The too hot pizza boxes from Gianni’s burned my fingers as I quickly approached Autumn’s apartment building in SoHo. You would think that the burning sensation would almost be pleasant on the cold October night, but you would be wrong. It hurt, and I was constantly shifting my fingers to give them some relief.

The lights beneath each building showed me that the extensive grid of stilts was nearly deserted. Just me and a removal crew out later than normal. The lack of other people walking around wasn’t unexpected, but in a neighborhood that still housed thousands, it was unnerving. Only the bags of trash, illegally tossed out of people’s windows, and the occasional tied off rusty bicycle too large to carry upstairs marred the concrete jungle of stilts around me.

As I got to the stairs that led up the exterior of Autumn’s building to the main entrance, the removal crew was wrapping the remains in a large plastic bag. I mentally gave it even odds as to whether they would just leave the body there with the trash bags, or if they would actually take it with them when they left.

I put them out of my mind as I climbed the stairs, and after pounding up the metal-grate steps for three stories, I rang the buzzer for her apartment building’s front door.

“Yeah,” came a male voice through the speaker. The sounds of several people talking in the background blurred the edges of his voice, but I recognized it.

“Hey Reefer, it’s Grant. Let me in.”

“Sure,”

A moment later a loud click clack came from the door and I carefully balanced the pizzas and opened the door with a hiss of releasing pressure. The elevator wasn’t far inside the main entrance. I hit the call button and waited for a few moments, still gingerly handling the pizza boxes, until it arrived. I got inside and clumsily kicked at the buttons, due to my full hands, and hit the four. Since Autumn’s place was on third, I sighed and made another kick hitting the right button this time.

I rode in silence, looking down through the metal grate flooring as the elevator shaft stretched out further beneath me until the doors made a sharp ding and slid open.

My feet echoed off the smooth, not quite level, white tiled floor as I walked to Autumn’s apartment door. I gave the door a sharp double tap with the toe of my shoe, and a light hiss preceded its opening. Reefer swung the door open for me, and I strode past his skinny frame with confidence, holding the boxes above my head to the resounding cheers of my friends. I had finally arrived with the evening’s meal.

I was the last to arrive, and the small apartment was comfortably crowded. Reefer closed the door behind me with a resealing hiss and Jenn, playing group Mom as usual, went into the kitchen to grab plates out of the cabinet and a beer for me from the fridge.

An unfamiliar voice drew my attention over to the TV. “…tenth anniversary of the Collision today, thank you for watching. We will be right back with more commentary after these messages from our spons…” The newscaster’s voice was cut off as Dre hit mute on the TV and everyone started piling into the kitchen. I handed the boxes to Dre as he passed by and asked, “Where’s Autumn?”

“Her room. She should be...”

“’Ey Dre,” The blunted corners of Reefer’s thick Bronx accent interrupted the conversation, “you gonna stand around ‘oldin’ those, or we gonna eat ’em?”

“Fuck off Reef,” Dre responded in his genial mid-western tone, “I’m coming. Not all of us have your level of munchies.”

Reefer lowered his voice to a harsh whisper that everyone could hear. “Oh it’s not me man. I’m jus’ worryin’ about you. Rosa’s lookin’ ‘ungry, an' I'm worried 'bout 'ow much manhood she'll leave you with if she don't eat somethin' else soon. Oi, no pinchin’!” The last came out in a good humored little squeak.

A small caramel colored hand lowered from Reefer’s ear, it was all I could see of Rosa’s diminutive frame, and her smooth south-of-the-border accent shot back. “Poor gringo doesn’t realize.” Her voice dropping to smolder, she added, “Nobody could be hungry enough to finish that meal.” Everyone but Acid Mike laughed, with Reefer snorting his weird horse laugh the loudest.

It wasn’t unusual for Acid Mike to not join in the laughter. Rosa’s twin brother Miguel dropped too much a couple of years ago, so he doesn’t talk or do much anymore. We still love him though, and when Reefer started calling him Acid Mike, it stuck. We’re pretty sure Miguel likes the new name.

I felt a cold beer pressed into my hand and Jenn smiled, her cheeks adorably dimpled, up at me. She wiped at her brilliant blue eyes before giving me a quick hug. “Thanks for picking those up. I wish Gianni’s would still deliver this late.”

“It’s alright, Gianni is too smart to let his kids out on deliveries this close to the surge. And I’m just dumb enough to do it.” I replied with a quick smile and a quicker squeeze.

She moved off and put her arms around Reefer’s waist from behind. Hugging him tightly and kissing the back of his neck. Everyone agreed, especially Reefer, that Jenn was too good for him. Hell, she was too good for all of us.

“Hey Stranger, you just get here?”

I turned to find Autumn standing behind me. Her heavily mascaraed blue eyes were sparkling, and her hair, dyed to match her eyes, was pulled back into a long, intricate, weave that reminded me of crashing waves. I just stood there, watching as she took the beer from my hand and held it up to her lips, thick with black lipstick, and took a long slow pull from the bottle. The stud in her tongue clicked against the tip of the bottle as she, very deliberately, licked the remaining moisture off her upper lip. As she held the cold bottle in her hand, I could see the tips of her breasts begin to strain against the fabric of her old black Ramones t-shirt. She was, very obviously, not wearing a bra, and my pants suddenly felt too small.

“Hey Autumn,” I managed to croak after clearing my throat. “Yeah, uh, Gianni’s is on the counter.” I gasped a little laugh, “We better hurry if we want some, Reefer smells like he’ll eat it all if we don’t.”

“Yeah,” she giggled, keeping a firm hold on my beer and looking down at the curves of breasts, stomach, hips, and thighs that her clothing did little to hide, “I wish I could eat the way he does and stay skinny. It’s not fair at all.”

From the direction of the kitchen Reefer piped in, “I’d teach you ‘ow to get down to my weight, Tum, but then we couldn’t catch Grant starin’ at your tits…like now. Ow, ‘ey no smackin’!’”

I turned to see Reefer rubbing the back of his head as Rosa, smirking, passed behind him on her way back to the couch with a couple of slices on her plate. We all laughed, Reefer loudest of all, and Autumn and I joined our friends to see what was left to eat. Then we all gathered around the TV, crammed into what seating Autumn had or sprawled out on the floor.

Empty plastic plates and even more empty beer bottles covered most of the available surfaces. Reefer was on Jenn’s lap in an attempt to mock Rosa and Dre. Autumn had given me her space on the La-Z-Boy. She’d said it was a thank you for saving dinner by getting her favorite pizza. She sat comfortably next to me on the floor, the way only girls seem able to do, and leaned over to rest her head in my lap.

“Thank you for tuning in as our coverage of the tenth anniversary of the Collision continues. Just ten years ago a massive asteroid, later designated as Hades, crashed into the moon. During the subsequent year, astronomers theorize, the gravitational stresses of the Earth and Sun were too great for the weakened structure of the Moon to withstand. The resulting pieces, later named Luna, Ignio, and Yuèliàng, as well as the now orbiting remains of Hades and the cloud of smaller debris colloquially called moon-murk, changed life on Earth as we knew it. The subsequent record breaking earthquakes tore cities apart. Tsunamis smashed nearly every coastline for hundreds of miles, and once dormant volcanos covered entire areas in ashen darkness and fire. The resulting death toll was staggering. Now, after ten years of hardship, the massive undertaking of Reconstruction across the globe is well underway. Cities are being rebuilt and repopulated. With new safety measures in place, they are able to withstand our new weather patterns with greater success. Coastal cities, especially along the east coast, have seen massive changes to infrastructure that allow them to thrive once more. Humanity has seen the worst things imaginable come, and Humanism has done its best to replace worry with enlighten…”

The announcer’s voice was once again cut off as Reefer muted the TV. The responding jeers from the rest of us didn’t seem to faze him as he spoke.

“Fuck that guy! ’E’s just spewin’ a load of crap. Seriously?” he continued in a mocking copy of the announcer’s voice. “’Umanity ‘as seen the worst things come, an’ ’umanism ’as done its best. For Christ’s sake, they talked about the Tidal Unity whateva last hour, ‘A beautiful en’ for each person as they choose,’ an’ now this joker is talkin’ about the ‘umanism revival. Christ, nobody’s talkin’ about Ignio slowly spiralin’ closa. ‘Ell, I ‘eard it won’t be much longa before that fucka ‘its us, an’ then we’re really fucked.” He rolled off Jenn onto his feet. “It’s too much man. Fuck that guy!” he repeated and tossed the remote down, haphazardly knocking over several empty beer bottles. “Anyone else need anotha beer?”

Autumn shouted after him, “The Tidal Unity Movement, dumbass. How hard is that to remember?”

“I’ll take one,” called Dre.

“Yeah, those guys.” Reefer responded, his voice muffled with his face in the fridge. “I mean, what kinda nutjob follows a movement where you gotta off yourself?”

Looking after Reefer, Autumn responded with obvious and intense heat in her voice. “Nutjob? Fuck you Reefer.”

I saw Reefer peek his head back out of the fridge, confusion and several alternative substances evident in his face. “Woah, ’ey Tum, what was that for?”

“Tidal Unity isn’t a bunch of crazy people Reefer. It’s just a choice. A way out that everyone can take if they want to.”

Reefer stared blankly at Autumn for a moment before he began to chuckle. “Good one Tum. You ‘ad me goin’ for a second there.” Continuing to chuckle, he went back to rummaging in the fridge.

I could feel Autumn shaking, and I looked down to see a mix of rage and hurt in her eyes. Her voice took on the cold edge of a razor, and she clipped each word short as she responded. “I wasn’t joking Reefer.”

He must not have heard her, or else he might have thought better about his next words. “I mean, yeah, it’s their choice, but suicide is suicide. I’d ratha not spen’ eternity in ’ell. Shit!” The sound of breaking glass followed as several bottles hit the hard tile floor.

Jenn sighed and got up to help, while Rosa went to comfort a startled Acid Mike and Dre went to the broom closet. “Don’t touch anything Jared.” Jenn said to Reefer, “We’ll sweep it up.”

“I’ll grab some towels.” Autumn said as she used my leg to help herself off the ground. “Can you help me Grant?”

“Sure.” Came my easy reply, and she took my hand to help me stand. Her bathroom was through her bedroom, and I followed her.

Her bathroom didn’t have a door, so I instinctively closed the bedroom door behind me. When I turned around, Autumn had her head down and her shoulders were shaking. I could hear small sobs escaping from her as though she were trying to hide them. “Hey, whoa.” I said, coming up behind her to put a hand on her shoulder, then moving around and bending over to look at her face. “What’s up?”

“Reefer’s such an asshole.” She sobbed. “Not everyone wants to hear his dumb, pot-stained, brain spout off about his beliefs.” She leaned against me, and I hugged her trying to understand what was happening.

She continued. “Tidal Unity isn’t a bunch of crazy people killing themselves, you know. The Movement is important. I know it sounds strange, but it gives people hope. Like we have a choice. After this last decade, some people just want to know they can choose what happens to them. Even if that choice is to die.” She trailed off and I could feel her silently sobbing, her body tense, against my chest. I didn’t have any words so I just held her close, one hand stroking the intricate knots of her braided hair.

After a moment she seemed to calm a bit, and she sagged into the hug. With a finger, I lifted her chin to look into her eyes. Her mascara hadn’t run, but I could see tear lines in the foundation on her rounded cheeks. Her eyes were glittering again. This time with more tears instead of mischief. She stopped nibbling on her lower lip after a moment and then she said, in halting words, “What’s wrong with me?”

I immediately answered. “Nothing. Why?”

“I mean,” she continued, “we flirt all the time, but nothing happens. I know you’re into me, at least a little, tonight isn’t the first time I’ve felt you get hard.”

That was unexpected. “Wait. I…uh. What?”

“Seriously Grant. We’ve known each other a long time, and I’ve wanted to fuck you for a while now. Ever since that bitch Chrystal broke up with you. But it’s like you’ve been in some shitty funk since then.”

“You want to fuck me?”

My words came out a bit strangled, and she flinched back. “I’m sorry I said anything. Here, let’s get those towels.” As she turned away, I reached out and grabbed her hand. It was warmer than I had expected, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on her palm. She turned, her eyes met mine, and we came together for a kiss we desperately wanted. We lingered in the kiss, feeling the heat between us grow. Soon the heat was all that mattered to either of us.

She flicked her Ramones t-shirt off, the curving nature of her stomach butting up against the swell of her breasts. Her nipples were large and hard and dark. Her soft skin was very smooth and very pale with no discernible tan lines.

I frantically began to tear at my clothing. Nothing of her grace of movement was evident in my reactions. I was jerky, and clumsy, and had started to sweat. In my haste, each layer came off more slowly than I wanted.

She had undone my belt, and the weight of the leather strap pulled my khakis down to gather around my ankles. Then she did the most sensual thing I have ever experienced. She knelt down, careful not to touch me, and untied my shoes. The sight of her, half naked and on her knees hit my like a physical blow. I tripped over the tangle of my pants, and I ended up falling back onto the bed. I kicked off my shoes and the tangle of my pants, and then quickly undid the last of the buttons on my shirt flinging it aside. She stood up from her kneeling position and began to remove her leggings. They too bunched around her ankles, and we shared an exasperated laugh before they finally came free.

She slowly crawled up my body, leaving delicate lines of kisses from my thighs to my neck missing nothing. By the time she finally kissed my lips again, I was so hard that the pain of it was delicious. She was straddling me, and I felt her hand lightly tickle my stomach before she wrapped her hand around me and helped guide me into her.

What followed is difficult to put into words. I’ve never had sex like it before. It was great sex. Magnificent sex. The kind of sex I’ll never forget. Sex that felt as though more than just our bodies connected. There’s too much to describe. The slick warmth of her as she closed around me. The frantic rhythm of our motions slowly synching to the same beat. The exquisite feel of her breasts in my hands. The taste of her on my tongue. The smell of our sex filling the room. The sounds of her harsh moans urging me slower or faster. I’m not sure how long it was before I felt her thighs tighten around my waist, and her arms lock around my neck. She finished before I did, the rippling motion of her climax driving me to my end. My body began to tighten further. My vision began to blur, and she spoke words directly into my heart.

"Please. Stay with me.”

My God.

Sometime later we came to our senses, and the first thing we noticed was that the TV was back on…and it was very loud. We shared a soft laugh, and Autumn crawled out of bed. She grabbed my button-up shirt off the floor and pulled it on as she headed to the bathroom. It was too small for her, and it exposed her front to the mirror. Something that I very much appreciated. She was perfect.

Not perfection, nothing as vulgar as that. But she was perfect for me. She was smiling, though I thought a bit sadly. She noticed me staring and wriggled in front of the mirror. I laughed, and growled, and made other appreciative noises.

“Talk about a tidal unity movement.” I said, quirking an eyebrow. She stopped wriggling, all at once, and I saw sadness enter her eyes for the briefest moment.

“You,” she said, “are much better at using your mouth for sex than for words.”

“It’s a curse,” I replied.

She responded with a throaty laugh, and lay back down next to me. “I’m glad I could help discover your true talents.” Again, a hint of sadness appeared behind her eyes as she spoke, and there was a slight tremble to her voice.

“Hey, is everything ok?” I asked, rolling onto my side, facing her.

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m just tired.” A bit of mischief crept into her voice. “Someone seems to have worn me out.”

We both laughed and she leaned up against me. She smelled of fresh soap, beer, and sex. A short time later, I heard her breath deepen into sleep, and I joined her.

I came awake when the surge hit. It was very loud, and the building shook slightly under the initial impact of the suddenly rising tide. It always reminded me of the wave pools I used to enjoy as a kid. Before the Collision. Before thoughts of those pools began to cause nightmares. The TV was off, and I could imagine everyone in the living room curled up in their sleeping bags. The one that Dre had brought for me would be empty, and the thought made me smile.

Why is it so loud? I thought.

I noticed Autumn wasn’t in bed. We had fallen asleep above the blankets, but I was now covered with a spare she kept in her closet. Even with it, I was shivering from the cold. Then I noticed that the door from her room out onto the balcony was wide open. That’s why it’s so loud.

I rolled out of bed, and searched for my clothes. I couldn’t find where Autumn had put my shirt, so I wrapped the spare blanket around me and went to look out on the balcony.

Autumn was there, and aside from my shirt, she was still naked.

“Hey, Stranger.” I said as I closed the balcony door behind me. She made a startled jump and turned to look back at me.

“Oh. Grant. Hey.”

“Aren’t you cold out here?” I asked, opening up the blanket for her to share.

“What? Oh. No, I’m fine. I’m trying to get used to the cold.”

I gave her a skeptical look. “Why?”

Again, that look of sadness entered her eyes, but this time she didn’t hide it. “Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think of Tidal Unity?”

It took me a moment to understand what she was talking about. “I guess,” I replied hesitantly, “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Oh.” She replied, her eyes lowering as she turned to look back out at the incoming surge of tide. After a moment of silence she spoke again. “It seems worse lately, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe,” I responded. Then, trying to cheer up the mood with bad comedy, I said. “Although if Reefer ends up being right about Ignio, I think I’d have to kill myself.”

