World of Storycraft

Spintered Reality - part sixteen

2007-02-12T13:50:00.000-08:00

“So who is this broad?” said Dolph over his left shoulder, addressing his agent which stood just behind him.
“She’s a nobody,” came the answer.

“If she’s a nobody,” said Dolph impatiently, as he tugged at the sleeve of his racing suit, “Why am I seeing her?”

“Because,” came the answer from F. Bishop Cauch’in, Dolph’s agent, “She is a nobody that knows a somebody.”

Dolph finished removing his racing suit, hung it in the closet behind him and turned around to face his agent, long time advisor, and sometime friend.

“So, I…what?…give her a tour of the track, an autographed picture and you get rid of her right?”

“Not this time, I am afraid,” replied the agent in his proper Amarrian accent, “This woman is not one of your ‘groupies.’”

F. Bishop Cauch’in, or “Bishop” as everyone called him, was a lanky Amarrian that compensated for his appearance by the almost calculated smoothness of his movement. He was bordering on late middle/early old age, but his mind was as sharp as it was devious. Where his association with Richard Sirrelli was concerned it was truly a case of “It takes one to know one.”

“This broad,” he said, placing a mocking emphasis on the way Dolph had dismissed her in his usual misogynistic demeanor, as you so charmingly put it, “is here not just because of who she knows but also what she knows.”

“And jus’ what does this woman,” said Dolph, attempting a rather poor imitation of Bishop, ‘know that I don’t know?”

“Quite a lot I should imagine,” came the properly intoned reply, “that not being an incredibly difficult feat to accomplish.”

“Was that a dig?” asked Dolph.

“No. Merely a statement of fact, said Bishop, then continued….

“It seems that Ms. Blackwolf, the woman in question, has a penchant for going fast, and the means to do so. It also seems she has the means for removing that crown as ‘king of racing’ that you always assume is so firmly placed upon your head.”

“She thinks she can beat me?” Dolph shot back angrily.

“Richard Serelli thinks she can, and in matters such as these he is rarely wrong,” said Bishop as he took a seat at the long leather sofa that occupied most of the rooms west wall.

“Do you think she can beat me?” said Dolph looking down at his agent.

“I think,” replied Bishop calmly, “that if she has the ability to remove the racing crown from your head, she also has the means to keep it there – that’s what I think. Now sit down.”

Dolph took a seat in the large overstuffed leather chair opposite Bishop, every aspect of his posture making it seem as if he were granting Bishop an audience, when in fact, if anything, just the reverse were true. The fact of the matter was that where Bishop’s services as an agent were concerned, he went where the money was, and for the moment the source of the money was sitting across from him…for the moment.

Splintered Reality - part fifteen

2007-01-30T16:32:00.000-08:00

Brighde was distracted by visions of “Rick” Sirrelli - - and what he would do to both Gunny and herself when he found out the blueprints they had given him were fake (okay good fakes) still dancing in her head. The clink of dishes from somewhere in the background, and the sizzle of meat on the grill at the back of the restraint served as the background for her troubled thoughts. Gunny’s voice pulled her back to the present…

“So that’s just it? Fakes? You give Richard Sirelli…THE Richard Sirrelli fake blueprints? That’s how you managed to finagle your letter of introduction to the 15 time winner of the great circuit race at New Rome?”

Gunny paused, then continued with even greater aggravation…

“I stuck my stiletto up his nose for cryin’ out loud! I think that might be just a tiny little factor weighing against me when he finds out. He’s not altogether stupid you know…”

“no. not altogether.” Replied Brighde Calmly.

“What were they the blueprints to anyway?”

“The garbage incinerator at the navy shipyard.”

“It’s a miracle he hasn’t figured it out already!” Gunny shot back at Brig.

“Yes. A miracle,” Brighde replied matter of factly.

“As interesting as the this all is,” a voice interjected as it came drifting across the table, “what has this all got to do with us?”

The voice belonged to Gilda Stern and her partner Rosa - - whose tail she slapped away as she attempted to use it to grab another roll off the table, her hands being currently occupied with an overly large beer mug.

“The ship I sold you has the prototype of the capacitor, and there ARE no blueprints for it. I checked with at the Navy Shipyard.”

“So…what…you want the ship back now? Or something like that?”

“Yes, something like that. But no. I don’t want the ship back.”

Rosa, assuming Gilda’s attention was firmly on the conversation, attempted to sneak another roll while Gilda wasn’t looking. Without taking her eyes off Brighde, Gilda slapped the errant tail away from the rolls once again. Rosa frowned as she was foiled by her partner’s peripheral vision that seemed to bear out the old adage about having “eyes in back of her head.”

“So what DO you want then,” asked Gilda, a bit more irritated now.

“I want the ship AND you,” replied Brighde, who, along with Rosa - - who was more intent on her beer than the conversation – seemed the only other calm person at the restaurant.

“How did you find me anyway? Did you follow me?”

“I didn’t follow you,” replied Brighde quietly, “You followed me.”

“I followed YOU, came the surprised reply. I stopped for a quick bite and my favorite burger bar near the asteroid field I am mining – a mining schedule you are taking me away from I might add.”

“I need you. I need the ship. I knew you would come.”

“Oh? How is that,” replied Gilda, a big calmer as well as puzzled - - the first being the result of the latter.

“I…”

Here Brighde hesitated before she continued.

“…I saw it in a vision.”

“A vision.” Snapped Gilda. “So now you are seeing things are you?”

The table grew quiet, if quiet can be interpreted as the sound Rosa’s slurping the foam off her fifth beer, over the din of the diner.

“Ok, said Gilda finally. I’ll bite. What else do your visions tell you.”

“That you are going to help me unite the Minmatar tribes.”

“What do I care about your tribes?” growled Gilda, “I am not exactly from your neck of the woods. Hell I am not even from your neck of the galaxy.”

“nonetheless. You will help me.” smiled Brighde.

“…and what if I just walk out of here and get back to business, and tell you to mind yours?”

“You won’t”

“What do you mean I won’t? How do you know?…oh yes…the visions, said Gilda, rolling her eyes. Then she added, and why me?”

This time Gunny interrupted the flow of conversation.

“We heard what happened, or rather almost happened, when you were attacked. You, quite frankly are very luck. Very, VERY lucky.”

“Ya. So they tell me,” said Gilda as she took a sip of her own beer.

Then she added, “I have never believed a word of it.”

The waiter brought the check and Brighde reached for it. Looking at the check she pulled money out of her pocket to pay the bill, and accidentally dropped it on the floor. As both Gunny and Brighde simultaneously reached for the money, the world exploded in light, shattered glass and screams…

…The front glass of the diner, and the tritanium walls that held them in, where pierced by streaks of light from 60 caliber tracer rounds. Glass shattered and filled the air in tiny particles of glass that gleamed in the air like a thousand tiny diamonds. Whole in the tritanium wall appeared, made by the armor piercing rounds. The first rounds shattered dishes neatly stacked on the counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the diner – the kitchen staff were the first to die. One waitress, just returning from a break had her arm shattered by another round. The second waitress was not so lucky and soon lay dead at the feet of the first. The tracer rounds continued to scream through the air, piercing what seemed like every square foot of the restaurant.

Every square foot, except, as it soon became apparent as the gunfire stopped, the few square feet occupied by Gunny, Brighde, Rosa and Gilda – who sat looking at the shattered beer mug she held in her hand. A beer mug that had been pierced by one of the tracer rounds that had narrowly missed her head.

Brighde looked around the restaurant that was filled with blood, death, and shattered remnants of the diner. Then she looked back at Gilda.

“I DO believe it. I do…”

Splintered Reality - part fourteen

2007-01-11T16:18:00.000-08:00

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Rick Sirrelli’s laughter seemed to fill the large space that contained his office. It was obvious to look at him that it was a bit forced, even if it was well practiced. The laughter seemed honed by years of effort using it to humiliate people which – in this case – didn’t work.

“You…he gasped….want…he gasped….to meet Charles Dau’Fin? Wait, he said, gasping for air again, let me guess, you are going to race him in….he gasped….in what? That garbage scow you call a ship? What makes you think you think he would have any interest in meeting someone like you!”

The considerable girth of Sirrelli’s sides heaved again, but eventually he “caught” his breath. There was a long silence while he waited for a reply to his well timed “mirth” -filled only by a menacing stare from gunny and a callous disregard for anything Sirrelli had said so far by Brighde. Once this silence had gone on long enough for Sirrelli to start getting irritated, Brighde continued.

“You,” she said in a measured, calm and quiet tone, “obviously think there is something that Charles Dau’fin wants that I have, or I wouldn’t be here.”

The smile that quickly disappeared from Richard Sirrelli’s face seemed to suddenly reappear on Gunny’s face. Only in her case it seemed a bit more wicked. Gunny reached over her right shoulder with her left arm. She deftly flipped open the lid of a long tub she had slung over her back and removed it’s contents. Gunny tossed the rolled and bound sheets of paper at Sirrelli as if they were a spear. They slid across the expanse of his desk and into his belly. Sirrelli sat there for a moment, pondering the long rolled tube of paper. The paper had a blueish tint to it. Nervously he undid the clasp and unrolled the documents on his desk, they were covered in minute notations, interspersed with electronic circuits. He flipped through the documents.

“…and just what is this,” he asked.

Sirrelli knew very well what it must be. For the first time in his life, he had a hard time playing the game he played so well – playing people.

“What do you think it is fat man?,” Gunny shot back at him. She started to add another comment but Brighde held up a hand stopping her.

“If you wanted the capacitor from my old ship, you didn’t have to try and kill me for it. All you had to do was ask.”

Sirrelli gave Brighde his best “shocked look.” “I never…” He began.

“Give it a rest” said Brighde matter-of-factly.

With that she reached into a bag she had at her side. She skipped a silver disk across his desk as if she were skipping it across a pond.

“Interesting viewing that, she continued, two features. The first one is of a recent mercenary attack on an osprey class mining ship. You note that the security video stops when it is knocked off line by shrapnel from the exploding mercenary ship. The second feature is concord police video from gate cameras. A fine view of someone I know very well being blown out of space….it’s me…or rather original me as people seem to be so fond of reminding me.”

“So if I had just asked you for the plans and specs for the capacitor before? You would have just given them to me?”

“No,” replied Brighde calmly, “but dieing has a way of changing one’s outlook on life.”

“So the knock-off copy has lost the nerve of the original,” Sirrelli shot back at Brighde with a wicked grin.

If he had counted on his reputation, or Brighde’s changed outlook to protect him, neither did so. With a surprising swiftness that belied her size, Gunny was up and over the desk in a moment – a moment later, Sirrelli found himself staring down the length of a rather nasty looking stiletto – the end of which was held well up his nose.

Years of nefarious activities gave Sirrelli reactions which allowed him to remain calm under such situations. However, he also knew that it was unwise to further irritate a woman he already knew to have a short fuse, who currently held 12 inches of razor edged steel pointed up his nose.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” said Brighde with a smile. “The “knock off copy” as you so rudely put it, is different from the original. The original Brighde would have let Gunny take out your appendix through your nose.”

Brighde paused just long enough to make Sirrelli wonder if she was any different.

“But as I said, death has a way of changing you. Making you realize what is important in life.”

Brighde looked over at Gunny.

“It’s ok Gunny. Really.”

Reluctantly Gunny removed the knife from Sirrelli’s left nostril and slid it back into her boot sheath. Sirrelli noticed, however, that she did not resume her former position on the other side of his desk. Instead she made sure she stood just off his left shoulder, within arms length of his nose.

“So that’s it?” Sirrelli asked, “Your just going to give the blueprints to the capacitor to me?”

“Not exactly,” replied Brighde. “You’ll notice that one page is missing – a crucial page.”

“without which, I assume,” Sirrelli added, “ the capacitor is about as useful as an extremely expensive door stop?”

Brighde just smiled.

Rick Sirrelli reached over and pressed a small section on the edge of his desk. Two small posts slid up in the middle of his desk and emitted a cross section of laser beams that formed a key board. He began pounding away on the keys, with a practiced efficiency that said he wasn’t always in the line of work that he is in now.

“I am sending a message to Charles Dau’fin telling him you have a ship that I think can beat him in the next Great Circuit race.” Sirrelli said.

“I have no desire whatsoever to…” Brighde began, but was promptly cut off.

“You and your…here Sirrelli cleared his throat…acquaintance know how to pique my interest, and I KNOW how to pique Dau’fin’s interest.”

Splintered Reality part 12 and a half

2006-12-29T11:57:00.000-08:00

“If you don’t want to get on the elevator with my friend, how about if I just pry the doors open and THROW you down the elevator shaft,” yelled Gunny at the dock hand that stood waiting for the “next” elevator down to the office level.

News of Brighde’s arrival had preceded her, and they obviously knew exactly who she was. In this case, that wasn’t a good thing – at least to everyone else. Whether it was a “half blood” thing or an anti-clone thing, gunny didn’t care. Bigotry was bigotry and she didn’t care what it was about or who was it’s source. If someone wanted to pull her string, and risk being hung with the same string, this was just the way to do it. The lift arrived and the doors hissed open. Just as Brighde was about to step through the door the dockhand came flying past her and slammed against the back wall of the elevator. He slumped down, and stared past Brighde in shock – unable to believe anyone would have reacted in such a violent manner.

“I wasn’t going down,” growled the dock hand as Gunny followed Brighde into the elevator.

Brighde smiled down at the dockhand and said simply, “It looks like you are now.” Then she followed up with, “and if I know my friend here, I’d say your best course of action would be to stay there on the floor.”

The elevator whisked them down to the office level. When the opened, the dockmaster, was there to greet them; in a manner of speaking.

“I’m Brighde Blackwolf and this is my friend Samantha McPhearson,” she said pointing at Gunny.

She extended her hand to the dock foreman, and said, “And you are…”

The dockmaster left her hand hanging in mid air and finished the sentence for her.

“…not happy to see you.” He said, then added, “But now that you are here, you may as well come in. Follow me.” Then he looked past Gunny to the dock hand still slumped on the floor of the elevator. “And do get up Jenkins. What is the matter with you?’

With that the dockmaster led them through a maze of twisting corridors, the layout of which was obviously meant to be confusing to any stranger trying to navigate to the heart of the floor. Once they found their way there, they found themselves in front a very large heavy oak door. It looked as if it could withstand the direct assault of at least a half a dozen men, trying to shoulder their way in to the office.

“Wait here,” the dockmaster shot back at Gunny and Brighde, and he stepped opened the door to the office, and disappeared. A moment later, he reappeared.

“Go on in,”

Brighde was about to step through the door that the dockmaster had left open when the dockmaster added from behind her….

“…and bring your gorilla in with you,” he said looking at Gunny, daring her to do anything in response.

Which was exactly what Gunny was about to do when she felt a restraining hand on her arm.

“Thank you,” she heard Brighde say a bit too politely off to her side.

They both stepped into the office of Richard Sirelli, owner of Sirelli Racing, who was a prominent figure in racing himself – a figure that was, in fact, so large, it was often thought to have it’s own gravitational pull. Despite the round figure, it was the undercurrent of ruthlessness for which he was known, that made her keep Gunny’s short temper in check. She hated dealing with someone like Sirelli but there it was. She had no other choice.

Splintered Reality - part twelve

2006-12-26T15:42:00.000-08:00

The news his dock foreman brought Rick Sirelli preceded him. The second Jacque rounded the corner of Sirelli’s office, a well aimed beer stein came flying at the center of his forehead like a well aimed cruise missile. Jacque dodged to one side, and the mug impacted on the steel doorframe, large chunks of glass flying into the hallway, as yellow fluid, which had been well contained by the stein until a moment ago, began to flow down the wall in thin rivulets.

“I tell you to have someone killed, and instead you bring her to my doorstep!” Sirelli bellowed.

Jacque tensed, preparing to duck another makeshift missile, as his much loathed boss shifted his enormous girth in his office chair.

“I wanted her dead body and that garbage scow she calls a ship, not to have you bring her around for lunch. Now the ship is gone, and the woman is still intact – again. Doesn’t that bitch ever stay dead?’

“Apparently not” replied Jacque, barely hiding his contempt.

“What am I supposed to do now?” asked Sirelli rhetorically, shifting uncomfortably in the desk chair which barely contained him.

“I don’t know, snapped the foreman suddenly, shoot her out an airlock, stuff her in her a thruster, strap her to a missile. I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s not my fault if the mercs’ you told me to hire couldn’t get the job done.”

A silent moment passed as Jacque realized he had perhaps gone a bit too far this time. Unabashed he continued…

“If you could ever manage to pry that fat ass of yours out of your chair and do a little of your own legwork, maybe things would get done. As it is, I doubt the shop has enough grease to get your ass out of that chair you are stuffed in, and I doubt think those stubby legs of yours would hold all that weight if you could.”

Richard Sirelli’s glare held his foreman’s eyes for a moment. His enormous strength, which belied the foreman’s idea that his boss was some foul tempered oaf with too much money, showed no external signs. Instead he spoke quietly, which, for all that, was far more threatening than if he had reacted to his foreman’s outburst in kind.

In an even, calculated tone, Sirelli spoke to his foreman, “You are…”

“…what fired?” interjected the foreman nervously.

“…no, I was going to say dead,” replied Sirelli matter-of-factly, “But I think I have something even better in mind.

“Better?” asked Jacque nervously, the roles now reversed to where they usually were.

“Well,” replied his boss, “Better for me perhaps…”

Sirelli left off the rest, realizing that anything his foreman could imagine in the ensuing moments, while he met with the woman, would be far worse than any threat actually made.

“Bring her in,” he said firmly.

Splintered Reality - part Eleven

2006-12-15T15:33:00.000-08:00

“And how do you know this?” exclaimed Gunny with a puzzled look, as she punched a series of numbers into her control panel.

“Look,” replied Brighde sheepishly, “I know how it sounds but…”

Gunny cut her off as if she hadn’t heard Brighde at all.

“How?” she interjected.

There was a long silent pause which filled the small Amarrian figate. Brighde hesitated, not sure how her long time friend and ship mate would respond.

