Jarn: A Writer's Work and Thoughts

I've Been Published

2009-10-30T13:22:00.002-04:00

We interupt this short story for a surprisingly appropriate announcement: the first story I ever sold has finally been published. It's been almost six months since I received the acceptance letter, and was beginning to wonder if I would ever see it. The folks at Mindflights Magazine finally got back to me and explained they wanted to use my story "Shinkyo Bridge" for their Halloween Special, which went live today.

In case you're wondering, it's appropriate that I make mention of this because it was the precursor to "A Mother's Love" that I've been showcasing this last week. It follows around Miyamoto Musashi as well, but in this case it simply puts forth an old legend surrounding one of the oldest standing bridges in Japan.

It occurred to me once I finished writing "Shinkyo Bridge" that there was still alot to be done with this character. He had tons of adventures still ahead, so I started thinking I would do a book of short stories following him. As if my tendency, that idea changed quite a bit by the time I started putting pen to paper. I'd researched the life of Miyamoto Musashi, identified important times of his life, and figured out a plot and six sub-plots which I could make into a book, incorporating ghosts, the supernatural, Japanese religion, and belief. Hopefully I'll have the time someday to actually write more than just the first story.

Anyway, check out "Shinkyo Bridge" here. http://www.mindflights.com/item.php?sub_id=5794

I hope this is just the beginning, and that my next publication will end up on paper. Thanks for reading, all.

Berserker Part 61

2009-09-04T00:23:00.001-04:00

“Open the gates!”, Marhault screamed to his men, his sharp eyes making out human figures amid the ash and smoke that obscured the fields. He had made a grevious error and prayed desperately that he was the only person to pay for it.

With bolstering cries the men ran to the gates, grunting and swearing as they removed the heavy logs bracing the gates shut. Finally managing to wrestle them aside, two more teams of men hauled desperately on thick ropes attached to the doors. Their muscles strained and veins bulged beneath their skin as they dug into the churned earth and pulled with all their combined might. With a horrible shrieking of unoiled hinges the gates ponderously swung wide open to reveal a rabble of smoke-stained men and women determinedly forcing jelly-like muscles to carry them through the flaming gauntlet.

While the leading members of the group gained entry to the walled haven, this was not so for all of them. Just as their goal was upon them and relief was in sight, the smoking hell behind them belched forth more horrors.

The remaining orcs and goblins streaked to the slow moving humans, the clothes on their backs smoking and angry red burns raised on their pebbly skin lent their flat slapping feat wings. Quickly catching up to the lagging members of the group the frenzied goblins swarmed over them and pulled yet more struggling victims to the ground where they were swiftly dispatched.

Seeing the travesty before him, Marhault screamed his men into line the wall. The
archers quickly nocked arrows and took aim, their eyes blurred by tears from the stinging smoke. Hearing the order to loose, they sent their darts winging forth to stick five of the enemy to the ground like pincushions, most of the shots going wide to miss the still vulnerable men and women. yet the fallen’s places were taken by more Goblins and orcs surging toward the open gate, no longer caring about the fleeing humans and only thinking of saving their own hides.

Berserker Part 60

2009-09-03T00:42:00.000-04:00

Fleek struggled to his feet. Free at last! Joyously he danced away from the accursed wagon, only to dropped to his feet a few seconds later in growling anger. The harness the humans had put on him still chained him to the overturned wagon.

Seeing the approaching Goblins and Orcs he cried out to them for help. They all passed him at a dead run, not even bothering to glance at the shackled Gnoll. Curious to see what would make them ignore an ally in distress, he looked up to see what they had been fleeing from.

He whimpered upon beholding the raging inferno sweeping through the fields. The fire growing and strengthening as it fed greedily on the dry hay, gouts of flame shooting high into the air, blocking out the sun.

Was it his imagination or was it coming closer?

Berserker Part 59

2009-09-02T00:07:00.001-04:00

Millienya had already rounded up all the surviving members of the caravan when Lars finally reached her. Maybe forty refugees had survived. They had started out with easily twice that number, the sickly sweet smell of cooking flesh filling the air leaving no doubt in the minds of those assembled their as to what terrible fate befell the rest. Realizing the origin of the stench a few of the more emotional or less dazed adults retched uncontrollably. Somehow Kyle had managed to avoid the explosion that rocked the lead wagon and was participating in the sick display.

With the wagons either on fire or tipped over they all would be forced to travel by foot, abandoning their possessions in exchange for their lives. They had trudged perhaps a qaurter of the way back to the city in the smoke when a stragglerin the group fell to the ground. A goblin ripping avidly at his back, pulling up great strips of clothe and eventually skin before his cries attracted the attention of the rest. The goblin was swiftly cut down and friends kindly helped the wounded man to his feet.

Millienya could see in the distance the remaining few Orcs and Goblins charging forth to escape the flames. With the enemy’s mode of retreat cut off they desperately ran after the refugees, just as intent on escaping the flames as any creature. She was not the only one to have spotted their plight, a number of grim faced veterans turned around and planted themselves firmly to face the oncoming monsters.

Continuing onward the tide of frantic creatures crashed against the thin wall of resistance the stubborn fighters provided. For the time it took the greenskins to dispatch the valiant men, the refugees had gained a few hundred more strides. At the very cusp of the city walls, where the large ditches dug around the city created a chasm which the fire could not cross, the group ran desperately, breaking coughing and choking through the thick cover of smoke to a small window of fresh light provided by the ditch.

Berserker Part 58

2009-09-01T13:51:00.001-04:00

Jarn saw the the comet whistle its way to the ground and explode, ending the lives of dozens and sending the world into panicked confusion. Silva shrieked in terror as the wagon they had occupied moments before caught fire, the oil treated canvas sizzled and popped with strikingly blue flame.

Their path back to the city blocked by the flaming wagon, Jarn grabbed hold of Silva’s wrist and plunged into the tall grasses. Regaining his bearings in the closely packed foliage, he set out back toward the city. After a few strides he wondered how the orcs could’ve possibly navigated in the thick plant life. At his great height his head just poked above the stuff, allowing him to keep an eye on his goal. Silva, however, was lost in the confines of the greenery and required that Jarn constantly stomp down a path in the stiff grass for her to follow in his wake.

After a few moments Jarn noticed the distinct odor of burning grass. Looking around, he saw that a great amount of the catapults’ payload had landed in the grass. The extremely flammable substances contained within those clay urns combined with the very dry grass which had yet to be scythed for cattle-feed created a flashfire.

Seeing the great fingers of flame racing across the ground sent a jolt of fear through him. Gripping Silva’s arm firmly he broke into a run. Crashing through the cursedly dense growth while pulling along a full grown woman despite her protests and carrying an extra twelve stone he could only manage a fast trot.

They were within five hundred strides of the city walls when the raging fire caught up to them. Jarn felt the increasing heat for some time before Silva cried out, the hem of her skirt had begun to smolder. She continued to run, knowing full well the extent of the danger they were in.

Flames arced out from either side of the fleeing three, passing them and arcing inward as if conciously trapping them. Meeting a wall of flame they were forced to angle to the right and began threading through a hellish maze of searing flame and shimmering heat.

Finally they came to a dead end. The two concious persons’ eyes tearing for the utter futility of their endeavor rather than because of the thick acrid smoke or choking ash raining down on them.

Jarn, saw that the wall before them was not more than a foot thick, bracing himself for the imminent searing agony he charged forth. Never reaching the wall, instead the ground dropped out from under them and they tumbled into darkness with Silva at his side and poor Selenne on his shoulder. The image that Jarn carried with him into the blackness was a scene of utter Stygian horror. A world dancing in flame, twisting and contorting as waves of heat distorted the world while ash and embers rained down to the blasted earth below.

Berserker Part 57

2009-08-31T01:44:00.001-04:00

Lars continued his swordwork, wondering briefly if his heart would pop before his arms fell off. It seemed he had been fighting for hours his only moment of respite was during the magic display. He wasn’t sure who or what committed such a feat but as long as it kept killing goblins he wasn’t going to waste time and energy worrying about it.
Seeing a large orc in the rear shaking a club covered with porcupine quills at him he snarled in return, baring his teeth. But inwardly lars groaned, knowing they would be the death of him if something didn’t happen soon. The excessive numbers had been overwhelming at first, but now only a score of the goblins remained and maybe three dozen orcs all told. He would’ve given his side a fighting chance under normal conditions but the defenders had taken casualties as well, losing almost half of their original number. Also the footing had become treacherous, Lars had seen a number of men’s feet or ankles siezed by enemies they thought had been vanquished but still clung to life. Not being able to get free from the death-grip they were stuck were they were and quickly cut down by the rest of the enemy that still stood.
And like him all the rest of their group were worn, every thrust sent burning agony through their arms, every blocked attack felt as if their fingers would be wrenched from their sockets.
Tiredly managing to parry the clumsy thrust of a goblin, his other blade reflexively snaked forth, skewering it. As he withdrew his blade the orc that had been eyeing him decided to make good his threat. Charging Lars from his left, the arm which still grasped an outhrust saber.
With deceptive speed the orc brought its club down in a blurring arc. Lars, wishing to keep his arm, abandoned his left sword and dove rolling hard to his right, the huge club missing his head by inches and pounding heavily into the dirt. He came out of the roll and sprung to his feet before the Orc had recovered from its overlunge. Forcing his screaming muscles to respond, he in turn charged the Orc bringing his blade down at the thing’s neck.
To Lars’ dismay, his blow was stopped short by the leather wrapped haft of his opponents club. Lars was astonished at it’s sheer strength, despite his opponent being down on one knee holding his weapon high overhead it didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a mountain.
Coming easily to its feet the Orc pressed forth inexorably forcing Lars’ sword back face to face the Orc grinned horribly at Lars. With malice kin its eyes it jerked its head up, intent on using its sharp tusks to its adavantage in such close combat fighting.
Surprised by its move, Lars stumbled back and tripped over the corpse of a goblin. Like a hulking angel of death the Orc strode haughtily to the prone figure. It stopped with its club half raised for the killing blow, looking around curiously for the source of the high pitched whistling that had become more shrill for the past few moments.
Finally looking up it saw the flaming meteor hurtling straight toward it from the heavens. It barely had time to register that it was in danger before the missile struck a few feet behind the Orc. Upon striking it burst into hundreds of burning shards, sending sheets of flame in all directions.
The object’s placement was both useful and horribly damaging. Having dropped almost in the center of the fighting, both friend and foe alike were awash in fiery agony. Hair sizzling, lungs crisping from superheated air, the poor torches ran crazzily about seaching for an end to the pain.
The horses,which had been barely under control during the fighting, bolted madly. Spooked by the flames they no longer heeded the shouts or reins of their masters as they ran in all directions, breaking tack, dragging wagons, and flinging out terrified passengers.
The Orc that had stood so triumphant before Lars in it’s imminent kill saved his life, taking the brunt of the fiery blast and shielding Lars from harm. Rolling aside to avoid the flaming carcass from hitting him as it fell, Lars took the time to utter a few small prayers to the spirits of his ancestors that had most assuredly save him from death.
Stumbling to his feet, Lars looked around dazed from the sudden change of events. He saw that the fireball was not alone, having at least a dozen of its kind rocketing from the distant city. Momentarily he fancied that the men at the battlements saw him in peril and took action. Shaking himself to his sense he realized the utter stupidity of such a thought. The only other possible reason for their catapulting surfaced unpleasantly from the persistant fog his head seemed wreathed in. They were being sacrified in exchange for the deaths of the invading Orcs and Goblins.
Lars ran as quickly as the laws of physics would allow him, looking for his sister. She would know what to do.

Berserker Part 56

2009-08-24T02:29:00.000-04:00

Millienya smiled to herself, after seeing the display of mystical power, the enemy had lost heart in their attack. Goblins ceased flying through the air, they most likely refused such a risky manuever after witnessing a friend exploding. Orcs still lurked around the edge of the grasses, becoming more daring by the moment. They realized that if the goblins were scattered to the winds then the human defenders would turn to the Orcs next.

With this in mind a few had slunk from the grasses to aid their diminutive comrades. Finally in daylight they all took on an olive green coloring.

The tallest standing only five and a half feet high they seemed like no large threat. However they compensated by being almost three feet wide at the shoulders with muscular arms and a barrel chest that tapered down to a thin waist and short skinny legs.

Unlike their cousins they possessed thick manes of black hair braided in all manner of styles. Below their heavy sloping brows were widely set red eyes with a flat nondescript nose in between. All these combined with a thick protruding lower jaw which sprouted two massive tusks gave the feral creatures a truly wicked visage.

They wore plain cloth or badly cured hides draped over them and tied at the waist for makeshift clothes. A few wore tightfitting shirts or leggings they had apparently taken from former battles. Additional armor was not necessary due to their inhuman ability to absorb damage. Pain just forced them into greater savagery. Millienya had seen an Orc with one arm and half of its face in bloody ruin rampage through four attackers before being spitted by spears.

Thankfully they were just as susceptible to Millienya’s poisons as any other living thing. She busily sent arrow after arrow into Orcs pressing the milling Goblins toward the defender, neither too keen on being the next victim to sorcerous powers .

She only hoped she could deplete their numbers sufficiently before the full number of the Orcs abandoned cover in the long grasses lest they be totally overun. Working with such a speed that coherent thought about the task was too slow, Millienya redoubled her efforts to aid the defenders, her hands seeming to work by reflex alone as the battle raged.

Berserker Part 55

2009-08-21T01:55:00.000-04:00

Marhault and his aid had been keeping watch over the eastern gate after determining that the gnolls’ projectile attack done no real harm to the structure. He was sorry to say that this was not so for the soldiers manning the wall, over ten were dead and another ten wounded. Arrows and spears sought them out with uncanny accuracy, making shots that he daresay would’ve been difficult even for his skilled hands. The loss of his men both rankled and interested him, the idea that he might soon meat another who was as fine an archer as he excited him. As a result he had ordered more than ninety percent of the troops on gaurd to keep their heads down and not to return fire until further notice.

Going over the plans in his head as he surveyed the crippled caravan he heard a sharp crack and whoosh from behind. The few catapults he had managed to manufacture before the enemy arrives would prove usefull, letting the gnolls know that not even in the forests were they safe from Halfway’s retaliation.

He turned in time to see the first of the rocks they had fall short by fifty yards. The crews manning the flingers would need practice. Marhault suspected they would have plenty of opportunities soon.

Shouts of wonder and superstitious signs from his men dragged his eyes back to the eastern gates, where a figure was being propelled upward on pillars of blue flame.

“Black magic”, his aid gasped to the distracted nods of others.

Suddenly the figure was ripped apart, the energies that earthed in its body shrieked and crackled across the sky triumphantly.

“That’s magic alright”, Marhault agreed. His kind were much more familiar with such practices than humans, who deemed magic to be evil and something to keep away from. While he knew better than they, and that magic was a natural force which is shaped by the user depending on its purpose. He also knew that wielding such power can twist even the most kind and humble soul into a grandiose monstrosity. Thus Marhault made it a point to keep as far away from anything arcane as possible.

“The enemy must have powerful sorcerers”, a man said, judging by the pyrotechnic display. Marhault rolled his eyes, rumor mongerers such as he were the most dangerous foe in situations such as this. He had better put a stop to it quickly.

“Sergeant?”, he called to his aid. Who drew himself to attention upon hearing his rank.

“Sir?”

“Do we have any pitch?”

“Yessir”.

“Good, then have a sizeable measure loaded into the catapults and set the eastern fields ablaze. We must destroy those magicians before they can reach the walls”.

“But sir”, the sergeant asked in shock, “there are soldiers, women, and children out there. Would you have them die?”

“Sadly with sorcerers of such power fighting against us, our men would have no hope of survival, let alone the civilians. They’ll be dead before long. Now carry out your orders”.

The sergeant wordlessly saluted and hopped down the wall to obey.

Berserker Part 53

2009-08-20T01:16:00.001-04:00

Jarn’s cry of warning died as the scene before him changed dramatically, at one moment Selenne was pinned helplessly in Death’s path, her hands raised to protect her and crying out mixed pleas for mercy and half forgotten scraps of prayers. The next moment her upraised hands shot forth solid beams of warm blue light. As these shafts hit the goblin, he jerked as if bodily struck. The girl’s teeth gritted in fierce determination and her arms trembling in pain she continued her assault. The goblin forced back and upward, twitching and chattering uncontrollably as the light surged through it, sparking off its teeth and turning its knife into a charred lump attached to its burning arm. Finally, its little body could take no more, at a height of no less than twenty feet it detonated in a crackling explosion of wild untamed power and energy.

Not a sound could be heard throughout the interuppted battle, wether it was because of the surprised participants or deafening explosion Jarn didn’t know. The silence finally broken by Selenne, sighing quietly she gently folded up and passed out once more.

Jarn regained enough of his wits to untangle himself from the boxes and help free Silva, who immediately stumbled to her child and tried to shake her awake. Finding she did not respond, she became more frantic.

Kneeling down beside Selenne he held his hand above her mouth, reassured to feel her breath. He gently pulled Silva away fom her daughter, forcing the woman to meet his focused eyes with her teary ones.

“She lives”, he told her.

“Then why will she not awake?”, Silva asked hesitantly

“She is tired and needs sleep”, Jarn replied. “Let’s get her out of here”.

Jarn looked hard at the woman, relieved to find her jaw had stopped quivering and was set firmly. She was coping with the situation well enough.

After helping Silva climb through the rip in the wagon’s canavas, he turned away and retrieved his axes from the woodwork, slung his sword over his shoulder and carefully swung Selenne over the other. Briefly surprised to find that she seemed to weigh less than the massive weapon he hefted, he followed the lady out.

Berserker Part 53

2009-08-19T00:45:00.000-04:00

Selenne was bare inches from its green features, its skin looking like it had been streched tightly over its spindly little bones. Big red eyes rolling in its large oversized skull. That skull seeming to weigh far too much for the thin stick of a neck which it lolled about wildly on.

Seeing its pinned victim, the goblin happily shrieked right in her face, in the seconds she stared in blank horror she had taken in every minute detail of the loathesome creature. Hairless scalp, warted chin, rusty knife held by its side, and the overwhelming stench of rotting meat and decaying dentistry coming from its open mouth.

Grinning wickedly as it raised a knife that would add lockjaw as another one of the terrors of warfare, time slowed to Selenne almost stopping completely. Looking around in confusion she saw that her perception of the world was altered as well, in place of the normal colors she was accustomed to were shades from a totally different spectrum. As if she was looking through the normal colors to see their innards and real meanings behind the distraction of the pigment. And while they were strange and eerily different, she was able to distinguish them as they reminded her of the tints of the normal world.

The creature in front of her was filled with an ugly pulsing red-brown cloud that sent shivvers down her spine. Jarn, frozen in a desperate cry of anguish for her was filled with an infinite black nexus swirling with bluegreens and redblues, entranced by the wyrd beauty of it she did her best to ignore the aching sensation building up behind her eyes until she was sure her head would split open.

With the curse of a practical mind that her father had laid upon her, she realized that now would be an opportune time to remove herself from danger. Fate seemed to feel otherwise as she noticed the knife in the goblin’s hand had finally reached the apex of its upswing. Time was returning to the unnatural place she had briefly inhabited. Drawn by the movement of the knife, she looked past it to the open sky above. The air was filled with a thick electrified mist that flowed in and around everything.

The last thing she could remember of the beautful world as the knife descended was the mist suddenly rushing to envelope her in embrace.

Berserker Part 52

2009-08-18T01:23:00.000-04:00

Jarn started into wakefulness, briefly thinking he was back in his home village during its destruction, doomed to relive that fateful day time and again until his death had been avenged.

As he tried to get up he became aware of his cramped surroundings, boxes and barrels dangling precariously around them. His eyes came to rest on the prone bodies of Selenne and her mother, unconscious and half buried by crates and barrels.

Crawling forward to help them up, the wagon was yet again jolted, struck heavily by something unknown and disloged several objects. A box fell flat on his back and knocking the wind from him, his axe plummeted to the ground, burying itself scant inches from its owner’s ear.

Where the impact hindered Jarn it aided Selenne and her mother, rousing them from their insentient state to muzzy wakefullness. As Selenne looked around at her surroundings groggily as if for the first time -looking very much like Jarn suspected he had but a few scant minutes before- a great rending noise filled the overturned wagon. There, right behind her Jarn could see a line being cut into the thick canvas. It was yanked aside to reveal the leering and triumphant face of a goblin.

Berserker Part 51

2009-08-17T03:44:00.001-04:00

Millienya perched motionless as a statue and just as well composed, her bow tracking the slightest jostled grass. From her elevated height on the wagon she had seen a large portion of the goblin forces disappear back into the long grass and was just waiting for them to reemerge.

It had been some minutes since things had quieted and her senses had keened to the point where her own heartbeat was a racket which she distractedly wished she could stop.

When a few errant shadows passed over her she thought nothing of it. It could be the rainy season there for all she knew about the weather patterns south of her homeland. It wasn’t until she felt a feignt whining screech, slowly rising in pitch in volume. Finally it ended with a whump and a crash, a slightly tipsy little goblin sitting right next to her.

The little thing gained its bearings faster than she did, drawing a small rusted dagger it made a swipe at her throat. Just missing by the scantest of measurements she fell backward and rolled off the wagon, arrow still knocked and ready. When the little goblin followed she hit her target in midair, the force of the arrow carrying the spitted greenskin backward.

As Millienya waited for her heart to slow down from a high whine to a purr, she saw another goblin rise from the grasses, creating a similar noise such as she had heard. Literally propelled some ten yards into the air, it arced to land right in the circle. Apparently the orcs had found another mode of attack, by hurling their featherweight brethren up and over their defenses to wreak havoc from within.

Astounded by the impossible sight she froze where she stood, watching as the goblin was accompanied by half a dozen more from the grasses. One impacting right in the lead wagon, what came next she couldn’t even begin to desribe or understand.

Berserker Part 50

2009-08-14T00:48:00.001-04:00

Lars fought alongside other swordsmen at the front line, howling like a wolf as he slashed with his sabers at any that dared scuttle near. Millienya was off somewhere, leaving him to the manual labor of helping hold back the goblin tide as women and children cowered in fear, the wagon drivers trying vainly to turn their carts around to the safety of the city.

Considering the likely outcomes of the fight, he was rather enjoying himself. The militia were well trained in working together and numerous so as to avoid any real sense of urgency. While one would reach forth to spit a squirming goblin on his blade, the other would cover his companion’s vulnerable side. This became the basic mode of fighting as the battle continued, the long spears and polearms had become too cumbersome in the shoulder-to-shoulder defensive semicircle they had formed at the head of the caravan.

While throwing themselves bodily at their human enemies, the goblins really didn’t know how to follow up their initial lunge, leaving them totally defenseless and easy pickings for the grim combatants. It had only been the surprise and confusion provided from the tipped wagons that gave the goblins any advantage air of a warrior. With that gone many of the militia were reminded of their children in the midst of a temper tantrum. Some of the more sentimental of the group were even reluctant to defend themselves. Until they were knocked silly because of carelessness.

All this combined with the lack of any organization to block their route of retreat made Lars feel that they were engaging in a game rather than a life and death struggle. Which was really an overstatement when Lars got to thinking about it, only four men had been critically wounded and there were no deaths that he was aware of.

After a few moments he noticed the cries of the panicked caravan members behind him becoming louder. Taking a step back, he let a man with scars patchworking his face and armor take his place on the front line.

In the relative safety of his position he risked a quick glance behind him to see what was wrong. What he saw sent a jolt of liquid fire through his veins. Another wagon clawed open, goblins swarming over fallen women and children, bone and muscle disapearing down their glistening maws. Stalking ever closer to the contracing nucleus of terrified refugees hunkering against the remaining wagons.

Shouting for the second line of men to break and follow he charged the goblins, his sabers raised in anticipation of chopping death strokes, his long firm strides eating up the distance. In the noise and swirling disorientation of the fight, Lars’ charge was not heard or seen until he had already laid waste to four of their number.

Turning around in expectation to find one outraged fighter whose attack would be quickly put to an end, they found themselves meeting a whole line of armed and wratheful relatives of the slaughtered innocents. They too had seen what Lars had witnessed and raced just a few steps behind him, cries choking their dust-dried throats and death in their tear filled eyes.

With a roar of painfilled-sorrow the men impacted with the goblins, audibly crunching armor and shattering bone on both sides. Yet they continued on, atoning to the dead for their inability to protect them and sending their stricken souls winging peacefully into the next world through the pain they were inflicting as well as enduring.

As Lars was jostled aside by the avenging sons of Halfway, he could do nothing but stand in open amazement at feats these men committed out of love. Love for those who had passed on or just barely inhabited the mortal coil. Miraculously ignoring gaping wounds, broken limbs, even intestines spilling out beneath tunics to gouge eyes, choke throats, and mangle bodies.

It was not long before the goblins lay stacked on the dirt like cordwood. Sadly so were a number of the defenders, laying next to their deceased loved ones or held close by the crying live ones. One body struck Lars as being familiar. He approached the man curiously, wondering where he had seen that short but thick frame. Even in death the flint-like eyes did not cloud over, but remained sharp and calculatingly soulful. Thankfully recollection came knocking, of course, how could he forget? It was the owner of the inn where they first got mixed up in the whole mess.

Only once he was on his way around the wagons with the remainder of his group did he remember the serving maid he had been flirting with, worriedly he quickened his pace and scanned the faces of those huddling together in the wagons. He couldn’t bring himself to search the blood dusted ground for her there, such grief would only distract him and most likely get him killed as well.

Pulling himself from the mindnumbing revelry that comes after combat, he steeled himself for another grisly scene of overrun guards and slaughtered innocents. Only to find a group of rather surprised rear-gaurdsmen.

The mercenary sergeant of the group quickly recovered and came forth. “What’s been going on?”, he demanded, dying to know what had been happening.

“The enemy broke through our lines”, Lars relayed, scanning the grasses alertly. “They were repelled but at great cost. Strangely we cannot find the breach point”.

“There haven’t been any sir”, the sergeant said. ‘We’ve got squads of ten each spaced twenty yards apart, surrounding the wagons, with at least two experienced men per unit. Plus two extra sqauds in reserve”.

“Then how did they get in?” Lars demanded in exasperation. “They didn’t fly did they?”

Berserker Part 49

2009-08-11T23:13:00.000-04:00

Bertrwar howled with joy as he let fly yet another feathered dart, not bothering to see if it reached its target. His new bow was a marvel, he hardly had to aim to hit his mark, arrows seeming to guide themselves. The arrows, they were strange. Every normal arrow he nocked altered subtley, as if something creeped along from the string. First the feathers would go a crimson red, then little blue and red pulsing veins would appear along the wooden shaft, and finally the metal head would become pitted with rust and slime.

It appeared that such strange otherworldly gifts were not uncommon within their army, the upper echelons of the gnolls, orcs, and goblins all carried such blessed weapons, never letting them out of sight or out of hand if possible.

Upon meeting the other two races in the depths of the Bretolian forest not more than a week ago, it was apparent that the gnolls were the most intelligent of the bunch. Despite some grumblings from all groups, Bertrawr was made field tactician and general of the horde after his superior suddenly died of lead poisoning. When questions arose about the possibility of foul play, they were taken aside and quietly informed that a knife in the back was lead poisoning, and it was catching if they weren’t careful.

He smiled at the memory of the longfang, long since blind with cataracts and bent double with arthritis. Hobbling about with his grey streaked fur coming out in tufts. His idea of a battle was two enemy lines charging against each other. It was an honorable form of warfare, true, but most gnolls nowadays prefered to be alive and cunning as opposed to dead and honorable.

With his position of power secure, Bertrawr led his army east, having decided to follow that damnable caravan that had cost him his Storm Canis. Replacements for which would take weeks to arrive from the Dog Nation capital.

The caravan must’ve had a fair turn of speed, outdistancing the slow army easily, they were probably halfway across the continent by then. Frustrated by them, he consoled himself with the fact that they would be nothing more than a drop in the ocean of souls which would be taken in offering to their masters.

To get things underway, he decided that the quiet little hamlet they came upon looked easy for the takings, giving him a chance to exercise his tactical as well as combat skills.

Obviously the most superb and valuable of their troops, Bertrawr decided that the gnolls should aid their comrades in the siege from a distance. Dividing the wall defenses between two fronts, he would soften their forces with a peppering barrage of arrows and ballistae fire while their more dumb companions would attack from the more obvious front entrance. Doing so would mean many deaths for the orc and goblin troops, but that was a sacrifice that Bertrawr was willing to make.

Once the eastern gates were open, the gnolls would break from cover and enter through the western gates that the orcs would have hopefully opened by then. With his battle plans set all he had left was to review the wild mob he called his troops, something that no person easily depressed should be allowed to do.

He had done his best, appointing several drill instructors he could count on to train the unruly orcs and goblins. Admittedly they were fierce fighters to start with, but not smart ones, needlessly expending energy before and during combat. So the gnolls had attempted to teach the greenskins to wait for the moment to strike.

With the energetic little goblins this had been a complete failure, they simply were too dumb to understand instruction. In exasperation one of the gnolls came up with idea to use that boundless energy much like a club, hence the whirling battering attack that the little goblins would be executing at that very moment.

The orcs had been more of a success, their ferocious fighting technique made them nearly unstoppable in close combat, but they had a nasty selfish behavior. Bertrawr had watched them in mock battle, one orc would strike down another of his own comrades in order to take the fallen’s kill.

Normally the extremely independent warriors would reject the very thought, but with the arrival of their masters they had come to understand that their would be heads, limbs, trophies, and glory for all. Thus lessons in teamwork were taken well. With this newfound teamwork, the orcs had been equipped with sturdy ropes for scaling the city walls.

Bertrawr felt a flash of pride at the thought that he had come up with the brilliant idea. It had come to him when a goblin had climbed to the top of a huge oak tree while they were traveling. For what reason, he had no idea, most likely a bet. But the goblin fell from his precarious perch easily fifty feet in the air to the hard ground beneath. After a few moments the goblin got up, dazed but seemingly unharmed.

At that point he had realized that he could utilitze the enourmous upper arm strength of the orcs and the resilient hides of the goblins for the benefit of the army.

I've been Published

2009-08-09T23:57:00.003-04:00

Well, folks. It seems things are going alright for me at the moment. I've just finished writing a rough draft of my first book with the basic storyline for the sequal and the premise of the third worked out. Now I've just got to wait for a few people to get back to me with their interpretations and opinions so I can do some retooling and see about getting it published. There's bound to be some changes and a few re-writes in the works, so I'm trying not to get my hopes too high, but it's down to fine detail at this point, the story itself is already set. So it might be another month or two before I get the final manuscript ready to send out.

Of course I've got a lot of ground work to cover in the meantime. I've got to research all the different publishing houses that might be interested in this particular genre and list them all based on which ones are likely to pay me the most (I gots bills to pay, after all). Then there's the query letter to write. As it introduces the work to prospective publishers it's just as important as the book itself.

Today's been a pretty good day, all around. I got my short story, "Small Details" published at Alienskin Magazine and they just posted the new issue. Check it out.

