Dirkmas 3: Space Dirky (Part 2/2)

Last time on Space Dirky...

"Mah boss, Don Macro, 'eard about 'ow you shoved his girl, Mr. Angelos. An' he's callin' you out, you sunuvabitch."

Dirk felt the universe plummet out from him. Although that might have been the absinthe.

We now return to your regularly scheduled programme.

Dirkmas 3: Space Dirky (Part 1/2)

Riiiing... Riiiiing...

"Yo, Jo! How ya doing'?

"Pffft, really? Man, I know your mom's cooking is great, but it can't last that long, surely?

"...Okay, touche. Thank all the gods for antacid tablets, eh?"

"Me? Oh, I'm alright. And Pit? Well... He's gone to Gensokyo to visit Okuu's family. Apparently, they're all as crazy as some of us at the bar. So, yeah, that's a thing.

"Hey, you wanna know what else is a thing? You know that holiday you always said you wanted to go on? Well, I had a word with David, and-

"...That's right! WE'RE GOING TO PLANET TRENDY!"

Pink Friday

"Come on, Beck, try to keep up!"

"I'm coming, dad- ACK!"

"Oh, my gosh! Are you alright?"

"Yeah, mom, I'm fine. It's just... oh, why do we have to do our Christmas shopping now, of all days?"

"Because all the shops put their best deals on at this time of year. And if you want to get any of your presents, we'd be better off buying them today!"

"Yeah, but everyone else has thought so, too, haven't they? Look at all these crowds!"

"He's got a point, Melody. I've never seen it this bad in all my life. Not since the Great Crush of '87!"

"Yes, and it was a good job Rush was there, otherwise poor old Light wouldn't have made it! Honestly, the way these shops make such a fuss about Christmas nowadays-"

"Um, guys? I can't find Uncle James."

"...Oh, great. I told him to stay right behind us! He's probably gotten swept away or lost now!"

"Calm down, Rock. We have our phones, remember? We'll just-

"...What's that coming towards-"

"CITIZENS!"

"Your king... has arrived~"

"..."

"..."

"...Mom, dad, I wanna go home."

-------

And people wonder why Beck doesn't go Christmas shopping.

Pitsgiving 3

"Nephew."

Pit turned, recognizing the voice. "Hmm?" he responded, his mouth full of roast meat.

He was promptly greeted by the hulking figure of Great Uncle Kain - all seven feet of him. Tawny wings rustled as his distant relative adjusted his position in his seat. Muscles like steel cable rippled as he leaned over inquisitively and gestured with the flagon of ale in one meaty paw.

"Your brother," he rumbled, and his voice was like the Giant's Causeway had learned to speak. "He is not here?"

"Nhmmm, hmm-" Pit checked himself and swallowed. "No, he's back in Manhattan. He's spending Thanksgiving with his girlfriend."

"Ah," came the response, followed by a wry grin. "I think I have heard of her. The one with the nice arse?"

At this, Pit found himself biting back a shudder of horror. "Yes, Uncle. That one."

"Well, you just tell him his Great Uncle Kain wants a rematch!" And with a chuckle, the huge angel went back to his meal. Pit actually did shudder this time, recalling the incident of last year's thanksgiving where an arm-wrestling competition got out of hand. Thank goodness Dirk had sworn off the alcohol until Christmas. Now he needed a distraction to take his mind off of that.

And as luck would have had it, there was one right next to him. To his left, Utsuho was busy chowing down on some roast boar - her third helping that day. This hadn't really come as a surprise, especially not to the angels, for half of the Angelos extended family was renowned for their prowess at the dinner table. Leaning over, Pit gave the Hell Raven a tap on the shoulder to get her attention.

"Enjoying yourself, Okuu?" he asked, cheerily. She looked up from her food at him, smiling back in response.

"Yep! It's been pretty fun so far, and it's been pretty nice to meet your family! Good food, too!" she added, taking another bite of boar's leg.

Pit grinned to see his girlfriend's appetite - it certainly exceeded his own. "Only the best, that's what Auntie Deidre says! Of course, everyone else pitches in as well, but who do you think cooked that boar you're eating?"

"I dunno," shrugged Utsuho. "I haven't met everyone yet! Then again, I'm guessing it's your aunt..." Here, she took a pause in order to take a drink - most of it was alcoholic, of course, because Irish Angels had a bad habit of drinking little else. It was rather gratifying for Pit to know that his fiancee had no problems with it, and he merely watched as the Hell Raven gulped down quite the amount of cider.

"She was pretty nice, at least!" she continued once she'd put her mug down. "Has she always been doing this?"

"Pffft, since she got married, at least. But she always enjoys doing it, and it shows."

Just then, there was a commotion from the head of the table, involving a lot of people shushing other people. This was because a certain somebody had stood up, obviously wanting to give a speech about the event or something, and lots of shushing was the only way to get people to shut up. Especially if that person was Godfather Rafferty, the richest angel in existence, with more businesses and hired goons to his name than Alan Sugar.

The elderly angel surveyed the hallway as the talk and clink of cutlery died down. Then he cleared his throat and, obviously having memorized his speech before, began.

"Friends and family, if you came here expecting my usual spiel, prepare to be disappointed. I am here to congratulate my godson, Pit, on proposing to his new girlfriend, who has the honour of being with us today on this occasion..."

The speech continued in this usual vein - Rafferty was nothing if not gifted with words. Most of it consisted of the sort of praise and cheap jokes one would find in a best man speech, although nobody seemed to mind. In fact, most everyone was in that state of drunkenness where even the dumbest joke is funny, and even Pit had to hold back a chortle when a lame crack about "holding down the B button" was made. It was a good speech, overall, and as was the way with anything Rafferty did it was brisk and to the point.

Especially the ending bit.

"...and I would like to finish by advising my godson - if you don't wear protection on the night, I'll send my boys over to skin you alive. Enjoy tonight!"

The mass of angels around the tables erupted into cheers and applause - and more besides. With a dignified air and a wry smirk, Godfather Rafferty folded away his cue cards and sat back down, magpie-patterned wigs folding casually behind his back. Glasses, flagons and more were raised in toasts, and in a trice the drinking and feasting had resumed as if no speeches had been made at all. That was the beauty of angel celebrations - once a point had been made, there was no unnecessary lingering on it. Things got back to the way they were, with the assumption everyone had taken it on board.

At his own table, sensing a little discomfort from Utsuho, Pit leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder.

"He doesn't mean it, you know," he offered. "Godfather's filthy rich, yeah, but he's not really a mafia boss. At least, I hope not!"

To his relief, Utsuho shrugged, seemingly unaffected. "Heh, I don't think they'd win a tangle with me! Explosive nuclear powers! Although we probably don't need to worry anyway, right?"

"Of course not!" Relaxing, Pit took a quick swig of cider before clarifying: "He doesn't mean anything by it, we all make jokes like that here!"

