The Last World - Zed Crosses the Desert

            Three days was a long time to walk barefoot through the desert sand. Zed had always imagined that walking across the dunes would be gentle, sand pillowing beneath his toes. Instead his feet were raw and blistered, torn in places by hidden rocks, and leaving bloody prints that were quickly swallowed by the wind.

            He’d taken as many bottles of water as he could fit into his bags, and few of the nasty tasting protein bars Rayeed was always going on about. They were all gone now, the bottles of water, Rayeed, his family. Zed shook his head sharply, trying to keep the bad thoughts away, and the horizon swirled for several beats after he’d stopped moving.

           

            They watched the boy take a shaky step, and then another. Tenu’a thought they would be following him for yet more pointless miles across this gritty wasteland. But what the mistress wants she shall always receive. If she’d just explain what she was looking for then maybe he’d have fewer complaints floating through his head.

            Then, as if the mother of fate was listening to his thoughts, the urchin stumbled, recovered for a moment, and crumpled to the ground.

            The mistress sighed. A pleased sighed. Tenu’a tried to read her face, but as always she betrayed nothing but a fierce vitality. Lady Raid rolled her shoulder like a stalking beast just about to pounce and began walking slowly toward the boy’s withered form. She said nothing but it was for Tenu’a and Glady to follow as always.

            The two servants trudged through the loosely packed sand though their mistress barely left an imprint as she stepped over the dune, as if her feet barely kissed the earth before they moved on. The boy had left a shuffling track nearly a mile long that would be gone in less than an hour. It had been easy to follow.

            This morning when they had picked up his trail the mistress had kept them far back, always out of sight. But as the sun had risen in the sky she had grown bolder, following more and more closely though staying out of eyesight. It was clear that the boy had run out of reserves, and even under the best of circumstances could have offered them no physical challenge. Tenu’a had quickly come to realize that they were not hunting the child, something else was.

            Just a pace short of the body the mistress stopped moving and turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at Glady. The tiny woman understood the beckoning look and quickened her march to reach their lady’s side. Had Tenu’a received the same glance he would have likely jogged over, but even in doing the mistress’ bidding Glady always comported herself as a proper lady.

            “Yes Mistress.” Glady coughed, her voice dried from the scorching heat of the desert.

            “Are you prepared?” The mistress sounded as cool as always, her voice hard, the question not asking for Glady’s readiness , but rather demanding it.

            “Of course mistress, only…” Glady stopped her thought before any hesitation could be voiced. The mistress had days were even the slightest perception of insolence could be met with the fiercest of recriminations. Not today it seemed.

            “Speak Glady, the law only permits me to save one a generation. If you have doubts, I’d not have to look upon your knowing smirks for another thirty years.”

            Glady’s eyes started at the desert floor. Tenu’a quickly realized what they had come here to do, and understood why he had been left out of the preparations. They were going to interfere. “Mistress, it is only that this one is so young. Is there not another who might be better able to carry out our plans? One who would not be so vulnerable?”

            The Lady Raid cocked her head to the side, seriously considering her answer, choosing the words carefully as she always did. “You know the game Glady. It is a long one. There are others of course who might bear the brand, but all of them are so obvious. Too many of their own ideas. This one will grow with its power, and so be shaped by it. Best of all the enemy will never see him coming.” She turned away from her servants and looked down on the boy, the smallest of smiles touching her lips. “And, this one has the sight.”

            Tenu’a was able to bite his tongue, but Glady voice his gasp for him. The sight, the true sight, was a gift rarer than a long and happy life among the mortals. One born with the sight was a powerful ally indeed, and to place their mark upon such a child would be a coup indeed. But there was also risk there as well. The sight could see things, futures, realities, the cold hard truth of all matters, in such a bare faced way that almost all the mortals who possessed it were driven mad.

            It was true that this child had already shown a resilience Tenu’a had not seen match in decades, maybe even centuries, but it was a danger none the less to spend the brand on one who might not be capable of using it.

            “I understand my Lady.” Glady knew everything Tenu’a did, and even she with her outbursts was not about to outright question the mistress. “He will be powerful, a storm upon the desert, one that can bring the flood.”

            Yes, Tenu’a agreed silently, but there is no telling who might drown.

            The Lady lowered herself to her knees as Glady pulled a length of coiled wire from her travelling bag. Tenu’a had seen this ritual several times in the service of his mistress and every time it frightened him. The High Danan were prohibited by the laws from interfering with unwilling mortals, though as in all things exceptions did exist. Those mortals whose time on the material plane had come to the end, the dying, with souls about to leave their bodies save for the intercession of a greater power were, to put it bluntly, fair game.

            The great warrior Braxis, the dark priest Mathugh, and surely countless others, had at one point been upon the doorstep of death only to be pulled back into their flesh by the mark of the High Danan. Tenu’a shuddered thinking about the pain and ruin that surely followed.

            The wire was laid on top of the sand in a large circle that enclosed both the unconscious boy and the Lady Raid. The lady had rolled the child over as if her were weightless and laid his arms down at his side. When the simple circle’s ends were joined Glady whispered a word of power into the wire and suddenly their link to their mistress was broken as if a wall or a world had fallen between the few meters that separated them. Tenu’s knew the circle would contain the forces about to be unleashed upon the mortal realm, but he always felt nervous when his mistress was so exposed.

            Glady walked backwards towards him, her eyes never leaving the Lady or the boy. Clearly she was nervous as well, but Tenu’a was not prepared to try and comfort her.

            Inside the circle the Lady Raid reached into her flowing pearl colored robes and withdrew a tiny dagger. The blade could not have been more than three inches long, but Tenu’a was still shocked by it presence. The weight of the dagger like a pressure against the inside of the circle. It was the Dervish Blade, the slayer of the Giant Salas’dan, the blade that wounded the god Hemlock. To use such a weapon for a branding was surely against the Law.

            There was nothing he was capable of doing, nor would he dare approach and break the ritual while the Dervish Blade was present. It was clear that his Lady had something in mind for the boy and it was not a servant’s place to question.

            In prior rituals the tools used to mark the mortals were often symbolic of their stations. For Boraxis it had been the shattered halft of an Orok chieftan’s axe. If Tenu’a understood his mistress she wanted to make a statement about the boy. See a child, like a small unassuming dagger, one that wields a power capable of hurting the gods themselves.

            With a deft slash, quicker than Tenu’a could blink the lady had cut open the boys shirt. Tenu’a watched the thin starved chest, its rise and fall almost so slow as to be imperceptible. The child was not long for this world and so were the laws observed.

            The branding would not make the child immortal, but it would grant him strength. Of what kind Tenu’a did not know, but it was certain to be powerful given the circumstances and time the Lady Rain was prepared to devote. Most importantly the brand would get the attention of the mother of fate, placing the boy into the games of the gods and inviting those who would stand in the way of that power. The child had not asked for such a life, but even Tenu’a would have rather been a slave than to die outright. The Dana were next to immortal, so long as their bodies remained unharmed and cared for. For most the mortal coil grew tiresome and tedious. Tenu’a felt as if there were so many things he had yet to experience, even the slightest shortchanging of his experience would be the worst fate imaginable. So he couldn’t understand why he felt so bad for this child that was being offered a new chance at life.

            Then the Lady began the ritual and the fear returned to Tenu’a. He understood.

            In all moments outside of battle, the Lady Raid was gorgeous. Her round face and sultry curves exuded warmth, while her eyes and long limbs sand of intense vitality. A lust for life. In moments like these she was a different creature entirely.