She didn’t share in my laughter, and I quickly quieted. “Hey,” I asked, taking a step closer and reaching out with a hand. “What’s wrong?”

Even though the balcony was small, Autumn found a way to take a step away from me. “Please, don’t.” The sound of her voice was nearly drowned out as another surge of the tide slammed into the building's massive stilts. Though she was hard to hear, the pain in her voice came through. She had large tears in her eyes, and she had turned her back to the balcony’s rail to look at me.

“Grant, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to know what it was like to be with you.”

I dropped my voice to something soothing. “It was amazing Autumn. You’re amazing.”

I watched as a bit of spray from the newest surge of the tide managed to make it up to Autumn’s balcony and splash onto her back. She quivered, and the motion which had, minutes ago, seemed so erotic was now troubling.

“The water’s cold.” She said in a whisper, barely loud enough for me to hear.

A spike of purest terror lanced through me as I had a thought. “Autumn,” my voice laced with the terror I was feeling. “Let’s go back inside.”

“I’ve made my choice, Grant.”

“But…” I started to say something, anything that would keep her where she was so that I could grab her.

“Please, don’t hate me.” She slipped backward over the railing.

I rushed forward and looked down to see her plummeting toward the rising ocean waves. I could still see her nakedness as she fell. My shirt around her shoulders a, too small, funeral shroud. I thought, just for a moment, that I could hear the snap of the shirt’s material in the wind.

It was almost loud enough to hear over my screams.

Part 5 of Vegapath’s Heroes

A murmur passed through the small crowd of brickmakers as the man before them spoke in hushed tones. The man appeared to be in his middle years. Hard work and harder sun had beaten the man into a leathery knot of gristle and sinew. His head held only a ring of dark hair quickly fading to grey, and his short beard was much the same. He wore plain workman’s clothes and tough leather sandals, and everything was coated in a thin layer of red dust. Those gathered were much the same in appearance and dress, but this man stood out by the small pendant at his throat. A simple silver harp with golden strings.

“His moment was well timed. Kasfer was trapped in a cage formed by the bones of the great dragon’s skeletal chest. The Black Rose occupied the attention of Holyhale, Lathander’s chosen champion. With the others dead or running, nothing could stop him from striking down the Descendant Shell. With the power of his tainted god, he snuffed out the Light of Lathander and watched darkness consume the rest.”

There was bone deep sadness in the speaker’s voice. The sting of betrayal and the loss of beloved friends, and the grown men gathered around him shared his tears.

***

In a steam filled room inside a warehouse within the Wolf Quarter, a group of washerwomen gathered around their work. Their hands, red and cracked by the hot water and hard lye soap of their craft, were still for the moment as they listened to the newcomer. Skirts, pulled up and tucked beneath them to keep free of any errant splashes, served to cushion their seating. The group was used to stories being shared as they worked. Passing the day with idle gossip, new life events, or tales of scandal. The new girl was different. Her hands were still young and tender. Her back not yet bowed with hard labor. Her stories, well, her stories were not the usual. And that silver and gold pendant had never seen the tarnish of lye suds.

“Five there were that set out that day. Five to travel shadowed realms and mystic pathways. Least, that’s what I heard. Left Fort Vegapath in the early morning hours and spent most of the day traveling to where old Horsa used to be. Town’s not there anymore, if you can believe that. Everything’s gone. Tree, stone, and soil all disappeared. Only a few buildings on the outskirts still stand. And in one of those, a strange object was found. A mirror. A mirror that acts as a door between our world and another. Or so they say. The Shadow Realm. Why, if I’d been there you know what I would have told them. Trouble. That looks like the worst sort of trouble. You’d think those soldiers would have more sense. But I guess taking risks is what makes them so heroic, unlike me. I’d have smashed the thing and run away. That’s probably why I’m still here and they’re…”

Her words trailed off as she took to scrubbing the clothing in her tub. The silence stretched on for a while before one of the other women spoke up.

“What happened next?”

With her head bent to her task, it wasn’t possible for the gathered circle of women to see the sparkle in her eye as she started back up.

“Nothing good. Though a story worth telling.”

***

At a table in a tavern called the Eastward Watch, a group of 5 men, dock workers all, sat cradling mugs of cheap ale. Though most were human, there was also a sharp-eyed halfling, and the speaker. A middle-aged half orc with a broken tusk and a heavy squint in the eye on that side of his darkly bearded face. His voice was rough, with the lisp most of his kind have that showed more of their orc parentage. The empty mugs on the table showed their interest in what he was saying. As the half orc leaned forward to mutter conspiratorially with those around him, their eyes were drawn to the simple silver pendant he wore in the shape of a harp with golden strings.

“Aye. None too good were the events that happened on the other side of the shadow mirror.”

His voice was somber as he spoke of what happened.

“Some say the group was led there by none other than Princess Ayula Waveborn herself, last of her line, and heir to an ocean throne. Some say it was Holyhale. Lathander’s Descendant Shell sent to bring his god’s divine light to drive out the Shadow. Whatever the case, it does not matter. What matters is that they went. And they brought treachery with them. A betrayer. A cursed one-eyed friend.”

***

On a brightly lit street corner sat a circle of children with several adults looking on. Before them performed a man behind a puppeteer’s cart. The man was mostly hidden behind the drapery of the scene in which the puppets danced, but every so often light could be seen reflecting off a small silver harp shaped pendant.

The scene depicted a lone female figure seated on the ground before a fire. Some trick of the light caused sparks to be seen within the fabric flames. Around the woman were stone pillars, and the drapery depicted a shadow gray void around her.

From the left side of the scene entered five wooden figures dancing merrily on unseen strings. A silver painted man in a green cloak, a pink painted woman with pink hair, a small green haired figure, a tall man with dark hair, and a green painted man with an eye patch and wearing armor.

The puppeteer’s act seemed well rehearsed, and the voices he gave his characters delighted the children.

“’Who’s there?’ asked Princess Francesca. ‘I can’t see you in this darkness.’”

“’We’ve come to rescue you,’ replied Princess Ayula. ‘You should come with us back to the world of light.’”

“Another man approached,” announced the puppeteer, and another figure danced in from the right side of the scene. “This man was dressed as a common soldier, and he looked frightened. ‘Please,’ the man said, ‘Take us with you.’”

“The heroes of Fort Vegapath did not know this man, and were very suspicious of him.”

“’Stay back!’ cried the one-eyed half orc. ‘You will not stop us from rescuing Princess Francesca. Begone before we strike you down!’”

“The soldier cowered before the powerful words of one of Vegapath’s heroes. ‘Please, sir, I mean you no harm. Just take us both with you.’”

“’Begone!’ cried the one eyed man, again. His voice thundering in the space.”

“As the echo of his cry faded, a new sound carried along the wind. The sound of beating wings and the rattling of long dead bones. ‘Fie, fie,’ cried the frightened soldier. ‘The Black Rose comes for us! We are doomed!’”

From the right side of the scene, in flew a skeletal dragon bearing a black armored figure. And below an assortment of skeletal warriors danced their way, on invisible strings, towards the group.

As the dragon circled the puppeteer called out in an ominous voice.

“’It is too late to escape now, fools. You cannot escape me. I will take Francesca and lay you all to waste!’”

A gasp from the gathered children caused parents to smile at their enjoyment of the tale. Later that night, they would curse that strange puppeteer as their children would fear closing their eyes to sleep.

***

“Goodness Salm!” cried one of the other washerwomen. An older woman so accustomed to her work that she barely needed to watch what she was doing. “That sounds terrifying.”

“I’m sure it was,” replied the young woman telling the tale. “With the dragon came a host of the dead. Walking as though they didn’t know they belonged yet in the ground. Bones rattled and teeth clacked, and over them all flew that great monster of a dead dragon. Can you imagine standing before all that? It’s enough just thinking about it to turn my stomach. Yet there the five stood ready to face it all down to save a princess.”

“It’s romantic,” murmured one of the other women in a dreamy tone. “Don’t you agree?”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” Replied Salm.

***

“The damned beasty overhead barely waited a heartbeat before cutting down the soldier. Coward though he was, he didn’t deserve that.” Slurred the half orc to his table companions.

“With that, the frozen moment was over and the soldiers of Vegapath rushed to destroy the dead. To match the skeletal dragon, Holyhale rose into the sky and began to call down the power of Lathander. Scorching light burned swathes of the dead to ash. Princess Francesca was struck a blow and fell, but Ayula Waveborn was there to bring her back from the brink of death. But for her caring nature, she drew the attention of the Black Rose. With a mighty sweep of dragon’s claws and rider’s sword, the Triton Princess was gravely injured. In stepped the mercenary Splash. The old half orc warrior healing her injuries and returning her to the fight. His one remaining eye turned to survey the battle with a veteran’s appraisal and took in the nature of deadly the fight. He did not waver, however. He’d seen it’s like before and come out the other side.”

The speaker, Salm, paused and shook his head. Taking another long pull from his mug he went back into the story.

***

Down swooped the puppet dragon once more landing upon the pink painted figure of Princess Ayula. There the two figures shimmied together before the Soldier of the Fort fell still. The dragon reared up and a gout of dark smoke puffed thickly from its up turned and open mouth. A roar, guttural and fierce, pierced the air. Nearby, the green painted one-eyed figure turned to see the carnage, and its posture suggested horror.

“Just as the one-eyed mercenary seemed to have saved the princess from death, death instead found her for the last time.”

There was another gasp from the gathered children, and one little dark haired girl began to silently cry.

“’I have slain your friend.’ Called the Black Rose from atop the dragon. ‘And now I come for the rest of you!’”

As the dragon puppet rose back into the air, a flash of light leapt from the silver figure of Holyhale. It missed the dragon by a hair’s breadth, but struck several of the skeleton figures. They fell still and were dragged out of the scene on invisible wires as the dragon’s roar of defiance called out.

“’Damn you!’ Screamed Kasfer, and he charged toward the dragon.”

The small green haired figure danced across the scene, a pulse of green light spilling over the prone form of the pink princess. The figure did not rise, and the green light faded to nothing.

“Kasfer had only a moment to recognize that his magic could not bring back Princess Ayula before the dragon fell upon him. Great teeth filled jaws opened wide and dove, snapping closed around the green haired gnome. Up the head lifted to the sky, and the bones of its neck became a steep slide that dropped Kasfer into a prison of the dragon’s ribs. He could not escape. His strength was not great enough to break free of his imprisonment and he was forced to watch what happened next in horror.”

Behind the startled children, the grinning parents began to exchange nervous looks with each other.

***

Back at the murmuring crowd of brickmakers, the story continued as they began to hush.

“It isn’t known why Splash turned on the Heroes of Vegapath. Why he threw in with the Black Rose. But we know the outcome of his betrayal.”

The speaker’s voice, still filled with sadness, broke at the last words. Tears streaked his brick dusted cheeks and made him look as though he cried tears of blood.

“The power that the god Hoar, the god Splash revered, gave him was enough to strike Holyhale from the sky. The Descendant Shell fell, and such was his height that the impact crumpled his body and his soul passed into the heavens. The last great resistance to the dragon and its rider perished at the hands of a trusted friend. The Betrayer of Heroes was born, that day, out of the deaths of three of Vegapath’s finest soldiers. Berserk hatred and glee filled the remaining eye of the Betrayer as he stood by and watched poor Kasfer get crushed to death in the deadly prison of the dragon’s body. The small gnome, ground to a disgusting paste beneath the inevitable weight of the great beast, stood no chance.”

In the silence that followed a man called out.

“How do you know this? If nobody survived, how do you know? Sounds like a scam to me.”

There was a sudden murmur as others voiced their agreement. But before the comments could get out of hand Salm raised his voice above it all.

“Because there was a survivor!”

***

“Really? Who?” asked the youngest of the washerwomen. Her voice thick with held back tears.

“Remember. Five there were that left the Fort that day. Holyhale, Princess Ayula, Kasfer the gnome, and Splash the god’s blighted Betrayer of Heroes. The last was a ffolk. A local man who answered the call to war against our enemy to the south. Though he couldn’t match the strength and power of the heroes around him, he did what his heart told him to do, and he joined the fight. It’s his story of events that tell us of the fate of those three heroes at the hands of the treacherous mercenary Splash.”

The women gathered around all nodded their heads as they remembered the mention of a fifth person in the group.

“When he saw the battle going poorly, he knew he didn’t stand a chance in a fight with the Black Rose. So he did what the others couldn’t. He fled. He ran for the mirror in the shadow realm. And he made it back through, alive, before the dragon could chase him down and kill him too.”

***

A fresh canvas dropped at the rear of the puppeteer’s cart stage, replacing the gray void with a depiction of blue skies, fields of grass, and lines of distant trees. From the right side of the scene entered a tall figure with dark hair erratically dancing on invisible strings.

Across the scene the figure streaked off the left side of the stage, only to reappear on the right side and continue moving to the left. Several times this happened. Each time the figure danced off the left side of the stage, it would reappear again on the right to give the semblance of traveling a great distance.

“His name was Kenai. One of Alaron’s best. He raced back to Fort Vegapath to deliver the news of the Betrayer’s treachery, and the sad story of the loss of so many great heroes. That is how it is known what happened. That is why the name of the mercenary Splash is a curse on the lips of all the soldiers of the Fort.”

The puppeteer’s words were only slightly drowned out by crying children, and the glares of angry parents fell upon the cart in an attempt to bore through it and into the man behind the screen.

***

“No matter how many times I tell this tale,” slurred the half orc to his table companions. “I always wonder if I’ll ever know what happened to the Betrayer. If his story is finished. If he joined the Black Rose and is out there somewhere plotting to kill us all.”

He turned a sharp look toward the others, his unglazed eyes meeting their liberally sauced ones.

“I always wonder if there will be a strong enough man who will hear what happened and rise to the occasion. Join the soldiers of Fort Vegapath, and track the Betrayer down to give him what he has coming.”

His mouth stretched into a sly grin. “I don’t know. Perhaps even one of you would be man enough to do it.”

The others at the table only stared blearily at Salm.

***

“You know, girls, it isn’t only men that become heroes. Think about it. Princess Ayula Waveborn wasn’t always a fierce warrior. An orphan girl who gave herself to a cause and found glory. And there are others. So many other incredible women inside the walls of Vegapath. Fighting for the lives we cherish.”

The washerwoman, Salm, returned to the pile of clothing still resting next to her wash basin. The telling of her tale had distracted her, and she had barely touched them.

“Goodness me. At this rate, I’ll be here a tenday just to finish this.”

The other women gathered around her offered to take a portion of her work. Some begrudgingly, others with a sense of payment for an entertaining afternoon.

With her hands deep in the scalding water, Salm spoke a gentle question.

***

After packing away his puppets and closing the sides of the cart to conceal the stage within, the puppeteer turned to face the still gathered children. Their crying had subsided for the moment, and several parents had reluctantly come forward to place whatever copper coins they could spare into a small collection box set out on the ground.

The puppeteer was tall and skinny to the point of looking emaciated. His waxed mustache was twisted into two points that stuck out past his cheeks. A tall purple velvet hat adorned his bald head and his matching suit hung off his thin frame as though tailored for a larger man. His eyes sparkled with exhilaration, and his smile was infectious.

Leaning forward, he said. “Now children,” addressing those still gathered. “Have you heard of the benediction we say for the Soldiers of Vegapath? No? Well, it is our way of saying thank you for all that they do. Would you like to hear it? Yes?”

Several of the children nodded, and upon seeing them do so, the remainder of them did as well.

“Good. Now try to remember the words and you can always say your thanks whenever you would like to.”

Straitening to his full impressive height he began to drone.

“To the heroes of Vegapath. To those who stand before and for us. To the fallen who have died for us, to the injured who suffer for us, and to those who remain steadfast in their dedication to us. We offer our humble thanks in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

***

Elsewhere in the city, at different times and with different people, the bard known as Salm led them all in the benediction to the soldiers of Fort Vegapath. At times it was received with equal reverence. At other times it was to companions asleep at a table, its top strewn with empty mugs. But in every case, Salm left the ones who had listened with a story they would remember and tell to others.

And Salm would move on to speak with other people. With each new day spreading the tales of the heroic soldiers of Fort Vegapath further. He had many more places to go, and many more tales to tell.

Part 4 of Vegapath's Heroes

A late summer storm lashed against the exterior of the small structure. Its walls, though lovingly constructed, were not yet ready to hold back the horrible wind from pushing cold miserable rain through the gaps in the boards and along the seam where the roof joined. The wood-shingled roof managed to keep out most of the water from above, but several buckets had been strategically placed to catch what they could where needed.

Above the roar of the wind, and the crash of waves down near the docks, singing could be heard. Hymns and praises lifted to the Lord of the Morning resonated within the small room filling the souls of those present with hope and joy. Hope for the coming dawn, and joy in each other’s company.

