“Humans often portray their fears of war through the mythos of a war between heaven and hell. While such a war, like any, would be disastrous on many fronts, it belies the true nature of the cosmos. Interdimensional war is no small skirmish, it requires power on a level beyond comprehension to those of us whose main goal is to find a decent bagel before nine in the morning. Unfortunately, such a war is coming. I can sense it in my bones and death, destruction and unmaking will follow in its wake. Whether we will play a role in this coming struggle of chaos and entropy, I do not yet know.”
“The answer is: Yes, we will play a role. I have already been tapped by beings advanced enough to be called gods and powerful enough that I have to tread carefully in my dealings.”
“I fear what this implies. I fear what this means.”
“Change, of course. It always brings change. It may also bring my final death.”
“I hear the siren song to be involved as well. I do not want to leave you or here, but I'm inexorably drawn to the front of the storm.”
“Then go with me, you would be involved and we would not be apart and you could ride the storm the way you love.”
“Indeed, but what of our lives here?”
“We are becoming greater than our mortal shells. And we must either accept we are greater beings or die expediently as mortals.”
“Perhaps, I should choose the expedient death.”
“You won't die fast enough.”
January 10, 2009
January 09, 2009
A Period Apart
Year 20: Half-dazed, Morgan lay quietly as his blood was being drawn for another test. Michael stopped inside the doorway of the bedroom and said nothing. There was a lot each wanted to say to the other, but neither wanted to hear themselves say it. Michael was trying to compose in his mind the gentlest way to say he was leaving. Morgan couldn't think very coherently, and emotions that gnawed at him lacked defining words. Between the two of them, the past two weeks had stretched like months and passed like minutes.
When the needle was removed from Morgan's arm, Michael said, “Excuse us, please.”
The others shuffled out of the room. Michael shut the door behind them. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Morgan canted his head slightly. “Morgan, I'm going to leave.”
“Please, no.” Morgan's voice sounded weak and dry.
“Morgan, I know you want me to stay, but I have children now and I think I should look after them.”
“They can... here.”
“I don't want them near mother.”
Morgan made a gutteral groan and several incoherent noises. Michael hugged him and then kissed him on the cheek.
~~~
For nearly two years, Morgan attempted to run the family business and the barony, despite being unsuited to do the former. His regular occupation kept him busy as well. He made regular entreaties to Michael to return home but couldn't fathom why Michael was sour about doing so, even after their mother had left. Finally, he asked for copies of their father's will and mailed them to Michael.
One night, he sat in the proprieter's chair at Wallace, Ltd. listening to a primitive reader bleeping as it translated a typewritten letter. He slowly sipped on bourbon while trying to remain clear-headed enough to wend his way through the vocabulary of the letter. He stopped to look up another term. He heard the door open and shut. Morgan shouted out, “What is an estoppel?”
“It bars an action that contradicts a previous statement,” came the soft reply.
Morgan went to take another sip and found the glass empty. He dropped the glass on the desktop and put his head down on the flat, cool surface. “You finally came. I can barely figure out what I am doing. I keep fearing I will do irreparable harm.”
A hand gently stroked Morgan's hair. “You look like you haven't slept in days. I am so sorry. I can't believe I let anger keep me from seeing what I was doing to myself or to anyone.”
Tears wet the desktop as Morgan shook from stress. “I have not slept more than two hours in weeks.”
“I'm here now. You don't have to worry about this company anymore.”
“I still have contracts to fulfill.”
“You don't look to be in any shape to fill them.”
“I may just do it the easy way and die.”
“What? Oh, Morgan, I should have realized what I was doing to you...”
“Too many precision jobs onworld lately. No rest.”
“Why didn't you tell me I'd inhereited the company?”
“I did not think I needed to say it. Dad would not have left it to me. When he died, you should have known you were the one to inherit.”
Michael gripped Morgan's shoulders. “You're absolutely right. Let's get you home.”
Morgan stood up and picked up the folded cape on which he'd been sitting. “I cannot go home yet.”
Despite his exhuastion, Morgan deftly danced away from Michael's grip and disappeared, leaving Michael clutching at air.
When the needle was removed from Morgan's arm, Michael said, “Excuse us, please.”