            The Lady began a chant in the old language, her voice low and steady. Tenu’a didn’t understand the words but he could feel the call and response of a ceremony that needed two participants. The boy’s soul was expected to hear and join in. A wind began moving within the wire circle though the rest of the desert was deathly still.

            With both hands the mistress reached out over the body, one hand on the knife the other gripping the blade. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Tenu’a watched her draw the dagger across her palm opening a deep gash. Her blood welled out, the color of heat at the base of a bonfire. The bleeding hand was held straight up above her head, allowing the vital fluids to run down her arm.

The tip of the knife was rested gently on the boys chest. With one hand the mistress used four strokes to carve her sigil into the space above his heart. He did not bleed.

Tenu’a shivered again despite the warmth of the desert and the heat beginning to rise from the circle. The arrow of dawn, representing the first lifht of day, one of the most ancient symbols of the Dana, should never have been cut into dead flesh. No matter how many times he would have to see it, no matter how many times she forced him to watch, Tenu’a would never feel that they were doing the right thing.

The mistress’ chant grew louder and the heat coming from her body grew more intense. This was not the right place, the boy was not the right candidate. How could none of the others see that.

Then she switched her hands, thrusting the knife into the air above her head, its tip flickering as a portion of the blade entered another world. The other hand slapped down onto the new wound on the boys chest.

His body jumped simultaneously as if he was rising to meet her, or her touch had been pure electricity. There was a small clap like distant thunder and the smell of burning flesh. Tenu’a thanked the god of spells for granting him the protection of the magic circle. He couldn’t even begin to imagine such a ritual performed on unprotected ground. The result would have been catastrophic.

From the lady’s fingertips a golden light began to cover the boy’s chest, moving like a thick liquid. The golden light glowed brighter and then burst into a low blue flame engulfing the body and surrounding the lady’s arm, though not burning her.

She ignored the fire and continued chanting, quickening her tempo and raising her voice as the flames grew larger.

Tenu’a was forced to look away as the heat from the circle grew too intense. Even his shadow seemed to be retreating from the ritual, the light growing so bright it began to wash out everything around them.

Tenu’a had heard the words of the ceremony spoken dozens of times. Never before had he felt this kind of intensity. He wondered if the boy’s body was trying to reject the lady’s gift, or if the magic was refusing to enter him. He didn’t want to admit to himself that there was something else in the mix. There was an incredible natural power emanating from the lady’s voice.

With his hands covering most of his face, Tenu’a forced himself to look at the circle. Squinting as hard as he was able, Tenu’a could barely see anything through the brilliant light. The fire seemed to have filled the entire magic circle creating a column of fire reaching into the sky. Both the lady and the boy were no longer visible, consumed entirely by the magic fire. A white hot pulse rolled against the walls of the circle, a blinding light forcing Tenu’a to look away again.

More light rolled across the sand and the world seemed to fade to white as the lady’s voice was lost in the sound of thunder and crackling flame.

And then the light was gone and the desert was almost entirely silent. Silent, save for crackling glass and the sound of four people breathing. Tenu’a cursed to himself, the ritual had worked.

The Last World - Gabriel Fights Dirty

            Gabriel desperately sucked in another breath of scalding hot air. If his throat hadn’t been so burnt then he’d have taken the time to curse. As it stood now breathing out hurt almost as much as breathing in, but at least he was still alive. He swore angrily in his head, at himself, for taking the time to bemoan his situation rather than dodge yet another explosion of fire and shrapnel.

            The young wizard had dropped his staff less than a minute into the battle when his opponent had started flinging fire in every direction. His master had him up all week practicing kinetic shields and mental wards, but somehow despite all the late nights they had never got to redirecting fire.

            Gabe tried to comfort himself with the fact that this was only a mock battle. All he had to do was surrender and the mad man would stop throwing fire and someone would drag him off the field. This balm to his pride lasted only as long as it took for his master’s face to appear in his head, once again scowling with disapproval.

            “A wizard never surrenders. Magic is fueled by willpower, the belief that the universe is meant to be the way you want it to be. Surrender is admitting to the universe that it can roll right over you. Besides, if he knocks you out the fight is over just the same.”

            Being knocked out hadn’t seemed like the worst alternative just a few minutes ago. Now Gabe wasn’t sure if he lost consciousness if he would ever wake up again. At the very least he’d be horribly burned. Surrender appeared to have a very big upside, but he wasn’t about to let his master down without getting at least one shot in. Who knew, maybe the fireball loving freak had a glass jaw.

            Gabe’s staff was lying on the ground less than twenty feet away, in the middle of a smoldering crater. The magically enhanced wood hadn’t burned, but Gabe knew from experience that it would still be hot to the touch. That didn’t matter now.

            At a flat out run he could grab the staff and roll behind a boulder before another fireball could be sent his way. He’d just have to time it perfectly.

            That was when Gabe noticed that his robe was on fire.

            Vessuvuss cackled as the younger mage rolled across the ground, trying to avoid the fireball while also putting out his burning robe. His master had told him to watch out for the apprentice of Matthew Dayne, but this child just seemed pathetic. His master was probably sitting in the crow right now chiding him for not finishing his opponent off rather than enjoying the fiery show. But Vessuvuss had decided he was going to at least enjoy the fight and suffer his master’s complaints later. At least this way the crowd loved him.

           

Gabe slid behind another boulder. His staff further away than before and his hand’s shiny red with a rising burn. He’d managed to save most of his robe, but it probably would have made more sense to just throw it off.

Plan A, grabbing the staff, didn’t seem like an option any more. A weaker spell aimed perfectly was going to have to make up Plan B. Gabe’s specialty was terra and kinetic magic. With enough time, concentration, and usually a circle or focus he could literally move mountains, or at least boulders like the one he was hidden behind. Without any of that he would have to try to think outside the box.

“Hey, Vesuvius.” Gabe called out from behind his rock. “What do you think about calling this a draw?”

“It’s Vessuvuss you worm.” The rival apprentice nearly choked on his surprise at the impudent question.

“Whatever Vessy. We can both still walk out of here with our head held high. No need for you to be embarrassed.” Gabe coughed, only partially to stifle a laugh, the rest because of too much ash floating in the air.

“Embarrassed. Hah.” A fake laugh. “It will only be embarrassing if I accidentally kill you.” He was right. It was considered shameful to kill you opponent in a match in the great arena. It meant that the wizard didn’t have control of his abilities. That didn’t mean that an opponent couldn’t be seriously hurt or maimed even.

“Look Vussy,” Gabe rhymed it with wussy, “if we call a draw right now everyone will think you’re so chivalrous, not kicking an enemy while he’s down. You’d look really good. For once.”

“My name,” Vessuvuss stretched out every word, taking large breaths as he gather enough power to melt through the boulder Gabe was hiding behind, “is Vessuvuss!”

The enraged apprentice let loose with more energy than he’d used the entire fight. Gabe felt the wave of heat coming even from the other side of his cover. It was how he knew exactly when to rush out into the open, and when to duck and roll.

His timing was perfect. Vessuvuss’ blast had exploded high against the boulder, boiling over the top and scourging the area where he’d hidden. Gabe’s roll took him under the lower edge of the fire, igniting his robe once more but getting him quite close to his opponent.

Gabe saw his opening and tried to shout triumphantly but his throat wasn’t in a state to keep up with the rest of him. Instead the apprentice let out a hacking cough as he thrust his hands up into the air and then down again as he clasped them together.

With the upward thrust the layer of dust and ash liberally coating the entire area exploded into the air, surprising an momentarily obscuring the crowds vision. A casual observer might have thought that had been Gabe’s plan, creating a smokescreen to buy a few moments. They wouldn’t have felt the building energy of understood Gabe’s precise control of the earth.

