Close, and Closer

Shaxx is getting anxious on the radio. 

He talks too much. Across the gap from him he sees the Warlock he's been teamed with for this Crucible match. They share a nod. 

The Hunter is nowhere to be seen. 

The Titan turns down his Crucible feed, and amps his ambient input. For a moment, there is only the faint crackle of static over the wind, until...

There. 

Footsteps. 

Return audio settings to normal. Check Hand Cannon ammo - Full. Square shoulders. 

Wait. 

The Warlock holds up two fingers, and starts firing. Shots whistle past the Titan, screaming back and forth down the corridor beside him.

Wait. 

The Warlock ducks down behind a set of crates, shots ringing out off the corrugated steel as he starts his reload. 

Now.

The fury of the sun courses down the Titan's arm, coalescing into a white hot pinpoint of Solar energy that bursts into the shape of a flaming hammer in his hand. The weight feels good. The heat feels better. 

Stepping out around the corner into the face of two opponents who thought they could harm his teammate feels best. 

The hammer flies from his hand like a thing alive, like a hungry predator that was being held back by the Titan's own will. It seeks the one on the right, a Warlock, colliding with the might of a raging sun.

The Hand Cannon rises to face the one on the left, and barks out three quick shots at point-blank range, walking up from the torso and into the helmet. Shaxx says something celebratory. 

The Titan doesn't hear it. 

He's focused. Committed. The Warlock has shrugged off the surprise of the hammer assault, and has brought a pulse rifle to bear in response. A burst of three searing bolts jackhammers his shields and slams into his chest plate. 

He lunges forward, and knocks the rifle to the side. Bullets whiz past from his teammate, trying to help.  

One punch is all it takes. The glass of his opponent's helmet cracks as the singular strike connects, and the Warlock crumples to the ground, inert. 

A deep breath in. Hold. Release.

He turns to face his ally, who stands, and gives a thumbs up while reloading. 

In the distance, he can see his other ally fall backwards out of a shipping container, scrambling to retreat from the final opponent, who's rifle cracks shot after shot into the friendly Hunter's rapidly diminishing shield. 

Serenity disappears. The Fury returns. The Warlock is bathed in shining gold as the Titan forges in an instant the great Hammer of Sol, fills it with his conviction, and charges.

The last thing the final opponent hears, is an earth-shaking rumble of righteous anger, and the searing clang of steel on steel, like a hammer hitting an anvil.

Shaxx is impressed.

Sureity

“Okay, but, just hear me out maybe?” Lance wriggled nervously beside her, like some kind of nervous worm sensing the ominous proximity of some great beak. “Do we know, for a fact, that fifteen years of prison is really so bad?”

“We do.”

“But how can we know? How can we know anything?” Lance gestured dramatically at the wooden structures surrounding them, the shops and saloons that filled their view for blocks in every direction like some gaudy rustic theme park. “This could all be a simulation, after all. It would explain so much. Like why anyone would choose to live here.”

“It’s not.”

“But you can’t be sure, is my point. And if you can’t be sure, how could you be sure that prison is really so bad? And how can you be sure that Dianne will be able to help you, and not just, you know…” he made a jerking motion, pantomiming hanging himself with a squirk.

“I’m sure.”

Lance continued to choke on his imaginary noose for a few seconds, while she stood motionless beside him, studying the building. Finally satisfied, she strode in confidently, pushing the swinging doors wide and disappearing into the dim interior.

Lance slowly dropped his hands to his sides, and slumped.

“Yeah. You probably are.” He petulantly sighed as he followed his companion in like a man condemned.

Train Job, Part 3

It was a train job, which truly is a rare treat! The usual subtlety and intrigue of their daily work, but at breakneck speed and the tight iron confines of a hurtling bullet chugging across the nation. Who could be dour in such fantastic circumstances!

“Now you see, the Imperium folks, now they can brew. The short ones,” I nudged my travelling companion with my elbow as I pulled a flask from my vest, “they especially have a gift.” I rattled the container at him invitingly. He shook his head, his face displaying the classic combination of confusion and fear. Ah, the poor common folk. I shrugged, and took a long pull on my imported liquor.^[1] I suppressed a burp, in deference to my chance companion. He tried once more to return to the paper he had folded neatly on his lap before I interrupted him.

