Zadown

Hee, thanks. "This poor fellow" is me, btw, even if I only suffered one of the three accidents. All three were potential, however. Edited it and I'm afraid I altered your favourite, Katz - forgot rain and starry sky do not mix, so changed it to cloudy sky. I hope some mystic balance I was not aware of wasn't ruined. Capitalized January too, to match with capitalized Epiphany. Anyways, the fragment of a sentence "there's no friction, guv" was stuck in my head for most of my newspaper round on the wet ice. Dunno what to think of all this 'humorous' stuff that I've written lately, it's not my usual style at all...

no friction it's too warm for a January night and the ice sweats glistens with sickly sheen I try to stop ten miles per hour to zero but the brakes shout: "there's no friction, guv none at all, sir" I push and shove stand on the pedal curse and grimace but the brakes shout: "there's no friction, guv none at all, sir" and the car I drive sails over a mailbox crushes it like a gnat it's way too warm for a winter night and the snow melts forms slick puddles I try to walk three miles per hour to a door but the soles shout: "there's no friction, guv none at all, sir" I extend my hands dance like a maniac slip and slide but the soles shout: "there's no friction, guv none at all, sir" and I stand on the cloudy sky the frigid ground smashes against my head it's tropical, really for an Epiphany night the freezing rain is oddly liquid I try to crawl one mile per hour to a house but the roof shouts: "there's no friction, guv none at all, sir" I listen in horror try to stumble away close my eyes but the roof shouts: "there's no friction, guv none at all, sir" and a ton of soggy slush falls from above flattens poor hapless me

*resurrects the thread* Just finished Kino's Journey. It's one of those things you just inexplicably like, or at least I liked it. The main character has the sort of detached coolness that is very rare in any central figures of any fiction anywhere, and yet it is not an inhuman armor, just the outtermost layer of his demeanor. There's many other things I loved about the short series, but I feel that my clumsy words would tear apart the gossamer strands of the coolness of the anime if I'd try to do something as gauche as explain why it was good. It has not much action, mostly just dialogue, so if action is your thing, I wouldn't recommend it. People who like slowly flowing stories should enjoy Kino's Journey, however.

Funny poem. Meesa like!

The ancient stranger, known elsewhere as the Dreamer, closed one of his eyes and narrowed the other in profound thought, the thin strip of infinity visible between the eyelids of his right side darkening to the deep, solid blue of summer night skies. When he opened them again and started talking, his voice had the cadence of a practiced story-teller, the worst roughness of his thick accent smoothed over. “Th' tale I tell happen'd in th' year 2475 after Anvil's drow exodus, a few years into th' aftermath of th' Grail Wars. In those confused and fluid times where th' borders betwixt th' almost crush'd but resolute Law and th' strong yet confused Chaos were boilin', raids an' private armies from both sides tryin' to strike into th' territory formerly held by th' other side, to stake new claims or to re-capture some long-lost fiefdom of th' Paths, ya, or to just kick formerly proud enemies when they were down.” Next to the scarred Dreamer appeared an ethereal vision of vast armies of angels and demons clashing against each other in a series of battles, each of them an epic and relentless, bitter fight. The noisy, foul-smelling tavern faded into the background, still visible but in a dark, shadowy manner. A short spike of panic thrust itself through the breast of the young man, but as there was nothing threatening in itself happening, he resisted his urge to draw his long weapon and challenge this warlock who had captured him inside a daydream and instead did the only thing that was available to him, leaned back to listen. If the older man saw his discomfort, he refrained from commenting on it, unless the small smile that rippled through his gruesomely scarred face was his reply. The Dreamer continued, the illusions next to him mirroring what he said. “I had abdicat'd my position as one of th' leaders of Chaos' armies, an' they removed my mage sigil from their flags o' war, though I do believe a few of them are preserved in th' everchangin' fortress of Chaos itself. Such a high position had left me with a equally high number of enemies, with my few associates either too weak or too entangled with their own difficulties to really provide me any direct support. Many claimed th' Betrayal of Th' Grail at th' last battle was of my doin', that my mage sigil's triangle of Law did not signify my wish to break them but to repair an' temper their ways, an uncomfortably accurate accusation if not quite true. Thus, after I had finish'd fulfillin' my obligations, especially those concernin' my ward m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua, and th' times were approachin' that fateful, deceitful calm just after th' fiercest storm in which the most backstabbings an' betrayals are made, I deemed 'twould be prudent for me to fade from th' public sight once again, perhaps for a decade or a century to let th' knives dull and the hatred cool down.” The visions swirled and showed tableaus that did not make much more sense than the words being spoken, moving pictures from places so alien and distant they did not even appear in any of the legends the young fighter knew. In them the fiery armies of Chaos carried tall flags, a golden chalice awash with warm radiance vanished suddenly, two dead people had their spirits and bodies rejoined while a young woman watched, an apprehensive and anxious look on her symmetrical face. It all seemed far too far-fetched to be true in any sense, but the Dreamer's voice was deadly serious, his voice mixing wistfulness, anger and cool detachment as he went through his personal tale. “So, there I was. I had finished my work with th' Balance, however grand or small my role had been, and while I found th' end result near to what I had sought, many others did not. I had paid my debt to Chaos, thus ending a quest given to me a millenia ago. And then, when I finally would have time, my ward left me to continue her mortal life. Never before I can recall bein' in such a state of unsought repose, without nary a goal. Of course, I was already spinnin' webs that would catch an' mire those would-be assassins who'd try to make me pay for th' fact Chaos did not claim an ultimate, last victory on th' Battlefield of the Heavenly Fields, but mere intrigue of that basic level was a feeble goal, somethin' akin to the ease of breathin' for ye mortals. Briefly, I considered researchin' th' Parallels more closely before comin' to th' conclusion I was not that bored of existence quite yet, an' settled into plannin' for future instead with an effort t' replenish my rather empty vault of favors. In th' end an entity of curious reputation heard th' whispers I sent into motion an' proposed an adventure that I found agreeable, an' thus it was I sent myself into motion again, in the search of th' Blue Flame.” The private space that was set apart from the rest of the room, the two men, their table with their drinks and the chairs they sat on was suddenly all tinted blue by the light of a towering phantasm of a roaring azure fire.

