The enemy had sent wave after wave of soldiers against their makeshift fortifications, barely making a dent in the first line of bastions. Granted, that was because Jo'nathane and his squadmates had been knocking their birds out of the sky almost as fast as they appeared, but he couldn't hit them all. His brothers had held firm against the lucky few that had hit the dirt in one piece.

Debrief had noted he was responsible for over 200 enemy dead, with only 70 shots fired and 80% as hits. A cold way to track a man fighting for his life, his squadmates' lives, and the assets they were evacuating. 4 men and as much specialized equipment as they could wrestle from the logistics boys, holding back over 700 enemy soldiers. As the last of the blood, he guessed, slid from his once shining armour onto the wash deck, he shuddered to think how their foe could accept that kind of defeat. What kind of being could look at that and see anything but a need to plea for terms? How could they afford that? Even for a planetary invasion, 700 dead in a single engagement in 20 minutes?

The sheer numbers their foe must command to ignore that, it threatened to break his nerve. Just like their damned eyes glowing as they approach. Their harsh radio-static voices. Ship after ship flying in over their heads. Surrounded. He smiled, remembering his first mission seemingly so long ago, "Surrounded? Can't miss then, can we?" He still hadn't figured out if his Sergeant had meant it as a warning or a joke.

His Sergeant never left that foxhole. He could feel some part of himself reeling at the scale of the horrors he'd stood toe to toe with, threatening to turn coward in the face of the enemy. Thankfully, the majority of him was holding firm against the unending tide. He centred himself as he finished wiping down the pockmarked metal plates. Pushing down the grief again, pushing away the thoughts of the millions who'd died in a skint few months of war. The victims of soulless abominations that mocked their forms. The only thing to be done was to make the planet's worth of dead mean something.

Jo'nathane had only recently stopped seeing the malformed skulls leering in his sleep. Even without flesh, he swore they grinned everytime they sensed your eyes on them. They'd look you dead in the eyes even through a scope across over 100 yards. Most of them tried to shoot you. Some started sprinting straight for you, ignoring any semblance of cover for a dead straight line right to you, keen to gut you wherever you stood, lay, or crouched. Their commanders were the worst, though.

They just looked to the sky and screeched. A horrid, garbled scream. A vile mix of animal noise and the kind of grinding noise an engine made if you filled it with sand and not oil. Every blasted monstrosity came calling when that happened. A few times, he or his squad dropped them before that damn noise came out. No reinforcements made everything that little bit easier, even sleep months down the line.

What should have been his hand spasmed, a nerve in his mind trying to talk to its fellows in his left hand, pulling him back to the present. Blackened steel didn't respond. It didn't stop the occasional itch or spasm, though. Nor the memory of how he'd lost his left arm from just above the elbow. The wet slap as Daveed's insides had splashed across him. The roar of the explosion as it swallowed a man he'd bled with on a dozen worlds. Both memories from before the war was acknowledged by the High Command or the government.

He stored his armour, pulling a freshly refurbished set from the locker before going to the mess hall. He only had a handful of hours before the next op. Eating was his highest priority right now, before redeploying in another hellhole on the same planet. Thousands of men and women floated high in orbit beside him. A few dozen holding the Corvette together, maintaining its critical systems, requisitioning supplies from Command, "cooking". It was the one thing Jo'nathane hated about the ship. The cramped quarters he could ignore, the hum of the drive was quiet enough most of the time, and the freezers full of the Chilled meant the rest of the ship stayed pleasantly warm.

But the food. Ugh, it was, well. He'd not died, yet. He'd not lost weight or muscle. As best he could tell, he was in the best shape in his life, courtesy of a block of... something. It wasn't obvious what it was. It tasted vaguely like meat, felt like an oat cake, and smelled of nothing whatsoever. It was all the galley served. Your only choice was as-is, fried, roasted, or boiled and mashed. He had time, so he picked roasted. By the time he reached the counter, it was waiting on a tray for him, a simple name card sitting on his tray beside the plate of typically off-white, now gently browned matter.

He made to read the card as he took his regular seat at the single, round table. The card wasn't entirely new, but something about it felt ominous. As he touched it, he realized why. The paper was thicker, heavier. Cardstock, not the standard weight stuff ubiquitous on the ship. This wasn't the typical note affirming their mission, reminders of tactics or the day's war cry. This was special. Personal. Hand-written.

By her.

His wife's signature stared at him on the corner, the flowing lines hitting him in the gut. He dropped the note on the plate, stunned briefly as the paper greedily absorbed whatever juices had released from his food.

It was his birthday. He'd been in the service for just a bit more than a year. A year without her. Without his kids. A year. He rescued the note from the plate, wiping it as carefully as possible in his full kit, gloves slickening again. The writing hadn't smugded just yet. He read it again and again, her voice in his ears as the food sat, forgotten. He was now savouring something far sweeter.

Yet he was not alone. Elsewhere, whole systems away, another observed him. Saw the dreams evident in the tears under his helmet. Steeled his will for what was to come. This crying man, insignificant against the stars he fought in, held as but a number among thousands against but the forward scouts of an implacable enemy, drove the King’s will forward. Corporal Jo’nathane couldn’t be saved. His name may not ever grace a sentence, even in local history. His family was likely to be snuffed out. Yet at least one would remember him in the litanies of the dead to come. One would see him in his dreams and hold out hope that such men were numbered enough to count in the war for the stars that dwarfed them all.

"Still can't get one past you, can I?" Delvin said, stepping free of the shadowed corner he'd been perched in.

"Indeed. So, fighting?" Adabald finally looked up, staring Delvin in the eye. "Not yet I see. Not many years left that I'll make that offer you know. Less than five I'd think, what with your knee."

Delvin gave a wry smile. He'd told no one of the trouble his left knee had started giving him if he crouched too long. Adabald, though, made his living assessing every poor sod who found their way to his office, willing or not. Of course, he'd spot the hesitation. "No need to take it. But I have an offer for you. How much for your champion?"

Adabald hadn't expected the request if the barely off-beat click was a clue. "Holg? Not for sale. He's still paying his debts."

"No, he's not. He's won every bout in the last eight years. He's paid his debt back twice over, on your official books alone." Delvin had had only a few moments to skim the correct ledgers, but he had found that little factoid quicker than he expected.

"Feeding, training and housing his kind isn't cheap. That glaive of his was the same cost as the debt that put him in here, before any maintenance of it." Adabald showed no reaction to Delvin's knowledge of the ledger's contents, not even a shift in weight in his chair.

"Had you paid market price for it, I'd believe you. But we both know you've not paid a market price in a century, Adabald."

"Are you suggesting something, Delvin? Need I remind you what I know of you?" His tone hadn't changed, but the rebuke told Delvin plenty. He'd caught Adabald off-guard with his reading of the ledger. Adabald hadn't known Delvin knew their letters and numbers.

"Not at all. I'm just saying that I've an opportunity that he'd be handy for. Something to line everybody's pocket. Above board too."

Adabald's arms stopped working, both pairs clasping in front of him. "And what would a thief need a gladiator for that was legitimate business?"

"Adventurer, Adabald, adventurer. Tracking some kidnapped Wildlings. Two kids."

"Gladiator turns local hero?" Adabald chewed on the idea but was not entirely committed to it yet.

"Aye, something like that. Think of it. The fanfare on his return. The mourning should he not. A man forged in your arena, risking his life not for gold, but for a stranger's family. Not with a Dukedom could you buy publicity like that." Delvin could see the twitching in Adabald's hands. The abacus wasn't moving, but the Dweller was still counting. He just needed one last push. "And who's to say you need to wait to see the first fruits of such a venture? A gold for every two days he's not here."

Adabald's twitching fingers froze for a whole second. Delvin had him now. "Paid when?"

"Ten days worth right now. Anything in excess to be settled after."

Adabald's fingers kept still, his eyes narrowing as they dropped to Delvin's purse. "16 days. If you want his armaments to go with him, that is."

"12. Arms, armour, bedroll."

"14. Arms, armour, bedroll. Last offer, Delvin."

"And a good offer it is, old friend." Delvin offered his hand to Adabald, seven gold pieces stacked in his carefully cupped palm. Adabald accepted the payment, his lower right arm quietly scratching the terms of their deal into the complete ledger, bound in black leather. Rumour claimed every Dweller had one like it, fashioned from the skins of ancient foes. The same foes had fathered Holg, in fact. A warlike people, rarely seen outside the mountains unless blood was being spilled, treasures taken, and women stolen away as their homes burned to ash.

None but the Dwellers dared to encroach on their territories beyond the foothills of any mountain range in centuries. Raids still happened, but fewer than in ancient days, with only a few score barbarians to see, instead of the great tides that had butchered whole provinces so long ago. The Dwellers had taken to hunting the barbarians in their holes, stemming the hordes of their vile kind. Holg was a rarity. A grim, shadowy reminder of what horrors waited on the frontiers of civilization. The clan of barbarians he'd been born from had settled in the open plains near Meurthurgard and, following a century of fraying tensions, had achieved a measure of peace for their service in the War of the Marsh.

