It’s not clear in the two webcomics arcs how she goes from having two legs to a fish tail, but the answer is attached to that sash around her waist. It’s likely the only design requirement for her wardrobe ever.

In my comic series Raven Nevermore (coming soon!), in issue #3, a ship captain who carries contraband on her ship is introduced. She goes by the name Captain Alakai. Some people call her Swordfish. Coincidence? No. It’s simply my way of sending a shout out to alternate timeline / alternate world concepts in comic book history. It’s fun times.

He moved past more hanging carcasses – a lamb, half a cow and something he couldn’t identify – as he approached his captive. The man was tied to a chair, ankles bound, hands together behind his back.

Aranax enjoyed the way the man’s eyes widened ever so slightly at his approach, the way his nostril flared and his muscles tensed.  He noticed the set of the man’s jaw, a determined grimace, trying, and failing, not to show his fear. A sheen of sweat glistened on the man’s brow, despite the cold of the chiller.

“What do you want?” the man asked.

“Nothing,” Aranax replied. One of his chains slunk towards the captive, the bladed edge brushed the man’s cheek.

The man jerked his head away. “Then let me go!”

“No.”

“You must want something! What is it? Money? I have money.”

Aranax chuckled: a low, throaty sound full of menace. “I am already getting paid far more than you could ever hope to give me.”

“What do you want?” the man growled again. He tugged at his bonds, causing the chair to jump a little.

“I don’t want anything,” Aranax replied. “The man I work for wants you out of his way.”

“Why?”

Aranax heard footsteps so he drew back from the captive. He smiled. “Why don’t you ask him that yourself?”

Two pig carcasses swayed as Aranax’s employer moved them aside to step through. The man was tall, taller than Aranax, and lean, with dark, cropped hair and pale blue eyes. He wore a thick coat with a furred collar and leather gloves. When he laughed, his breath clouded in front of his lips.

“You!” the captive hissed.

“He recognises you, Mr Keller,” Aranax said.

“I expect he does,” Keller replied. “He’s sleeping with my wife, I imagine he’s seen my photo beside the bed.”

Aranax chuckled. “You would think that’d put him off.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Keller agreed.

The captive jerked his arms. “Let me go!” he demanded. “Does Maria know you’re doing this?”

“What do you think she would do if she did?” Keller asked. “Rescue you?”

“She’ll hate you when she finds out what you’re doing to me.”

Aranax doubted Keller’s wife would ever find out. He smirked and folded his arms across his chest.

Keller simply laughed. “She already hates me. Now then…” He turned to Aranax, slipped a hand inside his coat and pulled out a fat envelope. “Your fee. You’ll find it’s all there.”

“I know I will, Mr Keller,” Aranax replied, taking the envelope and stowing it away about his person. He knew that Keller was aware of what would happen if he dared to cross a kyton. He waited until his employer had walked away and he’d heard the chiller door close before he turned back to his victim. “Now where were we…”

In one swift movement, the man tilted his chair back, slammed his feet down, and freed his ankles before the chair legs crashed heavily to the floor again. He rose up, hands still attached behind him, and twisted, smashing the chair into Aranax and breaking it into pieces.

Aranax grunted in surprise, then watched as the man ran away, darting between slabs of meat as broken bits of chair skittered across the floor.

Aranax laughed and brushed splinters from his chest. “Why prolong the inevitable?” he called. “There is no escape.”

“Yeah?” the man called back. “I’m a chancer, can’t you tell?”

“I can tell,” Aranax replied, moving pig carcasses aside to clear his view. “Do you know what I am?”

He heard the scuff of the man’s feet on the floor, then his voice coming from a different direction. “A kyton.”  The word was almost a whisper, almost a gasp, full of fear.

Aranax knew where the man hid and with one small gesture, instructed all the chains in the room to pull back, so that he could see his prey.

“There you are,” Aranax said, smiling.

The man had his back pressed against the wall. His eyes were wide and his jaw set. “St-stay away,” he stuttered.

Chains creaked and chinked as they moved. Those that had no meat attached snaked towards the man, wrapping around his arms and legs as he screamed and thrashed. Aranax himself stood back a moment, watching, before he raised himself up on his own chains, stabbing the pointed tips into the floor as he walked, spider-like, towards his victim. He stopped, grabbed the man around the throat and pulled him close.