The building was new. Very new. A thickly oiled leather tarp served as a door for the small building, and it hung heavy even against the pervasive wind. Candles flickered and danced, seemingly in time with the melody, and the smell of pleasant incense filled the room. There was no seating in the space, and indeed, there were too many bodies in the small temple to allow for seats to be present regardless. The little house of worship was full of people. From all walks of life. Young and old. Strong and infirm. True believers and those not yet convinced. Yet they all held one thing in common. Their need. For reassurance. For hope of a future. For community. And here, in this new house to the great god Lathander, they found what they needed.

Lord. Face of the Dawn. May your mercy shine down on us night and day.

Lord. Patron of Spring. Your renewing grace is a boon to our souls.

Lord. Great Morning Lord. Your golden rays chase the darkness away.

Lord. In whose grace we stand. Your goodness and mercy exist without end.

The tone of the hymn was simultaneously uplifting and ominous. Resonant with power and gentle as the morning rays of sunlight. At the head of the gathered group stood a man of average build. His brown hair was cut in the manner of priests. He wore a red robe, belted with a faded, once garish, pink sash, and his voice carried the hymn to even those in the back where the wind rattled the walls the loudest.

As the final song faded, the man spoke to those gathered, and authority bolstered his voice.

“My children. Lathandarian’s of Alaron. Citizens of Caer Callidyrr. Peace to you on this difficult evening.”

The man’s tone did not match his appearance. It caught the attention of the people. Drew them into what the speaker wished them to hear. It was a voice made to convince sinners to repent, and parishioners to sacrifice.

“Tonight, we have a guest. A man who wishes to tell us something of one of our own. Of a brother we have all come to cherish. Salm, my friend, won’t you please join me?”

From the front row of the gathered crowd, a tall and strikingly handsome man moved to join the priest. His features were graceful and full of life. Vibrant youth, apparent and able to inspire jealousy in others, hung about him like a cloak that he wore quite well. His eyes were pale hazel, almost golden, and the slightly tipped ears marked him as being of elven decent at some point in his lineage. Cornsilk-fine hair draped in waves to his shoulders and faded into the pale yellow of his tunic. Soft, buck skin trousers and shoes allowed him a freedom of movement that few other garments could match, and a small silver pendant in the shape of a harp with golden strings completed the ensemble.

As the tall man spoke, the music in his tone was infectious. Smiles came unbidden to those in the small chapel, and the sounds of the raging storm seemed to fade into the background.

“Thank you, Dawnbringer, for allowing me to speak this evening. You and your congregation have my appreciation, for, without you I would likely be in a much more damp state of affairs. Your roof is a blessing, your company a miracle, and your attention a pleasure.”

Salm inclined his head to the Dawnbringer who had seen fit to step off to the side when the tall man had begun to speak. The Lathandarian priest inclined his own in return before settling himself to listen. Once more, Salm turned to take in the gathering of those before him.

“Tonight, I come before you all to share with you a tale. Some of you may have heard this before. It is a good tale and one that many have drawn inspiration from. Myself included. For others, this may be the first time you will hear the name of Holy Hale or the title with which he has been honored. Now, I bid you, listen closely. It begins in a fortress called Vegapath. Where Holy Hale, the Descendent Shell of Lathander, walked among us.”

There was a collective gasp from those assembled, audible even above the blowing rain. It was a title never heard before referenced, but which contained obvious and incredible implications. Was this man, this guest, this, perhaps, unbeliever saying that a chosen vessel of the Morning Lord had been sent to the ffolk of Alaron? Or was he saying a fathered scion of the great god had lived among, and died for, them? Or was it something else altogether?

After pausing to allow those gathered to calm themselves once more, Salm continued.

“The morning of this fate-filled day started differently than most. Holy Hale, a god-fueled dream dominating his attention, presented his plan to those he’d chosen to accompany him. Now, you may be wondering at the significance of what I have laid before you, and you would be right to do so. The gods visit many mortals. In our dreams. As we walk. Upon the field of battle like the great Thunder Bear. But, you see, the significance lay not in how Lathander visited Holy Hale. In a dream. Instead, the significance lay in that this man was, quite literally, incapable of dreaming. In fact, Holy Hale was not even a man as you would expect. There is no simple word to describe the Descendent Shell. He was a man, that is sure. However, his soul rest within the core of a body made not of flesh, but instead wrought of steel, iron, and bronze. These were his skin, his bones, and his blood. A living golem. A blessed vessel.”

Once more Salm was forced to pause for the gasping crowd. Murmurs of disbelief. A few muttered accusations of falsehood that quickly gained in volume. But, before the voices of dissension could gain traction, the Dawnbringer of the church raised his own voice from the rear of the dais.

“My children. Silence, please. Allow this man to speak and hear his words. I have listened to this tale, and I tell you with confidence that he does not lie. Please, Salm, continue.”

“Thank you Dawnbringer.” Salm replied inclining his head towards the priest. “Friends, I understand the strain my words may cause. But please, listen to the story and then judge for yourself how you wish to believe.”

Then, drawing a deep steadying breath as the last of the crowd’s objections faded, Salm continued the tale.

“As I said, Holy Hale spoke to those he had gathered for the purpose. The dream fresh in his mind, and his goal clear. He had been bid to enter the domain of an evil beast. A black dragon slain by the soldiers of the Fort in perilous combat. There, it was shown, the Descendent Shell was to find a spark of the divine. A manifestation sent to this world meant for a purpose greater than could be believed. He had impressed upon even the famed Sweet Drake, commander of the Fort, the importance of this task and as such she relented to allow soldiers to divert their attention from the war effort to the South in pursuit of this quest. And so, after a swift briefing, the soldiers departed. Holy Hale led a mighty group from Fort Vegapath that day. The Hellchild of Light, whom he deemed a worthy friend. Pim the Indomitable, who was lost too soon to darkness. The First in Silence, a mysterious mage whose destiny it was to die, and in so doing save us all. And the Horror of Ogden long before his redemption. Five there were. Five to complete the will of Lathander.”

Thunder rolled outside of the small church as the storm continued its rage, and the pounding of waves could be heard even here. But the people gathered felt their spirits soar along with the speaker’s words.

“Many events of importance happened that day. A foreign hunter was dealt with as good ffolk should, with respect and welcome courtesy. The return of wildlife was noted after those darkest early days of the war. Wolves there were, and not those cursed with evil hearts. But the most important events, those that would shape the day and the subsequent days since, did not take place until the group gathered in the old dragon’s domain at the heart of what was once a swamp.”

His tone turned conspiratorial, and even though it dropped in volume, those in the back and closest to the rattling walls could still hear his words.

“Everything had changed. The swamp was gone. The water dried and the land arid. Cracks and crevasses split the ground and the earth was so devastated by fire that it crumbled beneath their feet. The roots of mighty trees, once holding the land together, were now burned to ash and unable to support their own bulk. Pim lost his footing during this dangerous march and fell into a hole filled with burning ash and flame. He was nearly lost there in that foul pit before the others could save him. Trees exploded from the intense flames that burned within their living trunks. Smoke and poisonous gases filled the air, and it was as if the hells of Avernus itself had come to Alaron. But our heroes prevailed. Through even this, they could not, and would not, be dissuaded from the goal Lathander sent through his chosen Descendent Shell.”

Once more, thunder erupted and shook even the floorboards of this building. Like an angry god striking the land with an open hand. But those gathered barely noticed over the telling of the tale.

“It was not easy, but the group did make it to the center of the swamp. The home of the dragon was a tunneling hole dug into the earth. Where once dank swamp water would have surely filled the space, now it was dry. All moisture was gone, and in its place, the arid heat of an oven. The entrance glowed from fires burning within the earth itself, and the light of that glow was enough to illuminate the deep tunnel ahead of them. In they strode, bravely into the depths in search of Holy Hale’s dream. Down, down, DOWN, they passed. The heat grew more intense with every step. Until they came to a massive cavern. Whatever it was that caused the earth to give way had left a massive hole that would need to be crossed. Spanning the hole were platforms of rock on natural pillars extending from below, and as the group looked down into the dark space, they could make out the unmistakable presence of a river of flowing magma. Its dim light illuminated the sure death that awaited any who lost their footing during the crossing. For indeed they could see, in the faint light, a wall with another tunnel entrance. An even more brilliant glow coming from within it.”

Slowly, the smell of the incense changed. Burning stone and dry air replaced the pleasant aroma that once filled the space. They could taste the sweat of Vegapath’s soldiers as they stood at the precipice of the gaping cavern floor. And faintly, they could hear the growing sound of growling creatures and screeching beasts mingled with the booming thunder outside.

“They chose to press forward, and it was not long before they encountered something out of nightmare and flame. Creatures, some would say they resembled giant lizards though appearing to be made of the magma far below, climbed up onto the pillars to block the party’s crossing. Our heroes were forced to fight to press on, and so they did. These creatures did not seek to preserve their own lives in any way. They attacked ferociously and without fear. Their breath carried with it flames that burned flesh and singed away hair. And to add to this confusion, cave-dwelling flying beasts called Darkmantles, some of you may know of them, descended to add still more wounds to the soldiers. Taking advantage of the battle to sate their hunger. Though dangerous, with the risk of falling ever present, the battle did not last long. The minds of beasts, however unusual, could not match the tactical mindset, nor the combat training, of those soldiers Holy Hale had placed his faith in. His choices proved well-founded, and shortly the beasts and fire lizards were driven back or killed, opening the way for the Descendent Shell and his companions to continue.”

A new smell began to replace that of the burning stone. A mildewy scent that reminded those of swamps and rotting vegetation.

“The dragon’s cavern was massive. The soldiers marched for a great deal of time getting ever deeper into the earth. It’s hard to say how much distance they traveled, the tunnels twisted and turned making it impossible to know where they were in relation to the outside world. But eventually they came to the heart of it. The dragon’s own lair, or so they believed. A pyramid of stone stood before them in another large cavern. Another blocked passage led away from the area, but they did not care to explore that at this time. Instead, feeling a call like never before, Holy Hale led his companions into the entrance of the strange pyramid. Inside was another sight to behold. A small lake of rolling liquid fire, its heat nearly unbearable and its brilliant light nearly blinding lay stretched before them. A transformation of water to fire that could not and should not be possible, but here it lay. Undeniable. The pull of the dream forced Holy Hale’s feet forward to the edge of the lake of fire and suddenly the air shimmered before him. A line of blue light split the air and opened as if a door had been pulled inward. The area beyond was a pure darkness that the light of the lake could not penetrate, and from the doorway strode forward a demon. The hate and malice that poured from it could be felt as a physical presence. And it was all directed at the Descendent Shell himself. With a wordless roar of challenge, the demon called forth…things. The liquid fire of the lake began to swell and shift, and from within shapes emerged and took the form of gigantic bears made entirely of fire. Their roar was that of collapsing bonfires, and their touch left stone blackened and cracked. And with their own defiant roar, the soldiers of Vegapath, burned and tired from their long day, rose to meet the challenge. The battle was nothing short of perfection. God inspired perfection. The Hellchild called down divine power and smote one of the fire bears into nothingness returning it to the lapping waves of the fire lake. The Horror of Ogden, with customary stolidness, placed himself between the oncoming threat and those behind him, offering his strength and great size as a living wall of defiance. Lines of pure elemental destruction were woven through the air by the First and wherever they touched demonic flesh tore and living fire dissolved into nothingness. And above it all, ensuring those he had led to this place lived through the injuries inflicted upon them by these great evils, stood Holy Hale. Speaking healing words and shouting defiance into the face of evil, he pulled forth Lathander’s divine judgment. Great columns of holy light burned even the fires the demon called forth. The Morning Lord’s mace manifest itself into conflict with the creature from the Pit and swatted it from the sky like an annoying bug. The cavern rang with the sound of holy prayers and demonic curses, and in the end, righteousness prevailed. The fiery bears returned to the lake defeated and destroyed. The demon sank into the fires of the lake, its body broken, its evil crushed. And as it did, the spark that Lathander had sent his Descendent Shell to find lept from the doorway. A pearl of light so brilliant and pure that it outshone even the golden rays of Lathander’s answered prayers lept forth and drove into the heart of Holy Hale.”

There was a silence that descended upon the temple then, and for an absolute perfect instant there was nothing but the silence. No one spoke, no one breathed. The rain stopped. The wind fell still, and the thunder quailed and shrank from the divine power of the moment. Through the spaces between the wooden boards of the walls, the first rays of dawn began to shine. The night, and the storm, had passed into serene morning. A line of golden light lay upon the brow of Salm making him stand out even more from the gathered crowd, and he began to speak once more.

“We will never know exactly what it was that Lathander showed to his Descendent Shell at the moment the light entered his chest. But we do know that a vision was given. A vision of a god. Of creation and renewal as one. Of potential and the danger that accompanies such things. And we know that he accepted it. Holy Hale accepted what his god, your god, called on him to do. Even though it would risk his life. Even though it would eventually lead to his destruction. He accepted that his god had a calling for him, and he would not back away from that calling. Holy Hale became a hero that day, in the greatest sense of the word. His legacy, what he would eventually leave behind, was born. And though it would cost his life to do such a thing, he gladly accepted such a fate to provide a chance for this world to live on.

Tears filled many of the eyes in that small temple to Lathander as Salm concluded the tale of Holy Hale’s legendary beginning. The acknowledgment of a man seeking to better the world, even though it would cost him so dearly. The recognition that an immortal being, a living golem, would choose to risk eternity here on Toril for the chance to provide succor to so many other lives, hit home as Salm began to softly speak once more.

“I want to thank you all again for allowing me to speak with you this evening. And to the Dawnbringer for inviting me. Though I do not share your specific calling to follow Lathander, it is with recognition of his divine power that I humble myself to the story of his Descendent Shell. I would ask one thing more of you before I depart and allow your day to begin as it should. I speak often with the people of this city. It is my calling and my pleasure to spread the tales of the heroics of the soldiers of Fort Vegapath. As such, there is a phrase of recognition that I would like to share with you. And I ask that you hear these words, take them to heart, and offer prayers of your own to those who, even now, risk themselves for you and I. Much like Holy Hale once did.”

At quiet nods from those gathered, Salm would repeat words he had so often spoken. A mantra of his own faith. And those gathered listened intently.

“To the heroes of Vegapath. To those who stand before and for us. To the fallen who have died for us, to the injured who suffer for us, and to those who remain steadfast in their dedication to us. I offer my humble thanks in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

Turning enough to nod to the Dawnbringer who stood behind him and to the side, and receiving a nod in return, Salm walked through the densely gathered crowd. His passing stirred the air and the lingering smell of mildew from earlier changed to the fresh smell of early mornings and growing things. And as he swept back the heavy tarp door covering the sun shone directly in through the opening temporarily blinding all those within with its brilliant glory. The tarp dropped and shut out the painful rays of light, but that lingering image stayed with Lathander’s faithful as they continued with their devotion.

As for Salm, he met the day like many others before. With a mind towards the next story. The next group of people to teach about the heroics of the soldiers of Fort Vegapath. He turned and strode towards his next destination with a hum in his throat. A call back to the hymns earlier sung by the worshipers of Lathander. He had many more such people to meet, and many more tales to tell.

Part 3 of Vegapath's Heroes

Nestled in the heart of the Wolf Quarter within Caer Callidyrr a handful of rough and unsavory looking men gathered in an alley. Some stood, leaning against the walls of the surrounding buildings their eyes turned towards either alley entrance, while two others squatted down over a wooden box rolling dice, placing wagers, and sliding small stacks of coin to one another as they won or lost. Overhead, a diminutive figure hunched in a small alcove of darkness watching and waiting.

After several rounds of games, one of the two squatting men let out a sudden cry of anger and reached for the dagger sheathed at his waist. With a swift, fluid motion, he drew the weapon and lunged towards the other man. The steel of the blade flashed for a moment in the moonlight streaming down from between the buildings, but before the blade could bury itself in the stomach of the other man, a club flashed down from above. One of the standing men, a huge half-orc, had reacted instantly to the aggressive cry, and the cudgel he bore met the back of the lunging man’s head with a sickening crunch. In an instant, the man crumpled into a heap on the ground, his dagger bouncing from his hand to be forgotten in the gloom of the surrounding shadows.

A few moments later, the other two standing men bent and gathered up the unconscious man, dragged him to one end of the alley, and unceremoniously tossed his limp body out into the empty cross street where he lay in a heap in the middle of the road.

As the two men turned back towards the now still game, a slight whistle sounded from near to where they had just tossed the other man. Turning hard eyes in that direction, the two tense men eased when they recognized the figure approaching them. She was tall and slender. Muscular in the way of acrobats and well-paid whores. Her shoulder length blond hair coiled in tight ringlets that bounced with her every step, though the tight-fitting clothing she wore prevented other, more enticing, movements. The only loose adornment she wore was a simple silver pendant in the shape of a harp with golden strings.

As she approached the two men, her storm cloud eyes met theirs with a defiant gaze.

