Literary Deviance

Untitled

2012-01-22T17:59:00.002-05:00

After all the time we spent talking, crying, dreading your leaving, kissing and holding each other and wishing it would never come, all we had before you left was a short kiss and "I love you." Then you were gone, out of sight. Maybe you could see me from the windows of the train, but I couldn't see you; the lighting was against me. I like to think that I saw your silhouette pause and turn toward me, but I can't be sure.

I hesitated as long as I could without looking pathetic or crazy before I started down the platform stairs. As I passed the level of the platform, I could hear the conductors closing up the stairwells and the hiss of brakes releasing. The cramped, long pedestrian tunnel under the tracks felt wide open as I walked back to the parking lot on the other side. I could feel—more than I could hear, at any rate—the train rolling out of the station. By the time I crested the stairs on the other side, your train was out of sight. You'd disappeared again.

I couldn't stand the sound of music on the ride home. The silence felt better somehow. Perhaps not better so much as more fitting; your absence was a presence unto itself which demanded appropriate accompaniment. The isolation would not bear the tinny strains of club music through my phone's single speaker.

The house was still empty when I arrived. I unpacked and did laundry, mostly to keep my hands busy. The personalized mug you gave me filled and emptied again a few times. This loneliness was different from the last, but they were close bedfellows. This was an emptiness, a complete void in which the only sensation I could feel persistently were the memories of your kisses and bites upon my lips. The washing machine laughed in your voice.

My family came home later. They'd brought some beer from a craft brewery for me to try. Again the mug did its duty. After a short chat with my mother, she asked me a simple question that almost made me cry. When it comes to you, my heart's stitched right on my skin.

Here I sit, breaking the last promise I made to you—sappy, cloying songs pumping through the speakers on my glass and wood desk—and even as I write this the last two words I never said echo through my head, rest on the tip of my tongue, only too late.

Don't go.

A True Story and an Inspired Haiku

2011-11-25T10:54:00.000-05:00

Before you read this haiku, you need to understand something. You need to know the story of Amy Phillips and me. Below is a picture of the two of us when she came to visit me in Philly last summer. You can read our story after the break.

Way back when, Brendan was the shy, nerdy kid who wasn't so great at making friends. But as I grew, I started to make the sorts of friends that you don't just have play dates with, but the kind of friends that you can share yourself with. One such friend, back when I was about 14, dragged me to our high school's chess club. There, I met another such friend. Her name was Amy and we quickly became very close friends. All of our mutual friends saw something more there and kept trying to set us up, but for whatever reason we never went for it.

When I was 15, I moved away from all of the friends I had so recently made, which was devastating to me at the time. I kept in contact with some, and in fact Michelle and Amy even came down to visit me. It was then that Amy and I shared our first kiss and started trying our hand at this whole "dating" thing. Unfortunately, the distance was just a little too much for two teenagers, and we fell apart.

It must have been about five years before we spoke again. I was sitting around my apartment at college, half-drunk after a party when I noticed that Amy was signed on to an instant messaging application. Out of the blue, I decided to start talking to her. We hit it off as though no time had passed at all and set up a meeting in the near future. Sure enough, she came down to visit, I cooked dinner for her, we watched a movie... you know how this story goes.

We're still together, even though we still live apart. The distance is still a challenge, but I love her enough that it hasn't stopped us. So keeping that story in mind, the story of love lost and found again, I present to you a haiku I wrote. I know, it's a lot of build-up for 17 syllables.

Permafrost

Seeds—buried, frozen—
Given warmth, light and water,
Will bloom readily.

I love you, Amy.

Super-Important

2011-11-16T01:39:00.000-05:00

THIS UPDATE IS CRITICAL.

I finally thought of a name for the cocktail I mentioned in the last post. I'm calling it the "Early Morning." Good times. The previous post will be edited to reflect my recently slain indecision.

In other, more writing-relevant news, Twins Part 2 is progressing... slowly. I can't seem to work out how it ends. Would-be editors, please contact me. I need some help on this one, I think.

Peace or whatever,
Brendan

Half-Drunk on a Wednesday: Winning

2011-11-10T02:46:00.003-05:00

Hola, Deviants. After what I can only describe as an eventful day, I find myself awake at an ungodly hour, writing (surprisingly enough) the second part of the tepidly-received "Twins" story that I posted some four months ago. Suffice it to say that I have no intention of publishing this story as it stands, in the roughest of rough drafts, but I have something that may keep you mildly entertained in the meanwhile. I'm drinking a cocktail I can only describe as a grown-up gin and juice, the sort of thing that Snoop Dogg would drink if he were James Bond. I'm still working on a proper name for it.

EDIT: Adjusted the ratio slightly. There was too much lime. I like it better this way!
RE-EDIT: It has a name! It's the "Early Morning" until I think of a better name/one is suggested to me.

The Early Morning:

Three parts gin
One part lime juice
Four parts orange juice
One splash triple sec
Seltzer
Maraschino cherries (as a garnish)

Combine the gin, juices and triple sec over ice and stir well. Strain into a highball glass and top with seltzer. Garnish with one to three cherries (they'll drop to the bottom but give it a sort of tequila sunrise look). Enjoy!

Twins, Part One

2011-07-01T00:01:00.009-04:00

So I'm calling this part one, but I'm not so certain I want to pick this up again. I'll leave it open for now, I suppose.

I stood, staring down at the simple marble slab; less of a grave, since there was no body buried here—the ashes had been scattered, as per his last request—it was more of a memorial. Half of my name stared back at me, as well as two dates, thirty-five years apart. My drug-addled nerves buzzed restlessly, rebelling angrily against the somber mood of the cemetery. I lit a cigarette with a match that I discarded carelessly into the neglected, weed-ridden grass surrounding the tombstones. I forced my eyes away from the marble and to the lighthouse on the nearby point, its lights flashing glaringly into my bloodshot eyes. I inhaled deeply, savoring the feel of the sweet, acrid smoke deep in my lungs.

Do you know what half-death is like? To know that you're one part of a whole, forever and irreparably broken? Even if he were to come back today, it would not be okay. Like a ceramic tile broken in two, no amount of glue could hide the cracks. Entropy can never be decreased. What's been destroyed can never be wholly mended. The only thing on my mind was not catharsis, but vengeance.

My mobile buzzed insistently against the skin of my left wrist, rattling my already unsettled nervous system. I snarled as I accepted the call. "What?" I barked into the earpiece, rather ungraciously.

"Jesus, John. You sure know how to put a guy at ease," Frank's reedy voice grated at me more than usual in my current condition. I fought to get my emotions under control, lest I further alienate the one man who could help me.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled a little sourly. "Sorry, feeling a little rough. What do you have for me?"

"Just like that? All business? No chit-chat?" The anger I was repressing pressed sharply at the buckles I'd placed on it. I chose to say nothing, rather than say something untoward. A brief and uncomfortable silence served as my answer. "You okay, John? You sound kinda rough." Another surge of anger.

"Fine," I responded gruffly. "I'll be better when you tell me what you have for me."

"Yeah, naturally," he drawled leisurely. "I got a name for you. Didn't mean much to me, but I guess he owned the mill where they found the body."

"David," I corrected him testily.

"Huh?"

"Not 'the body.' He had a name. His name was David," I repeated, my voice rumbling with repressed emotion. Frank mumbled a hasty apology, covered by a gentle cough.

"Anyway, this guy, his name's Oswald Bystrom. He just owns the property where they found the- David," he hastily corrected himself. "The link's pretty tenuous. I don't even know if he's involved."

"Yeah," I agreed, as I slid the flechette pistol from the waistband at the back of my jeans, working the well-oiled action gently. It slid smoothly and almost without a sound; the first cartridge slid into the chamber with a smooth, organic schlick. "I just wanna talk to the guy, see if he knows anything. Maybe ask if any of his employees saw anything." Several beats went by where neither of us said anything.

"You sure you're okay, John?" Frank's repetition of my name was supposed to be comforting. It was just irritating. I could feel the bile in my throat. "How much rush did you take, anyway?" The lid I was keeping on my rage gave way abruptly.

"I just buried my brother, you dumb fuck," I snapped at him. "Of course I'm not fucking alright!" I turned on my heel and wound up facing the lighthouse again, just as the beacon shone directly into my eyes. I snarled another curse and averted my eyes.

"Look, John, I'm sorry..." Frank was saying something but I wasn't listening. I looked back up at the lighthouse. Something had just occurred to me about it, and it seemed somehow very relevant.

"It's not a beacon," I said aloud, interrupting Frank mid-bullshit.

"What?" He sounded even more ridiculous when he was dumbfounded.

"It's not a beacon," I repeated impatiently. "The lighthouse. It's not a beacon at all. It's a warning. 'Stay away, rocks ahead.'" Another long pause.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Now Frank sounded impatient.

"Never mind. Look, thanks for the info."

"Yeah, no problem. Hey, John, call me later, okay? If you need someplace to stay..."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll give you a call later. And feel free to call me, you know where to find me," I assured him, working as much genteel sincerity into my voice as I could. I said a few more placating goodbyes and hung up on him as he tried to arrange a personal meet. I tucked the gun back into the waistband of my pants briefly as I undid the mobile from my wrist and threw it onto the ground, followed by the earpiece. The pistol made only subtle ratcheting sounds as the flechettes shredded the delicate electronics.

The lighthouse continued to turn, keeping its eternal vigil, warning sailors away from certain death on rocky shoals. Its pulsating light only aggravated my headache, but I couldn't stop staring at it. Something about it seemed gravely important, if only I could grasp it.

"Some place you got here, Dave," I said softly to the air. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again real soon. I just gotta go see a guy named Ozzy first." I tucked the gun away and hid it under my jacket as I walked back to the car.

The signal of the lighthouse on the point pursued me as I walked away from it and straight on toward another lighthouse. The other lighthouse warned me away from danger, but I paid it no heed. I strode straight on into rocky shoals and shallow water.

"I'm coming for you, Ozzy."

And We're Back!

2011-06-30T23:59:00.001-04:00

Hello there, ladies and gentlemen! After a rather extended hiatus, I've returned once again to writing. But that's not all! I've put up a quick little questionnaire on Facebook, as I'm considering expanding the format of this here writing blog. What sorts of things would you like to see? Want me to post more recipes? Share my opinions? Rant impotently at the world around me? Tell me about it!

In the meantime, stay tuned! In about two minutes, a new piece of writing should be published, a little piece I'm calling "Twins." It's still in first draft, but what can you do? As always, please share feedback with me. Thanks for reading!

Every Panda Has Its Day

2010-08-18T21:44:00.001-04:00

The following is a short story and my first stumbling attempt at surrealist writing. Judge it harshly or not at all.

The man sighed as he pulled on his coat and plopped his hat carelessly down over his comb over. When he hesitated in front of his door, his brown leather briefcase creaked at him impatiently and swung side to side a bit. He grunted assent and dragged open his front door, stepped through and slammed it behind him. His little front lawn - a single shade of green and trimmed into a perfect square - attempted to wave goodbye to him but could not; it was not allowed to grow tall enough to wave. A few doors down, he heard his neighbor's obnoxious dog barking at a nondescript fence.

The man walked to his rather spacious (if ugly) garage and opened the door to find his rather ugly (if spacious) car; he opened the driver side door wide and threw his briefcase into the passenger seat haphazardly (it groaned in protest then fell silent as it settled in) and climbed in after it. He paused for a moment to sigh again before inserting the keys into the ignition. He glanced into his rear view mirror out of pure habit and found himself staring into the face of a giant panda.

"Jesus Christ!" the man exclaimed, jerking away from the panda and turning to face it instinctively.

"Calm down!" the panda responded grumpily.

"How the hell did you get in here?" the man demanded of the interloper. The panda simply raised one long claw by way of an answer. "You can't be in here!"

"Why not?" the panda asked with what may have been a frown.

"Well, it's illegal. First of all, you broke into my car."

"That's your story." The panda attempted to sit back on its haunches and look casual but found that in the confined quarters it could manage no more than squatting slightly more. It did just that and looked quite pleased with itself.

"For another thing, you're not allowed here," the man continued, growing slightly more red in the face.

"Why not? Did you file a restraining order or something?" the panda asked, shifting nervously. It was careful not to voice the plea that threatened to come bubbling out, but it could not keep the plea from its eyes.

"No. You're a panda. It's illegal for you to be here." The panda bristled at the accusation.

"What's my race got to do with it?"

"Well, you're endangered. If people see you here, they'll assume I own you and I'll go to jail for trafficking in an endangered species," the man explained, trying to keep his voice level. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a confined space with an angry panda.

"Own me? You specist bastard!" the panda growled, shaking its head angrily. The man could see that the panda's teeth were plenty sharp to tear him apart.

"Look, it's not my fault. You're not sentient," the man simpered.

"No? Why do you say that?"

"You're a panda," the man repeated matter-of-factly.

"So?" the panda retorted with a snort.

"So pandas aren't sentient!" the man snapped irately. A tense moment passed; the man starred at the panda, who stared back at the man. Their panting breath condensed on the windows, shielding them from the outside world.

"I've missed you," the panda whispered quietly. The man turned obstinately away and said nothing. "I just came here to find out why."

"You know damn well why," the man grunted.

"No, I don't. Tell me." The panda wished silently to itself that it could cry, so great was its pain. The man stared intently at the steering wheel in front of him.

"You're of mixed color," the man told his car horn. "It would never work between us." A heavy silence loomed over the car, neither occupant sure how to respond to the gloomy clouds forming between them. The mood was broken abruptly by the sound of sirens in the distance, slowly approaching. The man looked over his shoulder at the panda with suspicious eyes.

"Did you break out?"

"I'm not going back, Jack," the panda growled, suddenly aggressive. The man's eyes began casting about his garage, trying to think of a way out. The sirens were still far off; there was still time. If only they had...
A bark interrupted the man's thoughts and brought him back to reality. He began to laugh without warning, eliciting strange looks from the giant panda seated in the back of his car. He looked up at the rear view mirror again and smiled widely at the panda.

"Get me some paint."

The man smiled blithely at the police officers as his car rolled up to the roadblock. The one nearest his window tapped on it and the man rolled it down complacently.

"Problem, officer?" he asked with easy indifference.

"Y'all seen any panda bears around here?" the policeman drawled, his eyes flicking about the interior of the man's car.

"No, I don't think I... wait, what's that?" the man gasped with all the sincerity he could fake. The policeman's gaze followed the man's outstretched finger to the offending mammal. There stood a panda, its long tail wagging and its pink tongue unfurled in the warming midmorning air. He yelped in delight as the officers moved toward him, dashing past them and down the road. The man rolled calmly on through the roadblock, smiling to himself. The real panda crawled out from his hiding space into the backseat, stretching out comfortably.

"Hell of a thing you did, Jimbo," he admired earnestly. The man looked at the panda in his mirror and smiled fondly.

"You know what they say," he chuckled dryly, "'every dog has its day.'"

"Yeah, well, so does every panda." The two laughed as they drove to the horizon.

Tuesday, September 4th 2277

2010-05-03T13:38:00.002-04:00

Here lies part nine of the Vault Dweller's Diary series. If you haven't been reading this from the start, find the content link on the right side there and start from the intro. Otherwise, read on.

I also feel I should give a shout out to my little brother Aidan, who on this day would be turning 285.

What's up, diary? I'm doing dictation right now, I don't think I could try to type on this shitty little Pip-Boy fold-up keyboard. I've been dipping into the whiskey I got from that escaped slave's stash in Minefield yesterday. Killed him and took his booze and his gun. That's a hell of a thing to do.

Oh, did I not mention, diary? That guy I killed was an escaped slave. I asked around about that collar he was wearing; Jericho told me that the slavers over in Paradise Falls put them on the people they kidnap so that they can control them. Apparently, the collars are rigged to explode if they try to run. So this poor fucker was isolated and paranoid, not because he was mentally ill but because he had managed to get out from under the slavers' whips somehow and he thought I was some sadistic asshole come to round him up and drag him back. Those mines he planted, the sniper rifle, that was the only way he could sleep at night with the knowledge that someone out there wanted to put him back into that hell.

And I killed him. I didn't even think twice about it. I wouldn't have even asked about that collar, but I took it off his corpse, thinking I could get some money for it. Moira refused to buy it, didn't want to talk about it. No one else knew what it was. Except Jericho. I think he used to roll with the slavers. Or at least the Raiders. That dirty son of a bitch.

I shouldn't be mad at Jericho. That bitter old shit is just trying to make a decent life for himself now. What am I doing? I'm killing people who never wanted to do anything more than fight for their freedom. I'm running around, looting the decimated ruins of my ancestors' society, picking through the wreckage of human lives for weapons and things of use to me. I'm a fucking vulture, nothing more.

Did you know I found a child's skeleton yesterday, diary? After I killed that poor bastard hiding in the wrecked tower, I spent a little while picking through the ruins of Minefield. It used to be a neighborhood, you know, and the playground sort of confirmed to me that kids used to live there. I knew that, I didn't figure that there were a bunch of retarded adults spinning around on that carousel, but I didn't really let myself think about all those kids who just wanted to spin around on that sad little carousel and died in a white-hot flash, or slowly of radiation sickness. But then, while I was picking through someone's house, scavenging pork and beans in a can, I bumped into something. I looked down and saw a skeleton, couldn't have been more than three and a half feet high. I know it wasn't a midget because the skull was too big, the proportions were right for a kid. I knew that, and I didn't even give it a proper burial.

I just can't fucking take this, diary. I mean, I was sheltered in the Vault. I had no idea what the surface was like. All I knew were the stories that I was told by Mr. Brotch in that shitty little classroom and the stupid fucking drama of Butch picking on Amata or Susie making out with Freddie. That was the extent of my tragedy. I wish I'd never left that. Up here, it's a struggle just to live from day to day. And I have to kill good people to extend my own worthless fucking existence. And why should I do it, diary? What the fuck makes me so special that I deserve to live while that poor sod hiding out in the rubble surrounded by mines should die? Because I'm a better shot or have a quicker trigger finger? That's a fucked up way to live.

This festering shithole, this putrid fucking desert in which we live shows you exactly the kind of person you are. It cuts you open and lays you bare in front of a mirror so that you can see every rotting fucking psychosis you have, eating away at you like a sickness. It proves to you that you're not some moral giant. It destroys any hope that you had left that this world can be saved and laughs at the idea that people can be better. Then it hands you a loaded gun and tells you to fucking do something about it.

