Red

Grandma's Cottage, the locals called it. It's proper name was The Down, because it sat on the edge of the woods and overlooked the chalk downlands before it. But the locals knew than when a kindly old woman moved into any old house to live on her own, you called it Grandma's Cottage. It was just what tradition demanded. Tradition also usually demanded that you were suspicious of any old woman who lived in a remote cottage by herself, but since Grandma was too old to do most things herself, there was little to be suspicious of. Her strawberry jam was quite excellent, and her chickens always laid healthy eggs, but then you could say that of anybody's jam or eggs and nobody would bat an eyelid.

What was suspicious was the fact that, despite the cottage being fairly isolated, it was never disturbed. It seemed like such an obvious target - a defenseless old woman on her own, with it's back to the dark woods... But no burglar dared set foot near the place, and the majority of the beasts and birds of the wild seemed to keep a wide birth from it. It wasn't anything wrong with the place itself, people agreed from a safe distance and with a cup of tea to keep their minds off it. No, it felt more like there was something lurking about the place, something ominous that watched and judged those who came and went. And it seemed to get worse during the winter months, tho nobody knew why.

The wolf who pushed his way into the cottage was new to the area, and either didn't know about the local whispers or didn't care.

It should be explained that the animals of the district were a lot smarter than most, and aside from being able to speak in rare cases, were more given to careful planning and thought. It had been three days since this particular wolf had last eaten, and in most circumstances he would have eaten the old woman up there and then without much thought. But he'd heard other rumours - about the granddaughter who came up from the village through the woods to deliver groceries, and tender young meat sounded much more appetizing. And he thought he knew a trick or two that would enable him to get close enough.

There were a lot of difficulties that came from having paws and no opposable thumb. Tying the old woman up was a bit of a struggle, since he wasn't very good with knots, but it was made easier by the fact that, for whatever reason, she didn't struggle much. Locking the broom cupboard was a little better, since he could just twist his jaws to turn the key, but keeping the old door shut with one paw proved an irritating business. And then, after fighting for at least ten minutes to get the nightgown and shawl on, he still wasn't sure if he had it right. Oh, well. Can't win them all.

He'd just crept into bed when he heard the knock at the door.

Tales of the One - The Rabbit Loses Her Tail

Many of the Tales of the One have a leaning towards explaining why things are the way they are. Much like the Just So Stories of Kipling, the Tales often explain strange peculiarities in nature, such as the donkey's voice, the snake's lack of legs and more besides. This story, again taken from the Tales of the One by Lady Lumley, is a quite popular one on Dragonus, for it has a little basis in historical accuracy as well as being a fine tale of trickery.

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!"

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.

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..." 

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.

Tales of the One - Azgoth and the King's Daughter

And now we come to the fairy tales - the stories of the One that, whilst chronicled in the ancient scrolls, do not factor into the One Faith religion. These tales are similar to the exploits of Br'er Rabbit, Hercules or Buddha in Earth religions, for they feature the One getting up to all sorts of adventures that require cunning, strength, wisdom and many other virtues to overcome an obstacle of some sort. This particular tale is a popular favorite, and has been taken verbatim from The Tales of the One by Lady Lumley.

-------

In the Olden Days, there was a great city, greater than any one that's been built in the New World. It had to be, you know, for it was the home of King Mazda - the first ever King - and King Mazda was one of those people who insisted that everything should be made just so. Its gates were forged from gold, its buildings were made of marble and its streets were paved with all kinds of wonderful stones. The gardens of that city stretched for many miles around, and grew such wonderful food - potatoes and pumpkins and orchards of apple trees and I don't know what else besides. And everyone in that city was happy and content, for Mazda was a wise and just ruler, even if he was rather fussy.

But of all the wonderful things in that city, the most wonderful wasn't made of gold or grown in a field. No, that most wonderful thing was Shinta, the daughter of King Mazda, who lived in the great palace with him and all his servants. Everyone across the World agreed that there wasn't woman as fair and beautiful as her, for her hair was as black as woven ebony, her skin was as pale as snow and her eyes were like two glittering emeralds. Whenever she walked down the street, men and women alike stopped and stared after her, for they were left speechless by her beauty. Once, the Blacksmith's son was hammering a horseshoe when she came past, and he was so distracted by her he accidentally hammered his own hand by mistake!

