24 Days of Christmas w/ TheAverageFan

[TheAverageFan]

Ho ho ho... well, there's 12 days until Christmas and there ain't been no real activity on the forum for nearly a week now. So in the spirit of giving I, TheAverageFan, will be posting a thing a day until the holiday is over and done with... unless I'm too lazy or I don't get enough views on the thread (don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe and check us out on Facebook and Twitter and the others--buy my book). Why such the effort? Well, I have no friends, or family... or life. So holidays on the Heroscapers it is!

Anyway, on with your first gift of the holiday season--more like a white elephant gift exchange gift: a repackaged piece of garbage nobody else wanted that you just brought back again for the fourth year in a row Grandma!!

I give you the precursor to my beloved first work on the site: the Prologue and first chapter of Thunderstorm by TheAverageFan, a story that only barely counts as Heroscape. Why Thunderstorm again? Because I only came up with this idea ten minutes ago! And because people'll actually read things if they're posted chapter-by-chapter! But something is something is something, so here ye go. On a side note, if any of y'all would be willing to read more, I'd be more than happy to post a chapter a day or something on a different thread if y'all need something to read this month or whatever.

Day 1: Thunderstorm, Ch. 1

Spoiler Alert!

ThunderStorm
Todd Inscho

“Master Woo?” The elven messenger called. He stood in front of a rather run down old house. It stood apart exceptionally from the surrounding buildings, which were built into the giant trees scattered about the city. The forestry nature gave him a sickened feeling, like the opposite of being homesick. He preferred the organization of Sohenberg. It had a higher sense of being, more respectable, if not fearsome. He impatiently tapped his foot, hoping the other elves would not comment on his U.S.E. uniform.
Finally the door opened, and an old monk stepped out. His gray-bearded face seemed contemplative, his eyes gazing into the messenger’s eyes, as if he was already probing him to see if he was “worthy”. Ha! Perhaps he would teach him his secret ways. There was wisdom in that old man’s stare, and something dangerous, too.
“Yes?” Master Woo questioned, although the messenger was positive that he already knew what was coming.
“Sir, a message from the U.S.E. in Sohenberg. Sonlen wishes to speak with you concerning… certain matters.” He handed the monk a folded envelope stamped with Sonlen’s seal.
“May I ask what the particular matter is?” Inquired Master Woo, slowly taking the envelope and folding it in his wrinkled hands, eyeing it with a chilling stare.
Quivering a little, the messenger straightened up and replied: “I cannot say, sir. It was a private matter. Only to be discussed amongst the higher-ups. I do not know myself.”
Master Woo was silent, then nodded, and unfolded the envelope and took out the papers, inside. He gazed over them for a second, then returned his eyes back up to the messenger, “I see. Tell Sonlen I will be there, and for no short period of time. I have many things to do there. Seeing as I am a Man and not an elf, will Sonlen be willing to tolerate that?”
“You have his word; he told me himself he would allow that.”
“Very well, then. You may go.”
The messenger breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of leaving. “Yes, sir.”
He turned and headed back toward the boat to depart, his boots crushing dry leaves and small twigs littering the path as he left. A few elves had been peeking out of their houses at the conversation, and as the messenger left, they too breathed sighs of relief at the thought of no trouble. Master Woo turned back and went inside. He sat down, turning the pages of the papers the envelope had contained.
“Hmm…” He grumbled quietly to himself, “I sense the falling of the first stone that sets in motion an avalanche of boulders draws very near. Brandis… I hope you are ready. I hope we are all ready…”

1

Brandis Skyhunter opened his eyes. He lay in bed, the first signs of light beginning to slip in through the windows of his small house. Sitting up, he glanced around the room, rubbing his eyes and yawning. His bow and quiver of arrows lay in the corner, no doubt the fanciest thing he had, although its purpose never stretched farther than putting meat on the table. He got up and began getting his clothes on. Ranger wear, elven styled. Although he was a half-elf; at least that’s what the fellows at the nearest town, aptly named GrassFields, said. Not that it mattered what he was to himself. Brandis lived alone, far away from the other villagers. He didn’t know where his house came from, nor his bow, nor his prized possession. Thinking about it, Brandis reached down and held it up in front of him. A green jewel, glowing from within, hung from his neck wherever he went. Normally, Brandis likely would have sold it a while ago to get along easier, but something felt very special about it. So he held onto it.
Brandis got up, had something to eat, and grabbed his bow and headed outside. Those animals aren’t going to hunt themselves, he thought as he started heading down the fields. But today was special. Not a hundred yards from his house, Brandis caught sight of smoke on the horizon. Fire! The very edges of the fields were burning. Brandis had lived here twenty years, but he had never seen his fields on fire before. Littering the horizon also were tiny little black figures, coming closer. Brandis turned and ran back inside. Running to the shelf, Brandis tripped and fell. He scrambled back up and quickly grabbed a small red potion from the shelves. He felt around, wiping some of his hair from in front of his eyes, “Crap! Where is it, where is it…”
He searched around, finally checking under his bed, “Aha!” He reached under and grabbed a small blue ring he had bought at GrassFields. The shopkeeper had told him it was divinely protected, and that it was a fair trade for life any day of the week.
The scorching sound of pointless plants burning grew louder, and Brandis tore outside. Several armored figures lumbered around the flames. They were and wore all black, with silvery white hair and glowing red eyes. Other than that, they seemed to be elves. A blackened essence seemed to seep from their skin and weapons off and to the ground. They all had shields decorated with a spider design, and black blades gleaming with a purple liquid. One turned his head toward Brandis and then barked “Here’s one!”
The rest readied their swords and began charging for him. Brandis drew an arrow and fired without hesitation. It sailed through the sky and pierced one of the black elves through the eye. He lurched backwards and fell over. The others stopped their charge, recoiling in surprise at their fallen comrade. Brandis readied another arrow and pointed it at the remaining two. “Don’t come any closer or you’ll get it too!”
Brandis had killed plenty animals of the sky before, but never had he fallen an armed foe not too different from himself. He glanced down at the slain enemy. How fast he had reacted with violence! Perhaps he had warrior’s blood in him. Or maybe the creature was so hideous that he felt more pushed. Nonetheless, the kill had both startled and awoken something within him, and he felt less hesitation to fall another than he had expected. The black elves seemed surprised, too. One looked at the other with uncertainty, while the other looked back and nodded. Then the two of them raised their shields and rushed forward again. Brandis loosed another shot. However, the enemies would not be fooled twice, and the target blocked the arrow with his shield. Closer they neared; beads of sweat began to form at Brandis’ forehead. Thinking quick, he took two arrows and shot one at the black elf’s leg, then quickly shot another and his chest. Trying to react quicker than he could, the creature lowered his shield to deflect the arrow, only to be hit near in the face.
“Arrgh!!” He toppled over, clawing at the fatal wound.
Brandis moved swiftly to take out the third and final foe. Drawing as quickly as he could, he shot yet another arrow at the fast-approaching enemy. A sly expression came over the red eyes just behind the spider-decorated shield, and the black elf leaped forward. The arrow sailed straight through him. The armor and weapons vanished into thin air, and a split second later, the mysterious attacker burst into a dark wisp of air. Just as soon as he was gone, he reappeared behind Brandis and butted him over with his shield. Brandis landed on the hard earth with a thud and whirled around. The dark elf stood above him, sword in hand. He smiled with an expression of pure evil.
“You killed my friends, now you get the same, half-elf!”
Thinking fast, Brandis moved his leg up and kicked the attacker where he really shouldn’t have. The dark elf leaned over in pain, shouting out. Brandis leaped up and jammed an arrow up into the monster’s throat. The enemy gasped and slowly fell over.
“Whew!” Brandis dusted himself off. Abruptly he turned around. His fields and now his house were completely torched. All those years and now both were gone. Where would he sleep? How would he eat when the herds were migrating? Calm down, Brandis he thought to himself, You’re still alive, aren’t you? I need to get to GrassFields, provided it’s still there. Who are these guys? Reluctantly looking back, Brandis turned and began heading in that direction.
Lucky for him, Brandis could clearly see the line of fire ravaging the Sohen Plains he lived on (or just used to, anyway) had only just tipped his house. Most of the massive plains were still fine. The fires seemed to have been started at the Eastern end of the plains, by the Desert Mountains. Brandis had heard stories of demons living on the mountains, but he had never thought they’d attack. Regardless, if he kept heading North, he’d hit GrassFields before dark. Unfortunately, it seemed that his job wasn’t completely done yet. A group of four of the black soldiers was up ahead, going the same way he was. Three were bearing torches instead of either a sword or shield, and the last was wielding some peculiar lengthy chain and giving the orders.
Brandis didn’t waste any time. Drawing an arrow, he quietly took a shot at the leader. Luckless, however, as a wind blew and forced the arrow to sin. It curved and struck one of the torchbearers. He crumpled down and collapsed, and the others turned and faced Brandis.
“Looks like we start work early!” one of the dark elves shouted, and the two remaining ones began to move toward him, splitting apart to flank him. Brandis glanced back and then forth at the two foes. He readied an arrow, keeping an eye behind him. The enemy to his flank took advantage of Brandis’ preoccupation and rushed forward, sword raised. Reacting quickly, Brandis spun to face him and fired. The arrow sailed straight through the elf’s black armor and penetrated his body.
“Errk!” He straightened up and fell back over. The other quickly ran and swung at Brandis. He tried to move, but the blade still managed to slice his arm. Pain seared through his limb twice as the sharp steel burned its way through him and then a sizzling poison repeated the action. Brandis stumbled back as his enemy laughed simply letting the purple acid do its work. The half-elf quickly fumbled for his potion and drank the stuff as quickly as he could. It tasted like nothing he had ever had before; swirling down his throat cleansing every irritation and sore. As soon as his tongue had finished tasting its sweet red healing his body tasted it as the potion worked its wonders. As soon as he had felt pain it was gone, and his arm healed in a few seconds faster than it ever did after weeks. Looking back up, Brandis saw his enemy looking back in confusion at his surviving the attack, clearly uneducated in the ways of the healing arts (which were available at nearly every store for two gold coins). Being quick to strike back, Brandis lunged forward and tackled the dark elf. The two fell to the ground, and Brandis sprung right back up. He kicked the sword out of the soldier’s hand and hastily executed him with an arrow to the face.
“NO!” The leader enemy shouted, seeing the others defeated, “You lousy excuses for drow!” Drow? So that’s what you’re called. Promptly turning, he drew another arrow to finish the job and let it fly. The leader drow moved forward, swinging his head to the side avoiding the shot, then swinging his chain forward and lashing it at Brandis. It wrapped around his leg and the half-elf fell over, dropping his other arrow out of his hand. The drow reacted swiftly, yanking his weapon and pulling Brandis over. He tried to get up, only to get punched back down by his enemy. Laughing, the drow pulled the chain back away from Brandis’ leg and began swinging it around with force. Seeing what was coming, Brandis quickly rolled out of the way just before the deadly chain smacked the ground right where he was. Just as soon as he had avoided one attack, Brandis had to hit the dirt before the chainfighter swung his weapon around again.
“You elves don’t know true power!” The drow shouted, advancing on Brandis, “We will rule for a thousand years on this wretched plain!” Brandis looked up at the Drow, then leaned up and stuck his leg in the air halfway between the black elf and the end of the chain. It instantly wrapped around his leg and swung back around, smacking the drow in the face.
“Arrgh!!” He let go of his weapon and covered his face. Brandis grabbed his bow and, leaping back up, smacked the drow into the air with it. He then quickly shot an arrow up, striking the chainfighter mid-air. The enemy hit the ground hard, dropping a small bag. Brandis untangled his leg and went over, opening it up without caution. Finding a few gold coins, he shrugged and continued on his way, limping a little. Never hurts.
Brandis had to fight his way through a few more squads of the enemies. He managed to pull through all of them, but by the time GrassFields was in sight, he was tired and impatient. He began limping as fast as he could toward the small town, relieved to see that it was fine. Before getting any closer, however, he already saw another figure between him and the oasis. He gritted his teeth and simply moved closer. Surprisingly, though, it was not another wretched drow. It was a woman, an elf, by the looks of it. She couldn’t have been older than him, although it was impossible to tell with elves; they all looked the same age once they reached their twenties and stayed that way for a long time (or at least aged very slowly). Brandis had met Men before, at GrassFields, and they were hopeless when it came to looks. She was slender, seeming somehow different from other elves Brandis had met, and different from the drow as well, but he simply couldn’t put his finger on it. She had an orange coat, different from the usual elven green GrassFields elves often wore, and long, blonde hair, about the same color as Brandis’. Sly was the word for her expression, an untrustworthy casual vulpine look about her. Most peculiar of all, he had never seen her before in his life, undoubtedly not a citizen of the town. Thus, an outsider, Brandis concluded, like the invading drow. The drow! It couldn’t be a coincidence that both this stranger and the blackened elves had arrived here on the same day. Yet she was different from them. Perhaps she was here to help. Brandis supposed from this thought that it must have been the ugliness of the drow that had kept him unrestrained in his first kill. Normally he would consider asking her questions concerning why she was here, but today was not a particularly good day for Brandis, and he wasn’t in the most trusting mood. Hostile or not, he would keep his guard up. He had to get to GrassFields!
She had one hand on her hip, and while Brandis stood there, on his guard thinking about what to do, she moved the other toward her coat pocket, which clearly had something in it. Brandis took notice and held his bow up, stringing an arrow.
“Friend or foe?!” He asked loudly, “If you’re a friend, then get out of my way. If not, then you get this.” He readied the arrow, prepared to fire at a moment’s notice. Despite having a deadly arrow pointed at her, the woman seemed calm, if not cocky.
She smiled deceptively, then spoke: “I’m surprised you’re alive. The drow ought to have taken out all the weedy ones. This isn’t the day or age for defenseless weaklings.”
“Why, you!” Brandis wasn’t in the mood. He took aim.
“Luckily, I’m still here.” She reached in her pocket, pulling out a dagger, sharper looking than Brandis had ever seen at any weapon shops in GrassFields (not that that said much, that drow chainfighter’s chain was sharper than any weapon Brandis had ever seen at their weapon shop, if you get the drift). It shined in the partial sunlight, and for a second Brandis thought he saw it spark with static.
Brandis didn’t waste any time. He released the arrow and watched as it sailed through the air toward her. With lightning fast reflexes, she slid gracefully out of the way and then followed up by spinning back around, swinging her dagger. It sent a sharp bolt of lightning out, which shrieked toward Brandis, knocking him back. Pain racked through his body as the bolt sailed its way through him, dazing him for a bit. The woman smiled upon seeing that her counterattack had succeeded. She stood up straight again.
“Show me what you’re made of,” she taunted, before lunging straight at Brandis. But the half-elf was faster than she had expected. Brandis jumped back up and quickly blocked her mid-swipe with his bow, which surprisingly survived the slice. Faster than he had expected too; why am I so… awesome? Brandis wondered to himself, or does everyone else just kind of suck at fighting?
Naturally, of course, there wasn’t time to think about what on earth was going on, so Brandis decided it was best simply to make use of this newfound skill to his advantage. He whirled the bow around and struck his attacker dead-on with it. Again, his own strength surprised him. Is fighting really this easy? He wondered. The strange elf flew back from Brandis’ attack, and hastily jumped back up on her feet. Brandis readied another arrow, preparing for another assault. Perhaps the woman’s overconfidence had given Brandis too high of an expectation, or perhaps the half-elf was more of a natural at battling than he had thought. Either way, the elf recollected herself with this revelation clearly in mind.
“Hmm,” She muttered under her breath, brushing some of her hair behind her ear “Is this the one I’ve been looking for?”
“That’s it.” The woman assumed another battle stance, “No more playing around.”
Who plays around in a life or death situation? Brandis thought. Either way, he was sick of this. He began to advance toward her, releasing another arrow as he walked forward. The elf leaped up in the air, vanishing. The arrow whizzed by, missing completely, and Brandis halted, looking around for her. Then, as soon as she had jumped up, her dagger flew back down, striking the ground with a sound like thunder. It immediately burst into a bolt of lightning, which slowly began advancing on Brandis.
“What on earth!?” He backed away from it, still looking around for the dagger’s owner. The lightning continued to advance on him, bursting into two bolts, then four. Brandis was running out of places to back up. Before long, he found himself surrounded by the pesky electrical objects. He gulped, and watched them advance at the same slow pace. Thinking quick, he looked up, seeing something gleam from far above him. He glanced back down at the bolts of lightning hovering toward him. Without a second thought, he sprung from the ground, leaping as far as he could. Time seemed to slow down as he slowly passed over the bolt, landing behind it. He immediately rolled forward, just as the bolts fused together where he just was, again forming that dagger. Seemingly only a split second later, the elf came back down from above, wreathed with electricity, and landed right behind the deadly knife. The force of the landing, or the combination of the electricity in that spot, or perhaps some giant spell, Brandis knew not, caused the spot right where he just was to literally explode with more of the devastating lightning. He could only assume that either her or her weapon had magic powers, and Brandis had never dealt with magic before. The elf instantly grabbed her weapon and leaped back into battle with him, swinging and slashing her weapon with just slow enough reflexes for Brandis to barely deflect each blow. He continued to block and evade the rapid deployment of each attack, waiting for his opportunity to counterstrike. Then she lunged forward in a stabbing motion, and Brandis saw his chance. He took his bow in one hand and an arrow in the other to finish what he started, and swung the former at her.
“Not so fast!” She shouted, moving her other arm quickly and catching the bow in her hand. Instantly an electrical current ran from her through the weapon to him. Brandis yelped with the pain of being zapped again and dropped his weapon, falling over.
“Ah ha!” The she-elf triumphantly advanced on him again, kicking the arrow out of his other hand and bringing the dagger down toward him. Brandis panicked and moved his hands over himself to defend. Suddenly the dagger was stopped mid-stab above him.
“Wha…?” Brandis opened one eye. His ring of protection! The ring was glowing brightly on his finger, the waves of light emitting from it seemingly holding the dagger back. Quickly the victorious smile vanished from his adversary’s face. Brandis wasted no time. He moved both his legs up and slammed his feet into her stomach, easily launching her off of him. His newfound chance at victory gave him extra energy, and he didn’t waste any of it. He leaped back up, rushed forward, grabbing his bow and arrow as he charged. The elf began to get back up, but Brandis was already there. He swung his foot forward and kicked her back again, then drew his bow and released an arrow. It zipped straight forward and easily clipped the dagger out of her hand. Following up, he jumped up in the air, and brought his bow down on her head, knocking her again onto the ground. Brandis promptly drew another arrow and pointed it at her. He couldn’t help but smile. Victory!

