Zadown

"If ye can capture th' map o' scars on my face accurately, aye - 15 geld, ya." The Dreamer nodded to emphasize his words, a wan smile on his face, his eyes shimmering light green.

Warcraft

The steep, green shores of the Zchala Isles rose from the misty, aquamarine sea in front of him, just as he remembered them. He almost closed his eyes, let his fingers dip into the warm water, breathed in the scent of the sea and that of the approaching land, the warm breeze tugging feebly at the thinnest strands of his grey hair. The world is better if you can't see it properly, if through almost closed eyelids you see misty forms only... He sighed and sat up straighter, lifted his fingers back to the boat. He brushed the wooden carvings with absent fascination and glanced downwards, into the clear but deep sea, pondered if there were any of those seadragons that had acted as the model for the ship's shape around. Most likely they are gone. They had a bond with the locals, and now... The thought broke, vanished into similiar mist in his mind as swirled around him in the physical reality. He shrugged and let himself drift into a state of relaxed nothingness, something he rarely allowed himself to do. Sea was almost calm, the boat gliding over it with little effort, the small waves making soothing noises as they caressed the wooden hull. No dreams, now, but memories drifted from the deepest cellars of his old mind, showed distorted pictures ravaged by age: the five tribal blacksmiths, the masters of that particular art, hammering the blade he was carrying even now, blow by blow. Their effort to give him a maiden as a gift, the difficulty in finding a balance between amusement and denial, the long tables full of food, the sheer number of people. A blind woodworker working on his throne for several years. Big moon rising from beyond the isles when he was on a large boat heading towards them, warriors singing all around him, the night smelling of sweat and blood and beer and tar, a rare smile on his face that nobody could see in the dark. "A god ... o' war." The Dreamer grinned after muttering those words to himself, his eyes shining white in the deepening fog. The boat made a screeching sound as it hit the rocky shore with abrupt clumsiness after the peaceful journey over the sea, and the planewalker frowned at the ghost of a ferryman out of reflex, no matter how futile it was. In this fog the ghost was almost invisible. It was merely a darker patch of swirling mist, its black eyes expressionless. The Dreamer stood up just as sun leaped from behind the isles, puncturing the mist with lances of light, and the ferryman vanished, leaving behind only his long oar. "Just in time, ya?" A wry smile scrambled the scars adorning his mauled face. He leaped clumsily over the edge, then directed his gaze upwards, towards the peak of the island, while his hands removed the scabbard from his back. "I think ye belong here, tarnish'd blade. I'll loan ye 'gain if there'll be more orc gods t' slay." He could feel the presence of the dead but not what they thought of him, if anything. He shrugged to the invisible spirits and started climbing, towards his own tomb.

Welcome to the club Yui! *grin*

Hotrod

He could sense her presence long before she even sidestepped from Astral, the aura bright and unveiled, moving too fast to be anybody else. A wan smile appeared on his face briefly, nudged his numerous scars around before fading again. The night was cold and clear, a narrow crescent moon shining faint red light over the harsh landscape of Mystvuor, the black sky full of glittering stars. The Dreamer paused in his work and carefully inspected the blade he had been cleaning. There was no orc blood left on it and no tarnish either, the mithril-steel alloy glowing softly even in the dusk, the runes and designs on the blade clear. The pictures showed him seated on an immense chair, a number of mortal guards standing behind him, before him kings and queens kneeling, the runes telling the tale of his rule, of his fight against the Dark God. Or a dark god, rather. Kill one and two appear, spawned by the chaos and death. He glanced down from his lofty perch on top of a tall stone and surveyed the results of his fight, enhancing his eyesight now for the first time in a while. Below him were the remains of the orc army scattered around the field of massacre in a manner that suggested a hurricane had struck them, a hurricane of steel and fire. Three craters still smoked gently, cooling rapidly in the chilly air. In the middle of it all, an orcish spear was standing, the head of a particulary ugly and burly orc impaled upon its blade. Makes one think, that one - an orc finally manages to ascend, if only to demi-godhood, and as his first proper raid tries to attack the tower I am in. Poor bastard. This time the wan smile stayed a little longer on his face, only fading when Faaye appeared straight from Astral, an unexpected look of taxed irritation on her normally benign face. "'Bout time I found ya, m'lord. I take it ye've been th' King o' Ants long enough, now?" The Dreamer stood up, brushed dirt off his armor and shrugged. He was still wearing the garb of a mercenary soldier, placed now the unenchanted blade, useless in any Astral combat, back into its sheath. When he spoke it was in Aefian, the words pronounced without the planewalker accent if slightly archaic and overly scholar in tone. "You could say so, m'lady Faaye Khantius. I take it the Eternal War is going well if the Arbitrator herself has time to go looking for errant soldiers like this." She shifted to the same language the Dreamer had used without even thinking about it, her translator enchantments doing all the work for her but corrupting her speech with an accent. "'S not, as ye should know, even if ye don't. An' I was nearby t' see yer sister, not flyin' around randomly t' track ya. Though that last surge of magic was like a beacon - ye should've veiled it some." "Sister-in-training, Arbitrator. And even that was long ago. I somewhat regret the fact I even spoke of her. So, how is she?" Faaye did not answer at once but looked upwards, past the night sky. She could have scanned for nearby auras without turning her head, without a pause in the conversation, but she wanted to make a point about it. The Dreamer sighed. "War is going that badly, then?" "Ya. An' she's fine, if sad ye haven't been there t' see her, not since ye woke up. I'd tell ye t' go see her, but I know better than try to dictate yer doings." "Why are you here if not to give me orders I would ignore?" He twisted his mouth into something resembling a grin, her expression turning even more serious in contrast. "To ask ye t' do somethin'. What somethin' is up t' ya - ye certainly have a flair o' findin' a way t' send th' future careenin' to a new direction, an' right now neither Balance nor Chaos like th' most possible set o' futures." "Ah, yes. Did you talk with good old Sir Owiric about this?" She nodded and sighed, glanced downwards at the stone they were standing on, the top smeared with orc blood that had dripped off the Dreamer's armor. After a short silence he shrugged. "I'll take a look at the situation, m'lady. Perhaps I shall even visit my sister, albeit the planar hermits depress me. In all seriousness, and this goes for both of you and any others that may have the same unwise notions of my importance, I'd quit placing so much weight into what I do. The Fates may have plans for me, but I doubt they allow their playing field to be levelled by the Law just because I'm on a holiday." She smiled, then.