In fact, Shinta was so beautiful that people from all over the World came to ask her hand in marriage. They were people from all corners of life - princes and paupers, dukes and farmer, huntsmen and musicians. And all of them tried their very best to impress Shinta, for they were completely smitten with her when they first laid eyes on her, and many swooned on the spot whenever she smiled their way. But King Mazda always chased them off, for he was determined to make sure that the man who married his daughter was "just so", as was typical of him.

"I'll not have my daughter marry just anyone," he would say again and again. "It just wouldn't do to give her away to some layabout or drunkard. She's going to have a proper husband, or my name isn't King Mazda!"

Now, it so happened that in the moon, that hung over the Old World, there lived a terrible creature - a Troll who called himself Azgoth. He was a huge and ugly brute, with great sticky-out teeth and legs like tree-trunks, and he always carried a great big club with him wherever he went. I don't know where he came from, and I don't suppose anyone knew, but what everyone knew for certain was that Azgoth was mad, madder than a ferret in the spring. He would roar and beat his club on the ground until the rocks cracked, and he would pick up massive boulders with one hand and throw them, hard enough to fly all the way around and back again. And every night, he would look down upon the World the Great Dragon had made and sneer at it, for he felt there was nothing upon it as strong as he was.

"Look at them all," he would say. "Silly little beasts and birds, full of brittle bones. They're nothing compared to me! I've cracked the stone of the moon, and thrown it around and back again! I've fought the silver spiders that live in the cracks, and killed them with just one blow of my fist! I am the strongest thing there is - there's nothing down there that can compare to me!" But although he would never admit it, Azgoth was quite lonely, living up in the moon. For there was only himself, and nothing else - the spiders had grown afraid of him, and I don't blame them for it.

One night, however, it so happened that Shinta was walking past the royal pond, on the night of a full moon. The light of it glistened on the water, and the frogs that lived there croaked with joy as they swam about. And it glistened in Shinta's hair, too, so that it looked like it had been hammered out of the purest silver as she bent town to look at her reflection. It was at this moment that Azgoth, the Mad Moon Troll, was looking down upon the World, and he happened to catch sight of the King's Daughter kneeling there by the pond. Almost at once he was smitten with her, for he had never seen anything so beautiful as her in all his life.

"Ho-ho!" he cried aloud to himself. "What a marvelous and splendid creature this is! She isn't strong - nothing is as strong as I am - but her hair shines like the moon I stand upon, and her skin is as pale as the dust that blows through my home! Well, that's that - I've got it in my head to make a bride of her, for the strongest in the world should have only the most beautiful woman for his wife!"

As soon as he said that, Azgoth picked up his great club, bent at the knees and - whoosh! - jumped down from where he had been standing, and fell down, down, down to the World below. And just as Shinta was looking at the petals of a particularly pretty flower, he landed - thump! - right next to her, the ground shaking like a jelly beneath his feet so that the poor girl lost her balance and fell over. The frogs in the ponds thought the end had come, and they dived into the pond so deep I doubt anyone could have found them if they tried.

"Who are you?" cried Shinta, very much afraid. For Azgoth was huge, bigger than a house, and his breath blew all in her face and stank horribly.

"My name, dear lady," said the Troll, "is Azgoth, the Moon Troll! Perhaps you've heard of me, and perhaps you haven't - but it doesn't matter very much! I've come to take you away, fair thing, and make you my wife! You'd be very happy up there, I can promise you, for you would be wedded to the strongest creature in the World!"

"No, I would not!" said Shinta, hotly. "I've no desire to get married to a horrid, ill-mannered beast like yourself!"

"Ho-ho!" boomed Azgoth. "What a fine sense of humour you have, fair thing! I believe I really have found myself the perfect wife - and to think I'd have spent all my life alone on the moon! Come, my bride-to-be, we have arrangements to make!"