I've made a resolution. I still have the 10 millimeter pistol that Amata gave me when I was escaping the Vault. It's the pistol I used to kill a few security guards, guys who were just doing what that twisted Overseer motherfucker told them to. I'm keeping it on me all the time. I won't use it; I have that silenced one from Burke that I can use if I need to pull a sidearm. This one's staying in my bag with one bullet in it, for when I know I'm beyond help. Someday soon, I'm going to lay down to sleep and think about my day and I'm going to realize I've become a monster, worse even than Amata's dad. And on that night, when the stars have gone out and no moon shines, I'm going to pull out that fucking gun and put an end to the beast that I created, that was forged in this post-apocalyptic hell. I promise that, diary.

Monday, September 3rd, 2277

2010-05-03T13:34:00.001-04:00

This is part eight of the Vault Dweller's Diary; again, I must caution you that if you haven't been reading this from the start, you should click the appropriate content link on the right-hand side and start from the intro. Otherwise, have at it.

Let me give you a piece of advice: If you ever get the urge to visit someplace called Minefield, ignore that urge.

After spending Sunday in bed, recovering from my most recent gunshot wound (who said that the Wasteland would be dangerous?), the Doc came to me. He took a look at the pharmaceuticals and made some kind of medical gel out of them. He says it's like a super bandage. Near as I can tell, it's some kind of coagulant, a topical analgesic and I suspect some sort of stimulant (like Jet or something). All I know for certain is that after he applied some to the bullet wound I got at the Super-Duper Mart, I was right back on my feet and ready to go. I'm changing my mind about the Doc. It might be worth it to pay his fees in the future.

So by this morning, I felt good enough to take on Moira's next task: Going to the center of Minefield and bringing back a landmine. In retrospect, I'm not really sure how I ever thought this would be a good idea.

When I set out this morning, the weather was very nice. The sun was out, the breeze was mild and not too irradiated, and I think I even heard some kind of mutated sparrow singing. Well, less singing and more rasping, really. It sounded a bit like what I imagine Gob would sound like if he tried to whistle. The walk there wasn't bad. I only had to kill two mole rats. The larger of the two made for a pretty good lunch; it turns out beating something to death with a baseball bat is a little like tenderizing it. Plus, Moira's food sanitizer seems to work, so I think my Rad-X supplies should last a bit longer than I had initially planned.

My appetite sated, I continued on toward Minefield and hit there around 1400. It seemed like it would have been a nice little neighborhood before the nukes. Now it was littered with abandoned cars and careful inspection revealed more than a few mines hidden between them. This is great, I thought I mean, even if one of the landmines didn't kill me, the explosion could likely set off one of the micro-fusion cells in those cars. So there were two ways I could get blown to hell.

As I was creeping around, trying desperately everything that Moira had told me about mines and disarming them before they exploded, a bullet went right past my head. I ducked behind a car and kept my head down for a minute; just as I was peeking around the right side of the car, everything went to shit all at once. I saw light glint off of something glassy, the flash of a rifle, and then a mine exploded, all within about a heartbeat. Fortunately, the mine that went up was on the other side of the car from me, so I didn't get hit by it; unfortunately, that meant that the car's engine did. I poked my head up again to see the extent of the damage and saw flames crawling around the hood of the car, working their way deeper into the engine.

I know a lot of words. I know a lot of curse words, too. And I yelled them all as I ran desperately away from that car; mines beeped warnings behind me and bullets whizzed past me as I ran. I took a bit of shrapnel in my left leg from one of the mines that went up as I ran too close by. The pain was extraordinary; I didn't think I'd be able to make it, but I managed to sort of fall behind a low, burnt-out wall. Just as I was getting under cover, the car decided to go up. It wasn't the first time I'd been pretty close to one of those when it exploded, but it was the first time I had been focusing on it when it did. It took me a minute to regain my eyesight. I don't know why anyone ever designed that micro-fusion bullshit. Those things are dangerous.

After the spots had stopped swimming around in front of my eyes, I took a Stimpak out and jabbed it directly into my calf muscle. It had the desired effect; the painkillers and the adrenaline took effect a minute later with a sensation like warm water being pumped directly into my bloodstream. I knew I was only going to damage my leg further, but I could get up and move around again. Not that I wanted to, since there was someone in a sniper's perch waiting for me to move.

Keeping the large rifle foremost in my mind, I started crawling along the rotting wall where I had taken cover. I got about twenty feet before I ran out of wall; I just had to hope that this guy wasn't good at keeping an eye out for his target. I poked my head around the wall carefully, keeping it low so he would be less likely to notice it. Sure enough, he was crouched near the edge of the open third floor of a crumbling concrete tower, a big old sniper rifle in his hands. He was looking through the scope, pointed where I had been hiding a minute ago. I took the opportunity to dash out from around the wall and move even further out of his field of view. I got across the street and under the cover of a mostly intact house, presumably without arousing his suspicion.

I started searching around desperately for a weapon better suited to those ranges than my pistol or my assault rifle. The first floor had nothing of use, so I ran upstairs to the second floor and started throwing furniture around, checking under things. Sure enough, under the bed, I found an old hunting rifle. I worked the action a little; it was in really bad shape. I might have one shot, maybe two, before this thing would work no more. That's assuming it worked at all. I didn't really have the time to test it out before I took my shot, though. I crouched as low as I could and made it to a window on that side of the house, peering out toward the sniper. He had taken his eye away from the scope and was looking around, not sure if I'd run off or just hidden. I breathed as lightly as I could and moved slowly and smoothly, loading a single round into the chamber and locking it in place with the bolt.

That was the single most important shot I have ever made in my life. I could feel my heart slowing as I lifted the rifle to my shoulder, aiming down the shitty, crooked iron sights and straight at the man's chest. I breathed in slowly, listening to the blood swirl turbulently around in my ears, paused for a moment, then exhaled even more slowly. I let my finger tense by itself, not wanting my arm to jerk away from the recoil. I couldn't anticipate the shot. It needed to come on its own.

Just before my finger had finished tensing, he looked around, past me, then stopped. His eyes turned back and I swear to you that they fixed directly on mine for just a second. He didn't raise the gun, he just stared me down over the length of my own rifle's barrel.

Then the gun went off.

The round struck him squarely in the chest, throwing him backwards off of his ledge and onto the concrete below. I'm pretty sure the shot wasn't fatal, but the fall certainly was. I had all the time I needed to get over there. On my way, I moved slowly, disarming mines carefully and storing them in my bag. I made it past the little playground in the center of the circle, over the carousel, and around a whole group of mines at the base of the tower, right at the most convenient entrance. I crawled over a pile of rubble up to what would have been the second floor and found the man's corpse. He was older - maybe in his forties or fifties - and covered in scars. His clothes were ragged, he was desperately in need of a bath and he was wearing a weird leather collar with some kind of electric dongle on it. I routed through his pockets and turned up a few extra bullets for his sniper rifle, took his collar and his sniper rifle, then bounded up the stairs to his nest. He had a little bed under one of the few remaining pieces of roof; all around it was food that he must have collected from the remains of the town nearby. In a footlocker nearby he had more food and a couple of bottles of whiskey. By a column closer to his perch, he had some extra mines and ammo stashed in strongboxes. It was a pretty good haul, all told.

The way back was uneventful. I think I might be losing it, because I found myself not only singing along with every song that popped up on Galaxy News Radio but responding aloud to Three Dog in between songs. I guess the loneliness of my existence is starting to get at me. It was late by the time I got back to Megaton, so Craterside Supply was closed. I'm going to pawn this stuff off in the morning. Maybe someone can tell me something about this collar; I can probably make a few caps selling it for spare parts. For now though, I think I'm going to have Wadsworth help me out with this shrapnel wound, pop some painkillers and get some sleep. Doc can look at it tomorrow.

Saturday, September 1st, 2277

2010-04-29T01:38:00.000-04:00

The seventh part of the Vault Dweller's Diary here lies; if you haven't done so yet, I recommend starting from the Introduction (follow the content link on the right-hand side for easier navigation). Otherwise, read on!

I was up and moving about on Wednesday, which was probably a bad idea. I really only did it so I could trade some of the stuff I scavenged to Moira so I could afford the doctor, but still. It was early evening by the time I got out; there was a partial solar eclipse as the sun was dropping in the sky. By Moira's estimate, it should have been a total about 1,000 miles off of the Baja coast. I was never very interested in geography, or astronomy for that matter.

Doc said I should be okay, so long as I took a few days to stop walking around. My butler bot was very helpful in this capacity, fetching me cans of food and sucking moisture out of the air to make clean water for me. By this morning, I was feeling a bit antsy, so I took stock of my supplies for another raid on the Super Duper Mart. I had (at the time) a Chinese assault rifle, the silenced pistol that Burke had used to kill Simms (someone from the bar dropped it off, said Gob figured I should have it), a couple spare mags of ammo for each, a half-dozen Stimpaks, my scavenged (and thanks to Moira's expertise, recently repaired) Talon Company armor and my trusty baseball bat. All in all, I was feeling pretty good about my odds.

Boy, that was dumb.

I was wrong when I thought that the Talon Mercs killing a couple of Raider sentries would put a significant dent in their defenses. There were still two guys standing guard when I snuck up around the back of the store and hopped the fence. Fortunately, I had the silenced pistol and decent aim. It took one bullet to drop the first guy and two to drop the next before he had a chance to shout. Everything had gone so smoothly that I honestly thought I was practically done already.

I'm really an idiot sometimes, did I mention that?

There was a pair of Raiders as soon as I walked in the door, at one of the cash registers, getting... well, intimate. It was easy enough to shoot the guy before he could finish, but she saw me and screamed before I could kill her, too. So I took her out as quick as I could, pulled out my rifle, and got the hell behind some cover. Good thing, too, since apparently Raiders are twitchy little fuckers.

The counter I was hiding behind exploded with bullets sprayed mindlessly in my direction. I heard shouting, catcalls, cackling and a few sexual propositions over the sound of the gunfire. At first, I'd felt a bit bad about shooting the Raiders I had. As I heard them screaming at me, animalistic displays of pure psycopathy, I could feel my empathy for these beasts draining away. So as soon as the shooting stopped and I heard a couple of mags pop out of their guns, I popped up and started shooting back.

Before they could shoot, I took down two guys who were standing on top of aisles and were clearly not reloading. I took a bit more time in shooting t nearest Raider, who was staring at me agape as he reloaded his shitty little 10mm pistol. About then, the others caught the hint and ducked behind cover. I fired off the rest of the mag in their general directions, for good measure, and started to reload myself.

Just as I ejected the empty, one of them came running around the corner, screaming bloody murder and thrashing around with a two-by-four with a long nail jammed through it. I admit, it shocked me enough that my first reaction was to drop my gun and try to run. I put a bit of distance between us before I realized what I was doing and that I would likely be shot doing it. So I kept running, seeking new cover from the fresh bullet hell that began chasing me as I came in plainer view of the aisles I hadn't cleared. As I ran, I reached back and pulled my bat from the little sling I had fashioned for it. Once I had it in hand, I planted and spun on the Raider, turning as much momentum as I could into speed for that bat. He was clearly as surprised about this as I was about his initial appearance; he pulled up short of his board's range and took the bat full in the head. All resistance left his muscles abruptly and he collapsed in a boneless heap.

With the immediate threat taken care of, I jumped over and then ducked behind a nearby counter, cursing my stupidity. How the hell could I have dropped my rifle? I put the bat back and pulled out the pistol, grumbling at myself. I took a moment to survey my hidey-hole and was surprised to find spare ammo and grenades just sitting on a nearby counter. I thought I was dumb; these guys were just plain nuts. I decided to take their idiocy as a sign of my good fortune and hooked the grenades on the appropriate spots on my armor.

With the utmost caution, I poked my head up to try and get a feel for how many were left and where they were hiding. I'm glad I did, because I found myself staring at one crazy bitch, half-dressed in spiky armor, sneaking up with a switchblade. As soon as we had both figured out what was happening, I jumped back from the counter and pointed my gun up, firing wildly at her. She responded by leaping straight into my bullets and trying to stab me.

Gotta love lunatics.

She was dead before she landed on me, but it turns out those armor spikes aren't just for show. I got poked in a nasty way; not enough to really get to me, but enough that I started wondering whether or not the Doc had tetanus shots available. I shoved her off of me and got to my feet, gun ready. In retrospect, that was pretty stupid. I really should have kept my head down.

A couple of bullets from a little submachine gun skipped off of the curves of my leather armor, but one found its way into a weak spot in my abdomen. I dove for cover, biting my tongue until I tasted blood, just so they wouldn't hear me scream. I tore a bandage from the satchel at my waist, stuffed it into the new hole and jammed a Stimpak into my thigh, grunting as I felt the chemicals begin surging through my veins.

I'd had no idea that Stims would feel so good. The plasma was just going to keep me alive, that much was obvious, but the artificial adrenaline they put in those things makes you feel like you're run by a micro-fusion battery. I took a few slow breaths to try and bring my heartbeat under control (to little avail) and popped up again, already moving to one side. Life moved in slow motion as I brought my gun to bear. One, two, three, four went the gun and one, three, four went the bullets into their target. I frowned a little as I ran. I was sure I'd fired four times.

I kept moving, toward the back of the store; I was looking for goods and pharmaceuticals. That's where I'd keep them, as far away from the entrance as possible. As I ran, I unhooked one of the grenades , pulled the pin and threw it blindly toward the center on the far side of the aisles. I heard a few cries of alarm before the explosion and nothing after.

As I came around the corner, gun up, I saw a couple of wounded Raiders retreating. They ran into what I assumed was the bathrooms, apparently to regroup and reevaluate. I took the opportunity to dash into the back, hoping to find something else I could use. Digging around among the boxes netted me a couple of magazines for weapons I didn't have. As I was scavenging around the back room, I heard one of the Raiders speak up over an intercom somehow, announcing my presence. Not long thereafter, the front doors opened, and I spotted a couple of Raiders strolling in. I was only getting deeper into the shit.

I grew frustrated and started thrashing around when I noticed a door, probably into an office or back room or something. It was locked, but not securely; I picked it quickly and dashed in, shutting it behind me as I heard several raiders emerging from their little hidey-hole.

I moved cautiously into the backroom, looking around. The shelves were largely bare. A computer terminal sat on a low counter against one wall. And near the computer stood a tank with a Protectron in it. I couldn't believe my luck. If I could get it working, I'd be that much nearer to alive. I dashed over to the terminal, set my gun down nearby and got to work. It wasn't very difficult, it was a basic system when it was designed, before the apocalypse. I got in within a couple of minutes and started the boot-up process for the Protectron, giving it the order to kill all non-employees.

A thought occurred to me suddenly, horrifically, as I hit "Enter." I'm not an employee. I started looking around frantically, throwing things off of shelves and counters as the Protectron emerged from its metal cocoon. Just as it began to turn on me, I saw an employee's ID on one of the higher shelves nearby the terminal. I snatched it up and pinned it to my armor hastily, then turned and flashed my best grin at the Protectron.

"Starting default office protocol. ERROR. Security breach detected," it announced in its best tin-can voice. I got behind some shelving as it warned me to clear the area. It waddled out into the store at large, ready to kick the ass of anyone not wearing an employee badge. A few minutes of lasers, bullets and screaming later, I heard the Protectron's head orb explode in a wonderful cacophony of shattering glass and pressurized gases releasing.

Well, that didn't last long, I moped silently. Taking up my trusty pistol, I walked carefully into--

--pure carnage, as it turned out. The entire store was wrecked (you know, more than it was before). Half-melted lights swung from their supports on the ceiling, bodies littered the ground, the Protectron hunched in a now-worthless scrap heap; the only living creature was a Raider, suffering from an obviously mortal laser burn to his chest. Not wanting to take chances (and feeling ever slightly so merciful) I put one last bullet in him to be certain.

I took a walk around the store, investigating every nook and cranny. I was able to find a fair amount of food and non-perishables, as well as a cabinet full of pharmaceuticals (of questionable pre-war legality) and a strange little book. I took it with me when I left and read it while the Doc patched me up and I recovered. It's called Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor. It was written, apparently, by an uneducated mole rat (if I am any judge of grammar and spelling), the plot is uninteresting and the twists are laughably predictable. Still, it taught me a fair amount about the barter system and how better to play a merchant. I wonder what other gems are out there in the Wasteland.

Moira was very happy to see that her theory was vindicated. She gave me some bits of roast iguana (apparently one of the last sanitary sources of food in this hellhole) for bringing back the food. For bringing back the meds, she forked over one of her inventions, apparently some kind of automatic food sanitizer. I think I'm going to get more mileage from this than from the iguana bits.

That's all for now. I think I'm going to stay down for at least a couple of days before I try to tackle Minefield. If the name is any indicator, I think that should be a real walk through the--

Ah, you know.

Bread Machine

2010-04-28T09:55:00.003-04:00

This is a short piece I wrote, and to be honest I don't want to tell you any more than that. I'll let you draw your own conclusions from it.

I opened my eyes to the sound of rain bouncing lightly off of my window and landing softly on the grass. The muted, filtered sunlight did its best to shine through the clouds, casting long grey shadows in my room. For a few minutes, I could not move from my bed for fear of disturbing the absolute stillness; the universe tends toward balance, and I knew that if I tried moving here, something would move somewhere else to keep everything a wash. So I simply lay there, breathing carefully so as not to disturb the air too much, watching the patterns that the bluish grey light made through the rain droplets clinging to the glass.

Gradually I became aware of the smell of hot metal and fermenting yeast from somewhere past my bedroom door. Something stirred within me, a tendril of hope and dread constricting my throat ever so slightly. I drew myself slowly from the cold bed, throwing yesterday's shirt on over my pajama pants. I opened the door gingerly so as not to alert anyone outside of my room that I was up and about and trod carefully down the narrow hallway.

In the kitchen, my son stood on a stepping stool at the sink, carefully rinsing a large mixing bowl. The bread machine stood nearby on the counter, the red power light on and the timer reading a few hours yet left on the loaf inside. He must have heard me enter, since he turned his head toward me and smiled warmly.

"Hi, daddy," he murmured. His eyes were half-circled with the sort of dark bruising that might indicate a lack of sleep or an iron deficiency. He kept his voice soft, as though he too were afraid that loud noises might shatter this fragile morning.

"Hey, kiddo," I whispered back, trying to smile. I walked over and placed my hand on his head, gently ruffling his shock of blond hair. "What are you up to?"

