Story Challenge 5: The Yule Tides Are Rising [Part 2]

Hello again, my surprisingly loyal* fanbase!

* - I assume if you're reading this then you actually care enough to follow this blog, which produces next to no content on a regular basis. If so, great! Thanks for existing! You da real MVP.

So I'm back! I'm sure the crickets are sorely disappointed that they're out of the job. In a long-overdue move, I've decided to finish the intrepid tale of Captain Potato. I'm not sure if it will be any good, but hey, closure is closure right?

There's one particular person who's been waiting on this for a long time. They know who they are, but I want them to also know that this is, in part, my gift to them.

As a reminder, the subjects of this story challenge are:
- All the possible uses of a potato
- "Choo choo mother fucker"
- A fancy Christmas party gone horribly, messily wrong
- Justice
- Rampant and unabated climate change
- BONUS: a guest appearance by Nathan Fillion

Vas-y!

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Captain Potato.

Dave said the name again and again in his mind, but despite his best efforts he was utterly unable to turn the sound of it into something that made even a hint of sense to him.

What the hell did they spike the punch with? There's a dude in a potato costume getting ready to square up with heavily-armed terrorists...

To their credit, the terrorists seemed just as confused as poor Dave was. Aside from the distant sound of sobbing (which Dave assumed was Brenda, since she could barely keep it together on the best of days... this was not the best of days...) the whole floor was covered in a thick veil of shocked silence. Even the obnoxious Christmas music playing over the PA had fallen quiet, unable to deal with the sheer ridiculousness of the office workers' current predicament.

The good Captain himself seemed to be too caught up in his posing to notice, though after nearly a full minute of this he began to take stock.

"Ahem. Yes, Captain Potato is here to save the day! You terrorists are the root of all evil, and you will be squashed in the name of tuberous justice!"

No reaction. Not a soul in the place -- save perhaps CP himself -- had the wherewithal to plan their next steps. Id and ego alike were still busy processing.

After what seemed like an eternity, one of the assailants let out a frustrated groan from behind his Grinch-like (if the Grinch were made in China by someone who had no idea what the Grinch actually looked like) mask. "Can we just kill this dude please?"

The assertion seemed to wake the whole gathering from their collective trance. Dumbfounded stares turned to enlightened blinking to grimaces of rage wholly befitting the well-armed cadre of eco-warriors gathered hence. Grips universally tightened around all manner of dastardly weapons in the hands of their equally-dastardly wielders, prompting a smirk to appear on the face of our intrepid hero.

"The potato," he began, "is a truly versatile vegetable."

From behind the captain, one of the terrorists (this one with a mask that vaguely resembled a reindeer crossed with a balaclava made from an old sock) charged toward him with machete raised high and voice eliciting an angry howl. Captain Potato was unphased, and as the blade began to come toward his fleshy neck, he simply pulled a cord on the side of his cannon. The action caused a gout of white steam to shoot out behind him, and as it enveloped the attacker his battlecry turned into a scream of pain as he clawed at his blistering eyes.

"They can be boiled..."

The next brave contender, this one a woman in a modest hood and bandana, positioned herself to the left of the captain and brought a pistol to bear. Without missing a beat, he stepped back and turned, allowing the bullet to pass harmlessly in front of him while bringing his own shooter in line with his foe. Two quick pulls on the trigger and another shower of tater bits showered onto the collapsing terrorist.

"You can mash them..."

All at once, the room exploded into action now. Three downed terrorists was probably two too many to ignore, and thus shit had just gotten serious. Every bad guy (and girl) in the room had now turned their attention to Captain Potato and his unconventional tool of mash destruction. Knives, pipes, rifles, and possibly even a grenade (which, Dave realised, might explain the pin drop he heard before, but he was REALLY hoping that that was metaphorical) were now levelled squarely in his direction, yet he seemed completely unphased.

"You can even stick them in a stew!"

The third or so of the remaining terrorists smart enough to bring projectile weapons quickly set about finding both cover and clear angles of fire, ducking behind cubicles and human shields in the hopes of avoiding the spud cannon's deadly(?) barrage. The others simply charged, hoping that brute force and intimidation through numbers would be enough to fell their crafty foe before he could foil their evil plans of taking down TerraCorps. Dave, for his part and from his admittedly unfavourable vantage point, imagined that the latter group were kind of like Team Rocket grunts throwing out Zubats and Rattatas in the hopes that the one guy with a Haunter might actually be able to put up a fight. And much like those grunts, what followed was a massacre.

True to his earlier assertion, as the captain ducked behind a cubicle of his own he launched an array of taters at the oncoming horde. One or two struck the lead runners in the chest, stopping them in their tracks and slowing those behind them. The others flew past the group and collided heavily with the glass wall of the office aquarium. It didn't take much for the assault to cause the glass to groan and then shatter, unleashing hundreds of gallons of water that surged over the immobile terrorists and swept them away in a heap. The squishy mass was quickly joined by a host of miscellanea that disgruntled office workers had used to decorate their desks before the wave washed the desks away as well. By the time it hit the outside windows, the once-clean water had turned a fetid mix of brown and red, having collected a decidedly non-trivial number of desk plants and their associated soil as well as no small amount of blood from the now-wounded terrorists. After all, if you put enough sharp objects in close proximity with a group of people too disoriented to control them, there are bound to be a few cuts and scrapes. The situation only got worse as the sheer pressure of the crashing pile caused the exterior glass to shatter, sending the screaming terrorists to their untimely end in the streets below. Amazingly, not a single hostage was caught in the fleshy tsunami -- a feat not lost on the remaining attackers that were now huddled even closer to their respectively cover.

Dave was in shock. Who IS this guy?

At this point there were at least five of the terrorists left in commission, though from his place on the floor Dave realised it really could be any number. He wasn't in much of a position to confirm, and being an accountant in the midst of the weirdest gun fight in the history of weird gun fights, he figured that it was probably better to keep it that way. What was clear, however, was that the forces of good and evil were currently in a standoff, and neither group was willing to risk making the first move.

Then, to Dave's complete and utter surprise, things got weirder.

"Get hammered, evildoer!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, a man in a blue shirt with a hammer emblazoned on the chest barrelerled heavily into one of the terrorists hiding behind a terrified intern. The extremist -- this one wearing a surprisingly detailed JFK mask -- went flying through the nearby cubicle with a resounding crunch, unable to brace themselves for the surprise attack. Immediately, all eyes shot to the new challenger, including Dave's.

Is that... It that Nathan Fillion?

The man, who may or may not most maybe-ly not (not?) have been Nathan Fillion, stepped forward with a flex and a dazzling smile. "Never fear, good citizens! Captain Hammer has arrived to save the day!"

Captain Potato, not one to waste an opportunity when it presented itself, hastily sprang into action, rushing toward the now-distracted terrorists with a renewed gusto. Bullets began flying everywhere, with the newcomer diving behind cover while one after another the remaining foes were dropped by the first captain's deadly-accurate spuds.

In a flash, everything was quiet again. Dave's heart was racing as if he'd just run a marathon. Watching this crazy, ta-terrific display was a better workout than all of the last year's half-hearted gym sessions combined. Needing a change in orientation to catch his breath, Dave slowly rose from the floor and stretched his shaky arms. As he did so, the captains approached reconvened nearby,

"Good work, spudsy! Looks like I came just in the nick of time and, of course, saved the day again."

"Saved the day? You took out like one guy."

"Yeah, but it was THE guy. You clearly would have been lost without meee--yello there, beautiful."

Captain Hammer caught himself mid-sentence as Linda rose from the floor and began to brush bits of potato off of her skirt (the back of which had the not-so-good captain rather captivated). At hearing his voice, she turned around with a start. She glanced behind her nervously, before settling back on Hammer with a shocked gaze that seemed to say: "Who, me?"

"You are in luck. With these nasty bungers taken care of I've just freed up my evening. Care to join me for a burger?" He leaned closer and brought the back of his hand to his mouth, as if to share some secret. "The hammer is my penis, by the way."

Before Linda's red cheeks and growing scowl could transition into a rejection, Captain Potato sighed and grabbed his compatriot's arm. "As much as I hate to come between a man and his plate of fries, leave the poor girl alone, Hammer. Besides, we've got stuff to do. Come on."

And thus the pair hobbled out, with Hammer mouthing "call me" to Linda and miming his hand into a phone before disappearing into the stairwell. Just as quickly as it had begun, the adventure had ended, and pretty much everyone was left shivering and confused in a sea of utter chaos. There was little activity, with all of the TerraCorps staff still trying to wrap their heads around what had transpired. Dave and Linda were the only two that even bothered standing up.

