The Febranujary Challenge!

[Kaez]

REFFY
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 6/10
Entertainment - 10/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 36/50

I like this story, Ref! I thought you executed pretty much everything that you attempted to execute as well as could be expected. A small handful of technical errors, but nothing detracting. Generally speaking, a well-written story all around. That said, obviously it's not a 50/50, so: firstly, there wasn't actually much "thirst" involved at all. There was a definite lack of water, but that isn't actually quite what thirst is. I know it seems nit-picky, but I actually chose that specific word because describing it almost necessitates including emotional detail -- getting into the character's feelings and sensations, which is probably the biggest complain I had about the various entries last round. And this didn't exactly do that.

The rest of it -- in terms of the missing entertainment and quality points -- is sort of what separates the "perfectly adequate" from the "good". I don't think there's anything bad about this story. I think in all ways it meets your basic expectations for a decent, readable story. There are no clear -faults-. At the same time, I think it's missing what brings a fault-less story and turns it into a -good- one. The description of the environment is good, but it could be better. The description of the mother and daughter's interaction is good, but it could be better. The details of the baby dying are good, but they could be better. It's difficult to make clear recommendations when I'm saying, "None of this is at all -bad-," I just think that on almost every front here it -could've been improved-. And not even theoretically, but pretty practically. Some real thought, effort and immersion could have produced a more vivid description of the savanna. If you really get yourself into the mindset of what's going on with the elephants, the death of the baby could've had more of an emotional impact on the reader.

I liked this, Ref. But I think you can step it up. Try focusing on one aspect at a time. Craft -every sentence- with intention. Don't just type it out subconsciously. Give it all some meaning. Consider it more fully -- your scores will only, inevitably, improve (and more importantly, your stories will get better).



SILVER
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 10/15
Quality - 9/15
Total - 35/50

Very interesting story here, Silv. Very interesting. Well, first things first, I think you -slightly- overkilled on 'thirst'. Not that you included too much of it, but that you overused the word itself. The story in general was a bit repetitious. Given the length, the content could actually be summed up -very- accurately in a handful of sentence. It feels like it would've worked better if it were a portion of a larger story. I like the concept behind it a -lot-, actually. An omnipresent deity, living out its existence in mortal forms to grave its unending desires. Very cool stuff and, in some places, very well executed. In other places, not quite as much. Where he declares himself "above such petty emotions" -- I think it would've worked a lot better to make him seem a little more otherworldly. He's a deity, not a mortal. Rather than simply being above such emotions, he seems like he'd exist -entirely outside of them-. The concept of emotion wouldn't really be relevant to him at all, I don't think. In some ways like that, some word choice, some specific lines, I think you could've sold the character better.

But I really do like the character and I like the concept, and I think you conveyed the epic feel pretty well. But you could've put some more thought into this, definitely. And I think that's reflected in the length, too. This would've been a killer bit to add in the middle of a larger story. As it is, standing alone, it feels like it's missing a little something. That said, given the length and unusual nature of this one, I think you did pretty well.

You didn't write last round, though. Which means most of these writers are going to have a natural advantage over you. Keep up the writing! Or force the others into submission! Whichever, y'know, seems easier.



JAMES
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 11/15
Total - 39/50

I feel like part of what I said about Reffy's story applies to this one. The only 'fault' I would say that this has is that it did take me a little while to catch on to exactly what a tatterdemalion was and what was going on in relation to its 'prey'. But I think that was basically made up for in the fact that you never -told- me. You -showed- me it. Which, at the end of the day, is always going to be preferable. It's just that with very short stories like these, that moment of not being exactly sure what's happening does slightly detract -- I said that about someone's piece in the last round as well. Otherwise, I think this is in all ways an -adequate, good, fine- story. But I think you're very aware that it's nothing particularly special.

Mark didn't have much to him. Though he was supposed to be mundane, even his mundane-ness was mundane. I believe this is mostly because it's -very short-. Some length, not really in terms of extending the plot, but in terms of making it a little more dense, would probably have done some good things for the story. Seeing some more of Mark. Seeing some more of the tatterdemalion. Getting more of a sense of actual -thirst- out of it rather than just making the reader aware that it does indeed feed off of emotion. Some little things -- but a lot of little things -- all across the board. It's a good story. I like it. This isn't your first dog and pony show -- urban fantasy's a place you know well and you did it well, but I would've liked a larger story, or at least a more dense one. This was a snippet.

Smiled at the ending, though. It's Robbie Williams, FYI. Not sure if you know that it is, but it is; I decided that in my brain immediately.



SEKOT
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 8/10
Entertainment - 11/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 40/50

Wow, that... that... huh. At first I didn't think I was really caring for it. It started up slow. It hinted at being sci-fi but didn't really give any clues. Still, now, having finished it, a part of me wishes that I knew more about the setting the circumstance. I wish I knew who the characters were, where they'd come from. Where they were. I wish I knew a little bit more about -what was going on-. I was dropped into a very strange setting. Her cryptic half-answers weren't really sucking me in. They were starting to seem tedious. And then it suddenly became apparent that they were merely build-up for what was actually the heart of the story. And for those of us who remember your WoW writing, it's really no surprise that when it came to delivering a climactic moment for a demon-esque character, you knocked it right out of the fucking park. I got chills toward the end of it. Amanda's dialogue was flawless toward the end. You can write evil characters really, really well. That said, how much I really enjoyed those last few paragraphs doesn't really make up for the fact that as a story, as a whole, it was missing a lot. Though I feel like I've said this to everyone so far, what this could really have used was just a little more length. Not a wider timeframe, but some more density. Some more details surrounding each individual moment. Some longer sentences. Some more adjectives. It could've used a little more life and a slower pace.

But that ending was really killer. Well done.



SAWYER
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 8/10
Entertainment - 13/15
Quality - 10/15
Total - 41/50

Perhaps I'm being generous with my scores this round. I thoroughly enjoyed this story. From most traditional critiquing standards, it's not much. It doesn't have a terribly interesting plot, we don't know much about the character, we don't really know how the circumstances came to pass -- but we know just enough about each to not be confused, so I'm not exactly objecting to any of these, merely noting something which I think you're already aware of: this is not, in and of itself, a complete story. It, like every other entry I've read so far, is too short for its own good. But man, I -really- enjoyed reading this. The second-person quasi-narrated style, with this vaguely sarcastic, witty narrator... man, that was fun to read.

And even though the end consisted of a man -consuming his own daughter-, and this normally would require a big emotional punch (which was definitely absent), you, perhaps intentionally, built a story where that emotional punch would've been -inappropriate-, so its absence was a good thing. This may've just come together in a lucky way in terms of things like that -- I've certainly had that happen to me a few times -- but if it didn't, that's a really well-executed thing. I hesitate to call it a 'story', as it really is missing a larger plot, but this scene, this snippet, whatever it is -- I enjoyed it. Good work.



INJIN
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 8/10
Entertainment - 11/15
Quality - 10/15
Total - 37/50

I liked this story a lot, Injin. A few missed errors early on in terms of grammar and spelling, but outside of that, technically it was solid. I would say that I think you overused the term 'The Weight'. I really, really like that you didn't explain it in detail. I like that you just let the reader figure out or interpret it on their own. That doesn't always work, but it worked well here. My problem with the repetition is not in regards to the story itself, but just aesthetically. Using any word that frequently, specifically a term that has a nice mystique to it like this one, just feels off.

Still, I thought that story was a really interesting one to read. The man's relationship with his son was displayed really nicely. I liked the prayer in the middle. I -loved- how the mourning of his son was transformed into the realization that his son really -would- be leading his people. I thought a lot of this story was excellently done. I would've loved it to have been longer and more dense. I would've liked to have seen even more of what was going on. I would've liked a more vivid description of the environment they were in -- which I think is one of the story's principal faults. If you'd included an engaging sensory description of the desert, this probably would've pushed 39 or 40 (though, like I said to Sawyer, I think I'm being a little generous with my scores this round).

A big step up from last week's, without a doubt. Keep adding density and detail. Keep making the world alive. Your pacing is still pretty damn fast -- you jump from one person's death to another's in a mere few sentences. Keep giving in length and substance. You're on the right track here.



TAED
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 9/10
Entertainment - 14/15
Quality - 14/15
Total - 45/50

You piece of shit.

Alright. Well. Here goes nothin'.

I didn't spot any spelling or grammatical mistakes, though there were at least a dozen words in there of a spelling which I am not myself very certain of, so I may've missed it. I think it's safe to assume that I didn't. The ease of read was -obviously- hindered, but all things considered, was actually surprisingly smooth. Not once did it become incomprehensible. The use of the topic was definitely above-average, although I think you could've done more with it. And honestly, that's the only thing that kept this from getting a pair of 15/15's to finish off the scoring. Because this is a really, really good story. The otherworldliness of the protagonist is -flawlessly- done. Like, -thank you- for writing it, because I enjoyed reading it that much. But when you write something like that, there's this sense of, "It could've actually been better." There's a certain level of quality that your prose hits -- its descriptions, its characters, the mundane details colored with vividness and life -- that the reader forgets that the plot actually could've been more interesting than it was. That if you -really wanted-, you could've put out something better and more interesting.

For the record, the "He reaches for more of ... the esoteric alchemy they can demonstrate." paragraph is basically the highlight of my day. I re-read it as soon as I was done reading it the first time.

Well done. You piece of shit.

[Kaez]

Taed - 45
Sawyer - 41
Sekot - 40
James - 39
Injin - 37
Reffy - 36
Silver - 35

ROUND TWO WINNER: TAED

ROUND THREE

[/SIZE]
Topic: 'STARLIGHT'
Restriction: The story must not take place on land.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 28th January[/center]

[Jenny (Reffy)]

The Aramose Gap

"What do you suppose it means?" Chloe asked the air before her.

"What?" came the crackled reply.

She looked down with her most serious face, grubby and freckled and with red hair that was wild and untamed, at the small mechanical spider, with more cogs than legs, near her feet. The front of it had a small speaker and what looked like a microphone hung from one leg. "This: Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are, up above the sky so high, like a diamond in the sky …"

The spider shuffled as it tried to pick up all of her sentence, positioning itself carefully. The reply was almost instantaneous, "I thought you couldn't read?" The voice bumbled from the spider's front.

"The Governess has been teaching me." She sounded proud of the fact, her breast swelling a little.

"Surely the Governess is too busy for such … frivolities?" The man didn't reply via the spider this time, instead wheeling his way down, using a series of pulleys, from the main mast of the ship. He stopped before touching the floor, his feet dangling carelessly.

"The Governess can do what she likes and while Joshua is ill she has nothing to do," Chloe stared at him, full of confidence. The look on her face was almost daring him to a staring competition which she knew she'd win. "She explained that people from Earth only wrote down important things. So, why was this passage so important, Philip? I've never seen a star twinkle and you know they're just big balls of gas or opportunities to stock up on more fuel." While talking she'd closed the book, using a finger as a bookmark, and rested it on her lap.

She was a petite girl and probably only just in her late teens and still growing to fit her body, She wore a small waspie over a striped top and some brown pants with large boots on. The boots had been hand-me-downs through generations and were now barely holding together with straps of leather and buckles. In her hair she wore small brass clips that absolutely failed to keep her hair in place.

"You're wasting time, Chloe. You should be learning how to fix the riggings or make mechanical things like Jimmy. Important things. Those are just words in an old book and aren't going to help you find a job or get off this boat." With a gloved hand he pushed the dirty blond hair back, revealing scars that criss-crossed his face and boy blue eyes. Philip wasn't an old man but looked a lot older. He'd worked on the ship since he'd been a sprightly boy and never left. Right now he wore a pair of dungarees which were covered in soot and grime and a flat cap. "Now, come on. Are you going to help me with these sails? The Cap's worried. We need to find fuel and soon. The solar winds have died down here and the radiation here is drinking up the fuel we are pumping out." He knew Chloe didn't understand most of what he said but that never stopped him trying to explain it.

"What will happen if we can't get moving again?" Chloe placed the book down, like it was a forbidden treasure. It looked older than most of the ship with brown frail pages and the cover was missing. The words were so small and in the edges notes had been made using pencil. It was one of only a few books on the whole ship and only a drop in the great sea of books that existed out in the wider universe.

"Then," Philip scratched his head looking for the best answer and the one that wouldn't worry Chloe. Times were dire but there was no use panicking, "we stop moving and eventually all the food stores will get used up and we'll probably starve to death. I reckon we could get a few days of food by eating you though," he stuck his tongue out by the end of the sentence. Mission accomplished. He hoped she'd find it funny. "Probably pretty tasty," he mused, eyeing her thighs.

Chloe pushed Philip, who only swung lazily on his rigging. He grinned then and hopped off. "It's only the side-sails we've got to open now."

She knew the routine and raised arms up in the air for preparation. Carefully he put her in the harness. Once he was finished she'd have to swing out over the edge of the ship and release the sails that stuck out on the masts hanging on either side of the ship. It had long been decided that she was the only one who'd dare do it and the smallest which didn't stress the harness or buckles. Although the truth was that Chloe really enjoyed it and Philip was always willing to do anything to see her smile. Out over the side of the boat was the best place to appreciate the view. From up in the harness you could see all the way beneath the ship, to all the stars and moons and galaxies that hung in the dark space. It was like floating out there all alone.

The ship is only small craft and barely big enough to give it the title of "Ship"; only boasting a crew of forty-three and one small family who'd owned the ship for generations. Rumour has it that the ship was originally made for sea-faring and possibly sailed the great oceans of Earth before the Unification Wars destroyed most of it. The name has long since been forgotten and the plate that once held it's proud name missing, probably burnt for fuel. The family were said to have spent most of their royalties and sold their estate to make it space-worthy and had sailed away before they'd got caught in the wars.

It has only three small sails with extra edge sails added later to help the fuel propel it along. There used to be paddles on the back and a huge furnace but those were destroyed by a meteor storm that caught them last year, so the crew had to move back to using sails. It uses fossil fuel and a series of pipes and tubes to push the air inside the atmosphere shield to fill the sails; but the fuel has become much harder to find the further they get from the Sol system. They'd already spent a good month in the Aramose Gap; the worst part of the galaxy to get caught in with lack of fuel. Once you were in the Aramose Gap it was hard to move either back or forwards. The gap is already littered with previous ships that got caught here, floating like rotten carcasses amongst the stars.

"Ready?" Philip checks the harness again, making doubly sure, and inserts the spider into one of Chloe's pockets so they can continue communication. Chloe seems oblivious to the danger and before he can finish checking everything she's already swung her legs over the side. One of her old, tatty boots wobbles as it threatens to fling itself off and in to the void.

"Ready," she grins back over her shoulder, the messy red hair caught all around her neck.

Philip gives a good yank on the pulley and Chloe rises smoothly off the deck edge and drifts out over the edge. One false move and she'd zip straight down in the ships false atmosphere until she reaches the edge, then there's no telling what'd happen. The ropes above twang and the gears squeal. Chloe clings on for the first bump; old habits die hard. From there its easy. She pulls herself along using more pieces of rope until she can reach the mast and then it's a case of muscling along until she can reach the knots.

From here she can see the rest of the ship. James is at the wheelhouse. He looks bored, barely needing to touch the wheel which is covered in brass patterns. Richard is at his side checking the stars and several maps with complicated looking tools that he angles toward the nearest sun and star. He looks worried. It's probably the fuel crisis playing on his mind. She gives a quick check round the back of the ship. The light's on in the masters chamber. "Do you think Joshua will get better?" She speaks her concern seeing the boys room lit.

"I hope so." Philip replies. He's braced himself against the railings using a hand over hand technique to gently let out the rope.

"What's wrong with him? The Governess wouldn't say." She's reached the knots. Her dainty, but grease covered, fingers make easy work of it.

"Dunno but if he doesn't stop coughing he'll probably bring up his lungs. I've seen the bedsheets. They're covered in blood every time they come to the washing room. Nobody knows what's wrong."

He almost seems to shrug. She shoots a grin back, "So you are still seeing Lucy?"

"I never was seeing Lucy. I wouldn't date a washer girl. No offence to her," he sounds hurt. Chloe knows he wants to date her but she's not so keen on staying on the Ship. Quietly she'd hoped he would date Lucy because it'd draw the awkwardness of their relationship away. "Besides, have you seen the cellulite?" He jokes.

