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..." 

Perdition

The following is a collab with Cornwind Evil. He devised the main story framework, I took care of the writing. Enjoy!

-------

Sometimes, you think you know a person. You think you know their likes, their dislikes and their odd quirks that make them the unique individual they are. You hug them when they cry, you laugh when they tell you embarrassing stories of high school. You congratulate and scold them when the the comes to do so, you are there when they need you and not there when they don't. And then comes the moment when, out of the blue, they say or do something that completely changes your perspective on them and forces you to re-draw your mental picture of them, like opening packet of Digestives to find every third one is a Jaffa Cake.

Carol had her second moment when she saw the six-shooter Sine kept in a locked box.

She knew it was cursed the moment her "partner" opened it up. The hissing voices had hit her like a shot of whiskey hits the stomach, with the exact amount of unpleasant churning. The urge to simply reach out and grab it sat like a fat toad in the back of her mind, yet the rest of it was screaming in silent terror loud enough to prevent that from happening. What the technopath found the most unnerving, however, was the fact that, despite everything her head was screaming at her, the thing in front of her looked like a prop from a Lone Ranger set - almost innocuous, despite being... well, a gun.

Blinking, she looked up at Sine, and saw the grim seriousness on her face. Oh, dear. It was going to be one of those things.

"Carol... Do you remember what happened a week ago?"

Carol gulped, ignoring the metaphorical snakes in her gullet. "Yeah... That didn't go so well, did it?"

That had been the first moment.

WTF Is Up With... The Magic Roundabout?

Have you ever had a craving for the things you used to enjoy as a child? Stuff you used to enjoy watching, for instance, and you'd play it over and over again on your VCR even if the picture ended up as grainy as fuck? And then when you eventually found it, either via the magic of DVD or the Internet, it wasn't quite what you remembered?

That's what happened to me today with The Magic Roundabout.

  
The Magic Roundabout was a 1964-1971 stop-motion television show created by Serge Danot and Ivor Wood (Postman Pat, Paddington Bear), narrated by Eric Thompson and later Nigel Planer. It followed the day-to-day misadventures of a young girl named Florence and her colorful menagerie of friends, including egotistical and sarcastic Dougal the dog, Zebedee the jack-in-the-box, Dylan the hippie rabbit and many others. Originally a French creation, the show was picked up by the BBC, who re-dubbed each episode with a new script completely different from the French original and with no input from Serge at all.

And it shows. Oh, my sweet Christ above, does it show.

Because the BBC never asked for the script or for translations, and only had the footage in front of them to work with, the resulting programme was completely different from the French. And by "completely different" I mean "batshit drug-influenced insane". Whilst some episodes had coherant plots, others flitted schizophrenically back and forth with no focus on one thing - a single episode could touch on philosophy, complain about the post office and advise on house-hunting in one breath. Not to say that it still isn't a classic - Dougal's pompous sarcasm still gets a laugh from me now and again - but there are moments when you just wish the Brits and French had been in contact with each other more.

In order to demonstrate just what is wrong with the show, I will detail what happens in the episode shown below.

It starts off with Florence meeting up with Dougal, who is stuffing his face with huge amounts of sugar like a child. This seems like perfectly in-character behavior, considering a major character trait of his is a crippling sweet tooth, and let's face it, who among us hasn't wanted to do that as a kid at some point? But the first problem sets in when Dougal claims that it's because he's hypoglycemic, and needs the sugar to balance out his metabolism.

Problem Number 1: The show, as a consequence of trying to fit the script to the footage, throws up topics and terminology that kids would have no way of understanding or knowing about. Already they've been confronted with a serious medical condition, but being kids they will have no way of knowing what it is and why this is an issue that causes Florence to react with genuine surprise and concern. Not that I'd prefer the show treat them like idiots, because God knows we ought to at least try and challenge kids to think for themselves, but the amount of political and real-life conundrums that get thrown around make me wonder if the kids of the 60's were somehow weird super-geniuses with bigger brains.

Also, they got the terminology wrong. I looked it up - Hypoglycemia is a medical emergency relating to low blood sugar levels, not a condition. They would have been better off saying Dougal was diabetic, although considering he was probably lying his face off to justify gobbling sugar cubes I doubt it really matters.

