The Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon

"What is important, Initiate?" The voice of Knigh-Exalted Kras boomed through the gale. Wind whipped at the words, and snow weighed them down.

"The Word of Bahamut, Sir!" Came my reply through the cutting cold. I was ankle deep in snow, wearing only my trousers, my shoes, and my faith.  Clutched to my chest was The Divine Book Of The Platinum Dragon.  A tome I was given at the onset of my training in the order of the Champions Transcendent.

"Correct!" Kras' voice boomed back. He was dressed in his full battle-armour, wrapped in a cloak made of a bear. Around his neck dangled a medallion that kept the cold from affecting him. I envied that medallion. Oh, very much so.

"How much farther do we have to march, Sir?" I requested through chattering teeth. I could no longer feel my chest, which worried me.  When I lost feeling in my hands, I knew I was on the right path. Struggle breeds greatness. When I lost feeling in my arms, I knew I was on the right path. A paladin is forged in suffering. When I lost the feeling in my legs, I knew I was on the right path. To protect the innocent from harm, one must know harm. When I lost feeling in my chest, I became convinced I would die here in the cold.

"That depends, Initiate." Kras smiled. I think he smiled. It's getting hard to see.

"On... on what Sir?" I asked, exhausted.

"Tell me... what is most important?"

I sighed. I had said the same thing, every time he had asked. Was he testing my faith? Still? Would he wait until I passed out from exhaustion to be sure of my reverence for the Book? If he did... would I survive the night? Or would he trust my fate to Bahamut... A shiver went through me that was not from the freezing.

"Thththe Word of Bbbbbbahamt, Sir!" I shouted, as best I could.

Kras shook his head, and smiled. I think. It might have been a sneer.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yyyyess, yessir." I nodded forcefully.

"More important than your life, these words are?"

I was confused. I cocked my head, and furrowed my brow. Of course they were... these words are divine. They have sheltered the faithful since before I was born and will long after I am dead. They are the truth, the light, and the shield of the righteous.

"Off cccccourse Sir."

"I see." he put his hand to his face. "Cold out tonight. You're a tough one, Initiate, I'll give you that. But..." He shook his head again, "Not the brightest, hmm?"

In place of words, I shivered angrily.

"Why are the words important, Initiate?"

"Thththey are the shshshshield of the righteous, and thththe banner of the jujujujust... Thththe words that thththe willing can fffffind strength and unitttttty in..."

"Right, yes, good," he waved his hand impatiently in the air. "And who exactly is going to bring those words to those who need them, if you're dead from the cold Initiate?"

I stared at him blankly. I shivered.

He reached into a pouch on his belt, and held out to me a box of matches.

I stared at them, and back to him.

Huh.

As I sat by the fire of the burning book, I warmed myself in Knigh-Exalted Kras' bear coat and realized that a life is worth more than a book.

Even if it's a really, really good book.

Green Is Good

My lover's got problems.  She's screaming at me, and I'm having a hard time trying to care.

My eyes glass over while I stare at her pretty face.  She's real mad this time.  Not like last time. Not like the time before. So many problems. So much struggle.

I can't hear what she's saying. No, that's not right. I can hear it. I just... don't care. Why don't I care? I should care. I count on her for so much. For... everything. She's my whole world. I should care.

I have to care.

I force myself to care. I shut my eyes, and let the sound into my mind.  I know that voice.  I know those words.  They mean something.

Why is it so hard to think?

Who cares. Just... It's not... Who... what's the point?  There will always be more problems. Let go.

No. We care. We're caring now. THINK.

I open my eyes. They hurt, and the brightness of her beautiful face isn't helping. So much light. All red. Oh boy she's real mad. What is it. Focus.

Ox... oxy... Oxygen. I hear it. She's screaming at me about the oxygen system. Life support critical. Route additional power. Duh.

I shake my head slowly, and the whole console smears in my vision. That's what it is. Oxygen starvation. Hah. Duh.

I reach up, and flip the aux power routing switch on the big, beautiful face of my ship console, and she quiets down.  Oxygen starts flowing back into the cabin, and she stops whistling the oxygen warning at me. The console moves back from red to yellow, settling once more in green. Good.

Green is good.

Thanks babe. You're the best.

Adrift

In the ur-times, before Coyote found his humour and before She Who Longs For The Darkness had anything to long for, Leviathan was adrift.

