Shadrak

He was below decks in his quarters when the shout came up. A flicker of hope filled his mind, but was quickly contained in a cage of rationality. They had been wrong before.  Carefully he put away his inks and instruments, rolled up his parchments, and placed them in their proper containers. Just as he was finishing, the knock on his door came.

"Come," he barked at the door. It swung open quickly but carefully, and in the frame was the bosun.

"Land, sir," the bosun smiled widely, betraying his joy at the prospect of being free from their journey.

"Hmm," replied the captain. He finished calmly putting away his parchments and turned towards the door. Absentmindedly he fingered the large ring he bore on his pinky finger. He nodded, but could not return the smile.

The two of them emerged from the belly of the ship into the bright sunlight of the day. The crew was quietly jubilant, not wanting to disturb their captain but unable to contain their joy. At last his eyes adjusted, and on the horizon he saw it.

The glittering Golden City. At last.

A smile cracked his lips. There was naught it could be but their goal. Freedom at last.

"Start the ritual." He ordered the crew, who immediately erupted into thrilled shouts. They cleared the spell circle in the centre of the ship and rushed to gather the components.

The captain toyed once more with his overlarge ring, and turned to the bosun.

"Would you do the honours?" He asked, pulling out his knife and handing it handle-first to the bosun. His eyes lit up with surprise and respect.

"I would consider it a privilige, sir." He took the intricate knife, and bowed deeply to his captain. The two moved to the centre of the circle.

The two men looked into each other's eyes with the pride of a job well done, and the bosun slit his captain's throat with the blade in a single, vicious, practised strike. As he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his neck, the captain made no action to stem the red tide. Instead, he pulled the ring from his finger, and placed it in the bosun's hand.

The two shared a last look of profound respect, and the captain's blood ignited the arcane circle etched in the ship's deck. Out of the mystic circle came the dessicated face of the Emperor-Dead, gazing down upon the crew with polite disinterest.

The bosun slid the ring on his pinky, and felt it clamp down with an almost living strength. He stood up straight, and spoke to the image of his ruler.

"This is captain Shadrak of the Dereth Pride, and I am pleased to report that we have found the Golden City for you, my Lord." He bowed to the image, which flickered in reds and blues before him, an ancient face that ever so slightly betrayed a sense of excitement at the news.

The Monster in the Mountain

There is a monster, they said.

The mountain has slept for generations, a peaceful reign long enough for the people to prosper and outgrow their town. Long enough for them to spread up the mountainside, and make use of its fertile soil and dense forest.

The people spread and grew like a tide, rising up the mountain, while it continued to slumber. It had slept so long that all said it would never again wake.

It was only grandfather's grandfathers grandfathers fathers that had seen the living mountain in it's rage, and they had died long past. Now it slept the forever sleep. It was obvious.

So when the thing came to the town and was cast out, when it stumbled up the mountainside away from the people, when it disappeared and the mountain woke with thunder and fire, all was clear.

It was a monster, they said.

As I climbed the ten thousand steps, as I crossed rivers of fire that ran through houses that were, as I drew my cloak across my mouth to combat the noxious breath of the mountain, I could not argue. What could cause this much destruction, this much loss, but a creature of the vilest hells.

And here I stand, sword drawn, at the mouth of the cave it has made its home. Bathed in the orange light of the searing earthblood, fatigued by the oppressive heat, swaying with the shuddering earth, I stand ready. I can see the thing now.

It is a monster.

Its body is twisted and hunched in a painful attempt to hide from the scene unfolding around it. Its clothes tatters and rags of singed fabric, barely holding together on its gaunt frame. Worst of all, its face is contorted in a grotesque mask of pain and fear. I can see in its wet eyes the same shame and sadness that threatened to take me, once. And in that moment, I know what I must do with my sword.

I cast it aside, and step towards the boy. He cannot have seen any more summers than I, barely in his teens. He tries to recoil, but I'm too fast. My hand reaches his shoulder, and I bring him to me in a tight embrace. I press him to me, holding him firm.