“Looks like a game’s open.” She said, tapping the unconscious man with the toe of an expensively tailored boot. “Is he available?”

Both men eyed the woman hungrily. Though shorter than the woman, each man outweighed her by a considerable margin.

“Aye’ Salm. A spot with Mr. Rattman seems to have just opened up.” The older looking of the two men said, as the other chuckled.

“Good,” she purred as she strode between the two and into the darkness of the alley mouth. “You know how I hate to be kept waiting.”

With that, the tall woman continued on towards the pair of men further down.

As she approached, the large half-orc man with the club stepped away from the wall he was leaning against, crossed his arms, and seemed to fill the entire alley. Huge muscles corded the thick bones of his arms, and the scars of several gruesome cuts could be seen through the coarse dark hair covering them.

As Salm entered a stray beam of moonlight, he visibly relaxed and once again leaned up against the wall. In a gravel filled voice, only slightly slurred by his jutting tusks, he said. “Hey, Rattman, she’s back.” Before nodding to Salm as she sauntered past.

Still squatting down over the low rimmed box, Rattman didn’t seem all that imposing. However, the other men with him suggested that not everything was as it appeared. Looking up as the tall striking woman, he leered.

“So,” he began. His tone cultured and bold. “You’re back.”

Smiling down at the squatting man, Salm easily replied. “I do so enjoy taking your money Rattman. But I’m sure it’s worth it. Why else would Strud let me through so easily? I could be here to knife you after all.”

A comment which led to both of them laughing.

“Ah, it is good to see you again.” Rattman said, still in his squatting position. “Come, join me. We’ll roll some dice, and see where the evening takes us.”

Squatting down next to Rattman and placing a small stack of coins on the rim of the box, Salm held out a hand for the dice. Once in hand, she blew softly into her closed fist and let them fly. When they came to rest, three faces in the shape of dragon’s heads leered up at both players and a grin spread across Salm’s face.

“When I beat you,” she said, “don’t throw me out with the last guy.”

Chuckling, Rattman grabbed the dice, gave them a shake, and let fly.

After several minutes of this the large half-orc, Strud, cleared his throat in a meaningful manner. He didn’t move or take his eyes off the end of the alley, but it was the first noise he had made since announcing Salm’s arrival.

Scooping up dice that showed the carved faces of a sword, a castle wall, and a potion bottle, Salm glanced up at the man towering above her while she crouched.

“Apologies Strud. I got a bit too caught up in beating your boss. However, don’t fret. I’ve brought you an intriguing one this evening.”

The barest of nods and a slight peeling back of the lips to expose more of his jutting tusks were all the reaction Salm received in return.

Rattling the dice in her hand, Salm began to speak.

“It wasn’t easy getting this information. You see, this part of the war is so shrouded in mystery that few people know what really happened to Lehigh. The town’s gone missing. It’s people scattered and lost. Reports of a creature born of malevolence.”

Salm’s casual grin took on a sinister tilt as she continued.

“A mother and a monster.”

She let fly the dice, and when two castle walls and a potion showed on the upturned faces, Rattman whooped and quickly scooped them back up.

“I learned of several groups from Fort Vegapath who were sent to deal with the situation in Lehigh. A mystery that still leaves some questions unanswered even for me. Of all the heroes that were sent to this place. A place full of loss and lost souls. One man stood out in particular. Not for the heroism so often associated with these brave soldiers. No, this man stood out as one who found something where so much else had been lost. He found his calling. His name is Valas. Some have heard this name associated with another. The so-called Mad Mage of Vegapath. A man seemingly on a rampage to destroy our enemy, and anything else in his path. Battlefields littered with dead, the very earth blasted and scorched. These are a signature of his. However, the real story behind this man is, in many ways, still shrouded in silence and shadow. Why did he come? Who is he here for? What drives his seemingly endless rage? Because of these mysteries, and more, there is another name this one can claim. A fitting title for one whose actions are almost too loud at times. Like a man hiding an assassin’s blade behind a friendly greeting. Much like the story of Lehigh, in fact.”

Pausing for a moment to collect the dice after Rattman’s latest throw and to quickly toss them. They rattled around the box before coming to rest on another full set of dragon’s heads. Their clatter filling the small spaces between her next words.

“Therefore, I name him the Second in Silence. An appropriate moniker for a mysterious man, I do believe. For more reasons than one to be sure.”

Rattman’s groan as he handed over another stack of coins covered the small gasp that escaped from a small figure high above.

Scooping up the coins and tucking them into a space on the inside of her tight leather corset, Salm indicated for Rattman to begin another game if he wished. Taking up the dice once more, the man laid out his bet, which she quickly matched, and he threw the dice, an average roll of a sword, arrow, and shield showing on the upturned faces.

“The name of Lehigh would not be known by more than a few people outside of Alaron. It held no special significance to the outside world beyond what small bit of additional agriculture it sold in the markets of Caer Callidyrr. That has not changed much since Elriza and her dark forces occupied the town, though what little would be spoken of about Lehigh is now twisted and sinister.”

Her next roll caused a small groan from Rattman as he scooped up the dice, losing hope of winning this match.

“When the soldiers of Vegapath entered the sleepy town, all seemed as it should. Suspicious glances at several armed and armored newcomers. Terse politeness to any questions that were asked, and a general sense that the locals wanted nothing so much as to be left alone. To them, so close to the Capital and with several weeks having passed since Elriza’s forces had been driven further to the south. It was time to move on and get back to their lives and land with all thoughts of the war abandoned.”

A small flask appeared in her hand, as if by magic, and she took a small nip to wet her lips as the game continued. Her sarcastic tone heavily sprinkled with a storyteller’s charm, she had hooked her audience.

“However, it didn’t take long before the small party of Vegapath’s finest began to notice something lurking beneath the sleepy exterior. Things out of place. A too empty house. A too silent child. The too familiar sound of someone’s voice who had been close to Valas. Someone dead. The same someone’s death that had drawn him to Alaron. With the day growing late, the group was forced to leave and return the following day. Twice more they did. Twice more finding new oddities. New clues that this sleepy hamlet was not as it appeared.”

Over the course of her growing tale, the game had continued. Rattman, surprisingly, had come out ahead in the end Earning back some of his losses and starting another game.

“Frustrations were running high. The returning soldiers, and those others who had joined them, seemed to get no closer to answering the question of Lehigh and its growing sense of sinister manipulation. So much so, that at the end of their second day of investigation Valas let go of the tight rein he normally holds on his emotions. A home was destroyed as a result, and it did not take him long to do so. Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was a reaction to the violent display. Perhaps it was a healthy dose of fear of being found out. Whatever it was, the third day of investigation would be the last for those returning from Vegapath.”

Salm would go quiet, and several rounds of tossed dice would be the only noise within the alley. Strud, the large half-orc bodyguard, had taken his eyes off the alley mouth and was watching the striking woman with interest. Not sexual interest, but an interest born of something possibly more primal. Lust for a conclusion to the story being told was plain on his normally reserved features. Anticipation for answers to the unknown. When Salm began to speak once more, he visibly relaxed. He would get what he craved.

“Their investigation had turned up one particular place of note. A local church, around which several strange sightings had been focused, so the soldiers started the third day of investigation there. The priest of this small home to Chauntea had nothing to tell. Its empty walls rang hollow with words of apology and denial from the man. Again, Valas could not maintain his usual level of reserved silence. In a fit of frustration and rage, the powerful mage attacked the priest. An abhorrent act. A servant of the people and the Earthmother, attacked by a soldier, a savior, from Vegapath? In a holy home of the god most revered by the people he claimed to be fighting for. If Valas had been struck down by the wrath of an offended deity, few would have batted an eye.”

Pausing to look up and meet the eyes of Strud, then flashing quickly to take in a diminutive figure above and behind him, she would smile wickedly at the large half-orc.

“But that isn’t what happened. What transpired next happened in a flash too quickly to be perceived. This part of the story was the most difficult to learn. One moment church and priest stood before the unleashed power of the Second in Silence…and the next they were gone. Nothing remained of the place, the priest, or the presence of Lehigh. Instead they found themselves in a realm of nightmare. There was no light but that of devilishly glowing mystical runes. Marks of evil that covered every stone surface above, to the sides, and below. In the dim light, a massive dreadful creature seemed to hover and sway. It’s bulbous body reflecting that of an aborted fetus of a titan. From every angle appendages protruded. Long and strong and full of more joints than should have been possible. A casual flick of one arm-like extension crushed stone, and sent the debris flying in a shower of pulverized sand and gravel. And just as our heroes were adjusting to their new surroundings, the creature vanished appearing in a different place an instant later.”

Salm’s tone changed to that of one caught off guard and in the middle of combat. Quick and breathless at times. The effect forcing adrenaline through the veins of those listening, leaving them panting and fidgeting. Save for Rattman, who cursed once more as Salm casually scooped up her winnings after a third roll of triple dragon heads on the dice.

“The massive thing came for them. Swift as a striking hawk, the size of a dragon, and with strength enough to level city blocks. The soldiers scattered. Not giving it a chance to crush them all at once. Unfortunately, this tactic did not go well. One by one, the creature descended upon them catching and crushing them, then vanishing and appearing elsewhere at a whim, its victim still clutched within its strong many jointed fingers. Though they fought bravely, as all the soldiers of the Fort do, they fell one by one by one before the beast. The Hell Child fell, as did Alaudidae and her companion. Even the man who would be King could not stand before the beast. One by one they succumbed to the strength of the beast only to be healed by another, the heroes of Vegapath do not leave those they call ‘friend’ behind. Through it all, blasts of mystical energy filled the horrific cavern, for indeed they had been transported either underground or to another realm altogether. Though the enemy was overwhelming, the battle was not wholly one sided. A mighty blow from one strong soldier took an arm from the monstrosity. Bolts of piercing magic tore holes through flesh and left smoking ruin in their wake. Arrows pin cushioned the creatures eyeless, too large, head. But still it came on. Undaunting, and unpredictable. Our saviors were at the end of their strength, and all of them feared they would not return to their brothers and sisters in arms. This creature’s lair would become their eternal resting place, and the mystery of Lehigh would not be resolved. But then, just as hope was thought lost, Valas broke his silence once more, to devastating effect. With a cry of hopeless rage, he flung all his remaining mystical strength at the creature. A bolt of purest lightning was ripped from the Weave by the mighty mage and closed the gap between him and his foe in an instant. It could not avoid this closing doom. I could not dodge in time. He had timed his moment perfectly, and it was caught flatfooted. The brilliance of his magic was so overwhelming that Valas and his companions were forced to close their eyes and look away lest it blind them. The thunderclap that followed shook the cavern and left them deafened and stunned for what seemed like ages. But then, when the afterimage faded and the ringing in their ears stopped, there on the ground lay the still remains of the monster of Lehigh.”

Relief flooded Salm’s voice for the soldiers of the Fort, and pride tinted every following word.

“A jagged line of burned and maimed flesh crossed the creature from end to end. The appendages on that side of its body had been blasted away as it had futilely raised them in its defense before the bolt struck. As the group stood there, filled with disbelief at what lay dead before them, everything began to change. Their vision swam. The edges of the cavern, and everything within it, began to blur. And after a moment everything was gone. They were back in the village, except…there was no village. No people. Lehigh was gone. Only the statue at the center of where the village had once stood remained.”

Once again pausing in her story and throwing dice, she would stare into Strud’s eyes.

“And there were…things. Eggs of some kind. Broken and massive, like those of a dragon. They were scattered all about. All of them empty. As though they’d hatched. The answers to what these were would not be learned that day, however. The soldiers were wounded. Several near death after facing such a beast. They had been lucky, and they knew it. So, they returned to the Fort to seek the healing touch of Aceso Mendinghands.”

Her story nearing completion, Salm would refuse to start another game of dice with Rattman. He’d won the final round, earning back a small portion of what he had lost, and seemed mollified by the fact. Salm stood from her crouched position and stretched, small pops escaping from her back as she extended to her full, impressive, height.

“That isn’t the end of this tale, though it is the end of this telling of it. The Lehigh monsters, as they have become known as, have spread across this land, and the heroes of the Fort hunt them still. It was a vile and corrupt thing that Elriza Blackheart did to that small town. Its people are still gone. The place still abandoned and lost. But it is no longer under the sway of our enemy. It has been cleansed by the bravery of a few good people with the willingness and the strength to stand up against our enemies. By their readiness to sacrifice for us all. And by the refusal of one man in particular to remain silent in a time of need.”

With that she would nod her head to Strud and say to the still crouching Rattman who was busy silently counting his coin.

“I’ll see you again next time, Rattman. Perhaps luck will be more kind when next we play.”

To Strud, she would quietly add.

“Perhaps I’ll even have another tale for you. If you’re here when next I come?”

There was the smallest hint of a question to the last statement, and a mischievous smile touched the corners of her lips as she strode towards the end of the alley. As she walked, her smile grew as she heard familiar words coming from the normally stoic and silent half-orc.

“To the heroes of Vegapath. To those who stand before and for us. To the fallen who have died for us, to the injured who suffer for us, and to those who remain steadfast in their dedication to us. I offer my humble thanks in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

Passing by the still unconscious man in middle of the next cross street, Salm would pause to listen to the city around her. Though it was late into the night, the city never completely slept. So, with several pockets full of another man’s coin, and a swagger in her step, Salm turned towards another district of the city. There were still many people to meet, and many more tales to tell.

Part 2 of Vegapath's Heroes

In any other city, passersby would rarely take notice of the elderly man seated on a short wooden stool along the edge of a large wood and stone wharf. Upon which ships of many sizes remained tied off, and crews of dock workers began their day’s labor. His tattered and worn, salt crusted sailor’s clothing weighed heavily upon his withered frame. Hemp sandals adorned calloused feet with jagged and broken toenails. The elder’s bald head reflected the sunlight, and his gray beard covered a mouth with several missing teeth. The only item of note on his person was a distinctive silver pendant in the shape of a harp, with golden strings.

This day, however, an unusually large crowd was gathered on the street of the wharf. Causing quite the disruption to the comings and goings of ship and dock crews alike, and with this man as its focus.

Children were seated on the cobblestones of the street, their large eyes fixated on him. Several had deposited small trinkets, baubles, or pieces of fruit into an empty potato sack at the man’s feet. Several adults, parents of the children and otherwise, were also arranged facing the old timer. Many after depositing coins of various denominations into the same sack.

The man sat upon his stool, long legs bent with knobby knees pointing towards the sky. He rested his crossed arms upon those knees, and his head rested in the crook his arms created. His eyes were closed, as though he were asleep.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the sun rose over the tops of the surrounding buildings. The bustle of the street grew, and so did the gathered crowd. Nearby, a vendor, having seen the gathering people, set up his cart and began to sell grilled fish and roasted root vegetables with a spicy sauce.

Still, the elder remained unmoving until the sun had risen to its zenith. Then, with the baking sun shining down upon his bared and sunburnt shoulders, he opened his eyes and uncoiled himself. Raising his head to look out upon those around him. Eyes that had seen the passing of decades met those of children who hadn’t yet met their first.

Nudging the sack at his feet with a bare toe, he casually glanced over the offerings. He bent low from his seat to grab up a plum. Taking a bite, he let the purple tinted juice run down the long hairs on his chin. Making overly exaggerated appreciative noises as he did so.

“Ah, this’ll do I suppose.”

The sound of the man’s voice seemed to wheeze out of him like a strong breeze through slashed sails. Hard years and harder winds had shredded it to an agony laced whisper. That’s not to say it was unclear. Everyone gathered understood his words as they were intended. Something about the pain in it, however, seemed to draw the ear and prime the mind for a story.

Tossing the pit of the plum over his shoulder and into the waters below, he would meticulously suck each finger clean. Intentionally drawing out the agonizing wait the children were subjected to.

“Right then, how about a story of the Three’s Herald, hmm, or perhaps the Hell Child of Light. No? Maybe of the new Lord of Ogden then. The old horror reborn?”

Sounds from the children told him he hadn’t quite landed on what they were hoping for.

“Well, perhaps you decide for me, huh? I haven’t got all day to waste guessing.”

Immediately several children cried out in unison.

“The Bear, Salm, the Bear. The Bear, the Bear. We want to hear about the Bear.”

“Hmm, the Bear today? It does seem fitting given where we are. Though, are you sure? The Bear’s stories aren’t normally for children’s ears.”

This drew excited murmurs from the seated children and grins from the gathered adults at their enthusiasm.

“The Bear it is then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now, silence. No interruptions. It wouldn’t do for you to miss what I have to tell. I’ll not repeat myself today.”

Vigorous nods set the children’s heads bobbing as the old man began.

“Where should we start today? Hmm, not his early years of adventure. Too normal for this crowd, I think. Perhaps how he earned his cloak? No, too dangerous a tale to put into the heads of children.”

Winking towards the gathered adults he would suggest.

“Perhaps a tale of romance? How he earned the favor of his arrow-maiden, and stole her love away from what she had sworn it to before him.”