"I thought I'd make some bread," he responded with the gentle innocence of youth. I felt my heart try to ignore half of its normal rhythm, causing the breath to catch in my throat for just a moment. The subtle, simple scent of the bread wafted just in front of my face, a memory there but gone forever. "It's been a long time since... since we had any bread."

"Yeah. It's been a while." An uncomfortable pause; I realized suddenly that his little arms trembled trying to hold the mixing bowl so still in the stream of water from the faucet. "Here buddy, let me help you with that." I surrounded his hands with mine, taking most of the weight from him. I guided him carefully around the bowl, washing it slowly and thoroughly. We treated it as though the heavy glass bowl were somehow delicate, as though approaching it hastily might end in disaster.

When we had cleaned the bowl and there was nothing more to be said, I walked back down the hallway and into the master bathroom. The harsher yellow light of the bulb seemed oppressive, but I wanted to see myself. My thinning black hair was tousled inelegantly; not the ever-so-popular graceful twirls of modern hairstyles, just the honest mess of the recently asleep. I brushed my hand roughly across my stubble. I considered shaving. I threw some cold water on my face instead.

I walked into bedroom and sat down on the edge of the wide bed, not wanting to leave it but not wanting to climb back in either. My eyes fell habitually to the drawer in the end table, but I couldn't bring myself to open it. From down the hall, I heard my son open a window with a grunt of effort; the cross-breeze brought the smell of the bread into my nostrils again and suddenly I could delay no more. I opened the drawer and took the album from within.

The binder was wrapped in some awful floral cover, with a heart cut out on the front where a picture should go. The picture displayed there showed a youngish couple, smiling. He was thin but handsome, his dark hair combed back away from his narrow face. His eyes were scrunched up with the grin that split his face and drew lines all around his cheeks. She was beautiful; her blond hair fell about her round face in curls, framing her features in gold. Her eyes were more green than any emerald you could find (though in this picture they were closed with laughter, they swam briefly in my vision). Between them they supported an infant, clearly newly born. The weird pink creature they held was beautiful and chubby and already growing a little blond hair on its head.

I opened the book slowly, flipping through the pages until I found the picture I was looking for. The youngish man was not part of this picture; at least, he wasn't in it but behind it. The woman, thinner in this picture than the one on the cover, still smiled brightly and embraced a boy of only a few years. His unruly blond hair fell down on his forehead and in front of his eyes a bit giving him the appearance of a very small sheepdog. Her arms were wrapped around his torso, her hands covering his, stirring something in a large plastic mixing bowl. A bread machine stood on the counter in the background, waiting patiently for the contents of the bowl.

Time passed while I sat there, no doubt, but the difficulty is in just how much time passed. My son came in at some point and sat with me as I stared at the picture. For another indeterminate stretch of time, we sat there silently, simply trying to let the smell of the bread take us back to that time. He began to cry quietly. I put one arm around him and drew him close, but I did not close the album. I couldn't. We cried there, together, in the stormy morning gloom, for the first time in a long time.

The bread machine beeped from down the hall to let us know that it had finished its job and would now be going back to sleep until it was needed once again. I dabbed my eyes with my shirt's sleeve and did the same for my boy, then smiled at him. "Come on. We need to take the bread out." He beamed at me, his eyes still wet and shining and faintly green around the edges of the irises. I scooped him up in my arms, despite his laughing protests, and carried him out to the kitchen.

Once the bread had cooled, we ate it with joyful abandon. It was truly terrible; it was faintly sour going down and had an unpleasant mealy texture, but I couldn't stop myself from eating it.

"How's the bread, daddy?" my son asked, smiling up at me hopefully. The sun had just started to poke its light tentatively through the grey clouds. Long shafts of sunlight crept through the window and illuminated the bread on the table. I looked down at that misshapen, brown loaf in the fresh golden light. I smiled and looked back to my son.

"Delicious," I lied as I cut another slice.

Lil Wayne's Rebirth: A Valiant (but Poor) Effort

2010-04-21T01:47:00.002-04:00

Clicking below will lead you to a rambling review of Lil Wayne's (not all that new) rock album, Rebirth. Don't bother clicking if you have no interest in rock, rap, rock/rap fusion, or strange, drugged-out New Orleaners. Otherwise, click the link to read more!

If you're like me, you like rock/rap fusion (as a concept) but dislike most of the actual music. The rock/rap fusion genre is one which lacks support, like most other fusion genres. Bands like Flobots and Gym Class Heroes have made some headway in their attempt to combine the alternative rock sound and sensibility with hip-hop style vocals. Linkin Park mostly just shouted and made a lot of noise, but Fort Minor tried to bring something more reasonable to all of their all-too-obvious anguish. However, apart from the odd single (or mash-up album, like Collision Course), rock/rap is missing one thing: influence from a major rap star.

Enter Lil Wayne and his rock debut album, Rebirth. A highly anticipated album (at least, until Wayne revealed that it would not be rap), Rebirth sold well and was promptly destroyed by critics everywhere, and with good reason! Rebirth is a great concept, but Wayne was obviously influenced by the very worst of both rock and rap when making it.

The Singles

Before I can continue whining about the album as a whole, I have to talk about the singles. First up is "Prom Queen," released as a single over a year before the album was actually released. "Prom Queen" is a high school failed romance ballad, done up with heavy rock instrumentation and Wayne's auto-tuned whining vocals. This combination seems like it should result in an absolute cacophony, a single which wallows in the dregs of both genres.

It does just that.

"Prom Queen" is one of the worst songs I have ever heard, and not just because I can't stand Wayne's self-pitying squeaks (with or without auto-tuning, I imagine). The music itself isn't terrible, it just isn't anything earth-shattering. That would be fine, if Wayne's lyrics or vocals offered anything. They don't.

Next came "On Fire," which I must admit that I almost like. It has a retro synth-rock feel to it, but updated with a crunk rap sort of beat. It has all breaks in all of the right places (and in some of the wrong places) and samples of Amy Holland's "She's on Fire." Unfortunately, the rest of it is pretty boring. It's not bad, per se, just uninteresting. As with many songs on this album, it might have been better with less of Wayne's "sangin'."

Finally, we have "Drop the World," featuring Eminem. This is genuinely a good song, largely because it doesn't sound like anything else on the album. It features Wayne and Eminem rapping defiantly over a chill, rockish beat. It's tastefully done, shows off some of Wayne's more coherent verses, and brings Eminem in for a very satisfying finish. This was the only song released as a single that was truly worthy of the title.

The Album

Now that we've talked about the singles, let's talk about the album as a whole. Most of the songs, unfortunately, follow the general templates above; decent samples, fairly good instrumentation, poorly produced and poorly written. On top of that, Wayne spends too much time trying to be a rock vocalist and not enough time being a rapper. Out of the whole album, only "Drop the World" really stands out, and "Runnin'" (featuring Shanell, sister of R&B star D. Woods) comes in at a close second. Shanell really shows off in a big way on "Runnin'," and she's worthy of the spotlight in the chorus. The song itself is fairly trite, but well performed by everyone involved.

The mix of the album is absolutely dreadful. The most classic orientation of a mix is the "rise-fall" orientation, where an album starts softer, builds to a climax, then falls again. Minor variations in this theme can keep albums interesting but still provide a satisfying experience overall. Wayne decided to turn both the rock and rap genres on their heads by doing the same to the mix of his album. Rather than rising and then falling, the album falls from "American Star" and "Prom Queen" to "Drop the World" and "Runnin'," then builds back up again.

While talking with a friend about this album, we agreed that "Drop the World" was worthy of accolade, and he commented that it was "the best conclusion to a rock album I've heard in recent memory." And his statement would be true, if "Drop the World" concluded the album. But it does not. It is placed dead-center.

The Conclusion

Now that I've given this album a thorough thrashing, I think it's time that I emphasize just how much I like this idea. Lil Wayne was making a bold move by releasing Rebirth, and I would argue that it was a good one. I've made no secret of my love for this particular brand of fusion, and the hope of snaring a legitimate rap idol to experiment in the rock genre is extremely exciting to me. The fact that it sucked notwithstanding, I would urge Lil Wayne to try again.

So if you're reading this, Wayne, find a good rock producer (I like Trent Reznor, but as you apparently have a tendency to whine, I would find someone a little angrier, like Manson), focus your lyrics, and look for inspiration somewhere outside of the likes of Simple Plan and My Chemical Romance. Other rappers, if you're listening and have an inclination to rock music, throw your hat in. What's the worst that could happen, you put out a bad album? It didn't stop Wayne (okay, maybe he's a bad role model).

See you next year, Wayne!

Just Business

2010-04-17T11:27:00.001-04:00

An experimental story I wrote from the perspective of two men with no personal pronouns. Click below to read!

Beat. Watch him walk out of the dining room; his dishes are still on the table, his family is still eating.

Beat. Only see him briefly through windows. His pace is quick, nervous. A faint sheen of sweat on his forehead (or is that glare through the lens?)

Beat. He's stridden into a room, but it is dark. He turns on no lights. It is impossible to see him.

Beat. Make sure a round is loaded. Check that the bolt is tight and the safety is off. Maintain breathing and heart rate.

Beat. Open ajna. Search for him among the energy coming from the house. Seal off anahata. Slow heart a little more, steady hand.

Beat. Can't find him with third eye. Too much noise.

Beat. He turns on a desk lamp and searches a drawer for something. A manila folder. He rests it on the desk, open. He starts to read aloud from it into the receiver of a phone.

Beat. Cross is over his head. Line goes through frontal lobe and the phone receiver. Beautiful. Exhale gradually, let finger tense on its own.

Beat.

Beat. Child barges in suddenly. He all but jumps to his feet. Too late to stop. The bullet strikes him in the chest, rather than the head.

Beat. Strangled gasps. Breathing is difficult. Coppery taste. Screaming; it's not his own.

Beat. Wet choking. Foamy gargling. Light swims and dances.

Beat. Light fades to a pinprick. Single choke, then no breath comes.

Beat. Darkness. Muscles spasm, desperate for air.

Beat. Sarah.

Beat.

Silence.

The Church Dream

2010-04-17T11:26:00.001-04:00

This is an experiment in second-person prose, with which I have no prior experience. Not experimental in the classic sense, but it's all new to me. Click below to read it!

You open your eyes abruptly; the sudden influx of light is like a pail of cold water directly to your brain. A vaulted ceiling is far ahead of you (above you, you suppose belatedly, as you must be on your back). The light seems to be coming in from your left and right, filtered through some kind of colored glass. The dust motes dance through the air on swirling breezes, flickering through the spectrum of colors as they float through the tinted light. You blink a few more times; you can now make out the baroque reliefs carved into the dark wood of the ceiling and the pillars rising to meet it.

Slowly you sit up and as you do so you finally realize that you are in a cathedral. The long aisle of pews stands empty, but the altar and the sacristy are obviously decorated as for a funeral. No picture of the deceased stands by the heavy oaken casket, but flowers lay all around it. It looks like all of the flowers are white, but the sunlight coming through the stained glass paints them with a pastel palette.

You turn all about, inspecting the rest of the ancient church. The classically styled stained-glass windows do not depict Mary, Jesus or any recognizable disciples. Instead, they show a variety of men and women, broken, bloodied, dying, screaming in pain. The terrible scenes are made all the more disturbing by the vibrant colors of the stained glass. All of the victims stand on a bright blue background, their blood impossibly red and their tears as beautiful as diamonds. Where the doors should stand, there is only an empty wall, devoid of the engravings found in most of the rest of the wood around the church. No sources of light (other than the windows) are evident.

As you turn back toward the altar, you are startled to see a tiger lying on the casket. The huge cat's eyes are narrowed and he blinks too often, as though he is in great pain. His breathing comes in shallow, ragged pants. You begin to walk closer, despite the animal instincts commanding you to turn and flee. The tiger notices your movement and turns its face toward you. Without its head resting on its chest, you can see that it is wounded. Blood stains its white fur, the same unnatural ruby as that found on the windows. Its blood trickles over the casket slowly, dripping into beautiful floral patterns on the ground.

Without realizing it, you find that you have made it to the casket. The tiger's eyes have hooked onto yours, and it seems that neither can look away. The tiger breathes in slowly, holds it for a moment, and exhales again. He lifts one large paw drowsily and places it on your chest. With what seems like a great effort, he pushes gently on your chest....

And you wake up, staring into the blank, unblinking eyes of a predator.

An Unfortunate Adventure

2010-04-16T22:50:00.002-04:00

This actually started as a bit of backstory for a D&D character I was building. The exercise was to build a character with a single adventure in his past that explained why he was out in the world in the first place, so here's the story of Shane McTavish, failed squire. Click below to read it!

"May I ask where we're going, m'lord?" Shane asked yet again, trying very hard to keep the anxious whine from his voice. It didn't work. The elderly knight sighed in annoyance now only half-feigned.

"I told you, boy, we're making our way to the Icarian Peaks, to end the threat of the Dragonfane kobolds. Now still your tongue, else lose it!" Shane clamped down abruptly on his tongue, stilling it halfway to a snarky retort aimed at his mentor; he satisfied himself instead with an irritable tug at the mule's reins. The mule, a mare who Shane suspected may have been older than Sir Enrich, grunted in response and head-butted Shane reproachfully. The previous month's travel had left the entire party in a miserable state. The less familiar sections of the Mistwoods had covered everyone in a fine layer of scratches, which were then coated in turn by the distinctively odiferous mud of the Mistmarsh. Now past the southern coast of Lake Hauber and into the foothills north of Hauberville, a bone-deep weariness and seeped into the trio. The following month's travel promised to be only marginally better; the terrain would be easier, but darkly brooding thunderclouds hung low on the horizon, advancing with the steady, heedless progression of a dire buffalo.

That night, Shane huddled in the meager protection of his small, one-man tent. The canvas sides buckled under the heavy downpour of rain and angrily gusting winds, leaving Shane to wonder if the whole tent would simply collapse or pick up and blow away with him. Quietly, a small portion of him prayed for just such a fate. Though death by terminal windstorm was certainly not much better than death by some kobld's spear, at that moment it seemed that tumbling to his death in that maelstrom would be preferable than the interminable travel in between. He flipped his short sword, the only protection Sir Enrich allowed him to carry, with practiced ease in his left hand, being careful not to let it get so far away that it might puncture the tenuous material of the tent.

It was certainly not as though Shane felt no gratitude or warmness for Sir Enrich; Shane was told that he had parents, somewhere, but that they had been too poor to raise him properly. Sir Enrich had offered to take the boy as his squire when Shane was still too small to be of any use to the knight. Now, it was the only life Shane knew.

Perhaps it is the only life I shall ever know, he thought bitterly as he spun the short sword with increasing agitation. It is not as though the Marquis de Thorndale shall ever knight me. He scolded himself for these thoughts, but even self-flagellation could not lift his spirits. The Marquis, a minor lord by anyone's standards (only a dozen knights under his banner), certainly made no secret of his dislike for the gangly squire. He often joked at his dinner table, his chin stack wobbling as he laughed at his own wit, that Sir Enrich would certainly die before Shane were fit to be a knight. It was true enough that Sir Enrich was advanced in years, but Shane certainly thought that he'd be able to hold out for at least another three years, at which time Shane could petition for his own title of knighthood. Even with Sir Enrich's support, however, Shane would need to win over at least two of the other knights before the Marquis would be forced to accept him as a knight. The assignment they had been sent on seemed proof enough to Shane that the Marquis did not think highly enough of Enrich to knight Shane on his say-so alone.

"Dragonfane kobolds," Shane muttered to himself, internalization no longer sufficient for the slowly boiling frustration within him. "Who ever heard of anything so damned stupid? Sun's blood, he must be desperate to be rid of us." From just outside his tent, he heard the low bray of the mule, Muriel, as though sympathizing with him. Sure that the night could get no better from there, Shane laid down and shut his eyes, trying to ignore the sound of the pounding rain.

The Icarian Peaks rose steadily out of the ground over the course of the next month, giant fangs of stone growing unchecked from the rocky ground of the foothills. Shane was unreasonable jumpy in the days leading up to entering the mountain range proper, certain that any moment a host of kobolds would leap out and overwhelm him before his mentor could save him. He slept little; often, when he did sleep, he would awake with a startled cry, gripping the braided leather of his short sword's hilt so tightly that his knuckles turned white. If Sir Enrich noticed this gradual decay, he said nothing. Instead, as they approached the mountain range, he seemed to get more stern in all of his morning drills, pushing Shane a little harder each day. Combining this with the lack of sleep, Shane was wearing thinner each day.

"I mean no disrespect, m'lord," Shane told Enrich one afternoon, "but I cannot keep this up! It's too much! What are you even trying to accomplish?" Enrich opened his mouth to begin speaking, but Shane didn't seem to notice; he just kept talking over Enrich's objection. "I mean, I know all of the drills! Doing this every morning is killing me! How do you expect me to keep up when I'm so nervous that I cannot sleep at night? Night and shadow, I suppose I shouldn't even be nervous! After all, it's been nearly a month since we entered the foothills, and still no--"

"Shut up!" Enrich shouted abruptly, rushing Shane. Shane leapt out of the way with a yelp just as a short spear flew through the space he had just been occupying. He stared in dumbfound amazement as Enrich let the spear deflect off his shield and charge through, cutting down the offending kobold as he drew his sword. Four more appeared as Shane struggled to his feet, fumbling to free his sword from its sheath. Only of the kobolds came for Shane, the other three surrounding Enrich and trying to poke their primitive spears past his guard. Enrich kept whirling about, snarling at them and deflecting their spears, but never gaining enough of an advantage to strike.

The kobold that had detached from the others approached Shane, the obsidian edge of the spearhead gleaming obscenely. It stabbed twice as it approached, forcing Shane to shuffle out of the way of the attacks. Shane waited for it to get closer, then lashed out with his own short sword with two clumsy, guileless attacks. The kobold ignored the strikes and lunged boldly for Shane; the spear only missed his heart by virtue of the fact that he had been reeling, trying to maintain his balance after his own poorly executed attack. The proximity of the little ratling's spear forced Shane back another graceless step. As he brought his back foot down, it struck a rock and failed to find proper purchase. He flailed hopelessly, trying to keep his balance, as he fell backward. He lashed out wildly with his sword, losing his grip as he did so. His head struck the stony ground with a sick crack, and everything went black.

The sudden influx of light as Shane's eyelids creaked open was dizzying. Hoping to fend off the wave of nausea, he snapped his eyes shut again, but it was no use. He managed to roll over on to his side before vomiting. He opened his eyes very slowly and carefully this time, letting his addled brain adjust to the light level before opening his eyes a little further. Enrich sat on a low, nearby hill, presumably keeping watch. His eyes were, at the moment, firmly fixed on Shane. He said nothing until Shane had managed to pull himself into a sitting position.