On a similar note, I just got a letter back from one Dan Abnett. For those who haven't read his work, he's the king of military science fiction and all-around action, combining good ole-fashioned mayhem with colorful characters, incredible scenery, and some of the longest and most intriguing storylines I've ever read. He writes in a style that's both succinct and incredibly evocative, using a vocabulary that's just as expansive as that of the late, great H.P. Lovecraft with none of the bombacity. I found his blog not too long ago and was pleasantly surprised to discover that he presented an email address for fans and anyone who had questions.

I sent a hello to him to ask about his methodology, figuring that someone who had such incredibly detailed storylines (the kind that can cover a dozen different books and still stay gripping) couldn't possibly come up with it all on the fly. That was a few months ago, and I really didn't expect a reply in the first place.

Turns out his server's email was messed up and it just took him a really long time to cover the backlog of messages. It was a handwritten letter that answered a few of my questions and directed me to some more in-depth information about how he puts together his stories. I'm still a little star-struck at having received a reply and encouragement in my work from someone I idolize.

In order to keep this feeling for as long as possible I don't think I'll be getting out of bed tomorrow; something's bound to happen to even out this sense of elation. Night all.

Berserker Part 48

2009-08-06T23:56:00.001-04:00

Marhault watched in impotent rage from the walls as the ambush was sprung on the caravan. He was going to have the grasses cleared to provide an open killing field, but he didn’t think that they would’ve been able to organize an evacuation effort so soon, thus he had let it slide. Then that northerner woman came to beg on her friends’ behalf. With her beautiful blue eyes and silver tongue, normally he would’ve had such men killed and comandeered the caravan anyway. He had actually let her leave whenever it suited her! He kicked himself for his weakness time and again.

“Should we help them?”, inquired his second, gesturing at the distant group with his bow.

“I wish we could”, Marhault returned. “But they’re not in arrow range”.

“What about our catapults sir?”, the grizzled old man asked anxiously. “Or perhaps we could bolster them with a few more men?”

Marhault turned his smoldering anger on the man who normally passed for his best friend. “Do you truly believe that you could fire a hunk of stone at a distance of at least a mile, while accurately hitting the enemy that stand just a few feet away from our own?”, he asked acidly

“Then we could send in more men, sir”, the man insisted.

“True”, Marhault conceded, his anger quickly cooling into something closer to a depressive gloom. “But I doubt that is the full size of the army that the scout mentioned. Also he said there were Gnolls and I see none in that mass”.

“Its a mile distant sir”, the old man said skeptically. “How can you tell from here?”.

“Trust me”, he responded wearily. “If we open our gates or abandon our posts, we will be overun as well”. As he spoke a page ran up to them, his face red with exertion.

“My Lord!”, he puffed. “The eastern wall is under attack, men are falling in droves by poison arrows!”

Sighing deeply, he adressed his friend. “See?”

Berserker Part 47

2009-08-06T00:56:00.001-04:00

Millienya cursed in Klavistan, her home language. A good language to curse in, full of hard syllables that really get across the point even if the exact words aren’t understood. She should’ve expected some trick from the crafty little goblins.

Upon charging, they had thrown themselves bodily into the defenders, whirling and twisting their bony bodies around in insane frenzy, using centrifical force and the heavy objects on their clothing to turn them into living morningstars. Their rags straining away from their bodies, rock and metal whistled around them, bludgeoning repeatedly anyone they came into contact with.

As long as their energy held out, getting in close for knife work was near impossible. The long gash across her knuckles was proof of the effective defensive properties of their attire. But a number of the militia with pikes and spears had formed a makeshift wall to hold them at bay. Even then they constantly attempted leaping past their wall, occasionally getting behind the long weapons only to be slashed in half by a second line of vigilant swordsmen.

The goblins holding ropes had used the confusion caused by their counterparts to slip over to a few of the wagons and tie them to the carts. After making sure the knots were secure they tugged on the rope a few times and suddenly the rope was taught, the wagons being pulled inexorably over by creatures in the grass. This effectively immoblised the wagons ahead of those that had fallen, what with having nowhere to turn.

She guessed that an attack this coordinated, one would expect to find a few orcs too. They were much larger and slightly more intelligent than their greenskinned cousins. Like their cousins they also possessed a basic cowardice which would explain their choosing to stay in the long grass and attack from a distance.

Even as she watched, the lead wagon with Kyle still holding desperately to the reins, toppled. Seeing the waving grasses caused by the taughtened ropes she had an idea. Drawing her bow she broke from the front line and climbed up to the second wagon in line, which was still upright, though just barely.

Sighting down the length of the rope, she let fly. Smiling with gratification as she heard a low piteous moan rise up from the grass, the wagon thumped back to the ground on all four wheels.

Not only did the single wagon right itself, but others did as well. Realizing they were in danger, the orcs had apparently stopped their attack and abandonned their grapnels.

This gave her some breathing room to formulate an effective defensive strategy. She hoped vainly that Marhault would see their plight and send reinforcements.

Berserker Part 46

2009-08-05T13:03:00.000-04:00

Selenne awoke in alarm as the large boy from the bar climbed up into the rear of the wagon, his weight forcing the wagon down further by an inch. He appeared to be looking for something, opening crates and barrels haphazardly. As the chattering noise grew louder and more urgent, the boy’s searching grew more frantic.

“What are you looking for?”, she asked politely.

His head jerked upward as if noticing them for the first time. Blushing slightly upon spotting her he bent his head back down quickly. “My weapons ma’am, we may be under attack”

Upon hearing this, Silva, who had been dozing lightly despite the noise- if she had learned to block out Hargram’s snoring, than someone shouting wasn’t any more difficult- snapped wide awake.

“Attack?”, she nearly screeched. “By who?”

“I don’t know ma’am”, he responded. “But you’ll find out very soon unless I find my axes”

“Axes?”, Selennes responded. “I know where they are”. Reaching under her seat she barely managed to pull out one of his weapons. Jarn was so happy to see them he kissed her on the cheek in his relief. Realizing what he had done and seeing the shocked look on the face of the girl’s mother he quickly took his weapons and made to go. Still, the memory of her soft skin sent thrills through his spine.

Before he could leave, however, he felt the wagon jolt and slowly tip to one side. Reaching a fifty degree angle the wagon tumbled over, its occupants crying out in surprise and fear.

Berserker Part 45

2009-08-04T15:41:00.000-04:00

Millienya, hearing the shrieks and shouts, drew two daggers from a back sheathe, one long and one short. Her shouts to Kyle to try to turn the caravan around were drowned by the rising chattering and gibbering eminating from the grasses around them.

Thanks to the hoarse bawling and shouts of the mercenaries carrying over the sea of noise, the militia men formed up to protect the front and flanks of the caravan. Moments later a horde of monsters burst thrashing from the grasses all around them. The more experienced fighters there recognized them as goblins, and in far greater numbers than anyone knowing the neurotic little creatures thought possible. Normally they argued, tricked, and fought each other so much that a large band would be no more than forty. But more than twice that number were visible in the throng and a great many more than that had yet to break from cover.

All clad in rags, they three to four feet tall, skin a deep olive green, baring the likeness of a small emaciated child. Unlike children, two small tusks protruded from the lower lips of each. Instead of carrying weapons, they had curiously attached little bits of metal and rock all over their clothes. Oddly, some of them held the ends of rope lengths winding back into the grass.

Blinking against the bright sun, they shrieked and capered madly. Finally after much posturing and threats, one was pushed from behind. Its involuntary step forward was all the leadership they needed, spurring the rest of them in to meet the human defenders in combat.

Berserker Part 44

2009-08-03T15:29:00.000-04:00

Karnar watched Jarn walk off, doing his best to imitate the boy’s calm posture. He worked his way around to the left flank of the wagons, softly whispering their predicament to the militiamen as passed them. The mercenaries aknowledged him with barely perceptable nods of the head and clenching hands on sword pommels. Older militia men took the information in much the same manner, some looking sick or worried, but reigning their panic in by willpower.

Karnar had to give them credit, he knew many who would not be able to handle a similar situation. Unfortunately, he met one more. A thin sallow young lad, trembling as if the weight of the short sword in his belt was all he could bare. He looked at Karnar with big wavering eyes, he wondered how this runt had ever been assigned to escort the train in absolute bewilderment. He looked as if the slightest breeze would knock him to the ground.

Karnar still tried his best. He smiled and draped an arm amiably over his shoulder, earning a nervous smile from the boy. Still smiiling he whispered conspiratorially into his cocked ear. “I’m not trying to alarm you, so just keep calm and pretend nothing is amiss. But we are being watched”. Karnar’s efforts to calm the boy were for naught. Hearing that they were watched, he began whipping his head in all directions in an attempt to locate their spies.

Clapping him closer to his chest, Karnar continued desperately. “Just stay quiet, listen to your superiors, and remember what you were taught! You’ll get through this!”. The boy’s rising panic was too great to hold back, he shoved Karnar away and clumsily drew his blade. Still searching the tall grasses for hidden assailants, he shouted loudly for help.

That went well, Karnar thought cynically.

Berserker Part 43

2009-07-30T12:30:00.000-04:00

The group tromped along a few yards ahead of the wagons. The focal point of a V shape movement that was formed by twenty to thirty other men, mixed militia and mercenaries assigned to accompany the caravan for the first day. Just until they were safely out of the city’s site.

Aniston had regained his ice-like composure and marched along, back straight and head up. Lars often wondered how he could see where he was going like that. But Millienya had been especially quiet upon receiving the unfortunate news concerning Seryan. Knowing her and her motherly attention to the rest, Lars thought she was probably blaming herself.

Aside from Kyle, who was at the head of the wagon train again, he was the only one in a relatively observant mood. Which was why he noticed the persistant whining coming from the gnoll hitched to the lead wagon. Ever since it had realized that it would come to no harm and was cared for relatively well, it had behaved itself. Not snapping at people, howling, or attempting to chew its own leg off to escape. Becoming a sort of mascot for the group, it was tolerated as long as it continued to work pulling the wagons. Kyle had even made a shoulder harness to fit, allowing the thing better traction.

Stopping, Lars got the others’ attention. “What’s wrong with the gnoll?” , he asked.

It now had stopped trying to pull the wagon and had its nose in the air, sniffing wildly and clawing at its harness.

“Maybe it has fleas”, Aniston dismissed.

“Then what about the tall grass?”, Lars persisted.

“What about it?”, Millienya asked, scanning the grass for anything unusual.

“Its waving”, he said.

“Grass does that all the time”, Aniston explained. “The air pushes it around like surf on a beach”.

Lars dropped the bomb. “Do you feel any wind?”

“Oh”, Aniston realized.

“Everyone pass the word”, Millienya hissed urgently, feeling unseen eyes on her. “No fast movements, act like nothing’s wrong.”

“Where are my weapons?”, Jarn asked quietly

“The gnoll’s wagon”

“Right”, he said, doing his best to stroll nonchalantly to the cart.

Berserker Part 42

2009-07-29T15:19:00.000-04:00

Selenne sat crammed into a wagon, her mother sitting at her side. Hargram decided he would walk alongside the carts to provide the ladies more room inside. Selenne really didn’t think it was a choice, he had long been afraid of close spaces after being so accustomed to the open air and sea and would’ve preferred to pull the wagon rather than be forced to ride in it.

What was pulling the wagon gave her something of a shock, beside the horses grunted a large dogman that had come to be known as a gnoll, it glared up at her from its work scrabbling for purchase along the cobbled streets, scaring her into hastily pulling her head back and slamming it painfully into a rib for the canvas covering overhead.

Despite her aches and pains she was excited to be moving, having spent all the years she could remember behind the walls of the city she was anxious to see the rest of the world. Kastontel, she had heard was one of the largest cities in all the known world.

As they neared the eastern gates, she felt a sudden pang of worry. What if she never saw her home again? Would she ever hear the voices of the people bidding them farewell from the streets and walls? Would she ever see that boy from the barfight again?

Snuggling closer to her mother she tried to put such thoughts out of her mind and relax. It would be a long journey and she had already been up before dawn readying herself. She quickly fell asleep to the ponderous rocking motion of the cart as it slowly made its way out to the grasslands of western Gath

Berserker Part 41

2009-07-28T13:02:00.001-04:00

The heavy door to the apothecary’s shop flew open before Jarn could reach for the handle. Out stumbled Aniston, his face pasty and pale. Lars and Jarn helped him steady himself, leaning back against the shops’ exterior.

“What’s wrong?”, Lars asked urgently.

“Of all my life, that was the loathesome and dirtying experience I’ve ever had”, he gasped out, wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.

Strung tight as a bow, the two burst into the room, prepared to see some twisted and depraved torture of the worst kind being acted out upon their friends.

If only it had been that straightforward. The apothecary was nowhere to be seen, but by the smoke drifting from the upper floor, the wierdroot had gotten him.

Near the back of the shop, Tyrel sat on a stool in front of Seryan’s table with his head down. Seryan lay on the table, pale, only then did they notice the steady dripping noise in the deep silence of the room. They came closer, trying to get Tyrel’s attention. But he was deep in his own realm, his head and hands clenching Seryan’s arm with fierce sorrow and pain. Such a scene would not be so disturbing if the arm Tyrel held was attached to something. It wasn’t.

The poor man’s left arm had been cut off just above the elbow. His wound was bound tightly with white linen and the stench of burned flesh indicated the stump had been cauterized. The blood slowly congealing on the table was dripping down in a steady trickle.

Fighting the bile threatening to choke his gorge, Jarn managed to place his hand lightly on Tyrel’s shoulder, trying to pull him out of his downward spiral. Tyrel looked up startled at the touch. Seeing his friends he tried to smile, his face a sickly green.

“What happened?”, Jarn asked gently, trying to humor the grieving man.

“The antidotes worked”, Tyrel responded through tear filled eyes. “But his arm was too far gone to help, it was infected and had to be taken. He called it an amputation”, jerking his thumb upward toward the smoke filled stairway.

“Will it work?”, Lars asked. “The apothecary thinks so, but that’s what he said about the antidote, and look what happened here”, waving the ghastly appendage at them without thinking, they were forced back a step by the horror of the thing.

“Could you put the arm down Tyrel?”, Lars asked as kindly as possible.

He looked at the arm as if he was seeing it for the first time. The he threw it disgustedly into a bucket of water on the floor in which a bloody saw bobbed.

“Did Aniston tell you why he came?”, Jarn asked

“No”, Tyrel replied, whiping his eyes. “He walked in just as we started. The apothecary’s painkilling potion worked but not well enough, so we had Aniston hold him down. He never told me anything before he had to leave.”

“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this”, Jarn continued. “But we have to leave in an hour’s time”.

“Why so quickly?”, Tyrel inquired. Jarn and Lars relayed the story in depth, using their bruises as bragging rights. At the finish Tyrel looked a little more like himself, their story had helped to take the plight of his friend of his mind.

“Well, he’s in no condition to travel”, Tyrel stated.

“But this city may come under attack”, Lars argued.

“If what you’ve told me is true, the army will make itself known long before any attacks occur. And if things get reall rough we can sneak out. Besides, I look forward to scouting out that tavern you mentioned”, Tyrel finished, even managing a smile.

“Right then”, Jarn said, preparing to leave. “We’ll see you in a week’s time maybe?”

“Aye”

Berserker part 40

2009-07-27T22:25:00.001-04:00

They awoke from their cots the stablemaster had been kind enough to provide, to the sound of civilization. By this Jarn could hear the stamp of feet, cry of children, and loud yelling of adults no more mature than their smaller counterparts. The three had been greeted by Karnar as they reached the stable the previous night, acting very much like a dog who has broken a priceless heirloom and hopes that by being cheerful and happy, then no punishment would be exacted upon him. This had not worked given that, the three men had spent much of the day hanging by their wrists. Strangely enough it was mild Kyle that suggested Karnar should insert his head into the rear end of the nearest horse. Exercising his powers of perception, Karnar thought it best that he bedded down elsewhere, not that he was welcome in the tavern anymore. Thus there were only three men sitting up and wincing at sore muscles and bruises going from the initial black and blue to shades of unsightly brown and nauseating green.

Millienya peeked into their little alcove- usually a stall for sick horses but better than nothing- as they were cleaning themselves from a basin of water that one of the stableboys had left.

“We’ll be clearing out in an hour so you had better get ready”, she chided.

“Yeah, yeah”, Lars grumbled. “We’ll just end up back here anyway”.

Still weary and aching they stumbled out into the morning light, with hands shielding their faces. A lot had changed while they were getting some well-deserved sleep. A number of wagons had been added to the train and Kyle noted happily that their mixed teams of mules and horses had been sorted out.

“The extra wagons are with us only until the civilians are safe”, Millienya supplied by way of explanation. “The extra horses, on the other hand, are ours to use as we see fit”.

Kyle, having met the stablemaster, found such a generous donation more than a little surprising.

Millienya walked through the throng of bustling crowd that was on the verge of hysteria to the front of the lead wagon, where the pitchfork that Jarn had forced through the cobbles still stood. “Thanks to Jarn’s... social skills”, she said with a smile, plucking the instrument for emphasis, sending it vibrating. “We have been treated more than fairly by most everybody here. Even the town blacksmith couldn’t pry it loose.” Lars chuckled wryly at the thought of such consternation among his captors.

“Imagine that”, he grinned. “The world’s largest tuning fork”. He thought it was funny, but Jarn was still in some gloomy mood of his and Kyle was busy examining the carts.

It was true what Millienya had said, the wagons looked amazing. Like new. Splinters, blemishes, and mudsplatters covering the wood had been swept into oblivion. The tattered remains ones canvas top had been replaced. Axles and wheels had been checked and oiled. Harness had been mended in places and greased to reduce chafing. Someone had even made the attempt to polish the iron shodding the wagon wheels!

Admirations aside, the wagons barely looked large enough to harbor the huge number of people who were queuing up to stow away their goods. Jarn, Lars, and Millienya quickly found their hands full, Kyle having left to see to the wellbeing of his animals.

It seemed that although the people arriving knew how to behave in a high stress situation, they hadn’t counted on the finite carrying capacity of the wagons. A person who was considered to have packed lightly in the crowd would have had two large bags or sacks, while those who had more possessions were even carrying furniture. While Millienya tried to explain this predicament, the utter sense of selfishness from some of the people made such level-headed thinking impossible. Finally Lars had the bright idea to create a baggage check line. Millienya, Lars, and Jarn would inspect everyone’s belongings to assure that no one was taking up to much valuable room.

Though the line was long and wound its way down the street and around a corner, some semblance of order was established. As the tense morning continued, the group noticed that the owners of the bags that Jarn inspected put up much less of a fight whenever he deemed something to be too large or deadweight. It might’ve been a strange coincidence or a spark from the Lars’ rather slow synapses that the line ended right beside the pitchfork, illiciting much whispered comments and nervous glances. Apparently the stablemaster’s having a big gut depended on his having a big mouth too.

Finally having checked and loaded the refugees’ possessions, they made ready to roll.

“Is their anything else before we leave?”, Lars asked the other two.

“Yes, I sent Aniston to get get Seryan and Tyrel before you two awoke. Go see what is keeping him”.

Berserker Part 39

2009-07-24T12:43:00.000-04:00

It may interest any historians of the major wars across Gaia to know that on the night before the refugee evacuations of the walled city of Halfway, the sentries were nothing but unskilled militia, their superiors having bunked off for a quick smoke that turned into a four hour card game. And much like any soldiers on nightwatch for the first time, they fell asleep at their posts. So they had not seen the flitting shadows below the tree line to the west, or the waving tall grasses to the east. but then again it may be of no interest at all.

Berserker Part 38

2009-07-23T12:14:00.000-04:00

“What happened?”, Jarn asked disoriented as they walked down to the stables in the bright midday sun. “I thought Karnar never got to you”.

Millienya laughed, after a night of toil and worry, it seemed they were through the worst.
“We found him in the stables”, she said. “Knocked cold in a pile of hay, we never saw him until a horse bit him inadvertently while it was eating”. This brought a weary smile to Jarn’s face, now he would have some defense if Kanar ever tried to tell the sheep story again.

“How did you get us out of prison?”, Kyle asked as he dodged a horsedrawn cart in the bustling streets. “He was going to hang us!”

“Who cares how”, laughed Lars, dancing down the streets as gaily as his aches and pains would allow. “We’re free!”

“Um, not quite”, Millienya said meekly, bringing a stop to all thoughts of merriment.
“What do you mean, not quite?”, Kyle asked hesitantly.

“He would’ve killed you otherwise!”, Millienya protested. “It was the best deal I could arrange!”

“What do you mean, not quite?”, Kyle repeated.

“We’ve agreed to let them use the caravan to evacuate as many innocents as they can, leaving tomorrow morning.”, Millienya responded, testing the ice.

“That’s not so bad”, Lars said, relaxing.

“Once the caravan has transported the townspeople to safety, you three are then to report back here to help defend the city”, she continued

“WHAT!?”, Lars shrieked, alarming a number of nervous passerbys.

“You said he was going to hang you”, she protested. “The only way I could talk him out of it was when I mentioned your skills as fighters.Isn’t this better than death?”

“Not by much”, Lars continued in a rage.

“What about me?”, Kyle qauvered, “I’m not a fighter”.

“But your are the wagonmaster, and as such it is your duty to head the caravan”, she replied.

“Oh, so he gets to go scott free and we’re left here to face some horrible attack?”, Lars continued indignantly.

“Quit your bellyaching Lars, Karnar will be with you as well”, she snapped back, his overbearing nature finally wearing her patience thin. “Just think for once wooden-head.”

“What”, Lars asked, completely familiar to his mental inferiority to his sister. He had gotten so used to such things that it became an advantage, whereas most people would take time to mentally assess a situation, hostile or otherwise, he simply reacted. This lack of mental hesitation was often the difference between life and death for such hard-bitten fighters, and he learned early on that the skullsweat should be left for those who started with more resources than those such as he.

“Do you even think that Gnolls would attack this city?”, she coaxed him

“I don’t know”, Lars said uncertainly

“I certainly don’t think they will”, she said. “What would they have to gain from it that they wouldn’t get simply by blocking their trade routes? Nothing. The only evidence which even points out that gnolls are in the area is the arrow with fur fletchings that killed the scout. Maybe in his deleriem the scout exaggerated, if they used the same poison on him as they used on Seryan he would be incoherent.”

“So what does all this mean?”, Lars asked.

“It means, brother of mine, that its highly likely no such army exists and if it did, they would only waste men and time pointlessly by taking this city”.

“So we’ll just be here with nothing to do until they let us go?”, Lars reasoned.

“Precisely”

“Then it doesn’t seem so bad”, Lars said. “There’s somebody here I’d like to get more acquainted with”.

“How will they get back to us then?”, Kyle asked.

Our next stop will be in the city of Kastontel”, Millienya said. “It’s the capital of Gath and we are scheduled to receive more goods and passengers, as well as drop off the refugees. You should be able to reach it a week after we do if you hurry”.

Jarn, who had been unusually silent and brooding during their conversation finally spoke.“I’ve only got one question”, he said as they walked down the street.

“What would that be?”

“Why a slaughterhouse?”

Millienya continued on in thoughtful silence for some time, finally arriving to a conclusion.“Well, all the meat has been cured, salted, and stored. It was a solid brick building, and seemed like a fitting place at the time”. She didn’t bother to mention how intimidating such a place would seem to someone chained up, they experienced that first-hand.

“Oh, right”

Berserker Part 37

2009-07-22T12:05:00.001-04:00

Jarn awoke painfully. His face swelled with bruises to the point where he could hardly open his eyes, body battered to a mottled black and blue. His nose crusted with dried blood, he tried very hard to keep from sneezing in the dust. Beside him were Kyle and Lars, both still unconscious and looking no better than he felt. Lars looked as if his nose would be crooked for the rest of his life. Maybe Selenne would like him then. Jarn tried muzzily to rub the sleep out of his eyes but found his hands were bound above his head, chained to the wall. Looking around he found himself in a large dank room, it was rank with the smell of dust, dirt, and offal.

Looking around by the dim light provided from the large streaked windows set at regular intervals across the front wall, they found the room contained a dirt floor stained with the blood of countless slain animals. Checking their restraints confirmed his suspicions, oversized cattle shackles, they were imprisoned within a slaughterhouse.

Jarn drifted in and out of conciousness for what could’ve been hours or minutes, with the heavy glazed windows it was impossible to tell the time. It was surprisingly quiet in their jail, but Jarn had never been in a house made of brick before. It was cool, but whenever Lars or Kyle groaned or mumbled in their stupor the noise would be amplified, seeming to come from all directions at once.

For once Jarn finally felt alone, Karnar had apparently failed and there was no one else to help or even care about what would happen to them. With Lars and Kyle gone he was bereft of even the simple pleasures of conversation, left to his thoughts.

It was strange, ever since his village had been destroyed he was filled with a great need for revenge. It was some awesome force, like the cannons that he had seen. A power which exists in potential and just needs to be tapped into or harnessed to be used for one’s purposes. And like the cannon, he felt this need was much greater than he and in turn used him for its own unfathomable purposes.

Having been swept up by this he didn’t think about his past or his future, but just of the moment at hand and how it would lead him to his ultimate goal of vengeance. The power he had known left him and he was empty and alone in the world again, uncaring of what happened to the mass of flesh and bone that’s known as a man. He could no longer support his own weight, instead hanging by his manacles, no longer heading the rusted metal biting into his wrists.

A shaft of light blinded him, squinting he looked up blankly. The door to the slaughterhouse opened to reveal a tall, lanky figure. Jarn’s hope that it might be Aniston was shattered as he walked into the gloom of the chamber, this man’s hair was a mossy brown, not his friend’s salt and pepper locks. He strode over to the three with a business-like air.

Seeing the unconscious state of two of the men, he checked for breathing. Finding they were fine- to Jarn’s surprised relief, he hadn’t realized how worried he was about the health of his friends- he applied light taps on their faces with readily increasing pressure to the point where they were stinging slaps until they were fully awake. Taking a few steps back he widened his stance to a comfortable shoulder width and adressed the three.

“Because of your resistance in my men’s attempt to recruit you as active members of the militia you have been arrested”, he said.

“But your men attacked us!”, Lars protested hysterically.

“Really?”, he said, his voice rife with mockery. “Can you prove it? Because I have twenty men with proof that you attacked them.”

“What proof?”, Lars asked.

The man pulled a small note from his belt, only too happy to comply. Making a show of going through the list, he cleared his throat and continued.

“Nineteen bloody noses, seven broken, seventeen black eyes, twenty five cracked ribs, six clean breaks, three broken arms, four broken toes, and one wrenched knee”, he finished. “As well as numerous cuts and bruises.”

“We’re bruised too”, Lars pointed out. Wrinkling his nose and wincing as it began bleeding again.

“True, but in order for three men to have caused so much damage you would’ve had to attack first! Besides, many of these men will not be able to defend the city when it comes under attack now!”

“How do you know it will come under attack?”, inquired Kyle.

“I have dealt with gnolls before”, he responded haughtily, expecting them to cringe at the name of the creatures.

“How could you have”, kyle asked. “None have been encountered until just a few weeks ago?”

“That is not your business and don’t try to change the subject.”, he snapped back, quickly recovering from their lack of emotion at his mention of the creatures. “For these transgressions you will be hung in a summary execution tommorrow morning and your bodies will be put on display to show others the consequences of such behavior.”

Lars and Kyle whimpered at this, Jarn just staring at the man.

“However”, He said as the two men’s hearts began beating again at this. “Some acquaintances of yours have spoke out on your behalf and it turns out you and they will be more useful alive than dead.”

He reached for his belt again, this time retrieving the keys to their shackles, which he used somewhat reluctantly. Letting them rub their chaffed wrists, and massage life back into sore muscles.

The light pouring through the open front door was once again eclipsed as another figure appeared. This one more discernadly feminine in nature. To the group’s joy Millienya ran to meet them.

Berserker Part 36

2009-07-21T17:55:00.000-04:00

Karnar ran and ran as fast as he could, slipping and falling on the cobbles, but never letting up. He retraced their path through the town, sliding through the turns and intersections without pause. He ran until every breathe was a fiery eternity and every step was an explosion of pain that knew no bounds.

What had been a half hour walk turned into a five minute mad dash. As he turned a bend he briefly beheld the dark looming comfort of the stables. In his elation at the impending end of his mission he forgot to watch his footing, stubbing his toe on a loose stone, sending him skidding facefirst into a fresh bale of hay, his built up momentum covering all but his limp feet in the roughage.

Berserker Part 35

2009-07-20T11:57:00.001-04:00

After a few bites of Silva’s great cooking the group was complimenting her continuously.

“This beats gerda’s stew easily”, Lars boasted. After a moment of silence. “Only don’t tell her I said that”.

“Please give the chef my compliments miss”, Karnar added.

“Selenne”, she supplied. “My mother is the cook”.

“Really?” Lars asked in amazement. “I would’ve thought only you could’ve prepared something as angelic as this”. Selenne smiled in pleasure at Lars’ shameless flattery, nearly outmatched by the sour grins of disgust from the three other diners.

Upon her absence they continued eating in tranquility, so humbled by the godly woman’s cooking that they ceased ribbing each other of Selenne. By the time they had filled their bellies many men had become unbelievably given to drink, with still the same noise and laughter but with a tense atmosphere. The giddy teatotalers had already been weeded out and the sullen hard drinking pubgoers were left to hone their craft. For a small honest little town like the
travelers had seen there was a uncommonly large number of men staying out so late.

One such beer stained person had decided that he had imbibed enough for the evening. On his way to the door he tripped over his own feet, landing before the group who were sitting back after the satisftying meal. Before the travelers could do anything to help the man to his feet, he had sat up and was glaring at them.

“Too good to even help ush up then eh?”, he slurred full of surliness. “I figerd youd be too scared to join ush and dont acyu.. accush.. blame yoou for it, but thatsh shust cruel!”

Kyle tried to lend a hand to the drunk, but he slapped it away, to full of himself to allow being helped. By then they were much to aware of all the eyes in the room staring at them, full of malice and besotted anger.

Trying to calm them, kyle put on a compasionate face and asked the man what he meant by joining them. He was only too happy to comply.

“Dontcha know? Sa huge army coming thish way!”, he shouted at them in amazement at their denseness. “A shcout brought news a few daysh ago, all buncha monshters come together and marchin.”

Sensing he had a crowd now, the reprobait tried to steady himself and continued on in a more complaisant voice. “The mayor hired ssome new mershenar...merk... fighters to help. Their bosh drafted all men from shixteen to fifty for the milisha”. At his sobering words the crowd grew more restive, many others eyeing the travelers menacingly.

“But we just got here!”, Kyle protested .

“Don’t matter shon”, the drunk returned, staring at them all with the inkling of an idea.

“What if we refuse to join?”, Karnar asked in a quiet voice as he stared into his beer.

“Then we’ll make yer”, he responded with a certain relish. In his addled little brain a synapse fired. “Comon then, letsh go”.

“NO”, Jarn stated simply.

“I might get a raise for bringing you in then”, he said moving forward to attack, and along with him half the room.

The unsteady punch that the man threw at Jarn was easily deflected across his forearm, who in turn responded by kicking the man’s legs out from underneath him while still sitting, dropping the man quickly. The other three travelers had already unlimbered themselves for the ensuing brawl. Although they soon were to face twenty-some men in combat, they kept their composure, for the outcome of this fight was not kill but to subdue. Lars even looked happy. A hungry looks in his eyes and a feral grin on his lips.