With the downward grasping gesture the cloud seemed to flow as if it was made of water, not fine dust. The entire shifting body surged toward Vessuvuss, surrounding his entire body and completely covering his head. As Gabe squeezed his hands together the cloud grew thicker, turning from gathered dust to a caked ball of ash trying to force itself into Vessuvuss. Inside the roiling storm, Vessuvuss fought to keep his lips pressed together and to regain his concentration. Still ash and dirt forced their way into his mouth and the fiery apprentice lost all composure and focus. He truly believed in that moment that he was about to suffocate and his survival instincts overwhelmed any magical response he might have come up with.

Just a few feet from Gabe his opponent dropped to his knees and began hacking, coughing, and spewing dirt. Gabe wasn’t trying to kill the other young man and let the spell drop, the dust collapsing into piles around the gagging man. His opponent may have been trying to keep himself from vomiting but Gabe knew the fight hadn’t ended yet. Vessuvuss or his master could have surrendered and the attendants would have removed the dust in an instant. Gabe only took a second to look at Vessuvuss master’s unforgiving face and knew that if he didn’t end the fight soon Vessuvuss might suffocate.

Ignoring thoughts of his own master’s response, Gabe decided to end the fight the quickest way he knew how. A knockout blow. His arms had dropped to his sides, heavier than lead and from the black spots floating in the corners of his eyes Gabe could tell that he didn’t have enough left in him for another spell. If he wanted the fight to end he’d have to do it the old fashioned way. Of mostly the old fashioned way because it didn’t look like he was going to be able to use his hands.

Luckily Vessuvuss was already on his hands and knees, trying to spit out a mouthful of ash. Somehow he still heard or felt Gabe coming and lifted his tear and dirt stained face to regard his opponent. Underneath the soot his face had turned a deep purple and Gabe could tell he had over done it. The flourish at the end of his spell had forced the ash not only into his opponents mouth but also down into his lungs. It wasn’t a problem for the attendants to fix, they’d simply transform the carbon ash into air, or some other neat procedure. Gabe could tell that Vessuvuss was willing to suffocate, shaming Gabe and his master, before he would surrender, even to save his own life.

Gabe let out a painful sigh, looked down at the pitiable man prostrate before him, the defiant sad eyes, and kicked Vessuvuss as hard as he could in the face.

The crowd gasped as Gabe’s foot connected with the side of Vessuvuss’ head. The crowd may not have been used to direct physical violence, but Master Dayne certainly had spent enough time drilling Gabe on the precise way to kick someone in the side of the head. Gabe’s ears started ringing just thinking about practice.

It took Gabe a couple more seconds for Gabe to realize that noise was actually the cheering and clapping crowd. Gabe’s world slowly came back into focus and he noticed the pair of attendants already examining Vessuvuss. His opponent had been revived and was quickly having the ash removed from his system. Gabe saw Vessuvuss’ master standing, avoiding looking at the victor, and staring mournfully at his own apprentice. For a moment Gabe expected the opposite reaction from Master Dayne, but when he turned to look at his own master he was sorely disappointed.

Master Dayne hadn’t even risen to his feet. His head was in his hands in an expression of shame. Gabe reeled like he’d just received a blow to the gut. What had he done wrong? He’d used a thrifty spell to incapacitate his opponent, he’d ended the fight quickly, and he didn’t let Vessuvuss die. Gabe had been clearly out classed in terms of raw power so he’d fallen back on a more roundabout strategy, exactly the kind of thing they had spent months practicing. But even as Gabe watched, his master stood up, ignoring the crowd settling into their seats as they waited for the officials to announce the next round, and walked down the steps to an exit ramp. All without ever taking a look at Gabe.

An attendant tapped Gabe on the shoulder, gently congratulating the apprentice and gesturing toward the nearest exit. Gabe stared at his master’s back so intently that the attended began to ask if anything was wrong. The apprentice gave up, and dropped his gaze to his feet, muttering “everything is fine, I won.”

The Last World - Elda Joins the Hunters

            “Can you taste it? The river runs with the blood of our enemies and our kin. With each drop we swallow, we take in their strength, their essence. Every swallow is a promise. In return for their nourishment we swear to honor their memories.” High Chief Vaaldosk raised the wooden bowl above his head careful to not spill a single drop. The crowd of onlookers filled the hillside. Hundreds of members of the Vike were able to see the glare of the sun reflecting off the water. 

            Elda knelt in the damp sand of the river bank gazing up at the Chief of all Chiefs. With the sun high in the air on the other side of the river, the High Chief’s sillouette was imposing. His scaled leather armor, fetishes, and cloth scarves made his shadow appear larger. Elda wasn’t wearing any of the traditional clothes of the Vike. Instead she had been wrapped from knees to elbows in the vibrant red cloth of an initiate hunter.

            The High Chief looked down at Elda, his eyes almost glowing with the power of the spirits residing in his body. “Merelda Blackstorm of the Far Crows, child of Andurlas Blackstorm and Mayda Firefist, do you seek to honor the memories of the fallen?”

            “Yes, the memories of the fallen are honored in my mind.”

“You who would be a hunter, explorer of the land, seeker of truth, and death to our enemies, do you have the soul of a warrior?”

“Yes, the strength of the hunter resides in my soul.”

“Daughter of the Vike, member of the clan, scion of the future, would you renounce your family clan and claim blood ties with all of our family?”

“Yes, the blood of the family flows through my body.”

“Thrice sworn, mind, soul, and body. Drink deep of the water of the fallen and be forever bound to their spirits.”

Vaaldosk slowly lowered the bowl until it was two hands above Elda’s head. He closed his eyes and began whispering in the language of the spirits. Elda tilted her head backwards and opened her mouth. As his low chant reached a crescendo the High Chief poured the water over her head in a steady stream.

Immediately Elda tasted the silt and iron rich water of the River Grend. Every child in the clan would sneak a taste as some point in their life to see if it really tasted like blood. Back then when she had first tried it, she hadn't been able to taste anything but muddy river water. Now, it seemed as though the water had been transformed into something hard to describe; a cross between warm salty blood and cool nourishing milk. As Elda swallowed her first mouthful the Chief raised the bowl, allowing the water to splash across her face and run down onto the bright red cloth wrapping. Elda couldn’t see herself but she had been to previous hunter’s initiations when she was younger.

The water that ran into the cloth darkened the fabric, changing it from a vibrant red into a deep crimson. Almost the same color as arterial blood. This was symbolic in two ways. The ritual was both a form of death, drenching oneself with blood, but also a rebirth, as a member of the hunters, warriors with no clan.

The last drops of water spilled from the bowl and Vaaldosk lowered his arms. The ritual was nearly complete.

“Bound now to the Vike, Far Crow no longer, rise Merelda Blackstorm of the Hunters.” The final words. Elda lowered her head and rocked back onto her heels. She blinked several times, clearing the water from her eyes. The world seemed different somehow, brighter, sharper.

Slowly she rose to her full height, nearly eye level with the High Chief. She dared to take another glance at the shadowy figure with too bright eyes and was surprised. He was smiling. Vaaldosk had been transformed into a kindly older man with wise crinkled eyes and a toothy grin.

Suddenly Elda realized there was a noise growing behind her, the start of a whooping cheer. The brand new hunter initiate cautiously turned around and realized that the entire crowd of her people standing on the hill had begun to cheer for her. The gathering was moving, jumping and stomping, and beating their hands on armored plates. It was impossible to find her parents in the throng but Elda swore she could hear her father’s hollering loudest of all.