"Alright, boy?" he asked tersely. Shane tried to speak, found his throat could manage no more than a sour gurgling, and instead turned gradually to survey his surroundings. The kobolds lay dead to a one, spears and limbs flung about seemingly at random. One kobold lay still largely intact with Shane's short sword sticking out of its eye, blade buried almost to the hilt. Shane turned back toward the old knight, wonder written across his face.

"Yes, you got one," the knight said simply. "Quite by accident, but you got him. Try to keep your head next time."

"Of course, m'lord," Shane finally managed to croak. Enrich chuckled.

"Good boy. Now, take a few minutes to get your wits about you. We have a whole lair of these things to kill." He stood up and walked down the hill, to where the largely intact kobold lay. With practiced ease, he pulled the sword from its skull, dragging up bits of bone and brain with a wet, sucking sound. He cleaned the blade casually on the grass, passed it to Shane, and made his way to the mule.

The cave entrance stood before the party, a black, yawning maw that might belong on the face of a truly enormous earth elemental.

"Did they really have to pick a cave so... large? And intimidating?" Shane asked uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot. "I mean, they really only stand about three feet high. Picking such a cavern seems wasteful."

"Be grateful for it," Enrich advised, not entirely able to control his smirk. "I once had to crawl down a tunnel not much more than three feet across to get to a cabal of necromancers. Any time I can enter a lair such as this standing, I consider it a victory." Shane eyed him askance, frowning slightly. Figuring that any further conversation couldn't improve things, he set about tying up Muriel at the entrance.

Enrich strode into the cave a few paces, striking a sunrod against the nearest wall as he walked. Shadows withered away in the sudden presence of the dazzling white light. The clammy gray rock of the cave descended deeper down into the mountain before Enrich and his squire, but was fortunately vacated. Enrich passed the sunrod to Shane and unslung his shield, gripping it against his left arm. Shane already had his sword out, and held the sunrod aloft in the other hand. With Enrich leading the way, the two descended into the mountain.
The path wove generally down as it curved back and forth on itself in such amanner that Shane quickly lost his bearings. Dripping water and the occasional breeze from above swirled into a persistent, maddening whisper. The inky darkness before the pair shied away from the light, only to circle back around and close off the area behind them, trapping them forever in the black subterranean prison.

"I don't like this."

"Hush."

The time passed by with no interruptions from yipping kobolds. Shane had just finally started to let the tension out of his shoulders when Enrich threw out an arm, stopping him abruptly.

"What? What is it? Do you hear kobolds?"

"How can I hear anything over your yammering? Quiet, boy, and look for once." Shane peered about hopelessly, not understanding the point of Enrich's ire.

"No, down there, you blasted fool." Shane followed the knight's finger to a thin wire, strung between two stalagmites sticking up from the rough ground.

"Traps. Kobolds love them. Looks like this one would have dropped this tunnel on us."

"Would they really close off this tunnel just to get at us?" Shane tried his damnedest to come off as cool as the knight had, but his voice squeaked quite involuntarily on the final syllable. Enrich gave him a sidelong look.

"Absolutely. They have a hundred other tunnels like this. Besides, they'll do almost anything to avoid a direct confrontation." The scorn in his voice was approaching levels that Shane had only heard him reserve for evil spellcasters and abusive nobility. He lifted one metal-clad boot carefully over the wire, then the other, gesturing for Shane to do the same.

Suddenly, the distance between the wire and the ground seemed to extend itself almost to waist level. Shane set his jaw firmly and did his best to control his breathing as he raised one trembling leg. Little by little, the shuddering muscles in his leg gave in to his will and pulled his foot over the unfathomable ravine below the wire. He carefully swung that foot aside, inhaling sharply as he was sure that he had caught the wire.

Eternity yawned.

Finally he had the courage to let his foot fall slowly back to the pock-marked slope of the cave floor. Slowly, he let his weight come down on the ball of his foot, then let it roll back to his heel. Halfway there now, Shane. He bounced the weight off of his foot on the far side of the wire, testing his foothold on the nearer side. Once he was finally convinced that he wouldn't slip to his death as soon as he lifted his foot proper, he started the arduous process of shifting his tenuous balance to the foot that had already made the journey. Just as his foot was about to clear the wire, he was pulled abruptly from his feet by his shirt collar. He cried out in alarm and curled up into a defensive ball, certain that the weight of the earth was about to come down on him.

"Gods' touch, relax, boy! I've got you! I just didn't want to pass on before you'd finished making it over." Enrich shoved him roughly away from the wire, grumbling to himself as he started down the slope again. The pair hadn't even rounded the next bend when two kobolds leapt out in front of them, catching the boy and his master unaware.

The knight let out a shout of alarm as he struggled to drag his sword free of its sheath. About halfway from getting it out, he doubled over, his shield arm clutching near his heart. He let out a cry of agony, startling the kobolds badly enough that they forgot completely to attack with their crude spears. In a panic, Shane groped wildly for the sword at his belt. He had just finished clearing it as Enrich collapsed in a boneless heap. Shane lashed out with two barbaric swings, losing control of the sword with the second slash and letting it loose from his grip. He rushed to his master's side, heedless of the draconic beasts nearby.

The elderly knight's face was waxen and glossy with sweat. His breathing was coming in short, ragged bursts. Shane groped gracelessly, trying to remember what he was taught about detecting the heart's pulses in his master's neck. He could feel Enrich's blood pulsing languidly, erratically through the veins beneath his fingers. The world fell out from beneath Shane's knees, leaving him plummeting dizzily through nothing. The last time he'd seen someone collapse like this was five years ago; the smith, Derrick, had collapsed one day at his forge. He'd managed to cling to life for another hour before he'd finally succumbed. So far from home and healers, Shane had no idea how to save Enrich's life.

Shane was brought rushing headlong back to the world as he felt a spear drive itself into his arm, just below the shoulder joint. He snarled, half from the pain and half from the rising, bilious rage that threatened to consume him, and spun on his assailant. Apparently, his first sword swing had injured one of the kobolds badly; he now lay on the ground, bright red blood pulsing from a deep cut along the inside of one of his bony little legs. The other kobold must have been struck by the hilt of the sword as it flew, leaving some of the scales on his face damaged. He had recovered fairly quickly and now stood, hands dumbly gripping the spear which stuck into Shane's flesh.

Shane lashed out at the kobold with his bare hands, heedless of the barbed point in his arm. The kobold yelped and leapt back, pulling the spear with him. The kobold was now out of Shane's reach, but the spear was not. Shane grabbed the spear with one hand and pulled it past him, dragging the kobold with it into his reach. As the kobold came so close that Shane could smell his fetid breath, Shane reared back and lashed out with his head, smashing the heavy bones of his forehead into the kobold's serpentine snout. The kobold cried out and fell back, blood gushing from its face. It wept quietly as Shane stood, picked up the spear, and stood by it.

Softly, the kobold whimpered in a sibilant tongue. Shane didn't speak the language, but the meaning was clear to him none the less; spare me, please, do not kill me. Shane gripped the spear firmly in his good hand and drove the point home. The whimpering faded into agonized gurgles, then ceased altogether. He strode swiftly to the other form on the ground; it was now barely conscious and clearly delirious with the loss of blood. The sounds it made sounded no more like words than the mewling of a lost cat. Shane's booted foot came up and drove into the kobold's skull before he even had time to register that he'd moved. Even once he'd realized what he was doing, he did not stop. He stomped the kobold in the head and neck, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming as he let the fury boil out through the coiled muscles in his legs.

Finally he stepped back, the red haze receding from his eyes. He collected his sword and returned to Enrich's side. The knight's breathing had become shallower, his face paler and his eyelids fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. Shane took up one of the knight's hands between his own and pressed the bony, wrinkled knuckles against his forehead. He whispered prayers and pleaded to Pelor, offering ecclesiastical platitudes and heartfelt sobs to the sun god. As he whispered, Enrich's breaths grew quieter yet, his face less troubled and pained. As Shane finished the third repetition of "By the Sun's Life-Giving Light," Enrich exhaled once, heavily, then breathed no more.

No great cry left Shane. No more tears fell from his eyes, no more rage and sorrow threatened to tear their way from his wiry, hairless chest. He sighed slowly, almost as though he were relieved, set the knight's hand carefully upon his chest, and stood from his side. Shane dried his eyes against his sleeve, sniffed, and looked around. He knew the way down led only to more kobolds; whether or not he could brave these tunnels alone, he was unsure. He sat down against one wall and closed his eyes, still praying; the object of his prayers now, however, had changed. He prayed to Kord for strength and for courage, for all that he would need to see the coming battle through. He prayed to Heironeous for the ability to see justice done and for the valor necessary to avenge his master. He even prayed to Olidammara, the Laughing Rogue, for the discretion and cunning that would keep him alive within these caverns.

Eventually he stood and opened his eyes, letting the steely determination that he'd been building up within his mind guide him. He unbuckled Enrich's armor and set about strapping it to himself. The full plate was too heavy for Enrich to wear, so he took the leather from beneath and strapped the breastplate over it, hoping that he could avoid the worst of it this way. He picked up Enrich's bastard sword and strapped it to his hip, opposite the short sword. Carefully, he double-checked all of his equipment; two sunrods, plus the one that Enrich had lit at the cave entrance, about 20 feet of loose hempen rope, a crowbar, enough rations for three days (Six days now, Shane thought grimly) and a climber's kit: six pitons and a grappling hook with more rope on it. It wasn't much for staging an assault, but it would have to suffice.

As an afterthought, Shane picked out one of the spare sunrods, struck it, and left it on Enrich's corpse. He began his descent again, quicker now than when he had been traveling with Sir Enrich. He'd only descended about a hundred feet when the sunrod's light began to fade as the alchemical devices that powered it began to burn themselves out. As the darkness crept in from the outside, Shane felt an icy certainty begin to spread out from within, starting at his heart and expanding to embrace him entirely. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced; he knew that now, without Enrich, the mission was his alone. He could not cower in fear, he could not whine and complain and hope that someone else knew the way. This time, the job was his, and he intended to see it through.

By the time he'd come across the dimly lit cavern where squatted a miserable host of kobolds, the sunrod had died completely. It was just as well; the light from the rod would have given him away to his new opponents. He slid as quietly as he could against the cavern wall, keeping a wary eye on the kobolds who knelt in attendance of their leader. The kobold chieftain, who did not look more regal so much as less scrawny, stood before his silent audience on a rocky dais. It looked as though this cave had not been carved out for use so much as picked for this purpose because it had naturally formed to it.

A pedestal rose out of the ground, smaller across than a man laying down and about knee high, uneven and pockmarked at the top of it. The chieftain stood atop this pedestal, his voice carried out by the long, ovular chamber. Behind him rose a concave, pointed structure, which seemed to have formed for the express purpose of funneling the voice of whoever stood on this pedestal into the rest of the cavern. A few torches were stuck into the rocky ground in pairs to form a wide aisle leading away from the dais; here, a dozen or so kobolds knelt, eyes cast toward the ground as their leader yelped and howled his pontifications over their heads.

Shane looked grimly around the cavern. The edges of it faded off into the gloom indistinctly, giving it the distinct impression that it had no real ends. Above him, he saw the faintest hint of the cave ceiling, stalactites hanging down precariously like the far-off teeth of some beast.

And directly above the chieftain hung the largest of them.

Shane's pulse quickened ever so slightly as the first wisps of an idea drifted across his mind. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could around the edge of the cave, behind the great concave formation; his eyes darted about wildly, snatching all of the scattered fragments of thought and weaving them together. As he reached the opposite side of the curved rock face behind the kobold chieftain, the pace of his chant increased. Shane thought he heard more taloned feet shuffling into the cavern, banging staves or sticks or something similar against the ground, in time with the chant. It seemed Olidammara had heard him after all. He began to dig through his pack, looking for the crowbar and the pitons.

With each pound of staves and spears on the ground, Shane swung into the pitons, driving them firmly into the rock. He would test each carefully before hauling himself up and driving the next piton in above him. With only three pitons, he was able to mount the structure and balance precariously next to the stalactite. He pulled another piton from his pack and placed it as high as he could reach into the pointed structure. He repeated his pattern, pounding the piton in time with the kobolds below. As he drove the piton deeper, he could see cracks form around the piton and spread through the rock.

As he drove the piton as far is it would go into the stalactite, it occurred to him that the sound of the crowbar on the piton was the only sound in the cavern. Slowly, he looked down and saw the host of kobolds staring up at him, dumbfounded. The bewildered chieftain looked around at his subjects, clearly not understanding the source of their bemusement. Shane took the crowbar into both hands suddenly and swung with all of his weight into the lines of cracks that wove through the stalctite.

The rock made a cracking sound not unlike ice shattering and gave way; it did not give all at once, but in stages. The side closest to Shane began to fall first, tearing the rest of the supporting rock away. Small pieces dropped to the ground, and Shane saw the chief finally look up and realize what had just happened. As the stalactite finally lost purchase on the ceiling, Shane leapt off of the rock on which he had perched, bouncing a little off of the back of the falling rocks. The awed silence gave way now to panicked screaming and scrabbling of talons on rock, so that when Shane landed heavily (and clumsily, rolling his ankle underneath his own weight) on the cavern floor, it was not in a neatly ordered army of kobolds, but a frantic mob.

Shane spun toward the chieftain's raised platform just in time to see the pile of rocks settle with a heavy finality over the pedestal. A single clawed hand stuck out, motionless and desperate from time pile. Shane did his best not to smile. He began to limp toward the entrance to this cavern, knocking aside dumbstruck kobolds as he went. he was halfway to the exit before a few of the armed kobolds realized that he was still there and turned their spears on him.

With two jerky, graceless motions, Shane dragged his own sword and Sir Enrich's borrowed sword free from their sheathes. He began whirling them in front of himself, not aiming the blows so much as hoping they would connect if he threw enough of them around. Though the kobolds could doubtlessly have found dozens of openings in this clumsy, witless assault, they seemed so utterly agape from the series of events that had just transpired that Shane may as well have been some inexorable, bladed golem of legend and nightmares. Two of them tried poking their spears at Shane, but his whirling swords knocked them aside and severed the spears' hafts.

Finally, the largest of them leapt forward and thrust his spear boldly under Shane's guard, straight up toward his heart. Shane saw the blow coming and only barely managed to twist his torso enough that the blow glanced off of his breastplate. He responded with a backhand stroke from the bastard sword that left the kobold's throat open to the air, pouring his life out between his scales.

Despite the failure of their comrade, his audacity seemed to inspire the other kobolds. A few of the stragglers that had backed up almost to the wall when faced with Shane's dervish impression now began to advance again, emboldened by their brethren and the smell of fresh blood. Growing desperate, Shane spun the short sword about so that he held the blade near the hilt and hurled it with his left hand at the furthest kobold. Before the blade had finished its tumbling flight, he had already gripped the bastard sword in both hands and rushed the nearest of them.

The two blades found their marks nearly simultaneously; the short sword lodged itself sloppily in one kobold's chest, just below the throat, while the bastard sword cut one of his brothers almost completely in half. Shane carried the momentum through to the next monster, spinning on his good ankle and smashing the blade into the beast's skull. The kobold wore a helmet that protected him from the edge of Shane's sword, but not the weight. With a visceral cracking sound, he collapsed to the cold ground, abruptly boneless. Shane's renewed vigor caused the other kobolds to hesitate just long enough that he was able to rush past them. He came to the side of the far kobold, his short sword stuck in its chest and was surprised to find that it had lived. Without flinching, he stamped down on its chest, bent at the waist, and dragged the sword from it with only a single cry of protest from the beast. Shane turned again, readying himself as the kobold guard finally regrouped in the cavern proper. No fewer than two dozen spears pointed toward him now.

Shane could see the futility of fighting against these numbers, but he had no faith in the mercy of the beasts, either. A few tense moments crawled by as he considered what his master would have done in this situation. Yielding was not an option, fighting was not an option... a show of strength, then would have to do. He drew up and shouted wildly, his voice rising to a bloodcurdling note; he bulged his eyes and gnashed his teeth, making as great a spectacle of his fury as he could. He could see a number of the kobolds waver; they glanced uneasily at each other, dropping the points of their spears just enough. It would have to do.

Madly, Shane dashed at the line before him. Those at the ends shrieked and bolted away from the charging barbarian. The rest drew up their spears and did their best to seem strong. Shane knocked a few spears aside and broke through the line, throwing the scaly dogs underfoot. The light of the cave quickly disappeared behind him as he ran. His legs burned, his lungs ached, but he knew he could not stop running. He could hear them behind him.

As it was, Shane knew he could run faster them on the ground, but in the twisty, darkened caverns, he was not sure he would be able to lose them. His hope lay ahead, burning in the dark....

As he rounded a corner, he saw the reflections of light being thrown on the tunnel wall opposite him. He couldn't help but sneer triumphantly, knowing what was to come. With all the speed that his legs could lend him, he vaulted the body, planted one foot on the ground, and leaped again, sailing over the tripwire. Quietly, he whispered a prayer that not all of his pursuers would remember it.

Behind him, he heard at least two kobolds squeak and stop running abruptly, their claws skittering across the uneven ground. One more, however, did not seem to be catch on, and plowed bullishly into his comrades. The tripwire snapped, and Shane picked up his speed as he heard the tunnel come down behind him, sealing off this exit.

Shane sat just at the edge of the cave, directly on the border between the darkness below and the night above. Somehow, the idea of entering either fully terrified Shane; as though if he were to step out from the cave mouth, he might drown in the shadows. Muriel stood outside, near the mouth of the cave, chewing contentedly on the bits of plant life she could find poking up through the rocky ground.

"It doesn't even bother you, does it?" Shane demanded of the old mule. "Our master is dead, we can never go home again, but you're not even fazed." Muriel stared levelly back at Shane, chewing a mouthful of grass with slow deliberation. Shane gazed into the beast's glassy eyes for a long moment, hoping to find some answer or comfort. Muriel's sneeze broke his trance. "Stupid animal," Shane grumbled. Out of spite, he snatched a carrot from his bag and ate it in front of her.

"Don't get snappy with me. You're the one who ran off on this fool quest," Muriel responded in someone else's voice. Shane choked briefly on a bit of carrot, coughed it out and bolted upright. He demanded "What was that?" of Muriel; but of course she did not respond, she had not said anything in the first place.

