I still see Jay, sometimes.
It was that...sadness in his eyes when he died. Fear, and pain...and under that, he was so sad. Because in his eyes, he'd failed me. He'd promised, and he'd tried so hard, and in the end he still failed. He was just the one to fail last.
He'd never know it was my fault he died.
Xaxargas changed the world, changed so many of us...but he wanted amusement. He wanted...a good show. His little games. His little pre-conditions for his deals. So he made sure I was strong. So very strong. The lone caveat was I'd never realize it until it was too late. Until the world, nudged by his hand, his will, took my family.
They died because of him, I know. Not me. I tried to protect them. Tried to save them. He murdered them...but I was the lynchpin of the murder. It was all for my pain, my grief. It was me who got plucked from the masses to get his special blessing. Why? I never did learn, if there ever was a reason.
I know if I saw them again, they'd tell me they were proud. I avenged their murder. I made sure others didn't follow in their footsteps. I will live the life that was stolen from them. I'm strong now. So very strong.
I have to be.
I protected the seargent. It was all I could do, even though it cost me. I can live with pain. I've felt worse.
I can't save everyone...but no one dies on my watch.
No one.
------
Christine wasn't wholly sure if the noise she made was a gasp, or a sob. She was vaguely aware of the pain in her leg, a twisted length of metal jutting out of her thigh, blood pouring down into the mud. Her focus, however, was on her face.
Lost an ear oh geez its hanging off
Reemer could only stare in horror. He'd seen terrible wounds before, and he'd seen men and women sacrifice their bodies for their fellows, but both at once and its immediate aftermath was new, even to him, and it was enough to even give him pause. The girl before him had lost more than that: it was only her hand that was keeping half her face was sloughing off.
She'd blocked one of the blades with her helmet. Literally stuck her own neck out to protect him. The impact had knocked it off and allowed the follow-up blade to catch her square in her features, this one shearing rather than impacting. Blood was pouring down her arm, the girl fallen to her knees, mewling noises of pain bubbling from the mess she'd made of her face.
stop stop
"Hold on ma'am! MEDIC! MEDIC!!!!!!!!!!" Reemer yelled, his bellowing voice echoing across the battlefield. He looked away to do so, and nearly had a heart attack when Christine's other hand seized onto his belt. One last hitching sob whispered from her.
Then the wound began to vanish.
"...else. Send it...somewhere else." Christine said, coughing. She'd finally clawed through the pain and gotten a moment of focus, and if there was any world she knew, it was her own. The burning, rending brand cooled as the flesh climbed back, muscles re-attaching, veins re-knitting, an ear slipping back up and falling into place. Christine partially pulled herself to her feet, the last of the damage fading away as she put her hand on the shaft of metal in her leg, her eyes narrowing in concentration, one last hiss of pain flitting between her lips as she slid it out, the hole in her leg armor soon the only evident she'd been wounded.
After a moment, Christine coughed violently. the taste of copper filling her mouth, before she turned and spat a lump of clotted blood onto the ground.
"I'm okay. Are you okay?" Christine said, gesturing. She'd had her glaive weapon knocked from her grip near the end, but it was a simple matter to recall it to her hand.
"I am uninjured, ma'am. Thank you for your assistance." Reemer said, putting a professional face back on.
"...We need to get the injured off the field. Regroup with those who aren't hurt, make sure Vurnir's troops can't pull themselves back together." And hope that Incael doesn't have another Tatterdemalion. Or worse, something like a Blue Moon. Bad enough he likely has a Remnant...
"Understood. You, ma'am?"
"I'm going to get the injured off the field. Once that's done...I'll fall back. Probably. Unless you need more."
"In all honesty ma'am, re-deploying you might be overkill."
----
"WHOOO-HOOOO!" Corperal Berkow said, snatching the throwing javelin from the enlarged quiver that was strapped to his horse's side, his arm jerking up and hurling the length of metal almost as soon as his eyes sighted a target for it, said target going down with a scream. Any army with any quality did their best to weed those inclined to bloodthirst rather than discipline out in the initial training process, but a few inevitably slipped through the cracks. Berkow liked his job, perhaps a little too much, especially when he got to rid down any soldiers beneath his horse. He liked impaling people with javelins too, especially the Blackbird-forged ones that returned to his hand post impalement. If there was anything to be said about Corperal Berkow, it was the fact he liked doing this to enemy soldiers and not women and children. It wasn't much.
"Will you stow that shit, Berkow? You want the gold kids going after you next?" Corporal Matthews yelled, turning one of the Vurnir soldiers over and kicking them in the face when they tried to get up. Let someone better than him drag their carcasses back to wherever they were keeping P.O.W's: he considered his duty done by not stabbing the treacherous bastards when he had the chance.
"Hey, they took all the fun stuff already. So I'll take my...fun stuff where I can find it." Berkow said, adjusting his horse's trot to move around a small mud sinkhole that had opened up in the ground during the fight. His eyes flicked to his left, and then back again, as he watched several more Crown Point soldiers vanish into the horizon-smearing brume that cut off his long range site. The movement of his head was enough to make Matthews cut off his follow up comment. Berkow had too much nut in him, but he had good eyes, and he'd noticed something
"What is it?"
"Do any more soldiers have those flame shooting weapons? On Vurnir's side?"
"I haven't heard anything about it."
"Then where did that smoke com-"
There was no scream. That was the worst part, as the body flew out of the fog. The second worst part was that the body didn't bounce; its backwards momentum was so intense.that it flew perpendicular to the ground before it finally came down near the two soldiers, a spray of mud covering up the sickening, crunching squish the body made as it was driven into the soft, watery muck like a railroad spike.
"Fucking HELL!!!" Berkow said, his horse rearing upward. Matthews let out his own curses, bending down and drawing his enchanted knife from his boot, locking it into the hilt of his two-headed axe and merging their strengths. "Was that another bomb?!"
It wasn't a second bomb. Bombs didn't walk.
Berkow reached down to collect another javelin, and as he looked up it was coming. Matthews, to his credit, went straight for the enemy and did a marvelous feint, faking a forward attack and getting around the gigantic form when it swung at the misdirect, his axe swinging in and hammering him in the back.
All that did was buy him a few extra seconds of life, the massive beast pivoting around at the hip, clamping a hand on Matthews' head, finger the size of corncobs clutching down and reducing his skull to smeared mush with one good squeeze. Dropping the corpse, the beast turned around in time for the javelin to strike him directly between the eyes.
It stuck fast in the scarlet metal that encased the creature's head, and it didn't slow him down an iota. He didn't even bother pulling it out. Berkow considered fleeing or trying another javelin, and went for option two.
He didn't make it.
The wet, thundering smack echoed across the battlefield. The last thing that went through Berkov's terrified mind was the crumbled rock wall he and his horse crashed through before it all went black, the two smashed through the air like they were connected at the hip and weighed nothing at all.
Dark, rumbling chortles came from a mouth that could bite off human limbs in one quick snap, choking black smog erupting from within the foul-smelling void as it did so, the javelin falling impotently to the ground as the beast shook it free.
Then it turned and began seeking new targets.
--------
Screams of pain were not a sure sign on a battlefield: often the more serious medical cases were the ones that could make no noise at all. Fortunately for Christine, she'd always had an eye for what was important, and the soldier screaming he'd lost his foot was a fair choice to tend to first.
"Let me see. Let me..." Christine said, trying to get the man to stop thrashing as she inspected the injury. As it turned out, he still had his foot, but between the muscles that had been shredded and the blood pouring from the wound, he'd probably been on the verge of passing out from blood loss within the next several seconds and dying not long after that. Christine immediately got to work, one hand clamping on his leg and activating her powers, reconnecting the blood vessels, then the muscles, all while trying to ignore the man bellowing in her ear because she had to keep his nervous system active, and hence sending screaming agonies up his leg every time she re-connected something. Her other hand clamped onto his chest, working Stream-based traditional healing to keep him from going to shock from the pain. I envy you sometimes Brigh. Wish I was ambidextrous.
"There, you can put weight on it, Get back to the medics, they'll finish up. Don't kick anything with that limb!" Christine said, helping the man up before she headed onward. The next soldier she found was dead, his throat impaled through with metal: Christine locked the sadness that sprung up inside her into another box and moved on. She was starting to encounter other soldiers assisting the wounded from the Tatterdemalion, either pulling/dragging them back or working on them on the ground. Christine went from cluster to cluster, giving what aid she could, even as she ran a self-assessment.
No trembling. Vision's clear. Muscles ache, but only if I stand still...I can probably keep going for another half an hour, if I need to...maybe I shouldn't return to the lines. Maybe I should go back up Ash...it's been too quiet since he was-
"Ma'am! MISS BRYNN!" A soldier yelled, snapping Christine out of her introspection. "We need you!"
Christine darted over to where the soldier was waving to, knowing what was wrong before she got there based on the position of the three kneeling soldiers. No one lying on the ground. they're clustered close, arms up around his shoulders, that likely means...
A severed limb, in the soldier's case a right arm, cleaved off at the shoulder by the Tatterdemalion. One had a blood-soaked mass of rags pressed up against the wound, while the other, apparently a commander of some stripe, yelled at the soldier to stay focused on him, something the injured soldier was clearly having trouble doing.
"Keep the pressure on! Where's the limb?" Christine said, kneeling by the trio, her eyes snapping to the soldier who had called her over. "FIND THE LIMB!"
"Hurts..." The wounded soldier said, his voice starting to take on the glassy tone of shock.
"It's okay, sir. I can fix this...just listen to me..." Prevent shock, close the wound if I can't retrieve the limb...
"Ma'am, I got it!" Calling Soldier said, running back over with a mud-smeared arm. Christine took half a second to admire the stomach on the kid. It wasn't easy to just pick up severed body parts.
"Get this on the limb. I need the connection point clean." Christine said, producing an Ehetacl's Hand from her pouches and tossing it to the kid, holding onto the second as she pressed it down near the wound. She tended not to use the magical cleaning trinkets on herself for moments precisely like this, the filth of the battlefield being drawn away from clothing and skin and injury, the injured soldier letting out a low moan of pain. "Look at me, soldier! You're doing good!"
"Listen to the Hourglass, soldier!" The officer said.
"My name's Christine."
"Listen to Christine, soldier!"
"Charm's done, ma'am!" Calling Soldier said.
"Good." Christine said, plucking the one she'd used on the injured soldier off and dropping it, as she looked at the one still pressing the makeshift bandage-pad on the wound, the rags now clean save for blood. Angie made such fine product. "Okay, soldier...you with the arm...!"
"Private Gage, ma'am!"
"Gage, bring the arm in close, and when I say so, you with the rags, pull it away. Gage, you bring the limb in closer then, but do NOT press it against the injury. Just as close as possible! On my mark. Three...two...one...mark."
One last squirt of blood escaped the injured soldier's wound when the padding was yanked away before Christine reversed the blood flow, her teeth clenching and air erupting in quiet cracks from her knuckles as she held out her hands, her fingers coiling in concentration while Gage brought the limb in.
"Just...hold it...there..." Christine said, the battlefield dropping away, her eyes seeing the millions of cells that laid before her, envisioning them all as tiny hooks that needed to be locked together. Her world. Bone first, then nerves, blood vessels, then muscle...
"Hold it...hold it..." Christine said, fully synching her powers to the wound. Re-attaching limbs was a tricky business, even with the incredible talents Christine had (and all the effort she'd already expended also playing a role). It was times like this she was grateful she could back up her reputation, as she began to restore the connection on a skeletal level. Spooky scary skeletons...now why did that pop into my head?
"Okay, let go, I have it." Christine said, Gage doing so, the limb settling a bit and prompting a whimper from the injured. "I have it, soldiers. Go help others, or reinforce the lines. I'll make sure he gets back to safety."
"Yes'm. You heard the Hourglass!" The officer said, the three soldiers getting to their feet.
"My name's Christine..." Christine said, more to herself as the three moved on. She looked around herself, checking for more wounded soldiers or other signs of trouble. Wait, what's that smok...
The three soldiers fared better than Berkow or Matthews, but that was likely little comfort as the form emerged from the murky darkness, appearing from within the smoke as suddenly as the smoke had, a stomping, crushing hurricane that lashed out and struck all three almost at once, the soldiers flying through the air in high upward arcs, Christine's eyes going as wide as saucers at their screams as they crashed down on the battlefield around her.
Damn it, no. They went that way because I said to...
No.
I didn't do this. He did.
The figure was nearly ten feet tall, his shoulders as wide as the fallen logs Christine often sat on around campfires. The beast's chalk-white skin was barely visible under the scarlet-red metal armor that covered nearly his whole body, dark brown leathers the color of dried blood under the crimson mithril. The club he held in his hand was bigger than Christine, metal and stone interlocked in a blood-splattered cylinder that the beast clung to via a black ironwood grip. Despite the creature's full helmet, Christine could already see what lay beneath from a score of memories. Eyes set deep into a skull that held a jaw that seemed a shade too big for it, a mouth of slicing, crunching teeth honed to even greater sharpness via tools of stone.
Ihmensel’jk.
The smoke that erupted from the creatire's mouth as he roared made Christine's stomach sink even deeper, though it was well on its way there already. Ihmensel’jk tended to grow large, but even their strongest topped off at around seven feet. There was no way for the Teeth of the World to grow that large...unless they had...help.
Wyrmblood Ihmensel’jk. What have you done, Incael? How many of your own men died to slake the lusts of that thing?
Worries aside, though, Christine never lost her focus, years of training allowing her such temporary divisions. The fact that a giant, battle-crazed mutant was less than twenty feet away from her faded into the background, Christine returning her full efforts to her patient. Some healing you could stop in mid-process, but limb reattachment wasn't one of them.
"GOLDEN HAIR!"
He sees me. Does he know who I am?
"DO YOU THINK I DON'T SEE YOU?!" The Wyrmblood Ihmensel’jk roared, his armored foot squelching into the mud as he began to advance. Nope, never assumed that. "STAND AND FIGHT!"
The wounded soldier had recovered enough to be aware of the situation, Christine realized. The look of mortal terror on his face was enough to yank her stomach back up into place and screw it into position.