From behind her, “They welcome you to the tribe Merelda, your family has grown much larger today.” The High Chief placed a hand on her shoulder, and then with a loud whoop of his own punched the other hand into the air.

Marl of the Maunt - Part 1

            The old Maunt stood high above the empty valley. Of course there were homes still standing, but only because the thorny vines grew thick enough to prop up the old wooden beams. The shadows cast by the surrounding mounts gave the day a sickly pallor. But in the winters the sun would pass directly overhead. The valley was beautiful then; when the air was cold enough to freeze in your lungs. 

            Things still lived up on the Maunt. In it might have been a more accurate term. All over the surface were caves. Some well hidden, others much more obvious for a sinister reason.

            The caves that ran deep through the mountain chain were populated by creatures, mutants, and soulless half-men. They were not things that you wanted to run into in the dead of night; and in their barrow homes, it was always the dead of night.

            Marl was one these so called half-men, though he and his people preferred the term soul-bound. In the ancient time of strife the creatures that had always survived in these parts had given them refuge. There had been a price, but it was one they willingly paid.

            But out here on the far side of the mountain, looking over the wild fields, toward the darker end of the valley, near the “lake” and the glacial wall, Marl didn’t think that it had been so important to bind themselves away from the sky. Under the land, there was never anything that could be described as open. Even the people; being shut in just came with the territory.

            He always liked to wait for the sun to climb over his mountain. Now, in the early fall when the shadows were still long, the sun would light up the darkness that seemed to envelope the northern end of the valley. The glacier stood almost the same height as the Maunt, and it radiated with an unearthly cold. It jutted out sharply, concealing its depths.

            Then as it had been doing, every day, sooner and sooner, until it would be too late, the brilliant sun peaked and the entire ice wall lit up.

             Marl’s eyes buckled under burst. Not his human ones, they had been adjusting to the light all morning. The strange circles tattooed above and below his own oval orbs were much more sensitive to the light. Even wrapped in dark cloth shrouds the sudden warmth across the entire ancient wall of ice was enough to reach them.

            But he could still see it; the great castle in the depths of the ice. This year, more clearly than ever before. When Marl had been very young the first wall had been sticking out of the ice. Now, so much later, nearly two-thirds of the ancient citadel was free of the receding ice wall. Thank the gods for the warming sky.

            He looked as often as he could, for any sign that some priceless treasure had been freed from winter’s clutch. Then Marl and the Valley Reach clan would profit from the expedition he would surely convince them to launch.

            He had tried last year, but they had said no. And the year before that as well. They always demanded proof. ‘Bring us a spec of gold and maybe we shall hear you out.’ ‘We have heard of the beasts that dwell in the Open.’

            Marl believed them to be cowards with no sense of the daring the free-spirits must have had. To come to this sacred land and try to live with the spirits of the Maunt and the valley. The destruction they must have escaped to prefer this desolate existence.

            So he withstood the pain in his face; it reached deeper than the needles that had made the markings to the sprits that dwelt in the fabric of his skein. Marl ced Vincen cal Met’to’tan called on the part of him that had tried to live in the Open.

            Today he strained his untested eyes to search the depths of the newest tower. It was larger than the rest and the stone was made of a darker granite. The windows were much larger and had balconies; a luxury none of the other spires were equipped with. Something inside of his chest had told Marl that this was the stronghold of the castle’s secrets.

            He looked hopefully through the gaps in the shadowed walls, trying to gauge the depths of the power hidden in the more solid shadows within. Something he could take back, anything that would make his days on the Maunt more fulfilled.

            His eyes perceived nothing but darkness and empty space. The cold air couldn’t be penetrated. Another morning wasted. Another day of mundane toil stood ahead.

            Marl rubbed his eyes and sighed to the gods below and even those above. Any sign would be appreciated. The clouds drifted idly by and the wind didn’t shift.

            In an act of sheer aggravation Marl pulled out his father’s dagger and hurled it with all his killing might. It stabbed point first into the dried out trunk of an old mountain tree. The fine silver handle quivered only slightly and the thud echoed down the rocky slope. His father was not amused.

            Knowing he had to retrieve the blade, as was his sonly duty, Marl stepped off his waiting rock and leapt to the boulder the tree’s ancient roots had taken over.

            That was when it happened. It must have been the shift in perspective, or the sign he had begged for, but a brilliant golden flash jumped out of the castle’s dark window, catching Marl’s eye. It blinded him, and he ruined his landing. Knees first into the rocky hill, then elbows into the loose gravel. Marl slipped further, scratching his side. He prayed to the spider spirit living inside of his heart and he felt strength flow into his hands, the swirls of his tattooed thumbs moved hypnotically and his fingers closed around a root, vice-like in their grip.

            His feet kicked out frantically and found purchase on the side of the crumbling boulder. With the gift of his bound hands Marl was able to climb up onto the tree’s plane. He craned his neck looking towards the castle.
            The window was dark and clouds were swelling ominously, threatening to block the sun.
            With his improved strength Marl jumped out over the hill to one of the old tree’s branches, hanging in the middle of cliff. His strong hands gripped the dry branch and Marl saw it again.
            The throbbing pulse of the sun’s reflection, gold against whatever it was emanating from. Marl’s head swirled with the beat, and his mind filled with the implications of such a treasure; fame and fortune, security in this dangerous world. He would be the one to have claimed the frozen castle, and return life to the valley.
            But, rang out in Marl’s head, only if you show them proof. Marl had to claim the golden treasure and bring it back to the tribe. Then they would believe him. They would go to the castle and hail Marl as their king. King of the Spider-bound.
            Then the sun was obscured by the looming storm front. A freezing squall would come down the Maunt and chill the valley with torrents of lashing water.
            Marl didn’t care. He had to cross the valley. He had to climb the glacier and enter the castle. He had to have the golden treasure that his eyes could no longer perceive. These goals he swore to his father’s dagger as he pulled it from the elder tree.

            With hardened purpose Marl, soul-bound to the spiders, started down the Maunt, moving only closer to his destiny.

Go To Part 2

Marl of the Maunt - Part 2

            Marl gave thanks to the spirit gods for the darkness within the castle. More like the caverns of his home, these depths were suited to his other eyes.

            This was also fortuitous because Marl had used the dark scarves that usually covered his face to bandage his hands. The ragged wrappings covered his blistered and burned fingers and palms.

            Crossing the valley in the storm had been rough. The wind had been worse than Marl had expected. The way it cut across the flat plains and whipped the rain sideways was particularly harsh. At least he was moving with the storm.

            The fierce gale was only fueling his drive. Even so, Marl had to take refuge for the heart of the storm. He ducked into an ancient barn, the rafters over taken by vines, the walls thick with leaves. The wind railed against the rickety building, but it was used to the stresses of the weather.

            Lightning crashed and thunder shook the ground. The storm only raged harder and the wind screamed through the cracks in the walls. Marl had never even seen a storm like this from the safety of his cave, let alone weathered one in a shack out in the Open.

            There was lightning again. The thunder was louder and the tremors threatened to tear the barn to the earth. He had never seen a storm of this magnitude. As quickly as it had swelled, the winds blew on.

Marl felt the eye pass over his head as the electricity in the air danced and his hair had stood on end. The rain didn’t slow, but the lighting had moved on with a burst.

The spirit-bound ran out into the rain and watched the path of the storms vortex, hurtling away from the dusk. Lightning bolts scoured the earth underneath its swell. Marl was awed by the power he had felt. Something awful would happen before the sun’s light touched the earth again, and he, Marl ced Vincen cal Met’to’tan would be in the shadow of the glacier before that happened.