"What about your responsibilities at home, Shane?" the voice in his mind continued. "What about our--"

"Enough! Stop!" he raged, flying from his seat. With blood pounding in his temples, he spun on the empty darkness. "What was I to do? At my age? With no trade to call mine?"

"You're a squire, Shay. You're to be a knight some day! That's better than any craft!"

"This quest was part of that. And now it's ruined my chances at being a knight! The marquis will never knight me now!"

"Won't someone?" she asked gently, the last syllable echoing sadly in his mind.

"What do you mean?" he whispered. But the phantom was gone already, its job done. Shane sat down again, heavily, exhaling as he did. The meager fire crackled and flickered against the darkness in the mouth of the cave.

"Well, Muriel," he finally managed, "it's time to go become a knight."

Muriel simply sneezed.

Tuesday, August 28th, 2277

2009-01-03T17:37:00.001-05:00

This is the sixth part in the Vault Dweller's Diary series. I recommend you click the label on the right side there and read starting at Vault Dweller's Diary Introduction, or Monday, August 20th, 2277 if you feel you don't need the intro. Otherwise, click below to read!

Well, I’m still alive. Let’s recap.

Yesterday, I decided to take a hike down to the Super-Duper Mart to find some food and meds for Moira’s book. After about an hour of walking, I crested a large hill and saw the burned-out remains of what was probably once a superstore. As I snuck down a little from the top, I spotted a couple of raiders out front of the store. They hadn’t seen me, so I did my best to sneak down to their position. From what I could see, they weren’t well-armed, probably just pistols at best. Those assholes never even saw me coming. Just as I was getting ready to pick them off from afar, I saw a couple of military-looking types in leather with white talons on them run in and open fire. I swear, they didn’t stop to chat; they just cut the raiders down. Those mohawked jerkoffs didn’t stand a chance.

As the smoke cleared and the fine red mist was touching the ground, one of the Talons glanced up, right at me. He turned and said something to the little guy with the big gun. He looked over at me, too, but neither one opened fire. I took that as a good sign, like maybe they were some kind of civil militia or something. One of those groups that tries to bring law back to the Wasteland by dispensing hot death to those who have most earned it. Besides, if they were going to shoot me, they already would have. So, like a jackass, I walked out and around the fence, gun at my side and pointed down. The little guy with the big gun called me over by name; I should have known that was a bad sign, but I guess my experience with homicidal manics has been minimal (I seldom met Amata’s dad). I at least had the good sense not to get any closer. He told me that he and his gang (Talon Company, it seems) had been hired to kill me, that goody two-shoes like me got shot in the Wasteland. I tried buying them off, but they just laughed.

Something to know about me: I hate people getting the drop on me. So while they were laughing, I brought the rifle to bear and put two bullets in the neck of the guy that had initially spotted me. His laughter quickly turned to wet choking sounds as blood, more red than I’d ever seen it, poured out. I dove behind cover before his buddies could get their bearings together and return fire (but damn, it was close). I never, before that firefight, realized how tough leather armor was, but believe me when I tell you that that was the longest firefight I have yet been involved in. I only managed to kill three of them, out of (I think) eight, including the one I caught off-guard.

The real problem started when I realized that I’d dived behind a car. That train of thought continued when I realized the engine block had caught fire, since there must have still been some fusionable material in it. Figuring I had only a couple of seconds before it exploded, I took off at a low run, trying to zig-zag enough to not get shot. It almost worked, too.

I felt this hot pain in my left calf, like a really huge bee sticking its barbed stinger as far as it would go into the muscle. I stumbled and fell down, into some bushes (mercifully) which provided some cover. I did my best to crawl on, but I could hear gunshots and the sounds of pursuit behind me. Sure enough, that car went up like a smaller version of the bombs which scourged this land 200 years ago. Unloading the remainder of the existing assault rifle magazine behind me blindly resulted in the incredibly satisfying sound of wet flesh dropping abruptly onto the dry, hard ground. Between that and the car’s fusion engine going up, I think they were stalled just long enough that I managed to crawl into a thicker dead shrub just long enough to wrap a piece of my shirt tightly around the gunshot. After that, it was nothing but hours of trying to stay ahead of them; those Talon Company Mercs are relentless.

Last night, I tried leaving that message. Unfortunately, I was interrupted mid-sentence by the rest of the Talon Company wankers. The firefight which ensued very nearly resulted in my death, I don’t mind telling you. I took two more bullets, one in the shoulder and another in the chest (but nothing vital, gratefully, and my lung didn’t collapse from the sudden pressure change). On the other hand, I killed the three that had been pursuing me.

Yeah, I said three. Do the math, that tallies seven of eight dead, if my memory serves me properly. So either one of them died when that car went up, or one of them went back to report the failure to their superior. Either way, I know I killed the head of this particular squad; I recognized his face among those last three bodies. Or, what was left of it once I was through. I took his armor, as it seems to be remarkably sturdy. He also had a note on him, about killing me. I apparently pissed off some of the Wasteland’s shadier assholes, and they decided I was too much of a liability to leave alive. I think this has something to do with saving Megaton and killing Burke. I should know better than to ruffle feathers by now, I lived in a Vault for nuke’s sake.

I made it back to Megaton somehow between the last ambush and now. I’m resting and recovering right now. Hopefully, by the time I try again, I’ll be okay, the Talon Company will leave me alone, and the raiders won’t be on guard anymore thanks to their scouts dying. This might yet prove to be an interesting excursion again.

Monday, August 27th, 2277

2009-01-01T17:36:00.000-05:00

Oh, God, they’re after me. Can’t build a fire. Have to be careful they don’t see the light from my Pip-Boy. If my body is found, know that I was killed by the Talon Company. I don’t know what I did to– oh, shit!

Overwhelmingly Chocolate Brownies

2008-12-28T17:40:00.001-05:00

Ever want brownies that weren’t too sweet, but had a wonderfully deep chocolate flavor? These are your brownies. A recipe of my own devising, three kinds of chocolate sate the hedonistic desires which lay dormant in all of us.

Ingredients:
1 c. unsalted butter
2 oz. baking chocolate
3-4 oz. dark chocolate (greater than 60% cacao)
1 c. flour
1/4 t. salt
3/4 c. cocoa
4 eggs
2 c. fine granulated sugar
2 t. vanilla extract

Preheat your oven to 350ºF. In a small saucepan, melt the first three ingredients together over low heat, stirring occasionally to keep it from burning. Combine the flour, salt, and cocoa in a small bowl and set aside. Crack all four eggs into a large mixing bowl and beat until fluffy. Add sugar by the 1/2 cup, beating until blended each time. The sugared eggs should be thick by the time you’re done with them. Blend in your butter/chocolate mixture and the vanilla extract. Gradually fold in the dry ingredients until thoroughly mixed. Pour into an ungreased 13×9 baking pan and bake about 25 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with some moist crumbs. Let cool in pan before cutting, else your brownies will fall apart. Try serving with some vanilla ice cream (I prefer French Vanilla, thanks to the smooth vanilla bean taste) and/or fresh raspberries.

Buttercrust Apple Pie

2008-12-28T17:38:00.001-05:00

This recipe, the base of which was not my original creation, has been revised to a finer point by yours truly. Play with some of the spicing to your tastes (it should be easy, since you’re making the mix separately from the apples). The butter, poured over the lattice crust, fries the crust while it bakes to a beautiful golden-brown finish every time.
ngredients:
9-inch double pie crust (store-bought is fine, or use your own recipe)
1/2 c. unsalted butter
3 T. flour
1/4 c. water
1/2 c. sugar
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/2 t. ground cinnamon
1/4 t. ground nutmeg
1/4 t. ground cloves
1 t. vanilla
6 Granny Smith apples (cored, peeled, and sliced)*

*20 oz. apples also work perfectly well, but due to the increased size, you’ll want to use fewer apples.

Preheat your oven to 425ºF. Melt the butter in a small saucepan, then stir in the flour to form a paste. Add the water, sugars, and seasonings, then bring to a boil. Reduce temperature and simmer until you’re ready for it. When the mixture has deepened slightly in color to a caramel brown, pour about half to two-thirds of the mixture over the apples and toss until the apples are evenly coated. Place your bottom pie crust in your pie plate and fill with the apples, mounding slightly. Cut the other pie crust into strips and create a lattice over the apples. Pour the remaining butter mixture over the lattice and onto the apples (careful not to spill). Bake for 10-15 minutes, then reduce the temp to 350ºF and bake for another 30-45 minutes (until the apples are soft). Let cool in pie plate until the pie is at room temperature before serving.

Leftover apples can be eaten out of the bowl, or made into a delicious applesauce. Serve with fresh whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, or just on its own!

Sunday, August 26th, 2277

2008-12-26T17:36:00.001-05:00

This is part four of the Vault Dweller's Diary series. If you haven't been reading this series, I suggest you click the link on the right-hand side (that reads Vault Dweller's Diary) and start with Vault Dweller's Diary Introduction or Monday, August 20th, 2277 if you feel up to diving in. Otherwise, click below to read!

Looking back at the events of the past few days, I can say this much with certainty: I kept Moira happy.

As fortune would have it, when I was in my bomb defusing trance on Thursday, I didn’t notice my Geiger counter trying to warn me that I was soaking up rads like a Ghoul’s nadgers. She had said that she’d wanted me to get irradiated for her Wasteland Survival Guide, but I don’t know if she’d wanted me quite so glowing.

I woke up on Friday, vomiting. At first, I thought it was just the previous night’s experiences come back to haunt me. But when I ran my hand through my hair, a clump of the stuff stayed there, along with more than a little skin. Panicked, I ran to Moira. She turned her own counter on me, and it sounded like ten-thousand tiny gnats playing the maracas. I’d apparently soaked up in excess of 600 rads. She was so excited to examine the effects that she barely stopped to talk to me before she broke out the equipment. An hour of tiresome questions and measurements with questionably clean instruments later, she gave me some kind of shot and a glass of Brahmin milk (those two-headed cows that seem to have replaced the single-headed variety). The shot felt warm in my veins. The milk was nice and cold, and tasted kind of nutty. It didn’t take long for me to start feeling better.

The worst of it was yet to come, as it turns out. When I asked Moira how I was, she hesitantly replied that I had developed a “slight mutation” as a result of my exposure. Apparently, during the course of the exam, she “slipped” with a scalpel and cut my arm. Funny thing is, I didn’t even notice, as the cut healed itself in a matter of seconds. I just tried it again myself, and it didn’t work. Guess I need to be irradiated for it to work. Well, Moira gave me a nice bonus to say “sorry for twisting up your DNA like a kitten with a ball of string.” It’s surprisingly easy to imagine a Moira-kitten all tangled up in string.

The shot she gave me apparently flushed the radiation from my system and put me well on the path to recovery, but due to the severity of my exposure, I still wasn’t 100% yesterday. I spent the day in my new house, taking it easy. My Mr. Handy is named Wadsworth and, like the whole line, he’s been given a snobby British accent. However, despite his obnoxious tone, I’ve grown to like having him around. He’s a lot more stable than that psycho-bot Andy, and he can generate purified water fro me on command (a comfort when I was recovering from radiation sickness). He also tells some truly abyssmal jokes. I think his programmers fished them out of a pre-war pun book. Every once in a while, he’ll refuse to tell a joke on the grounds that his “humor emitter array requires recharging.” I think that’s supposed to be a joke, too; I have no idea what a humor emitter would be, much less why he would need an array of them.

The upshot of taking yesterday off was that it gave me time to proces everything. According to Moriarty’s file on Dad, he went to the Galaxy News Radio station. I’ve been listening to the station for a while, and Three Dog seems to have confirmed that he met my father. Moira’s maps show the station being smack in the middle of downtown. As it stands right now, I have neither the experience nor the equipment necessary to make it through that area. It is apparently an all-out warzone full of raiders and Super Mutants. I need time to get some survival experience and some better equipment, and from where I’m sitting, the best way to do that right now is to help Moira write this guide of hers. I’ll learn about the Wasteland during my exploits, and she’s been promising me some pretty nice tech for helping her.

She’s excited about the prospect of me helping her. I think the first thing I’m going to do is follow up this lead in the Super-Duper Mart to the northeast of Megaton. Jericho tells me it’s likely to be swarming with raiders, so I traded some of the stuff I scavved for some 5.56 ammo and Stimpaks (a wondrous invention, basically adrenaline and blood plasma in a syringe). Tomorrow, I set out for the Super-Duper Mart; tomorrow, I take my first step toward finding Dad. Here’s to hoping.

Trees

2008-12-02T17:15:00.002-05:00

The oak stands singly
As soil washes away
A forest of one?

Wave

2008-12-02T17:15:00.001-05:00

In a tsunami
Not one droplet acts alone
But thousands as one

Alchemy

2008-12-02T17:15:00.000-05:00

Lightning is fire.
Wind is naught but the water.
What, then, makes men whole?

War

2008-12-02T17:14:00.000-05:00

The lightning flashes,
Stripping the tree of its bark,
Ensuring its death.

Tree Bark

2008-12-02T17:13:00.000-05:00

A tree from hardships
Grown in ground where it was born
Becomes too rigid

Seeds

2008-12-02T17:12:00.000-05:00

Even plants must mate
But bees carry not my seeds
So what can I do?

Tanka Epic, Part 5

2008-11-30T17:26:00.001-05:00

This is the fifth part of the ongoing Tanka Epic, an experiment in writing an epic poem where each stanza is a standalone tanka. I suggest starting at part one (click Tanka Epic on the right-hand side to see them all).

His great sword resting
Upon his cold, steel pauldron,
The Knight strides swiftly
Down the narrowing hallway
Past his foe’s hidden refuge.

The hall ends at last
At a small and humble door
Set into the stone,
Nearly concealed by sameness,
But just barely visible.

The hero pushes
Firmly on the iron door,
His muscles straining,
In an attempt to dislodge
The little door from its frame.

Stone cracks and crumbles,
Pebbles falling to the ground
As the doorway slides,
The frame itself tearing out
From the dungeon hallway’s walls.

With a final groan
And shriek of warping metal,
The doorway falls in
And the Knight stumbles forward,
Off the precipice beyond.

Quickly scrambling,
Reaching up desperately,
Somehow, the Knight grabs
Onto the ledge above him
As the door plummets downward.

He spares a glance downward
And quickly regrets his choice.
A sea of blackness
Looms below him, threatening
To devour his light whole.

Grunting with the strain,
The Knight pulls himself upward,
His shoulders shaking,
Onto the tight precipice
Above the endless chasm.

Turning his gaze out,
Away from the broken door,
He sees the mesa
Of stone, rising from the dark
Not fifteen feet from his perch.

He takes a step back
Into the hallway behind.
With a small grimace,
He launches himself forward,
Vaulting over the chasm.

His plate mail rattles
As he sways precariously
On the narrow ledge
Where he landed awkwardly.
Only the earthquake saves him.

He is pitched forward
As the earth suddenly shakes.
He pulls himself up
And peers down, expecting black,
But sand fills what was the gap.

Pouring from nothing
Into that eternal space,
The sand falls still there
Where countless souls have fallen,
Now lay buried by the tide.

It begins to swirl
About that lonely pillar,
A gritty maelstrom
To smother the shining light
The Seraph brings to the world.

The beast emerges
Silently from the sandpit,
Unmoved by its pull.
A creature of myth and tales
Told by drunks in lonely bars.

A serpent of tan,
Spiny wings as from a bat,
Though colored lighter,
Emerge from just below its head.
Its malign grin displays swords.

Stunned by the sight of
The mighty desert serpent,
His mouth sits agape.
He waits for physical proof
That this is no illusion.

The sight is confirmed
By a roar of fetid breath
Emerging from it,
Its claymore teeth glistening,
Ravenous for some meat.

The Knight staggers back,
Reaching for his fallen sword.
He straightens quickly,
Showing resolve, but hiding
His substantial fear inside.

This was not his end,
Before this foul creature’s
Fanged, cavernous maw.
He had one more battle left,
And so he pressed yet onward.

Thursday, August 23rd, 2277

2008-11-29T17:32:00.001-05:00

This is the third part of the Fallout 3 fan fiction, Vault Dweller's Diary. If you haven't been following along, I suggest clicking the link on the right-hand side (Vault Dweller's Diary) and reading the introduction or the first part (Monday, August 20th, 2277). If you have been following, click below to read!

I’m not quite sure what to write here. I don’t know who to believe. Or what to believe. I’m not even entirely sure what’s happened in the past day, but I’ll do my best to put it down here. Maybe it’ll help me clear my head a bit.

I went down to Moriarty’s Saloon last night, like I said, and asked around. There was something standing behind the counter, looked like something right out of an old zombie flick. I have to be honest, I froze in the doorway for a solid two minutes. I just couldn’t take my eyes off of it… off of him. I have to stop doing that.

Its… his name’s Gob. He’s a Ghoul (apparently, Ghouls were once human, but the radiation mutated them to look like… well, like zombies). I did my best to cordial and polite, but I kept trying not to vomit all over him. I think he could tell, but he seemed to appreciate the effort I was putting in. He’s nice, probably one of the only nice ones in town. Before I could ask him about my dad, though, someone over in the corner of the saloon called me over. He was wearing some pre-war suit, white with pinstripes, and these thick-rimmed glasses. He had this shady hat pulled down over his eyes when he called me over.

I walked over and sat down next to the man, who introduced himself as Mister Burke. I started to ask about my dad, but he cut me off and started talking about the bomb in the center of town. Said he wants me to blow it up… blow up this town! He offered me an abundance of caps, but I told him to go fuck himself. There’s no way I’m killing all of these people. They may be crazy, but they’re human beings.

I stalked away from Burke, making sure to keep one eye on him, when the whore that had been in the corner practically smacked into me. Said she liked how I’d been nice to Gob, and introduced herself as Nova. I think she wanted me to offer to pay her for a night, but I’m not that desperate. I don’t know what diseases she has, for nuke’s sake. In any case, I finally got to ask her about Dad, and she got all misty-eyed, talking about “a handsome guy like that.” I politely asked her to knock off the bullshit and just give me some straight-shooting. She must have liked that, because she slipped me the password to Moriarty’s terminal.

I hung around and had a couple of beers, waiting for Moriarty to vacate the back room. Sure enough, he walked out about an hour later, smacked the Ghoul on the back of the head, accosted him for something, then stormed out of the bar. Sensing my chance, I slipped back and typed in the password (it’s “lotsacaps,” what a greedy, illiterate bastard). Several files came up on the terminal, so I browsed through them. There’s a lot of dirt on the townsfolk in here, including something about some ex-Raider named Jericho supposedly raping the nice girl from down at the Brass Lantern. I may have to talk to him about that later.

