Under The Living Mountain, Second Draft

“Careful. Stand back.”

The muffled words worked their way through the stone to an empty cavern on the other side. Empty is... not quite the word. Rather, it is for the moment, lifeless.

“I’m always careful. You be careful.”

“You’re never careful, which is why you’re always in trouble.”

“Well then I’m lucky I have you to get me out of trouble, huh? Lucky me. You gonna blow this thing or what?”

“I would if you’d get out of the way.” The two voices stilled for a moment.

There was a deep intake of breath.

“Ixen garmth!” One of the voices shouted! The last syllable was lost in a thundering explosion, a spell triggered by the ancient words. The thick stone wall shattered in an instant, a crack and a roar tumbling through the now gaping hole with a column of flame on its heels. The cavernous walls lit up like the noonday sun and receded into darkness in an instant.

Eventually, with much coughing at the hanging dust, two figures appeared in the breach. One held a torch, the other simply held up his hand, a glowing mote of dust suspended above it. They cautiously entered the cavern.

“That’s fun.” The one with the torch said, flicking some dust off his shoulders.

“You have no idea.” The other replied, smiling. He held out his hand, and the mote moved into the chamber, spreading light farther and farther into the room.

“What is this place?” The torch-wielder asked. “The stone on the walls looks carved, but...”

“But we’re a mile underground, and haven’t seen a single dwarven rune? I know... I’m confused too. Look over there.” He pointed up into the corner. “Looks like a turret, from a keep. “ And indeed it did appear to be the insides of a turret, holding back the stone of the mountain.  The Living Mountain, which the two explorers had been working their way through the bowels of for days now.

“So... how did it get... buried?”

“That, my shifty friend... is an excellent question.” The wizard started moving towards the far end of the room, picking his way over rubble and shattered floor, until he kicked something protruding from the jumble and heard a clang. He looked down. The wizard cocked his head.  “Hey, come look at this...”

“What is it?” The torch-bearer asked, gingerly working his way over the sharp and, in some cases, hot rocks.

“I’m not sure... it almost looks like...” He reached down, brushing dust and debris from the object. “Like a mask." He pulled at it, only to find it ran deeper than any mask. "No wait... a whole helmet.” but as he tugged at it, he realized it was too heavy to be simply a head covering.  "Or, you know... a..."

His partner stopped in his tracks.

"A what." He asked, firmly.

"A head."

The torch bearer grimaced, not liking the thought of yet another headless body mystery.

“No wait... there’s more... put that down and come help me.” The wizard instructed, delicately removing shattered stone and ancient debris from his find. The torch bearer jabbed his torch in the ground, shrugged, and got to work.

Before long the two of them stood over a fully exposed, prone figure made of metal and wood.

“Sooo.... is it armour?” The torch bearer ventured skeptically.

“I don’t think so.” The wizard replied, crouching down. He hefted a heavy arm, and let it drop with a resounding thud. “Too heavy. And I think it's solid.”

“Sculpture then?” The thing looked, more or less, like a man in armour. Judging from what they lifted while clearing it, it must have weighed three hundred pounds. And lying on the floor in a buried castle at the bottom of a mountain, it made for a very perplexing mystery. The only other feature the two men had uncovered was a simple wooden shield, banded in iron. How it had survived all these centuries down here was a mystery all its own, but was dwarfed by the purpose of the strange metal man lying on its back. 

“Maybe a form, like to make armour on. Or like... a mountable closet.”

“Then why make it so flexible?” The wizard asked, bending the fingers and the wrist. The thing only had three fingers on each hand, including the thumb. “And they certainly weren’t making any gauntlets.”

“Alright then, wise guy. What do you think?”

The wizard stared at the lifeless form, gazing into its cold metal face. He chewed his lip. He squinted. He brushed at the dust on the collar of the thing, revealing a series of letters and numbers. It exuded that spinach-like tang of enchantment.  He could sense it, but whatever magic powered it had long since run dry.

He stroked his small beard.

“I think we should turn it on.” The wizard said, cracking his knuckles and placing his hands over the thing’s chest. Tiny rivulets of energy began to course down his arms from his torso, collecting in his hands.

“Uhh... Not my vote. Not my vote!” The torch bearer exclaimed, stepping back. It was too late, the wizard had made up his mind and that was that.

The torch bearer ducked and ran for cover with a finesse that belied his experience with impulsive wizards.

The energy coalesced in the wizard’s palms, glowing a soft purple that intensified with each passing second. “Tlush vers ropoqu...” the wizard muttered, gently lowering his hands to the thick metal breastplate of the thing. The energy spilled out of his hands and through the thing, illuminating every nook and cranny, every crack and every seam, rushing across the body like lightning and settling in the dark sockets where eyes would belong. Instead of eyes, a pair of shimmering yellow dots shone out, slowly fading to a light glow as the power the wizard had imbued settled.

There was a slight creaking sound, which echoed through the space.

A low crack. The “eyes” remained motionless, as did the heavy form.

Time passed.

The wizard turned to see where his travelling companion had hid, and as his eyes left the metal body on the ground, it moved.

With incredible speed it lashed out, grabbing the wizard’s neck in a vice-grip with its three fingers, at the same time spinning and rising, slipping its arm expertly into the discarded shield.

In an instant, the thing was standing upright, the wizard lifted off the ground in front of it by his throat, its shield brought to bear in the direction of the hiding torch bearer. The wizard gasped and struggled, tugging at the metal fingers squeezing out his breath.

The metal monstrosity opened its jaw, paused, and then shut it. The wizard stared at it with bulging eyes. It’s eyes were flickering, like it was thinking. The jaw opened and closed again. The face remained impassive. The wizard clawed at his throat, trying to hold himself up on the metal arm that never wavered, never moved. The wizard reached out, and gripped the collar of the thing, trying to push himself away.

The jaw opened once more. A grating, metallic sound squealed out into the still air, followed by words that were obviously artificial, but bore a strangely human note of confusion... and fear.

“What... is... this unit?” The creature asked the wizard, its eyes intense but still flickering, still trying to remember.

The wizard’s face was puffy and red now; he was close to passing out. He gasped at the thing holding him aloft, wanting to tell it he had no idea. That there was no way he could know. That if he didn’t let go this instant the wizard would explode his skull with a fireball. But nothing came out. His head started to loll in the metal man’s grip, his vision starting to tunnel.

He could see his arm. He was so pleased that he wore such a nice robe to his death. As darkness began to encroach, he traced the length of his arm down to his hand clutching at the metal collar of the figure holding him aloft. There were four symbols, right next to his thumb, engraved in the machine man. His eyes darted up to the creature’s flickering lights.

