Greylands

Closing Doors

2021-02-12T05:41:00.003-08:00

2021- 40

A Year in Review.

This has become an unplanned tradition of mine. Often around the holidays, New Year, Chinese New Year, and my birthday.

This past year was… interesting to say the least. For me it’s been difficult for reasons I won’t go into here. It’s also been a year of immense change and good fortunes. My baby girl entered this world this past September, and I will never be the same. This little cherub smiles at me and my soul melts. She is love on a level I never before imagined and am eternally grateful for her.

I’ve pushed through a number of set backs in my creative endeavors. I think we all did. A lot of doors closed this past year, some that will never open again sadly. We all attempted to adapt and survive in whatever ways we could come up with.

“Men at forty Learn to close softly The doors to rooms they will not be Coming back to.” ― Donald Justice

I’d read that quote many times before now, and thought of it in different ways. I understood closing doors on things we just wouldn’t be doing any longer. Lack of energy, lack of time, lack of interest. It is the “softly” part that jumps out at me now.

There’s something very sinister about the word “potential”. We’re often told in our younger years that we have great potential. But how much of that potential is left unrealized? Vast oceans, I’ve discovered. Some of us never find out rhythm. Some of us never find our opportunity. Some of us don’t apply ourselves, or give up before “success” arrived, whatever that means.

But to close the door softly, I think, implies that you’re not wanting to draw too much attention to it. There is a lingering of the hand on the door. You don’t want to leave that place behind necessarily, but you know that you need to. For yourself. For those that may depend on you.

I think there is also a certain amount of shame at times, for potential we feel we may have squandered. Maybe we were too busy chasing whatever shiny thing had our attention. Maybe we were too busy working to survive. Maybe… maybe…

This is not a tale of endings however. Not yet. There are some new chapters that I am delving into. Chapters that have been years in the writing. I am learning and admitting to myself that there are only so many hallways I can explore at one time. Perhaps only so many I will ever have the chance to explore. Time is so finite.

But as I delve into these projects, and this next chapter, I want to say thank you. Thank you to those that have loved me. Thank you to those that have tolerated me. Thank you to those that have supported me. Thank you for those I have been fortunate enough to call friend.

I am not just a writer or performer now. I am also a father. A title which I hold with great pride. Because I’m not just any father. I’m Audrey’s father. And that means the world to me.

Also thank you to anyone still reading. Thank you for the paths that you have shared with me in this journey called life.

I look forward to many more adventures to come.

And I love you, my first and second families. My compatriots and comrades in this maelstrom of existing, creating, hurting, losing, winning, discovering, loving and living. Hold on to one another my friends and my loves. Hold each other up, as you have done for me. And as I try to do for you whenever fortune allows me.

Be well, be brave, be jubilant at all the things we might otherwise take for granted.

Thank you.

Success and Skill: An Uneven Ratio

2021-01-03T15:22:00.003-08:00

An irregular Ratio.

This is a topic that has weighed on my soul time and again. And one that I believe is off overlooked or marginalized in our "hustle= success" culture.

It may hurt some feelings as well.

But I'm just going to go ahead and say it.

Skill does not equal success.

For every A List actor that is lauded in magazines and websites, there is an actor even better doing community theatre or little independent films you've never even heard of.

For every best selling author, there are writers whose sonatas to the soul will make your heart reverberate in ways you never knew possible.

For every Grammy award winner and multi platinum album, there's a musician at your local college or bar whose performances will have you dancing in your seat or bring tears to your eyes.

So what is the take away?

Well, first. Always take time to explore the little side alleys of the arts and entertainment community for little gems that could change your life. And please be patrons to these amazing people.

But more importantly, if you are one of these artists. If you're work brings you clarity, or solace, or joy, keep creating.

Your bank account is not a measure of your worth.

Your number of followers does not dictate your ability to move the human spirit.

Sometimes.... It's just luck.

And does that mean that the rest of us not making millions off our work should hang it up and give in?

Resoundingly no.

There's an old saying that the forests would be silent if only the very best birds sang.

That's not even what I'm saying here.

What I'm saying is, your perspective, your performance, your work will touch the world in ways you'll never know.

And I'm not saying this out of pure theory.

I've seen it. Heard it. Read it.

For instance, at the Cleveland Playhouse in the early 2000s, I saw a play called The May. (At least I believe that was it's name now. It's been ages.)

I remember the cast being uneven and the person playing the husband doing all sorts of "acting stuff" that I found nearly unbearable.

But what I took away from the show was the woman who played the daughter.

Her performance was simple and honest and captivating. And it was one of those performances that made me think "I want to make an audience feel like that."

I worked with a colleague long ago named Bill Davis. (Sorry man. I'm calling you out. 🤣)

His performances in college made me downright envious. I remember watching him from the wings of shows we did together and thinking "I want to be like him when I get better at this."

I'm by no means famous. I'm grateful for every moment I've had on stage and screen. But those two actors, one who's name I don't even know, and both who you'll likely never see, pushed me to want to be more. And hopefully helped me to better entertain others in my own career.

I've read short stories online that have leave me haunted or spell bound.

I've heard musicians in college who's work brought tears to my eyes. (In a good way. 😁😂)

So what I'm saying is, don't quit. Don't stop. Your work adds to the beautiful tapestry of the human experience. And this world would be less without your work in it.

Love and Be Held

2021-01-03T15:20:00.003-08:00

A baby is just starting off their life. All they want is to be held and some attention paid to them. They want to know they are loved, and that they matter, on an instinctive level. I think this is all any of us are really looking for during the rest of our pursuits in life as well.

To My Daughter

2020-11-19T04:57:00.003-08:00

Every tender moment, I’ve experienced, or thought I knew
Coalesced and distilled, into the shape my heart holds for you
Every swelling in my chest, that makes me so happy I could cry
I behold in your little smile when you look me in the eye
And holding you is completion, this little angel entrusted to me
To arm with love, knowledge and strength, to face your destiny
I wish this could be forever, this innocent joy of mine
That I could hold you close and love you, from now till the end of time
I never knew it would feel like this
To be so happy that it hurts
To introduce you to this life
To a whole new world of firsts
Your little hand around my finger
Like my heart wrapped around yours
Every fiber of my being
Focused on how much I adore
Every moment you are with me
And how I never really knew
How full my life would be
The moment I held you

Potential... lost.

2020-11-17T13:34:00.003-08:00

Potential.
Such a beautiful concept. Such a deadly word.
Potential of all the things we will never accomplish, but we could have, you know?
Potential cut short.
By an accident. A blood clot. An aneurysm. Cancer. Murder.
Suddenly, all that potential vanishes from this world, never to return.
And we, the survivors, the sacred carriers of that memory, are left holding the shattered pieces of what could have been.
We’ll never know the potential of their tomorrow. We’ll never see what they would have contributed toward today.
As I feel this pinching pain in my chest, I reflect on these, gone too soon. And I lament their passing. Not just for them and their loss of tomorrow, but in all of the new memories I myself was robbed of by losing them.
It’s selfish. I know. And for this moment, I want to be selfish, and angry, and broken. I want to cry for me, and my loss in never having them back again. Never hearing them laugh, never having them call, never feeling that warmth in my heart at opening a door to reveal them smiling to see me.
And I know they wouldn’t want me dwelling in sadness. But it does them good knowing I still care this much, even years later. And I do. I miss you. I want to hug you, and feel the endorphins run through my brain at having you near.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
That potential has been forever taken, never to return.
And like staring down a winding path in the forest, the snowflakes falling in their slow and silent dance, I realize that the potential lies within me.
Perhaps never to be great, but to be good.
To care. To laugh. To share. To spend time. To reflect. To create. To hope.
Potential.
It’s such a beautiful concept. It’s such a deadly word.
Share with me someone who’s potential you miss.
Share with yourself some good you can do with the potential that’s been passed on to you.

Nothing Hits Harder Than Life

2020-09-30T07:54:00.001-07:00

Nothing hits harder than life. Life will beat you to your knees and keep you there if you let it.

A line from one of my favorite movies but no less true.

So many of us push through life in a crucible of our own failings, missed chances, and narrow losses.

But if you've ever watched certain stories unfold there's a place where the hero is defeated many times before and suddenly they find the strength to overcome an obstacle that destroyed them in the past. And they Wonder at this new-found strength.

Because what they didn't realize is that they were facing much greater challenges then the obstacle they were looking at all along. The other thing they don't realize is that for all the immense strength they showed in defeating that opponent or overcoming that mountain they are actually far stronger than any of that.

Because the scars and the hurt and the pain and the discouragement and everything else that told them to stop and turn around and give up pushed against them like a hurricane of white-hot blistering sand.

And in those periods of the unimaginable cruelty of life they would have traded anything in the world to get away from that pain. But digging down to not just survive but to overcome they became something more than they ever thought possible.

And so too will you. The defeats of the past are not your legacy. The moments that your knees buckled because it hurt too much to stand doesn't mean that you can't run again.

Because you've been training your whole life to unlock the hidden Force within you and you never even knew it. So go forth my friend I know but the greatness of of the Gods and of your every dream and desire dwells within you.

And all you have to do is unleash it and believe.

Writing 'To Do' List

2020-09-27T18:05:00.003-07:00

I thought this might be helpful to share with my fellow writers.

A Writer's “To Do” List

Have writing implements and paper at the ready.
Set up your workspace in a way that caters to your personal creative process.
Make a blood sacrifice to the creative gods that they may bless your current endeavor. Should blood for whatever reason, not be available (only you know if you're cheating yourself. But thankfully the Elder Ones work on the honor system), a mixture of espresso and cabernet usually works nicely.
Make sure you have the correct sacrifice for your genre. Warm goat's blood for horror. (Obviously.) And a warm cheese sandwich for news articles.
Remove all potential distractions that may pull your focus from your writing.
Be honest with yourself as to what those distractions are. Phone, work, family obligations, hygiene. If you need reference material, buy a thesaurus.
Carve out time for the actual writing. The time will not present itself.
Also, carve out anyone that attempts to impose on this time. You don't need these people in your life anyway, and running from the law can be quite invigorating for the creative process.
Try to put as much as you can down on the paper, even if it doesn't all come together right away. Sometimes you have to get the bad ideas out of the way first to clear the road for the good ones.
Stare into the internal abyss of existential dread that your life is meaningless and no one will ever enjoy your work.
Get a beverage! It's important to stay hydrated!
Back up your work. Nothing is worse than writing lost work.
Don't give up. Even if everyone in your life has told you you are just wasting your time writing. Especially the landlady and her angry pet poodle, Chastity. That dog hated you long before you were overdue on rent.
Occasionally work on something not at all related to your current project to till the old creative soil a bit.
Scream into a pillow when you realize that the chapter based on a deep personal experience that took you five months of therapy and three months of writing to get out isn't going to work for the final product. Once finished screaming, strike the pillow with your weapon of choice while enjoying a nice cordial and listening to some therapeutic music. I recommend Chopin.
Most importantly, have fun!

Uber Shenanigans

2020-09-22T09:59:00.003-07:00

Adventures in Uber:

My Uber driver tonight is an Indian gentleman that is currently playing Gospel Country.

Gospel.

Country.

That they're singing off key I feel I should add.

This magical adventure began with my Uber driver stopping at the edge of my driveway.

After I walk up to the car he asks if it's my home and I'm sure I want to leave.

Understanding a foreboding sidequest is ahead, I prepare for adventure.

Adventure at 50 mph.

On the highway.

With his left blinker on the past 4 miles.

Upon entering the car, he and if I still want to go. After assuring him I wish to proceed with tonight's adventure, he asks where I'm going.

I give him the name.

He asks where that is.

I look up the address. And then he calls me.

I let it go to voicemail, explaining I'm already in the car.

He asks if I'm Gideon.

I assure him that I am, pointing that this indeed my house and I indeed wish to leave to yonder destination.

And we are off, his phone still on my voicemail, and his hazards on.

Apple Store Visit

2020-09-17T13:09:00.000-07:00

So.

I went into an Apple store for the first time today.

I began a little perplexed. And it went downhill from there.

Rather than looking like any store I was familiar with, it looked more like a cafe that didn't serve coffee, which was rather disappointing.

I saw a wooden floor with a number of small square seats that looked like cubby holes you would see at a preschool, and they were all arranged like someone was about to read story time. (Story time also did not happen. No coffee. No stories. No check out. I'll get to that in a moment.)

So I see groups of people hanging out and mingling at long, rectangular tables and am wondering where the employees are. I circle around the tables of what looks like dozens of people just hanging out and talking. After a while, I notice that some of these people mingling like its a hipster bar with no beer (No coffee, no stories, and now no beer, despite all appearances. Seriously, it's like Apple thrives on empty expectations) are wearing black shirts with tiny Apple logos on them that I missed my first pass.

Either that's just a thing Apple fanatics wear, or I've finally discovered the elusive employees. I wander over and wait for any of them to make eye contact. Or acknowledge me in any way, as no one greeted me on my way in, and I don't see a counter or check out area anywhere. Spoiler, no one does.

