Azzazizz: Nope Nope Nope

I want my mother, Azzazizz thought as they emerged from the sewers. It was time to go back home and admit that he wasn't up to this. It had all seemed fun and exciting until the rats had come out of everywhere, and then they hadn't even been rats. They'd all been taken over by whatever that slime on the walls of the sewer was turning into. He was pretty sure they'd tried to infect him with it too. 

He'd done pretty well in the heat of the moment, he thought, but now that they were back up through the maintenance hatch and he had more time to think about it, he was shivering. It didn't help that he was back in his human form, which definitely seemed more prone to panicking. No, it was definitely time to go home. 

Mac put a hand on his shoulder. "A moment, my young friend," he said softly. Adonis and Zarathos didn't hear, and if Possum did then she chose to ignore it. 

Aziz -- he was currently answering to that, since his companions didn't seem to be quite capable of pronouncing his draconic name -- hesitated, then let Mac draw him back, a little further out of earshot. "You did well back there," said the Gith, his features still mostly hidden in the shadows of his hat and coat. "You could've left me for the rats, but you didn't. Could've just flown out of there, too, but you didn't."

Aziz knew the man could feel him shivering. "How are you so calm?" he asked quietly. Grandfather, even his voice was shivering. 

The investigator shrugged. "I just had my life saved by a dragon," he said. "A young one, to be sure, but a dragon nonetheless. Proud breed, dragons. Not all of 'em would've bothered with a nobody like me. It tends to steady the nerves, a thing like that. And you fought well: clever, resourceful."

Aziz felt himself steady. He had, hadn't he? Sure, his first attempt hadn't worked and the others had done a lot to destroy the not-rats-anymore, but he'd rallied and done other things. So maybe he could do this.

"Look, I'd worry if this hadn't scared you at all," Mac continued. "The rest of us, we've done this before. We're kind of used to it. We don't show it anymore, not the way you are now, even we've just experienced pants-wetting levels of terror."

Aziz snorted out something that half a laugh and half a sob. 

"But here's the thing: you're doing your panicking now, after the danger's passed. That's good. Shows you aren't foolhardy." Mac met his eyes, then nodded. "So I wanted you to know that I'm grateful to have you with us."

Aziz considered that for a long moment, then nodded back. "All right. Yes. I can do this. But... and be honest... do you have any of those mind tricks that would prevent nightmares?"

Azzazizz: Accepting A Job

Azzazizz knew his parents would have told him that he was far too young to be wandering around a place like Chucks Vegas, which -- as its nickname, Disgraceland, suggested -- was absolutely a den of iniquity: gambling, gladiatorial games, gambling on gladiatorial games, a demonic whorehouse, a completely separate demonic male revue, a dazzling array of mind-altering substances of which alcohol was the least dangerous, and at least one evil plot of the potentially-world-destroying variety... and Azzazizz knew that he'd barely see the first few hands of what this place had to offer.

On the other hand, when the invitation had come, he'd known immediately that there wasn't a chance he was going to turn it down -- even if he had no idea why the invitation had come to him.  It wasn't as if he'd spent time on gambling, or committing crimes -- or tracking down criminals, for that matter. A handful of pranks surely couldn't count, could they? Not even if his parents sometimes joked that he must have some Copper Dragon in his lineage. 

Azzazizz had once responded to that particular bit of teasing by pointing out that if that somehow was the case, then someone had pulled a better prank on a bunch of Bronze Dragons than he would ever manage in his life. But no, it was easy to see that he was just as much a Bronze as the rest of them, even if he was positively mischievous by Bronze Dragon standards. And where had that behavior gotten him (as his mother so often asked)?

Well, for the moment it had gotten him an invitation to Disgraceland, a chance to practice pretending to be a young human sorcerer, and an escort up to the office of Chuck, the founder of the first casino on the island. It had also gotten him the chance to meet some very interesting people: the carnal centaur Adonis, who worshiped the sex-god Jensen; the druid everyone just called Possum, who spent most of her time in that form and lived in the sewers; the djinni Zarathos, who specialized in fire magics and explosions; and now the gith investigator who introduced himself as Mac Guffin and seemed to be cultivating a knack for mind-magics. As far as Azzazizz was concerned, this was all going splendidly, even if the others insisted on calling him Aziz. 

As Chuck and his friend Alexej explained about needing outside help to prevent someone named Shazz from destroying something called the Sin Thread -- that would be the world-ending evil plot -- Azzazizz decided to lean in on being Aziz for the moment. He'd made a study of human devices, after all, including traps and locks and how to navigate social situations. If his parents ever found out about this, he'd explain it as wanting to test his skills in a more immersive environment. It wouldn't even be lying, really; that was a big part of his reasons for sneaking off to come here.

Come to think of it, that might even explain why he'd been invited: he had a skillset that even a dedicated human rogue might have trouble matching, plus his other abilities. No way was he cutting out now. If these others were up to the job, he was too. 

Nope, I've got nothing...

One of these years, I'm going to actually take time off between Christmas and New Year's. This is not that year. And I've got just an unfairly large number of things that I need to do between now and then anyway. 

The upgrade on Friday went well, at least -- everything seems to be working afterwards, though I think we're going to have some emergency follow-ups in one or two areas. But I've still got to deal with the fallout from the post-Christmas upgrade, which broke all our time clocks. Which means that in addition to a bunch of personal stuff that I need to take care of and/or keep an eye on, I've got to collect those, document them, and get them ready to send back in exchange for enough re-imaged clocks to get us through January, at which point in theory we switch over to the other payroll system and don't need the clocks anymore. Could this have been avoided if we'd made the changeover back at the end of July, as planned? Absolutely, but here we are. 

Ye Gods I would love to be sleeping in.

Still... the boys are both home, the dog and the cat are being cute, the weather just dropped from t-shirt and shorts to something ass-bitingly cold and much more appropriate for the end of December, and on Thursday we'll play through the second half of the most ridiculous D&D one-shot I've participated in for the last year and a half. (I'm playing a young bronze dragon. Don't get to do that too often.) So there are definitely silver linings. 

Take care and stay warm, my friends. 

Cry Havoc and Go The Heck To Bed

All right, so we've got all the Christmas presents wrapped and sorted. Of decorations, we have absolutely nothing prepared; but beautiful Wife and I have decided that we're both thoroughly exhausted and putting up even a token Christmas Tree is best done after a solid night's sleep. 

We hope you have a wonderful holiday -- whichever of them you might happen to be be celebrating -- and a good chance to rest and restore yourself, and as little aggravation as possible.  

A new face in town

It was nearin' midnight, and there was only one face in the saloon that Sheriff Black couldn't place: a young man playing cards, well-dressed but not overdressed. Respectable, from the look of 'im, but not established. Wasn't playin' especially well or poorly, so probably not a professional gambler -- not that the stakes out here were high enough for a successful gambler to travel this far out. If he was a card-sharp, he was better'n most; the sheriff had run off two or three of those, and there was a certain air they usually cultivated. This kid didn't have it. 

No, he looked more like he was down on his luck or on the run, and playing cards to pass the time. None of the fake-brotherhood joviality that the professional grifters were so good at. Didn't look much like a murderer, but then again who did?

Won't know 'til it happens, he thought, and settled back in his booth.  

A night at the saloon

The saloon was full, but then the work-week was over for most, and there were coins to spend -- or gamble away -- and songs to sing, and drinks to down. It was a rough-and-tumble crowd, but generally well-behaved. Sheriff Black recognized most of them: Eduardo, Isabelle, and Juan, who worked the old Darling farm together; Sam Maddox, the town's cooper, who doubled as a scrivener for those as couldn't write or read; the mayor, Missus Laura, better known as Ma'am, watching over her tavern from her table on the second floor balcony. 

She saw him come in, stood, studied him form a moment, then gestured for him to come up. 

Sheriff Black had no intention of making a scene; if she'd ignored him, he'd have ignored her. If there were issues to discuss, they could hash it out at the the next City Council meeting. But with an unmistakable  summons... 

He found the back stairs, mounted them, and joined her at her table. 

"What can I offer you, Sheriff?" she asked. "I've had word there's been a murder. Your deputy wanted to know if I'd seen any likely suspects. I have not."

"There was a murder," he confirmed. "I was hoping to learn more before I filled you in, but since you already know: someone was killed, very late last night. Ripped apart, or nearly so.  Gravedigger's with Doc, looking at the body."

"That's good," she said. "There like t'be any more trouble from it?"

Augustus Black resisted the urge to shrug. "Depends on how fast we find whatever did it, or if it moves on without causin' any further trouble."

"Well then," said the mayor. "Carry on. Appreciate y'watching over my saloon tonight."

The sheriff lifted a finger to his forehead. "Ma'am." 

Music: Alive

Daughtry:

Music: Clint Eastwood

Gorillaz:

December is eating my lunch

There'll be a new installment of Sheriff Augustus Black and the search for the killer beast as soon as I can pull my wits together. Meanwhile, I'm gearing up for upgrades, Firstborn just came back from college, Secondborn is in the last week of his semester so it's all half-days, and Beautiful Wife really needs to get a new job because her contemptible boss is trying to work out his divorce-related personal issues by looking for people to fire right before Christmas, and somewhere in here we have things to plan and personal business to finish up. 

 On top of which, well...

On the plus side, I got to go out to dinner with some friends from out of town, and we're almost done with 2025 -- and Good Riddance, say I -- and everybody gets a bit of a chance to settle down and recuperate.

So I'm holding on to that, and carefully checking the front page of the newspaper every morning.

Music: Grave Digger

Blues Saraceno:

Startin' the hunt

"Ain't got nobody covered in blood," said Deputy Gonzales. "Leastways, nobody we've seen."

Sheriff August Black nodded at that. "Two drunks in their cells, but they both been here for hours. Have the Gravedigger look 'em over, but if he don't find anything we cut 'em loose in the mornin'." 

