24 Days of Christmas w/ TheAverageFan

[TGRF]

Originally Posted by TheAverageFan

It's okay, M_W... I don't have any friends...

~TAF, alone

Nah, don't say that. On this forum, we're all your friends.
Keep it up, TAF.
~TGRF.

[TheAverageFan]

Bah! Humbug! Welcome back, folks. We've made it all the way to the end of the 12 Days of Christmas. No problem! Ha! (Cough)

*Kicks Back In Chair* Ah! I'm sure glad I discovered the power of two-parters this holiday season. It's like it's not twelve days at all! All I need is a story that lasts more than ten pages and boom! Easy going. I've learned much from you, Mockingjay: Part 1 of 18. Ho ho ho.

Seriously though, kiddies. This day's special treat is the Christmas Classic--like, the Christmas Classic: A Christmas Carol. And what a long story it is, turns out! There's no way it couldn't be two parts by the time I was done with just Part 1 here. Sheesh. This is why you don't pay people by the word, kids. Well, anyhow: here it is for you: Part 1, anyway. Ho ho ho.

Day 11: A Heroscape Carol, Part 1

Spoiler Alert!

A Heroscape Carol
By Charles Dickens
Butchered by TheAverageFan

The Majors were dead; to begin with. There was never any doubt about that.
“The Majors died.”
“No doubt.”
What would you expect, though? They were ripe with old age, the ancient merchants of death. I always knew that the only thing that could do in Major Q9 was old age. Kato was their sole executor, their sole administrator, their sole assign, their sole residuary legatee (whatever that means), their sole friend and sole mourner. And even Kato was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of point-business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain. AKA, it was a real cheap affair. The two were laid on the sides of their army cards and pronounced dead as a doornail, by an intern preacher too.
Kato never painted out the old Majors' name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: “Kato and the Majors”. Sometimes people new to the business called Kato Katsuro, and sometimes the Majors, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him. I do the same thing when people ask me for my parents.
Kato! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as a DeathWalker. Ugly, cold, and stoic as a fish, he marched around without a care for any other. A real unsociable type. It’s good to have a hero the audience can relate to.
External heat and cold had little influence on Kato. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. He had Enhanced Snow and Ice movement, as well as Lava Resistance—the only thing he didn’t have an upper hand on was gravity.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Kato, how are you? Would you like to play some Heroscape with me?" No beggars implored him to share his terrain, no children asked him What Was In An Order Marker, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way any game was played, of Kato.
Old Kato was a man of ruthless gaming, always with an extra set of rules tucked under his arm and a small sack of dice hidden under his top hat, which he wore atop his helmet. He never carried a calculator with him, for the armies of his choice he had already memorized for formats of 500, 350, 650 points and whatnot. An avaricious collector of Heroscape, the old commander kept all but the highest quality figures to the forefront of any game, the others left to collect dust (hey, I spelled avaricious right first try). Isamu, games played: over a thousand; Otonashi, games played: zero. Marro Stingers, games played: over two thousand; Shiori, games played: zero.
And of the D&D, don’t even start on the D&D! It was an establishment Kato Katsuro refused to do business with, and any figure sense would see no play under his house rules! A man of ruthless efficiency, Kato always won, but he never had fun. This made the nasty old Daimyo as rich and as hated as any other rich hated person (an analogy of a short distance).
But onto Christmas anyhow! Kato hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season! Now please don’t ask why, nobody quite knows the reason… no, wait, we already did that.
Not to make the statement any less true. Kato was always a villainous wretch, but at Christmas he was all the more villainous, and all double the wretched.
So anyway, once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve -- old Kato sat busy in his drafting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the map outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands together, and stamping their bases upon the road tiles to warm them.
The door of Kato's drafting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, Kaemon Awa, who in a dismal little triple-hex tile beyond, was copying letters. Kato had a very small Fire Elemental, but Kaemon’s Fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal.
And so Kato sat, calculating his numbers and percentages. All but the best of any Heroscape were left dusty and useless by the ruthless command he boasted. For none liked Kato, and fewer still liked to challenged the results of his methods. Never a wind of change blew through his brittle old bones.
"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Kato's not-so-dearest nephew, Hatamato Taro, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.
"Bah!" said Kato, "Humbug! Bearbug! Bugs in general!"
He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Kato's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again. He had a nice flag, too.
"Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Hatamato, "You don't mean that, I’m sure."
"I do," said Kato. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're bad enough."
"Come, then," returned Hatamato gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're expensive enough."
Kato having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug."
"Don't be cross, uncle!" said Hatamato.
"What else can I be," returned the uncle, "when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas these days, with no Heroscape around, yet all the more merry are you! As if it weren’t bad enough to have so many new figures pouring in from all D&D fronts in years past! Now people are telling me to invest is these SoV and C3V nonsense! More fuel for the fire, I say! Never a unit of these in any army of mine! If I could work my will," said Kato indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his figure, should be boiled with his own melted plastic, and buried with a Marro Hive through his heart. He should!"
"Uncle!" pleaded Hatamato.
"Nephew!" returned the uncle, sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."
"Keep it!" repeated Hatamato. "But you don't keep it."
"Let me leave it alone, then," said Kato. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!"
"There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned Taro. "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: a time of fun! And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a worse unit than I on the table, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"
Kaemon upon hearing this involuntarily applauded. Twice in short succession, as he tended to do so.
"Let me hear another sound from you," said Kato, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your drafting situation. You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "I wonder you don't become your own General."
"Don't be angry, uncle. Come! ‘Scape with us tomorrow."
“Bah, a poor man’s ‘Scape is worth none more than a 300 point game. Never.”
"But why?" cried Hatamato. "Why?"
"Humbug. Good Game, spare me the time!"
"Nay, uncle, but you said you would. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?"
"Good Game," said Kato.
"I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?"
"Good Game," said Kato.
"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!"
"Good Game," said Kato.
"And A Happy New Year!"
"Good Game!" said Kato.
Hatamato left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on Kaemon, who cold as he was, was warmer than Kato; for he returned them cordially.
"There's another fellow," muttered Kato; who overheard him: "my clerk, Kaemon, with fifteen points a round, and a wife and squad family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bleakwood."
As Kaemon let Hatamato out, two Tarn Vikings came in. They were portly gentlemen (heh), pleasant to behold (but they didn’t smell too great), and now stood, with their helmets off, in Kato's office. They had army cards and glyphs in their hands, and bowed to him.
"Kato and Majors’, I believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Kato, or either of the Mr. Majors?"
"The Majors have been dead these seven years," Kato replied. "They died seven years ago, this very night."
He threw some powder into the Fire Elemental, making it spark and puff up some smoke.
"We have no doubt their liberality is well represented by their surviving partner. At this festive season of the year, Mr. Kato," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the sucky and undraftable, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common use, sir."
"Are there no basements?" asked Kato.
"Plenty of basements," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.
"And the closets?" demanded Kato. "Are they still in operation?"
"They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not."
"The Power Rankings and the strict Tourneys are in full vigor, then?" said Kato.
"Both very busy, sir."
"Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Kato. "I'm very glad to hear it."
"Under the impression that they scarcely furnish cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to see the Poor some use this Christmas season, be it at home or a friendly local tourney, perhaps? What shall I put you down for?"
"Nothing!" Kato replied.
"You wish to be anonymous?"
"I wish to be left alone," said Kato. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned -- they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there."
"Many can't go there; and many would rather die."
"If they would rather die," said Kato, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Good afternoon, gentlemen!"
Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the Tarn Vikings withdrew. Kato returned his labors with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him. Perhaps Christmas could be a merrier time of year for him, if only more ignorant gentlemen were willing to allow upon themselves the lashing of his tongue; serves them right.
Soon enough it came time to close for the day, Kato putting on his helmet and top hat and motioning to the door for Kaemon.
"You'll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?" said Kato.
"If quite convenient, sir."
"It's not convenient," said Kato, "and it's not fair.”
Kaemon observed that it was only once a year.
"A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!" said Kato, buttoning his armor to the chin. "But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning."
And with that, the old commander left his drafting-house for the day and set off, paying the cold no heed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partners. A nasty heap of brick, hidden amongst the nearby walls of other ancient buildings, loosey decorated with a hideous web of black-colored Christmas lights. It was adorned in a mess of “Anti-Christmas” decorations; even a drow would turn a blind eye to it and call it unwelcoming. It was an old ruin of a building, carefully painted to look so, as Castles in Heroscape are so often new-looking. Ruins and bridges don’t look so hot, so why do Castle Walls look so perfect? But I digress, on to the door.
Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large and had absolutely ridiculous stats. Let it also be borne in mind that Kato had not bestowed one thought on the Majors, since his last mention of his seven years' dead partners that afternoon. And then let any unit explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Kato, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change -- not a knocker, but a Major’s face.
It was transparent and cast in a faint, steely-cold light. It’s face was difficult to discern, but it’s giant ghostly shoulder pads lent to the belief that this was the Major Q9—very awkward indeed. Its eyes stared forward, lidless and motionless. Well, as motionless as any Soulborg’s had ever been—are they even alive to begin with?
As Kato looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.
To say that he was not startled would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.
Up Kato went, not caring a Reaver for the dark. Darkness is cheap, and Kato liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that.
Bedroom, starting zone, gaming-room. All as they should be.
Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Kato hated Customs, remember? Thus secured against surprise, he sat down before the fire to take his gruel.
As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment that he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.
This ringing, wringing and dinging, lasted for only a moment, if only a moment the clinging and clanging was the bells’ singing of ringing and dinging upon its hinging, giving a dreading feeling… ing. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar.
"It's humbug still!" said Kato. "I won't believe it."
This attitude was swiftly changed upon the blowing of a great wind through the heavy door, smothering the fire and bringing with it a pair of apparitions into Kato’s presence.
The same faces: the very same. Majors in their armor, dark gray and blue. The chains they drew were clasped about their middle. It was long, and wound about them like a tail; and it was made (for Kato observed it closely) of calculators, order markers, instruction books, glyphs, and dice towers wrought in steel. Mostly, though, a Glyph of Proftaka lay just below their bases. Their bodies were transparent; Kato had often heard it said that the Majors had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.
“Boo!” The phantoms spoke.
"How now!" said Kato, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?"
“Ask us who we are.” The Ghosts commanded.
"Who are you?"
“We are Avarice and Greed.” Was the reply.
“I know not of your names but of you’re appearances,” said Kato, confused at this.
"Ask us who we were, then."
"Who were you then?" said Kato, raising his voice. "You're particular, for a shade."
"In life I was your partner, Major Q9."
“And I, Major Q10.”
“But you’re supposed to be dead!” Kato looked doubtfully at them. Nothing could bring back the dead, save for a Sturla Glyph. Not that anyone uses those, giving ground to the Daimyo’s doubt.
“Let us explain in better terms, then.” Q9 said, “Ready, Major?”
“Ready, Major.” The other Ghost said, and the two continued in unison, breaking forth into a deeply rehearsed song:
“We’re Major and Major… Ooooohhh! We’re Major and Major!—”
“Look, stop that! We’ll have no singing! This isn’t a musical!” Kato barked, “And we’ve had enough rhyming for one Christmas, I think!”
“Okay, fine.” The Majors floated down upon two empty chairs, seemingly able to sit in them in their still state.
"You don't believe in us," observed the Ghosts, after a period of awkward silence.
"I don't." said Kato.
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because," said Kato, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheat. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a touch of Negation, or the leftover drain of a Marro Gnid. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"
At this the spirits raised a frightful cry, and shook their chains with such a dismal and appalling noise, firing bullets and rockets into the air until the beams shook and dust rained down upon Kato.
"Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparitions, why do you trouble me?"
"Man of the worldly mind!" replied the Ghost, "do you believe in us or not?"
"I do," said Kato. "I must. But why do spirits walk the board, and why do they come to me?"
"It is required of every figure," the second Major returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world -- oh, woe is me! (“and me”, added the first Major) -- and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!"
Again the specters raised a cry, and shook their chains and wrung their shadowy hands (barrels).
"You are fettered," said Kato, trembling. "Tell me why?"
"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?"
Kato trembled more and more.
"Or would you know," pursued the Major, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have labored on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!"
“Not as ponderous as the chain of events that are to follow you this night!” The second Ghost added, the two laughing loudly, “Oh hohohoho!”
"Majors," Kato said, imploringly. "Old Major Q9, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Q10!"
"I have none to give," the Major replied. " I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never tried beyond our drafting -- mark me! -- in life my armies never roved beyond the narrow limits of our point-value hole; and weary journeys lie before me!"
"You must have been very slow about it, Major," Kato observed, in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference.
"Slow!" the Ghost repeated.
"Seven years dead," mused Kato. "And travelling all the time!"
"The whole time," said the Ghost. "No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse."
"You travel fast?" said Kato.
"On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost.
“On what?”
“As fast as Cyprien.”
"Oh. You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years," said Kato.
The Ghosts, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked their chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the Warforged would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance.
"Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried the phantom, "not to know, that ages of incessant labor, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know the opportunities of a vast army, and a varied format! Always with the rankings and formality were we! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused! Yet such was I! Oh! Such was I!"
“Me too.” Added the second phantom, firing rockets of remorse into the air.
"But you were always good men of business, Majors," faltered Kato, who now began to apply this to himself.
"Business!" cried the Ghosts, wringing their hands (barrels) again. "Heroscape was my business. The Commons were my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a tile of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"
"At this time of the rolling year," the spectres said "I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-units with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode! Were there no lousy armies to which its light would have conducted me!"
Kato was very much dismayed to hear the spectres going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly.
"Hear us!" cried the Ghosts. "Our time is nearly gone."
"I will," said Kato. "But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery, Major!"
"That is no light part of my penance," pursued the Ghost. "I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Katsuro."
"You were always good friends to me," said Kato. "Thank you!"
"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits."
"Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Q9?" he demanded, in a faltering voice.
"It is."
"I -- I think I'd rather not," said Kato.
"Without their visits," said the other, "you cannot hope to shun the path we tread. Expect the first tomorrow, at the end of the first round."
"Couldn't I take ‘em all at once, and have it over, Q10?" hinted Kato.
"Expect the second on the next round at the same hour. The third upon the next round when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see us no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!"
With that the Majors’ Ghosts vanished. Kato examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say "Humbug!" but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or the dull conversation of the Ghosts, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.

