#like I imagine every time the Hulk destroys something or gets reported dead but is then found alive or is captured but then escapes

[daydreamerdrew]

The Incredible Hulk (1968) Annual #7

[mazurah]

Journal of a Buoyant Armiger in Valenwood

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21st of Sun’s Height

Oh sweet Lord… Blessed Almsivi, Mercy, Mastery, Mystery… hear the prayer of your supplicant. I fear this trial may yet prove to be too much for me.

I delivered the book of Bosmeri stories to the storyteller at the carnival today. He was absolutely delighted, despite--or possibly because of--the language in which it was written. My mind had only just begun to form the first wisps of thought regarding what I should do with the rest of my day, when a sound like a deafening foghorn the likes of which will haunt my nightmares resounded throughout the firmament. When the reverberations faded somewhat, and I regained full employment of my hearing, I heard a sound halfway between a thunderclap the likes of which I have never before heard and a tonne of metal falling onto solid bedrock from a great height, swiftly followed by the sound of gargantuan chains clanking taut over the solid surface of the largest windlass Nirn has ever accomodated. My gaze snapped to the tree canopy in the direction of the sound only to witness what was unmistakably a Dark Anchor portal hovering over the landscape to the southwest, spiked metal chains already straining to drawn Nirn into its hungry maw. Clouds darker and more menacing than those producing the slow drizzle of rain around us crept toward the gaping hole in the sky as though it was sucking the life out of even the air of that vibrant jungle.

I nearly succumbed to panic in that moment, but the pandemonium in the carnival around me drew my focus out of the intrusive memories of Coldharbour and the knowledge of everything that Anchor represented. I swiftly located the carnival mistress and told her to take the entirety of her troupe to Elden Root while I scouted the Anchor. I told her to send someone to alert the Fighters Guild as well.

I made my way through the underbrush toward the Dark Anchor. It took me what must have been over half an hour to get there from the carnival grounds. I had overestimated its closeness because of the sheer enormity of the thing. When I arrived I clung to the side of an embankment, hidden in the foliage, and observed from above as I witnessed Daedra crash to the ground beside a small group of cultists. I made note of the variety; first, Dremora, as expected; next a trio of Clannfear plunged to earth beside the self-condemned cultists that had summoned them and began ripping them to bloody shreds; and finally a hulking Ogrim descended with a bellow and an explosion of smoke and dust.

I did not stay to watch their forces accumulate. I had ascertained the Anchor’s exact location and enough information about the invading force to flee back toward Elden Root. After a very long, three hour trek in which I was constantly glancing over my shoulder for pursuers, I made it to the Fighters Guild with a breathless report. They had already mustered over a half dozen people into full gear by the time I had arrived, and my account sent their already hurried activity into a frenzy.

I made a mad dash back to the Den to try to recruit Fayrl’s assistance, and, after failing to find him in the entirety of the Den, I finally discovered him in his room. Honestly, I should have checked there first, but I was not thinking as clearly as I should have, fighting as I was the panic that clutched at the tail of every rational thought. I don’t know why my emotions spiraled so out of control. I have training almost my entire life for how to conduct myself in an emergency. I’ve been in worse situations before, situations with more immediacy and tension to them, and never had this kind of all-consuming fear inhibit my thinking. It must have something to do with my previous encounter with Coldharbour. Perhaps I am not coping as well as I thought. I wish I could talk to my captain about it. She would know what was wrong with me. She always has the answers.

Upon hearing Fayrl’s answering call through the door, I opened it without thinking, only to discover him stark naked, cock in hand.

I closed the door immediately of course, but didn’t let my respect for his modesty prevent me from relaying the necessary information. I told him I would get my armor on and meet him by the front door in five minutes.

Of course, he had to go and take what seemed like a quarter of an hour instead, and nearly made us miss the Fighters Guild heading out toward the Anchor’s location.

It was nearly dark as we began the long hike to the Anchor, and the Fighters Guild handed me and Fayrl a lantern and a handful of night vision potions for use once we got to the site. The day’s rain had slowed, and finally stopped by the time we got there, for which I was grateful. It was not a clear night, but at least the sky wasn’t drenching us.

The fight was…. Actually, I’d rather not talk too much about the fight. It went better than it could have, but you never get used to losing comrades in arms, even ones you only just met. May the Three, or whatever gods they worship shelter their souls. Fayrl and I were the only people who could use any kind of offensive magicka in the entire group, and I stayed back and hit the Daedra with mostly ranged attacks. When it was over, three of the nine Fighters Guild members were dead, and I didn’t have a scratch on me.

There were injuries, but I was fortunate that the Fighters Guild was so well prepared that I didn’t need to offer my healing abilities. The battle fatigue hit me like a charging Ogrim as soon as the Fighters Guild successfully unmoored the Anchor and we were no longer in danger of attack. I felt nearly dazed as they informed us that they were going to leave a pair of guards at the Anchor base, take their dead back to Elden Root, and send for stonemasons and volunteers to begin dismantling the stone of the ritual circle so that Molag Bal could not send the Anchor down again. I desperately needed rest, so I told them I would return in the morning to assist them. Fayrl was already urging me back to the city.

I walked the long, tense road back for the fourth time that day in full darkness. The Fighters Guild lent me a lantern, for which I was grateful, because I easily imagined Dremora jumping out of the blackness to capture me and Fayrl again, despite the fact that we had only just finished closing their doorway to Nirn. The pool of lantern light was an island of safety in that dark jungle, and my fatigued mind conjured all kinds of fantasms, mostly from Oblivion, to pursue us just out of sight in the shadows of the trees. I was grateful too that Fayrl agreed not to touch me, because I would have probably jumped out of my skin, or pissed myself, or broken down crying, or something equally embarrassing had he tried.

This is not the conduct of a Buoyant Armiger! What is wrong with me that makes this emergency so much more difficult to cope with than any other emergency I have previously encountered? Rationally, I knew that the likelihood of Daedra popping out of the underbrush to take me and Fayrl captive was very slim, but the possibility tormented my mind. I prayed to my Lord under my breath for comfort almost the entire way home.

“The fire is mine: let it consume thee, And make a secret door At the altar of Padhome, In the House of Boet-hi-Ah Where we become safe And looked after.”

When I got back to the Den I requested a bath in my room, and let myself soak away the stench of sweat and panic. The silence was finally too much for me and I broke down in tears in the bath, sobbing to my Lord for forgiveness for my weakness. It is not weakness, I know. I did everything right; I did not abandon my training. I did not let my fear prevent me from performing the tasks I needed to perform, but it feels like such weakness to return from a battle and cry about everything that might have happened, both good and bad, had I done even the slightest thing different.

Could I have saved those three that died at the hands of the Daedra today if I had entered the fray instead of relying on my ranged abilities to fight? I don’t know. I am better at ranged fighting, so probably not, but the possibility torments me. What is worse, I am plagued with the troubled thought that I have destroyed yet another pathway to reclaiming my soul. What should I have done though? Was I supposed to climb up the chain? Leaving the portal open would have been an act of supreme selfishness. I engrave upon mine eyes the image of injustice; I cannot suffer it to stand. Besides, what would I even do once there? I could not predict what I would find, and thus I had no plan. Nothing good could have come of it. I know better than to gather seeds in the fields of hell.

I spent over nine hours today in a state of abject terror, not to mention the time spent in full-scale battle, and my body was so exhausted that I nearly thought I couldn’t lift myself from the bath. Tomorrow I am returning to the Anchor base to assist the Fighters Guild in its dismantling. I don’t know how well I will cope. Hopefully, better than I did today. I suspect the anxiety will not diminish until I have completely wiped that accursed artifact from the face of Nirn. I have never been more fully aware that the slave labor of the senses is as selfish as polar ice. I have often heard the concept preached as an admonition against excess, but it works the other way as well, with feelings we don’t want, and can’t get rid of.