“A pity,” he said, “I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

The man choked, clawed at Aranax’s arms with his fingers, his eyes started to roll back in his head.

Aranax relaxed his grip and let the meat chains hold the man instead. With a smile, his face became that of Mr Keller’s wife.

Metal links crossed the man’s face; chains cocooned his head until only his eyes were showing. He looked at Aranax, a brief flicker of hope, then his muffled voice said, “Maria?”

Aranax only made the chains squeeze harder.

“The Chain Spider” by E.J. Tett, art by Pablo Peppino; © 2012, XEI
Licensed under the Creative Commons License By-NC-SA

You CAN share and distribute this story;
You CAN make “fan fiction” based on characters in this story;
You CAN NOT make profit off this work or any derivitive works;
You MUST use apply the same CC-License indicated above.

You MUST include the proper Attribution with ANY shared story:
“Written by E.J. Tett, © 2012, XEI, http://www.nunoxei.com”

In the November issue of Blueprint Magazine, the theme was “Queer”. I knew right away that I wanted to make the story in this month’s comic one that commented on alternative-partner-choice lifestyles.

Instead of depicting a relationship that would be easily correlated to a real-world partnership, I went in a completely “alien” direction… literally. I wanted to introduce concepts that (I believe) are at the core of alternative choice lifestyles. That core is one that represents the emotional bond between partners, the acceptance of one another as individuals, and the importance of happiness in one’s life.

Live and let live, I always say.

Read the “Queer” Issue on the Blueprint Magazine Website
Read other Beholder strips!

Paen’umbam had watched his target die and had mourned. Mourned not the death, but the fact that he had not been the killer. So, he waited for his second chance.

 * * *

Decades later, bishops removed the corpse from its original resting place in Southern Gaulan to Mircea. A country skilled in necromancy. A country so skilled in the old arts that the body, once animated, would be almost as good as new.

The corpse, one Bayard Chaput, had been a renowned knight when living. A hero. A cloaked warrior, capable of bringing down the most dangerous of fiends. He had died, not by the hand of an enemy, but from a tragic accident where his horse – the largest, most fierce of all destriers, threw him from the saddle. Bayard had broken his neck.

Paen’umbam retreated. He knew that heroes didn’t just die. He knew Bayard would be back, that somebody, somewhere, would bring the knight back. Paen was a babau assassin, his patience was unrivalled. He could wait.

* * *

The battle raged all night. Metal clashed against metal, men screamed and shouted and cursed. Blood, sweat and tears flowed freely. Clouds drifted across the sky and cloaked the moon and Paen watched as knights slaughtered knights across the battlefield. He slipped between warring bodies, silent and unseen, wrapped in darkness, and bent to take a taste of those already fallen. The flavour of human meat on his thin, dry tongue was something he relished. The flesh provided him not with sustenance, but with pleasure. He cared not which knight killed which knight so long as his own target survived.

Bayard was there, gore splattered and muddy. Paen could hear the knight roaring like a man possessed. Battle-crazed, dead eyes shining, his armour blood-flecked and dented. Bayard cut down everyone in his path.

He came too close. Paen smelled death and decay seeping from the knight’s every pore, he saw the grey pallor of the skin around the man’s eyes, saw his sunken cheeks and his crumbling fingernails. And he knew when Bayard spotted him.

Their eyes met, briefly. And then Paen was gone, teleporting away from the battle and slinking back into the darkness, gathering the night around himself like a cloak. He watched from a distance, hiding in the forest. Waiting.

* * *

Morning came. Paen watched men pick through the battlefield and head on into the forest. He trailed after them a while, thought about killing the stragglers and then decided against it, turning back to seek out Bayard.

The knight must be with the other army, heading back into the mountains to tell the townsfolk of his victory. Paen knew he could get there first – a simple teleportation to some shadowy place and lie in wait – but he wanted more than that. He didn’t want an easy kill. He wanted a hunt, a fight. A kill worthy of himself.

So he turned and headed back through the forest, thinking about Bayard Chaput and all the grisly ways he could end that man’s second life.

The sound of a twig snapping underfoot. Paen hissed and spun around in time to see a knight swinging a sword. The weapon skimmed the surface of his skin, slicing through the acid slime that protected him.