After several minutes of this and my walking to numerous coffee and beer free tables, I finally stand right next to someone with the black shirt and tiny Apple logo for a few minutes and stare at them until they finally happen to glance my way. I'm only guessing they are an employee at this point as no one has confirmed nor denied this as yet. They don't speak or acknowledge my presence. Apple employees are apparently all cats in human disguises. So I just immediately ask where I can go to purchase something before they look away again. They point at a random employee and say "you can talk to the guy in the middle"

I walk to the guy in the middle.

He points me to the guy in the corner.

I walk to the guy in the corner.

He's talking with two more people and never looks up or over.

I still don't see a cash register. I pick up an item and wait another couple of minutes. Corner guy still never looks my way. I look at the back of the box of a set of wireless ear phones marked at $160. Ear phones. For $160...

(I imagine at this point, an Apple board meeting.

"What should we charge for this item?"

"Let's take whatever a moderate consumer would consider to be the upper end of acceptable pricing for an item like this, and triple that."

"Brilliant!")

I walk to another employee who seems to finally have an idle moment and I ask if I'm understanding the pricing correctly. He says yes.

I ask where the check out counter is. He points me back to corner guy.

I set down the air pods and leave the store, never to return.

I never felt more confused and out of place in my life, and I've been lost in a foreign country.

But the surreal experience did save me $160! So I'll call it a win.

And I think I'll be avoiding the surreal Apple negaverse henceforth. :D

Writing on public transit

2020-08-04T05:57:00.004-07:00

Until I get my headphone jack fixed, I'm finding other ways to amuse myself.

Writing on Public Transit without head phones:

An old man sat on a bench, watching the sunset. The small lacquer box sat on his lap and he stared at its contents for moments that felt like ages. With a deep breath, he closed the box and watched the brilliant purples and oranges that followed the setting sun into the ocean.

And she don’t need to be talking to him. I don’t care what she said about nothing.

The old man reflected on all the promises he had made to the people whose lives had been lost so that someone like him could live to see this sunset.

No, I don’t have the files on me. You’ll have to go into my computer. No, the one in my office. Ya, just go ahead and forward that to Peggy. Oh , Peggy's the worst.

A tear rolled down the man’s weathered cheek. Too much weight, it felt at times. No one should be responsible for that much weight. Yet here he was, and here he waited.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

What the hell was that?

I dunno, somebody’s kid sitting over there.

Are they being murdered?

Na, they’re just little assholes and their parents aren’t paying attention.

The old man cradled the box in his arms as the light faded from the sky.

I’m the freshest Atlanta rapper, the pop capper, on the streets I look dapper.

He focused on all of the memories-

Perfume, cologne, wrist watches! You need a watch?

Of days gone by, of all the people that had been left behind.

Next Stop Lindbergh Center. Check out Marta at Marta on the go! Echa un vistazo a Marta en Marta en el camino!

He closed his eyes-

I need that sent to work right now! It’s got to be there before I get in!

Clutched the small box tight.

Put her on the phone! I’m ‘bout to tell her ass what’s up!

The hip-hop sensation, all over the nation, dropping stacks at my celebration.

Peggy! So glad to hear you!

Next Stop Arts Center, home of Fox Theater, Center for the Performing Arts and-

The old man said fuck it, and threw the box in the ocean.

The end.

The boy with the bag of rocks.

2020-01-20T17:38:00.002-08:00

There once was a boy who carried around a large bag of rocks. He would groan and strain, struggling to get from place to place. The bag of rocks he would carry around with himself were always weighing him down and tiring him out.

“Why don’t you put the bag of rocks down?” another child asked.

“Oh, I don’t mind it so much. You get used to it after a while,” the boy replied.

The other children were running up to the top of a nearby hill to play. The boy’s face turned red as he trudged up the hill behind everyone else. Another girl commented,

“You’d get up the hill much easier if you just put down that bag of rocks.”

“But I’ve gotten good at carrying it, don’t you see? It makes me stronger. Not just anyone could carry this bag of rocks up this hill,” the boy replied. The girl shook her head and trotted on up the hill.

By the time the boy made it to the top of the hill, the other children had all finished playing and were running off home. The boy collapsed, breathing heavily, and wanting to cry at having missed out on playtime. After a few moments of feeling sorry for himself, he noticed the girl sitting nearby.

“I missed all the fun! Everyone played and left without me!” the boy bellowed.

“You had every opportunity to join us. But we couldn’t wait forever. If you’d just put down that burden of rocks, you’d have been here,” she said.

“But I’ve had this bag so long. I’d hate to lose it,” the boy moaned.

“But is it making you happy?” the girl asked.

“It did once. When I first collected the rocks. They were all different shapes and colors. I was so proud of them. They did make me happy,” the boy replied.

“They did. But do they now?” the girl asked. The boy paused and looked at his bag of rocks. After a moment, he shook his head.

“Then why do you carry it?” she asked.

“What will it do without me?” the boy asked.

“It’s a bag of rocks. It doesn’t give a fig if you’re carrying it around or not. And if carrying around is just bringing you grief...” the girl said, standing up and dusting off her pants. She started skipping down the hill, then paused, looking back at the boy. The boy stood up and looked at the bag in his hands. He set it down, and stretched out his back, standing taller than he had in ages. He smiled, the burden laid down at last. He looked at it, it seemed silly to be so sentimental over something that didn’t make him happy anymore.

“I’m going to remember when it made me happy. And leave it at that,” the boy declared.

“That sounds like a fine plan. And if the rocks ever make you happy again, you’ll know where to find them.”

Jane the Ripper

2019-11-29T10:09:00.000-08:00

Blood dripped down from his knuckles. She cowered in the corner, hands raised in defense, obscuring tear-stained eyes and a bloody nose. This was power. Her fear was a narcotic. She'd never report this. Even if she did, it wouldn't matter. No one was coming to help street walkers.

He grabbed her by the hair and threw her onto the bed. Her crying had him rock hard. All those hours moving concrete, this was his sweet release.

He was unbuckling his belt when he heard it. Whistling. An odd, minor key melody, haunting and sad. Eventually it passed and he focused back on the task at hand. As he stepped forward, he felt a sharp pain in his calf.

A charlie horse? Now? He tried to flex his foot when he knee buckled. Something struck the back of his other knee sending him down onto both of them. He nearly toppled forward when the feeling of cold metal against his throat stopped him short.

The terrified woman on the bed looked to the figure behind the man. It filled her with more dread than the man ever could. From underneath a mess of long dark brown hair stared two haunted eyes. Angry eyes. Kind eyes. Lucid eyes. Mad eyes. Eyes like she had never seen before and hoped never to again. She raised a finger to her lips conspiratorially, as though the two of them were sharing some secret. The new woman's voice was surprisingly light, a consoling whisper.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

The terrified woman on the bed nodded.

"Good. You'll want to leave now," the voice wearing the woman said. The woman on the bed nodded, scrambling to retrieve her purse and shoes before bolting for the door.

"Oh," the new woman said. The terrified woman paused at the door. She saw something dark approach out of the corner of her eye. She flinched and raised her hands in self defense, catching something soft and smooth. His wallet.

"His. He won't be needing it," the voice said. The terrified woman nodded and ran. She was halfway down the hall when the man's screaming began. Nearly an hour of screaming and gurgling later, the spectre of the woman emerged from the motel, melding into the shadows as the parking lot lit up with the strobe of blue lights that passed for justice in this city.

The terrified woman alternated between drinking coffee and vodka, the melody stuck in her head. No, not just the melody, a legend attached to it. Of a woman, who hurt men, who hurt women. No, not hurt... ripped. Insane Jane they called her. Or, as she had become better known; Jane the Ripper.

Spiritus Dolorosa

2019-11-28T13:06:00.001-08:00

She looked down upon her wilting body from the Shadowlands. Blood pooled over the edge of the bathtub, gathering along the tile in a puddle of tomorrows that would never happen. She noticed in the detached way they're only spirits can look at the world how thin she had become. In the last days she had no appetite and food had lost its flavor. Life and become an endless gray sky from which there was no escape. She looked up at the endless grey canopy above with a wan smile, realizing she had left only to come to the same place.

But here she no longer felt the anchor attached to her heart, tearing at it while pulling her through the floor. Here the constant aching in her chest and nausea no longer held her and its merciless embrace. She wandered for some time. There is no point in watching what became of her body, she wasn't there any longer. She did not know how long she wandered the graylands, alone and searching for nothing. Searching for nothing and constantly finding it, has she had in life.

One day she heard crying nearby and felt drawn to it, as though the sobs of this person were flame and she was a moth. She followed the invisible strands to the withered apartment building until it led her to a child. The child appeared no older than seven, crumpled in the corner of the bathroom in dingy pajamas. Her eyes were wrapped in tears. She could hear shouting from the other room and the sound of one person being struck by another. With each sound of flesh on flesh the child winced as though she herself were being struck.

She heard a fluttering behind her and turned to see black feathered wings. She touched them in confusion wondering where they had come from and how long she had had them.

“I have a task for you,” she heard a voice say.
She turned, searching for the source of it.
“There is no need to lay eyes upon me for I am formless.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the presence in the darkness that fills you with dread or makes you feel at peace when you are alone. I am the feeling of a warm blanket wrapped around you. I am the ache in your heart when you say goodbye to someone for the last time. I am the hope of tomorrow and the regret of yesterday.”
“And what tasks do you have for me?”
“To be an angel of comfort to the hurting.”
“Why do you think I would be capable?” she asked the sorrow of her former life gathering in around her throat.
“Because you know better than any the cloying creep of despair, the absence of hope, the growing strength of an ache that will never go away.”
“I was always told that suicides went to Hell.”
“That was for a time even worse than now to shepherd the tides of humanity from claiming the one escape they had from a life of misery and servitude.”
She looked back at girl on the floor.
“What should I do?”
“Let's the jagged lines in the memories of your pain be the roadmap that you need. Give to others what you did not have when you needed it most. And that will guide your every step.”
With that the presence of the voice was gone and she was alone again. No not alone this time. She shared the space with a wounded soul. So she sat down on the floor and wrapped her wings around the weeping child and cradled her close. From across the veil the child leaned in and wept against her. Her wings enfolded to guard the child against the awful sounds and creeping menace from all around. She held the weeping child until sleepover took her.

This new angel of sadness took a deep breath she no longer needed. The unsteady drip from the nearby faucet the only company to her thoughts. She felt a sense of completion within herself from comforting the child. As she stood she felt a new tether form. Another invisible string pulling her to some unknown destination. With her hand clenched around the possibility of purpose she strode into the gathering fog to find the next aching soul that she could land solace to.

Night Circus of Dreams

2019-08-12T06:38:00.000-07:00

For Night Circus of Dreams, I got to reunite with an old love of mine: Circus styled shows.

From 2005 to 2008, this was the focus of my performance, even touring around the country in 2007.

It’s what helped get me roles in movies like Statue and Last Exorcism 2.

And my love for it never went away.

It was cathartic to reconnect with an old love, especially with such an amazing cast of performers as we had last night.

Even the next day, waist deep in the troubles of the world and day-to-day life, I’m still riding high on the thrills of last night’s show.

I also got to reconnect with my love of the art.

There’s sadly a lot of politics and maneuverings that take place in entertainment. I wish it could be all about the show, but jealousy, agendas, hurt feelings, egos and dozens of other pressures push on the arena of entertainment from all angles.

That is why you see the same directors use the same actors over and over. Because they’ve found that resonance. They’ve found that connection that makes their work a joy, and they know they’re going to make magic together. And when you find a group like this, you want to hold onto them.

I’m not just excited about last night, I’m grateful for it.

I got to share the stage with so many wonderful, engaging, genuine human beings and performers. Each one is stellar in their own account. Together, I think magic happened last night.

But more than that, I felt surrounded by that group of performers and patrons that feel like family. And there’s no other experience in the world like it.

It’s easy to get jaded in this industry. I’ve been guilty of it myself in the past.

I’ve heard quote “It’s not show friends, it’s show business.”

And, to an extent, that’s true. We have bills to pay. And we need to put together quality, to make it worthwhile to the patrons that paid their hard earned money, and so they don’t feel cheated by the experience. But if I don’t enjoy working with you, I can do that elsewhere and make far more money.

At the heart of the art is the love.

Last night I felt that love.

Thank you to everyone that was and continues to be a part of that.

Price of Forever

2018-09-09T18:06:00.001-07:00

He sat down on the bench overlooking the bustling street. An older gentleman sat at the far end of the bench, reading his newspaper silently. A young man with a dog stopped to check his phone. The stranger looked over.

“Excuse me, how long has that restaurant been there?” the stranger asked. The young man with the dog looked up.

“Huh? Oh, there? Uh... about eight years I think. Been a while since you've been in town?” the young man asked.

“A bit, yes,” the stranger confessed. The young man nodded and continued on down the sidewalk. The old man cleared his throat. The stranger looked over.

“It's been fifty years since you've been here,” the old man said.

“Pardon?” the stranger asked.

“You weren't asking about the business in the building. You were asking about the building itself,” the old man chuckled. The stranger looked over at him, puzzled.

“It was a rainy day, and the drainage was as bad then as it is now. Water was almost knee deep out in the street. A branch fell and caught the power line, tearing it down. A piece of cable slashed a young boy across the face, and you grabbed him and ran to safety before the water got electrified,” the old man cited. The stranger nodded.