I know what I must do. I shall let faith be my only law. I shall forge my faith most keen in the crucible of suffering. It is not something I enjoy, but it is something that I need. Faith conquers all. I shall yield to faith.

That is not to say I shouldn’t take care of myself. Fayrl has kindly left me a plate of food outside my door. I should avail myself of it.

Fayrl’s Corresponding Entry Qau-dar’s Corresponding Entry

[mrbannerboy-blog]

The Rockville Necromancer.

(Right, so this was the narrative essay, but i had no idea how long it was supposed to be until I saw what other people posted.  So, be ready for a lengthy read.)

John stared at the note from his Commander.  The dim, waving light from the candles seemed to make the words dance in place;  it was a case assignment.  “March 15, 1861.  Officer Harper, there have been reports of strange occurrences in the town of Rockville that indicate an extensive use of witchcraft, more specifically, necromancy.  Sightings include grave robberies, vanishing figures, and disembodied voices throughout the town. ��You and Officer Winston have been assigned to investigate the town and unroot the source of these otherworldly anomalies.  -Paladin Roderick.”  

John could hardly contain his excitement and worry at reading this.  He finally had the chance to return to his hometown, to the farm he and his brother were raised on.  He wondered how much of it had changed since he left; since their parents passed, or how well his brother was after losing his wife.  But what who could be so bold as to defile the nicest town in all of the West coast?  Of all the forms of magic, necromancy was among the worst; nobody can raise the dead and hope to command it, not completely.  Surly a witch or warlock was hiding in the outskirts of the town like a coward, dabbling in something that would destroy their sanity if they truly understood it.  John let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair.  He scanned his office and thought about how much time had passed since had he joined The Magic Police; It must have been at least 7 years.  from disbanding magic abusing gangs, to hunting down vampires, his life has been nothing short of an adventure.  “It’s getting late” he thought to himself “I should get some rest”.  With that he left his office and went home.

Rockville was several hours away, and the investigation would take at least a week, so John had spent the entire morning pack everything he would need for the trip.  He double checked to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything important, then hired a carriage and stopped by Wanda Winston’s house to take her to the train station.  Before John could knock on the door, it flung open, and a short, blonde figure with arm reaching around several large bags ran into him, nearly sending him to the ground; it was Wanda.  “Harper!  I’m so sorry, I overslept and was rushing to pack my bags.  I hope we aren’t running late”.  Wanda quickly said.  

Still regaining his balance, John replied, “No worries, we still have plenty of time to catch the train.  Did you pack everything you need?”

“I think so, I packed every book I have that can help us track down a necromancer.”  She said.  Wanda had been Johns partner for a little over 4 years.  She was a bit different; unlike the other women in the Magic Police, who would always talk to each other about their new shoes ,or about gossip, While Wanda would keep to herself. She was a book lover through and through; whenever she wasn’t working, she would let herself become absorbed in stories and knowledge, letting nothing rip her away from her books, not even sleep.

John helped Wanda with her bags and signaled for the carriage driver to proceed to the station.  The train ride might have been boring for many of the other passengers, but not for John.  Even though the only reason he was able to visit his hometown was because he was assigned to, he couldn’t help but feel like he was leaving for a vacation.  John wandered if the reason for his assignment was because he grew up in Rockville; he surely knew the place inside and out.  If anyone was practicing witchcraft he would sniff them out.

By the time the train arrived in Rockville, the sun had just began to descend from its highest point in the sky.  There were hardly any clouds that day, so everyone was out and about, enjoying the weather, especially since the last week had been cold and overcast.  As John and Wanda made their way to the local inn, they passed by the market.  It seemed to be particularly crowded, with hardly any elbow room.  John recognised many of the vendors by their wares and unique signs.  Some vendors, however, were completely foreign to him.  Some of them sold jewels and trinkets, while others displayed items unique to other cultures.  With the swell in population since he left for the city, finding the necromancer would harder than John first imagined.  

After squeezing through the majority of the crowd and arriving at the inn, John walked to the front desk to sign in. The innkeeper was a very burly looking man in his early 50’s with a bushy grey beard and thick eyebrows.  “Derek,” John remembered his name.  “Excuse me, I’d like to rent 2 small rooms, please.” John said.

Without so much as looking up, the innkeeper replied “It’s 10 silver coins per room per week, how long will you be staying?”  The nonchalant tone in his voice suggested that he had said those words at least a thousand times before.

“Uh, two weeks.” John figured it would be safer to allow more time for the investigation, in case it proved difficult.

“Under what name?” said the innkeeper, now with an inked quill in his hand.

“Harper, John Harper,” he replied.  With this, the Derek looked up; his previously blank expression brightened in hopeful joy.

“John Harper?  You mean ol’ Freddys boy? The kid who would run up and down the halls of my inn, looking for goblins and gremlins? That John Harper?”  the innkeeper asked.

“That’s me”  he said.  Without any warning, John was embraced by the innkeepers large hairy arms and nearly crushed.  Wanda, who was standing by the desk, jumped back at this, and dropped all her luggage on the floor.

“Martha, Johnny’s back!” Derek yelled to a room across the lobby, and a tall, old lady poked her head from the room.  Dereks wife was just as strong as him, which made her hug to John equally as breathtaking.  “Forget what I said about silver, Johnny.  You can stay here as long as you want, free of charge.”  said Derek.

“Speaking of which,” Martha said “what brings you back here?  The last time you were here was almost 5 years ago.”

Not wanting word to spread that two magic police officers were investigating the town, John had to come up with a false story, and quick. “We were returning from an official meeting down in Willowburg and decided to take some time off to visit” he lied.

“We?” Derek asked.  

John gestured to Wanda, who was standing awkwardly to the side and smiling slightly.  “This is Wanda, my partner,” he said.

“She’s so beautiful,”  Martha exclaimed, “It’s no wonder you’d invite her to visit your hometown”.  Both John and Wanda blushed.  “I bet you stare at her while she’s not looking” she continued; John put his hand to his head and Wanda blushed even more.

Trying to change the subject for everyone’s sake, Derek asked “Have you visited your brother yet?”  Thankful for the innkeepers question, John told him that he hadn’t, and that he would as soon as he got his bags into his room.  Upon doing so, he jogged out of the inn, and hired a carriage to take him to Harper Farm. Wanda decided to stay in her room and find a way to track down the necromancer.

The ride to the farm brought John an abundance of memories, including a small, hill where he and his brother, William, gathered branches and twigs, and using them to build a fort.  One time, they pretended that the fort was under attack by an army of zombie soldiers.  The two of them would fight off wave after wave of the hideously decaying corpses, and eventually defeat their king; a hulking mass for a body, spewing pestilence and death from the hellish doors of his mouth.  As the carriage made a turn onto the road familiar that lead to the farm, John noticed something on an old shed that once held the first farming equipment he ever held.  On all sides were marks and symbols of varying colors and thicknesses; graffiti?  John scoffed at the sight, he figured that a bunch of kids were bored one day and got their grubby hands on some paint.

He quickly shook off his bitterness from the shed when he realised that he could see one of the farm plots in the distance.  It seemed that William had hired plenty of people to work the fields.  The carriage stopped.  John looked ahead and saw his old house surrounded by a tall black fence supported by a short brick wall, and a gate stopping their way; this wasn’t here before.  A had walked up to the carriage driver and spoke to him for a few moments, then the driver pointed to John. The man walked to him and asked why he was here.  John pulled a silver badge, representing his authority with the Magic Police, from his coat pocket and said, “I’m here on to see the owner of this farm”.  The man nodded his head and opened the gate.  

After the carriage pulled up to the front of the house, John stepped out.  The first thing he noticed was that the garden Williams late wife had made was still in very good shape.  Even though William prefered the business side of farming, he always put time aside to help his wife, Angela, plant and harvest the crops from her garden.  John also noticed the scarecrow in the center of the garden, which seemed to be fulfilling its task perfectly; evident by the fact that there were no birds in sight.  It wore a large straw hat, a dark grey overcoat with bright red lining, and blue overalls.  The scarecrow was so lifelike that it made him feel uneasy.  John quickly walked up to front porch and knocked softly on the aged oak door.  He could hear footsteps from the other side, and after a moment the door creaked open.  