---

When Kato awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavoring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighboring church struck the four quarters. So he listened for the hour. Twelve.
Kato lay there until the chimes had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghosts had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to lie awake until the hour was past. And so time passed.
"Ding, dong!"
"A quarter past," said Kato, counting.
"Ding dong!"
"Half past!" said Kato.
"Ding dong!"
"A quarter to it," said Kato.
"Ding dong!"
"The hour itself," said Kato, triumphantly,
"and nothing else!"
He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn, and Kato found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them.
It was a strange figure – like a winged lady of the purest plastic and paint. Its mostly hidden hair was a light shade of blonde only a touch brighter than its pale skin. It wore armor of the purest white, gray, and blue and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a silver spear in its hand. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its helm there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible.
"Are you the Spirit, whose coming was foretold to me?" asked Kato.
"I am."
The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.
"Who, and what are you?" Kato demanded.
"I am RotV Raelin, the Ghost of Heroscape Past."
"Long Past?" inquired Kato.
"No. Your past."
“And how do you pronounce ‘Rotv’?”
"I am here for your welfare," the Ghost persisted.
Kato expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately:
"Your reclamation, then. Take heed."
It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm.
"Rise. And walk with me."
The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand (not surprisingly), was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped his armor in supplication.
"I am mortal," Kato remonstrated, "and liable to Extreme Falling Damage."
"Bear but a touch of my hand there," said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this."
As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open neighborhood road, with houses on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.
"Good Heaven!" said Kato, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. "I was drafted in this place. I was playtested here."
The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten.
"You recollect the way?" inquired the Spirit.
"Remember it!" cried Kato with fervor -- "I could walk it blindfold."
"Strange to have forgotten it for so many years," observed the Ghost. "Let us go on."
They walked along the road, Kato recognizing every ruin, and overhang, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its castle, and winding river. Some Gryphillins now were seen trotting towards them with units upon their backs, who called to other boys in country carts, driven by folks all in great spirits.
"These are but shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us."
The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Kato knew and named them every one.
“It’s all my old friends and neighbors,” He said with a forgetful happiness, “Bob, Ben, Bill, Benson, Bailey, Barrett, Barnaby, Baxter, Barton, Bart, Beckett, Benet, Bert, Blake, Bolton, Bradley, Brady, Brad, Brandon, Brendan, Brent, Bristol, Brock, Bowser, Buck, Buster, and Carl… Carl was always the oddball of the group.”
Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them. Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and-bye ways, for their several homes? What was merry Christmas to Kato? Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done to him?
"That house is not quite deserted," said the Ghost. "A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still."
They left the road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious rooms were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed.
They went, the Ghost and Kato, across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these a lonely boy playing a solitary game of Heroscape all by his lonesome, and Kato sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he used to be, a somewhat newer Heroscape figure playing an old Heroscape set for the first time... okay, so it doesn’t make any sense. Sue me.
"What is the matter?" asked the Spirit.
"Nothing," said Kato. "Nothing. It’s just this old first Heroscape set of mine: a solitary Rise of the Valkyrie. It reminds me of the old days, back before you even knew what units were good and which ones weren’t, that’s all. We were so nooby back then, we hadn’t a clue what we were doing. I lost more often than not back in these days, even to myself!"
The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, "Let us see another Christmas!"
At that moment they left the house behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battle for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up.
The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Kato if he knew it.
"Know it!" said Kato. "Was I apprenticed here?"
They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Viking helmet, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Kato cried in great excitement:
"Why, it's old Finniwig! Bless his sculpt; it's Finniwig alive again! He taught me near everything I know about Heroscape! He taught me how to use screens! He taught me about unit synergy! He taught me that the Glyph of Dagmar isn’t an Attack +8 Glyph!"
Old Finniwig laid down his pen and checked the clock before calling out most joyously.
"Yo ho, there! Katsuro!”
Kato's former self, looking exactly the same as Heroscape figures tended to, came briskly in.
"Hilli-ho!" cried old Finniwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lad, and let's have lots of room here. Chirrup, Katsuro."
In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; pairing up and madly ‘Scaping as if the world depended on it; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they finished a game.
Then old Finniwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Finniwig (which was really just Thorgrim in a dress since Finniwig had recently been dumped by the real Mrs. Finniwig and sought not to have a soul present know about it). Top couple too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.
When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr and Mrs Finniwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Happy ‘Scaping and a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the apprentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.
During the whole of this time, Kato had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self was turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon it shone very clear.
He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.
"What is the matter?" asked the Ghost.
"Nothing in particular," said Kato.
"Something, I think?" the Ghost insisted.
"No," said Kato, "No. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now! That's all."
His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and Kato and the Ghost again stood side by side in the open air.
"My time grows short," observed the Spirit. "Quick!"
This was not addressed to Kato, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Kato saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. Actually, he looked exactly the same.
He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.
"It matters little," she said, softly. "To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve."
"What Idol has displaced you?" he rejoined.
"A golden one."
"This is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said. "There is nothing on which it is so hard as losing; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of victory!"
"You fear the world too much," she answered, gently. "All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?"
"What then?" he retorted. "Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you."
She shook her head.
"Am I?"
"Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made, you were another man."
"Actually I was exactly the same," he said impatiently.
"Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are," she returned. "I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it, and can release you."
"Have I ever sought release?"
"In words? No. Never."
"In what, then?"
"In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us," said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him; "tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no!"
He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of himself. But he said with a struggle," You think not?"
"I would gladly think otherwise if I could," she answered, "Heaven knows. When I have learned a Truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free today, tomorrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a Heroscapeless girl -- you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were."
“Look, I only used the Minutemen for five games in a row—it hardly warrants anything… okay, ten games in a row…” He excused himself.
She left him, and they parted.
"Spirit!" said Kato, "show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me? I’d sooner meet my end at the hands of a pack of Reavers or try to destroy a Castle Door myself!"
“Oh, you do mean it.” The Ghost replied.
"Spirit!" said Kato in a broken voice, "remove me from this place."
"I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"
"Remove me!" Kato exclaimed, "I cannot bear it!"
He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it.
"Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!"
With that, Kato seized the Ghost and fought, struggling to hide its light under its helmet. I viciously banged the two sculpts together, shining my flashlight upon it as I did so. Fighting down with all his might, the Daimyo pressed down and covered the bright aura.
The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that the helmet quickly covered its whole form; but though Kato pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.
He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

To Be Continued…

Oh, the suspense! What could possibly happen next? Besides, of course, the obvious Ghost of Heroscape Present and Future and what not; whatever! Worry not, kids, I may yet have an extra-special surprise for you tomorrow as well, besides of course the obvious follow-up to the story here. Because the best prize is a surprise! (but don't get your expectations up--I'm still me, after all; here's another bird)

~TAF, ho ho ho.

[Maklar the Silver Prince]

To keep TAF from having to double post...

This is some of the funniest stuff ever.

[Marro_Warlord]

Originally Posted by Maklar the Silver Prince

To keep TAF from having to double post...

This is some of the funniest stuff ever.

[TheAverageFan]

Everyone's Fair and Relative Opinion Bless Us, Every One! Well, kids... we're finally at the end of our exasperatingly long Christmas journey! You know, folks... I, TheAverageFan, have learned a lot during our time together. I've learned that just because an idea comes to you, and it really seems like a good one, it doesn't mean that you should go ahead and do it without a second thought. Maybe, think for a moment: "Do I even have 12 Ideas?" That's the true meaning of Christmas, kids, write that down.

Anyway, I suppose you're skimming through this part to get to the story already. So without further ado, I do give you your Part 2. It was a lengthy one, this piece (if you can finish it, then you must be having a very lonely Christmas Eve). Merry Christmas, ya scamps!

Day 12: A Heroscape Carol, Part 2

Spoiler Alert!

A Heroscape Carol Part 2
By Charles Dickens
Ruined Forever by TheAverageFan

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Kato had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of One. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him through the Majors' intervention. But, finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new specter would draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands, and lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. For, he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise. And thus old Kato turtled.
Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came.
All at last, about the length of any good Heroscape game, old Kato noticed a light streaming below the door of the adjacent room. Unable to take any further suspense, the grumpy old Daimyo rose from his bed and went to the door. You’d have done the same, you would.
The moment Kato's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.
It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with plastic-green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming wound markers glistened. The crisp leaves reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in Kato's time. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. And rare Wyvern-roast beast—no, not that! In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Dwarf, glorious to see: who bore a glowing torch, in shape of a powerful Dwarven weapon, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Kato, as he came peeping round the door.
"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in, and know me better, man."
Kato entered timidly, pointing a shaky, albeit accusing finger, “And who are you supposed to be? I don’t recognize any figure of yours, Dwarf.”
"I am Mogrimm Forgehammer: the Ghost of Heroscape Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me. Am I not grand, Kato?"
Kato reverently did so. It was clothed heavy festive armor, with stone and iron weapons loaded around every joint of its body. Its jolly face was pinched between its great beard and stubby helmet. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust. Can’t expect a Dwarf to keep track of all his weapons…
"You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed the Spirit.
"Never," Kato made answer to it.
“Surely you’d recognize a member of the Heroscape family, avaricious collector.”
“Not you I haven’t.” said Kato.
“No? D&D set, perhaps?” said the Ghost.
“Surely no good unit came from that awful session.” said Kato.
“I am not awful, man!” said the Ghost, “In fact I am very good! It’s just most other D&D units that are awful!”
“Oh. Still would not recognize a figure as new as yourself.” Kato grumbled, hating to be wrong about something, anything.
"Hm, have you never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the Phantom.
"I don't think I have," said Kato. "I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?"
"More than two thousand," said the Ghost.
"A tremendous family to provide for," muttered Kato.
The Ghost of Heroscape Present rose.
"Spirit," said Kato submissively, "conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. Tonight, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it."
"Touch my armor."
Kato did as he was told, and held it fast.
In an instant the room vanished, and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning.
The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Valhalla had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts’ content. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavored to diffuse in vain.
For, the people who were shoveling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball -- better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest -- laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong.
But soon the gamers called good people all, to fun and games, and away they went, flocking through the streets with their best armies, and with their happiest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of ruins, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable units, carrying themselves to the nearest games. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with Kato beside him in a gamer’s doorway, watching every unit around fight the good fight on this Christmas Day.
“See there how that poor bloke with the DeathWalker 7000 rolled a 2 on his Explosion.” The Ghost said.
“Serves him right. Using it on such a foe as Ashigaru Yari.” Kato rebutted, “Couldn’t ever make back his points.”
“Ah, but look there as the two laugh on anyway.” The Ghost said, “It’s all in the name of fun on this merry day.”
“Humbug. Fun.” said Kato.
In time the bells ceased, and the gamers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these games that made it seem as if the ‘Scaping had never really ended at all.
They went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. Perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Kato's clerk's; for there he went, and took Kato with him, holding to his armor; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, standing on a box to peek inside.
Then up rose Mrs. Kaemon, assisted by Belinda Awa, second of her daughters, while Peter Awa carefully adjusted the sculpts of some Zombies into the saucepan (Kaemon was never a clever namer of children, but what do you expect from someone whose name is Kaemon). And now two smaller Awas, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the gamer's they had seen the latest Custom ‘Scape, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of new ninjas and knights, these young Awas danced about the table, and exalted Peter Awa to the skies, while he blew the fire, until the Zombies bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and resculpted.
"What has ever got your precious father then?" said Mrs. Kaemon. "And your sister, Tiny ‘Tashi; And Moriko weren’t as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour."
"Here's Moriko, mother," said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
"Here's Moriko, mother!" cried the two young Awa. "Hurrah! There's such a map, Moriko!"
"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Kaemon, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her ninja hood for her with officious zeal.
"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother. Those key political figures won’t assassinate themselves!"
"Well. Never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Kaemon. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye."
"No, no. There's father coming," cried the two young Awas, who were everywhere at once. In came Kaemon Awa, and Tiny Otonashi upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny ‘Tashi, she bore a little crutch-sword, for she had snapped off of her base long ago (sniff!).
"And how did little Otonashi behave?" asked Mrs. Kaemon.
"As good as gold," said Kaemon, "and better. Somehow she gets thoughtful sitting by herself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. She told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw her in the church, because she was near-useless, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see."
Kaemon's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny ‘Tashi was growing strong and hearty.
Her active little sword was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny ‘Tashi before another word was spoken, escorted by her brother and sister to her stool before the fire; and while Kaemon compounded some soda; Peter and the two young Awas went to fetch the terrain, with which they soon returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought this terrain the rarest of any kind; a hexagon phenomenon -- and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Kaemon took Tiny ‘Tashi beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Awas set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves. At last the Heroscape table was set and ready to begin.
There never was such a map as this. Kaemon said he didn't believe there ever was such a map made. Its size and range, height and water all evened out perfectly without the need of any colorful tile as a Volcarren or Tundra would bring you. As this game persisted, only the basic terrain of green blue and brown were needed. Wide and ranging, it was a sufficient table for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Kaemon said with great delight, good game. But now, the game was over, map torn apart and stacked back up neatly, and figures returned to their even places.
At last the gaming was all done, the table was cleared, the tiles swept aside, and the Heroscape closed up. Kaemon sought it fitting to dish out his final thoughts on the matter, two short sentences in quick succession:
"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us."
Which all the family re-echoed.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny ‘Tashi, the last of all.
She sat very close to her father's side upon her little stool. Kaemon held her withered little hand in his, as if he loved the ninja, and wished to keep her by his side forever.
"Spirit," said Kato, with an interest he had never felt before, "tell me if Tiny ‘Tashi will live."
"I see a dusty sculpt,” replied the Ghost, "in the poor chimney-corner, and a sword without an owner. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the ninja will never see play again."
"No, no," said Kato. "Oh, no, kind Spirit. Say she will be spared from such a boring fate."
"If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race," returned the Ghost, "will find her here. What then? If she be like to die, she had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."
Kato hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit (albeit singular and gender differences), and was overcome with penitence and grief. Kato bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name.
"Mr. Kato!" said Kaemon; "I'll give you Mr. Kato, the Founder of the Games!"
"The Founder of the Games indeed!" cried Mrs. Kaemon, reddening. "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it."
"My dear," said Kaemon, "Christmas Day."
"It should be Christmas Day, I am sure," said she, "on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, expensive, unfeeling man as Mr. Kato. You know he is, Awa. Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow."
"My dear," was Kaemon's mild answer, "Christmas Day."
"Will you stop doing everything twice in a row!? …I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's," said Mrs. Kaemon, "not for his. Long life to him. A merry Christmas and a happy new year! -- he'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!"
The children drank the toast after her (don’t drink, though, kids. Children shouldn’t drink). It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny ‘Tashi drank it last of all, but she didn't care two Zettians for it. Kato was the Ogre Pulverizer of the family.
But, they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, Kato had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny ‘Tashi, until the last.
By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and Kato and the Spirit went along the streets.
The two ventured across the town, witnessing a great many good Christmas and Heroscape experiences through each and every window. The great merriment slowly melted away at Kato’s heart until the Daimyo looked down upon the pavement with guilt, wishing now to see faces of friends he would recognize, and perhaps tell them he would like to field them in battle sometime. It was a great surprise to Kato, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Kato to recognize it as his own nephew's and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability.
"And then I said, ‘maybe I’m only as good as the man standing next to me, but at least I’m safe against special attacks, you damn dirty ape!’” laughed Hatamato. "Ha, ha, ha!"
Kato's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends being not a bit behindhand, roared out lustily.
"Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
That really wasn’t that funny, but I suppose Hatamato and his friends must’ve had some Christmas drinks not too soon before this.
"Anyway, I asked dear old uncle Kato if he’d come on over, yesterday afternoon. He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!" cried Hatamato. "He believed it too."
"More shame for him, Taro." said Kato's niece, indignantly.
"He's a comical old fellow," said Kato's nephew, "that's the truth: and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him."
"I'm sure he is very rich, Taro," hinted Kato's niece. "Got so much Heroscape… At least you always tell me so."
"What of that, my dear?" said Hatamato. "His vast Heroscape is of no use to him. He don't do any good with most of it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He only uses the same armies."
"I have no patience with him," observed Kato's niece. Kato's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed the same opinion.
"Oh, I have," said Hatamato "I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a game, his point of view."
"Indeed, I think he loses a very good game," interrupted Kato's niece.
"Well. I'm very glad to hear it," said Hatamato.
Of much merriment ensued, Kato attentively watching the entire ordeal. Next the group decided to play a game. No, not Heroscape, sad to say. It was a Game called Yes and No, where Hatamato had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in Valhalla, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a Gryphillin, or an Pegasus, or a Hound, or an Ogre (well, sort of), or a Chimera, or a Grok, or a Viper (well, sort of a snake), or an Elemental, or a Wolf. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter. At last one guest, falling into a similar state, cried out:
"I have found it out! I know what it is, Taro! I know what it is!"
"What is it?" cried Hatamato.
"It's your Uncle Kato!"
Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to "Is it an Ogre?" ought to have been "Yes," inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Kato, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way.
"He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure," said Hatamato, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a Potion of Healing ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, " 'Uncle Kato!' "
"Well! Uncle Kato!" they cried.
"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is," said Hatamato. "He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Kato!"
Kato had imperceptibly become so happy and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels.
Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Kato had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that while Kato remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Kato had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until he noticed that its hair was very grey and its skin very wrinkly (well, especially so for a Dwarf).
"Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Kato.
"My life upon this globe, is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends tonight. Tonight at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near."
The bell struck twelve.
Kato looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of the old Majors, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.