Just like Jay.
Never again. NEVER AGAIN.
"I AM SALKOROT BLACKHOWL! I DEMAND YOU STAND AND FIGHT!"
Of course you do. You'll consider anything you can hit and kill with your weapon a 'fight'. Even if they can't fight. Even if they're on your side. Did they force Redsin's foulness on you, or did you drink it willingly?
"IF YOU THINK I WON'T CRUSH YOU IF YOU JUST COWER THERE, YOU ARE WRONG!" Salkorot said, bearing down on Christine with the intensity of a rabid bear and ten times the strength. Christine wanted to call out to him, to make him see sense, to just make him STOP until she could finish, she'd fight him then, just stop for ten seconds, five seconds...
She knew he wouldn't.
So she threw a glob of mud in his face at twenty-times speed instead. Salkorot had a good enough helmet that this didn't blind him completely, but the suddenness and impact of it still gave him pause. He regained his bearings just in time for the shower of sparks to explode from his armor from the weapon slash. It hadn't penetrated, but it wasn't meant to. Just to get his attention, make him turn away from the soldier, ignore him.
It was a lot harder to heal someone at range. Christine continued to do it anyway, her left arm extended towards the soldier.
Can't use Soulstorm. Need both hands...Arondight it is. May he be so damn enamored with killing the annoying one that he doesn't notice the helpless one.
No matter what it costs.
"BETTER." Salkorot said, unable to even growl quietly, as he looked at the female before him, mud-splattered and small of frame, one hand out and the other clutching a thin rapier. "AND YOU BROUGHT ME A TOOTHPICK."
No one else dies because of me.
No one.
Friday, 25 April 2014
Tuesday, 22 April 2014
Titus Andronicus
They called him Ore Om, though he had other names. He made the heavens and the lands, the fire and the water, the plants and animals and bugs, and all in between. Other stories say others made such things, but they do not tell our story.
Our story begins with his bride. Ar'Chel. Ore Om crafted the grand planks of the world, and Ar'Chel came after with thread and patch and binding, crafting the smaller details, the underpinings that all great things stood on. They did this because they wished it, and because they must, and because they desired worship, and for no reason at all, for it is impossible to know the minds of such beings. Once they stood before their creation, they pronounced it good, and began to watch it to see what it would do.
It made mankind, and mankind rose to stand above all others. Man grew beyond animal, began to grasp the greater wonders of the world. Ore Om was pleased, and allowed some men barest glimpses. They built temples to him and his wife, assigned them places as they saw fit. Ore Om made the animals men tamed and fed upon, the crops he grew, the water that he drank and the fire he used to make the world his. Ar'Chel made the family, the mothers who made sons, the lessons that let men pass their knowledge on. the desire to go forward and learn ever more. As the two effected changed on mankind, mankind affected change on them. And it was good.
But man did not just change as their gods would wish. Man changed in other ways. New thoughts came to them, to him, solely from himself. Man began to grasp the concept of ownership, of being master in all ways instead of the greatest, most important ones. To be what they could be, man must change. They must kill other man. They must cut themselves off from lessons. They must sometimes, too many times, remove everything that makes them man. They saw it good.
Woman fell prey to man. Woman became property. Woman became despised, for she had powers man never could have. The temples to Al'Chel were torn down. Her words and stories were scrubbed away. Al'Chel wept and begged her husband to guide man away from such deeds, or allow her a chance for them to learn lessons anew, but man and god were linked too close now. Ore Om had created man, but in turn man had created him, and so Ore Om took up a rock and struck down his bride, and left her to wither away. Forgotten. Loathed.
It was the foolishness they could never grasp. That if thoughts could affect such a mark on a god, than other thoughts could not be so easily purged, no matter how much man wanted them to be.
Who was the first, cast out for whatever reason given? Who found where the old thoughts lay, the anger and rage that was born for the choices of man? Who first began to learn the knowledge of blood and thread, of seeing what lay beneath all things, of making them yours, devouring them? Her name is lost, as are many others, for man never ceased in his desire.
It has been many ages since then. What became of Ore Om is not known. Perhaps he eventually grasped the shame of his deeds and fled in penance. Perhaps he was forgotten, and ceased to be a presence on our lands and skies. Perhaps he changed so much that he exists still under another name, dead in all ways save the absence of life. Man has changed too, in some ways. Many have realized their foolishness and have tried to make amends for the deeds that murdered Al'Chel. Others have not, and yet others come from other lands, other planes, other gods, with eyes that see a thousand thousand ways.
It does not matter. The lessons we learned, have passed down from the blood and body of Al'Chel, have remained. It was the worst thing man could have done, for they taught us the joy in dominance, in pain and death and inflicting horror, taking everything and draining it dry. It does not matter if the paths of man have forked. That elixir is the sweetest of all, and our being, our lineage, is to drink it until the last man draws his last breath. Ore Om changed, but we will never change. We know the dark truths that birthed us, and we will give rise in it to those who have not changed and brand those who have, the inescapable sin, the crime of man.
We are the secrets in blood, the noosemakers of thread, the savage hand that strokes the savage beast that allowed man to break gods in mind and body. We are the truth, and we have existed too long to be brought down by knowledge, or star people, or heroes like this poor unfortunate girl who could not resist the curiosity of our grand ritual, and the war it will bring to those who will surely seek to destroy us like man destroyed his gods.
We are the Haruspex. We are the reapers of man.
And it is good.
Our story begins with his bride. Ar'Chel. Ore Om crafted the grand planks of the world, and Ar'Chel came after with thread and patch and binding, crafting the smaller details, the underpinings that all great things stood on. They did this because they wished it, and because they must, and because they desired worship, and for no reason at all, for it is impossible to know the minds of such beings. Once they stood before their creation, they pronounced it good, and began to watch it to see what it would do.
It made mankind, and mankind rose to stand above all others. Man grew beyond animal, began to grasp the greater wonders of the world. Ore Om was pleased, and allowed some men barest glimpses. They built temples to him and his wife, assigned them places as they saw fit. Ore Om made the animals men tamed and fed upon, the crops he grew, the water that he drank and the fire he used to make the world his. Ar'Chel made the family, the mothers who made sons, the lessons that let men pass their knowledge on. the desire to go forward and learn ever more. As the two effected changed on mankind, mankind affected change on them. And it was good.
But man did not just change as their gods would wish. Man changed in other ways. New thoughts came to them, to him, solely from himself. Man began to grasp the concept of ownership, of being master in all ways instead of the greatest, most important ones. To be what they could be, man must change. They must kill other man. They must cut themselves off from lessons. They must sometimes, too many times, remove everything that makes them man. They saw it good.
Woman fell prey to man. Woman became property. Woman became despised, for she had powers man never could have. The temples to Al'Chel were torn down. Her words and stories were scrubbed away. Al'Chel wept and begged her husband to guide man away from such deeds, or allow her a chance for them to learn lessons anew, but man and god were linked too close now. Ore Om had created man, but in turn man had created him, and so Ore Om took up a rock and struck down his bride, and left her to wither away. Forgotten. Loathed.
It was the foolishness they could never grasp. That if thoughts could affect such a mark on a god, than other thoughts could not be so easily purged, no matter how much man wanted them to be.
Who was the first, cast out for whatever reason given? Who found where the old thoughts lay, the anger and rage that was born for the choices of man? Who first began to learn the knowledge of blood and thread, of seeing what lay beneath all things, of making them yours, devouring them? Her name is lost, as are many others, for man never ceased in his desire.
It has been many ages since then. What became of Ore Om is not known. Perhaps he eventually grasped the shame of his deeds and fled in penance. Perhaps he was forgotten, and ceased to be a presence on our lands and skies. Perhaps he changed so much that he exists still under another name, dead in all ways save the absence of life. Man has changed too, in some ways. Many have realized their foolishness and have tried to make amends for the deeds that murdered Al'Chel. Others have not, and yet others come from other lands, other planes, other gods, with eyes that see a thousand thousand ways.
It does not matter. The lessons we learned, have passed down from the blood and body of Al'Chel, have remained. It was the worst thing man could have done, for they taught us the joy in dominance, in pain and death and inflicting horror, taking everything and draining it dry. It does not matter if the paths of man have forked. That elixir is the sweetest of all, and our being, our lineage, is to drink it until the last man draws his last breath. Ore Om changed, but we will never change. We know the dark truths that birthed us, and we will give rise in it to those who have not changed and brand those who have, the inescapable sin, the crime of man.
We are the secrets in blood, the noosemakers of thread, the savage hand that strokes the savage beast that allowed man to break gods in mind and body. We are the truth, and we have existed too long to be brought down by knowledge, or star people, or heroes like this poor unfortunate girl who could not resist the curiosity of our grand ritual, and the war it will bring to those who will surely seek to destroy us like man destroyed his gods.
We are the Haruspex. We are the reapers of man.
And it is good.
Saturday, 19 April 2014
Small Print
...I'd have done it too. If I was in their position.
The lands have a saying...'If you see a merchant with gold in his ears, listen. If you see a merchant with gold on his tongue, don't listen. If you see a merchant with gold in his eyes, you didn't listen.' What does it mean precisely? You're asking the wrong person, I'm a soldier. It probably has something to do with seeing things coming, and what happens if you don't. Good advice, good advice...
Doesn't always work though. You can be the smartest person in the room, the town, the lands, you can look under every rock and cast a light in every dark corner, you can sit and think until your think muscle just gives out entirely, but you'll never be able to see everything coming, all the time. Sometimes that's all you need. People will always go for easy and stupid most of t'time anyway. Hell, most of the time, the thing you don't see coming ain't that bad.
Of course, sometimes it is.
Take the Aarde. Good solid folk, if a little too happy to be digging in the dirt. Everyone knows the story of the Aarde. They were men and women enslaved by the Imnoblis Empire, forced to work in the Glareihgem mountains, digging endless mines to let the empire forge its weapons. Generations sweated and bled and died down there, digging ever deeper, and in time, the Aarde began to hear the world speak to them. It promised them freedom in exchange for their services, power in exchange for speaking its will. The Aarde accepted, having been slowly changed already by all those years of digging in that 'magic dirt', though they'd be cross to hear me refer it as such. They rose up and threw off the empire's shackles, pulled down the empire that had changed them, but they let the people of the Imnoblis empire go and live elsewhere instead of wiping them out, giving them the second chance the world gave them. Ever since, the Aarde have been in touch with the world, able to hear it, move it, command it. They are the bankers and the wordsmiths of our lands, a sign that the world has a soul and it means us well.
Well, except no one's ever found any solid proof the Imnobilis Empire ever existed. Oh, several kingdoms trace their lineage to them, but there's no pottery, no crumbling ruins, nothing. There's no Glareihgem mountains either, with tunnels that lead to the soul of the world: hell, there's been active disagreement over the years just where the Glairehgem mountains could be or could have been if they've fallen down, even among Aarde. The Hemel have Verloren: it might be damn hard to get to and there's little damn reason to go there, but it's THERE. You'd think the Aarde would have preserved the site of their creation in SOME way beyond a story, but no. They have the tale and that's all they need.
Least so they thought. If it was truth, there wouldn't have been the Vassere'c Schism, what was it, eight hundred years ago? Some Aarde named Vassere'c stumbled over another possibility for where the Aarde came from; wasn't from mining magical earth for years or hearing the world, but just some Blackbird weaving the spell of a lifetime that caused a bunch of babies to be born changed, the reason for it being lost. A weapon? To make their mark on the world? An accident? Whatever the reason, the Aarde were nothing more than the ego of a magician, their past a lie to feel less like freaks. Not many Aarde bought it, but Vassere'c actually had something they didn't: evidence that support his claim. Nothing perfect, but it existed, unlike the empires and mountains of the story. The people were divided, and even today, there's still tension. Me, I'm more prone to believe the latter. There are evil Aarde out there, who use the gifts they're born with for evil things. I don't think a world blessing would stick with them through that. Hell, what the Grandsteppers can do if you piss them off...that's more appalling than what most criminals can do. But I won't be saying that to their faces.
Does it really matter? Picked of the world or a magical bug people, who cares? Really, we're all just trying to do the best we can. Our towns, our food, our lands, our talks with others, our fights, our wars, we're all just trying. Even our pasts is just trying. We all have our stories: humans, Aarde, Icks, Hemel, Ergernis, even Mergewraths seem to have their tales of where they came from and how the world likes them.
Not a single one of them ever spoke of Xaxargas.
No one saw Him coming. No one. Some people talk and try and say that they did, but they're doing it by saying water is also wine if you look at it hard enough. There was no sign, no great calamity, no ancient story that talked about the Fatespinner. Just small and big things that began to come together seven years ago. The discovery of that island, the Blacklands. The formation of the Raze. Whispers of the wilds producing beasts and horrors unlike anything ever seen before. Over time, half the world just sort of...backed into knowing He existed. And the rest...
They knew when the Twilight fell. When He fully revealed himself. When He broke our world in every way. When He told us we would all die soon.
Cynics and nutcases still talk about Him. They say everything in our world was actually created by Him. He made the Stream. He made the peoples. He made the lands and the kingdoms, set everything in motion. That our world was a crop to Him, and the Twilight was the harvest of a god. Others tell other stories. That he was a horror from somewhere else, who devoured the god or gods of our world, or merely set Himself up where they would have been, an outsider who could only exist in our realm by defining Himself by its ways. Or he was a man who sought to be a god, who came so close and yet fell short, leaving Him almost there and unable to go back or forward. Others say He was all the sins and horrible things we'd done finally given the spark of life, our punishment for not living up to our best. No one knows. I don't think we ever will. Unless something happens we don't see coming.
I knew about Him, before the Twilight. You wanna know what some people just don't get? Even knowing about something like that, you still gotta get through the day.
I'm a soldier. I joined my prince and his council to serve their interests. I have never killed anyone who didn't want to kill me too, and I have never done anything that has cost me sleep at night. But we were a land of many people, a land that could grow, a land that could be more. So my superiors did what they did, even with Xaxargas' baleful eye always on us. Now, when the Twilight happened, things changed. But that was the Twilight, and it's over.