The Train Job, Part 2

It is not the train that makes the job difficult, but rather the speed at which it travels across our glorious land. Faster than the quickest steed, this iron behemoth pulls the weight of industry and progress across our commonwealth day in and day out, fuelled by magic and the will of the people. Magnificent.

But, when you are attempting to apprehend a group of dangerous criminals intent on using the train system as a means to wreak havoc, well...

One can see why Ser Gilbert is upset.

The Warlock Ten, or Dex as most of his companions called him, was waiting at the rear of the train to provide arcane support if called upon. His communication cuff link had recently chirped, telling him that Ser Gilbert was engaging his target. Other than that though, the system that the team used to stay in contact was eerily silent. Their opponent's strengths were not clear at this time, and Gilbert had not wanted to risk their information being intercepted so he had ordered them to remain silent.

Warlock Ten had wanted to point out that his examination of the individuals from afar had revealed no divinitory essences or systems that could possibly perform such an interception, but this was not Warlock Ten's first Mage Hunter. He had long ago learned not to volunteer too much information, or to let his keeper become too aware of his true potential. Partly for his own safety, and partly for theirs.

Mage Hunters with particularly potent Warlocks tended to volunteer for increasingly dangerous tasks, and although he loved his country, Warlock Ten had no immediate intention of dying alone in some far-flung corner of the globe to preserve and expand that country.

He looked out the small window of the baggage car he was hiding in, and sighed contentedly. The train continued its long trek through the grasslands and farms of the commonwealth, oblivious to the altercation about to occur inside it. Absent-mindedly, he pawed at the locket hidden inside his shirt as he wondered for a moment if it was all worth it. The wheats and grasses flew past the window, mountains in the distance seeming to lumber slowly, calmly by in the distance.

Yes.

He steeled his resolve. Indeed, it was worth it. Every bit.

His cuff link chirped twice in quick succession, and Warlock Ten broke from his reverie. Time to work. He scurried up the ladder on the wall, and flung open the hatch to the roof. Sunlight blazed into the dim baggage compartment, and the sound of whipping air was nearly deafening. He steeled himself, and climbed out into the driving wind.

Four

Four went down
from town to crown
and knew not where
their stars lay.

Four sons of light
must learn to fight
if in this new home
they will stay.

Four were here
now three are near
and for the other
do we pray.

Four took root
and bore the fruit
of labours dark
and choices gray.

Train Job, Part 1

It was a train job, which he hated because it complicates things. Anytime you take an intricate, delicate task and put it in a rickety box hurtling across the countryside at fifty clicks an hour, something goes wrong. Something you wouldn't expect. Something that would have been no issue, if you'd just kept your feet planted on the dirt like any decent son of the Goddess. But alas no, this was no normal job.

It was a train job.

Ser Gilbert of Neviche sighed, and shuffled his newspaper. He moved to the next page, eyes scanning the compartment for something, anything. Any sign of trouble, any uncomfortable passengers, an errant bead of sweat on a traveller's brow.

He could see Harcourt animatedly chatting up a neighbouring passenger at the other end of the car. Technically in position, but as usual his attention had wandered from the task at hand. Typical.

Page three of the paper had a story about some trouble at one of the universities, some kind of extraplanar being put down by a group of overzealous youths. He frowned. That is a job for the Diony, after all. Lazy and incompetent as they are.

It was subtle when it happened. Almost too subtle for Ser Gilbert, he noted. Two passengers, opposite sides of the car, separated by four rows casually meet eyes and nod to each other slightly. Got you.

One rises from his seat, folding his paper under his arm and retrieving a small bag from under his seat. Calmly he starts to make his way to the door at the end of the car. Gilbert presses the gem on his cuff link to alert Nora and the Warlock to be prepared, while trying to get Harcourt's attention. The target is almost to the exit by the time Harcourt turns casually from his conversation and points at the seated cohort while winking at Gilbert.