Quietly, looking out at the starts that formed the outer rim of Amarri space, Brighde said, “you won’t believe me.”

Gunny, having finished setting the ship on autopilot, turned in her chari to face Brighde. She put one hand on Brighde’s shoulder.

“Brig, she began,” trying to summon up as reassuring tone as possible, “we’ve known each other a long time. You are the only family I have – at least the closest thing to it. Just tell me sister.

“Does it matter how I know? Don’t you think its about time? How many eons have our people been concurred by one race or another? How long? You know the ancient history of the tribes a well as I do. The elders make everyone learn it so we can carry on the tradition.”

There was another long pause filled only by the hum of the sub-light engines.

Brighde continued.

“Back on ancient Earth, when the pilgrims came to the ancestral homeland of your people, what happened? What did your grandfather tell you?”

“The pilgrims only survived with the help of my ancestors,” replied Gunny glumly – she knew where Brig was going with this.

Brighde’s tone was getting more heated now.

“And what happened within one generation to the ancestors of the same band of your people, she said. What happened to that same village? What did the Europeans do?”

Gunny turned to stare out the window, so Brighde would not see her tears. Looking out the window she answered.

“They killed everyone. The entire village.”

Gunny jumped as Brighde broke the quiet by slamming her fist into the control panel to emphasis her next point.

“And the ancestors of those same people built this ship, Brighde growled. They were killing and enslaving the tribes then and the Amarri are STILL going it. Doesn’t it matter to you that the grandparents of the same people who built this ship OWNED your grandparents?”

“Your wrong,” said Gunny quietly

“What?!” shot back Brig.

“Your wrong about who built this ship. The Amarri usually use Minmatar slave labor.”

“That’s the point, exclaimed Brighde. Don’t you think it is time the tribes where united? Don’t you think its time the slavery stopped?”

Gunny regained her composure and turned back to Brighde.

“But you said they WILL be united – now. How do you know that?”

“I just know,” replied Brighde more quietly.

“How?”

Brighde hesitated. Sighed. Then looked out the window at the void of space. Quietly she replied…

“I had a vision.”

Splintered Reality - part Ten

2006-12-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

At 20,000 tons and 650 feet long it was one big ship. The body of the ship, meant to carry cargo, looked for all the world as if a giant hand had taken one big can and smashed two smaller cans on each end, then stuck a shuttle on the front for the pilots. Piloting the thing was like trying to push a greased, drunken pig in a direction it didn’t want to go. It was also slow. So slow that many is the time that the owner felt like she might have to get out and push, just to get it to move at all.

But…

It was also free.

Gilda had won it in a card game. That was just before she and Rosa had been permanently banned from the New Vegas solar system. Gilda, in her naiveté, has always assumed it was for the drunken brawls that were a nightly occurrence. The previous owner, who was now selling donuts in a New Vegas greasy spoon, didn’t see it that way. All he knew is that his “baby” that was once his livelihood was plying the highways and byways of the galaxy, and it was doing it without him. All of which made him madder than a wet Trilaxian Prairie Chicken, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Or so he thought.

At the moment, his “baby” was now being rather incautiously guided into a docking bay on the outer rim of Amarian space. As the ship was nearly in the docking bay, the back end fishtailed, slamming against the space doors of the bay, setting off a dozen screaming alarms throughout station. None of which could be heard in space, and if Gilda could hear them, she probably wouldn’t have cared anyway.

Inside the station the foreman felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it was more than just the entire dock area rocking. He knew who it was who had set the station rocking and he hated dealing with her. He swore, and frequently, that she did it on purpose. She had a knack, or sheer dumb luck, for being able to cause the most upset with minimal damage to the space doors. He tried to take the cost for the damage, however small, out of her payment once, but she had threatened to reach down his throat, grab his lower intestine and turn him inside out. He threatened to stop trading with her and she just laughed – and that was the problem. There was no one else to buy ore from and she knew it.

He wouldn’t have to deal with her if that fat old fool he worked for, Richard Sirrelli, hadn’t burned every bridge both before and after himself. Here they sat on the edge of Amarii space. Sirrelli was Minmatarian, and the average self respecting Amarii wouldn’t give him the time of day. Those who had no respect for themselves, or anyone else for that matter – the Amarii underworld would, but ore is one thing you couldn’t steal. At least not in the massive quantities needed to run this pig of a station that the foreman was forced to call home. The Minmatar wouldn’t deal with Sirrelli either, none of the tribes would. He had long ago forgotten who he was and where he came from. Richard Sirrelli had spent most of his life standing on the shoulders of other Minmatarians to get ahead. When he got there, he kicked every Minmatarian to the curb that had ever helped him. The foreman didn’t consider his boss an apple, he thought of Sirrelli as the whole orchard. But like the miner he was about to go down to the loading dock to meet, Richard Sirrelli was the only game in town. He was the only one who would hire someone with the foreman’s background.

Splintered Reality - Part Nine

2006-12-11T16:22:00.000-08:00

And so the “silence” continued like this for some time…

Several hours later, Gilda, having finished her coffee, turned to Rosa during one of the brief pauses in carpet bombing.

“Well?” she asked expectantly.

“Yes?’

Another explosion rocked the ship.

“It’s been going on for some time” yawned Gilda.

“Yes” said Rosa with a pause, “Yes it has.”

“It’s not likely to let up any time soon…”

“No,” replied Rosa with a sigh, “No, I guess it won’t”

The two sat together on the Bridge of the S.S.Hammered Steel and listened to the explosions intermingled with the hum of the mining lasers for awhile before either spoke.

“We really should do something” remarked Rosa offhandedly.

“Yes, we should”

“Yes…” replied Gilda with a nod.

“Yes…” replied Rosa, as she leaned back in the pilot’s chair.

Another long pause ensued, filled by the ceaseless sounds of explosions impacting against the ship.

“Shields?” asked Rosa expectantly.

Gilda calmly glanced over at her section of the control panel. Leaning back, she went back to staring out the cockpit window, into the star filled void of space. Without turning to Rosa she replied…

“50%”

Then the bombing stopped. The momentary calm, broken only by the hum from mining, stood out in contraposition to the tremendous din that, albeit briefly, had abated. Rosa took another long sip from her flask of Arcturian whiskey.

“Where do you think its coming from this time?” asked Rosa.

Once again Gilda leaned over her control panel. She flipped a switch. Three overhead screens, showing different views of the mining ship, blinked into life. Rosa leaned over toward Gilda slightly, taking another sip from her flask. She craned her neck a bit to get a clear view of the center screen which showed the view rearwards from the ship. A very large, very deadly looking Battle cruiser of the Ferox class came into view. As they watched a flare of light filled the center of the screen – the ship had launched another missile. Calmly Gilda flipped the same switch. The screens went dead. Both women leaned back in their chairs. They both sat staring out the cockpit window as they spoke, without turning to each other.

“Battle cruiser” said Gilda calmly.

The missile impacted the shields, and the ship rocked violently.

“Yep. A big one” said Rosa, and took another long pull from her flask.

“Military?” Rosa asked nonchalantly.

“Might be. Probably mercenary.”

“What do you think they want?” Rosa remarked.

“Don’t know…” started Gilda.

Her sentence was interrupted by three missiles which impacted the shields in rapid succession.

“…but” Gilda said.

“….they” she continued

“…seem hopping mad about something.” Gilda finished.

Both women sat thinking. That “did I leave the iron on” look crossed each one’s face before Rosa came up with what she thought was a reasonable suggestion.

“What about that waitress in the bar at Arcturis 5-3 station? You tipped her didn’t you.”

“No,” said Gilda, “I thought you did.”

“Not me, I thought you did. Rosa paused, then added, Oh my. I guess we stiffed her.”

“Still,” said Gilda, “most wait staff don’t posses the financial resources to hire mercenaries with major firepower.”

“In any case, interjected Rosa, we have to do something. The bombing isn’t likely to stop any time soon.”

“Oh all right,” replied Gilda with a huff.

With that Gilda reached over to a rocker switch on her control panel. Beside it were two slide switches. She moved the slide switch all the way up to the position marked simply ‘full’. Pressed a number into a keypad next to it, and hit the rocker switch.

She leaned back calmly as a voice filled the cockpit.

I can't get no. Oh, no, no, no. Hey, hey, hey
That's what I say
I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't get no, I can't get no

The music was deafening. The walls of the mining ship shook even louder then they had from the impact of the missiles. Still, above the classical music from ancient earth by The Rolling Stone, the explosions could be heard dimly in the background.

“ITS NO GOOD,” screamed Rosa, “I CAN STILL HEAR THE EXPLOSIONS!”

Gilda punched the rocker switch on her control panel again and the music stopped as suddenly as it had started.

“Oh all right,” said Gilda in exasperation.

With that Gilda reached over to a small junction box between the pilots control panel and the navigators control panel. There, sent into the panel, underneath a bright red cover, was a large red button. The panel itself was boarded with stripes diagonal stripes alternating yellow and black. Above the junction box was a sign, written in fifteen major languages. The sign said simply…

“…Do not press this button.”

Gilda pressed the button.

At the rear of the ship a large square panel slid open. Behind it was the remnants of what had once been missile tubes one and two. In stead, welded into place, and covered in grey primer, was one single tube meant for a light missile launcher normally carried be a frigate – a much smaller vessel than the mining ship that was a Caladari Navy military surplus cruiser. It had been squeezed in to what had once been a much larger missile bay, but now held the outsized machinery and fusion reactors that powered the ships shields – shields normally meant for a battleship. They machinery appeared to have been shoved into place by some giant hand wielding an enormous shoehorn and a fifty gallon drum of grease. In that missile launcher was a single, solitary light missile.

It launched.

The battle cruiser to the rear of the S.S.Hammered Steel fired a salvo of six defender anti-missile missiles. They roared through space at the single light missile that the mining ship had launched like a flock of enormous birds swooping down on a mouse.

And each defender missile missed.

Inside the cockpit of the mercenary battle cruiser, the captain laughed. He made a rather rude remark, that were it translated, would have understood to be a suggestion as to the parentage of the mining ships captain, and what said captain could do with her missile – both of which were anatomically impossible.

He laughed again.

It was the last thing he ever did.

A moment later, impossibly, his ship exploded in a blinding light as shards of metal careened through space.

Splintered Reality - part eight

2006-12-07T16:20:00.000-08:00

Being the luckiest being in the universe, and being completely oblivious of the fact, are two very fortunate qualities that go hand in hand. Not fortunate for the person themselves certainly. Rather it is extremely fortunate for the lotteries, gambling establishments, economies, indeed entire planets which would topple if the lucky stiff were aware of the fact – which Gilda is not.

What is fortunate for Gilda is that her tremendous luck has saved her from inadvertent self destruction on many occasions. While she may not be the most lackadaisical person on the face of any given planet which she may inhabit at any given time – she is certainly close behind whoever comes in first place. All of which works together to create a person who has the capability of ruling the galaxy, but is simply to lazy to do it. But Gilda, being the languid sort of person she is, wouldn’t care about it even if she knew. This is, in fact, a quality that is about to have the chance not only to rear its ugly head, but go outside, and take itself for a brisk walk about the block as Gilda awakens to the sound of thumping. It is thumping which - unlike most mornings following an evening of imbibing drinks which would take the top three layers off an asteroid had they spilled – is actually, coming from outside her head.

On this particular morning the slow steady hum of the mining lasers, which Gilda found so comforting (in fact she had a hard time getting to sleep without it) was interrupted by a pounding which rocked the ship. Gilda groaned a bit. Turned over and covered her head with a pillow in a vain attempt to stifle the noise caused by impacts on the side of the ship. Several fruitless minutes passed. A very large impact nearly threw her out of her bunk. She stopped herself, grabbing the bedrail with one hand. Swinging her feet out, she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes shut.

“Lights” she called out, followed by a groan.

Obediently, the lights set into the walls snapped on. Gilda sat for a moment, gathering herself for the supreme effort necessary for her to actually pull herself to her feet, a task complicated by the incessant rocking of the ship. As she stood, yet another blast rocked the mining cruiser from side to side. She braced herself against the bulkhead, as much to steady herself from the rocking of ship as from the spinning of the room.

“Don’t these guys ever sleep?” she groaned, looking about her blearily.

Another blast threw her out into the corridor, and against the wall opposite. Ironically, had the blasts caused the ship to spin out of control, she could have easily negotiated the narrow corridor that ran down the central part of the ship – she was used to rooms spinning. She felt her way down the corridor, the ship rocking to and fro, and finally made her way to the galley.

The pounding stopped.

“Good” she said aloud, to no one in particular, “they are reloading.” She walked over to a small speaker set into the wall, below which was a small door.

“Coffee, hot, black” she shot at the dispenso-matic, then pausing she added, “very strong”

There was a slight buzzing sound from the walls and the small door slid open. There inside sat a large white mug, so big, one might think, that many of the galaxy’s smaller races could have easily swum laps in it. With a smile, Gilda reached in and gingerly raised the cup of steaming black liquid to her lips. She blew across the surface, and was about to take the first sip when the pounding and the rocking began again. The result was scalding hot coffee over nearly every surface of the galley, except, remarkably enough, Gilda herself.

“Bastards” she hissed looking into the empty mug.

It was not the mess that upset her, so much as the loss of the coffee. New Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans were incredibly difficult to come by.

“You bastards,” she hissed again, as she reached into a nearby cupboard and drew out a lid for the cup.

She waited for the next lull in the blasts, which eventually came. Thrusting the empty cup into the dispenso-matic, she repeated her morning ritual. A moment later the machine produced yet another cup of the rich dark fluid. Gilda reached in and snapped the lid on with a smile as the galley began to rock again. Cup in hand she turned slowly, stumbling her way down the central corridor toward the bridge of the ship.

The sound of the mining lasers still hummed along, filling the hold of the ship, which took up the bulk of what would be the “body” of the large kiwi like shape of the ship. Rosa sat calmly in the pilots chair, silver flask in hand. From behind and above her she heard feet on the ladder that lead down to the bridge, which formed the “head” of giant steel kiwi shape that was the S.S. Hammered Steel. As Guilda stepped onto the deck, Rosa held up the flask to Guilda.

“Hair of the dog?” she asked merrily.

“No,” Guilda answered sternly, and then added more calmly, “I’m all set here.”

Guilda heaved herself into the navigator’s chair with a pained look, the sort of which would frighten small children and cause their mothers to pull them in off the street.

The ship continued to rock, but neither of the ships two occupants, now firmly entrenched in there seats on the bridge, seemed to care. Rosa took another long pull on her silver flask, the yellow fluid burning its way down her throat. To her side Guilda shut her eyes and took that first delightful sip of coffee.

The silence continued this way for some time – that is if you could call the gulping, slurping, and hum of mining lasers, all accompanied by the sounds of explosions on the side of the mining cruiser silence.

Oddly enough, both halves of Cranz-Stern Mining, now present on the bridge, did. They were, in fact, quite used to it.

Splintered Reality - part seven

2006-12-05T13:09:00.000-08:00

[story]
Splintered Reality By Julie WhiteFeather –

Guilda stretched in the morning sun. Well, it wasn’t the morning sun so much as it was a sun lamp, but it was morning all the same. Guilda actually wasn’t her name, it was simply a moniker that her sister had hung on her some time ago. Following in the tradition of a classical music composer from ancient earth, her real name was an unpronounceable symbol somewhat resembling an angry badger beating frog about the head and shoulders with a rather largish cricket bat. The obscure origin of the symbol itself was lost to her family’s history. The reason for the symbol, however, was not.

It was during the great “Lawyer Wars” - which preceded the committing of the entirety of the galaxies legal body to the asylum and straight jacket that the majority of the galaxy felt it collectively so richly deserved – that the family tradition originated. In the final days of the war, lawyers all over the galaxy entrenched themselves in court houses, city halls and bars (and hence origination of the term “passing the bar” which few lawyers in those days ever did, although through great effort of said legal body the true origin of the phrase has now been hidden). It was during this time that the lawyers began what they called “Tele-bombing” runs. The lawyers formed groups of solicitors from all over the galaxy into crack telemarketing squads which were genetically enhanced to go for weeks without sleep or nourishment, thus enabling them to telemarket for longer periods then was heretofore humanly possible.

It was the simple fact that the solicitors where unable to pronounce her name that saved Guilda from the fate of most of the rest of her kind – that is the brains of thousands of interspecied families suddenly imploding to escape from the unending telemarketing which stretched on ceaselessly for years. The average telephone call began simply, “Is…” followed by a long silence during which the solicitor’s tongue and brain ceased up as both tried to cope with the situation.

Having thus escaped the devastation of the lawyer wars, Guilda and her best friend Rosa emigrated to Minmatar space, there to settle in to what she thought would be a peaceful life of mining. She could not have been more wrong.

Weeks had passed since Guilda and Rosa had first departed Caladari space aboard the SS. Hammered Steel. Guilda watched them pass by, noting that if they minded their own business, she would mind hers. Guilda was, after all, as she commonly asserted, “one tough broad.” This was also something about which she was wrong. What she was, in fact, was egotistical. She had a ego so mountainous that it would have taken a climbing team and a dozen Sherpa guides a week to reach it’s summit. Rather than tough, what she was, was resilient. That, and, in a rather fortunate combination, lucky. She was incredibly lucky. If people are sometimes said to be born under lucky stars, lucky stars are the sort of thing that are commonly thought to be born in the proximity of Guilda. This, in fact, was the real reason she had survived the lawyer wars, but her egotism was so believable (again a sign of her incredible luck) that no one ever dared tell her different.

Guilda was, in short, the luckiest woman, indeed the luckiest being of any sort, in the entire universe.

Oddly enough, she had no idea. Each time her luck saved what would have normally been a disastrous situation, she put it off to her massive intellect, about which, she was also horribly wrong.

