Zadown

*wakes up from dozing in a chair and yells wildly, still half asleep* The unstable ones will blow! Watch out! *blinks and wakes up completely* Err.. somebody was calling me, right? Or was it Zool this time? Never can tell, with Z. *kicks away one of the last trailing Minta's zombies that's trying to bite him and wanders off towards the kitchens of the Keep* ((As an old Grandmaster and Head Honcho of the Official A1 Zombie Club I gotta say, lovely poem! ))

Mine's prolly about 0 so I don't feel like taking the test.

So basically Lynch made another Lynch movie? *grin* I definitely want to see it, but when and how are still open - it's not going to be shown at the local theater, that's for sure, and I respect the guy a bit too much to download the movie. Thanks for the well-written review Wyvern, I think you really managed to tell accurately what his movies are like.

Alas, there's no fiction included in this "sci-fi" story. It was -27 C when I wrote this and weather forecast promises -33 C for tonight. Yay.

I feel like a diver. I adjust my goggles, annoyed at the way they press on the frame of my glasses. Around me the night is yellow and black, the colored goggles giving everything an unreal shade. Yellow, black and deadly cold. My breath feels loud and laboured inside the hood and I do my last mental check, probing the two imaginary tanks of air I carry: warmth and energy. Both seem to be at a reasonable level and I mount my bike. Headwind, even with all the clothes I wear, the layers of goretex and coolmax and wool, is still like a death incarnate. I drive with one hand inside my jacket, then later one hand keeping the hood in place so my lips won't be hit by the lashing whip of the wind. The moisture from my exhaling fogs my goggles, but it's either that or vision fading because of the biting cold ravaging my eyes, and I'll rather take this warm blindness. It's a familiar route and the cycle path is plowed, it doesn't matter if I hardly see anything. Cold doesn't seem too bad, now, but riding the bike wearing three to four layers of heavy clothing is depleting the other tank, that of energy. The roads opening before me, vague outlines barely visible behind the veil of yellow fog, seem like they tremble sideways more than vanish beneath my slowly spinning wheels. It's like a scene from some nightmare, legs treading in place as the horror of hypothermia stalks behind me. I swear, as only a Finn can, and keep on pedalling.

Zadown sneaks in, mutters something to himself while surveying the various trees in the garden. Finally he nods, stops to wave at Gwaihir, then produces out of thin air a large globe that glows with vibrant green light and hangs it from a sturdy branch. "A magelight, for those darker evenings. Nice, warm glow, neh?" He grins, frowns when he notices the smell of paint, then his face clears and he wanders away, again.

Wyvern, that's "director" Uwe Boll, the ruler of IMDB Bottom #100 -list, for you. All his movies are like that, and the only reason he is allowed to make more (if I understood and remember right) are some sort of tax-related laws that make financing his crap benefical in Germany. I can understand the fun in watching his unholy abominations but I've seen one (House of the Dead) and I'd rather not kill off any more braincells that way. YMMV.

"I will win th' next game, ya know. Ye gettin' th' Reversal o' Fortunes at an opportune time was th' decidin' blow, not yer skill." The repetitive metallic bass growl sounded like a poor imitation of laughter. The Dreamer narrowed his blue eyes, glanced upwards at the helmet-shaped head of his comrade-in-hiding. A few light snowflakes whirled around the uneven pair, the light of the Torch creating one massive, titanic shadow, another thin and tall on the nearby hoarfrosted wall. "Th' Fates be with ya, m'lord." As soon as he saw the creature nod at his words, he sidestepped into Astral. Stepping through the barrier changed him in the instant he emerged, his placid eyes now flashing yellow, his posture growing taunt, Pain appearing on his back, unbidden. He breathed deeply, though nothing entered his useless lungs - he didn't bother with protective enchantments a mortal would have needed to survive out here and thus had no air around him. Behind him glowed the pearly globe of the plane he had just exited, before him, far away on the background, shone the Pearl Necklace of Worlds. All around him he could sense the Lost Paths beckon him, stirring images of the places they lead to in his mind - but none of the paths connected to the plane of Sabishvan. The Dreamer sighed, exhaling the same amount of nothing he had breathed in earlier. This will take a while. I'm surprised she came here to see me at all, with her valuing her speed as much as she does... He started wading through the Void to the nearest path.