The Lizard army had torn the Eastern Duchy to pieces in a matter of weeks, feeding on the dead they left in their wake. Until they made their last mistake of attacking the barbarians. The fighting lasted well over a month, the chosen ground becoming a mire of knee-deep mud, blood, and rotting, half-eaten entrails. The barbarians held their ground despite being outnumbered, defending their lands and pinning the Lizard army in place. Their children aided survivors fleeing the Lizard's assault, bringing the refugees and a message to the King outlining a plan to decimate the Lizards. Its success changed the barbarian's presence from a begrudging allowance to a superior foe to a cautiously welcome addition to the Kingdom.

Holg and a handful like him now could be found in the city; half-breeds descended not from the violent raiders of the past but from valiant shock troops of the King's army.

Ok, so it's been around a month since I last posted anything, and for this, I do apologize. To provide perhaps needless context, when I started this Substack, I was unemployed, and only recently (end of July) have I been able to secure a steady job. Balancing that semi-erratic (yay retail) schedule with this endeavour has proven a significant problem, especially after a year of being able to write following my own nature rather than having to scrounge for and set aside random times for this pursuit, something that seems to thoroughly reduce my enjoyment of, and consequently, my desire to, write. Certain personal complications have also become moderately more pronounced due to these disruptions, and though I've taken steps to reduce their effect, those steps only further reduce the time I have available and sap further physical energy.

All that to say, a certain degree of adaptation has been necessary on my part, and shifting my expectations for myself as it relates to this Substack has been the most challenging part by far. (especially as I 'know' from the previous year what I can deliver to you all, and calibrating my expectations of myself accurately to the time I have available is rarely a strength of mine) Further, the fact of the difference between what I have been able to do and what I can do now has hindered my creative impulses as it appears that disruptions to the schedule I had developed as part of this admittedly ad hoc operation kill that part of me that can just lose itself in the process of writing about the lives of the characters bouncing around in my head.

Hence this piece of likely self-indulgent wankery to alleviate the guilt that failing to deliver on previous explicit and implicit promises to you, my audience, has produced. Something I had hoped to avoid, as, in a strange mixture of perhaps naive cynicism, I have strived to keep this creative endeavour separate from any and all personal matters on my end, precisely because I think that too much of recent entertainment has been either a soapbox for the inane ramblings of those with no one else who'd listen to them, or simply had far too much of the writer blatantly present, either as a self-insert or simply something created purely to cater to themselves, rather than to tell an entertaining drama to an audience.

Even writing this hedges closer to those pitfalls than I ever thought I'd permit myself to tread when I first created it, though to my mind, a good respect for the time you've all been kind enough to invest in me warrants that I relate to you why I have failed to uphold my promises.

As to what I intend to do to redress these failures on my part, part of the objective is the writing and publishing of this; I suppose 'letter' is the correct word to free the fountain of words from the block that has covered her and to keep you all advised of my goals for this Substack, at least one of which is to grow it into enough success that I can reduce my hours at work, or even fully exit that job to focus wholly upon this. Lofty goals for an amateur, I suspect. Though, what value is a goal if it isn't just at the edges of your abilities?

Regardless, I will be reducing how often I publish to once a week on Sundays for the time being, with Wildling's Woe and Conquering the Stars on alternating weeks so that both stories can progress at a reasonable pace. As and when I've settled into this revamped routine, I'll likely begin by adding back the Iron Age prompts first, likely on Tuesdays, as that is usually a day off for me where I can devote more time and energy to finalizing them before releasing them to your eyes. My current expectation is that I'll be able to do so sometime between Christmas and the New Year. I'm also toying with the idea of writing something like this letter about once every season to keep us all abreast of how everything is progressing. If you'd like me to do so, or if you prefer I don't, please sound off in the comments.

As always, thank you for reading, and I hope to see you return for the coming tale this Sunday.

However, just before it could overtake her, a light brighter than the white dwarf star near her home planet shone far away in the galactic east. As its light briefly blinded her, she could feel the force recoil away, fleeing from the strange brilliance. The last thing she felt before waking was comfort, as though she was being held by her mother one last time.

The feeling of her mother and the strange eastward light did not fade from her awareness at any point so far—not through her shower, her workout, or even when she cooked herself a meal. It was a constant imaginary sun, radiating not warmth but peace. If not for its comfort, she would be livid at its unremitting presence. Even so, she half-wondered if her client had slipped her something last night.

Brushing her long, drying locks over her shoulder, she thought through the events of last night. Dressing for the lounge in the provided gown. She applied her makeup on the conservative side and played to the "long-term girlfriend" angle her client had requested. Arriving with her client. The glass of wine she'd taken. None of it was anything she hadn't done a million times before. Even their nightcap was utterly typical, save her client's endurance.

Frustrated, she reviewed the bio-signs captured by her shower. There were no signs of chemical, technological, or biological tampering. Nor was she pregnant. The readings were almost perfectly normal.

Almost.

Nevertheless, this couldn't be right. Soliana had never displayed potent psionics. All previous tests had shown she had below-average potential. So why was her medi-mat saying she was now giving off an unparallelled signal? The damn thing was probably broken.

She checked its software. It was unchanged from its last update two weeks ago. She ran the scan manually again. The readings were identical. Somehow, overnight, she'd developed impressive potential. Soliana wondered if that dream and her new imaginary associate were related.

She wondered what she could be capable of. Although Gjaellarm V had the tech to detect them, it knew little about how to apply the psionic abilities that legend spoke of. Soliana had heard of a planetary initiative to study those rare persons possessing above-grade potential that paid well, perhaps better than even her most loaded clients could afford.

The eastern light blinked as the thought crossed her mind, seemingly demanding her attention. For a moment, she swore that a voice had accompanied it. She thought of agreeing to the initiative again. The light blinked once more, and in its wake, a thin voice speaking a single word.

"No."

Despite its thinness, the voice's authourity was staggering. Soliana felt an immediate compulsion to kneel, though she resisted it. Its familiarity was jarring and probably the only thing keeping her on her feet. She thought of refusing the initiative. The light blinked twice, and the voice came again, fuller, alive, as though its owner saw she had heard it, "Yes."

Elation threatened to overcome her at the voice's approval. 'Why would its opinion of her matter?' she thought, struggling to keep her own will and counsel against this now too-intrusive visitor.

As she contemplated whether she truly was feeling another mind somewhere in the fragmented galaxy, she also wondered if she'd simply lost her own. It was certainly more likely. Soliana was younger than her mother when she'd slipped into madness—not as young as her grandmother had been, though, if Mom could be trusted.

The light didn't react this time, but the voice came to her once more, a string of incomplete, dispassionate thoughts pouring into her mind, "Sane. Unsafe. Hunted. Flee. Come. Safety." Fear coursed into her, followed by a resolve that didn't feel wholly her own as she became alert to her surroundings.

The light began pulsing regularly, almost counting. It blinked twice as the thought crossed Soliana's mind while it pulsed, another "Yes." floating by. Then, her communicator beeped. Across its screen flashed the Seal of Gjaellarm V and the words 'Psionic ability detected. Initiative squad notified. Please remain calm.'

The words "Hunted. FLEE!" all but literally broke across her ears as she read the screen. She had prepared for something like this. One didn't provide her services, and certainly not to whom she offered them, without having an escape already set up. She'd never once imagined psionics playing a role. The government absolutely, but never psionics. She bolted for her hallway closet, snatching her jacket and prepared go-bag. The light's counting had quickened, a single impossibly strong command filtering into her head, "FASTER!" Her limbs moved of their own accord to comply, and despite herself, she obeyed, urging herself along.

She yanked her boots on, nearly falling into her door as she contended against her own tired muscles, acceding to the commands of this queer light in her mind's eye. As she rushed through the hall of her tenement block, her head swam at the additional information presently assaulting her. Her regular senses heightened in her flight were disorienting enough. Now, she could taste the minds of the people near her.

Rage, joy, despair, lust, and all manner of emotions flooded her senses from everywhere around her. The light seemed to strengthen, drowning out the feelings that were not her own from her mind, much as it had the force from her dream.

"You're protecting me?" she said aloud, pushing ahead to the staircase. A double-blink answered her before she felt something foreign coming up from beneath her. A lack of anything definable other than a crushing weight of intent. It came level with her as she reached the door to the stairs. As the door phased out of existence, she crossed it and dared to look back. A squad of Officers exited the elevator, weapons drawn, entering her abandoned apartment. But the intent she felt was not theirs.

One last Officer stepped off the elevator. The intent she could barely feel against the protection of the eastern light moved with him. And from the pistol he had levelled at her, his designs were no mystery. The door phased into existence just before the bullet would have struck her heart. Rage replaced the murder she had felt from the man as she finally found she could move again. The light pulsed at least twice as fast as her thumping heart as she jumped down the stairs, landing to landing. The voice came through again, saying, "Flee. Fly. Here. Hierophont. Prime."

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As he stood up, his sense of balance screaming as he wobbled slightly, he checked his purse and pockets. His purse was lighter than it should have been, but his pockets had gone unmolested. The comfort of a selection of knives and brass knuckles brushed against his fingers as he casually stretched and shook himself awake.

It was late morning if the single beam of light in the drunkard's room was any guide. Not that the detail mattered too much. Delvin hadn't hurt for money in some time, certainly not in the last decade. Few unaffiliates did. Let alone ones with his reputation or unrecorded criminality. The benefits of sticking with adventurers; you could, if you were smart, steal someone blind and blame the quarry you were after. And Delvin was brilliant.

