Note to self

Edited out

Probably Better To Skip This One

Okay, I got something a little different today.
Usually, I'm going to post *parts* of fiction that I'm working on at the moment. Sometimes, I'll post stuff I wrote a while back; either way, I'll always give it an intro (much like this).

Today's will be different mainly because I won't be posting a fantasy/other fiction short story. I figured, for the hell of it, I'd post a personal essay of mine I wrote for my creative non-fiction class. It's...well, it actually is REALLY personal. I almost don't want to post it.

The theme for the essay was "place". So...I tried to roll a bunch of places...and their memories...in to one. I didn't think too deeply about this; just the first memory of a place that came to mind, I wrote about.

This version is slightly short. There's supposed to be two more "memories" I have (one at the Elementary School and one in front of Nate's house), but they made it too long for the essay's requirements, so I cut them out. And, like an idiot, accidentally saved over them. If there's one thing I hate, it's rewriting something I JUST wrote. It feels like going on a date the day after your wife passed away or something.

Anyway, I'll leave you with this: This essay should give you a really good sense of who I am...or, at least, who I was. Because, more than anything, it's about how these places...these memories....are just that. My past. Something I look back on now, from the outside.

Enjoy, and, as always, please leave comments.
_____________________________________________________________________

Luke Dailey

501.16

I step outside, and take a sharp breath. The air is crisp and frigid, ripe with the sting of winter’s heart. The wind flirts with potency, now flailing at me like a wronged lover, now slowing to an almost imperceptible lull. Others might draw their coats tighter, shiver, and turn around to retreat to the warmth of the house. Not me. The cold’s bite is like the friendly punch of an old friend; nothing more than a greeting.

My breath frosts as I squat down, grab my toes, arch my arms across my back, flex my neck. Squinting at me like a single, baleful eye, the waning moon stands stark against the empty night sky. The stars are little more than imperceptible pinholes on a black canvas. Silent and unforgiving, they watch me rise to my feet, pull up my hood, pause for a heartbeat to adjust the volume on the mp3 player banded to my arm. Then I’m off, feet pounding on the driveway, the sidewalk, the road, a lonely patch of life in a dead December night.

The town is a graveyard after 9; past midnight as it is, I could be running through a photograph. I run down Church Street, headphones blaring. Even through the music, I can feel the silence. The houses are darkened and quiet, no cars prowl the streets. In the middle of town, I’m alone.

The first corner comes soon; with the automated precision that comes with thousands of repetitions, I juke to the side of the stop sign, stepping lightly onto the sidewalk. The town seems a bit more alive here; two successive streetlights stare feverishly at the ground, and the glow of the grocery stores eternal fluorescent lights spills through its windows in a pale crescent. The parking lot waits for me soberly, unvisited and forgotten this late at night, so far from the bustling traffic that packs its corners during the day.

It was a Saturday night. We’d played a football game earlier in the day; more importantly, we’d won. Blessed with the liberating sense of carefree apathy that can only come after you’ve accomplished something that makes you feel truly proud of yourself, Nate, Ed and I were lounging the afternoon away in Nate’s living room. The gurgling TV, a constant fixture of his house, sputtered noisily in the other room; it had been annoying at first, but after half an hour had inevitably faded into forgettable background noise.

It was late September, but Summer was maintaining a more-than-welcome extended visit. A cool breeze, smelling subtly of freshly cut lawn, wafted through the windows, mingling comfortably with the distinct odor of Nate’s house. We threw barbs back and forth, discussed the highlights of the day’s game. Idly perused the internet. Plopped down in front of the TV; for an hour or so, game controllers were exchanged and tempers flared and fell. As usual, the games got old fast, and we sank quickly into the inescapable quagmire, Boredom, that relentlessly sucks in all of Poultney’s youth.

Ed suggested heading outside, Nate and I agreed. We grabbed a football, headed out to his driveway, and spent a few lazy minutes tossing it back and forth. We headed off down the street, the football flickering randomly between as we made our way. Past Ed’s house, past the old firehouse. To Shaw’s parking lot.

By now it was growing dark. But Shaws was light enough for us---their fluorescent lights never went off. Young, careless, and scornful of any potential consequences, we hucked the football back and forth violently. A few other meandering kids gathered around. We punted, passed, ran. Had fun with the football in the way you only really can in perfect weather.

I caught a pass, stepped back past one of the two lampposts. Nate darted across my field of vision, waving for me to pass it to him. Behind him, smaller and faster, Ed blurred towards the edge of the lot. Smiling, I readied the ball and launched it.

Too hard. Too high. It flew out of my hands, out of my reach, out of the parking lot. Over the roof of Shaws, into some unreachable nowhere.

We all stopped, too stunned to speak. I tried to apologize. Ed, incredulous, Nate—upset. It was his football after all. We searched behind the grocery store, to the sides, a task made even more hopeless by the gathering darkness. At last we gave up, deciding to give it one more shot in the morning. And so, dejected and football-less, we trudged back to Nate’s to endure another Poultney night of boredom.

Now I am past the parking lot, worming my way through the side road past the Discount Food store. Doggedly I jog on, and suddenly I am on Main Street. I run past Stewarts, the library, the bank. Still no cars, still not another person to speak of. The streetlights here are lower and dimmer. I start to sweat, breathe a bit heavier, shake my hair out of my eyes. I feel as if I’m running through a dream. The hardware store slips by unnoticed. Another corner, this one host to the only traffic light in town. I cross the road, picking up my pace to keep in time with the music. To my right is the Mobil gas station, Dunkin Donuts discreetly sandwiched into the same building. I spare the building a glance, but have no time to spare it a thought; I’ve reached the bottom of the hill.

It was spring break, 2007. I stood in the back room of Dunkin Donuts, sequestered from the rest of the store by firmly posted “Employees Only Sign”. Hunched over her desk, rifling through papers, the woman who I’d come to know as my boss paused. She straightened up, and seemed to notice me for the first time. “Oh.” She blinks. “Hello.”

Tuesday---2:30, right? I ignored the thought. At this point, I could have bet my soul on that I was right. “Hi,” I started awkwardly. “I got your message. And. Ah. Since I just live up the street, I figured stopping back by would be easier than calling back.”

“Oh. Right. You’re Luke.” The squat woman smiled. “I’m Anna, the manager.” Was the smile fake? Sincere? I wiped my palms dry on my pants. Don’t do that! It seems fidgety.

“Yeah.” I managed, scraping most of the rust off of my voice. “So, uhm...”

“Well, we could definitely use you.” She eyed me. Appraising? Considering? Nothing? “You’ll start Sunday. Lyndsey will be training you.”

“Allright. Allright.” I kept up an evenly paced nod the whole time she spoke. “Uh-huh.”

Anna opened a drawer, frowned, slammed it shut, opened another. Paused, squinted. Frowned again. A third drawer. This time after a dubious moment, she reached and pulled out a paper-clipped stack of papers. “Here’s all the forms you have to fill out. Just your standard stuff, things like that.” She held them out towards me in a pudgy grip. “Just have them by Sunday.”

“Allright,” I said, doing my best to sound pleasant. Was I sounding too pleasant?

“Let’s see. Hmmm.” She started to tap her pen against the desk thoughtfully. After less than 2 seconds, it became insanely irritating. I forced my smile a little bit wider. It felt like stretching a rubber band too far, to the point where it breaks. “Oh, right. I put in request for a uniform. It should be in soon.”

“Great,” I replied amicably. “Great.”

Anna tilted her head. “I think that’s it. We’ll set you up with keys and everything on Sunday. 1:30.”

Sunday. 1:30. A new mantra for my mind to mull over for the next few days. “Sounds awesome. I’ll be there!” I almost cringed at my own forced enthusiasm. Was it obvious? I wasn’t cut out for this ‘’be pleasant to everyone’’ stuff.

“Well then.” She nodded dismissively, and spun her chair towards her desk so she was no longer facing me. “See you Sunday.”

“See you Sunday,” I parroted, and walked away with calculated poise until I was out of the store.

The night is as serene as ever, but my lungs are burning. I stumble rather than stride past the empty apartments, draw ragged breathes as I battle my way to the crest of the hill. The cold hovers above me, anticipating, eager for me to succumb to exhaustion and collapse, hungry to devour me. I lower my head and plow forward, the music pulsing in a trancelike rhythm.

The hill breaks, and the burning in my legs and lungs starts to lessen just a bit. I am running slowly enough to read the sign in front of the high school. It announces a spaghetti dinner, wishes the basketball team luck in their next game. I pass the sign; begin to pass the main entrance. On a nostalgic whim, I detour my route, turning to jog to the front of the glass doors. I pause from my run for a brief moment to look through the darkened glass, to let my eyes look at the lobby for the first time in months. It has stayed the same. Everything does, back home. I think it is growing colder. I turn and return to my run, past the principle’s empty parking lot, losing my thoughts in the monotony of the jog.

I dropped on to the mat panting. Man, is the last station rough. I mustered the energy to look around. As red-faced and sweaty as I was, I was better off than a lot of my teammates. A lot of them could have been corpses, if corpses could breathe rapidly and complain in strained voices.

