X-Philes

"We have a problem, they've re-opened the X-Files," the Smoking Man says before taking a puff on a cigarette through the hole in his neck. Personally, I'd say the biggest problem he has is nicotine addictiction. Seriously, try the patch or gum. There's no way smoking through your neck hole is pleasurable.

The X-Files premier illustrates everything wrong with network television. It was pre-empted for 22 minutes by an NFL post-game show. Everyone who set their PVRs missed half the show and were instead treated instead to interviews with jocks who chose getting concussed by even bigger jocks as their profession. Nobody tuning in just for the X-Files could possibly give a crap about that nonsense. Even if you did, the audio had such an echo to it that it was indecipherable. What is the logic behind a post-game? The game is officially over. It's not like they're goiing to score another touchdown. As for the sportscasters, 50% of them were wrong about their predictions for the game simply because they need someone to take the counter-point in their endless debate or else it's be a group of jackassess agreeing with each other. Now you're going to sit around and listen to what these same sport-jacket wearing idiots have to say about the next game after proving they don't know a damn thing? To make matters worse, this post-game was made longer by endless commercial breaks. Then they threw in an interview promoting NASCAR, because fuck you. FOX truly has their finger on the pulse of sci-fi fans.

Incidentally, the theme of the show is government conspiracy and the government trying to control the media. Then the entire episode is pre-empted by FOX. Coincidence?

As for the return of the X-Files, they broke down ten years of the show effiectively in about one minute. Apparently, X-Files: I Want to Believe was cannon, as Scully is still working at the same Sisters of Sorrow hospital she was at while Mulder is just kind of bumming around and complaining about the government while likely collecting unemployment cheques. There's a conspiracy-theory stand-in for Glenn Beck that lures Mulder and Scully back into the game. Mulder is shown an honest-to-God man-made UFO that shatters everything he believes about abductions. Scully, convienently, doesn't get the same viewing so she's still in sceptic mode even though she discovers she has alien DNA. Mulder says his catch-phrase about fifty times to drive up T-shirt sales and goes back to his old work-place to yell at his former boss, as we are all wont to do. He finds the office he abandoned over ten years ago empty and it upsets him for some reason, like he expected everything to be the way he left it.

The show set ups a new "conspiracy" that the government has faked alien abductions to spread terror in an attempt at a global takeover. They had acccess to limitless free energy, cloaking technlogy, alien DNA and interstellar spacecraft, but their main area of concern is making all the sheeple "Baa" in unison. Also: 9/11. This is infinitely dumber than any previous plot twist in the series. Honestly, if they had space ships, do they even need conspiracies? Why bother with Earth at all?

Silver, Prologue and Part of Chapter One:

Prologue:

