Barrack laughed, “Boy, do you think me a fool? There hasn’t been a worg in our lands since Orbalok hunted down Shael.”

Lance glared at his father. “I saw the woman .. veer. She became a gigantic silver wolf.”

Barrack looked out over those gathered in the village hall. He took a moment to gauge their mood. A little fear, courage, some anger. And somewhere – he sniffed, testing the faint whisper – somewhere in this room was the smell of female wolf.

“Alright Son. Take your blooded and see what you can track. And boy,” Barrack eyeballed his son. “If a worg exists, we want it alive for questioning.”

A sly grin appeared on Lance’s youth-stubbled face.

“Perhaps there are others.”

Barrack watched his son.

He suspects.

The truth would out, eventually. Barrack’s time as chief was drawing to a close.

The below was a short address given at Mum’s Book Launch for My China Mystery.

My memories of Grandpa center around a number of points, moments in time.

There is Grandpa standing in the pulpit, dressed in heavy black robes and white collars, as it seemed in my memory. His baritone voice commands attention, even from a young boy given to having his head in the clouds more often than not. He preaches with a confidence born of the text of God’s Word. He sings deep and full, praise to his King. He prays with arms outstretched – an action I have thought on long and hard.

Grandpa prays with his whole heart, and as a preacher, as a shepherd of the flock, he prays for the portion of God’s flock that are before him.

There is Grandpa in the garden. His daggy comfortable mended pants and shirts weathered and worn as he was, craggy features, white stubble. His hands care tenderly for the plants. The vines, the trees, the fruit and vegetables. He prunes and gathers and grafts. He is a gardener reflecting the Great Husbander, God the Father, who loves and cherishes the true vine, Jesus Christ, and the branches, us.

Which brings up the memory of Grandpa at the end of the table. Eating porridge with great tablespoons of brown sugar liberally sprinkled and mixed through it. He reads from Gods word at every meal. Reads and then unfolds. He speaks of the scarlet thread of Christ being present throughout the entirety of the Bible. He speaks of the importance of faith, and has us go over the book of Romans where he points out specific verses and passages that bear the point and focus of our faith. And he sits at the table and prays. He prays long, which for little minds can sometimes be hard to maintain the discipline of listening and following along with the prayer.

But we sit quietly, hands together, eyes closed. We listen to Grandpa pray, and often the memory of Grandma, who died before my memories really became clear, of Grandma punctuating the prayers with her own agreement of ”amen”.

Before all else these memories point me back to Jesus. They remind me to be daily turning to the Lord. To read His word every day. To wrestle with and cry out to Him in prayer.

My memories of Grandpa, and the few of Grandma that I have, they serve to humble me before the cross of Christ.

Because in the end this heritage that we have is not made of mans boasting, of how great and mighty my Grandpa was, of his abilities and strengths, or even of his weaknesses. These are important, but they are not paramount.

This heritage our family has been given is of an eternal and everlasting nature. It is a heritage ordained from before creation. It is a heritage given by the Lamb slain from before the foundation of the world. It is life in Christ Jesus, owning Him as Lord and Saviour. It is submission under the sovereign and immovable will of the Almighty God.

My Grandpa is a big part of my memories. Most of all because he points me to the King and says “look to Him”.

At our wedding Grandpa read out a prayer he had typed up on his battered old typewriter.

In finishing I’d like to read it now.

Almighty God, Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnipresent, our Heavenly Father, source of all life and love. We beseech Thy blessing on – names – who have covenanted in Thy presence to live together as husband and wife.

We pray that You will unite their hearts in true sympathy and love that their life together might be a shining example of Christ-like affection, pure religion and consecrated joy.

If in Your goodness You should bless them with children, make them adequate for all the testings and trials of family life and bestow upon them the grace and wisdom to bring up the little ones in the nurture and admonition of the Lord and in the ways of the Church of God.

Dear Lord, we beseech Thee to bestow Thy Fatherly blessing on the families enriched by this union. May our homes be filled with Thy peace, and our lives be spent in Thy fellowship and service until we arrive at last to the blessing of Eternal Life.

Again we would remember – names -, praying that their love for Thee and for one another may ever grow sweeter and stronger until in the evening of life, when the shadows lengthen and the day darkens one has to lay the other to rest. O Lord may it be with the joy and confidence that “underneath are the Everlasting arms” upholding and keeping until that Great Day when both join together in Thy presence to sing praises to, and worship the “Lamb slain from before the foundation of the World, our Saviour.”

The wind shrieked at Rab as he leapt across the top of the train carriages, two shadows chasing close behind.

