Goku vs The Fruitcake: Writing Sins Past

I believe I promised to post this around Christmas. I think I wrote this around...1998? My mental age was around 12 I think...I was a very VERY late bloomer. Presented in unaltered form save for spelling corrections, along with some commentary.

---

Goku vs The Fruitcake

*It is a lovely snowy day in Japan…*

(Does it snow in Japan?)

(Shut up Ian!)

(Script format AND breaking the fourth wall to argue with another fanfic writer, off to a rolling start)

*…anyway, it is a lovely day in Japan as Christmas draws near. Goku is alone in the house, writing his list to Santa Claus*

Goku: And a pony, and a lifetime supply of food, and for Vegeta to actually like me…now forget that, that’s impossible. Um, and a really cute kitten…

*Ding dong!*

Goku: Now who could that be? Hmmmm…Chi Chi there…Gohan there…Vegeta…no, he’d just knock the door down…um… *goes on and on on who it could be, finally arriving to…* it must be Chaozu!

(That’s blatant favoritism!)

(Ian, SHUT THE HELL UP!)

(Don’t you tell me to shut up! I am NAME DELETED TO PREVENT LOOKUP, the greatest…um, no, the funniest…um, no…I am the famed Super Idiot!  I…AHHHHH! *Cornwind drags Ian out to the train tracks near his house and ties the crazy author to them in hopes of a train coming along and doing something very messy*)

(He won’t interrupt anymore)

[I wonder how Ian, my fanfic writing peer of the time, is doing)

Goku: *opens door* Hello Cha…huh, no one’s here…ohhh, what’s this? *looks down at a package at his feet* What could this be?

*Dramatic music plays*

Goku: Huh? Is the stereo malfunctioning again? Oh well, yay a gift! Let’s see what it is…*unwraps it* What the…?

*Inside the box…is the most dreaded thing about Christmas! Worse then the frenzied shopping! Worse then the budget crises that arise! Worse then the fact that the holiday has been murdered by corporate greed! (I’m in a cynical mood, sue me) It is the worst, most terrible horrible thing in all of Christmas…dom! It is…A FRUITCAKE!*

(In retrospect, fruitcake is not THAT bad. Though you need one of decent quality and some ice cream to go with it, IMO)

Goku: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! It’s the lone food that even I won’t eat! I must get rid of it!

*Goku picks up the piece of “food” and throws it out the door and into the middle of the woods.*

Goku: There, that wasn’t so… *turns around and sees the fruitcake on a table behind him* YEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! Ok, I’ll just throw you farther! *picks up the cake and hurls it into the horizon. It spirals into Satan City*

Vegeta; *shopping* ARGGHHHH! If one more annoying thing happens, I am going to blow something up!

*Fruitcake crashes through the roof and lands on his head*

Vegeta: THAT’S IT! *goes SSJ and starts blowing up the store*

(Ah, the days when I thought 'Super Saiya-Jin' sounded SO much better than 'Super Saiyan', and everyone just abbreviated it to SSJ)

Goku: *back at his house* There, that *turns around to see the fruitcake sitting on the table again* YEEEKKKKKKK! That’s IT!

*Goku flies outside and winds up before he hurls the fruitcake out across the ocean. It flies to the United States and lands on the head of Unforgiven II, but his skull is so thick he doesn’t ever notice*

(Pretty sure he was a critic. I'm still more mature than Michael Crichton)

Goku: Ah…..at last I am free of *wanna guess what he sees when he gets back in his house?* IIIIYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!! Ok, NO MORE MR NICE SAIYA-JIN!

*Goku powers up and ki blasts the fruitcake.*

Goku: There. Not even…*the smoke clears to reveal the fruitcake is undamaged* ARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

*Goku throws a barrage of ki blasts at the fruitcake, completely demolishing his house in the process*

Goku: *panting* Man, Chi Chi’s gonna be pissed…but at last…I am free…oh no! *The smoke clears to reveal the fruitcake is still undamaged* AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

*Goku goes SSJ and throws a gigantic storm of ki blasts at the fruitcake, blowing up the mountain he lives on and all the forests around him.*

Goku: Well, I was getting sick of living in the wilderness anyway…oh no no NO! *smoke clears to reveal the fruitcake is still undamaged*

*A strange look comes over Goku’s face, and as fury fills his eyes, Spirit vs Spirit starts to play…*

(STOP THE FIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

“Oh god, not you guys again!” Cornwind Evil (original name replaced with name you'd know) said as three familiar lawyers came into his room. “I didn’t do anything that had anything to do with NAMED REMOVED this time!”

(I think this was a callback to lawyers interrupting me in another story. Stole it from the Simpsons. Name Removed was another writer)

“We don’t represent NAME REMOVED anymore, after we accidentally called her a he. Ow, I still have lumps.” Said the head lawyer, as his burly companions towered over Cornwind again. “I now represent the estate of…of…” the lawyer said as he struggled to read the Japanese name. “…Of this guy, the composer of Spirit vs Spirit! He orders you to stop this unauthorized usage immediately! And may I add that this time that my friends and I are wearing rubber chicken proof clothing!”
“Oh really? Too bad for you I switched to Scuba Steve.” Cornwind said, pulling out the large action figure. The lawyer’s eyes widened.
“Oh no.”
WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK!

(The first time I beat them with a rubber chicken. This time I beat them with Scuba Steve from the film Big Daddy. This was back in the day when LOLRANDOM was a pre-requisite for having a fanfic writing 'personality'. Thank god I grew out of those ridiculous games of pretend, winkwinknudgenudgesaynomore)

“Idiots.” Cornwind muttered as he shoved the unconscious bodies out of his room. “But I’ll respect the guy who wrote that song…hmmm, let’s see…”

*A new song, one that sounds VERY similar to Spirit vs Spirit, starts up. The new song, called Spirit vs Dessert, keeps playing as Goku loses it*

(The really funny thing is due to the nature of the internet in those days, I didn't even know what Spirit vs Spirit sounded like, just that it was a famous Dragon Ball Z song)

Goku: AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *goes SSJ19…and stops when he fells a strange sensation on the top of his head* What the…AHHHHHHHHHHH! I’M BALD!

*Indeed, Goku’s hair is gone. Goku keeps feeling the top of his head until he finds a note*

Goku: “Dear Goku, I am tired of the constant new shapes and colours your powers are constantly putting me. I signed on to be your spiky one-styled black hair and nothing more. I have endured as much as I can, but after seeing what kind of shape I would have become at Super Saiya-jin Level Nineteen, I have decided to terminate our agreement. Good luck finding a toupee that matches me. Sincerely, your hair.” AHHHH! I look like Krillian’s older brother! I must find some new hair! I can’t do this without hair!

(Some time later)

Vegeta: *waking up in the ruins of the shopping mall after Bulma stole a page from Chi Chi and bashed him with a frying pan for blowing up the mall* Owwww…has that woman been working out…hey, wait a minute…AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! MY HAIR!

Goku: *back at the crater, now with Vegeta’s hair on his head* Good thing I found that superglue! Well, I may look like a troll, but I have hair! Now, fruitcake, prepare to meet your doom! *goes SSJ* KAMEHAMEHA!

*A massive explosion levels more of the landscape, and when the smoke clears…the fruitcake is still undamaged. Spirit vs Dessert begins to play again as the same funny look comes into Goku’s eyes*

Goku: AAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! *goes SSJ19 again, and his hair becomes…well, let’s just say he makes a peacock look like nothing* DIE! SUPER MEGA ULTRA TURBO BURNING ULTIMATE SHINING REALLY REALLY PAINFUL KAMEHAMEHA!

*The blast blows up Earth, all the surrounding planets, the sun, the solar system, the Milky Way Galaxy, and several of the surrounding galaxies. Goku is now floating in a beyond massive void, his power keeping him alive…and the fruitcake is still undamaged*

Goku: No…what else can I possibly…

Fruitcake: MWAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA! Thank you Son Goku!

Goku: Wha? You’re alive?

Fruitcake: Yes! For eons I have been passed hand to hand, never being eaten but instead being sent on! I have been rejected from everything! So I have been gathering power from whenever I could, to prepare for this day! I expected it would take another trillion years before I had enough power, but your efforts have charged me to my limits and beyond! At last, revenge will be mine! I will destroy the earth and everything else!

Goku: Um, I already kinda did that.

Fruitcake:….Oh yeah. But that won’t stop me! I AM THE MIGHTY FRUITCAKE!

*The fruitcake waves…well, it does the closest thing to a wave that it can, and suddenly everything is back to the way it was. Shen Long and Poranga immediately begin clamoring to Akira Toriyama for the power to do that, who briefly stops counting all the money he made from DBZ to tell them to shut up*

Fruitcake: It is done! At long last, revenge is mine! You shall pay for always making me the gift for someone you didn’t like!

