Why Hermione Granger is in Gryffindor (and not Ravenclaw)

Dumbledore and Snape stood over the dead, mangled bodies of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Snape stepped over them disdainfully.

“I don't think this is working sir. Perhaps the Longbottom boy-” Snape began.

 “Nonsense. Harry IS the chosen one. Let me review the prophecies! I shall consult my pensieve,” Dumbledore replied quickly. Snape pressed his fingers together.

“Yes, about that. I've been worried about what the continual use of that contraption might be doing to your-” Snape began again.

“Come Snape. The time turner. We must go back again!” Dumbledore cried. Snape sighed heavily.

They stepped into Dumbledore's study. Snape looked at the calendar on the wall.

“Their first year. Again...” Snape noted. Dumbledore nodded happily.

“We'll figure it out soon enough my old friend,” Dumbledore said happily, popping a lemon candy in his mouth. Snape rubbed his temples.

“They've been killed by the basilisk. They've been killed by 'Fluffy'. They've been killed by Quirrel, and some random werewolf, and centaurs they pissed off. They're like stress dolls for the Fates,” Snape groaned.

“We must be overlooking something...” Dumbledore muttered, looking through a tome laying out on his desk. Snape shuffled some papers.

“What are those?” Dumbledore asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was reviewing test scores from the NEWT's of the seventh years in the future. You know, the grade that Potter and Weasley never make it to,” Snape replied in stoice cadance.

“I was just noticing that the Granger girl, the one from Ravenclaw, she scores perfect marks in nearly every category. She did the same in her OWL's in the fifth year. The other year the boys never survive to,” Snape continued in his insistently droll tone. Dumbledore looked up.

“Yes, yes. Hermione Granger. Exceptional witch. The brightest student of Hogwarts this generation,” Dumbledore murmured in reply.

“Why can't she be the 'chosen one'!” Snape hissed.

“You know Trelawney's prophecy,” Dumbledore answered sagely.

“Of course. She's so spot on the rest of the time. Let's entrust the fate of the world on her tea infused tie-dyed rantings...” Snape grumbled.

“Now now Severus. We will see this through,” Dumbledore said consolingly. Snape pressed his lips together and nodded.

“What about the Longbottom boy? He's at least staying alive til graduation,” Snape suggested.

“No no. It's definitely Potter,” Dumbledore replied, not looking up from another book in his hand. Snape nodded.

“Of course.”

The time turner dangled from it's chain, spinning on Dumbledore's desk. Snape gasped.

“The Granger girl!” he began.

“She can't be the chosen one,” Dumbledore refuted.

“No. But she can keep the other two alive. Or, Potter at least,” Snape offered.

“What are you suggesting?” Dumbledore asked.

“We have to make them friends. Make Granger an ally of theirs early on,” Snape pressed.

“How do suggest we do this Severus?” Dumbledore asked.

“We...and I know I will regret this, get her sorted into Gryffindor,” Snape suggested.

“But, manipulating the Sorting? That would have grave affects on the future of the wizarding world. That could be unethical,” Dumbledore protested.

“You have that Hat put every mouth breather that walks through the door put into Hufflepuff and you know it,” Snape accused. Dumbledore was silent a moment. He cleared his throat. He took a sip of water. He looked back at Snape.

“I suppose it couldn't hurt. You know, this one time,” Dumbledore conceded.

“Yes... this single, solitary time...” Snape answered. He stifled a smirk. Dumbledore pretended not to notice. He held out a jar to Snape.

“Lemon drop?”

72: The Seal of Solomon

Conrad awoke to the walls shaking. Alarms came on immediately following. Hands instinctively grabbed pistol and bowie knife as he ran for the door to his cell. Emergency lights were on in the hallway. Power had gone out. Conrad hoped this was false alarm. No one attacks Tintagel.

Then he heard the crash in the main room. He came running to the door. There was a blood smear on the security pad. He slipped on a glove and pressed in the code. He opened the door and stood to the side, pistol at the ready. He peered cautiously over the side and saw Paul wrestling with a man in all black. As he turned to head inside, he heard quiet footsteps rushing toward him. Conrad turned to see the black blur headed toward him.

He lifted his knee into the man's chest and brought a bone shattering elbow across his jaw. A second elbow to the side of the head sent the man to the ground. The second assailant was immediately behind the first. A flying knee caught Conrad square in the chest. Conrad brought his hands up just in time to block the in coming punches. A shove to the chest knocked the assailant back. Flurries of strikes, counters, blocks and hand traps brought the assailant to the ground. Whoever was attacking was well trained.

Machine gun fire could be heard further down the hall.

“You okay to fight?” Conrad asked Paul. Paul nodded. Conrad peered down the hall. Three more in black. Conrad fired, taking one down, then ducked as the others returned fire. The walls shook again.

“Why are they bombing if they have men inside?” Paul asked aloud.

“They're not bombing the building. They're blowing open a Sanctum!” Conrad exclaimed. He reloaded and fired until both hostiles were dropped. He ran, picking up the sub-machine guns from the two downed targets, and passing one to Paul, they kept running.

He could still hear fighting down the hall. Then, suddenly, all Hell broke loose.

Not the traditional 'things went bad', or 'the situation turned ugly.'

The unearthly screams and howls echoed off the walls and left a cold burn that went down to Conrad's very core. All the different screams and whispers that sounded like they were already inside his eardrum hit crescendo. He winced in pain and toppled sideways while Paul fell to the ground screaming. He could feel jagged claws ripping at the edges of his sanity. Unearthly heat and cold rocketed through the halls in an ethereal shock wave, knocking him flat.

Whispers of unearthly horrors and torments washed across Conrad's vision in tapestries of nightmare. He buckled again until all he could do was writhe, close his eyes, and scream.

He came to some time later. He was unsure of how much time had gone by. Paul was still unconscious. He remembered the Sanctum. He stood slowly, the world swirling around him. His head throbbed. He felt like he was going to vomit. He held on tightly to the gun and used the wall to hold himself aloft as he staggered down the hallway.

He retched before making it around the corner. What he saw at the turn made his heart stop. The door to the Sanctum of Solomon had been obliterated.

Blood was smeared across the door frame and hallway. Body parts strewn like refuse. He kept his gun level. He walked quietly in case there were any more intruders. There was no movement. There was no sound.

He walked past the threshold and his greatest fear was realized. The bronze urn of Solomon has shattered into pieces. Bodies of his fallen comrades lay dead on the floor. But a solitary hazy figure stood quietly, starting at him. He pointed the gun at it. It did not react. Conrad did not move until help arrived.

It was twenty minutes before Paul staggered down the hall. Conrad immediately sent him for help. It was another twenty before help came.

The perimeter of the compound had been a war zone. Bodies lay everywhere. Whoever attacked had not been concerned about collecting their dead. The other Templars gave Conrad the run down. It was bad. The death toll had not been taken yet. Reinforcements were being called in, as well as medical teams, a mock construction crew to create an alibi for the incident, and a media team to suppress any additional attention on this event. The Templars had a wide reach.