The others shuffled out of the room. Michael shut the door behind them. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Morgan canted his head slightly. “Morgan, I'm going to leave.”
“Please, no.” Morgan's voice sounded weak and dry.
“Morgan, I know you want me to stay, but I have children now and I think I should look after them.”
“They can... here.”
“I don't want them near mother.”
Morgan made a gutteral groan and several incoherent noises. Michael hugged him and then kissed him on the cheek.
~~~
For nearly two years, Morgan attempted to run the family business and the barony, despite being unsuited to do the former. His regular occupation kept him busy as well. He made regular entreaties to Michael to return home but couldn't fathom why Michael was sour about doing so, even after their mother had left. Finally, he asked for copies of their father's will and mailed them to Michael.
One night, he sat in the proprieter's chair at Wallace, Ltd. listening to a primitive reader bleeping as it translated a typewritten letter. He slowly sipped on bourbon while trying to remain clear-headed enough to wend his way through the vocabulary of the letter. He stopped to look up another term. He heard the door open and shut. Morgan shouted out, “What is an estoppel?”
“It bars an action that contradicts a previous statement,” came the soft reply.
Morgan went to take another sip and found the glass empty. He dropped the glass on the desktop and put his head down on the flat, cool surface. “You finally came. I can barely figure out what I am doing. I keep fearing I will do irreparable harm.”
A hand gently stroked Morgan's hair. “You look like you haven't slept in days. I am so sorry. I can't believe I let anger keep me from seeing what I was doing to myself or to anyone.”
Tears wet the desktop as Morgan shook from stress. “I have not slept more than two hours in weeks.”
“I'm here now. You don't have to worry about this company anymore.”
“I still have contracts to fulfill.”
“You don't look to be in any shape to fill them.”
“I may just do it the easy way and die.”
“What? Oh, Morgan, I should have realized what I was doing to you...”
“Too many precision jobs onworld lately. No rest.”
“Why didn't you tell me I'd inhereited the company?”
“I did not think I needed to say it. Dad would not have left it to me. When he died, you should have known you were the one to inherit.”
Michael gripped Morgan's shoulders. “You're absolutely right. Let's get you home.”
Morgan stood up and picked up the folded cape on which he'd been sitting. “I cannot go home yet.”
Despite his exhuastion, Morgan deftly danced away from Michael's grip and disappeared, leaving Michael clutching at air.
January 08, 2009
What the Blind Man Sees
What the Blind Man Sees
by David Santana
The constant chittering of the crickets is my only companion this night. The lights of the city have been left behind and only the starlight permeates the darkness under the new moon. I place my duffel in the low grass and kneel down next to it. The grass has yet to collect dew and is very dry and almost crackling. The autumn has only just begun and yet the leaves of nearby trees already put out their pungent scent of changing. But only the cloying taste of the not-as-brisk air touches my tongue. What the blind man sees…..
I reach into my duffel and pull out the white strip of fabric I had packed. Smooth as silk with a fresh fragrance of lilacs. I press it against my nose, and I make note to tell my housekeeper to stop using fragrance-scented fabric softener. I take one last look at what little I could see under the starlight, and then I bind my eyes with the fabric. The cool silk races around the back of my head under my long curls and settles into a knot. I adjust the fit and set it snugly against my eyes. Standing up, I listen for the soft rustle of the grass under me. I can taste the salt in the air; the smell of the sea not too far off. A bird swoops low in the night. Then I realize I was mistaken. I hear the flap of leather and I know it is one of the fruit bats from a nearby cave. What the blind man sees….
My mind wanders to Morgan. I watch him train himself; his body moving fluidly hitting their targets, his arms reaching out to his weapons and striking with accuracy, his marksmanship always on point. Yet he is completely blind. A certain calm and confidence comes with each move. Not a hint of hesitation. And he would not be the top assassin if he could not adapt and survive in the field. His quiet haughtiness and aloof attitude make him of folklore status among the younger initiates. How I would love to remove that infuriating smug look off his face. Still there is a natural beauty to his movement. It can be almost hypnotic while he practices; hitting every target as if he was sure it was there. What the blind man sees….