The tavern was a smoky, ramshackle affair, the small tables mostly shrouded in gloom. It was also very popular, most tables filled with the basic sort of scum you can find in any port city: vagabonds, some sailors drinking away their wages, rogues, smugglers and finally mercenaries trying to drown the memories from distant battlefields. The crowd had a predatory feeling to it, various shaggy heads rising and pairs of calculating eyes focusing on the door every time it opened and a new customer entered. So far tonight there had been no lost lambs. Everybody who had walked through the door had either been poor enough, or armed well enough, or most usually both, to be worth the effort. The door swung open again and something, an electrical feeling in the air, made most of the clients look. Heavy heads were rising from puddles of beer, weary arms rubbing grime away from dim eyes and half a dozen chairs moving to provide a better view for the seated thugs. In the bright red moonlight of the clear night outside, the traveler was outlined in various shades of blood. He was wearing a torn and tattered cloak that hid bulky things under it but did not manage to obscure his exquisite boots made of some thick, shining leather. That alone weighted heavily against the lone man – here, having boots of that quality was a sin, or a sign of great skill in defending your right of sinning as much as you pleased. The sharp angles showing through the flimsy cloak weighted for him, however. Armor was expensive, but far too many people with it were even more expensive in terms of human life to bother with, not to mention the long shape on the tall figure's back that seemed to be a huge weapon. His face was in shadow but it was clear from his posture that he surveyed the room before entering, the evident acumen a final blow against the few, quickly withering plans to try to mug him. Most of the people turned their attention back to their drinking or their quiet business transactions with other men of ill repute, muttering with voices that did not carry over the raucous shouts of those who were simply enjoying their attempts to cloud their little minds with whatever beer, liquor and smoked drugs they were able to afford. Some few still watched as the newcomer walked to the bar and heard his odd, thick accent, saw his hideously scarred face in the flickering, warm light of a lantern hanging from the ceiling. “Evenin', bartender. I've 'eard ye 'ave angel's blood, neh?” “Angel's blood? The real stuff, not the fancy, mixed drink?” “Ya, th' real angel's blood.” The bartender, a man who did not flinch when somebody was killed in front of him and was considered not to be a person as such, but more of an elemental force of barkeeping, one of the immutable, true forces in the world that'd always give you a drink if you asked for one and had the cash, paled. He turned without a word and opened the locked cupboard with a thick iron key. This made the focus of attention turn towards the stranger and the bar again, and various regulars watched with what curiosity they could muster in their diverse states of intoxication as the bartender extracted a tall, thick bottle of a curious shape from behind other similar experiments in glass-blowing. He then took an actual glass, tall and legged, set it in front of the stranger, fought a short moment against the grime that had glued the bottle's stopper stuck and then poured a drink of thick, brightly red substance that seemed to have an inherent glow to it. There was a curious, almost reverent look on the barkeeper's solid face as he watched the stranger to slowly grasp the glass with a scarred hand, lift it up and sniff the liquid. The stranger's vibrant green eyes narrowed in consideration before he sipped the drink, then gave the tiniest of nods, made a thick gold coin, smoke or mist rising from its rich, honey-colored surface, appear from thin air, and deposited it on the bar with an audible clunk. If that coin had not been the barkeeper's, a fight would have broken out at that very instant. As it was, he pocketed it with haste and glared at the greedy faces of his customers who knew better than to stare back. The stranger rose with his drink and looked around. Most of the rickety chairs were taken and the glares he was getting from the regulars weren't exactly inviting, but he spied one empty chair at a table near the middle of the room, a table still within the sphere of light of the lantern and thus shunned. Without hesitation, he sat carefully placed his glass on the table and sat down on the chair, nodding slightly to the other customer at the table. The original occupant was a young, muscular man, the haft of a long polearm leaning to the table next to him, it's business end hidden in the shadows of the floor. He was wearing mostly leather, the material darkened and worn, the attire giving the overall impression of being something between an armor and a set of traveling clothes. In front of him was a single tankard of ale, his slender hands curled around it. The stranger drew his scarred fingers through his grey hair and lowered the cowl of his cloak, revealing the endless patterns of various battle scars that crisscrossed over all of his bare skin. He had a short beard and mustache, relatively well trimmed compared to the unruly chaos of medium-length grey hair that did not quite reach his shoulders. He smiled or grinned and the scars on his face danced in the flickering light, the effect unsettling but not altogether frightening. The smile crept all the way to his eyes, which paled noticeably, an effect the young fighter dismissed as a trick of the light. “Evenin', m'lord.” The odd greeting made him grin back in response. It was very much out of place in this den of thieves and cutthroats, even if he wasn't the lowest of the local scum, and he could not find any trace of irony in it. “Evening, stranger, for you really have to be one to call me a lord. What brings you here, if I may ask? Despite your scars you do not seem as base a creature as most of those who surround us.” “Ah, therein lies a tale, neh? 'Twould be brief'st to say that this place was th' closest tavern I knew of that might serve anythin' that'd refresh my parch'd throat, ya.” After those words, he raised his glass in a salute, the irony (or perhaps mischief) the young man had looked for previously now glinting in the almost white eyes. This time the stranger drank deeply and closed his curiously changing eyes, smiling widely. He opened his eyes slowly and put the glass down, a third of the thick red liquid gone. The young man took a long draught from his tankard in the way of a response and ventured another question, for he was intrigued by this tall, old man. “So, a tale? Might you tell it to pass the time?” The stranger leaned slightly back and seemed to think over this request thoroughly, his eyes gleaming light blue now. His intense gaze studied the younger man, who managed to look into those shifting, deep eyes for only a fleeting moment before having to avert his own. “Ya, I might.”