Poison

Nobody paid any attention to the incessant boom of the wardrums any more. They did not stop when the dawn came, and they were close, very close. Usually, the knight-commander spent his time upstairs in his own room, the soldiers scattered here and there doing their small tasks, but now the tower was in a state of war. The other buildings had been abandoned, and given the fact there was a limited amount of firewood and gathering more was hazardous now, most likely impossible soon, only the bottom room of the tower was being kept warm against the autumn's chill. Thus, everybody was here. Everybody still alive, that is - it had been a bloody summer and bloodier autumn, the orcs striking again and again with such ferocity that patrolling past the unofficial border (marked by rusting spears, dried out skulls and cut markings on the trees) was both impractical and pointless. Firelight glinted on swords being sharpened and on the chain links and metal plates of armor, was reflected inside the eyes of soldiers. Many bore new scars and new grimness or bitterness, the resentment over the lack of support from south almost palpable in the thick atmosphere of the room. It was not directed at their own knight-commander but to the officers and nobles further south - this was a small fortress and they were aware of the constant stream of pleas Esphar had sent to those above him in the chain of command. Some of the soldiers had already fallen into a state of gloomy despair, knowing they would die here. Others still entertained notions of some sort of rescue, the cavalry arriving at the eleventh hour to sweep the orcs any time now. They knew them to be daydreams, but clung to them nevertheless, sharpening their blades, adjusting their armor. The door opened and one of their feeble rays of hope, sergeant Brightblade, a strange and unsettling man but a furious warrior, surpassing even the skills of the recently deceased sergeant Ewan "Bear" Ayersian. His mood seemed nonchalant, relaxed, but all the soldiers had long since abandoned any hope of reading him accurately. One of them, a relatively new recruit still called by his real name Roah, nudged Badger who had become their informal spokesperson when they tried to pry some information from the reclusive, quiet sergeant. Badger seemed to get answers more than the rest of them after he had been wounded by an orcish arrow - there was a tale there but the only ones knowing the details were him and the sergeant and neither was inclined to tell it. The old, scarred soldier coughed first, a futile gesture drowned in the din of the drums, before addressing Brightblade. "How does it look, sarge? Are they coming this way?" The sergeant had been going through his meagre kit as if looking for something but raised his eyes to regard Badger with an impassive and detached look. "Yes. Looks like Akshnâk Törhamnr's personal guard is with them, so he should be there as well. It's a small army, at least a thousand strong, heading this way." A glint appeared deep inside Brightblade's eyes as he spoke with deadpan voice, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. Not the sort of face somebody bringing the death sentence of twenty men he has been fighting alongside and living with for one and a half years should wear, but most of them were too shocked to really register it. The soldiers exclaimed and paled, stood up or sat down, sheathed the sword they had just been honing or put away the armor they had been repairing, and for once their own noise was louder than that of the orcs. Knight-Commander Esphar Eriachadon was the first to recover and raise his voice over the racket. "A thousand? You absolutely sure of the number, sergeant?" "That would be the optimistic approximation, m'lord Eriachadon. And I would not worry about the normal orcs as much as I'd be alarmed by the presence of Akshnâk himself. He is not a mere warlord by the looks of it." "What do you mean!?" The wry grin again, and the sergeant palmed something from his kit, dropping the rest of it on the nearest table. He was regarding them all with barely contained amusement, standing like he was ready to leave back the way he came, towards the invading orcs. "A demi-god, perhaps. A being of power, a hero for the orcs. You may not revere the gods here, but you must acknowledge their strength. Remember Kraah the Howler? If the mute trolls have a god, why not the orcs?" "Preposterous! Orc god? And what do you think you are doing, sergeant Brightblade?" Brightblade paused at the door, his hand on the handle. There was something inhuman in his eyes as he looked at the official commander of the tower, madness or terrible sanity, psychopathic coldness or barely contained recklessness. "Why, I'm leaving, m'lord. Deserting my post, if you wish to put it that way." "Seize that man! That .. traitor!" Nobody moved at first, the soldiers frozen between loyalty to the chain of command and loyalty to their immediate superior whose skill in combat had saved many of them, directly or indirectly, between the faulty human and the impeccable madman. Esphar, already red with rage and never a coward despite not leading from the front, glanced once at his hesistant soldiers and drew his own blade. It was a beautiful longsword, made to be both a work of art and a perfect tool of death, the blade shining blue and red in the dim light. The sort of sword that could give you the nickname of Brightblade, or which could get your squad killed if the mission required stealth, too bright a sword to wield in the night in the depths of Mystvuor mountains. That sword did not point at the sergeant for long - a blur of motion was all that the soldiers could see, Brightblade moving even faster than normal, before Esphar's sword flew through the air and embedded itself into a wooden support beam. "I'd advise any man wishing to live to reconsider trying to attack the best swordsman present. Now, my apologies, but all good things must come to an end. It has been a pleasure working with you, m'lords." Brightblade nodded like a merchant after a satisfactory deal, then sheathed his two-handed sword and stepped outside, slamming the door shut behind him. He had been wearing a grin on his face to the end.

24th of Harvestmonth, 1261 Firwood Tower, Northern Border of Aef Greetings Marchello! I apologize for taking such a long time to answer your latest letter, but autumn has always been busy time around here, especially lately. Not only the raids have intensified to a level only the most grizzled and old veterans even vaguely remember, but the support we receive from south has diminished as well, something none of us can really comprehend. I will not say much more about that in a letter, but you should be aware of the recent changes. I assume you pay attention to what happens in the world, especially now that the pressing demands of studying are done with. You might even end up in diplomacy, given who your father-in-law is. Speaking of that, say hello to Fionella from me! Have you managed to knock her up yet? Ha! I can imagine your embarassed face when you read that, you old prude. And I can imagine the sort of bookworm you two will bring up, sooner or later. I will try to come see how things are with your family as soon as possible, perhaps in a year or two. Any appeal to a vacation in Chaman that would sound as fraternizing with you purplefaces would not be granted, I know, so I'm trying to ask for further studying there so I could be more useful to the army up here north. That might just do the trick with these thickheads: even if they don't really like sorcery they still get all giddy when I manage to blow up a patrol of orcs. So, I've seen my share of action. I already told about some of my experiences in the previous letters, but the fighting has grown worse steadily all through summer. Right now there is an eerie calm, a pause before a storm. They've been chanting the name of their new warlord the whole year - Akshnâk Törhamnr they call him, and we are willing to bet he is the cause of the unseasonal raiding. Not sure what they are planning - some fear they are gathering real armies, which is a worrying thought. I've served here along with the best of Aef, but we do not have the manpower or equipment to deal with a real war against the orcs, that much is clear. We will really have to meet, as it is impossible to discuss the finer points of applied sorcery within the limits of a single letter, or several. Looking forward to having a toast with you again, Ultar