Splintered Reality - part six

2006-12-04T16:22:00.000-08:00

The Osprey class cruiser perched like an awkward bird in the dim light of docking bay number 37. A squat figure stood silhouetted against the side of the ship, which was illuminated in a pool of glaring light from the tungsten inert gas welder. To eye any who might be peering over the subjects shoulder, which of course there weren’t any as the person was alone in the darkness of the docking bay – but had there been anyone the could have easily mistaken the work being done on the side of the ship for that of a poorly repaired ’57 Chevy from old earth. This pristine white paint had been ground down to bare metal, leaving deep gouges that were readily apparent. The metal itself was no covered with a grey primer normally meant for land craft, rather than a ship meant to travel the vast void which lay between solar systems. If you were to look rather carefully toward the bottom of the side of the ship – if you squinted you could see two bumper stickers. Bumper stickers in name only, of course, as the time had long passed, eons ago in fact, when any vehicle of any sort had anything even remotely resembling the shape or holding the purpose of bumpers.

There was no longer anything resembling the shape of bumpers for there had long ago stopped being a reasons for bumpers at all. This was due in a large part to the proliferation of lawyers, and the pursuant lawsuits, that filled the later have of the first century following man kind’s, or person kind’s as it is more properly known, first great leap into space – interstellar space travel. In fact it was not so much as a leap as a limp. For the entire affair was hampered by such an astoundingly large body of lawsuits that the legal “body” became too bloated to function at all. This of course resulted in near total anarchy in most of the newest colonies that mankind, or person kind, had since established.

As person kind reached into the vastness of space, it usually found it’s hand slapped like an unruly child, for most of the races didn’t want “their” kind (their kind being humans) if they brought their lawyers with them. To prevent the fall of humanity, into what it became an increasingly likely fall into the black hole that had become the lawyer spawned, black hole that was bureaucracy, lawyers were banned from public practice. Those that had not already been chained to the oars of tour ships, plying the seas of the many new colonies (that were now delighted to accept humanity sans attorneys) were allowed to live in large asylums on barren planets, far from anything even remotely resembling intelligent life, behind 300 foot high walls baring large signs in 50 high letters that read “Abandon all hope you who enter”

Signs like this, bore little resemblance to what mankind, in its tenacious desire to cling to anything that was symbolic of “good times” , had still come to call a “bumper sticker”

In fact both the bumper stickers, which read, respectively – “Minmatar space, love it, leave it, or get too drunk to notice” and “The only way they will get my 250mm autocannon away from me is by prying it out of my cold dead hands” – and the owner of said bumper stickers reflected the love of what they thought of as “the good life”. Namely, drinking and blowing things up, and in the best of times, both at the same time.

The bumper sticker, as is obvious, reflected the sentiment in its message which it plastered across the side of the owner’s newly purchased mining ship. The owner reflected the sentimentality due to the ease with which she managed to weld on the sign she now held in one hand, with the welder she held in the other hand, and drink the beer which she held in a prehensile tail.

The owner of the prehensile tail was a member of a growing race of individuals which considered themselves “inter-specied” - and then only be design, in particular, genetic design. For many eons since mankind was first able to walk erect and think clearly, there had been endless debate over whether humans had descended from apes, crawled out of a primordial sea, or made by God on a Saturday afternoon. Then, ironically, one lazy Sunday afternoon, a geneticist named Hubert Bupnik or “Huey” to his friends, of which he had very few for reasons which will soon become apparent, had an idea. Despite eons of mankind’s development, Huey was rarely capable of clear thinking, and only occasionally walking erect. This last incapacity Huey had was due to his regular habit of imbibing so much alcohol it would have killed the average yak.

Then, on a Sunday afternoon, in a rather depressed state of mind, caused by a particularly heavy round of drinking the Saturday before (which in Heuy’s case was considerable), he was mulling over something some had said to him the evening before. Here is what they said:

“Huey,” he was told, “you look like you are one of the first generations in your family down out of the trees.”

In one of his rare lucid moments, Huey Bupnik made what has become known in most scientific circles, as one of the worst decisions ever made, by creating for himself, and those that would follow him, a genetically enhanced, surgically attached prehensile tail. Thus allowing him, or so he claimed, to “rejoin his relatives in the trees” and finally, once and for all, “get away from it all.” As it turns out, getting away from it all was something that was incredibly easy, due to the initial reaction from his friends.

It was soon discovered, however, that no matter where humans came from, the apes had the right idea, as it turned out, a prehensile tail was an incredibly useful thing to have. In some remote sectors of the galaxy, where the primary unit of currency has become the beer bottle cap, tails became so popular as to necessitate a whole new body of law and ethics regarding tails, thereby necessitating the release of aforementioned lawyers.

And so, sign in hand, and beer in tail, one half of “Crantz-Stern” mining puts the finishing touches on the sign that graces the hull of their new flag ship. It is a flag ship which brings their fleet up to a grand total of one and a half…well…one and three quarters really if you where to count both the escape pod fashioned from a military surplus pilots pod (and now rather ungracefully attached to the underside of the cruiser) as well as the shuttle that lays limply on its side, at the far end of the docking bay.

The sign finished, Rosa sets down her welding torch to take a look at her new ship, on the side of which has been painted two beer mugs. Below this is a sign which reads,

S.S. Hammered Steel
Pilot: R. Crantz
Navigator: G. Stern

Splintered Reality - Part Five

2006-12-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

“Sell the ship?” Will said, with a very poorly hidden look of consternation, somewhat reminiscent of a man who has just been told that he is not only about to be beaten, but shot as well, broken in to tiny little bits, burned and the ashes stomped on.

Finally…this news had taken the wind out of the sails of “Hurricane Littlefoot.”

“Sell the ship?” Will repeated again.

Not that the matter bared repeating, which it didn’t. Nor was it even that William Littlefoot was the sort of man that felt he needed to repeat himself, which he wasn’t. It was simply that William Littlefoot was the sort of man that needed to be right all the time, which he also wasn’t, despite his incessant insistence that he was.

The fact of the matter was that William Littlefoot was the sort of man that, if he couldn’t be right, he would bloody well be wrong at the top of his lungs. He was the sort of man would continue to assert his rectitude, oblivious to anything else – especially the truth. And the truth was that this was the first time in his long and rather lugubrious life that he had absolutely no recourse to anything else other than filling the cavernous hole space, where a moment before his life had been, with first thing that came to his mind – which was nothing.

So he simply repeated himself, not knowing what else to do in that moment in which his entire life suddenly went spinning out of control, careening madly as if it where diving straight into the heart of a super nova.

“Yes” came a soft, quiet voice from behind him, “I sold the ship.”

Will spun around and looked into the same eyes that he had seen through a major war and three years of the most brutal fighting Charlie 15-4, 5th armored division had ever seen. And in those eyes he did not see the shipmate with whom he had served; the person in whom he had once trusted his life. Instead he saw something – no – someone, very old, as if a thousand lifetimes stretched out before him. He also saw an immense sadness, he had never seen before.

Then the moment was over. He wasn’t even sure he had seen what he thought he saw. But what he knew he saw was his life slipping away from him, and he was desperate to stop it.

“You can’t sell the ship. It’s our life. It’s what we do. It’s who we ARE.” He shot at Brighde desperately.

“No,” Brighde said quietly, as she stared back at him with a look of pity – a look he absolutely despised., but dared not say anything about.

Brighde Paused. Then she continued, with a sigh.

“It’s not our life, Will. It’s yours.”

Will felt that things were slipping entirely out of his control at this point. He reached for something – anything.

“You can’t do this, he said angrily, I have worked too hard for that ship. I have a stake in it. Hell that ship should BE mine. I worked just as hard for it as you did.”

Then he stopped, realizing what he had said. Brighde smiled faintly, for she noticed it immediately. For the first time he had related to the “clone” Brighde like the real one without thinking about it. It was a mistake he would not make again, he told himself. Now he was mad. He railed against her, in a last desperate attempt to save what he saw as the ruins of his shattered life.

“Look. I have a contract. Whatever you sold that ship for I want my cut, and I mean to have it one way or another.” he said, leering at her.

The was a long pause. Brighde smiled at him again. Damn that woman is irritating when she does that, Will thought to himself.

Then Brighde began softly, “You have a contract?”

“Yes.” Will said sternly.

“You demand your share?”

“Yes.” He said, feeling as though he was gaining ground.

“Or…or what?” Brighde, ventured, “you’ll sue me for everything I have?”

“YES!” Will shouted angrily, thrilled that he had finally come out on top.

With that, Brighde turned around. Walked toward the side of the docking bay and picked up a small drab olive green duffle bag that he hadn’t noticed before. She picked it up slowly. Turned back to Will, and quietly placed it on the floor of the docking bay in front of him.

“There you go.”

“What?” he said, looking at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

“There you go, she said, with that same damn pitying look on her face. Everything I own. Take it. I don’t think the panties will fit you, I doubt they are your size, but you know how I like loose comfortable blouses. Those might fit. There. Take it.”

“Dingo Dung,” he spat at her, figuratively and, nearly literally, as he stared down at the duffel bag. “What did you do with all the money?”

“It’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean? Where? You lost it?”

“No. I gave it away.”

This William Littlefoot could not believe. He would not believe it. He refused to believe it. Who in their right mind would sell a Caladari Light Cruiser and just GIVE away all of the money.

“All of it?” he said, shocked.

“All of it,” Brighde said quietly.

“Why in God’s name would you do that?” Will shot back at her.

“Yes.” Brighde said quietly.

“What?”

“Yes”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Brighde said, that’s exactly why I gave it away.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Will said, looking at Brighde, as if he were now sure she had grown the second head, and sure that at any moment they would both start spinning around in circles – for he was sure that only someone who was possessed would do such a thing. In fact, that is what he now asked her…

“What would possess you to do such a thing?”

With that Brighde walked over to Will and looked up at him. She patted him on the cheek, noticing him wince as she touched him. For a moment she thought he would understand. Maybe, Brighde thought to herself, there was once someone inside who cared about people more than money, but looking into those glaring eyes, and that hard stare, she doubted if that person was there any more.

“Dear sweet Will, she said as she patted him on the cheek.

Then she stood there staring at him a moment before she continued.

“Dear sweet deluded Will. That’s all you care about isn’t it. The money. Do you ever dream about anything? She asked him, I mean other than money, and the things that will bring it.”

Will said nothing and so she continued.

“Centuries ago, on ancient Earth there was a man who lived for a very special dream. In fact he even died for that dream, as had so many people before him. Do you know what that dream was?”

Again Will said nothing. Brighde paused, smiling at him, hopefully as she went on.

“He gave a speech once about that very special dream. In it he said, ‘I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’ He died for that dream. All these centuries later, we are still waiting for that dream to come true. And you know what? I have a dream too - That our people, who are still divided will rise up and be united. That we will stop being slaves, that we will be free, ALL of us, not just some of us. I don’t know how it is going to happen, all I know is that I am going to try and make it happen, and if I have to die trying, well then I will die for that same dream.”

For the first time in his life. William Littlefoot was speachless.

“Now unless you think my panties will fit you, I may as well take them with me.”
With that, she turned and followed Sam into the waiting frigate. As she was about to pull the door shut, she turned to Will who was still standing where she had left him.

“You know, you might want to at least go back in the station, otherwise you will end up being blown out that airlock Gunny threatened to shoot you out of earlier.”

Brighde smiled.

The hatch to the frigate clanged shut behind her.

splintered reality - part four

2006-11-30T16:21:00.000-08:00

The ship looked fast, but that was only because it was fast…astoundingly fast, amazingly fast, stupendously fast…at least at sub-light speeds. At hyper light speeds? Well, that was another matter altogether. At hyper-light speeds it was like pushing an elephant across the rug on its nose. It was lucky if it could make a jump to the end of the docking bay let alone to the end of solar system. For all that, it was still impressive. True, next to the big Caladari military ships, such as the Scorpion class battleship in the bay just opposite, the ship could have been a gnat on same said elephant’s backside.

But it was all hers.

Every pirate that was “retired”, and due to the very nature of the business that was damn few, had a bit of something extra set aside. Usually most pirates found themselves forcibly retired, and quite often out an airlock.

The frigate had cost her most of what she had set aside. It had an overcharged hydrocarbon microwarpdrive and an overdrive injection system. However it also had a nanofiber hull and bulkheads. Very light, but very fragile. Basically a very fast egg that could make the jump to hyperspace. It was a modified Amarrii frigate, executioner class.

It floated in the docking bay like two gleaming golden fangs held together by a cramped passenger compartment. The ships principal, and at least for the time being, only occupant squeezed herself into the pilots acceleration couch. It was a tight fit for her six foot one frame at best. Normally frigates of this size were a bit more roomy. The modifications however, took up a great deal of the passenger quarters. The result was a ship that, rather than being something you got IN to was more properly viewed as something you put on, like a shoe – a very fast, very expensive shoe.

Gunny…no, she thought to herself, not Gunny. That part of her life was over (or so she thought at the time). New life, new name she thought. Back to being “Sam” like her mum used to call her.

“Dear old mum,” she said aloud to no one in particular as she looked around the interior of the frigate, “God bless her weasly, thieving, black heart.”

The passenger compartment was very Spartan, but then, so was her pilot. Two people could comfortably bunk inside. That is, if they were the sort of people to whom comfort meant sleeping on cold nonofiber and using the bulkhead for a pillow and having to open the engine compartment to have a place to stick your feet – which, Sam did have to do, being as tall as she was. Indeed, her mother had often told her that if she didn’t have so much body turned down for feet, she would have been another foot taller. It was, in fact, these same large feet that required specially made boots. The boots, like the ship were terribly expensive, and difficult to find. They were, she said to herself, the same boots that she would put up the back end of the person, whomever he or she was, that was currently pounding on the hull of her frigate.

Several agonizingly uncomfortable, body twisting moments, that would have made any contortionist proud, she managed to race to the hatchway. She peered out the portal to find out what in blue blazes was so urgent that whomever it was, needed to pound so hard that she thought they would pound their way through.

Unable to see who it was she popped open the hatch to find the source of the pounding, which stopped the moment the hatch opened.

The source of the pounding was Will Littlefoot, whom appeared “fit to be tied” as grandmother used to say; and the way Sam felt about Will at this point, she would be more than happy to oblige him. Before she could voice any objection, Will launched into a tirade over whatever it was he felt was worth having a tirade over.

“You said the ship was gone!” he screamed.

She was about to answer what turned out to be a rhetorical question, for it would soon become obvious that her former executive officer felt he had the answer to his own question. Like an ill wind that blew no good, she felt it was best just to wait out the storm – storm Littlefoot.

“You said the ship was gone! he screamed again needlessly.

It was needless for two reasons. Initially for the fact that Sam had heard him in the first place (as indeed had most of this end of the docking bay and, she thought idly, perhaps anyone who may be on the planets surface below them may have as well) The second reason was that she had expected this conversation, but just not so soon. She let “Hurricane Littlefoot” blow on.

“You said the ship was gone, but I just saw it in docking bay eleven. It isn’t gone, its just been moved. What are you trying to pull? What is going on?”

“I said…she said pausing before she continued, that the ship was gone and so it is. I didn’t say it actually went anywhere. It is “gone” in the sense that is no longer a mining ship, and no longer under the command of Brighde Blackfoot.”

“You aren’t going to get to be first officer that easy. Are you just trying to get rid of me?”, said Will.

“Yes. As a matter of fact I thought I had, came the reply. That is until you came pounding on my hull like some deranged maniac pounding on the gates of hell trying to get out. And if I had wanted to get rid of you to be first officer I would have killed you and put the dead body out an airlock and…”

Here Will tried to cut her off, but Sam would have none of it and raised her voice over his as she continued.

“…AND, she said,. I certainly would have tried to get Brighde to not sell the ship.”

Spintered Reality - part three

2006-11-30T16:20:00.000-08:00

The doors of the commissary slide open and in steps William Littlefoot, formerly the executive officer of mining ship “Hornet”. At the moment blissfully unaware of his status as “former” executive officer, he rushes across the room like a man with a mission – which, also unknown to Will Littlefoot, he no longer has. The progress of the harried man is watched all the while by Samantha “Gunny” Mcpherson, also formerly of the mining ship Hornet. The difference between the two, at least for the immediate future, is that Gunny is well aware of her “former” status, and is allowing Will to rush around the commissary heedlessly.

That difference is about to change however. While Will is soon to know of his opportunity to explore new ways to fill his time, a new difference will arise. This being that Gunny is far less concerned with her future employment opportunities. As Will Littlefoot rushes headlong toward his objective – a fast meal on the run, before heading down toward what he believes is the still waiting Hornet – he is caught up short by the sight of Gunny Mcpherson, sitting nonchalantly at a table off to one side of the commissary.

“What are you doing here?” Will says, not hiding the note of irritation in his voice.

A slight smile crosses Gunny’s face. Without looking up from her plate she replies.

“Eating my breakfast, what does it look like I am doing?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. What are you STILL doing here?”

Now Gunny looks up at Will, the calm look on her face causing her former executive officer’s irritation to grow by the second. She pauses, to make sure he is good and irritated before she continues, in the same vein as before, pointedly ignoring the point he is obviously trying to make.

“Because it’s a nice place to eat breakfast. The prices are reasonable and the food is good.”

A silent pause passes between the two former shipmates. Though the silence takes only a moment it seems to fill all space itself. Will walks over to the table, trying to his best to look menacing. This is a feat, which, when directed toward a woman who was a formerly a pirate (and to the thinking of some people perhaps not so “formerly”) - who had on occasion threatened to reach down her executive officer’s throat, grab his ass and turn him inside out – is perhaps one of the most wasted attitudes that William Littlefoot could have affected at the moment.

“What…”, he said quietly, leaning over the edge of the table, close enough for Gunny to easily take note of the veins on his neck bulging to such an extent that they appear that they may even pop out of his neck altogether.

“….aren’t..”, Will continues, pausing after each word in his vain attempt at emphasis that will instill fear in Gunny McPherson.

“..you” He says, now edging even closer.

“…on….board?”

“Because,” replies Gunny, looking up at Will and smiling in as condescending a manner as possible, “the ship has already gone.”

Another moment passes, as the shock that Gunny had so carefully tried to instill in her former executive officer has the desired effect.

“What?” says Will eventually.

“I…” here she pauses, then continuing in a mocking tone.

“…said…,” she says pausing again.

“That the ship has already gone. Departed. Disembarked. Hit the starry highway for parts unknown.” Gunny said. Then she calmly goes back to her breakfast.