The knight gasped as the blade bubbled and melted. Paen laughed as the man, wide-eyed, foolishly threw the sword to the ground. Then he attacked, leaping forwards and sinking his teeth into the man’s face, pulling a chunk of flesh away from the cheekbone before tearing at it again, all the while the knight screaming, screaming…

Moving on, Paen left the corpse to rot in the forest.

* * *

The white cloak flapped at the knight’s heels as he strode through the town. From the shadows of the town-hall, Paen watched.

In taverns along the street, people revelled in their champions’ victory on the battlefield, laughing and singing and brawling nosily as humans had the habit of doing. Paen could smell ale and piss and vomit, could see men falling over one another and women clinging to each other’s arms.

The moon showed in the sky, though it was not quite dark, and as Paen watched, he saw Bayard stop and gaze upwards. Seeing his chance, he pulled the shadows around himself and then pushed the darkness outwards into the street, letting it surround the knight.

He rushed up silently behind his target, sunk his claws into the gaps in the knight’s armoured shoulders and spun the man around, ready to sink his teeth into flesh.

Bayard’s fist struck him in the jaw and sent him reeling backwards. Paen heard the sword being drawn from its scabbard and he ducked down as the blade passed over his head. As he straightened, the knight swung the sword again and this time he vanished in an explosion of darkness and reappeared at the man’s back.
Quickly, Bayard spun around but Paen lashed out, catching the knight across the face with his claws. He struck again before Bayard could recover, watching as spots of dark blood arced into the air.

A mailed fist hit his cheek, then Bayard thrust out with his sword. Paen felt the tip of the blade touch his rib cage and he curled his lip at the knight as the blade started to steam and melt. He looked into Bayard’s eyes and was surprised to see the knight smiling grimly.

With a hiss, he teleported away up onto the roof of the town hall, snatched at the flagpole and ripped it from its base. Darkness billowed around him like a cape; he disappeared and once more confronted Bayard.

The knight roared, struck out with his broken blade, and Paen thrust forwards with the splintered pole, finding a gap in the armour below the man’s abdomen. Breath and blood sprayed from the knight’s lips.

Paen pulled the pole out and then, as Bayard dropped to his knees, thrust it down into the soft flesh between his neck and breastplate.

A crowd had gathered to watch, the drunken revellers now quietly sober. Paen became aware of them as Bayard Chaput dropped dead at his feet. He lifted the body and teleported back to the rooftop.

With a grin, he bit off the knight’s ear and spat it down into the street.

His eyes narrowed and he said, “Resurrect that.”

“Black Cloak” by E.J. Tett, art by Pablo Peppino; © 2012, XEI
Licensed under the Creative Commons License By-NC-SA

You CAN share and distribute this story;
You CAN make “fan fiction” based on characters in this story;
You CAN NOT make profit off this work or any derivitive works;
You MUST use apply the same CC-License indicated above.

You MUST include the proper Attribution with ANY shared story:
“Written by E.J. Tett, © 2012, XEI, http://www.nunoxei.com”

Popular artist, Andy Warhol, even produced silk prints of “The Scream” in 1983-1984 in order to desacralize the art even further by mass-producing it for the pop-conscious and high-consumerist fad culture of the 1980s.

The iconic face of the anguished foreground character in “The Scream” was undoubtedly injected into the minds of a whole new generation of movie-goers when Wes Craven’s aptly names “Scream” franchise hit cinemas in 1996.

The Ghostface antagonist in “Scream” wears a mask that was influenced by a novelty mask created in the 1991-1992 Halloween season by Fun World employee Brigitte Sleiertin, which in turn referenced Munch’s painting. The costume is the highest sold and worn costume in the United States. Due to its rapidly growing popularity, by the time Scream 3 hit theatres in 2000, the mask was referenced in many commercials and other television shows shortly after–Beverly Hills 90210, Dawson’s Creek, Sopranos, Simpsons and Robot Chicken to name a few–cementing the visual even more firmly in the minds of the general public.

The Doctor Who character, named quite antonymously “The Silence”, appears in the 2011 episode “The Impossible Astronaut” and bares a striking resemblance to Munch’s character which The Silence was partially based on.

It’s no surprise that geek culture has latched on to the popularity of this memorable work of art to create derivative works depicting popular fictional characters for yet another generation.

These five mashup examples are only a sampling of what has turned into a well-established troupe online. It’s a safe bet for any artist to use Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” as the subject of their parody if their intention is for fans to have an immediate awareness of the reference.