"Playing solitaire, sergeant?" Brightblade raised his eyes from his Chárôt cards to regard the commander of the tower, knight-captain Esphar Eriachadon, with a dreamy gaze before gathering all the cards into the deck. That gaze never failed to discomfort him, the way it seemed to punch right through you and past you, seeing something else than what was undeniably there and real. However, the man was a decent leader and a veritable killing machine, if the tall stories the soldiers told were even close to truth. The soldiers, now them he could ignore if he wished, but the few knights of the Brotherhood of Suppressed Laughter that had ventured up to the orc lands with his patrols had told similiar tales, a sort of quiet, well-modulated awe in their words. And while there were certain details of this grey-haired, scarred man that he disliked, he hated the orcs with an intensity that made it easy to set aside such annoyances. Just when he opened his mouth again the drums started, marking the beginning of yet another autumn night, drowning his words under their relentless bass beat. Even if he could not hear his own words, Brightblade apparently did, answering with a commander's voice that cut through the din. Echoes of nobility in that voice, another of those details that irritated him. "Yes, m'lord. The situation has indeed becoming untenable as you say. Any word for help from south, commander?" He paused, glanced at the deepening night through the window, the drums disrupting the orderly procession of his normally so quiet thoughts. "No. None at all. They seem to think ... we are just numbers up here." A wry smile on the sergeants face, sheer insolence - but they were alone, no men here to see it, and he could not affoard to let such minor things cloud his clarity with useless anger. "I am familiar with that school of thought, lord Eriachadon. Alas, it may require yet another apocalyptic autumn, black rivers of orcs bearing steel and fire to the northern fields of Aef itself to rouse the lion from its sleep." "Another?" Esphar blinked, tried to remember the last time orcs had actually crashed through the fence of stone towers and managed a series of proper raids instead of a farmstead or two razed. "Yes, another - remem..." Brightblade paused midword, an odd look drifting across his face as if he had just woken up, his whole presence turning more focused. "Ah, excuse me, m'lord - have you read about the Autumns of Fire? Those would have happened nearly three thousand years ago. I suppose the memory of them is gone by now." "Three thousand? There are more recent real wars with the orcs, even if none of them have happened during my own carreer. Three thousand years, you say?" The sergeant shrugged, did not seem to be ready to explain further. A madman, perhaps, but a useful one, and there were no spare men of any kind in the current situation. Even the few civilians carried blades with them now with the relentless, primal beat of the huge orcish wardrums sounding so close to their tower. Best to indulge this one, if his lone blade was really worth ten during a battle as they said. "So, sergeant, where are those cards you were using from? I have never seen their kind before." "Most haven't, I'd expect, m'lord. The elves use similiar ones to glimpse into the ways of Fate, although mine may well be superior to that purpose." Again a wry or smug smile of superiority and an answer that made no real sense. Only other option to spend time would be to go back and read the reports and letters again, their message darker than the black night outside. No help, not even all the supplies he had requested, empty words of "Aefian resilency and resourcefulness" and "these hard times". Perhaps it was better to be slightly mad - perhaps that would make the iron bite of an orcish sword less of a loss, in the end. And perhaps there'd be refuge from the merciless beat of the orcish drums, off the shores of Sanity towards the islands of Madness. Knight-Commander Esphar shook his head slightly to dislodge such thoughts of cowardice. "Ah? And what do the cards tell of our Fate, then?" Wordlessly, Brightblade offered the deck towards him, and Esphar took one card from the middle of the deck after a moment's hesistation, then placed it on the table, face up. All amusement had vanished from the sergeants face now, and his tone, even over the loud noise the orcs were making, was grave. "The Tower, reversed." Brightblade turned the card the right way to show it to him. "Conflict, Catastrophe, Disruption." He could hear the capital letters there, the meanings weighted down with a leaden, heavy voice. Esphar paid little attention to what he heared, though. What he saw made even the orc wardrums fade to the background. The wide, tall card depicted a broken tower, a fiery bolt of lightning sundering the upper part. There was no mistake of what particular tower it was - every detail, every little line and hue made it clear this was their fortress, even if the mountains behind it were yellow and curved like orcish teeth and the fir forest was missing. There was a swirling army surrounding the fort waving swords and torches, the precision of the artist who had painted the picture such that it was possible to see the faces of the individual members of that despicable horde. At the walls were their few remaining soldiers, though he could not see himself there or the sergeant. Esphar stared at the card, speechless, heard the sergeant murmur on the background, somewhere far far away words he heard but did not pause to comprehend. "An untenable situation, as you said, m'lord."

