Homecoming

Ulysses clutched his coat tight around his wiry frame with one hand, while his other tried to open the door before him without losing his grip on his briefcase. A gust of wind hit, and he felt a moment of panic - then the door opened with a twist, and he stumbled into the house.

The warmth immediately drowned out the howling winds outside, and he calmly closed the door behind him with one foot. He leaned the briefcase against the wall as he took off his shoes and coat and scarf and fancy little hat and gloves. Shorn of his protections against the environment, he took in a long deep breath of the household air, savoring the crispy scent of cocoa.

"It is good to be home," he said with a smile, hearing the sound of children laughing drifting down the stairs.

He had been gone for less than an hour, and his absence had been relatively painless and carefree - but Ulysses believed that any homecoming worth the name was worth appreciating, whether the absence was an hour or a year.

And who are we to claim to know better than a man as content as he?

Tales of Heroics and Villainry, Volume 2!

"If I had a dime for every time I lost a bet..." mused the Gambler, bouncing a deck of cards in his free hand.

The Memorant replied, "You would have sixty-two dollars and eighty cents."

"Hmm. Not all that much, really."

The Memorant could access a vast store of knowledge and numbers - but only when dealing with the phrase, "If I had a dime for every time..."

It was a blessing and a curse, a powerful but frustrating ability, but one the Gambler intended to put to good use.

"If I had a dime for every guard in that complex..."

"A buck fifty, sir."

"Hmm."

The Gambler, contrary to popular belief, was not a betting man. Or so he liked to think. Why waste your money on chance and fortune when you can stack the odds in your favor?

(You might wonder why a man with such a philosophy would have lost six-hundred and twenty-eight bets. Unfortunately, the Gambler was good at planning, but prone to catastrophe in execution, and even the best laid plans of mice and supermen...)

The complex below them was small and outfitted with the latest state of the art security. Within it held a collection of rare dinner plates prized by antique collectors - fragile, but worth a fortune.

Unfortunately, its current owner had paid for the best defenses around, in electronics and manpower. The Gambler sought to find a hole in those defenses.

"If I had a dime for secret entrance into that lair..."

"Nothing, sir."

"...for every minute the guards were lax in their duties..."

"Just one dime."

"...for every guard open to bribes and blackmail..."

"Hm. Ninety cents."

The Gambler smiled, caught his deck of guards, and began to really focus his questions. They had a long night ahead of them, but by morning, they'd be wealthy men.

The Calling

Nadir had dealt with darkness before. He had spent his youth a slave to dark gods, an assassin bestowed with their demonic gifts.

Yet he had walked away, and left that life behind.

Nadir knew darkness well, but never had he found himself amidst the depths of shadow that now assailed him.

He wandered alone through dismal ruins, lost and adrift. His enemies had escaped him, the woman he loved held in their grasp.

He struggled onwards, yet the shadows around him led him astray. Here, beneath the earth, he knew despair. For all that he had cast off his past, he had nothing left to give him the strength to carry on. To save those he cared for. To stop those who must be stopped.

He was weak, and his weakness drained his hope away.

Nadir stumbled.

He dropped to his knees, feeling the rough stone floor and broken rubble scrape at his flesh. He landed hard, his arms jarring upon some blocky shape before him. Unable to see, his hands wandered over it, and beneath them felt runes inscribed into its form.

An altar.

A voice arose in the back of his mind: You seek to be stronger.

No. His mouth framed the word, but he could not speak it.

You were strong enough once, to slay your foes. You can be strong again...

Nadir snarled, his teeth flashing momentarily white amidst the shadowy room.

You could be strong enough to save her...

The snarl faded, and the light in Nadir's eyes dimmed. Did anything else matter? What use his beliefs, should he die alone and useless in this dark hollow?

"What.... what must I do?" his words were cracked and broken, his voice rough from disuse.

Pledge thyself to our service.

He knelt forward, easy from his fallen state. He bowed his head upon the altar, and felt its cold runes digging into his scalp.

Without remorse or hesitation, he spoke, "I so pledge."

The world exploded into light and darkness.

--------------------------------------------

Nadir opened his eyes. The room was no longer filled with shadow - light drove away the darkness as he rose.

He looked down. The light emanated from his very skin.

He felt renewed vigor. He felt more powerful than ever before. And nestled in the depths of his spine, he felt... that he was not alone.

I am bound to you now.

