StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Its been a while since I wrote anything, and after a few failed attempts at horror and drama (so bad, I] threw them away) I fell back on action, and a reboot of a fantasy/steampunk/desert universe I always wanted to really do. And yes my character is a so far basically a desert ninja, but so what, ninjas are where its at.

Proceed to critique-
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The legendary flying fortress contained a statue of an eagle that was said to be the most powerful relic of god magic that still existed in the world.

The old stories said that a man who had wished to see the earth from the sky, to see as the gods saw, had traveled to a foreign land, and scaled the highest mountain he could find. The mountain was so tall, that around the top there had even been snow, so one night as the harsh winds blew around him, he had found a cave near the top of the mountain and taken shelter within. The cave had been deep, and he had followed it until he was away from the wind and snow.

And the goddess had appeared to him in the cave as a beautiful woman in a flowing dress made of light. She had asked him why he journeyed so far, and climbed so high. And he had told her because he wanted to look down from the sky. And she had been pleased. But the man was not humble, the story said, and had said that to look down from the sky like a god was to be a god. He said that once he found his place in the sky, it would forever be his.

And so the goddess had carved an out eagle of the stone within the cave. With her touch it had taken on some her otherworldliness and become magic. The statue tried to rise skyward, and the mountain had rumbled and cracked, and the entire top had risen with the statue.

The man had been amazed and overjoyed as the top of the mountain rose. He had run to the mouth of the cave had looked to see before him the clouds and the sky.

And he turned back and asked how to control the magic. The goddess had asked him why.
He said so he could use it to gather riches from the corners of the earth. And women. And the finest livery to live properly as a god.

And the goddess had told him that he had wished to fly forever, and that was what she had done for him. And then she had disappeared to leave the man alone and forever in the sky.

At least that is what the stories said. Of course, the problem with stories like that is, who was left to tell it?

**

The magic fortress, tamed much with time and a plethora of talismens was now controllable, though it was said to never really touch the ground, and almost everyone who spent time near the eagle itself claimed to hear the echo of a voice.

But regardless of the whispers of a curse, the fortress was indeed a powerful asset, and over the years many ruthless men had it claimed it as the seat of power from with which they bloodily carved out kingdoms. It had been transformed from a simple mountaintop, to a shell that was full of rooms within, and mighty walls and towers without.

The current ruler of the fortress was the warlord Kajizum-Say’d. He was a man of esteemed lineage, from the line of the ruling family of the powerful Kaji tribe. Unlike most descendants of an established linage though, Kaji was a man of ambition, but with little patience for the tangled politics of the bickering tribes. He instead left, and had built his organization up from nothing, collecting many valuable men of talent under his employ. One of those men was Zarboz. He was of especial value to the warlord, and was kept close at hand within the fortress.

It was difficult to describe Zarboz’s job. Many of the foot soldiers who saw him, thought of him as an assassin for Kajizum-Say’d. It was a true that Zarboz killed when the Kajizum-Say’d had needed him to, but he was not an assassin. Assassins asked to be paid. And Zarboz was also the main collector of magical artifacts, and the most knowledgeable man about magic among the warlord’s people. In the eyes of Kajizum-Say’d, Zarboz was a man who did things which needed to be done.

And during this dark, particularly cloudy night, Zarboz was sitting in a room within the fortress and reading a book of the story of the battle of one of the ancient magicians. The book was a reproduction of course, one that had been meticulously copied by desert shamans, who had been the keepers of the ancient stories and the ones who passed down through the generations.

This story had been told by the swordholder of the magician who had felled the Beast of Broken Mountains. Zarboz turned yet another page in his tome, and in the candlelight saw an illustration of the Beast which took up the entire page. The monster was made of rock and raw ore of the earth, and vaguely man shaped, though it had a hunched back and shoulders that seemed impossibly wide. From its eyes and through its jagged mouth were the green hued, otherworldly flames that were said to not only kill whatever they burned, but made the bodies of dead like poison to the touch.

Zarboz continued to read the account as it told how the magician had been atop a bridge and jumped onto the Beast’s back as it passed below on its rampage. The Beast had tried to grab him and then to shake him off, but the magician had held on as he climbed atop the Beast and cut his way inside.

The beast had jerked, and then let out a long roar that had shook boulders from the mountains. Then the fire in its eyes and mouth went out and it went still in mid-stride and fell over on to one of the nearby mountains.

Later, much later, the swordholder, looking for his master had climbed into the dead Beast and followed the path cut through the strange stone and ore organs, until he found his master, the magician. The swordholder found him dead inside of a large, barren chamber within the Beast. The magician’s own sword had been thrust through his body, his cold hands still gripping the handle.

