Talanic

I would be surprised if it were completely barren. A barrage powerful enough to glass the planet's surface would probably have atmospheric effects that would kill everyone as well. Barrages constant enough to keep all the plants dead would probably leave the entire planet too hot for anyone to worry about anything other than being on fire. Nature reclaims things pretty quickly when left alone, and ash tends to be quite good for new growth. Also, I doubt enough plant life could be grown on the Wanderers to provide everyone with oxygen.

It's on the forums here - currently as Monkey Wrench, but it really needs a new title.

My latest story takes place entirely inside the mansion of a 5,000-year-old hero of legend. I did my best to give the place character, from a room wallpapered in the scales of gargantuan beasts, to an immense statue garden, crafted by the hero to serve as mementos of his friends who didn't attain immortality. At its very heart, one can still find a camp, set downward from steps of packed earth and stones. The entire place was grown from that one point, and so the battle occurs there as an invading elf attempts to pull the entire structure into Faerie.

Seems like a nifty world, but I do have a number of questions and comments jumbling out of this too-tired brain of mine. Hope they wind up being the helpful kind. Originally I had imagined the harnesses as being tethered to the Wanderers. Silly of me. Okay. The surface of the planet is navigable but hostile due to starfalls, and people only really live on the Wanderers. How fast do the Wanderers typically travel? Top speeds? Recall that everyone on top of a Wanderer is essentially in an open-topped vehicle and will be feeling the stride and the wind of passage all the time. As the Wanderer turns, different sides of it will wind up shaded or exposed, sheltered from the wind or thrown in the face of it. This is clearly post-apocalyptic. Is jumping off your Wanderer to salvage from ruins suicidal? If it is, how do these people restock on raw materials? Wanderers are big enough that they have entire lumber industries on them, but they'll require fertilizer to keep that running, along with metal for tools and weaponry, sand for glassblowing, clay and stone for building, etc. The entire concept of an economy is at the whim of these Wanderers; industries can go from plentiful to bankrupt really, really fast. Most things from the earth itself, we take for granted these days. Two very basic questions: Food and drink. Drink is the bigger one. As Wanderers appear to exist specifically to be cities, do they have a filtration / reservoir system built in? Are they literally tall enough to be snowcapped? (If so, I'm envisioning these things with perpetual Santa beards. I'm sorry. Your concept is cool but I can't help it.) Do their legs absorb water from lakes they pass through, storing it for hydration and sanitation? That would be what I'd expect - a walking city where everyone dies of thirst at the first drought isn't very useful. With water, food can be handled one way or another, although I'm serious about a need to gather fertilizer; depleted soil would probably be difficult to replenish without work and materials. Although, thinking of it, I suspect that fish is probably somewhat rare to the Riderfolk, unless a Wanderer happens to pass through deeper waters. I'm now imagining a Wanderer with what looks like a green vest below his snowy beard. On closer examination it turns out to be a massive hanging garden, built into an elaborate and carefully maintained harness that's over a mile tall. The waters of his beard have been channeled very deliberately down through the gardens; what sections of his stony skin are not covered by crops are stained instead with moss. I also find myself wondering about the intelligence level of the Wanderers. They clearly have a beacon that tethers them to each of their riders; are they otherwise aware of the people who are their source of power? If you disembark a hundred workers to quickly perform some salvage, will the Wanderer slow down to allow them to come back, or will it move on? Anyway. Not kidding about brain shutting down due to lack of sleep. Will check about in the morning.

He's asking if the plant benefits from the attention that humans (well, I'm assuming humans) are lavishing it with. Do people deliberately cultivate these plants? If so, the plant benefits because it will be planted in prime locations, watered, fertilized, and protected from encroaching insects / cattle / weeds / etc. If not, well, humans have been known to drive plant species extinct because they weren't able to cultivate them properly. The vitally important Roman caffeine source wound up extinct, for example - I can never find its name when I look for it for reference, though.

Sorry. Editing for better flow wound up removing the clarification. Elves are vulnerable to iron, even in such minute amounts as found in blood - although not permanently harmed by a splash of blood, they find it quite unpleasant, along the lines of getting shampoo in your eyes. When out to hurt mortals, they only use weapons that won't actually cause those mortals to spurt out a liquid elf deterrent. And the sword's actually semi-historical; my writing in of a weakness down to blood was an attempt to justify its existence in myth. Elf-shot is an archaic term which refers to someone suffering a disease with no known cause, usually something internal and debilitating. It was usually attributed to elven arrows, but ancient doctors did essentially say, "Eh, must've been elves," to particularly difficult cases. Aaaand I still need to come up with a better title for this.