The ship rocks from the prow down causing the wood to creak. For a moment Philip forgets his winch duties to look forwards, leaving Chloe to dangle where she is. Up ahead there's a wave of light hammering the front of the ship and rippling off the atmosphere shield. It looks violent. "Chloe? Are you done?"

Chloe looks up from the knot she's just undone. The solar wind is buffeting the shield nearby. She pauses in her work. "Isn't it pretty! The Governess said something like this happened on Earth. The aurora … bor-borel … what is it called again?"

"Aurora Borealis. Chloe? It doesn't look stable. You should come back. We can undo the rest later." Philip pulls on the rope, which rocks the harness.

"There's only one more knot to go. Don't be such a wimp!" She pulls the rope back and hoists herself further along the mast.

"Okay but be careful."

Seconds after Philip tells Chloe to be careful the ship squeals and shakes like it was caught in a storm. The light that has been playing at the prow bursts forth, ripping past the shields, and tearing across the ship. A fierce wind whips up on-board; crates and objects that had been left on the deck are now being lifted up and thrown forwards to the hole that is still growing. Sections of railing lift from their brackets and rip up. The noise tears through everything, alerting the whole crew. The klaxon's ring out to signal that everybody should get beneath deck.

Out on the harness Chloe swings madly. The boot that had previously threatened to commit suicide takes the plunge and falls from her foot, leaving behind a wrinkled sock covered in holes. It sags down and falls, tumbling wildly, until it hits the edge of the atmosphere shield. As it hits the shield it ceases to spin and floats away from the ship at a steady pace. The little force of it falling now becomes unending in the void of space.

"What's happening?" Chloe screams into the spider's microphone. Her arms are flailing badly against the mast, desperately trying to cling on and gain some stability. The mast wobbles between her pale arms like a reed in a light breeze.

"The shield is failing. Get back here." Philip yanks on the guide rope as hard as he can, feet against the railings, but it's no use. The accident has caused the gears to jam; something, from where Philip is standing it looks like a spear of wood from the ship, has jammed in the metal buckle at the top. "I can't pull you in. You'll need to walk it." He sounds unsure. His heart is pounding against his ribcage as the ship tries to tear itself apart. The blood is rushing and pumping so hard and fast he can feel it bruising his hands as he tries to pull on the rope.

"Don't be stupid. Get inside!" Chloe waves him away. Where she's stuck her arm out to wave splinters and pieces of wood hit her pale skin causing little ribbons of red. She looks like she could be sick, twiddling on the edge of the ship, legs swinging around in the void. She's trying to hook a leg over the beam but the pressure is too much to pull against to even raise the leg half way. The suction is pulling her nearly horizontally even as she struggles to stay where she is. The sail, which was only partly undone, has begun to pull and snap in the wind, catching her legs and threatening to pull her off. The other knots are already pulling apart with the strain.

"I can't leave you out there!" Philip is panicking and trying to move along to the mast, to pull himself out there, but even he can't battle the pressure. The ship wavers and seemed to bend. Great snapping sounds reverberated around the little atmosphere that is left.

"You'll die then!" The wind and squeals from the deck steal her voice. Even the spider is too little to pick up the noise. Everybody who was on deck is nearly below and safe except for Philip.

The mast finally gives up after a few seconds; with one creak it lurches forwards, partially snapping at first, sending a small flotilla of splinters out, and then finishing the deed to break away from the main body of the ship. It comes loose and spins out, taking Chloe with it as she grips on. The whole movement seems to be slow as it hits the last of the shield.

Chloe tries to smile. The harness won't save her. It's already broken. Spinning away slowly she feels her heart dip and sag and finally break just like the mast did. If only she'd gotten off the ship sooner. Maybe if she'd learned to read and write, like the Governess, and stayed on land or joined another boat. Heck, even if she'd sold her body on the prison world they'd last stopped at!

Philip watches her go. Several times he tries to say something and each time it gets caught in his throat. Still clinging to the last remaining railings on-board he sinks to the floor, unable to rip his eyes away from Chloe's last moments.

She reaches the edge of the atmosphere and takes one last lungful of fresh air before she is plunged away. The air doesn't last long before it's exhaled, squeezed out, into the void. She would have screamed if she could but the moisture in her mouth is boiling and her lungs have ruptured from the expansion of gas. She doesn't explode but the shine goes from her eyes. Her stiff arms, now no longer taut or pressed against the mast, untangled as they float away.

Unable to believe what's happening Philip closes his eyes. He knows the Captain is looking for a different source of fuel but it's too late now. They'd all talked about converting the sun's rays or using starlight but it's not worth it now. He would have gotten off the ship for her. He would have done anything for her. He's so lost that he doesn't feel the rough hands grab him from the deck, peeling his fingers from the rail, and pulling him away.

[The Counter Cultist(Sawyer)]

“Look at those Ali! They look like a flock of birds!”

Aliya Windwalker looked closely towards the stars that her friend, Trista Lightingbreeze, had pointed out. Seeing what they really were, she brought a palm to her face.

“That’s because that is a flock of birds Trista,” she said, trying to suppress her laughter. Lowering her palm, she looked over to where her friend lay. Despite her untapped potential for classic beauty, she was a complete tomboy. She had used a knife to cut her blonde hair short, and would wear man’s clothing. In addition to this, she would tightly wrap her chest sometimes to conceal her breasts, and she would sneak into the mandatory morning drills that boys had to attend. She was also fond of racing through the clouds, though that was a passion that many sky elves shared. She often talked of her dream of joining the Sky-Brigade, manning the borders and defending the freedom of the Sky-Elves from land dweller laws.

Thinking of land, Aliya rolled over slightly and took a peek at the ground beneath the cloud they lay on. Sighing, she turned back, and continued to gaze at the stars above.

“Hey Trista, can I ask you a dumb question?” She asked, her best friends brief flub of sight forgotten.

“Go ahead and shoot Ali,” Trista said happily. Aliya saw wisps of cloud move, an indicator that her friend had moved and was now most likely facing her. She tilted her head, seeing Trista on her side, smiling mischievously at her.

“Looking at the stars can give you funny thoughts,” she mused, putting the question off for a bit more. “I was thinking, how exactly do you we think sky-elves fly, without wings and stuff?”

“Meh,” Trista said, pushing off the cloud, spinning. Aliya followed her friend’s movement with high interest. There was a certain skill that Trista had when it came to flying. Aliya couldn’t explain it, watching Trista do something as small as a few horizontal rolls was hypnotizing to her. Her trance broke when Trista stopped right above her, and she continued.

“Honestly Ali, I think about that sometimes too. Then I remember we live in a world where people can light a campfire at the snap of a finger, and there’s an entire culture of quasi immortal elves across the ocean to the east, so I just shrug it off.” With that Trista winked at her, and continued doing little stunts around the cloud Aliya still lay on. Aliya blushed at the wink.

“Why am I blushing?” She thought to herself, honestly confused. Trista was her best friend, sure, but there was nothing more there.

Or was there?

She and Trista were the same age, and had been inseparable since birth. But beyond that, they had almost nothing in common. Trista wanted to be a soldier, Aliya wanted to be a healer. Trista liked getting rough and dirty and she was very outspoken. Aliya, with her long red hair, and her pretty dresses, and shy nature, was very much her best friend’s opposite. It was a miracle that they were even friends at all. It was impossible for Aliya to have feelings for her.

“So why am I blushing?”

The thought screamed out, frustrated, and confused. This was not a new thing. Ever since they had become teenagers, she had felt a strong attraction to Trista. It had started with glances, with a quick turn of the head when Trista would look towards her. Now it moved on to her finding excuses to move a long distance away, so her glances would be lingering. Then there was her flying, how beautiful she was when she flew, how good at it she was. Everything about her was perfect, at least in Aliya’s eyes. For a long time, she wanted to tell her how she felt, to confess all of her feelings in one heartfelt speech. But her shy nature betrayed her. Even when they were alone, she couldn’t tell Trista how she felt. Besides, what if Trista didn’t share her feelings? It could ruin everything, and she reasoned that confessing her love wasn’t worth the risk of losing her best friend. So she simply went on as normal, questioning her feelings at every turn. It didn’t help that Trista had a tendency to pick uncomfortable hang out activities, such as the evening under the starlight they were now participating in.

“Something wrong Ali?” Trista asked, stopping her stunts directly above her. “You’re hovering a foot off the cloud.”

Aliya looked over her shoulder to see that Trista was correct. Dammit, she always hovered when she was upset, and Trista knew it.

“Come one, what’s bugging you sweetheart? Tell Auntie Trista.” Aliya looked back to Trista, prepared to shoo her friend away. But when she saw her friend, she stopped.

The way Trista looked with the starlight at her back. It was beautiful. She almost looked like a star herself. For a brief moment, Ali couldn’t think. That was all it took. Faster than she ever had before, she raised herself vertically and embraced her best friend, and brought her own lips to Trista’s. She regained her thought process soon after and just held the kiss longer. Her own principles mattered no longer, so she planned to enjoy this moment before the possible aftermath was revealed. Slowly, she relinquished Trista’s lips, but not Trista herself. Seeing Trista’s wide eyed, dumbstruck, open mouthed expression, she suddenly felt guilty and blushed.

“I’m…I’m sorry Trista, I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore.” With this, Aliya let go of her friend, and hovered away. She looked away, thinking foolishly that if she couldn’t see Trista, she wouldn’t feel the way she did. She was surprised when a hand grabbed her arm, just below the shoulder. Aliya looked back up and saw Trista there with that annoying mischevious smile of hers.

“So that’s it huh?” She said teasingly. “You kiss a girl, and don’t even let her have the opportunity to return the favor, such a bad girl move for a goody-goody.” With that, Aliya could only gasp as Trista pulled her back into an embrace, and kissed her, much more deeply than Aliya herself had done. Aliya suddenly felt herself melt as Trista’s tongue invaded her mouth. Her bones turned to jelly and her body went limp. She could barely speak when her best friend allowed her mouth its freedom, but she managed to weakly say the three words that mattered.

“I love you.” Trista then brought a finger to Aliya’s lips, her smile growing wider.

“Now now Ali,” she said, bringing the hand upwards to stroke Aliya’s long thick hair, before continuing. “Let’s not waste this time on unnecessary statements.”

With that, they moved across the sky, their passion illuminated by the starlight overhead. Aliya didn’t want to be anywhere else than here at this moment, under the stars with her best friend, now lover.

[James]

“Welcome, sir,” a voice called out as the airlock opened and Garth Lb stepped into the entrance hall of the Keller Observation Station, “to the end of the Rahm System.”

Smiling broadly, Garth strode forward and took the hand of the man who stood at the end of the hall. Several golden rings pressed into the doorman’s hand as the pair shook. If spectators were present, they would have been hard-pressed to decide who was better dressed. The doorman’s slightly too short sleeve and somewhat too slack trousers gave off the presence of a standard uniform. No one could question the quality of that uniform, though. The doorman wore a pair of black trousers and a black blazer, adorned with golden lace and buttons. Only the white shirt and simple black shoes didn’t look like it took a small asteroid mine to fund their creation. He looked dress to mingle in and out of the wealthy bourgeois that would attend the supernova of the Rahm Star.

Turning, Garth stood to one side in his carefully chosen layers of clothing, looking as if he had stepped from a H.G. Wells novel. Waistcoat and fob watch mixed with fine silk trousers and jacket, though, the pocket watch’s various hands and dials would have been incomprehensible to H.G. Wells himself. The doorman gave a puzzled look at Garth’s expectant face before his mouth comically fell, his jaw falling several inches as a woman followed Garth through the airlock and into the entrance hall.

“Miss Olive Eia,” Garth said, introducing his plus one to the doorman who seemed unable to talk.

Garth didn’t put a lot of thought into what the doorman found attractive about Olive Eia. It could have been anything. For some men, and indeed many women, it was the long and strikingly red hair. Others found themselves drawn to the noble, haughty face. Smugglers and scoundrels in way stations across the universe would draw attention to Olive’s various curves. Garth didn’t really care what they were looking at as long as they were looking. While the doorman’s eyes were locked upon her form, Garth looked around at the entrance hall of the Keller Observation Station. The metal walls were pristine and glisteningly silver, looking more modern than modern was capable of pulling off. Quite simply, the Keller Observation Station was the future. Suspended in space, floating through the inky blackness like a ship would upon a crystal blue sea.

“If you s-s-step this way,” the doorman stammered, his eyes locked solely on Olive. “I can take you to the gallery.”

Olive smiled, her teeth as clean as the walls around them, and offered the doorman her hand. He took it with a snatch as if he was afraid she might rescind the offer a second later. He began to lead her down the hall, leaving Garth with a spare moment alone in the room. Shaking his head at the bedazzled youth, he wandered aimlessly across the floor, looking at the various plant life that was contained atop small plinths around the room. He lent in close each time, moving his lips in time with his eyes as they read the little plaques. When he came to a particularly turquoise plant from some far away planet, though, Garth let his hand move slowly to the back of the plinth and grab the small carbine that had been stuck to the surface. Looking around at the now empty entrance hall, he dropped the gun into the inside pocket of his jacket and followed the pair into the main gallery.

The doorman had already introduced Olive to the room, various men disentangling themselves away from conversations to introduce themselves. Garth paid them no heed, spotting the man who was striding with steady steps towards him. His hair and beard already salted, the man’s face was still untroubled by the lines of age. He looked both youthful and old. While he still had the same gold lace of the doorman and the various waiters that were weaving in and out of the guests, his black suit was perfectly fitted to his portly frame.

“Mr Garth Lb?” the man smiled, grabbing hold of Garth’s hand without invitation. “I’m thrilled you could make it at such short notice. Lb is your real name? Didn’t marry into it? No. Splendid. I can’t believe we have a member of such an old family in attendance. We must introduce you to the room at large later on, we absolutely must.”

Even Garth, who had spent a fair share of his life in way stations with rambling drunkards, had a problem in keeping up with the speed of the man’s talking. The words all seemed jumbled up in a mess of excitement and reverence. Lb was an old, ancient family name. Stasis Chamber L and Stasis Chamber B got married and had a kid upon being awoken on the Genesis Ark. The child was born with such arrogance that he and his descendants had insisted on keeping the name Lb since that historic moment. It seemed immaterial to mention that Garth had only stolen the name for the time being. He didn’t know his real surname anyway.

Grinning, Garth released the man’s hand and thumped him slightly on the shoulder. “You’re invite nearly didn’t give me enough time to arrive, Professor. I thought we weren’t going to make it. How long until the evening really kicks into life?”

“Well,” the professor said, rubbing gingerly at his shoulder. “The supernova of the Rahm Star is expected very shortly. We’ll see the initial explosion and then, obviously, for health and safety reasons we’ll have to lower the metal blinds and ride out the sheer brightness of the event. But do not fear, Mr Lb, for we have cameras recording the event and objects capturing the sheer radiation that will be given off. We’ll get as many collectible items of the final bit of starlight from the Rahm Star before it turns into a neutron star, or if we’re lucky, a black hole.”

“And why would that be lucky?” Garth asked, spotting Olive working her way through one dense group of males to another, occasionally smiling at frowning wives and partners. He wondered if anyone except the Professor had even noticed his entrance to the room.

“Value, Mr Lb, value,” the professor grinned. “A neutron star will still emit light, but a black hole will not. If Rahm is sufficiently sized that its explosion creates a black hole, what we capture today will be the very last bit of starlight that Rahm ever gives off. It’ll be priceless. We’ll auction if off and, oh, the things we could buy and develop. Oh, let me assure you, we’ll be very proper with the funds and use them to continue our advancement.”

“Then let us keep our fingers crossed for a black hole, Professor,” Garth said, excusing himself as he began to slowly weave his way through the bodies that were following Olive around the room. Hands slipped into a pocket here and around a wrist there, gently depositing various pieces of jewellery and personal items into Garth’s own pockets. No one ever noticed as he moved seamlessly through the crowd until he could reach out and grab Olive’s arm, pulling her against his body.

“Anything interesting?” he whispered into her ear as her lips brushed against his cheek. He momentarily forgot the jealous stares before recovering from her touch, moving away.