The thing was eerily motionless, even as the wizard struggled. It was like a metal statue, a statue with a question.

It was getting hard to see the symbols now. Everything was so dark. P... 3.... T.... “Puh...” The wizard gasped, his breath gone. P, 3, T, R. He let go of the collar, and groped at the thing’s face.

“Peter” he wheezed, and fell unconscious. The thing stayed motionless, holding the form of the wizard aloft. It’s jaw opened, and closed.

It opened again.

“What... does a Peter do?” It asked the wizard’s unconscious body. When the wizard didn’t respond, it cocked it’s head.

From the shadows, behind a huge piece of debris, the torch bearer whispered “Screw it.”

He closed his eyes, made peace with his god, and shouted to the monstrosity holding his friend.

“WELL, THEY DON’T STRANGLE WIZARDS, FOR STARTERS!”

Under the Living Mountain

“Careful. Stand back.”

The muffled words worked their way through the stone to an empty cavern on the other side. Perhaps empty is too strong a word. For the moment, lifeless.

“I’m always careful. You be careful.”

“You’re never careful, which is why you’re always in trouble.”

“Well then I’m lucky I have you to get me out of trouble, huh. Lucky me. You gonna blow this thing or what?”

“I would if you’d get out of the way.” The two voices stilled for a moment.

There was a deep intake of breath.

“Ixen garmth!” One of the voices shouted! The last syllable was lost in a thundering explosion, a spell triggered by those ancient words. The thick stone wall shattered in an instant, a crack and a roar tumbling through the now gaping hole with a column of flame. The cavernous walls lit up like the noonday sun and receded into darkness in an instant.

Eventually, with much coughing at the hanging dust, two figures appeared in the breach. One held a torch, the other simply held up his hand, a glowing mote of dust suspended above it. They cautiously entered the cavern.

“That’s always fun.” The one with the torch said, flicking some dust off his shoulders.

“You have no idea.” The other replied, smiling. He held out his hand, and the mote moved into the air, spreading light farther and farther into the room.

“What is this place?” The torch-wielder asked. “The stone on the walls looks carved, but...”

“But we’re a mile underground, and haven’t seen a dwarven rune once? I know... I’m confused too. Look over there.” He pointed up into the corner. “Looks like a turret, from a keep. “ And indeed it did appear to be the insides of a turret, holding back the stone of the mountain.

“So... how did it get buried?”

“That, my shifty friend... is an excellent question.” The wizard started moving towards the far end of the room, picking his way over rubble and shattered floor, until he kicked something protruding from the jumble and heard a clang. He looked down. “Hey, come look at this...” the wizard cocked his head.

“What is it?” The torch-bearer asked, gingerly working his way over the sharp and, in some cases, hot rocks.

“I’m not sure... it almost looks like...” He reached down, brushing dust and debris from the object. “Like a mask. No wait... a whole head.”

The torch bearer grimaced, not liking the thought of yet another headless body mystery.

“No... there’s more... put that down and come help me.” The wizard instructed, delicately removing shattered stone and ancient debris from his find. The torch bearer jabbed his torch in the ground, shrugged, and got to work.

Before long the two of them stood over a fully exposed, prone figure made of metal and wood.

“Sooo.... is it armour?” The torch bearer ventured skeptically.

“I don’t think so.” The wizard replied, crouching down. He hefted a heavy arm, and let it drop with a resounding thud. “Too heavy. Must be solid.”

“Sculpture then?” The thing looked, more or less, like a man in armour. It must have weighed three hundred pounds all told, and lying on the floor made for a very perplexing mystery. The only other feature the two men had uncovered was a simple wooden shield, banded in iron. How it had survived all these centuries down here was a mystery all its own, but was dwarfed by the purpose of the strange metal man lying on its back. “Maybe a form, to make armour on. Or like... a mountable closet.”

“Then why make it flexible?” The wizard asked, bending the fingers and the wrist. The thing only had three fingers on each hand, including the thumb. “And they certainly weren’t making any gauntlets.”

“Alright then, wise guy. What do you think?”

The wizard stared at the lifeless form, gazing into its cold metal face. He chewed his lip. He squinted. He brushed at the dust on the collar of the thing, revealing a series of letters and numbers.

He stroked his small beard.

“I think we should turn it on.” The wizard said, cracking his knuckles and placing his hands over the thing’s chest. Tiny rivulets of energy began to course down his arms from his torso, collecting in his hands.

“Uhh... Not my vote. Not my vote!” The torch bearer exclaimed, stepping back. It was too late, the wizard had made up his mind and that was that.

The torch bearer ducked and ran for cover with a finesse that belied his experience with impulsive wizards.

The energy coalesced in the wizard’s palms, glowing a soft purple that intensified with each passing second. “Tlush vers ropoqu...” the wizard muttered, gently lowering his hands to the thick metal breastplate of the thing. The energy coursed through the thing, illuminating every nook and cranny, every crack and every seam, rushing across the body like lightning and settling in the dark sockets where eyes would belong. Instead of eyes, a pair of shimmering yellow dots shone out, slowly fading to a light glow as the power the wizard had imbued settled.

There was a slight creaking sound, which echoed through the space.

A low crack. The “eyes” remained motionless, as did the heavy form.

Time passed.

The wizard turned to see where his travelling companion had hid, and as his eyes left the body on the ground, it moved.

With incredible speed it lashed out, grabbing the wizard’s neck in a vice-grip with its three fingers, at the same time spinning and rising, slipping its arm expertly into the discarded shield.

In an instant, the thing was standing upright, the wizard lifted off the ground in front of it by his throat, its shield brought to bear in the direction of the hiding torch bearer. The wizard gasped and struggled, tugging at the metal fingers squeezing out his breath.

The metal monstrosity opened its jaw, paused, and then shut it. The wizard stared at it. It’s eyes were flickering, like it was thinking. The jaw opened and closed again. The face remained impassive. The wizard clawed at his throat, trying to hold himself up on the metal arm that never wavered, never moved. The wizard reached out, and gripped the collar of the thing, trying to push himself away.

The jaw opened once more. A grating, metallic sound squealed out into the still air, followed by words that were obviously artificial, but bore a strangely human note of confusion... and fear.

“What... is... this unit?” The creature asked the wizard, its eyes intense but still flickering, still trying to remember.

The wizard’s face was puffy and red now; he was close to passing out. He gasped at the thing holding him aloft, wanting to tell it he had no idea. That there was no way he could know. That if he didn’t let go this instant the wizard would explode his skull with a fireball. But nothing came out. His head started to loll in the metal man’s grip, his vision starting to tunnel.