The heat is almost unbearable, I can feel my skin beginning to burn all across me, but I will not let go. The cave erupts with flame and heat, the mountain shakes, and the cavern echoes with screams of loss and sadness. I grip him tight. It is too much. I drop to my knees. But I will not give up.

The moment comes that I think I might lose consciousness, and in that blistering moment of heat and panic, the mountain goes silent. The fire dies, the earthblood cools back to stone, and the thunder that pealed across the sky is replaced with the quiet sobbing of a boy, cursed to be a sorcerer by an uncaring world.

I open my burned eyes. Everything hurts. I loosen my grip on the young sorcerer, but do not let go. He buries his head in my shoulder, and I do not stop him. I rest my head on his, and pat him on the back reassuringly.

"It's going to be alright," I lie to the boy, in accordance with the Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon.

On the Path

"Aren't you hot in that big bear coat?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the thin ledge the three of them were traversing. A pebble, carelessly kicked, tumbled away and fell the hundreds of feet down the side of the living mountain they were working their way across.

The squire clutched at the fur of his great coat absent-mindedly. "A little. But it reminds me of a time I was colder than cold, and that keeps me content." He replied, stepping with surety across the cracking path they were taking. He reached back, to help his compatriots across.

The first was a tiny young thief-girl. She deftly hopped the crevice, without even acknowledging the offer of assistance.

The other was a ranger, clearly out of place on the burning mountainside. With every roaring eruption she cast her glance upwards to the fiery explosions at the top. Her footing was sure and silent, as it always was, but her eyes moved constantly, betraying her discomfort with the stone and the fire that threatened to end them at any moment. The squire knew she must be truly worried when she took his hand without question or complaint. The Ranger was fiercely independent, and uniquely capable. She had refused every offer of assistance he had ever offered her.

But here, on the edge of the smoking mountain, she placed her hand in his without thinking. He helped her across, and when her surprisingly soft hand left his, the thought of it remained in his head.

He shook himself, and adjusted the sword and shield he bore under his coat, hustling to catch up to the Thief.

"Do you think it's really a Demon?" the Thief called back as she nimbly picked her way over the rocks. The path was becoming increasingly treacherous as the mountain shifted and cracked. A thunderous roar erupted from the top, and a new collection of magma was thrust into the air, carried to the other side of the mountain by the winds. The Squire quietly praised Bahamut for his protection and grace.

"Hopefully it's nothing, Fa'ar." the Squire replied. But he gripped the handle of his sword, remembering the testimony of the townsfolk. They had spoken of a demon that had wandered into the town, crackling with arcane energy. It wailed and wandered, destroying everything it touched, until the faithful of the town were able to drive it out towards the mountain. They had thought themselves finished, until the mountain woke.

Could be a coincidence.

Could be a demon.

The Squire set his jaw, and carried on.

"But what if it IS a Demon?" Fa'ar continued inquisitively.

"Then we do our duty." the Ranger answered, with a finality that Fa'ar understood.

Silence fell, and the three of them worked their way up the increasingly unstable pass, to the mouth of the mountain.

The Moment's Truth

Doe was padding silently through the forest, just as The Ranger had taught her. Her ears stretched out between the trees around her, seeking and searching for the dinner she was supposed to bring back. Her eyes travelled slowly over the foliage around her but she paid little attention to them. They were too easily fooled in the forest.

Too easily wooed, The Ranger had told her.

He was immune, of course. For he had burned his heart and it was black. The forest held no beauty for him, only treachery and death. And it was his job to make sure that the forest claimed no more victims than it had. Keep the trods clear. Shepherd the vicious things from the paths of Men. Rescue the fools that wandered from the path, and became lost.

It was this that Doe was learning from The Ranger. But she refused to learn his hate. She paused in her search for a moment, so that she could open her eyes. Really open, and see. See the forest for what it was.