Goku: What can I do…it’s power is beyond anything I have ever felt…I cannot stop it…unless I do the unthinkable…it seems impossible…BUT I HAVE NO CHOICE!

Fruitcake: First…What? NO!

*Goku reaches out and grabs the fruitcake…and does what no man could have ever beared to do…HE EATS IT!*

Goku: *chew…chew…chew…swallow* Hey, that wasn’t so bad! It was a tad burnt, but beside that…well, back home I go!

*uses Instantaneous Movement to teleport to Satan City…only to find everyone he knows and a bunch of other people looking at him*

Goku: Uh…hi! What’s going on…?

Random Person: You have committed a blasphemy against all living things…you have ingested a fruitcake! We can no longer let you touch food, lest it be corrupted by the fruitcake within you!

Goku: *screaming* NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!” Goku screamed as he sat up. He looked around and sighed, and then turned to Chi Chi.
“Oh Chi Chi…I had the worst dream…about fruitcake and no food and having to have Vegeta’s hair style…”
“Bud. Weis. Er.” Chi Chi’s three frog heads croaked back.

(I'd say this dates the story, except I don't think anyone would even remember that reference except me)

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Goku screamed as he tumbled out of bed. Chi Chi jerked up at the noise, then looked down at her husband.
“That’s it Goku! No more chocolate chip and sushi pizzas with beer before bedtime for you ever again!”

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good fight!

(A story like this is like power levels. Vegeta?)

Blush: An Introduction, or, Where's The Beef?

Warning: The following contains rambling. Maybe even self-indulgent rambling. Maybe even boring self-indulgent rambling. I really can't tell from where I'm sitting, so...be warned?

There's a few sayings about critics. Those who can't, do it is one. Everyone being one is another. Some people were more creative; Shakespeare called them 'a wretched race of hungry alligators'. Generally, there seems to be a belief that critics are critics because they can't actually create and hence are jealous, or that they don't know how to do their jobs and just do them to be mean, or feel better about others by tearing them down. It's somewhat understandable, as a lot of criticism is not something you can really 'learn' or 'train'. On a few levels, the viewpoints of the late Siskel and Ebert are about the same as some random internet yahoo screaming into a camera; you can evolve presentation, but it's all opinion in the end. There's also this quote at the end of Ratatouille...

"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so."

-Anton Ego

And the character of Ego was a food critic, which actually requires some degree of talent to do. Just about anyone can criticize pop culture. So therein lies the question; how can anyone's criticism, beyond overt exceptions, have meaning?

More to the personal point, for this series of articles I want to do, some people could very much see it as the pot calling the kettle black, as I mainly wish to address fictional works which I feel poorly, and badly, utilize the concepts of 'realism' and 'shades of grey' to the overall detriment of the story. In other words, I want to complain about cynicism, when I at times have gleefully attempted to inject cynicism into creative efforts, half the time where it wasn't needed or wanted at that. That's the very thing I want to discuss and criticize, so how can I be in a position to do it?

Well, first, I thought I'd talk about why I do it, and perhaps by some small extent, why  I think anyone does it. Why does anyone like bad things? The world has enough real, actual troubles; how can anyone get a taste for it and want to see the same things in their fiction? There's no real answer, of course. Tastes are made of a thousand arbitrary, sometimes random things; it's not like a math formula where A equals B, ergo C. I do, however, have my own viewpoint, beyond the arbitrary navel gazing.

I recently extensively quoted a bit from Alan Moore, from his assessment of the 9/11 attacks, in a shared work, and his initial words have stuck with me recently. As he said.

"This is information. Matter is energy. Energy is information. Everything is information. Physics says that structures, buildings, societies, ideologies, will seek their point of least energy. This means that things fall. They fall from heights of energy and structured information into meaningless, powerless, disorder. This is called entropy."

It was that professed concept of thoughts and their processes following along the same rough lines of entropy that I think provides the answer to why people like cynicism in their works. Cynicism is, at heart, a reason to not expend effort, to innately head towards a point of least energy. All negative thought processes are; the reason most people will never change is changing is not only terrifying, it's hard. Cynicism is mild compared to some other 'isms and 'ogynys and so on, but it's part of the same boat.

So why enjoy cynicism? In the way of being drawn to the point of least energy, whatever someone has to do to avoid expending effort causing enjoyment makes sense. If everything innately heads towards entropy, then it could definitely be argued that to go along with it would be pleasing. After all, you're doing 'what's natural'. There was even some study I read once that thinking about doing something is almost as pleasing as doing it, ie, thinking about it releases almost the same amount of happy chemicals in the dopamine and serotonin fields as actually completing the task (which is why procrastination is a problem for some). Another article I read about 9/11 conspiracy theories speaks of the same things; it basically pointed out the theorists were not really concerned about 'the truth' about the attacks, but constructing a narrative where they were smarter and better than the rest of the world without expending any effort whatsoever to be better. Looking at, or crafting a bad situation, and then going 'But that's how it is' and getting a buzz out of it, just might be part of the nature of existence. If there's going to be any sort of solid answer for why anyone likes cynicism in their fiction, that's really as good as any.

But if fiction is like a fine course meal, tell me, when was the last time you had a great meal that consisted of a steak, hamburgers, bacon, and a side of beef jerky? And even if you did enjoy something like that ONCE, how many times would you have to have a meal in that vein before you got sick of it? Here's a better question; how do the people who would never get sick of it think?

To me, sometimes enjoying cynicism is like a proper meal. You need the fiction to have a variety of aspects, just like a good meal will have meat, and vegetables, and soups and salads and variety in general. Even if you might deem to eat an 'all-meat meal' (ex: reading something by Cormac McCarthy), you should you know what you're getting into. To me, any time I try and introduce cynicism is because at the moment, I want a steak. Sometimes I want spaghetti too. It's probably fitting, come to think of it now, that my first quote was from a fictional food critic. Back to the point, how do the kind of people who would happily eat all-meat meals over and over without getting tired of it think?

Well, it seems to me they really don't. Their thoughts are singular; 'I like meat, you must be wrong to not like meat' and just stop there. This is where the allegory for my issues that I'll be raising shakes apart, as people can just make their own food if they want. But consuming fiction, my complaint...is basically the people who don't recognize this. Who insist on serving an all-meat meal because darn it, that's what they like, what kind of dumbass wouldn't? And that because they have the 'power' to 'control the menu', they end up losing what little insight they had, if they ever had any to begin with. This leads me to one last meat factoid; spices used to be as valued as precious metals once upon a time because in the days before humans developed food preservation techniques, spices could be used for a variety of issues, one of them covering up the bad taste of food that had spoiled. The point being that even if the bad taste is covered, the meat is still rotten, even if you can't see it. And it might still make you sick.

Maybe I should stop talking about food. So, another quote. What does this sound like to you?

"It breaks hope -- it crushes what makes us decent and steals what little honor remains. You have... no idea what is coming." 

 What does this sound like to you? Maybe a line from an ultra-cynical work, like Warhammer 40,000? Maybe something a villain would say, or someone victimized by something terrible, who by the basis of their suffering, has a rather twisted and altered viewpoint? Can you think of places (ie pieces of fiction) where a line like this doesn't belong?

Now that you have, can you think of how things could be presented so that it could belong? 

I bet there's a few you could think of. I bet you could also think of a few where it just wouldn't work. Square peg, round hole. Now the next question: what happens when you feel compelled to cram the square peg into the round hole, not for the sake of a story or a vision, but for the sake of the opinions of another?

Like I said, if thought processes are as prone to entropy as physical ones, the fact that people can end up in the boxes I am going to discuss, and in a lot of cases lament and get aggravated by, makes sense. That doesn't make the end result any less rotten. Pile on all the spices you want, the meat's still bad. And one of the main reasons comes from the namesake of these columns; why is it called 'Blush'? Mainly because I feel the core root of the problem matches this quote by C.S Lewis;

“Critics who treat 'adult' as a term of approval, instead of as a merely descriptive term, cannot be adult themselves. To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence. And in childhood and adolescence they are, in moderation, healthy symptoms. Young things ought to want to grow. But to carry on into middle life or even into early manhood this concern about being adult is a mark of really arrested development. When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.” 

Why am I writing these things? Because in my field of interests, I have begun to perceive more and more people for whom 'blushing at being childish' is their worst nightmare, and they're willing to do anything to be seen as doing so. But like I've already said, the meat is still rotten, and no amount of spice isn't going to make it fresh again. So therein lies my goal. For someone who likes their cynicism, I will talk about when I don't like cynicism, and why. And while I may just be some yahoo on the Internet typing instead of yelling into a camera...well, need I repeat myself more?

Coda: One point I'd like to make.