Those gathered entered the Sanctum of Solomon carefully. The bloody bodies of their fallen brothers lay upon the floor where they fell. The Brass Urn of Solomon lay shattered about the floor. They strode forward, blades drawn.

A single dark figure stood amidst the broken shards. It remained motionless as the Templars entered the room. They stood tense, moving around it in a semicircle.

“What is it?” Emmerich asked.

“I don't know. It hasn't moved since I got here,” Conrad answered. Emmerich looked Conrad over. He looked like Hell warmed over.

“You need to report to a medic,” Emmerich said.

“Not until we get this sorted out. I want to know who or what this is, and what happened here,” Conrad said, not taking his weary eyes off the creature.

“We were hit. Hard. Mercenary army most likely. This room is what they were after. After the explosion, those remaining outside split,” Simon interjected. Simon was a special operative always in war torn areas. He had seen nearly every battle ground on the planet for the last twenty years.

“I think what they unleashed was more than they bargained for,” Simon smirked.

“You think they were here to steal it?” Conrad asked.

“Who even knows it's here?” Simon replied.

Emmerich held up a hand.

“All in due time. First,” Emmerich said, pointing toward the dark figure.

A dark, guttural speech emitted something entirely unintelligible. Conrad cast a sidelong glance to Timothy. Simon broke the silence.

“He's trying to speak to us,” Simon stated.

“What's he saying?” Conrad asked.

“Sounds ancient, Babylonian maybe?” Simon replied.

“Babylonian?” Conrad asked.

“These demons were locked away by King Solomon himself. He'll know languages from the time,” Timothy interjected.

Timothy was slight of build for a Templar. He was trained in various forms of combat. Such was required of any Templar. But his focus was in ancient languages and symbolism.

Conrad looked from Timothy to the demon.

“Why isn't he moving?” Conrad asked.

“I don't know,” Timothy responded.

The demon raised one hand. The Templars all tensed, ready for battle.

“Ready,” Conrad called out.

The demon walked toward the edge of the broken shards and paused. It moved its hand forward and pressed against solid air.

“He's trapped,” Gunther said excitedly.

“How?” Conrad interjected.

“The shards of the seal could still hold his particular seal intact,” Timothy posited.

“It's a trap,” Simon interrupted.

“Or it could be a trap,” Timothy added.

The Templars dispersed with three armed Templars watching the demon, each armed with enchanted weaponry; enchanted by the magic of Solomon himself, passed down through the Templars since the unveiling of the Temple itself.

Conrad took a shower, a protein shake, and headed straight back to the Sanctum. He answered more questions about the attack to the other department heads. Emmerich was on the phone giving orders to the field officers. Henry, their de facto field secretary was answering calls and relaying emails. There were a lot of people in the organization that wanted to know what was going on. There were a lot of questions to be answered. Henry and Emmerich were asking just as many questions as they answered. They wanted to know if there was any information as to who planned this attack.

Paul had been taken to his quarters to lie down. He had begun vomiting after everyone else arrived.

Timothy sat near the demon, between the armed Templars, looking through a pile of books and attempting to communicate in various languages.

Losing patience, Simon strode forth.

“What's your game?” he said in Hebrew.

The demon recoiled. The armed guards flinched, expecting combat. The demon recovered and remained motionless. The room exchanged confused glances, save Simon. Simon smiled.

“Of course you hate Hebrew. It's imprisoned you for over three thousand years,” Simon stated in English.

“Does it bring you pain I wonder?” Simon continued, this time in Hebrew. The demon recoiled again and shrieked slightly; an inhuman, grating sound. The men winced. Simon seemed to be relishing this.

“Well it clearly processes Hebrew,” Timothy noted aloud.

“But this doesn't seem to be an effective form of communication,” Conrad added. Timothy looked over and nodded his ascent.

“I find it quite effective,” Simon interjected. Conrad shook his head. Shutting a book, Timothy stood suddenly. He said something in a guttural tone. No one seemed to process it. Save the demon. The demon turned its head toward Timothy and responded.

Timothy had been making notes upon a yellow legal pad on a clip board. He consulted his notes, writing something quickly. He replied. The demon spoke again. Then Timothy. Then the demon. Then Conrad.

“You care to let us in on the conversation?” he asked.

“Sorry, Babylonian is difficult, and I'm far from fluent.”

“What's he saying?” Conrad asked.

“That his name is Baloath, and that he's trapped here,” Timothy informed. Conrad nodded.

“Or he's playing us,” Simon intruded.

“Or he's playing us,” Timothy agreed dryly.

“What does he want?” Conrad asked.

“How did you know?” Timothy asked.

“Body language. That and he's a demon. Why communicate with us unless he wants something,” Conrad said, not taking his eyes from the demon.

“He wants to make a deal,” Timothy said cautiously.

“What?” Simon and Conrad asked simultaneously.

“He says he can help us collect the other demons that escaped,” Timothy replied.

“How?” Gunther asked.

Conrad shot Gunther an angry look. Timothy looked imploringly. Conrad sighed and nodded.

“There are seventy-one demon lords loose right now. He offers to help collect them, in return we set him free,” Timothy informed.

There was a long uneasy silence. Each Templar eyed the other. Simon and Conrad locked eyes for a long, thoughtful moment.

“Absolutely not,” Conrad replied.

“What?” Timothy asked, surprised.

“I'll make no deals with the devil. We leave him here. Guarded. And we go collect the others,” Conrad finished.

“You're sure?” Timothy asked.

“Positive,” Conrad replied. He looked about the room at the other Templars.

“Guards stay here. Timothy, see what you can learn from him. Everyone else, suit up. We've got hunting to do,” Conrad said, walking toward the door. Timothy shrugged. The demon simply shook its head.

“How are we going to find them?” Gunther asked. Conrad called for a lap top. The local news showed a string of unexplained warehouse fires downtown.

“We could start there,” Timothy noted flatly.

“Gear up,” Conrad said. Everyone's blood ran cold. They were heading into the belly of the beast. An arch-demon of the ancient world. Although each Templar had slain numerous monsters, everything before this had just been practice.

Simon stood first, heading to the armory. Gunther followed slowly, with Fredrick, Hans and Glen behind. Timothy remained sitting.

“What are we going to do about him?” Timothy asked, pointing to Balaoth.

“He'll be under guard until we return. Timothy, I'd like you to prepare wards in and around the room,” Conrad answered.

Timothy looked at him questioningly.

“Now,” Conrad finished. Timothy stood and exited the room quickly. Conrad turned to face the demon. They surveyed each other for a long moment.

“We will get you,” Conrad said. The demon remained still and silent but something about his demeanor lead Conrad to believe that at some level, he understood. With that, Conrad left the room.

Emmerich addressed the Templars in a meeting room.

