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November 8th, evening.  There may be more tonight but it'll probably be either separate or sent with tomorrow's writing.  As it is, 2099 words is not bad, and is a pretty good indication of what I can do on my day off, even with a major shopping trip.

 

 

We'd passed Dickens Park on our way; it was already dead, which I think is why Scheherazade chose it for our exercise. She pulled us up next to it.

 

“Could you give your phone to Hewn?” she asked as she dialed. “He should probably try calling Shamasun again.”

 

I did as she asked, but Hewn gave the phone back only a few seconds later.

 

“Still out of service,” he said. “He must not have a door open.”

 

I nodded, then waited for Scheherazade. Her call apparently went to voice mail and she began.

 

“Stian. I need you up in Wisconsin right away. Use a rainbow if you need to, but try to be here tonight. Curse work – breaking, not making. Bring a touchstone and your grandfather's staff, just in case.”

 

When she hung up, she stared at the phone for a moment before dialing someone else.

 

“Momo,” she said. “You've heard about the new kid. She's having some kind of trouble. Some kind of curse, we think...Oh. Better wrap that up. Good luck. See you when you can manage.” She lowered the phone. “He's busy – some kind of maneater. He'll be here when he wraps that up.”

 

She opened her car door, but Hewn stopped her. “Hey. Forgetting something?”

 

“Right! Sorry.” She reached back, placed her hand on his head, and whispered. His skin faded into an olive complexion; so long as he didn't break any floors he would be able to blend in. “Here's a credit card. While we're busy here, you go on a shopping trip. Get us some workout clothes; after the park, we're hitting a gym. We're going to expend every last bit of energy she has, magical or not.”

 

Hewn nodded and headed off as Scheherazade led me towards the deserted playground. She whispered some more, making some expansive gestures as she did so.

 

“We won't be noticed unless we interact with people. Even then, they won't realize anything's unusual. Oh, and take off your shoes. They'll get in the way,” she said, bending down to remove her flats. “No socks either.”

 

I complied, unsure of what was going to happen.

 

“This may be weird,” she said. “But trust me. I can see the elven magic in you; I know what you can do better than you do. And while I haven't seen heroes as new as you very often, I do know some things – namely that the powers that you don't have to think about are the first ones to grow in.”

 

I thought for a moment. “Passive traits?”

 

“Good way to put it. Now. You can keep talking, but follow in my footsteps. Give me a good lead, though.” She began to lead me around the playground. It was dry grass here, but wood chips further in; I wasn't eager to step in them with bare feet, but if I had to, I would.

 

For now, though, we stuck in the grass, Scheherazade about five paces ahead of me. I fidgeted oddly. Suddenly Scheherazade spun about, walking backwards.

 

“How am I supposed to follow you if I'm not looking?”

 

“I don't know. You couldn't see the hand motions and you're getting those down just right.”

 

I blinked. My fidgeting suddenly made sense, and as I hit the step where she had turned around, I swiveled correctly and continued, not breaking stride.

 

“Weird!”

 

“Elves often behave as mimics,” she said. “The whole changeling thing – they would occasionally replace mortals. Sometimes they got caught, sometimes not.” I turned back to face her, still following, then wove back into walking backwards.

 

“So can I do this with anyone? Or is this just you?”

 

“Probably anyone.” I heard a grunt and the sound of flesh on metal. Before I knew what was going on, I had launched into a leap, clearing the wood chips entirely and catching hold of the monkey bars, hauling myself up in her wake. It had been at least a twenty foot jump from a standing start.

 

“Funny thing is,” Scheherazade continued as if we hadn't just done the impossible. “A real elf would have trouble following us. Too much iron in those bars.” She perched on top of the monkey bars and set off in a sprint. I had a half second of hesitation – I couldn't possibly be so agile! But then, I couldn't have made that jump either. I banished thought and let the magic take me.

 

Up the monkey bars. Across the slide. Always the same distance from my mentor. A cartwheel across the rolling log and then a run and two-footed kick off the post that anchored one side of the swings, leading into a backflip up to the roof above the slide.

 

“Speaking of iron,” she said. “We should talk about things you can do now. Weaknesses. Strengths.” She tossed a handful of change in the air, caught it and pocketed it. I went through the same motions. “Now, how much money was that?”

 

“Forty-eight cents,” I answered without a thought.

 

“Right. Your eyes work differently now.” Twirling jump, twirling jump, then a forward flip down to the ground, ending in a sprint. “How many trees are in this park?”

 

“Sixteen.”

 

“Exactly. You pick up details much faster than you did before. And how many birds' nests?”

 

“Two. And a beehive.” I couldn't run this quickly, or this long, but I wasn't out of breath.

 

“How many types of trees?”

 

“One. Dead.”

 

She screeched to a halt and scowled at me, but moved on as I nearly caught up, still mimicking her.

 

“Don't think about that. For now, just move. And the answer was three.” She performed a cartwheel, leading into a one-handed spring onto a tire swing, a swivel, and a launch, just ahead of my arrival. “So your eyes are different. You might've heard about forcing elves to count spilled salt – this is another of those grain-of-truth things. You can be distracted by enough visual stimuli, just like elves can, but only if there isn't a clear and present threat.”

 

“Got it. I think.”

 

“You're getting a taste of what we can do, so I should lay down one of the rules now. We don't have many of them and we don't really have a formal code for when the rules are broken, but we do have rules.”

 

“Okay. Shoot.”

 

“We do not play games with mortals. That has two meanings. Figure them out.”

 

With a running start, she ran up one side of the flagpole, then grabbed hold, scooted around, and climbed down as I went up.

 

“Well. It seems like it would be tacky of me to compete in the Olympics.”

 

“Very,” she said.

 

“And...” I hesitated, but only verbally. My body was still flinging itself through the motions. “I'm not sure about the second part.”

 

“Mortals are not toys.”

 

“Oh. Got it.”

 

“We also don't interfere with politics and we don't fight humans in wars. Not without good enough reason. The Second World War came close. We might have if we'd known everything. But for now just assume that it's off limits.”

 

“All right. Anything else I need to know?” I asked, walking up the slide on my hands.

 

She was silent for a moment. “Did they tell you about your children?”

 

“I don't have any. But nobody mentioned anything. Why?”

 

She was quiet for the next round of acrobatics, but spoke eventually. “It's something to worry about once we've gotten you through this mess, but you might not want to have children anymore. Or at least think very carefully before you do. Your power is hereditary.”

 

I mulled that over for the next hour as I followed Scheherazade's lead. When Hewn returned, she sent him out on another errand and added the duffle bag he'd brought to the stunts. She swung it around and tossed it to me. I had to break the mimicry to catch it as well as to avoid throwing it. When I had the chance, I tossed it to her, then continued the charade of catching it myself. A bit at a time, I slowed, but Scheherazade never did.

 

Hewn came back again, this time with a pair of branches. He tossed one to Scheherazade; when I reached the right point in sequence, I caught the second. Suddenly I was going through combat forms; guard stances, parries, lunges and swipes. I didn't know what I was doing, really; it was just an imitation of Scheherazade, but for the moment, it was perfect.

 

Then my branch exploded. There was no concussion; it was actually more like the whole thing had suddenly become an ignited sparkler. I yelped, broke out of the mimicry and flung the branch away, blinded.

 

Scheherazade was at my side in a second. “You okay?”

 

I had been more surprised than anything else. After nearly two hours of that trancelike mimicry, the sudden combustion of the branch had been a hell of a shock.

 

“Yeah. I'm okay, but what was that?”

 

“I wanted to see if you could Glamour, so I slipped in the most basic type.” She waved a silvery blade, but somehow I could see that on the inside it was still made of wood. “I'd say that the answer is no.”

 

“Emphatically no.”

 

“It was kind of pretty,” Hewn said. He'd retrieved the branch I'd thrown away; it was unharmed. “But probably not useful.”

 

“So,” Scheherazade said. “Now that we're warmed up, we're hitting a gym.”

 

I wound up having to navigate, using her smartphone. The news that it was also connected to the internet would probably have delighted her, but we had too much to worry about today. I got the feeling that she was more concerned than she was letting on.

 

Scheherazade bought me a gym membership and admitted herself and Hewn as guests. She paid for it all, but I'm pretty sure that the gym attendant would have a very difficult time describing any of us.

 

A few minutes later, I was waiting as Hewn loaded up an intimidating weight bar. Scheherazade went first.

 

“Don't mimic me this time,” she said. “That's not what we're exercising this time. Instead, force yourself to lift more than you should be able to.”

 

The bar was loaded with about three hundred pounds, and Scheherazade herself couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and thirty. She still lifted it easily, pumped it through ten reps, and set it back in place. “That much is a bit of work, but not too bad. Twice as much and I would have trouble. Hewn – hit it.”

 

Hewn leaned onto the bar, pinning it in place with most of his weight. Scheherazade pushed upwards to no effect for several seconds, her cheeks reddening with exertion. Then – I would say impossibly if it wasn't entirely silly of me to use that word anymore – she lifted it up. Hewn leaned over at a forty-five degree angle, balanced on his tiptoes as Scheherazade pumped iron and granite.

 

After five reps, she moved to replace the bar and Hewn eased off, spotting it into place. She was breathing heavily, but had a flush of triumphant exertion. At her gesture, I took her place on the bench.

 

“Ready? We're doing it normally first.”

 

Hewn guided my hands on the bar and helped me lift it. Then he backed away.

 

Three hundred pounds. I felt like some kind of god; this kind of lift should have been nearly impossible for someone with my frame, let alone my level of musculature. Instead it wasn't just doable, but easy. Ten reps later, I put the bar away. Three hundred pounds was still a far cry from nine hundred – so I was relieved to see Hewn stacking more weights on the bar, rather than leaning in.

 

Five hundred pounds. I cleared the bar, then started pumping. The extra resistance was noticeable, but I didn't feel encumbered yet. Six hundred. Still nothing.

