way." "No." He opens the door and climbs in. "Can you take me to the next town, then? I gotta find a new map 'cause I lost my all my stuff." "No." "Do you have any water?" He pulls the door shut, starts his truck and pulls it in gear. You watch as he backs up and then drives off into the night. By the pump lights, you can see the trail of dust he left in his wake. Maybe you scared him or maybe that's just the way he is. It doesn't matter now. You look around at the door to the gas station. There's no way you can go in there. You'll have to think of something else. Maybe you can climb up the ridge behind the station and from there you might be able to see the tracks. It's dark enough that you wouldn't be able to see them until morning—which means that you'll have to find a place to sleep for the night. You could keep going down the highway and maybe figure something out along the way. You don't have any water so you'll have to walk only at night and find cool places to sleep during the day. Whichever way you go, perhaps you'll run into another farmhouse along the way to get more stuff. > You climb the ridge It would probably be best not to walk along the highway where a cop might see you. You've come a long way and you don't want to be taken home when you're so close you can almost taste it. You head back around the building and plunge into the darkness. The sky overhead is crowded with stars, but since there is no moon out tonight they offer very little light to see your way by. You'll have to take it slow and easy so you don't step into a hole or trip over something in the dark. You take small steps. With each one the ground seems to get steeper and steeper until you finally have to crawl on your hands and knees to keep from sliding back down the hill. It would probably be much easier in the daytime, but it would be a lot hotter and you would need water. The ground becomes rocky and some of the stones are so big that you have to go around them. You keep working your way toward higher and higher ground until you run into a cliff that you can't climb, then you follow along its base. Every now and then, your foot dislodges a rock and you listen as it gets fainter and fainter until it finally tumbles out of earshot. At long last, the cliff starts to fall away and the ground begins to slope around it. You keep going until you find a crevasse that leads right up through the middle of it. It's probably the only way through so you heft yourself into it and it's just like climbing stairs in the dark. You keep going up and up and up until you reach the top and the stars seem to hover right straight in front of you. You can't see the ground on the other side and you sure don't want to plummet off a cliff so you make yourself as comfortable as you can and wedge yourself in for the night. You pull your knees up and fold your arms against the cold. You close your eyes to try to sleep your way to morning. Maybe then you will be able to see whether you can climb down the other side or if you'll just have to turn around and find some other way. The sky starts to brighten a dingy dishwater gray. You couldn't sleep at all last night thanks to the cold. That's fine, though, you can find a nice shady spot and sleep through the sun. First things first, though, you have to get off this mountain. You stretch your stiff legs out from under you and pull yourself up with the wooden clubs that are your arms. Through the gap in the rocks, you can see a narrow, winding rock shelf snaking its way around the far side of the rocks. You can't see where it ends, but it beats going back down and all the way around. Out across the valley, you can see a gray line at the base of the far away cliffs. It must be the tracks. It's a long ways away. The sun will be up before too long and you'll have to find a place to sleep in a few hours so you'd better get moving. You wriggle your way over the top of the rocks and stretch out your toes until you can feel the ledge beneath them. It's a little wider than your shoes are long so it shouldn't be all that hard to stay on. Taking small steps and crowding the rock face as best you can, you slowly make your way down and down. It's actually easier than it looked from the top. The sun spills its rays over the far horizon and they blanket you in their warmth. Your stiff muscles melt away. You can see farther now and the rocky ledge spreads out onto a slope several dozen yards away. You're going to make it just fine. You look down to see just how much farther you have to go and it grabs you. Everything looks so tiny down there. The world sways—first one way and then the other—and your legs no longer want to move. You clutch the rock face with all your strength and take tiny breaths so you don't accidentally push yourself backward off the ledge. You're legs start shaking and your palms get all sweaty. You close your eyes and feel the blood racing in your veins. You know you have to keep going, but how? If you fall off, it would take a long, long time to reach the bottom. You might not even pass out and feel the whole thing when you splat! Don't be such a fraidy cat. She's right. You can do this. You snap your eyes open and start the tiny sideways steps again. It doesn't take long for you to reach the rocky slope. From there, you memorize the mountain peak you need to walk toward to get to that gray line and then set out to make it as far as you can before the sun gets too high. You've covered quite a bit of ground when you find several big boulders in a roughly circular formation and sit beneath the largest one for its shade. You manage to nap quite nicely until the sun gets far enough to the west that you have to move to a different shady spot. When the sun has dipped more than halfway behind the horizon, you set out to make as many miles as you can before it gets too dark to see. You feel weak from hunger and from lack of water, but your will pushes you on. About halfway through the night, you look up to see a tiny sliver of moon directly overhead. It's no wonder that you've been able to keep going this long. Even with that tiny bit of light, you can see the ground quite clearly. The faint shadows contrast against the background and your eyes seem to have adjusted themselves to the lack of light. It's warmer down here than it was last night, but the air still has that certain crispness to it. You haven't been able to see the mountain peak for hours, but are confident that you haven't strayed too much from your intended goal. You just keep pushing yourself. You are going to make it. You have no other choice. You continue on. You've been walking for hours and you feel like your legs are about to fall off. If you don't just collapse, that is. But, you must keep going. There will be time to rest tomorrow—when it is too hot. The stars and the moon flow gently to the west, but you don't even notice. You are too focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, you see a straight black double line running perpendicular to your path. It looks like it might be the edge of a cliff so you approach it ever so slowly. When you're nearly upon it, you discover that it is higher than the rest of the ground around it. It's the tracks! You've found them! You really found them! They weren't nearly as far away as they looked. You feel great! You are KING! You turn toward the west—nearly skipping—and continue on your journey. Now all you have to do is find some water and some food, then you'll be all set. You watch as the sliver of moon finally disappears behind the black horizon and the stars start to twinkle just a tiny bit brighter. You can barely make out the rails on either side of you, but there's still more than enough light to guide you. You trudge on and on in the darkness. It feels somehow comforting to you now. Like you might be the only person in the whole world. The cloak of night is your friend, your companion. As the sky starts to gray, you can see farther and farther with each passing minute. There are no yard lights. No houses. No distant towns. No nothing. You feel completely alone now. It gives you a lump in your throat. The sun is on your back now and you can feel its rays trickling warmth into your rigid skin. You can't turn around to look at it. You have to save every last bit of your strength. You can barely lift your legs and the toes of your shoes scrub furrows in the dust. Still, you plod on. When you've nearly caught up with your shadow, you scan the area for some cool shade. You see a pile of old lumber out all by its lonesome. It may have been some kind of mining shack at one time, but it's impossible to tell. It's the only thing within sight and the two vertical boards won't offer any shade for hours yet, but you can't go on. You have to get off your feet so that means you have work to do. You stumble over and start dragging and prying boards from the ground as best you can. It takes some doing since half of them are buried in sand. You are just pulling up the last one when you see something shiny under it. You drop the board as you jump back thinking at first that it might be a snake. It couldn't be, though, it didn't even resemble anything that could even be alive. Sticking another board under the one you dropped so you don't have to stick your bare hand in there, you pry it up. It takes a moment for the sun's glare to clear from your eyes and then you see a magical treasure. It is a half-crushed tin cup that is about a third full of old water. It is dark and has a funny smell to it, but it's wet. You aren't sure that you should drink it, but you might die if you don't get water soon. > You drink it This is life or death. You have no choice but to risk drinking it. You hold your nose against the foul stench and gulp it down. It isn't really that bad and sure beats dying. You go back to work and before long, you have something that resembles something that someone might accidentally mistake for a shack. It's more of a lean-to than anything, but at least there's shade. You get down on all fours and crawl through a narrow opening at the bottom. The ground is still hot and could possibly blister if you dally. Once inside, you scoop handful after handful off the top and shove it against the sides at the bottom. It'll help hold them up as well as give you a faintly cooler spot to lay down. Slumping over, something bites your little finger. It stings a little, but nothing serious. You push yourself back up and see a tiny scorpion right where your hand was so you slam your fist down on it and crush it before it can strike again. You don't see any others, so you lay down and look at the white sky through the cracks for a while to make yourself sleepy. You awake with a shiver and barely have the strength to raise yourself up. The sun is still high and your hand is throbbing something awful, but you barely notice that pain compared to the vise that has seized your stomach. Your belly writhes and tumbles in searing agony and besides that, you need water desperately and your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth. Pushing yourself back against the far wall so you can catch what little light filters through the cracks, you watch as the sun makes its ever so slow descent. You wrap your sweaty arms around your knees and hug them close to you in an attempt to ward off the shivers. Your hair is slicked against your temples and you're having trouble focusing. This just isn't going to be your day. You close your eyes and try to take in deep breaths, but hot air you suck in with each one just makes you feel that much worse. After a while, you open your eyes and between the vertical planks you can see the light fading from the sky. There are reds and oranges and pinks. Even through the slits, it is breathtaking. You only wish you could walk out to see the whole thing. You can barely move your head and it's impossible to move the rest of you. You can't take this anymore, but what choice do you have? You can only sit here to wait for the inevitable. Too bad you don't have a blanket, because it is getting so, so cold. Your teeth would chatter if you only had the energy to do so. The sky deepens and you can see the first twinkle of a star. You should make a wish. But, it's much too late for that. You know it as sure as you know anything at all. All you have left waiting for you is the inevitable. Maybe if you made the right wish, it might come true. You can't close your eyes to make the wish or you may never get them open again. You take a long, hard swallow and feel the sides of your throat scratch together. You focus hard on the star until you can feel it pulling back at you. You try to mouth the words, but you don't have the strength. Willing with everything you have—everything you are—you send your wish soaring toward that tiny pinprick of a speck—faster than the speed of light. Jane steps from the corner of your little makeshift shelter. She looks so beautiful, yet so sad. She kneels down beside you and stares deep into your eyes while you lose yourself in hers. You drown in those bright green eyes. She may not have gotten her wish, but you were granted yours. — The End

[Themes: modern, horror] It would probably be best not to walk along the highway where a cop might see you. You've come a long way and you don't want to be taken home when you're so close you can almost taste it. You head back around the building and plunge into the darkness. The sky overhead is crowded with stars, but since there is no moon out tonight they offer very little light to see your way by. You'll have to take it slow and easy so you don't step into a hole or trip over something in the dark. You take small steps. With each one the ground seems to get steeper and steeper until you finally have to crawl on your hands and knees to keep from sliding back down the hill. It would probably be much easier in the daytime, but it would be a lot hotter and you would need water. The ground becomes rocky and some of the stones are so big that you have to go around them. You keep working your way toward higher and higher ground until you run into a cliff that you can't climb, then you follow along its base. Every now and then, your foot dislodges a rock and you listen as it gets fainter and fainter until it finally tumbles out of earshot. At long last, the cliff starts to fall away and the ground begins to slope around it. You keep going until you find a crevasse that leads right up through the middle of it. It's probably the only way through so you heft yourself into it and it's just like climbing stairs in the dark. You keep going up and up and up until you reach the top and the stars seem to hover right straight in front of you. You can't see the ground on the other side and you sure don't want to plummet off a cliff so you make yourself as comfortable as you can and wedge yourself in for the night. You pull your knees up and fold your arms against the cold. You close your eyes to try to sleep your way to morning. Maybe then you will be able to see whether you can climb down the other side or if you'll just have to turn around and find some other way. The sky starts to brighten a dingy dishwater gray. You couldn't sleep at all last night thanks to the cold. That's fine, though, you can find a nice shady spot and sleep through the sun. First things first, though, you have to get off this mountain. You stretch your stiff legs out from under you and pull yourself up with the wooden clubs that are your arms. Through the gap in the rocks, you can see a narrow, winding rock shelf snaking its way around the far side of the rocks. You can't see where it ends, but it beats going back down and all the way around. Out across the valley, you can see a gray line at the base of the far away cliffs. It must be the tracks. It's a long ways away. The sun will be up before too long and you'll have to find a place to sleep in a few hours so you'd better get moving. You wriggle your way over the top of the rocks and stretch out your toes until you can feel the ledge beneath them. It's a little wider than your shoes are long so it shouldn't be all that hard to stay on. Taking small steps and crowding the rock face as best you can, you slowly make your way down and down. It's actually easier than it looked from the top. The sun spills its rays over the far horizon and they blanket you in their warmth. Your stiff muscles melt away. You can see farther now and the rocky ledge spreads out onto a slope several dozen yards away. You're going to make it just fine. You look down to see just how much farther you have to go and it grabs you. Everything looks so tiny down there. The world sways—first one way and then the other—and your legs no longer want to move. You clutch the rock face with all your strength and take tiny breaths so you don't accidentally push yourself backward off the ledge. You're legs start shaking and your palms get all sweaty. You close your eyes and feel the blood racing in your veins. You know you have to keep going, but how? If you fall off, it would take a long, long time to reach the bottom. You might not even pass out and feel the whole thing when you splat! Don't be such a fraidy cat. She's right. You can do this. You snap your eyes open and start the tiny sideways steps again. It doesn't take long for you to reach the rocky slope. From there, you memorize the mountain peak you need to walk toward to get to that gray line and then set out to make it as far as you can before the sun gets too high. You've covered quite a bit of ground when you find several big boulders in a roughly circular formation and sit beneath the largest one for its shade. You manage to nap quite nicely until the sun gets far enough to the west that you have to move to a different shady spot. When the sun has dipped more than halfway behind the horizon, you set out to make as many miles as you can before it gets too dark to see. You feel weak from hunger and from lack of water, but your will pushes you on. About halfway through the night, you look up to see a tiny sliver of moon directly overhead. It's no wonder that you've been able to keep going this long. Even with that tiny bit of light, you can see the ground quite clearly. The faint shadows contrast against the background and your eyes seem to have adjusted themselves to the lack of light. It's warmer down here than it was last night, but the air still has that certain crispness to it. You haven't been able to see the mountain peak for hours, but are confident that you haven't strayed too much from your intended goal. You just keep pushing yourself. You are going to make it. You have no other choice. You continue on. You've been walking for hours and you feel like your legs are about to fall off. If you don't just collapse, that is. But, you must keep going. There will be time to rest tomorrow—when it is too hot. The stars and the moon flow gently to the west, but you don't even notice. You are too focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, you see a straight black double line running perpendicular to your path. It looks like it might be the edge of a cliff so you approach it ever so slowly. When you're nearly upon it, you discover that it is higher than the rest of the ground around it. It's the tracks! You've found them! You really found them! They weren't nearly as far away as they looked. You feel great! You are KING! You turn toward the west—nearly skipping—and continue on your journey. Now all you have to do is find some water and some food, then you'll be all set. You watch as the sliver of moon finally disappears behind the black horizon and the stars start to twinkle just a tiny bit brighter. You can barely make out the rails on either side of you, but there's still more than enough light to guide you. You trudge on and on in the darkness. It feels somehow comforting to you now. Like you might be the only person in the whole world. The cloak of night is your friend, your companion. As the sky starts to gray, you can see farther and farther with each passing minute. There are no yard lights. No houses. No distant towns. No nothing. You feel completely alone now. It gives you a lump in your throat. The sun is on your back now and you can feel its rays trickling warmth into your rigid skin. You can't turn around to look at it. You have to save every last bit of your strength. You can barely lift your legs and the toes of your shoes scrub furrows in the dust. Still, you plod on. When you've nearly caught up with your shadow, you scan the area for some cool shade. You see a pile of old lumber out all by its lonesome. It may have been some kind of mining shack at one time, but it's impossible to tell. It's the only thing within sight and the two vertical boards won't offer any shade for hours yet, but you can't go on. You have to get off your feet so that means you have work to do. You stumble over and start dragging and prying boards from the ground as best you can. It takes some doing since half of them are buried in sand. You are just pulling up the last one when you see something shiny under it. You drop the board as you jump back thinking at first that it might be a snake. It couldn't be, though, it didn't even resemble anything that could even be alive. Sticking another board under the one you dropped so you don't have to stick your bare hand in there, you pry it up. It takes a moment for the sun's glare to clear from your eyes and then you see a magical treasure. It is a half-crushed tin cup that is about a third full of old water. It is dark and has a funny smell to it, but it's wet. You aren't sure that you should drink it, but you might die if you don't get water soon. > Don't drink it It's probably better not to risk drinking it, but you sure don't intend to waste such a gift. You pull your shirt off and wet it carefully from the cup—being extremely careful not to let even a single drop roll off onto the ground. You wipe your back and chest off with the cool rag as best you can before wrapping it around your head like that man did in that movie you saw a long time ago on TV. You go back to work and before long, you have something that resembles something that someone might accidentally mistake for a shack. It's more of a lean-to than anything, but at least there's shade. You get down on all fours and crawl through a narrow opening at the bottom. The ground is still hot and could possibly blister if you dally. Once inside, you scoop handful after handful off the top and shove it against the sides at the bottom. It'll help hold them up as well as give you a faintly cooler spot to lay down. Slumping over, something bites your little finger. It stings a little, but nothing serious. You push yourself back up and see a tiny scorpion right where your hand was so you slam your fist down on it and crush it before it can reset itself to strike again. You don't see any others, so you lay down and look at the white sky through the cracks for a while to make yourself sleepy. When you wake up, the sun is still high and your hand is throbbing something awful. You need water desperately and your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth. Pushing yourself back against the far wall you try to get your mind off of your hand by watching what little light filters through the cracks. While you watch as the sun makes its ever so slow descent, you wipe yourself off every now and then with the cool rag—truly a gift from heaven. You don't know when the throbbing in your hand went away or when your head sagged, but you open your eyes and between the vertical planks you can see the light fading from the sky. There are reds and oranges and pinks. Even through the slits, it is breathtaking. You scurry back through the hole in the boards and see the tapestry of the western sky in all its glory. The sun has already set, but has left an explosion of color in its wake. You stand there a moment in awe before setting off down the tracks once more. You walk through the night taking frequent rest breaks to rub away the burning cramps in your legs and once, you have to move away from the tracks and go prone when a freight roars through. You don't think you'll be able to make it much farther if you don't find drinkable water soon. When the sun starts to peek its head, you scan the barren landscape looking for both water and another daytime shelter. It's already getting too hot for comfort. Up ahead a couple of miles, you see a string of hoppers sitting off on a siding near the foot of a small mountain. They won't offer much, but at least it's shade. You quicken your pace despite your toes attempting to curl themselves in under your feet. There's plenty of shade under the hoppers when you reach them, but already they are giving off more heat than would be comfortable. You do spot a dusty brown prickly pear patch off toward the mountain so it's a good thing you decided to stop early in the day. It seems like so long ago when Harvey first showed you that you could eat it. You'll just have to be really careful when you pick and skin it since you lost your knife. You rush over and fall to your knees and start to carefully pluck one of the leafy pads. The tiny spines prick at your fingers so you take extra time to be even more careful. When you have it in your hands, you dig the skin off of it with your thumbnail. The moisture runs down and drips off your hand. You greedily lap up the sweet juice as you continue digging away the skin and spines. When you have enough exposed you take a bite and the sweet flavor explodes in your mouth. It doesn't taste bland at all. Maybe it's because it's later in the year and maybe more ripe or maybe it's just because you haven't eaten or had anything to drink in days. After three pads, you can't hold any more but you continue chewing up bite after bite to get at the juice. While you're gorging yourself, you see a deep shadow at the base of the mountain that looks like it has a door in it. Weird. Who would put a door in a mountain? You push yourself to your feet and stumble over to the shadow and see that it's not really a door, but a boarded up hole. A cool draft hits you right square in the face. You have to get in there! At the bottom and under a faded sign that has slipped it's nail, there's a gap just big enough for you wriggle your way through if you swing the sign aside. It reminds you of the night you and Jane went into that spooky old house. C'mon, I know the way in. W-wait. What if something's in there? What if someone catches us? Don't worry. No one ever comes here. This place is 'bandoned. It seems so long ago and in a place you can barely remember and to a boy who no longer exists. Maybe even in another life, perhaps. You squat down and hold the sign up with one hand as you work your way inside. Sand sifts down on you as you pass through the opening—but only a little. From somewhere deep in the bowels of the cave, you can hear water dripping into a pool. Too bad it isn't outside. It's been so long since you've been swimming. It'd be a nice way to cool off. Sitting just far enough inside that you're out of the direct sunlight, you lean back to soak up the cool, damp air. Your stomach rumbles and cramps up, but you barely notice as you fall fast asleep. You wake up shivering and crawl back into the blast furnace through the little gap. You have a vague recollection of an eerie yawning groan having disturbed your sleep, but it quickly fades into the ether along with the dream that inspired it. You head back over to the prickly pear patch and perform your routine again. It'll take some time before you are back to one-hundred percent. Right now, you aren't even considering leaving this wonderful place. Once you've had your fill again, you crawl back into your hidey-hole. You have to crawl in a little deeper since the sun is at a lower angle and its rays stretch in nearly twice as far. It's not that you mind sleeping in the daytime so much, you just don't want those burning fingers on your skin. You see a lump over against the far wall and have to investigate what it might be. You carefully creep over in case it might be an animal—even though by its shape, it couldn't possibly be. You reach out with the toe of your shoe and give it a light nudge. It teeters to one side and comes back to rest in the same place with a tinny sound that reverberates off the walls. You immediately know what this object is. It's a bucket! If you can find the source of that dripping sound, you could have all the water you'd need for a couple days and surely you'd run into more by the time it is empty. > You try to find the source Crawling slowly through the dark on your knees and feeling ahead of you with one hand while dragging the pail with the other, you make your way deep into the cave. The sound gets gradually louder the deeper you go until you feel spatter hit your face. It's coming from the wall from drips overhead, but the sound of the pool is still far away so you continue on. The ground is damp for quite a ways before it starts getting dry again. It doesn't appear that the sound is getting any closer. If you don't find it soon, you might as well turn back. You don't want to get lost in this cave. You might not be able to find your way back. The floor keeps rising steadily and turns from sand to rock. It slopes up steeply and you have trouble holding on enough while climbing with only one free hand. You've come just about as far as you dare. You try to determine how much farther the sound of the pool is and in what direction, but the echo off the rocks makes it sound like it's coming from everywhere. It's no use. You shimmy back down the rock and start making your way back. You can feel eyes on you from the darkness, but can't tell from which direction. One way is as black as another. The only thing you can see is tiny white flashes at the edge of your vision. You reach the damp sand again and have just started across it when the ground under you starts shifting forward. You twist around and try to scramble back, but it's moving too swift and you're losing more ground than you gain. Then suddenly, you are in open air and tumbling head over feet. The fall seems to take forever. It's only seconds, but time has slowed down for you. "AaaAaaAaaahh!" your echo screams back at you. You hit the water head first. You frantically paddle for the surface. There is absolutely no light so can't tell which way is up. Your lungs are empty and you fight to not let the water in. Finally, you break the surface and tread water as best as you can, but you don't have the strength to last long. It dawns on you that you still have the bucket so you flip it upside-down—letting the water spill out and catch some air—to use as a float. When you've finally caught your breath, you kick and paddle over to a slimy and slick wall. There are no handholds so you slowly move along looking for something to grab onto. You come to a ledge that is right at water level and slowly work your way up onto it. When you're finally seated, you place the bucket beside you and take slow even breaths to slow your racing heart. That was way too close. You stand up and search the slimy wall and find nothing as far up as you can reach. You move from one end to the other and find nothing but the same. When you've regained your strength, you slip back into the water and—holding onto the bucket—start feeling around some more as you make your way around the pool. You make it back to the same ledge before long. You don't know how long you've been sitting here. Hours? Days? Weeks? It doesn't matter. It wasn't long before you couldn't feel your legs. Then your arms wouldn't work anymore. You can't even tell if your eyes are open or closed at this point. Out in the middle of the blackness, you see a shimmering speck of light that grows and grows until it finally takes shape. It's that dark haired girl with that mischievous grin. Her toes barely skim the water as she glides softly over to you. She reaches down and cups her hand over yours as she looks deeply into your eyes with those bright green eyes. You manage to mouth a word, but does it really escape your lips? "Jane" your echo whispers back. — The End

It's probably better not to risk drinking it, but you sure don't intend to waste such a gift. You pull your shirt off and wet it carefully from the cup—being extremely careful not to let even a single drop roll off onto the ground. You wipe your back and chest off with the cool rag as best you can before wrapping it around your head like that man did in that movie you saw a long time ago on TV. You go back to work and before long, you have something that resembles something that someone might accidentally mistake for a shack. It's more of a lean-to than anything, but at least there's shade. You get down on all fours and crawl through a narrow opening at the bottom. The ground is still hot and could possibly blister if you dally. Once inside, you scoop handful after handful off the top and shove it against the sides at the bottom. It'll help hold them up as well as give you a faintly cooler spot to lay down. Slumping over, something bites your little finger. It stings a little, but nothing serious. You push yourself back up and see a tiny scorpion right where your hand was so you slam your fist down on it and crush it before it can reset itself to strike again. You don't see any others, so you lay down and look at the white sky through the cracks for a while to make yourself sleepy. When you wake up, the sun is still high and your hand is throbbing something awful. You need water desperately and your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth. Pushing yourself back against the far wall you try to get your mind off of your hand by watching what little light filters through the cracks. While you watch as the sun makes its ever so slow descent, you wipe yourself off every now and then with the cool rag—truly a gift from heaven. You don't know when the throbbing in your hand went away or when your head sagged, but you open your eyes and between the vertical planks you can see the light fading from the sky. There are reds and oranges and pinks. Even through the slits, it is breathtaking. You scurry back through the hole in the boards and see the tapestry of the western sky in all its glory. The sun has already set, but has left an explosion of color in its wake. You stand there a moment in awe before setting off down the tracks once more. You walk through the night taking frequent rest breaks to rub away the burning cramps in your legs and once, you have to move away from the tracks and go prone when a freight roars through. You don't think you'll be able to make it much farther if you don't find drinkable water soon. When the sun starts to peek its head, you scan the barren landscape looking for both water and another daytime shelter. It's already getting too hot for comfort. Up ahead a couple of miles, you see a string of hoppers sitting off on a siding near the foot of a small mountain. They won't offer much, but at least it's shade. You quicken your pace despite your toes attempting to curl themselves in under your feet. There's plenty of shade under the hoppers when you reach them, but already they are giving off more heat than would be comfortable. You do spot a dusty brown prickly pear patch off toward the mountain so it's a good thing you decided to stop early in the day. It seems like so long ago when Harvey first showed you that you could eat it. You'll just have to be really careful when you pick and skin it since you lost your knife. You rush over and fall to your knees and start to carefully pluck one of the leafy pads. The tiny spines prick at your fingers so you take extra time to be even more careful. When you have it in your hands, you dig the skin off of it with your thumbnail. The moisture runs down and drips off your hand. You greedily lap up the sweet juice as you continue digging away the skin and spines. When you have enough exposed you take a bite and the sweet flavor explodes in your mouth. It doesn't taste bland at all. Maybe it's because it's later in the year and maybe more ripe or maybe it's just because you haven't eaten or had anything to drink in days. After three pads, you can't hold any more but you continue chewing up bite after bite to get at the juice. While you're gorging yourself, you see a deep shadow at the base of the mountain that looks like it has a door in it. Weird. Who would put a door in a mountain? You push yourself to your feet and stumble over to the shadow and see that it's not really a door, but a boarded up hole. A cool draft hits you right square in the face. You have to get in there! At the bottom and under a faded sign that has slipped it's nail, there's a gap just big enough for you wriggle your way through if you swing the sign aside. It reminds you of the night you and Jane went into that spooky old house. C'mon, I know the way in. W-wait. What if something's in there? What if someone catches us? Don't worry. No one ever comes here. This place is 'bandoned. It seems so long ago and in a place you can barely remember and to a boy who no longer exists. Maybe even in another life, perhaps. You squat down and hold the sign up with one hand as you work your way inside. Sand sifts down on you as you pass through the opening—but only a little. From somewhere deep in the bowels of the cave, you can hear water dripping into a pool. Too bad it isn't outside. It's been so long since you've been swimming. It'd be a nice way to cool off. Sitting just far enough inside that you're out of the direct sunlight, you lean back to soak up the cool, damp air. Your stomach rumbles and cramps up, but you barely notice as you fall fast asleep. You wake up shivering and crawl back into the blast furnace through the little gap. You have a vague recollection of an eerie yawning groan having disturbed your sleep, but it quickly fades into the ether along with the dream that inspired it. You head back over to the prickly pear patch and perform your routine again. It'll take some time before you are back to one-hundred percent. Right now, you aren't even considering leaving this wonderful place. Once you've had your fill again, you crawl back into your hidey-hole. You have to crawl in a little deeper since the sun is at a lower angle and its rays stretch in nearly twice as far. It's not that you mind sleeping in the daytime so much, you just don't want those burning fingers on your skin. You see a lump over against the far wall and have to investigate what it might be. You carefully creep over in case it might be an animal—even though by its shape, it couldn't possibly be. You reach out with the toe of your shoe and give it a light nudge. It teeters to one side and comes back to rest in the same place with a tinny sound that reverberates off the walls. You immediately know what this object is. It's a bucket! If you can find the source of that dripping sound, you could have all the water you'd need for a couple days and surely you'd run into more by the time it is empty. > You continue on your way You carry the bucket back with you into the light and examine it for holes. There aren't any that you can see so you set it near the entrance and crawl back out of the light, lay down and sleep for the rest of the day. When you wake up, there is barely enough light to see your way out by and you have trouble even making your way back. You manage to squeeze your way back outside and a warm, stiff breeze ripples its fingers over your skin and through your hair. It feels rather pleasant after being in the cool for so long. With bucket in hand, you stroll over to the prickly pears and begin carefully filling it with the pads that you don't immediately eat. There's not much left of the patch when you get done with it. You look over your shoulder to see that the moon is more than a sliver and just a might above the horizon behind you. You decide that you might as well continue on since there's no point in staying in one place for too long. You pick yourself up, dust yourself off and set off down the tracks again. There are faint shadows outlining each railroad tie and you can see the wispy shapes of gravel off to the sides. There is a bluish tint to the desert where it fades into nothingness only a stones throw to each side. You don't have to stop to rest nearly as often and when you do, you carefully peel bits of prickly pear and suck out the juice. You've got enough to last you for days as long as you don't get too piggish with it. And now that you've found out how magical it is, you'll keep an eye out for patches so you can keep your bucket as full of it as you can. Once in the night, you have to get away from the tracks and go prone when an East-bound freight rumbles through. It must be miles and miles long with six roaring engines straining to keep it moving. It's too dark to make out the cargo, but it has to be really something special. You long to be on it heading back to familiar territory, but what magical things it must have seen before reaching this point. Even after it passes out of sight and then hearing, you can still feel its vibrations in the tracks. The moon drifts by overhead—dragging the stars in its wake. You take the ties two at a time until the bottoms of your feet are so puffy that you have to slow to every one. The dark silhouettes of the mountains to your right take form as they rip free of the night sky and go from black to red to gold before you turn around and see the sun spilling over the horizon to your rear. It is a most awe inspiring sight of reds and oranges and golds fading into lavender at its fringes. You scan the barren landscape around you and spot a tiny twinkle far up ahead. Maybe it's something and maybe it's not, but the tracks will come close enough to it that you're going to find out. The landscape is sparsely dotted with bluish-green lumps and by their shape you can tell that they are prickly pear patches. They are everywhere! There's so much that you'll never go hungry or thirsty again! You'll just grab what you need from the patches when they come close to the tracks to keep your bucket full. There is a sudden explosion all around you and your heart skips a couple of beats when a dozen or so tiny pigs shoot out in all directions from their dusty wallows surprised by your sudden appearance. Even the grown ones are no bigger than a dog. It takes you a moment for your blood to settle enough that you can keep walking. After you go a little farther, you are close enough to see what the thing is that is twinkling. It's a windmill out all by itself. The shiny fan blades are high enough off the ground that they catch a ripple every now and then, but the tail fin is broken and bent sideways so it can no longer face into the wind. Did there used to be a farmhouse near it and now it's gone? Maybe there's still some stuff laying around it. You pick up your pace in the hopes of finding something salvageable. From somewhere not too far off toward the mountains, you hear a sound like someone screaming with rage. Your hair stands on end and you freeze in your steps. You carefully scan the area and see nothing but a barren, sand-colored landscape dotted with the occasional boulder, cactus or prickly pear patch. Everything is eerily still. You take a tentative step down the tracks while keeping a wary eye on the desert. Something is out there, but you don't have a clue what it might be. A ghost, maybe? Or some madman? You are poised to run at the first sign of movement. Before long, you are adjacent to the windmill and—after taking a last, long look around—head down the gravel embankment toward it. You see a long galvanized water trough—a little bigger than the bathtub you had in your old house before your mom and dad got a divorce—a short distance from its base connected to a rusty tank via a short, bent pipe. Maybe there will be enough water to soak in and cool off before the sun creeps high enough to scorch the day. When you get up to the tank, you see about an inch of water in the bottom. You could still use it to cool off in and rinse away several layers of dirt and dust that you've picked up since the last time you bathed so you strip down to your altogethers and dip your toe in. The water is a bit warm now even though it's still early in the day, but not so much that you can't stand it and when you climb back out the gentle breeze should take care of the rest. You sit down and start dipping water with your hands and pouring it over your head. It feels so good on your bare skin as you rub away the grit and dust. You haven't had a bath in a long, long time so you make the most if it. You lean back and bask in the sun for a few minutes soaking everything up and notice a metal latter going up the side of the windmill. There's no telling what you'd be able to see from up there. As soon as you've dried off, you want to climb it and have a good look around. There's nothing on the ground here for as far as you can see. Why would anyone put a windmill out in the middle of nowhere? There's not even a fence to keep in animals if that's what it's for. You stand up and are reaching over the side for your clothes when you hear that scream again from much closer this time. Your blood runs cold. You whip your head around toward the tracks and the direction it came from. There on the ridge, you see a big tan cat just like the one you saw when you were with Sam only this one isn't quite as big even though it is twice as scary. Before it heads down the slope toward you you are already climbing up the tower. When you reach the top, you look back over your shoulder to see it circling below and looking up at you. You look over and see an old paint can full of bolts and heavy, rusty adjustable wrench which you can use as a nice weapon. As long as it can't figure out how to use the ladder, you are safe since there's no way it could climb the metal legs. You pick up the wrench and slap it against your palm. If it does manage to climb the ladder, you're ready to smash its head and paws as soon as it gets within arm's reach. Its eyes are fixed on yours and its ears are laid back when it makes a tremendous leap. You stagger backward and manage to grab onto one of the center posts that angle to the ground at the very last second while you are teetering and flailing your arms. The cat can jump much higher than you expected, but still only came a little over halfway to the top. After a couple more attempts with no more success than it had the first time, it stalks around and swats your bucket through the air—sending its contents spraying out in a wide arc. "Go away! Leave me alone!" You grab a hand full of bolts and start pelting the ground around him with the tiny missiles. Only one manages to hit its mark and the cat only flicks its shoulder muscle in response. The cat pays no mind to your words and only continues pacing around the tower while staring up at you. There's really nothing you can do but wait it out and hope it gets interested in something else or bored enough that it forgets all about you and leaves. You sit down with your back against the center post and keep a watchful eye on the cat below in case it figures out how to use the ladder. After a few minutes, the big cat moves over to opposite side of the storage tank from the trough and lays down in the sliver of shade it provides. It's only going to get hotter up here as the sun gets higher and higher. You have no choice but to suffer through it. There is a decent breeze up here that the cat doesn't have. Maybe it'll be enough. You lean your head back against the post and close your eyes, but only to slits because you don't want that thing to get out of your sight. It yawns and does the same, but doesn't lay its head down. From here on in it's just going to be a waiting game. > Life happens Hours have passed when you hear a low rumble coming from behind you. You look down at your nemesis to see that it has its head down on its paws and doesn't seem to hear it. You look over your shoulder to see bright red pickup kicking up a cloud of dust and heading straight for you. You get to your feet just as the pickup skids to a stop and the door flies open. "What the hell are you doing up there!?" yells a beefy man with a scraggly beard. "Get down from there!" You look down to see the cat jerk its head around and point toward it. "I can't." He looks over to where you're pointing and immediately dives back into his truck at the same time the cat makes a dash toward the tracks. When he comes back out, he has a rifle in his hands and lays it against the open door. Crack! You see a wisp of dust explode on the far side of the cat and the cat veers away from it. Before the man can lever in another shell, it has gone over the tracks and down the other side. You watch as it fades into the background as it's bounding toward the mountains. "She won't be back anytime soon so you can get down off of there now!" You lay the wrench aside and step off onto the ladder. You don't know what you would've done if he hadn't come along when he did. Your mouth is already full of cotton. When you reach the bottom, you head straight for the closest prickly pear and begin skinning it with your thumbnails. "What are you doing?" "I'm thirsty. I need water." "Come over here. I've got some ice water in the truck." He opens the passenger door and rummages around in the pile in the floorboard until he comes back with an only slightly wrinkled paper cup. He slides a big cooler over the edge of the seat and pushes the button on the bottom to fill it before handing it to you. "Here." "Thank you." You guzzle it down without taking a breath. "Why aren't you wearing any clothes?" You look down at yourself and say "I was rinsing off from that trough to get cool when that big cat came." "Well, go put 'em back on. You can't be running around naked as a jaybird." You turn to go when he grabs your arm and says "What the hell happened to you, boy?" You follow his gaze and look under your arm at your back. "Oh, that's from my mom." "Why'd she do that?" You shrug. "She was mad 'cause I ran away, but I didn't. It was an accident." He stands there scratching above his ear for a moment before shaking his head and turning toward the windmill. You rush over and jerk on your clothes while he climbs it. Then you start putting the all the prickly pears you can find back in your bucket and look up to see him fixing the tail. You can't help but stand there until he's finished just to see if it works. He releases a catch and the blades start turning immediately. "Where are you from?" he asks, stepping off the bottom rung. "There aren't any houses for miles around except for mine." You look down at your feet. "A long, long ways from here." He takes you back to his house despite your objections and finally gets the whole story out of you. He threatens to turn you over to the sheriff, but can't come to terms with what might happen to you if you were sent back. One thing leads to another and days turn into weeks. When school time rolls around, he enrolls you under his name and after talking to a judge friend of his and telling him your story, it's all made nice and legal. It isn't long before you feel like you belong at this ranch. One day when you're fourteen and he can barely get around even with the aid of his cane, you and he are out setting the windmill where you first met. He turns to you and says "I never had a son of my own. It's lucky for me that you dropped into my lap like you did. You're a damn fine worker and a fine young man. Someday I'll be gone and all this will belong to you." You smile at him and give him a firm squeeze on the shoulder. Isn't it funny how life turns out sometimes, you think. Looking him square in the eye, you say "I'm the lucky one." — The End

[Themes: modern, drama, horror, true story] You stagger up to the edge of the road and raise your hands. The car slows down for a moment as the rear passenger window rolls down. As it gets nearly even with you, a bottle flies out and hits the pavement halfway to your feet. You don't have the strength or energy to jump to the side so you can only stand there and watch as it bounces off the asphalt and hits you dead center in the chest before you can react. The pain is so sudden and intense that the wind is knocked completely out of you. Your face feels like it swells to nearly twice its size and burns all the way to your ears. You slump and fall to your knees. The car screeches to a stop and the driver's door opens. "Why in the hell would you do that to a kid?! I oughtta kick your ass. You could've killed him, you know that?" You gasp for breath and can't take in any air. You want to cry due to the immense pain, but your eyes are so dry that they can no longer produce tears. Your vision starts to waver and you fall forward. Just before you eat the blacktop, you feel hands grab you and swing you back into a seated position. "It's okay. I'm here to help. He was just being a dumbass and didn't know that he might actually hit you." You wheeze and can feel your lungs slowly start to fill with air. Your vision is still fuzzing in and out, but it's slowly beginning to clear. "What's your name?" asks the teenage boy with closely cropped hair. You rock back and forth trying to help force more air into your lungs, and only wheeze louder in answer to his question. You look around to see several more teenagers standing around you. "Take it easy, man. Don't try to rush it. I'm not going anywhere." You're not sure you want to tell them your real name. After all, one of them just tried to kill you. Maybe it was an accident and maybe it wasn't. You try to think of a name—any name—and a sudden image of little Timmy that lived down the street from you before your parents got a divorce pops into your head. You remember how he used to say his name and before you can correct it, out comes "Tim-O-tee." You take a deep breath and try hard not to laugh or even smile. "Timothy. My name is Timothy." "What are you doing out here all by yourself, Timothy?" "I'm lost. I don't know where this is." "Where do you live? We'll take you home," says a slightly gruffer voice off to the side. You shrug as you try to come up with something to tell them. You look around, trying to come up with a story they might believe and your eyes settle on a far-off vertical rock piercing up through desert floor. "A long, long ways from here. I was s'posed to stay by the camper, but I wanted to look at the rocks." One of the boys sucks air in through his teeth. "That wasn't very smart. Kids get lost out here all the time and die," says the one crouched down by you. "Where were you going? Maybe we can find your parents or get you to someone who can." If they take you to the cops, you'll never make it to the Grand Canyon. You have to change the subject. "I'm so thirsty. I need water." The boy reaches up and snatches a bottle from one of the others and says "Here, drink this. We'll get you some water." You tip the over half full bottle and guzzle the orange soda down without stopping. It burns like fire and doesn't help even a little, but it's wet and wet is better than nothing. "We've gotta get back. We can't take him with us," says another boy under his breath. "We're not leaving him out here, alone," snaps the one you've been talking to, "Not here!" "There's a gas station right there! It's not like he's lost out in the middle of the desert." "We can't go driving all over the country looking for his folks," says another. "You shoulda thought of that before you chucked that bottle him!" he hisses up at the boy with slicked back hair—who just pivots around on his heels and stalks back to the car. Turning back to you, he says "C'mon. We'll go find a phone or something," picking you to your feet and helping you to the car. You hang back as the boys head into the gas station. If they call the police, they'll take you home and you'll never get to the Grand Canyon for Jane. As soon as the door swings shut, you dash to the end of the building and swing around the corner toward the back. There is a stack of oil drums at the base of the hill out back and you run in behind them. You hope this will be enough because there is no other cover close by that you can see. You squeeze into a hole between two of the drums that are resting on the ground and wait. It isn't long before you hear them talking from not too far away from your hiding spot. "Where could he have got to?" asks the boy that's been trying to help you. "I dunno. He just ran off, I guess. Maybe we just imagined the whole thing." "Maybe he's a spook and just went invisible," laughs a third. "Don't be a moron," says the first, "He's just scared." "We can't go traipsing all over the desert looking for him. When he gets tired, he'll come back. We're already gonna be late as it is." "I guess. I just wanted to help the kid out, is all." "Let's just go before we get into trouble, ourselves." You hear the car engine start and gravel raining down in their wake before you poke your head out. You can't risk going inside because they probably already told whoever is in there about you and the police might still show up. You spot a coiled hose on the ground by the corner of the building that you must've run right by without even seeing. It's just what you need. You trot over and reach for the faucet, but the handle has been removed. You study it a minute before picking up the hose a little at a time—working the contents out to the end—and manage to get a good mouthful of scalding hot water. You fight the pain and as soon as it's cooled enough, you choke it down. You can't go any further in this heat so you look for any kind of shade to get out of this blistering sun. You spot a low-lying rock a little ways up the hillside behind the building and judging by its angle it might offer some shelter from the sun. You drag yourself over to it. It looks like it would be the perfect place for a den of snakes, but peering under the shelf you see no sign of anything. You wedge yourself underneath where you'll wait for nightfall before heading off again. You open your eyes to find that you are shivering. The temperature has dropped considerably. If you don't end up freezing, it'll at least be a welcome relief compared to that awful sun. After pulling yourself out, you stand and slink down the hill. Your feet are like bricks, but you have no other choice other than to go on. The gas station parking lot is deserted except for a run-down old pickup truck loaded down with all kinds of junk and covered with a tarp. It's parked in the shade of the pump lights around the corner of the building and you have to walk around it to get to the highway. As you pass by it, its yellow license plate catches your eye. It says Arizona in green letters across the top and Grand Canyon State on the bottom. You peek around the corner of the building and see an old hunched over Indian man with a pony tail halfway down his back stepping up to the cash register. This could be your lucky break. You could try asking him for a ride, but what if he says no? Maybe hiding under the junk in the back and hope for the best would be smarter way to go. It won't be long before he's heading this way so you'd better hurry and make up you mind. > You hide in the back of the truck You climb in the back of the truck and find a hole under the tarp that you can squeeze yourself into. You hunker down and get as comfortable as you can, but you can't see out from where you are. It isn't long before you feel the truck rocking and hear the door slam. The engine revs to life and you are jostled this way and that before the ride eventually smooths out. All you can do is hope for the best as you settle back and try to get some much needed sleep. You wake up with the old Indian man staring down at you. He has a mixture of concern and annoyance on his face. "Where did you come from? Why are you in my truck?" You rub the sleep from your eyes while you try to think of an answer. Your stiff back decides to contort all on its own and you are helpless to stop it. When you're able to do so you look back up at him. Not knowing the best way to respond, you say "I was hiding and fell asleep." He looks you over and finally says "Come on out of there." He turns and walks toward the front of his truck as you sit up. He doesn't stop at the front and continues on to a short, shiny trailer with a tattered awning drooping from its side and props the door open with a beat up lawn chair. All around you as far as the eye can see is only desolation broken up by the occasional rock jutting up through the earth. You climb over the side and aren't sure whether to follow him inside or to go somewhere else entirely. You don't know where you are and can only guess that the rough and rutted path behind the truck leads back to some road. At the very least, you need water. It couldn't hurt to go to the door and ask for some before heading out. You also haven't a clue as to where you are so maybe he'll tell you that, too. You walk over to the trailer and lean in. "Can I have some water?" It's really dark in there and before you can make out any movement, a heavy black pot spattered with light blue specks and a long shiny handle sticking out of the top drops onto the corner of the built-in table into the slender patch of sunlight that makes it through the door. A hand reaches out of the blackness and grabs the handle, drawing a ladle dripping with water from inside the pot. "Here." You lunge inside, snatch the ladle with both hands and gulp down the liquid in huge swallows. It's warm and you can taste the metal in it. It doesn't matter. You've gone without for so long that the only thing that registers is that it's wet. Even through you are choking for air you keep chugging. Finally, you've had all you can hold. After dropping the ladle into the pot, you stagger backward and fall against the aluminum door facing. Your eyes have started to adjust and you can see the old man seated at the far end of the table and staring vacantly at the far wall. "You want to tell me where you're from?" You shift from one foot to the other trying to remember some of the towns from your map, but you draw a blank. Not sure if you should tell him the truth or make something up, you end up saying "A long way from here." He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn't turn toward you. "I have to get somewhere. It's real important." The instant those words pass through your lips you flash back on a conversation from a long, long time ago, but it slips away before you get the chance to latch on to it. He only sits there patiently and stares straight ahead without saying a word. It makes you feel all jittery inside. You have to tell him something. "Jane died and I have to go to the Grand Canyon for her 'cause she never got to see it," you blurt out. He sucks in his breath and stiffens as the words spill out with you powerless to stop them. "Her mom hated her and she killed her and all she wanted was someone to love her and to take care of her! She was my friend! She was my bestist FRIEND!" You fall to the floor in a heap. All of your strength has dissipated. Your body heaves and shutters and your eyes burn, but they are so dry that they can no longer make tears. A large, gentle hand comes to rest on your shoulder and you don't even bother raising your head. It has all been too much. Just way too much. "Wake up. We're here." You shove yourself up in the seat and peer through the dusty windshield. A red granite sign with dark inset lettering atop a light tan sandstone base stands off to the right in front of the pickup. You can see the words clearly over the hood. "Grand Canyon National Park". You can hardly believe your eyes. After a long, slow grind, the engine whirs to life. Silas jams the truck into gear and it lurches forward. It isn't long before you come to a large parking area and he whips around into one of the paint-striped spaces, killing the old truck in gear causing it to shudder to a stop. You look up at him. He's staring out through the windshield with that vacant stare he does. You can't help yourself. You shimmy over in the seat, reach up and give him a big hug around the neck. "Thank you for bringing me here." He doesn't move or even look around. He finally says "Go now." > You go now! You look out over the vast canyon before you—the cool pastel painted walls, the shadowy crevasses and overhangs. You walk down a narrow trail cut into the wall. A flimsy railing is all that separates you from a terrifying fall to your death. You lean against it and peer over the side. You can't make out the bottom, it seems to just flow into the horizon. You turn around and look at the cliff face behind you. The tool marks are still there—as they have undoubtedly been for decades—still unweathered in this arid environment. They will most likely remain long, long after your own death. You carefully choose your hand and footholds and—after looking around to make sure no one is in sight—make the short climb. At the top, you sit admiring the view. Taking a deep breath, you pull out the folded up sheet of paper. You open it and stare at it one last time, trying to memorize every single line (though you don't need to because you have studied it many times before). You give it a soft kiss, remembering those few magical days, refold it and touch it to your forehead. Then you gingerly slip it into a crack in the wall that faces out over the great canyon. You sit there as the sun sets and the light dwindles. The walls of the canyon gradually darken into deeper oranges and violets. You can feel her sitting beside you and know that if you just turn your head, you'd see that raven haired beauty with those bright, shining green eyes. After all this time, her dream has finally come true... — The End > Epilogue I only made it as far as the panhandle of Texas that summer before being caught by local authorities and returned home. Nothing of consequence changed for me as far as on the home front goes. It wasn't until my late twenties that I rediscovered Jane's card tucked in behind my second grade class photo (in which she was mysteriously absent) in an old box of pictures and things that I'd managed to hold onto over the years. It struck me so deeply that I just jumped in the car and made a bee line for the Grand Canyon. I'd always wanted to see it, but had been avoiding it due to drudging up painful memories of the past. By that time, I'd been to every state along and west of the Mississippi (excluding Hawaii since I couldn't drive there), and every state as far as the Atlantic on and south of the 37th parallel, as well as the western half of Canada and Alaska, of course. I'm confident in my theory that it was those dark days that ignited my passion for adventure and fueled my sense of wanderlust (or "itchy feet", if you prefer). I've been back to that town off and on over the years, and fished from those muddy banks on either side of that old trestle bridge that was as far west as Jane and I managed to get. Some things have changed over time, but mostly things are still exactly as they were in those days. It always feels like I'm stepping through a doorway into the past as soon as I leave the interstate. Fredrick's Grocery was boarded up over thirty years ago following Mr. Freddy's massive stroke and he was forced to live out his final days in a nursing home. I had no knowledge of this since we'd moved nearly a dozen times since then and only found out on one of my later trips through there that he had already passed. If I had known, I'd like to think that I would've visited him often. All I could find out about Jane's mother were rumors that she'd died either in prison or at the state mental hospital. No one really knew for sure. Others told me that once released, she just never returned out of fear or shame—of which I have my serious doubts, due to how malicious and pure evil that vile woman was. Tubby remained overweight and continued to bully children younger and smaller than him until he entered high school and found himself on the wrong side of things. Due to his attitude, he was always on the losing side, I'm told. Tubby died of a massive coronary when he was only twenty-eight. I learned that Snots had been in and out of military school for the majority of his middle and high school years in an attempt to instill some sense of discipline into him, but it didn't take and quite possibly only made things worse. He had this way of always ridiculing and belittling people. Whenever he said something to someone—even complimentary—it came out as if he were spitting on them. His parents and little sister were nothing like that so I can't tell you where it came from. I can only imagine that his wife had finally gotten her fill of it when she shot him in the face with a shotgun while he was having a beer in front of the TV. There wasn't much left for the coroner except a big mess. Chortle wasn't a bad kid. He was just running with the wrong crowd that summer. He liked to tell jokes and would be the first to laugh at any that he told. I believe that he was as affected by what happened that summer almost as much as I was. After that, he was always the first to stand up and defend little kids against their bullies. After graduation, he enlisted in the military and was sent overseas to fight in the Gulf. I'd like to think that he did it to fight against tyrants and bullies everywhere only on a much grander scale. He didn't make it back. Officer Jarvis retired some time after we'd moved away from there to some remote cabin in the mountains where he and his wife could spend their leisure years fishing and being away from everything in general. I never learned where or I might've looked him up just for old times' sake. All that's left of Jane's house is a crumbling foundation overgrown with honeysuckle. The house burned sometime after we moved from there and nature has slowly reclaimed it over time. I have to pick my way through dense undergrowth in order to sit on the concrete wall just above the grate and slowly sip a root beer to the memory of my friend. They no longer come in returnable bottles so I leave three cents in the change jar—it somehow survived the fire—as tribute to my friend. Jane is resting beneath a modest, ground level headstone in an always neatly trimmed cemetery. There is a lush pecan tree not too far from her head that casts a nice shade over her in the sweltering summer afternoons. Beneath her name and the date is the simple inscription "Taken too soon". I send flowers every summer when I can't make it back there to place them, myself, and always with a card that reads "Bestist Frend". I can still see that mischievous grin whenever I close my eyes and concentrate. And, of course, those penetrating eyes the color of early spring grass. As for me, a lot of water has passed under the bridge since those dark—and yet somehow magical—days, but I keep going and going and never really feel all that comfortable staying rooted in one place for too long. This is the longest I've ever stayed anywhere, in fact. And every now and again I get those "itchy feet" and find myself longing to pick up stakes and head out for the horizon just to see what may lay on the other side. And I take my truest friend Jane right along with me every single step of the way.

[Themes: modern, horror, drama, western] The lights just went off in the farmhouse so you crawl your way through the grass toward the garden—trying to keep as low to the ground as you can. It is full dark, but you can't take the chance that someone might catch a glimpse of you. Something moves off to your right, but you can't see what it is. You just hope it isn't a snake and if it is, you hope it's moving away from you instead of toward you. The dry grass crunches under your hands and knees so you slow your pace to not make any more racket than you can help. You are so, so hungry. It's been days since you've eaten anything—anything at all. The hard, dry ground suddenly becomes loose, damp earth and you look up to see three dim strands of barbed wire. On the other side, you can make out the dark shapes holding their orbs out to you. You wriggle your way under the bottom wire. Halfway through, you reach up and pluck the first one you see, then another and another. They all look the same in this light so you grab as many as you can and bag them up in the bottom of your shirt. You hear a bawl coming from the direction of house, joined by a couple more as the bulb above the back door flips on and the door is thrown open. "What is it, boys?" you hear a man say, "What's out there?" You are dragging yourself backward with your knees and shoving with your elbows when you see an orange flash near the house. You hear the boom a split-second later. He's shooting at you! You scamper with everything you have and don't stop until you're back on the other side of the embankment. You lay prone with your eyes peeled for any sign of movement coming over the rise and, when your heart finally slows, you look down at the single piece of fruit in your hand. At least it's something. You take a bite and feel your face attempt to implode. The tomato isn't ripe, but it doesn't matter. It's food and moisture all in one and you've been without either for much too long. After all the commotion and dogs' barking finally peters out, you creep back to retrieve your bag and continue on down the tracks. You see the back of a big truck stop over on the highway up ahead of you about a mile or two away with a constant stream of vehicles coming and going. The moon is just coming up and from the glint on the tracks it looks like they might come really close to it. It would be a good place to fill up your water jugs. You might be able to blend in among all those people and them not even suspect that you are all alone out here. You don't have a lot of money, but maybe you can find some food that you can afford with the little bit of change you still have in your pocket. A couple of cheese crackers or the peanut butter kind would go really good right about now. When you get to a spot that is almost directly behind it, you set your bag down in the grass off to the side of the tracks and—taking just the jugs in hand—set off across the field. As you approach the crumbling asphalt of the back parking lot, you see a water faucet next to the pay air hose. What luck! You rush over and—after gulping down as much of the sweet liquid as you can—fill both jugs to the brim. You lug them back across the parking lot to the knee-high grass and set them down before heading around to the front of the building. Before going in, you pull the bread wrapper out of your pocket and sit on a yellow concrete curb to count out the change. You need to know how much you have before going inside. At long last, you decipher that there's eighty-six cents—a small fortune. You still want to hold onto the dollar for a real emergency so you are only willing to spend the change. You've got to be careful not to spend all of it, though. You might really need it later on. As you step through the front door, you are blasted by frigid air. You'd almost forgotten that such a thing even existed. Several pairs of eyes are on you, but you pretend not to notice. "His mother should be ashamed of herself. Letting a boy get so filthy," a woman with her face stretched back in a bun says to her friend who only nods in agreement. You glance down at your hands and can't tell where the dirt ends and your skin begins. She's definitely right about how dirty you are, but if she were a nice person, she wouldn't have said it loud enough for you to hear. Maybe you should clean up before doing any shopping. You walk up to the stocky woman behind the counter and quietly ask "Do you have a bathroom?" She squints at you before saying "Sure do. It's right down that hall over there." "Thank you," you say, walking as quickly as you can so you can get out from under all the judgmental eyes. It's a tiny little room with only a stainless steel toilet and sink. Above the sink is a cloudy mirror that reflects what little it has to and in the corner is a tall, skinny trash can with a flapper on top. You lock the door before stripping off you shirt and shorts so someone doesn't walk in on you. You do the best you can with wet paper towels and have to climb up on the sink to make sure you got everything off of your face and neck. After getting dressed, you sop up the floor as best you can. By the time you finally head back out the door, you are feeling fresh as the morning. The trash can, however, has seen better days. You walk down each aisle slowly looking at what is offered. Too bad you don't have more money, because there is a lot of really good stuff you wouldn't mind having. You finally choose a big plain bag of tortilla chips that are marked "3/$1". It's big enough that it should last you a good long while. The cashier eyes you with a smirk as you count out thirty-four cents to her. You can't help grinning back at her every time you make eye contact. "Thank you, sir. Please come again," she says handing you back your bag of chips and giving you a wink. You feel your face getting warm and you nod to her as you turn toward the door. You can't remember the last time you felt as relieved as you do now to get away from people. If it wouldn't seem suspicious, you would run. Wrestling the two jugs while trying not to crush the bag of chips too much, you head back to the tracks and fetch your bag before continuing on your trek. You come to a fork in the tracks and don't know which one brought you here. One continues on to the south and the other angles off into the distance in a more easterly direction and looks like it goes right through a distant town. If it's not just a mirage you might try hopping a train down there, but you aren't sure that it would be going the right way. Maybe there will be another town somewhere up ahead on the one stretching south. > You head for the town If you can get on a train, it'll be well worth going slightly out of your way. You head down the tracks toward the distant town. The sun is still high overhead when you cross into the train yard. There's a cross track here and little else save for a row of run-down, caved in buildings along a dusty, weedy road. It doesn't look like a train would stop here anymore even if it did pass through. You might as well turn around and head back the way you came. You have just reached the end of the yard when you see a sky blue car cross on the last street in town just ahead of you. It looks like the driver is looking straight back at you. You duck down, but there's nowhere to go and it is too late anyway. The car slows and you make a mad dash for the buildings just as it disappears from sight. You run at full bore until you see a stack of shipping pallets laying haphazard against the side of the far end building. You dive in behind them. Did he really see you or was it just your imagination? Maybe he only slowed down because there was something in the road. You'll just hide here and wait for a little while until the coast is all clear and then you'll get the heck out of Dodge. The car drives slowly back up the road from where it came. It is barely creeping by this time. He must've seen you. What else could it be? He'll turn you over to the cops and then you'll never make good on your promise to Jane. You have to somehow get away from him and out of here. > You find somewhere to hide There goes that car again. The one that's been creeping back and forth down the same street for the last hour. The driver must've seen you. He might take you to the cops and you'll be taken back home if he catches you. You duck down as low as you can. If you can hide until it gets dark, maybe you can sneak away. You look around for a better place to hide and see nothing. This stack of pallets isn't much, but it's better than nothing. You'll just have to wait. The minutes pass by slowly. It will be a long, long time before you'll be able to escape. Your leg starts cramping so you reach down and rub the knots out of it. "There you are," comes a crackly man's voice from behind you, "I almost thought you'd flown the coop. C'mon, let's go for a ride." You are paralyzed with fear. He found you and now they'll take you home. You can't go home, yet. You're not finished. He lifts you to your feet by the back of the shirt and you can hardly hold onto your stuff due to your feet barely touching the ground. He takes you around to the back of the building and opens up the passenger door of his car. "Hop in." Something isn't right. This isn't the way strangers act. You struggle to remain outside, but he snatches your bag from you and pitches it over the backseat with his free hand. You slap at his hands and kick at his shins, but he doesn't seem to even notice. He backhands you across the face and shoves you in anyway. Your cheek burns from your temple to your chin. The tiny itch on your eyebrow turns out to be a trickle of blood. You are dazed and can only watch as he makes his way around the front of the car to the driver's door. By the time you finally snap out of it, you see the town getting smaller and smaller through the back glass. You start to dive over the seat back and his hand comes crashing down on you again. Your vision narrows to a tiny speck and then winks out. You wake up shivering. It is dark all around you. You don't have any clothes on. You are sore in a place where you shouldn't be and it really, really burns. There's a strange, intermittent scraping sound coming from somewhere close by. You cough and the scraping sound stops. You try to raise up on your elbow and see something coming straight down at you from the darkness overhead. It's the back of a shovel blade and it's the last thing you will ever see. — The End