After a couple of minutes, I stumbled across a file that mentioned my dad… by name! Moriarty claims Dad’s been here before, and that I was with him, though I was just a baby. There’s no way this can be true, I thought, my dad and I were born in the Vault. Said something about some Brotherhood of Steel, too; I still haven’t found out anything more about them.

Right about then, I could have killed someone, so I stormed out of the bar, snapping at some woman who was trying to ask me for help. I found Moriarty standing just outside, staring out across the town with this wistful look in his eye. I couldn’t believe that asshole. I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, demanded to know what he knew about my dad. At first he played dumb, but then he looked at me closer and decided that he did know my dad. He told me all the same things that had been in that computer file, said he figured I must be 19 by now. He laughed when I insisted my father and I were born in a Vault, said my dad had gotten in there to protect me. I damn near threw him over the railing. I instead settled for laying him out and stalking off.

I ended up out in the Wasteland. I needed to get away from the nutjobs in that town. I spent the night hunkered down between a couple of rocks. I woke up, once, because I heard some scuffling off to my left. Something that looked like a giant naked mole rat was tussling with some Raider; the mole rat won. I just slid deeper between the rocks and shut my eyes, tried not to listen to the sounds of the mole rat eating that man’s corpse.

This morning, I scavenged what I could from the Raider’s mostly devoured body. His weapon was in decent condition, and he had a little ammo on him. It’s a fairly solid rifle. I think I recognize it from the newsreels, this is one of the rifles that the Chinese soldiers always carried in those films. I didn’t need it on the walk back to town, but it felt good in my hands. Comforting.

When I got back into town, I went right up to Moira’s place and asked to borrow some tools from her. She wanted to know why, but I didn’t tell her. She seems to think the bomb won’t ever blow up, and that’d it be mean to the Church of Atom (that’s what the crazies call themselves) to disarm it. She lent me the tools anyway, so I went down and opened up that bomb.

I must be crazy. I don’t know how I survived. That thing should have gone off in my face, for all I know about explosives. But somehow, I managed to unhook the thing, disarm it for good. Even if Burke were to plant that pulse charge himself, that thing wouldn’t go up. I took Moira her tools back, and went off to find Simms.

Simms didn’t even seem to know about me knocking Moriarty out the night before. I figure Moriarty doesn’t trust Simms more than he trusts anyone else in town. I told Simms what I’d done, and he was overjoyed. He handed me a bag full of bottle caps, and invited me to move into the empty house in town. He gave me a little piece of paper with “DEAD” scrawled across the top. I think he meant “deed,” because the rest of it looks like a title deed (albeit written by a drunk three-year-old with a box of crayons). I thanked him, then told him about Burke, and what Burke had wanted me to do to the town. Simms’ smile disappeared as I told him, and he grabbed me by the arm and started pulling me back to Moriarty’s. Muttered something about “Wasteland justice.”

When we got in there, Simms ran right up to Burke, pulling out his rifle as he did so. He announced clearly, to the whole bar, that he knew what Burke was up to and that Burke would have to follow him to the town jail. Burke smoothly denied everything, said there’d been a miscommunication, but Simms wasn’t having any of it. Burke started to get angry, he called us “knuckle-draggers.” Simms insisted further. Finally, Burke gave in and stood up as Simms turned to lead him out.

I still have nightmares about the next part. Before I could do anything, Burke pulled a silenced pistol out from under his jacket. I called out to Simms and lifted my own rifle, but it was too late. Burke squeezed off a shot, right into the back of Simms’ head.

I don’t remember the next part clearly, except seeing a haze of red. There was the sound of silenced gunfire, and the sound of an automatic weapon. I felt pressure in bursts against my shoulder, and felt something hot brush my cheek. When I came to, I looked around. Everyone in the bar had ducked behind something; Nova was behind the door in her room, Gob was behind the bar, that girl that wanted help had thrown a table down to act as a shield. I felt something wet dripping down my face. I brushed two fingers against it; they came away with blood. I turned back to look at Burke.

His chest looked like it was made of hamburger. The gun had fallen out of his hand onto the floor, his glasses were crooked, and his hat had slumped down over half of his face. I lifted the hat to see what it was hiding. His face was contorted into a look of shock and agony. I looked down at my rifle; the barrel was still a little red. I pulled out the magazine, to discover that it was empty. I had unloaded the entirety of my mag into Burke’s chest.

The events that transpired came rushing back to me then, and I remembered Simms. I rushed over to see if he was okay; obviously, he wasn’t. There was only a small, cap-sized hole in the back of his head, but most of his face was gone. I almost lost what little food was in my stomach at the sight. Gob came out from behind the bar, helped me up. He said he’d seen what had happened, that he’d vouch for me. He told me not to worry, that no one would blame me for either killing. I was barely listening. I wasn’t concerned with that. He told me to go back to the common house, get some rest. I remember dumbly lifting my house key, and muttering, “I have a house. I live here now. Simms gave me a house.”

I don’t know how I got home tonight. I found myself sitting on a bed in my new, bare house. There’s a Mister Handy floating around, calls himself my butler. Sounds British. Don’t care. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. Maybe I’ll lay here a while longer, see if it helps. That’s all for now.

Wednesday, August 22nd, 2277

2008-11-06T17:31:00.001-05:00

This is the second part of the ongoing Vault Dweller's Diary series. If you haven't already, click Vault Dweller's Diary on the right-hand side of the page to find your way to the list of stories and read the introduction or the first part (Monday, August 20th, 2277). Otherwise, click below to read!

Found Megaton yesterday. I didn’t have time to write about it, with all the excitement. There are a lot of weirdos in this town. The first thing I noticed about this town was the fact that it was completely walled in, by what looks like corrugated tin or aluminum or something. A real rust heap, really. Then, I noticed the Robco Protectron standing outside, a goofy cowboy hat worn jauntily on its orb and a big name tag hung around its neck that read “Deputy Weld.” It kept telling me to “Have a nice day, pardner.” Whoever put that thing outside has a really sick sense of humor.

As soon as I walked in the door, I was practically tackled by some tall guy wearing a duster. Called himself the sherriff and mayor of Megaton (with that rifle on his back, I’m guessing most people let him call himself that). His name’s Lucas Simms. He pointed me toward the doctor, so I could get myself treated for dehydration (I gave up on drinking the surface water after my last diary entry. Couldn’t keep it down anymore) and this radiation sickness (that’s what my Pip-Boy says is making me nauseous). He warned me that the doc only helped people that could “fork over the caps.” I wasn’t at all sure what he was talking about, so I excused myself and moved on.

On my way to the doctor’s, I found out why they call the town Megaton. I have to be very careful not to overstate this.

THEY BUILT THE TOWN AROUND A GOD DAMNED BOMB.

These people are nuts, they have to be. That’s a fucking nuke, sitting in the center of town, and they’re all walking around like they don’t see it. Hell, one guy was standing in the water in front of it and praying to it! I stumbled into the doc’s place and asked him what the hell was going on. The doc (a real asshole named Doc Church) just shrugged it off and told me to stop wasting his time. I asked him for help, and he refused unless I could pay him 50 “caps.” Apparently, bottle caps are money up here! I wish I’d known that before I left, I could’ve been rich. He pointed me toward Craterside Supply, told me to talk to Moira about getting some caps. So I did just that.

Moira’s nuts. Right off her fucking rocker. And that’s compared to the other people in town, so you get what I’m saying when I put it like that. I traded with her a bit, and she asked me to help her with the foreword of some Wasteland Survival Guide she’s writing. I told her a little about life in the vault, and to thank me she gave me a Vault 101 suit covered in armor! She said she’d made it for someone who escaped from the vault about 5 years ago and never came back for it. I’m not sure whether or not I should believe her. The best part of this is, she asked for my help in writing this book of hers; she wants me to go scavenging for food and medicine, that seems fine. But the next two concern me somewhat. She wants me to walk through a god damn minefield and bring her back a mine, and she wants me to get radiation sickness! Advanced radiation sickness, like, hand-growing-out-of-your-stomach radiation sickness! She’s flipped, but I agreed to it to shut her up. Besides, she promised me plenty of caps and weaponry.

Finally, I asked her about my dad, and she pointed me to this place called Moriarty’s. It’s a bar or a saloon or something. So, first things first, I go down and pay that sleazeball doc to fix me up, and as I’m walking out Simms pounces on me again. I ask him about the bomb, and he tells me all about the bizarre apathy these people have toward it. I figure most of them don’t give a fuck at this point if they get blown up, and why should they? Their lives suck. ‘Course, Simms cares, and he wants me to disarm it. Me! What the hell do I know about disarming nukes? I couldn’t handle anymore that day, so I stumbled off to the “common house,” found the least disgusting mattress I could, and laid down for some well-earned rest.

Today, I woke up to find some skeavy asshole standing over me. He just kept muttering about the Church of Atom (the crazies I saw praying in front of the bomb). I slipped past, and thankfully he didn’t engage me further. Being hungry, I headed down to the food shop I’d seen the night before, a place called the Brass Lantern. The woman outside was pretty cute; she introduced herself as Jenny. She seems like one of the most normal people in this god-forsaken dustbowl. She just wanted to sell me some food, maybe make some idle chit-chat. No suicidal jobs, no leaping down my throat. She was just pleasant.

Then some pirate-looking asshole sits down on the stool to my left. He seemed pleasant enough, I guess. Calls himself Billy Creel, he apparently used to be a caravan runner who settled down here after adopting some girl he’d found. I don’t know if I trust him yet; I wonder if he didn’t pick up that little girl for some other, more sinister reason.

Not much more to tell, really. I spent most of today in the back of Moira’s shop, digging through half-destroyed old books to see what I could find out about disarming bombs. I’ve made some headway, I think, and maybe I’ll figure out some way to do this (I can only hope). I’m off to Moriarty’s for now, more later.

Monday, August 20th, 2277

2008-11-05T17:28:00.001-05:00

This is the first part in the Vault Dweller's Diary series. I suggest you read the introduction first, but if you feel ready to dive right in, click below to read!

Dear Diary,

That’s how people start these things off, right? That’s how it always was in the books Mr. Brotch gave us. I decided to keep this diary on my Pip-Boy 3000. I’m not sure why. If I do die, I don’t think anyone’s going to care, or even notice. Maybe I’m just doing it so I don’t go insane.

It’s been two days since I left the vault. I’m beginning to think it was a mistake. This “outside” business is just a big fucking wasteland. Makes me think all of the Overseer’s bullshit may have been on to something. His computer had a report on there from a survey team (we’ve been told the vault’s been closed for 200 years – someone’s lying, but who?) claiming that there’s a town to the southeast of the vault called “Megaton” (what the hell kind of name is that?). I’ve been walking southeast (I think) but have yet to find it.

I’m so thirsty. I’ve been drinking the pools of water I find all around, but they’re making me feel sick. They’re probably stagnant or irradiated or something. Better than dying of thirst, I suppose. I’m running low on ammo for my pistol. I’m down to my last two clips. I’m glad I have this baseball bat.

That’s enough for now. More later.

Vault Dweller's Diary Introduction

2008-11-05T17:26:00.001-05:00

Click below to read the introduction to my Bethesda-inspired series of shorts, Vault Dweller's Diary.

If you haven’t heard about Fallout 3 yet, you either don’t care about video games or live in a vault yourself. Fallout 3 is Bethesda’s contribution to the acclaimed Fallout series, originally developed by Black Isle Studios and published by Interplay. It takes place in the year 2277, 200 years after the series’ nuclear apocalypse. You play a character of your own design, a runaway from Vault 101 (a safehouse in the D.C. area where people who had bought space could hide out indefinitely).

I’ve spent a good amount of time laughing with this game. It has a very dark, tongue-in-cheek humor that I can appreciate, being removed from the situation by at least the distance from my couch to my TV. But what must it be like for the character, living this bleak and hopeless existence? Enter Vault Dweller’s Diary, my own chronicling of the new Vault Dweller’s experiences, starting from two days after the escape, game time.

As for the legality:

Fallout 3 is copyright Bethesda Softworks LLC, a ZeniMax Media company. Bethesda Softworks, Bethesda Game Studios, ZeniMax and related logos are registered trademarks or trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. in the U.S. and/or other countries. Fallout, Prepare for the Future and related logos are trademarks or registered trademarks of Bethesda Softworks LLC in the U.S. and/or other countries.

Tanka Epic, Part 4

2008-08-06T17:23:00.001-04:00

This is part four of the Tanka Epic, an experiment in writing an epic poem where each stanza is a standalone tanka. If you haven't read the first three parts, you should click "Tanka Epic" on the right side and find the rest of the series. Otherwise, click below to enjoy!

The Dark Lord hastens
Into the small stone doorway
Disguised as a wall.
Purpose fills his darkened heart
As he flies down the passage.

He enters a room
One thousand cubits per side
And smelling of death;
Here, his contingency plan
Rests: in his bestiary.

A hidden creature,
Crouched, cloaked in a darkened cage,
Growls warningly:
The sound of feral hunger
From a patient predator.

The Knight hesitates,
Feeling the beast’s low rumble
Deep within himself
As a quake within his bones
Which chills his very marrow.

As he struggles forth
Through his visceral terror,
He recalls the words
Spoken by the old sea hag:
The prophecy of his death.

Memories of her,
Hair caked with the ocean salt,
Wrinkled, greenish skin
And rotten, fetid brown teeth
Cause the Knight’s bile to rise.

During the voyage
From the city of Stoneholdt
Across the ocean
Toward the End of All Things,
The sea hag appeared to him.

“In the Dark Lord’s realm,”
She warned, unsolicited,
“Past your world’s bounds,
Will two suns meet, light and dark,
To do battle, sub terra.”

“As the earth and wind,
As the fire and water,
When these two shall meet
Shall they cancel each other,
And neither shall leave alive.”

With that, she vanished,
Returning to depths unknown;
The hero was left
To stew upon the hag’s words
And to brood upon his fate.

Now, in the dark hall,
The momentum of battle
Fades gradually
As he gives chase to his foe,
Leaving the Knight uncertain.

No longer is he
Caught up in blood-drunk fervor,
So now does fear
Of his mortality rise
And suddenly give him pause.

Right there in the hall,
The Knight, chosen of Maki,
Falls down to his knees
And begins to pray aloud,
Begging Maki for his strength.

A light fills the hall,
Slaying shadows where it falls.
In the center stands
A man of coalesced light,
Glaring downward at the Knight.

“A brave thing it is,”
The figure kindly allows,
“To have made it here
Through the nightmarish battle,
Knowing your fate all the while.”

“But now His chosen
Falls to the ground before me,
Afraid for your life,
As though Maki would forget
All that you have done for Him.”

The righteous anger
Behind the words strikes home true
Within the Knight’s chest.
Holy fire reignites
In his heart as he now stands.

The fear disappears
As he realizes his
Place in Paradise.
Weapon shouldered, he strides forth
To his last confrontation.

Stippichs: Chocolate Butterscotch Cookies

2008-08-01T17:40:00.001-04:00

EXPERIMENT SUCCESSFUL. DETAILS FOLLOW.

My buddy Josh is having a party soon and I promised to bring cookies. I wanted to do something I hadn’t yet done. And so I did something with chocolate and butterscotch. Turns out there aren’t too many recipes for that kinda thing… so I made one! And it came out GREAT. Now since I haven’t gotten Josh a birthday present proper… I named the cookie after him. Find below, the recipe for Stippichs, the best cookie ever made.

Stippichs
2 1/4 c. flour
1/2 c. cocoa
1 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
1 c. (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 c. granulated sugar
1 c. brown sugar, packed
1 t. vanilla extract
2 large eggs
2 oz. (2 squares) baking chocolate
2 c. (about one bag) butterscotch chips

Preheat oven to 375°F.

Combine the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl and set aside. In a separate bowl, cream together the butter, sugars, and vanilla extract. Add the eggs one at a time, beating after adding each one. Beat in melted baking chocolate. Gradually beat in the dry ingredients you set aside earlier. Fold in the butterscotch chips.

Put the batter on an ungreased cookie sheet, about a rounded tablespoon for each one, and bake for 9-11 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool on tray 2-3 minutes. Move to wire racks to cool completely (10-20 minutes).

Rain, Chapter 2

2008-07-28T17:18:00.001-04:00

This is the second chapter in a story I've been writing for a very long time now. The first part can be found by following the "Rain" link on the right side. If you've already been there, click below to read!

Elanus Qer’olan, Knight Throne, commander of the Divinity Platoon of the Sanctified Knights stationed at the fortress town of Jolan, stood now on a simple, raised wooden platform before the entirety of his platoon, minus the sentries on duty. Long had he awaited this day, as anxious as the honored man no doubt was. The young man in question stood sternly at attention, hiding his fear behind his usual stoic mask. Elanus had known him for a long time, however, and could see the signs. His boots were shined too brightly, his jaw set a little too much. His dark hair, normally kept just long enough to be slicked back against his head, glistened with sweat over his homemade styling gel (the recipe for which was kept close to his belt). Elanus hid the smallest of smiles from his mouth (though not his eyes, he suspected) as he extolled the young man’s virtues in rich, reverberating over the dusty compound.

“We’ve known Anthony for some time,” he continued with practiced ease. “We took him in when he came to us at Ravenholdt, we raised him as our own. He’s been our whipping boy since he was barely old enough to hold a sword.” He threw Anthony an aloof grin which was answered by a low rumble of laughter from the knights gathered. Anthony looked back at Elanus, apparently unwavering. Only Elanus saw the silent desperation in his eyes.

“When he was fifteen, he finally enlisted, becoming a Knight Angel. He’s risen through the ranks faster than any other member of the Divinity Platoon. He’s come into command over some of you who taught the young rake how to read.” Another laugh rose from the crowd, this one silenced quickly by a stern look and raised hand from Elanus. “But none of us resent him. No man among us deserves these promotions more. No man among us has proven himself in combat as ably, or earned our loyalty so completely.” The older knights in the crowd, particularly, nodded by way of agreement.

“Besides,” Elanus continued after a suitably dramatic pause, as a smirk slowly turned up one corner of his thin mouth, “no man among us looks quite so good in that armor.” The assembled knights hooted with laughter, catcalling and whistling approvingly at their commander’s jape. Anthony’s eyes flared with panic and looked to Elanus, begging without words to stop the madness. Elanus took particular pleasure in letting it continue for a few moments before silencing the men with a call to attention.