 

Within five minutes Hewn had loaded up the entire bar; over twelve hundred pounds. I could feel the weight, but it wasn't a real hindrance. I felt exhilarated until I saw the look on Scheherazade's face: pure worry.

 

 

And the 'chull' reference above is actually the board censoring some swearing, which I try to use sparingly in my work but I believe to be appropriate sometimes.  

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November 9th, Morning.  1271 words, but it's time to head off to work.  This interlude wound up entirely different from its original plan; finding the right voice took time, but I managed.

 

Stian is an original character.  My wife tells me I shouldn't give you hints, or tell you when a character's mythologically based or not, but I probably will if you ask.

 

Second Interlude: A historical document.

 

An historical analysis of the fall of Olympus

Year of Odinsreign 1464

 

Fifteen hundred years ago, the grand empire of Olympus ruled the known world. It had endured for over two thousand years, rose from the ashes of Jotunheim, weathered war with Mhian and the Wild, and stretched its influence as far as the realm of mortals. Now all that remains are legends and cursed ruins – along with a very slim amount of primary sources.

 

First we must determine the day that it fell. Traditionally that is accepted as the first year of Odinsreign, but I argue that it should properly be dated approximately twenty years earlier.

 

Most records of the War were lost when Olympus fell. What we know for certain from our allies in the Wild can only tell us one half of the story. My cousins Geri and Freki, trusted advisors who sit at the sides of my grandfather's throne, were able to retrieve their people's records. We can concretely state that, in the year 34 before Odinsreign, High King Apollo sued the Wild for peace and requested aid for an expedition to the newly-discovered Realm of Dis. He received only the former, as trust was in short supply. Critically, though, twenty of the horses on the expedition were in fact spies for the Wild. Their reports – unknown in Asgard until now – shed significant light on events.

 

The first expeditions to Dis met with the pattern that has held throughout the centuries; all explorers who return report that Dis is hostile, but that they encountered no organized assaults. While the water was foul and occupied by Selkies and worse, while half of the biting insects were in fact already dead before they stung and the dead of any sort would rise in foul mockery, it was nothing that brave warriors with firm leadership couldn't handle. At the outset, probes into the newly-located realm had a greater than eighty per hundred success rate.

 

It would be folly to assume that the losses to come were due to any incompetence on the part of the expedition commander, Aureum II, first cousin of Apollo. Reports from the equine agents indicate that he maintained good levels of discipline and morale as he led the Second, Fifth, Eighth and Fifteenth Legions into Dis. From them, the lords of the Wild eventually received the only credible accounts of what happens to expeditions that enter Dis deeply enough that their retreat can be cut off.

 

The agents who survived to report back were members of the Second Legion, as during the third night in Dis, strange and unsettling noises were heard. Neither the Eighth Legion nor any of the Second's scouts who had investigated were anywhere to be found in the morning. Aureum II had been camped with the Eighth and the Second's commander, Ogyges, found himself in charge of the expedition.

 

It was his admittedly reasonable decision to spend the fourth day in Dis seeking the remains of the Eighth Legion in order to gather information. He camped the Second in place and sent the Fifth and Fifteenth to search, as there is no way for five thousand men to disappear without leaving some evidence of their passage. None of the surviving agents learned of his conclusions, but one of them witnessed elements of the Fifteenth straggling into camp. Reports indicate an army of the dead, captained by an oversized, skinless centaur. Whether this was the infamous Nacklavee itself or another of its kind cannot be determined, but it is the first account of any surviving encounter with the creature.

 

Ogyges, having lost the bulk of his forces and his superior officer to an enemy he did not even see, made the prudent decision and attempted to open a portal back home. It was then that they discovered that most pernicious magic of Dis – that when the monsters wish it, intruders may only exit Dis through the same point that they entered. Ogyges called for an ordered retreat and was met immediately by the creatures we now call Nidhoggr and Leviathan. Under the assault of at least three Princes of Dis, the fleeing Legion lost all semblance of organization, and the mounted cavalry abandoned the infantry at full retreat – which is probably what saved the equine spies, as a horse moving at speed can travel in an hour the distance that an army can traverse in three days.

 

The creatures of Dis gave chase. While at the start, over a hundred cavalry had left the Second Legion, only twenty came within sight of the gate home. Only two riders reached the gate; both of them were undead by the time they slipped through. Eight horses escaped, however; it is probable that none of them would have had the inhabitants of Dis realized that they were capable of speech.

 

From there, there was consternation throughout Olympus, as Apollo attempted to suppress news of the loss of over twenty thousand warriors. The entire empire was on edge. Worse, the unliving riders who had made it home were not contained successfully and a blight of undeath began to spread across the land. This blight was subsequently stomped out by the combined efforts of the First and Third Legions but the damage had been done. Olympus was on the verge of open revolt, and the Legions were poised to lead it.

 

Then the impossible happened. Aureus II and the Second Legion returned from Dis, a month after they had entered. They were battle-scarred and close-mouthed, but they lived. At least, they appeared to.

 

Apollo gave them the welcome of heroes – a full Triumph on their arrival. Likely the High King believed that the people needed a celebration to knit their society back together; he had no idea what was to happen.

 

On the steps of Olympus, in full view of the public, Aureus II embraced Apollo and dissolved into a mass of worms. Only his head and his arms, visible outside of his armor, were spared; the rest had been consumed by the familiar Hades' Bane parasites. The rest of the Second Legion, in the sway of the corruption of Dis, began its infamous rampage across the mountain. Where the members of the Second fell, foul plants and vile creatures rose from the rot inside their bodies.

 

It is possibly a miracle that the Legions' commanders managed to rally and reclaim Olympus at all. With the line of Apollo extinguished, once the immediately apparent corruption had been dealt with, the throne of Olympus was the subject of an intense civil war between the many bastards of Zeus and the lines of his brothers. Within ten years, the Legions had been reduced to a grim shadow of their former numbers.

 

At the time, historians blamed the civil war for the dissolution of the Olympian empire, cursing whichever claimants to the throne they considered unworthy, but it is entirely possible that the intruding flora of Dis may have had more to do with the fall than they could have suspected at the time. Explorations of Olympus have found that rageweed is now so common as to be ubiquitous; the effects of its pollen are well-documented and likely contributed to the hostilities.

 

As an Imperial Prince of Asgard, the lesson I can draw from this is simple. No matter how long a stick I find, don't use it to poke Dis.

 

This concludes my essay. Don't even think of saying I cheated by using my family's connections, you crotchety bastard.

 

Signed,

 

Imperial Prince Fenrir Lokisen, First of the Name, Heir Secondary of the Odinate Throne

 

Edited by Talanic
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November 10th, afternoon.  Didn't wind up writing more last night.  There's a few things going on with my life, including a job interview this Wednesday.  Long story short, I'm tired.

 

944 words here.  Should be more tonight.

 

Also, my wife made this.

 

 

We eventually established my reasonable maximum at just over fifteen hundred pounds. The issue was clear; I was stronger than Hewn and Scheherazade put together.

 

“Not stronger than Shamasun or Jack,” Hewn said. “More like Shamasun when he was young.”

 

“But far stronger than elven magic has any right to make you,” Scheherazade said in a carefully neutral voice. “So now we need to figure out what that elf really was.”

 

“Search the internet?” I suggested hopefully.

 

“Sure. But if I haven't met something in three thousand years of exploring, it's...unlikely that stories of it reached the mortal realm. It couldn't hurt to look, but I don't think we'll find answers there.”

 

We returned to the locker room to change back. Scheherazade had a quick shower, but I wasn't actually sweating. After the rush of having super strength wore off, paranoia began to seep back into my thoughts. My unanticipated strength meant that I could have other traits that were unexpected as well. My new friends could be wrong; I could be the source of this wave of death.

 

On top of that, I would have to keep my temper firmly in check. All of my life, I'd been, if not weak, definitely not strong; now there was a decent chance that I could punt a car like a football. One of those Smartcars, at least. I shuddered to think what kind of damage I could do if I hit someone as hard as I could.

 

And yet, if we were right, I'd had super strength for nearly two days without even noticing. To some extent, that power regulated itself well.

 

My phone rang. The contact was listed as Seamus, which confused me for half a second before I answered.

 

“Sam! How are things out there?” He sounded well, at least.

 

I started to head out to Hewn. “We left you voice mail.”

 

“Uh. Yeah. I was...going to check it.”

 

“It looks like I'm cursed, or I'm really a monster,” I said. “Plants around me are dying. Animals and people are getting sick. We don't know if I picked up an enchantment or if it's really coming from me. On top of that, my power's out of control and Hewn says I'm as strong as you were once. I don't know what to do.”

 

There was a moment of silence. “I'm sorry, Sam,” he said. “I don't have any grand ideas. I'm a giantslayer; I hit things very hard, and I don't really do much else. I don't know what would cause death omens, and my home is still...unsettled...Wait.”

 

“What?”

 

“When did plants start to die around you? Because there are no dead patches of plants in here. They're all so alive, they're forming topiary legions and proto-dragons.”

 

“Topiary...”

 

“Never mind that now. If plants are dying around you, it started after you left my home. That says to me, it's not you. You picked up something.”

 

I nodded to the phone as I approached Hewn. “Thanks. That...that helps.”

 

“So why didn't you come back inside my place? I have lots of plants that need to die.”

 

“Oh. Your threshold broke somehow. Here's Hewn.”

 

“Wait, broke? What do you mean, broke? The door's open right now!”

 

Half an hour later, Scheherazade and I were at a dead run through the forest. So long as I stayed in her wake, neither of us could be seen. We stuck directly to the path; no sense in killing more plants. Neither of us left tracks.

 

The plan was simple; for the moment, I could be sequestered in Shamasun's home. We'd put the curse to good use by clearing things out and I'd be quarantined from the rest of the world.

 

Park Services had found the house – unsurprising, since the trail led directly to it. But just past the house, there was green. I realized then that they were right; the plants hadn't started to die right away. Not until I had stopped the rain.