The account ended. No one knew what had happened inside the chamber. Many people of the day had invented their own beliefs, but the only man who had really known was the magician.

Zarboz marked the page and went to another of his books. He was perpetually interested in the Beasts, the greatest monsters of the old legends. They were so ancient that only shamans and the worshipers of the old ways, like him, truly believed that they had even been real. To everyone else they had faded away, and been nothing more hazy myths and stories told to children.

But Zarboz believed in the old ways. He was a true believer. Because when he talked to his god, it talked back.

[Original writing follows in this post, not edited to fit together yet.]


Tarek scaled the side of the floating fortress that was the home of the brutal warlord Kajizum-Say’d. The moon was only a sliver in the night sky, making progress up the rocky side a treacherous endeavor, but Tarek could finally see light pouring off of the veranda- he was closing in on both the warlord and on the artifact that was his aim.

The rucksack of tools weighed heavily on Tarek as he climbed up the outward slope and he went from vertical to horizontal as he followed the arch. His arms and legs moved with the slow practice of refined technique until the bare fingers of his hands slithered to find the edge of the stone balcony. Tarek dropped his legs so that they hung free over the dark abyss, and prepared to hoist himself over the top, but stopped at the sound of boots above him. Two voices dryly spoke to each other in some foreign language and Tarek could hear the sound of a lighter being struck unsuccessfully in the breezy darkness.

One of Tarek’s hands began to slip as he waited soundlessly, and despite a desperate attempt to hold his grasp, the hand came free. It was only by chance that the remaining hand found a small depression to use as a handhold as Tarek hung over the side of the fortress for what seemed like an eternity until and distant voice recalled whomever the two men above him had been. Tarek waited as long as he dared before his waning hold on the depression forced him to take the risk of clambering over the top, and facing whatever or whomever might be waiting. His ascent, though quiet was not graceful, as he managed to roll over the top, and ended up positioned awkwardly on his back. Looking inward, the deck was fortunately abandoned, and Tarek recovered, slinking to a large archway where he pulled off his rucksack to prepare his tools; lock picks, explosive charge, miniature parachute, gas bombs, mask, and the map of the fortress which had taken him so long to acquire.

Following the guidance of the map, Tarek made his way down the winding stone halls until he was outside the massive doors of the room where Kajizum-Say’d kept his collection of many magic and divine relics. While door was to beyond hope of penetration by Tarek his plan did not require penetrating the door from the outside, instead he laid the gas bombs that would facilitate his escape and with his battered silver lighter he lit their slow powder fuses. Bombs in place and counting down, Tarek hurried among the twisting corridors leading up and to the double doors of a room directly above the reliquary.

At this set of doors Tarek examined the lock momentarily before unraveling the cloth in which his lock picks were stowed and selecting the two relevant to the task at hand. The lock was a standard design and popped open after only a few moments’ effort, revealing behind the door a small room that seemed to be an office or study, though Tarek did spare time to deduce the purpose of the dark space; he was instead busy making way to the approximate center of the room, where he began to lay his explosive charge, shaping it as to direct as much of the blast as possible downward and through the stone floor. Once the charge was formed he donned his protective gas mask, and then carefully inserted a blasting cap atop the charge and lit the powder fuse leading to it. This one was much shorter than those attached to his gas bombs, and Tarek had barely cleared the room when the massive blast tore through the floor. Tarek ran back into the room and through the newly formed hole which lead into the room of relics below. As he landed, the shouting of guards from all directions was audible and Tarek knew they would swarm both the reliquary and the study above once the initial shock had worn off. He cased the walls lined with rare articles of unnatural power, looking for his prize- the clothing of the wizard Leobon. He found a box containing the clothing in the darkness of the far wall from the door and swiftly tore it open, stuffing the contents in his now nearly empty rucksack before crossing to the heavily armored double doors. As he began to pull at the exposed, but heavy lock mechanisms, the shouting guards established that many had massed outside in wait- then the sound of the gas bombs detonating. They popped like gunshots rather than the deafening roar of the explosive charge, but the gray poison haze began seeping under the doors almost instantly and Tarek could hear the guards screaming in a mixture of surprise and pain. The doors unlocked and Tarek pulled them open to a scene of the dead and the dying, eyes red with blood. One resilient man leveled his long rifle and fired a wild shot, but Tarek pulled his short sword from its sheath, charged the man before he could work the bolt to fire another round, and cut a deep gash into his neck. Tarek pulled his blade from the man and fled through the smoky halls, making his way outward to the veranda.