She smiled, and half a roomful of hearts fluttered, before shaking her head. “Nothing, darling,” she said loudly. “Just some fine gentlemen are offering me a wonderful trip to Genesis. You wouldn’t mind, would you, darling? And apparently the waiters and security men are scoundrels. They’re simply horrible at their jobs but so pretty looking.”

Everyone around Olive laughed, not realising she had given Garth the signal that all was ready. The men seemed emboldened by her apparent presumptuousness that he would allow her to disappear to distant planets with strange men, pushing forward once more. Garth moved away, head bowed down and hands meekly dug into his pockets, appearing like some defeated lion. He meandered across the room to the edge of one of the great observation windows, the Rahm Star a small red ball in the distance. The Keller Observation Station had to be an almost indescribable distance away from the star to survive the supernova.

“Food, sir?” a waiter offered, appearing at his side as if he had teleported. “May I particularly suggest the crustacean from Amac?”

Picking up the shelled claw from the disc, not failing to notice the wink from the waiter, Garth turned his attention back to the star that sat far off in the distance. He brought the claw to his mouth and then discreetly crushed it within his palm, letting the little earpiece roll between his fingers. With a glance around the room, he popped the small dot of technology into his ear, pressing it in deep.

“Nice for you to join us, Captain,” Jonston Peps’s voice crackled into his ear. “Everyone ready for the big shindig?”

“You tell me,” Garth murmured, making sure to keep his back to the crowd.

Laughter rung through the earpiece before Jonston managed to reply. “The security guards who weren’t placed by us or been bribed off are, let’s us say, disposed of. Every waiter down there is armed and ready to strike. You’re in place. Olive has every single woman-loving eye locked on her. And the cameras are rolling; ready to catch this final piece of starlight. We’re going to be rich, Captain.”

Garth smiled as he turned to walk towards the podium that the Professor had set in place. His crew would make billions from the heist. The last final wink of the Rahm Star before it quite possibly turned into a black hole. The money would be enough to bring a smile to many a man’s face. Garth’s widening grin, though, was for a different reason. His heists had earned a name for himself within the margins of the history books, but today he was about to literally steal a piece of starlight. The way stations would talk about this event for centuries to come.

“My good people,” Garth said, standing at the podium. Several pair of eyes stared back quizzically at him. “Let the entertainment begin.”

[Sekot]

“How foolish were we to think that they were merely content to rest within the sky? How foolish were we to seek them out?”

“We named them, called them gods. We were half right in our projections. They already had had names. Names we only heard before it was too late.”

“Turn back. Turn back now. Abandon all hope ye who enter here. This is your final warning. This is your last test.”

Three phrases repeated over and over.

Mikhail heard them and they pulled him out of his restless slumber. Slowly, as months passed, he grew more and more awake until, finally, he opened his stone-heavy lids and witnessed the first light he had seen in a year. The valve to his sleep-womb slid open, allowing him to step into non-recycled air. His body ached, every muscle was sore from lack of use. “Welcome back,” a soft voice spoke from his side.

He didn’t need to look to know who it was. There were only three things that would be awake and moving at this time for they did not need to sleep. She moved like water, floating through the air and above the floor until she stopped directly in front of Mikhail. Offering a hand, she bowed her head. Mikhail took it, felt the rough flesh fuse around his own softer skin, the cold rush of chemical adrenaline rush through his system. The weariness was cleansed to be replaced with a more comfortable awareness. Of time. Of space. Of himself.

And with the dawning sobriety, he noticed a strange lack of feeling. He should not have needed a stimulant unless he was awoken out of schedule.

She removed the link and slid backward into the wall where she then fused with the tissue seamlessly. “Please. Follow me.”

He did not look behind himself, at the silent sleep-wombs that lay ensconced into the walls. The lack of blood flow and necrotic outlines along the valves already told him all he needed to know. The air was cold, far colder than it needed to be. Or should be.

He followed her down a winding passage. No other valves opened for him. That was unusual, typically they responded with ready dilation whenever someone neared them. Again the lack of blood flow. The veins lining the walls pumped nothing, instead they lay still. Where was the pulse that, throughout his life, provided comfort?

He followed her all the while confused and worried. He was trained for this, all birthmates were. But it was never taken seriously. There were no stories of this occurring. No checklist or litanies to prepare. There was only one reason to be awoken early and this was it. The death of the ship-mother. “You are correct,” her disembodied voice responded.

“The others?”

“Their hibernation is more permanent. They will be consumed for nutrients and to supply you on the final leg of your journey.”

“My journey?”

No response. The ship-mother had gone silent once more. “Not silent. Just..preoccupied. And maybe journey was an incorrect choice of words. Such things seem to escape me. Perhaps it would be better to name this as your one last task for your home and family.”

“Last task?” He asked, having difficulty hiding his anxiety and frustration.

On cue, a valve opened. He hesitated, his hands sweating. Stepping through would be in direct violation of every commandment he had painfully ascribed to memory. But there was no one left to stop him. He was alone in this. He steadied himself against the wall, staring down the short passage to where it emptied out into the center of the beast. Harsh blue light illuminated the space, was blinding in intensity. Was this what death was like?

Memories never die. His brothers and sisters, his birthmates were all kept within the ship-mother’s crèche where they could exist for eternity as living dreams. But, if the mother was truly dying, then they were all lost. He would not be joining them. “Come, we do not have much time.”

Slowly he stepped inside. Slowly he walked down the dark atrium. Slowly he passed the threshold and entered the brain. The command center. The forbidden place. He shielded his face from the sharp glare of the light. It was unnecessary, it died the moment he raised his hand. The room was cast into comfortable darkness.

When he lowered his hand, he surveyed his surroundings. The room was sparse, empty of everything. At a person’s will, whatever they wanted would form out of the malleable flesh and stem cells that waited under his feet. But now there was nothing. The passage behind him had closed. A figure stood within the center, the same figure from before.

She was there, waiting for him, floating. The form she chose was a haunting one. The ship-mother appeared to everyone differently and to each person differently every time. The form she chose for him as her current avatar was a repeat he had seen long ago.

“So you remember me, my child?”

Her lips parted into a smile. A mother’s smile. She was adorned in radiant feathers that shifted in color with the beat of his heart. Vibrant ultraviolet hues that glowed in the darkness. Her dress was made of her own fine silk with intricate detail hand woven into the fabric. She was thin, almost frail. Her floating form shook just slightly enough to be noticed. She had come to him in this form when he had first graduated as an adult and received his first assignment. “Mother…” he murmured.

He reached out for her but she refused. “No. Now you must be strong for the purpose you were created. Once this is over, then shall we embrace.”

Mikhail bowed at the waist as he stepped back. She laughed quietly, “Rise, there is no need for that.” As he did, she gestured around the room. “Do you know where you are?”

The room was large, massive, but empty. It was hard to get a sense of the scale of it. No one was allowed into the brain. No one had stories or even rumors. This was the sole domain of the ship-mother and her compatriots. Within the center, the only “object” was a great trunk of a tree with branches that stretched high toward the ceiling. Countless winding branches that twirled about one another, stretched and branched and branched until they disappeared into a layer of thick fog. “What is it?” was all Mikhail could say.

“It is the Grave Tree, the central nervous column. It is me. Come, we do not have much time.”

Another figure had coalesced from thin air to stand next to the ship-mother. Stockier, sterner, crueler. Hardened. Where the ship-mother appeared gentle, he was made for war. Mikhail was comfortable with him, felt a bond to him though he was sure they had never met. The ship-mother was only a small part of the Un/Conscious. Many forms, many parts. He was the guardian. The name came forth from the depths of Mikhail’s own mind. Memories never die. The guardian responsible for the regular functioning of the ship and its crew.

“I’m…lost, Mother. I am not sure why I am here.”

The guardian waved his words away as if he was batting a fly. “You are here as a sacrifice. Your birthmates will live on in the crèche. You will not. Now come.”

Mikhail was about to address the ship-mother but she had gone. “She wasted enough time with you. The ship cannot function so long as she continues discussing the trivialities of the situation. Come, your task is at hand.”

Mikhail followed the guardian toward the Grave Tree. In contrast to the vast network of branches on the apex, at the base there were no roots. The trunk merely sank into the fleshy floor. A mass appendage. All children of ship-mothers knew about the Grave Trees. Few, if any, ever saw them. They were the direct connection to the crèche, to the experience of the Un/Conscious, to the ship-mother herself. The closer he got, the more power he could feel just radiating from the surface of the trunk. It washed over him and slowed his steps, placed a weight upon his shoulders. Whispers sank into his thoughts, pulled from them. They are gods and we are but mortal creatures. Run. Fly. Never look back.

You have reached the end where all things must be silenced.

Words at the back of his mind.

“This is as far as I can go.”

Mikhail pulled his attention away from the tree to focus on the guardian. Thick, bony plates protruded from every surface. He was covered in a custom made battle-shell, one reserved for true warriors. Mikhail wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel the calcified texture underneath his fingertips. Just like the ship-mother before, the guardian refused. “What do I do?” he asked, suddenly too weary to protest.

“This is Xibalba. I do not and cannot know what you will do. You will enter, but you will not return.”

With those last words, the guardian melted into the floor much like the avatar of the ship-mother had before. Mikhail stood staring at the spot where the guardian had stood, not quite able to comprehend immediately what it was that was just said to him. Then he looked at the tree, marveling in its beauty even in the darkness. It twinkled and glittered like starlight viewed from afar. He placed his hand against it, felt the pulse that was its own heart. It was comforting, he had not noticed until now just how much he missed that rhythmic pattern. So much like breathing, the absence of it was agonizing. He did not want to go, did not want to enter that dark cave. But there was little choice in the action. He was the last of his birth-mates. Their continued existence rested upon the end of his.

Closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, he stepped through. He could feel the darkness wash over him, feel the loss of one thing and the gain of another. The change of space forced a slow adaptation. Mikhail floated through a miasma; a thick paste coated his hard flesh. It conjured memories long since locked away. Memories of life. Of birth. The scents that assailed him were a mixture. The musky, slightly stale scent of the ship-mother mixed with light woods and soft flowers of the harvest. An uncomfortable temperature shift washed over him repeatedly, a mixture of hot and cold that fluctuated like a breeze.

What awaits you is only pain. You still have a choice. Turn back.

The voice reached out to him from the expanse that was his unraveling mind. A voice spoken less with words and more with emotion. Foreign fear welled up within him, pushed against him and bade him turn around. But even if he wanted to, he had no idea which way “around” was. There was no direction, no distance or marker.

There is only so much that can be weighed upon any one mind. But hers, hers will never shut down, will never run. It must carry the weight of a world, for that is what it is. We gave her a name, we gave it an identity. And, in return, she gave us a name. We are more than just birth-mates, we are the ship-mother and she is us.

In his half-conscious state Mikhail heard in the distance soft sounds of song. The voice unmistakably belonged to that of the ship-mother. She sang often while they slept, lullabies and dreammakers. As he listened now, though, he heard her grieving. Not many will hear her, not many will get this near. See the mother for whom and what she is.

He came out head first, felt the strange coolness of new air that spread from the apex of his cranium and on down. He was pushed out of the viscous fluid completely until he lay upon the floor covered in mucus and other unknown material. Slowly his eyes opened and he took in his surroundings. A small cavity, a room, with a solid protuberance fashioned into the likeness of a chair.

Go to it.

Even now the mysterious voice beckoned to him from within his own mind. With great effort, his bones and muscles aching as if he had just awoken from the sleep-womb, he crawled. Some alien purpose was driving him on hands and knees until he could finally reach out and touch the chair. It was electrifying, enticing. Sensation arced up his arm and through his spines, reaching to grasp his brain and seize hold. The bony surface of the protuberance was warm, he felt its pulse. It gave him strength to rise and to seat himself within it.

Accept your charge, give in and be witness to infinity.

The words were whispered to him and he could not deny their power. He leaned back, rested his arms upon the rests, and shut his eyes. The chair itself fused around each finger, rose like wax to form around his body. A thick band grasped his neck and slid across his eyes. He felt the searing agony rocket through his frame as it separated the space between his spines and bonded with his nervous system. Invaded, defiled, reborn. So many emotions running through his mind, summoned by some invisible force as if to be catalogued. A darkness swallowed his conscious thought, suppressing his self into the tiniest corner of intelligible being.

And out of that darkness appeared the third and final character. Rumors. Whispers. Nightmares. These were all anyone knew of it. The unconscious. It had no form but was tangible abstractness. It was feeling, emotion, it was power and vitality. It floated just at the corner of his vision, a constant buzzing in his ears, and a tingling breath at the back of his neck. Open your eyes.

It was that voice that had spoken to him through the transition. Open your eyes and bear witness to the end of our world.

He did. He opened his eyes. What confronted him was an opaque wall of blue light. It caused him no harm, as if he had always been staring into the depths of its impenetrable brightness. But even as his disparate thoughts were collected, the veil began to fade and part. Stars were revealed to him. Infinite points of twinkling light surrounded his conscious being. Innumerable and impossible. He stared into the universe and he felt it staring back.

It was a star. A massive, churning, angry star. From it came the blue-white light, the same light he knew to have seen in the atrium previous. The same light that had haunted the last few hours of his sleep. Something in the distance of his mind signaled a thought, this was the light that he had to fear. Horror was caught within those celestial rays. Terror. Malice. Corruption.

Quiet yourself and listen.

He pulled his entranced thoughts away from the star, shut down his ability to see and opened the channels to the acoustic centers. A choir rose up from the darkness. A thousand voices singing as one great ocean of music. His own ship-mother was not a part of this, her voice had grown silent. There were no words, no thoughts, only the purity of the sound. Angry. Sorrowful. Spiteful. Joyful. Countless messages wrapped within the inflections of notes. And one by one the voices were disappearing.

They are being silenced by the light of the final star.

The unconscious was there, just out of reach. Floating and speaking from the abstract space between realities. “What is this? What is all this?”

These are the final moments of the sister-ships. This is the final climax. That song is the Requiem. And this is our enemy. The last moments in our struggle.

He could see them. Watch as they burst and ruptured. There was no passing of ship fire, no superheated plasma or exchange of laser fire. He watched as one ship just collapsed, her voice silenced so abruptly. A fiery tendril rose from the surface of the star, unraveling slowly through open space. It coursed with energy, ruptured and broiled with blue flame. It reached outward, seething, smelling. A tendril, a tentacle, a snake. Another ship, two ships, three, ruptured at the seams. They spilled their blood into the darkness and they too went quiet.

He felt each death. He heard the silent screams. His body shook with each tremor, quaked with each voice cut short. “Make it stop.”

We saw this coming, we knew this would not be easy. But even we were not prepared for this. So drastic measures must be drawn and executed. We should have ran.

“Where is the mother? Where is she? I need help…”

She is gone. The moment you stepped into Xibalba, she died. You are the ship-mother now. There is no turning back.

Rage. Fury compounded upon fury swelled within him, within the body. Not his fury, but the fury of his crèche. A thousand voices screamed within him all at once.

Do you hear them? Their cries are for their sisters and brothers, their siblings who will never walk within the crèche again. They are now claimed by the nothing. The ship-mother heard them all, her song was their lullaby. Now it is your turn.

Sing.

He refused. He would not sing his crèche-mates to sleep. He would not assuage their anger with the promise of a future that would never come. Others were dying, ships he could not recognize but instinctively knew were a part of him.

One ship in particular swam through the empty space, rode close to him. Her voice was loud, piercing. She swallowed the voices of the others and they became the background to her resonant sound. It was beyond feeling, so overcome was Mikhail that his body thrashed in the makeshift chair. He felt bones snap and muscles tear. He was bleeding. All because of her.

And then he watched as a tear opened in her dorsal side. A wide, gruesome wound that hemorrhaged fluid into the bleakness. Her song reached a crescendo. And then she split in two. Fire ruptured from within, consuming her whole. Suddenly her song was cut short and the bottom of the world fell out for him. Silence. Emptiness. Nothing.

The screams had quieted. So had the boiling rage. With great effort Mikhail turned the eyes of his body to locate the vital signs of any other possible sister-ship. What he saw was wreckage. Flotsam and jetsam spinning wildly in every direction. Indiscernible parts that would be left to rot. All that was left was him and the star that burned without heat. Absence of heat. It was a vacuum.