Before his third dawn off the mountain Marl had jogged through the freezing rain and into the icy shadow of the ancient rock. His breath came ragged as his lungs tried to fight out the frost. There was something chill about this glacier and the air that touched its surface reflected its nature.

Marl had waited until the suns peak, while not breaking through the clouds of the storm, still warmed the air and gave him the strength to ascend the cliff. The spider inside of his soul lent its will to his finger tips and they did not slip against the icy face. Still they burned at the unnatural cold and tore against the glass-like rock.

The sun had begun its descent behind the Maunt and the air turned harsh. Only half way to the castles wall, Marl feared a night out in the exposed freezing air. If the rain started again, his body would freeze to the glacier until the spring thaws melted him free.

The spirit gods lent him an ounce of wit and he pulled out the two lowest daggers from his concealed eight. These were sturdy tools; not of fine death like some of the others, but every tool had its purpose. With resigned strength and the thought of his oath, Marl stabbed into the glaciers face and moved even more quickly up the frozen wall.

He had reached the grey castle wall before the moon had risen into view of the valley, and the clouds had seemed to lose their energy. They dissipated letting the full moon through. The rains would not return this night. Marl looked at god of the night sky and put his daggers away their work done. His hands ached, and blood flowed freely from several sores.

The grey wall was not smooth as it had appeared from even a short distance. It was jagged and rough, which made scaling it an easy if not painful feat. The rock seemed to bite into Marl’s hands and the points tore at his legs and stomach. More than once he had banged his head though he had been looking where he had been headed.

Marl had sat atop the high grey wall, resting his torn palms and watched the moon drift behind the old Maunt. It had been a heroic climb, and the gods would be pleased by his effort. Every drop of blood spilled in their name would be added to his tally of deeds. Some men measured their worth only in their own vital fluids.

Marl was surely glad of the darkness of the keep. A large boxed fortress sat in the middle of the castle, built around the black tower, rising from the center. It had been set into the ground to make use of the earth’s natural defense. The cold bit worse here in the stale caverns of the castle.

The spirit within him could feel something more sinister about the chill air. It was not the absence of heat; it was more the unwillingness of it to travel inside the castles walls.

Marl had also noticed the absence of anything living other than insects, and only those that crawled across the earth in search of waste and carrion. Marl was the only predator here, his soul the only that belonged to a spider. 

The caverns were laid out strategically, a defensive position Marl was easily able to follow to its center. A wrought iron portcullis barred the last passageway. Marl could see the tower beyond it through the eyes of his spider-spirit, it glowed a strange black that seeped into the cavern floor and the icy ceiling.

The gate had been lowered but Marl could not tell if it was locked. There was a pile of very old armor slumped against the wall, the dirt and shadows trying to reclaim it as well. He tried not to think about his raw palms and wrapped them around a cold iron bar.

Marl heaved, and a loud grating sound echoed down the empty caverns. Much louder than he would have guessed possible, but the portcullis had only moved a few inches. His left hand started bleeding again.

Again he tried, this time willing more out of his spirit, Marl knew where to find the strength to move this gate. Every year since the day it had been deemed he would survive being weaned, Marl had been slashed with the first pair of daggers he had been given. Two Xs under each arm; four new Xs cut each year on top of the old ones. It was a painful sacrifice to his spirit, but it gave Marl extraordinary power in return.

Now he put only some of his spirit’s weight into the pull. The gate shrieked again, metal grating that could have woke the dead. It pulled another inch upwards but still would not fully commit. Marl’s left hand bled freely, soaking the bandage, and he feared that his right had gone numb from damage. 

One more time Marl cal Met’to’tan summoned his spirit into his arms and pulled on the metal grate. The banshee wail of metal on stone echoed down the short tunnel, and for a split second Marl felt the metal bar his right hand gripped bend upward out of its frame. The very lattice of the portcullis was breaking before it consented to move another centimeter.

Then Marl’s left hand, his blood greasing the bar it held, slipped and he lost his battle with the gate. His hands hurt and his side ached. The tired hunter slumped against iron wall and again a loud clang bounced down the earthen halls.

It was only a split second of rest, then the pile of armor burst into motion. Dust flew from its ancient breastplate, revealing a unique emblem, one Marl had never seen before. He was only able to glimpse a flower and a skull before he jumped back from the stubborn gate.

The animated suit clanged into the portcullis, the sound less urgent than before. Marl couldn’t see a face beneath the helm, but skeletal hands clutched at the iron bars. With his spirit’s eyes Marl could see the deep black of the tower clinging to the suit from the floor where it stood. This was no simple trick.

The armored skeleton pulled up on the gate, one bone hand tugging on the bar Marl had bent. The warrior expected the rotted arm to fall right out of its socket, but the portcullis slid straight up into the ceiling, no rusted shrieks sounded this time.

The undead thing gestured towards the black doorway of the tower, and whatever power resided inside. Marl had come too far now to turn back, his path was finally clear. As he took his first step behind the suit, Marl took account of his weapons, in case the thing that had drawn him here was not friendly.

He had his two personal daggers, Zim and Barca at his hips, that was their rightful place. Hanging below Zim on his right hip, was his father’s dagger, Devil-root. Slung low across his back, end resting on his hip, was the machete-like blade Marl had taken from a Mutant chieftain. There was the small blade from Auto cal Re’De’Tan concealed in his right boot, and the long thin blade behind his left thigh from a cabin on the surface he had found two Springs earlier. Last was the pair of daggers, upside-down on his back, which Marl had won in octathalon, marks of his skill, as well as tools of death.

Should it come to a fight, Marl was sure he could overpower the dead soldier and escape down the tunnel. As he took one more glance at the final passageway the spirit in him knew that was only true if they left the gate open.

Live Blogging A Reaction to the SCOTUS Hobby Lobby Case.

"It held that the Greens' businesses are "persons" under RFRA, and that the corporations had established a likelihood of success on their RFRA claim because the contraceptive mandate substantially burdened their exercise of religion."

"No conceivable definition of "person" includes natural persons and non-profit corporations, but not for-profit corporations." - Did they laugh hysterically at their own wit while putting this one down?

"In fact, this Court considered and rejected a nearly identical argument in Thomas v. Review Bd. of Indiana Employment Security Div., 450 U.S. 707... at 716." - pp 5. The case the court is referring to, Thomas was about a Jehovah's Witness refusing to build tank turrets. The court is very clearly drawing a line that there is no difference between providing contraception and creating a weapon of war.


"All, told, the contraceptive mandate 'presently does not apply to tens of millions of people.... This is attributable, in large part, to grand-fathered health plans."- pp. 11 That's the point of grandfathering, over time more and more people will be covered by the new law. Too bad for hobby lobby that they didn't bet on their employees in 2009.

This part blows the door off the hinges and I'm going to make leave out the cites, its on page 12. "As explained in Conestoga's board-adopted 'Statement on the Sanctity of Human Life,' the Hahns believe that 'human life begins at conception.' It is therefore 'against [their] moral conviction to be involved in the termination of human life' after conception, which they believe is a 'sin against God to which they are held accountable.'   pp 13. I mean how involved are they in their sex lives. In Thomas the court states that because Thomas was willing to work at least peripherally in the construction of component materials such as rolled steel, his objection to the discovery of the turrets was more valid.
This really is going to allow employers/employees/anyone to stretch the meaning of burden. I mean public schools are teaching evolution, I don't want my taxes to pay for something I'm going to have to pay Ben Stein to unteach. Same with physics, and sex-ed, and most of those English books, and any history before 324 AD.

