Zadown

A comfortable silence hung around the room like a warm blanket, punctuated by the lazy crackle of fire in the fireplace and the muffled, ordinary sounds of a house filled with servants. The Dreamer looked around. Maid had brought them tea and pastries, the children had been carried off to pester servants instead of them. The room was almost the same as it had been the last time and he turned his attention to Jankiize, who was watching him silently, sipping her tea. Her attire reminded him of spirit-raiser's robes, the style different than what he had seen the local noblewomen wear. The elegant earrings of polished wood and jade, her narrow eyes and blond hair would have each marked her a stranger as well. Traders are tolerant of weird customs and strange people, thankfully. Most places suitable for humans to live would have tried her as a witch by now, or tried to make her join some guild of occultists. Perhaps I should have taken her to Anvil, but that plane swirls with too many turbulent destinies to be safe. "You seem thoughtful." "Whenever I end up reflectin' on my past deeds, th' amount o' past I have drags me under." His tone was light, eyes verdant. To Jankiize's surprise he lifted the teacup set in front of him by the servant and took a tiny sip. He grimaced and placed the cup down with care. "How are you? I hardly know what has happened to you since the end of the war. You did hint at the war being in a calmer stage the last time, but it is hard for even me to gauge such things unless you tell me how things really are." The Dreamer nodded curtly. "'Twas a short calm, ya, but there are new swirling disturbances afoot. Not sure if I am needed, or welcome, this time. I 'ave meddled more in th' last thirty years than many an Ascendant in a lifetime. Per'aps whatever influence th' Fates loaned me t' alter th' Multiversum to a direction they wish for it 'as been used up, an' what's left is just a scarr'd warrior. An' ye? Ye look fine, at th' least." His gaze was penetrating, chilly, and Jankiize couldn't help squirming slightly like a pinned down butterfly. She had no secrets of the kind that could have angered or disappointed the planewalker, but knowing he saw far more than any mortal was still an uncomfortable feeling, like she had been naked. "It could be worse. Mendra and Jannal are both healthy, beautiful children, and what I understand from Melenar, business is doing well enough. Though some, especially those living nearby, do not trade with him ..." "Because yer th' Witch o' Jalar, aye?" "Yes." "'Tis yer price for livin' here an' being what ye are." He looked around, more as a gesture than anything else. "Seems still a price ye can pay, ya?" "Of course, uncle." "An' would ye defend this place, without me?" She finished her tea and took a pastry, ate a piece of it over a lifted ceramic plate. "Unlike you, I can't run or hide. I still have nightmares of what happened to the Thakelmians, and older nightmares of the defense of Arkstâd, but if I could do things differently I'd still defend the things worth defending, and suffer the nightmares. The locals may not all like me, and some of them may fear me, but I'd still defend them to defend my home." "With a blade, m'lady?" His silver eyes gleamed with mischief.