[Themes: mystery / thriller, LGBT, female protagonist, supernatural, horror, humor, historical, mystery, fantasy] My darling Zita Dacosta, Without you, the world seems so dull and devoid of life. Or rather, my life is now so dull and devoid. . . I had never imagined what my life would be like without you. But then again, I never imagined you would have been taken from me so soon. I suppose death is the way of life, the inevitable end to life as we know it here on our beloved Earth. But it never occurred to me that I could have lost you to Death. I guess love blinds one to the harsher realities of life, including Death. To me, you were an ethereal angel, timeless, ageless, sent down from Heaven to me to blind me. With your beauty, your charm, your wit. To keep me company on lonely nights you managed to escape the clutches of Murdock Dacosta. And now you're gone. Sometimes it is like you never existed at all. Like you're a fading memory in my mind, where all I have left of you is vague, blurry instances and the pantyhose you left here that I had never returned to you (for reasons entirely selfish. Although now I am glad I never did.) I don't know what came of all your other pantyhose. Of your furniture, your home. I was a good friend of your family, but not good enough. Not good enough to receive much more than the golden necklace I had gifted you myself for your fortieth birthday, three years after the day we met. It was the shape of a dazzling sun and the inscription had read, Sine sole sileo, which means, Without the sun I fall silent. Perhaps I had cursed you with such a saying. Perhaps I had predicted your untimely demise. Perhaps I had always known my sun would have been taken from me. And fall silent I did most nights, when I was not weeping, pleading to Gods that you might be returned to my darkened sky. Needless to say, I miss you, Beloved Zita Dacosta. Perhaps you shall one day return to my darkened sky. Cynthia The sun rose and trickled in between the curtains, harshly awakened me and warmed my tear-stained cheeks. I clutched my pillows tightly to myself, as I had been dreaming of clutching you tightly to myself. The night seemed endless, but the morning arrived much too soon. I had a murderous headache that made me dizzy and sent pains down my neck. I had two empty bottles on my nightstand, but not a single glass of water nor aspirin pills. I thought, If Zita was here, she would have been sure I had aspirin. I thought, If Zita was here, I would have been far too busy to drink anyway. But now I had too much time on my hands. Of course, you said that about me even before you were dead. You said, "Writing isn't real work." To which I replied, "Sitting pretty isn't real work either, and yet you've done that your entire life." And then you'd slap my face but I never minded, because you'd always laugh afterwards. You were nothing but a beautiful hypocrite. And I deeply missed you, Zita. [Author's Note: An estranged lover meets an estranged lover, and together they solve a mystery that has been plaguing Blackwood for some time. The stunning conclusion to the Blackwood Chronicles! And while this story does stand alone, a clever ghost might read Edithe Zilonis and Soul Thief beforehand. . .] > You flicker the bedside light The bedside light flickered and I knew I'd have to replace the lightbulb at some point, but that would fall under my long and heavy list of chores I had since kicked down the road since you had kicked the bucket, Zita. And I know you would have said, "You're nothing but a lazy sack of potatoes, Cynthia. It's just a lightbulb, Cynthia. And Cynthia, it is just a spill on the kitchen floor. Mop it up before it becomes sticky, Cynthia." Well, it did become sticky, so I just put the rug over it. "Besides," I'd say to you, "I'm a working woman, unlike you. I don't have some housemaid like you, to tend to my every annoyance, so that I might spend some more time in front of the mirror because how else can a woman look as drop-dead gorgeous as you, Zita?" You smiled that pretty smile and kissed my cheek. It was unfortunate, because you later become drop-dead gorgeous. That flickering light did eventually pull me from the sheets. My head throbbed and I stumbled to the bathroom and hoped you had left me some medicines or potions. But I really didn't need medicines or potions. I needed you. I looked into that bathroom mirror, saw my blonde hair tinted with early grey, probably brought on in the last few weeks of intense sobbing. I saw my blue eyes heavy with sadness. I saw my aged skin that had since been tinted by freckles and sun spots. I never understood how you could even stand to look at me, Zita. But perhaps before your death I seemed much more alive myself. I gulped down some aspirin with a cupful of water from the sink. I thought about leaving the room for a second, but my bed, and depression, beckoned me back. The springs creaked beneath me. > You look in the mirror Zita Dear, if you were to look in the mirror, you would see a rotting corpse, killed by her own hands, perhaps still purple around the neck where the rope was only sliced away several, several hours after your death. Of course, that image is not so romantic. I rather thought you would have poisoned yourself, died softly and soundly in your own bed. Each of your own breaths pulled from you as you crept slowly, yet relatively kindly into death. But if you had been alive, you would have seen dark hair and dark eyes, soft, smooth, dark skin and a lovely set of breasts. Of course, those breasts have gone to waste now, as I could no longer squeeze them once you were dead. And if I had, I would have received funny looks at your funeral. But besides the breasts, you stole my heart with your wit and charm. And I'm sure that was how you captured Murdock's as well. You were fiery. Respectable, until the person you were laughing at had turned his back. I suppose you wouldn't remember Mister Uretsky falling face first down the main stairway in the Benitz Mansion. But he did, and broke three of his front teeth. You bursted into laughter and were promptly scolded by your own mother, and never invited back. But that was alright. That place was stuffy and uptight anyway. Silly Zita. > You ring the telephone I moved my head instead of my eyes to look down at the telephone I had knocked to the floor, either in a drunken fit or sober fit. I could no longer tell the difference between my fits. They all blurred together like each and every day of my life. My days were now endless. And not in a good way. Had you been in them, Zita, I would take a thousand endless days. Or rather, just one, since they would be endless. I coughed and staggered onto the floor, collapsed beside the telephone and pulled it from its cradle. I pressed it against my ear, said, "Hello?" But I heard nothing, not even the click of someone hanging up on the other side. Not an ominous breath nor static. It was as if my telephone had been unplugged. But I checked the wire, found that it still was plugged in. I thought perhaps the ringing had been only in my head. But the only ringing I had been accustomed to was the faint one in my ears. And the other ringing had been your voice as you pressed your lips against my ear, Zita. And when you laughed and whispered to me sweet nothings, I forgot all about my tinnitus. I forgot all about many things when you were around, Zita. Besides you, of course. The eery call left shivers on my spine and I finally pulled myself off the ground, almost tripped on the second stair down the stairs. > You ring the doorbell I almost hollered as the doorbell rang. My heart pounded and I thought perhaps I had gone mad without you Zita. Hells, I know I had gone mad. But now it began to startle me. And so did the single ring of the doorbell that echoed through my empty, lonesome house. I pulled my robe tightly across my chest, unlocked the door and pulled it open. Alas, nothing. Like most of what my life had become, I saw nothing. But actually, I did see something when I dropped my gaze to the ground. Sitting there, a letter, stamped with my own wax seal. Zita, by this point I was quite sure someone was out to murder me now. And I also thought, that would almost be swell. To be dead. I imagined when one is dead, she would never have to feel emotions or weep constantly. Perhaps I could have even seen you again Zita. I checked for any wires but it was just an envelope. I took it in a hand, turned it over to see it was addressed to none other than you, Zita. It was my handwriting, my wax seal. It was the same cotton paper I used when I wrote letters to you, Zita. Like the same letters that overflowed my waste basket, filled to the very edges with complete nonsense. Was this envelope filled with complete nonsense too? And why was it before my door? I felt faint. > You toss the letter My hands trembled and as I went to tear open the envelope, it slipped from my hands. The wind tore it from me, and it flew into the wind out the door. What the Hells! I thought. And without another thought, I dashed after it, nearly tripped over my own feet. I rushed down the stairs, watched the wind fling that envelope high into the sky, before it drifted back down onto the other side of the road. A couple watched me hurry after it, clutching onto my robe and apologizing for my indecency. But as I reached to grab it again, I swear it was like some sick game. The envelope was swept back up by those inconvenient winds. Down the street a bit, before the envelope made a quick dash to the left, into Blackwood's wooded cemetary. Those chills shook my bones, left bird bumps on my skin as I hurried after the envelope. The cemetary was noticable cooler than the rest of the city. Perhaps due to the lingering spirits that lived there. And finally, just before your grave, Zita, the envelope landed. I fell to my knees, reached for it, but what I had not seen was a tall figure reach as I did, and he snatched it before I could. > Chapter I There he stood, seven or eight feet tall, clad in a long, dark cloak. In one hand a scythe, in the other, the envelope with my wax seal. I could not see into his dark cloak. Whatever face he had was obscured within darkness. And all around him was darkness, like a fog shrouding him. His hands were boney, clasped the scythe that was even taller than he was. The blade extended far over the both of us. He presented the envelope to me. And in an equally dark and monotone voice, he said, You must be Miss Cynthia Vedaldi. His voice echoed at me, seemed like it came from all around me, instead of beneath that cloak. My heart raced and then fell still. I must have been dreaming. This was the Grim Reaper, and he stood before me, ready to take my soul like he took yours, Zita. And I thought of you and I thought, I'll see Zita soon. I know I will. If I must die, at least I can see Zita. But this Grim Reaper did not want to take my soul, it seemed. He merely said, Miss Vedaldi? I am not prone to fits of fainting. I could drink with the best of them and still walk out of the pub on my own two feet. Or at least the feet of two others'. I was a strong woman with a strong heart and I knew that because I still decided to wake up every day after your death, Zita. But I fainted then and there, like some melodramatic actress. And when I awoke, I was on my sofa, feet swept up in front of me and a blanket placed gently over me. And I opened my eyes to see a young, green woman standing over me, nude and grinning. She began grinning when she knew I was not dead. And I thought, Bloody Hells! I'm not dead! I sat up quickly, too quickly, groaned and pressed a hand to my head. "Hello!" exclaimed the green woman. "I'm so glad you're awake. I'm sorry about Oberon. He tends to startle humans, even when he does not mean to." "Who the Hells are you?" I asked. I pressed myself against the back of the sofa. The blanket slipped from me, fell to the floor. The green woman quickly fetched it, pulled it back over me with a smile. "I'm Vida. I'm the Goddess of Spring, and Life. So I have to be sure all my little humans are alive. And look at that! You're alive! I'm so proud of you." "I'm dreaming," I stuttered. Vida was overly cheerful, yet must have realized how absolutely shocked I was. She kneeled before me, presented me with that damned envelope. "Oberon said you dropped this. You're Cynthia, correct? Zita has told me all about you." "Zita," I whispered. > You turn on the lights I screamed as all the lights turned on in the house. The radio blasted upstairs and the telephone rang and the doorbell buzzed all at the same time. Vida stood and looked around. I put my hands over my eyes. And suddenly it was silent again. When my heart stopped racing, I looked back up at Vida, who said, "You are very scared, aren't you?" "Scared," I stuttered. "I'm horrified! What is going on? What are you? Am I dead?" Vida's eyes grew teary as she looked at me. She put out her hand to me, said, "You are very much alive, Miss Cynthia. And I am real. And I do believe that was your beloved." > You Continue The Grim Reaper named Oberon reappeared across the table, although he did not have his scythe, which could have not possibly not fit inside the house anyway. I caught myself staring at him as he asked Vida, Is the human. . . OK? "It's Miss Cynthia and yes, she's alright. But Oberon, we have a bit of a mystery on our hands now." I watched these two persons interact. One tall and daunting, cloaked in darkness. The other had green skin and blue eyes. She seemed more human to me, and had long, blue hair that drifted through the air, seemed unaffected by physics. I was mesmerized, horrified. I was in shock at this new revelation and at these new people. And Zita, I missed you dearly. And I called, "Zita?" which interrupted these two, what were they? Gods? These two Gods looked over at me. I have no time for mysteries, Oberon said. Especially those of the human sort. "Oh nonsense. You love the mysteries of humans even more than I do. But Oberon, do you suppose this has to do with, well. . ." I thought Mira found all the wandering souls and solved this issue, Oberon said. "Obviously not!" Vida said, crossed her arms. Oberon let his head fall to the side, as if he rolled his eyes. > You capture Vida's attention Vida shivered. I looked up at her. I was less uncomfortable in the presence of these two now. Although it was still strange to me, and my heart rate had not decreased at all, and I still felt exceptionally faint. So perhaps I was still uncomfortable and the adrenaline had worn away. I must return to my duties, Oberon said. "Return to my duties," Vida taunted him. "Can't you see there is at least one human that needs our help? That means Mira has not yet found all the lost souls." She will in time. I trust her power. And as should you, Oberon said. "I do," Vida said. She leaned heavily on one foot. "But isn't it my duties to help the humans too?" The last time I found myself in the midst of human souls I lost the only soul that mattered to me, Oberon said. Vida grew silent. "What are you talking about?" I asked. Vida turned to me, told me, "We had a little soul thief running about some time ago. And we are still trying to mend the damages. I think your Zita Dacosta might have a lost soul." > You touch Oberon's shoulder Oberon turned his head, as if to peer down at something beside him. I suppose you are correct, he said to Vida. There are still missing souls. And this one appears to be trying to get my attention. Vida jumped to her feet. Although it almost looked as if she floated. And she did float, much like her hair. "What?" she cried. Indeed. "Is it Zita?" I asked. Oberon paused for a moment, before saying, Indeed. "Stop being so ominous!" Vida scolded. "It is Zita? What is she trying to say?" I assumed Vida was like myself, and neither of us could see you, Zita. And I also assumed you stood right beside Oberon, looked at him with those big brown eyes of yours. And I felt tears in my own. It wasn't fair. Vida looked between Oberon and I. Under her feet I saw flowers sprout, right through the cracks in the floorboards. > You say something sweet Oberon said, She says, "I love you, Cynthia." Vida began to sob. Those flowers that had tangled around her feet turned to prickly vines before my eyes. "I love you too, Zita," I said. But you. . . You already knew that, Zita. You knew that the whole time. I stood to my feet, which were still weak and my bones trembled beneath me, but I managed to take one large breath in, and pull myself back together. And I suddenly knew I had to find you, Zita. Or rather, Vida and Oberon and I had to find your soul. I didn't know what that meant. But I knew it was important. I'd have been a fool if I didn't say I believed in fate. Because I suddenly believed in fate. And fate kept us together, and brought Oberon to me, and kept you near me, Zita. But perhaps that had just been all you too, you sneaky minx. > You Continue "A human mystery," Vida cooed. She floated through the air, like some woodland fairy without the wings. Her hair flittered in locks behind her as she gently sat beside me. "So you're the Grim Reaper?" I asked Oberon. He moved his head. His robes seemed almost stagnant around him. In fact, he was almost stagnant. Even when he walked, he was nearly motionless. That is one of my names, he said in that low, chilling voice. Vida rolled her eyes and huffed. "His name is Oberon," she said to me. "And he is the God of Death. He takes human souls and what-not." I sever souls from human bodies, he corrected. "Yeah yeah. I'm Vida. I'm the Goddess of Life and Spring and all the pretty flowers and animals. And I can do this!" She threw open her arms and for a moment the parlor room exploded with butterflies. I gasped as they flittered around, landed on my hands and shoulders. They were of all colors and shapes and sizes. Their wings shimmered. And there were many I had never even seen before. And they all trotted through the air, and not one of them could comprehend why or how they suddenly existed then and there. Honestly, I couldn't either. Vida watched me and laughed. Oberon shooed them away from him, shook his head. "I take it by the look on your face it's pretty spectacular. I'm pretty spectacular. Isn't that right, Oberon?" Vida said. She kissed her palm and sent a lily floating through the air at him. He took it in his hand, said, You are very spectacular, Vida. She giggled and flowers sprounted between the cushions on the sofa. It was positively mesmerizing, Zita. "Will you help me find Zita?" I asked Vida. "Of course! And so will Oberon!" She mocked him in his voice, "It is our Godly duties." He said, I have work to do. "Poppycock," Vida said. "You have nothing but time on your hands you grumpy old man." Vida said, "Now, let's solve this mystery." > You pull a book off the shelf Just in time, you must have pulled a book from the bookshelf in the corner of the parlor room, Zita. The two Gods and I looked over at that book that clattered open onto the floor. But the pages flittered, back and forth and forth again, like you were trying to find the correct page, Zita. I rushed over, watched in wonder until you found the correct page. Or at least a page that could point us in the right direction. Oh Zita, I wish I could have kissed you. The book was titled Soulkeeping by some Lisbeth Mccullough. And the page was titled, Lingering Souls and What to do in the Case of One. And the passage read, Some souls refuse to part from the living world, whether that is because of unfinished duties or great traumas. In rare cases, souls may not know how they came to be dead. In the latter case, refer to the Dead and their Deeds (the first in my Soulkeeping series) on how to help these souls continue on. Well, Zita, I thought, this makes no sense. And what kind of witchcraft were you performing in my house anyway? I don't ever recall buying a book like this. Vida peered over my shoulder. Oberon lingered by the table where I had put out a jar of biscuits. "This looks dull," Vida said. "I agree," I said. > You drop another book on Cynthia's head I cursed as another book fell from the shelf. What was it with you and pulling books off shelves, Zita? And why did you throw that one at me? I heard Vida's stifled laugh as she plucked that one from the ground. She said, "This one just says, Don't be so dense, Cynthia. My soul was stolen from me." "Stolen?" I stuttered. "Good old Zita," Vida laughed. I managed to peer over to see the words on the page, and sure enough, it was just a book. But Vida jumped up and pulled me to my feet before I could argue with her. Vida kind of reminded me of you, Zita. Far more sprier than I was. But just a tad annoying. > You shatter the jar of biscuits Oberon said, I did not touch it, as the biscuit jar fell to the floor and shattered at his feet. Although he was quick to save the biscuits from the shards. He said, Now that these biscuits no longer have a home, not to mention, they have touched the floor, is alright if I have them, Miss Vedaldi? I stuttered, "I suppose." Oberon popped one into his mouth. I supposed he did have a mouth, somewhere in that darkness. He munched and swallowed and then he said, I know someone who can help us. "Why didn't you say something sooner?" Vida cried. I was preoccupied. "Who is it?" I asked. > Chapter II Imagine this, Zita. . . A Grim Reaper by the name Oberon, whose voice echoed when he spoke, no matter where he was. And his daughter, the Goddess of Life, Vida, who skipped along happily behind him. Vida had green skin and blue hair, bloomed flowers as she walked. She would gaze around and up at the sky and invite birds into her palms. I supposed I always thought there was no God, that life after death was nothing but an eternal darkness. But now I hurried on after two Gods. And perhaps you hurried on after me, Zita. I think this had been the longest I had gone without weeping. I supposed watching Vida play with animals and Oberon float along motionless near her, took my mind from you. I also felt nice leaving the house for once. The fresh, yet cool air chilled my skin and awakened me. The dim sun did not sting my skin so much, as it often did. Vida said, "I must go. I'll be back soon. And I'll talk to Mira too." She said to Oberon, "You behave." You behave, he repeated. She smiled, looked at me and said, "We're going to solve this mystery, Miss Cynthia. Your Zita has not died in vain. Until then." She vanished and left a pile of seeds in her wake. I stepped up beside the tall Oberon, tried to keep my gaze level but I could not help flicking my eyes at him now and then. I don't think anyone else could see him or Vida, because as he walked by, no one paid him any mind. And if I had seen a Grim Reaper walking the streets of Blackwood. . . Well I wouldn't be surprised either. Oberon said, You have a great loss in your heart. I blinked, looked at him. "You're telling me," I said. I just did, he said. "When Zita died she took my heart with her," I admitted. I understand how that feels, he said. "Because you take souls?" I asked. Sometimes. But I lost someone dear to me as well. And while I would not give up Vida for the world, I am afraid the hole within my own heart is much too large for even her exuberance to fill. "You're far more gentle and kind than any God of Death I would have guessed," I said. So I have been told. > Love I asked Oberon, "Who was this person? Who left you lonely?" With a sigh, he said, Her name was Irene. He raised a hand, palm up, and through the air danced a small, female figure atop it. This figure looked like Vida, but her hair was a fiery red. And all around her flittered bird and flowers, particularly roses. She stopped and looked up at Oberon, pressed her hands to her face and blew him a kiss. And then she vanished just as seamlessly as she had appeared. And my heart sank as he said, I had never loved anyone before I met her. She taught me about humans. She loved this world and taught me how to love this world. She gave me Vida. But at a cost. His boney hand rested back down at his side. When he looked at me, I finally saw his face. He was a skeleton, and two, deep and dark holes gazed at me where eyes should have been. And where his heart should have been, must have been this Irene. I swallowed hard, quickly brushed my hands over my face and bit back my tears. "I'm so sorry," I said. You were not the one to take her from me, he said. And I was not the one to take your Zita from you. He turned back and looked ahead, said, We will find your Zita, Miss Vedaldi. > War I asked Oberon, "How did it happen?" He was silent for a long moment. I almost regretted asking him such a thing. I doubt you would understand ethereal natures, he said. But Vida says humans are far more intelligent than what I give them credit for. Oberon said, Sage Edol, God of Existence Itself, felt jealous of the love Irene and I shared. I had never heard of these Gods before. School had taught me about one god. But now I stood before the Grim Reaper, and he had a daughter of Spring. My breath stopped in my throat as he said, He killed her. I saw the ground turn black where Oberon stood. Tendrils of darkness grasped at the stones and at my ankles. Oberon's head hung low. "I'm sorry," I said. "That is the most terrible thing I have ever heard. What a bastard." Although I blushed because my words didn't sound genuine, but I thought of you, Zita, and how you were taken from me, like Oberon's Irene was taken from him. Oberon said, I killed Edol for what he had done. The only living thing I have ever killed. "He deserved it," I said. And I did not kill your Zita. But we will discover who did, Miss Vedaldi. > Memories "Vida is your daughter," I said. Indeed, Oberon said. I suppose that is the human term. "She's very lovely," I said. She is postively stunning, dare I say, perfect even, Oberon said. He looked over at me. I saw a skeleton face, although one that seemed far less dead than it had any right to be. He even seemed he was grinning at me, almost. But now we are just stating things I know are the most honest truths in the universe, he said. I smiled. "You have every right to believe it," I said. I know. We trotted along. "How do Gods have children?" I said. "If you don't mind me asking," I added. Oberon was silent for a moment, as if pondering the answer to my strange question. He said, Vida was rather gifted to me by Irene, who spent her last breaths creating a Goddess in her image. Although Vida and Irene are different in many, many, many ways. But Vida did not come to life until Ardora kissed me several weeks afterwards. I hadn't a clue what any of that meant, but it seemed fascinating. I wish you had been here to hear this, Zita. Although perhaps you were, and perhaps you already knew these things, and understood what they meant. "Incredible," I said. She is, Oberon agreed. > You Continue Oberon and I came to the Undertaker of Blackwood. Her sign read, "Undertaker, Four-Eighty-Five Main Street. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I didn't appreciate the humor, but Oberon seemed to know what he was doing. He pulled open the heavy wooden door to the shop. There was a bell that rang above us. Two tall windows were on each side of the door, covered by bulky, red curtains that dimmed the entire shop. I supposed if they were just going to be covered, there wasn't a need for the windows at all. And I noticed this building still had a candle chandelier hanging in the center of the front room. All the candles were lit, glowed and twinkled in the darkness. I was exceptionally unnerved. I imagined the only folks that ever came here were in fact the dead. I felt as if I was the only living person to visit this place in a long time. There was a desk in that front room, and a vintage couch and chair beside it. And beside them, a table with a lantern on it. All of it was dusty. The air smelled like chemicals and death. The atmopshere felt like death. And Oberon fit in perfectly as he tapped the bell on the desk. There was a crash in the back room, before a tall, slender blonde woman with skin as white as a ghost's appeared. She wore a tall, black top hat and a white shirt with a tie that had since been tugged loose at the collar. "Why, hello," she said, looked me up and down and then flicked her eyes to Oberon. "Long time no see, Oberon," she said. Her voice was low and deep and raspy as if she smoked the chemicals she used to embalm folks with. She reached and took Oberon's hand, pressed a kiss against it. She stared at me as she dragged her tongue along his fingers. I was positively unnerved but I think I already mentioned that. Good afternoon, Alyda, Oberon said. > You say Hello Alyda's eyes flicked beside me. She stood straight, quit her lapping at Oberon's hand. "Hello," she said. She stepped out from her desk, walked up to me. Except she didn't walk up to me. She stared at the emptiness beside me, put out her hand to the emptiness beside me. "My name is Cynthia," I said. "Just a moment," this Undertaker Alyda said. I watched her hand press downward, as if something was placed upon it. "Zita!" I said. "Oh yes, Zita Dacosta," Alyda said. "That's your name. Well, what brings you here, along with your much more alive friends?" "I can tell you what brings her, and us here," I interjected. I was positively unnerved! I watched Alyda stare and speak off into space and I nervously plucked at the skin on my palms. I walked over to Oberon as I supposed you and Alyda were speaking all about what had happened and how you died and perhaps how much cuter you found Alyda than me. No, that was propsterous. I was much cuter than this ghoulish girl! "Do you think I'm cute?" I asked Oberon. He looked at me. "I mean, what is happening?" I said. Alyda is an Undertaker. "Oh I'll kill you," I snapped. She can see, and speak, to spirits, Oberon said. She must be speaking to Zita. "Bloody Hells," I whispered. Alyda turned back to us, a half-smile on her lips. "Zita says she misses you so much, Cynthia," Alyda said. "What are you?" I asked. "An undertaker," she replied, but quickly added, "and I can help you." > Want to speak to Cynthia Alyda hummed in her throat. "I don't think you can," she said. I was deeply confused. And this was going to be deeply confusing to express, Zita. "You can't see her at all, can you?" Alyda asked me. I shook my head. "Well, you're just a lowly mortal anyway," Alyda stated. I resisted my impulse to feel offended. Alyda stepped by me, went behind her desk and shuffled about. She yelled, "Egbert, I swear to Gods if I find you off that table I'll be sure you're completely dead this time!" Oberon and I looked at each other. There was a thump against the desk before Alyda stood again. She held her head, had a book in her hands. "The Dead and Their Deads," Alyda said as she must have noticed my questioning glance. She said, "This will explain why our dear Zita Dacosta has not moved on. But first let me cast a spell to see if we can present her to you, Cynthia." "Cast a spell?" I stuttered. "These are the humans you hang around with?" Alyda asked Oberon. I had no choice in the matter. Alyda grinned as she said, "Ipsum revelare: spiritus." She grasped a fistful of flour from Gods know where and brought it to her lips. With a huff she blew it into my face. I gasped, coughed and began to tear up in succession. I wiped my eyes and hollered, "What have you done?" And when my vision became clear again. . . By Gods. > You reveal yourself, Spirit Cynthia looked at you, those big blue eyes grew wide and teary at the sight of you, Zita Dacosta. You saw your hands in your vision, perfectly real, and your feet, on which you took several steps to stand in front of Cynthia. "Zita," she stuttered at you, like the stunned little child she always was. "Cynthia," you said. Oberon looked on at each of you as you embraced one-another. Alyda wiped a tear from her eye. Alyda said, "The spell won't last forever. It adds dramatic tension that way. So be quick about it you lovebirds." Cynthia clasped your cheek in her hand. Her hands were so warm compared to yours. And as much as you wanted to stay like this forever, Alyda was right. You know the spell won't last. And neither will your wandering on Earth. "Listen to me Cynthia," you told her. Cynthia bit back her tears but they streamed down her face anyway. "What do I do?" Cynthia asked. > You go to your house, Cynthia "What do you mean?" I asked. But your breath, your voice, and your life was stolen from you before you could explain to me, Zita. You were suddenly gone. "Zita!" I cried. Alyda said, "What happened? You had little time, but not that little. Zita, where are you?" "She was here," I stuttered. "Well, follow her directions," Alyda said. "I'll get on. . . Researching this. How mysterious." This is most peculiar, Oberon said. > You Continue Your home was a sprawling two story brick house in Sweetapple Park, a distance aways from mine. You always argued Sweetapple Park was prettier and livelier than Downtown. And you were correct. Houses were just cheaper Downtown. Do you remember saying how you and I were going to run away together, Zita? How we were going to get on the train to Central City and never look back. We were going to buy a farm and raise chickens. . . Of course you told me this one night when we both got way too drunk and just about did. But I still thought about it. And I thought about the fact I hated this house because it reminded me of Murdock. I asked why you kept his name. You said for appearances. I think I wept the night of your fifth wedding anniversary. But I digress. The house was empty, cleaned of any reminisence of you. Murdock seemed intent on getting rid of all your belongings strangely quickly. I thought it was positive pockycock, and mighty suspicious. The door was locked. > You unlock a window That would have been perfectly peachy, Zita, had it been a window on the first floor. Perhaps you liked to torment me. I couldn't blame you. I liked to be tormented. But just not necessarily by losing the love of my life, however. I sighed, hiked up my dress and began to climb the lattice on the front porch. Oberon looked at me sideways. Might I inquire what you are doing, Miss Vedaldi? he asked. "Can't you see the window blew open up there? This is obviously a sign from Zita," I said. Very well. I know better than to cross the paths of two lovers. I don't think he was trying to make a joke but I chuckled and almost lost my footing. Oberon stood and watched me. "If I fall, just let me die, alright!" I called. He said, I would prefer not to sever your soul today, Miss Vedaldi. I smiled. My breath was becoming heavy. I had fallen out of shape because you had kept me in shape when you were alive, Zita. I climbed the roof and clasped the window's ledge in my hands, pulled myself up and over the windowsill and stumbled face first into the attic. I heaved and looked out the window to call to Oberon, but he had vanished. I turned back and he stood before me. I supposed he was keen on scaring me to death instead. "Oberon!" I said. Yes? "Why didn't you just do that magical transportation thing and unlock the front door for me?" It was amusing watching you, Miss Vedaldi, Oberon admitted. "Bloody Hells." He offered a hand to me, helped me to my feet. His fingers were cold. I looked around. > You push over a box of photographs I gasped as something crashed and in the darkness I saw scattered family photos of yours at my feet. I had been holding Oberon's arm, and thankfully he was invincible because I would have squeezed it dead. I took several of the photos. They were of you at your wedding. You and Murdock at the church. You and Murdock sharing a kiss. You and Murdock riding away in a car with roses and tin cans tied to the rear. I scoffed. I couldn't see much in the dark, but I turned them over to see writing on their backs. It was scribbled hastily, something that ran along several of them. I couldn't see, but it was almost as if an entire letter had been written on the back of these photos. Something crashed in the yard. I screamed. > You open the door I shoved my head into the crook of Oberon's arm as the door rattled and I was positive that we were about to die then and there. Oberon actually flicked his wrist and summoned his scythe as the door creaked open. But the distinct smell of perfume wafted through the air. And Vida poked her head into the room. Her blue eyes sparkled even in the darkness. "There you two are, why didn't you use the front door?" she asked. Oberon said, I do not think Miss Vedaldi is feeling swell. Vida laughed at my white face, quickly rushed to my side and pulled me away from Oberon, to his relief. "Oh Miss Cynthia, are you alright? Come on and sit down, and tell me what you have found." Vida took me by the arm and lead me into the main room of the house. She moved a hand and formed a seat of vines and flowers, with a plush cushion of dandelions. I sat down, gazed around your empty house, Zita. It seemed so lonely. They had left and drawn curtains over all the windows. The house was cold and all but one single light overhead lit up the place, and barely at that. It seemed like not even ghosts wanted to stay here. I leaned heavily back in the chair, looked up at Vida. She said, "So I spoke to Mira. And would you have it. . . There are still soulless humans running about. Isn't that something?" She giggled and then frowned. "Uh, and there are other soulless humans running about. And it seems like there wasn't just one soul thief." Vida looked over at Oberon. What do you mean? he asked. She sighed. "You really should quit your fraternizing with humans so much and pay attention to your work." She skipped to him and kissed his cheek. And before she could speak again, a bright shining white light lit up the room far more than the one above did. > You Continue "Soulless, undead spirits, collecting the souls of dead humans," spoke a low, feminine voice. I turned to see a tall and slender woman with porcelain white skin and long, smooth white hair that fell around her shoulders. She wore a gown and seemed to glow and sparkle in her own light. "In other words," Vida said. "Zombies." "Zombies!" I stuttered. Zombies? said Oberon. "Yes, they're like brain eating monsters that used to be humans," Vida informed him. "Except these ones don't eat brains. They eat souls." The woman dressed in white stepped towards Vida. I assumed she was a God as well. I looked on in amazement. If only you could see this, Zita. Well, perhaps you were watching just like I was. "A zombie ate Zita?" I shouted. This Goddess turned to me, as did Vida and Oberon. "A zombie ate Zita's soul," Vida corrected me. "Miss Cynthia, please don't faint again." Vida met me back at my side. The Sparkling, Glowing Goddess said to me, "You are Cynthia Vedaldi. I have seen you now and then. You seem to be personally affected by this. . . Issue." "This is Mira," Vida whispered to me. "Oh yes. My name is Mira. It is a pleasure to meet you, mortal." Oberon said, It is unkind to refer to humans as mortals, Mira. Vida always reminds me of that. "Ah yes. My apologies. Human." Vida sighed and dropped her head, muttered, "These two." "What are we going to do?" I asked Mira. "I have been working tirelessly on collecting the souls. But they are so small, so scattered. It is like plucking fleas from a. . ." "An elephant?" Vida offered. "Yes. And when I stop one, it has already collected more and more souls." "I don't care about any of those other fleas!" I said. "Zita needs her soul." That made it sound like you were a flea, Zita. You were not a flea. Not to me. I stood up to Mira, said, "Find my Zita's soul, Goddess. Or I shall become a zombie myself. In a metaphorical sense." "Metaphorical," Mira said. "Yes. If I am to believe in any one of you and your impressive powers, well, prove it. I'm. . . I'm just so sad." Vida touched my shoulder. > Chapter III The sun began to set on the horizon. In just one day I managed to meet both the Grim Reaper and his daughter. Although it seemed more like I had met the Goddess of Life and her father. And I found out that my lover's soul was stolen and that there were soul zombies running about and that I was very prone to fainting and that once I published this new book I would either be declared a mastermind of a writer or burned at the stake for the sins I spewed. Needless to say, I was quite overwhelmed. And Vida said my shoulders hung heavy. She said, "You should rest, Miss Cynthia. Oberon and I will continue to search. And Mira is working hard." When she touched my hand, a flower bloomed in my palm. And when I looked back up at Vida, she had smile on her face and I suddenly felt very sleepy. "But I have to keep trying," I said. Vida and I had made it back to my home. Oberon had wished me a Good Night and vanished at your house. And Mira had just vanished. But Vida was sure to walk me home, although she rather floated as I walked. "Humans are silly," Vida said. "Always trying to press on when they're oh-so sleepy. I admire that. But Miss Cynthia, you are of no use when you are a zombie yourself." She leaned in close to me, brushed a hand through my hair and left all kinds of seedlings there. She said, "I insist you go and sleep. And here, I'll even bless you." She tapped my forehead and I sort of remember wandering back into my house, ridding myself of my clothing and slipping into bed. And I swore I saw you beside me, Zita. Right beside me where you should have been, touching my arm and kissing my lips like you should have been. And I slept. And for once the night wasn't so long. But there came a clawing at the door. I thought perhaps it was just in my dream. But I awakened and sat up. > You flicker the bedside light This time, it was not so much a flicker as every light in my bedroom turning on all at once. As if to awaken, and warn me. I stumbled up and out of bed. The clawing at the door ceased for a moment, before there came a loud pounding instead. I gasped, my heart raced. I saw in the light a man burst through the door. He was tall, pale, and his eyes were white and glossed over, like a zombie. He wore a black hat and suit, both tattered and torn. By Gods, he was a zombie! I grasped that lamp of mine, tore it from the wall until it sparked and blew out. I heaved it at this zombie. He limped and groaned and carried a knife in his hand. When the light collided with him, it collided with him, forced him to stumble back before he fell straight into the floor. And he literally fell through the floor. The light was shattered in the doorway, but nothing rested below it. I rushed out of my room. My heart beat out of my chest. I almost tripped down the stairs. And I almost screamed seeing a tall, dark figure in the front room. In the figure's hand, a scythe, that with a large sweeping motion, he slashed the zombie man in two. "Oberon," I gasped. Zombies, he said. "Zombies," I said. > You open the door Oberon must have grown accustomed to my clutching at him by now. The front door flew open with a crash. "Zombies!" I screamed. "Zombies!" someone hollered back at me. Alyda appeared in the doorway, gazed upon the dead man split in two on my floor. "Oh! Seems like I've missed the fun," she said. "Undertaker," I said. "I apologize for my uninvited entrance into your home, Cynthia. But Zita said you were in trouble." I managed to crack a smile. Alyda stepped inside, had a knife in hand, much like this zombie man had. And on her hip was a belt of books and potions and whatever an eccentric undertaker keeps on her person. She kneeled down in front of the body. Oberon had resigned to holding my hand. "Fascinating," Alyda said. She took two fingers and plunged them into the man's half-opened chest, curled them and pulled them back out. An icky, green, glowing goo extended from the man's entrails. "I've never seen anything like this," Alyda said. "A zombie, collecting the souls of ghosts. Incredible. Well, not so incredible for you. How are you, Cynthia?" She took a knife and chopped a finger off the man. I squeezed my eyes shut and cringed. She stood. "It seems like this was all very exciting for you, Cynthia. Or perhaps it is just cold in here." I covered my chest. "This is certainly exciting for me. I will take this fellow and dissect him to the best of my ability. And my abilities are quite. . . Good." "He almost killed me," I stuttered. "Well, he's dead now. And I mean fully dead. Like a dead I wouldn't even mess around with, if you know what I mean." Alyda winked at Oberon. She said, "At least we now know Oberon's scythe is the sure anti-zombie solution here." "But what if there are more?" I asked. "I'll see what I can do as quickly as I can," Alyda said. "You're welcome to stay with me at the shop if you're so fearful of a couple zombies." "No thanks," I snapped. "Very well. Oberon, take care of her. And Cynthia, Zita told me to tell you you might want to stop by her grave. Answers to your wildest questions and what-not." Oberon and I looked at each other. > You visit your grave The night was chilled. The stars twinkled as best they could through the fog in the sky. I saw my own breath and wondered how a night in late July could have been so freezing. I followed Oberon towards the cemetary. Blackwood was deader than usual. Streetlights above flickered and some even blew out as we walked. Oberon instinctively put out his hand for me to take. I thanked him and took it, but he was no warmer than the night. The gates of the cemetary creaked open as Oberon raised an arm, and down two rows and on the right, Zita Dacosta's grave rested. Your gravestone read, "Here lies Zita Dacosta, taken from us far too soon." Far too soon was an understatement. I would have put, "The most stunning woman to ever exist. Lover to Cynthia Vedaldi. Murdock can burn in Hells." But I supposed not all that would fit. Your gravestone was understated and simple. Far too simple for a woman as complex as you. Far too simple for a woman who chose the most elaborate way to die. But I suppose you hadn't chosen your own death at all, Zita. Some Zombie Man chose it for you, and took you, and your soul away from me. I kneeled down in front of the gravestone. > You pull the wedding photos of yours from Cynthia's pocket The photos I had taken from your attic fell from my pocket. I looked over and it seemed they had fallen perfectly side by side, so the writing that was across the backs of them all lined up. I trembled in the cold, tried to read the words in the dim light of the cemetary. They read as followed, There is a man in the house. He's after me. He's trying to kill me. He has white eyes and dead skin. He is dead, like a corpse. I hear him. The writing trailed off, scribbled. There is a large ink splotch, as if the pen was dropped and never touched again. I bit my tongue as I felt tears well up in my eyes and my skin was stricken with bird bumps. > You light the cemetary path to the left Oberon said, Look. He pointed towards the left of the cemetary trail. Ghostly candles lit up the path, seemed to guide us deeper into the eery, wooded place. Oberon and I followed those white candles. And with each step ghosts began to claw up from their graves. They struck their hands through the dirt and pulled themselves from the ground. Men and woman dressed in vintage clothing, stood on iridescent limbs and stared at me. Oberon was as shocked as I was, gazed on at these soulless people. This is cruel, Oberon hissed. He lifted his scythe to slice through one woman in particular. She gasped and flinched, but the scythe did nothing but upset her form a little, before it settled back. "Help me," she cried. "Help me," said another. "Help us," said a man. All around us, ghosts wept and cried out to us, to Oberon. I reached out for one man, but I couldn't touch him. I imagined all these people had a Cynthia Vedaldi or two who had known them, who had loved them, who now suffered as much as I did knowing they lingered on Earth without a reason. "Cynthia." I turned, saw you, Zita. You put out your hands to me, but this time it wasn't a spell, so my hands couldn't touch yours. "Zita," I stuttered. "He's coming. He's here. You have to kill him. You have to stop this," you said to me. "Zita, I. . . I can't. I'm not a God. I'm not like the Undertaker," I said. > Kiss Cynthia You mustered all your ghostly powers and took Cynthia by the face, pressed your lips tightly against hers. She became tense, before melting for you. She always melted for you, and now you both knew she had to stop this. Perhaps with the power of love. A power Oberon knew well as he looked on at you two. > Chapter IV Vida appeared at my side. Mira also appeared, an angelic sword in her hands and tall, white wings that flittered behind her. Oberon readied his scythe and I said, "I don't have a weapon." Vida quickly waved her hand about, formed a sword's handle with vines. She plucked a feather from Mira's wings, which turned into a diamond. She formed the diamond into a sharp blade between her palms and placed it into the viney handle, gave it to me. "I do not possess the ability to kill," Vida told me. "But that doesn't mean I can't form a deadly, zombie killing weapon here and there." Where did you learn how to do that? Oberon inquired. She smiled at me, pressed a kiss into her hands and blew it at us. The sword was sturdy yet lightweight, perfect for me to wield. So there I stood. Between Mira and Oberon, each of us armed with our own zombie-killing weapon. It was like the climax of a story. And from the darkness crept soul zombies, intent on stealing my soul for their own. They looked like the one Oberon had killed in my house. Tall and gangly, dressed in what they had been buried in, now tattered and stained. They had wounds that dripped with blood. And in those glowing white eyes, all the souls of which they had stolen beckoned to be set free. Mira and Oberon stepped forward, raised their weapons and began slicing through these zombies. I quickly followed suit and it was exhilirating. I hadn't felt this alive since I had lost you, Zita. It seemed all my toiling and weeping and writing came to fruition as I severed an undead man's head from the rest of his body and it fell to the ground with a thump before vanishing. I also almost heaved and remembered to hold my breath. When a blade struck a zombie and killed it, souls seeped from its eyes, flew into the air in a majestic dance. They were as glittering and stunning as Mira. And she released them with her sword as Oberon severed them with his scythe. The blade Vida had given me released souls from the zombie, and Oberon was intense and quick with his scythe to sever them all. I heard a zombie groan from behind me. > You ring the telephone I moved my head instead of my eyes to look down at the telephone I had knocked to the floor, either in a drunken fit or sober fit. I could no longer tell the difference between my fits. They all blurred together like each and every day of my life. Except, yesterday was not just another blurred day. In fact, I jolted up and frantically looked around my room. It was my room. Everything where I had known it to be. Besides the telephone that rang and rang from the floor. I saw you beside me, Zita. You turned over and groaned, said, "Answer the damned thing, Cynthia." "Zita!" I said. I grasped your shoulder, pulled you over to face me. Your brown eyes, your groggy face. Your pretty lips I frantically pressed my own against. "Cynthia! What's the matter!" you said, but then laughed and put your arms around me. "Zita I had the most terrible dream," I told you. "You died. Your soul, it was stolen from you. It felt like days, months. But you're here now." I said, "There was the Grim Reaper named Oberon and his daughter named Vida and then Mira and she must have been some even more powerful Goddess and I missed you so, so much." You just looked at me and smiled. > You tell Cynthia the truth You said, "Cynthia. It wasn't a dream." You held her hand and as far as either of you knew, you were both tangible and real and as alive as you had ever been. "What?" Cynthia stuttered. "That zombie, he killed you. But Oberon managed to save you in time." You turned to her. Those wide blue eyes seemed frightened now, and she frantically grasped at you. "You saved me," you told her. "It was real," she whispered. "It was. And now you and I are here together, forever. Heaven." "Well, I suppose that was one way to go about things," Cynthia mused. You smiled. > Epilogue I watched Alyda bandage up the hole the damned zombie had put right through my stomach. It was unpleasant but not painful. Although I did feel faint when she began to poke the sewing needle through my skin. "So this is it?" I asked. "Pretty much," Alyda said. "You can become a ghost or go to Heaven or what-not. It's all up to you. Of course you'll be judged for Heaven but I think you've done more than enough good to warrant it." I let my head fall back onto the cushion of the steel table I rested on. "I'll never get to write about this," I said. "Don't worry. I'll write it for you," Alyda said. "Gods know your story is one for the ages." "I suppose so," I said. "On the bright side, if there even is one, I managed to find an open grave right beside your precious Zita Dacosta. You two will be ghostly lovers forever. I wish I could find someone like that. Folks don't really like women who see and talk to other dead folks." "I believe there's someone for everyone," I said. "Oh I know. Perhaps my someone is just almost everyone who gets carried in through that door," Alyda said. "I won't complain. It's always a pleasure hearing the endless stories of the endless dead. Although I think I'll remember you most of all, Cynthia Vedaldi." "Thanks, I guess," I whispered. "Well, I'm all done. I'll get you going to where you are meant to be. Goodnight, Cynthia Vedaldi." End

[Themes: mystery / thriller, supernatural, LGBT, female protagonist, horror] I moved my head instead of my eyes to look down at the telephone I had knocked to the floor, either in a drunken fit or sober fit. I could no longer tell the difference between my fits. They all blurred together like each and every day of my life. Except, yesterday was not just another blurred day. In fact, I jolted up and frantically looked around my room. It was my room. Everything where I had known it to be. Besides the telephone that rang and rang from the floor. I saw you beside me, Zita. You turned over and groaned, said, "Answer the damned thing, Cynthia." "Zita!" I said. I grasped your shoulder, pulled you over to face me. Your brown eyes, your groggy face. Your pretty lips I frantically pressed my own against. "Cynthia! What's the matter!" you said, but then laughed and put your arms around me. "Zita I had the most terrible dream," I told you. "You died. Your soul, it was stolen from you. It felt like days, months. But you're here now." I said, "There was the Grim Reaper named Oberon and his daughter named Vida and then Mira and she must have been some even more powerful Goddess and I missed you so, so much." You just looked at me and smiled. > You say, "Cynthia, you're just mad!" Cynthia turned back over, clutched your hand tightly in hers and said, "You're probably right. I'm so glad I have you, Zita." "Me too," you told her. The telephone finally stopped and it became silent save for you and Cynthia's heartbeats as you rested there in her bed on this pleasant morning. And it was indeed pleasant. It was Heaven, even. End

Vida appeared at my side. Mira also appeared, an angelic sword in her hands and tall, white wings that flittered behind her. Oberon readied his scythe and I said, "I don't have a weapon." Vida quickly waved her hand about, formed a sword's handle with vines. She plucked a feather from Mira's wings, which turned into a diamond. She formed the diamond into a sharp blade between her palms and placed it into the viney handle, gave it to me. "I do not possess the ability to kill," Vida told me. "But that doesn't mean I can't form a deadly, zombie killing weapon here and there." Where did you learn how to do that? Oberon inquired. She smiled at me, pressed a kiss into her hands and blew it at us. The sword was sturdy yet lightweight, perfect for me to wield. So there I stood. Between Mira and Oberon, each of us armed with our own zombie-killing weapon. It was like the climax of a story. And from the darkness crept soul zombies, intent on stealing my soul for their own. They looked like the one Oberon had killed in my house. Tall and gangly, dressed in what they had been buried in, now tattered and stained. They had wounds that dripped with blood. And in those glowing white eyes, all the souls of which they had stolen beckoned to be set free. Mira and Oberon stepped forward, raised their weapons and began slicing through these zombies. I quickly followed suit and it was exhilirating. I hadn't felt this alive since I had lost you, Zita. It seemed all my toiling and weeping and writing came to fruition as I severed an undead man's head from the rest of his body and it fell to the ground with a thump before vanishing. I also almost heaved and remembered to hold my breath. When a blade struck a zombie and killed it, souls seeped from its eyes, flew into the air in a majestic dance. They were as glittering and stunning as Mira. And she released them with her sword as Oberon severed them with his scythe. The blade Vida had given me released souls from the zombie, and Oberon was intense and quick with his scythe to sever them all. I heard a zombie groan from behind me. > You shatter the jar of biscuits Oberon said, I did not touch it, as the biscuit jar fell to the floor and shattered. Although he was quick to save the biscuits from the shards. He said, Now that these biscuits no longer have a home, not to mention, they have touched the floor, is alright if I have them, Miss Vedaldi? I stuttered, "I'm having very intense déjà vu. But yes, I suppose." Oberon seemed to liven up at the prospect of biscuits. He munched on them and it was peculiar. This was all peculiar. Vida was asleep on the sofa and Oberon gazed across my knick-knacks on the fireplace mantle. There was still a stain of the zombie man left on the floor that I would either have to scrub away or find a larger rug to mask. And then there was a knock on the door. I looked at Oberon and Oberon looked at me and I sighed and got it myself. Alyda was at the door, a bright smile on her face. Standing beside her was the lovely, stunning, incredible and incredibly intelligent Zita Dacosta. "Hello beautiful," you told me. I was quick to embrace you and it was a good thing you no longer needed to breath because I squeezed you so tightly I could have killed you myself. Alyda fanned her face as we kissed and we all stepped inside. Oberon said, You look alive. You laughed and said, "Thank you." Vida woke up with a startle and her eyes widened at you. She lept to her feet and took your hands in her own. Flowers bloomed in your palms as she cheered, "Oh Miss Zita, look at you! You're so beautiful! No wonder Cynthia loves you so much." "I concur," Alyda added. "Nothing a little powder can't mask." But you turned to me and put an arm on my shoulder. And suddenly my heart sank as I anticipated your words. > You say "I'm off to Heaven." Cynthia bit her lip and tears began to flood her face. You gently touched that face that had turned cherry red in a matter of seconds. "Don't cry, Cynthia," you told her. "You will see me again in time." "I can't wait," she said. You broke into a solemn smile. "You've got Vida and Oberon and maybe Alyda," you said. "But I wouldn't have you," Cynthia said. But she clasped her hand over yours and added, "But I'll wait. This isn't about me. It never was." "Thank you so much, Cynthia," you tell her. "I love you, Zita Dacosta. To Heaven and back." > Kiss Cynthia My darling Zita Dacosta, Without you, the world seems so dull and devoid of life. Or rather, my life is now so dull and devoid. . . It was one letter I managed to save from the pile. A testament to the journey I had been through. I scratched out those words and began again. My darling Zita Dacosta, Without you life is pointless. But it seems I have found as least some silver lining to your death. I think you would be proud of me. Vida visits often and brings me flowers and shows off a young woman named Bunni of whom she is quite infatuated with. They kind of remind me of you and I, like younger, smarter versions of you and I. It has been three months since you and I parted for certain, Zita. The electricity in the house is steady and normal and I no longer have to clean up shattered bottles and overturned books. Vida told me Mira managed to find and free all the souls which had been affected by the matter. In other words, there are no more soul-sucking zombies running about. But I am still unsure if there are no more young women who have lost the loves of their lives and feel haunted like me. I wish I could tell each and every one of them about Oberon and Vida, about the Gods' wonders and powers and the fact there is something beyond that eternal darkness we all fear. In my case, it is a woman named Zita Dacosta, who, let's face it, did far more to help herself than I could have, or did, who is waiting for me at those pearly gates. Although I'm keen to believe perhaps those gates are not even pearly. Perhaps they are steel. Steel holds up over time. And like steel I hope your love for me holds up over time. But I suppose I couldn't blame you if you had a fling with a dead president or a famous actress. I wonder who is up there anyway, and have you kissed your grandmother for me? I keep you in my obsessive thoughts, Zita. Your dearest, Cynthia Vedaldi P.S. Oberon says Hello, and that your biscuit recipe is the best he has ever had. End

[Themes: mystery / thriller, mystery, supernatural] Oberon said, I did not touch it, as the biscuit jar fell to the floor and shattered. Although he was quick to save the biscuits from the shards. He said, Now that these biscuits no longer have a home, not to mention, they have touched the floor, is alright if I have them, Miss Vedaldi? I stuttered, "I'm having very intense déjà vu. But yes, I suppose." Oberon seemed to liven up at the prospect of biscuits. He munched on them and it was peculiar. This was all peculiar. Vida was asleep on the sofa and Oberon gazed across my knick-knacks on the fireplace mantle. There was still a stain of the zombie man left on the floor that I would either have to scrub away or find a larger rug to mask. And then there was a knock on the door. I looked at Oberon and Oberon looked at me and I sighed and got it myself. Alyda was at the door, a bright smile on her face. Standing beside her was the lovely, stunning, incredible and incredibly intelligent Zita Dacosta. "Hello beautiful," you told me. I was quick to embrace you and it was a good thing you no longer needed to breath because I squeezed you so tightly I could have killed you myself. Alyda fanned her face as we kissed and we all stepped inside. Oberon said, You look alive. You laughed and said, "Thank you." Vida woke up with a startle and her eyes widened at you. She lept to her feet and took your hands in her own. Flowers bloomed in your palms as she cheered, "Oh Miss Zita, look at you! You're so beautiful! No wonder Cynthia loves you so much." "I concur," Alyda added. "Nothing a little powder can't mask." But you turned to me and put an arm on my shoulder. And suddenly my heart sank as I anticipated your words. > You say "I'm staying here." Cynthia's eyes went wide. "You're staying, with me?" You laughed and said, "Yes, with you, Cynthia." "Oh my Gods!" Cynthia exclaimed. Oberon and Vida looked at Cynthia. "I can't believe this. What about Heaven? Why would you ever want to stay here?" she asked. But all you did was smile. Why wouldn't you stay with Cynthia, after all this? "I love you so much, Zita Dacosta. If you didn't already know." > Kiss Cynthia My darling Zita Dacosta, Without you, the world seems so dull and devoid of life. Or rather, my life is now so dull and devoid. . . I burned the entire letter as you called from the hallway, "Hey look, Cynthia! I can walk through walls!" You peered your head into my bedroom and I laughed. I stood and embraced you. It felt like eons since I had been able to. Alyda had concocted a potion that kept you tangible for most hours of the day. That did not stop you from stopping using doors, and me hitting my head thinking you'd open them for me. And then you'd laugh. It was pleasant, having you there. Incredible even. It was like you had never died at all. You were as lively as ever, even as a ghost. But that was just like my Darling Zita Dacosta. Defying all odds. So most days you would run about the house and bother me while I was trying to write this incredible ghost story about a woman and her soulless lover. It was published under fiction, as much as I wanted to argue that it was the truthest thing I had ever put to paper. I supposed my publishers didn't want me to be burned at the stake. But then again, Alyda was much more of a witch than I could have ever been. And writing of death, just two decades later and at the peek of my book's fame, I died. Assassinated. I thought it was funny even though you were horrified to find me dead in my office chair, Zita. I said, "I think I can see the inside of my skull." "Cynthia! You were shot!" you screamed. Witnesses said that they heard a scream after the gunshot, but that was most peculiar because there was no one else in the house with Cynthia Vedaldi at the time. But you were, Zita. You were always with me. Oberon said, You are ahead of schedule, Miss Vedaldi. I told him, "I suppose love never waits." "For Gods' sakes, Cynthia." End

[Themes: love & dating, serious, drama, romance] It's always the same dream. "Do you miss me?" Her silky soft voice sounds like velvet and I can smell her familiar scent of cinnamon mint. Her beautiful emerald eyes looking right through me, as though the answer on the tip of my lips has already been said. That face hasn't changed a bit, already she had certainly grown more beautiful than before. I manage to fight back the growing urge in me to lean forward to touch her, prove that she was real. Even if the wing was plastic on her back, there was no way Sophia would be here with me. [Author's Note: Do all first loves end up like us?] > You say "Of course I miss you." She smiled softly and I could see relief in her eyes. Just a flash before she shut those emerald eyes and covered her face bashfully. "I'm so relieved." She admitted so softly that I couldn't help but grin back. Because she spoke those words only for me to hear. But soon the wings melted off her back and the angel in front of me disappeared. In her place was a girl, a beautiful girl with a coquettish smile and dark garb. In her hands was a barely lit candle and her eyes that had been glinting with happiness now had a knowing resignation. "But is it because I'm gone? Or is it because you don't like being alone?" Her voice was growing more distant and all of a sudden the air grows cold. But before I could answer, before I could even think of what she could possibly mean, I woke up from that terrible dream. > Quiet Beginnings It was a bit of a running gag in town how my parents met, how doggedly he pursued her without caring a bit about his pride or her rather formidable boyfriend whose right punch could knock out a giant for days. He was the gangly new kid of the block and she was the beautiful princess who already had her Prince Charming. It was like imagining Sleeping Beauty ditching her guy for the court jester. "When you find someone who you can love completely..." My dad fondly wrapped his arm around my mom and smiled "You've got to believe in the impossibility of being ecstatically happy." Sappy words from a sappy guy. Still, it was easy to see why he'd talk like that. His first love was a miracle. Even he couldn't believe it worked out. But Sophia and I was different. We were always together and always linked together. Back in the day when I was interrogated by all the big kids whose eyes inevitably fell on Sophia, I gave the same excuse over and over again. Not that I didn't care about her, but I did care about getting beat up by the same group of guys each day. > You say "She's too old for me." Some excuse, right? Yeah, they didn't buy it either. Maybe it would have worked if she wasn't only two years older and stunningly beautiful to match. But, I worked out every day, not just because I wanted to be able to fight back. That was a reason, of course I wanted to cream every guy who looked at Sophia with dirty eyes. But being younger than Sophia automatically made things more difficult. Being shorter and smaller than the girl you like? C'mon. Waking up with a heavy sigh, I see the same demon face that graced the angel's body in my dream. Sophia had slipped into my bed without me noticing. The scent of cinnamon mint washing over me and already I feel intoxicated. She was a few inches away and despite crawling into bed in her ratty pjs, she easily took my breath away. Looking over at the clock, I can tell the alarm is only a few minutes from going off. Even though Sophia sneaks into my bed each morning, it always feels so short. > Discretely Shut off the Alarm "I'm sorry." The loud conversations going around us in the school cafeteria somehow muted enough for us to whisper, I tried to lean in close to a very unhappy Sophia. Her hair was in a messy ponytail and her clothes were whatever she could find in the two minutes available to dress before school started. "You're not." Sophia wouldn't even look at me. Her lips in a permanent pout that hadn't faded from the morning. Still, she looks beautiful. Even in messy jeans and hair that stuck out in all the wrong places. "I must have been asleep when I turned the alarm off." I insist with earnest eyes. But of course, Sophia can see right through me. "Let me make it up to you. You can't stay mad at me forever over this." "Maybe I can." She stuck out her tongue slightly and I can't help but stare. Stare as her bubblegum tongue slowly darts in between her lips that perfectly formed a slight pout. "But how would you make it up to me?" I lean closer to her, slowly resting my hand on the small of her back. "Easy. Why don't we...?" > You have a race "How is this making up for anything?" Sophia huffed and puffed as she dilligently ran to keep up with my light jogging. "Weren't you always complaining about how out of shape you've gotten?" I try to slow down to seem like I'm helping, but a little bit of me feels happy. Before it was always me desperately chasing her, doing anything to keep up. "Okay...so I was a total mess today and I'm fat?" Sophia laughs incredulously, but a smile still lingers on her face. Like even she knew that her as a total mess was still stunningly beautiful and that any fat on her body would be perfectly placed so you wouldn't be able to tell that she eaten a few more slices of pie than what was wise. "You know I didn't mean it that way." "Yeah, but you always say things that people misunderstand. You're going to get in a lot of trouble with girls if you don't shape up." Apparently I was always being misunderstood by her. My dad always told me that you have to be ridiculously open to failure when it came to girls. Even though it was terrifying to make the first step, you'll make it if the girl is worth it and Sophia was worth it. It wasn't like I didn't try to give her signs. I always kept looking at her lips. Imagining how it would feel, how amazing it would feel to kiss them the first time...and the second...and the millionth. "Hmm? " Sophia paused in front of me and leaned forward. Her face slightly covered with a sheen of sweat "Did you fall in love with me?" She laughed a little at the end, certain that I hadn't. It was kinda suprising how clueless Sophia could be. Or maybe cruel would be a better word. > You kiss Her To this day, I don't know how I had the courage to do it. For anyone thinking movies portray a first kiss correctly, then I'm very sorry to let you all down. Because as I leaned forward to kiss the girl of my dreams, I watch her blank expression only turn to a look of complete surprise. I kept waiting for the moment where her eyes closed and a blush spread across those perfect angular cheeks, but she looked like she had seen a ghost. All I could do was close my eyes and very quickly kiss her lightly on the lips, a kiss where I'm fairly certain my teeth had been exposed accidently and gave her a slight bite instead of a caress. For a girl who smells just like cinnamon mint, she tasted completely different. She must have drank cherry soda at lunch because my first kiss tasted exactly like cherry coke. Sweet with a sparkle of electricity running through my system. There was even a buzzing noise...wait a second, what? "I...have to go." Before I could open my eyes, I can hear Sophia open her cell phone and feel her entire demeanor change. It was not a friendly everyday text message, not at all. Open your eyes you idiot! I want so badly to see her expression, I do. But there is something so terrifyingly vulnerable about this moment, this magical moment when I finally got to kiss Sophia that makes opening my eyes suddenly impossible. By the time I manage to get the strength, she's gone. Her running figure making me all the more curious as to what could possibly have been sent in that annoying text. Mentally, I had a much different reaction from her. She was smiling back into my eyes with a growing smile, one that was nearly as wide as mine. "Hey!" Before I can fully sink into the ground in my misery, I hear Sophia's voice. She's far enough that I can't quite see her face, but I hear her perfectly. "Leave your window unlocked!" A wave of relief rushes over me and I try not to grin like an idiot. Tried and probably failed miserably. That night, I didn't sleep a wink. Not when I heard the window slowly creak open and feel Sophia slowly slip right next to me. > You bring her closer I couldn't help it. My arm was already being used by her as a pillow. I kept my eyes closed and hugged her closely. Her body was incredibly soft. She fit perfectly against me and was so close that I could feel every bit of her on top of me. I've probably hugged Sophia a million times when I was younger. But tonight was different, everything felt different. "Hey..." Her soft scent of cinnamon mint wafted over me "You can't be without me?" The way she asked that question was strange. It was a question she had asked me a million times before. But tonight, it sounded like there was a hitch in her voice, an accidental slip. "You know the answer." I can't help but smile goofily at Sophia. Even though I know neither one of us are directly addressing the issue at hand, the kiss or the accidental biting of her lips, if you wanted to get more specific. "Would you miss me?" A slighly lonely expression still lingered on her face "If I was gone?" > You say "Always." A beautiful smile on her face, a soft sigh escaping those soft lips. She leaned forward and gave me a gentle kiss. So soft and tender that I was melting into a puddle. It was a miracle that I kept my arms wrapped around her. "Miss me." She kept whispering. Her eyes looking like they were brimming with tears. "Please, don't forget me." Her kisses tasted salty and sweet. But I couldn't live with myself if I did anything when she was like that. So I just held her close and kissed her until both of us were to exhausted to do anything but fall asleep. Why would I need to miss her if she'll always be with me? Why was she crying? I want so badly to ask her. But for some reason, it feels like she'll disappear if I ask those words. So all I can do is just pull her closer and hope that maybe, just maybe, Sophia would stay. > Less than Innocent Dream She was only wearing adornments in her hair, the rest of Sophia was clad just as she was born. We had actually taken baths together when we were kids. Back then, I couldn't realize how stunningly beautiful she always was. "Always remember..please." I can't quite hear the words she's whispering though. I can only catch fragments. Her beautiful emerald eyes won't open though. They won't look back into mine anymore and for some reason, that terrifies me. Leaning forward, my fingers barely graze her arm when I shudder. Her skin is cold, ice cold. Even though she has a rosy blush and her body looks perfect, she feels like a corpse. A beautiful talking corpse of the girl of my dreams. "Please...forgive me...." Her lips keep moving and I feel afraid. Like I'm remembering something I don't want to remember. Like the moment I remember, she'll be gone. Green eyed girl, why are you crying? Did the world treat you badly enough to feel like dying? Stop it. I shake my head and look down at my hands. My hands that were empty before are now filled with... > Chewed up pencils "I can do this." Sophia was determinedly chewing away on her spare pencil as she erased her sketching. The deadline was moved up and she was staying up all night. "You need to rest. C'mon, the bed is soft and comfy." "You can go without me." She doesn't even shift her gaze off the paper. "I'm going to finish this." I already knew what she would say before she said it. Most nights, I would go ahead and impatiently wait for her to slip next to me. But tonight, I wanted to be next to her. I had to do something while I waited. "Let me show off." I make a big show of getting some pens and markers."I'll draw you just as I see you." A tiny smile appeared on her lips as she answered "I'll be looking forward to it." > You draw Her Silly It was surprisingly easy to sketch and only took a few hours to ink. By then, Sophia had long finished her art project and was waiting impatiently. "Here you are." I smile innocently as she stared at the little chibi version of herself eating a huge cupcake. "Hey!" She's smiling as she knocks my shoulder "that's how you really see me?" "Exactly." "Hmm..." She leans down and her hair grazes my arm. Soft and silky, I want to scratch at my arm all of a sudden but a bigger part of me just wants to stay still. Just in case the slightest movement scares her off. "Do I really eat sweets all the time?" > You say "I never see you eat anything but sweets." Her jaw dropped. "I'll prove you wrong!" She said in a teasing voice, but I saw the fire of determination in her eyes. Sophia was the type of person who would do anything if she said it. She was special like that. But the next day, when we were enjoying an order of sherbert, I could tell that Sophia wanted a bite. Her eyes lit up and I could see her fingers tapping impatiently on her sides. "Eat up, it's delicious." I enthusiastically take a bite of mine, but she shakes her head. Her eyes never leaving the bowl of sherbert. It was like there were an angel and a devil on her shoulder. Both whispering encouragement. "He's too nice to mention that statement you made." The angel advised Sophia while the devil laughed heartily and whispered "He's just waiting for you to take a bite and then he'll mention it." "They're both wrong." I accidently say out loud and after Sophia shoots me a quizzical stare, I lift my hands up and swear "I meant to say, you're a complete twig. Please, don't let delicious sherbert go to waste because of my drawing." She laughed and nibbled at the bowl. At the time, I thought maybe she was feeling nevous or wasn't hungry. I should have noticed how rail thin her arms were even then. How easily the bone stuck out and how fragile her entire body was beginning to become. Maybe if I had noticed, I could have saved her. > Christmas Memories "Tell me a secret." Sophia's voice is a little sluggish and for a second, I wonder if it was the wisest decision opening up that bottle of christmas wine. "I never keep any secrets from you." I answer and honestly, there is nothing I could possibly hide from Sophia. She knew everything about me. All it took was one stare from her and I was completely transparent. But Sophia was different. It was like there was a veil, a impenetrable veil between her and me. I could tell by her eyes. Those beautiful emerald eyes that told no secrets and held no lies. "Everybody has secrets." She leaned forward and all I can do is stare back at her. The Christmas light gave her silver hair a light pink tint, or maybe my mind was finally going a little crazy. She was like a drug I couldn't stop taking. But was it the same for her? "Tell me yours." I want to say those words. But maybe I knew the answer and I didn't want to hear it. Maybe I knew if I did, this would be all over. "Hey, can you draw me?" > You draw in blue "Let me draw around you." I stare back at her and she smiled back at me. Her eyes were still cloudy and before I can say anything else, she eagerly stands up and nods her head. "Wait a second." She runs into the closet and grabs a dress. But before I can say anything, she changes out of her Christmas attire and into the dress she picked out of the closet. It was so quickly, you could blink and miss it. "How did...?" Before I can ask another question, my mind goes to static. It must be the wine, surely I had too much to drink. "Just sit down there." She sits down eagerly and I carefully draw clouds behind her. After taking a picture, she turns to me and asks "why clouds? "They fit." I can't think clearly. Not when she was so close to me. Looking down and breathing that familiar cinnamon mint. What should I do? > You kiss her "I'm ready." She tried so hard to seem like an adult. Even the lingerie she bought was clearly for someone much older. My mouth was dry and I could feel a gallon of sweat begin to pour down my forehead. But she was absolutely perfect. Absolutely perfect. In my arms, she was so tiny. Was Sophia always this small? Before I can ask, she stops me with a kiss. Any kind of comprehensible thought in my brain stops and all I can do is react. To kiss her when she kisses me back. To slip off that one-piece off her shoulder. "Are you sure?" I ask her hoarsely. She nods softly and I give in. > She's gone It was out of nowhere. "Sophia?" The side of the bed that belonged to her was empty. It was so cold that she must have left a long time ago. "Sophia, where are you?" Phone calls that were never answered. Family members that would shut the door in my face. Sophia vanished off the face of the Earth so easily, it was almost like she wasn't there in the first place. But whenever that terrible thought crosses my mind, I remember. Those nights she fell asleep in my arm. Those nights she held me close. That night when she was finally mine. It would be months before I found out what happened to her. > You watch her recorded message "Hey stranger." Sophia's familiar face, that beautiful face that haunted my every dream and memory, finally appeared. "I guess I have a lot of explaining to do." She sighed softly and shook her head slightly. "I wanted to tell you...a million times. Everyday, I wanted to tell you. That day I got diagnosed, all I could think of was how I could tell you." She paused and for a second, her chin trembles. Her bangs covering her eyes so I can't possibly see them. But she takes a second to breathe in and looks up with a smile. "I guess I wanted to be selfish in the end. I'm sorry about that. But, I wanted to be with you. Every day, I wanted to be with you. I knew...that the treatment had such little chance of working and I'd never get to see you and I was so scared and..." Tears fill her eyes and I can tell she's widening them as much as possible so not a single tear falls. Before it can possibly fall, she places both her fingers on her cheeks and smiles widely. "Please, forgive me? I want you to remember me like this. Healthy and always, loving you." The tape ended and I looked through the box. There were only one piece of notebook paper. Was it her handwriting? Or was it someone else? All it said was a hospital and a room number. > You go see her one last time The hospital was completely empty by the time I got there and the visiting hours were long over. It was sheer luck that I knew one of the nurses, someone who had known both me and Sophia since childhood. Even Emily had known about this...why was I the only person left out? I had a million questions I wanted to ask her. They were are burning on the tip of my lips, but they were soon forgotten the moment I saw Sophia. Or what remained of Sophia as she lay quietly on the hospital bed. "You...came." Her words were barely audible from the oxygen machine tubing and I can't tell if the trembling is from emotion or the exertion necessary to force the words out "I...knew...you...would." My knees keep buckling, but I somehow manage to stand. I can't let her see me act any different. At the very least, she deserves that. "I wanted to see you." I force a smile and taste salty tears. Damn. "Why?" She shifts her eyes sadly "I...look...awful." Leaning forward to grab her hand, that soft fragile hand that now feels like a thin bag of bones, I tell her "You've always been the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." "Liar." A tiny smile cracked her lips. They were so pale, her entire body was so pale that it seemed like all the color was sucked out of her by those infernal tubes. "I mean it." I gently squeeze her hand and smile back for real this time "I could never lie to you." She laughed slightly, but the laugh ends in a coughing fit. I can't do anything. Not a single thing to save her. "Hey..." Sophia smiled softly, her dark emerald eyes locked onto mine "Can you tell me one last story?" > A story from childhood "Hey!" Sophia was bouncing off the walls "You never answered my question." She pouted slightly and I couldn't help but smile. Smile that I got to spend the day with Sophia and smile because she had asked the question I always wanted to hear. "The girl I like?" I pause dramatically "She's got to be special, not the kind of girl you'd find anywhere." Sophia stuck her tongue out "That didn't answer the question." Looking down with a grin, I can't help but wonder how specific I should get at this point. I always knew who the only girl was for me in the end after all. "It doesn't matter actually." I look up at Sophia and laugh "She's way out of my league." Her jaw dropped and for a second she paused in the middle of the side walk. "Sophia?" I look back to see her turning bright red and gripping her hands. "I can be better than her." She looked back at me with determined eyes "I can be a much better girl for you than that girl!" I probably should have told you that I was just describing you to yourself. But being a young boy doesn't mean I always give the most mature responses. "Whatever." Walking away with a nonchalant air, I can't help but be relieved she can't see the huge silly grin on my face. As I was telling the story, Sophia's hand was slowly falling out of mine. No matter how tightly I held her hand, there was no strength left. Her eyes were closed and they would never open. She was gone. "Sophia?" I whisper "It was you. It was always you."

[Themes: love & dating] The hospital was completely empty by the time I got there and the visiting hours were long over. It was sheer luck that I knew one of the nurses, someone who had known both me and Sophia since childhood. Even Emily had known about this...why was I the only person left out? I had a million questions I wanted to ask her. They were are burning on the tip of my lips, but they were soon forgotten the moment I saw Sophia. Or what remained of Sophia as she lay quietly on the hospital bed. "You...came." Her words were barely audible from the oxygen machine tubing and I can't tell if the trembling is from emotion or the exertion necessary to force the words out "I...knew...you...would." My knees keep buckling, but I somehow manage to stand. I can't let her see me act any different. At the very least, she deserves that. "I wanted to see you." I force a smile and taste salty tears. Damn. "Why?" She shifts her eyes sadly "I...look...awful." Leaning forward to grab her hand, that soft fragile hand that now feels like a thin bag of bones, I tell her "You've always been the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." "Liar." A tiny smile cracked her lips. They were so pale, her entire body was so pale that it seemed like all the color was sucked out of her by those infernal tubes. "I mean it." I gently squeeze her hand and smile back for real this time "I could never lie to you." She laughed slightly, but the laugh ends in a coughing fit. I can't do anything. Not a single thing to save her. "Hey..." Sophia smiled softly, her dark emerald eyes locked onto mine "Can you tell me one last story?" > A story from teenage years "You're heavy!" I groan heavily, but that only made Sophia hug me more tightly from behind. She was actually as light as a feather, but I liked how she would tighten her grip every time I complained. "Mmm...do you hate girls like me?" Suddenly, her voice grew sad and I can tell she's still worried about what had happened earlier. It wasn't her fault that every guy was surrounding her like a piece of meat, but it still made me angry thinking about how they undressed her with their eyes. Even back then, she was mine. It wasn't something I questioned. Just like she never had to question that I was hers. That's just how it was and how it'd always be. "Hey! You never answered!" Sophia gently hit the back of my shoulder "What kind of girl do you like?" "Hmm..." I paused with a silly smile "I guess I like shorter hair" Actually, it didn't matter to me. She'd look just as beautiful bald in my eyes. "Hmph." Sophia turned and pouted "Well, so do I." I know she didn't care either. But the next day, we both got haircuts. "Just a coincidence?" I ask her skeptically as she tied her hair in a tiny ponytail. "Just a coincidence." She agrees as I absent-mindedly tug at my short buzz cut. As I was telling the story, Sophia's hand was slowly falling out of mine. No matter how tightly I held her hand, there was no strength left. Her eyes were closed and they would never open. She was gone. "Sophia?" I whisper "It really wasn't a coincidence." Nothing about you and me was a coincidence.

"Hey stranger." Sophia's familiar face, that beautiful face that haunted my every dream and memory, finally appeared. "I guess I have a lot of explaining to do." She sighed softly and shook her head slightly. "I wanted to tell you...a million times. Everyday, I wanted to tell you. That day I got diagnosed, all I could think of was how I could tell you." She paused and for a second, her chin trembles. Her bangs covering her eyes so I can't possibly see them. But she takes a second to breathe in and looks up with a smile. "I guess I wanted to be selfish in the end. I'm sorry about that. But, I wanted to be with you. Every day, I wanted to be with you. I knew...that the treatment had such little chance of working and I'd never get to see you and I was so scared and..." Tears fill her eyes and I can tell she's widening them as much as possible so not a single tear falls. Before it can possibly fall, she places both her fingers on her cheeks and smiles widely. "Please, forgive me? I want you to remember me like this. Healthy and always, loving you." The tape ended and I looked through the box. There were only one piece of notebook paper. Was it her handwriting? Or was it someone else? All it said was a hospital and a room number. > You go back to your special hideaway I had to listen to her last request. My eyelids were so heavy that it felt as though they were glued shut, I was surrounded by darkness that I could see and feel with every inch of my being. But oddly enough, I wasn't scared. "Really, you came here?" A gentle voice wrapped around me and I felt a familiar happiness that I hadn't felt in the longest time. The sweetest scent of cinnamon mint entered my mouth and a pair of the softest lips brushed against mine. So soft at first that I can barely feel it, but she leans in closer and already I'm melting into a happiness that had long disappeared one terrible night long ago. "I...don't want to wake up if it's a dream." Mumbling, my eyes feel a lot less heavy but I'm too scared to open them. Too many times I've talked with Sophia and open my eyes to see an open space. "If this is a dream, I don't ever want to wake up." "Hmmm...." I can hear a teasing smile in her voice, that soft and gentle voice that ran circles in my head every day since she left "how can I prove to you this isn't a dream then?" "Stay with me." Immediately, the words I could never say before finally fall from my lips. "Don't ever leave me again." Silence. Then I felt her warmth spread through my arm as she gently nestled her head against my shoulder, leaning her body close to mine as she wrapped her arms around my neck. I clung to her like a drowning man would cling to the only piece of ship; I clung to her like she was the only existence in this darkness, which to me was the truth. Trailing my fingers against her soft cheek, that tiny slope on the back of her neck, I felt as though I was falling. I was falling and I didn't, no...I couldn't stop. If I stopped, if I let her go...at that moment it felt as though some part of me must have known. Known that this was going to be the last dream, the last kiss, the last time Sophia would ever be able to fulfill my only wish. The tips of her fingers slowly tracing words on the back of my neck, at first I jumped before slowly closing my eyes. Even though this isn't real...the cool darkness is feeling less lonely, less unbearably lonely by the second. "I...love you..." Her fingers slowly traced the words over and over again, but it didn't take long for the words to fill my back as though the words had taken on an entirely new life of their own. Warm...it was so warm... A sigh danced lightly upon my lips before I quickly swallowed it back, savoring what little warmth that carelessly lingered by. "Bye..." Before I can open my eyes, I feel a pair of lips that had long lost any semblance of warmth press so gently against my back that when I opened my eyes and softly pressed the tips of my fingers to the exact spot her lips had touched, it was already gone. The air had already stolen it away, a kiss that never existed to begin with.

"Hey stranger." Sophia's familiar face, that beautiful face that haunted my every dream and memory, finally appeared. "I guess I have a lot of explaining to do." She sighed softly and shook her head slightly. "I wanted to tell you...a million times. Everyday, I wanted to tell you. That day I got diagnosed, all I could think of was how I could tell you." She paused and for a second, her chin trembles. Her bangs covering her eyes so I can't possibly see them. But she takes a second to breathe in and looks up with a smile. "I guess I wanted to be selfish in the end. I'm sorry about that. But, I wanted to be with you. Every day, I wanted to be with you. I knew...that the treatment had such little chance of working and I'd never get to see you and I was so scared and..." Tears fill her eyes and I can tell she's widening them as much as possible so not a single tear falls. Before it can possibly fall, she places both her fingers on her cheeks and smiles widely. "Please, forgive me? I want you to remember me like this. Healthy and always, loving you." The tape ended and I looked through the box. There were only one piece of notebook paper. Was it her handwriting? Or was it someone else? All it said was a hospital and a room number. > This tape isn't real. I close my eyes and hear that odd static noise I've noticed before and tried to ignore. "You don't want this to be the end?" A soft and silky voice asks. It's not Sophia's voice, but it sounds oddly familiar. Like a younger version that had both her and me mixed in. "I don't, of course I don't." Opening my eyes, I see the carbon copy of Sophia as a young child. The only difference was her eyes were clear. This child wasn't Sophia. "Who are you?" She smiled happily, hugging a familiar teddy bear. "You can't recognize your own child? What kind of a daddy do I have?" The surroundings are different and for some reason, I feel older. My bones are creaky and when I reach up to touch my chin, I feel a grizzled beard. "What...is going on?" My head is swirrling and at this point, she could have told me that I was dead and I would have believed her. Instead, the little child replied "You can change the past daddy. If you're willing to lose this future." Her arms were so tightly wrapped around her tiny body, but her voice didn't waver. As though she already knew my answer. > You'll change it. "You can't have everything." The little girl was melting away, her smile still firmly in place. The ground shakes and all of a sudden, I wake in a beautiful open space. It was as close to heaven as I could picture it, minus the floating angels and clouds. "What do you mean?" I shout to the sky, but there is no response. Instead, I can only see two lakes ahead of me. One had a sign labeled "Save Sophia" and the other had a sign labeled "Save your child." It was a trade. I had to trade one for the other. "You..." I'm not even sure who I'm speaking to at this moment "can't possibly be serious?" > You have to save your child. Hitting the ground with a thud, I can hear my phone vibrate. Emily was with Sophia at her last moments and it turned out there was a baby. "She's premature and hanging on by a thread, but a beautiful baby..." "Girl." "...Did Sophia tell you she was pregnant?" "It doesn't matter." I stand up and start running towards the car. "I've got to see her." It was months before they let me take her home. Sara was hanging on by a thread for days, but she was strong like her mother. Her body was so small, everyone thought she wasn't going to make it. But, I always knew better. "Hey there." Gently rocking her back and forth, I felt Sara softly nuzzle against my neck. "You don't like sleeping alone?" She gurgles appreciatively and I hold her closely. "It's okay, I'm here." As I close my eyes, I smell the familiar scent of cinnamon mint. Just a hint in the wind. As though maybe, Sophia was here too.

[Themes: love & dating] "You can't have everything." The little girl was melting away, her smile still firmly in place. The ground shakes and all of a sudden, I wake in a beautiful open space. It was as close to heaven as I could picture it, minus the floating angels and clouds. "What do you mean?" I shout to the sky, but there is no response. Instead, I can only see two lakes ahead of me. One had a sign labeled "Save Sophia" and the other had a sign labeled "Save your child." It was a trade. I had to trade one for the other. "You..." I'm not even sure who I'm speaking to at this moment "can't possibly be serious?" > Have to save Sophia Hitting the ground with a thud, I can hear my phone vibrate. Emily was with Sophia at the hospital and for some miraculous reason, she was recovering. Slowly but surely, Sophia was responding to treatment. "But..." Emily's voice grew sad "She lost baby." A loud silence engulfed the two of us and all I can say is "I'll be there. Tell Sophia, I'll be there." It was months before Sophia would speak. She would cry every day, even when she had barely the strength to breathe. All I could do was be with her, hold her whenever she cried, and wonder. Was it a dream? "Hey...." Sophia looked at me with her deep emerald eyes "can you believe we're married?" I look at her and feel like I can't believe anything. Leaning forward to kiss her on her lips, I can only smile as she kisses me back. "Hey you two lovebirds, don't forget about the wedding cake!" Emily laughed as she happily brought Sophia and I to the table. "Why does my figure have such a weird expression?" I laugh as Sophia gently holds my hand and a knife. "Hehe, you always have that expression." She laughs and for a moment, a brief moment, my life was perfect. But don't tell me you forgot the price you paid for this happiness? > The Price Paid "Hey, how are you doing?" Sophia's sister hugs her tightly as we slowly make our way to the graveyard. The place where our child was buried. We first went after the hospital stay, clothed only in the darkest black and funeral attire. The whitest roses adorned her grave. It was there we all made the solemn vow to return there the day...that terrible day...she died. "It's always tough coming here." Sophia admitted softly, her voice crackling slightly "But...it helps." We now dressed up in bright clothing. Not because we were happy, but...wouldn't it be a shame? If our only daughter saw us in dark funeral garb each time? "Hey, I heard the good news. When are you due? Did you find out whether it's going to be a boy or a girl?" Sophia's sister had a growing smile and finally a smile appeared on Sophia's face. "We've got at least a year to go. But, he's sure for some reason it's a girl. A beautiful girl who has both of our eyes."