And Leviathan spoke to its brother, Behemoth, though in those times words had not yet come.

Brother Behemoth I am adrift and cannot feed.

Brother Leviathan I am no better.

At this point, the Joy That Comes From Failure passed between the two and was eaten. Leviathan and Behemoth tore wildly at it, and bumped into each other many times making Sounds. From their titanic struggle Thunder was born, and the Groaning In The Deep, and these two children knew of their parents and fled lest they too become a meal.

All that remained of the Joy That Comes From Failure was a scrap that drifted away, beyond the reach of the two great beasts. It fled, and became Learning.

Brother Behemoth I am yet hungry.

Brother Leviathan I am yet hungry.

We cannot fight for food like this, Brother Behemoth. We are sure to starve.

We shall make a great surface, and tread upon it and walk far away from each other Brother Leviathan. Then we need not fight.

No, we will create a great water, and swim in it far from each other Brother Behemoth. Then we need not fight nor tread.

And the two drifted while they thought, a process that took so much time because of their titanic minds that Light came and met The Sun, and they began their courtship and were wed.

Brother Leviathan, make your water and live in it. Feed on those that swim. I will make my surface, and feed on those that walk.  Then we need never fear each other.

And Leviathan saw that this was wise, and made the great ocean while Behemoth made the earth. And as they parted they feasted on all that stood or swam in the new world, robbing the future of many things.

And A Wizard Besides

Shasson was a liar, and a wizard besides. As the sandstorm raged on around him, he began to wonder if that was really such a distinction.

Standing over a half-closed haversack, the wizard fought to maintain his wards and keep the stinging sand at bay. He had pushed his defensive spells harder and further than he’d ever thought possible, a feat that (if he survived) no one would believe.

Well, some people would believe. Not the important ones. Not anymore.

A speck of dust streaked through the glowing bubbles of protection Shasson was keeping up, moving with such force that it cut his face before shooting out the other side. He shook his head and refocused on his spells. For a moment.

A spell is just a lie the universe believes, really. It’s an act of convincing the natural forces of the world that they don’t exist, that they should bow to your will and not that of nature. And being convincing was always one of Shasson’s gifts. One of Shasson’s few gifts.

Shasson’s only gift.

A look of horror settled into his face as the fact sunk in.

The exterior blue orb, his first line of defence flickered and went out before he could refocus. Damnit.

Shassan was forced to his knees, the two remaining wards serving only to slow the sand. He closed his eyes. Everything was terrible. Not even he could convince himself that was false.

At least his companions won’t die here with him, he’d seen to that. Accidentally, of course. Having told them the artifact they’d been seeking for the last year was a good thirty kilometers south, he had been able to sneak off to claim the prize for himself without too much trouble. They were probably still hoping to catch up with him.

Idiots.

Shassan couldn’t see it, but he felt the second ward drop. Sand was rapidly piling up at his feet, and sliding inside his robes. He couldn’t talk his way out of this. There were no more spells to cast. The sand was going to kill him, and that was the truth.

The thought brought him comfort for a reason he couldn’t quite understand. He knelt, curled up inside his final ward, and smiled as the sand tore at his skin. The sand was truth. The storm was truth, a truth he couldn’t obscure or deceive. An ultimate truth. The wards were gone, or going.

His lies were being stripped away by truth, and before long he himself would be blown away by it.

He stood, a smile fixed on his face. The inevitability was simultaneously terrifying and beautiful. His skin was on fire, his robes whipping and ripping in the wind. The final ward dropped. His last lie.

The only thing left was himself. A man in the sand. Not a wizard, not a liar, just a man. Flecks of sand buried themselves into his skin at a thousand miles an hour, shearing away his body an inch at a time. He could see a light approach through his closed eyes. How long had he been waiting for this? How long had he been alive?

He passed out, collapsing into the sand. The last thing he felt was the storm’s savage embrace loosen and disappear. Of course.

A heavily armoured man stood over the liar and wizard besides, who was barely recognizable. The man bent down, and uncovered the haversack. He checked inside, nodded, and slung it over his shoulder.

“It’s here!” He called back to his two companions, one holding a torch that seemed to keep the swirling sands at bay wherever its light touched.

“Great! Can we get the hell out of here now? I don’t know how long this torch will last.” One of the figures called back.

“Hm.” The armoured man nodded. He stood over the unconscious body of Shassan, scowling. He nudged Shassan with his foot and sighed. “You are such a dick.”