I circled towards the right side and stepped down towards the fire pit. Despite my attempt to be inconspicuous, the elf slowed its dance as I approached, then settled into an annoyed posture, hands on its hips. “Do you mind? I'm taking over a realm here.” It would have been funny, but the elf was looking at me like a stain on a rug. “Why, if you unstuck yourself, did you come after me?” Of course I've had my action hero fantasies; everyone does, right? Well, I was in a situation where following those fantasies would probably kill me. I'd seen the capabilities the elf had unleashed on Hewn – tossing him about despite him weighing probably five times what I did. On top of that superior speed and strength, it was armed and armored. And, to be honest, I didn't really know how to fight; a ten-year-old green belt left me with just enough skill to throw a punch without breaking my own fist. Right then, those fantasies whirled through my mind in a blur, along with half-thought plans of drawing the elf into some kind of riddle contest or attempting to stall it until Shamasun returned to kill it. I opened my mouth, and words came out. “I couldn't leave Hewn.” The elf looked puzzled. “Why not? He's weak.” “He was nice to me. And he needs my help.” “As I said. Weak. Tell you what, though.” Its hands began to move again, resuming the dance. “Throw away that iron. Swear to serve me and I'll let you amuse me for a thousand years. A far longer life than you would ever have in the mortal realm.” “No.” It focused on the dance. “Why not? Oh, right. I forget mortal sentiments.” It turned to me and gave me the most genuinely benevolent look I'd yet seen from it. “Do a good job as my slave and I'll collect your family too. I'll need slaves.” I think it took my shock as agreement, but at last I understood – at least a bit. I might consider the elf evil, but more than that I thought of it as utterly alien. It honestly didn't understand what was wrong with its offer. I cleared my throat. “No. No, I have a counter-offer.” It perked up as I continued. “Stand down. Leave, or if you're unable, surrender, and I swear I will intercede to get you out of here, free and safe. But if you continue, I will have to destroy you.” “How dare you – ” “No, how dare you. I don't know magic but I think I know what you did. You sent a coin into the mortal world, made it lucky so it would be carried around by a hapless human. Sooner or later it would find somewhere magical, get pulled in, trip whatever traps were there to be tripped. After that, you jump out or teleport or whatever you did to get here. You used me.” “Fool,” it said. The elf glared at me, then reached a hand out towards the trees that it had grown around the hearth. A branch dipped down, snapped off, and became a magnificent sword of the same silvery material the elf was wearing. “That's what mortals are for.” I hefted the hammer into what I hoped was a guard position. I would probably only get one shot at this. Less than that, probably; the elf was coming at me already, with the grace and speed of a real warrior. I tried to feint right and pull left instead. The elf responded by slashing its sword straight through my right arm, halfway between my wrist and elbow. I couldn't help myself; I shrieked as the hammer fell free and the blade lashed out again, biting my left knee. I fell, clutching at my arm, which was surprisingly, still attached. Not even bleeding. There wasn't even a cut on my sleeve. But the muscles of my arm were knotted tightly and my wrist clicked and ground viciously if I moved. My knee felt like it would barely support my weight; I could feel something vital gone there as well. “What's the matter? Didn't know about elf weapons, did you?” I was still cowering in pain but I could hear that evil smile in his voice. “You have names for them now. Arthritis. Jaundice. Dementia. But putting names on them didn't take them out of our hands.” Don't just cower. Think. There's no way I could face that silvery blade. Even if I won in the end – though I couldn't see how – I would be a wreck of a human being. Look for weaknesses. I bit down hard on my tongue. It had used a different blade on Hewn. Bronze, that one. I suspected that I knew why – the bronze blade had acted more like a weapon, but the silvery blade was for use against mortals. It was a slim hope but it was all I had. The elf's hand clamped down on my left shoulder and it hauled me upright. “Resist more and I'll keep hurting you. I'll keep breaking you. But you'll still serve me for a thousand years or more before I dump you back into the mortal realm. And when I do, I'll forget you – everything about you, except how you made me laugh at the end.” I looked him in the eye and spat my blood in his face. There was a single shocked moment where I wondered if I was right – that there was a reason it had only attacked me with a weapon that didn't spill blood – before it tossed me back with a shriek. The iron in my blood proved even more effective than I'd dared to hope. For a short time, it buried its face in its hands, then threw itself into the newly-grown bushes and started grabbing handfuls of leaves, scrubbing its head and hands repeatedly. It was all the time I needed to try phase two. I only knew of one object that could suppress an invader's power; I was keeping it in my backpack. The elf looked up just in time to see me slam the board, dagger-point-downward, into its shadow. Enraged, it kicked me in the chest. I felt something snap twice – once when it hit me, and again when I hit the ground about ten feet away. The elf, on the other hand, probably felt something tear, as I had managed to keep hold of the board. Pain blurred my vision, but I saw the elf coming towards me. As it moved, the silvery metal it was wearing decayed. The sword became just a stick; the mail turned into handfuls of leaves and fell with each lurching step. “You.” It snarled. “You have...ruined me.” It kicked me again, but the force it had had was gone. It didn't matter much; I was hurt enough already. Whatever magic it had been using was gone now. It still had an inhuman beauty to it but before its anger was that of a tiger; scary but still fascinating. Without the glamer to accent it, its wrath was just wrath, naked and ugly as usual. It knelt on my chest, grinding one knee into my broken ribs. “You don't get to win,” it said. “You think yourself a hero? No. You die here. On a forgotten hearth.” I'm sure it had more to say, but that was when I finished retrieving the screwdriver from my left pocket and jammed it into the elf's back, somewhere around the area of the kidney. I was in a lot of pain, so I don't remember much. I remember that its blood was blue. That it hurt to use my right hand, but I did anyway. I remember that I didn't stop stabbing it until I passed out. ************* So there's the maybe-thrilling fight scene. Hope it was worth the wait. Should be just one update to wrap up this specific tale, but there may well be more stories out of Sam.