Rounding a corner and coming across a trio of soldiers who had not succumb to the full effects of the gas, he quickly thrust his sword through the sternum of the lead man. The blade stuck and Tarek let it go, smoothly drawing his fixed knife as he leapt over the lead man and onto the second, stabbing him through the cheek. The last man clumsily drove forward with the bayonet on his weapon, but Tarek caught the weapon under his arm and punched the man square on, causing him to fall instantly to the cold floor and allowing Tarek to continue his escape. The veranda and night sky became visible in the distance and Tarek sprinted through the last archway, leaving the ceiling and walls behind him. The sound of massing only pushed him to run harder as he near the edge of the fortress. Sporadic rifle shots caused rock to pop and chip around him, and at the very end of his run as he leapt into the darkness, a bullet struck his shoulder, nearly spinning him completely around. The pain was blinding, but Tarek fought it long enough to find the pull cord and open his parachute. He dropped quickly into the dark below and out of sight or reach of the warlord Kajizum-Say’d.

That wasn't bad at all; when you post more, I will endeavour to continue reading it. As more of the plot becomes apparent, I'll try and make my comments more worthwhile. However, there is something to be said about the cool way the protagonist goes about things.

CONTINUE:

Tarek walked through the sand with his headscarf on and his shawl pulled tight to ward off the biting cold of the night. As he moved, he counted his steps and consulted a battered compass; it was his only means of keeping his bearings among the shifting dunes.

His trek’s aim was a limestone mountain within which there was a hidden cave containing a wellspring. While was a great distance from where he had dropped down from the magic fortress of Kajizum-Say’d, it was not impossible to reach on foot. That is what Tarek had thought at any rate when he had planned his liberation of relics from the fortress, but now he had a rifle slug lodged in his back. Even with the bleeding arrested, the pain raged.

After a long struggle, Tarek gave in to the pain’s demands and collapsed into an upward dune. His focus broken, he laid for a long time in the throbbing haze. He felt himself receding into the soft embrace of shock. The numbness was welcome. But in his increasingly blurred mind, a thought coalesced.

I can not die. Not unknown in the desert. Not this close. I can not die.

Vision returned. Tarek gathered up his strength and moved his arm, pulling his face up from the sand.

I can not die. I will move.

Tarek tried to stand, and managed pull himself to his knees before falling once more into the slope. The full might of his will could no longer even move his fingers. He heard the wind above him and the grains of sand as they rolled against his face. Then a voice,

“You’ve got something of mine.” Said an unfamiliar woman. “It’s okay though, you can keep it for while.” Hers was the buttery voice of practiced vocalist.

Tarek craned his head to look to the top of the sand dune. Standing atop it was a slender woman an impossibly white dress; it almost glowed against the night sky. She leaned down and Tarek saw her face. She was pale and lithe, though with a patch over one eye.

“Wh-wh-” Tarek tried to speak.

“Shhh,” She said, “just remember- Everybody gets one.”

The world went to a dark beyond black.

Water. Dripping water. That was the first detail Tarek’s mind registered. He mulled it over internally before its implication set his mind into motion. Opening his eyes, Tarek saw the small pool of the wellspring to his side. He was in the hidden sanctuary of the mountain cave.

Very interesting.. I want to know more.

Well, this thief got his luck's worth. I wonder where this will be going towards.

MOAR!

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

For a long time Tarek laid awake in the cave. He reflected on the night’s journey.

The woman in white. She had been a delusion. Surely.

Tarek’s growing pain finally spurred him to put his thoughts aside and deal with practical matters. He retrieved a small medical box from his rucksack and opened it. Among other supplies, it contained a bag of clotting powder, which he broke prepared for use on his back wound. After pulling the clothing away from the skin and dried blood, he applied an even layer of powder over the exposed and tender tissue. The sting was briefly debilitating, but Tarek quickly followed up the treatment with a bandage dressing so to keep the area clean. Close by was spring water, which was refreshing and which Tarek drank until he was fulfilled. The oppressive heat of the day reached even into the shadowed cave, and as Tarek waited for nightfall the warm refuge lulled him into a midday sleep.