"Oh, cool! I bet I could think of a joke or two like that then!

"...Maybe later, though," the Hell Raven added, a little awkwardly. "I don't have anything right now actually..."

Pit shrugged at this, smiling genially. "Hey, no problem! If it makes you feel any better, I haven't got a speech prepared at all. It's not like they expect you to give one, anyway."

 "Oh, well, that's good to know!" There was a small pause as the couple ate in silence. To Pit's right, Uncle Kain started getting rowdy, bellowing demands for more cider despite efforts from other cousins to shush him.

"...So," Utsuho ventured, "how many more people are speaking, anyway?"

Pit paused to consider this. "Well... Godfather always does one, then I think my mom occasionally does. And then somebody from the older parts of the family... but really," he finished with another shrug, "not many people in my family are good at those, so only like two or three more people."

Utsuho nodded, understanding. "Hmm, alright then! I'm kinda looking forward to seeing what's after all these speeches. And you still need to introduce me to your parents after them, too!" Oh, yeah. That was still a thing.

"No problem. I'm sure they'll love you! Almost as much as I do~" Pit added, smiling hugely.

Utsuho turned very red at that.

"You sure about that? I'd be surprised if anyone can love me quite as much as you! Even Lady Satori doesn't seem that affectionate, ehehehe...

In response, Pit put down his food, leaned over and gave his fiancee a massive hug.

"I've never been more sure of anything."

Smiling, she hugged back.

And later that day, Cousin Monroe pulled out her usual technological wizardry and the dance floor was set up in no time. Traditionally, the head of the family lead the dancing, but the news of Pit getting hitched had spread so thoroughly around the gathering, the young couple were the ones who took the first dance together. Everyone clapped and cheered as they took the lead on that one Dirty Dancing song that always gets played, and not even a drunken Uncle Kain clotheslining Cousin Boris through the nibbles table could dampen the evening.

Image byTheLolliepopWolf, courtesy of Draco

Pit felt so warm inside, he had to try very hard not to burst into flames.

(Major thanks to RubyChao for helping me with this!)

Goats

(Special thanks to The Deleter for the concept and for writing Jonesy! And also to CW and FV for giving their blessing to this!)

Anyone visiting the Svilzerian household this particular afternoon would hear the strangest-goings on.

"Ha ha ha, that guy just flew, like, fifty feet!"

"My head is clipping through the wall, what is this?!"

The source would be a blonde and a redhead, hunched over a laptop and cackling like hyenas. Jonesy  and Carol, to be precise, the marine having invited the technopath over for the day to stave off boredom whilst their respective friends were busy. And a few beers seemed like a good way to pass the time - several bottles were, in fact, littering the surface of the desk at that particular moment. But that had just been the setup,  the actual source of the hilarity confined to what the two women happened to be playing on Carol's laptop.

That being co-op Goat Simulator.

The Gallows

Night had fallen on the village of Wensdale. Taverns and shops had been shut up, lights had been turned off, market stalls packed away. The shutter of almost every house was closed, doors had been bolted and whatever security measures were needed were in place. Even at night, the place was a village of contrasts – medieval folk on the cusp of modern enlightenment. Electric lamps lined the streets where horse and cart roamed, some villagers would be tuning in to late-night television and cheeky children would be playing games consoles under the covers. Ancient and modern lived side-by-side in non-judgmental harmony, unlike in the rest of the world where they sat on opposite sides of a fence and snarled at each other.

Another noticeable contrast was the figure standing by the gallows, watching the body swing from it.

The figure was large, not just in height, but in proportion as well. There was a person who would fit the great, obscuring coat that it wore, but this was not that person – too tight around the shoulders, too baggy about the trunk. Legs like great columns peeked out from beneath the hem of the garment, arms like tree trunks stood placidly at the person’s sides. An eerie red glow permeated from underneath the hood, aimed like fiery spotlights at the corpse that hung from its neck and illuminating the blood and puke that stained the front of it.

The body had belonged to Meredith Forsythe, the authorities had claimed. She had been hung this very afternoon, guilty of charges of fraud, grand larceny, petty theft and more than a few incidents of sexual deviancy. She’d been oddly silent and calm as she’d been lead up to the gallows, not saying so much as a single syllable as the executioner grimly fitted the noose around her neck. The only flicker of emotion, as the final rites had been read out, was a small smirk as the priest attending the execution had croaked out in his humourless drone “May all the Gods and Goddesses, from Armadon to Raijin, have mercy upon thy soul”. It had been quick and painless, the authorities had said.

The figure waited and watched, watched and waited. A crow came down onto the gallows, hopped over to the body and began pecking away at the eye sockets.

The thing about the authorities, however, was that they only knew what suited them. If there was anything that they didn’t understand, they ignored it - it was more convenient that way. They could not explain how two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, stolen by Meredith, had gone completely missing, with all possible sites turning up completely empty. They did not account for why the Duchess of the Moorlands insisted the one who had visited her in the night and charmed her silken garters off had been a tanned brunette, not the fair-skinned blonde they’d hung.

They probably would not have explained the cracking noises from within the body, either.

They explained themselves in short order.

The corpse bulged horribly, the crow squawking in fright and flapping away. The sternum tore in half and ribs snapped like breadsticks as the entire front half of Meredith Forsythe split in half like a clam shell. With a choking gasp and a gush of fluids, Amanda Dime slid out of the body she’d grown around herself and collapsed to the ground, rolling down the wooden ramp that lead to the noose and leaving a sticky trail behind her. The huge figure did not move until she’d come to a stop at the foot of the ramp, writhing in the dirt and clawing at her own throat until she found out she could breathe again.

Then it approached her with slow, measured steps, procuring a bottle of water from its pocket, and knelt down.

“Some Water, Miss Dime?” it asked. The voice rumbled like a grindstone wheel, and each word was deliberately pronounced, as if the speaker was assembling them out of instructions. 

The prone woman said nothing, but yanked the bottle from the other’s hand and practically tore the top off in her haste to unscrew the cap. That was the one issue with being a Changeling – whenever you shed a body, you felt, for the first hour or two, all the sensations your last vessel went through before you ditched it. In this case, the tightness of woven hemp constricting the windpipe, a problem that could only be solved by gulping down the entire bottle in one go, which Amanda Dime demonstrated with surprising speed.

When it was all over, she looked taller and fuller, and there was more shine to her brown-tanned skin. She yanked the bottle away from parched lips and gasped once again.

“I liked that body,” she groaned, hauling her nude form into a sitting position in the mud she’d created. “It was slim, it was active. I could do things with it!”

“I Do Not Doubt That,” rumbled the tall figure.

“And those fuckers ruined it!” Amanda practically howled, trying to stand up. But the ground was like a skating rink, and her feet slipped out from under her, throwing her onto her back with a splat. “Still,” she groaned from where she lay covered in mud, “at least we still have the money. Good job with that, by the way, Crank.”