“That sounds like quite a story. I must have an ancient twin,” the stranger smiled.

“No, it was you. Because you didn't get through the water before it electrified. The cable hit that water. Somehow you kept running. It should have fried you, but it didn't,” the old man said. The stranger now cleared his throat. This was becoming uncomfortable.

“It's okay. I'm not going to rat you out. I've been sitting here for some time thinking of how to say hello to you,” the old man said.

“Well, hello,” the stranger said as pleasantly as he could muster.

“And I wanted to say thank you,” the old man said. He turned and the stranger could see the jagged scar that etched down the left side of his face.

“I'm sorry I couldn't get to you before the cable struck,” the stranger confessed.

“You saved my life. I'd have been dead if not for you. And I've had a good life. Even found a good woman that looked past this mark on my face. So for all the days I've had since then, thank you,” the old man said. The stranger was quiet a moment.

“How did you know the cables struck the water? Your face was covered with blood,” the stranger said.

“Heard it. Felt it,” the old man said.

The stranger looked over curiously.

“You took the brunt of it, sure. But I felt it surge through me. My entire body clenched like one big balled fist. It hurt like hell. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how you were able to keep running. More I've learned of electricity since then, the more it's a mystery to me,” the old man said.

“There are many mysteries in this world,” the stranger replied.

“What's got you in town?” the old man asked.

“Funeral,” the stranger replied. The old man nodded.

“Older you get, the more of those you go to,” he said, then caught himself, realizing this man was likely far older than he.

“Until they grow fewer than you ever imagined,” the stranger replied. The old man felt awkward, and sorry for his comment.

“Name's Bud Tanner,” the old man said. The stranger nodded.

“Alan Southwark,” the stranger introduced now.

“Southwark? Don't think I've ever heard that last name,” Bud mused.

“There weren't many of us left. Two world wars saw to that. After tonight, the family name will be no more,” he said matter of factly. Bud could sense the edge of sadness, although Alan was clearly not the type to wallow in it. Bud nodded.

“My condolences,” Bud said.

“Thank you,” Alan answered. They were quiet for a few moments. Alan stood.

“My grand kids own a little restaurant around the corner. Bud's Burgers. Clever title eh? Anyways, you should stop on by if you're in town for a bit. Don't worry, I won't tell 'em about you. Just say that you the son of an old friend of mine,” Bud offered. Alan nodded.

“Thank you,” Alan said again and headed off down the road.

Alan headed to the clearing where the body was being buried. There were a handful of people in attendance. Alan sighed. He could recall the Southwark weddings and funerals of old, with hundreds in attendance. It seemed as though they would stand forever. Or perhaps no one was really thinking of tomorrow. Tomorrow is such an obscure idea anyway.

He approached the small gathering quietly, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest said as he sprinkled dirt over the casket. Alan found himself murmuring the words to himself. He looked up to see a familiar face he hadn't expected. Dorian Ballentine. Dorian smiled. Alan nodded. Another person in the gathering looked up and noticed Alan. A young, pale woman with dark hair and dark eyes. Alan closed his eyes for a moment and considered leaving.

No. This was Gloria, his last living descendant. He would not be chased from this place. He stood in place until the funeral was concluded. He walked forward and set thirteen red roses upon Gloria Southwark's grave. He stood looking at her headstone as though an endless chasm yawned forth before him and he fought to keep himself from falling in. Instead, a fathomless gray enveloped him. He found a kaleidoscope of faces and places cascading in his mind. So many years, so many people. Many names he could no longer recall.

“Are you Alan Southwark?”

He breathed deeply and slowly. He had stayed too long. He had been discovered. He opened his eyes slowly and looked over to see the young woman again.

“I'm sorry, I know this is a difficult time, having just lost your aunt and all, but I need to go over some legal documents with you,” she said.

Aunt? he thought to himself.

Reluctantly he followed her to her office. He followed her black Lexus through the winding roads heading well outside of town. She eventually brought him to a secluded manor. Inside was an office furnished with aged mahogany chairs and desk. She set some tea to brewing and pulled out a series of folders. She opened up a folder and handed it to him. He looked it over. There were a series of deeds, estates, stocks, bonds and bank accounts listed. He glanced over them, then back up at the woman.

“Having no other surviving heirs, sole control of her estate goes to you it seems,” the young woman said with an awkward smile.

“How do you know who I am?” Alan asked.

“All I've got is the photo she had of you. It looked old. Honestly, I was surprised when I recognized you. It must have weathered prematurely,” she offered. Alan nodded. He looked back over the files.

“How did Gloria... Aunt Gloria come about all of this?” he asked.

“She apparently spent her later years tracking down all of the lost estates and accounts of the Southwark family. There were apparently quite a few scattered across the U.S, Canada and Europe,” she said. Alan had spent centuries amassing a fortune so that the Southwark family would want for nothing. His condition often forced him to travel. Often unexpectedly. As the 20^th century loomed and the world seemed to grow smaller, he diversified his investments and even left himself foxholes and safe houses to retreat to should he need to drop one identity and draw from funds elsewhere immediately. Gloria had found them all.

“Clever girl...” he murmured to himself.

“Excuse me?” the lawyer asked.

“Nothing. Sorry. Lost in thought. Also, I beg your pardon, but I never formally introduced myself to you,” he said.

“Well, I already know you're Alan Southwark. I'm Veronica Ristani,” she said, extending a hand. He shook her hand.

“Albanian?” he asked. She nodded.

“Yes. How did you know?” she asked.

“I just read a lot,” he replied.

His eyes fell on the folder as a mist gathered at the edges of his eyes. He remembered a daydream he had had ages ago, about the end of the world. Everyone on Earth had died off, and he would wander its empty streets like a ghost forever. The thought had horrified him, yet here it was. The indomitable Southwarks, bright and brilliant and full of life, were gone. Alan was simply an echo, a whisper of what used to be.

“What will you do now?” she asked. “That's quite a fortune.”

“It is. Aunt Gloria did well for herself.”

“Most people would be ecstatic at being suddenly wealthy.”

“You're probably right.”

Before he could stop himself, the tears fell. He turned his head as his face reddened, but he couldn't stop himself. He mourned for his lost family. He mourned more for their passing that he could never be a part of. It was selfish, he knew; but sometimes we are. He heard something slide across the table. He looked up to see that Veronica had pushed a tissue box across the table. She was sitting razor straight. Alan took a tissue and nodded his thanks.

“Mr. Southwark, I'm not exactly the comforting type, but you have me at a loss. Are you going to be alright?”

“Honestly? No.”

Alan blew his nose and threw the tissue in the trash. He stared out the window into the hills and forest beyond the manor. He sighed and chuckled to himself.

“But I'm going to do something I swore I'd never do,” he said as he turned. Veronica's hand was inside her purse, her face rigid. Alan held up his hands.

“No no no! Nothing to you! Oh god! Wow, I must sound mad over here carrying on like this.”

“A bit. Yes,” Veronica replied, her hand not leaving her purse.

“I'm going to tell you who I am.”

“I know who you are. You're Alan Southwark, last surviving heir of Gloria Southwark.”

“She's my last surviving heir. And that photo isn't prematurely aged. It was taken just before the second World War.”

Veronica's face was a mask of incredulousness.

“I don't expect you to believe me, but I just buried the last of my family, and I've kept this secret for so long because I wanted them to be safe. That's... not really a concern any longer, I'm sad to say.”

Veronica shook her head.

I Need Magic

2018-07-23T15:45:00.000-07:00

I don’t want magic to be real.

I need it to be.

The eking grey of the world around me edges in until it becomes the ink seeping into my veins.

That blood that I pour onto the page in hopes of calling forth the magic I can’t find elsewhere. I need it to come to life. I need to see the glimmer manifest before my eyes.

When I look inward, searching for that light and finding nothing, it feels like I’m dying. I think I’m crying for a moment, but my eyes have long gone dry.

It’s the suffocation I’m feeling. Unable to breath in this world that doesn’t support life. That doesn’t want me. These walls press in upon me like a closing tomb, but I’m too afraid to leave. My prison is my comfort and I am more afraid of the price of freedom than I am of what I lose by not trying to leave again.

Besides, I could fade away, vanish, and the world would be no worse off.

These were my thoughts that night as I crumpled to the floor under the weight of all my failure and insecurity. It was the night I first heard the pages whisper.

They didn’t make words. Not in any language I could ever think to translate. I was confused and terrified at first. I thought maybe I’d finally broken, finally gone insane. I thought that perhaps the icy wraiths whose skeletal fingers I would feel scrap across the inside of my lonely, aching chest had finally come to claim me for good.

With that thought I smiled for the first time in ages. It was finally over. I wouldn’t hurt anymore.

But then the eerie archaic gibberish coalesced into thoughts that I could understand. I understood that this was an ancient conversation I was being allowed to hear. It was something far greater than me, or my thoughts, or my problems. But I was being allowed to hear it at last, and once I understood this, I wept.

What I could gather, what little bit of it I can translate into words is this.

There was. This is. Creation was and is again. It is all around me and I can be its conduit if I choose. Choose to be strong. Choose to be wise. Choose to be.

I chose to be.

And the room filled with the whispers and their possibility until every molecule vibrated and pulsed against one another and the air hummed with the promise of what could be.

I awoke the next morning with my notebook clutched to my chest. Light filtered through the thin beige curtains, alive with the thousands of particles of dust floating through the beams and into the invisible aether that exists in the endless realm of what we are unable to see.

Certain that I had awoken from a surreal dream, I thumbed through the familiar poems of my recent thoughts. Tally marks of the malaise I was certain was my destiny. The familiar lyrics gave way to strange syllables and alien gatherings of letters. In them I found a cadence, a rhythm as natural as my own heartbeat. Although I did not understand their meaning, as I read them it seemed that I could feel the pulse of the Earth, of the universe itself.

I feared to speak the words aloud lest I unzip the double helix of reality and set forth something immense upon this world that could never be recalled again. I closed the book and went to work, doing something I cared nothing about the entire day. I made sure I did it well enough to keep my overseers appeased and quietly returned home to stare at these pages over a lukewarm cup of coffee.

The words made less sense than they had that morning. Instead of secret code, they just looked like the mindless scribbling of a confused child. The cadence was less familiar. The power of the message was fading. I was losing my chance.

I was terrified of what I might unleash upon the world. In the end, I think I was more afraid of facing a tomorrow as bleak as yesterday. So I sat down and began to read the words aloud.

My apartment began to shake. The air thrummed with some invisible, living force. I held out my hand and unseen pens inked the air around my forearm with swirls and unknown symbols. I pushed my hand forward and the wall erupted into fragments of plaster, wood and glass that sprayed out into the parking lot. I looked on in horror as the debris showered the cars below.

I thought about repairing the wall, seeing if the magic could undo what it had just done. But I stopped myself. The wall was gone and now I had no reason to stay here any longer.

Happily Ever After

2018-06-26T21:41:00.000-07:00

“I always hoped I'd die first. I know it's selfish to say out loud, but, who are you going to tell at this point?” the old king said to the queen that had ruled at his side the past forty years. She chuckled before she started coughing. The king's grip on her hand tightened.

“All the enemies of the kingdom that I've battled, and I can do nothing to keep you here a little while longer,” the old man growled. She patted his hand.

“Death takes us all in time. Now is mine, and I'm not sad. I've had a good life,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

“Defeating the evil witch. Slaying the dragon. All the strange and curious things that brought us together, that became the story that they've told about us ever since. It seems so strange to hear it sometimes, but it's just what we had to do at the time,” the king mused. The queen smiled.

“That wasn't the real magic though. Watching our own children grow and have adventures of their own. Rescue villages from trolls. Find lost tomes. Complete quests for wizards. Then to watch them marry and their own children grow,” the queen said.

“Where has all the time gone?” the king sighed.

“In good company,” the queen said, tightening her grip on his hand one last time.

“I'll be sad in my days alone. But I have no regrets. It's been a good life, and I'm so glad I got to share it with you,” the king said, mist gathering around his wrinkled eyes.

“It's funny. It sounds so silly when they read it in the story books, but it really can happen,” she whispered.

“What can?”

“Happily ever after,” she sighed. Then she went still. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, almost as if she were just lost in thought. But the king could see that her chest rose and fell no more, and so he brought his hand across her forehead and closed her eyes forever.

“It really was,” he replied, his lips trembling under his bushy gray beard and mustache. He patted her hand and stepped outside to break the news to the rest of the family. He looked down the balcony from her room at them all gathered. Their children, and grandchildren and cousins and all the people of their household that looked up to them both. Some began weeping. Others forced a smile for their father. He simply nodded in reply.

“It really was...”