 

There was a problem, though. The door was shut, and when we opened it, there was just a dilapidated building. Scheherazade whipped out her phone and called Shamasun the moment we arrived.

 

“Hey. We're there. Yeah.” She waved at the door. “You saw that? Well, I can't see you.”

 

She passed through the door, then back. “No luck. Sam, you try?” I did, remaining disappointingly stuck in the mortal realm. “Toss something through?” An object appeared in the doorway, sailing outward and landing at my feet.

 

Scheherazade swore. “Not your phone, you idiot!” She hesitated. “Oh. It's Hewn's phone. Good. We'll get it to him. Sorry. We've got a bunch of problems on this end and it looks like this isn't going to be the solution we wanted. Thanks for trying. We should go.”

 

She sighed as she hung up. “So much for that. Let me call Stian again.” She dialed as we began the run back to the car. Stian answered this time. It was a short conversation; Scheherazade explained it as we ran.

 

“He was going to ride a rainbow, but I forgot about the drought. So he's just going to take a plane instead. Handy things, those. He'll be here tonight and I'll let him use my hotel room; I'm not leaving you alone.”

 

“Who is Stian? I don't know the name.”

 

“An old friend from out of town. He's Aesir – part Aesir, at least. That's the part he tends to identify as. I'll let him explain.”

 

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Apollo was, in this continuity, the only official heir of Zeus.  Odin rose to power after the fall of Olympus, but was not related to Zeus in any significant manner.  I may amend the interlude at some point to indicate this clearly.

 

Fenrir is indeed remembered in mortal myths as being a wolf, as are his cousins Geri and Freki, who I had accidentally mixed up with Hugi and Munin, completely blowing that clue out of the water.  As far as why they would be, well...I could explain, or I could post the next chapter.

 

 

November 10th, Evening.  1703 words.

 

 

My apartment was barely big enough for three people to converse comfortably. Stian was one too many, before I even saw him; at Scheherazade's suggestion we met at a local chain restaurant instead, since it was across the street from her hotel room and one of us had had a big workout and could use the protein.

 

I was curious to see what Hewn would do. I'd gathered that he didn't usually eat because food was or might become scarce; since Scheherazade was buying, it was a chance to see him really cut loose.

 

He had a salad and half a slice of lasagna, packaging the other half up for later. I'd swear that I ate more than he did, but he relished each bite as if it were gourmet cuisine instead of a family restaurant. At my quizzical look, he shrugged.

 

“I'd feel guilty,” he said. “Not right for me to eat much when it's only for fun.”

 

Scheherazade was brooding over some chicken and pasta, then slumped a little. “There's some things I need to tell you, Sam. Things I would have preferred to wait to mention, but...nothing about your situation is usual. You realize that, right?”

 

I nodded and she continued.

 

“Stian can be trusted well enough. We consider him safe enough to let him live on the mortal realm and he's never caused trouble. But others...don't think yourself too safe. To most things out there, you're worth too much dead.”

 

I'd read enough comic books to understand that being a superhero had its risks. I nodded.

 

“It's worse than you think. One of the reasons the heroes organized the way we did was because of the dangers. They all hinge on one moment – the first creature you killed.”

 

I nodded again. “Shamasun told me that it'll come back for me in three hundred years to try to get its magic back.”

 

“He did? Did he tell you the rest?” At my helpless gesture, she continued. “Until that moment, when you prove that the power belongs to you and no other...it's up for grabs. Anything that manages to kill you, gets your power.”

 

“What? He didn't say anything about that!”

 

“There wasn't anything to be done about it, and he wanted you to have a few years' peace as a mortal first. Besides, if he told you how mortals can steal magic, it probably already occurred to you.”

 

“What did?” It sank in. “No...you mean anyone can kill me to become immortal?”

 

“Theoretically, any mortal can, yes. Before or after the proving. That's one of the reasons I was going to stick around until you could defend yourself.”

 

“But Stian. You don't think he'll make a try for it?”

 

“No, trust me on that. Even apart from his integrity, Stian already has more types of magic than he really wants.”

 

Stian arrived only a few minutes later. I saw him coming through the door. More accurately, I nearly jumped as I saw a flash of fur and teeth, but when I looked it was just a well-dressed blonde man. He looked like he was about my age, handsome, with bright green eyes. He was huge but not unwieldy, and he moved with a grace that declared ownership of everything in the area.

 

He also put up a hand to shield his eyes from me as he pulled up a chair. He nodded to Scheherazade and Hewn, hand still up, then offered his other hand to me. “You would be Lady Sam, I presume? Stian Fenrirsen, Thricenatured, at your service.” He lowered his hand but replaced it immediately. “I'm sorry, Lady. Your aura is particularly blinding in the Aesir spectrum of magic. It's like having a spotlight pointed right at me.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“No need to apologize, my lady; the fault is not yours. We can't control what we are, just what we do with it.” He grinned. “Besides, the flood of magic coming from you is kind of refreshing. I don't have to worry about running low.”

 

Scheherazade cut in. “Did you bring the staff and the stone?”

 

“Indeed I did, but I don't have glamour and they're not the kind of thing that one carries around in public. If you like, I'll settle up with the waiter and you could take the gear to the hotel room and start setting up. I'd like to get to know my newest protector.”

 

Hewn and Scheherazade nodded, and, on finishing their meals, collected Stian's car keys and moved on. Stian sat down across from me, still smiling warmly. When the waitress returned, he requested the wine list, made a selection in under ten seconds, and ordered a fish dinner. He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and grinned.

 

“I'm betting you have all kinds of questions, Lady. I promise you that I will answer them as honestly as possible.”

 

Hmm. “How old are you?” It was the first thing that sprang to mind, even if it was rather personal.

 

“Six hundred and forty-three,” he said. “To an Aesir that's the prime of life. To answer the next unspoken question – no, Aesir do not live forever. But humans who take Aesir magic do. Isn't that something?”

 

“Why is that?”

 

He shrugged. “Very, very few practitioners of magic have even heard of the Scientific Method. Magic doesn't always lend itself to study, either. Particularly not Aesir style magic.”

 

There was a moment's silence; he was apparently done with that line of conversation. Next question. “What's Asgard like?”

 

“I wish I knew,” he said. “You have, no doubt, heard of Ragnarok.”

 

“I'm...vaguely familiar with...” Ragnarok. The Aesir apocalypse, which had destroyed the world.

 

“With the version they tell here. Well, my family tells a different version, and if you'll listen, I'll tell you what really happened. Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince of Asgard. Odin's first-born; his name, which I'm absolutely sure you've heard, was Loki. Not some giant, not a monster, not a traitor, he did everything the realm required. And one of those things, eventually, was marriage – to a young Primal princess named Anga Voda. An unprecedented political marriage, it was the first time that nobility intermarried between realms.

 

“Nowadays, people are fond of the shape of the story that follows. Neither of them loved each other at the start, but both of them were willing to give it a try. Over time, they grew to understand each other. He didn't ask her to fetch his slippers. She stuck to the fresher meats. What had started as just politics grew to genuine affection, and before anyone knew it, they had a son – Fenrir. Suddenly, the Aesir line of succession included an heir that was half-primal. They started to call him the Wolf Prince. And yes, from his mother's side, he could assume that shape.”

 

The waitress brought his food, and he stopped while she was in range. When she stepped away, he winked at me, although he still didn't look directly at me for very long.

 

“Can't let mortals hear of this. Some secrets need to remain hidden.” I understood. If everyone knew that killing me would lead to immortality...most people would be fine, I thought, but there's always someone.

 

“So. Unknown to most, Odin's second son, whose name you also know thanks to all those silly movies, was jealous. He decided he would rather be a kinslayer than allow an animal a chance to sit the throne of Asgard. Ragnarok was Thor's doing; a civil war that ended the golden age of the Odinate throne and left all three – Odin, Thor and Loki – dead. Thor's son Modi rose to the throne and continued the hunt for the Wolf Prince.

 

“All kinds of hijinks ensued, I'm sure you can understand, but in the end, Fenrir found himself reduced to only a handful of loyalists against a world that wanted him dead. He gave up all plans for the throne and fled to the Wild, planning there to live the rest of his life in exile with his wife, Iona Swanmay.

 

“But Modi was not appeased. He sent assassins for a while. Eventually he stopped and instead began sending curses. Little things at the start, ramping up. Fenrir succumbed to them eventually, and Iona – my mother – took the only action that would preserve my life. She took me here.”

 

I blinked. “Here? Why here?”

 

“No magic. Curses with enough speed to make it through Jotunheim often disintegrate on reaching the mortal realm. The few that actually reach me are usually so weak that I can pick them apart and absorb them. They've actually kept me reasonably well supplied with raw magic, to the point that I don't have to worry too badly about shifting.”

 

“Shifting? What do you mean?”

 

He smiled again – it seemed to be his default expression. “I am part Aesir, but my grandmother and mother were both Primals. A wolf and a swan, respectively. You may need to understand, a primal is not a human that can turn into a beast, but the other way around; they were wolf and swan first, then learned the Way of Shapes.”

 

I got it. “Your natural shape isn't a human.”

 

“Or an Aesir.”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

He shrugged. “I wish I knew, but I'm not that curious. Wolves and swans are too different from each other. They didn't know at the time – Aesir crossbreeds were too rare – but I turned out to be a Chimeric. Most of my magic is tied up in maintaining my current form.  If I ever run out of magic entirely, I won't turn into a wolf or a swan. Nor will I remain...humanoid. Can't tell what will happen, but there is something I do know.” He swirled wine in his glass, then drained it. “I'll only shift shapes once.  And I'll never be human again.”

 

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November 11th, Morning.  808 words.

 

I think I'm getting used to writing this much.  It doesn't seem like such a big deal.  However, tomorrow's going to be difficult as I have a job interview in the morning, and may have to go in for a drug test to secure employment.  Could be up to four hours of my schedule, eaten - in addition to a full work shift.  Could be tough.

 

 

“You'd turn into some kind of swan-wolf hybrid,” I mused.