**


Atop the veranda of the magical floating fortress Kajizum-Say’d paced slowly. Sometimes he looked down over the unobstructed side at the clouds below; sometimes he looked at the Lieutenant who had commanded the night watch-whom was flanked by a guard on each side. The officer was a short man, not fat, but stout with a build meant for lifting. Dark, close shaved hair with a stripe of gray sat above his square face. When Kajizum-Say’d would stop to look at the man, he would look at his eyes. They did not hold the fear of a doomed man facing the gallows. The Lieutenant’s eyes were fuming. Angry.
After a long time, Kajizum-Say’d spoke, “You are the man whom commanded my guards last night.”
The tone made it clear that it was not a question. The Lieutenant answered him, “I commanded the watch. If you mean to kill me failure, you are mistaken.”
Kajizum-Say’d stroked his beard as he spoke, “You beg for your life, like any man faced with its end.”
A snap of the fingers, and the guards flanking the Lieutenant dragged him to the edge. His only the ends of his heels still touched the solid earth of the fortress.
When he spoke, he head did not turn away from the abyss surely staring at him, “We are flying, distant from danger, except when we touch the ground, yes? Who commanded us then, on the ground, when we were weakest? What man’s sloppiness allowed an intruder aboard?” Then after a pause, “Kill me. I have no shame. I am heavy in spirit.”
Kajizum-Say’d motioned the guards to pull the man back and looked him straight on, saying “’What man’ indeed.” Then looked to the guards, “Release him. Find me who was in command when we last grounded.”
The guards acknowledged in unison and left at a trot. The Lieutenant shuffled off in no urgency behind them.
Kajizum-Say’d looked around. If he didn’t know his assassin was waiting to be summoned, he would have thought himself alone with the warm of the day.

“Come forth”, he said, and a shadow seemed to slide and separate itself from the greater darkness of one of the many alcoves on the wall.

“That man. Crazy. In his head.” Said the assassin.

“I know.” Said Kajizum-Say’d, not wanting to make small talk with his death dealer.
“Good leader. Him. Not sane at all.” Finished the assassin.

“I’ll watch him. Now, about the other man, the one who stole from me, you will find him for me and kill him. You are a reliable man.” Said Kajizum-Say’d.

“And what this man took. Important?” Said the assassin in his jerkily.

“Yes. Destroy it if you have no choice- it must not fall into the hands of men who know what it is.” Replied Kajizum-Say’d.

“The man. The man left a sword. Stuck in another man. Yes?” Asked the assassin.

“He did.” Said Kajizum-Say’d.

“Give it to me. Then I leave.” Said the assassin.

“Why?” Asked Kajizum-Say’d, intrigued.

“I. Am a reliable man.” Said the assassin flatly.

“Yes, yes, a guard will give it to you.”

The assassin nodded and walked through the double doors behind him and out of sight around a stone corner.


***


The city of Kultu was a crammed destination for merchants and pilgrims and as Tarek walked through the main gates he was encased on all sides by the grubby throng. In his view were the kiosks of native traders, nomads leading camels, lone outsiders darting between traffic, and the infrequent colonial guard clad in red.

The colonial guards were a symbol of the control that was being given up to foreign rule from across the seas. Tarek hated them, but for time being their control of the city offered safety. No militia would dare attack a colonial city.

Past the entrance, the city was a constricted labyrinth of adobe buildings, and as Tarek walked deeper through the back alleys the surroundings became increasingly grungier and more run down. Dirt seemed to cake more thickly to the houses where he went. The people he passed here were all sun tanned natives. No foreign merchants, no colonials. It was understood that the city had rules; and in this part of it, there were no outsiders. Beyond the native buildings was a small hill upon which sat a single, lonely house.

Though within the city, this building was removed from it.

From the base of the hill to the house was a barely perceptible trail to follow. At the house’s door he knocked on.

“Hello?” Said an aged woman’s voice. It was Mother. Not his mother, but a clan Mother.

“I’ve come for some guidance.” He said.

“Then don’t stand out there. Come in, come in.” Said Mother.

A push, and the door swung open to reveal an interior filled with books and binders. There were blinds on the many windows, but they were open enough to allow a dim light inside. From around a cabinet shuffled Mother, a cup of tea in each hand.

“Come now, sit.” She said, gesturing to a floor rug.

Tarek followed her, and they both sat on the rug.

She handed him a cup of tea, “Its been quite some time since you were here last. What brings you back to me?”

“I have the possessions of the Wizard who fought Ghamblar. I’d like you to help me find him with them.” Said Tarek.

Mother drank some of her tea before replying, “The Wizard died in that battle. My, you should know that.”

“I think not- there are interesting people who have interesting things to say about that fight. So, Mother if you would, help me find him.”
“Before I do, I’m going to ask you something, and don’t think to lie to me young man. I’m old and I don’t need to be lied to.” She said.

Tarek nodded.

“I know why you’re doing. Same as why any young man seems to do anything. This woman you’re doing this for, is she worth it?”

“Yes.” Said Tarek flatly.

“Even if it makes the whole world burn while you watch.”

“Yes.”

“Even if its not love.” She continued.

“Its as close as I’ll have.” Said Tarek.