Shaking his head, he turned to the secretary. "So where does Gerald keep his stash? I need a damn drink."

"Amen," she agreed. She looked over to her boss, now fully unconscious and contentedly sucking his thumb on the floor ahead, then motioned with her head toward his office. "Come on. The sooner we kill these memories, the better."

They Might Be Plushies

Hey internet.

I'd apologise for the long delay, but we both know that's not going to stop me from doing it again, so... You know, here I am! And with a treat (I think). So quick backstory: basically, my partner wanted a stuffed elephant, but she said that when I gave it to her she wanted it to have a story. Being me, I took that as a challenge, so I got her the stuffed elephant (her favourite animal) as well as a stuffed tiger (my favourite animal) and a dream journal (with a nice little message I won't post here -- in part because it's personal and in part because it's written in the book, and I don't remember exactly what it said anymore). Note that the end of the story is a bit... esoteric. I promise it makes sense.

Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

...

Just kidding. Enjoy the story!

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It was a quiet thing, this night. A soft quiet; a warm quiet; a quiet characterised by all manner of creature snuggled away in beds far from the chaos and danger of the dark wood. For many, the night was a thing to be feared, and so a kind blanket and a clever book were a welcome distraction.

Fuddlewump was one such creature. An elephant she was, with trunk, perhaps, a bit too short for her liking. Her rump was plump and round; her skin thick and dark; her ears large and floppy, as ears tend to be. It was on this soft, warm night that Fuddlewump the elephant lay in her soft, warm bed of moss covered by her large, floppy ears and tried desperately to dream. Dreams were sacred things to Fuddlewump. They were an escape from her sad and lonely reality, and they allowed her to be whatever she wanted to be. Not like she was, that is. Anything but that. No, in her dreams she was a graceful gazelle, bounding happily through endless plains. In her dreams she was a majestic eagle, her wings taking her higher and higher through the mountain skies. In her dreams she was a sly fox, darting from hole to hole faster than any hunter could catch her.

In her dreams, she was loved. In her dreams, she was special.

Not like reality at all.

And so she slept, tossing and turning as the dreams refused to find her. The moss was too lumpy. The night was too cold. The moon was too bright. Not at all a night for dreams. But she had to dream, and so she tried and tried and tried.

Above, hiding in the darkness of the leaves, was another creature, though this one was very different. Argos. A tiger he was, with sleek fur and shining claws. Like all cats, Argos was a curious thing, and so his piercing eyes cast the tumultuous slumber of Fuddlewump a discerning gaze. It would be nothing for him to put an end to the elephant: he could eat like a king for the rest of the month, and it would be over in a second. Still, Argos waited and watched, drawing ever silently closer.

When the light of day finally banished the dark, scary night and Fuddlewump woke from her fitful slumber with a resounding yawn, Argos was mere feet away, calmly and coyly regarding his potential prey. As Fuddlewump wiped the sleep from her dreary eyes and the world came to focus around her, the swatch of orange before her seemed almost too much to process. It took many more blinks that she might have thought to realise just what her predicament was, and when finally the predatory visage became clear in her sight a wave of panic instantly washed over her. Her terrified scream trumpeted through the forest.

Argos simply smiled, the mighty tiger not deterred by the elephant’s roar and after the long, resonating blast from the elephant’s trunk quiet once again returned to the forest. It seemed that all was silent save for the anxious breathing of Fuddlewump and the calm countenance of Argos (which to Fuddlewump seemed the loudest thing of them all). The tiger’s grin remained, and after they both had sufficient time to digest the tranquility of the scene he simply asked:

“Are you finished?”

Fuddlewump, shocked and befuddled, could only nod. She tried to slow her gasps to no avail. It was fear that kept her restless, though her foe made no move to strike. After living in that stress for far too long, she could only swallow and release a few soft words to the air: “Are you going to eat me?”

Argos thought for a moment, then shook his furry head. “No,” he said, as he stood with a feline stretch. “You’re far too loud to eat. It wouldn’t do at all. No, I think I’ll simply wait. When you are less loud, and when I am ready, then I’ll eat you.” He could see the elephant wanted to protest, but looking at his sharp fangs, she could only shrink back and be grateful that she hadn’t been eaten already. He broke the silence with a question of his own: “What’s your name, elephant?”

Fuddlewump thought hard about her response. She didn’t like her name, and she was certain that if he knew he might just eat her out of spite. “My name is Ellie,” she lied.

Argos circled around her then, his discerning eyes discerning that not all was as it seemed. He looked Fuddlewump up and down, side to side, over and under, and in the end sighed. “That’s interesting,” he said. “You don’t look like a Ellie. I do, however, look like an Argos, for that is what I am. Go on then, elephant. Go about your noisy business. I’ll just follow.”

Fuddlewump frowned, but in the end all she could do was relent, for Argos was very strong, and she was very timid. “Perhaps I am too loud,” she thought, remembering her roar from just moments ago. “Maybe I’m just too noisy for friends.”

And so she went about her day as only an anxious, too-loud elephant could: she stepped carefully though the forest, trying not to rustle the trees and cringing each time she heard the low thud of her massive feet; she considered rolling in the mud to cool off but feared that the splashing would be too disruptive; she ate fruits she found along the way, but avoided the juiciest ones in case she let her excitement get the best of her. It was a long, careful day, and ever present was Argos, watching and listening with a knowing grin.

When finally Fuddlewump returned to her soft, warm bed of moss, the tiger was still with her. Worried, she asked him: “Now what?”

“Now,” said Argos, “we sleep. Perhaps I will eat you in the morning.”

As he disappeared into the trees, Fuddlewump was not at all assured, and so she struggled to fall into a fitful sleep. Was she still too loud for friends? Was she going to get eaten tomorrow? Would anyone care if she did? Plagued by her apprehensions, she once again struggled to dream. For dreams were sacred things, and easily frightened. Only darkness kept her company that night; a sheer cover pulled over her head to provide a hollow promise of safety from those things without.

Sooner than she expected, but later than she’d have liked, that same darkness overcame her as she descended finally into slumber. When the night was done and the sun once more peeked through the thick canopy above, Argos was waiting, his tiger teeth gleaming behind his tiger smile.

 Fuddlewump didn’t scream this time, though part of her wanted to. She wished that the tiger had merely been a bad dream; a nasty, stinky dream that forced its way into her special space when she wasn’t looking. But he wasn’t a dream, even if he was nasty. No, her dreams would never allow him in, and so it was that in reality she was face to face with a vicious predator, and it was in reality that she could be eaten at any moment.

“So,” she asked. “Is today the day?”

Argos chuckled as he looked his prey up and down, side to side, over and under once again. He thought long and hard, but eventually shook his furry head. “No,” he said. “You’re far too big to eat. It wouldn’t do at all. No, I think I’ll simply wait. When you are less big, and when I am ready, then I’ll eat you.”

The familiar refrain was hardly comforting to Fuddlewump, who cast a sad gaze at her sizable rump and mammoth feet. “Perhaps I am too big,” she thought. “Maybe I’m just too fat for friends.” With a sigh she looked back to Argos, patiently waiting. He didn’t say anything else, but she knew that he wasn’t going to leave. He would keep following her until he decided it was time.

And so she went about her day as only an anxious, too-big elephant could: she went to get water, and patiently waited for the other animals to have their fill just in case she stepped on one; she walked through the paths of the forest, pausing at each juncture to question whether or not she would fit through the space; she helped baby birds get back into their nests high in the trees, for if she was too big the least she could do was help something too little. It was a long, humble day, and ever present was Argos, watching and listening with a knowing grin.

When finally Fuddlewump returned to her soft, warm bed of moss, the tiger was still with her. This time, however, she didn’t talk to him for fear of what he might say. After all, he’d already revealed so much about her: too loud, too big… What was next? The tired elephant didn’t want to know. “Eat me, or don’t. Do as you wish. I’m going to sleep.”

Argos simply watched and waited, slowly blending into the forest as the cover of darkness once again enveloped them both. She didn’t hope for dreams this night, for she felt she didn’t deserve them. The dreams were special things, and she felt very unspecial. No, the dreams would find someone more deserving. Fuddlewump wanted only to forget.

And forget she did, if only briefly, for the next thing she knew morning was upon her, and as he had been the day before Argos was simply upon his haunches, poised for whatever tigery thing he wished to do today. The elephant sighed, wondering if perhaps he’d eat her now. Was she quiet enough? Small enough? Did it even really matter?

She turned and nestled back into her moss, leaving the tiger to contemplate.

“Have you tired of our game already, elephant?”