“It Was My Pleasure, Miss Dime,” was the response. A massive paw of a hand was offered, and the Changeling clasped it with both of her own and hauled herself up it. Her feet found purchase on dirt not smeared with unidentifiable liquids, and soon she was standing up and looking at her massive companion with glinting, iris-less eyes.

“You still got it?”

In response, Crank reached inside his coat. There was a sound akin to a mouse trying to perform opera and a series of clicks, and then the hand probed deeper into the shadowy recesses before withdrawing. A large bag, full to almost bursting, rustled and clinked its way into the open air, and was practically snatched away by Amanda, who looked as though she might burst into crowing at any moment as she weighed it with both hands.

“Just think,” she whispered, nearly hissed with glee. “Those fucking guardsmen looking everywhere, and they never thought to look for a really tall man in a suspicious coat!”

“Everyone Knows,” droned Crank, “That Amanda Dime Works Alone.”

“Everyone is a git, Crank,” the woman responded as she handed the money back. “And some are bigger gits than others. That’s why we do this – to show the world that gits don’t deserve to swan about in fancy fucking coats and dresses, pretending to be people.”

“You Grow Bodies To Hide Your Identity, Miss Dime,” retorted Crank as he put the money back into who knows where. “Does That Not Count As Pretending To Be A Person?”

Amanda shot the man a look that could melt metal, were it capable. “Hey, at least I’m honest about it. Not like the rich folk I pick on, lying about how influential they are and their cousins being in some foreign government somewhere. They all make me want to puke, the Agaryulnaerea.”

“As You Say, Miss Dime.”

That was the funny thing about Crank. He asked questions, yes, but he never seemed to linger on them for long. He wasn’t like most sidekicks Amanda had been with, who challenged her way of thinking as though it were a personal affront to themselves or the world – they usually ended up in prison or dead, or she simply abandoned them after a quick fuck and minus their wallets. Crank just… accepted things, even though he posited the kind of questions that most human con artists would stumble to answer without um-ing and ah-ing. 

Amanda, though, was a Changeling. Concepts such as morality and philosophy didn’t enter her head very often, and when they did they fit in there like old furniture in a space station. In her experience, this meant that she could think clearly about the more immediate things, as well as some way into the future, and not get sudden changes of heart as she handed forged coins over to fat, bristle-chinned gentlemen. It was simply better to not care, sometimes.

And right now, as she looked over the sleeping town of Wensdale, the immediate situation did not look very good.

“We can’t stay here,” she muttered, an air of disappointment in her voice.

“We Cannot,” agreed Crank in his rusty growl of a voice. “The Watch Was To Come Here To Collect The Body At-“

“No,” hissed Amanda, throwing up her hands, “I mean we can’t stay here. On this fucking world. What’s left for us, Crank? We’re wanted people here, in Ardea, Todenwald’s poor as shit and full of vampires and ghouls, Barrath hates me for fucking their queen – can’t blame me, she was hot – and Ostaria hates everyone, me included. And we can’t just take a fucking boat to somewhere else, because half the kingdoms over their either want me dead or think I am, or want to melt you down!”

“I Understand,” droned Crank very patiently, “That Zindovia Is Still Open And Welcoming.”

“Yeah, if you like sand and camels.” Amanda shivered at the memory of that place – there was no way in all the hells that existed anything she did there had been worth it. Sultan’s son was rather cute, though, and by now he’d probably grown up to be a fine young man, assuming they stopped feeding him roast peacock every dinnertime. But still, that wasn’t worth all the dust storms and scorpions and palm oil. Okay, maybe the palm oil, but still…

No, she decided. There had to be something else out there. Somewhere where she – and, by extension, Crank – could make a fresh start, with a clean record and no royal soldiers out to kill them. Where she could do what she did best, to her heart’s content, and have all the excitement come back again. Walking into a town, putting on a show for the people and lining her pockets with the results. Getting caught, running away, sometimes fighting and getting away, sometimes getting thrown in prison only to escape in two days. And all the little pleasures on the side, too – the food, the booze and the sex, sometimes two at the same time and sometimes all three at once.

Oh, yes. She loved being a con artist.

“Crank,” she said slowly, after a moment. “What do you know about the Star Festival?”

Crank took a moment to respond. “The Star Festival Is Over, Miss Dime,” he rumbled. “There Is Nothing To Know.”

“I mean in general,” sighed Amanda with irritation. That was the other thing about Crank - you had to be specific, otherwise he didn’t understand.

There was a creaking noise from somewhere.

“It Is My Understanding,” said Crank slowly, “That The Star Festival Is The Chief Meeting Place Between The Peoples of Porphyrion And Those Called The Star People. It Is During This Time That The Two Sides Interact And Trade Vital Goods Between Each Other For The Purpose Of Building Trust, Good Will And Strong Business Ties. Occasionally, A Group Called The Kobbers Descends To The Planet To Right Some Wrongs And Save A Kingdom Or Two. The Details Are A Little Fuzzy On That One.”

There was silence as Amanda turned this over in her head. 

“And… where do these ‘Kobbers’ come from, Crank?”

“Most Appear To Originate From A Planet Called Earth, Or Terra. It Is A Highly Developed Planet, With A Technology Level Far Above Ours. It's Culture Has An Unusual Fascination With The Female Posterior, There Is A City By The Name Of Las Vegas Which Is Dedicated To The Pastime Of Gambling, And A Woman Named Celestia Canicco Is Famed For-"

But Amanda had long since tuned out her associate's rambling spiel. Did she hear that right? An entire city dedicated to gambling? Of course, she was no stranger to casinos and other luck-based shenanigans - she could still recall Brightfields and it's dazzling lights and freak shows, as well as how completely gullible the townsfolk were. They'd even fallen for the old fake diamond ring act, a ploy so old it was gathering dust with the fossils in the Natural History Museum of Orvance by now, and all for the mere chance of winning a few extra thousand gold.

But an entire city...

Something went click in the Changeling's mind, whirred, and brought up a very attractive picture. It involved elaborate disguises, silver tongues, sleight of hand and distracting attention with a flick of a wrist. Finding a good contact, gathering information, targeting the biggest and most smuggest of stuffed shirts. Sneaking in, pulling off, getting caught, running for the hills, sneaking back in to do it all again but bigger and better. And, somewhere along the line, a very handsome man or pretty girl to weasel a sneaky double-cross out of.

And this picture was captioned "Greatest Heist Ever."

"-Which I Cannot Understand, As I Do Not Find Skeletons To Be-"

"Crank." Amanda rounded on the tall figure, eyes gleaming with the excitement she hadn't felt in years. "You are going to pick me up and take me out of this miserable shithole of a village, out through the north gate, right now. Do it."

"...As You Wish, Miss Dime."