As he approached the bar, he was just about to rap on it when he heard the door slide open without the usual squeak. Only 'regulars', most of whom Delvin knew, were aware of the trick for it, but the owner hadn't taught anyone in a long time what it was. Delvin eyed the polished shield above the bar as he poured himself a stolen drink, wondering who had come in this early.

That couldn't be right. Yeah, he'd heard Oskar had a kid, but bringing him here? Oskar hadn't even invited Delvin to the wedding, not that that stopped him from attending, but bringing his boy here was insane. He turned around to face the friend he'd not spoken with in, Gods, twelve years, a quiet fury working its way from his gut to his arms.

"Just what the Hells did you bring your kid here for?"

The angry shout broke Oskar from the blindness of nostalgia for the bar he'd spent countless nights drinking, gambling, and occasionally fighting in. He smiled as he registered whose voice it was, the lad he'd grown up with, who'd taught him the tricks he used to earn and defend his title in the Winter Wrastle. Delvin.

"He's not mine. Or do you expect me to believe you only crashed my wedding and never checked on me after?" Oskar answered as he walked near to his old ally. Brother, even.

"Then whose kid is he?" Delvin asked, ignoring the accusation of sentimentality. Even alone, he'd never openly break the first rule of the gutter: Care for no one but yourself.

"Not Kid. Milton." Delvin shifted his attention to Milton properly, noticing the sideburns and thin moustache barely extant on the 'kids' top lip.

"Wildling?" Delvin's ire settled as curiosity overtook him. They were clannish folk. Horribly skittish of tall folk. Even the commune settled in Meurthurgard kept almost wholly to itself, preferring to deal with the city through just one of their own, Samson Longhollow.

Oskar nodded before adding, "His family was taken. Mamre demands I help him, and I'd prefer to have a few old friends at my back to find them. You in?"

"You know the name of my God, and its not Mamre." Delvin said, turning back to his drink.

"Still playing that angle? You know, if someone's taking his kind, it's ransom they want. They'll have something worth your while." Oskar's shoulders dropped. Over the years, he'd thought he'd gotten past Delvin's cynicism. Maybe he had. Yet time had built the wall thicker than before, it seemed.

Delvin pulled a sour face as he turned around, considering what coin a ransom job could bring. The fact that Wildlings rarely involved the Guardians only heightened his interest. "You said a few old friends. I'm guessing you mean Wrath?"

"You know of anyone better?" Oskar asked, doubting that their devilish friend would even be around or how they might find him.

"Heard of one," Delvin said before draining his mug dry. He was hooked. "But you'll have to convince the Arena to loan him out. He's their star gladiator."

"Gladiator? Hardly my first choice." Oskar remembered the last time Delvin had recommended someone. The scar on his arm flared at the memory.

"You didn't see him kill that Caymanid then. I did. He's good. Had it dead in seconds, despite fighting in a simulated marsh." Delvin saw Oskar's hand balling up at his side. Mariana's scar still stung him then. Callous bitch and her poison.

"The Arena will want gold. You're willing to cut into your profits?" Oskar prodded, knowing Delvin's distaste for sharing anything would have redoubled alongside his cynical act.

"Of course not." The glint in Delvin's eye told Oskar some hare-brained idea had taken root in his old ally's mind. "The Arena will get a story. The Champion with a heart of gold. Left his title undefended to aid a wildling, a farmer, and a lowly merc to rescue a family." Cold, selfish Delvin, offering just the salacious tale the Arena dealt in most often. "You can't tell me the Arena will pass on that opportunity. Even if he dies, they'll market his successor as a scoundrel who deserves comeuppance."

"You really should have been a bard, or an alderman the way you bend words." Oskar said, chafing in a way he hadn't felt for over a decade. Delvin could talk the whiskers off a cat in seconds if he focused on it.

"Dear Oskar, I'm too honest for that." Delvin knew it was true, even if Oskar may not have. He had learned well how to talk and think fast and let others fill out the lies for him. Often, it was just ignoring the right questions or playing off certain assumptions. All too easy for a gutter rat who'd learned firsthand the difference between true charity and deals of smiling devils in angelic guise.

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Oskar smiled and sighed at his wife's statement, her way of letting him know that though she wouldn't pry at it, she knew something was on his mind. "Never could get anything by you. Not even a proposal."

"Would you prefer a wife who was blind to her husband's concerns?" She teased as she hugged him.

"Never." He returned her hug and added a kiss to the mix before taking a breath. "I have a few friends who might be able to help with Milton's troubles."

"But they would need you, as would Merme. You said you'd promised nothing earlier, but Merme doesn't see things that way. Inviting him in as we did made it a matter of honour." Clara nodded her head before she rested her cheek against her husband's chest. She knew he'd not explain who his friends were, why she'd never met them, or why they'd only be able to help find a kidnapped family but not have come up as potential hands for the farm.

As much as she knew her husband, she knew there was an entire chapter of his life that he never spoke of. Nor would his father even acknowledge it. The section that made him the reigning champion of the Winter Wrastle for nearly a decade. The section that kept him up some nights and sweating in terror-filled dreams during others. The section that haunted his eyes those rare times she caught him staring into space. "Do what you need to. Just come back to us, to Finlay. To me." Clara paused, debating whether she should say her next words or not. She looked at Oskar once more, "And one we've not named yet." She decided that fear would only create regret.

Oskar stared into his wife's eyes as she spoke. Spellbound by the hazel pools, he nearly missed her last sentence. Nearly. "Again? You're sure?"

Clara nodded, "I've missed two moons. And I'm too young to be barren already." She relished the smile on his face. Finlay had taken so many tries, and now they'd have another child. Son or daughter, who cared? The Gods had given them a second child. And she could see the joy in her husband's eyes. A single stripe of fear was there, too, but the joy was far more critical.

"I swear to you three, I'll be back by the snowfall." Oskar said as he processed the news. He'd have another child. What if he died tracking Milton's kin? What if he missed the birth? Worse, what if Clara didn't survive it? Finlay's had already been tough on her. Both the wise woman and the priest were surprised she'd fared as well as she had afterward. Both warned Oskar that she may not live through another. To put her through it again, potentially alone...

Oskar couldn't, wouldn't, let it happen. If he had to tear apart the city with his bare hands to find the wildling's missing kin, he would. Every door, every brick if he must.

A long, plaintive yowl cut through the evening as the couple held each other. Both looked out the only door, seeing Milton baying at the nigh invisible moon. The wildling threw his head back with each wail, singing a mournful wolf's song, with none to call back to him. Even the dogs in the area didn't return his cries. Alone, he howled at the night sky, bellowing on his own two feet. 'Come the morning,' Oskar thought to himself, 'we will begin rectifyng that, my strange friend.'

The words hit Oskar harder than if George's prize bull had barrelled into him. The thought of losing his wife and sons tore his hate for the poacher clean from him. Despite his poaching Oskar's sheep, the wildling didn't deserve that manner of pain. As he recomposed himself, he said, "Come. If you'll share the details over lunch, we can plan how to get them back." Oskar didn't turn until he saw Milton start crawling forward. As he walked to the fence, he noticed Milton was staying just in his peripheral, exactly as Buttons would, a coiled spring waiting for the correct command.

As he reached the fence, Oskar breathed deep, summoning his voice from deep in his belly, "Finlay! Tell your mother, we have a guest for lunch!" He heard no answer but the wind softly rustling the field.

After a long moment, he spotted his boy's soft brown hair bobbing among the golden stalks, closer than he should have been if he'd gone to the house when he was told to. "Finlay!" Oskar called, stopping the boy in his tracks, "What did I say?"

His boy's voice barely broke through the distance between them, "Tell Mother, we have a guest!" Oskar waved the boy forward, his head bobbing off to the house again as Oskar shook his head. That boy's curiosity would be his death if he didn't gain command of it. Oskar found himself looking at Milton before a question slipped clean out of his mouth, "You know how to get a pup to listen?" As he heard his own words, he kicked himself for his foolishness.

To his credit, Milton showed no offence at the question, merely shaking his head before a sentence came slowly free. "Pups, not mine. Never listen. Until hunt. Then listen."

"None of your own?" Oskar asked, and Milton affirmed it. That was perhaps the oddest of all. Oskar didn't know many of the wildlings in town, but the only ones not married to someone were the kids, and half of them were promised to each other. A bachelor, and if Milton's shaggy brown beard was any guide, one near his fifth decade was unheard of. Maybe the commune in the city were the weird ones, Oskar thought as they crossed his barley field in silence.

As they came to the house, built by Oskar's father when he was barely crawling, his wife greeted them at the door. She was smiling for Milton's sake, but Oskar could see the competing emotions in her eyes. "Finlay? Come help Milton clean up for lunch." Finlay quickly followed after Clara's skirts, guiding Milton to the outdoor bath. As their guest and eldest boy disappeared around the corner of the house, she met Oskar's eyes. "Husband? Why?"

"He lost his family." Oskar placed his hands on Clara's shoulders as he spoke, guessing at her concerns. "Asked for help. I've promised nothing, though you know better than I how our God feels about these things."