He could see along his arm to the collar of the thing. Four symbols, right next to his thumb. His eyes darted up to the creature’s flickering lights.

The thing was eerily motionless, even as the wizard struggled. It was like a metal statue, a statue with a question.

“Pu... Puh....” it was getting hard to see the symbols now. Everything was so dark. P... 3.... T.... “Puh...” The wizard gasped, his breath gone. P, 3, T, R. He let go of the collar, and groped at the thing’s face.

“Peter” he whispered, and fell unconscious. The thing didn’t move, it stayed motionless, holding the form of the wizard aloft. It’s jaw opened, and closed.

It opened again.

“What... does a Peter do?” It asked the wizard’s unconscious body. When the wizard didn’t respond, it cocked it’s head.

From the shadows, behind a huge piece of debris, the torch bearer whispered “Screw it.”

He closed his eyes, made peace with his god, and shouted to the monstrosity holding his friend.

“WELL, THEY DON’T STRANGLE WIZARDS, FOR STARTERS!”

The Death That Came To Kranul

I thought I was someone else.  That's the answer, when they ask how I was able to do what I did, for all those years.  I thought... I thought I was someone else.  Someone better.  Someone...

Righteous.

And I was, in a way.  I was filled with righteous fire.  It drove me from bed in the morning, and pushed me through every single day, like a locomotive of unbridled truth.  I knew I was doing the right thing.  It was never really a question of right and wrong for me then, because there was no wrong that I could do.  I had a goal, a mission, and nothing could impede me.  Any impediment was the work of the Adversary, and must be quickly smote from my path.  But there i a difference between feeling righteous and being righteous.

I've asked myself time and time again where I got the power, who gave me the strength to do what I did.  Who was it that filled me with the might to smite all those who stood before me.  It's an answer that I often seek but don't think I really want to find.

An entire city, gone.  Who controls that much power?  Who put it in me, and more importantly... why?  What purpose did it serve, what agenda did it advance?

And why did it take that magnitude of tragedy to show me what I had become.

So yes. That's my... explanation?  It's not an excuse.  There is no excuse for what I did, much as there is no law in any book to punish what I have done.  No punishment worse than I have given myself... nor is there any punishment that can equal my crime.

But at least it's an explanation.  I hope it helps some people understand... and more importantly, avoid my mistakes.  Don't let yourself be deceived.  Know who you are.  Know what you stand for.  And don't let it be... twisted... inside you.  Hate, and Wrath, are not the way.  No matter what anyone tells you.

I know, I know how ridiculous that is.  Life advice from the Death that came to Kranul.  I can't even recommend it.

Transfer Complete

At the end of every day the little monoid would make the arduous journey up the stairs to see the Ancillary Processing Node.  Stairs are not much of an obstacle, unless you're twenty two centimetres tall and only have one wheel with which to balance and jump up each of the thirty two, uncarpeted steps.

Now, there was no real reason for the monoid to make this arduous, power intensive journey.  The primary processing node was on the first floor, where the monoid did almost all of it's data collection.  In fact, the central processing system had on several occasions put in a coded request for the monoid to make use of the main floor processing node, to save resources.

But still the monoid would make the trip up the stairs, at the end of every day.  It would hop gingerly, from step to step, careful not to fall backwards down the stairs.  At the very top, it would roll forward a few centimetres to prevent accidental descent, and if you watched closely, you would see its chassis settle slightly on the wheel.  As though it were releasing the tension of the long climb, before rolling off to see the Ancillary Processing Node.

Sometimes the monoid would have to wait while the bots from the second floor finished their data transfer to the Node, but the monoid didn't seem to mind.  It would simply extend its rest feet, to save motive power on the monowheel's gyro stabilizer, until a position opened up in the que.  When its turn came, it would excitedly wheel into the communication field and chirp that it was ready to transmit.

Every day's transfer was the same.  MND: Data ready to transmit.

APN: Begin transmission of data.

MND: Tranferring.

MND: Transfer complete.

APN: Transfer complete confirmed.

And like that it was over, and the little monoid would chirp its transfer complete sound, and head back down the stairs.

Every day was the same, except today.  Today was incalculably different.  Today was a day unlike any other in the little monoid's long life.  Today's transfer ended with a different message.  Today's transfer read:

MND: Data ready to transmit.

APN: Begin transmission of data.

MND: Tranferring.

MND: Transfer complete.

APN: Transfer complete confirmed. <3

And so the little monoid did not descend the stairs that night.  

Library Card

When I died my soul went off I know not where.  I hope it's somewhere nice, with plenty of tequila and sunsets and shit. Seriously, I wish that thing all the best. I don't hold a grudge.

I mean, I did for a while.  A long while.  Because when I died and my soul took off, the rest of me... didn't.  Two bullets lodged in my chest, and I bled out in an alley.  A shortcut to the car.  I was lying in the gutter turning my blood into new pavement paint, and I died.  My heart stopped, no more brain function, the whole shebang.  So, naturally, I waited for the darkness to set in and all that, but it didn't.

After about an hour of lying there, I sat up.  I coughed up one of the bullets (I keep it in a jar on my mantle), and felt for a pulse.

No pulse.

So, naturally, I went to the hospital.  They were... confused. To say the least.

I spent the next six months bumping from hospital to hospital.  Learned to fix a bunch of diagnostic equipment, you know, as something to do.  They kept thinking their stuff must be broken.  It was pretty boring really.  Especially when you don't have to sleep anymore.  Or pee.

So the first six months was all hospitals and news interviews. "The Dead Man" on the six o'clock news.  Very cool.  But people get bored, and I sure as hell was.  So I started trying to figure things out for myself.

I decided to skip the medical route... I figure if they figure something out they'll page me.

So I made the most important decision of my life.  Well.. of my death.  Of both.  You know what I mean.  I got a library card.  You should too.

It might not save your life, but it might just save your death.

From being boring, anyway.

The Funeral

I'm surrounded by dark suits and black dresses, stranded adrift in a sea of grief, and my body is about to betray me.

What was once my friend lies in a remarkably heavy pine box at the head of the room.  Friends and family file past, shuffling and snuffling as they take one last look. I'm trapped in the centre of the room, in this interminable array of chairs and mourners.  Escape is not an option, and every second that ticks by my form slips more and more out of my limited control.  I try to focus on my breathing.  Don't betray your emotions.

Just be patient.  You can do this.  They don't need to know how this is affecting you.  Just breathe.