Napster

Shot

Zero

Police

The tall reeds sighed and moaned in the gentle wind, as if they had cared and remembered what happened to the previous proud rulers of these empty plains. Their green hue changed as they bowed to the wind, waves of light and dark blue racing each other across the vast expanses of space under the brilliantly azure sky and the soft, white clouds doing their own racing above. Shadows added further hues to the tableau, coloring dark green almost black, light green darker. Most of them were cast by the drifting clouds, but here and there a few shadows seemed to have a life of their own. Silhouettes of tentacled creatures with sharp claws and beaks, talons and fangs, swords and spears, their shapes too exact to be merely the offspring of oddly-shaped clouds, wandered the grassland in search of the demons that had spawned them, so long ago. They looked out of place in this serene scenery, and hard to see as they were and rare, a casual observer might not have noticed them. No casual observer, however, had been here for thousands of years. The only two sentient beings here right now, standing waist-deep in the rustling reeds, had nothing casual about them. Owiric's bright red platemail shone like a beacon against all the green. His huge sword was on his back, the heavyset helmet firmly set on his head, the black arrows of Chaos haphazardly pointing to every direction over his heart - everything the same as always, his outlook static no matter how loyal to the Arrows of Change he was. Faaye's white attire shone as well, but its color was copied above her in the clouds, making her seem less out of place here and more like a lone cloud fallen from the blue sky to the green sea of grass. Part of her friendly face was marred by the presence of a white leather eyepatch over his ruined left eye, the gleam of the embedded diamonds forming symbolic scales over it beautiful but cold. The wound that had blinded her eye had left a long, even scar, its presense dwarfing the two other, minor scars on her face completely. She was still beautiful, of course, and her jet black hair and white armor were a striking sight. Neither of them had any visible guards and both seemed at ease, even if they were not quite on the same side, not even in this new episode of the Eternal War. Owiric's voice boomed, echoing inside his helmet but easily loud enough to be heard in the din of a battlefield, the volume excessive for this tranquil (or dead - that may have been more accurate term, dead yet tranquil like a graveyard) place. "Congratulations, m'lady! 'Eard ye beat th' metal monsters back at th' Battle o' Dreams, aye?" She smiled, and while the left side of her face did not precisely mirror the right, her face still had a measure warmth and openness. "Tchaa, we 'ad some help, m'lord. Speaking of dreams, 'ave ye seen our mutual friend lately?" "Gettin' th' right kind o' help is half th' fight, ya, somethin' that 's relevant with both th' fight an' our mutual ... acquaintance. No, haven't seen th' scoundrel since that fun with a Runelord, an event ye should remember as well." She nodded, a thoughtful gesture. His face was obscured by the helmet as was his tone, posture hidden by the bulky platemail he wore, an unreadable figure. "He is truly stayin' out of th' game, then. A pity - we could use somebody t' turn th' tides, an' he seems to be good at that, if nothin' else." "Aye, m'lady. Our best readers o' Chárôt say th' future patterns are too rigid. There's too much Law spillin' into our own Multiversum." She nodded again. "I'll see if I can find him, Sir Owiric, though that may be even harder than our real tasks, ya. Now, shall we see what we'll be able t' device in th' way of containin' th' spillage?" A small gesture and next to her sprung into existence the three-dimensional map of nearby multiversum, two different shades of white marking the two camps of Law, red color Chaos, a few tiny specks of silver Balance. Owiric grunted once and turned to study the state of the Eternal War.

Sniper

His senses were all clear, still - unexpected, that, if useless. He could smell the pool of blood widening around him, feel the cold mountain wind, still freezing this early in the spring, on his clammy skin. And see the battle raging below him, hear the racket of metal against metal. Beneath this clarity, he could feel an ebbing of strength, a chasm opening that would claim him soon enough, a sensation that set alight a cold bitter rage inside him. The rage brought with it an almost lost memory, the last words he had heard his grandmother utter with a twisted face, a lifetime ago... Curse you! Be cursed by the lord of fires below, in the Abyss, by Eril-li-Eon, be cursed by Uwell's waves below in the deeps, by Raaver's storms above the sky, by the deep earth of Mother Mannah... The target of his dying curse, the one who had initiated this stupid skirmish that was soon to claim his life, cleaved his ways through the orcs with an uncanny combination of brute force and impeccable swordsmanship, the long blade dealing blows that would have broken a lesser sword. He did not howl a warcry, worked his way through the orcs and trollocs with something that looked like detached amusement, as if he had been in no danger at all. An immortal god of war descended to the realm of mortals. ... be cursed by the flowing blood of Marcha of War, by the brilliant light of Kelios of Sun, by the ever-wandering spirit of Mithrandir and the raging, twisted knight of Thunder, Baaloch ... Orcs did cry and howl, their harsh shouts remaining defiant even when a sure victory was turning into a loss for them: "Akshnâk Törhamnr! Akshnâk!". He wondered absently what they meant, if they were crying out the name of a local warlord or some variation of "death to the humans". He had never seen the point in learning the miserable excuse of a language the orcs used, and in any case he had a curse to finish before the fatal wound would silence him. ... cursed be by the nightmares of Melyme, by the horrors of the Forbidden One. Be haunted by the dirges of Gael and howls of Kraah the Mute, sink below this world to the one below to drink the waters of the Black Goddess, forget and be forgotten, be bound in death and be erased, vanish and be gone. Be ... gone. With the last words, barely muttered but strong and unyielding in his fading mind, he seemed to lose his footing at the edge of the chasm, and Badger fell down into the darkness, still clutching the crude orc arrow that had sunk deep into his chest. * "Hey! Soldier!" Too much pain and too bright sunlight for the waking up to be in the dark, quiet halls of the Black Goddess. Badger rubbed his eyes smearing drying blood all over his face and tried to focus his gaze. "You were nearly a goner there, soldier." World came into focus with most of his view taken up by the obscenely scarred face of the target of his curse, the de facto commander of this patrol, corporal Brightblade. Badger swallowed hard and blinked, trying to comprehend what had just happened. "But... *cough* ... the arrow, it punctured my lung. A fatal wound..." He brushed the place the arrow had been in, finding only the rough, blood-drenched surface of army's standard bandages with his questioning fingers. A peculiar look appeared on Brightblade's face, the corporal narrowing his eyes in something that seemed like displeasure. Badger caught an unexpected sweet scent in the wind, something akin to the smell of tall oil swirling in the ever-present mountain wind before it dissipated. Another confusing detail with no time to dwell on it, the corporal addressing him again. "So you say, soldier. However, you seem to be doing quite alright for a fatally wounded man, don't you agree?" "Yes, but..." Brightblade leaned forward, coming so close it made him feel uncomfortable, and whispered directly into his ear, his breath searing hot but dry. "Well-crafted curse there, soldier. But those only work if the one uttering it dies right afterwards. Very lucky for you to not to die, for us both, don't you agree, Erech Waramlantian?" He straightened up, nodded briskly and grinned, his eyes fixed on the pale face of Badger staying cold and humorless. Badger swallowed hard and fainted, falling into the depths of a warm, healing sleep this time.