---

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came, Kato bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save for its white eyes and one outstretched hand, holding a dagger. It was a form new to old Kato, foreign to the canon of old ‘Scape: Kantono Daishi, the Ghost of Heroscape Yet to Come!
He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.
"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Heroscape Yet To Come?" said Kato.
The Spirit answered not, but pointed downward with its hand.
"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Kato pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?"
The Spirit nodded bluntly.
Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Kato feared the Jonin so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and knife and one great heap of black.
"Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.
"Lead on," said Kato. "Lead on. The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit."
The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Kato followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along.
They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of businessmen. Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Kato advanced to listen to their talk.
"No," said a great fat man with a monstrous chin," I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's been put away."
"When?" inquired another.
"Last night, I believe."
"Why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. "I thought he'd never be lost."
"God knows, someone must’ve gotten bored with him—or someone else came along and made the old fellow useless." said the first, with a yawn.
"What has he done with his collection?" asked a red-faced gentleman.
"I haven't heard," said the man with the large chin, yawning again. "Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know."
This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.
"It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the same speaker; "for upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?"
"I don't mind going if a lunch is provided," observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. "But I must be fed, if I make one."
Another laugh.
Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Kato knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation, still receiving none.
They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Kato had never been before, although he recognized its situation, and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the units half-wounded, rolling blanks, sleeping, bad in general. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offenses of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.
Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where every and any old unwanted figures were bought. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of dusty dice and broken hexes. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal stove, made of old bricks, was a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age; who had screened himself from the cold air without, by a frowsy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters, hung upon a line; and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement.
Kato and the Phantom came into the presence of this man, just as a nasty Marro witch with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. She was closely followed by a man in scratched clunky black armor, who was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh.
"Let the charwoman alone to be the first!" cried she who had entered first. "and let the undertaker's man alone to be the second. Look here, old man, here's a chance!"
"You couldn't have met in a better place," said the old man, removing his pipe from his mouth. "Come into the parlor. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come into the parlor. Come into the parlor."
While he did this, the Marro Warwitch who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her spidery knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two.
"Very well, then!" cried the Marro. "That's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose."
"No, indeed," said the armored man, laughing.
"If he wanted to keep them after he was dead, a wicked old screw," pursued the Warwitch, "why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he became unplayable, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself."
"It's the truest word that ever was spoke," said the knight. "It's a judgment on him."
"I wish it was a little heavier judgment," replied the Marro; "and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old man, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. We know pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle."
But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in black armor, mounting the breach first, produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A 24-hex tile or two, a dice bag, a pair of army cards, and a Brooch of Shielding, were all. They were severally examined and appraised by the old man, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each upon the wall, and added them up into a total when he found there was nothing more to come.
"That's your account," said the old man, "and I wouldn't give another point, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who's next?"
"And now undo my bundle," said the Marro.
The geezer went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.
"What do you call this?" said the old man. "Bed-curtains?"
"Ah!" returned the witch, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. "Bed-curtains."
"You don't mean to say you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there?" said the old man.
"Yes I do," replied the Marro. "Why not?"
"You were born to make your fortune," said the old man," and you'll certainly do it."
"I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, I promise you," returned the woman coolly. "Don't drop that oil upon the blankets, now."
"His blankets?"
"Whose else's do you think?" replied the woman. "He isn't likely to take cold without them, I dare say."
"I hope he didn't die of any thing catching. Eh?" said the old man, stopping in his work, and looking up.
"Don't you be afraid of that," returned the Warwitch. "I ain't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things, if he did. You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me."
"What do you call wasting of it?" asked the old man.
"Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure," replied the woman with a laugh.
Kato listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust.
"Ha, ha!" laughed the same Marro, when the old man, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. "This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead. Ha, ha, ha!"
"Spirit," said Kato, shuddering from head to foot. "I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this?"
He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language.
A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man.
"Spirit," he said, "this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go."
Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.
"I understand you," Kato returned, "and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power."
Again it seemed to look upon him.
"If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man's death," said Kato quite agonized, "show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you."
The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and as they went along, Kato looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered Kaemon Awa's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the mother and the children seated round the fire.
Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Awas were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter. The mother and her daughters were engaged in building a Heroscape stage. But surely they were very quiet.
The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face.
"The color hurts my eyes," she said.
The color? Ah, poor Tiny ‘Tashi.
"They're better now again," said Kaemon's wife. "It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time."
"Past it rather," Peter answered, "But I think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother."
They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:
"I have known him walk with -- I have known him walk with Tiny ‘Tashi upon his shoulder, very fast indeed."
"But she was very light to carry," she resumed, intent upon her work, "and her father loved her so, that it was no trouble -- no trouble. And there is your father at the door!"
She hurried out to meet him; and Kaemon came in… Kaemon came in (say that 5 times fast).
Kaemon was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Kaemon and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.
"Sunday. You went today, then, Awa?" said his wife.
"Yes, my dear," returned Kaemon. "I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised her that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little ninja!" cried Kaemon.
He left the room, and went upstairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the dusty ninja, and there were signs of someone having been there, lately. Kaemon sat down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face twice in short succession. He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy.
They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother working still.
“I can only hope for us to be all the more closer and better off.” said Kaemon, “But however and when ever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny ‘Tashi -- shall we -- or this first parting that there was among us.”
"Never, father!" cried they all.
"I am very happy," said Kaemon, "I am very happy!"
"Specter," said Kato, "something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead."
The Spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to the end. Down the road and further outward. Kato joined it once again, and wondering why and whither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. He paused to look round before entering.
An old ruined cemetery. Here, then, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place, overly hilly and dirty, with many an unwelcome bush sprouting between the battlement tombstones.
The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. Kato advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.
"Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said Kato, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?"
Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.
"Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead," said Kato. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me."
The Spirit was immovable as ever.
Kato crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave, BILL BRASKY.
“Oh,” said Kato, “Well that’s just someone else, all right. Hmm. What a strange lesson.”
Upon his relief, the Daimyo rested upon the old tomb, and it quickly crumbled down. Kato fell over and rose back up, reading the name inscribed upon the tomb immediately behind it: KATO KATSURO. Inscribed upon a stone upon a closet, holding hundreds of dusty old unplayed Katos.
"Nooo! Am I that man who lay upon the bed?" he cried, upon his knees.
The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.
"No, Spirit! Oh no, no!"
The finger still was there.
"Spirit!" he cried, tight clutching at its cloak, "hear me. I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?"
For the first time the hand appeared to shake.
"Good Spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: "Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life."
The kind hand trembled.
"I will honor Heroscape and Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!"
Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and cloak. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

---

Yes! And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own.
“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Kato repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Major Q9 and Q10! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this.”
"And these are not torn down!" cried Kato, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here -- I am here -- the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be! I know they will."
"I don't know what to do!" cried Kato, laughing and crying in the same breath. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an Kyrie, I am as merry as a schoolboy... well, that’s kind of creepy… I am as giddy as a drunken man! A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!"
Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. Clear and bright cold winter’s day! Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious. Glorious!
"What's today?" cried Kato, calling downward to an Ashigaru below.
"Eh?" returned the Ashigaru.
"What's today, my fine fellow?" said Kato.
"Today?" replied the Ashigaru. "Why, Christmas Day."
"It's Christmas Day!" said Kato to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow! Do you know the ‘Scape shop, in the next street?"
"I should hope I did," replied the lad.
"An intelligent boy!" said Kato. "A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize full set of D&D ‘Scape that was hanging up there -- Not the little prize wave: the big one with all three?"
"What, the one with all the Uncommons?" returned the Spearman.
"What a delightful guy!" said Kato. "It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck."
"It's hanging there now," replied the Ashigaru.
"Is it?" said Kato. "Go and buy it."
"Troll!" exclaimed the boy.
"No, no," said Kato, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell them to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a glyph. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you the rest of your squad in returns." (whatever that means)
The Ashigaru was off like a shot, as if spurred on by Valda himself/herself.
"I'll send it to Kaemon's!" whispered Kato, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. "He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny ‘Tashi. The whole Joke Thread’s never made such a joke as sending it to Kaemon's will be!"
The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went downstairs to open the street door, ready for the shop’s man.
It was a full set of fresh new ‘Scape! New and full of Heroscape joy as Kato had ever seen! Kaemon’s collection could very well double!
He dressed himself all in his best, and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Heroscape Present; and walking with his hands behind him, Kato regarded every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humored fellows said, "Good morning, sir. A merry Christmas to you."
He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld the portly Tarn gentleman, who had walked into his drafting-house the day before, and said, "Kato and Majors', I believe." It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.
"My dear sir," said Kato, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. "How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!"
"Mr. Kato?"
"Yes," said Kato. "That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness" -- here Kato whispered in his ear.
"Lord bless me!" cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away. "You could sooner buy ten squads of Imperium! My dear Mr. Kato, are you serious?"
"If you please," said Kato. "Not a point less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favor?"
"My dear sir," said the other, shaking hands with him. "Surely, I don't know what to say to such munificence."
"You need not say anything," retorted Kato. "And don’t call me Shirley."
He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted Small figures on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk -- that anything -- could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house.
"Is your master at home, my dear?" said Kato to the girl at the door.
"Yes, sir."
"Where is he, my love?" said Kato.
"He's in the gaming-room, sir, along with his mistress. I'll show you upstairs, if you please."
"Thank you. He knows me," said Kato, with his hand already on the gaming-room lock. "I'll go in here, my dear."
He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. They were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that everything is right.
"Hatamato!" said Kato.
"Why bless my soul!" cried Hatamato," who's that?"
"It's I. Your uncle Kato. I have come to play. Will you let me in, Hatamato?"
And let him in he did. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness ensued! Even with fielding Hatamato Taro, it was all Christmas joy. Who cared about score sheets and point values? Fun it all was nonetheless. Fun all night long it was.
But Kato was early at the office next morning. If he could only be there first, and catch Kaemon Awa coming late: that was the thing he had set his heart upon.
And he did it; yes, he did. The clock struck nine. No Kaemon. A quarter past. No Kaemon. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Kato sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the office.
Kaemon rushed in as Quick Release as he could. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.
"Hallo," growled Kato, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"
"I'm very sorry, sir," said Kaemon. "I am behind my time."
"You are?" repeated Kato. "Yes. I think you are. Step this way, if you please."
"It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Kaemon, "It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir."
"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Kato, "I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Kaemon such an accusing pointer that the samurai staggered back into the other room; "and therefore I am about to raise your salary."
“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Kato?” Kaemon asked in disbelief.
"A merry Christmas, Kaemon," said Kato, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas, Kaemon, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a game of Christmas Heroscape (which is Ullar and Utgar units only), Kaemon. Make up the Fire Elemental, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Kaemon Awa! We’ll hit the town and all this day, good sir; I’ve got a collection to share!"
Kato was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny ‘Tashi, who was fielded infinitely more past that day, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a commander, and as good a unit, as Valhalla knew.
And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny ‘Tashi observed, “God Bless Us, Every One!”

And that's it! I hope that perhaps you've learned something about Heroscape on this little journey, and maybe, just maybe... a little bit about yourself. What do ya mean it's not as good as the Muppets Version!? Well, excuuussse me, Princess, for only having two days!

You know what, screw you guys--I did this whole thing 'cause there ain't been no activity on the Forum for a week (and to remind the world ThunderStorm exists--shameless plug, check), and ya know what--there still ain't been no activity on the Forum! Yeah, I said it. What're you gonna do? In fact, Christmas is cancelled this year! This is the year TheAverageFan stopped Christmas! Yeah, I am such a heel--a rockstar heel!

TheAverageFan, you're such a... you're such a... you're... you're...

You're a mean one, Average Fan,
You really are that droll!
You're as cuddly as an Ice ‘Mental,
You're as charming as a troll, Average Fan!
Your Thread’s a load of Gug and it didn’t need a poll!

You're a monster, Average Fan.
Your heart's a big empty hole!
Your brain’s got Fylorag Spiders,
You're a face-down Mitonsoul, Average Fan!
I wouldn't touch you with a twenty-four-and-a-half foot pole!

You're a foul one, Average Fan.
You have Nagrubs in your smile!
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick Venoc Viper, Average Fan!
Given the choice between the two of you
I'd take the seasick Venoc Viper.

You're a foul one, Average Fan.
You're a nasty-wasty Marro!
Your heart is full of unwashed Groks,
Your soul is full of Sorrow, Average Fan.
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote:
"Suck! Sucked! Sunck!"

You're a rotter, Average Fan.
You're the king of sinful Gruts!
Your heart's a dead Dumutef splotched
With moldy boney mutts, Average Fan!
Your soul is an appalling draft table
Overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of rubbish imaginable
Mangled up in tangled up knots!

You nauseate me, Average Fan,
With a nauseous super "naus!"
You're a crooked dirty Hydra,
And you drive a crooked Mount, Average Fan.
You're a three-decker Swamp-Water and Sahuagin sandwich
With Toxin Skin sauce!

*que music outro*

~TAF, who also learned absolutely nothing from this venture.

Have a Merry Christmas!

[Maklar the Silver Prince]

Originally Posted by TheAverageFan

~TAF, who also learned absolutely nothing from this venture.

Well, I did. I'm having a very lonely Christmas Eve.

[TheAverageFan]

Okay, all 12 Days have been edited into the OP (original post) and can now be easily accessed by any and all future generations. Merry Christmas, ho ho ho.

~TAF, who has so many hos.

[TheAverageFan]

Ho No! Oh, criminy, how the heck did I get roped into this one? I mean, I barely managed to get out of last year's 12 Days of Christmas with TheAverageFan alive, and now I'm supposed to do 12 MORE days of Christmas!?

Well, kids, I guess you're in luck, because it's true. It's that time of year again, only 12 days to Christmas, and we're gonna be counting down the 24 hours together here on Heroscapers. But that doesn't mean I've got to try very hard still. Yup, like last year, today's entry is merely a rehash of something to remind you I exist! I give you the most recent batch of Customs from my very own Customs thread: Check it out here! Give me yer views!

Day 1: TAF Customs! (shameless plug, check!)

Spoiler Alert!

Character Bio: Olofire once served under Jandar, fighting evil of every shape and size over countless battles. However, as the war dragged on, Olofire's loyalties waned, and his desire to go home began to outweigh his desire to win the war.

Now the Goliath Barbarian serves Tyra, doing everything and anything she asks, all for the same simple purpose: he wants to go home, and he wants everyone else to do the same.

Olofire Quakeblade is quite the powerhouse hero for Tyra. His first and by far most noticeable power: Earthquake Special Attack, packs quite the wallop for anyone within 6 same-level spaces of Olofire. That can be tricky on some hilly maps, and it can hurt friendlies, but in the right spot it can be nothing short of devastating. Olofire can also bring a double attack to a fight when engaged to multiple foes with Surround Takedown. Strong as he is, his Loner ability forces him to be quite unsynergetic. He can't bond or receive bonuses of nearly any sort, making him purely a solo option.

Character Bio: Many of Tyra's forces consist of Kyrie, perhaps most notoriously the Temptresses of Tyra. These she-devils from the South of Kyrien have refrained from fighting in the Battle of all Time for long enough, although that doesn't mean that they'll be doing much fighting themselves.

Some say that these Kyrie are so irresistibly beautiful that all but the most hardened of soldiers will turn on their allies for the sake of protecting them. Because of this, they can create quite a bit of chaos amidst enemy ranks, causing all sorts of confusion and damage.

Tyra's own Kyrie squad can be quite deadly: enough to justify the 140-point tag only the Imperium have previously held. With Siren Shots, Temptresses of Tyra can revoke wounds they've inflicted on a figure in order to take a turn with said figure. This is useful for a number of purposes depending on who they're attacking, although you'll need at least two wounds to take over a unique hero. Their usefulness depends on the enemy's defense, as well as how worth it they are. If the squaddie you hit isn't worth taking a turn with, you might as well just kill them.

Character Bio: Valhalla is a vast and diverse place, filled to the brim with countless species of known and unknown origins. Because of that, it's often hard to say who exactly is the best at something, since there's always something out there potentially even bigger or better.

Even so, many have said with confidence that I. is the most mysterious being to walk Valhalla.

Theorized to be a Valkyrie, this giant Kyrie warrior has tasted wellspring water, and because of that, is actually able to Desummon people, banishing them back to where they started in the blink of an eye. Why this mysterious being is helping Tyra is anyone's guess, and his true motives remain unclear.

This giant Kyrie may be incredibly fragile for the price, but he has quite the power to justify it. I.'s Desummon can send a figure back to its Start Zone in a single 20d roll, and if it's a squaddie he can do it again. This singlehandedly makes I. the master of board control, clearing enemies off of height and letting your own forces get to all the good positions. He can also Desummon your own figures to get them out of a pinch, although Desummoned figures do take passing swipes.

Character Bio: Another deserter from his old army and his old cause, Susumu came to find Tyra in order to find his way home. He quickly fell in love with her ideals, and soon became fiercely loyal to her cause. Now he goes back out into Valhalla with a vengeance, committed to destroying all who do not fly her flag.

Susumu is a nice addition to Tyra's army since he's not 140 points or more. With Tyra Loyalty, he'll gain a nice stat boost when attacking or defending against figures who aren't Tyra, but you'll either need an all-Tyra army or you'll need to save him for last. He makes for a nice beat stick for cheap, a bit more reliable than Isamu provided you can get his Tyra Loyalty going. Of course, if he gets hit before that kicks in, he's toast.

(figures used:
Olofire = D&D Goliath Barbarian
Susumu = D&D Dragonblade Ninja
Temptresses = Pathfinders Arueshalae, Areeulu Vorlesh, Noticula
I. = Anima Tactics Legacy of Solomon)

Oh, quit your booing! There's still 11 days left! I'll see you then!

~TAF, ho ho ho

[TheAverageFan]

Chris Dingle! Well folks, true to my word, I'm back for day 2 of The 12 Days Of Christmas with TheAverageFan! Ho ho ho! Let's get on to the presents, shall we?

Today's entry is an actual thingy, in this case another of my Unit Strategy Reviews! Yes kids, my last one was a big hit, so I'm going to shamelessly attempt to recreate that success step-by-step! Won't work, you say? Well, whaddaya think this whole event is in the first place, ya chumps! Anyhow, here's my review for Cyprien Esenwein, another criminally underused unit. And just like last time, I think the more actual Unit Strategy Guides you've read, the funnier you'll think this is (hypothetically).

Day 2: Unit Strategy Guide: Cyprien Esenwein!

Spoiler Alert!

Unit Strategy Review (Parody)
Unit: Cyprien Esenwein
Author: TheAverageFan

(Note that this is a fake review—nothing listed below is meant to be taken seriously. This is a joke thread and TheAverageFan is not certified to be making Unit Strategy Reviews by any means. Relax)

Cyprien Esenwein is the worst 150-point unit in the game. I mean, that many points for a Medium figure? Medium 4 no less, and we all already know that there are no good Medium 4 figures. And with only 3 Attack too? Su-Bak-Na’s 10 points more, and he’s got more than twice that much. There comes a point where you stop paying so much to add another Medium figure to your army, and that point is 120. Anything more means you ain’t breaking even when Grimnak eats you on a whim, let alone when any other Large or Huge figure kills you. Heck, I’ve played Hatamato Taro more often than I’ve played Cyprien. I mean, I own Hatamato Taro, and I don’t own Cyprien… but even just looking at his card online baffles me. Why do people play this guy?