“Just like any man who receives this promotion,” he bellowed, suddenly serious, “you must earn your armor!” The knights cheered again, this one more of a drunken battle cry than anything. The Knight Throne took an apple from a basket held by one of the town’s women, to his right, and turned, pitching it underhanded at Anthony on the other side. Anthony knew what was coming, and was drawing his sword with one hand before even he noticed the apple. His sword swept upward, cutting a graceful arc through the air and slicing the apple perfectly in half. Because he put a flourish into the cut, he barely had enough time to parry Elanus’ downward strike.

The bleary, unfocused cheer of the knights quickly resolved into a brutal, animalistic chant, little more than barking in time as Elanus pressed down on his sword, forcing Anthony’s blade a little closer to its wielder’s face. Sweat beaded up on their brows as both of Elanus’ arms strained only against Anthony’s left. Elanus frowned lightly at the position of Anthony’s arms.

“You’re not left-handed,” he murmured to Anthony, sotto voce.

“No, I am not,” Anthony whispered back, allowing himself the smallest of smiles. He twisted aside, releasing the hilt of his sword with his left hand as he did. Elanus stumbled forward, catching himself on his forward foot. Anthony spun completely around, snatching his blade from midair with his right hand, and brought the point to bear right at Elanus’ thigh, where the greaves met the codpiece. The platoon laughed uproariously, calling out Anthony’s name with battle-drunk fervor. Anthony winked so that only Elanus could see him and lowered his sword; he scooped up one of the apple halves, biting into it victoriously. Elanus couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Stop by the quartermaster’s office before three bells this afternoon to turn in your old armor and receive your new set, Knight Dominion Anthony Ryles,” Elanus called loudly enough for all to hear, placing special emphasis on Anthony’s new title. Huzzahs continued for several minutes thereafter, despite Elanus’ attempts to officially dismiss them. Eventually, he gave up and held out one hand to his pupil, now his second-in-command. The two grasped hands and embraced, as a father and son might after a long time apart.

“You just had to show off, didn’t you?” Elanus muttered through his grinning teeth.

“If ever there was a time to do it, it was now,” Anthony replied in muted tones. “Besides, after you tried to humiliate me in front of the men, I had to regain my credibility somehow.” It took no small amount of knowledge and effort on Elanus’ part to discern emotion in Anthony’s words. Anthony was typically a taciturn man; he’d been a taciturn boy, for that matter. But knowing Anthony for as long as Elanus had, it was easier for him to read between Anthony’s words. He was annoyed, of course, but there was amusement beneath it, and a sense of gladness that Elanus had used humor to relieve some of the tension.

As Anthony stepped down from the platform and was congratulated and slapped on the shoulder by the various knights standing around, a disheveled young man in the worn armor of a Knight Principality stepped forward; his sandy blonde hair was windblown and covered in a light dusting of actual sand, the fine-grain variety so common in the desert surrounding Jolan. He stepped up to Anthony, standing squarely before him. The cleaner knight stood half of a head taller, scowling down at his fair-haired counterpart. The stare down continued for several seconds before a light breeze tossed some sand in the Anthony’s face, forcing him to blink it out of his eyes.

“I win again,” Cassius crowed triumphantly, thrusting both fists into the air. Anthony sighed in exasperation.

“It was the sand. Some got in my eye….”

“Yes, please. I never get sick of hearing that one.” Anthony rolled his eyes but pulled his dear friend, Cassius Laermus by the shoulders into his side. Cassius laughed at the gesture and elbowed Anthony in the side playfully; Anthony complied, releasing Cassius and the two walked off, heads bent in conversation.

“So, Knight Dominion. I’ll have to start saluting you,” Cassius observed drolly. Anthony gave him a sidelong look.

“You should have saluted me two promotions ago.”

“Yes. I’ll start now.” Anthony exhaled through his nose to express his disapproval and did his best to hide his smile. He was not completely successful; the smile still touched his dark eyes. Cassius considered his oldest friend quietly as they walked. The two became friends when the Divinity Platoon was reassigned from Ravenholdt to Jolan. Cassius’ father was a Knight Virtue stationed with the platoon at the time, and so relocated with his parents. During the trip, the two boys became fast friends, spending many a long wagon ride talking and playing games together. They had even signed into the service of the Sanctified Knights together as soon as they were old enough.

“Do you think I’ll ever be promoted to Second Sphere?” Cassius eventually inquired. Anthony glanced uncomfortably at his friend. “I mean, I’ve been a Knight Principality for two years now. You’ve been promoted twice in that time. I’m sick of being a lowly Third Sphere.” He spat wistfully into the dusty ground to punctuate the sentence.

“You will be promoted soon,” Anthony assured him in a monotone. “I hear we have a shipment of new Knights Angel and Knights Archangel coming in from Aerta soon.” Cassius nodded thrice but said nothing more. The pair wound up at the barracks, and strode in together. Anthony’s things were never unpacked from his footlocker, which made his relocation to the Knight Dominion’s quarters much simpler. He enlisted Cassius’ help to move the monstrous chest; even between the two of them, it was a burden.

In Anthony’s new quarters, a small one-room cabin with two only narrow windows on opposite walls and the door to break up the stretches of sandstone, the two dropped the chest with a grunt at the foot of the comfortable wooden bed Anthony would now be sleeping on. Anthony pulled his dress uniform’s doublet from his chest, sat down heavily on his bed, and began removing the stitches from his Knight Virtue’s patch. Cassius took up residence in the simple beech chair sitting before its matching desk.

A long silence settled over the cabin; the silence was not an uncomfortable one, simply a lack of words, like the white edge of the canvas on the sides of a painting. Nothing is there, but it is of no import. Cassius watched Anthony work for a time, then began polishing his sword out of habit. The two passed the time in silence until the town’s bell struck two bells.

“Maki above!” Anthony cursed, leaping to his feet. “I have to get over to the quartermaster!”

“Get lost easily in your chores, don’t you?” Cassius smiled sardonically.

“Don’t you have watch?” Anthony asked pointedly.

“Oh, by the plague!” Cassius exclaimed, leaping to his feet. He stormed out the cabin door without so much as a farewell, well-worn armor clanking with each panicked stride. Anthony let out a single chuckle and made his way to the large, open building which served as the quartermaster’s office and blacksmith’s shop. Conveniently, the two offices were held by the same man. As Anthony approached, he heard the unmistakable ringing of steel being pounded into shape. At first, the old man did not notice Anthony, absorbed as he was in his work. When he turned to quench the rather large blade he was working on, however, he spotted Anthony out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah, Knight Dominion Ryles,” the kindly old man greeted Anthony warmly, turning to face him and dropping the blade into the water, almost negligently. A cloud of steam rose behind him as he spoke the final consonant in Anthony’s surname.

“Jaswen,” Anthony replied curtly. “I am reporting as ordered to receive my new set of armor.” Jaswen rolled his wide-set green eyes in a gesture of exasperation, but smiled patiently, as a grandfather might with a mischievous grandchild.

“Right then, Anthony, turn in your old armor so that I can inspect it.” He turned away long enough to scoop up a pair of spectacles and a piece of parchment. As he turned back, Anthony was tossing aside his gauntlets and gorget dismissively.

“Be gentle with that! Some poor Knight Virtue is going to get this set that you’re tossing around!” the quartermaster scolded with a wince.

“Sorry, Jaswen, but plate mail can get a little heavy sometimes,” Anthony intoned dully, casting a sidelong look at the aging quartermaster.

“So you think now, but you haven’t seen your new set yet.” Jaswen’s eyes sparkled and his smile turned a particularly sly shade.

“I meant to talk to you about that,” Anthony replied sharply as he continued to shirk his armor. “I have seen the armor before, and it is just too damned thin.”

“What do you mean?” Jaswen leaned forward to look at Anthony over his glasses, furrowing his brow as he did so. The effect of this gesture was to both increase his apparent age and give him the impression of a curious-looking night owl.

“There is no way a piece of steel that thin will stop any blade, even a dull one. A good blow will break me in two, even if it cannot cut deeply,” Anthony declared in annoyance, throwing aside his final piece of armor. His glower intensified as Jaswen laughed heartily.

“Oh, by Maki’s Book, you’re serious,” he realized with a start. Anthony cleared his throat by way of answering, and Jaswen had to follow suit to cease his laughter. “It’s not steel, boy, I thought you knew.”

“Not steel? What else would it be?”

“You don’t know much about the elves, do you, Anthony?” Anthony shook his head negatively. “I’d have figured as much, coming from a farm boy such as yourself. So you’ve never heard of mythral, either?” A befuddled frown flashed across Anthony’s face.

“Isn’t it just elven steel?”

“Comparable, but not exactly,” Jaswen replied as he trotted over to a chest of notable size, carved from cherry wood. “Mythral is actually stronger than steel, meaning you can get the same amount of protection out of a thinner piece of metal. Furthermore, mythral is much lighter, granting you greater mobility in combat.”

“Why wouldn’t everyone use mythral armor, then?”

“Only elves know how to work it,” Jaswen chuckled, throwing the chest open, revealing a suit of armor with a beautiful silvery sheen. “And let me tell you, they make you pay a fair bit of gold for it.” He pulled the suit of armor out from the chest piece by piece with apparently no effort, not even on the rather flimsy looking cuirass. He passed the cuirass off to Anthony, who scowled disapprovingly.

“I can’t wear this!” he protested in alarm. “Feel how light it is, I’ll be crushed the first time I’m struck in combat!”

“Weren’t you listening?” Jaswen sighed wearily. Anthony gave the old man a dubious look in response. “Fine, fine, put the damn stuff on.” Anthony grunted and began placing the armor over his sweat-stained linens, grumbling to himself about how he was sure to be killed wearing the stuff. By the time he looked back up, Jaswen was holding the claymore blade he’d been shaping in two gloved hands, the last two feet glowing red-hot from the forge.

“Hold still,” he suggested calmly. With that, he swung the sword around, attacking from Anthony’s right. With a cry of alarm, Anthony instinctively raised his arm and caught the sword on his vambrace. He threw the sword back away from himself, only so that Jaswen could attempt a downward cut; Anthony turned his body so that the sword skimmed off of his rerebrace, and shoved Jaswen hard with his shoulder. Jaswen coughed and fell back, letting the sword clatter to the ground.

“Are you insane?” Anthony demanded. thoroughly bewildered. “You were trying to kill me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jaswen spat, picking himself off the ground irritably. “You were in no danger! I haven’t put an edge on the sword, first off; and besides, look at your armor!” Anthony did so, and was amazed to find that neither the vambrace on his forearm or the rerebrace on his upper arm were dented at all by Jaswen’s attacks; neither was there any distortion from the heat of the blade.

“But it’s so light,” was all Anthony could manage to say, awed as he was.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Jaswen grumped. Seeing the stupefied look on Anthony’s face, however, melted any resentment that remained in Jaswen; he caught himself laughing despite his best efforts. “No finer armor anywhere.”

“Thank you, Jaswen,” Anthony said finally, obviously still begrudging.

“I don’t suppose you need a new sword? You know that as a Knight Dominion, you’re entitled to one.”

“Jaswen, you know better.”

“Of course, of course,” Jaswen guffawed, showing his rotted teeth. “Well then, I shaln’t keep you from your duties longer. You are supervising your first night watch, I think.” Anthony nodded his affirmation. “Well then, off with you!” Jaswen saluted mockingly, which Anthony returned without amusement.

“Perhaps we could share a drink later,” Anthony remarked with no special intonation. Jaswen knew better than to be offended; this was as close as Anthony came to jest. Jaswen had stopped drinking years before, after his wife had died of consumption.

Anthony returned to his cabin to collect his sword, a special blade that he was allowed to carry, despite the fact that it was not standard issue. The blade was curved very slightly and was a bit longer than a traditional one-handed sword, but was much shorter than a two-handed sword. Most who saw it referred to it as a hand-and-a-half sword, or a bastard sword – a sword that could be used with one hand or two, depending on the amount of leverage needed – but they were also somewhat incorrect. Since it lacked a fuller, the sword was not a true bastard sword; however, the blade was extraordinarily light, even without a fuller, since it was made of folded steel. The blade was only sharp on one side, allowing Anthony to use either lethal or non-lethal force, as he saw fit. A traveling blacksmith had once gifted it to Anthony, in the style of swords from the blacksmith’s homeland. Anthony had never learned the blacksmith’s name or where he had come from.

Anthony secured the sword to his belt and a crossbow with spare bolts to his back, then reached under his mattress and removed a blue silk ribbon. He tied the ribbon around his right hand gingerly and tied it off with a practiced ease. This was a daily ritual for Anthony, before going on duty. He hustled up to the western officers’ tower so that he could take over supervision of the watch for that night. He hustled up the stairs, entering the small circular room at the top just as the bell rang out three times. The two men in the room turned toward Anthony as he entered and saluted.

“You certainly do know how to cut it close,” Knight Virtue Velus intoned dully as he saluted in return. The Knight Power standing near him also saluted, but held his tongue. Anthony found it rather amusing that Velus would scold him, since he had been put on reprimand three times for missing watch; he’d gotten lashes the third time.

“At least I show up on time, Knight Virtue,” Anthony replied coolly, stressing the inferior rank. “How is your back, by the way?” Velus turned slightly red and clicked his heels once.

“If you will pardon me, sir,” he stated, rather than requested. Anthony nodded his assent and allowed Velus to breeze past him. The Knight Power, with whom Anthony was not familiar, chuckled faintly as soon as Velus was out of earshot.

“Thank Maki you seem to have a sense of humor, sir,” he expressed with a glad grin. “Knight Virtue Velus is quite the hardass.”

“Watch your language, Knight Power,” Anthony barked abruptly at him. The Knight Power snapped back to attention just as quickly, alarm overcoming his face. “Who is on watch tonight?”

“Well, sir, we have Knight Principality Laermus and Knight Power Kalen on the western wall, here.” Anthony was pleased to hear that Cassius would be on the western wall, right near the tower; perhaps he’d get a chance to chat with him later that evening. “On the eastern wall, Knights Principality Werth and Shodan are scheduled for the evening. Knight Power Gholam and Knight Virtue Jaerk have the northern wall, and Knight Principality Maeth and Knight Power Leman have the southern wall.”

“At thirty chimes past this hour,” Anthony ordered the young knight (who was still a few years Anthony’s senior), “go to the eastern and southern walls to double-check that everyone is at their posts. I will check the western and northern walls.” The Knight Power saluted his compliance and sat down at the simple round table in the center of the room. Anthony joined him and began writing the watch rosters for the coming week. At thirty chimes, both officers went on their scheduled routes; Knight Power Kalen was not at his post, but showed up quickly when Anthony bellowed across the compound for him, the strain making even his powerful voice rough. Cassius couldn’t help but laugh, even though he shouldn’t.

The two friends spent part of their evening sitting on the eastern rampart of the western wall, looking out across the town of Jolan. Jolan was a fortress town, easily a months’ ride from the empire’s capital city of Aerta. The town had initially sprung up around one of the few oases in the Ratholme Wastes. It was a relatively popular stop on the not-so-popular trade route to Wrelyx, the home country of the beastly rat-folk. Though the two countries were no longer at war, their relationship was anything but amicable. Years ago, the Most Holy Empire of Maki had tried nothing short of genocide when forcing the rat-folk from the Ratholme Wastes (the name had at one time apparently been Rat’s Home); that is not the sort of offense easily forgotten.

“What are you thinking?” Cassius inquired idly, snapping Anthony back from his thoughts.

“This town’s history,” Anthony responded, resting his eyes on the town’s temple. In a town built with utilitarianism in mind, only the temple showed any hint of aesthetic musing on the part of the architect. It was not squat and square like the other buildings, instead featuring three spires arranged asymmetrically with hand-carved murals of stories from the Texts. “At one time, the rat-folk called this very spot home, and we drove them from it.”

“The Wrelyns,” Cassius corrected him softly. Anthony responded to the sentiment with a withering glare, which Cassius returned in kind. “What? That’s what they’re called. Or rather, what they ought to be called.”

“They are large, humanoid rats, Cassius,” Anthony sighed. “Why not call them what they are?” Cassius grunted disapprovingly and glanced behind him, across the wastes.

“We did them plenty of hurt in the old days,” Cassius reminded Anthony, anger rising in his own voice. “No need to be rude now, especially since they’re no longer our enemies.”

“Do not tell me you regret what happened back then,” Anthony drawled, eyeing Cassius askance.

“And what if I do?” Cassius bristled, his tone quivering rebelliously. “Who gave us the right to drive them off of their own land; to give them blankets from our plague clinics? Who decided it was all right for us to kill them, man, woman and child?”

“A dangerous sentiment to express,” Anthony warned him. Cassius snorted.

“Are you going to turn me in, Knight Dominion?” he asked stiffly. Anthony shook his head without taking any time to consider the question.

“Of course not, Cassius. You know better. Just be careful who you let hear you.” Cassius grimaced at him and looked over his shoulder again. His face immediately took on an expression of shock, and he yelped in alarm, swinging his legs over the parapet and dashing to the other side of the wall.

“What is it, Knight Principality?” Anthony barked, suddenly all business. He followed after Cassius,

“Runner, sir, about half a league out to the west,” Cassius replied, indicating the direction with his gaze. Anthony followed his stare and saw a dark form approaching rapidly; it was humanoid, to be sure, but he couldn’t tell if it was elf, human, or otherwise. In all honesty, it was amazing that Cassius had noticed it all without a moon in the sky. Anthony pulled out his crossbow and loaded a single bolt into it, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Cassius, noticing his commander’s actions, followed suit. Anthony lifted the crossbow to his shoulder, following the form with the tip of the quarrel. Minutes passed tensely as the shape crossed the distance in a remarkably short time. Perspiration beaded on Anthony’s forehead as he did his best to hold his crossbow steady. He had never been a great marksman. Cassius, on the other hand, was as still as a stone in an open field; even his breathing was almost imperceptible, as it did not move his crossbow from his target.

“Friend or foe?” Anthony hollered as the figure approached, crossbow still on his shoulder.

“Friend! A messenger from Aerta!” a burly, rasping voice called back; it was so deep it almost sounded like a dwarf, but the figure was clearly tall enough to be human. Anthony lowered his crossbow, but did not remove the quarrel. He did, however, take a moment to tighten the knot on the ribbon, which had grown loose from the sweat. Cassius’ eyes focused momentarily on the ribbon, then returned to the humanoid, now nearly at the gate. Cassius had never asked Anthony about the ribbon, and Anthony had never offered to tell him.