They don't need sunlight. Stars could be a different story, right? Since this planet does not rotate, all locations on the planet can be permanently associated with the constellations that sit right above them. Those constellations are of course out of sight during Dayseason, but during Nightseason, the constellations are largely fixed - they'll follow a specific arc over the season's course, and any place on the planet will only ever see about a quarter of the constellations - that hemisphere and that seasonside. It's possible that these constellations are associated with the powers of said plants. It's also possible that the locals assume they are, but are wrong. It is, after all, up to you.

Excellent suggestion, which I'd like to second. And to suggest a vein you might like to follow. Certain plants grow better - or at least with specific properties - only in certain locations. Take particular famous vineyards, for example. Or Idaho and potatoes. For whatever reasons, certain combinations of soil, light, etc. become completely optimal for the specific needs of the people growing those particular plants. These are the locations people fight over. Groves. Vineyards. Farmland. Your agricultural base is also the seat of your mystical power.

Hmm. How about you need to keep the plant's seed inside your mouth. You draw on its power as it draws on your own life-force - using one can kill you - eventually sprouting. Some effects require specific combinations of seeds, which will (naturally) feed on you faster. If the seed has sprouted, or if it dies, it can no longer be called upon. If you accidentally swallow a seed, it's probably going to kill you - horribly. As far as striving for originality goes, remember: The Simpsons have done everything. Strive to tell a good story, originality usually works itself out.

Hmm. I have a name to suggest for a user of this magic: Bittermage. I think I see what you're trying to drive at. This is magic that only works when the caster feels regret over the cost - only if you complete your spell and feel as if you overpayed. E.g. a pinky would be overpayment for boiling a pot of water, so it would work - unless a pot of boiling water was vital for saving your beloved's life. Then the spell might fail because the stakes are so high that you might feel that the pinky was worth it. So if the caster - a monarch - tries to sacrifice a random schlub to kill an enemy army, it would probably fail, but if he sacrificed his only heir, it MIGHT work.

Seeing that made me realize. If Syl ever had access to the modern world, Kaladin would never STOP being told that Obi-wan Kenobi was her only hope.

Hmm. If these sacrifices are being made TO something intelligent, do the people know the nature of this being? Is there more than one, and that's how disputes would be decided? If you offer an insufficient sacrifice does it take what you offer, then say no, or does it refuse to take anything until you pile on enough?

Defenses. Does one sacrifice negate another? Sure, the enemy has a dozen heroes (or very poor people whose families stand to benefit) ready to sacrifice themselves to kill my army (or my general). Do I need to have TWO dozen heroes ready to sacrifice themselves? I see mages in this system only dueling once in their lives. After all, they're duelling for their own lives; the one who lives is the one who's willing to survive with that much less of their own life left, and is therefore probably blind, deaf, and impotent, with no dress sense or ability to carry a tune; the one who lost decided that they had something left they'd rather die than lose. Alternatively, if monetary sacrifices count, the winner was the one who was rich. We probably need more detail to be able to helpfully flesh things out. Are sacrifices made in advance, or must they be made at the moment that you want to alter reality? Is mass conserved, or can you make things go 'poof' either as a trigger for a spell or as the result of a spell? Is this magic only for grand gestures, or is it something that can theoretically be used day-to-day? Can foregoing an action be a sacrifice, e.g. a vow of celibacy? If so, would the celibate person gain anything if they actually had no opportunity to break said vow, being stranded alone on a deserted island, for example?

I didn't have salt. I've never really been known for having guts. I had some iron – well, probably steel, which I hoped would work just as well – and I really, really hoped I had luck. I didn't really feel lucky – especially not after the events of the last twenty minutes. It didn't matter. I was doing what I had to do. I tucked the board into my backpack, sideways so that neither the hilt nor the pointy bits were angled towards my back. It was too long, and stuck out near the top. I put the screwdriver and crowbar in my pockets. None of my tools were really weapons, and despite the Gordon Freeman factor of the crowbar, the hammer was probably my most likely shot. I ascended the staircase, and my dread was quickly at war with fascination. This place was even larger than I'd realized so far. More than that, the further I went, the more easily I could tell that its inhabitant had a fascination with things grand, old, and mythical. No more stuffed unicorns, but one of the walls was scaled. Each scale was easily the size of my fist, and no two adjacent looked to have been from the same creature. I didn't try to count them but there had to have been hundreds at least, and a section of empty spaces left open, presumably, for further trophies. There were statues – mostly of men, some of women, and some of inhuman things. One was of a great bear-creature, at least eight feet tall. It was wearing spectacles and a coat, and had a scroll in one enormous paw. I could read some of the inscriptions, but recognized no names. I spent a moment disoriented, realizing that even finding the elf in this strange house would be a daunting task. This place was huge. Where would the hearth be? I looked over the statues again. There was ivy about the bases of some, and one's arm was crusted with moss. It looked out of place, and I had no other leads. I followed the trail of green. There was something here that I couldn't quite place. A warmth, perhaps. I felt as if these statues had a personal factor to them; they were perhaps Shamasun's own work, memorials of people that he'd known and admired. If so, he put my Facebook to shame; there were thousands of statues. As I went, I picked up my pace; I could tell now that the ivy was actually a trail rather than spread throughout the whole statue hall, and some of the statues were being consumed by the moss, as if chosen for destruction. One – with the inscription of Qatrikias – even fell to pieces at my approach. The trail was approaching a wall, but this place was unleashing havoc with my sense of scale. The statues were older, too – there was less practice in the hand, and while the first ones I'd seen had been marble, some of these were clay. Some of them bore heavy wear – the print of a hand on a shoulder, possibly repeated once a day for four thousand years had left a permanent mark on one. I broke through the statues and found myself facing a wall set into a wall – like the smaller one had been the beginning and remained when the place was renovated. I could feel the weight of years, here. The floor was dry earth and stone, arranged in steps down towards a fire pit that was set up against the wall. The elf was down there. It danced between the rows of stones, chanting, touching each rock in turn. Where its fingers had rested, things sprouted. This might sound like something out of a Disney movie, but in person, it was scary. Rocks cracked as roots burst out of them. Steps that might have doubled as seats sprouted brambles and thornbushes. I saw the elf scatter seeds with one pass of a hand, and with the other the ground erupted in small trunks and something slithered away. The elf was working its way up and down the stairs; the left side looked like a small stand of jungle at this point, and the creature was nearly to the midpoint. I had to do something – fast. No, not 'something' – no sense in denying it. I'd have to kill the elf.