Well, don’t you worry. I’m here to help us all find the answer to this question now. Let’s take a look, shall we?

Analyzed Statistics
Cost - 150- Pawn Class Unit
Size - Medium – Susceptible to everything
Life – 6 – Average
Move - 8 – Well he’s gotta be good at something
Range – 1- Melee—useless
Attack - 3 – The worst thing ever
Defense - 4– Still average

In-Depth Analysis

Each unit is simple, and requires little analysis to be truly understood. For Cyprien let’s begin with his cost. By cost, we refer mostly to the value in points, but also to its importance in your army. To simplify analysis, Agatagary has created several categories of cost, based off of checkers, for comparison and no…nomen…nomenclature. For reference,

Pawn class (expendable, units that can be useful, but are not worth enormous trouble to protect)
Bishop class (more useful than a pawn, but still somewhat expendable)
Knight class (units that are interestingly powerful and can have a significant impact on the game in of themselves. It is advisable that they be kept alive, but if absolutely necessary they may be sacrificed)
Rook class (units that almost inevitably have a significant impact on the game, and whose death should be avoided as much as possible)
Queen class (devastatingly powerful or important units that should be protected at all costs)
King class (you literally lose when this unit is killed; not many units are King class besides whoever is your last guy alive (and those new Plainswalkers freaks))

Class: Cyprien is obviously a Pawn class, given his abysmal stats for the cost. 3 Attack isn’t good enough for a 150-point figure; it’s good enough for a single 13-point Viper. His other stats don’t warrant anything higher than a Pawn anyway. I mean, he’ll only make it so far before Su-Bak-Na kills him. I guess his Move of 8 is good. At least I won’t have to wait long before I die. It’s pretty much only good for grabbing glyphs first, but then you’ll have to scurry off of them as soon as Su-Bak-Na catches up. So basically he’s useless. Pawn it is.

Offense: I’ve already brought up Cyprien’s abysmal Attack of 3. Even Kato’s still got 4/4 at the end of the day for Christ’s sake. So yeah, Kato could beat up Cyprien—some vampire. “But TAF” you say, “Cyprien’s got another ability!” Well, okay, yeah, I guess I should talk about that.

Cyprien’s got Chilling Touch, which basically means that every turn there’s less than a 50% chance he can inflict an extra wound or so. Oh great. So it’s basically Dragon Swoop, only slightly better. Oh wait, no it’s not, because of the last little bit at the end there: “Soulborgs are not affected by Chilling Touch”. Well then, isn’t that just great. Here, let me translate for you all what that really means for this power.

“Chilling Touch: This power is absolutely useless.”

Even Major Q9, whose grave I practically had to dig up last time, could beat up this pansy. It’s not like Soulborgs are the best thing out there in Heroscape or anything. Cyprien couldn’t even beat DeathWalker 7000 with this, and good luck getting past 7 Defense with that Attack of 3. So yeah, maybe he could kill a Viper on a good day.

Survivability: Cyprien’s got 6 Life and 4 Defense, which is pretty good… for an 80-point hero. But since he’s super-expensive he’s going up against the big boys. So 6 Life/4 Defense isn’t going to do squat against Su-Bak-Na’s Attack of 7. What a useless vampire. “But TAF,” you all exclaim, “Cyprien can heal with Life Drain!”

Well, he could, if he could kill anything. But since Chilling Touch is worthless, he’s not about to do anyone in with his Attack of 3. If his Attack was, say, 7, then maybe he could heal up every now and again. Su-Bak-Na can heal with some Nagrubs, but I doubt Cyprien could even kill any of those. Marcu’s far more likely to get Life Drain to work, and he’s only 20 points! Next!

Strategy: So now we get to the real meat of the guide, how to make this guy useful in the slightest. Now before I go into how to use Cyprien, first I’ve gotta debunk some popular myths about what makes him good. The biggest one is definitely that you should draft his Sister, Sonya Esenwein, to boost Cyprien. This makes no sense. It’s bad enough that this hack costs 150 points, but now you want me to effectively boost his cost to almost 200? And what does Sonya even do? Guess. Boost his Attack to 7? Nope, she boosts his Chilling Touch roll by 2. Great. That’s, like, 22.5 points per added number to the 20d. As if it weren’t bad enough that Chilling Touch is useless to begin with. I could draft 2 Dumutef Guards instead. They’ve got more than 3 Attack.

It’s almost as bad as paying 160 points to add a whole 1 to the 20d rolls of all your Marro. Or paying 110 points to add a whole 1 to your Berserker Charge roll. Or paying 120 points to add a whole 1 to your Frenzy roll. Yippee. This is why I don’t draft the Venoc Warlord with my Aubrien Archers. He’s entirely useless. The only reason to even play the Venoc Warlord is if you’ve got Romans to bond with him. Then he’s worth it, because no other Warlord is as fast as he is. Plus he doesn’t have an Attack value of 3. But I digress. Who was I talking about again? Oh yeah, Su-Bak-Na.

Su-Bak-Na’s Hive Supremacy is still pretty useless most of the time, especially since the best Marro to take him with (Nagrubs) don’t even use the 20d. But his Attack of 7 makes up for it. It doesn’t even matter that his Life and Defense aren’t that good, because nothing will survive long enough to attack him anyway.

Well, there are the shooters I guess, but you can bring Su-Bak-Na’s Marro friend Ne-Gok-Sa along to tie them up since he’s nearly invincible. Add some Romans too while you’re at it, since they bond with him. Actually, take Venoc Warlord instead of Ne-Gok-Sa since he’s faster. Then Su-Bak-Na can go in for the kill. Or he can stand on the Wound Glyph, and slowly kill the enemy since no one will want to take him on. Plus since he’s a Marro, he gets to add 1 to his 20d rolls, so the Wound Glyph will never backfire. I’ve never lost with this strategy, not even to Hatamato Taro.

Optimal Strategies:
Water Battle: Since Su-Bak-Na can fly, he’s best if he sits in the middle of a lake or something, and everyone else gets stuck trying to wade towards him. Kill them as they approach.
Lava Battle: Better yet, build a Lava lake with an island for SBN to sit on and wait for them to die trying to get to you. If they roll five 20’s in a row and make it to you, kill them with your Attack of 7. In fact, put the Wound Glyph there too.
160-point-pals: While you’re at it with the Lava Island, draft Shurrak to keep Su-Bak-Na company. If anyone gets close, Knockback them back into the lava. Trust me, this strategy is flawless.
Negation Glyph: If some calculator-carrying nerd is going on about how powers are more important the stats and how you’re dumb for thinking Su-Bak-Na is the best ‘cause he’s got the best attack and whatever, Negate that sucker. Then see how good that namby-pamby loser is against your 7 Attack.
Marro Hive: The Marro Hive is definitely worth the 160 points it costs. It can birth more Nagrubs for you to eat, pretty much making you invincible. And even if you die, it can birth Su-Bak-Na back. I wish it had more than 1 Attack/2 Defense, but sometimes the powers are more important than the stats.

Units to Avoid:
Jotun: He’s the only one with more Attack than you, so stay away. “There’s always a bigger fish,” ~Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Isamu: It has been scientifically proven that the higher your Attack is, the higher the chance of Vanish working is. This isn’t a joke, this part is true.
Tons of Marro: Your own, not the enemy’s. If you’ve got too many Marro, then Su-Bak-Na will have to sit in the back, powering them all up like a loser. Then he won’t get to do anything cool the whole game. What a waste.
Atlaga: Freaking Atlaga once again ruins everything good in Heroscape with the cheapest power ever: Flying. Your Lava Island strategy won’t work because he can just fly right over the molten lava. I really hate pretty much any figure in Heroscape with Flying because it makes the game unfair terrain-wise. If everyone just played Su-Bak-Na instead, the world would be a better place.

Anyway, in conclusion, I hope this article was of assistance to you. Su-Bak-Na’s always been my favorite, so I hope to see him used better across the community. Nothing’s worse than people dissing a unit they simply don’t know how to use. Join me in my next upcoming guide: “The Art of Cheating: How to Make Dead Eye Dan Tournament-Worthy”.

--TheAverageFan, still enlightened.

Such sage advice! Well anyhow, kiddies, that's all for today. But there's still plenty of Christmas magic left, so fear not! I'll be back again tomorrow, and every single day after until Christmas! ...I will never go away.

~TAF

[Marro_Warlord]

I say Protectors of Ullar are better than Su-Bak-Na. They fly, and are ranged! Being ranged isn't useless, and they can sit in a lava lake. And they come in threes!
(Above is parody, like usual.)

[TheAverageFan]

On the 10th-to-last day of Christmas... Well, kids, it's already Day 3, but our seasonal cheer is just getting started. I know last year I had some trouble finishing off the week-and-a-half's worth of daily work. Well, at least that was until I found that I could split up longer stories into two parts. Now it's more like the 8 Days Of Christmas! Hooray!

So in the spirit of laziness--er, Christmas--I'm giving you another two-parter today, this time as an early upload of my Fan Fic Contest entry! Yes, unlike last year, the contest is happening at the same time as the 12 Days, so it's the perfect opportunity to submit my hard work to fill two quotas. Merry Christmas to me!

*Although, I suppose I must warn you, similar to last year's "J36" story, since this wasn't made strictly for the 12 Days of Christmas, it's not exactly a funny of festive story. No, it's quite a serious tale, so sober up and brace yourselves! Life's not all fun and games, kids! You think you can hide from that fact just because it's the holidays!? Time to grow up, you little twerps!

Sorry, I had to stop and take my meds. Anyhow, let's get on with it:

Day 3: Why, Part 1

Spoiler Alert!

Why

“Here they come! Archers at the ready!” Falshan commanded, his wings flaring out as he gave the order. From below, the Human and Elven archers nodded and fired their arrows overhead, the missiles flying up and arching down into the mass of enemies approaching them. A few too many of the bolts landed on untrodden ground, the enemy forces trampling them underfoot only a few seconds after. Falshan gulped—he had given the order a touch too early, wasting precious arrows on such a numerous opposing army. He turned to Concan, a fellow Kyrie beside him.

“Are you sure I should be in charge here, sir?” He questioned the superior officer.

“It’s your town, Falshan.” Concan replied coolly, unbothered by the wasted volley, “We figured you’d know best how to defend it from these monsters.”

Falshan returned his attention to the aforementioned foes, “Right.”

Orcs, hundreds of them, charged straight toward Falshan’s hometown with the sole intent to destroy it. They were clothed in savage armor, bearing blunt but deadly weapons, the very sight of them disgusting. They snarled at the air as they charged, their tiny eyes void of meaning, full of bloodlust. The mindless hordes of Utgar sickened all but the most soulless of Valhallans, Falshan no exception. His family had lived in this tiny village for as long as he could remember, as long as any of his ancestors could remember, and now Utgar’s armies sought to destroy it merely for its strategic positioning in this endless war. He would fight to the death to defend it.

Concan motioned for another volley, soon getting his wish. The second barrage pummeled the Orcs’ ranks, the monsters struck falling lifeless only to be stampeded by their brethren. Falshan’s village was lucky to have the Alliance’s aid, Jandar and the other Generals quick to send soldiers to defend it despite its neutrality. Only a few days ago they had transformed the tiny town into a miniature fortress, complete with a small wall, trenches, and wooden barricades.

“Here they come! Swords at the ready!” Concan shouted.

Falshan nodded and turned to some of the villagers spectating from their homes, morbidly curious, “Get inside and hide! It’s about to get ugly!”

The Orcs had sustained losses from the arrows, but they were so numerous that it had hardly dented their forces. Seemingly in a mad frenzy, they charged the barricades outside the wall without hesitation. Only the Gruts at the very front lines saw the wooden stakes sticking out towards them and cried out, but the soldiers behind them refused to slow down.

Falshan smiled grimly as they were forcibly impaled by their own stampede. It seemed that the only thing the monsters valued over bloodshed was self-preservation. At the very least it might make them easier to disperse, he figured.

The oncoming hordes rushed the barricades until the wooden spikes couldn’t sustain more bodies. The remaining Orcs scrambled up on top of them, climbing onto the walls and jumping into combat. The first several to make it were shot down by archers, but that didn’t hold them off long. Finally the main bulk of the Orc army had made it up onto the wall and burst into combat.

Friends and foes all around Falshan swarmed left and right, locked in deadly combat. Falshan kept to the wall, his wings beating furiously to keep enemies from getting behind him in the madness. Orcs dashed to his position, quick to lock blades with him. The Kyrie cut one down and then another, outnumbered by unworthy opponents. The goal right now was to keep the Gruts from the archers, but Falshan really fought to keep them from his home, where his family hid.

“Keep fighting them back! Kill them all!” Concan shouted over the madness. Falshan did his best to obey, not a half bad swordsman himself for an untrained villager. The only problem was the numbers. More of the savage creatures climbed the wall, spilling out onto the battlefield. They weren’t strong but they were nimble, swarming all about and slipping past engaged combatants with ease. Finally there were just too many of them, the remainder of the forces pouring down from the wall and into the village.

“No!” Falshan looked over his shoulder as Orcs scurried about his town. He could already see an entire squad making their way towards his own residence, unchallenged. Furiously grasping his blade, the Kyrie cut down all the Gruts around him and took to the skies. Orc arrows battered his exposed wings, but he didn’t care; he’d give his wings to save his family. The monsters had already made it inside.

“Hya!” Falshan dashed through the open door, cutting down one of the invaders before calling out, “Zelshan? Boys?”

This area was empty save for the now dead Orc, and the house only contained two rooms, making things more urgent. As Falshan stormed toward the next room, an Orc archer stepped out and fired his bow. The flimsy bolt struck Falshan, the Kyrie quick to slash down the archer vengefully. He had no time to worry about the wound, bursting into the next room. It wasn’t about the war anymore at this point. Concan and the others were all gone to him—it was only between Falshan and these monsters.

It was a grim sight. The remainder of the Orc squad was here, having smoked out Falshan’s wife and two sons. They cowered all the way in the back, cornered. His wife, Zelshan, shakily held a sword towards the closest Orc, a grinning, snarling beast with a unique scar across one eye. She wasn’t much less trained for battle than Falshan had been, but she was outnumbered and trying to protect two children.

As soon as Falshan was in the room, battle erupted in a heartbeat. He went straight for the nearest Orc, gutting it with his blade furiously. Most of the remaining invaders turned to face him, the others rushing to kill Falshan’s family.

First he cut down two Gruts in one swing, one dropping a torch as it fell. Next Falshan charged a fumbling archer, slicing it before it even had time to ready an arrow. The Kyrie moved on to his next obstacle, an armored Grut who seemed to be the leader. Carrying a spear, this Orc used his longer reach to keep Falshan at bay, fire slowly crawling along the floor and seeping up the walls as the fight dragged on. Outmatched by this particular weapon, there wasn’t much Falshan could do, and he could feel his wounds catching up with him.

Damn! Hang in there! He glanced over the commanding Orc’s shoulder, wishing he hadn’t a second later. His wife was still fighting the other Orcs, tangling with that scarred one, but he had already lost a son to the Gruts. The momentary glance cost him, his enemy’s lance piercing his shoulder. Blood spurted out as the rusty weapon rummaged through his flesh.

“No!” Falshan sucked up the pain and lurched forth, stabbing the Orc leader through the neck. The armored Grut collapsed, the Kyrie ignoring the spear in him and stumbling over to the remaining foes, his rage subduing all the pain, “I’ll kill you soulless monsters! All of you!”

The scarred Orc had cut down his wife, his eldest and remaining son picking up his mother’s blade and backing off. There wasn’t anywhere to go in here, the entire house now ablaze from the dropped torch, that scar-faced Grut approaching him as Falshan cut his way through the remaining invaders.

“Come!” The scarred Orc growled, brandishing his bloody blade, “More blood for Cornak!”

Falshan struck down the last Grut standing between him and the murderous attacker. Disregarding his loss of blood, the Kyrie barreled toward the final Orc. Trying, trying so hard not to be a second too late. Falshan would have the head of this one Orc, the only face he’d now recognize in a crowd of a hundred Gruts.

KABOOM!!! A massive explosion ruptured right outside the home where the three of them resided, the thin wall bursting apart and the flames showering them. Falshan was knocked back, the blast enough to remind him of the severity of his wounds. The missing half of his house revealed the outside battleground, the fight still ongoing. The archers had managed to move further back, hiding in the trenches at the far side of town and punishing the remaining Orc army with more volleys. Knights on horseback rode through the streets, pushing back the Gruts and forcing them to the far wall. The remaining Orcs were starting to disperse, turning and fleeing for their lives with disorderly abandon. But none of that mattered to Falshan.

“Son…?” He weakly glanced over to the wreckage of his home, searching for signs of life in the burning rubble. His only answer came when the Orc, Cornak, burst from beneath the debris and madly dashed for the outskirts of the battlefield.