 

“Probably with human features as well,” he said. “And I wouldn't turn into it, remember. It's my true shape, underneath. I just haven't worn it, ever.”

 

I grinned. “Even so, I'm sure I could find some dark spot on the internet where someone's already illustrated it.”

 

“Oh, I know.” He chuckled at my sharp look. “The heroes have to spend time away from the mortal realm. I, on the other hand, am banished to it. I have to keep up to date with it if I'm going to pick the right stocks. And occasionally I look up relevant search terms, just in case someone is looking for me.”

 

“So you googled wolf / swan hybrid...”

 

“And then wished that I had not. But I think we've given the others enough time.”

 

“Oh. Should I go on ahead?”

 

He looked me in the eye – still squinting a little – and said, with surprising fierceness, “No. Definitely not. Until your aura's calmed down, you should probably never be alone at all. I don't think Scheherazade understands how far away I was before I saw you without really trying. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the older European dryads are waking up because your aura is starting to reach them.”

 

That said, he paid the bill, tipped the waitress and escorted me to the hotel room. Hewn and Scheherazade had been busy; they'd laid out a pattern of stones on the floor. Two green, one black, one grey and one that appeared to actually be a rainbow-colored rubber ball. As I watched, the stones (and ball) were moving in a slow orbit.

 

“Good,” Stian said, surveying the pattern. “My Lady Sam, Since you haven't seen this before, this is the shape of the multiverse.” He indicated each one in turn. “Faerie, Wild, Dis, Asgard, Pandemonium.”

 

I nodded, but noticed two names missing. “Where are the mortal realm and Jotunheim?”

 

“They're orbiting the mortal realm. That's where you stand, for this – but it's not going to be quite that simple. Your perceptions are going to change when you take your position. Don't be afraid; it's perfectly safe.”

 

“And Jotunheim?”

 

“You'll see it.”

 

I took a deep breath and shared a glance with Scheherazade. She smiled and waved me towards the pattern.

 

The stones wobbled at my approach. Dis quickened its pace and I could see that its orbit was erratic. Where the other worlds were traveling in circles (or perhaps ellipses), it wove between them, going between the center on one pass and wobbling out to the outer edge for the next world it overtook.

 

Nothing for it. I stepped into the center and found myself in darkness. In the distance, I could see Earth, soaring through a starless void.

 

But it wasn't Earth. There was a shine to it; some strange light that came from within that called to something deep inside me, half enticing and half warning. Beautiful and dangerous and familiar.

 

“Faerie...” It slipped out and I knew that it was true as the world slipped past me – and another Earth came into my field of view. This one had no traces of civilization to it, none of the roads or cities that are visible from space – but I felt something calling to me from there as well. I felt that if I looked carefully enough I could see a spiderweb tracery across the world's entire surface. If the previous world was Faerie, this one had to be the Wild.

 

I gasped as an orange spark shot between the new realm and Faerie, and for a moment the spark was taller than height gets, wider than the universe, a tunnel of infinite length. Then I saw shadows inside of it; gargantuan shadows, dwarfing the peoples of both realms. But they were echoes only, now. More sparks shot back and forth between the two worlds – then another shot from the Wild towards something behind me.

 

I turned and saw Asgard. Again, the basic impression was Earthlike, but this time I saw a physical difference. Olympus was unmistakeable; a mountain in the Mediterranean that reached high enough that its top might be outside of the atmosphere, though I had no idea if that was even possible. There were other strange landmasses as well, and I realized that they weren't all natural. Some were the remains of mega-constructions that were long since tumbled to the ground.

 

Stian. I felt his presence before I saw him. He looked like he was nearly the size of the moon, and floated in the void between the Wild and Asgard. Once again, he smiled at me.

 

“Enjoying the view?” he asked.

 

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You're braver than I am.  Some depths of the Internet aren't meant to be plumbed by anyone who isn't into that kind of stuff.  Also, I have thought it up; that means it's only a matter of time.

 

November 11th, evening.  1042 words.  18961 words total (again, not counting the prologue).  600 words ahead of schedule.

 

 

“It's...”

 

“Breathtaking. I know. And just so you know, we're still in the room with Hewn and Sherry. Did you see Pandemonium yet?”

 

I turned around, then had to shut my eyes for a moment. Pandemonium was like Earth if God had created lysergic acid on the first day. The multicolored surface of the planet crawled and flexed, as if it were – as one thing – alive. For all I knew, it was.

 

“Crazy,” I said.

 

“Crazy indeed,” he said. “But now you're taking the place of the mortal realm, and I am properly stretched between my points of origin, so we can begin.”

 

“I'm not really sure what we're doing here,” I said, blinking away spots of Pandemonium.

 

“We need to take a good look at you, without your aura. This is the easiest way to do it. Your aura is staying on the mortal plane, while this is...a projection of sorts. It's a form of scrying – looking at distant places – but the aura disassociation is a happy side effect. So feel free to look around while I work, but don't touch the spell framework. Feel free to look at it if you can find it, though.”

 

Framework, eh? I couldn't see it. I spun slowly, having a look at the worlds. Sparks flexed between them from time to time. I could see that the ones that hit Asgard frequently focused on the oversized ruins. More than that, though, some of the sparks headed towards me from time to time. I made the connection. “The sparks are Jotunheim, aren't they?”

 

“Yes. Poor, shattered Jotunheim. It only exists as bridges between places that it touched, now.”

 

I nodded. But one was still missing.

 

“Where's Dis?”

 

“You don't want to see Dis.” Stian's right eye was focused on me, oversized, as if through a magnifying glass the size of Illinois. “More than that, you probably can't see Dis. Not unless it's right on top of you. But if you must, it's currently passing between Faerie and Asgard on inward cycle – meaning it's coming closer to the mortal realm. While it's between any two specific realms, it's easier to slip from one to Dis to the other. If it's close to the mortal realm, even mortals can slip through. The cycle's erratic; some people learn to how to find it and check it from time to time, just in case.”

 

I looked towards where he'd indicated. Nothing – although I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach. Was that only because he'd told me that it was there? I kept looking.

 

There was one place that felt...worse. If I turned away, the unsettling feeling abated, but that one place felt persistently wrong. I pointed at it, trusting my instincts. “Is that it?”

 

Dis opened and looked back at me. A world like a gray, dead eyeball saw me.

 

And suddenly it was all gone and I was back in the hotel room. Stian stood before me, sweeping the rocks away with an intricately carved staff as my legs gave way beneath me. Scheherazade and Hewn were at full alert – but of course they didn't know what had just happened.

 

“I – I think Dis saw me.”

 

Stian shook his head. “I don't think so. It takes a lot more than that to actually rile Dis, but it doesn't like it when people poke at it. It just wanted to say hello.”

 

“Are you sure?” Either way, it was going to feature in my nightmares for a while.

 

“If there was a real danger, I'dve told you what to avoid before we actually started the scrying,” he said. “Even so, we're going to call it done for today.”

 

“What did you see?” Scheherazade asked him.

 

“Enough to say a few things. Lady Sam has definitely picked up an enchantment or two. Some of them look quite old.” He raised one hand, open-palmed. “I was able to save some fragments of one. Looks elven to me, but I think it's just a badge of rank. An identifying glamour rather than a disguising one.”

 

“So the elf had some status? That's weird,” Hewn said. “Journey-warriors are usually low caste, trying to find their big break.”

 

“Nonetheless,” Stian said. “There were a few that looked like elven court enchantments. Old fragments. But there is a whopper of a spell in there, too. It's intact, powerful, and probably active.”

 

“Would that be the curse?” I asked eagerly.

 

“Couldn't tell from that glimpse. Too much else – and it's the magic of Faerie, which I'm not quite as familiar with. I much prefer the Wild.”

 

“Is that the magic made up of strands? Looks like a web?”

 

“Yes – ” He broke off suddenly. “Did someone tell you that?”

 

I shook my head. “No, but I saw it on the Wild, and on the Asclepian earlier...” Everyone in the room was staring at me.

 

Stian broke the silence. “Lady Sam, would you be so kind as to examine these?” He offered me the rocks (and rubber ball) from the spell. “Can you tell me which of these has any magic in it?”

 

They looked entirely mundane, even out of the corner of my eyes. I passed my hands over them, but settled quickly on the grey stone. “This...I feel a little more...awake...when I touch this.”

 

Shocked silence. Stian turned to the others. “And you say she exhibits the strength of giants as well?”

 

Scheherazade nodded, a mixture of surprise and horror in her eyes. Even Hewn had his face buried in his hands.

 

“What's going on?” I demanded.

 

“Lady Sam...you have more magic than should be possible. I mean, I'm proof myself that it can be done, but we just proved that an elf of the Faerie Courts was the source of your magic. Your elven, giant, primal and Aesir magic. And if you got all of that from one elf...how did the elf get all of that magic? And how many others have the same?”

 

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November 12th, Evening.  As I expected, a light writing day due to job interview and fatigue.  This isn't quite all I managed today, but it's a good stopping point, as it serves as the remainder of the chapter above.  657 words posted.  I fell behind a little, losing my lead, but it was a busy day.

 

And no, I didn't get the job - turned out to not be a good fit.

 

 

“Are we sure it's not something more strange?” Hewn asked. “I mean, I fought that elf. It was a bit strong, but it didn't use any unexpected magic.”

 

There was a moment before everyone turned to me. “Did it do anything...strange?”

 

I started to laugh. Nobody joined in, which was too bad – I could have used a good laugh. “Strange?” I gasped. “Like jumping out of a coin or creating a forest grove?”

 

Stian nodded. “Point taken. I think you should tell us exactly how the fight went. Actually, tell me everything. Right now I know too little.”

 

I delivered the best recap I could, with Hewn filling in details from time to time. Stian frowned at the mention of the knife, but restrained himself until the end.

 

“So the knife – it was in your shadow at the time of the kill, and had linked your shadow with the elf's for a time?”

 

I nodded. “Could that have caused any of this?”