“Hewn!” I tried to reach him, but I couldn't. Straining against the knife went beyond simple pain and into the knowledge that I would damage something fundamental if I tried any harder. “Hewn! Talk to me!” He spasmed, then jerked upright for a moment before curling into the fetal position. He looked at me again but his face was barely recognizable. It looked rougher, with less defined detail in his features, but there was still some intelligence in his eyes. I took a different tack. “Hewn! My backpack! It's right there; throw it to me!” He looked at me for a moment before he seemed to comprehend. He dragged himself to the bag. It didn't look like his legs worked anymore, and his fingers were fusing together, but he managed to hook his hand inside the pack's straps and slide it feebly towards me. It was enough. I tore into the main compartment and ripped free my emergency tools. Backup cell phone, extra flashlight, screwdriver, hammer and mini crowbar. “Noodly lord, Jesus, Buddha, and whoever else might be listening? This had better work.” I seated the crowbar's prying end against the floorboard that I was pinned to and slammed on the other end with the hammer. I felt a twinge but nothing like what had happened before, so I hit again, then pushed hard on the upper end of the crowbar. The board shifted as I pulled it up. It wasn't easy, but I kept at it, working frantically, shifting to the other end of the board and finally ripping it loose from the ground. I was scared to pick it up, but when I did, nothing happened, so I rushed to Hewn. He looked like a rough stone mannequin; while his head was still lolling to one side, there was no detail to his eyes and his mouth no longer looked like it could open. I wasted no time and grabbed the shard, cutting my hand shallowly as I tore it free and tossed it aside. Hewn relaxed immediately, but I still grabbed the elf's sword, only to find that it was just a brittle bundle of sticks, crudely tied together. It snapped off as Hewn regained part of his old definition. He moved ponderously, gesturing clumsily at his chest. I grabbed the backpack and used it to wipe at the remaining mercury, dabbing it away as best I could. “Blaa,” he said. “Blood?” I said. He nodded and pointed at the shard. “Crana blaa.” “Cronus' blood.” He nodded again. Features were seeping back into him, but slowly. “Hewn, what is the elf doing? It ran deeper into the house.” “Thtal.” “Stall? It needs time?” He shook his head. “Thtaaal. Take. Make faaree.” “Steal.” He confirmed. “Make...faerie?” Another nod. “He can turn the house into part of faerie?” I was new to all of this but even I knew how bad that could be. He put his hand on my shoulder and pointed the other at the exit. “Raaan. Go.” He seemed to swallow and continued, his voice gaining some clarity. “Naat you. Naaat yur fight. Go.” I can't say I wasn't tempted. I still had my soul nailed to a board but I could take it with me. Figure something out with that. “What about you?” I couldn't possibly drag him out with me. “You wouldn't leave me. I won't leave you.” “Youuu can't fight it.” “That was an elf, right?” I hefted the crowbar. “Iron. I'll go Gordon Freeman on its chull.” Deep, partly-formed eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Azeem?” It took me a moment. “That's Morgan Freeman. And not his best movie. But I need to know. Will iron work on that thing?” Hewn nodded, but tightened his grip on my shoulder. “Not jusst an elf,” he slurred. “Journey warrior of the lower courts. Out of your leeeague. Iron or not.” He didn't seem to be getting more defined anymore – or perhaps it had just slowed down. “And if I leave? He'll steal your home, but what else will he do?” He opened his mouth but hesitated. “Tell me the truth. Would you be in danger?” He looked away. “Things like Crronus can't really die. They can be driven dorrmant but if the pieces are brought together, they can wake. Come back. I was made...given life...to help prevent that.” “The elf would use you to reassemble Cronus?” He shrugged. “Prolly not. Prolly sell me to someone who would.” I sighed. “I can't just let that happen. So help me. How can I fight it?” Hewn shook his head. “Luck. Guts. Iron. Saalt? Would protect from glamer.” He waved up the stairs. “Try to sneak up. Will head to heart of manor. Hearth. Can make himself master of house. Ritual of conqueror. He finishes that, is too late. You should run. Mortals don't escape faerie. So hurry. Run or fight, but do it now.”