"You... you are not-"

I am no demon, no devil. Al'azir of the seventh circle of heaven, I was called, before seeking a host upon this world.

"But I thought-"

The forces of darkness are not the only ones who seek the service of mortals. Now you have a chance to redeem your past crimes - and to save those worth saving.

Those worth saving.

Nadir looked up, the thought running through his head even as his eyes bled light. A smile - the first he had worn in many years - adorned his face

"Yes. Yes I can."

He saw the stairs before him, leading up out of the chamber. He took one step, then another, and began the slow ascent to his future.

Harold's Lucky Day

How many emotional wounds does it take to break a man's soul?

For Harold Alfen, it was four-hundred and seven.

Harold was a decent fellow, if slightly off-kilter. He suffered from OCD, but most of his friends had no problem with his overly orderly nature.

At the youthful age of 8, he had decided that after exactly four-hundred and seven heartbreaks, he would give up on finding happiness in the world, and end it all.

He had, quite carefully, kept a tally throughout his life. It did not matter if they were great or small - a prematurely melted ice cream earned the same careful tick as when his high school sweetheart dumped him at the prom and screamed obscenities at him across the dance floor.

15 years, 6 months, 17 days and exactly 3 minutes after that incident, he was browsing the internet and discovered the news that his favorite author had just died. Run over by a dump truck, a stupid and ignoble death.

He marked it down... and then paused, and counted the numbers. He counted a second time, just to be sure - something that dear Harold never does.

But there they were, plain as day - four-hundred and seven hash marks, each lined up in perfect rows.

Nodding, as if almost in satisfaction, Harold calmly went downstairs to get his coat. It was dark out, but fate waits for no man.

When he walked across town to Dead Man's Peak - a nearby outcropping that was the town's locale of choice for suicide - he discovered it was already occupied.

A woman was there, staring out into the dark abyss. As Harold struck up a conversation, he discovered that her name was Margaret Bevay - and her lucky number was seven-hundred and four.

They have a pair of simply adorable children.

A Western Wind

A wind blew across the quad in the midmorning sun. Invisible and silent, it moved with speed and grace.

Past a young lass it went, a chilling breeze in the summer's heat. A smile it glimpsed and then 'twas off again.

Across a concrete path it blew, grabbing loose paper, twirling it through the air once, twice, and again. The paper lifted higher than it had ever been... then fell back down to base earth once again.

Across the grass it trailed, through the trees it soared. The wind blew heavy... and then, as stilled the air, it was no more.

The wind's existence had been short. In that time, however, it had not been unhappy.

Some would say that this is due to the fact that it was wind, and nothing more. It had no sentience, no awareness. It was a nonbeing, and such a state as unhappiness could not be attributed to a mere aspect of nature.

And this was true.

But there are those who would say it had led a fulfilling existence. It had left is mark upon the world - a smile, an upturned paper, a ruffled pair of branches. That is more than many can claim, to have left a mark in such a short time. And so, having fulfilled its purpose, it could cease to be without regrets or sorry, despite its nature.

And this... was also true.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Sea Watcher

Sam lives in a house by the ocean.

During the day he lives his daily life. He eats his breakfast, goes to work, gets his gas and heads home early.

At twilight, he walks out onto the settling sand, and feels the cooling heat tingling upon his bare toes.

He goes to the ocean shore, and listens to the growing evening sounds.

In the last light of the fading sun, he looks for the telltale glimmer of a message bottle.

They come more often than you would think - not once a day, mind you, but one a week is more common than not. Sometimes a month will pass by without one... sometimes three will drift into the sandy bank, one after another, gently clinking together as the tide moves in and out.

When he sees one, he opens it, knowing exactly what he'll find. Like all the rest, the cork is not quite tight enough, the seal not able to withstand the bumpy ride - and the message within reduced to disintegrating gloop, torn apart by sea water and time.

He always wonders what he would do if he found one intact. Would he open it and read it? See what hidden message was cast into the murky brim of the world?

Or would he make things right?

Loosen the cork. Break the seal.

And toss the bottle back into the ocean, to meet the fate that it was meant for, just like all the others.

The Mystery of the Delo Enlightenment

In the late 24th century, am interesting phenomenon came to pass. Historical documents began to be discovered that had previously been lost for ages. These documents chronicled a single moment in time, an event that occured on the side of Delo, a less-than-well-known mountain in Africa.