Today was especially rugged; I’d lifted weights at the college earlier in the afternoon, then showed up early to run my typical 35 plus laps around the court. Dedication is a good idea in principle, but when you feel like curling up and going to sleep for 12 hours at the beginning of practice...eh, not so much.

It was going to be a rough practice.

I could see the dark scowl already mustering strength on Mrs. Fuller’s face. Oh boy. If I could have gathered the energy and melodrama necessary to groan in misery, I probably would have. She’d been in a bad mood all week, and it had only been getting worse every day. Unless I missed my guess, today was going to be the day the storm came crashing down on us. Lots of lightning, and plenty of thunder

“Boys,” she snapped, “go get the speakers.” Normally, I’d be thrilled as hell to get the speakers. In fact, even now, it didn’t sound so bad—get away from her unstable wrath for a few precious minutes. Problem was, I was seeing everything through a kind of grayish haze, and when I tried to stand up, the world kind of grew dimmer. Still not quite horrendous enough to make me groan, but close.

“Ryan, go get the megaphones,” I grumbled out. He scrambled up like some kind of lurching chimp, and, with his goddamned grin plastered smack across his face, scuttled off to do my bidding. I watched him go with feelings somewhere between disgust and amusement. What a fucking clown.

Nothing quite as intense as cheerleading. Kind of a miserable thought. Ms. Fuller started to snap out orders like some kind of high-ranking professional Gestapo. Violently warning my body that it better not give up on me, I forced it to stand up, then. Hope wasn’t lost. Maybe she’d start off with something easy, where I just stood around with my arms crossed and tried to look sullen but likeable. I hoped she’d start off with something easy. Kind of like hoping for a fire truck for Christmas.

“First, I think...” I could hear the musing in her voice, and I realized with an awful dread she was about to hand out a death sentence. It was like when a teacher asks the one question you no clue how to answer, and you immediately just know, no matter what you do, you’re going to get picked out to answer it.

“I think we’ll start with the basket toss,” my coach concluded happily.

This time, I groaned. Death sentence, indeed. Everybody had to go sometime, I guess. Too bad I’d be taking off during cheerleading practice.

I loop around, running across the street, looking for cars even though they’re a rare, shy beast this time of night. I grit my teeth and launch myself over the stone ledge as it rises up before me, and land heavily on the doc’s lawn. From experience I know his dog is probably barking, savage yips belying its miniscule stature. But my music still separates me from the outside world, a paper-thin auditory armor that keeps the emptiness at bay.

Downhill now, my stride stretching in front of me, carefully monitoring my speed. Too fast, and a crafty patch of ice will slide up to cut off my foot’s journey to the sidewalk. I never fall, but that is as much because I’m cautious as well balanced. I run past the stream, emptier of life even than the night, frozen into a stone imitation of its usual gurgling self by winter’s touch.

A left turn at the traffic light, an uneventful straight stretch where the houses start to give way to open space. The four-way stop, a right turn. I think I can hear my ragged breathing over the music, but decide it is probably my imagination. Past Kurt’s house, over the stream again, still ashen. My vision is blurring now, I blink and force my head to stay up straight. The conclusion of my run is still a ways off.

To my left, suddenly, looms the entrance to the rail trail. An abrupt departure from the relative civilization of Poultney, a steadily deteriorating path into the woods. It’s entrance is black and foreboding, halled and roofed by a heavy canopy of trees, oppressive even without their dense foliage. I run decisively past its inky maw. Beyond that is a hungry, colder world; one best not visited at night. It falls away behind me as I continue down the road.

A shooting star cut across the sky, bleeding a thin orange trail out behind it. The night was a velvet blanket, stars dotted it, sand scattered against obsidian. The moon clung feebly onto the last lingering remnants of supremacy; the slight sliver that hadn’t yet been devoured by the heavens was half covered by a dense grey cloud. It was beautiful, a night sky unfettered by bothersome city lights, full of all the wonder and awe that has entranced humankind for all of its existence.

And then the sky was gone, shielded by an impenetrable roof of dense leafy treetops, and there was nothing but night and my bike and my friends. Like a body come home to an empty grave, the rail trail swallowed us.

The darkness was so complete and so unexpected that none of us spoke for a long moment, only pedaled, slowly, each of us struggling to come to terms with the limitless night enveloping us.

“We should have brought a flashlight.” I said at last.

A short silence followed. “Yeah.” Ed said, from somewhere up ahead. I could just make out his shirt---it was white, but still, it was only a candle in an ocean of ink.

Nate was closer, the man in the middle, and his shirt was white too. “We’re already here,” he said. “So let’s just go.” His bike gears whirred and clattered.

I looked behind me. There was nothing but the night, yawning, its gaping maw spread wide open, eager to devour me should I allow it to catch up with me. I shuddered and turned back around, and kept my eyes locked on the two white dots that were my friends’ shirts. “Yeah. I don’t want to go back. Let’s just go.”

My thoughts are scattered, my steps uneven. My once secure defense against winter, underarmor and a sweatshirt, has succumbed to the irrefutable reality that it is no match for this caliber of cold. I imagine my sweat freezing on my face, leaving frosted beads clinging to my skin like transparent leeches.

I turn into the arch of the corner, leaning forward to increase my momentum. The college materializes in the darkness to my left, stark tall sentinels through the night. The campus is usually alive, and so it is comparatively deader than even the town itself. The wind prowls its corners, frost paces its sidewalks. Tonight, it is a place best avoided, inexplicably mysterious despite its dogged familiarity. For a time it follows me, the campus perpetuating itself as I try to outrun it. At last my hampered pace brings me past its reach; if I had the energy, I would sigh in a strange sort of relief.

Two guys.

Late spring, and it’s just getting dark. Two guys, walking through the college. Not students, but old enough to blend. We walk a strange route; circling and recircling the same ground. To a keen observer, there is something skittish, flighty about the way we walk, avoiding others’ gaze, doing our best not to be seen.

Me- tall, red haired, and Ed,- shorter, black hair. It is nearly dark by now. We laugh, joke, whisper up unheard plans in furious undertones. The absurdity of our plan keeps our spirits on the cusp of boiling over. We are waiting for something. An oppurtunity.

At last it comes. None of the college hippies that litter the campus are around. We dart forward, grab two bikes. Locked. Two more. Locked. Frantic, now, we fly to a third set. These bikes are old. Rusted. Decorated with strange, painted designs. Bottom of the barrel.

But unlocked.

Cackling like hyenas, the two of us leap onto the bikes, peddling away furiously, unable to contain our ecstatic laughter. Two hippy bikes, clandestinely borrowed for the evening. The bikes will carry us around for a few hours, give us a good story for a few years. In the morning they will be back in the hippies’ bike rack, their dreadlocked owners none the wiser.

Everything seems to be pressing down on me now. The cold, the darkness, my own fatigue. Memories. Even the silence presses through my music, undeterred. My steps are stumbling; my head hangs at my chest. Breaths come forced and uneven, and chilled sweat cascades from my face. An aura of steam drifts up behind me, testament to my body’s battle against the cold. I start up the street; it is the last one before my house. Lurching, I force myself forward to the corner, take a right, again past the grocery store, only this time I double back, cut off the main road onto the private drive.

Treacherous potholes lurk beneath a malicious coating of ice; I battle through my exhaustion and force myself to run carefully. Over the ice, avoiding the potholes; drained as I am, I could probably do it with my eyes closed. Past the house, the window. I force myself not to look, not to think. Fatigue is not enough to keep those thoughts, those questions at bay.

But they are best kept dormant. To myself. Forgotten. Unanswerable. I leave the house behind me, meld back with the street. The final stretch. Mustering all my reserves, I channel all my energy into a final, all out sprint.

I felt conspicuous. I felt out of place. I felt unsure.

I felt like a complete idiot.

Uneasily, I shuffled through the snow, hands in my pockets. What was I doing? Was there any logic to this?Any reason? Should I have even come out? My brain, normally so dependable, just shook its head at these questions, baffled by them, not sure what to say.

I was, I decided, nowhere near as rational as I liked to think. I really wasn’t in the mood for this—I could probably still just turn around and head back...

“Luke!” My voice, hissed, a sole sound fleeting across the night. I jumped and looked up. She was there, leaning out of her window. The stupid smile that, no matter how hard I fought against it, always found a way on to my face, started to make its hallmark appearance, and my heart decided to inconvenience me even more by beating twice as fast. I hate them both, hated the endless wondering in my mind. I thought I’d been done with those feelings a long time ago. Relics from high school. A dream, no hope whatsoever. Dreams are a lot easier to forget about then hold onto.

I walked forward, stepping carefully around the frozen potholes. It was all I could do to force my grin down into an uneasy halfsmile. “You’re crazy!” I whispered back up, my mouth deciding to randomly spout words on its own, since my brain certainly wasn’t giving it any direction.“Where did you drop it?”

Clearly she found this whole situation hilarious, she was smiling like Ed from the Lion King. The smile that I couldn’t stand, the smile I just wanted to forget. To not care about. But instead, there I was, wondering if she was smiling in amusement, just because, who knows. I certainly had no idea. I never did, with her. I was never sure of anything, least of all myself.

“There.” Her hand reaches out her windows, points down to the ground, into some obscure patch of snow.