The colours, the patterns. The life that was, that is, and that is budding to be. The ancient and the new, intertwined at her feet and for miles around. The ever continuing motion, the immemorial stillness. It was beautiful to her. The Ranger could no longer see like this, and she pitied him for it. He had cut himself off from the majesty of the forest so that he would not be consumed by it. But Doe would not be consumed. Doe would walk The Ranger's path, but she would not be bound by it. Doe would not become the hate that The Ranger wanted her to be. Doe would learn all that she could from The Ranger, and she would learn all she could from the forest. And then she would be ready. So she revelled, for a moment, in the beauty around her. The majesty was intoxicating.

But distracting, she admitted. She closed herself to the beauty, and forced her eyes to see only the truth. Her truth, this moment's truth.

The tracks.

Dinner had passed through here not long ago. Doe smirked to herself.

It would pass back this way before long, on her shoulders. Less than an hour out hunting, and she was almost ready to return with enough food for days.

Let him find a problem with that, she thought to herself as she slung her bow off her back and slid silently into the trees in pursuit of her prey.

Good Soup

"I forgive you, child." The old man was pouring soup into a bowl in his little cave home. He didn't look at the boy as he spoke, simply poured with care.

The boy stood worriedly at the mouth of the cave, unsure of what was happening and afraid of this strange new person.

The old man poured a second bowl of soup, and set it on the ground between himself and the boy before retreating to a bedroll on the other side of the fire to eat his own soup.

The boy fidgeted at the entrance.

"Those were not your parents that left you here, were they?"  the man called out over the fire.

Silence answered his question, and the boy continued to fidget. Wondering if he should flee. Would he be able to find his way back? Did he... did he want to go back. After what he'd done.

"No. Not parents. But family, I think." The old man slurped loudly. "Mmm. Good soup."

The boy's eyes slid to the soup. He was hungry, after all. It took a lot out of him when he... when that happened. But he still didn't trust the old man.

There was quiet in the cave, save for the crackling of the fire. The old man finished his soup, and set the bowl beside him but he did not rise.

"When did it begin, if I may ask at least that?" His voice was kind.

The boy, still standing at the entrance, shuffled back and forth for a moment before deciding to answer.

"Not long ago." He spoke with shame.

"Hm." Came the ambivalent reply.

The two looked at each other.

The boy decided he wanted soup after all.

"Your family thinks I can fix you. Make you normal again." Came the voice from across the fire.

The boy slurped his soup slowly, and stared across the fire. Could he?

"But I can't."

Oh.

"You are not broken, child. I cannot fix what is not broken. Tame, perhaps. But that is up to you really."

The boy stopped eating.

"The Magic has chosen you as a conduit. It will fill you until you burst, or until you learn to control it."

He put down the bowl.

"But you are a boy, so control will not come easy. And so I say, I forgive you."

The child looked through the flickering flames at the wrinkled face of the sage.

"What for?"

"For what you cannot forgive yourself. For what you will do to me."

The boy was confused, and cocked his head.

"Know that when you lash out someday, in anger, and your magic unmakes me... I forgive you."

The old man's face was soft, and full of honesty. The boy was shocked.

"And so do your parents."

The Ranger's Path

"Why do you seek to walk the Ranger's path?" Boomed the dark cloak in the shadows of the trees.

"I love the forest." The little voice responded, from somewhere in the underbrush.

"Then you should go find a druid." The booming cloak laughed. "You will find no love for the forest in the heart of a true Ranger. Only hate tempered by respect, little one."

"But you spend so much time in her trees, Ranger. How can you not love her bounty and her beauty?" The little voice echoed lightly through the trees, making it hard to pin down.

"Love is blind, little mouse. Love is a beautiful thing in the comfort of a home, and a terrible weakness in the dark of the trees." An arm sneaked out of the dark cloak, and rested on a tree branch. "Give in to love in the forest, and she will consume you."

"I think you have grown bitter, old Ranger.  You need an apprentice, to regrow your heart." The little voice was not far now.

She was skilled, thought the Ranger. A smile cracked his lips, an expression he had not worn truly in a long time. Perhaps she was not so wrong. About needing an apprentice, at least.