Vurnir's was just...it wasn't worthy of our respect, you know? Not our real respect, not what I feel for Caleb, for his brother Hillel who I joined up under. For Leah and Mattan, heroes who died on the Blacklands so we could live. Incael kings never made their bones on strength of arms, or wisdom, like when King Yael of our lands, the Blessed Mind, chose to share his power with a council who would figure out what the people wanted, even reducing his title to Prince to show his desire to be equal to them. The Incael line never had anything like that. They bought what they wanted. Their respect is the kind that follows a shower of coins, their armies are mercenaries who care more for their own needs than for the needs of their land. I will not lie and say Crown Point never hired mercenaries, nor that mercenaries cannot make fine soldiers, fine warriors, but that kind of man was rank and file of the Incael armies. Their lieges made money (oh, they were good at making money, I'll give them that, but it's not something I could respect) and spent it trying to find everything money didn't give them. King Piers Incael, the one who reigned through my whole service until recently, he had a knack for finding silver mines...without Aarde help. Fortunate, that, as Aarde mining assistance always comes at deep cost. I'm not the first to think he got his things by cheating. Considering the rumors of his death that persist beyond the official story of an accidental fall, it's possible his cheating caught up to him. He left behind five sons...
You must understand. Before the Twilight, it was just...what was needed. We shook hands sometimes, and shook our fists at each other other times. They wanted things, we wanted things, and the council and our princes were quite willing to step outside the 'nice ways' to get them. You think Vurnir wasn't? You think Incael never did? The Twilight was different. We'd have gladly forged alliances, marched together to hold back the end of the world. But Vurnir never made a move. Our spies tell us Piers' sons were paralyzed by fear, unable to look the Eternal Titan in the eye and be prepared that the only thing we might do is spit in it on our way down. So when the Twilight was over, when it was clear the world would not end...
They were weak, so we pushed for an advantage. We wanted proper concessions, alterations to our trading deals, who got what in imports to favor us. Unfair? Maybe, but fair doesn't enter into it. They'd shown us we were weak, and things had to go back to the way they were. That's how the world works, that's what I accept as the world. You think they wouldn't have done the same?
Would we have gone to war if they'd said no?...Maybe we would have.
But I know what kind of war it would have been. Quick. Quiet. Minimal death. Not like this. Not like...this.
We knew about Eudes, that he was the family black sheep. But none of us predicted he could, or would do this. When Vurnir first struck back, we were surprised but not caught off guard. Over-aggression in the face of a weak position is very much something men do. But when it became clear who we were fighting, that he was fighting a war of horrors instead of advantages, when he began to use the weapons of Oriam, the weapons made for the war at the end of the world, not in a disagreement between two lands like ours...
Maybe we started this fight, but we'll finish it too. We didn't start it to pillage and steal, and we will not back down in the face of a madman.
But...it was unjust.
I can admit that. Our motives were unjust. Not something sparked off by the need to protect ourselves. People suffered because of our choice. Our Prince and Council will never admit it, but they did the wrong thing.
Some things had not changed since the Twilight, and neighboring countries dragged their feet over the lack of clear things. People would die because of what we chose to do.
....But some things were born out of the Twilight. Of the 44, there are two primary groups. Marco Millions' lot...and Marsello's. The largest of them, the champions of the world, with golden boy Marsello at the front. Ask me a week ago, I'd say too good to be true. Ask me a week ago, I'd say this is a fight we could finish ourselves.
...I should be dead.
The group the Hourglass belongs to, Outreach or whatever. Not surprised they showed up, bad things had begun happening in our war and that's what they do. But I'm surprised she did. She once shared our prince's bed. According to some, he kicked her out because she was unfaithful. Others say he felt they were going different ways and made it simple. However it ended, they had personal history. Not only did she come, she brought Marsello.
Marsello has powerful allies, and he's called them in. He could have done that and stayed back in a defensive position, serving as a shield wall until he had greater strength by his side. But when it became clear that it wasn't going to happen in one spin of an arm, he went into the field without them. And Miss Brynn, who clearly hates fighting, hates all the bad things we do because we have to, she strapped on arms and armor and followed right after him. The bargain was anyone they disabled was to be taken alive if possible, a bargain I really didn't care for...
But I'm a man of my word. So are they. And they promised to protect me and all my peers, all my men.
That bomb should have cut us both to shreds. There was no cover, nowhere to hide from its teeth.
She stood in front of me and she brought the world to heel. She made things slow down and she battered and smashed the death flying at us away until none of it touched me.
Now she's on the ground. Bleeding. In agony. For someone she barely knows. Who she probably doesn't agree with. She does what she thinks is right.
So do I. Mine probably wouldn't have included trying to save her. Not in the face of this.
...My name is Avidan Reemer, and I look upon something I didn't see coming.
...And in the face of the choices of men, all I can do is hope that I see more of it.
The lands have a saying...'If you see a merchant with gold in his ears, listen. If you see a merchant with gold on his tongue, don't listen. If you see a merchant with gold in his eyes, you didn't listen.' What does it mean precisely? You're asking the wrong person, I'm a soldier. It probably has something to do with seeing things coming, and what happens if you don't. Good advice, good advice...
Doesn't always work though. You can be the smartest person in the room, the town, the lands, you can look under every rock and cast a light in every dark corner, you can sit and think until your think muscle just gives out entirely, but you'll never be able to see everything coming, all the time. Sometimes that's all you need. People will always go for easy and stupid most of t'time anyway. Hell, most of the time, the thing you don't see coming ain't that bad.
Of course, sometimes it is.
Take the Aarde. Good solid folk, if a little too happy to be digging in the dirt. Everyone knows the story of the Aarde. They were men and women enslaved by the Imnoblis Empire, forced to work in the Glareihgem mountains, digging endless mines to let the empire forge its weapons. Generations sweated and bled and died down there, digging ever deeper, and in time, the Aarde began to hear the world speak to them. It promised them freedom in exchange for their services, power in exchange for speaking its will. The Aarde accepted, having been slowly changed already by all those years of digging in that 'magic dirt', though they'd be cross to hear me refer it as such. They rose up and threw off the empire's shackles, pulled down the empire that had changed them, but they let the people of the Imnoblis empire go and live elsewhere instead of wiping them out, giving them the second chance the world gave them. Ever since, the Aarde have been in touch with the world, able to hear it, move it, command it. They are the bankers and the wordsmiths of our lands, a sign that the world has a soul and it means us well.
Well, except no one's ever found any solid proof the Imnobilis Empire ever existed. Oh, several kingdoms trace their lineage to them, but there's no pottery, no crumbling ruins, nothing. There's no Glareihgem mountains either, with tunnels that lead to the soul of the world: hell, there's been active disagreement over the years just where the Glairehgem mountains could be or could have been if they've fallen down, even among Aarde. The Hemel have Verloren: it might be damn hard to get to and there's little damn reason to go there, but it's THERE. You'd think the Aarde would have preserved the site of their creation in SOME way beyond a story, but no. They have the tale and that's all they need.
Least so they thought. If it was truth, there wouldn't have been the Vassere'c Schism, what was it, eight hundred years ago? Some Aarde named Vassere'c stumbled over another possibility for where the Aarde came from; wasn't from mining magical earth for years or hearing the world, but just some Blackbird weaving the spell of a lifetime that caused a bunch of babies to be born changed, the reason for it being lost. A weapon? To make their mark on the world? An accident? Whatever the reason, the Aarde were nothing more than the ego of a magician, their past a lie to feel less like freaks. Not many Aarde bought it, but Vassere'c actually had something they didn't: evidence that support his claim. Nothing perfect, but it existed, unlike the empires and mountains of the story. The people were divided, and even today, there's still tension. Me, I'm more prone to believe the latter. There are evil Aarde out there, who use the gifts they're born with for evil things. I don't think a world blessing would stick with them through that. Hell, what the Grandsteppers can do if you piss them off...that's more appalling than what most criminals can do. But I won't be saying that to their faces.
Does it really matter? Picked of the world or a magical bug people, who cares? Really, we're all just trying to do the best we can. Our towns, our food, our lands, our talks with others, our fights, our wars, we're all just trying. Even our pasts is just trying. We all have our stories: humans, Aarde, Icks, Hemel, Ergernis, even Mergewraths seem to have their tales of where they came from and how the world likes them.
Not a single one of them ever spoke of Xaxargas.
No one saw Him coming. No one. Some people talk and try and say that they did, but they're doing it by saying water is also wine if you look at it hard enough. There was no sign, no great calamity, no ancient story that talked about the Fatespinner. Just small and big things that began to come together seven years ago. The discovery of that island, the Blacklands. The formation of the Raze. Whispers of the wilds producing beasts and horrors unlike anything ever seen before. Over time, half the world just sort of...backed into knowing He existed. And the rest...
They knew when the Twilight fell. When He fully revealed himself. When He broke our world in every way. When He told us we would all die soon.
Cynics and nutcases still talk about Him. They say everything in our world was actually created by Him. He made the Stream. He made the peoples. He made the lands and the kingdoms, set everything in motion. That our world was a crop to Him, and the Twilight was the harvest of a god. Others tell other stories. That he was a horror from somewhere else, who devoured the god or gods of our world, or merely set Himself up where they would have been, an outsider who could only exist in our realm by defining Himself by its ways. Or he was a man who sought to be a god, who came so close and yet fell short, leaving Him almost there and unable to go back or forward. Others say He was all the sins and horrible things we'd done finally given the spark of life, our punishment for not living up to our best. No one knows. I don't think we ever will. Unless something happens we don't see coming.
I knew about Him, before the Twilight. You wanna know what some people just don't get? Even knowing about something like that, you still gotta get through the day.
I'm a soldier. I joined my prince and his council to serve their interests. I have never killed anyone who didn't want to kill me too, and I have never done anything that has cost me sleep at night. But we were a land of many people, a land that could grow, a land that could be more. So my superiors did what they did, even with Xaxargas' baleful eye always on us. Now, when the Twilight happened, things changed. But that was the Twilight, and it's over.
Vurnir's was just...it wasn't worthy of our respect, you know? Not our real respect, not what I feel for Caleb, for his brother Hillel who I joined up under. For Leah and Mattan, heroes who died on the Blacklands so we could live. Incael kings never made their bones on strength of arms, or wisdom, like when King Yael of our lands, the Blessed Mind, chose to share his power with a council who would figure out what the people wanted, even reducing his title to Prince to show his desire to be equal to them. The Incael line never had anything like that. They bought what they wanted. Their respect is the kind that follows a shower of coins, their armies are mercenaries who care more for their own needs than for the needs of their land. I will not lie and say Crown Point never hired mercenaries, nor that mercenaries cannot make fine soldiers, fine warriors, but that kind of man was rank and file of the Incael armies. Their lieges made money (oh, they were good at making money, I'll give them that, but it's not something I could respect) and spent it trying to find everything money didn't give them. King Piers Incael, the one who reigned through my whole service until recently, he had a knack for finding silver mines...without Aarde help. Fortunate, that, as Aarde mining assistance always comes at deep cost. I'm not the first to think he got his things by cheating. Considering the rumors of his death that persist beyond the official story of an accidental fall, it's possible his cheating caught up to him. He left behind five sons...
You must understand. Before the Twilight, it was just...what was needed. We shook hands sometimes, and shook our fists at each other other times. They wanted things, we wanted things, and the council and our princes were quite willing to step outside the 'nice ways' to get them. You think Vurnir wasn't? You think Incael never did? The Twilight was different. We'd have gladly forged alliances, marched together to hold back the end of the world. But Vurnir never made a move. Our spies tell us Piers' sons were paralyzed by fear, unable to look the Eternal Titan in the eye and be prepared that the only thing we might do is spit in it on our way down. So when the Twilight was over, when it was clear the world would not end...
They were weak, so we pushed for an advantage. We wanted proper concessions, alterations to our trading deals, who got what in imports to favor us. Unfair? Maybe, but fair doesn't enter into it. They'd shown us we were weak, and things had to go back to the way they were. That's how the world works, that's what I accept as the world. You think they wouldn't have done the same?
Would we have gone to war if they'd said no?...Maybe we would have.
But I know what kind of war it would have been. Quick. Quiet. Minimal death. Not like this. Not like...this.
We knew about Eudes, that he was the family black sheep. But none of us predicted he could, or would do this. When Vurnir first struck back, we were surprised but not caught off guard. Over-aggression in the face of a weak position is very much something men do. But when it became clear who we were fighting, that he was fighting a war of horrors instead of advantages, when he began to use the weapons of Oriam, the weapons made for the war at the end of the world, not in a disagreement between two lands like ours...
Maybe we started this fight, but we'll finish it too. We didn't start it to pillage and steal, and we will not back down in the face of a madman.
But...it was unjust.
I can admit that. Our motives were unjust. Not something sparked off by the need to protect ourselves. People suffered because of our choice. Our Prince and Council will never admit it, but they did the wrong thing.
Some things had not changed since the Twilight, and neighboring countries dragged their feet over the lack of clear things. People would die because of what we chose to do.
....But some things were born out of the Twilight. Of the 44, there are two primary groups. Marco Millions' lot...and Marsello's. The largest of them, the champions of the world, with golden boy Marsello at the front. Ask me a week ago, I'd say too good to be true. Ask me a week ago, I'd say this is a fight we could finish ourselves.
...I should be dead.
The group the Hourglass belongs to, Outreach or whatever. Not surprised they showed up, bad things had begun happening in our war and that's what they do. But I'm surprised she did. She once shared our prince's bed. According to some, he kicked her out because she was unfaithful. Others say he felt they were going different ways and made it simple. However it ended, they had personal history. Not only did she come, she brought Marsello.
Marsello has powerful allies, and he's called them in. He could have done that and stayed back in a defensive position, serving as a shield wall until he had greater strength by his side. But when it became clear that it wasn't going to happen in one spin of an arm, he went into the field without them. And Miss Brynn, who clearly hates fighting, hates all the bad things we do because we have to, she strapped on arms and armor and followed right after him. The bargain was anyone they disabled was to be taken alive if possible, a bargain I really didn't care for...
But I'm a man of my word. So are they. And they promised to protect me and all my peers, all my men.