There are obvious things that are bad, that you should know are bad without actually doing it. One does not have to jump off a cliff to KNOW it's going to end badly. I expect people to be aware of these obvious things. That being said, never let anyone tell you what to like, or not to like.

I once read a critic review of Freddy vs Jason that trashed the film, calling it 'vile' and the usual epitaphs. I greatly enjoyed the film when I saw it. Perhaps by the viewpoint of this critic, I 'failed', but what does that matter? In the end, outside of the obvious, if you enjoy something, that doesn't mean you can't not enjoy it. Sometimes you can see past the flaws, or live with them. I will not lord over anyone that 'I am right, you are wrong'. These is just my own assessments, be they ever so small and lacking a point. Too much critical analysis of work, I find, gets bogged down in pointless 'You should like what I like, and dislike what I like, and if you don't, YOU'RE BAD' nonsense. Like what you want, no matter how bad people say it is. QED.

...I actually have no idea if I'm using QED correctly. Oh well.

Coda 2: I'll be getting to the source of that 'breaks hope' quote eventually. Next, though, I'm going to look at something famous that I myself think is, and was, very good, and how unfortunately, sometimes the best things can only be told once.

Cornwind Cutting Room Floor 2014

2014 was actually a pretty good year, as I managed to get virtually everything I wanted done and even managed to toss in some stuff from the 2012 cutting room floor. So here's what didn't make it.

Muin

The general idea, as far as I thought, was that if you created a contemptible villain, you give the rest of the circle you're playing with the chance to beat the shit out of him. The main issue was that Muin was just a normal man with no resources; it would be over as soon as it started. The idea was to give him superpowers, specifically the ability to absorb the properties of anything he touched. Had this happened, the final Strangvia battle would have had Muin, as he turned himself into steel, rock, fire, and everything else he could to kill the Kobbers. But, once he failed, he would have been thrown into Strangvia's museum. You probably don't remember, but when Ash visited Strangvia, he looked at several creations of Strangvia's mayor, including 'a youth serum', 'battle armor' and 'a flying machine'. Muin, after being beaten and seemingly killed, would have absorbed these three things in a last ditch effort and turned into...

Yep, the second Sheep introduced Strangvia, my immediate urge was to use the clock tower and rip off Amazing Spider Man 2. Had this played out, Muin would have just targeted Ash and a just rescued Scaeyl, and I would have replicated the final battle scene of the movie with two key differences: Ash would have taken the fall (I had a rough idea of Strangvia figuring out how to block Stream powers after Ash's little incident there, hence he'd have no protection) and thankfully would have barely survived it, and taking such a risk would have been what turned Scaeyl to the good side. I had no set plans for Muin to live or die during this fight, and in the end, the group decided they'd rather just have him gone, so this never happened. Probably best; what I think is a 'just right' amount of action and drama tends to be 'too much' for the rest.

That was pretty much it for major altered ideas: everything else worked out more or less as I planned, though there were a few possibles that never happened.

-Sheep's disappearance kept various Strangvia aspects from being revealed, which might have tied into Bracha or Maddie.
-Bracha might have turned evil again.
-Aiden's encounter with Mnerolth and the Triune would have eventually led to him regaining his memories and leading them to their doorstep, had no one else had any other ideas.
-Sine would have used the Fifth-Dimensional Ink to summon Godzilla by accident in a big fight. Once he showed up in the Fite Club, I deemed this redundant.
-There were a few things with the Einherjer I never could properly work in in an obvious way. One was that Ideans had a crush on Scaeyl. Plus, there would have been more encounters with Jack and co, but Sheep.

Hopefully next year will build on this mostly-smoothless.

The Girl Who Loved Fairies, Part 5

(The poem at the end is a slightly altered version of 'Moribond', from the Wordspring blog "Manny's Book Of Shadows")

Who would have thought it would come to this?
Oh, the opposition was expected. More than expected. It was the tone of it, even as the weight began to be pressed down.
They couldn't kill her.
All the hatred and rage in the world and they couldn't kill her. They'd been reduced to this. It would make her laugh, if she could do it properly. But all her feelings were poor simulations, her attempting to puzzle out how a person would properly react in this situation.
What to do? One last blast of resistence, put a scare into them? What was the point? They'd caught her off guard and they had the hooks in deep, a depth that shadowed the pit they were to bury her in. But she would not die.
They so wanted her to die, but they could not kill her. Rera had wanted to craft a better spell; she had succeeded beyond anyone's wildest expectations.
It would not last.
She would not fade away.
It was a funny thing. The air people breathed, they needed it to live. But there was a corrosive effect in air. It worked very slowly, and showed its efforts on other things moreso than flesh, but it was a destroyer all the same. Same with water, its brother. But anyone who called air and water deadly in and of themselves would be considered mad. It was not madness though. Just perspective. And understanding.
She would not fade away. Would not rot. Would not cease. She was the corrosive.
She could tell how strong these bindings were, but in time, they would wear away. She would be free. She could wait. The end result would be the same, whether in seconds or eons.
She was what she was, a product of the world around her, and she knew what was needed, something only her eyes could see.
It was amusing. Haruspices saw powers in threes, and many of their rituals were based around it. Yet they did not see it.
...she supposed it didn't matter.

The house was gone now. The people who had lived here had long moved on, repeatedly. The bridge had fallen into disrepair, not that it was needed. Strangely, the sign marking the river still existed, barely. Perhaps it was the river's short name length that allowed the sign to persist: it was mere "On", though it was pronounced with a long O sound, so it came out "Oooooooh-own." in proper speaking.

The last time she had done this, she had waited three days. This time, she waited one, the sun rising and falling. The lone person who saw her made it their business to get away and forget they had. No one else bothered her, and so she moved on.

The second house she found, at the edge of the small town named Astbow, wasn't in much better shape than the first, and considering the first was no longer there, it wasn't saying much for the state of it. The path to the house had long been consumed by grass, and the insects singing within in grew quiet as she approached. The door was not locked, not like that would have mattered.

The notable thing, to those who understood such things, was the smell. There was none. Such a place always had a foul odor of some sort. A modern person who understood such things might have noted the atmosphere almost seemed sterile.

Hrodohaidis's eyes were almost wholly covered in milk, the cataracts having slowly grown over the last six months, even as her strength ebbed. She had by now resigned herself to death, alone out here. But despite all much her vision had faded, the cold red of the eyes that swam into the remains of it was as visible as if the bearer seared its presence on the very light that passed around her.

Familar eyes. If they had not bourne memories, the voice would have.

"It was Hodie, wasn't it?" Canught said. "I forget these things..."

"...Royse?"

"No...I'm afraid not. You wanted to drown her in that river...you succeeded. Royse is dead." Canught said. "...I thought that when I finally did this, I would ask you why. I realized on my way even that doesn't make me care. In fact...all of this has been a waste of time. The idea was based on revenge, my teacher told me I should take revenge...but it was always a motions thing. I never felt...anything. I just did it because it seemed like something that might stir a spark in me...no such luck. Maybe some would say that's exactly what you earned. Such a hard life, done by by someone who doesn't even care it's being done."

"...what...are you?"

"A corpse, I guess. You could also call me a Haruspex...but if I was really one of those, I think I would have killed you decades ago. Instead, I let you live. Made sure the paths of your life always ended in misery, but you lived. It does not strike me as something they'd have the patience to do...considering how old you are now, maybe I failed. Most would have given up long ago. I wonder what our lives would have been like had you not chosen to drown me in the river. Do you know why you did that?"

There was no answer.

"Not surprised."

Canught raised a hand, contemplating.

"Do you want to die now? It means little to me otherwise. If you chose to die now, you'll only be preceeding the world by a short time."

"...What?"

"...My brethren talk of sins, and curses, and the need to punish the peoples...but I see all they see and I simply do not see the purpose. It does not inspire, it is...tedious. A circular motion that goes nowhere. I tire of the circles, here, there, everywhere. It ensures I never find it...whatever it is. You and I are the same, that way. Neither of us achieve anything in this life, on this world. So...why not destroy it? Just to see if I can. If that works, if I exist...maybe I'll have an answer for what my purpose is. If not...perhaps I will speak my Word backwards, and see if I can put the world back together. Perhaps that is why I exist. I am the fire to clear away old growth. Or simply the end of all growth. Whatever it is...it means more than just going in circles."

"...Royse?"

"That's not my name." The woman said, as she cast another off. "It was lost in the river. I accepted a new name, but only because it seemed like I should, just like it seemed like I should take revenge. If I am to create after I destroy...perhaps I should begin. Starting with a name I actually made and choose myself. So what I am then? I am a hateful shade made by your river.

"...Hadeon. I am Hadeon, The Destroyer. Hadeon of the All-Consuming Word. That is the fanciful term. I think I prefer the simple word, the truth of it.

"Annihilation. Hadeon, of the Annihilation."

"...I'm sorry."