“We are the last of our kind.”

The voice rang loud and clear to slice away the thickness of the quiet. The body trembled with each syllable. Even the unconscious was taken aback, momentarily fading out of view completely. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

It was no invitation. It was a demand. “Come where?” Mikhail responded.

His world was gone. The warmth of the ship and the feel of the chair and the unconscious, the guardian, and the ship-mother, all gone. The star studded void was replaced with a vast and ornate hall decorated with rich tapestries depicting various historical scenes. Mikhail thought he recognized them, something at the back of his mind buzzing about. He thought he recognized this place.

“We are the last of our kind.”

The voice still held within the gravitas that only a star could command. Mikhail’s attention was forced toward the center and could not be turned away. Wrapped in a robe of blue flame, a figure sat upon a throne made of stone. It was from it that light emanated to illuminate the entirety of the massive hall. Only it. There was no face upon its head, there was no head upon its frame. It shifted constantly, like a flickering candle and an image just below the surface of rippling water. “I have you beaten. I have you on your knees.”

Mikhail only now realized that he was bowing. He tried to stand but no response.

“I have stripped you of your ship, of your crèche, of you. I have demonstrated my power.”

It rose and the throne turned to ash. It took a step forward and the hall began to crumble.

“How long have you looked into the skies? How long have you envisioned us as gods? How long did that last before you named us, before you classified us as if you were the gods?”

Another step. The space behind it shattered into a thousand fractured pieces from which a thousand stars stared back. Their light burned him, seared his body and split open his mind.

“How terrified were you when you found out how wrong you were?”

Even amongst the maelstrom that shattered his skull and tore apart his thoughts, he felt something in the back of his mind. Something growing with each step the star took.

“We have hunted you down, we have been hunted. We have torn apart ourselves and the universe. But, in the end, who is kneeling to whom?”

Another step.

“Who wages wars against stars?”

The buzzing stopped. A voice spoke from within him. Something floated just at the corner of his vision, flickering in and out of view.

Memories never die.

Every last door within his intelligence was thrown open. He recognized this hall, he had seen it before. He recognized this star as the oldest of them all. The center of the universe. The ship-mother had died, sacrificed herself. It was necessary. All necessary. He was the guardian, the final weapon.

“We do.”

They were not his words but that of the unconscious. It was awoken within him.

“What?”

We do.

Mikhail rose, the body suddenly felt old and weary. With eyes that were not his own he gazed upon the star. How long did we wage this war, this bloody feud? We remember eternity, the cycle. The universe is ending. You brought its ruin and it is us that will end it.

Mikhail reached forward, grasped the star in his bare hands and brought it close. A terrible absence. It had no smell. Its light did not burn or cause pain. It felt as if it were nothing in his grasp. Nothing can save you now.

With his other hand he stripped the star of its light. It was now nothing more than a ghostly apparition, a tear in the fabric of space. Exposed. We are the last of our kind. You are the last of yours. But we exist as memories, this form merely a vessel. Where you will die, we will continue as dreams.

“No. You have not won. There is no winner or loser. With us goes the universe. With my death, there is yours.”

We know.

The dream-scape faded and once again Mikhail was returned to the ship. He was ship-mother, the holder of the crèche. He saw all things through the darkness of nothing. He watched as the dead star collapsed upon itself. As it swallowed itself whole. He sang softly a lullaby as the waves of energy rippled from the epicenter of the explosion. He rode it until he could ride it no more, until he buckled and cracked.

He saw across the expanse the echoes of those ripples, bouncing across and around the universe. He wondered briefly whether or not those other species looked upon the stars and called them gods. Whether or not they gave them names.

[Kaez]

REFFY
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 1/5
Use of Topic - 3/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 9/15
Total - 29/50

Two or three grammatical mistakes, but no actually spelling errors. On the technical front, it was pretty damn solid -- but it did something really drastic that I think pretty much negates that fact: it switches tenses very abruptly. I -assume- this happened basically subconsciously. The human brain is a present-tense monster, so it sort of pulls toward that direction and if you're really letting the words flow out without a ton of conscious consideration, sometimes it'll switch to the present tense without so much as letting you know. It's happened to me -several- times. But for the reader, it's an extremely jarring transition and, for the most part (and I do think this is the case here), present-tense writing is not very enjoyable.

I loved the first part of the story. It starts off in a way I really enjoy. It got me excited to read it. It has this sense of exploration and youth and life to it that I don't remember reading since WoW character stories back in the day. But pretty much as soon as it made the transition to present tense, I thought the quality dropped off. I still -liked- the setting, I still liked reading it, and from a pure entertainment standard, I think this is my favorite of anything you've written in this tournament. But present-tense did -not- work for it, and the sudden jump to it made me miss the story that I'd been reading up to then. I also hoped for some more use of 'starlight', which admittedly might've been worked in there more subtly than I perceived.

At the end of the day, my 'advice' is pretty much the same as the last time: the best thing you can do is put definite thought and consideration into each sentence and to try to back a little more life and emotion into it with showing, not telling. "Unable to believe what's happening Philip closes his eyes." is an example of a sentence which doesn't really have a lot of emotion to it -specifically because it's explained, not depicted-.

Anyway, I know the score seems a little low, but I've got a feeling I'm grading low this round, so relatively speaking, we'll see.




SAWYER
Spelling & Grammar - 3/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 9/15
Quality - 7/15
Total - 30/50

I think this story didn't know what it wanted to do or be, and it's short enough where in its indecisiveness, it didn't really get a chance to become anything at all. Let's cover the basics: technically speaking there were some grammatical mistakes throughout, but nothing too debilitating. They were really the only things that killed the flow of it. And I think you worked in the restrictions and the topic fairly well, though it wasn't anything tremendously creative or fascinating or anything.

It starts off a little overly-descriptive, very sort of, "This person has this hair and looks this way and has a face like this and this person has this hair and looks like this." The dialogue overuses the characters' names, which feels off, and then it decides to sort of laugh at its own inexplicable setting. Which, inherently, isn't exactly a bad thing. I sort of like the element of humor it briefly adds -- but as I said starting this response, it's so inconsistent. The humor isn't throughout. The lightheartedness isn't throughout. Nothing about one part of the story can be said about all of the other parts. If the reader is meant to really care about and value the characters and their struggles, the writer has to, to some degree, appear to have a consistent world that takes itself a little sincerely, and that isn't exactly established.

The plot of the girls is a good one, really, even if I think your word choices and sentence structure in a lot of places could've been improved on (and actually -is- better in the other story you've written for this Challenge, so is pretty specific to this one). I liked what was going on there and more-or-less how it was depicted. But the setting in which it was set and the circumstances that it relies on wasn't sold to me convincingly. Not a bad story at all, be glad you get points for it and move forward in the competition, but you've written better.




JAMES
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 9/10
Entertainment - 11/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 41/50

Here I am, thinking I'm handing out the lowest round scores yet, and then this comes along.

I really liked this piece. Technically, -very- solid. The use of starlight as an object of heist, and the whole concept of selling the remnants of a supernova, is really awesome, I think. Just from front-to-back, a well-written and interesting story.

So let me try to explain the 9 missing points. I spotted two slight grammatical slips, which were not much, but I'm strict about perfect scores. One off for use of topic just because its relevance really only existed in the latter half of the story. Points off in quality and entertainment are sort of those "really have to earn them" points -- anything 13 and above is something that I found genuinely exceptional. And I don't really think that in quality or in entertainment (though more the former than latter), this was -exceptional-. I didn't, for example, care tremendously about who won or lost out, in the long run. I was not caught up in clever or elegant word choices. But I also did not feel as though the absence of such things was in any way detrimental. The story is -good- in literally all ways that I know how to judge one, if not -great- in any in particular.

Well done.




SEKOT
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 40/50

Getting a score around a '40' secures that most of what I said about James' piece actually applies to yours as well -- in all ways it is perfectly good, enjoyable, and sufficient and in none is it really spectacular and overwhelmingly great. I do think you did a very good job at making this story have more of a definite plot than your usual. It was clear who the main character was, where he was, and what was happening throughout. Less chaotic. More orderly. And I think to get that, you sacrificed a certain amount of description. I didn't feel like I got a very good mental, visual depiction of the setting in my head with this story. I had some of it, definitely not -none-, but I feel as though a solid visual description would've been what would've taken this story over the top, and it's kind of unfortunate that it didn't have it.

That's sort of the -one- fault I can pick out here, and essentially the tie-breaker between you and James this round.

Outside of that, this is everything I expected from you for this round. This is how Sekot handles space: metaphysical dream horror and ship-mothers and flame-cloaked gods. Loved it.

[Kaez]

James - 41
Sekot - 40
Sawyer - 30
Reffy - 29

ROUND THREE WINNER: JAMES

ROUND FOUR

[/SIZE]
Topic: 'NONSENSE'
Restriction: Must be set in pre-1900 American West.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 2nd February[/center]

[Jenny (Reffy)]

The Canby Mountains

It was a day when the mists still hung around the mountains like a shroud around a frail old woman's weak and slanted shoulders. That, however, was the only comparison you could make to the frail old woman for the mountains were harsh and strict, claiming the lives of many and taking no prisoners. The sharp grey rock ate up the view like a troll with a healthy appetite. To the lower edges was a blushing of evergreen firs and shrubs sweeping out and down like a carpet over unidentified objects beneath. The mountains seemed to trail on forever and in all directions, seamlessly becoming one with the sky and the ground; where the air was so thin you could have floated away from Earth with one mighty kick.

Or at least, that's how Yord felt. The fresh air in his lungs was invigorating and reminded him of home. It had been a long time since he'd felt the crushing cold and bitter north of Norway. He'd never admit it but he missed home. It was so long ago now that it had become a very distant memory, like a dribble of piss in the sea of thoughts and ideas. To be back on Viking soil, that was what he wanted but first he wanted to reach the ocean again; to be the first explorer to go as far as humanly possible.

He'd heard the stories of strange and distant lands but this had to be the weirdest. The people here were backwards. Some of them wore pelts, like the warriors at home, but all they did was sit and smoke or talk. They never wanted to trade either, not that Yord had much left to trade any more. Still, the principle was there. Trade was in the blood … and killing but that was after the trading and when you'd suckered the village dry of all it's funds.

Having reached the top of the next ridge Yord stopped. It was a good position to look around and decide on a target. Through small slits for eyes Yord looked, one giant hand rubbing the stubble surrounding his chin. His viciously blonde hair is matted, knotted, and generally tangled and looks like it could cut metal if given half the chance. He wears, tied around his body, a series of pelts and furs and scraps of leather. It barely looks like it could keep out the cold, his curly blonde chest hairs naked to the freezing weather, but he doesn't seem to care. His leather and fluff boots are drenched from tip to toe. Each inch of skin that pokes out between the mess is rippled with muscle and a sheen of sweat and as filthy as a pig in heaven. With one lumbering arm he uses the flat of his hand to shelter his eyes and aid further vision. The hairs on his arm look like bits of yellow barbed wire.

In the distance he picks out smoke cutting through the mist. A split toothed grin carves the gruff chin apart, "An opportunity," he grunts and sets off again at a tilt. He makes easy work of the heavy snow, kicking up puffs of white dust. As he runs the pelts fly and hoist around the powerhogs that are his thighs.

As Yord gets closer to the fire he slowed the pace. Using his instincts he dropped low, into a crouch, and assumes a guarded position in the tree-line. Hunting like this, he knew, would have been easier with his pack but one by one they'd deserted him. They'd travelled the great seas, battling the famous sea-serpents along the way, and traversed the small island of Britain. The Saxons had made good opponents but Yord knew there was better and had pushed his men to continue. Those had been good days with many battles and feasts. The girls had a pale flesh and interesting dresses, unlike the furs and tunics the women-folk back home wore. Then came the smaller island with lots of rolling hills and more girls; yet still the seas called him. A larger island was found during the journey and Yord named it Greenland but it was uninteresting. Unable to settle, the longboat had been hoisted again to the greatest ocean yet. They'd nearly starved during the journey and more than once they were capsized but it was not enough to drown their spirits. They found land after the third coming of the moon. It was larger than anything Yord had ever seen. It was then he knew he must get to the other side. Then, and only then, would he be the superior adventure and worthy of the name Yord.

There was only one problem. Once they'd landed on the huge and wide expanse of land most of his men decided this was far enough and had turned back. This was a story enough. Yord could not persuade them to go any further. Many of them had argued, fought, and scuffled about returning home or staying where they were. The food was plenty and the locals were terrified of the men who came out of the great ocean wearing animals on their backs. Only Yord pushed on then, covering the massive expanse of woods, plains, mountains, and everything else that Sif decided to challenge him with.

The smoke was rising from a single fire and not far off a small tent. Or at least, it looked like a tent? Yord had seen many of these, most with patterns of deer on it and in a beige sort of colour, which was okay if you weren't trying to be camouflaged. It usually contained a smoking orange man with many wrinkles and little gold but where they lacked in wealth they usually had good meat. It was worthy of a one man raid.

The little orange man was nowhere to be seen. Yord knew he'd had to be careful. From the edge of the trees he let out a hushed howl, despite the lack of moon, and called up the wolf's spirit in his soul. With the wolves stalking down his spine and in to his bones and flesh he slunk further down to the ground and prowled. The furs that wasted around his body dragged along the floor like that of a dogs belly, gathering balls of snow on the wet ragged mess. Hand over hand, knuckle over knuckle, he crept onwards like that of his spirit animal; his yellowed and split teeth snarled forth. With shoulders rolling smoothly, taut sinew and bones flowing, like waves against a rocky beach he approached.

Still there was no sign of the man. Yord stopped then. A raiding was not the same without a fight. Instead he sat, crossing his legs beneath his chiselled buttocks and pulled the furs close to get comfortable, and waited for the man's return. The light began to fade soon after. Yord did not fade with it and was not surprised when he heard a greeting.

"How … ?"

It sounded confused. Yord felt this was good. With a flurry of movement he was on his feet, snarl ready and small bone dagger pulled.

The man. The wrinkled old man stood not far off holding up a fish. His skin looked like leather, creased and wrinkled and thicker than a bulls hide, and his hair was the black of a dark night with no moon for guidance. Across his face he wore red paint. Blood, Yord hoped and assumed. A death with a fearsome warrior meant a good death. Today was a good day to die. The fighting conditions weren't perfect but you couldn't win them all. The mist still hung around and the smoke from the fire occasionally billowed up to create shields and distractions. All along the edges were trees laden with snow like folded sheets in an airing cupboard, crisp and fresh smelling. The man wore leathers and suede of his own, all decorated with beads and feathers. He didn't wear a plumage hat like all the others had but Yord didn't care much for the strange culture of wearing bird butts on your head.

"How …" the Viking broke the silence before breaking in to a run, dagger out front like a rhino in full charge.

The old man was quick to act. His age belying the swiftness of his limbs as he dropped his catch and pulled a bow and arrow. Yord was ready. He knew how these so called Indian men fought. They favoured bow and arrow over blade or a small axe. Yord would duck and dive passed the arrows and bring the dagger up quick. It was a surprise attack that never failed to please. Charging into battle, even if it was only against one foe, felt as good as the first day he'd done it. Blood pumped in his veins. The fury that pulsed down his limbs; that crawled over his body like vicious blood sucking spiders jumping from hair to hair; that ripped open his lungs like breaking open a chest full of jewels and crowns; that tore through his sinews and bone like a thousand pieces of thread pulled through his entire body. He was born to fight and lived to die.

With a smile he dodged the first arrow. The Indian was on the move again. The agility he employed was something akin to the gods. As the Indian moved the dagger that Yord had brought to bear tore one of the bead-strung leather tassels from the Indians cloak. It felt to the snow in a crumple and clatter. The dagger failed to bring any blood. With a snarl Yord turned on a brace of his foot and slid out of the way, anticipating the next arrow.

He was right. Behind him he heard the twang and sodden thud of an arrow as it buried itself deeply in the trunk of a great tree. He didn't spare it another look. Using his position he rolled away, using the cover to hide his progress. His breath caught in the air creating small clouds like an active volcano ready to explode. He harnessed the fierce pounding inside his belly and let out a roar of defiance. The trees shook with fear, dropping the snow they'd patiently gathered and protected. The tent now hid Yord. Using more of the bone daggers he laid them out before him on the floor. Two could play at the shooting game.