Jin’s cart pulled to a stop and his weary companion dismounted from the seat beside him and landed boots-first into a puddle. Muddy water splashed up and drenched the hem of his already wet trousers, which he observed without amusement before bringing out his flask and taking a quick sip to console himself. The rain which began as they left on their journey had continued for the entire four hours and the wheels of the cart were beginning to sink into the mud. Luckily, there was habitation nearby in Karnassass where they could hope to wait out the rest of storm, if their cart could make it that far before getting stuck.
“Hey!” Jin’s companion, Taro shouted from beside the cart. The oxs whinnied their displeasure at being worked for so long and in the wet. It had been Jin’s insistence that they carried on for the entire trip without seeking shelter, claiming the rain would let up soon enough. It had only gotten worse as the hours went by, and Taro was ready to knock him off the cart. “Hey!” Taro shouted louder. He was a big man and his voice carried over the fall of raindrop. He strained his throat a little too much and convulsed in a coughing fit. Eventually, the door of the shack opened up and a bald man peered out, first looking at the sky, then down at them. He made no move to leave the confines of the shack itself.
“What do you want?” the man grumbled. Jin had the impression that he’d been asleep, or practically near it, although sunset was still a ways off.
Taro gave him a look as if he were the stupidest man alive. “What does it look like we want? We’ve got the shipment,” Taro pointed back to the cart with the load from the Biggle Quarry.
“Do you want a reward?” the bald man, Semson, sneered. “Go drop it off and then head back for the next. Boss wants in by tomorrow.” He turned to go back inside.
“Wait! Taro stopped him. “Another shipment? That’s not even possible now! It’ll have to wait.” They could usually do two shipments a day if they were lucky, but the rains had slowed them down too much.
“Do you think I care? Get it done, or find another job,” Semson looked down at the water pooling around his shack and then slammed the door shut behind him.
“Damn him!” Taro screamed. “There’s no way we’re doing two shipments today. We shouldn’t have even done the one.” He climbed back on the cart, seeing as there was no one else around to help. Usually there was a small crew on hand to help them unload the stones into the ever-increasing pile by the road, but work had shut down early, it would seem. Jin flicked the reins and the oxs slowly trotted over to the side where they could tip the back of the cart over. Stones clattered onto the ground in a disorganized pile. Usually, a great dusty cloud would spread through the air, but everything was damp. “They can stack it themselves.” With their work done, Taro irritably waved Jin onward.
“The oxs are getting tired,” Jin said from under his big, shapeless hat.
“It’s miles to Karnassass still,” Taro told him. “They can rest when we get there.” It wasn’t simply that he had no desire to stay out in the rain in the open cart, it was that there simply wasn’t anywhere else to stay. It was a flat, barren wasteland, with barely a bush to dot the landscape on the one side until the hills where Karnassass lay over. Behind them, was the looming mountain shrouded in mist. No one went there unless they had to.
“We should at least give them some of their oats,” Jin said.
“They’ll live,” Taro said. He hadn’t eaten, either. “Anyway, we’ll spend the night in Karnassass, and head out fresh again in the morning if it stops raining tonight. If not, then we’ll wait until midday.”
“But Semson said…”
“Semson is an idiot, Jin. You know that. Why do you think they keep him cooped up in that little shack counting rocks? The boss knows what the weather can do to the roads. I won’t even have to explain things to him. If things get better, we’ll do two loads tomorrow.”
They rode in silence for a while along the desolate road, until Jin thought to ask, “Taro, do you think the mist is spreading?”
“What?” Taro, who’d been lost in his own thoughts about the tavern in Karnassass and a certain barmaid.
“The mist,” Jin pointed towards the mountain. “Doesn’t it seem like its further down the hills?”
Taro looked closely, and he couldn’t deny that it looked as if it had spread. “Yes,” he said a little uneasily. “Maybe its just the rain doing it.”
That answer seemed to please Jin somewhat, but Taro was still worried. Nothing scared him more than the shimmering mist. Anything that got too close to it simply vanished, including most of the trees, water and vegetation of the swamplands North of Karnassass. Now it was little more than a  desert, and that was nothing compared to what lay on the other side of the mountain.
Coming this far North made him apprehensive, but it was his work. People in the Southlands near the capital had never even seen the mists, but they still whispered stories about them over their mugs. The stories still never came close to reality. They didn’t know you could feel the mists pulling at you, even from miles away. It was as if a wind was blowing you in that direction. Sometimes he dreamt it was pulling at him in his sleep, even when he was far back home. It poured down the mountains like a waterfall of smoke, but always seemed to stop short near the foothills now that it had been driven back. The Geomancers had erected the mountain stone by stone to keep it all at bay. The mists were hinged somewhere in the Lost Valley beyond and could go no further than its arms could reach it. No one rightfully knew what kept it in place, but they knew it had been working
It’d been twenty-six years since the war in which the lands North of Karnassass had been lost. Four cities and half of a province had been swallowed up by the cataclysm that claimed the lives of two armies and all else who resided within those lands. The resulting explosion had left a crater in the earth wide as a sea. The mountains had first been formed by the resulting earthquake and the mists soon followed. Some said it was made of the ghosts of those who’d been lost, but Taro knew better.
“Maybe we should tell someone,” Jin suggested. “I mean the Geomancers might like to know. Maybe it’d be foolish, but it’s our duty, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Taro readily agreed. The mists were receding behind them slowly as the road turned South, but her could still feel it.
The oxs slowed and the cart gave a jolt. Taro didn’t have to ask what that meant. “Damn it,” he looked behind the cart to see the one wheel stuck in the mud. “Give them a whip and see if they can pull us out.”
Jin did as he asked, but the oxs stubbornly refused after a few attempts. “They’re too tired and wet,” Jin said.
“I’m too tired and wet,” Taro told him. It was getting closer to dark and the rain wasn’t letting up. There was no place to set camp if they ended up getting stuck. “Let me try and give it a push.” He was a big enough man that he could usually get the cart unstuck on his own and the wheel didn’t look as if it was sunk too deep. He went behind the cart and leaned back against it with all his might. It rocked forward slightly, but then his boots slipped in the much and he fell.
Jin was a good enough friend that he didn’t laugh; not even a smirk. Instead, he craned his neck back to see if he was okay. That’s what Taro liked about Jin the most. He was never cruel, or mocking. He was also one of the few people who could stand Taro’s company for extended trips like this. Taro got up on his own and reached into his muddy shirt to pull out his flask. Opening it, he drained his last swig.
“Do you need help?” a woman asked.
Taro, despite himself, screamed and dropped his flask in the mud. He wheeled around to face the woman. There had been no one behind him a second ago, not for miles. Now he was faced with two figures on horseback. One horse was white, and the other black, as were the cloaks of figures riding them. The woman was the one dressed in white, with her hood pulled low over her head to keep out the rain. Underneath, the face was far fairer than any he’d ever seen before, with white locks spilling out of her hood, despite being youthful. Everything else beyond that was obscured by her billowing white cloak and gloves, which were both made out of tanned hide, but not of a beast Taro could name. Beside her was a man with an almost identical visage, but a sour look to him. Taro had a the peculiar sense he’d seen him before, but could not place his name. They wore no weapons upon their person that Taro could see, but their stout horses were laden with packs as if set for a long journey. He could see their hoofprints trailing behind them, assuring him that they had not just materialized out of the air. He told himself that he’d simply hadn’t noticed them before in the poor weather, nor heard them over the monotonous roll of the wheels.
The woman tittered a laugh at him, then leaned forward and repeated slowly, “I asked if you needed help?”
“Ah, yes,” Taro was very distracted by her face. He hadn’t ever really seen a woman like her before with such exotic features. Her eyes seemed rather large, however, and her nose perhaps too long. Beyond that, she was perfection. He looked from her to her companion, who looked very much like herself, and very much like someone he’d seen before. He didn’t seem altogether large or capable, however. He was perhaps tall, but very lanky, It was obvious even with his matching cloak with it’s silver stitching. “That is to say I can probably manage. Just needs a few more heaves, is all.” Wanting to impress the woman as much as he wanted to be out of the rain, he pressed his shoulder against the back of the cart, but still to no avail.
“Brother, if you’d please help the gentleman? He’s too polite to ask for help,” the woman said.
Her brother looked over at her disdainfully. “Manual labour? You can’t be serious, woman.” The look she gave him made it entirely obvious that she was serious. There was also a veiled  threat behind those large, owlish eyes. He fumed and threw back his cloak. “Do you see these boots? I had them specially made.” They were a rather fine pair of high-top leather boots as such a noble might wear, with barely a spec on them. Perhaps that’s where Taro had seen him before. “You want me to get in the mud and push like I’m a plough horse? Go do it yourself, if you’re so keen.”
The woman looked as if she was going to murder the man, then slid off her saddle. The man laughed. “You’re actually going to do it?” On foot, she was as tall as Taro himself, which was surprising as he towered over most men. The cloak split open to reveal a pale blue tunic over white trousers. Her brown boots went up past her knees and barely stopped below her wide belt dangling with silver coins for ornament. As the man on horse laughed uproariously she brushed past Taro while ignoring them both. Placing one hand on the cart, she pushed. It easily slid out of the rut and several feet more. Jin was jostled in his seat and nearly fell out head first. He had to cling on desperately to the cart to keep from flying. The man laughed even louder, although both Taro and Jin were astonished by the feat of strength. Taro couldn’t rightfully credit it to his earlier efforts, or the oxen helping. He honestly had no idea what to think.
“Next time, ask for help,” the woman told Taro curtly. He couldn’t help but noticed she smelled like flowers he’d never seen before. Walking back to her horse with her cloak barely not touching the ground, she waited. After a moment or two, she snapped back at him. “Well?”
“Excuse me?” Taro didn’t know what she wanted.
“Help me up,” she said to him with exasperation.
Desperate to do anything for this woman, Taro bounded forward. He cupped his hands together and she used it as a step up into her saddle. Taro had the impression that she could have easily mounted the horse by herself, but he was happy to help. Once she took up her reins, she looked down at him. “Well?”
“I…” Taro didn’t know what he was supposed to do now.
“Thank me,” her irritation was growing.
“Thank you, my lady,” Taro said gratefully.
“Manners!” the woman said as if she had just opened a present. “How I’ve missed them. Now tell me, good sir, where might we find… whatever it is you people have?”
“I’m sorry, my lady?” Taro was growing more confused and awkward by the moment.
“What she means to say is where is the closest town? Not that we need to ask. There’s one road, Silva,” he shook his head at her.
“Are you two lost?” Taro asked them both. “Karnassass is just ahead over these hills. There’s an inn there. We’re heading there if you’d like to follow, but as you said there’s just one road. Hard to miss anything.”
“Why would I want an inn?” the woman named Silva asked him curiously.
The man hung his head and shook it sadly. “Silva, please. Don’t try to talk to people. It’s just embarrassing.”
“The only embarrassment around here is my brother,” Silva snapped back.
“Why? Is Arkon here?” her brother looked around playfully.
She raised her hand as if to strike him, but he was too far away. She let it drop instead, and in a much more civilized tone, spoke to Taro directly. “Who should we want to speak to in this Karnassass of yours?”
“Well like I said, there’s the inn there. There’s not much else unless you want to speak with the Guild or his Lordship.” Suddenly the pair didn’t seem so strange as he remembered the Guild. The two were likely travellers on their way to speak with the representatives of the Guild there. With the Geomancers residing in the town, there were always strange travellers coming and going on official business.
“Lordship,” Silva brightened up. “That’s who we want. We want to speak with his Lordship.” It wasn’t that she remembered, ir was more as if the idea occurred to her. “Is he difficult to find?”
“Not at all. His manor is finest looking house at the Eastern end of the town, next to the orchards. It’s a left at the next fork in the road.”
“Thank you. And what is an, ‘inn?’” she asked, and her brother moaned.
Taro looked at her for a long moment before answering. She definitely had an accent, but it was more like the Northernmen than anything else, and she spoke fluently. “It’s a place where you can stay,” he said in way of an answer.
“I have to apologize for her,” her brother said. “She’s a bit… I don’t even want to get into it,” he decided. “Come along. You’ll have plenty of time to talk to the peasant folk later,” he said as he cantered off. Silva watched him go, then decided to follow. She nodded simply to Taro, then left with her brother.
Taro stood in the mud and watched her go, wondering if he’d get to see her in town. Jin, next to him, was a bit shaken. “They came out of the mist,” Jin whispered to him.
“Don’t be silly,” Taro snorted. “Nothing comes out of the mist. Especially not pretty girls.”