Clara nodded. They were bound by belief to help as best they could. "The harvest though. Finlay can't handle it himself, and Henry's too young for me to leave him in the house." She pulled herself into her husband's chest. If only faith and farming were easier, she'd be less scared of what today meant to their family.

"We'll have to hire a few hands. George and John know a few good ones. They may even help directly if you ask instead of I." Oskar held his wife close, breathing in her smell and the stew lingering in her hair. "They're both still sore over last winter's matches."

Clara looked up into Oskar's face, "I told you to let the matches go longer than a minute."

"That you did." They kissed as Finlay, and a less dirt-caked Milton turned the corner once again.

"Mom, Dad. Gross!" they heard Finlay exclaim. Age hadn't quite pushed little Finlay past such a reaction, though he had maybe one or two winters before that changed. As Oskar looked at his son, he saw Milton prod Finlay in the ribs before shaking his head at the boy. Milton claimed no children of his own, but clearly, he was familiar with them. Despite whatever Finlay thought accounted for a bath, Milton still crawled along the ground. However, Oskar noticed he seemed more careful where his hands went now, and his weight was towards his legs, not balanced as before.

"You next." Clara said as she slipped out of Oskar's arms, guiding her son and guest into the cozy house. As Oskar washed his arms and head, he considered how he could help Milton. They didn't have the money to hire hands for the farm, and mercs for assisting Milton. He couldn't pass the wildling off on a crew, either. From the moment he'd invited him to his house, his God would see it as Oskar's duty to aid Milton. Indeed, Merme Maban would demand he personally see the wildling's family returned to him, living or otherwise. Not doing so would shame himself, his wife, and his children in their God's eyes. But he couldn't do it alone. And Clara. Despite their love, Oskar doubted she'd ever agree to it. Regardless, he had to try. He still had a few friends from another life. He just hoped the good ones were still alive.

As that first day ended, the Temple Totalus began to descend into arguments over the Aurelian's health, even the health of Friar Ptolemy, as the King had not yet appeared. It was not until breakfast the following day that the change in the obelisk was noticed. Its ordered esoteric lines and glyphs barely shone an inner light through what was presumably mere stone. Now, the lines were like the sun shining through window slits, and a humanoid shape had been drawn upon the northern face of the tower.

The shape was easily three times the height of even the tallest of the monks, and the light shone brightest from the breast. As Aurelian watched it, desperate to understand every detail of this miracle, he saw the light acting strangely.

It was pooling at the transition between smooth stone and base rock, sludging like lava as it slowly fell to gravity's will.

"Bishop, the light, what is it doing? What does it mean?" Friar Ptolemy whispered beside him, fear hiding within his tone.

The Bishop wracked his mind. No prophecy, not one, detailed how the King would return—only its signs. He considered a guess, in truth, a lie, nearly giving it voice until a lightning bolt fired out of the obelisk. The potency of its thunder deafened the gathered monks, cracking every stone in the courtyard save the obelisk itself.

The storm swelled in response, a torrent of its own lightning coming down, alighting upon stone and flesh alike. While the screams came to their ears as nought but whispers snatched away by the wind, they felt every bolt rattling in their chests, and the smell of burnt cloth and roasting flesh impregnated every breath of air. The light in the obelisk grew in leaps and bounds now as lightning bolts slowly wound tighter and tighter to the glowing stones. The stairs at her base now wept with light, a swift stream pouring out of the stone as those spared by the lightning shielded their eyes.

Even as Ptolemy tried to shield Aurelian from the lightning and the impossibly bright light, Aurelian could see. Through his own eyelids, his hands that covered them, through the Friar's body between him and the obelisk. The King had returned.

Suddenly, the light vanished, quick as any switch might plunge you into darkness. It ended. It all ended. The lightning was no longer rattling Aurelian's bones. His ears heard the low moans of the wounded, the heavy breaths of those who could move, struggling to aid their fellows. All smelt clean again.

And there he stood, towering above all, their King. His eyes shone with a dim light as he stared at his hands, moving each finger slowly into fists. Finally, he spoke, "And so I live once more, bound to simple flesh. Who is Lord here?"

"You are, Your Majesty." Friar Ptolemy spoke first, pushing himself off of the Bishop as he answered the King's questions. "We are the Brothers Totalus, whose task was to await and herald your return. We are your servants." He said, bowing after he finished helping the Bishop to his feet.

"Totalus?" The King chuckled. "Faithful bastard. But you are not the leader of these men, are you sir? No, I can see it is him, the man you shielded from the pillar. Your names?"

"Quintus Aurelian, Bishop of this Temple, and Friar Andreas Ptolemy, Sir." The Bishop answered this time as the crowd gradually pulled itself together, the spared aiding their injured brothers.

"Quintus? A good name. Is there a chamber in your temple that none could open?"

"Aye, there is."

"Meet me there, with your wounded." The King raised his voice to be heard by all, asking, "Are there any who can neither move nor be moved?"

"Over here, Your Majesty." A Brother called in answer. "Brother Eudorous' leg is trapped under these stones. If we move them, he may bleed out."

"Tie your belt above his knee. And son, you'll feel a bit of pressure." The King said calmly, and as the monk's leg was tied off, he broke what was left of the ragged limb off at the knee, knowing that the leg couldn't be saved. Brother Eudorous screamed for a split second before the agony knocked him out cold, while the King simply carried him like a babe to the Temple doors.

The Brothers swarmed after their King, fury and fear radiating from each man as they saw his seeming callousness. His great strides quickly left even the hale and hearty behind, navigating the twisting corridors as though he had walked them before. Soon, the Brothers were left following the thin trail of blood from Eudorous' leg to what had been known as the Unopenable, save it no longer deserved the name.

Inside was a pristine and utterly foreign room. Sets of armour lined the walls, weapons of all sizes hung from the high ceiling, and strange tombs were laid out all over the floor. Eudorous was already bound within one, his face peaceful behind glass so clear it was nigh invisible, save for a refraction of light on its surface.

"Good, you brought them. Critical injuries first, I shall attend any who there is not a pod for." The King had dressed in what looked to be a butcher's gown, several knives clearly visible in specialized pockets all over the vestments. No one dared approach. "Oh, for pity's sake, he's neither dead nor harmed." The King turned a monitor around, various lines appearing rhythmically across its surface, before speaking again, "See? His heart rate is stable, his blood pressure is good, and his leg is already 5% repaired. He'll have it back before the day is out. Now bring the wounded in unless you want them to die mere steps from a doctor."

At first, only the lightly injured approached the King, but as he swiftly dealt with each, the Brothers truly believed that he'd do no harm to any left in his care. The pods filled quickly with those burned by the King's return. Hours passed as the King healed each and all, with Eudorous being released from his pod as the last injured brother was healed by the King's hands. To all but the King's surprise, he walked from the pod on two legs, an impossibly quiet "Told you" slipping from the King's mouth, though none had caught it.

The evening meal was buzzing with excitement as the Brothers shared all they'd seen that day with those who had other duties, keeping them elsewhere. The King sat at the head of the room, nearly twice as tall as any other, even seated.

As the day ended, Bishop Aurelian spoke privately with the King, not about the medicine he had practiced that day but about the weapons and armour in that same room.

"Do you truly believe none will oppose my return, dear Bishop?" The King asked, a strange smile upon his face at Aurelian's naivete. "There are no Lords you know of who wouldn't welcome me as Lord over them? Not even one? I do not think such is possible Bishop. Power, does not like to be shared, and few are those who can give it up to another, even when necessary. It is for them, that those weapons were made. And it is they, who I would ask you all to fight, in my name."

Their eyes locked.

Despite the distance, Finlay thought he saw something like recognition pass over the wild boy's green eyes before he bolted back into the trees.

"Finlay! Where are you, son?" His father's voice came floating over the not-quite-harvestable grain of their fields, the tips gold but not yet bending as they should.

"Over here, Father! At the fence, by the big oak!" Finlay called back, unwilling to leave where he'd seen the wild boy. He heard the gentle slosh of water before he heard his father's feet in the dirt paths between the orderly rows of barley.

"Here, water for the noon. To think, soon you'll be big enough to fetch it yourself." His father teased as he set the knee-high bucket down, three-quarters full by its sound.

"You think so?" Finlay slid from the fence, picked up the bucket handle and heaved. Its bottom barely left the soft dirt as it slid closer to him.

"I know so. You just moved it, though you'll need a bit more height before your strength will be useful." He ruffled Finlay's hair as his other hand pulled the lid from the bucket, exposing the squat wooden cups floating inside. "What was it that held your eye so?" His father asked as he took a draught of the cool water.

Finlay puffed his cheeks as he considered the wild boy. "I don't know, Father. I think it was a boy, but he crawled like Buttons, or baby Henry." Finlay's father was stooped over the bucket, cup stuck halfway to his mouth.

"You're telling me the truth, boy?" His father's voice was strained, his eyes boring into Finlay's.

"Yes, Father." Finlay felt less sure of his eyes by the heartbeat as his father held his gaze. He jumped as a single wailing cry broke the staring match between father and son. It was a high, keening melody in the style of a wolf's howl, yet distinctly not a true howl.

"Father?"

"Home. Now."