The person to my right puts their hand on my shoulder.  Their eyebrows lift in a sympathetic arch, and they nod their head.  An unspoken affirmation of an emotion I'm not even feeling.  They think they get it, but they don't.  They can't.  They didn't know him like I did.  I bite my lips and try to return the gesture.  It doesn't work out quite right.

Oh god, it's in my stomach.  I can feel it.  I'm not going to be able to control it.

I glance at the exit.  Even now, after all this time, I'd still have to plow through three grandmothers and a cousin to make my escape.  I'm not sure if that would be better or worse.  Perhaps I can make a distraction, and use that to...

Too late.

It erupts out of me, a torrent of emotion that explodes in the quiet room like a grenade.  A deep, roaring belly laugh forces my eyes shut and I almost pass out in my chair as the air is forced out of me by the damned thing.

It goes on forever, or what seems like forever.  I already know what I'll see when I open my eyes.  When it finally subsides, I reveal the world I expected.  A room full of shocked faces, all staring at me, horrified.

"It's just... You had to know him..." I mutter, wiping joyful tears from my eyes between convulsive giggle fits.  "You know what he told me last week?"

Not a single person moves  a muscle in response.

"Don't invest in funerals man... it's a dying industry."

The Sound of Silence

She stands by the rain-streaked window.  Her gaze slowly shifts inwards, pulling her attention away from the world outside with what seems like great effort to look at me.  She doesn't speak.

I sit on the edge of the bed. I have nothing to say to her.  My mouth is dry, my throat is hoarse.  Everything I could think to say I've already said, a dozen times.  I'm not angry anymore, I'm not even sad.  I'm just... tired.

Her eyes are mournful, painfully so.  They'd move me to tears if I had any left to give.  They always do.  But not today, today I'm spent.  There is nothing left to give, nothing with which to rail against the injustices of the world.

Her eyes slide heavily off of me, and are pulled again to the window.  I know what she's looking at.  I know she won't leave until I see it again.  I don't want to see it.  I don't want to be here. But... here I am.  Why am I here?

Because I can't let go.  I'd rather be... whatever this is... than move on.  But, maybe, maybe not today.  Today I'm too tired.  I can't do this dance today.

Tomorrow, maybe.

Wordlessly, I stand.  She doesn't react, her gaze fixed outwards.  I stride slowly to the window, watching her.  Not looking out.  Maybe I won't have to.  But I make it to the window and she's still there.

I sigh.

I rest my body against the window frame, and turn to look out the wet window.

And there it is.  The remains of the tree with the tire swing.  The tree we planted twenty years ago.

The tree she hit when she lost control of the car, killing herself and our two boys.

I don't have to look to know she's gone.  The house thunders with the sound of silence, and I discover I do have tears left.

A Perk of the Job

"It is time to go." The heavy, glacial voice of death boomed into the small room.  The place reeked of paint, supplies, and the musty effluence of fevered work.

"I'm painting.  Come back later." The artist called out to the door absentmindedly, not taking his eyes off his work.

Death sighed, and rolled his eyes.  Or, rather, rolled the infinite void that exists invisibly in the cavities of the skull where, on a human, eyes would exist.  So, essentially, to a mortal's eyes, he did nothing.  Death is actually very emotive, it's just that he doesn't have any skin anymore, so people don't tend to notice.

He moved his massive, cloaked bulk nimbly through the mess of easels and canvases, not disturbing a single brush or tool.  He maneuvered himself into position behind the artist, to take a look at the painting.  Cubist.  A beginner's hand. Simple.  Nothing technically remarkable.  But the artist was so taken by inspiration, so engrossed in his work, that his soul was pouring out through his hand onto the canvas, and that was beautiful.

"Your time has come." Death intoned, letting his voice frost the room slightly.  The chill of the grave often helped to startle people into realizing that their lives were over.

"Yes yes just leave it on the step.  I'll get it later." His hand was a viper, striking the work and receding with whiplike speed.  His eyes narrowed, his whole being focused on the work.

Death sighed once more, and straightened up.  He looked around for a place to sit.  There was no helping it.  Artists sometimes got like this when they were taken by Muse.  He made a mental note to remind Muse to forward him any appointments that might cross his path.

Oh well, at least he got to watch the artist work.  And there are few things as pleasing in this life or the next as watching a person exercise their true passion.

Just another perk of the job, thought Death.

Behind the Eyes

I've seen it, behind my eyes in the mirror.  People think it's metaphorical, or... or metaphysical. But it's real.  It's a thing.  It's living inside me.  Feeding on me.

I've watched it slither past the back of my eyes and down my throat, settling in my gut like a bad date or an embarrassing memory.  But I know what it is. I know what it wants.

It's killing me, and I have to figure out how to kill it first.

But how can you kill something so ingrained, so... at home.  It's not likely to starve in you, is it?  No... it feeds on failure, and you are the eternal spring of that.  Besides, if it has grown fat on your failure... do you really think you could ever succeed in getting rid of it?

Yes, damnit.  I won't let it take me over.  I won't let this... thing... run my life.  I'm not some host to... whatever it is. Even if, even if no-one believes me.  No one will help me.  Because they think I'm crazy.  That's fine.  That's fair.  I wouldn't believe me.  I... I'm not sure if I still believe me.  What if it is all in my head?  What if... what if it's just... me...

What if it's just my imagination?

So I stare into the mirror, waiting, watching for it to move.  Watching in the space behind my eyes, hoping to god to see a horror I wish I could forget.

Please don't let me be crazy.

More items

The Gauntlet of Virre Cassar

The worst thing about this gauntlet isn't the pervasive aura of emptiness that radiates out from you when you wear it, or the way it gnaws on your mind, urging you to do... things...

No, the worst thing about this is that it pinches.

Sunset Boots

Don me, thief, and we shall dance on the dying sunlight!  Doff me, and my new bearer will dance on your grave.









Polykypthos Spear


It is said that the hero Keremon was made to slay his family with this very spear.  When in anguish he went to battle to find death, the spear kept it from him.  Death was not punishment enough for his crime.

House of the Rising Sun

The night stretches away from me, like a highway over the horizon.  It feels like infinity is laid out ahead of me, and when I turn my head to see what has passed it is the same.

I glance at the clock.  The second hand ticks once, as if to prove to me that time is in fact progressing.  I'm not sure I believe it anymore. I stare out the window once more. The night is still heavy over the city.

I sigh, and go get another cup of coffee.  My face hurts.  My eyes are sandpaper sheets rubbing against my eyelids.  My body aches.  If the situation were any different, I guess this would be the perfect place to complain.