“Graaah!” The Grut wailed, his entire body consumed by the flames as he ran. He stumbled about, his skin burning relentlessly. He could have been shot dead by the archers, but all the Orcs were fleeing at this point, and they probably thought Cornak was dead enough already. Not to Falshan, the Kyrie struggling to get up and finish the beast off.

“Cornak… Argh!” It was all he could do to sit up, his wounds finally getting the better of him. The most he could do at this point was to watch his enemy escape, already punished by the fires of Hell. It wasn’t enough.

Soon the battlefield was void of enemies, the remaining soldiers hurrying about to tend to the wounded. Concan flew over, landing by Falshan and stooping down to his side, “You’re alive!”

“The Orc…” Falshan muttered grimly.

“I’m sorry, Falshan.” Concan turned to the nearest Sentinel, “You there! Send word to Jandar! Tell him we’ve repelled the Orcs for now, but they’ll be back.”

“Sir?” The Kyrie officer replied.

“We scared them off, but I could see Utgar’s forces sweeping up the stragglers. They’ll regroup and come back—tell the Alliance we’ll need more soldiers. It seems the enemy wants this position more than we anticipated.” Concan barked.

“Yes sir.” The Sentinel promptly flew off.

Concan returned his attention to Falshan, “Don’t you worry. We’ll defend this village with our lives.”

Falshan ignored his reassurances, “Cornak… I’ll find you… Wherever you went off to…”

---

A light drizzle had started during the battle, sprinkling the bloodied earth and turning the worn dirt into mud. As the fighting ended, the weather had picked up, turning the showers into downpours. The fire that had ravaged Cornak had extinguished soon after, although the Orc continued to scramble about the wilderness, shrieking in agony and pointlessness.

His blade had been lost in that second boy before the explosion had gone off. Then the knights had rode in, trampling his fellow Orcs. That and the fire on him had sent him racing off; in what direction he didn’t know. Any leaderless and panicked Grut would desert without hesitation when the chips were down. He was on his own, bearing an injury from that Kyrie woman and most of his body badly burnt.

“Ah… Ah… Hah…” Cornak heavily breathed, his mouth hanging open as he wandered about. He had never been separated from his troop before, and he had no idea where on the Valhallan map he was. Only the higher-ups knew about important things like positioning and placement—to the Gruts it was merely a chance to fight and kill. Now he was alone and lost, his only weapon a small knife he had tucked away in his armor.

“I must find Ornak. Must find Utgar.” He reasoned to himself, unsure where to begin. The rain continued, the beautiful mountainous scenery wasted on him. He walked for a long time, finding no fellow Orcs or even enemies. Finally the strain of his wounds began to sneak up on him again, and the Orc soon collapsed onto the ground, soaking in the mud. He didn’t have the energy to get up anymore.

“Gah…” Cornak muttered, discontent to die here but otherwise apathetic to his fate. He had wondered and found nothing. What else could he do?

Time passed. Cornak laid there in that spot, breathing heavily and waiting. Someone was standing there before him, having come upon him when he had blinked or blacked out. It was a Kyrie woman, her magnificent wings arched out around them, shielding them from the downpour. Her dark eyes gazed down at him, her thoughts impossible to read. Like the scenery, her beauty was also wasted on Cornak. The Orc twitched, grunting, trying to move but unable to do so. Her fairness reflected the look of Utgar’s enemies, after all, not so different-looking than the Kyrie villagers he had just fought against, and he figured her to be aligned with his opponents. He would try to kill her normally, but he was unable to move. She would kill him.

Those were the last of Cornak’s thoughts before his wounds caused him to lose consciousness again. As far as he was concerned, he would not reawaken, but after a seemingly endless sleep he opened his eyes again, finding himself inside a tiny dwelling, safe from the downpour.

“Geh…” Cornak groaned, reaching to rub his aching head but finding it too painful. Looking down, he saw that his burns had been bandaged. His entire body hurt, but it seemed that care had been administered to him.

That was the first time he could say that. Gruts didn’t receive any medical aid for injuries, all but useless once injured. For most Orcs, a wound meant death. Cornak himself had gotten off lucky once before, a nasty cut to his eye not fatal. He had to bear the pain of an untreated wound then. Here things seemed to be different, and it boggled the Orc’s mind.

“You’re awake.” Cornak turned to face the voice, that same Kyrie woman kneeling right beside him, barely outside his peripheral vision. She was still giving him that indecipherable stare, seemingly unphased by his snarling expression, “You were badly scorched. Your wounds will mend, but the burns will take a long time to heal.”

At that she got up and left, her large wings furling around her like a cloak. Cornak took the alone time to try to escape, but he still couldn’t get up.

Where am I? Why am I still alive? He thought, the only thing he could do, Why is the enemy helping me? Why?

The burning questions fired his temper, and he decided to capitalize on his foe’s foolish decision. He’d kill her as soon as he could, still hiding his knife. But for the time being there was nothing he could do but lay there, waiting for his chance.

It was a lot of waiting.

---

Cornak stayed in that place for a long, long time. The woman would frequent him and tend to his bandages and wounds, feed him, and keep him company. She would kneel by his side, wings draped around herself, her eyes closed meditatively. She was so calm and tranquil like that, not saying a word or moving a muscle. Cornak yearned to stab her, so foolishly keeping her defenses lowered so close to an enemy. Yet he still couldn’t move, so he had to put up with her presence. She was the only one he ever saw—probably the only one living here. She must have felt as lonely as he felt restless.

Indeed, Cornak had never spent so much time alone. He’d always had his troop before, fellow Gruts to fight and march alongside throughout nearly his entire life. They’d battle and kill, some would die, and others would take their place. Orcs never really spent any time alone. Cornak felt aimless without his fellows, without anything to destroy. All he did now was stare up at the ceiling, listen to the wind or the rain. It was torture.

Finally one day the woman came to him and peeled off his bandages. Cornak felt a swell of relief as his arms were freed. The Kyrie took one of them and examined it closely.

“You should be able to move your upper body now.” She said.

Cornak looked down at his arm, slowly moving it about. It had been so long, but it was healed up now. He hadn’t really thought about how badly he’d been injured until now, now that he had been restored. Cornak patiently waited for the Kyrie woman to look aside or close her eyes. Sure enough, she turned to a gourd by her side to give him a drink.

“Grah!” Cornak grabbed the knife hidden by his leg and lashed out. Instantly the woman whirled around, seizing his wrist and holding him back. Her other hand reached his throat, a dagger of her own held tight in her palm, seemingly out of nowhere. The blade grazed his throat, Cornak grunting with surprise and strain as he struggled to overpower and stab her.

The woman said nothing, continuing to hold him there, weapon at his neck. Finally Cornak relented, dropping his knife and leaning back, falling down to the ground. The Kyrie woman withdrew her blade and caught him, laying him back down gently. She rose back to her feet, gathering his dropped weapon and walking over to the door.

“You haven’t walked in a long while.” She murmured, glancing over her shoulder, “It will take time for you to recover your strength.”

With that she left him, Cornak laying there, panting with rage and exhaustion. He was angry for failing, confused about her insistence on keeping him alive, and that confusion in turn only made him angrier. The rage was wasted on his current state of being, however, and Cornak only became exhausted again. Why? Why!? Why…?

---

The next day the woman returned, bringing Cornak food and water. The Orc was staring up at the ceiling, as usual, but at least now he could move his arms about. He held them into the air, gazing at the burns as she neared him and kneeled by his side.

“Why?” Cornak asked, finally willing to talk to the puzzling woman.

“You speak.” Was her simple reply.

“Why, woman? Why do you feed me?” Cornak watched her pour water into a bowl. He could reach her, but he knew after yesterday’s encounter that she still probably concealed some blade within her sleeves, ready to fight him off at a moment’s notice.

“Because you cannot fend for yourself.” The woman answered, holding forth the water.

Cornak grunted, cautiously taking the bowl and drinking from it, glaring at her.

“I am an Orc, your enemy.” He muttered after he was finished, “No need to care for Gruts.”

The woman rose up, “I have no friends or enemies. There are only the living and the dead.”

With that she left him, leaving him even more perplexed than he had been before. It didn’t make any sense. Everyone in Cornak’s life had friends or enemies, and those friends and enemies had friends and enemies. The village he had attacked, Utgar had made them into enemies. It wasn’t a choice, having foes. Cornak couldn’t muster the energy to become enraged at confusion anymore, though, so he merely pondered instead.

“Woman!” He shouted, doing his best to sit up.

She returned, “Yes?”

“Who are you?” He demanded.

“My name is Yrta.” She replied. She seemed to grow more beautiful with a name, but it only made Cornak frown more, for that name had no context to him, and did little to disband her ambiguous nature.

“I am Cornak.” He said. As soon as he uttered the words he wondered why. He had asked for her name but she hadn’t asked for his. Why the introduction? She was no commanding officer, taking names after a scuffle to see who was responsible.

“I see. Rest, Cornak. I will bring you more to eat later.” She left.

Cornak nodded and stared up at that ceiling. Pondered. Time passed, and she did return. He ate with his own hands, Yrta staying by his side. She brought some kind of woodwind instrument with her, and played it softly while he ate, and afterwards.

---

Many days passed, and with every 24 hours, Cornak sat up a little bit more, rose to his feet, and managed to walk. He still felt weak, but his other wounds had healed, and all he needed to do was recover his strength and reinforce his whittled muscles again. Yrta gave him a walking stick, and when she was out he leaned on it and managed to finally leave his room.

He went outside, taken aback by the scenery around him. The mountains rested by the house where Yrta lived alone, a gorgeous green valley down below, surrounded by forests on two sides, and the Volcarren Wastelands in the far distance of the other. Clouds gathered around the horizon, droplets of a morning shower still littering the greenery around him. Before he had never cared for the way things around him looked, but being in that room for so long would have anyone weeping at the sight.

Yrta wasn’t so far off, down below by a garden. He almost wanted to surprise her with his walking, slowly hobbling his way over to her. No, not that. He’d club her head in with his walking stick if he were better—fully better. He was still without weapons, but maybe at his full strength he’d be able to best her in combat. Right now he was handicapped and useless, like the only Orc to survive to old age.

“Erk!” His strength gave out and he fell, halfway to sneaking up on the Kyrie.

“Oh!” Yrta turned and came to his side, seemingly gliding across the dewy grass. She took his arms and helped him back up, “You mustn’t overdo it.”

“Bah!” Cornak grunted, tearing his arm away, walking off, discontent to be helped like a toddler. He fell again, muttering to himself but not stopping her from helping him walk along the garden this time.

“You farm alone?” He asked her.

“Garden, yes.”

“Where are other villagers?” He questioned, still unused to the loneliness.

“They are all gone, off to war or fled. I am a hermit.” Yrta replied, looking about at the lonely scenery as she helped him walk, “I’ve lived here alone for many years.”

He stared at the plants as Yrta helped him along. It was painful still having to rely on her, but without other options Cornak stuck to it, Yrta guiding him around outside on many occasions. They spent many hours in the garden, Yrta tending to it and Cornak staring out into the valley, waiting to see a horde of Orcs, coming in to find him here. They never came.

Cornak came to know the gardens well. He’d seen gardens before in Valhalla. He’d taken their fruit or trampled them underfoot, but he’d never seen one grow. It took so long for a single fruit to grow, only to be eaten in a day. Foolish, he thought, to waste so much time tending such a fragile thing. But then, it painfully reminded him of how aggravatingly long it was taking him to mend.

“Why do you garden when it takes so long?” He asked her one day, “Why not kill to eat, or take from another? It’s faster.”

“Because I do not take what does not belong to me, food or life.” She answered tranquilly, not looking up from her work amongst the plants.

“Why not?” Cornak asked, still finding her actions and methods utterly unknowable.

“Because life is too precious to be taken.” She answered him as if he were a child.

“Why is that?”

“Because life is our only chance to glimpse into this world, to experience its beauty.” She said, “Everything we’ve experienced is in our time spent living. To live is such a gift, we should never waste it over petty matters.”

“I don’t understand.” Cornak admitted.

“Do you wish to live?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should not kill, if your philosophy is not to be killed.” She gathered the fruits and rose to her feet, leaving Cornak to ponder on that.

“But… uh…” Cornak grumbled, confused. He supposed that everything he had enjoyed doing was in life—that was true, yes. And he had deserted, not wanting to be killed. So Yrta didn’t kill him because she wanted to live? So should he not kill her in return? But he enjoyed killing. But he didn’t want to be killed for others’ enjoyment. But, he… It hurt his brain, and he stared out into the vast valley below, unsure and still left pondering.

---

One day it rained, so the two of them stayed indoors. Yrta’s house had three rooms in it, and Cornak hadn’t spent much time in the other chambers, so it was still relatively new to him. He spotted an orange and red robe hanging from one of the walls. It wasn’t her size, bigger and more masculine.

“Whose is that?” Cornak nodded to it, curiously.

“It belonged to a man I once loved.” Yrta replied, “He lived here.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead, I presume.” Her voice had a sudden hint of coldness, a breaking of emotions that Cornak had never heard from her.

“Why did he leave?”

“He went off to war. He thought he could make a difference with a sword in his hand and hate in his heart. He fought in a battle and died, or lived to go fight in another battle and died, or lived to go fight in another battle…” She closed her eyes, somber thoughts crossing her mind. It was also the first time Cornak had a good idea of what she was thinking.

“…” Cornak couldn’t think of anything to say.

“This war is pointless and endless.” Yrta continued, seeming to calm down, “People die every day, trying to take meaningless positions or gain momentary advantages, all for naught in the long run. Everyone around me is swept up and taken away, and the world falls into ruin. One day there may be nothing left to destroy, but the Valkyrie postpone that notion, and take from every corner of the universe to fuel their war. Endless…

She pointed to the robe, “I intended to give that to him as a gift one day, but he left me behind when he went off to war. Now it hangs there, waiting for a man who cares about living, while the rest of the world wages its endless cycle of fighting.”

Cornak glanced back up at it, slowly blinking, “Living?”

“Yes. Truly living.”

---

Cornak slowly recovered. He began to walk better on his own, hobbling around on his cane. He helped garden, even though he still figured it useless. He also gave up on the idea of killing Yrta, unsure what had changed his mind. He had been forced to take things slower, hadn’t run around or slaughtered something in so long. He wondered if his body was intentionally taking its time healing, because it secretly liked the different lifestyle.

He even spotted a small deer close to the garden. There was a rock in the soil he could’ve thrown, and he was confident that he could hit it. But he merely watched it, letting it go on its way. He admired its graceful movements, the deep spark in its black eyes, the very way it lived. Lifeless it was cold and limp, wasted.

He really had gone insane by Orc standards, walking about peacefully, tending to plants and admiring views and sunsets. Yrta even began to teach him to read. Such a useless skill for a Grut to know, yet somehow he felt that the knowledge would help him “truly live”. Yes, knowledge—that was part of it. He had broken free of the cycle of savagery that was standard on Grut, now far enough above his old ways of life to look back down on how things had once been and frown.

He spent many hours with Yrta, looking over old manuscripts and maps, her teaching him every letter. He spent time drawing as well, his gruff, clumsy hands soon becoming more accustomed to a quill pen than a sword. He improved over time, even eventually drawing quite an accurate portrait of Yrta herself. He admired the skill he had developed, as well as her beauty he had managed to capture on the page, and he kept it with him always. A cultured change had come about him, and it hurt more the smarter he became.

“Yrta.” He said gloomily one day as they read together, “I hurt people. Killed even.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.” Yrta replied.

“But that doesn’t absolve me of them.” Cornak muttered (his vocabulary had also improved).

“Do you think that makes you unworthy of this way of life?” She asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe, probably.”

“You cannot let your past dictate your future. Learn from your past, don’t be held back by it.”

“I don’t deserve to live.” Cornak stared at the ground, “Maybe I never did.”

“If ignorance were a crime we would all deserve death from the day we were born. The question isn’t what you did before. It’s what you do now, with the knowledge you’ve gained.”

“…” Cornak closed his eyes, thinking of home, What I do now?

---

One morning Cornak awoke to the sound of Yrta stepping through the house. He opened his eyes, seeing the faint rays of morning light grazing the windows, and Yrta walking past the door. She glanced outside and then over at him, then back outside. Finally she walked over to him, stooping down by his side and taking his cane. She left, Cornak sitting up, confused, “Yrta?”

He heard voices outside, the Orc struggling to get up. Without his cane he couldn’t quite walk about. He wormed his way over to one of the windows, clamoring up the wall and peeking out.

Yrta was outside, her wings up amidst the drizzle. Three others stood about near her, dressed in rags and carrying bags full of supplies and weapons, one kicking at the garden bushes carelessly. Fellow deserters? Thieves? Cornak couldn’t say, but he didn’t like the looks of them. Yrta spoke briefly with them, casting a glance back at her house, at him.

“No, Yrta!” Cornak stumbled at the window, falling down and struggling to get back up, “Send them away! Wait for me!”

He crawled to the door, slowly and painfully, looking out. The strangers looked like they were getting violent. Cornak had probably been in their position before, but now he was on the other side, and he wanted nothing to do with them. One of them had drawn a sword, and the other had pushed Yrta back, the Kyrie woman doing nothing to fight them. What did they want? Why were they here? It didn’t matter, did it?