“What did you drop?” I asked as I stepped forward to try and locate the whatever-it-was.

Her reply was matter of fact. “A snowglobe.”

Oh, that made a lot of sense. You can only wonder how or why a snowglobe manages to get dropped out a second story window. It wasn’t even worth it to ask.

“Here it is.” It was easy enough to find, its fall fortunately cushioned by the fluffiness of the recent snowfall. It was, indeed, a snowglobe. Not particularly distinct, just a typical crystalline orb eternally catching a woefully idyllic scene. “Can you catch it?” I motioned throwing it back up.

“Probably not.”

Whatever. “Alright, here goes.” I hucked it up, trying to find the perfect balance between power and accuracy.

It rocketed up, spinning over and over on its own wait. It slowed, crested, and for a moment seemed to simply hang in the air. A sparkling, spinning glass ball, one that I was sure was going to come crashing back down shattering. Reflexively I stepped forward ready to catch it.

Her hands reached out and grabbed it clumsily. I breathed out, relieved. “Don’t drop it again,” my mouth, still operating independently of my brain, warned. “I don’t want to come out again.”

“I won’t,” she promised, fighting back a laugh. I think. “Thanks, Luke. Thanks for coming out to get me m snowglobe.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re welcome. Like I said though, just don’t drop it again. It was hard enough to get out of the house the first time.”

“How’d you get out?” She asked.

I grinned. “Told my parents I lost my wallet.” I lose my wallet all the time.

She flashed a smile back at me. “Ha. Alright, thanks again, Luke.”

“You’re welcome, again.” I turned, started to walk away. “Good night.”

“Good night!” I turned back one last time as she said it. She was still smiling. I shook my head at myself ruefully. I should have given it up a long time ago—had given it up a long time ago—but just being around her made it hard to forget.

Her smiling down at me. That was the last time I ever saw her.

* * *

I collapse breathlessly in my driveway, finally submit to the cold. With a sadistic glee, it rushes on to me, cloaking me, embracing me, flooding my panting lungs. My body heat floods the air around me with a dense steam, and for a moment all I can do is lie panting, thoughtless, guiltless.

Slowly my breath returns. I rise tottering to my feet, and creak my way up the porch, into the house. The town sits silent behind me, looming, waiting. Day will come, and with it life, and for a time the town will be a brighter place, warmer, bustling.

But day will fade. Night will come. The cold will creep back again. And then, once again, the town will be mine.

When I'm NOT Feeling Constructive

Well...
Yes, it's a writing blog, but for the hell of it, here's a PSP background I made out of boredom. It's a layered (well, not anymore) edit of the cover of Chains of Olympus. Yeah, this is what I do when I'm not feeling constructive: edit images and such. Speaking of, check out paint.net. I love it to death. My relationship with Paint and Paint.net is something like this....marrying a woman, thinking she's the only one, and then, one day, seeing a woman walk down the street, and in your heart knowing that she was the one---and had been the whole time.

Sorry, paint. Paint.net has supplanted you.

Interesting

There's times when I have an idea that's so great, I know it's going to become a story. I spend days nurturing the idea, watching it mature and develop. When I finally write the story, it never ceases to amaze me how such a small idea grew into a full fledged story.

Then, there's times when I just sit down, and write. Blindly. Not even thinking. And I just type the first things that come to mind. I almost prefer this sometimes; the results, while a little convuluted, are always interesting, and can usually be tampered with and improved.

This is one of those peices. I sat down, and, having no idea what I was going to write, typed up this piece. It's wierd, if nothing else, but I like it. And, best of all, it spawned a plethora of ideas (the first kind) in my head that have been developing and growing ever since.

This scene, reworked quite a bit, is going to show up in a later work of mine. But just for fun, check out the original.
_____________________________________________________________________

The Haze.

It was everywhere; it was Tik’s entire world. Writhing around him with a shuddering sentiency, snaking its way through his nostrils, infesting every crevice of his body with its damp presence. It was all he could do to breathe, every lungful of the frigid murk that he forced into his body took him one step closer to losing himself. Spots started to appear in his eyes, their blackness appearing foreign against the faded green of the haze. There’s more to the world then green, Tik thought distantly, fighting to stay conscious.

The spots grew larger. The small corner of Tik’s consciousness that remained his own steeled itself. He forced the stale Haze out of his lungs, and, with a ferocious intensity, sucked in another cloudful of the oily green smoke. He had a sliver of a moment to cringe; the barest second to prepare himself for what came next. Please, he thought, let me come back this time.

Then, the fresh Haze entered him.

Everything disappeared. Who he was. Why he was here. What the Haze was. His thoughts emptied, and everything, slowly, started to become green…slowly, he was joining the storm…soon, just another Hazecloud..

It came crawling back up, staggering relentlessly against the emerald hurricane in his mind. The Hazecloud recoiled at the foreign presence; there was something inherently threatening about it. More Haze started to gather, preparing to force the intruder away…

And Tik broke through, fighting against the impulse to gasp as his body once again became his. They said it would be hard, he remembered, as feeling flowed back into his limbs. They said that I would fail, that the Haze would take me.

As it had taken everybody. Everybody who had tried to fight it. Everybody who had simply tried to discover what it was. Everybody who had the misfortune to wander through it on a dark night.

The Haze did not discriminate; that was one thing they’d learned about it.

The clammy fog launched a renewed attack on Tik’s regained senses. He gritted his teeth. It was so hard to fight. Everything about it felt intrusive; it invaded both body and mind with equal discrimation. Tik found it hard to believe he’d held out against it so far. It was so powerful.

It’s going to take me, he thought. Already, almost, he needed to take another breath. Soon, I won’t fight my way back. And it will take me. Steal me away, Erase me. And I’ll just become part of the cloud. For a moment of excruciating clarity, Tik saw the futility of everything. It would take him, and it would take anybody else who decided to foolishly invade its realm. And the fools would come, more and more, until the Haze grew too large, and it took everything, made everything apart of it, and there was nothing left of the world but a mindless, writhing cloud of green.

It was time to breathe. He had to. Mentally Tik shook his head. Not this time. His fight was over. Any more struggling was simply putting off the inevitable. He would let himself fade, let himself forget. Green hands sludged across his face. I’ll fade into the haze.

Or.

The word hung suspended in Tik’s mind, a faint iridescent orb hanging moonlike in the middle of an ocean of green. Not quite. Through his fading consciousness, he still somehow knew. That wasn’t quite it.

Or?

The pearl swelled, brightened. That’s it. The question hung in his mind, calmly poised. His last thought; waiting for the swarm of Haze to close in. An answer, he forced himself to think, it needs an answer. He couldn’t disappear like this, not with such an important question unanswered.

Or? He thought again, hardly recognizing the word. Or? The sinister haze crept forward, grinning insanely, assured of its victory. His mind lay submissive before its advance, a wasted battlefield. The question… But it, too was, fading. Floating away through the endless pools of Haze. Or…. Green flooded across his vision, drowned his thoughts, strangled his will to endure….

The arrow seared through his mind like a fiery comet, howling with an arcane fury. The Haze shrieked and recoiled, drawing back sharply as the missile whistled across Tik’s mind. An answer, he thought, struggling to recover his senses, it’s an answer…

And then he understood.

Or I could fight. Stalwartly, he took in a fresh lungful of the heavy mist, heedless of the danger. Or I could resist, I could refuse to give in. He felt a savage pain as the fresh breath of Haze launched its power against him. Or I could stand strong, refuse to let it take me. This time, he reeled, but his mind stayed his own. And, for the first time, he felt something besides mindless oppression from the Haze.

Or, he thought, grimly resolute, I could fight. Viciously, he pushed against the Haze, fighting the Haze itself, not simply against it.

He felt something give. Another breath, another brutal blow to his consciousness. Another victory. Again he lashed out against the Haze, and again, he felt it give.

Confidence surged through Tik, dispelling more of the Haze’s taint from its body. “You will not take me,” he roared, speaking aloud for the first time. “You will not Erase me.”

The Haze recoiled even more; there was actually a small pocket of air separating Tik from the Haze now. Taking advantage of the envelope, he took in a fresh lungful of…

Of air. It flowed through him, pure and weightless, washing away the now-stagnant pockets of Haze still lurking in his body. The sensation felt so wholly clean that Tik nearly laughed at the feel of it.

Almost. There was still a battle to be fought.

With the Haze gone, he could feel it again; his connection to the Underlife. Dormant, and untapped. But there. Is that how the Haze destroys you? He wondered fleetingly. He hadn’t even noticed how fully he’d been cut off. Does it cut you off from the Underlife….completely? Could such a thing be done? The Underlife was the heart of the world itself; even the smallest stone existed only because of its link, however tenuous, to the Underlife.

He could worry about that later. He plunged deep into the Underlife, feeling his clothes ripple violently in reaction. So much life, he thought, plunging into it. Everything…everything is a part of this. It was as thrilling a thought as it had been the first time he’d Touched the Underlife, years ago.

Tik remembered his master’s words. It’s like a pit, he’d warned. Yes, the deeper you go, the more power you’ll find…but the harder it is to get out. Go deeper than you should, and chances are you’ll never come back. You’re just an extension of the Underlife, after all; it’ll claim you back sooner or later. Sooner, if you go too deep.