Fuddlewump merely shook her head. “I’m simply tired, perhaps of the game, perhaps of everything else. You won’t even use my name. I gave it to you and you just tossed it aside.”

Argos laughed then, a deep, rumbly thing. “You gave me nothing, elephant, though I asked. It made you a much quieter thing. Not loud at all.”

Fuddlewump, confused now, rolled over and stared incredulously at her foe. Seeing her bewilderment, he continued:

“Two days ago I said you were far too loud to eat, and you were. But the truth is the loudest voice of all, and you chose to silence it. Actions, too, speak loudly, and as I watched you yours told me much. Perhaps it was all I needed, but our journey had only just begun.

“Yesterday I said that you were far too big to eat, and you were. But even though you are an elephant, and elephants take up so much space, it’s your heart that was the biggest. You never tried to push me away, even though you tried so hard to push away yourself. You put yourself at the service of others, even though they asked nothing of you.

“On both days I said that I would eat you when I’m ready, and so I shall. But I may never be ready, and for now I don’t want to be. As a tiger I could fill my belly many times over if I ate your flesh, but in the end the cost would be too great. You are too loud, too big, too special.

“So no, Fuddlewump. Today is not the day. It may never be. This is the way of things. All that’s left is for you to see it too.”

Fuddlewump could only stare, shock overwhelming her elephant brain as she tried to come to terms with what Argos had said. Her truth? Her actions? Her heart? Why was this happening?

She watched him closer and closer, and soon the tiger began to glow, seeming to become one with the air around him. She wanted to call out, to beg  for him to stay and give her the answer she so desperately sought, but the words would not come. She knew, deep within herself, that they would not make a difference. And it was then she remembered:

Dreams were sacred things. They were an escape from her sad and lonely reality, and they allowed her to be whatever she wanted to be. They let her break free from the fear and anxiety that ruled her life. They gave her hope for the future, and reconciliation for the past. Dreams were quiet and warm, soft and bright. Dreams were wishes unwished and truths unspoken.

As she watched Argos fade away, she understood. She saw him for what he was for the first time.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I will never stop dreaming.”

Poems for the Broken Mind

This is a bit of a departure from my usual style, but I think it's a good thing. I won't provide context, as it will mean what it has to to those that it must, but know that it does mean something.

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I'm walking on shells, can't you tell?

With this bitter knell

Ringing through the countryside,

Rocking out on hells bells

My chest swells with pride

As I look inside

Seeing two lovers crossed

Crissed upon the great divide

I sighed once, cried more

Tells you what I'd died for

My eyes dried, stymied

Beside our senseless rage war

And so it gets deflated

My chest can't hold the pressure now

Pop goes the weasel with his

Eyes beneath a furrowed brow

Bow down before my princess

Prostrate on the weathered stone

A known groan sown upon her lips

A slight she won’t allow

I look back

Wishing to atone for all those things I said

A blurry slurry hurrying

The fury in my bitter head

This can't be the end, I refuse to accept it

I've gotta find an answer, now we've both been rejected

My application denied; the truth I suspect is

You want this back as much as me. We're worth it.

Let's test it.

Thing 50: I didn't know what was happening at the time

Hello internet! We're at thing 50! That means the time is nigh for another story challenge, so I'll be collecting suggestions shortly, and then hopefully writing something worth reading. The last one was pretty atrocious, so I have a lot of ground to make up.

Anyway, on with the thing.

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Thing 50: I didn't know what was happening at the time

A happenstance so surely left behind
In solace now it wracks my tattered mind
But that, forsooth, a gnash upon the rind
In passing then it seeks to wax unkind

At fateful time, yet wreathed in mystery
I stood uncertain, plain for all to see
What magic, this? What ceaseless devilry?
Each answered question brought another three

What bits were true? When shall I find my peace?
Will my poor mind perchance to find the keys?
Unlocking this confusion as he grieves
A challenge fought yet lost upon the priest

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Okay, so this was my sorry attempt at iambic pentameter. This concept, which I was introduced to in my highschool english class because apparently Shakespeare was a fan, involves 10 syllables in a line grouped into pairs. In each pair, the second syllable is supposed to have emphasis.

e.g.: "a HAPpenSTANCE so SUREly LEFT beHIND"

I feel like a missed the mark a bit, and it's definitely shorter than I intended, but this exercise was actually quite draining, as it's more of a technical piece than a creative one. As such, it stands as a bit of a departure from my normal style of things. Usually I try to vary the structure of my work to give it a more organic feel, and the way it sounds means much more than the way it's put together. This is the opposite.

Take that as you will.

Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written

Hey team! It's that time again. I do believe I'm getting close to overdue for another post, so here goes nothing.

BY THE WAY, for those of you that used to read my stuff, you should be happy to hear that we're approaching another story challenge! After every 10 "things" from my fancy pants book here, I get some audience suggestions and craft a tale using five of the weirdest ones. So there's that to look forward to, which is pretty swell.

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Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written

Contrived.

This is, in my opinion, the only word which can adequately summarize Dominic Aquilina's first (and one would hope only) foray into the literary profession, if you could even call it that. The Boundless Depths, which I had the great misfortune of reading for the purposes of this review, is the sort of mindless drivel that one might expect from a first-time author only if one dearly wished for that author to fail. Aquilina somehow manages to capture everything horrible in the world and condense it into a string of glyphs that by some miracle flows into a semi-coherent gathering of sentences. To gaze upon the book's pages (and again, I use the term with great hesitation) is reminiscent of of an emaciated badger dragging a carcass studded with broken glass through one's corneae as it seeks to gain sustenance from the rancid flesh.

And yet, even these words fall short of what it is like to read The Boundless Depths. I would say that one must experience it themselves to fully understand, but this is a fate I would not wish on even my most execrated foes. That Breakwater Publishing saw fit to put ink to paper and produce this travesty is an insult to the entire forest from which each fateful tree originated. To burn each and every copy seems to be the only recourse before us, lest another unfortunate soul be subjected to Aquilina's mad ramblings.

In short, if I believed in any manner of a god, I would pray forgiveness for whatever slight caused it to allow such an abomination to spring forth from the depths of a long forgotten hell to plague us mere mortals in so permanent a form. The Boundless Depths, I can only hope, shall be banished to its namesake for all eternity, never to surface again. My life has been forever tainted for having read it.

I award -3 stars out of 10.

Thing 46: Describe Exultation

"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self."
~Ernest Hemingway

So yes, I came across that quote while watching Kingsman: The Secret Service, but somehow I feel as if that doesn't make it less pertinent. Self improvement is something I've pursued for many years now, and I think it's incredibly important. I further believe that mister Hemingway phrased the importance is this pursuit in more eloquent a manner than I might ever have been able to manage. Hearing in again has inspired me to actively work on trying to be more accountable. As such, I'm going to attempt to author a new post here at least once every other day. Primarily this is to practice my craft, for whatever that's worth, but I also think that having some concrete and consistent responsibility helps to build character. If you read this and happen to know me outside of this blog, keep me accountable.

We both know I need it.

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Thing 46: Describe Exultation

I had to look up that word. I think my vocabulary's rather good, but nobody's perfect. Personal development!

In any case, I decided that this time around I wasn't going to make a proper story of things, but rather I'd simply try my hand at meeting the requirements of the passage using a more normal sort of approach. After all, not everything's a story, and sometimes information should be dispensed in other ways. This harkens back to the discussion about different learning styles... But I digress.

My purpose for this entry is to describe a word, and I'm going to do that by telling youa bit about my last few months. I'll spare you the details here; not because I don't think they're interesting or because I wish to hide anything, but because there are others parties involved and it would be unfair to them if they were so publicly ousted. It's their tale as much as it is mine, and I haven't the right to tell it on their behalf.

What I will say is that some time not so long ago I because aware of some news which was, at the time, incredibly upsetting for me. In essence, a lot of things that I thought were real turned out to be false, and I had no way of coming to terms with that reality at the time. When I tried to open discussion on the matter and obtain some measure of closure, things became markedly worse. It looked as if one of my best friends would be gone from my life forever.

Needless to say, I did not take this situation very well, and sank into a fairly dark state of mind.

I had two fairly important solaces at this time which stopped things from escalating further. The first was my writing. When things become truly awful, I find that simply transcribing my thoughts can be incredibly cathartic, and it serves as a huge help. At the end of that week, I had no less than six pages of some of the darkest and most depressing work to ever find its way to paper through my hands. It was actually fairly well-written, and I considered publishing it here for that reason alone, but in the end I decided against it in small part because I didn't want people to be concerned, but in larger part to protect the interests of the other parties.

