Zadown

Sounds ... intriguing. I'm not sure if I'm more interested in the idea of watching somebody else to try to play a character I've generated or my own posts, but either way count me in. It's about time I'd write something.

cowers

space-time continuum

I've seen Howl's Moving Castle also and for me watching it was a bittersweet experience, as while it was good, I expected far more from Ghibli. It is clearly one of their weaker movies, the lack of coherence that was evident already in Spirited Away getting far worse in this movie. It's as beautiful as any Ghibli movie, but I felt the dramatic structure of it, the way it told its story, was inherently flawed. Despite many of my friends liking Howl's Moving Castle, I can't personally recommend it. Ghibli has made a number of great movies though, go check the list out. Ohhhh a movie about Earthsea! *giddy*

Thanks for once again providing some reader's views of my stories, Wyvern - much appriciated. Keeping this particular world detailed is easy as it is an old RPG campaign world I designed over ten years ago. Fionella might get more spotlight time later on as I have some vague plans involving her and Marchello (not Morchello ) and the Dreamer. Can't say anything certain about it though. My fragmented storydriving often only shows faint silhouettes of people, then possibly reintroduces them again later in a much more prominent role. Most of the current important side characters started as mere sketches, one-dimensional personae who only nudged the story to one direction. "Colorless" was indeed a wrong word. Despite my apparent mastery of the language, I sometimes err and directly translate concepts and words from Finnish that end up having the wrong meaning in English, and this was one of those occassions. "Tuneless" would have been the correct word.

Epilogue The chilly light of the distant Torch glittered on the layer of ice that covered the few structures in sight. Every unwavering shadow cast by the buildings was pitch black, the areas on which Torch's light landed raw, crude white, giving the place a monochrome look. The Dreamer did not break the monotony much - he was wearing his white robes again, his face and bare hands pale, the purple of his boots hidden under the deep snow he stood in. Cold had frozen his grey hair in place, no wind tugging at it here, and his eyes had adopted the same grey hue. He breathed out once, out of old habit, and created a small cloud of floating ice crystals, the tiny snowflakes drifting apart and vanishing into the shadows of a nearby overhang. A few rapid blinks, something a mortal might have had to do to keep his eyes from freezing over, adjusted his vision to show the glowing spectrum of magic. The view brought a wan grin to his face, even though he had seen it and studied it several times already: the enchantments buried deep into the cores of the freezing buildings washed the landscape of his second sight with a bright show of colors akin to aurora borealis even when he looked with narrowed, shielded eyes. What was left of his blazing aura after his usual concessions to stealth blended into that kaleidoscope of power easily, no matter how close you were, no matter how familiar you were with its pattern. They may come to the same conclusion of what hiding place would be the best - eventually, perhaps. A new star suddenly flared in the sky, its aura as shielded by the chaotic local fluctuations but its corporeal form visible clearly to the unenhanced eye. It was a small plane and she was swift, as always. Swifter than usual, even, with a sort of tauntness in her posture and face when she slowed down to land in the snow. "Evenin', Arbitrator Khantius. Welcome t' my newest hideout, m'lady." She did not reply immediately, the rudeness of that and her hand on the pommel of her sword sure signs she was truly angry. "Greetings, Scourge. What is th' point in hiding if ye then give out yer location is one of th' first questions that beg askin', m'lord." The Dreamer's answering laugh was as crystal clear as the frigid, dead air of the hideout, his eyes flaring with the pure white of snow. "Haha! It got even t' ya, then? That tells me what I did succeeded beyond my more moderate assumptions, m'lady. Now, consider what ye ask'd, and what I truly did, not what it seems that I attempt'd, an' then see if ye can ease that scowl from yer face some. Th' ravaged localities surroundin' us are all th' frozen, hateful atmosphere I need, an' smile suits yer face better." Nobody had ever claimed Faaye to be stupid. Her facial expression shifted once and twice, rapidly, before stopping at halfway between sceptism and amusement. Just then the ground below them shook and a low, metallic sound echoed through the dead streets and houses filled with frozen dead. She frowned and glared an unspoken question towards the Dreamer, who shrugged, an act that displaced some snow from his white robes. "It is a perfect hidin' place, after all. I'm hardly th' only fugitive in th' whole wide multiversum." "Ye do think 'tis a coincidence?" He grinned, eyes vivid blue, and draw a Chárôt card from out of thin, freezing air. It showed a massive wheel rotating in the depth of the Void, with the Ladies of Law, Balance and Chaos standing behind it and three elven silhuettes barely visible at the lower edge of the picture, the middle one wearing a great-helm with only her ears visible, the two other bareheaded, the elves and the Ladies both watching the middle of the wheel intensely. A man-shaped statue made of lead and clad in black funeral clothes was spinning at the focal point on top of the wheel, his feet tied to the axle. The card emited a low noise, and when Faaye leaned closer to hear it, she realized it was the rumble of lead against whatever material the wheel itself was made of. "Th' Destiny, th' wheel o' Fortune herself. It's spinnin' so quick th' friction'd burn this card in a more temperate surroundings, ya. Nothin' is a coincidence, not what I set in motion or what else is hidin' here, what yer thinkin' now of this an' what ye did think of what I had done earlier, flyin' here with sword ready an' eyes blazing." "So ye did it again, m'lord Dreamer - altered th' course of events? Yet ye told we were foolish t' trust too much on what ye might achieve, if push'd into action." The Dreamer shrugged again, this time with an air of irritation, and made the card disappear. "I can't say if it is because I have th' Fates haunting me or if I'm th' only one here actually thinkin' what move might lead towards desir'd future instead of findin' th' nearest enemy Kalash and bash it until it stops movin'. Whichever it may be, I'll cool off here an' wait until th' Law's not tryin' quite so hard t' find me." Faaye glanced towards the distant source of where the earlier noise had originated. "It won't cause any trouble t' ya? If ye two cross swords, th' resultin' clash might be too much for even th' local fireworks to cloak." "We'll see. Now leave before somebody tracks ye here, or before th' war descends towards some unwanted conclusion in yer absence, ya?" She nodded and floated upwards, snow drifting downwards from her boots in a slow cascade, sang out a last cheerful goodbye before vanishing towards the black sky. "Meet ya in a few years, m'lord!" He smiled, then.