Chapter One:

Grey looked lislessly out the window at the rain falling as he tapped the table with his knife. He knew the rains would last for three days, but this was his own private knowledge and he did not wish to divulge it to anyone unless asked directly. He thought conversations on the weather were tedious at best, although his current studies centred on such matters. It was an unenviable situation.
Elith’s hand closed over his own to stop his incessant tapping, although it hadn’t been particularly loud. She was highly irritable of late and he almost wished he hadn’t sat beside her at the table, but she was one of his few remaining friends outside of his own family members and his mentor, Console. Grey took it as his cue to resume his attention of the meeting in progress, but he spared his friend a look. By looking at her, you couldn’t tell that she was well over twice his age. She appeared younger than himself at age twenty, and by her elven standards, she was. Her peculiar, single-pointed ears were concealed by her dark hair. She tried to hide her heritage while in Karnassass, as she was something of an oddity outside of the cities. Their present company were no strangers to her kind or to herself, but she kept up the custom nevertheless. She appeared small and frail, as all elves did, but she was neither of those things. She wore her simple, scholarly robes of red linen with few adornments save for some ribbon and her mother’s black opal ring on the hand that lingered over his own. She frowned at him, but eventually broke into a smile as if at a private joke. It must had been the expression on his face, or the fact he was staring at her for an uncomfortable period of time. She hid her smile behind her napkin, which she dabbed at her face, and when she put it down again, her thin, small lips were set in a straight line.
Near the head of the table, Markay of the Geomancer Guild was standing with his one hand on top his winecup on the table, addressing those gathered. He wore a frilled collar that made his curly beard seem even larger and more ridiculous, but his demeanour was quite serious. “We’ve had numerous reports as of late that the mist is spreading further down the mountainside and onto the plains,” he confirmed.
“Impossible,” Yagan countered. He was a withered old man from the Guild with a bald head with a flat, black cap upon it. He waved the hand with his Guild ring on it dismissively. “We know well that such a thing can never happen. The mist has been in recession for years. Our efforts towards protecting this land with the very land itself has proven itself as the only sustainable defense against the darkness beyond, and I grow weary of any claim to the contrary. These sighting are the imaginations of simple peasant folk scared by their own shadows. We’ve been over every inch of the mountainside, and we’ve never been able to collaborate any of these stories that crop up every few months or so.”
“This time we have confirmation from our Mountainmen,” Markay gave the nickname of the Rangers who patrolled along the mountainside. “The report a consistent pattern of the mist flowing ever farther into our realms, as well as that of the Northmen.”
“The Mounainmen are no strangers to idle fancy,” Yagan protested.
“Please take these claims seriously,” Markay practically groaned. “It’s our livelihood at stake, if not our lives.”
“Gentlemen,” Warchess cleared his throat as he rose. Warchess was a minor noble, if the Northmen could be said to have nobility. In every sense of his aspect, he seemed the part. He was imposing with a sturdy stature, piercing eyes, and most notably long, braided blonde hair, much in the Northern style. It was the envy and object of lust amongst many of the women around Karnassass, where he had built a small homestead, and beyond. He wore a short white robe with dark violet and blue embroidery, with a tunic and trousers. Every finger had a ring on it, and every ring a different metal. On the left hand, on the middle finger, he wore his Guild ring. He had his ring for many years, despite being only slightly older than Grey himself. It was a credit to his abilities, as well as his connections. “We shall set upon an expedition at once to verify these claims,” he commanded, although it was not in his authority to do so. The Guild council was democratic and largely autonomous, with the highest ranking member, Console deciding matters in the event a of a split decision. Still, most differed to Warchess, as he was commonly not unreasonable or unwarranted in his requests. Only a few like Yagan voted against him, and it was typically out of spite or foolishness. Grey, himself, admired the man to an extent, even if he found him insufferable at times. Most of his complaints involved Warchess being a romantic rival around the village. In those matters, Warchess was always the victor as well. “This in a matter of the gravest importance, and it demands all the attention we can muster to settle it. We shall divide ourselves equally and head out in opposite directions, with but a few of us remaining to tend to matters here at home. Console, of course, as our erstwhile leader shall remain and determine the appropriate course of action once we have found our results, and Yagan as well, as he is unfit to ride such a treacherous path,” it was not certain if his suggestions were a slight against either man, or unintentional. “If we find any proof of these claims, we will report back to Console immediately. All in favour?” he put it to a vote with a raise of his hands more out of custom than anything else. Everyone save Yagan raised their hands. Grey and Elith sustained because they did not have authority in such matters, and were merely observers. “All opposed?” Yagan still did not raise his hand, but looked sullen as Warchess looked upon him expectantly. “It is agreed. We shall leave as early as possible, pending the weather and road conditions. Honourable Grey Tracis, do you have any inkling when this storm might subside?”
Grey winced at the mention of his name, knowing he had no choice but to confess his knowledge. “Three days from now, by noon,” Grey told him.
“Three days?” Warchess was disappointed, as were a few others. They knew he was never wrong on such subjects, though, and did not press him. “Very well, that gives us time to prepare. I volunteer myself to ride all the way round the mountain range, if need be, to give a full report.” Being a Northman, Warchess had no fear of the Northern tribes, or hazardous snows. “If there are any who wish to undertake this journey with me, please speak with me later. All of this brings forth a concerning matter. After all these years, we are still no closer to unravelling what is the source of this calamity. Insofar, we have only had the elven Exodus as our source of information, but they have taken whatever knowledge they had with them, and none dare follow them to discover that secret, for fear and certainty of never returning. This mist, the Ending, was wrought by the Gods themselves, and to claim we can ever truly understand it is a blasphemy. Still, we must try, for our lives are at stake. This village -or should I say, ‘township,’ as it is ever growing- is at stake. What is the mist? Where does it come from? How long will it last? Don’t these questions still vex you, or have you contented yourselfs to merely piling up dirt in front of it in the vain hopes that it will go away? We are building a dam to keep out destruction itself, and that damn is collapsing.”
“Well said,” Console nodded in sage agreement. The tip of his stiff, black beard brushed the linen of his white shirt as he nodded. Console always dressed simply, like a common villager, but he was the most revered man in Karnassass, and his name and legend were known far and wide. He, along with Grey’s father Rekon, were two of the only survivors of the Ending in town. Console himself had actually witnessed it, though he would never speak of it in public. Console was respected for this, but more for his power. He was one of the highest ranking members in the Geomancer Guild, despite once belonging to the Shadow Guild. Very few men, if any, could claim to have such raw, natural talent that they could master two disciplines as he had. He transferred over to the Geomancers Guild shortly after the ending to oversee the construction of the Barricade, or mountain, but still kept up his practices in the Shadow arts, and often conferred with the Shadow Guild itself. He had even taken up Grey as his apprentice once it became clear he was developing his powers, although Grey’s inclination was in another field of study entirely. Console was such an accomplished scholar that he could teach any subject at whim, including his adopted daughter, Elith’s own Nature studies. Truth be told, he was more comfortable as a teacher than he was in the Geomancers Guild, and had been bolstering Warchess as his eventual replacement at the helm, though protocol demanded many more years of service and accolades from Warchess before that could happen. Console had once been a Dean at the Magi Academy, but that was before the War. He still took trips back to the Academy itself to give lectures and attend important ceremonies. “We have all but abandoned our studies in favour of brute labour. It has proven effective in only delaying the inevitable. We’ve been trying to wait out this proverbial storm, but now it appears as if the dam’s been breached.”
The doors opened and Grey’s father entered into his dining hall, which he graciously had lent out to the Guild for so many years. He was also a gracious host, and had reason to be. The Guild brought in more business than he could ever hope to see without. He had not yet obtained his lordship from his father when the Guild had first planted its roots in Karnassass, but ever since his position had been elevated from a noble in title and holdings only to a true power. He had more authority than most Dukes, and had a place in the King’s court, not that a former general of his stature wouldn’t have had such a seat to begin with. Recon had shocking red hair that showed no grey despite his years. Grey, his second son, could not say the same. He was as his name told. Rekon had a wineglass in his hand, and had likely be refilled a few times before he had entered. It was empty now, and one of his loyal servants filled it for him again with his favourite red. He had a business making cider right on the premises from their extensive apple orchards the manor was once primarily known for, but he always preferred red eleven wine, a habit that Elith quite approved of. She had inherited a vineyard from her family after the War, which she had late sold some of the right to Rekon in order to restore it to some of it’s former glory. It had yet to turn a profit, but Rekon was well pleased with the fruits of it’s labour. Out of the two of them, Rekon was far more interested in the business than Elith would ever be. She had to be reminded at times that she even had a source of income.