The darkness of my dark soul devours me in darkness as I let my dark blood flow from my dark wounds. The dark form of the dark poet, Thanatos' own, languishes on a dark coach, dark wine flowing down into his mouth, like a dark gaping maw of darkest despair, as his dark life blood flows away from him, in the dark. My dark pain fades into the shadowy darkness of bitter, dark death, my only dark salvation.

The original Nyaark's "For the Plasma Dragon" Eh, and of course it also points at my current work as a newspaper delivery guy. The actual term, "the Deliverator", has been shamelessly stole from Neal Stephenson's "Snow Crash". Stealing's what us writers do best!

through a blizzard through a torrential rain glides a pearly white car the chariot of the deliverance the Deliverator! so fast! clothed in dark denim clothed in turtlenecks and long johns strolls a black figure the avatar of daily news the Deliverator! so brave! hyped up on caffeine hyped up on needless painkillers dances on a thin man the herald of freshly printed paper the Deliverator! so smooth! the Deliverator! so flawless!

Happy birthday, Madoka!

There's various people I want to thank for various things, but I'll be brief like a Finn. *cough* So, thank you: Gwaihir - for truth. I trust you'll tell me the moment my writing starts sucking. Even if it never does, having an insurance against missing such a momentous change in my quality of writing is never bad. Yui - for inspiration and inquisitive mind. Various parts of the Dreamer multiverse are better illuminated in both of our minds because of your questions. Valdar - for the will and skill to write along with me, in my world, even when I have been bossy about details or kept secrets to myself. You would do well to play a bit less and write a bit more, to help me keep a shred of humor in the cold Void. Peredhil - for politeness and a childish glee, and the willingness to spare my writings a slice of your hotly contested time. Your insight has been very helpful when I've asked for it. Wyvern - for endless stream of imaginative and humorous works. I've never been able to read them all, but the overall steady quality and volume of Wyvern's schemes is staggering. You project an aura of creative energy that makes us others want to write, at least something. Respect, yo! Tzimfemme - for confusion. I have a sharp mind. Getting to use it when I read instead of just passively soaking text is an intoxicating experience. Salinye - for breathing more life into the already vibrant Pen Keep. Even if you are currently busy with your other interests, you'll always be heartily welcome back here. Appy and Morgane - for sisterly (or should it be motherly? *ducks*) advice. And thanks to all the elders, current and past, who work towards keeping this place, my virtual home now for over 3 years, in good repair and alive.