The second solace was my job. I'm very lucky to have found employment with a wonderful company here (Local Line! Check us out (after we launch the new version of our app next week)!). It's web development, which I swore I would one day put behind me, but the work is interesting and the team is both incredibly talented and incredibly supportive. I happened to formally start with the company a mere week after that fateful revelation of mine, and so I retreated into my labour with gusto. For the next month it became the absolute best part of my life, and I shudder to think what might have become of me if the job was a soul-crushing one. I'm grateful every day for the opportunity.

But again I digress. The point I'm meandering toward here is that I was at a very dark point in my life. Despite the job and my writing I could lose entire days merely by thinking about the friend I thought I'd lost. It's amazing how heartbreak can utterly consume you, like a viscid shadow oozing over your soul and blocking out any hope of one day seeing the light again. It was awful.

But, this brings us back to the purpose of the piece itself: exultation.

Very, very recently I found out that all was not lost. I reconnected with that friend, and they expressed interest in once again becoming part of my life. This, my dear friends, is exultation. A quick Google search defines is as "a feeling of triumphant elation or jubilation; rejoicing." And let me tell you, those words made my heart soar. To them it was likely nothing, but to me it was if my world suddenly stopped falling apart. That maybe -- just maybe -- there was something to look forward to.

Exultation is knowing that friendship did not die. Exultation is learning that many of the horrible things you thought about yourself might be wrong. Exultation is waking up and thinking that things will get better.

Here's to being optimistic for the first time in years, in thinking I might not be wrong.

Thing 45: Your most transcendent ice cream experience

Two in one week? What is this madness!?

Yes, my dear follower, I am doing another! Because hey, why not. It's not like I'm doing anything else. I figured it was high time to start taking this whole writing nonsense seriously again.

Anyway, here goes!

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Thing 45: Your most transcedent ice cream experience

Jared yawned as his slippered feet slid across the tiles, slowly but surely bringing him toward the freezer. It was 5:37 AM, and if he were being honest with himself he was mighty tired, but this was his weekend. No job, no girlfriend -- just the sweet freedom to do whatever he damn well pleased.

And you know what? He damn well pleased some damn ice cream.

He stopped for a moment at that, furrowing his brow as he tried to determine if that thought actually made any sense. Through the haze of the lateness of the hour (and possibly the lingering alcohol in his system) he couldn't be sure, but his keenly-trained literary mind was leaning toward a definite "no." Still, he wasn't nearly confident enough for his liking.

I guess that degree in english literature really wasn't good for anything. Mom was right.

Scowling now, he ripped open the freezer, not even flinching as the door collided madly with the cabinets and bounced slowly back toward him. It was a bit of a sorry sight inside, considering the number of frozen pizzas he had engorged over the past few days, but like a shining beacon the box he knew to be present sat prominently at the fore of an otherwise empty shelf.

Ice cream. Cookies and cream, no less. For some reason he'd always been a bit ashamed to admit it, but that was his favourite flavour. He supposed that particular thought process had something to do with his father's irrational fear of salmonilla. He ignored it with a shrug, managing to find the perfect balance between abject rage and utter nonchalance.

It was that kind of weekend.

He grabbed the box with a tired hand and slid it off the shelf, letting it and the arm that held it drop lazily to his side as he shuffled toward the cutlery drawer. His empty hand fished around in the thing and pulled out the first spoon it found. The fact that this spoon was nearly the size of his fist was irrelevant. It's intended purpose was supposed to be gravy or some such, but he figured it would work for ice cream just as well. After all, he wasn't planning on using a bowl, so having a spoon that doubled as one was probably the next best thing.

Utensil in hand, he dragged his feet and made his way to the living room, being sure to headbutt the freezer closed on his way past. The impact was a small one, but it did manage to wake him up ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it allowed him to muster enough latent energy to hop over the back of hte couch when he arrived at it, landing with a resounding thud with perfectly complimented the kung fu movie still fruitlessly playing on his TV. It was some kind of marathon, but he hadn't really been paying attention. It was mindless, and he appreciated that. Why think? Waste of time, really, all things considered.

He sighed and took another look at the box before him. The packaging was different from what he remembered. Then again, it had been a very long time since he'd had any ice cream at all. Stacey was lactose intolerant.

Screw you, Stacey, he thought. You made your choice.

He popped off the top and let it tumble to the floor, wasting no time in injecting his monstrosity of a spoon into the hardened creamery. It was no easy task, but by now he was determined, and nothing was going to stop him, so a few odd grunts and more effort than he cared to admit later, he was happily munching on his prize. It tasted... different. But no, now it was a matter of pride. Who cared what it tasted like? This was the ice cream of triumph. It was a celebration of freedom and independence and being able to produce lactase. Unlike some people. Stupid Stacey.

Hey, is the room supposed to be spinning like this?

As the walls leaned toward him he began to question a great many things. Who was he talking to? Did he even ask that question out loud? Why did this taste like purple?

He was reasonably certain that this was not the normal ice cream-eating experience. Yes, something was decidedly different. But what? And less importantly, why? Unable to put any of his eleven fingers on the former, he directed a raised eyebrow down toward the ice cream's lid, sitting happily on the carpet. Reaching his leg over the couch's parapet, he wrapped a tentacled appendage around the thing and turned it so that he could see the other side.

It just so happened that the expiry date was written there, and from his high vantage point, plainly visible.

Ten years. It had been expired for ten years.

There was a quiet moment then. Well, relatively quiet. The strange hum emanating from pretty much everything in the room was a bit daunting, but htere was a strange peace to it, and now that the screaming had died down he had a precious window to dwell on this new development.

With a shrug, he brought the spoon to his lips...

Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster

"As little as you want to write when you're happy, that's how much you have to write when you're miserable. Your passions have to go somewhere and this is hte only place left.

Your suffering has to be good for something. It's not for me to say if hte words were worth the price."
~5 to 7

What an interesting evening this has turned out to be.

The quote above is from a movie which I've just finished watching (called 5 to 7, as I realise that isn't particularly clear), and I think it really speaks to me, and I think some of my best work has come from a place of darkness. A large part of this particular resurgence comes from that realisation. The other part comes from a book I began reading very recently: The Slow Regard of Silent Things, by Patrick Rothfuss. Though I've yet to finish it, I believe it to be a literary masterpiece, even though it is (as the author attests) a bit different.

I guess the short of it is that I've been exposed to some truly amazing literary pieces of late, and I feel it's time I started to do my part once again. As such, I'm dusting off the old book and am ready to give it another go. Looking back over some of my other pieces, I feel there's quite a lot of ground to make up, so you'll have to bear with me. I am but a man, and yet I can barely succeed even at that.x

Without further adieu, I give to you Thing 44! I should remind you that when I do one of these I have no idea what it is I'm writing about until I actually begin, so as of this moment I have yet to see what thing 44 is. I'm also not really sure where in the book I am anymore, so I'll probably just have to move through it systematically until I find one I don't recognize...

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Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster

"Oh stop being such a coward!"

Jane's chastising hung over him like dark cloud as he stared down at the thing. It was a monstrosity, oozing with mucous and ooze and who knew what else. To Edward, raised as a proper english gentleman in the highest society, the experience was a highly traumatizing one.

It's downright unsanitary. I'm expected to eat this?

Brow thoroughly furrowed, he allowed his gaze to slide back to the disappointed scowl of his companion.

"Surely you can't be serious. Death seems far more tempting a fate than to be subjected to such horrors."

Jane sighed and placed her once-delicate hands on her hips. "We've been stranded here for the better part of a month, you ninny. Each day the fruit we manage to gather dwindles and you're already proven that you're less than useful with a net. These creatures, whatever they may be, are both plentiful and easy to obtain. If we have any intention of holding out until the navy finds us, they may well be our salvation. Besides," she said with a smirk, "they aren't half bad, all things considered. Certainly better than when you tried your hand at cooking."

The nobleman simply sat in stunned silence. He wanted to retort, of course, but between the beslimed resident of his palm, the verbal lashing Jane laid upon him, and what was most assuredly some severe case of sunstroke, his mind consistently failed to produce any string of words which could be considered even remotely coherently. Instead, he simply allowed his eyes to sink once again.

It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Unprecendented. Unceremonious.

"It's unavoidable, Edward. Eat the blasted thing or starve. But consider this: if by some miracle the opportunity for rescue presents itself and you somehow manage to survive, you'll be forced to explain to everyone how you not only were too pusillanimous to consume shellfish, but were in fact beaten by the very woman you swore to protect in so little a thing. You'll be laughed right out of the manor, and I shall be at the fore, taking great pleasure in your misery."