Air wavered, so hot it twisted the view to every direction. Even without its interference, there wouldn't have been many straight lines to see - the colossal monoliths that formed this city had bowed down to the two immortals fighting, their steel molten, their glass shattered and flowing like water. In the middle, at the eye of the storm, some unleashed spell had made a clear, circular arena for the two planewalkers to fight in. A scorched circle surrounded by jutting limbs reaching skywards, skeletal remains of the proud towers that had stood all around the location mere minutes ago. At the other edge of the open space stood the Guardian, his casual, mundane clothes smoking gently. His face was young with arrogant self-awarness of raw power etched on it, his whole posture whispering of the true immortality of youth, of unscarred, lazy power. On his left shoulder he balanced his long black staff that ended in curved, simple talons in both end, both of those talons curled around a sphere of golden glow. Beside his weapon and cat-like grace, there was nothing remarkable in his looks or gear, something telling the Dreamer that only part of that assumed mask was fake. To the Dreamer's second sight, the Guardian sparkled and radiated with harvested magic, the Law's heavy edict that suppressed magic temporarily suspended and reversed wherever this defender walked. Dull blue wards rotated around each other and the Guardian in perfect, immaculate harmony, despite the numerous blows he had landed during the course of their fight. He stood at the opposite edge: the Dreamer, the Scourge of the Planes, a Knight of the Grail, of the Balance, Godslayer and Master of the Art, Binder and Lockbreaker. His wards were basically gone, the searing winds tugging at the remains of his trenchcoat, the hell-glow of the superheated surroundings illuminating his endless scars. In this light his face was like the bark of an old tree, shadows dancing at the depths of the old marks of his past defeats and glories, blending with the darkness lurking inside his eyes. A twist of facial muscles had revealed some of his teeth, their white reflecting the red of flames, their perfection underlining the ruin of his skin. A lull in the battle, one of those moments where both have struck their blows and warded off the attempts of their enemy and where the random hand of luck has placed the combatants so far of each other a sword would not reach the other one ... but a word might. The Dreamer's tongue's tip darting from between his split lips as if he'd been a mortal in thirst, the grin twisting further, revealing more teeth. "Ya know, Guardian..." "Ya?" "Ya should know - they wouldn't give a post this important t' somebody with no deviousness in their blood, neh?" The staff left its peaceful position, leaning on the Guardian's shoulder, and was grabbed with both hands. A spark reflected in the youth's eyes - reflected, or born there. "This seems straightforward t' me, old man. Ye die, it stays in th' Prison, everybody wins." The face crafted of bark split open, the dark holes above the gleaming white teeth flaring with bright colors. He laughed then, fire laughing all around him, with him, both roaring. "Haha! Whelp! Ye think I'm stupid enough t' try t' break through like this, ya? Now, answer me this, young one, before ye lose this confrontation in a way that is perhaps even more spectacular than th' Myrmidon's fall - who, I ask, who guards th' Prison right now?" A stillness, if only measurable in the immortal time where the flames barely move and a falling drop of liquid metal stays suspended in the air, waiting - then there was a blur and the Guardian was gone. The Dreamer cut his rough, hacking laughter off abruptly and vanished as well, a cat's twisted grin the last thing nobody was there to see.