Sky was dark blue, loaning parts of its deep hue to color the houses and trees of Jugatt. The fragrance of late spring hung in the blue air - lightly baked earth, scents of early flowers, the taints any bigger human settlement, faint traces of wood smoke. Night had not really begun yet but day was truly over, its heat dissipating. Most big trader noble houses shone with excessive light, some even having lanterns outside as a display of wealth. Light seen through both colored and transparent glass, warm colors of yellow and orange and red that made the evening's soft blue seem like night's earliest black in contrast. This part of the town was peaceful, most of the noises you could hear faraway echoes from the lower city. Those moving about did so with no hurry and no obvious dread, even if servants carried cudgels and noblemen curved swords. Gravel crunched under boots, men laughed at each other's witty remarks, a swift argument was nearly as quickly made up and forgotten. The taverns and theatres were lower on the slope, those catering to the richer crowd creating a barrier of sorts between the noble quarters and the wilder parts of lower city where the hoi polloi had its fun and where those visiting the city from the farmlands nearby stayed. A lone figure walked upwards on the stone stairs against the flow of nobles and their sons going downward to enjoy their evening out, some rare larger groups consisting of mostly women with a few men and servants for their protection obviously heading towards the more reputable theatres. He wore the attire of a priest, a wide-brimmed white hat that hid his eyes and thin, pale grey robes over black shirt and trousers. In his left hand he held a smooth, short staff of white wood. Nobody paid much attention to him, even if it was rare to see their kind out this late. Trade was the business of the nobles after all, the mystiques of creation and afterlife that of the priests, and there was no real overlap, just as it should be. The priest made his way past the cheaper merchant houses, those still aspiring to be real nobles but who had enough money to be allowed to live up here, his step steady and course unwavering. He turned left, not going into the heart of the neighborhood where the oldest, most respectable and established noble houses stood tall as castles, passed a few more of the two-storeyed buildings before he paused. Before him stood an oddity, a squat tower surrounded by rectangle houses to every direction, a servant removing the two flags flying on its roof for the night. Here the waking night was even more silent, the servant and him the only two people visible. He watched the servant removing the flags a moment, then started walking towards the front door. The servant called to him loudly from the roof with polite refusal in his voice. "Sir! The lord of the house is on a caravan trip, and the lady will not see a priest!" A nod seemed to mean the priest had heard the words, but he did not turn away, knocked the front door loudly instead. The servant issued one last protesting "Sir!" before starting to descent slowly, taking great care not to let the flags fall from his grip, but was too late to reach the ground before the door opened. A maid peered outside, a quizzical look on her young face that was not dispelled by the unexpected sight of a priest at the door. A priest who took off his hat revealing a face ruined by an unlikely amount of battle scars and grinned, showing teeth that were too white. "The Lady of the house will see me now." "O .. of course, sir." The words of heavy speech had reached the ears of the servant hurrying towards the door with the flags of the house as well, and he stood still as the Dreamer stepped in following the slightly shaken maid. The maid turned left in the hall, opened a door and lead the planewalker upwards to the living room. Jankiize was already standing up, staring at the door with a taunt, serious posture. In front of her on the small table lay an unfinished piece of needlework, her elder daughter standing next to her mother with a stare that was too wise for her obviously few years, almost a copy of her mother's. The effect was slightly spoiled by a wooden doll she was holding. A crystal pendant glittered in the lantern light on her neck, the same light falling softly on the paintings that adorned the walls, on the two large maps that had been filled with notes and best trade routes. The maid curtsied and left in a hurry before a word was spoken. When she was out of view, Jankiize relaxed slightly and spoke softly in Ancient Chaman, a language of magic only she and the Dreamer understood here. "You are still scaring my servants, I see." "It is better to scare them than for me to lose my temper, don't you think, Little Princess?" The little child frowned and turned to face her mother, who smiled at her daughter and switched back to the local language. Her smile did not fade when she regarded the scarred giant standing at the doorway. "Yes, of course, uncle Dreamer. Welcome back." "Thank ye, m'lady, an' greetings, th' Li'tl'st Princess." "Ah, but she isn't, not the smallest one - Jannal is sleeping in her crib. Say hi to uncle Dreamer, Mendra." Mendra took another look at the Dreamer before suddenly acting more in accordance with her age and tried to hide behind Jankiize's skirt. The planewalker shrugged and nonchalantly tossed his wide-brimmed hat into Astral, took a few steps further in. He turned to examine the vast maps hanging on both sides, covering those parts of the walls that were free of paintings and old, expired trade agreements. "Ye travelled t' any of these places yet, m'lady?" Jankiize gave up trying to usher her daughter forward. "I have been busy here, uncle. Reading through the tomes you have sent, and with both Mendra and Jannal ... there hasn't been an opportunity to travel much. The locals think women should stay at home, too." Eyes narrowed, their blue darkening, scars crawling across the Dreamer's frowning face. "An' ye acquiesce, just like that, even if ye still think in terms o' 'locals' an' 'ye' instead of 'us'? Do th' locals think all women should do needlework, too?" "And you should save me again from my cruel fate, uncle?" She was amused, so used to the planewalker's outbursts and threatening looks during these storms she could easily let them blow past her and dissipate instead of giving them more fuel by rising her own voice. Her tone softened the sharpest edge as soon as she spoke, continued almost like talking to a petulant child. "I find it helps me to relax after spending too much time with the tiny sigils and obscure theories engraved all over the thick pages of your books. You can't save me from needlework, and you can't change this world into something that you would see as a paradise for us mortals, especially not when you spend here a few days every few years." She bent down and carefully detached Mendra's fingers from her hem, pushed the little girl gently to stand between them. "Now, remember what I have taught you and greet my foster father properly." After much feet shuffling and attempts at hiding behind her mother again, Mendra finally managed to look at the Dreamer long enough to mutter an inaudible "hi". A grin tore his face in half, green eyes paling. "Why, 'ello m'lady Mandra o' th' House Jalar. 'Tis a pleasure t' meet ya, aye." The snarling accent and mauled face, towering height and shifting eyes staring at her were a bit too much, and the little girl ran away to the next room, bawling like a little baby. The Dreamer watched her go, emerald green still swirling in his eyes, torn lips slanted in a smile. "Guess yer servants aren't th' only ones I scare."

Heh, reminds me of the time I bought a book named "Pasiphae" just because it was pretty close to my RL name. It wasn't too bad either.