The card shone so brightly it illuminated the snowflakes drifting lazily above it with rich white radiance, making them seem like miniature angels flying above a tiny heaven. The Dreamer leaned away from the annoying brightness, the light accentuating the mountain ranges of scars and the valleys between them on his brow. His eyes were dark, almost black, with a few sparks of blue. A push sent the card on a short glide over the ice-covered table, towards the left edge. King of Grails, the Lord of Good in all his magnificient, inept glory. At the sidelines, yes, but nevertheless involved. Alarming, to an extent... He flipped another card from the deck with two misshaped fingers, moved to place it on the table but stopped mid-motion to glare at the dark miasma the card was vomiting. And of course his brother shows up - the King of Swords, dark and malign, poisonous and pointless, at the other side. Since when have they been appearing on a reading of this scale? The ruined skin of the Dreamer's visage grew taunt, his scars writhing and paling, his eyes turning into thin lines of Void. He practically threw the card at the table and for a moment its fall over the edge seemed inevitable. It slowed down however, managing to glide over every spot on the table where the ice did not gleam with slickness, and ended up with only its corner over the abyss. That mundane sight of the card that should have fallen laying smugly exactly where the reading required the King of Swords to be sent a tremor through him. He felt the universe come into focus, with the deck he was holding at the center of it all, all the histories and futures and fates painted on those small cards, endless souls crying their anguish on them, endless conquerors bellowing their triumphs, endless final, sharp and utter Deaths and dim, vague beginnings of ascendence, endless existence, endless emptiness. A wave of despair crashed into him, and a wave of euphoria - he knew the moment would pass, flung the topmost of the cards on the table eyes shut to better see the fleeting inner visions as they turned into ashes and died, leaving behind memories so slippery even his immortal, powerful mind could not grasp them. When he opened his eyes again their blue was deeper and more insane shade of Astral than they had been for a long, long time. Eyes wide, unseeing, he stared at the left side of the Torch for a moment, mouth ajar, then came to. In the middle of the table, midway between the two opposite Lords, was a card depicting a gaping hole in the darkness of the Void, black and white pillar framing the disturbing rent in the fabric of what should have been inviolable, immutable, eternal. Out of that portal spewed out a multitude of creatures, every one of them wrong in a way that made his mind ache. He was not able to pinpoint it, but even though they seemed familiar demons and angels and Kalash, planewalkers and gods and other major powers, not one of them was right. In front of that disparate mob, a step ahead of even the fastest of the painted personae was a speeding Chariot leaving behind it a maroon trail, a figure in black silk and another, skeletal one in whirling chaos armor crossing weapons aboard it. The details were tiny but distinct as if the card had grown since he let it fall on the table, the horde of creatures rushing out of the portal endlessly, never reaching the edges of the picture. The Dreamer growled aloud, conjured a green mageflame to examine the reading more closely.