“She’s gone? The ship is gone? Where? How can she just take the ship and go? She can’t do that!”

“Sure she can. Maybe you can’t fly a ship single handedly but Brighde is a pod pilot and The Hornet was once a light cruiser in the Caladari Navy – a military ship. It was originally set up to be flown by one person.”

Another moment of silence pauses as the sudden and drastic change in William Littlefoot’s life sinks in. Unbidden, he sits at the table opposite Gunny. Gunny pushes her plate to one side. Smiles and takes an orange out of the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. She begins pealing the orange, carefully working the peal away from the fruit so it stays in one piece. The job is soon finished and she drops the orange peal, still in one piece, on her plate. With this, she slides the bowl of fruit across the table toward her former exec.

“Apple.”

“No thanks,” Will replies, shaking his head, more to shake off his disbelief of the situation than to turn down Gunny’s offer of fruit, “Suddenly I am not hungry.”

“It wasn’t a question. It was a comment.” She says to Will with a slight sneer.

“What?” comes the reply, Will now looking at gunny with a puzzled expression on his face.

“It’s not an offer of breakfast, its an name, more of an adjective really.”

The puzzled look on Will Littlefoots face remained. It was a look that told Gunny instantly that he knew even less of his own tribal heritage than she thought he did. Gunny continued, Will rapt in attention more out of a desperate need for something, anything to hold on to now that his entire world had suddenly been whisked away from under him like some ephemeral rug.

“Back on ancient earth, Gunny said, we there was a name for people like you. In my tribe we still use if for people like you – apple.”

“I don’t….” began Will before he was promptly cut off by Gunny.

“…you don’t understand. Of course you don’t.”

Here Gunny picked up an apple. Took a large bite out of it and held it in Will’s face, the white center of the bite toward his face, in contrast to the rich red outside of the apple

“Look at it, she said, it’s red on the outside but white on the inside – just like you.”

Now Will was mad all over again. As he understood the comparison he became furious and started to rise from the table.

“Sit down.” Gunny said, her voice deadly serious.

Gunny had that way about her that, in moments like these, made it readily apparent to all around her that she had spent many years of her long life plying space as a pirate. The command that she gave her former executive officer made him certain that those days were, perhaps not as far behind her as he had supposed.

“You may have ignored Brighde, Gunny continued, but you re NOT going to ignore me. If you walk out on me before I am done, you will only be able to hobble out.”

Another pause. The entire works of William Shakespeare could have been written in what SEEMED to be the duration of this pause.

“Brighde gave you a chance to help our people. Not just her people, not just my people, not just your people. OUR people. All Minmatar. You never even heard her out.”

Now Gunny pointed to an Ammarrian merchant, on the other side of the commissary. He was dressed to impress all those around him with his obvious wealth.

“Do you see that man? His grandfathers OWNED our grandfathers. We were chattel. Property. Hell our grandfathers may as well have BEEN cattle. Some of our people are still slaves and not just to Ammarians. Now maybe you don’t give a damn about that but I do.”

Will opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind and let Gunny continue.

“…and when someone gives me a chance to end that slavery. When I am given a chance to help out people, and just MAYBE unite all of the tribes. Maybe kick out those who have kidnapped our people for centuries. Well I don’t really give a damn who is footing the bill. Even the First Holy Church of New Rome.”

Finally Will worked up the courage to reply. Having regained something of his composure he looked Gunny right in the eye.

“Maybe your people,” he said, “Maybe my people, but not HER people.”

Now it was Gunny’s turned to look shocked – as well as disgusted. She knew what he was getting at but wanted to hear the words come out of Will’s own mouth.

“Come on…” she started.

“No. I mean it. Will continued firmly. You know it as well as I do. Her father may have been Minmatar, but her mother was Gallente. She isn’t even full blooded Minmatar. She isn’t part of the tribe.”

Now Will was hot. He snatched the apple out of gunny’s hand.

“Apple is it, he said, now raising his voice at Gunny. Apple? Well at least I am all red, not just half of me.”

Gunny let Will rant on, not the least bit intimidated. Now the entire commissary stood still, as Will continued, now shouting.

“Hell she’s not even Brighde any more – just some DAMNED CLONE.”

Splintered Reality Part Two

2006-11-24T09:41:00.000-08:00

“The pod-pilots/ Capsuleers are the elite of Eve Society. The chosen few who decide their own fate and often that of others, with the buying power of small countries and the military might of nations…they are the rock-stars of the Eve universe. Normal people look upon them with awe, and those in power regard them with often envy, discontent and fear…” - Torfi Frans

As a pod pilot, Richard “Rick” Sirrelli was, in fact, none of these things.

He was not famous, though he desire to be. He was not a “rock star” – in fact he wasn’t even popular. Quite the opposite in fact. He was not looked on with awe, respect and certainly not fear. This last outlook most people shared of him, however, was due mostly to something Rick Sirrelli had in abundance – conniving. As a result, few people know the real side of Rick. If they did, they certainly would have feared him. For in addition to conniving, he was ruthless and mean as a snake.

As a pod pilot the one thing he wasn’t lacking was girth. He is the only known pod pilot to have necessitated a custom made pod to accommodate both his enormous girth and the additional synapses in his brain. This last quality was both the key to his reasonable degree of success in racing, and also indicative of what he had, more than anything else – connections.

He had connections in abundance, and not just the kind he had hard wired into his head However, the implants he begged, borrowed and stole – mostly stole – attributed more toward his success than he would even admit to himself. In fact where connections were concerned, it was well known in the Amarri underworld that if Rick Sirrelli couldn’t steal or smuggle it, it probably didn’t exist.

The single, solitary exception was also the key to his single greatest ambition, as well as being the source of his greatest aggravation. It kept him up nights. It was a part of a warp drive engine. Not just any part, no. It was a hyper spatial ion driven capacitor.

The crux of the matter of the matter was this – micro warp engines were what made space ships go fast. It made them go very, very fast. Incredibly, astoundingly fast. Micro-warp engines drained a capacitor, the source of their power, faster than a man dieing of thirst drains a glass of water. This last factor, was what limited the size with which anyone could practically use a micro warp engine in a space craft. It was why, for instance, you could not use a 100mn micro warp drive, normally made for use on a battleship, on a racing frigate. What limited the use of such an oversize engine on such a small craft is that the power drain on the frigate’s tiny capacitor would move the frigate about a foot and a half. True it would move it that foot and a half very, very fast. But a foot and a half was about all that it would move. But what if there was a capacitor that powered the craft took a long time to drain. What, in fact, if that capacitor were nearly bottomless?

An engine powered by such a capacitor could win races. It could also control the by-ways of space. It meant speed with very little bottom end.

And in all the universe, such an engine part existed on only one place – and the use to which it was now put galled him no end. It was used for mining. It was currently mounted on an aged light cruiser of the osprey class, captained by one Brighde Blackwolf. The hell of it is, he often told himself, is that she didn’t even know she possessed such an astounding bit of technology. Neither, it seemed, did that old fool of a chief mechanic of hers.

But he couldn’t exactly make what it was publicly known. The instant it was known exactly what it was, he would never be able to obtain it. The Caladari navy, which had created the part, had long since lost track of it. The engineer who had once fitted it on a light cruiser for testing, had met with a terrible culinary accident when the third course of his evening meal blew him to smithereens. Sadly, the only copy of his notes, which he was reading at the time, perished along with the man himself and his evening meal. The light cruiser had been sold off by the navy as military surplus.

Originally he had tried to purchase the craft, but the bitch who owned it wouldn’t sell. He tried to blow her up as well, but it didn’t do much good. Like a bad penny, she kept turning up. This last time was at a Caladari Naval yard where her ship was undergoing a refit. When he found her again, he hired someone to try to take the ship, and it’s precious part by force. As it turns out, not only did the fool he hired have the wrong ship, but he got himself blown in to such small parts they had to scrape him off the walls of the space station.

But this must have been his lucky lifetime for Rick Sirrelli had just found out that one other connection he had may be the key to getting his grubbly, meaty, sweaty hands on ever elusive capacitor. The connection was someone he knew. That someone was none other than Charlie Dau’fin, champion of the great racing circuit at New Rome.

Splintered Reality - part one

2006-11-24T09:39:00.000-08:00

Brighde sat across from her grandfather. A warm fire crackled in the background as a cool evening breeze blew across the barren, rubble strewn remnants of what had been one of the largest battlefields of the Caldari-Gellante War. On a distant rise, an aged Caldari shuttle was silhouetted against one of the twin moons of Caldari Prime.

A strand of Brighde’s strawberry blonde hair blew across her cheek, its color a strong contrast to her dark skin. The color of her hair was, in itself, telling of her French heritage on her mother’s side – going all the way back to the human settlement on Tau Ceti, before they became known as the Gallante. Her dark skin on the other hand, that told her of her fathers heritage every time she looked in the mirror. It was a heritage that traced itself across the centuries, long before the human ever came to the place they called “New
Eden” The name itself seemed ludicrous to her – New Eden. Some Eden, she thought to herself. After the collapse of the worm hole that brought them here centuries of war and blight flew across the galaxy; racing the progress of the remnants of humanity to what seemed would be their ultimate extinction.

Across from her the fire played a rhythm of light and shadow on her grandfathers wrinkled face. The crevices of his dark skin, reminded her the cracks in the dry plain on which they now sat. Her grandfather’s white hair told of an age that belied the sharpness of his mind. Her grandfather was the keeper of the oral traditions and the history of her father’s people. Her grandfather carried with him the history of thousands of years, stretching all the way back to the Oglala Sioux of the original Earth.

Grandfather and granddaughter stared into the fire for some time. The younger of the two broke the silence first…

“I miss coming to visit grandma”

Without lifting his eyes from the fire, her grandfather spoke to her in an even tone, as he concentrated on the fire.

“Your grandmother still mourns for the loss of her granddaughter. To her you are a stranger who has the memories of her granddaughter. In the time she will understand. You will always have a home here. With that her grandfather pointed to his own heart. Now, he said pausing, What troubles you young one?”

Her grandfather always knew. It was as if her could read her like a book. He always knew when she was agonizing over some fear. He could always tell what it was before she even spoke. It was a bit spooky, really, she thought.

“But granddad, Brighde continued, the angst now more apparent in her voice, I am right here. How can she mourn me if I am not dead?”

“She doesn’t see it that way daughter. To her, her granddaughter died that day her shuttle was blown up as it was preparing to make the warp jump to the Caldari Navel yards.”

Brighde fell into silence. Her grandfather allowed her, her thoughts, waiting for her to continue.

Brighde like it when granddad called her “daughter” . It reminded her of home – of being raised by two Lakota grandparents who still kept the old ways. At least it felt that way…

“Granddad,” Brighde said at last.

“Yes?”

“Who am I?”

This time her grandfather looked up from the fire, and stared directly into her eyes. He smiled. Then said quietly…

“You are yourself.”

Brighde smiled at her grandfather. “Trying to seem mysterious again are we? Or just tap dancing around the issue?”

Harold Blackwolf, her grandfather, her counsel and her consoler, just smiled back.

“You know what I mean granddad. Am I really Brighde or just…”

Here Brighde stopped herself, struggling with the word.

“…a clone, her grandfather finished for her. It is an evil word to apply to a human being.”

With one hand her grandfather picked up an antler from a deer. With it, he poked some of the rocks that glowed at the heart of the fire. “The rocks look as if they are ready now. Are you?”

“Yes.”

With that Harry Blackwolf lead Brighde to the edge of the circle of light cast by the fire. There at its edge, was what appeared at first to be a small mound of dirt. It was actually a mound form by branches and covered with old tarps. At the front was a small flap of canvas that formed a doorway.

Quietly, reverently, the elder Blackwolf turned to his granddaughter and spoke.

“This is what your people called an “innipi” – a sweatlodge.”

“My people,” Brighde said softly. Then she repeated herself …

“…MY people. What will I find inside?”

“Perhaps peace. Perhaps nothing. Maybe yourself.’

Brighde found she could only enter the lodge on hands and knees. With humility she crawled inside and felt as if she were entering the planet’s womb. She crawled in and took sat on the hard packed ground around the central pit, where the rocks would be placed.

The light entering from the door cast a smalls hard of light across the pit. The sweet smell of sweet grass lingered in the air inside the lodge. Her grandfather followed after her and handed a of the bucket of water and a dipper. She set those to one side as her grandfather crawled in after her.

Harry Blackwolf took a seat on the opposite side of the pit from his granddaughter, carrying with him two antlers. Reaching out of the tent flap with the antlers, he brought in one of the rocks he had brought from the fire. The rock glowed bright orange against the dull gray of the antler. He moved the rock with the deer antlers. As he did so, he greeted the rock and placed it gently into the central pit. This he repeated several times until the pit held a small pile of rocks. He closed entrance to the small enclosure The canvas doorway closed with a slap against the tarp and a dim red light from the rocks filled the small space inside the lodge. Brighde could barely make out her grandfather’s face on the other side of the circular lodge. Harry Blackwolf rubbed something across each rock which sparked when he did it. A strong sweet smell filled the air.

He asked his granddaughter to greet the Creator and the spirits, introducing herself. When he finished, he took a dipper of water and splashed it on the rocks. Each time he did this a sound like several snakes hissing and plumes of warm steam filled the air. Each time the temperature rose, but not to an uncomfortable level.
Harry began praying, and invited his granddaughter to pray with him. As he did this he splashed water against the rocks. The light grew dimmer and the temperature grew hotter.
“Speak what is in your heart,” her grandfather said to her.
Brighde felt like she was in an Amarr confessional. At first she hesitated. Then she spoke to the air. To no one. To the universe around her. She spoke was in her heart.
When she was done, her grandfather prayed in Caladari, but began singing in the ancient language of Lakota. To her surprise, Brighde understood some of the words. She did not know why. She let herself be carried away by the words of the song. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds…
…of the water hissing every time it hit the glowing rocks
…to her grandfathers soft singing in an ancient language she somehow understood.
…and her mind seemed to drift away, as a vision overcame her.
Brighde saw a woman sitting by a fire with a large tome in her hand. The glare of the evening sun peaked over what was once the forest of her home in the woods. She knew instinctively that the woman was Edelia Blackwolf – her mother. She watched as the sun cast long shadows over the living room floor. The woman dipped her pen an ink well next to her and began writing in the book.

Brighde watched as her mother rubbed her joints as if her reflexes were no longer as fast as they once were; the years having taken their toll. It was as if Brighde could feel what her mother felt.

Taming the far reaches of space, her mother began to realize, was now a game for someone much younger. Brighde felt her mother’s mind wander back to the day she first set foot on her new home world…a rag tag refugee with her child in tow.

There was a time when Edelia looked back on those years in the Caladari Navy, of the adventure, as the “good old days.” Her mind drifted back across the years. Edelia was distracted by a noise that sounded like it was made by the feet of a small heard of ravenous wolves. The noise grew louder behind her. Brighde saw her mother turn around. There was the same beaming face – a face that Brighde, who was seeing the vision – knew was her, only very young.

“Watcha doin’ mommy?”

“Well little one, Edilia answered, I am finishing up that book you asked me to write about my life, and the world your ancestors grew up in.”

“For me?!”

Brighde saw her mother close the cumbersome volume and handed it to her daughter – the young Brighde - with one hand. The book was even more of a burden for one so small, and the child took the book in both arms.

“Thank you sooo much mommy.”

The child set her precious treasure down on a nearby table…ever so gently…as if it would break if she dropped it too hard. No sooner had the book hit the surface of the table then she spun around, laughing gleefully, she ran to her mother and jumped into her arms…confident that she could trust mommy to keep catch her and keep her safe… ‘Just like always…’

The little girl plopped down in Edilia’s lap. She looked up and noticed one small tear slowly making it’s way down her mother’s left cheek.

“Why are you sad mommy?”

“I’m not sad at all little one.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because, little Brighde, these are tears of joy. I have fought many battles, long and hard, for treasure….for honor…and I suddenly realized…that YOU…little one…are the GREATEST treasure of all….my ‘pearl of great price.’ I would give up everything for you.”

“But you don’t have to give up anything for me, mommy,’ said little Brighde, “I’m right here”

“…THAT my little love, is why I am crying…THESE are my ‘good old days.’”

Brighde watched the vision. She watched as mother and child sat there enjoying each others presence, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the mountains.

------------------------------------

Before her eyes even opened Brighde lay there half asleep, awakening to feint the sounds of sub-light engines powering up. Part of her told herself she should wake up. The rest of her wanted nothing more than to lay there – where ever she was – and just sleep. Peaceful, carefree sleep. She hadn’t felt this good in – well – ever. The rest of her, the merchant marine part of her, told her she should instinctively want to know exactly why she had awaked to the sound of sub-light engines, when the last thing she remembered, albeit oh so vaguely, was dreaming in a sweat lodge with her grandfather. A dream? Or was it a vision.
It didn’t seem to matter right now. All she wanted to do was drift back into the most peaceful sleep she had ever felt in her life.
Her sense of duty, eventually overcame the overwhelming sense of peace. “Or is it MY sense of duty” she thought as she remembered back to the visions or dreams – what ever they where – of the evening before in the sweat lodge. Or are they the memories of someone else that died at a warpgate? Memories implanted in her head?
She opened her eyes…
…and stared at a cold gray ceiling a few feet in front of her face. There was just barely enough room to sit up. The sound of the sub-light engines faded into the distance, as she sat up and looked around the room. She instantly recognized the drab tan furnishing of the guest billets in a Caladari Naval Station. Outside the rooms only window was her ship – The Hornet.
The Hornet was a decommissioned light cruiser from the Caladari Navy of the Osprey class. Where there had once been 150mm rail guns, there were now mining lasers mounted in their place. The aging missile launcher still worked. At least she thought it did. She had never actually had to useit. In fact she was the only one on board who had ever had any experience using it. Everyone else she sailed with had only read the instruction manual – an instruction manual that, true to Caldari Naval form, was so enormous, that a Gallente grak beast would have had a hard time carrying it. To the casual eye, her ship resembled little more than a large metallic Kiwi bird of ancient earth, laying on its stomach with its large metallic butt sticking up in the air. In fact the people who sailed with her had dubbed it just that – “The Kiwi”. Even from here she could see the large red lettering, that had been hand painted on her hull, one night in dry dock, during a drunken “coming home” party after a particularly long mining run. She smiled as she looked at the letter. Whether they were her memories or someone else’s she couldn’t tell the difference. And somehow, after last night, it didn’t seem to matter so much. Friends are friends, and people that sailed with her, where her friends. They were also her family, and her home, as much as the Hornet was her home. She just stared out the window and smiled. Thinking back on the memories of the wild party that night – her memories.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of knocking on the metallic bulkhead that lead into the room.