As much as he hated to admit it, he was forced to concede the point. It was more than survival, now. It was a matter of honour.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, holding it as he pried open the shell with unsteady hands.

Oh dear lord in heaven. Give me strength.

Finishing his silent prayer, he brought the oyster to his lips...

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It should be noted at this time that I have no idea when people actually started eating oysters. Just assume that whatever time period you envision this taking place in is canon for the particular world in which the story takes place.

Poems for a Broken Heart

Hello my faithful reader! I know there's at least one of you out there, because every so often there's a pageview that just shouldn't exist. But it's there. So thanks! Frankly I think it's silly of you to take the time, considering how little effort I put into actually updating this record, but I've disappointed enough people in my life that I'll be damned if I disappoint you too!

In any case, I've decided I'm going to try and get back into the swing of things a bit. I haven't been writing very consistently (at least, nothing that I've managed to finish), but I have a bit of a backlog that can keep you entertained for whatever small amount of time you're willing to waste here that could otherwise be spent on productive things.

For now, I'm going to share with you some poems that I wrote a fairly long time ago, all things considered. Both came out of rejection, but I like to think that from pain comes poetry, and the first of the two I'm about to share I consider to be one of my best. Short, perhaps, but lovely.

So here's to you, my one, lonely reader. Keep on keeping on, and may you find the love that I never could.

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Innocence Lost

Can we just go back I beg, pretending I had never spoken
I messed up; ill-pondered words have left our perfect friendship broken
Caught astride this wayward tide I find I bide my time awoken
Sleep-deprived I sigh with heavy breaths that hide our reverie's token

Forgotten? It will never be, for there was far too much at stake
My heart laid bare, you left it crossed; dismantled, with my soul to take
And so I wonder, agonzing over every sound I make
Would I still be here crying had I kept my mouth shut, stayed a fake?

Love a fickle mistress be to my mind if there ever was
Those three small words a melody resulting in an awkward pause
And so I pick apart my diction, line by line to find the cause
Where I went wrong in my affliction to force such unabashed loss

In the end I wasn't good enough to see these feelings through
I hate myself, and now I see that it's apparent, so do you
I'd hoped there was a chance that we could make our ones a perfect two
But when I die, love's a thing that I'll have dreamed, but never knew

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 Haunted

I'm haunted by your smile

I see it drift across a thousand visions

Waiting free of guile

Upon the endless bank of poor decisions

Once so full of hope

My mind now fights this war of sad attrition

Pushing ever forward

Though with heavy steps and weak ambition

Baited breath awaits me

As I don my sour disposition

Unsure of what's next

Within this labyrinth of heady missions

Life is just a game now

And its mettle tests my definition

Lost within myself

Betwixt the ebb and flow of soft volition

Now dispassionately

Do I hope to seek the shade of diction

Guarded by my words

My tender heart abides the intermission

Emotionally barren

Are the fallow fields of memory's prison

Infinitely tangled

In the tattered sheets of love's religion

I hate it when they say it

That I'll find my peace with other women

Binders of them

Seas of fish just standing by for acquisition

"Plenty of them out there"

But my frank response is snide derision

There was only one

Whose smile had ever changed my heart's position

It's you that I dream of

When my head is filled with apparitions

Though we barely spoke

Each time it felt akin to new editions

Chapters of my life

Unfolding readily for expedition

And now that it's over

I'd give anything for repetition

They Might Be Heroes: Series 5

Hey guys, long time no post. I thought I would share some writing of mine which was recently recognized on a play-by-post forum that I'm a part of (RPGCrossing) as post of the month! It doesn't really mean anything, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm immensely proud.

The premise here is that our party is en route to the mysterious northern region of the world, known as the Expanse, to put a stop to the giant menace causing havoc in the Northern Pelagos. Before we reach our destination, the ship is attacked by a great beast known as Retribution, which is a flying Kraken. The fight isn't going particularly well, until one of our number slays the beast form the inside.

My character, Albrecht Sunderhurst, is trying his hardest to make a contribution, but isn't having much luck. As this story begins, he is about to be consumed by the beastie.

So, without further adieu...

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Stories tell of the horror that is the fetid breath of the kraken. The mythical creature said to have feasted on a thousand souls, the corpses still rotting in its teeth. A wave of this rotten breath across your nostrils was said to be a fate worse than death.

As Albrecht was lowered toward the beast's maw, he couldn't help but think that the severity of the stench was undersold. A wall of fetid air hit him like a greatclub wielded by the gods, seeming to permeate every fibre of his being and sicken him to his very core. He was glad that he held a bar of soap in his offhand -- though he was paralyzed by the completeness of the stench its very presence helped him feel the slightest bit more sanitary. He tightened his grip on the bar, fearing that without its presence he may simply be consumed by the filth.

The beast's teeth were another matter entirely. They loomed above him with malicious intent, opening wide about the maw that prepared to consume him whole. They were stalagmites of agony and despair, promising only death and a world of bottomless pain.

They drew closer and closer, dripping with ooze and the blood of countless sailors. The strix could do nothing. Even if the tentacle around him lessened its grasp, the sheer magnitude of the beast's frightful presence prevented his muscles from moving even an inch.

And then there was darkness.

He was vaguely aware that the tentacle around his waist was gone. His senses were numb and his mind a blur while his life flashed before his eyes. Every so often he would crash roughly against the beast's innards, but he barely noticed. The strikes barely registered, unable to pierce the veil of hopelessness surrounding him mind.

Surely this was the end. What did any of it matter?

Suddenly, an image of his mother flashed through his mind. He saw her gentle smile; her confident demeanor and subtle grace. His father joined her, his soft features belying the sharp mind and lightning reflexes beneath. He saw Duskwing, his faithful companion, soaring on the breeze high above the land. The sky wove through the bird's feathers with the promise of a gentler world. All throughout, a single word rang through his mind:

Freedom.

No, this is not how it ends.

The world came rushing back into his consciousness. He became keenly aware of the of the deep rumble the creature; of the screams from the few dwarves still unfortunate enough to have their lives; of the rushing of cold air from within the beast; of the pain wracking his body as he flew. Blood dripped down his face, obscuring his vision and stinging his eyes. He assumed most of it was his.

He didn't have long to dwell on that thought before hitting the sloshing mess of fluid within the creature. The sordid mix of acid and bile sought out his wounds with a voracious intensity, stinging his tender flesh. He struggled against the sloshing tide but the turbulence was too much for him. He silently cursed his ability to fly, and all of the time he spent ignoring the need to practice swimming. Eventually in his flailing he collided with something solid, and grabbed hold for dear life. As he was about to pull himself onto whatever he'd latched on to, he was suddenly weightless.

The fluid rose around him. He caught glimpses of bones and bloated corpses rising above the waves. Retribution was going down, and quickly. The contents of its stomach, constrained by simple gravity, could not keep pace. He had but a precious moment, and he used it to beat his wings and position himself above his prize -- a boat, apparently. It was worse for wear, but sufficiently in tact to provide shelter from the beasts innards for a short time.

The kraken hit the ocean with a resounding crash, and the sudden change in speed set its stomach's contents to roiling. The ship rolled on the churning waves but stayed afloat, and Albrecht kept his grip with all of his remaining might. When the liquid calmed, he realized that he was not the only creature on board the vessel. The orc he had spotted earlier lay sprawled opposite him on the deck. He did not appear to be moving, but the ranger spotted signs of shallow breath and let free a small sigh. The intake that followed elicited a sharp cough, sending pain racing through his side. The air was thick here, and it burned his lungs. He suspected that before too long it would suffocate whatever creatures were still capable of drawing breath. For now, though, he was still alive, and that was all that mattered.

It wasn't long before another black hand rose above the acid, grasping desperately for the ship's edge. Xyclath pulled himself over the railing as Albrecht struggled to his knees, coughing dark blood onto the planks before him. He tried to will himself toward his companions, that he may help them, but it was all he could do to move at all. Any attempts to stand were foiled by the weakness in his legs and the occassional torrent of ocean water streaming into their prison as the warden consumed another limp dwarf.

Suddenly there was a crash. His mind didn't have the time to register the sound before several more followed. Explosions rocked the inside of the chamber and flaming chunks of flesh plummeted to the fetid bog below. Xyclath, the first among them to orient himself, has loosed a deadly volley upon their assailant, and the beast roared in both anger and pain. A vortex appeared at one end of the creature's innards, now expelling the contents of its stomach out into the open air.

Albrecht spun helplessly with the current, his grip on the ship long since lost due to his violent acceleration. Darkness crept along the corners of his vision as he became disoriented. The sky, so blue and crisp in the cold air, was the last thing he saw before darkness overcame him.