I strike at the tree I knew was there, my foot sinking deep into the bark. I feel the spray of bark splinters as my leg swings away. My right arm bends deep to snatch a stone on the ground and with my continued swing, I throw it and strike another tree with it. I am rewarded with a resounding ‘twock’. My next strike is to swing my other leg at another tree that was there….but it wasn’t. I spin to the ground and land with a rustling thud. Even with stationary objects I still have a lack of perception when I do not see them. Knowing where each target was, I still missed one. I lift the blindfold and see I had missed my mark by half an inch. Cursing, I lift myself off the ground. I murmur Morgan’s name under my breath and lower the blindfold over my eyes again. Lowering myself to the ground, I meditate to become one with my surroundings again. What the blind man sees…..
“You ain’t gonna do anyone any good unless, you find your center, boy,” my teacher would say, and smack me in the head with the butt of his staff. “You need to be in a place where nothin’ touches you, but you can touch everything.” He would grin at me while I seek that inner place where you are the master of all that is near you. And still he would distract me. “You need ta learn what Morgan learned, boy. He has that place and nutin' touches him. “And I would open an eye and see Morgan’s trainer douse him with water and beat him with his staff. And Morgan would just sit there as if nothing was happening, his face straight as if he was looking at something. Oh how I was taught to hate him. What was he looking at? What the blind man sees…
And still I can find my center, I can enter the place where I am in control and nothing can turn me from my intent, except for that look on his face! The stare from eyes that didn’t see. The fluid movement of his attacks. He was the perfect man to be an assassin. The will and the weapon. I was still but a mere shadow to him. But I will persevere. I will reach his ability, his grace, and his determination. One day I shall close my eyes and see what the blind man sees.
January 07, 2009
Pawn Threatens King
AC: “The United States government, upon reviewing the agreement between the United States of America and the Wallace family, has decided to exercise eminent domain over the property of said family and ...”
Michael calmly took a sip of water. “Are you declaring a hostile action?”
Senator Finley stopped for a moment. “No, we are exercising eminent domain.”
“The barony is held by the family Wallace in lieu of the Crown. Therefore, you are exercising eminent domain over British soil. Do you wish to continue on this course of action?”
Finley looked carefully at the preciously preserved document. It had been carefully scrivened and signed. There was also a typed copy that he was allowed to abuse in his usual manner. The copy was rolled up and being pointedly smacked on a podium when Finley spoke.
Michael Wallace held his family's copy of the same agreement. He handled it with reverence and white gloves. Michael knew every line on it by heart. He knew the spirit of the pact and the practical and moral and financial implications if either side broke it. Michael wondered how carefully Finley reviewed the papers or if he had at all.
They were banking on Morgan's admission to sedition in hopes of nullifying the family's claims to the land and title. Michael countered that Morgan had never truly been a baron as they had found out that Morgan was not John Hunter Fitzgerald's son, resulting in a quiet abdication and passage of the barony to the proper heir. Michael had that in writing. Due to Michael's death and subsequent resurrection, the title went into abeyance until Michael could produce a male heir or permanently died, but it was also decided that he could continue to use the title Lord as a former baron that had not been dishonored. But, the title was not extinct, which was the exact condition necessary for the lands to convert to American soil. To confuse matters further, Buckingham Palace issued a writ of summons to create him as a baronet so he could continue his administrative role. Michael had gone from Honorable to Right Honorable to deceased to Lord to Sir. Even Michael wasn't sure how he should be addressed.
Finley was finding the family's excrutiatingly accurate recordkeeping annoying. He'd try to find evidence of them evading taxes, resulting in 250 years' of tax documents, meaning they payed taxes before an offical tax was levied, which was also part of the original agreement. Michael also produced even more documentation for taxes payed to Britain. “And all of it,” Michael calmly stated, “is taxation without representation. I am not allowed to vote in either country and this branch of the Wallace family was denied a seat in the House of Lords.”
“I am still not comfortable with aristocracy in this country.”
“Have you weighed your comfort against what's best for the country writ large?”
Michael let Finley and his crusade do their posturing. He kept his comments short and concise. He could see where this was headed, but he just let them have all the rope they needed. When the declaration of eminent domain was through, he stated, “Let the record show that I interpret this declaration as a hostile action against my family and the Crown contrary to the stated terms of the agreement.”