And so saying, the Mad Moon Troll reached down with one of his enormous hands, as wide as an ox-cart, and picked Shinta up off the floor and into the air! The poor girl kicked and struggled as hard as ever she could, but it was no good - she was caught fast, the breath being squeezed out of her, and Azgoth couldn't feel a thing through his stony skin. Then the Troll turned around, bent at the knees and - whoosh! - jumped all the way into the sky up towards the moon, faster than even the snake could run! Poor Shinta could see her house and all the World getting smaller and smaller, until it looked as small as an ant!

"Help!" she cried as she felt herself flying away. "Somebody stop this monster! Help, help!"

That cry was the most sensible thing she could have done. For Lord Stag had been walking through the forest at the time, and had heard the cry just as he was coming out of the trees towards the pond. It had made him look up into the sky, wondering if there were owls about, but instead he saw Azgoth flying into the sky, carrying the King's Daughter in one hand as he soared towards the moon. As he watched, the Troll got smaller and smaller, and Shinta's cries got fainter and fainter, until at last they had both vanished against the bright, silvery light of the moon.

It was all Lord Stag could do to keep his wits about him, I can tell you. He'd heard of Azgoth before, and had been afraid, but he never imagined that someday he'd actually go down to the World and cause any harm. So when he saw Azgoth carrying Shinta away, he turned and ran back the way he'd came, as fast as his great long legs would carry him. He didn't stop running, not for even a minute, and he'd ran across half the whole forest until he reached a clearing where no trees grew and the ground was carpeted with flowers. And there he found the One, lying among the primroses and being fussed over by a swarm of butterflies, for they wanted to make sure he was nice and clean.

The One almost jumped when Lord Stag rushed into the clearing, but he saw the panic on the deer's face at once, and knew trouble was at hand. "What's the matter, old friend?" he asked.

"News - oh, terrible news, Gein-Kiir!" panted Lord Stag, for he was very tired after running so far. "It's Azgoth, the Mad Moon Troll - he's snatched up Shinta, the daughter of King Mazda, and carried her off back to his lair on the moon! Aether knows what he plans to do with her, and I for one can't do anything to stop him! Gein-Kiir, you must do something, or poor Mazda will go mad with grief!"

Then the One saw that this was a very serious matter, and he quickly got up out of the primroses and brushed the butterflies out of his hair. He knew at once that Azgoth meant to keep Shinta, for he was as proud as he was vain and strong, and it would be foolish to try and bargain with a creature as stupid and single-minded as a Troll. The only way he was going to rescue the King's Daughter, he knew, was to fight.

"Go and spread the word," he said. "Go find Old Bruin, and the Council of the Owls, and all the other wise people and animals. Tell them to wait at the city gates, for I promise I will have the King's Daughter back before sunrise."

Lord Stag was only too happy to oblige, and ran off to tell everyone what to do at once. The One watched him leave until his antlers had dissapeared, then took out his shining glove, made of the Fires of the East, and put it onto his hand. And all at once he became the Wrathful, with eyes like burning coals and six powerful arms, and he felt in his body the strength of a thousand men or more, ready to crush and split apart anything. All the butterflies became frightened and flew away at once, for they knew as well as anyone else to get out of the Wrathful's way.

Then the Wrathful turned towards the full moon, bent at the knees and - whoosh! - jumped straight into the air, flying towards the silverly light before him. I don't know just how fast he was going when he jumped, for it was a jump unlike any other, but I can say for certain that he was going much faster than even Azgoth had been, for his great strength was in his legs as well as his arms. And after what seemed like only a minute or two, he laned - thump! - right onto the moon itself, and the whole thing shook with his landing.

Now, if you must know, the moon was as barren as a desert even in the Olden Days. Not a single plant or tree grew on it, and there wasn't any water to drink or food to eat. And the only thing that lived on it, apart from Azgoth, were the great silver spiders that lived in crags and scuttled about, getting into fights and biting each other. And it was full of cliffs and valleys, all made of the same silvery stone that came from the Great Dragon's belly, so that it shone like a thousand lit oil lamps in the darkness. That was the place where the Wrathful had come to, and he didn't much like the look of it at all.