“Well then, now I know. Leave the Wizard’s things with me and come back tomorrow.”

Interesting...

You're building an interesting background world as well. I can't wait for more information.

I'll say. I'd like to see more of Kajizum-Say'd, and I wonder how import the 'power from across the seas' will be to the plot.

Why do I sense a great clusterfuck? And I do mean great clusterfuck. This is going to be fun.

Keep it rolling man. This shit be good.

Okay look- everything in this bit is valid to plot. No, really. But tell me if its getting too emo here because that is completely not the intent. Also- next section, I swear there will be killing or at leasting maiming or at least like sharks with chainsaws for eyes or something.-PH

**
As Tarek walked, he the left the native only streets of Kultu and entered merchant streets. Where the one turned into the other was an impossible distinction, felt more than seen or heard.

Passing the kiosks and rugs laid out with goods he stopped only once, buying a flaskful of water from two grubby youths. The rest of the time he just wandered. He felt odd.

Alone.

His sword was gone. Lost in chest of a dead man.

It was not as if he had never been without it before. But it had always returned to his reach, somewhere. Somehow. But now it was gone forever.

It was not an especially exceptional weapon. It had an average blade, with its bluing worn off in the usual places. But it had been his for a long time, and it had been like a partner, taking the nicks and cuts that would have been his scars.

For a long time he weaved through the throng, down that boulevard of broken dreams. Even shoulder to shoulder with so many people, he walked alone, his shadow was the only thing beside him.

**

As night approached, Tarek made his way toward the wealthier part of the city, where the night time curfew was enforced by the colonials. He would hole up on a rooftop somewhere out of sight, sleep undisturbed, and vanish at dawn.

There was a large house with a prayer balcony at an intersection, perfect for a passer-by at night. Across the street was a slightly taller house surrounded by a stone wall. Tarek jumped atop the wall and ran along it until he had enough speed to leap onto the ledge of an upper window. From there, it was a short vertical jump and his hands were on the roof’s edge, from which he pulled himself up and over the top. The balcony was only a leap away.

Run.

Run.

Jump.

He landed silently on the corner of an immaculate prayer rug and gave his surroundings a hasty search. The balcony was clear and quiet, so he made his way to a corner out of view of the rooftop door and made ready to sleep.

His shoulder still burned from the gunshot, and he carefully applied more of the special powder to the wound. It stung strongly on the skin, but the feeling faded, numbing everything it touched.

That taken care of he sat alone with his thoughts. Tomorrow he would see the Mother about the Wizard. Everyone thought the Wizard was dead, but he Tarek knew he was alive. Not because the stories of scattered drunks, but because he had to be alive. Because if he wasn’t, everything, the years spent killing had all been for nothing. And for her he had not spent years doing nothing.

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture her face. But it was too hard, something inside made his mind turn away from the image. Instead his mind showed him the woman in white from the desert; it asked him who she was.

Angst is a valid part of part of character development, though this didn't really register in my mind as being particularly angsty.

Okay, so no killing or action. I tried I really did, but I can't shoehorn it in so soon. Anyway, thoughts?

**
Tarek woke to rhythmic noise of morning prayers being sung all around the city. For a moment he lay in the state between sleep and full waking; peaceful. Then the realization came that he had overslept, and the owner of the house might soon be on the balcony to begin his worship.

Bounding up into a run, Tarek smoothly made his way along the edge of the rooftop and leapt to a smaller building adjoining his, and from that building down to the street. His journey lead back through the nearly deserted merchant streets. On larger rooftops bands of colonial soldiers were visible standing about, eyeing the streets below. Watching them, Tarek wished he had a sword on his belt.

The Clan Mother called for Tarek to enter after only a knock. The both of them sat down on the rug, and she presented him with a simple necklace.

“What is it?” He asked.

“A thing close to such a well traveled man. A thing close enough to his self that perhaps there is still a bit of him in it.” She replied, smiling at his confusion.

“There wasn’t a necklace.” He said.

“Oh, no, this wasn’t one. Look closer, ha, bootlaces. This man surely walked a long time to leave a bit of himself with his boots.” She said, taking a swallow of tea.

“Can I find him?” Asked Tarek when she had finished with the drink.

“Oh, yes. There is no use pretending the Wizard is dead. And with these bootlaces, I’ve done things. Keep them with you and you will feel which way to go, an insistence. Follow it,” She raised a finger at him, “trust those feelings, young man.”

“Thank you.” Said Tarek, while putting the tied laces around his neck.

He knew that it is in bad custom to ask a Mother more questions after he had finished his business, but the vision of the mysterious woman and her words about having something of hers were at the forefront of his mind, so he asked regardless, “Mother, a question before I go.”