"Thank you." A huge smile broke free on Sophia's face and I could hear all the relief in the world in those two words. She let go of her hands and now I can finally see. That light, that bright light was shining from within. Sophia...you aren't really with me? Her body begins to fade slowly. Her hands are the first to go, then the legs, and then the torso. The last time I see before she disappears completely is a smile. Her beautiful smile as she disappeared completely from my side. Looking down at my hands, I see a well worn tape. Did I see this tape? Does it matter? > It's finally okay I slowly drop my hands and realize that I was carrying nothing. I had already watched that tape. My hands are no longer the hands of a younger boy, but of a man. The well-worn hands of an adult man. "Hey, are you looking over Sara?" A soft voice in the background. It wasn't Sophia though...at least, not my Sophia. "Of course." I laugh back and my voice is so deep and crackly that it takes some time getting used to hearing. "Jeez. You're still holding her wrong." Telly walks in and gently rubs Sara's face. "I can't understand how you can hold her like a football and still have her be a daddy's girl." Looking down with a smile, I feel an odd sense of peace. "What can I say?" I reply back "Sophia loves me."

[Themes: love & dating, romance, drama] "Stay still!" It was impossible to stay still when I could feel her eyes on me. First, she would stare at my face. Then, my arms. Then, my neck. It was enough to drive me crazy. "Hey, you moved!" Sophia laughed and I snapped back into place. Several hours passed before she was satisified, but that was Sophia. A perfectionist to the end, she could always find the tiniest flaws in her work that people would praise as masterpieces. "C'mon, it's late." After she finished sketching, she was busy coloring in the lines. While I was happy to see the painting that caused the horrible crick in my neck to form, I wanted to see her, touch her, feel her. All things that were impossible as she sat in that high chair. "Hmm..." She looked back at me with questioning eyes "What are you going to do now?" > You walk Away "Staying the same is best, isn't it?" I hold her hand as we walk down the hall. It was better not to be tempted...I don't want to make a mistake that would risk my friendship with her. This was really for the best. As I held her hand, I feel an odd sense of loss. "It really is for the best." She agrees and for a second, I feel her squeeze back my hand. Was her hand always this fragile? It felt like the briefest touch would cause it to shatter into a million pieces. Looking over at her, I want to believe that this is for the best. Really...isn't it for the best?

[Themes: love & dating, drama, serious] "This is amazing!" Sophia laughed and her bright smile matched mine as I stared back at her stunning emerald eyes. "I aim to please." I smile back and feel a wave of relief wash over me as she smiles back. It was a brillant idea, even if my wallet was weeping tears of Jeffersons and Franklins along the entire island. "C'mon, we have to see everything." She tugged on my arm and for the entire day, we became one with the island. I ate enough pineapple to last me several lifetimes. Finally when the sun was setting and fatigue kicked in, Sophia turned to me with a smile. "I've got an idea." She laughed "Let's draw each other." > You say "Can't we do something else?" "Hmph." Apparently, there was nothing else to do on this island. "Hmph." Sophia sighed heavily again and I could see both Sophia and Angie staring at me from the corner of their eyes. The entire time, Marley was blissfully yawning in the sunlight. Lucky dog. "C'mon, we can do other things." I try to hand out an olive branch. "Psh, just go meet other girls." Angie pouted and i have to admit, she played the role of Sophia's sister as though it was her sole purpose in life. Even if it was completely overboard, she mirrored her mood to Sophia's mood. So no matter what, I couldn't ignore how Sophia was feeling. Somehow, this felt like a lose-lose situation. > Other girls? They do exist, you know. It wasn't like I was invisible to them either. Every now and then, I'd catch a girl looking over. Although how you can really tell what girls are thinking is beyond me. Besides them traveling in packs, I only associated with them through Sophia. The only one I truly understood was Sophia. Did I want to change that? Was it time to just move on? I mean, it wasn't like I hadn't tried. She was keeping secrets, secrets she'd never tell me. > It's for the best. "Hey!" Alexa smiled back at me and I could tell from the way she flipped her hair to the side, she was trying to get a compliment. I couldn't tell what was different about her today, but there was always an easy way to appease her. "You look really pretty." I smile back, but the enthusiasm is not quite there. She frowns slightly, but the buzzing of her phone saves me from having to elaborate. Alexa was another girl in my class. I actually hadn't realized they existed because I was always so wrapped up in Sophia. "You always get so quiet." I hadn't realized the phone call ended when Alexa pokes me gently on my side. "C'mon, I need to hear some good news right now. I just got off the phone with Tenia." Tenia? "You mean, Sophia's little sister?" I try to keep my voice calm, but it shakes just enough for Alexa to tilt her head curiously. "What about?" "We were just talking about Sophia." Alexa show me a knowing stare "Do you want to know?" > You say "How is she?" "She's gone." I wanted to ask more, but those two words were enough. Sophia's gone? I can't feel anything. Are you surprised? I can't feel anything. Of course not, you knew all along...didn't you? I look at the ground and for some reason, I see her face. Smiling and looking back at me with those beautiful emerald eyes. Christ, you let her die alone. Stop it. I bet she wondered where you were. I can't breathe. Instead, all I can do is stare at that image of Sophia while tears fill my eyes. Where the hell were you?

[Themes: love & dating] "Hey!" Alexa smiled back at me and I could tell from the way she flipped her hair to the side, she was trying to get a compliment. I couldn't tell what was different about her today, but there was always an easy way to appease her. "You look really pretty." I smile back, but the enthusiasm is not quite there. She frowns slightly, but the buzzing of her phone saves me from having to elaborate. Alexa was another girl in my class. I actually hadn't realized they existed because I was always so wrapped up in Sophia. "You always get so quiet." I hadn't realized the phone call ended when Alexa pokes me gently on my side. "C'mon, I need to hear some good news right now. I just got off the phone with Tenia." Tenia? "You mean, Sophia's little sister?" I try to keep my voice calm, but it shakes just enough for Alexa to tilt her head curiously. "What about?" "We were just talking about Sophia." Alexa show me a knowing stare "Do you want to know?" > You say "I don't care." I say the words, but I don't feel it. Instead, I look away and can only remember. "Hey, he's all alone!" Sophia laughed as I finished making my sole dinosaur." "I'll make him a buddy soon." Shaping the orange play dough was hard work, but I could still feel Sophia lean next to me. She hummed softly as she placed a pink dinosaur next to mine. "He shouldn't be alone." She smiled and I smile back. "He'll never be alone as long as she's around." There wasn't enough play dough to make a third dinosaur. But that didn't matter, because of Sophia. Hey, you really don't care? I shake my head. Fine, then.

Before I could memorize everything, every curve of her lips or sigh as she snuggles against the pillow, the alarm rings and it is over. The stupidly loud alarm that jolts her awake and causes her to tumble clumsily out of bed with a loud crash. "Ow..." Sophia sleepily groans, her eyes still shut tightly "that hurts!" I can already anticipate her accusing eyes staring straight into mine, so I manage to cover myself with the blanket as though an instant protective barrier would fool her. "Hmm, really asleep?" Sophia's voice became mischievous and already I feel regret rushing through my system. But, it is too late to give up on the charade and I'm already devoted to shutting my eyes as tight as possible. But hearing a rustle as she turned off the alarm made me curious and smelling that familiar scent of cinnamon mint became too much. I peeked and saw a beautiful smile form on Sophia's face as she caught me. "Gotcha!" She poked my cheek with her finger and I feel like this has happened a million times before. The first time was when we were kids. I was determined to help her draw and she was more interested in the new sticker set she got for her birthday. "You don't have a sticker on your finger this time." I yawn exaggeratedly and by her expression, I can tell she doesn't quite fall for it. "I was dreaming of us as kids." "Oh?" A curious light filled her eyes "Fond memories of yours truly?" Back then, I always knew Sophia was beautiful. Even though all my guy friends warned of the deadly cooties that girls carried, I'd get the cootie shot a million times over as long as I could stay near Sophia. "Just remembering how you stuck permanent glue on the sticker and how that made the removal the most painful experience of my life." "Most painful experience of your life so far." She shoots back, completely unfazed. Back at school, it was always like that. I cam remember that day perfectly. After a long separation, I remember walking in and seeing her instantly. The other people just melted into the background. That tended to happen when Sophia was around. > You ignore Her "You really think she'd follow after you ditched her?"My little sister wasn't the type that minced her words, biting as they may be. "You have to understand it from a guy's perspective." I shoot back "What if she pushed me away?" "Sophia?" Emily laughed, her eyes stil glued to her NDS "Well, as long as we're playing the 'what if' scenarios...what if she didn't?" "This doesn't help Em..." Leaning back with a heavy sigh, I ask "What can I do?" "Run to her house with a boombox and play a song by Peter Gabriel?" Emily laughed "Or maybe you could visit her. Sophia texted me that she's sick and I think you can step it up and maybe change this." > No second chance? "Hey." Sophia smiled awkwardly. How much time has passed? Her hair was so much longer. Or maybe that wasn't her real hair...if the rumors were true. "Who is this guy?" Erik, Sophia's boyfriend, asked without looking at me. "A friend." Sophia looked away for a second. "A friend I haven't seen in a long time." I can't remember the awkward conversation that followed. I honestly don't want to remember, actually. But what I do remember is looking back and seeing her lean forward to kiss him. "He's a jerk." I mutter softly. But I am an idiot.

[Themes: love & dating, serious, drama] It's always the same dream. "Do you miss me?" Her silky soft voice sounds like velvet and I can smell her familiar scent of cinnamon mint. Her beautiful emerald eyes looking right through me, as though the answer on the tip of my lips has already been said. That face hasn't changed a bit, already she had certainly grown more beautiful than before. I manage to fight back the growing urge in me to lean forward to touch her, prove that she was real. Even if the wing was plastic on her back, there was no way Sophia would be here with me. > You say "Do you miss me?" The angel in front of me disappears and in her place is an alluring devil whose barely clad body beckons me closer. Yet despite the fact that there are only a few layers that separate me from her, I feel a great distance between the two of us. As though that smile was a steel barrier that I had no shot of breaking through. "Silly question." She laughs softly, as though the answer should already be known. Before I can ask, her hand beckons me closer and I feel the softest kiss brush against my lips. As though she cared about me. As though she knew I cared about her. Those eyes were still open when she kissed me. Was she looking at me? Or beyond? > Family History It was a bit of a running gag in town how my parents met, how doggedly he pursued her without caring a bit about his pride or her rather formidable boyfriend whose right punch could knock out a giant for days. He was the gangly new kid of the block and she was the beautiful princess who already had her Prince Charming. It was like imagining Sleeping Beauty ditching her guy for the court jester. "When you find someone who you can love completely..." My dad fondly wrapped his arm around my mom and smiled "You've got to believe in the impossibility of being ecstatically happy." Sappy words from a sappy guy. Still, it was easy to see why he'd talk like that. His first love was a miracle. Even he couldn't believe it worked out. But Sophia and I was different. We were always together and always linked together. Back in the day when I was interrogated by all the big kids whose eyes inevitably fell on Sophia, I gave the same excuse over and over again. Not that I didn't care about her, but I did care about getting beat up by the same group of guys each day.[Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy, zombie] You stand in front of a large hut, watching as your two older brothers, Gruzub and Mazkil, fight with large wooden clubs, battering each other until they're bleeding profusely. Your oldest brother, Bagig, appears in the doorway of the hut. "Dag!" he shouts, "Come on! We have an appointment with Lurkhim Deathforge." Bagig stands at 6'4 and towers over you. His green skin ripples with muscles that make his black tattoos of wolves and bears ripple as his sharp teeth curve into a grin. Despite being a fearsome monster that would make most men run in terror, he's the kindest of your brothers and probably one of the nicest Orcs in the village. You nod, and eagerly rush over to follow him as he begins walking towards the center of the village. "Now, promise me you won't tell Mama what we're doing. I can imagine her shrieking. 'Oh, Bagig! What were you thinking, giving a sword and dagger to an eight year old!' She'd howl louder than a dragon that's lost its tail!" You giggle, smiling at your brother. "Still, you're an Orc, for fuck's sake! What does she expect you to do? We were born to spill blood." Eventually, you come across the stone forge. Rows of iron swords, axes and maces are stacked there. Lurkhim appears behind the forge, working on a large war axe. She's heavily scarred from years of battle and forging accidents, her face being so scarred you can barely tell if she's angry or cheerful. "Hello! Look who it is, it's Dagden Youngblood! You're getting so big, aren't you? Big enough for a sword, hmmm?" "Yes, Lurkhim." "Damn right you are. I had a sword twice my height at your age. Ran it through a neighboring boy who tried to take my apples, I recall. Ah, the days of youth." She leads you over to the weapons rack, and picks out a tiny dagger. "There. Try it out. It should be well balanced for someone of your height." You look at the blade, filled with disappointment, and Lurkhim bursts into laughter. "Ha! I'd be ashamed to give that to a baby!" she says, grabbing a much larger sword from a rack. "Here. Stain it red, Dagden. May your life be long and your enemies' short." [Author's Note: Take control of Dagden, a small Orc child taken from his family and taken prisoner in Reaper Castle under the control of the Grand Necromancer, before making friends with his daughter Blaise and choosing how to make your mark in the world. This is my spin-off to Mazkil, except better, longer and with more things you like and less things you don't like, whatever they may be. Somehow, I've appealed to everyone! I'd like to thank the OKish Mizal for beta-reading and helping me sort through the earlier version of this storygame and make it somewhat readable, she was a fantastic help. Please rate, comment and tell me if you find any bugs. Thanks, and enjoy!] > You take a few practice swings You take a few swings of your blade. It takes some effort and strength to properly swing the heavy blade, but it does work quite well. "Hey! Watch it, you little shit!" Bagig growls, as you realize you've sliced open his knee. "Oops." "He's already drawn blood. A promising start," Lurkhim grins. "We're not called Red Blades for nothing," Bagig says, rubbing dirt into the cut. "Sheath your blade, Dag, you're not in a battle yet, despite how much you may hope," she says, handing over a tiny leather belt that looks custom made for you. You put the belt on and quickly sheath the weapon. "Now, shall we get you a dagger? A dagger for Dag? Fitting." You nod eagerly, as she takes you over to a row of knives. You look through them. "Go ahead. Pick your favorite. You can tell a lot about an Orc from the dagger he picks. Whether it's gilded or plain, big or small, large or short..." You quickly eye your favorite. "That one." Lurkhim laughs, picking it up. It's a deadly sharp knife made of bone, simple yet elegant. "Ha! I like your choice! So many boys your age pick the biggest or the shiniest. You know what you want, Dagden." You smile, as she hands you the knife. "Keep it in your boot, so you always have it. An Orc should never be caught without a blade handy. Do you know what kind of knife that is, Dagden? What kind of bone is it?" > Dragon "Dragon?" "Ha! A clever one, aren't you? He knows what he wants, Bagig, and what it's made of. Damn right it's dragon. A fierce, fiery red Dragon, slain by your grandfather Chieftain Torag. Alright, then. I have a damn many axes that need to be forged. Go now, Dagden, and make sure that knife tastes a lot of blood in its life." "Thank you, Lurkhim." "Of course," Lurkhim smiles. "Come on, Dag, let's go home," Bagig says. > You head home You walk out of the forge, your new sword swinging at your side and you bone dagger tucked away in your boot. "Now, if Mama asks, I was taking you to practice milking goats." "Yes, Bagig," you nod. You walk along home, the same time Dendar arrives. "Bagig! Are we still taking the twins out hunting?" "Damn right we are!" Bagig laughs, leaning into you. "Do you think I could get Gruzub and Mazkil to eat deer droppings?" You giggle and nod eagerly as Dendar bursts into laughter. "Damn right we're getting them to eat deer droppings." Bagig pats you on the head, before leaving to grab his bow and head off to hunt. You watch as they leave, quickly breaking into a jog which the twins struggle to keep up with. You quickly rush inside and hide your sword under your bed, though you keep the dagger hidden in your boot. "Dag! We're going to the woods to go gather eggs and fruit!" You hear Oragga, one of your friends, yell from outside your house. You smile, and eagerly run outside to see her. It'll be a fun day. > Six Months Later... "Dag!" you hear Dendar yell, and you rush up from the goat fields towards the Chieftain's Hut. "I'm here!" you yell, shouting as loud as you can. You rush up and reach the Chieftain's Hut. You see Dag waiting there, his bow on his back. "Dag! We're going hunting!" "Hunting?" you say, shock, excitement and exhilaration all hitting you at once. "Really? I can't wait!" "Now, you're only nine, but I think you deserve to go. The twins weren't allowed to go until they reached double digits, but they're idiots." You laugh, and rush off to your room. You grab your warmest, toughest boots and put them on, sliding your knife in the boots. You grab your sword and sheath and put it on, finally grabbing the brand new Oak Bow that you've been practicing with every day you've had it. You sling it over you shoulder, as well as your arrow sheath, and rush out to meet Dendar. "Hey! Where are you going without saying goodbye?" Mama yells. You stop, pausing to turn around and rush off. Papa and Mama sit in front of a roaring fire. Mama knits as Papa polishes his blade, as usual. You give Papa and Mama a kiss each. "I love you both." "I love you too," Mama replies, sweet as always. "I'll love you if you bring me home a boar," Papa says, which causes Mama to gently stab him with a knitting needle. "Hell, we don't need to say it every thirty seconds for fuck's sake. My Papa told me he loved me when I was born, when he died, and the day I bit out the throat of Lark Ramshead for calling Mama a whore. I still knew he loved me 'till the end. I love you Dagden, you know that. You nod, and rush off with Dagden. Time to hunt. You have a feeling you'll catch a hell of a lotta food. > The next night... You were wrong. You sit by a dwindling campfire, looking out into the darkness. "Well, this wasn't a great journey," you say softly. "It was fucking miserable," Bagig replies, holding up your catches; three crows, a rodent and a young deer that had just taken its first steps when you shot it. You hear the cracking of small branches nearby. "Bagig...!" "I know," Bagig whispers. "Deer, probably." You slowly grab your bow, not wanting to startle the prey. > You stay still and let Bagig kill the prey You stay very, very still, waiting patiently for Bagig to strike. Bagig motions at you. "It's your kill, Dag. I've killed enough deer. You need to get blood on your hands." "Thanks," you say, eagerly raising your bow. > You go over to kill the prey You creep over towards the noise. You move through the trees, until you face a massive wall of leaves. You push the leaves aside, and move forward. You stop as you knock into something suddenly. You raise your hand, touching the a massive furry wall. "What..." you begin to wonder, before getting smashed across the woods by a clawed paw. You fly through the air, landing on the cold earth. You quickly stand, despite the fact that blood is dripping from your face and you have several broken ribs, only to be faced with the snarling face of a massive bear. You scream as it roars, and immediately begin scampering backwards. "Dagden!" Bagig roars, and you can hear him rushing towards you. The bear's warm breath is on you face as it growls. > You fire your bow You fire your bow, hitting the creature in the shoulder. It roars and quickly bats you away, sending you up against a tree trunk and slamming your head against it. You yell in pain as the massive creature lets out a powerful, terrifying roar. You see Bagig sprint over with a sword drawn and quickly attack the bear, slashing its body open with several powerful swings. The Bear stands on two legs, slamming against Bagig. Bagig is flung against a tree trunk like you were, except with more force. Bagig screams as his back is smashed and grabs his sword in an effort to protect himself. > You help Bagig You charge over, and leap onto the bear as you draw your knife. You stab it several times through its side, and it turns and quickly goes forward to bite you. Its mouth goes around your side, biting deeply. > Scream You let out a pitiful scream as the massive creature bites into you. You take your knife and stab it repeatedly through the eye with all the force you have left. You force your dagger deeper and deeper into the bear as it roars, releasing you. You push the dagger further in, straight to the brain. The bear lets out a final roar, before collapsing on the ground. You groan, all the strength going from your legs. > Collapse You lie on the ground, groaning as blood flows from your broken body. "Fuck me, Dag! You killed a bear! Dagden Bearbane! A fitting title!" Bagig says, standing. He stands up, before laughing. He doubles over in pain as he laughs, before smiling again. "Well, I feel like hammered shit. You?" "Yeah, same," you say. "Come on," he says, picking you up from the ground and dragging you over to the campfire. He lies you across a log, patting you on the head. "A nine year old kills a bear. Who'd have thought it? Papa and Mama will be so impressed with you. I'm sure that Oragga girl will be impressed." Bagig winks. You use the last remaining once of your strength to throw a rock at him. "I don't like her like that!" "Sure," Bagig chuckles. "You need rest. You can sleep once you've eaten some bear meat and I've bandaged your wounds." Over the next hour, Bagig puts strips of bear meat on the fire, bandages himself and you up, and pours alcohol in your wounds, a procedure you'd rather not have done. "It prevents infection," Bagig chides. "I'd rather have the infection than have done that!" you moan. Bagig chuckles, taking a spit off the fire and tossing it to you. "Go, eat." You eat eagerly, finishing off every last bit of delicious meat. "Now you're a true Orc, Dagden Bearsbane," Bagig smiles proudly. "Is my name really going to be Dagden Bearsbane?" "Damn right. A lot better than Gruzub and Mazkil Boarsbane," Bagig laughs. "Once I've told Papa, as Chieftain he will decide whether your feat has earned the nickname, which I'm sure he will." "Cool." "Go to bed now. Sleep. You'll be healed enough by the morning for us to be able to head home. You did well, Dag. I'm proud of you." You nod, before closing your eyes. > You embrace Sleep You fall into a sleep. Your dreams are soft and pleasant. You imagine carrying the bear carcass over your shoulder and throwing it in the village square to the applause of your friends and family. Eventually, your blissful sleep is broken by a cold object poking you. You open your eyes, to be faced with dead, soulless eyes. "AH!" you scream. It's the middle of the night, but thanks to the dying embers of the fire, you can make out some of the scene that's unfolding in front of you. A cloaked figure stands above you, a sword clutched in its hands. Its rotting skin is peeling away to reveal a pinkish flesh that the rot has already set into. You almost cry out in fear when you realize that its a an undead monster. It seems to be a zombie, although you've no idea. You've never had undead this far, and the sight of one is terrifying. You see Bagig awaken out of the corner of your eye, with a similar cloaked undead monster above him. Bagig roars, grabbing his bow as the zombie above you stab downwards, at your heart. You roll to the side, the sword impaling through the ground next to you, the cold blade slicing through your clothes and just scratching you to draw a thin stream of blood. The zombie stares at you and growls. "NO! My brother didn't deserve to be killed by a cursed corpse-fucker!" Bagig roars, firing his bow. The arrow flies through the air and through the rotting head of the zombie, killing it instantly. The zombie falls to the ground, its body thumping against the ground. The other zombie quickly thrusts its sword downwards, straight through Bagig's heart. Tears begin to well in your eyes as you see Bagig gasp, before falling still. The zombie stands, heading towards you. > You play dead You lie there, struggling to stay silent. The zombie pokes you with its sword a few times, before picking up your sword and bow and tossing it in the fire. It growls, and two more zombies approach. One lifts Bagig up, while the other places its rotting hands around you and lifts you up. It carries you forward, and you see a massive wooden cart, stacked with corpses, mostly human and orc. You struggle not to scream in terror, as you're tossed into the cart. Your small body sinks between two freshly-killed corpses, and Bagig is thrown on top of you. You squirm slightly, moving your head to breath, and struggle not to cry as you see your brother's face, now permanently twisted in pain, his eyes now cold and soulless. > You Wait You lie among the corpses for what seems like an eternity. The smell is the worst thing you've ever smelled, but the knowledge that it's dead bodies moving against you is terrifying. Still, you know that the idea of the undead monsters yanking you from the pile and tearing you apart is even scarier, so you stay silent. You have no idea how long you spend in the cart. How many hours? Hell, it could be over a day by now. Eventually, the cart stops. You hear growls outside, before a shout. "How many?" a young man's voice cries. "Twenty-seven. Thirteen Orcs, thirteen Men, one Dwarf." "A dwarf? I wonder what that small little bastard was doing in that region. Ah, who cares. Prepare them." You hear zombies yank corpses from the cart. One of them pulls Bagig off you and you close your eyes and go limp. The zombie yanks you forward, and quite gently lays you on the ground. You open your eyes slightly, to see you're being laid out in rows. You're in the courtyard of what appears to be a massive castle made from black stone. You're surrounded by undead monsters, with one exception: A human, wearing hooded black robes, holding a steel sword. His face is paler than bone, and his angular facial features tells you there's probably some High Elf lineage in him. His black hair is slicked back undead his hood, and he eagerly looks at the corpses like a warrior among battle. An undead knight who had been leading the pack rides forward, looking at the man. "Are you raising them, or is the Grand Necromancer?" The Grand Necromancer. Papa's told you about him. A cowardly mage who uses raises the dead to fight for him. You know he has some lesser Necromancers, which probably included the robed man. "No, I shall raise them today." The Necromancer turns and raises his hands. "Rise, Minions! The Grim Reaper shall not take you today! Shrug off the eternal sleep and wake!" he laughs. His eyes turn black as his pupils consume his irises and corneas. A faint blackness appears to flow from his fingertips outwards, enrapturing the corpses. The corpses begin to shudder as the black, magical energy floods into them. Then, the dead begin to rise. Slowly, the corpses begin to stand, their eyes still as soulless as before. The Necromancer pauses, spotting you. You attempt to stand slowly, like the newly created zombies, but stumble and fall flat again. "Ah, someone from the land of the living is here! Hello!" Cold hands grab you, and you are yanked up. You crane your neck to see Bagig, holding you in his rotting hands. No, Bagig is dead. Bagig was loving, friendly, funny and kind. This... abomination, has black, soulless eyes. You draw your blade and sink it into the side of his head. Bagig's corpse releases you, and falls to the ground. Bagig has always loved you. His body deserves to rest. "Ah, a fighter!" the Necromancer laughs. Rotting hands grab you, and the knife is ripped from your hands. You see several Orcs, seemingly alive, approach. "What's the issue, Trant?" one of them growls. "My title is Necromancer Trant, servant of the Grand Necromancer. I will not be addressed as simply "Trant" by some lowly mercenary!" "Don't make me ask again, Trant!" "There's a survivor." The Orc, apparently the leader of a band of mercenaries, looks at you, and you get a good luck at him. He's quite a fair bit taller than Bagig was, although his body is covered with scars. Several scars run across his face, including one that's taken out his eye, leaving a disgusting hole in his face. "He's just a boy. I doubt he's been on his first hunt yet." "Well, he should be dead," Necromancer Trant says angrily. "I ain't killing him..." You breath a sigh of relief. "... for normal pay. Five times if you want me to kill a kid." "Fine. I'll pay out of pocket. I don't want to... bother the Grand Necromancer with this." "Ha! Hiding something from the Master of Death? Alright then, it's your head," the Mercenary Leader says. You're dropped by the undead, and the Mercenary Leader quickly kicks you in the chest, knocking you backwards. You fall on the ground, and he grabs your arms. You watch with terror as a chopping block is brought out. One of the Orcs binds your hands with ropes, tightening them behind your back. You're shoved to your knees, and the chopping block is dropped in front of you. Your neck is forced to the chopping block. A bucket is shoved in front of you, no doubt for your head to fall into. The Mercenary Leader is handed a massive battleaxe. "Don't worry, kid. I'll make it quick. I'm good with an axe. I've filled that bucket many a time." > You beg for mercy You begin to cry, which turns to sobs. "Please! I don't want to die! Let me go, I won't say a word!" The Orc sighs. "Sorry, kid. Let's get this over with." The Orc swings the blade with such speed you don't even feel it. > Death Eternal Sleep Your life force is taken from you as you enter the endless sleep of death.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie] You lie among the corpses for what seems like an eternity. The smell is the worst thing you've ever smelled, but the knowledge that it's dead bodies moving against you is terrifying. Still, you know that the idea of the undead monsters yanking you from the pile and tearing you apart is even scarier, so you stay silent. You have no idea how long you spend in the cart. How many hours? Hell, it could be over a day by now. Eventually, the cart stops. You hear growls outside, before a shout. "How many?" a young man's voice cries. "Twenty-seven. Thirteen Orcs, thirteen Men, one Dwarf." "A dwarf? I wonder what that small little bastard was doing in that region. Ah, who cares. Prepare them." You hear zombies yank corpses from the cart. One of them pulls Bagig off you and you close your eyes and go limp. The zombie yanks you forward, and quite gently lays you on the ground. You open your eyes slightly, to see you're being laid out in rows. You're in the courtyard of what appears to be a massive castle made from black stone. You're surrounded by undead monsters, with one exception: A human, wearing hooded black robes, holding a steel sword. His face is paler than bone, and his angular facial features tells you there's probably some High Elf lineage in him. His black hair is slicked back undead his hood, and he eagerly looks at the corpses like a warrior among battle. An undead knight who had been leading the pack rides forward, looking at the man. "Are you raising them, or is the Grand Necromancer?" The Grand Necromancer. Papa's told you about him. A cowardly mage who uses raises the dead to fight for him. You know he has some lesser Necromancers, which probably included the robed man. "No, I shall raise them today." The Necromancer turns and raises his hands. "Rise, Minions! The Grim Reaper shall not take you today! Shrug off the eternal sleep and wake!" he laughs. His eyes turn black as his pupils consume his irises and corneas. A faint blackness appears to flow from his fingertips outwards, enrapturing the corpses. The corpses begin to shudder as the black, magical energy floods into them. Then, the dead begin to rise. Slowly, the corpses begin to stand, their eyes still as soulless as before. The Necromancer pauses, spotting you. You attempt to stand slowly, like the newly created zombies, but stumble and fall flat again. "Ah, someone from the land of the living is here! Hello!" Cold hands grab you, and you are yanked up. You crane your neck to see Bagig, holding you in his rotting hands. No, Bagig is dead. Bagig was loving, friendly, funny and kind. This... abomination, has black, soulless eyes. You draw your blade and sink it into the side of his head. Bagig's corpse releases you, and falls to the ground. Bagig has always loved you. His body deserves to rest. "Ah, a fighter!" the Necromancer laughs. Rotting hands grab you, and the knife is ripped from your hands. You see several Orcs, seemingly alive, approach. "What's the issue, Trant?" one of them growls. "My title is Necromancer Trant, servant of the Grand Necromancer. I will not be addressed as simply "Trant" by some lowly mercenary!" "Don't make me ask again, Trant!" "There's a survivor." The Orc, apparently the leader of a band of mercenaries, looks at you, and you get a good luck at him. He's quite a fair bit taller than Bagig was, although his body is covered with scars. Several scars run across his face, including one that's taken out his eye, leaving a disgusting hole in his face. "He's just a boy. I doubt he's been on his first hunt yet." "Well, he should be dead," Necromancer Trant says angrily. "I ain't killing him..." You breath a sigh of relief. "... for normal pay. Five times if you want me to kill a kid." "Fine. I'll pay out of pocket. I don't want to... bother the Grand Necromancer with this." "Ha! Hiding something from the Master of Death? Alright then, it's your head," the Mercenary Leader says. You're dropped by the undead, and the Mercenary Leader quickly kicks you in the chest, knocking you backwards. You fall on the ground, and he grabs your arms. You watch with terror as a chopping block is brought out. One of the Orcs binds your hands with ropes, tightening them behind your back. You're shoved to your knees, and the chopping block is dropped in front of you. Your neck is forced to the chopping block. A bucket is shoved in front of you, no doubt for your head to fall into. The Mercenary Leader is handed a massive battleaxe. "Don't worry, kid. I'll make it quick. I'm good with an axe. I've filled that bucket many a time." > You curse the Mercenary Leader out "It'll be filled just like your mother was filled hundreds of times, you fucking scum!" you shout, struggling to think of every bad word you've been taught. Thankfully, many, many, many hours spent listening to Papa, Bagig, Mazkil, Gruzub and even sometimes Mama swear has given you a lot of material. "You're the product of a whore!" you yell. "Ha! This one's got balls!" the Mercenary Leader laughs. "Unlike you, you unloved, honor less eunuch! The fires of hell take you! I hope Demons rape your soul and... and... your mother's a whore, who..." "Aw, he ran out of insults. Alright, kid. Let's get this over with." The Orc raises his blade. "STOP!" a young, shrill voice cries. The Orc pauses, turning to look. "Ah, fuck," he sighs. You turn to see two humans approaching. The one in the lead is a tall, pale figure wearing hooded black robes with silver trim with short black hair. His face is gaunt and his eyes are sunken into his face, giving him the appearance of a skull. He is followed by a small girl, who looks to be only your age, wearing a dark red dress with flowing blond hair. She's considerably less pale than the man, and has bright green eyes. She looks worried at the sight of the execution, and she very well might've just saved your life. "What the fuck is this?" the tall man asks angrily. "Nothing, Grand Necromancer." "Nothing? This doesn't look like nothing, Balok the Honorless!" "It's an execution, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary." The Grand Necromancer grabs you, yanking you up. "How old would you say this kid is?" he asks. "I don't know, sir." "Blaise, why did you scream?" the Grand Necromancer asks. "Because you only kill bad people, and he's too young to be bad," the girl says, looking worried. "Are you paid to kill kids, Balok?" the Grand Necromancer asks. "Yes, sir. Well, not kids specifically, but my job is to kill whoever..." The Grand Necromancer, despite being quite short, swings his fist, punching the Mercenary Leader. "If you pull this shit again, I'll torture you to death, and then do it again!" the Grand Necromancer says. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," the Orc apologizes. The Grand Necromancer looks at you, before looking at the girl. "Cut the boy loose, have his wounds dressed and have him cleaned and clothed." "Then what?" the Orc asks. "Have him brought to my quarters." The Orc nods. The Necromancer looks at you. "What's your name, boy?" "Dagden." "It's alright, Dagden. I promise you won't be harmed. I have problems to deal with, Balok. Don't cause more of them." He turns, and strolls off. The girl stays behind for a few seconds, staring at you. Finally, she turns and quickly follows the Grand Necromancer. "Well, fuck me," Balok sighs, cutting you loose. "Come on, you little prick. I gotta follow the "Master of Death"'s orders. And way to stand up for me, Trant. Fuck you, you fuckin' corpse-fucker." Trant smiles and gives Balok the finger. Balok swears and begins dragging you toward the building he came out from. > You Continue You're thrown onto a bed in what appears to be a Medic's room. A small Orc enters, narrowing her eyes. "You're the kid, are you? Made Balok look like a right moron, you did." She sits down on a stool next to you. She begins to stitch your cuts on your chest from the bear closed. You wince, and she grabs a red vial from her leather bag. "Here. Drink. Every last drop. Lick it clean if you must." You open the cork, and drink. You swallow the sweet mixture. You assume it's some healing potion, because your pain lessens and strength courses through you. You feel much better now. "So, where you from, boy?" the Medic asks. > Answer "I'm a Red Blade." "Ah! I was sweet on a Red Blade once. Ended up beating him half to death when he tried to have his way with me on a drunken night. Jakku Smallcock, he was. Or at least, that title is more fitting," she smiles. You nod, and she quickly patches you up. "No strenuous exercise, you don't want the stitching to tear. Alright, head off to the bathrooms now the hall. Balok said to have you washed." You leave the Medic's Room and find yourself in a stone hallway. Down the hall you can see the, though there is a path left. > You go wash up You walk into the bathrooms, and find a bath waiting for you. You touch the water. It's quite hot, to your surprise. Your baths have always been in the cold river, or sometimes if you're lucky been in a basin slowly pouring a bucket of hot water on yourself. This entire bath is hot. You remove your clothes, and lower yourself into the water. The heat envelops you, and you let out a sigh of relief. "Ah... good," you say to yourself. You begin to scrub your skin, rubbing away mud, dirt and blood. Layers of dirt that you had assumed were skin are wash off, and you're left cleaner than you've ever been in your entire existence. It's unnerving to be this green. The door opens, and your hands immediately move to cover your genitals. An undead Dwarf walks in, dropping clothes in front of you, before picking up your old clothes. The Dwarf has long, braided brown hair and a combed beard, although his skin is cracked and broken and peeling away to reveal flesh as some point. His teeth have almost all rotted, and a spear wound has destroyed much of his throat. "Hello. I'm here to give you new clothes and take away your old," he rasps. "You're not supposed to talk. The dead don't talk." "Orcs aren't supposed to be clean." "What are you?" "A Wight." You nod, despite not having a clue what that entails. The Wight turns, and walks out the door. You stand and find come clean rags laid out to wipe yourself dry. When you're finished, you get dressed in the trousers, shirt, belt and polished boots. You look at your reflection in the water. You look like a ponce. "If Gruzub, Mazkil or Bagig saw me they'd..." you pause, tears welling up in your eyes. You grab the rags, and dry your eyes again, as the door is opened again. The Wight stands there. "I'm to escort you to the Grand Necromancer." You nod, and follow the Wight out of the bathroom, and follow him along the halls. You spot various Orc, Elf, Human and Dwarven Mercenaries, as well as countless undead. You shiver as you pass them. You're eventually led to a pair of double doors. "Through there," the Wight says. > You go through the doors You push through the double doors, and find yourself in a large room. A massive feasting table stands in front of you, covered in food. Your stomach grumbles as you realize you haven't eaten in quite some time, and your mouth waters as you look upon roasted chicken, baked loaves of bread, turkey legs, roasted boar and even more food. You see the Grand Necromancer sitting at the head of the table, wearing his black robes with the silver trim, although his hood is pulled down. Sitting next to him is the young child from earlier. About a dozen black robed Necromancers sit at the table, as well as several Mercenary Captains. Standing guard are dozens of undead knights, who stare at you with their cold eyes. The Grand Necromancer looks up at you and smiles. "Ah! Our guest is here, young Mr Dagden. Please, take a seat at my side." You can tell by the cold, emotionless staring of the guards that declining this offer would be a bad move. You nod, and walk past the necromancers. You spot Trant among them, who winks at you. You make a silent promise to yourself that you're going to kill him. You take a seat next to the Grand Necromancer, directly across from the girl. The Grand Necromancer smiles at you, a charming smile from a horrible monster of a man. "I'm sorry about the recent unpleasantness, Dagden. I sent my soldiers to wipe out bandits and thugs and retrieve their corpses to add to my forces. I'm so sorry that you and your brother got confused with them." You don't look at the Grand Necromancer, out of disgust and hatred. You grab a turkey leg, and eagerly begin chewing into it. You realize just how starved you are as begin to wolf down your meal. "Hungry little one, aren't you? I bet you've never eaten a meal this big, coming from a tribal village." "I bet you didn't catch a single thing on this table yourself, and got stronger men to do it," you retort. The Necromancer laughs. "It tastes better that way, I would imagine. I admit, I don't catch my own food. I'm not a strong person. My brothers were the strong ones. They wanted to be warriors. I wanted to be a scholar, but after I began to research magic, I decided to become a mage. I quickly specialized in Necromancy. It has a terrible reputation like all other forms of Black Magic, but I've never understood it. Necromancy, Blood Magic, Creating Life, Elemental Darkness, Demon Summoning, Demon Bonding, deals with demons... Anything with demons, really, all hated by fools and morons. We hate Blood Magic because we can't seem to comprehend a need for sacrifice, we hate creating life because we seem to think that's the place of the Gods who barely exist and never help us "foolish mortals", we hate Elemental Darkness because the dumbest part of our brain is scared of what we can't see, we hate dealing with demons because we're too scared about our ability to keep control over them, and most importantly, we hate Necromancy because we have respect for corpses because of what they once were and fear the dead. It's pathetic. Do you know the amount of good Necromancy could do? Imagine cities defended by armies of undead, so hunting bandits and defending from enemies will no longer risk any lives. Do you see why my work is important?" > You say "Yes." "Good! It's important to learn these things! I'm glad you can be so understanding at such a young age. My daughter, Blaise, is also quite understanding. I don't know if I've introduced you." You look over at the girl, who stares at you with wide curious eyes. "She's the splitting image of her mother. She..." "When can I go home?" you ask abruptly, causing the Grand Necromancer to frown. "Ah... about that... You realize you've already seen so much... You've seen the extent of my operations, you know my plans to expand my army, my use of other Necromancers, my use of mercenaries, my base of operations... I think it would be wise if you stay here, as our guest, for some time." You stare into the eyes of the Grand Necromancer. You can feel him peering into your soul. You refuse to break gaze. He sighs. "I'm sorry to have to keep you here. I can promise you'll be treated well." You can continue staring at the Grand Necromancer, which seems to unnerve him. You feel some joy at doing so, but stop yourself from smiling. "Blaise, why don't you show our new guest your room? I'm sure you have loads of toys to show him. I have business to discuss." Blaise nods, and stands up from the table. You stand, and she walks over and grabs your hand. "Come on. I'll show you my room," she says. She begins dragging you to a small door at the back of the room, and opens it. You find yourself in a large bedroom, bigger than Papa's. There's a large double canopy bed, a wardrobe, a bookshelf, two chest of drawers and several toys lying around the room. "Usually, Dad doesn't bring many guests here, and never ever anyone my age. My name's Blaise. What's yours?" "Dagden. My friends call me Dag." "Pleased to meet you, Dag. I'm Blaise. I have loads of toys, but I also have other stuff. I have a pet..." You stare into her eyes, and feel hatred. She's the most important thing to the Grand Necromancer, the man who took your brother. You're far enough from the main room. You could very, very easily get your revenge and hurt the Necromancer just like he hurt you. > You continue listening to her No, she's done nothing to you. She's just a little kid in a situation you didn't choose, just like you. "...dog, named Stitches." "Stitches?" you say, raising an eyebrow. "He was attacked by an assassin, an Orc trying to kill my dad. My dad brought him back so I could keep him. Stitches! Come here, Stitches!" You here scratching behind you, and turn around. You open your mouth to scream, before remembering what Papa always said. "When faced with danger, never scream, only roar." You growl, staring at the abomination. The "dog" is missing patches of its brown fur, and is covered in stitches across it's body and legs. It's missing almost all the flesh from one of its back legs and its lower jaw. The Dog quickly walks forward, and Blaise begins stroking its back. You extend a hand forward and begin stroking its head. It extends a liver-colored tongue and licks your hand and you recoil in disgust. Stitches whimpers, and you start stroking its head again. It barks happily, and you begin to rub it's belly. You've always wanted a dog, although you wanted one with a bit more life in it than this one. You can't tell whether you should hug or strangle the dog, but you know you really, really want to do one of them. "Do you like him?" Blaise asks, looking up at you. > You say "Yes." She smiles at you, and continues rubbing Stitches. "He's really... cute," you say, struggling for words. The girl looks up at you, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want to go hear what they're saying?" she asks. "Who?" "My Dad and the other Necromancers." "How?" "I know about a hidden room where you can eavesdrop. I don't know what it was for, but I like to go there sometimes when I don't want to be found. Do you want to see it?" You nod eagerly, and she goes over to her wardrobe. She opens it, and reaches a hand in to root around the dresses, blouses and skirts, before pulling out a small, unassuming silver key. "Come on, follow me," she says, turning and walking over to the side of the room. She begins putting all her weight against the bookshelf. It moves slightly, revealing a small wooden door hidden behind it. "It's a pretty obvious place to put a hidden door. I don't think this castle's architect was very clever." She unlocks and opens the door. The room inside is a small room with a small table and four chairs, another bookshelf, a large bed and a chest. "If you put your head up against the wall, you can here what's inside." You lean against the far wall, putting your ear against it. "...allow us to have more control over the mountain range. We send teams into the mines and mountains to force the Dwarves back, and allow us to conquer the tombs. With the tombs in our hands, the whole continent will fall," the Grand Necromancer says. "I'll lead the raids. The Dwarf Clans have survived untouched by war for far too long. I think my knowledge of battle tactics..." an Unknown voice cries. "Ha! Galmead, please don't pretend it's anything other than vengeance that makes you want to lead the assault. Still, you've served me well over the years. You can lead the assault." "Thank you, Grand Necromancer." "Of course. Now Thonir, fetch the Orc child and find a room for him. Make sure the door's locked and there's extra guards on. I don't want him escaping." Blaise pulls her head back from the door. "We should get out of here," she says. You both quickly rush out of the room, with Blaise locking it behind you. You push the bookshelf closed, before you hear a short rapping on the door. Blaise opens it, and you're faced with the Dwarven Wight from earlier. "Lady Blaise, Dagden. I'm here to escort you to your new private chambers, Dagden." "OK," you reply. "Bye, Dag." "Bye, Blaise." The Wight begins leading you down a hallway. "My name is Thonir. I am to look after you during your stay." "If you need anything, simply ask and I shall do my best to help to the extent I can. Of course, if I think the request compromises the... security of you or anyone else here, I shall not grant it." You nod, looking up at him. His rotting face stares blankly on, before he stops in front of a large oak door. He opens it, and you walk inside. There's a small room with a seat with a hole in the floor that you presume is a bathroom, a basin filled with water, a small bed, a wardrobe, a dresser, a bookshelf and a table and chair. There's also a massive bear skull mounted on the wall, which you think looks cool. "This shall be your quarters for the duration of your stay. I shall guard the door for the night. Knock on the door if you need anything." With that, Thorin closes the door. You can hear the clunking of the locking mechanism, and then silence. You look around. There's a book lying on the table that might be of some interest, and there's also the bed, which after such a long day looks quite appealing. > You investigate the book You walk over to the book, and pick it up. A golden star takes up most of the cover. Its title, "Magic", takes up the rest of the cover. "Well, that's obvious," you say. You open it and start reading. You struggle considerably with the massive words, but of the many perks of being the son of the Chieftain, being taught the ability to read, quite well, actually, is your favorite. Papa would spit on Elven tomes, but you're able to speak, write and read common tongue well enough. It opens with various entries about the types of magic users. You start reading. Conjurers Conjurers are Magic Users who specialize in Conjuration. They can conjure swords, knives, spears, axes, compasses, food, water and many other objects from other planes. Demon Dealers Demon Dealers are Magic users who specialize in dealing with demons. They can summon demons, bind them, make deals and much more. Necromancers Necromancers are Magic Users who specialize in Necromancy. They raise the dead and talk with spirits. Warlocks Warlocks are Magic Users who study destructive magic, such as fire and ice based magic, so they can become warlords and wage war against their enemies. Alchemists Alchemists are Magic Users who study Alchemy. They use science and reason to study the creation of gold from lesser metals and the making of potions, elixirs and mixtures, especially in regard to immortality. Enchanters Enchanters are Magic Users who study enchanting. They can imbue objects such as weapons or armor with magical properties. Healers Healers are Magic Users who study Healing. They can undue wounds and heal illnesses and plagues from people and animals. You flick through the rest of the book, but it seems to go into much, much more detail. You're struggling to read the basic start, there's no way you can read more. You put down the book. > You go to sleep You go over to the bed, and lie down on it. You live in bed for several minutes, trying to fall asleep. Eventually, you manage to reach a state that's neither fully awake nor fully asleep. You're broken out of this state by a light tapping. You stand up, raising an eye as you search for the sound of the noise. You find it in the bookcase. You move around to push the bookcase slightly out of the way, noticing a small door behind the bookcase, similar to the one Blaise showed you. You try the handle. You grin as the door handle clicks open and the door swings ajar. Inside is a small, black tunnel covered in cobwebs. Standing in the middle is Blaise. "Hello," she smiles. "Hey," you respond. "What are you doing here?" "There's loads of tunnels stretching from the hidden room I showed you to all around the castle." "So why'd you come find me?" you ask. Blaise shrugs. "I don't know. I guess you're the only person I really have to show this kinda stuff to." "OK," you nod. "Well... What do you want to do?" Blaise asks. "I could show you the gardens, or the..." You mind perks as you have an idea. > You say "Can you help me escape?" Blaise looks uncertain and nervous, but nods. "I think so." "How?" "There's a tunnel that leads down to the stables. Down there there's a trading cart that goes between the nearby towns and the Castle. They brought fresh fruit today, so they're probably still down there." You nod. "OK. Show me the way." Blaise turns and leads you into another hallway. You struggle to see through the darkness, and knock into a stone wall. You groan in pain, and Blaise giggles. "It's not funny. If I had my dagger, I'd gut you," you moan. "It is funny. You have a dagger?" Blaise giggles. "Had." "Oh. My Dad doesn't let me have weapons." Blaise leans over and grabs your hand. Despite the fact that it's incredibly hard to see for you so her holding of your hand is incredibly rational, you still blush and feel embarrassed as her small warm hand grips your fingers. She pulls you along the dark corridors, until she stops suddenly. You knock into her, and end up sprawled out on the floor. "Sorry," you grunt, standing up. You extend a hand and pull her up. "Thanks," Blaise says. "It's just down this hallway." You nod, and quickly follow her down another hallway branching off to the side. Eventually, you come across another door. Blaise takes out her key and quietly unlocks the door. She slowly opens it, revealing a large stables. You step out, noticing that the door is hidden into the wall. In the stables are three old wooden carts that sit unused, as well as several tied up horses. "Why would someone need so many tunnels?" you ask. "Sssh! There's always guards on duty," Blaise whispers. Blaise looks around, before frowning. "It's not here!" she whispers loudly. "What?" "The trader's cart! It's not here!" "What's the plan, then?" Blaise looks around. "I don't know... you could hide in the hay cart. They take out the dirty hay in them. Or... you could steal one of the horses." > You hide in the hay cart "I'll hide in the hay cart," you say. "Give me a boost." Blaise nods, and offers her hands out. You put your foot in her hands, and she boosts you up. You land in the soft hay, brushing it off you. "Thanks," you grunt. "I guess we won't see each other again," Blaise says. "I guess." "Well, I'll miss you. It was fun having a friend while it lasted." "I'll miss you too." "Well, I..." she begins, before stopping and craning her head. "We're late. Get the horses ready," a voice cries. "You should hide," Blaise says. You nod. "Thanks," you say. You squirm down into the hay, hiding under the pile of hay. You find your way to the bottom of the hay, and curl up into a ball. After a few minutes, you feel the wheels begin to turn as the cart is pulled from its stationary position. "Wait," the Voice says. "We have to check the hay." You freeze, staying as still as you can. A few seconds later, you feel an incredible pain as a pitchfork goes through your back, impaling you. You let out a scream as your tiny body is impaled by the cart's driver. > Death Eternal Sleep Your life force is taken from you as you enter the endless sleep of death.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie] You climb onto the horse, and gently kick it. The horse whinnies. "Go!" you command. The horse stays still. "Come on! Gallop!" The horse stays still. "Do you know how to ride a horse?" Blaise asks, staring at you. "No." "Ah. This could be a problem in our plan." You kick the horse again, before slipping. You fall off the horse and hit the ground with a thud and a groan. "Ow. What were the other options?" you ask. > You ask to go back "We should go back. It's too risky," you say. "Are you sure?" Blaise asks. "Yeah," you grunt. "OK, too bad," Blaise says, though she seems quite pleased. Blaise turns, and quickly opens the hidden door, pulling it open. You walk inside, and she closes it, leaving you in darkness. "It's too dark," you mumble. "You get used to it. Or maybe you won't, it might not be an Orc thing." You walk in silence for a few minutes. "You know what we could do to cheer you up?" "What?" "You said you had a dagger. I bet we could go find it." You perk up at the thought of that. You don't feel like as much of an Orc without something to stab with. "Who took it off you?" "The Orc. Balok." "I bet he's still got it in the Orc Barracks. I have a tunnel that leads down there." You follow Blaise through the darkness, until you find another hallway leading off through the Castle. Eventually, you stop at a trapdoor in the floor. "Here it is. We're right above it," she says. "You drop down, and I'll stay here to pull you back up." > You drop down through the trap door You pull up the trapdoor, and look down. You see several beds, with Orcs splayed out on top of them. You grab the trapdoor, and drop down, your boots landing on the stone floor with a soft thud. You look around, and breath a sigh of relief as you hear a chorus of snoring, unbroken by any of the the mercenaries awakening. You look up, to see Blaise peering down at you. "Well... go on. Go find it," she whispers. You nod, and begin searching the room. You spitefully decide to take any spare coins lying about, to deprive them from the mercenaries even though you'll find no place to spend it while imprisoned here. You stumble around the darkness, before your hand closes around something. "AH!" you groan, as the bone dagger cuts open your hand. "What's wrong?" Blaise whispers loudly enough to negate the whisper. You growl, and wipe your blood off on your pants and slide the weapon into your boot. You turn, and quickly hurry back to the trapdoor. You see Orcs shift in their sleep and you fell terror as they seem like they might wake, but they don't. Blaise lowers an arm. You jump up and catch her arm, and she gasps as she struggles to pull you up. You manage to grab onto the trapdoor, and you manage to pull yourself up with help from Blaise. "Thanks." "No problem. Why'd you scream? You were loud enough to wake the dead." You smile at the joke, before showing her your cut open hand. She winces. "Ouch. I bet I can patch that up. Did you get the knife?" "Yeah," you reply, drawing your knife. Blaise marvels at the weapon for a second. "Cool," she replies. "Cut off a piece of your clothes." You cut a small strip of your shirt and hand it to Blaise, before sheathing your knife. She takes your hand and gently wraps the fabric around your wound, before tying it off in a knot. "There. Perfect." "Thanks. And thanks for helping me get my dagger back." "No problem. What are friends for?" "Yeah... sure." "We should get back to bed. We've had enough adventures tonight." Blaise shows you the way through the darkness of the hidden tunnels and back to your room. "Goodnight," she says, as she closes the hidden door. "Goodnight," you reply, pushing the bookcase back in place. With that, you're left alone again. You walk over to your bed and collapse on it. You fall asleep within seconds. > Dream Your dreams are muddled and confused. You see a Black Dragon fighting a White Dragon, a loaf of bread that's too big for you to eat even though you're really hungry, and a bird that just screams curse words at you in the voice of Gagrak, the local baker from the village. You awaken, and climb out of bed. You attempt to make sense of your muddled dreams, before realizing that they are, almost certainly, nonsense. You splash water over your face, before hearing a sharp knock on the door. "Are you awake?" Thorin rasps from outside. "Yeah, I am," you say. Thorin opens the door, placing a small bundle of clothes on the floor. A pair of polished black boots, some pants and a fresh shirt. Thorin disappears behind the door, and you quickly get dressed, putting your dagger in your new pair of boots. "Alright. I'm ready." Thorin opens the door, and beckons you out. "The Grand Necromancer has asked for your presence on the battlements with Lady Blaise." "Why?" "I was not given any more details than what I've told you." You nod, and begin following Thorin. You walk along the halls in silence. > You attempt to converse "So... how did you join the Grand Necromancer?" "I worked with him back in our mercenary unit. I helped him become the man he is today. Then, I took a crossbow bolt to the neck on a mission for him. He helped bring me back... or keep me around... or whatever the hell he did. Anyhow, I'm still around, he's still around, so I'm still fighting for him." You reach a staircase, and begin ascending it. "Do you eat, or drink, or...?" "I don't need to, though I can." You reach the top of the staircase and find yourself at the top of the castle walls. You look out at the surrounding land, seeing only fields, a small portion of which has been turned to farmland. You spot the robed Grand Necromancer standing next to Blaise, and Thorin leads you to him. "Ah, Dag. It's a pleasure to see you. How'd you sleep?" "Good. Why am I here?" you grunt in response, glaring at the Grand Necromancer. The Grand Necromancer smiles, either not noticing or not caring, or perhaps pretending not to notice or care. "My daughter seems quite infatuated with you after last night, though I only left you only for about ten minutes. She asked me to let you come." Blaise blushes shyly, and the Grand Necromancer laughs. "Thorin, you're dismissed. Dagden, as I was just telling my daughter, I think you should both know what my undead army is made of." The Grand Necromancer sweeps his hand across the courtyard, where an undead army is assembling. "How much do you know of the Undead, Dagden?" "I'm a kid who grew up in an Orc village. What do you think?" The Grand Necromancer chuckles. "Fair point. The average member of the undead is the Zombie, a simple corpse raised with Necromantic power with little sentience and little independence. Some are full rotting corpses while some are skeletons, with the powers of death being the only thing keeping the bones from falling apart." The Grand Necromancer points down to a rotting soldier armored in chain mail holding a sword and shield. "Then there's the Spirits. Spirits are the souls of beings that remained on this plane long after their time on this plane has ended. With my help, they can materialize and are able to fight." The Grand Necromancer points down to a vaguely see-through, spectral figure. The figure is tinted a bluish-green, and you stare through it for a few seconds. "Then there's the Wights. Almost indistinguishable from Zombies, though far more powerful. Dying men can be turned into them, their souls trappe... kept within their body at the time of death, keeping their intelligence and soul in their body, although it will still rot as others. Thorin, for instance. They're usually made from trusted allies to command groups of zombies. Then there are the animals. Animals are hard to keep control of, and some such as wolves and bears would be incredibly rebellious. Still, dogs such as Stitches and undead or even skeletal horses ridden by my calvary. There's also Liches?" "Like you?" Blaise asks. "No, no, I'm just a Necromancer. A Lich is a Necromancer who turns himself into an undead being. They're immensely powerful and immortal. Someday, I hope to become one to look over my new world for centuries. I digress. I don't think I've shown you my Revenants or my Flesh Monstrosities. Revenants are powerful undead beings made through summoning the Spirit of a powerful being and binding it back to their bodies, although with extra work souls can be bound to other bodies. These beings are some of the most powerful undead. I only have a handful. Finally, there's the Flesh Monstrosities. You'll love it." A massive, lumbering beast the size of three men in both height and width steps forward. It looks like a doll stuffed with meat. It looks like a child's pathetic attempt at drawing a human, and has a giant gaping mouth, massive bulging muscles that allow it to hold the massive sword it's holding. "That is a Flesh Monstrosity. It's made by doctors under my personal supervision, stitched together from other corpses. It's an entirely new creature with a newly created soul. They're slow and dumb, but their strength, size and endurance makes them fantastic on the battlefield. That's pretty much everything under my command. Did you enjoy the tour?" "Fuck you," you grunt. The Grand Necromancer sighs. "You're not being very polite, you know that?" "Necromancer Trant ordered my brother's death, and Balok the Honorless tried to kill me. Give me both their heads and I'll be polite." "What did you think, Blaise?" he asks. > You stay silent "I thought you'd love it, my dear. Alright, it's time for class." "Aw, do I have to?" Blaise moans. "I did twice as much work yesterday as I could've. Can't I take the day off and go play with Da..." "No. What do I say is important in any profession?" "Ambition?" Blaise asks. "Education. You're going to school. If I give Mr Nilvos any time to himself, he'll end up summoning demons or turning me into a mouse." "Fine," Blaise sighs. "Thorin!" The Grand Necromancer yells. "Come take Blaise to Mr Nilvos." "Yes, sir," Thorin says, rushing up the stairs. "What about Mr Dagden?" "Ah, yes," the Grand Necromancer frowns. "Oh, can he please come to class with me?" Blaise asks eagerly. "He's a guest in our home. Where would you like to go, Dagden?" > You say "Back to my village." The Grand Necromancer frowns. "You know I can't do that. Thorin, take him to his room." You're quickly escorted back to your room, and the door is locked behind you. You sigh, sitting in the empty room. You need something to do. > You Read You pull a book from the bookshelf and begin reading. It's a short story, a poem, about the Grim Reaper and Magna Gene Draco, or the Mother of Dragons, meeting on a road. Although you struggle to read it, its enjoyable. You finish the poem, and start reading another book, this time an essay about an Elf adn a Dwarf who married and became infamous raiders, before Thorin knocks at your door. "Mr Dagden, I've been asked to take you to dinner with the Grand Necromancer and Lady Blaise." > You follow Thorin You quickly follow Thorin throughout the halls, until you eventually find your way to the feast hall. You see the Grand Necromancer at the head of the table, with Blaise sitting at his right hand side. The gaggle of Necromancers and Mercenaries sit around the table further down, although there is a place for you at the Grand necromancer's left side like last night. Thorin leads you to the place, before taking his place at the table. "So? How was class today, Blaise?" "It was good. I learned about Vampires." "Ah? That's surprising Mr Nilvos would happen to teach you that today. I wonder how that Dark Elf bastard knew... Never mind. Dagden? How about you?" "I spent it in my room." "Ah. Alright. Blaise, you should know, tomorrow is a very important day." "Why?" Blaise asks. "I am having several guests brought to the castle." "You never guests brought to the castle," Blaise says. "Except Dag, but he's only kinda a guest." "These guests are to be impressed. I'm making a deal with them." "Who are they?" "The Vampire Lords," the Grand Necromancer announces. "You hate vampires. They're the one kind of undead you hate the most," Blaise retorts. "Yeah. I do. But don't say that tomorrow. With their support, I plan to lead another conquest, expand my empire." "Will you be gone long?" "A few months at most." "I always hate it when you're gone." "Well, you'll have Dagden to keep you company. I'm sure he wouldn't mind doing so." "Fine," you grunt in response You begin chowing into your meal, small cooked birds that you make your way through six of, as well as several potatoes, carrots and pieces of bread. When you finish eating, you sit and wait patiently as Blaise eats her meager amount of food. When she's finished, the Grand Necromancer smiles at her. "Blaise, it's early. The sun's still up. Why don't you take Dagden to the gardens? Show him around, perhaps?" "OK, Dad. Come on, Dag." Blaise stands and motions for you to follow her down one of the halls. > You follow Blaise You follow Blaise along the hallways, as she eagerly runs ahead. "You'll love the garden. There's loads of flowers from all over the world." "I'm an Orc. Any Orcs who would've liked to see flowers wouldn't have survived life in my village." "Oh. OK, sorry," Blaise says, embarrassed. "No, it's fine. Sorry," you reply, equally embarrassed. "I've never been friends with a human before. It's very different to Orcs." "Why?" "Orcs insult each other a lot more. And fight more." "Weird. Anyway, here it is," Blaise says, opening a large wooden door to reveal a large, walled garden. Inside are dozens of flowers. Every color of the rainbow is displayed, as well as a large white tree in the middle. "Do you like it?" "Yeah. It's... pretty." "I look after it all by myself. Go one, smell on," Blaise says proudly. You walk over to the flowers, and bend over to sniff one. It smells of nothing. "How does it smell?" "Err... Nice." "You can pick one thing if you want. Not more, though, these were really hard to find and I don't want my Dad to get mad." You look at the flowers, a beautiful canvas of art, before spotting what looks like delicious orange fruit hanging off a tiny tree in the corner. > You pick a flower for Blaise You look at the flowers, trying to find the prettiest one. You grab a red one, and cut its stem, plucking it from the ground. You hand it to Blaise. "Oh! Thanks," she smiles shyly. "It's really pretty." "It reminds me of you." Blaise blushes, embarrassed. She walks over to the huge tree. "Come here. I want to give you something pretty. Or at least, show you something pretty. How good are you at climbing trees?" "Alright," you reply, grabbing a branch and pulling yourself up. You pull Blaise up afterwards, and climb another branch. Blaise quickly climbs ahead of you, and quickly reaches the top. You manage to pull yourself to the top. On the top of the tree much of the leaves and branches have been cut away, leaving an open view of the sky. You lie across two branches, looking up towards the sky. The sky is studded with shining stars, making various shapes. "It's beautiful isn't it? Sometimes I spend entire nights up on the top of this tree, just staring at the stars." You lean back, and watch the stars. > Two Hours Later... You spend the next hour talking, until eventually you both fall asleep. You have several muddled dreams, before you reach a dream in which you're falling, which lasts for about two seconds. You hit the ground with a thud. "Ow!" you groan, looking up to see you've fallen from the tree. Blaise's head perks out from leaves. "Are you OK? It's too dark for me to see you." "Yeah, I'm fine." "We should get out of here. My Dad's probably looking for us." You nod, as Blaise quickly drops down from the branches, landing next to you. She pulls you to your feet. "Come on," she says, opening the Garden's door. You walk inside, before you see two Skeletons wearing silver armor rush past you. "Where are they going?" you ask. "I don't know. Wanna follow them?" "Sure," you smile. The pair of you quickly begin following the Skeletons, who rush towards the main gate. When you arrive there, you see a massive force of undead standing at attention at either side of the open gate. A group of a dozen Necromancers led by Blaise's father stand, as a convoy of black carriages approach the gates. "What's going on?" you ask Blaise. "The Vampire Lords must be here." The first Carriage stops just as it passes through the gates. A pale figure with brown hair and a scar going down her left eye in a black cloak climbs out of the carriage. "Lord Harrington! It's a pleasure to see you!" the Grand Necromancer says. Lord Harrington walks up to the Grand Necromancer and shakes his hand. The pair stare each other down. The Vampire Lord is followed by several other pale-skinned figures each coming out of a carriage wearing black coats. To your surprise, you see an Orc among them. "Ah! It's good to see you, my good friend." Lord Harrington says. "It smells of decay and rot," one of the Vampires announces, disgusted. "Ha! I love it! It smells like a feast of carrion, a graveyard made of a castle," the Orc Vampire says. "Who are the children?" an Elf Vampire with a scar going along her mouth making her appear to be grinning. The Grand Necromancer turns, and easily picks you and Blaise out from among the undead. "Ah! This is my daughter Blaise?" "Is the Orc, or maybe ugly Half-Orc, yours? I wouldn't have picked you for an Orc-fucker, Dante, though given your first wife..." one of the Vampires laughs. The Grand Necromancer pulls a long, thin blade from his belt and slashes. The Vampire's throat is slit open, blood pouring down his chest. The other Vampires immediately bare their fangs in snarls. "You invited us into your home and murder you guests, Necromancer!" "Yes, I did. I invited you to my home. I introduced you to my child. You repay with with insults to me and my wife. I will very happily wipe your entire Clan to the last treacherous leach if I hear you say another word about my wife or child." There's a tense stand off as other, presumably lesser Vampires pile out from the coaches with blades drawn, and the Undead raise their weapons. Eventually, Lord Harrington laughs. "Alright, let's calm down. Lord Farquaad insulted your wife in a completely uncalled for attack. We need to stay on good terms, Necromancer. You need our support to expand, we need your support to prevent our executions. I'm sure we have many more polite vampires to take up the mantle of Vampire Lord in Farquaad's place." "Alright, then," the Grand Necromancer says. "Blaise, Dagden, head to bed. Lords, please follow me." Thorin appears from the crowd of undead, and quickly ushers the pair of you back to your rooms wordlessly. You're gently pushed into your room, with the door locked behind you. "Goodnight," Blaise says, just as the door is shut. "Goodnight," you reply, hearing the click of the locking mechanism. You look around the empty room, illuminated by a single candle. You walk over to your bed, and collapse on it. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Eventually sleep takes you. > Dream You lie in bed, dreaming muddled thoughts about flowers and fruit. You're awoken by a hushed voice. "Hello, Orc." You sit up in bed quickly, spotting the vampire with the two scars along her mouth giving her a permanent smile. A small black dog sits at her feet. "Who are you?" "The creepy vampire hiding in your room. Boo," she smiles. "I'm Lady Lane. This if Checkers IX. His family line has been with me since I was a little girl. Checkers I had kids, who had kids, which repeated until the eighth generation." "I'm Dagden." "So tell me, what's an Orc child doing in Reaper Castle? I'm intrigued." > You say "I'm a prisoner here." "A Prisoner? Of course you are, what else would you be? So tell me, how'd you end up here?" "I was kidnapped by zombies." "Ah, the old corpse-fucker was on a quest to gather soldiers, was he? Classic." "Why are you here?" "Oh, I was bored. An agreement was reached early on. Now Harrington is bitching about trade agreements, and I got bored. I found a tunnel system, and found my way here." Lady Lane begins walking around the room, flicking through the books in your bookshelf. > You ask her to stop "Stop searching my room." "Oh, you're boring. I thought you'd be more fun." The Vampire draws a long, thin blade, and begins to twirl it. "After quite a few years, you get so bored of pretty much everything. Everyone's just an archetype, nothing unique or special about them; The simple farmer, the angry warrior, the drunken fool, the pretty prude, the ugly whore, the necromancing megalomaniac... There's only a few who stand out. You and your little girlfriend are two who stand out. I think you'll do great things. So I have an offer to you. You obviously don't have any reason to want to be here. So join me. I have a carriage waiting. Follow me, and I can hide you in the carriage. In the morning, the Vampire Lords depart, and I'll take you with me." "Why me?" "I... taste something about you. A deep power, a great destiny, someone that could help me. So... join me." > Agree "OK, I'll join you." "Oh, goody. There's so much boring stuff going on. I've been waiting for some excitement. Follow me." You stand, and begin following her through the tunnels. Finally, she opens a door, and steps through. You follow, finding yourself having stepped through a door hidden in the stable walls. A black carriage with two black horses sits there. "Come. Climb in," she says, opening the back. A Coffin lies there, empty. "Go on... Climb inside." > Agree Apprentice of Appetizer? You lie down in the coffin, and Lady Lane smiles. "Good. I'll... let you out in a couple hours, once we've left. Then, you can... join me as my apprentice. We'll build an empire together, you and I." She smells the air. "Ah... you smell delicious. I'll see you in a couple of hours." Lady Lane closes the coffin, sealing you in darkness. You're left in complete darkness, unable to see or move. You lie there, waiting patiently to be released. You begin to wonder whether you've made the right choice, and if Lady Lane really intends to train you, rather than use you as a quick snack. I guess only time will tell...