According to the chronicles, no less than ten thousand people had been drawn to the mountain-side on a single day in the late 21st century, where they stood witness to an event so profound, of such significance, that it altered their lives forever. More details laid out the many and sundry effects that led from this, as each of those at this event went on to be individuals of significance - politicians, artists, scientists.

Yet not one account detailed what the event was itself.

As the centuries passed, it came to be one of the great mysteries of history, added to the list of all the ancient wonders and events.

What none realized is that the entire thing was one magnificent hoax. It was orchestrated by a handful of people who, years ahead of the 'event', began to write up these false histories. They had their own children swear an oath to update those histories to match actual events, and so give them a false sense of truth - and to continue this down the centuries, until eventually revealing the hidden chronicles.

Their goal was simple. They would wait on the location of the event at the precise moment the histories recorded it as occuring.

And, once there, they would ambush any time travelers who were sneaking back in time to discover the truth of the Delo Enlightenment.

Now, unfortunately for them, time travel is impossible, and their complicated scheme, spanning a thousand years and dozens of generations of their kin, was all for naught.

That said, it is a testament to mankind that such stupidity could result in such an eternal legend, one that even went on to become the basis of man's religion for several millenia.

While mankind never did discover the ruse, several other intelligent lifeforms did learn the truth of things.

The Martians are still laughing.

Legacy: Part One

The Shifting Sands of Time

You might think that time passes quicker for an immortal. That to one who has lived through countless centuries, each passing day is of no significance. That a thousand years might pass in the blink of an eye.

It might be so, for the organics. For the primal dragons, for the Undying One, and for the Great Masters themselves.

It is not so for I.

I can feel, keenly, every moment that passes. Every second registers in my consciousness as a single drop of sand, adding to the endless pile of time. If anything, for me, time passes as slowly and languorously as the drifting dunes themselves.

I came into existence amongst a long-lived race. Yet for all their agelessness, I can see the days they will pass away. Their flesh will cool, their hearts lie still. New emperors will rise, new generals, new princelings of their race.

Yet I was born of the eternal strength of stone, and fashioned anew with the spirit of the winds. I live, yet shall not perish through famine or disease, old age or weakened flesh. I am a statue born, yet the sand shall not chip away and grind me down to dust.

Should my existence have continued uninterrupted, I may have walked this world unto its very final hour.

Yet... it was not to be.

I am an Obsidian Construct, forged from ancient magics, born with purpose and will. Of all such, I was the only one to ever have a soul.

I am Ossirian, called the Unscarred.

And this is the tale of my ending.

to be continued...

10,000 Years of Hope

They brought him in chains before the lady of the castle. It was a distant age of the earth, an age of war and magic - and he was a man of war, and she, a woman of magic.

His eyes were flinty steel, his limbs held the strength that had butchered hundreds on the battlefield. But he had fallen in the end, and now was bound before her and her fairie gods.

Despite her gender, despite her skills, her eyes were as hard as his. "For your crimes, I cast you out. I perform a binding on you, monster, and lay claim to your true name. You sought to rise above the world of man - so be it. I cast you out. I cast you out."

---------

Many ages of the earth passed. Men rose, and fell, and rose again. And through it all he drifted, nameless and alone.

He walked upon the earth, without need for breath or sustenance. He knew the scent of flowers and the feel of the wind. Yet he lived it all as a ghost - he could not catch a falling rose petal. He could not grab brances swaying in the breeze.

The world was bound from him, and he wandered, invisible to life and all its offerings.

---------

The years, as may be expected, changed him. His was a brutal curse, with no hope of salvation - the very forces which had cursed him had vanished ages hence.

But when one lives in an endless eternity, alone, one learns to cope. He had spent a hundred years in screaming rage before his voice fell silent. He had passed through a thousand years in silence, simply walking and observing the changing ways of man. He had sought redemption for a mere twenty years before railing at an uncaring god.

But every insanity came to an end. Every rage, every plea, every sorrow. Time marched on, and in the end... so did he.

---------

The ages have passed. He walks among steel carriages and glass buildings. He remains observer still, learning what he can as he goes, watching the race of man with disdain and envy.

He catches, upon a speeding yellow bus, a small child's gaze. Peering, intently, at him.

The child vanishes from sight. He runs a moment before he knows he will not catch it. He looks down at himself, still identical to the moment of his binding, and then stares off at the distance once again.

He will look, but he will never find that child, nor know how or why he caught its sight.