The door to the room slid open with a sound of metal on metal, and the familiar scent of “Old Caldari Frigate” aftershave filled the room. Brighde was not sure why the scent was so familiar, but only knew to whom the scent belonged.

“Hello grandfather, your up early.” She said without turning.

“You aren’t,” came a chucked reply from behind her.

She turned to face her grandfather. As usual for those time periods when he was off duty, Harry Blackwolf was dressed all in black – lose fitting black pants, and a black shirt with a high collar in the old Minmatar fashion. Back on old earth they called it a ‘naru’ collar. His white hair which had flowed loosely about his shoulders during the sweat lodge ceremony was not pulled into a tight pony tail which hung down the middle of his back.

He smiled at his granddaughter and cross to the rooms only table, setting down the extraordinarily thing and gleaming stainless steel briefcase that was so popular on Amarri Prime these days.

Brighde pulled the tie of her silk robe tighter around her, which pulled the ancient Minmatar design on its back straight. She crossed over to the table and sat down across from where her grandfather stood.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

She glanced over her left shoulder at the illuminated numbers which appeared to be floating in the middle of the large glass picture window that looked out onto the Caldari Naval shipyards.

“It’s only o’six hundred just now?” she said.

Harry Blackwolf opened his briefcase and pulled out a this leather envelope. The envelope bore the seal of the Amarri priesthood – that of New Rome itself. He set the leather envelope in the middle of the table and sat down opposite his granddaughter.

“I mean,” he continued, you may be up early for Tuesday but your are not up early for Sunday.”

“Tuesday?” Brighde said in a surprised tone, “Its Tuesday? I have been asleep for three days?”

“You needed the sleep, he smiled, after all your only one week old – in a certain sense of the word. It may take you some time to adjust to your new life.”

“It still feels like I have someone else’s memory in my head, Brighde said with a yawn. Its very confusing. Are these my memories or those of some dead woman who was podded at the Altar star gate where she was waiting to jump into the Gelfiven system? Am I thirty standard terran years old or one week old?”

Harry Blackwolf reached across the table and put his large hand on Brighde’s shoulder in a very fatherly fashion.

“For now, He said, just be. In time the answers will find you.”

There was another knock on the door Brighde sat there watching the seal of New Rome staring up at her as her grandfather cross to answer the door. The door slid open once again and a very young Caldari Yeoman stood in the doorway holding a tray with a covered dish and a large carafe.

“Thank you,” Harry told the yeoman.

“You are welcome father” came the polite reply.
------------------------------------

Coffee..

Coffee was first discovered on old Earth. As time went on, and the history of old Earth faded into legend, so too did the use of the coffee bean. For it was there that some people first heralded its use as the cause of the greatest grievances of mankind. To many, its use became attributed to the decay of both moral fiber as well as that of body and spirit. And so its use faded into the past along with things like cigarettes, absinthe and cyclamate.

That is, until it was rediscovered one day by a dragnar herder on Tau Ceti, long before the worm hole that separated Earth and Eve closed forever.

Legend has it hat the dragnar herder saw his bucks particularly energetic after eating small brown berries off a bush. Keep in mind that the average dragnar spent the bulk of its life sunning itself in the warm Tau Ceti sunshine of its equatorial regions – the primary place it called home. In fact the average dragnar spent 80 percent of its life sleeping, another 10 percent eating and the remaining time getting fat from the previous two activities. After about several months of eating the beans, the herder noticed the average dragnar slept about 30 minutes a day, lost more than 50 percent of its body weight, and generally became an agonizing pain to take care of.

One morning, the herder complained of the affect on his heard to an Amarri monk of his acquaintance. This particular monk had a difficult time staying awake during the long hours spent in prayer by his order. It was this monk that spread its use throughout the Amarri priesthood. But it was, at first, a closely guarded secret.

It was an Minmatar infantryman who first let the proverbial cat out of the bag – or in this case, the bean out of the pot. The infantryman was in service of the same Amari priesthood that guarded the secret. When the day came that he left the service of the priesthood, a coffee plant left with him.

The use of coffee eventually became widespread among the Minmatar tribes, where its use took on special meaning. Ceremonies developed surrounding its use and became known to outsiders as the Minmatar coffee pouring ceremony. It is a special ceremony – a celebration of the individual. It is an acknowledgement that each time they met a person that the experience is unique in itself and will never come again.

A ceremony that Harry Blackwolf was about to perform for his granddaughter.

The door clanged shut behind Harry Blackwolf. As he crossed the room incense burning in a small bowl drifted behind him, its small clouds filling the room with the smell of sweetgrass.

Harry sat at the table opposite Brighde who watched in silence as her grandfather began. She smiled. No words were spoken. Behind her the sounds coming from the repair dock seemed to fade away as her mind focused on the ancient ceremony.

He took a ladle of the large tray and poured water over each of his hands, holding them over a bowl. When her grandfather was finished, Brighde repeated the same action, ritually cleansing her hands as well.

A feeling of warmth grew inside Brighde as she watched her grandfather remove the six bowls of food from the tray, setting them on the table in an order determined by age old tradition. To one side he set a bowl of kosuio, a simple clear broth to cleanse the pallet.

Harry paused, smiled at his grand daughter, the placed a large bowl in front of him, next to it he place a small whisk. Using a small white cloth, Harry ritually cleansed the bowl. Brighde watched her grandfather’s careful inspection of the bowl, and folding of the cloth, the look on his face telling of his state of concentration and meditation. Then her grandfather opened a stoneware jar, the smell of coffee filling the air as he scooped the fine powder into the bowl. Carefully, he poured water from the carafe, so hot it was boiling as it slowly filled the bowl. As her grandfather stirred the hot brown liquid, the earthy smell of coffee filled the room.

Brighde closed her eyes, the smell bringing her mind and her senses back to a place from her childhood. A place she knew she had never been to, yet was familiar to her all the same…
---------------------------

“…and so the frog says to the Jovian ambassador, ‘would you believe it started out as a wart on my ass?’” said Harry Blackwolf, as the laughter of his deep, soothing voice filled the room.

Brighde shook her head, trying to clear the thick ‘fog’ that had settled over her. It was as if she was waking from a long sleep. She looked at the table. The dishes from the coffee pouring ceremony had been cleared away. Her grandfather sat on the opposite side of the table, beaming back at his granddaughter.

“More coffee?” he asked cheerfully.

“…umm. Ya! Sure, granddad.”

Brighde looked around with what is known in military circles as ‘the thousand mile stare’. She watched as her grandfather poured her another cup of coffee from the gleaming white ceramic carafe that had been used in the ceremony. Steam rose off the deep rich brown liquid. That, was the last thing she remembered.

“What just happened here?” she asked her grandfather slowly.

“Well, at first I thought that look on your face was a reaction to my rather droll sense of humor. Lost a bit of time did you?”

“Yes, Brighde said as she blew across the top of the coffee that filled the stoneware mug. But not to much, I think, the coffee is still hot.”

“Well, time will tell dear. But I would venture a guess that it is more than just a momentary blackout. Sometimes sights, sounds and smells – especially old familiar ones – evoke memories. In your case it might be a memory, and it might be more. Time will tell.”

If the hot coffee that Brighde sipped didn’t bring her back to reality, the shrill sound of the claxon going off did. It’s sound filled the small room and echoed in the hallway. That familiar sound was something she reacted instantly to – it meant the station was under attack.

Instincts took over. Coffee sloshed over the top of the mug and spilled onto the table as she slammed down her mug. The chair toppled over backwards as she leapt to her feed and raced toward the closet, and her waiting flight suit. In her momentary lapse into habit she didn’t even notice that her grandfather didn’t seem the slightest bit unnerved by the alarm.

“Hang on there. Where do you think you are going?” came her grandfather’s calm voice behind her.

“But the station…” Brighde began.

Harry Blackwolf cut her off, “…can take care of itself. Where do you think you are going in a ship that is in pieces?”

Brighde followed her grandfathers look out the window at her mining ship. The light Caldari Cruiser was being refitted and was still in the middle of the refit.

Her grandfathers calm voice soothed her jangled nerves. “Put your clothes on daughter and join me on the observation deck. I will meet you there in a few moments.”

With that Harry simply smiled, scooped up the leather envelope from the table and strode out of the room. The claxon from the hallway blared louder as the door opened for her grandfather and then shut behind him.

It took her mere moments to through on her clothes and join her grandfather on the observation deck, which was one floor above. She rushed into the room to see her grandfather looking out the large picture window that filled the far wall of the room. This was meant as a lounge for visitors to the station. It was filled with overstuffed chairs and had a warm comfortable feeling to it. It was very un-military in feeling and obviously meant for civilian visitors to the station, such as herself. One of the central features to the room was the close circuit television screens that filled one end of the long rectangular room. The screens showed pictures from all over the station. Below it a speaker, normally meant to entertain visitors with the voice of the stations space traffic controllers, blared a warning.

“…unidentified craft. This is your last warning. You have committed a criminal act in controlled Caladari space. Stand down immediately or we will open fire.”

Outside two ships orbited each other, in a silent ballet in the airlessness of space. Streaks of light flashed from a mining cruiser, a modified osprey class ship much like her own. The streaks of light from what was no doubt the cruisers only weapon, streamed past a destroyer that orbited opposite her. The projectile from the ships hybrid turret falling wide and to the destroyers starboard side. The cormorant class destroyer returned fire with deadly accuracy. Three rocket volleys followed, one on top of another, and hit the osprey broadside. The shields of the large classed osprey held, and the oval light simply shimmered as the rockets impacted on the shields.

This last volley from the destroyer followed the final warning that blared over the observation decks speakers. In response Brighde and her grandfather heard a deep throated whoosh from somewhere below them in the lower part of the Caladari Naval Station. A moment later the citadel torpedoes impacted on the destroyer. Brighde and her grandfather each through a hand over their face and turned their heads to one side to protect their vision from the blinding flash of light. When the light subsided all that was left was floating debris where the destroyer had once been.

Harry Blackwolf now looked at his granddaughter. A very grim look crossed his normally jovial face as he addressed his granddaughter. Holding out the leather envelope he handed it to Brighde.

“It is time we discussed these,” he said.

----------------------------

“Letters of Marque!” screamed the executive officer, jumping to his feet. Then he repeated himself, unnecessarily, even louder this time, also unnecessarily.

“Letters of Marque?”

From behind him, a calmer voice broke in.

“Exec, letters of mark are an old earth tradition. They allow a civilian ship to…”

William “Will” Littlefoot, the executive officer cut off his chief mechanic, making no attempt whatsoever to hid the exasperation in his voice. In fact he seemed to be making a bit of an effort to add a bit more back in.

“For heavens sake Frank, I know what the hell letters of Marque are! That’s not the point. Now he turned on his captain. The point is we’re a mining ship. We mine asteroid fields, not lay mine fields!”

He glanced down at the thick leather envelope that lay in the middle of the table, and back to his captain, who had put the envelope there a moment before. The he continued.

“I’d ask who we’d be fighting for but I can see the seal of New Rome on the front of the of the letters. Are the Amarri trying to convert people to ‘the faith’ at the point of a gun again? We’re a Minmatar civilian vessel. Why are we even involved!”

A hushed silence came over the room. Captain and executive officer stared at each other. Still holding her executive officer’s eyes, Brighde Blackwolf addressed the chief mechanic.

“Frank”

“yes ma’am” he answered in a thick Caladari accent.

“Frank,” Brighde continued, “do you still have that TIG welder?”

“Yes’m” came the polite reply.

“Frank, I wonder if you could fix the hole in the ceiling above the exec’s head.

“Ma’am?” The chief mechanic asked dubiously.

For it was apparent to all in the room that there was no such hole in the old briefing room ceiling where they discussed ship’s business.

Now a wry smile crossed Brighde’s face.

“Well it seems, as usual, she said glancing over to her mechanic and then turning back to her executive officer, that they only exercise our executive officer is getting is from jumping to conclusions. He seems to do it so often there must be damage to the ceiling by now.

Laughter passed around the room on the faces of all the ships company present. It took a moment for the executive officer to catch the laughter; but after a moment he too caught the mood. He heaved himself back into his chair, laughing at his snap judgment along with everyone else.

Once the laughter died down, Brighde addressed all present; not as crew, but as friends.

“Look, she said, maybe we’re a mining ship, but its also a decommissioned light cruiser from the Caladari navy. An old war horse…”

“…More like an old war pony” Exec cut in.

Once more laughter rounded the table.

“Ok. War pony, Brighde continued with a chuckle. But it used to be a military ship. She has seen military service, just like all of you have seen military service as well.”

Brighde paused, looking around the table.

“Will,” she said looking at her executive officer, “you and I served on the same ship together.”

“We did,” came the curt reply.

“Frank, she continued, You’ve had more military experience than the rest of us put together. You’re retired Caladari navy. You were a chief petty officer. I don’t think there is anything that you couldn’t fix.”

“Aye, you’ve got the right of that,” Frank replied with a smile.

Brighde looked around the table at her crew.

“ There isn’t one of you here that hasn’t seen some military service.”

Suddenly a gruff female voice broke in from a woman standing at the back of the room, partially hidden in the shadows outside the Bright pool of light that illuminated most of the briefing room table.

“There is one person that hasn’t seen military service – me” said the voice.

The voice came from Samantha ‘Sam’ McPherson, otherwise known as ‘Gunny’. .

“We all know how you got your nickname Gunny,” Brighde said, smiling at the woman who was her oldest and dearest friend. (or was she the ‘other’ Brighde’s oldest and dearest friend she thought to herself?).

‘Gunny’ McPherson got her nickname from her reputation of being able to shoot the antennae off a frigate with nothing more than a home made slingshot. Most obviously quite impossible. But the skill she constantly demonstrated sometimes left her ship mates wondering. Gunny manned, or ‘womaned’ as she often put it, the ships sole means of defense from pirates as they mined the asteroid fields of Minmatar space – and aged 200mm autocannon. It was not the skill that the crew questioned but rather its dubious source that gave them pause.

Brighde gave a wink to her friend and made reference to the source of that skill as she went on…

“…yarr” Brighde said doing her best impression of a B holoshow pirate.

Most around the room laughed. A few of the laughs were a bit nervous. Gunny had never done anything to give her crewmates a bad impression. She was dependable. That above all was one of her best characteristics. If the ship was going down, she was one of the crew members that could be counted on to go down with it. Yet stereotypes have a habit of staying with someone, even when they are not deserved. The fact that she had once seen the seamier side of life, at times, made her crewmates worry. They wondered if she might one day one day join in the pirates that she spent her time protecting them from as they plied the byways of the asteroid fields.

The slight tension that filled the room was broken by the exec.

“No matter what the reason, we shouldn’t be fighting for the Amarri. They were the ones who once held our ancestors as slaves. With this he looked Brighde straight in the eyes. You’re ancestors and mine he said.”

The exec had a habit of restating himself and he did it again as he slammed his had down on the table, palm downward.

“They’re Amarri. We shouldn’t be fighting for them.”

With this he raised his voice a bit and continued, standing up.

“The REAL Brighde never would have…”

The second the words left the executive officers mouth he knew he never should have spoken them. Brighde was a clone. He knew it, the whole crew knew it. Yet among those people who held dangerous jobs it was commonplace to hire the medical laboratories around galaxy to produce one – medical facilities that had become commonplace for just this reason. They specialized in it. They were good at it. Each clone was a perfect duplicate of the original, right down to the memories. It was also an experience that those who were clones never spoke of. It was the something that was not spoken of. Not in polite society. Not in any sort of society. Not so much because the subject was taboo as much as those who had this experience would not speak of it.

People who weren’t clones couldn’t relate to being ‘born’ that way. Some understood. Some didn’t. But bigotry aimed at clones was something that ran through society like an undercurrent. It was obvious to someone who was a clone when someone else hated them for it. It was never that obvious – bigotry, after all, is usually unpopular. Few people thought of themselves as bigots. Even those who did, didn’t want others to think of them that way.

Brighde was just getting used to the way people who knew she was a clone treated her. To the average person who passed her on the street she was just another Minmatar. She rarely thought of herself as good looking even when others did. The reason was the negative reinforcement from those around her who did know she was a clone.

It showed in many ways. Like the people who refused to get on the station’s lift with her. It shown on the faces of people who would be walking along the corridors of the Caladari naval station, talking with one another and laughing – only for the laughter to die and the smile fall away from there faces as they looked at Brighde.

If the room was tense before, you could now hear a pin drop as silence fell over the room. The crew waited for their captain’s reply.

In the pause that ensued, the sounds of the ship’s refit could be heard through the hull.

Brighde said quietly, still looking at the exec, “I think we are done here.”

One by one, the crew filed out of the briefing room, leaving only one person, standing at the back of the room – Gunny.

Gunny walked over to the table and sat next to Brighde. Then she did something most of her crewmates would consider very uncharacteristic. She gave Brighde a big hug. She sat back and smiled at Brighde. Gunny also had another trait she was known for. She was a very, very good listener…

A tale of two lives - part two

2006-08-22T16:31:00.000-07:00

Chapter One – Sniggels and Sorcery

Ig’natz dodged the half full mug of mulled wine that came hurtling at him like a well aimed missile, only to miss him and crash against the doorknob next to his head. As usual, Natani was fast, but he was faster…

“And move faster next time I call you stupid Sniggel…” he heard shouted at him through the, now closed door. Turning, he started back down the steps that lead to the tower study…

…Only to trip over Fuzgig, his pet nocturnem, which had followed him up the stairs…and down they went sniggel, nocturnem and the tray of empty dishes; tumbling down the steps and landing in a heap of green skin, white fuz and broken dishes at the bottom of the first landing. Ig’natz had worked in the tower ever since he was forced in to servitude, by the elves, as a young orcling. Fuzgig, a sort of furless albino cat with small hands, only much sneakier than any cat, had been his only friend; and she loved to play jokes on “Iggy.”