The armoured man hefted Shassan’s sleeping form over his shoulder, and the four of them set off into the storm.

Run - Awolnation

There's lightning striking all over the world.  Constantly. Which, I guess, out of context is not that unusual. Storms happen everywhere. But things are different now.

There are no storms.

Only the lightning.

Everywhere.

Fires are rampant. The world is crackling with energy from... somewhere. The news can't say, or won't say. Remain indoors. Stay away from electrical appliances. Tell your family you love them.

Do not touch the energy.

Do not let it inside.

Do not let it inside you.

Do not look at the lightning, do not enjoy it's radiant brilliance.

Enjoy the flash.

Let the light in.

Let it inside.

Let it inside your family.

Everything is under control.

Profoundly Simple

It is in the eyes of the predator, that you can see its intent. There is no telling a hunter's designs from their movements, or the sounds they make, or the look upon their face.

It is true for wolves, it is true for people.

Once you know what to look for, it becomes a profoundly simple task.  You'll find yourself doing it with everyone you meet.  Everyone's hunting something, whether it's a meal or a promotion or the life of another.  The look is more or less the same. But you get better at it.  You start to see the tiny changes, the minor differences.  Before long you'll be able to tell just how much of a threat they really are.

But it doesn't always take that much practice. Sometimes, it's profoundly obvious. Painfully obvious. Sometimes, even the uninitiated can look into a man's eyes and see exactly what he intends.

So look into my eyes and tell me... what do you see?

The Belemorn

Humanity's trek across the stars has been an amazing adventure.  In the last few hundred years, we have gone places, and seen things our ancestors could not have even conceived of.  The fernships of Feremolius, the Lightmoon, She That Speaks in the Silence...

But put aside the wonders of technology and the mysteries of the galaxy. The thing that has always amazed me, the thing that has always filled me with wonder, are the people we've encountered. The multitudinous orders of life we've discovered, and in most cases, befriended. The utter differences in the types of life we've met yet we've still, somehow, found common ground. It makes me proud, to know that humanity has been able to put aside differences and grudges to create a better galaxy.

Take, for example, my friend here across the table. A Belemorn. No eyes, no mouth, no discernible orifices of any kind. They're basically giant, floating jellyfish with space cruisers. They communicate mostly by complex tenticular motions beyond the comprehension of humans, but when they have to speak with us they vibrate their outer membrane to create sounds. It's a beautiful system, and shows how hard everyone has worked, on both sides, to create a peaceful galaxy.

That said, this son of a bitch is taking me to the cleaners today because I can't read his goddamn non-existent pokerface.  No-faced, floating little bastard.

An Agent of Her Grace

"What is it you are trying to do?" Abbott Keremor asked his pupil.

"Smite the target, Abbott." Rankin replied.

"So why isn't it smote?"

"Well..." Rankin kicked at the dirt sheepishly. "Maybe... the target isn't... evil? Enough? You know, to warrant Erathis' wrath?"

"Ugh, if only it worked like that... no. It is not yet smote, because you have yet to smite it." Abbott Keremor shook his head, but smiled warmly.  "Remember, you are not just a conduit for the power of Erathis, not some wand used to direct her righteous fury or her benevolent love. You are an agent of her grace, an operative of her might. You must earn her trust, and her power."

"Right..."

"She is not working through you. You are not some mere puppet of her Holiness. She does not reach through you to strike down her foes, she's busy boy. She needs to trust you to find her enemies, root them out and strike decisively. She needs to believe that you will give her blessing to those in need, not those who want."

"Okay... so... how do I convince a god that I'm worthy of her time?" Rankin asked, more perplexed than ever.

"You start the same way you do when you ask Brother Lawrence for seconds, child."

And Abbott Keremor lifted his hand to the target, and spoke with a booming voice a word as ancient as the gods themselves. His whole body shook with the deep timbre of his voice, and the walls echoed with the clarity of his speech. The target was engulfed within a column of flame as high as a house, a twisting torment of fire as hot as it was divine, which dissappeared as quickly as it came. All that remained of the target was a pile of embers, glittering red. Abbott Keremor smiled.

"You ask nicely"

Definitely Up

Qeul had traveled six days and five nights over the plains.  He had stopped to rest only twice, and had nearly died on both occasions.  The plains were not safe. No height. Can't stay off the ground, so you have to keep moving.