What’s at the deepest part of it? Tif had asked, At the bottom of the pit?

His master had simply given him a sad, long look, and Tik had known: Nobody had ever gone to the bottom of the Underlife. At, least nobody who’d come back out.

He touched the power around him, feeling life flow into him at its touch. So much…He was deep, far deeper than he’d ever dare go before. This deep…a single stray thought--anything to knock his focuse off balance--could be fatal.

Normally, Tif would be terrified. Normally, Tif would have never dreamed of going half that deep into the Underlife.

But, watching the Haze flee from him, watching it dissipate into nothing, any of that fear died.

Aid me, he willed, latching onto a particularly large concentration of Underlife. It felt like nothing he’d ever Touched before. Let your power become mine.

Tif had spent a lot his childhood idly wondering about questions that nobody, not even the village elders, had held the answers too. And all through his education, still he’d lost sleep over questions that were seemingly unanswerable. And as long as he could remember, one of those had always been, ‘I wonder what it feel s like to be struck by lightning?”

Channeling this concentration of the Underlife, letting it’s power flow through him, Tif thought he might have an idea. A storm burned in his veins. Thunder roared in his ears, ice frosted over his vision, and fire flared through his arms. I am power.

The thought was not his own.

The Haze around him disappeared. Completelely, and instantly. Blue flashes exploded from seemingly nowhere, and, Tik saw into the night, somehow for miles. All around, Haze shuddered and disintegrated into nothingness.

Such a pitiful, fleeting thing. And it had once troubled him. Laughter boomed from his lips. It sounded like a planet rolling on its axis. He took a step, and heard mountains groan from the impact. A lone patch of Haze flew desperately across the corner of his vision. He turned and swung his hand in its direction; with a glass shattering wail, red lines erupted from his fingers and seared their way across the ground; finding and eradicating the cloud.

Stop! The voice came from somewhere within him. Tik ignored it. He had to destroy the Haze. To cleanse the land. To remake the land. STOP!! Again, he ignored the voice. All that mattered was destroying the haze. Except…

There was no Haze. The world around him was a shattered nightmare of unearthly colors and sounds. The ground around him was shattered and split; the sky was bleeding golden lighting and crimson flames. This is Chaos. Tik realized, awestruck. I’ve found Chaos. The legendary Fifth distinction.

Somewhere underneath it all, Tik was aware of the voice. It was no longer telling him to stop. It was screaming. Chaos, he thought again, exultation mixing excruciatingly with terror, I’ve Touched Chaos. Unsure of what to do before the warring emotions, Tik simply laughed. A booming, powerful, rending laugh. Even less his laugh then before. The gods themselves would cringe before such a laugh.

The screaming grew louder. For the first time, Tif recognized the voice. It was that boy’s. The vessel.

It was his own.

If his laugh had been powerful enough to make the gods cringe, his scream would have shattered their thrones and bought them to their knees. Power surged through his body; pain surged through his body.

The Life! The voice screamed. Release it! In terror, Tik retreated to the Underlife. Let go! The voice shrieked. Let go of it! GET OUT OF THE UNDERLIFE!

With a monstrous roar that ravaged his own ears, Tik ripped himself off of the concentration of Life, out of the Underlife. Back up the Pit. To the surface, away from the Underlife.

He lay, collapsed on the ground, breathing. It was night. The ground was simply green; the night sky simply black. No fires and earthquakes and storms. No Haze.

Fighting to stay awake, Tik lifted his head a little higher. To the left, to the right. No Haze. Not far away, he could see the light of the House on the Hill. I fought it, he thought wearily, and I survived. For a moment he lacked even the energy to think. I won.

And the Underlife. Memories of the world he’d seen crept across his vision even as it started to go black. That power…that strength…it was…it was…His own strength was leaving him; his body’s demands for sleep had become unavoidably adamant. Tik let out a single, weary sigh. It was Chaos. And, looking up at the distant stars, in a clear night sky untainted by green, Tik gave in to sleep.

(even, after monthes of training, when he wielded more Life than he ever could have before, Tik never felt stronger. It wasn’t his power to wield; he was, at best, a vessel. He simply felt less likel drown in the oceans of raw power flooding through his body

Life never got any easier to Touch; you simply got better at not letting it destroy you.

Untitled Story: Part 1

Yes, its still untitled and its still only "Part 1", so its really still a work in progress. I'm planning on finishing it this week, though, so look for a title and the rest of the story later.

I haven't really done any fantasy stories in a while now---which is a shame, because its the genre that I feel "at home" writing in. This story is my return to fantasy. When I was planning it, I wanted to make it different from my usual work. No complex, convuluted plots, I decided. I also wanted to avoid the deep, morally skewed characters I usually drive my stories with.

Most of all, I wanted to write a story that was fun. So I came up with a "fun" plot, and decided, instead of trying to avoid a lot of the conventions of fantasy, I'd embrace them this time.

Of course, the story really didn't end up being all that simple (especially the second half, which, in my opinion, is awesome. The first part intros the characters, the second part has the awesome plot twists and action). The characters kind of took on a life of their own. I wanted them to be carefree and bold, your typical adventurer. Most of the time they were. But (in the second half, again, so you wont' see it yet) they grow more and more complex.

This story is actually going to be a tie in to a really big new project I'm starting work on again. And the three main characters--I'm certainly not done with them. I plan to write more stories about them.

So, read what I've got so far, tell me what you think. Not exactly typical, but not bad, all said and done.
______________________________________________________________________

The badlands spread away in front of Adahm, a scorched golden pit that looked like it hadn’t seen rain in the better part of a decade. Cracked brown dirtcakes seemed to substitute for ground here, just as crumbling sandstone boulders replaced trees. Distant grey mountains hung on a far-off horizon; the light of the setting sun struggled out from behind their peaks, dirtied by the thick desert dust swirling through the air. The whole place stank of death.

Adahm heard Ryinn and Jhonthin crest the hill behind him, then draw abreast. “Servants steel me,” Ryinn muttered as he quickly took in the view. “So this is why nobody ever goes near the Borderlands.”

“Nobody but us,” Jhonthin corrected despondently. “Three fools without a purpose, following a mad man’s whim to the ends of the earth all for…” he motioned his head towards the lifeless valley. “For this.”

Ryinn grimaced. “Not that we don’t love you, Adahm,” he added, “but for all his exhausting melancholy, Jhonthin has a fairly strong case this time. I’ve pictured underworlds with better scenery.”

Adahm started his horse forward and wheeled it around so he could face both of his companions. They met his gaze coolly. Ryinn Laklier, heir to some small duchy or another---as he loved to remind his companions---sat his horse to the right. His dirty brown hair, wild and tangled as a rule, had suffered the worst of nearly 10 days without a bed or bath, and looked rather like some sort of filthy exotic rodent. Ryinn’s face, long, fair, and broad, but inexplicably handsome an alarming amount of women, was twisted into the best look of skepticism he could muster.

To the other side was Jhonthin Erecres, a scholar who’d abandoned the endless annals of Ilyana to experience the world first hand. While Ryinn sat straight in the saddle, Jhonthin slumped. Where Ryinn was thick and muscled, Jhonthin was slight and wispy. Ryinn’s facial hair raged wildly across his chin like the weeds of an indolent gardener, while Jhonthin’s face was as smooth as a boy’s. He wore a dark hood that hung just over his eyes, masking most of his flowing coal-black hair. His smooth, narrow face---so pallid that he was oft mistaken for an invalid---was affixed with a rather typical air of despondency.

Joshua sighed in exasperation at the two of them. “Friends, friends,” he began, “you wound me. Because I value you as my two closest friends in the world, I invite you to join me on my heroic quests for glory and riches. And now---now, after so long---now you doubt me?” He forced a laugh.

His friends’ expressions remained the same. For Adahm, that was a fairly typical preamble.

“Ryinn, look at you,” Adahm scoffed. “Always bragging about how you’re some great duke’s son, and here you are sulking like a schoolboy told to recite the names of the Thirty Kings, all because you don’t like the scenery. And now, of all times, when we’re so close to the treasure.” Ryinn rolled his eyes.

“And Jhonthin.” Adahm paused, and worked his voice into a more somber tone. “Oh, Jhonthin. You look like a man on being led to the gallows, not treasure. Come now, we’re only just at the Borderlands---and you’re ready to give up.”

“Look at Molder.” Adahm jabbed a finger at their donkey, lingering placidly behind them. “Do you see him complaining? Do you see him giving up? Wanting to go home? No. Not Molder. Gentleman, you’re being out done by a mule.”

“Perhaps,” Jhonthin said after a pause, “that’s because the last mule died on your last hair-brained scheme, and Molder has no idea just often your schemes end with us penniless, half-dead,or hated by a new somebody or other.”

“Or the fact he’s a mule,” Ryinn offered. “They don’t do a lot of speaking, mules , you know.”

There was a long silence. A long dry silence, Adahm thought, as he tried to swallow but failed. Water was scarce the closer you got to the Borderlands, and they’d had to ration it the past 2 days. Probably why they’re being so sullen¸he reasoned. They aren’t as fit for hardship as me. Ryinn may not be as pale as Jhonthin, but neither of them was as dark as Adahm. Which could be deadly in the red-sunned Borderlands.