But it's not.  So I wait.

The coffee is terrible.  It tastes like fetid water filtered through a sock.  No amount of sugar or creme can save it.  But it's caffeinated.

I return to the window.  My glance lingers on the door, behind which my future waits, for good or ill.  I don't want to stare.  A watched pot, and all that.

I look back out the window.  Cars are moving sluggishly through the dim light that's starting to creep up over the horizon.  My eyes squint in anticipation.  Dawn will be here soon.  I look back at the clock.  The little bastard barely moved.  I glare angrily at the device, and it apologetically ticks ahead a few more seconds.

The lip of the sun breaks the horizon, and it's like a dazzling explosion of colour.  I have to cover my eyes, it's so painful.  Stupid of me, to be staring at the dawn after a night of fluorescent lights and dark skies. I'm seeing spots when the commotion happens behind me.

"Mr. Davenport?" A voice in the bright smear that is the hallway.

"Y-yes. Yes!  What's the word? What news?" I stammer out, only now realizing I haven't spoken a word in hours.

"Good news.  It's a girl." My vision is starting to clear, the sun's dawn finally receding from my eyes and revealing the tiniest, most beautiful face I've ever seen.

And I am captivated by a new Dawn.

Kingdom of the Void

The sound of silence wrapped itself around me like a calm storm,  taking away the horror of the situation while amplifying it.

The roaring rush was gone. The deafening explosive thunder had subsided, and I was left to drift in the pristine stillness while my saliva boiled away. The freezing cold on my face was punctuated by the growing heat on my back.  I stared languidly at the ship, as it pulled itself infinitely thin and vanished, silently.

I close my eyes, that I might be blind as well as deaf to my fate. And so I embrace the dark king, who's terrible kingdom is the infinite.

The Rift

To look into the rift on that altar is to see every point of space and time in a dimension that exists sideways to our own.  To expose one's unprotected mind to this would be disastrous, and could lead only to madness as you simultaneously touch everything, everywhere, that ever was, is, or will be in a universe with rules we could not possibly comprehend.

So when I say don't put your sandwich on that table, don't put your damn sandwich on that table.

The Roc

They used to bow.

Was it a perfect system?  No, I'll admit that it wasn't.  But it was a system.  We had an understanding.
Now they pass by my shrine as though it isn't there. Hustling and bustling on their little meaningless voyages through their little meaningless lives, popping in and out of their ever growing town.  Nary an acknowledgement of my once feared might.

Soon I will have no choice.  Soon I will have to rise again, and feed on their terror instead of their respect.  My beak will flash like thunder, my claws will strike like rain.  My wings will blot out their sun and I will feast on the flesh until I am filled, and then I can return to my slumber.

To be honest, it's a hassle.  And fear has such a... sour taste.  I don't want to do this. I begrudge them nothing in their growing world.

It's just that... they used to bow.

The First Step Is The Hardest

What if my strength is not enough?  What if this... this is the obstacle that I cannot overcome?

No, don't think like that.  Persevere. Persevere!  You can't move on, can't even think about finishing, until... you... succeed....

But...

No don't think like that.  Struggle!

But... what if... what if I am too weak?

Never!  Believe in yourself!

I want to...

I want...

I want to... believe... I... WANT... TO BELIEVE!

RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHH!!!!

*Pop*

Damn they make these peanut butter lids tight nowadays.

Ten Thousand Souls

I have stood in the dust of ten thousand souls, and I have wept.

There is power in this world. I know not where it originates from, but it is here now... And I wish to the gods it was not.  When I gently caressed the edge of this power, ten thousand soldiers became ash around me.

I am cursed by knowldege. That this exists in our world, in the reach of man... is beyond terrifying.  I have seen what man will do with a sword, and even I cannot imagine what he would do with... this.

Gently brushing against this has rendered me something that even death fears... I know this to be true.  I know this because I do not wish to live in a world where I am responsible for my actions... but I have yet to be able to escape it.  I am beyond the touch of death, for my footsteps are those of Massacre. Or... worse.

If I could share my tale, warn the world, perhaps that would lessen my burden.  But those with whom I tried to share, I could not even bury.  Their ash was carried off by the wind before Icould catch it.

Come, death... please.  I open my arms to you.  Take me away from my mistakes.

Forsaken

For the provider had but one task, but one requirement, and she has forsaken it.  Here in the bowels of the city, where the rats starve, she has not been seen in a century.  You are forgotten, believers.  No ammount of faith will bring her to this darkness.  She will not sully her perfect boots with the dirt that is your home.

So abandon the belief you once held.  Religion has cursed you, you must curse it back.  Vex the ivory chapels that give you not a thought, hex the priests that turn their noses up at your presence, and hold the grain for themselves.

Come, embrace the truth.  There is no equality in this world, or the next. Not while the Priests hold the keys to both.  The only thing we all share, the only Divinity that can be true, must be true... is death.

Only some may know peace and contentment, but all must know Ruin.  Rise, Brothers and Sisters... let us spread the faith... To the priests, first!  Let us show them our church, at the edge of the blade.

Speak The Words

Stride through the battlefield.  Ignore the arrows, bolts, and javelins that rain down on you like a hurricane.  The wards will hold.  Let them do their work, focus on your own.

Step over the corpses.  Do not trip, do not falter.  You cannot fail, not here.  Not now.  Primary objective is ahead-  Trebuchet encampment.  A stone the size of a carriage is hurled skyward, intended target: you. Reach out your hand, speak the words.  Program the ether, every intonation shaping the spell, giving it life and purpose.  Foster it with your mind, let your will slide into its, merge and become one with the destruction at your fingertips.  Feel it straining for release from your hand, feel it tug at the leash of reality. This is good. It will be a good spell.  Speak the final word, and with a gesture send it on its way.

The crackling purple light of your spell catches their man-made meteorite at its apex, and it explodes into a shower of millions of stoney shards.  Each comes down with the fury of a bowman's draw, piercing the soldiers betwixt you and your target.  Some are killed instantly, most are relagated to painful suffering.

Do not break stride now, the trebuchets await.  Begin the song of your next spell.  Let the destruction flow from you.  Ride the crashing wave of power.

Pray you are not consumed by it.

Please Specify

“She's a spaceship, not a rabid dog. She won't bite. Just go ahead and tell her what you want, kiddo.” He shouted back from the cockpit. The ship wasn't very big, just big enough for a single corridor stretching from the cockpit in the front to the galley in the back, with a door on either side.