The colored glass of the windows above the table let in tamed, housetrained light: warm shades of yellow and brown, too dim to illuminate the room properly. A wasteful number of candles took care of the rest of the needed light, their light glimmering playfully on the suit of adamantium scalemail that covered a wooden mannequin, sparkling on the thin lines of dark blue dragons engraved on the sheath of Winter's Kiss that was hanging from a weapon belt worn by the same dummy. Lying behind the dummy in shadow was the barely discernible shape of a pair of black dragonhide boots. Next to the mannequin, between it and the table, stood two heavy bookshelves, both filled with large, unwieldy tomes bound with dark, worn leather and reinforced with metal. Some of those same tomes were left with no apparent order on the table, a number of them open, their pages showing wriggling runes and pictures that seemed to occupy rather more than the usual two dimensions normal illustrations were limited to. Strewn amongst them were a number of parchments of all possible sizes, from little thin strips used as bookmarks to large rolled up bookscrolls, most of them covered up in small, beautiful handwriting that suggested a feminine writer. A smell of leather, dust, sweat, herbal tea and perfume drifted in the air, faint enough to be almost entirely pleasant, impossible to sense after a while in the room. Crouched over the tomes, a frown on her pretty face, was Lady Jalar. She was staring at one particular paragraph, blinking occasionally when she failed to garner any meaning from the convulted language of the researcher magus who had written this treatise on healing magic. Her hands were covered in ink stains, a few callused patches telling their tale of sword practices. She sighed softly and leaned backwards, rubbed her forehead. He could explain this in a way that would make sense. Jankiize lifted her gaze, glanced to the left to see that her daughter was still sleeping happily - a sight that bought a radiant, small smile to her face. She then shifted her eyes forward, stared over a wealth of books of magic that would have made almost any mortal wizard giddy and through the colored glass that would have blocked normal sight. Outside, it was afternoon, the little of sky that was visible between the clouds dark blue. Almost as blue as Astral, or the eyes of her mentor.

Flames made the reddish light in the barracks dance, the illumination dim enough to show the various warriors in merciful, even heroic light. Scars seemed noble, the glint of firelight in eyes could have been mistaken for the spark of intelligence and the worn weapons gleamed softly, their nicks and flaws fading into shadows. Nearest to the fire sat corporal Brightblade, his scarred face too fully illuminated to allow for an illusion of handsomeness. He stared into the depths of the fireplace in a dreamy, unfocused way, a habit that had given him the nickname Dreamer even if nobody dared to use it in his presence. His hands were idle unlike those of most of the crew - all around him old swords were being sharpened, armor taken care of, clothes repaired. Nobody seemed to be in any hurry with their tasks and so perhaps corporal's idleness was not a big step towards laziness, not to mention his outfit seemed to be in better order than those of his subordinates. Another warrior, one of the oldest present, his hair having clear strands of grey in it, shared the most fierce glare of the flames with him, repairing the links of a chain coif. He was doing it even more slowly than most, sparing more attention to watching the corporal than his work. Showing that he had perhaps not been as oblivious to the world around him as his mien suggested, the dreamy look cleared from the face of corporal Brightblade in one instant as he turned to face the other warrior next to him. "Yes, Lark? What is so intriguing about my face, soldier?" "Oh, corporal, didn't mean to stare ... it's just that I can't remember seeing you before, anywhere. And I've been thinking ..." "Thinking's not what you do best, soldier. It's a big world, not seeing me is before now is nothing peculiar." "But I've been in a lot of companies, sir, and met a lot of mercenaries. Never seen your face before, sir - I just find that odd, us both being old hands at this trade if you don't mind me saying." A momentary look of uncharacteristic hesistation drifted across the landscape of corporal Brightblade's face, as if he was debating with himself what to say, then a wan grin appeared on it. "I haven't exactly been working around here - it's been many a long year since I last was paid in Aefian coin. I was an officer of a mercenary company back then, but our mission went badly..." Brightblade's voice trailed off and his usual dreamy look appeared on his scarred face, his eyes unfocusing as they gazed back in time, past the flames. The room had been quiet before, but now it was utterly silent, every warrior having paused at his work, seemingly by coincidence. After a while with only the crackle of flames to listen to, the corporal resumed his tale. "As the Fates would have it, I ended up leaving Aef, for a very long time. There are tales innumerable of those travels, but you would dismiss them as the creations of some jungle fever from Red Theocracy or memories brought to life by delirium tremens, a result of drinking the undiluted dwarven spirits." A wry smile twisted his thin-lipped mouth and he paused again, staring past the low-burning flames of the hearth. The room grew dimmer as nobody wanted to interrupt this entertainment, a rare break in the utter monotony of the winter months, by tossing a new log into the fire. "I will just remind you that there are worlds beyond this, as the existence Skybreakers show. So, odd may the reason be why you haven't ever seen me, Lark, but it is as real as it is strange." Lark cleared his throat, the sound loud in the waiting silence, then spoke with a tone of doubt creeping into his words. "So, you are saying, sir, that you've been ... off this world?" The corporal's face that had been dreamy or wry before was now suddenly cold and angry without many lines of its shape shifting. His mouth tilted in a slightly different way, the light in his eyes was more like steel instead of reflected warm flames and a mild frown creased his forehead - tiny changes that somehow ended up being more than their sum. "You doubt my word, soldier?" With a swift motion, not bothering even to stand up, he drew the sword he almost always had with him (one of the many unnatural things about him, given the rigidity its presence on his back necessiated for his posture) from his back. Lark started before realizing the sword was not pointed at him but held between them, the flat of the blade catching what was left of the red light of the coals. "Tell me, then, where did they forge this blade and write these runes on it. As an old hand you should have no trouble placing the design of any a warrior's tool." "Ah, sir, I'm no blacksmith - and it looks like an old blade, not one that would still be in production." There was a degree of uncomfort in his posture and in his words, for the blade was indeed alien in design, not conforming to the general ways of weaponmaking of elves or dwarves nor any race of men he knew. The differences were not vast, small enough for any layman to simply think it to be an Aefian blade, but he had seen enough of Aefian work both new and old to know this one was not made by any recognized local master or their apprentices. Brightblade merely glared at him, sheathed the sword and threw a log into the fireplace before leaving the warm room.

Thanks for the review as usual, Wyvern. Take your time with them - I'm always thankful to see a reader's point of view about my rambling saga. It's funny to see how something that's almost meaningless, a line of conversation that was a total afterthought to me can be awesome to a reader and something I thought I wrote particulary well might be considered as incomprehensible or boring. About the Thalkemian threat - that is already completely nullified, drama-wise, by the Dreamer's comment in the first segment - "Yer comin' t' observe what devastation yer words bring, then.". The Dreamer is on the case, nothing mortal will stand against him, the Thalkemians are done. What remains is to see how this gets accomplished and how high the price is for Jankiize. I'm not arguing against the fact there would have been more potential for ... tension, or drama, or something like that. I could have underlined Jankiize's overwhelming relief when the surly planewalker finalizes his agreement to help to make it clear that's not where the drama lays. "Havoc" is, as many other stories in the Dreamer saga, about the price of power and the gulf it creates between those who have it and those who do not. However well or badly it does succeed in that. As I re-read it, it does seem she is a bit too carefree about the whole thing at the beginning of the story - the rigid brittleness of her mask of composure is only hinted at, explained a bit but only later on: "She had been calm at the meeting, drawing confidence from the nervousness of her own husband and the commander, but now she only had the Dreamer for company." The Dreamer can affoard to be carefree about the situation of course, but there could have been a bit more explanation about the emotions she was going through. Dunno why there's more typoes than normal. I guess I should run them through the spellchecker but the planewalker accent makes it a pain.