“John?”, William said, solfy.  He was just as tall as his brother, although his hair was curly and black, while Johns was a straight, and sandy brown in color.

“Hey, Will” he replied.  William leaped with joy at the sight of his brother.  John had never seen him so happy before.  The two of them talked for the entire afternoon; William completely ignored the papers that consumed his attention before John arrived.  

“I’m so happy to see you again, John.  Especially since Angela…” William trailed off.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you more than I wish I was.  My job is incredibly time consuming”  John said.  “I’m just glad you kept Mom and Pops farm running after all these years, and even started a your own company from it”.  “Angela’s Farm”  was the name of the company, which William was head the head of.  It was popular all around town, and even had ties to the neighboring city.  “I should get going, goodnight William”  John said.

“Night, John…” he replied with a slight tremble in him voice.

John returned to his room at the inn; it had been a long day.  

“You can’t save him” something whispered.  John froze for a moment, only to be greeted by silence. He searched his entire room for the source of the voice; nothing.  After realizing how sleepy he was, he dismissed the voice as an auditory hallucination caused by a lack of sleep.  Within moments of laying on his bed, he fell fast asleep.

The next morning, after getting dressed and securing his revolver in its holster, John knocked on the door to Wandas room.

“Come in” she said.  John opened the door to find Wanda standing in the middle of the room holding a simple string necklace with a bright yellow gem on the end of it.  He could see that she was wearing one just like it as well.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“This is how we’ll find the necromancer.  Yesterday, I was reading a book about special gems that react to magic, and found that these gems turn ice cold when their near people who have practiced, or are the result of necromancy.  With these, we can thoroughly investigate the town and keep a low profile” she said, proudly.  John knew that they would have to stay together for the first few days; he told Derek and Martha that he was here to show Wanda the town, so they most likely told all their friends about it.  Thus, the two of them started their investigation at places that meant a lot to John.  Wanda looked as happy as ever to see the town, and John noticed this.  He wasn’t sure if she was just acting, as to not arouse suspicion, or if she was genuinely enjoying herself.  Either way, he was happy to revisit all his favorite places from his childhood.

Almost a week had passed, and they still couldn’t find the necromancer.  Although they did learn that one of the missing bodies from the grave robberies belonged to Angela, they found no connection to the rest of the empty graves.  They ended up walking around the entire town several times, for almost a week, and found nothing.  As they were walking back to the inn one night, after searching the forest for the whole day,  Wanda asked, “Is there anywhere we haven’t checked yet?  I don’t think I can stay on my feet much longer.”  John thought hard about anywhere they hadn’t search, when suddenly he felt a chill run up his spine.  No, it wasn’t his spine, it was his chest; His necklace was cold.  He looked at Wanda, and her expression showed that she too felt it.  John whipped his head around looking for anyone nearby.  Whoever was around had to be the necromancer.

“Over there!”  Wanda shouted, pointing to at alley across the street.  John looked and saw a tall figure run around the corner.  Invigorated by this, He sprinted after it, leaving Wanda

behind.  He chased it past the alley, which led to an open field.  Even from the dim light of the moon, he could make out that the figure had long, dark hair, and was wearing a dark grey

overcoat.  John was running faster than the figure and just as he reached out his arm to grab it, the figure turned and jabbed it’s elbow into John’s gut, sending him to the ground.  The figure loomed over John for a moment, then grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet and above its own head.  The figure was much stronger than its scrawny frame suggested, and its  hand was colder than the gem around John’s neck.

“You can’t save him” it said.  The voice was raspy and cracked, but John could tell that it was feminine, and sounded...familiar.  It wasn’t until the figure looked up to John and its long hair parted that he knew who it was; It was Williams deceased wife, Angela.  Although this was her body, it wasn’t her mind.  Her eyes were hollow, but their gaze showed that they were not from this world, that the entity inhabiting her was not human.  John could feel his conscious slipping away.  He had to act fast, otherwise this thing would kill him.  Searching himself for anything that he could use to free himself, he remembered his revolver.  He pulled it from his coat and unloaded 3 rounds into Angelas abdomen, which sent creeks of dark red fluids in response,  but she hardly even flinched.  “You can’t save him” She repeated.  Using the last of his breath, John pointed the gun at the monsters wrist and fired.  The gunshot rang through his ears, stunning him.  He could feel his feet hit the ground, and then his knees; air poured into his lunges once again.  

When he regained his breath, he looked around, but didn’t see Angela anywhere.  As he began to walk back to the alley, the pain in his stomach shot through him, and he winced at it.  Wanda was trained to treat wounds, he would have her take a look at it.  Once he returned to where street Wanda was, she was nowhere in sight.  It was only at this point did John notice the trail of blood leading from the alley to the point where Wanda had been standing.  Angela had taken Wanda, and John knew exactly where, because it was at this moment he remember where he had seen that overcoat she was wearing; the scarecrow at williams farm.

Wandas eyes opened to a sharp pain in her head.  “What happened?” she thought.  Her sense gradually returned only for her find herself laying on a wet, hard floor in pitch blackness.  Her hands were chained together.  Once her eyes adjusted slightly, she slowly sat upright, and looked around.  From what little her eyes could see, she saw something right in front of her.  When she reached out to touch it, her hands were greeted by the cold touch of an an iron pole.  She moved her hands to the left, another one.  She was locked in a prison cell.  “How did I get here?” she wondered.  The last thing Wanda remembered was running after John through an alley and hearing gunshots.  She struggled to recall what happened next.  The pain in her head swelled and she put her hands to it.

She felt something wet when she withdrew her hands.  Then she smelled it; the distinct scent of copper told her that it was blood.  Wanda remembered what happened.  She heard gunshots past the alley, but when she turned the corner she saw a figure blitz toward her with fire in its eyes.  She remembered running to the street, looking back for only a split second to see a pale fist quickly covering the distance to her head.  “Oh, that’s what happened” she whispered.  Once her eyes fully adapted to the dark, she began to pace the cell, looking for a way out.  After what seemed like hours, Wanda heard the faint sound of footsteps, which were getting closer.  She could hear a lock turning, and then light entered the room from a small candle, held by a tall man in a black robe.

“Oh, you’re awake.  Perfect, I just finished making the preparations” he said.

“If you so much as lay a finger in me, I will rip your hands off and feed them to you!” she threatened.

“Fortunately, I won’t even need to come near you” he responded.  Wanda was a bit puzzled, but soon understood what he meant  The chains that bound her hands began to glow blue and move on their own.  At the same time, the cell door glowed in the same way and creaked open.  Wandas chains pulled her out of the cell and began to follow the man, who was walking out of the door.  They walked up a small flight of stairs to an open room.  In the center of the room, Written in chalk and surrounded by candles, was a large circle.  The edges of the circle were decorated with words of a nearly unknown language.  Two of the wall of the room were coated with shelves, which housed an assortment of books and glass jars, containing various herbs, fluids, and even swaths of flesh, All of which screamed the same word; Witchcraft.

John wasted no time preparing for the fight he knew was about to come.  He stopped by the inn and gathered what he needed; a lantern, an extra revolver, more ammo, and a small bottle of holy water.  He also patched up his wound as best he could before leaving.  He wouldn’t stop until he found Wanda.  Once he had everything, he ran outside, commandeered a horse from a carriage, and rode into the night.  The horse was fast; within no time he flew away from the buildings and passed the hill from his childhood.  Just as he made the turn onto Harper Farm, the horse stopped dead in its tracks.  John urged it to move, but it reeled up and flung John off its back.  “What’s wrong with you?!”  he shouted.  He looked around for anything that could spook a horse.  A snake?  A wolf?  An old shed?  Just when John noticed the graffiti covered shed, he was flooded with a sense of terror.  “Why would a harmless shack make anyone afraid?” he thought to himself as he slowly approached it.  