Pain was not meant for the fragile mortal flesh. As soon as its ghostly blade bit free, the spray of lifeblood that hung in the air, thick and slow in the accelerated time, was brown and putrid. The Dreamer flicked his blade, a needless gesture as nothing ever tarnished the half-real sword, and danced forward, his forms perfect. No plan of battle ever survives the first contact with an enemy. But a plan of butchery ... A few long strides, enough time to spare a glance at the colorful reds and purples his opponents were clad in, black stripes accentuating the merry patterns. Rising sun (the bigger one, Archiarus) glinted on shiny metal. They were armored, had been ready for a conflict, for something they could fight against. Another knot of enemies struggling to adapt to the white streak that conjured geysers of innards wherever it touched men, a nimble landing in the middle, a whirlwind that bisected every one of the six warriors. Off and away before the staining rain of rotten gore would land on his robes. However wrong my old plan might have been after all, at least it involved me doing more than just smearing ants under my weary heels. Any Ascendant could do this much. His face was taunt but no-one was fast enough to see it, to see how he had pressed his lips into a thin line, how his eyes were two black holes amidst his façade of scars. A lazy push with his mind through the lay lines pulped the brains of a sorceress, a muttered whisper cracked the chains of a demon whose blow he had just been forced to parry, once. More whispering, the exact words veering dangerously close to being so badly blurred by his muttering that even his formidable will would not be enough - even then, enough to re-forge the chains in that immortal time he was treading in, between the blinks of mortal men's eyes. The mortals, stuck in their snail-time, saw one of their champion demons strike once against the white wind. They heard a noise of demon-forged felsteel ringing in anguish, a half-roar of abyssal defiance, choked as soon as it was born. The next blow of its three-handed sword splattered one of their own, a captain in baroque black platemail, a minor hero with the beginnings of a myth spinning around him. Dead, now. A call to his master lit up a warlock to his sixth sense like a candle in the dark. The planewalker tugged at the lines of magic and sent all of it he had time to gather in a sharp pulse to his target. Another brain that was fed more power in a fraction of a moment than it could have handled in a long day. The Dreamer did not even turn towards the starting commotion. He found the voices of men, elongated into grotesque moans by the time-shift, to be disgusting and depressing, like the baying of frightened cattle. His wide gesture turned another squad, this one off the path he had chosen to cut, into a lacerated mess. None of his victims had even had the time to scream, yet. This army has been broken for a while now. It just stands still, its spine severed, while I cut off pieces of the flesh that has not been told it is dead. He grimaced and dived into the next group of enemies with a ferocity, as if everything had been their fault. Anger made him clumsy and one of the spears struck his wards by accident, setting off the active, topmost layer. The dead guards were electrocuted after Pain had already had its way with them, slashed and bloodied uniforms set on tempestuous blaze by the sparks and the gusts of wind the Dreamer's inhuman speed dragged after him. Chaos was pulsing out of him in waves, something so ironic it twisted his torn lips into a semblance of a wan grin. Not the raw, nourishing essence of it he had breathed in and out during the Grail Wars, but close enough to remind him of those times. Here and there a few of those who had made stronger pacts with Disorder were tugged away from the reality towards the rapid river of immortal time, or their trinkets and amulets and rings blazed with a unstable power that might have done them some good in other circumstances. Here it merely pointed them out for him to deal with first, a fraction of a fraction before their comrades in arms. He reached the edge of the camp, some of the crimson mist from his first victims still hanging in the air, hesitant to fall into the thirsty, dry ground. His plan had been to curve sharply back in, cut through those who were escaping the charnel house first and then shred his way through those in the middle who were under an illusion of resistance, or who were smart enough to be confused, or even so clever as to be apathetic. Somehow he felt tired all of a sudden. He had barely flexed his mental muscles, the swinging of moaning Pain through unenchanted steel and mortal flesh even less of an effort than smashing the brains of a few adepts of the Art had been. The Dreamer let time catch him and turned around, eyes paling towards grey as he observed what he had done to the army. What hit him first was the sound, low gruff bellowing speeding up to transform into shrill cries for mercy and wordless expressions of pain. The cacophony was daunting, even though almost everyone he had turned his attention to was irreversibly dead - Pain did not wound, not prey as fragile as this. The first wave of red spouts died, the effect of so many so grievous injuries inflicted at so nearly at the same time almost artistic, a red rain rising from the army of Chaos upwards. A ripple ran through those standing, a shuddering as they tried to comprehend what their eyes were telling them. He could see their morale break and wither, be blown away in the wind he had created. An act of a vengeful god had cleaved through them, and now some of them followed the line of devastation with their gazes, stared at him with mind breaking awe etched on their suddenly aged faces. It wasn't something he had expected himself to do, but when he addressed the army it felt natural, the only right thing to do in the circumstances. His voice was not loud but it cut through the escalating noise, enchanted with the same spells that allowed him to speak any language. "This is enough, don't ya think? Go be men instead o' warriors, ya?" His shooing gesture did not call on any arcane powers, his words tattered and bereft of weight.