Gonzales nodded. "The Mayor herself, she says she ain't got anybody new stayin' in her saloon."

"That'd be too easy," Sheriff Black muttered, and Gonzales nodded. All right. He was going to have call the deputies in, and send them out to search in the morning if nothing else happened tonight. Meanwhile, he'd go and sit in the saloon t'night, all nice and casual, and see what might happen. Might be anything', might be nothin'. 

"Gonzalez," he said quietly. "You remember those silver bullets the gravedigger left for us?"

Gonzales nodded. 

"Make sure you and the others have a cylinder full of 'em, okay? I'll give the order, but you make sure the word gets around." 

The Gravedigger

The gravedigger's cart didn't actually sound different from any other, but there was something about the way the horse stepped that couldn't be mistaken. Those regular hoofbeats were like a heartbeat, inescapable and inevitable. There was a faint creak as Clayton Pyre set the brake, and then there came the regular clicking of his approaching boot-steps. 

The Gravedigger was a vital part of the life of the town, but it was small wonder that people feared him and considered his presence bad luck. Sheriff Black knew that was backwards -- he came in the wake of bad luck, he wasn't the cause of it -- but the belief was hard to shake. 

"Hell below," remarked the older man, looking down at the corpse. He sniffed at the air, then knelt down beside it. His eyes went immediately to the mangled ankle, then lingered on the gouges in the torso. He pulled a small glass vial off of his belt, poured a bit of salt into his hand, and then sprinkled it over the wounds. 

Nothing happened, and he nodded at that, then sat back on his heels. Looking up at Doc, he said: "Corpse is safe enough. Whatever did this ain't infectious."

Doc nodded to him. "Good to be sure, though. You know what did it?"

The gravedigger shook his head. "I've got silvers set aside. I could put him safely in the ground, Guessin' you'd like a look first."

Doc grunted. "You're certain it's safe?"

"Certain's a strong word," Clayton Pyre told him. "You want a look, I'll come with you."

"I'd 'ppreciate that," Doc told him. 

The Gravedigger rose in a smooth movement, pivoting to face Sheriff Black. "Most likely we've had shifter slip in. Maybe a beast, if'n it slipped the borders somehow. If it's a curse, we're lucky -- it'll be done and gone."

The Sheriff nodded. "As soon as you take the corpse off, I'll start checking for strangers and anybody new back in town."

"When's the last time you walked the city limits?" asked Pyre. 

"Two weeks ago," Black told him. 

"Arm yourself with silver and check 'em again," the Gravedigger said. "And walk the county line as well. A little extra strengthening can't hurt either way."

"Was planning to," said Sheriff Black. He grinned at the ever-serious Gravedigger. "I do know my own duties."

"Then Doc an' I'll be out your way and let you get to it. Don't mean to tell you your business, but you're still new here."

Sheriff Black offered the Gravedigger a shrug, because he did appreciate the man's advice. "Ain't as new as all that," he pointed out. "And Needhaven ain't the first town to have these sorts of troubles." 

Clayton Pyre stopped, considered that. "Fair," he said. "Just be careful -- an' be safe."

"Will do," Sheriff Black replied. "You do the same."

Music: Coffin Nails

Lucero:

December, busy, and tired

It's most very definitely that time of the year: the time when I'm when I'm overwhelmed by All The Things and would very much like to be hiding under a blanket with a good book. Or, y'know, just sleeping. 

Secondborn has broken the screen on his laptop, and I have now -- reluctantly -- ordered him a new one. We're still struggling to get him through school, and the part where his English teacher has managed to stretch a pretty basic essay into a semester-long ordeal is not helping. Beautiful Wife has a pretty good job doing interesting things with a good team, but her boss (the CEO) is deeply in need of therapy and borderline abusive, and so the whole team is now conspiring to A) fuck with him, and B) find jobs elsewhere. There are also Big Grownup Things that I need to do relating to my father's death, and at the moment I haven't had -- and still don't -- the spoons to deal with those. 

On the plus side, I think we have the Christmas presents largely sorted out, and my own job is still vastly better than the one I left behind a bit over a year ago. And as cranky as Secondborn was this morning over having to review for an upcoming test, she had a good day yesterday and was actually very cheery. 

 ::sigh::

We're coming up on the big end-of-year upgrade, and honestly? I'd like to just sleep until then. 

A look'at the corpse

"Well," said Sheriff Black after a long moment. "That's a bad'n."

Doc nodded. "Knife fight would've been cleaner, and there's no shot from a shotgun. Flesh is torn, like something bit or clawed."

The sheriff swallowed. "Any bits missin'?"

Doc shook his head. "Not sure yet. Wanted you t'see it the way I found it, before I moved it t'where I could look."

"That's good of you, Doc." Sheriff Black stepped forward, then stopped. "Y'see that ankle."

Doc turned his head, blanched, and the said. "Yeah. I see it."

The Achilles tendon had been cut -- or bitten through, more like. Not that kind of thing that happened when folks fought with other folks, and they both knew it. "Damn it," said Doc. "Now I'll need Pyre to look it over before I take it back t'the clinic."

The sheriff nodded. "Yeah. And I'll have t'look for strangers in town, or anyone else as might've gone missing." 

"We wait here," Doc said, resigned. "'Least 'til the Gravedigger arrives. Make sure nothing changes, nothing comes back. You've a mold for bullets?"

Sheriff Black grunted. "Don't need it, though. Not for this. Gravedigger brought me a box of silver shot when I first came to town. Said he hoped I never needed 'em. I'll load up as soon as I go back." 

A killin' In Town

"Sheriff! Sheriff!"

Sheriff Black straightened at his his desk and sighed, wishing he'd had time to finish his mug before whatever-this-was broke loose. Coffee wasn't easy to come by out here, and it was a damned shame that this cup of it seemed like to go to waste. 

There was an enormous thud on the porch outside, and then a brief pause before the door opened. The man looking in was Dan Brighton, the town's cobbler, and from the sound of things he'd tripped on the porch and crashed into the door before he managed to open it. He was red-faced and breathin' hard, but he managed t'say, "Doc says y'gotta come! A feller's been killed."

Sheriff black sighed again and stood up. "Where? How?"

"Outside the saloon," Brighton told him, bending over to catch his breath. "I was passing by, and Doc said to fetch you right quick. I didn't see much, but... the feller, he was torn open."

Yep, this one's going to be an unholy mess. He stepped around his desk, put a hand on the cobbler's shoulder. "All right, Dan. Good work." He sighed again. "Now... I'm going to need you to do one more thing. I know you've got a shop to run and all, but I need you to walk -- walk, mind you, slow and careful -- up the hill and fetch back the Gravedigger. Can you do that?"

Brighton's face went through several expressions in the space of a single breath: objection, understanding, acceptance. He knew as well as they all did that whether this was a simple murder or something more, they were going to need the Gravedigger to help with it. He nodded slowly.

"Good man," said the Sheriff. "Catch your breath first."

"I'll see to it, Sheriff," Brighton said, breathing more easily now. "Just give me a minute. Got a little... over-excited, I think."

Sheriff Black shrugged. "Well, we don't see dead bodies in town just every week -- and thank the Great Spirit for that." 

StV: Meet-Cute

"Are ya new here?" asked a girl's voice, and Blackhand spun around so fast he nearly embarrassed himself. 

He'd come to the Self-Defense class after the more ordinary academic classes, under the theory that it wouldn't hurt to keep in practice, or to see how Saint-Vincent's School for Exceptional Youth was training their students to fight. 

The girl was maybe a year younger than he was -- hard to be sure -- with long blonde hair and pale blue eyes; her accent was pure Midwestern. Kansas, maybe? "Didn't mean to startle ya," she said easily. "It's just I don't think I've seen ya here before."

Blackhand rolled his shoulders, forcing them to relax. "Sorry," he said. "It's my first time at training." 

"Oh?" she asked. "I only started last month. Maybe we could practice together?"

He shrugged. "You any good?"

"I mean, kind of..." She blushed. "Took first place at the Tae Kwon Do championship in middle school. But the way they fight here is... different."

"No, that should work," Blackhand said. "I take it we don't use powers for this?"

She drew back. "Wow. You really are new here."

He made a vague yes-and-no gesture. "More of a temporary guest," he said. 

"Oh! You're one the Hounds, then."

Blackhand didn't deny it. "Call me Blackhand," he said. "Or... Shit. Call me Mike. Pardon my French."

She laughed softly. "Robin," she said. "I'm not strong enough to have a code name, or a call sign, or anything like that. It's nice to meet you, Mike." 

Music: A Christmas Carol

Tom Lehrer:

December, is it?

I really have no idea how this might have happened, but we're now in December and wow there is a lot that has to be done before the end of the year. I need to follow up on the support tickets I have open, then speak to my boss and lay out a timeline for the required upgrade. I also need to have a couple of people re-do their testing in the TRAIN environment, because if things work there that didn't work in test, well... that bodes well for the production upgrade and also suggests that I need to take a much closer look at what has and hasn't been implemented in TEST. We already discovered at least one item where the GIS connection had been upgraded in the other two environments, but not there. 

Then there's the planning for Christmas, and for my Dad's interment, both of which need to get nailed down this week. There's also making sure that Secondborn passes the fall semester, which pretty much also needs to get nailed down this week. 

It's enough to make want to go back to roaming the moors, howling at the moon and feasting on the unwary. 

StV: Don't Pick That Fight

"You told us to let him go," Blackhand said. "Why'd you do that?"

Lynx sighed. "Because I didn't want to see you get killed."

Blackhand hesitated, shuddering. "Yeah, but he didn't manage to kill us."

"...Because he was busy killing like fifty other people all at once."

Blackhand's jaw worked. "Okay, fair point. Anyway, I'm not going to try to kill him."

"Oh?"

"Hearne's orders. I do follow orders."