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy, zombie] "Stop searching my room." "Oh, you're boring. I thought you'd be more fun." The Vampire draws a long, thin blade, and begins to twirl it. "After quite a few years, you get so bored of pretty much everything. Everyone's just an archetype, nothing unique or special about them; The simple farmer, the angry warrior, the drunken fool, the pretty prude, the ugly whore, the necromancing megalomaniac... There's only a few who stand out. You and your little girlfriend are two who stand out. I think you'll do great things. So I have an offer to you. You obviously don't have any reason to want to be here. So join me. I have a carriage waiting. Follow me, and I can hide you in the carriage. In the morning, the Vampire Lords depart, and I'll take you with me." "Why me?" "I... taste something about you. A deep power, a great destiny, someone that could help me. So... join me." > You Refuse "No." Lady Lane grins. "Alright then. I'll leave you be. Goodnight, Dagden." She grins at you, her grin elongated by her scars, and leaves through the tunnel, followed by her little dog. You sit in total darkness, not wanting to go back to sleep. Eventually, though, you're unable to stay awake, and fall backwards onto bed. > The Next Day... You sit in the Main Hall, at the left hand side of the Grand Necromancer. "Blaise, sweet heart, I have to leave. The Vampire Lords will only agree to support my campaign if I depart immediately." "OK," Blaise sighs. "I'm sure Dagden will keep you company. I'll have Thorin look after you, and I'll make sure to bring you home a surprise." "OK," Blaise sighs once again. The Grand Necromancer turns to you. "Dagden, I'm entrusting you with my daughter while I'm gone. Obviously Thorin will be in charge of both of you, but I'm still placing an enormous amount of trust in you after such a short time. I'm trusting you to safeguard everything important in life." "Yes, Grand Nec..." you begin. "Oh, can the politeness. I think I can trust you enough with my name if I can trust you with this. Dante. Call me Dante." "I know you care for Blaise, and I know you'll protect her." "I will." "Thank you. Now come on, children. I'm departing." You follow the Grand Necromancer, or "Dante", along the hallways to the main gates. A massive force of undead are waiting. A completely skeletal horse stands waiting for the Grand Necromancer. You see rows of Zombies standing with swords, shields, bows and spears, followed by a few rows of corporal spirits who look angry and ready for battle. Wights stand in front of the rows, acting as leaders. Revenants stand among the zombies, most on horseback, looking fearsome and deadly. Undead Hounds roam around, picking scraps. Massive monstrous versions of humanoids stand high above others. Mercenary Bands stand on the outskirts of the undead army, clearly uncomfortable with the dead. Necromancers crowd around the Necromancer's Steed, helping to keep control of the undead. "Right... I have to go," Dante says, dropping to one knee to kiss his daughter. "I love you." "I love you too, Dad." Dante smiles at Blaise, before standing and climbing onto the horse's back. "Forward! We march towards victory!" he cries. With that, the massive undead army begins moving forward towards their war. You notice tears begin to stream down Blaise's face, and pull her in for a hug. "It's OK. He'll be back in no time." "OK," Blaise sniffles. You watch as the undead army departs, leaving only a small force of undead to defend the castle. > One Month Later... You sit in the almost empty Main Hall, with only Thorin, a few Necromancers and Blaise in there. Necromancer Trant has departed with the Grand Necromancer, as has Balok the Honorless, so you won't get your vengeance yet, but soon. You have a large ham on your plate, which you eagerly carve into. The past month has been... interesting for you. Without the massive amount of undead guards and the Grand Necromancer's watch, you've been awarded endless opportunities to escape. At such a young age, you've already had massive amounts of choices forced on you. You're only ten years old, the same age as Blaise, and you're far too young to have done as much as you did. You've learned a lot about yourself. You had so many chances to escape, but you didn't. Perhaps you're too scared. Not likely, though. More likely, you don't want to. If you really wanted to try to escape, you would've have done so earlier. No, you've made friends with Blaise, closer friends than anyone ever before. "Stitches, come here!" Blaise says, and the undead dog quickly runs up to her, jumping onto the table and beginning to chew on a piece of ham. "I'm so glad he's able to eat at the table now. My dad never let him," Blaise says. You nod your head, feeding a piece of ham to the dog. "Hey, Dag?" "Yeah?" "Do you want to go visit the library after dinner?" You stare at her, wondering whether to fake laugh, before you realize she's not joking. "Why would we do that?" you ask. She leans forward, whispering in your ear. "We could steal the key to the forbidden section from Thorin." You consider it briefly, before nodding. You have always wondered what's in the forbidden section, especially since books about Necromancy and horrible events like the Massacre of the Firstborns are easily available in the main area. Blaise looks at Thorin, who's eating, and knocks her platter to the floor. Thorin bends over to grab the platter, and you see his keys hanging from his belt. You go to take all the keys off, before thinking and deciding to only slide the library key off, which you recognize by the ominous black book on it. You briefly wonder if this is a trap because it seems too easy, but slide the key off with ease. Thorin picks up the platter, and puts it on the table. "Sorry, Thorin," Blaise says. "Oh, no problem at all, Lady Blaise. Shall I get you another meal?" "No thanks. I'm full. May I be excused?" "Of course." "Dagden, are you coming?" You stare at the massive chunk of ham on your plate. You consider abandoning it, but simply pick it up and begin chewing it as you follow Blaise. You quickly follow her through the hallway and up the stairwell, walking into the library. Rows of books fill the library, including any category from tragedy to comedy to history to pastoral to pastoral-comical to historical-pastoral to tragical-historical to tragical-comical-historical to one-act plays to long poems. At the end of the library, enclosed behind an iron gate, is the forbidden section. You walk over, and unlock the door. It creaks open, and Blaise nervously looks around to see if anyone heard. "Relax," you smile. "We're fine." You step inside the forbidden section meant to keep you, Blaise and the apprentice Necromancers area from valuable knowledge. > You start looking through the books You look at all the various books. Many are burned or in languages you don't understand, although you pick out a few books that look interesting. The first is a small white book called A Question to the Gods by Ulthan the Perverse. It's a simple, plain, unassuming book. The second book you pick up is called A Simple Request with no author mentioned. It's a large red book with golden trim that's hot to the touch. The third book is a large black book covered with moss and dried in puss, bile, blood, feces and urine. You manage to make out the title, A Cookbook of Plagues and Pestilence by Percivall Pott. The fourth book is a small light blue book titled simply A Story of People with no named authors. It's quite heavy to pick up for its side, and you feel quite eager to see its contents. The fifth book is a book called The Brutal Torture Sessions of Warlord Ghakin the Soulless with no named author. It's a large, heavy black book. The sixth book you pick up is a book called Fun and Interesting Games to Play, which by everything on the cover seems to be a children's book. The seventh book is a leather-bound journal, with "Annabelle's Journal" written across the front. The final book you take out is called The Knowledge of the Ancients, by Jacob Sinclair. It has a cross between a bear, a human and an octopus face on the leather cover. > A Simple Request You open the book, which is as hot as warmed coals. You quickly put it on the floor so you don't have to hold it and begin reading. "Hello, kind Sir. Thank you for picking up this book. If I may take a few moments of your time, my name is Bablex. I am, in all honesty, a demon. I was trapped in this book near three decades ago. My internal prison is unbreakable, and I have many, many enemies I wish to gain my vengeance in hunting down, all denizens of the Infernal Realms of which I was created. I only request you release me. I swear no harm shall come to you or anyone from your plane of existence, ever. At least, none caused by me. Simply sign your name at the bottom of this page and I shall be freed. I have nothing to offer you but my thanks, which I will offer eagerly. At the bottom of the page is a signature line. Quite helpfully, a quill is wedged in between two of the pages. You look at all the various books. Many are burned or in languages you don't understand, although you pick out a few books that look interesting. The first is a small white book called A Question to the Gods by Ulthan the Perverse. It's a simple, plain, unassuming book. The second book you pick up is called A Simple Request with no author mentioned. It's a large red book with golden trim that's hot to the touch. The third book is a large black book covered with moss and dried in puss, bile, blood, feces and urine. You manage to make out the title, A Cookbook of Plagues and Pestilence by Percivall Pott. The fourth book is a small light blue book titled simply A Story of People with no named authors. It's quite heavy to pick up for its side, and you feel quite eager to see its contents. The fifth book is a book called The Brutal Torture Sessions of Warlord Ghakin the Soulless with no named author. It's a large, heavy black book. The sixth book you pick up is a book called Fun and Interesting Games to Play, which by everything on the cover seems to be a children's book. The seventh book is a leather-bound journal, with "Annabelle's Journal" written across the front. The final book you take out is called The Knowledge of the Ancients, by Jacob Sinclair. It has a cross between a bear, a human and an octopus face on the leather cover. > A Story of People You pick up the book, flicking it open to start reading. The first page details a small amount of back story as a young man named Benjamin who loved horse-riding and reading especially, and was the son of a rich Lord. Eventually, he found a small book which he began reading, only for it to suck him into an area of pure darkness, where he was forced to wander forever for a way out. You turn the page, only to find almost the exact same story. Marion was a young fishmonger who couldn't find a husband, before finding the book and being teleported to the dark place to end up as an eternal wanderer searching for freedom. You turn the page, and see the same story again with a different person. You want to put down the book, but you simply can't. Something's forcing you to continue reading. You reach the final page, and let out a scream as you see the title: Dagden. > Scream Wandering the Blank Pages You scream, as a blinding light causes you to shut your eyes. You open it, to see nothing. "Hello? Hello?" you ask, waving your hands around, finding nothing. You step forward, waving around to grab something. You need to find a way out. You begin walking in a straight line. You know if you keep walking, you'll reach... something. There has to be something. There's always something. You begin walking, wandering the blank pages.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy] You look at all the various books. Many are burned or in languages you don't understand, although you pick out a few books that look interesting. The first is a small white book called A Question to the Gods by Ulthan the Perverse. It's a simple, plain, unassuming book. The second book you pick up is called A Simple Request with no author mentioned. It's a large red book with golden trim that's hot to the touch. The third book is a large black book covered with moss and dried in puss, bile, blood, feces and urine. You manage to make out the title, A Cookbook of Plagues and Pestilence by Percivall Pott. The fourth book is a small light blue book titled simply A Story of People with no named authors. It's quite heavy to pick up for its side, and you feel quite eager to see its contents. The fifth book is a book called The Brutal Torture Sessions of Warlord Ghakin the Soulless with no named author. It's a large, heavy black book. The sixth book you pick up is a book called Fun and Interesting Games to Play, which by everything on the cover seems to be a children's book. The seventh book is a leather-bound journal, with "Annabelle's Journal" written across the front. The final book you take out is called The Knowledge of the Ancients, by Jacob Sinclair. It has a cross between a bear, a human and an octopus face on the leather cover. > The Knowledge of the Ancients You open the book, and begin gazing upon all the information held within. You learn massive amounts of information, why the sun rotates, the moon's orbit, the destiny of the Red Blade Tribe, the future of the Elves, the true cause of life... Your head begins to burn as you begin learning concepts the mind was not developed to handle. Logic and Reason are pathetic attempts to understand the true meanings of life. No one will understand the world like you do now. Your head begins to fill with knowledge, and you scream. > You abandon Sanity Knowledge is Power, Power is Corruption You sit, babbling your prophetic knowledge, though you know no one around you understands a single word you're saying. The ignorant idiots know nothing compared to you. You stare at the black stone walls, and laugh. You understand everything now. It's all meaningless. What's even the point of continuing? You feel a cold cloth press against your head and you laugh. These fools, these idiots, know nothing. You know everything. You break into laughter, sitting in the empty room.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy] You look at all the various books. Many are burned or in languages you don't understand, although you pick out a few books that look interesting. The first is a small white book called A Question to the Gods by Ulthan the Perverse. It's a simple, plain, unassuming book. The second book you pick up is called A Simple Request with no author mentioned. It's a large red book with golden trim that's hot to the touch. The third book is a large black book covered with moss and dried in puss, bile, blood, feces and urine. You manage to make out the title, A Cookbook of Plagues and Pestilence by Percivall Pott. The fourth book is a small light blue book titled simply A Story of People with no named authors. It's quite heavy to pick up for its side, and you feel quite eager to see its contents. The fifth book is a book called The Brutal Torture Sessions of Warlord Ghakin the Soulless with no named author. It's a large, heavy black book. The sixth book you pick up is a book called Fun and Interesting Games to Play, which by everything on the cover seems to be a children's book. The seventh book is a leather-bound journal, with "Annabelle's Journal" written across the front. The final book you take out is called The Knowledge of the Ancients, by Jacob Sinclair. It has a cross between a bear, a human and an octopus face on the leather cover. > You finish reading and leave the Forbidden Section You finish reading, and step away from the Forbidden Section. "This is creepy." "Yeah, definitely. I read about demons, and this weird ritual that creates living toys, and there was one book that just screamed. Let's get out of here," Blaise nods. You close the gate to the Forbidden Section, locking it behind you. "What now?" you ask. "Let's go to the tree," Blaise says. You follow Blaise along the hallways, eventually finding your way to the Garden. You open the door, and briefly marvel at flowers. Blaise leaps onto one of the branches, quickly climbing to the top of the tree. You follow, arriving at the top. The sun is just setting, and the stars are amount to appear. "That was fun. Scary, though. It is scary, thinking of all the things that could get me." "Don't worry, I'll protect you." "Shut up. I'll protect myself. You can protect... Stitches." You chuckle, staring as stars appear in the sky. A cold wind begins to blow, rustling the leaves. You feel your body's temperature drop so much you start to shiver. "It's really cold," Blaise says. "The wind really picked up." > You suggest going inside "Maybe we should go inside." "Yeah. You're right," Blaise says. Blaise rolls off the branch, dropping down from the tree. She lands on the soil with a soft thud, and you quickly follow afterwards. You open the door and walk inside, away from the cold wind. You walk inside, before walking along the hallway. All of a sudden, you spot a small brown rat in front of you. > Panic at the sight of the Rat "Ah! Blaise! Look out, it's a rat! Kill it! Kill it with fire! Shoo, you little brown monster! Shoo you demon of hell, you shall not take my soul! Get away!" Blaise giggles. "Calm down, Dagden! It's just a rat!" You draw your knife, pointing it at the rat. "I want it dead," you say. > You kill the Rat You quickly run forward, catching the rat by it's tail. You lift it up into the air, and impale the rat with your knife. You breathe a sigh of relief as you toss the dead rat to the floor. "Why'd you do that?" Blaise asks angrily. "It was a rat," you say, surprised at her outburst. Blaise drops to her knees, and picks up the rat. She whispers something softly to the rat as a light black energy flows from her fingertips, and all of a sudden, the rat jumped up. "I did it!" Blaise exclaims proudly. "Ah! Blaise! Kill it! Kill it! It's eating you." "Stop it," Blaise says, holding up the rat. "I just made my first Wight. A rat Wight, but still. Do you like it?" "No. I hate it. Kill it now," you say, backing away from the rat. "Come on. Face you fears. When I was little, I used to be so afraid of the dark I brought a torch everywhere. Then one night, I spent the entire night in the pitch black tunnels. Then I wasn't afraid of the dark anymore. I faced my fears." "I did face my fears. I faced it, and killed it. Do you want me to show you and kill it again?" "Take the rat," Blaise says. "No." "Take the rat or we're not friends anymore." "Fine." Blaise sighs. "Come on. If you've ever trusted me on anything, trust me on this." You sigh, roll your eyes and extend a hand. The Rat hops across, and runs up your arm, before sitting on your shoulder. "He's yours now. You need a pet." You stare at the rat, unnerved. "OK," you say say slowly. "Well, go on. Give him a name." "No." "Come on." "I'm not naming him." "Fine. I will. Mort." "Mort?" "It means Dead, or Death, or something like it. It's fitting, don't you think?" You shrug, before feeling a cold hand grab your shoulder. You turn, to see Thorin standing over you. "Lady Blaise, Mr Dagden. You've stolen something from me." You wince, and hand him the key. "Do you know what would've happened to me if I let the Grand Necromancer's daughter be possessed by a ghost, or driven insane, or turned into a goose? The books in the Forbidden Section are incredibly dangerous." "Sorry, Thorin," you both say in unison. "Both of you: To your rooms." You nod, and quickly begin walking off towards your room. Blaise mouths "Tunnel" to you before she turns away, and you nod. Thorin escorts you back to your room, locking the door behind you. Almost immediately, you head towards the bookshelf, pushing it out of the way to give you access to the tunnels inside. You do so, and walk into the darkness. You feel something run up your leg and you struggle not to scream, before realizing it's your new "pet" Mort. Mort sits on your shoulder, and you use all your inner strength to keep yourself from pushing him off. You bump into a figure in the dark, and raise your blade. "Who do you think it could be besides me?" Blaise asks in the darkness. "Oh yeah. Hey." "So, what do you want to do?" "Let's go exploring." > One Year Later... It's been a year since the Grand Necromancer departed for war. You can tell from letters and gossip from traders that the war is going well, but you've yet to see his return. Sadly, both Necromancer Trant and Balok the Honorless have yet to be killed in battle. Then again, this means they'll be alive for when you kill them. Although your initial anger and rage towards them has faded, you know as an Orc it's your duty and responsibility to get revenge for Bagig. This has clearly been hurting Blaise emotionally, as she's been acting sadder and spending more time in her room lately. Finally, you decide to talk to Thorin. "Is she usually this sad when her dad goes?" Thorin asks. "Sometimes, especially around holidays. Her eleventh birthday is in a week's time, and her father said he wouldn't be able to arrive in time for it." "Oh," you say, turning to leave. "Thanks." You remember briefly your birthday two months ago, a small affair where you were given extra portions of food. You did receive some presents, though, which lie across your room. > You go back to your room and look over your presents You look over your presents, and feel a pang of gratitude towards the gift-givers. From Thorin, you received the key to your room as a symbol of trust, a small iron key that now permanently hangs at your belt. You also received a large bronze cage for Mort. From Mr Nilvos, you received several lessons in Blood Magic. You have a small stone carved with intricate patterns on you desk, a magical object that runs on blood, as well as a book on Blood Magic. If you cut yourself, usually in the thumb or shoulder, and let your blood flow onto the stone, the stone will grant you increased speed, stamina, strength, endurance and agility, which will continue to grow if you fight and draw the blood of your enemies. You received your favorite present from Blaise. Your new long sword, nicknamed Blood Spiller, quite clearly must have taken some effort on Blaise's part to be found, given that the blade is of Orcish origin and was even used by a Blood Mage. She probably spent loads of time commanding undead soldiers to scavenge for the weapon. Your rub the blade lovingly, and feel a pang of guilt in that you haven't gotten Blaise a gift yet, and her birthday's next week. You resolve to find something as soon as possible. > You go talk to Blaise to get an idea of what she wants You search the castle for Blaise, finding her sitting on the top of the castle wall, looking off into the distance. You climb quickly to the top of the wall, walking over to Blaise. "Hey." "Hi," Blaise replies. "Are you alright?" Blaise shrugs. "I guess," she says. "I miss my dad a lot." "I know you do. I'm sorry." "He's always been here for my birthdays. He always got me some stupid piece of jewelry with a massive gem and a golden chain that looks stupid and far too rich for me but I'd love anyway because they were from him." "I'm sorry. You don't need to just stay up here and be sad. We can..." "I'm watching the dragon," Blaise says, pointing off into the distance. You follow her finger, and spot the massive winged creature, flying off in the distance. "What is it doing so far out here?" you ask, surprised. "I don't know. It's quite beautiful." "You like dragons?" "Yes. They're fantastic." "It seems to be cheering you up." "Yeah," Blaise smiles. "I was close to tears when I came up here at first." The Dragon swoops down, landing off in a very small mountainous or hilly area. "Oh. I'll miss it," Blaise says. "I'm going to go inside. You coming?" "No. I'll stay out here for a while," you say. "OK," Blaise nods, walking off down the stairs. An idea strikes you. You could quite easily steal a horse, head up to the very small mountain or very large hill, and collect one of the many teeth that's falling out of its mouth. You hope, at least. If the dragon is nesting up there, there will definitely be a load of teeth that dragons go through weekly. You'll steal a horse, sneak past the guards and head up to the dragon nest. You look off towards the setting sun. You'll need to go soon. > Two Hours Later... You sneak into the stables, staying low to avoid the sight of the zombified guards. Your long sword is strapped to your back, your dagger in your boots, your bloodstone in your pocket as well as an extra large health potion stolen from Mr Nilvos' room. You slip into the stables, where dozens of horses tied up in there. Some are living flesh and blood horses, some are rotting, semi-skeletal beasts that have been brought back from death by the Grand Necromancer. You could probably manage to ride either one. > You steal a living horse You decide to steal a normal horse, and quickly find one that's saddled, a chestnut brown mare. You gingerly slide your feet into it's stirrups, and hop onto the horse's back. You give the horse a light kick, and it begins to move forward. You pull on the reigns to get it to slow down, but it speeds up. Perhaps there's more to riding horses than you thought. You wrap your arms and legs around the horse, which continues speeding up. You manage to guide the horse through the gates, where undead sentries watch you leave. They raise their bow and arrows and crossbows, but none of them fire, perhaps recognizing you. You try to reign control of the horse, pointing it towards the mountain range. > One Hour Later... After about an hour, you reach the mountain range. To your relief, it's much less of a mountain range than a particularly hilly area. It'll take only about a twenty minute walk to reach the top of the largest hills. You manage to get your mount to stop, and manage to free your feet from the stirrups, letting you hop off. You wrap the horse's reigns around a small tree so you're not left here without a ride home. Then, you begin the long trek up towards where you saw the dragon land. You keep your gaze at the top of the mountain, watching for any distant flying shapes. You manage to make it up the inclines quickly enough despite the heavy weight of the long sword that you probably shouldn't have brought, although you see no sight of any dragon nest. Perhaps the dragon did even land in the area to nest, maybe it only stopped to feast on prey. Still, you assume the dragon would've needed it's rest, and would have roosted somewhere. You can only hope. You freeze as you see a small brown hare, feasting on grass. You could barely spot it in the darkness, but your years wandering through the tunnels have heightened your sense in the darkness. The hare doesn't seem to notice you, and the thought of some meat after such a long journey is appealing. You resolve to catch the rabbit, but the only question is how. > You sneak up on it You edge forward slowly, hoping your prey doesn't notice. Crack You feel the ground breaking under you wait, and let out a piercing scream as you go through the ground. You fall flailing, before you hit the hard stone ground with a painful thud. You rub your legs, and thankfully they're only bruised and not fractured or broken. You look up, seeing that the entire ground has fallen away into some cave system. You're surprised the rabbit didn't bring it down, let alone you. You stand painfully, looking around the empty cavern. You can hear deep breathing echoing off the cave walls. You draw your long sword, a weapon you're barely able to carry on your back, let alone in your hands. You decide to sheath it, and draw your knife. You move forward slowly, before spotting it. The dragon's scales shimmer black like a canvas of nothingness, its teeth look sharp enough to tear through an armored knight in a second and its wings wrap around itself in an effort to keep warm. Its eyes are closed, and you assume it's sleeping. You spot one of its teeth, a long, beautiful white curved fang, lying next to it's body, lodged in the rotting body of a sheep. You slowly begin to edge towards the tooth and carcass. Then, it's eyes burst open. "Why, little Orc, have you disturbed my rest?" it asks in a booming voice. You struggle not to scream as its head raises, staring at you. It's eyes are red and slitted like a snake's, and they appear to peer into your soul. > You attack the Dragon You charge at it, jabbing your knife. You slash at its face, but your knife only scratches its scales. It opens its mouth in a roar, before a cascade of flames spills out, engulfing you. You scream as your body is turned to ash. > Death Eternal Sleep Your life force is taken from you as you enter the endless sleep of death.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy] You edge forward slowly, hoping your prey doesn't notice. Crack You feel the ground breaking under you wait, and let out a piercing scream as you go through the ground. You fall flailing, before you hit the hard stone ground with a painful thud. You rub your legs, and thankfully they're only bruised and not fractured or broken. You look up, seeing that the entire ground has fallen away into some cave system. You're surprised the rabbit didn't bring it down, let alone you. You stand painfully, looking around the empty cavern. You can hear deep breathing echoing off the cave walls. You draw your long sword, a weapon you're barely able to carry on your back, let alone in your hands. You decide to sheath it, and draw your knife. You move forward slowly, before spotting it. The dragon's scales shimmer black like a canvas of nothingness, its teeth look sharp enough to tear through an armored knight in a second and its wings wrap around itself in an effort to keep warm. Its eyes are closed, and you assume it's sleeping. You spot one of its teeth, a long, beautiful white curved fang, lying next to it's body, lodged in the rotting body of a sheep. You slowly begin to edge towards the tooth and carcass. Then, it's eyes burst open. "Why, little Orc, have you disturbed my rest?" it asks in a booming voice. You struggle not to scream as its head raises, staring at you. It's eyes are red and slitted like a snake's, and they appear to peer into your soul. > You explain your situation "I... have come to take one of your teeth." The Dragon pauses, perhaps confused by this answer. "My teeth? Why? A dare, perhaps? An attempt at black magic?" "For a girl." The Dragon breaks into booming laughter, a horrible noise that makes you want to claw out your ears. "For a girl? I remember my days of mating past. I had entire Dwarven settlements wiped out and their treasure hoard stolen to be gifted to me by potential mates." "Well, I can't do that." The Dragon stares at you, before it laughs again. "I'll be honest, Orc, I'm nothing if not amused at this. It's amusing enough for me to let you live, and damn the Gods, I'll let you take the tooth. It's of no use to me." Your eyes widen. "Really?" "You're still here? You shouldn't be. Go." You nod, and quickly grab the dragon tooth and rush out of the cave. You quickly make your way down what is either a very large hill or a very small mountain. You manage to find your mount, still tied up, and untie it. You climb up on its back and into the saddle, and kick it gently. The horse begins to gallop off towards the castle. > One Hour Later... You arrive at the castle, and ride through the gates. The undead guards watch you wordlessly, and you ride back into the stables. You tie your trusty steed back in it's home, and sneak back into your bed. You fall asleep, happy with your success. You can't wait to see Blaise's face on her birthday. > One Week Later... Today is Blaise's birthday. Blaise seems quite down and depressed from the absence of the Grand Necromancer, and is slumped over the feast table, pecking at the apple core that remains of her breakfast. You've yet to say a single word to her, just watched her embroiled in her sadness. Finally, you talk, breaking her silence. "Happy birthday," you say. "Thanks," Blaise says, not looking up. "Are you alright?" you ask. "Yes," she answers. You sigh. "Listen, Blaise..." Blaise looks up at you, appearing close to tears. "What?" You decide you really need to do something to perk up her spirits. > You flirt with her "That dress looks really pretty on you." Blaise looks down at the light blue dress she's wearing, and blushes. "Oh, jeez, thanks. I just kind of threw this on, it's nothing special." "Well, maybe it's just you who's pretty." Blaise blushes even brighter, and shyly smiles. "Thank you," she says softly. "Come on. It's early. Let's go watch the sunrise from the top of the walls." "OK," you nod. Blaise jumps up from the table, and rushes off. > You follow Blaise You follow Blaise through the halls until she reaches outside of the castle. She quickly begins climbing the stairs to the castle walls. Several undead soldiers stand by the walls, although with a wave of her hand, Blaise commands them to leave. "You're getting good at that." "I've been practicing. When Dad gets back, I'll have him teach me more. I've been practicing really hard, to be honest. I'm better than Mr Nilvos now." You reach the top of the castle, seeing the sun rise over the Eastern Horizon. "I've always liked sunsets," Blaise says softly. Suddenly, you hear the sound of the gates being opened. You turn, to see a black cloaked figure riding through on a skeletal horse. He quickly hops off the horse, and rushes up the stairs to the top of the wall. "Hello, sweetheart!" he cries happily. "Dad!" Blaise cries. "I thought... You said in your letter you wouldn't be able to make it!" "It was only a white lie to surprise you. I wish you could've seen the look on your face!" The Grand Necromancer tousles his daughter's hair, and pulls her in for a hug. "I've missed you so much! Happy birthday, Blaise! I love you so much." "I love you too. How was your campaign?" "I killed and conquered, like always. I've conquered much territory, and gained a new series of subjects who aren't rotting. I do now have to deal with things like taxes, trade routes and having an image. I'm still working on my title. Would you prefer to be a Princess or Archduchess?" "Well, if you can pick whatever title, what about God? I'd like to be a God." The Grand Necromancer laughs. "Sure thing, honey. Oh, I almost forgot. I come bearing gifts! The main army will be here within a few hours, and they're bringing your birthday presents." "Thanks," Blaise smiles happily. The Grand Necromancer grins back at her, before turning to you. "Dagden! How have you been? It's been a while. You've grown." "Yeah. I've been good, thanks. How's the war going, Grand Necromancer?" you reply. "Please, I've told you, call me Dante. It's going well. Very well, thank you. Oh, and don't worry, I brought you some late birthday gifts as well... Or early birthday gifts. When is your birthday?" "About two months ago." "Well, a late gift, then. Come on. Let's go inside. I have a few things to discuss with Thorin, and then we'll spend some time together." You look out at the army of undeath. You don't spot Balok the Honorless, but you spot Trant the Undying, and repeat to yourself that you'll get your revenge, if more for tradition's sake of avenging family than anger. Then, you follow Blaise and Dante down the stairs back inside the castle. > Two Hours Later... You sit in the Main Hall, watching as a massive amount of zombies begin to enter the hall. You see a couple new Necromancers and Mercenaries among the crowd of undead. Blaise sits at the head of the table, as you realize how differently you were raised. Blaise's mum is dead and her father is rarely around, although she's spoiled by riches. Your parents were always there, but they never spoiled you. You decide you got the better deal. "OK, bring out the gifts! Happy birthday, Blaise!" Dante yells. You look at Blaise as she begins to receive her gifts. A large ceramic bowl covered with decorations of wild and fantastic beasts which you're told is of High Elf creation, is presented to her, filled to the brim with large, plump red fruit the size of a man's head. You stare eagerly as more gifts are brought in, looking for anything interesting among the boring, "pretty" gifts. You see Blaise is given several new dresses made of various materials, ranging from a plain white cotton dress to a sparkling blue dress made from fine silk. Then there's some more bland, banal gifts, before you spot something of interest, a large oak box with golden trim. Taylor opens it slowly, revealing a polished, shining dagger made of pure black. "It's obsidian. A choice tool of magic users from the Pyromaniac of Igia Falls to the Demon Price Narxhall to Grand Elder Hyde. You've become so skilled at Necromancy I think you deserve a weapon. The obsidian blade is performing rituals and brutally stabbing all your enemies. I hope you like it." "Thanks. I love it," Blaise says, hugging her father. The next few gifts are interesting and decorative, including a shining dragon egg with the dragon inside now dead, a full set of Elven Archer Armor on a stand that's far too big for her to ever wear and is purely decorative, and a massive Dragon skull the size of Blaise that takes four undead beings to carry it. As well as her father's endless barrage of gifts, the Necromancers, some mercenaries and even some Wights and Revenants give her presents, ranging from flowers for her garden to jewelry to clothes. All this makes your gift seem rather inadequate. You feel Mort run along your arm to sit on your shoulder, and gently stroke his head. You've got used to the little monster. You check your pocket, to find your gift's still there. The necklace wraps around your wrist. It's chain is iron, the links scavenged off the many undead who inhabit the castle, no longer having any need for their jewelry. Hanging from the chain is the large dragon fang that was so hard to obtain, the pendant of the entire gift. > You give it to Blaise As you begin the walk over, Dante grabs your shoulder. "Dagden. I'm having one of my zombies bring your birthday gifts to your room." "Thanks," you reply. "I also got you this," he says. He drops a golden necklace with a giant diamond in your hands. You stare at the clearly feminine piece of jewelry for a second. "Is... Am I supposed to wear this?" "No, of course not. I doubted you'd be able to get Blaise a gift, so I got you one for her." "Oh. Thanks." "If you don't want to give it to her, that's alright. I just wanted to give you the option." You nod, and Dante disappears off to command some zombies to bring out the food. "Come on, sit! Time to feast!" Dante cries. You sit down, sliding both necklaces into your pocket. You'll give Blaise her gift later. You sit down, noticing Blaise sits at the head of the table in Dante's spot while Dante sits in Blaise's. "Happy Birthday, Blaise. Having fun?" "Yeah, I am," Blaise smiles. "So, did you get me a gift? Is it edible? Is it a puppy?" "I'll give it to you later," you smile. The undead, monstrosity that you've come to love known as Stitches rushes out, and you begin to rub his back. You've managed to teach Stitches not to eat Mort, so you're happy to have them both around. An undead zombie drops a plate of steaks, Blaise's favorite food, in front of you. You watch with many mixed emotions as Blaise eagerly snatches up a steak and crams it into her mouth. You have no idea how, but the massive chunk of meat is gone within seconds. You find it interesting that someone so small and skinny is able to consume so much. Maybe it's a human thing. "A toast!" Dante cries, raising a golden goblet. "To Blaise, may she have a long and prosperous life!" You grab a mug of frothy wort beer and raise it. "Cheers!" you say and hear in return from everyone at the table. You take a long drink, and put the mug down. You impale a piece of steak with a fork, and begin to eat your lunch eagerly. > Three Hours Later... The next few hours are a blur of toasting, drinking, eating and such. Eventually, in a break among the insanity of the hectic Main Hall, Blaise pulls you aside. "Hey, Dag," she says, pulling you off to the side. "Hey. Enjoying your party?" "Yeah. Well I was. The large crowd's getting very frustrating, even if most of them are dead. Do you want to go to the garden?" "Sure," you nod. "But won't the others be annoyed or...?" "They're all far too drunk to notice. If we're back in time for the dinner feast, we'll be fine." You nod, and quickly follow Blaise, exiting into her room. You push the bookshelf out of the way, and enter the hidden room, before entering the tunnels. You walk along the tunnels, then the hallways, before arriving at the garden. "The flowers are looking good," you mention. "Yeah, they are. The endless supply of bone meal that comes from being a Necromancer's daughter does help growth." Blaise leaps up through the tree branches and quickly climbs the tree. You follow after her, climbing the tree and reaching the top. You lie across the branches like you always do, as does Blaise. "So..." Blaise begins. "So?" You ask. "What'd you get me for my birthday? Is it a puppy?" "My friendship." "I already had that. What I didn't have was a puppy." "Well my friendship's better than a puppy." "Seriously, what'd you get me?" "A necklace," you say, sliding your hand into your pocket. > You give her the Dragon Tooth Necklace You pull out the Dragon tooth necklace, and hand it to her. Her eyes widen. "Is that a...?" "Dragon tooth? Yeah." "I love it. It's beautiful," she says, putting it around her neck. "Thank you. It's the best gift I've even gotten. How did you even get it?" "I snuck out the night we saw the dragon and stole it from the dragon's nest." "You idiot! You could've died! The dragon could've tore you apart, or bit off your skull, or..." "But it didn't, so I'm fine. I'm glad you like it." "I do. I really do. It's fantastic." What are you going to do?" Blaise asks suddenly. "What do you mean?" "In life? Are you going to become a mercenary, or travel as a wandering hero, or..." "I don't know. What are you going to do?" "I don't know either. My Dad always said he wants me to be his heir." "Do you want that?" "No. Well, yes and no. I do want to be his heir. But I don't think I'm able to. I'm not very powerful. I've spent my entire life inside this castle. I'm really quite ignorant of everything outside. There's so much I haven't done. There's also loads of stuff that I haven't done that I want to. I haven't see the Dwarven Mines, I haven't visited towns or the Kingdom of Man, or went to a real school. I've only ever had one friend in my entire life. I've never seen how a town works, or how trade works, or gossiped with friends, or been part of a group, or played games with friends, or been to a friend's house, or kissed a boy..." > You kiss her You lean in and kiss Blaise. Her eyes widen, before closing. You've no idea how long the kiss lasts, but you're enraptured by it, every second lasting an eternity. Finally, you pull back. Blaise stares at you, blushing incredibly red like she always does when she's embarrassed. "Oh," she says softly. "I didn't know you..." You smile at her, and feel your own cheeks blushing. You sit next to each other in silence, then sunlight warming you both. "I really like you," Blaise says. "I really like you too." Blaise smiles, and looks up at you. "Come on, let's go inside." > Two Hours Later... After another two hours of drinking and feasting with Dante, other Necromancers and Mercenaries, all of who are far too pissed to even realize you exist let alone weren't there. You find the atmosphere awkward, and mostly spend it in a corner, stroking Mort. You do happen to spot Mr Nilvos trying to drunkenly convince Dante that he "knows a really, really cool demon who would make this party so much better after a goat sacrifice or two". You also spot Balok the Honorless drinking mugs of ale and Necromancer Trant having wine in a corner. You'll enjoy butchering them, eventually. Although your need for revenge is going down the list of things of importance, Papa would still want you to. Eventually, you end up talking to Blaise by the Main Hall. "Everyone here's so drunk. Should I be drunk?" you ask. "You're too young to be drunk," Blaise says. "We're the only kids here." "What about Thorin? He's dead, he probably can't get drunk." "I saw Thorin downing mug after mug of mead. If he's not drunk, he's not done trying." "Hey, I have a question." "Promise me you'll answer honestly." "I promise." "Are you going to leave?" "What?" "Well, you started as a prisoner here. I don't even know what you are now. Are you going to leave here, and never see me again?" "No. We'll stick together. I promise." "Thanks," Blaise smiles, giving you a hug. "Alright! Everyone! Gather round, gather round! It's time for a toast!" Dante yells drunkenly. > You sit down You sit down at the table besides Blaise, who sits at the head of the table. Dante stands up, a goblet of wine in his hands. You realize he's far too drunk too actually be in the position to make a speech, so you stand to tell him to sit down. "Dagden, don 't ruin this!" Mr Nilvos yells. "This'll be funny." You sit down, and Dante begins making his speech. "I had Blaise eleven years ago today. She was the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. The most beautiful human being I've ever seen. She's even prettier than her mother, may her soul find peace. When I met Annabelle, I thought I could never be in love more than I was with her. Blaise proved me wrong. I love Blaise more than anything in the world. I would abandon everything just to make her happy. So sweetheart, happy birthday, I love you, and you'll be the best goddamn... er... person ever!" Dante collapses into his chair to a polite round of applause, although Blaise seems genuinely touched by this. "Happy birthday, Blaise," you say. "May the next few years bring good fortune and luck for us all." > Two Years Later... Over the next two years, Dante spends varying amounts of time at Reaper Castle. He says he has a newborn empire to command, and its slowly growing through small military engagements and negotiations, giving him more and more jobs that need to be done. You and Blaise continue to bond, although at this point you've both explored pretty much everywhere and done everything there is to be done. You've found the mass grave hidden under the kitchens, you found the hidden room filled with paintings under Dante's bedroom, you've even discovered the escape tunnel that links through the tunnels through a hidden door. You find it odd that the hidden door is only accessible through going through tunnels that themselves can only be accessed through hidden doors. You also devise many, many plans and ways to butcher Necromancer Trant and Balok the Honorless, though boredom is the main reason behind that. Although the boring castle stays the same, as you hit twelve and then thirteen, you change. As you reach maturity, you grow in size. Puberty hits you especially hard and early, even for an Orc. You become taller, larger and stronger as your muscle mass rapidly increases. You teeth sharpen, your skin toughens and your strength. speed, endurance and stamina increase. Your maturity also heightens your abilities in Blood Magic. Mr Nilvos tells you that this is natural, and your puberty is awakening your dormant magic abilities. This further helps you become the killing machine you've become. Blaise also matures, in different ways. Her magical abilities increase substantially. She gains control of her lightning powers, but those are pathetic in comparison with her necromancy. Her necromancy powers awaken and allow her control over the dead and the ability to raise them on a level unknown to her before. She's improving so quickly that she'll outclass her father much sooner than expected. She also changes in some other ways, that may or may not affect you in new and weird ways and awaken some primal part of you. You sit in Mr Nilvos' Class, watching Blaise work. She stands surrounded by a circle of dead corpses, lying around her. She closes her eyes and begins whispering to herself, and the corpses begin to stand. They growl, and turn to look at Blaise. The dead salute, before drawing swords from their side. They all stab themselves through the heart, and collapse. "Good, good. Well done, Blaise. Though I would've preferred if you had them leave my class before killing themselves." "Oh yeah. Sorry," Blaise blushes. "Alright, let's finish for the day. We'll meet back here tomorrow and see what other undead monstrosities can be raised." Stitches runs into the room, barking happily. "Perhaps we'll kill the mongrel tomorrow," Mr Nilvos says, staring disdainfully at the dog. "Dagden, practice your blood magic. Try to see if you can master breaking through a door when powered by blood sacrifice." You nod, and follow Blaise and Stitches out of the room eagerly, heading straight to Dante's private Chambers. Tomorrow is the day of the Ceremony of Pledging. The various Necromancers, Mercenary Captains, Lords, Ladies, Mayors and Politicians who hold positions of power among the new empire of undeath are going to meet at Reaper Castle to pledge their loyalty to the Grand Necromancer. This means there's going to be a massive celebration and people coming from across the land, which will draw powerful and rich merchants from across the globe and all the goods and valuables that they bring, which can only be good. "Dad! Dad!" Blaise shouts, rushing ahead of you and arriving at Dante's room, before sharply knocking. Dante opens the door, dressed in his Necromancer Robes. "Ah, Blaise! Is your class finished already? That Dark Elf is getting lazier. Well, what is it?" "Have any of the Merchant Caravans come to supply the Ceremony of Pledging?" "Not to my knowledge. I do believe the Chinkrinski Entertainers have arrived, if you want to visit them. I'm sure they wouldn't mind." "Who are they?" you ask. "A newly formed band of entertainers I've hired to entertain the visitors. I'm sure they're not the sweet rolls and delicious fruit you were hoping for, but I'm sure they'll be of some entertainment." "OK, cool," Blaise smiles. "Thanks, Dad." "Sure. Now, go along, They're in James' Barracks. I need to be alone, I need time to prepare. Some of the guests are arriving today, I need to get ready." Blaise nods, and Dante closes the door. You follow Blaise out towards James' Barracks, and knock on the oak door. The door is opened by a tall figure wearing a top hat and a black coat with purple trim. "Ah, Children! I love children! Please, do come in!" he says in an eerily excited tone. "Who are you, may I ask? The children of diplomats? Very young merchant workers?" "I'm Blaise. I'm the Grand Necromancer's daughter." "Ah, wonderful! So wonderful! I bet you've come to be entertained, amused and amazed! You've come to the right place: Mister Chinkrinkski, master of magic and murderer of the mundane! Not literally, of course!" Mister Chinkrinkski's smile is creepily wide, and you back away slightly. Still, Blaise pushes ahead inside the barracks fearlessly. > You follow her inside You follow Blaise inside, and Mister Chinkrinkski closes the door. You find yourself in a large, empty sitting room that branches out into dozens of smaller rooms. "Please, take a seat! Arantri, please come here! Blaise... What was your name, again?" Mister Chinkrinkski asks. "Dag." "Ah, yes! Blaise, Dag, please sit down. Have you ever seen a Centaur?" You both sit, shaking your heads. Then, a large creature appears. Its body is a horse, but where the neck would be is the upper half of a man. His hair is dread locked, and he holds two curved swords. "Behold! Aranti, the horse-man of Kasikstinya, the Prowler of the Wandering Wastes, the Hunter of the cursed!" The Centaur, Aranti, stares at you both for a second. "What?" he asks. You stare at him, trying to comprehend how something like him would even come around. "Are... Is one of your parents a horse?" you ask, confused. "Is one of your parents a pig?" he says. walking away. > You Continue "Look at you! Delightful! Absolutely delightful! They're amazed!" Mister Chinkrinkski laughs. "Entertainers! We have visitors! Please, children, feel free to explore our humble abode and see what talents, tricks and delights we have to offer. Aranti's room is down the hall on the first left, Samwell on the second left, the delightful, stupendous Cursed Crew second on the right, Dog-Tongue's room is the first right and Tiny Tonk's room is underneath in the cellar! Please, explore and enjoy! If you're hungry or thirsty, just ask, or I could show you a magic trick." > You visit the Cursed Crew's room You walk into the Cursed Crew's room, and are hit by a blast of heat. Inside are three red, imp-like creatures, a large black, skeletal, rotting creature and a red creature with the head and lower body of a goat and the torso and arms of a man. "Look what we have here. A girl and her Orc," the skeletal, rotting creature rasps. "Or an Orc and his whore," one of the Imp-like creatures laughs. "Demons," Blaise growls. "Well done, you recognized the most notable things from the Infernal planes," the red goat-man laughs. "Death to the Gods, the girls are getting sluttier and dumber. Soon they'll be too bad for us!" > You insult the Demons "Go fuck each other in the asses!" you yell at the demons, and they burst into laughter. "The Orcs got balls! You'll need them to satisfy the bitch!" "Go fuck yourselves, you undying cunts!" "Hahaha! You're alright, kid. You're alright, kid, so's the chick. Come on, have a drink with us," the red goat-man says, holding up a golden goblet. You walk into the Cursed Crew's room, and are hit by a blast of heat. Inside are three red, imp-like creatures, a large black, skeletal, rotting creature and a red creature with the head and lower body of a goat and the torso and arms of a man. "Look what we have here. A girl and her Orc," the skeletal, rotting creature rasps. "Or an Orc and his whore," one of the Imp-like creatures laughs. "Demons," Blaise growls. "Well done, you recognized the most notable things from the Infernal planes," the red goat-man laughs. "Death to the Gods, the girls are getting sluttier and dumber. Soon they'll be too bad for us!" > You attack the Demons Scorched You charge at the demons, but the red goat-man wraps his arms around you and bursts into flames. You're set alight and scream, throwing the goat-man off you. You look around, only to find yourself in a red landscape of pure hellfire. You scream as the flames burn your flesh, but doesn't kill you. You scream among the flames, ever burning but still living.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie, fantasy] "Look at you! Delightful! Absolutely delightful! They're amazed!" Mister Chinkrinkski laughs. "Entertainers! We have visitors! Please, children, feel free to explore our humble abode and see what talents, tricks and delights we have to offer. Aranti's room is down the hall on the first left, Samwell on the second left, the delightful, stupendous Cursed Crew second on the right, Dog-Tongue's room is the first right and Tiny Tonk's room is underneath in the cellar! Please, explore and enjoy! If you're hungry or thirsty, just ask, or I could show you a magic trick." > You visit Dog Tongue's room You walk into Dog Tongue's room, which is filled with pots, cauldrons and other potion-making equipment, and quickly learn where the man gets his name from. The side of his face is paralyzed, his tongue falling out of it and hanging like a dog's. "Hello," he says, though you struggle to understand his speech. "I am Dog Tongue. How may I help you, sir and madam?" "What do you do?" Blaise asks. "I make potions that can do wondrous things. Unfortunately, none work on children. Sorry." "What... what happened your face?" "Warhammer hit me when I was a baby," he grunts. "Still, I've moved past it." "Look at you! Delightful! Absolutely delightful! They're amazed!" Mister Chinkrinkski laughs. "Entertainers! We have visitors! Please, children, feel free to explore our humble abode and see what talents, tricks and delights we have to offer. Aranti's room is down the hall on the first left, Samwell on the second left, the delightful, stupendous Cursed Crew second on the right, Dog-Tongue's room is the first right and Tiny Tonk's room is underneath in the cellar! Please, explore and enjoy! If you're hungry or thirsty, just ask, or I could show you a magic trick." > You leave James' Barracks "Thank you, Mister Chinkrinkski. I think it's best we leave now," Blaise says "Leave? Leave where?" he asks, confused. "Leave to go... go to dinner." "Ah, yes... I'm sure we'll see you around, Lady Blaise. Yes. I'm very sure we'll se you around." Mister Chinkrinkski grins wider than you would've thought possible, and opens the door. You quickly rush out, and he slams the door behind you. "Well that was... interesting," Blaise says. "Yeah... Let's go to dinner," you reply. > The Next Day... The next day, you wake to find Thorin or some other undead being has left fancy clothing on the end of your bed. Black pants, polished boots, a white shirt, a blue and golden jacket and a buckled fur cloak. You put them on, and realize quickly you look like a twat. Still, today's the day of the Ceremony of the Pledging, so you assume you're supposed to look like a twat like all the other important people coming here. You walk outside of your room, and Thorin's waiting for you. "Dagden, you and Lady Blaise have been requested to have breakfast away from the head of the main feasting table." "Why?" you ask. "You will have dinner with the other children." "I'm thirteen, I'm not a child." Thorin shrugs. "What do you even mean, other children?" "Many of the various Necromancers, Mercenary Captains, Lords, Ladies, Mayors and Politicians who hold positions of power among the Grand Necromancer's empire have brought their sons and daughters here. The Grand Necromancer requests you and Lady Blaise... "entertain" the new company." You shrug, and follow Thorin to Blaise's room, where she's waiting. Weird feelings go through your body as you see her. She's wearing a long, deep crimson dress with a beige cloak over it. You feel a pang of joy when you see her dragon tooth necklace displayed proudly. "Hi, Dag." "Hey. How'd you sleep?" "Good, thanks. Are you excited to see the new guests?" "Yeah, I can't wait." Thorin leads you into the main hall, where an additional "children's" table has been set up. About a dozen children, ranging from Humans to Elves to Orcs to Dwarves sit at the table already, with two places at the head for you and Blaise. You take your seat next to Blaise and stare at them. "Hello. I'm Blaise," Blaise says cheerfully. "And this is Dagden." "Dagden what?" one of the Orc children ask. "What's your title?" You wince, realizing your lack of contact with other Orcs means that you've yet to receive a title, meaning you still have the childhood title of Youngblood. You suppose Bearbane could be used, but the only one's who gave you that nickname died without telling anyone of your feat, so you have no witnesses to it and hence the title's invalid. "Dagden Dragontooth." Huh. She was a lot quicker at bullshitting than you. Impressive. "How'd he earn that nickname?" "He stole a tooth from a dragon," Blaise says, and she smiles at you. The Orc nods in respect, and you feel pride. You make a mental note to thank Blaise after breakfast. "So, your father's the Grand Necromancer?" a High Elf girl asks. "Yes." "No wonder you smell of corpses. This entire place can be smelled before it can be seen," the High Elf Girl says. Blaise frowns, and looks to her feet in embarrassment. > You do nothing You stare a hole in the side of the High Elf Girl's head, but you don't say a word. The group gets back to eating, and eventually a chat begins. "So, how rich are your parents, Jessica?" one of them asks. "They have three large manors. My Daddy says his land is the most important piece of land in the Grand Necromancer's empire." "Everyone thinks that about their own land," one of the children says, rolling his eyes. "Well, he's so rich he got me a diamond ring just because," she says, showing a large diamond ring to you all. Blaise leans in to you, and whispers into your ear. "Do you remember when I said it's quite lonely without other children? I take it back. I hate everyone here." You nod in agreement, before you hear a shout. "Alright! Can I have everyone's attention? It's time for the Ceremony to begin! Let's begin with Lady Charlie Findrozo," the Grand Necromancer yells, slumping into his massive black stone throne at the head of the table. The table is moved out of the way to give room for Lady Charlie Findrozo to kneel in front of the Grand Necromancer. "I pledge my life, my body, my soul, my land and my people to you, King Dante, Grand Necromancer and Master of the Dead." Dante nods, placing a hand on her shoulder. She stands, and goes to sit down. This process repeats itself, and another person goes up to swear their allegiance to Dante. With the amount of people there, you can tell this is going to take some time. You wait patiently, bored as hell, as people pass by. "Can we go somewhere?" one of the kid moans, and Thorin appears. "Lady Blaise, Dagden, please take the children out... somewhere." "Sure," you say, standing. You head towards the doors, followed by a gaggle of children. Blaise runs up to next to you. "Where do you want to take them?" Blaise asks. "How about the mass grave? We dump their corpses their, bury them, and then eagerly make up an excuse on why they've disappeared." "I''d really love to. But my dad would get mad..." "The only people who'd even notice the kids' deaths would be the parents, and they'd be overjoyed." "I wish. Let's take them to the garden." You head towards the garden, and open the door. "Ah, it's beautiful," a Wood Elf child says. "Too flowery," a Dwarf moans. "This is my garden. Please don't touch the flowers," Blaise says. Most of the children follow these simple instructions, but the Orc who asked your name earlier begins plucking flowers, sniffing them, and tossing them aside. "Hey! Don't do that!" Blaise says loudly. "Dagden, make him stop!" > You attack him You charge forward, swinging your fist. You're larger than the other Orc, and in one swing send him tumbling to the floor. You stomp on his throat and the Orc gasps, before kicking him in the head. Blood drips down from his nose, groaning in pain. "Don't pick flowers," you say, spitting on his face. "Thanks, Dag." "No problem." > Two Hours Later... You watch the other children play and talk about the flowers, and wish you could murder them. You always thought Blaise was spoilt, especially every birthday. These children wear golden chains that weigh down their necks, wear clothes of soft silks and fabrics softer than clouds and seem to have been raised entirely on milk, honey and beer mush. You really, really hate them. "Who plants all the flowers, Blaise?" one of them asks. "I do." "Oh. Don't you have servants to...?" You lean in to Blaise, interrupting the child. "Please, if you say they all tried to kill you, I'll back you up, and we can use this as an excuse for me to murder everyone here." "Hush now, Dag." "I'm so sick of them." "I know, Dag." You continue watching the other children playing and talking as time passes. One of them trips and complains about getting dirt on her dress, and you once again get mad at these pansies. "Dag, go have one of the Blood Fruit. You need it." "Thanks, Blaise." You walk over to the very small tree with the fruit, and pluck one. You open it, and begin devouring the red fruit inside. Eventually, Thorin arrives. "All right, Children. Come, come. The ceremony is almost over." You follow Thorin back to the Main Hall, and take your seats. You see one of the Vampire Lords on her knee in front of him. "I pledge my life, my body, my soul, my land and my people to you, King Dante, Grand Necromancer and Master of the Dead." Dante nods, placing a hand on her shoulder. She stands, and goes to sit down. The Grand Necromancer stands as the room goes quiet. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Living and Dead, Leaders and Warriors, today you have..." An undead, armored warrior bursts through the heavy double doors of the main hall. "Sir! They've attacked!" he roars in a deep, mangled voice. "What's the situation?" Dante asks. "The Kingdom of Man, the High Elves, the Wood Elves, the Dark Elves, the Dwarf Clans, the Orc Tribes, they've all sent large forces to assault the edge of the Empire. They say you're an enemy of the gods and an unnatural monster that needs to be destroyed. They're invading!" Dante laughs. "The Elves and the Kingdom of Man have joined forces? That shows how terrified of this new world I'm trying to create they are. We outnumber them. What is the issue? Have our armies sent out. I want all the undead guards of the towns and cities of my empire, including this castle, sent out with whatever mercenaries we can muster to wipe out these armies. Hell, it's easier, having them all in one place. Today we'll have a crucial victory to make my conquest certain." "Yes, sir," the Revenant says, before turning and walking out the door. The vast majority of the undead soldiers and warriors in the room, as well as many of the mercenaries, stand up and begin marching out the doors, leaving behind a token guard force. "Go forth and slaughter, my men!" the Grand Necromancer laughs. "Go, wipe out my enemies!" You look around, to see the room is much more empty now. Necromancer Trant and Balok the Honorless are still here, so at least they won't be killed by some human instead of you. "Well... That destroyed my speech. Well, fuck. I'll start again, even though half the crowd has left." The Grand Necromancer clears his throat and starts again. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Living and Dead, Leaders and Warriors, today you have pledged yourselves to me. Today you have pledged yourselves to my empire. We will build a better world. Through the Path of Death, we will create a new world of life. With one leader, we won't need war. With an army of undead, we won't need town guards to hunt down criminals and risk their lives. To protect us from threats we'll have an army that requires no food or rest. You children, your sons and daughters, will not be sent out to fight and die. In pledging to me, you've pledged to have your children protected! In death, your body will be raised again to protect your family, and if you wish, your soul may stay as well. There will be no corruption in me, for once I embrace undeath and become a Lich, I will have no need for physical pleasure, I will live on through death to carve this empire and keep it going for an infinite number of generations. We will have the perfect world. The homeless will be housed, the sick healed and the starving fed. The dead will be risen! We fight for the perfect world! Our Empire will become the envy of the living, the dead and the Gods! We will create the perfect world! An end to poverty, an end to starvation, at end to racism, at end to sexism, an end to suffering, an end to death! You have joined me, and I swear, the Reaper will take me from to the grave before I let that vision crumble! Follow me past the obstacles of death and the enemy! We will create the new world! We march down the Path of Death towards a future of living and joy!" The room breaks into applause, and you follow through. You have to agree, Dante paints a fair picture of the perfect world. You understand why so many people are following him. "Alright, bring out the food! Let's feast!" Dante shouts, before pausing. "Oh, yes... Most of the servants are gone. Curse the Gods, this isn't going as well as I had planned. Are there any servants even left? Oh, here's a few. Go, bring food." Slowly, the few undead remaining fetch massive plates of food and bring them out. "So, did you like my Dad's speech?" "Yeah, it was good. I liked it." "Good. I hope he gets to achieve his dreams of the perfect world, though I am realizing I'm not really the heir to his throne if he does become immortal." The food arrives, and you begin to eagerly dig into a plate of chicken. You gobble it down happily, before chugging down several mugs of ale. After about an hour of feasting, you feel sick, bloated and drunk. "I don't feel great," you moan. "You're drunk," Blaise says. "No I'm not. You're drunk. Stop lecturing me, you drunk!" "I've had one cup of spiced wine. You've had loads of mugs of ale." "I've been drinking water. You're drunk. Stop drinking." Blaise laughs, as you decide to rest your head on the table. "You're not even fun drunk. You're sad drunk," Blaise says. "You're only thirteen. You shouldn't be drinking this much." "You're only thirteen. You shouldn't be so mean." Blaise pats you on the back. "Come on, let's get you to bed." "It's only Six O'Clock!" "It's Eleven O'Clock, Dag." "Oh. Shit," you grunt. Blaise helps you up, and you walk back towards your room. "Thanks, Blaise." "Shut up. I'm considering dumping you here." "And thanks for wearing the necklace. It means a lot to me. I want you to know, you really..." "We're here. I'm going to disregard anything drunken Dagden says from this point on. Go to bed." "OK. Goodnight." "Goodnight." She opens the door, and you walk inside and sprawl out onto your bed. > Sleep As you dream, voices begin to break through the dream and scratch against your mind. "Kill him." "He's just a boy." "He's old enough. Plus, he's an Orc." "Lummug's an Orc. Bolaga's an Orc. Agrarz's an Orc..." "I get it, we have Orcs on our side as well. Just slit the Orc's throat." "You do it." "Fine," the the first voice sighs. > Awaken You awaken, to look into the eyes of a hooded man holding a long dagger. You yell, grabbing your bone dagger and jabbing through the man's eye. He slumps onto you, and you throw him off you. You spot another, similar man standing by your bed, and his eyes widen in response. > You leap up and stab him You leap into the air, stabbing the man through the throat. Blood gurgles out of his throat as he painfully dies. > You pack your things You quickly begin packing your things. You grab a small leather satchel, and pop in your Blood Stone, book on Blood Magic and a few other minor things. Mort hops in, and you rub his back, before grabbing your long sword and sheathing it. > You go through the hallways to Blaise's room You walk out into the hallways, and find death. Corpses lie everywhere, with blood stains on the walls and a puddle of blood forming. You recognize various nobles, merchants, mercenaries and leaders who were pledging themselves to the Grand Necromancer. You spot a High Elf Warrior, looting from a dead noble. He hasn't noticed you yet. > Attack You stand over the High Elf, and stab downwards, splitting the Elf's skull in half. The corpse falls beneath you, and you jab him through the side of the head. You continue along the hallways, before seeing a pair of Orcs standing above a bleeding Necromancer. "Please..." the Necromancer groans. "You're powers over death will do little to save you now, corpse fucker," one of them says, brandishing her spear. > You help the Necromancer You quickly charge forward and swing your long sword, beheading one of the Orcs. The other turns and jabs her spear, stabbing into your side. You roar and swing your long sword, cutting open her chest. She falls backwards, and you turn to the Necromancer. "Thanks... Dagden, right? Come on, let's get out of here." "I have to go find Blaise." "Her bedroom's next to the Grand Necromancer's. She's dead by now." "I'm not leaving her." "Come on. I know a way out. She's almost certainly dead." > You follow the Necromancer Memories, Mort and an Open Road "Fine. Fine," you grunt sadly. You follow the Necromancer along the hallways full of dead, towards the nearest exit. You pass countless dead, though the fighting seems to have ceased in the outer areas. Eventually, you manage to sneak out of Reaper Castle. "Where to now?" you ask the Necromancer. "We head out. We'll pass by nearby towns to resupply, then we'll... we'll join one of the Merchant Caravans. Then, I don't know what." Over the next few days, you head out of the Grand Necromancer's territory, escaping from the world of death. You manage to find work among a Merchant Caravan, although the Necromancer parts ways with you in search of others who follow the Path of Death. The work with the Merchant Caravan is easy, mostly guard and escort work and other, more menial tasks like carrying crates. The Undead Empire crumbles, with vast swathes of land being taken by the Kingdom of Man, the Orc Tribes, the Elves and the Dwarf Clans. Eventually, nothing is left of the empire but your memories, and Mort, of course. Mort's tiny, rotting body sits safely on your shoulder, and he squeaks happily as you rub him. You'll always have your memories as well. Talking with Blaise in the garden. Mort's reanimation, hunting for the Dragon Tooth to give to her. You'll always have those. "Come on," one of the Merchants says. "We have to be on the road if we want to reach Toring Bay by sundown. You nod. The world is open to you. All you have now is Memories, Mort and an Open Road.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy] You quickly charge forward and swing your long sword, beheading one of the Orcs. The other turns and jabs her spear, stabbing into your side. You roar and swing your long sword, cutting open her chest. She falls backwards, and you turn to the Necromancer. "Thanks... Dagden, right? Come on, let's get out of here." "I have to go find Blaise." "Her bedroom's next to the Grand Necromancer's. She's dead by now." "I'm not leaving her." "Come on. I know a way out. She's almost certainly dead." > You Refuse "No. I'm not leaving." "So be it. I'm going. I wish you the best of luck, I really do." The Necromancer turns and runs off, and you also continue on. You manage to reach the Great Hall. It's a massacre. Corpses lie everywhere, with a few undead still engaged in melees against some remaining "heroes" and elites. A Hero, a young Dwarf with a large sword, sees you, and charges at you. She swings and you dodge, her blade cutting your shoulder in a very deep cut, before you impale her through the chest. You groan in pain as blood begins to flow down your arm, but move on. Eventually, you reach Blaise's room door. > You go into Blaise's room You charge into Blaise's room. Blaise is standing in the corner, with two soldiers from the Kingdom of Man slowly advancing on her. > Attack You swing your blade, the steel biting into the first's legs. He collapses forward, and you take the opportunity to jab at his unprotected neck, twisting sharply to kill him. You swing your sword, blocking an attack from the other man. He's faster, stronger and better than you with the sword, and he doesn't let up in the flurry of strikes towards you. He slashes your chest several times, leaving several deep wounds. You duck under a blow that would've taken your head, before feeling the full brunt of his head-butt in the bridge of your nose. Blood spurts out and you fall backwards, collapsing onto the ground. You scream as blood flows from your face, obscuring your vision. He elbows you in the chest, before swiping your legs away. You collapse onto the floor, and he stands above you, ready to impale you through the chest. You raise your sword to block the strike, before the soldier is yanked bank. You look, to see the rotting hands yank him back and begin to tear at his face. You see that the first soldier has been risen as a zombie, and it draws its weapon again to stab the soldier repeatedly in the face, before their rotting hands begin to scratch out his eyes. Blaise stands above the zombie, her faced fixed with effort. The zombie stands, followed by the soldier, now also undead. "What's going on?" Blaise asks terrified. "We're under attack. The invasion's just a distraction, they want to wipe out the Grand Necromancer and all the other leaders of this place at once and finish this war." "We have to find my dad! They're going to kill him." "We'll get him!" You say. "But we need to go now." "OK. And Dag: Thanks for coming back for me." "I wasn't, I was trying to abandon you, I just got lost and ended up here." "Shut up." She smiles. "Still, I'm not finished here. I need to find Necromancer Trant and Balok the Honorless and eat their hearts." "Dag, the Mercenary Barracks and Necromancers Chambers have almost certainly been wiped out. They're dead." You wince, feeling your chance at vengeance taken from you. "Fuck it, fine! But if they survive, I'm going to be so pissed at you. Let's go." Blaise rushes to grab whatever's important. She helps Stitches, who now has a painful looking gash along his face from the soldiers, her dragon tooth necklace, which you find touching, and her Necromancy robes. "Let's go." > You use your Blood Magic You grab your bloodstone and gently cut your finger, your blood falling onto the stone as it begins to glow. You roar as strength, health and energy floods through you. > You charge out into the Main Hall You raise your sword and charge out of the room, ready for bloodshed. More fighting has began in the Main Hall as more soldiers flood in to, all heading towards the Grand Necromancer's chambers, perhaps showing that he still might be alive, although you're now almost certain that there's a lot more enemies than you previously thought. The Necromancer's forces and allies are clearly struggling to hold, and won't last much longer. > You head into the Grand Necromancer's chambers You charge into the Grand Necromancer's chambers. Corpses of soldiers, heroes and elites surround him as he lies on the floor. His robes are soaked with blood, and a pool of crimson has formed around him. A steel crown with nine points and nine black gems lies next to him, as well as several red candles, a human skull and a large scythe. His face is whiter than bone and very tense. "Blaise! You're alive! Thank any merciful Gods that have taken pity on me to let me see your face again." "Dad!" Blaise cries, running up to him and hugging him. "You need to get out of here, Dad! We'll help!" "I'm not leaving here, sweetheart. I was trying to perform a... ritual, but it failed. You need to flee without me. I'm not going to last," the Necromancer groans. "No, you're fine! Dagden, come on! Help me pick him up! Come on!" > You help Blaise pick him up You grab Dante's left arm, and Blaise grabs the right. You hoist him to his feet. "Honey..." Dante says. "I can feel the Reaper standing over me. I wish I cough cough up blood to prove it." Dante lets out a cough, spitting out mucus. You let go in an impulse. Dante stands for a few more seconds, before collapsing. "I spat mucus. Close enough. Listen, Blaise... I only held out this long to see you one final time. I'm not going to make it. Please... just go. I need you to get out of here while you still can. As long as I'm alive, my non-sentient undead and spirits will stay with me. If I die, they go, and the enemy flood in here and kill you both. Run, and I'll try stay alive as long as I can." "No, Dad! You..." "Sssh, honey. Dagden, come here." You walk over to Dante, dropping to your knees. "Dag... promise me you'll protect Blaise. Promise me you'll stay with her and keep her safe." > You Promise "I promise," you say. Dante smiles at you, and pulls you in close. "Thank you so much. You've become a great man since I took you in... Well, kidnapped you all those years back. What was it? Three? Four? I don't know. You've always been like a son to me, Dagden. I wish you the best of luck." Dante grabs Blaise's hand and pulls her in close. "Honey... you are the greatest person I've ever known. You're kind, sweet, strong, courageous and powerful. I wish you the best of luck and the best life you can have. I'm so, so proud of you. Go ahead and go out into the world. Do whatever makes you happy. Whether that's following my dream and carving a mighty empire that conquers death or settling down to rear a family at a little old farm by a creek. Go ahead. The world is in the palm of your hand. Enjoy it. There's a tunnel behind the painting of your mother. I'm sure you've discovered it by now, with all your curious exploring. Go. I love you." "Dad... You... I'm not leaving." "Dagden, please do me one favor. Get Blaise out of here. I won't have my daughter die by my side. Get her out, now." You nod, and walk over to Blaise. "Blaise, we need to go." "He's my Dad! I can't..." "You have to," you shout. Blaise turns to her Dad, and hugs him tightly. "I love you, Dad." "I love you too, Blaise." > You go through the escape tunnel Stitches run over and gives Dante a lick in the face as Blaise hugs her Dad. You walk over to the painting, a large painting of an elegant lady in a long black dress with a pale face and long blond hair. You yank it open, revealing a long tunnel beside it. Blaise stands, and quickly hurries down the tunnel, tears flowing down her face. You put a shoulder around her and pull her close, while continuing to head down the tunnel. You find it ends at an old, wooden door, which you kick open. It slams open as a cloud of dust goes up. You walk outside, to see the sun rising over the horizon. You're standing on the ledge of an empty moat, and you can see several soldiers have set up a perimeter around the castle to prevent escapes, although it's clearly been broken by escaping mercenaries and sentient undead. You see several gaps in the perimeter that you might be able to pass through. "Come on, Blaise. Let's go," you say to a tearful Blaise. You take a few steps back, before sprinting forward and jumping across the moat. Blaise does the same, with Stitches barely making the jump. You see the sun's rising quickly, and in the light you'll be spotted. > You rush past the perimeter You charge forward, heading past the perimeter. An Archer notices you and fires an arrow, that whistles through the air, slicing into you, gouging open a wound in your back. > Ow! You yank the arrow out, and toss it side. Still, you keep running, and the Archer doesn't peruse you. He lets out a yell that you're escaping, but since there's still a battle raging on, you manage to get away mostly unnoticed. Blaise and Stitches hurry on with you, and you take a deep breath. You're too tired to continue running. > You run out of strength You feel your energy flood out of you as your wounds begin to take their toll on you. "I need... to find somewhere to sit down," you say, collapsing. Blaise grabs you and puts her your arm around her. "Lean on me," she says, taking a deep breath. "Thanks. Are... are you OK?" "Dad would want be to be strong. I'll be strong. Come on." You walk with Blaise for a few minutes, which turns to hours. Eventually, you spot a small farmhouse up ahead. "We'll stop in there," Blaise says. "No... we can't." "Why?" "Because there could be soldiers there, or there could be a bounty on our head that the farmers would be happy to fulfill, or there could be... Fuck, I don't know. Maybe I'll die, you'll go into a coma from some poison that got in from some tiny scratch. You'll go into a sleep that will only be able to be woken by true love's kiss, and some prince will venture forth to kiss you." "Are you... suffering from any head trauma?" > You say "Perhaps." "Oh, shut up, you're fine. We'll go into the farm house, and you won't die and I won't fall into a coma. This isn't a fairy tale." "Ah, I don't know. Maybe it is." "Come on, you big green lump. Let's get you some help." Although you can tell Blaise's joking, you still see she's incredibly sad and trying to hide it. You should probably talk to her... after you keep yourself from dying. Blaise drags you to the front door, and knocks on it. After about a minute, the door opens. You see an elderly man holding a sword. He's clearly far too old to put up any resistance to you, but you decide now's not the time to make enemies. "Can we come in, please?" "Who are you?" "Two dying kids. Can we come in, now?" You say. "You don't look like no kid. The girl's a kid, but you're an Orc." "So?" "I had a lot of trouble with Orcs when I was a boy. I ain't letting one of you filthy mutts into my house. You can sleep in the barn if you want to. The girl can come in, though, but only for the night." > Agree "Fine. Blaise, go inside." "No way!" "Blaise, go inside!" "I'm not going." "Fine," you say. "I want you out by the mornin'," the Farmer says. "Fine," you say again. You wander out towards the barn with Blaise, before collapsing on some hay. "Are you alright?" Blaise asks. "I'm Dagden Dragontooth. I'll never die." "I see you've taken that nickname to heart." "Damn right. Are... are you alright?" Blaise looks at you for a second, before bursting into tears. "I miss him so much," Blaise sobs. "I'm never going to see him again. Him and you were all I had, and now he's gone, and I only have you, and you'll probably go, or... or..." Blaise bursts into another burst of tears, and you give her a hug. "Hey, I'm not going to leave." "I shouldn't have left. We could've saved him." "No, we would've died in that room if we hadn't left. Your dad sacrificed himself to save us. A very noble way to go." "Yeah, I guess. But he was always so scared of death. Right now he's..." "Right now he's fine. He's in the afterlife, with your mom." "I wish. He's probably being devoured by demons." "He's so charismatic they'd end up working for him." Blaise smiles at that. "Thanks. I needed that. Let's go to bed." You nod, and close your eyes and embrace sleep. > Sleep Sleep is relaxing. It allows you some time to heal. > Awaken You awake, and open your eyes. You're lying in a bed of hay. Blaise is lying across from you. "Are you awake?" Blaise whispers. "Yeah." "We should probably get moving. The soldiers are going to be searching for us. "Us? Why us?" "I'm the daughter of the Grand Necromancer. They'll want me dead so he has no heirs to remake his empire." "Oh, fuck. This just got a lot harder." "Plus, that farmer might get pissed and chase us with a pitchfork or soemthing." "Oh yeah. Fuck him. We should've murdered him." You stand, and quickly get ready to go. You pack your things, and leave the house. > Walk You walk along the road, alongside Blaise and Stitches, with Mort standing on your shoulder. "So... Do you wanna talk about... you know," you say. "No," Blaise replies. "Well, we should probably..." "I'm trying not to think about it." "Why?" "Dad would want me to be strong. He tried not to get too sad or angry or anything." "Your dad never got sad?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, everyone does sometimes. Whenever he looked at a picture of my mom he'd get misty-eyed and leave the room. I don't know how he could stand to have a picture of her in his room. Maybe he just liked to have her near him." "Do you remember her?" "No. I've heard she was very beautiful and kind and gentle, but they always say that about the dead. I've always hated it. If I die make sure whoever's doing my eulogy, well you, since you're the only person I know who's still alive, is honest. My flaws are as much a part of me as my strengths, if not more." "Stop being so depressing. You're not going to die soon. Maybe you never will, you're a necromancer." "I don't know about that. I'm not really a Necromancer. I have no teacher anymore. No one to train me in the art of Necromancy." "Don't most Necromancers pick it up on the fly? There's no Necromancy Schools. I don't think there ever has been one." "There've been a few, actually. Most were small ones, though. Dwarves and Orcs aren't great with magic, the Elves hate Necromancy and the Kingdom of Man outlawed it." "So... what's our plan?" "For getting me trained in Necromancy?" "In... anything." Blaise shrugs. "I don't know. We head to the nearest town firstly. Then, we find an escort out of this area. Once we're away from this falling apart undead empire, we make plans," Blaise says. > You continue walking You continue walking along the path for the next few hours. You continue trying to cheer up Blaise as she continues to reminisce about her father. She breaks into tears quite a few times, but you manage to cheer her up every time. Eventually, as the sun begins to fall, you spot a town in the distance. "What town is that?" you ask. "Northtower. Large enough, small enough undead population so there's probably a small soldier presence. Also, I'm very tired, cold and hungry, so we're stopping here." "Fine," you grunt, and you start heading towards the town. As you approach the town, you see a distinctive lack of Royal, Elven, Orcish or Dwarven Banners, meaning that the town hasn't been absorbed into one of the other kingdoms yet. You see several rotting corpses piled around the town, probably the zombie and skeleton guards who were executed to dissuade the various armies from partaking in a brutal invasion. As you walk into the town, your hear a shout. "Hold up!" You have Mort run down into your leather bag, while Blaise wraps Stitches rotting areas in a blanket. You turn to see a woman walking towards you with a crossbow. "Hold it right there. I gotta check you to make sure you ain't undead. By order of the Grand Alliance, any undead are to be killed on sight. What's with the dog?" "He's sick." "Alright. I gotta search you." The woman stops in front of Blaise, looking her up and down. She holds a hand to her forehead, and mutters "Still warm" to herself. Then, she turns to you. "What do we have here? A big, strong... Orc. Alright. It'll take a bit longer to search you, make sure you're not bringing in any illegal contraband." You nod, and the woman leans in and quickly pats down your pockets. Then, she begins to veer off course from a simple pat down, and a lot creepier. Her hand awkwardly gropes around your genitals as another squeezes you ass. You wince in surprise. > You punch her You swing your hand forward, and quickly punch her full force in the face. She flies backwards, thumping into the ground. "Fuck! What the hell is wrong with you, Greenskin?!?" "You groped me, you bitch," you glare at her. "I was only having a bit of fun, calm it down. You pull any more stunts like that, you'll be kicked outta town. Now get outta here." You begin walking into town, walking along a cobblestone street. Blaise jogs up to your side. "So, what was that?" "What do you think?" "I thought men were supposed to like sex." "I thought women were supposed to be good cooks, but you'd somehow fuck up making a glass of water," you say, annoyed. "Alright, you're right. I'm sorry," Blaise says. "So... my hands can still wander, right?" You gently thump Blaise on the shoulder, and sigh. "Where the hell are we going?" you ask. "The Tavern." "Why?" "Haven't you ever read any stories? There's always something in the tavern. Plus, food and drinks are there." "Fine." You come across a large wooden building with a large sign that says "Kent's Tavern" in large letters. "Well, that was easy," Blaise says. > You go inside You walk inside, opening the door. The bar is packed with various people. Farmers spend their wages drinking away their sorrows, mercenaries compare weapons and kill counts while ordering endless rounds of drink and Merchants peruse wines. Blaise pulls a small leather bag from her pocket. "What's that?" "This is all the money we have." You stare at the golden coins sticking out of the bag. "Is... is it a lot?" "It's enough for us to last for some time." You sit at the bar. A man covered from head to toe in robes walks up to you. "How can I help you?" he rasps. Blaise furrows her brow, before ordering two mugs of ale and a bowl of water for Stitches "And pop some Health Potion in Dag's mug. He needs it." Blaise leans in to you, and whispers in your ear. "He's undead." "What?" "The Bartender. He's undead." "What, like a zombie?" "A Wight, I think." You nod, and the Bartender quickly serves you your drinks. As you sip yours, health floods through you. Blaise looks at you. "What's our plan?" you ask. "We need security. Hire someone to escort us out of the dead empire, and lay low somewhere." > You say "Then?" "I don't know. We could always buy a farm, settle down, have weird light green kids running around, awkward sex." You blush, and Blaise smiles. "Do we have an actual plan?" "Not past getting out of here." The Bartender appears again, and Blaise pulls him aside. "Hey, if you don't mind me asking, is there anyone who could escort us out of town?" "Maybe I could. Maybe if you were willing to slide a few coins..." "Maybe I could be a little more open about the information of your... current status. Tell me, was there a warrior's heaven or just darkness or...?" Blaise asks. "Ah, quiet down. No one needs to know. There's a few choices of escort. There's Kai, he usually drinks here. There's Sir Trent, who's currently in hiding because... he suffers the same... ailment as I do. Then there's the Golden Hand, a group of Heroes who were part of the assault of Reaper Castle. None of them are here now, but if I spread the word, they'll all probably be here within a few hours." "Yes. Do that, and your secrets safe with me." The undead Bartender nods. "Oh, and we need a room." "We don't have rooms to rent here." "Where can we get a room, then?" "Old Legless' Inn just down the road." "Thanks," you nod. The undead bartender walks away from the bar. "Good," Blaise says. Blaise takes a drink from her mug, and stares at you. "I have an idea." "Go on." "What if we take over?" "The tavern?" "My dad's empire." "Is this a joke?" "I don't mean now. I mean, after we lay low and train. My dad was only a kid when he started to build his empire. I'm a kid with your help." > You say "That's ridiculous!" "Well, what am I supposed to do? Let my dad's empire fall apart?" "Yes! You're being stupid!" "Well that's the best plan we have so far!" "It's the only plan we have! And a better plan is we have dinner now and kill ourselves afterwards." Blaise begins to tear up. "Why are you being such a dick, Dag? I don't want everything my dad made to fall apart! He spent his whole life trying to fight for his empire!" "Blaise, listen: You're tired, hungry and upset about your dad..." Blaise stands up abruptly and charges off outside, followed closely by Stitches. "Fuck," you grunt. "I hate her so much. If I didn't like her so much, I'd leave." The Bartender appears again, chuckilng. "Lady problems, huh?" "Damn right." "If you're looking for a way out on your own, the gents over in the corner, the Dark Elf and Wood Elf, are hiring mercenaries for a job. Following girls only lead to heartbreak, pain and an early grave. Maybe you should just talk to the mercenaries." > You talk to the Mercenaries You walk over to the two Elves. Surprisingly, the Dark Elf is unblemished and has a bow over his back, while the Wood Elf holds a bloody mace and is covered in scars from hundreds of battles. "Alright, kid. You look like you could swing a sword. You ever done any merc work?" The Wood Elf says. You shake your head. "Ah, what a pity. Still, I'd be willing to offer you basic pay plus a nice set of armor. I'm going out to the Dwarven mines. A lot of bandits, Necromancers and other Dark Art Practicers fleeing from the Dead Empire are heading there. I'll give you 10% of any bounties you pull in." "I... I don't know. I'm kind of hoping my friend will return." "The blond girl? Fuck her. Never got caught up with a girl, kid. It's never worth it. I'm spending the night here, drinking away. If you want, you can sleep in our bedroom on the floor and wait until morning to see if she comes back." You nod. The Dark Elf shows you to a large room in the back of the tavern, and you walk in. You drop your bag on the floor, and lie down, and wait for the soft embrace of sleep. You hope Blaise comes back by the morning. > Sleep Sell Soul Blaise doesn't return. You break away from the mercenaries and search the town, but there's no trace of her. She must've vanished into the night, running from you as fast as she can. You return to the mercenaries, defeated. "I'm in." "Great! We could use another sword." You depart the next day. The next few months are spent traveling between the Dwarvish Strongholds, hunting down bandits, necromancers and dark arts practicers. You make a fair amount of coin off it, but with Blaise gone, you have very little need for it. Your wages are dedicated to prostitutes, food and drink more and more as time goes on, and physical pleasures begin to replace what you used to enjoy in life, like flowers, spending time with Blaise or even enjoying the sunset. You life falls into a formula of Kill, Fuck, Eat, Drink, Sleep. You sell your soul bit by bit, turning into a simple thug and a beast who cares for nothing but self-pleasure. Perhaps you're happier this way.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? Let my dad's empire fall apart?" "Yes! You're being stupid!" "Well that's the best plan we have so far!" "It's the only plan we have! And a better plan is we have dinner now and kill ourselves afterwards." Blaise begins to tear up. "Why are you being such a dick, Dag? I don't want everything my dad made to fall apart! He spent his whole life trying to fight for his empire!" "Blaise, listen: You're tired, hungry and upset about your dad..." Blaise stands up abruptly and charges off outside, followed closely by Stitches. "Fuck," you grunt. "I hate her so much. If I didn't like her so much, I'd leave." The Bartender appears again, chuckilng. "Lady problems, huh?" "Damn right." "If you're looking for a way out on your own, the gents over in the corner, the Dark Elf and Wood Elf, are hiring mercenaries for a job. Following girls only lead to heartbreak, pain and an early grave. Maybe you should just talk to the mercenaries." > You go after Blaise You rush after Blaise, going outside into pure darkness. "Hello, friend!" a voice says happily. You turn, to see a poor looking man in tattered clothing holding a long knife standing in front of a dark side street. "Best to move along, sir!" You look at him, before looking down the street. Then you see Blaise. A Bandit is holding a knife to her throat with Stitches lying bloody and bruised next to her, and over a dozen and a half other bandits stand around the street. You grab your sword, but feel a knife on your throat. "Stop," the Bandit says, smiling. The Bandit leader grabs Blaise, and grins at her. "Hello, love. You're a pretty one, aren't you?" he smiles. His hands drop, holding onto her waist. "I think I'd like to spend a few minutes alone with you. Would you like that, love?" Blaise punches the Bandit Leader, who grabs her throat and squeezes. "Don't do that, now. I don't want to hurt you." His hand begins to tighten around her throat slowly as his other hand caresses the side of her face. > Attack You draw you dagger, and jab the man holding his knife to your throat in the arm and twist it. He screams in pain, dropping his weapon. You twist around, stabbing him repeatedly through the neck, and pushing his body to the ground. You kick another one in the leg and take advantage of his following stumble to jab him through the eye, straight through to the brain. You draw your long sword and swing, beheading another man, before hands grab you from behind. You twist around to stab him, before another man grabs your arm. You try to shake free, but they've grabbed you. "I'll feed you your own hearts, you goddamn thieves and cock-suckers!" "Who died?" the Bandit Thief asks. You look over, and although Blaise still has the knife at her throat, her eyes are closed. "Travis, McCoy and Rotten Boy," another Bandit says. "Fuck! That green-skinned bastard killed McCoy, did he? He'll suffer!" You feel dozens of blades slash your skin, releasing a flow of blood. They cut open your arms and chest as you scream. > Scream "Calm it down, gentlemen! I want him to live a bit longer. To suffer. I know how I want him to die. Cut off his cock and balls and feed them to him. Then, pull out his intestines while he still breathes and salt them." You hear a petrified scream, and turn to see a blood-soaked bandit stabbing one of the men holding you repeatedly through the chest. Another bandit grabs another, and uses his teeth to open his throat. There's a frenzy of conflict as the bandits begin to tear each other apart. You're let go, and stumble away from the bloodshed. The Bandit Leader lets go of Blaise in horror, and she draws her obsidian blade and stabs him through the shoulder, before throwing him to the ground. The melee among the bandits ends abruptly, and left standing are... all of them, to your surprise. You stare at them, blood soaked and covered in various wounds ranging from stab wounds covering their chests to slit. "What the fuck...?" you ask Blaise. "Are they...?" "Undead? Yeah. They are." The Bandit Leader stares up at you both, then the undead. "You're fucking Necromancers, aren't you? Please, get away from me. Please, just leave me alone, I'm sorry, I don't want to die, I wasn't..." "What do we do?" "I liked this fucker's idea." Blaise spits. "What was his plan for you? Cut off his cock and balls and feed them to him. Then, pull out his intestines while he still breathes and salt them. Yeah, I like that." You open your mouth to say something, before collapsing. Blaise catches you, but your weight pulls her down. The Bandit Leader tries to run, but the zombies grab him. "Oh shit, shit, shit. You're bleeding. You can't do that. You're really hurt, you're really, really hurt. Please, please don't die, you're not supposed to die." "I'm not going to die. I'm just going to sleep a little." You close your eyes, and Blaise slaps you hard. "Ow!" "Don't close your eyes. I'll get you some help." "I'm fine! I'll live, I'll fucking live. I've survived worse." Stitches stands up, and whines. Blaise quickly begins to rub his head and say something things to calm down her dog. The Bandit leader struggles against the rotten hands clawing at him, and Blaise looks at him. "Come on, you undead rats! I told you what to do with him!" You stare at the absolute terror on the Bandit leader's face. You open your mouth to say something, before collapsing backwards. > Sleep You awaken in a small room, lying on the bed. "What... what happened?" you ask. Blaise spots and you, and pulls you in for a hug. You wince in pain. "Oh, sorry, sorry. You passed out," Blaise says. "Are you... better? You look like shit." "I look like shit usually. What happened after I passed out?" "I... dealt with the bandit leader." "Did...?" "He... suffered. Then, I dropped the undead and dragged you and Stitches to this tavern." You look at your body, which is covered in bandages, noticing Stitches lying battered and bruised next to you. "Gods, I was scared you weren't going to make it." "I don't die," you grunt, standing up. Your stomach rumbles. "I'm hungry. We should find food." "Yeah, I bet you're starving. Let's go get some grub." > You go eat You get out of bed, and Stitches runs over and begins licking your face. "Stitches, stay here and guard the room. We'll bring you back something to eat." You walk out of the room and find yourself in an old, shitty inn. You walk out towards a shitty pair of tables and sit at one of them, before an old woman who seems like she might once have had traces of beauty appears. Your gaze drops slightly, and you see by the pair of hanging breasts that are almost reaching her knees, probably had gathered quite some attention at a younger age. "Hey, kids, you waitin' on anybody?" She says. "No. Can we order?" "Of course. What can I get you?" Blaise quickly looks over a hastily drawn menu on a piece of wood hanging by the door. "Some sweet rolls, two mugs of ale and whatever meat you're still serving." "That would be the glazed ham. I'll get that right away." Blaise gives the girl some golden coins, and walks away. "So, I'll ask: Were you staring at her tits?" Blaise asks. "Of course not! Where would you possibly get such...?" "You were." "Not in a creepy way, though. Only a quick glance." Blaise rolls her eyes. "Sure. We should head over to the inn after this. The mercenaries the bartender recommended will probably be around there early enough. I hope so, at least." You nod, and the food arrives. You eagerly dig in, devouring the sweet rolls and meats within a minute and quickly downing the ale. As you chew the last ounce of meat, you finish and begin watching Blaise as she eats. You find it strangely fascinating to watch another person eat. Blaise, as always to your surprise, devours the food with the ferocity of a Dragon. When she's finished, you put away you food. Time to go to the tavern. > Four Hours Later... You sit at the bar, slightly drunk on ale. The Golden Hand sit in a booth, drinking, while the fully armored Sir Trent sits down the bar, avoiding drinking as removing his mask would expose his undead condition. He wears full plate armor with his faceplate pulled down, with a red, blank cloak. "Where's Kai?" You ask the bartender, who shrugs. "He's never been one to show up on time. He... ah, what a coincidence." The door is kicked open, and a large man walks in. He has long braided hair, and wears only a pair of stained pants. He holds a machete in his hands, and his bare chest in covered with muscles and tattoos of wave patterns. He smiles, revealing teeth that have been sharpened to a point. "Alright, lads? What's the story? What's going on?" he shouts. He strolls up to the bar, and gets a mug of mead. He downs it, before refilling his drink and downing it again. "Are you going to pay for that?" the Bartender asks. "Probably. I don't know. Any jobs for me?" "There's an interview with a very special client who might send a lot of future jobs your way." "What? Who is it? Is it you?" he says. As you begin to realize he's insane, the Golden Hand members begin walking up to him. "Kai. Remember us?" "Yes!" Kai shouts happily. "I remember killing you! All of you, I recall. I'm quite sad I missed four of you bastards." "You killed my brothers, you bastard!" The Captain of the Golden Hand snarls, drawing a blade. Sir Trent rushes over, drawing his blade. "Hey! We're mercenaries! We do the job we're paid for! You guys were paid to kill him, he was paid to kill you! Now the job's over! If you have an issue, go after the employer, not the employee." "He enjoyed killing them." "We have a code! Don't kill a merc because of what he was paid to do!" Sir Trent growls. "Kai dies today. If you're going to die again today, so be it." The Captain twirls and slashes his sword. Kai rolls out of the way, before leaping into action. In a feral, brutal charge, Kai slaughters them. He beheads the first with one blow, before brutally clawing the second's face and biting out his throat. He hacks off the third's arm and stabs him through the stomach repeatedly, before finally slashing the final man's throat. "Woo!" Kai yells, punching a fist into the air. He drops to his knees, pulling the straps of a breastplate, and using his machete to cut strips of meat from the corpse of one of Golden Hand, which he eagerly tears into. "Here is not the place, Kai!" Sir Trent growls. "Fuck off, Trent, I'm hungry!" "Kai! The guards will be here soon, and when they find us, they'll call the Alliance." "I can wipe out the alliance myself." "Stop being ridiculous," Trent rasps, punching him in the side of the head. Kai backwards, and snarls. "I'll eat your fucking corpse, Trent! I'll slaughter... I'm hungry. Sir Trent, do you want to buy me a steak? I'll do whatever the hell you want for a steak. What were we talking about?" "We have to head out of here, Kai!" "Just a second. The Bartender has work." The Bartender nods. "There's an interview with a very special client who might send a lot of future jobs your way." "Who's the client?" Sir Trent asks. "I'll do it! Whatever the risk with whatever the pay, I'll do it! Trent's right, I need to dive on the first wagon outta this shit stack." "Who's the client?" Sir Trent repeats. Blaise gingerly raises her hand, to Kai and Sir Trent's surprise. "It's a child," Sir Trent says. "Why is she special?" The Bartender leans in close and lets out a rasping whisper. "One's the daughter of the Grand Necromancer." "She's dead. All the reports say she's dead," Sir Trent says. The Bartender shrugs. "You trust the words of the Alliance? Plus, you're dead." Sir Trent stares at Blaise, before dropping to his knee. "My lady, I owed your father a great deal. He brought me back from the cold embrace of the reaper. I would be honored to repay that debt to you," he says, bowing his head. "I owe you nothing, but I need work," Kai admits. "I accept both of your help," Blaise says. "Good. What's the plan, Lady Blaise?" "We're fleeing. We need to escape, find somewhere to lay low." Sir Trent pauses, in deep thought. "Kashin. It's a large town up in the mountains, a home for the homeless. It's at the edge of the Dwarven Clan's territory, so the Elves, Orcs and Men wouldn't head there, and the Dwarves are too scared shitless of going above ground for long enough to make the journey there." "Good. I'm certain that the Necromancer's daughter will have incur...?" "Who the fuck's the Orc?" Kai interrupts. "Dagden," you grunt in response. "Can we trust him? Blondie, you want me to kill him?" "Yes we can trust him, and if you lay a hand on him I'll kill you... twice. Same if you call me Blondie." Kai shrugs, and gets back to eating the corpses of the Golden Hand. "As I was saying, the Necromancer's daughter having escaped will mean that they'll be men after you. Elves, most likely, they despise the undead, though men , the most numerous, could easily be encountered. Finally, there might be Orcs, those bastards are aggressive as hell and eager for war. I'm sure they'd be happy to have your head on a platter." "So all you've done is narrow it down to not Dwarves?" "Precisely." "What's our plan, then?" you ask. "One of us will escort you and... Dagden, is it?" "Yes." "One of us will escort you and Dagden up to Kashin. The other will cause a distraction to draw the enemy in the opposite direction, and draw the majority of those who'd hunt you down away from the area." "Which one of you will cause the distraction and which will go with Blaise and I?" you say. "Lady Blaise should choose," Sir Trent says. "Um... yeah. Of course. Dagden, come here for a second?" Blaise pulls you aside. "What do you think?" she asks. "The undead knight will be a lot more conspicuous on the road, though the... crazy guy could easily murder us in our sleep." > You send Kai to cause the distraction and travel with Sir Trent "Yes, sir. I'll head with you Kashin. Kai, you must head in the opposite direction, doing whatever you can to cause..." You notice Kai has lit a torch. "Are you attempting to light the building that we're inside of on fire?" "Ye... no." Kai says, before extinguishing his torch. "Lady Blaise, we better move. I'll buy whatever supplies we need and we'll head out." "What about my fee?" Kai asks. Sir Trent sighs, before drawing a bag of gold and tossing it at Kai. "Let's move, Lady Blaise. We have a lot of ground to cover." > Three Days Later... You walk along the an overgrown path with Blaise and Sir Trent. "We're making good progress," Sir Trent says. Blaise stops, pointing to a large tree covered in purple fruit. When you spot them, hunger pains begin to hit you. "That looks delicious," Blaise says. "Do we have time to stop?" "In my opinion, we should continue moving, my lady." > You stop and eat the fruit You stop, and pluck one of the fruit and begin eating. For the next twenty minutes, you try to cram as many fruit as you can in your gob. After that, you continue walking. > One Hour Later... After another hour of walking, you come across a cave. At the outside, two rotting corpses lie next to an armored fresh one. "Oh, look. There's signs of battle. Should we investigate?" Sir Trent says. "We should probably be in a rush, right? Who knows who could be hunting us?" Blaise adds, and Sir Trent nods. > You Investigate "Come on. This is too interesting not to check out." You walk down the cave path. As you walk deeper inside, Blaise lights a torch. You see signs of battle between Life and Death, with dead corpses of soldiers, all men, lying alongside rotting corpses. As you near the end of the cave, you come across a horrific scene. "Ah. There's been a battle," Sir Trent says. Dozens of slain human corpses lie in a pile, surrounded by zombies. The zombies have abandoned all intelligence, and are eagerly chewing into the pile of corpses. As they spot you, they growl and begin stumbling towards you. Blaise screams and backs away, before you catch her. You raise an eyebrow, and she nods. She takes a deep breath, and begins to whisper to herself. The zombies stop heading towards you, and begin tearing each other apart. After a few seconds, the last one tears out it's own throat and falls to the ground. "That was easy." "Fighting undead's my specialty," Blaise shrugs. "Wed better get on the road again. Let's move," Sir Trent says. > You continue walking As you hear a shout, you pause. "Hold! You are under investigation by the Order of the High Elves!" "Bastard!" you hear Sir Trent swear under his breath, the first time you've ever heard him swear. You see about a dozen golden figures in armor appear around you. Eight have drawn bows, three have swords, while the last seems to have fireballs held in her hands. "What do we do?" Blaise says quietly. "I kill them, you raise them," Sir Trent says. "Killing's my specialty." With that, Sir Trent lunges into action as you cut open your hand and activate your blood stone. You see two fireballs heading towards both you and Blaise. > Dodge You roll out of the way and avoid a fireball that flies over you, and Blaise is hit by a fireball. She flies backwards with a scream, and you rush over to her. "I'm... fine," she groans in pain. "Keep fighting." You charge forward, slashing your long sword. Your sword smashes into the blade of one of the Elves, but he quickly parries, kicking your foot. You fall backwards, collapsing onto the ground. The Elf raises his sword, and stabs you through the heart. > Death Eternal Sleep Your life force is taken from you as you enter the endless sleep of death.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie] As you hear a shout, you pause. "Hold! You are under investigation by the Order of the High Elves!" "Bastard!" you hear Sir Trent swear under his breath, the first time you've ever heard him swear. You see about a dozen golden figures in armor appear around you. Eight have drawn bows, three have swords, while the last seems to have fireballs held in her hands. "What do we do?" Blaise says quietly. "I kill them, you raise them," Sir Trent says. "Killing's my specialty." With that, Sir Trent lunges into action as you cut open your hand and activate your blood stone. You see two fireballs heading towards both you and Blaise. > You push Blaise out of the way You see the fireball hurtling straight towards Blaise, and you knock her out of the way. You scream as you're blasted by a fireball, flying backwards. You stand, wincing in pain, before getting back into the fray. You charge forward, slashing your long sword. Your sword smashes into the blade of one of the Elves, but he quickly parries, kicking your foot. You fall backwards, collapsing onto the ground. As the Elf prepares to stab you through the chest, he screams as he's hit by a blast of lightning to the head. Blaise rushes over, stabbing him through the neck. The Elf screams, before he shudders. Blaise releases him, and he stumbles off towards the other elves, mindless and zombified. You turn to see how the fight's going. Sir Trent has already killed a third of the the Elves, who are now zombified and rushing towards the other Elves. The fight lasts only a few more moments, with every dying elf rising again to join the fight on your side. After the final elf is beheaded, Sir Trent gasps. "Ah. That wakes up the rotting muscles," Sir Trent says, taking a few deep breaths. "Let's get back to walking." > Two Weeks Later... After two long weeks of travel, you arrive at Kashin. The town is a... about half a dozen buildings spread out among the massive Dwarven Mountain Range. "What's this? There's nothing here," You say. "Most of the city is underground," Sir Trent says. You walk up towards Kashin, up a small mountain trail. After about half an hour, you reach the city gates. Massive steel gates cover the tunnel down underground. The gates are guarded by a massive Orc, a Dwarf holding a battleaxe, and a massive giant humanoid creature chained to the wall. "What the hell...?" you say. "Jack!" Sir Trent shouts. Sir Trent walks forward, patting the massive troll on the back. To your surprise the troll doesn't tear Sir Trent's head off. "Hey! Get off Jack!" the Dwarf yells. "If you're coming into the city, just say so!" "Yeah, we're coming into the city, thank you!" Sir Trent shouts, as he strolls into the city past the opening gates. You follow him quickly, heading into the city. After five minutes of walking, passing dozens of stone buildings built into the underground caverns and tunnels which widen considerably into the massive cavern, you arrive at a small stone building. "Here's Tholi's house. She's an old friend from when I worked with Kai. She'd be happy to take you in until the heat's died down." You walk inside, before you're met with a tiny dwarf with long, curly red hair. "Hello, my undead ally. How's your life been? How can I help you, Trent" "I need your help," Sir Trent says. "You always do," Tholi says. "Kai always does. I never do." "Fair point. What is it you need?" "I need you to take care of these kids." "That's... a big request. Why?" "One the Necromancer's daughter, Lady Blaise. I need you to look after her." "And the Orc?" "He's my friend," Blaise says. "Alright, then. I'll take them in if the needs be." "Really? It's that simple?" "I owe you. You saved my ass far too many times." "Fair enough," Sir Trent says. "Children, I must go." "That's it?" Blaise asks. "You're leaving?" "Yes. They'll be searching for us, despite Kai's distraction. I'll head out and find him, and we'll head out somewhere. Without me, he'd be dead in a week. So I'm sorry, I must go." Sir Trent leans in, and hugs you both. "My debt to you is not yet paid, Lady Blaise. We'll see each other again, I'm sure of it. I wish the best of luck to you, Lady, and you too, Dagden," Sir Trent says, before quickly turning and rushing out. "Come on, I'll get you some grub, should I? You must be famished." > Two Years Later... In the small city of Kashin, time flies. The community's large enough that there's always something new to do unlike back with Reaper Castle, and you begin to learn all of the town's secrets. The hidden stash of hallucinogenic mushrooms that you learn belongs to old Mrs DeAngelo, the old scouting tunnels that were used to spy for enemies, the barred off Dwarven Mines that lead to a nesting ground for bats, even the secret room behind the school that's being used as a distillery of a cheap knock off of Dwarven Mead. The heat for Blaise lasts for longer than expected, with some light patrols and even some wandering Heroes arriving in search for two refugees. Still, they're easy to hide from with the help of Tholi. As time passes on you begin reading some of the many books that fills the great library that Tholi has collected over the years, with your interests including the making of a fine ale to the history of the Orcish Tribes off towards the cold, inhospitable Northern mountains. You practice with your weapons and Blood Magic everyday, and Blaise eagerly collects any bandit corpses or dying carcasses to bring back to life and train with, before eventually allowing them to depart from this realm once she's finished. The time flies incredibly quickly. You wait patiently as fewer and fewer faces arrive looking for Blaise, and to a much lesser extent, you. The large WANTED: NECROMANCER posters that once plastered the town slowly give way to newer and more important issues, such as WANTED: BANDIT CHIEFTAIN or WANTED: FORGER as Blaise's name fades from the headlines. As well as this, you can tell from Newspapers that the so called "Alliance" has fallen apart without a threat to unite against. Orc Raiders attack human communities, humans expand into Orc territory, the Dwarves stay as xenophobic and isolated as ever and tension flares within the Elves as the Wood Elves demand peace, the Dark Elves embark on business ventures and mercenary works for the enemies of the Elves and the High Elves try to expand their empire. This quickly leads to infighting, before the Alliance falls apart. Minor skirmishes break out as soldiers class along changing borders. Not only is the Alliance dead, it's only a matter of time before wars break out. Still, this has little effect on the tiny community of Kashin, which continues to act as a home for the various Undead, Exiled and Scum of this plane. "Dagden! I need you to head out with Blaise to the market!" Tholi yells from across your stone home. "For what?" you reply with a shout. "There's a new shipment of flowers, fertilisers and seeds. I need you to pick it up from Mr Tabernius. There's coin and breakfast by the table. I've left some extra money for whatever you feel like doing, around 100 coins." Of course it's flowers and other gardening stuff. What else could it possibly be? Tholi is, quite ironically, a Plant and Life Mage. Blaise's love of gardening, which again is incredibly ironic for a master of death, has only got them to get along better than ever. The massive greenhouse, which is one of the few buildings that goes above ground in Kashin, is an impressive thing to behold. Through magic, skill and a lot of hard work, she's made an incredible and very impressive garden. From what you've heard, Tholi's made quite a bit of coin selling impossible to find herbs to the Merchant Caravans. You clamber out of your bed and quickly get dressed in a rough woolen tunic, before walking downstairs. Blaise sits there, eating a bowl of grapes. A second, untouched bowl sits next to her, which you eagerly grab and begin to dig into. You toss one to Stitches, who lies on the ground off to the side, half-asleep. You shovel the plump purple grapes into your gob, as Tholi appears. "Good morning," she says cheerfully. "What flowers are coming in, Tholi?" Blaise asks eagerly. "Ah, there's some Purple Dragon Tongue, Silver Bells, Sunshine Pitchers, Black Roses and some Daffodils, I think. You'd be surprised how hard it is to find good daffodils." "Cool," Blaise says, pushing her empty bowl away. "Are you ready, Dag?" You nod eagerly, your mouth full. You stand, pop on your boots, and begin heading out the door. Blaise grabs the bag of coins, and you walk with her. At this stage, you both know the town like the back of your hand. You pass the Grave, an Inn who's primary market are the many undead who once served Dante and now hide, scared to lose their "lives" for a second time in their existence. You pass the Silver Chalice Tavern, Da'qiq's General Store and several large stone homes build into the caves. You look up at the stone roof that would've plunged the cavern into darkness without the massive and numerous torches that covered the cavern walls and every building inside. You eventually find yourself at Mr Tibernius' Master Store. The building is unoccupied nine months of the year as Mr Tibernius travels across the world and, according to some, visits other planes of existence, collecting everything from ornate candlesticks to dark tomes that speak the name of creatures that could burn this world to ash if they simply noticed it. > You go inside You walk inside, pushing open the dusty door. You're met with a familiar face. A tall figure wearing a top hat and a black coat with purple trim stands there, who you recognize easily. "Mister Chinkrinkski?" you say in shock. He turns, and you're met with the grinning face of Mister Chinkrinkski. He stands next to a pale-faced, terrified young man with black, curly hair that reached his shoulders, with green eyes and expensive robes with a wolf-skin cloak and a diamond, ruby and sapphire necklace. You glance around the room, seeing it's a massive store filled with dusty weapons racks, armor stands, bookshelves and shelves of various other goods. "Ah, children! Thank the Gods! Mister Chinkrinkski, I'm sorry to say I'll have to take care of these new... customers." Mister Chinkrinkski laughs, before slapping the young man, Tabernius, on the back. A row of bookshelves suddenly bursts into flames as Tabernius flinches. "Tabernius, you owe me the package," Mister Chinkrinkski says happily, as the fire begins to spread. "OK, OK! Please, you can take it!" Tabernius yells. The fire goes out, and Mister Chinkrinkski smiles. Tabernius hurries and gets a small black box from a hidden safe, before quickly passing it to Tabernius. "Here, take it!" "Thank you, Tabernius. Goodbye, Children. I'm sure we'll meet again." Mister Chinkrinkski smiles, before walking out of the store. "Thank the Gods you arrived. That monster would've... ah, no matter. How may I help you?" "I'm here to pick up a package for Tholi." "Tholi... the flowers, right?" You nod, and Tabernius quickly finds a large box and puts it in front of you. You pay for it, and find yourself with 100 Coins change, as Tholi said. "Ah, more coin, have you? Feel free to spend it here. There's some signs that'll show you everything there is to have." > You look around A dusty sign points off to a much smaller room that's locked, with the words "TALK WITH A DEMON-25 GOLD COINS" engraved in the wood, which could be of interest. A large plate holds a large cooked steak, with a sign underneath it. "ANCIENT DRAGON STEAK-25 GOLD COINS" the sign says. It does like quite tasty, you admit. Next on the shelf is a large book covered with bloodstains with a title you can't read that's available for fifteen golden coins. There's a small Oak table with a seat next to it covered in cards, with a sign over it. "FORTUNE TELLING-25 GOLD COINS". Huh, that twenty five gold coins thing is becoming a trend. On a small shelf is a large goblet of Spiced Wine from across the Great Sea, available for only ten Golden Coins. Next is a large silver ring, with a silver skull on it, both it's eyes studded with rubies, that's available for fifty Golden Coins, although it clearly wouldn't fit on your large fingers. Finally, there's a Golden Helmet which stands on a stand. It's sign calls it the "Helm of Knowledge" and although it's not for sale, you can "Try it on and gain its knowledge" for only twenty five golden coins. > You buy the Ring You buy the ring, and hold it in your hands, staring into the skull's ruby eyes. "Hey, Blaise," you say, and she walks over. "Yes?" "Here," you say, giving it to her. "Oh! Is... is this for me?" she says in surprise. A dusty sign points off to a much smaller room that's locked, with the words "TALK WITH A DEMON-25 GOLD COINS" engraved in the wood, which could be of interest. A large plate holds a large cooked steak, with a sign underneath it. "ANCIENT DRAGON STEAK-25 GOLD COINS" the sign says. It does like quite tasty, you admit. Next on the shelf is a large book covered with bloodstains with a title you can't read that's available for fifteen golden coins. There's a small Oak table with a seat next to it covered in cards, with a sign over it. "FORTUNE TELLING-25 GOLD COINS". Huh, that twenty five gold coins thing is becoming a trend. On a small shelf is a large goblet of Spiced Wine from across the Great Sea, available for only ten Golden Coins. Next is a large silver ring, with a silver skull on it, both it's eyes studded with rubies, that's available for fifty Golden Coins, although it clearly wouldn't fit on your large fingers. Finally, there's a Golden Helmet which stands on a stand. It's sign calls it the "Helm of Knowledge" and although it's not for sale, you can "Try it on and gain its knowledge" for only twenty five golden coins. > You try the Helmet You pay Tabernius, and he offers you the helmet. "This helmet will give you massive amounts of knowledge, some of which might be... detrimental to your health. Put it on for as long as you want." You nod, and put on the helmet. Knowledge floods into your mind. Sailing Tips flood into your mind, before every Speech written by the Kings of the Kingdom of Man. A brief bit of information about the lifespan, diet and nature of Turtles hits you. > You keep the helmet on You keep the helmet on, and more information floods in. Dwarven Accountancy, the lives of Elvish Peasants... then, several brutal images of horrific murders, rapes and torture scenes committed by a brutal Dwarven Serial Killer enters your minds, and you wince as you realize they're all children. Those images are burned into your mind before the information stream changes to the nutrition values of wine. > You keep the helmet on More information floods in. Archery tips, hunting tips, how to bake the perfect cake, the location of every map of the Great Sea, the biology of Dogs. You feel something important is coming up, and struggle to think whether it'll be good or bad. > You keep the helmet on Escape into the Abyss Faces. Horrible faces flood into your mind. Creatures of such immense size and power they could purge your world from existence with less strength that you use in breathing. But they're not going to do that. You can tell what they're going to do. They're going to cause a pain so unbearable, so unimaginable, to even contemplate how bad it is might be driving you insane. They've noticed you. They've noticed you learning about them, learning what man was not meant to know. They're coming. Everything you love is going to pay for your curiosity. You rip off the helmet, drawing your bone dagger. You quickly plunge it into Blaise's heart, killing her instantly. Thank the Gods. You've saved her from the pain. You turn the blade around and plunge it through your own heart as you escape into the abyss.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie, fantasy] A dusty sign points off to a much smaller room that's locked, with the words "TALK WITH A DEMON-25 GOLD COINS" engraved in the wood, which could be of interest. A large plate holds a large cooked steak, with a sign underneath it. "ANCIENT DRAGON STEAK-25 GOLD COINS" the sign says. It does like quite tasty, you admit. Next on the shelf is a large book covered with bloodstains with a title you can't read that's available for fifteen golden coins. There's a small Oak table with a seat next to it covered in cards, with a sign over it. "FORTUNE TELLING-25 GOLD COINS". Huh, that twenty five gold coins thing is becoming a trend. On a small shelf is a large goblet of Spiced Wine from across the Great Sea, available for only ten Golden Coins. Next is a large silver ring, with a silver skull on it, both it's eyes studded with rubies, that's available for fifty Golden Coins, although it clearly wouldn't fit on your large fingers. Finally, there's a Golden Helmet which stands on a stand. It's sign calls it the "Helm of Knowledge" and although it's not for sale, you can "Try it on and gain its knowledge" for only twenty five golden coins. > You leave the store You stand, picking up the crate of flowers, seeds and fertilizers. Blaise holds the door open, and you walk out. "Thank you." "Of course." You begin the short walk home, carrying the crate. Blaise walks alongside you, offering to help. "I could..." "I'm fine." "I could carry a bag of fertiliser, or..." "I'm fine, Blaise. I'm an Orc. Lifting heavy things is what we do." "I thought murder was what you do." "We do a lot of things. Don't stereotype us to one thing. We're also good at drinking, bragging, wrestling and we have some of the best horn players to ever live." Blaise shrugs, and you continue walking. After a few minutes, you arrive home. The door is wide open, so you just let yourself in. You walk up to the greenhouse, and climb the wooden ladder that leads you there. "Have either of you seen a cat?" Tholi yells, frustrated. You enter the greenhouse. Massive glass walls enclose a large room filled with every plant imaginable. It makes Blaise's garden look like a weed growing out of a clump of dirt. Rows of roses, various small trees, endless amounts of shrubs, berry bushes, flowers and other fine pieces of greenery. In the center, standing perfectly still and fast asleep, is a Life Elemental. The massive, nine foot figure seems to be a massive talking tree with wooden arms and legs, with leaves and flowers growing from it's body. It's face, which looks like a master wood carver has carved it into the bark, is closed and asleep, with leaves growing across its chest that go up and down as it snores. An Elemental is a creature that is the embodiment of a magical element, in this case life, that has no morality besides the spreading of its own element. Because of this, Life Elementals are relatively pacifistic, although the issues they cause, such as destroying buildings to make room for plant life, digging up corpses for fertilizer and wiping out any loggers in the area make it an unwelcome guest to all but the Wood Elves. Still, since Tholi has managed to keep this one relatively tame, she's allowed to use it as a gardener and a last line of defense should the house be attacked. You stare at the horrible be plant-beast, having some hate for it, but Blaise simply walks up to it and rubs it's side. It's eyes open, pure black, and Blaise slowly checks the various plants that make up its body for infection or disease, before letting the Elemental sleep again. She then drops to her knees and begins to tend to a bed of strange flowers that you vaguely remember being called Forgetting Flowers, or Never-Forget Flowers, or some other nonsense flower name like that. "Put the crate down in the corner," Tholi shouts, and you do so. "Why did you have a cat?" you ask. "Some of the more... dangerous plants require a bit of food with a more... blood in it. I'm happy to kill a cat, they're all just rat-killing monsters. No emotion, cats. I despise the little buggers." You shrug, and nod, before you head over, as you always do, to the Cranberry Tree. "Dagden, if you have a single cranberry from that tree, I will murder you." "Please?" "No, Dagden." "If I'm good can I make a pie? Can I have the pie you made? I saw you making pies earlier." "The pies I made have been ordered by a merchant caravan staying in the city." Suddenly, you hear a loud banging on the door. "Go get that, will you?" Tholi says. You nod, and quickly slide down the ladder. You run up to the door, to be faced with the rotting smile and sharpened grin that you haven't seen in years.. "Trent, Kai. What the hell are...?" "It's time to get out of Kashin. The Alliance is falling apart. There's men waiting on the border to launch an invasion of the Elves and Dwarves, breaking into another war. The Orcs don't seem to be preparing for war, well, not anymore than usual, although I'm sure they'll hire themselves out to both sides," Sir Trent says. "That's... good for us, isn't it?" you ask. "In a way. There's quite a few more bands of adventurers and heroes searching around, a lot looking for Blaise." "Why?" "A patsy. They need a patsy to blame for their troubles. They can't mend the Alliance through love, but they can do so with hate. Demons, Necromancers, the strange men across the Great Sea, anything they can unite against. There's rumors that she's holed up in a cave somewhere, raising an army. It'll be no time before such heroes arrive here, searching for an enemy. A secret Demonic Cult that's about to summon an invasion, a spy from across the Great Sea, an apprentice Necromancer, if they can find one of these threats, they plan to use it to unite the Alliance in routing out this new "enemy"," Sir Trent says. "We gotta get the fuck outta here!" Kai says happily. > You call Blaise down "Blaise! Come here!" Blaise and Tholi slide down the ladder moments later. "Kai, Trent! Look at my two favorite mercenaries!" Tholi hugs the pair, and they break into a long branch of chatter. You shrug. You sit down in a wooden chair, and watch as the conversation continues. Topics ranging from how Kai's transformations were going to how Sir Trent was coping without necromantic power being given to him by the Grand Necromancer to the state of Kashin. Eventually, Blaise asks a question. "Why are you here?" Blaise asks, and Sir Trent launches into the long explanation he told you. "So... where are we going?" you ask once Sir Trent finishes. "Lady Blaise is in charge." Blaise nods, thinking. "We don't have time to think. We have to go. Let's go!" Kai shouts, stabbing his machete into the wall. "What? We're going now? Like, now now?" Blaise asks incredulously. "I'm sorry to take you away so quickly, but there's a cart waiting and if we don't leave now, we could easily get found out, and have every adventurer in the land on our trail." Tholi frowns, but nods. "He's right. You two need to go." "Come on! Pack your things!" Kai shouts. "Ah, I tried. I give up." Kai falls to the ground and closes his eyes. "Ah, for fuck's sake... Dagden, Blaise, pack your things," Sir Trent says, letting out one of his few curses. You nod, before Tholi rushes off. "Pack your things, I have something to get you both!" Tholi shouts as she rushes off. You head up to your room and grab your things. You grab your Blood Stone, your sword, Mort and his bronze cage, you dagger, your boots and everything else you have, cramming it into a leather satchel and popping Mort on your shoulder. You walk downstairs again and fine Blaise, tears streaming down her face while she embraces Tholi, with a leather bag at her side and Stitches licking the side of Kai's face. "I'm going to miss you so much!" Blaise cries, now having to bend down to cry into Tholi's shoulder. "I'll miss you too, sweetheart. I want you to take this," she holds out a small potted plant. The potted plant has a delicate black flower in it. It has sharp, dark green thorns curving upwards coming from the stem, and beautiful black petals forming an intricate cupping shape, with a beautiful blood red pistil. Light reddish brown pollen gently lifts from the anthers into the air around it, carrying a scent like cooked meat, which is odd for a flower. "It's..." Tholi begins. "It's your Death's Head Flower! You only have one of these. Are you sure you want to give it to me?" "Of course! I wouldn't have it any other way. I want you to plant it wherever you find yourself and grow yourself a whole flower bed of them." "Thanks," Blaise says, hugging Tholi. "Dagden, almost everything...?" "Can I have the cranberries?" "... I have isn't of much use of you, but I..." "Please for the love of the Gods tell me you're giving me the cranberries." "...I'm giving you the four cranberry pies I made you." "Thanks!" you say, quickly hugging Tholi. You let go off her, and quickly head to the kitchen. Seconds later, your face is stuffed with cranberry pie. "I'll miss you both so much." Tholi says. "I'll miss you too," Blaise says. You try to say you'll miss her, but it comes out as a mumble thanks to the pie stuffing your face. Tholi hugs you both, before Kai jumps up, Stitches in his hands. "Let's go! For...!" "Shut up, Kai," Sir Trent says, turning and walking out the door. You follow after him. > Three Hours Later... You sit in the back of a cart, next to Stitches, Mort, Blaise and an unconscious Kai. Sir Trent sits in the driver's seat, his hands on the reigns. "So what's our plan, exactly?" you ask Blaise. "We head to Reaper Castle. I've told you, I want to remake my dad's empire. Better this time." > Agree "Oh, really? Thanks, Dag," Blaise says smiling at you. "Hear that, Stitches? We're going home." "I'll begin heading towards Reaper Castle," Sir Trent says. "What's it like? What's happened to it in the two years since I've been there?" "It's, and I'm not exaggerating, a literal shit encrusted anus," Kai says, waking up. "Reaper Castle? It's a shithole, a refuge for bandits and scum. After the war against your father, there was the awkward question of who would take Reaper Castle. All of the Alliance had some claim on it, whether it be because it's closest to their territory, or they led the charge, or they killed the Necromancer or lost the most men. Since parts of the Dead Empire were given to all who fought and none could agree on who to give Reaper Castle to, they simply left it abandoned. Still, in this recent time of friction they each have large forces nearby, ready to take Reaper Castle in the event of war or another race trying to capture it. The Castle itself should still be structurally sound and mostly fine, it's only been two years. Still, between the various bandits staying there, the few undead that were left behind and have no doubt gone feral and any other scum that's taken up residence there, it will be some effort to take back," Sir Trent says. "We can do it," Blaise says, looking uncertain. "Yeah, we will," you reply. "You two better get some sleep. The sun's falling, and we won't be there for a few days. Just get used to the cart, I suppose." You lie back in the cart, struggling to get some sleep in the rough, wooden cart. > Four Days Later... Four days pass easily. You manage to avoid the various Alliance checkpoints that have been set up, and finally find yourself approaching Reaper Castle. "It's been so long since I've seen it," Blaise says. "Ah, the castle. It's home, alright," Sir Trent says. "Home? Fuck off with that, you spent most of the time on the road with me," Kai says, standing up and drawing his machete. "I'm ready to kill." You continue heading towards Reaper Castle, as Sir Trent begins to formulate his plan. "We enter and move through the place killing or taming any Feral Undead, killing the bandits or forcing them out. and then wipe out any other threats. Leave the dog and mouse here. I'll lead Lady Blaise and Dagden through the halls. Kai, you go off separately in your hunting form." "Can do!" Kai grins. You roll up to the outside of Reaper Castle. The gates are barred, so Kai jumps off the cart and walks up to it. He pushes open the gates, which are unbarred. Kai tosses his machete aside with a laugh. He lets out a long laugh, which turns to a yell as his body begins to twist and break. His bones snap as his limbs stretch wider and his head and body grows. His face is torn apart as his teeth grow and sharpen past their usual point. Hair sprouts from his body. The Werewolf howls, and immediately bursts into the castle, sprinting straight down the halls of one of the barracks. "Stay away from Kai until he changes form. He'll tear your head off and swallow your innards if you go near him. If he tries to attack us, I'll hurt him and send him back to his human form. Now, let's go!" Sir Trent draws his blade, and enters the main castle building. You walk inside, drawing your long sword. The hallways are filled with corpses and bloodstains. Any Alliance Soldiers who died are gone, having been taken out and buried, burned or eaten as per their cultures tradition, leaving only the undead, necromancers and mercenaries' corpses. Blaise pauses, and through the hall four of the dead stand. "I can't raise any more. Most have been stabbed through the head and heart by the Alliance to make sure they can't be risen." You nod, and walk along the wall. A rotted figure wanders forward, a feral zombie, before Blaise's eyes narrow and it snaps to attention. You continue wandering the empty halls, as feral zombies are brought into the fold and dead are raised. Your numbers are small, but by the time you've secured the main building, over two dozen undead march ahead of you. "It's a sizeable force," Sir Trent nods. "It's a start," Blaise says, as you enter the throne room. Blaise stops suddenly, and you look ahead. Nailed to the black, obsidian throne is the rotting, cloaked body that you recognize is Dante only from the cloak. His head sits in his lap, a bloody iron crown with nine black gems built into it resting on his head. Thorin kneels in front of him, impaled through the ground with a wooden stake going through his head so he's forced to kneel. "Dad..." Blaise gasps. > You pull her away You grab Blaise and pull her aside, grabbing her head to force her to look at you as Blaise begins to cry and Sir Trent rushes past you. "I'm going to fucking burn them to ash! I'll kill them as slowly and keep them on as Wights and hurt them more!" Blaise cries furiously. "I know. I promise you, we'll avenge him." "I know you will. Sir Trent, take Dad outside with Thorin and any other dead Wights or Revenants here. We're burning them." "We need to secure the castle first." "I know. Let's get killing," Blaise says, turning and storming off. You break into a jog, following Blaise out of the building. You head into the courtyard, and notice a man standing in the doorway of one of the barracks. He looks terrified as he listens to the roars of Kai as he tears through whoever's in the next barracks, as well as the moans and gasps of Blaise's new undead group. "FUCK! We're under attack!" he shouts. He retreats inside, and you hear yells, shouts and calls to action from inside the barracks. A minute later, two dozen Bandits rush out wielding swords or knives. A particularly small one, one of the few clean-shaven Dwarves you've seen, steps forward. "Who the fuck are you?" he says, quite elegantly in your opinion. "Blaise. The new Grand Necromancer." The bandits eye the undead nervously, before hearing Kai roar from the next building. "Who the fuck is that?" the Bandit Leader says. "Kai. Wanna meet him?" Blaise says. The Bandit Leader eyes Blaise, shaking his head slowly. "What'd ya want?" the Bandit Leader asks. "This is my house. You're in it," Blaise says. "I'm sure as fuck not letting some young bitch waltz straight from the whore house into my fort and try take it from under me!" Blaise rolls her eyes, and raises her hands. A bolt of lightning flies from it, hitting the Bandit leader in the stomach. He screams, shudders, and collapses backwards. There's an awkward moment of silence, before the Bandit leader rises. He growls, wandering towards your zombie pack, joining in at the back. "Dagden," Blaise says, turning to you. "What do you think? Kill and raise the rest? We need to up our troops somehow." > You massacre and raise the Bandits "Wipe them out." Blaise nods, and orders her undead forward. The Bandits quickly backpedal and retreat inside, unusually scared of undead for people living in a castle of undead. The undead flood in, very easily wiping out the bandits who Blaise rises easily. "Good. Here's our new army." Kai bursts out from the barracks he was in, hair falling from his body and his body morphing as he returns to plain old Kai. He pants are torn and he's covered with blood. "That was fun," he smiles. You stare at him for a moment, before the final bandit screams. "Now that that's done, into the final section of Reaper Castle," Sir Trent says. You look at the final section. It's the one where you had class with Mr Nilvos, and where the garden was. "Come on. Let's go inside." > You go inside You walk inside, and are immediately faced with a chained door. The chains are silver and covered with weird runes. Kai breaks it open with a couple of swings from his machete, and you push the door open. Inside is a massacre. You're hit by a flow of warm air that reeks of sulfur and rotting flesh. Corpses stripped of their skin lie on the ground, and a crucified rotting corpse is nailed to the wall. Sir Trent immediately pushes you behind him. "Do you smell that? This is the work of demons," Sir Trents says, pushing forward. Beyond the scenes of massacre, the place is empty. There are no actual demons here, so you quickly clear out the place. Finally, you come to a door, chained with silver chains. "Hello? Hello?!?" a voice cries out from behind the chained door. "Are you alive? Is there somebody there?" "Hello?" Blaise asks uncertainly. "Oh thank the Gods! Please, you have to let me out of here! You're... Wait... Are you one of them? Of course you are. Here to laugh at me again, are you? Here to trick me? Well I'm not doing this again," the voice says. Blaise looks at you, confused, before Kai breaks open the chains. Sir Trent quickly opens the door, raising his sword to protect himself from any unknown attack. You look inside, and see a fascinating and terrifying sight. Two figures are in the room. The first is kneeling in a circle of candles. He's a large, light green creature whose large, muscular chest and both sharp and rough features indicate he is a Half-Elf, Half-Orc. His body is covered with large, deep scars, and he looks like he's been torn apart before. His hair is bound into a large lock, the rest of his scalp bare. The other figure you recognize immediately. Sitting unconscious in a chair in front of the circle is Mr Nilvos, your old Dark Elf teacher. "Please... blow out the candles and break the circle. Please..." The Half-Elf-Orc begs. > You wake Mr Nilvos You walk over to Mr Nilvos and gently shake his shoulder. When he doesn't wake up, you slap him. "You need to break the circle to wake him up, I swear. Please..." the Half-Elf-Orc pleads. > You release the Half-Elf-Orc You blow out the candles, as Blaise, Kai and Sir Trent simply watch in confusion. The Half-Elf Orc steps out of the circle and sighs. "Freedom. It tastes... bitter." "Who are you?" you ask. "I am Soren," he says. "I..." He stops as he notices Blaise and Sir Trent. "Go on," you prompt. "I... I'm an explorer who wandered in on this place and..." Soren shudders, and his voice changes to a deep rumble. "Ah! Freedom! Control! It is beautiful! Freedom in the body is not freedom in the soul, though. He struggles..." Soren yells and begins to smash his fist against his head, dropping to his knees. You try to stop him, but he slams his head against the ground and collapses, unconscious. Suddenly, Mr Nilvos' eyes snap open. "Those fucking traitorous bastards! I..." Mr Nilvos stops as he stares at you. "Fuck. You're bigger than I remember. How...? No matter. We need to get out of here. Alliance Soldiers are storming this place, after the Grand Necromancer's head. There's... Who the fuck is he?" "That's Kai," you say. "Fine. We need to go. The Alliance..." "The Alliance isn't here. The Alliance already stormed this place two years ago." "Two years... Fucking demons!" Mr Nilvos cries, kicking the chair. "What happened to you?" you ask. "We were being invaded, so I summoned some friends to help me out. Then we got barricaded in here by two Paladins, and the demons turned on me. There's one of them," he says, pointing to Soren. "The only demon who stayed loyal to me was Malign. The demons decided to punish Malign, so they forced him into the Paladin's body and trapped him in the circle, knocking me out and using my energy t

