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.

The Two

SWAT members loaded their weapons, placed more weapons into bags, or secured body armor. Marine and Army snipers checked their gear. Other soldiers got their heavy ordinance ready; heavy caliber machine guns and rocket launchers. Some glanced at each other apprehensively. Others gave a reassuring nod that it was going to be alright. Some just focused on their gear, checking and rechecking, loading and cleaning. Perhaps if they focused on the equipment they wouldn't think about where they were going.

Special Agent Marion Sawyer and Colonel Abram Holsted watched from the Command Room via video monitors.

“They're afraid,” Colonel Holsted noted.

“They should be. We're about to take on a living god,” Agent Sawyer replied.

“Then let's get moving,” Colonel Holsted urged. Sawyer simply nodded.

Agent Sawyer walked into the room with Colonel Holsted. The gathered soldiers, police and SWAT members all stood at attention.

“At ease,” Holsted called out.

They relaxed as much as they could. Every body in the room was rigid.

“Maximus has barricaded himself in the Capital Building. This is where we will move in and take him out,” Sawyer said, addressing everyone in the room.

“You all have your orders. You have all drilled specifically for this purpose. I don't need to tell you that it doesn't get any more important than this,” Holsted added. Various heads nodded.

“We have the equipment and the tactical support. We will make this assault, we will sanction Maximus, we will end this today,” Sawyer said.

One soldier raised his hand.

“Yes?” Sawyer asked.

“Where's Agent O'Connel?” the soldier asked.

“He's on his way. We will be leaving immediately upon his arrival,” Sawyer said.

There were many glances exchanged.

“We're dead if he doesn't show up,” one soldier murmured to a compatriot. One man close by nodded, another tried to ignore it.

Gabe O'Connel entered a few moments later in loose fitting faded jeans, a blue and black faded flannel shirt and sneakers with the laces undone. He was sipping from a coffee cup when he entered.

“Everyone ready?” he asked as he walked into the room. The gathered troops seemed to ease visibly at his arrival. He smiled as he looked around at those assembled.

“That's a lot of hardware,” Gabe noted.

“We need to be ready for anything in there,” Sawyer countered.

“There's no preparing for everything,” Gabe replied.

“Do we need more manpower?” Holsted asked.

“Eh, if this isn't enough more dead soldiers won't really make much of a difference,” Gabe answered off handedly.

Sawyer grabbed Gabe by the arm, dragging him from the room.

“Excuse us,” she said over her shoulder.

“Hey, you're going to spill the coffee!” Gabe protested as they exited the room. Holsted watched them leave. Every set of eyes in the room watched them leave. Tension filled the room again.

“What the hell was that?” Sawyer hissed.

“What was what?” Gabe asked.

“More dead soldiers won't make a difference? What the hell is wrong with you?” Sawyer pressed.

“Look, this is a suicide mission. Everyone should know that going in,” Gabe replied.

“Everyone here knows the risks, but making flippant remarks about the sacrifices being made here are unacceptable,” Sawyer all but growled.

“Sure thing teach. You should cluster them in waves. Close, mid range, and long range,” Gabe said.

“Will that give us a tactical advantage?” Sawyer asked.

“Definitely. If Maximus gets mad and vaporizes those closest, then you still have two waves of grunts to attack with,” he said, drinking from his coffee cup again.

Sawyer smacked the cup from his hands. It spilled on the floor and skidded.

“What is your problem?” Gabe asked, annoyed.

“Your lack of respect is a start,” Sawyer shot out.

“I'm helping you kill my best friend, how about a little gratitude?” Gabe responded.

“Your 'best friend' is a mass murderer,” Sawyer replied.

“And how many deaths were on the hands of each person he killed?” Gabe asked. Sawyer paused for a long moment. Her eyes widened as her mouth opened, then she closed her mouth and just stared at him.

“You're a sympathizer?” she said, breathless.

“Some what. I mean he is my child hood friend. But I'm still here to help you kill him. I'm not going to go back on that. He's caused a lot of damage and hurt a lot of people, some that didn't deserve to get hurt. That's your flawed system, it shouldn't be ours,” Gabe answered. The coffee cup floated back to his hand. The coffee followed, swirling and spinning in the air like a galactic constellation before coming to a rest in his cup. He took a drink.

“You think you're so superior...” she muttered.

“And all the people that you've incarcerated; you always treat them with dignity and respect, as you would a peer. Yes? Better yet, you were absolutely positive that they were the guilty party,” Gabe said quite conversationally.

“The evidence pointed to them. That's my job,” Sawyer replied.

“Quite. Nothing sociopathic about that reasoning. Come, let's go rouse your cannon fodder that their lives have purpose,” Gabe said, heading toward the door.