Moriarty

2018-06-12T15:10:00.002-07:00

All of the dignitaries of London had come to mourn the fall of their great hero. Even though he attempted to live a quiet life between his myriad adventures, Holmes was beloved of many. Politicians attempted to strengthen their names by connecting themselves with this hero of the people. Many simply owed him their thanks for solving the cases no one else could and bringing some succor to these injured parties. Diplomats, foreign aristocracy, including the king of Bohemia, and so many others whom Holmes had helped over the years. All of that came to an end unexpectedly when Holmes passed from a heart attack. Complications from his use of cocaine to solve his stack of cases. “Natural causes”, Scotland Yard had ruled it, but many of us knew better. I knew better. The servants and colleagues of so many of these gathered reported directly to me, or to a proxy who reported to me. I sat and waited while the Anglican minister commended his soul to God. Inspector Lestrade stood with his underlings in a single file line, rifles over shoulders. I saw one of my own emissaries in that line who’s eyes went wide like a buffoon when he saw me in the crowd. Not all of my associates are yet versed in properly not recognizing me in public. I waited while various speeches were given, tears were shed, hands were shaken. I waited while they lay Holmes in the ground. I watched his ever faithful Watson in tears, held up by his dutiful wife. I even saw the vivacious Irene Adler whom Holmes had shared a keen friendship with. I waited, until it was Lestrade and his gathered men on duty. Then I approached. “A said thing, this,” I said. “Indeed! It’s most terrible. Not that we couldn’t do the job on our own, but Scotland Yard won’t be the same without a consultant like Holmes at our disposal,” Lestrade stammered. I fought the urge to growl. I fought the urge to smash his ignorant, smug face in with the end of my cane. I had much bigger fish to catch. “And the autopsy turned up nothing?” “Autopsy?” the idiot replied. “Yes. An autopsy. Whenever a prominent figure of English society passes, it is customary to look into what may have caused it,” I said. “It’s been ruled natural causes sir,” Lestrade said and turned away. As much as his very existence rankled me, I had to remind myself to be thankful for men like Lestrade. Without buffoons like him in positions of power, it would not be so very easy to run my underground organization right under their very noses. “I examined him myself actually,” a voice appeared from the growing fog. Watson. “And you found nothing?” “Nothing of import.” “So the bluish tint under his nails did not strike you as something noteworthy?” “Bluish tint?” “Or the fact that the left side of his face was pinched ever so slightly. You missed this as well?” “The man fell when he had his heart attack. And the symptoms you observed are common side effects of the drugs Holmes was known to use to keep his mind focused on his cases.” “So long in the presence of greatness, and yet you still fall so short of it.” “Why are you here?” Watson growled. I smiled. I couldn’t help myself. For all of my anger since learning of Holmes’ death, I would draw what small satisfaction I could today. “Are you here to gloat? That you outlasted your nemesis?” Watson pressed. “I came to test what I already knew. I wanted to see his body, and I did. I wanted to be certain that I’d been properly robbed before seeking out the bandits responsible.” Watson paused for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” “You daft man! Holmes has been murdered! The prize of all English crime fighting has been slain, and I have been robbed of my victory!” I said, turning on Watson. Something in my glare unsettled the man. Good. It would be best if he stayed far from what was to come. “I have no quarrel with you Doctor. You are not my equal, and you never will be. But Holmes was mine to claim, and mine alone. And the streets will run red with the blood of whomever stands in my way while I claim recompense for my dissatisfaction,” I said. “If you’re going after them, then let us work together. We have our differences, but we want the same thing. Justice for Holmes!” I laughed. Even well-educated men could be remarkably simple. “I have no interest in Justice my dear boy. That is not my aim. Bloody vengeance for what was taken from me shall be my succour. I shall drink deep from the vineyard of misery I am soon to visit upon those who have wronged me thus. Good day sir.”

Matthew Smith

Valefar 1

2017-10-02T14:45:00.004-07:00

Mashing her cigarette into the cheap plastic ashtray she’d stolen from Captain Jack’s pirate and punk bar, she shuttered as she exhaled, a ghost against the impassive moonlight. She leaned her head against the window, open just a crack to let the cigarette smoke out, and thought about the last few months, chuckling humorlessly about how quickly everything can go wrong.

She stared out over the sprawling monster that was this city and imagined all the other souls wandering or sitting by themselves, feeling so alone that the ache in their souls bled into their hearts, making their chest constrict in a thousand little pinching pains that made them shudder with the detoxing spasms that is love leaving your life forever.

She wondered where Fox was drowning his haunted memories tonight, wondering if he still blamed himself. Of course he blamed himself, that’s just who he was. He felt it was his job to keep the people around him safe, and he’d failed. He’d just never talk about it. He’d crack some joke and change the subject, or start up a game, or play a song; anything to keep the reality of his feelings from pressing in on him like a vice.

Sera wanted to wrap her arms around him and just let him cry until all his pain washed down into the streets and traveled away on the dirty little rivulets falling down some nameless storm drain and never seen again. But he wouldn’t; she couldn’t. That wasn’t their lives, was it? They had this.

She stood up and put her fist through the window. Fragments of moonlight and city reflections rattled through the fire escape into the street below. Sera looked at the blood running down her center knuckle, lit another cigarette, and decided she needed to go out for a drink.

On the other side of town, and a million miles away, Fox sank the 3 ball into the corner pocket and took a sip from a vanilla porter that was getting warmer by the minute. A tall broad shouldered gentleman with a military haircut and grim eyes walked in and sat at the edge of the bar by himself. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the red cross pin on the lapel of his beige trench coat. He could also tell the man was armed. A Templar. Great.

Fox finished his beer and decided now was as good a time as any to get a refill and greet his caller. He sat cattycorner from the Templar and waited for the bartender.

“Fox Meridian?” the man said.

“The Templars joining the local billiard league?” Fox asked. The man gave him a hard look, then glanced at the bar. He took a large, measured breath.

“I’m Edward Sinclair, Templar Captain. And…” he hesitated. “I might need your help,” Edward greeted. Fox paused. He’d heard that name.

Edward Sinclair was head of Templar field assaults on demons, vampires and lead the Special Forces training for newer Templars. If they sent him to recruit Fox, this had to be serious.

“What do you go by normally?” Fox asked.

“Edward,” the man said flatly. Fox waved down Gus, the manager of the bar.

“A coffee porter and whatever my new friend here is drinking,” Fox called, then looked over.

“Anything is fine,” Edward replied.

“Amber. He seems like an amber man to me,” Fox said. Gus was a round, bearded man with a pleasant smile and gray hair. He took one glance at the Templar then gave Fox a stern look of ‘please don’t start trouble in my bar.’

Gus dropped off the two beers and Fox laid a twenty on the table, took a sip and looked over at his visitor.

“I’m not going to even ask how you found me. What I am curious about, is you don’t seem or sound like the type that asks for help often,” Fox said.

“I don’t.”

Fox nodded and waited.

“Something has happened,” the big man continued.

“I had guessed as much.”

The big man bristled slightly. There was a glared in his eyes not directed at anyone. But Fox could read between the lines. This guy would rather slam Fox’s head against the bar and storm out than spend another moment here. He was clearly on edge and uncomfortable, but not in the manner that preceded violence. This man was clearly capable of violence, that just wasn’t his purpose tonight.

“The Seal has been broken,” the man confided. Fox was still and silent for a moment.

“Which seal?” he asked, cautious. The large man sighed. He leaned in and spoke softly.

“The Seal of Solomon,” he said. Fox choked on his beer. He sputtered for a few moments, then swallowed. After a few more moments to resume his composure, he looked back at Edward.

“You guys have had it all this time?” Fox asked. The other man was silent. Templars weren’t ones to part with their secrets.

“Of course you were. That’s why you wanted the Temple in the first place. Let the others take the rest of Jerusalem, you bastards wanted the Seal!” Fox hissed. The big man glared at him. Fox paused for a moment. He’d fought his way out of some rough situations, but he saw the eyes of an experienced killer in the man, and as a Templar, one that was highly trained. Fox just wasn’t sure he cared anymore at this point.

“You’ve kept your secrets. You’ve kept something dangerous, and now it’s out…” Fox said, staring at the wall, seeing nothing.

“There was no one else to protect it,” the large man replied. Fox just stared at him, his expression blank.

“In any case, they’re free now,” Edward confessed.

“Seventy-two demon lords released back into the universe…” Fox muttered.

“We’re meeting with the other organizations. We’ve spoken with the Lodge, but I understand that you’re no longer a member,” Edward said.

“There were some disagreements,” Fox admitted.

“Apparently. But I want to hear from you why you left,” Edward said.

“Because I can’t… couldn’t just do nothing when I knew people were in danger,” Fox replied.

“If you can find that person again then, he is needed. I need every capable soul to help track down these demons and seal them away,” Edward said. The jumble of bar room conversation hummed in the background along with the highlights from the latest football game.

“So I’m assuming your coordinating the attack?” Fox asked. Edward inclined his head.

“Who am I getting assigned?” Fox asked.

“I wanted you to join my Gamma team-“ Edward began. Fox shook his head.

“I’m not a Templar. I’ll reach out when I need intel, or to tell you the deed is done. But I don’t operate like you guys, and I’m not going to try. A bunch of chain-of-command bullshit is just going to get in my way,” Fox said. The big man’s fist clenched. He stared at the other end of the bar. Two other patrons looked up, saw the look on his face, and promptly looked the other way. Fox was starting to wonder if he’d finally pushed his luck. The big man put the beer to his lips and emptied it. We waved the barkeep down for another. When he’d finished that, he reached into his jacket. Fox braced himself, ready to dive and uncertain if he’d be safer running and taking his chance with the bullets or trying to rush the large, angry killing machine. Thankfully the man just produced a slip of paper.

Fox looked unfolded it. It held a single word, a name.

Valefar.

“The Thief King?” Fox asked.

“Of the most skilled occult agents, this one seemed the most up your alley,” Edward said. There was the slightest hint of a smirk. Fox nodded and handed it back.

“We would still need you to check in every 48 hours,” Edward began. Fox gave him a side glance.

“I need to know if you’ve been killed in the field, and I need to send someone else to finish this. We’ve even requested this of the Hospitallers, and they of us,” Edward explained.

“The… Hospitallers? You’re working with the Hospitallers??” Fox asked, shocked. You’d sooner see hyenas and lions snuggling on the savannah than see Templars and Hospitallers work together. Their shadow war was the stuff of legends and had marred the backdrop of history for more than 700 years.

“I’m assuming I don’t need to tell you how bad this is,” Edward said.

“No. Each one is a lord of demons, extremely powerful in their own right, and used to ruling over legions of other demons. If all seventy-two are out and running amuck, that could make for some slight discomfort in the near future,” Fox replied. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“How do I get in touch with you?” Fox asked at last. Edward penned a phone number on the slip of paper.

“Call there once every 48 hours. If you don’t, then we know we need to send another field agent to finish this,” Edward said.

“Or if need resources?” Fox asked. Edward glared at him. Fox held up his hands.

“I’m out of the game. I might not have all the stuff I need at the ready,” Fox admitted. Edward sighed.

“Same number. They will attempt to give you what you need. Within reason,” Edward said. A long, tense silence hung in the air between them.

“There’s more to this than you’re saying,” Fox said. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course there is,” Edward replied. Fox waved to Gus.

“Another round?” Fox said.

“I should be going,” Edward replied. Fox nodded.

“Look, I know you’re a shot caller within the Templars. I’ve heard your name before. And no, I’m saying from where. So I know you’d rather be anywhere than in here asking for my help. I can also tell that you’ve been hurt by this,” Fox said. Edward did not move, he did not blink. He looked Fox over for a moment.

“If you’ve used some enchantment-” Edward growled. Fox held up a hand.

“I just know what it looks like.”

Gus plopped two cold beers in front of them, the street sorcerer and the Templar Captain, having drinks at a bar. Fox was sure there was a joke in here somewhere. Edward waved off the beer.

“I must be going,” Edward said.

“See you in the field,” Fox replied. Edward nodded and departed. He could feel the bar exhale when the man left. Gus sauntered back over.

“What are you doing bringing guys like that in here?” Gus hissed. Fox smirked.

“First, what sort of ‘guy’ do you think that was Gus?”

“Hitman, right? Merc?”

Fox shook his head. Gus sighed in relief.

“Oh no. That guy’s much worse than any of that,” Fox waved a hand dismissively. Gus’s eyes went wide. Fox fought the laugh from his face at the ridiculous look on Gus’ petrified face.

“Why Fox? Why? Why would you bring something like that in here?” Gus asked.

“I didn’t. He found me here.”

“What have you got yourself mixed up in?”

Fox was considering how to answer when the door opened. A blonde bombshell with a smoldering glare walked in. Cut off jean shorts, torn top that revealed her chiseled stomach, red streak through her hair and gauze and tape around her left hand: Sera.

Fox glanced at her for a moment. Her angry gaze softened when she saw him reaching for the beer that Edward had left on the bar. He held it toward her.

“Have a beer?”

“I…I didn’t know you were here.”

Fox nodded, his face still.

“It’s okay,” he said. She walked toward the bar slowly, cautious, wary; deciding between sitting down or walking out the door. She took the beer from his hand, set in on the bar and grabbed him. He braced himself, not certain what he’d been expecting, save something violent.

Instead he found himself wrapped up in a tight hug he wasn’t sure he could escape from if he tried. He put a hand on her back, wanting to move forward when she squeezed tighter. He put his arms around her and remembered. He remembered when things were simpler and they both were happier. He remembered when all of his friends and comrades could all still look each other in the eye. He remembered back before things had gone dark. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed it, how much he’d missed her.