Lynx sighed. "Somehow I'm still entirely reassured."

"Somehow, I'm still not going to explain."

"Okay, fine. You want me to let him know you want to talk to him? So nobody mistakes it for an ambush?"

"...You know what? Yes. Please. Do that." 

DoT: An Arrival at Port, part two

When they'd paid their fees and the clerk had departed, Tenebrous turned to her First Mate, Faithless Wanderer, a Tiefling. Despite his name, he was reliable. "The crew goes out in shifts, and they stay together in groups of at least three. If there are any incidents with the locals, I will be most displeased."

Faithless nodded. "I will make sure they know it."

Tenebrous made a point of walking down the ramp, then up the dock and along the streets of the Island of Hinnom until she reached the ancient tower at its center. She stretched her hand out, caressed the eldritch material that made it up, and nodded. This place was everything it was said to be. Doubtless there would be more to be learned, but she could address that as she made her trades. Wooden beams and planks were not so common here, and hers were... special. And that was before anyone addressed her other offerings. 

She surveyed the inside of the tower, then launched herself into the air, tracing her way along the outside. The winds here were strange, unpredictable, but she welcomed the challenge. When she landed in the upper city, she knew she had won. Someone up here would want what she had to offer. 

She even had a lead on who that might be... 

DoT: An Arrival at Port, part one

Tenebrous Orlok stepped off the ramp of the ship as the Docking Clerk approached, two guards at his back. She didn't find them especially threatening -- merely a human and a dwarf, and what could such as they do against her? -- but they represented the authority of the island's Council, and its combined capacity for violence. So she waited, and presented the ship's manifest to the clerk. 

"I'll need to examine the cargo," the human said, looking with only faint curiosity at the tips of her wings where they rose over her shoulders. 

"Of course," answered Tenebrous. "Welcome aboard the Black Diamond." Her smile was charming; she knew because she'd practiced it. She was memorable enough in herself; she didn't need additional attention, especially with what her ship actually carried. 

"We'll confirm the cargo, process the fees, and be out of your hair as quickly as we can manage," said the man, with a small but respectful nod. 

"Follow me, then," Tenebrous told him. "I am in no hurry, but my crew are eager for shore leave and this must be settled first." 

Music: Drink

The Jazz Butcher:

...Because a lot of us are going to have to deal with visiting family in the next few days. 

DoT: An Unscheduled Meeting

Gazin held up a clenched fist as Vallista entered the outer office, her curled fingers forward; it was their private sign for intruders. Then she held up one finger, so there was only one of them. Vallista tilted her head, and Gazin looked up at the ceiling for a brief moment. Ah. Somebody from Upstairs. There were other gestures for a danger, a discreet visitor, and a messenger. 

Though they'd practiced this, it didn't come up often. Most messengers would wait out here; and Gazin was perfectly capable of dealing with most dangers herself. A visitor from Upstairs was most likely to be able to go directly to Vallista's office and tell Gazin to say nothing. Whoever it was doubtless intended to surprise her. 

Unexpectedly, Gazin touched her throat as Vallista walked past her. What in the hells? "No visitors," Vallista said aloud. "I need to go over the accounts, and I don't want to be interrupted." She figured it out a moment later: there weren't that many people from Upstairs who would make an unannounced visit like this, and that touch to the throat had to indicate Ramantha The Voice. 

That guess was confirmed a moment later when she opened her door and saw the halfling sitting in one of the chairs beside her desk. Vallista kept her steps as smooth as her expression, closed the door behind her, and bowed. "Ramantha," she said. "Welcome."

"This isn't a social call," said the Voice. 

Vallista shrugged. "I welcome your arrival nevertheless."

The Voice tilted her head, studying Vallista for a long moment: questioning, measuring. "Your people were brawling with the Panthers in the central tower." 

Vallista crossed to her desk, turned her chair to face the halfling, and sat. It was her own office, after all; it wouldn't do to seem timid. "This is true," she said. 

"Over your father's death?" asked the Voice, shifting in the chair to face her.

Vallista considered her next words carefully. "I don't believe the Panthers had anything to do with that. Lynna Catseyes and my father were rivals, but it was a respectful rivalry."

"Then why?"

Vallista sat back, relaxing. "Because Lynna and I agreed that it would be better if people thought we were feuding. It gives our troublemakers a chance to scrap, which will keep them settled for a time and prevent any... uncontrolled  conflicts from arising. It might even teach some of them the cost of such infighting."

Ramantha the Voice nodded slowly. She was an imposing woman when she wanted to be, despite her lack of size. "And when I speak to Lynna next, she will confirm this?"

Vallista nodded. "Yes. How much explanation would you like?"

Ramantha considered. "I think I see the shape of it, but do continue."

"As you wish." Vallista leaned forward, attentive. "Someone murdered my father. Very likely someone arranged to have my father murdered, as someone also arranged for a rogue crew to be present when it happened. This same crew staged a successful robbery in my territory some time back, and earlier robbed a courier for the Mist Eyes."

"You're sure of this?" asked Ramantha. 

Vallista nodded. "I've spoken with them. They aren't Guild, and they aren't native to the islands. They've given me information on who is blackmailing them, and so far everything they've told me has borne out. Somebody pulled in outside talent to cause trouble between the gangs."

"You should have come to me with this knowledge," said the Voice. 

Vallista shook her head. "People would have noticed, known. It was better to wait for you to come to me."

"Ah." Unexpectedly, Ramantha smiled. "Your father's cunning and discrimination. You fear this is orchestrated by someone within the Guild." She paused, then added, "...Someone with access to information."

Vallista Greycloak nodded. "I fear it's someone Upstairs."

"Disturbing news. Have you no fear that it's me?"

"I would never accuse you," Vallista said carefully. "You are the Voice, and my best chance of bringing in someone from Upstairs without alerting whoever might be behind this. It seemed worth the risk to tell you."

"This is...  most unexpected. I came here expecting to have to discipline an unruly new gang-leader." She settled back, then sighed. "Of course it would be more complicated than that."

That was a sentiment Vallista could sympathize with. "I've been telling myself that same thing since before my father died."

"...What of this rogue crew?" asked the Voice.

"Cedric Bloodblade and I met with them, just a few days past. They spoke to us of being jailed and blackmailed, and they attest that they have never murdered anyone in the Guild. Cedric is of the opinion that they have to pay, but they can pay by making amends -- and since I need their information and possibly their help, I agree. We haven't said anything in public, obviously, but we consider them authorized contractors."

Ramantha nodded slowly at that. "And what does Cedric get out of this?"

Vallista shrugged. "It seems the Red Blades really have moved against the Mist Eyes. There's a missing fence... Piter, I think... and he's set this group to find out what happened, and confirm that the Red Blades were behind it. If they do, they will make amends by striking back at the Red Blades, and he'll consider all debts paid."

"Cautious," said Ramantha. "Tentative. That's good. Cedric does his duties well, and it seems that you are stepping into yours. If they help you find your father's killer, or the person who sponsored it, will you also consider their debt to the Guild repaid?"

Vallista nodded. Then she said, "There's more," and began to explain the questions she'd been asked about abomination appearing from nowhere, the Age of Beasts, and the possible involvement of the Crescent Circle. 

When Ramantha the Voice left her office, her expression was troubled. 

DoT: Misgivings

Grot stopped at Daystar's desk. "Okay, they're working on it."

"Good," said Daystar, without looking up from the appeal that he was writing. "Let me know when it's done."

Grot must have hesitated a moment too long, because Daystar stopped writing and looked up. "Anything else?"

Grot shook his head. "I just hope they're up to this one."

Daystar shrugged. "They're getting better at this... though that will become a problem in itself at some point. Did they argue about it?"

Grot shook his head. "No, they seemed pretty resigned."

"There's that, at least," Daystar paused, considering, then said: "Let me know if they start sounding rebellious."

Grot nodded. "I will." 

"Meanwhile, the stronger they get the more use they are to us. And it's not as if they aren't receiving plenty of compensation for their work."

Grot tilted his head, then nodded. "Maybe I should remind them of that."

"Maybe you should," Daystar told him.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part thirty-one

It was four hours later when Graznir returned, with Crack-bone carrying a small chest behind him. "My apologies," he said immediately. "The ancestors are... touchy, about their resting place. There was much discussion: who I am, who I brought with me, how many, how many others we might bring home. But they do have some resources, so I can keep my word to our captured workers."

Crack-bone set the chest on the ground and opened it, then called to the workers. "Form a line! One at a time. Come and get yer pay!"

The kidnapped farmers exchanged glances like they couldn't believe this was finally happening, and Azrael gave Tybalt a similar look. Tybalt just shrugged. The gnolls weren't necessarily trustworthy, but they were practical -- and this was a good way to build trust with the people around Aldpond. Plus, with the opening of the crypt it seemed they could spare some wealth. 

It suggested that there were few of them and much stored away in the depths, but Tybalt wasn't even vaguely tempted to go looking for it. Seven dead kings could likely overwhelm them, regardless of what they tried, but also... whatever was down there in the dark belonged to Graznir and his people as a rightful inheritance. Jacques was either entirely too trusting or else he pulling a friends-close-enemies-closer maneuver, but either way... if the Formorians became a problem, they could deal with it later. And if they didn't, well, powerful allies were hard to come by and good to have. His father had understood that.

Graznir and Jacques both watched as Crack-bone counted out ten gold coins for each of the farmers -- probably more than they made in a decade of farming -- and handed it over. Blunt-tusk had shown up at some point, and was standing at the back of the line to make sure nobody tried to circle back into it. 

It was late afternoon, and with the farmers paid and released Graznir turned his attention to Jacques. Tybalt stepped up to listen, but Graznir merely said, "What remains in the chest is yours, if you want it."

Jacques waved that away. "Sol Povos is not stretched so thin that we cannot get by, and you will need money for any rebuilding you do. Besides, I would rather have you feel that you owe us a debt, if you or one of your kin is going to be numbered among my father's barons."