“So noted,” Finley responded acridly. “It won't make a difference.”
Michael looked over to the British consul and her attache. They both nodded to him. He spoke softly, the words' weight carrying themselves. “I invoke Article Eighteen.”
Several heads turned and the low thunder of pages flipping could be heard. While they searched for the reference, Michael exposited, “Back when the colonies gained independence, despite winning the war, the American dollar was worthless. Suddenly, there were pensions to be paid, land to be doled, and a nation to build. There was no monetary capital with which to do any of this. Both the nation and the barony were in peril. The Wallace family, through equal parts diplomacy, decency, deceit, serendipity and sheer luck, still had all its holdings intact. We still thought of ourselves as Englishmen, despite clearly aiding the ragtag army of General Washington. We supported your cause, without wanting to directly be involved. It proved impossible in practice. We fed your armies, quartered your soldiers, lent the officers our horses. Since our castle doubled as a fortress, it would have been a worthless endeavour to attempt to assail us when there were more important military targets and Frederick Wallace even allowed a hospital unit be set up in our walled area for the patriots. And, separately, he did the same for the British. Either nation could have hung him for treason. But, like all of our famliy, he was bred a businessman and a diplomat, so he drafted a compromise. He offered to back the dollar with a generous loan of ten thousand pounds troy in actual gold. He also ceded half the baronial holdings, as an olive branch. The Wallace family would consider the loan forgiven as long as we were allowed to hold our lands and titles as British subjects. Three nations witnessed and signed this loan. If we are ever unjustly removed from our land, the loan will immediately become due, adjusted for the current value, with five percent interest compounded daily.”
Morgan, sitting in the gallery, whispered a quote from the family letters, “One day, my sons, paper will be just as valuable as bullets in enforcing one's will in the world. When that day comes, a paper tiger will be the most dangerous creature around.”
Michael calmly took a sip of water. “Are you declaring a hostile action?”
Senator Finley stopped for a moment. “No, we are exercising eminent domain.”
“The barony is held by the family Wallace in lieu of the Crown. Therefore, you are exercising eminent domain over British soil. Do you wish to continue on this course of action?”
Finley looked carefully at the preciously preserved document. It had been carefully scrivened and signed. There was also a typed copy that he was allowed to abuse in his usual manner. The copy was rolled up and being pointedly smacked on a podium when Finley spoke.
Michael Wallace held his family's copy of the same agreement. He handled it with reverence and white gloves. Michael knew every line on it by heart. He knew the spirit of the pact and the practical and moral and financial implications if either side broke it. Michael wondered how carefully Finley reviewed the papers or if he had at all.
They were banking on Morgan's admission to sedition in hopes of nullifying the family's claims to the land and title. Michael countered that Morgan had never truly been a baron as they had found out that Morgan was not John Hunter Fitzgerald's son, resulting in a quiet abdication and passage of the barony to the proper heir. Michael had that in writing. Due to Michael's death and subsequent resurrection, the title went into abeyance until Michael could produce a male heir or permanently died, but it was also decided that he could continue to use the title Lord as a former baron that had not been dishonored. But, the title was not extinct, which was the exact condition necessary for the lands to convert to American soil. To confuse matters further, Buckingham Palace issued a writ of summons to create him as a baronet so he could continue his administrative role. Michael had gone from Honorable to Right Honorable to deceased to Lord to Sir. Even Michael wasn't sure how he should be addressed.
Finley was finding the family's excrutiatingly accurate recordkeeping annoying. He'd try to find evidence of them evading taxes, resulting in 250 years' of tax documents, meaning they payed taxes before an offical tax was levied, which was also part of the original agreement. Michael also produced even more documentation for taxes payed to Britain. “And all of it,” Michael calmly stated, “is taxation without representation. I am not allowed to vote in either country and this branch of the Wallace family was denied a seat in the House of Lords.”
“I am still not comfortable with aristocracy in this country.”
“Have you weighed your comfort against what's best for the country writ large?”