But it matters not. He knows, with certainty, that for a moment, however brief, something acknowledged his existence.

If nothing else, that will provide another 10,000 years of hope.

A Sharp, Political Jab at Socio-Economic America!

65% said that the most important part of a sandwich is the meat.

3% said that the most important part was the bread.

15% voted for the condiments.

12% said that it was the specific blend of all elements that truly determined the quality.

5% said, all things considered, they'd rather have pizza.

This study has conclusively proven that people waste far too much fucking time on shitty surveys!

A Quest Completed

They stood upon the barren edge of the world, a small army that had forged into the heart of the wind-blasted desert.

They had long since passed from civilization. They had left behind, to the distant south, the howls of the battle that still raged with the Qiraji. They had passed by the distant camps of the abyssal cultists, who practiced their dark worship from one end of the earth to another. They had forged their way through the primal elemental forces that lay claim to the earth and sky, and now stood in sand-covered ruins amidst howling winds and shifting sands.

"So, tell me again why we're out in the arse-end o' bloody nowhere?" Adun, the company's commander, shaded his eyes from the blistering sun overhead.

The heavily armored dwarf beside him shrugged, and looked carefully at the mystical bindings and other assorted items held before him. "This be where th' mage said t' meet him. He's the one as plans to unravel the mystery o' all these pieces."

"And what mystery exactly is that?"

A smooth, oily voice cuts through the howling winds. "A mystery... of power."

The sandstorm that raged across the waste dies down, revealing broken rubble, ruined housings... and a man, clothed in red. Gray of beard, he yet stood amidst the ruins with a palpable aura of power. Arcane symbols adorned his robes, and his eyes were flinty steel.

Pyreson Flamebeard stepped forward, his cache of trinkets in hand. "Highlord Demitrian," the dwarf rumbled. "I have come as agreed. Now what power might be unlocked within these items?"

The Highlord wore a smile that did not touch his eyes. He gestured across the sun-ravaged land, where crackling elementals of electricity blasted over the landscape. "Look to this ravaged field and know the power that the elements hold, dwarf. That is the power contained within those bindings."

The members of the company glanced amongst each other, then looked up as the dwarf stepped forward. He handed over the items in question. "Very well. Make good on your promise, then, mage. Me friends are liable to be a mite upset if we be walkin' away empty-handed."

Demitrian's smile did not fade. If anything, it grew larger. He took a step back, and almost seemed to sneer at the sheathed weapons and mystical garb arrayed amongst the band. Turning his attention away from them, the Highlord held up one long, strangely scarred hand.

His words were almost a whisper, and barely reached the ears of those closest to him: "Even in dreams I did not dare foresee this day..."

The air began to crackle.

The runes scattered across the ruins glowed with a faint, blue light. The glow intensified - and streamed across the ground to coalesce in Demitrian's hand. He released the bars of elementium, forged from the most powerful of metals - and they floated freely in the air.

The mage abruptly closed his hand into a fist, and the elementium began to shift and twist, melding together, forming a perfect sphere of shifting metal.

Demitrian raised his other hand, and the twin bindings given to him shattered. A silvery luminescent thread rose into the air, and then wove into the sphere, threading in and out of its surface countless times. Moments later a glow arose within - the burning essence claimed from the corpse of Ragnaros, the Firelord himself.

Within the sphere that essence changed. Glowing flames died down, and crackling thunder and lightning arose. The sphere itself rose into the air as it absorbed the lightning, it became enshrouded in a weave of pure incandescent power!

Demitrian spoke, his eyes gleaming with a silvery light. "Behold, mortal..."

His voice rose, echoing with the thunder itself.

"BEHOLD HE WHO IS OLDER THAN EXISTENCE!"

"BEHOLD HE WHO HAS FACED TITAN AND GOD ALIKE!"

"RISE MY MASTER! BREAK FREE FROM YOUR BONDS!"

The men and women of Dragon Tears cursed in unison as the world exploded amidst lightning and thunder.

---

Blinking his eyes, Pyreson waved one hand in front of his face, trying to clear the effect of the flash. A sound echoed behind him, and slowly, the dwarf turned. He could make out, nearby, the others who had came with him, rapidly drawing weapons, preparing spells.

And beyond them...

A towering figure a hundred feet high. Storm clouds roiled within his eyes, lightning crackled across his flesh. The howling winds bowed before their master...

Thunderaan, Prince of Air, had been reborn.