He turned slowly, still holding the branch. It was covered in beautiful yellow blooms, and as he slowly moved it with him, they shook and a fine powder fell to the forest floor.

"Perhaps you need a master to harden yours, little mouse." He called out to the voice.

As he finished turning, he saw her. Standing stock still, short bow drawn aiming at his skull, a face flush with victory. He slowly brought the branch protectively between her bow and his face.

"A friend to the trees needs no master like you, Old Ranger." She smirked at him.

"The trees are no more your ally than mine, little mouse." And he blew hard on the beautiful flower, and the dust that came out was as stars that filled the young one's mind as she passed out.

Greater Fey

"Oh but the forest is so beautiful today, it is yes." The words echoed out from a porcelain boar's face atop the body of a mighty bear. Tella froze.

The creature did not move. It continued to stare at her with empty eye sockets. The mask was terrible and beautiful, perfect in its craftsmanship and utterly inhuman.

"Do you not think, it is yes?" The thing moved with grace to put its face next to the young girl's. With only a few hands space between them, Tella was now quite sure it was her the thing was speaking to.

"Yes." She said calmly. No sudden movements. Agree to no bargains. Trust nothing.

"Yes it is, it is yes!" The thing danced back, it's head not moving up or down, left or right as the whole body rotated around it and bounced. No expression was worked into the mask.  Tella was terrified.

The thing suddenly stopped.

"Why are you in the Feasting King's kingdom I wonder... perhaps it is a runaway? It is yes." The mask tilted quizzically.

Tella nodded.

"Yes it is, it is yes!" The creature positively beamed. It danced around her, and everywhere its feet fell the ground was painfully colourful for a moment. "Why do you run winterlet? Is it seeking of adventure? Is it seeking monies? I think it is not, it is no." It stood behind Tella, craning its body impossibly over her, and twisting to be face-to face with her. She was enveloped in the Fey's body.

Tella thought hard about her answer. Give him nothing to play with. Make him bored.

"I'm leaving my home... because... I have... left my home." She replied, and hoped it was good and bad enough.

"Ooooohoo hoo hoo, you know of me winterlet!  Or of my brothers perhaps. You think to bore me, it is yes? You have left home because you have no power, and home is no place for a winterlet with no strength in her arms."

Damnit.

"It is on your face why you left your home, it is yes."

Thrice damnit.

"Worry not, winterling! The Feasting King is a happy king! Have this, and return home!  Or find adventure. Do as you will!  The Feasting King is busy feasting." And he danced and danced, and the world spun with him around Tella until she was sure she would vomit.

She closed her eyes, hoping it would pass. Everything hurt like a terrible pressure, and she was sure her stomach would explode, but shortly it passed. All save for the feeling in her gut. That remained.

She opened her eyes, and the world was normal again. It was indeed a beautiful day in the forest.

The Feasting King was nowhere to be seen.

Tella sat down on the ground hard, and exhaled deeply. She tried to remember stories of people who had survived encounters with the greater fey.

She could only think of two.

They didn't end well.

Her stomach still hurt, despite the rest of her having recovered from the experience. She put her hand on her stomach, and probed at the pressure inside her.

Oh no. Oh please no.

She pressed a little harder, and felt a belch work its way up and out her throat.

She felt physically much, much better after that. However, the glittering motes of fey magic that hung in the air after her expulsion told her one terrible, horrible thing.

There was fey magic stuck to her soul now. And there was no-way she could think of to get rid of it.

No way at all is it, it is yes.

A Natural Gift

"The boy is very impressive. How long have you been teaching him?" The Prince asked his companion in the stands.

"Only a month. Just enough to know which end of the sword to hold. Everything you are seeing here is his... natural gift, I suppose you could call it." The companion folded her hands into her sleeves.

"A month? That's all?" The Prince raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed."

"I suppose his heritage is to thank for his nimbleness, but still... he moves like water. I've never seen an elf that fast, or that sure footed... and I've seen the dangerous ones up close." He scratched idly at the scar on his shoulder, buried deep beneath layers of royal clothing.