There were animated statues in ancient Greek myth, namely Galatea and Talos (the latter being bronze), but Hewn's my own creation. I'm likely to stick to established mythology with a bit of bending if it's from real tradition, and make up sensible rules for things that I've made - or at least sensible by mythological logic, a la the shard that disabled Hewn.

He moved with speed but not particular grace, instead flopping on the coin with enough force to shake the chair I was still sitting in. “YOU DARE!” He roared, but not at me. “This place is forbidden to your kind!” There was something under him now; silver-clad arms and legs flailing. Suddenly the fight turned. Hewn's opponent managed to get both legs together and kick the stone man off him – towards me, essentially annihilating the table and sending my backpack flying as I retreated behind the chair. Hewn regained his feet quickly, but his opponent was already up. It...was beautiful. Not in a sexual manner – although I could tell that that could spring to life in an instant if the creature wanted. No, it provoked a fascination, like a fireworks display or a grand wonder of the world. It reminded me of an erupting volcano: something singular, beautiful, powerful, and attractive, but best seen at as great a distance as possible. Hewn faced towards the invader and edged towards the stairs. The elf smiled and pulled forth a long bronze blade. It was dressed all in what looked like silver mail. Made sense – I remembered something about them hating iron. I wasn't sure what the blade was supposed to do against Hewn, but the stone man looked cautious, so I wasn't going to make assumptions. I wasn't going to do much at all, in fact. I was still pinned to the floor. My best course of action right then was to stay out of this entirely. But that option was taken from me as the elf smiled at Hewn and leveled the blade at me. “Can't be leaving your guest, can you?” The elf's voice was sweet, like honey oozing down silk that was wrapped around a knife's blade. “That would be ever so rude, to let someone in your protection die so very painfully.” I cowered behind the chair, but the elf advanced, dipping the tip of the blade towards the floor. I didn't know what it was doing until it hit the hilt of the knife and shifted it. The pain was immediate, deeper than a broken bone. I couldn't help myself; I cried out. “damnation you,” Hewn hissed, but the blade was already pointed towards him. The pain had ended the moment it left the knife. The elf had made its intentions clear, essentially breaking through my panic. I was still afraid, but the fear spurred me to do something, anything, no matter how stupid. So I took the chair – my one piece of cover, behind which I had been cowering – and hurled it at the elf, while yelling, “Run, Hewn!” The elf didn't even bother to dodge the chair, swatting it out of the way one-handed with enough force that the wood splintered on impact with the wall and one of the stuffed unicorn heads dropped to the ground. Hewn charged at the same time, but he wasn't fast enough, taking a thin gash across his left arm, leaving behind chunks of granite. The elf kicked him back and for a moment he had a hold on its leg, but it managed to push its way free, leaving behind a handful of silver mail. The elf flashed me a heart-melting smile. “His name is Hewn? Thank you. I needed to know that.” Hewn didn't let up, dropping the handful of mail and closing with his foe. For a long moment they stood equal, Hewn blocking the blade with his hands and forearms, losing chips of his skin but going no deeper. Suddenly there must have been an opening, because the elf ran him completely through with the bronze sword. The granite man simply smiled, grabbed the elf's wrist, and twisted upward, leaving the weapon impaled in his stony flesh. But the elf was not merely smiling back – it was grinning broadly as its other hand came up with what looked like a shard of solid chrome, which it stabbed into Hewn right above the breastbone. Its sword had had little effect, but the bite from the shard caused him to recoil and roar in pain, then topple backwards with a push from his opponent. The elf bent in and gloated. “I understand completely what it's like to have one thing in all of creation that happens to be your weakness. We'll explore that more thoroughly later.” It kicked Hewn in the side, launching him up against the wall, where he writhed in agony, the shard – which looked like it was melting – and the sword – which had turned from bronze to brown – still embedded in his chest. The elf shook itself and stalked over, looking me up and down. I still could barely look away from it, and the closer it came the more overpowering its presence was. It leaned in and sniffed once, eyes half-open, then kissed its gloved pointer finger and pressed the tip of its finger against my forehead. “Later,” it breathed. Then it ran into the mansion, straight up the stairs, leaving me with the stricken Hewn. ************ The Master, Shamasun, is very loosely derived from the Epic of Gilgamesh. There are other Heroes of the Old Ways (some of which you may have heard of), but whether or not I continue this long enough to meet them or not...well, that's becoming more likely the more fun I have. There may be another update today. Wife is home sick, so we'll see how it goes. The funny thing is, mythology, faerie and other similar legends are more her forte than mine; this is more the genre she writes than my typical fare, which trends far more towards sci fi.