The horizon was a blazing ring to every direction, the sharp-edged mountains outlined against it like the jaws of a bear trap. Directly above the sky was an unforgiving black, a few stars here and there just outlining the lack of light and color. Night winds crept about with fingers of dust and sand, staying low on the ground to not to obscure the view. They also brought faint noises and stronger scents, the smell of wood smoke and overcooked meat, of sweat and animals and stranger creatures, of herbs used in the esoteric arts. Drifting sounds waxed and waned. Inside the fortress it was mostly silent, the sullen absence of activity a mark of washed out tenacity, the weary defenders having whispered conversations with each other and Death, getting ready for the inevitable. Some of the more energetic ones, the uninjured and unbroken, were even maintaining small cooking fires. This siege had always destined to be short. Too much wall, too few defenders, too old a fortress - steeped in old glories, yes, but lacking in modern design that might just have been enough to foil the attackers even with the low numbers. And so there was food to eat, if not quite a hearty meal, at least a meal not consisting of your past comrades. Far better going-away feast than most besieged had had, in the past. A silhouette against the western sky, more red than the merry yellow flames of east, walked with economic ease past the sleeping and those groaning in wound-fever, the warm glow of a fire dancing on the metal of his armor whenever he passed one. He was tall and there was something wrong in his posture - it was not crushed. Romys watched the soldier weave through the inner courtyard while leaning against a bundle of clothes, sharpening his longsword with soft, caressing strokes. Optimism, and useless, but Romys had always been like that. Even then he doubted he could've held his head high like the lone wandering shadow who was getting nearer, one circumvented small cluster of warriors at a time. Something in the rare darkness had always made men whisper or speak softly at least, and the feeling of impending end did nothing to lessen that unexplainable feeling of smothering holiness. Warriors could feel it, see it in each other's eyes, and speak softly. Speak softly, but not speak of it, not of the night and what would follow in the morning, not during any normal night and definitely not this night. So Romys whispered to the stranger, a voice barely louder than the murmur of his sharpening stone, expecting to not be heard, half-expecting the dark, tall shadow to be some spectre of Death itself that'd vanish like a ghost when addressed. "There's room here, around my fire." It stopped and turned towards him, an unsettling glint where eyes should be like a wild animal caught in man-made light. A friendly nod to the right was the first sign the shadow was perhaps a human, after all, somebody who would like to share the unnecessary warmth of a fire during this warm night to not to be alone in the dark. This near, the stranger was even taller, almost a giant, and whatever disquiet the nod had dispelled the realization he did not remember anybody of such towering height in their small force brought back. The stranger sat down, folding his legs in an usual way, bared his teeth in some expression that was lost in the gloom. Something wrong in his face, too. "Evenin', soldier." Louder voice than his, though still soft enough not to break the false sense of peace swirling around the fortress. Even in the two short words there was an odd accent, like the stranger was speaking in a language he had not quite mastered. The same note of unbroken will that had been in his posture, as well - he sounded like he had just been in an evening stroll, that everything was right in the world. Perhaps he had been smiling, earlier. "Have we met before, warrior? I can't recall seeing anybody as tall as you here before." Romys felt no real fear. Even if somehow one of the enemies had marched in and was now there before him, he was armed and the stranger had no blade in his hands, would have been hard-pressed to draw the long blade from his back given the awkward way he sat. No demon ever conjured had been this calm and collected, this human, either. "I'm good at gettin' past sieges, ya. Just came in." "So you are one of ours? Can't place your accent, either." The stranger leaned forward a bit, Romys' fire illuminating his smile. Glinting teeth, face a mess of scars, eyes with colors so vibrant they were like two gleaming gems, hair gray like an elder's. Even in the warm night, near a fire, Romys felt a chill. "Ye wouldn't, aye. I'm 'ere for th' cause, shouldn't that be enough, neh?" "You are part of the help the priests promised us? How many of you came?" Despite hating himself for it, a hope stirred inside him. It was hard to imagine how a company of these giants could have snuck past the enemy lines, and it was quiet inside too, with no swelling weave of murmuring voices that would have been a sure sign of something extraordinary happening. Still, the utter, relaxed ease the man before him exuded could not be denied. "Ya, I was sent by th' Lady t' atone for my stupidity, yet 'gain. They don't want my taint around, not even when I did as they beseech'd me t'." Those bitter, mangled words were aimed inwards, mutterings that made little sense past the understanding this was somebody far closer to Balance than any warrior here. There was little force behind them, no real fury at the way events had worked out for him, and by the time he spoke again even what little anger had lurked in his speech was gone. "How many of th' Chaos are there?" "Perhaps seven thousand, with over a dozen warlocks who have patrons in the Abyss, a number of chimeric conjurations and a few demons. Not many siege engines, of course, otherwise it wouldn't be this peaceful. Once this ominous double-night is over and Archiarus rises from the east they will attack and overrun the walls, this time." "Th' warlocks are in charge, neh?" "Yes, of course. As always." He leaned back now, letting the fading gloom shroud his ruined face again, only eyes shimmering with pale hues and gleaming teeth showing. "I outnumber their army, then."

Lady Vrajo burst out laughing. It was a beautiful, low, cultivated sound, not the mocking and bitter laugh many immortals had their laughter worn down to. She gestured, ignoring the threat implied by the fires that were igniting in the depths of the Dreamer's darkening eyes, and the illusion vanished. "Do ye really think theatrics like that are enough t' convince me to help you, m'lord? I know yer records in these matters, an' I've always wondered how ye do it, how ye get planewalkers whose philosophies and goals are at opposite angles to yours help ye so easily, but if this is how ye do it I'm honestly quite baffled." Her postured hardened, the satisfied grin of a feline predator that seemed to linger on her face most of the time was gone. "Lettin' th' Devourer free is one thing, but if ye think your multiversum-encompassin' benevolence is for me yer sorely mistaken. Perhaps whatever charm th' Fates have given ye was finally revoked durin' your self-imposed exile as th' Law's best ran around looking for you, or perhaps th' likes of Owiric and Faaye are more gullible than even I thought. Either way, yer flattery an' yer vague, vast threats are both wasted on me." "I see. Not interested even hearin' what I have t' say about these 'vague, vast threats', then?" "Not really, m'lord Dreamer. My network is spread far and wide by now, far enough t' catch any vast threats comin' my way, or directed at Chaos herself. I 'ave seen and heard how poorly the pawns in yer private games fare, yet they return to ye again and again for punishment. I have t' commend you for twisting so many powerful threads around yer own in the Weave of Times, but my appreciation'll be done from afar, just in the off-chance there is some irresistible allure in yer words in th' end." "Yer assumin', there, that those glories and blows 'gainst th' established order where I've been involved have been mine, all. Sir Owiric's place in th' peckin' order of Chaos has gone up, an' I hope ye don't think going from one of Palgrave Atyaer's cadre o' guards to th' Arbitrator of Balance is a demotion. O' course, they've both paid a price ..." "An' they both have their names tainted by yer proximity. Every time ye act like a proper, mature planewalker to mend even a tiny fraction of yer imago, ye do something t' further sunder it anew. Like tryin' to break open the Devourer's prison. Really, Lord Dreamer. Ever been able t' walk the Lost Paths without lookin' over yer shoulder?" He managed a dry smile, took a sip from the glass that was empty afterwards. "A few times, m'lady. Perhaps 'twas before yer Ascension." He glanced at the glass, then at the half-full bottle, before returning his attention to Vrajo's face. "I shall take my leave then, Lady Vrajo, lest I have t' look over my shoulder as soon as I step outside this fine establishment. 'S been a pleasure, even if I could not manage t' make ye my unwilling puppet with my charmin' visage and witty words, ya?" They both stood up, Vrajo with grace, Dreamer with the unexpected clumsiness that sometimes made him seem far more vulnerable than he really was. "You are welcome t' visit again, m'lord, as long as ye won't do any recruiting here, not when yer talking to me or any of my other customers. Ye know the by-laws and codes of conduct." "Very fair, m'lady. I thank ye for yer hospitality." He nodded, and she nodded in response, both bowing to the correct depth like two mechanical puppets controlled by Fates far beyond this stage. She drifted back to her room, tugged by strings of Chaos, while Balance dragged the scarred, old warrior to the front door and off this plane of debauchery.