Finally she let go and took the beer in her good hand, finishing half of it before setting it back down. The permanent smear of black mascara and eyeliner clouded around both her eyes like a drawn on mask. He looked at her for a moment, a dozen different imagined conversations with her floating through his mind as he drank his beer and collected his thoughts.

They each thought of countless different openers, of explanations and condolences. Their minds wandered the mazes of pleasantries and hurt feelings and the myriad paths that can lead to all of the wrong places between two people.

“Look-”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

And there it was. It was out. She had said it. She felt relieved, a little. But the quiet that followed was unbearable. It stretched out between them like the chasm between people on the street where nobody wants to be bothered and in a city brimming with people so many souls feel alone. He took another sip.

“I wish I could believe that. I really do. But I can’t. And I won’t let myself. Because I can’t let myself make a mistake like that again,” Fox said. Sera was silent for a moment.

“There was nothing you could have done differently.”

“Short of sacrificing myself.”

“She beat you to it. She probably knew you would have if she hadn’t. Maybe she decided that was more than she could live with.”

“So she leaves me to live with it instead?”

“She got to protect you in the end. Don’t take that away from her, okay?” Sera pleaded. Fox squeezed the scrap of paper in his hand.

“So um…”

“How have you been?”

“Good. I… um. I’ve been. Just reading old books.”

“Like usual.”

“You?”

“Training. Doing research. Found a…um… there’s some weird stuff going on.”

“Like what?”

“Just some strange stories that should be looked into. Something about some cloaked figures chasing a guy into an abandoned church in Elyria, Ohio before it burned down.”

“What’s so strange about that?” Fox asked.

“Just that more stuff like that’s been happening lately. There’s way more chatter on the boards. A lot of it from over seas. Sounds like the Sol Invictus is gearing up for something big.”

Fox nodded absently and drank some more. Sera tilted her head.

“Do you know something about all of this?”

“No. And I don’t want to.”

“Don’t lie to me. If there’s something going on, you’ve got to take me with you. I’m crawling the walls at my apartment, and I need to be out there doing something.”

Fox was silent.

“If you don’t, I’m just going to go find it on my own.”

Fox’s poker face was failing him. If she went with him, she could get killed. If she went by herself, she could get killed. His mind waded through the sea of bad decisions that lay before him, each one turning out worse than the last. Finally he looked at her.

“Why don’t we just watch a movie and split a pizza?”

“I’d like that.”

Hours later, in the still of the night, Fox sat at the edge of his bed. Sera was still asleep. The moonlight made her look like one of those sleeping angels in cemeteries, weathered by years of acid rain. How apt, Fox thought to himself. He loaded up a few books and sundry items into his leather satchel, left a note on his night stand, hoping to any god that might listen that she read it and actually listen this time, and slipped out into the night with just one word on his mind.

Valefar.

Why Hermione Granger is in Gryffindor (and not Ravenclaw)

2015-12-15T21:32:00.002-08:00

Dumbledore and Snape stood over the dead, mangled bodies of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Snape stepped over them disdainfully.

“I don't think this is working sir. Perhaps the Longbottom boy-” Snape began.

“Nonsense. Harry IS the chosen one. Let me review the prophecies! I shall consult my pensieve,” Dumbledore replied quickly. Snape pressed his fingers together.

“Yes, about that. I've been worried about what the continual use of that contraption might be doing to your-” Snape began again.

“Come Snape. The time turner. We must go back again!” Dumbledore cried. Snape sighed heavily.

They stepped into Dumbledore's study. Snape looked at the calendar on the wall.

“Their first year. Again...” Snape noted. Dumbledore nodded happily.

“We'll figure it out soon enough my old friend,” Dumbledore said happily, popping a lemon candy in his mouth. Snape rubbed his temples.

“They've been killed by the basilisk. They've been killed by 'Fluffy'. They've been killed by Quirrel, and some random werewolf, and centaurs they pissed off. They're like stress dolls for the Fates,” Snape groaned.

“We must be overlooking something...” Dumbledore muttered, looking through a tome laying out on his desk. Snape shuffled some papers.

“What are those?” Dumbledore asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was reviewing test scores from the NEWT's of the seventh years in the future. You know, the grade that Potter and Weasley never make it to,” Snape replied in stoice cadance.

“I was just noticing that the Granger girl, the one from Ravenclaw, she scores perfect marks in nearly every category. She did the same in her OWL's in the fifth year. The other year the boys never survive to,” Snape continued in his insistently droll tone. Dumbledore looked up.

“Yes, yes. Hermione Granger. Exceptional witch. The brightest student of Hogwarts this generation,” Dumbledore murmured in reply.

“Why can't she be the 'chosen one'!” Snape hissed.

“You know Trelawney's prophecy,” Dumbledore answered sagely.

“Of course. She's so spot on the rest of the time. Let's entrust the fate of the world on her tea infused tie-dyed rantings...” Snape grumbled.

“Now now Severus. We will see this through,” Dumbledore said consolingly. Snape pressed his lips together and nodded.

“What about the Longbottom boy? He's at least staying alive til graduation,” Snape suggested.

“No no. It's definitely Potter,” Dumbledore replied, not looking up from another book in his hand. Snape nodded.

“Of course.”

The time turner dangled from it's chain, spinning on Dumbledore's desk. Snape gasped.

“The Granger girl!” he began.

“She can't be the chosen one,” Dumbledore refuted.

“No. But she can keep the other two alive. Or, Potter at least,” Snape offered.

“What are you suggesting?” Dumbledore asked.

“We have to make them friends. Make Granger an ally of theirs early on,” Snape pressed.

“How do suggest we do this Severus?” Dumbledore asked.

“We...and I know I will regret this, get her sorted into Gryffindor,” Snape suggested.

“But, manipulating the Sorting? That would have grave affects on the future of the wizarding world. That could be unethical,” Dumbledore protested.

“You have that Hat put every mouth breather that walks through the door put into Hufflepuff and you know it,” Snape accused. Dumbledore was silent a moment. He cleared his throat. He took a sip of water. He looked back at Snape.

“I suppose it couldn't hurt. You know, this one time,” Dumbledore conceded.

“Yes... this single, solitary time...” Snape answered. He stifled a smirk. Dumbledore pretended not to notice. He held out a jar to Snape.

“Lemon drop?”

72: The Seal of Solomon

2015-11-28T15:17:00.001-08:00

Conrad awoke to the walls shaking. Alarms came on immediately following. Hands instinctively grabbed pistol and bowie knife as he ran for the door to his cell. Emergency lights were on in the hallway. Power had gone out. Conrad hoped this was false alarm. No one attacks Tintagel.

Then he heard the crash in the main room. He came running to the door. There was a blood smear on the security pad. He slipped on a glove and pressed in the code. He opened the door and stood to the side, pistol at the ready. He peered cautiously over the side and saw Paul wrestling with a man in all black. As he turned to head inside, he heard quiet footsteps rushing toward him. Conrad turned to see the black blur headed toward him.

He lifted his knee into the man's chest and brought a bone shattering elbow across his jaw. A second elbow to the side of the head sent the man to the ground. The second assailant was immediately behind the first. A flying knee caught Conrad square in the chest. Conrad brought his hands up just in time to block the in coming punches. A shove to the chest knocked the assailant back. Flurries of strikes, counters, blocks and hand traps brought the assailant to the ground. Whoever was attacking was well trained.

Machine gun fire could be heard further down the hall.

“You okay to fight?” Conrad asked Paul. Paul nodded. Conrad peered down the hall. Three more in black. Conrad fired, taking one down, then ducked as the others returned fire. The walls shook again.

“Why are they bombing if they have men inside?” Paul asked aloud.

“They're not bombing the building. They're blowing open a Sanctum!” Conrad exclaimed. He reloaded and fired until both hostiles were dropped. He ran, picking up the sub-machine guns from the two downed targets, and passing one to Paul, they kept running.

He could still hear fighting down the hall. Then, suddenly, all Hell broke loose.

Not the traditional 'things went bad', or 'the situation turned ugly.'

The unearthly screams and howls echoed off the walls and left a cold burn that went down to Conrad's very core. All the different screams and whispers that sounded like they were already inside his eardrum hit crescendo. He winced in pain and toppled sideways while Paul fell to the ground screaming. He could feel jagged claws ripping at the edges of his sanity. Unearthly heat and cold rocketed through the halls in an ethereal shock wave, knocking him flat.

Whispers of unearthly horrors and torments washed across Conrad's vision in tapestries of nightmare. He buckled again until all he could do was writhe, close his eyes, and scream.

He came to some time later. He was unsure of how much time had gone by. Paul was still unconscious. He remembered the Sanctum. He stood slowly, the world swirling around him. His head throbbed. He felt like he was going to vomit. He held on tightly to the gun and used the wall to hold himself aloft as he staggered down the hallway.

He retched before making it around the corner. What he saw at the turn made his heart stop. The door to the Sanctum of Solomon had been obliterated.

Blood was smeared across the door frame and hallway. Body parts strewn like refuse. He kept his gun level. He walked quietly in case there were any more intruders. There was no movement. There was no sound.

He walked past the threshold and his greatest fear was realized. The bronze urn of Solomon has shattered into pieces. Bodies of his fallen comrades lay dead on the floor. But a solitary hazy figure stood quietly, starting at him. He pointed the gun at it. It did not react. Conrad did not move until help arrived.

It was twenty minutes before Paul staggered down the hall. Conrad immediately sent him for help. It was another twenty before help came.

The perimeter of the compound had been a war zone. Bodies lay everywhere. Whoever attacked had not been concerned about collecting their dead. The other Templars gave Conrad the run down. It was bad. The death toll had not been taken yet. Reinforcements were being called in, as well as medical teams, a mock construction crew to create an alibi for the incident, and a media team to suppress any additional attention on this event. The Templars had a wide reach.

Those gathered entered the Sanctum of Solomon carefully. The bloody bodies of their fallen brothers lay upon the floor where they fell. The Brass Urn of Solomon lay shattered about the floor. They strode forward, blades drawn.

A single dark figure stood amidst the broken shards. It remained motionless as the Templars entered the room. They stood tense, moving around it in a semicircle.

“What is it?” Emmerich asked.

“I don't know. It hasn't moved since I got here,” Conrad answered. Emmerich looked Conrad over. He looked like Hell warmed over.

“You need to report to a medic,” Emmerich said.

“Not until we get this sorted out. I want to know who or what this is, and what happened here,” Conrad said, not taking his weary eyes off the creature.

“We were hit. Hard. Mercenary army most likely. This room is what they were after. After the explosion, those remaining outside split,” Simon interjected. Simon was a special operative always in war torn areas. He had seen nearly every battle ground on the planet for the last twenty years.

“I think what they unleashed was more than they bargained for,” Simon smirked.

“You think they were here to steal it?” Conrad asked.

“Who even knows it's here?” Simon replied.

Emmerich held up a hand.

“All in due time. First,” Emmerich said, pointing toward the dark figure.

A dark, guttural speech emitted something entirely unintelligible. Conrad cast a sidelong glance to Timothy. Simon broke the silence.

“He's trying to speak to us,” Simon stated.

“What's he saying?” Conrad asked.

“Sounds ancient, Babylonian maybe?” Simon replied.

“Babylonian?” Conrad asked.

“These demons were locked away by King Solomon himself. He'll know languages from the time,” Timothy interjected.

Timothy was slight of build for a Templar. He was trained in various forms of combat. Such was required of any Templar. But his focus was in ancient languages and symbolism.

Conrad looked from Timothy to the demon.

“Why isn't he moving?” Conrad asked.

“I don't know,” Timothy responded.

The demon raised one hand. The Templars all tensed, ready for battle.

“Ready,” Conrad called out.

The demon walked toward the edge of the broken shards and paused. It moved its hand forward and pressed against solid air.

“He's trapped,” Gunther said excitedly.

“How?” Conrad interjected.

“The shards of the seal could still hold his particular seal intact,” Timothy posited.

“It's a trap,” Simon interrupted.

“Or it could be a trap,” Timothy added.

The Templars dispersed with three armed Templars watching the demon, each armed with enchanted weaponry; enchanted by the magic of Solomon himself, passed down through the Templars since the unveiling of the Temple itself.

Conrad took a shower, a protein shake, and headed straight back to the Sanctum. He answered more questions about the attack to the other department heads. Emmerich was on the phone giving orders to the field officers. Henry, their de facto field secretary was answering calls and relaying emails. There were a lot of people in the organization that wanted to know what was going on. There were a lot of questions to be answered. Henry and Emmerich were asking just as many questions as they answered. They wanted to know if there was any information as to who planned this attack.

Paul had been taken to his quarters to lie down. He had begun vomiting after everyone else arrived.

Timothy sat near the demon, between the armed Templars, looking through a pile of books and attempting to communicate in various languages.

Losing patience, Simon strode forth.

“What's your game?” he said in Hebrew.

The demon recoiled. The armed guards flinched, expecting combat. The demon recovered and remained motionless. The room exchanged confused glances, save Simon. Simon smiled.

“Of course you hate Hebrew. It's imprisoned you for over three thousand years,” Simon stated in English.