o keep it going. Then, they ran rampant, and assuming it's actually been two years, either went back to their world after they found out they were stuck here, or got out and reaped havoc." Soren hastily stands up, staring at you. "Children! You need to get out of here! This man's..." he pauses, looking at Kai and Sir Trent. "Undead, obviously. An undead wight and an ex-Knight. Long nails, hair, sharpened teeth... Werewolf. What kind of company are you keeping, kids?" he asks, unnerved. "You're part of the team that killed my dad," Blaise says, staring at him. "No! No, of course not! I... Ah, Mr Nilvos. You're awake. How are you, old friend?" "Better now that I'm up, Malign. You?" "He struggles with me. He... It's in my head! Get it out," Soren says, panicking and hitting himself in the head again. Mr Nilvos grabs his arm. "Calm down, man. Have you never been possessed? It's simple. Simply think about what sins you have committed and lie aloud." "OK... OK..." Soren says. "As a boy, I never stole from the temple. I never hit my... Thank you, Mr Nilvos. My power increases with every sin he commits." "What the fuck is going on?" Blaise shouts, angry and confused. "Ah, Blaise. Sorry. Malign's a friend of mine. Whenever the Paladin sins or lies, Malign's is given more and more control over the paladin. So..." "Please, help me," Soren begs, dropping to his knees. "Whenever you sin and lie, the demon gets more control," Sir Trent says. "It... Of course," Soren says, nodding. "You zombie bastard! I could've helped Malign take the paladin's body by the end of today! Now it's going to take a hell of a long time," Mr Nilvos says. "Everyone, shut the hell up!" Blaise says. "I'm in charge here. Mr Nilvos, leave Soren alone! Soren, stop freaking out. Sir Trent, take command of whatever forces we have, and start cleaning this place up with Kai." Over the next hour, Blaise tries to regain order. Eventually, you manage to understand the situation. Mr Nilvos has been unconscious, all his energy being put toward the circle trapping Soren/Malign, so you give him some time to gather his thoughts. Soren immediately heads into the courtyard, and begins to pray. Kai and Sir Trent get to work clearing this place. Once everything has calmed down, Blaise pulls you aside. "Yes?" "Let's visit the garden." > You visit the Garden You push the door open, and are met with a terrible sight. "It's all gone," Blaise says. "I mean, I knew it would be... but I hoped." The tree has been badly burned, the flowers uprooted and trampled and the rest destroyed. Blaise looks at it sadly. "I'll rebuild it. Staring with the flower Tholi gave me," Blaise says. "We'll rebuild it all. The garden, the castle, the empire." "We will. You'll be at my side, as my advisor and grand general." "General? General Dagden Dragontooth. I like it." Blaise looks up at you, and smiles. "This'll be the start of a great thing." > Three Weeks Later... Blaise manages to repair Reaper Castle to the extent she can with the help of her new workforce. The corpses are dragged out, the bloodstains cleaned and the walls repaired to what extent can be done. "Do you like it?" Blaise asks as a team of undead finish repairing the gates. "It's missing a lot of its decorative features." "I'll get them back. We need to start expanding first. There's a few hidden stockpiles of Dad's gold that the bastard raiding Alliance soldiers didn't find. We can use them to bring the Castle back to its former glory, or at least part way. Maybe I should get a crown." "What about your dad's crown?" "Dad's crown reeks of death. There's a great, powerful... thing inside it. I'm scared of it, I'm staying away from it. It doesn't matter. I have a special task for you," she says. "What is it?" "I need you to go talk to Mr Nilvos and... Soren, or Malign, or whoever it is." "Why?" "I need to know whether I can trust them, whether they're on my side. Mr Nilvos might be, but I have no idea about the Elf-Orc-Demon Thing." You nod, and go talk to them. You wander along the halls to Mr Nilvos' room. You find him sprawled out on his bed, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. "Ah, Greenskin. What do you want?" "I need to know why you've stayed here." Mr Nilvos shrugs. "I have nowhere else to go but this shitstack." "Are you going to serve Blaise like you did her father?" "Well, both the power of being an advisor of the Grand Necromancer, the chance of helping someone become a great enough threat to crush those pathetic High Elves and especially the Dark Elves... maybe the Wood Elves too, if we have time... is to valuable to pass up. Plus, I don't know if you heard, but I've nowhere else to go." You nod, and leave Mr Nilvos' in his night of drinking. You walk along the halls to Soren's location. Room isn't the right word, but it's certainly his. He sits kneeling in an empty room, praying. "What are you doing?" "Praying. The True Power will guide me through this time of strife." "What the fuck is the True Power?" "The True power is the one true God I have pledged to, the True Power. He will guide me. If I stay true to his ways, I shall make it through this." "Soren, why are you still here?" "Fear... Can you not smell it, boy? He's practically pissing himself. He knows any sin he commits will give me more control. Isn't it ironic that because he decided to forsake freedom and joy to follow the Gods and pray, he's now had all freedom and happiness taken from him? I don't believe we've been introduced. I am Malign." "I'm Dagden." "Stop conversing with it, for fuck's sake! I... It's a pleasure to meet you. I've yet to talk to the Dead Girl, but she seems like a valiant leader." "She's not dead." "Not completely. But you don't steal from Death without him noticing. Give it time, and death will reclaim what was once his... Perhaps. Perhaps the girl will win. I must admit, I am quite fascinated by the fight. I wonder where you two will end up. A grave? A throne? A more... interesting place? In all honesty, I'm quite happy to accompany and ... advise the girl. I've always had a thing for mortals. Not in the way you're thinking, pervert. I'll leave you to that front." "Alright, then. So you're on our side?" "I'm so tired. It's claws grip into my mind... I..." "Why haven't you left? You're a Paladin. You should've left here by now, taking everyone's head." Soren shakes his head. "No... I don't think that the Necromancers can be wiped out. By forcing Necromancy into the darkness with cursed magic like Infernal Dealings, we've only made it worse. So perhaps I will try bring Necromancy back in with the good arts. I'll stay in Reaper Castle if you'll have me, and try to find peaceful resolutions to these conflicts." You nod, and turn and head back to Blaise. "We have their support," you say upon reaching her. "Fantastic!" Blaise smiles. "With them at our side, we'll be able to expand our empire. There's a few nearby towns that were loyal to Dad. We'll visit them and gain their allegiance once more in a week. For now, we continue fixing Reaper Castle." > One Week Later... You stand in front of a gilded mirror, waiting patiently. "Are you finished yet?" "Nearly," Blaise replies from past the locked door you're standing next to. "Why are you dressing up to talk to some villagers?" "Spectacle. I want to impress them." "Orcs don't need fancy clothes to impress them. We'd just beat the shit out of them." "Well, human traditions are nicer. OK, I'm ready." The door unlocks and swings open, and Blaise steps out. Her long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's wearing a flowing black dress. She wears dark eye shadow, and dark red lipstick. She smiles at you. "How do I look?" "Is pretty or scary what you were going for?" "A bit of both," Blaise says. "Well, you'll definitely impress the villagers," you say. "If you like this, you'll love your outfit." "I'm not wearing an outfit." "Yes, you are." "If you try to put me in an outfit, I swear I'll burn this place down." "You Orcs are so violent." "I'm pretty passive. I'd be a hell of a lot meaner if I spent more time back with the Red Blades." Blaise walks over to a large wooden wardrobe, and opens it. Inside, standing on an armor rack, is a large suit of black metal armor. Two skulls are mounted on the suit, one on each shoulder, and several short, small spikes emerge from the metal plates. "What do you think?" "Where'd you find this stuff?" "The dress was my mom's. No one must have found it during the looting. The armor was in one of the abandoned rooms. I think it was for a Wight or Revenant." You spend a fair bit of time getting into the armor, but when you're finished, you must admit it's quite badass. What follows is... less so. "I'm covered in make-up," you snarl. You stare at your reflection, your face painted stark white in the outline of a skull. "It's badass. You'll make the villagers piss themselves." "Orcs tend to make villagers piss themselves naturally. Villagers are those too weak to fight and to dumb to lead." "Come on, Dag. Let's go meet them and see if you're right," Blaise smiles, walking off. > One Hour Later... You sit on a skeletal horse, slowly riding towards Jarrow. Jarrow is one of the larger towns in close proximity of Reaper Castle, and one of the most loyal. Only the towns of Danton, Deadwoods and Haversham were more loyal to the Grand Necromancer, and Danton and Deadwoods were destroyed by the Alliance during the fall of the Dead Empire, and Haversham is far too small to hold what Blaise has planned. "Why the hell are we on rotting horses? There were alive horses from the bandits." "Looks cooler. We gotta make a good impression." You spot the town on the horizon, quickly approaching. "I'm hungry," Kai complains. "I don't care," Blaise says. "I'm really hungry though." "Quiet, werewolf! Child, how do you know we can trust these peasants?" Soren and Malign say. "We don't," Blaise says. "The plan's simple. Representatives from Jarrow, Haversham, Dillingwood, Redfield, Crestmine and Bullbrook will be here. These towns made the original deal with Dad, Bone Concordat, to fight for him. We convince them to join us, or we make sure they know the future consequences." "And if they attempt to turn us in to the Alliance?" Sir Trent asks. "I doubt they will. They suffered quite a bit at the hands of the Alliance during their conquest." "What about the Alliance soldiers stationed at Jarrow?" "That's not going to be a problem," you say. Circling the town are large stakes sprouting eight feet tall. Tied to the top of each stake are men and women, stripped down to their undergarments. Thankfully, they all appear to be dead, most having their throats slit or having been stabbed through the chest. "Huh. I'm impressed," Blaise says. "I guess they probably will side with us." "This is barbaric! These monsters have massacred soldiers! There are children there, boys little over sixteen years of age!" "Girls as young as nine were raped in the destruction of Danton. Pregnant mothers were stabbed with spears. Don't lecture us on morality, Paladin," Sir Trent says. "No... the Alliance wouldn't do that. You're mistaken! You're lying! You're...! You're probably right. The worst acts are committed for supposedly the best reasons." As you approach the town, you see several men and women in fine robes gather around the edge of town, watching your approach. "The Grand Necromancer has returned!" a voice cries. "The Grand Necromancer's dead!" another cries. Blaise takes a deep breath, and raises her voice to a shout. "I am the new Grand Necromancer!" she says loudly. A tall, skinny man with a long, salt and pepper beard steps forward. "Lady Blaise! I remember when you were just a child at your father's side! I don't know if you remember me, I am Lord Parnell of Crestmine. I was one of your father's closest advisors." "My father's closest advisors were killed or betrayed him. I see you're still among the living. For now." Lord Parnell pales. "I fought well for him, and only surrendered upon hearing news of his death." Blaise rolls her eyes, as a young, black haired man steps forward. "Grand Necromancer! I am Lord Clancy of Haversham." "Lord Clancy of Haversham was killed two years ago," Blaise says skeptically. "I'm Lord Clancy Jr of Haversham." "Ah. Your father served mine well. I'd be glad to have you at my side." "I stepped up to your side the second my father died. I will serve you loyally, Grand Necromancer." "Thank you." A large, one-handed, burly woman steps forward, a long sword clenched in her hand. "I am Lady Eli of Jarrow. I've invited you here today to renew the Bone Concordant." Bliase leans into you. "The Bone Concordant was the alliance between my dad and the surrounding villages. Now, say something so they think we're discussing something., Blaise whispers. "If they agree, we won't need to," you say. "Well done bullshitting, Dag," she says. Lady Eli raises an eyebrow, and stays quiet. "Please, follow me to the Town Hall," she says. > You follow Lady Eli You follow Lady Eli to a large stone building. Servants take your horses away, and you enter. A large table is laid out in front of you. You sit in the right-hand seat, beside Blaise at the head of the table. The various lords introduce themselves, some for a second time, and there's a moment of silence. Blaise stands and clears her throat, breaking the silence. "I am the Grand Necromancer, daughter of the former Grand Necromancer. I have come here to make a simple, Life or Death offer: Life or Death. You can stand my side, or I will stand on a mound of your corpses." There's a brief round of whispering, before the Lord of Haversham raises a hand. "I pledge my life and town to you, Lady Blaise." "Thank you. Haversham will have a special place in my empire, kind sir." "I agree. My people will stand against you, my Lady. My forces will happily fight by your side," the Lady of Redfield says. "I wish to stand against the Alliance, but Jarrow does not bow anymore. We bowed to the Elves, than the Grand Necromancer, than the fucking Alliance. We're not going to pledge yourself to you. We're willing to make an agreement, a "temporary alliance", of sort, where we enter as equal partners," Lady Eli says. "I don't make "temporary alliances". I make empires." "Well the agreement is all I'm going to offer. The terms are simply: We supply Reaper Castle with supplies, they supply us with undead guards." The Lord and Ladies of Bullbrook, DIllingwood and Crestmine nod in agreement. "That's not acceptable." "That's all I'm offering." "Give us a minute to discuss it," Blaise says, as you lean in towards her. "We can't accept this deal. It would cripple our growth and have the Alliance wipe us out within two years, and we'd only survive that long because they wouldn't notice us," Sir Trent whispers. "What do you suggest?" Blaise asks. "Let me talk to them. I was an ambassador during my early days. I'm sure I can convince them.. I'm a demon. One of my specialty's is convincing people. I'll do it," Soren/Malign say. "Dagden, you've stayed quiet. Suggestions?" Blaise asks. > You send Soren "Get Soren to convince them." Blaise nods and Soren nod. Soren stands, grinning. "Brothers, Sisters, Friends, Allies, today we have the chance to combine for the good of Man, Orc, Elf and Dwarf alike. We can stand together or fall alone. I know the Alliance. I know how it works. When the Alliances arrives and finds a new Grand Necromancer, they'll wipe out these villages to their last man and burn their corpses. Please, if you join the future is limitless. If you don't, your children's souls will haunt the burned husks that remain of this village." There's a brief moment of silence which is broken by Lady Eli. "Fine. We'll join the empire." "Good," Blaise says. "We'll give you ten percent of our crops, water, tools, equipment and weapons to supply the army, as well as access to the graveyards." "Twenty percent," you say. "Fifteen." "This isn't a negotiation. Twenty," you reply. "Sixteen," "I swear by Gorgok's blade, if you make me repeat "Twenty" again, I'll kill every last one of you and have Bl... the Grand Necromancer raise you up. Are we clear?" you snarl. "Do you think you can intimidate us?" You stare at Lady Eli, not saying a word. "...I... fine. Fine, then. Twenty percent." "Good. We'll prepare for the grand awakening, then. We'll raise the graveyards of the towns and then my ascension to power will begin." "Shall we prepare a feast?" Lady Eli asks. "No. I'm a practical person. Feasts are expensive and time consuming. Let's go raise some zombies." > Four Hours Later... You stand in front of a large graveyard, waiting. Blaise stands next to you, muttering to herself as black magical powers flow outwards to the graves. As time goes on, more undead begin to rise. At first, a few of the most recently buried burst from the ground and stand at attention. This number rises, and after a few minutes, over a hundred new undead soldiers. "We're missing the leaders," Blaise says. "Who?" you ask. "These are all plain undead. There should be a Revenant to lead the undead from Jarrow. Where is it, Lady Eli?" "The Alliance planned to wipe out any Revenant bodies that could be found. Those who joined the Bone Concordat all gathered our Revenants and hid them. Come on, I'll take you to where we hid them." You follow Lady Eli on horseback with Blaise, her other advisors and a small group of other villagers through fields, and than a small forest. After about fifteen minutes, you arrive at a small clearing in a grove with a burnt tree trunk. "Here we are," Lady Eli says. "Forbes, Olivier, Burton, Wiliamson, Gibson, Branagh, Hawke, Kapoor, Smoktunovsky, Glen, start digging." A group of people begin digging. Blaise yawns, and comes over to your side. "Do you know what the difference between a Wight and a Revenant is?" "You're going to tell me, aren't you?" "A Wight can be made out of anyone if a Necromancer chooses to make one of a dying or recently dead man. A Revenant is a powerful soul that chooses to stay behind, usually because they're godless, or atheists, or just scared of death, that is reunited with its body. Much more powerful. The thing about..." "We got 'em!" someone shouts. You turn to see several coffins being hoisted from the ground. The first is opened, revealing a massive, rotting body of a woman. The second reveals a particularly large dwarf, the next two both large, bearded men, the fifth a tall, lean Half-Orc and, to your surprise, the last coffin is a tiny body wrapped in a shroud. For a second you think it's a dwarf, before you realize it's actually a young human child. Blaise walks to the side of a coffin and stands still for a second, black magic flowing from her. Then, the large woman stands with a growl. She does the same with the next coffin, and the next, before after repeating it several more times. Once the small child stands, there's a brief moment of silence as the six stand there, stretching and coughing as air enters their dusty lungs for the first time in two years. "So... you're the new necromancer, eh?" the large woman asks. "I remember you. The old guy's daughter." "I'm hungry," the half-orc grunts. "Who has food?" Someone throws the half-orc a piece of cooked meat, which he eagerly chews into. "Where am I?" the child asks, looking around. "Alright, listen up!" Blaise says loudly. "I am Lady Blaise, the Grand Necromancer! The time has come to rebuild my father's empire. You were pledged to him, and I'm asking you now to pledge to me." "Fine," one grunts. "OK," another says. "Sure," a third says. "This is going well," Blaise admits. "We're undead Revenants. We've been risen up to fight dozens of times, by Necromancers far better and far worse than you. We won't complain for a chance to stretch our limbs and bloody our swords before our next dirt nap," the Half-Orc grunts. "Well then... each of you will be leading a large force of undead from your towns of origin," Blaise says. The Revenants nod in agreement. "OK, this is going well," Blaise says, turning to you. "I'm going to start getting them to pledge. You can nap, or sleep or whatever." Blaise turns off and begins to chat with the Revenants, leaving you alone. You could take a nap like she suggested, or you could have a chat with the Revenants, or maybe if you're especially boring, the Lords and Ladies. > You talk to the various Lords and Ladies You walk over to one of the Lords, Lord Clancy. "Hello. I'm Lord Clancy Jr of Haversham," he says, introducing himself. "Dagden Dragontooth," you reply. "Are you and the Grand Necromancer... a couple?" "Does it matter? My job's to make corpses, her job's to raise 'em. That's all you need to know." "I suppose," he replies. "Haversham's was a loyal component of the first dead empire. When the Alliance arrived, the town's spirit was crushed. They burned sentient undead alive, the bastards. I saw close friends murdered, and I swo