He lifted up his lantern.  Upon close inspection, he recognised one of the shapes painted on the shack as a necromancy rune.  It was a symbol that deterred people and animals from drawing to near it.  John walked around to the front and with a deep breath he swung the door open with full force.  The inside of the shed looked just like any other, filled with gardening tools, although these ones have rusted to the point of uselessness.  There was a shovel, however, that had very little rust on its handle.  John grabbed it to study it, but just as he pulled it toward himself, he heard a dull click.  One of the wooden planks in the opposite corner of the shed popped up slightly to reveal a stairwell.  Seeing that light was coming from the stairs, John belted his lantern in favor for his gun.  With one last check of his gear, John descended into the lair of the necromancer.

Wandas chains forced her to sit in the circle near the edge.  Within a few moments, the creature that attacked her entered the room and sat at the other end of the circle.  Its hand was mangled and rotting.  The room was silent for minute, but was soon broken by the man in the hood, who was now standing at a pedestal next to the ring.

“They wouldn’t give me Angela’s soul without payment, yours should do.”  And with that, he pulled out an old leather bound book and began to recite it.  He spoke in an ancient language that was dark and greatly forbidden.  The room went cold and the candles flickered.  There was a whispering of split voices that could only be described as demonic.  The thing sitting across from Wanda was staring right at her, chanting the same words as the hooded man, as if she had the ritual memorised.  Suddenly there was a swirl of dark, purple light that flowed around the circle.  An image seared into Wanda’s mind and she screamed.  It was a being larger than a mountain with rotting feathers in its back and the head of a rams skull.  Its mouth was filled with jagged, razored fangs with two pointed tusk jutting from both sides.  large, numerius horns curved around his head.  Although they paled in comparison to his eyes; they were an infinite abyss of pain, lust, wrath, and dark knowledge that spanned the length of the vast waistland he called his kingdom.  He gazed through Wanda, into the depths of her soul, knowing everything about her, her thought, memories, and her darkest desires.

Wanda struggled as hard as she could to break free, nearly breaking her own wrists.  Just as the ritual was about to reach its crescendo, there was a great release of light as John poured holy water on the edge of the circle.  Angela screeched louder than a any human could and both her and Wanda slumped over; the ritual was broken.

“William, what are you doing?”  John asked.

“I’m bringing back the only thing in my life that mattered!” the hooded man responded.

“I thought I mattered to you, I thought we-”

“When did you help me when Pop would come home drunk and angry?  Where were you  when they died?  When my wife died?!”  William shouted.  John couldn’t speak; William was right.  John was never there for him when he should have been.  Back at his house, he didn’t even want to be in the same room as him.  The more he thought about it, the more he blamed himself for his brother turn to witchcraft.  At this point, Angela had torn off what little bit a hand she had left, revealing a sharp bone underneath.

“You can’t save him” she said as she lunged at william and used the sharp end of her wrist to pierce his chest.  John ran across the room and ripped angela from his brother.  She retaliated by tackling John and choke him.  John reached for his revolver, but Angela stabbed his hand to the ground, and he dropped his gun.  John still had another gun and one free hand.  He pulled his other gun only to have Angela grab his hand, bring it to her mouth and lock her jaw into his wrist.  John let out a pained yelp before Angela resumed to strangle him.  She wasn’t done though; using her knee, she hit him in the same place she jabbed him earlier, causing John immeasurable pain.  Just when it seemed to be over, Wanda used the rest of Johns holy water and splashed it against Angelas back.  She screeched and recoiled. The spell on Wandas chains had broken.  She then picked up one of the revolvers from the ground and shot Angela in both ankles.  Angela  fell to the ground and began to crawl towards her.  Wanda shot her in the shoulders and elbows, leaving Angela completely immobile.  Then she picked up the second gun and unloaded every round into Angelas head, killing her.

John coughed heavily, splattering blood on the floor.  He crawled over to william, who had his hand pressed against his wound.

“Will...” John said.  Wanda soon joined him, kneeling beside william and trying to stop his bleeding.

“Leave me”  William rasped.  He reached into his robe and withdrew a key.  “Unlock your friend, and let me die...alone”

“What?  No!  You can’t die, We’re going keep you alive!” John said through tears.

“Do you really care about me, or are you trying keep me alive so that I can live in misery, rotting in a prison cell?”  William asked.  “And don’t even try to save the farm, once everyone hears that its owner was a warlock they’ll be outraged.  John couldn’t believe what he was hearing, William hated him.  With every fiber of his being William wanted to die.  John let his crying echo throughout the entire lair.  Wanda put her hands on his shoulder.  Williams eyes slowly closed shut and his hand dropped to the ground, sending out a dull thud, like a final beat of a heart.  The stones on John and Wandas necklaces ceased to be cold; William, the Rockville necromancer was dead.

John stared at the note from his commander. The bright radiance from the sun seemed to make the words glow on the paper.  “March 27, 1861.  Officer Harper, because of your extended service to The Magic Police, it is my privilege to inform you that you have been approved to be promoted the the rank of ‘Captain’.  There will an official ceremony on April 12 that you must attend in order to receive your new rank.  Don’t worry, you won’t need to make a speech or anything.  -Paladin Roderick.”  John wasn’t thrilled.  Just then, Wanda poked her head into Johns office.

“Hey, I’m going to grab some lunch, do you want anything?”  she asked

“Surprise me,”

“How are you doing?”

“The doctor said that I should have this cast off my hand within a the next week, but my stomach is still a little sore.”

“That’s not what I meant, John”

“...I miss him…the only reason he turned to witchcraft was because I was too focused on myself and my own life”

“You have no reason to blame yourself for what happened.  Don’t let what happened to your brother pull you down, it’s exactly what happened to him.” Wanda told him.

“You’re right.” John said, wiping away stray tears.  “I shouldn’t dwell on the past.”

“I’ll be right back, then.”  and with that, she disappeared.  John knew had to move forward.  He was no stranger to grief, but this time was different; It was more painful to think about.  Harper farm was given to the town, but all of Williams possessions that weren’t being used as evidence were given to him.  However, he didn’t plan on keeping much of it.  John gave his brother one last thought, took a deep breath, and went back his work, trying very hard to hold back his tears.

[nerdarchy-blog]

In my last piece I wrote about one of the modules I wrote back in the Mesozoic era.  “After all our 12 year old minds, while imaginative, couldn’t spin a coherent narrative. I still have a dungeon I wrote back then called Torth. It’s… um… well, the Plan 9 of modules. Made no sense.” Within hours, the stalwart and suffering editor sent to me “I am curious about Torth! Although my opinion of Plan 9 is colored by Ed Wood, which I’ve seen several more times than the actual Plan 9 haha.” [NERDITOR’S NOTE: That’s me!] However, by that point the semester was concluding, work was piling up, and I couldn’t do it.  Now the semester is done (I earned 2 A’s and an A-) and here I am sitting on the couch writing about something I wrote some 40 plus years ago. Get off my lawn.

A mockup from the author for Torth: Castle of Evil. Pretty cool if you ask me! Check out the gallery at the end of the post for the creator’s original cover, maps and notes. [Art by Erol Otus]

Torth: Castle of Evil

I started this while I was still the Dungeon Master for my first module, B1: In Search of the Unknown. For those who don’t know this module it was the first Basic Box Set module even before B2: Keep on the Borderlands. While B2 had all the monsters filled in, B1 didn’t. What the writers did for this one was they’d describe the room and leave space for the DM to include Monster then Treasure. So this kid got to enter whatever monster they wished whether they made sense or not. In one room would be a couple of goblins while the next room over (a 20 ft. x 20 ft. no less) would have a red dragon. My player (the Dave I mentioned last column) didn’t care. Kick open the door, kill the monster, collect the treasure (never mind how much people could actually carry), do whatever was in the room (ooh, pools!) then repeat. Yes, that was Quasqueton, stronghold of Rogahn the Fearless and Zelligar the Unknown!