“What is that?” She said.

“The Wizard’s clothes, when you went through them, did you find anything that was not his.” He said.

“No. Anything else?” She said flatly.

“No. Thank you, Mother.” Tarek said before standing to leave. He walked to the door and half way out when the Mother called out to him.

“I know why you asked. And that thing. The thing you have, its not something you took. ”

“What?” Tarek asked, turning back to her.

“Are you a religious young man?” Mother asked.

“No.” Said Tarek.

“Oh, well, it will be more exciting that way. Off you go then.” Mother said, shooing Tarek with a wave of her arm.

................

What happened there? Tell me more!!!

Sitting atop the mountain outside the city gates, Tarek sat with his eyes closed. He took slow breaths and concentrated on the necklace and felt for which way it would pull him. It was a long time before he felt anything, but once he had managed to block out everything around him, he could feel it. The pull. It was not something that could be fully explained, just a feeling, an urge to go a certain direction. Opening his eyes, Tarek pulled out his compass and examined it to know the name of the direction he was being drawn toward. He needed to go south.

**

Finding work on a salt caravan going to south wasn’t hard, and by late day Tarek was moving out on the road.

**

There was a knock on the Mother’s door.

“Hello?” She answered.

“I have. Come for. Guidance.” Said stilted voice.

“Then come in.”

A man entered the house and approached the Mother.

“I need. To find. Someone.”

The man presented a worn sword for the Mother.

I've been in kind of writing slump, wrestling with some ideas, but here is a short section to prove I'm still going.
*******


The sun’s heat beat down on Tarek as he rode along the caravan’s flank. Billowing dust from the camels ahead had a while back forced him to wrap his shegmah over his face and lower his goggles over his eyes. Tarek lost himself in his thoughts as the tedious journey contined.

A while later a camel rider galloped alongside him.

“Hello, Mon Ami!” yelled the rider. He was equally swathed from the dust, but he voice was instantly recognizable as Morel, another hired guard.

Morel was a colonial. But he insisted he was a different type; Tarek at least could stomach talking to him.

“Hello.” He shouted back to Morel.

“Ami. We are stopping soon, I think. The merchant, that corpulent sloth, he looks nearly dead from exhaustion, as exhausted as sitting in covered cart makes one, ha-ha. ”

“I’m not surprised. He is running us during daylight.” Replied Tarek.

“He is fearing bandits, Ami. Shows what a fool he is, he thinks that the light of day will scare them off, ha. He has never run afoot thieves of these parts, he is used to the meek ones of foreign parts that run at the glint of a saber.”

The two continued to ride on along the side of the caravan talking. Morel was a man who enjoyed tell stories, and he told Tarek of his time in Kultu. The tales were quite exciting, though many began or ended in pubs.

From the head merchants entourage came the sound of the horn, signaling the halt of the caravan for the day.

***

In its idle body, Tarek's sleeping mind drifted and slowly it grew closer to his pain-

Aururi.

Her face was appeared from the dark recess of memory that his conscious mind locked away. It was set with eyes the color of deep amber and framed in locks of sable hair.

The image at once both brought forth happiness and a bleak emptiness.

She was as she looked the last time Tarek had seen her, before he had left.

His mind stayed in this place for a long time before being jerked awake by the crack of a rifle and the screams of bloodshed.

***

The dead were gathered in their masses. There were thousands of them in the valley flanked by sheer stone walls. They sky above- what could be seen through the thick black smoke- was a deep orange.

In the crowd some sat or paced quietly, while others screamed or cried at the sky.

At one end of the valley, huge metal double doors loomed between the stones, blocking the way past. No one neared them. A bell began to toll. Out of the crowd a woman walked toward the doors. She was not like anyone else in the crowd; she had no fear or confusion of the doors. She knew exactly what lay on the other side.

At her touch the doors swung open. Beyond them was a great river. The ever present black smoke clouded the far shore.

She stopped at the close shore of the river and then turned back to face the crowd, which was transfixed on her, but had not moved past the great doors.

"Follow me." she said, with a single arm outheld.

Slowly, the multitude pushed forward on to the river bank where she waited for them. When they had nearly reached her, she approached a lone child in the first rank, and spoke again, "Take my hand, off to never-neverland."

With the child she turned back to face the river and began to walk. They walked atop of the slow flowing water, leaving barely a ripple with each footstep. The crowd followed them across to what lay beyond.

The section wasn't emo or anything, but I think I understand why you might have feared it coming across as such. The phrase "boulevard of broken dreams" is a Green Day song that a lot of emo kids listen to. The song was fairly popular, and got a lot of radio airplay (at least, here). I don't know your plans, but you might want to watch out for that phrase, since it has other connotations now, like an overplayed song that a lot of people are familiar with.