Finlay knew better than to challenge that tone, his feet moving before he'd even decided to agree to the command. And yet, something pulled inside him. Something in that call. He stopped and cut across a few of the lines of growing grains, careful not to hurt the stalks as he did. Father would already be angry if he found him. Best not to give him more reasons.

As he approached the edge of the field again, he saw his father had already crossed over the fence and was standing partway between it and the trees.

"Come out!" His father roared. "I know you're no wolf."

A lengthy moment passed before the wild boy appeared from out of the forest in utter silence, crawling slowly out from a break in the foliage. The wild boy shifted into a deep squat, seemingly unwilling to move closer to Finlay's father.

"Finally. A face to the hands that have hunted my sheep. Not a boy's face though, is it though, wildling? Do you speak, have a name?" Finlay's father crossed his arms, forcing himself to look as big as he could.

The wildling worked its jaw around for a moment before a hoarse, awkward voice stumbled free from its mouth. "Meeltone? Me-My-Mill?" His face brightened as he found the right sounds. "Mill tonne. Milton." He shook his head emphatically with the last one, clearly pleased with himself.

"Milton. Never heard of any communes nearby. So why are you here, dressed like that? Why the howling? and why should I not put a poacher in the dirt?" Father spit on the ground before him, dropping his arms and loosening his shoulders. Finlay had seen it before when his father wrestled in the winters. He worried for the wildling but dared not move from his place.

The wildling, Milton, stayed on his haunches, unmoved by the threat. Again, he worked his jaw momentarily before speaking, "Help. Family taken. Need friend."

Father's shoulders fell, and Finlay's young heart strained as the words reached them both. The wildling had lost his family. Cruel to any of the races, but the wildlings most of all. Even little Finlay had heard of how they lived. Six generations of family under one roof was standard. Any more than 8 garnered a particular respect among their kind. And they weren't fond of asking taller folk for help. This was serious.

Hey all,

It’s the first story back, and admittedly, it does not have a whole lot to it (~830 words). Still, I intend to have this as a series on Wednesdays for the foreseeable future to replace the previous weekly IronAge Media prompts, which are in an unclear state at the time of writing.

I also intend to have something new each Saturday, much as before. However, at this time, I’m uncertain how I’ll approach the accompanying images I’ve usually given previous stories, as I’m not particularly inclined to visual arts and don’t know how well I’d be able to create/source appropriate and quality images for them twice every week.

Regardless, I’m glad to be back, and I hope to see you all here regularly once again.

‘Till next, farewell

So, as you've all likely noticed, I've been putting out fewer stories and being less punctual on my posts. Regarding BTS, I've also been writing less in general. Frankly, getting more than a hundred words out has been troublesome. I suspect this is a small measure of burnout after a full 52 weeks straight writing 71 stories, plus writing and redrafting a manuscript, of which two of my non-Ironage stories are set in the world of that manuscript.

So, I think I'll take a brief sabbatical until at least August 28th, possibly as late as September 4th, to see if I can't re-up on inspiration from my book collection and get my words flowing freely again.

As Thor/his chat of @PirateSoftware (he's on YouTube and Twitter by that handle) put it, "If you can't output, input". In the meantime, I wish you all well, and I look forward to being back behind my keyboard and writing with gusto again soon.

Thank you, and happy reading.

He found that he was neither happy nor particularly displeased at the news or its timing. Annoyed was perhaps the right word. He'd had no small measure of success in the court of King Nahshon III, forging a kinship with his host and heirs. He was even, near as he could be, counted as one of Nahshon's sons. After Thomas proved himself a reliable, sensible man to his host and his family, the King gifted him command of the harbour, its maintenance, orderly business, and defences should any be so foolish as to attack from the ocean.

He'd had an all but spotless record after he'd secured the workers' loyalty, both through their wages and his willingness to work alongside them as needed. That was until two moons ago. He heard the rumours faster than most of the city; a ship pulling into port that reeked of sex and death, offloading one passenger before it sailed away, the bilge weeping blood into the deep green waters. That night, Prince Machmannah, third in line to the throne, was proven right about his suspicions of brothels hidden in the darker corners of the Bazaar districts, ones his brother Peleg, second in line, had sworn were eradicated. Not that any knew until late the subsequent morning when the body of a merchant was discovered. Tortured. Eviscerated. Innards strewn about the room, and ramblings in a queer language daubed in blood and feces, adorning the walls.

The city held its breath for a moon as Peleg and Machmannah set their men to tear the Bazaar district half to the ground to find whoever had anything to say about the incident. Thomas, for his part, all but locked down the port for that first fortnight, buying time to find the killer or forcing them to flee by foot or hoof. Few people talked, and none had anything beneficial to say about finding the guilty party. As the fortnight ended, King Nahshon ordered the port open, as no other similar murder had occurred, and the merchants, and even other Kingdoms, had begun pressuring for trade to resume unimpeded. Thomas did as commanded, opening the port again. However, he increased patrols as best he could without crippling Peleg and Machmannah's search efforts. Nothing came of it all. Whoever had performed the heinous crime was unseen, and its perpetrator perhaps vanished before anyone had even started looking for them.

And now he was called to leave it behind. To leave it all unsolved and let this vile creature that he allowed in to wander the world, free to kill again? But could he be a proper King if he did? If he ignored it, could he dare to lead others? If he would not see the law upheld now, why would he later?

He stared at the shifting waters below, obligation and conscience pulling him in opposite directions for identical reasons. Duty called along two different roads. But could he align them, he wondered? Every ship that could've carried the killer away, in the scant hours they might've escaped by vessel, had been seized and searched, bow to stern, keel to sail. The killer had to leave on foot or be a ghost or similar malevolent spirit. Perhaps he could return to his people by horse and find this killer along his path if they had travelled north. As the thought settled in his mind, Thomas found himself running to his office, a letter already drafting itself inside before his pen touched ink, let alone paper. As he finished his signature, he checked himself for presentability before he left for the palace.

King Nahshon III proved wholly amenable to Thomas' requests to leave with a small group of trusted men along the Northern Road. He even understood the sudden need to depart the court and his need to search further afield for this criminal who had escaped justice.

"You are an honour to have fostered, Prince Thomas. I, and my sons, look forward to a wonderful relationship between our Kingdoms. Take whomever will go with you, as far as they might, with my blessing."

The King's words filled his ears as he saddled his horse and, with five trusted men at his back, took off after a murderer, then homeward bound.

Innumerable questions had haunted the High Priest in the years he gave to the church. Why had he not been found as a child? Why would God wait until he'd already lived six and forty years, fathered five children, and lived with his wife for nearly eight and twenty years before calling him to leave it all behind him, then wait another decade before sending a Prophet to lead him to the Forum? Why even send a Prophet? Were not his sacrifices and sermons sufficient evidence of faith to speak directly?

And why would God send the former Prince of Harathil as Prophet? Why demand easily the most loved of an aging King's sons, indeed his presumptive successor, to renounce all, to then travel in rags unarmed and without escort to lead the High Priest through the Wastes to the Forum?

All these rattled around the Priest's skull as they came to the first of the ten rings of stones. At the same time, the Prophet paused at the edge, tilting his head as had been the silent man's habit, before pointing out a particular pair of stones for the Priest to walk between, even as he moved to another. As the Priest passed through the ring, the world itself changed about him, or perhaps he changed, was the more sensible way to think of it. What had been still silent stones now subtly vibrated, each a different frequency. He must have frozen in place at the sudden additions to his sense of reality as the Prophet finally spoke to him.

"You'd not seen the layers peeled away before, have you? Explains why you had never heard me." He now heard the Prophet's voice as clearly as any of the church bells that had dictated his life and routines for ten years. He saw the waves of the Prophet's words coming towards his face, even as the Prophet's mouth remained stubbornly shut. As the Priest attempted to reply, the Prophet forcibly shut his mouth, unspoken words filling his ears again. "Think only, don't speak. Your words are more than you think, now that you see the world this way."

"What happens if I speak?" The Priest asked, shocked at how his travelling companion had stayed sane if this was how he saw the world, especially near sand, dirt, or grass, as every stray piece moved to its own rhythm, a deafening, disorienting mass of frequencies.

"Everything reacts. And neither you nor I know how, so better to stay silent, no?" The Prophet released his grip on the Priest's jaw before directing him through a different pair of stones, and again, the world changed, sounds fading away as though their source was far away from him at all times. Each time he passed through a pair of stones in the circle, and never in a straight line, more of what he thought was the world fell away, be it stability, sound, colour, smell, taste, weight, or even time fell away or ceased to behave as he understood them. As they crossed the final ring of stones, again from different points, the world snapped into something more recognizable. However, colour was still muted, but shape had reasserted itself as a constant. Solid stones greeted them once more, and something similar to themselves rested in the centre.

It stretched an arm before itself, which appeared to be both stone and ash-caked, fleshy but thin, as the Prophet seemed to reel away in pain briefly. "It wants us to sit, says we need not fear speaking. This place is safe," the Prophet said through gritted teeth, his nose bleeding heavily, his face rapidly purpling.

"Safe? You look like you were just beaten for spitting on the King." The Priest hesitated at moving before feeling an incredulous calm washing over him as the figure seemed to stare at him.