But it didn't take him long to find Azgoth, for he had aimed his jump well and had landed close by. Walking down a valley right in front of him, he found the huge shape of the Mad Moon Troll, hunched over Shinta in the same way a cat hunches over a mouse it has trapped before it kills it. The Troll was trying to persuade the King's Daughter into being his bride, offering her gifts of shining stones and bracelets made of silver and other wonderful things besides. But Shinta would have none of it - she hated this huge ugly creature more than anything else in the world, and had no interest in marrying him at all.

"Let her alone, Azgoth!" called the Wrathful down the valley, and his voice rumbled like thunder across the surface of the moon.

Azgoth was so surprised at hearing another voice that he span around three times on the spot! When he finally stopped, the first thing he saw was the Wrathful standing on the slope of the valley, looking down at him with his blazing eyes. The Troll was very much surprised, for he didn't think that there was anything else that lived on the moon apart from himself, and he wondered what the thing in front of him was.

"Who are you, and where do you come from?" called Azgoth up the valley.

"I am the Wrathful," was the reply. "And I came from the World below, for I jumped higher than the mountains themselves."

"A likely story!" laughed Azgoth. "You couldn't have made the jump - you're far too small and weak!"

"Well, I have," growled the Wrathful. "And I am here to take back the King's Daughter."

And then Azgoth really did laugh, and it was a horrible sound that started from somewhere in his belly and crawled up to his throat. It was such an ugly laugh that it made Shinta run and hide behind a boulder - in fact I don't suppose anyone there wouldn't have been a little afraid if they heard it. Even the Wrathful might have shuddered a little, but he didn't show it on his face.

"You can try," boomed Azgoth. "But if you intend to fight me, then you're out of luck, stranger! For I am the strongest thing in the World - there is nothing the Great Dragon has ever made that could compare to me!"

"We shall see," rumbled the Wrathful as he walked down the valley. And because his strides were so long, it was almost in no time at all that he was face-to-face with the Mad Moon Troll, glaring up at him and baring his teeth. Azgoth was many times bigger than the Wrathful was, and the Wrathful was at the very least eight feet tall, but that didn't seem to scare him in the least - in fact, he didn't show any sort of fear at all. Shinta looked out from behind her boulder and wondered what was going to happen.

"I propose a contest," said the Wrathful. "If you can lift me above your head, and I can't, then I will leave this place and never come back. But if you can't, and I can, then you must give the King's Daughter back to me, and I will take her home."

"Very good," said Azgoth, almost carelessly. "If you win, I will let her go."

And so he reached down and grasped the Wrathful in his hand, and began to try to pick him up. He pulled and pulled and pulled as hard as ever he could, and the great muscles in his arms bulged and rippled like angry snakes. But no matter how hard he tried, the Troll just could not pick the Wrathful up! For you see, the Wrathful had dug his toes into the ground, anchoring himself to the moon, and whenever he gets a grip on something he doesn't ever let go. Three times Azgoth tried to pick up the Wrathful, and each time he had to stop, gasping for breath. Shinta gasped in wonder at this, for she had been certain that the Mad Moon Troll would have won.

"What's the matter?" snarled the Wrathful. "Have you gotten feeble in your old age?"

"Don't you start laughing yet!" snapped Azgoth, very cross that he'd been made a fool of. "You haven't tried picking me up, have you?"

"Let me try, then!" roared the Wrathful, and his voice was so loud the rocks trembled.

And so he grabbed hold of Azgoth's leg - it was a wonder he could, it was as thick as a tree trunk - and tried to pick him up. He pulled and pulled and pulled, and the muscles in all six of his arms grew taut like ropes on a ship. And that was when Azgoth got the shock of his life, for he suddenly felt himself begin to rise into the air! It wasn't long before the Wrathful had managed to get Azgoth up over his head, so the Troll had to balance on the one foot in case he fell over. Shinta, watching behind her boulder, could have cheered at the sight, but keep quiet for fear Azgoth would notice her.

"You see?" called the Wrathful from where he stood. "You're not as strong as you think, Troll!"

"B-b-but," cried Azgoth, "how can this be? Nothing in the World is as strong as I am!" And for the first time in his life, he began to be afraid.