And through his mind ran a single word which, despite everything, brought a smile to his face.

Freedom.

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 BONUS: The above post was the one that won, but I think the follow-up post has a lot of merit. We had just closed out the chapter, which is why so much was going on, and so that post served as a summary of sorts. This one is the first of the new chapter, and now that our party is split up things are going to have to change. For the record, my character uses a ranger archetype called Falconer, and so I have a falcon as an animal companion named Duskwing. It was difficult to fly due to the storm aura that Retribution gave off, so I commanded him to stay inside the ship, and so was inside when the Kraken came crashing down.

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Albrecht awoke slowly, as if the hand of some unseen force had taken hold of his fitful dreams and refused to relinquish it. In the end it was the pain that roused him. The impact of a phantom squid's mighty tentacle against his side brought to the fore the very real ache of his bruised ribs, which slithered itself between the clutching fingers of his captor and forced the dreamworld's tenous grip to be lost.

The result was a dreary and unpleasant consciousness. Despite the rest he got, he could not remember a time when he had been more exhausted. Pain -- dull aches, tender wounds, and discomfort all around -- served as a welcome reminder that he was still alive, and that all of his battered limbs were still intact. He gingerly tested each of them, straining to move his head so that he could see them move and assure his tired mind of the reality of the thing.

All here, he thought. Well, except my dignity...

Eventually he worked up the courage to open his eyes, and what he saw surprised him. Above the group the sun peeked shyly through the clouds, sending a light sprinkling of rain from the heavens. The sky, though obscured, was vibrant, and the wind was cold, but not bitter. As he reached out beside him, grains of sand graced his fingertips. Simply put, it was nothing like the frozen wasteland he expected to find here. His homeland of Cambria, far to the south, was far colder than this as a general rule. In comparison, this place was a paradise.

At least, it would be, if not for the smell. Its source was obvious enough, with Retribution's bloated corpse lying a stone's throw away from where they lay. After having tasted the Kraken's breath he was almost desensitized to the overwhelming stench it gave off. He unconsciously squeezed the bar of soap still clutched in his hand, hoping on some level that it would protect him from the rot, but in the end he knew it was hopeless. He cast a forlorn look to the ocean and made a mental note to wash himself as soon as he was able to move.

The other surprise awaiting him was the fire beside him. He and his companions were covered with thick fur blankets that staved off the cold, and the fire, crackling strong despite the rain, radiated a welcoming warmth that seemed to make his injuries seem less severe. He also took note of the bandage wrapped around his skull, soaked red from the deep gash on his forehead. Someone had cared for them. He saw that Xyclath wasn't with them, so perhaps the other strix had prepared the camp, but remembering the wounds that all three had sustained it seemed highly unlikely. His doubts were further solidified by the red stains covering the empty blanket beside him. They were all hurting from the battle. Frankly it was a miracle they survived.

He sighed. Some mysteries were best left unsolved -- at least for now. In the meantime he was simply happy to be alive, though a rumbling in his stomach reminded him that if he lay there forever he might not be for long.

Hunger... It's been a long time since I've suffered that particular burden. Now I know how Duskwing feels. Duskwing...

His eyes widened.

Duskwing.

His falcon had been inside the ship when Retribution fell from the sky. Suddenly all of his pain and weakness seemed like a distant memory as panic flooded into his brain and overwhelmed his senses. He roughly threw his blanket aside and shot to his feet, searching desperately for his pack amongst the wreckage. Spotting it nearby, he leaped toward it, using his scaled wings to gain a burst of speed in the process. A cloud of sand rose around him as he collided roughly with the ground, not bothering to show even a modicum of grace in his scramble. His fingers seemed unable to work the clasp, shaking from the strain and the emotion. To his annoyance he realized he was still clutching the bar of soap, and angrily threw it behind him. It hit the broken ship with remarkable force, shattering to be scattered on the sand below, but he paid it no mind as he frantically dug through his belongings. Finally, a cool metal tube found its way into his waiting fingers, and he yanked it from the bag.

His signal whistle.

Letting his pack sprawl alng the beach, he kicked off the beach and shot into the sky, leaving a cloud of sand and dust beneath him. Fighting back tears he used his momentum to force air into his lungs until he was set to burst, and with a mighty bellow blew into the whistle. Its piercing tone rang out over the ocean and danced in the wind. Over and over he blew, hoping with each shrill cry the beady eyes of his companion would suddenly appear before him. He knew it was hopeless, but he also felt that he could not give up; that somewhere beyond the horizon his friend was searching for him.

He wasn't sure how long he hovered; how many times he brought the whistle to his lips. He blew until he had no more breath, but panting desperately he would keep trying. After a time it became impossible, his exhaustion and his sobs preventing him from filling his lungs. He had to hope that it had been enough, and after taking a moment to collect himself he floated back down to the beach. Muzdul stood at the edge of the beach, silently watching him as he descended, but he paid it no mind. As his feet touched the ground his wings sunk with the rest of him, dragging through the sand as he quietly collected his belongings.

The rest was all a daze. He sat staring into the fire, taking no joy in the meat he had been provided but knowing that without it he would surely die. At some point in his daze Xyclath had returned, and the trio was joined by someone he did not recognize. For now, he didn't care to. All he could do was wait.

They Might Be Heroes: Series 4

Oh, hello internet. I didn't see you there. Welcome to my cozy neck of the woods. Tonight, we have another installment of "They Might Be Heroes," a series in which I show you the backstories for characters I have created for various Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. In this installment, we have Albrecht Sunderhurst: a human-raised Strix Ranger looking to join a dangerous expedition into the harsh northern lands known only as the Expanse. So sit back, grab a cup a coacoa, and prepare to read a LOT. This one's about 10 pages (>4000 words). Sorry.

Note: Baijiu is a strong alcoholic drink in the Pathfinder universe

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Albrecht Sunderhurst
Strix Ranger (Falconer, Skirmisher)

Chapter 1: Beginnings

He remembered the cold.

More than anything it was the cold. The rocks upon which he lay seemed to steal whatever warmth that remained in his heart, chilling him to his very core. The wind, though blocked partially by the cliffs above him, bit into his dark flesh with malicious zeal. Even the sky worked against him, shutting out any hope of heat from the dim northern sun. It threatened to consume him.

But for some reason, he knew he could not die. This child, barely free of the womb and abandoned to fate, clung desperately to the fragile thread of life. It was as if somewhere deep down he had known that there was so much more life had to offer; so much he had yet to experience.

He allowed his body to go numb, but he would not break. He let his heavy lids fall and let the darkness wash over him, but he would not yield. Life would find a way.

And then there was warmth.

He couldn't feel it at first. His body was shutting down and lacked the strength to communicate this new sensation. Slowly, however, he noticed a change. The darkness was not so complete; his shivering began to wane. He became vaguely aware of the soft blanket wrapped around his tiny form, of the fire roaring beyond his eyelids which refused to open.

It was the voice that brought him back: a soft, tender thing which carried more warmth than any fire could provide.

"Don't worry, little one. Everything will be okay."

Chapter 2: Seasoned with Hatred

Albrecht smiled as he bent down to inspect his snare. Unlike all of the others he’d checked, a sizable rabbit had been unfortunate enough to get caught, which meant that the Strix and his adoptive parents would be eating well tonight. The rest of the creature could also be put to use in mending or crafting small items around their home. On their remote island resources were scarce, and he had been taught to let nothing go to waste. With a small hunting knife pulled from his boot, he released the rabbit and fastened it to his belt before resetting the snare.

He straightened and patted his quarry. “Sorry, little one. We appreciate your sacrifice.”

“Did we get any?”

Albrecht started as seemingly from nowhere his father Darius appeared behind him. He was no slouch, but his parents were lighter of foot on their worst days than he was perceptive on his best. He always found it amazing how they could move without making a sound – the result of years of training in the wild. Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst were legends in their own right, but their adventuring days were long behind them. These days they lived a quiet life and seemed content to pass on their knowledge to their son, that he may have his own adventures. He had considered asking them about it on numerous occasions, but as they never brought it up he figured that he should leave it well enough alone. They were happy, after all, and that’s what really mattered.

“Just one, father. Enough for a good stew tonight, and possibly breakfast. In any case, I’ve reset the traps, so we can check again tomorrow.”

His father’s kind smile was accompanied with a firm pat on the shoulder.  “Your mother will be thrilled. Let’s head back.” With a smirk, he added, “Oh, and you’re cooking tonight.”

o-o-o-o

The duo made quick work of the trek back to Cambria, one of the few human settlements remaining in the Pelagos. For lesser creatures, the undergrowth of the thick northern forests on their remote island would be all but impassable, but to Darius and Albrecht, born and bred in the wilds, it was hardly a hindrance. They emerged from the treeline outside their small settlement a mere two hours after setting out.