Still violent, the bandits seemed to be seeking trouble around such tranquil parts, but Yrta wouldn’t give it to them. Cornak cursed her lack of activity, “No, Yrta! Why!? Why did you take my cane? Why!? Why, dammit!?”

He begged her to slay them. Why didn’t she take out her hidden blade and repel them? Why did she leave him hidden in her house, useless? Finally one of the attackers seemingly got fed up, lunging forth and stabbing Yrta through, quite suddenly. Still not resisting, she collapsed onto the ground. The others shouted at each other, quickly grabbing as much from the gardens as they could and running for it.

“No!” Cornak crawled out, making his way over to Yrta when they were gone. She lay there on her back in the drizzle, as he had done so long ago, surrounded by the fruits torn from the gardens around her.

“Why?” He clasped her hands in his, staring down at her, sorrow in his eyes. She stared back at him, still looking peaceful as ever, perhaps even more so now.

“Cornak…” She murmured.

“No, no, nonono…” The Orc shook his head, “Don’t die on me! You can’t die, not like this!”

“Do not fear death, my friend.” Yrta replied, “I can die without regrets…”

“Why!? What’s the point in living if it comes to this?” Cornak wailed despairingly.

“I have a point.” Yrta whispered, “It’s you, Cornak. I can see now why I’ve lived.”

“No!”

“It’s you, Cornak. You’re my gift to the world.” She smiled faintly, slowly closing her eyes.

“No… why… why…?” He held her close to him, and when her breathing stopped, he looked at the sky and howled with rage and purposelessness. He clutched her body, finally glaring in the direction the attackers went off to. So sudden and random to him, their lives forcing their way into his and taking what mattered most to him.

“Gah!” He gutturally muttered, laying Yrta’s body down onto the ground and scrambling back to the house. He tore through the rooms violently, finally unearthing his taken weapons, along with a number of others: a Kyrie sword and a hunting bow with arrows, perhaps once belonging to Yrta. Cornak took the weapons and tore off, rushingly leaning on the sword as he pursued the ones who had wronged him.

It was a far travel, but merely a blink of an eye in Cornak’s enraged eyes. He was an Orc once again, on the hunt for prey to slaughter. He found them out in the fields down by the valley, eating as they strolled.

“Geh,” Cornak grunted as he crawled up onto a rock jutting out of the pasture, lying on his gut and stringing the bow. It was a fine make, much better than the clumsy stuck-together sticks the Arrow Gruts had. He aimed his shot and fired without hesitation.

Twang! Thwack! The bandit was struck in the back, the arrowhead punching through his chest. He fell to the ground. The other two looked around, surprised and panicked. Cornak drew and fired again.

Twang! Thok! The second one fell just as swiftly as the first, the last of the two squabblers. Now for the murderer. Cornak ditched the bow, taking up his sword instead and clumsily racing down to meet his enemy.

Still panicked, the final foe looked around, expecting an entire ambush rather than a lone attacker. He drew his weapon, still bloodied, and backed up as the Orc charged him. He was no match for the Grut’s brute strength and anger, Cornak swinging down and smashing the bandit’s sword out of his hand.

“Die! You don’t deserve to live!” Cornak bellowed, tackling the man. The bandit struggled in vain, raising his arms, but his bare hands offered no protection. Cornak stabbed him through, tearing his sword out and stabbing forth once again, over and over.

“Die! Die! Die!” The Orc continued stabbing even after the man died, hoping beyond hope that it would somehow bring him solace. Why didn’t it help? Why didn’t it bring him the joy it used to? Why did Yrta have to die?

Finally Cornak’s Orc rage subsided, and he looked down at his own bloodied hands, disgusted with himself. Not too long ago he had sought to kill Yrta, and likely would have felt no guilt in doing so. She had led him all this way, and here he was again, killing. It had brought him no joy. Not anymore.

Cornak took the sword and used it to prop himself up, walking back to Yrta’s house. He stooped down next to her, lightly stroking her cold cheek, “Forgive me, Yrta. I’ve failed twice now.”

---

He buried her by the garden, staying inside for the next few days, purposeless. Even as his legs recovered and he abandoned the need for a walking stick, he still remained. Again he was left pondering her final words to him, thanking him, him, for all the trouble she had to go through.

Why do I exist? He thought, What made me worth saving?

The question isn’t what you did before. It’s what you do now.

Cornak rose to his feet, glancing out of one of the windows to Valhalla beyond, “I see now. Every life is worth saving. I’ll do it, or die trying, like you did.”

He went into the room where Yrta kept her manuscripts, where he had found the weapons. Rooting through the papers and hidden objects, he found a map of Valhalla, unraveling it and looking close, able to decipher the words on it.

“So I’m here, and Utgar’s fortress is… here. So it’s reading that finally gets me home.” He tapped the spots on the map, rolling it up and taking it with him. He gathered up everything he could carry and headed for the door, stopping on the way and glancing at the robe hanging from the wall. He took it and put it on, finding it unusual wear for an Orc, but somehow fitting nonetheless. He left, finally leaving Yrta’s home behind, after that long, long time.

What could happen next? Will TAF win the Fan Fic Contest? Well, you'll have to wait till tomorrow to find out! So tune in next time for more! Oh, the suspense! Ho ho ho!

~TAF, still jolly

[TheAverageFan]

Yo Ho Ho! I'm back, folks, with the second half of yesterday's two-parter. As expected, it's merely the last portion of the story, albeit a bit longer (maybe I could've gotten away with three parts...) Ah, regardless, let's stop beating around the bush and get right down to it, whaddaya say?

You guys go ahead and read it. I'll be here, drinking my hot chocolate and staring into the abyss waiting for more comments.

Day 4: Why, Part 2

Spoiler Alert!

---

It was a lengthy journey, but Cornak had become used to quiet and solitude over long periods of time. He travelled in silence, his thoughts constantly full of memories and anticipation. He kept those thoughts to himself, moving in silence.

He had only crossed the border into Jutanguard for a few miles when Utgar’s Minions flew overhead, circling his position and landing around him, weapons drawn. Cornak recognized these elite soldiers, the first he’d seen of Utgar’s troops in a while. They were both nostalgic and frightening, and they clearly weren’t friendly.

“You there! Identify yourself!” They barked furiously, ready to lop his head off at a moment’s notice.

“I am Cornak.” The Orc identified, “I was separated from my battalion, wounded, and have been trying to return home for some time.”

“Looking awfully sagely, Grut.” The Minion snorted, stomping forth and grabbing Cornak’s head, carefully eyeing him, “Eh, you’re an Orc, all right.”

“You’re gonna let him through on just that!?” Another of the soldiers complained.

“We don’t got the time or resources to get all the Gruts papers, rook.” The first Minion retorted, “C’mon, let’s get back to base.”

He grabbed Cornak and took off into the air, lifting the Orc with ease.

“Ya shoulda stayed out when you had the chance!” One of the soldiers howled, “They’ll be flinging you back into the fight before you know it!”

The group sailed off to Utgar’s castle, a massive fortress surrounded by other fortresses on all sides, still only barely big enough to contain all the Valkyrie’s many hordes. Every faction got its own castle, save for one…

“You recognize the Orcs’ quarters?” The Minion carrying Cornak shouted, nodding to a mess of campsites littered around the fortresses, “Home, sweet home!”

“I wish to speak to Utgar.” Cornak replied sharply.

“Ha!” The Minion chortled, “What makes you think he wants to talk to you, lowly Grut!?”

“I’ve got a big offer for him.” Cornak answered.

“Heh, you’ve got gusto for a deserter-come-home. But it’ll be your head rollin’ if he don’t like what you’ve got to say!” The Minion swerved through the air, taking Cornak toward the main castle. They landed upon the fortresses ramparts, the group surrounding Cornak and leading him onward down into the great big halls of the castle’s inners.

---

Utgar’s chambers were bigger and grander than any single room Cornak had ever seen. The entire area was blood red, the Valkyrie’s throne like if the massive skeleton of a dragon had kneeled before him. Guards lined the walls, Minions wielding axes and spears, each one motionless like a statue. Utgar sat upon his throne, surrounded by advisors and commanders of every species.

“Hold there.” Utgar shooed them away as the Minions and Cornak approached, “What is it?”

“Sir!” The lead Minion announced, “We found this Grut at the border, wishing to rejoin and speak with you, sir!”

“Stand aside so I may see him!” Utgar got up from his seat, his massive wings fanning out, “This bold Orc shall have his death wish fulfilled!”

Cornak walked forward, finally seeing him face-to-face for the first time, “My name is Cornak, sir.”

“What is it you want, Cornak?” Utgar demanded.

“I wish to be made an Orc commander, sir.” Cornak replied.

“Ha! A commander! Slim pickings is what you are!” Utgar bellowed, “What exactly makes you commander material!?”

“I can read.” Cornak answered, unshaken by the Valkyrie’s demeanor.

“Ha! I’ll bet!” Utgar roared, “We’ll see about that! Follow me.”

The Valkyrie turned and walked down a hall, his posse of advisors right behind him. Cornak and the escort of Minions followed suite. The way led to a magnificent library, a giant multileveled chamber filled with rows of books at every wall. It seemed unlike Utgar to possess so many, but Cornak figured that just because those at the bottom of the ladder were dumb didn’t mean those at the top rung were too.

“Slate! C’mere!” Utgar commanded. A sound like the brush of wind filled the library, the faint outline of a cloaked man floating down to their level—a ghost of Bleakewood.

“Yes, milord?” The shade’s form became more opaque, bowing before Utgar.

“This is Cornak, a Grut who says he can read.” Utgar explained, “Fetch us a book.”

“Will you kill him if he fails?” Slate replied.

“Yes.”

“Oh good. I could use an assistant, dimwitted or not.” The shade floated back up, disappearing into the wall of books. After a few seconds one of the texts slid out from the shelves, floating down before them as Slate’s form slowly reappeared, carrying the manuscript in his ghastly hands, “Here. It’s one of my favorites.”

Cornak took the dusty book in his hands and read aloud: “‘Basic game guide: object: create a battlefield, choose your Army, then wage war against your opponent. To win, be first to achieve your victory objective. Get ready to play. Set up your battlefield and your army. To do this, use the Battlefield & Game Scenario Section starting on page 17. It features five Battlefields with step-by-step instructions for building them. It also provides 3 Basic Game Scenarios with their own victory conditions.’”

“Hmph.” Utgar grunted, motioning to one of his own, “Taelord, see if that’s correct.”

A black-winged Kyrie walked over and peered over Cornak’s shoulder, “Uh, it, uh, looks about right. I mean, maybe someone else should check too. Just to be, triple sure, right?”

“Oh, move over.” Slate floated down, “Yup, he’s got it.”

“Whew!” Taelord wiped his brow, “I knew it!”

“Well well well.” Utgar applauded, but only for a second, “Seems you’re up to snuff. I’ll make you chief Orc Commander of communications and infrastructures. That means you relay the orders from my other armies to the Orc factions. Got that?”

“Yes sir.” Cornak bowed.

“Good. Slate, show ‘im the Orcs’ camp.” Utgar motioned to the Minions surrounding him, and the group escorted Cornak strait down to the ground floor, Slate leading the way.

“You’ve got my approval.” Utgar smirked as they left the library, “But we’ll see if your fellow Orcs are so impressed by your intellect.”

---

“You’ve good timing, showing up and proving your worth to Lord Utgar.” Slate said as the group headed down the fortress, a long winding trek of halls and stairs leading down to the campgrounds outside, “Our last Orc commander in Orders Relays died not long ago.”

“Fate, perhaps.” Cornak mused, following the ghost down each and very corridor, “Honestly, I’m surprised Utgar took the time to put up with a mere Grut.”

The shade snorted, “Don’t think it has anything to do with you. Utgar’s been using his Orc army as a crutch ever since his Marro legions were crippled in the Ticalla campaigns. With their forces weakened, he’s been relying on Grut manpower for some time now. Utgar’s gonna need every Orc he can get to fight for him.”

“How long has that been the case?” Cornak inquired.

“You have been gone awhile.” Slate floated over to the castle exit, whirling around and facing the Orc, “Here we are. The Minions’ll introduce you to your regiment, but after that, it’s your job to whip them into shape and make sure they follow our orders.”

“Very well.” Cornak stepped out into the faded light, gazing out at the sea of tents before him.

“Listen, Cornak.” Slate warned, “I know you’re probably well aware of it already, but you seem awfully different for a Grut so I’ll say it anyway: these Orcs only respect one thing: power. You go out there and look like a wormy pansy and they’ll tear you apart.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“All right, all right.” The ghost floated back into the recesses of the fortress, “I’m just saying. You’re not a bonehead like most of the others around this place, so I wouldn’t want you to die for nothing. You oughta come by the library sometime if you manage to keep your head.”

“Hm.” Cornak nodded in gratitude, “Thank you, Slate.”

“Right, right. See ya around.”

The Minions led the way, taking Cornak down to the main campsite, an entire town of tents and makeshift dwellings making up the area. Gruts swarmed about in the squalor, sharpening their blunt weapons, huddling around fires, or otherwise fighting each other over anything that could be fought over. Cornak looked out at them from between the hulking bodies of the Minions, flooded with memories of acting in such a way himself.

They neared what one would call the “center of town” of this place, the Minions heading over to a large tent and stopping in front of an armored Orc resting in front of it.

“You there! Commander!” The Minion barked, the Orc jumping up and saluting in a dazed hurry, “Yes, you. This is Cornak, your new Communications and Infrastructure Officer. You work for him now.”

“What!?” The Grut hissed, slouching down and strafing back in forth in place, trying to get a good look at Cornak, “This runt? Why do I gotta take orders from him!? If he’s so great, let me at ‘im!”

He lurched forward, the Minion batting him back and puffing out his chest, glaring down at the riled up Grut. Like most Orcs, the armored commander valued his life over his pride, quickly backing down, intimidated by the bigger foe.

“You can’t be the Order Relay Officer ‘cause you can’t read!” The Minion roared, taking out a parchment and dangling it in front of the belittled Grut, “If you can’t read, then you can’t tell what your Generals’re saying! Do you wanna tell Utgar you botched a battle ‘cause you couldn’t read your orders? Huh!?”

“No… no…” The Grut continued backing away.

“Then you do what Cornak here tells you!” The Minion pocketed the papers, turning and leaving. The rest of the squad did the same, leaving Cornak standing there alone with the Orc.

“Gah!” The subordinate snorted, turning and hissing at Cornak, “Just because they say you’re important! That’s the only reason I don’t kill you and take your place right now!”

“Whatever you say.” Cornak walked past him into the tent. It was a big open area inside, tables clumsily set up along the sides, covered with papers and maps. It seemed that Cornak would have his hands full, by himself at least. He’d need to know the network better.

“You there,” He turned back to the armored Orc, “What’s your name?”

“Me?” The Grut muttered, “I’m Trelnac.”

“Ha!” Cornak was a little taken aback.

“What’s so funny!?”

“It’s just ghastly.” Cornak explained, “I remember once, a friend of mine joked that eventually Utgar would run out of Orcs with ‘—ak’ names and start summoning Orcs with ‘—ac’ names. I just never thought it’d actually come to that.”

“Yeah, so what?” Trelnac snorted, frowning.

“It means that Utgar’s summoned all those Orcs from Grut, like he’s taking our entire population from our entire history and beyond, just to fuel his armies. I guess you must be new.”

“Me?” Trelnac hissed, “Everybody around here’s got ‘—ac’ names. You’re the new one!”

“Oh.” Cornak stopped and looked around him, suddenly feeling like he wasn’t at home anymore, but rather in a ghost town. Did that mean everyone he knew in his battalion had been killed in the time he’d been with Yrta? All for the war? Trelnac was right; he was the odd one out. Cornak hadn’t known what he would do once he met his old friends, but he had figured he’d meet them nonetheless. Now they were all gone, devoured by the Valhallan war machine. He was alone.

---

That night Cornak was instructed to go to a meeting of the Orc Commanders, taking his lieutenant Trelnac with him. Trelnac made his disdain of Cornak as clear as possible while they were together, but he knew that he had to obey Cornak if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders, so he didn’t try anything. That didn’t make Cornak the commander of the entire Orc army, however, and now he’d have to deal with some superior officers of his own.

The commanders’ tent was the biggest in the entire Orc campsite, the inside filled with Gruts from every division, all of them leaders over something: the Blades, the Heavies, the Arrows, the Swogs, and so on. They were all about as rowdy as Trelnac had been, all of them screeching and squabbling when Cornak came in. Many of them turned and hissed at him as he entered, mocking his sagely robe and un-Orcish appearance. Finally the main commander made order, banging his weapon on a table loudly and bellowing, his roars outmatching all the others, the tent falling silent.

“Listen!!!” The commander shouted, making his way to a table in the middle of the area, covered with maps. He slammed his fist down onto it, “Heshnac speaks!”

With the silence onset and all eyes on him, Heshnac went on, “Tomorrow we move to strike the Alliance. Gruts at the front. We make for Laur, through Upper Bleakewoode.”