Ryinn wasn’t quite so tall, and Jhonthin just a bit taller, but Adahm, as Ryinn loved to mockingly say, was “just right”. A true warrior’s build. It was his mother---a Borderland folk---who’d given him that blood, his old nurse had always told him. If any outsider had been born to survive the infamous ravages of the Borderlands, it was Adahm.

Adahm nodded slowly. “I understand, friends. It’s not that you’ve grown tired of my company. I could understand that. And it’s not that you’ve lost the lust for riches. That, too, I could understand.” He paused. “Well, no, I couldn’t, but for negotiations sake let’s assume I could. Anyway. I’ve figured it out. It’s that you simply aren’t hardy enough to survive such a perilous quest.”

Ryinn snorted. “Adahm, you already come up with crazy ideas. Don’t start with stupid ones. We all know that me and Jhonthin have saved your life more times than you could count. Even assuming you could count past your fingers and toes. And you know we aren’t going to abandon you.”

“It’s almost obligatory. The whining. And complaining. And you trying to stick pretty words together to woo us on. “ Jhothin added. “We just thought we’d get the griping out of the way. Before we got too far, you know.”

Adahm grinned broadly. He, of course, hadn’t taken their complaints one bit seriously, but it still always give him a tiny feeling of triumph when they admitted as much. “Well I’m glad that’s out of the way, then,” he said. “Because as far as I judge, it’s still a day’s ride until we get to that village.”

His friends groaned.

“On the bright side, we do have three skins of water left,” Adahm chuckled. “If we’re lucky, the horses won’t drink it all.”

“Because then, we can give the rest to the bloody mule. Adahm, if you ever talk us into a fool thing like this again, at least have the common sense to bring more water.” Jhonthin coughed. “All this dust makes me feel dryer than a summer Battercake.”

Ryinn nodded. “Pointless allusions to fried bread aside, I hope this village is only a day’s ride away. Thing’s will start to get rough for all of us after that.”

Adahm rapped his knuckles on his head. “Just trust me. I’m sure.” Mind like a Desertman, people always said, some in disgust, some in admiration. It was true, though; it wasn’t just his looks he’d gotten from his mother. He’d been blessed with the Borderfolk’s uncanny sense of direction as well.

“Of all the things you’re bound to brag about, that’s the one thing I’ll trust you on,” Ryinn agreed. “More likely to trust then tales of some imaginary ghost and it’s carefully guarded treasure, at any rate.”

“Well, you apparently trusted him on that, too, “ Jhonthin pointed out “Seeing as we’re all here, a day’s ride from this ghost.”

“And it’s not really the ghost that’s imaginary,” Adahm chipped in, “it’s the treasure. Though I wouldn’t use the word imaginary. Just assumed. There’s glory to be found, in the least.”

Ryinn muttered something about “buggering glory”, and where to do it. Jhonthin just smiled. Of all the people Adahm knew, Jhonthin was the only person who smiled when he found things sad or upsetting. When Adahm asked him about it, Jhonthin had simply passed it off as being “ironic.”

Too many books. He could learn from Ryinn, learn a bit about being a warrior. Just at a glance, Adahm could see a sword, a handaxe, and a bow and quiver on Ryinn’s horse, and he knew from experience there was more. Or maybe it’s Ryinn who should read a few books.

A thought occured to him. “Jhonthin—do you have much Life pooled?”

The hooded man shrugged. “A bit. I’d rather save it though.” He tilted his head at the wastelands. “It’ll take quite some time and a good bit of effort to tap any Life once we’re out there, and not just because there’s nothing but sand and stone for miles around. Desert’s are stubborn.”

Adahm’s own knowledge of tapping other Life was vague, but it seemed logical enough. “Fine. Save it, then. We just might need it.”

Jhonthin nodded his concurrence.

“Well, best not waste any time,” Adahm declared. “I want to reach this village as much as you do.”

Ryinn and Jhonthin nodded their concurrence. There was probably near an hour left of sunlight; no time to waste indeed. Gold, Adahm reconciled himself as they started their dry, dusty descent into the arid lowlands. Gold and glory. In truth, Adahm was hardly more eager than his companions to enter the Borderlands; he’d never been to his mother’s land, and had no idea how they’d take to somebody had their looks but not their ways.

That, Adahm, thought grumpily, And this Servant damned dust. Already, the wind had helped it to find its way into boots, under his cloak, in his throat, his ear, his nose, his eyes. Ryinn and Jhonthinn coughed behind him. At least it doesn’t bother Molder. The mule was marching along as stolidly as ever.

By the time they reached the valley, Adahm hated the dust, the cracked dirt cakes, the sandstone, the entire yellow and brown world they’d just entered. And this was barely even the cusp of the true desert. It was all he could do not to turn around and announce it a fool’s errand.

But the merchant’s story came back to him. About the ancient Borderland city, Meyabor, hounded by a vengeful spirit from the nearby ruins. Men from far and wide had tried their hand, but all lost their lives trying to vanquish this spirit. So the merchant had said. Surely, Adahm had decided, surely this ghost was guarding something, some ancient riches hidden in its ruins.

And here he was, best friends at his back, so close to this ancient Meyabord and its unconquerable ghost. This time, Adahm told himself, this time the glory is real. At the very least, he’d be hailed as the slayer of a ghost---a creature that he’d always thought only lived in children’s tails.

Ryinn swore loudly as a malicious blast of wind pummeled the group with a painful blast of sand. Adahm gritted his teeth, or rather gritted sand. The damned wind had deposited what seemed like a fistful of it in his mouth. Adahm cleared his throat and spit angrily---just as another blast of wind came along, forcing in twice as much sand as he’d spit out.

Gold and glory, Adahm told himself, and rode on.

* * *

If the world made sense, Adahm thought vacantly, I’d be the happiest man alive.

For the first time in recent memory, Adahm’s infallible sense of direction had been wrong. Nearly two days had gone by since they’d descended into the nameless valley, parched, sore, but still hopeful.

A lot had changed in two days.

Adahm supposed he really couldn’t be blamed for misjudging the distance. He’d assumed it would be a breezy, lighthearted romp, cutting straight through the Borderlands to Meyabor. If that had been the case, perhaps a day would have been a feasible length for their journey.

First of all, Adahm had foolishly miscalculated how fast they’d be able to ride once they entered the desert proper. He’d assumed it would be much like riding across the badlands; maybe a little slower. The sad truth was that they ended up leading their horses more often than they rode them. Around enormous humped sanddunes, through treacherous faded ruins from the Old World. The first day of travel had been miserable---staggering, fighting their slow, gradual way through the stinging, sand-drenched perpetual wind. The curses that had bellowed forth from the three that day would have easily had them banned from any establishment with the slightest shreds of decency.

Curses aside, Ryinn and Jhonthin had been mostly quiet the first day, which was bad. If they were too mollified even to jest about their discomforts, then their spirits were low indeed. I’ve led them to nowhere, Adahm had thought vacantly that night, camped under the stars in the rotted foundations of some ancient fortress. I’ve failed them, led us all to our death. They’d fallen asleep to the howling of the sand, the eroded fortress walls too pitifully ravaged to offer them any decent sanctuary.

Still, all three had been in better spirits the next morning. Sunlight had revealed an ancient well on one side of the ruins, and though the water tasted stale and was full of dark sand, it was certainly better than perishing of thirst. And Adahm’s guess had been only an hour off that point—attributable to the spells where they’d been forced to lead the horses---which logically indicated that Meyabor wasn’t too far off. The winds had slowed somewhat, almost to inactivity, and even the pulsing red sun didn’t seem quite so hot as the day before. Ryinn had managed to keep up a steady stream of quips for the first half hour; Adahm thought Jhonthin might have laughed at one of them.

That had been before the sandstorm.

Adahm had vaguely read of the things in books before, and he knew that if he’d read about them, Johnthin certainly had. Strong, prolonged swirling winds, the books had said, usually found in deserts, and customarily carrying a sizeable amount of sand. On the page, it had sounded quaint, a discomfort you’d probably be better off avoiding.

He doubted even Joshua had read anywhere near enough to prepare him for the reality. Strong winds turned out to be forceful enough to nearly blow Adahm off of his horse. They’d seen it from a distance; a furious brown and yellow wall screaming across the desert towards them. It had been howling towards them so rapidly that they’d barely even had time to realize that trying to flee was futile before it was upon them. Instantly they were engulfed; prisoners inside a horrendous swirling wrathful cage.

Usually carrying a sizeable amount of sand. When---if ---they got back to Rygaurd, Adahm had resolved to look up the scholar who’d penned that book, and throw a fistful of sand in his eyes simply out of spite. There had been enough sand to bury an army in; enough sand to bury a city. It ripped and tore at Adahm’s clothes, gnashed at his skin, pummeled him till he was bruised. There had been little else to do but curl into a ball and prey for his friends.