Michael let Finley and his crusade do their posturing. He kept his comments short and concise. He could see where this was headed, but he just let them have all the rope they needed. When the declaration of eminent domain was through, he stated, “Let the record show that I interpret this declaration as a hostile action against my family and the Crown contrary to the stated terms of the agreement.”
“So noted,” Finley responded acridly. “It won't make a difference.”
Michael looked over to the British consul and her attache. They both nodded to him. He spoke softly, the words' weight carrying themselves. “I invoke Article Eighteen.”
Several heads turned and the low thunder of pages flipping could be heard. While they searched for the reference, Michael exposited, “Back when the colonies gained independence, despite winning the war, the American dollar was worthless. Suddenly, there were pensions to be paid, land to be doled, and a nation to build. There was no monetary capital with which to do any of this. Both the nation and the barony were in peril. The Wallace family, through equal parts diplomacy, decency, deceit, serendipity and sheer luck, still had all its holdings intact. We still thought of ourselves as Englishmen, despite clearly aiding the ragtag army of General Washington. We supported your cause, without wanting to directly be involved. It proved impossible in practice. We fed your armies, quartered your soldiers, lent the officers our horses. Since our castle doubled as a fortress, it would have been a worthless endeavour to attempt to assail us when there were more important military targets and Frederick Wallace even allowed a hospital unit be set up in our walled area for the patriots. And, separately, he did the same for the British. Either nation could have hung him for treason. But, like all of our famliy, he was bred a businessman and a diplomat, so he drafted a compromise. He offered to back the dollar with a generous loan of ten thousand pounds troy in actual gold. He also ceded half the baronial holdings, as an olive branch. The Wallace family would consider the loan forgiven as long as we were allowed to hold our lands and titles as British subjects. Three nations witnessed and signed this loan. If we are ever unjustly removed from our land, the loan will immediately become due, adjusted for the current value, with five percent interest compounded daily.”
Morgan, sitting in the gallery, whispered a quote from the family letters, “One day, my sons, paper will be just as valuable as bullets in enforcing one's will in the world. When that day comes, a paper tiger will be the most dangerous creature around.”
January 06, 2009
In the Eye
Michael sat in a hotel bar in Cincinnati wondering how he could miss home already. Usually, it took a full day before he felt displaced, but a remarkably boring conference left him wishing for his pipe and Morgan's awful harpsichord. The ennui was hitting a point where he'd look forward to guessing what might cause his daughter to vomit green. The distance was more sharply felt after they both said they missed him. He tried telling them a bedtime story over the phone but the hotel phone thought otherwise. So, a scotch and soda was about the only comfort he could simulate here. In his usual manner, he mumbled to himself, “I would have brought my mistress if I didn't think she'd be bored to tears.”
A sharp “What!?” from his left made him roll his eyes in that direction. What he presumed was a woman sat on the stool next to his looking plenty indignant. She was wearing a nametag that said “Julie.” He looked at it and said, “You may want to remove your nametag unless you want a lot of men referring to you by your first name.”
He continued looking into his glass. She huffed a few times. He sat up straight and turned his body to face her. “Well, Julie, since you seem to have made the decision to be angry at me, may I buy you a drink?”
“Is this your idea of an apology?”
“No, this is my idea of not being bored. Do you want me to apologize for getting my ear blown out when you shouted into it or not staring at your chest with dirty thoughts running through my mind?”
She made another wordless noise, so Michael merely shrugged to himself, left a fifty sitting on the bar and walked away with his drink. She followed after him, “Hey! Where do you think you're going?”
“That is not your business to mind,” Michael responded without making eye contact.
“I wasn't done talking to you!”
“You weren't talking at all. You shouted one syllable and then proceeded to make a lot of noises, but no words. And then you wanted an apology, then more noises.”
“I ought to tell your wife on you.”
Michael's snapped out of his doldrums. He laughed. “What wife? Do you know who I am?”
She looked insulted again. “No!”
“Good answer. The right answer, actually. Good night.” Michael pressed the elevator button. He emptied the glass and left it on a table. He reached into his jacket for a key.
“So, who are you?”
Michael looked at her. “No one important enough for you to know. Trust me on that.”
“If you're no one important, then are you married?”