"It apologized already It's been ages since its spoken with such new initiates to the truth." The Prophet's injuries disappeared as swiftly as they had come as the figure again gestured before itself. Both men warily approached the places indicated as a mouth formed upon the being's face. Disturbingly, it first appeared where one would expect to see eyes before being pulled to the correct place by the being's hands, as two pinpricks of light, brighter than the sun in high summer, took the place of eyes.

"Your questions, are prudent, and deserve answers. This, is not what I created either of you for. This was not to be your lives. The church, has strayed. It must be culled. The corrupted, destroyed. I have brought you two into the fold for this. To purge the heresy festering within. You will gather trustworthy men to yourselves, and I will guide you to the sources of this plague in my houses. You will be hunted. Hated even. Opposed by both the guilty, and those blind to the rot. They will kill you in time. And I will bring you back. You will win, if you follow my commands. Fail to, and your people, will fall away to evil, in your lifetimes."

We had ignored his Prophet and deemed him crazy, even as the fish fled, first from our nets, soon from our boats, and lastly, the Bay itself. For a month, the Bay sat empty of any fish we knew how to catch, and instead, we ravaged it of any and all clams, mussels, and crabs we could find. Even the broken traps and haulers did nothing to turn us to wisdom. Fishers who went out and did not return despite crews with over a century of collective experience did nothing to dissuade us from our abuses. Even 10 ships being lost was of no concern to those who didn't count family among the missing.

And then that day began. A beautiful morning it was. The birds who had followed the fish away from the Bay had returned, their cries sweeter than the purest harpist's symphony. The sea was a shining sapphire, the barest hint of movement upon it as the breeze came in from the west; unbeknownst to us, it lazily dragged a storm behind it, one last effort at mercy before His Judges would be unleashed upon us. It was almost Noon before the weather had shown the sign of its turn. Some fishermen had just returned to the docks, having found no fish despite the unending chorus of gulls. I remember the man we now know as a Prophet staring at the sea, weeping silently, as he turned to me and said but a few words.

"Our doom, has arrived."

As I looked out onto the sea, I saw it draw back as a snake does before it strikes, the few boats whose hope, or greed, had outlasted the others left stranded on the sandy floor of the Bay. The storm crackled in the sky upon us in seconds as it slid clear of the mountains, a hot torrent birthed from fat, low-hanging clouds of black obsidian. The screams barely reached us, situated as we were on the high bluffs. At the same time, the crash of titanic waves against the lower levels rattled even our carved stone homes. Then came the hissing. The sound of ships breaking, men screaming, dying, floating up to us as the first flashes of lightning showed us just how severely we had lapsed in our duties.

Yeferat had released his Ophidians upon us. Hulking golden serpents, powerful enough to churn the sea herself into nought but mountains of black water and white-capped fury, twisting even the air into deadly hurricanes if they kept at it long enough. Beasts that some have said may not have been made by Yeferat or any of his siblings. Yeferat had challenged the Ophidians for command of the seas in the time before man, and now Yeferat had unleashed them upon us. The highest of rebukes for our foolishness. Perhaps the only fitting punishment for the city he had provided for for so long. A handful of us escaped fate that day, myself among them, though I knew then that I couldn't forestall fate forever. I only hope that Yeferat will spare you any harm, friends."

The man telling the tale, who was in his middle years, smiled at the crew that had sailed him near the Ruins of Gelleram, seemingly content that his audience had listened to the tale. His stooped back slowly rose as the story was told, and now he stood straight up, proud once more, after years of guilt and self-pity had taken their toll on him. And before any could speak to point out that he hadn't answered their Captain's question of why he wished to sail near the Cursed Bay, to the Ruins of Gelleram, the man had dove headlong into the water, swimming hard for the broken tower just visible beneath the water's surface. He did not make the tower. Something shimmering underneath the surface had snatched him by the leg as he crossed into the Bay. Having heard his tale, the crew who saw it swore to never speak of the strange man nor what they thought they had seen lurking in the cursed waters of Gelleram.

On the tenth day, the Manor across the Lake was swallowed in the thick gray soup, and that evening, unnoticed by the sleeping people, shadows were dancing in the dark.

Gregory removed the inane gossip from his mind as he cast out his lines and his grandfather's small net, freshly repaired by Mathilde. Now, he waited, hoping the fog would encourage more activity from the fish below rather than inducing lethargy. Luckily, his hope proved correct, and his lines were more active than he'd ever seen. Gregory seized upon the most active line, sensing that it had the biggest fish from the slight drift of his boat. Swiftly, the quiet battle between fish and fisherman consumed him. The constant pull of his quarry had him entranced, the delicate dance of tension all he could reckon with, as the fish dragged his boat about the Lake despite his anchor.

As he held his own against its strength, he marvelled at his prey's power and stamina, wondering if he was the latest to catch the 'monster' fish thought to hide in the depths. Gregory was so lost in the fight, so focused on the possible rewards of catching the largest fish Therisil had ever seen, he didn't notice the fish had made a beeline for the Manor until his line stretched out and rose up, as something distinctly mannish escaped the water's embrace. He froze for but a moment as he forced himself to blink, the creature pulling his boat closer by his fishing line. Its smile, the same smile he'd worn only seconds ago, broke his shock, and without the slightest bit of forethought, he dove into the frigid waters.

On any other day, the water would be a death sentence. Today, it was his best chance against whatever abomination had successfully pulled Gregory so close to its lair. As his teeth began to chatter, his legs and arms thrashing in the water, struggling to obey him against the numbing chill, he couldn't banish the creature's visage from his mind. It had the countenance of a corpse, with black veins in its ice-blue eyes as it stared him down. And despite its wiry, thin body, strength undoubtedly preeminent to his own. Yet it made no noise as he made his desperate escape. No scream, no curse, nothing. Gregory dared look back as he swam faster than he thought he could, and no such creature stood on the bank, nor was there a trace of anything on the rocks at the base of the three-story Manor. Had he imagined it? Had the fog left his mind too keen to wander? He slowly swam back to his boat, and just before he could pull himself into the relative safety of her planks, a pale grey hand clasped tight to his ankle and dragged him beneath the water.

That was until he heard a croaked whisper from his Master's bed. "Justin. Justin."

"Sir, don't move; you're too ill." Justin nearly ran to gently pin his weakened Master to the bed and found that his Master was stronger today than he'd been in weeks.

"Stop it, Justin. There's something you must learn before I die." His Master pushed Justin's hands away, nearly toppling the young man onto the heavily blanketed bed. Justin barely managed to stop himself from falling atop his Master, pulling himself back up, and long hours of transporting patients to their graves once again proved helpful as his legs held him steady. His Master spoke as he struggled up from under the blankets, "The book, and you know the one I mean. You must take it to the Peak. It's there that you'll learn to understand it. Same as I did." His Master shuddered just before the wracking cough ripped through him again. A wet, hacking thing that had stained his Master's beard faintly red against its usual gray. It had kept the both of them up through a few nights and more frequently over this last week. "Up the mountain." Another fit nearly stole the words before he heard them. "Take it. Learn from what finds you." His Master fell back into the bed, and his voice collapsed again to a whisper, "And I'm sorry, boy. So, sorry, to send you there."

Justin almost didn't realize that his Master had died in front of him, not until he felt the air in the room shift, the same way it always did, whether the patient was the farmer's prize cow or the farmer himself. He checked his mentor three times before he accepted the truth and dared not think about his last command until he had loaded him onto the cart, bundled in white linen as was tradition. As he dragged the cart to the church, his eyes darted to and back from Predator's Peak, the not-quite-lone mountain that punctuated the sky. It was a fool's errand to approach it, let alone climb. Not that those warnings had stopped treasure-seekers or local, foolish youths from trying. The locals almost always returned. Treasure-seekers, not so much. And now his Master's dying wish was for him to try that strange mountain, to understand a book? It didn't make any sense.

As Justin returned to what was now his home, he stalked up the stairs to the study and pulled the tome from its place. It was far heavier than it had any right to be, heavier than even the gilded tomes his Master's Master had been gifted from the King of Adremar for saving the Prince's life from a wound that had festered. Strange that so thin a folio could weigh so much. As Justin sat down once more, he tried to open the tome and found he could not. It simply wouldn't budge, even slightly. Even locked tomes had no such resistance as this, and it bore no lock. It seemed he had no choice but to venture to the mountain, to risk who knows what horrid end or whatever else his Master had feared and felt remorse over.

The next morning, Justin set out for the mountain, his heavy winter clothes bundled atop his haversack, walking staff in hand, and the book stuffed in his shirt for safekeeping. He left early, just before the sun rose, and left a sign on the door announcing that he was out gathering plants and herbs. Justin didn't enjoy the lie, however necessary it felt, as he did not even understand why he had to visit the Peak to read this tome. But his Master thought it essential, and so he would do so.

It took most of the morning to reach the foot of the Peak, and only at its base did he dare to break his fast. Cold biscuits, blackberry jam, butter and water were his chosen foods for the day, and quickly, he ate in the mountain's shadow. Afterwards, he began the long climb up the mountain, finding no particular path ahead save whatever seemed the quickest way forward and up. The sun was highest in the sky when the air turned bitter cold as Justin escaped the cover of the trees. He donned his heavy clothes as he ate again before pressing on. As he neared the shale slopes of the mountain, he heard the strangest sound. Something like the cry of a hawk or falcon, but deep enough to rattle the stones on the mountainside. As he looked to the sky, he saw the shape of a bird falling towards him, yet it was the largest he'd ever seen, a monstrous hawk clearly aiming for him. He thought of running, but knew it was too far to reach the safety of the trees. He resolved to die fighting, raising his staff as he'd seen knights raise their swords at the melee of tourneys. As the hawk came near, he swung, his staff breaking against the enormous beast as it circled in the sky and slowed itself. And then it spoke.