Curse his effortless skill, thinks the Mage Hunter. He throws his paper into the seat across from him and moves to calmly pursue the primary target. The far door of the car opens and shuts behind the man. Gilbert's cuff link chirps quietly to confirm Nora and the Warlock received his alert. He ups his pace to a noticeable amount, counting on Harcourt to handle the secondary target.

The door is a standard sliding train door, with a frosted glass pane on the top. Ser Gilbert takes a moment to breathe, centres himself, and throws the door open.

To come face to face with Nora, priestess of the Great Provider and his second-in-command. The instant ready position both took eases into a comfortable stand, as the confusion sets in. They both step onto the small platform separating the two cars, and Gilbert closes the door behind them. The sound of the rushing air is loud and unsettling.

"Did he pass you?" Gilbert asks, already knowing the answer.

Nora shakes her head with a glare. The two check opposite sides of the car, looking into the disappearing distance in case their target had jumped from the train. But the man dressed in black was nowhere to be seen on the horizon. The two turn to face each other once more. Gilbert frowns. Nora looks up, to the roof of the train.

Ser Gilbert of Neviche sighs, and begins resignedly climbing the ladder to the roof of the train. It was a train job.

Which complicates things.

Stone and Water

In the Ur-times, before Light was Bright and when The Song still played through everything and everywhen, Stone was hungry.

He had rolled from his brother Mountain days ago when Sun had just started it's journey and now he found himself by the water. The water lapped gently at Stone, and he found it soothed the hunger. But it still persisted. This vexed Stone. He sat in the gentle water for a thousand days, pondering how he would sate the great hunger that he felt, how he could grow himself big and strong like Brother Mountain. He thought and thought, so deeply and so long that he did not notice the water was shrinking him day after day. By the time he realized what had happened, he was a famished pebble, drowning in the gentle waters.

This vexed Stone. But he was too small to roll now, so he sat in the water, and stewed with his siblings that had suffered a similar fate.

They're Not.

That's the thing. They're not dinosaurs. They never were, dinosaurs went extinct sixty-five million years before anyone could even start to imagine their majesty, and long for them to shake the earth once more. These things, they are pale copies, imitation meat trussed up in the ill-fitting clothes of their ancestors and set free to adapt to a world that has no place for them.

Don't worry, they're making a place for themselves wether we like it or not.

But I digress, these creatures look like dinosaurs. Probably for another ten years or so, maybe more. They glide across the land on sure feet, arms and backs bedecked in bright plumage, hunting stealthily through the trees. The big ones lumbering across the plains, leather-skinned and whip tailed. And in a few short years they'll be obsolete, as our understanding of a world an eternity passed comes more clear. But these won't change. Because they're not dinosaurs.

They're what we think dinosaurs were. Cobbled together from bits and pieces of modern day animals and a pitifully basic understanding of the process of evolution's effect on a creatures genome.

Sigh.

The knowledge of the great lie sits under my skin like sandpaper. It grates on me every day, distracts me, keeps me from enjoying the essential grandeur that is before me.

They're not dinosaurs.

But god damn, do they play the part. An allosaurus rumbles past, sniffing the air, looking for me. Or maybe dinner. Probably both. The corner of my lip rebels into a slight smile before I can convince it otherwise. The allosaur heads off into the forest, dissappearing into the foliage.

I shoulder my rifle, adjust my bag and slip out of my blind. There's work to do.

Al came up from the south, and didn't smell like he'd had much luck. Probably nothing to worry about there then. And I'm sure as shit not heading north after the big lad. So east or west?

I have the GPS. I could pull it out, fiddle with it for a while and get a precise location on damn near every critter in the sanctuary. Theoretically. Unless they changed my password again. Every three months? When was the last time I changed it?

"Fuck it." I shrug, and head off eastward. I'll run into something.

The air is thick and heavy, hot. The sun's heading down, it'll cool out in a few hours. I push my way through the underbrush, sweat streaming off me, careful where I step. East was a good idea. Hit the plains. Get out of the trees, they're trapping the heat. The gun catches on a branch, and I stop to carefully extract it. A soft hooting filters through the trees, and I freeze. My eyes scan the area slowly. Nothing. I slip slowly against the trunk of the tree, turning to face the darkening forest. Where is it?