His pale fingers hovered motionless in the frigid air, thin wisps of steam escaping their surface in constant stream. A neutral, empty look on his face, his eyes pale, dull blue, he considered the situation in front of him, the flow of time hissing in his ear. They were both patient players, the Dreamer and his huge adversary. He ignored the noise. Then, the merest twitch of his torn lips, a change of color somewhere deep inside his eyes, and he lifted an âhn-kzad playing piece, sent it far into enemy territory with one long decisive thrust. He breathed out, an old habit, and created a small cloud of floating ice crystals, the tiny snowflakes drifting apart and vanishing into the shadows cast by his opponent. "Yer turn, m'lord." The only reply was a bass metallic rumble, half of it burrowing under the hearing range of mortals. It disturbed the nearby ice and snow, like somebody had shook a snowglobe that depicted the two of them playing the ancient game, some of the playing pieces and Chárôt cards involved barely visible with all the snow dancing above them, landing on them. The Dreamer stretched, prepared to let parts of him drift into the depths of his memory, light trance beckoning as the most convinient way of waiting for his next turn, when their slow game was interrupted for the first time, ever. A small portal appeared, its borders starting cherry red but rapidly cooling towards burgundy as the eternal winter reigning here struck against the invader's warmth. It expanded to the size of a troll's head, then spat out an imp wearing a bright red hat, carrying a large green gift-wrapped packet. On the top of the gift was written with uneven, scrawled crayon letters "To Uncle Dreamer, Merry Christmas!". The scarred planewalker turned to frown at the imp already shuddering in the grip of the deadly cold, his eyes narrowing into dark grey slits. The imp shuddered even more, if possible, and held the gift above it as a shield. "From my old 'prentice, ya?" The gift bobbed up and down as the imp bowed its head, then the demon squeaked as it was lifted upwards along with the packet it was holding on to. Somewhere beyond the planewalker the other player rumbled again, the noise louder this time, the vibrations almost dislocating those of the playing pieces that had not frozen into the board yet. The Dreamer ignored the noise. "I, Wodzan Xe Chanima of th' Scales, have receiv'd yer packet, imp. Now scram before ye freeze solid an' shatter into a thousand pieces." It nodded, let go and leaped through the portal that had been trembling on the background, the cold and the unstable magical surges of this plane both making it hard to maintain a way through from the fiery realms of demons. He turned to regard his opponent and opened his eyes wider again, their color shifting towards the magnificient blue of the Astral. Another rumble, insistent and powerful, another miniature blizzard of loose snow. "Ya, I hear ya. So 'twas a visitor, an' so my 'prentice knows where I am." He shrugged, the gesture dislocating snow from his white robes. Eyes almost shut, a thoughtful look rippled through his devastated face. "Doubt that'd be enough, an' doubt they still bother lookin' for me that badly. If they appear, I'll leave with such a commotion th' meagre traces of yer existence 'ere are certainly overlook'd." Somewhere far above the planewalker, a massive head moved a slowly up and down, creating a small avalanche that barely missed their game board. The Dreamer gave a wan smile in response, gestured in a dismissive manner. "Now, let's see what my twice-born pupil has sent t' me ..." He tore away the wrapping paper, opened the wooden box with jerky moves and froze when he saw what was inside. "A huge snowflake. Just what we were missin' from our cozy hideout, neh?" The wan smile turned wider, and when the Dreamer turned to look at the game again tiny motes of silver drifted in his pale eyes.

"Be there or be a rectangular thynge!" -Terry Pratchett

I haven't even named this one. It's just pasta-based stuff, as opposed to the rice-based stuff. Ingredients: 500 g of chili-flavoured tomato purée 1 small can of champignon mushrooms 1 can of white beans in tomato sauce 350-450 g of minced meat 400 g of macaroni salt and spices water 1. Boil 1-2 litres of water. 2. Once the water boils, toss in a bit of salt and the macaroni and start frying the meat in a big wok pan. 3. Add salt and spices to the meat while you are frying it to suit your tastes. I tend to use some cayene pepper and some pepper mix. 4. When the meat starts to turn brown, add the mushrooms, then shortly afterwards the beans & sauce and the tomato purée. 5. Mix the meat-tomatoe-mushroom sauce. 6. Once the macaroni is done, remove water from it (use a sieve or something) and dump it on the sauce, turn off the stove and mix. Produces quite a few servings that heat well enough in the microwave oven. I eat it with ketchup but seems combining pasta and ketcup is sacriledge to some people. *shrug*

Wyvern, I've seen both "Requiem for a Dream" and "Pi", and umm... "Pi" is pretty good if I remember right, it's been years and years since I saw it. A bit Lynch-ian nightmare/paranoid atmosphere, definitely worth watching. "Requiem for a Dream" is even better but very harsh on the watcher, showing the watcher what addiction can do in no uncertain terms. It smashes the message through your skull right into your brain with such brute, disgusting power I am uncertain if I should actually ask people to see it. It's been years since I saw it as well, but the images were burned into my normally misty memory with acid and will not vanish. I'm definitely looking forward to seeing "The Fountain".