“You're really sick, you know that?” Sawyer spat.

“You incarcerate people like animals for years over circumstantial evidence and I'm sick? Come on, let's not bullshit,” Gabe said, walking closer to her. He stared into her eyes, looking right into her. She suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and afraid.

“How do you-”

“No mind tricks here. I've read up on you. I wanted to know who I was allying myself with. I read up on the people Maximus attacked as well. They were all bad people. They had positions, titles, held government office or some position of power, but they were terrible human beings that hurt and killed people in their ascent to power. So just cut the pretense to righteousness. You want him dead because he scares all of you. I want life to get back to normal. That is the beginning and end of our common cause,” Gabe said, crumpling the coffee cup and tossing it in the trash.

“Why are you even helping us at all?” Sawyer asked.

“Because you can't do this on your own,” he said over his shoulder.

Five minutes later the soldiers were dismounting in the blasted out war zone that had once been central D.C., the capital of the United States. The soldiers had all seen Maximus' war zones on television. He had waged a campaign of terror across the world. Moscow, Hong Kong, Pyongyang, Mexico City and other capitals considered corrupt by the Red Messiah had fallen. Their leaders dead, their military in shambles. Opiate lords in Asia, gone. Warlords in Africa, gone. Militant religious groups in the Middle East, gone. Eradicated by Maximus. He had slain thousands. He was feared by millions.

With the fury of a god Maximus rained down fire and lightning from the skies. Lava bubbled up from the ground. Weapons, tanks, planes, and buildings all crumbled or fell apart at his gesture. Time and again different governments would stage counter attacks and assassination attempts. Dozens of attempts all met with the same swift fate. Maximus was untouchable.

Yet their had been groups that had rallied to his cause. Those that had taken to the streets with signs and face paint in favor of Maximus' swift and deadly overthrow of regimes. The Reds had gathered in the streets, in town halls and in social communities. They had been targeted early by police and military. Maximus had been swift to dissuade this course of action as well. Soldiers and police found themselves trapped in barred cells at Maximus' discretion. The landscape of the world had changed.

Maximus had met with world leaders, many of whom he respected. The meeting Maximus had most looked forward to was that with the Dalai Lama. It had been in private, no press was allowed. Whatever had transpired in their discussion had left Maximus displeased. He had not been seen publicly since. The Dalai Lama refused to comment. Gabe could have guessed however. Violence was never the Dalai Lama's way, and he could not have approved of Maximus' agenda. Gabe imagined that the 'Lama' had some advice for Maximus he had not been expecting, and he'd been brooding on it ever since.

As the soldiers moved into position, Gabe saw the 'Reds' gathered around the capital building. They were a ragtag lot, some former soldiers, some college students, some just regular disenfranchised people that had taken to Maximus' concept of government overthrow. They had no idea what was coming their way. Gabe had insisted that they not be targeted or harmed. This was about taking down Maximus.

Gabe walked forward with a small group of soldiers with him.

“We ask that you disperse at the request of the United States Army,” one of the soldiers called through a megaphone.

“There's no such thing anymore!” one of the Reds called back.

“And we recognize no such authority” another one called out.

The soldier's grip on his rifle tightened. Gabe held up his hand.

“Save it for Maximus,” he said.

Gabe walked ahead of the soldiers.

“I've come to speak with Maximus!” he called out.

“And who are you?” one of the Reds called back.

“An old friend. Gabe. He'll remember me,” Gabe said with a quiet confidence that made the Reds notice. They looked at him for several moments consideringly. One nodded toward another and the second Red ran inside.

Moments later he returned but said nothing.

Within moments after that, the sky darkened and lightning crisscrossed the sky. Rocks and debris raised off the ground as though the behavior of gravity had shifted suddenly. The soldiers stepped back hesitantly.

“Give them a show they'll understand, smart...” Gabe said quietly to himself.

Maximus could have reconfigured elements at a molecular level out of thin air to preclude his entrance, but regular people would not have comprehended what they saw. Acts of nature that resembled the wrath of ancient gods, that people understood.

A flash of lightning zigzagged out of the sky into the ground with a thunderous roar and a shaking of the earth. A smoldering crater was left in its wake. In that crater stood Maximus; his face painted red and clad in the billowing brown robes of a monk. He even dressed the part of the Red Messiah now., Gabe noted. The soldiers immediately leveled their guns. Maximus laughed a booming laugh that echoed off the broken down buildings of downtown D.C.

“They still only trust in the power of their toys,” Maximus said to Gabe, but loud enough so those nearby could hear as well.