That bomb should have cut us both to shreds. There was no cover, nowhere to hide from its teeth.
She stood in front of me and she brought the world to heel. She made things slow down and she battered and smashed the death flying at us away until none of it touched me.
Now she's on the ground. Bleeding. In agony. For someone she barely knows. Who she probably doesn't agree with. She does what she thinks is right.
So do I. Mine probably wouldn't have included trying to save her. Not in the face of this.
...My name is Avidan Reemer, and I look upon something I didn't see coming.
...And in the face of the choices of men, all I can do is hope that I see more of it.
Thursday, 17 April 2014
Read Death
People will never show you the truth about themselves. Not if they can help it. Should they do so, never forget it. And never let them forget you know. That is the story of life.
I knew them! They said otherwise, but I knew! I knew even back then, when the scales weighed on my eyes. It just took me time to see.
They hoard truth because lies give them power. They needed to lie, you see! Ever since I could walk! They told me I was useless! That I would have been better off strangled at birth, that I was born with flesh wrapped around my neck already, that only a soft-hearted midwife made sure I didn't die! My own brothers, all of them, despising me...because they knew! They knew what I was, and they hated it! Claim the truth, lock it away, fill it with lies!
A waste of air, they said! Who were they to speak? Hann the first born, heir apparent and never making sure I forgot, Josse with his constant insults, Tielo and his fists! Wybert, who would have been in my place had I not been born! What use was a fifth son to the Incael family, they said? Couldn't even bother being born without a horn: at least I could have been married off to some rich nobleman that way! As useful as dumping mud into a moat, that was what they said! And everyone listened! Listened and nodded their heads to the future king and his brothers, who just got to go first because they did! That was the truth! It was nothing but luck, but timing! The same luck that made mother fall down the stairs two years later! The same that made father so interested in expanding his silver mines, so that he was never around to tell Hann and the rest of my accursed brothers to stop with their lies! They weren't special, I wasn't useless...it was all just luck that gave them their power! They were weak, scared of the truth!
So many years, forced to live by their lies. Spending all my time down in the darkness beneath our castle with Uncle Bogumil. He'd lost a fortune more than once, so father didn't want him to have anything to do with our kingdom. Bad luck, that's all it was! Not a lack of skill, a lack of worth, just bad luck! But father declared his brother useless, just like my brothers did to me! Left him to wander around in that first vein, long empty, while away his days carving statues into the wall, widening the tunnels and building courses for natural springs to run through. A memorial, he said, a unique one that would show off the family once he and I were gone.
It took me years, but I saw all his creations for what it was. It was all he was allowed to do with what he had. It was sorrow over being unable to make more of his life. It was being shackled to the family, refusing to shame them by striking off on his own; success or failure, he'd make them look bad. Bearing the misery they heaped on him as if that was his due. They told him what his life was, and he accepted it. Made the most of what he was given.
When he died, I made sure he was buried down there, in the depths he'd devoted so much effort to. I made sure I finished every statue and carving he wanted to do. I bit my tongue as my brothers mocked my lack of sculpting skills, ignored the whispers of the nobles that treated with our house whenever we crossed paths, dismissed the fear in the eyes of our servants. Some sort of dark spawn, a freak, something that should not be, they said all that of me and much more. LIARS! I was nothing but what they made of me, NOTHING! They wanted me to be NOTHING!
Did they not understand? When the great forgotten truths of the ancient past rose, when the world was seized in the grip of the Fatespinner, when just what had awoken and all it commanded to do become clear to the world, the sheer terror of that realization...did they not see?
A worthless son, a waste of air, he would have broken. I. NEVER. BROKE.
The Raze came to our doorstep, we paid them in danegeld, more Terrae than I had ever seen or ever have seen...they should have battered our gates down ANYWAY, the treacherous wretches, had the Widowmaker not been distracted, not rode off to his doom. Did I open the gates to that army of consuming death? Did I betray my brothers who I hated so much, let them put Vurnir to the torch? I did not! I was willing to fight! It may have been just to save my own skin, but my brothers had made it clear that was all I had of value! Did I side with the Necromancer, her corrupting tides of dead? The Black Spider and his zealotry? Did Vurnir not take in refugees from the Ha'Secs Gem, incurring debts that still haven't been repaid? Did I ever oppose that shallow bit of mercy? Of all the storms the Speaker sent roiling across our world, of his terrible creations, his unending armies, his Elite, did I ever seek to marry my efforts to them? No! I stayed by my family's side.
And I saw. Saw the truth after Xaxargas showed the world just what it meant to Him, saw just what fate He planned to spin for us all. Saw the Twilight fall over us, the end of the world. Saw, at last, just what my brothers were.
I wanted to fight! I could have brought our armies into the chaos, I could have been a part of those terrible dark days! Even if we'd died, we would have died well! Died doing something, died BEING something! But my brothers cursed me, called me a mad fool, chased me down into the depths my uncle and I spent so much time in AND SEALED ME IN TO ENSURE MY HELPLESSNESS! And what did my precious brothers do with the end of the world approaching?
Noble, good, oh so respected Hann, cowering in the palace with his family. Josse and Tielo whiling away the days indulging every excess, father dead a year before and unable to stop them. Wybert, locking himself in the temple he built, praying for mercy, praying for deliverance, spewing word after worthless word as he grovelled before his alters, brought to his knees by his bone-softening fear! They did NOTHING! And I was the one cast out for refusing to believe their lie! Finally seeing the truth of it! They were the worthless ones! I...
I could have gone to the Blacklands. Even a worthless Incael is better than a a hundred thousand soldiers plucked from the rabble, the disgusting peasantry. I could have been one of the 44! They could have sung my name, heaped glories and rewards on me! But I didn't...because in those darkest days, the lie still dug deep. By the time I fully tore it from my heart and soul down in the depths, down surrounded by my uncle's middling works of what his life was, it was too late.
The world did not die. In its new day, I finally understood.
They didn't hate me because I was worthless. They hated me because I was the only one with worth. That I was meant to seize it, by any means necessary. That I had to, or else they would continue to define my life.
So I killed them. It was almost...easy. They'd lied to themselves for so long they couldn't understand the truth any more. I killed them and called it to me. And when it needed more to emerge, I gave it.
Now here I stand...what I was meant to be. Maybe some would say I have proven my brothers right, that I have brought myself and my people to ruin with my choices...but no. I am the only thing that matters, and I have done everything to ensure my due.
Crown Point...a means to an end. Almost...easy. Again. Bad blood, truth long lost in the need for lies. My men marched, still march against them with few questions. They accept the weapons I acquired with little discourse over the meaning of it. Does this make them strong, or weak? It doesn't matter any more. They've played their role, and if they all fell over dead in my next breath, I wouldn't spare them more than another in contemplation. Considering what they're meant to be...that might be kinder.
And the final key. My brothers' blood of their blood. What they claimed was their right as worthy to existence. What purpose is a body without a head? Better to die together than grow up alone. I speak from experience: it is no way to live. Their blood is better on my alter than flowing in their veins.
I have what I want. What I was meant to have. In my hands.
My advisers warned me of what would come should I undertake this path. They should feel fortunate I only exiled them. I know what would come for me should I take what's mine. Outrage. Opposition.
Marsello.
I should be honored. The Bloody Fire. Sang'firmot, as the Hemel call him. I have truly distinguished company coming.
Coming to take what belongs to me. Just like my brothers did. Just like my people. Just like everyone.
He can't have it. He has plenty. This is MINE, and I will let no one else steal it from me. Let him find his own betrayals to avenge, like I did. If he insists...
He's just another liar. A hero would be supporting me. This is just what I earned. The truth of things. How the story goes, as the world taught me.
My name is Eudes Incael. If the whole world has to bleed to get what I deserve...
Then the Bloody Fire will bleed first.
I knew them! They said otherwise, but I knew! I knew even back then, when the scales weighed on my eyes. It just took me time to see.
They hoard truth because lies give them power. They needed to lie, you see! Ever since I could walk! They told me I was useless! That I would have been better off strangled at birth, that I was born with flesh wrapped around my neck already, that only a soft-hearted midwife made sure I didn't die! My own brothers, all of them, despising me...because they knew! They knew what I was, and they hated it! Claim the truth, lock it away, fill it with lies!
A waste of air, they said! Who were they to speak? Hann the first born, heir apparent and never making sure I forgot, Josse with his constant insults, Tielo and his fists! Wybert, who would have been in my place had I not been born! What use was a fifth son to the Incael family, they said? Couldn't even bother being born without a horn: at least I could have been married off to some rich nobleman that way! As useful as dumping mud into a moat, that was what they said! And everyone listened! Listened and nodded their heads to the future king and his brothers, who just got to go first because they did! That was the truth! It was nothing but luck, but timing! The same luck that made mother fall down the stairs two years later! The same that made father so interested in expanding his silver mines, so that he was never around to tell Hann and the rest of my accursed brothers to stop with their lies! They weren't special, I wasn't useless...it was all just luck that gave them their power! They were weak, scared of the truth!
So many years, forced to live by their lies. Spending all my time down in the darkness beneath our castle with Uncle Bogumil. He'd lost a fortune more than once, so father didn't want him to have anything to do with our kingdom. Bad luck, that's all it was! Not a lack of skill, a lack of worth, just bad luck! But father declared his brother useless, just like my brothers did to me! Left him to wander around in that first vein, long empty, while away his days carving statues into the wall, widening the tunnels and building courses for natural springs to run through. A memorial, he said, a unique one that would show off the family once he and I were gone.
It took me years, but I saw all his creations for what it was. It was all he was allowed to do with what he had. It was sorrow over being unable to make more of his life. It was being shackled to the family, refusing to shame them by striking off on his own; success or failure, he'd make them look bad. Bearing the misery they heaped on him as if that was his due. They told him what his life was, and he accepted it. Made the most of what he was given.
When he died, I made sure he was buried down there, in the depths he'd devoted so much effort to. I made sure I finished every statue and carving he wanted to do. I bit my tongue as my brothers mocked my lack of sculpting skills, ignored the whispers of the nobles that treated with our house whenever we crossed paths, dismissed the fear in the eyes of our servants. Some sort of dark spawn, a freak, something that should not be, they said all that of me and much more. LIARS! I was nothing but what they made of me, NOTHING! They wanted me to be NOTHING!
Did they not understand? When the great forgotten truths of the ancient past rose, when the world was seized in the grip of the Fatespinner, when just what had awoken and all it commanded to do become clear to the world, the sheer terror of that realization...did they not see?
A worthless son, a waste of air, he would have broken. I. NEVER. BROKE.
The Raze came to our doorstep, we paid them in danegeld, more Terrae than I had ever seen or ever have seen...they should have battered our gates down ANYWAY, the treacherous wretches, had the Widowmaker not been distracted, not rode off to his doom. Did I open the gates to that army of consuming death? Did I betray my brothers who I hated so much, let them put Vurnir to the torch? I did not! I was willing to fight! It may have been just to save my own skin, but my brothers had made it clear that was all I had of value! Did I side with the Necromancer, her corrupting tides of dead? The Black Spider and his zealotry? Did Vurnir not take in refugees from the Ha'Secs Gem, incurring debts that still haven't been repaid? Did I ever oppose that shallow bit of mercy? Of all the storms the Speaker sent roiling across our world, of his terrible creations, his unending armies, his Elite, did I ever seek to marry my efforts to them? No! I stayed by my family's side.
And I saw. Saw the truth after Xaxargas showed the world just what it meant to Him, saw just what fate He planned to spin for us all. Saw the Twilight fall over us, the end of the world. Saw, at last, just what my brothers were.
I wanted to fight! I could have brought our armies into the chaos, I could have been a part of those terrible dark days! Even if we'd died, we would have died well! Died doing something, died BEING something! But my brothers cursed me, called me a mad fool, chased me down into the depths my uncle and I spent so much time in AND SEALED ME IN TO ENSURE MY HELPLESSNESS! And what did my precious brothers do with the end of the world approaching?
Noble, good, oh so respected Hann, cowering in the palace with his family. Josse and Tielo whiling away the days indulging every excess, father dead a year before and unable to stop them. Wybert, locking himself in the temple he built, praying for mercy, praying for deliverance, spewing word after worthless word as he grovelled before his alters, brought to his knees by his bone-softening fear! They did NOTHING! And I was the one cast out for refusing to believe their lie! Finally seeing the truth of it! They were the worthless ones! I...
I could have gone to the Blacklands. Even a worthless Incael is better than a a hundred thousand soldiers plucked from the rabble, the disgusting peasantry. I could have been one of the 44! They could have sung my name, heaped glories and rewards on me! But I didn't...because in those darkest days, the lie still dug deep. By the time I fully tore it from my heart and soul down in the depths, down surrounded by my uncle's middling works of what his life was, it was too late.
The world did not die. In its new day, I finally understood.
They didn't hate me because I was worthless. They hated me because I was the only one with worth. That I was meant to seize it, by any means necessary. That I had to, or else they would continue to define my life.
So I killed them. It was almost...easy. They'd lied to themselves for so long they couldn't understand the truth any more. I killed them and called it to me. And when it needed more to emerge, I gave it.
Now here I stand...what I was meant to be. Maybe some would say I have proven my brothers right, that I have brought myself and my people to ruin with my choices...but no. I am the only thing that matters, and I have done everything to ensure my due.
Crown Point...a means to an end. Almost...easy. Again. Bad blood, truth long lost in the need for lies. My men marched, still march against them with few questions. They accept the weapons I acquired with little discourse over the meaning of it. Does this make them strong, or weak? It doesn't matter any more. They've played their role, and if they all fell over dead in my next breath, I wouldn't spare them more than another in contemplation. Considering what they're meant to be...that might be kinder.
And the final key. My brothers' blood of their blood. What they claimed was their right as worthy to existence. What purpose is a body without a head? Better to die together than grow up alone. I speak from experience: it is no way to live. Their blood is better on my alter than flowing in their veins.
I have what I want. What I was meant to have. In my hands.
My advisers warned me of what would come should I undertake this path. They should feel fortunate I only exiled them. I know what would come for me should I take what's mine. Outrage. Opposition.