Lesser heroes might have fled before such a sight. Might cut their losses, and called upon magics to return them to safe havens.

As one, the men and women of the company set themselves for battle.

Pyreson drew his trusty blade, and felt his shield slide quickly into position. Through his billowing beard, the dwarf grinned, stepping forward. "We've killed a god or two ourselves, elemental. Let's see what you've got!"

The prince turned his gaze upon the heroes arrayed against him. What may have been a smile passed over the elemental's face. He reached his hand into the air, where the orb of lightning still remained. Within it, the elementium had grown a hundredfold in size - and now its shape altered, stretching out in both directions, shifting into a holt, a handle, and a twin-pronged blade. Power crackled over the weapon, and Thunderaan grabbed the gargantuan sword eagerly with a single hand.

Then brought the devastating weapon down with the speed of lightning.

---

The first blow nearly broke Pyreson asunder, as he barely caught it upon his shield. The ground shattered upon all around him, and he felt himself sink a foot or more into the ground. Electric power and biting wind tore into him, and for a moment, he knew despair...

But only for a moment.

Soothing energy flowed into him from a dozen sources. The electric burns faded, and new vigor strengthened his arm. With a mighty effort, he hefted his shield and turned the blade aside, and watched as it scored a line of destruction across the hilltop on which he stood.

Looking up, he matched eyes with the elemental prince… and in them, he saw his enemy's fear. Lifting his voice in a tremendous below, he called out over the thunder, "Strike! Him! DOWN!"

---

The battle raged on. Blades tore into silvery-gray flesh. Frost and fire, shadow and flame all blasted into the whirling tornado of a godling. Arrows streaked through the air with uncanny accuracy, finding small weaknesses in his armor and driving home, one after another.

Thunderaan retaliated in kind. Lightning tore through the company time and again, blasting bodies and stunning those it struck full on - but none fell. The gods of light, the forces of nature were both called forth to bolster the company against his power - and all stood strong against his raging might.

"Heh," The dwarf smirked. "Almost too eas-"

The elemental's sword swung around with shocking speed. Pyreson barely parried the blow, and staggered back from the sheer force of it. His shield was torn from his side, and as he steadied himself, he saw Thunderaan's blade rise again.

He started to lift his own sword - then saw it had been blasted apart. Nothing but shards remained.

Above him, Thunderaan laid both hands upon his weapon, and drew the weapon high...

The final blow never landed. None saw who delivered the killing strike, nor did it matter - countless injuries had torn into Thunderaan's newly reborn body. The vessel was still new to this world, and not prepared for such brutality. The energy contained within proved to be... too much for it.

A blast of light burst forth out of the elemental's chest, then another. Seams of energy began to race around his body, and his eyes grew wide in fear. He opened his mouth - to scream? To cry mercy?

He never had a chance, as the energies that had restored him to life exploded in a blast of mountain-shattering power. The company was thrown to the ground by the force of the blast... and Thunderaan was consumed entirely.

A pool of rapidly fading energy sunk into the ground - and spinning down and slamming home in the center of it was Thunderaan's blade itself.

Pyreson felt something resonate in the air as he rose to his feet. He stepped towards the crackling sword of energy - and as he reached out, it again shifted, the elementium shrinking in upon itself... and coalescing as a blade in his own hand. The energy within it was erratic, though, as though it was struggling to retain its form.

A whimper caught the dwarf's attention. Amidst the deafening silence in the aftermath of battle, the broken sobs of Demitrian were easy to make out. Marching back over to the lying wretch, Pyreson reached out with his free hand and forced the treacherous mage to his feet.

"No! Please, do not harm me! Take it! Take the blade!"

The mage frantically gestured as he spoke, and the glowing blue glyphs across the ruins flashed - and then faded into obscurity, their energy spent. It raced into the sword, and the dwarven warrior felt the sword solidifying at their touch - and binding itself to him.

"Please," whispered the former Highlord. "Please leave Demitrian to reshape his pathetic life!"

Pyreson dropped the man. "We not be wastin' our time on this one," he muttered, looking to make sure all others had made it out of the battle intact.

The company of Dragon Tears stood untouched. They had already dusted off and bandaged their wounds, and none had fallen to permanent harm in the scuffle. They looked on, grinning with him, and Pyreson raised the blade high - "One legend, today has fallen... but now another shall arise!"

Thunderfury, Blessed Blade of the Windseeker, crackled with power amidst the stillness of the desert skies.