My heart starts to pound, I have to focus. Don't let it get to you. Don't lose your edge. Find it. Find the sound.

There is silence, save for the blood rushing through my ears.

I get the rifle free from the branch, and shoulder it. My heart slows a little.

Hoot.

Son of a bitch. I roll my eyes. The lyre bird hops from branch to branch, tilting it's head at me. Its beak opens, and a perfect immitation of a Phoruschasid. A Terror Bird. Three metres of muscle and hate, topped by almost twenty pounds of thick, bony, sharply pointed beak and skull for smashing prey.

"You're a dick." I shout at the lyre bird. It hoots back angrily.

I continue on through the cooling forest. I feel a breeze wind its way through the trees. I'm getting close.

I break through the tree line at last, just as the sun is starting to set. The plain stretches out before me like an ocean of grasses dotted with islands of trees. And working its way across it is a small herd of sauropods, thick elephantine bodies ponderously plodding along, preceeded by long elegant necks and followed by even longer, whiplike tails. It's a beautiful sight.

But something tugs at my attention. Something's out of place here. And when it hits me my stomach sinks like a stone. I grip my rifle tightly, as the fear takes hold. What I see mulling through the herd much worse than the Terror bird. Worse than the Allosaur.

It's people.

I hate people.

Dearest Elisabeth 1

Dearest Elisabeth,

Lo, it has been too many nights since I have had the chance to sit and collect my thoughts for you. My days are filled with adventure and intrigue, but my nights are the intervals of true excitement, for they are when visions of you dance across my mind. Alas that between the two I haven't the time to write you as I once did.

Two days ago our taciturn priest was able to cure us of our poisoning, at last. I will always espouse that I appreciate the work of his divine patron, but I will admit to a small complaint about the efficiency of his ministrations. Two days of prayer for a simple curing of disease? Any city priest worth his salt would be appalled.

Now, I know what you are thinking. 'Perhaps this is recompense for your wicked ways, Nathaniel'. But I should remind you that I haven't picked our good friend the Priest's pocket since we met, and even then I did return what I took when I discovered his noble profession. Eventually. What more piety could one ask from a thief, hmm? The gods are forgiving, I'm told.

I must go for now, my sweet Elisabeth. The mage is beginning to stretch and breathe deeply, which tells me that shortly there will be flames and bolts cast across the sky in what the penny-worth wizard calls 'practice'. I have learned of late that it is wise to take cover while the young man stretches his arcane muscles.

Much love, and all the care,

Nathaniel

White Like Bone

There is a way of thinking that states you are not who you think you are. The you that has been built up over the course of your life is impossible, because your consciousness has been interrupted. Interrupted every night in fact, while you slept. So every day you begin again, fresh faced, well rested, and an entirely new person.

Gods, how I want that to be true. How I long for that to free me from the sins of my past. To know that I was even a little unrelated to the man that shared this skin twenty four hours ago would be a sweetness I do not deserve. I apologize, as I am no philosopher. I have nothing to assert my claim to the invalidity of this theory but my own heart. My heart tells me, every morning, that the blood is still on my hands. Mine. It was my mistakes, my decisions, and my conviction that led me here, to this small room, before this mirror in which I see a stranger's face and a history of violence.

If anything I have lived not ten thousand lives but two. I would have been better off having died at the end of my first, but I am not a lucky man.

Like most I remember little of the day of my birth. Flashes of memory haunt my nightmares. Darkness, and screaming. A terrible pressure, and pain. A light. Arms pulling me through jagged stone and dust. Chalky faces of my family. My new family. And the finality. The loss. The truth.

It makes sense. Everything dies. But being confronted with the truth is often... painful. And there is nothing wrong with that truth.

It's what I did with it that I will suffer for.

The man in the mirror has been there too long already now. He finishes applying his chalky white makeup and stands. The knife dangles loosely at his hip. There is work to be done, and so he turns and leaves.

And my heart is heavy with the weight of the truth I must share with the people. It will be a long night, before I can return, sleep, and dream of a new life, and a new me. Someone else to bear this skin. Someone better.