The half-orc left ages ago and the judges had already converged to mutter and whisper their decisions about who had been the best storyteller of the evening. Torches are guttering, their flickering flames throwing a confusing pattern of shadows on the walls. Through the darkening gloom walks a tall man fully covered in long, hooded travel cloak, an odd hunch on his back, heaviness in his steps as if he was carrying an invisible burden wearisome enough to cripple him. Most of the patrons do not notice him to step on the stage at all and the few that do frown, unsure if this silent, stealthy man is a story-teller or something else. He turns to face the crowd, still quiet, and stands that way for a long minute. The hood covers most of his face, but his pale blue eyes are barely visible and they hold a quiescent fire in them that demands attention from those who meet their gaze. The man coughs, a sound that somehow drifts to every corner of the tavern. Eyes and heads turn towards him as he removes his cloak with careful, precise movements, lets it fall on the stage and unfurls his staggeringly white, pearlescent wings, a glaring aura of light bursting forth from under them and sending thick lances of brilliance to every direction. A hush falls on the room, only to be broken by the voice of the angel, a sound interwoven with the tinkling of celestial crystals and imbued with the arrogance of the immortals, clarity of the Law. "Greetings, Mortal Folks. Glory to Baladar in His Heavenly Realm of Alhavianna!" He opens his arms in a gesture of benediction. The blinding aura around him mutes slightly while he surveys the crowd, studying the faces of the enraptured people. After a lenghty pause, a beatific smile appears on his face and he continues. "Exalted Be This Day! Blessed Be You Who Hear This Story of Redemption from the Clutches of the Fiendish Chaos! Harken to the Testimony of the Undeniable Supremacy of the Law!" The people sit still. Some of them are swayed by the words, spoken with such an undeniable conviction, others find the rhetorics false and exasperating but dare not to convey their displeasure to this being of power. The angel smiles again, radiating the flat warmth of Law's pleasure, mistaking the silence for unanimous acceptance for him. His cadence alters and the words lose some of their pretentious edge as his real story starts. "This story begins near the end of the Grail Wars, during the 1704th Blessed Year of our God Baladar or Year 2472 After Anvil's Drow Exodus, whichever method of timekeeping is better known to you." The angel's tone makes it clear the former is the only real measure for multiversium's time but that he includes the latter for the benefit of those lost few who haven't seen the light yet, and that any people who are ignorant of both systems, that is almost all of the tavern's customers, are really beneath his notice altogether. "As you all know, the evil force of Chaos, lead by the Scourge of the Planes and his witch protégeé, the self-titled Grail Carrier, were assaulting the borders of Law's sacred sanctuaries back then. The paths were burning with their barely controlled demon stampedes, and even though evil turned against itself as it always does, and the armies of Chaos clashed against each other on their march, their numbers were neverhteless too high for our defenses to deflect. We held fast, despite our losses, and for every angel that fell we took down four of the fiends." He shakes his fist with a mixture of pained and snarling look on his face, his eyes closed to better remember the glories of the battlefield. There is a tiny crack in his composure that shows a few of the more shrewd listeners he might be exaggarating slightly. When he continues, a sneer remains, unseemly on his otherwisely perfect countenance. "Against mere demons we would have prevailled with the might of Baladar, and we could match their planewalkers with ours, Faaye the Fleet going against the Scourge, the Patriarch crushing the schemes of Yhelmiel again, Khalear pitting his sword of justice and stalwart shield against the tall blade of Owiric. Even the might of the Grail we could have resisted, yea, for we were undaunted and formidable in our faith! But alas, our forces were nearly undone by the traitorous metallic monsters, those ungrateful warriors who had been