“How is everyone tonight?” Rekon inquired. They all simply nodded at him at best as he made his way to the head of the table. While the rest of them were enjoying a late dinner prepared by Rekon’s cooks, he had already eaten. Still, he instructed his servant to bring him something to dine on. The Guild met weekly at Rekon’s estate, and he provided for them all that they required, and then more. In exchange, both the Guild and the King paid him handsomely. There had been some talk about building a separate hall in Karnassas exclusively, but it had never gone beyond the design stages. Still, it seemed like an eventuality, but in the meantime, Rekon made sure to see to everyone’s whims to keep it from becoming a reality. He instead pressed for the creation of an actual Academy in Karnassass where the Geomancer Guild could take residence over. Grey welcomed that day. Studying under Console had given him dreams of one day teaching himself. All the better to do it from his own doorstep. “What are we discussing?” Rekon was welcomed to the meetings as an impartial observer, and as their host. He also acted as an intermediary between them and the local residents, although Grey often filled that role himself. The locals by-and-large welcomed the Guild, but there were often issues and points on which they clashed. There were also those who held a deep-seated superstition against those who wielded magic, but they were few and easily undermined. There was no arguing with the economic benefit that the Guild brought in.
“An expedition to determine if the mists have spread into your lands, sire,” Warchess said graciously. “There are rumours about that they have.”
“I have heard these rumours, and believe them. When my own son tells me, I believe it to be the truth,” he swigged his wine.
Grey was confused for a moment, then understood. “Father, are you saying that Arolas has returned?”
“I do indeed say that. The Mountainmen have come round and your brother has spoken to me privately. He has confirmed what you’ve been alluding to here this evening. The mists are spreading. Beyond mere observation, what are your plans?” Rekon inquired.
“We shall shore up whatever defenses are found lacking, sire,” Warchess assured him.
Rekon was not reassured, however. “Is that it? You’re going to play in the dirt? Nothing else?”
“There is nothing else we can do, sire. That is all in our power to do,” Warchess said regretfully.
“Don’t take it so hard, son,” Rekon said affectionately. He had a soft spot for Warchess, as did many. “I know you’re doing all you can. Sometimes, I can only wonder if it’s enough.” He drained the last of his wine.
“Sire,” the servant who filled his cup returned to the room after a short absence and kneeled down beside him to speak formally. “There’s a pair of strangers outside requesting your audience.”
“Strangers?” Rekon was curious. “My favourite kind of people. Send them in!”
The servant left after refilling his wine from the decanter. It was not uncommon for Rekon to accept any invite. He waited patiently at the table until practically forgetting them at all. The Guild recommenced with their discussion and plans. Markay had vowed to lead the opposite team to Warchess. The pair were rivals, of a sort. Both differed to the other on many points, and it led to a more effective Guild.
A while had passed, and the guild dove in quotas. Rekon and the rest had practically forgotten about the invitation when the door opened once more. In walked a pair of oppositely dressed siblings, as Grey could immediately fathom from their similar features. The man in particular looked very familiar, although he couldn’t place where he had seen him before. The woman, on the other hand, was one of the most striking females he had ever seen, but with pure white hair, although she seemed to be the same age as himself. They wore white and black cloaks, and rivalled Warchess in their height. Upon seeing the pair, Warchess rose and bowed to them, as he instinctively knew them to be nobles as himself. Rekon remained reclined in his chair and observed them curiously.
“My lord, might I introduce both Lord Desious and Lady Silva,” the servant announced.
“Lady Silva and Desious,” the Lady corrected, although Desious did not approve. Her voice was as strange as her appearance, but not unpleasant in either respect. They were soaked to the bone and dripping on the floor, but neither showed any discomfort.
“Aye? Lord and Lady?” Rekon regarded them suspiciously. “And where do you hail from?”
“From beyond the mountains,” Desious answered for them. “In a land you have no name for.”
“Excuse me?” Rekon sat up. “To which mountains do your refer?”
“Which mountains do you think I mean? The bloody Assards? Look North, you fool. We come from beyond that range,” Desious told him.
“I am no fool,” Rekon immediately warned him. “If you come from the North, you be Northmen, though none I’ve ever heard of before.”
“Really? You don’t get it?” Desious shook his head. “We come from the mists, and the darkness within. We are lord and lady of that place. Do you understand now?”
“I must admit that I don’t,” Rekon laughed impatiently and held out his glass to be refilled. Beside Grey, Console rose unsteadily, his breathing ragged. If Grey wasn’t certain of himself, he thought it might have been fear he saw in his mentor’s eyes.
“I know this must be hard for you to understand, sheltered as you are,” Desious said as he boldly strode into the room. “But beyond the mists, there is another land, as there has always been. Since the Ending, though, it’s been hidden from you and changed dramatically, but it exists. We were born and raised there, and now as adults, we’ve come to you to extend our hand in peace, and to give you a dire warning.”
“Peace and dire warnings do not go intertwined,” Rekon laughed to himself and drained his glass in one gulp.
“True, it is we who offer our peace, but it is our brother who offers war,” Desious explained. He looked at those gathered and saw he had lost them, if in fact he had ever gained them to begin with. “I realize this all come as a shock to you. We know you are ignorant to our existence, and think the lands beyond the mountains lost to all time. They’re not, however. Inside the mists there’s an entire civilization. The lands you once knew as Orakrt have been reformed under our brother’s hand to become Asard. It is populated by the armies you thought destroyed in the Ending, and many more besides.”
“Blasphemy!” Tagard proclaimed as he struck his palm on the table. “Rekon, call the guard and have these fools imprisoned at once!”
“Who are you, old man?” the woman stepped forward and pointed a long finger at Tagard.
“Please, sister, let me handle this,” Desious begged as he tried to pry her away. Tagard shrank before the presence of the domineering woman, who glared at him with utter disdain. “Please, good sirs, listen to our pleas. We come to warn you of times to come. Our brother has taken the two armies of the Ending, and made them one. He had forged them into a weapon he will use to crush your Kingdom with and all Kingdoms of this world. I….” he looked at Rekon as saw he was not reaching him. “This sounds like nonsense to you, doesn’t it? I don’t blame you. Our two world have been completely cut off as yours is to the Elven world. You don’t even know what the mist even is, do you? It’s a dimensional barrier. Our father, Tokojite, and his killer Rekamyot created this dimension by way of their mutual destruction…”
“Blasphemy!” Tagard cried, and others took up his cause. “You claim the evil God Tokojite as your father? Rekon, this is worthy of an execution!”
Rekon laughed to himself, as he did not believe any of what he had heard. “This is truly a yarn worthy of our most incapable bards. Yet, Tagard is right. You speak of blasphemy. Tokojite has no children, and nothing remains of the lands beyond the mountain. Please, spare yourselves the wrath, and recant your claims.”
To answer him, Desious produced a dagger from his belt. Warchess, already standing, moved forward, as if to protect Rekon, but the Lord seemed unafraid. As they watched, Desious pressed the tip of the blade to his own neck and pressed down.The blade first bent, then snapped, sending the tip of the blade scattering onto the table. Markay picked it up and inspected it, with a shocked expression. He obviously found the blade not lacking. “I think you’ll find our executions near impossible, if that’s what you’re aiming for. We’re godlings. Little gods and quite immortal. That’s neither here, nor there, however, as we are more concerned with your continuing lives than our own. Asrat means to raze these lands in the name of our father. We have come to warn you.”
Rekon held out his hand to Markay, who passed the piece of dagger onto him. He examined it carefully, then looked up at Desious. “Would you submit yourself to a demonstration?” Rekon asked.
“If that’s what it takes,” Desious told him.
Rekon rose unsteadily from his chair and approached Desious cautiously. Grey rose from his own and followed him, fearing for his father. The woman, Silva, watched him intently as he came, as if he were the only person in the room. For a moment, to him, she was the only one as well. It was a peculiar feeling, and it slowly passed as he came to stand beside his father. Desious looked between him and his father, until he satisfied himself of their kinship. Besides the hair, the two did not look so different. Rekon produce a knife from the table and held it out. “Your arm, if you please,” Rekon told the men claiming to be part God. Desious held out his hand, and in anticipating his request, removed his black glove. Rekon looked at him curiously, then told him, “I’m going to make a small cut on you hand. If you’re truly immortal, this won’t be an inconvenience to you.” Desious merely smiled in response. Shrugging to himself, Rekon raised the knife and put it to the man’s palm. Grey watched as his father strained himself. Rekon clasped the man by the wrist with his free hand and pressed all the harder. Eventually, the blade slid off harmlessly and Rekon lost his grip. It scattered across the floor. Desious’s hand, meanwhile, was uncut.
“Satisfied?” Desious asked.
“Somewhat,” Rekon admitted. “That little trick of yours with the knife doesn’t seem to be all for show. I won’t bother to test the lady, as it’s impolite to stab a woman,” he laughed to himself. “You would still claim to be Tokojite’s own kin?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Desious put his glove back on.
“Rekon,” Console swallowed hard. “Look at them. Truly look at them. Tell me what you see.”
Rekon looked over to his old friend, who was practically cowering, then back at the pair. He looked at them for a long while, then blanched. He backed against the table, and would have fell if not for it. “You look just like him,” he realized.
“Thank you,” Desious said. “My mother always said I had my father’s eyes.”
At this cue, Grey held out his hand and began summoning his magic. The fear in his father’s eyes and quaver to his voice was not something he had ever seen before.
Silva interjected herself between Grey and her brother. She snatched out and grabbed Grey by the wrist. It felt as if two boulders hand just fallen on his wrist. Crying out, he went down to one knee. He was certain he had felt his own bones snap, although it wasn’t a sensation he was familiar with. As he writhed, she reached out with her other hand and stroked a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face. “Your hair is grey,” she said wonderously. “How peculiar. Quite handsome, though.” She let go, and all his pain left him. He touched his wrist gingerly and felt it unharmed.
“I’m sorry for my sister,” Desious apologized. “She’s overprotective. If I’m not mistaken, though, you were all discussing the mist before we entered.