Marsello.
I should be honored. The Bloody Fire. Sang'firmot, as the Hemel call him. I have truly distinguished company coming.
Coming to take what belongs to me. Just like my brothers did. Just like my people. Just like everyone.
He can't have it. He has plenty. This is MINE, and I will let no one else steal it from me. Let him find his own betrayals to avenge, like I did. If he insists...
He's just another liar. A hero would be supporting me. This is just what I earned. The truth of things. How the story goes, as the world taught me.
Then the Bloody Fire will bleed first.
Tuesday, 15 April 2014
Cold Blooded, Part 1
"You don't want to fight, do you?"
"I really don't, Sir Tan." Christine said, though the fact she was sitting in front of a table full of weapons somewhat contradicted her words. Dressed in simple brown leathers, her hair tied and bound behind her head, even a lack of makeup and sweat staining said hair to a mass of fallow, clumped strands couldn't wholly defeat the brightness of the woman's face. Many women were blessed with fine hair, clear eyes, full lips, unblemished skin, and that delicate, symmetrical bone structure that caused people to use words like 'beautiful' and 'gorgeous', but few could be said to possess a light within their eyes and features. Christine Brynn was the kind of woman who lit up the room when she smiled, and encouraged others to give her a reason to if she wasn't. At the moment, her expression was earnest and solemn, speaking of truths she held close to herself. Not that Artberth Tanhim, or as he prefered, 'Art Tan' or just Art, thought she would lie to him. It was more of how deeply she believed she could not lie to herself, so to speak.
"What would you prefer to do then, Miss Brynn?"
"....Just...work things out? Stop fighting, work together? I know that's not what the world is like, but you asked."
"And those who don't want to work together?"
Christine said nothing, her gaze falling to the table.
"Miss Brynn, do not get me wrong. I wish all I did was teach people to survive. But in truth, I teach people to kill. Maybe they'll never do it, but I honestly think they are better off knowing how. If all you wanted to do was stay behind the war zones and help the wounded, you wouldn't be here. It doesn't mean you secretly desire anything that you couldn't stand about yourself."
"I guess I'm not going to change anything thousands of years decided was good, am I?"
"A bad attitude. Being a pacifist is a fine thing. It's not for me, but then again, neither are the healing arts. But there are two kinds of pacifists, Miss Brynn. One will refuse to fight until there is no other choice. The other will refuse to fight at all. The latter doesn't make you stronger than everyone who can resort to violence, Miss Brynn. It makes you a victim. It makes the people whose lives you want to save victims. I know it hurts the warmth and kindness you prefer to look upon and share with the world...but sometimes, the world is cold. You need to be cold in turn. If it makes you unhappy, well...I think that's better than being happy about it."
"...How many people come out of this world of yours happy, Mr. Tan?"
"If I have my way...none of them."
----
"Bitch."
"Here's my first bit of advice, Miss Brynn, of the easy to learn but difficult to master kind. Give them a chance, and many people will defeat themselves for you. And since you don't really care for harming others, why not let them do just that?"
It was sometimes scary to Christine how right Art had been, and he hadn't been the only one who'd had that message in his lessons. Here she was, nearly helpless, having just singlehandedly taken down several of this army's squads all by herself. Did they shoot her immediately? Did they demand she surrender? No, of course not. They insulted her. Their brains registered her primarily as a female, and their egos leapt ahead of any sense they had. Why immediately disable a threat when you could try and reinforce gender roles, or what these lot saw as them?
Their loss. They thought they had her at their mercy already? That they could do whatever they wanted, because in their mind they could? They hadn't noticed the fact she wore a rapier on her back?
They thought she needed a weapon?
Christine shifted dramatically, her hand going to her back...
"It really is quite astounding how much of the work they'll do for you, if you let them."
Then she fell directly onto her face, flat on the ground, the smallest target possible. She missed the first few crossbow bolts by inches, as the many wielders panicked and let loose.
It was never a good idea to surround certain targets in certain situations, and the soldiers promptly learned that lesson the hard way as the bolts flew over Christine and hit their fellow soldiers instead. She knew what came next. Shock. Panic. Precious seconds to act, which she was already doing, rolling across the muddy ground to her primary weapon, the glaive she'd been wielding before her horse ride had been abruptly terminated.
"Your power is explicitly chronal, correct?" Caranthir said. Christine suspected the Hemel already knew exactly what her special gift could do. Hemel were analytic by nature, and Caranthir didn't accept anyone who had just walked off the street as a student. He was probably assessing what she herself thought of her power.
"Yes sir. Oriam calls it 'entrophic denial'. I can manipulate, what was it called..,the local radius? I forget their word. I can alter time around me to a small degree. Slow it down. Speed it up. Reverse it."
"I see. And have you ever thought of how to use this talent offensively?"
"It's not really my way, sir."
"Well my dear, I think we can do quite a lot with it. If you can control how fast things move, then you can do more than dodge bullets..."
Laws of motion. Mass-energy equivalence. Electromagnetic radiation.
All of it went a little funny in the head when exposed to something that could alter the fundamental underpinning of the universe that time was.
Light was a good example. You needed light to see, and if you slowed down time, then the light took longer to affect your eyes and your vision went wonky as a result. Christine did it anyway; she couldn't stop time, but she could slow it to a nearly complete stop for a few seconds around her. It meant she was blind, so she closed her eyes. It meant no air could reach her, so she held her breath, as she counted off her own seconds in her head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
None of the soldiers would have been able to hit her even if they'd wanted to and had the opportunity: their arrows and weapons would have gotten close and then slowed to the apparent point of standing still. Not that it would have helped Christine either. Her eyes had no light to see, and with light being slowed to a virtual stop, everything around her had vanished in darkness. She couldn't know where the blows were coming from and dodge them.
But that was not the point.
Three.
Christine released the time bubble, and all the photons that had run into it immediately snapped back to moving at their correct speeds. End result: a gigantic brilliant burst of light as they synched back up with their unaltered brothers, blinding the soldiers looking at her as they let off agonized screams. Instant surprise flashbang, with no indicator it was coming that those trained in Stream or Blackbird based combat could detect and prepare for.
Not bad for a little girl...
"I don't care if you're a little girl! I was told you're tough! If you're not tough, I'll make you tough! If you are, I'll make you...even more tough! Ah ha ha ha!" Laminar said, one hand running over his pointed van-dyke beard. Laminar was unlike his partner Art in every way: shorter and wider and built like a tank compared to Art's precise musculature and grace, boisterous and loud compared to Art's quiet and serene, and a smashing, hammering force compared to Art's judicious execution. Christine wasn't really sure what he could teach her, but Ash swore by him, so she would be giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"...I could be called tough in some ways, sir?"
"Good, good! That some people think you're tough is a start! But when I think you're tough, then NOTHING the world throws at you will budge you! AH HA!' Laminar thundered, constantly stroking his beard in a way that edged up on being a nervous tic. "So, you wanna fight, do ya?"
"I want to defend myself."
"Just as good! Well young lady, the first thing I'm going to teach you has made men out of many! MOMENTUM! It's what all fights are about! All that stuff about wait and see, stalemating, that's for those who don't know how to put on the pressure! You stand and make others stumble, you'll win half the time doing just that! You don't have giant muscly arms and a thirty pound weapon? Then we'll find something else! Pressure, force, weight, you bore down on a foe and more will snap in two before they even realize they're in a fight! So what can you do, girlie?"
Time.
Another good example of what time affected was momentum. Throw a punch at someone, and a close dodge might give you a sensation of the force behind the blow, the faintest tinge of altered air pressure. If it took you a second to throw a punch, and someone took that time and literally cut it in half, done correctly, it meant you were throwing a punch that hit twice as hard.
Hence, Christine swung her glaive in a circle around her, speeding up the blow a good thirty times just before starting the spin.
End result: the mud all around her spraying outward like she'd detonated a bomb with her as the epicenter, the wave of outward force even knocking down the closest, blinded soldiers, while confusion and the myriad globs of violently propelled mud did the rest. Men screamed and panicked at this latest, constant stream of turnarounds, fear blotting their minds and keeping them from realizing that they really should have prepared for this.
But no. They'd called her names instead. Their mistake.
But...some were trying to get up. Keep fighting. Christine felt a prickle of admiration for them. Enemy side or not, they were still human beings, and capable of bravery and a desire to defend their comrades. She'd give them that.
It was the only thing she'd give them. Some mud had splashed on her face, mixing with the mud that had made its way there when she'd thrown herself on the ground, and she briefly reached up and wiped away any part of it that could get into her eyes, leaving the rest in fanged patterns as she raked her fingers down her cheeks.
The first soldier saw her coming and tried to get his weapon up. Within half a second he was face first on the ground, Christine having blurred over and around him, slamming the flat of her glaive's primary blade against his back. The next soldier took it over the head, mud splashing as he crumpled to his knees. The next three took it across the chest, Christine's weapon flashing out at speeds few eyes could follow, the soldier sent flying with alarmed, pained screams, the incredible feedback running up Christine's weapon and seized by her specialized armor before it could reach her more fragile muscles and bones, the force erupting off her shoulder pads in a barely-perceptible violent haze. Her eyes spied movement, and she pushed the second soldier, still in a dazed kneel, over even as she slid to the side, her motions as liquid as oil, the crossbow bolt flying through the empty space where the soldier's head and her side had been. Christine spun around and returned fire, hurling her glaive through the air, the bladed tip engulfing itself in a bludgeoning wall of force that slammed into the crossbowman, throwing him violently backwards into several of his peers and cracking several of his ribs. Christine turned around, several soldiers running and screaming at her, waving swords, axes, maces, holding up her arms as her weapon dropped down into her hands, the blonde woman slamming the weapon head into the ground in a hammer swing and scattering the angry soldiers like leaves, Christine spinning the impact up into a weapon twirl as she charged on ahead. The calm and the storm.
"I really don't, Sir Tan." Christine said, though the fact she was sitting in front of a table full of weapons somewhat contradicted her words. Dressed in simple brown leathers, her hair tied and bound behind her head, even a lack of makeup and sweat staining said hair to a mass of fallow, clumped strands couldn't wholly defeat the brightness of the woman's face. Many women were blessed with fine hair, clear eyes, full lips, unblemished skin, and that delicate, symmetrical bone structure that caused people to use words like 'beautiful' and 'gorgeous', but few could be said to possess a light within their eyes and features. Christine Brynn was the kind of woman who lit up the room when she smiled, and encouraged others to give her a reason to if she wasn't. At the moment, her expression was earnest and solemn, speaking of truths she held close to herself. Not that Artberth Tanhim, or as he prefered, 'Art Tan' or just Art, thought she would lie to him. It was more of how deeply she believed she could not lie to herself, so to speak.
"What would you prefer to do then, Miss Brynn?"
"....Just...work things out? Stop fighting, work together? I know that's not what the world is like, but you asked."
"And those who don't want to work together?"
Christine said nothing, her gaze falling to the table.
"Miss Brynn, do not get me wrong. I wish all I did was teach people to survive. But in truth, I teach people to kill. Maybe they'll never do it, but I honestly think they are better off knowing how. If all you wanted to do was stay behind the war zones and help the wounded, you wouldn't be here. It doesn't mean you secretly desire anything that you couldn't stand about yourself."
"I guess I'm not going to change anything thousands of years decided was good, am I?"
"A bad attitude. Being a pacifist is a fine thing. It's not for me, but then again, neither are the healing arts. But there are two kinds of pacifists, Miss Brynn. One will refuse to fight until there is no other choice. The other will refuse to fight at all. The latter doesn't make you stronger than everyone who can resort to violence, Miss Brynn. It makes you a victim. It makes the people whose lives you want to save victims. I know it hurts the warmth and kindness you prefer to look upon and share with the world...but sometimes, the world is cold. You need to be cold in turn. If it makes you unhappy, well...I think that's better than being happy about it."
"...How many people come out of this world of yours happy, Mr. Tan?"
"If I have my way...none of them."
----
"Bitch."
"Here's my first bit of advice, Miss Brynn, of the easy to learn but difficult to master kind. Give them a chance, and many people will defeat themselves for you. And since you don't really care for harming others, why not let them do just that?"
It was sometimes scary to Christine how right Art had been, and he hadn't been the only one who'd had that message in his lessons. Here she was, nearly helpless, having just singlehandedly taken down several of this army's squads all by herself. Did they shoot her immediately? Did they demand she surrender? No, of course not. They insulted her. Their brains registered her primarily as a female, and their egos leapt ahead of any sense they had. Why immediately disable a threat when you could try and reinforce gender roles, or what these lot saw as them?
Their loss. They thought they had her at their mercy already? That they could do whatever they wanted, because in their mind they could? They hadn't noticed the fact she wore a rapier on her back?
They thought she needed a weapon?
Christine shifted dramatically, her hand going to her back...
"It really is quite astounding how much of the work they'll do for you, if you let them."
Then she fell directly onto her face, flat on the ground, the smallest target possible. She missed the first few crossbow bolts by inches, as the many wielders panicked and let loose.
It was never a good idea to surround certain targets in certain situations, and the soldiers promptly learned that lesson the hard way as the bolts flew over Christine and hit their fellow soldiers instead. She knew what came next. Shock. Panic. Precious seconds to act, which she was already doing, rolling across the muddy ground to her primary weapon, the glaive she'd been wielding before her horse ride had been abruptly terminated.
"Your power is explicitly chronal, correct?" Caranthir said. Christine suspected the Hemel already knew exactly what her special gift could do. Hemel were analytic by nature, and Caranthir didn't accept anyone who had just walked off the street as a student. He was probably assessing what she herself thought of her power.
"Yes sir. Oriam calls it 'entrophic denial'. I can manipulate, what was it called..,the local radius? I forget their word. I can alter time around me to a small degree. Slow it down. Speed it up. Reverse it."
"I see. And have you ever thought of how to use this talent offensively?"
"It's not really my way, sir."
"Well my dear, I think we can do quite a lot with it. If you can control how fast things move, then you can do more than dodge bullets..."
Laws of motion. Mass-energy equivalence. Electromagnetic radiation.