in the light and then corrupted beyond mere darkness, the clattering forces of the Kalash!" The last word is uttered with a loud repulsion as a curse and the face of the angel is as dark as it can get, some of his snow-white teeth showing through his lips locked in disdainful sneer. He does not notice that nobody seems to recognize the word, that even those who are entranced by the story (and they are getting rarer and rarer as the untempered zeal shines through the words clearer and clearer) are quite puzzled, not really knowing what the angel is speaking of. So, oblivious, he continues. "Thus beset by infernal forces, determined to go down fighting if we needed to be, we battled on, sure of the fact we would prevail in one way or another. No matter how bleak things seem, the Fates shine on the only true philosophy, the clarity and tranquility of true Law, and thus it was that day also. At the height of the bloody struggle, when those of lesser faith were already close to breaking away from their posts, I was at the forefront of the Law's glorious divisions. My presence there was akin to a rock breaking the ocean's waves - unyielding, solid and dependable, and the swells of war could not crack me. From my position, I could see the very center of the storm that was descending upon us, the planewalker captains and witches gathered around the highest banner of the army of Disorder. There glowed the bright star of the treacherous Grail, its thick golden light coating the onrushing demons with sickly yellow sheen." At the mention of the Grail, a soft murmur sweeps through the tavern as people whisper with each other. The angel waits for the soft voices to quiet, showing good showmanship for the first time after he started telling his story. "Yea, the Grail, for it is no myth or legend, but a true artefact of the Chaos, its glow staining the true order of the Laws and the Immutable and True Predestined Fates of worlds and nations! Yet we did not cower from it in fear, secure in our Truth. It, however, could not suffer our immovable defenses, and as I watched it, it retreated from the battlefield and vanished from the very hands of the witch, Grail Carrier, leaving the legions of Hells in a state of disarray and fear. That turned the tide that day and the beleagured ranks of Order showed their true color, the White of Gallantry, crashing into the demons like Baladar's Hammer, smiting them with Celestial Fire and the Steel of Faith!" The blue eyes are now afire with memories of glory, and some of the people who at first were listening attentively and later on started frowning in displeasure, again nod in agreement. "The Kalash evaporated like a forgiven sin, unable to fight without the backing of their false icon, the Grail. That decided the battle, and the rest was merely a sign after a sign of how Fates truly watch over the Champions of Law and despise the unruly rabble of Chaos; we chased the Dogs of Havoc away from our lands, threw them back into the deep Abyss they had spawned in the first place. Thus ended the Grail Wars, in an undisputable victory of the Glorious Law!" The angel bows slightly, the cloak floats up to his waiting hand and he wraps it around himself again, covering his own aura of light and submerging the tavern into a darkness that seems in contrast blacker than any night. When he steps down from the stage he is again just another traveller with a weight on his shoulders and an odd hunch on his back, tall but otherwise easy to forget.

Mmm ya, I could see Counting Crows playing that song.

A pair of small skates leap over the edge of the skating ring, the skates topped by a short tights nevertheless large enough to completely obscure whatever is inside. As the thing gathers speed, the empty end of the tights flaps in the wind like a shiny red flag. It twirls around Peredhil, still gathering more speed, and soon its skates are striking icy sparks. It widens its circle, then tightens it and finally leaps into air, rotating around itself with a dizzying speed. Before ||` vanishes into the wintry sky it shouts out with glee. "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Even frenzied sugar golems do not defy gravity forever, though, and those present stare upwards wondering when the sharp, whirling skates and everything attached to them will fall back down...