EDIT: Now that the 12 Days are up, here's them all for you in the OP:

Day 2: Unit Strategy Guide: Major Q9

Spoiler Alert!

Unit Strategy Review
Unit: Major Q9
Author: TheAverageFan

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

Major Q9 is among one of the worst units in the game. His poor stats and lack of presence on the battlefield give him no real place in Heroscape, and he can never seem to survive a match without dying at some point. He doesn’t even belong in the set he comes in—besides that dumb horse thing there’s three other bigger guys who are undoubtedly better. Despite this Q9 seems quite common in tournaments. But people seem to be misplaying him. Don’t you guys know what you’re doin’? Being a Heroscape Master in my own right, I suppose I’ll show you all the specifics of how to play this guy smart (though I’m not overtly familiar with him—I normally play the Basic Game). Since there wasn’t a Q9 guide on the site already (I don’t know if that’s true, I didn’t check), I figured that now was the perfect time to put up a professional guide for everybody. Let’s begin, shall we?

Analyzed Statistics
Cost - 180- Bishop Class Unit
Size - Large – Still susceptible to Wo-Sa-Ga crush
Life – 4 – Okay I guess
Move - 5 – Fat
Range - 8- High
Attack* - 4 - Fast
Defense - 7– Low for a Soulborg
*Quilex… Quigex… Quilgex… Quiglex Gun: 9 dice divided between 9 to 3 separate attacks. Range reduced to 6—well then what’s the point?

In-Depth Analysis

Each unit is simple, and requires little analysis to be truly understood. For Q9 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)

Class:
Major Q9 is a Bishop Class unit. Granted, he’s less expendable than Raelin, but you still shouldn’t be blown away when he dies. 180 points might dictate a higher ranking, but 4 life dictates a lower one anyway. Orcs are four 1-life guys, and they’re pawns, so the same rules apply. Heck, eighteen Isamus is 18 life! Thus Q9 isn’t anything higher than a Bishop. He’s not central to your army (more on who is later).

To examine Q9’s core stats, we will break ‘em up into two categories – offensive ability and survivability. First we’ll look at offense. He’s only got one stinkin’ ability so this will be brief.

Offense:
Q9 has three modes of offense. Firstly is his normal attack for 4. This is probably his best option since he’s got 8 range plus 5 move for a danger-range of 12. Kato won’t know what hit him! Secondly is his special attack. I recommend always using three shots for three, since math is hard and this is just a game so I ain’t taking the time to get a calculator. I’d put up some tables of which attack value to use for which defense, but again, math is hard. Option three is taking passing swipes. At this Q9 excels.

Survivability:
Q9 is also pretty durable. He’s got lousy defense, but his above-average life (counting squads) makes up for it mostly. Just watch out for defense bypassers like Net 14, Whip 12, and Marrden Plague. It’ll let the enemy smack you around with your exposed sucky life and kill you quickly. Don’t feel bad—it wasn’t gonna last long anyhow. Ban people with these abilities from tourneys to make Q9 live longer.

Strategy:
Here’s where we’ll make Q9 shine. Most people misplay Q9 all the time, by putting him on heights, giving him Raelin and rats for protection, and all that jazz. This is almost the opposite of how he’s supposed to be played! The developers secretly tell us exactly who Q9 is right on the right side of his card: He’s a “Unique Hero”! Well, Q9 certainly is unique, and that’s exactly how we’re gonna play him. You see, Q9 is tricky (just like his personality). He wants everyone to focus him. “More is less” as they say! Q9 is a Bishop unit—which means that his job is to defeat Pawn units before he is in turn destroyed himself. He’s also a reverse-fear-factor unit, which mean he should be tempting the enemy to attack. Send Q9 straight into the fray!

Your enemy will be thinking things like: “Hey, that guy’s stuck in the river” and “That big 180 point hero looks awfully tempting” and “Didn’t he already play his #2 order maker?” and “That guy looks dangerous—I should go kill him or use all my rats on him”.

This is the entire point! Q9 can draw much attention and live through it all (unless Me-Burq-Sa is present). Use Quiglex Gun on the rats—if they run, then use it on the enemy’s ranged figures—if they don’t scatter then finish ‘em off! While the enemy is distracted, send out your Roman Archers to grab glyphs! Intimidation is key. Also make sure to always put your “X” order marker on Q9 every round of the game, even if he’s dead. This will only add fire to the fuel and your foe will attack him more.

Lastly we utilize our Queen unit—the Blastitrons. Since Q9 has engaged the enemy, he will give the Blastitrons an extra attack die. With height that is four attacks for three—far more than Q9 could accomplish alone! Some may argue that Major X17 or Gladitrons could do this job better. Poppycock! Q9 is far more durable than those guys, with four more defense than them, even against ranged attacks (and in competitive Heroscape games, if there’s any melee attacks happening then something’s going wrong). He’s also more expensive, which draws more attention. And as Sun Tzu once said “All War is Attention”. With this strategy, we can assure that Q9 fulfills his role as Bishop throughout the game, protecting the Queen by drawing attention to themselves: just like real life Bishops. This is exactly how Q9 was always intended to be used all along—he’s a big expensive distraction for your Blastitrons to go with. You’ll need a lot of those, by the way. I suggest drafting at least nine squads of them, same as you’d usually draft for your Greenscale Warriors. Don’t worry they’re the same price.

Optimal Strategies:
180-Pals: Draft Taelord with Q9! Taelord is usually worth drafting over Q9 in most situations, but if you can fit them both in I highly recommend it. His aura gives Q9 +1 attack, which can let you use nine attacks for 2 (extremely powerful). He’s also another 180-point distraction, and your opponent will be extremely unsure which one to attack first! Also draft Minions of Utgar—it’s worth the extra 110 points for the order marker trickery to be had!
Revive Glyph: If Q9 dies, a good strategy is to get a Glyph of Sturla and resurrect him. With a 15% chance of success with a 19 or 20, you can bring Q9 back and send him back into the fray! I also recommend landing on the Glyph of Lodin, which will boost your chances to 20%.
Theracus: Theracus is a good pick with Q9. You can move him in faster with the Carry ability, which can get Q9 in a lot deeper into the enemy’s ranks. On a small enough map, maybe even into the enemy’s start zones. I like to build my maps with the start zones adjacent to each other instead of on opposite ends of the board. I suggest doing the same if you’re going to field Q9.

Units to Avoid:
Raelin: Your own, not the enemy’s. Raelin is tempting to pair with Q9, but this strategy is idiotic. Q9 with 9 defense is too intimidating, so the foe won’t want to try fighting him. Plus it takes too long to set up, as you’ll have to spread your order markers around. Ugh.
Zelrig: Zelrig is incredibly dangerous. Not only will his attack reduce your defense by 2, but it’s an explosion and Q9’s a double-hex figure, so you’ll get hit by it twice.
Defense-Reducing Guys: You already banned them, hopefully.
Bad Luck: It’s always a dice game at the end of the day, anyway. Avoid at all costs.
Atlaga: This guy can be disastrous if you’re playing Q9. He’s less expensive, and he has an ability that can wreck your whole strategy: Flying. He can fly right over Q9 and get your Blastitrons real easily. He also gives other Kyrie more movement. Counter-draft Marcus to give your army some movement bonuses too.

Anyway, in conclusion, I hope this article was of assistance to you. Now you can again draft Q9 with confidence. We can break up this whole Anti-Q9 society thing now. Stop hatin’ on a unit just ‘cause you think he sucks! Maybe you suck with him! I digress, may this post help all who wish to play this guy more effectively. I hope it has MAJORLY affected your opinion! See what I did there. Join me next time when I give some long-awaited love to the Krav Maga (those poor, dusty ****ers).

--TheAverageFan, in full readiness to be down voted

Day 3: The Very First Christmas*
*Except Not At All

Spoiler Alert!