Mist continued to hold the forest under its heavy blanket, but it had lost its keenest, most disorienting edge now that it had lingered here in the real, dull world so long, so far from Kirouu isles. It made the boring trees look majestic, like masts of some green ship, sails whispering snatches of a song he had heard since he had been a little child. That sound, wind against the needles, mixed with the loud bass beat of his own heart were the only two sounds Athar could hear. His left hand lifted itself to touch his newest servant. The fingertips barely had any feeling left, but he could hear the faint scraping sound as his withered claws brushed against the armour of the orc corpse. The creature, or creation, had a vacant stare and stood utterly still, blood and ice staining its chain mail. It had greyish skin, not because of decay but because that was the normal skin tone of the local orcs, but its knuckles were white as it held on to its weapon and shield with the single-mindedness of a zombie. Athar could not hear the patrol, but he could see them - even the trees were slightly transparent to him as long as the forest was under his spell, and he had been careful not to run too far. It had taken patience and stealth to be able to animate the fallen orc without blundering into the slowly moving patrol, but he had managed the feat. Now he could feel like the ivory dice of Lady Luck were slowing down and tipping over to his favour. The orcs were scared, that much was obvious. They had formed a formation that looked like a hedgehog, weapons bared to every direction, the shaman and the senior warriors standing in the middle. He glared at the shaman, felt a low wave of unease wash through him. What is he waiting? He hasn't done anything yet, has he? I'd notice an invisibility spell right away, the brilliant glow it burns with on any occultist's second vision makes it pointless to use. What else is there, what else ... He gnawed on his right hand's thumb, looking even younger than his few years for a moment, even when standing there with his withered arm sacrificed to magic, even with the fell companion he had. He swallowed, once, whispered "go" to the zombie and begun another spell. The words it required felt hard and cold in his mouth, their shape and form so crude and demanding he had to put force into their pronunciation. Air around him chilled, a few snowflakes whirling around his gesturing form. Over the dreamy landscape mellowed with creamy fog a vision of winter superimposed itself, his right hand's fingers trailing bright blue sparks, the fingers of his left, corrupted hand disappearing under globes of light the colour of dirty snow. Athar was half here, half in some other, gelid world made of crushing layers of ice and of bitter cold. At the focal point where his two halves met he was blazing with ice-aspected mana with such fierceness even a mere village shaman was forced to see him. His icy smile was half determination, half desperation. Let there be enough time! Smiling, he roared aloud the last words of the incantation, words so powerful they demanded whatever his mortal lungs could give - and Lady Luck smiled back. The first arrow flew straight and true but hit the orc zombie with a noise that would've seemed loud a few moments before. Now it drowned under the shouts of the living orcs, the roared words of ice and the harsh guttural pact the shaman was making with the local spirits. A spear hit a tree, another arrow flew too high, the first charging orc was intercepted by the faithful undead and received an incapacitating wound. Athar breathed out, his breath so dry and cold it destroyed whatever mist it touched, then breathed in, a crackling globe of ice orbiting his healthy hand. The pact was formed and the globe flung, first real blow struck against the dead orc. Icy explosion erupted where the shaman had stood, sounding like a thousand angry mountains releasing their snowy burdens at the same time, the cacophony fighting the tearing, organic sound of a nearby tree releasing itself from the ground as it was possessed by whatever spirit the orc had commanded. Large shards of clear ice whirled around, their sound a short frightening hum followed by solid thuds of wood and flesh, short and long screams following depending on the gravity of injuries inflicted, then silence. A billowing cloud grew towards the sky, ice and snow covering the point of impact. The cold air and Athar's lapse in concentration were last straws for the mist and it gave up, vanished slowly like a bad dream. Somewhere, not all that far away, a bird cried to welcome the impending dawn.

They were close, now, and the bitter coldness that had threatened to numb his fingers and thoughts while he had waited was now receding again, giving way to palpable terror. It was always like this for him, though the first time had been the worst so far, fear nearly paralysing him. Marchello told us so many times how many occultists die during their first fight, some old bit of trivia he had inherited from his own teacher. I've survived my baptism of fire, so I will survive this skirmish, also. Faulty logic, but it worked on some level, easing off the shackles that had almost rooted him to one spot a moment ago. Ignoring the chill, dipping under the surface of reality, Athar started muttering while drawing the words stolen from the gods in the air. Just before letting go of most of his senses he could smell a whiff of corruption, a sickening stench tainting the pure, cold autumn air. His slack face twisted in disgust, then it was utterly still. All around him, mist started seeping from the ground like flood water, the topmost layer of the rising tide faint and transparent. As it raised higher, it thickened at ground level and turned to a colour of cream or honey, swirling in a confusing, unsettling manner. Athar fell silent and finished drawing the last glyph in the foggy air, then lifted both of his arms and his face towards the heavens. The moment of rapture did not last long, and nobody was there to see it - when he came out of the trance he was standing normally, his arms slack on his side, left arm aching like a distant, dead thing. He opened his eyes. They snapped wide, bulging in his face like he had just ingested a dose of strong kcha'vra, pupils dilated. This forest was now his, for a while. What the attackers had lost in their visibility he had gained - he could see through the fog the patrol huddling against each other, the shaman in the middle, their mouths opening and closing in heated argument of what to do. A few of them had fallen down because of the disorienting effect of the Kirouu fog, one puking his guts out a little away from the main group. Even riding the wave of dark magic it gave him little pleasure to see his enemies reduced to the state of drunken louts - rather, he felt a sour, bitter taste in his mouth, an irrational wish that all this was just a bad dream and that the orcs would stay on the mountains. The thought flitted around his crowded head like a lost butterfly but did not stop him, of course. Wishful thinking had never stopped him. His next spell did not push him under or taint the very world itself. At worst, speaking aloud the crunching, tinkling words made Athar shiver, something he barely noticed now that the fight was about to start for real. A faint blue glow sprang into existence in his right, healthy hand, dancing there a fleeting moment before he flung it forward. In the air it turned into an arrow of ice and winter's chill, tunnelling its way through the turbulent, heavy fog. The shaman sensed it, too late - but he had not been the target in the first place, the screen of orc warriors blocking the line of sight between the two real adversaries. It smashed against one warrior's chest, the ice piercing its way through the haphazard protection of rusty mail and worn leather, the chill freezing the orc's very blood. The warrior toppled, snarling something that the blanket of fog quickly devoured. Before he hit the soft, wet moss, Athar was already running, leaving the orcs to aim their spears and bows at swirling fog and empty forest.