“Open the gates!” Anthony shouted down to the men behind the huge iron doors that protected the town. He went into the tower and climbed down the stairs to the courtyard. It was customary for the ranking officer supervising the watch to greet a messenger. Anthony stepped up to the gates, which were nearly fully open by the time he reached them. His hands tightened on the stock of his weapon as the runner entered, stepping into the torchlight near Anthony.

The man standing before him was abnormally short, though taller than a dwarf, and broader than a man. His face was not as square as a dwarf’s either, but still more angular than a human’s. Perhaps he was a half-dwarf; Anthony found something about the union somewhat unsettling. Still, there was no denying the man’s stamina; it had taken him nearly no time to cover the half-league to the fortress, but from what Anthony could see, he did not appear to be winded at all.

“Message for Knight Throne Qer’olan, sir,” the half-dwarf said with a salute. His voice was somewhat tight, as a man’s might be after a brisk jog. Anthony glanced briefly at the insignia of rank on his shirt collar.

“Thank you, Knight Virtue, I’ll take it to him. Would you care to rest the night here?”

“Thank you, sir, the offer is greatly appreciated.” Anthony took the missive from the man and dismissed him; the half-dwarf promptly found his own way to the barracks as Anthony took the missive to Elanus’ cabin.

Anthony approached Elanus’ door cautiously; Elanus never enjoyed being woken after ten bells. Nonetheless, Anthony rapped three short times on the door. A shuffling noise emerged from within, and Elanus came to the door with a dagger in his hand.

“Easy, sir!” Anthony cried in alarm. “I am no adversary.”

“Enemies don’t knock,” Elanus growled pointedly. “What is it, Knight Virtue?”

“I’m a Knight Dominion now, sir.”

“Nothing is forever, Anthony.” Anthony shifted uncomfortably, but did not allow his unease to show on his face

“A message came from Aerta, sir,” he responded, his voice steady. Elanus scowled and sheathed his dagger, reaching out to take the letter. He flipped the letter over, and for the first time Anthony noted the seal of the Knight Seraph on the back. Elanus quirked an eyebrow at his young protégé; it was not every night that the unit’s commander received a missive directly from the Sanctified Knights’ supreme commander. Elanus beckoned Anthony inside as he withdrew into his cabin, pulling out a letter opener to break the wax seal. Anthony followed him in, shutting the door behind them and waited for Elanus to finish reading.

“Rats and locusts,” Elanus cursed quietly as he folded the letter back up. “I can’t believe this is happening. May Maki’s prophets steel our souls.” Anthony frowned deeply; Elanus was not a man easily shaken.

“Sir?”

“The elves have broken the Thetan Accords. Their troops have moved on the Qwellands. We’re at war, Anthony.”

Tanka Epic, Part 3

2008-06-13T17:24:00.001-04:00

This is the third part of the Tanka Epic, an experiment in writing an epic poem where each stanza is a standalone tanka. If you haven't already, I'd suggest clicking the link marked "Tanka Epic" on the right side and finding the first part. Otherwise, click below to read!

The Lord of Madness,
Seeing his generals fall,
Howls his fury
To the empty palace halls
And collapses in his throne.

Never has Death come
To the halls of the Black King,
Nor come close to him
And visited upon him
Its own frigid apathy.

Sitting alone now
On his obsidian throne,
His head in his hands,
The Dark Lord broods upon Death
As It knocks upon the gates.

Glancing once again
Into the Pool of Far Sight,
A smile rises
Suddenly upon the gray lips
On the Demon Prince’s face.

All is not lost now.
A wicked cackle echoes
Through the Onyx Court.
He throws himself from his throne
And strides with renewed purpose.

The heroic Knight
Reaches the Onyx Palace
Without his comrades.
With a remorseful look back
At the dead, he presses on.

The glassy gates shake
Beneath the Knight’s broad shoulders.
Slowly they open,
Revealing the Lord’s courtyard
And the Seraph’s goal beyond.

Maki’s Blade in hand,
He moves inexorably
Into his dark foe’s
Abyssal dominion,
Ready to avenge his men.

Crashing through the doors
Into the castle’s foyer,
The Knight’s ears prick up
At the sound of cackling
Echoing down the dim halls.

The laughter leads him
Through the crazing labyrinth,
Deeper down into
The palace’s catacombs
Where lay the tortured and damned.

His glowing armor
Cuts through the shadows ahead,
Revealing his path
Deeper into Hell’s soil
Where death or glory awaits.

Tanka Epic, Part 2

2008-06-06T17:22:00.001-04:00

This is the second part of the Tanka Epic, an attempt to write an epic poem where each stanza is a standalone tanka. To find the first part, click "Tanka Epic" on the right hand side and then scroll down. To read this part, simply click below!

In the Opal Court
Addressing the King of Men,
The Seraph promised
A chance to defeat our foes
And drive them back to Hell’s depths.

Facing now their glaives
And spears, barbed to rend the flesh,
Not once does he flinch
Or break his valorous charge
For fear of death or yet worse.

A Pit Lord stands tall,
Swinging a flail of green steel,
Blocking the Knight’s path.
Struck in the chest by the beast,
He falls to the blackened ground.

The Knight stands quickly,
Dodging a blow from the beast
Which sends ash flying
From the chthonian soil.
This battle has just begun.

The combat rages
As the black sun creeps upward
Into a dark sky,
To its tenebrous zenith,
An omen of blood to come.

The Knight fights fiercely
With his fiendish counterpart,
Both parties focused,
Oblivious to the melee
That slaughters their brethren.

Man against devil,
Steel parries steel, steel rends flesh.
Blood in red and black
Swirls together and pools
In the mortar of these streets.

The obsidian roads,
Slick now with blood, and broken,
Showing sharp edges,
Crushed by hooves and armored feet
Shriek, and mourn their masters’ deaths.

Through all this he fights,
The paragon clad in steel
That glows like the sun.
His clothes soaked by blood and sweat,
His muscles burn, his heart aches,

But he does not fall,
As he takes punishing blows
From the demon’s flail
And returns the strikes in kind,
Scoring its leathery hide.

As the umbral sun
Once again begins to dip
To the western sky,
The Knight Seraph grits his teeth
And prepares to finish this.

Rain, Chapter 1

2008-06-02T17:17:00.001-04:00

This is the first part of Rain, a story I've been writing for some time. Click below to start following our hero!

Beneath the hot savannah sun, the duelists stared each other down with grim determination. The lion leaned backward, its muscles rippling from the raw power contained within, ready to spring forward on a whim. Not even ten feet away, the sole warrior stood, his sword glinting in the sun; he squinted slightly, blinking a drop of sweat out of his eyes. It was in that thousandth of a second that the lion acted. While the man’s guard was down briefly, the great cat pounced, its form uncoiling like liquid steel. The man reacted desperately, attempting to duck beneath the lion’s charge. While he did partially avoid the attack, he felt claws scrape his back as the huge cat skimmed above him. He winced as he felt hot liquid run down his spine. He turned and spun, bringing his blade to bear, discouraging the lion’s attempt to bite his haunches. The lion, however, was not anticipating the man’s counterattack, bringing the sword back around on the opposite side, aiming directly for the soft flesh of the throat….

“Anthony!” a woman called shrilly from downstairs. The small boy sighed and tossed his wooden sword on the bed with the stuffed lion he had been battling. “Anthony, you have ten seconds to get down here before I drag you down here! I’ve told you three times that supper’s ready!”

“I’m coming, mom!” Anthony shouted back. Wishing ruefully that she could have postponed supper until after the killing blow, Anthony slinked sulkily down the stairs.

“I don’t know why I have to tell you again and again to come downstairs…”

“I didn’t hear you, okay?” His mother merely sighed. She knew better than to press the issue. She certainly didn’t hold the boy’s imagination against him. Living as they did in a remote farming village on the outskirts of the Holy Empire of Maki, there was practically nothing for a boy his age to do. None of the neighbors had children the same age as Anthony, and the few boys that were nearby bullied him. It was hardly a wonder to her that he’d taken such an interest in swordplay in the past year.

Anthony took his usual place at the end of the table. His father came in from the field, wiping his filthy hands on an equally dirty handkerchief. He ruffled Anthony’s hair affectionately as he walked by, a gesture that always made Anthony smile, no matter how dirty his father’s hands were. Anthony’s mother smiled despite herself, glancing pointedly at her husband’s soiled digits.

“What’s for dinner tonight, Elise?” he asked, giving his wife a warm kiss on the cheek. She wiped a bit of smudged earth off of her face with a smile.

“Pork from that sow we bought from the old man across town.”

“Who’s that?”

“Tenalo, the drunken one with three teeth in his head.”

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“You’re hopeless, Jarrett.”

“Is that why you married me?” Elise giggled quietly and sat down, placing a steaming platter of meat on the table. “What are you going to do with what you didn’t use tonight?”

“Smoke it for jerky, of course. What, you thought I’d let all that fine meat go to waste?”

“Well, you can never be too sure.” Jarrett put the largest chop on his own plate and gave the smallest to his eager young son. Anthony pouted at his pathetic slab of meat, but Jarrett had learned to ignore his son’s complaints, both verbal and nonverbal. Jarrett watched his son tear into the chop for a few moments. It occurred to him quite suddenly how tall his son had gotten. Soon, perhaps as soon as next summer, Anthony could begin work in the fields. He smiled at the thought of his son helping to sow the seeds, caring for the crop, harvesting in the autumn. He chuckled quietly to himself and took a bite out of his pork.

“What’s so funny, dear?” Elise asked, looking curiously at her husband.

“Nothing, love. Nothing.” She could tell what his thoughts were without him needing to explain. Nothing made him prouder than Anthony; he loved his son dearly, and his son loved him. Elise bowed her head as she sat, thanking Maki deeply for blessing her with such a family.

That evening, as dusk was setting, Elise stepped out onto the back porch to join Jarrett as he stood, watching the horizon.

“Isn’t the sunset lovely?” she asked brightly. She glanced over at her husband’s face; he was not smiling at the horizon as she was. His brow was furrowed with concern, and the crow’s feet around his eyes had become more pronounced. “Honey?”

“That’s the east,” Jarrett responded softly. “The sun sets in the west.” Elise looked up in alarm, considering the warm orange glow.

“What does that mean?” She was surprised how she was unable to control the quaver in her voice.

“A fire, most likely. Town’s that way.” Terror crept up Elise’s throat, tightening her windpipe and making her breathing strained. The town of Maelar was vital to their survival, being the best place nearby to trade the fruits of the family’s labor.

“I’m going to go see what’s going on,” Jarrett decided suddenly. He stepped off the porch and headed toward the shed, Elise bounding along at his heels.

“What? What if something happens to you? What will Anthony and I do?”

“Nothing will happen to me, I’m just going to see if I can help. I’ll take the horse and the scythe and go see what’s happening.”

“If nothing’s going to happen to you, why are you taking the scythe?”

“Just in case it’s a brush fire! Calm down, won’t you, Elise?” Jarrett smiled at his wife comfortingly, giving her hand a squeeze. Elise was not soothed, however. Even as Jarrett bridled their best horse and slung the scythe onto the saddle pack, she imagined all of the terrible things that could happen to her beloved husband; suppose it was marauders, or he did something foolish trying to rescue someone, or….

She merely watched as he disappeared toward the glowing horizon, riding as fast as the horse could carry him.

“Where’s daddy going?” Elise heard Anthony ask from behind her. She started and turned, scooping the boy into her arms.

“He just had to run into town, that’s all,” Elise replied, trying to comfort herself as much as Anthony.

“Why’s the sky all orange?”

“That’s just Maki’s way of trying to keep us warm, even during the night.” Elise put a smile on to help ease her son. “Isn’t it pretty?” Anthony nodded, though reluctantly.

“Will daddy be home soon?”

“Of course, he just had an errand to run. He should be back in time to tuck you in.”

But he wasn’t back in time to tuck Anthony in. In fact, even as the sky grew dark, the orange glow on the horizon persisted. Elise tucked Anthony in herself, promising him once again that everything would be fine. Anthony lay down to sleep, but was unable to do so for nearly an hour; his father’s absence troubled him greatly. Nonetheless, the rigors of the day had taken their toll on the boy, and despite his stubborn struggle to remain awake, he eventually drifted off to sleep.

“Anthony! Anthony, wake up!” Anthony opened his eyes slowly to see his mother above him, shaking him frantically with tears running down her face.

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Anthony! Oh, there’s no time. Hurry! You have to get up!” Elise dragged her son out of the bed, though he attempted to resist. Tears were streaming down her face, and her words were broken by an occasional sob.

“What is it, mom? What happened?”

“Honey, here, take this.” Elise thrust a satchel into Anthony’s hand. He glanced inside to find that it contained enough jerky to last him a week and enough coin to last for months past that. “Take this, and run. Go west, through the field, and don’t stop running until the sun comes up. Keep going that way until you reach Jolan, do you hear me?”

“Mom, what’s happening?” Anthony persisted, more anxiously now. He heard shouts coming from outside, toward the east. “Where’s dad?”

“Oh, honey, you have to hurry! Now!” Elise dragged her son down the stairs and pushed him toward the front door, facing west. “Go, and don’t look back!” The shouting was becoming louder.

“No, mom! What’s happening?”

“Sweetheart, there’s no time, go now!” The back door began to shudder as someone outside began pounding on it, as if trying to break it down.

“Not without you and daddy!”

“Anthony, we can’t… your father….” She hesitated, not wanting to finish her sentence. “Here, take this.” She pulled the blue silk ribbon from her hair and wrapped it around her son’s hand, then down and around his wrist. She tied it deftly and pushed him out the front door.

“Run now, Anthony! Don’t look back!” Anthony, confused, began to run until he reached the cornfields. He glanced back, seeing his mother watching him the whole way.

“Run!” she cried after him. Behind his mother, the back door sprang open with the terrible sound of wood splintering; men appeared behind her, wrapped in dark clothing and with red armbands tied around their upper arms. Elise screamed as one man with tousled black hair and a jagged scar on his jaw grabbed her and pulled her back into the house.

“Mom!” Anthony shrieked in terror. His mother’s screams continued from inside the house, but were suddenly cut short as blood splattered across the doorframe and nearby window. Anthony stood, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty. The men swarmed out of the house again, headed directly toward Anthony; the man with tousled hair directed them as a vanguard, barreling toward the field with fire in his eyes. Anthony bolted into the cornfield in a panic, ducking between the stalks.

“Come out, little boy!” he heard the men shouting behind him. The hacking of swords through corn seemed close at hand; panic gripped the boy as the men hooted and cackled, taunting him. For what seemed like hours, he ran through the cornfield, ducking every which way, trying to hide among the stalks and use his smaller size to his advantage. After an eternity of running, the footsteps finally ceased. He heard murmurs off to one side, and the sound of footsteps crashing through the brush, moving away from him in all directions.

Several minutes passed; Anthony held still, panting heavily, trying to see through the thick stalks. Quite suddenly, he heard a faint crackling, like fire consuming leaves. Looking behind him, he spotted a familiar orange glow. It took Anthony a few moments to realize that the glow was fire, that the cornfield was burning. Fear gripped his heart, choking the breath out of him. Desperate for escape, he barreled forward, heedless of anything in his path. In his reckless flight, he nearly stumbled into another inferno. Running a new direction now, another wall of flames greeted Anthony. His panic began to deepen as he realized that the fire had been set on all sides, trapping him in.

Anthony ran back to the center of the field; the only sounds now audible to him were the burning field and the blood pounding in his ears. Desperate and out of ideas, he threw himself to the ground and opened the satchel his mother had given him. He dug through frantically, looking for anything he could use. What he stumbled across was an old farming sickle, placed carefully so as not to puncture the bag. Anthony stopped abruptly, recalling something his father had taught him about wildfires; they needed fuel.

Without another moment’s hesitation, he set to work hacking down cornstalk after cornstalk, clearing a circle that gave him plenty of clear room. He tossed the excess plant matter out of the circle so that the fire would have no fuel in his safe zone. Once his task was complete, he put the sickle back in the satchel. There, in his small circle, he waited, curled up in a ball, gripping the blue silk ribbon his mother had tied around his palm. The temperature of the air around him rose steadily as the fire grew into a conflagrant inferno, pressing in from all sides like an ocean of phlogiston. Anthony shut his eyes as tightly as he could and sang quietly to himself, an old lullaby in some forgotten language this his mother would sometimes sing. The heat was unbearable; Anthony felt his skin tingling as the flames licked out and singed his flesh, causing his hair to curl. He curled in tighter, his breaths coming in short, quick gasps, protecting the satchel as well as he could. He sang as loudly as he could while coughing and sobbing, trying in vain to shut out the hellish world around him.

With time, the heat subsided, as did the noise. Anthony dared to open his eyes, devastated by what he saw. The field was completely incinerated; only the ashen corpses of stalks remained. His house was on fire, the roof beginning to collapse as the flame consumed the walls. Anthony stood slowly, looking around. The men were gone from sight, having apparently left him for dead. Anthony stood there for a time; how long, he could not judge for certain. The house continued to burn, slowly folding in on itself. Rain came late in the evening, heavy and constant. The flames were extinguished gradually as the large water droplets fell with increasing frequency. To Anthony, the rain seemed far thicker than water, almost as thick as blood. Slowly, he turned away from the remains of his life, trudging with weary, heavy footsteps. Even as the rain slowly died and the sun rose over the unreachable horizon, he could feel the blood on his skin, soaking his clothes, but he paid it no mind. He walked with a single mind and single purpose: only to go forward, until he collapsed.

Tanka Epic, Part 1

2008-06-01T17:21:00.001-04:00

This is the first part of the Tanka Epic, my attempt at writing an epic poem where each stanza is a standalone tanka. To begin the journey, click below.

Swords shining brightly
In the fading August light,
Red rivers flow north
Toward the gated city
Where the throne of man’s bane lies.

Blades of heroes flash.
Demons flee before the charge.
Hooves of awesome steeds
Bearing the hope of mankind
Crush the hordes of the Black Crown.

The Dark Lord glowers
At the pool before his feet.
Visions of defeat
Swirl in the milky waves,
But his reign is not yet done.

The great Knight Seraph,
Vanguard of humanity,
Crashes through the gates
Into the Onyx City
To face the Dark Lord himself.

A hero of myth,
The Knight Seraph gave no name
As he strode boldly
Into the Opal Palace
And gave man the light of hope.