“This will be unlike any mission you have faced before. Be ready for anything. Conrad, I want you to assemble the most capable team from those able to fight,” Emmerich said. Conrad nodded.

“I want you to take Evelyn and Sara with you as well,” Emmerich finished. Conrad went rigid, but tried not to show it.

“Both of them sir?” he asked.

“You'll need a sniper for recon. Evelyn is one of our best,” Emmerich answered.

“And Sara?” he pressed.

“She may be able to lock in on the creature. Give you some insight to it's motivation. Or even give you the split second warning that will decide life or death out there,” Emmerich said. Conrad grimaced. He could say nothing. Liaisons between Templars was strictly forbidden. This was likely why. Still, Conrad and Sara had managed to keep it a secret from their compatriots. Still, Conrad was not pleased about bringing her into the fray.

Ten minutes later a black government van was driving down the road with nine Templars inside armed to the teeth. The van came to a stop at a police barricade in the warehouse district. Sirens wailed and hoses sprayed all around as fire fighters battled multiple infernos. Conrad flashed a ID badge to the officers on duty. After a few questions, and the officers realizing the men in the van were on highly confidential business, they passed through and parked under a sturdy overhang that was not currently on fire.

Sara exited the van first. Simon shot Conrad a displeased look inside the van.

“Women are bad luck on the battlefield,” Simon growled.

“What century are you from?” Conrad asked.

Simon snorted and exited the van. Multiple bags slung, machine guns in hand the Templars dismounted. The machine guns were largely for show. Regular guns were of little use against a pure demon. Evelyn took position on top of the van and leveled her scope.

“Where is it?” Conrad asked as he emerged from the van. Every Templar was double checking their guns. They knew every cop on the line was watching.

Sara winced and lost balance for a moment.

“What's wrong?” Conrad asked.

“So much anger and hate. I've never witnessed anything like it before. It is a well spring of pure hatred,” she replied.

“Just show us where it is and we'll send it back to Hell,” Conrad answered. Sara pointed. The team followed.

A plume of fire burst high into the sky. Cries of fear and awe went up from the crowds gathered nearby.

The Templars suited up into fire gear.

“Let's move,” Conrad said. Everyone moved in formation, following Conrad and Sara.

“My eyes won't be much good to you in there,” Evelyn called over the com-link.

“Understood. Keep an eye on the perimeter. Don't let this thing get away,” Conrad replied. Evelyn's sniper rifle was outfitted for an array of ammunition that the common man would never see. Mercury tips, silver bullets, incendiary rounds, amongst others. All dipped in Holy water and blessed by an Anglican bishop. She loaded the mercury rounds and said a silent prayer for those heading inside.

The rest headed toward the raging inferno, duffel bags in hand and found a point of entry. They left the empty guns near the entrance and pulled out their real weaponry. Blessed daggers, silver tipped bolts and crossbows, and enchanted swords.

“It's here,” Sara said quietly.

“Fan out. Stay within line of site,” Conrad called out.

They moved in formation, swords on their backs, crossbows in hand. Simon carried throwing knives. Conrad had not been able to dissuade him of this for the mission. Something rippled near the far landing on the second floor. Sara and Gunther steadied their crossbows. The ripple was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“It's here,” Simon stated.

“Clearly,” Conrad replied. Although the visor obscured visibility

Flames appeared again upon the landing.

“Get ready,” Conrad called out.

Then the flames leaped from the landing down

“Evade!” Conrad shouted. The Templars all dove and rolled out of the line of fire as flames burst upon the ground.

The Templars ran into attack positions. Gunther heading to the right and toward the staircase. Sara toward the left and into an alcove. A volley of crossbow bolts flew toward the demon. Flames surged up obscuring the Templars' vision. No one was sure if they'd landed a hit.

Conrad and Simon dropped their crossbows and pressed forward, silver loaded pistols in hand. They leveled and fired toward the source of the flames. An insidious, low, grating laughter echoed throughout the chamber. Simon and Conrad stood back to back, Sara and Gunther watching their backs, Stephen leading the rear guard.

Flames suddenly shot across the room in all directions, hitting the floor and walls in several places. A bombardment ensued with explosions and searing heat. Each Templar searched desperately for a mark, not being able to get a bead on the demon's location. Each Templar saw a flicker or ripple in the air and fired on their target.

In the midst of the explosions, crackling flame and gunfire a scream came from behind Conrad and Simon. They turned to see the flaming horror standing behind James, a hapless Templar impaled upon its elongated claws and writhing in flames and agony. He screamed piteously, trying to wrench himself free as the others turned to shoot. The demon hurled the flaming Templar toward his comrades, knocking Stephen and his cohorts to the ground. Simon and Conrad both rolled to avoid the incoming body and fired, each hitting their mark.

The demon hissed in disapproval. Sara's crossbow bolt seemed to cause the demon much greater displeasure. It turned its eye on her, and casually hurled more flames and fireballs toward the other Templars with the wave of its hand. Conrad and Simon both leaped back from the fire, coming closer to Gunther who had the crossbow leveled over their shoulders. Conrad heard Sara scream from beyond the flames before him.

He could not hear what Simon called out as he leaped through the flames toward Sara. He saw the demon standing over her, its hand around her throat, singing rubber and cloth to flesh. Conrad charged forward, swinging toward the demon. The demon blocked with a clawed hand and glared at Conrad with evil eyes full of inhuman hatred. Just seeing them was near enough to make even Conrad shit himself. But the demon dropped Sara, and so Conrad pressed his attack to clear it away from her.

Conrad swung his blade with fury and deftness. He was angry but had to keep his head and use every ounce of precision his considerable training had gained him.

“Get to the wounded!” Conrad called out. One Templar ran to Sara, the other to James, who was likely dead. Simon ran forward to assist Conrad.

Flames sparked on the demon's finger tips, so that every clang of sword metal brought forth searing heat that nearly burned the two Templars. The demon made an inhuman leap away from his attackers then putting its two hands together, its eyes glowed red and a shock wave of heat knocked Simon and Conrad to the ground.

It turned and swung hard against a support pillar, making the wall buckle. It looked up and laughed again. Conrad knew what would be coming next.

“Everyone out!” Conrad called out. He rushed over to help Stephen grab the wounded Templar. Gunther dismounted from the stairs. Simon rushed to grab Sara from the ground. At the edge of Conrad's vision he saw the demon appear behind Simon and strike the pillar behind him. Then he saw the second floor collapse into the first and watched Gunther disappear beneath a pile of wreckage and dust.

Conrad looked down to see Stephan's hand reaching out from beneath the wreckage. Another shock wave from the demon had made him lose his grip on the other fallen Templar. He frantically lifted debris off Stephan. Two other Templars assisted. Stephan was pulled free but seemed unable to move.

They checked for vitals. He was breathing. Conrad said a silent thanks to the Heavens.

He turned to see Sara lying on the ground with a tube in her throat. Simon's helmet was off.