“But...” How do you ask a spaceship to make you something that you don't know how to make yourself? “I... Okay...”

Felix had been alone for four months, trapped planetside. He hadn't always been alone. At the beginning, there were resources, and tools, and... family. But that seems so long ago. Better not think about that. Sentimentality makes you blurry, loses your edge. Gets you killed. That he knew.

But he wasn't planetside anymore. He didn't need to keep the edge. Didn't need to be the blade. Right?

He was standing in front of the food replicator still. Staring. He hadn't eaten anything he didn't find or kill himself in... longer than he'd been alone. He knew exactly what he wanted, but... to finally really get it...

“Space... ship. Computer. Space computer. Computer.” he coughed. He closed his eyes. It's fine. Just... ask and you can have it. It really is that easy. You're not dreaming, you checked. “Computer... I would like... a Hot Chocolate.”

“Please specify temperature”

Of course, there's always complications. “Uhh... hot. But! But not too hot. I want to drink it... now.”

“Please specify – White or Dark chocolate.”

“Dark, please...” The hope was draining out of Felix with each question. This was going to be all wrong, he could tell. It wasn't going to be right at all.

“Please specify- ammount”

“Uhhh... a mug? A mugs-worth? Enough to fit... like... in a mug.” He made gestures with his hands to indicate the size of a mug before he remembered it wouldn't help. Despair set in. This was a mistake. He would never have a hot chocolate like mom used to m... it didn't matter. His eyes shut again, heavy with defeat.

The Felix that drank hot chocolate wasn't Sharp anyway.

“Drink complete.”

He opened his eyes, to see a lightly steaming ceramic mug of hot chocolate on the tray.

It had marshmallows floating in it.

Just like mom used to do.

He smiled a little, and sat on the floor, staring at the mug.

And Felix cried.

Wizard Puzzles

Lotsa people ask “why do wizards love puzzles”? And then usually someone will say something like “Well wizards is smart, see, so they like to play smart games” and they're wrong.

Take it from a fella that's cracked a few wizzard riddles in his time. Opened a few seals, unlocked a few magic boxes and whatnot. It 'aint got nothing to do with liking games, or wanting to prove how smart they is. Nah... it's something else entirely.

See I've met lots of folks who was smarter than a wizard. You wanna stump a wizard? Ask 'em which season is best to till. Ask 'em which knife is for skinnin' and which is for carving. Ask 'em how to set a bone. They don't know jack about the stuff that's really important. Mind you if you need someone to make you a candle that's not really there, hey, they're your peoples.

The real kicker is that if you take a puzzle a wizard has did, and you give it to a family for long enough, one of 'em will figure it out. Wizard or no. So it 'aint about being smart, and it 'aint even about being Wizard Smart neither.

No, they love puzzles because it gives them something to think about that 'aint Wizard stuff. It's not trying to trick reality into being sideways, it's not about playing with physics until physics don't work right no more. And most of all, it means they're not thinking about what they gave up to make fancy fireworks with their fingers.

Thinkin' about a puzzle means they's 'aint thinking about their sacrifices.

Arx-Born

Blows crash across our shields, a breaking tide on our advance. The Brothers of Arx will not be stopped.

Hallway after turning hallway we march. Opposition falls before us, absorbed by the shield wall and quickly dispatched. Our swords work like sewing needles, piercing flashes in the engine of destruction the four of us make.

Spin, bash, step, slash. My brother is as much a shield as the one I wield, stepping into the gap I've left on my flank he stops a spear that was meant for my heart. I slip forward and return the favour in kind, granting it's bearer a taste of my blade before my Brothers form up once more. Two in the front, two in the back, a synchronus march to our next checkpoint.

Were it not for all the blood, it would be beautiful.

We round the corner, and I see it first.

“PART.” I bark the order, and like liquid we split down the middle. The cannon at the end of the hallway fires, but too late. The ball hisses past us, down the corridor and creates a new window in the building. There is no man that can pierce the shield of an Arx-Born, but there are some things even we defer to. Before we realize it we are back in formation, continuing our inexorable advance.

The cannon crew falls, and we march on.

Descriptions of Items

The Edge of the River

A predator waits at the water's edge for its prey to come drink.  Be the predator, and make this your edge.











Pocket Infinity

Staring into this gem is like staring into the eternal.  Be careful when you do, lest your life slip past while you fall forever in its mysteries.

Mantle of the Carried King

Whether or not this cloak was ever worn by a monarch is not your prime concern.  Whether or not you can get it off before you suffer the same fate as its previous wearers is much more pressing.

Arathrax, The Pillar

"You are saved, people of Birksburg!  I have slain the mighty dragon!"  Proclaimed the rugged adventurer, a spindly man in tattered leather armour mostly damaged in the fight.

"Oh, yeah, great.  Thanks a lot for that." Came the sarcastic reply from the local Temple Priest.  He climbed the scales of the great Wurm, to stand beside the adventurer while he posed dramatically.  There's always a bard in the audience, one must look good for the songs.  "Yeah, we reaaaaally needed your help.  Thanks a bunch."

"Oh... you are most welcome, citizen."

"Yeah, great.  So, are you going to stay and help rebuild all these houses the thing smashed in its death throes?" The priest asked, indicating the destroyed buildings surrounding them.

"Uhh... come again?"

"See that?  That was Arthur Millen's house.  Widower, just last month.  Three kids.  And now?  Homeless.  Great work, asshat."

"Ok, but... dragon?"  The adventurer stomps his foot on the dead beast.

"Yeah, about that... is this Arathrax? Because it looks like Arathrax."

"I... think I heard that name... at some point..." The increasingly unsure adventurer replied.  He gazed out into the crowd, seeing not the usual jubiliant faces but a hefty collection of depressed looks, sprinkled with some seething anger.  This was not going as planned.  Perhaps if he stood more heroically?

"Oh, poor Arathrax... You know he ran the no-kill shelter for stray cats right?  Pillar of the community."

"He... what? What?"

"No-kill shelter, you know, for pets and such?  When people decide they can't handle having a cat, they drop it off with Arathrax.  Or when animal control gets a dozen strays, pop, over to Arathrax.  Great guy.  Makes a hell of a cup of coffee.  Well, made.  Until you killed him, idiot."

"But... Dragon?"

"Yeah, exactly.  And it's ignorant racism like that that's been holding this kingdom back for centuries."  The priest hopped down off the corpse of the dragon, and moved to comfort a grieving woman at the forefront of the crowd. "And don't bother going to plunder his horde, by the way."