Err... if you really, really want, Gwai. It's really one of those 'sheep eyeballs' things (those who have read Pratchett's Jingo know what I mean). Mämmi There ya go! Remember to pour a healthy dose of cream over it.

The birthday shockwave boundary has just hit Finland, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Finnius! Given the short form of your name, I'm giving you a few traditional Finnish things as gifts... Hands Finnius a box of mämmi and a small blue-and-white flag. Once you get used to the cold wintery weather after yer move, I might even stop callin' ye a fake Finn.

She makes a small gesture and tons of steel copy it: metallic, glinting dark blue fingers gesturing to the huge door of the hangar. The control suit is dirty, the smell of old, dried sweat and other even more disgusting bodily fluids stinging her nose, but the feeling of power overrides the minor discomfort. Not to mention the suit is warm, something that isn't trivial here - through the augmented senses of the mech she can hear the wail of the winter winds even through the massive door and reinforced walls. She takes a step forward, the feeling of the rough and tattered control suit against her bare skin fading into background as she becomes what she pilots. She dons on the aches and strengths of the animated pile of metal and leaves her flesh behind.

Dead Calm I shade my eyes with a hand and look around me, knowing I will most likely see nothing. The sky is dark blue to every direction, a few clouds drifting below me, the sky changing to almost black straight above. I adjust my mask slightly and walk back to my little hut, my steps careful and slow on the rubbery, bouncy surface. At the door I pause, brace myself and look downwards. The distance to the wisps of green and brown floating in the blue water below makes me dizzy and weak at the knees as always, but I do not turn my gaze aside. I grasp the flimsy doorway harder, my knuckles white, and try to see what is happening far away on the ground, even though I know it is in vain. After a while I sigh, the sound a hissy roar inside the confines of my mask. The wind makes me shiver, even if only strips of skin are exposed, and I retreat to the shelter of the hut. The airlock sighs as well, mirroring my mood, then opens. From the inside the building doesn't look quite as ramshackle. I take off my mask and massage my cold face, blink a few times to get rid of the ice on my eyelashes. There it is, my glider. It weights almost nothing, its wings more graceful than the ones nature has given to the birds, the bones lighter and yet more durable. Of course, it has to be better than a bird to carry this heavy thing anywhere. I reach forward and caress its tech feathers, its glass eyes and electronic brain. Reverently, I whisper to it the same words I've said a dozen times. "Soon, my love. Soon."

Nice stuff. I used to doodle the likes of the Standing Man a lot, not quite so well of course but still ... the resemblance was downright scary. Guess it is a sort of cultural icon for depression or something.

Dreams of Summer a prison of winter cages of dark and ice makes me pace tread a circular path dreams of summer green fragrance of grass blue crystal of sky dance through my mind warm my cold bones solitary confinement apartment shrinking to a point turning me into a hermit fading people away dreams of summer golden sunlight sparkling on the soft waves gulls calling to stay in the fantasy cold smashing against the hoarfrosted glass chill's bitter fingers reaching towards me dreams of summer take me away Dreams of Summer

Went through my old poems once again and decided to translate a few more, even if they are a bit rough diamonds *cough*. Some of the better ones are too dark and brooding - I think there's enough of those already so they shall remain un-translated. It's a bit sad that my current life is worn too smooth, lacks the necessary edges, for me to write many effective poems any more. Eviscerate I kneel before you with a questioning look once again colour the ground with my guts again cut myself open you are worth it The Thing sleep conquers morning-gorilla arrives mops with its victim messes the hair totally vanishes to the night with a grin Broken I let the phone fall its bang changes shifts to the cling of the chain of friendship his words did not exactly say it the key was in his tone detacher the sum of events the torn present a change in a man I thought I knew now our clocks tick a different time

Thanks for the warm fuzzy feeling, Katz - I can always use them here in the cold dark North. PS. No idea, as you can see if you check my recent poems (they huddle near the left border) - perhaps this one was transported from EzBoards?