Michael shook his head. She seemed puzzled by the noise he made. As he stepped into the elevator, she squeezed in behind him. He crossed his arms and stared at her. “Going somewhere?”
She turned with all the pomp of someone who thought she had every idea what she was doing towards the elevator buttons only to realise that it only went to the top five floors, all of which required key access. She turned and smiled insincerely. “Mind if I go up with you?”
Michael pressed the door open button and watched her walk out. He stated flatly, “You would be attractive if it weren't for your attitude.”
She turned around in surprise as the doors quietly closed.
A sharp “What!?” from his left made him roll his eyes in that direction. What he presumed was a woman sat on the stool next to his looking plenty indignant. She was wearing a nametag that said “Julie.” He looked at it and said, “You may want to remove your nametag unless you want a lot of men referring to you by your first name.”
He continued looking into his glass. She huffed a few times. He sat up straight and turned his body to face her. “Well, Julie, since you seem to have made the decision to be angry at me, may I buy you a drink?”
“Is this your idea of an apology?”
“No, this is my idea of not being bored. Do you want me to apologize for getting my ear blown out when you shouted into it or not staring at your chest with dirty thoughts running through my mind?”
She made another wordless noise, so Michael merely shrugged to himself, left a fifty sitting on the bar and walked away with his drink. She followed after him, “Hey! Where do you think you're going?”
“That is not your business to mind,” Michael responded without making eye contact.
“I wasn't done talking to you!”
“You weren't talking at all. You shouted one syllable and then proceeded to make a lot of noises, but no words. And then you wanted an apology, then more noises.”
“I ought to tell your wife on you.”
Michael's snapped out of his doldrums. He laughed. “What wife? Do you know who I am?”
She looked insulted again. “No!”
“Good answer. The right answer, actually. Good night.” Michael pressed the elevator button. He emptied the glass and left it on a table. He reached into his jacket for a key.
“So, who are you?”
Michael looked at her. “No one important enough for you to know. Trust me on that.”
“If you're no one important, then are you married?”
Michael shook his head. She seemed puzzled by the noise he made. As he stepped into the elevator, she squeezed in behind him. He crossed his arms and stared at her. “Going somewhere?”
She turned with all the pomp of someone who thought she had every idea what she was doing towards the elevator buttons only to realise that it only went to the top five floors, all of which required key access. She turned and smiled insincerely. “Mind if I go up with you?”
Michael pressed the door open button and watched her walk out. He stated flatly, “You would be attractive if it weren't for your attitude.”
She turned around in surprise as the doors quietly closed.
January 05, 2009
Professional Hit
Valerie quietly walked down the corridor to the cabinet of her royal assassin. She held in her hand a parchment wrapped around a stack of cards. She found Morgan strumming a lyre. His mind seemed more preoccupied than his fingers. After a few minutes, he stopped and canted an ear in her direction. She walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He controlled the urge to flinch away from it. He wasn't used to being touched. She pressed the packet into his hand and gave him an innocent peck on the cheek. Shock, then a smile, crept onto his face as he heard her footsteps softly retreating.
The cards were done in braille. The braille wasn't as straight as when a frame was used and harder to read as a result, but she'd made the effort to learn. It was a level of discretion he'd not seen in the Hysper courts before. Of course, most of the time, others forgot he was blind anyway, so they couldn't be expected to take advantage of it.. His fingers danced over the lines.
The card stack was a dossier. One of the warmongering wizards was becoming a real threat to her position. She had finally decided to exercise her power and he was about to be her instrument. He slid the cards into his pocket and slid his enchanted spectacles on his face. He carefully unfurled his cloak and laid it on his shoulders. He picked up an average silver coin and started a long, slow cantation while going through the mental kata of an assassin. His precise words and mental sharpness fed each other. Finally, he placed the coin in his mouth and went for a walk.
He walked softly. He understood a 6-foot-8 frame in black clothing is hard to hide. When he got to the general corridors, he quietly circulated amid the regular people. What the spectacles actually allowed him to see was a cacophony of intentions, feelings, and general thoughts. He could not really see the crowd about him, just their minds at work. “Good friend!” he heard yelled across the crowd. Khael must have noticed him. Morgan gated away and several floors down.