Graznir blinked at him. "As you say, and I hope your father shares your wisdom... and your charity."

"Send word to Caristhium if you need assistance," Jacques replied. "I'm sure my cousins would be happy to assist me in answering any reasonable requests." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part thirty

"Success!" Graznir sounded delighted; then his snout wrinkled and his next words with worried: "Surely you aren't the only ones to survive?"

"The others stayed behind. Once we take you to meet your ancestors, we'll all depart." Tybalt sounded only slightly impatient.

"Ah. Yes, that's probably for the best."

"I'll give you my word on something else, Graznir," added Jacques, as they traced their way back into the crypt. 

"Oh?"

The viscount nodded. "If you keep your word to the farmers back there, not only will my kin and I keep quiet about this, but we'll do our best to do be sure that they do too. Tell some sort of story about how they were captured and we rescued them-- which is basically true if you don't look at the details too closely."

Graznir snorted. "Ah, politics," he said. "Very well, I accept. Certainly better than having your father track us down... or hunt us through the ruins. And at least this way we'll have time to build back some of what we lost."

"You seem a surprisingly reasonable sort for a kidnapper," observed Tybalt. 

"You sound surprised," Graznir said, "but it's easy enough to explain: I am devoted to my goal. I will do whatever it takes to regain the ancient knowledge of my people and see some portion of our kingdom restored. It required kidnapping, but once we had the numbers we needed persuasion was easier -- and far more practical -- than bloodshed. And if we do succeed at this, we'll need to be able to negotiate with our neighbors afterwards. We'll need trade, allies, acknowledgement. Much easier to find if you don't go around murdering people."

Jacques nodded. "As I said before, if you keep your word I'll do my best to help. The Forgotten Desert is considered wasteland; placing it into your hands as a barony should be an easy win, especially since most of our idiot nobles see your people as savages. By the time they learn better, it'll be established and much harder to revoke, even if anyone were so inclined."

They came to the chamber of the dead ones. Graznir moved forward, knelt, and bowed his head. He growled something in ancient Formorian. 

"Rise, my descendant," said the king at the center of crescent of thrones. He spoke in common, clearly intending his meaning to be understood to everyone present. "Are these others tools, or allies?"

"Allies, Magister," Graznir said, following his ancestor's lead and switching back to the common tongue. "They, and others of their kind, helped us to find you."

"Then they should depart now. This place is sacred to Formorians, and Formorians alone."

"A moment," said Graznir. "For the assistance they gave, they deserve some reward. May I beg the use of something here to repay them, and their kin who helped us with the digging?"

"Come forward," said the Magister, and then bent to speak softly into Graznir's ear as the rest of the children of Ruin, Tavros, and Vendril gathered near the door way.

Graznir straightened after a moment and turned to them. "Await me on the surface," he said. "I will keep my word, but this place is not for you."

Jacques didn't bother to survey the others. He just turned and walked out, knowing they would follow.

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-nine

The massive slab of stone disappeared up into the ceiling of the passage with a rumbling sound, a small shower of stone chips and dust, and almost nothing to mark it as mobile at all. Jacques whistled softly: if he hadn't seen the thing go up, he would have no idea that it could come back down. 

Beside him, Tybalt nodded. "That's some solid engineering. No wonder nobody could find them."

There was a commotion up ahead, and they started down the hall. A mixed group of humans and gnolls was coming towards them, and Jacques flagged them down with desperate movements. "Hold up! Wait!"

It took a moment for the workers to lose momentum; then they came to a gradual halt. "What is it?" asked one of the gnolls. 

"We need to get Graznir down here. This place is crawling with undead, and they don't like anybody who isn't a Formorian being down here."

"Ah," said the gnoll. "That... isn't entirely unexpected." He turned to the others. "All right, Blunt-tusk, you go get Graznir. Local farmers, get back to the surface -- you should be safe there." He looked back to Jacques and Tybalt. "Where are the rest of you?" 

"Waiting with the mummies, as a gesture of good faith."

"Brave," said the gnoll. "I'm Crack-bone, the work-leader. Technically, I'm an architect -- which is how I ended up directing the work crews." 

"I'm a bit ashamed to admit it," said Jacques, "but I really didn't come here expecting to find a bunch of well-educated gnolls engaged in an archaeological dig."

Crack-bone snorted. "Oh, there are plenty who aren't," he admitted. "With the fall of the Kingdom, our people scattered, and whatever they had to in order to survive... and we can survive on diets that most civilized peoples would find criminal. That's where "Gnoll" comes from, in fact: it's an old Formorian word indicating something feral."

Jacques tucked that away. "Sounds like it's more polite to refer to you as Formorians, then," he said. "My apologies." 

"Eh, don't worry about it." Crack-bone grinned. "It's been so long now, that's just etymology. Maybe we'll start making an issue of it someday, but it was a name we gave to our own." 

DoT: New Developments

"I think it's time to up the stakes," Daystar said. 

Grot looked up from the broadsheet he'd been reading, the Hinnom Happenings, which claimed to be the only accurate report of day-to-day events on the island. It was, of course, full of gossip and libel, but sorting the truths from the rumors was half the fun. "What do you have in mind?"

"There was a skirmish between the Greycloaks and the Panthers two days ago," Daystar observed. "This is exactly the sort of result we wanted. Distrust. Strife. Uncertainty. Let's stoke it."

"Lynna Catseyes. Have them take out that Tabaxi lieutenant of hers. I don't care if they murder him or put him on a ship to Magraven, just as long as he's gone."

Grot considered that, but couldn't find any immediate objections. "As you wish," he said easily, and rose. "I can take word to them in the morning."

Daystar smiled. "Yes, do that. Best to let them get an early start." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-eight

Jacques watched as the dead things all turned to look at him. He stopped, knelt. "Blessed Ancestors," he began, "your descendants have returned, and sent us ahead to clear the way for them." 

The dead ones remained still, jackal-headed, studying him. "I seek to open the passage to the surface, that they may come and learn of your wisdom in order to reclaim your greatness."

He waited for the space of a breath.

Another. 

Another. 

Then the figure on the central throne opened its mouth. "They survived, then?"

Jacques nodded. "They did indeed. Let me bring them to you, and I will prove it. I know we are not welcome here, and depend solely on your mercy. Let me open their way to you, and we will depart."

The jackal-headed figure at the far left end of the crescent asked, "How long has it been?"

"I don't know," Jacques admitted. "Graznir Toothtaker probably does."

"Your accent..." said the one just to the right of the central throne.

"Is it hard to follow?" Jacques asked, deliberately slowing his words. "I'm sure many thing have changed since you took shelter here."

"They are enemies, robbers, vandals," said the one on the far right of the crescent of thrones. "We should destroy them."

"We have taken nothing," Jacques said, "and fought only in self-defense. We did not break anything, either. Check for yourself, if you like."

"What do you know of us?" asked the figure on the central throne. 

"Very little," Jacques admitted. "I know your people ruled here, or near here, a very long time ago. Graznir tells us that there is a legend of a Sealed Tomb which contains the knowledge of his ancestors, and he hopes that this place might be it. He said that if nothing moved in the darkness, that would be a disappointment."

The central figure looked around at its fellows. "We will meet with this Graznir. The intruders will depart. And perhaps, at long last, all will be made well." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-seven

"We've taken a wrong turn," Jacques breathed. Flanking him on either side, Telorn and Skyflower nodded.

There were passages out of this room, one to the left and the other to the right. Ahead of them was a raised dais, with seven stone thrones arranged in a crescent to face them. The central throne was two steps higher still, on its own raised platform. Each throne was occupied by a jackal-headed corpse, wrapped in funerary bandages and arranged stiffly in a seated position. 

They stopped at the end of the passage, a step away from actually entering the room. 

"Odds that they all stand up the moment we set foot in there?" asked Telorn. 

"Absolutely certain," Skyflower whispered back. 

Jacques studied the dead things again. Had the one in the center turned its head to regard them? He wasn't sure, and that was worse than knowing it had. "Okay, next question," breathed Jacques. "If we back away, are they going to get up and pursue us?"

"...Seems likely," Skyflower told him, "and I don't think we can take them."

"Then it's diplomacy," Jacques said, trying to ignore just how desperately he suddenly needed to piss. "Telorn... go back and get the others. Skyflower... wait here. If they turn me into paste, try to get everyone back out up the shaft."

Telorn turned and departed silently. 

Jacques set foot inside the room. 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-six

The ruins were old, and overrun with undead... but it was the constructs that gave them the most trouble. Animated suits of armor, small scuttling things with pincers and blades, an iron cobra... 

The hallway was full of them, and none of them were friendly. Rose watched her half-siblings and friends tear into them, smashing with draconic strength or carefully-channeled magics. Azrael, the bladecrafter, seemed to know just where to hit the things; his blows weren't powerful, but the constructs couldn't absorb them the way they seemed to absorb everything else. And he was fast enough to avoid being hit himself. Jacques Fontaine danced in and out, making himself a distraction while calling orders and offering encouragement; Rose could see his early training coming through. 

Her own spells were ill-suited to this, but she did what she could to help: conjuring roots and vines to trap enemies, healing allies so that the clerics were free to deal with the undead. Telorn and Skyflower fell back beside her, covering the rear and then moving forward to check doors when the last enemies were down. 

Jacques glanced back to where they'd emerged, then surveyed the hall and led them down it. "This way, I think," he said, and turned to the left. 

Telorn checked the door for traps, then opened it cautiously. Skyflower remained at his side. 

Nothing charged out at them. 

"Okay," Jacques said softly. "The three of us will check up ahead. Everybody else, hold here until we get back -- unless you hear fighting."

Risk grinned. "Then we come running." He was looking forward to it.

"Be careful," said Tybalt, barely loud enough to be audible.

Rose watched as the three of them moved out. 