All of it went a little funny in the head when exposed to something that could alter the fundamental underpinning of the universe that time was.
Light was a good example. You needed light to see, and if you slowed down time, then the light took longer to affect your eyes and your vision went wonky as a result. Christine did it anyway; she couldn't stop time, but she could slow it to a nearly complete stop for a few seconds around her. It meant she was blind, so she closed her eyes. It meant no air could reach her, so she held her breath, as she counted off her own seconds in her head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
None of the soldiers would have been able to hit her even if they'd wanted to and had the opportunity: their arrows and weapons would have gotten close and then slowed to the apparent point of standing still. Not that it would have helped Christine either. Her eyes had no light to see, and with light being slowed to a virtual stop, everything around her had vanished in darkness. She couldn't know where the blows were coming from and dodge them.
But that was not the point.
Three.
Christine released the time bubble, and all the photons that had run into it immediately snapped back to moving at their correct speeds. End result: a gigantic brilliant burst of light as they synched back up with their unaltered brothers, blinding the soldiers looking at her as they let off agonized screams. Instant surprise flashbang, with no indicator it was coming that those trained in Stream or Blackbird based combat could detect and prepare for.
Not bad for a little girl...
"I don't care if you're a little girl! I was told you're tough! If you're not tough, I'll make you tough! If you are, I'll make you...even more tough! Ah ha ha ha!" Laminar said, one hand running over his pointed van-dyke beard. Laminar was unlike his partner Art in every way: shorter and wider and built like a tank compared to Art's precise musculature and grace, boisterous and loud compared to Art's quiet and serene, and a smashing, hammering force compared to Art's judicious execution. Christine wasn't really sure what he could teach her, but Ash swore by him, so she would be giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"...I could be called tough in some ways, sir?"
"Good, good! That some people think you're tough is a start! But when I think you're tough, then NOTHING the world throws at you will budge you! AH HA!' Laminar thundered, constantly stroking his beard in a way that edged up on being a nervous tic. "So, you wanna fight, do ya?"
"I want to defend myself."
"Just as good! Well young lady, the first thing I'm going to teach you has made men out of many! MOMENTUM! It's what all fights are about! All that stuff about wait and see, stalemating, that's for those who don't know how to put on the pressure! You stand and make others stumble, you'll win half the time doing just that! You don't have giant muscly arms and a thirty pound weapon? Then we'll find something else! Pressure, force, weight, you bore down on a foe and more will snap in two before they even realize they're in a fight! So what can you do, girlie?"
Time.
Another good example of what time affected was momentum. Throw a punch at someone, and a close dodge might give you a sensation of the force behind the blow, the faintest tinge of altered air pressure. If it took you a second to throw a punch, and someone took that time and literally cut it in half, done correctly, it meant you were throwing a punch that hit twice as hard.
Hence, Christine swung her glaive in a circle around her, speeding up the blow a good thirty times just before starting the spin.
End result: the mud all around her spraying outward like she'd detonated a bomb with her as the epicenter, the wave of outward force even knocking down the closest, blinded soldiers, while confusion and the myriad globs of violently propelled mud did the rest. Men screamed and panicked at this latest, constant stream of turnarounds, fear blotting their minds and keeping them from realizing that they really should have prepared for this.
But no. They'd called her names instead. Their mistake.
But...some were trying to get up. Keep fighting. Christine felt a prickle of admiration for them. Enemy side or not, they were still human beings, and capable of bravery and a desire to defend their comrades. She'd give them that.
It was the only thing she'd give them. Some mud had splashed on her face, mixing with the mud that had made its way there when she'd thrown herself on the ground, and she briefly reached up and wiped away any part of it that could get into her eyes, leaving the rest in fanged patterns as she raked her fingers down her cheeks.
"Put on your war paint..."
Christine planted her weapon into the ground, pole vaulting up into the air, yanking the glaive up after her, the troops around her seeing a brown blur as she swung the weapon up...
"LOOK-!"
Too slow.
Down the weapon came, another dome of force slamming up off the impact site, Christine tanking it via armor, position, and Stream-bracing (thank you Aarde training, not every channel had to be T.A.N.G.L.Espam), and everyone else being swept away like bugs on a strong wind. Christine pulled her weapon back up again, her eyes observant and blank. Were they running?
No?
More of the same then.
Christine was amazed that Incael's army had managed to regroup to the degree she found it had after she ran for a dozen seconds. She'd expected to find another pocket or two, the fog of war obscuring her vision. Instead of a dozen or so soldiers, she found a few hundred, battered and alarmed, but regrouping-
"OH SHIT!"
Christine plowed into them, her accelerated weapon swinging wide, roundhouse blows, slamming terrible, disabling impacts into anyone that strayed into her range, men falling like puppets in a snowballing circle pattern as she ran through the clustered soldiers, like wheat under her hand. Sometimes, she felt the bone break when she hit. She took the disgust that followed that sensation and locked it in a box. She and Ash had tried to be peaceful. They'd thrown it back into their face, her face. If they wanted a fight, they'd get her best. And they should be thankful that 'her best' in her eyes meant holding back so that she just broke a few bones instead of cleaving men in half like cheap cheese. She could do that if she wanted to.
She'd never want to, but she could. It was her consolation that she knew how to at all. To hold a weapon, to be a weapon...
To have the head of your weapon unexpectedly grabbed by a small group of soldiers who were more on the ball than expected.
"GET HER!"
The first mistake the soldiers made was yelling their command before yanking the weapon out of her hand. Even as they were speaking, Christine was hissing.
"Kshor."
The nonsense word promptly fused the reinforced and enchanted wood shaft of the glaive to the skin of her hand. They'd have to literally carve the weapon free if they wanted her to let go of it.
Their second mistake (or rather, their companions who rushed to attack her's mistake) was assuming that because they held the weapon, she couldn't fight with it.
The first soldier no sooner swung his sword then he found it blocked by the gripping length of the glaive, and then had the gripping length firmly introduced to his helmeted face. The second one attacked from behind, and discovered that martial arts kicks that were incredibly impractical in real-life combat suddenly became a lot more practical when they were delivered in a quarter of a second with a leg wrapped up in impact-negating enchanted leather, Christine slamming her foot under the man's chin and sending him staggering backwards before he fell. The third one actually had a clue, and stopped to shoot her with his crossbow.
"Tsshor."
The binding charm on her hands de-activated, another taking its place as the length of the weapon went from rock rigid to bamboo flexible, and Christine bent the weapon back and rode the snapback towards her shooter, the sudden shifting position yanking her weapon free from its holders, even as Christine slammed both her feet into the crossbow shooter's face, and before he could even fall, flipped off the impact, landed on her feet, spun around the shooter, and baseball-swung her weapon directly between his shoulder blades, throwing him into her attempted weapon-thieves before they could come after her more conventionally.
"Tsshor."
"Tsshor."
The weapon shaft reverted to its former rigid state. Good timing, as Christine turned around to a surprise. Another staff weapon, this one plain, but wielded by skilled hands, the soldier yelling as he swung and snapped its ends at Christine, seeking holes in her guard to strike, break, and bruise. Christine was forced back several steps, their weapons a storm of clacking lines, soldiers regaining their composure and beginning to cluster again...
The soldier spun and swung down, knocking the weapon from Christine's hands.
Unfortunately, that was exactly what Christine had wanted; the soldier immediately ate a snap-kick to the face before he could recover from his downward momentum. Christine kicked her weapon back up into her hands, her eyes flicking around. Still just her, against the world. Her world, against theirs.
"SOMEONE KILL THE BITCH!"
Angry. Desperate. Stupid. The old tune, heard so many times.
"ARCHERS LINE UP TO-!" The officer, or sergeant, or yelling soldier, Christine couldn't tell, he was yelling and she shut him up with a palm strike to the shoulder, sending him spinning down to the ground. Three more soldiers ran in, again, again yelling, again swords in front of them. The shock on the two not wearing helmets indicated that Christine's counter move, that being charging, ramming her glaive lengthwise into said weapons, and CONTINUING, shoving them all backwards like they were children, was not what they expected. Another combination palm-strike backed by Stream augmentation into the middle of her staff sent them all flying backwards, Christine's weapon dropping into her other hand as she spun and baseball-bat slammed another unfortunate, sending him flying into a nearby withered tree.
New soldier. A big one, armed with a greatsword....
No, two of them. In full armor too. More than rabble...and unexpectedly fast, one splitting off to flank her as the other closed in, swinging his weapon with a speed that denoted his own enchanted equipment and Stream-training.
No, two of them. In full armor too. More than rabble...and unexpectedly fast, one splitting off to flank her as the other closed in, swinging his weapon with a speed that denoted his own enchanted equipment and Stream-training.
Which did nothing to save him against the bubble of slowed time he plowed into.
She could make one bubble like this, and it would last three seconds. It did not, however, stop her from speeding up her upwards golf swing, the blade glowing as it bit into the heavy armor. Bit and caught, Stream energy and adrenaline exploding through Christine's muscles as she lifted the large, armored soldier right off the ground, over her head, and used him as a hammer against his friend, the two meeting with a mighty crashing din of damaged armor and shattered resolve.
That last move had been unconventional, and Christine took a moment to flip one of the armored soldiers off his partner to make a brief double check. The unflipped one was suitably unconscious. The flipped one had landed on something sharp, blood pouring from the shredded padding beneath his destroyed chest armor, his breathing the agonizing gurgle of someone who'd gotten a lung puctured...
No.
Christine knelt down, one hand firmly pressed on the soldier's chest. His breath exploded through him in a agonized, surprise wheeze, pieces of sharp metal extracting from his body and ejecting from his flesh as the hole in his lung closed over, veins knitting back together and allowing blood to flow as it should. Christine spun up; she couldn't take the time to knock him out, and she wanted to stay there and double-check her work, but they just kept COMING, they just wouldn't BREAK...
So Christine ran.
Not away. Not at anyone in general. She just ran, spinning her staff and hurling it.
Directly into the air, like she was suddenly taking the time to train for the javelin throw. A few soldiers even stopped to look at the weapon as it arced upwards.
"KI-!"
Christine stopped, her legs coiling beneath her. As she was, she'd have to jump at a hard angle to catch her weapon.
With a time-accelerated leap, she not only made incredible air, she caught up to her weapon before it reached its apex.
She immediately spun and reversed the weapon's course, firing it into the ground.
Directly into the center of the being-reassembled Vurnir squadron.
The explosion of force, both by physics-manipulation and Stream empowerment, made her original circular swing look like the clumsy swipe of a drunk. The mud literally rose in an outward wave, consuming the men as they screamed, ran, and failed to escape, dozens and dozens of soldiers sent flying off their feet, some literally out of their boots. Even the ones farther away from the bomb-blast were knocked reeling, their inner ears rattling and their sense of equilibrium disrupted, tripping over their own feet or equipment that was nominally familar to them.
The weapon stood where it had impacted, sticking out of the ground like the earth itself was making a disparaging gesture to those it had swept away. The battlefield had gone quiet enough that Christine could actually her the mud squelch beneath her boots as she landed.
There was no one left. Christine plucked her weapon from the ground and spun it onto her shoulders in a defensive stance. Ready. Waiting.
She wasn't surprised that the next face to see her looked like it had just lost control of its bowels. She was, however, glad to see it was friendly. The Crown Point army had finally managed to take advantage of her efforts to advance. She took a moment to draw in a long, slow breath, then nodded at the soldier, gesturing which way the enemy was. He nodded back with a gulp, moving away from her as his peers and fellows began to trickle in behind him.
"-STER! ARE YOU MILKSOPS GOING TO LET A WOMAN DO ALL THE WORK?! MOVE IT OR I WILL KICK YOU IN THE ASS SO HARD YOU'LL FOLLOW IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BLOODY STUPID!" Came a voice Christine vaguely recognized. What was his name, Captain...
Ah yes. Reemer. It was pronounced 'Rhymer', but more than a few said it phonetically, for obvious reasons.
-----
"GET THESE SHITS DISARMED AND RESTRAINED! I DON'T LIKE IT EITHER, BUT THAT WAS THE DEAL! STAB 'EM ONLY IF YOU HAVE TO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, CORPORAL?! Captain Reemer yelled as he nearly stumbled into one of his fellow soldiers, looking around him to see what had stopped him.
It was something that would have given many pause. Dozens of men, lying on the ground, broken, moaning, thrashed.
It was something that would have given many pause. Dozens of men, lying on the ground, broken, moaning, thrashed.
"YOU ARE NOT ON VACATION, CORPORAL! STOP SIGHTSEEING!"
The terrified corporal couldn't speak, only stare. Reemer followed his gaze to the doer of the deed, as she headed towards him. Christine Brynn. A step above being called a slip of a girl, who wore armor of 'pretty colors' that made Reemer want to tear his hair out and looked like she should be hanging off an Oriam billboard selling cookies to children instead of anywhere on a battlefield. Who was the type of goody-goody who went looking for trouble so she and her fellow goody-goodies could try and help everyone, because trouble affected everyone.
They called her some other things too. The Hourglass, for one. And something more fitting what was laid out before him and his horrified subordinate. The Time Bomb.
Reemer may not have really cared for her type, but he cared for results first and foremost and she produced. Everything else was just bullshit, in the end.
"Ah heh heh. She's one of the 44, lad. Your eyes should drink this in, you might never see anything like it in your life! But do it LATER! MOVE! BEFORE THEY REGROUP AND SHE HAS TO MAKE YOU ALL LOOK BAD AGAIN!"
The corporal ran off, rather pointedly in a way that took him away from Christine. She didn't seem to notice, as she approached Captain Reemer.
"Status, sir?"
That was something else about her. By the virtue of being one of the 44, Captain Reemer should have been calling HER by honorifics, if not outright kissing her ass if that was what she wanted. Not only did she never do that, she called everyone with an official military rank 'sir', even if they were a recruit fresh out of training. Sometimes, Reemer wasn't certain if he should wait for another shoe to drop, or marvel that sometimes, yes, there really were people like that in the world. Sometimes, too good to be true was true, and the proof was in the pudding she'd made of the who-knows-how-many Incael soldiers.
