Alphabet

A man walked into the woods.

But he knew he would be followed.

Certainly, he must avoid the guard.
Dogs and knives were a common theme among the Sentries.
Especially to hunt men like him.
For days now, he had been running with them on his tail.
Gargantuan footprints lined the earth behind him; the footprints of the dogs the men brought with them.
Hellhound didn’t begin to describe the horror of these creatures – the Daerken.
Ice and death and agony followed wherever they treaded.
Jumping over a fallen tree, the man made his was quickly through the undergrowth.
“Kane!” a voice echoed near him.
Large chains webbed the trees around him.
Meldron had warned him about chains in the wood.
Not once had he expected to find anything of the sort, and now he regretted being so slow to listen to his friend.
Otherwise beautiful trees had been scarred by the chains as though they were frequently jostled and pulled.
Part of the man wanted to turn around and lend himself to the Sentries.
Quitting now would put everything he had accomplished to shame, however.
Rings of arcane figures dotted the chain-bound trees around him.
Silently, he crept through the web of iron and wood.
Then everything began to blur together.
Upon a tower of rock, a cloaked figure stood, his hands glowed in the fog.
Visibility was growing faint.
Whatever was happening here, the man’s own body was betraying him.
Xeron’s words came to his mind.
You must reach Valviera or all is for naught.
Zeylar assumed his ultimate form and took to the skies.

Cows

Cows,

They’re black and white,

Just like the night,

Except the white,

Though that’s not right,

Because at night,

And due to fright,

Many tend to turn on a light,

Adding some white,

To the black of the night,

So the bedbugs don’t bite,

While they’re snuggled up tight,

Until it gets bright,

By the end of the night,

When things are alright,

And no one will fight,

Well, some people might,

But they breathe easy in light,

Because in the night,

The shadows of fright,

Give way to their plight,

When a creature in flight,

Undoes their last rite,

And whom they can’t smite,

For the strength of his sleight,

That terrible wight,

Who glides like a kite,

On the winds of the night,

Until he’s out of sight,

And the crooks sit tight,

Until the first light,

For which they have no delight,

But are indeed contrite,

And often will spite,

The creature of night,

Of whom I write,

The Dark Knight.

Unseen Evil

Rohnam breathed in dank air.  It was thick with the cool moisture of decay.  These halls had never seen the light of day.  Torches dotted the otherwise bare walls.  Dripping water and patter of tiny feet skipped through the rock-faced halls.  Rohnam was here only to die.  No man could justify killing him outright, but the blame would fall to no one if they merely let him rot.

After being ambushed by servants of the High Lord, he was dragged deep into the heart of this terrible prison – The Pit.  A mining shaft, abandoned almost a decade ago.  Few knew why.   It was not a tale often told.  A heavy fog of superstition darkened the truth to any who searched.  Rohnam was thrown into the midst of this dreadful darkness, into the uncharted and unknown.

Lying on the cold stone floor, he considered what options remained available.  Food and water would unlikely be provided, especially considering how deep the men of the High Lord had taken him.  His hope waned with every moment that passed.   Attempting escape would only hasten his inevitable death.  And yet, something within Rohnam begged him to try. 

He walked through the broken door and into the blackness, prepared to face whatever fate had in store.  Indeed the attempt was worthwhile.  Death was less likely this way than the alternative.  So he pressed through the thick cold sheets of darkness, led by the splinter of hope that was left with him.  He trudged through the corridors of The Pit.

            His hope didn’t stop the creatures that stalked him in the shadows.

Doctor Seska was a kind, brilliant man.  He was a surgeon by trade and a genius otherwise. Thomas, Dr. Seska’s android whom he named after himself, stood patiently over his shoulder as Seska fiddled with surgical equipment.  The Doctor’s soft hands gently brushed and scrubbed and disinfected the tools.  He was drying his hands when a knock sounded from the door.

                “Ah! That must be our client,” Seska said, “Thomas, will you please put away the tools while I answer the door?”

                The android responded with a simple, “Yes.”

Dr. Seska slowly walked to the door and opened it with a cheerful smile.  A man quietly walked in and the two exchanged pleasantries.  The Doctor’s pure white hair made it impossible for someone not to admire and trust him.

                Seska escorted the man to a chair and proceeded to ask him about his condition.  The man was a regular customer.  In the corner, Thomas watched in silence. When the patient left, Thomas and Seska cleaned the office.  The lights went off and the two drove to the apartment.

Hunted

July 12, 2497

Water dripped like sweat from the walls and ceiling of a seemingly endless corridor.  Rhythmic drops echoed through the otherwise perfect stillness – perfect silence.  This silence was broken by the engines of a prisoner transport shuttle.  Metal scraped against metal as it thudded to the ground, sending a vibration through the entire complex and momentarily speeding the lone drip.  A man was rudely shoved from the shuttle onto the structure as it groaned under the foreign weight.  He fell to his knees and one of the men on board shouted an obscenity.