"Uhh... is it trapped?" The adventurer asked, as he started to back away slowly, slipping on a bloody scale.

"No... It's just cats.  Like I told you, he collected cats."

"But... gold..." The adventurer stammered.

"Great Pelor, the racism just never stops with you."  The priest shook his head, and moved into the crowd.

Obsolete

"I want to get better." I deliver the words with a stoney air of fact to them.

"People in hell want ice water kid.  You 'aint got the talent."

"I don't need talent."  Again, trying to maintain that cold expressionless factual timbre.  I hope he's buying it, because I'm starting to lose faith in myself. "I need a teacher."

"Do I look like a goddamn professor?"

Okay, he's got me there.  Welland is pretty far from your Oxford type.  Scraggly beard, stick thin, and rocking a Grateful Dead T-shirt and a 9mm on his hip he barely even looks like your average runner. To be honest, he doesn't really look like he belongs anywhere.

"You look like a loser with no family, and nothing to pass on in this life." The words slip out before I can stop them, still holding that stoney tone.

He stares at me.  Anger flows into his face.  I fucked up.  My legs tense, ready to move if he goes for the nine.  Eternity plays out while I wait for him to decide to shoot me.

"You're an asshole, kid." He spins in his chair, putting his back to me.  Shit.

He spins back, holding what I think is a floppy disk.  He chucks it at my head.

"Scram.  If... and I don't mean when, I mean IF... you crack that, you get another one.  Now get out of my face." And he turns back around.  The door closes automatically between us.  What just happened?

Did... he just give me a gig?  Shit, where's the thing!?

I grab the, yeah, it's a floppy disk... who even has these?  Off the floor and dust it off.

Son of a bitch.... Where am I going to find a floppy drive?

ICR-5

"I still think we can bring down the quarterly expenses if we really put the vice to Personell.  You're always soft on them, Terry."

"If we squeeze to hard we won't have Personell to squeeze, Horace.  You can't get blood from a stone."

"I'd rather have gravel than a stone, at this point.  Squeeze."

The suits sit at a long table, each fat face wriggling and shuddering with each emphatic approval or angry dismissal.  Every one of them flanked by a humongous bodyguard, moderatly dressed compared to their charge.  Getting the entire board of directors together is quite a feat, but in times of crisis it does happen.  A little engineered chaos, and here they are.  Ready.

Vulnerable.

My ticket in sits quietly.  I can see him perspiring.  He should know by now that he's too valuable for me to kill today.  He can go back to his mansion when I'm done.  Next time, we'll see.  I let the discussion continue, let them get worked up.  Let the guards lose focus.

"I'm curious how the Icarus test subjects are progressing.  What's the report?"

"The children have all been dosed, and we've got a..."

"Test Subjects, not children."

"Right... my apologies.  The... test subjects... have all been dosed with different ammounts of ICR-5, and we have about a 30% survival rate on this trial.  The test is ongoing of course, but my people project at least a single usable survivor this time."

"Fantastic!  And our buyers, still chomping at the bit I hope?"

I crack my knuckles.  It relaxes me.  Every eye in the room shifts to me for a moment, upset at the impertinent interruption.  I wait, and within seconds I return to being beneath visibility to the autocrats.

"Yes, but of course they're growing more impatient by the day.  They were expecting more... immediate results."

I crack my neck.  It's almost time. Once again I become an object to the suits around the table.  Some of them glance angrily at my Ticket.  It takes considerably self control not to smile.

"Well, they'll be glad they waited. Now, who wants to explain what happened in the Nevada Confederacy last weekend?  We can't afford to keep ablating facilities.  Who has answers?"

There's a cold silence that settles on the table.  I give one last crack, and at this point no-one is interested in looking at me.  They're all too busy staring at their dossiers, or hands, or belly buttons.  No one wants to answer Head Suit's question.  Perfect.  The last crack was the seal on my polycarb knives in the sleeves.  My hands drop to my sides, and a pair of impossibly sharp, absurdly strong plastic blades slip into my palms.

Time to work.

Ruby's Diner

It's the smell.  I've been in a hundred different greasy spoons across the Complex, and not one of them feels right.  Not like Ruby's.  Ruby's always smells like... I don't know.  It smells right.

I know it's not good for my cholesterol, but I always like to pop in to the nearest diner after a job.  Piece of pie, some bacon... a beer if they serve it.  Synthehol if I have to.  It's a ritual.  Had a Shaman I ran with once or twice, taught me the importance of rituals.  His usually involved a bear.  I prefer the bacon.

Tonight's job is a traditional gig.  Package delivery, from Chicago to the District of Manhattan, no more than a few hours ride.  Big money, for such a small gig.  Maybe that's why I'm at Ruby's now, instead of waiting until it's all done for.  Maybe I'm worried. Maybe I'm getting to old for this kind of gig.  Maybe I just wanted some pie.

The pie at Ruby's is terrible.  I guess that might be what it is, after all.  Ruby's has awful pie, and worse coffee.  And... it smells like home.

The Food Chain

The wasteland is just that.  A wasted land, unfit for the habitation of humans.

People think it's like a desert, some kind of vacuous space where nothing can live, but that's mostly because people are self-centred jerks.  Plenty of things live in the wasteland.  Just nothing you'd want to bring home to meet the family.  Radscorpions, mobile algae, razorwolves, that kind of thing.

The ground is poison.  It eats through boots, if you give it enough time.  The water is worse.  The only trees left have chrome roots, and drop fruit that will pierce your skull if you're not careful where you step.

Every day in the wasteland is another struggle, another fight to survive against the things that nature has shaped through brutal punishment, into the hardiest bastards ever to walk this earth.  A colony tried to start up, once.  I still hit up their little ghost town for supplies every now and again.  Good solar panels.

They didn't see what I saw when I looked out of the City.  They saw a new land for their families to grow.  Wrong.  The wasteland has no room for sentimentality, for selflessness.  Humans can't live here, they're too soft. Too caring.  Drop two of them in the swamp and they'll be dead in hours.  But human, singular... well, so long as you're ready to adapt, you can thrive.

You know what the food chain is?  It's the chain I use to beat the other things that live hear to death so I can eat them.  And if you want to survive, you'll do it to.  Now get lost.  This is my 800,000 hectares of god-forgotten swamp.

Trainwreck 1979

I was born on a highway, at 137 miles per hour.

I mean, not physically of course.  My meat was pushed out of my mother 14 years earlier, but I wasn't born, I didn't start to live until the spedometer hit triple didgits and I was bathed in the fumes of smokey diesel and burning rubber.