Afterworld: Casualty Count

Jason was fine, of course, still busily plucking venomous murder-squirrels off his spines. So was Devon, still wearing his fur and moving on all fours; Chad had had a bad time of it, but apparently the squirrel-blood was mammalian enough restore him. Jenny had taken nearly enough damage to collapse, which would have been disastrous; her fur was better armor than it looked like, but she was still staggering. I was feeling a bit staggery myself, and could barely feel my right leg; and Mary had managed to protect herself and Ishanna until Jason could step in. 

"What's the consensus?" I asked, keeping careful track of my balance. 

"Time to pull back," Ishanna said quietly. "Chad'll be all right in a little bit, but you and Jenny are barely on your feet."

Mary nodded, looking worried. Chad met my eyes and said, "Yeah. You know how it is."

I knew how it was, because I was the one who'd first told him. In situations like these, the moment you got hurt your odds of getting hurt further went way up.  

Jenny had her hands pressed to the sides of her head. "Yeah, I... I need to sit down. Somewhere. Maybe not here."

Jason said, "I could keep going, but..." He looked at Jenny. "Better if I take rear on the way back." 

Devon just grunted. 

"All right," I said, testing my leg again. "Devon, lead us back. Jason, you're rear guard. Everybody else, stay alert as best you can."

It was going to be a long walk back up the mountain. 

Afterworld: Venomous Murder-Squirrels

They really were about the size, fluffiness, and general proportions of squirrels, except for the very tips of their tails, which were equipped with stingers -- and their teeth, which spiked carnivorous instead of Rodentia. Mary fell back with Ishanna, still breathing out feline predators, but I got taken by surprise and missed everything else. 

Also, the damned little things could jump. 

So I flung my right arm up to protect my face, used my left arm to catch and crush the murder-squirrels, and took a couple of bites and stings in my right thigh while I was at it. I didn't worry too much about trying to kill things with my right hand; I was mainly using the knife to protect it, and my arm to protect my exposed head. My right leg went numb and I staggered, but I managed not to fall. I was wearing armor -- after a fashion -- but it wasn't enough.

One squirrel... another... another... Plucked off my leg or chest, crushed, and flung aide. The chain mail shirt wasn't doing nearly enough to stop the stingers, which was going to be a problem. They couldn't sink in deep, but that venom felt like the kind of shot a dentist gives you before she starts drilling on your teeth. I could feel the numbness spreading. 

I caught the last of them with my left hand, crushed it, and reached for another before realizing there was nothing else on my body. 

The forest had gone silent. The attack was over.  

I sheathed the fighting knife that I'd been using to protect my fingers -- it had knuckle guard of sorts, which wasn't enough for this but was better than nothing -- and started picking up my other weapons, in case anything else was coming this way. We used the guns as little as possible, not just because ammunition was scarce; they just attracted too damned much attention. 

Afterworld: Trouble Follows Trouble

"Holy fuck," said Chad, emerging from the woods. "Well, that was big."

"You, sir, have a keen grasp of the obvious," I told him. Like Jason, he'd been a college kid when everything had gone to hell, and he thought it was hilarious when I sounded like a professor... which I often did, sometimes by accident and sometimes as a bit.

"Thank you," he said, looking pleased. "So keen to live up to your expectations."

"Quiet," said Ishanna, and a moment later I heard it: a soft chittering, somewhere out in the trees. More than one source, out there in the trees. 

Mary looked at me and then sighed through her nose. Devon and  Jenny exchanged a look, then moved apart from us, scenting the air and studying the forest around us. 

"Oh, shit," said Jenny quietly. "Murder-squirrels. Get ready..."

They came in a wave, small packs moving in and out. They were small and fluffy and brown, and would have been cute if they hadn't been trying to eat us. Probably they'd been too lightweight for the fall from the storm to hurt them much. Beside me, Mary was breathing out cat-sized predators as fast as she could shape them from her breath. On my left, Ishanna was stepping back and Jason had moved in front of her, squeezing his fists in a way that made his spines extend. That was smart; Ishanna wasn't really equipped for this kind of assault; Jason was. Chad swallowed, but held his ground. 

I dropped the sword just like I'd dropped the bow a minute earlier. It wasn't the right tool for the job. A flamethrower would have been better; a flamethrower also would have been suicide. The best I could do was a knife I'd had since my early teens, a simple design with a finger-guard.

They swarmed over us. 

Valthor: Aboard The Galleon

I was down in the bath when someone reached in and shook me. I shot up, putting my head above water, and heard someone squeak as I wiped the water away from my eyes.

"Harvest Mother!" shouted a woman's voice. "How long have your been down there? I thought you were drownt!"

I leaned back in the still-warm water. "I don't drown," I said. I opened my eyes again and found myself staring at a petite redhead with her hair cut short, wrapped in a towel and still gaping at me. "So I find it relaxing to sit under the water."

"So you're... you're not dead?" she asked. 

I laid my head back against the edge of the bath and sighed. "No, I'm not dead." Then I gathered myself, because of course she had a point. "But I appreciate your concern. I'd appreciate it even more if you didn't mention this to anyone."

"So... you're a sea elf? Like the Captain?"

I weighed that for the barest moment, because it would have given me an easy out. "No," I told her after a moment. "I'm something else."

"But alive, right? Not some vampire we accidentally invited on board?"

I chuckled, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Yes, I'm still alive, so no, I'm not a vampire." I lifted a damp hand, held it out. "Valthor."

She hesitated for a moment, then clasped it. "Kiela," she told me. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb your bath."

I shook my head. "Perfectly natural reaction," I told her. "No reason you would know."

She shrugged apologetically, then grasped at her towel as it started to slip. "Well, now I do," she said. "It won't happen again." 

Music: Shadows

The Midnight:

Afterworld: The First Beast

It was something like a boar, a razorback, if you'd made it the size of a moving van and crossed it with an armadillo. It was snuffling around in the underbrush, and for a long moment I considered just backing away and leaving it to forage. Then it looked up, locked eyes with us, snarled, and charged, 

Jason grounded the butt of the boar spear and caught the beast in the throat, while I bounced an arrow off its forehead. I'd been aiming for an eye, but I missed. The spear snapped, but Jason rolled aside and sliced into its armor as it passed, his spines doing their work. Another arrow shattered at the joint of its neck and shoulder -- Ishanna's work -- and I heard a curse from back among the trees.  

Injured, the beast spun, trying to decide which of us to attack.

That was when Devon pounced on its back and sank his teeth into its neck. It thrashed, trying to fling him off, and its tusks tore up huge chunks of underbrush and scraped  gouges in the ground. I tried another bow shot but missed again. Its skin was just too thick to pierce that way, and those small black eyes were difficult targets. Jenny came in under it, clawing at its gut, but while she managed to draw blood it wasn't anywhere near a killing blow. She came out the other side and darted away, further distracting it. 

Then I heard a pff like somebody blowing out a candle, and part of its right foreleg exploded. That was the power the monks had given Mary: her breath was shield and weapon and conjured reinforcements, depending on how she shaped it. Evidently she'd decided on sniping. 

The beast reared with a grunting howl, then slammed its hooves down. Devon was still clinging to its neck, claws and teeth hooked firmly into the edges of its scales and trying to chew his way through. Jason had circled off to one side and was yelling abuse at it, trying to keep its attention on him. Then a crack of thunder split the air. 

Ishanna had given up on her bow, and gone to the rifle instead. The hole she made was cleaner than the one Mary had given it, but probably deeper. I dropped my bow and drew the Zombie Cleaver; it was my only other option, and the bow had done nothing so far. 

That was the moment the beast decided to come at me, charging at me like an oncoming train and lowering its head for a scooping slash with those massive tusks. If it managed to connect, it was going to cut me in half. 

I waited, calculating the timing. 

Then there was another pff and it stumbled, and I took that opening to dart in, kick off my altered left leg, and throw myself up and past its tusks at just the right angle to take out its left eye with the Zombie Cleaver, cutting on the pass. Behind me, I heard it squeal -- but I was busy moving, putting distance between us. 

Then the thunder rolled again, and the beast staggered and fell onto its side, throwing Devon loose. Jenny came out of the trees in a blur, found his place, and dug her claws in, ripping into its flesh.

It shuddered, squealed once more, and lay still. 

Ishanna's bullet had taken it through the right eye. 

Afterworld: Out On The Hunt

We found a lot of corpses. Even among those who survived the fall, a good number had fallen to the influence of the Sacred Trees. They were strange things, misshapen and -- when they survived -- always hostile, but I still felt bad for them. I doubt they wanted to be here any more than we wanted them here.

The trails were narrow, so we kept to single file, with Devon and Jenny alternating on front, Ishanna and Mary and Chad in the middle, and Jason and I switching out at the rear. Devon had put his fur back on, and was moving on all fours. I was carrying a bow, but had the Zombie Cleaver in easy reach, while Jason had borrowed my boar spear, both for anything that he might want to keep out of reach and for generals use as a walking stick. Ishanna was carrying a bow but had a rifle slung across her back and pistol at her hip, while Mary and Jenny were just relying on their natural abilities. Chad had borrowed a katana from my collection, and had a pistol on his belt.

We came to an abrupt stop as something stirred, groaned, reached vaguely in our direction, and then collapsed back. It was vaguely humanoid, but with four stumpy legs and four tentacles -- or I guess pseudopods, technically --  for arms. Jason came forward and put it down with the spear; it might recover and be a threat, but if it couldn't then it didn't deserve to suffer. Either way, it had to die. 

We were nearing the bottom of the hollow now, where the ground smoothed out and even with the trees it was easier to move around. With a little better footing, we might shift to a two-by-two formation, but for the moment...

Devon whined softly, and Jenny held a hand up. "There's something up there," she whispered back at us. "I can't get its scent over the corpses." She peered forward, and Devon moved slightly in front of her, instinctively protective. "I can't tell how big it is, either. But it's definitely still alive and moving."