"they buy hundreds of full-page newspaper ads inviting people to "know Jesus as Lord and Savior." - pp. 14, since when has advertising been evidence of closely held moral values, and how does it make up for the thousands that maternity can cost.

Eggsaberroar: A Long Epic about Short People - Chapter 2

            Eggsaberroar: A Long Epic about Short People

            Chapter 2: In which Ty's expectations are defied.

            Two days at sea, smooth calm waters and gusting winds. The journey of every sailor’s dreams, and apparently Tideberries' nightmares. Everything was running so smoothly, the sailors had absolutely nothing for Ty or his brother to do. Rusty could at least be endlessly entertained climbing and swinging through the ship's rigging. Steve, the human man that sat in the Mayfly’s crow’s nest, had warned Ty at first of his brother’s activities, but quickly realized how adept the younger halfling boy was at climbing.

            Ty wasn’t afraid of the rigging’s heights, he just found the small ship to be entirely too contained, and sitting perched on a small bobbing beam didn't help much. Instead he roamed in circles around the deck of the ship, looking for any wildlife in the skies or under the water. Searching for any signs of land, weather patterns, unidentified levitating objects, anything. Ty also spent a good amount of time getting to know the other passengers on board.

            Blinkweaver the gnome was older than Ty had imagined, thirty seven years old, though apparently this gave him about the same status in gnome society as Rusty, an eighteen year old halfling had in their own; two young men going to prove themselves in the world. The gnome, as Ty had imagined, was a magician. A wizard to be exact, looking for a place to learn the great secrets of the age. At least that was how Blink described it, among other bigger gnomish words that Ty couldn't quite make out.

            The gnome used most of the daylight reading what looked like the same chapter of his large ratty book over and over again. Rusty had spent a good two hours the first morning begging Blink to show off his spells. The gnome had tried to explain something about the metal-for-sickle limits of a magician’s strength, not to mention the dire casual cons and queen of needles tampering with reality, but Rusty had deftly countered this gnomish gibberish with "c'mon."

            Finally, Blink had grinned in such a way that Ty would have already been diving for cover. One second Rusty was bouncing the balls of his feet, leaning in to see, and then suddenly the halfling child was covered head to toe in a splash of many colors. He giggled like a sot and stumbled around the deck for nearly ten minutes minutes rubbing at his eyes, before finally coming to his senses with his clothes still dyed all the colors of the rainbow. Rusty had started looking for other crew members to bother after that.

            The only people Rusty and Ty both seemed to avoid were the four mercenary guardsmen. Ty had learned that they did not work for Captain Kobashard, but instead had been hired to protect a precious cargo being brought from one of the dwarven islands. Every time the halfling seemed to turn his back on them Ty would feel an uneasy prickling on his shoulders and hear mean-hearted snickering. They spent far too much time sharpening their cheap swords. A good warrior would know such a blade would grow soft, and fold in real combat.

            The rest of the crew seemed to be made of the usual sort of sell swords, ruffians, and good natured louts found on such transport ships. The only true warrior onboard appeared to be the human man Colbert. As a worshipper of Fidela, goddess of the sky, Ty quickly recognized Cobert as another man of faith, and soon after striking up a conversation learned the man was a cleric of Odum, the god of light and the sun.

            Among the halflings there were few clerics. They prayed sitting down too often in Ty's opinion. Most of the small folk worshipped True-Hearth, god of the earth, but he was not typically a quest or crusade kind of deity. The followers of True-Hearth preferred to offer their Lord glory in working the soil, and helping things grow. The halflings who chose Fidela were drawn to the borderless sky, so different from the tiny islands of Terra Legusta. They usually became Druids or Rangers, and some even left the islands to explore the world.

            Ty had seen only a few followers of Odum in his first quest into the outside world. From what his uncle had taught him, humans had strange ideas about strength, size, and virtue. He had said the Odums in particular considered Halflings and Gnomes naturally wicked, and Dwarves greedy and brutish. Halflings journeying to the ancestral mountains tried to avoid the golden sun visage whenever they had spotted it.

            Colbert was a different story. The young man was apparently the third son of a minor noble family, the youngest of five in total. His parents had decided that this would leave little in the way of his inheritance and turned him over to the priesthood of Odum at a young age. Colbert had been a bit of a rambunctious child, full of energy and always talking, though he grew to love the more encouraging stories and parables of Odum. The priests had decided Colbert's special talent for shouting hymns while running might serve well in the army and had assigned him as the chaplain to a regiment when he had come of age.

            The second civil war was a complete stalemate, over thirty years had passed since the last major battle, and the waste of resources and manpower had distressed Colbert, and the bureaucracy of the military disgusted him. During the three years he spent in the military, Colbert had met thousands of soldiers, most born in the decades since the fighting had ceased. A year ago he had asked for a transfer from the army, and had been given a position as a wandering cleric. Only a month ago Colbert had taken this job, ministering to travelers on the Mayfly.

            Ty had never met a human who spoke about people, all peace-desiring people, the way that Colbert did. If his Uncle had been here he would have been amazed. If Uncle would take the time to even bother speaking to Colbert. Ty wasn’t like that, he enjoyed trying new things, even when the results weren’t what he expected, especially then. Ty had eaten those spicy chilies he and uncle found in the northern desert, and he had jumped off the barn when his cousin Clayobotray had dared him. She had screamed at the sight of his broken leg, and Rusty had started crying, he was so little then. Ty had only been fascinated by the brief weightless feeling. Part of that might have been the shock.

            Each morning Ty and Colbert had both arisen early, before the dawn, and prayed quietly on the ship’s bow. For Ty the canvas painted by the sun breaking the flat ocean horizon was a thing of glory. This morning the sky was a bright red, turning orange where the night retreated. There was a grey veil all about them in the air and the ship’s wood was damp and slick in places. Ty was delighted at this break from the harsh salt air, but Colbert frowned as he stared to the east.

            “What is it?” Ty asked, still a bit sleepy.

            “There will be rain today, it might be a storm.” The cleric closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “The wind will remain in our favor, but it will reduce our visibility.”

            They were still three days from harbor, Ty’s still waking brain didn’t see why this should be a problem on the open ocean. “Why is that bad?”

            “There are people who sail these waters that might take advantage of such a storm.”

            Colbert was speaking about pirates; unscrupulous mercenaries that preyed on the frequent travelers between the southwestern islands. “There are pirates on this route?” Ty asked. Only five years ago this had been a well traveled path between the Red Island and southern ports of Ranier.

            “There are pirates on every route these days.” Colbert opened his eyes again and looked back into the ship’s glowing wake. “This ship was attacked over a month ago, their cleric died. That’s why they needed to hire me. The civil war ended thirty years ago, but really the lords never stopped fighting.  It even looks like their children are growing into warriors. They spend so much time preparing to battle each other one day that they have stopped spending the resources to keep the pirates at bay.”

            Somewhere off in the distance thunder rumbled, but neither of them saw the flash.

***

            Ty spent the rest of the day below deck near a porthole looking at his maps. It had been an age since the halfling ancestors had been chased away from the mountains, and scores of generations had made the trip. Ty wanted to make sure that he had every step of the journey memorized; every single important landmark, instructive note, or quaint recollection ever recorded by all of his halfling forefathers. Ty didn’t know where Rusty was right now, but at least he hadn’t heard any crashes or shouts.