It was colder outside than he had expected. His breath steamed in the chilly air and he shivered, hugged himself before leaving the lee of his house. Ahead the black forest of firs rose up towards the small red light of the gibbous moon hanging on the dark grey sky, the illumination too faint to tint the world crimson.Wind gusted, tugging at Athar's robes and making him shiver again, and for a moment he thought of going back in to get a thicker shirt or perhaps going back and staying there, leaving his task undone. Then the wind passed and it was not quite unbearably cold any more, just uncomfortable, and he strode off towards the fir trees. Soon the grey sky and dark grey earth both vanished, leaving only the inky blackness of the forest. No distractions, there, even wind stilled by the dense curtain of needles. There they are, again. Little motes of bright life slowly trudging through the thick forest. With no ... A slow frown spread on his face, the slow crawl of worry creeping over his features making him seem like a retard. Athar returned to his body and to the real world in a rush that left him confused. They had ... paused to stare at him? Sensed his ethereal presence, somehow? He discarded the spell he had been maintaining and swung his gaze to the direction of the intruders. Black, immobile trees, the forest humming to the bass tune of the autumn wind. Soft, wet moss under his sturdy boots, faint clouds drifting from his mouth, cold nipping at his bare fingers and clawing at his exposed face with dull talons that'd be sharpened ere winter. Crisp and clear reality, ordinary and boring, a wall between him and his real powers. Then, a sudden shift in perception as he altered his vision in the way they had taught to him, there far away in the warm land of mages and occultists, Chaman. Techniques and teachings that felt like dreams, now and here, soft and sunny dreams where people bent the nature to their will and ruled reality with a delicate fist glowing with arcane energies. Real enough a dream, of course - the things he remembered did work, the monochrome night was gone, glowing lines pulsing in his view over the grim trees and the wet moss. He was not an expert of the meta-magic theories, never even considered studying that field any more than was necessary. Tools, not goals, even if they were useful from time to time. Thus, it took a moment for him to realize what he was seeing, what the twisting, shimmering laylines meant. A shaman! Now, what did they tell us of them, again. Athar could feel his pulse quickening, in fear or in excitement, he was not sure. His left eye blinked shut for a short moment, fading out his second vision from that side. A fast shake of his head, a focusing mantra muttered a few times, and he managed to adjust himself to the new field of vision. Laylines and the skein that marked the shaman glowed only faintly now, dancing jerkily over the canvas of tree boles.