"...I don't know if that matters." Hadeon said. She said nothing more. Hrodohaidis spoke a few more times, but Hadeon no longer cared to listen. When the last breath left her, she sat there for some more time.

She'd never seen her fairies.

The world was empty of them.

The world was empty.

Let it be so.

---

It was one of the great secrets of the world, that the foul witches of blood and death actually allowed the world to continue on. They struck not to save it, but in the ways of strange things, it seemed fitting. They struck, they sealed, they buried, and they scoured. And in time...all that was left was story and possibility.

Until the people from the stars came. Until others were inspired to seek the truth in the story, so many risings and fallings gone by.

The truth in the words written by a Haruspex named Erikodi.

"All hail Hadeon, killer of kings
The ultimate leveling ender of things
None can escape her fast-felling grasp
Once one’s heartbeat she’s sought out to clasp
Much less avoid the nigrescent haze
Which swirls within her soul-quashing gaze
Wanting of ears she hears not the pleas
As fey humanity beg on their knees
Their solicitations and piteous cries
Rebound off her countenance, haloed with flies
Her scythe sounds a ring like the toll of a knell
As it soars through the fated with impetus fell."

----

"THAT'S your solution?! You want to wake up Hadeon?!"

"Even if she exists, Mireya, and that is a considerable question, even IF we could awaken her, no being on this world can control her. Not even us, no matter how much we'd want to."

"And...and what if...what if the beings from the stars...are even stronger?"

"...what, indeed."

The Girl Who Loved Fairies, Part 4

Sometimes she remembered. Flashes of faces. Words that no longer had any meaning. Some of those old words had come to her, being told to eat everything on her plate so she could grow up healthy.

Growth.

Men were rarely on the level of beasts, but men could be surprisingly innovative when it came to their survival against beasts. Men could use tools, and numbers, and tactics. A Therian was made so that none of that mattered. Cut, bash, burn, impale, a Therian would never stop. It would rip and tear until there was nothing left, or until even it had acquired so many wounds it could kill no more. She understood, more or less, why such beasts were the primary way of her kind in collecting souls.

But Canught had no interest in collecting souls. All the things that did interest her faded swiftly, like fireflies. And this...

Growth.

Therians had to grow back from their wounds. What most living things could do, but swifter, without the consequences of loss of blood or flesh, or pain growing too great. Canught suspected that was why she was seeing what she was seeing. Most Haruspex followed the old ways, never deviating, but there were always those who were curious, who sought to improve. Unbeknowst to Canught, that was why she was the way she was. Rera's process had been imperfect, not fully able to repair the damage the drowning had inflicted on her brain, but the new connections the attempted...growth had formed had resulted in something wholly new. A knowledge later heroes and societies would access in their own ways. Her All-Consuming Word.

Growth.

Rinekuyd's experiments had been all about that. To take the ability of a Therian to knit wounds and improve on it. While a Haruspex could only consume the souls of people who had damned themselves, experiments held no such prerequisites. So Rinekuyd had come, and this was the mess she'd made.

Growth.

That was what had happened to these people. Rinekuyd had experimented, and they had grown. She'd wanted Therians to be able to call upon more flesh, a process that would require refinement. And so these dozen or so survivors of a town once called Bool now envied the dead beyond most normal human comprehension. Their bodies had been changed, and started growing. They couldn't die...and they couldn't stop. Their forms had twisted into hideous, barely functioning masses; cancer golems was the best description, and even that wasn't wholly right. The mortals not caught up in Rinekuyd's work had long cleared away from this town, screaming of its cursed, doomed nature. Even under current stars, no one had ever returned to Bool. It had eventually fallen into ruin, and returned to the forests.

Strangely, they were in no pain. Their bodies were warped beyond belief...but the changes had altered their nervous systems as well. It was no comfort to these once-men and women. As they shuffled towards Canught, all they could whisper was one thing.

Death. Oh how they wanted to die.

But they could not die.

Growth.

That was their curse. Endless growth. Cut them down, they'd rise again. Cut them apart...such a thing was beyond the crude tools of these lands.

Canught didn't like them. They were ugly.

"Do be quiet." Canught said. "Your pain is meaningless. The world doesn't hear it. It doesn't care. It gives no purpose or sympathy. It simply does."

The cursed of Rinekuyd did not listen. They kept moaning, begging, pleading. Why not? What else could they do?

"Oh, you irritate me." Canught said, raising a hand. "Blind eyes and bleating mouths. I see so much finer. I see every single spark and ever single wire in your flesh, no matter how changed..."

"Plzzzzzssss..."

"So I sever them."

Canught's tools were so much more refined, so much greater. She took the ugly things apart on a molecular level. She did not understand why it seemed so saitisfying.

Not like it mattered. The feeling was as fleeting as all the others. She couldn't even muster anything when Rinekuyd came to her in a rage of her experiments being ruined, turned to dust and freed of their bondage. Canught almost didn't strike back when Rinekuyd struck at her. Almost. She suspected Rinekuyd felt her demise moreso than her experiments.

That was two of her sisterhood she'd killed. One could be seen as an anomaly, but two? An unforgivable sin. They'd come for her.

...and she still didn't care.

...In fact...the only thing she could say she did care about was due to end soon.

...maybe it was an omen.

The Girl Who Loved Fairies, Part 3

It was never quite established how the ruinous force that was known to most as the Gash Ken'Nigh Legions began. The most popular story was that two kingdoms had heirs of an unfortunate mental bent come to power and originally were going to make war on each other. Somehow, the two had discovered that the other was delightfully mad as the other, and had decided to merge forces and go after the world instead. There were other stories, but considering they consisted of such tales as 'a demon bled into a river and every drop became a Gash Kne'Nigh soldier' and 'a witch stole all the hairs from every bear in a forest and due to the curse of the bears, the bare bears (heh), they all became soldiers and decided to go cause trouble', most gave credit to the two kingdoms theory.

In truth, the Gash Ken'Nigh has begun through the efforts of three brothers, Naaran, Batar, and Setseg, uniting their horse-based warrior tribes and overthrowing the kingdom of Colao, later known as Sylphlaw (perhaps the grounds were cursed). The king of Colao had dabbled in the arcane, but the three brothers, in looking the kingdom, discovered they were far better hands at it, using the spells to twist men's wills to theirs and turn their already fearsome army into a semi-assimilating mass. Despite this boon, it would not keep Naaran and Setseg from falling prey to assassination attempts, leaving just Batar, and shortly thereafter, his son Gerel, as the sole leaders of their legions. From his loss, Batar learned the importance of appearing unimportant, and he and his son changed their commanding strategies to blend in among their troops, issuing them orders on the sly. If they hadn't had dark magic at their side, such a tactic may not have worked...but they did. And it did.

The end result was by the time the Gash Kne'Nigh came to the empire of Ilachi, no one knew who directed him, and that only added to the terror they brought, an overwhelming crushing mass of men and weapons and death that turned loyal soldiers into slaves and who had been said to best sieges by pulling down castles brick by brick with the bare hands of their men. By that time, Batar had died of illness, and only Gerel led, one face among many, his lone goal conquest and destruction until he no longer had the taste for it. What was truth and what was myth was sometimes hard to tell, but it was clear that whatever stood against the legions, the empire of Ilachi would not be what broke them. It had armies too...half the size of the Gash Kne'Nigh.

If King Eliseo had any regrets, it was that he'd had to execute a few of his closest advisers over what he had chosen to do. He hadn't wanted to, but he could brook no opposition to what he had chosen to do, and they had made it clear they wouldn't come around to his viewpoint. Such a choice he had made required a united front, and there could be no dissent. None. Not with what was bearing down on them. Not what was firing rocks and giant flaming spears at his kingdom, as he, a few guards, and who he had come to to save his people stood on top of the highest tower in his kingdom.

"Tell me again what you want." The woman said.

Eliseo had expected many things when he had finally found this woman. Her stories were even more distorted, and twisted, than the stories of the Gash Kne'Nigh, and he had expected a certain presentation, a certain visage. For the most part, she had not 'disappointed'. Her skin, her eyes, her way of dress, all of it spoke of what she was...

Save the wings. The wings had been what had thrown him (not that he had shown it). Well, that, and she had accepted his offer. Haruspex were supposed to be butchers in the shadows; this one was...more open, to say the least. Eliseo had wanted to bring her in as a assassin, but she had insisted on seeing the whole battlefield, as thousand upon thousands of men fought and died.

"...Stop them!" Eliseo said.

"What price will you pay?"

"...anything you want. Just...stop them!" Eliseo said. The advisers he had executed had told him that trusting a woman, a creature like this, was a fool's errand. They just did not grasp what Eliseo had been forced to. There was no way his people could oppose the Gash Kne'Nigh. They would cut down his troops (if they didn't convert them), and then sack his empire, kill every last man woman and child, and leave nothing behind but ruin and violation. The advisers had wanted to stand; there WAS no standing. There was only horrible death, and worse...and then there were deals like this.