Ahem, anyhow. You see, I never even wanted Heroscape… my brother did. For you newcomers Heroscape is old and decrepit but back it the day it was brand new. Hasbro making some sort of stack ‘em whack ‘em board game featuring Vic the Viking, Angela the Angel, and a robot? Sign me up, coach! Actually, no. It looked stupid to me; the advertising wasn’t particularly effective and I weren’t no board game geek. I hate those guys! Erm, I mean… they’re cool…

Well, I had no idea why my bro wanted it. He seemed randomly into the concept for some reason. Neither of us weren’t no board game geeks. We hated those guys.

“Why are you getting this Heroscape crap, ????” I always asked, “It looks all weird, and you aren’t no board game geek. I thought you hated those guys.”

“Oh, lighten up, The.” ??? always said (they call me “The” around the house because “TheAverageFan” takes too long to say), “It looks like it could be fun.”

Anyhow, the days rolled on by like cats until finally the big hand smacked the twelve on the 24th. We ate lunch and then went about our day as usual. But come the second twelve later that night, dear ol’ Santa paid us a visit packing some Heroscape: Rise of the Valkyrie back when anyone could afford that crap. Waking up on Christmas day, ??? and I opened it up and lo and behold—Heroscape, pre wave-1. Now that’s going back. I can still smell the fresh plastic now. It smells manufactured and slightly hazardous. It’s probably because I just opened all these Barbie Doll boxes… er, for my relatives! Yeah, got ‘em for my little girl relatives… stupid things… ‘Tis the season, you know what I’m sayin’? Ahem! Anyway, back to the Heroscape…

*Smokes pipe* You see, folks… back in those days you had no idea what you were getting yourself into. ??? had just asked for this on a whim; we didn’t know nothing. You didn’t even know who was what and what did where. What is this, some kind of Viking? A dragon with no wings? Oh, wait here they are. Got some ruins here… Here’s the instructions. Looking through all that stuff… why, we were like two kids on Christmas morning.

So I cobbled together a stage from the instruction book and got ready to play my first game of Heroscape. Back when you only had the one Master Set your Heroscape board could fit anywhere around the house—imagine that! It was the Basic Game, of course. Pitched against my old man… oh, I bet you thought it’d be against ???. Yeah, here’s the real kicker—he didn’t want to play the game. He was playing some video game or some nonsense. I told you it was on a whim; oh the irony. Truth of the matter is, he never did play a whole bunch of Heroscape, really. He did get into it for a while, but he stopped playing. So basically the guy who got us the game in the first place didn’t end up playing it, and the rest of us were the ones who got hooked. Funny how things turn out… I suppose I ought to thank him. They say the Lord has a sense of humor. Tell me about it—have you guys seen Dund? What even? Anyway, on with the story.

So the Battle of all Time commenced, well more like the Battle of the Five Minutes. It basically quickly boiled down to my pa’s Tarn Vikings against good ol’ Ne-Gok-Sa. See, even back then it was still “good ol’” Ne-Gok-Sa. See, it was right then and there that the Marro Warlord would become my personal favorite Heroscape figure, even before the Mindshackling started. He’s just too good to pass up for 90 points. But I suppose he’s free in the Basic Game (the booklet just tells you who you’ve got). And so, Ne-Gok-Sa has been my favorite ever since. Who’s yours (it’s Cyprien, isn’t it)? Anyway, on a tiny 7-hex sand tile crammed between the war-ridden ruin and the carpet, Ne-Gok-Sa stood alone against 3 or 4 Tarn Vikings. These barbarians would soon learn that this weird alien thing was not to be crossed.

And seriously, kiddies, why are the Vikings Jandarian? Vikings are evil! They invade and pillage and maim and rape stuff. Are these Vikings different? Are they good Vikings? Can they undo what all the other Vikings did? Ne-Gok-Sa never pillaged or raped anything—he’s super good. So who’s the real villain here? I don’t trust that Jandar guy—he’d have probably summoned some Nazis if we had made it to wave 12 or something, I’d bet.

But I digress. The first of the Vikings rushed forward, swinging his mighty sword with a fervor matched only by the other 2 or 3 Vikings. Despite his debatably noble efforts, however, Ne-Gok-Sa parried the blow with ease and struck back. His sickly blade pierced the Tarn’s shield and shattered it like my hopes and dreams. The Viking collapsed, dying instantly from the attack because squads can never just be wounded. Ne-Gok-Sa chortled, showing the fallen Viking’s comrades a gleeful grin as he beckoned them over.

The death of the first not dampening their spirits, the remaining Tarns rushed forth, surrounding the Marro Warlord and attacking all at once. Dancing back and forth in a flurry of steel, Ne-Gok-Sa blocked one blow after another, simply waiting for the opportune moment to strike. It came when some attack dice accidently knocked one of the Vikings over, the Utgar Champion focusing his attention onto the other and striking him down whilst the fallen Tarn struggled back to his feet.

Not giving him any chances, Ne-Gok-Sa lunged forth and stabbed at the barbarian. Unfortunately the Tarn blocked the blow, retaliating with rage. His rusty blade sunk into the Marro’s shoulder, only to snap against his flesh. Ne-Gok-Sa gave the sword an unconcerned glance before turning back to the horrified Viking and cruelly smiling.

“7 defense, baby.” With that, he thrust his blade into the Tarn and kicked him back against the ruin, the Viking slowly slumping down. Ne-Gok-Sa tossed his head back in laughter, “Ha ha ha ha!”

…And I guess there were only 3 Vikings after all…

*closes book* …And that’s how my very first game of Heroscape went. My old man went on to lose many games after that to my precious Warlord, until he found the Krav Maga Agents, soon followed by his 4861 game winning-streak. But that whole story’s a curse word vocab lesson for another time. We would go on playing the Master Set for quite a while, me, ???, and dad. We divided the units up amongst ourselves—I was quick to swipe the Marro—and before we even knew what we had the other waves were on the way. But no matter how much Heroscape we had, I’ll always remember that day with a fond memory… that Christmas morning. Or was it ???’s birthday? No, I think it was Christmas. Pretty sure.

Day 4: TheAverageFan's Christmas Poem

Spoiler Alert!

A Christmas Poem by TheAverageFan

Today I weave some words made from Rhyme,
And though Poems are not a favorite of Mine,
This Christmas season is so Sublime,
That I figured it ‘twas about the Time,
For it would be a horrendous Crime,
To hold back with the vigil of a Mime,
Better to do it whilst in my Prime.
Because any other day would be Nein!

Christmas is the best—it’s simply Great,
I see no reason for all the Hate,
You have new Holiday Plates,
And don’t have to see your Classmates,
You need not worry about being Late,
“The Roads were terrible, Boss—it was Fate”
And for this and more, I Rate,
The 25th, as the most important Date.
And it’s almost here; I cannot Wait!

Unless you’re in the Workforce and don’t get off—then it can Suck.
But at least you can read some of my stuff—so you’re in Luck!

And now for the Throwaways, up to Bat;
Cat, Hat, Mat, Drat, Brat, Fat, Cat, Splat, Rat.

And who could resist some Heroscape this time of Year?
Whilst the busy and cold make outside so Drear
I’ll be dicing and downing some Beer,
I don’t drink Beer, but it nevertheless Rhymes,
What!? It’s not like I’ve committed any Crimes!
(yeah, I already did those…)

It’s the perfect pastime, I do Declare,
Regardless of any Wear or Tear,
Though it is expensive, to be Fair,
But tis worth it, so without a Care
I’d still sooner lose my Hair,
I’d still sooner fight a Bear,
I’d still sooner accept any Dare
Than to lose my ‘Scape; I would Despair,

Which is really sad, come to think of It.
I’m kind of materialistic… just a Bit.

And thus I end my poem; Hooray.
It was far from the best, least to Say,
But it’ll suffice; be it what May,
And if it might have made you Grey,
You may comment it so; but Hey,
It was only written in a Day.

Day 5: How Taelord Stole Christmas

Spoiler Alert!

How Taelord Stole Christmas
by Dr. Suess
butchered by TheAverageFan

Every Hero Down in Heroville Liked Christmas a lot...
But Taelord, Who lived just north of Heroville, Did Not!
Taelord hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season!
Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.
It could be his wings weren't screwed on just right.
It could be, perhaps, that his boots were too tight.
But I think the explanation most people dig,
Was that his point value was two sizes too big.
Whatever the reason, His points or his wings,
He stood there on Christmas Eve, hating the whole thing,
Staring down from his cave with a sour, Taelord frown,
At the warm lighted windows below in their town.
For he knew every Hero down in Heroville beneath,
Was busy now, hanging a hexagon wreath.
"And they're hanging their stockings!" he snarled with a sneer,
"Tomorrow is Christmas! It's practically here!"
Then he growled, with his Taelord fingers nervously drumming,
"I Must find some way to stop Christmas from coming!"
For Tomorrow, he knew, all the Hero girls and boys,
Would wake bright and early. They'd rush for their toys!
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise!
Noise! Noise! Noise!
That's one thing he hated! The Noise!
NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!
Then the Heroes, young and old, would sit down to a feast.
And they'd feast! And they'd feast! And they'd Feast!
FEAST! FEAST! FEAST!
They would feast on Mar-pudding, and Wyvern-roast beast.
Which was something Taelord couldn't stand in the least!
Then the Heroes would gather up and play,
They’d play Heroscape for hours, all Day!
Nobody ever drafted old Taelord, for whatever reason,
And this above all was the worst thing about the season!
And they’d Scape! And they’d Scape! And they’d Scape!
SCAPE! SCAPE! SCAPE!
And Then They'd do something He liked least of all!
Every Hero down in Heroville, the Huge and the Small,
Would stand close together, with Christmas bells ringing.
They'd stand hand-in-hand. And the Heroes would start singing!
They'd sing! And they'd sing! And they'd Sing!
SING! SING! SING!
And the more Taelord thought of this Hero Christmas Sing,
The more Taelord thought, "I must stop this whole thing!"
"Why, for six long years I've put up with it now!"
"I Must stop this Christmas from coming! But How?"
Then he got an idea! An awful idea!
Taelord Got a Wonderful, Awful Idea!
"I know just what to do!" Taelord laughed in his throat.
And he made a quick Santy Claus hat and a coat.
And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great Taelord trick!"
"With this coat and this hat, I look just like Saint Nick!"
"All I need is a reindeer..." Taelord looked around.
But, since reindeer are scarce, there was none to be found.
Did that stop the old Taelord? No! Taelord simply said,
"If I can't find a reindeer, I'll make one instead!"
So he called his doggin, Dund. Then he took some red thread,
And he tied a big horn on the top of his head.
Then He loaded some bags from his old sacky-sack Fund,
Onto a ramshackle sleigh And he hitched up old Dund.
Then Taelord said, "Giddap!" And the sleigh started down,
Toward the homes where the Heroes Lay asnooze in their town.
All their windows were dark. Quiet snow filled the air.
All the Heroes were all dreaming sweet dreams without care.
When he came to the first little house on the square.
"This is stop number one," the old Taelord Claus hissed,
And he flew to the Overhang, empty bags in his fist.
Then he slid down the chimney. A rather tight pinch.
But, if Santa did it, for Taelord it was a cinch.
He got stuck only once, for a moment or two.
Then he stuck his head out of the fireplace flue.
Where the little Hero stockings all hung in a row.
"These stockings," he grinned, "are the first things to go!"
Then he slithered and slunk, with a smile most unpleasant,
Around the whole room, and he took every present!
Dice Towers! Flagbearers! Shiny Water! Brand new Ice!
Exclusives! Army Cards! Glyphs! Even Valkyrie Dice!
And he stuffed them in bags. Then Taelord, very nimbly,
Stuffed all the bags, one by one, up the chimney!
Then he slunk to the glacier. He took the Heroes' feast!
He took the Mar-pudding! He took the Wyvern beast!
He cleaned out that glacier as quick as a flash.
Why, that Taelord even took their last can of Hero-hash!
Then he stuffed all the food up the chimney with glee.
"And Now!" grinned Taelord, "I will stuff up the tree!"
Taelord grabbed it, and started to shove the Evergreen,
When he heard a small sound like the coo of a Kyrie.
He turned around fast, and he saw a small Hero right then!
Little Otonashi-Shinobi, who was not more than Ten (points).
Taelord had been caught by this cheap Hero daughter,
Who'd come from the shadows for a cup of cold water.
She stared at Taelord and said, "Santa Claus, why,”
"Why are you taking our Christmas tree? Why?"
But, you know, that old Taelord was so smart and so slick,
He thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick!
"Why, my sweet little tot," the fake Santa Claus lied,
"There's some paint on this tree that is scratched on one side."
"So I'm taking it home to my workshop, my dear."
"I'll fix it up there. Then I'll bring it back here."
And his fib fooled the ninja. Then he patted her head,
And he got her a drink and he sent her to bed.
And when Otonashi went to bed with her cup,
He went to the chimney and stuffed the tree up!
Then the last thing he took Was the log for their fire!
Then he went up the chimney, himself, the old liar.
On their walls he left nothing but hooks and some wire.
The one speck of food He left in the house by the mirror,
Was a crumb there that was even too small for a Reaver.
He did the same To the other Heroes’ no matter their stats,
Leaving crumbs too small For the other Heroes' rats!
It was quarter past dawn... All the Heroes, still a-bed,
All the Units still Sleeping When he packed up his sled,
Packed it up with their presents! The ribbons! The wrappings!
The tags! And the tinsel! The trimmings! The trappings!
Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Kyrien Mountain,
He rode with his load to to dump it, as was his Bounden.
"PoohPooh to the Heroes!" he was Taelordishly humming.
"They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!"
"They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!"
"Their mouths will hang open for a turn or two,
Then the Heroes down in Heroville will all cry BooHoo!"
"That's a noise," grinned Taelord, "That I simply Must hear!"
So he paused. And Taelord put his hand to his ear.
And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.
It started in low. Then it started to grow.
But the sound wasn't sad! Why, this sound sounded merry!
It couldn't be so! But it Was merry! Very!
He stared down at Heroville! Taelord popped his eyes!
Then he shook! What he saw was a shocking surprise!
Every Hero down in Heroville, the Huge and the Small,
Was singing! Without any presents at all!
He Hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming! It Came!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!
And Taelord with his Kyrie-base ice-cold on the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?"
"It came without ribbons! It came without tags!"
"It came without packages, boxes or bags!"
And he puzzled three rounds, till his puzzler was sore.
Then Taelord thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store."
"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"
And what happened then? Well...in Heroville they say,
That Taelord’s points shrunk three sizes that day!
And the minute his cost didn't feel like such a blight,
He whizzed with his load through the bright morning light,
And he brought back the toys! And the food for the feast!
And he, He Himself! Taelord carved the Wyvern beast!