"You bear the book. Another come to learn, come to die in time, for knowledge. How many will you send to this death? Will you condemn another, as Gwyn did you? Will you make that death worthy?"

Wanna fly? You can, if you can figure out how to.

Destroy the environment? P for plenty still applies.

Build a skyscraper? Run a business? Learn any skill? You can do those too.

The ideas of every mad scientist, every inspired writer of sci-fi and fantasy, and even the powers of superheroes, supervillains and mutants were yours if you wanted them. The best part? It's all so damn close to life itself that nearly everything you already know about any subject applies to the game, and what works in the game works in life.

A week later, she stood outside the offices where the letter that followed her accepting the beta test terms had indicated. The building was unremarkable—a generic office in the city, all tinted glass and steel framing. As she entered, the receptionist seemed to see the letter in her hand, silently pointing her to the nearest elevator. Melissa smiled brightly as she followed the directions, stepping into the steel box as it opened and touching the 4th-floor button.

She barely felt the elevator moving, her arm only just returning to her side as the doors opened again to a new floor. No one was there to greet her; there was just a table, a pair of wired headphones attached to the ceiling, and a folded card with her name in the font created for the game's promotional art.

"Dear Mels2623,

With the provided headphones, you will find a pair of lenses. When the lenses and headphones are on your head, your time in the game will begin. The empty office around you is already mapped for this session, and its limits are accounted for. Please remember that this test aims to test the technology and engine of the game and confirm its limits, if any, as we finalize Dead Man's Land. Try everything you can imagine, and try a few things more.

Yours,

The Dead Man's Land Team"

She had the floor of the building to herself and free reign to try whatever in the game. She picked up the headphones from the table and found that just above the ear cups on either side were containers for the lenses the letter mentioned. Maybe this is why she was invited, she thought as she pulled her glasses off. They wanted to see how their lenses affected people who needed glasses' experience with the game. After she got both lenses to sit on her blue eyes, she saw the world blur in and out of focus for a second before the words "Vision corrected for" flashed seemingly a few feet ahead of her. The lenses figured out her prescription and matched it; she realized as she looked around for a moment or two she could see the world in better detail than her glasses usually allowed until more words imposed themselves onto her vision. "Please wear headphones provided."

Her lenses turned black as she put them on, and more words appeared before her. "Welcome to Dead Man's Land Beta" before a menu screen appeared.

"Due to this beta test being in single-player format, we have provided pre-made themed areas for you to explore, use, or destroy as you please. These areas do not reflect the game's style or state at launch, but what can be achieved by dedicated players or communities in a handful of hours. Please select a theme below."

Melissa looked through the list shown, finally selecting horror as her theme. Immediately, music and a soft wind in trees filled her ears as her eyes saw she was in a swamp as evening fell, a well-kept, stately plantation house in view as howling things crashed through the areas behind her. Melissa ran for the house without thinking, and the howls soon fell close on her heels. Something snarled to her right side as she heard the clink of stone on metal before the crack of gunpowder nearly deafened her, a tree to her left splintering as a bullet tore it apart. She ran harder, reaching the door, pulling it closed and locking it against her pursuers. She looked around to see if she could block the door better as someone yelled for a gun to break the lock. She found a dresser near the door that fit the bill how she wanted, moving it against the doors to keep them at bay for now.

Melissa began looking for a weapon in the house, finding axes, knives, and a rifle of her own before she remembered she had no idea how to use the thing. She kept it regardless. Only she knew that fact, and whatever NPCs had been designed for this couldn't be that smart, right? Another crack told her they'd shot the lock before swearing told her the door had held fast. She sighed happily until the sound of breaking glass told her they hadn't given up. She rushed over to the offending window, seeing a leg already in the house. Dropping her rifle to the ground, she took an axe to the wriggling limb, the yell of the intruder scaring her as she swung again. She felt tears running down her cheek as the leg struggled to get free of the window, pulling itself limply away as she heard a half-dozen pairs of feet running away from the house. She screamed as the feet receded far away from her, and she looked at her hands still holding the axe.

Only two things reminded her that she was still in a game: the lack of weight in her hands and that she couldn't smell the blood. And for that, she was beyond grateful as she took off the headphones. The office walls snapped back into her vision as the lenses registered the missing headphones. Melissa was almost ill over what had happened. She remembered how her father always looked away if he saw her playing anything that had parkour or free-running. Now she understood how it had felt for him, how the graphics could trick you. That, that was too real. Melissa took her lenses out as she lay down on the office floor. Tears were still rolling out of her eyes, her heart slamming about in her chest. As her terror slowly eased back, she couldn't help but think that Dead Man's Land would be the author of its own destruction. It had been so instantly real to her. Far too real. Melissa doubted if she'd ever be willing to return to it. Who could?

She had been being chased; no, she had been chasing someone.

It had all started days ago, the first time the blade in her hands had caught her eye in the merchant's wagon. The merchant had claimed it was a cooking knife, repurposed from something he called a seax, a design standard in the barbarous north. A bold man if he dared trade with the flaxen-haired killers who haunted the snows and seas.

Sarah remembered feeling drawn to the knife. Called to it. Even though she hated cooking. Hated the busywork of it, endless chopping, peeling, checking on this, tasting that, and hoping that your oven hadn't cooled off too much to bake bread if she was that bit too slow in making it. And yet, the shining edge dazzled her, the subtle waves in the steel nearly as hypnotic as the sea herself. And what should have required a goodly sum was all but given to her for a few coins. The blood now soaking the knife seemed to twist upon the blade, an arrow pushing her along. That merchant. He must have known. He had closed his shop as Sarah had left, even though this was the sea's last, mostly honest port, especially when travelling south. He knew. Her wrists ached as her hand clenched on the wooden handle, the feeling all too familiar. Had she done this before?

Sarah woke again as the creaking boat groaned in her ears, her hand feeling empty and lost. She brushed it against the knife at her belt, and the feeling melted away. She needed a drink, she thought as the sea pitched and rolled. After two days at sea, the freshwater had already run dry or gone sick on the waves. If these crewmen could be trusted, and their captain seemed a decent sort, the only things worth drinking were wine, beer, and mead. But she knew the smell of drink, the burning tang it gave off. To drink it was a sin, a transgression against her God. Not that she had been free of sin in recent weeks, she thought as her hand absently touched the knife handle. She was thirsty damn it, and thirst should be quenched.

Days later, they landed in a foreign port, the sharp-eyed lookout spotting her quarry's sail as they pulled in. The man tried to recoil as she kissed him in thanks, and the rest of the crew kept their distance as she left the ship. Each man breathed easier as the waifish lass left, easier still as they quickly escaped the doomed port behind them, and easiest of any breath of their lives as several splashes reached their ears, all while the decks wept the blood of their brothers into the sea.

That evening, she tailed the merchant as twilight took over the bazaar, the man utterly unaware of the blade inching closer to his supple flesh, the steel that would touch his heart that night. She watched him as he wasted the coin he'd traded trinkets for on drink, food, and appallingly, even to her twisting mind, flesh. And yet, an idea took root in her thoughts. Better that they be alone for her revenge. Better that he not be expected to rise early tomorrow, and far better for her that any man should be less than willing to point to her, lest they admit to their own sins. A smile crept across her lips as she laid a veil upon herself, moving as luridly as she could manage to the merchant's side. Tonight, her sins would be worth something. Tonight, her thirst would be fully quenched. Not teased as it was on the ship. Tonight would set the world right once more. Wouldn't it?

However, before those first true spaceflights between Mars and Earth, we forgot something. Gravity. Which had once been theorized as the attraction to massive objects. And that proved undeniably true. Grav-sickness in the crew and its ripple effects in early spaceship designs nearly killed the first colonists to land on the Red planet. When their ship passed by Phobos, the engines failed for a time, her fuel no longer moving as anticipated in the ship's tanks. Some of the more delicate creature-comfort machines, throughout the cabins and in the hold, intended to keep the colonists sane until regular trade could be achieved, were ripped apart under the competing gravity wells. Had it been any worse, it'd occupy a similar place in space flight's history as the 20th century's Challenger mission, a terrible tragedy in the early years of Earth's attempts to touch the stars.

Luckily, the approach vector was intended to give the crew and vessel as much time as possible to react to any issues that may arise, even unexpected ones. The Captain managed to maintain his composure and righted the ship relative to the surface of Mars, correcting many of the systemic issues in a vessel designed under the effects of planetary gravity experiencing it from two, equally incorrect orientations. The readings sent back to Earth proved invaluable in immediately identifying design flaws and determining how to correct them for future missions. Amusingly, one of the designs floated as a potential solution was that of a flying saucer, a design oft-cited by those who claimed Aliens had visited Earth in times past.