The would-be recruiters created a rough semi-circle around the group, effectively cutting off all routes of retreat or escape. Not waiting for the militia men to come any closer the comrades-in-arms leapt forth as one.

Jarn and Lars came in swinging at either side of the semi-circle of flesh. Lars began howling like a mad wolf, taking one of his opponents off his guard. He quickly jabbed one man in the throat, and savagely brought his knee up to connect with his victim’s nose as he doubled over in pain. Seeing his friend go down in a spray of blood, another man snatched a tankard from a nearby table and ran bellowing at the stranger with his makeshift cudgel held high in anticipation of a knock-down blow. Lars openly laughed at the man’s utterly stupid mistake, he simply planted one foot in his solar plexus when the man came into range and sent him flying back in the other direction, crushing a table and chairs upon landing.

Karnar, who had grown up playing all types of games; push fall, tig, king of the hill, and had spent years wrestling with his friends decided that such rough and tumble play would be approptriate. With three running steps he had gone from floor to chair to table and finally flung himself into the center of the fray, stunning four others in his fall.

Getting to his knees, he then pushed off with his feet and planted his shoulders into the gut of one man who had not fallen and drove him all the way across the room to exit via the window. Feeling hands grip ahold of his shoulders he instinctively sprung up and kicked off the wall to fall horizontally, sending the whole of his considerable bulk to land sqaurely on the poor man underneath. Upon landing he heard the distinct crack of ribs and a whoosh of air driven from a human body.

Karnar allowed himself a genuine smile, such were the types of games he had learned as a child. Apparently a little too harsh for his new friends, but that was only to be expected from weak inlanders such as these. He got up eagerly to look for more playmates.

Jarn, upon charging his mark, stood within the man’s reach with shoulder’s sqaured and fists balled. Jigging up and down a little, he struck his opponent in the chest and stomache with quick, precise punches. Although the man was sent reeling for a few moments, Jarn did not capitalize on this and let him recover! Not sure what to make of this, Jarn’s opponent mimiked the stance of manly agression and faked a blow such as Jarn had landed, lashing out with his boot instead, catching Jarn painfully in the shin.

Surprised, Jarn reflexively backhanded the man, audibly breaking his nose and sending it and the man askew. Unlike his previous attack, this one had some lasting effect in that the force of the blow slammed him against the wall, knocking him unconcious.

As the next man approached Jarn once again sqaured up to him, but before he could throw a punch, a balled pair of hands slammed against the man’s neck from behind. The man toppled like an oak, going from vertical to horizontal in one perfect geometric swoop, revealing an enraged Lars as the assailant. He looked like the wolf whose call he imitated. His shirt was ripped, his nose was broken and bleeding, his eyes wild, his breathing fast and furious.

“What the hell are you doing boxing?!”, he shrieked wildly over the shouts and crashes of the rolling brawl.

“Boxing has rules, these people won’t follow them! There are no set rules! Now stop that and actually try to hurt them!”.

Given previous encounters, such advice would’ve either been ignored or instigated a massive conflict. Seeing as such a conflict was already underway and from Jarn knew from first hand experience that his fighting was lacking he decided to heed Lars’ angry words, leaping into the fray kicking and punching at head , groin, throat, and knees.

Unlike his comrades, Kyle was but a simple muleskinner and lacked the experience and fighting prowess of his three counterparts, but not the courage. Being diminutive in relation to the others, he chose to even the odds slightly. He did this by taking up a chair in both hands and swinging for all he was worth, quickly breaking to pieces over the head of the first person who dared come near, flooring him for the remainder of the evening. Holding nothing but two wooden splinters, he quickly retreated to the safety of the table, hurling plates, candlesticks, dinnerware, and mugs with abandon.

Some minutes later Kyle found he was not alone, the three others diving behind their table for a brief reprieve. All of them were tired, out of ideas, and didn’t want to kill any of these men. This was not helped by Kyle’s sharp eyes spotting that some of the men they had subdued were beginning to stir.

As the militia regrouped, Kyle had an idea. “Why doesn’t one of us go for help?”

“Good”, Jarn gasped out. “Who?”

“I’ll go”, Karnar said, “I just need running room”.

“Right, GO!”

Berserker Part 34

2009-07-18T15:08:00.000-04:00

The quartet languidly traveled through the wide streets of Halfway, enjoying the unfamiliar feel of the cobbles under their feet and closely spaced buildings around them. All the respectable citizens of the town were sitting down to dinner at home, leaving the streets near deserted. But occaisonally someone would pass them and not even bat an eye at the sight of four armed men from different parts of the world. Either they were sure they could defend themselves should anything occur or such display of weapons was common. In either case they were much too trusting for their own good.

As they turned down the street the stableboy had pointed at, they saw a large two-story building from which came the only sound besides the too-loud noises of their own footsteps, a sound which was so very precious in this world. Laughter, and lots of it. With their goal in sight, those loud footsteps increased to a staccato tapping, bringing them to the great door of the inn. Not a word was said among the group, they just stood their, as a groom might stand at the entrance to his wedding chamber.

Their blissful excitement was interupted by the call of nature, specifically calling to the militiaman who clumsily opened the door and staggered out into the night in search of relief. They were dazed by the cheery atmosphere of the place, compared to the desolation of the street. The entire room was filled with a warm light provided by chandeliers and fireplaces. It was not quite filled with men of all ages, talking, drinking, playing cards, etc. The room’s hustle and bustle momentarily faltered as the occupants turned to see the newcomers. Some went right on with their own business, most tried surreptitiously to point the group out to friends, adding to whatever rumors might be flying around about the strange caravan coming in the night with blasphemous creatures in tow.

Jarn, head held high, daring anyone to challenge his right to be there, led the way to a table beside one of the large frosted windows on the front of the Inn. Seated in unexpectedly comfortable chairs they surveyed the room. Everyone was careful to keep their eyes averted from the travelers, politely talking amongst each other and enjoying the troubadours’ rendition of “Top of The World, Hope I Don’t Fall”, a lighthearted little ditty that Kyle recognized.

As for the men present, they appeared to be militia for their bragging about how well they had fared in training and on the archery range. This was conducive to the well-fed look of farmers or merchants that they exhibited. Their garb was also what one would expect of a laborer; clothe shirt and leggings, hard worn boot, and overalls. But scattered among them were a few harder men, wearing tougher wearing leathers instead of cloth, eyes sunken in their sockets darting back and forth to any particularly loud noise or fast movement. They must’ve been chaperones for the more boisterous farmers for they only took small sips of their drafts, just enough to wet the throat but not to inebriate.

Kyle was gracious enough to order the first round of drinks for the evening. He waved a hand at the barmaid who arrived promptly and with a tired smile.

“What will you gentlemen be wanting this fine evening?” Karnar, Jarn and Kyle promptly chose beer, but Lars wasn’t so quick in his selection. There was something charming about the young lady that distracted him. He couldn’t place it. She wore a subdued blue dress with white apron over it, her hair flowing in dark locks down her back.

“Could you choose for me?”, he asked shyly after much hemming and hawing. Seeing the dumbstruck look on his face, the others tried very hard to keep from laughing at his expense. But, as luck would have it, she was gone and away with only an undignified snort from Jarn to dampen the mood, not that they would’ve noticed with him watching her every movement and her smiling coyly.

They sat there in the sweet smelling pipe smoke, amid the quick piping notes of the troubadours’ instruments, grinning like maniacs at their smitten aqauntance. Even Karnar, who would normally have difficulty facing such a subject, felt a nastalgic chuckle welling up inside of him.

“So”, Jarn said carefully, giddy with amusement. “She looks like a nice enough girl”.

“Aye, she is”, he replied distractedly, not taking his eyes off her as she worked the taps behind the bar.

“Care to pull your tongue off the floor before she steps on it?”, Kyle asked causing laughter all around. Which they hushed quickly as she returned with their beer in large ceramic mugs.

Taking his graciously and with a charming smile, Jarn decided to see how much he could coax out of Kyle’s purse. “I thank you most dearly miss, would you be so good as to tell us what that heveanly smell is coming from the kitchen?”. The barmaid blushed red as an apple upon hearing his affectionate praise of her, apparrently the drunken grunts of aknowledgment from the usual clientele did not suit her conversational tastes.

“We’ve got fresh bread, beef stew, and roast venison with spiced potatoes”, she replied, speaking mainly to Jarn. That was it! Jarn knew what was drawing his attention, she had a genuine smile, one that reached all the way to her gray-green eyes. That smile held nothing back, no secrets, no remorse, no guilt, she was absolutely delighted by their presence. This made her all the more attractive, but unlike Lars, he tried very hard to keep from staring.

With all the hormones in the air, Karnar decided to fill the ear burning silence. “The stew and bread sounds good”, he said. “If there are no objections then we shall all have some”. Seeing none from any of the travelers she threaded her way through the crowd to the kitchen.

Berserker Part 33

2009-07-17T12:23:00.001-04:00

A single bell rang forlornly as Millienya pushed open the door to what she hoped would be the apothecary’s shop. They had found it easily enough, with a sign of a mortar and pestle above the old and discreet structure, tucked back into a dark corner of the market district, where mundane customers and those whose comings and goings was best not known to the public would gain easy access. She led their little procession into the dark confines of the shop. Looking around she saw numerous shelves and tables, packed with dusty flasks and jars of herbs, medicines, pickled animals, and parts that are less ably recognized. Their rank odors waged war with the stuffiness and dust motes which could be seen twinkling in the air by candlelight.

With Tyrel and Aniston carefully threading the pallet upon which Seryan lay twitching through the narrow walkways between shelves, Millienya held the terrified gnoll tightly, preventing it from bolting on the spot. The strange sights and smells of the room had it worried.

As the pallet reached a likely looking table, they heard thumping footsteps and muttering from a stairway to the second floor behind the desk of the shop. Apparently the shopkeeper couldn’t secure better living quarters than this dusty old ruin.

He came into view, hastily pulling on a threadbare robe and shuffling in tattered slippers. A short, lanky old man that a kind person might call spry. He peered at them over a pair of spectacles hanging onto the tip of his nose, concientiously smoothing down a few wisps of grey hair on his balding head.

The apothecary stumbled forward, slightly disoriented by their latenight intrusion. “Um.. What can I do for you young lady?”, he asked Millienya, taking in her tired state and weapons he decided it best not to mention the hour.

“Our friend was stabbed by a poisoned blade”, she replied. “Can you help us?”.

“Let’s see the patient then”, he said approaching Seryan laid out on a table. He pulled open his eyelids, listened to his chest, felt his forehead, all the while muttering to himself. He tried to remove the wraps on his left arm, but the apothecary’s gnarled shaking hands weren’t up to the task. Finally Tyrel drew his knife and carefully slit them open. What they found beneath brought a gasp from the lips of even the addled old man. The wound had not closed but gotten larger, with glistening pustules forming all the way to his inner elbow. The skin of his entire arm had gone a sickly green, and darkened to putrid black along the cut. The stench wafting up from the wound was abhorrent, like an old slaughterhouse in the heat of a summer day.

The Apothecary took Millienya over to a corner of the room to talk in private. “He will be dead in another day by my guess”, he said, the sour smell of weirdroot washing over Millienya as he spoke. It was a common enough ingredient in painkilling medicines, but was a powerful narcotic when taken alone. Those who chew too much of the intoxicating stuff slowly lose their grasp on the real world and their sanity.

“He suffers from a high fever and the cut is diseased unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”, he continued.

“Is there nothing we can do?”, Millienya asked desperately.

“Well, I could create an antidote if I knew what poison was used”, he mused. “But I think it likely that he’ll lose the arm even then”. Millienya brightened at the fact that they might be able to save his life.

“We managed to capture one of the monsters that hurt him”, she explained. “We might be able to discover the ingredients”. At her gesture Aniston yanked the gnoll out from under Seryan’s table and casually tossed the creature squalling in front of Millienya, illiciting another surprised gasp from the old man.

“Can it even speak?”, the apothecary asked in wonder.

“Surprisingly yes”, Millienya responded, hauling the gnoll to its feet. She shot a quick glance over to Tyrel who had been waiting for her signal. Barely surpressing a grin he stomped over to them, acting as monstrous and terrible as he possibly could. He came eye to snout with the quivering Fleek.

“What poison did you use?”, he asked frowning ferociously, his overhanging brow threatening to cover his eyes.

“N...Not tell”, Fleek bravely squeeked up at the much larger man.

“We shall have to do something about that then”, Tyrel grabbed a jar from the shelf next to him. “Marjoram”, he read with terrible deliberation. “Do you know what this does to you?”, he asked waving the container at the gnoll, who was too terrified even to shake his head.

“It turns you innards into outards”, Aniston lied as Millienya clamped her hand over the apothecary’s mouth. Just in case he was a few steps behind their intentions.

“But that’s just when you eat a little bit”, Tyrel supplied with a smile. “I wonder what would happen if someone ate the whole jar’s worth?”

“I don’t know but I would hope that it would done outside and away from children... Messy”, Ansiton added with a carefully timed laugh and grim smile.

“Let’s find out”, Millienya finished brightly

Faster than a lightning strike, Tyrel’s free hand flashed out and grabbed Fleek by his furry neck. With Aniston’s help he was able to pry open the gnolls jaws.

“toh, e ell e ell!”, the gnoll choked out just as Tyrel made to pour the contents of the container down its throat. Letting its jaws free the gnoll shrank back into a corner of the room.

“Me tell, me tell!”, it repeated more eloquently.

“Then do so”, hurried the apothecary, who was fast becoming anxious to get these intrusive folks out of his shop.

“Is elder bark, manure, Bog Myrtle roots, fern seeds, and nightshade all mixed up”.
“I know that one”, the apothecary proclaimed proudly. “Me grandfather taught me that when I was little! Works a treat on snakebites too”. As he spoke the apothecary bustled around the shop, setting a kettle on and pulling down jars and flasks from the shelves without even a glance at the labels.

He whispered a strange litany as he worked them through a mortar and pestle. “L’see, hand’s glory.... cowslip.......cyanide, whoops not that.... harebell...”. Finally after much grinding, mixing, and muttering the man had finished. Scooping a fraction of the finished work into a cup of hot water he presented it to the group with a flourish, spilling a portion of the contents on the splintered wooden planks of the floor.

“One cup of this every day for a week should do the trick”.

Millienya took the proffered cup and helped Seryan drink it down, not able to help but notice the grimace of distaste on the man’s face as he swallowed the brew. They all stared intently for any sign of change in the patient. After a few moments Aniston broke the silence.

“Nothing has happened sir”, he observed.

The apothecary broke out in high tittering laughter. “Goodness no!”, he said. “It won’t take effect immediately in a case this bad! Huh, this isn’t magic”.

“We’ll just leave him here until his health improves”, Millienya told the old man, whipping away the grin on his face.

“He can’t stay here!”, he protested pointing to Seryan. “Having a body lying out tends to slow my business”.

Aniston had had about enough of this rude old codger. He puffed his chest out. “Sir”, he said imperiously. “As an apothecary it is your duty to take responsibility for your work and until this man is cured he will not be moved from that spot”.

Standing there, the opponents’ nostrils flared and stared at one another in a silence crackling with mental conflict. While the old man’s blood shot, wild eyes were considered frightening, nothing else of him was. His robe hung on his bony frame like a death shroud, an item which was currently only too worrying to the man. While Aniston’s eyes were hard unwavering chips of ice. His body was held with a proud bearing belying his years, the frame still wide and rigid with muscle.

“Very well”, the apothecary said hanging his head in defeat. “He should show signs of recovery by the day after tomorrow, I will keep him under close watch until then”.

“But you said it would take a week to cure him!”, interupted Tyrel.

“That is just to make sure the poison is completely out of his body”, the man explained. “But he should be able to walk before then”. Hearing this double talk set Tyrel on gaurd, Either there is a poison or there isn’t, he thought. So if there was you would know.

“Right then”, he said loudly. “He was entrusted into my care as well, so I will stay too”.

“Where will you sleep?”, the apothecary asked sarcastically. “The floor?”

“Would you prefer we left the gnoll then?”, Millienya suggested.

“Ah, in that case this fine young man may stay on to ... to gaurd my shop from would-be theives”, the apothecary carefully said as if he was reading from an invisible script. Tyrel smiled and patted the old man on the back, completely oblivious to the relief of having evaded disaster on the apothecary’s face.

“Well, that’s settled”, said Millienya. “We won’t trespass on anymore of your time good sir”. She and Aniston retrieved the gnoll and made their way to the door.

“This wouldn’t be a good time to discuss my fee, would it?”, The apothecary tentatively asked. Three faces set in stone turned on him. “No, thought not”.

Berserker Part 32

2009-07-16T12:10:00.001-04:00

Kyle led the first of the wagons to the horse stables. Found after much blind searching, the people in the town seemed frozen to the spot, too scared even to give directions. Thankfully the stablehands must not have heard the news of their arrival, thus they went to secure unhitch the horses and take them into their care without a second glance.

Kyle jumped down from his perch and stretched happily, as did many others. A short portly man came out from behind the stables, pitchfork still in hand, by the smell it wasn’t hay he had been shoveling. He walked over to Kyle.

“How many wagon do ye have?”, he inquired.

“Not as many as we started with”, Kyle quiped miserably.

Obviously put off by this, the man assumed a more aggressive surly posture. “A large wagon train might find themselves with a few extra expenses.”, he boldly threatened.

“We’ll just find another stable then”, Kyle countered with feigned indifference. Inwardly he comitted murder countless times upon this obese, bullheaded, nitwit who stood between them and rest. It wasn’t that Kyle was afraid of the man, his pitchfork, or his smell, but the qaurtermaster, Terris was so tightfisted that he would probably make Kyle pay for the stables out of his own meager salary if the prices were too steep.

“Good luck”, the man countered with a cheesy smile. “The next stable large enough to house this caravan is a hundred leagues east of here”.

The stable owner had Kyle cornered, happily surveying the wrangler’s sad and beaten features. However, he had overlooked the man still sitting despondantly at the head wagon...until he got up that is. Jarn didn’t stand up so much as unfold from a fetal position full of self pity to a towering inferno of purpose.

Hopping down lightly from the wagon he strode over the cobbled streets growing larger in the stableowner’s eyes with each step. Till he stood in front of the narrow-minded little criminal, the man’s face level with Jarn’s stomache. His lower lip trembled as Jarn bent double to look into his eyes.

The man remembered once seeing how a horse was broken, the stallion was tethered, screaming and kicking mindlessly. As time went by the thing foamed at the mouth and its eyes bulged insanely. The giant standing before him had these same eyes. But he’s not frothing at the mouth, the man thought, he’s frothing at the mind.

“We have traveled more than five times that distance”, Jarn spoke in a low cold voice. “lost friends and family along the way, discovered a vangaurd of monsters that mankind gladly thought to be extinct, and a man in the wagon behind me is dying as we speak simply because you want to look a big man”. Finishing his chilling monologue, Jarn snatched the pitchfork from the man’s nerveless fingers with blinding speed and slammed it into the ground. Driving the rusted tines of the tool through four inches of solid cobblestone, just a gnats whisker from the stable master’s toes.

They stood there, one man trembling in fear, the other in rage, and the pitchfork because of a a slight breeze. Taking a deep breathe Jarn regained a little more civility, taking a step back he cleared his throat. “Now, how much to house these wagons?”, he asked, his voice sweet as arsenic.

After a few moments of unintelligable stammering, the man managed to speak. “Um, no charge milord. Happy to be of service”. The man hastily waddled past Jarn, suddenly very intent on doing his job.

Kyle was filled with a mix of awe at the man’s bladder control and joy at keeping his pay. He carefully approached Jarn, he seemed to have calmed down more. Nervously smiling, “I am in your debt”, he said. “If you hadn’t talked to him I would be in real debt”. Tittering nervously he caught hold of a passing stablehand. “Where can we go for a celebratory drink?”, he inquired.

“That would be the Inn of the Castaway, its down two blocks that way”, he stated, pointing down the street.

“Would you like to come?”, Kyle asked Jarn.

“S’been a while since I had a drink”, Jarn mused. “I could do with one”.

“Excellent”, Kyle said in delight. “Let’s fetch the others then.

They found the others gathering their things from the sleep wagon, from their observations of the stablemaster, none of them trusted him with their goods. Kyle grabbed his purse from his bedroll and Jarn equipped his axes and sword.

“Anyone up for a drink or two?”, Kyle asked them

Millienya looked up from her possessions. “Tyrel, Aniston, and I are taking Seryan to the apothecary-

“But the rest of us are free”, interjected Lars with the speed of a man who knew that a cool drink would disappear into the tall grass if he wesn’t quick.

“What do we do with the gnoll?”, inquired Aniston absently twirling his flowing moustache.

“Leave him with the stablemaster”, Tyrel said with a leer and chuckle.

“No, Dolt!”, Millienya admonished. “We have to take it with us to identify the poison”.

“Fair enough”, Aniston replied. He turned to adress the group anxious to leave. “We’ll meet back here tommorrow morning then”.

“Yes mother”, Lars shot back as they walked away.

Berserker Part 32

2009-07-15T13:03:00.001-04:00

The guards hadn’t kept the caravan waiting in as soon as it was established that there would be burning, pillaging, or raping. Probably nothing to steal around here anyway, Tyrel thought sadly. While most people were staring blankly, sleepily, or stupidly, the captain of the guard looked disturbingly intelligent at them. As if he was mentally taking down everything to the smallest detail. I’ll have to watch that one.

Moving past various storage bins, grain silos, meat lockers, and warehouses, it struck Tyrel as being strangely quiet, the shock affect of their arrival should’ve worn off by now, giving way to hushed murmuring and flying rumors as to the newcomers’ identities, purpose, eligibility, and financial status. But no, just silence, like the desperate quiet of a mouse as the predatorial shadow of an owl swoops by.

Suddenly he realized it, all eyes were locked on the gnoll. Tyrel wasn’t normally someone to laugh at something that didn’t end up with a person be hung upside and horsewhipped, but the peoples’ looks of horror at the little gnoll on his leash had him splitting his sides. It was hardly larger than the dogs on the street barking at them as they worked their way through the gate, but they acted as if it were evil incarnate. Aside from that, it’s “leash” was treated leather suitable for tethering a pair of wild horses.

Their horror was something familiar to him, he had seen it often enough on the faces of those not willing to be parted with any trinkets or spare coins they could’ve lived without. but recently he had seen it on the young but haggard features of that boy, Jarn. They hadn’t talked much during their traveling, but the boy didn’t seem to enjoy talking and Tyrel didn’t care enough to pursue it. But it was worrying, ever since that gnoll started its gibbering, Jarn had been in a black mood. Not even the amusing scenery they were traversing could pull him out of it.

They had passed the industrial district, giving way to countless houses, all with the same whitewash finish, gardens, yards, and above all, boring atmosphere. If I fell asleep here I wouldn’t wake up, there is no reason to. The thought of sleep brought him back his injured charge, Seryan, lying near death in the supply wagon. They must find an apothecary, quickly.

Berserker Part 31

2009-07-14T15:22:00.000-04:00

Marhault and his men had done well in training the militia, while their fighting skills were as basic as trying to put the pointed weapon in the other person, their archery was better than he had expected. The city’s mandate that all men of fighting age must own, maintain, and practice with a bow once a week had paid off. While none could match Marhault’s skill, some of them had matched his own men, not an easy feat. During drills, he had spotted the man who’d tried to lay him out on the floor, he was training alongside his men with no qualms. That was good, it showed the exercises they went thru which were designed to insure they followed the chain of command and kept their heads in combat had worked.

Then there had been a meeting held in the town square, the mayor had gotten up and made a speach that didn’t say anything but fooled everyone into thinking that their lives would go on as normal. Must be a knack Marhault mused to himself. Then he had gotten up and told everybody what would happen. Autumn was coming thankfully closer, so most of the crops had been harvested and stored. That just meant that they needed to fill every container they could find with fresh water. Many’s the time a siege was won from thirst or hunger. The only other precaution they could take was to build extra fortifications; lines of spiked pits before the walls, traps in the high grass, and maybe catapults for counterttack if there’s time.

With the men in training, they had been moved to the barracks at the outskirts of town and were currently sleeping after a rigourous day. Leaving a mercenary skeleton crew to watch the walls. Marhault stalked the walls too, trying to get a feel for the place. He had been surprised when he saw the wall’s specifications, it was three feet thick and fifteen feet high, comprised of alternating layers of brick and iron for added hardiness.

Yawning, he was just about to turn in when movement caught his eye on the west wall. Quickly running over he peered into the gloom of the night, his sharp elven eyes could just barely make out movement. He called for his men, sending runners to rouse the militia. At Marhault’s behest they each set an arrow afire and let fly...yes... with the added light of the arrows he could definately make out wagons of some kind. Having made contact, a rider came forth to speak.

“We are a caravan from Pelse, and beg entrance!”, the old man said, sitting imovably atop his nag.

“A scout of ours died bringing news of an approaching army”, Marhault responded. “Could it be that you have something to do with this army?”

“Yes!”, the old man replied. Something in the man’s voice reached down into Marhault’s brain and awakened his curiosity. Hearing this created both tensening nerves and bowstrings of those in earshot. Professing to belonging to an advancing army of hostiles was not conducive to a long life. But if it were an army, why would they sacrifice any chance at surprise and openly admit intentions of laying seige to Halfway

“Yes?”, Marhault asked with interest. “You intend to attack our city?” He was becoming increasingly aware of the rhythmic thumping of the ground behind him, suggesting a large number of men approaching. Militia maybe? It would be about the right time for them to have cleared their bunks and marched wallward.

“No”, the aged one said. “But I know who would most likely be coming to take this city, and have fought them before and thus am affiliated with them. They are gnolls.”

“Gnolls?”, Marhault smirked, “The last gnoll army was defeated and scattered to the winds over a century ago during the last insurrection of the Cursed. No gnoll has been seen in decades”. Inwardly Marhault trembled, knowing only too well what horrors the deep places that still belonged to the inhuman and feral old world held. As an elf, albeight an outcast half-breed, he was privy to certain knowledge. The insurrection which he refferred to had been instigated and carried out by the humans, and that in Marhault’s opinion, was in itself one step away from failure and defeat. Carolinus, the prophet of Aureliana, the Hunter of The Slain, had preached to the multitudes of a vision inspired by the Goddess. He called with froth on his lips and a belly full of fire for a cleansing of the world, that all “subhuman” creatures be systematically exterminated so that the ill humors they cast upon the land may be destroyed.

He led an army of volunteers across the landscape in random search of the “Cursed”, as they are called in the Book of Aureliana, subsequently robbing anyone they came across for the Glory of Aureliana. The campaign against the gnolls had been the army’s only success. The gnolls were scattered and ran, but very little of either side left the battle field that bloody day.

“Only if that twere so”, replied the old man, suddenly looking very tired. “Could it be that no gnoll has been seen because no man has lived long enough to tell the tale?” With that he waved to the caravan, another horsed figure detached from the shadows with a chained person in tow.

As the chained figure came closer it ceased to be a person, now a short, furry creature. Definitely a gnoll. The woman keeping it looked at the men on the wall with a toothy malicious grin. Better to look at her than the insane red eyes of the rabid sepulchral beast.

“Believe him now?!”, she crowed up to the flabbergasted group.

Berserker Part 30

2009-07-09T15:31:00.001-04:00

The caravan moved onward with renewed vigor now that respite was in sight. Men and women breathed a little easier, children laughed a little louder. Even the gnoll, Fleek, was overjoyed to see the town, dropping down to all fours to gain more traction in pulling his yoke.

As their sullen mood lifted, so did the canopy of trees. They had traversed the Bretolian forest and now looked forward to the comforts of civilization. Even Tyrel’s heart lifted at the prospect of helping the stricken Seryan.

They followed the heavily wagon rutted trail out of the forest and onto the sprawling plains, coming closer they fully understood the scope of the area, what grass they thought would be knee-high came up even to Jarn’s chest. Listening to the rustling of the long grasses in the wind, they continued forward blindly following the upward sloping trail in the near dark.

A salvo of flaming arrows swooped forth from the top of the walled city, burying a few scant yards from the first of the wagon horses, making them rear screaming in the sudden light.

“Stop!”, boomed a resounding voice afterward. The group walked over to the light, allowing it to show themselves to the town.

“We seek shelter!”, returned Aniston in the same manner.

“Then come closer and we shall talk!”, shouted the voice.

Kyle had already unhitched a wagon horse for the old man to ride. Aniston mounted in one swift movement and rode forth well into arrow range at a regal trot.

Berserker Part 29

2009-07-08T11:06:00.001-04:00

Jarn awoke in a muggily hot creaking box, he muzzily looked over to see the sweating pale form of Seryan against the weak light coming through the wagon’s canvas walls. The poor man tossed and turned, groaning and wincing in his sleep. The long cut on his left arm had been well bandaged, but was now stained black with old blood and could no longer hold back the unmistakable odor of putrefying flesh. A smell that Jarn had become regrettably familiar with in the previous weeks and months. Outside he heard the laughing and yells of children at play. Strange, such a differing combination. The joy of those who were coming into the world and pained sounds of those leaving it.

He sat up, not sure anymore if the creaking was from the wagon or his joints due to the crates he had laid on. Stretching out, he lurched around boxed wares and other items which would undoubtedly be sold for far too much in some distant bazaar. Upon reaching the front of the wagon, Kyle, who was at the reins, gave Jarn room to sit, smiling amiably.

“Glad to see you up and about”, Kyle said.

“I don’t know what happened back there”, Jarn lied.

“Are you sound now?”, he asked anxiously.

“Yes, how did you solve the wagon problem”, Jarn said, doing his best to change the subject.

“We didn’t”, Kyle responded with the caution of a men testing thin ice.

“What do you mean?”, Jarn asked, still too foggy to work things out for himself.

“We had to leave another wagon behind”, said Kyle.

“Oh”. In his mind, Jarn was slowly going over the story Millienya had told. Was he the reason all of his people had been attacked? Would he be doomed to constantly face one monstrosity hell bent on destruction after another?

“Thankfully, we’re low enough on food that we didn’t really it much”, Kyle continued, braced for impact.

“Oh”

Kyle recoiled in surprise, over the time they’d been together, Jarn was never one to take bad news well. Especially when it came to eating.

They continued on in monotonous silence, watching light clouds slowly cross the sky.

“How long was I gone?”, Jarn asked dully

“Half the day is my best guess”, came the reply.

“Oh...What about the Gnoll?”, he asked shivering slightly. If all the things that are best left to themselves have dreams such as that one, then we are in serious trouble.

Kyle coughed in embarrassment, “Well, about an hour later it awoke fighting and yelling that it must go. Strangest thing, after a while it started yelling at us to go faster. Tyrel walked over and told it to shut up or help pull the wagons.”, Kyle stopped because he was chuckling too hard to continue. “It volunteered.... to pull the.. wagons, so... it is” By the end he was howling with laughter slapping his leg and even bringing a slight smile to Jarn’s lips.

“How did it do?”, Jarn asked, trying to break his own foul mood.