"For Law! For Order!" The harsh metal cries of the Kalash went unchallenged, the forces of Balance having no single warcry to shout. I'm sure he would still shout his, no matter how unappropriate it would be. Faaye loaded her crossbow, a series of motions so familiar as to require no conscious attention, and ran forward, careful not to leave her slower troops too far behind. Two long, glittering lines shone in the darkness of the Void, like an army engaging its own mirror, angels making up the main bulk of both forces. Facing her were a small squadron of Parallel Kalash, bigger than their local cousins, their auras of power too easy to see for comfort. They were true to the original blueprint, uncomplicated, single-minded and deadly, their blades burning with the white of agonizing migraines instead of the dirty yellow of headaches. Looking at the hulking armors wielding swords almost the size of herself made a shiver run through her, something akin to what fear had used to be, back before her Ascension. She loosed her first bolt and reloaded her crossbow in one blurred motion. The quarrel tore a line of purest white through the night before exploding against the shoulder of one of the Kalash, the impact leaving a visible dent but failing to sever the whole arm as she had hoped. She fired again, aiming for the same spot, but her enemy twisted the immense weapon it was carrying to deflect the bolt. No time for a third, even with her celebrated swiftness - the metal wave of Kalash was upon them, a row of swords raised high ready to cut their front line into ribbons. Her own blade, now in her hand, seemed inadequate, a toy, in comparison, but instead of grimacing she grinned. The Dream Laws! Here, as they promised. The Void around them all took on a dream-like quality and the fight took on a surreal turn.

Summer did not make the mountains hospitable - it merely reduced their harsh bleakness, revealed the serrated stony talons and tusks of the earth the white blanket of snow had mercifully hidden. It was nevertheless the only time humans dared to send patrols over the blood-drenched, everchanging border between Aef and the orc nations of Mystvuor. The wind, if not friendly, carried no knives of ice, and while there was a danger of landslides, the chance for such disaster was far lower than that for an avalanche. For the best of hunters, those most surefooted and resourceful, there was even food to be found. Humans needed no reason for raiding northwards: the stories of fire in the night, of steel clashing against steel and of farmers gutted like fishes, their dimmed, unblinking eyes staring at those who had survived with an accusing glare, formed a great part of the Aefian tradition. As soon as the weather made it possible, those flickering coals of hatred and retribution that had been carefully coaxed hotter through the dark days and darker nights of winter flared into new conflagrations, if not in the hearts of those who had actually perform the patrolling, then at least in the hearts of their commanders. Orcs, on the other hand, tended to wait for autumn. Those of them who were powerful enough were ensured places in the tribal structure, spots in the pecking order that assured food, warmth and mates for them during the deadly winter. Those of them who lacked merit, strength or cunning, powerful fathers or helpful brothers, knew that if they did not do something worthy of tales (as short-lived as most orcish tales were) and respect, they might very well starve and wither away once the balmier times were over. So, with a very palpable deadline approaching, the surplus orcs would wake up their massive wardrums and go raiding. Death by blade or an arrow was better than any death winter would deal, and sometimes those raids succeeded, shuffling the already set order around. Come winter, some other orc might freeze instead. Tended to wait for autumn, yes. "Err ... corporal?" "Yes, Hellraiser?" "Can you hear something, corporal?" Mirkel tilted his head slightly, his face gaining the dreamy look that occupied it far too often for a soldier. Lying on a grass-covered rocky side of a ridge, he seemed to be watching the dark blue sky past the prone private Hellraiser (whose real name was something else entirely, and his nickname would have perplexed those not accustomed in the manner soldiers named each other, given his meek, quiet nature), at the few narrow strips of white clouds that drifted across it. Despite the fine weather, air was cool and the men wore coats and leather helms, some even gloves, their heavy woolen cloaks draped around them against the wind. Their gear was all dark brows and dirty greys, faded blacks and muddy greens, no two outfit exactly the same. The only knight of the Brotherhood of Suppressed Laughter with them kept his gaudy tabard deep inside his backpack, using that particular item as his pillow as he was taking a nap. Most men were awake, but none were standing up. In short, the whole group of a dozen or so men would have been difficult to spot a hundred strides away. Mirkel's voice was soft, the words almost erased by the mild wind. "Yes. Drums." Nobody said a word, but they all shifted, hands checking the location of their swords and daggers, fingers nudging at the straps of their leather armor. Even the napping knight opened his eyes a fraction before letting himself fall back to sleep. "But ... it's barely midsummer, corporal." Mirkel nodded, then lowered his head further and focused his gaze on something. He left out a hissing sound even softer than his words that ordered absolute silence, then did a brief cross with his fingers, showing it to Hellraiser. The young soldier conveyed the message to another one, old scarred veteran called Badger, who grabbed a few pieces of crossbow from his kit and assembled them with silent, skillful ease. The weapon was one of the few odd pieces of treasure the company had, a dwarven-made mithril-composite crossbow. All the wooden parts were black from dirt and age, shiny and worn from constant use - the metal parts seemed to belong to some other contraption entirely, their surfaces unblemished, their shapes still as exact as they had been many a lifetime ago when the bow had been new. Even more out of place was the bolt, a crude human-made projectile with an iron tip and barely dry shaft. A peculiar smile drifted across the corporal's face as he accepted the crossbow, then he made two fists out of his hands and knocked them together, sending the whole company into frenzied yet quiet activity, the knight finally fully awake and putting on his chain mail under the protective cover of the ridge. Mirkel touched the bolt with a forefinger, a warrior's superstitious gesture, then in one fluid motion raised himself to upright position, readied the crossbow and pulled the trigger. Thus far, the only noise loud enough to be easily heard had been the whistling of the wind - now, the crossbow made its own, unique metallic bark followed quickly by the sickening sound of the bolt hitting home and puncturing an orcish skull. Louder still were the warcries that followed.