Amastasia Sunderhurst was just emerging from the town’s apothecary with a small pouch of spell components as they did so. She of course noticed them immediately, and gave a quick wave. She seemed to float down the few stairs in front of the shop, barely disturbing a single snowflake as she touched the ground.

Her grace was not shared by the group passing by that same shop, the strong smell of Baijiu wafting from their unwashed bodies. A cloud of soft powder rose around them as they stumbled down the street. Upon seeing the ranger, their sour moods took a turn for the worst.

Cambria, as you might imagine, did not take kindly to the new addition to their remote town 16 years earlier. When the two legendary hunters walked into town with a baby Strix, mere inches from death, the superstitious inhabitants of the remote town regarded it as a demon, and have been suffering from the prejudice ever since. Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst had faced down dragons (and worse) – a few disgruntled villagers were barely worth recognition.

The biggest of the bunch (and by virtue of poor alcohol tolerance, the bravest), took a step forward and puffed out his chest. With a grimace, “Spawnwhore” hissed through his clenched teeth, and after a sharp intake he followed the expletive with thick gob of saliva.

Quick as lightning and without missing a beat, Amastasia’s trained hands gracefully snatched the hilt and of the dagger on her belt. It spun once through the crisp air before returning to its sheath, and in that split second the projectile was cut in two, passing harmlessly to either side of its target.

The ranger, content with herself, ducked past the self-satisfied thugs as if nothing had happened. As soon as she did so, however, her eyes widened. “Wait, don’t!”

Albrecht, watching from the treeline, had seen the whole exchange, and his jade eyes were bright with fury as he flew through the air and collided violently with the thug.

“Stop it Al!”

His mother’s cries fell on deaf ears. The man he hit collapsed in a heap, and the two men beside him screamed in fear as Albrecht’s scaly wings spread to their full extent. His clenched fists shook from the strain as he bent over the writhing ruffian, but before he could put his intentions into action he was ripped from his feet. In a fluid display of might, Amastasia pulled her son back and threw him to the ground. Shock extinguished the fury within him, and the cold earth forced the air from his lungs.

By this time others from the village were starting to emerge from their homes, hoping to discover the source of the commotion. What they found was one of their own, coughing up his own blood, and two others cowering in abject fear. Above them stood Amastasia, a vision of poise, and behind her the demon, jumping deftly to his feet and gasping for air.

“Mark my words, spawnwhore! Reign in your beast, or put him to the torch! He’ll bring only death to this place!”

“Well if you keep that up, he might,” she quipped. “He’s a better man than the lot of you. Now run home. I’m sure you have more important things to do than insult me.”

The sight of the ranger, standing stoic and unfazed in the midst of such chaos, took much of the spark from the indignant crowd, and with much grumbling they dispersed. Amastasia shot an unamused glance to her son. “We’ll discuss this at home.”

He acknowledged her with a solemn nod, but before he left he regarded the man on the floor, whose associates were now fleeing the scene.

“Today, I took your dignity. Next time it will be your life. You will never disrespect my mother again.”

Chapter 3: The Harder They Fall

“I think it knows we’re following it.”

Albrecht, Darius, and Amastasia crowded around the mangled soldier. Her slender frame and golden armour suggested she was elven, but her head had been crushed completely. The rest of her, oddly, appeared to be completely untouched. Surrounding the body was an odd assortment of weaponry, ranging from longbows to greatswords, and even one particularly vicious-looking battle scythe. The weapons were all well-worn, but clean and reasonably undamaged.

To the Strix, the display seemed nonsensical, but deliberate. “What makes you say that, father?”

It was his mother who answered instead. “This is a message. Notice how carefully-laid everything is. This elf was murdered delicately, but with great strength, indicating that our quarry has both power and precision. The fact that the body was left so openly, and so close to the tracks we’re following, tells of its confidence. These weapons are all clean, which means they did not taste its flesh, but they are also worn, which indicates they were wielded by experienced warriors. He’s letting us know that that he’s not afraid of us.”

They had been chasing a giant for several days now. While the family was out on an extended hunting trip it had attacked Cambria and run off with several of the townsfolk’s children. A detachment of soldiers from a neighbouring island had already been investigating odd activity in the region and had passed through the small village shortly after. They were about four days ahead, but from the gruesome scene in the clearing it seemed likely that none had survived.

This adversary was proving to be more cunning than they had anticipated. Even with three master trackers in pursuit they had almost been misled by false trails on several occasions. The constant snowfall didn’t help, of course, but the fact that a creature that large could hide its tracks and still make such good progress through the forest was a testament to its skill.

Darius nodded solemnly. “I’d venture to guess that we’ll catch up in a few hours if we’re quick, but he’ll likely be ready for us. Al, it might be time for you to head back to town.”

Albrecht shook his head. “You know that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to abandon you: especially not when we’re this close.”

“Sweetie, I know how you feel, and we appreciate the thought, but this is more dangerous than—“

His mother’s words were cut short as a tremendous crash sounded from the trees behind them. A huge boulder, taller than even the hulking strix, flew through the air with tremendous speed toward the trio. Albrecht and Darius managed to desperately dive out of the way, but Amastasia had nowhere to go, and despite her godly reflexes took the full brunt of the blow. It sent her careening backward into trees, and a red streak of blood stained the snow along her trajectory.

The others immediately sprang into action.

Darius bolted after the boulder, drawing his bow as he went. “Albrecht! Run!” In an instant he was next to his wife, and a white light radiated from his outstretched hand that washed her wounds away. As she wiped the blood from her eyes, only steadfast determination remained.

Albrecht took a different approach. Rather than going to his mother’s side, he made a dash for the hole left by the rock with a great beat of his powerful wings. He made a swift decision to ignore the longsword on his back and stead snatched the first weapon in reach: the scythe. His grip tightened on the weapon’s haft as their attacker came into view. The giant, a scarred behemoth wearing crimson furs, had readied a gargantuan and cruel-looking battleaxe. The beast’s face showed neither fear nor amusement. Strix and giant alike wore expressions solely of focus on the task at hand, cold and calculating.

Despite his speed, Albrecht felt an eternity pass as he grew ever closer to the giant. The creature stood in a wide, low stance, with its weapon poised for a quick and precise strike. Its steady breathing and calm composure betrayed years of experience in combat, and its eyes betrayed an intelligence beyond that of its kin. This was a seasoned, deadly warrior, and it radiated murderous intent.

20 feet. It adjusted its feet to account for his angle of approach.

15 feet. It tightened its grip on its weapon.

10 feet. Its muscles tensed to strike.

5 feet.

The giant released the energy stored in its muscles and set his axe on a collision course with his opponent. At the same time, a single arrow shot past the strix and embedded itself directly into the giant’s eye. Taking advantage of the falter in the giant’s swing, Albrecht tucked in his wings and entered a spiral to alter his trajectory, narrowing avoiding the edge of the axe. In a blink he was past it, and his scythe connected squarely with the beast’s throat.

The sound of metal on flesh rang sickly through the air, and in a flash of crimson his blade separated the giant’s head from its body. The strix was the first to touch the ground, skidding through the snow as he decelerated. The giant’s head was next, followed shortly by its body.

He looked back through the trees to see his father lowering his bow and his mother sheathing both of her swords. With a sigh of relief, he smiled at them and nodded his thanks.

The deed was done.

o-o-o-o

Cambria was quiet when he returned.

After defeating the giant they had found the four children, cold and afraid, in a stand of trees nearby. Albrecht had flown ahead to share the good news, and had taken the beast’s skull as proof of their conquest.

At least, that’s what his parents thought. In truth he had ulterior motives.

The few townsfolk who were outside couldn’t help but stare as the strix landed in the center of the town square. Gasps and frightened whispers radiated throughout those assembled.

Perfect, thought Albrecht.

“Perople of Cambria!” His shout echoed throughout the town. “Stand and be counted!”

The whispers turned into panic as more and more of the villagers poured into the square. It wasn’t long before all of the town’s inhabitants had been gathered, and the unwavering demon in their midst – carrying a severed head, no less – was filling them all with unease.

He took a moment for the worry to percolate. It was time to make a statement that none of them would ever forget.

In one fluid motion, Albrecht began to spin.

First came his left hand, holding the head. It came around quickly and threw the skull above him.

Next came his right hand, holding the scythe. The blade whistled through the air and embedded itself in the giant’s remains.

Finally came his eyes. As he planted the scythe, decorated with his macabre prize, into the very center of the town square, he swept his gaze across all those assembled.