When he was ready he took a peak over the top of the tent, ignoring the blatant and sickly pictures plastered over the canvas. The orange Indian man was missing. Yord looked closer. No, the man was not missing. The man was hiding. "Clever little Indian," Yord hissed.

Silence blanketed the mountain then as both warriors waited for the other to move, to breath, and to give their position away. It would only be a matter of time. The snap of a twig caught the bare edges of Yord's hearing. He flipped, feet slipping out from underneath him in the nick of time as another arrow whizzed over the top of his head and straight through the tent.

This time it was a scurry for Yord to get away. As a distraction he picked up the bone blades and tossed them in the direction the arrow had come from. It was just enough. This time he would not bother with delicates. It was time for the axe, and not the puny type the other men had used. This blade had met death head on many times and had the dents to prove it. It looked like a herd of Valkyries had ridden over it a several times and it was probably true. With one arm he unhooked the axe from his back, pulling it free from the animals he'd tied around his body with whipping. It was a dull shine.

Holding it with both hands Yord advanced. The Indian was hiding again. Yord moved to the centre of the camp daring the man to show himself. No more arrows came. Perhaps the man had run? But that was not possible as the fish was still here and food was hard to find in this corner of the world. It wasn't long before Yord spotted him. He'd also forgone his bow and arrows, choosing a like for like weapon. He entered the circle of the camp light, the daylight now useless to fight in.

Both eyed each other, hands gripping the axes. The Indian carried two smaller axes, both stringed with feathers and beads, in each hand. Yord only had one and it took both hands to get the full swing. After a second circling the fight began in earnest. Yord strove the battle-axe down in a sweeping motion, aware he was opening himself up on the flank but willing to take the risk. The Indian was just as quick, ducking back almost double-bent to avoid the blade. It was a thing of art watching him move.

Once Yord's swing reached it's penultimate ending he'd be fully open. Both he and the Indian knew it'd take more power to pull it back up and if the Indian was quick enough he could get a slash or two in. Yord let the swept carry him through, using the motion to pull his body over in a hurried roll. It was well timed as the two axes of the Indian struck down and stuck in to the mud where the snow had melted next to the fire.

It was a fatal dance that each combatant had entered. Each judged the swing and metal exactly and knew how to move. As the Indian dashed, the Viking would pull back, then the Viking would push forwards with a killing blow, only to have the Indian dance away with shocking agility. The alien wolves howling with jealousy at the performance and dance of death. Each knew that one misjudgement would mean the end.

The Viking parried another attack with the haft of the axe, succeeding in pushing away the Indian, who stumbled. Victory, Yord felt, was close. Moving in for the final blow the Indian fouled him again, kicking out Yord's feet. The Viking fell heavily on to his side, losing the axe, which landed in a puff of snow. Neither knew how long they fought as they ducked and ploughed and more-so neither cared. The fight was fun. It had been a long time since they'd met such a worthy foe.

Now on the ground the Indian pinned Yord with an elbow to the neck. Still fighting back the Viking gave a blow to the stomach, part choking himself just to get the edge back. Both rolled away coughing and spluttering. Seconds later they were at each other's throats again. The Indian's fingers clamped around the stubble covered Adam’s apple while the Viking tried to push his splintered nails in through the weaker part of the Indian's clavicle. Spots swirled as vision became a glitter ball before the pair. Matched kind for kind neither could win the fight.

Exasperated and desperate they flung apart again. Laid out against the snow both recovered gradually. Limbs ached and heads spun. Cautiously the Indian checked for wounds. Fervently the Viking checked for blood. Both came up wanting.

"You fight like a dog," Yord spat.

"You fight with wolf spirit."

"A name for your grave?" The Viking grinned.

"Ahiga." The Indian knelt before the fire, easing his stiff fingers from the clasp they'd recently broken. It was possible everything hurt.

"Ahiga. It is a crap name," Yord laughed. He'd propped himself up against one of the jutting rocks just the other side of the dwindling fire.

"It mean: he fights."

"It mean: he fights crap." Both laughed then, heartily and deeply. Yord ignored the pain in his ribcage and chest, which honestly felt like it'd had a longboat rolled over it. Ahiga did likewise, still working at his knuckles.

"You are good warrior." Ahiga confided. "I'm glad you are not dead now. Your name?"

"Yord," the Viking nodded, "glad I'm not dead."

From that day on the Viking and the Indian stayed in the mountains, teaching each other the art of fighting. It's safe to say they were never friends, each always striking to kill but never succeeding at a final blow. Yord and Ahiga are now said to haunt the mountains of Canby in what is nowadays called Oregon in The United States of America.

[James]

Twenty-two sailors watched the Pelican and Francis Drake sail off into the horizon without them. Shaking hands were curled into fists as the men watched their last chance of returning home disappear into the sunset. They were stuck upon the western coast of North America. Several men left the shore, heading back in land to the small encampment that made up the entire colony of Nova Albion. Others stayed and watched the waves charge towards the sea, wishing that they hadn’t drawn the short straw. It would be at least two years until a ship returned with fresh supplies and, many of the sailors hoped, lots of women.

Two events occurred once the remaining men joined their comrades around the comforting glow of the camp fire. One event was somewhat expected and completely normal, the other most eccentric and unusual. In regards to the normal event, the men began to discuss what their colony would need. It was only natural that men, when placed in an environment with no rules, would immediately go about setting up laws that they could follow. Sailors spoke over each other, shrill voices cancelling out grumbling voices, as they wondered what a society really needed to function.

“A King is what we needs,” one man said, drinking heavily from a flask. “Or a Queen, I ‘ppose. That’s the first thing we ‘ave to do.”

“A Monarch is only God’s man or woman on earth. It is of the utmost important that Nova Albion is instilled with the teachings of religion from the beginning,” a priestly voice spoke through the mayhem.

One man stood up, his finger wagging at the drunkard and godly man in turn. “The last we need is more kings and gods. What we want is money and stuff. That’s what we all came with Drake for. Things work best when everyone is filthy rich.”

“What we need is to find some native women to make honest men of us,” a man called out, earning himself a healthy round of laughter. “And well-earthed women of them.”

Another voice joined the fray, barely discernible over the lewd commentary that had entered the discussion. “Work is what we need. Keep our mind away from home. Give each man a job and he won’t be pining for the fjords for long.”

“Pining for the fjords?”

“I only mean…”

“Enough, this is getting silly,” said a sailor who had not spoke throughout the whole discussion. “What we must do is make some very simple rules. Society cannot function without laws.”

The discussion continued long into the night, stars rising overhead to guide each man to a new bottle of rum and a spare patch of ground to sleep upon. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. For this was the ordinary event that was somewhat expected. However, some several feet beneath the men’s camp was buried an apple. This could already be described as somewhat peculiar. What made this apple even more unusual and eccentric than most apples was that it found the men’s conversation very amusing indeed. They seemed to be entirely lost with what they needed to form a society. The apple wondered if it could help them.

***

The next day, the men of Nova Albion were awoken by the footsteps of Old King Cole. The elderly man stood at least ten feet tall and four feet wide, wobbling dangerously as he descended down the hill towards the camp. Unfortunately for the sailors who raced around the camp, some grabbing weapons like warriors and others cradling drink like newborns, Old King Cole had neither a pipe nor bowl on his rotund person. By the distinct lack of music, it also became readily apparent that he was not accompanied by a fiddler, let alone three. If you were to factor in the fact that the King had been walking for several hours across the harsh California terrain, the chances of Old King Cole having a merry old sole were very low indeed.

“Don’t just stand there, you gaping, rag-tag, fishmongers,” Old King Cole boomed, his voice cutting instantly through the yells of the camp. “Is this the way you treat your King?”

“King?” a man asked, stepping forward from the huddle that the sailors had formed themselves into.

“Yes, King,” Old King Cole said. “Now, someone prepares my throne for I am tired. Another of you pathetic waterskippers fetch me my pipe and bowl. Three of you, and only three, learn to play the fiddle.”

Toiling under the hot sun, the men of Nova Albion valiantly attempted to fulfil their new King’s orders. Several men managed to create a seat from the wood and fabric of their tents that was strong enough to hold Old King Cole’s weight. He was so pleased by their work that he knighted one, beheaded another and made the third into his Court Jester. One sailor, searching through his pack, found a perfectly acceptable pipe for the King to smoke. He was promptly hung, drawn and quartered for failing to understand the differences between a pipe and a pipe, let alone the vast gulf in usage that extends between a pipe and a pipe in comparison to a pipe. A fifth man managed to find a bowl for Old King Cole to drink from. He was exiled for his troubles. Fortunately, and somewhat surprisingly, the three randomly selected sailors managed to master the fiddle to such an extent that none could compare to their talent by the end of the evening.

Old King Cole, having rested his bunions in a bucket of cold water all day, found himself a merry old soul once more and gathered his subjects around him to create a new utopia. The men, though, knew nothing of this turn of events and when the King was looking the other way, placed a knife between his shoulders. Old King Cole slumped to the ground dead, the liquid of the men’s drinks shaking as his body fell. They went about rejoicing, drowning their aching limbs in rum. One of the men took it too far, drowning himself instead of his limbs.

***

When the sailors of Nova Albion awoke upon the second day, they rubbed at their eyes and gazed with open mouths. Upon the bloated corpse of Old King Cole sat a hedgehog at least double the size of the rotund King that had came the morning before. It looked at each of the men in return with beady brown eyes before stepping down from the king’s corpses with carefully judged steps. Once again, several men rushed for their weapons.

“Children,” the hedgehog spoke, the men dropping their weapons at the sound of the creature’s voice. “I am James Mason. What is it you require?”

The sailors looked at each other, their eyes wide as each man silently begged the other to talk. “Food,” a man finally spoke up, stammering over the single syllable. “Old King Cole ate all our supplies.”

The hedgehog guffawed before the needles upon its back began to bristle and food tumbled from the clouds above. Roast chicken bounced against the ground, carrots and potatoes raining down upon the tents. Several freshly salted pieces of pork landed in outstretched palms and a strawberry cheesecake floated softly onto the Old King Cole’s old throne. The men exchanged one cursory, cautious glance and then they raced around their encampment, picking off the cooked and seasoned food from the ground. Some were thrown into bags for later; more were simply stuffed inside the sailors’ mouths.

“Is it good? Nice and tasty?” the hedgehog asked, watching the men tear away entire strips of meat from the bone with just their teeth.

“Wonderful,” one man replied, his mouth stuffed with roast chicken.

The hedgehog smiled, settling itself down on its stomach within the middle of the camp. “Good. Now provide me with tribute.”

“Tribute?”

“Yes, tribute,” the hedgehog nodded. “I’ve fed you and now you must feed me.”

The men looked at each other and hurried whispers broke out amongst the inhabitants of Nova Albion. One man asked if the hedgehog known as James Mason was capable of feeding them, why couldn’t he feed himself? Another speculated on what hedgehogs actually ate. Did it like roast chicken? Maybe if they were to give the hedgehog the chicken and keep the salted pork for themselves.

“Man flesh,” the hedgehog added helpfully. “I’m always in the mood for a nice bit of raw human.”

At this, the sailors took several steps away from the giant creature that sat within the middle of their new home. The creature opened it mouth to take in a lungful of airs and the men noticed rows of fangs that were surely not present in a normal size hedgehog. One man reached for his knife, ready to gut the beast like he had done to Old King Cole, but the hedgehog’s back bristled dangerously and the men fell back once more. They were taken with the most ludicrous of thoughts. James Mason could read their minds.

A swift fight broke out amongst the populace of Nova Albion, one man being beaten to a pulp by the others. He was, after all, a knight and should serve his town by protecting the vulnerable. Moving very slowly towards the hedgehog, the others dragged the man’s unconscious form over to the great creature. They dropped him a few paces away from the hedgehog and scrambled back. Several men fainted as the creature leant forward and swallowed their comrade whole, the battered and bruised body sliding down the hedgehog’s throat.

“Excellent,” the hedgehog said, licking its lips as soon as the body had disappeared. “Most delicious. Now, do as you would please for I must sleep. Do not wake me for any reason.”

As the hedgehog fell into hibernation, the men took their food and retreated to the outskirts of their camp. They could hear the rumbling snores of James Mason from his sleeping spot and once more discussion broke out amongst the men. One voiced that they should kill the hedgehog while it slept. He was shouted down, men proclaiming that the creature had given them food and could do so much more. It was clearly a powerful being capable of helping them greatly. The small issue that it would need to eat one of them with some regularity was a tiny problem that could be solved later. Another suggested that there was no doubt the hedgehog was a powerful being but it was clearly an evil one. They would need to hope for a great badger to come and kill James Mason.

The discussions stretched out from morning into the afternoon, the sun beating down upon the group for several hours. Four men grew ill with a fever. Sweat poured from their brow and their skin began to weather and crack. A sailor, whose brother’s postman’s nephew’s old schoolmaster’s son studied medicine, attempted to help the men. He tried tying a tight knot around their wrist, but it did nothing. The man mopped the men’s chests down while whistling a jaunty tune but the fever continued unabated. Finally, he fashioned himself a plank and walked the men one by one down it and into a lake that was not too far away. The fever did not budge.

Eventually, as the sun began to disappear behind the horizon, someone suggested that they should awake the hedgehog so that it may cure the men. An almighty uproar occurred.

“Awake the hedgehog? But it said we mustn’t!”

“The men will die if we don’t!”

“We should not disobey its orders!”

“Let it prove if it’s ‘evolent or both!”

“James Mason must sleep the sleep of a thousand sleeps!”

Words quickly turned to violence and weapons were drawn. It was decided after several bitter hours that the pro-wakers had drawn a better weapon. The pro-sleepers argued and demanded a recount but they unfortunately did not have the foresight to draw a second weapon and therefore the group marched into Nova Albion to awake James Mason. The men hung back for a moment, none of them wanting to be the one to awake the beast, until one finally stepped forward and prodded the giant hedgehog with the butt of his musket.

“Because there is a B in both and a N in neither,” the hedgehog murmured, shaking its head as its eyes flickered open. “Who? Who dares wake me?”

The man with the musket shook and stammered, sounds escaping his mouth not resembling any words except ‘silence yourself’ in Spanish. “The men,” he managed to squeak. “Some of ‘em are sick and we were ‘ondering if you could help ‘em?”

Looking down at the man as it stood up to its full height, the hedgehog contemplated the man’s request. Then it moved forwards and swallowed the man in a single bite. The other sailors stumbled backwards, pushing their nearest brethren towards the hedgehog in hopes of buying them a few more seconds to adequately flee. James Mason didn’t chase them, though. It watched them stumble back with a frown, and then shook its head.

“You woke me,” the hedgehog said. “I gave you one order and that was to let me sleep. It was a test. If you had let me sleep for all of eternity then I would have granted you use of my powers. But you failed my test and now I shall leave.”

Watching in a Clash of emotions, not knowing whether the hedgehog should stay or should it go, the men stared as James Mason turned away and wandered up the hall. No more roast chickens would fall from the sky. The four men died from their fevers within the hour. After their funeral, the rest of the night was spent in debate as half the men argued that the spot where the hedgehog had sat should be cordoned off and turned into the shrine. The other half wanted to build a latrine.

***

The remaining twelve sailors woke up to their third day in Nova Albion with mounting dread. Their food supplies, while replenished with salted pork, would soon dwindle. More so, the men were afraid at what terrors they would face after Old King Cole and James Mason. As the sun slowly worked its way through the sky, the men began to tentatively go about their chores. They wondered if the strangeness had finally stopped. Believing that it had, one man was tasked with collecting fresh water from the nearby river as the others went about rebuilding the camp.

The man wandered through the California valley, moving away from greener grass to more barren grounds. He could hear the flow of a river nearby, water crashing undeniably against rock. With a bucket in his hand, making him a fortunate choice to collect water, the man clambered his way over a rock and down the riverbank. His eyes went as wide as diamond at the sight of the river, which was odd, because the river was full of gold and no diamonds were in sight. Looking down at the large, sparkling gold nuggets upon the riverbed, the man scrambled back up the bank (where the gold really should have been kept) and sprinted back to the encampment.