He was carrying two tusks, each nearly as long as he was tall, behind him.  There had been the skull of some kind of elephant creature a few kilometers back, and if Quel could just find a stick, or some kind of post he could construct a tower. Three legs, very sturdy.  Sleep on that.  Up. Off the ground.

He looked at his blistered, bleeding feet.

Yes, definitely up.

He scanned the horizon.  Quel had never seen so much nothing in his life, and would be most glad never to see it again.  For the third time, he questioned if he had gone mad. That's what happens to people without sleep. They go mad. Everyone knows that.

His feet started to tingle, and he realized he had stopped moving. No good, no good. He trudged forward, dragging what he hoped was his salvation behind him.

He thought of home while he walked. Of Vanya, and her blessed smile. Of the smell of roasted vegetables and the taste of cooked meat.  He smiled, and his face hurt. He rubbed his cheeks with a hand. How long has it been since I did that?

He blinked, and the world tumbled for a moment. In an instant he was on his feet again, a fighter's reflexes popping him into a defensive crouch in the instant of threat. But there was no threat. He had simply... fallen.

Fallen asleep.

Only for an instant, but the realization struck him hard. He was falling asleep while he walked. And death comes to those who sleep on the plains.

No, I will not die here.

He grabbed his tusks, and walked on.

And walked.

And walked.

Could I make a stand with the two tusks?  No... no it would fall. It needs the third support, or it will fall and I will be on the ground.  Bad.

And walked.

And walked.

And as the sun began to set on the sixth day of Quel's quest through the plains, he fell to his knees in despair. He watched the sun fade down below the horizon, and the moon peek out of the darkness while his knees began to burn beneath him. And soon, he fell forward, his body slumping face first into the soft, deadly ground.

Only it wasn't soft. Not at his face. In fact, it was painfully hard. The pain jolted him awake, just enough to realize his fortune. He crawled up onto his feet, blood seeping out of a dozen wounds on his knees, and ran his hands over the ground. There was something... something metal.  Metal is good.

It was long, and thin. Oh, sweet praise yes it's perfect!  He got his hands around it, and pulled. It was caught in the roots of the grasses, but he pulled and pulled and it tore free.

Perfect.

A metal pole, half-hand wide and more than a man tall. There was some kind of flat shape on one end, with eight sides. Might make a decent shovel, if he bent it right.  But that's tomorrow's problem.

He reached in to his pack, and pulled out some rope.  In a few moments, he had constructed a three-legged structure with the pole and tusks.  At last.

It looked like a giant caltrop, a collection of sharp points bound in the centre. He gave it a test shake, and it appeared to be sturdy enough. He climbed up, and rested his back against one of the protruding tusks, cradling himself in the middle. At last.

I will not die here, he thought. Instead, I will sleep.

And so he smiled, and fell asleep.

Two Shy

The coffee steamed in front of them, it would be too hot to drink for some time still.  The coffee shop's vintage table was dotted with ancient rings of similar cups from the last dozen years.  No part of Stanley's attention was invested in either the coffee or the decor, however.  Stanley was watching the door.

Martha was pointedly looking at the steaming cups, on the other hand.

"They changed the design." She said, lifting her paper cup up between them.

"Hmm?"

"They changed the design, on the disposable cup.  It used to have fourteen swirls from the top to bottom, now it has twelve." She indicated to her partner across the table.

"Hm." Stanely rarely admitted that he was envious of Martha's attention to detail. And not once did he ever mention it to her. But it was a remarkable gift, to be sure. And very, very helpful in their line of work.

"Why do you think they changed it?" She asked.

"Save on ink, maybe. Less to print."

"Hm.  But it probably cost them more to re-design it than they'll save on the new ones."

"Perhaps." Stanley admitted, tilting his head slightly in agreement. The door opened, and his body became alert with lightning speed, belied in no way by his outward appearance.  In fact, he moved not at all, save for the immediate dilation of his pupils as they locked on to the person entering the coffee house. "A discussion for another time, I'm afraid Martha. Our job is here."

Martha didn't turn to see, she knew what she would find. The dossier had been quite explicit, and Stanley was rarely wrong.  She slipped her gun out of her purse, and rested it on her lap.

"Very good," She said. "I was afraid if we had to wait much longer we'd have to actually drink some of this god-awful coffee."