Iggy bent over and picked up the broken shards with calloused hands and thrust them into the deep pockets of the threadbare smock he wore. Taking the ever-present cleaning rag out of his back pocket, he wiped the obsidian steps free of any remnants of food. Snatching up the remaining dishes in one hand and Fuzgig in the other, he made his way back down the steps. Turning to the right he pushed his way through the door to the crowded kitchen. The shards were promptly tossed into the garbage, Fuzgig tossed into a chair and the dishes tossed into the waiting dishwater. Fuzgig set about washing the mountain of dishes for the household he served, a task that was as endless as his servitude.

The moment the door slammed closed behind the household sniggel Iggy, the lithe elf priestess that sat behind the field of mahogany shimmered and began to shift. An altogether different Natani arouse from her desk than was sitting behind it a moment before. A master of illusion, she let the image of her former self, an illusion she had build up over the years, fall away now that she was alone. Grabbing what was left of the bottle of wine, she strode to the window of her tower. She stood there admiring the view from high above the edge of the city. Her loud belch reverberated off the walls of her office as Natani took another gulp of mulled wine. To call her an elf was almost a misnomer. She had grown up with comments such as “You move pretty fast for such a big woman.” She worked hard to overcome such oppressions…whether by hard work on her weight (at which she did not excel) or by violence directed toward those who dared insult her (at which she did excel). As a result she grew up without many friends. If indeed it can be said that any true friendships ever existed amongst elves. Even what passed for friendships were rare occurrences in her younger years. Others were either afraid to become her friend, or afraid to end up disappearing like some of those who had become her friend and teased her about her looks once too often. It had been the affect of her appearance on her life that had been the driving factor in Natani excelling in both sorcery and clerical magic…and the youngest priestess ever to become a teacher. She passed through the academy in record time…record time, that is, until little Kimi Gozen entered the academy. Kimi went through classes so fast that she actually caught up with her older sister Tomoe.

Tomoe and Natani had grown up together. Tomoe had been the closest she had ever come to a friend. They were members of rival houses but had become friends anyway. Unusual for dark elves but not unheard of. What Natani had found so unusual about Tomoe in the first place is that she was probably the only dark elf she ever met that didn’t have some sort of hidden agenda. The entire rest of the House Gozen was another matter however…they were ever greedy for power and prestige….they fit right in with all of the other elves. In fact, it was for this very reason that, until just recently Tomoe didn’t even know she had a younger sister. Kimi Gozen had shown absolutely no aptitude for clerical magic and had been incapable of anything even approximating sorcery. Very odd for a dark elf female. And so…House Gozen had disowned Kimi. Completely. She was thought to be a disgrace to the household, and the Matron had her wisked away to be raised by a minor branch of the house. Until the day that little Kimi Gozen came of age…

…when that day came…that disgusting day, thought Natani, as she continued to gaze out her study window…when the day came that Kimi Gozen had proven to be a “late bloomer” and had not only shown herself to be proficient at magic, but even excelled at it, suddenly she was taken back into the good graces of the Matron of House Gozen. She was immediately enrolled in the academy to become another priestess for the goddess their Clan. When Tomoe not only discovered that she had a sister, but that she would be attending classes with her, she was overjoyed. Tomoe and Kimi became inseparable. “Tomoe pushed me aside” Natani said to the night air…for she was certainly alone. She tried everything she could think of to drive a wedge between the two sisters. Intrigue, innuendo and outright treachery. She had even risked her place in the academy and standing with Lolth when she used her position to influence Tomoe’s counselor at the academy. Nothing availed her. Then the Head Matron of the academy assigned her to teach the senior class in combat magic. On the first day of class…there they sat…Tomoe and Kimi side by side. She had to look at the two of them for the entire year. Or so she thought…

There was no way, Natani thought, that the two sisters could not have known she was trying to drive them apart. In the end, she was right. She took another gulp of mulled wine, remembering the day that they confronted her…her…Natani Migonin. They threatened to go to the head of the academy to tell her about Natani’s treachery…trying everything that she could to deprive House Gozen of another high priestess. She denied it of course. In the end she convinced Tomoe of her sincerity but she knew Kimi would never believe her. Everything went on apace at the academy, as it should. The end of the school year and finals approached. That meant field practicum for her class in battle magic. Natani saw her chance…the chance to drive the two sisters apart forever. Jealousy reared its ugly green head…as green as the household sniggel that crossed her field of vision as she looked out of the window into the courtyard below. Ig’natz was headed for the door that opened onto the servants quarters. The scurrying little sniggel snapped her out of her reverie. Natani took that last gulp of wine, carefully judged the distance and the affect of the wind…and hurled the wine bottle with all her strength. Just as the sniggel reached for the handle of the door the bottle came crashing down on his head…Iggy dropped in his tracks. “Either I am getting faster,” Natani said to herself, “…or the sniggel is getting slower.”

A tale of Two Lives

2006-08-22T16:07:00.000-07:00

Authors Note: This is a new story I am starting. It DOES NOT take place in the Warcraft Setting. As I write the story we will explore the world togther.

A Tale of Two Lives
By Juliemarie WhiteFeather
© 2006 Juliemarie WhiteFeather
All rights reserved

Prelude - A Mother's Love

Tatsumi sat by the fire with a large tome in her hand. The evening sun peaked over the mountains behind her home, it’s last rays casting long shadows over the living room floor. Once again she dipped her pen in the ink well and set the last words down on paper…

Her reflexes were no longer as fast as they once were; the centuries had taken their toll. Taming the wilderness, she began to realize, was now a game for someone much younger. Her mind wandered back to the day she first set foot in the woods her family now called home. She wasa rag tag refugee…in leather armor that was a fourth generation hand me down, and a rusty sword that would be lucky if it could cut through hot butter.

There was a time when she looked back on those days as the “good old days.” Her mind drifted back across the years...She was distracted by a little laugh coming from a basket next to her chair. She looked down, there smiling up at her was a tiny baby. She smiled back at the small child. Tatsumi set down a pen, and bent down to pick up the child in her arms.…suddenly she realized.

These were the ‘good old days.’

A noise that sounded like it was made by the feet of a small heard of ravenous mongbats pulled her out of her reverie. The noise grew louder behind her. Tatsumi turned around. There was the same beaming face, that once smiled up at her from the basket. Now much older.

“Watcha doin’ mommy?”

“Well little one, Tatsumi answered, I am finishing up that book you asked me to write about my life, and the world you grew up in.”

“For me?!”

Tatsumi spread some sand on the last page and blew it off. She closed the cumbersome volume and handed it to her daughter with one hand. The book was even more of a burden for one so small, and the child took the book in both arms.

“Thank you so much mommy.”

The child set her precious treasure down on a nearby table…ever so gently…as if it would break if she dropped it too hard. No sooner had the book hit the surface of the table then she spun around, laughing gleefully, she ran to her mother and jumped into her arms…confident that she could trust mommy to keep catch her and keep her safe… ‘Just like always…’

The little girl plopped down in Tatsumi’s lap. She looked up and noticed one small tear slowly making it’s way down her mother’s left cheek.

“Why are you sad mommy?”

“I’m not sad at all little one.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because, little Tajqa, these are tears of joy. I have fought many battles, long and hard, for treasure….gold, jewels…and I suddenly realized…that YOU…little one…are the GREATEST treasure of all….my ‘pearl of great price.’ I would give up everything for you.”

“But you don’t have to give up anything for me, mommy,’ said little Tajqa, “I’m right here”

“…THAT my little love, is why I am crying…THESE are my ‘good old days.’”

Mother and child sat there watching the fire as the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the mountains.

As the years flew by, Tajqa grew into a tall strong woman. Her mother, Tatsumi, grew in love for her new life, as she grew older. Even elves die. Eventually, her days dwindled down to a precious few. The day finally came when Tatsumi set out on life’s greatest adventure….the after life. ‘Death is but a doorway’ she used to say.

When that day finally came, Tajqa sat on her horse staring back at the stone building that had been her home, now empty, for the last time. She turned her horse and rode off to the waiting ship at the sea shore.

Tajqa set off for a new land…

Her home dwindled away, as had its former owner, Tatsumi. The day came when both building and owner were nothing but cold bones in frozen ground. But one thing never dwindled…one thing NEVER died…the love of mother and daughter.

Raging Tauren part eight

2006-08-22T15:43:00.000-07:00

Raging Tauren - Chapter Two

Brighde and Lara sat at a small table in the front room of her family home that overlooked the mystic ward. Brighde had been there many times for training during her days as a young paladin. Now the house was all to empty – devoid of the family that had once made it a place of such warmth. The pounding of the Great Forge through the halls of Ironforge formed a lovely counterpoint to the pounding in Brighde’s head. The melodious strains of pain where not the only rhythms that filled the morning air. The early morning bustle of people going back to their jobs, carts rolling by on their way to open shops, and gnomes already shouting so all of the breakfast crowd could hear of the marvels of the freshly backed and picked wares. In fact it was the shouting of one particular gnome that set off the pain afresh, which had at least begun to subside.

A gnome in a red dress, over which she wore a white apron stuck her head in the front doorway. This being ironforge, the typical dwelling did not have a front door. Her hair was as red as her dress. She bore loaves of bread in her arms stacked nearly as high as the hair that was piled up on top of her head.

“Loaf of fresh baked bread this morning sir?” the gnome said with a bright smile.

“No, not today thankyou.”

“What about you Lara?” she said looking just beyond Brighde’s head, which she now held in both of her hands, to the dwarf who just entered the room.

“Not today thank you Farthing.”

“Right you are sir. See ya later,” the gnome Farthing replied brightly and set off in the direction of the commons.

“Here let me fill up your mug again,” Lara said as she tipping the contents of an aging metal container, the bottom of which was scorched by flame, into a large wooden mug that sat abandoned in front of Brighde. The black steaming contents oozed into the mug with a plop.

Brighde looked up at Lara and then stared at the contents of the mug in front of her as she spoke.

“This has got to be the worst coffee I have ever tasted. It tastes like it was run off of my dog’s butt.”

“You don’t have a dog,” said Lara.

“If I had a dog this is coffee is what it would taste like if it was run off his butt.”

“How do you know what coffee tastes like when it is run off of anyone’s butt? said Lara curtly. Have you ever had coffee that has been run off of a butt?

Brighde moaned again. Looked up at Lara with a pained expression on her face which she promptly buried in her arms on the table.

“It is way too early for this nonsense” she moaned.

“Shut up er’ drink up ye drunken sot. What would the rest o’ members o’ the Silver Hand say if they saw one of their paladins like this?”

Lara’s curt reply was answered only by a groan. Lara poured another cup of the ooze that passed for her coffee and Brighde’s head hit the table with an audible thump.

“Lucky thin’ fer ye that the table was there tae break yer fall eh? I have picked ye up off the floor enough fer one day. Next time ye go out drinkin’ like that I’ll nae be there tae pour ye back into yer bed.”

“What do you mean ‘drinking like that’? came Brighde’s objection. You were there drinking same as I was!”

“Like I said, came Lara’s reply, drinkin’ like that – its no the drinkin’ itself I mind so much as yer inability tae handle the drink in the first place. What kind o’ a dwarf are ye? Me wee sister could drink ye under the table.”

“Don’t be absurd, Yer sister is only 12 years old” groaned Brighde.

“Aye, came the reply, an’ still she kin’ drink ye under the table. An’ so ye are a double disgrace – a disgrace fer not bein’ able tae handle the drink and a disgrace tae our order fer getting’ drunk in the first place.”

The was a long pause as Brighde thought for a moment in silence, her thoughts struggling to pierce the veil of her hangover.

“…OUR order?” she said, puzzlement filled her face as she looked up at her friend bleary eyed.

“aye, you heard what I said. That time ye where shot at with an arrow that nicked yer left ear and narrowly missed turnin’ ye into dwarf shish kabob – who pulled ye out o’ the way?”

“You did, Lara,” came the reply.

“That time ye were chasin’ a kobold across the Swamp of Sorrows an’ ye fell into the bog who pulled ye’ out when ye were nearly a gonner?”

“You did, Lara”

“An’ that time ye’ stopped in to a bar in Ratchet on yer way to the Crossroads, a bar full o’ Taurens I might add, and started yelling “Moo” who pulled ye out o’ the way?”

“Wait a min’, said Brighde bleary eyed, that wasn’t you. I was hit o’er the back o’ the head wi’ a bottle. I woke up in an’ ally.”

“An, just who was it ye’ think hit ya’ in the back o’ the head an’ dragged yer fat carcass out o’ there afore ye were killed dead?”

“Yoo hit me o’er the head wi’ a bottle! Yelled Brighde. Ye dirty….I woke up in an ally. What is wrong wi’ ye?’

“Well if ye’ where a bit more thankful now n’ then, perhaps ye’ would have woken up in the inn instead o’ the ally.”

An angered look crossed Brighde’s face and she rose quickly intending to take what she considered a well deserved swing at her “friend” Lara – only to find herself forced back to her seat just as suddenly but the pain which slammed into her head like a sledgehammer the moment she rose.

“Ye may as well sit down afore ye fall down, said Lara. An’ have another ‘slice’ o’ me coffee, she replied with a smile.”

With that Lara began pouring the strong coffee into the mug in front of Brighde. It was a potent brew that has also been known to take rust off iron swords, deforest small areas of ground of shrubbery, and – as in this case – cure a bad hangover quicker n’ any other remedy known to man or dwarf. It was always a contention amongst the, usually unwilling, recipients of the hangover cure, that most individuals got over the hangover just so they wouldn’t have to continuing imbibing a potion that could otherwise have been used as a slow and particularly cruel form of torture.

“An’ now that ye have finally invited me into yer family home, after all these years, although I can’t say as I was actually invited as ye’ were out cold when I dragged her fat tookas over here from the pub, I can’t say as I admire yer family’s particularly gruesome taste in wall hangins’ either.”

“What? Brighde said looking up hat her friend once again, barely able to lift her head. What the devil are ye talkin’ aboot?”

“That, said Lara pointing with the coffeepot up to an animal head mounted above the nearby fireplace. The druid ye whose ‘ead ye got stuffed n’ mounted up there.”

“Are ye’ daft? exclaimed Brighde in as aggravated a tone as she could manage through the pain. It’s jus’ the head of a lion.”

“A lion eh? Have ye’ no e’er wondered why yer ‘lion’ has horns like that?’

“ I suppose, said Brighde looking up at the mounted head above the fireplace now. On tother hand, who would think it would have fangs like that either. Look at the things. It looks like that thing could eat a ham sandwich through a picket fence.”

“Have ye’ been livin’ under a rock all yer life long,” said Lara?

“Well ya’ said Brighde. We are dwarves an’ this IS Ironforge is it not? O’ course I spent a lot of time livin’ under a rock.”

“An jus’ where did yer ‘lion’ come from me friend?”

“It be somethin’ ma ordered before she died. It came jus’ after I got ‘ere. She wrote me aboot it. Came from some troll or other in Ratchet. She ordered it.”

“well me dear, that no be any lion. THAT be a druid in cat form. Wot is more, that be a Tauren druid.”

*******************************

The sea breeze blew across the small village of Revantusk, in the Azerothian Hinterlands. The breeze carried on it a scent of salt and the feint rhythms of steel drums. In the distance Dr. Rashan danced, his feet pounding against the wooden floor of his shanty, not far from the beach where Zola sat, her feet dangling over the edge of the small dock. The gentle breeze blew threw her long red locks, and she kicked her feet absent mindedly in the air as she cast her fishing line once again.

The lure at the end of the line whipped through the air and landed in the midst of a distant school of fish – cast with an accuracy that could have plucked a gnat from a horse’s ear at 30 yards. The same early afternoon sun that gleamed off Zola’s blue troll skin, turned the tiny waves of the ocean into thousands of small lights. Yet it was not difficult for her experienced eyes to pick the bobber out the peaks of the many tiny waves. This time in the afternoon was one of Zola’s favorite.

Not many of the dwarves and humans who came out of the nearby dwarf settlement on Aerie Peak even knew this village was here. The only land passage was down a narrow rock strewn ledge partly hidden in the bracken strewn across the top of the cliff that formed a wall around three sides of the small outcropping of land on which the troll village of Revantusk was located.

Yes, Zola loved this time of the afternoon – the cool ocean breezes. The rhythm of her native music and the peaceful feeling that settled over the village about this time each day. Her eyes, intent on watching the bobber for the telltales signs of a fish nibbling at her line, were distracted by a movement in the distance. A large sea turtle surfaced for a moment, then disappeared once again beneath the waves. A few minutes passed and it surfaced once again with a fish in its mouth…

…which it promptly lost, as well as its head, as the crack of a rifle shot pierced the calm afternoon air.

“You be doin’ the whole thing the ‘ard way” came a familiar voice from behind her.

A smile crossed Zola’s face. Without turning she merely said, “Well there was the whole idea of actually havin’ a fish left after the fishin’ was done.”

“Ya, well it wasn’t the fish I was after anyway, it was the turtle. Ya’ do know how I be lovin’ turtle soup. Nothin’ like it.”

A grimace crossed Zola’s face as she turned to see her oldest friend, Erzuli.

“Well that be the truth, said Zola said. And the whole village is more the fortunate for it!”

Erzuli sat down next to Zola, her back against a crate at one side of the dock. Dust covered the green scales of her leather armor which creaked a bit shifted and made herself comfortable. Like Zola, was red, but was done up in a large Mohawk that seemed to keep its shape, despite the breeze.

“So, Zola said turning back to her attention back to the bobber at the end of the line, where have ya’ been all this time?”

“Just out doin’ a bit of huntin’ is all,” came the offhanded reply.