            Blink had come by earlier muttering something about prejudged juice, yet another big sounding thing the halflings didn’t have a word for in their language. He had said the light was better in the aft of the ship and that he would finish his reading down there.

            Ty didn’t quite know how long ago that had been, but the circles from the port holes were starting to creep back up the wall. Thunder cracked loud and rattled the unlit lanterns, shaking Ty out of his studies.

            He hadn’t noticed when it started but there was a steady drip of rain from the hatch leading to the deck and he heard shouts from the crewmen pulling at the rigging. Ty decided to head back outside to see if there was anything he could help with.

            From the raised back of the ship Tyra shouted orders at the men. Ty hadn’t even begun to try to figure her out. The wind wasn’t violent, but the mist had closed in and their heading had to be adjusted to get out of the storm’s path. Captain Kobashard stood at the wheel, pulling hard at carefully thought out intervals, then letting it spin back. Every now and then Steve shouted back reports of all clear from the crow’s nest, though visibility had to be close to nothing, even up there.

            Tim, one of the deck hands shouted at Ty to stay back. There was another large crack of thunder, and Ty saw the fog flash a bright white to the starboard side of the ship, but was not able to see the stripe of lightning. Ty saw two of the traveling guards standing on the deck by a railing, not in any hurry to offer their help, or keep track their precious dwarven artifact.

            The Dorkins, the family of humans, were standing behind the captain, their young son laughing happily and splashing in the rain. Ty had spent most of yesterday talking with Kyle Dorkin, apparently the owner of a tavern in Midport, and another good natured fellow. He and his family had celebrated their good fortune with a short trip to Isla Azra. Ty had never heard of a torn-wrist resort, but it sounded exciting. Ty had seen Rusty playing some hiding game with the little boy earlier, but the child was by himself now.

            Finally Ty spotted Rusty. His brother was inside the crow’s nest with Steve, his tiny form barely visible over the edge of the basket. The fool. Ty could only imagine how mad Dad would be if Rusty got struck by lightning before they even reached the mainland.

            Then before Ty was able to begin to shout there was another crack of thunder and strange muffled flash of light. A shriek from the deck grabbed Ty’s attention to the lone traveling guard at the deck railing. His companion was gone and he appeared to be looking up into the air instead of out into the storm. He was shouting something but it wasn't the word overboard. Ty looked back to the nest in time to see a long rope attached to a large net, tipped in heavy metal balls, reaching into the basket.

            The rope pulled taught as Ty began another warning yell. His brother had already seen the danger and was beginning to turn, and then with a twist and a blur Rusty was gone, yanked starboard into the fog. Ty heard other cries adding to his own and looked behind him in time to see a net wrap around the mother of the Dorkin family, her husband and child nowhere to be seen.

            Springing from somewhere in the dense mist leaped a dark shadow, blurry even as it landed upon the deck with an inhuman snarl. Ty had never smelled such an odor before, like a rabid dog left dead in the rain for a few days. What he had mistaken for a ragged outline, Ty quickly realized was thick fur protruding from poorly constructed cloth rags pretending to be clothing. His Ranger training clicked into place as a hated name boiled to the surface.

            Gnolls.

The Week I Forgot How to Sleep and a Preview of Eggsaberroar Chapter 2

Well I finally did it. My sleep scheduled has moved further and further back to the point that I am now comfortable calling myself Nocturnal. In the last days of law school I am responsible for closing out my case work, submitting two 30 page research papers, passing a final exam, applying for the bar, and graduating in general. I guess I'll say it. My creative juices are feeling awful tapped out at the moment.

I have nearly twenty more pages of the epic story of Eggsaberroar written, but not edited and in need of a good scrubbing before they get put out here. I have at least two days in the next week in which to work on my own personal frivolities, which include laundry, and I am going to designate a good portion of that time to putting out Chapter 2 of Eggsaberroar.

In this chapter you will get to meet Blinkweaver Spellshooter, a quarrelsome gnome with a passion for bright lights and explosions, and the love-struck but duty-bound cleric Colbert. Ty and Rusty have only just begun their journey to Terra Regalia and already danger lurks hidden in every shadow.

-Rockit



Preview of Eggsaberroar Chapter 2:

...

Blinkweaver the gnome was older than Ty had imagined, thirty seven years old, though apparently this gave him about the same status in gnome society as Rusty had as an eighteen year old halfling, two young men going to prove themselves in the world. The gnome, as Ty had imagined was a magician, a wizard to be exact, looking for a place to learn the great secrets of the age. At least that was how Blink described it, among other bigger gnomish words that Ty couldn’t quite make out.

The gnome spent most of the day reading what looked like the same chapter of his large ratty book over and over again. Rusty had spent a good two hours the first morning begging him to show off his spells. The gnome had tried to explain something about the metal-for-sickle limits of a magicians strength, not to mention the dire casual cons and queen of needles tampering with reality, but Rusty had persistently countered this gnomish gibberish with "c'mon."

Finally Blink had grinned in such a way that Ty would have already been moving for cover, and suddenly the Halfling child was covered head to toe in a splash of many colors. He giggled like a sot and stumbled around the deck for nearly ten minutes minute rubbing at his eyes, before finally coming to his senses, his clothes still dyed all the colors of the rainbow. Rusty had started looking for other crew members to bother after that.

The only people Rusty seemed to avoid were the four guardsmen. Ty had learned that they did not work for Captain Kobashard, but instead had been hired to protect a precious cargo being brought from one of the dwarven islands. Every time the Halfling seemed to turn his back on them he would feel an uneasy prickling on his shoulders and hear mean snickering. They spent far too much time sharpening their cheap swords. A good warrior would know such a blade would grow soft, and fold in real combat.

...

Moon Pie's Revolutionary Cookbook

This a short advertisement for the cookbook being written by Moon Pie, one of the other founding members of Storm the Moon Entertainment. Food For Free Thought: A People's History Through Food, is a brand new, humorous, inventive, and delicious cookbook. The recipes are grouped to follow the classic cycle of revolutions, following the rise of tyrants, the spread of oppression, and leading to the inevitable confrontation with the opposition. The cookbook has recipes themed around interesting historical events, tying flavors and themes to different time periods and special events. The food is really tasty but actually simple to reproduce, and every dish comes with a story you can entertain with. This is not a cookbook for the thin skinned or weak willed, but directions for meals to feed the revolutionary spirit. If you are interested in following along then favorite the cookbook blog, and see pictures and anecdotes about the cookbook creation process.

More importantly, today is the first day of a month long kickstarter project seeking to fund the publication of Food for Free Thought. Moon Pie is well on her way to finishing writing and editing the recipes, and had begun testing and photographing her final results. The kickstarter includes a variety of rewards including Food For Free Thought collectibles, a monthly recipe club, and ideas and instructions for themed three course meals. If you want to help fund an indie baker/chef and get fat and happy doing it, then please take a look at the page and think about donating to the Food For Free Thought: A People's History Through Food kickstarter.

Spies and Sabs - Brain Storming

Spies and Sabs RPG - Post #1: Brain Storming-

Hey World,

This is going to be a short post but will explain some of the things I want to work on. First off, as you are all aware I have helped start Storm the Moon Entertainment, and we are going to be releasing a series of super cheap, or maybe even free, print and play home RPGs. One of the first that I am excited to start presenting to all of you is a game I created in middle school, Spies v. Sabs.

Spies and and Sabs is a simple game, for a group of 2 - 6 players that only needs couple of pieces of papers, a location, and a mission. The rules are similar to play-by-mail games like diplomacy, where players move simultaneously, and use superior numbers to capture and hold strategic points. I've got a couple of sample locations and missions for testing, and once we get some things worked out I'll post a sample game.