The ceiling was impossibly far, making the extremely rare visitors think they were shrunk to the size of a dust speck until they saw the clouds streaming under the ceiling, the stars twinkling here and there. The white marble corridor was wide, but the majestetic size of the windows dwarfed it, making it seem positively narrow. On the right side the landscape visible through the windows was shrouded in night, gibbous moon hanging above the wind-swept fields of grass and sleeping flocks of sheep, on the left side the beach was lit by so glaring beams of sunlight it was hard to watch the white sand, the wide waves of crystal-clear seawater crashing on it. Everywhere, air was thick with a sweet, pleasant smell of fruit preserves. Before her walked the Zeitgeist, Receptionist and Man-At-Arms - behind her came the trio of Abjurer, Elaborator and Liar. All six walked in an odd way, with such disregard to normal rhythm and tempo watching them would have made one's head ache, if the usual visitors would've been prone to such ailments. It was like some broken melody had played on the background, impossible to hear but giving the escorts cues when to jerk their long, spindly legs down- or upwards, when to wave their hands, when to nod forward or lean backwards. Despite it, they moved swiftly enough. Soon they came to the door, a moment she had been dreading. Even after far too numerous visits here, the way through was still a mystery to her. All six turned towards her, their grotesque masks gleaming in the sourceless light, three in front: the ticking metal-face of Zeitgeist, the terrifyingly cheery mockery-mask of Receptionist, Man-At-Arms's twisted leather scowl smeared with dried blood. She turned to see the three behind her, searching for a hint from the static, dead masks: Abjurer's painted light blue crying black tears, empty eyes deeper than the head the mask was on, Elaborator's mask with its huge, protruding mouth, a thousand stories written with a script too small to read all over the rough wooden surface of the forehead, Liar's too happy grin in contrast with the two burning coals the mask had as eyes. At least they aren't dancing, this time. She sighed deeply and resigned to the tribulations of the Ritual of Opening.

Rain tapped the ground softly, caressing both snow and mud alike. If not for gravity, it would have been hard to say which was the sky and which was the earth - everything was suffused with the same mild light blue color of water. A careful observer would have realized that underneath the melting snow was a road of some sort, or more accurately a track. On both sides the fir trees created thick, vividly green walls, their limbs finally clear of the heavy weight of wet spring snow. Towards south, the track lead downwards, to the cabbage and rye fields of northern Aef, reputedly the world's most boring place. To north our careful observer would have seen an endless row of dark mountains streching from one edge of the horizont to the other: the famous mountains of Mystvuor, home to orcs, trolls and dragons, dwarven homes and tombs of old, adventure and lonely death. Not even the most gold-hungry tomb raiders fervently wishing to prove themselves and hone their skills in combat travelled here at this time of the year, of course. Even winter was easier opponent than the melting and re-freezing snow and ice, the gushing mountain rivers and the humidity that hung in the air like some wicked ghost's idea of a warm blanket. Orcs did not move, either, and trolls were still sluggish, cold sapping their notorious speed. Nevertheless, there were footprints on the narrow, slush-covered track, going to both directions, footprints of booted feet. Our careful observer, if not too irritated by water getting into his boots by now, would have perhaps chuckled as he would have realized who were forced to travel even in that abyssmal weather or even grin at the spectral images of grumbling, marching soldiers that his imagination would be able to conjure up. Along that narrow, wet trail a man was walking. He was solid instead of spectral and did not quite fit the stereotype of a grumbling soldier, given his disparate equipment and utter silence. He did wear armor and had a long blade strapped on his back, so calling him a soldier might have not been too far off. Old soldier, that is - his hair was silvery grey and there were numerous scars on his guarded face, even the mishmash of scale- and chainmail speaking its own story of countless battles experienced, numerous enemies looted. A pause brought an end to the rhythmic sound of boots entering and exiting the thick layer of slush and the man raised his gaze, trying to see the end of trail. But the green walls on both side were too thick and tall, and after a short while, he continued his slow, economic struggle up- and northwards, resigned to not seeing his destination quite yet. Beyond the tall firs, at the end of the path, rose a tower. A small fortress, even, if you wanted to be generous, for the tower was part of a wall that protected a muddy piece of ground, a few stone houses and other such trivialities. On top of the tower stood a guard, grumbling even if he wasn't forced to march across the slush-covered, wet ground, for grumbling is what soldiers do. He wore reinforced leather armor and a thick cloak, the hood of the cloak firmly wrapped around his head against the wind that swirled gleefully over the unprotected roof of the tower. At the base of the tower another soldier was visible, burly, muscular man sitting on a chair with the relaxed air of a sergeant who knows his subordinates would not dare to give him trouble and that his superiors are far too pragmatic to bother him unduly. He was repairing tack and watching the road, his fingers working slowly. Good sergeants are never in a hurry to get anywhere. The guard saw something and looked down, mentally cursing when the wind took the opportunity to stab into his hood. He grabbed the parapet with both hands, the metal in his gauntlets making faint sounds as it hit the stone. "Hey sarge!" The sergeant glanced up, paused in his work. He didn't say anything but every soldier here knew what his frown meant by now. "A mercenary's coming along the road. Just one, by foot." Sergeant nodded and made a dismissing gesture with his right hand. He glanced at the tack on his lap, came to the conclusion continuing the endless work could be postponed after this matter had been dealt with and placed it on the side, stood up. The gate was closed even during the day, a precaution that marked how far from the protective embrace of civilization and the boredom of cabbage fields the tower really was. He walked across the muddy yard to the gate, mud making similiar sounds as slush had done when the grey-haired mercenary had walked along the track through the forest. From his thick leather belt a scabbard hang, the protruding hilt of a sword tapping rhytmically against the leather armor covering his wide stomach. Sergeant sighed when he got to the gate, perhaps to cover his shortness of breath, perhaps just feeling sorry for himself in advance for the troubles a traveller, worse yet, a mercenary, would bring to his quiet, orderly life. He then swiftly opened the reinforced, well-made gate, handling the massive bolt and thick door with an ease that showed how little of his bulk was fat. The old soldier was already at the gate, his manner unusually quiet for somebody who had just climbed up a hill on a badly maintained road, fighting against melting snow during every step. He didn't seem sweaty or breathless or even tired. There was something uncanny in his posture, something lordly and stiff that was in quite in contrast against his rag-tag equipment. Sergeant grunted, a noise that could have been approval or a question, before forming his thoughts into actual words. "Evenin', soldier. Letter." That was not a question but a statement, an order barely mitigated by the fact the stranger was not, technically, his subordinate yet. No letter was produced forth - instead, a bleak smile twisted the face of the stranger. "Haven't got one, sergeant, though I did heard you hire mercenaries here, at the edge, near the mountains. Did I hear right, sir?" The voice was normal enough, if more carefully modulated than the sergeant was used to hearing from persons below him in the command structure, but the words and accent were strange. Old and aristocratic, like something out of a moldy book or half-forgotten tale, words that almost seemed ridiculous spoken aloud here and now, between a man standing ankle-deep in slush and another standing likewise embedded in mud. "Mmm." He waved a hand towards the muddy yard, frowned at the mountains that filled the sky behind the stranger, who nodded and strode past him. The sergeant performed his feats of strength in reverse, barring the gate against lurkers, orcs, trollocs and worse, before letting his gaze rest on the figure of this perplexing mercenary. "You know how to use sword, then?" This time the smile was more genuine, almost young. The wrong sort of face to show to a sergeant. "Yes, I do believe I do, to a certain extent." The sound of the sergeant's sword leaving its scabbard was soft whisper, drowned under the whistling wind. His blade was a fine broadsword, the sort that had been made to cleave skulls and break shields, thick and strong as its wielder. Above, in the tower, the guard grinned, the same sort of excited anticipation energizing all three: him, the sergeant and the stranger. A shared joke, hidden knowledge that made it clear who would win after the charade would end. The stranger unlimbered his weapon from his back as well, the long, slender blade tarnished from the sides, only the edge shining with deadly blue sheen. It was a two-handed sword, common sight on the walls of the southern nobility who rarely fought, a rare creature here in the north where blade was life and death and not an ornament. Under the dark patina of years, the blade had engravings and runes, their shape impossible to determine. It did not glow with enchanted light or burn with phantasmal fires, so the sergeant dismissed the runes as inconsequential, concentrated on reading the stance his opponent would show. He had known nobles that seemed soft but had hidden steel inside them, had intelligence and theory combined with enough physical excercise to make them deadly with a sword. Not to mention old warriors were rare - you got old by not fighting, mostly, but this one had the sort of scars you can't get begging for bread in the kitchen of some safe fortress so far south winters are mere prolonged autumns. The long, heavy blade was pointed at him with the support of just one hand for a long, unwavering moment, making the sergeant revise his estimation of his opponent upwards. Then the stranger took the classic stance for two-handed sword fencing, his face returning to the impassive, mild mien it had had when the gate had opened. The stance was perfect and somehow the spring air that had seemed so warm after the harsh winter suddenly turned icy cold as it blew over the sergeant's clammy skin. A charge and an immaculate parry, the counter-attack exquisite in its form but slow in execution, leaving the sergeant some time to parry in turn, the blades clanging like heavy bells when they met. He was a strong man, more powerful than the tall, sinewy black orcs they were always fighting against, almost the equal of a trolloc, but the two-handed sword of the odd stranger had been like an immovable object. There was a pause and they both let their blades point downwards, a frown on the sergeant's face, the stranger's face an expressionless field of scars. "Mrmh, yes. We'd best do this when the yard's dry, stranger." "As you wish, sir. And call me Mirkel, Mirkel Brightblade." Mirkel lifted his heavy, tarnished blade, as far from bright as you could get unless you only saw the sharpened, shining edge of it, and strapped it back to its place quickly, effortlessly. "I be Sergeant Ewan to you, mercenary Brightblade. The pay's four lions a month, one extra if you provide your own kit. Not much ceremony here up north - do as I say, don't sleep during guard, stay calm, be ready. Them's the rules. Lark, I know you're watching. Show the new one the places." Grim frown on Ewan's face ended the speech, as long as he ever made, and he sat down to continue the work.