They may not capture the intensity of the colours or the emotion in the lines that Munch intended, but there remains a suggestive subtext to the parodies that adds a layer to the narrative–at least for the geek-inclined–whether intended or not. There lies the genius intrinsic to the composition of the original work of art.

His posture here is telling of his chivalric nature; a trait that makes him possibly a bit naive, but he stands confidently and true.

Orca uses a high frequency sound waves to echo locate under and above water. The entire surface of his body reads the rebounding sound waves as the bounce off objects. He can emit sound blasts that can shatter objects and leave living creatures stunned or paralyzed. If it wasn’t for his devotion to a strict Code of Honor, he’d be a serious threat to the Seven Seas.

The LOAH characters are a group I still wish to push in the future! I couldn’t pass up the chance to have Eryck give each toon some new life. Here’s the Astonishing Boston Crab! He’s always felt like something out of a pulp horror comic from the 60s in my mind. There’re some great texture here and I love the heavy shadows which add to the ambiance of his creepy factor!

“Living in the city,” Bo said, “can be a cold and lonely place to be.” He raised his massive woolly head and horns up past the windshield of the Cadillac convertible. The Alberta prairie air rushed into his flared nostrils as he drove west down the Trans-Canada Highway.

Bo breathed in deeply and smiled.

His buddy, Hirc, swayed in the passenger seat while breathing music out of a red steel harmonica. He raised his hairy arm high to feel the wind current.

Bo loved his Cadillac. It was an Eldurato, ninth generation, an ‘85 custom painted the colour of golden wheat fields. It was freeing. He could take in the land’s scents. It wasn’t cramped like most roofed cars. He’d even drive the convertible in winter. Cold didn’t bother him.

“This is the highway that I run to,” Bo said. “This is where I’ll find my dreams.”

The music stopped. The white minotaur glanced at Hirc looking out over a landscape that stretched out to the horizon.

“Don’t worry buddy,” Bo tapped the satyr’s shoulder. “You’ll find yours too.”

Hirc shrugged and absently tapped the harmonica against one of his horns. He couldn’t help but glance at his friend’s massive ones, curved and majestic. Everything about the minotaur was massive, larger than life, from his hulking head to his outlook.

Hirc felt very small.

Eyes going bleary he stared down the road and undid his seatbelt. One tremulous hand on the windshield the other on the door, Hirc stood in the seat, careful not to scuff the leather with his cloven hooves. Face in the wind, he hurled a rebel yell against the torrent of life, a mighty cathartic scream.

Spent, he slid back to his seat and asked without turning, “How do you do it, Bo?”

Bo snorted and mused, “Keep it simple, my friend. Try not to take what you don’t need.”

Hirc twisted in his seat, retrieved the small dufflebag, and tossed it over the door.

“Not exactly what I meant, buddy,” Bo chuckled, “Now just think about freedom. Dream a little each day. You’ll get there.”

Hirc nodded and smiled on down the highway.

“So, where to?” Hirc asked as he reclined the passenger seat of the Cadillac. He got comfortable and folded his hands behind his head. His unbuttoned denim shirt flapped in the wind. “You got a plan?”

“Medicine Hat is the next stop,” Bo replied. “We fuel up and keep going west.”

“Mind if I pick up some jerky for the road?” Hirc asked.

Bo avoided eye contact. He patted the door with his free arm which hung limply outside the vehicle. His other hand gripped the leather-covered steering wheel.

“You know,” Hirc added, “that’s cowhide you’re gripping there—anything like the real thing?”

Bo gave Hirc a sideways glance. Like always, Hirc just patiently waited for Bo’s reaction. There he was, head slightly lowered, beady eyes creeping over the circular lenses of his glasses, a crooked smile cracked across his face.

Hirc sprayed spit everywhere as he entered a laughing frenzy.

The minotaur unbuttoned the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt and shook his head, “Jackass,” he said, then smiled.

This short story was written on Ficly in three parts. The first third, “Gypsy Road“, was written by Nuno Teixeira. The second third, “Keep it Simple“, was written by “THX0477“. The last third, “Cowhide“, was written by Nuno Teixeira. It was part of a Challenge requiring a scene based on a song or its lyrics. The song used was “Gypsy Road” by Bruce Dickinson.