Eliseo hoped history would understand. It would not, as his name would not be marked upon its pages.

"...why do you want me to stop them?"

"...to protect my family. And my people." Eliseo said. It was the truth, as far as he was concerned.

"...So be it then."

The woman raised her hand...and his city SCREAMED.

Eliseo had neither the training nor the mindset to grasp what Canaught had done, what she had pulled from who-knew how many people below as she broke it down for fuel. The sheer horror of it, despite this lack of understanding, washed over him and drove him to his knees, even as a thousand dark glimmers began swirling around the tall tower...

Canaught turned. She made a fist, and the darkness spawned above the clashing armies, clouds as black as pitch...clouds that surged out, forming taloned hands that also formed a fist...

Gerel never knew what hit him. He was one of the many, many first dead as the mountain-sized fist smashed down into the ranks of the clashing arms, smashing and tearing and rending them apart like they were insects caught in a hurricane, a tide of force and bodies and much worse erupting outwards from the impact, men dying in droves at a speed beyond comprehension. Gerel had his own magicians, but none of them even had a chance to raise a counter-spell before Canaught's doom came down upon them.

Them and Eliseo's own men. She had smashed her mighty hand directly into the middle of the battlefield, and he screamed at this realization, even as the darkness swirled around the tower...

He'd been wrong. There was no good choice here. Only a choice of horrors...but one Eliseo had been ready for. You do not put your fate in someone else's hands and not prepare other hands to snatch it away. As strong as this freakish, monstrous Haruspex was, her spells all came from a certain bent. Eliseo had his own resources, and he'd had his two guards prepared by them. Covered with protective runes, they would stave off her power long enough for them to cut her down, for behind all that terrible strength was just a normal woman...

...But he was wrong there too. Canaught turned around, and for the first time, there was something in her eyes. Even as they glowed crimson.

Image/Avatars courtesy of Vertigo Comics.

The soldiers turned to ash even before they finished falling. Eliseo could only watch in helpless, mortal fear as his ace in the hole crapped out.

Then all he could watch was the Haruspex.

Ditto.

The darkness she commanded lifted him up. Brought him close.

"They felt nothing, those I just slew. But those you just turned on me? They felt that. And so will every other soul I cut down today. As per your command. Your family. Your people. The latter is far more numerous, and hence they can afford to die. As per your command."

"...But..."

"It's true I could not touch them with what I learned. But I am more than that. More than a Word. That, they had no defense against."

"...Monster."

"I did as you said. It is your folly that you had to turn to me to do it." Canaught said. "Had you given me more specific commands, I would have obeyed. But you did not. Now you will reap the consequences."

King Eliseo was released, all strength leaving him.

"I am coming to a conclusion..." Canught said. "When the world was made, my material was set aside first. And the world was made with what was left."

"...hateful...SHADE."

"Call me what you will. I am what I am. You will never forget this day."

Canught turned and flew off the tower, the consuming darkness engulfing her, turning her into another gigantic clawing hand. When it was all said and done, there were few survivors on either side, as the cloud of darkness and death she had become swept across the battlefield until there was no more war.

The darkness never left Colao. In time, it crumbled to dust.

Canught walked on when it was done. To her...a brief respite had been achieved.

She suspected there would not be much left in this world to wring the ennui that had gripped her ever since she had been pulled from the river.

On that day, maybe...she'd have something worthwhile to do.

The Girl Who Loved Fairies, Part 2

"This has no point, Rera."

"The great discoveries, Erikodi, are granted to those who look beyond the obvious at the right time." Rera said. She was in one of her 'bad light' days: to intimidate, she smeared her black skin with white makeup around her eyes and mouth. In the correct lighting, it looked terrifying, like a skull. In the wrong light, it made her look like a raccoon that had gotten into the wrong compost pile. Today was one of the latter days.

"She still breathes, but there's nothing in her eyes. She was in the water too long. You may as well try and re-animate a corpse. Her only real worth is parts."

"You have spent too long in the reaping, Erikodi. All of you do. Indulging in death like it's a new plant to smoke instead of a sacred art." Rera said, walking around the alter where the fallen body of Royse lay, wrapped in dark red and green clothes, her head shorn of hair. If it wasn't for how pale she was, she'd seem just like another girl sleeping. "We craft the Therians to shake off wounds. The same matter can be applied here!"

"The beasts are crafted by us more or less from birth. You cannot pluck a corpse-"

"It is not a corpse!"

"...A near corpse from the river and do the same thing."

"So you say. Had you come to me two hundred years ago, I would have told you there was no way I would be alive now." Rera said, as she began lighting foul smelling candles.

"I will assist as you asked, but do not expect me to linger once this has the expected results and you beat yourself on a stone wall in denial."

"Yes yes...use the mixture, close the circle around me."

She didn't want to admit it, but Erikodi, once known as Aldreda before her mother had succumbed to madness and the town she (and Erikodi) had been in had thrown her out (after said madness had claimed her mother's life as well) in their fear it was in the blood, before she'd been taken in, and trained, and given a new name, was somewhat impressed by the work Rera had done. Her kind did not work together, or even meet much, save to welcome each other into the fold and direct them to the sheep, and hence Erikodi would likely sooner walk on hot coals then admit it. But Rera did have some interesting ideas, even if Erikodi thought they were futile.

At least, that was how Erikodi thought when the ritual began.

By the time the air caught on fire, she had re-assessed it to madness. Rera was decaying, like some Haruspex did, and she had dragged Erikodi into it.

When the holes in the air had opened, Erokodi, refusing to leave her circle lest worse happen, had crossed to terror.

When it was all over, and the girl opened her eyes...it had become something else entirely.

Awe.

The flatness of the girl's gaze, a lack of confusion or fear, the calmness in her voice, should have been warning signs, but none of them registered to Erikodi. This hadn't been dragging a corpse back from the brink. This had been something MORE...she could feel it in her bones...

---
Ten years later.

Said feelings never changed.

Erikodi would watch as the girl, brought back through strange things that flowed through her, was invited into the order of blood and death. She watched as she took her name: Canaught. She watched as the sacrifice was brought out.

It only wavered when the woman began to weep, and Canaught did not bring the knife down. Instead, she stood and listened. Listened even as the whispers began to spread. As the sacrifice sobbed and begged and pleaded. Until the sacrifice had no more words.

She did not bring the knife down until twenty seconds after the sacrifice had no more words. Her sisters would later laud it as exquisite, drawing it out, feigning mercy. But Erikodi knew better.

Many years later, her writings would be read by other beings of power. But despite her efforts, that understanding had been lost.

---

She could feel it. Inside her. Burning away. Wasting away. It had cut through all her defenses like a knife through curds.

What struck Rera as she collapsed, looking at her student, the girl she had pulled back, the girl she had NAMED (Canaught, as the girl never cared for a name, even when she was supposed to pick one, she had never cared about anything, she learned and she listened but she never cared), was that there was no indication it had been coming. Rera had been ready for possible hidden ambition, or hatred, but the idea that her student would reach out and kill her so passively and so...pointlessly had never occurred to her. Done this way, it accomplished nothing.

It was the only reason she spoke.

"...Why?"

Canaught's lone answer was her ever-steady, ever flat, ever empty gaze. The last thought Rera had before she burned up from within was the artistry of the power. Like nothing any Haruspex had ever shown before. The gift she had accidentally given the girl who once loved fairies.

Canught took nothing as she left. She didn't destroy anything either. A younger Haruspex named Harit would later discover what Rera and Canught had left behind and work her own great evils with it, but that is another tale.

The first thing Canaught did as a free woman was walk to the nearest field and sit there for three days.

When she was done, she left the same way she'd come.

The Girl Who Loved Fairies, Part 1

They told Royse that yellowmane stems were full of milk, but to Royse, they were full of yuckiness.

Adults didn't understand anything, especially not mother. How strange to call her mother; Royse was certain she would never use the word again after her mother died. But father had met Eda, and despite Royse not liking Eda and Hrodohaidis (who Royse would always call 'Hodie' because her actual name was impossible to say, what WAS mother thinking?), father believed Royse needed a new mother and so they had wed. Royse had resisted mightily, as much as a seven year old could, but Eda was nice and eventually Royse had realized she did like having a new mother. She didn't really like Hodie, but maybe that would change too.

At least Hodie believed in fairies. Mother and father kept telling her they weren't real, that they were just in her storybooks, but Royse knew she was wrong. Fairies just didn't show themselves to those who didn't believe, so mother and father couldn't see them even if they were flapping in front of their noses. But Royse believed, and one day, she'd find one. She would open her hands, and the fairy would dance on them, and they would fly into the sky, to dance among the stars.