Who's the Man With the Big, Black Balls? Bill Cosby!

That title was the punchline to a golfing joke I heard at a Cub Scouts camp out. I know what you're thinking, and yes, some kids were probably molested.
Many years later, Bill Cosby is an accused rapist? Coincidence? Actually, it was several years ago that he was first accused of rape, but no one cared because he paid his hush money up front and people got distracted by their flip-out cell phones and boy bands.
Is Bill Cosby a rapist? No. He's a serial rapist. Remember that Swedish dude from "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo?" He's basically him, but without the kickass secret rape-basement. A rapesment.
The question is: Does America really care as much as it think it does? Let's break it down:
America loves itself some criminal celebrities. Being a dirtbag celebrity rake in millions each year.You can get away with anything as long as you have enough name recognition in America. Don't believe me? Lindsay Lohan, Mel Gibson, Robert Downey Jr., etc. America loves a dirtbag as much as it loves a comeback.
But rape is a bad, bad crime. Doesn't that count for something?
No. Not according to the history.
Sean Penn? He fucking broke in his then-wife Madonna's house, beat her mercilessly and raped her. He threatened to kill her, but she eventually escaped. The fallout? Sean Penn is a millionaire with many accolades.
Michael Jackson? Did he butt-rape those little boys? Almost definitely. Why's he not in jail? For one: he's dead. If you need another reason: Thriller.
Mike Tyson has a new cartoon on Netflix where he solves mysteries. Wrap your head around that. Then remember he went to prison for rape.
Roman Polanski raped a thirteen-year-old girl, then fled to France, where he continued to be rich and sucessful. Many people have called for all charges to be dropped, despite the fact that he fucking did it and is fucking guilty as shit.
So yeah, there's four examples. Bill Cosby could be fully charged, go to jail, and then go on to be a multi-millionaire because America doesn't give a shit what you do, as long as you have had some sort of moderate success in the past.

Assassin's Creed Rogue: Going Rogue

Wow, I haven't written anything in a while, which is a blessing for the internet.
From what I hear, Assassin's Creed: Unity is a piece of crap that's glitchy to the point of being unplayable, with an underlying pay-to-win philosophy. Luckily for me, I don't have an Next-Gen system (the Wii U will never, ever count). Released simultaneously alongside Unity was a Last-Gen system game called Assassin's Creed: Rogue, which most people are saying is better than the over-budgeted Unity. It was made on-the-cheap by recycling old maps, animations and character models, but a lot of games have been doing that lately. Saint's Row IV and Arkham City Origins immediately springs to mind. The gameplay is almost entirely similar to it's predecessor, Assassin's Creed 4. In terms of chronology, the main game is a direct sequel, where the framework story is you're an employee at Abstergo Industries researching old memories in search of pieces of Eden. In terms of chronology in the historical context of the main story, it takes place during the Seven Year's War a few decades after Assassin's Creed 4 and shortly before Assassin's Creed III. That doesn't make sense to me either. You play as Shay Patrick Cormac, who's an Irish-American Assassin turned Templar, and now you're killing Assassins and the French instead of the British and the Templars (you still get to kill Templars and British people, though). He's an original character with no obvious genetic links to the heroes from AC 3 and 4, although he does work for Achilles, meets Haytham Kenway and talks about Conner at one point. The gameplay is very similar to AC 4 right down to the naval batles and harpooing, but with some new twists. If you've ever played the weird online multiplayer matchmaking for AC, you can play an offline mode of that in-game. Assassins will constantly try to kill you, and your only warning beforehand aside from spotting them outright are "whispers." This prompts you to use your Eagle Vision, which has been in every AC game, to find them using a radar. You then either have to draw them out or get the drop on them before they try to stab you. This makes the game more challenging, as you will have to contend with them while walking through New York, and also while doing missions. Failing to route them out while trying to achieve your set goals, while optional, can have you fail some mission. As Assassins, they're also fairly powerful and can defeat you if not handled properly.
The game also adresses one of the many, many problems with the entire series: namely, virtually all the Assassin targets in all the games have been weak, old men. Shay laments having to kill George Washington's Templar brother, who's already close to dying. He then later has to kill another man who, "Could barely lift up his sword," in his words. From that point, all his targets become deadly Assassins.