Nobody believed the man at first. He must have been seeing things. Gold wasn’t just left laying around for someone to pick up. The man with the bucket, though, wouldn’t let up and led the men back to the river, demanding that they come and see. Each man stumbled down the bank and looked in amazement as the water of the river seemed to run along a golden road. Giving a cry of delight, imagining how much he could make if he returned to England with such a hoard, one of the sailors raced forward into the river and scooped up a handful of the golden nuggets.

Recoiling in fear, the men watched with wide-eyes as their comrade began to scream. Golden shoots began to grow within his arms, following the pathways of his veins as his hand slowly turned gold. Within seconds, the gold was working its way up his arms until it looked as if the man had dunked his forearm into a bowl of custard. Another man thought to rush forward and help the sailor, but his friends pulled him back. If touching the gold turned you gold then it was possible that touching a golden man would turn you into a golden man. By the end of the minute, the sailor was frozen upon the riverbed, golden and unmoving. A look of terror was etched upon his face, as if he was screaming that someone had stolen ‘my dust’.

The other men stood beside the river for a moment, staring at their golden friend, before one cautiously inched forward. With squinting eyes and a rapidly beating heart, he laid a finger upon the sailor’s shoulder. The flesh touched against the smooth gold and nothing happened. With a whoop and a cheer, the man began to pull the golden sailor out of the river with a heave and a pull. A man made of gold is considerably heavier than a man made of flesh, though, and soon he was sweating and huffing as his former friend and current property began to sink into the river bank.

“Get me an axe,” cried the man, struggling to pull the golden figure out of the sedimentary rock. “I need to cut him up into smaller bits.”

“Oi, why should you get to keep him?” yelled back another, not sucked in by sediment or sentiment. “He was my friend; I should get to keep him! It’s what he would have wanted.”

A brief argument broke out between the two men until they agreed that they would cut the golden sailor in half to share. As they hacked at the man with axes and hammers, other men began to dip their belongings into the river. A tent pole turned solid gold as it touched the riverbed. A piece of roast chicken was pushed through the water until it became heavy enough to sink itself, turned to a very confused golden goose. Two men accidentally touched the golden nuggets themselves and were quickly divided up by the rest of the party. Legs and arms were given out amongst laughter and splashing as more items were dipped in the golden river.

It was only when the men returned to their camp, twilight already settling over them, did they realise what they had done. The entire encampment was golden. The tents, tools, clothing and food had all been dipped in the river and turned to gold. There wasn’t a single ounce of food to eat. Clothing wouldn’t fold or slide onto bodies. Nova Albion was doomed. One man dropped all his new belongings as he realised their mistake. Another man smashed him over the head with a golden arm, killing him, before pocketing his stuff. He could always buy more food later. After all, he had a lot of gold.

***

Eight men awoke to Nova Albion’s fourth day of existence. They all stretched and complained of sore necks and backs, their bedding made out of solid gold. They didn’t notice The Woman for several minutes. She had sat herself upon Old King Cole’s throne, which was now as golden as the rest of the camp. The men gawked openly at her flawless brown skin and her perfectly curved body. Most stared, standing as still as if they had been dipped within the river. Two, though, already attempted to tidy their appearances.

“I was told this was where the finest men in the land lived,” the Woman said, looking down at them with her bright blue eyes. “But all I see are dirtied barbarians. How can I pick a lover from such a sorry lot?”

“You’ve caught us unprepared,” cried the priestly man, desperately trying to rearrange his clothes. “We have only just awaked.”

“That is when you should look most beautiful, the first sight I will see each day,” the Woman replied. “But I will set a task to see who the finest male is here. Build me a monument to match my own beauty and the greatest builder will become my lover.”

There was a burst of activity as three of the men took to their task with relish. Unfortunately, relish wasn’t the best building material and the subsequent saucy disaster left their lungs clogged with chopped up pieces of vegetables and fruit. The Woman watched with a look of disdain as the other men swiftly pulled their fallen comrades out to the outskirt of the encampment. The remaining sailors went about more carefully with their work, drawing plans within the ground and collecting up all the materials they could use. The Woman was impressed.

The California heat was a harsh mistress, upset that the men were looking for another woman. Sweat poured down the men’s brows as they moved the heavy golden objects they used for building material. One man was crushed as he attempted to use the corpse of Old King Cole. Another was bitten by an Adler. And yet the remaining three men continued, moving bits and pieces along under the hot sun. Soon, the third man collapsed on the floor gasping for water. The others left him to die upon the dusty floor, their eyes locked upon the Woman.

Finally, the two remaining men of Nova Albion had finished their monuments and the Woman descended off Old King Cole’s throne. She looked at them both. The men were sweating and the structures were glistening in the sun. The priestly man had managed to mould his golden object into the form of the Woman, her beauty permanently captured for Eternity. The other man’s monument was a statue of a velociraptor, riding a chariot, heading down the Road to Mandalay. It was free of mould.

“I hate this,” the Woman said, looking at the priestly man’s structure. “Do you think I am vain? Why would I wish to see my form each day? Knowing that my own body will struggle to keep up with its golden partner and I would know that even my own beauty craved in gold will never truly past the test of time. It would be as bad as watching an Aussie man die’th.”

The priestly man stared at the Woman, his eyes watering. He began to gulp, struggling to pull in lungful of air, not believing that she didn’t like his work. Throughout the whole day, ignoring water and food, he had poured his love into the statue and the Woman’s beauty. He did not understand how she could not like it. He was heartbroken and promptly fell over dead.

The Woman ignored the man who had collapsed at her feet, stepping over him to gaze at the velociraptor riding a chariot heading down the Road to Mandalay. “Now this,” she said, gazing at the statue in wonder. “This is amazing. What does it mean?”

“Uh, umm, yes,” the man stammered, having no idea what a velociraptor was since he lived in the 16th century. “Yes, uh, what do you think it mean?”

“I think it signifies that all life is like human life and that every being is on a journey for the truth,” the Woman whispered.

“Yes,” the man said, nodding swiftly. “That’s exactly what it means.”

The Woman grinned wolfishly and pushed the man to the ground, already attacking his neck with her lips.

***

On the fifth day, the last man of Nova Albion awoke with the Woman curled around his body. Smiling, he slowly untangled himself from her and clambered to his feet. His grin slowly fell as he looked around at the camp. The corpse of Old King Cole was beginning to bloat like an overfilled balloon, flies circling the body. Various human bodies, both golden and fleshy, lay discarded amongst the tents too heavy to move and food too hard to eat. How could he possibly provide for himself, he wondered as he wandered, let alone the Woman?

His eyes caught sight of a tiny hint of red sticking out of the ground near him, his heart soaring. Racing over to the small flash of colour, the man fell to his knees and began to dig. He rubbed at his eyes as he saw the fleshy orb staring back at him. There was an apple sitting in front of him. The seeds from the single piece of fruit could grant them new food, which would never be dipped in gold. Overjoyed at his discovery, the man reached down and plucked the apple from the ground. He brushed it dust off of it, before sinking his teeth into the juicy, red skin.

As he chewed down on a mouthful of apple, the man realised what a society needed most of all. However, before he could write it down or tell someone else, the apple lodged itself within his throat. He coughed, swallowed and gagged, trying to push the apple up or down. It remained steadfast against his attacks. The apple truly rode it bicycle upon the path. The man’s face turned blue and he dropped to the ground, dead.

The apple was most pleased with its work. The Woman took all the gold and went on holiday with James Mason to Hawaii.

[Sekot]

Who knew time would end in the Victorian Era of the American West? The stars knew. They gathered here upon the end of the world in full knowledge of their fate. They danced in the void, danced for they knew that they would be choked from their lofty perches. All gods must fall. Everybody must die. Even the Pope.

He said to me, as we lay in the dirt of a lonely hill far from any sort of civilization, he said that we should be afraid of our true selves. He said dig deep, he said pull open those stubborn doors, and look yourself in the face. And once you do, you run. You run and you run and you never look back. You run because you have to, because you are more than everything and because what you will see is nothing. And that nothing will consume everything that you are.

They came in a bus. In a time traveling bus. We wondered who travels in buses when there are perfectly good horses but who are we to question the wills of such travelers? A bus that sang. Surely it was possessed, surely they were the emissaries of some demon come to the surface, but no they were something else. Something worse. Where we were crafted from dust and stone, they were fashioned through their own radiant wills. A trio, a grouping, of gods and angels and fallen stars.

The cow is graceful, it is majestic. Easy to confuse with slow or stupid, it sees everything while being unassuming. Those are the eyes of wisdom of ageless thought. They must pass their memories down to their children. What else is there to do but ponder the universe, to witness life, and to reinvent yourself over and over and over again?

Their singing bus broke us out of our haze, it ruptured our serenity. It rolled into town, just down the main way. We had no idea what it was, what kind of noise it was making, what we were to expect. No one thought to shoot it, we all thought to hide. We were scared. The sun was just beginning to set, the rainbow sky hitting the red rocks of the earth just right so that they glowed. A warm wind blew from the mountains in the distance, washing over our little town. That evening time, the shift change, where the world goes quiet. And here comes a fuckin’ bus.

Singing “I will survive” and “I left my cake out in the rain” and “I’m looking for a hero”. None of us were heroes. I’m sure they would survive considering we’re all scared shitless and who leaves a cake out in the rain? It only seems strange now, but then it was terrifying. If not the demons then it was God Himself come to command us. Or was this what the horsemen rode?

They got out of the bus, just before town hall and the main tavern, the city square. Four large roads connecting in the middle, stretching out and out with rows of shops and homes on either side. The lanterns had yet to be lit. No one was going to attempt it now. The bells within the steeple of the town hall rang six times. Someone should shoot that mayor. The trio descended the steps and stepped foot on our lowly ground, hallowed it. The one was tall, strong, but in a yellow hoopskirt. He also had hair as long as a woman’s and bunched in tight curls. I had only seen hair like that in pictures, the dust would wreck it soon enough, tarnishing the sheen it held. And his face, it was like a clown’s but more. And like a whore’s…but more. Arching eyebrows, thick layers of powder, and color. A living mask.

Behind him was another man, much thinner and smaller. He was dressed in a suit made of silver, skin tight as if he was going diving. It shined and glittered, mesmerizing as a snake is mesmerized by the charmer. His dark hair defied gravity, it raised itself in so many directions while still maintaining a certain amount of order in the chaos. It wasn’t tousled, instead each strand was carefully arranged. The wind had turned cold as the warmth was sapped from the earth. But if affected neither of them. They were beyond it, beyond us, beyond themselves.

It’s at night where we wonder if we truly ever lived. We are being judged by all that we cannot see. And we couldn’t care less. The world is ours. I can take my horse and ride for miles and miles in any direction and find absolutely everything. I have conversations with the moon, asking if she’s bored way up there, if the stars make good company. She responds with a kind smile, much like a grandmother would, but it is in the eyes that you can spot a liar and her eyes are huge. Never believe a word the moon says, she will only lie to you. She told me the world would live for a long time, and that we would command lightning.

The last one to step off the bus was a tiny woman. She wore a wide, circular brimmed hat and an orange mustache across her upper lip. She smiled the moment she appeared and said something that no one remembers. It was “smashing”. She threw her arms wide and ran in circles on the spot. The other two would just stand there, staring at her incredulously. And we all wondered what was happening. We dared not confront these strangers, these weird, weird travelers. Words passed between them and then they went up the steps to the town hall.

Their footsteps were iron, they cracked the white stone of the warped house of the damned. With each step came the drumbeat, the crack and hum the deep thronging hum that resonates. A child ran forward, screaming, speaking gibberish. The woman turned, looked at the little boy and smiled. “smashing” and the child disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

A woman cried off in the distance. Was that her child? We come from a land forgotten by storms and left to perspire in the overbearing sun. That broiling star is also a lie, but in a different way. He is blind. And lazy. He is the avatar of sloth. Hangs so low, came too close and blinded itself. Now all it does is spin so slowly, taking its sweet time before we reach such sweet relief.

We gave them names. Stefan with the skirt. Mickey with the moustache. And Nikolai with the silver. The names were spontaneous, but foreign. They came to us unbidden from the depths of the childrens’ mouths. What had that bus brought with it in its cursed yellow paint that corrupted our youth so readily?

The drums grow louder and with it our fear. The bus is a beast, a monster risen from the mountains and fashioned from the volcanoes. It screams at us with its awful noise and yet we feel compelled to revel in it. Anticipation crawls across the ground, reaching out with spindly fingers to grab hold of our feet and course up through our veins to seal our hearts in steel cages. I can feel it beating against its restraints, pain, empty. Are there stars where my heart should be?

It went too fast, the town hall exploded into a radiant blaze. A pillar of fire ripped itself from the roof, tore apart the shingles and reached upward to graze the sky. Splinters of wood went fleeing for their lives in every direction. I could hear their painful, mournful cries as they lost brothers and sisters to the hungering blaze. Like a tiger it roared and gnashed until it had consumed the entirety of the structure. “Into the tavern, we need a drink!” Stefan shouted as the trio appeared from out of the blaze, wreathed in smoke and ash.

What I could not hear, I felt. There was something else hidden amongst this mess, driving my will against itself. I lost a sense of purpose. Suddenly I am confronted with what I truly am. I always thought that would happen on the plain, I always thought the cow would whisper their secrets into my ear. But not like this, not staring down the muzzle of a gun. This particular gun. I had stared down guns before. It was just this one. Just this one. I am going crazy. Which way was reality?

The sky had darkened, and we were captivated. The first few stars had begun to show their faces and they would see only shame. The moon above was laughing at me, mocking me as she observed with her over-large eyes. But they could not compare with that look Stefan used to pierce the veil. When his eyes fell upon me I quivered, I shook and melted. I would follow that man to the ends of the earth for no better reason than to get him to stop.

Nikolai spoke with affectation, high falsetto and emphasis on the vowels that drew them out, that teased them and stressed just how far the language could press them. His speech was layered, and I remember none of it. It took up too much space and my mind was addled. He walked with confidence, he commanded presence. Even as he danced, even as his fingers danced across my chest and down my spine, I felt his intent and the extent of his being was beyond me.

We, those of us stupid enough to stand outside during all this, were filed into the tavern and the doors were shut and barred behind us. The fire raged from beyond the windows and it cast scattered shadows on the floors and walls. Dancing silhouettes, ghosts come out to play. There are ghosts on the prairies. If you go out late enough at night and sit underneath the rocky cliffs and wait, you can see them. They come from out of the corner of your eye, they appear as real people, and they will hold a conversation with you. But they are no slaves to the moon, they come out to wage a silent a war for everything that they say is a truth. But, much like Nikolai, their words are stressed and stretched and they speak with more than one voice to combine ideas so that their truth is not your truth. Their truth is a part of the infinite.

“We’re looking for someone.”

It was Stefan, his voice was deep and could cut glass. It did. The windows shattered. “We’re looking for two people. They came to this town. And you’re going to tell us where they are. Then you might all live peacefully until you die.”

The peculiarities of the phrasing was lost on us at the time. As he spoke, he began to undress and change his makeup. Utensils and clothing seemed to appear from nowhere or at a whim for whatever purpose he needed. A master craftsman, he was remaking himself. A tide is coming and it will sweep us all away. We have not seen water in months. Hold me now, I would say to my mother, hold me now against the dreams that are knocking at my door.

“Two men.”

Mickey. So small. So evil.

“Two men are all we need. They came recently. They will be looking for a place to rest and a place that is quiet and out of the way.”

“The church!”

“Two men at the church!”

Their cries escaped their mouths before they knew what they were doing. Nikolai was upon them beyond instantly, he was already there. His hands brushed against their faces and he nibbled at their ears. His whispers were coy, but their faces went white. So captivating was his outfit that I almost missed his tools of choice. Painted nails scratching at skin, a tongue capped with mercury, and a look that could kill. A jester, an imp, a devil, a trutheller.

“The church. He is at the church.”

The two spoke as one. Their words were not their own. Stolen from them was themselves and replaced with the upside down. Their words were not their own. How do you steal speech? Rather, another was speaking through them. Their body was stolen.