Which is why she was out, even though it threatened rain. Hodie might be cross, but Royse could tell she wanted to be inside with her nose stuck in a dumb book that didn't have stories about fairies and other special things Royse wanted to find one day. She could outrun Hodie anyway, and Hodie always got so weird when she tried to scold, not like Eda. So Royse, in her battered dress and shoes, dirty black hair tied loosely behind her, crept through the tall grass. Sometimes she found bugs, what humans called dragonflies, but she knew they were not fairies. But sometimes she heard things, things she knew were just not the wind...and one day she'd find them, dancing and laughing, and they'd fly together...

The blast of thunder startled Royse so much that she fell down, mud squelching beneath her hands and her rear. Her mother would complain again...but she'd complain more if Royse came back soaked to the skin. She'd fall ill, like Hodie had years ago, mother had mentioned it more than once, how close it seemed that Hodie had come to dying. She could ignore when Hodie was mad, but not mother. She had to get home.

The grass parted around her as she ran, heading for their house. She was some distance away from the bridge over the river, but that was okay. The river was shallow, even Royse could easily pass it, the bridge was for ease in getting the wagon over...

But the rainfall had fallen in great amounts in the distance, and its legacy had even touched the river. Royse had not noticed it when she'd gone into the fields over the bridge, but coming back in a more direct way, she could see how swollen it had gotten, how much fiercer it flowed. Rocks she easily jumped across were barely visible...

The rain was starting to fall. If she went for the bridge, she'd be soaked to the skin by the time she got home...to a young child, the choice was obvious.

The river raged around her as she began to hop across the rocks. Slick with water, she did not feel as balanced as she normally would, but she'd always been good at climbing things (the closest thing to flying), she had a strong sense of how to stay on her feet. She just had to focus on the rocks and make a few more hops. One, two. One. One, two, one...

The tree standing by the bridge had been there since her father was her age, or so he said. One can hardly blame Royse for its time of death, as lightning struck it in mid leap, a blast of fire and brilliance that seemed to slap the girl, cost her her vision, her surity of foot.

Royse was pretty sure she heard someone calling for her, but that fact was swiftly consumed by the cold water. All sense of the world was rapidly torn away. She couldn't breath. She didn't know which way was up. She couldn't find the surface, the water running into her mouth, and it wasn't like drinking, it hurt...

The hands seized her, Royse spitting water and gasping for air as she was finally freed from the river's cruel grip, her gulps mixed with sobs as she was pulled away from the rushing, crushing rapids. She was vaguely aware of solid land under her feet, and she turned around to see her rescuer.

"Hodie..." She whimpered. "I'm sorry...the tree exploded..."

In a better mood, Royse would have said Hrodohaidis would have belonged in the water, as she more looked like a fish. But now she was too scared, and glad...

But that wasn't enough for even her child brain to pick it up, in its depths. Hodie's silence. That look in her eyes.

Royse would have spoken of it, but she never got the chance, as Hrodohaidis shoved her back under the water.

It would be many, many years before the Star Festival came to Ardea. The knowledge of the many ways a mind could be hurt, curdled, made bad, was countless generations away. Eda had always had a small feeling, deep below, that something was not quite right with her daughter, but no one in a thousand leagues had the understanding of what drove Hrodohaidis and how the severe illness had broken something inside her. Perhaps if Royse had just taken the bridge, nothing would have ever happened. Maybe not. But the chance had come, and no sooner had Hrodohaidis had the realization then she'd acted.

Poor impulse control. Another sign Ardea was not ready to understand. And it didn't help Royse as she struggled under the water, the water flowing back in, it hurt, what was she doing, I'm sorry I made you mad, I won't do it again...I just wanted...fairies...

The darkness was cool and quiet, in a way the water wasn't. A darkness mirrored in Hrodohaidis' mind, and heart.

Mother belongs to me.

When she let go, the water picked up Royse again, slowly carrying her away. Hrodohaidis watched, water dabbling on her face, at the cold eyes watching her drowned stepsister being taken away, out of her life, no longer a bother.

Then she turned, fell into the water, dragged herself through the mud, and screamed.

By the time anyone else joined her, Royse's body had long vanished away from the home she'd been cast out of.

The Fault In Our Stars

We told our children that the stars were the eyes of our gods, ever watching them sleep to ensure their peace. 

We grown Ulra'hno knew different, of course. We knew the stars were balls of gas, ever burning, many millions of leagues distant. But the way they hang in the dark outside, how they relate to our world as it move in perfect balance with Cir and Kir, how we have grown without our home shattering to pieces...what else but gods could place things so perfectly? Perhaps one day, we would reach out to the stars themselves, and see if they held gods.

But it did not happen that way. It came to pass that one of the stars came to us. Nothing like us. Angry. Cruel. Violent. It demanded our worship, and we could not stand. We called out for the gods to help us...

A god has come. Nothing like our beliefs. The stories, the ways...they have never spoken of a being like it. But...it has opposed the star. It fights for us.

The stars help us all. For the broken star will not.

----

Utsuho Reiuji was not the only one that could wield a sun.

Though in truth, Bracha John could not create a TRUE star, like the hell raven could. But with the power of light and the destructive energy she focused into it, she could do a half decent impression, especially when she made it bloom with fiery red color, a bleeding sunset the size of a suburban neighborhood that she hurled in front of her with a laugh.

The hammer met the light sphere like it was an anvil. The light sphere gave first, its energies disrupted and erupting outward from the point of strike, Bracha recoiling backwards as her attack shattered like it was a mere platoon of men. Snorting air through her nose, she began recalling the unfaded energies to her, refusing to let it go to waste.

"Well well, horseface. You might actually have some storm in you after all."

"You will do this world no more harm, creature." Beta Ray Bill said. He should not have been here. He had been forced to make a last moment detour on the way to his planned destination, which had taken him by this world. He'd stopped to look at how perfectly the three planets were aligned next to each other, somehow not tearing each other apart via their own gravity, and then he'd heard it. You couldn't hear sound in space, but Stormbreaker knew what needed to reach Bill's ears. The cries for help. The sound of tyranny, of power abused.

It would not stand.

"You really think blunting one attack means it's over."

"It will be over once I have REDUCED YOU TO DUST!" Bill said, and surged forward, his hammer swinging around on his wrist strap before it found his hand and Bill swung it down, with the force to crack mountains in twain and reduced the finest warships a half dozen alien empires could produce to pieces.

Bill was not a slow being, despite his size. The fact that he missed wasn't much of a surprise. The fact that Bracha blurred away from his three follow up blows, a four strike combo meant to disorient and catch one's foe off guard, was somewhat more of a concern.

"You think you can just smack me with a hammer, horseface? You think I'm a nail?" Bracha said. "I'm light itself. I'm speed incarnate."

Bracha dodged away from the next strike and buried her fist into Beta Ray Bill's gut.

"Speed is WEIGHT, as another enlightened man once said." Bracha said. "You should have left the pumpkin-faces to their new god, wingding.”

“You are no GOD.” Bill said, his voice rift with contempt. “I know what YOU are. You will suffer the same fate as-”

Bracha’s body flashed forward. Bill barely registered the blow before Bracha hit him a score more time, his body racked under the strikes. Bracha reformed a mere ten feet away, immediately having to dodge a thrown hammer, and then a dashing forward punch, Bill reaching out and recalling his hammer before the flying magics stopped affecting him.

“You can’t hit me.” Bracha said, sounding like she was six years old. Then she began splitting apart, clones of light appearing all around her, perfect illusions by the dozens that began to fly around the alien. “You can’t hit me you can’t hit me you can-”

The hammer dropped from Bill’s hand again, and with a spinning whirl wind exploded from the weapon, engulfing Bill and then expanding outward to engulf all the Bracha clones. Caught off guard, the fact that the real deal actually had mass gave her away, the wind sending her tumbling back, the light-controlling woman regaining her vertical bearing just in time for Bill to swing in.

His hammer met her fist, and the sky shook from the impact.

“I told you, horseface. Speed is WEIGHT.” Bracha said, and lashed upward, kicking Bill across the face and sending him flying upward, out of the planet’s stratosphere and actually breaking orbit. “Now move along. I have things to do, places to be, and Kobbers to burn to ash for murdering my brother…what am I saying, you can’t hear me up there.” Bracha said, her body shimmering from flesh to blazing light as she flew up in turn, freeing herself from the dangers of hard vacuum. She also gave herself some other advantages, as Bill met her coming up and his hammer went right through her.

“HA HA!” Bracha said, pointing and laughing like a classic Simpsons bully. Bill could not actually hear her, but the body language was clear enough.

So he thrust out his hammer, and light exploded from it. Her light, smashing into her form and sending her tumbling backwards. Bracha opened her mouth to complain, only for Bill to close it with a swing of his hammer, sending her slashing back down through the atmosphere.