The city nation of Hysper was entirely contained in a building roughly three by five miles and of uncertain height. The tower was partially submerged and magic alone kept it from subsiding. The flood that buried a good portion of the tower also devoured most of the planet's land masses. The base was supposedly shaped akin to a ziggurat, but leaks in lower areas meant swimming a mile down if one wanted to see it.
The coin in Morgan's mouth emitted a low hum. Morgan turned his head left and right to see if any direction strengthened it. As he wended through another packed common hall, he moved closer until the coin could be heard rattling against his teeth. The coin was also shaking fast enough to emit a hum. He could see the attention it was attracting, but one mind seemed out of tune with mere curiousity. He forcefully spit the coin out at the mental hue of panic. This was immediately followed by his standard line of “By the order of Queen Valerie....”
The crowd dissapated as the marque's name was pronounced. Assassins are normally supposed to be shadows on the wall that strike in the black of night, but this targeting was more of a public relations move to quash further uprising. It was almost unnecessary to kill him once the pronouncement was made. Almost.
The target hid panic well. To everyone else, he was brave. To Morgan, he was just going to be an annoyance. Morgan put up a shield reflexively. The spell aimed at him bounced off harmlessly. The next spell he didn't see coming. At least part of it forked around the shield and hit him. His target was an experienced duelist and a fire mage. Dying wasn't the answer here, though.
He gated several feet closer, almost occupying the same area as the target's body. A fine razor sharp slice ran up the body projected from Morgan's fingertips. The next spell died on the mage's lips as he shrieked in horror. Morgan's hand stopped as it hit bone. He sunk his hand further in until he put it around an internal organ and squeezed. As the mage continued struggling, Morgan wondered at the almost guiltless pleasure he felt in offing the greater races' unsavory members. It contrasted sharply to the stultifying remorse he felt when tasked with killing humans, even ones whose actions merited reprisal. He wiped the gore off his hands on the dead mage's robes and walked off, the crowd rapidly parting before him.
The cards were done in braille. The braille wasn't as straight as when a frame was used and harder to read as a result, but she'd made the effort to learn. It was a level of discretion he'd not seen in the Hysper courts before. Of course, most of the time, others forgot he was blind anyway, so they couldn't be expected to take advantage of it.. His fingers danced over the lines.
The card stack was a dossier. One of the warmongering wizards was becoming a real threat to her position. She had finally decided to exercise her power and he was about to be her instrument. He slid the cards into his pocket and slid his enchanted spectacles on his face. He carefully unfurled his cloak and laid it on his shoulders. He picked up an average silver coin and started a long, slow cantation while going through the mental kata of an assassin. His precise words and mental sharpness fed each other. Finally, he placed the coin in his mouth and went for a walk.
He walked softly. He understood a 6-foot-8 frame in black clothing is hard to hide. When he got to the general corridors, he quietly circulated amid the regular people. What the spectacles actually allowed him to see was a cacophony of intentions, feelings, and general thoughts. He could not really see the crowd about him, just their minds at work. “Good friend!” he heard yelled across the crowd. Khael must have noticed him. Morgan gated away and several floors down.
The city nation of Hysper was entirely contained in a building roughly three by five miles and of uncertain height. The tower was partially submerged and magic alone kept it from subsiding. The flood that buried a good portion of the tower also devoured most of the planet's land masses. The base was supposedly shaped akin to a ziggurat, but leaks in lower areas meant swimming a mile down if one wanted to see it.
The coin in Morgan's mouth emitted a low hum. Morgan turned his head left and right to see if any direction strengthened it. As he wended through another packed common hall, he moved closer until the coin could be heard rattling against his teeth. The coin was also shaking fast enough to emit a hum. He could see the attention it was attracting, but one mind seemed out of tune with mere curiousity. He forcefully spit the coin out at the mental hue of panic. This was immediately followed by his standard line of “By the order of Queen Valerie....”
The crowd dissapated as the marque's name was pronounced. Assassins are normally supposed to be shadows on the wall that strike in the black of night, but this targeting was more of a public relations move to quash further uprising. It was almost unnecessary to kill him once the pronouncement was made. Almost.