"Of course, your eminence. Like I said, he is naturally gifted in the art of combat. But, I'm afraid he might not be what you are looking for." The teacher shifted nervously on her feet. "His gift comes at an unusual price, it seems."

The Prince looked sideways at the trainer, a woman who was usually very straightforward. It was odd to see her so evasive. He returned his gaze to the boy on the field. The child was simultaneously fighting three of the Prince's royal guard, each more than twice his age and likely thrice his weight. And he was winning. They could make not an inch of ground on the boy. His blade flashed like lightning, punishing every misstep, capitalizing on every shift of weight, slipping inside every dropped guard. It was like a beautiful dance. With a twist and a snap, he sliced off one of the guard's breastplates, leaving his midsection fully exposed. The look of shock on the guard's face was worth the expense of the entire trip here, thought the Prince.

"Aturar!" the trainer called out, stopping the fight. When the word reached his ears, he changed in an instant. His stance shifted from a low combat crouch to the straight backed posture of a court noble. His face shifted from a perceptive grimace into a relaxed, unfixed gaze. He almost dropped the sword. But the most fascinating thing the Prince noticed, was that the boy began breathing again. Calm, deep breaths. Had he not been breathing for the entire match?

"Good work, Elumene. Come here." She waved the boy over. He nodded, and began to stride over before remembering at the last moment to bow to his opponents. They were all breathing in ragged gasps, and nodded back. One of them handed the fallen breastplate to his compatriot, and they looked on with awe at the boy as he strode off. The Prince waved them away.

"Report, Elumene." She questioned him.

"Skilled opponents, Teacher. Poor footwork on the largest one. Very experienced to make up for it. Strong, but lack speed. All excellent swordsmen." He answered, expressionless. He continued to breathe deeply and quickly.

"How did you survive the match?"

"Using their bulk to my advantage. Not allowing them to get full swings of their sword by keeping them together. Fighting from inside reach. Most importantly, they were hesitant about striking a child. A weakness easy to exploit." His eyes remained cold and emotionless during his entire response. The Prince felt a chill run up his spine.

"How do you feel?" The teacher asked, surprisingly softly.

The boy looked at her. His face contorted into a mask of mild confusion.

"I don't understand."

"How do you feel? You've just successfully defended yourself against three of the King's Guard. How does that make you feel." She pressed.

His face maintained the mask for another few seconds. He shifted his gaze to the Prince, and then back to his instructor. The mask fell away, and all that remained was the cold stare of the elf child.

He shrugged.

"Very well. Go, clean up. You have a meal soon, I believe. Good work." She waved him off. He bowed to both of them, and hurried away.

"So you can see... his skills are impressive but he would do ill in a court setting my liege." She offered, starting to turn away. The Prince's gaze was fixed on the child leaving.

"No. I will take him."

"But..."

"I have not, in my life, seen skill like that. I will take him, and make him into a gentleman myself if I must. If nothing else, I will not allow power such as that into the hands of anyone else. Have him packed and ready to depart for the city tomorrow morning."

"Yes, your eminence." She bowed lightly to her Prince.

"And... thank you, Meleen. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention."

"My pleasure of course." She smiled to him. He smiled back, an action which she knew was well practiced but no less beaming.

"Now, did I hear you mention something about a meal? I'm famished." He offered her his elbow, and they left the training pits together.

Not So Hard A Thing

"What, what in the nine hells do you think you are doing?" Saiyo hustled over, shouting at the girl with the knife.

"I'm practicing, Doyen." She replied, indicating the target dummy. It had been hacked to pieces, with straw poking out everywhere. Her face was a beaming beacon of pride.

"Practicing what, exactly, child? How to ruin a perfectly good training tool?" he ran his hands over the ruined dummy, pulling straw out of one of the slashes in the burlap. "Not to mention a knife.." he snatched the blade from her hands, and held it up to his eyes. It was full of notches and scratches. To be fair, most of them had been there when she got her hands on it. But he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.