Irakuda closed his eyes in ecstasy and dropped the dragon neck, which landed heavily and sent up a little plume of dust from the ground. He sighed deeply and then reached for his glaive and cradled it to his chest. He stroked the weapon and spoke soothing words to it as he cleaned blood from the blades with a strip of soft leather.

After strapping the weapon to his back, he returned to the dragon head. He kicked at it contemptuously, spat onto the ground, and then crouched to prize open the creature’s mouth. He pulled four sharp teeth from the dragon’s jaws and pushed them through the scales of his snakeskin belt.

Satisfied, he straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and then moved on. He strode across the dry farmland, knowing that he would have some distance to travel before he found another dragon. His beard was already twitching in anticipation and he felt a knot in his stomach. In the distance, shimmering in a heat wave, was the small town of Ardeal. Towns had townsfolk and while human blood was not of the same calibre as dragon blood, it would do to tide him over.

Beyond the town lay the forests of Mircea where dragons would be slumbering. Irakuda could barely wait to wake them from their sleep so they could meet his glaive. He could almost feel the weapon shiver in eagerness and he chuckled quietly to himself.

“Patience,” he said.

The first few thick spots of rain hit the dusty over-worked farmland around him. Then a roll of thunder sounded in the distance and Irakuda picked up the pace as the clouds opened. The rain poured down, soaking his animal skin cloak and making it hang heavy against his back. He growled in irritation and stomped onwards, becoming increasingly bad tempered.

When he reached Ardeal he pulled the first person he saw into a shadowy alleyway and crushed their throat with his hands. He used the spines on his arms to cut the man’s throat and taste his blood before he dropped the body to the ground and peered out into the street. The rain still lashed down, bouncing off the cobbles and forcing people to stay inside, or hurry, heads bent, to their destinations.

Irakuda stepped out into the street. Nobody noticed him as he walked among them, his beard curling and twitching on his chin like the tail of a hunting cat. He stopped, took the glaive from his back and surveyed the town. A woman squealed and dashed away, her feet pattering on the cobbles. Others noticed him now and Irakuda smiled grimly at their shouts and cries.

With a laugh, he ran, swung his glaive and beheaded a man too slow to get away. He laughed again when the head bounced and the body fell with a wet smack to the ground. He kissed his blade and let the rain wash it clean.

Footsteps running towards him, shouts and then a hiss as men fired crossbows. Irakuda turned too slowly, a bolt thudded into his shoulder and, growling, he pulled it free and threw it down. He roared and charged at the men, taking another bolt before they scattered in front of him. He kept on running, stopping only to lift a manhole cover and drop down into the sewers.

He crouched in the gloom and waited for his eyes to adjust. Above him, he could hear running and shouting as the men looked for him. He smirked, kissed his weapon again and then secured it to his back.

Drips echoed in the tunnels. Rats squeaked and fought and scurried around him. As he walked, his feet sloshed through the murky water and disturbed the smell, sending putrid odours to assault his nostrils. Grunting, he tugged the bolt from his thigh, licked his blood from the tip, then discarded it in the water.

Ahead of him, piled high in the middle of the tunnel, was a colourful mound of old clothing. Irakuda approached it, frowned, and stood still with the feeling he was being watched. Quickly, he swung his glaive and an imp appeared, screeching and chattering in panic. The small fiend flapped its leathery wings and fluttered around his head. Irakuda tried to grab the creature but it vanished in a flash, leaving him alone in the sewer.

He waited. When nothing else appeared out of the darkness, he continued on his way, soon finding another manhole and climbing out into an empty street. The rain still came down but the town was quiet. Irakuda could see the forests beyond, tantalisingly close.

He walked on, soon leaving Ardeal behind. Trees surrounded him, sheltering him from the rain, though large, fat drops still fell through. He walked and walked until his beard twitched and the hair stood up along his arms.

“Dragon,” Irakuda said, taking hold of his glaive. He raised the weapon and ran a hand along the staff. “Soon now.”

Through the trees, nestled at the base of the hills, there was a cave mouth. It would be dry and dark in there. Perfect, Irakuda knew, for sleeping dragons…

“Barbed Hunter” by E.J. Tett, art by Pablo Peppino; © 2011, XEI
Licensed under the Creative Commons License By-NC-SA

You CAN share and distribute this story;
You CAN make “fan fiction” based on characters in this story;
You CAN NOT make profit off this work or any derivitive works;
You MUST use apply the same CC-License indicated above.