re vengeance. Why did you join the Grand Necromancer?" "Her dad killed my brother and kidnapped me." "Oh... alright then." "Yeah, I know. I almost murdered her when I met her." "You're... you're a weird man, Dagden Dragontooth." "I'm a weird Orc. When Orcs are invaded, we die fighting." You continue conversing with Lord Clancy and the other Lords and Ladies. Finally, Blaise finishes up and walks up to you. "OK, we're finished here. Let's head home," Blaise says. "Good." "We have a lot of planning to do," Blaise smiles. > You head back to Reaper Castle You ride on the skeletal horse slowly, heading back to Reaper Castle. Mr Nilvos, Soren/Malign, Sir Trent, Kai and Blaise ride alongside you. "So Malign, do you want to go for a drink later?" Mr Nilvos asks. "Stop talking to the demon. I will not let it gain control," Soren says. "Go fuck yourself, Paladin. Why don't you go worship your God?" "The True Power will burn you to ash, heretic. Muahaha! The True Power is a pathetic fool. Fuck, get outta my head, demon!" You continue riding wordlessly, listening to Soren and Malign fight for control. > The Next Day... You stand in the newly made War Room of Reaper Castle. A massive wooden table stands in front of you, with a large map stretched across it. "We've gained control of this small area," Blaise says, tapping on the center of the once great Dead Empire. But we need more support. There's several candidates: The Giant Tribes that remain in the small range of mountains just to the North, the remaining Vampire Lords and finally more of the former land Dad once controlled." "We're not going to ally with the Vampire Lords. They betrayed the Grand Necromancer," Sir Trent says. "Damn right," Blaise says. "We'll go up to the mountains and wipe out the Giant Tribes and raise 'em back up again. Sir Trent, how trusted are you among my father's vassals?" "Better than kill on sight, worse than welcoming." "I need you to head out to them with the Revenants and bring them under the command of the empire. I know you're able to." "I'll probably be strung up, but I'll do it Lady Blaise." "Good. I'll... prepare a war party." "Prepare a war party?" you ask. "I have some undead to raise and a special... surprise to build." You raise an eyebrow, and Blaise smiles. "Just go get your stuff ready," she smiles. > Three Days Later... You sit in a small carriage driven by undead with Kai, Mr Nilvos and Soren/Malign. Blaise sits in the shotgun seat of the carriage, next to the driver. "How long?" Kai shouts. "Twenty minutes," a raspy voice carries back. "Fuck, this is getting boring. I wonder what the giants'll be like." "Dull and stupid, but big as fuck," Mr Nilvos says. There's a brief few minutes of silence. "So, I'll ask: Are you and Blaise fucking?" Mr Nilvos asks you. "No. We're not even dating," you say. "Oh, you poor, miserable bastard. You're a virgin, then? Fuck, imagine all that pent-up, angry hormonal Orc rage." Kai laughs. "Hell, I lost my virginity when I was thirteen. A pretty young piece of ass named James. I had dated his sister, but she was frigid as fuck, so I moved onto him. Ah, childhood. What about you, Nilvos?" "Sixteen. I was betrothed to a local princess who was uglier than a horse and a prude. I already knew quite a bit about demons, so I summoned a Succubus for a bit of love-making. Thankfully, through luck and meticulous planning, nothing went wrong. Soren? Or Malign? Whoever the fuck's there." "I'm not talking about my private life with a fag and a demon-fucker. You're both cursed monsters who will be judged by the True Power. I never bothered to. You have to possess someone, and then find someone to fuck, and then actually do it... too much work." "Go fuck yourself, Paladin. Your God's a prick, and Malign will eat him" Mr Nilvos says. "Hehe! I'd enjoy that. You'll both be punished for your heresy." > Support Soren "I mean, we've all done a lot of fucked up shit, but really? With a demon? With a dude? There's a natural order to this kind of stuff. Reproduction and all that." "Well said!" Soren says. "Prick," Kai mumbles. "We're nearly here! Get ready for war!" a raspy voice calls out from the driver's seat. You stand up, climbing out of the carriage. You draw your long sword, looking up at the tribal village of the Giants up at the peak of the mountain. "What's the objective, Grand Necromancer?" you shout. "Captain the village, kill anyone that resists." As the carriage begins growing closer and closer to the tribal village. Kai drops his machete into the carriage as he climbs out, clinging to the side. "If I try to eat anyone here, my bad. But you know, Werewolf and such." "Trust me. You guys won't need to do shit here. Not with Primus around." Primus growls from behind the carriage, and you look around. The undead war party is made up of around eighty undead, led by Carter Deatheater, who sits aboard a rotting stallion. There's a small pack of a dozen undead dogs that draw your attention, but Primus is the main feature, a massive Flesh Monstrosity. The creature is made of several corpses, like a monster from a child's nightmares. It's skin is a dark green, patched together from various dead Orcs. Coils of muscle give the creature two massive hands, one with a large claw made from sharpened bones. It's face is covered with four eyes and a massive mouth filled with sharpened teeth. It stands three times large than a normal human, which would be slightly taller than a giant, and holds a huge metal sword. "Did you have to make it an Orc, Blaise?" "I thought you'd like it." "It's creepy as fuck, Blaise." "Well, I think Primus is cute." "Does it have a...?" "No, Dagden. I did not give my Flesh Monstrosity a penis," Blaise says, rolling her eyes. You hear yells and calls to arms from the giants up at the town, and see as a few begin to emerge. The Giants are large, but unarmored, so this fight will be hard, but not impossible. You hear roars from the Giants as they line up, holding massive clubs and spears made from trees. "Giants! Surrender, or be destroyed." "Fuck off!" one of the giant roars. "I thought you said they don't speak!" Blaise says in surprise. "I was just asking because it's tradition, I didn't expect an actual answer!" "I never said that, I said they were stupid," Mr Nilvos says. "Stupid things don't speak!" "Yet you don't shut up!" Mr Nilvos shouts. Well, it's clear that while these two bicker, the Giants are forming basic attack formations. You need to do something quickly. > Attempt to negotiate "Listen! Nobody needs to die here! What's your names? Do you... have names?" "Flud," the tallest one yells. "Is that a name...? Alright, then. We're here to offer you a trade. Do you understand?" "Fuck you!" Flud roars. "OK, I don't know if that's a response, or you don't understand." "I understand you, fucker! Leave now!" "OK, we're making progress. Now, I'll make this clear. You surrender, or I burn this place to the ground and salt the ground." "We don't surrender! We are strong without allies! Fuck you!" You roll your eyes in frustration. "If you tell me to 'Fuck off' again, I'll..." "Fuck off!" "I swear to fuck, you massive sacks of mountain dwelling sacks of shit. I swear by Gorgok's blade that if you piss me off, those in hell will pity those in that village up there. I will do such horrific acts to your people that Demons would turn away in disgust. I will fucking level this town, and then level this mountain. Your people's last whimper will be as the foot soldiers of those who destroyed you." There's a moment for silence as the Giants and your allies alike stare at you. Finally, the Giant nods. "Who are you?" Flud asks. "I am Dagden Dragontooth, General under the Dead Empire, Bearsbane, Red Blade, Survivor of the Fall of Reaper Castle, Blood Mage and Envoy of the Grand Necromancer. I am here to conquer this place, whether it be the town or the bloodstained ashes of it." "You... may come inside," Flud says quietly. You grin, and begin walking with Blaise and the other advisors towards the village. "Fuck... that was awesome. Did you have that learned off, or...?" Blaise asks. "Orcs are good at bragging." "Were you seriously willing to charge up at those massive bastards?" "Orcs don't make threats or brags we can't follow up on." You walk up to the massive giants, who look down at you. The Giants step back nervously, making you smile. You look around, seeing the massive tents made from goat fur, as well as a few standing buildings made from logs, clay and cobblestone. The largest building; a large, clay dome building, stands in the center. You walk in, the door frame towering above you, and find yourself in a mostly empty room with a fireplace in the middle. Flud and several other giant sit cross-legged on one end of the fireplace, and you, Blaise the other advisors sit on the other. "I was promised blood," Kai moans quietly. "I want flesh and blood, not chatting like crones by a fireplace." "Shut up, Werewolf. You'll blow our chances during the negotiations. The giants are an interesting people. I'm curious to see how this goes." Soren/Malign say. "So... I'm the Grand Necromancer. You're Flud, yes?" "Yeah, Flud." "We've come to you to make an Alliance." "OK. You give us privacy. What do you want?" "Corpses. The corpses of your dead and humanoids you kill..." "No. Corpses of ancestors are to be honored." Fuckin' Giants. This thing is getting derailed. > You be honest "We need to raise the corpses of your ancestors to fight for the Grand Necromancer's Dead Empire. We'll use them to protect your villages and trade routes..." "No!" the Giant roars, standing. "Fuck you! Leave now!" "Huh, for fuck's sake," you mumble, standing and drawing your blade. "What did I say about using those words?" The Giant raises his club, and you dive forward, stabbing upwards. Your blade goes through the ribs of the giant, killing him instantly as your blade enters your heart. You pull your blade out, stabbing another through the stomach and slashing his throat, your blade barely reaching it. Your allies charge into battle, Kai beheading one and Soren/Malign stabbing one through the hear. "Come on! Let's wage war!" Kai shouts, beginning his transformation. You hear the sounds of battle outside. > You charge out of the building You charge forward, swinging your blade. Steel bites bone, and a massive arm falls in front of you. You jab your blade through the thigh of another giant, and he groans in pain. You pull out your blade and hack open his stomach. You turn to fight the next enemy, but the undead are doing your work. Giants are brutally speared by various undead spearmen, while Primus is quickly making a rising pile of giant corpses. After about five minutes, the last giant collapses with a heavy thud. You wipe blood from your face, sitting down on a rock. You watch as Blaise begins to rise the giants, the new undead monstrosities looking fearsome. "Fuck. Impressive, aren't they?" you say. Kai lies on the ground next to you, surrounded by blood, guts and his wolf hair. "Fuck, I don't care. I'm tired." he says, curling up. "They're pretty badass. I'm glad we have an army." "You're not usually in control so much, Malign." "Battle awakens me. I am war. I am bloodshed. I am death. I am Malign." "Did you have that line memorized?" "No. Did you like it? Maybe I'll... Ah, fuck... Praise the True Power, for he is mighty. Praise the True Power, for he is mighty." "Hey, Soren." "Did we win?" "Yeah, we did," you say, looking up at the panting Orc-Elf. The final Giant stands with a roar, a fearsome sight. "Fuck, that's terrifying," you admit. "There's going to be a lot more dead enemies soon enough." > Four Weeks Later... Fair Flesh stands above you, walking back and forth as you pace in front of him. You swing your sword, which Fair Flesh blocks. He swings a fist, knocking you back to the ground with a thud. "Three," it says slowly, in a rumbling, deep voice. The Flesh Monstrosity stands above you, and you look up at it. Its skin is pale and leathery, one of its arms is a massive bone swords extending from its elbow and it's long blond hair is blood-stained and wrapped around its body. Despite it's fearsome appearance, a friendly personality lies beneath. "I'm sick of fencing," you say. "Good. You're bad." "Fuck you, Fair Flesh," you say, smiling. "Dag! Come here!" You turn, to see Blaise standing at the edge of the training ground. You pat Fair Flesh on the shoulder, and run over to her. "Yes?" "Walk with me for a while." You shrug, and follow her as she turns and begins walking. "I've... had an interesting idea." "Is it about the Scouts?" you ask. Alliance Scouts have began appearing in the slowly forming Dead Empire, trying to ascertain whether the new Grand Necromancer is rumor or reality. Still, it's too late to unite the Alliance under a common foe. Battles have broken out between Man and Elves, Man and Dwarves and Orcs and everyone who has paying enemies. This takes a lot of attention away from your activity, but the scouts persist to some annoying degree. "No. It's about dragons." "OK, you've caught my attention. What's the story, then?" "I've risen humans, dwarves, orcs, elves, dogs, rats, horses, Giants,made Flesh Monstrosities, Wights and risen Revenants. I was reading it, and with enough power, a Necromancer can raise any being, including dragons." "You want to have a zombie dragon?" "More than anything. I've already found the perfect candidate: Magna Gene Draco, or the Mother of Dragons." You raise an eyebrow, briefly knowing the name. "A famous, powerful dragon that was known throughout legend. It's body is located up North, in Dragon Valley." "Dragon Valley? How many dragons are there to get it that name?" "None. Or at least, very few." "What the fuck's there, then?" "No one, I think. Perhaps some rogue Mages." "Fine. What's the plan?" "You get me in there, I raise a dragon. We fly out on dragon-back, I have the greatest day of my life." "Cool." "We depart tomorrow with a small war party." "Good," you nod. > One Week Later... You stand at the edge of the valley, looking down at the clear signs of hundreds of years of magical war. Burn marks, slowly melting ice, fires, patches of overgrowth, blood stains, lifeless earth and numerous corpses. A large group of twenty undead warriors stand behind you, including two Revenants and two massive Flesh Monstrosities, Crab and Goyle. One of them is a massive creature with a thick "shell" of bone plates and massive pincers made from numerous bones. Goyle seems to be an especially large creature made from dead giants. "Why are there so many mages here? Is it all for the Dragon?" "Of course not. This valley is a source of immense magical power that drew in the dragon here as its final resting place. This place was the site of the Awakening of Aa, where an ancient human supposedly first used magic, the site of the first College of Mages, the site of the Great Demon Invasion, and the site of the great battle where Dagden and Blaise came and kicked some magic asses. Still, I doubt there's even many mages nearby." You draw your sword, and begin to walk down the valley. Destroyed remnants of buildings surround you, with the signs of battle. It's only a few minutes before you come across your first enemies: Three Storm Mages and a Storm Elemental. The Storm Mages wear grey cloaks embroidered with golden thread meant to represent lightning. The Storm Mage is a large humanoid being made of dark grey clouds that crackle around its body as lightning runs across its body. You cut your finger, and let the blood drip onto your bloodstone. Your undead warriors charge forward, and a fight emerges. You charge forward, ducking under a bolt of lightning, before headbutting a Storm Mage. You knee him in the stomach, and he falls back to the ground, flailing helplessly. You raise your sword and quickly run it through him. You withdraw your sword, before you're blasted with a shot of electricity. > Zap! You roar in pain as your body shudders and your hair stands. You jab your sword through the neck of the Storm Elemental, before swinging at its head. You jab your sword through the lower body of the Storm Elemental, before you jump back to avoid another shot of lightning. "Why isn't it dying?!?" you shout. "You're definitely hurting it... I think," Blaise says. You dodge a shot of lighting, and Goyle stomps the Storm Elemental under his foot, crushing the Elemental as it condenses into a puddle off water. "Well, that was easy," Blaise says. "You're hairs standing up, Dag." "I'm in serious pain," you grunt in response. You continue leading the undead war party along the valley, carefully looking for the Mother of Dragons. You raise your sword, before you hear screams. You speed up, breaking into a jog. Further down the valley, you spot a large group of at least forty Kingdom of Man soldiers. Kneeling in front of them, their hands tied behind their back, are a dozen mages in various colored robes. Standing at the head of the soldiers in a tall, blond man wearing steel armor with a pure white cloak. You wave at your undead allies to pull back, and slowly crawl ahead to see what's happening. "I am Sir Graves. I'm hear under by order of King Alexander to find and destroy the corpse of the legendary creature Magna Gene Draco. Where is it?" the Knight says to the purple cloaked Mage. "Go fuck yourself." The Knight rolls his eyes. "Fine, let's play it that way. I, Paladin Graves, find you, Don the Diviner, guilty of unlicensed practice of Magic, Withholding information from the Kingdom of Man, Murder and Theft, and I sentence you to death." He swings his sword, beheading the Mage. He turns to the next one, a green robed mage. "You're Arnold Cretchly, yes?" "Yes," the green robed mage says. "I'll ask you this but once? Where is the Mother of Dragons?" "I don't know. I'm new here, I don't know. I just arrived today." "So be it. I, Paladin Graves, find you, Arnold Cretchly, guilty of unlicensed practice of Magic and Withholding information from the Kingdom of Man, and I sentence you to death." He swings his sword, beheading the Mage. He turns to the next one, a red robed mage. "I'll fuck your mother! I'll rape your kids, you no good...!" "Well, you'll be of no help. I, Paladin Graves, find you, Hetch the Infernal, guilty of unlicensed practice of Magic, Withholding information from the Kingdom of Man, Murder, Communication and Summoning of Demons, Murder, Rape and Torture, and I sentence you to death." He swings his sword, beheading the Mage. At the rate this Knight is going through Mages, you need to move soon. You can try attack the soldiers and the Knight, or try use stealth to sneak around and find any evidence of the dragon bones. > Sneak You drop low, and begin looking around. You spot several bed rolls where the Mages were no doubt sleeping. You spot a small stack of books there, including a few sheets of paper. One of them is probably a map, or a journal entry about seeing the Mother of Dragons somewhere. At least, you hope so. You drop to your stomach and begin to drag yourself along the ground. You pull your body along the rocks, and get within arm's reach of the campfire. You grab the first piece of paper; Blank. Fuck. You grab another, and then another, finding each one blank or useless. One has song lyrics for fuck's sake. You flick through the books, finding them useful. "Fuck!" you groan, finding the last one blank. "I hear something!" one of the soldiers shouts. You bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood to prevent yourself from letting out a much louder swear. A javelin flies through the air, embedding itself in your chest. You let out a roar in pain, as you see the knight charging over, much more quickly than you would expect with his heavy armor. You rip out the javelin and fling it at him, but you knock it out of the way. "A Greenskin Mage! An amusing sight. I'll make your death swift," he says. He swings his blade with tremendous speed. You raise your sword, slower than usual because of the javelin wound. You barely block the strike, but he quickly follows with a jab to your stomach. You drop to your knees with a grunt. "Good block." the knight says. You notice a large red bottle of Healing Potion on the Knight's belt. If you grab it, you might be able to chug it down quickly enough to heal the wound and fight some more. Then again, that's unlikely. What you do see as a more... efficient option is the massive red and black bottle of what you recognize as Hellfire on the other side of his belt. You could easily smash that open and take the Knight out with you. > You grab and drink the Health Potion You grab at the Health potion, and the Knight notices. He grabs your wrist, and swings his blade. You feel an incredible pain as the first blow hits. You don't even feel the second behead you. > Death Eternal Sleep Your life force is taken from you as you enter the endless sleep of death.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy] You jog over, and run your sword through the Mage. The enemy of your enemy is definitely not your friend today. The Mage falls next you, blood dripping out. You hear footsteps running towards you from behind. > You roll out of the way You roll out of the way, dodging a sword slash. You stand, running your sword through the side of the soldier and killing him instantly. You pull out your blade, watching him slump to the ground. You watch as the undead massacre the last of the soldiers. Blaise walks among the carnage, her black robes stained with a deep red blood. "Life, Death, Rebirth," she says as a soldier stands, picking up its sword with a growl. "Kind of poetic." "Rebirth? The soul's are gone. There's no rebirth here," you say. "Life, Death, your corpse is stolen to be made fight someone's battle isn't as catchy," Blaise says. "Now, let's go find some dragon bones, shall we?" > You investigate about the location of the Mother of Dragons Time to investigate! > You interrogate the Mages You walk over to the mages. Most were accidently killed in the melee, but two remain. "Please, help me. I don't want to die here," one begs. "Who are you?" you ask. "I'm..." "Don't say a word!" the second mage says. You quickly behead the second mage. "Go on." "I... I'm Declan. I was a Bard from a town when they taught me Illusions. I didn't want anyone to get hurt." "Good. Then tell me about Magna Gene Draco." "What?" Declan asks, confused. "Magna Gene Draco, or the Mother of Dragons." "I don't know. Maybe the other mages had something by their campfire, near the bedrolls." You nod. Time to investigate! > You search for clues among the Mage Camp You search the Mages Camp. An initial search brings up nothing, but you manage to find a small black book under a bedroll. You open it, to find a journal entry. Day 64 We found it. We finally found it! We were ordered to secure the area by Declan, and we dragged the body into a nearby cave, just South of here, obscured by some rocks and reeds we put out. Fuck, it took a lot of effort, even with magic. It'd be a lot easier if we had our Mercenary Escorts, but fuckin' Declan had to sacrifice them to some demon he owed. Once we find a Necromancer, I'm bashing that young fucker's head in. I'm not being bossed around by some kid. You fold up the piece of paper, and call Blaise over. "Come on. Which ways South?" Blaise rolls her eyes, and begins marching down the valley. You follow, searching, until you notice several rocks and piled up dried weeds partially obscuring a large cave mouth. You push the rocks out of the way and throw the reeds out of the way. "Do you have a torch?" you ask. Blaise shakes her head, before flicking her fingers. A small candle light bursts into fire in her palm, before growing to a large size. "You can do fire magic now?" you ask in surprise "I mean, I wouldn't say I'm good at it. I've mastered candlelight, and that's it. I'm barely able to maintain this." You shrug, and begin walking down the cave. Massive gouges line the stone walls, and ash lies around the mouth, faintly blowing in the breeze. You walk further, until eventually you notice flashes of bone among the dirt. You brushes off the dirt, and are faced with a massive dragon skeleton.. It's head is the size of a large horse, its teeth long and deadly sharp like short swords and daggers. It body is larger than the average dragon, it's wings still holding the unrotting, leathery membrane that gave it flight. "So... what do you think?" Blaise asks. "It's... smaller than I imagined." "It's beautiful," Blaise says in awe. "It's one of the most beautiful creatures I've ever seen." You shrug. "I suppose. We'll get more. Soon we'll have a whole army of skeletal dragons." Blaise grins, and sits by the dragon head, closing hey eyes and putting a hand on its forehead. "This might take some time, If I were you, I'd take a nap," Blaise says. Blaise walks over and pulls out a healing potion from the many hidden pockets in her robes, and gives it to you. "Thanks," you grunt, downing the sweet mixture. You have to admit, after the fighting and travel, you're quite tired. You bandage your wounds and collapse onto the ground, cushioning your head on a rock. > You embrace Sleep You embrace sleep. Dreams overtake you, until you're awoken by a fearsome roar. You jump up, grabbing your long sword, only to be faced with the dragon's endless rows of teeth of a dragon. "Pretty cool, isn't she?" Blaise asks. You look up, to see Blaise sitting on her back. "It's cool, right? I need to have a saddle made for it, but after that, it'll add dragon rider to my resume." "Can I ride it?" "No, Dag. It's not a toy. Nah, I'm just kidding." You slowly approach the creature, going to the side. You use the dragon's ribs to pull yourself up onto its back. You scoot up next to Blaise, and the Dragon begins to stomp along the cave. It enters the mouth and walks out, roaring towards the sky. The undead look up in... not amazement disappointingly, because most aren't sentient, but the two Revenants and Flesh Monstrosities look pretty impressed. The Dragon roars again, and begins to flap its wings. "Are you sure this can fly?" "Of course not. But there's worse ways to die than trying to fly." The Dragons wings begin to give it lift, and it begins to fly into the air. You yell and desperately clutch onto the dragon's bones and hold on tightly, shutting your eyes. "Whoa! Look how high we are!" Blaise says. You somehow clench your eyes shut more. "This is the most scared I've ever seen you, except that time with Mort" Blaise grins. "I'm an Orc. I'm meant to fight, kill, conquer, fuck, eat, sleep, drink and boast, and then some more fighting. We're not meant to fly." "Huh. I'd imagine a Dwarf would be terrified of this, but not an Orc." "Put me down!" Blaise sighs audibly, and you feel the dragon begin to lower itself. When you feel the thud of its claws closing onto the thick soil, you clamber off and leap onto the ground, kissing the dirt. "I'm never leaving you again, beautiful, beautiful earth." "You're not going flying again?" Blaise teases. "We could fly home." You respond to this by firing a stream of vomit onto the front of her robes. > Five Weeks Later... You stand at the walls of Reaper Castle, looking out at an army of undead. Hundreds of Undead stand, with more defending or garrisoned at the many towns joining the new Dead Empire. Several Revenants stand at the front of the army. Five Flesh Monstrosities stand among the crowd, with a massive dragon standing tall above them. "I am feeling so powerful right now. power really does corrupt. What do most insane dictators do?" Blaise asks happily. "Wipe out civilians? Burn orphanages?" you suggest. "Nah, that's boring. Let's start splurging some of this wealth. Redecorate this place, bring in some fancy wines, conquer a few nations. That sounds nice." "I could do with some killing. When Orcs get their conquest, they plant a cranberry tree in commeration." "That''s not true. You just want to plant a cranberry tree, right?" "If I tell you the truth will my honesty be rewarded with a Cranberry Tree?" "Sure." "Then yes, quite obviously I was lying. Let's plant ten trees. No, twenty. No, all the trees. Let's plant all the trees." "I'll get you as many Cranberries as you can eat." "You're either lying, or confused about how many cranberries I'm able to eat. More than my own body weight in one sitting." Blaise smiles. "If we keep expanding at the rate we are, I'll be able to get you every cranberry tree in existence." You look out to the army of dead, and think maybe she's right. > The Next Day... You sit on a skeletal horse, heading towards Jarrow once more for the Festival of the Reaper. "So... will there be food at this festival." "Yeah, I guess so. It's not one of the classic drink and eat festivals." "Then it's a shitty festival." "It was started by my dad. Anyone with powers in Necromancy from across the Dead Empire..." "Which is still pretty small." "...will gather in the town square to be judged. The Grand Necromancer will then pick which to take on as apprentices." "Will there be a lot of people?" "Most people with Necromantic powers were executed by the Alliance. Most people here will be children who've just discovered their powers." You shrug. "I hate kids." "You said you wanted kids the other day?" "I hate other people's kids." You watch as the town approaches. Solid black banners drape from buildings, showing the Dragon Skull Sigil of the Dead Empire, which Blaise recently chose. Dozens of camps are set up around the town, packed with endless amounts of villagers coming from across the land to have their kids judged. You approach the town square, where massive huddles of children and teenagers sit. "Try to to scare the kids, Dag." "We're teaching them to conquer death. They can't afford to be scared of me. If they are, they aren't ready." "You look like a crazy motherfucker, Dag. I'm half-scared of you." You touch your face and a small amount of the white face paint that's painted your face into that of a leering skull comes off. "I'm in facepaint." "It's not facepaint. It's... war paint. Don't Orcs wear warpaint?" "It's usually blood, not chalk." "Well, skull's aren't red." You look down at the young faces of the children, seeing mixtures of awe and terror as you both approach. The children seem to be between six and sixteen years of age. "Are there none older?" you ask in surprise. "All the older ones were killed, imprisoned or fled the area. I don't they'd come back after nearlhy dying in service of the last necromancer." You stare at the children. Most are human, but a surprising number are Elves. Very few are Dwarves and Orcs, but that's to be expected. You didn't expect to see a lot of greenskin representation here. "Greetings, Grand Necromancer," a voice cries. You turn to see that Lady Eli is back. She's looking a lot more friendly now that you're in charge of her town. "Hello, Lady Eli," Blaise says. You stare briefly at Lady Eli, before going back to the children. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am the Grand Necromancer. I have come here to decide which of you will join me as Necromancers," Blaise announces me. "I will decide which of you, if willing, are to under go the journey to mastery over death." "You will each be given an obsidian blade, and will fight to the death. The winners shall be allowed to become Necromancers," you shout, and many of the children begin to panic. "He's joking!" Blaise shouts. "You said you wouldn't scare them." "I said I wouldn't kill them. That's it." Blaise rolls her eyes. "We're only taking those over twelve, the strongest we can find. I'll pick out the best ones I can find, and you go through those and do a... psychological profile. Ween out the cowards and weaklings." You nod, dismounting from your horse. Some villager hands you a goblet of purple liquid, which you eagerly down. To your relief, it's alcohol rather than poison, which you probably should've checked for beforehand. You watch as Blaise first sends away the young children, then those whose necromantic potential isn't good enough or ready yet. Finally, you're left with twenty kids. Six are around your age or a bit younger, with eight being just into their teens, and a final six who have barely passed Blaise's set age limit. Most are humans, with a few exceptions; there's a Wood and High Elf who are both barely passing the age limit, an Orc slightly younger than you, a High Elf that's your age and two Dark Elves just into their teens as well as one your age. You walk forward, grinning. Time to sort out the weak from the strong. "Alright, I am General Dagden Dragontooth, General under the Dead Empire, Bearsbane, Red Blade, Survivor of the Fall of Reaper Castle, Envoy of the Grand Necromancer, Blood Mage and soon to be, Child Killer. I'm here to kill the weakest of you so there's more food for the strong, got it? If at any point you want to leave, the door's open. If you die, your families will be compensated. So, which of you are going to Choose Life and fuck off?" One old kid, two young teens and surprisingly, only one small kid leave. "Good. Those were the smart ones," you say. "Now, as per Necromancer tradition, we're going to need a bit of a sacrifice for the next part. If you've noticed, most famous Necromancer's are missing their left ring finger." "The Grand Necromancer has all of her fingers," the young High Elf girl points out. "We had to flee before the Grand Necromancer. I'm impressed you notice, so you can keep yours. Everyone else, line up." You manage to scare off another three kids, bringing the total down to thirteen. You draw your dagger, and are faced with the tiny Wood Elf boy. He has short, combed brown hair and bright green eyes. You doubt he's much older than eight. "How old are you, kid?" "Twelve." "You look fucking six." The Wood Elf shrugs, holding out his left hand. You have to admit, he has balls. You draw your bone dagger, holding it to the Wood Elf's ring finger. He doesn't flinch. "Fuck it, kid. You've got a pair on you, you know that?" "A pair of what?" You roll your eyes with a snicker at his naivety. "Go stand with the other Elf. You can keep your finger." The Wood Elf smiles and happily bounds off. You're then faced with a tall girl around your age. "I don't believe you're going to cut off our fingers. You're just trying to scare us." OK, she called your bluff. Time to act fast. > You admit she's right "Fine, kid. I'm not going to," you admit, to the relief of the children. She smiles annoyingly, and you have an idea. "I have one last test. To symbolize your bond with death, you're each going to make your own coffin." The children nod, clearly confused, as your dark plan begins. > Four Hours Later... You underestimated how long it would take children to make coffins. It takes four hours, but eventually you have the remaining twelve children standing in front of you, shitty coffins made from planks of wood by their side. You notice one of them has a flower on it, and another has a symbol of the True Power. These kids probably aren't prepared for this. A dozen shovels lie in front of you. "Now, you will each pick up a shovel, and dig a grave," you say loudly. The children oblige, and quickly begin digging. They dig surprisingly quickly, better laborers than carpenters, it seems. After another hour, they're finished. You slowly push each coffin into the hole, and stare at the children. "Now, climb inside." "What?" one of the kids asks, surprised. "Get in the coffin, and close it. I'm burying you all here." "We'll suffocate!" "Maybe," you reply. "I'm not doing that," one says. "Yeah," another agrees. "I'm not dying here," a third says. You hear a thud, and turn to see the young Wood Elf lying in his coffin. You gently close the lid, thoroughly impressed, and call over your two undead guards to begin filling the hole. "Anyone else?" Another child lowers themselves into the coffin, then another. Eventually, nine graves are filled. As the last one is filled, you see Blaise coming over. "What's going on?" she asks. "I'm turning your necromancers into strong men and women." "Where are they?" You point to the graves, and Blaise stares at you. "Are... are you joking?" "No." "You... buried them alive?" "Yeah." "I don't have any words to explain how stupid that is. We're digging them up." "Relax, the coffins are all airtight, and should have enough air for long enough." "How long are you leaving them down here?" You shrug. You sit on the ground, staring at the setting sun. You continue staring at the clouds for quite some time, before you order the undead to start digging. You pull up the coffins, and open them. The Wood Elf lies sleeping in his coffin, snoring softly. The young High Elf Girl lies terrified in her coffin and eagerly clambers out. The older High Elf Girl jumps out at the first chance, as does the Orc. The rest clamber out quickly, leaving nine children in front of you. "We were down there forever!" one complains loudly. "You're crazy, I'm leaving." Another child follows him, leaving seven children. "Alright, you passed the tests. Names?" "Thorn," the Wood Elf mumbles sleepily. "Creed," a human boy says. "Val," the older High Ef girl says. "Tasha," the younger High Elf girl says. "Ruk," the Orc says. "Sten," one of the humans say. "Lilly," one of the humans say. "Lalva," one of the humans say. "You are all now Apprentice Necromancers. Your training will be taken on by the Grand Necromancer. My work here's done." you say. You stare at the Necromancers, wondering what will become of them. > Two Days Later... You sit in the War Room with the advisors. Kai is devouring some raw rabbit meat, Sir Trent is looking over a map, Mr Nilvos seems to be preparing a potion that reeks of torment and despair, and Soren/Malign pace the room, fighting for control. "So, anyone else seen those kids in the classrooms? They're fucking weird. Playing with the dead and shit. Why do we have kids here?" Kai asks. "They're the new apprentices," you grunt. Blaise appears in the doorway with two undead guards in tow. "What's the plan, Blaise?" you ask. "There's been a raid against Haversham by Dwarves." "Dwarves? I haven't killed Dwarves in a while." "Well, you're about to. The Dwarves came from Gildhammer." "Is that a place?" "Yes, it's a Dwarven town in the mountains not too far from Haversham. Striking there would not only be revenge against the Dwarves and dissuade future attacks, but it's of military importance, and it holds the Tombs of Gyrntherim." "Should I know what that is?" "It's the tombs that hold the bodies of heroes and adventurers who killed the Dwarven Warlord Kramon the Buried. I've looked into their pasts, and I think if I raise a few of them as Revenants, they'll support me. The rest can be just powerful zombies. Make sure you bring those to be made to Revenants back to me." You nod. "I'll lead a war party up North, then." "Take two of the Necromancers, the best ones. I want to give them some combat experience." "Are they ready?" "Val is as old as you are and has already been practicing Necromancy for some time. Thorn is a cold-blooded psychopath, and quite powerful." "He's twelve." "You were around that age when you tried to get me a dragon tooth." "Fine. I'll take them." Blaise smiles at you, and you know you're going to regret this. > One Week Later... You walk up the mountain, a wave of dead following you. Thorn and Val. They both wear black robes that are too big for them, with Val's golden straight hair bond in a ponytail. "I never expected to be leading an army of undead with two elves when I was a boy," you say. "I always expected to be killing stuff," Thorn says. "Well, your parents named you Thorn, and you're all a bunch of tree-humpers, so they probably thought you were a violent kid." "My name's Thahragaer." "That's genuinely the shittiest name I've ever heard." "That's why I took the name Thorn," Thorn shrugs. "Your parent's name you after something?" "Fuck, I don't think so. Daggers, maybe. What about you, Youngblood?" "I'm as old as you," Val complains. "You didn't do anything worth naming. Hence, you're Youngblood. Orc blood's aged with actions, not time. Fuck, most great Orcs didn't pass 30," you say, walking up the mountain slowly, trudging through muck and what appears to be feces. "I've seen, like, a dozen goats in the past half hour. How the fuck does a dozen goats shit this much. There's like a foot of goat shit over every inch of this ground," you complain loudly. "How long to the Dwarf killing?" "I've looked at the maps. It should be another ten minutes," Val says. "What's killing like?" Thorn asks. "A lot like cutting up steaks, except with more blood, and screaming. You won't have to kill anyone here. That's my job. You bring them back." You walk in silence, before you come across a massive oak door built into the mountainside. "Do... do we knock?" Thorn asks. You shrug, strolling up to the door. You knock against it. "Who goes there?" "General Dagden Dragontooth, Red Blade, Bearsbane... I don't have time to do the full name. Open up, or we kill everyone inside." "No man..." > You Listen "...Orc, Elf, Dwarf, Demon, Dragon, Undead or other creature can enter the glorious town of Gildhammer without first giving up their weapons and surrendering them to the city guard. If you refuse to do this, then we will be forced..." > You order Fair Flesh to smash the gates "Fair Flesh. Would you kindly smash down this gate and insert the gatekeeper's head up his own ass?" "Yes, boss," Fair Flesh's deep voice rumbles. Fair Flesh raises his fists, and begins to pound on the door. You see the wood beginning to crack and bend inwards. After a few seconds, the gate breaks. You grin, and draw your long sword. You begin walking into the city, stepping over the destroyed gate. A crushed body bleeds from under it. "You really should've opened the gate instead of your mouth," you say, walking inside. Inside is a town eerily reminiscent of Kashin. Buildings are built into the wall, and there's torches everywhere to illuminate the cavern this place is built out of. You can see a tunnel shooting off to the side, no doubt leading to the tombs. "Go on. Kill," you say, and your undead charge forward. "Dagden, do we let the undead kill civilians?" Thorn asks. > Yes "Kill them all." You watch as endless waves of undead soldiers march forward. The Dwarves put up little resistance. You charge forward with a blade, and meet the enemy. An armored Dwarven spear man charges forward. You roll under a spear thrust, and slash at his ankle. He collapses to the ground with a groan, and you raise your sword and stab him through the chest, straight through the chest plate. The Dwarf lies still, before standing again. You raise your sword to kill your next foe, but there is none. It's a massacre. The Dwarven Warriors are clearly unprepared for the attack, and are wiped out quickly. In the wake of the slaughter, you watch as the dead rise. "That was great! Look at all the soldiers we got for the Grand Necromancer's army. It's a literal dead rising! We just chopped 'till we dropped!" Thorn says eagerly. "What a great battle!" "This wasn't a battle. This was a justified massacre," you say. You step over the beheaded corpse of what you hope isn't a child, and begin walking towards the tombs. > You head into the Tombs You walk into the tombs, finding row after row of massive metal doors leading to the private tombs, each with a name, title and religious symbol etched into it. You take out the note Blaise gave you, trying to avoid getting blood on it, and begin reading. "Sir McHale, Revenant. Chieftain Rash, Revenant. Sir Chase, Zombie. Captain Brie, Revenant. Jeong the Unkillable, Revenant. General Glover, Zombie. Nash Everchange, Revenant. Jacobs Steelhammer, Revenant. Warlord Pudi, Revenant. Brown Godblessed, Revenant. Other than that, everyone's a zombie. Drag those to become Revenants out to Fair Flesh for Fair Flesh to carry home. I think you can try raise the zombies by yourself." Over the next hour, Thorn and Val raise the undead that need to be raised. Once you're finished, Thorn collapses. "Are you OK?" you ask. "Were you hurt in the fight?" "I'm so tired. I raised so many undead." You realize what would've been simple for Blaise is an incredible trial for these two. Thorn slowly heads off to begin leading the new dead army home, leaving you and Val alone. "Gods, I'm exhausted," she says. "Understandable. It was your first real fight. You did well." "Thanks. So... are you and the Grand Necromancer... a thing?" "No. We're just friends." "Oh, really?" Val says, perking up. "So, you're single?" "I suppose." "Oh, great! Well, I was wondering, with the Grand Necromancer's permission, do you want to go on a date some time?" > You say "Sure." "Oh, really?!?" Val says happily. She leans in, and kisses you. It's awkward at first, but after a few seconds you let your hands wander and get more adventurous. Your tongue enterwine, and as your feel a certain green friend begin to rise, you hear a voice. "Should... should I leave the room?" Thorn says. You let go of Val, and turn angrily to the tiny Wood Elf. "You little bastard! How long were you watching?" "I don't know, time kinda stopped. I was watching when you slid your hand up her..." "Thorn, I swear on Gorgok's blade, I will kill you if you say another word." Thorn stops talking. "Alright, then. Let's go." > Five Days Later... You stand in the courtyard, watching two of the Necromancer's fighting. They stand at the edges of a circle, struggling for magical control over an undead hound in the center that keeps charging at either Necromancer, snapping and biting, before turning around and charging at the other. You watch for a few minutes, before Blaise arrives. "They're doing well," you point out. "They're doing OK." You watch for a few more minutes, before Blaise says something. "We've captured another Alliance Scout. He has some information I think you might want to hear." You look at Blaise, who looks nervous. "You're nervous," you say. "Should I be worried?" "No," Blaise replies. You follow Blaise to the War Room, where a cloaked and hooded Dark Elf is kneeling. "Who are you?" "Niverar." "For fuck's sake, hurry up so I can kill this bastard," Mr Nilvos says eagerly. "The King you abandoned is going to eat your heart, Niverar." "Fuck you. I'm loyal to your brother." Mr Nivlos draws his sword, but Sir Trent grabs his wrist. "Don't," the old, undead knight says. Mr Nilvos sheaths his sword. "Tell Dagden what you told me," Blaise says. "So this is the so called Dagden Dragontooth of Death. I like the alliteration, but you're smaller than I imagined." "Tell him!" Blaise says. "I was sent as part of a large scouting force to prepare for the assault on the Dead Empire to unite against this threat. I personally was sent here to track down the Necromancers you've sent up North towards the mountains, at the first College of the Dark Arts." "What Necromancers?" "A small group that's been holed up there for quite some time, led by Necromancer Trant." You flinch upon hearing that name for the first time in years. "Are you sure it's him? Are you sure he's alive?" "I don't know whether he's alive, but he's certainly active. I've yet to learn whether he's living or undead." "Is there an Orc with him?" "There's quite a few." "Where is this?" "I have a map hidden. You can have it if you release me." "Sure. Where?" "Built into the sole of my spare boots." You check, and sure enough, you find it. "Let him go," you say. "What? No, fuck that! I..." Mr Nilvos says. "If I have to repeat myself I'll kill you." Mr Nilvos stops, and cuts the Dark Elf free and begins to escort him outside. You turn to Blaise. "Blaise, I need to go get my revenge." "Dag..." "He killed my brother!" "Dag, the Alliance is beginning to unite against us. They could attack full force any day." "I don't care." "You can't leave me, Dag! I'm not going to stop you, but please. Leave those bastards to freeze up the mountain." > You stay with Blaise "FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!" you yell, punching a wall and screaming. "For fuck's sake, fine!" "Thanks, Dag," she says, grabbing you for a hug. You grind your teeth, growling. "I know it hurts you to do this." "I'm an Orc. We're expected to murder and avenge." "Well, it means everything you're staying. I'll make it up to you. Zombie, get Dagden whatever cranberries we have left." She claps, and a zombie rushes off. "Come on, let's go. We'll need to stop spending money on decorating this place now that we know we've pissed off the Alliance and put everything into the army, but there's some cool stuff I bought." You shrug, and follow Blaise along the hallways. As you enter the town hall, you see several new statues being pulled into place by multiple undead. The first shows a man standing on top of another, grinning. The second shows a man stuffing his face with food. The next shows a man in mid-battle, brutally beheading an Elf. The fourth shows a thief stealing a pouch of gold from another man. The fifth shows a woman glaring at a richer woman while seemingly pouring something into her drink. The sixth shows a man lying on top of a pile of cushions asleep. The last, quite surprisingly, shows a man and a woman in the middle of sex. "Did you buy the six other statues to cover up the fact you really wanted porn?" you ask, staring both impressed and disgusted with the beautiful chiseled testicles on the man in the last statue. "I liked them. They're a set, for each of the main sins," Blaise says, walking on. You notice a massive painting, featuring Blaise in her robes holding a skull in her hand. A slightly smaller painting stands to the right, showing you in full armor and face paint. "Who'd you have paint these?" "I hired a painter to paint us from memory. Nice, right?" "Mine's smaller," you complain. Blaise rolls her eyes. "You complain a lot more than you used to." "I live in a castle full of rotting corpses and my best friend's saying I can't get revenge on my arch-nemesis. I have the right to complain." "He wasn't your arch-nemesis, take it easy. Let's go eat." > You go eat You sit down at the dining table, and zombies bring out platters of food. You sit down at the table. You grab a piece of bread. You begin chewing on the bread as Kai, Sir Trent, Mr Nilvos, the Revenants and the Apprentice Necromancers enter the room. Val sits down, and smiles at you. "Hi," she says happily, kissing you. "How was your day?" "...hi," you say. "It was... good." "Your eyes look really pretty in this night." Fuck, you're pretty sure that's flirting. You have no idea how to respond. "I like your... bones. They're... in the right place for your facial structure to be really pretty." "Thanks..." Val says. Fuck, you wish romance with High Elves was closer to like with Orcs. Then you could just arm wrestle. "When did this happen?" Blaise asks. "Recently," you grunt in response. "Alright then," Blaise giggles. "Should I move your rooms closer together?" "Shut up," you say, rolling your eyes. "What's the report?" Blaise asks loudly, now addressing her conversation to the whole group. "Elven Scout Force cleared from the Rotting Woods," Kai says, digging into a large steak. "I'm just back from Cazzoculo. We wiped out a battalion of spearmen trying to cross the river into our territory and brought them back for reanimation," Sir Trent says. "I... We... was with Sir Trent, trying to find a peaceful solution. He failed." Soren shudders as he fights for control for his own body. "Is he OK?" one of the Apprentice Necromancers asks. "He'll live," you grunt in response. "Demon Possession," Sir Trent explains. "Which one is on our side? The demon or the person." "The Demon," Mr Nilvos says. "Fuck you! I'm on your side! I'm the reason I'm here, not your demon buddy!" Soren shouts. "You get used to his constant screaming. Who do you prefer, Trent?" Kai asks. "Soren or Malign?" "They're both valued members..." "Oh, go fuck yourself. That's not an answer. Blaise...? Or Grand Necromancer, or whatever the fuck you're called nowadays? Soren or Malign?" "You realize they're both within earshot, right Kai?" she asks. "Spoilsport. Dag?" > You say "I prefer Soren." "Thank you, Dagden. I prefer you to all these scum suckers. Ouch. I thought we were cool. You dick." "Sorry, Malign." "Fuc... Sssh." "Settle down," Blaise demands. "What are the chances of a widespread Alliance invasion?" "Chances? 99.9%," Sir Trent says. "The ony chance they don't invade is if the world ends." "Well, fuck. What's our strategy?" Blaise says. "Kill and raise. The better question is their strategy. A normal invasion will be slow and lead to massive deaths, which will likely cause infighting. I think they'll go for either the Distract and Assassinate or, most likely, the Narrow Assault. I doubt they'll go for Distract and Assassinate, as we both know you won't fall for the same tactic that killed your father." "So what's Narrow Assault?" "They'll use an army to carve a path straight to Reaper Castle and assassinate you, destabilizing the Dead Empire and wiping out most of your undead. We could send you into hiding, but that'd just make you vulnerable to being stabbed in your sleep by some wandering adventurer looking to make a name for themselves." "So, do you have some new scheme to save our asses?" "No." "No?" "No. When they begin the assault, we evacuate the people in the way of the assault to here and set up a massive defense to repel it. Still, it's very risky. We're simply not strong enough to repel a full invasion." There's silence at the table for a few minutes as you wonder what will become of the Dead Empire that you've spent so much time trying to build. > One Week Later... You ride atop your skeletal horse, which you've now named Bones, because Orcs are uncreative, and you're an especially uncreative Orc. You're in charge of the defense and possible evacuation of the Triumph Road. The road was built by Dante after the necessity for a road to connect his latest conquests became clear, and is one of the possible routes the Alliance could invade through any day now. Kai and Sir Trent are in charge of the defense of the Oak Route, while Mr Nilvos and Soren/Malign are in charge of the Peasant's Road. You lead a large group of two Flesh Monstrosities, Fair Flesh and Primus, two hundred undead, the Apprentice Necromancers Thorn and Val, Lucas and Deatheater the Revenants as leaders of this group. Your main job is defending the road, should the Alliance choose to invade this way, long enough to evacuate the towns in the path of the invading forces, both to deprive the Alliance of supplies and to minimize bloodshed. Then, you'll leave the zombies and skeletons behind and take Primus, Fair Flesh, Lucas, Death Eater, Val and Thorn back to Reaper Castle as the other commanders move their undead in the path of the Alliance to buy time for... something. Although the fight isn't lost, the death of everyone you love is a very strong possibility. "Hunger... I hunger..." Primus grunts. "Calm it down, buddy. We'll steal some goats or something for you," Lucas shouts. "We need to set up defenses along Henry's Bridge. Has Fair Flesh destroyed it yet?" "Yes," Fair Flesh growls. "Good. Any invasion force will need to cross the river through either raft or wading across,. They'll probably do it at Chestnut Point, a small meander in Henry's River, as it's the shortest, shallowest point nearby and it has relatively few potholes in the river bed. We'll build defenses atop the levee to drive them back should they attempt to pass," you say. You notice an undead creature, one of your Wight scouts, shambling towards you. "Sir... Alliance Soldiers are here," it rasps. "Where?" "Chestnut Point. I saw three boats of a dozen men, a scouting party, so it would seem." "Fuckin' Chestnut Point. Three dozen? And they're men?" "Yes, sir." "Alright, let's move. We massacre them all and raise them up. This can buff our defences." You turn to Lucas, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Begin the evacuation, warn the people to begin heading to Ironbrun, then on to Dillingwood and to Reaver Castle." "Sure thing," Lucas says, turning and sprinting off. You kick your horse's bony behind, and it breaks into a gallop towards Chestnut point. "Come on! Let's get killing while the killing's good!" you bark. You ride quickly to Chestnut point, Bones quickly bounding over the few fences that separate the fields. After a few minutes, you arrive at Chestnut Point. Three wooden boats have been pulled up onto the shore, with three more in the river. You leap off your horse, drawing your sword. "Who the fuck is that?" one of the soldiers cries. "I am genuinely so pleased you asked," you roar, beheading a soldier struggling to draw his sword in a single blow. "Alright, I am General Dagden Dragontooth, General under the Dead Empire, Bearsbane, Red Blade, Survivor..." A soldier rushes you, and you dodge his sword thrust. "Death to the Greenskin!" he cries. You grab his sword arm and twist it sharply, breaking it badly. He screams desperately, and you run your sword through his chest. "I wasn't finished, human! Survivor of the Fall of Reaper Castle, Envoy of the Grand Necromancer, Blood Mage and, as your friend put it, Greenskin." The soldiers begin to group together and slowly advance. > Charge You charge forward. You swing your blade, the long reach managing to hack open the face of one of them. You twirl through the air to avoid a sword blow, before kicking on of them in the shin. She falls backwards, and you stand above her, stabbing her through the stomach. You feel a sword smack into your back, but your armor deflects most of the blow, though you still stumble forward. You twist and block a spear jab, before grabbing the handle and running him through with your blade. You feel a sword slice through the side of your neck and you wince, before turning and blocking the second swing. You grab your neck, finding the wound isn't particularly deep, and shouldn't put you out of the fight. You even feel your Blood Stone pulse, and you roar, startling the soldiers. "I will end you!" you roar, charging forward again. You hear the undead rush forward as they arrive, brutally assaulting the soldiers. You outnumber them and with Thorn and Val increasing your numbers with every kill. Soon, the soldiers stand undead or lie dying. "What now?" Thorn asks. "This is only the beginning. Set up a defensive perimeter, we wait until the evacuation is finished." > You Wait As you wait, Val gives you some health potion and wraps some bandages around your neck, tightening it. "Thanks," you grunt. "Of course, sweetie," she smiles, kissing you. Sweetie? If Bagig, may Gorgok fight with him in the afterlands, ever heard you be called that, he would have beaten you to death as a mercy kill. Romance is hard. "...OK," you grunt in response. You wait by the shore, watching for enemy movement as Scouts head along the rest of the river. "Maybe it was just them," Thorn says. "No. No," you reply, watching. "Are we safe here, out in the open?" Val asks. "I'll protect you," you say, putting an arm around her back. "I'll protect myself. You keep the kid alive," Val says as she kisses you again, and Thorn rolls his eyes. "You guys are really gross. And I'm not a kid," Thorn grunts. As the sun begins to fall, you notice enemies across the water approaching. Their silver blades glow orange in the sunlight as they approach. Hundreds of soldiers approach, boats being carried by groups of them. "Fuck me," you say. "Lucas, is the evacuation complete?" Lucas nods. "I finished telling people an hour ago. If we ride fast, we'll be able to make it Ironbrun by nightfall. We'll be able to get them to Dillingwood quickly, and you'll be home before these fuckers get to Ironbrun." You nod, and climb on your horse, looking out at the army. "We are the forces of..." one of them, their leader, probably, cries. "Fuck you! You'll be the forces of the Grand Necromancer soon," you cry. Your horse breaks into a gallop, leaving Chestnut Point behind. > Three Days Later... You sit in the War Room, an empty silence taking up the place. "Shouldn't there be more refugees here?" Kai asks. "Most refugees are hiding out in towns out of the way of the Alliance Army. Only those fearing persecution because of their strong connections to the Dead Empire, around one or two hundred people, and it's a big fucking castle. We expected to have to hold a lot more, so we'll survive longer in a siege," Sir Trent says. "What's our plan?" one of the Apprentice Necromancers whose name you haven't learned asked. "We're launching war parties to sabotage the enemy war effort, but we won't be able to defeat the enemies in an open battle in some field. We'd be massacred." "So what's our end game?" "We wait for the enemy to arrive, and besiege us. We have a large force of undead, and if we can somehow defeat this enemy army, we'll have so many dead to raise we'll be unstoppable. Here, we'll have the advantage of a massive castle built to survive any siege, and we tip the odds in our favor... slightly." "If they outnumber us by a lot, how do we defeat them?" the Apprentice Necromancer asks. Blaise shrugs. "I don't know. Where's Soren? Or Malign? Whichever." "They're both in their room. They're... not feeling well," Mr Nilvos says. "What's wrong?" Blaise asks. "Fuck, I don't know. I think they're both shit sick of each other," Mr Nilvos says. "Dag, go check on them," Blaise says. You nod, and stand, walking out of the war room. You walk along the narrow hallways, and find yourself at the door to Soren/Malign's room. > You go inside You walk inside, and find Soren/Malign pacing the room. He has a vial of black liquid clutched in one hand and a silver, glowing blade in his other. "Fuck you! I'll devour your soul! I'll banish you!" they both scream at each other. "Soren?" you ask nervously. Soren turns in surprise. "Dagden. I need your help. Take this dagger and stab me." "What?" "Stab me with it. I think it will get rid of Malign. I've done every ritual I know to prepare for this." "Why didn't you tell us you were planning this?" "I didn't want Nilvos to stop me," he replies. "Now please, help me. The vial. Make me drink it. It will poison Soren's mind and let me take ov... Don't listen to him, Dag." Soren falls to the ground and begins to shudder. You should probably do something. > Stab Soren/Malign with the knife You grab the knife, and stab him through the chest. Soren/Malign screams, and collapses. > Oops After a few minutes of silence, Soren gasps and grabs the knife, pulling it from his chest. "Ah! Oh, praise the True Power. I'm alive. Is Malign still... here?" He pauses for a second. "Oh thank the True Power! He's gone! He's gone! Thank you, Dagden!" Soren jumps up, grinning. "Come on, let's go meet the others!" > You go back to the War Room with Soren You walk back to the War Room with Soren. "Ah, good. You're back," Blaise says. "I'm back in control! Malign's banished back to the Infernal Realms, now I'm in charge!" Soren says. "You... fuck," Mr Nilvos sighs. "You're a real cunt, Soren. He was my friend." "He was a filthy demon, and he's gone!" "Fuck you," Mr Nilvos sighs. "Soren, Kai, Sir Trent, Mr Nilvos, Dag, Apprentices, let's get to work organizing our final stand," Blaise says. You're not completely sure if she's joking or not. > One Week Later... The Enemy have arrived, and there's a lot more than you'd expected. You can see the massive armies approaching from the walls. Massive regiments of men marching with spears, swords and shields approach in the distance, marching forward in unison, followed by a large calvary. Elves jog in unison towards the Castle, holding bows and swords. Orcs and Dwarves approach in rag tag war parties, bloodthirsty and eager for war. There's tens of thousands of them, while you have little under a thousand undead soldiers in Reaper Castle. Blaise stands next to you. "Dag?" "Yes?" "I'm scared." "I know." "What are we going to do? We're just kids, Dag." "We're going to win, no matter what, or die trying." "Did you have to add that last part? I think die trying is pretty goddamn likely." "We'll make it." Blaise sighs. "Let's go inside. Looking at our approaching doom is sad." You look at the heavily barred gate, and wonder if, when it's broken open, you'll die. You don't know. > You go inside You walk inside with Blaise. "I hope we survive, Dag." "I hope so, too. You're my best friend, Dag." "You're my best friend, Blaise." "Hey, Dag!" You turn, to see Val striding towards you. "Ah, here's my girl" You say. "Hey, Val." "Hey," she smiles, kissing you. "I'll give you two lovers some time," Blaise smiles. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'll go have a drink with my advisors." Blaise hugs you, and walks off. "Come on, let's go find somewhere private. This could be the last night of our lives." "I guess. I'd like to spend it with you." You lean in and kiss her, your tongues tangling as your hands immediately go to places they shouldn't. "Let's go to my room," you grin. > Four Hours Later... You awaken, hung over and still a little drunk, to Blaise looking over you. "What time is it?" "Midnight-ish," Blaise says, before her eyes dart down. "Come on, get up." Blaise pulls the blanket away. "Oops. Sorry," she says. You rub your eyes, realizing both you and Val lie naked in the bed. You grab the blanket and wrap it around you both. "Hey!" "Shit, Dag. You move fast." "What's going on?" Val asks, waking up. "I need you two both dressed and ready in the War Room in five. No, if I give you five you'll try fucking her again in the space of that time. Two minutes." Blaise walks out, and you sigh. > You get dressed and go to the War Room You walk into the War Room, and take a seat. "Alright, we have big news," Sir Trent says. "Big, shitty news." "What's the situation?" you ask. "The Alliance are planning to attack sunrise. We'll be overwhelmed and wiped out." There's a moment of silence. "How do we know this?" you ask. "Mr Nilvos scouted the area to find and overheard the plans using his shadow magic." "I overheard it," Mr Nilvos says. "We're fucked." "What... what's our plan?" one of the Apprentice Necromancers asks. "I don't know," Blaise says. "Anyone?" "We could attack," Kai says. "We'd be massacred," Soren says. "I know. But the Dead Empire's crumbling. If we attack, it could act as a distraction for Blaise and the Apprentice Necromancers to escape." Kai says. "Plus, we'd become martyrs for the Dead Empire, inspire some people." "Yes," you say. "That's perfect." "I'm not leaving you to die here for me," Blaise says. "If we're attacking, I attack with you. I need time to think. We can fix this. I just need to think. Let's go to the Throne Room, Dag. I can think there." You walk off with Blaise through the hallways, leaving the advisors to think. > You attempt to convince Blaise to escape while you provide a distraction "Blaise, you need to go. You need to take Apprentices and g..." Blaise slaps you, and for the first time in your life, when she hits you it actually hurts. "Fuck you, Dag! You don't get to have a valiant death and leave me all alone with a bunch of fucking kids!" "I'm an Orc. Dying a valiant death is what we do." "No! I'm not leaving you to die for me. You're the only one I have, who's been with me since I was a little girl. You don't get to leave me alone!" "Well, I can't let you die! You know I can't let you do that!" "Then... you could come with me." "I can't leave everyone of my friends to die for me." "They're already going to die, One Orc won't make a difference. We could survive." "We'll be tracked down for the rest of our lives." "So what? We'll overcome it." You stare at Blaise's hopeful face. > Agree "Really? Oh, I didn't think you would. Thank you, Dag," "Fine. Let's go tell the advisors." You walk along to the War Room, and find Sir Trent, Kai, Mr Nilvos and Soren waiting there, as well as the Revenants and Apprentices. "What's the plan?" "I'll... I'll escape with Blaise and the Apprentice Neromancers," you say. "Goood. I didn't think you'd be able to be convincewd to go," Sir Trent says. "You're not... bitter?" "I've faced and embraced Death before. If I escaped I'd just be killed in a few days when someone spots my rotting face." "I'd probably just end up going feral and stay as a wolf, murdering babies. Actually, I'm quite sad about that. So many babies, going uneaten," Kai says. "I owe my soul to a lot of different demons, and I'm sure Malign'll be happy to see me again once he plucks my ass from the soul stream and tortures me or whatever. I don't know, I can't trust that bastard," Mr Nilvos says. "You freed my soul, Dag. I'd be honoured to die for you," Soren says. You look at your friends, and feel incredibly grateful. "Go. We'll prepare the attack. Use your father's escape tunnel," Sir Trent says. "Go now. No more time for goodbyes. The enemy could storm in any moment." > You go and escape through the hidden tunnel You look at your friends. "Goodbye," you say. "Goodbye, friends," Blaise says. You both turn and head to Dante's room, the Apprentice Necromancer's in tow. You grab Mort from his cage and Blaise fetches Stitches to bring along with you. You quickly head past the painting and into the tunnel, and wait at the hidden door at the end. There's a silence, before you hear screams and war horns. "The attack's begun," Blaise says. "Let's go. Stick with me and Dagden. Keep moving no matter what, don't stop for anything. Got it?" "Got it," the Apprentice Necromancers reply. Blaise pushes open the hidden door, and you begin to move. Soldiers are rushing towards the main gates, and thanks to the newfound distraction and the cover of darkness, you pass the empty moat and begin to head past empty tents. You break into a job, followed by the others. You quickly clear pass the camp, and begin heading out past the camp. "Keep moving. We don't stop until we find somewhere to lay low." For the second time in your life you flee from Reaper Castle, this time for good. > Three Years Later... On the Road Three years later, you walk along the road with Blaise, the Apprentice Necromancers and your newly married wife, Val. The past three years have been hard, but fun. You acted first as runaways, hiding from Alliance Patrols, Adventurers, Heroes and Bounty Hunters. You went from friendly town to caves to deep in the woods, sleeping on the road. Eventually, you turned to stealing to survive. "We are bandits," Thorn says. "No we're not," Val replies. "We only steal from the richer caravans, and only what we need that makes us... "liberators of excess stock in caravans"." "That makes us bandits," Thorn grins. You shrug. You don't really care what you're called. Bandits, Adventurers, Wanderers, it doesn't matter. You're happy. Your relationship with Val has only grown overtime, and Blaise seems to have garnered the attention of at least one of the Apprentices. The Alliance has collapsed due to infighting and war, which means few people left actively pursue you. "We'll stop in Haversham soon, and spend a few nights there. There's some supply Wagons from the Kingdom of Man going to resupply their war against the Elves. We raid those, sell them to the Dwarves and spend a few weeks celebrating in Dwarven territory." "Kashin's always nice. We could visit Tholi," you say. "Yeah, Dag, let's do that," Blaise smiles. You continue walking down the road, a bright future ahead of you.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy, zombie] "Blaise, you need to go. You need to take Apprentices and g..." Blaise slaps you, and for the first time in your life, when she hits you it actually hurts. "Fuck you, Dag! You don't get to have a valiant death and leave me all alone with a bunch of fucking kids!" "I'm an Orc. Dying a valiant death is what we do." "No! I'm not leaving you to die for me. You're the only one I have, who's been with me since I was a little girl. You don't get to leave me alone!" "Well, I can't let you die! You know I can't let you do that!" "Then... you could come with me." "I can't leave everyone of my friends to die for me." "They're already going to die, One Orc won't make a difference. We could survive." "We'll be tracked down for the rest of our lives." "So what? We'll overcome it." You stare at Blaise's hopeful face. > You Refuse "No, Blaise. I can't do that." "Then I'm staying," Blaise says, and you know you won't convince her. "Fine," you sigh. "What do you want to do now?" "I don't know. We could go prepare the troops and attack now or maybe we could visit the Throne Room one last time before. I don't know." > You say "Let's go to the Throne Room." You walk with Blaise to the Throne Room. She enters the big, empty hall, and walks to the Throne, sitting in it. She sighs, and leans back. "I never imagined myself sitting in here. Queen Blaise. A lotta good I did," she says bitterly. "We did our best," you sigh. "Get me Dad's crown. I want to wear it when I die." You walk over to the steel and black jewelled crown that sits in the middle of the room, and pick it up. "Fuck!" you grunt. The Crown is ice cold and gives you a burst of pain. "What the fuck?" you ask. Blaise raises an eyebrow, standing and walking over to you. "Don't touch it," you say. Blaise grabs the crown, and puts it on, and the room goes dark. > Darkness A pale, ghostly, translucent figure appears in front of you, its light breaking the darkness. You draw your sword and grab Blaise, pushing her behind you. "Hello, Blaise. It's good to see you," a voice says. Blaise stops, deathly still. "Dad?" she asks, her mouth opening. You stare at the figure, which begins to take on Dante's features. "Hello, sweetheart. I've missed you so much," Dante says. "Hey, Dad." Blaise says, tears streaming down her face. "You've become so grown-up. Gods, you look so much like your mother. You're beautiful," Dante says, his ghostly visage turning to look at you. "Dagden, you're looking strong and healthy." "What are you?" you ask. "What am I? I don't think there's a name for what I am. I'm stronger than a ghost, more incorporeal than a Lynch, weaker than a God. I had been planning to ascend to Lynchdom, as you know, but I was stopped. The ritual was broken by the Alliance, and I was trapped in this state. I clinged to... life, or undeath, which kept me trapped in the crown, waiting for an opportunity to use my power." "Dad, everything's gone to hell. We're surrounded by the Alliance, and they're going to invade in the morning and we'll all be killed. We'll die here!" Blaise says, terrified, attempting to hug her father and going straight through him. "Ah... I figured as much. What's your plan?" "I don't know," Blaise admits. "I guess I'll help you, then. I have a lot of power left that I've been saving." "What happens if you use the power?" Blaise asks. "I... I pass on. If I use my power to save you, I'll lose my grip on undeath and die... but we all die otherwise." "No! Dad, we can attack and target their leaders and raise them and have them convince the masses to retreat..." "Sweetheart, calm yourself. I've tired of this realm, and will continue on to whatever awaits. If I can use my last strength to save you, I've succeeded." "What are you going to do?" you ask. "Are you familiar with Elementals? Magical beings that represent Elements. There's Fire Elementals, Ice Elementals, Water Elementals, Life Elementals... one of the lesser known ones are Death Elementals. Death Elementals can rarely be summoned to this realm and when they are, only for a few hours, but I can do that. Release them on the enemy, and raise the undead armies to wage war again and conquer the Alliance." "Dad, you can't do that. You'll die." "I'm wasting strength talking to you. Soon I'll be too weak. Dagden, protect my daughter. Blaise, I've abandoned my hopes for immortality. I've abandoned my hope of building the Dead Empire. But I have many, many hopes for you, Blaise. I love you." "I love you too, Dad." Dante smiles, and his aura fades as Dante disappears. Suddenly, the room fills with black, sulfurous smoke and you begin to cough as your vision's obscured. The smoke clears after a minute of coughing, and you pause. Standing around you in a ring are nine figures in black, hooded robes. Under the hoods you can see grinning skulls. Each hold a large scythe in their arm, and they all pause, staring at you. "Are these...?" you begin to ask. "Death Elementals," Blaise says. The nine Death Elementals stand, watching you. "I... we... need you to go kill the army outside the walls of this castle," Blaise says. You watch as the Death Elementals begin to walk, single-file, out of the Throne Room. You follow them as they walk towards the gates, and one slowly opens it. "Should we stop them?" you ask. "No," Blaise says. The Death Elementals walk slowly out of Reaper Castle, raising their scythes. Then, they attack. The creatures move with lightning speed with fearsome strength, tossing tents out of the way and slashing apart the men inside. There's a black and crimson blur as they speed through the camp. You watch as a massive slaughter takes place. You don't know how long it takes, maybe minutes, maybe hours, and then it stops. "What the fuck...?" you ask, in complete shock and terror. The nine Death Elementals convene at the gates, staring at you. You go to draw your sword again, but Blaise stops you. "Don't." "Fine," you say. The nine Death Elementals stare at you for a few minutes, before the black, sulfurous smoke begins to be emitted from under their cloaks and you begin to cough as your vision's obscured. The smoke clears after a minute of coughing, and they're all gone. "What the fuck just happened?" you ask. "We witnessed the powers of death," Blaise whispers. > Six Months Later... The Kingdom of Man was created and grew into what it is over a thousand years. The Orc Tribes became what they are in roughly four hundred. The Dwarven Clans have lasted nearly eight hundred years. The High Elves, Wood Elves and Dark Elves have lasted literally millennia. You and Blaise have conquered it all in six months. You sit on the back of Bones, riding towards Alexandria. The city is the largest in the Alliance, and the various leaders of the Alliance are hiding there. You ride towards the city next to Blaise, a massive army of undead behind you. "If we conquer here, the Alliance falls apart," Blaise says. "Damn right," you say, grinning. You ride toward the city walls, in front of a massive gate. Dozens of terrified defenders line the walls, bows drawn. > Attack "Attack!" you roar. Your undead armies charge forward. The fight is brief. Many enemies surrender instantly, while the rest are massacred. A Flesh Monstrosity kicks down the gates, and walks inside. You wait next to Blaise, watching the endless slaughter. After about an hour, the fighting is over. You ride slowly into the city, heading towards the castle at the center of Alexandria. You slowly ride into Alexandria. You enter the massive castle through the huge gates. inside are corpses and signs of slaughter. You quickly enter the Throne room, and see the enemies who've been hunting you for the past few years, lying dead.. Sitting in the throne is a black haired, young man wearing a massive golden crown, his throat slit. Lying to his right is a tall, slender woman with flowing blond hair, the Elf Queen, a spear through her throat. To his left is a short, stocky Dwarf covered in golden jewelry that embroiders his long red beard that lies bloodstained, his head sitting next to his corpse. You've annoyed there's no Orc representative, but than again, expecting the Orc Tribes to agree on a leader would never work. Blaise slowly sits in the chair, looking up at you. "We did it, Dag. We did it." > The Next Day... You stand by the throne in Alexandria, Blaise sitting in the Throne. "I can't believe we're here, Dag." "I know." "We made it," she smiles. "My Dad always wanted to make the Dead Empire, and we've done it." "I know. Remember when we were little kids playing hide and seek in the hidden tunnels?" "Yeah. That was fun. And sleeping in the tree in the garden." "Those were the days, Dag." "Well, now we have an empire to build. Taxes to charge, laws to install, people to promote, things to do... We're the rulers of an Empire." "Yeah..." Blaise says, standing and hugging you. "We did it." > Five Years Later... A Future for the World Over the next five years, you build your dreams. You install a new justice system, implant a fair tax system, wipe out the various bandits that plagued the land and did a bunch of other shit you don't care about. The point is, Blaise is happy, and so are you. There's a lot to be done now. Blaise has quite a few guys chasing after her, but that's up to her. You advisors grow quite powerful. The Apprentice Necromancers, Thorn especially, become incredibly powerful and look after large areas of land for Blaise. Sir Trent becomes a leader in charge of the many undead patrols that guard the Dead Empire from both external threats and act as a police force. Kai is rewarded with massive amounts of money for his service, which he blows on prostitutes and drink and demands for more until a new tax the Kai Tax, is put in place on baked goods to support his gambling, drinking and fucking habits.Mr Nilvos is given a large manor and fortune to enjoy, and Soren is put in charge of the new Church of the True Power that you think is stupid, but Soren's quite happy with. You personally are given tremendous amounts of power and influence, though you stay at Blaise's side throughout. You stand next to Blaise, looking out at the setting sun, standing on the walls of Reaper Castle. You gently rub Stitches by your side and Mort on your shoulder. "We've done well, haven't we?" "Damn right. I can't believe what we've done." "I love you, Dag. You're my best friend." "I love you too, Blaise. Don't tell Val." Blaise laughs, and punches you. "Don't joke about that. I think she might be pregnant." You wink and shrug. You watch the sun setting, and smile. "The future is open to us, Blaise. The whole world is under our command. We've created a great empire you and I." "We've created a future, Dag." You look out at the world, and think that Blaise is right. You've done it.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie] "No, Blaise. I can't do that." "Then I'm staying," Blaise says, and you know you won't convince her. "Fine," you sigh. "What do you want to do now?" "I don't know. We could go prepare the troops and attack now or maybe we could visit the Throne Room one last time before. I don't know." > You say "Let's prepare the troops." You walk out to the courtyard, calling your men together. The Advisors are there, as are the Revenants, the Flesh Monstrosities, the Wights, the Dragon and the boring undead. Blaise raises her voice to a loud whisper so that they can hear her, if only barely. "Today is a day of death! Today we face the Alliance and we make sure they know our names. We make sure that when a cold wind blows or a figure is seen in the shadow they fear us!" You nod, as the gates are slowly opened. You draw your blade, and move forward slowly. The Camp's guards begin to yell but are quickly struck down by arrows. You snarl, and charge forward. You charge into a tent finding four soldiers lying in bed, all Dwarves. You swing your blade, hacking through blankets, pillows and flesh, killing them instantly. You charge out of the tent, raising your sword. A half naked Elf appears from her tent with a sword, but she's unprepared and you drive your sword through her chest. Then the slaughter begins. You hear the howls of Kai as he charges past in his wolven form, nad you swing your blade, beheading a passing Orc. You roar, and fight through more slaughter. You hack, stab, dodge and behead, dropping countless enemies. You dodge arrows and block attacks, and continue slaughtering. "Die! DIE!" you scream, tearing the throat of a Wood Elf out and shoving his dying body aside. Then, you hear it. A piercing scream goes out, which you instantly recognize. It's Blaise's. You roar charging forward, hacking your way through a crowd, before you find her. A spear has implaled her through the chest, blood soaking her robes. "Blaise!" Blaise gurgles on blood, before coughing more of the crimson liquid on your face. "Blaise! No! You don't get to die!" Blaise lies in your arms, dying wordlessly. > You let Rage consume you Loss and Sacrifice You let out a terrifying roar, and stand. You eyes scan the battlefield, and find what you're looking for: A Spearman without a spear. You raise your sword, and slowly approach him. "Hey! You're not undead! Who the fuck are you?" he asks, backing away. "I am Death," you growl. You charge forward, and tear him apart. You rip out his throat with your teeth as your sword hacks into his chest and your thumbs drive deep into his eyes as he desperately screams. You crush his skull in your hands, tearing his brains out and tossing them aside. You stand, covered with blood, and find your allies next to you. "Is she...?" Soren asks. "Yes," Sir Trent asks. "May the Gods watch over her." "Fuck the Gods. She was better than the Gods," you snarl. You turn, seeing an endless wave of Alliance Soldiers approach, and charge. You charge forward, swinging your blade. Bodies fall around you as blood spills. You feel arrows penetrate your chest and swords slash your body. You continue roaring as you tear people apart, before you feel an endless array of wounds being inflicted upon you. You stand, before dropping to your knees. An Elf charges forward, stabbing you through the chest. You groan, before grabbing the Elf and tearing out his throat. You fall to the ground, landing on a pile of bodies you have made, and finally, Death takes you.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy, zombie] You walk into the War Room, and take a seat. "Alright, we have big news," Sir Trent says. "Big, shitty news." "What's the situation?" you ask. "The Alliance are planning to attack sunrise. We'll be overwhelmed and wiped out." There's a moment of silence. "How do we know this?" you ask. "Mr Nilvos scouted the area to find and overheard the plans using his shadow magic." "I overheard it," Mr Nilvos says. "We're fucked." "What... what's our plan?" one of the Apprentice Necromancers asks. "I don't know," Blaise says. "Anyone?" "We could attack," Kai says. "We'd be massacred," Soren says. "I know. But the Dead Empire's crumbling. If we attack, it could act as a distraction for Blaise and the Apprentice Necromancers to escape." Kai says. "Plus, we'd become martyrs for the Dead Empire, inspire some people." "Yes," you say. "That's perfect." "I'm not leaving you to die here for me," Blaise says. "If we're attacking, I attack with you. I need time to think. We can fix this. I just need to think. Let's go to the Throne Room, Dag. I can think there." You walk off with Blaise through the hallways, leaving the advisors to think. > You take Blaise to the Garden again "Let's go to the Garden." "Why?" "I... I don't know," you admit. You walk with Blaise to the garden, and sit down on the growing grass. "I love this place," Blaise says. "I thought you would," a voice says. You draw your sword, and turn towards the voice. A figure emerges from the shadows. "What the fuck?" you ask. Mister Chinkrinkski steps from the shadows, grining. "What the fuck?" you repeat. "What... what's going on?" Blaise asks. "I've come to offer my services," Mister Chinkrinkski grins. "How did you get in here?" Blaise asks. "What a stupid question. I simply came here. Did you think walls would stop me, my dear?" He smiles, his smile widening past anything humanly possible. "What are you?" you ask. "That's a better question, but I'm afraid I can't answer that. You see, you only understand a language designed to communicate where the corner of the camp to best shit in is or where's the low hanging fruit, or to ask the nearest woman to bend over for a good fucking. Such a simple language couldn't possibly describe what I am. You couldn't even comprehend the simplest words that I could use to describe what I am. The beings you call Gods couldn't even do that." "What do you want?" Blaise asks. "I want to help you." "Why?" "Let me put this simply. Dagden, do you remember when you used to play with ants with that girl, Oragga, your old friend?" "How do you know that?" "You're not really getting this. Forget it. Remember when you used to play with the ants? You'd find two groups of ants fighting, and sometimes you'd kill both, sometimes you'd help one side, sometimes you'd just watch them fight. You didn't care for morality, just whatever amused you. I'm a bit like you, in that way. When I arrived here, I found it interesting. I've watched over the infinite universes with little interest, but this one was at least somewhat amusing. Humanoid creatures fought demons and some had pointy ears or green skin and raised the dead. I traveled with a show for a while, peering at the world while they peered at my freaks. Then I visited a few stores that sold items that I created to see what they do with it. I'm tired of it, now. I'm bored of watching what your world has to offer, and I'm going to move on. Time to explore the next world. I might create creatures of such size that civilizations will rise and fall on their skin pores and make them fight, I might create a world where man is haunted by beasts and monsters or where man roams the stars and makes an alliance like the one troubling you. What I do is quite irreverent to you. All you need to know is I'm going to move on." "Move on?" "Don't worry, it's not malicious... for you, at least. I've decided that you're the ants I'm going to help." "Help how?" "Simple: I eradicate everyone." "What?" "If you want, I'll get rid of everyone outside of Reaper Castle. The army, the Alliance, the towns... everyone." "What about our allies?" "Everyone outside Reaper Castle. I can't make this choice too easy," Mr Chinkrinkski grins. "How/" "You children can't comprehend the power I hold." He claps his hands. "I just took away Orcs' fur. Not only did I take it away, I made it so Orcs never even had fur." He claps again. "There, I just made it so Orcs have only two eyes and always have had two eyes. I can change the world by erasing things from history. I've rewritten the entire history of your people like it was nothing. You can't even remember a time when you had fur and three eyes, because I rewrote it. I did this with infinitely less energy than you took to blink in surprise when I arrived." "What happens if we refuse?" "I leave. I'm just as happy to let you ants die. Whether you story is a Tragedy or has a happy ending doesn't matter, both amuse me." You stand in front of the being that you called Mr Chinkrinkski, thinking. > You accept Mr Chinkrinkski's help Mr Chinkrinkski grins widely, clapping his hands. "Farewell, Blaise and Dagden. Enjoy your new world. I sure did." Mister Chinkrinkski smiles, and claps his hands, and you fall unconscious. You awaken, hours later, to confusion. You find everyone in Reaper Castle confused. You help Blaise up. "I just had a crazy dream," Blaise moans. "I think I had the same dream." You walk out to the hallways, and Sir Trent rushes on. "Lady Blaise, Dagden, we have... strange news." "What is it?" "Everyone's gone. The entire army is gone," he says. You walk with Blaise to the gates, which are unbarred and wide open. Outside are the Alliance's massive camps that now lie empty. "Everyone's gone," Sir Trent repeats. "I've sent scouts on, but it's not just the army. Everyone outside of the castle is just... gone." You stare at the empty camp, wondering what's next. > You Continue A Gift of a New World Over the next few years, you build a new Empire. All sentient life is gone other than Reaper Castle, but you quickly begin expanding. Your population is small, but you'll grow. The next generation is born soon after, with your two children. "Baby, your babies want to see their daddy!" Val says, walking in. In her hands are your two gorgeous sons, one aged three and one only a baby. The older one, Thorin Youngblood, stares at you, a wooden pacifier in it's mouth, while the baby, Bagig Youngblood, sits in Val's arms. They both bear the pale green skin and tiny fangs of Half-Orcs, features that you find beautiful on them, as well as the sharp angular features and pointy ears of an Elf. "Ah, Thorin! How are you?" you say, hugging your small child closely, before pecking Bagig on the cheek. You grab Val and pull her in, kissing her on the lips. Suddenly, Blaise walks in, followed by Lucas. "Dagden, stop making love in front of your kids and me. we have work to do. We want to begin expanding our Crops, and occupy Haversham with a few of our Refugees, and..." "I get it," you grin at Blaise. "Sorry Val, I have to work." "I know," Val grins. You walk out with Blaise to continue building the new world built for your children, given to you by Mr Chinkrinkski.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy, zombie] You ride atop your skeletal horse, which you've now named Bones, because Orcs are uncreative, and you're an especially uncreative Orc. You're in charge of the defense and possible evacuation of the Triumph Road. The road was built by Dante after the necessity for a road to connect his latest conquests became clear, and is one of the possible routes the Alliance could invade through any day now. Kai and Sir Trent are in charge of the defense of the Oak Route, while Mr Nilvos and Soren/Malign are in charge of the Peasant's Road. You lead a large group of two Flesh Monstrosities, Fair Flesh and Primus, two hundred undead, the Apprentice Necromancers Thorn and Val, Lucas and Deatheater the Revenants as leaders of this group. Your main job is defending the road, should the Alliance choose to invade this way, long enough to evacuate the towns in the path of the invading forces, both to deprive the Alliance of supplies and to minimize bloodshed. Then, you'll leave the zombies and skeletons behind and take Primus, Fair Flesh, Lucas, Death Eater, Val and Thorn back to Reaper Castle as the other commanders move their undead in the path of the Alliance to buy time for... something. Although the fight isn't lost, the death of everyone you love is a very strong possibility. "Hunger... I hunger..." Primus grunts. "Calm it down, buddy. We'll steal some goats or something for you," Lucas shouts. "We need to set up defenses along Henry's Bridge. Has Fair Flesh destroyed it yet?" "Yes," Fair Flesh growls. "Good. Any invasion force will need to cross the river through either raft or wading across,. They'll probably do it at Chestnut Point, a small meander in Henry's River, as it's the shortest, shallowest point nearby and it has relatively few potholes in the river bed. We'll build defenses atop the levee to drive them back should they attempt to pass," you say. You notice an undead creature, one of your Wight scouts, shambling towards you. "Sir... Alliance Soldiers are here," it rasps. "Where?" "Chestnut Point. I saw three boats of a dozen men, a scouting party, so it would seem." "Fuckin' Chestnut Point. Three dozen? And they're men?" "Yes, sir." "Alright, let's move. We massacre them all and raise them up. This can buff our defences." You turn to Lucas, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Begin the evacuation, warn the people to begin heading to Ironbrun, then on to Dillingwood and to Reaver Castle." "Sure thing," Lucas says, turning and sprinting off. You kick your horse's bony behind, and it breaks into a gallop towards Chestnut point. "Come on! Let's get killing while the killing's good!" you bark. You ride quickly to Chestnut point, Bones quickly bounding over the few fences that separate the fields. After a few minutes, you arrive at Chestnut Point. Three wooden boats have been pulled up onto the shore, with three more in the river. You leap off your horse, drawing your sword. "Who the fuck is that?" one of the soldiers cries. "I am genuinely so pleased you asked," you roar, beheading a soldier struggling to draw his sword in a single blow. "Alright, I am General Dagden Dragontooth, General under the Dead Empire, Bearsbane, Red Blade, Survivor..." A soldier rushes you, and you dodge his sword thrust. "Death to the Greenskin!" he cries. You grab his sword arm and twist it sharply, breaking it badly. He screams desperately, and you run your sword through his chest. "I wasn't finished, human! Survivor of the Fall of Reaper Castle, Envoy of the Grand Necromancer, Blood Mage and, as your friend put it, Greenskin." The soldiers begin to group together and slowly advance. > You wait patiently for your allies to arrive You wait, but the soldiers continue to approach, quicker now, circling you. > You Wait You wait patiently, but they surround you. One stabs at you with a spear, before a sword slashes the back of your leg. You yell, and another sword bounces off your armor. You dodge another sword that slices through the air, before you feel a spear go through your head. > Death Eternal Sleep Your life force is taken from you as you enter the endless sleep of death.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie] You stare at Necromancer Trant, who looks surprised. "I'm impressed, Dagden. Still, I'll just send some of my undead to finish this rather than a greedy Orc who just decided to be honorable despite his name, Balok the fucking Honorless." The Undead on either side of him begin advancing. > You fling your sword at the Infernal Wine You fling your sword at the Infernal Wine, impaling the barrel. "Fuck," Necromancer Trant says, before the barrels explode. You're sent hurtling through the air, slamming into the wall. You scream as you land on a piece of rebar, and it goes through your chest. > You pull yourself up and get revenge Burning Vengeance You scream, struggling to stand. You feel an incredible heat as Infernal fire runs through the building. The fire consumes all. You slowly stand, pulling yourself off the rebar, and looking for a way out. You spot the exit, and run towards it, flames lapping all around you. You leave the building, and feel the heat on your back. You collapse to the ground outside the building, crawling into the snow. Necromancer Trant runs out just after you, badly burned. You crawl over to him as he collapses on the snow. You draw your bone dagger, and stab it through his chest. "AH!" he screams. "For Bagig." He moans, before taking a deep breath. "We're both fucked." "What?" you ask. "I'm going to bleed to death, as are you. Even if we don't, we either burn to death in there, or freeze to death out here. We're both going to die tonight." You look at him, before staring at the fire. "I know." You sit there, between the fierce flames and the bitter cold, waiting for death.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy] You sit in the back of a cart, next to Stitches, Mort, Blaise and an unconscious Kai. Sir Trent sits in the driver's seat, his hands on the reigns. "So what's our plan, exactly?" you ask Blaise. "We head to Reaper Castle. I've told you, I want to remake my dad's empire. Better this time." > Disagree "Blaise, we can't." "Why the hell not?" "It's ridiculous! We're not embarking down the same path your dad did! Look where it got him!" "Well what else can we do?" she asks, frustrated. "We can find a farm somewhere, settle down. Live a normal life." "Fuck that! I don't want a normal life! Please, I want to make sure my dad's death is not in vain! I want to remake his empire! That's all I want! Why can't you understand that?" > You keep trying to convince her "Please, Blaise. If we fight, we get crushed, and everything your dad did is destroyed. If we live, if we have a good life, than his life was worth it." Blaise looks down at her feet, drawing her obsidian blade and staring at it, in deep thought. "Fine. Fine, we'll do it," she says. She stands in the cart, flinging the knife away. "There goes that part of my life. Time to find a farm." "There's Old Silverslim Farm. I know the man who owns it, an old man without a wife or child. I'm sure he'd be happy to sell cheap. I'll give you the funds your need to obtain it, and our journey will come to an end," Sir Trent says. "Fine," Blaise says. "Take us there." > Ten Years Later... A Farmer's Bounty The next ten years are long and hard. Silverslim Farm is, quite frankly, a shithole. Still, within a decade, you put a lot of work into it. Mending fences, repairing walls, building a new barn, repairing the farmhouse, planting crops and tending life stock. Eventually, you've made a profession out of the shitty little place. The Alliance struggles, with wars breaking out as Elves and Dwarves are pushed back as the Empire of Man expands, although you're quite proud to hear that the Orc land is still owned by Orcs, with the Red Blades coming out on top over all the other tribes, thanks to a fantastic chieftain. Still, the Alliance's destruction does little to you. The Elf-Man War that's went on for many years on and off continues on, regardless of you. Your farm continues to profit regardless. With regards to Blaise, she stays a close friend. For a time romance seems likely, although you decide to stay friends. You know she plans to find a man soon, and there's many men in the neighboring villages who would be willing to take that role. You suppose you'll find a girl soon enough as well. There's a few girls who have a crush on you, anyway. The future seems nice, bright and peaceful for you. "Dag! One of the cows needs to be brought in! It's been bitten by a rat and needs to be checked!" you hear Blaise shout. You walk outside, and head back to work.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy] Stitches run over and gives Dante a lick in the face as Blaise hugs her Dad. You walk over to the painting, a large painting of an elegant lady in a long black dress with a pale face and long blond hair. You yank it open, revealing a long tunnel beside it. Blaise stands, and quickly hurries down the tunnel, tears flowing down her face. You put a shoulder around her and pull her close, while continuing to head down the tunnel. You find it ends at an old, wooden door, which you kick open. It slams open as a cloud of dust goes up. You walk outside, to see the sun rising over the horizon. You're standing on the ledge of an empty moat, and you can see several soldiers have set up a perimeter around the castle to prevent escapes, although it's clearly been broken by escaping mercenaries and sentient undead. You see several gaps in the perimeter that you might be able to pass through. "Come on, Blaise. Let's go," you say to a tearful Blaise. You take a few steps back, before sprinting forward and jumping across the moat. Blaise does the same, with Stitches barely making the jump. You see the sun's rising quickly, and in the light you'll be spotted. > You try hide and wait it out "Come on. Let's hide in the bushes." You drop down beneath a light brush of undergrowth, and Blaise and Stitches follows as well. You watch the sunrise, and as the first ray of light hits your face, you hear a shout. "Katorze! I see something in the bushes." "Fuck," you whisper to yourself. > You continue hiding You hear a figure approach. "It's an Orc and a girl! I think it's the Necromancer's daughter we've been searching for." "Shit," you groan, before standing. "Lay down your arms or we'll have your head!" someone shouts. You realize you're surrounded by armored knights, various soldiers and several other heroes. > Surrender Chained Soul You drop your weapons, and they're confiscated from you. You're blindfolded, and dragged away into the back of what you assume to be a wagon. You sit there for what could be hours, before you're ripped up and dragged along several stone hallways. You're dragged down some stone stairs, and you feel chains attached to your arms and necks, before it tightens, leaving you clamped to a wall. Your blindfold is yanked off you, and you look up through the darkness to see the face of a man, who quickly turns and walks away. You look around, seeing you're in what appears to be a pitch black dungeon. You sit there, hoping to find a way out soon. You stomach begins to grumble, you feel thirsty and you begin to wonder what happens next. You sit alone in the darkness, bound by chains. > You end Game and Leave Comments The game's not over! You found the secret ending! You're welcome! You get the password! It's ISPINI.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie, fantasy] "Good! It's important to learn these things! I'm glad you can be so understanding at such a young age. My daughter, Blaise, is also quite understanding. I don't know if I've introduced you." You look over at the girl, who stares at you with wide curious eyes. "She's the splitting image of her mother. She..." "When can I go home?" you ask abruptly, causing the Grand Necromancer to frown. "Ah... about that... You realize you've already seen so much... You've seen the extent of my operations, you know my plans to expand my army, my use of other Necromancers, my use of mercenaries, my base of operations... I think it would be wise if you stay here, as our guest, for some time." You stare into the eyes of the Grand Necromancer. You can feel him peering into your soul. You refuse to break gaze. He sighs. "I'm sorry to have to keep you here. I can promise you'll be treated well." You can continue staring at the Grand Necromancer, which seems to unnerve him. You feel some joy at doing so, but stop yourself from smiling. "Blaise, why don't you show our new guest your room? I'm sure you have loads of toys to show him. I have business to discuss." Blaise nods, and stands up from the table. You stand, and she walks over and grabs your hand. "Come on. I'll show you my room," she says. She begins dragging you to a small door at the back of the room, and opens it. You find yourself in a large bedroom, bigger than Papa's. There's a large double canopy bed, a wardrobe, a bookshelf, two chest of drawers and several toys lying around the room. "Usually, Dad doesn't bring many guests here, and never ever anyone my age. My name's Blaise. What's yours?" "Dagden. My friends call me Dag." "Pleased to meet you, Dag. I'm Blaise. I have loads of toys, but I also have other stuff. I have a pet..." You stare into her eyes, and feel hatred. She's the most important thing to the Grand Necromancer, the man who took your brother. You're far enough from the main room. You could very, very easily get your revenge and hurt the Necromancer just like he hurt you. > Attack Blaise's Blaze You charge, slamming your fists into the side of Blaise's head. You grab her head and slam into against the floor, and she lets out a piercing scream. You use all the strength you had to drive your thumbs through her eyes and squeeze. You continue screaming as you here the Grand Necromancer yell. The girl's head is now a crushed pulp, and she's clearly dead. The door is slammed open, and the Grand Necromancer charges in, before screaming. "BLAISE! You bastard! You goddamn monster!" he screams. The Grand Necromancer raises his hand, and a fireball strikes you in the chest and you scream. He fires multiple firebolts, and the heat begins to burn your flesh to a crisp. You scream as you watch your flesh cooking, before turning to ash. You whimper in pain as the Grand Necromancer stands above you, staring at you with pure hatred and rage. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to keep you alive. I'm going to make you suffer for what you did. I swear to you, you'll wish you were dead, you little fucking cunt!" You can tell through your immense pain that you've hurt the Necromancer more than you ever could. From the fury in his eyes though, you know that he'll try to make sure you suffer just as much, though seeing how much of his soul you've damaged, you doubt he ever could. For now though, you lie on the floor, badly burned. The rest off your life will be an extended torture session followed by a slow death.