The Orcs cheered and howled at the prospect of battle. Cornak watched them, turning his attention to the maps of Valhalla. He’d studied such maps when Yrta taught him to read, and he walked forward, nearing Heshnac and closely examining it now. The other leaders gasped as the lone Orc walked over to their commander, and Heshnac made his disdain clear.

“Who are you and what are you doing here!?” He snarled, reaching for a large battle-axe he kept on his back.

“I’m Cornak, the new Chief in Communications and Infrastructures.” Cornak replied calmly, looking at the map of Valhalla, “From my understanding, sir, taking an entire army through Upper Bleakewoode seems like a bad idea.”

“What!?” Heshnac shouted.

“Well,” Cornak explained, “Bleakewoode is a contested area, and trying to get such a large army through there could be disastrous. Why not take the northern route through Elswin? It’s much clearer, and marching an army through that territory wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“Questioning my decision!? My authority!?” Heshnac demanded, stomping up to Cornak and glaring down at him.

“I’m not questioning anybody’s authority. I’d just like to know why you’re taking the hard way to get to Laur, that’s all.”

“This is why!” Heshnac explained, immediately punching Cornak in the face. He toppled over in an instant, the Orc commander hopping on top of him and beating him down ruthlessly. The other Orc leaders found this most amusing, cheering Heshnac’s name as he demonstrated his authority.

Finally the Orc commander rose back to his feet, turning and snapping at Trelnac, “You there! What division is this lowly Grut in charge of?”

“What?” Trelnac stammered, “Uh, twelfth division, sir.”

“Good.” Heshnac turned to the crowd of Orcs before him, “Twelfth division will stay behind for this campaign! They need time to learn their place!”

“No!” Trelnac shouted, “I want to go fight too! Take me, Heshnac!”

“An Orc can only be as strong as his leader.” Heshnac dismissed him, “You stay behind too.”

With that, the Orc commander disbanded the meeting, leaving Cornak there bloodied, and Trelnac there devastated. The remaining Orcs went back to their respective campgrounds and prepared to leave for battle, all but Cornak’s division.

---

Trelnac only helped Cornak limp back to their campgrounds, after they reached their tent he threw the Orc down onto the ground, roaring with rage, “You’ve made fools of us all! Now our entire division is shamed!”

Cornak sat up, wiping blood from his mouth. Trelnac continued.

“You call yourself an Orc? You’re not fit to be leader!” He threw up his fists, “Now fight me for your position! Fight!”

Many of the Orcs surrounding the tents closed in, hollering and roaring with approval of the scrap. Cornak rose to his feet, dusting off his robes only to have Trelnac punch him back down. The angry Grut jumped on him, pounding and beating him into submission. Cornak spat up more blood, refusing to fight back. This must have been how Yrta felt back then, attacked but refusing to give her opponents what they wanted most. It was harder to resist the urge to fight than it was to endure the constant punches. But he held firm, refusing to give in, and as Trelnac continued his assault, his resolve began to waver. There was no thrill.

“Why don’t you fight back! C’mon!” Trelnac bellowed, hitting him again and again, “Fight, Cornak! Fight me!”

The roar of the crowd soon died down, the Orcs finding no enjoyment in such a one-sided battle. Trelnac looked around as he lost the crowd’s approval, quickly getting to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at his beaten opponent, “You’re no Orc, and you’re no leader of mine! I will not be your subordinate, to be humiliated at our leaders’ gatherings!”

With that, he stormed off, even more furious than before he had attacked Cornak. The other Gruts dispersed as well, looking for other sources of entertainment. The lone Orc struggled to his feet, breathing heavily.

His soul burned with primal rage at Trelnac, but he knew better than to give in to its urges. His anger no longer gave him comfort, and he knew that harming Trelnac would not help his cause. After all, perhaps Yrta saw no good in him either, that day she first found him. Surely she could have seen the smoke billowing from the distant battle at the village, known that he was one of Utgar’s bloodthirsty pawns. Yet she had shown him endless kindness. Cornak vowed never to leave anyone he knew like those bandits he had slain. He would treat them as Yrta had treated him, whether they deserved it or not. Because he hadn’t.

---

“You look terrible,” Slate greeted, floating down to Cornak’s side as the Orc entered the library.

“I’m afraid I didn’t heed your warnings,” Cornak replied, limping his way in and having a seat.

“Can I getcha something to read?” Slate persisted, following him closely, taking off into the upper levels at the Orc’s nodding reply. Cornak sighed and reached into his cloak, withdrawing the picture of Yrta he had drawn before. It was dirtied and torn at the edges, but still intact. He stared at it longingly, thinking of and missing her every second he was alone.

“This should be up your alley.” Slate returned, carrying a large book stuffed full of papers, “It’s a history of the war. Could be useful for you, Order Relayer and all.”

“Thank you.” Cornak took it and opened it up. He was curious about the war, knowing next to nothing during his service. He wanted to know why it happened, and what had led up until this point. He read about the wellsprings and the Valkyrie, and the early years of the war.

Cornak spent many hours in the library, turning through those pages while the Orcs down below scuffled and trained for battle. Slate made for good company, but Cornak still preferred solitude, like the old days in that house, looking up at the ceiling. It was awfully quiet in the library too. Sometimes Cornak wondered if he was the only one who liked the quiet, who liked to read. He wished the other Orcs shared the same interests, but they knew nothing of such pursuits.

In those pages of Valhallan history Cornak finally found the place where his regiment had waged their battle at that village. Utgar’s armies had later taken the position, used it to supply an assault in the area north of there. That campaign had failed, and the Alliance had pushed Utgar’s forces back out, shifting the lines of battle back to where they had been before Cornak’s troop had attacked the town. So really everyone there had died for nothing. Cornak sighed and closed the book, wondering if the same fate would befall the new Orcs outside. They all wanted to live, yet they stayed out there, willingly training themselves for death. He had read all about the war, and yet even after all these years nothing much had really changed. Villagers had died, summoned troops had died, but the Valkyrie filled in the gaps with new armies, and the cycle continued. Endless.

---

One day, while Cornak sat in his tent scribing orders in his book, a voice called out to him. Cornak looked over his shoulder. It was Trelnac. The Orc strode in, staring down at his leader, spotting another black eye on his face.

“Yes?” Cornak asked, seeing a strange and curious look in the subordinate’s eyes.

“Well, you… it’s…” The Orc began, “Why do you not fight? Why are you so different?”

He hadn’t expected it from Trelnac, but Cornak saw a bit of himself in him nonetheless. He smiled a bit, “I do not fight because I value life.”

“Not your own, apparently.”

“I value all life.” Cornak replied.

“Why!?”

“It’s too precious for me to take it.”

“I don’t understand!” Trelnac growled, “You make no sense!”

“You wish to live, yes?” Cornak asked.

“Of course!”

“Then why do you fight in such a war? Why do you allow yourself to be a pawn in someone else’s conflict? Do you not wish to truly live your own life?” Cornak demanded.

“What? Of course I’ll live my own life!” Trelnac shouted.

“Will you? When your friends and family have all disappeared into this endless war?” Cornak replied, “Did you know your father, or your friends’ fathers on Grut?”

“…No.” Trelnac suddenly got quiet, “They were already here, weren’t they?”

“Here once, with me, and dead.” Cornak answered, “And Utgar would take your children if he could too.”

“…”

“I wish to break this cycle. And we cannot do it with violence and hate, as we have done for countless generations. Even if it means going against my ancestors’ teachings or Utgar’s orders.”

“I still don’t understand.” Trelnac admitted.

“Follow me then, and you will.” Cornak answered.

---

Heshnac returned with Utgar’s legions soon after, many of them wounded. It seemed that Cornak’s predictions had come true, and it looked like Utgar’s other factions would have a bone to pick with the Orcs for bungling their latest campaign. Cornak joined the Orc leaders at their main camp, most of them resting out in the open, surrounded by Gruts. Trelnac followed closely behind him, looking about at the damaged legions with concern. Cornak appreciated that he had seemingly won over his subordinate, his beatings finally paying off with the Orc’s curiosity. Many of the other Gruts in his camp had taken notice of his strange lifestyle too, having nothing better to do other than watch their commander read and meditate with the utmost inquisitiveness. It was foreign to them, and that piqued their interests.

Everyone had bigger problems right now, though. A wounded Cyprien Esenwein crashed down into the clearing, making a desperate go for the nearest Grut and sucking him dry with his bare hands, leeching the Orc’s life into his own.

“You there!” He snapped coldly, turning to Heshnac and boldly stomping forward, draining the life from every Orc soldier in his way, “You owe Utgar and I an explanation for that disaster!”

Heshnac, equally hotheaded and not intimidated by the vampire, rose to his feet and stormed forth to meet him, “Stop killing my men!”

Angry Orcs swarmed around the vampire. Cyprien easily killed those around him, healing up completely, and slipping his way through the crowd until he reached Heshnac. The two clashed blades, the Orc swinging his great axe through the air and meeting the vampire’s twin swords. Clang!

“I am Heshnac! The greatest of the Orcs!” The Grut commander howled.

“Know your place!” Cyprien snarled, easily outmaneuvering Heshnac and slicing his sides. The Orc roared with pain, rising up and making another attack, only to miss and receive more punishment. The crowd of Orcs roared with rage and defeat as they watched their commander fall. Cyprien slashed him across once more, Heshnac dropping his weapon and falling to one knee, breathing heavily.

“No!” Cornak rushed in, standing between his commander and the vampire, “Enough!”

Cyprien put a blade to his throat, “Do you honestly think you’ve got a better chance against me, Grut? What do you think will happen if you try and kill me, huh?”

Cornak was unphased, “I will not fight you, and you will not kill Heshnac or me.”

“Oh? Or else what?” The vampire was clearly still angry over the battle, itching to cut them both down.

“We are both important Orc commanders. If you kill us, Utgar will be furious at you for further dismantling the chain of command for his biggest army. You will be demoted.”

Cyprien’s eye twitched. Cornak had found what the vampire valued.

“There’s no need for further violence. You’ve healed yourself, now please go.” Cornak insisted.

“Hmph.” Cyprien growled, reluctantly sheathing his swords and taking off into the air, “Fine. So be it.”

Heshnac watched him go, struggling up to his feet and looking over at Cornak with awe, “You defeated him… with your tongue?”

Cornak helped him up, noticing that bewildered look coming not only from his commander but also from all the Orc witnesses around him. Heshnac looked down at his injured but spared life, turning to Cornak and then to the crowd.

“Cornak defeated Cyprien Esenwein without lifting a finger!” He shouted victoriously. The Orcs cheered wildly, their leader turning back to Cornak, “You did what I could not, and you have earned my respect.”

“Cornak has found a new kind of power!” Trelnac declared, kneeling alongside all the other Orc leaders, every Grut in the clearing soon bending a knee to Cornak. Cornak looked around at them all, turning his gaze up to the sky and closing his eyes. At long last he was truly with his people.

---

“Tell us,” Heshnac questioned Cornak soon after, the two of them sitting in the leaders’ tent alongside all the other commanders, “What is your secret?”

“Secret?” Cornak asked.

“You dispersed Cyprien, even in his rage.” Heshnac answered, “How is it that a scrawny Grut dispatches such a foe, who even I cannot defeat? Mighty as we are, Utgar’s higher-ups have always looked down upon us, mocked us from their tall towers. Do you hail from there?”

“Not quite,” Cornak replied, “I am merely one of you. A Grut, plain and simple.”

“No! You are different!”

“In a way, if you are willing to listen to my tale…” Cornak said.

“If it means we can become more than Utgar’s dumb muscle, disrespected in his community.”

“Yes, I will help you achieve that.” Cornak sat back, “I am truly no different than any other Orc, born and raised on Grut, bred in blood and taught the ways of violence. I fought my fellow Gruts, and waged war against the terrible Varkaanans, same as any other.”

“Then what makes you unique?” Heshnac seemed confused.

“Culture.”

“What?” The Orc leaders didn’t understand.

“When I was injured, a Kyrie woman came to me and healed me.” Cornak explained, “She taught me her way of life, of peace, quiet. She taught me to read and write, how to think beyond my old mindset, how to love the world and every creature in it.”

Many of the foot soldiers standing in the back of the tent laughed at the notion, but most of the Orc Commanders took his words seriously, willing to do anything to be like the Orc that had stood up to the vampire and lived without even needing a weapon.

“I don’t understand.” Heshnac replied.

“We Gruts are not inferior to the higher-ups in Utgar’s army.” Cornak continued, “They think we are dumb brutes, to be outwitted and used to achieve their ends. I used my ability to read to make myself a commander. I stood up to Cyprien and reasoned with him. You can do the same, and through peace you can rule the world. Or do you all wish to die fighting another man’s war?”

Heshnac looked around at the other leaders, nodding to them and returning his attention to Cornak, “And I thought you the fool at first glance. You have earned my respect, Grut. My strength has failed me twice now, as it failed my father and my mother.”

This caught the attention of the common soldiers, their eyes turning to their greatest warrior in astonishment. The Orc Commander continued, “I cannot speak for the others, but I will join you. Teach me, as this woman you spoke of taught you.”

Now all the other Gruts were really mind-boggled. Many of the other Orc leaders followed suit, doing as their commander did and pledging their loyalty to Cornak’s ways. They had seen what he had done, and they too wanted to ascend above Utgar’s control and his war.

---

“So,” Slate commented as he floated about the library, shelving various battle reports, “I hear you’re climbing the Orc ranks rather rapidly.”

“Indeed,” Cornak replied, looking through a manuscript while he chatted, “I knew Cyprien was practically Utgar’s right-hand man, but I never knew the others feared him so much. I’ve earned the respect of practically the entire army.”

“Essentially the leader already.” Slate mused, “That’s a lot of Orcs under your belt.”

“So it is.”

“Hmm, looks like another defeat in the southeast.” The shade reported, looking through his papers, “The DeathWalker faction suffered some heavy losses. That’s unfortunate; well, maybe not for you. Utgar’s going to be relying on the Orc army even more now.”

“The more we are worth to that Valkyrie, the more power we have over him.” Cornak replied, “Perhaps one day we’ll be strong enough to defy him, separate ourselves from him.”

“That’s crazy talk!” Slate floated down to the Orc’s level, “Why on earth would you attempt such a thing?”

“Why else? To defang him.” Cornak closed his book, “To be free, to make our own way in the world. To have peace, the kind our people have never had the luxury of getting to know, the kind our stubborn ways and Utgar have kept from us for far too long. The kind every living thing deserves.”

---

Cornak’s popularity amongst the Orc ranks skyrocketed in the coming weeks. Word of his standoff with Cyprien spread like wildfire, and Gruts of every kind came to see him. Cornak felt like an Orc again, never alone, surrounded by friendly troops, but he never forgot his time with Yrta. He took the opportunity to show the army his philosophy. Many were intrigued at first, many more refusing to accept such ideals, but as time passed it slowly caught on, just like it had for Cornak in the beginning.

He spent the most time with Trelnac, the two becoming close friends faster than expected. The Orc subordinate caught on to the idea of pacifism faster than Cornak had, and before long he too was teaching other Orcs to do the same. It was if a cycle of war and savagery that had spanned countless generations had suddenly stopped, this strange concept foreign to planet Grut halting the old ways in its tracks. These Orcs had lost their appetite for battle, sickened by their last defeat. They wanted to learn how to read and write.

Countless Orcs came from all over to listen to Cornak or watch him. Cornak repeated to them everything Yrta had told him, his audience growing with each sermon. They assembled in the shadow of Utgar’s castle, where the Valkyrie and his advisors glared down at them with caution, suspicious about this sudden gathering of the Orcs below.

“They’re afraid of you.” Trelnac told Cornak, “They think you’re dangerous.”

“One who takes a killer’s means of destruction is dangerous.” Cornak answered, “He’s angry that I’ve convinced you all not to die for him. You won’t shed blood for him anymore.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll kill you?” Heshnac asked.

“I do not fear death. My legacy would live on in all of you. We are all one now.”

Sure enough, one day a swarm of Minions flew down, shooing away the Orcs clamoring around it. They entered and pointed at Cornak, “You there. Lord Utgar wishes to see you!”

“Why?” Trelnac stood in the way, “What did he do?”

“None of your concern.” The Minions brandished their weapons, “C’mon, let’s go, Cornak.”

Cornak motioned for his friends to move out of the way, going and meeting the Minions. They took him, leaving the tent and flying up to Utgar’s fortress. Already it felt like déjà vu, once again going to meet Utgar, not as a deserter this time but as a leader and possibly a threat.

Utgar waited in his throne room, glaring down at Cornak as he entered, “You again, huh? I thought I’d heard it all, and then I’m told a week before one of our biggest battles that our Orc army has become infested with pacifists. I must say that’s a new one.”

“I merely taught them my way of life.” Cornak calmly replied, “If that is a death sentence, then so be it.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Utgar replied, “Pacifists are peaceful, at least until their leader dies. Then they’re revolutionaries. Just look at that village you helped destroy.”