I considered that for a long moment. "Switch positions," I whispered. "Jason and I will take front. Ishanna, Mary, spread out and flank it. Devon and Jenny, you two hit it while it's distracted with us. Watch your paths, in case there's anything else active out here. Chad, you watch our backs."

The thing ahead of us gave a series of grunts, but didn't seem to be moving our way. We shifted positions carefully, moving up to encircle it. I didn't mind having become a monster myself, but I'd never fancied hunting them. Still, at the end of the world you did what you had to do. 

Jason and I crept forward.

Afterworld: On The Home Front

"You left us swords, right?" asked my younger child who -- here at the end of everything -- was still struggling with their gender identity. The older boy had apparently never had a doubt, but that's biology for you. 

I nodded. "Swords, knives, and the rifle. I'm hoping not to have to use up any ammo--" which was only slightly less scarce than batteries "--but if you two need to make some noise, you do it -- cautiously."

Mary nodded. "Whatever it takes to stay alive," she told them. "You are my sunshines."

Hunter looked at his informally-adopted brother Cesar, and then his younger sister Sonja, who still let us call her Gavin sometimes. Cesar's sister Belleza -- also informally adopted -- was a year older than Hunter; I'd found her and her brother in Plano, Texas, outside an apartment complex where Cesar had been desperately sick and Belleza out looking for anyone who could help him. They'd fallen in easily, glad -- I think -- to have people who wanted to protect them and didn't want to take advantage of them. None of us knew what had become of their parents. It wasn't entirely beyond the realm of possibility they might find their way here; the kids had left a note in their apartment. She said, "We'll be careful," and Hunter nodded. 

"All right," I said, and went out to join the hunting party.  

Afterworld: A Band of the Strange

Chad had never intended to become a vampire. After the plagues, he'd discovered that drinking human blood made him stronger and faster, and he'd taken advantage of that to survive. Then he'd discovered that it was also addictive, and he couldn't stop drinking human blood or he'd die. None of us really blamed him; when civilization was first falling apart, we'd all been really desperate. Most of us recognized that any of us could have fallen into that trap. 

Devon, as I said, had been hunted by beasts while camping with his friends, killed one, and taken its skin to wrap around him so that he didn't die of hypothermia. After a couple of hours, he found that having the skin around him caused him to become one of the beasts, which gave him a quicker way back to what remained of civilization. I don't think I can adequately describe the expression of relief on his face when he talks about realizing that he could remove the skin and re-assume human form. 

I'd been struck by a couple of drones from a Night Mother, but managed to stumble out into daylight in time to slow the transformation into one of her children. It had turned my left forearm and calf into black-skinned flesh, harder and stronger than human flesh by far, but only slowly spreading towards my brain and full control of my faculties -- usually when I exerted myself. My right boot was equipped with lifts to help me keep my balance. 

My wife, Mary, had gained her pneuma at a hidden temple east of the Mississippi just after the incident there, after a wandering monk had intervened to help us out. The monks had stabilized my transformation, too, limiting them to my left arm and left leg... which still made me a freak of sorts, but at least I wasn't still turning into something worse. My beautiful wife, with her new gifts, had taken 'cutting words' to a new level: she could breathe out monsters of her own, or use her breath to attack or defend.

Jason was... nobody was quite sure, because nobody else had seen whatever he'd survived, and he wasn't entirely clear on where he'd come from or how he'd gotten here to join up with the rest of us. His body was covered in thorns and spines, which he used as armor, claws, and fangs. He'd married one of the survivors that Devon had brought in, and they seemed happy as a couple.

Ishanna was a hunter, equally comfortable with bows and guns; somewhere she'd picked up the ability to be all but undetectable at night. Like Jason, she had no idea where; it was just something she'd discovered she could do as she made her way through the end of days. 

Jenny had turned into something like a fox-girl, with red-orange fur, excellent senses,  and claws and fangs. She says she started changing as a result of the plagues themselves, and not anything that came after. Unlike Devon, her form was fixed; she looked the way she looked. 

"We're going to head out and see what's out there," I told Ms. Lili, who was... not exactly the mayor, but something very like. "And try to make sure none of it gets all the way here."

Ms. Lili had been a high school teacher in the Before Times, and sometimes that still showed through; the look she gave me was very much what you'd use to convey your approval to a student who was taking his own initiative on a project, and never mind that I was in my late forties and had a high-school-aged kid of my own. "Excellent," she said. "For my part, I'll make sure everybody stays on the campus and ready to shelter in place, and that the emergency squads are ready to go."

Afterworld: Rain of Monsters

The storm is a bad one, spitting out monsters along with wind and rain, lightning and thunder. We don't usually get them like that, up here in the forests of the plateau. The Sacred Trees usually hold them back. They're more common out in the plains, where a bad storm in the right season can wipe out half a city, I'm told. Regardless, we're going to have to organize a troop to go out there and wipe out whatever survived the fall -- which will be the strongest and the worst of them. We'd better be ready.

"How bad?" asks my wife, carefully modulating her voice so as not to do us any damage. 

"Not disastrous, but it'll be trouble." I shrug. "It's more water for the reservoir, but we'll be hunting Things for a couple of weeks after this -- and in the woods, yet."

"They'll be weaker there, at least," she said, and I nodded agreement. 

None of us were entirely sure what the trees on this particular section of the Cumberland Plateau were doing to weaken the apocalyptic intrusions, but it it was impossible to deny that they were doing something. The beasts and stranger things that tried to come up the mountain weakened, sometimes died on their own, and frequently just turned back. It made occupying the former University of the South almost safe, despite concerns about food, fresh water, and our fellow refugees. 

There are cracks in the world now, almost like overlays in some places. Strange things emerge from them, bringing multiple apocalypses all at once. Some of that has settled back, but some of it hasn't. Miami was devoured by a spreading infection so bad that the government nuked it -- back when we had a government, and working nuclear arms. Most of the Everglades are an irradiated wasteland now. The city of London, I'm told, remains haunted by killer ghosts -- unseen things that walk through walls and kill instantly with a touch. The Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex was taken over completely by the zompires, who have been expanding more slowly ever since -- their need for blood holds them back, now that the surrounding communities have fled or been consumed. Seattle, on the other hand, had banded together to turn back the massive beasts prowling its streets, and was now considered a sanctuary of sorts. I had word of this from one of the skin-changers, Devon, who had skinned one of the beasts all the way down in Arkansas and could now use that skin to assume its likeness. 

Of the ones who'd managed to survive, not all had come through unchanged. The plagues that preceded the intrusions had been bad enough on their own, but they'd laid the groundwork for worse and stranger things.

"I'll come with you," my beautiful wife said softly, knowing that I wouldn't stay back when the troop formed. Too many of them would be ordinary, unaltered, still purely human. They would need the support of the Strange, like us: the ones who'd been altered by the end of the world. It would keep their casualties down, and here at the end of all things we desperately needed to keep their casualties down. 

Music: Ain't No Grave Gonna Hold Me Down

R.T. Lackey:

/p>

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-five

Telorn hadn't expected to bring company, but Skyflower was as quick and silent and light as he was. They reached the end of the shaft, paused, and then listened. 

There was movement in the dark, and while either of them could hide very well in the darkness, neither of them could see in it. "Back up," Telorn whispered, gesturing, and Skyflower nodded. 

That was right before something grabbed his foot and slammed him down against the stone floor. Telorn managed to kick loose, and called, "Help!" as he drew his rapier. He could make out vague shapes outside the narrow square of light from the shaft, and settled back, ready to attack or defend. The thing that had grabbed him came forward and he stabbed at it, but it wasn't taking as much damage as it should for where he hit it. 

Skyflower hit the ground beside him, drawing her blade; a moment later four glowing darts angled down and slammed into the darkened thing.  Something struck at her from the darkness, but missed. Telorn put his back to hers, let her measure his movements, and then took half a step forward to give her room to move. 

Then Tybalt arrived, having slid down the ropes. He raised his blade, and holy light spilled forth. Half a dozen creatures -- zombies and skeletons -- collapsed on the spot; others drew back, hesitant. Sun was down, immediately beside Tybalt, and the light from her holy symbol downed the two large dead things. 

"Close," said Tybalt. 

"Thank you," said Telorn. The others were coming down the ropes, but they weren't here yet. If the two clerics hadn't shown up, he might not have survived. 

Sun conjured some floating lights, to make sure the area was clear. It was, and there was a door: they had a way forward. 

VtM: Information, Connection, Planning

Shannon was just as striking as she'd been when he first saw her, standing in the door of the Crux Invertis just after dawn and studying his face. The smile she offered him looked concerned. "You all right?"

He nodded. "I got in, I got out. I need to know things before my... patron finds me again."

Shannon studied him for a moment longer, then said, "Okay. Come inside." She hesitated, then said: "Malachi's still awake."

Edhem hesitated. "Is that usual?"

"No, but... Come inside."

Edhem nodded and stepped through the door. He shouldn't be trusting Shannon as much as he was, but then Malachi and the kids hadn't seemed actively hostile either. At least, not so far...

"Ah," said Malachi. "Edhem Blackburn, the would-be reporter." He smiled. "And sometime hunter."

Edhem glanced at Shannon, then crossed to the table where Malachi sat. "Investigator," he said gently. "Not reporter."

"But privy to ancient powers, Shannon tells me."

Edhem nodded, putting a hand on the book in its pouch at his belt. He hadn't brought in any of the canes; that would have been asking for trouble, and trouble was the last thing he wanted here. "Some," he admitted. "I wasn't lying about looking into the death of the Magical Mister Grey."

"I didn't think you were." Malachi glanced at Shannon, who nodded. 

"I didn't think you were, either."

Edhem hesitated. He didn't want to owe either of them a favor, not with everything else going on, but... "Could we trade knowledge, as I did with Shannon before?"