“Does it bring you pain I wonder?” Simon continued, this time in Hebrew. The demon recoiled again and shrieked slightly; an inhuman, grating sound. The men winced. Simon seemed to be relishing this.

“Well it clearly processes Hebrew,” Timothy noted aloud.

“But this doesn't seem to be an effective form of communication,” Conrad added. Timothy looked over and nodded his ascent.

“I find it quite effective,” Simon interjected. Conrad shook his head. Shutting a book, Timothy stood suddenly. He said something in a guttural tone. No one seemed to process it. Save the demon. The demon turned its head toward Timothy and responded.

Timothy had been making notes upon a yellow legal pad on a clip board. He consulted his notes, writing something quickly. He replied. The demon spoke again. Then Timothy. Then the demon. Then Conrad.

“You care to let us in on the conversation?” he asked.

“Sorry, Babylonian is difficult, and I'm far from fluent.”

“What's he saying?” Conrad asked.

“That his name is Baloath, and that he's trapped here,” Timothy informed. Conrad nodded.

“Or he's playing us,” Simon intruded.

“Or he's playing us,” Timothy agreed dryly.

“What does he want?” Conrad asked.

“How did you know?” Timothy asked.

“Body language. That and he's a demon. Why communicate with us unless he wants something,” Conrad said, not taking his eyes from the demon.

“He wants to make a deal,” Timothy said cautiously.

“What?” Simon and Conrad asked simultaneously.

“He says he can help us collect the other demons that escaped,” Timothy replied.

“How?” Gunther asked.

Conrad shot Gunther an angry look. Timothy looked imploringly. Conrad sighed and nodded.

“There are seventy-one demon lords loose right now. He offers to help collect them, in return we set him free,” Timothy informed.

There was a long uneasy silence. Each Templar eyed the other. Simon and Conrad locked eyes for a long, thoughtful moment.

“Absolutely not,” Conrad replied.

“What?” Timothy asked, surprised.

“I'll make no deals with the devil. We leave him here. Guarded. And we go collect the others,” Conrad finished.

“You're sure?” Timothy asked.

“Positive,” Conrad replied. He looked about the room at the other Templars.

“Guards stay here. Timothy, see what you can learn from him. Everyone else, suit up. We've got hunting to do,” Conrad said, walking toward the door. Timothy shrugged. The demon simply shook its head.

“How are we going to find them?” Gunther asked. Conrad called for a lap top. The local news showed a string of unexplained warehouse fires downtown.

“We could start there,” Timothy noted flatly.

“Gear up,” Conrad said. Everyone's blood ran cold. They were heading into the belly of the beast. An arch-demon of the ancient world. Although each Templar had slain numerous monsters, everything before this had just been practice.

Simon stood first, heading to the armory. Gunther followed slowly, with Fredrick, Hans and Glen behind. Timothy remained sitting.

“What are we going to do about him?” Timothy asked, pointing to Balaoth.

“He'll be under guard until we return. Timothy, I'd like you to prepare wards in and around the room,” Conrad answered.

Timothy looked at him questioningly.

“Now,” Conrad finished. Timothy stood and exited the room quickly. Conrad turned to face the demon. They surveyed each other for a long moment.

“We will get you,” Conrad said. The demon remained still and silent but something about his demeanor lead Conrad to believe that at some level, he understood. With that, Conrad left the room.

Emmerich addressed the Templars in a meeting room.

“This will be unlike any mission you have faced before. Be ready for anything. Conrad, I want you to assemble the most capable team from those able to fight,” Emmerich said. Conrad nodded.

“I want you to take Evelyn and Sara with you as well,” Emmerich finished. Conrad went rigid, but tried not to show it.

“Both of them sir?” he asked.

“You'll need a sniper for recon. Evelyn is one of our best,” Emmerich answered.

“And Sara?” he pressed.

“She may be able to lock in on the creature. Give you some insight to it's motivation. Or even give you the split second warning that will decide life or death out there,” Emmerich said. Conrad grimaced. He could say nothing. Liaisons between Templars was strictly forbidden. This was likely why. Still, Conrad and Sara had managed to keep it a secret from their compatriots. Still, Conrad was not pleased about bringing her into the fray.

Ten minutes later a black government van was driving down the road with nine Templars inside armed to the teeth. The van came to a stop at a police barricade in the warehouse district. Sirens wailed and hoses sprayed all around as fire fighters battled multiple infernos. Conrad flashed a ID badge to the officers on duty. After a few questions, and the officers realizing the men in the van were on highly confidential business, they passed through and parked under a sturdy overhang that was not currently on fire.

Sara exited the van first. Simon shot Conrad a displeased look inside the van.

“Women are bad luck on the battlefield,” Simon growled.

“What century are you from?” Conrad asked.

Simon snorted and exited the van. Multiple bags slung, machine guns in hand the Templars dismounted. The machine guns were largely for show. Regular guns were of little use against a pure demon. Evelyn took position on top of the van and leveled her scope.

“Where is it?” Conrad asked as he emerged from the van. Every Templar was double checking their guns. They knew every cop on the line was watching.

Sara winced and lost balance for a moment.

“What's wrong?” Conrad asked.

“So much anger and hate. I've never witnessed anything like it before. It is a well spring of pure hatred,” she replied.

“Just show us where it is and we'll send it back to Hell,” Conrad answered. Sara pointed. The team followed.

A plume of fire burst high into the sky. Cries of fear and awe went up from the crowds gathered nearby.

The Templars suited up into fire gear.

“Let's move,” Conrad said. Everyone moved in formation, following Conrad and Sara.

“My eyes won't be much good to you in there,” Evelyn called over the com-link.

“Understood. Keep an eye on the perimeter. Don't let this thing get away,” Conrad replied. Evelyn's sniper rifle was outfitted for an array of ammunition that the common man would never see. Mercury tips, silver bullets, incendiary rounds, amongst others. All dipped in Holy water and blessed by an Anglican bishop. She loaded the mercury rounds and said a silent prayer for those heading inside.

The rest headed toward the raging inferno, duffel bags in hand and found a point of entry. They left the empty guns near the entrance and pulled out their real weaponry. Blessed daggers, silver tipped bolts and crossbows, and enchanted swords.

“It's here,” Sara said quietly.

“Fan out. Stay within line of site,” Conrad called out.

They moved in formation, swords on their backs, crossbows in hand. Simon carried throwing knives. Conrad had not been able to dissuade him of this for the mission. Something rippled near the far landing on the second floor. Sara and Gunther steadied their crossbows. The ripple was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“It's here,” Simon stated.

“Clearly,” Conrad replied. Although the visor obscured visibility

Flames appeared again upon the landing.

“Get ready,” Conrad called out.

Then the flames leaped from the landing down

“Evade!” Conrad shouted. The Templars all dove and rolled out of the line of fire as flames burst upon the ground.

The Templars ran into attack positions. Gunther heading to the right and toward the staircase. Sara toward the left and into an alcove. A volley of crossbow bolts flew toward the demon. Flames surged up obscuring the Templars' vision. No one was sure if they'd landed a hit.

Conrad and Simon dropped their crossbows and pressed forward, silver loaded pistols in hand. They leveled and fired toward the source of the flames. An insidious, low, grating laughter echoed throughout the chamber. Simon and Conrad stood back to back, Sara and Gunther watching their backs, Stephen leading the rear guard.

Flames suddenly shot across the room in all directions, hitting the floor and walls in several places. A bombardment ensued with explosions and searing heat. Each Templar searched desperately for a mark, not being able to get a bead on the demon's location. Each Templar saw a flicker or ripple in the air and fired on their target.

In the midst of the explosions, crackling flame and gunfire a scream came from behind Conrad and Simon. They turned to see the flaming horror standing behind James, a hapless Templar impaled upon its elongated claws and writhing in flames and agony. He screamed piteously, trying to wrench himself free as the others turned to shoot. The demon hurled the flaming Templar toward his comrades, knocking Stephen and his cohorts to the ground. Simon and Conrad both rolled to avoid the incoming body and fired, each hitting their mark.

The demon hissed in disapproval. Sara's crossbow bolt seemed to cause the demon much greater displeasure. It turned its eye on her, and casually hurled more flames and fireballs toward the other Templars with the wave of its hand. Conrad and Simon both leaped back from the fire, coming closer to Gunther who had the crossbow leveled over their shoulders. Conrad heard Sara scream from beyond the flames before him.

He could not hear what Simon called out as he leaped through the flames toward Sara. He saw the demon standing over her, its hand around her throat, singing rubber and cloth to flesh. Conrad charged forward, swinging toward the demon. The demon blocked with a clawed hand and glared at Conrad with evil eyes full of inhuman hatred. Just seeing them was near enough to make even Conrad shit himself. But the demon dropped Sara, and so Conrad pressed his attack to clear it away from her.

Conrad swung his blade with fury and deftness. He was angry but had to keep his head and use every ounce of precision his considerable training had gained him.

“Get to the wounded!” Conrad called out. One Templar ran to Sara, the other to James, who was likely dead. Simon ran forward to assist Conrad.

Flames sparked on the demon's finger tips, so that every clang of sword metal brought forth searing heat that nearly burned the two Templars. The demon made an inhuman leap away from his attackers then putting its two hands together, its eyes glowed red and a shock wave of heat knocked Simon and Conrad to the ground.

It turned and swung hard against a support pillar, making the wall buckle. It looked up and laughed again. Conrad knew what would be coming next.

“Everyone out!” Conrad called out. He rushed over to help Stephen grab the wounded Templar. Gunther dismounted from the stairs. Simon rushed to grab Sara from the ground. At the edge of Conrad's vision he saw the demon appear behind Simon and strike the pillar behind him. Then he saw the second floor collapse into the first and watched Gunther disappear beneath a pile of wreckage and dust.

Conrad looked down to see Stephan's hand reaching out from beneath the wreckage. Another shock wave from the demon had made him lose his grip on the other fallen Templar. He frantically lifted debris off Stephan. Two other Templars assisted. Stephan was pulled free but seemed unable to move.

They checked for vitals. He was breathing. Conrad said a silent thanks to the Heavens.

He turned to see Sara lying on the ground with a tube in her throat. Simon's helmet was off.

“What happened?” Conrad asked as he rushed over.

“She couldn't breathe, the demon had collapsed her throat. I had to put in a shunt to allow airflow,” Simon replied, holding Sara's hand. Conrad looked around, surveying the wreckage all around. Officers and EMT's rushed over. Conrad felt eyes upon him that made his blood run cold. He looked over his shoulder to see the demon, perched upon a far rooftop, staring down at him. He swore he could hear its laughter upon the wind before it vanished. The battle was over.

“Evelyn, call Emmerich. We'll need an extraction,” Conrad called over the com-link.

“Understood,” Evelyn called back.

Late that night Conrad and Simon finally returned to base. The other two had been left to monitor the wounded in the hospital. Timothy rose as they entered the room. He could tell from their visage that all had not went well.

“What happened?” he asked.

Conrad was quiet for a moment before answering.

“We lost four. James was killed outright by the demon. Gunther, Philip and Ryan were crushed when the building collapsed. Stephan may never walk again but we at least got him free. Sara has third degree burns all over her neck and a collapsed trachea. She can't speak or breathe without assistance,” Conrad reported. Timothy was aghast and could only imagine what was going through Conrad's mind.

In his ten years in command Conrad had only lost two men. Two particularly dangerous missions each in which one Templar died. Four dead and two horrifically wounded was nothing short of a catastrophe.

“I bet you're really damn pleased about this!” Conrad turned and screamed at the demon.

“But I swear by all that's Holy that I will slay every last one of you if it's the last thing I ever do!”

Conrad threw a chair that shattered against the wall. Seething, he took measured breaths to steady himself. The demon spoke, its strange alien dialect. The room was quiet for several moments.

“What did he say?” Conrad asked. Timothy did not reply right away.

“What did he say!” Conrad shouted.

Timothy stammered for a moment before speaking.

“He-he says that he takes no pleasure in your fallen comrades,” Timothy replied.

“How does he know what I'm saying?” Conrad asked. He turned toward the demon.

“You speak English now?” Conrad asked the demon. It stood still and stoic.

Timothy replied to the demon in the same odd guttural dialect.

“What are you doing?” Conrad asked.

“I'm speaking to him,” Timothy said. The demon replied. Conrad took a long, slow breath.

“Just translate,” Conrad said with his eyes still closed.

“He says he knew men would die trying to face these arch-demons,” Timothy replied.

The demon extended a hand toward Conrad. Conrad felt the air shift in the room and turned to see the demon's outstretched hand. Simon, Conrad and Timothy all stared at it. It uttered another unintelligible statement. Then silence.

“What did he say now?” Conrad whispered.

“He wants to know if you'll take his offer now.”

Turduckgeddhen.

2015-11-26T12:13:00.002-08:00

Last November:

The farmers all scratched their heads. One moment, there had been fields of turkeys, ready for the Thanksgiving slaughter. The next morning, the fields were empty. The fields of fowl had taken flight without a whisper.

Desperate, the people looked to ducks and hens, hoping for a Thanksgiving Duckhen. All for naught. They too had vanished in the night.