http://home.att.net/~slugbutter/evil/pureevil.htm Rawr.

One of the countless towers that formed this city exploded behind him, the blast that had been aimed at his darting form missing once again. Submerged in a different flow of time than the mortals, the Dreamer's glance draw a picture of slowly blossoming flower of fire above him, its pollen jagged knives of glass and searingly hot, whirling axes of steel. Amidst all that havoc he saw the bigger shapes of humans caught in the blast, their lifeless, charred bodies trailing thin tails of smoke. He frowned and brought himself to a hovering halt far above the busy streets below, the cubic peaks of the buildings creating a three-dimensional maze all around him. Around the planewalker, his protective fields pulsed with his signature color, faint emerald green. They flickered in a way that would have told to any expert observer either this world lacked magic or he had been hit several times, or perhaps both. Where is he? He can't shoot that sort of fireballs from too far off, a living matrix feeding him with more ambient power or not. A whispered word and bright haloes surrounded his hands, fiery energies swirling around his curled fingers ready to be hurled at any enemy. Somewhere in the background, pushed far from his consciousness, several screams distorted by the time shift drawled and wailed, some of them human, some coming from the emergency response this sudden battle in the middle of a city had gathered from the mortals. The fire-flower turned transparent, aquired dark smokey edge, some errant glass and steel bounced off of his outtermost wards. Dark clouds inched across the grey afternoon sky, sun hidden behind one of them. All around the city he could sense ominous sparks of mana and tenous, artificial laylines of magic that fed only his adversary, but he could not see his enemy directly. Instead of letting himself relax, he pushed himself deeper into immortal time. Soon enough, his self-discipline was rewarded when he noticed a glimmer of light reflecting on the surface of one of the towers surrounding him, his enhanced eyes swiftly making out the picture of his opponent. The Dreamer set off a few false auras of power, nothing that would have survived closer examination but sufficient to making aiming at the real him harder, and flew towards where the other planewalker must be in a jerky series of aerial dodges. This time, the missed bolt of fire exploded in the air, between several towers, causing no real damage to anything. Disregarding ancient planar wisdom the Dreamer leaped forward through the Astral, knowing it'd be easy for a seasoned planewalker to pinpoint the area he was going to appear in. He sidestepped back into the Prime behind yet another tower, was not surprised when it exploded in an even more spectacular way than the previous building, this one going up in a colossal fiery sphere of purple and black flames. Hellfire. Tsk tsk. Muttering faster than human physiology would've allowed, he crafted an empty corridor through the expanding explosion and dove through, his long trenchcoat billowing around him. The Guardian was exactly where the Dreamer had predicted, glowering at the destruction their aerial dance had wrought. The Dreamer flung the globes of fire wreathing his hands at the enemy. One was parried by the staff the Guardian wielded, the other hit, making the wards shiver and blur under the impact - that's all he had time to see before he was forced to weave and duck his way through the maze of towers again, bright bolts of energy whistling all around him. A brief grin flashed on his face before he changed direction and plummeted downwards, towards the congested streets.