The Strangemen

Chapter One: Homecoming

Simon Hall had grown up in Mill City thinking it was a dump, but since then he’d travelled the world and gotten acquainted with life in other countries. Simon had been through war zones in the desert where little stood but rubble under clouds of smoke. He’d been to the refugee camps in the barren mountains filled with the sick, the lame and the dying. He’d been to drug plantations where slaves slept in tin shacks too hot to touch. He’d been deep in the jungle where beasts preyed upon the tribes living amongst the trees. After all he’d seen, he knew Mill City was a dump.
There was no place quite like it on Earth. Once a prosperous beacon of industry it’d been in steady decline since the 50’s. As the jobs dried up, so did the population. Perhaps one house on an entire suburban block might be be occupied, but it couldn’t be called a ghost town. Scores of crack addicts and other users drifted between the empty buildings scavenging for any sign of copper, or a place to light up. Most folk lived in rat-infested apartment complexes near to the city core, were surprisingly there was still life. They even had a basketball team, who could count themselves fortunate to still have jobs, unlike most of the others who made Mill City their homes. The police, ambulances and other social services had abandoned the largest percentage of the city in favour of those who could still pay their taxes.
The house Simon had grown up in had burned down years ago. Surprisingly, Simon had not been responsible. His mother still lived somewhere in the city, but he wasn’t sure of the address. His sister might still be alive, for all he knew. His father had died in a fire when he was fifteen. He’d been responsible for that fire, at least.
After so many years, most of the streets were foreign to him. Most street signs had been stolen and sold for scrap metal. Houses he thought he might remember had been burned down, or boarded up. There were “For Sale” signs on every house, even if the house had been torn down. It was rare to see a car pass by, and rarer still to see one parked. He had taken to walking down the middle of the road simply because he could. It was near-to-pitch black, as the street lights hadn’t come on for years. It wasn’t clear as if was due to wire theft, or the power had been cut by the city. Eyes watched him through boarded windows and he could hear people murmuring to themselves. One drunk stumbled out in the street raving at him, only to be pushed down and stepped over. The was a sound of breaking glass as the bottle in his coat shattered under Simon’s feet. The man continued screaming at him as he went on, but he didn’t have the strength to get back up.
He was headed into the factory district, where things got worse. The factories were where the corruption had began.Mill City was once the fastest growing city in the country, until the first automaker pulled up stakes and shipped overseas. The steel mills closed down one by one. As the jobs fled, so did the people. The factories were still there, like a lost city. Most of them had been empty since before he was born. No one went near them, even the addicts. At best, they were a place used to dump bodies. He didn’t want to think about the worst.
As he passed under broken traffic light, a gang of hooligans approached from one of the nearby buildings. It might have been a shop at one point. An addict walked away with fresh-bought drugs stuffed into his pockets, telling him that it was still a shop of sorts. There were three black cars parked in front of the building with at least three different ethnicities surrounding them, and he briefly wondered if they had any connection to the party he was trying to meet. His suspicions immediately subsided when he saw their black and white gang colours. He had no idea who they were, but he had an idea they were going to tell them. He wondered if he should just simply ignore them and keep walking, but he knew the would just chase him down. He did his best not to sigh and stopped as a kid with a visor turned upside down and sideways approached him with a bat.
“What you doing here, son?” he asked, although he looked ten years younger than Simon. “Trick or treating?” He was wearing as much jewelry as possible, with about four chains around his neck and five about his wrists. There was at least one ring on every finger. He looked as if he had a skin condition. Simon could relate.
Simon sometimes forgot he was wearing a mask. It’d become like a second skin to him, after he lost his first. He reached up to scratch his face beneath the fabric. The others all laughed as they circled him. The kid was the only one openly armed, but he knew there had to be some guns and knives hidden under those baggy clothes. Frankly, the larger, obviously steroid-abusing gang-banger with teardrop tattoo concerned him more than the kid with the bat. “Something like that,” Simon said as he absently looked down at his watch. He was one of the few people he knew that still carried a watch. It was his dad’s, and he wasn’t likely to part with it. The look in the kid’s eye told him he should consider it. He still had about fifteen minutes before his meeting.
The mention of, “Trick or treating” reminded Simon it was close to Halloween. It was almost Devil’s Night, when his father had died all those years ago. Kids would start fires and break stuff until the cops chased them off as an annual tradition. It wasn’t really, “Devil’s Night,” without a few deaths. He’d participated in his fair-share of the holiday when he was not much younger than he was now, although it seemed liked ages ago. No doubt the kids before him were getting geared up to try their hand at the event, although he wondered how much different it was than any other day of the week to them.
“So where the treat, huh?” the kid got in close with the bat. He could smell the weed on his breath and clothes.
With one smooth motion, Simon snatched the aluminum bat from his hand and jabbed the but of it into his throat. He then put the front of it into the face of the kid with the teardrop tattoo. That staggered him back enough to give him room to swing. He went for the kneecap first before finishing with the head again. The kid next to him was struggling to pull his weapon out of the back of his pants when he brought the bat down on his head. By this point, the bat was already dented and streaked with blood. A knife was drawn behind him and the wrist it was being held by snapped as he swung around and upward. The blade went clattering onto the cracked pavement as he headbutted the fat kid in the nose. There was a commotion over by the cars, and he could see guns being drawn. They would have fired if they weren’t afraid of hitting their own. There were still three more kids within reach. One tried to tackle him, but Simon sidestepped and hit him at the base of his neck with the butt of the bat as he was lunging forward. One of the girls turned and ran back to the cars, crying for her boyfriend as he swung one-handed, striking first one head, then another back and forth like the chime in a bell.
The others had backed off enough to allow one of the gangbangers at the car to fire off a shot. It went wide and struck the building across the street. Two more shots followed, each missing. Simon reached out and grabbed one of the kids trying to run and strangled him with the bat as he pulled him in close. He used him as a shield between himself and the opposition by the cars as he slowly crept backwards towards the abandoned building behind him. One of the kids fired a shot over his head as a warning, which he didn’t take, while the kid in his grasp tried desperately to escape. Simon lifted him fully off the ground and let his feet dangle as he stepped backward. He glanced absently at his watch before peering back over his shoulder at the doorframe he was inching towards. The kid tried to knock back at him with his head, but Simon merely ignored him. He decided he was close enough and threw the kid forward into the street as he ducked inside and through the main room of the building. The kid decided to make a break for instead of pursuing, as the others fired blindly into the building. Bullets penetrated the plywood covering the windows of what must have been another shop.
Simon was already out the back door and running before the first of them made it in the front door. By the time they came out the back, he had already disappeared.
From his vantage point on the rooftop, he watched as they desperately searched for him in vain, shouting out threats upon his life.
“Was that necessary?” Rook asked him with arms crossed over her breasts.
Simon caught his breath. “No, but it was fun,” he smiled at her in the dark.
“You didn’t kill any of them, did you?” she asked in a hushed tone as she looked over the other side into the street.
“Do I ever?” Simon realized he was still holding the bat. He threw it down into the street and waited as the gangbangers took the cue to follow the noise. The gathered around the bat, looking helplessly around the empty back-alley. He looked at his watch again. “Sorry, we don’t have much time left.”
“We could have drove,” Rook complained. “You know that, right?”
“I wanted to get a feel for the city. Anyway, my license is expired. At least I think it is.” He looked over at her expectantly.
She glared back at him. “I should leave you here to deal with those punks.”
“I already did, or as much as I feel like dealing with them. Damn, I don’t even know what gangs there are anymore. I mean, who are these kids? Some of them don’t even look like they’re out of middle school, if they ever went. Whatever happened to the Beatdowns or the Cruds?” he said longingly.
“The who?” Rook was at a lost. She shook her head. “Anyway, we’ve got to book it. Here, you can carry this from now on,” she unslung the duffle bag from her shoulder and tossed it to him. It was heavier than it looked. “Are you okay, by the way?” she asked with sudden concern. “You didn’t get hit, did you?” she reached out in the darkness to touch his cheek.
He batted her hand away absently. “I’m fine,” he assured her, although he hadn’t bothered to check. It had gotten eerily quiet in the alley below him. He glanced down, but he couldn’t see any movement. He thought he saw one of the kids laying face-down in the alley, but they were all wearing black and it was made ever darker by a cloud passing over the crescent moon.
“No more of this stupid thrill-seeking,” she warned him. “We’re goddamn professionals. We don’t need to be starting trouble if we can help it.”
“We can’t help it, though,” he reminded her and patted the duffel bag.
Without warning, Rook took to the air, spreading out her eleven-foot long wings blacker than the night. She blotted out what was left of the moon as she perched herself on his shoulders and dug in her claws. In a moment, they were both airborne and she dragged him along after her in her tallon feet. He barely had enough time to sling the bag over his shoulder and grab on to her ankles. With each beat of her wings she wafted her perfume down at him. It was a heady scent. With her birthday coming up, he absently wondered if she needed more of the stuff. They flew for several blocks over the rooftops before setting down. Rook hovered in the air for a moment or two to allow him to touch the ground with his feet before letting go. She drew in her wings and dropped down beside him. They were in the shadow of one of the old factories, although he couldn’t say which one. There had been plenty of businesses that went under. There was a signpost still standing with no sign on it. “Is this the place?” she asked him, ruffling her feathers and then folding her wings behind her back.
The building opened into a courtyard where a single black truck was parked with the engine running. The headlight illuminated the darkness. “Has to be,” Simon said and checked his watch again. “Damnit, we’re late. Be a dear and scout around for me. I should be good for a few minutes.”
She reached out and kissed him on the cheek before silently taking flight. He could barely feel it through his mask.