Mickey looked up from the dirty glass she clutched in her claws and her head oh so slowly turned to look at the pair who spoke. Her eyes were dark, two points of null. From them swallowed light. Her lips slowly spread to reveal her white teeth, teeth that looked so long and clean. That was not right. Not right. How do I know this isn’t right? She could kill me she wants to kill me. Not me. Them. “Smashing,” was all she said. It was long and drawn out, pulled from the depths of some evil place.

There were two gunshots. Two loud pops. And then the two collapsed onto the floor, scattering chairs and tables. Their heads had exploded and those unlucky to be too close were covered in blood and brain. Nikolai clapped his hands disingenuously and Stefan lowered the revolver he had produced from between his breasts. From outside came more noise, from outside sang the devil. “A diva is a female version of a hustler, of a hustler. Uva-uva hustler.”

Stefan blew out the smoke, pursing his lips as if he was kissing the air. My heart pounded, my knees buckled. A beast was growing within me threatening to escape from within to burst so wide so far out of me. Pulled by his sultry stare, those lowly lidded eyes that seemed to sparkle against the firelight. Mickey stepped forward, “So you best be wondering who we are, and that is a mystery. It will always be a mystery. Pity the fools who were caught within the endless spinning machinations of gods and emperors, kings and lovers. Prepare yourselves, and don’t blink, for the end of the world waits for no one.”

She stepped past the crowd who stood dumbfounded, and walked outside into the now night air. Nikolai followed. The only one that was left was Stefan and all attention was drawn to him. He had reinvisioned himself recreated and manufactured a new persona. Gone was the long blond hair, now was the bald and shaved scalp of a man. Still he had the painted brows and the ashy eyes. The red lips and full jaw. The hoopskirt had been torn away and now was a red dress. A man in a red dress. He threw on a purple feathered jacket and stomped out, his red heeled boots stamping holes into the wood.

Do we follow or do we stay? Is there safety in this bar? Could we drown ourselves in a drink? A few went to the tap, a handful. They were tired too tired to run and so would drink oblivion. They placed their hands upon the crafted levers, pushed and shoved to be the first to taste sweet nectar, and then it exploded. They disappeared into a cloud of violent rage and screamed a song so pure in note that we were floored.

I watched it, I watched the flames dance across the corpses. I watched it roar behind the bar and watched the shattering of glass and the profuse entre of more alcohol into the blaze to feed its ravenous being. Green and blue flames mixed with the yellow and orange outside, what was this what are we but puppets dancing on a stage? They would set us free.

I left the fire I left the tavern and I did not look back for behind me were pillars of salt. I felt and I stepped outside and basked in the warmth. The moon had disappeared, she had run in fear of the truthtellers. The stars continued their silent observance and the long claws of maniacal clouds began to spread. The streets were quiet and empty. No lights came from the houses.

Hunger. There is always hunger. We shoot rabbits and coytoes, we shoot what we can. We even shoot the cows. They take it gracefully, they take it in stride. We butcher and we devour. We are carnivorous. We are cannibals, eating each other until we have been ground to the same sand that covers our boots. We shot the horses, we shot each other. We will eat because we are never full. Satiate the beasts.

The trio had begun their waltz, away, down the street we dared not tread. It wound its way it wounds it way it winds its way through and up beyond the town to a cliff. The lonely cliff. We rested our dead there. Only owls perched upon the broken trees and guarded the dead from the evil of the living. And upon that cliff lied a tower. A tower we had never seen before. It came out of the fog, the strange fog, and appeared to us out of the darkness of the growing night. How had we not seen it before? We had always seen it. What we do not want we shall not have.

They approached, we followed. Me. I followed. Was there anyone else? The fire was spreading. Surely they were fleeing. But I could not. I was trapped and I had to follow. Follow me dearest lover into the depths of hell I am Dante lost and alone. Follow me dearest lovers and we will see infinity. Was that them that was saying this to me or me? Was my body my own? The bus. It moved. On its own. It followed us. And it sang to our journey. Praise us we holy few.

Up and up, time had stopped. It loomed above us cast a shadow around us and the clouds were growing. We would capture lightning. The storm had gathered and it threatened us all. The fire burned underneath and the hills about were glowing orange. This is what hell looks like and it is beautiful. Not a sound but the bus and the laughter of the three. All had fled shall I flee as well? Someone has to see this through. Otherwise where is the story?

It held upon its surface a giant cross. It was the only adornment upon its surface and it was crooked. So poignant. So heavy-handed. The tower reflected no light, but merely dulled itself. It blurred amongst the landscape and was a sore thing. Its surface was smooth like glass but cold. A church a church like all the churches.

Death is becoming. The graves we dance through are cast in odd lights. The names are obscured they are smeared and broken. Nameless graves for the dead have no need they know each other better than us all. They meet underneath the earth and drink and are merry. They are gleeful and soon they will rise to watch the festivities. Am I a blasphemer? Why do I ask so many questions I am clueless I am beyond myself and have devoured my mind. A vessel to receive the end of you. The end of them.

“Come out come out wherever you are! We know you’re in there! Don’t make us huff and puff, we’ve had a long walk after all.”

“Are those mermaids?” Nikolai asked, picking at the face of one of the creatures that set on a stone pedestal before the steps that led to the wide double doors.

“No they’re dugongs.”

Mickey said it matter of factly, and indeed there were dugongs on the outside of the tower. Much like gothic gargoyles. Ringing up and up and up around and around.

How odd.

“Blow it up,” Mickey would order, curling her mustache in her fingers.

“Who are you?” it was a voice that boomed and shook.

He was there, atop a balcony. Was there always a balcony there? But it was there, it was there and he was there dressed in white. His hat was a steeple, his cane magnificently gold. He was ancient bowed and ugly, wrinkled and depraved. Eyes that hungered. Behind him was another man, one much more fearful. He stammered and hammered his feet and he wore a suit. A strange suit. Who were these men did it matter who was anybody anymore?

“Ah there we are! Won’t you come down?”

“No.”

The old man was angry. Furious. His nostrils flared. Mickey cocked her head and Nikolai ceased his clapping and Stefan cleaned his nails. The other man the smaller one bowed out and tried to run but Stefan was faster. The gun shot and rang and the man stopped. Stefan had missed. It clipped the head of a dugong. “I repeat,” thundered the old man and lightning cracked at the sound of his voice, “who are you?”

“We are weary travelers and we have a proposition for you.”

Nikolai made a rude gesture.

The man reeled. “How did you find this place?”

“We know who you are,” Stefan was bored.

The two men stopped, they whispered back and forth.

“The Pope himself.”

“His Holiness…” said the small man but was silenced by another gunshot.

“And the President of the United States.”

What? The President? Who was the President again?

“Now come down so that we can talk to you!”

“No.”

“So be it,” was all Mickey said.

The sky was so dark so threatening so close. I could reach out and touch it. And so I did. I grabbed a handful and it was cold. The Pope? The President? These were more than travelers a showdown was occurring and I was tense. So tense. My muscles ached. Wind rushed up the hill and swirled about the tower, it creaked and groaned. “To the bus.”

The trio turned around quite promptly. But the Pope raised his hand and thunder cracked once more. “Stop. Stop where you are. You will not leave this place, you are abominations! You have trespassed!”

Nikolai was the first to turn and he grinned madly. “So are you!”

“Do you know who I am!” he thundered.

“God Emperors fall just as easily as anyone else,” was all Stefan said before disappearing into the bus.

The other two followed suit and the Pope hid in his tower. God Emperor of the Universe, he who commanded life who ruined lives. World Eater and World Maker. His crown had grown too heavy. What came next was onslaught and rain. Thunder and fire and devastation. It was a blur, a mixture of light and sound. Clap your hands in applause as you watch the unraveling.

The Pope attacked, he leaped and bounded forward. His skin popped and melted, grew thick bubbles of mucus and seeped fluid into the thirsty ground. The bus roared and Nikolai strode atop it in his silver leotard. He jumped and danced as a great train of fabric fluttered behind him in the whispering wind like mutated wings of a butterfly. Stefan strode atop the nose of the bus, riding it like a cowboy rode a bull. The Pope wielded bazookas and the bus wielded knives. Missile fire rained like hellfire and hale. Was I a firstborn?

The Angel of Death met the Avatar of God and I stood next to the President who was scared shitless and I wondered why I wasn’t. I was already dead. I had died a long time ago. I remember these three and I remember the Pope and I remember that all things must flow and that the stopping of the age was the feeding of time into itself and we were unraveled so that we may better flow.

God Emperor whose crown held the weight of worlds toppled. The bus came apart and shattered. Mickey laughed, cackled, as she was flung forward. She gripped the Pope in her hands, gripped his throat and smashed his face into the dirt. The crater was massive, it stretched and stretched and rocks fled. The music that came from the bus had become a part of the trance of the waltz of the dance. Violin and viola, cello and bass, trumpet and drum came together in the songs of war and peace.

Stefan stomped his feet and threw his hands to the ground and krunked his way toward the Pope. Nikolai bounced and trounced his way forward, clapping and singing and speaking the undeniable truth of it all. Should I look away?

“Smashing!”

The Pope exploded. And I shot the President.

And time stopped.

I looked at the moon and asked if I was dead. She did not say a word. Instead she merely looked past me, away toward the horizon. I wanted to follow that stare but already the sun was concerned and wanted to see what had occurred. As all things we too must follow a rule and that is the ghosts do not walk the day for it is empty and full of boredom.

The trio were gone, as was their bus. The Pope was a pile of ash and the tower had crumpled to dust. But his voice rang out to shatter the quiet peace. “I do not die so chase me dearest friends to the end of the universe chase me and I will be there.”

They responded.

“We will chase you and we will be there!”

Why here? Why my town why this place?

“There comes a time when all things must die but what about those who were never born?”

He looked at me and at first I did not recognize him. We sat together in the bed and I pondered his question. The shutters were open and the cool night air breezed right past the thin curtains and brushed at the candles. I grabbed his hand and held it tight against my chest. “Then we are immortal.”

[Injin]

The Coyote and the Cowboy

Long ago there was a cowboy who strode across the desert. He had come to what is now known as Arizona to find the killer of his family. Technically his family was still alive and the killer was his cousin Stephen, but enough about that. Stephen was a murderer and the cowboy had promised to bring him in. For great or lesser justice, he knew not which was to be the kind of justice to be brought.

As he walked through the desert, he realized that he had forgotten his horse. Turning around, the horse looked right back at him. Oh, right. He had forgotten the saddle, not the horse. The horse guffawed at him and continued walking, the cowboy doing his best not to look directly in the horse’s face. God his horse was ornery today, he thought, as he continued to meander through the desert.

Then some sort of Coyote creature came up and slapped his ass. Of course, the horse does not like being referred to as an ass, as he is a horse, but at the same time, he then turned into an ass, the animal, not the physical feature, and guffawed once more. The cowboy, of course was distraught.

“Why’d you turn my horse into an ass, you native spirit of Lokisms?!” screamed the cowboy, unaware that he should not know what Loki is unless he was Norse or something.

“Why” the Coyote started, grinning widely at the cowboy, “Because I wanted to, of course. Nothing fun about a plain ol’ horse in the desert, wouldn’t you say, Partner?”

The cowboy shook his head once more, “Tarnations, what else are ye going to do to him, turn him female?”

At the finish of the sentence, it was thus that the Ass became a She-Ass, and there was much rejoicing…on the Coyote’s part anyways.

“Dear god….” Said the cowboy, annoyed by the Coyote’s actions, “You going to just randomly fluffle things like that, creature of the night?”

The Coyote lolled his tongue to one side, “Yes” and answered in kind, making it now night time. The ancient local being of immense trickery continued to stare at the cowboy and his She-Ass, aware of far more than he was letting on. Most likely it was because the Coyote likes being talked about for some reason, I guess. The Coyote looked happily at the pair and said, “Any other smart comments, cowboy?”

The cowboy drew his gun and pointed it at the trickster, thinking that he could land a shot on the tricky bastard known as the Coyote. The Coyote simply smiled and patted him on the shoulder, somehow being behind the cowboy while at the same time in front of him. It wasn’t like there were two of them, but really, does this really matter? The cowboy looked at the Coyote and the Coyote kissed the cowboy on the lips, chuckling and disappearing away, out of the eyesight of the cowboy.

Wiping off his mouth, he coughed heavily, trying to get all of the Ancient Coyote Resin Saliva Shit off of him. Shaking his head, again, (I mean who does that so many times?) he continued to walk through the desert, ignoring the frosty feelings on the night, and trying to ignore the fact that his horse was now a She-Ass.

Many miles later, he was once more touched by the Coyote. Surprised at the action, expecting a priest to go there and not a Coyote, he kicked at the animal spirit, ignoring the fact for a moment that he had no legs.

Did I forget to say that?

Probably. I mean, I am not the most reliable narrator, am I? Wait, he had legs, never mind. Ignore my ramblings for a moment, just not all of them. Moments. Fuck, I lost my train of thought. Getting back to the story, sorry.

Kicking at the Coyote, he caused the great fooler of many things to go flying into the air. Mostly because he sprouted wings like a boss, but that’s enough modern lingo. The Coyote laughed wickedly as he landed, his paws causing great indents to go into the earth itself. Eventually a colony of mole men would die as a result, but focusing on this story is more important.

“So you think to kick me, cowboy?” said the trickster, aware of the attempt by the almost legless cowboy, who had both legs still, “How about I ban your She-Ass from this game of ours?”
As if on cue, the She-Ass was no more, or to be more precise, she was glitched. The She-Ass poofed shortly afterwards, fading into the nether realms. Or something. The cowboy, of course, was pretty angry at this, so the Coyote batted his eye lashes and said, “And now you are sitting pretty, right?”

The cowboy was indeed sitting pretty, now covered in glitter from head to toe, and seated in a rather nice and ornate chair. The cowboy, of course, was not happy, “What the-!? Stop doing that, you varmint!”

The creature of the nightmares of the Native Americans simply nodded his head, and the glitter was gone, although the chair remained. Suddenly there were wheels on the bottom of the chair, at the base of each leg, and it began to roll aimlessly, but at the same time forward. Don’t ask. The Coyote seemed to move to an unheard rhythm, moving to and fro, side to side, whilst listening to the cowboy panic.

The cowboy shot his pistol at the Coyote, firing all of the rounds in the gun that he could without reloading. Of course it was useless to try to kill something that erupts from imagination, but the cowboy didn’t know that. Did you know that? I did.

The almost eldritch trickster laughed at his useless action, nibbling on the bullets as soon as they fell uselessly onto the ground. He then began chewing on them, causing great fear to emanate from the cowboy, who knew naught of any creatures that could withstand bullets like that. The Coyote soon spoke again, after consuming the bullets, “Ever thought about black stuff?”

The cowboy’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, at least until the Coyote suddenly coughed up a miasma at the rather addled cowboy, covering the cowboy in what could only be described as Burning Stuff From That There Coyote’s Mouth.

Clawing at his face, he screamed for a bit, his skin seeming to be changing into something different, something he did not feel used to. That, along with the Coyote kicking him really hard between the legs, caused the poor cowboy to pass out, and not awake for a long time. All the cowboy could hear was laughter, the Coyote’s chortles slowly fading into the distance.

Much time later, he awoke in an old house, covered in dust. To his left was the corpse of his cousin, Stephen, wearing the cowboy’s favorite britches, hat, and ensemble. It looked silly on Stephen after all, mostly because Stephen was a female, but that wasn’t normal. He thought to himself that the Coyote must have gotten Stephen first. Not wanting to share his cousin’s fate, he began to explore the house, in hopes of finding an exit.

He stumbled upon a mirror and was shocked of what he saw. He was….Black. He once more heard the Coyote’s charming voice.

“Cowboy, oh cowboy, where art thou cowboy~?”

The cowboy, now especially scared of the Coyote, hid in a closet, hoping to god and whatever else might be able to save him from the Coyote to save him now. Alas, no spiritual creature of any sort, God or otherwise, cared a lick about the cowboy, leaving him alone in the closet, unable to leave said closet in fear of the creature he was apparently hunted by.

The Coyote continued to search the house in a spooky fashion, slinking through the house, pretending he didn’t know that the cowboy was in the closet. I mean really, who wouldn’t think of looking in the closet in a situation such as this one? Lolling his tongue again, he barked the sacred bark and the house seemed to lurch, crunching all over, the foundation, everything, cracking. After a few moments, the Coyote then got on his two back paws and calmly opened the door, staring down the cowboy.