You turn around, and head back to the courtyard. > You get in the cart You climb into the cart, hiding under a badly burned corpse. It's not as hard the second time. You take a deep breath, and stay perfectly still. After a few minutes, the cart begins moving forward. After a few hours, you somehow fall asleep. You're woken by a cold hand grasping your ankle. You're dragged from the cart and tossed on top of several corpses. You look around, and see it's incredibly dark. You make out that you're in the middle of a massive mass grave. You scream, and struggle to climb out, only to be grabbed again by the undead zombie. > Attack You draw your dagger, and stab it through the side of the head. It lets go of you as whatever imitation of life it has left leaves it. You shove its body in the mass grave. You quickly scamper away and start running. > FREEDOM! A Singing Bird You walk away from the cart, from the castle, from the death. You walk on. You had a chance to escape, and you took it. You grin as you continue walking. The sun rises, and you feel it's quite poetic. Probably. You've never read poems because you're an Orc and not a pansy, but it seems like something an Elf would like. You can't wait until your family hears what you've done. They're probably mourning your death already. You'll join their mourning for Bagig when you arrive. Still, you're alive. You hear birds chirping in the distance, and you know you've done it.

[Themes: grimdark fantasy, zombie] You head into the Orc Barracks, staying low. Several Orcs lay about the room in beds, drunk. Bottles of ale, wine and mead cover the floor. You look around for a way out. You spot your bone dagger on the table, and grab it eagerly. You look around. The only way out you can think of is the bathrooms, which probably opens up to the outside through the toilet. > You head through the toilet The Worst Way to Go You get to the toilet, and look inside. The toilet walls are stained with urine and feces. You take a deep breath, and slide inside. You drop down into the toilet pit, falling into a thick feces and urine filled pool. You block your nose and struggle not to puke. You dive slightly down, looking for the way the waste goes. You find a grating covering a small drain that's still big enough for you to get through. You grab the grating and pull. It doesn't break. You continue trying to pull, but run out of breath. You quickly go to surface, but some of the toxic slop you're swimming in gets through your lips. You open your mouth to puke, and you quickly drown in the toxic sludge. You don't enter the endless sleep of death. You die in the most horrifying way you've ever imagined.

I approach the cell block. All the cells are empty except for one, Skage's cell. He is sitting in the chair he has in there, not doing anything at all. We have given him books for entertainment, but it seems he is not reading them. He looks up and sees me approach. "Eve? To what do I owe this pleasure?" "I imagine someone who spends the entire day doing nothing enjoys the occasional conversation." "Nothing? An interesting word, isn't it? Inconsistant, like so many other words. You say I am doing nothing? That may be true, but at the same time, I am sitting, I am thinking, I am breathing, I am looking around, I am struggling to remove the small ounce of meat lodged between two of my teeth with my tongue, I making occasional movements while seated, changing my position to something more comfortable, scratching the surface of my skin. The list is endless." "Is endless not also one of those inconsistant words?" "No. Endless means something with no end. If something is in any way limited, it is not endless. The word is however often used as exaguration, like I did. I must admit, it gives a sentence more charm than saying 'the list is large'." "These are the kinds of things you're thinking about in here?" "No. Well, thoughts are more fluent than your DNA. They keep going from one thought to another. As such, these thoughts have occasionally arisen from time to time, but inconsistency in words has not been the prime focus." "Then what has been your prime focus?" He looks into my eyes for the first time of the conversation before saying "Kimberley." "Your wife?" "Yes. She is the main focus of my thoughts." "That's understandable. What do you think about, what you did to her." "You mean what the Mutant did to her?" "If that makes you feel better. Yes." "No. I try not to remember it. In fact, I don't even recall the actual act." "Your mind suppressed it then?" "Hopefully. I am glad I am unable to remember the time when I...when the Mutant killed her." "But are you not the Mutant? Which do you claim you are, Jonathan Skage or the Mutant." "Both." "At the same time?" "In a way." "And were you both of them at the same time when she died?" "In a way." "In what way?" "Mutant is not a personality that pushes through from time to time and causes mayhem, Mutant is...in my head." "You...you are aware of the fact that he's in your head?" "Yes. Mutant is an idea, and that idea is a personality." "The idea is a personality?" "I sound utterly crazy to you, don't I?" "Do you think you're crazy?" "I've started to ask myself that question recently. Sometimes, I convince myself that I'm not due to the fact that I asked the question myself." "Let's continue talking about the Mutant, this idea that formed a personality." "The idea didn't form the personality, the personality formed the idea." "Is...so the Mutant was an actual personality before he was an idea?" "In a way. The shock of seeing myself transformed, it temporarily changed my way of thinking. That was the Mutant, and it was in this shock that Kimberley died. That's why he is to blame. Since then, I have grown more used to my form. That's when Jonathan Skage started to form, but not until after the Mutant personality formed the idea of the Mutant, and it is there the Mutant's personality still exists." "That sounds utterly bizarre." "Perhaps. As I said, I am still wondering whether I am crazy or not." "And if you come to the conclusion that you're crazy? What then?" "I don't know. Then I'll be crazy. What do I know what a psychopath will do." "Craziness can be fixed you know." "But fixing it is in the hands of others, not in the hands of the psychopath. So what I would do remains unknown to me." "And if you're not crazy?" "I will remain here. Will I not?" "What if you were not crazy and I released you." "I would try to fulfill my promise." "In the last six months, you have admitted to regret all the people you killed in your pursuit of this promise. Despite that, you would still walk the exact same path? Why?" "For my wife." "She wouldn't want you to do this." "So you say every time you talk to me." "Am I wrong?" "Are you?" "You knew her better than I did. You tell me." "Yes. I did know her better. And yet, you have assumed you know what she would think about my promise." "Well, you tell me then. What would she think of your promise?" Skage hesitates for a short while and then looks down into the floor. "She would despise it. She would despise what I have become. She would despise the Mutant." "The Mutant didn't kill all those people in Leaftown. You did! Jonathan Skage did." "I did it to kill the Mutant." "The Mutant was never alive!" Skage looks back at me and says "you are agitated. Perhaps we should continue this conversation later." HEALTH: 100% > You Leave. I leave the Isolation and head for the labs. Since they are researching Meckard's legacy, I feel obligated to go there from time to time to make sure we don't have another Stephan Lite on the way. The current manager of the lab is named Frederick Carlyle. As soon as I enter the lab, I see him, approaching me to greet me. "Shade. Welcome" he says with a smile on his face. He knows I have good reason for being suspicious of him, as so far, a lot of people in his poisition have brought catastrophe upon the city, so he always tries to be as friendly towards me as possible. "Frederick." "How is Andrew?" "He's fine. I thought he came to see you today?" "Oh, I'm sure he did." "You...you forgot he paid you a visit?" I ask, and then I see another Frederick Carlyle approach. He looks at his other self, looks at me again and says "ah, clearly, there are things I have yet to tell you about." "Cloning?" "Yes. Only a few months ago, we perfected the cloning of the human body. I have several clones of myself here, so I can oversee every division of the lab with equal care." "And they all behave just like you?" "Yes. We all have the same memories and the same minds, so our personalities are exactly the same." "This doesn't have anything to do with your son's trandition to Grove...did it?" One of the Fredericks looks around and then notions me to follow him. Clearly, whatever he is about to say is not something he wants everyone to know. After entering an empty room with me, he says "what happened to Andrew was a little more complicated than that. But yes, cloning was a part of it." "How?" "My son...Andrew...he died." "Died?" "Yes. Cloning wasn't perfected at that point, but we were close, and I knew we needed to test it on a human sooner or later, so I decided to clone him, before his brain deteriorated so he would retain his memories. What happened next I'm not sure. It should have worked correctly, but I suspect we didn't isolate the vat sufficiently. Something plant like was added into the mix. Whether a random splinter fell in or something along those lines or not, I do not know, but when his cells formed, they formed as hybrids of plant- and animal cells." "I see." "But, on the bright side, the fact that I did this hurried the advancement of cloning by at least four months. We would just be catching up now." "If this happened just a few months ago, why is he like he is a teenager? Doesn't he have to start as a child from cloning?" "No. Not anymore. With the DNA, we can reconstruct the person in the same condition he was when the DNA was taken. Well, obviously wounds and such the person might have do not affect the DNA." "But your son was dead when you cloned him. You don't need the subject to be alive?" "Oh no. Not at all. We only need DNA. People are paying us quite handsomely for cloning their dead relatives. We've even had a offers for cloning people that have been dead for over ten years." "Dead for so long? Surely, nothing would be left but bones." "Bones are all we need. Of course, the memories will be gone, but to meet this demand, we have designed a set of memories to install into people's minds if they don't have any memories to start with. Mainly all the basic knowledge a person needs. Walking, talking, some level of education." "So...if...if I brought you a skeleton of someone who died nearly three years ago...you could bring him back?" "You want us to clone someone for you? Why, yes. We could." If what he says is true, then I could bring Adam back. I wonder if this could be a bad idea, but if there's a chance to get Adam back, I have to take it. HEALTH: 100%

[Themes: sci-fi, war, serious, post-apocalyptic] Click. "...well I still say a compromise can be achieved if we all just sat down and talked things out. I mean at the core, we aren't really so different. I mean we're human beings, for God's sake; we shouldn't be killing each other like animals! I mean..." Click. "...are you worried about these uncertain times? Do you stay up at night thinking about the current fucked up situation the world is in? Wondering if some mad man is going to finally press the button, putting an end to it all? Do you think how you'll spend your final moment with your loved ones huddled around you and crying before you're all reduced to mere shadows? Scared that you can't do anything about it? You are? Well never fear! Ground Zero Survival is here! You'll find that the..." Click. "...situation has worsened; more troops were deployed today, but..." Click. "...how about our President huh? If he was anymore reactionary, I'd think we were living in the country we're currently at war with! Am I right? What country are we at war with anyway? Anyone remember? Did we just spin the wheel again or what? You guys are a great audience! Hey did you hear..." Click. "...about peace? Oh gimme a fuckin' break! You think that pussy ass we are the world shit's gonna fly? You can't teach those fuckin' people nothing! You want my solution to the goddamn problem? BLOW IT ALL THE FUCK UP! We can clean up later and..." Click. "...pray in these dark times! We must place our faith in Jesus! For when Judgment Day comes he will save all of us that are the faithful, and God will punish the wicked! Oh it will be such a glorious time when..." Click. "...you act now you'll get ten percent off! We here at GZS also believe in quality and you'll find our shelters are designed with your family's safety in mind! We have worked hard to make sure our shelters will sustain you and your family years after the entire surface has been turned to ashes! After all don't..." Click. "...you think genocide is the answer? I can't believe you just advocated that on national TV! I suppose you think Hitler was right too huh? Its people like you that..." Click. "...are the best audience in the world! I tell ya, it's been great. You can catch my next show at..." Click. "...the radioactive fuckin' wasteland that the whole goddamn Earth is going to become! You think any of this shit matters? All the fuckin' talk in the world ain't changing shit now! We're on the fast train to nukesville and I for one ain't gonna worry about it! Y'know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna quit this stupid ass job, and spend the rest of my savings on fuckin' hookers! Yeah that's right, I fuckin' said it and I don't care because when you think about it..." Click. "...isn't your family's survival worth it?" This advertisement has been paid for by Ground Zero Survival Inc. [Author's Note: If you see a bright light, duck and cover! Additional notes: I should point out that this story can be very long assuming you're not dying. Years pass and your surroundings will most likely change. You may very well live a life time in the story if you're lucky. You will also experience a completely different adventure depending on how you escaped the initial nuclear strike. (Assuming you do survive it.) As with any of my writings, the "story" comes before the "game". However, this story was written in a "game like" format. So while there isn't a complex inventory and all of that, you can technically "win" by getting one of the 4 special endings. (You'll know if you get one because you'll get an epilogue)] > Zzzzzzzzzzzzz Monday 8:00 AM You groggily wake up from the sofa like you always do, dreading to have to go to work at your pointless job. You haven't been sleeping well lately, you don't know what the hell the problem is, and all you know is you're going to be tired for work again. As you go through your routine of getting ready, the TV can be heard; as usual you left it on from the night before. "...And peace talks broke down today, as several ambassadors engaged in a physical fight at the UN...Neo-Communist party gaining favor in Russia... more terrorist bombings in European Union cities...US troops won another victory in the Middle East...mysterious epidemic in China, several million dead...skirmishes on the Indian-Pakistan border...world wide tensions at an all time high..." Same old doom and gloom on TV; you wonder why you even bother watching the news anymore. Still it does seem like things are getting worse, late at night when you're suffering from your usual insomnia, you've been catching infomercials attempting to sell bomb shelters, like something out of a 1950s propaganda film. It seems silly, but you do wonder if it's only a matter of time before someone presses the button. Then again you live out in the boonies, you've always thought that if the world ever did blow up; you'd doubt you'd even notice until you drove to work the next day and saw the ruins of the city. Speaking of which you better get going or you'll be late. > You head to work You turn off the TV and head to work, no point in worrying about things you can't do shit about. You have other real everyday problems to deal with. You go about your mundane life, doing mundane tasks at your mundane job, talking to your mundane co-workers about mundane things. Not much changes. One month later... Monday 8:00 AM You groggily wake up from the sofa like you always do, dreading to have to go to work at your pointless job. You haven't been sleeping well lately, you don't know what the hell the problem is, and all you know is you're going to be tired for work again. As you go through your routine of getting ready, the TV can be heard; as usual you left it on from the night before. "...Russian hardliners seized control of the government...Chinese epidemic has worsened; entire country is under quarantine...UK has withdrawn all association from the EU...Senate dissolved in US, martial law enacted...India declared open war on Pakistan...mass starvation in Africa... world wide depression... Same old doom and gloom on TV, a lot more serious now though. Those "silly" bomb shelter infomercials have increased; you've also been noticing an increase in survival type book titles whenever you browse the book stores now and the Emergency broadcasting system has been doing A LOT of tests lately. Something bad is going to happen and it's going to happen soon. You go about your life which isn't quite so mundane, world politics is a constant topic at work, and many of your co-workers aren't even coming in to do their job. All the married ones are no doubt spending time with their families, in fact the work place really isn't a work place anymore so much as it is a "socializing site". A lot of them believe the world is coming to an end anyway, so they might as well have a good time. Attempting to go about your normal life isn't an option anymore; neither is buying a bomb shelter at this late stage. > You indulge in the festivities You've never really been a party person, but if this is it, maybe you can have some fun before the end comes. There's plenty of food and liquids of all kinds at your place of work. The entire office is turned into party central. Nobody bothers going home; it's actually safer to stay inside the office building anyway since the National Guard is attempting to restore what little order there is in the city. Everyone makes sure to stay away from windows. Even though you attempt to enjoy yourself, you still have a nagging bit of "concern" for what lies ahead in the future and just can't quite loosen up completely; you're about the only one who still bothers to keep up on current events by watching TV and looking at the internet in between non-stop merrymaking. Eventually one of your co-workers Greg walks in on you watching the news by yourself. He's not exactly what you'd consider a friend, but he's an acquaintance you normally talked to when you actually did work. "Jesus Christ man! There's a non-stop party going on and you're in here wasting time watching TV?" Greg says holding a bottle of beer. "I just want to see if the situation has improved..." "Are you kidding me? It ain't improving man! The world's going to hell in a hand basket, and the sooner you accept that fact the better! Why don't you go talk to Marina in accounting, didn't you always have a crush on her or something?" "Well yeah, but..." "But? But nothing man! There ain't no time left anymore! Hell I haven't seen you participate in ONE orgy since you've been here!" "I dunno, seems unsanitary, I don't want to catch something, and I don't want everyone to see me naked." Greg puts one of his hands on his face and shakes his head in disbelief of your answer. He then throws his beer bottle into the TV screen breaking them both. "WAKE THE FUCK UP! This is fuckin' it man! There ain't nothing coming after this! We're all gonna die in a fiery nuclear explosion! You think it's really gonna matter if in the off chance that you do catch AIDS or some shit, you'll be alive long enough to die from it? And nobody gives a shit about how small your dick is..." "HEY! My dick isn't small! Its average length for someone of my height!" you protest. "Whatever man! Look what I'm trying to say is, everyone is just here to have a good time and grab some pleasure before the nukes start flying, and nobody's even caring about looks right now. Shit, that fat troll Phil must be getting more action now than he ever has in his entire life! You thought Phil was disgusting looking with his clothes on, he ain't any prettier with his clothes off, and yet he has banged Kate no less than ten times since we started this Armageddon party and you know how fucking fine she is!" "Really? Phil?" "I'm telling you man, you NEED to go talk to Marina and get you some of that before the bombs start dropping!" Greg sees that you're still a little apprehensive about the idea. "Fine then, or don't. It doesn't matter to me man. I'm going back to the party, I'm not gonna stand here wasting my time talking to you when I could be fucking Kate. I just hope I can get to her before Phil this time." Greg leaves you to ponder the situation. > You party like its 1999 (Even though it really is not 1999) Greg's right. This IS it! This is no time to be playing it safe! The world is going to end any day and damn it you're going to fucking LIVE life for the first time! You immediately get up and make your way to the main office area; it looks like you're just in time for another orgy. Greg is getting ready to stick it to Kate just like he said...that is until you smash the back of his head in with a stapler until he's bloody and unconscious...or dead. You're not sure and you don't really care anymore. "You were right...man." You say breathing hard. Your actions cause people to stop in shock, then you grab Kate who's completely naked and worried about what you're going to do next. "Come here you little fucking whore, you like being a fucking fuck slut? I'll treat you like one then!" you utter viciously. You proceed to bend Kate over the copy machine, pull her hair and fuck the hell out of her calling her every derogatory name in the book. The weird thing is she starts to like it. She even starts taunting you back saying you can't fuck worth a shit. This of course only makes you slap her around a bit more. You both are really getting into it. After watching this spontaneous act of S&M/Rape everyone goes back to doing what they were doing. From then on in, Kate hangs around you a lot more (Much to Phil's dismay) and you forget all about Marina, in fact you don't even see her in the whole time during this Armageddon party. You indulge in carnal delights like you never had before. Until one day... Monday 8:00 AM You groggily wake up from the floor; Kate's lying beside you asleep. There are sleeping naked bodies everywhere. Yesterday's orgy was a dozy, someone broke open a couple bags of coke they'd been saving and everyone had a snort. Can't say you liked it though, your head fucking hurts, you keep hearing a fucking ring... "...BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE...." Then you realize it's not in your head, it's an actual ring from another TV that was left on. There's a test pattern on it. This is it. You put your clothes back on and give Kate a quick kiss, which causes her to smile a little in her sleep. You wonder if you would've actually had a shot with her if things had been normal, oh well you guess you'll never know. You quietly make your way through the room and head up to the top floor and onto the roof of the building. The city is deadly quiet. You don't hear a sound except the wind gently blowing. In all the revelry you've been indulging in, you forgot how much you liked the solitude and silence. The loneliness is peaceful. You look up in the sky, shielding your eyes from the sun shining down. You see a bright light and then nothing at all.

[Themes: sci-fi, serious, post-apocalyptic] You've never really been a party person, but if this is it, maybe you can have some fun before the end comes. There's plenty of food and liquids of all kinds at your place of work. The entire office is turned into party central. Nobody bothers going home; it's actually safer to stay inside the office building anyway since the National Guard is attempting to restore what little order there is in the city. Everyone makes sure to stay away from windows. Even though you attempt to enjoy yourself, you still have a nagging bit of "concern" for what lies ahead in the future and just can't quite loosen up completely; you're about the only one who still bothers to keep up on current events by watching TV and looking at the internet in between non-stop merrymaking. Eventually one of your co-workers Greg walks in on you watching the news by yourself. He's not exactly what you'd consider a friend, but he's an acquaintance you normally talked to when you actually did work. "Jesus Christ man! There's a non-stop party going on and you're in here wasting time watching TV?" Greg says holding a bottle of beer. "I just want to see if the situation has improved..." "Are you kidding me? It ain't improving man! The world's going to hell in a hand basket, and the sooner you accept that fact the better! Why don't you go talk to Marina in accounting, didn't you always have a crush on her or something?" "Well yeah, but..." "But? But nothing man! There ain't no time left anymore! Hell I haven't seen you participate in ONE orgy since you've been here!" "I dunno, seems unsanitary, I don't want to catch something, and I don't want everyone to see me naked." Greg puts one of his hands on his face and shakes his head in disbelief of your answer. He then throws his beer bottle into the TV screen breaking them both. "WAKE THE FUCK UP! This is fuckin' it man! There ain't nothing coming after this! We're all gonna die in a fiery nuclear explosion! You think it's really gonna matter if in the off chance that you do catch AIDS or some shit, you'll be alive long enough to die from it? And nobody gives a shit about how small your dick is..." "HEY! My dick isn't small! Its average length for someone of my height!" you protest. "Whatever man! Look what I'm trying to say is, everyone is just here to have a good time and grab some pleasure before the nukes start flying, and nobody's even caring about looks right now. Shit, that fat troll Phil must be getting more action now than he ever has in his entire life! You thought Phil was disgusting looking with his clothes on, he ain't any prettier with his clothes off, and yet he has banged Kate no less than ten times since we started this Armageddon party and you know how fucking fine she is!" "Really? Phil?" "I'm telling you man, you NEED to go talk to Marina and get you some of that before the bombs start dropping!" Greg sees that you're still a little apprehensive about the idea. "Fine then, or don't. It doesn't matter to me man. I'm going back to the party, I'm not gonna stand here wasting my time talking to you when I could be fucking Kate. I just hope I can get to her before Phil this time." Greg leaves you to ponder the situation. > You get another TV and watch the world die You grab another TV and sit quietly by yourself in a separate office, watching world events unfold and get worse before your eyes as your co-workers reenact something out of a porno movie. You block out the sounds of ecstasy and turn up the TV. You're starting to wonder if you shouldn't have just stayed home, or better yet bought that damn bomb shelter... Just then someone else comes in to disturb your solitude. It's Marina. "Oh. I didn't know anyone was in here. I thought everyone was at the orgy." She says. "So did I...um how come you aren't?" you ask nervously. "Eh not really my thing, how come you aren't?" "Same here." "I see...so what are you doing to pass the time?" "Keeping up on events to see if things will change for the better." "Ah an optimist eh?" "Not really, I think I just get a kick out of living in a fantasy world and delusions to make myself feel better...that and I have a morbid fascination of the utter chaos that's occurring throughout the world right now." "Hmm, interesting approach to life...I've always noticed you seem to keep to yourself. You like solitude don't you?" "It's easier." "Yet, you stayed here for the end." "Yeah, and I'm really wishing I hadn't now, I can't mix with anyone here. Never could. Not even on the primal level that everyone seems to be favoring right now. I don't know why I thought things would change in the end...ah fuck it the world's gonna end and it's probably a good thing if our co-workers are an example of humanity. Still...I kind of wish I bought that bomb shelter..." "So you don't want to die?" "Of course not! I just don't really see how to avoid it at this point." "Well, for starters you could come with me; I'm getting ready to leave the city. It seems like things have died down for the most part out there, hopefully nobody's vandalized or stolen either of our vehicles." Marina suggests. "What? Leave? And go where? It's not like there's any place really safe to go at this late stage." "Sure there is. Look, I'll level with you, since you seem to be the only one here that's different. I stayed around here to see if there was anyone who was worthy enough to be saved, and apart from you, it pretty much looks like I wasted my time." "Save? What do you mean?" "Well despite the fact that you kept to yourself and never took any interest in any of the private lives of your co-workers doesn't we don't have them." Marina laughs. "But like you I never really mixed with any of our co-workers either, however unlike you I do have a very active social life filled with people who are close like a family, people who live clean and have a strong sense of freedom...and who have been preparing for this day ever since the Commies started the first Cold War. You don't have to die and you don't have to be alone anymore. Come with me, you'll be accepted as long as you're willing to work hard and from what I know, you aren't averse to doing that." You're not entirely sure of what Marina has in store for you, but it sounds better than staying here waiting to die. You agree to leave with her. You both make your way past the mass of naked bodies and head immediately to the parking structure. Unfortunately Marina's car is gone, it's been predictably stolen in the looting frenzy during the city exodus; however your old van is perfectly fine. It hasn't even been vandalized, of course the thing looks like it's already been vandalized which is probably why nobody bothered to steal it. You both get in the van and you drive while Marina tells you where you're going. While you're driving through the city, you keep expecting to be attacked by lawless hold outs still lingering in the city or open fired on by Nation Guardsman, but you suspect either they were ordered to pull out to reinforce a more important city or most of them abandoned their "job" long ago when they realized the futility of it. You make your way out of the city with no problems. Of course now you're just wondering if you're just going to get nuked at any second. You listen to the radio to keep up on events, which is more of the same that you were watching on TV. Eventually Marina turns it off and tells you not to worry about the old world anymore, a new one is going to be built. Your drive takes you far from the city, where ever Marina's leading you it's even further than where you live and you lived pretty way out. You drive through the night and into next morning; while Marina's asleep you turn the radio back on and keep it on low... Monday 8:00 AM "...BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE..." The radio suddenly stops broadcasting anything except a loud warning sound; it wakes up Marina before you can turn it off. Seeing her current surroundings, Marina hastily tells you to turn at a dirty road that's coming up, which then leads into a wooden gate. Looks like a compound of some sort, where a man is standing guard with an assault rifle. Marina gets out and talks to him a moment, to which he nods his head and opens the gate. As soon as you drive in another woman comes running out of one of the many log cabin like structures in the compound. She immediately starts talking to Marina through the passenger window. "Marina! Thank God you're here! We thought you were dead! Come on we gotta get down into the underground, its beginning!" Wasting no time Marina and you follow the woman into the cabin and down into a trap door in the floor. You find yourself in a wide tunnel with dim electrical lighting to what looks like a pretty elaborate underground complex. Marina and the woman are running ahead of you, but you can't help but stare in wonder of all this. "Holy shit, they really were working on this since the Cold War..." you say to yourself as you slow down to examine everything. Then it happens. You hear a loud noise above and you fall to the ground due to the tremors. Then all the lighting goes out. You attempt to get back up and try to feel the walls to get your bearings. You don't know where the hell you're going, but you can hear voices and shouting; some of it close and some of it far away. You have no idea where the hell you're at, let alone the layout of this place. Instead of getting yourself lost, you decide to just stay put until the lighting comes back on; surely they probably have an emergency generator that will kick in soon. The lighting suddenly comes on and you're just in time to see Marina and a man dressed fatigues arrive on your position. "Are you alright?" Marina asks you. "Yeah, I'm okay." No sooner do you get out those words when the man in military fatigues begins giving you the hard stare. "I've heard about you before from Marina, but don't think that hiding behind her skirt is gonna give you a fuckin' free pass in this place! You better prepared to pull your goddamn weight everyday! I catch you slipping and you're outta here!" "What the hell? I didn't say anything!" "And you better not say any fuckin' thing either if you don't wanna get on my bad side! The Colonel doesn't like slack offs in his compound and neither do I! So if you intend on staying here, you better get REAL used to the idea of getting your head outta your fuckin' ass and living like a real fuckin' person instead of the goddamn disgusting parasitic shit maggot you are!" You're about to reply to GI Jerk, but Marina stops you and insists on taking you to your room, leaving Harry to his own devices. "Alright Marina, what the hell was all that about, and who's full metal asshole back there?" "That was Harry, and don't pay any attention to him, he's just really gung ho and is second in command around here. The Colonel is the one who runs this place. He's actually a more even tempered man than Harry is." Marina and you arrive at a small room by itself at the end of one of the corridors. "Well here's the room you'll be staying for now. Things might change mind you, but rest assured this is the safest place you could be right now. We've prepared for this day and will definitely survive the aftermath of what's to come, and now you will too." Marina leaves with a smile, but you don't really share her optimism, given the fact that Armageddon has just happened. That reality has only just now sunk in that the world is probably one big radioactive desert at this point. Then again, Marina might be right, this place is probably safer than most and its better than being dead. At least you hope it is. You lie down on the bed provided and fall asleep; surprisingly it's the best rest you've experienced before the bombs dropped. A few weeks pass and you get acquainted with the compound. You and most of the others are to remain underground while until some scouts in radiation suits determine if the radiation level is low enough. In the mean time you're forced to do extensive combat training like everyone else. Most of the people are okay with you, even though you're an outsider. Harry gives you a hard time though. Still, you're probably in the best shape of your life and you got to brush up on your aim. Sometimes you get to spend time with Marina, funny how you find it easier to talk to her now. One day you finally see the Colonel you've been hearing about, he gives a speech to all of you in the cafeteria. "Well, I've been informed that the surface part of our compound only suffered minor damage and that the radiation level is fairly low all things considering...anyway we all knew this day would come, and we would be prepared for it, but we can't just sit on our asses hoping things will be alright! NO! We must take a proactive approach if we have to survive! As we speak, there are probably low lives scavenging the shell of the old world, we must secure as many abandoned resources as we can to ensure our future and some of you will be sent out into the world to do just that for the good of the compound. We're going to tame this new world and rebuild a new society! You have undergone rigorous training before hand, to ensure you will be able to survive the dangers. Now I'll be accepting volunteers first." > Volunteer Maybe you're high on your new found physique and adrenaline, but for whatever reason, something comes over you to volunteer. Indeed you've made everyone a little surprised by your actions especially since you're an outsider. The Colonel looks at you with interest. "Hmm, you're the one I've heard about from Marina, didn't expect you to volunteer, she's always mentioned you're quiet loner type. Then again, you might be just what I need...alright you're coming with me. Harry, you start picking some of the others and form recon detachments. Everyone goes on assignment tomorrow." The Colonel then takes you to his office, where he sits down and gets a bunch of papers from his desk. "Okay, I'm sure during your short stay here, you probably think we're all a bunch of survivalist militia loonies, and to a certain extent, we probably are, however we aren't without a plan." The Colonel shows you some blueprints to what looks to be a small military base. "My friend Alex was stationed at this base. It's not exactly close by, but its closest military base around here." "Didn't realize there were any military bases in the area." "Most people don't, it was a top secret, and kept off the records so it wouldn't be targeted. There aren't even any roads leading to the place, you have travel by foot. Though I guess you could say it wasn't so much of a military base as it was a research facility. Obviously I know about it, because I had a friend stationed there who was feeding me information. He didn't exactly run the place, but he was attempting to work his way up to get special level clearance. Apparently GZS was working with the government on some high tech weaponry." "The Ground Zero Survival Corporation. I'm sure you've heard of them, they were the ones hawking their Shelters like snake oil salesmen before doomsday." "Oh yeah, I used to see their commercials on late at night, I thought about buying one of those." "Well good thing you didn't, only an idiot would've bought one of those things. Look at this." The Colonel now shows you a schematic of a GZS Shelter. "Why? It certainly looks just as equipped as this compound and has a lot more conveniences." You remark. "It would appear that way, but the fucking thing is a death trap. They engineered them so once you entered; you most likely couldn't get out of them. Supposedly the GZS computer is supposed to let you out when it deems that it's safe to do so. In fact the whole thing is controlled by the computer. A computer that could glitch and break down at anytime. Let a machine be in charge of your survival...yeah great idea. I dunno about you, but I'll take this compound any day. It might not look pretty, but I don't have to worry about getting trapped with no access to food or water. Not to mention I heard from Alex that they suffered cutback during the creation of most of those things meaning they cut a lot of damn corners, so they probably aren't as state of the art as they claimed. I'll bet those dumb bastards who are living in those things are regretting it as we speak." You're not sure where he's going with all this so you interrupt. "So, what does all this mean? Are we going to seek out these shelters and rescue the people inside?" "What?! HA HA! That's a good one!" The Colonel laughs. "Hell no son, as far as I'm concerned they've made their choice now they can live with it, we're not here to play white knight. We have to look out for ourselves, and part of that is making sure we're the best defended and from what I heard, whatever they were working on in that base, sounds like it would make things a lot easier in the defense department." "Whoa, hold on, if this is a military base won't they just shoot me on sight if I go there I mean won't it be heavily guarded? I mean I know I went through some training, but I doubt to the degree that I can take on an entire military base!" "Alex was making friends with most of the lower personnel there, getting them to follow him as it were. Last I heard, he was pretty successful, so chances are, as long as I gave you some identifiers to take with you proving that you were following my orders, you wouldn't have any problems when you arrived, but obviously there IS a problem or I wouldn't be sending you at all." "Of course..." you say expecting this assignment to be even more complicated. "I haven't heard anything from Alex for a month before the bombs dropped. I dunno what's happened to him." "Is it possible they discovered he was leaking information and killed him?" "I suppose, but chances are that afterwards they would've found out about us and also sent the National Guard as well as GZS private security here to lay waste to this compound." "Well the National Guard were busy trying to maintain order to the major cities at the time. I should know I was there when they were stationed in the one I was working at." "True, but I still think they would've sent someone here, and GZS still would have. As I said they had enough money to pay for their own security force. Maybe not as well trained as military personnel, but fanatical enough to eliminate anyone that GZS thought was discovering secrets about them. That's why Alex always focused on solely making friends with the grunts and government officials. The GZS employees always seemed a bit more dedicated to their corporation." "Okay, well is it possible that the base wasn't so secret and it got hit after all?" "Nope, mainly because I get the impression the background radiation level would be a hell of a lot higher, if that got nuked, so I'm pretty sure the place is intact, in fact I'm guessing its been abandoned. We recently figured out their frequency, we never used it before for obvious reasons, but now, why not? We're getting a signal, but no verbal answers from anyone. To sum up, I want you to go there to scout and explore as much as you can. Find out what the hell happened to Alex if possible, and let me know if that high tech weaponry is worth anything or just more bad engineering by GZS. Here. You'll probably need this security pass to enter, got it from Alex, last time he was here; I hope it's still valid. And here's my ring and a letter, if Alex IS still alive then those will prove that you're working for me. That's all I can do to help other than to give you a map to the place and what equipment you think you'll need." Before you leave you have to ask. "Okay why me?" "Why you? You volunteered son!" "I know, but for this particular job, surely you have others more qualified to tackle it." "Eh...you MIGHT think that, but to be quite honest, no. I mean don't get me wrong I see all of these people here as family, but a lot of them are a bunch of weekend warriors who were playing survival. I'm sure in the years to come we're going to see who's a REAL soldier and who isn't. Not that it matters, I mean I'll find something for them to do, but you're different. You certainly aren't some commando, but there's definitely something about you that makes you seem a bit more...detached from everything else. Like you'll be willing to do what's necessary to survive without hesitation. While you may never have been in a situation like this one, I got a feeling you'll do just fine. Besides Marina's previous beaming remarks about you are good enough for me. Now go get some rest, you'll be leaving tomorrow." You head back to your room and think about what the Colonel said. He might be right in a lot of ways, but you still wonder if he's sending you because as he said, "All these people here are like family, but you're different." Maybe if you get killed it won't feel like such a loss. You don't think anymore about it, mainly because Marina enters your room to interrupt your thoughts. "I hear you're leaving tomorrow, I just want to tell you how brave I think you are for doing this for all of us. I know we didn't get a lot of quality time with each other, but I wanted us to spend at least what could be the last time I see you together." Marina's ominous words that imply how much danger you're possibly getting yourself into might worry you more if she wasn't on top of you right now... The next day you load up with what you think you might need, water, food, rifle, pistol, knife, Geiger counter, all the basic essentials. You get a bunch of goodbyes and good lucks. Harry merely sneers and mentions he expects you to get yourself killed twenty feet after you leave. The Colonel is a little more supportive and gives you a silent salute, but you like Marina's goodbye kiss best of all. And with that, you're on your way. It's actually amazing to see that the outside world doesn't look drastically different, you can only assume the bombs didn't hit near your area. When you're out of sight of the compound, you go back to thinking about this mission you volunteered for and wondering if you should go through with it. You do have the suitable equipment and skills to survive off the land after all. Perhaps it would be better to just go AWOL as it were... > You continue with your mission You volunteered and you're going to see it through, might not be that dangerous as you think especially if the place is indeed abandoned. You spend a few days crossing over hills and some plains. For awhile you think someone's following you, but never see a soul, actually you're wondering about the Geiger counter readings more than anything, but you're guessing there wasn't any nuclear blast the direction you're going. You also guess that seeing trees up ahead is also a good sign. You would've dressed yourself in a radiation suit, but the Colonel kept insisting it wouldn't be necessary and for the mission that Harry was sending some of the others on would need them more. "Shit! I forgot to take a radio!" you say to yourself finally realizing that it would've been nice to radio in to the Compound if you had something important to report, like being unable to enter the base because snipers were shooting at you. Happily that doesn't seem to occur when you finally arrive. You almost aren't even sure if you're at the right place at first. The Compound is bigger, then again this place probably has an extensive underground, and as the Colonel said, it was more like a research facility than a proper military base. Still there's something a little weird about all this, it seems like security would be of major importance for a place like this, yet there's nobody here guarding the outside and you just walked through open gates. Maybe the place is abandoned, but they could all be underground though, (That would certainly be more sensible than wandering around exposing themselves to radioactive wind...) The surface offices and barracks don't look like anyone left in a hurry; in fact a lot of the barracks still have their equipment. (You take some extra ammo for your assault rifle) You search through some of papers you find in the offices, but there's nothing of any importance. Just mundane status reports of personnel guard duties. You find a few letters with GZS logos on them, but again nothing telling you much. Nothing else for it, but to go underground. You approach the solid metal structure at the far end of the base. Looks like an elevator door with an ATM machine near it. There's a slot and some button, so you're guessing this is where you shove your security pass that the Colonel gave you. Hope it works or you came all this way for nothing. You slide the pass in the slot. "Identification recognized. GZS wishes you a pleasant day in all your endeavors sir!" a chipper female voice sounds as the elevator door opens. Not exactly what you were expecting, GZS must've had more input here than the Colonel thought. You're a little nervous as you press the elevator button down, you expect the worst. The elevator eventually reaches its destination and opens up to a corridor. You cautiously exit. You don't get far when a cybernetic being comes from around a corner and points its arm at you, which is doubling as a weapon of some sort, one that would blow a big hole in you. "Lower your weapon and please come with me sir. Alex will want to see you. Any attempt to attack or escape will be met with extreme use of force." > You open fire and run You unload a clip into the cyborg, not knowing if your bullets are going to hurt it or not. You manage to do something since you knock it to the ground and you see it spark, before you head for the elevator. "Hostile detected! Enacting defense systems!" a robotic voice echoes. You begin to panic when the elevator refuses to open and more cybernetic beings come at you. You can't stop them, and you expect a quick death by their weapons, but unfortunately that doesn't occur. Instead they knock you out and take you to Alex. When you come to you're lying naked, tied to an operating table with a bunch of tubes in you. Alex is hovering over you with a scalpel. He's obviously deranged. "Well I see I didn't use enough anesthesia, I'll have to apply more...I also see by this letter and his ring the Colonel sent you. Probably all a ruse of friendship to kill me no doubt. I never did trust him. Well his loss will be my gain. I'm going to remake you. Better, stronger, faster. Just like the Million Dollar Man, except this won't cost any money, just my time. I've been studying about some new cybernetic implants I want to test. I think I know enough about the procedure for it to be successful. You'll thank me for this, trust me. L17 hand me the bone saw." You pass out again, which is just as well since Alex butchers your body trying to "remake" you. His crude skills fail in the attempt and you die on the surgical table, with Alex cursing about accidentally severing multiple arteries of yours.

[Themes: sci-fi, serious] You volunteered and you're going to see it through, might not be that dangerous as you think especially if the place is indeed abandoned. You spend a few days crossing over hills and some plains. For awhile you think someone's following you, but never see a soul, actually you're wondering about the Geiger counter readings more than anything, but you're guessing there wasn't any nuclear blast the direction you're going. You also guess that seeing trees up ahead is also a good sign. You would've dressed yourself in a radiation suit, but the Colonel kept insisting it wouldn't be necessary and for the mission that Harry was sending some of the others on would need them more. "Shit! I forgot to take a radio!" you say to yourself finally realizing that it would've been nice to radio in to the Compound if you had something important to report, like being unable to enter the base because snipers were shooting at you. Happily that doesn't seem to occur when you finally arrive. You almost aren't even sure if you're at the right place at first. The Compound is bigger, then again this place probably has an extensive underground, and as the Colonel said, it was more like a research facility than a proper military base. Still there's something a little weird about all this, it seems like security would be of major importance for a place like this, yet there's nobody here guarding the outside and you just walked through open gates. Maybe the place is abandoned, but they could all be underground though, (That would certainly be more sensible than wandering around exposing themselves to radioactive wind...) The surface offices and barracks don't look like anyone left in a hurry; in fact a lot of the barracks still have their equipment. (You take some extra ammo for your assault rifle) You search through some of papers you find in the offices, but there's nothing of any importance. Just mundane status reports of personnel guard duties. You find a few letters with GZS logos on them, but again nothing telling you much. Nothing else for it, but to go underground. You approach the solid metal structure at the far end of the base. Looks like an elevator door with an ATM machine near it. There's a slot and some button, so you're guessing this is where you shove your security pass that the Colonel gave you. Hope it works or you came all this way for nothing. You slide the pass in the slot. "Identification recognized. GZS wishes you a pleasant day in all your endeavors sir!" a chipper female voice sounds as the elevator door opens. Not exactly what you were expecting, GZS must've had more input here than the Colonel thought. You're a little nervous as you press the elevator button down, you expect the worst. The elevator eventually reaches its destination and opens up to a corridor. You cautiously exit. You don't get far when a cybernetic being comes from around a corner and points its arm at you, which is doubling as a weapon of some sort, one that would blow a big hole in you. "Lower your weapon and please come with me sir. Alex will want to see you. Any attempt to attack or escape will be met with extreme use of force." > You go with the cyborg You lower your rifle (But still hold on to it) and walk side by side with the cyborg who is surprisingly chatty, you also see it walks a bit irregularly, like it hasn't been spliced together correctly. "Alex will be most pleased to see you; you'll be the first human here in months!" "What happened to all the others?" "Oh well most of them have been improved like m-m-m-m." the cyborg hits itself in the head before he stops stuttering "Like me, sir." "Hmm, some improvement." "Oh well, its not so bad. Alex promises to give us a tune up when he gets the necessary time, he is only one man after all. Some assistants would certainly help." "So Alex is a surgeon?" "Well he's not really. I mean he didn't start out that way at least, but he's completely self taught and trying to learn more each day! Sure there have been some failures, but there's also been success! Why look at m-m-m-m." the cyborg hits itself in the head again while you just shake yours. You can see this is going to be an interesting meeting. "So who were you before Alex...uh improved you." "Oh I was a regular military man who guarded this base with no real identity. Just a name and a number really." "And now?" "Now I'm known as J-34 and I protect Alex!" "That's great... so everyone here is a cyborg like you?" "Just about. Most military personnel were friends with Alex before being renewed, so they were happy to be improved. The GZS personnel weren't so enthusiastic about the idea, in fact they were mad that Alex discovered their top secret project. They tried to stop him, but they were stopped instead. Alex saw that the project would be pointless in trying to perfect it to use in a war that was going to be over in six minutes. Better that it should be applied to those that would surely survive the aftermath of that same war. Here we are, I'm sure Alex will want to hear all about the outside world, hey maybe he'll improve you too!" You enter an office where a man sits at a desk pouring over technical manuals and medical books. Two more cyborgs armed with some sort science fictionish weapons stand by him. There's no way you could hope to kill him without them killing you as well. He looks up. "Ah a guest! Been a long time since we've seen anyone new...in fact I'm a little puzzled on how you even found this place, let alone entered it...you're not GZS are you?" Alex says changing his pleasant demeanor in mid sentence. "No! Not at all! I'm here because the Colonel sent me. He says you and he are friends. Here. Here's his ring and a letter he wrote to prove it. He'd also given me a security pass so I could enter this place." Alex takes the ring and letter and inspects them both, before addressing you again. "Well it looks like everything's legitimate. I shall trust you. Though I'm not sure I trust the Colonel. I never did trust him. He only wanted to use me so I could get access to high tech weaponry, but instead I found much more here! Much more than I ever told him! Ha ha! I hear him trying to radio in, wondering if there's anyone here, I've been ignoring him. He and his group of right wing loonies are unworthy of being re-made. If they think they're true survivialists then they don't need the gifts that this base provides. All of it is mine, I EARNED this place and it shall be I who ushers in a new era. Not GZS, not the government and not the fucking goddamn Colonel!" Alex is obviously unhinged, you don't know if he was always this way or got that way later, but it hardly matters, what's of major importance is that you walk away from this meeting unscathed. You try to calm him down. "Whoa hold on, I don't think the Colonel or any of his right wing loonies would want to be re-made." "Nonsense, anyone with any sense of survival would want to be re-made if they new about what was being worked on here." You can't help, but notice that Alex hasn't done any improvements on himself... "However, I can see you don't share that same short sighted thinking that the rest of those Compound cronies do. You are worthy of being re-made! In fact I would like to start now, I've been studying up on some new techniques and I would love to test them out. I think I could do a really good job this time, there will definitely be less acc...er complications than in the past." This is just getting worse. Now this nutjob wants to work on you. "Look, I don't want to be re-made! I was just here to see if you were alive and scout this place out! Now that I've done that, I'm to return to the Compound!" "Oh well now that's going to be a problem...I can't risk you telling him what's here." You really didn't want to hear that. "Look, I'll tell the Colonel that there wasn't anything here, I can reason with him. You can even take my security pass to make sure I can't get back in if you're really worried. However, if he doesn't hear from me, he's only going to send more folks to this place." "And what of it? They wouldn't be able to get in and even if they could, his weekend warriors would be no match for Cybernetic Evolution!" "No, but they could just blow up the elevator trapping you down here forever, and you'll never be able to leave to allow your genius to usher in the new era that you were talking about." That seems to relax Alex a bit, as always a little flattery goes a long way to ease an unbalanced mind. "Hmm, perhaps you make some sense, and you seem like a trustworthy sort...very well. I shall arrange for you to leave. Give me your security pass." "Okay, and I'll be needing the Colonel's ring and letter back, so I can say I didn't find anything here." You and Alex exchange items and he and his two cyborg guards escort you back to the elevator. "Goodbye, perhaps if we meet again you will be more receptive to being re-made. It's a harsh new world, and you'll soon wish you had an edge to survive it." Alex tells you before you leave. "I'll do alright." The elevator goes up and you're back on the surface again where you make your trek back to the compound in just a few days. You notice there have been a few changes in the few days you've left. Namely there's a still to make hooch. And you now have some working vehicles that been modified to run on hooch. The same still that people are making cheap booze from they're also using it as fuel, which basically translates into the vehicles running on "garbage" given that's what the booze is being made out of. Smells pretty bad, but whatever works. Though from what you heard some towns have been found to be running their vehicles on shit (animal AND human) so the smell could be worse. There's been a couple deaths from some of the other recon missions, but for the most part everything else is normal. Everyone's almost surprised to see you come back, Marina's happy, Harry obviously isn't. The Colonel though wants to see you immediately. Since you don't owe any allegiance to some nutcase playing Frankenstein in an underground base, you tell the Colonel everything. You expect him to get mad at you, but he doesn't. "(Sigh) Alex always was a bit unstable; I always wondered why the army never gave him a section 8. Anyway, what you're telling me doesn't surprise me, though I wish you could've gotten away without giving up that security pass. It's going to be harder to get down there now." "You still want to go down there?" "Of course! What you think I'm going to let Alex slowly refine and build up his cyborg army? Who do you think he's going to attack first? No, we need to get rid of him NOW. I suppose we could blow up the elevator doors to gain access. Not like we don't have the means to do that." "Yeah, but don't you run the risk of blowing up the entire elevator, and causing it fall and crash down the shaft? We wouldn't be able to send anyone down there in an efficient manner. Let alone fighting off cyborgs who would cut us down with ease if we were trying to repel down the shaft or huddled together coming off the elevator, besides Alex might have left the elevator on his level given the recent visit of mine." The Colonel lets forth another sigh knowing that you make a good point, but frustrated as well. "You're right, so what do you suggest we do then? Sit and do nothing with our thumbs up our asses?" > Suggest in hacking the security system, then invading the base. "Well I suppose you're right in that we need to stop Alex, but blowing up the elevator still isn't going to help, I suggest we hack the security system to gain control of it properly and then send down the invasion force and hope we can deal with the robots and cyborgs down there." You reply. "Sounds like a better plan, I didn't know you had so much computer experience though, let alone able to hack into a secret army base." "Huh? I don't. I mean, don't you have people like that here?" "Excuse me, but you seem to be new here, hello welcome to the Compound...NO OF COURSE I DON'T I HAVE ANYONE LIKE THAT HERE! Sheesh! It's not like we figured advanced computer hacking skills are going to be that useful when the world is blown back to the stone age! So you mean you don't have the ability to pull off this amazing plan of yours?" "Well, not really, not to that degree at least...I suppose there's just taking the panel apart and re-wiring it so it opens up for us though, you got any electricians or someone of that nature?" "Yeah a few, but I hope you do too, because you're going to assist the team since you're the idea man for all of this. After you clean out all the cyborgs and whatever the hell else Alex has built down there, remember to grab those weapons and come back. We'll go back to occupy the base later. Now go select your team and whatever else you think you might need." After asking for the names of the electronically "gifted" around the place, you go about following the Colonel's orders and saying goodbye to Marina again, she looks more confident that you'll return this time, you wish you could feel the same. When you and your team get to the base in a few days, you're in for a little surprise. A medium sized robot is patrolling the courtyard. Looks like your friend Alex also dabbles in robotics as well as cybernetics. You and your team hide behind the outer wall when you all catch sight of it. Apparently Alex didn't trust you any more than you trusted him, and looks like both of you were right. "Uh, what's that?" one of your team members asks. "It's a robot, what's it look like?" "Well what're we gonna do?" "Kill it! Everyone open fire!" You have no idea if your bullets are going to penetrate its armor, but you you're going to try anyway. Everyone fires upon the robotic being, which begins to shutter and spark, but returns fire and a bright burst of light strikes one of your team members and completely incinerates him. "Holy shit, get cover and keep firing!" you shout. The rest of the battle doesn't last too much longer, while your team continue to fire bursts at the machine while they dodge plasma blasts, you get enough time to toss a grenade at it and blow it to smithereens. Shards of burnt twisted metal lie all over the place. "Come on we need to open up that door, before something else comes out of the damn thing!" You and a few others start working on the card reader, trying to get it open as fast as possible. You don't even know how you're going to rewire the damn thing; you'll just keep doing something until something else happens! As it turns out you didn't need to do anything, while you and few others are fumbling around, the elevator doors open. At first you think you it was you who opened them, but in fact it was Alex who was controlling the elevator from the bottom. Two heavily armed cyborgs exit and begin firing immediately turning most of your team into charred skeletons. You manage to just barely get away and duck behind one of the buildings. Fortunately they don't seem to be very fast, so when they try to chase you, you toss a few grenades in their direction, blowing them up in the same manner you destroyed the robot, except a bit bloodier, given their human bits. You come out of your hiding place and see nothing left of your team, they've all been killed. The elevator door is still open; you could enter and finish the job, or return to the Compound in failure. > You Enter You take a deep breath and enter the elevator taking it down. As soon as it opens you step out and blaze away at the first metallic monster that pops from around the corner, hitting it critically in some vital component. In fact you're doing okay all things considering, but as they say, it usually isn't thing that you're expecting that gets you. Thinking you have a breather, you duck into one of the rooms to reload; unfortunately you feel a dart go into your back, before you enter it. You pull it out and see it's a tranquilizer dart. Already you feel drowsy, and begin to collapse. You ban barely make him out in your current state, but Alex soon enters with a victorious look on his face, holding his tranquilizer gun. "Well, it looks like I was right to not trust you, but you'll be able to repay me back soon enough. Trust me, you'll thank me for this remaking." Despite Alex's claims you're unable to do much talking at all after Alex remakes you, let alone thanking him. He basically designs you in such a way that only your basic brain functions remain. Just enough for you to obey simple commands such as "Attack the Compound". Obeying that command is the last thing you do, before you're eventually blown to bits during Alex's attack on the Compound.