I added a third level to Q, which featured an underground lake with an island on which were the barracks for all the off-duty monsters. There was a bugbear barracks, a room for vampires…you get the idea. That was me trying to figure out a reason for the monster placement.

After that it was Dave’s turn to DM and I played my first character, Apollo. We played almost every night. During study halls or after going home after gaming I started writing what I thought would be my magnum opus! It needed a name. One afternoon when we weren’t playing the Monkees were on TV. One of them was Peter Tork. I changed the name a little and so the module had a name: TORTH!

I started by drawing one third a map, wrote about the rooms, then more map and so on. Oh, this was great stuff! Killer! No character could possibly survive! Plot? What’s that? Dave also wrote some of the dungeon and I asked people who had no idea about the game for trap ideas as well. Torth eventually had three levels, two of which had giant underground lakes (one on top of the other??) with 200 total rooms and was finished on June 10, 1980. I even bought a report folder for it to make it more official and traced the umber hulk picture for the cover. I made the umber hulk the proper colors even though some of the umber hulks appearing in the module are orange. Don’t ask — I’m already embarrassed enough.

Eventually Dave and I learned that a new kid in the school, I’ll call him Rodney, also played D&D! Well, he wanted to learn anyway. He was and still is a goof ball and was enthusiastic about playing. As Dave and I were now experts at the game…hey stop laughing!  Ahem, experts at the game, we would teach him. And where would he learn? TORTH!

You can see this train wreck coming, can’t you?

Not being one to make things easy on himself, and with the new AD&D Player’s Handbook in hand he decided to create a 1st level half-elf fighter/cleric named Pantalian. I, with the brand spanking new Monster Manual, was determined to try all of these new monsters.

The adventurers needed a reason, no matter how flimsy, to enter this dungeon. I reproduce it here, word for word, misspellings and all. On the word for word stuff I’ll insert my comments in italics. Because.

CONTENT WARNING — rape

****************************************************** Many years ago, when orcs ruled the countryside, a magic user came.  He enslaved the orc tribe the green foot and made them build him a castle. The orcs were also forced to build new homes for poor people of the towns they destroyed. The castle was dug deep into the cliff side of a mountain. (So… it was a cave? A castle?)

This good magic user, ruled the countryside fairly the townspeople loved him dearly.

Many a cleric and Magic user came to him to study and for advise.

Soon Torth was getting old, and said he needed an heir. He adopted a boy by the name of Rascen. A few years later, the old wizard died, and left everything to Rascen.

Rascen, like his stepfather, was a good man. He trained to be a druid. (As one who lives in a fancy cave castle does.)

One day while holding the passover feast, the holy grail appeared. This brought pride to Rascen and his people. (Ummm.  Yeah.)

While holding Court a beautiful girl came and stated a powerful knight was disturbing her. Her name was Rachel. Rascen himself slew the knight, and fell in love. (Fell in love with whom? The knight?) Soon Rascen asked Rachael to be his wife. She consented.

A few years, later a son was born. They named him Carnan. He grew up to be a magic-user after his parents died. But Carnan was evil. Carnan ruled harshly until one night, the castle mysteriously caught fire. He was said to be killed, along with other evil clerics and magic users. (Ok, the cave castle caught fire. HOW???)

The townspeople lived in harmony. A knight named Maskoth was appointed mayor. He ruled fairly.

One night, Maskoth disappeared, only to be found the next day, totally insane. He was babbling something about Liches or other evil. He died a few years later of mummy rot disese. This was the first evil. (ooh — scary!)

A sage said there would be six evils on the town. No one believed him. Soon a mysterious beggar came to town. A few days later he killed the captain of the watch. This was the second evil. (Damn mysterious beggars!)

After that, a good cleric came to town, and was told of the two evils and went to the castle, never to be seen again. A month later, bones were found in the woods near the castle. On them was a holy symbol. Scholars doubt this carnage was the cleric, but the people knew it was. This was the third evil. (Scholars studied this???)

The month after the finding of the bones, ghouls, mummies, zombies, wights, wraiths and ghosts plagued the town for one week, killing many. This was the fourth evil. (Okay — this is a town. By this point, there can’t be many people left, and those who survive, why did they stay?)

One night later, a girl named Josephine disappeared. She was found the next day, brutally murdered and raped. This was fifth evil. Now the windows of the castle are scarlet, as if a fire was burning inside. (I was a screwed up kid going for shock value. Also, what windows? There are no windows in the cave castle!)

A few days later all the infants and old men were killed. Evil swept the town. The chapel was burned! The monastery pillaged! This was the final evil. (Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria! Oh wait.)

Now the sage stated that evil will kill us all if it is not removed, and that the source of the evil was the castle. “A fighting man would be needed” stated the sage. That night he died of mysterious causes. (As one does in these tales.)

One night a merchant was passing on a road that is near the castle. He claims he saw a hooded figure in a rear window looking, staring out. The figure was all white, had glowing eyes, and burnt, shabby clothing. (WHAT WINDOWS?) That was last night. Go now to the castle and defeat the evil inside.

(Yeah. Go. Defeat…whatever.)

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

Pantalian and his NPCs died very quickly. He was reincarnated five times. He lasted longest as a troll. Then one day his character sheet vanished. Turns out someone we both knew tore it up and flushed it down the toilet. Rodney to this very day blames me for this and in revenge he and the other person destroyed my character’s painstakingly kept journal. However, I was not the culprit. Doesn’t matter, he still blames me.

How did Pantalian die so quickly? Well, here’s a few rooms, typed in exactly as scrawled back then, mistakes and all. The first room the characters will encounter after entering the castle would be room 17, which was a 20 ft. x 40 ft.

“The room is dingy. In the southeast corner is a 10 ft. circular iron cylinder. It has elvish runes on it and cannot be read except by the evil. They tell the history of evil. (That must’ve been small type!) When the door is closed, the lid pops open, orange smoke issues forth and 2 lemures pop out. 7 hp, 13 hp. 1 potion of flying, ring of skeleton, 900 sp.” (The ring would reduce the wearer to a skeleton instantly, no save, just dead.)

It was Pantalian and an NPC fighter. Lemures were devils with 3 HD and regeneration. Only blessed objects could kill them. Of course a brand new player wouldn’t know this, nor would they possess such an item. Or be aware of regeneration. So the lemures just kept coming and Rodney, being the jock type, wasn’t about to run away!

Splat!

He created a second character specifically to go in and drag Pantalian’s body out. He was then resurrected and the second character became an NPC, a half elf fighter/magic-user. Neither lasted long. I decided the player needed help. I know! A magic weapon! I gave a gnoll a longsword +5 Defender. And again, Pantalian fell. His NPCs, as he now kept several, managed to kill the gnoll and get the sword for him. It helped against the night hag in the next room. Seriously.

The true shame of Torth was the way it was designed. This was supposed to be the castle of a good wizard but the map is a jumbled mess. Nowdays if I were to make that map I’d say chaos magic twisted it into its current form. Back then I just figured that dungeon maps were supposed to be mazelike. The Ruins of Undermountain proved me right. Again, I was a kid and hadn’t any experience writing.

Since that time D&D writing improved vastly. Jennell Jaquays introduced the concept of sandboxing an adventure with her Judge’s Guild pieces. Narrative plots began having some depth. Maps began to usually make sense. Also the players, me included, became more experienced along with the game as it developed.

Torth’s ending had the Heart of Evil which had absolutely no reason for existing except as a McGuffin for the character to reach and destroy. Of course in a linear sense it was in the last possible place.