Anyway, Florence suggests they take a walk, and this prompts a brief bit of filler where they walk along a repeating background of trees and plants for a bit. I'm assuming the dialogue inserted in here was just filler to avoid prolonged silence, because heaven knows I'd get bored watching a dog and a girl walk side-by-side for half a minute or so without a word spoken.

Soon, they encounter a strange plant thing, which is just a lump of plasticine with some tissue paper wrapped around it. As is usually the case with these shows, the thing is sentient, and strikes up a conversation with the two, all whilst opening up the tissue paper "petals" around it's body in a way I can't help but be slightly disturbed by. The oddly-feminine voice doesn't help, either, but then again I might be reading to much into it.

Dougal is convinced the plant is an onion, so Florence asks what it is. The plant responds thus:

"Do you mean cosmically speaking?"

...what.

"There are so many levels of reality, so many layers of truth. Don't you think?"

WHAT.

Philosophy?! You're gonna throw philosophy at kids now?! 

And this is Problem Number 2: Throwing issues at children that they shouldn't really give a toss about until they enter their teens and learn about how fucked the world outside is. The talking onion is trippy enough, but now you're trying to make the audience question what is real?! Kids don't have time for that sort of stuff - they're supposed to be playing with their action figures and going to school to learn what 7 X 6 is! I've said before that you shouldn't treat kids like they're stupid, even if they are, but this is too far on the other end of the spectrum and you'll probably twist their minds directing stuff like this at them! And what makes it worse is that it's not even justifiable - it's random crap thrown in to make up for the fact the BBC couldn't be arsed to stay in contact with the French to actually make a coherent translation!

Dougal voices everyone's thoughts when he groans "Oh, good grief!"

So anyway, the onion turns out to be a blue flower with an even more disturbingly-sultry voice. I guess the whole point here is not to judge books by their cover, but the episode tackles it from such a bizarre and nonsensical angle that I can't tell if it's a genuine attempt to address it or if the whole production team was corpsing in the back of the recording studio. If they'd taken out the whole philosophical angle then it would have made far much sense and I would have understood it, but at times it feels as though the script was written as a sort of drunken in-joke that the viewers wouldn't get, which I would;t be surprised by at this time.

After Dougal and the flower bugger off, realising they're not important to the scene anymore, the most hilarious fucking thing occurs.

Zebedee bounces in, announces it's time for supper, then bounces out again.

Watching that, me and Del collapsed into fits of laughter that would impress the Game Grumps. The character literally jumps in, makes a statement that has no connection to the rest of the episode and then leaves. All of one line, barely five seconds of screen-time and his only contribution to the episode as a whole - it's like something out of a late-night sitcom written by a madman. I would love to see the original episode in the French, because I'm sure there must have been some context for his brief appearance that would justify it that was glossed over in this insane gag dub.

Florence walks back to the Roundabout and muses on the nature of life with even bigger words - exactly what a kid needs to think about when they just want to watch a silly TV show with a dog in it. Mr Rusty, the owner of the roundabout, simply quips that she should eat more green vegetables, but the episode fades to the outro before he's even finished speaking. So we end on a complete non-sequitur that adds nothing to the theme of the episode, which just about caps the insanity of what you have just witnessed.

And there you have it. Proof that, if the characters themselves weren't on drugs, then the creators certainly were. Some of the episodes are a bit more coherant - the Highland Games episode springs to mind - but there are more than a few that play out like the mental fever-dream of an LSD addict trying to write an episode of Winnie-The-Pooh. Now, if you excuse me, I need to focus on writing something that isn't a desperate wail at the knowledge that I willingly watched this madness.

Tales of the One - The Race Between the Seasons

Amongst the stories told of the Old World, it’s quite clear that tales of trickery and success are the most popular, and many of the stories told on Dragonus have a strong focus on such matters. There are many stories of how the Seasons came to be, and many have been published over the years, but this is the one accepted by the One Faith, as it features their central figure quite prominently. This version was taken from the Gold Anniversary publishing of The Tales of the One by Lady Lumley, and like the story of Azgoth and the King's Daughter, is perhaps the most entertaining and widely-told version.

NOTE: Due to the length of the tale, this blog post has a page break inserted to keep the post short on the main page. The tale can be read after the jump.