Without further comment, Crank leaned down and reached out with an arm that could crush the ribs and lungs of a man with the lightest of movements. Yet the way it picked up Amanda and hoisted her onto one massive shoulder had all the grace and care of a mother bear carrying her cubs, and the brunette reveled in the feel of the cold night air on her skin as her transport set off down the streets. The cobbles echoed with each heavy footfall from the huge unknown, yet not a single soul stirred in their houses - the Changeling was more than thankful for that.

"What Is Your Plan, Miss Dime?" came the rumble, the reverberations of Crank's voice traveling up its cargo's spine.

"Plan?" Amanda grinned at the star-dotted sky above her, seeing dollar signs and possibilities written in every glimmering pattern above her. "Who said anything about a plan?"

"You Have Not Spoken So Eagerly," comes the retort, "Nor With Such Determination Since The Great Eggplant Caper. You Must Have A Plan In Mind."

The cackle that comes from the brunette in response rings off the streetlamps. "Simple, Crank! This planet's done, finished. Nothing left for us to do or exploit. So we go to this Earth place, yeah? Fresh start, new cultures and sights to take in, no gguardsmen trying to kill us everywhere we go! And we start in this Vegas place, where everyone throws their money away so willingly they don't even care if the diamond is really a polished-"

“But Miss Dime, We Cannot Go Just Yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because You Are Naked And Covered In Mud.”

Amanda looked down at herself, noticed that Crank was right and sighed with disappointment. Where she in any other position, time or place, naked and covered in mud was something she’d be more than happy to be – especially if there was a young, impressionable prince on hand. But there wasn’t one, and her plan of getting off-planet relied on not being noticed long enough to sneak aboard a shuttle. So in this case, being naked and covered in mud was not really an option. A pity, that.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s get me cleaned up and find me some clothes. Maybe I can grow a new body whilst we’re on the shuttle.”

“Which Shuttle Will That Be?” asked Crank, not changing pace for an instant.

A smile cracked across Amanda Dime’s face, like a shark seeing it’s dinner being wheeled in.

“The one to Earth.”

TO BE CONTINUED

(Probably)

Crownless King: Proclamation

~EARTH ZF-035~

The location is unknown. The time is sometime in the wee hours of the morning. The temperature is too cold, even inside this huge building that, perhaps, functioned as an air hangar in a previous life. But the purpose... Some can only guess, some would rather not. All feel, however, that a monumental occasion is about to take place.

The people gathered here are many. And they all come in different varieties, that exceed the standard fare of old, young, tall, short and so on. There are some who dress like they escaped from 1930's America, smartly-dressed with tuxedo's and trilbies that wouldn't look out of place in the Godfather. Some have more elaborate costume, skull masks hidden beneath cowled hoods and heavy robes fit for a funeral procession. Yet others dress as though a science laboratory gave up on them, white coats stained with blood and other unmentionable substances. It is a mixed bag that comes today.

And each group of men, arranged in military formation, is headed by an individual who seems to represent whatever their group stands for. A young boy, glasses slipping down his face, fidgets uncomfortably in front of the scientists. The masked figures are headed by a brute of a man with red armour, a scythe slung across one shoulder. And the gangsters are lead by a young woman in an outfit that seems as though Vaudeville threw it up, complete with patriotic colours. Were Ash and Christine here, they would even recognize Ivan Vanko in his silvery armour, leading a group of what appear to be military shoulders

These are the Magpies. The criminal lords of this world, the men and women who are feared and respected across the globe. There should be seven here tonight, but a cursory glance counts only six of the infamous Ubermen present - Dallas Cohen, the Mirthful Lord, is not among them. This, however, is an uncomfortable and touchy detail for all present, a detail most of the assembled try to ignore.

For the cowled figure, emerging from a double-doorway onto the iron balcony in front, would make those who noticed pay dearly.

There is a long, uncomfortable pause as the figure walks forward, slowly and deliberately, taking it's time. The doors are set in a large alcove, the balcony itself jutting out a little way forward, and it takes a little while for the newcomer to reach the end. But when it does, all the hushed talk falls away as all eyes present turn towards this hooded apparition and the darkness that follows it like a malignant, living block of shadows.

Another pause as it surveys the crowd. Expectation hangs in the iron air like butchered pigs in a freezer - heavy and cold.

"Gentlemen," it begins, and the voice is like ice down the back of the shirt. The assembled men fidget uncomfortably, but keep their eyes on the balcony in front of them, refusing to drop their unending loyalty for a second. And those who do look away are dissuaded from it by glares from their commanding officers, Mr. Silver in particular.

"I would like to announce, firstly," continues the figure, "that Operation: Dawn's Light has been a resounding success. Nicodemus, the Destined Hero, has been confirmed as being trapped in another dimension, with no known way of returning and little motivation to do so. This gives us all the time we need to move forward with our future plans, without fear of hindrance or complications. And whilst we have had, unfortunately, to dismiss one of our own as a result of recent events, I am fully confident we are now best prepared to deliver our little...

"...surprise."

A murmur ripples through the assembled throngs of men, but dies down like a wave crashing against a beach. Where it possible to be seen, the figure seems to be grinning underneath the heavy, ornate cowl that covers most of its face. The mention of Dallas causes one or two of the Magpies to shuffle their feet, knowing full well what events their leader refers to but inwardly pretending otherwise, for their own sakes.

"However," continues the stranger, "before we begin our next phase, I would like to take some time to address a... rumor... that has been floating around the organization as of late." As it speaks, hands grip the railing in front of it as it leans forward, scrutinizing the men below it. "Some of you have, quite reasonably, come to believe that I, your Godfather... like war. I wish to dash these insane accusations to the ground like the fine china they are made from. I do not like war - on the contrary!"

"My friends... 

"I... love... war!"

Monster Mash: Round 2 Fight 3 - Mansquito vs. Mothman

Boys, girls and those of indeterminate gender, welcome back to The Monster Mash 199X!

And... let's be honest, we're not looking forward to this one. We're getting reports of a lot of wanton destruction going on in downtown Beijing, and everyone at GaiaCorp is praying to gods we don't believe in that it's just another Muto, and not what we think it is. But considering our luck, it's more than likely Mothman, and it's also more than likely that our other contender is going to find him and a battle is going to start. And since that's what you guys want, we're obliged to broadcast it live anyway, regardless of the immense loss of life on the horizon.

Ugh, alright. Here it is.

Connor Hardy here, trying not to shit myself as we go live to the action...

Crownless King: The Punchline

"I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life." 
- Yann Martel, Life of Pi (2001), Chapter 56, p. 178

He couldn't remember the name of the town, nor what problem he'd solved in the first place. 

All he knew was that it was early in the morning, he was fully dressed for some reason and he had a bottle of bourbon in one hand. His head was thumping, although he'd grown used to that by now, and there was a market sale going on outside. From the window of the inn, he could see the populace engaged in the fine art of bartering - shoving, shouting and shilling, the Three S's of Commerce - and filling the air with loud, impatient voices and the clattering of goods. Even though he knew full well this was just going to join the hundreds of other market scenes he'd seen in a big blurry smear, he watched them anyway, in the detached way a dog watches lizards scurrying around.