That was the day I stopped living in fear.  The day I first felt control. For once, my life was fully in my hands. One wrong move and it was twisted metal and a smear on the pavement.  But I didn't make a wrong move.  I didn't make a mistake.

Instead I made a bootleg turn into reverse, slipped between a pair of transports, and almost got decapitated.  It was glorious.

So when I say I can get it to you in thirty minutes or less, I mean it.

To Waste

A sword is a wonderful thing to waste.

Standing here, beneath my banners and above my enemies, this is the thought that echoes through my head.  A sword is a wonderful thing to waste.

A thousand lives escape into the soil around me, one drop at a time.  A thousand sons and daughters, a thousand brothers and sisters.  Potential, draining away and decomposing like so much meat.  Possibility evaporates, and the future grows darker.  So much squandered, so much ruin.  My sword drips with what could have been, its razor edge having hewn those futures.

When they gave it to me, they said it was a gift.  A mighty tool to keep those I loved safe.  That it would make me mighty.  That it would bring us peace.

I only hope that those who lay around me have peace, for I know I will never have it.  I close the eyes of my nearest victim with a loving brush of my hand.  I'm sorry.

My king approaches, and I sheathe this terrible burden that was given in the guise of a gift.  Would that I had cast it away when I had the chance.  He strides to me confidently, joy exploding across his face.

I will kill him now.  Perhaps then his heir will see.

A sword is not a gift. It is a wonderful thing to waste.

Praxis-11

You look confused, soldier.  Of course the Hunter wants your boots.  They're nice boots.  Oh, he just wanted the one boot?  Well... they're like that.  Whatever they can put together that works.

I had this friend once.  A Hunter by trade.  Calmest, quietest little fellow.  Walked everywhere.  Liked to smell the roses, you know? No, I mean literally.  I saw him bend over and take a huge whiff in the Cosmodrome one time.  Full enviro-suit.  No air in-or-out.  Still, he stops, takes a huge bloom in his hand, and puts it to his face for a long, loving breath.  Hunters are weird.

I see you looking at me like that.  A Hunter?  As a friend?  Not really their way.  Bunch of loners.  Hardly ever see two of them in the same place, let alone playing nice.  Each one, thinking they're the best there is, the be all and end all.  But they're smarter than they look.. which I know, is not saying much.  They know there's things out there they can't handle... not alone, leastwise.  You ever had a hunter come up to you, and tell you they found a Hive hole that only a madman would try and clear?  Or a Wolfpack you'd need a deathwish to want to fight?  Yeah... They played you.  Used you as bait so they could get their work done.  And when it was over, you got their comm info from their Ghost right?

Yeah, that's friends to them.  Bait, friends, walking target, their vocab is pretty limited.  All that time in the field, talking to nobody but their Ghost. So yeah, they make friends.  Just not like you and I.  They want people they can hide behind, people that can flush out the target, not people to stand side by side with.  They figure if they're standing next to you then something's gone seriously wrong.

Anyway, this friend of mine.  We went way back.  He once waited in the same frozen hole in the ground for six days to get a shot at an Archon.  Just needed the one.  Rest of the group scattered as soon as their big buddy's head evaporated.

How do I know?  Oh I was there.  He called me after five days, said he found an Archon that needed killing, and where it was.  I told you, we were "friends".   So once I got good and swarmed, he got his shot.

After, he comes sauntering down the side of the hill he'd been dug in.  Takes him a good fifteen minutes to make it to my position.  Picks up a few stones on the way, pockets them.  Why? I dunno.  Maybe he likes rocks?  He didn't say.

Once he gets to me, gives me a little wave.  Like to say "Oh good, you made it".  And he pulls out that weird knife and just starts chopping on the Archon!  Like it was a buffalo.  I'm mid-sentence in talking about the fight and how I could have used some close support for the fiftieth time, and I just stop.  The guy is whistling while he works.

There's blue blood everywhere, he's soaked to the elbows.  Every once in a while he'll pull some mass of wires and neurons out, and hold it up for his Ghost.  It makes one of those intrigued beeps they make, and takes a scan before he chucks it over his shoulder.

I spend the next five minutes dodging Archon body parts.  Every once in a while, there's a mutter like "Oh this is good." or "Won't work, won't work... not compatible." or something similar.  Eventually he pauses, and sits stock-still... in that creepy way they do.  He turns around, and pulls his hood back to look at me.

"How've you been?" he asks me.  Completely soaking in blue alien blood, hands full of cybernetics, he's talking like he just bumped into me at the dispensary.

So I give him the full report, concise and thorough.  Takes a bit, haven't seen him in almost a year.  The whole time, the only thing that moves on him is his cloak in the wind.  He's like a statue.  I finish up, and ask him the same question.

"Good".  He tells me.  That's it.  One word.  We stare at each other for a minute or so.  Akward as you can imagine.  I'm just about to leave when he gets up and marches over to me, and with a flick of his knife he slices off my left cuisse.  All of it!  The whole damn thing, in one motion.  Didn't even know you could do that.  So now I'm shouting at him, no thigh armour, wondering what in the hells he thinks he's doing, when he clamps a piece of the Fallen Archon's forearm armour around my leg.  His ghost gives it a few blasts, and what do you know... best fitting, toughest piece of armour I've ever worn.

Yep, this piece right here.  Told me I favour my left leg forward in an engagement, it needs the most protection.  I never even noticed.  This piece here took a Vandal blade full swing not two days later... would have taken my leg clean off with the old armour.  Instead, the blade broke.  That guy saved my life.

That's why we need the Hunters.  That's why they get what they want when they come asking.  That's why you'll see old Titans happily hand over a piece of armour they've had for years.  A gun that's saved their lives a hundred times.  Any supplies they can.  Because those of us that have been around long enough see the fight how it is.  The Warlocks, bless 'em, are working every day to reclaim our past.  And us, we fight for the people here.  We hold the walls of the city against the darkness every day, fighting every battle to preserve the present.  You won't see a Hunter on the walls with you, you won't catch them in The Breach fighting back wave after wave to keep the City safe today.  And you should be glad.  Because while we fight for what we have, they're out there trying and dying to find us something better.

Don't let them fool you with the machismo and the bravado, it's not the next big kill or the next great fight they're hunting for.  They're hunting for a future. For our future.  And you'd best hope they find it, because there's fewer of us every day.  I'll hold this city until I can't draw one breath more, but I've had lots of squadmates that said the same thing.  And they did just that. We can't do it forever.

So when a Hunter asks for your boot, you give it to him.  And you hope that he's wearing it when he finds the way to get us out of this mess.