"Of course," answered Malachi. "You've no idea how much I've missed this. What sort of magus are you? What tradition?"

That was technically two questions, but Edhem recognized a clarification when he heard one. "I'm one of the Scions of the First City," he said quietly. "I create effects by inscribing the first tongue in my own blood." He paused. "What are Toreador and Tremere?"

Malachi answered without hesitation. "They are clans of vampires, the artists and the sorcerers among our number."

"I think you may have answered more than my original question," Edhem observed carefully.

Malachi shrugged. "Consider it a gift. As I said, it's been some time since I could gather information this way. I've missed it. Now then... What can you tell me about the one who set you to this task?"

Edhem considered that, then blew out a breath. "Since it found me in Jack and Valeria's apartment, likely a Tremere. And as Shannon observed, old. There was a sort of otherworldly beauty, but also a... stillness. Like talking to a statue, until it moved and answered. I don't know how much that narrows it down. It said that Jack's death had upset... one of its grandchildren, if I remember correctly. And I should clarify that it didn't set me to investigate the death; I was already doing that on my own. It just pointed me towards you, and Cavalieri, and a few others." He hesitated, then asked: "It said it would 'watch over me' while I did this. How much should I be reassured or worried by that?"

"Very much," said Malachi. "If I said those words, I would be promising my protection--" He gestured around. "--such as it is, but I would also be signaling that I might be interested in bringing you into our world. The older ones in particular... they don't ask permission before doing that. Not usually." He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully, then added: "I am Caitiff, clanless. I would not do such a thing myself; I'm not well-enough established for that. But an older Tremere would offer you more protection, and be better able to bargain with the Prince for permission to turn you."

Edhem felt a little ripple of horror go through him, and tried not to show it. "Your turn," he said quietly.

"Why would one of our elders choose you for this?" asked Malachi.

Edhem sighed. "...Because I arrived on the balcony of Jack and Valeria's most recent apartment in the form of an owl, walked into the darkness without needing much light, and promptly sat down to use my dead master's deck of cards to learn more about what had happened to Jack and Valeria. The elder interrupted the reading to question me, and then tried make me do his will... and failed."

"Yet here you are, doing his will regardless."

Edhem tilted his head. "That wasn't a question, and it wasn't your turn anyway. How much of a problem is it that Valeria was taken away by someone named Grand, who was a Toreador?"

Malachi was still human enough to suck in a breath before answering. "Jack Grey, as you've surmised, was one of the Tremere. Valeria, in addition to being his wife and assistant on stage, was his ghoul -- as Shannon is mine. That means that Jack was giving her some of his blood, to increase her abilities without fully turning her from the light. It made her a powerful protector for him, but more importantly it linked her to the Tremere clan. To have her taken in -- or kidnapped -- by the Toreadors after his death? That's a great insult to the Tremere, almost a challenge. But Grand, like most Toreadors, has always been melodramatic. Rescuing the widow of someone who'd died in her service, or even her presence, would have been nearly irresistible for her. It will be worse if Grand turns Valeria; the Tremere will never forgive that." He yawned. "And now, I have pushed my sleep off as far as I comfortably may. I have no more questions for you, mageling."

Edhem nodded and rose, bowed. "I do have one more for you," he said, "but it's a matter of permission, not information."

"Oh?" asked Malachi. "Pray tell."

"May I date your ghoul?"

Malachi laughed and turned to Shannon. "If Shannon agrees, of course. And with the understanding that if this Tremere elder turns you, you will not attempt to turn her. She would be killed out of hand, even if she survived the process."

That consideration hadn't even occurred to Edhem, but he fixed it firmly in his mind. "M'lady, would you indulge me while we have some daylight yet?"

Shannon glanced at Malachi, who had already vanished, and then looked back at Edhem and grinned. "We're both going to do tests," she said, "and if we're both negative then yes. And I have to warn you, I put out on the second date -- which this would be -- and I expect you to, too." 

VtM: Mansion, Servants, and Dog

It took less than an hour for Edhem to realize that he could have come in human form. This wasn't a well-run household; this was a theater troupe, re-employed to keep them solvent during the lockdown. That Bianca Cavalieri was also a performer didn't stop her from paying them -- indeed, the woman seemed thrilled to have other performers at her beck and call. 

She and Lucien slept through the day and awoke at night, of course. Indulgence of the rich, perhaps, but almost certainly something more. And despite Lucien's strenuous objections, Bianca did have a soft spot for dogs. Showing up just after dark not only got him inside, it got him a warm blanket, a cushion, and in surprisingly short order an assortment of treats. Bianca -- and consequently her staff -- had no qualms about feeding him bits of chicken and ham and other scraps. 

And Bianca, diva that she was, had no discretion whatsoever. It was Lucien who chased the servants away, Lucien who tried to speak to her about the displeasure of the Tremere elders -- whoever they were -- and Lucien whose words confirmed that Jack Grey died here, and his wife Valeria was taken away from here by someone named Grand, who apparently was unacceptable because she's a Toreador -- whatever that was. 

By the time dawn came around, Edhem was happy to escape.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-four

Telorn was ready to go in a heartbeat, and he evidently knew what he was doing. Graznir Toothtaker touched a particular carving on the back of the altar, and a section of the floor parted and swung down, revealing a vertical shaft through the bedrock. Telorn was already looping a section of rope around the altar and tying it off when Skyflower touched his shoulder and said, "A moment, Cousin."

"Yes?" he turned to her. 

"This is a scouting run, I trust: go down, make sure it's safe, then let the others know."

Telorn nodded. "That's the plan. I'm taking the lead because your siblings are... nowhere near so quiet as they believe."

She grinned. "Then let me come with you. If anything is down there, it's better to have two of us to deal with it, and if something else goes wrong, well, one of us can go for help." 

"You think there are still things down there, after all these centuries?" Telorn didn't sound doubtful; he sounded like he was considering possibilities. Skyflower appreciated that.

"There might be," said Graznir Toothtaker. "If nothing moves in the darkness, then this trip will have been a great waste." He paused. "Well, perhaps not a waste, but a disappointment."

Telorn turned to face him. "You believe there might actually be remnants of your empire down there? Survivors?"

Graznir nodded. "That is our hope, that not all of our people -- and their knowledge and scholarship -- was lost. That some remnant might have escaped and hidden themselves away here."

Telorn turned back to Skyflower and grinned. "I'd be glad of the company," he said easily. 

She grinned back, then turned to her kin. "If you hear the sounds of fighting, come get us." 

Too close to the end of the year

We've got a bunch of stuff coming up and once again it's all going to happen right at the end of the year -- basically all because one particular project (not one of mine) still isn't complete. Which is going to create a bunch of extra work, because without that project in place we're going to have to do any upgrade that will force us to re-create a whole bunch of approval workflows in a new environment. And that will have to be done before the end of the year, because it's the only way to keep this system compatible with another system, which absolutely has to be upgraded before the end of the year. 

Otherwise we can't pay our employees. 

I'm trying to retain a positive attitude about this, but with everything that's going on over the last couple of months I'm just... man, I am not feeling it. 

That said, I am feeling a bit better after finally getting to run a D&D game last night. 

The Burden of Schoolwork...

Spent a big chunk of Saturday night getting Secondborn through an overdue assignment. 

It was a rebuttal paragraph for an essay, with a quote from the text. Maybe five sentences in all. 

This, somehow, took us hours. Like, I could have re-read the whole damned book in that amount of time. I don't know if she was just procrastinating, or didn't know where to find the source text -- she says she was trying to find a usable quote online, but I found one in about twenty minutes and we built a paragraph around that and got it turned in with maybe two minutes to spare before the deadline. 

I'd hoped we were making some progress, but apparently we're not. Which is depressing as fuck-all, because I can't have her struggling through this school year the way she was struggling through last school year. And I mean that in a strictly logistical fashion: I don't have the spoons to do my job, help keep the house running, and drag Secondborn through her schoolwork. 

The school is trying very hard to work with us, but it feel like trying to run cross-country on a treadmill: all effort and no progress. 

I'm so tired. 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-three

"This is... quite the reunion," Jacques said slowly, as Telom looked around at the others. "The idea that you have come here coincidentally strikes me as ridiculously unlikely. Would you offer us the courtesy of an explanation?"

Telorn bowed. "As you wish, Baronet." He surveyed the room for a moment, then focused on Graznir Toothtaker. "The children of Ruin and King Tavros Fontaine were not the only one to take note of your activities." He turned his attention back to Jacques. "How much do you know of the Silver Fox?"

Tybalt stepped forward. "If you are truly his son, then your half-brother was one of our siblings."

Yvette nodded. "The Silver Fox was a legend," she said. "He was one of the heroes of Fort Dido, and when the second Elfsbane took the throne he confounded the Archons and took elves and half-elves out of their reach. When the Solari-killers and the dark army took the capital, he stayed to help people escape."

Telorn nodded. "My mother was Amra Bissent, one of the palace guard and one of the few who escaped when the city fell. My father never knew I was his child; he was gone to his other work well before she realized he had quickened her with me. Remembering what he had told her, my mother fled to his clan -- elvish nomads loyal to the crown, living strategically along the edges of the Forgotten Desert." He looked back to Graznir. "We know of your ruins, and we keep track of who explores them. My elders consider the pillaging done by the dark army to be a great failure on their part."

"Ah," said Graznir. "And our pillaging?"

Telorn shrugged. "Tolerable," he said. "My clan knows your heritage. For the most part, your activities here are too far away to threaten the clan... but not quite far enough for us to ignore it, either. So, they sent scouts -- myself among them." He looked back to Jacques. "Then, when I realized our shared history, I couldn't resist making contact."

He could see Jacques considering that. After a moment, the Baronet said, "You're a third perspective, then. Do you think we should help the gnolls open the way to their vault?"