Bracha shifted back to flesh in an explosion of energy, vaporizing the clouds around her. Blood. She was bleeding. Bastard’d made her bleed even in light form.

“I have learned not to give warnings to your ilk. It never works.” Bill said, lowering himself down into the atmosphere again.

“YOU HAVE MADE A VERY BIG-”

Bill lifted his hammer, and the blast of lighting flew from the clouds several miles distant and slammed into Bracha, sending her flying across the sky. Bracha spun across the horizon in a spastic dance, and then flew back towards Bill, unleashing her own storm of exploding light blasts, Bill’s hammer cleaving through them for a time before he was overwhelmed, falling from the sky. His fall turned into a meteor plunge as Bracha slammed into him, the two hitting the ground like a bomb and carving their way through a whole mountain range before Bracha finally stopped her charge slash drag slash push.

“Mistake.” Bracha said, her body a shimmering mass of gold and white.

The hammer hit it anyway, smashing into Bracha and throwing her backwards again. Bracha just managed to phase out of the way of Bill’s follow-up grab, but before she could counter-attack Bill smashed his hammer on the ground, throwing up a massive dust cloud that consumed both of them. Bracha, for all her talent with light, was still blinded.

The tornado consumed her, carrying her away and slamming her into the ground again. Bracha went pure transformation, fully turning her body to light and flying upwards into the sky. This time, she didn’t waste any time with theatrics. She made a mini sun, and she dropped it on Bill’s head.

The explosion was felt across the whole continent. In a million homes, Ulra’hno cowered under tables and stairs. Many more prayed.

Bill did not believe in gods. He knew there were beings of immense power, and that many demanded worship. In the past, his own species had worshipped him. But he never believed in the concept of ‘higher’ beings, that somehow stood above the universe and its ways. He looked to the heavens, and found them empty. He did not care for how these people perceived him…

But none of that mattered. This creature would do them harm if he didn’t stop her. So he took the star that fell on him, and he punched through it, slamming into Bracha, their blows raining across the sky and finally propelling them out of the planet’s atmosphere again before Bracha went to subliminal speeds to get away.

The two stared at each other, in the airless void. Bill didn’t need any words to know what was coming next. The woman had become impatient…and scared. If she kept brawling with Bill, who knew how it was going to end in a drawn out fight.

She was going to go for an all or nothing shot. Bill knew this the second she disappeared. She was not running. She would not run. She was backing up.

A million miles away, Bracha stopped.

The North Arm of Compass didn’t know that Bill had sussed out what she was doing. She didn’t care. The fastest reflexes in the universe couldn’t stop something going at the speed of light. She was going to hit this interloper, this horse-faced wannabe hero so hard everyone on the planet below felt it.

Blood called to blood. Her brother had been murdered. Everyone responsible for answer for it. The judgment of a god…

…she was a god. She had to be. She couldn’t be human. That way just lay pain.

She would no longer be among those hurt.

The trail she left as she blazed towards Bill was brighter than any comet, any natural body in space. The few who dared look at the sky would speak of its unique beauty to their dying day.

Bill did not yield. Bill did not move.

Save for his hammer.

----

They found him laying in the crater, several miles outside of a town they called Ki’laroh. His armor scorched and battered, his body motionless, his helmet having lost a wing. There he lay, unmoving.

Until they approached. Then his eyes popped open.

The beings known as the Ulra’hno could only stare in amazement as Bill stood up, only the faint hint of ginger movement betraying any pain. His shoulders and neck cracked like breaking tree trunks as he stretched, blinking a few times.

“…It is gone.” Bill said. “I know you may not be able to understand me…but you no longer have anything to fear. So swears Beta Ray Bill.”

---

“The heck was that?” Sine said, looking at the readouts on her spaceship. Had a nearby star gone supernova?

…Something to investigate later.

---

And above Porphyrion, some time still later…other fortunate witnesses, including a young explorer, were blessed to see the brightest of shooting stars.

The Tempest

"Beauteous Ardea, from sea to sea

From every rock and every tree

Did once, as one, a terror flee..."

-The Town: Poncoe. On the East End of Ardea. Population: 2000-

Not every town on Poryphyrion welcomed the Star Festival. The chaos of the previous year, with the Star People bringing all sorts of demons with them, had only increased Poncoe's rancor and xenophobia. Between a poor crop yield and many animals falling ill, the hooded stranger basically only had to show up to get attention and do nothing before the village, carefully stoked to madness, came after him en masse, some even wielding pitchforks and torches...

"His shadow fell across its breadth

Powers dark and cursed, eldreth

His name: Anubis, the god of death!"

-The City: Sylphlaw. The Southwest of Bardon. Population: 24,000. Established nearly 700 years ago. Ruling Family: The Krovii, current ruler King Kroelus the IX-

Some cities were neutral over the Star Festival. It was fascinating, but it came and went, like a beautiful sunrise, or a bountiful fishing year. Kingdoms still needed to survive in the normal days, against the normal problems. Against the likes of Pozzo.

That had been what had caught King Kroelus' attention. What had happened to Orvance, how a strange man named Pozzo had taken advantage of the destruction the wicked star people had wrought to worm his way in, to whisper in the rulers' ear. Kroelus knew what that could mean, and he would make damn sure the bad options would not come to pass for his people. His soldiers were traditional, but they were fierce, and no blacksmith on this world could work armor better than his. And so Kroelus stood, watching his cavalry and infantry be trained, hundreds of them, the finest, bravest sous of his kingdom...

And one stranger. In a cloak.

"His armies razed across the land

Against such wrath, no mortal band

Could stay the fearsome jackal's hand..."

-The Town: Ariass. Thirty Miles North of the Drunken Gryphon. Population: 7,000-

Some towns, of course, celebrated the Star Festival with all they had. It was a chance to acquire wonders, to see things unlike anything on the land, to hear tales, taste food, sample things that would never come around in life again. And of course, for the Star People, it was one heck of a vacation. One they'd been assured they would be safe during.

The third man in the cloak drew no attention, as he walked through the fair, heading for its center... 

"A tide of power, a consuming wave

Ardea could never hope to stave

To claim our land, leave it, a grave..."

One of the villagers of Poncoe was lucky: his torch came down on the man they were chasing at exactly the right angle, catching his cloak on fire.

All it did was make him stop running.

"I tire of this mockery!"

The cloak hit the ground.

And the screaming began.

"But aid did come, from other halls

This will not be! Their hands, did scawl

From star, they fell. The god, did fall."

"Who are you?" The knight said. Guard duty was a bum one, but considering all the training his liege lord had been putting them through, one he'd well take. He barely registered the cloaked man's size; he was surrounded by dozens of his fellows.

Then the man looked up, and the knight saw what lay beyond.

"...by the GODS-!"

"...By Kobber hands, his life was taken..."

"Do I have to?"

Only the cloaked figure heard the voice that commanded him.

"If such waste is what you wish..."

And suddenly, the cloaked form went from nigh invisible to anything but, like he'd somehow turned off his presence before then. As he raised his arms, one Fabien Reyer, hailing from France and on vacation with his brother, happened to look up from his leg of mutton.

"...Que diable est-ce, une partie du spectacle ...?"

"By Haruspex, his might...awakens!"

From hell. He was from hell, wielding blades of fire, and he was everywhere, laughing, and no matter where they fled he was there, his blades claiming them, their bodies coming apart like dolls, smoking bloodless wounds in his wake...

----

So much metal. Armor. Weapons. Tools.

All turned against them, rendering them weaker than children, like wheat before a scythe, a bellowing beast tearing into them where the storm of steel did not, and in his last moments, Kroelus knew despair few men would ever be cursed to know...

----

The light came, and they fell. They ran, and it found them, and they fell. They screamed, and it fell on deaf ears. Sometimes a memory entered him, even as the power arched and crashed down through the festival, yet he remained where he was, the electrical storm expanding ever outward, claiming everything in its path.

----

From their cauldron, the three watched.

"Such a waste of good souls."

"Waste is what we need now. Sacrifice pawns to claim a king." Mireya said. It had begun.

"Gather, heroes...sound the drums.

The Thunder Kings come

The Thunder Kings come..." 

Epilogue: Legacy

It was strange to see her without her helmet, the features beneath it a touch on the severe side, the red hair possessing a fragment of what most would call being 'stringy', the rest of the woman's body covered in dark-emerald tinted armor, the severeness of her face offset by the warmness of her expression.

"It's good you can take a beating...but this is bordering on masochism, Ash."

Ash looked blearily at the woman as she knelt by him, her expression telling him everything was going to be okay. He'd had just enough strength left to pull the crossbow bolt out of his wrist and drag himself out of the symbol of corpses, his back resting against the based of a now-ruined statue.