[Themes: sci-fi, post-apocalyptic, serious, war] "Well I suppose you're right in that we need to stop Alex, but blowing up the elevator still isn't going to help, I suggest we hack the security system to gain control of it properly and then send down the invasion force and hope we can deal with the robots and cyborgs down there." You reply. "Sounds like a better plan, I didn't know you had so much computer experience though, let alone able to hack into a secret army base." "Huh? I don't. I mean, don't you have people like that here?" "Excuse me, but you seem to be new here, hello welcome to the Compound...NO OF COURSE I DON'T I HAVE ANYONE LIKE THAT HERE! Sheesh! It's not like we figured advanced computer hacking skills are going to be that useful when the world is blown back to the stone age! So you mean you don't have the ability to pull off this amazing plan of yours?" "Well, not really, not to that degree at least...I suppose there's just taking the panel apart and re-wiring it so it opens up for us though, you got any electricians or someone of that nature?" "Yeah a few, but I hope you do too, because you're going to assist the team since you're the idea man for all of this. After you clean out all the cyborgs and whatever the hell else Alex has built down there, remember to grab those weapons and come back. We'll go back to occupy the base later. Now go select your team and whatever else you think you might need." After asking for the names of the electronically "gifted" around the place, you go about following the Colonel's orders and saying goodbye to Marina again, she looks more confident that you'll return this time, you wish you could feel the same. When you and your team get to the base in a few days, you're in for a little surprise. A medium sized robot is patrolling the courtyard. Looks like your friend Alex also dabbles in robotics as well as cybernetics. You and your team hide behind the outer wall when you all catch sight of it. Apparently Alex didn't trust you any more than you trusted him, and looks like both of you were right. "Uh, what's that?" one of your team members asks. "It's a robot, what's it look like?" "Well what're we gonna do?" "Kill it! Everyone open fire!" You have no idea if your bullets are going to penetrate its armor, but you you're going to try anyway. Everyone fires upon the robotic being, which begins to shutter and spark, but returns fire and a bright burst of light strikes one of your team members and completely incinerates him. "Holy shit, get cover and keep firing!" you shout. The rest of the battle doesn't last too much longer, while your team continue to fire bursts at the machine while they dodge plasma blasts, you get enough time to toss a grenade at it and blow it to smithereens. Shards of burnt twisted metal lie all over the place. "Come on we need to open up that door, before something else comes out of the damn thing!" You and a few others start working on the card reader, trying to get it open as fast as possible. You don't even know how you're going to rewire the damn thing; you'll just keep doing something until something else happens! As it turns out you didn't need to do anything, while you and few others are fumbling around, the elevator doors open. At first you think you it was you who opened them, but in fact it was Alex who was controlling the elevator from the bottom. Two heavily armed cyborgs exit and begin firing immediately turning most of your team into charred skeletons. You manage to just barely get away and duck behind one of the buildings. Fortunately they don't seem to be very fast, so when they try to chase you, you toss a few grenades in their direction, blowing them up in the same manner you destroyed the robot, except a bit bloodier, given their human bits. You come out of your hiding place and see nothing left of your team, they've all been killed. The elevator door is still open; you could enter and finish the job, or return to the Compound in failure. > You Leave There's no way you can take on the rest by yourself, at the very least you need to get reinforcements! You'd radio in, but one of the other team members was carrying it, and he was fricasseed. Plus you don't want to be around if anymore of Alex's creations come up. Time for a full scale invasion, looks like the Colonel was right. And that's just what the Colonel tells you, when he's chewing your ass out for losing valuable people and equipment in an attempt to go through with your plan. His respect for you is severely lowered, in fact the entire Compound's respect for you is lowered. Harry makes every effort to taunt you, and even Marina becomes distant. (Obviously you weren't the "man" she thought you were.) Your status in the Compound is pretty much nil, when the Colonel finally organizes an invasion party; you of course aren't included. Now knowing another invasion attempt is probably coming, Alex really beefed up his defenses; the invasion force doesn't even set foot into the base before getting blasted by superior cyborg weaponry. Reinforcements are called in, but they don't help. The base is too well defended now. A retreat is called, and the Compound has to abandon its invasion indefinitely. In fact all exploration is called off; since the Colonel decides he can't afford to lose anyone else. (One of the only reasons why you're kept around) The Compound just becomes a "place" where everyone lives because it's safer than living outside it. The ideas of "rebuilding" civilization are abandoned. Morale certainly isn't what it used to be. Of course none of that means shit to Alex, who only steps up his plans for conquest. A year passes without another incident and then the day happens which you all hoped would never happen, but somehow expected it would. Alex's army arrives, and what's worse is they now outnumber you. Alex must've been capturing people in the wastelands or something. He's also improved his abilities, they're even tougher, and worse they're faster. You don't have anywhere else to go, and this place is your home such as it is. You figure maybe you can regain some respect by defending the place. You and the rest prepare to defend the Compound. Harry is predictably yelling orders at everyone, while the Colonel is attempting to boost morale with inspirational speeches. None of it really helps though when the first wave of cyborgs easily melt the gate into liquid metal and blast holes in the walls. Then they proceed to melt the people into liquid pulp, and blast holes in their bodies, you are no exception.

[Themes: sci-fi, war, post-apocalyptic] You lower your rifle (But still hold on to it) and walk side by side with the cyborg who is surprisingly chatty, you also see it walks a bit irregularly, like it hasn't been spliced together correctly. "Alex will be most pleased to see you; you'll be the first human here in months!" "What happened to all the others?" "Oh well most of them have been improved like m-m-m-m." the cyborg hits itself in the head before he stops stuttering "Like me, sir." "Hmm, some improvement." "Oh well, its not so bad. Alex promises to give us a tune up when he gets the necessary time, he is only one man after all. Some assistants would certainly help." "So Alex is a surgeon?" "Well he's not really. I mean he didn't start out that way at least, but he's completely self taught and trying to learn more each day! Sure there have been some failures, but there's also been success! Why look at m-m-m-m." the cyborg hits itself in the head again while you just shake yours. You can see this is going to be an interesting meeting. "So who were you before Alex...uh improved you." "Oh I was a regular military man who guarded this base with no real identity. Just a name and a number really." "And now?" "Now I'm known as J-34 and I protect Alex!" "That's great... so everyone here is a cyborg like you?" "Just about. Most military personnel were friends with Alex before being renewed, so they were happy to be improved. The GZS personnel weren't so enthusiastic about the idea, in fact they were mad that Alex discovered their top secret project. They tried to stop him, but they were stopped instead. Alex saw that the project would be pointless in trying to perfect it to use in a war that was going to be over in six minutes. Better that it should be applied to those that would surely survive the aftermath of that same war. Here we are, I'm sure Alex will want to hear all about the outside world, hey maybe he'll improve you too!" You enter an office where a man sits at a desk pouring over technical manuals and medical books. Two more cyborgs armed with some sort science fictionish weapons stand by him. There's no way you could hope to kill him without them killing you as well. He looks up. "Ah a guest! Been a long time since we've seen anyone new...in fact I'm a little puzzled on how you even found this place, let alone entered it...you're not GZS are you?" Alex says changing his pleasant demeanor in mid sentence. "No! Not at all! I'm here because the Colonel sent me. He says you and he are friends. Here. Here's his ring and a letter he wrote to prove it. He'd also given me a security pass so I could enter this place." Alex takes the ring and letter and inspects them both, before addressing you again. "Well it looks like everything's legitimate. I shall trust you. Though I'm not sure I trust the Colonel. I never did trust him. He only wanted to use me so I could get access to high tech weaponry, but instead I found much more here! Much more than I ever told him! Ha ha! I hear him trying to radio in, wondering if there's anyone here, I've been ignoring him. He and his group of right wing loonies are unworthy of being re-made. If they think they're true survivialists then they don't need the gifts that this base provides. All of it is mine, I EARNED this place and it shall be I who ushers in a new era. Not GZS, not the government and not the fucking goddamn Colonel!" Alex is obviously unhinged, you don't know if he was always this way or got that way later, but it hardly matters, what's of major importance is that you walk away from this meeting unscathed. You try to calm him down. "Whoa hold on, I don't think the Colonel or any of his right wing loonies would want to be re-made." "Nonsense, anyone with any sense of survival would want to be re-made if they new about what was being worked on here." You can't help, but notice that Alex hasn't done any improvements on himself... "However, I can see you don't share that same short sighted thinking that the rest of those Compound cronies do. You are worthy of being re-made! In fact I would like to start now, I've been studying up on some new techniques and I would love to test them out. I think I could do a really good job this time, there will definitely be less acc...er complications than in the past." This is just getting worse. Now this nutjob wants to work on you. "Look, I don't want to be re-made! I was just here to see if you were alive and scout this place out! Now that I've done that, I'm to return to the Compound!" "Oh well now that's going to be a problem...I can't risk you telling him what's here." You really didn't want to hear that. "Look, I'll tell the Colonel that there wasn't anything here, I can reason with him. You can even take my security pass to make sure I can't get back in if you're really worried. However, if he doesn't hear from me, he's only going to send more folks to this place." "And what of it? They wouldn't be able to get in and even if they could, his weekend warriors would be no match for Cybernetic Evolution!" "No, but they could just blow up the elevator trapping you down here forever, and you'll never be able to leave to allow your genius to usher in the new era that you were talking about." That seems to relax Alex a bit, as always a little flattery goes a long way to ease an unbalanced mind. "Hmm, perhaps you make some sense, and you seem like a trustworthy sort...very well. I shall arrange for you to leave. Give me your security pass." "Okay, and I'll be needing the Colonel's ring and letter back, so I can say I didn't find anything here." You and Alex exchange items and he and his two cyborg guards escort you back to the elevator. "Goodbye, perhaps if we meet again you will be more receptive to being re-made. It's a harsh new world, and you'll soon wish you had an edge to survive it." Alex tells you before you leave. "I'll do alright." The elevator goes up and you're back on the surface again where you make your trek back to the compound in just a few days. You notice there have been a few changes in the few days you've left. Namely there's a still to make hooch. And you now have some working vehicles that been modified to run on hooch. The same still that people are making cheap booze from they're also using it as fuel, which basically translates into the vehicles running on "garbage" given that's what the booze is being made out of. Smells pretty bad, but whatever works. Though from what you heard some towns have been found to be running their vehicles on shit (animal AND human) so the smell could be worse. There's been a couple deaths from some of the other recon missions, but for the most part everything else is normal. Everyone's almost surprised to see you come back, Marina's happy, Harry obviously isn't. The Colonel though wants to see you immediately. Since you don't owe any allegiance to some nutcase playing Frankenstein in an underground base, you tell the Colonel everything. You expect him to get mad at you, but he doesn't. "(Sigh) Alex always was a bit unstable; I always wondered why the army never gave him a section 8. Anyway, what you're telling me doesn't surprise me, though I wish you could've gotten away without giving up that security pass. It's going to be harder to get down there now." "You still want to go down there?" "Of course! What you think I'm going to let Alex slowly refine and build up his cyborg army? Who do you think he's going to attack first? No, we need to get rid of him NOW. I suppose we could blow up the elevator doors to gain access. Not like we don't have the means to do that." "Yeah, but don't you run the risk of blowing up the entire elevator, and causing it fall and crash down the shaft? We wouldn't be able to send anyone down there in an efficient manner. Let alone fighting off cyborgs who would cut us down with ease if we were trying to repel down the shaft or huddled together coming off the elevator, besides Alex might have left the elevator on his level given the recent visit of mine." The Colonel lets forth another sigh knowing that you make a good point, but frustrated as well. "You're right, so what do you suggest we do then? Sit and do nothing with our thumbs up our asses?" > Suggest in containing Alex instead Funny that you are about to suggest an idea to the Colonel that got you out of trouble with Alex in the first place. "No, I think you do have a good idea about stopping Alex, I saw first hand how crazy he was. Maybe we can't actually get to him, but we could contain him. We blow up the elevator like you wanted to do and then dump explosives down the shaft, it should collapse things enough that they won't be able to leave, and we won't lose any people." "Ah, I like the way you think, but suppose they attempt get out, or rebuild the elevator or something?" "Well, we could leave a permanent detachment there to keep a constant vigil. I mean the surface part of the base is completely usable. That way we get an early warning just in case anything does try to come out." "Interesting idea. Having two command centers would be a good idea, I was planning on expansion in the future, might as well start now. Should keep us alert as well. Can't afford to get sloppy out here. Okay. We'll go with that idea, and since you came up with it, you can oversee the operation. In fact consider yourself stationed there until further notice." "What?!" "Hey I have to put someone there, you've done a good job so far and you have the best experience with the place so you can be in charge. Think of it as an honor son! I have a lot faith in you and I don't have much in anyone." "Well thanks, but wouldn't someone like Harry be a better choice?" "Harry? Yeah, he's got his uses, but I'd rather not have him in charge of anything important like this, no I want you and few others to go, in fact you pick them. I'll let you know if I can afford to spare them." "Well then I pick Marina right now." "I expected that. Sure, if you can convince her to go. Just remember what you're there for! Okay go pick out your team and gather what equipment you might need." You leave and tell Marina the situation immediately, she of course agrees to go with you, though she's a little worried about being someplace with a bunch of cyborgs several feet underneath her, of course you're worried about the same thing. You pick out six more people of varying skills, but mostly people you were getting along with during your stay at the Compound. You don't want to take anyone who you're not going to get along with. The Colonel approves of your choice and gives you the okay, Harry looks positively jealous that he was passed over for you who just got here. In fact before you leave he tells you as much. "You fucking little pissant. You think because you're all chummy with the Colonel that you're his fucking second in command now?" "No, I..." "You're goddamn right no! If anything happens to the Colonel I'M in charge of this shit! You better remember that fuckhead! Because if you're still on my list when that occurs, you best pray to God that I at least lube your asshole after I rip off your pink panties and before I shove my foot up it and make your colon my permanent fuckin' sock!" You're a little bewildered by the logic of this comment, you almost can't be sure if he's threatening you, or flirting with you. You don't feel like arguing with him though since it won't accomplish anything, besides if any good is coming from this, it's getting away from him. You and your team leave. When you and your team get to the base in a few days, you're in for a little surprise. A medium sized robot is patrolling the courtyard. Looks like your friend Alex also dabbles in robotics as well as cybernetics. You and your team hide behind the outer wall when you all catch sight of it. Apparently Alex didn't trust you any more than you trusted him, and looks like both of you were right. "Uh, what's that?" one of your team members asks. "It's a robot, what's it look like?" "Well what're we gonna do?" "Kill it! Everyone open fire!" You have no idea if your bullets are going to penetrate its armor, but you you're going to try anyway. Everyone fires upon the robotic being, which begins to shutter and spark, but returns fire and a bright burst of light strikes one of your team members and completely incinerates him. "Holy shit, get cover and keep firing!" you shout. The rest of the battle doesn't last too much longer, while your team continue to fire bursts at the machine while they dodge plasma blasts, you get enough time to toss a grenade at it and blow it to smithereens. Shards of burnt twisted metal lie all over the place. "Come on we need to blow up that door, before something else comes out of the damn thing!" You and the rest apply charges to the elevator door and run before it explodes. Just like you though, Alex doesn't have the elevator on the surface anymore, it's at the bottom, in fact its ascending right now! "Dump grenades down the fuckin' shaft!" This action is followed by running far away from the elevator, a large explosion, and then a large crash and another smaller explosion. You ask for a flashlight and peer down the shaft. Its smoking mess and from what you can tell, part of the structure collapsed in on itself. Nothing is going to be coming out of there for a long time. You're about to radio in and tell the Colonel the news when another signal breaks in, its Alex... "So, that snitch told after all! I knew he wasn't to be trusted! You can't stop me! I'll get out of here eventually! And I shall..." "Got news for you Alex, you're talking to the snitch right now, and you won't be going anywhere as long as I'm here. Enjoy your underground prison." You switch to another frequency and tell the Colonel who seems pleased, he tells you he'll keep in contact with you on a regular basis and send more people when possible, in the mean time secure the place and get settled in. A few more weeks pass and eventually the initial nervousness disappears from everyone, Alex still breaks in ranting on your radio frequency every now and then, but you ignore him. In fact being at the base turns out to be more to your liking, there's less people around, you're in charge and you get to spend more time with Marina. A year passes... Not too much changes around the base (Which you now call Pandora which seems appropriate since you're keeping in something that shouldn't be let out!) a few more people are transferred here, supplies are delivered back and forth, but not much else happens. You get reports from the Compound every now and then, seems they've made progress with a few small towns that survived, but there are a lot of problems with lawless bandits running around. Reports have also mentioned strange mutated animals lurking about too. Sounds like they have everything under control so far though. The Colonel has the idea to trade with the towns and offer protection when possible. He hopes to get more people to join the Compound you imagine. Your orders are still the same, just guard Pandora, and make sure no cybernetic horrors are coming out. Sometimes you wonder if you shouldn't be doing something else, indeed Marina seems to think so. Sometimes you forget she's been training in all this survivalist shit longer than you have and has that "tame the wasteland" spirit more than you do. > You stay put You decide that you got it made, why fuck with it? The rest of those at the Compound have to go on missions to fight bandits and go exploring possible hostile locations. You don't need to do any of that. You're in a nice safe isolated location where nobody ever comes except to drop off supplies every now and then. Even the fact cyborgs are trapped underneath you doesn't bother you anymore. You continue your routine. Four more years pass... You and Marina are still together, but for some reason, you don't seem as close anymore. It seems like she's been getting distant in the past few years. You still get the harassing radio rant from Alex every now and then just to let you know he's still alive along with his robots and cyborgs. You're guessing he's been surviving on rats and roaches down there. It's been five years since you first joined the Compound and there's been a lot more changes there at least that's what you've been hearing from the people transferred to Pandora. You get less and less reports from the Compound itself other than its undergone a name change and due to its inclusion of a few towns now, its called the Combine and the Compound itself is called Fort Justice. You know about how the Colonel has gotten sick and seems to be getting worse as more time passes and how the population rate is growing, but it's slow. The major theory is the elevated levels of background radiation are probably affecting fertility. (You wonder about yourself and Marina since she hasn't once gotten pregnant in the five years you've been together) There have been more people sent here, mainly people that aren't "cutting it" anymore at the Compound. In fact you've been hearing some interesting stories. One man in particular called Roger has spoken to you quite frankly about what's been going on at the Compound some of it a bit alarming. "The fuckin' Colonel? When he started getting sick that sonofabitch Harry started taking over more responsibility. Started doing shit HIS way, which was a lot more reactionary. I mean don't get me wrong, I'm not some faggot peacenik, I'm all about creating a new strong society, like how America SHOULD'VE been, but fuck man. I'm not gonna kill children for no goddamn reason!" "What?! When did this happen?" "About a year ago! I was on a mission to this small town called Lost Springs and Harry was with us personally. They had a fresh underground supply of water, so we really wanted to gather them into the fold. Talks didn't go so well though, so Harry went nuts and shot the fucking mayor of the town! Then he proceeded to tell us to start killing all the kids if they didn't submit to us." "And?" "Well I refused to do it, and some of the others didn't either. A few did though, and after a couple of kids were killed. The rest of the townsfolk pretty much fell in line. Harry left the ones who were willing to kill at his command to occupy the place. He made up a damn story to the Colonel about how he HAD to do it and left out the shooting kids though. And the Colonel gets sicker and sicker, and Harry gets freer reign. Shit, if the Colonel wasn't still alive I think Harry wouldn't even be sending some people here, he'd probably be sending them all to the city." "Wait, the city? There's missions to the city? I thought those were stopped after the first few times that was attempted." "Not anymore! Harry's been sending a few people on his shit list to missions on the city. Harry says that there are still important resources to be gathered from there. Its bullshit, ain't nothin' there except fuckin' mutants and radioactivity! I probably would've got sent there, but I lost my arm in an ambush, and the Colonel said I needed to be taken off of active duty and sent here. There's a real mean motherfucker loyal to Harry called Damon, who goes on the city missions to ensure nobody tries to go AWOL. He's fucking nuts, he loves going into the city; I think he actually gets a fucking orgasm." "Where the hell is Harry getting all these new people, if he's treating the towns so badly?" "I told you he's been press ganging some of them and most are so beaten by that point that they just go along with it, but he's also been subduing some of the raider scum! That Damon is one of those fuckers. Instead of killing them all like we should be doing, he's been recruiting them into the Combine! These degenerates are usually the ones he uses for occupation since most of them don't have any qualms about killing anything that moves and they're used to terrorizing towns." "Holy shit, I've never heard about all this before." "I'm telling you, you're lucky you got assigned here when you did, because you would've been going to the city. The only thing keeping you safe is the Colonel who insists you stay in charge of this place; I don't want to think about the day when the Colonel finally croaks. Shit, I might just leave and take my chances, one arm be damned. YOU might want to think about leaving as well, because chances are Harry's going to be turning his attention towards you when that day comes." "I still don't see what the hell I did to him, he's hated me since day one." "Well, you got the Colonel's attention and his respect. You got a command position of your very own base, and most importantly you got Marina. He's always liked her. You didn't know?" "Well she did mention one time that he came on to her in the past, well anyway, it hardly matters why he hates me I guess. What matters is I gotta think about how I'm gonna deal with this problem in the future." Suddenly one of your assistants comes in and has something to report. Something you really don't want to know after having been given the recent information by Roger. The Colonel has died, Harry has taken complete control of the Combine and his first order is for YOU to return to Fort Justice for reassignment. Looks like you'll have to be thinking fast. > You leave the Combine Secession isn't really a viable option. You simply can't stand up to the resources Harry has, the only option is to distance yourself as far away as possible. Harry's escorts will be here in a few days so you start packing immediately. Marina wonders what you're doing. "We're getting the hell outta here! You think Harry's gonna let me live? At best he might be sending me into missions into the city! Fuck that!" "You mean we're just leaving? We're not fighting back?" "What you think I like this? I mean I don't want to leave, but if we stay, we're gonna end up dead! Come on pack your shit." "I dunno. I can't just leave everything. I mean I'm still friends and close to all these people, I can't just leave them." "Look, I've actually gotten along with most of the folks here too, but I'm not sticking my neck out for any of them. Besides, if they're smart they'll leave too." "I can't do it, I can't go." You stop packing. "What, are you fucking kidding me?" "No, I mean I can't do it. This is my life, this was my life before the bombs and it'll continue to be my life afterwards. I can't just leave, I mean we're trying to re-build society..." "Fuck society! Why can't it just be me and you?" Marina suddenly tells you a revelation you always had an inkling of, but never quite sure until today... "You know why I liked you in the beginning? Because all those years we worked in that office I saw a man who worked hard in a mundane job yet had the potential to be something more under the right circumstances. I'm sure you remember I said something similar five years ago when I convinced you to come with me. Then you proved me right somewhat by volunteering and taking charge of this place. I knew I'd chosen right. I was in love with you." "Was eh?" "Yes, was. In the following years of you taking command of this place you've shown no more initiative. You've been content to just do the mundane routine of running this place. You were doing exactly the opposite of what I first saw. You were squandering your potential." "So what was I supposed to be doing then Marina? Driving across the fuckin' wasteland shooting up people, taking their shit, and declaring their town part of the Combine like Harry?" "No, of course not. But you could've done something more. Like sending out your own exploration teams, or even going on them yourself. Maybe if you had, you wouldn't be in this position now. You'd have better leverage to face Harry. Maybe he is a fucking dictator, but he's accomplishing a goal." You pack the last of your things and start walking while Marina follows you. "Yeah, some goal...Okay you know what Marina, fuck it. I gotta get outta here, and its apparent you've made your decision and I'm not gonna try to talk you out of it, because if you're that willing to throw fuckin' five years away just because I'm not the wasteland warrior that you dreamed up in your mind, then like I said fuck it. You're not worth my time either anymore. I hope you and Harry have a nice life, I'm sure he's exactly what you're looking for. Hope for your sake though his obsession for you is a lot stronger than his vindictiveness." "Fuck you! It's not that goddamn black and white! I don't like fuckin Harry, and I never will, but...HEY! Don't fuckin' walk out on me!" You storm out of the base, and Marina attempts to reason and explain, but it's all bullshit to you. This whole thing was. Trying to "rebuild" society, yeah right. As if there was anything worth rebuilding in the first place. You're done with this shit. You tried it and it was okay for awhile, but now its time to move on. Away from this and away from people. You travel for a few days, and you expect Harry's men to come tracking you, but nobody ever follows you. You get attacked by a few mutated wolves, and a few mad men here and there, but nobody from the Combine. It's possible that you've done a good job of throwing them off, and Harry's people aren't skilled trackers, of course maybe Harry's just glad you're out of the way period. You briefly have an amusing thought, that Marina still had some sort of feelings for you and offered to be Harry's girl in exchange of letting you live. You decide to think that's what happened, since you'll never know for certain and you've always been prone to imagine dramatic movie like endings. "Heh. We'll always have Pandora." You laugh to yourself as you distance yourself further away from Combine territory.

[Themes: sci-fi, war, serious] You decide that you got it made, why fuck with it? The rest of those at the Compound have to go on missions to fight bandits and go exploring possible hostile locations. You don't need to do any of that. You're in a nice safe isolated location where nobody ever comes except to drop off supplies every now and then. Even the fact cyborgs are trapped underneath you doesn't bother you anymore. You continue your routine. Four more years pass... You and Marina are still together, but for some reason, you don't seem as close anymore. It seems like she's been getting distant in the past few years. You still get the harassing radio rant from Alex every now and then just to let you know he's still alive along with his robots and cyborgs. You're guessing he's been surviving on rats and roaches down there. It's been five years since you first joined the Compound and there's been a lot more changes there at least that's what you've been hearing from the people transferred to Pandora. You get less and less reports from the Compound itself other than its undergone a name change and due to its inclusion of a few towns now, its called the Combine and the Compound itself is called Fort Justice. You know about how the Colonel has gotten sick and seems to be getting worse as more time passes and how the population rate is growing, but it's slow. The major theory is the elevated levels of background radiation are probably affecting fertility. (You wonder about yourself and Marina since she hasn't once gotten pregnant in the five years you've been together) There have been more people sent here, mainly people that aren't "cutting it" anymore at the Compound. In fact you've been hearing some interesting stories. One man in particular called Roger has spoken to you quite frankly about what's been going on at the Compound some of it a bit alarming. "The fuckin' Colonel? When he started getting sick that sonofabitch Harry started taking over more responsibility. Started doing shit HIS way, which was a lot more reactionary. I mean don't get me wrong, I'm not some faggot peacenik, I'm all about creating a new strong society, like how America SHOULD'VE been, but fuck man. I'm not gonna kill children for no goddamn reason!" "What?! When did this happen?" "About a year ago! I was on a mission to this small town called Lost Springs and Harry was with us personally. They had a fresh underground supply of water, so we really wanted to gather them into the fold. Talks didn't go so well though, so Harry went nuts and shot the fucking mayor of the town! Then he proceeded to tell us to start killing all the kids if they didn't submit to us." "And?" "Well I refused to do it, and some of the others didn't either. A few did though, and after a couple of kids were killed. The rest of the townsfolk pretty much fell in line. Harry left the ones who were willing to kill at his command to occupy the place. He made up a damn story to the Colonel about how he HAD to do it and left out the shooting kids though. And the Colonel gets sicker and sicker, and Harry gets freer reign. Shit, if the Colonel wasn't still alive I think Harry wouldn't even be sending some people here, he'd probably be sending them all to the city." "Wait, the city? There's missions to the city? I thought those were stopped after the first few times that was attempted." "Not anymore! Harry's been sending a few people on his shit list to missions on the city. Harry says that there are still important resources to be gathered from there. Its bullshit, ain't nothin' there except fuckin' mutants and radioactivity! I probably would've got sent there, but I lost my arm in an ambush, and the Colonel said I needed to be taken off of active duty and sent here. There's a real mean motherfucker loyal to Harry called Damon, who goes on the city missions to ensure nobody tries to go AWOL. He's fucking nuts, he loves going into the city; I think he actually gets a fucking orgasm." "Where the hell is Harry getting all these new people, if he's treating the towns so badly?" "I told you he's been press ganging some of them and most are so beaten by that point that they just go along with it, but he's also been subduing some of the raider scum! That Damon is one of those fuckers. Instead of killing them all like we should be doing, he's been recruiting them into the Combine! These degenerates are usually the ones he uses for occupation since most of them don't have any qualms about killing anything that moves and they're used to terrorizing towns." "Holy shit, I've never heard about all this before." "I'm telling you, you're lucky you got assigned here when you did, because you would've been going to the city. The only thing keeping you safe is the Colonel who insists you stay in charge of this place; I don't want to think about the day when the Colonel finally croaks. Shit, I might just leave and take my chances, one arm be damned. YOU might want to think about leaving as well, because chances are Harry's going to be turning his attention towards you when that day comes." "I still don't see what the hell I did to him, he's hated me since day one." "Well, you got the Colonel's attention and his respect. You got a command position of your very own base, and most importantly you got Marina. He's always liked her. You didn't know?" "Well she did mention one time that he came on to her in the past, well anyway, it hardly matters why he hates me I guess. What matters is I gotta think about how I'm gonna deal with this problem in the future." Suddenly one of your assistants comes in and has something to report. Something you really don't want to know after having been given the recent information by Roger. The Colonel has died, Harry has taken complete control of the Combine and his first order is for YOU to return to Fort Justice for reassignment. Looks like you'll have to be thinking fast. > You secede from the Combine "Fuck off Harry, and take your Combine and shove it up your ass. We're seceding." You abruptly tell him over the radio, before announcing your intensions to everyone else in the base. You get a mixed reaction of apprehension, while a lot of them aren't too fond of Harry, they still like living with basic necessities, something that becomes apparent in the weeks to come. There are a number of problems from the beginning. First of all, you're an isolated community and while that has its advantages, it also has its drawbacks, meaning the instant you tell Harry to fuck off and die over the radio, you're no longer getting any supplies of any kind, you're stuck with what you have. Medical supplies are scarce as it is; now they're non-existent. Forget about getting new ammo too. Food is a bit of a problem, (Water isn't, the base has its own water recycling and filtering system, fortunately it's on the surface rather than underground) since you were getting a majority of that from Fort Justice. Some hunting is done in the surrounding wilderness. It becomes a major problem though when Harry sends an invasion detachment and cuts you off from even doing that. It's not even like you can start farming even if you had the means since the inside of the base is completely paved (as well as harboring a deranged doctor and his cyborgs) The only thing that prevents him from completely taking the place is the fact he's spread a bit thin in other areas of the Combine with keeping control of other towns and you're pretty well fortified. Doesn't mean he can't continue to harass you, and he can keep supplying his people. You can't. His people are somewhat more battle hardened as well. Not that you're saddled with a bunch of non-combatants, but anyone that's still following Harry willingly has been indoctrinated with a little more fanatic conformity, which is a great thing to have in a soldier. So great, you wish you had more people like that. A couple months after the initial siege; most people are ready to throw you to Harry's men in exchange for mercy. Marina and few others stand by you, but its mob rule. You're overwhelmed, disarmed and thrown to the invasion force outside. All that still stayed loyal to you are immediately shot as traitors. The ones that turned on you are merely beaten (and a few of them shot to ensure that something like this doesn't happen again) You and Marina are taken back to Harry. He gets a sadistic pleasure out of having you beaten in front of Marina. He attempts to give Marina one last chance to submit, but she refuses causing him to slap her upside the face and then start to rip off her clothes. You yell out, but are promptly beaten by Harry's guards again. Unfortunately for all his bravado Harry's unable to get it up. He tries like hell since he wants you to watch, but for whatever reason, his attempt at rape is a complete failure. Knowing the end is near anyway, Marina laughs at him before he smashes her skull against the ground yelling and screaming at her whole time. He then kicks your bloody body and blames you for having to do that, you spit out a gob of blood and some teeth. "Enjoy your fuckin' empire, you limp dick bitch." You groan. "FUCK YOU, YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT!" he replies back, grabbing his pistol off the table. Harry then ends your existence by emptying his gun into you.

[Themes: sci-fi, war] Funny that you are about to suggest an idea to the Colonel that got you out of trouble with Alex in the first place. "No, I think you do have a good idea about stopping Alex, I saw first hand how crazy he was. Maybe we can't actually get to him, but we could contain him. We blow up the elevator like you wanted to do and then dump explosives down the shaft, it should collapse things enough that they won't be able to leave, and we won't lose any people." "Ah, I like the way you think, but suppose they attempt get out, or rebuild the elevator or something?" "Well, we could leave a permanent detachment there to keep a constant vigil. I mean the surface part of the base is completely usable. That way we get an early warning just in case anything does try to come out." "Interesting idea. Having two command centers would be a good idea, I was planning on expansion in the future, might as well start now. Should keep us alert as well. Can't afford to get sloppy out here. Okay. We'll go with that idea, and since you came up with it, you can oversee the operation. In fact consider yourself stationed there until further notice." "What?!" "Hey I have to put someone there, you've done a good job so far and you have the best experience with the place so you can be in charge. Think of it as an honor son! I have a lot faith in you and I don't have much in anyone." "Well thanks, but wouldn't someone like Harry be a better choice?" "Harry? Yeah, he's got his uses, but I'd rather not have him in charge of anything important like this, no I want you and few others to go, in fact you pick them. I'll let you know if I can afford to spare them." "Well then I pick Marina right now." "I expected that. Sure, if you can convince her to go. Just remember what you're there for! Okay go pick out your team and gather what equipment you might need." You leave and tell Marina the situation immediately, she of course agrees to go with you, though she's a little worried about being someplace with a bunch of cyborgs several feet underneath her, of course you're worried about the same thing. You pick out six more people of varying skills, but mostly people you were getting along with during your stay at the Compound. You don't want to take anyone who you're not going to get along with. The Colonel approves of your choice and gives you the okay, Harry looks positively jealous that he was passed over for you who just got here. In fact before you leave he tells you as much. "You fucking little pissant. You think because you're all chummy with the Colonel that you're his fucking second in command now?" "No, I..." "You're goddamn right no! If anything happens to the Colonel I'M in charge of this shit! You better remember that fuckhead! Because if you're still on my list when that occurs, you best pray to God that I at least lube your asshole after I rip off your pink panties and before I shove my foot up it and make your colon my permanent fuckin' sock!" You're a little bewildered by the logic of this comment, you almost can't be sure if he's threatening you, or flirting with you. You don't feel like arguing with him though since it won't accomplish anything, besides if any good is coming from this, it's getting away from him. You and your team leave. When you and your team get to the base in a few days, you're in for a little surprise. A medium sized robot is patrolling the courtyard. Looks like your friend Alex also dabbles in robotics as well as cybernetics. You and your team hide behind the outer wall when you all catch sight of it. Apparently Alex didn't trust you any more than you trusted him, and looks like both of you were right. "Uh, what's that?" one of your team members asks. "It's a robot, what's it look like?" "Well what're we gonna do?" "Kill it! Everyone open fire!" You have no idea if your bullets are going to penetrate its armor, but you you're going to try anyway. Everyone fires upon the robotic being, which begins to shutter and spark, but returns fire and a bright burst of light strikes one of your team members and completely incinerates him. "Holy shit, get cover and keep firing!" you shout. The rest of the battle doesn't last too much longer, while your team continue to fire bursts at the machine while they dodge plasma blasts, you get enough time to toss a grenade at it and blow it to smithereens. Shards of burnt twisted metal lie all over the place. "Come on we need to blow up that door, before something else comes out of the damn thing!" You and the rest apply charges to the elevator door and run before it explodes. Just like you though, Alex doesn't have the elevator on the surface anymore, it's at the bottom, in fact its ascending right now! "Dump grenades down the fuckin' shaft!" This action is followed by running far away from the elevator, a large explosion, and then a large crash and another smaller explosion. You ask for a flashlight and peer down the shaft. Its smoking mess and from what you can tell, part of the structure collapsed in on itself. Nothing is going to be coming out of there for a long time. You're about to radio in and tell the Colonel the news when another signal breaks in, its Alex... "So, that snitch told after all! I knew he wasn't to be trusted! You can't stop me! I'll get out of here eventually! And I shall..." "Got news for you Alex, you're talking to the snitch right now, and you won't be going anywhere as long as I'm here. Enjoy your underground prison." You switch to another frequency and tell the Colonel who seems pleased, he tells you he'll keep in contact with you on a regular basis and send more people when possible, in the mean time secure the place and get settled in. A few more weeks pass and eventually the initial nervousness disappears from everyone, Alex still breaks in ranting on your radio frequency every now and then, but you ignore him. In fact being at the base turns out to be more to your liking, there's less people around, you're in charge and you get to spend more time with Marina. A year passes... Not too much changes around the base (Which you now call Pandora which seems appropriate since you're keeping in something that shouldn't be let out!) a few more people are transferred here, supplies are delivered back and forth, but not much else happens. You get reports from the Compound every now and then, seems they've made progress with a few small towns that survived, but there are a lot of problems with lawless bandits running around. Reports have also mentioned strange mutated animals lurking about too. Sounds like they have everything under control so far though. The Colonel has the idea to trade with the towns and offer protection when possible. He hopes to get more people to join the Compound you imagine. Your orders are still the same, just guard Pandora, and make sure no cybernetic horrors are coming out. Sometimes you wonder if you shouldn't be doing something else, indeed Marina seems to think so. Sometimes you forget she's been training in all this survivalist shit longer than you have and has that "tame the wasteland" spirit more than you do. > You do something Well there's nothing stopping you from sending your own exploration detachment teams, there's nothing stopping you from going yourself either. As far as you know, nobody from the Compound has bothered scouting past Base Pandora, you figure it's as good of place as any... "Okay I want two scouting detachments of four. I'm going with one of them. We're just going to go a few miles from this place and then come back. It'll give us a better lay of the land in case of an attack and it'll keep our skills sharp as well. The rest of you guard the base as usual." You half expect Marina to come with you, but she's content on staying behind to help look after the base. She looks at you admiringly though that you're taking the initiative. She tells you she loves you and that she can't wait for you to get back. You like the fact she's got confidence that you ARE coming back this time around. You and your team leave and start exploring. Base Pandora really was in a secluded location, most of your trek is through a small unspoiled woods, eventually you get to the end though after about a day. You notice the Geiger counter is clicking a bit more. Not a lot, but enough to be a little unsettling. Using some binoculars, up ahead you see a single run down farm house (the farm itself also looks run down and hasn't been up kept in years). Just then you see a few vehicles also approaching up ahead, you tell everyone else to pull back into the woods and keep down while you do likewise. You continue to look as the vehicle park nearby the farm house and figures begin to get out. All of them are wearing robes and carrying automatic weapons over their backs. You also see them dragging what looks to be a few hapless prisoners with them as they enter the structure. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that these folks aren't the nice type. "Oh shit, these guys look prepared. Who do you think they are?" one of your team asks. "How should I know Reggie? When we moved into Base Pandora it's not like we got a welcome to the neighborhood letter from every nearby freak within a few miles of us. If I had to guess and judging by the robes, they're probably some doomsday cult. Probably one that was building up a stock pile of shit even before the bombs hit. Got some interesting vehicles though." "So, what're we going to do?" What to do indeed. You definitely need to wipe these cultists out since it's possible you could have trouble with them in the future if they start wandering in your direction. They also have vehicles that could be of use and probably other supplies as well. You could radio in and wait for reinforcements, but the prisoners you just saw them take in might be dead by then. > You get reinforcements It's a brutal world and it just got more so. Rushing in outnumbered, isn't likely to save anyone and most likely going to get you killed. You radio in for reinforcements and keep an eye on the farm in the mean time. Later when the darkness comes you see a group of them come out with torches, form a circle in a nearby plain and begin chanting. You count ten of them altogether Soon two more come out with one of the prisoners from earlier. She's bound, gagged and naked; you know what's going to come next. Reggie and another one in your team wants to do something, but you insist that they do nothing and to keep quiet. It's all over soon anyway, as you see them sacrifice the poor girl for whatever outlandish beliefs they hold. You take first watch for the night. The next day your reinforcements arrive...both of them. "What the fuck? I asked for at least five more people!" "Sorry, but that other recon group you sent also ran into trouble, in fact two of them are already dead, and we had to send a rescue team to fetch the other two since one has a broken leg." "Oh that's wonderful." "So should we call this off?" one of you team asks. "No Vivica, we're going through with it, but we're going to employ some stealth, they had three prisoners, I get the feeling they'll be doing the same ceremony they did last night." "Are we going to attack them now then?" "No Leonard, I don't feel like fighting a bunch of fanatics armed with machine guns in an open plain with no cover. And we can't just start firing on them from here, we need to wipe them ALL out as quickly as possible without them having a chance the regroup, fortify or any of that shit. We're gonna sneak into the house and ambush the whole fuckin' cult while they're doing their little ceremony." You wait until night and sure enough they all come out like you thought, then come the others with the prisoner. That's when the six of you quickly sneak through an overgrown field towards the house. You get to the stairs when Reggie and Leonard break off towards the area were the cult is performing their ceremony. "I can't just let them kill another! We can take 'em now! They're off guard!" "Reggie get the fuck...shit!" Reggie and Leonard begin firing, the fucking idiots aren't even taking cover, they're going head long in like they're stupid ass action heroes. You and the others lay down some cover fire, but it's not enough. Reggie and Leonard are cut down after killing a whopping ONE cultist and not even saving the hapless girl, who's shot instantly. The cultists start spreading out, moving forward, and circling around you at the same time, they're also better shots than you too, as they're carefully aiming rather than just firing in the general vicinity. After seeing another one of your team members go down, you and the rest fall back into the house itself. The inside of the house looks like something out of a horror movie, there are skulls and bones littering it, along with it blood stains everywhere. "Holy shit! What've we gotten ourselves into?" Vivica yells. "Shut the fuck up, I hear something...like crying...it's downstairs." "What about the cultists?" "Well it's the same plan, they just know about us now, let's hope we can still get 'em in a good ambush." You and your team members spread out in the house, you head down into the basement, which looks more like a small temple layout. You see a young woman in a cage, and when she sees you her eyes fill with hope. You hear the cultists stomping around upstairs and some gunfire, at which point you try to find a good place to hide. A bunch of footsteps run down the stairs, you wait in anticipation...closer...closer... You pop up from your spot and begin firing, you kill six of them before they can even react, and the remaining two barely get off some wild shots before you splatter them as well. Still breathing heavy among the dead, you finally hear some good news. "Hey! Are you still alive down there?" Vivica shouts. "Yeah! What's going on up there?" "We got a few of them, but I think most of them converged on your position though." "Of course they did, I've always been popular." You reply. You release the girl in the cage who's very thankful. She mentions her name is Ophelia and she's from a place called Ashtown which is far from this place. She says the cultists came storming into her town specifically trying to capture young girls; they took three before they finally were driven away, and unfortunately Ophelia was one of the three. You tell Ophelia your story; she seems to think you've got the right idea about going about things. "I think I'm going to tell my people back in Ashtown that we need to start getting better organized as well, and I'll be sure to tell them all about you and how you rescued me! Maybe we'll see each other in the future." You and your team search the farm house which just like you thought was stocked with all sorts of goodies. You're going to have haul some of it back, but you decide that you could also establish another base of sorts here after it was cleaned up. You'd also like to establish more of a relationship with this Ashtown. So you allow Ophelia to take one of the vehicles for her to drive back there, she certainly doesn't have a problem with that! Before heading back you put Vivica in charge of the place and tell her you'll be sending some more folks to help get this farm up and running. Not bad for a first try. Four more years pass... It's been five years since you joined the Compound and things are going fairly well for you, the farm house has been converted into a way point to Ashtown, with which you have good relations with and is now producing food. You are no longer solely dependant on the Compound for supplies which might be just as well... You get less and less reports from the Compound itself other than its undergone a name change and due to its inclusion of a few towns now, its called the Combine and the Compound itself is called Fort Justice. You know about how the Colonel has gotten sick and seems to be getting worse as more time passes and how the population rate is growing, but it's slow. The major theory is the elevated levels of background radiation are probably affecting fertility. (You wonder about yourself and Marina since she hasn't once gotten pregnant in the five years you've been together) There have been more people sent here, mainly because they hear about how great it is in Pandora as opposed to the miserable place Harry has made Fort Justice since he's been getting freer reign of the place as the Colonel continues to get sicker. In fact you've been hearing some disturbing stories from others who have come here recently. Ranging from needlessly violent occupation of towns, sending people on dangerous unnecessary missions to the city, and recruiting desert scum into the Combine! People are saying Harry's going nuts with power. One day, one of your assistants comes in and has something to report. The Colonel has died, Harry has taken complete control of the Combine and his first order is for YOU to return to Fort Justice for reassignment. Harry's just plain gone completely nuts if he thinks you're going to do that. Speaking of nuts, that same day after you convince everyone in seceding from the Combine you get a radio message from someone who's been quiet until now. "Well well, it seems you've got a problem on your hands." It's Alex. You're guessing he's been surviving on rats and roaches down there. "What the hell do you want and how do you know what's been going on?" "How do you think? I've been listening in on all your incoming and outgoing radio transmissions since you betrayed me and trapped me down here! I must say though, you probably did the intelligent thing. And your progress with establishing your own separate territory has been intriguing...but I can tell you right now, you are going to need help with your current problem, a problem I will be willing to help with if you're willing to talk." "Alright, I'll play. What're you proposing?" "There are still a lot of those high tech weapons down here that you were coming to get when you came here five years ago. I'm sure they would be very useful in your up coming war with Harry, and don't tell me there isn't, because I know you aren't going to run or meekly follow his orders to return. You've obviously set your sights on higher ambitions than just following orders and survival. I'll be willing to give them to you, in exchange for my freedom." "Oh that easy huh? How do you propose we go about this? I send people down there to retrieve them while your death machines ambush them as soon as they enter?" "It would be kind of hard for that to happen since all my cyborgs are long dead and my robots have fallen into disrepair...I'm basically alone down here. You were guarding nothing!" Alex laughs. You're pretty skeptical about this little tale, but if it's true, those weapons would certainly help. > You believe Alex The chance is too good to pass up. You're going to risk believing Alex, of course everyone else isn't willing to do so. You had a hard enough to convince them to join you in seceding from the Combine; you can't really press this issue as well. There's nothing else for it, you're going to have to go down there yourself. You just ask someone to make sure the ropes and pullies are stable for you to descend down the elevator shaft. Now Marina loves your bravery and willingness to take risks, but even she's a little apprehensive about this idea. You're determined to do this though. "Marina, if something goes wrong and I get killed, then get yourself out of here, and head to Ashtown. There's no reason for you to stick around and get yourself killed as well, or worse." "Nonsense! I'll fight for what you accomplished here whether you're still around or not! But that'll be after I go underground and take care of whatever metal bastards killed you!" No point in arguing with her, she'll do it anyway just like you're going underground anyway and that's probably why you love her. You give her a kiss and descend. When you finally reach the bottom, you're standing on top a pile of scrap. Part of it looks like it was moved in an attempt to clear it at one time, so you are able to squeeze through the previous elevator entrance. The same corridor you stepped through five years ago is remarkably dim now, you see a few steel husks lying on the ground. A lot of course are cyborgs, so decaying flesh is also present. Looks like Alex was telling the truth so far. Eventually you find Alex brooding in his office which is in complete disarray. Alex himself is very pale and a lot thinner than when you last remember him. "Hey! There you are! See, I told you I wasn't lying." He states when he sees you. "Yeah I can see that, what exactly happened?" "Oh there were complications...psychotic episodes...power problems...lack of more equipment and extra help...does it matter? I utterly failed. I watched my creations die one by one over the months and years due to my own lack of skill...and I thought I was going to usher in some sort of new era...yeah right." "Alex, I'm surprised to hear you talk like that." "Yeah? Well being prisoner here gives you a lot of time to think. Sometimes people go mad in captivity, I think in my case it did me some fucking good. I should've trusted the Colonel, he was my friend. He wasn't going to do anything to me. He trusted me, and now he's dead and I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye." While Alex's speeches of redemption are intriguing, you really want those weapons. "Alex, where are the weapons?" "...huh? Oh yes. The weapons. Please, don't let me stop you. Go down the corridor make a right and enter the second door. You'll find all you need in there. They were all tested out and work well. One of the few things GZS helped design that wasn't prone to failure." You leave Alex to his brooding, and follow his directions; you soon come across a room with the weapons, or what's left of them. There's not the great arsenal that Alex made out there was. He most likely used most of them when he was creating his robots and cyborgs. You're disappointed, but still it's better than nothing and the few that are here will help. You collect what you can for this trip, when Alex enters the room. "So, now that you have what you're looking for, are you going to keep your word?" "Well...ah fuck it...what the hell. Keep in mind though people are going to be pretty mistrustful of you. Don't expect a warm welcome." "Didn't expect one." "Good, now grab the rest of those weapons, so I don't need to make a round trip down here." You and Alex come back up with the weapons (and their power cells). The confidence level increases in everyone, you delivered some cool weapons and you braved going into the "dreaded" underground of Pandora again. They're definitely more inclined to follow you more loyally now. Alex makes himself useful by using his technical skill to build and set traps in the surrounding wilderness. You radio Vivica to let her know what's going on as well, she's behind you and will make sure to send a few people to harass Harry's men when they decide the lay siege to Pandora. Everyone spends time preparing and organizing for the battle that's sure to come. A month passes and sure enough Harry's men come thinking its going to be an easy victory, but it's a slaughter. Many are killed by the traps Alex set, the rest are fried by the laser and plasma weapons. A couple more months pass and another invasion force arrives, this one better prepared and much bigger. More reinforcements show up armed to the teeth and despite the rugged terrain that prevents cars to come to this place, they managed to find some dirt bikes which whiz around Pandora while the riders nimbly dodge your fire while they toss grenades at (and sometimes over) the walls. You still have the advantage obviously, but they're doing a hell of a lot of damage to Pandora now. The siege is now in full effect, fortunately you're fairly well stocked to hold out, and Vivica's men manage to get through sometimes with more supplies. Sensing that this is not going well for him and costing him a lot more time, man power and resources than he wanted to spend, he orders a final push. People armed with rocket launchers come this time, and with a few volleys, Harry's men finally breach the walls of Pandora and storm into the place. > You make a break for it and regroup at the farmhouse "Fall back to the farm house!" you shout as you mow down another dirt biker. As your people begin to escape you look around for Marina in the chaos, and then you see her fighting multiple enemies converging on her position while she attempts to retreat. You rush towards her to back her up and then you're blown back by an explosion. You slam up against a wall of one of the barracks, other than some minor pain and some scars you're going to have you aren't harmed, however your heart is when you see Marina lying bloody on the ground. She isn't moving. Ignoring everything else you run to her, you kneel down to pick up her body, she grabs weakly on to you, but she's in bad shape. Alex then grabs you by the shoulder "Hey! We got people firing on us; and in case you didn't notice you told everyone to fall back! "You! You're a fucking surgeon! You fix her! Save her! Save her NOW!" you shout, picking her up and shoving her into Alex's arms. "Wha...I..." Alex realizes you mean fucking business so he takes her, but asks about you since he notices you're grabbing another nearby gun. "What're you doing? You gotta get outta here! You can't fight all of them!" "GO! I'm giving you fucking time!" you order Alex pushing him away and charge into battle firing two weapons in hand. You kill a lot of them, but you're outnumbered and outgunned at this point. You eventually fall to a hail of bullets and die. Marina follows you soon afterwards on the retreat back to the farmhouse.

[Themes: sci-fi, serious, war] The chance is too good to pass up. You're going to risk believing Alex, of course everyone else isn't willing to do so. You had a hard enough to convince them to join you in seceding from the Combine; you can't really press this issue as well. There's nothing else for it, you're going to have to go down there yourself. You just ask someone to make sure the ropes and pullies are stable for you to descend down the elevator shaft. Now Marina loves your bravery and willingness to take risks, but even she's a little apprehensive about this idea. You're determined to do this though. "Marina, if something goes wrong and I get killed, then get yourself out of here, and head to Ashtown. There's no reason for you to stick around and get yourself killed as well, or worse." "Nonsense! I'll fight for what you accomplished here whether you're still around or not! But that'll be after I go underground and take care of whatever metal bastards killed you!" No point in arguing with her, she'll do it anyway just like you're going underground anyway and that's probably why you love her. You give her a kiss and descend. When you finally reach the bottom, you're standing on top a pile of scrap. Part of it looks like it was moved in an attempt to clear it at one time, so you are able to squeeze through the previous elevator entrance. The same corridor you stepped through five years ago is remarkably dim now, you see a few steel husks lying on the ground. A lot of course are cyborgs, so decaying flesh is also present. Looks like Alex was telling the truth so far. Eventually you find Alex brooding in his office which is in complete disarray. Alex himself is very pale and a lot thinner than when you last remember him. "Hey! There you are! See, I told you I wasn't lying." He states when he sees you. "Yeah I can see that, what exactly happened?" "Oh there were complications...psychotic episodes...power problems...lack of more equipment and extra help...does it matter? I utterly failed. I watched my creations die one by one over the months and years due to my own lack of skill...and I thought I was going to usher in some sort of new era...yeah right." "Alex, I'm surprised to hear you talk like that." "Yeah? Well being prisoner here gives you a lot of time to think. Sometimes people go mad in captivity, I think in my case it did me some fucking good. I should've trusted the Colonel, he was my friend. He wasn't going to do anything to me. He trusted me, and now he's dead and I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye." While Alex's speeches of redemption are intriguing, you really want those weapons. "Alex, where are the weapons?" "...huh? Oh yes. The weapons. Please, don't let me stop you. Go down the corridor make a right and enter the second door. You'll find all you need in there. They were all tested out and work well. One of the few things GZS helped design that wasn't prone to failure." You leave Alex to his brooding, and follow his directions; you soon come across a room with the weapons, or what's left of them. There's not the great arsenal that Alex made out there was. He most likely used most of them when he was creating his robots and cyborgs. You're disappointed, but still it's better than nothing and the few that are here will help. You collect what you can for this trip, when Alex enters the room. "So, now that you have what you're looking for, are you going to keep your word?" "Well...ah fuck it...what the hell. Keep in mind though people are going to be pretty mistrustful of you. Don't expect a warm welcome." "Didn't expect one." "Good, now grab the rest of those weapons, so I don't need to make a round trip down here." You and Alex come back up with the weapons (and their power cells). The confidence level increases in everyone, you delivered some cool weapons and you braved going into the "dreaded" underground of Pandora again. They're definitely more inclined to follow you more loyally now. Alex makes himself useful by using his technical skill to build and set traps in the surrounding wilderness. You radio Vivica to let her know what's going on as well, she's behind you and will make sure to send a few people to harass Harry's men when they decide the lay siege to Pandora. Everyone spends time preparing and organizing for the battle that's sure to come. A month passes and sure enough Harry's men come thinking its going to be an easy victory, but it's a slaughter. Many are killed by the traps Alex set, the rest are fried by the laser and plasma weapons. A couple more months pass and another invasion force arrives, this one better prepared and much bigger. More reinforcements show up armed to the teeth and despite the rugged terrain that prevents cars to come to this place, they managed to find some dirt bikes which whiz around Pandora while the riders nimbly dodge your fire while they toss grenades at (and sometimes over) the walls. You still have the advantage obviously, but they're doing a hell of a lot of damage to Pandora now. The siege is now in full effect, fortunately you're fairly well stocked to hold out, and Vivica's men manage to get through sometimes with more supplies. Sensing that this is not going well for him and costing him a lot more time, man power and resources than he wanted to spend, he orders a final push. People armed with rocket launchers come this time, and with a few volleys, Harry's men finally breach the walls of Pandora and storm into the place. > You continue to fight "Keep fighting the bastards! Pandora will never fall!" you shout as you mow down another dirt biker. In all the fighting though you begin to worry where Marina is, you look around for her in the chaos, and then you see her fighting with multiple enemies converging on her position. You rush towards her to back her up and then you're blown back by an explosion. You slam up against a wall of one of the barracks, other than some minor pain and some scars you're going to have you aren't harmed, however your heart is when you see Marina lying bloody on the ground. She isn't moving. Ignoring everything else you run to her, you kneel down to pick up her body, she grabs weakly on to you, but she's in bad shape. "Keep fighting to rebuild civilization...its still worth it..." she says before losing total consciousness. Alex suddenly comes up to you. "Hey! We got people firing on us; you need to get the fuck outta the open!" "You! You're a fucking surgeon! You fix her! Save her! Save her NOW!" you shout, picking her up and shoving her into Alex's arms. "Wha...I..." Alex realizes you mean fucking business so he just nods and runs with her to one of the few undamaged buildings. You're blind with rage, you begin charging into battle trying take out as many of these motherfuckers as you can, its quite possible with your actions alone you turned the tide, but you are still just one man, and you nearly get yourself killed, if it hadn't been for Vivica managing to get a few people from Ashtown to help out, and they arrive just in time. Ophelia shoots a Combine soldier who was sneaking up on you. You turn around to see her, you nearly don't recognize her decked out in battle gear. "Told you, you'd see me in the future." She says and runs off to clean up the stragglers running away. The Combine is pulling back. You've won, but at a high cost. When you return to check on Marina, you find her dead. Alex explains there was nothing he could do for her. You ask to be alone which he complies. You spend the rest of the night alone with Marina's lifeless body weeping and vowing revenge. The next day, you come out with one focus. To assault Fort Justice. This will never be over until Harry is dead. You need to strike now when he's weak. A lot of people are wondering if you shouldn't wait to regroup, but you won't hear of it, you're determined to do it now and everyone who's in fighting condition is coming with you. In a couple days you and your small army arrive at Fort Justice. You half expect to die this day assaulting the place, but once again destiny is with you. Fort Justice is experiencing a minor authority problem. You can take the scum out of the wasteland, but you can't make them disciplined soldiers. The last defeat has shattered morale, and apparently some are starting to question Harry's orders, while others aren't willing to die for him. The gate is wide open and parts of the place are in flames. You walk in relatively unopposed. Some fighting occurs, but you're looking for Harry and when the loud mouth shithead sees you, instead of confronting you, he runs for the trapdoor to the underground. You immediately run to cut him off and shoot him in both legs. He falls and grabs for his pistol, but you take careful aim and blow his hand off, he screams in pain when he sees his fingers all over the ground. A kick to his face follows, and then a stomp, and another, and another. You don't stop until his face looks like tenderized hamburger. He tries to act defiant by trying to give you the finger with his good hand, but you take it and break the motherfucker along with the rest of his hand. "This is for Marina and the rest of the deaths you caused." You say, before blasting his mushy bloody head into mushy bloody pieces. Now its over. You collapse by Harry's body, spent and drained. Alex goes over to see if you're alright, but Ophelia tells him to just make sure all the enemy are either dead or running. Ophelia takes you to a barrack and puts you on a bed and tells you to rest, which you do. "I did it Marina...I got him..." you mumble while falling asleep. The next few weeks consist of rebuilding. Rebuilding everything. Fort Justice. Base Pandora. All the damage Harry caused. Word gets out to the Combine occupied towns about their current situation, with no centralized authority figure anymore, the Combine dissipates as wasteland scum flee and return to the outlands where they belong. The townspeople of those places are very grateful for your help, and you're now in charge of everything but you take no joy in any of it, or anything. You're numb. You go through the motions, but you're basically in a daze. All your thoughts are of Marina, you feel empty without her. If it wasn't for her, you wouldn't even be alive right now. You would've died in a big mushroom cloud death. You start blaming yourself for not being able to save her, you start thinking about suicide. Everyone gets a little worried about you. Vivica starts radioing in wondering about your condition, Alex (Who's quite familiar with mental breakdowns) attempts to talk to you, but it's Ophelia who turns you around, though not immediately, but it's her actions that become the turning point. Late one night, as you wallow in the emptiness, Ophelia visits you. You expect her to tell you not blame yourself for Marina's death again, but she doesn't. Instead she talks about the time when you saved her from the cultists and how grateful she was that day and how she would've almost done anything to repay you for saving her life. "Mm...well you repaid it already. You saved mine back at Pandora." You say wishing to be left alone. "No, I'm saving it now." Ophelia begins to remove her clothing, something that takes you completely by surprise. You feel you shouldn't, you know you shouldn't, but maybe it's feeling of loneliness, maybe it's the feeling of confusion, or maybe its just plain hormones, and you give in to Ophelia's advances. And for that one night, the emptiness within you disappears. The next day Ophelia is gone leaving you a note saying she's going back to Ashtown and tells you that you shouldn't give up on life since you have so much more to change in this new world. When you think about it, Marina saved you, so you could carry that goal out. She always did see the potential in you to do great things. With this new perspective, you begin to return to normal, though there still was a little piece of you that died when Marina did. You'll never completely be the same. Life goes on though. Five more years pass... It's been ten years since the bombs dropped and civilization is starting to rebuild itself again...well somewhat. Hard to believe you would've become any type of leader trying to rebuild civilization. Marina might not be around anymore, but obviously her influence on you still is and always will be as you follow her dream of rebuilding civilization again. You're still running things from Base Pandora, which is now the unofficial head of the Atomic Alliance. The towns formally under Combine occupation are included, but are now treated as equals rather than glorified labor camps, though getting everyone to agree completely on anything still remains a problem. Fort Justice is now under Vivica's command and the Farmhouse, now known as Eden is a fully functional agricultural community. (It supplies food as well as biofuel for vehicles now) After that one night with Ophelia you don't see her anymore, but last you heard she had a baby and got married to someone in Ashtown. Good for her. Other than political disagreements, everything has been going fairly well; raiders are still a problem, but much less than in the past. For the most part people are pretty happy living in your territory. One thing that's been debated among you and some of other leaders, are the few GZS Shelters the Alliance has stumbled across over recent years. No effort has been made to open them, but they're all sealed shut by their main computers. From what you know by reading some of the GZS documents found in Base Pandora (and Alex who definitely has some knowledge of GZS protocols) the Shelters weren't supposed to open up until the central computer determined that sufficient amount of time had passed and the surface deemed safe. Apparently the computers still think the surface sucks. (And that assessment wouldn't exactly be wrong) Most of the other Alliance leaders say that some sort of contact should be made with them. You get the impression some of them might've done it anyway, it's just you have most of the equipment that makes it a lot easier. > You open them up At one time you thought about actually buying one of those things, sometimes you even wonder how things would've been living underground completely oblivious to what's going on the surface. Things might've been a lot easier...or maybe they wouldn't. You'll just have to wonder about the road not traveled. You see no harm in making contact; they may even have useful resources to trade and might appreciate knowing that the surface is exactly the hell on Earth that they might think. Plus the rest of the Alliance leaders seem pleased that you're agreeing with them. Maintaining good relations to keep everyone happy is always a sure way of keeping the Alliance stable. Even Ashtown makes mention of a Shelter nearby that they've been debating about whether to contact or not. You organize how to go about this, since you don't want to make enemies unnecessarily. It doesn't take long to open up the Shelters and bypass the computer elevator systems with your help. First contact with most of the shelters is a very large surprise for its inhabitants, though a lot of them seem really grateful. Apparently GZS Shelters weren't built very well, you hear reports of how inhabitants had to improvise and constantly repair various things. Alex tells you he isn't surprised. "The main reason why I outlived my cyborgs when I was...uh...indisposed... was due to having faulty GZS equipment. Granted they made a lot of good stuff, but they had a terrible habit of cutting corners. When I think about it, I really can't believe I thought I was actually going to DO something with them, probably wouldn't have even lasted in a real fight...still it would've been interesting...my God I can't believe I used to think things like this...like...I dunno..." Every now and then Alex talks like that. Probably wondering about his own road not traveled. It creeps people out though, however it doesn't prevent him from being a good doctor. You almost get the impression he feels like by being a good doctor and patching folks up real well is sort of like his "penance". One he feels necessary to do until the day he dies. This line of thinking becomes really noticeable within a few weeks of the Shelter openings. The Shelter near Ashtown is in bad shape. From the reports you've heard some sort of weird "social experiment" was going on down there which resulted in some sort of catastrophe. There are many dead bodies and broken equipment. Many of the people are sick and infected with something, and they aren't in very good shape to go anywhere. Looks like they've been slowly dying. In fact the Mayor of Ashtown, Carlos, is taking the hard line stance refusing to let the ones that went down there to come back up, for fear that they will infect his town. This isn't a popular decision, so he's hoping you can send some sort of medical team to help since Ashtown doesn't have the experts you do. Carlos says that he'll formally join the Atomic Alliance if you get him out of this jam. Alex insists on going to help. "Please, let me go help. I'm the best doctor in the Alliance. I...I need to do this. I need to help these people..." Alex says almost in a begging fashion. "...Well alright Alex, but you're taking one of those biohazard suits! Who knows what the hell those people have, and I really can't risk losing my best doctor." Alex thanks you profusely, and gathers a couple of his assistants and all the necessary equipment before leaving. A couple weeks pass and you get a report from Carlos. He mentions that Alex has determined there is nothing contagious about whatever the Shelter people are infected with, and the Ashtown citizens are allowed to come back up and return. Alex is still working on the problem though and it might take awhile, he requests for more equipment, which you allow Ashtown formally joins the Alliance. You personally go there to welcome them in. It's strange that you've never actually been to Ashtown before, given a lot of your dealings with it. While you're here on business you think about Ophelia, and that one night. A night that possibly saved you from committing suicide, given the downward spiral you were in at the time. There's a few times you thought about going to see her to thank her...but then you think how she has a family now and it would just be too weird. A month passes and you suddenly get a call from Alex on your radio. "Alex? Where are you?" "I'm in the Shelter. I managed to rig the computer to transmit a signal! Now I can talk to you directly! Great huh?" "Uh yeah...what's going on over there?" "Oh, nothing much. This place is pretty fascinating; I've been trying to figure out what was going on down here. This one diary was really interesting" "Alex what about the people?" "It seems there was this guy called Elliot who had a lot of weird ideas, he was a doctor..." Alex says seemingly oblivious to your question. "Yeah, I know the type. ALEX WHAT ABOUT THE FUCKIN' PEOPLE?" "Oh yeah...the people. They're okay...I guess." "You guess? What the fuck Alex, don't you know?" "Well, uh y'know... this isn't an exact science, and I'm still trying to figure some things out...I went to Ashtown recently for some more supplies, but I think I need some more higher qulity equipment from you, its getting kind of complicated down here..." "What the fuck Alex? No, you're not getting anything else! We're not an endless supply of resources! Now you work with what you got and I better hear some progress soon!" "...work with what I got...yeah...story of my life..." Alex says and disconnects. Another week passes and this time you get a message from Carlos, he doesn't sound well, but he does sound angry. "...we ally with you and this is (Cough) what happens? We're all sick and it's (Cough!) all you and that doctor's fault! He contaminated us! YOU contaminated us! The town is Uhhh..." There's an old saying, that a scorpion, no matter how well you take care of it or treat it, its nature will always be to sting you. And that's just what happened. Shit. > Do not take chances, purge EVERYTHING You've got to keep this quiet and you've got to keep whatever this is from spreading. You quietly call the most loyal and capable soldiers under your command to meet you immediately. You explain to them what needs to be done. Any still living Ashtown inhabitants must be killed, and the entire town burned to the ground. Alex must also be killed and the Shelter rendered inaccessible forever. You tell them to keep you informed at all times. The strike team is sent in the middle of the night in Hazmat suits and tons of hardware. Everyone in Base Pandora wonders what's going on, but due to the more military mindset here, people know not to ask too many questions. Eventually you get a message from one of your soliders. "Uh sir, it looks like most of the town is dead already, I don't think it's airborne, because it doesn't look like the children were affected..." "Are you sure about that? Just because they look sick doesn't mean they aren't. They could be carrying." "Sir?" "...I said kill everything Sergeant..." "But I think..." The Sergeant disconnects and you can only imagine what happened next, but you don't really want to. A little while later you get another report. It's the Sergeant again, he sounds very hollow. "Sir...it's uh over. Alex is dead...he didn't even put up a fight...we're putting the explosives in Shelter entrance as I speak...should implode and bury the Shelter from being accessible..." "Very good. You've done a necessary thing Sergeant." "...no I haven't...goodbye..." You hear a gunshot on the other end followed by a bunch of other voices shouting and dead air. Your official report to the Atomic Alliance (Because it's not like you can completely cover this up) is that a ruthless gang of raiders completely destroyed Ashtown as well as the Shelter and that you're sending squads to go hunt them down. This isn't really a satisfactory answer, but given how far away Ashtown is from the rest of the Alliance towns nobody really questions it. At least not initially. Over the past few months you're noticeably distracted, and can't concentrate on anything. You're constantly thinking someone's going to investigate, or one of those you sent on the mission is going to blab (Now you wish they all blew their brains out) your behavior starts becoming a bit erratic as you give out strange orders to cover up things you think are going to lead to your exposure. You constantly rationalize your orders as attempting to keep the Alliance from falling, since you're convinced that everyone knew what Alex did, you'd be blamed for incompetence for allowing it to happen and without you running things you just know the Alliance wouldn't survive. However something like this couldn't be covered up forever. Eventually someone gets suspicious of your behavior which leads to rumors, which then in turn leads to investigating. Eventually the truth comes out. The Alliance citizens are appalled, in fact if you hadn't proceeded with your extreme plan and just come out with the truth about Alex's actions in the beginning you might not have been hated quite so much. You displayed poor judgment, by allowing Alex to go about his own devices. Strike one. You ruthlessly had children killed to possibly contain a contagion. Strike two. You attempted to cover all this up and lied about it. Strike three. This type of behavior makes you look like deceitful murderous tyrant, something the Alliance towns had enough of under Harry during the Combine regime. People are calling for your blood, and your immediate resignation of Atomic Alliance leader, in fact you might be imprisoned...or worse. You've lost all support. By the end, you've barricaded yourself in an underground room in Base Pandora with people telling you to give yourself up; of course you have no intention of doing that. In your last moments as you point the pistol to your head, you think about Marina, and how it all would've been easier had you died with her and how you tried to rebuild civilization even after she was gone, but just failed without her around, however once again you rationalize. "Yeah...they all united against me...I kept them united... then Vivica will certainly take power...the Alliance will live on...I didn't fail...Marina...I didn't fail..." Your delusional thoughts come to an end with a door burst open, and a bullet to the brain.