“What happened?” Conrad asked as he rushed over.

“She couldn't breathe, the demon had collapsed her throat. I had to put in a shunt to allow airflow,” Simon replied, holding Sara's hand. Conrad looked around, surveying the wreckage all around. Officers and EMT's rushed over. Conrad felt eyes upon him that made his blood run cold. He looked over his shoulder to see the demon, perched upon a far rooftop, staring down at him. He swore he could hear its laughter upon the wind before it vanished. The battle was over.

“Evelyn, call Emmerich. We'll need an extraction,” Conrad called over the com-link.

“Understood,” Evelyn called back.

Late that night Conrad and Simon finally returned to base. The other two had been left to monitor the wounded in the hospital. Timothy rose as they entered the room. He could tell from their visage that all had not went well.

“What happened?” he asked.

Conrad was quiet for a moment before answering.

“We lost four. James was killed outright by the demon. Gunther, Philip and Ryan were crushed when the building collapsed. Stephan may never walk again but we at least got him free. Sara has third degree burns all over her neck and a collapsed trachea. She can't speak or breathe without assistance,” Conrad reported. Timothy was aghast and could only imagine what was going through Conrad's mind.

In his ten years in command Conrad had only lost two men. Two particularly dangerous missions each in which one Templar died. Four dead and two horrifically wounded was nothing short of a catastrophe.

“I bet you're really damn pleased about this!” Conrad turned and screamed at the demon.

“But I swear by all that's Holy that I will slay every last one of you if it's the last thing I ever do!”

Conrad threw a chair that shattered against the wall. Seething, he took measured breaths to steady himself. The demon spoke, its strange alien dialect. The room was quiet for several moments.

“What did he say?” Conrad asked. Timothy did not reply right away.

“What did he say!” Conrad shouted.

Timothy stammered for a moment before speaking.

“He-he says that he takes no pleasure in your fallen comrades,” Timothy replied.

“How does he know what I'm saying?” Conrad asked. He turned toward the demon.

“You speak English now?” Conrad asked the demon. It stood still and stoic.

Timothy replied to the demon in the same odd guttural dialect.

“What are you doing?” Conrad asked.

“I'm speaking to him,” Timothy said. The demon replied. Conrad took a long, slow breath.

“Just translate,” Conrad said with his eyes still closed.

“He says he knew men would die trying to face these arch-demons,” Timothy replied.

The demon extended a hand toward Conrad. Conrad felt the air shift in the room and turned to see the demon's outstretched hand. Simon, Conrad and Timothy all stared at it. It uttered another unintelligible statement. Then silence.

“What did he say now?” Conrad whispered.

“He wants to know if you'll take his offer now.”

Turduckgeddhen.

Last November:

The farmers all scratched their heads. One moment, there had been fields of turkeys, ready for the Thanksgiving slaughter. The next morning, the fields were empty. The fields of fowl had taken flight without a whisper.

Desperate, the people looked to ducks and hens, hoping for a Thanksgiving Duckhen. All for naught. They too had vanished in the night.

But the chickens had not escaped. They would be the sacrifice for this year's feast. So many chickens. So many, many chickens...

Also, Thanksgiving Ham would become a thing this year.

This November:

New flocks of turkeys had been mustered, with great difficulty. Many caught and captured from the wild. Lured with food and fattened for the coming feast. They had believed themselves safe. Elsewhere, other Thanksgiving plans were being laid. (Yes, there were several actual eggs being laid as well. The double entendre was unintentional, but here we are...)

In a thicket, far away from the prying eyes of humans, they had gathered.

Obadiah Clement Gobbles raised his feathers high.

“My brothers and sisters! I call to you!”

Edna Gobblesworth squawked suddenly. Obadiah sighed.

“Yes Edna, what is it?”

“Oh nothing. I just laid an egg. Sorry...”

(See? Speaking of laying an egg...)

Obadiah cleared his throat.

“We have been the victims of countless slaughter for far too long! This year, we will take the humans to the killing fields!”

There was a roar of excitement from the crowd! Obadiah noticed, with some irritation that his brother-in-law, Sheamus McGizzard was reading. Again. Obadiah cleared his throat once more.

“Am I disturbing your reading?” Obadiah asked.

“Oh no! It's just that if we're going to kill all the humans in preparation for Thanksgiving, then we should prepare and eat them, right?” Sheamus answered.

“Where did you find a cook book with recipes on humans?” Obadiah flummoxed.

“It's a cook book by a Chef Jeffrey Dahmer,” Sheamus replied.

“One of the good guys I see. We shall spare him in our coming Holy War,” Obadiah said with great fervor.

“He's already dead I'm afraid.”

“How?”

“The humans executed him after finding out that he ate people.”

Obadiah spat.

“The savages...”

Obadiah turned to the crowd.

“See? They kill their own kind?! The geniuses are hunted amongst their people! But no more! Today, we shall reconcile!”

“Where will we attack first?” Edna asked.

Obadiah's eyes narrowed.

“The altar of their unholy feast. We shall attack the dinner itself!”

They rushed the house quickly. The family was not ready for the righteous assault of the Turkey Revolutionaries. Obadiah entered to find the gobblers poking through the remains of Thanksgiving Dinner. He cleared his throat.

“This is just beginning. This was our test and you have done well my friends-”

“Whoa, is that cranberry sauce?”

“Carl?”

Carl looked up.

“Focus.”

Carl nodded, quietly scooping a mouthful of cranberry sauce into his mouth when he certain Obadiah was looking elsewhere. In fact, the whole group of turkey raiders began to spread out so they could take turns sneaking nibbles when Obadiah was looking elsewhere.

“It is up to us, the righteous, the strong, the...okay, I see you. You're not sneaky. You know what? Alright, finish the left overs and we'll try this again in thirty minutes.” Obadiah said with a sigh.

“Yay!” the turkeys cried and dove onto the table head first. Carl moved Mr. Denis' head out of the way to get at his mashed potatoes.

“Guys, this gravy is delicious. Man, it's too bad that we had to kill Mrs. Denis...”

The other turkeys stopped.

“Carl, you can't think like that. They are our enemy,” Jethro said.

“But... the gravy...”

“Sacrifices have to be made.”

Carl nodded sadly and finished the last of his potatoes.

Outside they gathered. Obadiah, the old and revered, waiting patiently. He put away a package of candy corn at their approach.

“Aren't those things bad for your blood sugar?” Jethro asked. Obadiah puffed up and looked importantly off into the distance.

“We're at war Jethro. I could die tomorrow. If I do, I'm dying with a belly full of candy corn. I will meet God with it's layered deliciousness still on my beak.”

“So where is the next attack?” Jethro asked.

Obadiah narrowed his eyes even more this time.

“The supermarket...”

“Clean up on aisle 3...” the sad, dull voice droned into the monitor. Another equally sad, dull individual wandered to said Aisle 3 in answer to the call.