They probably didn't even remember he was here. Typical. He'd probably put his life on the line for them again, judging from the claw marks on his torso, and they completely forgot about it over the course of a single night. Shows you exactly the kind of gratitude he got - a fleeting "thank you" party, with cake on rare occasions, a speech from a mayor, perhaps a kiss from his daughter. Thank you for saving our lives, Destined Hero, now fuck off so we can get on with our miserable lives and pretend there wasn't a horrible monster that needed killing. Nobody put up any statues or left a plaque in his name or stuff like that. He liked plaques.

Then again, the claw marks could have been from that cute girl who'd been ogling him last night. He remembered that much, at least.

He was in the middle of taking a swig from the bottle when there was a knocking sound to his right.

Puzzled, he looked towards the door, mouth full of bourbon. Then he swallowed, heaved a heavy sigh and set the bottle down on the table that stood between him and the window, when it would have been much better next to the bed. The glass, unused but taken out from force of habit, went back in the drawer to avoid aside glances and awkward questions from the visitor at his door. As he approached the door, he ran one hand through sweaty blonde locks in a futile attempt to make himself look at least presentable, just in case it was the mayor's daughter looking to throw another present his way for his earlier actions.

...Hey, maybe she left those scratches on him.

"Yes?" he asked, half mumbled, as he opened the door.

And then Mr. Silver punched him in the face.

-------

Okay, this one is gonna take some explaining...

Crownless King: The Setup 2/2

It ain't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward; how much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!
- Sylvester Stallone in Rocky Balboa (2006)

No friend's a friend till [he shall] prove a friend.
- Beaumont and Fletcher, The Faithful Friends (c. 1608), Act III, scene 3, line 50.

It was definitely a cave.

Nicodemus had deduced that before he'd even seen the ground rushing up to meet him. Firstly, rock is not hollow by nature. If that were the case, then every coastline in Britain would have been swallowed up by the sea, and Mount Everest would be full of holes from all the suicidal morons trying to climb it. Secondly, there were already plenty of them in this particular area, which no doubt would make good hiding spots for the suspected murderer/thief he'd been fighting a few moments ago. Although finding the correct one would be-

"OOF!"

That was as far as he got before he hit the sand-covered floor, the impact throwing up a plume of the stuff alongside knocking the breath from his lungs. The fact that Grandius landed blade-first next to him, embedded in the sand as if in a coquettish "tah-dah" pose, served as no comfort to the blond warrior, who was alternating fighting for breath and spitting out the grit that had found its way into his mouth. Oh, yeah, and there was sand in his eyes now - a thing that, as far as Nicodemus was concerned, had occurred for the sole purpose of annoying him even further.

Fortunately for him, sunlight was streaming plentifully through the hole in the ceiling he'd just unwillingly made. With the interior of the hollow cave illuminated, Nicodemus was able to see just enough to wipe the sand off his face and then, with his view now unobstructed, locate Grandius off to his side. Grabbing the blade by the hilt, the young man pushed the blade down into the sand, and almost immediately felt it hit something solid beneath the sand - a perfect brace to get himself back on his feet.

"The path of my life," he grumbled as he slowly and painfully hauled himself upright, "is strewn with cowpats from Chakravartin's own divine herds."

There was a hissing noise, as if in response, that made his blood run cold. And then a scrape of dry scales against rock and sand that finally did the job and made it freeze.

He looked up.

Art by Cloister

"Oh, fuck me!" he screamed, just before the Cave Naga struck.

Crownless King: The Setup 1/2

You think being a hero is fun?

I know most of the people around me do. They just won't just up about it - always going on about how amazing I am and how I'm going to defeat the evil Morpheus and save the world. Here comes the Destined Hero with his mighty sword and his party of loyal friends, here to save us! He's so sefless and heroic he'll do whatever we ask of him with no complaint, and he'll solve everyone's problems because he's nice like that! Save us, Destined Hero, and make your ancestors proud, for fate has chosen you to bear their burden for the good of the world!

Let me tell you why that's bullshit.

Jam: Origins

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Midly NSFW image has been linked in this post. Original art made by Legend20x)

-------

~Undisclosed Island in the Pacific~

All evil villains have secret bases. This is an immutable fact of the universe, in the same way that sheep bleat and the sky is blue. Doctor Vortex was no exception - he'd paid good money for his new Fortress of Doom, and he was desperate to avoid the torrid financial difficulty his previous one suffered. He'd paid off the loan early this time, and had gone to great lengths to ensure it looked the part - radar dishes, a giant freeze ray sticking out of the top and robot guards patrolling the ground 24/7. All in all, it was a place a criminal mastermind like him could call home.

All evil villains also have secret doomsday weapons, too. The freeze ray, however, was not one of them - what with most superheroes able to deflect it's beam with a mere flick of their chin nowadays, it had spent most of it's time gathering dust. On top of this, funding for anything bigger was stymied by his diamond-smuggling operations in Kenya being repeatedly foiled by animal-themed heroes with increasingly ridiculous names and costumes. Knowing full well that it was only a matter of time before the United Nations hunted him down, Vortex had figured out that what he needed was a nuclear option, a last-ditch resort that would ensure his legacy wouldn't be trampled to dust by the judgmental feet of law-abiding society.

Three whole months of planning, graft and shouting at his employees later, and he had it. It was genius. It was a miracle of science.

And it was currently slopping it's way out of the jar onto the table of the labs in Science Department V.

Outwardly, it resembled a dark blue liquid, similar in consistency and appearance (and scent) to blueberry jam. In reality, it was a cluster of thousands of nanobots, granted a small amount of self-awareness via a shared intelligence network. It's primary directive was to consume organic matter by breaking it down into it's component molecules, then convert those molecules into more nanobots of it's type, effectively growing in size. The idea was that, should the forces of justice finally get the better of him, Vortex would release it, allowing it to consume everything on his secluded island base and destroy all traces of his operation.

The idea looked good on paper. But paper is a flimsy thing that goes see-through when you rub grease on it.

The Jam, as it was informally known, was slowly slithering it's way towards a laptop computer that had been left on the table by a careless scientist who had gotten sick of entering data. Since the action of converting molecules from one type to another consumed large amounts of energy, the nanobots were also programmed to seek out sources of electricity to recharge themselves. And right now, their sensors were telling them that there was a source of electricity right up ahead, and they needed to recharge promptly after a whole day of exhausting tests that had drained their batteries.

Sadly, whilst they were very good at finding electrical sources, they hadn't been programmed to distinguish different types of outlets very well - it had been made on a budget, after all. And thus when the Jam oozed alongside the laptop and prepared to recharge, it inserted itself not into a mains socket, as it had assumed it was doing, but rather the USB port.