“Tha’ I can see from the state of yer’ clothes. But ya’ have been gone an awful long time fer a short huntin’ trip.”

Erzuli was about to reply when a sudden wave came washing over the dock. Zola, dressed in shorts and a loose cloth blouse didn’t have much to get wet in the first place. Erzuli, however was soaked but didn’t seem to mind, it taking the whole thing in stride. When the wave subsided, there, in the middle of the deck, stood a scarred boar. Its pink skin contrasting against the armor plates on its back and legs, upon which red symbols had been painted. The armor was dented in many places, looking as if it had seen a lot of use. It’s long tusks where gleaming and sharp, as if they too had seen a lot of use – a lot of very successful use. In it’s mouth was the mangled remains of a very large fish. It looked at Erzuli with a large smile on its face, if indeed boars can be said to smile. This one, most obviously did.

Erzuli simply stared at the boar.

The boar, seemed to realize it had done something wrong and dejectedly let the fish flop onto the wooden deck.

Staring straight at the boar Erzuli spoke to it.

“Did I or did I not tell ya’ we were here fer the turtles an’ not the fish? Did I or did I not tell ya’ ahead of time we were havin’ turtle soup for dinner?”

As oddly anthropomorphic as it seemed, the boar seemed to understand Erzuli. Quickly turning, she jumped off the end of the dock, once again spraying water all over Erzuli and Zola. Zola broke the silence first.

“Ya’ know that never stops bein’ amazin’. I am not sure whether that is creepy or not. Yer’ boar seems ta’ know exactly what you ar’ sayin’ ta her.”

“Well she may understand, said Erzuli, and she may be as tough as old shoe leather, but she is not as smart as they come.”

“Be that as it may, all I am sayin’ is ya certainly do have a way with animals.”

“Ya’ she has been a good friend and companion these many years, and those sharp tusk of hers have saved my own hide many times.”

Zola was about to reply when she was distracted by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the wooden deck behind them. Turning, both woman saw Erzuli’s boar dragging the carcass of a turtle, several times her size across the deck. She dropped it and a big grin crossed her face once again.

“That’s my girl, smiled Erzuli. Good girl.”

The boar started to wiggle her but so hard it appeared as if it would come off. She was obviously delighted to have earned her master’s approval.

“Well, said Erzuli standing up, it seems as if dinner is served. I will see ya’ a bit later.”

With that she slung her rifle across her shoulder. The rifle, unlike her clothes was well polished, its pristine surfaces gleaming in the sun. Erzuli waved and turned away from her friend. As she did the ever present tassel which always hung from the stock of her rifle slapped against the leather of her clothes. Unlike the pristine rifle, the tassel seemed old and worn.

“Why do ya’ keep that smelly old thing around?” Zola called after Erzuli, who stopped and turned back to her.

“Now that’s now way ta’ be talkin’ about me dear pet boar.”

“Not your boar, that thing ya’ got hangin’ from your rifle….that smelly old lion tail.”

Raging Tauren part seven

2006-08-22T15:41:00.000-07:00

Raging Tauren - Chapter Two

“I’LL SPEAK ABOOT ME COUSIN ANY WAY I PLEASE!!” the drunken dwarf yelled and slammed her mug on the table – and in the process spilling most of it’s contents either on table, floor or her companion Lara.

Lara set enough gold on the table to cover both the drinks and the damage and pulled her friend over to the door of the Stonefire Inn.

“Not,” she said, pushing Brighde through the door of the inn, “when your cousin is also the Thane, and ESPECIALLY not when that same Thane is like two peas in a pod with the Bronzebeard family.”

“BAH!” roared Brighde, stumbling away from the inn and just narrowly missing a headlong tumble into the deep molten slag pilled pit that formed a ring around the inner and outer parts of Ironforge. She stopped, steadying herself with one hand on a nearby wall and turned back to Lara…

“Who cares aboot the Bronzebeards? Ye air nothin’ but a cowaird, she said to her friend with a look that was originally mean to be a look of distain but came out looking more like someone who was trying to figure out why a multi-legged creature was crawling up her arm. The look on Brighde’s face rapidly changed from mock distain to shock as her friend whisked her off her feet and into a nearby darkened corner.

“I CARE about the Bronzebeard’s that’s who,” said Lara.

Now she had Brighde by the color of her hauberk. Lara lowered her voice in a whispered threat just next to Brighde’s ear.

“I’ll thankee not tae speak about me king and ‘is family like that. And do NOT mistake the fact that we are childhood friends fer me willingness tae be called a coward be ye’ or anyone else. Do ye remember what happened th’ last time ye said that?”

Brighde rubbed the back of her neck where a scar still hurt her when it rained.

“Ye snuck up behind me, said Brighde in a level voice. Ye’ would never beat me in a stand up fight”

“A large smile ran across Lara’s face. Of course I would nae beat ye’ in a stand up fight. Why else would I sneak up behind ye?”

“Because yer’ a thief?”

“Well, there is that as well, said Lara patting her old friend on the back. Come lets be off tae yer new house.”

“Me Mothers house,” corrected Brighde. “I still have nae been able tae bring meself tae call it mine….then after a pause she added….God rest Mothairs dear soul.”

Brighde started off down the immense hallway again and started to stumble. Lara steadied her friend and supported her under one arm.

“Come on’ let me help you home, or ye’ will end up fallin’ into the steel of the Great Forge fer sure.”

Raging Tauren part six

2006-08-22T15:40:00.000-07:00

Raging Tauren - Chapter Two

“Reet! So that’s ‘ow it was then?” said the dwarf slamming his mug of dark ale on the wooden table, splattering suds on the table and floor in the process. The fact that the any dwarf would spill even a drop of good dwarven brew perhaps told of the slight stage of inebriation of the bearer of the mug. The dwarf wiped the suds off the front of her leather vest with her hand, followed by her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

“Aye, said the dwarf across from her, also slamming her mug on the table, with a nod that was so violent that her twin red braids slapped on the back of her steel armor, That’s ‘ow the tale come down tae me from me mother’s, mother’s, mother…”

A somewhat puzzled look crossed the face of the first dwarf as if she were trying to remember if she had locked the door to her house. She muttered a bit to herself – counting out the “mothers” on fingers which where very lithe for a human let alone a dwarf.

“….yer mother’s, mothers….then turning to her old friend Brighde she said loudly, YER GREAT GRANDMOTHER!”

“Reet,” said Brighde taking another long draft of ale, “so ye knew ‘er then did ye?”

“Nooo,” came the reply, “I kin count is all – unlike some o’ the rest o’ us.”

“I kin’ count as well,” said Brighde in mock earnestly,"...I kin' count the two o' ye sittin' across from me!" With that she laughed hardily and took another long gulp of her ale.

“So tell me Brighde, said the first dwarf, jus’ what is it that yer father was doin’ havin’ dealins with the Dark Iron Dwarves in the first place; him bein’ the father of a fine upstandin’ paladin such as yerself?”

“I kin’ tell ye that was a fact that he was no proud of in the first place”

“Dealin’ with the dark irons?”

“Nooo, said Brighde, her speech now slurred than before, ‘avin’ a paladin fer a daughter. He was dead set agin it from the first.”

“Let me guess – ‘e asked ye ‘ow ye would ever ‘ave any children an’ yer mother cried fer half an hour?”

“O’ so ye heard already did ye?” asked Brighde.

“Noo. I ‘ad the same conversation wi’ me mum an’ da’ meself. ‘Lara’ ‘e says tae me one day, ‘ow will ye e’er have any wee bairns if ye keep up wi’ this life o’ yourin?’”

“What did ye tell ‘im?” asked Brighde, with another long gulp, now barely able to hold herself upright in the chair.

“What could I say?” said Lara, “I offered tae steal ‘im a few.”

With this both Brighde and Lara laughed loud and long, both dwarves barely able to catch their breath. Finally the laughter settled down to a chuckle as both women sat drinking their ale in silence, just enjoying each others company; for that is what is said to be the measure of a true friendship – when silence can pass between two friends and not be uncomfortable.

The deep thrumming of the great forge filled in the background to the more present sound of laughter and clinking of glasses that was the sign of the stock and trade of every good Inn. And the Stonefire Inn of Ironforge was one of the best. The air smelled of a mixture of hops and a slight odor of smoke that was ever present in Ironforge. It was hard to be entirely rid of the smell with such a large forge operating completely underground.

“Well I am glad tae see me ol’ friend back, nae matter how sad the circumstances,” said Lara finally breaking the silence.

“Well it’s good to be back,” Brighde answered, “it has been a long time.”

“It is jus’ a shame that it took the death o’ yer mother fer the Thane tae bring ye ‘ome finally.”

There was a long silence. Then Lara spoke again, this time in a hushed tone so no one else around her could overhear the conversation.

“So jus’ what WAS yer father doin’ messin’ around wi’ the dark irons?”

Learning in Brighde also spoke in an undertone, “Well it was the bloody Thane what sent da’ all that way tae Mulgore in the first place….the right bloody bustard tha’ ‘e is.”

“Shh-shh-shh,” hissed Lara sounding somewhat like a drunken asthmatic snake, “Don’t let anyone ‘ear ye say somethin’ like that in here.”

“Well the Thane ‘as that comin’ n’ a lot more I kin tell ye’ He be the whole reason tha’ dad is dead in the first place…” said Brighde her voice raising, then trailing off a bit as she noticed some of the other patrons of the Stonefire Inn glancing in their direction.

Raging Tauren part 5

2006-08-22T15:39:00.000-07:00

Xasxas’ mind was quickly brought back to the present by a slap on the back by Elder Runetotem. Yet anger still filled his heart as he remembered the death of both his parents.

“I know what you are thinking lad, began the elder. I miss your parents dearly. You father and I where the best of friends long before you were born. We were proud, headstrong young bulls then. We would hunt together. There is much of your father that I see in you lad.”

There was a long silence as the wind whistled amongst the three mesas that formed Thunder Bluff. The sun had long since set and Xasxas now stared at the moonlight Mulgore sky. Thousands of points of lights wheeled across the skies in an endless array that never ceased to fascinate him.

“Come back inside my son, there is something I need to tell you.”

Silence. Xasxas still kept his back to Elder Runetotem.

“If you will not give me the courtesy due an elder, then you will give me the attention due a father,” said the Elder in a raised voice.

With that Elder Runetotem grabbed Xasxas and spun him around, with a strength belying his age. Xasxas simply stood there staring at his elder with an expression of anger on his face.

“I know your anger is not directed at me lad, and so I will not count it as the disrespect the other elders would consider it. Ever since your father died, I have helped raise you at your mother’s request and now Morningstar’s. Things are not always what they seem, and though you think you see things as they are now that you are a druid you still have much to learn. Blame for your father’s hands does not lay with the dwarves…”

His face now frozen and emotionless, except for the piercing eyes for which Xasxas was known, paused, then in a sarcastic tone that Elder Runetotem would not tolerated from any save his foster son.

“Then teach me O’ wise one.”

Elder Runetotem let out a long sigh then continued.

“Your father did not die because he was murdered by the dark iron dwarves. Your father died because he was headstrong – like you.”

Raging Tauren Part 4

2006-08-22T15:34:00.000-07:00

“Xasxas, She told her son in a mildly scolding tone, I don’t mind you playing “mighty lion protector.” I don’t even mind the messes you make of yourself. But you have got to get over this anger at people who don’t understand Mother Earth the way we do. Isn’t that right Tatsumi? She added looking up at her friend for support.”

Tatsumi smiled down at her best friends son. Ignoring the mud that caked the little boy, nearly matching the color of Tajqa’s skin, she took the tiny hand in hers. It looked so tiny against her larger. Looking into the worried little eyes Tatsumi spoke to little Xasxas ever so gently, reassuring her.

“Xasxas, she said, your mother is right. It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter where you go in life. We are your family. You will always have a home here…and the Earth Mother will always have a safe retreat here where people love and respect her.”

“But mom” Xasxas blurted out, “those dwarves think we are all just big dumb cows, they will NEVER learn. Before he died dad said….”

“Yes, Tatsumi said. I know what they think of us. You are right. But you are a Tauran, you can be proud of your heritage. We all miss your father. But you still have a mother who loves you and our tribe wants you with them. We will look out for the Earth Mother together.”

“I love you, Xasxas’s mother said, smiling at her son. She took him in her arms as she hugged him and whispered in his ear…we are safe here little one.”

“…aren’t they going to kill us like they did dad?” Xasxas asked through nearly silent tears.

“These lands are well protected, his mother said with a reassuring smile. We don’t have to fear those bad men any more. I will always love you…”

Then mother and daughter hugged each other in silence for along time, with Tatsumi looking on. Moments passed as little Xasxas enjoyed the warmth of his mothers hug. The moments lingered on…and his mother’s grip loosened…dropping Xasxas to the ground…her eyes wide open in both shock and horror. Xasxas watched as his mother dropped slowly into Tatsumi’s arms. Then she saw the black shaft of an arrow that protruded from the back of his mother’s neck..

Not understanding fully what had happened the little boy just gave his mother a puzzled look. In a pitiful little voice he managed to squeak out the words…

“Mommy?”

Tatsumi had spotted the source of the angry black shaft, but too late. Here in Mulgore was the last place she expected an attack. She watched helplessly as the assassin slipped back into the night, fading from sight. She held her dieing friend in her arms, watching as the light that was her life, faded from her eyes. Tatsumi watched as Xasxas’s mother gagged, struggling for breath and a voice that would not come. A silent tear coursed down the dieing woman’s cheek. Tatsumi followed her friends eyes as they look one at her daughter one last time with a mixture of love and anguish.

“Dearest friend, Tatsumi whispered…for that is all the voice she could find…dearest sister…you can go into the next world in peace. I will always love little xasxas. I will raise him not as my own…for truly now…he is my own. Your son will always be loved and cared for.”

With that the light behind those dark eyes, the window of the soul, slipped into eternity.

Raging Tauren Part 3

2006-08-22T15:31:00.000-07:00

When all was quiet Xasxas silently padded his way to the edge of the precipice. Looking down, he crept over to the gully that lead down to the dwarves dig. Cautiously he made his way through the filth the dwarves had left in their wake as ripped in to the Earth Mother’s flesh. Xasxas the stealth lion kept to the shadows of the setting sun as he approached their camp site.

Overhead clouds from the east threatened to overtake the beautiful Mulgore sunset. A slight mist began to fall, lightly coating Xasxas’ mane as he lay in wait. An hour passed with Xasxas listening to the dwarves laugh while wooden mugs filled and refilled with Dwarven ale. He inched forward into a mud filled trench in which the dwarves had been working. The light rain had turned the earth to ooze that reminded Xasxas of the Earth Mother giving up her blood as the result of the Dwarves treachery. The muck coated his fur as he crept forward ever so slowly…making him blend perfectly with his surroundings

The hours wore on as he made his way closer to the campsite, now a dry patch in what had become a sea of mud. With the setting of the sun, the temperature began to drop. The twin moons where full, their light glistening in the drops of water on his fur, shinning like diamonds. Water ran down from the precipice filling the formerly dry gulch. The rhythm of the water pounding like kettle drums in his ears. He waited-until midnight-then ever so cautiously he made his way into the campsite. Hiding in the shadows, Xasxas carefully placed each paw so as not to create the slightest sound. At the center of the camp, the fire dwindled. One of the two remaining dwarves reached behind him and threw another log into the center of the flame, stoking the fire. He recognized the older of the two dwarves at the fire as the leader of the dig site. Both dwarves stared intently into the flames as shared a conversation. This was just the distraction that Xasxas was hoping for.

The mighty lion Xasxas crawled on his belly, edging toward the unsuspecting dwarves. Soon he was within pounding distance.

From his hiding place he could see the two dwarves laughing. Laughing at the families of Mulgore no doubt. Then, the older dwarf pointed directly at him! How could this be? He had been discovered. His mind raced, trying to decide on a course of action. Too soon his foe set upon him. In a moment the leader and reached him….

…pulling him out of the mud. Xasxas smiled as he remembered his mother looking down at her little boy, that she and her friend Morningstar had seen hiding in the bushes again.

“Xasxas!,” cried his mother, holding him at arms length.

There was little Xasxas covered from head to foot with mud and leaves plastered all over his body. Morningstar burst out laughing behind his mother; and soon his mother joined in the laughter as she surveyed the condition of her son. Setting down her little boy, she smiled down at him.

“Have you been playing mighty lion protector again young man?” she asked.

“Yes mommy,” said Xasxas ever so sheepishly. “Have I been bad?”

Mother and child made their way back to the wooden bench to join her dear friend Morningstar near the fire at the center of Bloodhoof Village. She sat little Xasxas on the bench between the two of them.

Raging Tauren part 2

2006-08-22T15:29:00.000-07:00

Xasxas walked out into the night breeze that blew across elder rise. The moons were full…a hunter’s moon is old da’ used to call them. As looked out across the waving grass of Mulgore he saw the small stand of trees where he used to play as a child. His mind drifted back across the decades…back to the time his old da’, a fourth generation druid, told him about being able to shapeshift into a lion…protecting the plains of Mulgore…

…Being an lion was about patience; and Xasxas had infinite patience. He carefully watched his quarry, studying its habits…where it went, what it did. Xasxas the lion waited, planned, he bided his time. Waiting for the precise moment guaranteed success, without bring danger to himself and his tribe. Xasxas was a druid, tutored carefully in the ways of the Earth Mother.

Now he had traced his quarry to their dig site; a mine they had driven into the very bowls of the Earth Mother. There were five Dark Iron Dwarves and only one of him. Not good odds for a druid such as himself… “Perhaps they should go find some more friends,” he chuckled to himself. The smell of his quarry’s filth, lingered in his sensitive nostrils.

Xasxas the Lion prowled carefully through the tall grass near the edge of the Dwarve’s dig site. Even druids, no matter how skilled, cannot prowl entirely without risk leaving a trace of their passing. He followed a small gully that ran up the side of the mountain ridge to the area just above the mines. It had once been a small creek, no run dry as if somehow in reaction to the evil that lay within the corruption of the Earth Mother.