"Fairly accurate, ya." They had sidestepped back into the room they had started from, the sad disorder of Fish Messiah's apartment silently welcoming them. This time the mask of anguish on the mortal's face was not as well hidden as back then, of course. Astral was troubling to those who had not gotten used to its constant change, to its dark blue swirling depths and its odd laws of physics. That was only part of it however - the corpse the Dreamer was dragging after him like he had forgotten it, the now skull-like head bumping against every obstruction on his path, played perhaps as big a part in the mental state of Messiah. It was what was left of the constructed girl's upper torso, the skin seared away by the planewalkers invasive probing. Now it looked like badly burned corpse, only notable anomalies compared to a normal human a few thin metal runes right under the skin, metallic dark shadows over the charred red of muscles. In the Astral, the procedure had not generated the nauseating smell of burning flesh Messiah had expected, but now that the corpse (that's how he still thought of it - the corpse) was back in proper atmosphere, it started staining his home with a smell that was both faintly delicious and strongly sickening. "We can't keep that here long, m'lord." He pointed a wavering finger at the charred thing, wanting to breathe deep to make the nausea go away but not daring to inhale more of the smell if possible. To his relief the tall planewalker nodded amiably, letting go of the skinless arm. "'Tis an ugly piece o' trash, I agree. Worry not, it'll soon drift in th' Void, amongst th' debris of many a greater battle. Not quite yet, o' course - I still need t' examine it some." A minute gesture, at first unnoticed by Messiah, lifted the ghastly corpse up and gave him a nasty shock. It looked as if a spirit had possessed the remains, like some surreal scene from cheap horror entertainment. Then the Dreamer turned to study the runes, the unhurried calm of his movements dulling the edge of Messiah's fright. There was no disgust on the planewalker's scarred face, only a mild, detached frown, his eyes glowing faintly with a friendly turquoise hue. The Dreaner started muttering softly as he poked and prodded the runes stuck to the remains of the floating corpse. "Fine work from th' Law, as perhaps expect'd near their - nay near th' most important prisoner anywhere we know of. Very lifelike, these things. Th' runes aren't enchant'd, not as such. They seem more like conduits, ya, or th' loops on which a puppeteer can tie his strings. Th' former would be quite flashy however ... say, m'lord, there's no official existence o' magic 'ere?" "No, not really, magic is confined to faery tales and entertainment, and to few sects and such most think of as ... wackos, lord." A wan grin made the scars dance, eyes narrowing in anticipation, their color turning deeper, darker blue. "They'd be those, aye, t' practice th' Art under such a taint o' Law. Possibly th' pattern these constructs can form has never been used - yet." The Dreamers lips receded, revealing his pearly white teeth in something that could have been a smile or a grin. Or perhaps a grimace of pain. A living trap? There must be a guardian, as well...