This is what it thought as it found itself suddenly absorbing the entirety of the Internet into itself.

All five million terabytes of it.

-------

-aaaaaaaaaaarrrrggghlblboklpbfojgidonejignjrekbgjerbadger don't care! Honey badger don't give a-

...wait, what are we on about? 

Belated Introductions

~ZFS Docking Bay, Manhattan, Earth~

If you've ever been stuck in an airport waiting for anything at all, then you don't need to go to the ZFS Docking Bay around the middle of April. It's pretty much that, but worse, because so many people are trying to get their reservations for the ZFS King of Beasts checked out, or buy last-minute tickets to ensure they at least get some kind of a bed to watch the stars go by on. The result is a cacophony of humans, aliens and more forming tidal waves instead of lines, and a staff and service straining under the weight of it all.

Which may have had something to do with the annoyance displayed by a certain pair of angels.

"Bloody security checks!" snapped Dirk, looking as though he dearly wants to punch somebody.

"I know, right?" groaned Pit as he hauled his own suitcase along behind him, one hand running through his hair. "The length they took, you'd think those guys had nothing better to do!" As he spoke, he permitted himself a glance upwards, surveying the irresponsibly massive timetable hanging over the luggage conveyers. Whilst many other flights and ships, headed to many other destinations, were present at this bustling airport, the angel's eyes immediately flickered to the biggest LED display at the top, and relief washed over him as he read what was tattooed upon it like spilled orange juice on a dark tablecloth.

"Thank Palutena," he breathed, "we're still on time."

"Ugh, and a good thing too," grumbled his twin, giving a sharp yank on his own suitcase as it lagged behind on the tiles. "I need to rest my fucking feet right now, I've been on them all day.."

"Well, here's our chance," came the response as the white-winged angel pointed towards the departure seating area to the left. Whilst the majority of the metallic benches were filled with holidaymakers of varying size, shape and shades of blue, by sheer luck he'd managed to find two of them close to the main plaza area, and immediately both brothers made an immediate beeline for them, moving so quickly you'd be forgiven for thinking they'd found water in a desert. As one, they flung themselves onto the unoccupied seats in a mad scramble, eventually sinking down into them with contended sighs as they took the weight off their aching feet.

"Much better," was Dirk's evaluation, and he immediately reached into a pocket and yanked out his 3DS, flipping it open to be greeted with where he'd left off on his game. Pit was quick to follow by pulling out a gadget of his own, but not a games console of any kind - a small, tablet-like device with earphones, which he immediately popped into his ears before tapping the screen. Noticing the movement, Dirk turned to observe his brother, and one eyebrow quirked upward as he observed the swirling pattern of yellow, black and white appearing on the screen - one that he had become recently familiar with.

"Dude?" he quizzed. "Right now?"

"Yes, right now," was the response. "I mean, what else can I do after enduring being patted down for that amount of time?" With another press, Pit conjured up a menu upon the screen and began eagerly scrolling through the options, searching for something that would soothe his annoyance and stress just right on this occasion.

Dirk shifted uneasily in his seat, a little disturbed. "I dunno, bro. You hear some stuff about the Ministry back in Ireland, and how they got the funding to do all this."

"Alright, I'll give you that their methods weren't exactly sound." Pit briefly looked up from his task to fix his brother with a reassuring grin. "But trust me, this new treatment thing's done me nothing but good. Even you had to admit that me not complaining so much about my workload was a nice change for once!"

Dirk permitted himself a small, sardonic chuckle at this, but said nothing, and Pit promptly returned to his device. And as the faint strains of the annoyingly-bouncy jingle filtered out through the older brother's earphones as he set about his unusual form of stress relief, the younger Pitbro looked around the airport, noting the variety of people that pass him by. A small smile passeds over his face as a realisation cameto him, one that, whilst not relevant to their earlier discussion, gives him something of a petty victory over his brother nonetheless.

He doesn't have to wait to meet his girlfriend.

Meanwhile, at another part of the airport, seating arrangements were the least of Beck's concerns.

"Mo-om," he groaned for the umpteenth time that day, "leave my hair alone!"

"For goodness sake, Beck," huffed Melody as she diligently raked the comb through her son's mullet, "you're acting like I'm trying to scalp you! I'm not Tomahawk Man, alright? And besides," she added, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of the boy's wiggling against her body, "do you want to end up with hair like your father's?"

Rock, standing a little way off, couldn't help but smile at the scene, knowing full well the discomfort his son was undergoing. But he wasn't above interjecting into the conversation: "Trust me, son, you don't want helmet-hair. None of the girls like a man who resembles a rejected Dragon Ball Z character."

"Do I look like I'm going on a blind date, dad?" whined Beck, almost yowling as the comb once again swept through his hair like a shark on the prowl. With a desperate grunt and one final kick of the legs, the young android finally succeeded in breaking out of the cage of his mother's arms, dropping out of the air and landing with a thump on both feet. Turning back, the boy shot a glare of annoyance up at his mother, who responded by sticking her tongue out at him in mockery of his childish behaviour.

"Look, I'm clean and neat now," grumbled Beck in response. "Can we get a seat now?"

At this, Melody made an exaggerated show of thinking very hard about it, putting one hand on her chin in a theatrical manner. "I don't knooooow~," she chimed, almost musically. "Are you sure you went over your list of things to pack?"

"Yes, mom!" Beck could have screamed at this point - the amount of torture inflicted on him this entire day was starting to tell on his nerves. Whenever he'd pictured his upcoming holiday on the ZFS, he pictured toys galore, a swimming pool and, most importantly of all, gormless and unsuspecting bad guys and goons to pummel senseless as proof of his cutting-edge tech. None of those fantasies involved being constantly harassed by his parents just to make very much sure he'd packed extra pairs of underpants, and he was rapidly starting to lose patience.

Fortunately for him, Melody simply laughed at his exasperation. "Just kidding, Beck, just kidding!"

It was about then that Rock checked his watch, and his eyes bugged out as he saw just what time it was.

"Jeez! Melody, honey, we'd better get going - we'll be late for our reservation otherwise!" His cry alerted Melody to the situation, who glanced up at the clock on the wall to confirm jjst what her husband had said. On seeing what the time was, she too goggled in surprise at the late hour, and then, thinking quickly, dropped to her knees to say a few final words to Beck.

"Alright, son," she began, and here rattled off her last instructions so quickly that it was a wonder that Beck was able to keep up with them. "Remember-to-wear-a-clean-shirt-every-day-and-don't-forget-to-wipe-your-face-every-morning-like-your-grandfather-told-you-and-make-sure-you-change-your-bed-and-ring-me-once-a-day-and-don't-eat-too-many-sweets-before-bedtime-also-try-to-be-civil-to-your-uncle-even-when-he-starts-putting-on-the-glittery-jumpsuit-okay-love-you-have-a-good-time-bye!" And without waiting for Beck to reply she gave him a farewell peck on the cheek and half-sprinting in the direction of the exit, Rock following closely behind.