"No, I was practicing my fighting." She stubbornly replied. Her face was no longer beaming but instead scowling. Everyone else had been practicing knifework, and she'd been stuck doing pickpocketing all day. Again.

The Doyen looked at her, and sighed.  He shouldn't be surprised. She was young still, too young he had thought to teach about the blade. But, alas, it seems that too is beyond his control. Children.

"Okay child. Pretend this is a man." He indicated to the dummy. "How is he now that you have hacked at him like a mad cook?"

The girl squinted at the Doyen, expecting a trap.

"He's dead."

"Yes, precisely." The Doyen clapped. "Now... why have you made him dead?"

The girl was thoroughly perplexed.

"Becuase he was... evil?" She ventured.

"What is evil?" The Doyen immediately asked.

"It's... very bad. People who are terrible and do terrible things."

"Like killers?"

"Yes!" She agreed.

"But you have just killed this man."

The girl opened her mouth, and her mind caught up.

She closed her mouth.

"So you see this is a problem, little one. But, you are fortunate! You are learning from the Doyen. Take this." He offered her the blade, handle first. She took it gingerly, still thinking about the verbal trap she'd been caught in. "What have you in your hand child?"

Now she was really wary. But, alas, she could not see where he was headed, so on she moved.

"A knife?"

"Yes, good, top marks child! And lucky again you are, that you have a knife. For a knife is not some clumsy weapon like an axe, or heavens forbid a sword. No!" He moved around behind the dummy while he spoke, letting an arm drape across what would be its shoulders genially.

"No, no, this is a knife! A subtle blade, a tool not a weapon. With this you can be careful, you can be sure of your work. You can be quick, you can be precise!" And he produced a knife seemingly from nowhere, and with a strike like a snake he pierced the side of the dummy. He pulled his hand away slowly, leaving the knife buried in its side.

She looked back and forth, from him to the blade.

"This is a place that will not kill a man. Right away." The Doyen indicated. He took her hand, and put it on the handle of the knife sticking out. "Feel it's place. Memorize it. A knife that enters here, will bring a man great pain and much suffering, but he will live. And often, that is enough."

She nodded, and focused on the blade. She felt its place in relation to her arm, and her arm in relation to her legs. Every part of her she commited to memory. She would know how to strike here again.

"If you steal something child, you can always give it back. We are thieves, not gods. We make mistakes. It is known. So be careful, always, with what you take. If it is a life, which to take is not so hard a thing, you cannot give it back." He smiled at the little girl, and she nodded. Good.

Perhaps she will not be a killer like me, thought the Doyen.

Avenue Daimyo

I'm breathing in the chemicals, the rotten mechanical effluence of the world around me. Lucky I won't live long enough to get cancer.

Wait, what?

"Hoooooeeeeeeh! That was a good one!  Right in the ten ring." My vision starts to clear, and I hone in on the voice yelling at me.  It's Squeaker, grinning ear to ear. It looks terrifying with the huge scar that cuts down across his face. He offers me a hand up.

"Ow." Is all I manage to reply.

"Yeah yeah, boo hoo. Trust me, you want this life you'll have worse. Heehee!" He reaches down a hand to pull me up, which I happily accept. My chest feels like it's on fire.  "So tell me, kiddo... how many rounds did I fire?"

I look at Squeaker stupidly.  What?

"What?"

"How. Many. Rounds."

I feel at my chest. There's three holes in the kevlar, diagonal from the bottom left. He must have raked up and jeez I almost got shot in the head! This guy's insane!

"Uhhh... three?"

"EEEEEHHHHH. Wrong. And now you're dead." He pokes me hard in the forehead with his fingers, which almost knocks me over. "Seven rounds, full auto burst. How many are left in the mag?"

Uhhh... shit.

"Four.... teen?" I guess wildly.

"Oooh, ladies and gentlemen thank you and goodnight! Now you've put the rest of your team in bodybags, kiddo.  Thirty-three left in the box. H&K MP5, you can tell by the click at the trigger pull. Were you even listening?"