I'm trying to slip in musical references, at first as a joke. But now I'm getting the hang of it and I'm going to edit out all the phrases except for 'Black Sabbath', 'Metallica' and other classic rock.

Pulp Hero wrote:I'm trying to slip in musical references, at first as a joke. But now I'm getting the hang of it and I'm going to edit out all the phrases except for 'Black Sabbath', 'Metallica' and other classic rock.

Oh, if you're doing it on purpose, go right on ahead. I like easter eggs like that. I didn't catch any of the other ones, so I didn't realize that was what you were doing.

You might want to proof read the chapters you have up for some agreement issues, like people saying "it is" when they should say "it is not". I thought I caught a few, but the story was too interesting to stop and make a note, and when I tried to go back, they didn't pop out again.

As the assassin walked past the bazaars of Kultu, he kept his drab shemagh over his face. A few passerby's looked up at the him with curiosity, but he had learned that traveling in Kultu without the mask attracted more curiosity.

He walked until he was in front of a building with a sign reading, "Hashmir's- Bread Ande Wheat". Slipping through the noisy crowd, he moved to a side street, and to door around the back of the shorter stone building. He knocked on the worn door and waited. Inside he could hear the clamor of several people moving around.

Finally someone called to him through the door.

"Who is it?", said an old, irritated man.

"I. Have come for. Bread." Said the assassin.

"Go around front idiot. This door might be for trash, but you still can't use it!"

"I have heard. You have. Special bread at this. Door."

"Special bread's are tomorrow, and we sell them out front!"

"I think I am here for something. Different."

"You want the almond bread? You come back tomorrow!"

The assassin was becoming frustrated. He leaned close to the door, "I am. Not here for. Bread."

"Well now you change your mind, you damn idiot. Don't come back at all if you don't want the almond bread."

Staying close to the door, the assassin lowered his voice, "I am here. For. Weapons."

"What? You have to speak up, I'm half deaf."

"Weapons!"

The door creaked open, revealing a short and pear shaped old man. "Weapons, eh? Why didn't you just say that?"

"I presumed. You wished to be. Discreet."

"Speak up!", said the old man turning his good ear toward the assassin.

"Discretion.", said the assassin, louder.

"Why? I pay the Provost good money so I don't have take shady customers who knock on my side door. The shady customers can come in the front!"

"I. See."

"Now, take off that damned rag if you want to purview my wares."

The assassin hesitated for a moment, and then unraveled the shemagh.

"Oh, I see." said the old man, looking at the assassin's unmasked face. His thin face was a dark, almost black shade of brown. On his cheeks and neck were stark white Warrior tattoos used only by the deepest of desert tribes.

"I don't get many customers that follow the old ways. The way back, old ways, in any case. Well, long as you got silver, salt, or stones I don't see much that I should care who you pray up to. Now, what do I call you?"

It was not a question the assassin was asked much- most people he met were employers or targets, and neither group was ever very curious about his name.

"You can. Call me. Zarboz."

"That's settled, now, come in, come in." The old man lead Zarboz through the back of the bakery, past the flour barrels, and to the next room. There were heavy wooden cabinets that the old man unlocked. Inside were weapons. Swords, hatchets, pistols, rifles, blunter-gonnes, powder bombs, caltrops, spears. They were all arrayed.

Oh man, Zarboz? AWESOME! I've been waiting for an update for a while now! This is probably one of two fanfics I'm following anymore. Very good!

I was gonna call him Zardoz. But that brings up all kinds of bad images.

Anyway, thanks. It good to know someone reads this.

The old man picked up a pair of ornate revolvers and went into his rehearsed sales pitch.

“This pair here are double strengthened steel with polished wheel wells, they hold seven three-quarter bullets a piece, and have fine matching darkwood handles. As you can see the-”

“No.” Zarboz interrupted him.

“Excuse me, sir?” Said the man, confused.

“I don’t. Use guns.”

The old man was aghast for a moment, before realizing that he was trying sell firearms to a seven foot tall tribal decked out head to toe in tattoos which pledged him as a worshipper of darkest, most primeval war god among the religions of the desert. Blades would be more his forte.

Before he could recover his composure and begin trying to sell one of his expensive blades, Zarboz had already picked a sword out of one of the cabinets. As Zarboz turned to examine it, the old man noticed a sheathed sword already hanging at his hip. A keen salesman like him never wasted a chance to sell a more expensive product.