But the chickens had not escaped. They would be the sacrifice for this year's feast. So many chickens. So many, many chickens...

Also, Thanksgiving Ham would become a thing this year.

This November:

New flocks of turkeys had been mustered, with great difficulty. Many caught and captured from the wild. Lured with food and fattened for the coming feast. They had believed themselves safe. Elsewhere, other Thanksgiving plans were being laid. (Yes, there were several actual eggs being laid as well. The double entendre was unintentional, but here we are...)

In a thicket, far away from the prying eyes of humans, they had gathered.

Obadiah Clement Gobbles raised his feathers high.

“My brothers and sisters! I call to you!”

Edna Gobblesworth squawked suddenly. Obadiah sighed.

“Yes Edna, what is it?”

“Oh nothing. I just laid an egg. Sorry...”

(See? Speaking of laying an egg...)

Obadiah cleared his throat.

“We have been the victims of countless slaughter for far too long! This year, we will take the humans to the killing fields!”

There was a roar of excitement from the crowd! Obadiah noticed, with some irritation that his brother-in-law, Sheamus McGizzard was reading. Again. Obadiah cleared his throat once more.

“Am I disturbing your reading?” Obadiah asked.

“Oh no! It's just that if we're going to kill all the humans in preparation for Thanksgiving, then we should prepare and eat them, right?” Sheamus answered.

“Where did you find a cook book with recipes on humans?” Obadiah flummoxed.

“It's a cook book by a Chef Jeffrey Dahmer,” Sheamus replied.

“One of the good guys I see. We shall spare him in our coming Holy War,” Obadiah said with great fervor.

“He's already dead I'm afraid.”

“How?”

“The humans executed him after finding out that he ate people.”

Obadiah spat.

“The savages...”

Obadiah turned to the crowd.

“See? They kill their own kind?! The geniuses are hunted amongst their people! But no more! Today, we shall reconcile!”

“Where will we attack first?” Edna asked.

Obadiah's eyes narrowed.

“The altar of their unholy feast. We shall attack the dinner itself!”

They rushed the house quickly. The family was not ready for the righteous assault of the Turkey Revolutionaries. Obadiah entered to find the gobblers poking through the remains of Thanksgiving Dinner. He cleared his throat.

“This is just beginning. This was our test and you have done well my friends-”

“Whoa, is that cranberry sauce?”

“Carl?”

Carl looked up.

“Focus.”

Carl nodded, quietly scooping a mouthful of cranberry sauce into his mouth when he certain Obadiah was looking elsewhere. In fact, the whole group of turkey raiders began to spread out so they could take turns sneaking nibbles when Obadiah was looking elsewhere.

“It is up to us, the righteous, the strong, the...okay, I see you. You're not sneaky. You know what? Alright, finish the left overs and we'll try this again in thirty minutes.” Obadiah said with a sigh.

“Yay!” the turkeys cried and dove onto the table head first. Carl moved Mr. Denis' head out of the way to get at his mashed potatoes.

“Guys, this gravy is delicious. Man, it's too bad that we had to kill Mrs. Denis...”

The other turkeys stopped.

“Carl, you can't think like that. They are our enemy,” Jethro said.

“But... the gravy...”

“Sacrifices have to be made.”

Carl nodded sadly and finished the last of his potatoes.

Outside they gathered. Obadiah, the old and revered, waiting patiently. He put away a package of candy corn at their approach.

“Aren't those things bad for your blood sugar?” Jethro asked. Obadiah puffed up and looked importantly off into the distance.

“We're at war Jethro. I could die tomorrow. If I do, I'm dying with a belly full of candy corn. I will meet God with it's layered deliciousness still on my beak.”

“So where is the next attack?” Jethro asked.

Obadiah narrowed his eyes even more this time.

“The supermarket...”

“Clean up on aisle 3...” the sad, dull voice droned into the monitor. Another equally sad, dull individual wandered to said Aisle 3 in answer to the call.

“We're practically putting them out of their misery,” Jethro Featherbottom noted. Obadiah nodded.

Mrs. Greyknickers (human) was wandering through the aisles, grumbling about the lack of turkeys in the store when the sudden gobbling caught her attention. She looked up to see the menacing gang of turkeys making their way down Aisle 3.

“They're just letting the daft birds wander the store now?” she said. She went to a clerk.

“I'd like to purchase that fat one there,” she said, pointing at Obadiah.

Obadiah raised his battle ax.

“Fat? I am robust! Attack!” he crowed.

And the turkeys leaped to the fray. The dim witted humans were too busy stumbling over each other and reaching to pull coupons from their wallets to put up much of a fight. Within minutes the battle was over. Obadiah raised his bloody ax high to the whoops and war cries of his fellow gobblers.

With bloody feathers, he reached into the nearest pool of blood and drew on his war paint. He looked up at his comrades. Several gave cheers of ascent. Jethro looked confused.

“That looks like Celtic war paint. Only red,” Jethro noted.

“I didn't want to appropriate the culture of the Native Americans. They've been through enough. I don't want our cause to end up just being a mockery of their culture” Obadiah answered. Jethro scratched his head.

“You're worried about being PC? We're turkeys. Overcoming a holocaust from the humans,” Jethro said, thoroughly at a loss. Obadiah bristled and made a sudden sucking noise of air across his beak.

“Also, I don't like the word holocaust. Unfair to the Jews. I think Turkey genocide sounds better,” Obadiah continued. Many of the turkeys looked from one to another in mutual bewilderment. Obadiah saw that he was losing momentum, so he raised his ax.

“Paint yourselves in the blood of our enemies, and on to the next battle!” he cried. There was a cry of ascent again. Blood lust was an easy sell to this crowd apparently. It's all about creating demand. He remembered hearing that somewhere. It seemed to fit now.

While he was musing, he heard a plastic lid flopping over and over again. He looked over to see Carl pushing up the lid, grabbing a pretzel, and ducking back before it slammed shut again.

“Carl?”

“Hmm?”

“We're leaving.”

The next supermarket was a more difficult operation. The humans had mounted a defense this time and Carl had taken a nasty lump from a thrown can of creamed corn. They had made a barricade inside the beer cooler which the turkeys could not penetrate.

After several failed attempts, Jethro had suggested turning down the temperature of the cooler. Soon they had all the frozen humans they could ask for. Jethro was ready to march on the next location. Obadiah held up a hand.

“Not yet,” Obadiah said quietly. The turkeys all looked to their leader expectantly.

“Get the plastic wrap.”

The next obstacle was to take down a Superstore. And thus they had to march on Mal-Wart, the center of assorted useless items for humans. And the end of the road for so many turkeys.

In the outskirts of human kind, the battles were easier. But against the corporate giant of Mal-Wart where lots of money was at stake, humans suddenly mobilized in greater numbers and with weapons in it's defense.

“They seem to place greater importance on their strongholds if there are larger, shinier lights involved,” Jethro noted. Obadiah nodded.

“And where the people have shinier vehicles,” Sheamus added. Obadiah nodded again.

He looked into the parking lot of Mal-Wart to see many humans armed with guns. The same guns that had slaughtered so many of his kind. This would not be the end. The gobblers would march.

And march they did. War paint on, hatchets in hand, and fancy hats upon their heads. (Several of the turkeys had decided that a certain panache was required for every revolution, and had dubbed themselves the Dandies. Obadiah had allowed it. It seemed to make them happy.)

The humans leveled their guns at the approaching turkeys.

“How do they expect to win Sarge? They have to know they're walking into a blood bath,” Officer Simms asked. Sarge was chewing on his cigar.

“Marching into the face of certain doom, with their heads held high. They may be our enemy, but they have my respect,” Sarge replied.

“Sir, they're turkeys on the war path,” Simms added. Sarge nodded.

“Ready! Aim!” Sarge began, when the fluttering of hundreds of wings could be heard. Sarge and his tactical squad looked to their right to see a sea of hens approaching, rolling pins and large wooden spoons in hand.

“It's just like in the books...” Sarge said quietly.

He looked around at his men, who were now staring at him oddly.

“It's alright men. Simms, you and those on the left, fire straight ahead. The rest of you, aim at the hens.”

Another fluttering of wings turned their attention. At the other end of the parking lot, thousands of ducks descended upon the battle field. The men looked around, now surrounded.

“We'll have reinforcements from inside mall security, and back up should be on it's way. We can hold here until they arrive,” Sarge called out to his men. Simms tapped Sarge on the shoulder.

“What is it Simms?” Sarge asked.

“The ducks...” he began.

“Spit it out,” Sarge pressed.

“They've brought geese with them.”

Sarge turned to see the geese, tall necked and hissing. He pulled back the hammer on his gun.

“We're all doomed,” was all that was heard. Everything else was lost in an explosion of gunfire, feathers, and a lot of swearing.

After the battle, Obadiah called the Hen, Duck and Goose leaders to him.

“We have consolidated our forces. We are stronger than ever. Now we will-” but his speech was cut short by the sound of squealing. All faces turned to see a multitude of pigs and hogs.

Alistair, leader of the hogs stepped forward.

“You bastards left us to die!” he cried out. The hogs and pigs all squealed in unison, raising their machetes and short swords in the air.

Obadiah stared for a moment. He looked down, thinking of all the hogs that had died in the previous Thanksgiving. He sighed.

“Our sins are more easily remembered than our good deeds...” he said quietly, looking up at his new foe. A foe that didn't have to be. Then the hogs shouted and the charge commenced.

Far away, on the distant shores of the Gulf Coast, thousands of tiny red claws clapped in unison.

Guillaume de Blois took the podium.

“Crawfish, shrimp, crabs! Lend me your ears!”

~Fin

Tesla Goyle

2015-11-25T12:11:00.002-08:00

Elliot was welding the final plate in place when Kensington came trotting through the door, whistling and twirling his cane. Kensington paused and turned his head at the contraption Elliot was working on. This section of the workshop had been closed off to all but himself, his personal assistant, and Kensington, his investor. Kensington looked over his latest investment, brown shorts held aloft by slightly darker suspenders over a dingy cream tunic that poor Elliot swam in. All of Elliot's money went into his work.

“It's nearly complete?” Kensington asked. Elliot nodded. Kensington's eyes moved over the uneven metal surfaces.

“Will it work?” he continued, his finger grazing his finely groomed goatee.

“It already does,” Elliot replied, glancing at his plum, long-coated companion. Kensington set his black top hat on the nearby rack, his long, dark hair cascading over his shoulders.

“So all the gears work? Everything moves?” Kensington pressed excitedly, clapping Elliot on the shoulder. Elliot nodded, his rat's nest of straw blonde hair bobbing and his blue eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Did you bring the Sabine Quartz?” Elliot asked. Kensington raised an eyebrow.

“Have I ever failed to come through for you my dear Elliot?” Kensington crooned, hand on his heart. Elliot shook his head.

“No, sir. That you have not,” Elliot replied, smiling.

Kensington set the small ornate mahogany box down upon the table. Brass work swirled around the top and edges of the box, arching toward the center vertices that encapsulated the key hole. Kensington pulled the key from a silver chain around his neck and placed it into the box.

A soft purple glow emanated from the box. Faint whispers followed. Secrets of long lost lovers, best friends, doting parents and laughing children. The hidden songs of hearth and family dinners. Some called the Sabine Quartz the fabled Hearth Stone, the soul of not just a person, but the essence of family. Elliot's eyes glistened as he held the box aloft, stared into the heart of the soft glow, and listened as the song of a hundred lovely whispers of well wishes washed over his ears.

“It's something else isn't it?” Kensington asked. Elliot simply nodded. The lump in his throat wouldn't let him speak. He couldn't believe his friend had found one.

“How did you even know to ask for one of these?” Kensington followed. Elliot swallowed and took a deep breath.

“I came across it in my research. I asked another old tinkerer, who guessed a bit about what I was up to, and suggested it. I knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a try,” Elliot said, mystified.

“Worth more than just that. I have houses that don't cost as much as that stone there,” Kensington noted. Elliot nodded.

“And I am eternally grateful,” Elliot said.

He walked around his work bench and pulled out another box. Not so fancy as Kensington's, but still one upon which Elliot placed great value and importance.

From it he pulled the Clockwork Heart he had built. Kensington whistled.

“I still can't believe you made one,” Kensington noted. Elliot smiled thankfully. He wasn't sure he'd succeed either. In fact, until the Sabine Quartz was in place, he wouldn't be sure.

The blue print was from the Heart of Gold, designed by the fabled Shimon Exeter, founder of modern engineering. No one had succeeded in replicating a functional one. Some had begun to say the Heart of Gold was merely allegory for the epitome of engineering; something that all must strive toward but never fully achieve.

“And Elliot, you beautiful fool, you've gone and done the impossible again...” Kensington mused to himself.

Elliot's Clockwork Heart however was a different sort of contraption altogether. Leather straps wrapped around the brass and gold frame work. Brass cogs connected with copper wire. It was beautiful in it's complex absurdity. Kensington was ever enthralled by Elliot's childlike wonder at science, and his unwavering obsession to complete any objective he set his mind to.

He opened a small door on the underside of the Clockwork Heart and placed the Sabine Quartz inside. He closed it carefully and waited. Nothing happened. Kensington frowned.