My ears are still ringing from the impact, but to be honest... no I wasn't.

"Of course I was listening.. just... not used to the gun. I'll get it."

"You better... hehehe..." Squeaker puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me. It hurts like hell. "Everyone knows being a Street Samurai is about being fast. That's why they're all chromed up the wazoo kid. New hands, new feet, new arms. Faster, faster, faster. But, if you 'aint got it up here," he pokes me in the temple hard, "Then it doesn't matter how fast you are down here." And he pats me on the chest. I almost collapse. "SO! We train. Get that grey matter worth something, hehe, make it valuable to a team. Make you some moolay." He releases me and steps away.

I stand up straight, try not to show how much pain I'm in. I'll live. I'll pass. I'll be the best. If I survive.

"So what else have we got here..." He shouts while rummaging through a pile of guns. I pry my hand under the armour, feeling my chest. Yep, definitely cracked at least one rib. "Oooh this'll be good. Hehehe... Alright, what did we learn?"

"Uhh... listen?  Count the shots?" I venture, pulling my hand out to check for blood. Oh good, at least all of that's still inside me.

"That's right! Step one done already, you are a quick learner." He says as he levels some new gun at me. I step back in shock, and throw up my hands.

"Shouldn't I be wearing a new vest for this?"

"Probably. Hehehehe!" He cackles as he fires exactly thirteen rounds.

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.

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"

Tea

How is your tea?  Hot enough?  Would you like some sugar?  No?  Very well.  About your question.

You think you have power, and you do. But no more than any other of your species.

You are touched by magiks, indeed.  You can conjure flames and create arcs of electricity with which to destroy your enemies.  But a simple sword will do the same, a simple club.  Those who would do you harm are as vulnerable to a heavy stick as they are to your arcane ways.  And so this is not power.

So, apprentice, you come to me seeking power but do not even realize what it is.  How can I give you something you do not understand?  Do you know?  Neither do I.

No, that does not mean I will not teach you. It means that I cannot teach you what you seek, until you learn what it is that you ask for.  And rest assured, that is the harder task.  So, shall we begin?

Let us go outside. Bring your tea.

Alright.  Yes it's cold.  Stop complaining and listen.  The world that you see around you, out here, is full of potential. Full of power.  Every decision everything makes creates new decisions, new opportunities. Each of these leaving irreparable scars on history.  Now, pour your tea on the gravel.  You weren't drinking it anyway.  Good.  Now tell me, what did you just do?

Indeed. You did what I told you to do, and you destroyed a perfectly good cup of tea. And it was very easy to do so, yes?  A tip of the hand, and some of the finest tea this side of the Keremon mountains is now gone.

Next task: Put the tea back in the cup.  Don't make new tea, don't pour a new glass, that same tea you just poured out into the ground.  That tea.  Put that tea back in the cup.

The power to create, the power to undo your mistakes... that is true power.

Lementhuvan

"No no no... it's not... you..." The master rubbed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, grimacing.  "You are wielding a sword, child. Think about that."

"Think about what?  It's just a sword."

"Indeed." The master rolled his eyes and sighed.  He stepped forward, and pointed to the student's feet. "It is just a sword. A simple piece of edged steel.  So, tell me, what makes it victorious in a fight?"

"Uhm... being... sharp? Sharper than the other guy's?"

"The wielder, idiot.  The one who bears it is what makes a blade powerful. By being observant, by being intuitive, by being practiced... and also, by being stable." The student cocked his head at the confusing statement, before realizing the master was pointing at his feet.  Before he could shift his footing the master moved with the speed of a whip, gently pressing against the student's chest and toppling him like a sack of potatoes.

"Ow."

"Oh please.  If you wish to learn how to use that thing, then you'll suffer worse than a few falls.  Now get on your feet so I can knock you down again, and again, and again until I don't.  We have plenty of daylight left, so you'll have plenty of time to learn."

"Oh, joy..." The student bemoaned, as he hefted himself to his feet, using the legendary blade he was bound to as leverage. "Another day of strange bruises."