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.

I moved my head slowly to the left.

The place was massive. Three or four stories high, pallets and crates, boxes and cartons.

Food. Clothes. Electronics.

You could buy almost anything in this shop. This .. Colossus to modern society’s all-consuming need for BIG.

Far be it that the human race would examine itself from time-to-time.

Me though, all I did was examine. Everything within my sphere of vision – impaired as I was – was recorded and analysed.

A girl, young and frail-looking, stuffed a packet of peanut-butter cups into her schoolbag.

A woman pushed one of the big trolleys found here, two babies squalling in the double seats.

An old man shuffled along, his cane tapping. Tap. Shuffle. Tap. Shuffle.

I moved my head slowly to the right.

My red light blinked.

Yes. I’m watching you all.

I went and found my staff, then picked Thomas up and hauled him over my shoulder.

He’d been right about me being like my grandfather. Big. Big enough to carry a shifter, whose mass was more than what it looked.

Turning to where the Gate was open, shimmering brightly, I began walking.

A lot had just happened. I’d need time to process it, to deal with it. Or to bury it.

I turned back and looked at the graves. Brook lay here. The kids lay here. Grandpa and Grandma lay here.

Why am I leaving Earth?

It was the first time back since being ripped away at the funeral. It should have been momentous.

This isn’t home anymore. My home is there.

I stepped through the Gate.

My name is James White, and I catch bad guys.

I did not hesitate, but pulled in as much of the river of power as I could. More and more, further, deeper. More.

And then a tiny infinitesimal portion escaped.

The explosion lifted me off my feet and hurled me across the graveyard.

After a time – minutes or hours I had no clue – I groggily stood. No bones were broken, but there were plenty of scrapes and bruises. My head was pounding fit to break.

As my vision cleared, I saw Thomas. He sat slumped against Brook’s gravestone. Unmoving. Blood was pouring from his nose, a cut on his forehead. His left forearm was snapped, white bone poking through flesh. His face and arms and legs were already bruising. Black and blue and bloody.

Here lies Thomas Nallahan Proudblood. Murderer of .. No. Stop.

I stopped the thought.

It wasn’t a clever or haughty laugh. It was edged in madness.

“Fool! I was promised my revenge! Revenge upon his bloodline. Upon all that he held dear.”

He stopped and caressed Brook’s gravestone. My own anger roared back to the surface. My left hand curled into a fist, and my right gripped the staff tight.

“Get away from her.”

Thomas stopped his hand.

“They died slowly.”

White light exploded in my head. Afterwards I deconstructed what had happened, but at the time it was white and nothing else. Noise and sight left me. The rage, the passion consumed me. I was screaming, surely. My body screamed.

A door, some kind of locked thing, opened in my mind. Immediately I became aware of more, especially the well of power within. Deep and moving strong, like a mighty river.

The notion was unthinkable. Tying myself to them would be to reject all that I believed in. I took the manacles out of a pocket.

“Bind yourself.”

I threw the manacles, specially made with spellbound oak and steel, and Thomas caught them deftly. He pushed his left wrist into them, and I heard the click.

He closed his eyes for a moment, before speaking.

“Enoch was no good for her. Your grandmother should have chosen me. I loved her like no-one else.”

The anger enveloped his face instantly.

“I hated Enoch for that, in the end. She should have chosen me!”

Thomas began looking around. The change in him was scary. One moment he had been cool and in control, the next jabbering on the edge of memories lost.

“Put the manacles on.”

Thomas laughed at me again, loud cackling.