Ultimately, what came to be the long-term solution in ship design thus far was to build them as close to outside the effects of gravity as we could and rely on tried and true designs to ferry people from planetary surfaces to spaceborne vessels. Thus, we come to the most recent iteration of the planetary shuttle. The Lockheed-Boeing made Griffin, pictured right, the premier design in High-Orbit Traversal and Shipping. In either its passenger or freight configurations, it can bring 1000 people with luggage or 125 E.T. (Earth-Tonnes) from any planet's surface to a standard Orbital Dockyard in a mere 30 minutes, in guaranteed* comfort and safety.

*Guarantee is only valid with maintenance logs provided and licensed pilot's records from the appropriate planetary authority's jurisdiction.

- This rare printed advertorial, pulled from the pages of The Martian Herald, is an example of advertising common to Mars-based companies. It is designed to appeal to the history of Mars as Earth's first extra-planetary colony while associating the company or product shown with the intrepid nature of its people and allaying the public's fears linked to death in orbit, whether high or low. Per Martian Law, the Author is unlisted to avoid undue beliefs of accuracy, honesty, impartiality, or harm to a particular journalist's reputation in the event of controversy on the part of the company that paid for the ad.

Presented by The Venus Association for the Preservation of Extra-Planetary History.

Maybe R&D had finally figured out the lining for their armour, or perhaps the hypnosis training had worked for once. He didn't know. A line from an old-Earth poem passed through his mind. "Ours is not to reason why, Ours is but to do and die". He felt... something shift, and his eyes darted to the pad. The alien had stopped praying. Worse, it was moving now. Sgt. Geoffries signed Theta to halt and hunker down, eight men doing their best to silently find cover, eight rifles quietly switching from safe to full-auto.

For a long moment in that hallway, his own heartbeat was all he could hear, the breaths of his men slowly filtering in as he accepted that he'd live or die in the next few seconds. That outcome wasn't his to control, not truly anyway. He eyed his pad again. It was coming closer, and that couldn't be right. Was the activity the pad monitored, the wavelengths it watched for, spelling something?

D O N T S H O O T. Over and over, DON TSHO OT, with erratic spaces until Geoffries read the message, and immediately it became perfect English, "Don't shoot". Neither the hypnosis nor the suit were protecting anyone. This Eremit simply hadn't killed them yet. Why?

Xslyckane approached the human squad slowly. He knew the one in charge had seen his message and could feel the confusion in him as he realized that the team wasn't protected by any of the rituals or electronics they'd developed over three or four human lifetimes. And he could feel the hatred of his fellows. One in particular burned brighter than the rest. Xslyckane wondered what of his had been lost and how he could say what he wished to before that one killed him. He decided to risk speaking in the human tongue, stopping himself before entering the hallway that bristled with death. "Speak I may die I before?"

He knew it was phrased wrong when he felt the leader's confusion, not purely at hearing its own language but also rearranging the words in his mind.

Geoffries replied, rifle still trained down the hall, "You want to speak?" He could sense his team's eyes on him. Not one Eremit had ever spoken anything since the war's outbreak. The day when what had been a perfectly peaceful contact between Man and Alien devolved into a bloodbath as humans were twisted into living weapons against each other.

"Yes. Speak before I die. Apologise. Explain." Xslyckane answered, the leader's thoughts passing through his mind as he tried to learn as much English as he could—not to excuse the war, but to explain what had happened.

"Sergeant, are we seriously considering this?" The one who hates spoke quietly. Xslyckane wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't watched the Sergeant's mind.

"Corporal, the enemy appears to be surrendering. We don't have standing orders for this scenario, and we're under radio silence unless we want to bring more of them here, so it's my decision." Geoffries weighed the risks in his mind. The Eremit wasn't making any distress signal that the pad had seen, not that it needed to bring reinforcements. It could kill Theta without even moving, just by wishing it so. And it hadn't. Further, if it understood the words it used, it wasn't asking for its life. Just an opportunity to speak. "Step to where we can see you. Hands out. You will not approach. Is that clear?"

"Yes." Xslyckane stepped into view its hands in prayer as eight rifles snapped to his center mass, and eight minds resisted the trained instinct to shoot him down on sight. Before Geoffries could give the scaly, robed Eremit any orders, it spoke, in now precise English, copying Geoffries' accent, "Thank you, Sergeant. My people, made a grave mistake. I made a grave mistake, one hundred years ago. We, do not understand a difference between thought and action. Since our ascension, there has been no difference for, millennia. Your diplomats, on that day, had brought one like yourself, a warrior."

The one who hates' anger flared at the mention of that, and Xslyckane realized it was fuelled by shame. Shame of an ancestor. "Related to you? It is you who must kill me then. Your" Xslyckane pointed at Corporal Matthews, "elder, he was thinking of how to kill us. I didn't understand what he was. Why he would think it, or that he could think it without acting on it. I turned his thoughts against the other diplomats and ignorantly forced him to kill them. I started this. I killed my people. Please, I should die for it."

Sgt. Geoffries ensured his pad had correctly recorded the Eremit's words. Cpl. Matthews had levelled his rifle at the alien's head, waiting for the order to kill him. But Geoffries had a question. "Can you not order your people to stop fighting? We could end this war with this information."

"Too many have died. We raised our children to think you were going to kill us all. They saw you were winning. Chose to die at their own hands. Even if you don't finish the job, we will die out." Xslyckane knelt down, seemingly choosing to pray again, as the pad resumed plotting the alien's brainwaves.

"Perhaps. If you live, something of you can live on that isn't our guesses and maybe wouldn't be tainted by the memory of this war." Geoffries tried to keep the Eremit alive, loath for an entire species to die out for one individual's decision.

"Are my words not enough?" Xslyckane asked, breaking its prayer.

"They're in a human tongue and sound like a human's voice. Would you believe it?" Cpl. Matthews spoke, lowering his weapon as he realized the Sgt. wouldn't order the Eremit's death.

"No." Xslyckane agreed with the great-grandson of the General whose thoughts, coupled with Eremit ignorance of human physiology, had begun this war

"Then it seems you might be able to right some of your wrong, not merely pay for it with your life and your species." Corporal Matthews helped the alien to its feet again, even as his thoughts lingered on killing it in vengeance, before he, to Xslyckane's surprise, dismissed them from his mind.

Displace yourself from the past, your woes, your lonesome drifting. Come here. Come to us. Come home.

The voice pressed itself against every crack and crevice in Ishmael's cranium, the dulcet tones of a velvet viper, its fangs already sunk deep in his flesh and mind, their venom suffusing his entire being.

He'd heard the rumours whispered under sheltered eaves. The health services were quietly panicking as complaints of phantom voices went from an almost unheard-of malady in Whitneyville to an epidemic in the community. And all of an exact nature. A charming soft call, pulling you somewhere in the city. He'd never dared to follow it, yet, but he'd heard it daily now.

Come.

This way.

We're waiting.

Don't you want to be home?

It was maddening in the worst way, as what could be done to rid himself of it? The voice had to be his imagination. A cruel joke on himself. Who would just come when called, like a loyal dog, to something they didn't know? And still, it whispered, pressing against him, an overbearing omnipresent push into his very being, his soul if such a thing existed. It only relented when he moved into town, dancing away on some streets only to come crashing back on others, railing against him whenever he thought of leaving.

Midnight

He'd had enough after yet another night of tossing and turning like a roast duck over a fire. He was going to find this damn voice and silence it. Even if it cost him a whole night of sleep, he didn't care. Getting rid of the voice would earn him his nights back forever. What's one night against a lifetime of peaceful sleep? And so, Ishmael went hunting.

He chased the voice along its dancing path for hours, a maze through avenues, parks, boulevards, alleys, and side streets. He once believed he could never get lost in his city. That he knew all of it so well, or near enough, that even blinded, he'd find his way. The waltzing path of the voice, however, proved that such delusions were incredibly wrong.

Eventually, just as the darkness first weakened, he found himself standing under a streetlamp of sorts, burning gas, not electricity. The voice taunted his ears, calling him into an immaculate alley, utterly untouched by the graffiti commonplace in Downtown, to a door most would dismiss as a fire exit. If not for the voice calling him through it, he'd never have seen it, let alone tried its handle. The door gave way without the slightest hint of resistance indeed it seemed... eager to open to his touch. As he crossed the threshold, the one voice became many, a cheering horde welcoming him home, their adulation deafening him to the closing door.

Only when its bolt was thrown home did the screams start, while a sickening wet laugh flooded his ears as he ran to the exit. The hall shifted as he turned on his heel, its opulence fading as gaslight morphed into white fire, wallpaper burning away to reveal stacked grinning skulls flanked by every bone of every shape, many too small to be an adult's. A wolf's howl echoed from the staircase he'd almost passed, cutting him off from the door as he heard the rattle of paws running up the stairs. Its mangy black muzzle entered the hall, immediately turning to stare him in the eyes, an enormous beast blocking the way, offering no escape but death.

Ishmael stared into its milk-white eyes and, perhaps foolishly, determined he'd rather die on his feet. He threw an uppercut into its jaw, the bones in his hand breaking against iron. The Wolf, unfazed at such feeble violence, bit down on Ishmael's shoulder as he held his flopping hand, pain flooding his body worse than the voice had ever been, as he was dragged deep into the basement, and never heard from again.