Epilogue 13th of Thawmonth, 1260 University of Derotazzi Greetings Ultar! I hope this letter reaches you, eventually. From what I have heard, the odds for that are favourable these days, given the relative peace reigning in the places that lie between us. Even if you were recalled so abruptly, the troubles with orcs should not affect the messengers. You adjured me to write about the last test, and in that I must disappoint you - for we were both asked not to tell what we had to go through, and subjected to such travails I do not wish to write them on this parchment, as if that would give them even more solid form. The memories of that event are already burned so deeply into my mind I am not sure if writing about them would make them worse, but that is something I am not willing to put to test. I am sorry, Ultar, but when we see each other next (and I am certain we will, my friend), I will tell what I can in the warmth of homely fire, unmixed wine and your friendship. Partly I am relieved that you did not have to go through the test, partly sorry for you to be robbed of a chance to show your bravery. Those of us who passed the course are treated with added respect, now, especially so when it came to light that many of the esteemed teachers did not pass. Yes, you read correctly - "those of us", for even if I may seem meek and frail, this adversity brought out my stronger side and I did as well as I could expect of myself. I still dislike our now vanished lich teacher, for reasons I do not wish to divulge. My apologies, but sometimes knowledge can be a burden that can never be gotten rid of. Trust me in this, and ask not for the details. Nevertheless, I feel that the course was one of the very best I have attended here. So, to allow you to learn as much as possible of all what I have learned, see the attached copies of my notes (by courtesy of Fionella's father, who generously allowed me to loan his scribe - the old man seems impressed I passed the course, one more blessing that has come from this accursed affair). You may keep them, as I still have the originals. I dare to claim they should be of use for you, especially given your current situation that will undoubtedly place you in dire situations sooner or later. I mentioned impressing Fionella's father. While I cannot be certain of which particular events have brought on these current, more temperate winds from his direction, both yours truly and my lovely Fion are overjoyed by the change. It seems I shall be introduced to the rest of the extended family soon enough as the prospective fiancé. Unless I manage to entangle myself into some grand débâcle, there will be a wedding to celebrate within a year! If you can possibly make it back before autumn, you would be most welcome guest, but I suppose you will lack the freedom of travel now, alas. Please write back and tell about how the rough military life has suited you, and how you have been able to transfer all the dusty, theoretical knowledge into something actually useful out there, in the real world of stone, steel and blood. Alberto sends his greetings, and whatever letter you send to the two of us will be read to him as well. Stay alive! Your friend, Marchello Opulanti