Bad enough they had spotted him as the door had been opened by the steward. Bad enough they had slaughtered Toddy, his rookie partner. On top of it all, it was night.

And in the night there are worse monsters than enemy spies.

Dark shapes began to appear, loping alongside the racing train.

How could they move so fast yet be barely stretching?

The dire wolves howled with the thunder and wind that swept and buffeted the men on the top of the speeding train.

Rab leapt sideways, grabbing the edge of the carriage roof and swinging down, crashing through the window below.

A spy living in a world where fairytales are reality.

Ethan Hunt never had it so good.

Casar watched as the two soldiers walked through the trees, away from her father’s grave.

Stepping carefully Casar moved alongside the rocks piled upon her father’s body.

’This was Bradley Gerod. The Bradley Gerod. Hater. Hunter.’

The older soldier, Maten, had known her father.

The younger man had stuck a wooden sword into the rocks that made the grave.

The sword that killed my mother, all those years ago. The sword that tore apart the heart and mind of my father.

A wooden sword.

Cris.

The little boy playing with his friend.

Casar looked at the sword. She watched it grow large in her focus. The forest and surroundings faded and blurred into shadow.

She could burn it, bury it, break it in pieces.

Instead Casar reached down and gently priased loose the wooden sword.

I will keep it close.

The rain pummeled into Jackson as he lay on the road. Sheets of falling water criss-crossed on and around him.

Water lay on the black tar and gravel, causing a strange reflection of the street light.

It pulsed and beckoned.

Blood leaking from his wounds dissolved into the water on the road.

The light pulsed and beckoned.

The sound of traffic, of horns and sirens, of people screaming and yelling came back into focus.

The rain continued to fall.

The reflected light pulsed.

The world had gone mad. Great beasts tearing and rending. Strange black-robed figures commanding hordes of shuffling corpses. Red-soaked violence that came from a rift between worlds.

The pooling of red-tinged water around Jackson shone with rippled reflected light.

It beckoned.

Jackson smiled.

An old world called to him. He was going home.

So Rocky is taking over as captain of the Tahs.

Here’s to a season of barging runs, crunching tackles and enthusiastic leading-from-the-front.

Ballikin

Built in Clarion and Axialis IconWorkshop.

Because that’s how I roll :)

Latest screenshot at top

It's tiny, but the Campfire is to the left of my character

There are two recipes right now, a Flyswat and a Campfire!

A Campfire in the Inventory after being made

The selected Action now appears in the HUD, and the Inventory uses a large Image

Ore, Caverns, Pathways and Tree generation!

“My home is gone.”

The words spilled out of Prince David, Whitesword of the Anakethi people. His heart was breaking, and only this woman before him could help.

“Will you help me?”

The woman, silver highlighting deep auburn hair, smiled at David.

“Of course I will. You are my child. And you are the prince. Soon to be king.

“Of course I will help you.”

David nodded, and began to discuss his plans, his dreams.

As the sun rose the next morning David sat at the edge of the cliff, looking over the lands that were his by birth.

Lands that were infested with the enemy.

Janson walked over and spat over the cliff.

“Puking Blackened. We need to get down there, start the revolution.”

David grinned up at his friend.

“Aye. The journey begins, and we change the world!”

The battle raged, moving across the field – this way and that.

The grail – that prize which meant so much, without it you could not win – had changed sides many, many times.

The muddy ground came up to meet his face with alarming speed. He was being driven, propelled by his companions into the fray – right into the teeth of the enemy.

But driven downwards, into the mud.

Back to the mud, although not the same as that author meant.

Wriggling and turning, he managed to get at an angle so that his face would not be underwater. Breathing was good.

The grail fell and rolled out, landing to his left.

He could do nothing.

He was on the bottom of a ruck, and the laws of rugby were clear.

No playing the ball on the ground.

Little Red Riding Hood dropped her basket of muffins on the side of the road. One or two fell out of the basket and bounced away. She gave the closest one a good stomping with her steel-capped right boot.

“Redda Hode! Pick that up girl. Whaddya think you’re doing?”

Crappola!

It was Constable Bill.

Without a moment’s thought for the consequences, little dressed-in-red riding-a-bike Redda Hode leapt onto her custom-built Harley-Davidson Sportster.

A throaty roar erupted as she kicked the engine over.

But then yellow eyes blinked at the corner of her vision.

Red turned the engine off.

He always knew. Always there, prowling the edges.

She apologised to Constable Bill and began to pick up the muffins.

One day.

One day her heritage would be birthed from within.

On that day the wolf had better watch out.