"It took you a bit to get it right, girl, but when you did you rammed right through these shits like my last meal went through my gut."
"I have pills for food poisoning, if you want them." Christine said.
"Er, no! Maybe later! Fall back! You've done a lot, you should get back to the back lines! Help with the wounded! Provided they don't-"
The low WHUMP! was barely audible, but Christine felt the hairs on her neck raise up at the sound. She knew that noise.
"Did you hear something?" Captain Reemer said, drawing his two short swords.
"Yes." Christine said, eyes darting around.
"What was that?"
"Them refusing to don't." Christine said. She hung around Oriam enough to know the pneumatic bursting noise of someone launching a specialized mortar, as her eyes drifted skyward.
It crashed down into the mud a mere seventy or so feet from the pair.
"WHAT THE HELL DID THEY-!" Reemer began.
The bomb bounced upward at his word. No, not bounced. The ground was too wet and swampy for that. It was launched, a tiny throw upward to project the dull blue beachball sized spear, ugly letters written along its serrated lengths.
Tatterdemalion.
The sphere exploded, the air filling with slicing, impaling lengths of metal.
That's another war crime, using those on people, you know...
The power of time let you do so many things. Close wounds. Wing your feet. Dodge a bullet.
Dodging a hundred bullets, on the other hand...
That was a fight perhaps no one could win.
Sunday, 6 April 2014
Coronation
Eight months ago, Daniel Bryan won the biggest match of his career, of
his life when he pinned John Cena in the middle of the ring to win the
WWE Championship. It was taken away by Triple H just minutes later.
Seven months ago, Daniel Bryan got retribution on the man who stole his title, Randy Orton, by pinning him in the middle of the ring, albeit with a slight fast count. It was taken away by Triple H just one day later.
Six months ago, Daniel Bryan prepared to do battle with Randy Orton within Hell in a Cell, and when it looked like Bryan was about to capture the title once and for all, it was taken away by Triple H and his friend.
Three months ago, Daniel Bryan's opportunity was taken away to win the Royal Rumble by Triple H, and given to the returning Batista, which the crowd hated and booed mercilessly.
One month ago, Daniel Bryan even got another opportunity at his uncrowned title within the Elimination Chamber, and was about to win when it was taken away from him by Triple H's crony. Fed up with this, Bryan "hijacked Raw", filled the ring with many of his adoring fans, and refused to give in until he got what he wanted: a match with Triple H, and if he won, to be inserted into the WWE World Heavyweight Championship match. Triple H tried to take this away from him too, handcuffing him and beating him savagely around the ring, even threatening to drown him, in an attack that took Bryan out on a stretcher and his status for WrestleMania in doubt. Hunter also made the match stipulation that even if he won, he would be entered into the WWEWHC match himself.
Bryan returned at Raw, beating up Triple H for his role in attacking him and standing tall in the last thing we see before WrestleMania.
This is the story of Daniel Bryan, the best wrestler in the world, the Greatest Of All Time, fighting against the biggest and baddest people in the world who live to keep him down at every turn.
Seven months ago, Daniel Bryan got retribution on the man who stole his title, Randy Orton, by pinning him in the middle of the ring, albeit with a slight fast count. It was taken away by Triple H just one day later.
Six months ago, Daniel Bryan prepared to do battle with Randy Orton within Hell in a Cell, and when it looked like Bryan was about to capture the title once and for all, it was taken away by Triple H and his friend.
Three months ago, Daniel Bryan's opportunity was taken away to win the Royal Rumble by Triple H, and given to the returning Batista, which the crowd hated and booed mercilessly.
One month ago, Daniel Bryan even got another opportunity at his uncrowned title within the Elimination Chamber, and was about to win when it was taken away from him by Triple H's crony. Fed up with this, Bryan "hijacked Raw", filled the ring with many of his adoring fans, and refused to give in until he got what he wanted: a match with Triple H, and if he won, to be inserted into the WWE World Heavyweight Championship match. Triple H tried to take this away from him too, handcuffing him and beating him savagely around the ring, even threatening to drown him, in an attack that took Bryan out on a stretcher and his status for WrestleMania in doubt. Hunter also made the match stipulation that even if he won, he would be entered into the WWEWHC match himself.
Bryan returned at Raw, beating up Triple H for his role in attacking him and standing tall in the last thing we see before WrestleMania.
This is the story of Daniel Bryan, the best wrestler in the world, the Greatest Of All Time, fighting against the biggest and baddest people in the world who live to keep him down at every turn.
"The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain
too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives
everything its value. I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can
gather strength from distress and grow."
-Thomas Paine
We outta make him an honorary Kobber.
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
Cold Bloded
"You don't want to fight, do you?"
"I really don't, Sir Tan." Christine said, though the fact she was sitting in front of a table full of weapons somewhat contradicted her words. Dressed in simple brown leathers, her hair tied and bound behind her head, even a lack of makeup and sweat staining said hair couldn't wholly defeat the brightness of the woman's face. Many women were blessed with fine hair, clear eyes, full lips, unblemished skin, and that delicate, symmetrical bone structure that caused people to use words like 'beautiful' and 'gorgeous', but few could be said to possess a light within their eyes and features. Christine Brynn was the kind of woman who lit up the room when she smiled, and encouraged others to help her if she wasn't. At the moment, her expression was earnest and solemn, speaking of truths she held close to herself. Not that Artberth Tanhim, or as he prefered, 'Art Tan' or just Art, thought she would lie to him. It was more of how deeply she believed she could not lie to herself, so to speak.
"What would you prefer to do then, Miss Brynn?"
"....Just...work things out? Stop fighting, work together? I know that's not what the world is like, but you asked."
"And those who don't want to work together?"
Christine said nothing, her gaze falling to the table.
"Miss Brynn, do not get me wrong. I wish all I did was teach people to survive. But in truth, I teach people to kill. Maybe they'll never do it, but I honestly think they are better off knowing how. If all you wanted to do was stay behind the war zones and help the wounded, you wouldn't be here. It doesn't mean you secretly desire anything that you couldn't stand about yourself."
"I guess I'm not going to change anything thousands of years decided was good, am I?"
"A bad attitude. Being a pacifist is a fine thing. It's not for me, but then again, neither are the healing arts. But there are two kinds of pacifists, Miss Brynn. One will refuse to fight until there is no other choice. The other will refuse to fight at all. The latter doesn't make you stronger than everyone who can resort to violence, Miss Brynn. It makes you a victim. It makes the people whose lives you want to save victims. I know it hurts the warmth and kindness you prefer to look upon and share with the world...but sometimes, the world is cold. You need to be cold in turn. If it makes you unhappy, well...I think that's better than being happy about it."
"...How many people come out of this world of yours happy, Mr. Tan?"
"If I have my way...none of them."
----
"Bitch."
"Here's my first bit of advice, Miss Brynn, of the easy to learn but difficult to master kind. Give them a chance, and many people will defeat themselves for you. And since you don't really care for harming others, why not let them do just that?"
It was sometimes scary to Christine how right Art had been, and he hadn't been the only one who'd had that message in his lessons. Here she was, nearly helpless, having just singlehandedly taken down several of this army's squads all by herself. Did they shoot her immediately? Did they demand she surrender? No, of course not. They insulted her. Their brains registered her primarily as a female, and their egos leapt ahead of any sense they had. Why immediately disable a threat when you could try and reinforce gender roles, or what these lot saw as them?
Their loss. They thought they had her at their mercy? That they could do whatever they wanted, because in their mind they could? They hadn't noticed the fact she wore a rapier on her back?
They thought she needed a weapon?
Christine shifted dramatically, her hand going to her back...
----
It was terrible! The thunder roared! Trees fell to the ground! The wind was like a rhinoceros! Each flash of lightning lasted an hour! And in the castle where King Sabrewulf and Queen...Pointycanine lived, there was a wail and a roar! A scream so loud you could see it hurtle out the chimney! There was a crash so loud the roof flew off and ARGGGHHHH! HORRORS! DAVID WAS BORN!
His parents took one look at him and ran away like the wind! David grabbed an axe and chopped down the door! GRRRRR!
A guy named Bill, who was combing his hair in a boat, heard sizzling. It was David, and the grass was burning under his feet as ran along the bank, jumped into the boat, grabbed Bill, threw him into the sun, and then rowed away at over 3000 miles an hour! David was angry!
David rowed across the shores, where he found his parents. So he knotted his mother's hair and bent his father's pipe and put jam in their shoes and they were sorry they ever had him. Then he asked if he had any siblings and King Sabrewulf said no but he had an uncle so David knocked a kid off his bicycle and cycled away so fast that the road behind him turned to molten tar and all the cars got stuck in it.
David got to the sea and swore so loudly that all the fish came up to see and he peddled across right on their heads. He found his uncle making pancakes and he punched him in the nose and put his socks through a grinder. He was sorry he had a nephew like David!
Then David looked around and saw a lady with a hat. He was so angry! He hit the hat off her head and bit her arm and then kicked a soldier and took an axe and wrecked a bus. Then a mountain fell on David and he had to tunnel his way to Australia to escape.
Then David saw a kangaroo. "YEECHHHHH PANSY ANIMAL!" he said, and he went up to kick it, but the kangaroo had a baby named Pidge who thought David looked nice because he'd never looked out his pouch before. He said '"Goo!" and all of David's hair stood up making him look like a porcupine and then the kangaroo baby didn't think David looked so nice anymore so David kicked it anyway and then ran off so fast that the desert sand fused into bricks and they built a power station with them and now there are hardly any kangaroos left there.
David went to Ireland and the police said they would get him so they tied sacks of potatoes above the road and when they saw David coming they would cut the cord and the sacks would come down and he would be stunned and they would cover him with meat sauce and roll him into the sea. But David wasn't stupid and he saw the sacks so he took a frying pan and walked under the sacks and when the sacks fell he fried the potatoes and ate them before they could stun him. "It was a stupid plan anyway..." The police chief said...
----
Stephanie: (sings) With this treasure I will buy my freedom!
No more Daddy acting like a jerk!
I’ll buy the company and run all of wrestling!
I’l be the only place you can get work…(Chris Jericho drives by in his own mine cart and grabs the box out of her hands) HEY!
Chris: Sorry my dear, but the device is mine now!
You don’t deserve this great machine!
It will make me reign as Champ forever!
Oh it sounds like such a dream…(it gets snatched) HEY!
Hurricane: I don’t mean to disappoint you Chris,
But it’s my job to foil evil schemes!
Gotta save the world and be the hero
And maybe find the girl of my….(box is snatched) HEY!
Jerry Lawler: (who accidentally snatched the device) Oh my, oh dear, I do not want this!
Someone take away this doomsday thing!
I have to think about myself and save my own skin!
To heck with it, I’m gonna…
(The box gets snatched by the Hardyz. Then by Edge. Then by the Dudleyz. Then by Lance Storm. And so on and so on…)
Hurricane: I have it! (sings) Gotta be a hero gotta save the day!
(Indiana Jones drives past, which confuses Hurricane so much that Stephanie manages to grab it back)
Stephanie: Gotta buy the WWF and kick my ex’s butt!
(Undertaker drives by and grabs the box)
Undertaker: Got to kill the author very painfully…
(And now Stone Cold grabs it in one hand. The other is reading the author’s contract)
Stone Cold: Still some left. What what what what what?
(And it goes from hand to hand. Camera goes to Jerry Lawler, who is hiding in his minecart to assure he doesn’t get what he thinks is a doomsday device)
Lawler: Keep that device away from me! Self-preservation is the key!
(And back to Jericho, who has the box once again)
Chris: Well the point is moot as it’s in my possession! ALL HAIL THE LIVING LESSON!
(And we finally drive out of the Musical section, ending the singing)
Christian: Living lesson?
Chris: I couldn’t think of anything that rhymed with legend! It doesn’t matter! At last I have it!
----
I am sorry, but I can be silent no longer. The greatest villain of the ZFRP must be exposed. It is long time to lay bare the sins...of Sarah Triden.
Sarah Triden often neglects her sweet-eating duties so that she may commit murder.
Sarah Triden, and not Mrs O’Leary’s cow, started the Great Fire of Chicago.
Sarah Triden, while at the same time pretending to be Luke Skywalker’s friend, was known to aid Darth Vader’s plans in universal domination.
Sarah Triden told George Lucas to include a peppy little character named "Jar Jar Binks" in one of his films.
Sarah Triden dislikes puppies, Abraham Lincoln, and your mother.
Sarah Triden, on a related note, made Ariel step on a puppy
Sarah Triden often puts on blackface and pretends to be Ernie Hudson, star of Ghostbusters.
Sarah Triden’s eyes are twice the size of normal ones, and have been known to emit death rays at small children.
Sarah Triden is responsible for the surprising lack of support for the technically superior Beta VCR’s.
Sarah Triden is a member of the KKK, and when dressed as Ernie Hudson, the Black Panthers.
Sarah Triden views the Welsh as genetically inferior.
Sarah Triden frequently kills kittens and blames it on the poor.
Sarah Triden frequently kills the poor and blames it on kittens.
Sarah Triden uses bad alliteration.
Sarah Triden, and not Napoleon, lost the battle of Waterloo.
Sarah Triden detonated over Hiroshima and Nagasaki in summer 1945, killing tens of thousands.
Sarah Triden got off relatively easily at the Nuremberg trial.
Sarah Triden played every role in SNL sketches from 93-96.
Sarah Triden, while with Habitat for Humanity, secretly stole the nails out of each new home.
Sarah Triden invented cancer.
Sarah Triden invented the polio vaccine VACCINE.
Sarah Triden gave thousands of Japanese children epileptic seizures during afternoon cartoons.
Sarah Triden racked up 75 confirmed kills in Vietnam in the early 90’s.
Sarah Triden held the only extra set of keys to Sharon Tate’s home.
Sarah Triden "really liked" Biodome.
Sarah Triden was dropped around the clock in Cambodia during the early 70’s, devastating the countryside.
Sarah Triden regularly inserts typos into everyone’s psost.
Sarah Triden built the Berlin Wall.
Sarah Triden proposed Stalin’s 5-year "everyone starves to death" plan.