“We're practically putting them out of their misery,” Jethro Featherbottom noted. Obadiah nodded.

Mrs. Greyknickers (human) was wandering through the aisles, grumbling about the lack of turkeys in the store when the sudden gobbling caught her attention. She looked up to see the menacing gang of turkeys making their way down Aisle 3.

“They're just letting the daft birds wander the store now?” she said. She went to a clerk.

“I'd like to purchase that fat one there,” she said, pointing at Obadiah.

Obadiah raised his battle ax.

“Fat? I am robust! Attack!” he crowed.

And the turkeys leaped to the fray. The dim witted humans were too busy stumbling over each other and reaching to pull coupons from their wallets to put up much of a fight. Within minutes the battle was over. Obadiah raised his bloody ax high to the whoops and war cries of his fellow gobblers.

With bloody feathers, he reached into the nearest pool of blood and drew on his war paint. He looked up at his comrades. Several gave cheers of ascent. Jethro looked confused.

“That looks like Celtic war paint. Only red,” Jethro noted.

“I didn't want to appropriate the culture of the Native Americans. They've been through enough. I don't want our cause to end up just being a mockery of their culture” Obadiah answered. Jethro scratched his head.

“You're worried about being PC? We're turkeys. Overcoming a holocaust from the humans,” Jethro said, thoroughly at a loss. Obadiah bristled and made a sudden sucking noise of air across his beak.

“Also, I don't like the word holocaust. Unfair to the Jews. I think Turkey genocide sounds better,” Obadiah continued. Many of the turkeys looked from one to another in mutual bewilderment. Obadiah saw that he was losing momentum, so he raised his ax.

“Paint yourselves in the blood of our enemies, and on to the next battle!” he cried. There was a cry of ascent again. Blood lust was an easy sell to this crowd apparently. It's all about creating demand. He remembered hearing that somewhere. It seemed to fit now.

While he was musing, he heard a plastic lid flopping over and over again. He looked over to see Carl pushing up the lid, grabbing a pretzel, and ducking back before it slammed shut again.

“Carl?”

“Hmm?”

“We're leaving.”

The next supermarket was a more difficult operation. The humans had mounted a defense this time and Carl had taken a nasty lump from a thrown can of creamed corn. They had made a barricade inside the beer cooler which the turkeys could not penetrate.

After several failed attempts, Jethro had suggested turning down the temperature of the cooler. Soon they had all the frozen humans they could ask for. Jethro was ready to march on the next location. Obadiah held up a hand.

“Not yet,” Obadiah said quietly. The turkeys all looked to their leader expectantly.

“Get the plastic wrap.”

The next obstacle was to take down a Superstore. And thus they had to march on Mal-Wart, the center of assorted useless items for humans. And the end of the road for so many turkeys.

In the outskirts of human kind, the battles were easier. But against the corporate giant of Mal-Wart where lots of money was at stake, humans suddenly mobilized in greater numbers and with weapons in it's defense.

“They seem to place greater importance on their strongholds if there are larger, shinier lights involved,” Jethro noted. Obadiah nodded.

“And where the people have shinier vehicles,” Sheamus added. Obadiah nodded again.

He looked into the parking lot of Mal-Wart to see many humans armed with guns. The same guns that had slaughtered so many of his kind. This would not be the end. The gobblers would march.

And march they did. War paint on, hatchets in hand, and fancy hats upon their heads. (Several of the turkeys had decided that a certain panache was required for every revolution, and had dubbed themselves the Dandies. Obadiah had allowed it. It seemed to make them happy.)

The humans leveled their guns at the approaching turkeys.

“How do they expect to win Sarge? They have to know they're walking into a blood bath,” Officer Simms asked. Sarge was chewing on his cigar.

“Marching into the face of certain doom, with their heads held high. They may be our enemy, but they have my respect,” Sarge replied.

“Sir, they're turkeys on the war path,” Simms added. Sarge nodded.

“Ready! Aim!” Sarge began, when the fluttering of hundreds of wings could be heard. Sarge and his tactical squad looked to their right to see a sea of hens approaching, rolling pins and large wooden spoons in hand.

“It's just like in the books...” Sarge said quietly.

He looked around at his men, who were now staring at him oddly.

“It's alright men. Simms, you and those on the left, fire straight ahead. The rest of you, aim at the hens.”

Another fluttering of wings turned their attention. At the other end of the parking lot, thousands of ducks descended upon the battle field. The men looked around, now surrounded.

“We'll have reinforcements from inside mall security, and back up should be on it's way. We can hold here until they arrive,” Sarge called out to his men. Simms tapped Sarge on the shoulder.

“What is it Simms?” Sarge asked.

“The ducks...” he began.

“Spit it out,” Sarge pressed.

“They've brought geese with them.”

Sarge turned to see the geese, tall necked and hissing. He pulled back the hammer on his gun.

“We're all doomed,” was all that was heard. Everything else was lost in an explosion of gunfire, feathers, and a lot of swearing.

After the battle, Obadiah called the Hen, Duck and Goose leaders to him.

“We have consolidated our forces. We are stronger than ever. Now we will-” but his speech was cut short by the sound of squealing. All faces turned to see a multitude of pigs and hogs.

Alistair, leader of the hogs stepped forward.

“You bastards left us to die!” he cried out. The hogs and pigs all squealed in unison, raising their machetes and short swords in the air.

Obadiah stared for a moment. He looked down, thinking of all the hogs that had died in the previous Thanksgiving. He sighed.

“Our sins are more easily remembered than our good deeds...” he said quietly, looking up at his new foe. A foe that didn't have to be. Then the hogs shouted and the charge commenced.

Far away, on the distant shores of the Gulf Coast, thousands of tiny red claws clapped in unison.

Guillaume de Blois took the podium.

“Crawfish, shrimp, crabs! Lend me your ears!”

~Fin

Tesla Goyle

Elliot was welding the final plate in place when Kensington came trotting through the door, whistling and twirling his cane. Kensington paused and turned his head at the contraption Elliot was working on. This section of the workshop had been closed off to all but himself, his personal assistant, and Kensington, his investor. Kensington looked over his latest investment, brown shorts held aloft by slightly darker suspenders over a dingy cream tunic that poor Elliot swam in. All of Elliot's money went into his work.

“It's nearly complete?” Kensington asked. Elliot nodded. Kensington's eyes moved over the uneven metal surfaces.

“Will it work?” he continued, his finger grazing his finely groomed goatee.

“It already does,” Elliot replied, glancing at his plum, long-coated companion. Kensington set his black top hat on the nearby rack, his long, dark hair cascading over his shoulders.

“So all the gears work? Everything moves?” Kensington pressed excitedly, clapping Elliot on the shoulder. Elliot nodded, his rat's nest of straw blonde hair bobbing and his blue eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Did you bring the Sabine Quartz?” Elliot asked. Kensington raised an eyebrow.