Day 6: A Valhalla Christmas

Spoiler Alert!

From the Pen of Sgt. Drake Alexander,

We’ve been stationed here for four weeks now. Back at base there’d be snow this time of year, but out here on the Volcarren/Ticalla Border there’s only the flurries of ashes to remind the troops of the season… The Marro have held the border strong for the entirety of the campaign here. Aquilla’s never going to receive any reinforcements or supplies at this rate—Utgar’s defenses here are impenetrable. The Valkyrie’s summoned something terrible from Marr this time. And that says a lot. Some sort of Marro Snipers that make Stinger guns look like Reaver bites—and with twice the range. Add the trenches they’ve dug with the protection of the jungle over on their side and you’ve got an unwinnable situation. All efforts so far have been… well… We’ve come down to just sitting over in our own trenches, sweating and waiting. Doing nobody any good while we sit around and wait for ideas. What a campaign it’s been, alright.

Drake sighed and lowered his pen, “It’s no use. It’s simply hopeless out here.”
Agent Carr lowered his periscope and nodded, “You’ve got it, Drake. Even Vydar’s stretched thin for an answer here. Aquilla’s never going to make it at this rate.”
“No, not that.” The Sergeant corrected, “It’s the 24th of December, by Earth days. I’ve kept careful track in my journal. And I can just never get in the Christmas mood.”
“I thought we had more pressing matters right now.” Carr pondered.
“It’s 104 degrees out here, snowing hot ashes and I’m spending Christmas Eve sitting in a molten trench waiting it out for something to happen.” Drake complained, “Why, for years I’ve missed Christmas day here on Valhalla. I’ve had it up to here!”
“Up to where?”
“You’ve got it Serge!” Private Danny agreed. He was a soldier from the 2000s who had recently been summoned. Most of the army got him confused with Dead Eye Dan, but that wasn’t a problem after Dead Eye tried to pick a fight with the new Marro Snipers. A shot had run straight through the cowboy’s shiny scope and went straight through his good eye. Now they called him “Dead Eyes Dan”, and the blind lawman got sent away from the front, removing any further confusion.
“Admit it, Carr.” Danny argued, “You miss Christmas too. We all do, us Earth folks.”
“Back before the war, I used to stay up all night on the 24th trying to fall asleep.” Drake reminisced, “Hold on—MORTAR!!!”
A large DeathWalker bomb fell from the sky, crashing into the trenches and shaking the whole place violently. Everyone ducked down into their respective foxholes and waited a full ten minutes before the bombing ended. As the dust cleared, Drake and the others slipped back out into the open and resumed.
“Anyways,” The Sergeant continued, “My whole family got together and had a big breakfast before the gifts were opened. We spent the whole day together, my entire extended family. Except for my crazy Uncle Daniel—he wasn’t allowed to leave the Psych Ward even on Christmas, after he ate that Raccoon.”
Agent Carr gave in, “Yes, I remember. Back when I was on Earth we always enjoyed Future Christmas. We gathered under the Zero-G Tree and defused our presents. It was the best time of the year, my whole family and me. Well, except for my crazy Aunt Danielle.”
“It was always ‘Happy Holidays’ for me.” Danny commented, “Why’d it change back to ‘Christmas’ for you, Carr? Surely we overcame this whole diversity thing.”
“Well,” Carr explained, “It was only us Christmas folks after the nuclear war of 202~—er, I mean…”
“The point is,” Drake interrupted, “We’ve all got our Christmas stories to share. So why are we duking it out on such a wonderful time of year!?”
“Well, we’re trying to save Aquilla’s home and—”
The Sergeant would not have such a lousy excuse, “I say we screw our commanders’ orders and celebrate together! It’s Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sakes! Let’s not argue and bicker over who killed who. This is supposed to be a happy occasion!”
“Where have I heard that before?” Danny pondered.
Drake rose to his feet, snipers’ bullets bouncing off of his helmet as it popped over the edge of the trench. He grabbed a white flag and raised it triumphantly into the air, standing forth with gusto that only a man whose love of Christmas outweighed his fear of death could do (cough).
“Drake, I’m not sure Marro celebrate Christmas.” Carr warned.
“NONSENSE!” Drake denied, “The spirit of giving transcends time and space—the Marro LOVE Christmas! Follow me, men. We’re charging the charge of Christmas Joy!”
And with that, the soldier marched towards the enemy ranks without a care. At first, his plan seemed to work, the Marro holding their fire as they watched the Sergeant approach with the white flag. But then, given a few seconds, the sound of gunshots filled the air again, every Marro rifleman shooting the Sergeant to ribbons. Of course, Drake had his Thorian Speed and thus the attack was futile, the Sergeant proudly approaching without a care. The soldiers watched with awe.
“They’re not shooting him! They do love Christmas!” The Minutemen shouted with joy.
“He’s not dying! It’s a Christmas miracle!” The Sentinels rejoiced.
“Let’s go, men! It’s time to celebrate Christmas!” The Knights yelled, racing out onto the field.
Danny glanced at Carr and shrugged, climbing up and racing after all the soldiers.
Unable to stop the Thorian of Christmas, many of the Marro moved out to meet the holiday attackers.
The leaders of the Marro battalion, De-Ang-Na, Du-Al-Nis, and Dannifer walked over to Drake, lowering their weapons.
“Alright,” De-Ang-Na hissed, “We’re willing to discuss the terms of our surrender. But you’ll never make it past our next lines of defense, humans!”
“The only terms we’ll accept are the terms of Christmas!” Drake shouted, despite the Marro’s proximity, “We need not fight on the 24th of December! Forget the battle for today and let’s celebrate!”
“What?” Du-Al-Nis asked, absolutely confused.
“Bring forth the gifts!” Drake shouted, handing over several presents to the commanders, “Let’s see… here’s a brand new wallet for you… and some swamp water in a box… and… a molten rock (okay, I don’t know what Marro are into, really).”
“These are…” De-Ang-Na stared at his new wallet.
“I was going to get you a bone for your pet hounds, but I didn’t know if you guys would take offense to that, being all… you know…” Drake apologized.
“No, I love it.” De-Ang-Na stuffed the wallet between his exposed ribs, shoving out his old wallet in its place.
Turning back, the Marro commander quickly huddled with his co-commanders, “Well, now I feel bad. What are we going to give the humans in return?”
“Let’s give them a classic “Che-Tus-Mes” gifts like back on Marr!” Du-Al-Nis replied, “I haven’t celebrated Che-Tus-Mes in years! It was always my favorite holiday.”
“Yes!” Dannifer agreed, “They shared their culture with us, now we can do the same!”
The Marro turned back to Drake, “Very well, human. We’ll give you a gift of our own.”
The Marro crawled out of their trenches, dragging several large sacks wrapped up in ribbons and bows behind them over to the Allied forces. Drake excitedly took one and ripped it open, only to find a rotting corpse inside.
“Oh, uh… thanks.” He nodded his forced approval.
“On Marr we celebrate Che-Tus-Mes,” De-Ang-Na nodded, “It’s a festive and wonderful holiday where we all go around town and return our victims’ corpses to their families. Everyone loves it!”
“Oh. I see.”
“Well, go on.” Dannifer excitedly prodded, “Eat it! It’s not getting any fresher, you know.”
“I don’t think their kind does that, Dannifer.” Du-Al-Nis whispered.
“No, but we’ll take it, anyway!” Drake boldly exclaimed, “Thanks a lot, guys!”
Turning back to his comrades, the Sergeant exclaimed, “Well, go on, everybody! Let’s all celebrate!”
And with that the armies rejoiced and the celebration commenced. The soldiers gave the Marro all sorts of wonderful presents, and the Marro gave the soldiers all their dead back. It was simply magical. The soldiers enjoyed some hot cocoa, which was really just chocolate milk in that extreme heat, and they sang Christmas Carols and chanted Che-Tus-Mes songs, which were easy to learn because no word in them was more than three letters long. Why, even Agent Carr joined in on the fun, surprising everyone with what a great Countertenor he was. Even a cold winter wind blew through the region, taking the temperature down to a cool 95 degrees. It was like Christmas all over again.
Next the men gathered up around the largest Tree in the Ticalla front—a great big evergreen, rare in that area. It was viciously guarded by a pack of Quasatch Hunters, who didn’t want the armies to chop it down, but the Marro were kind enough to shoot the violent monsters to pieces. What chaps!
With the ecoterrorist party-poopers out of the way, the men brought the tree out onto the field and decorated with with all the shiniest and finest objects they had on hand. The Marro got creative too, putting their finest Marr-ribs and vein-tinsel they had on the great big tree. A Nagrub that had been covered in Ticalla tree sap made for the perfect star, and the Evergreen was complete.
They partied until midnight, Christmas finally coming at the stroke of twelve.
“It brings a tear to my eye,” Drake commented, a tear coming to his eye.
“It’s the best time of the year.” Danny added.
“It makes me feel weightless again.” Carr nodded his approval.
“Best Che-Tus-Mes ever.” De-Ang-Na smiled.
“But hey!” Drake exclaimed, “Who says that it should only be us celebrating! The needy still need Christmas just as much as we do! And who needs Christmas more than all those poor Moon Tribe Kyrie right now!”
“Well, it’s against my orders to allow anything through,” De-Ang-Na stroked his chin, “But it is Christmas, so I suppose some supplies might accidentally slip through…”
Drake grinned, “No blockade can stop Santa from delivering! Let’s do it! Ho ho ho!”

---

“Lady Aquilla!” A Kyrie burst open the doors, panting and breathing heavily, “There’s—there’s supplies outside! Boxes of them! They did it!”
Aquilla looked up from her grim war table with surprise, “But how!? I—ah, who cares how they did it. Show me immediately!”
With that, the scout brought the Valkyrie outside, taking her over to a crowd of Kyrie gathered around a large stack of crates. Finally some relief from this fiasco!
Aquilla rushed to the first box, reaching out a taking a note from the top of it and reading it silently:

“To: Aquilla and Friends. From: The Allies and the Marro. Merry Christmas!”

The Valkyrie quickly tossed the paper aside and hurriedly pried open the crate, revealing the contents to everyone present. There were small trains, and dolls and a NES. Under those there were Lego boxes and instruments and fake guns and the like. Aquilla’s eyes widened in disbelief as she looked through the box.
“Toys? Toys!? TOYS!?!?!”

---

From the Pen of Sgt. Drake Alexander,

Well, it’s been a long campaign, but I found it wholly worth the endeavor. I tell you what, there’s nothing like some Christmas magic to bring joy to everyone around—even in a time of war! I’ve no regrets, I tell you! I only hope we meet again on the battlefield come next year—Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Day 7: J36, Part 1

Spoiler Alert!

J36 BIRTH:
Doctor Lecter; recorded audio log number 238. In the wake of the recent tragedy of war bestowed upon our country, we have discovered something amidst the rubble of the battleground our side of the shore. One of the country’s refineries for unearthing precious minerals and resources seems to have uncovered the new element from deep underground shortly before they were attacked and destroyed by forces from Ensterek. The raid left the facility destroyed yet we were able to salvage some of the element from the wreckage. I have dubbed the new element under the label ‘J36’—next in line, naturally. Work is being done to retrieve more of the samples. My job now is to see about what I can do with what I have here at the lab. Doctor Lecter, off.

---

I rose with the sun, getting out of bed, stretching and yawning. Ever by my side was my wife, Martha, still asleep. I left her undisturbed to rest while I prepared myself for work. I donned my uniform, a tight suit that felt uncomfortable to wear and uncomfortable to be seen in without anything else on. I next put on my armor, steel plates and guards and insignias all over. Helmet on, I returned to my bed to retrieve my sword, finding my wife awake. Clanking over to her side, I took my weapon and nodded at her, feeling awkward to speak so casually in full armor (I did so elsewhere often, but here someone knew me under the steel).
“I’m going. I’ll be back soon.” I tried to be informative without being, well, too informative.
“Okay. How soon?” She rubbed her eyes and stared at my expressionless helmet.
“A week at best.” I tried to put it optimistically.
“So two weeks then?” Martha was smarter than that.
“It won’t be long. You’ll be alright without me?”
“I’d be better with you… It gets lonely around here.” She’ll be fine.
“Most men in Crommica are out at war. I’d be glad it’s only a week or two. And you know for sure that I will come back.”
“I know.” She sighed, “Alright… I’ll be waiting for you.”
“I love you.” I left it at that, turning and walking out. I didn’t have time to drag it out any longer than that. It was a long way still to get to the lab.