He lay in wait, hidden by tall prairie grass, at the top of the ridge. Hesitating, the mighty lion slowly crept out of the edge of the tall grass and peered over the ledge and looked down into the gaping pit the dwarves had dug into the Earth. It seemed to Xasxas as if it where a gaping wound.

The open wound horrified Xasxas. The ore they gouged from the Earth Mother seemed as if it where huge gaping lumps of her flesh. It made him retch, spewing the contents of his stomach into a nearby patch of weeds. He crawled slowly edged back to the safety of his hiding place, afraid that the noise he made might have alerted the dwarves.

Raging Tauren

2006-08-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

Authors Note: In the World of Warcraft a Tauren is the similar in appearance to a minotaur of mythology. However, in the world of Azeroth, the Tauren have a culture that is very close to Mother Earth, as were many American Indian Cultures.

Xasas sat across from Elder Runetotem. A warm fire crackled in the background as a cool evening breeze blew across elder rise. In the background the sound of drums drift across Thunderbluff from hunter rise. The two Tauren stare into the fire for some time. The younger of the two breaks the silence first…

“Elder Runetotem I miss Bloodhoof village.”

“In the time you have been here you have served the tribe well Xasas. I am proud of you. You will always have a home here. What troubles you young one?”

“Elder, the day I left Bloodhoof village it was attacked by a mighty dwarven warrior in plate armor. He attacked the guards and our young ones. Why did he do that?”

“I know of what you speak. The dwarf was exacting vengeance for his brethren who died at the Bael’dun mines to the west.”

“But Elder, the dwarves are digging in sacred lands”

“Yes, I know that Xasas. We did ask them to stop, many times. The dwarves refused. Chief Cairne Bloodhoof decided that the time for speaking came to an end. But the grievance of the races go much deeper than that.”

“What do you mean elder? Why do they hate us? The nightelf druids of moonglade are our friends. I go there all the time now.”

“This is true Xasas, but you must understand some things. The orcs have long hated the humans. This is because the humans kept the orcs as slaves and worse…many of their people where hunted to near extinction.”

“But did the orc’s invade the humans? Didn’t you say that they were tricked into it by Gul’dan and the Shadow Council? But for the deception of the Shadow Council you said the Orc’s wouldn’t have even come here. The orcs of the Frostwolf clan were even exiled for refusing to follow Gul’dan."

“Yes, this is true Xasas. But you must understand, of all the beasts you will ever hunt, the hardest to kill is hatred.”

Both Elder Runetotem and Xasas sat together, as silence passed between them. Once again the younger Tauren asked for his elder’s wisdom.

“Elder, there is something else that troubles me…”

“What is it Xasas?” Elder Runetotem asked me.

“The other day I was hunting in the Barren Planes near the Cross Roads, I continued. As you taught me, each time I take the life of a beast I thank its spirit and that of the Earthmother for the life that gave itself so the Taurens can live.”

“That is good Xasas,” Elder Runetotem said to me with a smile, “You learn well. Truly you walk with the Earthmother. Please continue…”

“Well, Elder, I had just finished prayer for the noble spirit of the mighty Kodo. As I was taught, I always skin the beast and use all its parts. I leave nothing laying on the open plane.”

“This is good. That is they way of our people. The Kodo is a mighty and noble creature. You were right to pray for it’s spirit.”

Hesitantly Xasas continued. “My prayers were interrupted by the sounds of battle. I rushed to the crossroads and dozens of humans were raiding the orc settlement, killing all that they could. You have sent me many times to the Nightelf settlement in Moonglade for training. Because of this I speak a bit of elvish….well…as I saw the orcs dieing and wounded all around me, I began to heal them. I thought I would do my best to help those in pain. Amongst them was a nightelf warrior. He was trying to kill an Orc warrior. I healed the Orc warrior so he could not. That’s when the nightelf turned to me and shouted something at me….”

Here the younger stopped. A pained look crossed his face and he could not go on. Elder Runetotem, being as understanding as he is, let Xasas continue in his own time. After a great deal of silence passed, the elder spoke….

“What did he say to you Xasas?”

The younger choked downhis emotions that were a mixture of grief and anger. Slowly he continued, “He told me I should go back with the other young ones and…and…well, ‘milk myself.’ He looked up at his elder through tear filled eyes. At length he continued, “Elder, the humans all think we are just big dumb cows don’t they.”

“Sadly, Xasas, many of them do. What do you feel you should do about it?”

Xasas got up and stood for awhile; staring into the fire. He looked into Elder Runetotem’s eyes and said, “There is a human expression my elder, that says ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’”

“Yes Xasas, ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’…and the whole world will be blind and toothless. Is this the course of action you choose Xasas?”

Xasxas turned away and strode toward the door. Then he stopped, and without looking back at my elder said, “I don’t know…I just don’t know…”

Vashj, part 4

2006-07-31T16:18:00.000-07:00

“There, there now, said McCreedy in a motherly, yet still, somehow slightly eerie voice, there’s no need for that now. No need to fall apart, she continued with a slight chuckle, I am sure that you have had quite enough of that already.”

Ellen McCreedy lead Vashj to a bench on one side of the garden. They sat in silence for some time as Vashj calmed down. Vashj sniffed back her tears a few times and stared blankly at her surroundings.

“Am I dead?” Vashj in a choked voice.

“Well yes and no dear, came the reply, if you were altogether dead your body would be a spiritless corpse rotting in the ground.”

“Then what am I?”

Ellen put her hand on what was left of Vashj’s leg. There was a slightly audible click as part of McCreedy’s rather boney fingers touched some of the bare bone at her new student’s knee.

“Dearie its like this – it is almost as if your body died but your brain forgot to tell your spirit. As a result your spirit stayed around.”

With a note of disgust, Vashj continued with a question that she thought was a natural continuation of Ellen’s train of thought.

“So am I just a walking corpse?”

“Goodness no dear. You mean like those shambling horrors that serve the lich king? I should say not.”

Unable to manage an audible reply, Vashj simply shook her head yes.

“Not at all – not at all. Those have no spirit or intelligence at all. They are nothing more than piles of anthropomorphic filth with no spirit and very little instinct. Think of them as nothing more than a fetid clockwork toy, made in the twisting nether.”

“I don’t understand”

“Well love, its like you’ve caught a bad cold. McCreedy paused and continued with a chuckle, true, a really bad cold, but a cold nonetheless. Only in this case the disease not only stopped your spirit from leaving your body, but it gave your body a good SWIFT KICK in the pants to wake it up mid-decay. These last words she emphasized with a slight kicking motion into the air.”

“So should I avoid garlic and sunlight and things like that?” Vashj asked sheepishly.

“Heavens not dear. Not unless you’re a vampire or had a natural aversion to that sort of thing to begin with. If you’re a vampire than you are in altogether the wrong place to begin with than aren’t you?”

Vashj thought for some time in silence. Than she continued a bit more calmly.

“So this means I can’t die?”

“No, no dear. Never make that mistake. A steady hand and a sharp sword can still make short work of you. No if that were the case than you would be invulnerable and could just about take over the world. Imagine that, Ellen chuckled, ‘first empress Vashj’. No dear you are not the first to make that mistake and surely not the last.”

“So I can end this all just by dieing?”

“Surely you can,” came the reply, “one of those Death’s Angel mushrooms growing in the corner of the garden and it’s all over. Beautiful aren’t they? Beautiful but deadly. Just like you I’d venture to say, eh?”

“Beautiful? Me? Look at me, Vashj sobbed holding up her arms where the flesh stopped leaving bare bone at the elbows, I am hideous!”

“Now, now little one, that is something you will have to get over. Why if you went down to the tavern in Brill you could start a fight over who gets the first kiss as sure as Bob’s your uncle.”

A puzzled look crossed Vashj’s face.

“Never mind dear, it’s just an expression, but you get my point. It is something that you will just have to discover or yourself.”

“I’m not even an elf any more. I don’t even know what I am.” Vashj said as she reached for her long absent ears.

“Now don’t you know? Who you are is what is in your heart – not what is on the side of your head. If glowing eyes is all that made an elf, we would all be elves, after all we ALL have glowing eyes!”

Vashj raised her voice, nearly shouting this time.

“So give me one reason why I shouldn’t end all this pain right now by doing myself in?”

“Well that is something you will have to discover for yourself, Ellen continued calmly. I will say this. Do you know your history? Surely you have heard of Medivh? The last guardian of the Tirisfallen? When he was alive he was responsible for bringing the Burning Legion into the world again. Even though he wasn’t responsible because he was possessed, he felt he had to atone for his crime against humanity. What did he do? He came back from the dead to help put things right. He was the one who convinced the humans to ally with the orcs to fight the Burning Legion.”

“He came back from the dead to put things right?” Vashj repeated.

“Yes dear he did.”

Once again the pair sat in silence for along time as Vashj thought.

“So I am cursed to go through being undead, destined never to feel the wind on my face or the taste of good food.”

“Oh don’t be quite so dramatic, came the reply. Nothing of the sort. Why we wouldn’t bother to raise all these delicious mushrooms if that was the case.”

“But how can I taste the food, I haven’t got any nerve endings?”

“If that were truly the case, then you wouldn’t be able to move a muscle. You would be nothing but a quivering pile of flesh laying in an open tomb.”

Once again Vashj held up her elbow where the bone was exposed.

“Then why don’t I feel any pain?” she asked.

“Well Bob has a theory that he thinks answers both questions, don’t you know. Bob, say hello, Ellen McCreedy called out.”

From behind the hedge that surrounded the garden came a gardeners hat – a hat the surmounted a head that was little more than a skull. A skeletal hand waved in their direction then went back to work.

“Bob, feels that the reason he feels no pain in un-death is the same reason he felt no pain in life. Just give him ‘a beer and a mop’ he is wont to say. All kidding aside dear, that is one question I can’t answer for you after all these years. My only guess is it is part of the disease.”

“So how can I end this curse of un-death?”

“Well now, continued Ellen, don’t think if it so much as un-death as un-life; and don’t think of it as a curse so much as a second chance.”

“ A second chance? For what?”

“Ah that, said McCreedy, is an altogether different kettle of fish.”

...to be continued.

Next time....a new story starts

Vashj, part 3

2006-07-31T16:17:00.000-07:00

With some trepidation Vashj made her way to the back of the church, carefully watching her footing – not just because of the condition of the floorboards, and the chance that she might fall through them – but also because she could not take her eyes off her feet. Her feet had once been small and delicate. Before it all began, before THEY came, she loved to run barefoot along the quiet paths of the forest. She had been looking down all the while she made her way to the church – lost in thought. Still it had never registered. Now her feet where boney and thin, ending in what appeared to be nearly claws instead of toes they where so thing and pointed. Yet, small feet are small feet…

At the back of the church was a lone figure with its back turned to her. The long pointed ears trailing out behind its head told her the person had once been an elf, without her even having to see a face. Between the creaking of the floorboards and the slapping of her bare feet she was surprised that the person did not look up as she approached. Instead he stared intensely at a sheet of parchment he held in his hands. What was not clear was whether this was mean to be derision or simply a sign of concentration. Without looking up the man in front of her spoke…

“Well, well. Says here your name is Vashj!”

The man turned and look at her; continuing to speak in a voice that must have once been deep and soothing but was now made somewhat raspy through are or decay – perhaps both.

“I have heard of ye’. My grandfather knew your family and his grandfather before him.”

Vashj smiled not realizing that what felt to her like a disarming smile was more of a sardonic grin to those around her.

“I am glad…” she began, only to be cut off in mid-sentence.

“Aye, the elf, now undead, continued, I have heard o’ ye’ – in fact your grandfather owned my grandfather. And it was not a debt of fealty what brought about that condition….it was just debt.”

Silence

“Aye, said the elf, not so glad now are ye’? and so it seems the sins of the parents have been inherited by the children. Not much o’ a high elf now are ye’?’

With that, the elf reached up and caressed his long graying ears. Paused. Then a twisted smile crossed his face.

“Ye have not even got yer ears any longer. Dropped ‘em somewhere did ye?”

Horror filled Vashj’s mind as her hand shot up to her head – and she realized that the elf was right.

Vashj, part 2

2006-07-31T16:15:00.000-07:00

A church…

Vashj made her way down the road, feet slapping against the mud. The rain poured even harder, drenching her clothing right down to the skin…and bone. Lost in her thoughts, and astonished simply to be alive, some of the more…unappealing…changes to her body had escaped her. The veil that blurred her memories was pierced as if by a scream in the night; a scream that should have been coming from Vashj as she stared at her elbows in disgust. There, where once there had been lithe limbs covered by pristine skin was nothing but bone. She should be screaming in pain. Yet she felt nothing. Nothing that is but disgust. Disgust for her body, as much as disgust for the many things she had been and done in her life. It was the pain of those deeds, of who she had been, that seared her to the depths of her very soul. As memories returned, each one made her wish she could rip it from her mind. The pain that filled her for the wrongs she had done to her kinsman was nothing compared to what she had done to her god.

Her God…Elune…

She had turned her back not merely on her kinsman, but on her god. She had watched from the ramparts of the royal palace as demons tore the heart out of the land, and a people that were at the heart of that land. She followed her queen blindly, believing the world was being “purified” of corruption; not realizing that it was she and those like her who were at the heart of that corruption. She watched as the priestess’ of Elune died in battle, and died horribly, being ripped apart by demons. She had watched, and done nothing.

The followers of Elune. She had once counted herself in their number. Vashj realized that even if faith was in her head, it was never in her heart. She had seen those who dedicated there very lives to Elune ripped apart, as the land was ripped apart. If Elune was God, or even a god, how could she allow that?

“ How, Vashj asked herself, could she even tolerate ME to exist?”

“What’s that? Came a voice in answer.

Vashj looked up and saw a short man in long brown tattered robes, blocking her way. So lost in her thoughts was she, that she nearly ran into someone, not realizing that she had arrived at her destination. Before she could reply, the robed man continued.

“Talkin’ tae yerself are ye? Well I suppose a few hundred years in a tomb will have ye doin’ that. Ye best come inside out of this rain. Ye’ll be catchin’ yer death of cold otherwise eh?”

With a laugh he lead her inside the small church. There she found rows of pews inside what had become a worn down building. The building was sorely in need of repairs. Then again, so was she.

“Rest yer bones there next to the fire there, said the short man pointing to a small fire pit just to one side. Jus’ don’t get too close. Ye would nae want tae be lighten yerself on fire would ye? Fire is like that. It has a hard time tellin’ kindlin’ from bones. Ye will have tae be a bit more observant from now on. An’ I don’t just mean how ye nearly ran into me back there…the thing is most of the young ones like yerself ferget that they don’t feel things any more. No nerve endings don’t ya know. So ye’ll have tae be more careful from now on. Let yerself dry out and ye’ could go up in a puff o’ smoke!”

He sat down next to Vashj and looked her up and down, then referred to a small scrap of paper he pulled from an inner pocket of his robe.

“well, he continued…the name is Simon…mine that is not yours. I see from my schedule here that ye’ used to be known as ‘Vashj’ is that short fer somethin’ ? Sounds like it is. Well, no matter. Say you are a tall one aren’t you? I’ll jus’ be you used to be an elf eh? “

“Yes, I…” Vashj tried to interrupt but was cut off by the incessant chatter from the little man.

“No matter, no matter.. continued Simon. Don’t let that trouble you. No matter what ye were afore…good or bad, rich or poor we are all equals now. Look at me! I used tae be a dwarf! Well you know how the old expression goes…’we’re all the same under the skin’? Well now we are living proof’ he said with a loud guffaw. Actually UNLIVING proof I should say.”

Simon referred back to his paper. He read and shook his head for some time. The he looked back up at Vashj.

“Says here ye used tae be a HIGH elf! Well ms high an’ mighty elf…’ fer certain ye will have a lot tae atone fer. So I would say it’s off tae the priest trainer wi’ you. She’s right at the back o’ the church. Now get! Afore I ferget meself an’ dredge up some ol’ wounds.”

Vashj turned and headed off to the back of the church. Simon watched her turn and go. More to himself than anyone else, Simon added after her…

“I will have a bone tae pick wi’ ye later…and that’s fer sure.”

Vashj, a tale of the recent dead

2006-07-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

A voice from behind Vashj startled her…

“Ah. You are awake at last! We were about ready to throw you on the pyre. You were starting to stink.”

Turning, Vashj saw the source of the voice – one of the undead. Instinctively Vashj reached for the sword that had once been her constant companion for so long, so long ago. The reason for the reaction, like everything in those first days, was a blur.

With a sniff in Vashj’s direction, the man addressing her continued.

“Wow, you do need a bath eh? A few hundred years in the tomb will build up quite a stench. You need a bath. The pausing, a large smile crossed his face and he slapped Vashj on the back with a boney hand. Just make sure things don’t start dropping off eh? Well, you had better go on down to the church, they are waiting for you. You have been asleep for quite some time.”

Vashj met the man’s humor with a blank stare, not knowing what to make of the situation. Her stare was answered by a gently guiding hand from the only ‘Human’ she had come in contact with since awakening.

“Well what ever it was, at least there was something that was enough to ‘wake the dead,’ so…they’re waiting for you down at the church.”

A puzzled stare from Vashj again was quickly answered.

“The church, down the road, second building on the left.”

What the man had mistaken for puzzlement over direction on Vashj’s part, was not that at all. As she stood listening to the man, all the while memories had come back to her…brief flashes…of herself in the midst of a pitched battle against the undead. She saw herself running a sword through men such as this one before her, thinking them no more than animated corpses. Something was different here. Here she found humor and a friendly smile where she thought there should be none.

Vashj headed down the road in the direction the unexpectedly jovial stranger had pointed her. More than any other affect her new state had on her, was an overwhelming sense not of confusion, so much as loss. She felt a burning desire to belong somewhere – anywhere. She ambled down the road…that in itself being a new sensation; not slithering, not a walk of stately grace…merely ambling. It began to rain; a downpour from the sky as if it were a sheet of water. With the coming of the rain, her already grey and dismal surroundings became even more miserable. Her bare feet slapped on the mud, that with the sound of the rain, created a cacophony of sound that formed a wall of white noise, making it even easier for her to ponder what was really puzzling her. That was her destination…