"Enjoy your stay at the resort, Scummer!  Try and survive until Lift four-zero-four arrives," another officer called.  "Whatever happens, just don't forget . . ." the engines kicked and a muffled series of laughter pressed through the deafening hum.
Bren stood up and turned to face the graying sky.  His bright blue eyes focused on the distant spacecraft as it shrunk into the atmosphere.  He dropped his gaze as he turned to face the entry ramp into the depths of the structure. Shrenner, it was called. A drop station for prisoners in transit to the galaxy’s largest and finest penitentiary, Kingshall.  Although bearing a seemingly ironic name and housing the highest tier of lawbreakers in all the worlds, Kingshall was surprisingly accommodating.  It was overseen by the Gezum, who were doubtless the most humane of all the Sentients.  Despite this, very few worlds near the galactic edge were willing to make the voyage to the prison, especially for the sole purpose of transporting criminals.  Instead the Lifts were commissioned - massive transport ships designed to carry nearly anything from outlying words to the Sector Gates for instantaneous transport anywhere in the galaxy.

Lift 404’s arrival at Shrenner was uncertain.  Bren would have to survive in the shambled halls until then.  Intelligent mechs and robots maintained the structure and although they, too, were falling into disrepair, their work provided some help to any soul unfortunate enough to be left here. The man made his way down a ramp leading to a pair of malfunctioning

Paragon - C2

The

_________’s (castle) armorer was a shorter than some, and heavier, both in belly and in strength. He worked long and hard, crafting all manner of swords, shields, breastplates, and other weapons and armors, each with remarkable skill. Within a week the middle aged man could arm a dozen men and still have the time to pursue the various pet projects with which he occupied his idle time. He was both an honest, and a kind man. he charged far below what would be considered fair for a man of his talent and reputation, and for his more loyal customers he kept nestled within his scruffy mess of a coal black beard a smile that radiated more  comforting warmth than his forge fire during a ;;;;;;winter;;;; night.

a forge fire.  

Most of his time working was spent caring for the equipment kept by the local army-guardsmen. For this he was very well payed, kept in close friendship by the King, and in many ways more respected than most nobles in the area. But it was not in silver, nor was it in court esteem, from which he drew upon his passion. His truest pride was found in the faith and admiration of that seventeen year old boy, Aerias, Blade of Dawn, Prince of ________, Son of the King, and the nephew he had never had.

The young heir was only nine years of age when his father had trusted him to begin training with a sword of real iron, and by the end of the month the child was asking to condition in mail and fine steel. As a young man of fifteen Aerias was given a place as a Lightray in  _________s army, and quickly he climbed through the ranks. With every advancement the princeling was issued a new outfit of armor, and each time he came to receive them he praised the old smith's clever craftsmanship.  

Oftentimes when Aerias wasn't off fighting in some border dispute, escorting caravans, or out training in his swordplay, Aerias would come down the armory to visit with the smithy. There he would watch carefully as the man did his work, absorbing everything he saw. He learned from some amount of experience too, as the armorer coached him in making things like daggers, bracers, and arrowheads. The boy had some talent for the trade, but it was also clear that his hands were much better suited for a sword than a hammer.

"Aerias! You couldn't have come at a better time. I could use an extra pair of hands over on the table; I've got about a hundred arrowheads that need to be put on shafts and I need them ready by the third quarter's sun at the latest."  Aerias stood still underneath the doorframe, struggling to contain his amazement. It was already well past midday light. He had never seen Winden so frantic. The armorer was always busy, constantly moving about between various stations in the large workroom, but until this very moment the man had always walked with a certain briskness and purpose in his step. For any less bulky a man Aerias would call it grace, but whatever it was, it was gone now. It was the first time the man's large belly had a noticeable bounce to it as he trampled through the room, shuffling his hands through piles of papers; those had always been so much more orderly.

"I know! You might as well say it! I'm pitiful!" Aerias was shocked further out of his stupor by Winden's voice. It was the cry of a man who all his life had lived in complete control of himself, only to have suddenly seen it slip through his fingers like fine powder. He tried to say something, do something, but his jaw and hands just opened and closed dumbly. Finally he managed a fumbling handful of words, "_________[gods above], Winden, you're behind." How much more stupid could he sound?

While Aerias was busy stating the obvious Winden took a seat at his drafting table, each of his elbows finding a position on the messy stacks of paper that covered the desk. Slowly he lifted his right hand and stroked one of his bushy eyebrows to the temple. His eyes were half shut, watching the dumbfounded prince with the ashamed expression that is reserved for a child waiting to be punished with a sharp strike on the cheek.

Aerias tried again to conjure a sensible response. "Winden." He opened his mouth to continue, almost letting curiosity overtake consideration, about to ask the man how this had all happened. He stopped himself. Winden would explain as soon as he was ready. "I'll be happy to help. The _______ ______[ceremony/festival] isn't until late tomorrow, and I'll have all day to prepare for my duel with Lightray Evinon." Aerias entered the rest of the way through the doorway and began binding the arrowheads to their shafts. He lent a comforting smile and continued, "I imagine if you're this behind on arrowheads there must be a couple other things you could use a hand with. Cleaning, for one."

That got a laugh out of the man. Winden's eyes regained their typical spark as he started to reorder the various designs and sketches. "I guess I do. Quite a mess I've gotten myself into. Can't imagine where I'd be without you young man." He paused to look at the sketch in front of him. Aerias couldn't make out the design from his place at a nearby workbench, but he noticed it was extremely detailed.  In fact, all the papers on Winden's drafting table were unusually intricate. Winden placed it alongside some other designs. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, it's the least I can do for the help

Paragon - Chapter 1