“People trust in what makes them feel secure,” Gabe replied off handedly. Maximus smiled and strode toward Gabe, his arms extended.

“Brother!”

The two embraced; old friends reunited. One of the soldiers took this as his opportunity. He fired at Maximus. The bullet disintegrated in mid air. A moment later lightning struck from the sky, leaving only a charred husk as the remnants of the errant soldier. The others took aim. Gabe threw up his hands.

“Stop you idiots! Do you all want to die just like he did?” Gabe shouted.

“They never learn do they? Just like all the dictators and warmongers who thought they would supplant me through force. But alas, force is all they understand,” Maximus lamented.

“Why do you bring such violent friends to my door?” Maximus asked in a chiding tone.

“They are hoping that you'll stand down and leave D.C.” Gabe replied.

“Oh do they?” Maximus said, turning to face the soldiers within view. His smile froze their blood. They lowered their weapons.

“Smart. Some dogs can learn,” he quipped.

Maximus raised a hand and an energy field appeared, covering he and Gabe like a dome. They would not be interrupted again.

“So what brings you to my neighborhood?” Maximus asked.

“I needed to talk to you. About this,” Gabe replied, gesturing around.

“Oh this? What the old governments would have called 'acceptable losses,' had they not been the ones losing,” Maximus replied with a smile.

“It's gotten a little out of control, don't you think?” Gabe asked, sipping at a new cup of coffee. Maximus eyed the coffee.

“Where did that come from?” Maximus asked.

“I made it,” Gabe replied.

“You conjured it?” Maximus pressed.

“Sort of,” Gabe answered.

“Through my force field? Nothing should have been able to get through,” Maximus said.

“When you can't go through something, you learn to go around it,” Gabe said, taking a sip.

“It's a Costa Rican blend. My favorite. Would you like a cup?” Gabe continued. Maximus shook his head. He understood what Gabe was doing. It was a subtle way of showing that Gabe could maneuver around his defenses.

“You've not been idle,” he noted.

“Well, I haven't just been drinking coffee if that's what you're asking,” Gabe quipped.

“And yet you've been decidedly silent amidst all the recent upheaval,” Maximus noted.

“Didn't really seem like you needed my help,” Gabe stated.

“With this rabble? Of course not,” Maximus spat.

“Still, you've had no opinion on the matter?” Maximus continued.

“I've been busy studying, traveling. Putting my arts to other uses. For the most part I haven't seen anything different between what you've done and what other government powers did before you. It's just another form of-”

“There has been nothing else like what I have done!” Maximus shouted, cutting Gabe off. Gabe looked up from his coffee, nodded, and took another sip.

“There have been unique theatrics, sure, but you're still a tyrant,” Gabe responded dryly.

Stones and debris floated from the ground as the sky roiled overhead. Gabe sighed, and with a wave of his hand the stones fell to the ground as sand.

“I've abolished corrupt governments...” Maximus insisted.

“Ruling through fear is still ruling,” Gabe added.

“I've given the people choice,” Maximus retorted.

“Leaving them alone would be allowing them choice. Assuming some other power doesn't take control, which is likely,” Gabe mused.

Maximus' fists clenched. The very air seemed to vibrate.

“So you are here to stop me,” Maximus conjectured.

“All good things must come to an end,” Gabe declared.

In the coming seconds atoms dispersed and collided in thousands of ways. New isotopes and elements formed and vanished in flashes of light and fissures of energy that shook the air itself. Most could not comprehend what they saw. Gabe and Maximus flickered in and out of reality as reality was bent, unmade and remade all around them.

Maximus' energy field constricted around them. Gabe threw his coffee cup in the air. Droplets flattened against the dome and spread outward, hissing and coiling. Tiny holes emerged in the energy field. Then the barrage began.

Dozens of guns fired at once. Many bullets disintegrated in mid air. Soldiers were turned to vapor and dust in the blink of an eye. Others vanished into a red mist of blood that carpeted the ground with the movement of the churning air. But some made it through. Gabe had distracted Maximus and assaulted his defenses on levels that no one else living could comprehend. In those precious moments as the very fabric of reality coiled around them; two sorcerers that had become living gods met their destiny.

Bullets tore through Maximus' flesh and Gabe waved his hand, sending a fissure of molten white gas through his old friend's brain before he could undo the damage. Maximus the mighty fell to the ground dead.

Gabe stood staring down at his fallen friend. He wondered what life would be like now and how this world would rebuild itself. Would it fall into old habits or would it press on anew? Would old governments resume power or would new ones emerge?

Then a bullet tore through Gabe's chest.

“Son of a-” Gabe murmured as he fell to the ground. Moments later Agent Sawyer was standing over him.