 

He threw his hands up in the air. “Hel if I know! I've been trying to study magic for the last half-millennium, but when something genuinely weird happens – like you and the elf having your souls linked by a magical knife, or the elf's soul being torn just before you take its power – nobody sees fit to mention things to me until after they've noticed weird things happening. I don't know of anyone else having had a knife through the shadow before becoming a Hero, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened. We're going to have to call that a long-shot 'maybe' and file it under potential but unlikely causes.”

 

“I find it more unlikely that an elf, having extra powers, wouldn't use them,” Hewn said. “Also, you said it had traces of elven court magic,” Hewn said. “There's no way Au Brenn would allow a mixed breed elf at court.”

 

“Oh my,” Stian said drily. “What a surprise. But from what I hear, you're right. The obvious answer's clear, though.”

 

“Changelings,” Scheherazade said. “We all know about them – well, most of us do. Sam, do you know the term?”

 

“Mortals, stolen by elves as infants.”

 

“Or just stolen in general,” she clarified. “The elves have always implied that they valued them as slaves, but if they used them as warriors – or executioners – then this was always a possibility. It's one of the reasons the heroes don't usually talk about the mechanics of our powers with outsiders. If the elves figured things out...” She shrugged. “We don't know how much they know.”

 

“So what do we do?” I asked.

 

“Well, right now I can't do a lot more,” Stian said. “Come back tomorrow and we'll see about inspecting the enchantments on you in further detail. With any luck, I'll be able to break it by the end of the week. Until then, stay in town to try to minimize the spread of that blight, keep your head down, and try not to attract any more attention to town.”

 

I nodded, but a question was nagging at me. “What if the elves did this deliberately, but...didn't know what they were doing? What if I have the power of Dis too – and it really is me doing this?”

 

Stian's eyes widened slightly – he hid it well, but I don't think the possibility had occurred to him. “I don't know,” he said. “But if it comes to that we'll deal with it as it comes. If you need to control the power of monsters, then we'll figure it out when we get there. Until we know that, don't panic and stay inconspicuous.”

 

Inconspicuous. I could do that. People had barely noticed me for most of my life. I just had to act normally.

 

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I actually had a few hours of some despair yesterday.  I know that NaNoWriMo isn't about editing, but if I get a chapter entirely wrong I have to rework it on the spot before I can proceed.

 

Also, I now have a Tablo account.  The book can be read here in a more traditional layout.

 

November 13th, Morning.  813 words.

 

Morning didn't just creep up on me. It ambushed me in a dark alley and took my wallet. It certainly did me no favors after a night punctuated by the eye of Dis haunting my dreams.

 

As it was, I woke up a short time before my alarm to find that it was already light out; there was no point to trying to sleep more, so I rose. Hewn was stirring a pot on the stove as I walked in; the smell of coffee was strong in the air.

 

“Morning,” I grumbled, before pausing. How tired did I really feel? I definitely wanted to crawl back into bed, but I think that was just a reasonable psychological response to the situation. Physically, I wasn't really groggy and I had a decent amount of energy. For all that I hadn't slept well, I'd gotten more rest than I'd thought.

 

“Good morning,” Hewn replied, pouring the frothy coffee into my largest mug, which I still wasn't used to having clean every morning. He didn't spill a drop.

 

I managed to say, “Thanks.”

 

He hunkered down next to the table, still standing but doing a pretty job of dropping himself down to eye level. “Something got you down?”

 

I nodded. As much as the caffeine appealed to me, I didn't really feel hungry or thirsty.

 

“You can tell me, you know.”

 

I leaned forward with a groan, crossed my arms on the table and buried my face in them. Something was nagging at me, something more than the possibility of being cursed, but it was hard to put it to words. I flinched at the contact of something cold, then relaxed as I realized that Hewn had put a hand on my shoulder. It was a nice gesture, but it didn't help much.

 

What was it that was the problem? I thought I knew, but I needed to try something.

 

I pushed myself upright, displacing Hewn's hand. In his housework fit, he'd actually cleared enough of a space that I could try right here, right now. I wordlessly pushed him out of the way, took up a stable stance, and tried a cartwheel.

 

It was one of the simplest acrobatic tricks that Sherry and I had performed in the park. I remembered doing them when I was just a little girl. This time, though, everything went wrong. My hands didn't line up right and I wound up simply flinging myself to the ground.

 

I swore a bit, but I wasn't hurt. Not even bruised. No, what stung was the confirmation.

 

I dragged myself back into my chair, my mood darkening further. Hewn raised an eyebrow at me in prompt, but said nothing.

 

I drained the coffee, grounds and all, in one pull, then set the mug down a little harder than intended.

 

Deep breath. Try to let it out. “I feel useless,” I said. “Like I'm just a liability.”

 

He drew himself up. “You could be the most powerful Heroine in ages,” he said.

 

“I've heard that kind of 'you're special' talk all my life. But here I am, right here, right now. I've got two special things that I can do; one of them is imitate people who are way more awesome than I am. When I do that, I can pull off things that I can't really do because I'm not nearly that good. The other could be awesome, but...” I considered the mug in my hand, then squeezed it. It crumbled in my grip, powdered in under a second. “But I could really hurt someone with it, without meaning to. If I mess up, that could be someone's arm. Or head. Or I could wreck their house or car. Any of that happens and I'm not able to make it better.”

 

I met his gaze. “So it's not your fault, but that's what's wrong with me. Telling me I'm special and could be something great won't help. I'm not sure there's anything you can do to help.”

 

He shook his head. “I don't know either. But if you need me, I will be there.”

 

“Thank you. That does mean a lot.” I sighed, then tried to change the topic. “I have to get to work in a bit, and Stian said I shouldn't be alone. Do we have a plan for that?” I bit my tongue lightly. I'd forgotten about Roger. Hopefully he was better – and I hadn't caused his illness.

 

“Sherry's on that,” he said. “Said she used her spark on your boss and wants to see how it turned out.”

 

I returned my arms to the table and my head to my arms.

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“If she inspired my boss to do the right thing, my job probably doesn't exist anymore.”

 

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Glad you still enjoy it.  :D

 

November 13th Evening, 966 words.  1700-some today.  Time to head to bed.

 

I entered work with considerable trepidation. Scheherazade had promised me that she was going to stay within a moment's reach if needed. Carol's car had been parked outside, so I knew she was already there, but my stomach knotted when I saw she was wearing her full suit. She preferred business casual, but this time she was as formal as I'd ever seen her.

 

She grinned as I entered and greeted me with a warm “Hi! We're going to have a meeting as soon as everyone's here.”

 

She didn't seem like she was going to lay everyone off.

 

Roger was already at his desk. He smiled and waved, then winced.

 

“You okay, Roj?”

 

“I was fine,” he said. “Felt better almost as soon as I was home. But it just came back.”

 

Oh, crap. “Do you need to go home?”

 

He waved me off. “It's not as bad as before.” And yet, he winced when he made eye contact with me. I could see his pupils contract.

 

I suddenly thought I knew what was going on with him. I had a desperate need to speak to Stian about it, but the others had arrived; it was time for the meeting.

 

Carol's office doubled as the conference room. She had a round table in there, but had completely defeated the purpose of it by using her own desk as a pulpit, forcing everyone else to occupy the half of the table that let them face towards her. Until today – this time, she sat with everyone else.

 

“Yesterday,” she said, “I went to our investors. I told them exactly how well we've been doing this year. Specifically, I explained to them the complete failure of our business model and the futility of my plans for Infinidapt.”

 

I felt sick.

 

“I told them exactly what was wrong here – that I had led us in the wrong direction for the last year. I also told them what was right; we have a good team with strong skills. We just don't have all of the right skills. So I received a commitment from our investors of up to seventeen million dollars –”

 

I nearly choked to death on a sip of water.

 

“– in order to add staff that will allow us all to focus on our real competencies.”

 

Cal spoke first; I was certainly too stunned to do so. “What kind of staff are we bringing on?” he asked, apparently not comprehending the absurd scale of our new budget.

 

“That's what this meeting is about; we're reinventing Infinidapt – which will need a new name, as it no longer reflects our strategy. But the name isn't really important right now. We're here to talk game design.”

 

An hour and a half later, I felt like the world had gone mad. Carol was like an entirely different person. No – she wasn't really. She was like the same person but much, much smarter. She still didn't have a whole lot of creativity, but she organized like nothing I've ever seen before. Distractions lasted only long enough to keep us relaxed before they were mercilessly cut down and we were brought back on track. Seventeen million dollars? Insane! We would hire more programmers for certain. This company was being given the chance of a lifetime, and after a year of utter failure? The genius she'd shown in management had to have been nothing compared to her ability to pitch what still amounted to an empty idea to a room full of potential investors. Once again I wondered whether or not she was related to said investors, but either way, I knew of nobody local who would casually throw around that much money.

 

Artists. Musicians. They would be in the pipeline when we needed them. All of us (except Carol) had dabbled in modding and level design, and we knew each other well enough to work together, but we needed to settle on a coherent theme.

 

For that, I thought I knew exactly what we needed. As I dialed, I knew I'd been infected by the magic in Carol's brain, but I didn't care – for the first time that week, I felt really good about the future.

 

Scheherazade picked up immediately. “What's wrong?”

 

“Sherry. I've heard you're good at stories, right?” I was a little giddy, and my voice was a bit singsong in spite of myself.

 

“I have a bit of reputation thereabouts, sure,” she said, reservedly. “What do you need?”

 

“Have you enjooooooyed those video games you played at my place?”

 

“Well enough. Why?”

 

“Because I'm dying to see what this crew can pull off if you're willing to use your spark from time to time, and we're looking for a Creative Director.”

 

“I – well, it would be a good way to keep near you,” she said, doubtfully. “But I'm really unfamiliar with the technology.”

 

“You can learn. And the job that you'd be called on to do wouldn't require to use the tools that much. You'd be in charge of making the story that we'd tell through the game.”

 

“I'll try to come up with something. Anything else?”