I'll add a tab in the table of contents, so you can follow more Spies and Sabs posts.

-Rockit

One Hour Anniversary - Part 1

by Shea Beitler-Akman - (3/27/2014)

                There was a burst of white light. Brighter and different from any I had seen before. Every other light was brightest at its center and faded outwards. This light seemed to have a cold dark center. There was no telling how far it went, my face was already pressed up against the porthole, but I guessed forever. I had never seen a sun before, but this didn't seem like the true fire I imagined. I relaxed, letting my eyes lose focus, but thinking about the thermal implants in my retinas.

                The world changed color, though not like I had expected it to. Heat signatures spiked, showing up in hot reds, yellows, and whites, and then almost as quickly faded to a cool black. I had expected there to be something, debris on the other side other window, and I had expected it to be hot. I focused, and even as my eyes filtered out the ambient warm air and the heat of our drifting pod, I could tell there was nothing out there floating in the void. As I continued to watch, the small window slowly rotated, changing the angle of the stars.

                The cabin was dark again now except for the dim green glow of the medical screens. I was disappointed. The doctor had never told me where we were going. I knew that the ship we we had been on was headed to a combat zone so they should have been prepared for a fight. I knew we were headed for a combat zone, because I had figured out that I was built for combat too.

                My companion snored slightly. I wasn’t sure if waking up was going to be a problem.

                As I far as I could remember I had only woken up three times. All three times it was to the doctors standing around me with their tiny blue pen lights. I could feel bands of energy moving through my tissue, so I assumed that they were probing me, scanning for something.

                ***

    The first time I had woken up the doctors didn’t notice. I couldn’t open my eyes, or move my body, but I came into consciousness. It was disorienting. I could feel the static tingle of my body trying to wake up, and the sore tissue in my throat and arms where medical equipment had been removed.

                I tried to think about what I had been sent in for but I ran into several problems. I could remember detailed information about hundreds of medical procedures, but I couldn’t remember ever receiving one. I knew what a doctor was, but I hadn’t opened my eyes yet so I wasn’t aware that the people speaking around me were those, or how different they were from the smiling multicultural array of cataloged images.

                I tried not to concentrate on all of the injuries that were running through my mind, and as I realized I had no memories of being sick, I started to think maybe I could have had one. Maybe I was paralyzed and these people had found me. I tried to think about where I might be. I could remember thousands of locations across hundreds of planets, millions of battle sites scattered across the cosmos, but I had no idea where I was, where I was from, or anywhere I had ever been. There were images in mind of a planet, strange detailed pictures with sounds that I could feel as though I had run through it blindfolded. The memories of the planet had no smells, which was strange. I had strange memories of pungent aromas but none came to mind as a favorite or even unpleasant.

                Right now I could smell surgical antiseptic, blood, aftershave, perfume, burnt tobacco, grilled meat from the Capra genus, and the root of the Amoracia rusticana. I could remember tastes, but most of them were ingredients. I tried to think about food, because I was very hungry, but again I drew a blank.

                “Fascinating, its heart rate is close to twelve beats per minute, but its blood pressure is one sixty over ninety, for an eight year old that should be fatal.” It was a man’s voice, deep.

                I was eight years old. That surprised me. I had almost no memories of children. I thought about people, and images started coming to me. I couldn’t put any faces to name, but still more faces started racing through my mind.

                “The walls of his cells are thicker than a Cratonine Core Fish.” A woman’s voice. An image of a strange tube shaped beast, and a sphere of water larger than planet flashed through my mind. “When he starts running his muscles are going to fire like goddamn pistons.” More animals started flashing through my memory, first by the hundreds, then more images of the places they lived, the food webs in which they structured. Against this the human faces continued to strobe, and I felt a cold press at the back of my head as I could feel a wave of information start to form.

                “Aren’t you counting your chickens, Kartokoff” Another man, this one higher pitched and nasal. From the streams of information that were beginning to twist together, a species of small ground bird and strangely one of the few tastes that I seemed to know came to mind.

                “No, they were designed to be fool proof, even without this therapy the batch would be more than twice the match of a platoon of Tamerlans.” The woman made a squeaking sound as she repeatedly expelled air. “Assuming someone bothered to wake them up.” I started seeing images of people sleeping, people waking, working, walking around and even copulating. Still more animals, planets, cities, and people joined them.

                “Doctor Kartokoff has a point.” The first man with the baritone spoke again. “Once the subjects have been activated they will begin to develop the long term tactile enhancements.” His voice sounded as though he was stating the obvious. “This therapy today is for the specific treatments the clients requested. With this tech at full size one of these things will be able to kill an A’quoin bull ox barehanded or two platoons of Tamerlans.” The image that jumped out of the growing ocean was an enormous four legged mammal, with short bristling fir and four jutting horns above its long face. More images, these of men with enormous spears standing around the monsters ankles and stabbing at its belly. More images of animals being killed, trapped, hunted and butchered joined the ocean and it started becoming harder to concentrate as the cold feeling grew.

                The woman made the squeaking cough again, and the first man joined her, though his cough was slower and less grating. The second man said “You joke, but these things could be dangerous.” His voice had an edge to it now.”You’re right, when we’re finished today this Jenin will be unstoppable.” The word Jenin sounded from a thousand news clips and history texts. More images of violence, now the people began to do experiments on each other. “You all remember what happened on Mars.” I remember a  strange cold filling my entire body. Images of humans killing each other. More than I could understand. Fighting, executing, massacring.

                “Umm, you guys” I could barely understand at the time but the woman Kartokoff finally noticed my distress, “something’s happening.” She didn’t sounded worried, more intrigued. Something was happening, something had broken. The streams of information had already grown past the hundreds and began to multiply to the thousands. In my mind there weren’t ten thousand tiny screens laid out in a mat, but a single screen with ten thousand individual images each fighting for focus in my mind’s eye, being watched in a constant stream. On each one there were pictures of violence, of millions of people fighting and dying every second.

                “Lazris, you said this neural feed would hold.” The second man was a different story, his voice was worried. A hand covered in latex roughly pulled my eye open.  There was a bright blue light, it moved in and out of my vision. One eye closed and then the other was given the same treatment.

                “It is holding, it’s still setting up databases and wiring up hard function.” My mind was no longer calling forward images to fill in blanks in my understanding. His words didn’t mean anything.

                “Well his CTI is showing dangerous levels of activity in sixty percent of the brain.” The second man’s voice was frenetic now. A strange roar began to build in my ears and hearing became harder.

                “Damn it Tran, stop bitching and give him a sedative.” Lazris bellowed from just across the room, but against the noise of building waves he sounded miles distant.

                “No!”  I heard a crash of metal on metal as Kartokoff moved quickly closer to me. There was a wet click and suddenly all other sound stopped except for her voice. “His system can’t keep up, give him a sedative and he’ll short circuit, he needs adrenaline.” There was a hiss, so soft and gentle it seemed like it had come from my own head.

                In the sudden silence of my mind the men’s howls were deafening. I heard crashes of metal and breaking glass, and felt the smallest of stings on the side of my neck. With a burst of fire like electricity I opened my eyes for the first time. Kartokoff, more elderly than I had imagined, was being restrained by the two others, both clutching her wrists. It was too late, the needle in her hand was empty. The last thing I heard as fire and electricity were replaced with a roar and whine of sound. ”No!” “The neural feed!”

             
                ***

                The memory still made little sense. I haven’t met Kartokoff since, and I’m not sure if the other two ever realized that I had been conscious.

Continue to Part 2