A different door opened. This time there was a short, soft hush that faded into the background noise as fast as it had swept over it. Nobody felt the need to stare at the planewalker who had entered the room, but a perceptible strain altered the mood as she walked to the corner table where the Dreamer sat. She had the predatory beauty of the Fallen, but there was less posturing, less projected hardness in her body language. She knew her power, knew everybody around her was aware of it, had no need to feel challenged. If she had not been so tall and if her open smile had not revealed canines which would have made any vampire proud, she could have been mistaken for a human. Lady Vrajo, the owner of this Tavern of Lost and Found Souls, was wearing a simple yet elegant dress of translucent shadows and a dozen layers of invisible protective wards, both of them a weapon and an armor. On her hip, hanging from a thin black silk sash, was a thin dagger in a black planar crystal sheath. No scars marred her visible pale skin, a single strikingly red earring marking the single spot of color in her outfit. The Dreamer glanced up from his glass. His eyes were the color of verdigris, dull and ugly pools of ruined copper in the middle of his equally ugly face. With the practised smoothness of immortals he bowed just as low as he should to the mistress of the fort, Lady Vrajo returning the gesture in equally exact measure, the two planewalkers acting with mechanical precision. "Evenin', m'lady. 'S been a while - I hope ye aren't offended by my brutish company, ya." Vrajo nodded and sat down, a tiny gesture creating a wall of silence that would also foil any but the most brutal means of scrying. "Evening, m'lord. I do wonder what void wind has blown yer so far off th' course ye've ended up here, Dreamer. We are fairly deep in Chaos territory, Hound o' Balance." "I had some rumours o' my death t' dispel, not t' mention th' rumours of what 'appened at th' Devourer's prison ..." A blink cleared the greenish rust from his eyes and left him with two silver mirrors, gleaming in the gloom. He smiled, jolting his scars back into motion. Vrajo crossed her legs and leaned backwards, staring the Dreamer as if he had been a beautiful but very poisonous insect. "Yes, those rumours. I've heard a lot of them, an' while freeing th' Devourer would at first certainly cause Chaos most of us here so adore, after a while there would not be many planes t' have Chaos on, ya?" "'Tis why he is still imprisoned. I may be eccentric even by our standards, an' those are some fairly flexible ones as far as sanity's in question, but even I enjoy havin' a multiversum t' be eccentric in." "So you haven't broken through th' Parallels only t' find what they have to offer unpalatable, like some say?" The Dreamer's face twitched and he glanced at the bottle and the glass, both half-full with the best archangel's blood. Reaching for his glass his facial scarring stilled again, and when he looked back at Vrajo he was the picture of seriousness, eyes turning to steel. "Naw. Th' Parallels 'ave been meddled with, mostly by th' Law, an' what has broken through has been unpalatable, as ye say. I'm sure ye know more than yer sayin' - we may 'ave not had th' pleasure of conversation, but yer infamy spreads. Not like mine, with high-points and nadirs, but steadily, despite yer youth. Someday ye'll get a scar on that peerless skin o' yers, too." "Yes, I've heard that does happen to people who as much as see ye from distance. Perhaps I should've barred ye from my fortress, Stormcrow. I do like my 'peerless skin' th' way it is." Vrajo's smile undermined her words and her clothes drifted further from her perfect body, barely concealing it any more. "Braggin' on yer lack o' scars t' me, m'lady? Ye'd be hard-press'd t' find somebody who can't do that in my presence, an' 's been far too long since I would've been tempted by th' sight, Seductress o' Chaos." She sighed and the shadows embraced her more tightly again. "Aww, yer no fun. I sometimes forget yer age, given how keen you still are t' run around meddlin' with our Eternal War. So, what other rumours ye want squished or started, Scourge? Th' one about a dead Runelord?" He shrugged and drank a small sip of blood, reached into his robes to pull out the massive helmet Sir Owiric had given him and placed it between him and Vrajo, a surreal magician's rabbit trick. One horn was missing and the metal had nicks and grooves all over, ruining some of the intricate runes engraved on it. At places the cuts were deep enough to actually penetrate through the thickness of the cumbersome piece of armor. The Dreamer adjusted it so he was staring directly into the darkness of empty sockets and smiled at the helmet, wanly. "Nah, 'twas actually useful a rumour, ya? Puts a dagger-blade through th' illusion o' invulnerability Law has, something we may still need." "We, m'lord? Which 'we' are we talking about here, Turncoat?" It was more total than his normal mercurial changes of mood. His eyes turned deep, dark blue like somebody had punched two holes into his face and his scars stretched taunt as he grimaced, from a scarred old man to a speaking death's head faster than a blink of a mortal eye. "Us, Lady Vrajo. Us." Around them, the illusionary map of the whole multiversum bloomed into existence.