“194 — The Heart of Evil. On the heavy door is a tarnished plaque that says “The Heart of Evil.” (As the major quest targets always do.) If the leader of the party is good, the door only opens on a one (if hit by an evil person.) (Huh?) When the door is open, the outcropping is seen. The two sides emit an orange yellow glow. This is the heart of evil in the castle, placed here by Balzebul. (Why???) This outcropping pulses, for it is alive. AC -2 Hit Dice 5. 21 hp. If the “heart” is threatened, it will summon 5 manes or other devils. When somebody is killed in this room, the heart grows brighter (that is only if a good person is slain, if an evil thing is slain in this room, it dims) Good slain — it gains 1 hp. Evil slain — loses 1 hp. (Fair enough but why only one?) If there is an evil person is in this room during melee, there is a 75% chance that he or she will turn against the good in the party. (Before you ask, there were many rooms that changed the character’s alignment. And every 13-14 year old kid plays chaotic neutral, no matter what their declared alignment.) When the heart is killed, all evil in the castle dies and disintegrates. A cherubim comes to warn the adventurers to leave, for in 12 hours the castle will crumble into dust. (When heart dies the yellow orange glow leaves) (It doesn’t help or anything. It just comes in, makes its grand proclamation and leaves.) Also if the heart is threatened, it will generate an evil energy field. If a good character goes in, they lose 1-4 hp per round. (Oh, by the way, it has protection from good sort of.) 1000 exp for killing the heart.”

Hearts of Evil can be pretty innocuous looking!

  Sigh. When I wasn’t available to DM Dave would DM for me. Eventually, near the end of the first level a magical slide appeared taking whatever character Rodney was playing by that time directly to the island where the Heart of Evil was. No devils popped up but he had a major time beating on the thing before it died. And so ended the only time Torth was ever played, with over two thirds of it avoided.

Why write a column about this aside from the editor asking? I write a lot now between this, my monthly column at Transgender Forum, my blog and other things. Whatever a person creates, be it art of some kind, writing, song or whatever they leave a piece of themselves in it. That’s why no two artist’s works are alike or no two authors (not counting intentional style stealing.) Torth took me quite some time to write during a tumultuous time in my life.

It was around this time that my inner demons, which I later understood to be my misplaced gender identity, really began to plague me. Also around this time I started studying martial arts as I was tired of the beatings I received at the hands of bullies. Add to that I was a late bloomer and while all the other kids were hitting puberty, I wasn’t. I dreaded puberty as I knew it would make me exactly what U didn’t want to be: a man. All of this and more all swirled in my head. My only real escape then was gaming, especially D&D.

As I wrote above, when someone writes they bring part of themselves and that includes D&D adventures. I have since that time written over 100 D&D adventures for my players or for others to run. I haven’t read Torth since, well, 1980 or 81. I’ve kept it in my pile of D&D papers or with my modules since then and it’s moved with me many times. I started reading it for this piece and I had to stop. Yes, some of what’s written is Ed Wood bad or worse. That’s not what stopped me, nor was it the poor penmanship, as it was all written in longhand (in pencil!).

I stopped because what I read was a howl of anguish (cliché, I know) from a child who knew they were different, couldn’t understand how or why and whose life was changing and out of control. I was lashing out at whatever caused me pain. I can tell when Rodney started playing. Rodney was a goofball and is still a great friend but he was also a jock. He would become a champion wrestler, attend VMI and serve as an officer in the Army like all men in his family before him. He was everything I wasn’t. Unconsciously, I lashed out at him through the module. There were many times in Torth where the characters were magically transformed, just as I wished I could be.

So yes, Torth was a train wreck but so was I. In many ways I’m still that child struggling against all I am. However I now understand who I am and have the power to change what I don’t like. Rodney and I still play D&D every other weekend on Roll20, as he lives in Michigan. And he still brings up Torth every session. Other players live in Philly, Maine and one here in State College. They’re going through Keep on the Borderlands — my selection. It reminds me of a far more innocent time when gaming was just gaming, yet also a lifeline to other worlds. Sometimes an orc is just an orc after all.

Be well.

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Original cover for Torth: Castle of Evil

Grid map of the Castle of Evil dungeon

Dungeon Master’s notes for Torth: Castle of Evil

Torth Updated!

Step back in time with our resident old school D&D creator to explore Torth: Castle of Evil! (warts and all) #staynerdy In my last piece I wrote about one of the modules I wrote back in the Mesozoic era.  

[ghoultyrant]

Dawn of War II

At one point I watched a Let’s Play covering Dawn of War II, starting from the base game, going through Chaos Rising, and then doing the Marine campaign in Retribution. The excruciating stupidity on display lead me to A: decide I didn’t want to buy the game, even though I love the original Dawn of War, and B: write the following semi-coherent ravings of a madman.

They are slightly edited for comprehension and I made a little to clarify what any given thing is alluding to, but not much. I had vague notions of posting this to Vigaroe once upon a time, but it really doesn’t fit the tone I’m trying to maintain on that site. Tumblr, meanwhile, I’m perfectly happy to dump things that may or may not be insightful or entertaining and move on with my life.

Here we go.

-----

Broadly: Let's take steps to scale down the player's troop count, and still end up with hundreds of Space Marines dead before the end of the campaign. Also broadly, let's have our special snowflake characters have squads (66% of them, anyway) but have the special snowflake character be the only one that counts: not only do your battlebrothers sensibly wearing helmets not count against your score at the end of the mission for dying, but if the special snowflake moron dies his goons instantly die too. I thought we were fighting against the Tyranids, not as the Tyranids? The score mechanic in general, as well as secondary objectives in general. They don't commit to the score mechanic as mattering, and secondary objectives seem absolutely worthless. In Dawn of War 1, secondary objectives were more like advisories: here's something you might want to deal with, but it isn't mission failure if you ignore it, hope you appreciate the heads-up. In II, they seem to be plotty things with no functionality and not much plot either, present because?... Also: WHY BRING BACK ANGELOS WITH THE WRONG VOICE? (fixed for Chaos Rising, to be fair) I'm a character narrating at another character completely unironically. The Tyranids are MYSTERIOUS AND DANGEROUS OOOOOHHHHH. I AM THE BOX GHOST! BEWARE!

(It’s a constant thing with the game to treat the Tyranids as mysterious and much more scary than anything else in the 40k setting. It falls flat, in spite of the heroic efforts on the voice actors’ parts)

HEY BOSSMEN SPACE MARINES FUCK YOU YOU AREN'T THE BOSS OF US EVEN THOUGH YOU ARE AND WE AREN'T FILTHY HERETICS GO RUN SOME ERRANDS FOR US AND WE MIGHT MAYBE IF YOU SAY PLEASE DO AS YOU ASK. (Derosa’s initial interaction is idiotic) SCALE? WHAT'S THAT? TINY RAIDS BY A FEW HUNDRED GUYS CAN TOTALLY COMPROMISE AN ENTIRE PLANET'S SECURITY. AND NOT BY SECURING A LANDING ZONE OR WHATEVER. (What, exactly, are the Eldar supposed to be doing here?) Psionically gifted individuals. Because we aren't Blizzard fanboyz or NUFFIN. PSYCHIC GODDAMMIT. PSYCHICALLY GIFTED INDIVIDUALS. Furthermore, 40k is a setting in which psychic powers make you a reviled pariah who counts themself LUCKY to be treated as a subhuman tool. IT'S NOT A GIFT.

(Maybe ‘psionic’ has become the 40k default term since I wrote this back in like 2013. I stand by it anyway)

Naturally, It's A Girl Who Doesn't Do As Told was ENTIRELY to then bitchslap her for being bitchy. Admitting her error just leads to her begging you help them anyway, rather than assuring you that Angel Forge will be accessable to you since your need clearly is urgent. In other words, the entire sequence is mental masturbation with a very tiny helping of plot. Yaaaay.