It was nearly an hour before the sandstorm moved on. A hellcursed, excruciating hour. Sand had lodged itself in pores Adahm hadn’t known he’d had. His skin, beneath its ground-in shell of sand, felt as red and raw as a slab on a butcher’s block. And his mouth---it was if some sort of sand-shaped ant had infested Adahm all the way down his throat. It hurt to swallow; it almost hurt to breathe. You could have set a pitcher of the foulest, most repugnant water in the world in front of Adahm and he would have gulped it down without a second thought.

At first it had hurt even to move. To think. There was no sign of any of the others; for all he knew they’d been buried alive by the sandstorm. Every part of his body that had the capacity to be sore had obliged fervently; every little movement all the down to blinking had become a trial.

Eventually Adahm had battled against the pain and forced himself to walk around. The Servants had been with them; he’d found Jhonthin, then Ryinn, looking for the entire world like they were corpses that had just dug their way out from sandy tombs. They were coated almost beyond recognition, and neither had managed to will themselves to move. But for all that, they were alive.

They hadn’t said a word. After a time they silently forced themselves up and brushed themselves off as best they could. The horses, of course, were gone. Where, Adahm couldn’t begin to fathom, though he doubted they were alive. Molder, miraculously, they found nearby; seemingly unfazed by the sandstorm. He had the waterskins, and a good portion of their food---most of it ruined by sand----but everything else was gone. Ryinn’s weapons. Jhonthin’s book. Everything of Adahm’s besides the clothes on his back. Gone, swallowed up by the desert.

For a while they stood like that, silent, crusted in sand, staring at the ground miserably, taking sips from the water skin to try and remember what moisture felt like. Finally, Adahm had nodded, tilted his head towards the direction they should take---even after the storm he was sure of that---and they’d started off, betting their lives on the hope that Meyabor was close.

Three hours. Three hours they’d walked, not saying a word, trudging through the desert, the sun blistering down on them. By some cruel jape of nature, the sun had become significantly hotter since the sandstorm had passed---almost as if it had been saving all its fury for when it would be most potently felt.

Now, finally, they had reached civilization. Other people. Food, water. Life. By all rights, the three of them should have been dancing, crying, screaming, shouting with joy. Doing something suitably insane, after surviving all that misery.

But all Adahm could do was gape.

Ryinn looked like an amateurish sculptor had chiseled his face out of stone. Crestfallen, disbelieving stone. And Jhonthin, denying plausibility, looked even more pale than usual; he seemed too crushed to even manage one of his ironic smiles.

Servants help me, Adahm thought, This can’t be Meyabor.

It certainly wasn’t a city. Adahm probably wouldn’t have even called it a town. A gathering of several hundred goats, with a few dozen huts and half that many people intermingled within was hardly even a village. Everything about it looked like it had simply grown out of the desert; the goats were stained a permanent, filthy light brown, the buildings looked to be built out of the bricks fashioned from sand.

And the man standing in front of Adahm, squinting up at him toothlessly, looked as at home in the desert as an oak in the middle of a forest. His face glistened a leathery chestnut-tan in the sun; his crudely spun clothes were a drab, faded, desert gold. The sun seemed to have even managed to burn his brittle straw-colored the same shade as the desert.

I’ve forgotten how to talk. Somewhere out there in the sandstorm. Adahm found himself only able to gawk at the man emptily. It seemed there were no words for what he wanted to say. Meyabor is an ancient city. Of legend. From the Old World. Full of mysterious Border Folk and untapped treasures. Or so the merchant had said. Adahm felt his last remaining shreds of optimism shrivel and die. This goat-pasture can’t be Meyabor.

The man---who, now that Adahm thought about it, looked as much like a part of the goat herd as he did the desert---smacked his gums together loudly, and hacked a ball of spit at his feet. Sand colored, of course, Adahm thought disgustedly as the glob melted into the ground.

“Long time.” the man grated out, apparently deciding that Adahm wasn’t going to speak first. “Long time since folk came all the way out here. Specially,” he eyed Ryinn and Jhonthin hardly “folks from the soft world,”

He thinks I’m border folk, Adahm realized. Whatever ancestors this old rustic claimed, they certainly weren’t Borderfolk. He was too stooped, too gnarled. Too simple. The Borderfolk were nomads, besides.

A goat bleated and started past the man. He brought his fist down on top of it head violently. It blinked its almond-shaped eyes, bleated again, more loudly, and retreated back into the herd. “Now,” the man continued, taking his eyes off the goat once it had left, “you tell me. Who, why. We get merchants, once, twice a year maybe. And only in passing.” He looked pointedly at Molder, swishing his tail mindlessly at invisible flies. “You are no merchants.”

“No,” Adahm agreed. His voice came out rasped and faint. I don’t sound a thing like myself. “No. We are travelers. Adventurers, if you like. We...we seek a city.”

The old goatherd cocked his head quizzically, looking disconcertingly caprine. Adahm half expected him to start bleating. “City,” he muttered, trying to run his fingers through a beard that no longer existed. “Old Garli knows of no cities. Only this village---Dobbor.”

Adahm had not thought his heart could sink lower; it proved him wrong by becoming heavier then lead and plummeting through his body to the ground. All their griping...their jests. Had Ryinn and Jhonthin been right? Was he really a fool, only putting them all in harm’s way? Adahm glanced at his friends.

He was surprised. They looked tired, yes. Exhausted, more like. And they looked as though they’d spent the last week rolling through sand. But, beneath all the sand, all the lines, they both looked...determined. Resolved. At the very least, a lot more stalwart that Adahm himself felt.

After all this, they’re still following me. They still trust me. The realization jolted off more of his fatigue and hopelessness than Adahm would have thought possible.

“Odd. Last I looked at a map, I was sure it was somewhere nearby.” His voice came out as scraped and warbled as ever, but this time, Adahm managed a bit of his characteristic flair. Out of the corner of his eyes, Adahm saw his friends’ heads perk up ever so slightly in response. ‘That’s the Adahm we know, the fiery one’, is what they’re thinking, he told himself smugly.

He harrumphed—which tore at his ravaged throat so roughly it was all he could do not to wince—and returned his attention to the goatherd---Old Garli.

“Garli, my man,” he rasped out. “Perhaps you can help me. The city I’m looking for is called Meyabor.”

For such a seemingly simple man, it was quite a gamut of emotions that flashed through Garli’s eyes. Fear, Adahm, thought. Shock. Worry. All of which pointed to one thing.

For better or for worse, this man knew about Meyabor.

For the first time since he’d entered the valley, Adahm almost grinned. Not a fool’s errand after all, maybe. “Well, Garli? Do you know of Meyabor? Tell us what you know.”

The old man shook his head, paused, opened his mouth, then went back to shaking his head. “It is not a thing we speak about,” he managed after a moment. “It is best not to. To come here...you should leave.”

Indignation scaled its way past the fatigue in Adahm’s chest. “Leave? Leave? Garli, we’ve spent weeks to get here. Yes, most of those weeks were crossing the soft lands, as you call them, but what would an old goat herd know about that? These past two days, we’ve lost our horses, gotten nearly killed by a sandstorm, and marched for hours across this scorched barren wasteland you inexplicably call home, and you tell me to leave?” Adahm folded his arms in what he hoped was an intimidating gesture. “Old man, you’re speaking to Adahm Merglade. And Adahm Merglade does not simply leave on a goatherd’s whim.”

“There he goes,” Ryinn croaked out. It sounded like some enchantress had sorcelled out his throat and replaced it with bundle of dried reeds. “Putting on airs. When he calls himself by name, you know you’ve pushed him too far. Best tell him what he wants, Garli.” He wheezed fitfully; Adahm supposed it was meant to be a chuckle.

Garli, whose facial features had progressively devolved towards terror as Adahm spoke, now looked decidedly petrified. Like a goat with a dog nipping at its flanks. Very much like a goat with a dog nipping at its flanks.

“If, I mean,” he coughed, “if you’re so resolved, trav....Lord Merglade...eh...maybe I should,”

“Out with it, old man,” Jhonthin grated out crossly. “We’re not in a particularly patient mood.” Adahm had heard breezes whisper with more of a voice than Jhonthin.

Having three disheveled, menacing stranger all demanding him to speak proved to be too much for Garli. “Please, travellers,” he squeaked breathlessly, “I...It is not my place. The mayor. You should speak to the mayor.” He sounded exceedingly relieved that he’d stumbled across that solution.

Adahm eyed the shifting mass of goat behind the man dubiously. “And I suppose we have to walk through those beasts to get to the mayor.” It was rhetorical question; every single one Dobbor’s few buildings was at least sparsely encircled by the dirty, bleating animals.

“The Yamine?” Sand goats, Adahm translated, unsure how he knew that. “They are harmless, gentle, they....” Garli trailed off under Adahm’s withering gaze. “They will not prove much trouble.” He finished lamely.

Adahm waved his hand disgustedly, motioning Garli to lead on. Speak to the mayor, he thought acidly. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but the goats stank. Of sour-sweet goat sweat, of piss, of shit. Mostly of shit. It littered the ground as fruit might an untended orchard; in some places it even gave the desert village the illusion of having brown earth. Vile, foul, brown earth, Adahm amended furiously as he accidentally planted his sandaled foot smack in the middle of a massive steaming pile. What is this man the mayor of? People? Or goats?