The world of dreams sunk below him as he drifted upwards, towards the waking world. No light greeted him as he let his eyes open, still floating in the warm softness of sleep. He already dreaded the waiting night, tried to remain in the friendly realm of dreams. Shock brought him the rest of the way, the shock of smelling his own, decaying flesh. He sat up, held his stomach with his right hand to quell the heaving and lifted his left arm, if it still deserved that name, to the front of his face. It was almost black all the way to the elbow, a desiccated, dried out thing ending in sharp claws, but answering every command of his mind. He flexed the hand and studied it in silence. The long claws gleamed even in the deepening dusk and he had the strange idea they would gladly rend and cut living flesh if an opportunity should arise, as if the claws could have a mind of their own. A weary smile flashed on his face, then vanished. They told me the path I was contemplating on would bring on such changes. Humanity left behind a layer at a time, like shedding the heavy clothes of winter and basking in the warmth of the summer of magic ... but the other way around, perhaps. It is a cold path and the warmth is I seek to leave behind me, to find an inhuman clarity. Ah, such irony, to become a monster like this... Athar sighed and tossed his blanket aside, shivered in the cold that slashed at his barely covered flesh right afterwards. A messily laid pile of clothes on the chair nearby held his gaze for a moment as he scratched his neck, then he flexed his back, touched the ceiling briefly with the outstretched fingers of his right hand and walked softly to the wardrobe. Unlikely to meet my demise quite yet, but if I do die this night, at least they can find me in the clothes I should be wearing. The door creaked faintly, a sound that would have easily vanished under any ambient noise. There was none, however - the house was silent, no other living beings moving about. Athar's lips formed another mirthless smile as that thought passed through his languidly wakening mind. Just me and the dead. From the wardrobe he lifted out a heavy black robe, the coloured patterns that would have told his exact fields of study colourless grey in the gloom. He put it on, having slight trouble with his ruined left arm. When it finally settled on his lean body, a new smile flickered briefly on his face, this one a pleasant one if faint. Athar glanced around in an effort to throw away the last of the gossamer nets of sleep, the familiar surroundings banishing the weirdness of dreams away. The room was small, even if it was the master bedroom with a double bed far too wide for him. The wooden floor was mostly covered with a rug and an ancient bear hide, one rug hanging on the outer wall next to the bed depicting a wolf hunt. The chair and the wardrobe were both heavy and simple, made to last, though both had some ornamental patterns carved on them by a bored ancestor killing time during a winter long past. Door to the rest of the house was slightly ajar, no lock on it, just a knob. From the main room came a very faint stream of warm air, the last breaths of a cooling hearth. He wrapped his bare feet in cloth, then put on his leather boots and padded into the main room, yawning as he went. "Brother?" The sound startled him, even after three years. It was a hoarse whisper, barely audible if not for the almost absolute silence inside. "Evening, Maella." His gaze swept across the heavy oven, a reflex to check for signs of fire getting out of hand, past the bulky table next to it, finally pausing on a piece of barely darker shadow on top of the shadowy shape of chest of drawers. Athar blinked and his vision focused, cutting through the darkness that would have foiled the eyes of most of his fellow villagers. There it was, his sisters blackened skull with three runes carved on its forehead, one of her front teeth missing, the eye sockets too dark for even his corrupted vision to penetrate. As always, seeing that skull made him feel slightly sad, sad and tired. "Do I look that bad, Ath? Awww..." Her whisper degenerated into a soft hiss, like wind, and he did not feel like answering.

1. Tzimfemme 2. the Dreamer 3. Errant of the Grail 4. rune 5. prophesied 6. Lord Valdar Twiceborn 7. acquiscent 8. coruscating 9. angel's blood 10. crushingly 11. high noon 12. true name 13. the Jade Katana 'Benefical Dragon' 14. a torc of primal fire 15. juxtapose 16. marble throne 17. projections 18. hips *yaaaaaawn* Hope those work. z_Z

take a man gut him and pour acid of anxiety inside let the flesh burn into ulcers when he relaxes leans back into the inevitable surrenders whip him with ice and snow pelt with hail and kick, once for good measure

Been there, done that - it was tons of fun (if you count bashing the keyboard with yer forehead repeatedly when the needed number of words just won't come out otherwise as fun) and I wish you luck in finishing it.

Just one question - what is the scenario going to be like?

Yes, I've seen my Matrix movies, all three of them. To be honest, I wasn't and still aren't happy with this particular story, and the ending does not leave the Dreamer chillin' out at a remote corner of the multiversum by chance - I feel that I've used up whatever creativity I have and doubt there'll be more stories soon. This is better solution than when I tried to kill him off ages ago, in "Quest for Chaos" if I remember right, by leaving him staring at the Grail in the Dreaming, for I'm pretty sure he'll wander off again at some point, just not quite yet. "Fish Messiah" is a simple crude pun on scales, there's no deeper meaning to it. Thanks for reading through my works, Wyv, too bad that's it for now.

laser

blindfold

prince