“I wish I could tell you when he was coming back,” Hewn said as he set up a small table next to the chair. “I left him a voice mail. He's in the sewers of New York – had a hydra cornered, was working on killing it. You know how it is.” “Not really.” He smiled. “Sorry. I haven't really had a mortal here since...Bartholomew? Think that was his name. Nice fellow. His golem talked me into letting him cut through on his way out of central Europe.” “Let me guess. 1930's?” “No, no. Some time back in the 1600's. A good time to be in here. Not so good to be most anywhere else, really.” “Huh.” I mentally fumbled through a list of questions before settling on one. “So what is your master, anyway?” “Well. For one, I don't usually call him master unless I'm being formal. Or intimidating. But he's a hero of the ancient ways.” He bustled about as he spoke, climbing the stairs and rummaging about where I couldn't see. “Which means?” “A lot of things.” He returned with, of all things, a big yellow phone book. “Slayer of monsters. Defender of civilization. An explorer whose trips don't always stay on the same planet, whether he realized it at the time or not.” “Okay.” I mulled it over for a second before continuing. “But how is he still alive after – what, five thousand years?” “Thereabouts. But I just told you. That kind of hero just doesn't die.” He paged through the phone book, then grimaced. He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and consulted its contents, frowning. He sighed. “I'm afraid that we have a little situation.” “What's that?” “By laws more ancient than I am, as your host, I am bound to offer you food, drink, and a bath, if you need it. That last one, I'm offering but I'm pretty sure we'll skip, considering the circumstances. Water, I can provide no problem – purest water you've ever had, scraped as frost from the waters of Sylgr. Purer than any water that's flowed upon the Earth. It's food that's the problem. See, I don't eat.” “Can't, or don't?” “Don't. I like to, but I don't need to. So Shamasun and I don't keep a stocked kitchen.” He disappeared up the stairs, presumably putting away the phone book, then returned with a far sturdier-looking chair for himself. “He usually brings back enough for himself when he's staying in-house for a few days, but sometimes he's gone for months. We can't keep the place stocked – and while I'd order some food, I'm afraid I'm broke.” I glanced around the hall around me. It was larger than my entire apartment. “Broke?” “Yup. I know, I know, size of the house is impressive, but it's at a Threshold. Between worlds, space and time are looser concepts, and the better-off heroes would rather live somewhere where they can get electricity and internet, and don't have to worry about things trying to break through.” “Things? What kind of things?” That had grabbed my attention, but Hewn was still caught up in the food situation. “Life's getting more expensive these days, and the boss and I made some bad investments. Great Depression, Betamax, stuff like that. I'm afraid I'm failing in my duties as a host.” “I have some food to share. Would that help?” He nodded slowly. “It'll have to do. I'm very sorry. The etiquette of xenia was drilled into me since before I really had the hang of talking.” I retrieved and unzipped my backpack. Inside I had a water bottle, a sealed bottle of soda, half a dozen granola bars and a sandwich. I hesitated for a moment, then offered Hewn a granola bar. “I don't know xenia, but if you want, you can have one.” He hesitated, but I pressed it at him. “I'll get sick of these before we run out of them.” Hewn smiled and took it, but set it down on the table. “May I see that backpack? Now that xenia has been addressed, it's proper for me to see about what got you sucked in here.” I handed it over, then conspicuously took a bite from the sandwich. Hewn looked satisfied, then started to rifle through the pockets. He stopped on the outermost pocket, then pulled forth a coin. “This'd be it,” he said. “Lucky coin.” He held it forth for me to see. It was one of Grampa's coins. It looked like nothing more than an old half-dollar coin from 1937, with Lady Liberty on it. He regarded it as if it were some kind of beetle. “Look closely at it where I'm touching it. Actually, this will help.” He retrieved my flashlight and illuminated the coin from behind as he circled it with his fingers. I squinted. Light was coming through between his fingers and the coin. My eyes were telling me that he was both touching and not touching the coin at the same time. “It's not what you see,” he explained. “It's faerie make. Glamered to look like something unremarkable from your world. If we just sprinkle it with some salt...gimme a moment.” He rushed off and returned with a pinch between his fingers. On contact, the coin vanished, replaced immediately by what looked like a clay disc that was slightly larger than the half-dollar had been. “That's what it really is.” I took the disc and studied it, enraptured. Something of my own had been made by creatures of myth. The side facing me bore an intricate design of an immense palace. Despite having nothing to compare it with I had a sense that it was far larger, far grander than any building on Earth. The other side held the face of a sleeping man – but not a man, no, just subtly different. An elf. I flipped the coin back to the palace and showed it to Hewn. “What is this place?” “Don't really know firsthand. It's a palace of Faerie, which means it's not meant for people like you or me to visit and come back from. Not sane, at least. Faerie's not a nice place.” “I know. I've read Terry Pratchett.” “Who?” I gave him a flat look. “You like to read?” “Sure.” “Then when I'm able to move about again, I'm going to bring you my collection and you'll be going on a magical journey the likes of which you've never seen before.” He laughed out loud as I turned the coin back over. “And who's this? Oh!” The sleeping elf's eyes were open and he was looking out from the clay with a sharp, hungry smile. “It moves!” Suddenly Hewn was moving with a speed I'd never expect as he grabbed the coin and flung himself – and it – away from me. ************ I haven't actually read Kevin Hearne. Will put him on my to-check-out list. Also, this story has gone in an entirely different direction from where I'd expected, and the title is no longer right.