“Seems like even here, the women are quite taken with me,” Ryinn rasped conversationally. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Adahm looked to see who he was talking about. A few leathery crones who looked more like slightly feminine versions of Garli than true women stood in front of their sandstone huts, eyeing the 3 tall strangers forcing their way through the goats with suspicious curiosity.

“You won’t hear me ever say this again, but you’re welcome to them.” Jhonthin stepped gingerly over a mound of goat scat. “Adahm, Servants only know where you’ve led us. And I doubt even they know why we followed you.”

“The treasure.” Adahm answered froggily, feeling a bit smug. “Did you see the way Garli reacted to the name Meyabor? There’s treasure there, all right. Treasure they don’t want any outsiders to know about.”

A goat bleated indignantly as Ryinn kicked it testily “Bloody bleating animals,” he growled voicelessly. “Adahm, if this Meyabor really does have treasure, that’s all well and good. Save for one problem.”

“Which is?”

Another thunk, another indignant bleat. “That we aren’t even sure where the bleeding city is.”

“Or if it even exists,” Jhonthin added thoughtfully.

Adahm opened his mouth to reply, and suddenly found himself try so hard to think of something to say that it was all he could do not to trip over a goat that had shuffled across his path. For once, he had nothing to say.

“True,” he said simply. “We’ll see, I suppose.”

Both Ryinn and Jhonthin missed a step. I can agree, when it suits me, Adahm thought crossly. You don’t have to be so suprised.

Old Garli---several goats ahead of them now, thank to their dawdling---turned back and waved them on. “Not far,” he told them. “This one up here.”

The sandstone hut he indicated looked as pitiful and barren as any of the others; if a bit bigger. A large stone well made it just slightly boosted its prestige. The cluster of goats around it seemed to be a little thicker than usual---and so were accordingly, the piles of shit.

Who needs a castle with a moat, when you have shit-encircled huts? Trying to sigh---but only managing to send a ripple of pain through his cracked throat---Adahm pushed on through the goats.

* * *

The mayor of Dobbor turned out to be a short, pinched man, his gaunt face hiding itself behind a meticulously combed golden beard. His shack seemed more like a storage room than a house---boxes piled on one side, sacks of grain in another, rectangular boxes stacked by the door. And the floor appeared to be nothing more than firmly tamped down dirt. Adahm wondered with faint disgust if it was goat manure. It seemed depressingly likely.

Garli had entered first after his knock had earned them the request to come in, and now he was whispering furiously to the mayor, gesturing at Adahm from time to time. The mayor, for his part, tried to make it seem like he was intent on Garli’s words, but Adahm could see him scrutinizing the three out of the corners of his narrow eyes. As Garli’s flustered speech unfolded, the mayor’s mouth devolved from simply unreadable into a pronounced frown. Once---Adahm caught the muttered word “Meyabor”---he forgot his guise of disinterest and turned to glare at Adahm with open suspicion.

After taking far longer than Adahm would have expected to simply introduce the three as travelers seeking Meyabor, Garli finished. The mayor nodded sharply towards the door, and the goat-like old man hobbled past Adahm. For a moment the hut was filled with the mindless bleating of goats as Garli opened the door, then fell silent as he closed it behind him.

The short man turned to face the travelers. “So,” he croaked crossly, “Garli says you’ve come to our village to cause trouble. He also says that he asked you to leave, and that you flatly refused, saying the requests of an old goatherd were far beneath you.”

Adahm frowned indignantly. That ‘old goatherd’ was almost more vexing than the sandstorm had been. “Sir mayor, I think you’ve been given a skewed perception of us. As far as us causing trouble, I promise you, Garli couldn’t be farther from the truth. We’ve come to do a great service. And yes, I refused to leave when he asked, but that’s only because I’d prefer to not wander the desert until I die of thirst.”

“Not that we don’t think he’s beneath us,” Ryinn interjected unhelpfully. Jhonthin started to add something off his own---Adahm wasn’t sure whether he was agreeing with Ryinn or telling him off, because his voice cracked and he broke off into a fit of pained coughing.

The mayor eyed them with a look somewhere between distaste and skepticism on his face. “I suppose we’ll get to the truth of your words soon enough.” He sounded as if he was confident that truth would be closer to Garli’s than Adahm’s. “First. You say you aren’t here to cause trouble. What, then, brings your kind so far into our corner of the desert? And why are these softlanders with you?”

Adahm could feel his friends’ bristling over being called softlanders. “You’re mistaken.” he said hastily, before Ryinn could say something insulting or Jhonthin could make a wry quip. “I’m not of the Border Folk. Well,” he hesitated at the disbelieving look on the mayor’s face. “I’m of their blood. But I grew up in the sof---in Rygaurd.”

The mayor regarded Adahm with a flat stare.

“I don’t think you’re doing the best job of winning his trust,” Jhonthin whispered. Or perhaps he was trying to say it out loud; Adahm doubted he could have talked any louder if he’d tried. Just as well, as the mayor’s gaze was becoming flatter, were that possible. Is there a single blasted person in the world who doesn’t distrust me the moment they meet me?

Adahm took the mayor’s silence as indication to continue. He hoped the mayor’s silence was indication to continue. “You see, back in the so---in Rygaurd, we heard tales. Of a city, out in the Borderlands. An ancient city, goes by the name of Meyabor.”

The mayor reacted to that. His eyebrows shot up, and his beard nearly quivered in---shock? Vindication? Fury? Adahm couldn’t be sure.

“In one breath you claim you don’t come to make trouble,” the mayor hissed out, “then in the next you mention Meyabor. Are all softlanders so foolish?”

Adahm suffered a moment of inarticulate confusion. What was he missing about Meyabor? “My good mayor,” he began soothingly, “you misjudge me. Like I said---we aren’t here to cause trouble. We come here to help Meyabor.”

Shock flashed across the mayor’s eyes. “Are you a fool as well as a lyar? Help Meyabor? Just how to you expect to help that cursed place?”

Cursed! So there is a ghost. Adahm tried to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Well, as far as we heard tell, the people of Meyabor have been troubled with some, eh, spiritual problems lately. Being the bold adventurers that we are, me and my friends decided---“ Ryinn shot him a withering gaze, “er, I decided, and convinced my friends, that we should ride for Meyabor, to rid them of this annoying ghost. Maybe claim a bit of glory for ourselves, win the people’s respect.”

For the first time since they’d arrived in Dobbor, Adahm saw a reaction to his words that was decisively not hostile. Pity darkened the mayor’s features. “Is that why you’ve ridden here? To aid the people of Meyabor? Traveller, it seems all softlanders are fools. Meyabor is not a simple city, recently haunted by a nagging spirit. Meyabor was once the greatest city in the land---a thriving capital of knowledge, trade, commerce---a legend it its time.”

A tingling ran down Adahm’s spine as the mayors pity changed to sadness and he continued. “That, travellers, was nearly five hundred years ago. Meyabor fell with the old world. Fell before the binding of the servants.” The mayor took a deep breath, and looked into Adahm’s eyes. “Traveller, the entire city of Meyabor was destroyed—every man, woman and child killed—half a millenium ago by a wrathful, ancient force. A vengeful power from another world.” An empty smile fleeted across his face. “Or, as you’d have it, an ‘annoying ghost’”.

Adahm sucked in his breath. An ancient power from the Old World. That was something. And strong enough to destroy an entire city. It seemed he hadn’t come all this way for a simple ghost.

Instead, he got something much, much better.

Adahm’s excitement must have shown itself on his face.

“Did you hear me?” The mayor sounded troubled. “An ancient evil. Destroyed an entire city. An entire city—from the Old World, no less.”

“I heard you,” Adahm murmered. “Oh, I heard you.” His mind was racing like a carriage wheel. Banishing some small, troublesome spirit might have garnered him some local prestige, at best. And, of course, a preferably significant amount of gold. But an ancient spirit that had laid an entire Old World city to waste.

“It’s perfect. Incredible.” Adahm could feel passion rising up inside him, passion that he hadn’t felt in far too long. The adventurer’s calling, he liked to think of it as. That driving, inexorable force that had changed the course of his life so many times.

The mayor’s tanned face was balanced somewhere between apprehension and fear. “I tell you this spirit is an ancient evil, strong enough to destroy cities, and this pleases you? I tell you that it killed thousands of men, women and children without regard, and this doesn’t strike fear through your veins?” He shook his head worriedly. “Your mind works in ways I cannot understand, traveler.”

Ryinn sighed. “Sir mayor, I have to disagree with you. See, Adahm here’s mind is actually remarkably simple to understand once you get to know him. Now, look at him,” he jerked his head at Adahm. “Still too caught up in his thoughts to even tell us what’s got him as giddy as a child in a candy shop.”

Adahm didn’t bother to saying anything; the simple truth was the he was too caught up in his thoughts to bother replying. Something this significant—Why, they’d sing of his bravery from Keth to Ilyana. And not only that. No, not only that by a long shot. An Old World city, destroyed in its prime, with a malevolent spirit to keep intruders out for nearly 500 years?

Just trying to comprehend the riches, the treasures that must be there was enough to make Adahm’s head spin. Not just gold; relics from the old world had a value that could not be measured in metal.