He checked the bag one last time before approaching the vehicle, making sure to keep his eyes on the empty windows surrounding him. There was a man sitting on the hood of the truck talking with two others standing before him, but they were impossible to make out until he got closer. The two on the ground were wearing all black, with bulky bulletproof vests and helmets with sub-machine guns slung under their arms. The door of the truck was open and music was blaring out. They were smoking and joking until the saw him. “Oi, there! Is that you, Arson?” called out the man on the truck. “Come a bit closer.”
Simon immediately recognized the accent. “Blasted,” he forced himself to smile. The two other men pulled back. They didn’t go for their guns, but they made sure they were there. One extinguished his cigarette while the other reached into the truck to turn off the radio. The truck itself was armoured, but it could pass as a regular vehicle on the streets. A gold, “M,” emblazoned the side of the door.
Blasted hopped off the truck and slowly approached. “Is that really you?” he asked in his thick British accent. “Been a while, hasn’t it. ‘Ere,” he pointed at him with his one hand. “Why not lift up the mask and let me get a look at you here in the light.”
“If that’s necessary,” Simon said. Walking a few steps over, he lifted up his mask briefly to show the scar tissue underneath. The cool night air hurt his skin, and he quickly pulled it back down again into place. Blasted, like him, wore a mask, only his covered his entire mouth. The top was open to let his brown hair flow free. He had a helmet that went with the getup, but he never wore it. He claimed it messed up his hair. His eyes were covered by a pair or red goggles sewn into the insulated fabric. Even with the mask, there was no question it was him. His mechanical barrel arm was his name tag.
“Oi! What did I tell you,” Blasted said to his two companions. “A right ugly bastard if there ever was one.” They chuckled among themselves and Simon kept smiling  his fake smile. “You know the good doctor could fix that up for you in a jiff, right?”
“I’ve had enough of the doctor to last me a lifetime, Blasted,” Simon said.
“Nonsense. You can never get enough of the doctor. Why look at ‘ere,” he held out what had been his arm at one point. It was now a mess of machinery in the form of a gun barrel dyed metallic green like the insulated mask he was wearing. “The doctor’s made some improvements to the old design. Let me show you.” Holding out the barrel towards the building, he fired off one shot without looking. Simson rubbed his eyes until his spotted vision came back. The flash of light had blinded him momentarily. The wall he had aimed his gun-arm towards was now a smoking pile of rubble. Steam seeped off the backpack Blasted wore over his shoulder, which was connected to his arm by a thick tube. Pigeons were flying around wildly in the dark after having their rest disturbed. “What do you think? I can do that all day now without having to change my pack.”
“Impressive,” Simon admitted.
“Like I said, you’ve been gone too long, Arson. Just think of what ‘appened while you were gone. We’ve moved up in the world, while you’ve been off galavantin’ around. Where you’ve been, anyway? Last I heard you were in the jungle takin’ care of that bit o’ business,” he leaned casually back against the grill of the truck.
“That was a few assignments ago. I’ve working for Lou, dealing with his suppliers,” Simon explained as he unslung the duffle bag and set it next to Blasted on the hood of the truck.
“That’s a right dangerous business, it is,” Blasted said. “Working for Lou.”
“Oh?” Simon raised a quizical eyebrow, although the expression was lost under his mask.
“Like I said, you’ve been gone a long time. Lou’s on the out with the bossman, especially after what ‘appened,” Blasted elaborated.
“I hadn’t heard,” Simon said, and he quickly checked his surroundings once more. He wasn’t liking how the conversation was going. “This is my first time Stateside in almost a year. I’m not exactly in the loop on these things.”
“You want to know why you’re the one here, givin’ me this bad instead of some no-name?” Blasted unzipped the bag with his one human hand and sorted through the contents with disinterest. There was enough cash in there to live the rest of your life off of. To him, it might as well have been last week’s garbage. “Lou’s gone rogue. Or rogue enough. Not really my place to say, either way. He’s been ignoring direct orders for a long time now. You can see how that can be troublesome for us. Especially when he’s got someone like you under his thumb. You’ve been with us for a while now, but you’ve never really been in the main circle. We want to know where your loyalty stands on all this.”
“Where I stand?” Simon repeated. “On two feet. I work for Lou, it doesn’t mean I’m his man.”
“So you’re with us, then?” Blast pointed to his chest.
“I work for you, it doesn’t mean I’m your man,” Simon said.
The barrel of the gun came up ever so slightly. “Freelance, then? That’s not what I want to ‘ear. There’s no neutral ground anymore. Bossman wants total control now that the Royals are gone.”
“What?” Simon looked warily down at the barrel. “What do you mean, the Royals are gone?”
“Aw, you missed it,” Blasted told him, lowering the barrel again, “and we sent you an invite and everythin’. You didn’t get it?”
“Get what?” Simon demanded.
“This is too rich,” Blasted laughed to himself. “Guys, get a load of this,” he told the others, who chuckled too. “Bossman wanted you in on the whole operation. It was supposed to be your time to move up in the rankings, so long as you could get the job done. He called Lou to call you, since you were off the grid. Message either didn’t make it through, or else you didn’t answer. Bossman isn’t someone you ignore.”
“But what are you saying about the Royals? He took them down?” Simson was confused.
“They’re dead,” Blasted said sharply. Simon knew he was beaming under his mask. “Every last one of them. Dead.”
Simon took a moment to absorb the information. “That’s not....”
“Possible? Oh, it is,” Blasted assured him. “I was there. Bossman has the Crown’s cape decoratin’ ‘is office. Still has the blood on it.”
“Wow,” Simon didn’t know what else to say. The Royals had been such a major part of the scene, that it was difficult to imagine the world without them.
“Which brings up another point,” Blasted looked over at his two cronies, who were listening to something on their headsets. “Bossman is cleanin’ his plate. The Royals were just the first move, but they’re not the last. ‘E’s got big plans and Lou isn’t in them. So I’m goin’ to ask you again who’s side you’re on?”
“My own,” Simon told him plainly.
Blasted nodded his head for a while, then shook it once. “Wrong answer.” Touching the side of his headset, he spoke into the mic under his mask. “Eagle.”
Simon hissed inward through his teeth and took two steps back. He scanned the skies for some sign of warning. He didn’t have to wait long. The moonlight was blacked out momentarily as Eagle swooped in. His wingspan was over twenty-feet wide and carried a massive bulk of muscles. He’d been over six feet tall before the doctor started his work on him. Now, as a human and animal hybrid, he was closer to eight. His pale skin was dotted with tufts of white feathers that got denser until they covered his wings. His hands and feet were talons sharp enough to tear through flesh and strong enough to pierce skulls. He wore only a pair of dusty jeans. As he set down, he tossed a limp figure onto the ground before Simon. He could see Rook’s blood on his talons, but not where she had been hurt. She was motionless as she lay there and he wanted to go to her to see if she was even still alive, but he couldn’t afford to give up even an inch of ground to them. Eagle stretched his wings as far as they would go and threw his head back to screech through his inhuman beak. In the echo off the walls, Simon could hear another sound of guns being cocked. Red lasers dotted the ground around him as the windows filled up with snipers. He couldn’t tell how many, but he knew he’d be dead if he moved.
Blasted stepped forward and reached out to grab him by the lapel of his jacket. With his cybernetic strength, he easily lifted him off the ground. He put the barrel of his other arm into Simon’s face. “That’s two. So where’s the third one, then?” he asked.
“There’s only two of us,” Simon told him without flinching.
“You’re a rotten liar. I know you always travel in a pack. Better fess up, or lovebird gets it,” he turned his gun on Rook.
Simon weighed his options and realized he had few left. He’d walked into a trap. Rook might already be dead. Still, he didn’t give an answer. Blasted obliged him by powering up his gun-arm.
“Something’s wrong,” Eagle said suddenly. The words were barely distinguishable out of his beak.
“What now?” Blasted said, looking around. “Is it the other one?”
“Don’t know,” Eagle replied and flew up to one of the sniper nests in a gust of wind that blew Blasted’s hair back. He perched himself in the opening of one window and stuck his head in. His body and wings took up the whole space. “Guy in here is out cold,” he said as he pulled his head back out.
As Simon watched Eagle, he saw out of the corner of his eye one of the red dots in the windows blink out. Then another one. Eagle, with his enhanced vision, saw too. He flew over to one of the windows, then another. At third, he put his head inside and spent a long while looking around. Then, he suddenly gave a shriek that hurt Simon’s ears. Sparks of blue electricity arched off his back and wings and he fell limply three storeys to the ground with a sickening thud.
Blasted wasn’t exactly sure what happened, but he didn’t waste any time responding. He fired off three shots in rapid succession until the entire walls caved in, raining rubble down on where Eagle lay. He watched for a moment, then motioned for his cronies. “You, go up there and check,” he said to one. “You, go and check Eagle,” he said to the other. Turning his attention back on Simon, he turned his gun around. “As for you, you can die.”
“You can burn,” Simon told him. Making good on his threat. Simon opened his mouth and and spewed out orange flames into Blasted’s face. There was a reason, after all, they called him Arson. Blasted screamed, although the flames didn’t penetrate his mask or insulated clothes. He’d been wisely chosen for this mission due to his choice of attire. He had one weak spot, however, and that was the top of his head. It was the only place he wasn’t protected, and his hair caught fire. Within seconds it had burned down to his scalp.
“Kill you!” Blasted screamed mindlessly as he fired blindly. Simon could feel the heat from the shot, but it didn’t touch him. A piece of wall fell away far behind him.
Simon raised his hands up, ready to unleash Hell, when a sensation struck him. Looking down at his chest, he saw a red wet circle spread out through the fabric of his shirt. Not all of the snipers had been taken out. The pain set in and he felt himself stagger. He fell to his knees before Blasted, who was likewise on his knees, clutching his burning scalp. Without realizing it, Simon found himself down on the cold pavement. He struggled to stand back up, but he didn’t know what direction up was in. He gave in and lay down, cursing himself silently. He saw Rook laying not far away, but it was as if she was spinning around.
“Bossman,” Blasted choked in pain as he rose back up to his feet, “told me to bring you in alive. I’ll just tell him you… Who the hell are you?” his voice suddenly changed to that of surprise. Lying as he was, barely able to move, Simon couldn’t see who he was talking to. Blasted fired off a shot, then another. They streaked right over Simon. He saw a pair of boots leap over his face and heard them crunch the ground opposite him, then a muffled cry from Blasted. “No! It can’t be!”
“Tell your Master I’m coming for him,” was the last thing Simon heard. The voice was somehow familiar.