“Now I see that you got yourself a sword already. Why don’t you go for one of these expertly crafted halberds?”, he said reaching for one of his poorly crafted, but highly polished pole weapons.

Zarboz looked down at the sword at his hip. “This. Weapon. Is not. Mine.” He said, before continuing, “I need a. Blade. To make my own.”

Up to this point the old man had been pushing back his innate repulsion to the tribal’s weirdness in order to make a sale, but now he just wanted the man to buy something and leave. Killers he could abide, they made sense, but killers who were ritualistic appeasers of ancient bloodthirsty gods, they were wrong.

Zarboz ran a hand along the blade of the sword, his fingers feeling every nick, crack, and grove along it.

The old man shivered as he watched.

Zarboz finally turned to face the man again, “This Sword. Has seen. So. Much. Blood.”

The old man didn’t quite know how to respond, “Well I see that could be a…problem.” He ventured.

But then he noticed that Zarboz was, ever so slightly, smiling. The smile was wrong.

“It will. Serve. Me well. I need an. Experienced weapon.”

After that all hint of the old man’s boisterous character had evaporated, and he silently finished the transaction, accepting whatever amount of money the assassin placed in his hand for the sword and its sheath.

He watched as Zarboz affixed it on his belt across from the sword he already carried, re-wrapped his shamegh, and left by the same door through which he had entered. As it creaked closed the old man let out his breath and sat down in a chair against the wall. Eventually he figured, when you sell illegal weapons to psychotics, sometimes you get a weird one.

**

Emerging from the alley and back into the bustling, dusty street Zarboz walked aimlessly. He was caught in his own thoughts. By now his target, the thief was far away. He could feel that the thief was very much like him, with a single goal dominating his mind. He was going somewhere, and Zarboz would never be able to catch up to him. Not by any normal way. Only his god could help him.

Zarboz thought on his problem for a long time before noticing where he had wandered. He was across the street from a bar frequented by the off duty colonials. In front of the building two half drunk soldiers in partial uniform were sniggering to each other between their cropped conversation.

DO IT.

Zarboz spoke quietly, “Help. Me.”

YES. HELP. NOW, DO IT.

Zarboz looked at the two men.

DO IT. DO IT. DO IT.

Just do it? I hope he's not about to kill the poor guys so he can start up a sweatshop for sneakers.

Man, I have to reread his lines everytime so I can get his broken sentences into my head the right way. I suppose you intended for it to be like that?

He pulled out his sword and let it hang idly in his hand as he walked across the street. As one of the colonials noticed him and began to turn his head for a look, Zarboz brought up his sword and jammed it through the man’s skull. With his free hand, he punched the other one in the face, knocking him down, and stomped hard on him with his boot.

Now people were screaming and running. Zarboz could hear someone pounding a bell from somewhere above him.

MORE.

Zarboz grabbed someone as they ran by, and twisted their head around. A trio of armed colonial soldiers rushed down the street with their rifles at the ready.

MORE. MORE. MORE.

They fired as one. While two of the shots went wide, one wedged into his chest, but it was already too late for them to stop him. As he sprinted towards them they fired again and again to no effect, and he cut them open, his elaborate flourishes flinging blood into the air.

YES.

More bells sounded across the city and colonial soldiers rushed into the fight. A horse pulled a carriage mounted cannon forward and as it stopped, the gunners hastened to load and aim it. But they could not work faster than Zarboz could charge and be upon them.

As the gunners died, Zarboz saw colonials close in around him.

He was standing over two barrels of black powder which were fastened to the carriage. He sliced one open, letting the powder spill on the ground. Then he brought the blade of his sword down to stone face of the road, and with a lightning fast motion, moved it across the stone and powder. It kicked up sparks.

The explosion was tremendous.

***

As Death sat and worked on the gray sand of her beach, she stopped for a moment and looked forward. In front of her the pitch colored river of life and death. On the other side of the river, obscured by the fog, the dead waited to be guided through the first part of the last part of their journey. But the bell would not toll for a while yet, so they would have to keep waiting.

She looked down again and continued her work.

The picture was not done yet.

The rabbit needed more work on the ears. The visual effect of ‘floppiness’ was difficult to draw onto stone with a bit of charcoal.

There was a sound like sizzling on cookery. Death looked toward the river again. In the distance there was an orange glow through the fog above it. As the glow moved closer, it became more defined as the silhouette of a man. Death did not get uninvited visitors often. There were very few individuals who could walk across the river without her guidance. And not all of them glowed orange.

But even if those were not the case, Death still knew exactly who was walking, or more precisely, stomping across her river. There was only one man angry enough to make the trip to argue with Death.

“Hello, War.” She said, when he had almost reached the shore.