Groans of childish disgust chorused around him, followed by good natured chuckles from the parents.

“No? Well then, hmm.” Running the fingers of one hand through his long scraggly beard he suddenly perked up. “Ah. I know just the one.”

Settling his old frame more comfortably on his stool, he spread his hands out wide to the sides as though to gather the crowd in closer.

“This is the story of how the young Northman earned the favor of a wrathful god. How this brave giant of a man faced off against foes outmatching even his own strength, and he overcame them. Of how he earned his true name. This is the tale of the last stand of Aithilar, and the rise of Thunder Bear”

The eyes of the gathered children grew large in the full brightness of the day, and they remained transfixed upon the suddenly animated old man.

“Erik Thunder Bear. Scion of Rogarsheim to the north and west. Son of Jarl Roland of Rogarsheim, a powerful man in his own right. A perfect choice for Captain Telissmol, the Sweet Drake, to select as the leader for one of the most daring missions the brave soldiers of Fort Vegapath have ever undertaken.”

So entrancing was the tone of Salm’s voice, that those gathered would later swear that they had seen the image of an old port town reflected upon the waters of the ocean behind the old man as he spoke.

“On the western shore of Alaron once lay the port town of Aithilar, and there was not much of import to the town. It was a fairly peaceful place, like much of Alaron in the old times. But that was before the war began. Now, oh, now the town is gone. Sank into the sea like a castle made of sand upon the shore.”

Over Salm’s shoulder, lights sparkled off the waves of the Sea of Swords. Within those glimmering lights, the likeness of a young warrior could be imagined. Strong jawed and golden haired, with eyes the color of storm clouds.

“It was 1492, the 29thof Eleint to be precise. An important date in the life and history of Erik Thunder Bear. Not long ago by the reckoning of Ffolk. As I said, the legendary Captain of the Fort, Telissmol herself, chose four brave soldiers for that mission. Aithilar was on its last legs even then. The town had been battered and beaten by monsters from the sea, and abominations dredged from ancient times by one of Elriza’s vile companions, Halcion the Torturer. Our stouthearted Ffolk soldiers, sent by the king to guard safe the western shore, had been sorely taxed. Attacked daily and driven to the edge of exhaustion by the unending tide of Halcion’s monstrosities. Led by Erik, these four soldiers arrived in Aithilar amidst the crashing of a mighty thunderstorm, and the chaos of yet another battle within the walls and streets of that town. Ffolk lay dead and dying under the ravaging claws of unimagined horrors as rain poured from the heavens. The town was overrun. What its people needed most was time. Time enough to flee to safety, and that time would be bought with blood and pain willingly given by the four heroes.”

At the apex of the tension within Salm’s telling, he paused and began ruffling within the sack of trinkets and fruit once more. The gathered children waited, many leaning forward nearly to toppling, for the story to continue. Many of the parents were likewise drawn in, though a few held worried looks upon their faces for the gruesome aspects of Salm’s tale.

After a few moments, Salm drew forth a wizened looking apple. Gave it a look over and a sniff, before crunching into it. The wet smacking of his lips drowned out by the bustle of the wharf around them. Then, apple still in hand, he arched his arms above his head like some great beast and continued speaking.

“Towering head and shoulders above the next largest man, Erik charged forth into battle, the others close on his heals. Flowing golden hair streamed behind him in his rush to bring swift death to the enemies of Alaron. And many there were that fell to his mighty hammer. An heirloom of great worth to his family with a legend all its own, and one only made more grand within Thunder Bear’s hands. The force from Vegapath slammed into the attacking enemies, and the horde shuddered and broke from their charge. Putrid blood flew out to spatter the walls of homes and shops recently evacuated by the Ffolk of Aithilar. Many were the wounds suffered by Erik and his allies. More wounds to add to the scars the young warrior already bears. But this did not deter him. It pushed him forward, ever forward to drive the enemy back to the sea.”

Looking a small girl with short cut dark hair in the eyes, his tone would drop low as he would break from his story to speak directly to the girl.

“He bears these scars so that you, and those you love, will not need to, child.”

The girl, with hardened eyes older than her years would suggest, would nod to Salm before he would continue.

“Soon, there were no enemies before them. Thunder Bear and his companions looked out upon streets empty of all but the dying. A man named Adrian Varon, a leader within Aithilar, found them then and told them of the evacuation his people were undertaking. The last remnants of the town were leaving Aithilar behind. However, something new was coming. Something truly horrible, even to those men and women who had suffered the enemy’s onslaught so far. Adrian explained that a towering horror, a monstrosity of impossible height and size, a spider-like beast that touched the sky, was approaching the fleeing survivors and nothing could stop it. Buildings crumbled before it. Strong walls fell to mighty blows from its many arms and legs. Adrian led the heroes to another street, and there, for the first time, they saw the creature amidst flashes of lightning from the storm above. Once again, without thought for their own safety, the four charged into battle. This time with an impossible foe. Hearing the bellowing war cry of their charge, the remaining soldiers of Alaron stationed within the town joined them in their mad rush. As they drew near, they were met by still more of the enemy who had sought the protection of their own champion beast. The battle was fierce upon the ground. The fiercest it had ever been. The enemy was bolstered by the presence of their unbeatable champion. One who was not constrained by the walls and streets of the town. Our four were on the verge of collapse from the strain of combat. The Ffolk soldiers were bloodied and exhausted. They had made an impressive showing, one that even these heroes of Fort Vegapath would acknowledge in songs of their own. How many of the enemy had they killed? Dozens? Hundreds? It was impossible to say, and still more came to the bellowing call of the giant.”

Salm would pause, his whole body going rigid, and the old man’s eyes would take on a far away look. He held that position long enough that some of the surrounding adults began to look around for what Salm was seeing, but they saw nothing unusual. A shudder ran through the old man’s boney frame before he came back to himself. As though he had witnessed a horror that those gathered could not see. He began speaking once more, and those gathered would later swear that they saw towering flames and images of collapsed buildings within the outstretched sea beyond Salm’s shoulders.

“As is typical of Elriza’s dark forces, they cared nothing for their own losses. Destruction and death are their weapons. What they constantly carry. For us. For themselves. For the land itself. It does not matter so long as the desires of Elriza the Defiler are met. She desired the collapse of Aithilar, so that is what Halcion and his minions would give her. No matter the cost. The rain of the raging storm above washed rivers of blood from the streets and out into the storm-tossed sea. Lightning flashed constantly, the only illumination on the battlefield, and thunder beat a constant war drum above the fight. Above this, the call of Halcion’s champion could be heard, and the pounding of its mighty limbs could be felt in the ground as it lay waste to everything in its path. Though bravely fought, the four heroes and Alaron’s soldiers were slowly being driven back. They did not give ground easily, and many of the Ffolk’s bravest men and women paid for that ground with their lives. All seemed on the verge of being lost. That is when it happened. That is when Erik. The great warrior of Rogarsheim. The man who would become Thunder Bear. Ran.”

There was a collective gasp from those gathered. Both children and adults alike. The crowd had swelled during the old man’s story. Dock workers, vendors, sailors, and their captains. All who strayed close enough to hear were entranced with the telling. Many looked to those at their sides, as though for confirmation of what they had just heard. This was to be the story of Erik’s greatest achievement, and he had fled. As the silence went on, the tension within the crowd grew. A fight broke out between two sailors, and they were quickly separated from where the children sat. A small boy began to cry at the sound, and soon several more joined in as an overwhelming feeling of betrayal and loss they didn’t understand took hold. Some parents began to glare at the old man seated on the low stool before them, and he met their eyes and shrugged.

“I told you at the beginning that the Bear’s stories aren’t normally for children’s ears. However…” at that word, the burgeoning noise from the crowd suddenly stopped, and Salm repeated. “However, that is not where the story ends.”

Standing up from his stool for the first time, Salm’s joints crackled and popped, reminiscent of the lightning above Aithilar. As he rose, his full height was revealed, and he seemed to tower over even the tallest sailor. His long spindly limbs, barely covered by his tattered clothing, resembled nothing so much as a monstrously large spider crab.

“Yes, Erik ran. And his companions reacted much as you did. Astonishment. Fear. Confusion and loathing. But, you see, Erik had seen something that the others had not. He had seen where Halcion’s champion was heading, and he had decided to meet it face to face.”

The crowd settled in once more as Salm’s words brought them back into the battle for Aithilar.

“There stood a particular building in Aithilar. A belltower from old times. A place to watch for approaching enemies, and to quickly alert the town. It had stood dormant and unused for as long as people could remember. Most had never even heard the bell tolled, though a few of the oldest townsfolk may have heard it as a child. The stones of its construction were large and rough. Its mortar was pitted with age and neglect, but still it held strong. Its wood framed top, from which the bell still hung, was covered by old worn shingles that leaked in many places. And it stood directly in the path of the beast. As Erik arrived at the tower, he found the strong oaken door locked shut and swollen within its frame from the rain. Even with his incredible strength, it would take too long to open. Instead, Erik looked to those tall, rain slicked walls, and began to climb. Up into the lightning filled sky he rose. He soon scaled the side and found himself in the relative dry of the bell housing. the bell’s clapper had been removed at some point, and the winds from the storm were strong enough to swing the massive bell, silently, from side to side. And there, framed by the light of countless bolts of lightning, he watched the champion approach. Inspired by the heavenly display, Erik lifted his mighty hammer and struck the bell three times. Above the clamor he bellowed out a call of challenge. ’Face me, ye damned coward, and know y’er end.'"

Quiet thunder seemed to rumble in the wake of Thunder Bear’s words spoken through Salm’s lips. Many in the still growing crowd turned their heads to look this way and that for any reason such noise should occur in the bright noonday sun. The children, however, remained transfixed by the continuing story and pantomime actions of its teller.

“As the towering creature approached, even the light of the flashing sky was blotted out by its size. A darkness so full it could be felt upon Erik’s skin like clinging spider webs. Suddenly, one of the creature’s mighty limbs struck out and sent the roof of the bell tower flying out into the storm. Cold rain slammed into Erik, but he only grinned. This cold was nothing compared to the spray off northern seas. ‘Oh, mate, ye shouldna done that.’ Erik said, and he prepared himself. You see, its attack had finally brought the creature close enough. With a mighty roar, the great northern warrior sprinted to the edge of the tall tower and leapt. As he did so, white radiance burst out from his eyes, burning away the surrounding darkness. You see, Erik is angel born, and no darkness can stand before the divine radiance of his heritage. Out he sailed, a blazing beckon to enemies and allies alike. Up went his hammer over his head in preparation to deliver a mighty blow. The creature, so much larger than Erik, did not pull back. It did not fear even this roaring warrior. However, there was another witnessing this fight. A powerful god, Erik’s god. A god of war and warriors. A god of brave acts and the thrill of mighty battles fought. Tempus, the Foehammer had rarely seen such an act as this. He heard as Erik called out his name in celebration of what would surely be the man’s last act in life, and Tempus knew then that he had a worthy worshiper indeed.”

A flash of light bright even in the sunlit day startled the crowd and made the children gasp. Likely it had been a reflection off the ocean, but many were confused by the intensity of it, and its perfect timing with the continuing story.

“The Lord of Battles sent forth a powerful divine gift. A bolt of purest blue lightning. It slithered and snaked through a sky already filled with such displays and dwarfed them all. It streaked directly for Halcion’s creature, but before it could strike, it instead met the uplifted head of Erik’s ancestral hammer. In a flash, the weapon transformed. Blessed by the god of war, it held within it the same devastating bolt of lightning. And the creature, bathed in Erik’s white radiance, and the blue glow from the Foehammer’s new relic, screamed in fear. Still with his god’s name on his lips, Erik brought down his mighty weapon to connect with the creature’s chest. Lightning exploded into the creature, and his own radiance seemed to be pulled from him in its wake to burn into the creature as well. Where the hammer struck, bones broke and flesh tore, and with that single strike the life of Halcion’s champion ended. It fell, and Erik, steady on his feet from a life at sea, rode the creature’s corpse to the ground with a monstrous boom.”

The gathered children let out a cry of triumph, and several adults joined with them. Smiles were shared between sailors who moments earlier were fighting one another. New comradery found within the actions of a shared hero.

“The remaining enemy watched their champion fall and fled in terror. Many were cut down as they tried, but the surviving defenders of Aithilar did not give chase. Their duty, that night, was not complete. Though the enemy had been pushed back, the town lay in ruins. The last of the ffolk of Aithilar had left and the soldiers were needed to ensure their safe travel to their new home in Ogden to the South and East. Their journey would not be easy, and would have its own dangers. So, gathering those who had survived, they began their own retreat from the city. As the column of soldiers passed near to the giant corpse they were greeted by the wide smile of a bearded blond Northman. Erik Thunder Bear. Wielder of the Foehammer’s Blessing took up the lead as he called out. ‘Alright lads, let’s get these people to safety.’”

As Salm fell silent, those gathered would turn to look at their neighbors, and down upon the seated children who hadn’t moved throughout the telling. The old man would gingerly stoop low to pick up his small stool, and to gather the sack of gifts. Standing to his full height once more, he would look out at the waiting crowd and speak.

“It is customary to end with a salute to the heroes of the Fort. Will you join me?”

Many in the crowd nodded, some looked confused, and still others would walk away. Though those who did, did so quietly. Without additional fanfare or ritual, Salm would lead the others in reciting their thanks.

“To the heroes of Vegapath. To those who stand before and for us. To the fallen who have died for us, to the injured who suffer for us, and to those who remain steadfast in their dedication to us. We offer our humble thanks in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

He would then turn from the crowd. Facing back towards the sea. He would stand, watching the waves of the ocean swell and sink while the crowd would slowly disperse. Long after the final child was led away by his parents, Salm would finally turn to face the city once more. He was ready to continue to the next destination. He had many more stories to tell.

Part 1 of Vegapath's Heroes

The old oaken door swung open on screeching hinges at The Crook and The Crone as a young man pushed his way inside. Limned by the dying light of the day, the man was not imposing. Not tall, nor heavily muscled. His brown hair was short, and his clothes were not expensively cut. He wore no hat, and the only jewelry upon his person was a distinctive silver pendant in the shape of a harp with golden strings. He carried nothing in his hands, and his back was empty of instrument, cape, or cloak.

Nevertheless, all eyes within the seedy tavern turned to regard him upon his entry. Lustful and hungry they yearned for his presence like a drowning man for dry land.

The man remained in the doorway for a heartbeat longer than necessary before letting the thick wooden door swing closed behind him with an ominous squeal. He strode into the overcrowded tavern, weaving his way through the silent and still parishioners of this place. As he did so, he met the gazes of several people. The benevolence of the smile upon the clean shaven young face leaving those it was turned upon feeling welcomed and excited.

The man approached the back corner of the common room where a tall stool had been set, along with a pewter mug of wine and a bowl of the night’s dinner on a small table. The man took his seat, and as he did so the rest of the room did as well. Leaving the man perched well above those who had found seats for the evening. For several more minutes the tavern remained silent as the man took up his bowl and ate. He then lifted his mug, and slowly drank until both were empty. The soft sound of metal on wood carrying through the low ceilinged room.

“I don’t believe I’ve told you any tales of the Sweet Drake?”

These words, spoken strongly with a costal accent, were answered by the gravelly voiced owner. A middle aged hard knuckled human, his overweight frame nestled in his customary place behind the old bar. “Aye, Salm, that ye’ haven’t.”

Smiling widely, Salm began.

“Many of you have heard my tales of Fort Vegapath, the Fortress of Many Paths. Of the wonders found therein, and of the brave heroes who carve out destiny. Princess Ayula Waveborn, last of her line. Aceso Mendinghands who, even now, dwells within this city providing aid and comfort to those who seek it. Holyhale and the Descendant Shell of Lathander. These great names and more who fight to reclaim the Moonshaes from the scourge of Elriza Blackheart. Elriza the Defiler. Elriza of the Blood River.”

The mention of Elriza caused the first stirring of the crowd as jeers and curses rose up from several people. These were quickly silenced by still more as their attention was drawn back to the young speaker.

“However, even these great people stand within the benevolent shadow of the one who leads them. Her name is Telissmol. Known by her soldiers as Captain or Commander. Named Tel by her friends and allies. Referred to in screams of terror by her enemies. Called the Sweet Drake by those with knowledge of such things.”

Pausing for a moment to lift his empty mug towards the owner. The large bartender weaved his way through the crowd with another full mug as Salm continued in a powerful voice.

“Clad in silver armor, forged by a Great Silver Wyrm from its very own scales. She carries a shining blade crafted by the ancient kings of Delzoun. Telissmol commands the forces of heaven to strike low, all who dare face her wrath. And mighty that wrath is to behold. I’ve witnessed as the undead burst from within at her call. Demons of shadow pulled forth into holy light to squirm and writhe under her unforgiving stare. The spells of great and evil wizards part and collapse into nothing at a swing from her glowing sword.”