Cornak looked up, suddenly alarmed.

“Oh yes, I did my research.” Utgar grinned, “Don’t try and act all sagely to me—you know exactly what I’m talking about. Those villagers tried to stay out of the war, and now they’ve cast their lot in with the Alliance, because of Gruts like you. Not a difference, your so-called peaceful cause and them.”

“I…” Cornak clutched his gut, feeling sick at the mere memories.

“I can’t have the bulk of my army getting mutinous at this desperate hour.” Utgar continued, “The only thing keeping Gruts in line is their leaders, and the leaders all follow you now. So you tell them to gear up for war. Got that?”

“…”

“I know you don’t fear death.” Utgar said, “But don’t think that gives you any power over me. You do your job, and we will win this war. Then you can have all the peace you want.”

“Yes sir.” Cornak muttered, rising to his feet and bowing.

“Good. Now go, prepare the army for battle. Your battalions will be on the front lines. I’ll check on your progress often.” The Valkyrie smiled, “So don’t try anything funny.”

---

“What are we to do?” Heshnac asked Cornak the following day, all the Orc leaders gathered in their tent whilst the Grut army prepared for battle outside, “We cannot defy Lord Utgar’s orders. Not now.”

“He won’t hesitate to slaughter us if we stand against him peacefully.” Another of the Orc leaders said, “We shouldn’t put up with him any longer. We should fight him off.”

“No,” Trelnac snapped, “We mustn’t fight. We only need to render him powerless at the right moment to gain our freedom.”

“But how? He’s watching us, and he wants us suited up for battle in a week’s time!” Heshnac shrugged, “What should we do, Cornak?”

“I have a plan.” Cornak replied, “We face the Alliance in a week, all-out war on the open field. We prepare for battle, and make our stand on the front lines, for all of Valhalla to see. Utgar will have no choice but to surrender without us, with the entire Alliance before him.”

“But what of the enemy? What if they intend to kill us?”

“Then so be it, but I’d sooner take my chances with them.” Cornak rose to his feet, “In the meantime, prepare for battle. We drop our weapons on the battlefield.”

It was quiet for awhile, some of the Orcs casting doubtful glances at each other. Cornak looked down at the ground and continued, “My ways have backed us into a corner. I alone am forced to make my stand. If you do not wish to follow in my footsteps, then by no means do so.”

Trelnac stood, “I will.”

Heshnac stood, “As will I.”

All the other Orcs present stood as well. Cornak looked around at them all. This time he was the astonished one, and at that moment he was more than willing to die for each and every one of them. And he knew they all felt the same. They would make their stand.

---

“Hail, Falshan!” The Elven regiment halted its march, joining Jandar’s forces at the Jutanguard border. At the front of the blue army was an armored Kyrie mounted on a horse, still wearing the same weary, determined look on his face that he had bore for the last three years. Three years he had spent fighting for Jandar, trying to take back Valhalla from the evil that had overrun it, and most of all find the one who had wronged him.

“Any news from the scouts?” Falshan asked as the elves dismounted.

“Aye, sir. Orcs helming the front lines all across every front.” The elf explained, Falshan spitting at the O-word, “Utgar’s Gruts have grown more numerous as of late.”

“And?” The Kyrie queried.

“And Aquilla sends her answer.” The elves stood aside, letting a legion of tall humanoid wolves pass through their ranks, “Varkaanans, sir.”

The biggest and baddest wolf made his way up to Falshan, “I am Bahadur, leader of the Varkaanans. We hail from the planet Grut; dealing with Orcs is our forte.”

He heaved up a large battle-axe over his shoulder, showing a toothy grin, “We’ll clear a path of filthy Grut bodies for you to go through.”

“Good. When this is over, I will give Aquilla Jandar’s thanks myself.” Falshan nodded, “Come, let’s get moving. We’ll travel as one group from here.”

The armies merged together and headed west, straight toward the front lines. During the entire ride Falshan stared at the distant horizon, his sword feeling restless in its sheath. He had spent the last three years training for war, no longer hiding in the ignorance of his village’s neutrality. He would wipe the Orc vermin off the face of Valhalla himself, even beating the ferocious Varkaanan to it if he had to.

As the days past, Falshan came to learn that the Varkaanans were quite beastly themselves, but their bloodlust was savored for his enemy, so he let it go. He saved his disdain for a single opponent, not bothering to question the moral standing of his allies. After all, he too had lost much of his innocence over the last few years, killing many foes and offering little mercy to those who would not show any in return. He had at the very least become an efficient killer, even at the cost of his empathy.

Finally in the days before combat, the elven scouts again returned, with more news.

“The Orcs are gathering,” One said, “We believe we’ve found their leader.”

“Yes?” Falshan replied, pressing for more information, “Any distinct features?”

“He does not ride a dinosaur.” The scouts answered, “And he wears a robe of red and orange, like a human monk.”

“Ridiculous!” Bahadur roared, stomping up to the scout and looking him in the eye, sending the elf backing off aways, “Never in all my years! Are you sure it was an Orc?!”

“Y—yes sir.” The elf stammered.

“What’d he look like? Not clothes or mounts, he himself!” The Varkaanan barked.

“He appeared to have been burnt at some time, much of his upper body was scarred. And he had another scar across one eye. Those were the only unique features we caught a glimpse of.”

“What!?” Falshan rode over, dismounting and grabbing the scout by the collar, “Burns and a scar across the eye! Are you sure!?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Are you Positive!?!” Falshan demanded.

The elf’s frightened eyes darted from the Kyrie to Bahadur, unsure who to be more afraid of, “Y—yes sir! P—positive!”

Falshan dropped him, standing upright and glaring off into the distance, “I can’t believe it… after all these years. Cornak, and leading the entire Orc army, no less.”

“You know this Orc?” Bahadur stared over at him, bewildered at the concept of someone coming to know a Grut by name. Falshan returned the look, no longer intimidated by the beast. He was daunted by nothing right now: he’d face death and more for the chance to get to that single Orc.

“I know him all too well. We ride out tonight—I want to be the first one on the front lines.”

“Hey now,” The elf got back to his feet, “No need to rush into a battle of this scale! Almost all the Valkyrie armies will be there! Let’s not get in over our heads!”

“Right you are, elf.” Bahadur growled, “The Valkyrie will be there. Let’s give them a display the likes of which they’ll have never seen!”

“Aye! Let’s make Jandar proud!” One of Falshan’s knights agreed, the others cheering.

“Ah, jeez…” The elf scout put his head in his hands, “We’re doomed.”

“You’ll be in the back, runt!” Bahadur shoved him aside, getting on all fours as he prepared to lead the way, “Let’s move out! My fangs thirst for Orc blood.”

“Move out!” Falshan reiterated, mounting his horse and leading his men out, to the battlefield in the distance.

---

The armies gathered at the borders of Jutanguard. Fields of soldiers littered the grounds. Every Valkyrie and their army was well represented, all forming a big circle around the battleground-to-be. In the very center was a giant mass of Orcs, Utgar’s first and biggest wave of soldiers. While the scouts moved out from all sides to probe the situation, Falshan’s troop closed in, heading straight toward the middle of the Grut army awaiting him.

The Orcs were as hideous as ever, bearing their savage weapons and their armor in tatters over their vile bodies. But Falshan knew what to look for: a Grut at the front of the army, wearing a distinct orange-red cloak.

The Orc army had stopped its advance, everything coming to a standstill. The Alliance’s forces kept at a distance, waiting for the battle to break out. The Gruts were expected to make the first move, charging into the Alliance’s fire and starting the battle.

Cornak stepped out, Trelnac to his right and Heshnac to his left. He held out his hands, taking out a sword Utgar had given him for battle. He gazed at the finely crafted weapon, finally stepping out into the open for all eyes to see and dropping the sword onto the ground. The Orcs all stepped out as well, throwing their weapons down onto the dirt and stepping back into the crowd.

“What are they doing?” One of Falshan’s knights asked.

“They’re… ditching their weapons?” An elf answered, sounding unsure himself.

“Forget it.” Falshan growled, drawing his sword, “We ride.”

“But they’re weaponless!” The elf protested.

“Then you may just survive after all.” Falshan replied, “Now move!”

He raised his weapon into the air, his horse galloping out ahead of his troops, who slowly advanced behind him, suspicious but mostly confused. The Kyrie warrior rode straight for Cornak, still at the front of the Orc army. Falshan’s regiment stayed a good distance behind, weapons drawn but unwilling to commit to combat just yet. He didn’t share their sentiments.

“CORNAK!!!” He screamed, riding up and taking to the air, crashing down on top of the Orc with a vengeance, blade instantly at the Grut’s burnt throat. His flailing wings buffeted all others away, quickly forming a clearing around him. Cornak did not resist.

“No! Cornak!” Trelnac shouted, “Get off of him!”

“Cornak!” Heshnac yelled, “Don’t kill him!”

Cornak merely held out his arms to signal them to stay away, “No, do not interfere.”

“They can interfere all they like,” Falshan snarled, “I’ll gladly die to kill you.”

“Why?!” Trelnac wailed.

“No, this is what I deserve.” Cornak said, staring Falshan in the eyes, “This man has every right to kill me. How can I deny him?”

“Cornak!” Heshnac shouted, all of the surrounding Orcs voicing the same concerns for their pinned leader.

Falshan looked over at them, surprised by the amount of concern and not rage in their voices, returning his attention to the Grut under him. The scarred Orc looked so different, so strange. The Kyrie noticed his blade had started shaking in his hand, and he tried to smother his doubt under his anger, “You can hide behind a new personality, a new morality, but deep down inside you’re still you. That same Orc still needs to die, by my hand.”

“I will not stop you. I can never return what I took from you, and because of that, I’ll never be truly innocent.” Cornak replied calmly, “I can only pray that others will never make the same mistakes that I did.”

He had guilt in his eyes, and as he closed them he seemed to be at peace, awaiting execution. In spite of their protests, none of the other Orcs had taken up arms to save their comrade, although they all crowded around, begging for their leader’s life to be spared. Falshan glared at them, his confusion causing the shaking in his hand to return.

The Kyrie looked back down at Cornak, all eyes from everyone present on him, waiting for him to make the kill. He longed to slay the demon who had killed his family, and yet in that moment, he suddenly couldn’t do it. Why? Why couldn’t he do it!? He’d waited three years to kill Cornak, and yet now he lacked the ability to carry out the task. He felt conflicted, felt bad for being the one to murder this pacifist. But he wasn’t bad—Cornak was! Cornak had wronged him, so why couldn’t he wrong the Orc in return? It’s what he deserved. Why couldn’t he bring himself to do it? Because it was Utgar’s war he really hated.

“Grah!” Falshan threw his sword to the ground, getting to his feet and leaving Cornak lying there, “You don’t deserve to live, but I can’t kill you.”

“You…” Cornak sat up.

“It’s not for your sake!” Falshan snapped, “It’s because all these people around you… they care about you. And I won’t take your life in front of them.”

As he spoke, tears began to run down his cheeks, the Kyrie staring skyward to hide it, “Because… I’m the bigger man… I’ll always be the bigger man…”

“…You are.” Cornak replied, “Thank you…”

Suddenly a roar erupted from Falshan’s regiment, “WHAT!? You never had the gall to kill, Jandarian!”

Bahadur burst from the ranks, stomping forward and brandishing his axe, “You’ve been duped by a simple trick! We wolves and the Gruts have made trophies of each other’s skulls for countless generations! And you think they can ‘turn their life around’ like this!?”

The giant Varkaanan pointed an accusing finger at Cornak as he approached, “You think you can change, Grut? I’ve killed Orcs for DECADES! Your kind will never change! You’ll always be the same savage, mindless, worthless scum you’ve always been!”

“No, Bahadur!” Falshan ordered, “Stand down! They’ve all laid down their weapons!”

Bahadur snorted and shoved the Kyrie away, “Out of my way, you toothless fool! Orcs don’t surrender! It’s a trick, and I’m not falling for it!”

Cornak and the other Orcs stepped back as the behemoth beast advanced, but the Varkaanan’s agility proved to be more than expected. Grasping his axe, Bahadur stepped forth in an instant and ferociously cut down Cornak. The blade cleaved straight across the Orc’s torso, Cornak collapsing to the ground and blood beginning to soak his torn robe instantly.

“No!” The Orcs cried, rushing to his side.

“Come at me!” Bahadur shouted, “I’ll kill your precious leader, and all of you with him!”

“Cornak!” Trelnac stooped down to his leader’s side. He was still alive, but gravely injured and bleeding out.

“Protect Cornak!” Heshnac yelled. Countless Orcs ran and formed a wall between their wounded leader and the Varkaanan. They refused to pick up their discarded weapons, instead defiantly standing there, more than willing to use their body as a shield.

“I won’t fall for it! Not for a second!” Bahadur lunged forth, cutting down many Orcs with another swing, more taking their places. The wolf kept on swinging away at the crowd, the Gruts refusing to fight back or yield to his attacks. More and more Orcs fell to the Varkaanan’s axe, the Alliance scouts watching the whole thing unfold, horrified as they watched the wolf butcher them all.

“Protect Cornak!” The Orcs shouted, bunching together and keeping Bahadur’s axe busy. Each and every one of them rushed to meet their end, more than willing to do so for Cornak’s sake.

“Bahadur, stop!” Falshan cried, “Stop it! Stop!”

Bahadur ignored him, cutting down Orc after Orc without a hint of guilt crossing his face. Falshan rushed to his side, trying to pry him away from the Grut crowd with little success.

“Get back, whelp!” The Varkaanan snarled at him menacingly, “I won’t let them win! I’ll kill every last one of them!”

“Stop!!” Falshan insisted, looking at all the bodies piling up around the wolf. Increasingly panicked, he kept trying to pull the Varkaanan away, finally grabbing his sword and rushing to the beast, stopping him the only way he knew how: thrusting the blade clean through the wolf’s back.

“Gah!” Bahadur dropped his weapon and backed up, gawking at the sword sticking out of his chest. He stumbled back, falling down onto the bloodied ground, “You…damned Orcs… damn you for eternity…”

The bloodthirsty Varkaanan downed, the Orcs and Alliance soldiers closed in, all circling around Cornak, who laid there surrounded by his friends, slowly dying.

“Cornak, no…” Heshnac muttered, “Why, Cornak, why…?”

“Fear not,” Cornak replied, “It was the final sacrifice I had to make, the retribution of generations of bloodshed.”

“You’ll never get to see the peace you worked so hard to achieve.” Trelnac mourned.

“No… I’ve already seen it in all of you.” Cornak smiled, “You are all my peace.”

“I swear, on my life,” Trelnac promised, “We’ll make our way in this world, live in this very spot. It’ll be a place of peace, of love and learning. We’ll build the first Valhallan College of Literacy, and people will come from all over to study your wisdom. I’ll construct a monument to you right in the very center, big and grand for everyone to marvel at!”

“Heh, thank you… but I’m not the one who should have a monument…”

“Huh?”

Cornak shakily reached into his robes, withdrawing the crumpled-up portrait of Yrta and handing it to Trelnac, “Build it to her, Trelnac… She deserves all the credit, the appreciation, everything… dedicate it all to her…”

Trelnac took the picture and eyed it curiously, “This woman? Very well. It will be done.”

“Thank you. Thank you all…” Cornak closed his eyes, “I’m going to her now.”

“No! Don’t go!” Heshnac cried, “You can’t die!”

“But I can. I’ll never fear death, not with her waiting for me. Goodbye, friends…”

With that, the wounded Orc finally relaxed and stopped breathing, going limp. The Orcs all bowed, silently mourning his passing. Falshan stared down at the deceased Orc, feeling a pang of sorrow for the one he had hated more than anything not an hour earlier, “You were wrong, Bahadur—I was wrong. Anyone can change, anyone can become anything. Perhaps that’s why life is so sacred… perhaps…”

The Alliance scouts decided not to engage the enemy, returning to their Generals and reporting what they had seen unfold. The Generals agreed to accept the Orc’s succession from Utgar, leaving them in peace to do what they willed. Utgar’s army was near-crippled without his Orcs, and he had no choice but to surrender once they had left him. The Alliance disbanded his armies, many of whom began to wonder if there was anything better they themselves could’ve been doing all this time.

The Orcs settled on the border of Jutanguard and Elswin, where they carved out their own living. Trelnac dedicated himself to constructing the first Valhallan College of Literature, aided greatly by a generous donation of books and reading lessons from Slate, who had no use for them at Utgar’s abandoned castle. It soon became a place not only for Orcs, but for anyone who wanted more out of life. Countless species came to attend, bustling about the place or loitering around the center of the school, by the statue depicting Yrta, reading a book to Cornak.

-THE END-

Well, there you have it, kids! What a story. I sure hope it wins the contest, but even if it doesn't, it's been immortalized in writing here on this thread, undoubtedly bound to be remembered longer than any of its competition! Ho ho ho!

Speaking of hos, I'll be back tomorrow, and don't you worry, kids. I can assure you that tomorrow's piece is very much Christmas related. What is it, you may ask? Well, let's just say we can all jump on the "hype train" for this one...

~TAF, who will return