“Have I ever failed to come through for you my dear Elliot?” Kensington crooned, hand on his heart. Elliot shook his head.

“No, sir. That you have not,” Elliot replied, smiling.

Kensington set the small ornate mahogany box down upon the table. Brass work swirled around the top and edges of the box, arching toward the center vertices that encapsulated the key hole. Kensington pulled the key from a silver chain around his neck and placed it into the box.

A soft purple glow emanated from the box. Faint whispers followed. Secrets of long lost lovers, best friends, doting parents and laughing children. The hidden songs of hearth and family dinners. Some called the Sabine Quartz the fabled Hearth Stone, the soul of not just a person, but the essence of family. Elliot's eyes glistened as he held the box aloft, stared into the heart of the soft glow, and listened as the song of a hundred lovely whispers of well wishes washed over his ears.

“It's something else isn't it?” Kensington asked. Elliot simply nodded. The lump in his throat wouldn't let him speak. He couldn't believe his friend had found one.

“How did you even know to ask for one of these?” Kensington followed. Elliot swallowed and took a deep breath.

“I came across it in my research. I asked another old tinkerer, who guessed a bit about what I was up to, and suggested it. I knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a try,” Elliot said, mystified.

“Worth more than just that. I have houses that don't cost as much as that stone there,” Kensington noted. Elliot nodded.

“And I am eternally grateful,” Elliot said.

He walked around his work bench and pulled out another box. Not so fancy as Kensington's, but still one upon which Elliot placed great value and importance.

From it he pulled the Clockwork Heart he had built. Kensington whistled.

“I still can't believe you made one,” Kensington noted. Elliot smiled thankfully. He wasn't sure he'd succeed either. In fact, until the Sabine Quartz was in place, he wouldn't be sure.

The blue print was from the Heart of Gold, designed by the fabled Shimon Exeter, founder of modern engineering. No one had succeeded in replicating a functional one. Some had begun to say the Heart of Gold was merely allegory for the epitome of engineering; something that all must strive toward but never fully achieve.

“And Elliot, you beautiful fool, you've gone and done the impossible again...” Kensington mused to himself.

Elliot's Clockwork Heart however was a different sort of contraption altogether. Leather straps wrapped around the brass and gold frame work. Brass cogs connected with copper wire. It was beautiful in it's complex absurdity. Kensington was ever enthralled by Elliot's childlike wonder at science, and his unwavering obsession to complete any objective he set his mind to.

He opened a small door on the underside of the Clockwork Heart and placed the Sabine Quartz inside. He closed it carefully and waited. Nothing happened. Kensington frowned.

“It was a long shot my friend...” he said dolefully. Elliot jumped from his work stool.

He reached to an uppermost shelf and pulled down something covered in an old brown cloth. Pulling back the cloth, a bright yellow light filled the room. Sparks shot around within a glass case with a black rubber bottom.

“What in Heavens is that?” Kensington asked, aghast.

“It's a Tesla,” Elliot said, his eyes beaming.

“The electrical spirits? That supposedly haunt the old wastes of the Ancient Country?” Kensington asked.

“First, they do no such thing. Yes, they dwell there, but I hardly call it 'haunting.' I took a sojourn there. Many engineers secretly do. To learn what we can from the archaic, rusted machines. To gaze upon what was once the greatness of that ancient civilization. To gain clarity. To gain insight. To gain inspiration...” Elliot said, setting the glass case next to the Clockwork heart.

“So, you caught one,” Kensington observed.

“No. It asked to come with me. Look,” Elliot said, calling Kensington over. He looked to see at the center of the arching bolts of electricity, a tiny golden woman.

“It looks like a faerie,” he noted.

“I believe they're kin. I asked her to come home with me. She's watched me build the gargoyle piece by piece. Sometimes even offering insight. She's truly brilliant,” Elliot said. Kensington looked over the tiny girl doubtfully.

“And what is her part in all of this now?” he asked.

“Her people are dying. Something has changed in this world, and they are all dying off. I'd hoped to find another, but now I'm going to ask her to give the gargoyle life,” he said. He looked at the tiny woman in the glass.

“So how about it my friend? A new life in this new world?” he asked. The tiny woman looked over at the tarp covering Elliot's creation. She was silent a moment. Thoughtful. She would become something completely different from what she had ever been. What would this new life be like?

She and Elliot spoke for several minutes. Kensington could understand little of what the tiny woman said, but he guessed that Elliot had spent some time learning to decipher her speech. At last the tiny woman nodded. Elliot nodded in return.

“Thank you,” he said.

Elliot ran over and pulled off the tarp. Elegant in it's strangeness it stood, Elliot's mechanical gargoyle. His imperfect angel.

Now that Kensington looked upon the iron and silver frame work, he saw the feminine quality to it. It would be powerful, indeed terrifying in the right conditions. But there was so much more it would be capable of, he realized now.

Elliot opened the trap door in it's back and set the Clockwork Heart inside. He shut the door, and welded it closed forever. He pulled a lever and the leather wings extended.

“You've made them bigger,” Kensington noted. Elliot nodded.

“I want her to soar like the eagles,” he answered. Kensington chuckled and shook his head. Then he looked to the tiny woman.

“So she'll be trapped in this imperfect shell? Will she be in pain?” Kensington asked.

“It very well may. I don't know yet. At best, it will be uncomfortable. But it will be life,” Elliot said.

“But what sort of life?” Kensington asked.

“She's dying my liege. Her body cannot sustain itself much longer. This body will give her a new life. And look at it! Isn't it beautiful?” Elliot exclaimed.

Kengington nodded. It was the most magnificent piece of craftsmanship he had ever seen. And he had lived for a time in the Capital, where extravagant constructs were the fashion.

Kensington turned to the tiny golden woman, leaning on his cane.

“Are you sure little one?” he asked. The tiny woman looked back at him, mustering what courage she could and nodding back. Kensington smiled.

“It shall be a new adventure for us all,” he mused.

Elliot opened the mouth to the mechanical gargoyle. He walked over and lifted the glass from the container. Small sparks shot out in all directions.

“Go my friend, and live again,” Elliot said. The tiny woman shot into the air, doing several loop de loops before diving into the gargoyle.

“Go straight for the heart!” Elliot exclaimed.

There was a shudder within the gargoyle. Then a jerk. Then the head moved from side to side. The hand came up and the head turned to look at it. The clawed hand opened and closed. Keens lifted as it stepped from side to side. The eyes shifted to look at Elliot and Kensington. Kensington could swear he saw it smile.

Elliot ran to the window and pulled back the curtain.

“A test flight?” he asked. The gargoyle nodded.

“What will you call it?” Kensington asked.

“What do you mean?” Elliot replied.

“It's not truly just a construct any longer. And not completely a gargoyle with an electrical Fae spirit inside it,” Kensington continued. Elliot pursed his lips. He rubbed his chin and looked at his gargoyle. His friend, the Tesla.

“The Tesla-Goyle,” Elliot said at last. Kensington laughed aloud.