“It was a long shot my friend...” he said dolefully. Elliot jumped from his work stool.

He reached to an uppermost shelf and pulled down something covered in an old brown cloth. Pulling back the cloth, a bright yellow light filled the room. Sparks shot around within a glass case with a black rubber bottom.

“What in Heavens is that?” Kensington asked, aghast.

“It's a Tesla,” Elliot said, his eyes beaming.

“The electrical spirits? That supposedly haunt the old wastes of the Ancient Country?” Kensington asked.

“First, they do no such thing. Yes, they dwell there, but I hardly call it 'haunting.' I took a sojourn there. Many engineers secretly do. To learn what we can from the archaic, rusted machines. To gaze upon what was once the greatness of that ancient civilization. To gain clarity. To gain insight. To gain inspiration...” Elliot said, setting the glass case next to the Clockwork heart.

“So, you caught one,” Kensington observed.

“No. It asked to come with me. Look,” Elliot said, calling Kensington over. He looked to see at the center of the arching bolts of electricity, a tiny golden woman.

“It looks like a faerie,” he noted.

“I believe they're kin. I asked her to come home with me. She's watched me build the gargoyle piece by piece. Sometimes even offering insight. She's truly brilliant,” Elliot said. Kensington looked over the tiny girl doubtfully.

“And what is her part in all of this now?” he asked.

“Her people are dying. Something has changed in this world, and they are all dying off. I'd hoped to find another, but now I'm going to ask her to give the gargoyle life,” he said. He looked at the tiny woman in the glass.

“So how about it my friend? A new life in this new world?” he asked. The tiny woman looked over at the tarp covering Elliot's creation. She was silent a moment. Thoughtful. She would become something completely different from what she had ever been. What would this new life be like?

She and Elliot spoke for several minutes. Kensington could understand little of what the tiny woman said, but he guessed that Elliot had spent some time learning to decipher her speech. At last the tiny woman nodded. Elliot nodded in return.

“Thank you,” he said.

Elliot ran over and pulled off the tarp. Elegant in it's strangeness it stood, Elliot's mechanical gargoyle. His imperfect angel.

Now that Kensington looked upon the iron and silver frame work, he saw the feminine quality to it. It would be powerful, indeed terrifying in the right conditions. But there was so much more it would be capable of, he realized now.

Elliot opened the trap door in it's back and set the Clockwork Heart inside. He shut the door, and welded it closed forever. He pulled a lever and the leather wings extended.

“You've made them bigger,” Kensington noted. Elliot nodded.

“I want her to soar like the eagles,” he answered. Kensington chuckled and shook his head. Then he looked to the tiny woman.

“So she'll be trapped in this imperfect shell? Will she be in pain?” Kensington asked.

“It very well may. I don't know yet. At best, it will be uncomfortable. But it will be life,” Elliot said.

“But what sort of life?” Kensington asked.

“She's dying my liege. Her body cannot sustain itself much longer. This body will give her a new life. And look at it! Isn't it beautiful?” Elliot exclaimed.

Kengington nodded. It was the most magnificent piece of craftsmanship he had ever seen. And he had lived for a time in the Capital, where extravagant constructs were the fashion.

Kensington turned to the tiny golden woman, leaning on his cane.

“Are you sure little one?” he asked. The tiny woman looked back at him, mustering what courage she could and nodding back. Kensington smiled.

“It shall be a new adventure for us all,” he mused.

Elliot opened the mouth to the mechanical gargoyle. He walked over and lifted the glass from the container. Small sparks shot out in all directions.

“Go my friend, and live again,” Elliot said. The tiny woman shot into the air, doing several loop de loops before diving into the gargoyle.

“Go straight for the heart!” Elliot exclaimed.

There was a shudder within the gargoyle. Then a jerk. Then the head moved from side to side. The hand came up and the head turned to look at it. The clawed hand opened and closed. Keens lifted as it stepped from side to side. The eyes shifted to look at Elliot and Kensington. Kensington could swear he saw it smile.

Elliot ran to the window and pulled back the curtain.

“A test flight?” he asked. The gargoyle nodded.

“What will you call it?” Kensington asked.

“What do you mean?” Elliot replied.

“It's not truly just a construct any longer. And not completely a gargoyle with an electrical Fae spirit inside it,” Kensington continued. Elliot pursed his lips. He rubbed his chin and looked at his gargoyle. His friend, the Tesla.

“The Tesla-Goyle,” Elliot said at last. Kensington laughed aloud.

“Such silliness. But yes, it does fit. Tesla-Goyle it is,” Kensington said.

Sparks shot into random directions as archs of electricity slithered along the joints and contours of the mechanical body. She spread her wings and started running.

“Have you tested the flight capabilities yet?” Kensington asked in sudden alarm.

“No,” Elliot replied. Kensington's mouth dropped open.

“You just have to believe!” Elliot shouted as he pulled back the curtain. And the Tesla-Goyle leaped into the air, her wings outspread, and she rose into the sky.

Kensington and Elliot both watched her swirl through the air, in awe of her spiraling elegance.

“There's nothing else in this world like her. Truly one of a kind,” Kensington observed in awe.

“And look at her soar...” Elliot said wistfully.

“Look at her soar.”

Nexus Casino

2015-10-03T18:20:00.002-07:00

The house dealer cut the cards and started dealing.

“Alright gentlemen, talisman on the table!” Fox announced to the gathered assemblage. Sorcerers, vampires, demigods and Fox Meridian, magical cad and swindler.

Immortals gathered at the Nexus Tavern every Blue Moon to trade in wares, paraphernalia, items of power, gossip, and for high stakes gambling.

The Vitelli Family, with nerve centers in most major supernatural cities, owned the Nexus Casino.

Several Immortals and members of the Jade Kingdom were playing Mahjong at a nearby table, where presumably vast fortunes of gold and jewels were changing hands. Odin and Czernobog were sitting a table playing chess. Fates only knew what was being wagered at this table.

Full house and three of a kind won Fox several powerful talisman at his table.

This was a night where beings from different worlds could change their fortunes and destinies. Fox had lost an ancient Aztec divination talisman and a Roman cursing tablet. He'd gained several Sumerian talisman and a set of ancient Egyptian carved ephigies, amongst some other odds and ends he didn't recognize.

The tone of the room shifted suddenly however. A disheveled man with an uneven gray suit came stumbling in with a briefcase. He stood in the corner as a few games progressed. Most pretended to ignore him, but Fox noticed that all side glances were in his direction.

Finally a Lord Leopold had felt tapped out and excused himself from the table. Everyone bid him a good night. Even Fox, who had won several priceless artifacts from him. Even still, Fox was respectful with no tinge of irony. One did not intentionally upset a being like Lord Leopold.

Lord Leopold had cashed in his chips and prepared to leave when the disheveled man took a seat at the table.

Fox and several others exchanged glances. The dealer began dealing.

“Bids?” the dealer asked allowed. Various token, medallions and jewels were set upon the table. The dealer cast a look upon the newcomer.

“Bids,” the dealer announced softly.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as the newcomer fiddled with the lock on his briefcase. He opened it and handed a piece of paper to the dealer. The dealer unfolded, read it, and looked out to the table.

“One unborn soul to be wagered,” the dealer announced.

There was some murmuring throughout the surrounding room. Other people at the table exchanged glances and placed their bets. Such wagers happened from time to time. Rapunzel's parents had made such a deal with the Witch next door. Rumplestiltskin maid the deal with the farmer's daughter. Tonight was the first time he'd seen such a wager unfold before his eyes.

Fox was silent for a moment before tossing in a few Spanish galleons.

Fox lost the hand. A sorcerer named Salem Grey took the hand.

The game continued for a few more hands. The disheveled stranger excused himself from the table but was stopped from leaving by Vitelli security. Upon losing an Unborn Soul, certain rituals had to be in place before the player was allowed to leave the premises, to ensure payment.

Fox kept an eye on the contract. Several more hands changed places.

Then came the big stakes play. They turned up a few times each game. Several players bowed out after large stakes were set at place. In the end, only Salem Grey and Fox Meridian were still in the game.

Salem was ancient and stoic. He was impossible to read. Fox could only hope he had the top hand. But he kept his face placid.

The stakes had been raised a few times as each player bowed out. Fox had the high ground.

Salem was idly looking around at the pile in front of him. He was an old sorcerer with piles of books and scrolls and enchantments he had either won or created himself. He was looking through them when Fox spoke up.

“The soul,” he said.

Salem looked up inquisitively.

“That will complete the wager,” Fox said. Salem was silent a moment, then slid the folded paper over to Fox.

Salem had a full house. Fox a straight flush. There were several whistles at the table. Fox nodded somberly. Salem was an immensely powerful and ancient sorcerer. Even in defeat, he was also one not to anger.

Fox gathered his chips.

“It's been great, but I think it's time I cashed out this evening,” Fox announced to the group.

There were several glances exchanged.

“I'd like to chat with you soon,” Salem said to Fox. Fox nodded. He looked over to the newcomer that had bid the Unborn Soul earlier in the evening.

Fox cashed out with the house.

“So, I'll be cashing this in with you soon?” Fox said, brandishing the deed in his right hand.

The man extended his hand.

“The name's Eli Cummings,” the man said. Fox looked at the hand and nodded.

Outside Fox lit a cigarette as they were walking.

“So when is she do?” Fox asked.

Eli sputtered for a moment.

“W-w-well, not just yet. So far as I know. But we're still young,” Eli said.

“So no child yet?” Fox replied.

“Well, no. But we will.”

“What made you make that wager?” Fox asked nonchalantly.

“We're in debt. Both of us. Some bad investments went south. I needed tonight to bring me back out of it. Sadly, it didn't happen,” Eli said, shaking his head.

Fox sighed, deed in hand.

“Listen. We're both human. Or so I'm guessing. Would you be willing to give the deed back?” Eli asked.

“So it shows up at another game?”

“Maybe. Who knows?” Eli said, chuckling slightly. Fox nodded.

“Doesn't benefit me does it? You'll have to bet off your second child in that case,” Fox said. Eli nodded. He pulled back the flap to his suit, revealing a revolver. With his hand on the handle, he looked at Fox somberly.

“I could take it back if I wanted to. I'd like to give you the chance to give it back willingly,” Eli said. Fox exhaled a puff of smoke.

“You'd be breaking the code of honor amongst gamblers. Who's to trust you again at future games?” Fox asked with all the investment of discussing the weather.

“Well, I'd love to sit and discuss gambling ethics with you. But, the deed?” Eli said, gesturing to the gun again. Fox frowned. Then he pulled the revolver from Eli's waist and fired into Eli's temple. Another round was fired into Eli when he hit the ground.

“He'd have just done it again...” Fox muttered to himself. He wiped off the handle to the revolver and place the handle back in Eli's hand then walked off, lighting another cigarette.

The Return Journey

2015-09-08T06:32:00.002-07:00

The adventurers drew near the Portal, weary and worn from their many adventures. But at last their quest was over and it was time to return home. With a sigh they moved to step forward. Priestess stopped.

“I don't want to go back,” she said.

The party looked back at the receding Enchanted Kingdom behind them. Warrior spoke up.

“I don't want to either. I don't wish to leave this place.”

He looked to Priestess and they both smiled. He would not have spoken up had she not. She had always lent him strength he didn't know he could find.

The Old Wizard emerged from a passing fog. He puffed upon a long ornate pipe and grinned.

“Hail my young friends. You have accomplished much. But your quest is not over,” the Wizard said softly.

Sorcerer spoke next.

“But we have completed all our quests. We have conquered the Long Lines. We have had all our tomes signed by the Elder Ones. We have fashioned our garb for all the land to behold, and even found seating at the Mead Hall,” he replied.

Wizard puffed quietly for a few moments.

“That is but one quest. Your next quest lays beyond this portal,” he said.

“But that returns to the Banal Kingdom. The lands of Drudgery and Routine! What possible quest could exist there?” Priestess demanded.

“The quest of Magic. You found it here. You embraced it and shared it. Now you must carry it with you into the Banal Lands, and care for it dearly. Nurture that Magic, keep it alive! And share it with others. Over time, you can create Enclaves of Magic with the Banal Lands. And the Mundane Lords will try to stamp it out of you and destroy your Enclaves. That is when you must bolster one another. You much recharge your energies by sharing your magic with each other.

You may do it with a shared thought. A conjured image. A meeting to build your magic back up when it feels low. But you have the strength within you. All of you. And the quest lies before you.”

The Wizard finished speaking and held his hand toward the Portal.

The Party looked from one to another. Priestess, Warrior, Sorcerer, Barbarian, and the one party member that couldn't make up their minds and decided to 'Multi-Class'. They nodded to each other, held hands, and stepped through the Portal into the Banal Lands.

The Wizard folded his hands and his smile faded. He knew what his young companions would face in the Banal Lands. In his hands he summoned two spirits; Dream and Hope.

“Go with them. Follow them. Guide them,” he whispered to the spirits.

“They will need you more than the air they breathe at times. Stay with them, and pull them together when times are dark,” the Wizard finished. He opened his hands and off they flew.

So the Adventurers began their next quest, followed by Hope and Dream, and empowered by Magic within their hearts.