Pausing for a moment to sip his wine, the sound of his voice seemed to linger in the air for longer than the crowded space should have allowed.

“I was once witness to a great battle within Fort Vegapath. The enemy, skulking and slithering through shadow and darkness, taking a thief’s advantage, stole into the Fort when many of our heroes were further south contending with the Defiler’s minions. Few remained within the Fort when demons in overwhelming numbers crawled out of the Abyss itself to assault the mighty walls of Vegapath. Cries of the damned filled the air from the tears in our world, and the war cries of our brave heroes of Vegapath rose to meet them. The battle was hard fought and bravely so. The walls were overrun. Its mighty gate, torn and bent and pulled asunder. Ceaseless was the sound of the ballista firing heavy lance after heavy lance into the unending throng. Each shot sending a vile denizen of the Abyss back to its hated home.”

The tears in Salm’s eyes upon recalling the battle seemed to sparkle with an inner light as he took several shaking breaths. His hand shook as he lifted the mug to his lips once more before softly continuing.

“A high price was paid, that night, for the freedom we now hold onto. Brave soldiers gave their precious lives to push back the putrid tide. Their dreams of seeing a better world cut short by rending claws and tearing fangs. Even as I watched them die, I saw none lose faith. Not one died in regret, but rather with smiles on their faces as they knew, even amidst the chaos, that they would not be beaten. Not with her there.”

His voice lifting up once more as though in reverence to what he witnessed in his mind’s eye, Salm cried out with joy.

“There she stood, a blazing light within the darkness. A wall unto herself that the enemy could not tear down. A sword of vengeance the enemy could not avoid. At the center of a maelstrom of demonic flesh, she remained unbowed. Untarnished. Defiant in the face of annihilation. And, in the end, she proved her strength against Elriza’s horde. Destroyed and driven off, the surviving taint slithered back to their holes. The tears in our world healed as they fled back to their dark home. The enemy’s corpses, piled to the top of the Fort’s massive walls, melted into pools of putrid filth before their bones were returned to the Abyss.”

The crowd sat, silently, drinks and food forgotten as the young man’s voice fell to a whisper. Lowering his head to his hands the somber tone of Salm’s voice seemed to carry even to the farthest corner of the room.

“As I said, the cost was high that night. Soldiers lay dead and dying among the disintegrating demonic corpses. Grievous wounds, shredded bodies, missing limbs. Pools of blood mingling together. We’d won, but at what cost? How could we go on after such an attack? Yes, there were still soldiers. Those in the field that were not there for the battle. But, the Fort had been breached, and we did not know if or when the enemy would do so again. And our dead… even if a hundred demons died for each hero we lost the enemy would gladly pay that cost to lay low these brave soldiers. Our heroes' morale was devastated, and no war has ever been won on the back of lost morale.”

Allowing silence to hang in the air, several stifled tear filled cries the only sounds. Suddenly, head lifting once more, Salm leapt from his seat, the stool crashing to the floor. Lifting his mug of wine, he drained it in a single pull slamming the empty vessel back onto the table with a loud crack. Empty hands raised to the sky, he tilted his head back and shouted in a voice filled with triumph.

“Amidst the cries of the dying men and women of Fort Vegapath, there she strode. Tel, captain of the famed Fort, commander of these brave soldiers. Power surged forth from her like a divine river. From a pouch at her hip she drew forth tiny candies, wrapped in golden foil. Every soldier she fed was healed of injury. Severed limbs regrew under the guidance of her hands. Maimed and burnt flesh was restored to new luster. How was she doing this? I had never seen a miracle performed in such a manner. She walked among them, feeding them, and they were renewed. The air around each soldier no longer smelled of the dying and the demon horde. Instead, the smell of sweet honey and lavender filled the air. When she finished healing the injured, we all watched as she approached the dead. Once again, her hand fell to that same pouch. From within she drew out another candy. This one sparkling like sunlight off ocean waves. Like lamplight through cut diamonds. Into the mouth of the dead she reverently placed the small, sweet, gem. The light flowed from it like honey, and soon after the dead began to glow with a similar light. Unfelt winds lifted the dead from the ground and they hung in perfect suspension before the captain. A beam of purest golden light split the night sky to bathe Tel and the dead. So bright we were forced to cover our eyes for fear of blinding. Just as suddenly as it had arrived, the light was gone, and there kneeling before their commander, the dead had been brought back to this world.”

Collapsing to sit upon the floor, the energy drained from Salm. He was breathing heavily, as though he had performed a day’s hard labor. Sweat beaded upon his brow, and it was some time before he would speak again. During that silence, a small voice called out from within the crowd.

“Is she beautiful?”

Another would add. “I bet she’s tall. All warriors in the tales are tall.”

From further back, a halfling’s voice would chime in, “Are you sure about that?” to the laughter of those around her.

Like an open floodgate, the talking turned to shouting as everyone sought to add to the description.

“Obviously she’s an elf of great power and beauty.” “Bother that, a Dwarf I say. One what’s seen ‘er fair share o’ battle.” “Didn’t you hear Salm, she’s an angel for sure. Sent by the Earth Mother herself to save us.” “She’s probably not even real. I mean, she’d have to be a dragon to be as powerful as all that.”

“No.”

That simple singular word, faintly spoken from Salm’s lips, seemed to radiate out from him. Like a doused candle, all other conversation stopped and the gathered throng refocused on the young man. Slowly, in the silence he’d created, the man would climb to his feet, lift the stool back into position, and sit heavily atop it once more.

“Though you sir may be surprised by having the closest guess. The appearance of Telissmol is not that of a powerful human, or elven queen. She is not even one of the Ffolk.”

A statement which was met with incredulous murmurs from the gathered Ffolk.

“She came from across the sea. A scion of the Sword Coast, and member of the Lord’s Alliance. As many in Fort Vegapath are. Her noble bearing, brave heart, and absolute aura of leadership bely the humble frame of her race. You see, my friends, Telissmol is a kobold. One you would no doubt have seen as lowly. You may have even thought to drive her from these lands, or kill her on sight for being such. Though your lives would be forever changed for the worse if that were your intent. This noble woman, commander of the Fort, slayer of demon hordes, with the power to call back the dead, is smaller than the stool I sit upon. Her hair isn’t the color of fresh spun golden thread. She, in fact, has no hair, but tiny delicate scales. She does not turn up a proud nose to those around her, but rather lifts it up in order to meet the gaze of those who tower over her in stature. Many there are, however, that have learned through life's hardest lesson that size simply does not matter.”

Seeming to conclude, the young man would slide carefully from his perch upon the high stool. He had nothing to gather, as he had brought nothing with him but a tale, freely shared. Instead, he paused to look out upon those gathered there to hear him speak. Wherever his eyes lingered a feeling of rejuvenation would come upon the person like spring’s first warm rays of sun.

“The stories of Telissmol and those she leads may seem fanciful to those of us who lead a normal, protected, life. You all have seen for yourselves, though, in these dark days that the lives we lead can be fleeting and fragile things. The safety of these tavern walls, of the fellowship created by those around you, can be taken away in a blink. But it only takes a brave few, willing to stand against the encroaching enemy to ensure that these walls, and those friends around you remain standing, remain strong.”

One last time, Salm would take his empty mug and lift it high to those gathered. Many of those with drinks still remaining joined him in the customary salute and bellowed out in unison.

“To the heroes of Vegapath. To those who stand before and for us. To the fallen who have died for us, to the injured who suffered for us, and to those who remain steadfast in their dedication to us. We offer this humble thank you in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

As one, the crowd would tilt back their heads and drain the remnants of their glasses, cups, and mugs and slam them down hard three times in series upon whatever surface they could find.

Salm would stride from his corner, weaving through the rousing crowd. A man’s hand would clap his shoulder, or a woman would squeeze his hand as he would pass. None would attempt to stop or slow his progress as he would make his way to the door. The screech of the hinges as Salm would pull the door open would be drowned out by the excited chatter rising from within The Crook and The Crone.

The young man would not look back as he would quickly step through and into the evening’s cool night air. The faint smell of fish and salt would waft from the docks as the nondescript man would make his way on to his next destination. He had many more stories to tell.

An Outerlords Chronicles Story

Few sounds are a visceral as gunfire. Your ears hurt from the intense pressure of it, and it’s one of those sounds that can strike fear into anyone’s heart. Everyone knows what the sound means. You can’t outrun what’s coming for you, it doesn’t matter if you’re as fast as Usain Bolt. Most people are smart. They try to hide, and then there’s me. I don’t hide, not anymore.

Let’s back up a bit first. My name is Sebastian Rooks. If anyone were to describe me physically, it would be angular. I’m a little taller than average with dark hair cut short. The Nevada sun keeps me tan, and my job keeps me in shape. There isn’t a whole lot special about my features other than my eyes which are a shade of blue that I guarantee you’ve never seen before.

Not too long ago I was a photographer. Well I’m still a photographer, but now things are a little different. I run my business out of a little strip mall just outside of good ol’ Sin City, and it keeps the bills paid. If you see my Open to Enter-pretation sign lit up, stop on in, I could use the business.

I don’t see myself as just a photographer anymore. I still do it for a living, but now I do something more. You see, I’m a Knight. I know, I know, it sounds like I should be put away somewhere, but hear me out.

The Knights have been around since…forever…in one form or another. However, it wasn’t until the legend of Saint George that the Knights finally became a true force in the world. Knights are important…I mean really important, the fate of the world on our shoulders kind of important.

The Knight’s purpose is to stand the front lines against the Outers. You’ve doubtless heard stories of knights in shining armor slaying some evil thing or another to save the damsel, or the country, or what-have-you. People love those kinds of stories. They fit into our lives, and they make us feel safe when the hero defeats the rampaging beast.

All kinds of stories and legends will lead you back to a Knight. Jack the Ripper, werewolves, dragons, shapeshifters, the chuppacabra, crop circles, possession, ancient deities. The list goes on and on. Most of those stories are real, they happened, and they are full of information about real world Outer activity on Earth. You need to get used to that if you want to understand how the world really is. Once you have come to terms with that, you’re ready to learn about the Outers.

Nobody really knows what the Outers are, or where they come from. One certainty about the Outers though is that they want to destroy this world and everything in it. That is a fact, and it goes back to the birth of the world.

However, we’ve managed to learn some few things over the millennia. From what we can tell, they have a society, or maybe it’s more appropriate to call it a hierarchy. There are the lowest level of Outers that could be characterized as animals. Low intelligence, but serving their roles. Those higher up use them for whatever purpose they need. Whether it’s to scare some locals, or slaughter entire countries, you’ll find these Outer Beasts in willing servitude to their masters.

As you move up the hierarchy, you encounter Outers with increasing levels of intelligence. With increased intelligence comes greater levels of power, influence, and sadistic intent. The upper most levels of the hierarchy are populated by the Outer Lords, and they are beings of unimaginable power.

If you have heard of the birth of England and the legend of Saint George the dragon slayer, then you have heard the story of the one Outer Lord that was ever slain. Saint George is the only known Knight to have faced an Outer Lord and survived the encounter. The Lords are the major players, they are god-like in their power, and their legends are the most awe inspiring in the world. If the birth of a nation was the legendary result of one Lord dying, it can only be speculated as to what roles these beings have played in the history of our world.

That’s the easy part of describing the Outers to you. The hard part is trying to describe them physically. What they look like, what they sound like, even what they smell like. One of the reasons why it can be so hard is because they’re all different. From what the histories of the Knights show, there has never been a report of one Outer physically looking the same as another. There are similarities to be sure, but nothing exact.

The ancient histories are full of descriptions that try to make sense of something that the human mind can barely comprehend. When a person tries to describe an Outer, they usually equate appearances to something that they can make sense of. A great example of this is actually the classic dragon figure that was made famous by the Outer Lord that Saint George slew.

The description of shield-like scales, claws like swords, a scourge for a tail, and rows of teeth deadlier than spears was easier for historians to describe when in reality a more fitting description would be much different.

Flesh that appeared slimy with rivulets of blood visible beneath the surface. When touched, it did not yield to any pressure and had the texture of stone. The beast’s five limbs were of varying lengths and shape. Most were tipped in what appeared to be sharpened bone, not horn or talons…but bone. The last, and largest limb, was laden with hard muscle and lined with small open mouths of gnashing teeth, which continued their eternal chewing long after the creature was slain. Where the head of an animal would normally rest, this monstrous creature possessed only a lump of writhing tentacles varying in length and tipped with a serrated, clear material harder and sharper than steel. No eyes were ever found and the only orifices that the being possessed where those on its longest limb.

You can see the problem.

Outer’s also possess a complete lack of symmetry, without fail. It’s one of the few constants that they all share between them. Even the ones that can pass in appearance as human have something about them that gives it away.

Most anything from Earth possesses, and obsessed with, physical symmetry. If you don’t believe me, try this. Think of the last bad haircut you had. I guarantee the feeling of it being wrong had something to do with a lack of symmetry. Now try to imagine an entire being that would give you that feeling just by looking at it.

There is one more important fact that you need to know about Outers. All of them, from the lowliest Beast to the Outer Lords themselves, possess a power that most people would consider Magic. Whether or not it is actually magic, doesn’t matter. What matters is that they can do things that defy natural laws and physics. It is this defiance of natural law that requires the most powerful of Outers, the Barons and Lords, to need help from our side to summon them into our world. Our reality prefers balance, the Outers don’t, so the Knights receive the most help from the world itself fighting back. Almost like a body fighting off an illness or infection. Like most bodies, if the things that keep it in balance are off, infections can spread.

Chaos is what the Outers need to have in the world to allow them to cross over, and the greatest forms of chaos tend to stem from human suffering. Humans themselves are, in many ways, the Outers greatest allies in our world.

This magical power gives the Outers an advantage in every conflict they are a part of. In ancient times, we used to have no way of countering this advantage until, as fate would have it, Saint George discovered something miraculous in his fight with the Outer Lord Gyp’darett.

In most of the stories you’ve heard, especially the oldest ones, the evil what’s-it dies when the valiant hero strikes a mortal blow with a special weapon. Silver bullet, stakes to the heart, cut off its head, whatever the case may be. In reality, these things still work just fine, but it’s in the details where you can find the truth.

The silver bullets are obvious, the stakes tend to be ornately crafted with special metals, and the sword is often referred to as magical. It turns out that there are two things in our world that give us an edge against them, and both have their own way of helping us defeat the Outers.

One is silver, like I said that one is kind of obvious from the stories. Silver acts like a poison to the Outers. It has an effect that breaks down the physical make-up of any Outer, causing it great harm. Close proximity to silver can even cause discomfort to Outers, and they tend to stay away from areas with large amounts of silver nearby. This is where a lot of the “shining armor” stories come from.

You can tell when silver is affecting an Outer when it starts to tarnish. Science explains this as oxidation of silver’s component molecules, but it’s actually the stain from an Outer’s energy that causes it to darken. This is the reason why the Knights have spent a long time integrating an appreciation for silver among the cultures of the world.

The second substance that has been found to give humanity an edge against the Outers is one that was only discovered by Saint George himself. Our historians were able to determine that when Saint George slew the Outer Lord, he wielded a sword that was made of silver, but it was also decorated with intricate inlays of cobalt. His armor as well was made more ornate with the addition of this strange metal.

When the battle was over, it was discovered that the additional material in his sword and armor seemed to pulse with a vast quantity of absorbed energy from the Outer Lord, likely saving Saint George’s life in the process. After a great deal of observation and experimentation, it was found that this material not only had the ability to absorb an Outer’s energy, but it could be repurposed and used to do amazing things.

Modern Knights refer to this repurposing as Appropriated Mystical Phenomena, or Amp for short. Knights are now equipped with Amped weapons and armor to help in their fight against the growing Outer threat. Every Knight trains in the ways of using Amped items to get a specific result, and Amped items are painstakingly crafted to elicit one type of effect or another.

Centuries of study and learning have gone into discovering how to utilize this energy, and though we have come a long way, we still don’t know everything. A Knight armed with silver is dangerous to an Outer, but a Knight armed and trained in the use of Amp is the most dangerous force we have to use against them. No Knight would be caught without some type of Amped item on their person at all times. Well…all of them, except for me. I can somehow do it naturally within myself. Just like an Outer.

That starts to lead us back to the bullets.

***

Don and I have gone up against groups of Outer worshippers a couple of times since I’ve joined the Knights. We’ve usually been able to stop these cults before they could fully assist an Outer to enter our world. Last time, however, they were able to complete what they were doing and summoned a Baron into our world. Barons are powerful Outers with only one goal so far as we can tell, and that is to spread chaos and death in service to their Lord. I was able to stop the Baron and destroy it, but it hadn’t come easily and the price for doing so was high.

Since then things in Las Vegas had been quiet where the Outer are concerned. I’d started to relax when I’d had one of my dreams, or visions, and I knew that something big was coming again if we didn’t find a way to stop it.