“This,” he addressed the crowd, “is the creature we were chasing. This is the creature that stole your children and slew two score warriors from Throgain. This is the last creature to harm my family. I felled it with my own hands, wielding this very blade. You always feared that I was a demon: a bringer of misfortune and death. Now you know that your fears were justified. I am the deathbringer, and I shall rain justice and retribution down upon those who harm the ones I love. If ever you would dream of disrespecting my family, then you will know fear greater even than that felt by this once-proud warrior as my blade caused its blood to run cold. You will discover that I am no longer Albrecht Sunderhurst, proud son of Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst. You will know what I truly am. I am the Reaper.”

Chapter 4: Into the Unknown

Damn this cold, thought Garrigan. If not for that accursed barrier I’d be a thousand miles away, sipping  chilled tea in a remote paradise. But now? Now I’m stuck heading to almost certain doom trying to skirt the damn thing through the expanse. How did I get here?

It was rhetorical, of course. One does not attempt to rob the archmage of the Crystal Laureate without some sort of repercussion, but greed had gotten the best of him. The allure of untold magical power and a single misstep into a well-hidden divination was all it took to take the proud battlemage out of his command and into the wilderness, stuck cooking stale rations over a tiny campfire.

He blew another precious breath into the base of his gloves to try and get a little feeling back into his fingers, and for the millionth time contorted his body to its full range of motion. He was one of very few mages who could cast comfortably in a suit of full plate, but if the thing froze it was more of a prison than a boon.

Damn this cold.

Suddenly he felt a magical tug to the East and alarm bells sounded in his mind. One of the wards he had placed around his camp had been tripped. That meant someone was approaching, and this far North that could only mean that they were doing so pointedly. He had set the wards a good distance away, with full coverage of the surrounding area, so he should have a bit of time, but having no knowledge of the nature of the threat he knew he couldn’t risk sticking around. Immediately he reached into his spell pouch and began casting. When the intruder arrived, he had no intention of still being around.

His arcane mumbling was cut short when an auburn bolt, accompanied by the piercing shriek of a bird of prey, shot down from high above him and collided squarely with his back. The blow nearly took him from his feet, and caused a painful gash at the shoulder joint of his armour. More importantly, it had interrupted his spell.

His eyes barely had the chance to widen in panic as he looked through the trees to see a wave of negative energy surrounding with darkness approaching him with tremendous speed. He brought his mailed arms in front of his face in desperation, hoping to somehow cushion whatever was to come.

The scythe passed through his thick armour as if it were putty, digging into his tender flesh and filling his heart with utter despair.

Damn this cold, he thought.

And then he was no more.

o-o-o-o

Albrecht was digging through his belt pouch as he entered Mercuria’s bounty office. This small building in the middle of the Pelagos’ most bustling and diverse metropolis was where he acquired most of his contracts. A high-profile bounty, usually easy fare for a hunter of his skill, could keep him comfortable for months.

It helped that he didn’t have to worry about food or drink, and he had the silver ring on his finger to thank for that. It also allowed him to fully recover after only two hours of sleep, so he could gain ground on his quarry with ease. He gave the ring an idle, appreciative spin as he dug. It was a good investment.

“Ah, Reaper!” A thick and cheerful dwarf greeted the new arrival from his customary place behind the office counter. The wall over his stout shoulders was layered from floor to ceiling with bounties depicting all manner of creatures. “And Duskwing, of course. Looking fine as always.”

“Hello, Husk,” Albrecht replied with a smile. His falcon let out a self-satisfied squawk from his place on the Strix’s shoulder.

Husk reached into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small piece of jerky. He tossed it into the air, and without missing a beat Duskwing darted from his perch and snatched it with his razor-sharp beak, alighting onto the counter. The dwarf rubbed the falcon’s head with his finger, who pushed against it and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the experience. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

“Garrigan was a bit of a tough cookie, but since he couldn’t teleport through the barrier there was only so far he could go. I’ve got his ring here somewhere… Ah, there it is.”

From his pouch he produced a small signet ring: gold and engraved with a crimson stag wreathed in mist. It seemed to hum with a faint energy, but since its bearer was dead it stayed dormant. He also pulled a heavy tome from his pack and placed it on the desk with a thud.

“As promised, the quarry’s signet ring and spellbook. I returned the orb to the Crystal Laureate before coming here, so the archmage is satisfied and has gone back to his research. You’ll find his letter of release for the bounty in the book there. I’ll probably end up selling everything else he had with him.”

Husk took a moment to look over the haul and cross reference it with a logbook he kept under his desk. After reading the letter he disappeared through a door that led deeper into the building. He returned a short time later with a hefty pouch, its contents making a familiar and satisfying clink. He passed it over the table to Albrecht, who nodded his thanks before placing it into his pack.

“The bounty is yours, my friend. 300 platinum, to the coin. Counted it myself, just to be sure. Though I daresay that orb you returned is probably worth a hell of a lot more.”

“It’s only worth more if you know how to use it, and frankly I couldn’t care less,” Albrecht shrugged. “The coin alone is more than enough for my tastes.”

Husk smiled. “Fair enough. I should have known that you’d never give in to temptation.” He plopped heavily back down into his chair. “Oh, speaking of which, see anything you like? Not much for a hunter of your calibre these days. You’ve already caught most of the serious criminals, and with your reputation new ones are few and far between.”

He shook his head as he scanned the bounty board. Nothing jumped out as particularly interesting prey. “That’s alright. I’ll let some of the others have a go at it for a change.”

“Fair enough,” chuckled the dwarf. “I’ll see you around.”

Albrecht shook his hand before turning to leave, hoisting his pack back onto his shoulder.

“Oh, by the way.” Husk’s voice caused Albrecht to pause and look back, his ebony hand hovering over the doorknob. Duskwing took the opportunity to fly back onto his shoulder. “Your pal Ugrog is hanging around the harbour. Some special mission into the Expanse. Seems like something you might be interested in.”

He let his hand finish its journey and turn the knob. “I just might. Thanks for the information.”

o-o-o-o

“Next please.”

Ugrog sighed. It had been a long day. For reasons that he could not comprehend there were numerous creatures of all sort lining up to risk their lives by venturing into the unknown of the Expanse. He figured most really didn’t comprehend the difficulty of what was being asked of them. The Halfling girl who was leaving his small office had simply never seen a giant before, and was curious.

She’d be dead within a day, he thought. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and drew a thick, deliberate line through her name in his logbook. Not on my watch.

When he looked up he almost fell back out of his chair. The wall of black before him had such a forceful aura he could feel himself inadvertently quivering, and he had not been ready for that. He shook his head to compose himself. “Reaper! You nearly scared me to death. What brings you here?”

Albrecht took a seat in the sizable chair across the desk. It was a bit big, even for him, but he figured that all kinds would come through, and they had to be accommodating for pretty much anyone. “Hello Ugrog. And curiosity, mostly. I hear you’re recruiting people for a trip to the expanse.”

“Ah yes. Well recruiting doesn’t seem like the right word. Screening, more like. The giants are becoming a problem too serious to ignore, so we’re sending a group up north to deal with the situation permanently. I’d go myself, but…”

Albrecht held up a hand to stop him. “You’ve got a family, my friend. There’s no need to justify that to me of all people.”

The orc provided an appreciative nod before continuing. “In any case, we’ve had all kinds walk through this office. Most are either delusional or insane, but we’ve had a few hopeful candidates. There’ve been a number of your kind as well, though none with scaled wings.” He gestured to Albrecht’s wings with his quill.

That’s a bit ironic, he thought.

“I do believe that you are a very special strix.”

Albrecht laughed. “Well thank you. Actually I’m starting to think that these things,” he spread his wings a bit in showcase, “are largely why I was abandoned as a baby. But they allowed me to find my parents, and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

“I’m glad. Not many people can find a silver lining to that sort of thing. In any case, since you’re here, I might as well go through the standard questions. Sound good?”

He furled his wings once again. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you need me, and because there’s nothing left for me to hunt in the Pelagos.”

“What can you offer to defeat the giants?”

“I’m a tireless and highly skilled tracker, and a have a penchant for striking fear into the heart of even the surliest of creatures. And if fear doesn’t work, I can always strike their heart with my scythe instead.”

“What is your greatest regret?”

“That Duskwing can’t find a proper woman.” The bird screeched in protest. Albrecht merely smiled. “As for myself, I tend to live without regrets. Through careful planning and exceptional skill I can accomplish pretty much anything I need to. Besides, my parents taught me to respect the nature of the world and to keep moving forward. I figure it’s time to take that in stride, and start moving North.”