The Occultist

While watching youtube on my 360, I saw a corner advertisement for a seperate, unrelated video. I was watching a video about the Gamecube and it was trying to direct me to an "ad" for this:

The text for it read: "The Occult: Black Magic, Ghosts and Dungeons and Dragons," all of which is awesome, but you'll notice that the inclusion of, "Dungeons and Dragons" at the end is a dead-giveaway. This is a re-hash of the idea from thirty years ago that Dungeons and Dragons = SATAN! 

The arguement is this: If you've ever rolled a 20-sided die and crit an orc, you're definitely going to Hell. The people spouting off this argument have clearly never seen the game played. The objective is to kill the ever-loving shit out of anything resembling Satan, which would at best make him wary of recruiting you for his army of Hellspawn.

Also: This "ad" is over two hours. That's not an ad. That's a movie. It shouldn't take over two hours to tell someone Satan = Bad!

Quite frankly, I'm just upset about the misleading title. I expect a 1000% more awesomeness and maybe some boobs when you mash enough words together like, "occult," "witchcraft," "ghosts," etc. together.

The entire "video," is just this bullshit image. And one of the side-bar websites listed, "muslimhope.com," is a pro-Christian/anti-Muslim site bordering on hate-speech. Going to this site probably puts you in a goverment watch-list, or rather a more-specific government watch-list. That's the legitimacy of what's going on.

Looking at the comments section, I couldn't find one overty-ironic or negative comment, which means that the close-to 100,000 people "viewing" this are dead-serious about what a man with a name similar to "Weasels" has to say. Just like they're dead searious about this:

Apparently I was wrong this whole time. It's not, "Astral projection," it's, "Astro Projection." 

Like so.

Seriously, it's like a virgin trying to explain sex with all this junk about Ouiji boards and witchcraft. At least try to conjure one demon before passing yourself off as an expert. 

Holy Hollywood Hacker

The world was recently treated to unsolicited -but very much desired- nude photos of some of the most attractive women on the planet thanks to one enterprising individual, or individuals. The FBI are currently looking for those involved, but it's unclear as to whether or not they're going to arrest them or give them a medal. It's like Christmas for your penis.
Meanwhile, various news outlets are trying to play the blame game using every possible angle about the violation of rights and privacy. No one's really stopped to consider that we've pretty much seen these women 99.99% nude. Kate Upton's claim to fame is being as close as one can be to a centerfold without technically getting nude. She's something of an oddity in this day and age where anyone can access porn at any given time. I've been confused as to why people are obsessing over one semi-clothed woman in a sea of bare tits and labias. Obviously, I see the appeal, (her tits) but it's kind of a retro-hipster obsession. hearkening back to a Baywatch era, or maybe even Mariyln Monroe. The difference is that Baywatch stars and starlets like Monroe still did porn. Kate's kept clean, despite showing her nips through a wet T-shirt and such. Going from a semi-transparent top to no top isn't that drastic of a change for anyone.
As for Jennifer Lawrence, she was Mystique. She was basically nude already except for some blue paint. There's very, very little left to the imagination.
So why all the excitement? It's like the Kardashian, or Hilton scandals in reverse. Does anyone still look at those two and think about the cocks they've seen them take? Of course they do, but not 100% of the time. Most of the time they're just laughing at how fucking stupid and annoying they are. Jimmy Fallon isn't going to suddenly blurt out, "I saw your tits!" when he's interviewing Jennifer Lawrence, or call her movie, "Mocking BJ." Give people some credit.