I'll admit it. I very nearly shut down entirely, then and there. I stammered a bit before rebounding. “No. Wait. What master? Where am I?” I asked. The stone man had disappeared over the railing, but his voice carried back to me. “The master is Shamasun, son of Enkidu. Do not pretend that you do not know; his home is never found by accident. You came here like all those before you, to take vengeance upon him. Instead you will add your power to his.” He came down the stairs, carrying something. I edged as far away from him as I could – my pinned shadow limited that to about six feet – as the object proved to be a folding chair, which he set up next to me. The granite man was wearing pants – black jeans with a thick belt and wide pockets – and a pair of sneakers which looked to have seriously compressed soles. “Feel free to sit,” he said. “You may be my prisoner but that doesn't mean we can't be civilized. Would you like some refreshment?” For three whole seconds, we just stood, facing each other as I processed what was going on as capably as I could. Finally I raised my hand and beckoned him closer. “Is it okay if I touch you?” I asked as he approached. He shrugged. “It's fine. You can't hurt me.” This close, I could see the flecks in the stone that comprised him and the pattern that it imparted to his movements. He didn't look like a machine or a doll, but like a man with an inorganic exterior – along with what little I could see of his interior, including his teeth and eyes. I reached out a finger and poked him in the belly. He was cold, polished stone that was somehow moving. I couldn't help it. I chuckled. The granite man cocked his head to one side with a quizzical look on his face, but it only set me off more. Soon I was laughing out loud, unable to stop. “Nobody's ever reacted quite like that before,” he said. “What's so funny?” “You – ” I had to gasp before forcing it out. “You have chiseled abs.” He smiled and laughed once. Cold stone, perhaps, but there was a genuine warmth to the smile. “It's not that funny, really,” he said. “No.” I was still fighting giggles, but I managed to explain. “It's not that funny. But this is too weird. There's unicorns mounted on the wall, I've no idea where I am, you're a golem or something...I'm so far out of my depth that I can either laugh or cry.” “I'm not a golem,” he said. “Golems are Jewish, and a good bit younger than I am. I mean, they can be fine constructs, I'm just not one of them.” “What are you, then?” “I'm Greek. You could say I follow an old pantheon, in a rather literal sense. Shamasun carved me from Cronus' beating heart.” He paused, as if expecting a reaction. “I didn't know titans were made of stone.” “Not all of them were. He was. But now you know what I am. What are you?” I took a moment to choose my words carefully. “So far as I know, I'm not anything mystical. I'm human.” “Can't be. A human wouldn't have been able to cross the threshold. To anyone without a trace of magic, the door would have led to what's really on the other side, instead of to here.” He ran a hand across the smooth, polished surface of his head. “You can't be human. A god, a demon, a fairy, or some other form of monster, perhaps, but not human. Or not fully, at least.” “If I am, it's news to me.” Rather inconvenient news at the moment. “Can you tell?” “Not really. I'm made of too much magic to get a good view of it, myself – and it's all used to keep me alive and functioning. It's like asking a fish to tell you if something's wet. I could make a few guesses, though.” “Guess away.” “Between looks and accent I'd guess you to be American of mixed European ancestry. So we'll start with some obvious ones.” He ticked off his fingers. “Faerie blooded. That's actually easy to test, but exceptionally unpleasant for you – iron poisoning tends to be rough. It's the most common among people who don't know it, but you look more Scandinavian, so I'd guess troll, svartalf, or maybe even Vanir. I'd expect us to have found any existing Vanir bloodlines, though. Those are just guesses, though; you could be anything from Aesir to Wendigo as far as I can tell. But...” He squinted. “I think I can see just the tiniest aura. Looks lucky. Maybe leprechaun?” He paced around behind me, then stopped. “Crud. Would you mind handing me that backpack?” My faint escape plan was in that backpack, but I didn't think it would do me much good. I slipped it off my shoulders and offered it. He carried it away, set it down, then paced back and forth between me and the pack several times. “Well,” he said, “The good news is, I don't think you're an invader anymore. Whatever magic was with you is in that bag. I can't be sure you're entirely human but you're no demigod, and it'd take something of that caliber to threaten us. So the situation's changed. You're human, not here to hurt me or the master. You're not an enemy – you're a guest, and I have been remiss in my application of xenia.” He gave me a sheepish smile and extended his hand. “My name is Hewn.” I took the hand and shook it. “I'm Sam.” “Sam. You are welcome in this house, traveler. I must apologize - I'm afraid nailing your soul to the floor wasn't the proper duty of a host. And worse, neither you nor I can actually get you loose – because the knife pinned you inside a home, only the master of the house can pull it out.” ****************** Turns out an hour a day doesn't always provide me with anything worth posting. Going to keep it up, try for at least one update per week. Hopefully this is entertaining - it's going in an entirely different direction than originally planned. Funny how that happens sometimes.

The main character will have a name, gender, etc. revealed in the next update. And the sentence about the 'legal dead zone' has been changed to : It wasn't public land – as far as I could tell the paperwork for it had been forgotten, and it didn't officially exist.