The echoes of the last loud crack of breaking stone faded. The silence after the preceding incessant clamour brought all the other sensations to a sharp, clear focus, and Wodzan became very aware of the biting coldness of the dry air, the few glinting motes of ice drifting in the fresh breeze that violated the tomb that had slept in peace for hundreds of years. He slowly lowered the mallet in his hands and pierced the darkness of the musty room with his dark green eyes. Feeling suddenly very human, awed by what his second sight told him about the sword suspended above a stone pedestal on an iron stand, rusty and old, he wiped his sweaty palms on his green robes. Reverently he stepped forward, carefully grasped the scabbard and the hilt of the katana, savoured the smoothness of the former and the roughness of the latter. Wodzan took a deep if unnecessary breath, then drew the blade with glacial slowness, his eyes caressing the jade-green blade as it emerged from its cocoon. The sound of the blade being unsheated in the total quiet was a deadly rustle, the sound of a quiescent snake coming back to life with sparks in its eyes and hunger in its smile. The planewalker grinned in response and breathed the name of his find. "Benefical Dragon."

Auringon viimeiset purppuranväriset säteet halkoivat konehallin ilmaa peitsien lailla. Ne valaisivat kaiken kattavaa mustuutta: mustia koneita, mustien seinien sisässä. Tummiin pukeutuneet hahmot eivät erottuneet, mutta ne olivat siellä - tiesin sen. Valonsäteiden tanssiessa viimeistä valssia hallin pölyisessä ilmassa tarkistin varusteeni ja tilan. Tunsin aurani ulkoreunoilla niitä, niiden repaleisia, koneiden syömiä sieluja, ja rukoilin mielessäni vaikka olin ateisti. Niitä oli seitsemän. Kytkin järjestelmääni turbon päälle, nappasin infrapunasilmäni toimintaan ja lämmitin jalkojeni boosterit - mekaaninen käteni veti esiin teräni, oikea .51 pistoolini. Olin valmis toimintaan. Hermoimpulssi käynnisti boosterit, ja nousin lymypaikastani kuin koston enkeli. Pimeästä hallista muodostui liekkien heittämien valojen ja varjojen helvetti, käsittämätön pimeyden rajojen muutoskenttä. Ensimmäinen niistä oli ehtinyt vaivaisen viiden metrin päähän, ja syöksyin häntä kohden polkien ilmaa jaloista syöksyvien liekkipilareitten varassa. Hän oli vasemmalla puolellani. Terä sukelsi mustana tumman ilman halki, leikaten hänen refleksinomaisesti suojelevaan asentoon nostetun käden läpi vaivatta, pureutuen lopulta halki cybernetiikan ja lihan päätepysäkkinään aivot. Ennenkuin veren ja aivomassan yön mustaama pilvi ehti laskeutua, kiinnitin huomioni jo seuraavaan kohteeseen. Hän oli jo ehtinyt tajuta jotain, nostaa suojaansa ylöspäin ja kohdistaa asetta summittaiseen suuntaani. Olisin nauranut hurmiosta, jos aika ja paikka sen olisivat sallineet. Nyt tyydyin puhumaan Volatorien kautta: kolme räjähtävää haukahdusta viilsi korviani ja hänen rintansa syöksi ilmoille kolme kuumaa suihkua. Lensin niin läheltä luotien ruhjomaa ja nytkähtelevää metallisen lihan sekasikiötä, että näköni punersi toisen verestä kriittisen hetken verran; tunsin, kuinka mieltäni vastaan hyökättiin. Onneksi haastaja oli kokematon. Pääni tuntui muljahtelevan niskani jatkeena, mutta iskin takaisin, odottamattomalla tavalla, ja tunsin riemukseni haastajani tajunnan taipuvan voimani alla - hyökkäävä mieli repeili ja sammui. Vielä neljä. Sammutin boosterini ja käänsin jalkani nopeasti eteenpäin, kohti neljän viimeisen kyborgin unenomaisesti liikkuvia aseita. Hetken liidin pimeydessä äänettä, sitten napsautin boosterit