Beck waved until they were out of sight, then sighed and turned back to the cafe.

Jewel Man lowered the coffee and shot him a smirk.

"Don't worry too much," he croomed. "I'm sure you and I can manage by ourselves~"

At the back of his A.I. Core, Beck groaned.

~A Military Camp, Undisclosed Location, Porphyrion~

 "You mean, you're going alone?"

"That is correct," replied the Tactician nonchalantly, as he pushed a rather bulky-looking book into place in his backpack. The two others at the entrance of his tent - a bulky-looking, pimple-faced knight and a less bulky, but nonetheless intimidating brunette woman - gazed at him with astonishment, his frankness and seeming indifference leaving them at a brief loss for words.

"But... we're talking Orvance here!" cried the woman. "That place where they had that big war among the Star People, when the Festival was happening! There's gonna be trouble again, mark my words - there's never any good news when they get involved!"

"That's right," piped up the man, his armour clinking as he shuffled his feet to a better standing position. "That, and Dragonus is gonna be passing over the place. You can see it even from here," and at this he raised an armoured hand to point at the huge, floating mass that was visible in the sky, it's size apparent even from where they were. "You know what they say about what happens when it comes over a kingdom - Dragon Skies and all that."

The silver-haired man looked up from his packing, smiling up at his comrades. But it's a small and strained smile - not only a sad one, but also one that looks awkward and forced. The overall effect is that of someone who's read about smiling in books, but has a bit of trouble putting it into practice in a social situation. To him, it's rather like putting on a mask.

"Marco, Celia," he responded warmly, "your concern does you credit. But firstly, I have met the Star People before, as you know well from last year. And, contrary to popular opinion, they were as hospitable, friendly and accommodating as the nearest innkeeper at any establishment of our country you care to name." As he completed the sentence, he turned back to his packing, managing to slip a paper folder into a gap between books, before throwing the lid over its contents.

"Secondly," he added with a grunt as he struggled with the clip, "this is something I must undertake alone. Despite our best efforts as a team, we have come no closer as to solving the mystery of my identity - even my name remains unknown to me. I can only conclude, therefore, that my working apart from the group is the only way to efficiently and decisively solve this puzzle, one that has been hanging over my head all of my life."

An exasperated huff left Celia, the blonde hearing perfectly well what her comrade is saying but refusing to believe it. She quickly rounded upon Marco, looking to vent her frustrated disbelief on something else, and the taller knight actually shrank back at her expression of annoyance. She may have been only an archer, but there was a good reason for that - people fleeing from her temper made better targets.

"Tell him, Marco," she snapped, pointing at the robed man as he growled uncharacteristically at his uncooperative luggage. "Tell him this is a stupid idea and he's going to get hurt again."

Marco blinked, a little slow on the uptake. "Why? You just said it yourself. Besides," he added, with an almost defiant tone to his voice, "he can hold his own. He's got that magic book, remember?"

"Oh, yes," cried Celia sarcastically, throwing her hands up into the air. "Because that worked out so well the last time he left our company! Oh, he ended up with a bandaged head and a dire need for a new change of clothes, but it doesn't matter because this is something he needs to do himself!"

"Now, look, sis," Marco began to say. But that train of thought was interrupted by the click of a rucksack stop finally locking together. The two warriors turned to find the Tactician, with a triumphant cry at having bested the strap, hoisting the bag onto his shoulders, shifting it's weight into a comfortable position on his back. Celia merely rolled her eyes at the scene, her brother by contrast offering no input as the shorter man reached for the holdall by his sleeping bag, hoisting it up before walking towards them.

"I have already handed in my Absence of Duty notice," he announceed as he emerged from the tent into the late morning sunlight, "so the general knows what I'm doing. And with any luck, I'll only be a day's travel or so away from the garrison you are all moving to. I know this seems an inconvenient arrangement, but believe me when I say I have this all planned out with the least amount of inconvenience. And now, I really must be going, or I will be late for the opening ceremony at this rate."

He turns, took two steps forward, and bounced off somebody with an "Oof!" of surprise.

"No, you're not." Celia barred his waY, hands on her hips and face stern - she was the obstacle he'd collided with. "I've explained this to you until I'm blue in the face, but it's obviously not getting through that thick skull of yours. So I'll say it again - you have a duty to you King and-"

"Oh, dear," groaned Marco, placing one gloved hand upon his forehead. This was his sister on the starting line of what he liked to call "Lecture Mode". Everyone in the camp was familiar with this, where she poured out her mind and opinion on something or someone and would only stop until some other bodily function, like hunger or the need to piss took over. It was usually directed at some soldier or other who'd offended her in some way, and men and women alike dreaded to hear the moment when the archer got into full swing, ranting at the top of her voice at whatever unfortunate soul had invoked her wrath on this occasion. At any moment, it seemed as though the Tactician was going to be that somebody copping an earful from her.

Fortunately for Marco, she never got that far.

"Tace."

It was one of those blink-and-you'll-miss-it spells, a mere flash of the eyes and a hazing of the air that would otherwise go unnoticed. But the effect was dramatic - Celia's voice instantly cut out, not even a whisper coming from her mouth as her incoming lecture was stalled by surprise. Her slender brow knitted in confusion as she silently worked her mouth and jaw, at first unable to figure out what had happened, before catching sight of the stern yet knowing look upon the magician's face. Realization hit her like a ton of bricks, and she immediately began launching into what would have no doubt been an expletive-filled tirade at her fellow commander for pulling such a cheap trick, had she the voice to convey it.

Unfortunately, the silencing spell's effect meant that it merely looked like she was pulling a very convincing impression of an angry chimpanzee, arms flailing and face contorting like putty. Unable to help himself, Marco promptly burst out laughing at his sister's predicament, his knees giving out as he fell onto his rear with a clattering of armour. Whereupon the furious Celia rounded upon him, screamed something inaudible in his general direction and then turned and stormed away towards the camp's medical tent, needing only cartoon steam clouds pouring from her ears to complete the image.

A larger smile of amusement played on the Tactician's face as he watched Marco, still chuckling, pull himself up onto his feet, dusting himself down.

"Dicing with death, eh, mate?" the knight joked as he put one arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "You know how much she hates that spell!"

The silver-haired mage's smile widened into a genuine grin, his usual stoic demeanor sliding aside in the company of someone he was comfortable with. "Why else would I employ it so often?" he rejoined, in a hearty tone that matched his friend's own jocular mannerisms. "I will admit, however, that for a moment I was afraid she would actually strike me!"