 

I thought for a moment, my mind still alive with the possibilities we'd discussed. “Oh. Yeah. I think my officemate is actually an Aesir. Or something else sensitive to magic. That's why he got sick.”

 

She sighed. “All right. All right! I'll apply for the job, and we'll see if he's something dangerous. Could be he doesn't even know.”

 

“See you soon!” I sang it, although not well, then flung myself into the job with an enthusiasm I probably hadn't felt since kindergarden.

 

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I actually had a few hours of some despair yesterday.  I know that NaNoWriMo isn't about editing, but if I get a chapter entirely wrong I have to rework it on the spot before I can proceed.

 

I know how that goes. I can't do the whole write and revise process. It has to be as close to perfect as I can get it on the first pass, or else I can't move on. That's the single biggest crimp in my ability to write right now.

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Writer's block is a painful thing, isn't it?

 

 

November 14th, morning.  525 words.

 

By the end of the day, we had sketched out the outline of a game so grand that we couldn't possibly make it – even with seventeen million dollars. That, Carol said, was fine.

 

“The point is to shift our priorities towards action. We've got a month to put together a design document and present it; at that point we get to determine how much of the budget we'll accept.” The fire in her eyes flared. “I intend for us to wring every last bit of worth out of that budget. So try to design something that'll cost fifteen million to make, with two million left for marketing.”

 

I was a little wobbly as I left work. Scheherazade was leaning against my car, watching me with a bemused smile as she opened the passenger door for me.

 

“Impressed, are we?”

 

I allowed my silly grin to speak for itself.

 

“I don't know game design,” she said. “In fact, the only thing I know about it at this point is that it's too complicated for me to jump into and do a good job at. Spark or no spark.”

 

I couldn't be disappointed right then – I don't think I was physically capable. “You'd have time to learn. And you'd be less of a game designer and more of a guide for the designers. Helping them keep synchronized, pruning bad ideas, nurturing good ones. Keeping us all on the same page.”

 

“I still don't think so – ”

 

“How long has it been since you made some art?” I asked. She stopped, suddenly quiet. “There's a thousand and one stories that say they're from you, but they're all old. And none of them is your story.”

 

“You don't want to make...my story.” Scheherazade hesitated. “Do you?”

 

“No. I haven't suggested this to anyone yet, but we could tell the story of the heroes in broad strokes. Fictionalize it. Pick a story that's not based on someone real and craft them as a member of the Heroes of the Ancient Ways. Leave some things out, put others in. Craft an adventure throughout ancient myth.”

 

“Hasn't that been done before?”

 

“I'm pretty sure the Simpsons did it,” I quipped. “But everything's been done before. You above all people should know that. Put our original spin on it, make it our own, and we can do something incredible.

 

“And it'd be a chance for you to tell tales that the mortal realm hasn't heard before,” I said, remembering Shamasun's statue gallery. “I'm sure you've met people who've been forgotten by history. People you think deserve to be remembered. Well, this is a chance to bring some of them out of the shadows. And more than that – we're reaching an age when secrets are going to be impossible to keep anymore. News spreads too quickly. Cameras are everywhere. If you release a game about it now, it may be a lot easier to come out to the world later.”

 

That got her thinking. She was quiet for the rest of the drive.

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I actually had a few hours of some despair yesterday.  I know that NaNoWriMo isn't about editing, but if I get a chapter entirely wrong I have to rework it on the spot before I can proceed.

I know the feeling, too. This year I've managed to restrain myself to either colour the text blue and make a remark about what to change, or use the strike feature in Word that still counts the words. But it's different if you share the story, of course. I write out of order and could only share snips and bits anyway.

 

You got a great story there and it's amazingly clean and well flowing for a first draft. Keep going. :)

 

(Mine are messier, meandering, and in need of cutting crap in the revision. :P )

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Writer's block is a painful thing, isn't it?

 

Yes it is. A thousand times yes.

 

It happens on my fiction projects, it happens on my essays for school, it happens on my lab reports for my physics classes...

 

I'm not sure if there's anything else to say, honestly.

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Special My-Hands-Hurt edition!

 

 

November 15th, morning.  Well, afternoon at this point.  1598 words.  23604 overall.  We're at the halfway point for time, and I just fell behind by about a day's progress - partly because I switched gears halfway through this chapter, as I was unsure of what I wanted to do.  Darn that writer's block.  It's my day off, and I may get another update out later.

 

 

Scheherazade accompanied me into the hotel lobby. The sign outside had declared the location sold out; I didn't doubt it, as there was a constant bustle of excited people through the halls. I only wondered about it for a moment before remembering that my problems – while secret – weren't even slightly private. Dickensville had become a nexus of the weird, and if we couldn't bring things in line, it was only going to get worse.

 

Stian was waiting in the hotel room. The rocks were orbiting again, but he didn't rush me.

 

“Now, I'd like to take another look at that spell, but while I do, I thought up something to keep you busy – something other than looking for Dis. To that end, here's a list of landmarks and sights to see, as well as the worlds on which you can find them. Sometimes they won't be on the surface of the planet in question.”

 

“Do you mean in orbit?”

 

“Not precisely. I'm sure you can figure it out given time, though.”

 

I skimmed the list. Dragons were listed as rare natives of the Wild, as were sphinxes and griffins; Unicorns, on the other hand, apparently lived everywhere. There was a parade of something called yokai happening on Pandemonium and a number of locations, which he had helpfully underlined to denote them as places rather than creatures I hadn't heard about. “Shambhala? Iram of the Pillars? I don't know where these places are.”

 

“Several of those are ruins. I recommend that you just go sightseeing. Use the list as a general guideline of what to expect rather than a list of things you have to find. The scrying spell is smart – because I'm also part of this spell, you'll get pulled towards your target so long as one of us knows where the target is.”

 

I nodded, still going over the list as I stepped into the circle and reentered the void. Faerie had a disturbing variety of creatures that were traditionally considered evil. I took a few deep breaths as the void rose around me and Asgard sprang into view.

 

“So – does Modi rule Asgard now?”

 

“He rules the Aesir Empire,” Stian said. “Which rules areas approximately analogous to Europe and a number of colonies spread throughout the Americas of Asgard.”

 

“But not the whole world?”

 

“No more than America rules the realm of mortals.”

 

“But why do we call the entire world Asgard if the Aesir don't rule? And are they still Aesir elsewhere?”

 

“It's just politics,” he said. “Politics and the currently-dominant language. Before Odin's time, Olympus was ascendant. At the time, Olympian was the most commonly used word, and Olympus was often used to mean the entire realm as well. When Odin rose to power, he called the world Asgard instead – sort of trying to lay claim to it by giving it a name that implied that he already ruled it.”

 

“That's kind of silly.”

 

“Politics in brief,” he said. “But I take it you'd rather talk than go sightseeing? I can talk while I work, if you like.”

 

I turned towards him, still in his spot between Asgard and the Wild. I wondered if I could see his aura stretching between the two, then remembered that auras didn't show up in scry.

 

“I guess,” I said. Part of the energy of the day had worn away, and I was getting tired.

 

“All right. I can teach you some magic – theory at least. I don't have as much practical experience with most of it, but I've been studying it for centuries.”

 

“That'd be great. I still don't know half of what I need to.”

 

“All right,” he said. “The operation of magic relies on two things, primarily. They are perception and reality. It's possible to use magic to make a magic circle, for example, that will keep out monsters. It can be done with Aesir or Primal magic for sure, but then you have this circle that monsters can't pass through while people are watching. If nobody's looking – and even the monster doesn't know about the circle – it's possible for creatures to pass through without realizing the enchantment was even there. Better to conjure a wall; a wall can be seen and touched, asserting its own reality through the perceptions of others.”

 

I mulled it over. “Does that mean that someone trying a heist on a target would have an advantage against the magic defenses if they didn't find out where the defensive spells were?”

 

He nodded. “But only if they also didn't notice markers that indicate where the spells are. Gives a whole new meaning to idiot-proofing, doesn't it?”

 

“Huh.”

 

“And that's all magic, mind you. You told me you saw how the elf's silver armor was actually made of leaves, right? That was a form of glamour – he convinced a stick that it was a sword, told leaves that it they were part of a suit of armor. But they had to be freshly picked; Faerie magic can't transform things that aren't alive.”

 

“Even though they can transform those things into things that aren't alive?”

 

“Oh no, they're alive all right. They were plucked leaves, but they'd remain alive until the magic ran out. But you noticed how they dried up the moment it did, right? They aged based on how long they were transformed.”

 

I bit my lip, thinking. “How does giant magic depend on perception? I can see how it changes reality...”

 

“What would happen if I threw a hundred pound weight at you?”

 

I shrugged. “I'd catch it?”

 

“And what if a hundred pound weight fell on your head and you didn't see it coming?”

 

“I would have assumed that it would just bounce off...”

 

“Nope. You're only stronger when you're doing things. If you're not aware of a need for strength, your magic won't kick in.”

 

That was...troubling. I was more vulnerable than I'd thought. But he continued.

 

“That's one of the ways perception shapes your magic. But reality does it too – take a guess at this one. What would handcuffs need to be made of in order to hold you?”

 

How would I possibly know the answer to that? “Is that some kind of trick question?”

 

“Yes.” He smiled, but didn't go on.

 

So. It probably didn't have anything to do with material strength, but a property of magic. Somehow. I hazarded a guess. “Iron?”

 

“For elves, sure. Actually, we'll talk about that next. For giant magic, the only thing that can restrain you – is you. Traditionally you'd have to be tied up with some of your own hair for it to work. Any other chains, regardless of quantity or material, you can rip straight through; it's considered a magical law that giant strength cannot be restrained. Prisons don't work either; you could punch your way out of a mountain if there were no other way out. But only if there were no other way out. So long as tearing your way through the walls is the only answer, you can do it. That's why a labyrinth is traditional; it provides a theoretical means of escape, so the giant's strength doesn't allow him to break out through force. As long as the walls were actually able to stop his regular level of strength, of course.”