“Well enough, well enough”, Kyle hooted. “We found that the horses are spooked by it, so we tethered it to the first yoke. Works the horses up a treat.” Despite the humor in this, a few moments later, Jarn was reimursed in his own depressive mind.

Thus they rode. Dully registering the ground as it came and went, the slowly thinning trees, and the sun making its daily lap of the sky. If they had not been in such somber moods then perhaps they would’ve seen the beautiful world around them. A wet blanket of white wrapped its tendrils around the earth, creeping along the ground with an unearthly intelligence, cloaking the world in silence. What would normally have been just another musty half-day caused by the dome of plant life over them was shattered by inumberable shafts of light from heaven, piercing the deep fog, creating the perfect moment. Too bad the worlds or man and those of reality don’t often collide.

Hours passed, as the sun neared it’s bed, the caravans rounded a curve in the trail. Jarn stirred from his sullen revelry. In front of him was a wide rolling plain, covered with wild grass sweeping in the wind and a few errant acres that man had beaten into submission, forcing crops out of it year after year.

“I can see smoke”, he reported to Kyle. Pointing straight ahead, to a spot almost on the horizon. Nearly muted by the blazing red and purple collage that heralded the sultry coolness of the night, sat the walled town of Halfway.

Berserker Part 28

2009-07-07T13:01:00.001-04:00

Marhault walked down the muddy main street, the overcast sky matching his mood, breathing a sigh of frustration at the state of what he had to work with. Bunch of surly farmers and cowardly merchants, without us they would be food for the worms! He slowly headed toward the outskirts of the walled town to a stable that the mayor had hastily refurbished as barracks for his men. Deliberately paying no notice to the hushed whispers, pointing fingers, and nervous glances of the townsfolk going about their business. If there was one thing he had learned after years of command, it was not to show weakness, under any circumstance. Yet deep down he was shaking with worry.

He cursed himself for hiring his men out as mercenaries, but because of the slim pickings as highwaymen in the years previous, they had been forced to find legitimate work. Still, the pay was good and they were sleeping in beds for the first time in months. What had him worried was that his men were beginning to suspect that he was different from them, he had managed to keep the charade up for some time, but when the men became more comfortable around him, they noticed the pale, equine set of his face, his surprisingly light voice, the slight point to his ears, and the fact that the senior members of his elite band were going gray, yet they barely had the down of youth on their faces when Marhault first met them. It used to be that elves could walk among humans without worry of superstitious ridicule, but that was not so in such turbulent times. So, like many of the elder races, they faded into the foreground, waiting for a time when they would be safe from prosecution. A bastard half-breed like Marhault was just lucky enough to pass for human provided he kept his hair covering his ears.

At times like this he longed for the deep quiet of the forests that had given birth to his race, and was most likely where they had gone. But the human side of him knew that he could never go back. The world was getting even more violent, turning away from the peaceful ways of his kind, likely the pestilence that corrupts Gaia will only continue to fester and decay. Let’s not forget I wasn’t accepted as on of theirs to begin with, he thought sourly. Despite living in trees and fields, they were probably still the same aristocratic, racist, snobs they always were.

His depressed, worried musings came to an end as he sighted the long barns housing his thirty-some men. He made sure to knock before he entered the side door. Too many sleepless nights spent trying to make out a killer in the shadows or straining to hear the howl of gnolls and grunting chatter of orcs and goblins on the stirring breeze had taken their toll on his men’s nerves. It was not safe to attempt sneaking up on such competent killers. Even with announcing his presence, the men he walked in on had hands on their weapons.

Seeing that it was nothing worth eating or killing, they went back to their card games, conversations, and sleep. In the company of his men he relaxed somewhat, having spent many years with every member of their troop, his rigid self-discipline was not necessary for show. He wearily made his way to his cot, going over the preparations which he would have to make in his mind. Sitting down on the heavenly soft mattress, his second-in-command, a grizzled old man of at least a hundred skirmishes came up to him.

“Howd the men look?”, he asked in a rattling growl.

“Not the best”, Marhault replied. “But if they were good then we wouldn’t be living it up in here”. At this the old man laughed, long and hard.

“Too true”, the man chuckled.

“They’re meeting at the West gate soon”, Marhault said. “Most are nervous, some are pompous”.

“Good”, the old man said, smiling devilishly. “Means we gotta scare it outta ‘em”.

“Right”, Meryl replied. “So I want you and the men there long before them, spic and span too”. Half of the room that was surreptitiously listening to the conversation gave inward groans. The old man relayed the order and in five minutes the barn was emptied with quick military precision, except for Marhault. Who kicked off his boots and laid down on his dusty bed that smelled slightly of mushrooms. Momentarily happy just to have an hour to kill in relatively comfortable lodgings, he went to sleep with the ability of a tried-and-true mudslogger, totally oblivious to his worries. Rank had it privileges.

Happy Birthday to me.

2009-07-06T15:41:00.003-04:00

Well folks, today I turn 25.
...
Dear God, I'm old.
I always thought that my astrological sign being Cancer was rather prophetic. Turned out I was right. I gotta go in for a CT Scan and tests tomorrow and the day. We'll see if the cancer has come back or not then.
Busy playing with toys and talking with my brother. Haven't seen him in almost a month.
More of the story later.

-John

Berserker Part 27

2009-07-05T13:32:00.001-04:00

Selenne awoke to shouts of confusion and panic. She quickly dressed in a plain woolen smock and scampered downstairs. Surprised to see the common room thronged with worried townsfolk, normally only a few travelers would have been there so early in the day.

She slipped through the group with practiced ease to find her father trying to draw from the taps and light the cookfires at once. His eyes, looking upon her, lit up with gladness for her able hands.

“What is happening?”, she asked after sliding behind the counter and setting to work with the stove. After taking time to scan the crowd she saw that every table was surrounded by chairs and people were still packed up against the walls. She could see by their eyes and tense movement that they were strung more tightly than any bowstring. Speaking of which, many men were carrying bows and knives.

“The militia is being called to arms”, he said in low urgent tones. “Messenger came in the night straight through the Bretolian forest as if his arse were on fire.” This remark earned him a dark look from Silva. For someone who worked in a rural area for years she never got used to rough language

“Well”, she asked with impatience born of youth. “What did he have to say?”

Apparently their conversation was heard by a man sitting at the bar, he leered at her, exposing rotten teeth. “Hard to tell miss”, he said with humor. “Him bein dade before he had a chance ta talk”. Hargram jerked the man’s drink out from under his nose with meaningful glare. The man possessively jerked it back with an apologetic expression.

“The man had been shot”, Hargram supplied. “Just a scratch really, but whoever let fly poisoned their arrows”. Selenne felt a worm of fear niggling through her gut as she heard his chilling words. She had heard many tales by the fire from her father such as this, but this was the only one that sounded the least bit grounded in reality.

Selenne contemplated this as she worked, bringing drinks and food. A few moments later the door to the inn flew open, a tall slender body framed itself against the blazing gold of the morning light. The man strode into the room with a militant reassurance, guaranteeing the attention of everyone in the room. As the door closed behind him Selenne could finally make out his features. He was a well muscled man, at first glance maybe in his twenties, but his eyes with their leaf green color told another tale, one of great experience. His hair was moss brown, flowing down to his shoulders, hid much of his face. He was clothed in earthy greens and browns, with a camouflage cloak to keep of the morning chill.

The ironwood longbow in his hands was a rare beauty compared to the dusty, poorly made ones that most of the militia owned. He thumped it against the floorboards to stop the last of the nervous conversation flying around.

“I”, he stated in a clear fluting voice. “Am Marhault Elsdragon. The mayor of this town has retained the services of my men and I to command in its defense.”

With this statement a ripple of murmurs ran through the crowd. A heavyset, balding man stood up indignantly. “Wait a minute!”, he cried. “I am the commander of the militia and these men are under my control!”

Marhault seemed to grow in stature as he marched over to the offending man. His head came up to the heavy man’s shoulders, yet he stood their undaunted, glaring up with eyes flashing dangerously. “Is that so?”, he asked, a declaration of war in his voice and manner. “That would explain why all your men are standing around in a bar, hiding from the unknown like children!”

At this indignation the middle-aged man puffed up like a balloon, his face reddening. Spluttering with anger he threw a meaty fist at the younger man’s head, such a blow would most assuredly knock someone across the room... if it landed, which was not the case.

One minute the newcomer was placed unmoving in front of the bigger man, the next he ducked under the punch almost before it had been thrown. He then planted a broad shoulder into the man’s sagging belly and stood up. Tossing the squalling man over his head and behind him to land on a number of his comrades, dropping them like ninepins.

He surveyed the rest of the shocked men with a calm civility. “Every able bodied man is to be at the West Gate in an hour, with all weapons and armor ready for inspection.” With that said he turned and walked out, his cloak fluttering behind him.

Berserker Part 26

2009-07-04T13:09:00.001-04:00

Kyle was drawn by strange noises wafting from the front wagon taking him away from his work, hitching up what horses they had left to the wagons. He was not looking forward to telling everybody that they would need to abandon a wagon unless they wanted to stay where they were. He found Lars, Jarn, and Tyrel standing around the Gnoll. It had been tied to the axle of the front wagon and was thrashing violently. It arched its back and screeched, eyes closed and jaws foaming, babbling mindlessly.

He overhead snatches of the conversation as he walked up. “How long has this been going on?”, asked Lars.

“Started just as soon as it fell asleep”, said Lars”.

“Are you sure you didn’t give it the odd nudge or kick?”, asked Jarn.

“No, I thought we might be able to use it in pulling the wagons”, Tyrel confessed with a sheepish grin.

“I remember my father used to sleep walk”, Kyle said. “Maybe this is sort of like that”. They all gave this some thought.

“Then how do you fix it?”, Jarn asked after a while.

“Isn’t there something about not waking someone sleepwalking or their legs will fall off?”, Kyle asked tentatively. They all stared at him for a moment, taking in what could have possibly been one of the dumbest things any of them had or will ever hear. Then, like so many things that don’t make sense or fit into someone’s perception of the world, it was ignored.

“Then we just leave it to yell and scream?”, asked Tyrel.

“I think so”, Lars replied.

Tyrel glared at Lars. “Bloody hell!”, he shouted. “I just finished my watch not an hour ago while it was raving on about its master, and I want to sleep!”.

“What about its master?”, Kyle asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation. The thing was completely asleep and paid no mind to outer stimulus, constantly contorting in seizure.

“Lot of nonsense really”, Lars interjected. “Kept saying that it must get back to its pack and chanting, um what was it? Lurach and Bellet?”.

Jarn gasped, surprising the rest of the group. His face white as bone. “Do you mean Beleth?”, he asked between short breathes.

“That’s it”, Lars said smiling. “It’s a good thing you figured that out or I would’ve gone nuts trying to think of it all day”.

“Are you alright?”, Kyle asked concertedly.

“Maybe”, Jarn responded. “Do you know anything about this Beleth?”

“I think it’s from that old prophecy of the end of all things”, said Kyle. “Rumor says the story is millennia old”.

“What’s a millennia?”, asked Tyrel. His brow furrowed in thought.

“Isn’t it some sort of bug?”, Lars asked

“It’s a thousand years”, said Millienya in disgust, apparently having heard his question as she joined them. Surreptitiously she placed herself out of reach of the contorting creature and directly between Jarn and Lars.

“Well what about the story?”, asked Jarn impatiently.

“Oh it’s a tale of terrible death and destruction to come”, said Millienya. She took up the well known pose of all students who memorize and recite by rote, with hands behind her back and face forward. She cleared her throat and began to speak loudly and clear as a bell.

“The Four demons of torment, Dommiel, Leraje, Zepar and Beleth. It is said that a long time ago the four demons walked upon Gaia, letting the myriad hells of the world beyond merge into this one. Man was hunted for sport. But one night, a great warrior had a dream. In it, a spirit, the mother of all creation, told him what must be done to banish the demons from this world. Leraje the demon of fear and insanity, Zepar demon of rage and bloodlust, and Dommiel demon of plague and rot were invincible, but Beleth was not. It was he who had the power to keep the portal between worlds open. Without him, the others would go back from whence they came. The spirit told the warrior that Beleth could not be killed with any mortal weapon, thus his own weapon was imbued with the power necessary to vanquish the monster. After a long and arduous battle Beleth was killed, with his final words he claimed that through the body and soul of the warrior’s kin, would he be returned to life. After his death, Zepar, the strongest of the three remaining found that he could not destroy the blessed weapon, but he did place a curse upon it so that any of the warrior’s line who carried the weapon would have an insatiable lust for blood, combat, and death, through this the bearers of the weapon would be warped by the dark powers, eventually becoming their thrall.”

Silence held court over the congregation, some in puzzlement and some in fear. For many long moments they stood there, looking at each other, not sure of what to say. Jarn, his face white as a sheet and his trembling legs no longer able to support him sat down heavily upon the earthen ground. Millienya and Kyle knelt down to check on him.

Tyrel, paying no heed to the stunned boy looked at Millienya, “Where did you learn all that?”, he asked with suspicion. “I have not heard of such a story before”.

Millienya looked up from the near catatonic boy, frowning. “I am the chieftain’s daughter”, she replied. “We pay attention to history so the same mistakes are not made”.

“Where did these demons come from, if you’re so smart?”, Tyrel challenged.

“Simple”, she shrugged her shouders as if the answer were so obvious. “The world of magic, the Empyrean. It shadows our own world and through it all things can possibly be brought into being. But it was believed that the demons were the culmination of the evils and sin in this world.”

Kyle produced a small flask from a pocket and gave Jarn a draught to settle his nerves. After a few minutes some color had returned to his features. “Millienya”, he asked with an air of urgency. “How does the warrior’s kin bring Beleth back?”

She stammered for a few minutes, trying to correctly remember the old tale. “No one knows entirely”, she said finally. “But the skalds of my home believe that the kinsman must be sacrificed upon a dark alter”.

“That’s why I was spared”, Jarn murmured, then passed out.

“What was that about?”, asked Tyrel.

Berserker Part 25

2009-07-03T12:31:00.000-04:00

Jarn awoke to the sweet, sweet smell of griddle cakes. Something Gerda didn’t make often, she claimed they were below her skills as a cook. Little did she know they were quite possibly the only food in her repertoire that tasted better after being cooked. So today was an exception. Physically he was drained and beaten, but his head was spinning with the thrill of victory, cut only by the peril in which Seryan lay.

He quickly got out of his bedroll and dressed for breakfast. As Gerda handed him his plate, he heard a strangled whining coming from around one of the wagons.

“What’s going on over there?”, he asked, gesturing toward the front of the lead wagon.

“Oh, the boy’s are having a little bit of fun with that runt you captured”. she replied, smiling in approval. “Serves ‘em right too. They totally destroyed my kitchen, this was all I could scrape together”.

“I think these are great”, Jarn replied, digging in with gusto.

“Flatter all you like young man, that still won’t get you out of helping me clean the kitchen up”, she returned with a smirk. Jarn groaned, having forgotten how much she liked tormenting people.

“I suppose you’ll have me pulling the wagons too”, he quipped.

“You might just have to”, she replied seriously. “Turns out some of the mules were killed in the attack yesterday”.

“What will we do then?”

“I don’t know”, she replied.

Berserker part 24

2009-07-01T13:25:00.001-04:00

Bertrawr knelt in front of the chieftains of the Dog nation, his head lowered in respect for the ancients. The heads of the different tribes sat at a semicircular table, all facing him. Their grayed fur given a ghostly aura by the raging quiet fire behind them, he could feel sawn planks underfoot and felt no breeze and saw no moonlight, so they must have been in one of the luxurious longhouses in which the chieftains congregated. He couldn’t be sure for he dare not look up. The punishment for insolence would be grave. Bertrawr fairly vibrated with excitement and nervousness, he had never come anywhere close to the heart of the Dog nation, having been born and bred in what the humans called the Bretolian Forest.

“You have been chosen to be the leader of a great army”, One of the chieftains said in leaden tones.

“But don’t go putting airs that you’re worth any more than you already were”, seconded a peevish voice.

“Arise”, said the first voice. Bertrawr did so, only then seeing what the fire was doing behind them. A single tendril of flame linked itself to each chieftain. One of them noticed his scared expression.

“Do not be afraid”, said a soothing third. “This is our master, he is allowing us to communicate to you over a great distance.”

“What about this army?”, asked Bertrawr.

“Our glorious lord, Dommiel, The One Who Comes By Night, Leaving But Husks, has chosen you to lead his holy campaign.”, came the response. Bertrawr instinctively dropped to all fours when he heard the name of the gnoll’s patron deity spoken.

“You and all of your kin will be branded as belonging to him”, the voice continued. As he spoke a crest formed itself in the smoke of the great fire, a crescent moon being devoured by the head of a giant wolf.

“You will be supplied by His Grace, to assure you do not fail”. A large bow thunked into the wood before him.

“And finally, you shall be assisted by our lord’s contemporaries, Leraje and Zepar, as well as their servants”. The smoke changed again to show thousands of goblins and orcs marching side-by-side, the orcs under a crest showing crossed swords, the goblins under a fist clenching the world.

“For all these gifts and power, we ask but one thing”, the voice said, becoming more animated as it spoke. “You may conquer the world or shatter it, do as you wish, but their is one person you must spare”. The smoke changed once again to show the hated Jarn, sleeping peacefully, He recognized the man-thing from the failed raid.

“Get him to the circle of summoning!”, the Gnoll shrieked. “The fiery blood running through his veins will allow for the coming of a power even greater than that of your master”. The voice became more frenzied and Bertrawr found himself engulfed in the white hot arms of the flames. He awoke yowling in fear, seeing only the comforting trees around him. It had all been a dream. But if that was so then why was there a huge black bow beside him, and the final words of the chieftain ringing in his head?

Bertrawr abruptly sat up, grabbing his newly found bow, it felt warm and not quite solid in his hands. When he looked at it he saw the surface was comprised of some otherworldly hellmetal, writhing and forming disturbing scenes of carnage, brutality, and torture as he watched it. He put it down in disgust, after a few moments picked it back up again, unable to bear the incessant feeling of despair that had swallowed him. Strangely enough, the despair and pain disappeared.

As he stood up, he felt the wind blow against his fur, creating a stinging sensation on his arm. He peered at it, finding a circular brand on his singed flesh, showing a wolf’s head eating a crescent moon.

He had enough proof, it was no dream. He quickly gathered together his pitiful looking troops and pointed them in a southerly direction, moving faster than anyone thought possible and without rest. After all, Beleth was coming.

Berserker Part 23

2009-06-29T12:24:00.001-04:00

Deep in the darkest forgotten cellar, that had more akin to a crypt than a place to keep wine, was a circle. Unlike most other circles which were steeped in the blood of thousands and held the unknowable eldritch power of the void, there was no indication of anything wrong. No gold plated pentagrams, no skeletons chained to the wall, no red marks on the ground that could be mistaken for wine in a poor light. Not even the most adept wizard, if one were still alive, would be able to notice anything out of the ordinary except that whenever dust fell from the ceilings above, it had an unerring tendency to fall away from the circle, as if all the little dust motes were fighting with all their might against the drop, horrified for their tiny little lives. And recently, a slight phosphorescent rot visible out of the corner of the eye. Was it just the imagination or was it slightly brighter than the day before?

Berserker Part 22

2009-06-26T00:28:00.001-04:00

Millienya found Seryan on the ground, back propped up against the wagon’s axle. Tyrel was kneeling next to him, unsure of what to do. She elbowed him aside and set to work, looking for blood, checking for broken bones. Tyrel pointed at the man’s left arm, a long cut had been scored from the side of his elbow to his wrist.

Millienya inspected the wound. “It’s too shallow to do this to him”, she said in puzzlement.
“Well, there’s nothing else that could do this”, Tyrel responded.

A soot stained Aniston walked over, carrying a blood gummed dagger. He handed it to Millienya.

“Smell”, he commanded.

She tentatively took a whiff, then tossed it to the ground in disgust.

“Poisoned”, she said. Now that she considered it she could see that the wound had become necrotic and veins along Seryans arm had turned a disconcerting purple.

“Will he die?”, asked Tyrel. A tinge of fear and anxiety had crept into his voice and demeanor.

“What do you care?”, challenged Lars, walking up to them.

“If he dies I won’t get paid!”, he cried, earning dirty looks all around. Lars was about to yell at him but Millienya quickly interrupted.

“For whatever reason, the poison hasn’t killed him outright.”, she stated. So either it’s slow acting or just watered down. If we can get him to an apothecary in time, there’s a good chance he’ll survive”.

“Well great!”, said Tyrel, throwing his hands up. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, lets just bury him now and save time!”

“Not exactly nowhere”, Anistons said as he stood up wincing when his knees cracked.

“What do you mean”, Millienya asked, impatience barely contained.

“There’s a tow---”. Aniston trailed off as he saw Jarn trudging toward them, a limp bundle in his arms. The grouped parted silently before him, he carefully laid the dead child alongside the dying man. They all stared down at the wretched little travesty of life with lowered heads and haggard expressions, reminded of the value of life and the suddenness in which it ends.

“We’ve already lost one”, murmured Karnar with tears brimming in his pain-maddened eyes. The group all came to the same at once.

“Where’s this town you were talking about?”, whispered Millienya

“Two days’ ride south I think”, said Aniston as he regained his composure.

Lars and Jarn both stepped forward to pick up Seryan’s limp form, balking slightly at the sight of the other, but deciding Seryan to be more important. Jarn picked him up by the shoulders and Lars took the legs. They hadn’t moved but half a step before Aniston’s sword came swooping down behind Jarn, making him drop his friend and roll forward. The ancient blade passed through a hairy hand clutching a dagger protruding from beneath the wagon. Their was a now-familiar howl of pain. Jarn quickly grasped the stump of the injured arm, hauling on it until he had disgorged the malnourished, misshapen form of a Gnoll.

Jarn recognized it as the one he had hit on the head, it completely slipped his mind that it was still alive.

“How did you know it was there?”, Jarn asked in bewilderment.

“I heard it crawling around under there since you got back”, replied the old man, wiping his blade in disgust. “It was probably going to hamstring you and I couldn’t get a decent stroke until it reached out for you”.

Jarn shuddered at the cold, dead tone in Aniston’s voice. He used to hear the blacksmith talk about the proper way to make steel in the same voice.

Tyrel stepped forward with knife in hand, ready to slit the cur’s throat. His hand was stayed from the murderous deed by Aniston. Tyrel glared at the old man with greed in his eyes.

“The leathers and jewelry that thing is wearing could be valuable”, he complained. When looked at, the gnolls wore furs and leathers over their own. And they had little pieces of gold and silver woven into their fur.

“Even if we can get Seryan to the apothecary in time, we need some idea of what kind of poison was used”, Aniston explained. “Are you willing to give up your pay for protecting him for a few second-hand clothes a beggar wouldn’t accept?”

The group broke up, each getting ready to leave as soon as possible. They got Seryan and their prisoner safely stored and secured, buried the poor dead child and what remains of the inhabitants of the lead wagon. The mules and horses had to be rounded up, they had broken their reigns when the cannons went off. The cannons were moved out of the rode and destroyed with the aid of a few well-placed hammerblows. With this done they continued forward hurriedly, anxious to be free of the constricting trees as soon as possible.

Berserker Part 21

2009-06-25T14:11:00.000-04:00

Fleek awoke with a pounding headache, cursing himself for being pushed into the first wave of attack. He had struggled with the man thing until it had knocked his head against one of their transports, it was a surprise that he was alive. It must’ve been because nothing could kill something as beautiful as a Gnoll, Fleek thought with pride, puffing up his chest and wincing at the bruises it aggravated.

He surveyed his surroundings, still under a wagon, and the air was heavy with the comforting scent of his packbrothers an blood. They must’ve won the battle and were busy looting the corpses. They would be left as sign not to cross the newly forged Dog Nation boundaries.

He carefully flipped himself onto his belly and wriggled toward the sound of others.

Berserker Part 20

2009-06-24T13:10:00.000-04:00

Millienya perched in the boughs of an ancient oak, sending feathered dart after dart into any Gnoll she could see skulking at the skirts of the path. She smiled in satisfaction at a job well done. With her sudden attack from above and the unshakable defenses on the ground, the gnolls had lost heart and had become disorganized. They argued amongst each other, growling and yipping in their tongue. Ignoring the cajoling of their peers, they retreated farther into the woods, disappearing as if they were inconsistent as fog.

“Get down here”, a familiar voice cried from the trunk of her tree. She looked down to see Lars, cleaning his sabers. They had been put to use judging by the gnolls that surrounded the tree, as always he displayed some redeeming value in putting up with his stubbornness.

“What is it?”, she asked. It had taken a while to get up the tree and she wasn’t about to abandon her perch on account of something trivial.

“Seryan’s hurt”, came the reply.

Millienya hooked her bow around a small branch and just dropped, letting the bowstring slow her decent. When she got to the ground Lars wordlessly pointed to the left flank of the wagon.

Berserker Part 19

2009-06-23T15:04:00.002-04:00

Jarn was pulled from his revelry by an incessant low growling and strange shlurping sound. He peered around the corner of a wagon to behold a scene that seared itself into the back of his skull and would be the subject of many nightmares to come. A small boy, Jarn recognized as one of Gerda’s helpers was lying on the ground, in a pool of his own fluids. His eyes gazed blankly down at his abdomen, where a greasy little leach of a Gnoll was firmly entrenched. Up to its eyeballs in the child’s intestines, gulping and chewing ravenously. The boy looked up at Jarn, dull recognition in his glazed eyes.

It was as if another cannon had barked, Jarn was thrown forward on an explosive wave of rage and hate, shouting screaming and shrieking with the unholy energy of a demon at the abomination. This should not exist, this cannot exist, this doesn’t exist, YOU DO NOT EXIST! If the power of Jarn’s mind was enough to kill, that bloody little worm would’ve promptly detonated. Seeing as it didn’t Jarn just had to do the best he could. The Gnoll didn’t even have a chance to look around before it was dragged up off the boy by a grip which could’ve crushed rock. It’s slavering features were brought level with a face that would’ve made the Four Devils of Torment soil themselves. Jarn’s eyes were two smoldering pits of hate, his nostrils were flared, pumping air in and out like a bellows, the rest of his features were obscured by a slurry of blood and muck. Dying his skin a fitting hot red, it was a surprise the sweat on his face wasn’t boiling away.

Jarn tried vainly to say something coherent to the miserable little thing, but the words couldn’t be shaped around the banshee’s scream which welled up from within and seemed to go on for an eternity. The Gnoll, shaken and deafened, began to feel a distinct pressure on its arms where it was held firmly, whining in anticipation of the pain to come. The pressure increased to an unbearable level, Jarn could hear tendons creaking and groaning in the scrawny flea-bitten thing’s body. In a virulent spray of red, it’s arms were yanked from their moorings. The Gnoll fell to the ground to die in keening agony, its arms several feet away. Jarn gently picked up the stricken boy and carried him around the wagons. In the death the child took a cherubic quality, as if he was just sleeping and a the mearist coaxing would arouse him. After aimlessly stumbling around, he finally returned to the place where he had fought alongside Seryan and Tyrel.

Berserker Part 18

2009-06-21T18:47:00.000-04:00

Karnar and Aniston were hard pressed to stay alive too. They had been forced back by a group of six large gnolls. Millienya was unable to help them because the bough upon which she stood was blocking her field of vision and to take a blind shot would risk hitting a friend. So far they were able to keep their attackers at bay by the superior reach of Aniston’s longsword and Karnar’s whirling pick, who created a tightening circle of steel around his targets. But just as one was about to make a killing stroke, another Gnoll would catch their attention and the men would have to backpedal in order to avoid the next furry flurry.

Aniston spared a glance to his left, seeing the smoldering bodies of the cannon dogs he was struck by a flash of inspiration.

“Can you hold them back?”, he asked. “When I shout, get as far back from them as possible”.

Not bothering to wait for a nod or grunt of approval he ran, clattering and clanking to the one remaining cannon, trying to get a feel for operating the foreign thing. When he got a close look he realized what a wonder it was that they hurt anything except the user. The metal was rusted and pitted with age, looking brittle as glass. But since he saw no alternative, he got behind the thing and sighted along the barrel. He saw that Karnar had simply barreled into the group with his shield held in front of him like a battering ram, now that he was examining it, he saw that there was a hole in the center from where a retractable spike was now protruding and considerably gaining the attention of the Gnoll he hit.

He desperately looked around the cannon for the firing mechanism. Spotting a soot blackened hole near the back, he yelled for Karnar to get clear. Praying to any gods listening, snatched a burning twig from the explosion and put it to the hole.

Berserker Part 17

2009-06-19T00:35:00.000-04:00

Just as soon as the first of the Gnoll raiders burst forth from the woods, they were driven to the ground by a hail of crossbow bolts. The guards quickly dropped their bows, drew their weapons, and engaged the enemy.

Acting too fast for Jarn to ready his axes, a Gnoll was in front of him, a rusty knife held poised in a surprisingly handlike paw. Before Jarn was sent to his ancestors, a spike swooped out of nowhere and buried itself in the dogthing’s chest. Jarn looked up to see Karnar grinning like a maniac with the spiked warpick in one hand and a small round shield in the other. He moved over to help Aniston, who was currently fending off the wild attacks of two gnolls as a third lay dead at his feet.

Aniston moved with an almost balletic grace and skill, every footstep was sure and measured, as was every thrust and slash of his beautiful two handed longsword. Jarn was so entranced by the dipping and weaving tip of the blade that he almost didn’t notice the enraged gnolls charging him.

With a speed born of terror, he skipped to one side as the gnolls attacked. He successfully avoided the bull rush of two, but the third monster compensated for Jarn’s evasion and still cannoned into the boy. Hitting the dirt, the gnoll’s momentum sending them skidding halfway under a wagon. They writhed in the dirt, trading punches, too close to use weapons. Jarn had the distinct disadvantage of not having a long snout full of teeth, which his assailant used, snapping and lunging at Jarn’s throat. He was able to keep the angry creature at bay by lying on his back and propping his feet against its chest. With a great kick that propelled the Gnoll’s body upward, its head smashed against the undercarriage of the wagon, knocking it unconscious.

Jarn scrambled out under the wagon to help the other flank, Aniston and Karnar most assuredly had their side under control. He was greeted by the sight of Seryan and Tyrel facing an inhuman onslaught of sheer manic strength. While Seryan was skilled in the use of his rapier and swordbreaker, the wall of furred bodies that presented itself was too much to deal with. As Jarn watched, four gnolls broke from the pack and attacked with assorted blades and clubs flailing. Seryan quickly pressed his back up to a wagon for extra security, he whirled aside to avoid a downward swung club, catching another blade in his multi-pronged swordbreaker. With a quick flick of the wrist, he had disarmed his opponent, stabbed the creature and moved on to the next. As he turned, the integrity of his chainmail armor was tested by a raking knife across his midsection, luckily it held and the knife’s owner received a few moments of Seryan’s attention in return.