jälleen päälle. Niiden voitonriemuiset ilmeet kirjaimellisesti sulivat kirkkaanpunaisiin liekkeihin, mutta olin antanut niille liikaa aikaa. Kolme asetta jyrähti ampujiensa kuolin-kouristuksissa ja tunsin yhden luodin impaktin oikeassa jalassani, raketti-moottorin kohdalla. Hallittu syöksyni muuttui pyöriväksi sekasorroksi. Pimeyden sisältä purjehti vääjäämättä esiin koneen musta kylki. Törmäys muutti pimeyden kaikenkattavaksi. Nousen hetkeksi tajuttomuuden syvistä vesistä. Silmäluomieni välistä näen heikkoja valoja, ihmisten epämääräisiä hahmoja ja liikettä. Kuulen hiljaista puhetta ja tiedän tämän olevan loppu. Ne ovat saaneet minut kiinni. Telepatian käytön yritys tuntuu repäisevän auki jonkin nälkäisen ja terävähampaisen kuilun pääni sisällä ja vaivun takaisin likaiseen, veriseen pimeyteen. Valot tanssivat. Häilyn tajuttomuuden ja hereillä olemisen välimaastossa, hiljaisten ajatusteni luona. Ne liikkuvat kuin surumieliset valaat: suurina, tummina ja möhkälemäisinä mutta samalla niin sulokkaina, pulpahtaen pintaan pitkin väliajoin. Ajattelen mennyttä ja sitä mitä olisi voinut olla. Tiedän, että tieni päättyi tähän, mustan koneen kylkeen. Ajatukseni varmistavat puolinaisen tajuttomuutenikin läpäisevät tuntemukset taikuudesta hyvin lähellä: sitovia ja orjuuttavia loitsuja. Ne tuovat mieleeni hänet, vastustajani Arkkikonsulin. Avaan silmäni vaivalloisesti. Näen hänen naamansa, ensimmäistä kertaa. Lukuisissa kuvitelmissani olin murskannut sen, hyppinyt sen päällä, tuhonnut sen ilkeän, kuivan virneen. Nyt näen sen korkealla edessäni enkä kykene tekemään mitään. Metalli ja taikuus sitovat minua - haavani tekevät kehostani petturin. Naama, valkoinen läikkä mustan kaavun pimeässä yössä, äärimmäisen kontrastin kohde. Se on kääntyneenä puoleeni, isällisellä ja teeskennellyn surullisella ilmeellä varustettuna. Ja hän puhuu: ”Ah, poikani”. Hiljaisuus, pitkä tauko, joka toi mieleeni kaikki kipuni, avuttoman tilani. Juuri kun aion menettää tajuntani ja siten paeta tätä kohtuutonta julmuutta hän jatkaa, taiteellisen tarkasti: ”Minähän varoitin”. Kiiltävän mustista silmistä paistaa lähes aito, käsinkosketeltava suru, mutta ilme kieltää silmien viestin. Vaaleat huulet liikkuvat jälleen, tarkasti kuin kone, ja hänen kuiva äänensä jatkaa: ”Olen hyvin pettynyt sinuun. Me ajattelimme, että sinusta olisi voinut tulla jotain... ”. Ääni hiipuu, lopettaa kuluneiden fraasien kirurgisen tarkan kertomisen. Pää kääntyy, naaman vaalea läikkä katoaa pimeyteen. Hetken hiljaisuus, taidepaussi. Pimeyden, mustan kaavun ja yönväristen koneiden rivistö voittaa väsyneet silmäni, ja näen mustan eri sävyt huikeassa näyssä ennen kuin rasitusten runtelema kehoni pettää hetkeksi. Kun nousen ylös tajuttomuuden mustasta virrasta takaisin todelliseen pimeyteen, erotan yhä erilaisia mustan sävyjä ja tajuan, etten ole vieläkään yksin. Hän on läsnä mustan aseensa kanssa. Ase liikkuu, tai ei, varjot liikkuvat. Katson edessäni aukeavaan tyhjään tilaan samalla kun yritän ravistella päätäni käyttökuntoon. Hetken ajan tilan täyttävät mustat metalliputket, sitten näköni terävöityy, selkenee. Hän on yhä siinä, edessäni, osoittaen minua mustalla aseellaan. Katson aseen mustaa piippua, syöksyn sinne. Ase imaisee minut sisäänsä ja syöksyn kasvavalla vauhdilla pitkin piipun mustaa tunnelia. Hetken ajan luulen näkeväni valoa, mutta silloin väkivaltaiset, kylmät väreet palauttavat minut takaisin. Tajuan vuotavani lämpöä, verta, hitaasti mutta kuolettavan varmasti. Hänen aseensa muuttuu tyhjäksi uhaksi. Hymy karehtii huulillani kun vaivun pimeydestä hämärään.