(Still Derosa, only now I’ve shifted from hating her to hating the writer) Angel Gate fails in open mode! Because everyone knows all devices automatically stop doing what they're designed for if denied a continuous supply of electricity! Rather than ceasing moving. Like in real life. Incidentally, how does a GATE protect a PLANET?

(Angel’s Gate is retarded. And not the 40k funny/grimdark retarded, but “does anyone on this team understand anything?”) The Eldar are trying to blow up the subsector's planets to SOMEHOW stop the Hivefleet from... going towards the Craftworld. Not, like, weaken them, or something. Somehow the writer thinks this should redirect them from Ulthwe, instead of HURRYING THEM ALONG.

(This is dumb) WHERE ARE THE BLOOD RAVENS GETTING THEIR INFORMATION. SERIOUSLY.

(Once you’re more than halfway through the game, people just... know things, without any greater explanation than ‘scouts report things they can’t possibly know’) Hey, Force Commander, let's monologue at you why you're here AT THE END OF THE GAME AS PART OF AN OPTIONAL SCENE.

(Yes, you only learn at the end of the game why your avatar is in Sector Aurelia. What?) Derp final mission derp stupidly designed uberbosses in general. Also, thinking the Avatar of Khaine can burn down an entire world, and also EFFORT: THE GAME in terms of... rampaging godmonster patiently waiting in an arena to be killed. Yay.

(I boggle every time I remember this) Chaos Rising PLANET AURELIA IN SUBSECTOR AURELIA. What, is it capital Aurelia on continent Aurelia in hemisphere Aurelia?

(Real life can be like this. There’s still a reason for the One Steve Limit) Personal drop pods because reasons except Cyrus with Commander Hairgel because reasons on the first mission. (No explanation is provided for this) Traitor Guard calling the position, rather than the time or just saying "THEY'RE IN POSITION OPEN FIRE!"

(They’re scripted to only fire on a handful of locations on the map. Come on, writer, help me suspend my disbelief) EVERYTHING IS BUILT INSTANTLY. EVERYTHING. FORGET THAT THIS GAME HAS NO BASEBUILDING MECHANICS TO JUSTIFY THIS NONSENSE, BAD GUYS HAVE INSTANT CONSTRUCTION SPEED. In general, everything happens in implausibly short time periods: when did the traitor get to Aurelia before everyone else? How?

(Chaos Rising’s plot is slipshod nonsense from step one, and it never improves. If anything it gets worse) What is the point of bringing back Eliphas WITHOUT HIS VOICE ACTOR?

(I don’t get this. Bring back arguably the single most popular character from the original game, who was so amazing due to his voice, and then... don’t bring back the voice actor? I really hope they tried and failed to get the man, rather than just failing to realize the voice mattered) "Most notably, the Blood Ravens have-" OUR BATTLEBROTHERS YOU FUCKER. "I must tend to one of the generators, Spess Mahreens-" BROTHERS. To be entirely fair, he's the pure run traitor, BUT COME ON MARTELLUS. (Why does Martellus talk like he’s some outsider? Who thought this made sense?) Of COURSE bitchslapped Derosa is a pseudo-love interest. OF COURSE. (I’m sorry, creepy writer, but this is fucked up in addition to being stupid nonsense. Why are you even writing a Space Marine having a romantic interest? And why does treating a woman like shit act as a vital part of your courtship ritual?) Some Corruption-if-failed-to-deploy missions are vaguely plausible. Sure, Thaddeus hates your guts forever and goes EEEEVVVILLL if you don't let him protect the home he so dearly loves. But Tarkus corrupting for not punching Eldar is dumb and Jonah corrupting for not going on the Space Hulk is DUMBER. HE SHOULD CORRUPT FOR GOING ONTO THE SPACE HULK.

(Corruption is a cool idea. Missions Corrupting someone because they get super-pissed makes sense. Your Psyker Corrupting for failing to go into a Warp-infested horror show is such a basic fail I have no words and cannot imagine how this got conceived of, let alone made it into the final product) Really? Araghast and Eliphas are Bale and Sindri again? REALLY?

(I don’t mind re-doing a cool character dynamic, and Sindri and Bale were great. But Eliphas was more interesting than that. You don’t bring back a cool character so they can do that less-cool thing some other characters did!)

Ulkair is pretty much a Slaaneshi demon with a good laugh and the wrong body. Fuck.

(I liked that Dawn of War II tried to give Nurgle representation and Slaanesh representation, since the original game was basically all Tzeentch and Khorne. It was undercut by making our Greater Demon of Nurgle a straightforward sadist having nothing to do with Nurgle values. Either do the new thing and get it right, or go back to the old thing you were fine at doing. Don’t write the new thing the exact way you wrote the old thing and pretend it’s different) RETRIBUTION Tutorial still sucks, albeit with less narrating at each other. Khornate Noise Marines!

Khornate Noise Marines in Alpha Legion colors. Relic, what?

(It’s baffling how Relic has a clear grasp on most of the lore, up to and including some fairly esoteric stuff, and then they cram in nonsense anyone who’s only peripherally familiar with 40k could probably tell you is wrong) "This is the Ascendant, Azariah Kyras." This is the shitty dialogue, unnatural speech.

(That’s Kyras talking, if you hadn’t guessed) I realize Kyras is supposed to be crazy, but... really? Nihilism? Khornate let's-Tzeentchian-plot nihilism, at that?

(I’ve seen other people point out how it’s questionable to have a Khornate psyker eg in Winter Assault’s campaign, but I’m personally willing to let that pass because that’s one piece of canon that’s always seemed flawed to me. That doesn’t mean Kyras actually makes sense. He doesn’t. At any point) why does kyras tell you his weakness

(It’s like the writers have utter and total contempt for their player base. You couldn’t have one of our dudes take a guess that the demonic artifact of empowerment might, maybe, when destroyed, stop empowering him? Or even have Kyras do 5-year-old levels of cunning and try to pretend very hard that it’s not important? I mean the game wants us to think Kyras is Very Smart and then he tells you his weak point for no actual reason. The writing in Dawn of War II: bonkers to the very end)

[kepesh-yakshi]

Quickfic:  Recovery

January 22, 2187 CE (EST 0515) Hi, diary, how long has it been?  I told myself a long time ago that I would never keep us separated for more than a day, and if we were, I'd write on something else and insert them in with you in the right order.  We started this three years ago, and I commited - and you know how committed I am to things I believe in.  (scribbled out words)   I think it's impossible that I'm even writing this, with all that happened almost a month ago.  I was almost killed.  Again... (more scribbled out words, a teardrop smudged the end of it)

I I don't want to talk about it right now.  But I am alive, and that's really all I wanted to say. -- Marley Shepard closed the thick navy blue leather-bound journal, stuffed with pages of various sizes and colors, folded and stored as neatly as she could make them, put it at the edge of the rolling tray, and set the pen on its cover.  It smelled of sweet things:  rose, lavender, cinnamon, vanilla...just enough so that you could imagine some pages were deliberately scented.  James Vega, who sat in the chair at the far corner of the hospital room, found it peculiar, as his Commander wasn't at all a girly girl.  Sure, she had a knock-out body and she took great care of herself, and even wore makeup, but she never once gave any inclination that she was into scented paper.  He pondered what kind of prank he could pull on her with that discovery.  But to him, she always smelled like sweet peppery cinnamon...no, what is it called?  

"Clove," he mumbled out loud. Marley, Doctors Liara T'Soni and Karin Chakwas, and Jeff "Joker" Moreau all looked at him.  