There were still two gnolls at hand, and unlike the others, these two knew how to work together. One would lunge forward while the other would try to draw Seryan’s attention, he was being effectively pecked to death. Before Jarn could rush to the man’s aid, a large figure arose from behind one of the gnolls. Tyrel, using his bullhide whip to garrote one of the two. The strangled gasping of the dying monstrosity caused its companion to look over, giving Seryan the opportunity to bring the other to a pointed end. As the two gnolls fell, Jarn got his first real look at Tyrel since the fight began. He was covered in blood, whether it was his or someone else’s was unknown. With his whip he also had a short, thick bladed sword in the other hand. His leather bandolier of throwing knives were missing a few, Jarn looked around to see them buried in the throats of various corpses.

Jarn jogged over to stand between the bloody creature and the mail encrusted man. Seryan acknowledged his presence with a grim smile. The sight of the running blood, soaking the ground was strangely calming to Jarn, he felt his pulse and breathing slow. He looked up to a fresh batch of gnolls that had just emerged from the cool shade of the trees and became an instrument of death. Not like the burning rage of his previous battle, but this one was akin to it. While still fighting with inhuman ability, he was fully aware of his body and if it was in the path of any oncoming weapons. It was as if his mind was detached from its body so feelings of fear, panic, and fatigue were unknown.

As the gnolls sighted the three, Jarn charged, he heard a scream full of rage and pain. He was dully surprised to hear it was his own. He closed the ground between himself and the enemy with deceptive speed for one so big, raising his axes, everything around him seemed to slow as he acted with blinding speed. He dove into the gnolls. The first he came to grips with hadn’t registered that he was within striking distance yet, his axe passed through the things temple as the other passed through its neck in the opposite direction. Once the novelty of his assault wore off, he fell into a basic routine. Anyone coming within range of the terrible axes in his hands were instantly pulverized. Just like chopping wood. He would knock aside the swing of a sword with almost painful ease and with his other axe, lop off the arm which bore it. In this methodically gruesome manner, he killed at least five or six before the gnolls fell back. The sudden appearance of a counterattack had disoriented them and sent them back into the relative safety of the woods.

Jarn’s nagging worry of Millienya’s safety was soon abolished. Though the gnolls were far back enough to avoid Jarn, they hadn’t seen her in the trees yet with a bow and a full quiver. As she sent arrow after arrow into the milling and confused throng, Jarn was aware that her shots must’ve been poisoned. A light flesh wound was still enough to kill within a few seconds of hitting its mark, sending her victims into horrific convulsions. Her interjection gave the three time to stand back and assess the situation. Jarn was darkly pleased by the look of amazement and slight horror on the faces of the other two.

They checked each other for wounds. Seryan had a nasty gash alongside his arm, which should have been Jarn’s if he hadn’t jumped in the way, that would need attention to. Aside from bruising and a few other minor cuts, the three fighters were in surprisingly good condition.

With Millienya’s aid, the upsurge of Gnoll activity on the caravan’s left flank seemed to be quelled. Jarn left the two men where they were to do a quick sweep for other raiders or injured camp followers. He ran to the rear of the caravan, taking care to check on the people hiding in the wagons. When he reached the cook wagon he heard a rustling. He snuck past the canvas sides and peeked in from the rear to see a few gnolls scavenging through their provisions. It was too tight in there to swing an axe, so Jarn did the only thing he could think of. He held up his axe at arm’s length, sighting down its haft, with a quick fling the heavy metal treekilling mallet embedded itself in the back off one. Alerted by the dying howl of its comrade, the other Gnoll spun around to face its attacker. Jarn was relieved to see Gerda arise like an avenging fury from a cubby hole somewhere in the wagon’s cramped confines, pull a filleting knife from a drawer cabinet and slit the creature’s throat from behind.

“Look what they did to my kitchen!”, she complained. “I’ll never get the smell out, not if I scrub for a year!”

Jarn looked at her incredulously. “Aren’t you glad you’re alive?”, he asked.

She shook her head and grinned. “When you get to be my age hon”, she said. “You soon find there’s no use in getting worked up over every little thing that happens”.

“But weren’t you just complaining about the kitchen?”, he asked.

“Well”, she said. “While you won’t be found wanting for a fight while traveling dangerous roads, a good meal is another story entirely”. She busied herself with replacing anything that the gnolls knocked down from what would normally be her meticulously neat and clean shelves. “Now help me with these pups”, she asked Jarn.

Jarn was only able to leave after he promised that he would help get rid of the bodies and scrub the wagon down after everything was finished. He went in dumbstruck silence. How could someone get past the fact that they had almost been killed so easily? Jarn knew that he had been heartily sick after his affair with the goblins. Why is it called heartily sick? Its not as if I felt very good afterward or even during. It’s funny how the mind wanders in such situations. Must be how the head copes while the body gets on with the business of staying alive.

Berserker Part 16

2009-06-17T23:24:00.000-04:00

Jarn and Karnar had seen the explosions and Aniston hit the dirt more than once, Jarn tried to run to him but stopped after realizing that with the power of those things, helping the old man to run a little farther wouldn’t matter much. They quickly took cover behind the wheels of the wagons, between the punctuating roars, he could hear the sobbing of the caravan members who were all now huddling in the wagons. Safe from the individual Gnolls, but not their weapons.
The third explosion was odd, causing them all to look up and they realized that they might have a chance at surviving this fight. They got up and gathered Aniston from the dirt.

“What are those things?”, asked karnar.

“I remember them from when I was little”, said Aniston. “I think they’re called cannons”.

“Well can they bark again?”, Karnar asked, referring to their decoration.

“I don’t think so”, responded Aniston unsteadily. “I think they take time between attacks”.

“Lets not be around when that happens”, said Jarn.

“But then they’ll just chase us”, countered Aniston. “Let’s finish them!”.

Any other words were stopped by a shriek from Millienya. They all looked up to see her in a large tree branch almost overhead.

“There are more forming on our flanks!”, she shouted down to them.

“Can you see how many?”, Aniston called up.

“thirty to forty is my guess!”, she responded.

“Right!”, Aniston said as rubbed his hands together. He shouted warnings to the other guards as the first of the enemy could be seen.

Berserker Part 15

2009-06-16T21:22:00.002-04:00

Bertrawr fumed, pacing back and forth, his fur flat against his body, a sure sign of agitation. Idiots! Morons! The Storm Canis can’t fail! Those must not be Storm Canis then, they can’t be! They’re impostors, someone in the Dog Nation is trying to make a fool out of me! Bertrawr stopped, being a packleader means not showing any weakness. There are always too many others looking for promotion, and emptying the shoes of their occupant is a widely accepted way of doing so. There was nothing for it now but to continue as planned.

Berserker Part 14

2009-06-15T21:50:00.001-04:00

They had slowed their pace considerably since Jarn’s warning, and the miles and miles of endless dense forest didn’t help much either, especially with no one willing to widen the trail. As they kept going, Aniston fancied the trees grew thicker and closer together, deliberately blocking out more and more sunlight, closing in around them. All he could see above were the branches and leaves of the majestic oaks that now seemed to hold extreme danger in their shadow, all he could see in any direction were their trunks.

They were just rounding a corner when the noise began. They weren’t really howls, not by the standards of any self respecting wolf. They sounded more like a dog trying to act ferocious, attempting to turn a whining yip into something that would freeze the marrow in their preys’ bones. It seemed that the ululating came from behind every damned tree and branch that could be seen. The caravan stopped immediately and the wagonmaster fought to calm the horses. Every man, woman, and child held their breath, searching for some sign of movement in the surrounding wood.

A sudden bright flash of light pulled their attention as if by a winch to a spot some hundred yards ahead of the wagon. It was a torch being held by something in ragged robes, its lone light was soon joined by three others. A dozen or so creatures like the first were now visible scurrying around small but immensely heavy looking contraptions set in the shadows of the concealing oaks.

Aniston stared at the iron contrivances, too stupefied to say or do anything. They were all poorly made metal pots which someone had made an attempt to paint a dogs mouth around the hole, they looked very deep and heavy. They had been bolted to a square metal platform with handles for carrying. They looked very familiar to Aniston but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what they were for or where he had seen them. He was so enraptured by them, he didn’t even notice when the howling stopped. One of the dirty gnolls placed its torch against a metal pot, his eyes widened as it came to him. He leapt from the wagon seat just as an eye searing flash and a deafening boom erupted. He realized that they were part of a story that his father had told him once, years ago. They were supposed to hold some sort of power, they shot huge balls of metal or stone so fast that they couldn’t be seen, completely decimating anything it hit. What had the old man called it, a can-something?

The wagon he had been sitting on a split-second before was ripped apart in an explosion of wood and metal. The driver simply disappeared in a spray of red, the poor man didn’t even have time to scream. Aniston got to his feat and ran towards the rear of the wagon train minus one. This is it, any second now the rest of those things will tear us all apart before we realize we’re dead. He continued onward, and once again hit the ground as another metal device discharged. But this time there was no death, fiery it was but no death occurred, a tree beside him was blown apart in a rain of boiling sap. It was apparent that, although powerful, they were not all that accurate or easily aimed. Well that’s two, there are two more. That’s one more than it will take to kill us. Aniston didn’t bother getting up to run, he was older than he let on and he accepted his fate.

This time there was not the same boom. A strange squealing noise occurred very quickly before a giant gout of fire leapt into the sky. Something was wrong with the device, it had been plugged and instead of shooting, it had exploded. Incinerating most of the nearby ragged gnolls and setting the oily and matted fur of the rest ablaze. There was a fourth weapon, but they were all too panicked to use it, instead they flapped their arms around like idiots and rolled about on the ground, trying to put the flames out.

Berserker Part 13

2009-06-14T19:52:00.000-04:00

The Storm Canis were in position and the first of the wagons had just rounded the bend in the trail. For some reason the Furless ones’ pace had slowed down, but the pack was far too worked up to care. Bertrawr gave the sign to begin the attack. It would give away his position as well as most of his pack, but since the Storm Canis did not follow the same rules of battle, they would be a great surprise. He howled.

Berserker Part 12

2009-06-11T22:54:00.002-04:00

Jarn tore through the brush, hopping over fallen logs and treacherous dips in the trail. Moving as if a demon from the deepest pits of some unnamable underworld were in hot pursuit. Breath ripping in and out of his lungs, heart racing, panic lending his feet wings, he closed the distance to the lead wagon in record time. He barely avoided crashing into one of the guards by slamming into the ground before the surprised man’s feet. Jarn looked up into the wide brown eyes of the old man who carried the longsword, his name he had heard was Aniston though he had never really talked much with him. He got up to his knees with the aid Aniston’s aid, and tried to speak, only coughing and choking, Jarn had covered at least half a mile in a few moments, his lungs refused to spare the tiniest bit of air for any other use.

Aniston slapped him on the back and waited until Jarn could catch his breath before he questioned the scared boy.

“What’s wrong lad?”, he asked as kindly as possible.

“Monsters... up ahead”, Jarn replied between gasps for air, his head down, concentrating on slowing his breath. “They look like dogs but stand on two legs”. Jarn hadn’t noticed them until one managed to get up behind him, it was a little shorter than him with shaggy fur and a long, dog-like snout. It wore what looked like very poorly cured animal skins and leathers patched together, what Jarn saw that panicked him most was the others of its kind that were quietly moving through the underbrush. With great self control he had kept on chopping wood like nothing had been noticed, the thing behind him backed away and joined its companions. He continued acting oblivious to anyone’s presence for a few more moments just to be sure none were still around and then ran as fast as he could, it was all he could do to remember to keep from dropping his ax to get back more quickly.

“Gnolls?”, Aniston said. “Can’t be, they all disappeared before I was even born, but with the way things are going these days, it’s likely enough. Come on, lets go warn the others.”

As they marched to the rear of the wagon train, Aniston yelled out warnings and orders to everyone he passed, rattling off instructions without cease and addressing every single person by name. What would normally have caused panic, confusion, and people working at cross purposes if issued by any other man they found themselves obeying automatically, there was something in his voice that was used to having orders carried out.

They reached the guardsmen’s wagons quickly to find everyone in the middle of buckling on any spare or heavy armor they might find too cumbersome to wear constantly. Seryan donned a chain mail coat and hood, while the brother and sister team put even more leathers on. Jarn grabbed his other ax and strapped his father’s sword to his back as Aniston quickly relayed the story to the rest of the group.

“I want everyone to guard the flanks”, he said. ‘From what Jarn told me, they’re probably looking to make a quick ambush, which means they won’t try a full frontal assault. Millienya, I want you to find a good spot to work from”.

“Yeah, yeah”, mumbled the bruiser Tyrel, strapping on a bandolier of wicked looking throwing knives.

“Something wrong?”, Aniston challenged with his hand on his sword.

“No”, Tyrel replied in a drawl which was the closest he could get to intelligent sounding. “I just always get so sleepy whenever you open your mouth. Strange coincidence eh?”

“Hah, bloody, hah”, Karnar stepped in. “Let’s just hurry up, I don’t think those things will wait for you to finish this talk”.

They grabbed their crossbows and assorted personal weapons, Millienya switched her crossbow for an ornate shortbow that looked as if it were carved from bone and strung with sinew. They split up to take their positions. Aniston hustled up front to ride with the driver of the first wagon. The inseparable Seryan and Tyrel moved to cover the caravan’s left flank.

Before Jarn could choose who to pair off with, Karnar slapped him on the back. “You’re with me”, he said as he gave Jarn a grin, which was somehow not very reassuring.

Berserker Part 11

2009-06-10T22:29:00.001-04:00

The scouts had all confirmed the size of the caravan and whatever valuables it were estimated to contain. It was a miracle that the little gnolls with their snorting, loud noses weren’t spotted. One of the newer scouts boasted that he got right up behind one of the big Furless ones that was out ahead of the wagons, hacking at the brush like a maniac and making enough noise for any Gnoll worth his salts to notice from up to a mile. They were all sure that he was lying, but it was normal for a young pup trying to one-up his betters.

Pack leader Bertrawr growled to himself with anticipation, he and his band of warriors hadn’t been lucky enough to find any decent looking pickings in the better part of a month. A number of fights had broken out recently and he had heard some disturbing rumors of a strong push by some of the more freethinking of the group to choose another leader. So this diversion was as much a welcome thing to Bertawr’s underlings as it was him.

He growled a string of unpronounceable syllables to a slightly smaller Gnoll who was the closest thing to a fighter of lesser rank among the primitive military which evolved over years of hard and practical testing. His best Longfangs would hold back until the Storm Canis had softened them up enough to provide little resistance. It was Bertrawr’s pride and joy to have the highly elite Storm Canis with him, only the most famous of the skirmisher units were assigned a group of the highly technological Storm Canis. They had to be sent directly by the chieftains of the Dog Nation. Most of the border fighters were only equipped with a bunch of fresh pups and some veteran Longfangs.

Once the rest of his dogs had formed up, he took his ritual place in the center of the formation. It was a common tradition to do so, it being logically the most secure place of the entire unit, so he was safe to think clearly and issue orders to his troops that were superior to the panicked and frenzied of the enemy. He received the “all clear” sign from his aid and waited.

Berserker Part 10

2009-06-09T23:50:00.001-04:00

Jarn swiftly adapted to the life of a traveler, his clan had not had much belief in possessions, though it strongly urged being self sufficient, and this was something he was good at. In the morning he would awake earlier than the others and had learned after a few experiments that being in the front of the breakfast line didn’t necessarily mean that you would get the largest portions. Gerda had a network of cook aids, spies, and informants which allowed her to know at any time where someone was and how much work they had been doing. She was of the old school philosophy that the more work a person did, the more they deserved to eat. So Jarn would volunteer every morning to go out and cut firewood for her, he would return later with a cord of wood and, with a smile of gratitude and wink of approval from Gerda, would be given two-to-three times larger helpings than anyone else. With most people this would seem like gluttony, but because of Jarn’s impromptu starvation, massive size, and the fact that he worked harder than most anyone had ever seen kept him hungry too.

After breaking his fast, Jarn would load up his things into the guards’ wagon and go to see Terris, where he would then be given instructions for the day. At first they had tried to teach him how to use a crossbow. Things worked out very well and he could hit a target just as good as any of the others, but when he accidentally pulled the string back too hard when reloading one and ripped the crossbow in half, Terris had a fit and tossed him over to Kyle. Kyle was the caravan’s wrangler, he took care of the wagons and the animals that pulled them. Tragedy befell once again when a particularly nasty mule with an amazing sense of anatomy kicked Jarn as he was tying it up to the wagon with it’s team. The poor animal must’ve had at least three broken ribs from the punch Jarn sent it’s way.

Everyone was about to give up when Gerda commented on his ability with an ax. The idea of Jarn clearing and widening the trail, far ahead of them, where he could do no harm, was very appealing. So he would spend most of the day trudging ahead of the wagons with his war ax. Having accidentally broken through the wooden haft of one of the communal axes, he decided that the solid iron haft of one of his own beautifully carved masterpieces to be more sturdy and reliable than the dandy little things that the rest seemed content to use.

The scrub and pine which he was sweeping away was becoming less common. It was replaced by yew and other types of warmer climate trees. They were slowly working their way south. By the time Jarn would get to thinking about their destination and his strength would begin to flag, Kyle would call a stop to the procession and they would break for lunch.

One of the innumerable children Gerda had working for her would bring Jarn water and utensils for washing, she was a stickler for cleanliness and knew that he would work hard and stink bad enough to make the food gag by then. Lunch was normally salted pork with any number of pickled vegetables, hardly great fare but enough to keep a person going. Jarn would normally forgo the niceties of eating with the others and go back out to the clearing he had carved just hours ago. It gave him time to think and rest without being interrogated by the other, ever curious travelers. His only regret was not being able to see Millienya, she was in his thoughts more and more often. With her fine hair, blonde as cornsilk, and her radiant sky blue eyes.

After lunch, while he mindlessly chopped away at any offending plant matter in reach, a few camp followers or an occasional guard would visit him every so often to take away the fallen wood or bring refreshments. Sometimes he would get into a conversation with Seryan or Karnar as he worked, but the never once saw Lars though, somehow Millienya had managed to keep her word and Jarn did not have to worry about awaking with a knife stuck in him.

From these talks he learned a number of things. Seryan was from the distant city of Doneliss, a large city-state in southern Bretolia, which was the caravan’s destination as well as his. His father was a merchant that traded with a number of distant tribes in Kormusleiv. He had been sent in his father’s place to hammer out a new trade agreement with a tribe which had split off from another larger group. He was curiously reluctant to relinquish the details of his escapades. Jarn soon found out from Karnar that the reason he was so far from home and extremely quiet is that there had been a death in his family. His beloved wife and Jarn’s cousin-in-law, Katherine, had died while giving birth to their first child. What’s worse is that the child didn’t survive either. Karnar mourned for months, hardly sleeping or eating. Then one day he simply picked up his few belongings and left, he didn’t care where he went or how he got there. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand to live with Katherine’s death, so he ran away. A few days into his traveling he happened upon the camping caravan and joined them for lack of anything better to do.

Jarn didn’t move a muscle for the entire time Karnar spoke. It was absolutely awful about what happened. Jarn had known Katherine too and she was always in good health and full of life. Although he racked his brain, Jarn couldn’t think of a single thing to say that might possibly ease Karnar’s sorrow. All he could do was nod his head and go back to work.

Berserker Part 9

2009-06-08T02:07:00.000-04:00

Among the cool intermittent plains and forests which dotted the mainland lies a small town. Named Halfway by some joker from times past, probably due to the fact that it’s one of the bordertowns which dot the countryside, between two different regions. It was a common thing to trick tax collectors by saying that they paid taxes to the other region’s ruler, no country was on well enough terms to question another about such matters, which neatly allowed the inhabitants to ignore the entire subject and continue making a modest living.

Halfway was exactly between the heavily forested, trading region of Bretolia and the near endless farming plains of Gath, which provided business for a little of the former and much of the latter. The town itself was surrounded by small walls on all four sides and most men were expected to attend militia drills and keep up archery practice whenever the fields allowed. In many cases this had saved the little town from roving bands of things passing through the Bretolian forests.

At this time of night, anyone who wasn’t in bed was at the Sign of The Castaway, the proprietor family had settled there after working on trading ships for so long the sight of blue made them sick. So they pulled up stakes, taking their newborn daughter with them, and moved inland, where they established a nice little inn, one of just a few two story buildings in town. The inn was a marvel of Hargram the owner’s craftsmanship, with not a single splinter or rough spot in the place. Made of the richest mahogany through and through, with beautiful trellised walls and frosted windows. It was more than sixteen years old, but the old wood structure still shone like new due to Silva’s, Hargram’s wife, constant scrutiny and care.

It’s large common room was full of bulky, heavily built farmers who’ve come to talk with friends, exchange gossip, and relax from the day’s work. Old men huddled around the fire, smoking and complaining about how nothing , not even fire was as good as they had in the old days. A pretty little girl, almost out of her teens, walked through the crowd, delivering mugs of beer and plates of food. She had creamy white skin, and stood a little over five feet. The most striking thing about her was her hair, black as a raven’s wing. She looked nothing like her parents. Her father, Hargram, who was busy filling glasses, was a man of average height with a look of wiry strength about his extremely dark, grizzled features, his only concession was his glittering blue eyes set deep into his skull, giving him a hooded, knowing sense. Her mother, Silva, was likewise short and heavily tanned with more normal blonde hair. They had both come from some island far off from the mainland and the inn had been made most famous by the secret of distilling rum which Hargram had brought with him.

As the girl passed a table on her way back to the kitchen, she was grabbed by the waist and pulled down face-to-face with someone she never saw before. He was dressed in stained and tattered, poorly stitched clothes, obviously some lowlife passing through and looking for a fight.

“Hi, there”, he said. The smell of alcohol nearly blew her over and she could see his eyes were clouded from too much of Hargram’s Finest. “Give us a kiss”.

She tried to pull away but wasn’t strong enough. Another man came up from behind the stranger and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Could you let Selenne go about her work?”, he asked calmly. His eyes were two chips of ice around a face that radiated disapproval.

“What’s she tyoo?” the man slurred, oblivious to the man’s anger.

“She’s my daughter, now get out or I’ll make you”, came a reply with snake speed.

“You’ll make me what?” the befuddled stranger said while still holding on to Selenne.

Most of the room had quieted down, Hargram was not a normally violent man, but he was extremely touchy when it came to his daughter. The silence buzzed with the single thought; this should be good.

“Leave”, Hargram said steadily, trying to help along the man’s slow witted brain. he had seen this man’s kind before. Cruel, small-minded men who were down on their luck and decide to spread the misery around.

“Why should I leave when I have done nothing wrong?!”, he screamed, tossing Selenne away and drawing a long knife, brandishing the cheap blade in the air.

Half the room backed up and the rest closed in, some wanting to help Hargram and the rest anxiously awaiting the ensuing climax.

The man lunged forward sloppily, giving Hargram plenty of time to sidestep the man. As the drunk regained his balance, Hargram pulled a cosh from his belt and smacked the leather bound length of iron against the back of the man’s head, dropping him with little more than a moan. This was drowned out by the groans of the spectators. They were disappointed for two simple reasons. While they expected a larger fight, it was a rule of Hargram’s that the minute a fight broke out within his establishment, it would close immediately for the rest of the night.

As Hargram walked over to help up Selenne, the drinkers and talkers took turns kicking the unconscious stranger on their way to the door, muttering about foreigners ruining things for the rest of them and complaining about having to go home to their families earlier than necessary.

Selenne said she would be fine, but her assailant wouldn’t. Almost every male in town resided in that inn, at one kick per person, the stranger would be mighty bruised by morning. Hargram was a smart enough man that he didn’t need to be violent.

The three worked in silence with a precision born of years of routine, locking the heavy oak door, taking up dirty glasses, cleaning tables, stopping up the beer kegs, and sweeping the floor before they blew out all the lamps and went upstairs to their rooms.

As Selenne dozed off, she reflected on her life and its direction. It wasn’t that difficult of a job and that day had been the one day in a long time when she had been assailed. Even strangers got word that to mess around with Selenne would mean to be black and blue for a month. Basically it was a peaceful life, basically.

Berserker Part 8

2009-06-04T00:55:00.001-04:00

Lars met Jarn ahead of the groggy caravan. Gerda had the idea that they could make their travel easier by cutting trees that were alongside the trail down for firewood, thus widening the trail as they went. It wasn’t really a bad idea, but then again she wasn’t the one who had to lug huge logs off the path. It made Lars especially irritable because it had been Lars’ turn for the menial task three times in a row. That sophisticated young dandy in chain mail complained of a pulled muscle. Back in Klav people had done such tasks while suffering from the ice rot and not complained! So when Jarn picked a squat old ash tree to start on, Lars didn’t act with particular tact or a sense of self preservation.

“Hey, big oaf!”, he yelled as Jarn was about to dig into the tree. Jarn stopped, startled from the sudden noise. “Got rocks in your head, or just empty space up there?!”, Lars continued, bringing himself to stand directly in front of the man and having to look up to see his surprised features.

“Ash is a man-hating tree!”, he yelled up the taller man’s nose. “Look in those branches”, he indicated the upper regions of the ash’s expansive foliage. “See anything?”

Jarn followed Lar’s upward pointing finger to a large branch with holding a great deal of slowly decaying plant matter that numerous autumns had deposited from taller trees. Now it looked to have the density of a brick and contain the remains of smaller trees and numerous mummified squirrel and bird corpses.

“What should I be seeing?”. He unconsciously changed his stance to a more aggressive form, accentuating his height to discourage violence.

“Ash branches give way without a warning crack”, Lars responded in a slow voice Jarn recognized as being used on children and the mentally impaired. “Do you really want the load of rubbish crashing down on your head? I doubt that even your thick skull could take a knock like that!”

“Besides, Ash give off terrible smelling smoke”, he added, backing off a little.

Jarn took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He seemed to unfold after that thorough tongue lashing. Still, at least it was just a verbal lashing. He turned away from tree and Lars, and quietly counted out fifteen paces under his breath. He turned around yet again and let the head of the felling ax drop to be perpendicular with the ground. In one swift move Jarn whipped the ax over his head and brought it back down with a yell. He let the ax go at just the right moment, it pinwheeled until burying itself deep in the bark of the offending ash tree and a fingerlength from Lars’ ear.

“I”, Jarn simply stated, “happen to like the way ash smells”.

Lars just stood there with the ax quivering next to him, not knowing whether to scream in rage, fear, or soil himself.

Jarn caught his eye and pointed upward with a knowing grin. Just as Lars regained the coordination to look up, the bough with generations of the putrefying remnants of life, both plant and animal, broke. To credit Lars, this happened with absolutely no noise. Luckily, he managed to stumble aside before the heavy load came crashing to the ground.

He regained his breath to immediately get rid of it again by screaming, “You could have killed me! What were you thinking?!” Lars was shaking with rage and shock over almost dying.

Jarn remained still with a smirk of satisfaction on his face, “If you’re such the expert on trees then you should know not to stand so close”, he said.

Lars glanced up and down the trail to see if anyone was watching. Finding none, he threw himself at Jarn with a scream, trying to knock the other man over and kill him quickly. Jarn was caught completely unaware and was sent skidding on his back into the middle of the dirt trail. Lars kept up the attack by running up to where Jarn lay and attempting to bring his boot down on the other man’s face. Jarn managed to grab hold of the leg which was not raised in the air and twist it, toppling Lars. Jarn quickly got back up and ran over to the aforementioned ash tree. He then grabbed at the ax embedded in the tree, pulling desperately. But to no avail, Lars had managed to rise but was limping, he must’ve twisted his leg in the fall. He moved carefully over to the tree opposite from Jarn, where the other ax had been set down. He picked it up and hefted it, giving Jarn a calculating look, wondering if he could take the taller man with the advantage of an ax and disadvantage of a limp.

He obviously thought he could as he made his way toward Jarn. Jarn frantically scoured the ground for anything he could find, coming up with a study looking stick. He widened his stance and gave himself room to maneuver as Lars came closer, suddenly braking into a run! It had been a ruse, Lars was fine! Jarn charged forward to meet him and warcry on his lips that was swiftly echoed by his assailant. They were but a few yards apart as two arrows came whistling toward them, slamming home in the haft of Lars’ ax and the head of Jarn’s stick.

“Knock that off you two!”, shrieked a voice that they were both familiar with.

“S’right”, agreed a gruff man. “Where the hell is breakfast?”

The two would-be combatants turned to see half the camp was watching their fight. At the head of the crowd was Millienya and Tyrel, the self-proclaimed bodyguard of Seryan’s. Both were in the process of reloading their crossbows.

“Lars!”, Millienya yelled. “You finish cutting the wood and leave Jarn be!”

“He tried to murder me”, Lars protested in dismay.

“By the look of it you almost killed him too, so you’re level”, she countered. “You deserve whatever he did”.

Jarn put down his pitiful looking stick and walked slowly back to camp, while Lars stomped deeper into the woods, muttering to himself and cursing in a language Jarn didn’t understand. The camp watched him go with a mixed sense of anger and hunger, it was already mid-morning and very few of them had eaten because they couldn’t get a fire going. When they go to find out what the hold-up was, they find him tussling with the newcomer and ignoring their rumbling bellies!

“Are you hurt?”, Millienya asked in concern for Jarn.

“I’ll be fine, I just need to be wary of Lars, nothing more”, responded Jarn sullenly

The crowd dispersed with grumbling mouths and bellies as they got about their chores of packing up their things, taking care of the pack mules and horses, and a few small children collecting sticks in hope of cooking breakfast a little faster. Only Jarn and Millienya remained.

Why does Lars have to fight with anyone he ever meets? It’s not as if everyone else in the world is out to get him, well at least not until they talk to him.

“I apologize for him”, she said. “He just doesn’t get along with other people”.

“Really?”, Jarn said in mock surprise. “I thought he was being coy....If he doesn’t get along well with people, who does get along with?”

“Damned if I know”, she said theatrically throwing her hands up in surrender.

Jarn began walking back to the camp to load up his bedroll and other things into the guards’ wagon. Since Karnar vouched for him, people thought he must be a guard too.

“Jarn, wait”, Millienya said. “Don’t worry about watching Lars, I’ll keep him civil”.

“You have my thanks”, Jarn said, warming up to her a little. Jarn smiled to himself, liking the idea that someone else was looking out for him. And then there was the embarrassed smile he always received when facing her, it gave one pause to think about it’s implications. Jarn might just have an admirer.