In the moment of dawn she had to cough, had to close her eyes as her body shook. She wasn't used to the local air - and when she opened her eyes and saw the city, there was something else she had trouble getting used to. The city opened before her, narrow towers of steel and glass and rust rising from the smog, sun glinting and sparkling on the newer ones, creating deep shadows behind the older ones. Air was still acrid, the noisy ancient mechs still made her head hurt - but she could see the grandness of it all, now.

Welll... I'll try my luck with Madlib Formula #321 Red - 'Jihadlib'. 1) [A Vehicle] Humvee 2) [Verb, Past Tense] blessed by Allah 3) [Plural Noun] swords of Faith 4) [Verb, Past Tense] unjustfully oppressed 5) [Adjective Ending in “-like”] Godlike 6) [A Number] ten 7) [Plural Noun] Practices of the Religion [Feature of Said Plural Noun (7)] pilgrimage 9) [Article of Clothing] black niqāb 10) [Adverb] painfully 11) [Adjective] righteous 12) [A Hair Accessory] headband 13) [Adjective] desirable 14) [Part of Body] blazing eye 15) [An Artifact] silver samovar 16) [Noun] hand 17) [Plural Noun] Paradise-bound warriors 18) [superlative Adjective (i.e longest, lowest, etc.)] most holy 19) [Formal Title for a Person] Grand Mufti 20) [Adjective Ending in “-like”] feverlike Tricksy, tricksy ...

Saw Pan's Labyrinth a week ago. It has already been praised and I can add my voice to that chorus - it was a truly original and unique movie that provided new experiences, new images instead of just being the latest this or that I've seen reinforcing the old set of clichés etched deeply both in my memory and in the world of Hollywood movies. In my opinion it succeeded in what the Lady in the Water failed at (sorry Kikuyu!), mixing faery tales and reality. Again, the watcher is presented with new rules. He is forced to let the movie present its own world, to accept both the artificial myth and the movie's "present day" without previous knowledge. Part of why it works better this time is most likely the fact the main character is a child, and it is easy to accept her smooth acquiescence. Of course, besides that part of the movie, Pan's Labyrinth is highly brutal and bloody movie about Spain's troubles around WWII. That part may turn some of the potential watchers away, but for those of us who do not mind the blood, the twin weave of iron-tasting violence and graceful faeries of the forest brings both out stronger, a synergy in contrast.

Even the fear was academic, theoretical. He refused to shut down the music to hear their approach, was almost happy to go through fictional fighting patterns where he executed every move with stark clarity, his opponents barely more than wax dolls reeling from his blows. Truth would have been uglier, the roles reversed - mind willing, body bloodied. Another tidal wave of unquiet, soul resonating with the dual melodies of anxiety and robotic trance, arms going through motions so worn they did not register in his memory any more, eyes trembling at the vague shadows. Fear transformed, fear ruled and twisted.

"Liches today, looks like. Fierce blizzards and bolts of ice, I presume." And the usual stench of a decaying, dead city. The warrior sighed, his glowing golden platemail making a soft sound, then he reached forward to bar the window. It clicked shut, completing the sphere of protective enchantments again. He continued, in a cultivated, musing voice. "They don't know when to give up." "They? They!?" A broken note of hysteria in her shrill voice, just the sort of weakness they did not need here, at the end of the world. Perhaps sixteen survivors was an unlucky number after all.

He was still trembling from terror. There'd been another traveller, as rare as that should be. Unless you listened to those Infinity Walkers, curse on their theories. He had not stared, of course, tried to act like a mindless automaton. But ... inside his cowering imagination he could feel countless nightmares hatch, of ripples and what they might do. No way to correct it of course, not on this side. The ancient pictography showed two sickle-shaped moons drifting towards the rising sun. Taking a deep breath of the odorless, body-temperature air, he stepped forward, towards the day before yesterday.

The Dreamer breathed in raw magic, the crimson boiling in his eyes showing his distaste at the creatures cowering before him. Their form was made to inspire fear, but in him every detail heightened his sense of disgust at what the chimeiraes were doing - their dark, dirty fur, their bulbous eyes, the scales cowering their clawed hands. "I could just erase ya, scum o' th' planes. Delete yer very existence so thorou'hly ye'd never 'ave been, anywhere, ever. Now desist an' vanish, before I vanish ya instead." The misbegotten things ran, leaving behind only a racid smell and their whimpering victim. *** Coruscating Sublime Anathema Asymmetric