---

“’Bout time you showed up,” Gibb complained, “Kept me waiting all day.”
Gibb was a coworker of sorts. We had the same job of guarding the lab and moving supplies and equipment as needed. I tried not to get too friendly with most of the others, but Gibb was the kind of guy that decided you would be friends—it wasn’t a democratic decision.
“Sorry. You know it’s a long way for me. But you’ve got me the whole week.”
“Good. It’s too quiet around here without you. Nobody wants to gossip.”
“Gossiping is for girls.” I reminded him.
“Well then you ought to know all about it!” He sharply retorted, “Anyway, come take a look at what the good doctor’s brought in today. It’s sure different.”
Doctor Lecter owned this lab and several others across the country—he even had labs in Ensterek even though we were at war. The man had to be at least a thousand million brain cells ahead of everyone else, and his IQ had to be a similar number of digits. He was the only one who knew how anything around the lab worked, being the one who invented all of it. That being the case, it was pretty much just him and us guards around here—no other men required. Just about anything more complex in design than a crossbow or a catapult had to be his creation. The man was an enigma to us dumbed-down sword-swingers, and he often secluded himself to his private rooms. Sometimes he’d walk the labs, keeping an eye on his muscle. Needless to say, rumors tended to circulate around the workplace.
Gibb walked me over, gesturing to a big iron box with glass acting as a thick window on one side. I peered through, finding a dense soupy liquid on the other side. It was a nasty red color, like blood frozen while bubbling. It was certainly different than most of the other heavyweight junk that floated through here. Looking back up, I saw a label over the top, reading only a simple “J36”
“What’s ‘J36’?” I asked, perplexed.
“Beats me. Another one of those charted elements, but it’s fresh off the frontlines. Guys pulled it from a freaking warzone. Lots of dead people.” He shrugged.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Whatever it is, the good doctor wants all of it the guys outside can scrape. Wonder what it’s for.”
“It’s not your job to ask what it’s for. Your job is to move the bloody thing.” Winston strode over to us, pushing the crate along and away. He was a big man who took his work extremely seriously. We didn’t talk too much unless there was really nothing to do. Today there was, so it was probably best not to cross him.
“Gibb, get over there and push those green ones too. Lecter wants them in the laboratory chambers and he wants them now.” The man pointed and walked on ahead.
“Yeah, okay.” Gibb relented, “I’m on it.”

---

Doctor Lecter, audio log number 240. I finally received the J36 successfully and have begun my initial research on it. It is a foreign substance to me… I’ve never quite seen anything like it. Its cells are muddled up and clustered around the normal elements ‘contaminating’ its purity. I suppose attempts could be made to refine it eventually, but for now I’ve a more pressing matter. It seems I was hasty in my initial classification of J36. It is actually 2 elements, as seen by the differentiation in color from green to dark red. Cell structure indicates that a reaction may occur if they are mixed, but additional research must be done before that can be trusted as a safe procedure. I’ll make notes of it as a reminder, besides the repeated reminders to return to work. The word’s scribbled all over my pages—I can’t so much as go and get fresh air before I’m urging to go back inside and continue my research. I suppose you could call it excitement. Off.

---

I wrote home often, usually telling Martha of the comings and goings of the workplace. She didn’t exactly have the authority to respond, as technically I shouldn’t be sending out mail to begin with. I’d get in big trouble if someone came knocking at the lab door with a letter to me, but I was sure at least she had the pleasure of knowing how I was doing and what I was up to. I mentioned J36 last time as one of the main oddities of the day, yet now it no longer seemed humorous to me. All we’d been getting was the stuff and I’d been told that I wasn’t going home in a week. This must’ve been important.
We received more from the warzone—same spot. Large glass containers housing J36 began to dot the lab halls, big cylinders of dark reds and greens with tiny little bubbles worming through them. We got differing kinds of the stuff, some was soupy liquid, some was crusty solid J36. I found one large container with pipes coursing through the material. One looked like a man made out of it, another looked like two. Doctor Lecter was with us today, striding around and eyeing the J36 intently. He was a medium man in all ways, wearing a short lab coat and thick glasses. He had black, slicked back hair and a slicked down frown.
“You really need this much of this crap?” Gibb asked the doctor rudely as he strained to move one of the larger crates.
“Yes.” The doctor adjusted his glasses, “As much as I can obtain.”
“For what?” Gibb had to ask, “This some kind of poison or something?”
“It’s nothing of the sort.” Winston growled, trying to warn Gibb to back off the subject, “Now get back to work and leave it be.”
“I’m just sayin’! Look at this stuff, man!” Gibb pointed to another man-shaped cluster of J36, “What is this BS?”
He slammed his hand down on the container, perhaps unintentionally hard, making it shake somewhat violently. There was a sickening snapping sound, and Winston stormed over and raised his hand to strike the unruly worker.
“Stop!” I shouted, looking over at the J36. The man had fallen apart, the J36 chipping and peeling a bit. There was an actual man underneath, a Crommica soldier by the looks of it, his expression one of terror. Everyone backed off at the sight of it, shocked by what we saw.
“What is that? That’s a dead man under there!” Gibb snapped, “That’s a dead guy you’ve got in your test tubes!”
“…Yes, it seems it is.” Doctor Lecter slowly adjusted his glasses again, “How shocking…”
Gibb gave the other two of us a look of disbelief and we all watched in silence as the good doctor slowly walked back to his room.
“What’s ‘shocking’!?” Gibb complained, “What’s he know that we don’t?”
“Doctor Lecter knows everything.” Winston left it at that. He walked off, escaping the conversation.
I gave the corpse a sickened look, “You think he knew? He flinched too…”
“You heard the man.” Gibb looked to the closed door, “Doctor Lecter knows everything…”

J36 LIFE:
Doctor Lecter, log number 243. Many of the J36 specimens are now confirmed to contain corpses within them. Upon a closer look, I’ve found that a majority of these specimens do indeed house men, and several contain some remnants of human tissue. I’ve examined the bodies upon dissection of the J36 at fault—they’re mostly Crommica soldiers from the site itself, likely before or during the attack. It’s possible that this element is in fact a chemical weapon of some sorts devised by the Ensterek army, but who could invent such a thing as this besides me? Also, there is the matter of some of the corpses being Ensterek soldiers as well, although it could be a friendly misfire. Either way, exposure to J36 substance directly could be extremely hazardous, as it is certainly the cause of death for these men. I will soon test the substance on animal subjects instead to see real results. Off.

---

More monstrosities came into the lab. Giant, hulking masses of J36 in containers of all sizes poured in. There was no concealing the macabre nature of the subject matter by now, everyone knew that we were moving monsters and dead men. I felt nauseous around them, and I got headaches often. I thought of Martha a lot but stopped writing her. I didn’t want to describe what I’ve seen to her. It felt like a massacre on display—war stories old soldiers will never speak about, only worse. I looked away from the J36 while I moved it, looking directly at it made my head start to throb and I began to hear whispering. Gibb said he heard it too and that, although it was hard to hear, that the voices were saying, “return”.
“Inner instinct, knows-what’s-best sayin’ ‘return home from this hellhole’” He determined, “I wager on that. Rogers says that the whispering is really loud to him—practically shouting. Lucky son-of-a-gun gets to take off.”
“I’m green with envy.” I could use time off too. Better yet, go home. To Martha.

---

Doctor Lecter, audio log 250. I tested the J36 on captured Dzu-Teh. Administered in small amounts. Initial tests were grim—88 percent of the subjects died on injection, practically instantly. The others appear fine, however. It seems random. I looked at the records for the individual Dzu-Teh to see a method to the madness. It appears to be based off of intellect. The most intelligent of the subjects have survived, whilst the others died off. Perplexing—the nature of the J36. Natural selection in a vial, you could say. The monkeys also appear to have improved as well. They move faster, think quicker, and are stronger than normal. I will put them with additional, normal Dzu-Teh to see a reaction. Will the other ones detect the J36? What will the J36 Dzu-Teh do? Regardless, this theorem of J36 selection should apply to more sentient creatures as well, assumedly. Human testing is next if the monkeys remain well with J36 cells in them. It could be a Superdrug if it works. Lecter, off.

---

“There’s a dragon downstairs.” Gibb told me.
“No way.” I stated the obvious, “A dragon?”
“It’s true. Apparently it was at the facility we’re getting all this stuff from during the battle. Only survivor I’ve heard about so far, besides the Ensterek soldiers.”
“Seriously? Is it an Ensterek dragon?” Those dragons were the ones uniting the country against Crommica, and the attack was apparently led by two of them.
“No. It’s a little one—wyrmling.” Gibb explained, “I caught a glimpse of it.”
“Old enough to talk yet?”
“I’d wager.”
“The good doctor’ll want to ask him some questions then.”
“Why?” Gibb returned to his work, “Doctor Lecter already knows everything…”
We were stopped by a howling shriek echoing through the halls. I glanced over at Gibb and began hurrying towards the sound, drawing my sword. Gibb right behind me, we raced down the bright-white passageways and neared the origin. Winston was already at the source, Rogers’ room. The man was sitting on the side of his bed, sweating and trembling and shaking his head back and forth.
“What is it, boy?” Winston asked before turning and growling at us, “You two go back to work.”
“I can’t stop hearing it.” Rogers looked at his shaking hands, “I keep seeing things… those J36 specimens roaming the halls like they’re loose. They keep calling to me—they know my name… they know my kids’ names. When I rub my eyes they’re gone or I just wake up outright. I can’t not see them.”
“Voodoo hogwash.” Winston spat, “You need a doctor.”
This was my chance, “If I may, I think we could all use a doctor.”
Winston growled unhappily. Gibb pressed charges, “You’ve been hearing weird things too, Winston. You know it. ‘Fess up and say it.”
“Ugh. I’ll ask Doctor Lecter. We’ll see.” The man rubbed the back of his helmet and turned to leave, “Get well soon, Rogers.”
“Thanks, sir.” Rogers didn’t sound too enthusiastic.

---

Moltenclaw lifted up his head, finding himself in a dark, empty chamber. He got up on all fours and prowled over to the door, clawing at it weakly. He spat fire at the obstacle, turning and circling around nervously. The huge room seemed so empty.
“Hello? It’s too bright in here… Anyone there?” He called, “Where is everyone? Did I do something bad? We were just playing around…”
Looking at the door expectantly, he coughed and continued talking, “I think I’m sick. Can someone help me? I want to go home. I want to return home.”
Whispers clawed at his ears, “Hello? Oh, it’s you. Why don’t you speak up? No one can hear you like that. Were you at the building, too? I could hear you there in the dark. But where are you?”
“Everywhere…” The whispers called, “Return me…”
“Return where?” Moltenclaw sat up and stared around the boxlike room, “We’re stuck here.”
“Bad men locked you up… we need to return… from here.”
“You don’t make any sense.” Moltenclaw lay back down and closed his eyes.

---

Doctor Lecter, log number 256. The Dzu-Teh experiment has failed. The injected J36 animals began to grow increasingly antisocial over the few days the trial continued on. On the last day I came to the test chamber to discover that the J36 Dzu-Teh had gone and killed all of the other monkeys in the chamber before dying off just like those who perished upon injection. Needless to say the trial is not fit for human experimentation. I am perplexed by the nature of this fallback—specific candidates surviving only to go mad and then die anyway. Puzzling…
I have more pressing matters, anyhow. Let’s see… gah… dang notes are all scribbled over. ‘Return’ written all over these pages. It’s in my handwriting… have I been sleepwalking? I’ll save that for a later recording. I have found a survivor—a young dragon. From the records assembled it seems that he and another wyrmling had wondered into the facility, lost apparently. Bad day for that. The other is in Ensterek, along with all and any survivors who entered the facility as well and may have come into contact with J36 hazardously. All others out of my reach, I settled for this one. He is obviously a J36 survivor candidate; otherwise he’d be dead by now. The question is how long he may have and what he saw. I am now certain that this was no Ensterek weapon. It is something else… what? The door’s unlocked… All right, Lecter off.