The city made him frown, the scars on his face dancing around. This whole world was in the grip of Law, had barely enough magic to sustain his wards and the existence of Pain. He had gotten over that particular inconvinience by now. What was harder to stomach was the city - the incalculable numbers of bland mortals swirling around him like an undead river, the glass and steel towers rising all around with their innards crawling with humans, like decaying flesh with only its skin intact infected with humanoid maggots. Most of the city consisted of those buildings. The remaining space was mere canyons, and even those were mostly reserved for self-propelled carts. The Dreamer had seen narrow streets elsewhere, but cities that made him feel like an ant had been rare. He had even lowered his active wards after the first incident, not wanting to waste time with the local city guard. Navigating here had been worse without a guide, but even now, following the local agent of Balace calling himself Fish Messiah, he could feel his eyes burn with intense yellow flame behind his black glasses. His fingers twisted into a claw when they could not find the reassuring hilt of Pain on his back. His face twisted and he raked his grey hair in a nervous gesture, atypical to him. When a hapless mortal bumped against him in the crowd, he snarled wordlessly and lifted the offending youngster up by his lapels. Only the alarmed gaze of his guide made him toss the insignificant annoyance aside. "I dislike walkin' through this dense a crowd, Messiah. We there soon, ya?" "It's not even the rush hour, man. Relax. And yeah, we are pretty close. I'd hailed a cab otherwise." "I am not sure if I would've preferr'd that. I tend t' avoid mingling with Law's accursed creations, as much as possible." "Mmm, yeah man, I can see it could be awkward to fit into them, you being as tall as you are. Hang in there, just a few blocks and we'll be there." The Dreamer nodded, marking the different way his guide spoke out here in the street before concentrating on staying as calm as he could. He breathed deeply, even if air was useless to him, the gesture a remain what he had been before his Ascension. Around him streamed the blank-faced river of humans, monotonous in all their variety. Something is wrong. Not just the mass of humanity, the endless swarm of mortals ... something is wrong. He jerked to a halt so violently Messiah noticed it from the corner of his eye and stopped as well, a look of alarm on the guide's face. Without saying a word, the Dreamer headed to a smaller alley, not as brilliantly lit as the big street along which they had been walking. The alley was not empty - no space here was, the sea of humanity expanding to every free area, its edges frayed and grimy with the junk such sea brings to its shores. One such being, a woman in dirty yet garish red clothes smoking a self-made cigarette glanced at the approaching tall planewalker, her blank face twisting with alarm when he stepped too close, breached the tiny circle of personal space people retained even here in the congested streets. He raised his hands with mortal slowness like a conductor about to commence, then blurred into motion impossible for any observer to follow. When he came to a rest, standing utterly still with Pain in right and its scabbard in his left hand after the explosion of activity, the woman fell down in parts, her lifeblood bursting from the wounds the sword's single swipe had bit open. The cut had severed both her arms near the elbows, bisected her torso like a stick. What little movement the alley had harbored, bums doubling over while coughing, Messiah hurrying to reach the Dreamer, two people wearing black leather conversing animatedly - it all ceased in shock as the planewalker shook blood off his spectral sword. Pain was barely visible here, in this low-magic realm, gore rapidly flowing off the slick, half-real blade, the Dreamer's black sunglasses fixed at it with apparent fascination. "What!? Why ..." Messiah could not find the words he was looking for, spreading his arms in a gesture of mute incomprehension. The Dreamer flicked his blade one last time and sheathed it, put the sheath to his back in one fluid motion. "Only blood, Messiah, ya? I knew somethin' was wrong, 'ere." "What did you expect! Of course there is blood!" Around them, the shockwave of his violent act spread, the calm that still seemed to exist fragile, ephemeral, people running away and ducking through opened doors, net-connected virtual reality glasses gleaming with hasty emergency calls. Despite the illusion of roughness, of lawlessness, here a few steps past the main bloodstreams of the massive city beast, this world was in the grasp of Law, in both bad and good. The Dreamer noticed all that was happening around him and grinned. "No dreams, Messiah, no soul inside that ... creation. Law's infiltrat'd this place more thoroughly than usual. Time t' go an' try somethin' else." "But -" His right hand shot out with the same speed he had showed a moment before. Messiah shuddered without control when the scarred, misshaped hand gripped his own arm, despite the grip being surprisingly gentle, almost soft. He could feel the furnace of power inside the planewalker radiating heat through the hand and shuddered again, with less force, felt odd vertigo. And opened his eyes to see a distorted view of a completely blue world, confusing alien geometries shifting languidly around him. "Welcome t' th' Astral, m'lord. I'd advise ye t' stay perfectly still, lest ye get lost an' get out of range of my protective magics." The planewalker's grin was feral, no humor in it, now that he could see it from close up. Too close up, really, when the Dreamer leaned towards him and pushed his face so near he could again sense the heat the immortal's body radiated to every direction. He seemed to peer into Messiah's eyes, even if it was hard to tell with the black sunglasses. A grunt and the planewalker straightened up, the feral grin softening. "Ye 'ave a soul, mortal. Ye may keep it, for now." Not a shudder, this time, but a shiver.