"Foolish beast!" bellowed the Wrathful, now properly angry. "I did not come from the World below, and the Great Dragon did not make me! I came from the never-ending fires and winds of the Aether - the birth place of all spirits and beings and other things besides! And it was I who made people, Azgoth, such as the King's Daughter you stole, and any who have dared interfere or harm my people I have destroyed! And now, Azgoth, you will pay for your arrogance and stupidity!"

With that, the Wrathful began to swing Azgoth around by the leg he held, around his head in a great big circle! And as Shinta watched, the poor Troll began to go faster and faster, around and around, until he was no more than a big grey blur around the Wrathful's head. Then, with a terrible roar, the Wrathful let go of Azgoth's leg, and the great ugly brute - whoosh! - flew out into the sky and down towards the World, even faster than the Wrathful had been going when he jumped up to the moon! In fact, he was going so fast that there was simply no way he could stop himself, and in a moment - splat! - he had hit the ground and burst into a million pieces that went everywhere.

And that was the end of Azgoth the Mad Moon Troll.

But it was not the end of Shinta, the King's Daughter. Because then the Wrathful picked her up and jumped - whoosh! - all the way back down to the World below, and landed outside the gates to the city where she lived. King Mazda and all the wise animals had gathered there, as Lord Stag had asked them to, and the sun was rising over the hills as the Wrathful came back, just as he had promised. Then a tremendous cheering and celebration went up in the city that rang through the halls and streets, for everyone was so happy to see Shinta back alive and well. But I can tell you that none was more happy to see her again than King Mazda, her father, for he had been so frightened for her that he had fallen over twice.

"Oh, my daughter," he cried as he hugged her. "How glad I am to see you! Are you hurt?"

"No, father," said Shinta. "The One came up to the moon and fought with Azgoth, and he saved me!"

"Indeed he has!" cried King Mazda. "And to reward him for his brave actions, I declare that he shall marry you on the following morn, for a braver warrior I have never seen before! Sound the trumpets, unfurl the banners! Get the cooks to prepare a feast in that man's honor! Where is he, for I want to shake his hand!"

But everyone looked around and saw that the One had disappeared! Not a trace of him was to be found!

"I think I know what it is," laughed Lord Stag. "He's put on his Cap of Western Dew and become the Swift, and run off into the hills. I fancy he doesn't much like the idea of being married, for I saw him go red in the face when King Mazda called for the trumpets!"

Everyone had a good laugh at this, and even King Mazda chuckled at the idea of how silly the One was being. But he held the feast anyway, in celebration of his daughter being safe, and from then on he was a lot less fussy about how he did anything or what he wanted. And he never forgot what the One had done for him, either, for whenever they passed by each other they always said "how-do-you-do", and the One was always welcome to pay him and his daughter a visit within his great city.

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Notes on the text:

•  This story is similar to the origin of Goblins and Orcs as told in their religion, in which a giant troll called Azgoth accidentally falls off the moon. His death brought about life, as the first Orcs and Goblins were said to have sprang from his blood. The One, however, does not figure much into this tale, even if the races themselves do acknowledge the One Faith and its stories. Perhaps they aren't keen on the idea of losing to "a bluddy six-armed midget" as one so eloquently put it!
• King Mazda was a real historical figure who ruled for an unspecified period of time during the Second Age, estimated to be from 16-13 BD. Ancient texts tell of his particular preparations before feasting or entering a war, and he is often credited as "Mazda the Superstitious" due to his unusual beliefs. The ruins of his grand city, however, have never been found, and it has become the Orvancian equivalent to Earth's El Dorado or Shangri-La.
• Shinta, however, seems to have been a fictional figure invented for the story - no records of any descendant of Mazda's with that name exists.
•  The contest between the Wrathful and Azgoth seems to change depending on the telling. Versions include attempting to push each other out of a circle, throwing a boulder or withstanding a blow from Azgoth's mighty club. Whatever the case, the sport is used to showcase the godlike strength of the One compared to any mortal creature.
• Something something something dumb scholars trying to publish fan fiction. You know the drill by now.