 

“Nifty,” I said. Knowing the limits of my strength was never a bad thing. “How's the spell reading going?”

 

“Well enough. I've got most of the fragments cleared out. There's just this one big spell in here.”

 

I slapped myself in the face. “Ow!”

 

“What?” he asked, his expression distant.

 

“I just hit myself!”

 

“As much as I approve of experimentation, it's a good thing you can't use your giant strength for self-harm,” he said. “If you hit yourself, you're aware of both the struck point and the striking, so it all evens out.”

 

My right foot stomped on my left, then kicked myself in the shin. “Stian!”

 

“Hmm?” He focused on me.

 

“I didn't mean to hit myself! What's going on?”

 

“Oh. Oh dear. I know what's causing it; let me take an impression and then we're done for the day.”

 

I focused on holding still. A few seconds later, the void receded and I was back in the hotel room. Scheherazade was looking up from where she'd sprawled on one of the beds with a notebook and pen; Stian was folding up something phantasmal, which he then tucked into a padded silver case.

 

“It looks like the enchantment on you is booby-trapped,” he said. “It causes you to try to hurt yourself if someone pokes at it.”

 

“You poked at it?” Scheherazade said, sounding scandalized.

 

“I was probing it for weaknesses, trying to figure out what it was. I'd say I succeeded somewhat; we now know that it's a compulsion.”

 

“That's great,” Scheherazade said. “Can you remove it?”

 

Stian went quiet and his eyes unfocused. “Hmm. I need to know more about what it is. We know that it has safeguards against removal, but we don't know anything else about it yet. I need to keep studying the impression and maybe take another look tomorrow. But right now – no. Not yet.”

 

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November 15th, evening: 837 words.

 

Stian accompanied us to dinner. He also kept the conversation light for most of the night; we stuck to discussion of the mortal realm.

 

He and I were compiling two lists of movies – one for Scheherazade and one for Hewn – when he suddenly held up a hand in a 'stop' gesture and assumed a look of intense concentration.

 

“Sherry. Cloak us,” he whispered.

 

She nodded in acquiescence and he stood up, beckoning us to follow. It was surreal; we weren't invisible, I knew, but nobody seemed to care about our presence as we headed to one particular table.

 

“Remember, that bit was from the films,” a stocky man was saying. “The films were admitted as a hoax. We don't have any actual reports of injuries from the Beast.”

 

“It's described as anything from a werewolf to a wolf crossed with a bear. You think a creature like that is going to be friendly?” his companion asked. Both of them were wearing camo. “At best, it'll be a wild animal. Not a monster, but still something to approach with caution.”

 

Stian made eye contact with Scheherazade and nodded. The two men glazed over a little and Stian slipped into the empty seat with them.

 

“What beast?” he asked.

 

“The Beast of Bray Road,” the larger man said. “Sightings since the 1930s. Picked up a bit in the 90's, died down since. Ranges all over southern Wisconsin. Sometimes comes this far north but usually stays further south. There's been a few sightings in the last couple days. Once in Racine County, another by Milwaukee.” He wobbled, as if about to fall asleep.

 

Stian nodded. “Is there anything you can tell me about it?”

 

“Not much. Everyone says it's big. Likes to come near humans. Runs at 'em. Never hurt anyone that I know of.”

 

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen.” He nodded at Scheherazade again and we headed back to our table, leaving the hunters momentarily confused before they resumed their conversation.

 

“So, Sam. If something were coming up here from the southern side of the state, I take it that it would pass through those two places on the way here?”

 

I nodded, my pulse pounding. Was this going to be my first monster?

 

“Sounds like your standard werewolf tale,” Scheherazade said. “I wonder how long it's been stuck here?”

 

“Don't know. If it's been getting flashes of magic from time to time, but there's no route into Jotunheim in order to escape – and, big surprise, it's not willing to exit into Dis – it could have been around for centuries. Poor thing.”

 

Not exactly what I'd expected, but Stian saw my puzzled look.

 

“I suspect that what we have here is a lost Primal who's been stranded in the mortal realm. It's not a monster; it's one of my countrymen in need of help. Possibly.”

 

“I see. I think.” Things started to fall into place. “Let me see if I get it. It's a wolf in the Wild, but it takes the shape of a human.”

 

“Because hands,” Stian said.

 

“Yes. Because hands. So it somehow gets to the mortal realm – here – and it runs out of magic. So it turns back into a wolf and can't change back.”

 

“It could if it had the magic,” Stian clarified. “Only chimerics can't change again.”

 

“I get that. But how come it's been around for ninety years?”

 

“If I were the Beast, I would try to use whatever spark of magic I could find to jump back into the Wild – after all, if I make it there, the ambient magic is going to recharge me, give me human form again. But if it's trying the wrong kind of travel magic, it doesn't manage to leave the mortal realm; instead, it winds up stranded halfway between the worlds – well, far less than halfway, or it would wind up falling into the Wild, but I'm getting off topic there – until another spark of magic comes near it. The spark is enough to attract its landing point, still stuck in the mortal realm. It tries to investigate the spark, which is probably why it checks out the humans. So far, every spark it's found has been used up mostly by its landing, and it winds up repeating the cycle...”

 

“But I have a magic aura that'd feature in Guinness if they had a category for it,” I concluded.

 

He turned to Scheherazade. “I just outlined the likely scenario. For that, we should put up some wards to get its attention, guide it to a safe place. But...”

 

She nodded. “It's also possible that something else is going on. Night-creature of Dis, for example. Or it might have started as a Primal, but spent too much time in the Outside Between.”

 

“One way or another, we'll be ready for it,” Stian said.

 

 

The Beast is a real legend local to my area (and the area of the story), but it's not really that popular. I only found out about it myself yesterday, but realized it worked perfectly with what I wanted to do.

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November 16th, morning - technically.  It snowed here, and I a sudden "Oh crud!" moment when I realized that I had to scrape my car before work.  The result was that although I wrote this morning, I didn't have a chance to post anything until after work.

 

1016 words, and there should be another post later.

 

I rode with Scheherazade to grab some supplies. To my disappointment, they were mundane; tiki torches but no oil, a pack of box cutters, a paintbrush and paint, tape, a ream of paper, and a tent. Not a single item that I'dve thought of as occult.

 

“Magic is only obscure here,” Scheherazade explained. “Any other realm, if you buy something without an enchantment, people will assume that it's because you wanted to spell it yourself. Or because you have a specialist in mind and wanted a custom job.”

 

“Hey, Wizard-for-hire – can you make me a magic sword?”

 

She shrugged. “More or less. There's a brisk trade in magic items. But at the end of the day, most enchantments are for everyday objects.”

 

We loaded the car, but something that had been nagging me about magic and perceptions rose to the surface.

 

“Sherry.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

I gave her a grin. “If an animated tree falls in the forest and nobody's there to hear it, was it ever really moving?”

 

She sighed. “Heard it before.” But she quirked a smile back.

 

At the hotel room, Scheherazade and Stian set to work immediately. Scheherazade painted a series of sigils on one of the sheets of paper, then instructed me to start making copies as accurately as I could. Each paper was allowed to dry, then passed on to Stian.

 

Scheherazade also used the box cutters to carve patterns into the torches. It was intricate work – too fine for me to copy accurately. None of this was really meeting with my expectation of working magic. In fact, it was a little tedious.

 

“I kind of expected a bit more...” I groped for a way to express my disappointment.

 

“Whizz-bang-poof?” Scheherazade suggested.

 

“Yeah. Something like that.”

 

“Usually it only goes bang if something went really wrong,” Stian said. “Or if you made it to go bang. Clouds of funny-colored smoke usually indicate that you messed up something as well. And fell, powerful creatures arriving to observe and participate in the spell is one of the clearest indicators that you've screwed things up beyond all recognition.”

 

“Not to say it can't be dramatic,” Scheherazade said. “I've dragonforged weapons and armor. It's quite the sight.”

 

“And,” Stian said, leaning in on one of the papers, “This is a very low impact enchantment. Just enough to get the attention of someone who's looking for it, give them some directions.” He spread his fingers across the page with a distant look on his face, then performed some intricate motions.

 

“What are we actually doing?” I asked.

 

Stian jumped a little, looking guilty. “I forgot that you don't actually know this stuff already. It's pretty basic. Come over here.”

 

I cleaned the paintbrush and set it down on its case, then joined him. “Half of the writing that you're doing is actually just writing – Wild Script. They assure the beast that we're friends, watching out for it. The papers will be distributed around the area that the beast is coming from. They have three enchantments; one pushes them slightly outside of the mortal realm so they can't be seen by people without magic – but will be extra-visible to anyone with magic – and the second contains an indication towards the next sheet in line. The third is just a retrieval charm that will let me do cleanup easily; no sense in leaving these around to raise more questions.”

 

“I'm working on wards,” Scheherazade said. “When the poles are ready, we'll set them up around the tent, providing a safe haven inside. The wards will keep mortals – human or animal – from noticing it unless they stumble inside; there's also a few charms to make that a bit less likely.”

 

“We'll want to leave food and water in the tent, too,” Stian said. “Can't be packaged, though; the beast won't have hands.”

 

“And no, nobody's going to be waiting at the tent. In case the beast isn't as friendly as we think,” Scheherazade said.

 

“Now that you know what I'm doing, want to see how it's done?” Stian asked.

 

I nodded, and watched as Stian made a pulling motion with his fingers. “Primal magic is done by drawing power from ambient magic,” he said. A phantom strand appeared in his grasp; he touched one end of it to one of the glyphs I'd painted and loosened his grip, allowing it to flow into the symbols. “Once you have the strand, you use symbols to channel it to the task you're trying to accomplish. Your painting made this part much easier,” he said. “Having the symbol there allows me to perceive it as if it were already enchanted – reducing the effort on my part.” He took on a speculative tone. “Actually, while you won't be able to grasp the web directly, you should be able to guide a strand in if I conjure it for you. Want to try?”