Berserker part 7

2009-06-02T22:29:00.000-04:00

It was a beautiful morning, the sun was up and the birds were no longer singing, having been shot by Lars, who had been awake long before the rest, and were on their way to the spit. He walked through the camp, most of its inhabitants were just waking up. Gerda, the cook, would be happy to see the fresh game that he was carrying. He passed the clerks’ sparse and conservative wagon, as well as the normal congregation of camp followers and workers waiting for their wages.
“I told ya not ta hunt wi’ that crossbow!” growled a harsh voice behind him. “It’s too expensive to risk you losin’ or breaking on some damn fool jaunt o’ yourn!” Lars turned slowly with his hands raised in mock fear. It was Terris the quartermaster, also known as the Terror, and the rightful owner of all the bows that the guards carried. He was a short, stocky man, who was no stranger to hard work, and was very protective of what he issued, but kept them in excellent condition.
“Sorry”, Lars said. “Gerda said to find some fresh meat, we’re running low.”
“I’ll have ta talk ta her then”, Tarris responded, gruffly forgiving him for the minor infraction. Lars smiled to himself as he walked off, all he had to do now was make sure that the pheasants were cooked before Terris would get around to complaining with Gerda and finding she never said anything about needing meat. A little of Gerda’s heavenly fare was usually enough to appease him.
A few dozen more paces brought him to the ghost of a cookfire that the companions had all bedded down around. Millienya and Gerda were chatting and Jarn was still curled up on his bedroll. He had heard Jarn talking and screaming during the night, but with all that boy had been through, Lars was surprised he could sleep at all.
Gerda took the pheasants with a grateful look and began plucking and gutting them. “You had better go get some firewood unless you want to eat these raw”, she said as her scarred hands prepared the birds with blinding speed and dexterity.
“Aw!, I did it yesterday!”, Lars whined.
“Well take that sleeping giant with you”, Gerda said, jerking a thumb toward Jarn. “Looks like he could rip a tree out of the ground by himself. He has nothing to do around here anyway”.
Lars walked over to Jarn’s pallet and lovingly placed his boot in the sleeper’s ear. It didn’t even phase the boy, before Lars knew what was happening, he was on the ground with a massive set of hands around his throat. Only then did Jarn’s eyes snap open, signaling his waking. He looked down at Lars’ startled features, recognizing the man. Jarn quickly released his grip and slunk away, ashamed, embarrassed, and hastily wiping the beginnings of tears from his eyes.
Lars got to his feet. “What the hell was that about!?” he demanded. He made to follow Jarn but Millienya acted quickly and stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.
“I’ll go see what’s wrong”, she said.
“Alright”, Lars replied, “But tell him never to touch me again”.
Millienya quickly turned around to hide the smirk from her brother’s observant eyes. If he “touched” Lars again, Jarn would probably pop the man’s head off. She then followed Jarn to the rear of the caravan, he was rummaging through the workmen’s wagon when she caught up to him.
“Will you be sound?”, she tentatively inquired.
“Yeah”, he replied over his shoulder, still looking through the wagon.
“Is there something you need to talk abo-
“Where are the choppers?”, he interrupted, spinning around with a sense of urgency.
She pointed to the very rear of the wagon where the axes and saws were. He grabbed two of each and pushed his way past her.

Berserker Part 6

2009-06-01T22:35:00.001-04:00

The group was asleep long before he decided it was safe to sneak from the clearing where they had chosen to camp. It was a clear, cool summer night. The greater and lesser moons chased each other through the sky as the stars twinkled above and the air was filled with the sounds of all the nocturnal animals awaking.

The smoldering embers of the cooking fire gave just enough light to see a rippling in the air, as a pebble is thrown into a pond. As his eyes lingered on the shimmering he could feel heat on the nape of his neck, he turned around and was nearly blinded by the flaring embers. They had risen off the ground and were swooping towards him! He threw himself to the ground and the hot coals soared over him and interposed themselves over the shimmering in the air, melding together to form a smoking and sputtering doorway. Inside was darkness, not the absence of light, but the essence of darkness. A sort of anti-light. The man quickly shielded his eyes, to look into that doorway was to brave blindness. Where it led could be found on no map or atlas, for it was a tear in the boundaries of this world. He ran through the doorway, making sure not to burn himself.

He floated through the void, on fire and frozen, dead and alive, his body was dissolved. Yet his thoughts remained. He thought of his lungs and there they were, he thought of his heart and there it was. Piece by piece he was reassembled, kneeling in front of a large stone table.

It looked as if this table was the very first ever created, covered with arcane symbols and patterns which glowed with an eerie inner fire and hurt the eyes when viewed, it was a proto-table. Of the gargantuan seats surrounding the table, only 3 were occupied. One was dressed in the skins of creatures that the world was thankful to have never known, a bow of black iron and a quiver close at hand. The other was cloaked and cowled, only his pale, gnarled hands were visible. His body shook and jumped like a man in the throes of a terminal illness. The third was sitting at the head of the table in a throne carved out of ebony, the semblance’s of screaming demons were carved into its surface and seemed to writhe when looked upon. His body was swathed in blood red armor, its surface had a glistening organic quality, seeming to sweat in the stifling air. Not even his eyes were visible through the slits in his helmet.

Lit candelabras surrounding the table burned brightly, but only served to further alienate the 3 from anything that could be considered normal. The room they occupied was absolutely cavernous. It was so large that the lights didn’t even illuminate the walls or ceiling. He fervently hoped that there were walls and a ceiling, that could surely be the only explanation for the oppressive gloom that weighted the air.

He took a few steps toward the foot of the table, after this didn’t make any real change in his distance from them, he realized how large the figures actually were. They seemed to have been constructed at a size one fifth larger than normal, and the furniture was equally cut to their proportions. It took him a few more moments to get to within easy speaking distance.

“What have you to report?”, demanded the armored being. Strange, he could’ve sworn that he never saw the knight move and his ears never heard a thing, but he knew the figure’s question. The being’s voice bypassing the ears and sending the question straight to his mind, there seemed to be a hollow, echoing quality to the words.

He forced himself to speak “The Bloodthorns have been stopped short of their goal, my lord”. His words came out thin and quiet, as if the oppressive weight of the air was trying to crush them. “They were destroyed in Jeriscar”.

A shrieking cackle was received in response. He looked over to see that it was the sound of the figure clad in skins laughing. It looked to the cowled being and said in a voice that altered pitch with nearly every word to the point where it could’ve broken glass at times, “I told you that those greenskinned runts would do no good Dommiel!” It was clear that this one had thrown itself into the pit of insanity and had dwelt happily in its bottom for some time. Thankfully, it spoke aloud rather than in that unholy mindspeech that was used before.

The cowled creature known as Dommiel just chuckled to himself and waved a clawlike hand in the air. The darkness was driven further away by the apparition which sprang forth there. It took the shape of a very large man, rail thin and tired looking, but with a fire of determination in his eyes. The prostating figure at the foot of the table gasped in recognition as he saw that it was Jarn.

Dommiel replied in a voice that was choked with the secretions and pustules of a thousand plagues, “I had hopes that they wouldn’t make it. It would’ve meant that my scrying led me astray. Seeing as it didn’t, let’s not trouble ourselves with such matters”.

“Who is he?”, intoned the suit of armor with the same hollow voice.

“I was just getting to that Zepar”, Dommiel said, bridling at having been interrupted. “This boy has a fire which drew me from leagues away, he will serve as the perfect vessel”.

A few moments of stunned silence followed this shocking news. The worshipper shifted uncomfortably, inadvertently regaining the attention of the three seated demons. “You will protect this boy with your life to make sure that he reaches the ancient place” , Zepar said. There was no arguing with his words, it wasn’t an order or question, it was a simple statement of fact.

We Now Return You To Your Regularly Scheduled Rant

2009-06-01T00:51:00.002-04:00

Well folks, its been a real tough week, with lots of ups and downs; more downs than ups I'm sad to say. To start things off right, I'll say that I've gotten my first paid story published. It'll be posted on Mindflights Magazine sometime within the next few months. I don't know exactly when. It's a modified version of my story "Shinkyo Bridge" that they bought.

I should probably give a little back-story as I've been trying to get something published with them for a while now. They are a "Christian Oriented" magazine that does lots of science fiction and fantasy stuff. I first wrote for them a story detailing the events of a monastery on the English borderlands successfully repelling an attack by marauding Icelandic vikings around 1050 AD. It was a true story, I might add, and heralded the breaking of the viking stranglehold on northern Europe as they were converted to Christianity over time. It was engaging, full of action, and had a very pro-Christian message. They rejected it immediately, citing they didn't understand a lot of the terms I was using regarding the church, Christianity, and prayer.

These people are a friggin Pro-Christian magazine and they don't know what a miter is! Anyway, just to piss them off. I sent them Shinkyo Bridge, a story following around a Zen Buddhist samurai who fights off demons. And these people want to print it! I'm still rolling on the floor over that one.

Now on to the bad news. I've been having some serious computer problems as of late, meaning my updates may be erratic. I received a mini-laptop not too long ago; an ASUS eee pc model 900 HA. It works well for portable word-processing and internet surfing, which is great for typing without having to coop myself up in my room all day.

Only a month old and yesterday it went kabloowie. Apparently it lost a file from its own operating system and can't boot up until I insert the boot disc. Problem, the thing doesn't come with a frigging disc drive! Why they give me a boot disc with no disc drive I will never know.

Anyway I've sent it off to the manufacturer to get fixed. I can live without it for a few weeks, but the thing that really has me incensed is that I had about half a dozen unfinished short stories and the beginnings of a novel on the hard-drive, and didn't have time to make back-ups. I'm down on my knees praying that it will return with those files intact. In the meantime I'm rewriting what I can remember, but I know its not nearly as complete or well-written as what I already had.

As if that weren't enough, my tower is ailing as well. It's got a virus called Vundo, which embeds itself in the Windows operating system and multiples. Unfortunately Microsoft makes it real difficult to mess with the OS, though the virus seems to be having no trouble with it. So now I'm stuck swapping phone calls and emails with the tech support people in India. It'll be another week before the stupid thing is gone, and not before I've had to chew out a few people who say that they can't help me any further. I had to do this about 8 months ago for the same damn virus, meaning that my virus protection software isn't doing the job. I'll be speaking with their customer service reps and ask why I should be bothering to pay them if their software isn't worth the box it came in when this is all over.

Have you noticed that the call center people in India have been trying really hard to cover their accents as of late? They used to speak quite plainly, but now they give me an American sounding name and speak with a really bad southern accent to try to give the impression they're not Indian. Guess they're catching flak over taking American jobs, can't say I blame them.

Berserker Part 5

2009-05-26T21:29:00.001-04:00

“Hold!”, bellowed an accented voice in front of Jarn. Suddenly he was looking down the shaft of a crossbow. His eyes followed down the crossbow and rested upon his assailant. He was a tall blond young man, wearing an out of place coat of animal skins over light leather armor. He also carried two sabers in sheathes at his waist and what looked like a spear across his back. Jarn looked up to realize that he was surrounded by a group, equally armed with crossbows.

Well this is the end of me. Funny, after surviving the goblin warriors I’m going to be shot while leaving after a terrible battle. The irony was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Jarn heaved a resigned sigh. “Hurry and finish it.” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. “My people haven’t made much headway in the next world, if you hurry I can catch up to them.”

“Wait”, said the man. “We’re not going to kill you if we don’t have to... understand?”

“You’re not with the goblins?”, Jarn asked hesitantly.

“Not at all”, replied the man, bridling under the suggestion he would be affiliated with such loathsome and depraved creatures. “Is that what happened here? Goblins attacked?”

Jarn nodded his head, shuddering at the memory of such carnage. “Aye”, he said. “Those little cowards attacked during the night and gutted the lot. They must’ve known the men were away at the time. When we returned everyone was dead, except for the goblins. I’m the only one left.” He fell to his knees and openly wept, exhausted beyond words.

The man guffawed with laughter. clearly not believing him “You jest, yes?”, the man asked incredulously. “Why do you live and nobody else does? What is special about you?” He raised his crossbow and released the safety pin for emphasis.

“I wish I knew”, Jarn said. He lowered his head and waited for the arrow to come.

“Stop!”, cried another man’s voice beside Lars. “Don’t shoot him yet!” He addressed Jarn. “What clan does this town belong to?”, He asked. His voice is familiar, where have I heard it before?

“This was the only home of the Flameheart clan”, Jarn replied.

“Jarn!”, the voice cried. “I thought it might’ve been you! It’s me, Karnar!” Jarn felt a tendril of hope worm through him at the man’s statement. He looked up to confirm it. Despite himself he smiled, he knew this man. They had been good friends since they could walk, Karnar had married Jarn’s cousin not more than 3 years ago. He was from the Crushbone clan, just south of the Goblin mountains. They were notorious for reclusive behavior, so it was strange to be seeing one anywhere from home, but Jarn’s eyes couldn’t be tricked. He stood there, plain as day. His short stature made him easy to pick out when compared to others of his clan, it had also made him the target for a lot of bullies when they were very young, but he made up for it by being more than twice as thick as anyone Jarn had ever known.

“Karnar!”, Jarn shouted back with as much force as he could muster. “It’s good to see you, but do you think you could get him to keep from shooting that thing down my nose before we get aquatinted? I’m going cross-eyed looking at it.”

“Go easy Lars”, Karnar said with a huge grin plastered across his features. “I know this man and personally vouch for his trustworthiness. Although I wouldn’t exactly be sure of that when he’s drunk.” Oh no, not this again.

“Oh not again”, Jarn moaned, wondering if he was dreaming again. “Just because I got drunk and woke up next to a sheep doesn’t mean I did anything.” This had haunted him for years, and he could feel the blood rising to his face.

Karnar’s wedding was a time where he indulged in a little too much merrymaking. When he was walking back to one of the Crushbone villages from the wedding site, he tripped and fell. Being very tired and more than a little inebriated, he decided to stay where he was for the night, on second thought, Jarn wasn’t really sure he had a choice. Anyway, when he woke up, he found that he had wandered into one of the livestock pastures and a flock of sheep had bedded down next to him. Needless to say, when the shepherd got back to town with this news, nobody could stop laughing. Except Jarn of course, he had never been so embarrassed in his life.

Lars reluctantly complied with Jarn’s wishes, as did all those around him. Jarn rose back to his feet, not bothering to brush the mud from his legs or the tears from his eyes. He walked over to where Karnar stood and clenched the man in a bear hug that would’ve surely crushed a lesser person. Karnar returned the gesture and held the other man back to get a look at him. Jarn’s face was haggard and pale from little sleep or food, it looked as if he hadn’t attended to any of his wounds either, the number of infected cuts on his arms and legs must’ve been weakening him too. The dazed sense of prolonged horror that seemed to hold his facial muscles in thrall made him look years older, and nearly unrecognizable. His eyes had changed too. At one time they showed the great inner peace and happiness that made Jarn such a good person to know and be around. His eyes now held such a desperate ferocity, they belonged to someone who had flown over hell and made the devils run for cover. Karnar was strangely frightened by them.

“What happened here?”, Karnar whispered in Jarn’s ear.

Jarn broke away from the man. “I told you” he said, obviously frustrated. “Goblins came and slaughtered them all.” He turned around and started jogging down the line of huts. “If you don’t believe me then follow!” He called over his shoulder. Stopping at one particularly large hut, he beckoned to the group to look inside.

Karnar cautiously poked his head inside the hut, withdrew it with blinding speed, spun to one side, and vomited. The group quickly clustered around the grounded man after he finished. “What was it?” Questioned the old man.

“Goblins.” Came the weak reply. “Dozens of corpses. Must’ve been dead for some time, that was what we smelled earlier.”

Jarn leaned against the hut. “Believe me now?” He asked.

The noble looked inside the hut as well, wrinkling his nose in disgust but managing to hold onto his meal. “You mean to tell me that you have killed all of those goblins? He asked in wonder.
“Not all of them,” Came Jarn’s reply. “The other warriors vanquished roughly half before they were killed.”

“But that leaves at least 20 that you killed.” The noble gasped, his eyes big as plates.

“What of it?” Jarn asked.

“Oh, nothing.” The noble said, edging away, making sure to keep his guard between him and Jarn.

“It’s all a kind of haze.” Jarn said. “I can remember fragments, but I’m still not sure why I’m alive.”

“You look like you’re are traveling somewhere.” Karnar put in, indicating his traveling pack. “Where would that be?”

“There is nothing left in this village.” Jarn replied. “I intend to take revenge.”

“You mean you haven’t already?” asked the noble dryly, indicating the hut full of decaying goblins. “Hey!” He shouted at his bodyguard. “Get away from there!” The bruiser had been investigating the hut further and already carried three pairs of rather small boots, some assorted bits of jewelry, a few knives that might fetch a good price, and his purse looked a little bigger than it had been.

The bruiser looked over at the group and grinned. “It’s not as if they’re going to need anything.” He said. “Yet I found something strange, all of the goblins had tattoos.”

“Tattoos?” The woman in the group said. “I didn’t think goblins would trust anyone with a needle. What did they depict?”

“A small copy of the world,” the bruiser replied. “With a fist of smoke holding it tight.” He looked back in the hut to confirm his thoughts. “They all have the same mark” he reported. The idea that goblins had anything in common with one another was disconcerting. Although lacking in combat skill for the most part, the only reason their sheer numbers hadn’t overrun half the Dominion yet is that they were such untrustworthy, backstabbing, and disorganized little whelps, and spent most of their time squabbling amongst themselves and trying to keep from being killed in their sleep.

“I took note when I moved the bodies,” Jarn interjected. “Whoever could get goblins to submit to wearing that mark probably sent them this way. If I’m right, then that’s the bastard I’m lookin’ for.” He picked up his fallen pack and made to leave. “If you have no more questions, I’ll not take any more of your time.” He said acidly.

Jarn faced to the north and began walking away. Karnar ran to catch up to him. “How will you find this person?” He asked. “Its not as if you have a definite idea.”

“I’ll head up to the mountains and ask the goblins.” Jarn replied.

“What if they don’t want to tell you.” Karnar asked.

“I’ll insist.” Jarn said, with an evil glint in his eye and a cruel smile that frightened Karnar more than the prospect of facing down any goblin.

“What if they really have no knowledge?” Asked Karnar, playing his final card.

The horrible glow of bloodlust in the dirtied and disheveled youth’s eyes faded, showing only fatigue, pain, and how desperately he was clinging to one coherent thought.

“I don’t know!” Jarn screamed, his shoulders slumped and his head lowered.

“Come with me, come with us, we’ll help you.” Karnar replied gently, leading the boy back to the caravan, the other fighters in tow.

Jarn’s lips parted slightly, Karnar thought that on the cusp of hearing he detected the whispered words, “Thank you.”

Berserker Part 4

2009-05-25T22:44:00.001-04:00

Millienya had been traveling long and hard. She was originally from the Klav region and the fact that it wasn’t constantly snowing here was still a little disorienting, she had never left her homeland up until now. She was forced from her village by attackers from the Iceflows to the north, large misshapen beasts seemingly composed of snow, sleet, and frost. They came in all shapes and sizes, moving south like a sentient avalanche, destroying everything in their wake. No human could even be near them to fight, the intense cold radiating from them froze any would-be attacker solid.

She and her brother, Lars, had volunteered to undertake the long trek to Kastontel, in the Gath region, to plead with king Terkin for assistance. Their clan had maintained a steady trade agreement with the city state, and it was hoped that Terkin would think it wise to protect his investments.

It seemed that everywhere she went, towns, villages, and even walled cities were under attack by something or other. Many others were on quests similar to hers. They tended to hire out as mercenaries for trade caravans such as she was doing at the moment. She had signed on at Pelse in Kormusleiv and started walking. Aside from her and Lars, three other men were hired in Pelse as well as a young wanderer they encountered while crossing the tedious Goblin mountains into Jeriscar.

There was an old man that tended to keep to himself. Despite his age he still carried himself with an air of confidence. Because of the ornate longsword and poignard on his belt people whispered that he was once a knight, but Millienya guessed that he was a poser, that the old man had scavenged the weapons from a lifeless battlefield somewhere in the war torn world.

Then there was the pair that seemed inseparable. One claimed to be a noble, by the look of his fine chain mail coat and how friendly and knowledgeable he was about social etiquette, Millienya would believe it. His companion on the other hand, she doubted could even spell “cat” let alone “etiquette”. He was a big, one-eyed, bruiser she would expect to see trying to rob the caravan, not protecting it. The noble claimed he was a bodyguard and vouched for his trustworthiness, but she still kept an eye on him.

The newcomer she didn’t really see too much of, he usually was too dispirited to talk. Millienya thought that maybe he was in mourning for someone, so she kept her distance.

The caravan was currently making its way out of the swamps which were at the feet of the mountains. They were all very happy to be done with trudging through the knee high murk, braving snakes and leaches to make sure the way was clear for the main body of the caravan. It was disorienting being back in the sun, the trees and overhanging growth of the swamps and bayous completely blotted out the sun, forcing them to carry lanterns and torches the entire time. Millienya was still scratching new bites from the insects they attracted.

The swamps gave way to seemingly endless hills and valleys, not large enough to inconvenience the wagons, but people on foot were not so lucky. Just she, Lars, and the newcomer were on guard. Everyone else was napping on the wagons. Lars, who was ahead scouting, crested a hill ahead of them, took one look, and immediately spun around, running for the wagons.

“Guards! Arm yourselves!”, Millienya shouted. “The scout’s got wind of something!” She grabbed the crossbow the quartermaster had issued her, and sprinted for Lars. Covering the ground between them in seconds, she spun around and ran alongside him. “What is it?”, she asked, a note of hysteria in her voice.

“Village”, he panted “On fire....Must’ve been attacked....Attackers might still...be there”. He reached the wagon and fell to his knees wheezing. The hills really take a lot out of you. The rest of the guard had awoken, taken up their crossbows, and clustered around Millienya and Lars, who then relayed what had been found.

“Best investigate”, stated the old man with the ornate sword. “There could be someone in need of help”. As always, he sounded like some hero from an epic tale.

“Or someone who don’t mind letting go of valuables,” muttered the one eyed bruiser. Even his voiced leered with anticipation. It was disgusting to hear, and Millienya knew that he would do it too. She had seen him loot the corpses of a few orcs that had attacked the caravan a few weeks ago when he thought no one was looking.

The group crept up to the hill and looked for the village. Sure enough, there it was. A tiny village, with houses all pointing inward toward the town square. From that square a huge pillar of smoke emerged. The town wasn’t on fire, but it definitely looked dead. No livestock could be seen, nobody was visible, and carrion birds circled overhead.

“Wait”, whispered the noble, startling Millienya out of her thoughts. “If the village was attacked and its denizens slaughtered, why were the houses not destroyed by the invaders?” He had a point. If a group intends to completely decimate another, one would logically set the homes afire during the raid to cause confusion and panic, as well as to be sure that no one was hiding.

“Could they want to take the village for their own?”, suggested the old man.

“Possibly”, countered the noble. “But why is no living thing visible then? Surely the livestock would’ve been taken by the invaders back from whence they came? Who’s keeping that fire as well?”

“I think the livestock was taken by invaders”, Lars interjected in heavily accented and broken Common. “They split into two groups, one stays here, the other goes back home. Fire is a signal to home of victory.” Millienya smiled at his statement. It was so very like him to take two different ideas, mold them together in any fashion, and claim the results as his own. Funny that it often made sense.

“Fine, fine”, said the old man, the impromptu leader of the band. “We go in silence, assuming Lars is correct. If wrong, we come out none the worse for wear. If his guess bares fruit we will be prepared for the worst.” With that said, he checked his weapons and strode off to meet the enemy.

His leadership skills never ceased to amaze Millienya. Normally Lars would have challenged anyone to fight simply for considering that he might be wrong. He had been hotheaded all his life, which would probably be a lot shorter if she wasn’t always there to keep his temper in check. Now, he followed the old man like a puppy. So did everyone else, for that matter.

The group quickly made their way down the hills, approaching the town. The fire seemed to grow as they came closer, only then did they understand the magnitude of it. The air had the stench of death and decay. Even from a distance they could see that what they had mistaken as a signal fire, was really a funeral pyre. One larger than any other they had ever seen. It looked like the ground had split open and the inferno of the underworld had found a way out.

Just then someone walked out of the hut closest to Millienya. It was possibly the largest man she’d ever seen. He stood nearly seven feet tall, her head wouldn’t even come up to his chest. Despite his size, he looked very skinny, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. His torn clothes were of a thick wool common to these parts and were covered in dried blood and crusted gore. He had peculiar twin burn marks on the backs of his hands, they looked very fresh and were blistered and weeping. He didn’t seem to pay it any attention. What caught Millienya’s gaze were the large, wicked looking axes he hung on his belt, and the sword as big as she was that he swung over his shoulder nearly frightened the life out of her. He turned and began walking down the road, directly toward their position.

The group hastily flattened themselves against the huts, out of the giant’s sight. Millienya looked over to see what the old man had decided to do. He motioned with his crossbow to the noble and his guard to move around from behind, and then pointed to the rest and gestured with his crossbow. It was clear what he wanted, they were going to ambush the man and kill him if necessary.

Berserker Part 3

2009-05-24T23:01:00.001-04:00

“Awake boy”, a voice said in the dark. Jarn had felt something prod his ribs. Slowly he opened his eyes, banishing the darkness. He looked around to see the inside of his father’s hut. He had lived here since he could remember, and would continue to do so until he took a wife. His gaze swept over the dilapidated cot which served as his father’s bed, the table in the middle of the single room, a few hunting trophies on the wall, and all the other normal household items he was used to. Slowly his eyes came to rest upon the towering figure that was as much a thing of this place as the table, his father. “You’ve slept gone past noon”, came the harsh growl. “Would you want to be late for the festivities?”

“Festivities?”, Jarn groaned. He was becoming increasingly aware of the powers of the elder’s spirits that new initiates were required to take, as well as a growing respect for the elders, who could slug it back all night without any noticeable effects.

“The harvest celebration. Is there nothing you can remember?”, replied a voice like two stones grinding together. Kathur left the room to allow Jarn to get ready for the coming day.

Jarn slowly got out of his bedroll, aware of every ache in his body with painful clarity. Was it possible for your hair to hurt? He staggered over to the wash basin in the corner of the room and promptly threw up. Now he was fresh and ready for the new day. If someone speaks over a whisper I really will kill them.

Jarn walked shakily over to the animal skin flap that served as a door, swept it aside, and left the room. What sights he saw outside brought him to his knees in fear.

Maggot infested corpses all over the place, the huts he knew would be there to greet him were burned out ruins. The short grasses which were abundant around them were stained red with the blood of his peers. In the center of it all, a single figure stood. His features were obscured by long robes, fouled by all manner of bodily secretions. Around him goblins danced, flinging themselves about with a wild, unholy energy, carrying gory trophies of their kills and driving themselves into bloody frenzy.

“Come no closer weakling”, shrieked the robed figure. “Lest you should end up like the others. The only reason you live now is by our hands, you were spared so that you may spread the word of our master’s coming. It is you that shall bring him into the world of man.” The figure slowly brought its disfigured hands to its hood and threw it back with a flourish. Underneath was a rotting parody of humanity, its facial features had disintegrated into a single mass, bone was clearly visible beneath the near translucent skin.

“The coming of Beleth!”, It shrieked. A sickly green flame that surely could not exist in this world began to appear where the empty sockets of its eyes once were. They grew and grew until Jarn was forced to look away. Half formed creatures slipping and sliding through each other, seemingly trying to get at the figure were visible in the glare’s aftermath.

Jarn felt his very skin begin to sizzle as he tried vainly to shield himself from the terrible wyrdlight emanating from the dead thing. He was paralyzed, unable to move, speak, or think of anything except of his fear of the monster and his apparent demise.

Just before the unholy light totally consumed him, he screamed. A long wailing scream that went on longer than humanly possible. It seemed that everything in Jarn was behind that scream, his mind, his feelings, his very soul.

Berserker Part 2

2009-05-21T21:16:00.000-04:00

“Awake boy”, a voice said in the dark. Jarn had felt something prod his ribs. Slowly he opened his eyes, banishing the darkness. He looked around to see the inside of his father’s hut. He had lived here since he could remember, and would continue to do so until he took a wife. His gaze swept over the dilapidated cot which served as his father’s bed, the table in the middle of the single room, a few hunting trophies on the wall, and all the other normal household items he was used to. Slowly his eyes came to rest upon the towering figure that was as much a thing of this place as the table, his father. “You’ve slept gone past noon”, came the harsh growl. “Would you want to be late for the festivities?”

“Festivities?”, Jarn groaned. He was becoming increasingly aware of the powers of the elder’s spirits that new initiates were required to take, as well as a growing respect for the elders, who could slug it back all night without any noticeable effects.

“The harvest celebration. Is there nothing you can remember?”, replied a voice like two stones grinding together. Kathur left the room to allow Jarn to get ready for the coming day.

Jarn slowly got out of his bedroll, aware of every ache in his body with painful clarity. Was it possible for your hair to hurt? He staggered over to the wash basin in the corner of the room and promptly threw up. Now he was fresh and ready for the new day. If someone speaks over a whisper I really will kill them.

Jarn walked shakily over to the animal skin flap that served as a door, swept it aside, and left the room. What sights he saw outside brought him to his knees in fear.

Maggot infested corpses all over the place, the huts he knew would be there to greet him were burned out ruins. The short grasses which were abundant around them were stained red with the blood of his peers. In the center of it all, a single figure stood. His features were obscured by long robes, fouled by all manner of bodily secretions. Around him goblins danced, flinging themselves about with a wild, unholy energy, carrying gory trophies of their kills and driving themselves into bloody frenzy.

ith the most puzzled look in its face, the lower half stayed standing, as if nothing had happened. This weapon has existed for several centuries and still retains its edge! Heavy, but sliced that bastard right in half.

As Jarn continued to hack and slash at the few members of the raiding party that were still standing, he dimly became aware of the wounds that the goblins were inflicting upon him, they were learning to wait until after he swung the heavy sword. They would then attack while Jarn tried to regain his balance. He forced the idea that such vile creatures could learn from his mind and concentrated on his swings, yet the goblins kept scoring hits. His frustration slowly gave way to anger, the sword suddenly seemed lighter in his hands. The annoying cuts were now being scored less often, those that did make it past his defenses fueled his rage until he became that unstoppable berserker he once was.

Time passed without Jarn’s permission, the light of day, which had once made the ruby red blood of his enemies sparkle, began to wane. Even though Jarn barely felt tired, his limbs began to slow, he started to control his thoughts, and the pain of his wounds returned. It wasn’t until this happened that Jarn realized that the goblins fled long ago. All that kept him at everything in Jarn was behind that scream, his mind, his feelings, his very soul.

Berserker Part 1

2009-05-19T22:53:00.003-04:00

The following is part of a novel I first started writing when I was 14. I quite liked it, though I ran out of steam about a quarter of the way through because I couldn't figure out a way to advance the storyline. Keep in mind it's got terrible punctuation and probably uses far too many passive sentances, but it's still quite enjoyable. Maybe someone will have an idea or make a suggestion that might help give me some idea where to take the story. Comments of any type are, as always, quite welcome. (Please bear in mind that if you've a mind to insult it or mefor no reason, I am chronically ill person with not much to lose. Flame at thine own risk)

“No!,” Jarn, screamed. Watching helplessly as the rest of the Flameheart clan’s warriors were cut down around him, slowly succumbing to the onslaught of the Bloodthorns. Alternately crying, hurling imprecations, and hacking blindly at enemies too numerous to count, he caught a glimpse of his father next to him. The man was at the front of a failed V shaped wedge in the middle of the single road which ran straight through the center of their small village. His hulking frame being pulled down by the seemingly endless goblin hordes. All the while, his father, the clan warleader, swung his gigantic broadsword, cleaving through droves of the dirty, green-skinned monsters.

Jarn, now the last of the Flameheart clan, was surrounded. He raised his war axes high, waiting for the first Bloodthorn to rush him, knowing that while goblins fought with an unheard of ferocity when in large numbers, none were courageous enough to make a sacrifice by starting the assault. Also hampering them were the numbers of slaughtered bodies on the ground, goblin and warrior alike. The Flameheart warriors had fought valiantly and had taken a fair number of the enemy to the grave with them, but there were too many of the damnable goblins for the once mighty tribe.