"An' this'd be appropriate garment for yer city, ya?" "Yes, Lord Dreamer. Um. We need to figure a nick for you, m'lord - Dreamer won't do, it'd be considered far too common to have the impact a proper nick should have." The Dreamer raised his left eyebrown in lieu of vocalizing his question. Suddenly Fish Messiah fervently wished he could see through the black sunglasses he had given to the planewalker - the agent of Balance that had contacted him had been most helpful with what colors meant which moods. Useless, now. On the other hand, the sunglasses did alleviate the effect of his badly scarred face. He still looked like a hired killer with the sunglasses and the dark trenchcoat, but it was a definite improvement on the white robes he had been wearing when he appeared. "There are thousands of 'Dreamers' out there, m'lord. Most of them angsty wanna-be poets or similiar, which is hardly the impression you want to give of yourself in this city." A slanted grin was the response this time, but even it was hard to decipher. It could have been amused or the first stage of a sneer. Before Messiah started to break out in cold sweat the Dreamer released him from his anxiousness by breaking his silence. "Ye may be right, m'lord Andrew Krackowzki. Based on yer expertise, what'd ye suggest then?" "Er... nick is what you are. I can't give you it, it'd be like renaming you. You'll have to find some aspect of yourself that has more ... edge to it in, and use that." "Ye chose t' be call'd Fish Messiah?" "Yes, in a fashion." Andrew frowned. It was a topic he didn't especially enjoy talking about, but that agent of Balance had been most emphatic when talking about this planewalker. "Do not anger him. An' prevent others from angerin' him t' th' best of yer abilities, mortal." ... if even they fear him, he must be truly evil behind that facade of cool. "You see, I used to preach about Balance, about the Lady of Scales. They called me Fish Messiah for that reason ... but when I took the name myself, it lost the ability to be an insult." The Dreamer nodded. "An insult, ya, an' two words. Benevolent Scourge, then?" Messiah sighed in relief. "Yes, that'll do, m'lord. I'll have to call you Scourge when we move outside, I'm sorry. Lord is too archaic and there's no contemporary word equivalent to it, really." "'S fine, Messiah. I shall try not t' hinder yer credibility overmuch, aye." "Um, and one other thing." "Ya, mortal?" "Could you please leave that sword here? It's quite ... conspicuous." "As ye say, m'lord."

A soft, gentle breeze caressed his frowning face, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms and roses. He felt out of place here, a rare feeling and not one he savoured. "So, how have ye been, sister? I 'eard Lady Faaye visited ya." "Better now that you are here, brother." Thea Aniar smiled radiantly at the Dreamer, making his unease worse. They sat on opposite side of a white table, both seated on a pink divan, the same girly color echoed all over the space. The edges of the area faded into pastel-colored warm mist, the shapes of Thea's servants blurred shadows beyond the veil. Ornaments hung what he thought as the roof in lieu of a better word, some of them jingling in the benevolent wind. He took a good look at Thea Aniar, his senior when they both had been pupils to the Master - she had not changed during the endless centuries that had passed, her features not strikingly beautiful nor ugly in any way but unique. Her face was somewhat long for a human, her dark brown hair forming an intricate three-dimensional sculpture that must've been fashion at some time and age, somewhere. Thea's eyes were brown as well, at first glance shallow but revealing the depths of age and power at unexpected times. Her fingers were thin and long, delicate, her airy, many-layered clothes made of white and faint colors, the combination almost making her image melt into the ambient mist. "Ye two talk of anythin' special, ya?" "She wanted to know about our history ... but I know how reluctant you are about that subject, so I mainly told her stories about the Master. I must be dull company to her, she being Arbitrator and all, but she masked her boredom well." "She may be more friendly than her position would warrant. We aren't all wild, powerthirsty dragons out there, on th' Lost Paths, m'lady. We take ... breaks, ya. Faaye mainly listened, then?" "Oh, she told some stories of her own, both her own and of course stories of you. You've grown up to be quite an infamous figure, haven't you Wodzan? Waking up Maiden of Daggers, cracking planar crystal, carrying the Grail to war for the Chaos..." Her gaze was hooded, the tone of her words ambiguos. Not sure if he was being scolded or admired, the Dreamer grimaced, his scars dancing and leaping across his ruined face. "I regret none o' those actions, m'lady. Perhaps, without me, there'd been another ... champion for th' cause. Or perhaps it'd be Law's multiversum now, who knows?" "Of course, brother, of course. I'm sure our Master would have been proud - but I sensed him leave us." "Ya, I was there when he transformed. An' once before that. 'Tis hard t' say, but I felt like he dislike'd th' path I took." His eyes narrowed and turned darker. "Near the end? I doubt his mind was clear any more. He was old even before he started teaching me ... remember how he used to tell that story over and over again like we had never heard it before, about the Devourer War?" "Oh ya, th' Devourer. Indeed."

Copy & paste job with a claim that it was his original work. Variations are a completely different thing, I've posted some variations of Shakespere's work myself but those variations were my own.