The heavy, warm air was thick with the smell of spilled blood, of sulphur and rot, of tendrils of smoke. There wasn't much light more out of old traditions than out of any practical reason. Demons and the Fallen both were traditionalists. Usually, when the door was opened the newcomer was awarded a few lazy, malicious glances by the clientele before the sounds would continue: murmurs, low laughter and distant screams of somebody having fun (and somebody, decidedly, not having fun) in the basement. Now the noise that started slithering around the musty hideout was different, sharp and escalating hisses and growls. The multitude of non-human heads traced his movements with intense curiosity bordering on insult, here. He was used to it to a degree, his blazing yellow-red eyes shining in his torn face showing that he did not accept it, nevertheless. The bouncer demon unfurled itself from the dark shadows near the door, smelling trouble, its red face flickering between hostility and insecurity. "Hey you!" The Dreamer's hand curled into smoking fist. He then breathed in, the fire in his eyes dying out in an instant, leaving only the faintly purple greyness of ashes behind. The fingers unfurled but his stance remained coiled, angry. "Ya, demon?" A Fallen angel laughed, throaty and inviting and threatening sound, while more than one of the demons and a minor planewalker of Chaos all smirked at the confrontation. They did not care of the outcome either way - they just sensed violence in the air, their faces enlivened by the anticipation of blood that did not come before them pre-bottled. "Who is your sponsor, 'walker? Entry here is restricted by the order of Lady Vrajo of Chaos." Atmosphere in the room tensed, creatures leaning forward to see what was happening better. Those nearest seemed slightly edgy, ready to move aside should the expected planewalker's ire be indiscriminate in its destruction. What they were not expecting was the lightening of the Dreamer's eyes, the growing slant of his split lips between his grey moustache and beard. "Ye do not recognize me, then? An indisputable proof o' my current allegiance, ya, patrons?" He gestured calmly with his hands at the sharks scenting blood behind the hapless bouncer and nodded slightly, a grin shifting the arrangement of scars mapping his face. The Dreamer's silver gaze scanned the crowds, every face he recognized somehow adding to his growing hilarity. "Abnoctorius, Huorios, do give our confus'd comrade 'ere a clue, neh? Sangveriel?" The last one of the three he had named, a man with elven apperance but the aura of a devil, innocent eyes but a cruel mouth, shrugged at first, then spoke, carefully articulating every word. "You might not be as welcome in here and elsewhere as you have been, m'lord. There have been talk, far too much talk for it to be airy rumours only, of you trying to crack open the prison of the Devourer." Sangveriel looked as he had been about to continue, then shrugged again and fixed his blue eyes at the suddenly serious planewalker. The large demon next to him was forgotten and it shied away like a frightened child as a realization crept over its brutish features. Some of the patrons muttered in disappointment as they saw the prospect of devastation fade and they turned back to their bottles of blood, muttered conversations and games of âhn-kzad and xkapor. Most only shifted their expectations from seeing blood to hearing real information, something far more expensive than shiny metals or enchanted baubles on the Lost Paths, expressions on their inhuman faces keen. "I'd 'xpect nothin' less, ya. Now, 'ere's somethin' for ye scum t' think 'bout as ye waste yer time here, playin' trivial games for th' souls o' mortals or for shreds o' knowledge, for items lift'd from th' dead hands o' planar warriors in th' deep murky holes o' th' Lost Paths. If I 'ad wanted to open th' Prison, do ye really think it'd still be closed, right now? Do ye, ya?" The words were heard and weighted, the faces staring at him turning away one by one as he challenged them with a glare, all traces of amusement gone. "Now, bloodkeeper, a bottle o' yer best angel's blood, aye."

Right Brain |||||||||||||| 54% Left Brain |||||||||||||| 56% Now with 10% more braaaaaaaiiinnss! Still less than Peredhil, though.

Thrice-accursed tin cans. The blathering of his opponent went ignored, stored into some far-away, little used dusty corner of the Dreamer's vast memory. Eyes the black of night with a hint of future dawn, yellow and red, he raced forward, holding his sword almost like a lance. The armored knight left his defense to the last moment, then lifted his wide shield up, resolution shining in his blue eyes in the depths of the heavy, golden helmet. A jarring crash killed the Dreamer's momentum and sent both visible and unseen sparks flying, fingers of raw holiness stabbing at his wards from the impact. If I do not crush this metal-clad clown fast there will be other tracking hounds to worry about. Somewhere far away came the indignant declarations of the Good's pawn, barely registering through his battle trance. " ... was the last drop, Scourge! Claim whatever allegiance ye wish, but if ye aim to release th' Devourer ye shall find no respite from any planewalker!" The words had a booming metallic quality to them. The Dreamer sneered, gave his opponent a better look so that he'd recognize him should he meet this particular pest again. Most of his attention was concentrated on noting down the flimsy ward layout, but in passing he tucked away the outward details: heavy, golden platemail, an unwieldy, huge kite shield already scarred by Pain, tabard with a stylized white hearth on black background with yellow flames dancing inside. Nothing he saw spoke of any notable prowess and still sneering he snarled a quick incantation, sent forth a salvo of bolts of hellfire. "Ha!" A divine shield appeared around the anonymous knight, deflecting the attack. The Dreamer narrowed his eyes, his face twisting into even more overt display of distaste, if possible. The sight was too much for him to stay silent as he had done so far. "Ye coward! Pestilent suckin' parasite o' some droolin' god! Do ye 'ave any powers ye haven't begg'd from greater deities?" He beckoned, his face a warped and scarred mask of loathing. His eyes remained black, however, his hate chilled and calm. "Saint Kzathperk! Empower my blows!" A white halo sprang into existence around the paladin's mace, momentarily illuminating the face hidden by the heavy armor. A boyish face, unscarred and serious in a way that might have been almost funny, had there been more time to administer a proper punishment for this stupidity. There was a certain hierarchy in the planewalker world, and this was a lamb barely old enough to walk challenging the lion - or at the very least, one of the old, scarred hyenas. A hint of wicked grin tempered the scarred sneer and the Dreamer roared a return challenge to the battleshout of the paladin, his made of words of creation, of True Speech wrestled from those elder gods who had forged the first worlds. The words tore at the very fabric of reality as they finished conjuring what he was calling: an unimpressive grey sphere, transparent and faintly flickering and sizzling. It appeard hovering over his right hand, his left holding Pain. The Dreamer smiled. "That is all the feared Scourge can muster?" "'Tis all I need, fledgling." Another charge, another jarring crash. And a rain of golden metal shards, afterwards.