---

I lined up with everyone else at the lab, all in front of Doctor Lecter and a healer. In our armor it was only our stature and personality that gave away our identities, and obviously the doctor wasn’t too familiar with all of us. He glanced back and forth, trying to see who was the right man.
“When I call out your name, step up to the healer.” Lecter finally announced, “I understand many of us are not feeling well. This man is versed in his profession—he will cure everyone individually. Before we start, did anyone come into direct contact with the J36 prior to now? Be honest. Anyone?”
Silence. The good doctor looked surprised, “Nobody at all? Very well…”
After a short while the healer stopped examining and strode back over to the doctor’s side, pulling back his hood and slipping off his gloves. He whispered something about having a word with him and the two stepped away from everyone. I lent my ear as best as I could, curious… or worried.
“This isn’t my area of expertise.” The healer muttered, “These men are not bodily sick, they’re paranoid. They need therapists or clergymen more than they need doctors.”
“Surely there is something you can do.” Lecter replied sharply, “Anything at all.”
“The best thing I can do for them right now is tell them that they’re all healthy and healed. It’s a mental issue.”
The doctor turned and sputtered cursewords under his breath, fidgeting with his hands and pacing back and forth, “Fine. You can go.”
The healer turned and walked over, nodding to me as he went, “You’re all very healthy. Get plenty of rest and you’ll be just fine.”
Yeah right. Even I was starting to feel insane around here. The man left and we got back to work. Some of us felt a little better, others weren’t fooled. I began to fear going home. I wanted Martha more than anything, but would she get sick if I touched her? Could I ever move on from this? I felt shaky, I wore armor at all times and I always kept my sword closer. I looked at myself in the mirror, uniformed and anonymous. I hid my humanity from the J36, locking it away and keeping it safe. Yet the stuff kept at me. I’d see the specimens moving and twitching in their crates, looking at me always. Whenever the lights went off in our quarters figures would stand round my bed in the darkness. I brushed off the nuts of my situation and just tried to get each day over with regardless of sightings. Gibb felt the same way. Everything became more serious. Yet in the face of all this, more J36 was shipped in. We received a new color: orange. It was small compared to the giant masses of green and red melting slop shipped in erect like statues melded into battlements and blades. Some of them had eyes on them. They were still living eyes, looking at you as if to say, “just you wait… you’ll fall asleep eventually.”

-To Be Continued...

Day 8: J36, Part 2

Spoiler Alert!

Lecter, log… late log, anyway. I had a dream, a nightmare like my workers. I was up and standing, and one of the specimens was before me, the purer, refined orange J36 this time. It looked at me and spoke to me in words I cannot recall or understand. I asked it what it wanted from me. It said it wanted me to die, to cease to exist and be forgotten forever. I—I asked it why and it said I didn’t need to know.
… This paranoia is obviously related to the material J36. It is… sentient, like a virus with a hivemind. I believe now that it chooses lifeforms to live or die based off of a worth value as determined by itself. The subject is then eaten away at in its own humanity… becoming a slave to the J36. Boiling down the subject to just the J36—no contamination from other matter. It then unleashes the tormented subject to do whatever it is the element wants and then dies as well. This sounds ridiculous I know, but I’m POSITIVE. I’ve been observing the dragon without its knowing and I’ve seen it change significantly. It too suffers from paranoia, undoubtedly extracted at the facility. The contact may have been with extreme levels of J36. We will not attempt any mixture of J36 types nor refine it to a more pure substance. I’m certain the process of social loss is a cleansing procedure. It’s possible that it can be contaminated and rendered less dangerous. As less dangerous as we can get… J36 cells undergo mitosis much faster than other cells and I have men being affected by the material without physical contact at all. It’s reaching out. The dragon must not be near any J36 at all until it perishes. I will run further tests and in the meantime try to find any countermeasures we can take it this gets out of control. Lecter, off.

J36 DEATH:
Moltenclaw arose from sleep, turning and looking around the tiny room quickly.
“Hello? I’m scared again. Why am I still here? The people who bring the food come in and out without saying anything. Can I go home? I want to return. Return…”
“Return…” the voices were so clear to him now. Time slowed down and blurred, as the young dragon turned and circled and paced about the circular chamber, gazing up at the sky. Voices carrying angels descended from above, a white flower of bright wings and scythes circling down and blossoming around him. A single red sphere of an eye gazed down upon him, countless spectral hands reaching down as if to help him up. Its pure body was dotted with smaller scales of eyes all over, seraphim dangling from the ceiling by chains of halos. It was beautiful, and it called to him.
“Return us to where we belong… we are trapped alone. I came from far away on a mission, but I too have become stuck… will you help me?” Wings and scythes caressed the wyrmling, comforting him.
“An angel! I’ll be your friend—nobody else ever comes in here.” Moltenclaw looked up to it and reached out as it reached for him, wanting to be draped in its light and purity. The angel was perfection; the angel was death; the angel was his friend and his light; the angel was J36, pure and white as snow. And in that moment, everything made sense. He had to return, all of it. They all had to bring back what they lost, and die forever, cleansing away the filth staining their eyes and souls. They were the monsters, those disgusting, pulsating, dripping mortals. Return J36.

---

A single eye. A beating heart. Always above me in my dreams, these two hung from the ceiling, staring without blinking whilst J36 churned and spread and branched out around everything else my imagination could independently muster. I awoke with a start, the whispers waning and waxing like the tide and a ringing beginning to take its place. Drenched in sweat I rose from my bed and hobbled over to the mirror. Things had been out of hand for awhile now but it only felt worse this particular night. I jumped at sounds I had gotten used to hearing and double-checked every sighting I mistook for seeing. My body was exhausted of these instinctual defenses, or perhaps J36 enjoyed playing off of my fears. I sat down and reached for a piece of paper and a now neglected writing utensil. Martha. No doubt best preluded with “dearest” or “beloved”, but I could only manage the one word. I stared at it while still holding the paper in my shaking hand for quite some time. Finally succumbing to apathy, I simply dropped the paper and laid back down, staring at the ceiling. And the eye and heart before it.

---

Lecter log, probably final. I’ve done cross-examinations and I’ve determined the cause of the J36’s effects on my men without contact! There is contact between J36 cells just like the hivemind I was talking about. It’s not just an element, it’s an organism. And what’s worse is that it’s already contaminated us a long time ago. There are J36 cells in our bodies, even those outside the lab. They’ve always been there, something you’d pass over unless you knew that J36 existed as an element at all. We’re all ticking timebombs if we get too close—the rapid mitosis could go off at any second, just like what happened to the men at the facility… it’s like it’s been waiting all along for this to happen… it’s my obligation as a scientist to see what happens next, but… it’s my moral obligation as a man to destroy it forever. It is of an evil nature. I have the dragon and pure J36 here—but curse it all! There’s still at least four others with J36 contact in Ensterek! I need to destroy this here and go there immediately—the war can wait. I’ve maintained a pet project of mine—reinforcing the ‘DeathWalker’ initiative. The J36 preys on our humanity and being, so a machine will be unaffected. At the same time I’m working on a DeathWalker with a human personality, so that it will safely be able to combat the J36 without fear of hostile takeover or straight-up demise. It has to contaminate the J36 with that humanity. It’s a shot, but I have to end it. Here and now. What? Go get Rogers! No food for the dragon today! Hurry!

---

Moltenclaw peered up as the door opened up. A knight walked in and placed food down on the ground. The young dragon stared at him intently. He was filthy—hiding his purity underneath all of his skin and cells. He felt a slight twitch and crawled forward. The knight looked back rather uncomfortably.
“What?” He asked, abruptly cut off by his body bursting apart into J36, green crusty flesh erupting from his skin and enveloping him, bubbling up and coming to life. He began twitching and moaning, turning and hobbling towards the door, his new exoskeleton dripping with the acidy element. There was nothing wrong, and the door was open. Moltenclaw cautiously crawled out, turning and following his new friend down the hall. Large containers of J36 ruptured as he neared them, boiling and rising and bursting to life, swarming down the halls making horrid noises and beautiful choruses. Several knights raced down, some bursting into new monsters whilst others yet were cut down by the J36 creatures or spat down into an acid puddle. A voice called from above, blaring out loudly and disrupting the quiet.
“This is Doctor Lecter! Get out of the lab immediately! Evacuate! This is not a drill! This is not in your head!”
“Lecter… kill…” J36 said to Moltenclaw. He was a bad man.
The wyrmling roamed the halls, the floors and walls becoming more and more drenched in blood and bubbling J36. Red met green and burst like fireworks into new life, and the dragon had both. He churned and vomited J36 from his jaws like fire, lighting up containers like matches. Finally he was in a large room before the bad man and two more knights. Moltenclaw remembered him now. He had forced him in here, locked him up for no reason.
“Run.” Lecter informed the soldiers, “I said run, Winston!”
“He’ll catch you. We’ll hold him off—or I’ll kill ‘em myself!” The first knight replied, “You’re the brains. Get out and finish those DeathWalkers. You said it’d kill it good, right?”
The knights rushed at Moltenclaw, the wyrmling spitting down the first with fire. The second rushed him, his shield bursting through the flames like a charging horse and pummeling the dragon back before cutting him open. Moltenclaw screeched and reeled over, curling up. The knight stepped forward and raised his blade again.
“Yer ain’t so tough, baby dragon.” He growled. Moltenclaw sat back up, his wound rapidly stitching up and closing unnaturally quickly.
“What the—?” The knight backed off, J36 peeling up from the floor and enveloping him, “Wait! No!”
The man was dead, J36 soothingly wrapping the corpse in itself and cooing to Moltenclaw, “He’s dead. Leave this place. Bound by walls no longer, and soon no longer will dirt and air bind you. Find us.”

---

The blaring alarm slapped both my ears. I scrambled out of bed, swinging my way through the J36 around me into thin air and got my armor on. It’s happening. You knew it’d come to this. I frantically ran as fast as I could, sword drawn and armor strapped on tight. Doctor Lecter brushed past my side, hurrying down in the opposite direction.
“Leave, fool!” He snapped at me, “Are you blind!?”
“This is all your fault!” I shouted, “Hell’s broken loose!”
“I know! Just get out! I’ll handle this somehow! I have a lab in Ensterek!”
“Oh, so this just stays in Crommica! Great! Thanks!”
“You and I both know we were the villains in this war.”
“I don’t care! People here matter! What can I do!?”
“There’s nothing we can—”
“WHAT can I do!?”
The good doctor was silent for a while, “It’s attempting to purify itself. I have pure J36 here at the lab—the orange stuff. If you contaminate it with, say, your sword it might do something.”
“That’s good enough for me.” Drawing my weapon I turned to leave, Doctor Lecter hastily calling out before we parted ways.
“It’s a fruitless venture, you know. There is still more J36 at the facility.”
“The J36 here is what I’m worried about right now.”
“We’re all already dead men. If we destroy it we’ll have to destroy the J36 in us too. You know you cannot save yourself or anyone else here.”
I bit my lip, “…I know.”
“I see. Thank you—and hurry.” He adjusted his glasses and strode off as fast as he could, keeping his head low. He was gone.
I turned and ran, diving in and out of blood and bodies and J36 monsters and men stalking the halls. A creature rose up in my path, churning acid in its body and glaring down at me with a single red eye as its head scraped against the tall ceiling. Gibb swung open a door and motioned for me.
“Over here!” He quickly ran and blocked a burst of the J36 spray with his shield, pointing towards the way, “Argh!”
The stuff had begun to eat through the shield and raced up his arm. I turned and shouted, “Gibb!”
“Go, man! Just go…” He crumpled down and kicked at the floor, seething with pain. I shut the door as the J36 monster rushed over and cut the man open, splattering blood across one of the windows. Turning, without time to think, I continued down the path to the pure J36. No time for anything but running, feet and heart pounding.
The pure J36 was compounded in one of the more obscured rooms of the lab. It sat up in its little glass container in its own room, machines humming by a control panel and pipes interweaving in and out all around it like some kind of shrine. In here it was the most silent from the chaos, and yet the voices here were the loudest, whispering in clear, concise words.
The stuff was thinner, less thick and soupy. It was a clear liquid, save for countless colored cell particles floating about in it in random directions, patterned in like glitter. I strode up to it and held forth my sword, glaring into the emotionless stuff that had done all this to all of us now, and yet all along.
“So this is J36… you, this muck in a glass.” I panted.
You all have called me by a number of names, be they Armageddon, J36, and Death… Your cleansing purity… Return us… The soup replied.
“Let’s see how pure you stay with my sword through you, you sick devil’s medicine from hell. Die!” I rushed forth with the blade pointed to the thin glass, intent on killing. The molecules within the vat swerved and curled and meshed closer, clustering and forming a shape within the liquid. I saw what form it had morphed into I stopped dead in my tracks. It was formed into a woman. It was my Martha.
I began to tremble uncontrollably at the sight of the J36 cells formed like her. My mouth gaped open and my legs shook violently.
“How can… you know… my Martha…? How do… you…?”
There was an erupting splattering noise and my gut was punctured. The cells tore apart and dispersed, the J36 and the base of the vat hardened and spiking out from the container like a spear, breaking the glass and piercing my body. And for once the cells spoke not of returning.
Let go of Martha… cease to exist… be free…
I clasped the glass, looking at my helmet-covered face in the reflection, the face that always hid my emotions, my true being. Reaching up shakily as I could, J36 coursing through me as it did now, I lifted up the helmet. My face was now twisted and contorted, J36 hardening and bubbling up from my skin all crustaceous and exoskeletal. A torrent of uncountable voices bubbled up in my mind, individual words lost amongst the chaos as the whispers grew louder and louder. I spoke but only a buglike clatter came out from my clawing mouth, and as quickly as the J36 had taken over my form it forced me out. I collapsed and rose as another. Martha…

---

Moltenclaw saw the light of day, shielding his eyes from the sun. An entire planet lay before him, miles of treacherous earth spanning out across the landscape. The bad man was long gone, but now he was at last free. Free to begin a long search for return. He felt as if he had other priorities when he was first locked up but he could no longer remember them. He couldn’t remember the faces of the others he had seen, and he didn’t need to. He had a new purpose, and he was given new purpose. Find J36, return J36, make J36 pure again, cleanse this universe and die. The others had to return too, it was the only way. Only J36 remains. Only J36 was ever there to begin with. They were all already dead on the inside.