"Oh,"  he backed away, verbally, stating "nothing, sorry."  He revered his Commander.  All five feet, six inches, 136 pounds of her.  She was small in stature, but “tight” by muscular structure, with round rocks for shoulders and horseshoe triceps.  Even her legs were well defined.  She wasn’t cut like he was, but she looked like she worked out.  She had a pixie crop of reddish brown curls, half wrapped away under bandages and burn cream, blackened but healing teal eyes that normally levied an understanding beyond someone of her age (32), soft curved cheeks and lips that seemed to edge upward in a smile.  Even when she was frustrated, she always seemed to have a hopeful look about her.  Her wide-bridged nose, currently taped due to being broken, sloped straight into a round tip that often wriggled when she spoke, which made his inner child giggle with glee. at how adorable she looked.  He was thankful that she didn't know that he thought that way.  He wasn't in love love with her, but he did adore her.  She was his hero, and not for the things he was thinking about.  In moments like this, he often wondered how someone of her background could keep her wits about her and be so compassionate and capable of doing the things she had done.  After all, he still couldn't even talk about Fehl Prime.

"Nothing, Lieutenant?"  Marley's inquisitive response was one he wasn't sure how to reply.

"Well, I can smell your journal from over here, and it reminded me that I notice you smell like cloves."  There was a long pause, and Joker let out a chuckle.  "I mean, not the cigarettes or anything like that...just...the clove things.  Like cinnamon and pepper or something...nevermind."  He chose to sit in the far corner of the room for a reason, primarily because he was too worried about her to be more than just present.  He almost felt helpless for her.  There in that hospital bed was one of the strongest and bravest people he knew, burned, bruised, and broken in so many places.  And her half-bandaged head was hanging low.   Until he said "cloves."  

"I smell like cloves, huh..."  She'd been told that, before, but wanted to make sure she heard him right, and that he was the one saying it.  The big hulk of a man sitting noticeably far away from her, in a skin-tight faded red shirt and baggy black cargo pants, sitting with tension throughout his muscular body, was displaying every sign of awkwardness that she'd ever seen.  

He owned his slip, to her amusement.  "Yes, ma'am.  And cloves smell very nice." "I've heard that before, and thank you for the compliment."  She smiled and nodded earnestly at him.  As simple as the exchange was, it was a desperately needed distraction.  She savored the moment as it was.

"You're welcome...ma'am."  He withdrew from the subject, turning his attention to the view from the second floor window.   "I still can't believe you talked Admiral Hackett into letting some of the keepers come down here during the recovery effort."

"Yes, yes I did,"  Marley welcomed the unfolding diversion with open arms.  "It was the second thing I said to him when his team escorted me from the station."

Jeff leaned forward in his chair, which was immediately to the right of Marley's bed.  His curiosity was clear as he interjected, "I still can't believe you got them to communicate with us."

"What was the first thing you said, if I may ask?"  Dr. Chakwas turned away from the three-dimensional x-ray images on the wall-sized screen across from the bed.

Marley's smile grew bigger.  "I asked him if we were successful, and then I said 'let the keepers come, too, we're going to need them'."  She reserved almost all of her emotions, save for when the time required it or if she absolutely trusted whomever she was talking to, always preferring actions to words, but she knew how to negotiate in tense situations.  "When I realized I was alive I..." but she never felt so helpless than when she first woke after opting to outright destroy the Reapers.  It was a moment she'd prepared for, finding closure with everyone she loved and every event she'd lived through.  But the moments after all was done, though hazy, were still in her mind.  

This was something she felt a desire to share, and the room hosted people she trusted with her life.  It would be an emotional discussion, so she readied herself the best she could by taking some paper tissues out of the box on her tray.  "My ears were deafened from the explosion.  My eyes were light-blind, and everything was dark..." her voice, which she normally spoke with the deeper ends of her range, even macho according to James' interpretation, was shaky and soft. Still, but shaky soft.  "I remember hearing creaking metal, the smell of dead bodies and electricity, my own burnt hair, my blood..."  It was the first time in many years that she let more than one tear fall in front of people.  She let one out earlier, but only one, and to Marley, that didn't count.  One tear was a body function, not an act of emotion.  This time, there were many.  "I could breathe, but I was stuck. I had a re-bar pinning my leg down, and I couldn't move.  Then this keeper shows up and says 'we see you, we will help' and starts sautering it in half right there.  So I said 'you understand me?' and it said 'we understand you.'  So I asked it 'what are you going to do?' and it told me 'we will rebuild.  We always rebuild.'  She sighed and looked down, 'then it said they could help rebuild earth, since the light beam still worked.'  It pulled me out of the wreckage and to a spot where I could see why I was still able to breathe.  There had to be a hundred of them - maybe more. They had turned on the environmental shield generator that cover the area that  the beam to earth was around, so none of us would implode."

"But how?" Jeff asked.  "That place was decimated -- especially at the center!"   "You know their little backpacks?  They carry generators in them." "Really?"  Dr. T'Soni added.  "That's quite amazing."  

"I know, and there are so many of them that if the Citadel were to burn...well, like it did...they could keep the environment sustained and still have enough keepers left to administer medical help."  Marley huffed in a half-laugh.  "They really do take care of that place."

Dr. T'Soni was so curious about the keepers.  They were a side hobby, next to the Prothean research.  "Did you ask them why they have always been so quiet?"  

"They weren't allowed to speak.  It was the "old machine" that kept them quiet."

T'Soni paused for a moment, and then looked down and away.  "Oh, that's very sad.  I don’t think I could live without being able to communicate."  

"Wait,"  Jeff again, inquisitive as ever.  "Did they actually confirm this?"

"Yes.  They confirmed it."  The tears were gone, to Marley's inner relief.  Her crew seemed to collectively avoid the hard parts of the events and focus on what might be dubbed 'cooler' ones.  "Gentlemen,"  Dr. Chakwas spoke up, "The Commander's visitation hour is coming to a close, and I regret I must ask you to wrap things up." "No problem, Doctor,"  Jeff said, getting up slowly and safely. James popped up like a slice of toast out of a toaster.  "Alright.  Joker, Kadera's?"  

Jeff grinned.  Kadera's Cafe was his favorite cafe in that area of London -- a corner coffee house with rustic ceramic mugs and a real cappuccino maker from the turn of the millennium -- and great hamburgers with real Angus beef, none of that synthetic stuff.  "Kadera's it is."  He looked up at Dr. T'Soni.  "Liara, wanna join us?  They have that shrimp soup that you love..."

Marley gave Dr. T'Soni a permissive look, and the Doctor replied, "I believe I will, thank you."

The two men bade farewell to their Commander, and Liara hugged her gently before all three of them left the room, leaving Dr. Chakwas to finish a report she was working on.  

"You've built a great team, Commander," she said.  "Your dedication to them has reaped you a benefit unsurpassed, and that benefit is loyalty.  They love you." She turned away from the images on the screen and looked Marley in the eyes.  "And I love you.  I am relieved you're still with us."

Marley could feel the emotions building up, but quickly checked them.  "I am grateful for them, Dr. Chakwas.  Grateful for you.  Their being here isn't just on me, it's on them, too.  They're a strong team." "And with that, I must go tend to other patients.  Your progress is good, believe it or not.  You should be able to remove those bandages, this week.  It's ashame we couldn't get medigel on it, sooner, or you'd already be healed, except for that leg and collarbone.  I expect three more week,s at least, for those breaks to be healed."

"Yeah..." Marley huffed another laugh.  "I can do a lot of things, but supporting fifteen hundred pounds of cinder with my femur is not one of them."

Dr. Chakwas laughed.  "I suppose you're right. It's good to see  you finding a laugh, right now.  It will help the healing."  She turned for the door.  "Get some rest, Commander." Then it was quiet.  From her view in the bed, it looked mostly normal.  Dr. Chakwas made a point to put her in a room not facing the remains of the Citadel, as she was aware that the emotional and mental trauma that the Commander dealt with may be affected by such a view. All Marley could see was a blue sky, treetops, and a couple of buildings that weren't physically affected by what happened -- and yes, some buildings were miraculously still in tact, for some reason.  

She opened her journal, again, and began to write.

It was on fire And everything was trapped in the flames The globe glowing in bright orange trails To see it crawling with purple death machines, And to know that I could do nothing But that we could do everything And we got me there so I could end it And those overlooked salvaged my live So that I could go back to those who sent me.