"No need to worry about that," assured Marco. "She's all bark and no bite - always has been." Disengaging from his companion as he spoke, the knight quickly turned and began walking in the direction of the medical tent, no doubt in order to observe Celia receiving yet another dose of treatment for the spell. As he did so, however, he turned and called over his shoulder, raising his voice to be heard over the clatter and humming as the morning camp activities got properly underway.

"I'd clear out now, if I was you - she's gonna have some choice words aimed your way!"

The Tactician nodded, knowing all too well what those words would more than likely be. Then, without waiting to see if Marco would succeed in delaying his irate sister, he turned and quickly began to make tracks, walking at a very brisk pace that seemingly ignored the weight of both his holdall and the rucksack he carried with him. It wasn't long before he'd put a very good distance between himself and the camp - enough so that by the time Celia came seeking her usual brand of petty revenge, he'd be long one and she'd have to give up on the whole thing.

In his mind's eye, the rolling hills of Wensdale mingled and merged with the shining world of the Star People, and a whistful sigh escaped his parted lips.

It really had been too long.

~The Barrier, Northern Porphyrion~

The morning sun was just beginning to rise over the Barrier. It's bright fire blossomed on the horizon and tinted the packed snow, sparkling golden under red-daubed skies dotted with dark grey clouds. A shaft of light pierced through the thin veil of mist, striking the glacial ice and throwing up a hazy rainbow into the air that shimmered like heat haze. Yet there was no warmth to be found, for the driving wind carried with it the bitter cold of the north, and flurries of snow danced across the ground in freezing white sheets.

This didn't seem to bother the lone figure standing on the southernmost edge of the glacier, though.

Eyes squinting against the morning sun, Ymir the Tusk casually uncorked the stein he clutched in one gloved paw and brought it to his mouth for a swig. It had been two days since he'd begun his trek - two days since the epic bar brawl at the Grouchy Walrus that had seen the end of Markus the Mighty, the self-proclaimed strongest fighter in all his village. Tables had been smashed, glasses had been shattered over heads, and in the end yet another foolish challenger had been laid out on the beer-soaked floor, the patronage toasting the Tuskarr's victory. The ale he gulped down at this moment was a souvenier from the barkeep himself, and Ymir had been more than happy to accept it.

Yet there was one thirst he had failed to quench - the thirst for battle. Markus had been a warm-up, as far as he'd been concerned, and it seemed nowadays that there was nobody left to challenge him, nobody to match him in the arena. The old champions were gone, and all the new blood springing up was impatient and headstrong, with none of the respect for the old ways or appreciation for a hearty scrap. None of them cared for the meaning of the fight anymore - they only bothered to learn the fighting arts in order to boost their egos or seek petty revenge on class bullies or what have you. For a while, Ymir had felt a bit dejected.

But now, as he finished his drink and replaced the cork, his gaze was set on the far horizon, where the vague outline of towns and cities upon rolling hills could be seen through the mist. That, the barkeeper had told him, was Orvance - the same kingdom that saw the great War of the Stars but a year ago, where warriors of untold and unparalleled strength clashed for the fate of the kingdom, and indeed, the entire planet. Admittedly, the betusked brawler knew very little about the nature of stars, other than they served as useful guides on dark nights when a seal hunt had gone disastrously wrong.

But fighting... now, there was a siren call he couldn't refuse.

With a low chuckle, Ymir stepped down from the glacier, in that one movement crossing the borders between the North and Orvance itself. And as he continued his long trek south, the question crossed his mind of what Orvancian ale tasted like.

~Castle Bloodaxe, The Enchanted Forest~

It is a well-known and popular fact that Orcs do not form armies. The word "army" implies the presence of discipline, co-ordination and tactical aptitude that was beyond their simple, ale-addled minds. Ask an Orc to co-ordinate a team of footballers and he'd take one blank look at the blackboard before putting their fist through it, then charging out to piledrive the opposing team into the pitch. A better term for their military gatherings would be "rabble", since despite the numbers they still very much behaved like a crowd of hooligans on the lookout for windows to smash and cars to steal.

This particular rabble, emerging from the forests that surrounded Castle Bloodaxe, thought they were going to have a good time of it. The building they were approaching on looked virtually defenseless - their scouts had reported not a sign of archers on the battlements or guardsmen on the gates, and not even a single trace of a patrol had been detected on the surrounding land. Not one of the greenskins could believe their seemingly-amazing fortune, and had immediately clamored en masse to begin the day's pillaging in style. Had they the brains to remember just whose lands they were invading, then they probably not have been so cocky.

As it was, they had gotten just onto the third verse of their bone-chilling war chant before the portcullis flew open like it had been stabbed up the bum.

"HA'WAAAAAAY THA' LAAAAAADS!"

The poor bastards never saw it coming - the green and orange blur zooming out of the doors moved almost too fast for the eye to track. The front line of goblins was sent flying backwards in an instant, crashing into the burlier Orcs at the back and bowling them over like ninepins. The archers on the left flank immediately lost whatever morale they could claim to have, throwing down their weapons and bolting into the forest screaming. As for the ram-carrying siege trolls, they were so slow on the uptake that by the time they realized just what had happened, half of them were already unconscious from a hefty boot to the skull.

In a matter of minutes, it was all over - hardly a battle so much as a one-sided curbstomping. The rabble was in dismay, half of them in flight and the rest of them either unconscious or groaning from their fractured bones. The goblins were nowhere to be found, the catapults were wrecked shambles and the sole dragon they thought to bring along was tangled among the trees, whimpering in confusion. And amongst the confusion of it all stood the red-haired, axe-wielding barbarian princess who had caused the ruckus in the first place.

As the prone Orcs looked up at her, terrified and bewildered, Barbara Bloodaxe dusted her skirt down and flashed her trademark gap-toothed grin around the scene.

"Sorry te lace ye aal laak that," she called out in her trademark thick accent, "but Aa'm i' a bit o' a pelt. Star Festival's gannin' on doon Orvance whey, and Aa'm clammin' mightily fer a gud ale an' roast far ahint yon fells! Bide a few wee months, an' Aa'll be howway hyem 'afore ye can put a cuddie oop Blackwell Rock!"

And with that, the woman hoisted her axe over one shoulder and sped off into the forest, through a gap in the tress that marked the begginings of the cart trail. The Orcs took one look at her retreating form, hair flying in the wind, and decided that maybe the imp who'd wanted to start a band instead wasn't such a moron after all.

~The Drunken Gryphon, Wensdale~

Tavish is probably in a good mood. The Star Festival is coming round once more, meaning customers would soon be coming in to sample his huge menu of food and drink and, above all, make him huge wodges of cash. The Star People are returning in droves to share technology, recipes and more, and their unique brand of entertainment would inevitably draw in even more people from far and wide. And those people would need feeding, beds to stay in and an opportunity to get utterly smashed whilst shouting at the scrying glass. So yes, he's most likely in a good mood.

So in all the excitement of getting his tavern ready for the big tourist rush, he may not notice one of the floorboards shifting.

"Kero..."