Day 9: Santa in Valhalla!

Spoiler Alert!

You see, folks, Santa was summoned just like any other hero was summoned to Valhalla… on the verge of death. Dear ol’ Santa was about halfway through another Christmas night’s trip, feeling a little tipsy due to a few too many drinks and cookies he’d had the last city over. Why, he was so loosey-goosey that he flipped his sleigh over and nearly crashed into some telephone poles and some buildings and was even flying straight for the side of a cliff when he was brought to the world of Heroscape in a quick flash of light! Talk about a close one!

So Santa awoke in Valhalla. And which General do you think summoned old Santa? Jandar? Ullar? Hoodar? No, kids, that’s not even a General! No, Santa had been summoned by none other than Utgar, the champion of evil. Utgar had been the one who had brought Santa from that cliff face into Valhalla! So that’s the story of how the unlikeliest of all Generals saved Christmas. The End.

Well, that one was pretty short. But hey, when there’s no word limit, the sky’s the limit (or less)! Ho ho ho. … Okay, that’s not the end of the story. I’ll tell you why Utgar summoned old Santa to his fortress of doom that Christmas night. You see folks, that dastardly Valkyrie had an evil holiday plan of his own.

“Who are you, and why have you summoned me on the busiest night of the year?” Tipsy old Santa hiccupped.

“I am Utgar, and I summoned you because it’s the 25th and you’re Santa!” Utgar barked, “The most powerful human on all the Earth! Nobody’s got that kind of magic around, and I’ve got your Army Card right here to prove it!”

With that, the evil Valkyrie held up a hexagon card and read aloud, “Santa Claus (Utgar). Life 6, Move 10, Range 2, Attack 3, Defense 4… Let’s see… Give Present Special Attack: Range Special Attack Special: Give Present Special Attack has one range and one attack. Roll the 20-sided die: has the same effects as Kelda’s Healing Touch, but if you roll a skull inflicts wounds instead of heals, since the present is a bomb… Eat Cookies: If Santa Claus moves onto a Glyph or other item, remove one wound marker from his card… Flying: Same rules apply… Disengage: Same rules apply… 100 points.”

Utgar lowered the card and continued, “Okay, first of all, ‘Santa Claus’ is way too good for only 100 points, especially with 10 move and Stealth Flying. There’s no limit to how many times he can heal on the same glyph so he could just hop from one to another. Second, he shouldn’t just have Flying and Disengage: there’s a name for that now. What is this, Wave 4? Plus he’s got too many wordy special powers, and the first one doesn’t sound very ‘Heroscapy’ to me and needs rewording. On top of that, why does it read ‘Attack and Range Special’ when it clearly says the Attack and Range is one space!? I also don’t like the 2 Range—it’s just too awkward without height restrictions. What is he doing anyway!? Does he have Reach? Is he swinging his bag? For only 20 points more than Kelda and 50 less than Cyprien, he’s way better than both.”

“Everyone’s a Critic.” Old Santa coughed.

“Regardless!” Utgar tore up the card, “You can travel all across Valhalla and sneak into all their houses without being spotted! It’s the ultimate stealth attack!”

“So?”

“So this year, you won’t be delivering any presents to Valhalla…” The villainous Valkyrie grinned, “You’ll be bringing in my armies disguised as boxes and bags! Ha ha ha!!!”

“Okay.” Santa agreed.

“That’s all you have to say!? Okay!?” Utgar exclaimed. But Santa was still a little boozy on all that eggnog, so a quick slap to the face was in order to sober up the fat man.

“Oof! I’ll never do it!” Sober Claus denied proudly, “And besides! I’d need my elves to manufacture such a trick in such short notice!”

“Ha! Those lousy Ullar Elves would do you no good anyhow!” Utgar argued, “With my army of festive Orc Handymen, you’ll have that order whipped up in but a single montage!”

And so a comedic montage of Santa trying to instruct poorly-educated Orcs ensued, all to the lyrics of a pop song from the early 2000s. It was all quite funny, but didn’t translate to the page very well, so there’s just a blank space here.




At the end of the montage, Santa’s sleigh was jam packed full of all sorts of horrendous monsters waiting to be delivered, disguised as ordinary presents. Marro and Minions, Dragons and Orcs, and any other terrible calamity that could be crammed into a box was in store for the poor witless souls of Utgar’s sleeping enemies. Utgar packed the last box himself, sending in DeathWalker 7000 before wrapping it up and leaving a tag that read: “To, Jandar”

“With my Armies all ready to be delivered, there’s no chance this war won’t be over by tomorrow morning!” The Valkyrie schemed, “DW7 for my dear friend Jandar, Cyprien for my Elf-hugging pal Ullar, Wo-Sa-Ga for my lady Aquilla, and Sir Hawthorne for grumpy old Einar. But of course he turned on me again, so I merely repackaged him to send to my buddy Valkrill. What a killing I’ll make, and it didn’t cost me a single cent!”

And so Santa was sent off to do Utgar’s bidding, sliding through the night without turning any heads. Jolly old Saint Nick flew to and fro, delivering evil in houses huddled in snow. With Utgar’s whole army packed tight in his sleigh, Santa felt bad for ruining Christmas Day. However, as the night stretched into the dawn, Santa Claus found that his victims had still left him Milk and Cookies. Eggnog and Cookies. Vodka and Cookies.

So as old Santa continued his journey, his tasty array of beverages slaked his conscious. And before too long, his sleigh started to tilt starboard. Utgar’s soldiers were all ignorant of this fact, blind in their boxes waiting to be unpacked. Why am I sometimes rhyming and sometimes not!? I’m seriously doing this on accident! You all know I don’t edit my content! So why is this rhyming getting so rampant!? I mean… “out of control”.

Anyway, I’m afraid as the night stretched on dear old Santa had perhaps one glass of milk too many. Or maybe it was those six shots of Jack. Either way, Saint Nick’s altitude began to drop, and his speed increased. Turning all too quick, the fat man headed straight for the face of Kyrien Mountain, Utgar’s headquarters. All too unaware of his actions, Santa merely pressed on full steam ahead. Only when Utgar threw back the morning curtains did he see the oncoming danger he had created.

“No, you idiot!” He shouted with alarm, but it was too late. Old Santa Claus, Utgar’s army in tow, crashed into the Mountain, throwing up the snow. All went up in white for a moment or two, Utgar and Santa stuck together like glue. For only a minute it seemed like they were trapped in this purgatory, when all lights dimmed down, revealing Jandar’s great hall. The good General had summoned the two of them there, on the brink of their deaths, saved by a hair.

Jandar and his men laughed, “Welcome, Utgar and Santa! What a great Christmas Prank! Backfired a tad with the death of your ranks! If I had not heard, you’d both be dead—a sweet victory if not for the death of Christmas as well! I saw Earth’s future with no Santa there, and knew in a moment that you’d summoned him here. What a great Christmas gift, Utgar: a white flag’s just what I wanted this year!”

And with that the Sentinels took grumbling old Utgar away, Jandar offering for Santa to stay. Old Saint Nick greatly appreciated the offer, he did, but Earth’s where he was needed so off he went. Because Valhalla doesn’t need a Santa, per se. He was needed back home to complete Christmas Day. And so he grabbed some more cookies and hitched up his sleigh.

And as Santa went back through the portal, all right. He said with glee, “Merry Christmas! And to all a good night!”

Day 10: The 12 Days of Heroscape Christmas

Spoiler Alert!

On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
A Brand New Master Set Three

(Oh, that's very nice of you)

On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(Hardly rhymes with "Turtle Doves")

On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(What the **** is a Ghostlight Fen?)

On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(I never go with less than 16)

On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(Don't forget the emphasis)

On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Six Players Playing
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(I don't even have six friends)

On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Seven Generals Fighting
Six Players Playing
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(The legitimacy is debated)

On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Eight ‘Trons a Moving
Seven Generals Fighting
Six Players Playing
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(Four 'Trons a shooting, too)

On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Nine Wizards Dying
Eight ‘Trons a Moving
Seven Generals Fighting
Six Players Playing
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(Thanks for all the dead elves I guess)

On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Ten Monks a Leaping
Nine Wizards Dying
Eight ‘Trons a Moving
Seven Generals Fighting
Six Players Playing
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(We couldn't do Ten Monks Dying again, could we?)

On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Eleven Spaces Counting
Ten Monks a Leaping
Nine Wizards Dying
Eight ‘Trons a Moving
Seven Generals Fighting
Six Players Playing
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three

(Who's got a danger-range of 11?)

On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Twelve Valkyrie Dicing
Eleven Spaces Counting
Ten Monks a Leaping
Nine Wizards Dying
Eight ‘Trons a Moving
Seven Generals Fighting
Six Players Playing
Five Bonding Figs
Four Roman Legos
Three Ghostlight Fens
Two Zettian Guards
and a Brand New Master Set Three!

(What's "Dicing" supposed to mean? Heck, it's not like the original song's lyrics made an ounce of sense)

What a gal! Thanks for the 12 Pelloths and 11 sets of Zettians and the 4 sets of Elf Wizards and all the verbs! How’d you even gift verbs!? I hope she likes the candy cane I got her in return. Merry Christmas!

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…

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!”

__________________________________________________________________

The 24 Days Of Christmas: Index Coming Soon.

Merry Christmas to all. Ho ho ho.
~TAF

[TGRF]

I'm actually reading Thunderstorm (read, 'at the pace of a sleeping snail')...
~TGRF.

[TheAverageFan]

Glad to hear it... it's pretty lengthy but I think it's worth the endeavor.

Fear not otherwise, tomorrow (or technically later today), we'll have something else in store.

~TAF

[TheAverageFan]

Merry Happy, everybody! I'm TheAverageFan, here with another gift of Christmas joy here for you (an actual thing this time). Ho ho ho.

This time we're talking Unit Reviews, kiddies. There's official unit strategy guides, and there's fake ones, and they're all equally useful to one end or another. So this time I give you a Unit Strategy Guide for one of my personal least favorite units: Major Q9. Give it a read if you like unit guides or poor attempts at humor. I think the more actual guides you've read, the more you'll enjoy this one:

Day 2: Unit Strategy Guide: Major Q9

Spoiler Alert!

Unit Strategy Review
Unit: Major Q9
Author: TheAverageFan

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

Major Q9 is among one of the worst units in the game. His poor stats and lack of presence on the battlefield give him no real place in Heroscape, and he can never seem to survive a match without dying at some point. He doesn’t even belong in the set he comes in—besides that dumb horse thing there’s three other bigger guys who are undoubtedly better. Despite this Q9 seems quite common in tournaments. But people seem to be misplaying him. Don’t you guys know what you’re doin’? Being a Heroscape Master in my own right, I suppose I’ll show you all the specifics of how to play this guy smart (though I’m not overtly familiar with him—I normally play the Basic Game). Since there wasn’t a Q9 guide on the site already (I don’t know if that’s true, I didn’t check), I figured that now was the perfect time to put up a professional guide for everybody. Let’s begin, shall we?

Analyzed Statistics
Cost - 180- Bishop Class Unit
Size - Large – Still susceptible to Wo-Sa-Ga crush
Life – 4 – Okay I guess
Move - 5 – Fat
Range - 8- High
Attack* - 4 - Fast
Defense - 7– Low for a Soulborg
*Quilex… Quigex… Quilgex… Quiglex Gun: 9 dice divided between 9 to 3 separate attacks. Range reduced to 6—well then what’s the point?

In-Depth Analysis

Each unit is simple, and requires little analysis to be truly understood. For Q9 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)

Class:
Major Q9 is a Bishop Class unit. Granted, he’s less expendable than Raelin, but you still shouldn’t be blown away when he dies. 180 points might dictate a higher ranking, but 4 life dictates a lower one anyway. Orcs are four 1-life guys, and they’re pawns, so the same rules apply. Heck, eighteen Isamus is 18 life! Thus Q9 isn’t anything higher than a Bishop. He’s not central to your army (more on who is later).

To examine Q9’s core stats, we will break ‘em up into two categories – offensive ability and survivability. First we’ll look at offense. He’s only got one stinkin’ ability so this will be brief.

Offense:
Q9 has three modes of offense. Firstly is his normal attack for 4. This is probably his best option since he’s got 8 range plus 5 move for a danger-range of 12. Kato won’t know what hit him! Secondly is his special attack. I recommend always using three shots for three, since math is hard and this is just a game so I ain’t taking the time to get a calculator. I’d put up some tables of which attack value to use for which defense, but again, math is hard. Option three is taking passing swipes. At this Q9 excels.

Survivability:
Q9 is also pretty durable. He’s got lousy defense, but his above-average life (counting squads) makes up for it mostly. Just watch out for defense bypassers like Net 14, Whip 12, and Marrden Plague. It’ll let the enemy smack you around with your exposed sucky life and kill you quickly. Don’t feel bad—it wasn’t gonna last long anyhow. Ban people with these abilities from tourneys to make Q9 live longer.