Thanks, Wyvern - glad you enjoyed them! I am pretty pleased with both pieces, which for me isn't all that common. The "Alaska" magnet I had on my apartment of the time's fridge - I shamelessly mixed reality and fiction in that piece, walking around my room and trying to distill the feel of winter into the text. I remember pausing in the writing to gently touch the window, to stand in the middle of the room, looking out. Part II was complete fiction, on the other hand. I didn't actually have the same idea about what happens in it as you did, but since I don't want to freeze the possible interpretations into one single possibility I'll pass on giving out the "official" plot. Poke me in IRC with a PM if you want to know what I thought I was writing about at the time.

The Dreamer: Killed by a well-meaning plastic surgeon. ("But I just removed all his scars!") Whitelynx: Driven over by a car. ("Is that lump of snow moving?") ||`: Dismantled by a bunch of voracious Trick or Treaters during a Halloween. ("Schweeeeeet!") Zadown of Old: Missed when sheathing the katana.

Smoking pillar = a chimney?

Watched "Lady in the Water" yesterday. I've seen most of Shyamalan's other movies and I've generally liked them, even "Signs" with its silly ending, so it seemed like a safe bet to rent this. I could've hardly been more wrong. It is one of the least enjoyable movies I've ever managed to watch fully - the characters are flat cardboard caricatures with a few artificial touches meant to convey depth and the plot reminds me of a inept, hangover GM in a tabletop RP game coming up with a new mythos one detached, meaningless piece at a time. "Yeah, these guys, let's call them Qwerties, umm... if you throw them with green plastic bags these crows, ya know the Crows of Judgement, come down from the sky and eat them. Right?" The way the arbitrary rules of this fantasy were laid out and explained felt also excessively glued-on. Add to all that a certain sickening sweetness, an absurd sense of hope, and I couldn't help but feel an average high school kid could write better screenplay. Don't get me even started with the few "profound" pieces of dialogue I had to suffer through. I've never felt so detached during the crisis part of a movie before, and when the inevitable ending came I felt relief, not because how things ended up, but because the movie finally ended. Two thumbs down from me.

I tend to have sort of teflon surface when it comes to things like feeling ashamed about the stuff I read or watch, but there's certainly been a lot of books I've read I wouldn't recommend to anybody. Sometimes that sort of recognition of suckyness has come later, especially since I was voracious reader as a kid as well (got some strange looks from my dad when I read Bambi, I remember that), but sometimes I just love to hate the book I'm reading. Take David Gemmel (may he rest in peace, didn't realize he is dead until just now) for example - I knew his books were filled with macho bullshit and a repetitive structure, and I still bought more. It was like junk food for me, sometimes you just have to have some even though you know it is bad for you. Hope there's no real Gemmel fans reading this. I've also read stuff that has rabid fans but that isn't really quality writing from my perspective, like Salvatore's books and Death Gate cycle. Makes it easier to understand some geek jokes, sometimes, so I guess it wasn't totally wasted time and money. I used the same excuse to go see Star Wars II and III after episode I showed how low Lucas had fallen. Most of what I read these days has some quality, though. My guilty pleasures, if I'd feel guilty about them, would be on the anime front...

Saw "Déja vu" yesterday. Not much to say about it - it's decent action movie with a few explosions, a car chase (they just gotta have one no matter what, it seems), gaping holes in the underlying "science" and an easily predictable conclusion. It manages to do all the old, tired tricks with a certain shiny, fluid grace however. The movie stumbles in a few places, but if you can forget those the rest of it is entertaining enough.

Awarness surfaces from the soft void, whole and round, smiling a little. Its surroundings appear, or are created, at a slow walking pace, their touch on the waking mind a friendly caress. Color of peach and toned down glare of a yellow, huge sun, parts of the world obscured under a layer of light, some fading into the sepia of forgotten photographs. A smell of slightly roasted dry earth, languid silence that can only live in the pauses between cicadas of the summer night. It is shapeless, itself, a blurred presence in the middle of soft sensations and mild breezes. Warm wave sloshes through it, rising from the yielding ground, tingling gently as it seeps through the ambiguous shape. A slight irritation or two mar the flawless perfection. It can't help itself, can't embrace the pastel-coloured world without growing fingers and hands and feels itself grasping a sun-warmed staff, gloves chafing its newly-created prehensile organs. Some unseen threshold is suddenly stumbled over. Last view of the dream is a picture painted over with dark blue and yellow, pillow turned into a bed of broken glass and jagged juxtapositions. She sits up, trashing, breathing too hard, too fast, something restricting her motions and escalating her panic, her motions sluggish and taxing. "Hey! Hey! Relax, relax, shhhh..." Beyond her sister, through the moist visor of her helmet, she can see the familiar walls of their house, the triple-glass window and the cold moonlight, the glint of winter stars on the black sky.

Good luck - I hope everything goes as smoothly as can be expected! I'd offer to help, but since they haven't invented a way to crawl through the 'Net's wires or any other sort of instant teleportation yet it wouldn't be of much use, so I'll just keep my thumbs up here.