“The book,” Sawyer said.

“Hmm?” Gabe answered, coughing up blood.

“Where is the book?” Sawyer insisted.

“You'll have to be more specific,” Gabe replied.

“The text that gave you and Maximus your powers. We know it was some book that contained the knowledge,” Sawyer pressed.

“You just shot me. You think I'd entrust it to you?” Gabe chuckled.

“It needs to be contained,” she continued, as though that were some sort of answer.

“It's gone,” Gabe answered.

“You destroyed it?” Sawyer asked, hopeful.

“Passed out the pages. Before I contacted you,” Gabe uttered, wincing.

“What?!” Sawyer exclaimed.

“Some one,” Gabe coughed. “Had to keep you honest.”

This he said with a smile. And with that, Gabriel O'Connel, all powerful sorcerer and coffee aficionado gave up the ghost.

“You son of a bitch...” Sawyer muttered softly. A soldier ran up to her.

“We need to get him up,” the soldier yelled to Sawyer. He clearly couldn't see that Gabe was already dead.

“Why?” Sawyer shot back, annoyed.

“There's been a report of two teenagers hurling lightning and fire,” the soldier replied stiffly.

Nearby Sawyer could hear other phones ring, comm devices crackle and walkies beep. Each one radioing in some other catastrophe. She turned to see the Reds had already dispersed. She found herself wondering if Maximus had taught any of them his powers already. She imagined she would be finding out very soon.

The Glass Orb

A small boy was playing in his back yard. He had a tent fort of old blankets normally kept in the garage. A fenced in yard. And a large tree in the middle of that yard. He often imagined that tree reaching up into the heavens, into other worlds.

He had played many games in that yard. Often the tree would be a center piece in those games; a tower, a giant, a monster.

On this day, with the blanket fort and the sunlit sky, the tree was a ladder. Not because of the game he was playing that day. He was a knight defending a fort. The stick in his hand was his mighty sword. The plastic chairs and blankets were his castle.

No the tree was a ladder because someone was climbing down it. They had climbed down from the heavens. The small boy had not seen where they had come from. But here they were, descending from the tree and standing before him.

The figure was robed, with a hood over its head covering its face. It held out its hand to the boy holding a glass orb.

The boy stared at it for a moment as it seemed to swirl and change in color.

“It can show you anything you can imagine,” the figure said.

“I can already do that,” the boy replied.

“How?” the figure asked.

“Up here,” the boy replied, pointing to his head.

The figure nodded.

“I will return when you are older. I will show you the orb again, and again I will offer you its power,” the figure said, then it climbed the tree and disappeared into the heavens.

Years later the boy sat beneath the tree, writing. The tree had become a place of solace, a constant in a sometimes turbulent world. As he wrote out the scene of streaming banners and feats of glory in his head, he heard something above him.

He looked up to see the robed figure descending the tree once again.

The figure stood before him, and held out the orb. Various places shown beneath the surface of the glass; palaces, mountains, worlds.

“Anything you can imagine, this orb can create,” the figure said.

“I can already do that,” the boy replied.

“How?” the figure asked.

“With this,” the boy said, gesturing with his note pad.

The robed figure nodded.

“I will return when you are older. I will show you the orb again, and again I will offer you its power,” the figure said, then it climbed the tree and disappeared into the heavens.

Years later, the boy was grown. He read a paper and sat beneath the tree with a cup of coffee. A wedding band caught the light of the sun on a particularly bright day. On that day, the figure descended the tree again. The figure held the orb out before the boy again. Rainfalls of diamonds, rubies and sapphires could be seen beneath the surface.

“Anything you desire, this orb can give you,” the figure said.

“I already have that,” the boy replied.

“How?” the figure asked.

A woman came to the back door and looked out. Her smile matched the brilliannce and warmth of the sun on that pleasant day. She wore a wedding band as well.

“Because of her,” he said.

The figure turned, seeing the woman, and nodded.

“I've been meaning to ask you,” the boy began. “Why do you keep returning here and offering me this orb?”

The figure was silent for a few moments.

“I have been told that everyone in this world only focused on desire, and what they can be given. I had found that to be true until I met you. I wanted to return and see if your answer would change. What makes you different?” the robed figure replied.

“I don't know. I'm just happy with what I have,” the boy replied.

The figure nodded and regarded the boy for a moment longer. Then the figure placed the orb on the ground and climbed the tree, disappearing into the sky.

The boy stared at it for a moment when his wife walked over. He held out his hand and she took it. They smiled at each other. Then she saw the orb.

“Where'd that glass orb come from?” she asked.

“Turns out I always had it,” the boy replied.