Telorn grinned. "Only if you let me help you." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-two

The temple was little more than a carefully-arranged pile of massive, irregular, un-mortared stones. The entrance had evidently been closed off with a massive stone block, now dragged out and set to one side. 

"That must have taken some work," the half-dragon observed quietly. 

Beside her, Yvette Fontaine nodded. Sun had never considered that a half-dragon married to a human would have quarter-dragon children, but here they were: Julien, who seemed to have bred true to his father, Yvette, with silver scales where an ordinary human would have hair, and Jacques, whose scales were hidden away. Did they have breath weapons, as she and her siblings did? Were they strong and resistant to damage? Julien certainly looked it, but Sun was less sure of the other two.

 "Oh, look at that," said Yvette, nudging her shoulder. There were reliefs on the walls, scraps of paint still clinging to them: gnolls building cities, gnolls harvesting grains, something that might have been a wedding or the signing of a treaty, gnolls marching to war. Formorians, Sun reminded herself. 

"The temple itself is small," Graznir Toothtaker was saying, "consisting mostly of the entryway, a small chapel, a room that was probably used for storage or temporary quarters... and the stairs that lead down to the complex beneath. Likely at one point there were other, less durable structures here on the surface, but if so they have been lost to time."

"Have you made a study of the carvings?" asked Jacques. 

"Only in passing," answered Graznir. "Our focus has been on finding our way down. The passage at the bottom of the stairs is blocked by a series of  heavy stones that were lowered from the ceiling to seal it off. That matches with out stories of the Sealed Vault, but lifting and bracing them has proven time-consuming."

"How far have you gotten?" asked Jacques. 

"Two stones barriers raised, and we're at work on another. It might be possible to raise them all from the other side, without the need for levering and bracing, but none of my people will go down there and we would not ask that of the farmers who labor for us." Graznir hesitated. "Would I be a fool to trust you?"

Jacques frowned and glanced back at the others. "Of course I'd say no, regardless of whether it was true or not. Would I be a fool to trust you?"

"I, too, would say of course not," Graznir admitted. "So... we either choose trust, or we choose betrayal. Would you swear to me, child of Tavros Fontaine, that you would work to get your father to grant us a barony, if not an independent kingdom, in what you call the Forgotten Desert?"

Jacques glanced back at Julien, who shrugged; then he locked eyes with Yvette, who nodded. He hesitated, then looked to Sun. "What about the rest of you? Thoughts?"

"The ruins in the desert are Formorian," Sun said firmly. "Stripped and looted by the Dark Army, but they may still retain some secrets. If they do, the gnolls are clearly heirs to those places, I would join you in petitioning for this, especially since a revived -- and friendly -- nation of gnolls would make use of an area that most avoid, and potentially provide a bulwark against another invasion from the east."

Jacques surveyed the rest of the group, and the True Elf paladin Ash said, "I'm in."

Sun didn't even have to glance at her brother Risk to hear the smile in his voice. "Sounds like fun."

"Then come around behind the altar with me," said Graznir, "and I'll show you the other way down that we discovered. If you can raise the stone barriers and open the way, you'll save us considerable work... and possibly keep our workers safe. That's if  you're willing."

"Wait," said a new voice, and a half-elf strolled into the room, dressed in a mixture of grays. 

"Who is this?" asked Graznir, looking betrayed. 

Sun looked blank; so did Jacques, and Yvette, and all the others. 

"I'm not really with them," the newcomer said, "but I know who they are -- and after several days of lurking in your camp, I know who you are too, Graznir Toothtaker."

"Okay," said Scar, golden-scaled and impatient. "So who the fuck are you?"

"Telorn Bissent," the half-elf said. "Firstborn child of the Silver Fox, Vendril, and the guardswoman Amra."  

StV: Recriminations

"You told the fucking vampire about me." Shastia Middleston was dark-skinned, black-haired, and quietly, unmistakably furious. 

Timothy Davis shook his head and held up both his hands, palms forward. He was dark skinned and pale-eyed and bald, and his expression was simultaneously surprised and scared. "I only told him that he might want to talk to you, and that you weren't about to volunteer for one of the teams."

"That's still--" Shastia hesitated. "Okay, maybe that's not so bad." She sighed. "Fine, I won't kill you now."

"Well in that case, I won't take control of your mind."

She punched him in the shoulder. "I take it you didn't make the team?"

Tim shook his head in confirmation. "Well... not yet. Telepathy doesn't work on him, and without it I can't really fight -- but he did say that if I could get somebody to agree to help me show what I can do with telepathy, we could have another tryout."

Shastia tilted her head. "I'm not helping you with that."

"He said it would be better if it was someone on the teams, so I'm not even asking."

"Good."

"All right, so Laura's in. Abby evidently likes him, and he's willing to give you a second chance." She shook her head. "He didn't hesitate when I gave him my demands, either."

"Your demands?" asked Tim. 

Shastia nodded. "No recordings, and he doesn't say anything to anybody about what I a-- what I can do."

Tim nodded. "I'm not surprised he agreed to that."

"Why not?" asked Shastia, but she sounded curious rather than suspicious.

"He was keeping secrets, too. From the rest of us, from the faculty... right up until that whole thing with the Hounds, when everything blew up. I'd guess he knows what it's like." 

"Huh," she said, and then fell silent for a long while. 

Nope, still recovering...

 Losing Sleep, by Charlotte Sometimes:

Okay, fuck it

If this were a normal Friday, I'd be thinking about things to post for the coming week. It... isn't. So, for Monday, you get this: 

Some final thoughts...

Grief is weird. It catches you at odd moments, creates weird responses, and never entirely goes away. I'm a big fan of the Ball In A Box analogy, which I think does more to explain the experience than just about anything else I've found. But one of the weirdest elements, for me, is that life doesn't just stop the way you think it should. Stubbornly, aggravatingly, it goes on. So you grieve, but also you go to work. You grieve, and you cook dinner (or order pizza). You grieve, and you go buy groceries.

Grief is also exhausting. Spending the weekend in the hospital watching my father pass away left me utterly drained. Writing the first draft of his obituary did it again. Writing my remarks for the memorial service left me wanting to crawl inside a pillow fort and sleep for a week. Just getting through the day leaves me tired -- and though this, too, shall pass, I just haven't quite gotten there yet. 

Grief is a part of life. It's price we pay for being able to love. 

But that doesn't mean it doesn't suck. 

More About My Dad

My father was very proud of his health, albeit in a way that was, well, maybe a bit eugenicist. He stayed active throughout most of his life (and even later, when his wife forced him into exercise classes), and he could recover from things that should have been crippling. Or simply... shrug off damage that should potentially have been lethal. That stayed with him right to the end; the simple fact that he was still breathing and had a heartbeat when his blood pressure had fallen to 12/12 was so absolutely in character that we weren't even surprised. 

I once watched the man slide down a fify-foot-high granite cliff -- not vertical, but probably about a seventy-five degree angle -- crash into the underbrush, and then stand up and start looking around for his wallet. The back pockets of his jeans had been abraded away. The rawhide jacket he was wearing appeared untouched. 

In his youth, he was out on the mountainside and in a moment of inattention shot himself in the thigh; with no particular way to seek help -- this was long before cellphones existed -- he hiked back up the mountainside to the only local hospital and checked himself in. They looked him over, told him that the bullet had passed through cleanly and not hit anything important, and that the wound had basically closed itself up already, so there really wasn't much to do. He then walked back home. 

When I was young -- maybe seven or eight? -- he slipped while trying to help a sailboat dock, and the prow of the boat bent his right knee sideways. It wasn't quite to ninety degrees, but it was pretty horrible to watch and in retrospect I'm a little surprised I didn't have nightmares about it. Except Dad, true to form, spent the next few years walking with a cane until his knee apparently fucking recovered completely and after that it was all back to normal. That was well before the cliff incident, I should add. 

In his... Fifties? Sixties? ...he discovered that he had some blockages in his heart and got a bypass. Life expectancy after that was, we were told, maybe twenty to twenty-five years. He lived to be eighty-nine, and really only succumbed to COVID. The man had the constitution of a musk ox. 

One memory that I've recently found myself circling back to is spelunking with him and some others in my youth -- I'd guess I was about ten years old, which would put my younger brother at around seven; but we might have been a few years older than that. We were down in one of the limestone caves along the edge of the Cumberland Plateau, and we saw an opening that looked like it led to a larger room. Now, this opening was wide enough that it didn't feel claustrophobic for us, even though it had a very low ceiling -- maybe a foot high near the center. So my brother and I scooted through it, and sure enough it opened into a larger chamber with some pretty neat formations -- flowstone and soda straws, as I recall. 

So Dad... followed us in. He scooted along on his belly, while we called encouragement for him to hurry up until he finally called back that he was moving as fast as he could. Which seemed puzzling until we realized.... Remember what I said about the height of that passage? For the two of us, as children, it was "don't bump your head" territory. It was a lot tighter for my Dad. When he inhaled, he pressed against the floor and ceiling and there was no moving forward. So for him it was "inhale, exhale, and then scoot forward before you breathe in again" territory. 

He did it anyway, and we all agreed that it was a pretty cool cavern, and then he sent us back ahead of him and made his laborious way out. 

Dad's primary musical interests were folk and classical, but when I hit my teenage Serious Heavy Metal phase his only comment was to ask me to please, please turn down the volume on the radio before I turned off the car. Apparently he'd gotten in to go get groceries, and nearly been blown back out the car door by the volume of the music. When my brother developed an interest in drums, well, the house developed a second-hand drum kit in the Activity Room -- which was what we called his workshop. 

Kids need some room in order to grow up, and Dad was always willing to give that to us. We were allowed to make mistakes, to be wrong, to screw up. He taught kindness and patience by example. And he loved learning new things. Right up into his final years, we would call each other up to look up interesting bits of etymology -- did you know that fraught is basically the past tense of freight? It literally means that whatever you're describing has baggage attached.