The target hid panic well. To everyone else, he was brave. To Morgan, he was just going to be an annoyance. Morgan put up a shield reflexively. The spell aimed at him bounced off harmlessly. The next spell he didn't see coming. At least part of it forked around the shield and hit him. His target was an experienced duelist and a fire mage. Dying wasn't the answer here, though.
He gated several feet closer, almost occupying the same area as the target's body. A fine razor sharp slice ran up the body projected from Morgan's fingertips. The next spell died on the mage's lips as he shrieked in horror. Morgan's hand stopped as it hit bone. He sunk his hand further in until he put it around an internal organ and squeezed. As the mage continued struggling, Morgan wondered at the almost guiltless pleasure he felt in offing the greater races' unsavory members. It contrasted sharply to the stultifying remorse he felt when tasked with killing humans, even ones whose actions merited reprisal. He wiped the gore off his hands on the dead mage's robes and walked off, the crowd rapidly parting before him.
January 04, 2009
Trauma Magica
Michael stepped out of Morgan's dressing area with a fading scar on one wrist. His brother was absent. Michael was unsure how they'd gotten separated but he'd been forewarned of the possibility and decided that Morgan's instruction to go home if that happened best be followed. Well, a minor sidestop in the fighting pits wouldn't make much of a difference. He'd take a day or three to heal and then head back home. The only sign was a thin red line on his left hand that ran up his arm. It could be covered with cosmetics.
“Dad, where were you?”
Michael's heart sank. “Nicole? What are you doing in here?”
“I think I asked first.”
Michael bit back the sarcastic remark that came to mind. “Mind your attitude.”
Nicole snorted. “I followed you in here to ask you about going to the Guggenheim. You walked into the bathroom with Uncle Morgan, then disappeared. If you won't let us do magic, why are you doing it?”
“I told you, it's hard to give up.”
“And where's Uncle Morgan?”
“Not with me.”
“You lost him in ten minutes?”
Michael plotted out his answer. The words unrolled slowly from his mouth. “To you, I've been gone a few minutes. I've actually experienced half a week.”
Nicole stared at him in disbelief. “Wait, so you can actually decide when you come back?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Michael closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Magic works because one believes in it. That's about the best answer I can give.”
“So, are you much older than you look?”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “I've never considered that... but it hardly matters, as my maternal genes mean I'm going to live to be two or three hundred years old.”
Nicole looked astonished. “And I have these genes too?!”
“I'm going to regret teaching you two anything resembling magic.”
“But you'll teach us?” The hug and puppy dog eyes left Michael wondering where his backbone was. He sighed.
“I will teach you, but you will exercise discretion and restraint or I'll seal your minds from it.”
“Thank you, Daddy!”
“Lesson number one: Be careful what you wish for...” He placed his hand on her forehead and psychically ripped her mind open.
“Dad, where were you?”
Michael's heart sank. “Nicole? What are you doing in here?”
“I think I asked first.”
Michael bit back the sarcastic remark that came to mind. “Mind your attitude.”
Nicole snorted. “I followed you in here to ask you about going to the Guggenheim. You walked into the bathroom with Uncle Morgan, then disappeared. If you won't let us do magic, why are you doing it?”
“I told you, it's hard to give up.”
“And where's Uncle Morgan?”
“Not with me.”
“You lost him in ten minutes?”
Michael plotted out his answer. The words unrolled slowly from his mouth. “To you, I've been gone a few minutes. I've actually experienced half a week.”
Nicole stared at him in disbelief. “Wait, so you can actually decide when you come back?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Michael closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Magic works because one believes in it. That's about the best answer I can give.”
“So, are you much older than you look?”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “I've never considered that... but it hardly matters, as my maternal genes mean I'm going to live to be two or three hundred years old.”
Nicole looked astonished. “And I have these genes too?!”
“I'm going to regret teaching you two anything resembling magic.”
“But you'll teach us?” The hug and puppy dog eyes left Michael wondering where his backbone was. He sighed.
“I will teach you, but you will exercise discretion and restraint or I'll seal your minds from it.”
“Thank you, Daddy!”
“Lesson number one: Be careful what you wish for...” He placed his hand on her forehead and psychically ripped her mind open.
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