Sarah Triden convinced the Polish army to invest heavily in horses in the 1920’s.
Sarah Triden frequently convinced ER stars and Dana Carvey to "pursue movie careers."
Sarah Triden shot John Lennon.
Sarah Triden did NOT shoot Yoko Ono.
Sarah"Sell Sell Sell" Triden worked as a stock trader in 1929.
Sarah Triden leaves porn sites in your history file.
Sarah Triden is little in middle, yet lacks much back.
Sarah Triden is not "all that", nor a bag of chips.
Sarah Triden refused to "checkity-check" herself, and consequently wrecked herself.
Sarah Triden wrote and performed every song credited to Limp Bizkit.
Sarah Triden was banished to Nod after killing her brother.
Sarah Triden was the Pharaoh’s top adviser on Jewish affairs.
Sarah Triden IS Keyser Soze.
Sarah Triden regularly transforms into a subatomic particle traveling faster then the speed of light, thus rendering previous atomic theories obsolete.
Sarah Triden was Kate Moss and Calista Flockhart’s dietitian.
Sarah Triden is "The Man" (and not in the good way either!)
Sarah Triden has "999" tattooed upside-down on her butt.
Sarah Triden sacked Rome.
Sarah Triden is the reason we labor under the iron rule of those damn dirty apes.
Sarah Triden wrote the pitifully unsuccessful Mambos 1 through 4.
Sarah Triden sat on Peter Dinklage’s shoulders for the first thirteen years of his life.
Sarah Triden is not recommended by five out of six doctors.
Sarah Triden stole Christmas, and regularly torments all the Whos down in Whoville.
Sarah Triden overflowed her banks and devastated the Sanguay region.
Sarah Triden told JFK Jr that he was a "great pilot".
Sarah Triden convinced a young Chris Farley to ‘always have seconds."
Sarah Triden turned Smokey the Bear into the flaming leather daddy he is today.
Sarah Triden plans to surround Chatzy with a labyrinth of traps, each more complex and fiendish then the last.
Sarah Triden was the chief mapmaker to the Chinese Revolution, and her terrible handwriting made a "Long March." out of what should have been "The Brisk Walk."
You know that glove that didn’t fit OJ? Fits Sarah Triden just fine.
"I really don't, Sir Tan." Christine said, though the fact she was sitting in front of a table full of weapons somewhat contradicted her words. Dressed in simple brown leathers, her hair tied and bound behind her head, even a lack of makeup and sweat staining said hair couldn't wholly defeat the brightness of the woman's face. Many women were blessed with fine hair, clear eyes, full lips, unblemished skin, and that delicate, symmetrical bone structure that caused people to use words like 'beautiful' and 'gorgeous', but few could be said to possess a light within their eyes and features. Christine Brynn was the kind of woman who lit up the room when she smiled, and encouraged others to help her if she wasn't. At the moment, her expression was earnest and solemn, speaking of truths she held close to herself. Not that Artberth Tanhim, or as he prefered, 'Art Tan' or just Art, thought she would lie to him. It was more of how deeply she believed she could not lie to herself, so to speak.
"What would you prefer to do then, Miss Brynn?"
"....Just...work things out? Stop fighting, work together? I know that's not what the world is like, but you asked."
"And those who don't want to work together?"
Christine said nothing, her gaze falling to the table.
"Miss Brynn, do not get me wrong. I wish all I did was teach people to survive. But in truth, I teach people to kill. Maybe they'll never do it, but I honestly think they are better off knowing how. If all you wanted to do was stay behind the war zones and help the wounded, you wouldn't be here. It doesn't mean you secretly desire anything that you couldn't stand about yourself."
"I guess I'm not going to change anything thousands of years decided was good, am I?"
"A bad attitude. Being a pacifist is a fine thing. It's not for me, but then again, neither are the healing arts. But there are two kinds of pacifists, Miss Brynn. One will refuse to fight until there is no other choice. The other will refuse to fight at all. The latter doesn't make you stronger than everyone who can resort to violence, Miss Brynn. It makes you a victim. It makes the people whose lives you want to save victims. I know it hurts the warmth and kindness you prefer to look upon and share with the world...but sometimes, the world is cold. You need to be cold in turn. If it makes you unhappy, well...I think that's better than being happy about it."
"...How many people come out of this world of yours happy, Mr. Tan?"
"If I have my way...none of them."
----
"Bitch."
"Here's my first bit of advice, Miss Brynn, of the easy to learn but difficult to master kind. Give them a chance, and many people will defeat themselves for you. And since you don't really care for harming others, why not let them do just that?"
It was sometimes scary to Christine how right Art had been, and he hadn't been the only one who'd had that message in his lessons. Here she was, nearly helpless, having just singlehandedly taken down several of this army's squads all by herself. Did they shoot her immediately? Did they demand she surrender? No, of course not. They insulted her. Their brains registered her primarily as a female, and their egos leapt ahead of any sense they had. Why immediately disable a threat when you could try and reinforce gender roles, or what these lot saw as them?
Their loss. They thought they had her at their mercy? That they could do whatever they wanted, because in their mind they could? They hadn't noticed the fact she wore a rapier on her back?
They thought she needed a weapon?
Christine shifted dramatically, her hand going to her back...
----
It was terrible! The thunder roared! Trees fell to the ground! The wind was like a rhinoceros! Each flash of lightning lasted an hour! And in the castle where King Sabrewulf and Queen...Pointycanine lived, there was a wail and a roar! A scream so loud you could see it hurtle out the chimney! There was a crash so loud the roof flew off and ARGGGHHHH! HORRORS! DAVID WAS BORN!
His parents took one look at him and ran away like the wind! David grabbed an axe and chopped down the door! GRRRRR!
A guy named Bill, who was combing his hair in a boat, heard sizzling. It was David, and the grass was burning under his feet as ran along the bank, jumped into the boat, grabbed Bill, threw him into the sun, and then rowed away at over 3000 miles an hour! David was angry!
David rowed across the shores, where he found his parents. So he knotted his mother's hair and bent his father's pipe and put jam in their shoes and they were sorry they ever had him. Then he asked if he had any siblings and King Sabrewulf said no but he had an uncle so David knocked a kid off his bicycle and cycled away so fast that the road behind him turned to molten tar and all the cars got stuck in it.
David got to the sea and swore so loudly that all the fish came up to see and he peddled across right on their heads. He found his uncle making pancakes and he punched him in the nose and put his socks through a grinder. He was sorry he had a nephew like David!
Then David looked around and saw a lady with a hat. He was so angry! He hit the hat off her head and bit her arm and then kicked a soldier and took an axe and wrecked a bus. Then a mountain fell on David and he had to tunnel his way to Australia to escape.
Then David saw a kangaroo. "YEECHHHHH PANSY ANIMAL!" he said, and he went up to kick it, but the kangaroo had a baby named Pidge who thought David looked nice because he'd never looked out his pouch before. He said '"Goo!" and all of David's hair stood up making him look like a porcupine and then the kangaroo baby didn't think David looked so nice anymore so David kicked it anyway and then ran off so fast that the desert sand fused into bricks and they built a power station with them and now there are hardly any kangaroos left there.
David went to Ireland and the police said they would get him so they tied sacks of potatoes above the road and when they saw David coming they would cut the cord and the sacks would come down and he would be stunned and they would cover him with meat sauce and roll him into the sea. But David wasn't stupid and he saw the sacks so he took a frying pan and walked under the sacks and when the sacks fell he fried the potatoes and ate them before they could stun him. "It was a stupid plan anyway..." The police chief said...
----
Stephanie: (sings) With this treasure I will buy my freedom!
No more Daddy acting like a jerk!
I’ll buy the company and run all of wrestling!
I’l be the only place you can get work…(Chris Jericho drives by in his own mine cart and grabs the box out of her hands) HEY!
Chris: Sorry my dear, but the device is mine now!
You don’t deserve this great machine!
It will make me reign as Champ forever!
Oh it sounds like such a dream…(it gets snatched) HEY!
Hurricane: I don’t mean to disappoint you Chris,
But it’s my job to foil evil schemes!
Gotta save the world and be the hero
And maybe find the girl of my….(box is snatched) HEY!
Jerry Lawler: (who accidentally snatched the device) Oh my, oh dear, I do not want this!
Someone take away this doomsday thing!
I have to think about myself and save my own skin!
To heck with it, I’m gonna…
(The box gets snatched by the Hardyz. Then by Edge. Then by the Dudleyz. Then by Lance Storm. And so on and so on…)
Hurricane: I have it! (sings) Gotta be a hero gotta save the day!
(Indiana Jones drives past, which confuses Hurricane so much that Stephanie manages to grab it back)
Stephanie: Gotta buy the WWF and kick my ex’s butt!
(Undertaker drives by and grabs the box)
Undertaker: Got to kill the author very painfully…
(And now Stone Cold grabs it in one hand. The other is reading the author’s contract)
Stone Cold: Still some left. What what what what what?
(And it goes from hand to hand. Camera goes to Jerry Lawler, who is hiding in his minecart to assure he doesn’t get what he thinks is a doomsday device)
Lawler: Keep that device away from me! Self-preservation is the key!
(And back to Jericho, who has the box once again)
Chris: Well the point is moot as it’s in my possession! ALL HAIL THE LIVING LESSON!
(And we finally drive out of the Musical section, ending the singing)
Christian: Living lesson?
Chris: I couldn’t think of anything that rhymed with legend! It doesn’t matter! At last I have it!
----
I am sorry, but I can be silent no longer. The greatest villain of the ZFRP must be exposed. It is long time to lay bare the sins...of Sarah Triden.
Sarah Triden often neglects her sweet-eating duties so that she may commit murder.
Sarah Triden, and not Mrs O’Leary’s cow, started the Great Fire of Chicago.
Sarah Triden, while at the same time pretending to be Luke Skywalker’s friend, was known to aid Darth Vader’s plans in universal domination.
Sarah Triden told George Lucas to include a peppy little character named "Jar Jar Binks" in one of his films.
Sarah Triden dislikes puppies, Abraham Lincoln, and your mother.
Sarah Triden, on a related note, made Ariel step on a puppy
Sarah Triden often puts on blackface and pretends to be Ernie Hudson, star of Ghostbusters.
Sarah Triden’s eyes are twice the size of normal ones, and have been known to emit death rays at small children.
Sarah Triden is responsible for the surprising lack of support for the technically superior Beta VCR’s.
Sarah Triden is a member of the KKK, and when dressed as Ernie Hudson, the Black Panthers.
Sarah Triden views the Welsh as genetically inferior.
Sarah Triden frequently kills kittens and blames it on the poor.
Sarah Triden frequently kills the poor and blames it on kittens.
Sarah Triden uses bad alliteration.
Sarah Triden, and not Napoleon, lost the battle of Waterloo.
Sarah Triden detonated over Hiroshima and Nagasaki in summer 1945, killing tens of thousands.
Sarah Triden got off relatively easily at the Nuremberg trial.
Sarah Triden played every role in SNL sketches from 93-96.
Sarah Triden, while with Habitat for Humanity, secretly stole the nails out of each new home.
Sarah Triden invented cancer.
Sarah Triden invented the polio vaccine VACCINE.
Sarah Triden gave thousands of Japanese children epileptic seizures during afternoon cartoons.
Sarah Triden racked up 75 confirmed kills in Vietnam in the early 90’s.
Sarah Triden held the only extra set of keys to Sharon Tate’s home.
Sarah Triden "really liked" Biodome.
Sarah Triden was dropped around the clock in Cambodia during the early 70’s, devastating the countryside.
Sarah Triden regularly inserts typos into everyone’s psost.
Sarah Triden built the Berlin Wall.
Sarah Triden proposed Stalin’s 5-year "everyone starves to death" plan.
Sarah Triden convinced the Polish army to invest heavily in horses in the 1920’s.
Sarah Triden frequently convinced ER stars and Dana Carvey to "pursue movie careers."
Sarah Triden shot John Lennon.
Sarah Triden did NOT shoot Yoko Ono.
Sarah"Sell Sell Sell" Triden worked as a stock trader in 1929.
Sarah Triden leaves porn sites in your history file.
Sarah Triden is little in middle, yet lacks much back.
Sarah Triden is not "all that", nor a bag of chips.
Sarah Triden refused to "checkity-check" herself, and consequently wrecked herself.
Sarah Triden wrote and performed every song credited to Limp Bizkit.
Sarah Triden was banished to Nod after killing her brother.
Sarah Triden was the Pharaoh’s top adviser on Jewish affairs.
Sarah Triden IS Keyser Soze.
Sarah Triden regularly transforms into a subatomic particle traveling faster then the speed of light, thus rendering previous atomic theories obsolete.
Sarah Triden was Kate Moss and Calista Flockhart’s dietitian.
Sarah Triden is "The Man" (and not in the good way either!)
Sarah Triden has "999" tattooed upside-down on her butt.
Sarah Triden sacked Rome.
Sarah Triden is the reason we labor under the iron rule of those damn dirty apes.
Sarah Triden wrote the pitifully unsuccessful Mambos 1 through 4.
Sarah Triden sat on Peter Dinklage’s shoulders for the first thirteen years of his life.
Sarah Triden is not recommended by five out of six doctors.
Sarah Triden stole Christmas, and regularly torments all the Whos down in Whoville.
Sarah Triden overflowed her banks and devastated the Sanguay region.
Sarah Triden told JFK Jr that he was a "great pilot".
Sarah Triden convinced a young Chris Farley to ‘always have seconds."
Sarah Triden turned Smokey the Bear into the flaming leather daddy he is today.
Sarah Triden plans to surround Chatzy with a labyrinth of traps, each more complex and fiendish then the last.
Sarah Triden was the chief mapmaker to the Chinese Revolution, and her terrible handwriting made a "Long March." out of what should have been "The Brisk Walk."
You know that glove that didn’t fit OJ? Fits Sarah Triden just fine.
APRIL FOOLS.
(My thanks to Michael Palin and Terry Jones, and my old college newspaper, for providing most of this nonsense. It would not surprise me if David actually did do those things, too. Please leave a comment: I won't be around for a live reaction most likely)
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