“Such silliness. But yes, it does fit. Tesla-Goyle it is,” Kensington said.

Sparks shot into random directions as archs of electricity slithered along the joints and contours of the mechanical body. She spread her wings and started running.

“Have you tested the flight capabilities yet?” Kensington asked in sudden alarm.

“No,” Elliot replied. Kensington's mouth dropped open.

“You just have to believe!” Elliot shouted as he pulled back the curtain. And the Tesla-Goyle leaped into the air, her wings outspread, and she rose into the sky.

Kensington and Elliot both watched her swirl through the air, in awe of her spiraling elegance.

“There's nothing else in this world like her. Truly one of a kind,” Kensington observed in awe.

“And look at her soar...” Elliot said wistfully.

“Look at her soar.”

Nexus Casino

The house dealer cut the cards and started dealing.

“Alright gentlemen, talisman on the table!” Fox announced to the gathered assemblage. Sorcerers, vampires, demigods and Fox Meridian, magical cad and swindler.

Immortals gathered at the Nexus Tavern every Blue Moon to trade in wares, paraphernalia, items of power, gossip, and for high stakes gambling.

The Vitelli Family, with nerve centers in most major supernatural cities, owned the Nexus Casino.

Several Immortals and members of the Jade Kingdom were playing Mahjong at a nearby table, where presumably vast fortunes of gold and jewels were changing hands. Odin and Czernobog were sitting a table playing chess. Fates only knew what was being wagered at this table.

Full house and three of a kind won Fox several powerful talisman at his table.

This was a night where beings from different worlds could change their fortunes and destinies. Fox had lost an ancient Aztec divination talisman and a Roman cursing tablet. He'd gained several Sumerian talisman and a set of ancient Egyptian carved ephigies, amongst some other odds and ends he didn't recognize.

The tone of the room shifted suddenly however. A disheveled man with an uneven gray suit came stumbling in with a briefcase. He stood in the corner as a few games progressed. Most pretended to ignore him, but Fox noticed that all side glances were in his direction.

Finally a Lord Leopold had felt tapped out and excused himself from the table. Everyone bid him a good night. Even Fox, who had won several priceless artifacts from him. Even still, Fox was respectful with no tinge of irony. One did not intentionally upset a being like Lord Leopold.

Lord Leopold had cashed in his chips and prepared to leave when the disheveled man took a seat at the table.

Fox and several others exchanged glances. The dealer began dealing.

“Bids?” the dealer asked allowed. Various token, medallions and jewels were set upon the table. The dealer cast a look upon the newcomer.

“Bids,” the dealer announced softly.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as the newcomer fiddled with the lock on his briefcase. He opened it and handed a piece of paper to the dealer. The dealer unfolded, read it, and looked out to the table.

“One unborn soul to be wagered,” the dealer announced.

There was some murmuring throughout the surrounding room. Other people at the table exchanged glances and placed their bets. Such wagers happened from time to time. Rapunzel's parents had made such a deal with the Witch next door. Rumplestiltskin maid the deal with the farmer's daughter. Tonight was the first time he'd seen such a wager unfold before his eyes.

Fox was silent for a moment before tossing in a few Spanish galleons.

Fox lost the hand. A sorcerer named Salem Grey took the hand.

The game continued for a few more hands. The disheveled stranger excused himself from the table but was stopped from leaving by Vitelli security. Upon losing an Unborn Soul, certain rituals had to be in place before the player was allowed to leave the premises, to ensure payment.

Fox kept an eye on the contract. Several more hands changed places.

Then came the big stakes play. They turned up a few times each game. Several players bowed out after large stakes were set at place. In the end, only Salem Grey and Fox Meridian were still in the game.

Salem was ancient and stoic. He was impossible to read. Fox could only hope he had the top hand. But he kept his face placid.

The stakes had been raised a few times as each player bowed out. Fox had the high ground.

Salem was idly looking around at the pile in front of him. He was an old sorcerer with piles of books and scrolls and enchantments he had either won or created himself. He was looking through them when Fox spoke up.

“The soul,” he said.

Salem looked up inquisitively.

“That will complete the wager,” Fox said. Salem was silent a moment, then slid the folded paper over to Fox.

Salem had a full house. Fox a straight flush. There were several whistles at the table. Fox nodded somberly. Salem was an immensely powerful and ancient sorcerer. Even in defeat, he was also one not to anger.

Fox gathered his chips.

“It's been great, but I think it's time I cashed out this evening,” Fox announced to the group.

There were several glances exchanged.

“I'd like to chat with you soon,” Salem said to Fox. Fox nodded. He looked over to the newcomer that had bid the Unborn Soul earlier in the evening.

Fox cashed out with the house.

“So, I'll be cashing this in with you soon?” Fox said, brandishing the deed in his right hand.

The man extended his hand.

“The name's Eli Cummings,” the man said. Fox looked at the hand and nodded.

Outside Fox lit a cigarette as they were walking.

“So when is she do?” Fox asked.

Eli sputtered for a moment.

“W-w-well, not just yet. So far as I know. But we're still young,” Eli said.

“So no child yet?” Fox replied.

“Well, no. But we will.”

“What made you make that wager?” Fox asked nonchalantly.

“We're in debt. Both of us. Some bad investments went south. I needed tonight to bring me back out of it. Sadly, it didn't happen,” Eli said, shaking his head.

Fox sighed, deed in hand.

“Listen. We're both human. Or so I'm guessing. Would you be willing to give the deed back?” Eli asked.

“So it shows up at another game?”

“Maybe. Who knows?” Eli said, chuckling slightly. Fox nodded.

“Doesn't benefit me does it? You'll have to bet off your second child in that case,” Fox said. Eli nodded. He pulled back the flap to his suit, revealing a revolver. With his hand on the handle, he looked at Fox somberly.

“I could take it back if I wanted to. I'd like to give you the chance to give it back willingly,” Eli said. Fox exhaled a puff of smoke.

“You'd be breaking the code of honor amongst gamblers. Who's to trust you again at future games?” Fox asked with all the investment of discussing the weather.

“Well, I'd love to sit and discuss gambling ethics with you. But, the deed?” Eli said, gesturing to the gun again. Fox frowned. Then he pulled the revolver from Eli's waist and fired into Eli's temple. Another round was fired into Eli when he hit the ground.

“He'd have just done it again...” Fox muttered to himself. He wiped off the handle to the revolver and place the handle back in Eli's hand then walked off, lighting another cigarette.

The Return Journey

The adventurers drew near the Portal, weary and worn from their many adventures. But at last their quest was over and it was time to return home. With a sigh they moved to step forward. Priestess stopped.

“I don't want to go back,” she said.

The party looked back at the receding Enchanted Kingdom behind them. Warrior spoke up.

“I don't want to either. I don't wish to leave this place.”

He looked to Priestess and they both smiled. He would not have spoken up had she not. She had always lent him strength he didn't know he could find.