“Fight me!”, he screamed “Finish what you bastards started!”. The unexpected raid had come in the night. It was thought among the elders that the mountains which were home to the Bloodthorn goblins were at a relatively safe distance from the village. The goblins would have been desperate to brave the dangers of mountain and swamp that lay in their path.

Their clan’s sentries had been overtaken with no apparent signs of struggle or shout of warning, the women and children had been murdered in their beds. Their bodies, or what was left of them -the Bloodthorns had a nasty reputation for cannibalism, understandable given their gnashing and rotted teeth- were found strung up by the roofs of their homes. The men had found them in the morning, when they had returned from the celebration of inducting a new warrior into their fold.

If the warriors hadn’t been away, conducting my blooding rite, they all would’ve died too, Jarn thought. Well, sooner at any rate. I guess I’ll be seeing them all soon. With this thought and that of the extinction of the proud Flameheart clan, Jarn felt an overpowering rage filling every fiber of his being. Jarn had felt anger before, his people were known for their battle rages, but unlike the slow fires of anger that were more common, this feeling had become a white-hot inferno, threatening to consume him. The elders had talked of this. They said that it was the gods’ gift to the Flamehearts in times of war and pain, a force they spoke of could make one man as powerful as a hundred, driving him to feats thought impossible by any other.

Jarn’s vision dimmed and turned red, he started breathing hard, as if he was pumping the bellows of the giant forge for the village smithy. This time, the flame he fed was inside. Obviously frightened by his twisted visage, some of the goblins fell back, but not far enough. Seemingly without having to move , Jarn had already overtaken them. Emitting a scream of rage and pain suggesting whoever did so was intent upon conveying that pain to others as quickly as possible, he became a whirlwind of flashing steel. The two giant axes he held seemed to weigh nothing for the speed and accuracy with which he ripped through six goblins before the rest had time to react.

The goblins quickly readied their clubs and swords, and began circling Jarn. This didn’t seem to worry him much, he was content for the moment to hoist his kills into the air, and throw various appendages with great force at his enemies. Although this did no physical damage to the Bloodthorns, being pelted with parts of their neighbors, friends, and possible spouses -it was hard to tell with goblins- had some psychological effect on them, two score flung their weapons to the ground and ran away screaming, heads down and legs pumping for all they were worth.

They have killed everyone I knew, everyone I cared about, and they have defiled the homes of my ancestors! Jarn, last of the Flamehearts thought. Taking their lives won’t be enough.

Throwing his great axes with unerring aim, they whirred end over end, barreling through arms and legs, finally finding homes in the chest and neck of two goblins in the rear. Jarn charged as soon as he released them, putting him in the middle of the Bloodthorns. He tore apart the wretched creatures, unarmed. Snapping necks, crushing throats, pulling off limbs, and ripping apart their chain mail and dirty leather armor as if it were paper. The shrieking of his victims only drove him to greater heights of brutality.

Amid the carnage, Jarn’s mind surfaced from the turbulent waters of his rage, he realized that despite the damage he was causing, he was sustaining wounds that would eventually drain him. A nick here, a cut there, slowly sapping his strength. A surge of panic sent ice water through his gut and dissolved his courage, he immediately broke and ran from the fray, searching for any weapons he could find.

Please god, let me find something, anything! I can’t go to meet my ancestors after making such a stupid mistake! A shield, a knife, a club.... Anything. What? Despite the closing tsunami of biting teeth, stabbing knives, and pounding clubs about to overtake him, Jarn felt the world disappear as he gazed upon the torn body of his father, his expression was unchanged, seeming ready for anything even in death. He still held onto the broadsword that marked him as clan warleader. It seemed that his father, Kathur by name, held the weapon out to his son.

He took it reverently, having remembered how he was belted the one time he dared touch it without his father’s permission. He had been knocked straight through the hut’s thin wall. Kathur had been an imposing figure while the child was young, his dear mother having been killed during his birth, but he was not an unkind man, and Jarn respected him for it. He never knew his mother, but from the way Kathur had acted whenever she was mentioned, he had loved her very much and her loss pained him deeply.

Jarn jerked away from his nostalgic revelry as he was knocked to the ground from behind. One of the goblins must have worked up the nerve to attack. How dare they make me defile my father’s weapon with their blood! This is his and his alone, they will die by my hands just as others did at the hands of my father! He rolled and quickly brought the broadsword to bare, never realizing how heavy it was. Barely managing to dodge the next club swing of his now-visible assailant. He whipped the blade of the weapon around with all his strength, passing right through the midsection of the goblin. The upper half fell cleanly over with the most puzzled look in its face, the lower half stayed standing, as if nothing had happened. This weapon has existed for several centuries and still retains its edge! Heavy, but sliced that bastard right in half.
As Jarn continued to hack and slash at the few members of the raiding party that were still standing, he dimly became aware of the wounds that the goblins were inflicting upon him, they were learning to wait until after he swung the heavy sword. They would then attack while Jarn tried to regain his balance. He forced the idea that such vile creatures could learn from his mind and concentrated on his swings, yet the goblins kept scoring hits. His frustration slowly gave way to anger, the sword suddenly seemed lighter in his hands. The annoying cuts were now being scored less often, those that did make it past his defenses fueled his rage until he became that unstoppable berserker he once was.

Time passed without Jarn’s permission, the light of day, which had once made the ruby red blood of his enemies sparkle, began to wane. Even though Jarn barely felt tired, his limbs began to slow, he started to control his thoughts, and the pain of his wounds returned. It wasn’t until this happened that Jarn realized that the goblins fled long ago. All that kept him company was the corpses of his enemies, it looked as if they had not only been killed in a gruesome fashion, but deliberately tortured beforehand. Some had arms and legs removed, others had seemed to have been flayed alive, their skin hanging off their bodies in strips. Recollecting what he had been doing for the last couple of hours was impossible. Jarn shivered at the thought that such violence could have been committed in front of him and he had not seen it. Who could have done such things!? Even to goblins. My god, what am I going to...Jarn never finished that thought. He fell, exhausted and bleeding, lying with the corpses of his people.

Hollow Earth

2009-05-18T20:41:00.002-04:00

Hi all,
I've decided to take a bit of a breather, what with that last story being finished and all. I wrote a second version which changes how the ending is portrayed, but keeps the same basic concept.

Below is an analysis I did last year for a lady who found what she thought was a diary kept by Richard E. Byrd, Rear Admiral and the first person to fly over the North Pole, among other things.

This journal supposedly was written as he flew over the North Pole for the second time. The man was a navigator rather than a pilot, so he had someone flying the plane for him while he took notes presumably.

My job was to compare it to the official diary of Richard E. Byrd and decide whether or not it was genuine. The work, which you'll find in the title of this post's link, was supposed to give some credence to the Hollow Earth Theory. Personally I don't believe in the theory, but I wasn't even aware of it until after I finished reading the journal and started looking for inconsistencies.

In any case, read and enjoy:

Richard E. Byrd was a child born to a prestigious Virginia family in 1888. He was raised in the utmost privileged company of the genteel south, attending Shenandoah Valley Academy as a young boy, eventually moving on to join the navy and training in Annapolis.

He spent several years prior to World War 1 as a navigator for the navy’s newly acquired seaplanes, pioneering the many uses of aircraft in a military support capacity. Unfortunately a serious injury received during his time in college made him unable to stand the long watches required of all naval personnel, severely hampering his chances of promotion. As a result he requested early retirement and was discharged with honors in 1916. Unfortunately as the United States was gearing up for war, he was not allowed to rest long. As a retired naval officer he was charged with the administration and overseeing the training of the Rhode Island militia.

He did so well that he was commissioned to do the same with several other New England states.
After the war he was free to engage in his real passion, exploration. A trip to the Philippines at the age of 12 had sparked a burning wanderlust in the young man, which drove him to seek out others with similar inclinations. This led to several expeditions, for which he was most famous. He was the first successful man to head an expedition and navigate a plane over the North Pole. He attempted to cross the Atlantic in a similar model plane and was beaten by Charles Lindbergh in this triumph by a matter of days.

He continued these expeditions, both public and government funded, for the remainder of his life. At the time of his death he left numerous notebooks and diaries, and a paper trail of his exploits numbering over 1.5 million documents. However there is one discrepancy that has historians stumped. He left no information regarding the government funded Operation Highjump in 1947, a year long mission of exploration into Antarctica which brought over 4,700 men occupying 13 well supplied vessels. Curiously this expedition was ended six months early with no official explanation of why or what their findings were. Conspiracy theorists propose that it was an attempt by the US government to hunt down a secret Nazi stronghold located beneath the ice of Antarctica.

A diary has recently been published which is supposedly that of Richard Byrd, who by then had been given the navy title of Rear Admiral. It’s been published under the simple name of The Missing Diary of Admiral Byrd. It is the goal of this document to assess the possible validity of this diary based on differential analysis with the proven diaries of Admiral Byrd from previous expeditions. These methods include comparisons in writing style, prose, grammar, as well as psychological inferences based on what is actually known about the man.

The most immediate discrepancy that jumps out from the first page of the unofficial diary is the introduction. There should not be one. This is supposed to be a personal diary and has no need of an introduction to the reader. This is not in keeping with Byrd’s solemn and businesslike demeanor, which is so well portrayed in his verified diaries from previous expeditions, all of which lack introductions.

The overall feeling in this diary is inconsistent with the mindset of his previous journals. He was known to be an intelligent, detail oriented, man of action. Though not particularly religious, he was somewhat superstitious, looking for patterns in the world around him. Above all, he had faith in the basic good of the human race. The introduction was written from the point of view of someone who does not have this faith. It also charged certain words for dramatic effect by capitalizing them, such as Faith, Greed, Exploitation, and Truth. This is obviously not in keeping with him, as he lacked a sense of dramatic altogether.

Certain details which Byrd would, as a habit, include are missing. The rest of the diary is apparently written during Byrd’s flight over the South Pole, a flight which officially does not exist according to any of the personal journals or diaries of those who were a part of the expedition. Byrd’s previous flight logs always included the date, time, place, weather conditions, names of other passengers in the plane, as well as the type of plane that was being flown. No such information is given in this log.

A serious discrepancy involves Byrd’s place in the plane. The log later suggests that Byrd was flying the plane, despite the fact that he was navigating, as well as writing in his log at the same time. Historically he was a navigator who had not flown a plane since his first attempts as a junior naval officer. In truth, would not have been flying the plane, which would’ve accommodated a separate pilot. Even if he had, he would not have been able to fly while performing the necessary navigational calculations. Also he mentioned a radioman with him, whom he once referred to as Howie. The duty roster of Operation Highjump, which has since been made public, does not include a radio operator by the name Howie or Howard.

Aside from all this, both the content and the structure of the individual log entries arouse the most suspicion in regards to their validity. Byrd was in the habit of shortening his sentences by cutting out such words as “I, We, They, It, etc”. Even then, he was very sparing with what he wrote, using one or two sentences in an entry to convey the facts and let one draw their own conclusions. The sentence structure of the unofficial log is both whole and far too excessive, using whole paragraphs to convey meaning and including emotional content. The presence of emotion was not something seen in any of his previous diaries. Being raised in rural Virginia around the turn of the century, it was likely he was well trained in equipoise, a sublime mixture or balance as well as an iron grip over one’s emotions that allow one to hold fast against all disasters. It may be a bit dated, but the best example of a master of equipoise is Confederate General Robert E. Lee. As such emotion would have no place in this log.

Furthermore, Byrd was very sparing in his use of punctuation, particularly exclamation points. In all of his official diaries combined, he used only three exclamation points. Again this is indicative of his businesslike demeanor. Often a life threatening situation or even the triumph of having reached the North Pole was not sufficient for him to use an exclamation point. While the contents of the unofficial diary are fantastical and far fetched in the extreme, it’s likely he would’ve faced them with the same stalwart demeanor. In this log there are upwards of fifty exclamation points, not at all in keeping with his personality.

Based on this evidence it’s only logical to conclude that this unofficial diary is just that. Unofficial. The use of prose, sentence structure, punctuation, and mindset is far too different from works which are known to have been written by Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd to validate the claim that he wrote this diary. In fact, the inconsistencies with his modus operendi as well as the facts known about him compared to the erroneous details in the diary suggest he most definitely did not write it.

Situation Report

2009-05-15T20:35:00.002-04:00

Howdy yall. It’s been a while. I’m trying to post at least once a week to my other site, as well as 5 times a week on this site. The last time I posted anything about myself was some months ago, and a lot has happened since then.

First, I successfully completed all four cycles of my chemotherapy. I had a CT Scan done a few weeks ago and my oncologist says the cancer is gone.

Before all you start cheering, both of you, I should say that the doctor expects the cancer will come back before the year is out. Apparently this type of carcinoma has a 70% relapse rate within the first few years. To that end I’m getting scans and blood work done every 10 weeks.

I had a bit of a scare a few weeks ago, just as I was recovering from my last cycle of chemo. I was very tired and couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds. Any more than that and I felt a strange heaviness in my chest. Not good. Like an idiot I tried to wait it out. I mentioned it to my folks and they shanghaied me into going to the emergency room.

Turns out it was a pulmonary embolism. You see, I developed blood clots in my arm from the induction port they stuck in me several weeks prior. My arm swelled up to twice its normal size and it felt like someone was ripping the veins out of my arm with red hot fishhooks; not pleasant. My oncologist gave me a few shots of a blood thinner, removed the port, and sent on my way. My arm shrank down to normal and stopped hurting. The down side to this was that without the induction port, I had to receive my last week of chemo intravenously. I have extremely deep veins which are so thick-walled that they tend to roll out of the way whenever a needle pokes them, consequently I get stuck 3 or 4 times before they successfully get an IV going. This wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t have to do it everyday for a week. That’s a lot of needle marks people.

In any case, I thought the clots had been broken up. I was wrong. One of the blood clots migrated to my right lung, where it took up residence and threatened to break free, travel to my brain, and either kill me or leave me a drooling vegetable. Fun stuff.

I spent a week in the hospital, where they monitored me and put me on blood thinners. Again I had to have an IV going 24/7, though my veins were already trashed from the chemo the week before. Let’s not forget the blood they drew every 4 hours to make sure it was thin enough. I’ve got an idea for them, how about we check to see if the poor bastard’s bleeding like a faucet from his open wounds? (I was, lost half a pint on my first day before the nurse could waddle in with a compress. 20 Fricken minutes after I screamed for help, even though my room right against the hallway nurse’s station. I just ended up using my pillowcase) What a freaking concept, might even have saved them the time it took to do the blood tests.

What really gets me is that, on my second to last day in the hospital, they told me my blood levels were low. Of course they f---ing were! They were taking it all! Some blank eyed cow-like wage slave with a 12 gauge needle speared me in the arm every couple hours for a week and my bone marrow was shot from the chemo. What the hell did they expect! So I ended up staying an extra night while they gave me blood.

I don’t know which I liked more, the hallucinations from sleep deprivation, or the guy next door hacking up his lungs. Normally I’ve got a bit more compassion for the ill, though if you’ve been following these rants, you’ll know not by much. But this guy was unbelievable; it was the most fake cough I ever heard, a wall-piercing shout. After about the second day of this non-stop phlegm fest, I started paying attention to the pattern. This moldering old bastard only every made a peep when someone walked by his door! Damned faker was looking for attention.
When I was finally discharged I took the time to poke my head in his room and tell him to get better, die, or shut the f--- up, but quit making everyone else miserable. The look on his face made me feel better than anything I’ve known in years!

You may be wondering about the sleep deprivation thing. First off, I’ve never been able to sleep on my back… ever. With an IV in my arm constantly, I couldn’t really roll on my side. Also, remember I’m getting people coming in to take blood every 4 hours. On top of that, I’ve got a pressure cuff on my other arm taking my blood pressure every 15 minutes, and an LPN coming in every 15 minutes to chart it down. What’s more, and possibly most annoying, is that the night nurses gossiped like hens. They wouldn’t shut up for their entire 12 hour shifts. Keep in mind that the nurse station where they hang out is right next to my door, to the degree that, whenever they rolled their chairs back to stand up, the chairs would hit the wall, creating a noise identical to a gunshot. Every…Damn…Time.

I’m still keyed up from having lived in Orlando, meaning I still reached for weapons every time I heard these noises. It was probably best my folks dis-armed me before having me admitted; else I might’ve taken a slice at a couple of the less pleasant people I was subjected to.

I think things came to a head when the night LPN, a pale little blond girl that looked younger than me, came into my room around 7 AM to ask me how I’d slept, as she was about to go off shift and had to hand the charts over to the day nurse.

Hollow eyed, tired, and infinitely frustrated, I smiled, showing teeth grinding against one another so hard they squeaked. “I would’ve slept better if I didn’t have to listen to your conversations all night.”

She smiled and laughed, waving her hand in airy dismissal, as if I were joking. “You couldn’t have heard us. The wall’s too thick.”

“Oh, no?” I said. “Well then, I suppose I’d sound crazy if I said that I hope that infection clears up for you.”

The look on her face was magic. Her jaw dropped, mouth forming a dumbfounded “O”. A moment later she colored a bright shade of red and covered her mouth with her hands as the horror of her embarrassment sank in. She turned and ran out of the room, and I never saw her again.

Had I not been so tired I would’ve laughed. It was her fault for talking so loudly about such private things in a public place. Did she honestly think no one would overhear?

Why didn’t I just sleep during the day, you ask? Because I received roughly 5 visits an hour from: candy stripers, nurses, LPNs, medical technicians, doctors, phlebotomists, bureaucrats, well-wishers, cleaning staff, cooking staff, people wanting to change my linens and ordering me out of bed, the senile, the mentally ill, patient’s so zonked on pain meds they had no idea where they were, and random passersby looking for other patient’s rooms who somehow thought I was some sort of freaking directory. I was a bald, half-naked, pale, bloodless, and supremely pissed of twenty-something with more drugs pumped into him than Keith Richards; how the hell should I know where their great aunt Flo was?

With that being said, this happened almost a month ago, and my arms are still nothing but black and purple blotches from all the blown veins. Apparently I’ve developed so much scar tissue that some of them can never be used again, I don’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved by that.
I’m still on blood thinners, which is incredibly frustrating as there are certain things I can’t do, drinking being the foremost among them. Normally I try not to drink frequently or heavily, because it can become too much of a habit very easily, but I felt that I was allowed a small reward given that I’d gotten through this medical hell. A glass of bourbon or two didn’t seem like such a terrible thing. Unfortunately I’m still waiting for that glass, and I’ll have to wait another few months.

On a side-note, while my eyes are by no means cured, my new ophthalmologist has given me a prescription for a new type of eye drop which seems to be helping the pain and dryness. Too bad they cost more than the national deficit. Oh, did I mention that they’ve also been linked with glaucoma? Yeah. But that’ll come in a couple decades. Surely by then I won’t have need of my eyes, right? Cure is worse than the damned cure, every time.

But hey, at least I’m cancer free for the moment. Well, not quite. Turns out that my CT Scan which my oncologist said was clean wasn’t clean. That really increases my confidence in her, I can tell you. The bargain basement physician at the free clinic who is my referring doctor noticed it. Apparently I’ve got a mass in my gall bladder, the technical term for which is a “Soft Tissue Opacity”. The report said that it did not match the profile of gallstones. So I’m scheduled for an ultrasound this upcoming Thursday to see if this is what I think it is.

I researched what can cause this “Soft Tissue Opacity”, and have found little in the way of conclusive information. Apparently most hystemic cancers are characterized by hard tissue opacities, the soft tissue opacity being a minor secondary characteristic for such cancers in their latest stages. But the CT Scan didn’t show any hard tissue opacities, which would’ve showed up much more clearly than anything else. So the question remains, what the hell is it? I’ll find out Thursday.

Your normal story posts will resume Monday.

Update Update

2009-05-02T22:56:00.003-04:00

Well folks, it's been a while. Don't know if anyone's still hanging around to read this after being gone so long, but I'll write even if no one else ever reads it, I'm either that stubborn or stupid; you decide.

First, the good news. I am currently cancer free, which is a huge weight off my mind. The bad news is that my oncologist says that the cancer's likely to come back within the first year. Visions of IV fluids and bags of chemo drugs are still keeping me awake at night. I tell you, if it weren't for the dying part, I'd say the cure is worse than the disease. On top of that my last round of treatment resulted in a couple blood clots in my arms which migrated to my right lung. Can you say Pulmonary Embolism?

So now I'm on blood thinners for the next three months with strict instructions not to smoke or drink. That kinda kills my cancer-free celebration plans, but I suppose it could be worse.

Anyway I spent my down-time coming up with more story ideas, actually managing to write a few, and increasing the size of my rejection letter collection. I'm at about 60 now, which is pretty decent when you consider I haven't been trying to write professionally for all that long.

Most of my stories, the good ones at least, tend to be around 10,000 words long. The real kick in the teeth is that most magazines won't consider any story over 5,000 words. I tried trimming one of my stories down today. It didn't work out so well. The story is still readable, but frankly it lost all of the qualities that made it interesting, at least in my opinion. It's tough to present a meaningful story in such a short space. Practically no room to develop characters so you care about what happens to them.

The thing that gets me is that most of the short stories that I read are much longer. The shortest HP Lovecraft wrote was almost 15,000 words long. So why is there such a discrepency between what they'll print nowadays and what they printed back in the heyday of speculative and science fiction?

Anyway, moving on. I've come up with a number of other ghost stories featuring Miyamoto Musashi, the storylines atleast. Ideally I'll compile them in a book in which each story occurs at a different time in his life, showcasing how the man changed and grew. I've already researched the man's life and mentality in some detail, but I'll need to find reference material for life in Japan during the early 1600s as well as the story locations. I've got a really good one in mind which takes place in Himeji castle, where he designed its world-famous gardens. The castle is so old that I figure a few buried seals keeping long-dormant demons would be plausible, thanks to Joilene, a good friend, for the demon ideas.

I've also done a story featuring Heaven's bounty hunter. I like it, but since it pulls from Judaism rather than Christianity, most people who read it think that the portrayal of angels doesn't fit. Think "The Prophecy" set in the Old West and you won't be too far off. I've got to let it sit for a week or two before I go back and start chopping. Frankly that part is tougher than writing it. It always irks me, having to wait, leaving the story to sit. I've got about a half dozen stories sitting, and I'm champing at the bit to get at them, but for one reason or other I can't. Sons of Odin is a great example of this. People read it, they like, but something's always missing. I've decided to try to turn it into a full length novel as it shoves so much information at the reader that most of it is missed. I haven't even begun to collect research material for it yet, so I don't imagine it will be done for years to come, if ever.

I was working on scripting out a full-length novel, kind of a Dean Koontzish style supernatural murder mystery. Includes some of the local Native-American beliefs in the Orlando that only people who've lived there know. Unfortunately I've had to put that on hold for the forseeable future until I can get back to work and start making some money. I should be working on getting the bills paid right now, but the wrtiting bug has got me firmly by the lugs. It's all I can think about, all that I do, all that I am. I've got to wait on the local library to get my research material for most of my promising stories; I don't have the money to go out and buy them, and the waiting is driving me crazy...Well, crazier.

In the meantime I guess I'll just make the rest of my household nuts as I talk incessantly about my work, bouncing ideas back and forth until they want to scream.

I don't know how often I'll be updating. I've got a goodly amount of time on my hands while I recuperate, but not much more to talk about. When I'm working I may have something to talk about, but probably not the time to do so. Oh well, we'll see how things go.

Bouncer's War Story

2009-02-21T22:03:00.001-05:00

I’ll tell you all my best war story… and my only one come to think of it. It’s about my first, last, and only night working as a bouncer. It’s a good story, though it’s not conventional, and doesn’t have a happy ending. Some people find it too hard to believe, so I don’t blame you if you think I’m making this up. I wish I had made it up.

It happened in ’04 when I was attending college in Orlando. I had previously lived the majority of my life in a small town about 100 miles away and was still coping with moving to a big city. I come from a pretty poor family and was living almost entirely on several scholarships I’d wrangled in high school. They all had very high academic requirements, typically negating any possibility of working part time if I wanted to keep my grades up.

One semester my class load was lighter than usual so I thought I could manage taking on a job. The only problem was that Orlando is a very seasonal city, most business dries up during the hot-as-blazes months, which, if you’ve ever been to Florida, you would know last between March and October. I couldn’t find a job anywhere; even Macdonald’s. I guess being a straight A student double majoring in Psychology and English Literature wasn’t enough to qualify me over the gang-banger wannabe who misspelled his name on the application. Oh well.

A roommate of mine who turned out to be my best friend over the years between then and now, happened to “know someone”. You know the type. I personally am a huge hermit who can go for weeks without speaking to anyone with no trouble. He, on the other hand, knows everyone living on this planet and is on a first name basis with all of them. No matter what your problem is, he always “Knows Someone”.

He told me that a friend of his was a bouncer in an adult dance club and could probably get me hired as the club was short on staff. Pay was 10 bucks an hour, almost twice the minimum wage in this miserable state. Four hours a night from 10 PM to 2 AM; perfect for an insomniac like me who had all morning classes.

What I haven’t told you so far is that I’m six and a half feet tall, three and a half feet wide at the shoulders, and weigh close to 300 pounds, at least back then I did. Admittedly I am no longer in the best of shape, I’ve got a bit of a gut and moobs, no stamina whatsoever, but I’m strong enough to rip most small trees out of the earth by the roots and lift the front end of my car (no joke). This combined with an expression grimmer than your average undertaker means most people leave me be. Because of that I’m a pretty gentle guy. I could count the number of fights I’ve been in on one hand and still have fingers left because most people get the impression that starting something with me would be a bad idea. In actual fact, violence is usually the very last thing on my mind.

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’ve developed a decent martial background, albeit inadvertently. My grandfather started training me in boxing from the age of 9. I’ve got no stamina but most things don’t stand up to any punch I land. Also he showed me a few things to use in a pinch that he’d learned from 22 years of experience as a combat Marine.

Since then I’ve augmented my martial experience by acquainting myself with various forms of martial arts. Living in a small town for most of my life, I never benefitted from real training with a master instructor. Most of what I know I learned from books and training manuals. As a result I developed a good working knowledge of body kinetics and can usually come up with something on the fly.

When most people think of Orlando things like Disney and Universal Studios come to mind. It’s a tourists’ haven for good, wholesome, profitable, family-oriented fun. What most people who haven’t lived there don’t know is that it hosts a ridiculously large number of erotic dance bars and strip clubs that cater to just about every fetish you could name.

So I head out to Orange Blossom Trail for my first night of work, which is a road lined with neon bar and club signs. Thankfully when I got to the address I found it was a normal and pretty nice looking strip club, nothing too weird to me. Though I personally don’t enjoy going to clubs of any sort, working in one was no bother. No smoking inside, a three stage arena with full kitchen and bar, good looking dancers with no obvious track marks. All in all it was above par for my expectations.

I met the head bouncer, a grizzled man in his forties with arms made from corded steel by the name of Joe. He made sure I was wearing plain jeans and combat boots like I’d been instructed. He gave me my SECURITY shirt and the three cent training. Basically it boiled down to issuing two verbal warnings before acting, only touch someone if he looks like he’s going for one of the dancers or has already started a fight, only punch if you’re attacked or if one of the more experienced bouncers attacks first. Seemed straight forward to me.

I was put out on one of the minor stages near the far wall from the bar, where Joe habitually propped himself to watch the crowd. Around one o’clock a group of day laborers started to get a bit rowdy. They’d been steadily drinking most of the night but had stayed quiet until then. They were sitting at the edge of the dance floor I was supposed to cover. There’s a law that requires the dancers to be a full five feet from paying customers, so between the seated patrons and the stage there’s a half step the dancers can use to get down from the front of the stage instead of going around the back if they need to.

One of the men got up on the half step in order to reach for the dancer doing her pole routine. I looked over to Joe and got the nod to step in.

I got to the side to be within his peripheral vision, though he didn’t seem to notice me as he was staring at the girl. I asked him to come down in a clear voice. When he didn’t respond I commanded him to come down. Realizing his friends were speaking to him in Spanish I repeated my request and then gave the command version in Spanish. Linguistics is not my forte but I took four years of it in high school and was taking a refresher course at the time, so I was at my peak and could usually be understood. He still ignored me.

He was swaying only slightly, though his eyes were clear. I was guessing that if he was beyond the legal limit, it was only just. His friends were calling to him and telling him to come down, but he wasn’t listening. His friends weren’t touching him though, which I should’ve noticed. Too bad my attention was on him. By then he was pawing at the girl’s ankle. The dancers usually know what they’re doing though. They don’t pull back as that might anger the man, and they don’t lean in as that would encourage him. They just stay calm and neutral.

I got another nod from Joe to put hands on the man. So I reached up, grabbed his left arm, and pulled him down and back from the step. As he spun around to face me I heard a click and saw a flash. That was my only warning.

A switchblade was in his right hand and he drove it straight for my heart without hesitation. Upon later thought I realized that in order for him to have been that fast he would’ve had to have the knife in his hands before I touched him, meaning he might’ve used it on the dancer.

I got lucky and reacted correctly. I brought my left arm up in an inward curving half circle. I was a bit too quick though. Instead of forearm blocking the man’s wrist out to the side, I caught the blade directly against the back of my lower arm. It cut a gash six inches wide and a half inch deep before I was able to push the blade out of the way of my chest.

It’s at that point that there’s a gap in my memory. The last thing I remember is registering that I’d been stabbed. Then there’s a big blank spot. I came back to the moment when one of the other bouncers tackled me to the floor.

After I’d gotten up off the floor the bouncer apologized to me and gestured to the wreck on the floor that had once been human by way of explanation. Police arrived in about five minutes with an ambulance in tow. The man was placed on a gurney and handcuffed to it. He was unconscious but the police intended to stick him with assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder when he was well enough to be tried. I’ve got to admit at the time I was still a bit mystified with what happened; apparently someone had beaten him up pretty badly. An EMT patched me up and I was taken into the back room by the head bouncer once the cops had left, the club had to be closed early after the hubbub died down.

I asked Joe what happened. He gave me an odd look and asked me what the last thing I remembered was. When I told him, he went over to the camera surveillance system, popped out a tape, and placed it in a VCR in the corner, directing me to a TV set.

I saw myself just before the fight. I saw myself getting stabbed. Then I saw myself grab the man’s wrist and twist it. I flattened his nose with an open palmed thrust. Then I grabbed his pinky finger and bent it backward until it snapped. He dropped the knife at that point, but I wasn’t done. I bent his wrist inward until it snapped in half. I stepped past him, carrying his arm backward as I did so, until his arm was almost horizontal with the ground, pointing backward. I fit my right shoulder underneath his inverted bicep. He was much shorter than I and I had to bend at the knees and waist to do so. I then stood up, driving hard down with my legs to force my body upward, while jerking his arm up and back. It popped his arm clean from the socket at the shoulder and hung at a sickening angle.