I could start this story anywhere, but things only got really weird when the knife sank into my shadow and I found that I was pinned to the spot. It was at that point that I really knew that I was more screwed than I had ever been. But that's too far forward. Consider that bit a promise that things get weird in a little while, okay? I had been having fun but nothing really exceptional was happening. I had a free weekend. I was twenty-three and single, and my friends weren't, so it was a perfect recipe for me doing something stupid. Since I prefer not to endanger myself or others – normally, at least – and I live in a small town in the American Midwest, that meant a little jaunt into my old hobby. I like to explore. As a kid I'd gone spelunking a few times and found it neat, but not quite to my taste. I prefer abandoned structures; old farmhouses, boarded-up factories, anything I can get into unnoticed without damaging anything. I get in, I sketch things – with a few embellishments, sometimes – I explore, and I leave. If I don't intend to go back, I'll find an out-of-the-way corner and leave a little souvenir – a coin from my Grandfather's collection. He was amused by the idea of making the collection hard to reassemble, and left it to me as a private joke between us. I know there's a larger internet community about that, somewhere, but I've never really looked into it. I'm not into it for glory, I just enjoy making stories about the places I'm intruding on. I suspect I'd have a lot more choice of target if I lived in Europe. Nothing here that I'd sneak into is really that old. Most buildings like this one will get a local reputation. You know, the neighborhood haunted shack. Not this time. It was exactly as I'd heard from Todd – a building out in the forest. Old timbers. Sturdy-looking door. Now, there are no old-growth forests in my home state – everything got clear cut before environmental concerns were a thing – so I know that this house (well, I assumed it was a house) once sat in a clearing. It had to – one of my criteria for figuring out something was really old (by local standards) is if the timbers used to build it are too large to bring through the woods surrounding it. Definitely the case here. This building was in a ravine, a three-mile hike from the nearest road according to satellite maps. Since Todd told me about the house's existence I'd poked about to find an owner (so at least my apologies could be personalized if I got caught sneaking about) and had found nothing. It wasn't public land – as far as I could tell the paperwork for it had been forgotten, and it didn't officially exist. I was ready to about-face immediately if I came across any kind of squatter or survivalist; my suspicion was someone with connections in local government had built themselves a secret getaway cabin in the woods. Then everyone who knew what was going on had died or forgotten about it and it wound up a ripe-to-be-explored ruin. I'm not really good with architecture. It looked like some kind of extra-large log cabin, with a shingled wooden roof. No windows that I could see. The shingles made me suspect it couldn't have been neglected for that long, but there were no trails. In fact, there was quite a thicket outside. A place this far out wouldn't be plumbed; anyone inside would have to leave to use an outhouse or privy or something. No, it was clearly abandoned. I had to squeeze through the thicket, taking rather a lot longer to clear than I'd like. That's one of the reasons I like to limit my explorations to man-made structures; they are by definition made for humans to pass through. The door was actual a set of iron-bound double doors straight out of a video game. The lock was easy. Well-maintained, which was unusual to me. I eased the door open – I kinda like squeaky hinges – and for a moment I saw the dark-but-mundane interior that I had expected. Then everything lurched. I was no longer standing at the threshold of an old house in Wisconsin. Something hit me in the back – my backpack took the hit but I was still flung prone in a brightly-lit room. I skidded – briefly and painfully – across a hardwood floor, like polished mahogany floorboards. I heard the door shut behind me as a huge-but-unseen bell rang. This had not been in the cards for today. I regained my feet, slowly turning around to take in my surroundings, still not quite understanding what I was seeing yet. The room I was in now was bigger than the entire building that I had been about to enter. There was a grand staircase ahead of me, like a palace staircase or one of those wannabe-palace Southern mansions. Trophies hung from the walls, and for a moment my eyes just skipped over them – I have relatives who are very into hunting but it could never really hold my interest. I did a proper double-take a moment later. Deer don't have spiral horns; also, they have two of them. That was when I saw the knife drop at me from the upper level, hitting the ground in front of me, point-down. I reacted with remarkable aplomb, screaming only once and avoiding soiling myself, but my belated attempt to dodge drew me up short. As I said earlier, the knife had struck my shadow, buried itself in it, in fact, and when I jumped away, I felt a fierce tug back towards the knife. My shadow was unnaturally stretched out, as if pinned in place. Not yet having thought enough to realize how much I should be panicking, I looked up to see if another knife was coming. The man looking down from above was short and heavily muscled. He was naked (at least his shoulders were – he was on the upper level) but that didn't disturb me as much as the fact that he was apparently made of stone. Granite, I think. He nodded, then spoke. “You will wait there for the master. Then you will serve.” ****************** BREAK: Out of character time. Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it. I've been in a long writing slump and am trying to get back to my roots. My first short stories were serial posts written on a message board; those were so easy to write compared to what came later. I'll try to spend an hour a night on this, if I can. Don't be afraid to critique me on anything I'm messing up, continuity errors, spelling mistakes, or general critiques of tone, relevance or the like. Updates will be put at the last post in the thread, but if discussion overwhelms I'll start attaching the latest version to the first post (if I can).

Apparently not. According to the document linked earlier, the Everstorm hits it days before he arrives. Which means he may have a bigger problem on his hands - former Parshmen.

He also promised the men of Bridge Four that none of them would die anymore. That promise has been broken many times since. I suspect it only counts as a broken oath when it's violated deliberately or negligently - trying your hardest to do right and failing still counts. It's only when you make up your mind to break an oath, or can't be bothered to fulfill it, that you fail. Remember, if they see him holding a Shardblade, he won't be a darkeyes. While he holds one, he's lighteyed. Also keep in mind that the idea of a darkeyes murdering a Shardbearer is almost too ludicrous for words; Shardbearers are nigh-unstoppable killing machines. Also, he has one more thing in his favor. He comes with information about the Everstorm, and it's entirely probable that the people he's coming to meet have noticed that a Highstorm was blowing the wrong way, and will be interested in knowing why. That doesn't mean that I think that he won't have any of the problems you've listed. Just that I think he's got a few things to fall back on.

Hooray for pastries - especially for cookies with extra iron. Good for my cybernetics or somesuch. I have cybernetics, right? That's not just my protagonist? Shoot. Added my book to my signature. Figured putting it in a spoiler box would keep it from stepping on anyone's toes..