When I have one of my dreams, I see strange glimpses of what the Outers are doing. We don’t know yet if they are limited by how close the Outer activity is to me. So far as I can tell, they are always about some sort of activity that I can have an effect on. I’d been having these dreams my whole life before I had realized exactly what it was that I was seeing in my dreams. Now I take them very seriously, I know what happens when I ignore them.

They are different than most people’s dreams. I don’t forget them when I wake up, I can’t. They stay with me, sometimes changing in little ways, until whatever it is that the Outers were planning, or doing, is finished one way or another. Then they fade just like any other dream. I’d been awake for nearly an hour, but I could still remember the newest dream in perfect detail.

I can see nothing but darkness, and I feel that I am surrounded by dirt, stones, and various plant roots. It’s not a tunnel, but rather it pushes down on me as though I am buried. I don’t feel of fear or panic, it is more a sense of excited urgency to escape. I can tell that I am naked. I can feel things crawling across my naked flesh. Long, thin, slime coated bodies leave lingering sensations of cold wetness behind in their wake. This too doesn’t cause me any concern. I can’t move, I can’t breathe, and I can’t hear anything. It doesn’t matter, maybe it should?

I’m looking down at a hole in the concrete floor illuminated by long Florissant overhead lights. It is filled with freshly turned soil, and I feel accomplished as I take in the sights around me. There are others in the room I stand in, but their faces are covered in crimson mud. They speak words to me that sound hollow and far away. A low hum or rumble in the background further distorts their words into senseless noise. I feel something warm and wet ooze down the side of my head and over my left ear. I pull my hand through my hair and find it stained with a red so deep it looks nearly black in the harsh lighting. Stained all the way to my elbow, to my shoulder, and further. I scream in exaltation.

I’m back in the ground again, with the wriggling things, and I feel something tugging at my toes…my fingers. It doesn’t hurt, but I can feel pieces of me disappear, like the lights being turned out in a building. The wriggling things are everywhere now, they cover me, and I can feel them growing as I shrink away. I am nothing but food, and I revel in it.

I had woken up alone in my apartment, lying on the floor of my bedroom next to my bed. I must have rolled off the mattress and not woken up when I hit the ground. It had been an awful nightmare, and I knew something was happening so I quickly gave Don a call.

Donald Shooter was once my handler when I had first joined the Knights. He’d been the one to make me a Knight’s Bachelor, or squire, and had taken responsibility for my training and my life during those early years. He’d also been the one to keep the rest of the order from killing me when they finally learned what I could do. Don is a friend, the greatest kind of friend you can have. When he answered the phone, I told him that I’d had a dream and he had me drive to his place to meet him.

Don lives above the bar he owns called The Shooting Gallery, and he was waiting behind the bar with an empty shot glass and a cold bottle of beer when I arrived. It was still early in the morning, so I’d grabbed the beer and he put the glass back on its shelf. He made me tell him everything while he wrote it all in a journal he’s been keeping since the first time he found out about my dreams. I’ve kept my own journal too, a dream journal I mostly keep out of habit from when I’d been seeing a therapist as a child.

We’ve been finding patterns in my dreams. Information that would help us figure out what to do, but it usually only came through in the way of most dreams…fucking weird.

After that, we’d both hit different sources for information to try and figure out what it all meant. Don hit the underground scene mainly. Owning a bar that caters, mostly, to societies ‘undesirables’ can make you some interesting friends.

I spent my time reaching out to some of my friends and contacts for anything strange happening around the city. As a photographer I had some connections with a local paper and the police department have me on file as an information source. My street photography has something to do with that, but mostly it’s my past that keeps the police interested.

I haven’t always been the most upstanding of citizen. The word terrorist has been thrown my way a few times, not really like you hear about now though. After I left that life, I became a freelance war photographer for a while, and I’ve seen my share of atrocities.

None of my sources panned out, nothing weirder than normal had been reported to the police, it is Vegas after all. My contacts in the news didn’t have anything for me either, and I had been contemplating reaching out to some contacts from my old life, when Don got in touch with me.

Don had eventually learned from a local dealer, who specialized in high end pharmaceuticals, that some people had been buying up a lot of his product lately. They weren’t regulars, and he had initially been worried about them being cops. He’d eventually learned that they weren’t, they were mostly business men, or people in the local gambling scene, and he hadn’t thought anything more about it. But the amount of product they’d bought wasn’t something that he was going to forget any time soon.

They’d had him deliver it to a small storage unit outside of the city on the way towards Hoover Dam. That night, Don and I had gone to check the place out and after a quick look around, Don had found records of the renters for each unit.

Don made it very clear that he did not break into the businesses filing cabinets to find the records. They had, in fact, been lying out in plain sight when he’d opened the, miraculously, unlocked door to the manager’s office.

There had been one renter who was currently taking up several of the available storage units and after we’d poked around those units we’d found several empty dirt stained barrels, and some water damaged cardboard boxes. Whatever had been in the boxes had stained them red when they had gotten wet. We knew we were in the right place. The dreams are like that.

After that we had gotten lucky. While we were still there, someone had pulled into the unit’s parking lot. We’d watched as the man went into another of the units that was owned under the same renter’s name, and pulled out another of the cardboard boxes.

When the guy left, we raced back to Don’s SUV and pulled out after him. A little tailing and several minutes later the man’s truck veered off the road takin a service road toward the Hoover Dam. We’d followed, lights off and a good distance back, until we came to the end of the road and found the man’s truck along with several other vehicles.

Don and I armed up, and snuck into the service entrance closest to the vehicles. The door latch had duct tape over the frame to prevent the automatic locking system from engaging. The normal grey surface of the tape had worn down from heavy use, and looking at it more closely I could see several older pieces of tape underneath the outer most layer.

When we’d entered the building, we were immediately forced to choose which way to go as the door opened into a hallway that led in both directions. We had been about to split up when Don noticed a trail of red drop stains on the concrete floor leading to the right.

As we made our way down the hallway, we did very little to hide any noise we made. The place was loud. A constant heavy droning sound filled the space, killing any small sounds we made before they traveled very far from us. Due to this, we’d moved quickly down the hallway. There was very little in the way of cover to block anyone from seeing our approach if they were looking. Any the doors that dotted the hall were rare and all were locked when we tested them. Working on the assumption that the exterior door’s lock prevention would be the same for interior doors as well, we quickly moved past each of these doors.

Eventually, the hall widened from a basic concrete hallway into a more open area. Over the noise around us, we were just barely able to make out the sound of voices. The area where the voices were coming from was directly in front of us in a large open space filled with huge concrete pillars and with a floor sloping slightly downward.

Don and I had been able to creep close enough to see what the group was doing and found them surrounding a large hole that had been smashed out of the concrete floor. We watched as the man we’d followed from the storage units handed the small box over to another man very carefully, and then quickly backed away.

We had been about to draw our weapons and ambush the group when I heard something slap down to the floor behind us. Whatever it was must have been hiding among the pipes overhead and out of sight.

I’d turned to look at the source of the noice, and found myself looking at something that I can only describe as an eyeless, fur covered leach, with legs…a lot of legs. It was easily the size of a Great Dane and was covered in stiff bristled fur the color of the grey concrete around us. In the moment it took me to come out of my shock at seeing, whatever it was, the thing let out a whistling scream that seemed to come from two places at once. Then with a weird undulating motion, it threw itself right at my face. Its sucker like mouth seemed to swell to twice its previous size and fold back on itself as it flew through the air. Hundreds of worm thin tendrils, each about a foot long, shot out ahead of its lurching body.

As it flew through the air, I got my left hand up in time to grab hold of a fist full of the wriggling tendrils and pulled straight down…hard. Whatever kind of Outer it was, weighed far less than its size would suggest, and I overbalanced as I easily turned the creature’s forward momentum into bone crushing force as I smashed its sucker face into the concrete floor. Its back end snapped forward over my nearly supine body and I noticed that the end that had been facing me was almost exactly mirrored on the other back end. The difference between them was that the sucker mouth on the back end was lined with what looked like serrated shark teeth instead of writhing tendrils. Really big, serrated shark teeth.

I was still holding onto my fistful of wriggling tendrils when the back end whipped over me, and both mouths elicited a gurgling cry of pain as I began to drain power from it. That’s my gift, or curse, however you want to see it. Just by touching an Outer, I can drain the power from it the same way that cobalt can.

I twisted the fingers of my left hand to tangle in the mass of tendrils, and jerked up with my right to grab the other end of the thing just behind its other mouth. The coarse fur of its body felt as hard as iron, and dozens of the hair fine needles pierced my skin. I held on despite the pain, and gripping tightly with both hands I stood up and lifted the thing above my head.

“Don!” I cried out “Help!”

Don had taken cover behind a pillar, drawn a 9mm, and had begun firing into the group of worshippers as soon as he had seen me grab the Outer. At my call, he made a quick spinning sidestep toward me drawing a long, silver knife from a sheath at his lower back.

His spin took him away from his cover position and just close enough to me to reach out and glide the razor edge of that knife along the length of the Outer’s body. With one more rotation, he was back behind his cover position, knife back in its sheath, and sending silver flashes streaking from his gun towards the remaining cult members again.

As his knife passed through the creature, it split open like an uncooked sausage and brownish red fluid began to ooze from it. While it did, the creature convulsed in my hands like an eel, my right hand screamed in agony as more, and more of the fur needles pierced my flesh.

I let go with my right hand and, with a cry of pain-fueled rage, swung the thing out with my left hand as hard and I could, smashing it into another nearby concrete column. The force of the impact was so great that the mass of tendrils I had been holding on to ripped free from the creature with a little pop and the creature actually stuck to the wall. More gore exploded from the thing, covering the pillar in the Outer’s stinking fluids.

***

The death of the beast fills me with power. The savage energy that courses through my guts tears me out of my reverie over the last few days, and I turn to face the remaining cultists. Several of them are down already, bullet holes leaking blood onto the grey concrete floor. The remaining men and women take various positions of cover around the room, and they are armed and returning fire, which I’d hardly registered during my battle with the Outer Beast.

“Get behind me,” I yell to Don as I lunge past him.

As I do so, I stretch out my hand, and feel the terrible energy that has pooled in my midsection twist and writhe within me like a living thing. The pile of broken concrete shards that were left over from the hole the cultists had dug fly through the air and hang suspended off the ground creating a fractured wall barely two feet in front of me. As I stride forward, Don right on my heels, bullets from the cultists begin pounding into my improvised shield. Bits of concrete chips and puffs of dust fly every which way as the cultists unload in our direction. As pieces of the concrete break down, I use more power to fill the gaps with new pieces.

The energy I had collected from the Outer twists and turns inside me like a scared animal as it slowly drains away while I hold the shield in place.

The gunfire sputters to a stop. Men and women begin cursing while they fumble to reload. I look to my right as a man cries in a high-pitched wail, “Lord Iiderios” before charging out from behind cover. He holds his handgun by the barrel making it into a rude club, and fanatic devotion replaces the fear he should be feeling.

A shot tears its way out of Don’s gun bare inches from my ear, and a crimson mist of blood fills the air as the back of the man’s head explodes under the force of the killing blow. The initial shot is quickly followed by two more to the chest as Don ends the man’s life in the perfect rhythm of a trained killer. Mozart couldn’t have played a better cadence.

As members of the cult begin reloading their weapons, I send the remaining shards of my improvised shield shrieking out from me in a semi-circle. The power within me tears at my insides with jagged claws as I use yet more of the stolen energy.

Thuds of painful impact are followed by grunts and cries as hundreds of pounds of shattered concrete smash into the cultists with the speed of major league fastballs. After the barrage, few of the cultists remain conscious and none are willing to put up any sort of fight.

As the remaining cult members surrender, Don pulls out a bundle of zip ties and begins to secure the survivors. I pull out my phone and call our commander.

“Yes,” a woman’s voice slides through the phone. Her polished Oxford accent clearly recognizable even over the drone of the magnificent Dam around us.

“Natalia,” I say with exaggerated care, “it’s Sebastian.”

“I know.” She replies.

“Don and I are down at the Hoover Dam. We’ve just cleared a group of Iiderios’ cultists and we need them rounded up.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before she replies that a team will arrive in less than an hour.

I give her the directions to the small service road before hanging up the phone.

As Don continues to secure the survivors with no resistance, I look down into the pit.

It’s deeper than I would have imagined, and I can see rich soil inside. The hole is wide enough for a man to lie down in it, and as I lean in closer, I can see that something is making the dirt move. As I watch, hundreds of similar, tiny, versions of the Outer we had killed boil to the surface only to sink back down again. The roiling motion of the dirt reveals the mostly consumed corpse of a man before the dirt flows over him again. The damage to the corpse is so severe, that I am unable to determine even what age the man had been, though the body is too large to be that of a child. Thank God.

With an effort of will, I tear the last writhing bit of energy from within me and sacrifice it to light the air on fire. A flash of intense heat scorches my face as a boom of blue flames fills the hole. Sudden thick wet smoke chokes the air with a putrid smell so foul that I vomit into the pit. When the smoke clears enough for me to see again, the hole opens before me and it is nearly emptied of dirt from the resulting explosion. The charred remains of the tiny Outers can be seen littering the floor.

“Looks like cleanup will take a little longer for the crew today” Don says.

“Yeah” I reply dryly, “it feels like the cleanup never ends.”

An Outerlords Chronicle story

(click)

Project Notes. Notes and interviews will be taken via voice recorder for future editing. All raw information will be turned in along with the finished project for grading. Any breaks in the recording will be done only upon request by the interviewee or at the conclusion of each night.

(click)

Start date 2/16/2012. Recorded interviews will be with local pub owner Don Schuter. The recordings are to be edited and used for my senior journalism project. Don was suggested to me by an acquaintance. He is supposed to have quite the story to tell.

(click)

Personal note, dated 4/2/2012. Don has been reluctant to talk about his past, and several nights have been spent recording conversations and buying cheap booze. The recordings taken on these nights were useless and, subsequently, will not be included in the final draft. Though Don has never expressed any wish to keep what he tells me private, he has been very good at avoiding my questions. I think he’s done this before.

(click)

Personal note, dated 4/3/2012. I didn’t come home last night. Don finally told me his story. I guess I was persistent enough. All I asked him was, “Can you tell me your story?” Holy shit did he tell me a story. I don’t even know what to think. What if he’s telling the truth? God, I hope he’s lying.

(click)

Personal note, dated 4/14/2012. It’s true…all of it… This will be my last notation regarding my interview with Don Schuter. I dropped out of school yesterday. My professors don’t understand, how could they? They’re just like I was, ignorant. They aren’t ready for it, they might never be. I’ve attached the recording of that night’s interview. It hasn’t been edited. If you want to know the truth, this is a good place to start. If you choose to go down this path, be ready for it. Be more careful than I was.

(click)

It’s the morning of Monday, April second 2012, and tonight I will be interviewing the owner of the Schuting Gallery, a local pub that lies just off North 6th street right next to the on ramp to interstate 515. It’s located on a small turn around that had once been used for nothing but bad parking until Don purchased a piece of the lot from the city to build his pub on. The pub is everything you would expect to find in any city in the Midwest, but seems out of place in Vegas. Beer signs and local band posters cover the faded paint on the walls and an old jukebox fills the small place with tunes from most of those same bands. The place looks and feels faded, except for the old oak bar, which Don keeps clean, clear, and polished to shine in the dim lights of the room.

When you enter the Schuting Gallery, you’ll probably see Don behind the bar most nights in the low hanging haze of not-just cigarette smoke. He’s a good looking guy. A white male in his mid-thirty’s, Don is a bit rough around the edges. His blond hair and beard are kept short, which makes him look military, and the way he keeps his patrons in line shows that it’s likely true. The place is filled most nights with locals, and the ones that frequent the Schuting Gallery are the ones that keep tourists away.

Don Schuter has lived in Las Vegas since 2003. From what I’ve been able to learn from other sources, he’s single and has no kids. Maybe I can confirm that with him tonight. He doesn’t talk about himself much, mostly he talks to regulars about their days or is filling drinks. It’s been difficult to get a chance to sit with Don for any length of time. When we do, he often needs to get up to grab a drink for someone. I’ve noticed that he’s also good at distracting me with questions about myself before I can even begin to ask him anything. Tonight is a Monday though, so maybe it will be slow enough to get some good answers out of him.

(click)

Today I am with Don Schuter in his pub the Schuting Gallery, and he has graciously closed his pub for the night to allow me to interview him un-interrupted.

So Don, can you tell me your story?

Sure kid, no problem. I wasn’t expecting much for business tonight anyway. Do you want a drink or anything? I’m gonna grab one if you don’t mind.

Yeah, Bud light if you have it.

I asked if you wanted a drink kid. If you wanted water you could have just said so.

***

I’ll get one thing straight right away, you don’t know me. You might think you do by how I look or how I talk, but trust me kid when I tell you, you don’t know shit.

My father gave me three things before he left. A first, middle and last name. I kept two of them. The IRS and DMV know what my middle name is, but I’m not going to tell you. Let’s just say the old man had an asshole’s sense of humor when I was born.