 

Was he insane? It would be my first spell; of course I was up for it! “Sure!”

 

Stian called a new strand and held it steady. I reached in carefully and hooked a finger around it. I could feel the strand, but not with my skin; it was somehow deeper than that, like I could feel the magic with my bones. Now that I was holding it, I could see that one end wavered near my fingers, but the other trailed off into nothingness, but stayed tight, as if it were being held taut by something far away.

 

“Good, good. Now guide it to the symbol and I'll shape it.”

 

I moved it slowly, as if I were carrying an overfull mug of coffee, until the end I could manipulate reached the symbol.

 

The effect was dramatic, as the entire stack of completed papers shot away from me before detonating in a series of sharp cracks, leaving behind a thick purple smoke.

 

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Glad to hear it.  I was hoping to hit the comedic notes there.

 

November 16th, evening.  1025 words.  26487 overall; only a little under 200 words behind quota overall.  Day off tomorrow.

 

 

 

It wouldn't have been so bad if the room's smoke alarm hadn't gone off. At least the place didn't have sprinklers. As it was, Scheherazade's glamour quickly convinced the bystanders that we'd made a mistake microwaving popcorn. Once she finished shooing off the hotel staff and we aired out the room, we assessed our losses.

 

We were out all our progress on the enchanted papers, and Stian was fit to be tied – not over the lost spellwork, but over what had just occurred.

 

“How did that even happen?” he grumbled. “That wasn't incompetence or inexperience, that was flat-out sabotage – and not by you, Sam. In fact – ” He flung himself into wordless study for a while, pulling out the silver case and unfolding the spell impression. He treated it as if it were some kind of sculpture made of levitating silly putty; it could be stretched and molded, but it wouldn't keep a shape and it looked like it was tattered at the edges before he was done.

 

He finally rolled it up and stuffed it back in the case. “Didn't see it before, but I'm sure of it now. Sam, you have Wild magic, but this spell – part of it compels you not to use it and sabotages any spell you touch. And I'd bet a million bucks that it does the same to your Aesir magic as well.”

 

“But why? Who did this?”

 

“That's the question, isn't it? I have no idea.” He stopped for a few moments, murmuring to himself, then spoke again. “No, no, I have some idea. Whoever did this is either a genius or incredibly powerful. It's also faerie magic, and I'm completely certain now that this is not something you walked into at random; this was an enchantment on the elf that transferred to you, and I think it was made to do so. This was done by a high-ranking member of the Faerie Courts – possibly as a way of sabotaging the elf you killed, but with intent to limit your power as well.”

 

I frowned. “So is it the cause of this drought and the rest of the stuff?” I tried not to think about the sick cats.

 

“I – hmm. I think it still could be. If it's not just locking your Aesir magic but twisting it...it could be. I'd think I would detect that, though. I would...” He trailed off again, looking thoughtful.

 

“Yo! Stian!” Scheherazade snapped her fingers. “You would what?”

 

“Oh, I think we might be able to test for that by setting up some more wards.”

 

“Which means we need to get back to work,” she said.

 

About two hours later, we finished, and they dropped me off at my apartment. After all, they couldn't have me out placing the signs; I'd kill all the plants, raising more panic. I hoped that things would calm down, that the dead area wasn't spreading.

 

“Hi Sam,” Hewn said. He was surfing the internet. Although, perhaps 'bending it to his will' was more accurate; with his reading rate, pages rarely finished loading before he was jetting off to the next one. It was one part fascinating and the other part a sobering reminder that behind his amiable exterior lurked something that was profoundly inhuman. I'd seen that interior – and could only conclude that he'd deliberately made who he was as a response to what he was.

 

“Hey,” I said as I stretched out on the couch. Once again I wasn't physically tired; in fact I was a little overstimulated. No way I could sleep just yet.

 

“How'd it go?” he asked, turning away from the computer.

 

“Work went great. But I can't use my magic,” I said, mentally recounting the events of the day. “The spell in me is blocking it. And we found out about a local werewolf that we're trying to rescue.” Was there anything else? Something nagged at me. “Stian taught me a lot, but I think we forgot something. Oh – it was the importance of iron.”

 

“Iron, hmm?” he asked as I sat up. “Iron's good against elves. Several creatures from Faerie. Is that what you meant?”

 

“I think so, but he said it was more than that. Talked about how I could only be tied up with my own hair.”

 

He nodded. “I think he was going to teach you about weaknesses in general. Elves are vulnerable to iron. Giants can't be beaten in contests of strength but they can be tricked – and while they don't know what's going on, their strength often doesn't come into play. Plenty of undead can't bear the touch of silver, or displays of faith. Things like that.”

 

“Sounds like it, I think.”

 

“The important thing to know is that vulnerabilities tend to be less of a weak point and more the one point that isn't strong.”

 

I rolled that one through my brain a few times before it made any sense. “So it's not that an elf is going to be hurt worse by some iron, but that anything that's not iron won't really bother it?”

 

“Going a little too far in both directions. You told us you spit blood in the elf's eyes – that'd be like getting some strong soap in there. Would burn nastily. But on the other hand, if you took a bronze knife and chopped the elf to pieces, but failed to decapitate it or take out the heart, it would eventually pull itself together. Sometimes really quickly, if it's really powerful. But if it's taken even a small injury from an iron blade, even if the other injuries come from something else, it'd have a lot harder time recovering.”

 

“Huh.” I figured I should hedge my bets, just in case. “And are Primals weak to silver? Like in the werewolf legends?”

 

“Nah. Primals are just folks. They die like anything else – except me, of course.”

 

I nodded, my curiosity appeased.  

 

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November 17th morning / afternoon: 956 words.  Yes, my day off, but soooo tired.

 

 

In the morning, Scheherazade handed me a notebook at breakfast.

 

“What's this?” I glanced inside briefly as Hewn laid out fresh bread, fruit and coffee – poured into my formerly-second-largest mug. I was getting used to his pampering, although he seemed to think very little of it; it was simply what he did.

 

“You asked for it, so I wrote it. Consider it an application.” She shrugged. “I really don't know the medium well. But you're right – I have both stories and...other things to bring to the table. The spark will have to be doled out carefully, you realize.”

 

I nodded, remembering the story of her family. Leanan Sidhe used that same magic to kill, after all.

 

“I, for one, can't wait to see what you make,” Hewn said. “It's always interesting when you decide to let the spark flow freely. What was the last one? Somewhere in Russia, wasn't it?

 

“I'd rather not talk about it,” she said. “And it won't be flowing freely. No more than one per person per three years. No matter if they beg for it, or how desperate they get. Anything more than that can be...unhealthy.”

 

She turned to me, facing me squarely. “And for the same reason, you can get some scatter from others but under no circumstances will I be using it on you. Got it?”

 

“Got it.”

 

I took the notebook in to work, arriving fifteen minutes early, and dropped it off at Carol's desk. She was already on the phone when I arrived, but spared me a nod. I stopped at my office, struck by the fact that I hadn't really discussed Roger's condition with Stian yet. Was that going to be a problem? He'd improved the second day I'd seen him, and even Stian was able to meet my gaze now. It was no longer sickening him, but would my aura have any other effects on Roger?

 

Nobody had given me Stian's phone number, so I had to relay a request for a call through Scheherazade. A few minutes later, he was on the line, listening to my suspicions.

 

“I suspect you're right, Sam,” he said. “I would need to have a look at him to be certain, but he'll be fine. Might manifest some Aesir magic, but considering its nature, that won't really be an issue.”

 

“Won't he get suspicious if he starts casting spells on accident?”

 

“Low-level Aesir magic doesn't work that way. It tends to manifest in a subtle manner for quite some time,” Stian said. “Unless an Aesir actively tries to be an enchanter or wizard, their personal magic funnels itself into their fields of interest.”

 

I could hear the need in his voice, so I sighed. “Just go professor mode on me, okay?”

 

“Aesir magic usually causes its wielder to develop preternatural levels of skill at the things they do every day. A classic example is a shaman who learns the cycle of the seasons, then spends his days trying to predict the weather. He'd go from guessing, to eventually predicting accurately a hundred percent of the time, to having the ability to influence the weather, to being a god of thunder.”

 

“...when you say a god - ”

 

“That's what they were called, yes. Aesir who achieved mastery over particularly impressive skills were often deified by any mortals they came across. This is fed into by the magic of perception; in this case, it's everyone's perception that the magic user has special talent that feeds into that power. Many of the humanoid gods of ancient times came from this – especially when you have pantheons that form a society, each of them having only a very narrow set of powers.”

 

I nodded at what probably should have been an earth-shattering revelation. “Huh. So Roger may become an absolute programming ninja, even if Sherry doesn't use the spark on him.”

 

“If she doesn't? You expect her to?”

 

The vehemence of his reply had caught me off guard. “Possibly.”

 

“Oh, this should be good. When she starts inspiring people, things tend to get very interesting indeed. Whether it's a success or a failure, it's always spectacular. Ask your boss if you need another investor – whether or not you turn a profit, I'm guaranteed to get my money's worth.”

 

Carol flung the door of my office open, and I gave Stian a quick “Gotta go,” before hanging up. She waved the notebook in front of me. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.

 

“A friend gave it to me. She's applying as our creative director...” I trailed off, seeing the fire in her eyes.

 

“Have you read it?” I shook my head, and she continued. “Tell her to call me; I'll work out what we're paying her. Then make photocopies of every page. Enough for everyone. You're all taking it home and reading it. That's your job for today.”

 

I was taken aback. I'd expected Scheherazade to write something good, but Carol's reaction seemed a bit extreme. As she stalked off, I glanced at the first page.

 

I was jarred back to reality when Cal entered, five minutes – and two pages – later. I took the notebook to the copier with shaking hands. It had nearly captivated me entirely – and it was just an outline. My mind was already racing through elements that could become parts of a game.

 

Half an hour later, I'd distributed the copies, returned the notebook to Carol, and taken Scheherazade back home. She was a bit smug, but I didn't care; I had reading to do.

 

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