By then I was staring at the TV with eyes wide as saucers, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I thought it was over, but it wasn’t. I reached back behind myself to the right to fit his throat in the crook of my elbow. I stuck one foot against the back of his heels and swung my arm forward, brutally flooring him. I then proceeded to jump up and down on his chest. I didn’t stop until one of the bouncers tackled me, the rest of which you know.

I just stared at Joe, open mouthed, dumbfounded. Joe was very kind to me, apparently realizing I’d had a bit of a shock. He said he’d seen it before. Apparently some people have something he called “red outs”. Other people call it going berserk, red rage, blackouts, it’s all the same thing.

Sometimes when someone is hurt in some way their conscious mind goes away for a time while their fight or flight instincts are firmly set on “fight”. I’ve gotten my degree in psychology since then and have found a number of case studies which proposed it is the base reptilian mind which takes over in times of extremis where maximum aggression is the best course of action. The best example of this is the Viking Berserker of legend.

Joe gave me a hundred bucks for my trouble and sent me on my way. He’d seen a couple people like me in the past and knew they wouldn’t make good bouncers. He said he couldn’t hire me. “Son, you’d do a helluva lot more damage than you’d prevent,” were his exact words.

After reading some serious horror stories written by people defending themselves in much less brutal and gruesome manners I’m glad for once that I live in the South. Invariably the defender in an assault case is favored and is typically not even cuffed or arrested by the police at the scene of the fight. The police didn’t even give me a second look and I’ve not heard from them since. After five years, I don’t think I’m about to.

Despite my apparent enthusiasm I was soon left feeling shaky and sick after the adrenaline rush wore off. When my roommate noticed the bandage on my arm the next day, he asked about it. I was dumb enough to tell him the whole story. He relayed it to his friends and always mentioned it at parties as if it were something to be proud of. The funny thing is that he’s more dangerous than I am. He’s a crack shot, survivalist, Eagle Scout, with a black belt in Kung Fu and seven years experience as captain of his wrestling team in both middle school and high school. Oh, he also grew up in the inner city area of Philadelphia. He’s significantly stronger than I’ll ever be to boot. Soon everyone I knew in Orlando knew the story and treated me a little differently because of it.

In any case it’s been five years and the whole experience haunts me still. It’s ok to be confident in one’s ability to defend oneself or those one loves as the situation may dictate. To do that requires control. I had no control whatsoever. I’m a danger to everyone I know, simply by being near them I might go off again and hurt someone. God forbid I should turn on my own mother or brother.

As a result I have: a nasty scar on my left arm, a lingering fear of being in public places or around loved ones in case I should go nuts and hurt someone without realizing it, as well as recurring nightmares where that fear comes true.

In the time between then and now I’ve worked as a sales rep in several department stores and a customer service rep for the local electrical company. I’ve run into some pretty nasty people, but after getting stabbed, all their anger and insults doesn’t phase me in the least anymore. That guy, whose name I never did learn, was the worst customer in existence.

The End

PS. I told you this wasn’t a conventional story with a happy ending. See? I was hoping that it might impart some sense of a moral lesson, perhaps regarding the importance of self control over power. I leave its interpretation up to you.

PPS. A good trick I’ve learned to get most people who are becoming hostile to back down when you are on the clock is to stare intently at their jugular vein on the side of the neck when you speak to them. It makes them think of all their vulnerable points should they be attacked and results in them involuntarily backing down for reasons they can’t exactly explain. My degree in Psychology finally saw some use.

Personal Update

2009-01-29T18:00:00.002-05:00

Well folks, that’s going to be the last story I’ll be posting for quite some time. I’ve got the beginnings of an idea for another, but my funds are drying up fast so I’ll be focusing on copywriting for a bit. It’s not much fun, but at least it pays.

In the meantime I’ve submitted all my work to a number of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror publications. I get rejection letters daily. Once I’ve collected enough I’ll make a collage out of them. If I ever get a full length book published I fully intend to write back to all of them and rub their faces in it. It’s the little things that keep me going…tequila too.

Another reason for my impending hiatus, aside from the fact that this page won’t load and you’ll probably never even see this post, is that I had a talk with my oncologist. Based on the protein markers in my most recent blood tests the type of cancer I’ve got is categorized as a seminoma. These little buggers are very aggressive and only respond to chemo therapy. For that reason I’ll be hooked up to a bottle of pesticide 5 days a week, every three weeks, for the next couple of months. I’ve always wondered what I’d look like bald. They tell me the fatigue will be pretty extreme. Given the fact that I can barely keep my eyes open after being awake for 8 hours as it is, I imagine I’ll be hibernating for most of the Spring. I can only hope the fatigue is a result of the cancer. If I’m still this sleepy after it’s all taken care of, it means I’m just really lazy.

Regarding my last post about my eyes. The damn things still hurt morning, noon, and night. The bad news is that my ophthalmologist can’t prescribe any sort of anesthetic seeing as they tend to melt the corneas. I like my corneas. I want to keep them. The worse news is that the expensive eye drops I had to buy aren’t doing anything. He wants to switch to some sort of steroid and cortisone treatment. Typically it’s pretty cheap, but its use has been known to cause glaucoma. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place at this point. I can’t go ahead with the treatment anyway because the chemo includes steroids already, meaning I’ll be completely hairless, nauseas, fatigued, and unable to use my eyes for the next few months. I sound like a frigging mole rat.

I’ve got some minor news with the scam front. I managed to contact the UK version of the Better Business Bureau and told them my story about being ripped off by my employer of the past few months. They’re taking it very seriously, looking through their records, and sending investigators out to all the addresses they have for these folks on file. Hopefully they will have left a paper trail by which the people running Cooper Murphy Webb can be found.

I’ll be posting again in a few months hopefully. If not… well it was fun having people read my work. Thanks to all of you who took the time.

Personal Update

2009-01-14T20:56:00.004-05:00

Hey all. I just wanted to present a quick update of what's going on. You may find it turns into a rant, but I at least intended to keep it brief.

First off, I've just about completely healed from my surgery. This is good news because I may end up going under the knife again sometime in the near future. The results of my CT scan show several large masses in my pelvis surrounding my lower aorta. This is the primary vein that runs down from the heart, behind the stomach, and then splits off at the pelvis to provide blood to the legs. There aren't any major organs being affected by the masses, but the proximity to this vein is alarming for obvious reasons

The size of these masses suggests they are Choriocarcinoma in the 2nd stage. It's probably the first site the cancer had taken root, the testicular tumor being a secondary growth. They're still treatable at this point and typically respond well to radiation therapy, though I understand there's a high chance of being rendered sterile seeing as the radiation would be aimed directly at my groin. I never really wanted to have children anyway, but it's painful to be taken apart slowly... one piece after another.

I've lost so much of who I used to be to chronic illness over the years that I sometimes feel hollow, as if there's nothing left.

Anyway, I'm waiting for a phone call from a medical oncologist that I'm being referred to. I've been waiting since monday and think I'll be beating down his door sometime tomorrow. With the sheer number of other things I'm having to deal with at the moment I think I may be speaking literally.

Speaking of tomorrow, I have to go see my opthalmologist again in the morning. This is to check the progress of my treatment for my Superior Limbal Keratoconjunctivitis. For those who are not familiar with the term, it is an autoimmune disease in which my body is attempting to heal tissue on the surface of the eye, despite the fact that there's no actual damage. This buildup of aberrant scar tissue causes extreme pain and burning, making it incredibly difficult to even look at this screen for the few moments in which I am typing.

The treatment for this condition is going well, as far as I can tell, though the pain is not lessening in any way. The inflamation and redness has increased considerably over the past week. If the doctor sees no improvement I'll be heading to another specialist. If he does see improvement then I'll be asking for some kind of topical anesthetic so I can get on with my day with some degree of normalcy until the treatment is complete. It often takes up to a year to be fixed entirely.

As far as my work goes, the top secret job I was taking fell through. The company has pulled up stakes overnight and completely abandonned me, taking a full month's worth of my work and stiffing me for the $2,000 dollar bill. This organization is set up in the UK and it took me several days of checking before I was even able to come up with contact information, though no one will answer my letters of phone messages. At this point there's little I can do aside from flying to the UK and beating these dead beats to death with a cricket bat, though the thought had crossed my mind. It would be more tempting if I actually had the money to afford the trip.

What's even enraging is that their last message, which was sent around Christmas, contained a virulent Trojan virus which is called Vunbo11. This virus embeds itself in the windows system files of my computer and then replicates itself. Such system files cannot be manipulated or quarantined in any way, meaning I can't get to it, despite having one of the best virus protection software packages on the market. At the price I paid, their technical support line had better do their job.

This virus also prevents me from using my computer as anything other than a glorified typewriter. It cannot surf the web or be used for research, and the virus replicates itself all the while that the computer is running. To that effect I'm writing this from a different computer and can make no gaurantees regarding whether or not I'll be able to post tomorrow or the day after.

Having posted several stories in the past, I finally decided that some of my work is good enough for print. To that effect I have been submitting several short stories for publication to as many magazines I can find who are willing to pay for the rights to print them. It's taking some time and my chances seem slim to none given how badly the market is affecting small publications like this, but it helps me put out of my mind the fact that I spent the last month working 12 hour days for free.

If I ever find the man or woman who cheated me I will skin him alive, braid a whip from his own hide, tip it with his own shattered teeth, and beat him to death with it. I don't typically make casual threats and apologize if it comes as a shock, but by tricking me and using up my time they refuse me the right to make a living; to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. If I didn't live with my family I would be homeless by now. Writing is the one way that I can think of to try to earn a living, and the people who would cheat me might as well be making an attempt on my life. It amounts to the same. To that effect I don't see why action against them wouldn't be justified.

So, unable to work, to edit my rough draft of Sons of Odin, to work on a new Japanese ghost story I'm putting together, or submit my finished work in hopes of making a few extra bucks and bulking up my CV, I decided to take the day off until I could get some help from tech support. I sat down in front of the tv and fired up the old video game system, an XBOX 360 I got for Christmas several years ago. It quite literally fired up. Sparks flew and the smell of burning plastic filled the air.

After hurriedly pulling the plug to prevent fire I called customer service, finally managing to talk to a real flesh and blood human being after about a million automated messages and menus. Apparently this problem is common with XBOX 360s produced in the same batch as mine was, meaning Microsoft strikes again. Thankfully this problem is so common that they don't charge anything for it to be fixed, they even eat the cost of shipping. I used my folks' computer to fill out the forms online and printed up the shipping label to put on my package and took it to the UPS store. I figured I would get it back in two or three weeks, as the customer service rep said.

That would be too easy for someone as terminally cursed as I am. About an hour later a second email arrives. This one contains a full set of instructions on how to place the shipping label, specifying that it shouldn't be put on the inside of the box... Yes folks, it was that kind of customer service message.

It also included a small section explaining what other information should be included on the outside of the box aside from the shipping label. Nowhere on the customer service site or on any of the instructions was this message to be found, meaning I hadn't included said information when I had it shipped, seeing as the message wasn't sent until after I posted the box.

Now I've got to call up UPS in the morning when their service center is open in hopes that my package isn't lost for all freaking eternity.

Ladies and gentleman, it is at this point where I think awards, accolades, and above all, pity, is due. This has got to be the worst day of my life thus far. A term which I learned in my drama class in high school keeps coming back to haunt me: Theater of the Absurd. It's a story which is essentially so tragic that it can't possibly be real, making it funny by sheer exageration. To that effect I keep waiting for some alien intergalactic version of Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the ceiling in his faux trucker hat and vacant expression saying "Dude. Like, dude! You've been punked!"

Maybe then the last 15 years of my life will have made sense. Being on some sick version of camera candid may be psychologically crushing, but at least it will have entertained someone.

I'm not the type to think of harming myself, so please don't think I'm in any danger when I say this, but when I go to sleep tonight I'm really not looking forward to waking up.

I'm Back...Sorta

2008-12-27T15:05:00.002-05:00

The surgery took about an hour, which is pretty long for a single procedure as I understand it. The technical name for having a testicle removed is an orchiectomy. I was so nervous they'd cut off the wrong one that I took a Sharpie marker to my leg and left instructions for the surgeon. Apparently this is common practice nowadays as around 5% of surgical excisions remove the wrong thing. Thankfully that didn't happen in my case, though the anesthesiologist said I came close to waking up a few times. They've got a really cool electrode rig that fits over your head like a paper crown that tells the doctors when your brainwaves begin to change, which typically indicates one rising to conscioussness in an anesthatized patient. If I hadn't mentioned my resistance to medications to the doctor in passing he wouldn't have taken that precaution, so it's important to be honest with the surgeon, no matter how small or insignificant something may seem.

Rather than simply cut open the scrotum, an orchiectomy involves making an incision horizontally along the top of the pelvis and then cutting through the connective tissue until the surgeon reaches the genitals. The upside to this is that they can remove the lymph nodes along the way for further testing. If it is malignant cancer it travels along the lymph nodes first and foremost. The downside to this procedure is that they had to cut through most of my groin muscle. If you've ever experienced the pain of straining or pulling your groin, think how much it must hurt to have the darn thing severed.

I was bedbound for the first couple days, unable to move for fear of twisting at the waist. Thankfully I was able to move to the couch for Christmas morning to be with the family as they unwrapped presents. I never know what to get them, but I really enjoy wrapping presents and seeing them admire the packaging. There are only ever so many things that could be inside, and since it was a lean year we all had a pretty good idea of what we were getting, but there's just something about seeing those nicely wrapped presents under the tree on Christmas morning. There is a feeling of spontenaity, a sense that the little glittering packages could contain anything at all. It makes the experience exciting and unique. The downside to this is that once Christmas Morning is over, the moment that you've looked forward to for Lord knows how many months is over. It brings on feelings of ennui. Needless to say I was on heavy painkillers for the whole experience, as anyone who knows me would guess by the presence of that temporary moment of optimism back there.

I'm trying to get things back to normal, but I won't receive the pathologist's report until Monday. Meaning I don't know whether or not I need to go back for diagnostics to find the cancer if it's one of the kind that's likely to have spread. This combined with the extreme fatigue from the surgery as well as the muddling effects of my pain medications means I'm not good for much.

The fatigue should've passed by now, meaning it's possible that it's resulting from the thyroid problem I've suspected for the last few months. Of course I won't know for sure until I go back to the health department and repeat this whole process, which could take up to 6 months, provided of course the cancer has indeed been taken care of.

My contracters have been kind enough to allow me a few days to recuperate, but they will expect me back on the job by Monday as well. The fatigue and mental fog I'm experiencing is very distressing as I'm not sure I'll be able to make my deadlines with my head full of cotton. In the meantime I'm trying to get my hand back in by polishing up a few short stories for online magazine publication and generally living a life of quiet desperation. I'll try to muddle through as best I can, but it's frustrating I can't seem to catch a break. Thanks for the feedback and show of support all.

Time to see the Butcher

2008-12-22T13:10:00.004-05:00

Well folks it looks like the surgeon's are getting a bit impatient. You know how it is with people like that. Shiny new knives and nothing to cut.

They'll be throwing me on the table at 7AM tuesday morning. I don't know why it has to be so early. Personally I don't want to be worked on until the doc's had his coffee and cleared his eyes, but I guess they have other ideas.

Beside the lingering fear of my own mortality, the biggest hurdle I've got to overcome is calming my folks. This is a routine surgery (aren't they all) but still there is always the danger of bleeding out as the initial incisions come pretty close to the femoral artery. Anyone who knows about triage from a brawl or knife fight knows that the femoral artery, once knicked, retracts up against the bone of the pelvis, making it really tough to clamp, even in surgical conditions. With my mother being an RN for almost 20 years she knows most of that better than I do, making it all the more difficult to console her that everything will be OK. Even if the surgery goes well, the chances are high that I'm facing some form of cancer, though testicular cancer is the most easily treated form of cancer there is, which is a small mercy.

Being self employed means I've got no health insurance. The only reason I'm being treated at all is because of a charity organization set up in my county, which happens to be one of the wealthiest in the state. Thank God for retirees from up North. (never thought I'd say that before)

Another big concern involves my track record with anesthesia. I'm incredibly resistant to anything which puts me under. I've had 3 gastroinestinal exploratory procedures and one oral surgery over the years. Each time I woke up in the middle of surgery and began speaking to the surgeons, who wigged out of course. Each time in post-op they would inform me that it took enough medications to drop an elephant to keep me under.

I think my most amusing experience was my oral surgery, which required they drill into my upper palate to get at the canine teeth which wouldn't drop on their own. They gave me a nitrous oxide mask to breath into and told me to count backward from 100. By the time I reached 50 the nurse was crossing herself in disbelief and the surgeon muttered "holy shit" to himself. It did nothing, though one of the nurses was promptly knocked out the moment she took a breath from the mask to see if the tank feed was working properly. After waiting for more than 10 minutes, breathing from the mask, the doctor had me hooked up to an IV and gave me a dose of something else, which finally did the trick. It wasn't so funny when I was charged extra for the use of more medications.

In any case, don't expect me to post for the next few days as the recovery process will take some time. Wish me luck.

Health Update

2008-12-18T20:55:00.006-05:00

First off I'd like to thank the kind lady who posted such glowing comments on a few of my articles. It's always very touching to find out that someone actually reads this thing of their own volition. It really helped me get through the day given what went on.

As I already explained I had a large growth in a part of the body that only males of the species posses. I first noticed it in early september and since then it's swollen up to the size of a kiwi fruit and been very painful. Being flat broke and having no health insurance I had to sign up for a medical aid offered by the county. It took quite some time for them to get the paperwork done and setup my appointment with a specialist, but I finally got to see one today. He took one look and decided I needed an ultrasound.

These doctors donate their time to the local clinics, so the're no slouches when it comes to their professions, even among the extremely exacting standards of most physicians. I got the ultrasound done about an hour later. It was no different than when they look at a baby in the womb, using that gel and wand. The only issue was this it was on a decidedly more delicate portion of my anatomy, and the lab tech was a very attractive young lady. The gel was quite warm and the wand gives off slight vibrations, needless to say I spent the entire half hour imaging session clenching my fists and thinking of baseball else I should inadvertantly offend the kind woman who was performing the ultrasound. She called in a radiologist, who looked over the results and promptly informed me that I had a tumor the size of walnut in one of my testicles.

I had kind of expected something like that with my luck. Thankfully he said it was insular, or turned inward on itself, and therefore much more likely to be benign instead of a malignant cancer. In either case it was both the radiologist's and the specialist's opinion that the testicle be removed in its entiretey ASAP. I'm now waiting for them to round up an anesthesiologist and get a hold of a surgery theater, which they say should be ready by the end of the week. I had never really intended to have children anyway, and since the other of the pair is still intact I most likely will retain the capacity. Yet I am a little bothered by the possible decrease in testosterone that may result. With as many odd things that happen to me I find it helps to have naturally agressive reactions to possible threats. In any case the possibility still exists that the tumor may be cancerous, if so then it will most certainly have had the chance to metastasize. As a result they will do a biopsy once the amputation is complete.

Oddly enough I was never scared, not when I first noticed the problem or when any of the physicians I saw tried to prepare me for the worst. My chief concern is waking up in the middle of surgery. I did so during the last 4 surgeries I had, despite the fact that I was given doses of anesthesia that were considered sufficient to put a horse in a coma, let alone a human being who wasn't even fully grown at the time. Waking up in the middle of serious oral surgery is bad enough, but this is one worse in my opinion, so I'll make sure to mention that history of chemical resistance to the anesthesiologist.

I'm hoping that it's just a side effect of the tumor throwing off my limbic system, but I've also begun to show the classic signs of hypothyroidism too. My skin flakes, my eyes are so dry they stick when I blink them sometimes, I gain weight despite the fact that I eat less than 1,000 calories a day, and I can sleep up to 16 hours at a time if I let myself. The constant mental fatigue is an issue as well seeing as I'm working on a contract with some very strict deadlines.

Of course there's also the issue of my Superior Limbal Keratoconjunctivitis. It turns out it's an autoimmune disease where abberant tissue begins to grow in a crescent shape over the top of my irises seperating the colored part of the eye from the white of the surrounding sclera. Thankfully this almost never causes any problems with vision, but it does cause extreme eye dryness, pain, and burning whenever my eyes are open and mild aching sensations when they're closed. Given that my job has me staring at a computer screen all day this is damned near an ironic tragedy. I started working at home because my stomach was too messed up to make attending any form of job a possibility. I finally think I've got a chance at making a career for myself and not ending up on the street once I'm living on my own, and the two things that I need my body for crap out on me: my eyes and my ability to concentrate for long periods of time.

I've seen an opthalmologist for it, apparently half of all people who have this disease also have thyroid disorders, which simply serves to back my concerns. He prescribed me a new drug in eye drop form called Restasis. Apparently it's an anti-cancer medication which supresses and reverses the growth of aberrant or non-standard living tissue. This medication came out several years ago, before that my eye problem was fixed by either thermal cauterization of the tissue (YOWCH!), or surgical excision of the tissue (YUCK!). In either case there exists the possibility that this tissue will grow back, meaning that the Restasis is my best chance at resolving the problem without serious, costly, and dangerous eye surgery. Unfortunately it can take up to 6 months before it shows good progress in fixing my eyes. In the meantime I've got to live with the pain and burning every moment that I'm awake.

I know lots of people have things far worse than I do, but please allow me a paragraph or two of self pity, as everyone's entitled to it now and again. I've got a loving family that understands and supports me, long past the point that I would've expected them to, and I feel terrible that as I grow older I'm not able to look out for their wellbeing as I thought I would when I was little. I still rely on them more than vice-versa. As a child my scholastics were encouraged and I thought I would go into something in the hard sciences, perhaps be an engineer like my father. Now I can't even work at the local supermarket because of ineffectively diagnosed and insuccessfully treated gastrointestinal disorders, thyroid problems, emotional disorders, and autoimmune problems. It makes me wonder what happens when there's no one there to look out for me anymore, and truthfully that's a thought filled with such oil-slick black formless chattering terror that it wakes me from a sound sleep at night and makes me work as I do now, regardless of fatigue or failing health. It's the moments of silence in the dead of night that I fear the most, when the day's work is done as there is nothing else I can distract myself with.

Funny that the prospect of dying on the surgery table in the upcoming days or facing a long losing battle with cancer doesn't scare nearly as much as these simple thoughts of being alone and not having the strength to support myself. I wonder what that says about me. I'll try to keep up my posts to this site, as you may know my other blog animenothentai.com is on hiatus as I haven't the time to sit down and read books or watch animes to review, let along actually write the darn things. In my spare moments I manage to jot down a few lines and hope to build a backlog, so please be patient with me.

As always I'll tell you that I make a small portion of my living with the revenue from the ads on this site. If you want to do me a favor that costs you nothing but a few seconds of your time, please click on one of the links on the top left portion of this page. They're all legitimate and quite harmless. Also should any of you like to comment or perhaps establish a dialogue, your input would be more than welcome.

How to Hurt a Guy Permanently

2008-12-17T22:31:00.001-05:00

This technique is not taught in any self defense or martial arts manual that I know of. It was performed by a friend of mine when he was attacked by 5 men at once when he was out delivering pizza one night during my college attendance in Orlando. I happened to have been present because it was near the end of his shift and we were going out to a friend’s house afterward. Please keep in mind my very good friend (who prefers to remain nameless) grew up in inner-city Philadelphia and was attending college on a wrestling scholarship after having been the captain of both his middle school and high school teams. He could’ve disabled his opponent without doing him harm, but was disinclined to do so as he’d just had the side of his skull cracked in with a set of brass knuckles. As you can imagine he was a little angry at that point. I would liked to have presented a series of graphics for each step of this technique but can find nothing remotely approaching this online or off.

This is a defensive move performed in close quarters which will permanently cripple or kill your opponent, so unless you want to spend the rest of your life in jail it had better be a life threatening situation.

Step 1:
Step forward to your opponent’s right so the exterior of your right shoulder is in line with the right side of your opponent’s neck. Your chest should be pressed against your opponent’s at a slight angle as the two of you are not exactly standing face to face.

Step 2:
Grip your opponent’s right wrist with your left hand to prevent him from striking you with it. Snake your right arm forward over the top of your opponent’s right shoulder. Essentially your armpit should be placed over the top of the shoulder next to the neck with your arm hanging down over his back.

Step 3:
Reach your arm down across your opponent’s back to grip the inner curve of his left elbow, holding it back so he’s unable to drive his left arm forward. This is not so much to prevent him from attacking as it is to prevent him from catching himself in the next few steps. Just to recap, the back of your upper arm should be pressing hard against the back of your opponent’s neck while your hand tightly grips his left elbow and pulls it up and backward.

Step 4:
Place your right foot firmly atop your opponent’s left foot. Turn your toe outward to your right so the arch of your foot straddles his foot as high up near the juncture with the ankle as possible. Place your entire body’s weight on that foot to pin your opponent’s leg in place.

Step 5:
Fall straight backwards, keeping your right foot in place for as long as possible as you do so. Do not let your legs bend or bend forward at the waist, you want to impact with as much weight and momentum as possible, though you might tilt your head forward so as not to crack the back of it against the ground. Prior to your back a striking flat against the ground, drive your elbow back toward the ground, pressing your opponent’s head forward. If performed on a soft surface this technique may not be lethal, though it will still be crippling. If done on stone, concrete, or pavement then it will most likely kill.

Explanation:
There are two things which these steps do. The first involves placing your weight on your opponent’s foot. Because you are falling backward you’re pulling your opponent forward with you. Typically when falling forward the heel rises before the toes do, it’s just how we’re built. If this is prevented from happening by pinning the foot, the next joint up the leg will bend instead. In this case we’re talking about the knee. The only problem is the knee doesn’t bend forward, but it will when your own body’s weight combined with that of your opponent’s is multiplied by the acceleration of gravity. Essentially it shatters the knee, bending it 90 degrees in the wrong direction.

Let’s look at the placement of the arms now. First by pushing your opponent’s arms back he is unable to break his fall and is pulled along with you. Because your right arm and shoulder is pressing against the back of his neck his head is forced forward, making his forehead the principle point of impact upon falling, combining your body weight with that of your opponent’s. One of two things can happen depending on the degree to which the head is forced forward. If it is forced forward so far that the majority of the crown impacts squarely then the shock will travel down the skull and either fracture or break the bones of the neck. If the forehead impacts at an angle it will cause the front of the skull to crack open. In the instance when I saw this done it was the latter of the possibilities which occurred.

As the injured party had no witnesses, what with his thief friends running off at the sight of blood, it was me and my friend’s word against his. What’s more he was still wearing the brass knuckles when the police showed up, which just so happened to match the indentations in my buddy’s skull. Furthermore my friend had the pizza order which explained his presence in that neighborhood; the thug didn’t live anywhere nearby. The friend had a nasty egg on his head for about a week and the doctor’s refused to believe he’d retained consciousness throughout the entire episode, but the matter was quickly forgotten, likely due to a concussion in my friend’s case. He soon decided to work in a much safer line of work; campus security. He was about the only non-military student who worked in that department, having proven himself by flooring half a dozen of the other ROTC candidates for the job. He got paid much better and had police backup on call, though he saw less action in that job than he did delivering pizzas.

How to Perform a Samurai Karate Sacrifice Throw Against a Yokumon Strike

2008-12-16T22:49:00.001-05:00

This guide will explain how to perform a Sacrifice Throw or Satemiwase against an open handed side chop referred to as a Yokumon.
Instructions

Performing a Sacrifice Throw Against a Yokumon Strike
Step 1:
Allow your opponent to close the distance with you to striking range and attack with a Yokumon strike. This will be a horizontal chop with a palm open to the sky that comes in from the side and is aimed toward the neck.

Step 2:
Step inside of your opponent’s swing angled to the side opposite of your opponent’s strike. Swing your arm from the midline of your body upward and outward to land against the opposite side of your opponent’s check and jaw. The point of impact should be a few inches down from the elbow of your arm. Note that this strike is not meant to hit hard, though it can if facing someone actually intent on doing you harm.

Step 3:
Press that arm down and to the side, in so doing forcing your opponent’s head down and forward into a bowing position. Roll that arm around so that the inside of your elbow rather than the outside is pressed against your opponent’s neck. Clamp your arm securely around your opponent’s head to put him in a headlock.

Step 4:
Slip other arm under your opponent’s arm, the one which your opponent did not strike with, and lock elbows. Pull that arm up as high as you are able to elevate one side of your opponent’s body, both immobilizing him and forcing him off balance.

Step 5:
Sweep one of your feet against your opponent’s leg, the one closest to your body. Drop down and allow your back to straighten as you do so to safely fall to the ground, forcing your opponent into a kowtowing position to end the move. For those unfamiliar with the term, kowtowing is kneeling, bending forward, and placing both the forehead and hands against the ground in supplication. If you were facing a real attacker rather than practicing with a sparring partner, you can perform a slight variation which will be more effective in stopping an attacker. Instead of sweeping your opponent’s leg out from under him, you can anchor his leg in place by pressing the arch of your foot against his ankle or knee. This way the bone will break when you fall backward.

Tips & Warnings
Yokumons were known for being very dangerous as the chopping strike was aimed at the side of the neck and could result in spinal damage is successfully landed. The defense is called a Sacrifice throw because it requires that the defender drop to the ground alongside the attacker, sacrificing the advantage of standing with one's feet on the ground.

An interesting aspect of most sacrifice throws is how, by making only a slight alteration, a throw can run the gamut between safely dropping an opponent to the ground and killing him outright.

Most any technique in Samurai Karate has the potential to be very dangerous to both the attacker and the defender. For that reason take the utmost care when practicing this martial art, preferably under the watchful eye of a trained instructor.

How to Perform a Samurai Karate Choke Defense Against a Sword Strike

2008-12-15T19:39:00.002-05:00

While this defensive choke was originally designed to counter an overhand sword swing, it's also quite effective against an opponent using a club or striking with a bare fist.

Step 1:
Allow your opponent to step toward you and begin to stab at your upper body and swing his weapon in an overhand strike.

Step 2:
Sidestep and step inward toward your opponent as his/her attack begins to let the attack brush past you. You must sidestep in the direction which places you outside your opponent’s range of attack, meaning his arm is past you and you are pressed at an angle against his back.

Step 3:
Lower your body at the knees in order to get the top of your shoulder underneath of your opponent’s arm. When pressed against your opponent the top of your shoulder should be wedged underneath your opponent’s armpit.

Step 4:
Wrap that arm up and around the front of your opponent’s collar. Do not worry about holding onto your opponent with this hand, which is not its purpose. Instead your arm should be wrapped around your opponent’s chest, terminating on the opposite side of his neck. Ideally the side of your arm just a few inches about the wrist should be pressed into his neck.

Step 5:
Grab the wrist of your arm with your other hand and pull both arms toward you to place pressure on the side of your attacker’s neck.

Step 6:
Press the foot of the leg furthest from your opponent firmly against the back of his heel to sweep his leg off the ground. Fall onto your side as you do so, pulling your opponent down with you onto his back. As you fall, increase the pressure against the side of your opponent’s neck as much as you can, twisting with the arm crossing the front of his chest. Make sure to hit the ground so that the upper portion of the arm wrapped around the back of the neck lands flat. If done correctly the force of the impact against the ground combined with the pressure you’ve exerted will break your opponent’s neck.