I’m originally from Wisconsin of all places, Milwaukee to be precise, and I spent the better part of nineteen years learning how to survive against the worst that place has to offer. Crime, poverty, bad driving, and worse housing. I’d seen it all and came out the other end just fine. I even loved someone once. Until that changed too.

Now, you probably heard some rumor going around about some of the crazy shit I say when I’m drunk, and wanted to find out about it yourself. Well kid, today’s the day that I’m actually going to tell you, and we’ll see how lucky you feel afterward.

I’ll give it to you straight, you don’t know what the world is really like either. Oh, you probably think you do. You have it all figured out. You, maybe, watched ol’ Billy Nye as a kid and graduated High School so now everything makes sense.

The world has order to it. As a kid you were taught that your greatest goal in life would be fulfilled when you found that order. You have experts and “proof,” graphs of all shapes and sizes, which answer every question you’ve ever been taught to ask. If your experts say something isn’t true, well, who are you to question them…right?

Well here’s what I know. Your experts may be smart, hell, I know they’re smarter than I am. They know a lot about this world, but they haven’t got a clue about what’s really going on.

I’ll ask you this, it’s the best test I know of to gauge if you’ve got a clue as to what I’m talking about.

Have you ever heard of the Outers?

No.

I didn’t think so.

Let’s try this instead. Have you heard of vampires? Werewolves? Dragons? The Bogeyman? Of course you have, everyone has one way or another. So in a way, you know a little bit about the Outers, just not what I’m going to tell you about them.

To understand my story, you’ll need to try accepting that all of this supernatural stuff; ancient monsters, local legends, a lot of the old gods, even some fictional story characters, all have their origins as Outers.

Hey kid, I know what it sounds like, hell, I’ve been right where you are once. Even rolled my eyes just like you are now, but remember…you found me, you asked to hear this. Let me finish my story and then we’ll see what you think. Ok?

I’m getting ahead of myself though. You wanted my story. That was your question at the start of this whole thing. So, I’ll tell you some of the highlights. I’ll be completely honest with you and I’m not going to try and sugar coat it, my life’s fucked up, but there were some good parts too.

My mom and I moved to Sherman Park when in 1985 when I was about six years old. It sounds nice, but the name lies to you. It’s not a good part of Milwaukee, and as one of the few white kids in the area, I had to learn fast how to avoid getting beat up, or worse.

If you walk anywhere in the area the first thing you’re going to notice is that every house is built to be its own privately-owned fortress. Barred windows and doors keep anything larger than a squirrel from trying to get in. Constantly drawn drapes prevent others from looking to see if you have anything worth stealing. I’ve even seen places with thick wood or metal shutters built in to help keep stray bullets from flying through the windows at night.

My house was just like that. It was a tiny two-bedroom stucco place my Mom was able to afford by working three jobs. The security door and windows looked awkward on the poor little place. Like a skinny teenager wearing a tux for the first time. Acceptable, but a little pathetic. The previous owners had decided that painting it bright green was the best way to make it stand out in the neighborhood, and they were right about that. Even after the paint had faded to an oily puke color, it was hard to miss.

We were sandwiched between two monolithic old Victorians who’d watched their prime die before their metaphorical eyes. One was vacant, and would have made a wonderful place to explore as a kid if it wasn’t regularly used as a flophouse for people to sleep off their latest fix. The other housed an elderly black couple who had bought it back when Sherman Park was going to be something special. Their last name was Anderson or Jefferson…something like that. They were good people to have as neighbors, and they and my Mom got along well enough.

Our place didn’t have what people think of as a yard. The city had bought the back half of the lot before it was ours and used it to house a cluster of city dumpsters for the surrounding neighborhood. I can remember as a child thinking that nothing could be as awful as being woken up at 5:30 A.M. by the city garbage truck slamming empty dumpsters back into their concrete corral. I’ve since learned that isn’t true, there are worse things…just not many.

The lack of yard space didn’t affect me much growing up though, because we lived pretty close to the park that the neighborhood was named after.

The price of the house, and the green space of Sherman Park were the main reasons why my Mom had chosen that house when she bought it. The park itself is gorgeous, or at least it was when I lived there. A baseball diamond and basketball courts provided outlets for the kids of the area, and plenty of groomed grass and tall old trees provided relief from the hottest of summer days.

At night, however, the park transformed into something different. Something cold and terrifying. I learned early on that as soon as the streetlights started to come on, it was time to get home. Nobody had cell phones back in those days, so I’m sure I worried my Mom sick when I came home later than planned.

I had few friends growing up. As the scrawny white kid in the neighborhood, most of the others in the area wanted nothing to do with me, and several had worse ideas in mind for me than that. There were a couple of kids, however, that I became very close with.

Aisha and Dreyvon King were twins my age. We’d met at the park when we were around seven or eight. I don’t remember it exactly, but my Mom told me that I first met the twins when another kid had tried to steal my favorite action figure. She’d heard me start yelling and rushed over to see what was happening. By the time she got there, Aisha was helping me stand and handing me back my toy while Dreyvon, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, stood between me and the boy who’d knocked me down. The other boy ran off when my Mom got there, and the twins told her what happened. After that, the three of us were nearly inseparable.

The twins were fraternal I later found out when I could understand the word, and they lived in an apartment building a few blocks from my house. It was a three-bedroom apartment in a building that had seen a lot of better days come and go, and was prepared to see more of the same treatment. The Kings did what they could though to keep their kids as comfortable as possible.

Their parent’s names were Warren and Suni, and they insisted that I never call them Mr. or Mrs. anything. They were in their mid-thirties, around my age now come to think of it, and they had one of those relationships that you could mortar walls with.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people as in love with each other as Warren and Suni.

Warren worked for the city, doing road construction. He was a huge man, just a few inches shy of seven feet and his job kept layers of hard-earned muscle on his frame. Suni on the other hand was just a bitty little thing, but when she walked into a room, people turned their eyes toward her rather than her husband. She worked part time at one of the local bank branches, and part time giving haircuts to people in the area. They were both well-known and respected, Warren often coached kid’s basketball at the park, while Suni was very active in the community.

The respect the Kings had earned in the neighborhood was extended to the twins as they got older. As one of their closest friends, I also enjoyed a measure of that incidental respect, and it helped see me through some particularly rough experiences. Being a friend of the Kings was almost as good as walking around with a bulletproof vest on.

I can remember a time when I was about fifteen or so, when a group of guys followed the three of us back to the twin’s apartment after a long day at the park. It was later than usual for us to be getting home. Aisha had been talking to an older boy that she liked, while Dre and I shot some more hoops.

Dre was the first to notice something was wrong, and I watched him take on a dark, hard look in his eyes I didn’t recognize. A moment later, I too noticed what he was reacting to. Dre had had seen what we had all missed, that the street lights had come on without us noticing and the lengthening shadows had begun to make the park feel sinister.

We’d quickly gathered up Dre’s ball, and our remaining full cans of Coke, and hurried over to where Aisha was still talking to that boy. As I said he was an older kid, maybe seventeen or so and his attention was completely on Aisha so he hadn’t noticed Dre and I approaching until Dre was grabbing her hand and telling her it was time to leave.

Now, you couldn’t really blame the guy for being distracted and not noticing our approach. Aisha was a very pretty girl for her age. She was tall, obviously taking after her father, but luckily that was where her resemblance to him ended. She took after her mother the most which, even then, included an incredible combination of enticing curves, full lips quick with a smile, dark walnut skin, and a bright personality that could drive clouds away.

Aisha started to protest when Dre grabbed her, but had stopped mid-way through her first word when she noticed how dark it had gotten. She then said goodbye to the boy and gave him a quick kiss, which left Dre and I staring blankly for a moment, before gathering her things.

As we left the park that night, we were immediately aware that we had picked up some un-wanted attention. Four figures had started following us the moment we left the older boy and his friends behind.

Dre set a quicker than normal pace that evening. Even so, just before we reached the twin’s apartment the four figures caught up to us. They stopped us on a section of sidewalk where the streetlights didn’t touch. Warren had been sending letters in, requesting that the city repair the lights, but as usual nothing had been done about it.

They were older than us, most likely in their early twenties, and they made sure to surround us as soon as they could. I’ll never forget what happened, and what they said to us that night.

The first one to talk was the largest of the group, which isn’t that surprising in situations like those. Even though they all had years on us, the speaker still wasn’t as tall as Dre was. Dre had hit a major growth spurt when we were thirteen or fourteen and he was nearly as tall as his Dad. His height tended to make him look gawky rather than fierce but in the dim light, and with my nerves on edge, he just looked like he was about to kick someone’s ass.

“Hey kids,” the guy had said trying to sound cool. “Where you going?”

“Home,” was all that Dre said back to him.

“Really,” the guy said with a little chuckle in his voice. “Maybe we’ll walk you there. It’s not really safe on these streets at night.”

“We’re fine,” Dre had said. “We’re almost there and our folks are expecting us.”

“Really?” Another one of the guys asked, a bit too much interest in his voice. “Maybe we could crash there for the night. Like Damian said, these streets ain’t that safe when it’s dark out.”

He must have been the funny one in the group, because they all started laughing at the implications.

“Ha, yeah,” another one had too eagerly chimed in, his voice high and nasally. “I don’t know about you guys,” indicating his group, “but I’m really thirsty too. I’m sure you’ve got something at your place that could help with that, right?”

More laughter came from the group and I remember starting to feel more worried than I ever had when I was with the twins.

“Come on,” Damian, the head asshole, said in a mocking tone. “It’ll be fun.”

He was openly leering at Aisha, who was clearly trying to melt into Dre’s looming shadow, and just as clearly failing at it.

I guess, I don’t really know what possessed me to do what I did. Maybe I was trying to be a smart ass; it wouldn’t have been the first time my actions had gotten me into deeper shit. Maybe I was trying to get their attention off of Aisha who was clearly scared.

I don’t remember much of what I screamed at Damian when I charged him. I assume there were a lot of “fuckers” and “assholes” thrown in for flavor, I was at that age. I do remember though, exactly what I did, clear as day. Almost as if it were burned into my soul when I did it.

I took a quick couple of steps around Dre and swung the bag, with the remaining cans of Coke in it, straight at Damian’s balls. It connected at an awkward angle, but even so, Damian doubled over with a squeal of pain-filled terror. I screamed something like, “Still thirsty Bitch,” my voice likely breaking at that moment due to the tension and my age, and swung the bag again hitting him in the ribs with a meaty thud.

I remember feeling overwhelmed with elation and pride at what I had done. I’d done it…me. I’d kicked that guy’s ass. Saved my friends, and myself. I’d even come up with an awesome one-liner on the spot. Hell, the neighborhood would be talking about this for weeks, months even. I’d finally be cool shit at my school. Nobody would fuck with me anymore. Maybe, somebody would want to make a movie about it one day. Yeah, then I’d be famous, and rich, and everyone would ask me to take care of things, like Warren.

All of that flashed through my thoughts, as I stood triumphant over the monster I’d just stopped.

I turned back to look at Dre, the plastic bag leaking with the wet contents of the burst cans of Coke inside, and my smiling face met the fist of the guy I had thought of as the funny one. My legs turned to jelly when he hit me and I fell sideways with the blow onto the bag of sodas I had been holding, pinning it beneath me and feeling the contents dig painfully into my ribs, warm liquid beginning to soak slowly into my shirt.

I’d barely gotten my eyes focused when a shoe, approximately the size of Texas, slammed into me just below my rib cage. The kick blasted the air from my lungs, and I suddenly felt like one of those astronauts in the movies that try to breathe when their tanks run empty. Then there was the pain, oh God the pain. My guts felt like someone filled me with liquid fire. I probably threw up; you usually do after a hit like that.

Damian and I made an interesting matched set on the sidewalk, I suppose. Both of us curled up into a ball, whimpering and trying not to move, afraid the slightest twitch would make everything get worse.

Of the two of us though, Damian was the luckier one. He was left alone to manage his agony. Me, well, I got to entertain his funny friend who kept kicking me while I was down and gasping for air. It seemed like anywhere his foot could reach was fair game, my stomach, my back, face, arms. He even kicked me in the ass, and the whole time he kept laughing and asking me if I liked it.

I didn’t like it. Not even a little.

That is, until I looked up at him in time to watch a basketball, thrown by Dre, slam into the side of the funny guy’s head as he drew his foot back for another kick. His head snapped viciously to the side and I saw the guy’s eyes lose focus as he too dropped to the ground in a senseless heap.

Later, we would talk about how lucky that throw had been. If he’d missed, a lot of things about that night might have ended differently. As it happens though he didn’t miss, and I remember thinking the strangest thing at the time. I could see Dre, still extended from his throw, standing between the other two guys, who hadn’t moved, and Aisha.

He had a look on his face that I suddenly remembered seeing when I was eight and he’d fought off the other boy. It was an intense expression, a mixture of rage and fear, guilt and acceptance. It was the look I’ve since then seen on soldier’s faces when they gunned down civilians strapped with bombs that were charging their unit. The look a loving father has when he spanks his child for the first time, or that good doctor’s get when they realize it’s better off for their patient to die. That look of doing something they hate, out of love.

I remember looking at his young face, his brown eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. I could see his body trembling, and he was breathing the night air in gulps. Our gazes locked, and an intense feeling of intimate connection rose within me as I thought about how good he looked in that moment.

My mind did a quick stutter step…Wait. What? Then everything began to happen again too quickly to continue down that train of thought.

Nobody had watched the basketball after it had hit the funny guy in the head. It had sailed off, and landed in the street, bouncing several times. A car that had been driving down the street towards us suddenly slammed on its breaks to avoid hitting the bouncing ball. The squeal of tires on asphalt was deafening as it split the night air.

At the same time, Damian began to get to his feet, finally getting over the shot I’d given him. His eyes still held a measure of pain as he gingerly crawled to his hands and knees. When he finally got to his feet, he looked down at me and I could see murder in his eyes. My muddled thoughts latched onto that particular scene with strange fascination. I’d seen hatred before in the eyes of others as they looked at me, that wasn’t new, but I’d never seen anything like this. It was pure, undiluted, murderous intent, and it was directed towards me.

As Damian reached behind his back toward his belt line, I heard a car door open and a deep voice suddenly filled my heart with hope.

“Dre, Aisha! You were supposed to be home an hour ago. Where have you been?” The voice of Warren King yelling at his children was like sweet music to my ears.

I heard Damian curse under his breath and he stopped reaching for whatever it had been. Instead, he carefully stooped down to grab his funny friend from the ground as the guy’s eyes finally came back into focus. He gestured for the others to help him, and as they lifted the guy to his feet I heard Damian whisper to the others.

“Shit! That’s Warren King. Fuck, I didn’t know these were his kids. Let’s get out of here.” The group quickly took off down an ally and vanished into the shadows of the evening.

Still lying on my side, I watched Aisha dash over to her Dad and wrap her arms around him. I could see that she was crying, great wracking sobs of too many emotions all at once, into his chest as he looked a bit puzzled at what was going on.

Dre hurried over to me and knelt down to offer me his hand up. I remember that I wanted to tell him what a nice throw it had been; I wanted to act cool in front of him instead of lying on the ground. I even opened my mouth to say just that while he grabbed my outstretched hand and pulled me to my feet.

The pain of being hauled to my feet left me feeling dizzy and out of focus, however, and the compliment turned into a wheeze of pain. My stomach and side hurt so badly that I couldn’t stand up straight and remained hunched forward a bit. I looked up at Dre’s face after I got my breath and abruptly stopped what I was about to say for the second time, when I saw his face.

In the space of a heartbeat, I watched emotions fly across his face starting with happiness, a touch of confusion that then made a beeline for fear. I remember watching his lips move as if he were speaking to me, but I couldn’t seem to hear him. Everything seemed to be fuzzy and I couldn’t focus.

I don’t remember how I got back onto the ground, but I do remember looking up as Warren’s huge frame gathered in close to my aching side. Dre’s face was right next to mine and he looked like he was talking again.

His mouth looked interesting when he did that. I remember that his eyes looked really big, and brown, and worried, and they were focused on me. Aisha’s face hovered behind his, and she had her hand pressed to her mouth, a look of horror on her face. I couldn’t pay attention to her though, her brother was just so close to me.

The next thing I knew; Warren was carrying me to his car while Aisha held the door open. Dre got in the other side of the back seat and reached out to help guide me into the car. I was really cold for some reason, and Warren’s huge arms were warm and steady.

Then I remember feeling like I was moving really fast. I opened my eyes to see Dre looking down at me, I must have had my head in his lap from the angle. He was saying my name and he had one hand on my forehead and the other arm wrapped around my shoulders, steadying me.

Then I was being lifted out of the car again by Warren. He held me close against the bare skin of his stomach and chest, and I noticed that his shirt was tied around my midsection. It felt so warm there. Like I was at home, in my bed, with the blankets pulled up close to my chin. I closed my eyes and tried to wriggle a bit deeper into that feeling of warmth.