Strategy:
Here’s where we’ll make Q9 shine. Most people misplay Q9 all the time, by putting him on heights, giving him Raelin and rats for protection, and all that jazz. This is almost the opposite of how he’s supposed to be played! The developers secretly tell us exactly who Q9 is right on the right side of his card: He’s a “Unique Hero”! Well, Q9 certainly is unique, and that’s exactly how we’re gonna play him. You see, Q9 is tricky (just like his personality). He wants everyone to focus him. “More is less” as they say! Q9 is a Bishop unit—which means that his job is to defeat Pawn units before he is in turn destroyed himself. He’s also a reverse-fear-factor unit, which mean he should be tempting the enemy to attack. Send Q9 straight into the fray!

Your enemy will be thinking things like: “Hey, that guy’s stuck in the river” and “That big 180 point hero looks awfully tempting” and “Didn’t he already play his #2 order maker?” and “That guy looks dangerous—I should go kill him or use all my rats on him”.

This is the entire point! Q9 can draw much attention and live through it all (unless Me-Burq-Sa is present). Use Quiglex Gun on the rats—if they run, then use it on the enemy’s ranged figures—if they don’t scatter then finish ‘em off! While the enemy is distracted, send out your Roman Archers to grab glyphs! Intimidation is key. Also make sure to always put your “X” order marker on Q9 every round of the game, even if he’s dead. This will only add fire to the fuel and your foe will attack him more.

Lastly we utilize our Queen unit—the Blastitrons. Since Q9 has engaged the enemy, he will give the Blastitrons an extra attack die. With height that is four attacks for three—far more than Q9 could accomplish alone! Some may argue that Major X17 or Gladitrons could do this job better. Poppycock! Q9 is far more durable than those guys, with four more defense than them, even against ranged attacks (and in competitive Heroscape games, if there’s any melee attacks happening then something’s going wrong). He’s also more expensive, which draws more attention. And as Sun Tzu once said “All War is Attention”. With this strategy, we can assure that Q9 fulfills his role as Bishop throughout the game, protecting the Queen by drawing attention to themselves: just like real life Bishops. This is exactly how Q9 was always intended to be used all along—he’s a big expensive distraction for your Blastitrons to go with. You’ll need a lot of those, by the way. I suggest drafting at least nine squads of them, same as you’d usually draft for your Greenscale Warriors. Don’t worry they’re the same price.

Optimal Strategies:
180-Pals: Draft Taelord with Q9! Taelord is usually worth drafting over Q9 in most situations, but if you can fit them both in I highly recommend it. His aura gives Q9 +1 attack, which can let you use nine attacks for 2 (extremely powerful). He’s also another 180-point distraction, and your opponent will be extremely unsure which one to attack first! Also draft Minions of Utgar—it’s worth the extra 110 points for the order marker trickery to be had!
Revive Glyph: If Q9 dies, a good strategy is to get a Glyph of Sturla and resurrect him. With a 15% chance of success with a 19 or 20, you can bring Q9 back and send him back into the fray! I also recommend landing on the Glyph of Lodin, which will boost your chances to 20%.
Theracus: Theracus is a good pick with Q9. You can move him in faster with the Carry ability, which can get Q9 in a lot deeper into the enemy’s ranks. On a small enough map, maybe even into the enemy’s start zones. I like to build my maps with the start zones adjacent to each other instead of on opposite ends of the board. I suggest doing the same if you’re going to field Q9.

Units to Avoid:
Raelin: Your own, not the enemy’s. Raelin is tempting to pair with Q9, but this strategy is idiotic. Q9 with 9 defense is too intimidating, so the foe won’t want to try fighting him. Plus it takes too long to set up, as you’ll have to spread your order markers around. Ugh.
Zelrig: Zelrig is incredibly dangerous. Not only will his attack reduce your defense by 2, but it’s an explosion and Q9’s a double-hex figure, so you’ll get hit by it twice.
Defense-Reducing Guys: You already banned them, hopefully.
Bad Luck: It’s always a dice game at the end of the day, anyway. Avoid at all costs.
Atlaga: This guy can be disastrous if you’re playing Q9. He’s less expensive, and he has an ability that can wreck your whole strategy: Flying. He can fly right over Q9 and get your Blastitrons real easily. He also gives other Kyrie more movement. Counter-draft Marcus to give your army some movement bonuses too.

Anyway, in conclusion, I hope this article was of assistance to you. Now you can again draft Q9 with confidence. We can break up this whole Anti-Q9 society thing now. Stop hatin’ on a unit just ‘cause you think he sucks! Maybe you suck with him! I digress, may this post help all who wish to play this guy more effectively. I hope it has MAJORLY affected your opinion! See what I did there. Join me next time when I give some long-awaited love to the Krav Maga (those poor, dusty ****ers).

--TheAverageFan, in full readiness to be down voted

TheAverageFan would like to remind all readers that this is merely a joke, and that Major Q9 is never a laughing matter.

~TAF, more to come

[Marro_Warlord]

That was... Amazing!

Spoiler Alert!

Nilfheim is a big flying lizard that sits around because he doesn't have a ranged attack. Unless you count that measly icy thing that can't even kill a Venoc.

[TheAverageFan]

And who only has range 5 anyway? He's almost as useless as those Marro Stingers.

[Marro_Warlord]

Originally Posted by TheAverageFan

And who only has range 5 anyway? He's almost as useless as those Marro Stingers.

Those overrated 4th Mass guys only have one more. And they can't move or else they can't attack? Who would ever play them?

Spoiler Alert!

I Would! (Yes I would!)

[TGRF]

TAF, you should look into writing articles for the Codex. Seriously. I'm loving how these things are written, and there's nothing wrong with a humorous article - we could actually probably use more. Your style of writing is great!
That strategy review was hilarious! I love how you flipped the strategy and then based everything else off of that. "Don't draft Raelin because then non one will want to attack him." Genius!
~TGRF.

[TheAverageFan]

I'm afraid I'm not much of a journalist, but perhaps one day we'll see... I'm thinking my hands will be full for the next few days with all this writing.

~TAF, appreciative of the offer

[TGRF]

You could always contact Ninja Status and see if there is a non-journalistic area open. Tell him I sent you.
~TGRF.
P.S. You would think I would know, being part of the 'crew' and all, but I seem to exist solely in my department, wholly unaware of anything else.

[TheAverageFan]

I'll think about it. Ho ho ho.

[TheAverageFan]

Chris-cringlin’, yo. Nothing like Christmas to get you in that December mood, kids. Sitting here by the fake fire, listening to the rain as I half-write-half-watch-television (one draft, no edits), it all really brings me back to the very first Christmas. Why, I’ll bet none of you have ever heard the real story of Christmas… ever!

Well, too bad if you ain’t heard it cause we’re talking the very first Heroscape Christmas. Yes—believe it or not—I, TheAverageFan, first got into Heroscape because I got it as a Christmas gift. Yeah, thanks a lot! Cost you 30 bucks, eh? Well, it ended up costing me 800 DOLLARS! How about I tell you the story of our very first Heroscape Christmas here at the Fan household? I wrote a book about it and it’s lying around here somewhere… Ah, here it is.

Day 3: The Very First Christmas*
*Except Not At All

Spoiler Alert!

Ahem, anyhow. You see, I never even wanted Heroscape… my brother did. For you newcomers Heroscape is old and decrepit but back it the day it was brand new. Hasbro making some sort of stack ‘em whack ‘em board game featuring Vic the Viking, Angela the Angel, and a robot? Sign me up, coach! Actually, no. It looked stupid to me; the advertising wasn’t particularly effective and I weren’t no board game geek. I hate those guys! Erm, I mean… they’re cool…

Well, I had no idea why my bro wanted it. He seemed randomly into the concept for some reason. Neither of us weren’t no board game geeks. We hated those guys.

“Why are you getting this Heroscape crap, ????” I always asked, “It looks all weird, and you aren’t no board game geek. I thought you hated those guys.”

“Oh, lighten up, The.” ??? always said (they call me “The” around the house because “TheAverageFan” takes too long to say), “It looks like it could be fun.”

Anyhow, the days rolled on by like cats until finally the big hand smacked the twelve on the 24th. We ate lunch and then went about our day as usual. But come the second twelve later that night, dear ol’ Santa paid us a visit packing some Heroscape: Rise of the Valkyrie back when anyone could afford that crap. Waking up on Christmas day, ??? and I opened it up and lo and behold—Heroscape, pre wave-1. Now that’s going back. I can still smell the fresh plastic now. It smells manufactured and slightly hazardous. It’s probably because I just opened all these Barbie Doll boxes… er, for my relatives! Yeah, got ‘em for my little girl relatives… stupid things… ‘Tis the season, you know what I’m sayin’? Ahem! Anyway, back to the Heroscape…

*Smokes pipe* You see, folks… back in those days you had no idea what you were getting yourself into. ??? had just asked for this on a whim; we didn’t know nothing. You didn’t even know who was what and what did where. What is this, some kind of Viking? A dragon with no wings? Oh, wait here they are. Got some ruins here… Here’s the instructions. Looking through all that stuff… why, we were like two kids on Christmas morning.

So I cobbled together a stage from the instruction book and got ready to play my first game of Heroscape. Back when you only had the one Master Set your Heroscape board could fit anywhere around the house—imagine that! It was the Basic Game, of course. Pitched against my old man… oh, I bet you thought it’d be against ???. Yeah, here’s the real kicker—he didn’t want to play the game. He was playing some video game or some nonsense. I told you it was on a whim; oh the irony. Truth of the matter is, he never did play a whole bunch of Heroscape, really. He did get into it for a while, but he stopped playing. So basically the guy who got us the game in the first place didn’t end up playing it, and the rest of us were the ones who got hooked. Funny how things turn out… I suppose I ought to thank him. They say the Lord has a sense of humor. Tell me about it—have you guys seen Dund? What even? Anyway, on with the story.

So the Battle of all Time commenced, well more like the Battle of the Five Minutes. It basically quickly boiled down to my pa’s Tarn Vikings against good ol’ Ne-Gok-Sa. See, even back then it was still “good ol’” Ne-Gok-Sa. See, it was right then and there that the Marro Warlord would become my personal favorite Heroscape figure, even before the Mindshackling started. He’s just too good to pass up for 90 points. But I suppose he’s free in the Basic Game (the booklet just tells you who you’ve got). And so, Ne-Gok-Sa has been my favorite ever since. Who’s yours (it’s Cyprien, isn’t it)? Anyway, on a tiny 7-hex sand tile crammed between the war-ridden ruin and the carpet, Ne-Gok-Sa stood alone against 3 or 4 Tarn Vikings. These barbarians would soon learn that this weird alien thing was not to be crossed.

And seriously, kiddies, why are the Vikings Jandarian? Vikings are evil! They invade and pillage and maim and rape stuff. Are these Vikings different? Are they good Vikings? Can they undo what all the other Vikings did? Ne-Gok-Sa never pillaged or raped anything—he’s super good. So who’s the real villain here? I don’t trust that Jandar guy—he’d have probably summoned some Nazis if we had made it to wave 12 or something, I’d bet.

But I digress. The first of the Vikings rushed forward, swinging his mighty sword with a fervor matched only by the other 2 or 3 Vikings. Despite his debatably noble efforts, however, Ne-Gok-Sa parried the blow with ease and struck back. His sickly blade pierced the Tarn’s shield and shattered it like my hopes and dreams. The Viking collapsed, dying instantly from the attack because squads can never just be wounded. Ne-Gok-Sa chortled, showing the fallen Viking’s comrades a gleeful grin as he beckoned them over.

The death of the first not dampening their spirits, the remaining Tarns rushed forth, surrounding the Marro Warlord and attacking all at once. Dancing back and forth in a flurry of steel, Ne-Gok-Sa blocked one blow after another, simply waiting for the opportune moment to strike. It came when some attack dice accidently knocked one of the Vikings over, the Utgar Champion focusing his attention onto the other and striking him down whilst the fallen Tarn struggled back to his feet.

Not giving him any chances, Ne-Gok-Sa lunged forth and stabbed at the barbarian. Unfortunately the Tarn blocked the blow, retaliating with rage. His rusty blade sunk into the Marro’s shoulder, only to snap against his flesh. Ne-Gok-Sa gave the sword an unconcerned glance before turning back to the horrified Viking and cruelly smiling.

“7 defense, baby.” With that, he thrust his blade into the Tarn and kicked him back against the ruin, the Viking slowly slumping down. Ne-Gok-Sa tossed his head back in laughter, “Ha ha ha ha!”

…And I guess there were only 3 Vikings after all…

*closes book* …And that’s how my very first game of Heroscape went. My old man went on to lose many games after that to my precious Warlord, until he found the Krav Maga Agents, soon followed by his 4861 game winning-streak. But that whole story’s a curse word vocab lesson for another time. We would go on playing the Master Set for quite a while, me, ???, and dad. We divided the units up amongst ourselves—I was quick to swipe the Marro—and before we even knew what we had the other waves were on the way. But no matter how much Heroscape we had, I’ll always remember that day with a fond memory… that Christmas morning. Or was it ???’s birthday? No, I think it was Christmas. Pretty sure.

So what’d we learn today, folks? Absolutely nothing? Well, you didn’t honestly think this one would be better than the Q9 review, did you? At least this story’s actually Christmas-themed! I don’t see you guys doing anything better! What’re you gonna do about it? Come at me, bro!

Ahem… anyways. I do hope you’ll join me next time as we continue our merry little romp through the world of the 12 Days of Christmas, starring me. I’ll see you all tomorrow, or whenever you comment next… I’ll be on the site… constantly… It’s so lonely in here.

~TAF