Ryinn, meanwhile, was continuing his explanation of Adahm’s mind to the mayor. “Now, I can guarantee I know exactly what he’s thinking. As soon as told him about this spirit, did he think about the danger?” Ryinn shook his head mournfully. “Of course not. Rule number one when understanding Adahm’s mind: it doesn’t recognize danger. Or common sense.”

The mayor’s face was slowly replacing apprehension with confused dismay. He ran his hands through his beard, muttering incomprehensibly to himself.

“Now, I’ll tell you what his brain is thinking,” Ryinn said. “The first thing Adahm thought of was the glory. Think about it. A power that ancient? That strong, to kill every citizen of an entire Old World city? Put yourself in Adahm’s foolish shoes, mayor. Can’t you see it? The glory?”

From the mayor’s face, it was clear that he did not at all see; in fact it was plain that all he did see where three ragged, babbling travelers who were seeming increasingly dangerous.

“No?” Ryinn shook his head. “Can’t say I blame you. Takes a bit of time with Adahm to really get a grasp on that twisted logic he passes of as rationale. All he sees right now is the glory. It doesn’t matter how dangerous your ghost is; all that matters to Adahm is the fame it will bring him.”

“And the gold,” Jhonthin cut in dryly. “You really can’t forget the gold.”

Ryinn smacked himself. “Of course. The gold. See, mayor, that makes it even worse. An Old World city? If Adahm was able to dream up gold from a simple ghost, do you even realize how many treasures he’s seeing in his mind right now?”

Adahm, in fact, was imagining his glorious return to Rygaurd. Adahm, people would say, did you really kill a ghost from the Old World? Was there really too much treasure for you to carry back with even a dozen horses?

“A lot.” Jhonthin said simply. He tried to open one the rectangular boxes stacked next to him. “What’s in here? Dried goat meat, I’d assume?”

The mayor didn’t even seem to notice Jhonthin. The stout man simply stared, horror writing itself across his features. “I ask again—are all softlanders so foolish? You’re both as mad as he is!”

“Madder, actually,” Ryinn said. “I mean, we’re the ones who follow him around. Think about that.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.

Jhonthin was frowning and prying at one of the box’s nails. “And actually, even by Softlander standards, sir mayor, we’re all pretty foolish.” His voice was distant—Jhonthin had a problem to solve; he wouldn’t content until he did.

Adahm would be a hero. The next Lucklord. No. Greater than the Lucklord. The hero of children’s tales. A rich hero of childrens tales. All within his grasp. All he had to do was to—somehow—destroy Meyabor’s ghost.

“Mayor,” Adahm said sharply, finally forcing himself out his daydreams. “How far is Meyabor”

The mayor seemed too taken aback by his sudden snap back to reality to answer at first. “Not far,” he allowed, finally. He sounded as if he wished it were otherwise. “But I will not—can not—allow you to go.” He crossed his arms in what he probably hoped would be a commanding gesture. “I can’t have you stirring up some ghost, then running back here with your tail between your legs. I can’t have you leading that evil back here. This is no game, softlander.”

“You really think that’s going to convince him?” It hardly even sounded like a question the way Ryinn said it, more a statement of disbelief.

Adahm thought that Ryinn, for once, had a rather good point. “My good mayor, you misjudge me yet again. Adahm, run? Adahm, the next Lucklord, turn and flee at the first sign of danger, like some wet-behind-the-ears boy? Oh no, mayor. I go to destroy this ghost.”

“Next Lucklord, indeed,” Jhonthin muttered. He was still trying to pry open one of the crates. His damned curiosity was as insatiable as Adahm’s dreams of glory. Almost.

The mayor reached out an arm to steady himself against a tall stack of grainsacks. “Kill a force strong enough to kill an entire Old World city.” His voice sound distant, his body was shaking, and even his beard looked paler. “And walk away from it none the worse.”

Adahm shrugged. “Well, that’s the idea. I mean, consider---what danger is there in it for you? Worst comes to worst, we fail miserably, and this vengeful old spirit gets rid of a couple of mad softlanders for you.”

For the first time since they’d entered his house, something that might have hinted at concurrence sputtered in back of the mayor’s eyes. That was almost depressing, Adahm reflected. The first time a person agreed with him was when he offered to off and get killed. Not quite the Lucklord yet.

If all went well, that would change.

“I suppose it’s your lives to waste.” The mayor said it grudgingly, as even granting these unstable wanderers that small concession was more than they deserved. “Very well. I’ll arrange for a guide to lead you to Meyabor. You’ll leave at dawn.”

Adahm was indignant. “What, not tonight?” At the least, they could camp in the ruins overnight, and deal with the ghost the next day. I’d take a spirit over these stinking goats any day.

“Softlander, I’m not saying you have any hope in this fool’s errand. But if there is any---you won’t find it at night.”

The old man had a point, in a way. Adahm suddenly recalled just how far they’d travelled, how exhausted they were. He smiled wanly. I couldn’t fight a puppy, let alone an evil spirit. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was.

“You’re right, old man.” Adahm found it mildly amusing that they hadn’t even bothered to learn the stubby mayor’s name. “Fine. At dawn.”

“At dawn.” For once he sounded confident. He stood straight, waiting.

Did he expect them to sleep on Dobbor’s streets, such as they were, with the goats? Adahm opened his mouth indignantly.

Jhonthin cut him off. “Servants grace,” he swore, “what are in these blasted boxes?” His fingers were red and raw from trying to pry them open, and the exasperation was written plane across his face.

The corner of the mayor’s rounded cheek quirked mirthfully at some hidden joke. “Funny you should ask. The grainsacks? Feed for the goats. The crates? Dried goat meat. And the boxes? Urns of water. In case the well goes dry,” he explained.

“Well, Jhonth, you were almost right,” Ryinn quipped.

“Funny we should mention it?” Jhonthin said, for once ignoring Ryinn. “Why?”

“Because the only reason they’re in my house is because it’s the biggest building in town, besides the storage building. Which is where you’ll be sleeping tonight.” Two more quirks of a smile. Adahm felt a surge of irritation towards the little man.

“And they aren’t in the storage building why?” Adahm demanded. He could certainly see nothing funny about the situation.

The mayor lifted an eyebrow. “Why? You’ll see, I suppose, softlander. Perhaps you can find some glory in this circumstance.”

How infuriatingly ambiguous. “You bloody old goat,” Adahm said heatedly, “I didn’t ride this far for riddles. Now answer me: why aren’t all these supplies in your storage house?”

This time the smile won the fight; it twitched once than stayed branded on the mayors face, the first one Adahm had seen from him. No more the pity. It was a disconcerting smile.

“You’ll see,” he said through the smile. “In fact, I’ll show you the way there now myself.”

* * *

“The stables were destroyed, and they haven’t had time to rebuild them,” Adahm said furiously, slamming his fist against the dark ground. He immediately regretted it—there was no doubt in his mind that it was nothing but stale manure. It almost made him miss the sand.

A goat lumbered over his outstretched legs, bleating frantically. Adahm violently kicked it away. It bucked in surprise, turned to face him, blinked, then returned to bleating. Adahm could have sworn it was bleating even more loudly now, just to spite him.

Ryinn’s face was a mask of disgust. “Who uses a storehouse as a stable, anyways?” He had to shout; he’d sequestered himself in a corner in a vain effort to stay out of the way of the dozens of goats, and it was near impossible to stay coherent over the cacophonous bleating. “And then doubles it as a guesthouse?”

Adahm scowled. “The damned mayor of Dobbor, that’s who.” The old man had barely been able to contain his mirth at showing them where they’d be sleeping. Adahm had had half a mind to spin on his heel and leave, save the only other places to sleep were on the streets—still with goats—or under the open skies outside the town. In the end, it had seemed slightly more reasonable to house with the goats than risk waking up to another sandstorm.

He was beginning to think that might have been a poor decision.

The building wasn’t particularly large, in the first place; it would have a small barn at best in Rygaurd. The ceiling was low and flat, and there were no windows. Goats filled the place like water poured into a glass. Their cries were almost unbearably loud in such close quarters, and the smell was near unbearable. The open doorway, drafting in warm desert air, might have provided some relief—if not for the steady stream of goats passing in and out of its arched height. The only way Adahm had found the room to sit comfortably was to sit on the direct opposite side of the piles of feed where most of the goats were concentrated.

Unfortunately, this was also near as far from the door as you could get, and the smell lingered here like a parasite. The building could have burned to the ground and Adahm would have expected it to still stink of goat. How the mayor had ever expected anybody to sleep there, Adahm would never know. Well, he thought, he probably didn’t intend for you to get any sleep. A wave of hatred for the stupid squat old man washed over Adahm.

“It’s outrageous!” he roared, scattering a few goats that had been pressing a bit too closely around him. “Is this how a hero sleeps? With goats?”

Jhonthin was pacing through the goats, uncomfortable with simply sitting down for them to walk all over him. “Well, it’s how we sleep,” he pointed out. “Not much we can do about it.” Of the three, he seemed the least upset with their caprine quarters.

“Listen to him,” Ryinn said, turning to Adahm. “It’s all well and good for Jhonthin.