Tinfoil

Not just yer opinion, Zool - mine as well. I've seen every episode of B5 twice (except the one about the raiders during 4th or 5th season only once), and the second time watching it was almost as powerful experience as the first. B5 truly shows what the medium of a multi-season series is capable of, taking the storytelling and the immense changes in every main character to a level I haven't seen before or since. After having watched B5 any series that constantly returns to status quo in the end of every episode seems like a dull, monochrome affair in comparison.

I assume ye haven't seen Firefly then, Patrick, as it answers many of the questions Serenity did not have time to go through. It's far better to watch the TV series first and the movie second, because that's the right chronological order. I really loved Serenity, but I realized while I watched it that for those who haven't seen the TV series it's not quite that enthralling - it takes a while to get into the world, a transition any Firefly-fan has already done. Of course, if you have watched Serenity and liked it, delving deeper into the world by watching Firefly next is a logical next step. I can recommend both the movie and the series to any scifi fan.

gargoyle

zombie

I read constantly so it's hard for me to pick a few books out of the huge number of them, but let's see... The Risen Empire by Scott Westerfeld Great military space opera scifi that actually has some science in it as well, not just magic blasters that blow up stuff, no FTL light either. Thick book (assuming you find the version that has the two volumes both together) which has its main events happen in a few days of packed action, with some flashback stuff to flesh it out. A bit cinematic but I at least can forgive it when it pulls it off, managing to be very entertaining. Various books by China Miéville, set in the world of New Crobuzon: Perdido Street Station (2000) The Scar (2002) Iron Council (2004) This guy is one of those writers that make me go "oh! I wish I could've invented that". His imagination is so wild, so vivid, so captivating, it's easy to get lost in the colorful streets of New Crobuzon, even if it isn't always that happy city. The genre is some sort of steam-punk fantasy, though I've never read anything with quite the same feel to it. Only one big caveat - the stories have their sad and cruel moments and lack the usual almost-guaranteed "happily ever after". Don't read these if you are looking for something to cheer you up, but if you want a view into what fantasy can be when it isn't hindered by the dusty grip of Tolkien's bony hands and instead just goes to explore new frontiers, Miéville's the author. Malazan Books of the Fallen by Steven Erikson: Gardens of the Moon, Deadhouse Gates, Memories of Ice, House of Chains, Midnight Tides, The Bonehunters Erikson has some similarities to Miéville - he has steered way clear of Tolkien's legacy, his books are crammed full of imaginative details and they are definitely not happy stories, though Erikson's fantasy lacks the grimy steampunk milieu, opting for a super-high-fantasy world instead. Currently at around 5000 pages long, the tale has a staggering number of characters, places, cults, details, races, heroes, gods and demons, but he still is able to mostly keep the host of creatures in check and serve the story. Erikson does not shy away from showing what happens when a sword meets flesh, or what remains after a battle - the visions are painted with shades of rust and bright red, sometimes so often the reader can start wondering where do all these hapless soldiers come from? His one bigger failing is lack of visual details about the characters themselves, with some whole races explained in passing detail once or twice in the 5000 pages, making it sometimes hard to keep track just what does this and that character look like, especially since he switches between them quite often. If you can keep track of everything that happens, the satisfaction in the end when you see the big picture can very much be worth it. Recommended, even if the blood-drenched tales are quite heavy reading in more than one way. Learning the World by Ken Macleod A scifi book about a first contact, with a refreshing twist - space-faring humans, so futuristic they would be almost alien to the humans of now being the scary UFOs. I've read several Macleod's books, and while they are entertaining enough (obviously, if I keep on reading his works), they have a tad too much politics mixed into the stories for my tastes. That part is a bit more subdued in this book, and I found the story to be more gripping as well, which meant in the end I read this rather slim volume in 2-3 days. Good book, and should you like it, a good introduction on Macleod's writing style. He is an industrious writer, so anybody liking his stuff has a lot of books to look forward to. Light enough in tone to be a lot more relaxing reading than the two gloomy fantasy series above, also.

ICBM

sticky

A shrug at Mynx, then a wan smile at Sweetcherrie. "One hundred geld, then, m'lady."

The Dreamer frowed, the map of scars he had been talking about shifting across his face like the scars had been a swarm of centipides. "'Tis not like I 'xactly need th' geld for anythin' else. I offer 50." He directed a hooded gaze at Mynx, not watching the auctioneer.