“I Win~” said the Coyote, licking his lips in anticipation, “I shall now send you to a land full of insanity. You think to stop me? You will find no escape, and you shall be forced to act like everything you see is normal. Regardless, you shall never reveal how weirded out you are, because you won’t even be able to control your body, only your mind. Nothing else will be available to you, and you shall be tormented for eternity!”

The cowboy shuddered, crying as he got down on his knees, “What did I do to you to give you the want to affront my soul like this, Coyote? What did I do?”
The Coyote’s eyes shimmered with power as he responded full of dread intent, “NOTHING. YOU. DID. NOTHING.”

The cowboy cried as the Coyote blasted him to the new land, where even the furniture was animate.

Thus Cowboy Curtis was born.

[Kaez]

REFFY
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 2/5
Use of Topic - 4/10
Entertainment - 9/15
Quality - 9/15
Total - 28/50

A handful of grammatical mistakes, but nothing that really stood out too badly. Technically, pretty solid, except -- you did the tense thing again, Ref. Past to present to past, with no real logic or reason to it. It's very jarring to the reader. I'm not trying to be hard on you, it's just a very important thing to catch. If it happens while writing, fine. But on that once-over afterward, you've gotta' spot that.

Beyond that, whilst this is definitely set in pre-1900 America... it isn't nonsense. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Literary_nonsense Not really by any standard whatsoever. It just fails to meet the primary topic entirely.

As to the rest of it: I thought there was some nice, poetic language thrown in there -- particularly involving the fight -- but I also thought that the fight itself was missing a lot. Not much emotion in there. We're -told- that they're exhausted, but we're not -shown- the exhaustion. It's missing the vividness in description and the 'showing' that I talked about in that last review. I like that it's long again. I like that it's got some meat on its bones. But this story wasn't built for that. The fight felt relatively dry and drawn out and the pre-fight story felt 'this, then this, then this, then this'.

And the conclusion doesn't do much to wrap the whole story up. Again, I feel like I'm being hard on you here, but as far as the more-or-less objective criteria are concerned, this feels accurate.




JAMES
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 8/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 11/15
Total - 38/50

From a technical perspective, there were a handful of slip-ups, but they were so few relative to the length of the story that I almost gave a 5/5. The ease of read for a nonsense story can be pretty tricky to accomplish, but I think it was done pretty well here. There were two or three spots where I stopped and had to take a moment to fully pick up what was being put down, and I think to be fair, that's a hit to "ease of read" -- but I think that's not a real criticism.

As for the use of actual nonsense, I think that managed to accomplish it pretty damn well -- it was definitely more pun-oriented than traditional nonsense, but I have to admit that traditional, genuine nonsense is really tricky to work into a story. And you did include lines like "or both" which are pretty strictly genuine nonsense. The puns were well done, the references and witty lines distributed pretty evenly throughout. The plot itself was largely nonsensical, which definitely helped. The important thing here was that none of the nonsense was gibberish, and that you accomplished some real humor in there, too.

Definitely a good story. Not a great story or anything, but given that nonsense is such an odd topic for -any- of us, I think this was pretty nicely executed. Definitely enjoyed reading it.




SEKOT
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 14/15
Total - 42/50

Son of a bitch.

I didn't notice any grammatical or spelling errors whatsoever. There were some grammatical aspects that weren't perfect, but I'm 90% sure they were intentional and so I'm not taking off for those. As I said to James, conveying a fluid read with nonsense is really tricky -- but I think your story has an advantage over James' in that you didn't really have any 'normal' prose into which the nonsense was inserted. Because you're you and you don't write 'normal' prose. So the nonsensical elements fit into your typical style of half-poetry weirdly very well?

I think you worked in the perfect themes -- self-questioning, destruction, metaphysics, journeying, searching -- for your story. I think, really, that's what makes this whole story. The few themes you choose to chaotically combine throughout fit together really well and the picture they paint is at once completely disjointed and perfectly natural. You went into this round with an advantage and I think you took advantage of it -- not as fully as possible, hence your own frustration -- but definitely very, very well. I had a constant mental image going throughout the writing. You painted the scenes not with superfluous adjectives but with -very- impressive word choice. I cannot stress that enough. Your specific word choices are flawless. You put together sentences which are so delicately exact.

That said, this story absolutely -demands- your fullest attention. It's such a chaotic thing that if you don't give it your full mind and really stick into it, you're missing things. It would be like listening to Chopin in the background whilst performing another task -- the whole thing just collapses without the glue of a careful eye to really follow the visuals, the symbolism, and the narration. I also took off some points for the fact that the American West isn't utilized as well as I would've hoped. But that, oddly, feels like a minor criticism.

I loved this story. The only stories this competition that I think hold up against this are James' and Astrael's in the first round and Taed's sole entry. Really well done.




INJIN
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 6/10
Entertainment - 7/15
Quality - 9/15
Total - 30/50

I struggled with this one. There were times where it seemed like you genuinely grasped the concept of nonsense, and there were times where it seemed like you definitely were missing it. The horse being an 'ass', and honestly a lot of the early story, had that pun-heavy nonsense feel that a story like James' mastered. But the latter half, and most especially the narrator, really didn't work at all -- it just became a jumbled, silly story. Jumbled and silly -is- nonsensical, but it's really not "literary nonsense". You definitely included the 'American West' very well, though, going so far as to include some native legends -- and I think that deserves some kudos.

The narrator element was trying to be funny. And trying to be funny, or, to be more specific, making it -apparent to the reader that you're trying to be funny-, is never funny. Humor relies on not making it obvious you're trying to be humorous. It's why laughing whilst telling a joke doesn't work, and why people in comedy movies very rarely are actually seen laughing or telling jokes. The narrator is trying to crack jokes and be funny and it just really completely fails -because- it's trying so hard. Humor is about giving the reader an expectation and then defying that expectation. You expected to see a horse, but you saw a man clapping coconuts together instead. Expectations made, then refuted absurdly. None of that here.

In short, I think this was a -good- attempt at nonsense by someone who is definitely unfamiliar with attempting to write absurdity. I think reading James' piece would give you a good idea of how to hit this a little more on-the-nose.

[Kaez]

Sekot - 42
James - 38
Injin - 30
Reffy - 28

ROUND FOUR WINNER: SEKOT

ROUND FIVE

[/SIZE]
The story must be set in vanilla-WoW era Azeroth.

It can't break canon. Beyond that, it can be whenever, about whatever, wherever. Therefore Use of Topic's 10 points will be removed for this round and replaced by two /5 scores:

Emotional Depth -- did I feel what the characters felt? Were the emotions and feelings made vivid and shown?

Scenery Painting -- could I visualize the story in my head? Were the characters and their environments not simply explained, but demonstrated?

I chose these two because they've been my two most common critiques throughout the competition. If you want to improve as a writer, work on them. Your score this round will reflect it!

Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 7th February[/center]

[Jackal]

" It's too quiet here.. "

" It's always quiet, Razal. "

" I know, I just don't like it. "

Razal was right; the night here was eerily quiet. Daytime in the Kargath Outpost was a different story. The winds howled in the valleys, blowing dust into eyes and faces. Ogres battled in the distance, and their roars and grunts were only overshadowed by Warlord Goretooth himself. Earth elementals rumbled nearby. The occassional adventurer would be pecking around for tasks in exchange for gold and old equipment. Even the scorpids could be heard, clattering about in the dirt.

Past sunset, the Badlands was a dead world. The only voices that could be heard were those assigned to night watch, the undead speaking softly in their quarters, and the coyotes howling every hour or so. The burning gaze of the sunlight gave way to the pale glow of the moon, surrounded by darkness. Darkness that was now the company of Thal'trak and Razal'blade, two trolls whittling their time in lookout.

" Thal'trak. "

The older troll looked to his ally, whose half-masked face now stared at the moon. " The moon looks.. strange, tonight. Darker than usual. "

Thal'trak looked up. Sure enough, the moon tonight was mostly obscured from sight. All that remained was a thin crescent.

Half a ring.

That's what Sha'ni had proposed after the metalworker had messed up their order and forged both messages into one ring. Both of them had giggled loudly, which really didn't help the man's embarassment as he finally told them he would remake both rings. Still, they decided to pay him for the new rings, keeping the old one. It was, after all, symbolic of their fates from that moment: they were to be wedded soon as lifemates, and all of their years would be intertwined, spent together until death. Nothing could keep them apart.

Nothing, but that one dispatch to Kargath.

She had been sent to investigate the Firegut ogres while Thal'trak remained in the outpost. It was weeks, and he grew desperate: He sought out the aid of wandering mercenaries, seeking the fate and location of his wife. Days later, he would find them with the bad news: His wife had been tortured to death by the ogres. They had retrieved her wedding nose ring, plucked from their leader - the very ogre that had murdered her - and gave it to her husband, now collapsed in grief. He had bidden them to take it away, for it was nothing to him without her.

But the nightmare had not ended for him.

No. Adventurers would report again, telling him of his wife bidding them to return her ring. What was this madness? On the third report, he decided to put his grief away for a moment and inspect the ring. The ring..the ring wasn't hers. It was but a band of metal.

Every few days, he would see new mercenaries arrive and tell him of his wife, returning the rings. And he would inspect it, and see that it wasn't her ring. He started to send them away in anger, sometimes accusing them of cheating him, and resumed asking for others to seek her for him. Yet their answer was always the same: She was still there, telling them to return her ring, and as they described her, he began to learn new things of the way she was brutalized. Terrible things about her fate, about her last days, and the most terrible fact of all: they could describe what she looked like. He could no longer deny it was her. But why were they bringing him these common rings...?
He soon realized that while they could describe his wife, they could not describe the ogre in exact detail: his wife, still seeking her peace, asking for them to send her ring over to him, had failed to tell how the monster was any different from the other ogres save that it wore her nose ring.

So he took things into his own hands. He was a shaman. He called his wife's spirit briefly from her prison, asking her as he beheld her form once more how the monster was like, the creature that killed her. How one could find him among the clan. She said little, and each word seemed to tear her apart. It pained him that he could not hold her, but he said all he could to soothe her agony, and when it was done she said no more, returning to smoke that he had breathed in.

That moment's solace gone, he was left with nothing but the embrace of the night... and then, the stranger knocked. The mercenary.

The answer to his suffering.

" Thal'trak? Thal'trak! "

He blinked to the snapping of Razal's fingers. " What? "

" Something's.. something's wrong. "

The shaman looked back to the earth, scanning the darkness as best he could. " There's nothing. "

" No, it's too quiet. "

" It's always quiet, Razal. "

" You don't understand! My ears, they hear nothing! No howling, no scraping - it's as if the coyotes are not there! "

" You panic too much, Razal.. " As Thal'trak listened, however, he began to doubt it was just the young one's nerves. The darkness felt almost perfectly still: no shadows could be seen moving, no little sounds could be heard, not even echoes... it reminded him of the spirit realm.

And as with the spirit realm, he was expecting a ghost.

Both the trolls stayed silent for a long while: Razal's breathing was quick, while Thal'trak worked to keep his calm and steady. It had been a few days. It would return.

" Wait, over there .."

Razal's voice had become a harsh whisper as the shaman followed the direction he was pointing at. The darkness was still frozen, but he could make out a difference in the silhouette of the shadows: something was new in the landscape. Something small. And as they both watched, the small grew larger and larger, approaching them.. instinctively, the younger troll slid his dagger out by the side. But to Thal'trak, this was a familiar figure. This was exactly how he had seen the stranger.

" Do you have it? "

Razal was almost shocked by the declaration and how loud it was, coming from the shaman. He stared at him for a good long moment before hearing the reply.

" Yes.."

Undead. Razal knew, because of how grating the voice was upon his sensitive ears. Those ears were why he had been handpicked to join the expedition force, as a lookout or scout. Those ears also made it painfully obvious that this undead's voice was far harsher than that of the two women in the camp.

" Show me. "

The shadow grew to a shape - the shape, as Razal suspected, of a human-thing, but in the awkward manner that only an undead could live with. It never came into the light of the torches, always hidden in the darkness, as it pushed something on the ground. It stopped, and Thal'trak stepped forward to retrieve it. Razal watched, heart pounding, his dagger at the ready: it could be a trap, and he didn't want to be caught unawares, but the shaman seemed ignorant of that danger as he reached down and tugged the object into the light. Slowly, a large chest came into view.

" What... what is it? "

" We'll see. " Thal'trak knelt down and worked at the simple locking mechanism, unclasping it. As he opened the lid, Razal had a whiff of a sour smell, like spoilt kodo meat with -

" Spirits! What - "

He could say little more while suppressing the urge to vomit. There, in the chest, was an ogre's head. Not just the head, but just a glimpse of the rest of its contents from the corner of his eye was all Razal could stand. Suffice to say, what was left of the ogre was in the box... and it was still blinking. And.. gurgling. Trying to speak, or breathe, or - Thal'trak pressed an index finger to what was probably the heart, beating out of - that was it. Razal couldn't take it anymore. He slunk off to a nearby rock to vomit.

When he returned, Thal'trak was standing over the chest, looking at the undead.

" The ring. "

The undead reached out an arm, and finally its fist was visible in the light. It opened to reveal long, sharp claws, stained with crimson, and in the middle of his palm was a small golden ring. Thal'trak stared at the palm for a few more moments, then slowly, almost reverently, took it, holding it up closer to the torchlight.

" Beloved - Sha'..ni."

The shaman's voice was quiet, but clear. Razal might've said something, or he might've been quiet, but Thal'trak was no longer listening to him. Instead, he stared at the nose-ring, letting it shine in the moonlight for a few minutes, repeating the same words in a quieter voice, and then once more in a voice so soft only he could hear it.

" Beloved. "

He slowly closed his hand around the ring, then carefully placed it in his pocket. He looked to the undead, then to the crate. The ogre was still gurgling, its gaze locked on him, and as he knelt to it he could sense its fear.

" It's still alive.. how did you do it? "

" Trade secret. But it's a fascinating sight, isn't it? "

Thal'trak nodded slowly, prodding it again below. The sound the ogre made was a soft, pitiful and ugly sound, like a pig in the stomach of a beast squealing for mercy. Or a crossbreed of a fish and - well, he couldn't quite place the sound, but it would have made him wince were he not staring at the face of her murderer. Her tormentor, her.. monster. He nodded slowly.

" Good. What of the rest? "

" What of them? "

" Did you kill them? "

" Only.. a few. "

" And how? "

" Examples, really. The ogre nervous system is an interesting subject. Using specific nerve toxins, it's possible to make one beat himself to death - along with the right cuts, of course. And slicing along the nerve network makes for a pattern very close to floral. Intriguing, isn't it? That such beauty can be found along something so coarse? "

The fact that the undead's tone had become somewhat less serious only made Razal even more uncomfortable: that he discussed the graphic murder of these creatures as if it was some sort of art. Thal'trak, however, remained stoic as he rose up, reaching out to the undead with a small pouch.

" Here, as promised. "

Gold. He was paying this undead..this mad creature. Razal watched, stunned, as the shadowy arm retracted, pouch in hand, and put it somewhere on its body.

" Thank you. "

" That is all of the mission. "

" Yes. "

The figure seemed to nod, then slowly shrank back into the darkness. Razal watched the process, terrified yet morbidly curious of how it seemed to blend into the very night with an unearthly silence, like some sort of phantom. When he could no longer see any trace of the stranger, he turned to Thal'trak, who was carrying the chest.

" Wait, you - where are you taking that? "

" Into my room. You keep watch. "

"Wh- that - that thing?? You're keeping it?? "

" It's mine, yes. "

" You can't! That's - that thing is terrible! "

" And I will have my vengeance upon it. I will have it suffer for what it took from me. " He paused for a moment, then looked at Razal with a burning gaze. " You will tell no one of this. "

" But - that - the warlord will be angry if - "

" He will not know. "

Both trolls stared at each other, only adding to the deep silence of the night. Finally, Razal sighed, slumping down on a rock. " Fine, fine. You keep it. I won't tell . "

Thal'trak nodded, then continued on his way. As he disappeared into the house, the younger troll stared into the darkness, thinking about what he just saw.

" Monsters. This night is filled with monsters. "