You MUST include the proper Attribution with ANY shared story:
“Written by E.J. Tett, © 2011, XEI, http://www.nunoxei.com”

All around him in the gloom, hundreds of tiny warm, wet bodies wriggled and writhed together. His rats followed him wherever he went and he knew that they adored him. Worshipped him.

It was all that he deserved, of course. After killing his summoner and master, Archos, and delivering his soul to Hell, Sewer Rat was free to do whatever he pleased. And what pleased him most was ruling over his kingdom of rats in the World Below.

Other imps mocked him. Imps who could shape-shift better than he could, into bats and cats and spiders… Sewer Rat would shift into the form of his fat, black rat and scuttle off into the darkness, chattering to himself about the unfairness of it all. One day he would take his rats and rise up out of the sewers. Then he would see who was laughing…

Something brushed against his skin. Sewer Rat looked down to see one of his underlings touching the magic ring he wore around his wrist. He hissed at the creature and it dashed off, squeaking in panic before diving into a crack in the sewer wall.

Sewer Rat smiled and sat back comfortably on his rags. He twisted his ring bracelet, flapped his leathery wings, and then folded his arms and surveyed his kingdom. Things floated past him in the dark. Scum floated on top of the water. Slime dripped down the brick walls. Sewer Rat thought it was the best place he had ever lived.

He closed his eyes to doze when he sensed a faint hum of magic in the air. All around him, the rats squeaked and screamed and clambered over one another in desperation, a writhing, boiling mass of bodies that soon dispersed and scattered into the darkness, leaving Sewer Rat alone.

Footsteps sloshed through sewer water, heading down the tunnel towards him. Sewer Rat’s yellowy hide shimmered briefly and then he became invisible, watching to see who would come his way. He could feel magic radiating off the figure and he knew it was a fellow fiend.

He kept as still as he could, holding his breath in anticipation, and watched as a barbazus strode towards him. He opened his mouth in a silent hiss, baring his rodent teeth. He wondered what one of Hell’s elite warriors was doing in such a place but then he felt it again. The tingle of magic. His eyes locked on the barbazus’s belt and he almost jumped up and down in excitement. The belt was powerful, he could feel it. Made of snakeskin and with a metal clasp, the barbazus had adorned it with the teeth of his enemies. Sewer Rat wanted it badly.

The barbazus stopped by the heap of clothes. Its beard twitched and Sewer Rat could see it was looking for something. He stayed still, pressing himself flat to the clothes pile and keeping himself invisible. He waited but his eyes were drawn to the belt again. Carefully, he edged forwards, reaching out with a clawed hand, reaching for the belt…

The barbazus swung its glaive. Sewer Rat screeched and jumped back, his invisibility forgotten. He flapped his wings and fluttered about the barbazus’s head, chattering and shrieking while the fiend tried to grab him.

Sewer Rat spat curses and then quickly disappeared. He flew down the tunnel and away, not making himself visible again until he was certain the barbazus wasn’t following him. After a while, he settled himself down beside the sewer river and congratulated himself on his bravery.

He thought again about the belt. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to wear it and he knew also that, like his ring, he wouldn’t be able to work it. But he knew that he wanted it. And he knew that he’d get it. No imp would mock him if he had such an item.

As he brooded in the dark, rats emerged from tunnels and cracks in walls. They clambered out of the river and slunk down from the walls above to join him. He smiled and gathered them all to him and two came forward from the group, baring between them a small, dead snake. The rats dropped their kill at his feet and Sewer Rat picked it up.

He pondered the dead creature for a moment and then, in one swift movement, stripped the skin from the body and tossed the flesh to his waiting rats to feast on. He tied the skin around his waist and then, in the darkness, Sewer Rat laughed.

“Sewer Rat” by E.J. Tett, art by Pablo Peppino, © 2011, XEI
Licensed under the Creative Commons License By-NC-SA

You CAN share and distribute this story;
You CAN make “fan fiction” based on characters in this story;
You CAN NOT make profit off this work or any derivitive works;
You MUST use apply the same CC-License indicated above.

You MUST include the proper Attribution with ANY shared story:
“Written by E.J. Tett, © 2011, XEI, http://www.nunoxei.com”