Despite all the pain, his eyes had been remarkably free of tears. Until now.

"...you're not really here..." Ash whispered.

"Why do you say that?"

"...Because if I don't...then I'll allow myself to forget that I watched you bleed out in my arms...you're dead, Deb. I wish anything I could say otherwise...that I took it back...but you're dead." Ash said. He didn't close his eyes though, staring at the ghost, or the hallucination, or whatever Debera Chaud now was.

"And are you?"

"...I can't die..."

"Why?"

"...I wasn't strong enough...I left the world a mess...salted it with so much danger...it's like you said...you break it...you buy it. I have to...get going..."

"Ash." Debera said, her tone soft, but solemn. "You know that's not your sole reason to live. I know it hurts...but remember why it hurts."

"...every time I draw your blade." A heartless, embittered, scarred women. A stupid kid who should have died. Mentor, teacher, maker. A surrogate son.

A regret kept close to the heart, but a vow to use the regret to do what was stolen from her. To live life.

"Maybe you can't stay out of the depths, but you can damn sure pull yourself out. There's so much left for you to see, Ash. So much to do. You can have a life...this alone isn't it. Don't make my death, all their deaths...be all there is."

Ash blinked, and for the first time since he'd stepped forth on this battlefield, his pain seemed...less.

"...I won't..." Ash said, his voice a whisper. "I won't...I won...t...I...won..."

"You did."

Debera Chaud was gone. In her place was Christine Brynn, her gentle touch settling down onto Ash's chest as knelt beside him.

"Hey Pumpkin. Sorry for the delay...but you kind of smashed the only door just before I got here. Had to be careful blasting my way in...bloody pupils. What's with the bloody pupils, Ash?" Christine said, inspecting Ash's eyes.

"Thaumaturge...Stream channeling...had to do it. Didn't agree with me."

"There seems to have been a few disagreements." Christine said, glancing at Incael's corpse before turning back to Ash, her hand sliding over the one with the hole in his wrist. "It's over now though...just relax..."

Ash did so, feeling the pain and weariness leak away, the wound on his chest and arm closing up, a myriad of cracked bones and deep bruises fading away in turn. He was unaware he'd turned his hand over so it was facing upward until Christine moved her own, giving it an affirming squeeze.

"You didn't need to go so far...you're also exhausted..." Ash said.

"Not exhausted enough." Christine said, standing up and helping the blonde man up. After a second of dizziness, Ash steadied and did a brief stretch, his sword finding his way back to his hand.

"Sir?" Came a voice. A Crown Point soldier had also found them, the ones that Christine had found and the ones that had followed her into Incael's castle and its depths having finally plucked up the courage to inspect the room the cave-in had sealed off, which Christine had originally gone in alone, albeit because she'd ordered them to stay put. "Are you all right?"

"...yes. I'd venture I am." Ash said. He didn't blame the soldier for asking. His wounds were healed, but his armor and clothing was still shredded, blood-soaked and scorched, and with mild distaste he realized Incael had yanked out a chunk of his hair somewhere during the fight. Gonna have to cut it short again.

"There's still some fighting going on outside, but it's mostly just some dregs who haven't figured out they've lost." The soldier said.

"Try and get them to surrender anyway...if they won't...that's all. Leave us. We can find our own way out." Ash said. The soldier nodded and dashed off. Christine, meanwhile, had made her way over to Incael, and the sigil of corpses he lay amongst. Her expression was blank, but the tightness around her eyes said it all.

"...we weren't here." Ash said.

"Yeah...doesn't seem like much of a reason." Christine said, Ash walking over. With a quick use of Stream-based telekinesis, Incael's body was lifted up and ejected from the rest of the remains. "Come on."

Carefully bringing all the remains together in as neat and respectful a grouping as they could muster due to the incredible damage and violation the bodies had suffered, even WITH Stream-based motion instead of bare hands, might have been the hardest thing Ash had done that day. Yet, when the bodies were assembled and set alight, Ash felt better than if he'd just left the bodies there for someone else to deal with. At least, in the end, they'd been given some dignity. Ash watched the pyre for a moment, before Christine tapped him on the shoulder.

"I found Magnificence." Christine said, the snake-sword draped over her glaive as she held it out towards Ash; even she was wary to touch it. Ash took it by the hilt, the segments of the blade snapping back together in according to his will, as he walked around to where Vyrepul lay. Saying nothing, he plunged the point of the sword into the weapon, dark energies beginning to flow up from the Remnant, absorbing themselves into Ash's blade until the murderous artifact crumbled into black dust, blowing away like it had never been there in the first place.

"Another poison to pick." Ash said, and sheathed the sword.

"Incael?" Christine said.

"Let him rot." Ash said, and walked away. Christine glanced once more at the pyre, and then swiftly followed along.

"Where to next, pumpkin? Once this is cleared up."

"We'll rest for the next few days...work out the details of the war, you work out details with OutREACH...then, enough Remnant hunting. We should go see some old friends, catch up. I haven't spoken to Paul in months."

"Knowing him, he'll probably want us to test some dangerous piece of tech again."

"As long as he doesn't ask us to test the teleporter again. Ending up on that island the last time was enough, and I'd rather not see where I'd go if it REALLY went wrong." Ash said. It was amazing how easily he fell back into small talk after what he'd just gone through...but that was life. Normalcy followed by some other 'cy, and then back to normal, sometimes with no rhyme or reason, a pattern even Xaxargas never cracked. Ash would take it. There was worse in the world.

Climbing the rope ladder that had replaced the stairs wasn't hard, but the distortion effect still on the castle and the bodies having been somewhat cleared away by invading Crown Point troops caused Ash to swiftly get lost, Christine following along and having no luck herself when she tried to puzzle the way out. Eventually, they found a staircase, and after a moment of thought, Ash chose to climb it.

"You think there's an exit upstairs?"

"If we have to, we're climb down the darn walls. Anything to get us OUT of here..." Ash said, heading up the winding staircase with Christine, finally emerging on top of one of the castle walls. The presence of other people up on the wall made Ash's hand go to his sword, but a few further moments clarified them as Crown Point soldiers.

"Sir Marsello!" One of the soldiers said, noticing him in turn. Ash strolled across the wall, looking down at the battlefield, swarming with Crown Point colors. A tragedy that the sight existed, but things had gone into motion long before Ash had gotten there. How many of those standing below would be dead in the mud if he and Christine hadn't gotten involved?

All of them. They'd all be dead.

"Get going kid, or get got. Sometimes, though, take what you can get. Life won't offer anything else."

"Is it over, sir?" The soldier was asking, breaking Ash out of his brief reverie he'd been having.

"...It's over. Incael's dead. The war's done." Ash said. There will be more...and I'll be there.  

Ash took a moment to  glance over the side, pondering the logistics of climbing down, and hence was caught off guard when the soldier he'd just spoken to started yelling, really loud. Not in pain or rage though. Instead, he called out to the men below, his voice impossibly vast and carrying; he must have activated some kind of Blackbird amplification charm. Ash hoped no one noticed his startled sideways two second dance. It wasn't exactly very dignified.

The fact that Christine giggled indicated she'd noticed it. He could live with that. And the soldier was still calling. No, not calling. Proclaiming.

"MY FRIENDS! THE WAR IS OVER! THE MAD KING INCAEL HAS BEEN SLAIN! CUT DOWN BY THE GODSLAYER HIMSELF! HAIL THE GODSLAYER! HAIL! HAIL!"

"Oh my life." Ash said, flushing a bit as the hundreds below began to call hail, raising their weapons and flags, cheering his name, and cheering even more when Ash gave a semi-shy wave. Ash drew in a long breath and drew it out even slower, as the hails down below continued, even the soldiers on the wall next to him hailing.

"Your life. Our life." Christine said, putting a hand on his shoulder, looking down on the battlefield, a cool breeze making her golden hair drift around her head.

"...a good life." Ash said, reaching up and putting his hand on hers. I wonder what's next in it.

----

A few weeks later.

Any eyes that saw it would have seen a lightning bolt from a clear sky, a blast of brilliant luminescent that arced down from the heavens and crashed down into the depths of Vylogy Forest, a woodland acre that extended a good dozen square miles and generally knew no trouble. Anyone with a high, distant view would have seen smoke rising from the impact point deep within the forest, smoke that would trail off within ten minutes.

Then the forest was quiet again, and Polyphyrion continued to turn.

And for the time, things were quiet. 

For a bit.

"...I don't know how Paul talked me into testing the teleporter again, but I suddenly feel the need to state that I AM NOW DEEPLY REGRETTING IT."

"Don't worry, Ash. At least we're not on an island again."

"Oh, my life."

"And this is my legacy, legacy...

 This is my legacy, legacy...

 There's no guarantee,
It's not up to me,
You can only see
This is my legacy, legacy
Legacy, legacy ..."