The Old Wizard emerged from a passing fog. He puffed upon a long ornate pipe and grinned.

“Hail my young friends. You have accomplished much. But your quest is not over,” the Wizard said softly.

Sorcerer spoke next.

“But we have completed all our quests. We have conquered the Long Lines. We have had all our tomes signed by the Elder Ones. We have fashioned our garb for all the land to behold, and even found seating at the Mead Hall,” he replied.

Wizard puffed quietly for a few moments.

“That is but one quest. Your next quest lays beyond this portal,” he said.

“But that returns to the Banal Kingdom. The lands of Drudgery and Routine! What possible quest could exist there?” Priestess demanded.

“The quest of Magic. You found it here. You embraced it and shared it. Now you must carry it with you into the Banal Lands, and care for it dearly. Nurture that Magic, keep it alive! And share it with others. Over time, you can create Enclaves of Magic with the Banal Lands. And the Mundane Lords will try to stamp it out of you and destroy your Enclaves. That is when you must bolster one another. You much recharge your energies by sharing your magic with each other.

You may do it with a shared thought. A conjured image. A meeting to build your magic back up when it feels low. But you have the strength within you. All of you. And the quest lies before you.”

The Wizard finished speaking and held his hand toward the Portal.

The Party looked from one to another. Priestess, Warrior, Sorcerer, Barbarian, and the one party member that couldn't make up their minds and decided to 'Multi-Class'. They nodded to each other, held hands, and stepped through the Portal into the Banal Lands.

The Wizard folded his hands and his smile faded. He knew what his young companions would face in the Banal Lands. In his hands he summoned two spirits; Dream and Hope.

“Go with them. Follow them. Guide them,” he whispered to the spirits.

“They will need you more than the air they breathe at times. Stay with them, and pull them together when times are dark,” the Wizard finished. He opened his hands and off they flew.

So the Adventurers began their next quest, followed by Hope and Dream, and empowered by Magic within their hearts.

The Sand

The old man moved his knight forward, taking the pawn in front of it. Sand fell slowly through the hour glass on the table. The old man wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. His eyes glanced from the chess board to the hour glass.

“If it's making you nervous, I can move it,” the younger man said. The old man shook his head.

“No... no. I need the reminder,” the old man said. He looked out the nearby window. Complete and utter blackness lay beyond. He chuckled.

“Did you know that I'd found an old archive once? It had songs and lyrics and poems. It kept referencing a sky full of stars. Can you imagine that?” the old man mused aloud.

The younger man just smiled.

“You know what I miss most?” the older man said. The younger man just looked at him.

“Vladmard. It was a flavored paste mixed on a pressed rice cracker. Now all that's left is freeze dried remnants of what used to be food.... I've seen pictures though...” the older man continued. The younger man moved his bishop. The old man looked thoughtfully.

“Food. All sorts. I don't recall what any of it was called. Before the last of the stars went out of course. We still grew somethings in our green houses... or so I've been told. I've never seen a real plant...” the old man moved his rook. The younger man smiled. The old man looked out the window again.

“My father was still here before the last one blinked out. I don't know how far away it was. Just that it's gone now. It's been so dark since,” the old man paused as the generator whirred and the lights flickered briefly. The old man looked nervously around.

“Is that how I'll go I wonder? Will I freeze to death?”

The young man said nothing. The old man nodded. The young man moved his bishop, taking the old man's rook from the board. The old man pursed his lips.

“I don't think I want to play anymore.”

“We don't have to if you don't wish,” the young man replied pleasantly. The old man coughed a few times. He gripped the table. He looked back outside. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Is something wrong?” the young man asked.

“It's just... it's like I miss something that was never there. Or that I never knew. Mankind supposedly lived all over the universe once. There were zillions of us throughout the cosmos. Great civilizations. Empires. Fleets of sleek ships. All I've ever known is my small family. And I've had to put everyone of them through the vacuum shoot when they passed. I miss them. Father. Grandpa. Mum...” the old man trailed off. For a few moments it looked as though he might be sleeping. Then he looked up at the younger man.

“Could you tell me about it?” he asked.

“About what?” asked the younger man in reply.

“Humans. What were we like? As a people?” the old man asked.

“That's a difficult question to answer. Sort of akin to 'what's weather like.' You had great societies of wealth and prosperity. You had poor, starving places full of disease and misery. You had people who strove for better lives for their people and others who wanted only to kill and control. You were a mixed lot really,” the younger man said. The old man nodded.

“Besides, you've been reading these stories for years,” the young man finished.

“Yes, but it's nice to hear them from somebody who was there,” the old man said. The young man nodded. They were both quiet a moment. The generator sputtered. The lights flickered. Then it all went dark and silent. Darker and quieter than anyone else had ever known in history. Not a star in the infinite blackness outside. Not a sound, save for the trickling of the sand in the hour glass. The old man couldn't believe he could actually hear it. He coughed again.

“We never finished are game,” he said.

“No, we didn't,” the younger man replied from the darkness. The old man could not see him, but he could feel him. He could feel that if he saw the young man now, he'd see something very different than when the lights were on. Something that might terrify him.

A match struck suddenly, and a candle was lit upon the table. The old man could see the young man dimly. The faint orange light danced across his face. Something about the young man's face looked like he was see through yet all too real all at the same time. The old man could feel the cold creeping into his bones. His nose began to ache. The old man began to sob.

The young man sat down next to him. The old man sniffed.

“I shouldn't be crying,” the old man said.

“Who says?” the young man answered and smiled. The old man smiled despite himself. The old man shrugged.

“I figured I should try to go out with some dignity... being the last one and all,” the old man said.

“I'd say you've done quite well,” the young man said. The old man smiled.

“It's nice of you to say so. It means a lot really, coming from you.”

Another few moments of silence.

“Since I am the last, do you get to tell me what happens?” the old man asked hopefully.

“I'm afraid not,” the young man replied.

“And when I'm gone. What happens to you?”

“I suppose I'll find out,” the young man said. There was a sadness to his voice that had never been there before. The old man turned his head.

“You don't know?” the old man asked incredulously, his voice a whisper. The young man shook his head. The old man reached out and took the young man's hand. They looked into each other's eyes. The old man marveled at the young man's eyes. Despite his apparent youth, there was an ancient endlessness to his eyes.

“I'm... I'm glad you came. To sit with me, at the end...” the old man rasped. He couldn't feel his nose anymore. He couldn't feel his fingers either. The young man smiled. The old man's head bobbed, suddenly heavy. His eyelids fell.

“We...never finished our game...” he said with a wheeze, and then said no more. The young man patted the older man's hand.

“No, we did not.”

The old man slid from the chair onto the floor. The young man shook his head.

'Dignity' he thought. In the end, there was just death.

The young man pick up the old man's chair, turned it over and put it atop the table. He did the same with his own. Then he looked around, blew out the candle, and let himself out.