WPA – A Completely Average Roadtrip
Disclaimer: Not canon, and I don’t use patreon so please don’t spoil me. Also, any opinion held by a character is that of the characters and not my own. Enjoy.
Town of Ljosalfington, local time 14:00, week 7
Emma Booker
“Again Illunor, I warned you before that this is a utility vehicle, not a party rated smart-limo. I am already compromising more than I should by allowing you to use the sample cooler as a minifridge, one which I can’t even use!” I said as I loaded the materials I had just purchased into the back of the high-G All terrain fusion-ethanol-electric hybrid 24th-century legacy pickup truck that I had printed out earlier this week, carefully avoiding the heavy ordinance hard point.
“That is hardly an excuse for that abysmally cramped leg space barely fit for cattle, never mind the bare minimum for standard decorum suitable for nobility. If this is what a car is like, then I don’t see why you care for your technology,” complained Illunor, who was sitting around idly with a malformed garish bowl of icecream that he had stashed away from lunch.
“If it bothers you so much, perhaps you could help next time with your ‘bigger-on-the-inside’ magic,” I retorted as I slid the last core sample into the back before covering it up with a tarp and strapping it down.
I had originally planned to visit Ljosalfington by myself to acquire much needed exo-materials to test various mana manipulator configurations as I worked to develop my first wand as not all of the materials I needed were procurable locally from Elaseer. I eventually yielded, much to my regret, to allowing Illunor to come with me as he insisted on wanting to deliver a letter personally in town after Thacea had pointed out the wisdom of not travelling alone.
We continued our back and forth for a bit yet as I finished securing my payload a voice called out to me from the direction of the town.
“Excuse me a moment, I couldn’t help but notice but are you from the academy?”
I turned to see an elf dressed in a plain brown buttoned up tunic matched by a slightly shabby pair of trousers with what appeared to be a lute upon his back and a plain and unenchanted longsword on his belt gesturing at our robes. Mine especially were new and unusual, tailored by the academy to go over my armour and allow access to the anchor points and allow me to exit my armour with minimal hassle. Illunor scoffed at what was evidently a commoner’s arrogance at approaching nobility and turned his head away in disgust. I glanced at Illunor and shook my head before turning to face the new man. I had time to spare, and any opportunity to engage in a hearts-and-minds dialogue with the locals outside the bounds of the managed environment of the academy was more than worth the time to chat. Especially as most of the other locals seemed to be content in ignoring me.
“Yes, we are currently studying at the Transgracian Academy. I am Cadet Emma Booker representing the United Nations of Earth and Luna from Earthream, and my aloof compatriot is Lord Illunor Rularia of the Vunerian courts. We were just about to head back but are in no rush. May I ask your name and what brings you by?” I asked with my hand outstretched in greeting.
“Ah yes, yes. My name is Edhel Redoehdelnif, a wandering bard by trade like my father and his father before him. My apologies, Cadet Emma Booker, I am unfamiliar with Earthrealm,” said Edhel as he grasped my hand with both of his and shook it tepidly yet vigorously. Or rather, tried to, as the motors on my suit resisted his efforts.
“News doesn’t seem to spread all that fast around here, so it makes sense you haven’t heard of us. We’re a new realm, and only just got here. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Edhel Redoehdelnif,” I replied.
“Absolutely fascinating! And a knight no less, or perhaps a squire? I’m sure you have many stories to tell of Earthrealm. Say, by chance are you about to head back to the academy? I have business in Elaseer and the usual coach has been absent as of late so I would rather not go it alone,” said Edhel.
I was hesitant to bring a stranger back in the car with me, even if Illunor was present. However, the opportunity that meeting a bard presented was too good to pass up from an intel perspective and to win the favour of the populace at large.
“That is a great idea. I think I have room for one more…” I paused before gesturing towards Illunor, “provided everyone is ok with it that is.”
Illunor gave a huff and turned his head away in silence.
“Very well, I will allow this. But he will not be joining me in your sorry excuse for a coach,” said Illunor dismissively.
Illunor approached the backseat expectantly and the door opened for him automatically, allowing the dlc kobold to gracefully enter and lounge across the length of the seats, once again ignoring the seatbelts. I sighed as I made my way to the driver’s seat, and Edhel entered from the passenger side as he marveled at the automatic doors and the interior.
“What a strange carriage this is! Although I must say, shouldn’t you be retrieving your horses? I didn’t see any harnesses or sense any artifices,” inquired Edhel as he attempted to make himself comfortable on the car seat, lute in front of him.
“Oh no, this thing doesn’t need horses or magic,” I said with a chuckle as EVI started the car. The elf raised his eyebrows at the sudden hum of the engine and made an expression of alarm when the car started driving itself without my input. “See, purrs like a kitten.”
“Earthrealm must have some large kittens if they purr like that,” noted Edhel, “but you must be concealing the enchantments somewhere. Such a thing as this with such strange yet precise craftsmanship is only possible in the crownlands.”
“Nope, no magic,” I said cheerfully.
“Then how?” Asked Edhel.
“It’s rather simple really. Are you familiar with the workings of a mill?” I asked, deciding to keep things surface level and elementary to avoid provoking the IDOV threshold.
“Somewhat, though I confess to not being familiar with their workings. Are you suggesting this is akin to a mill?” Asked Edhel perplexed.
“It’s the same principal. A mill works by taking a source of rotation such as a waterwheel or windmill, transferring that rotation along a series of rotating shafts and interlocking gears, and finally putting that energy to work by rotating a millstone,” I began as the car pulled out onto the smooth cobbled road in the direction of Elaseer. A notification popped up in the corner of my vision indicating my recon drone swarm had shifted from a holding formation to a convoy screening formation, and while the roads were clear I kept the speed at 60km/h to account for my passenger’s apparent distaste for seatbelts.
“Rotation…” muttered Edhel. He turned to face one of the wheels and EVI pinged an alert for a probable match for a detection spell, “fascinating.”
“Edhel, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, perhaps I should have asked first. Yes, I can see how it all fits together. But the source of this rotation? I see no mighty river or great wind to power this, so where does it come from?” Asked Edhel, not really apologizing. Elven arrogance, it seemed, was not limited by class.
The act reminded me of Sorecar when he inspected my gun, but where the armourer had been respectful with it, Edhel was more flippant. I considered the possibility that he was a spy sent by one of her peers or the crownlands, though this did not mesh with the methods I had seen so far. Edhel may have been just overly enthusiastic. In either case, I quickly decided to only reveal the antique design for the ethanol engine, and not that of the batteries or the emergency coupler to my suit’s fusion reactor.
“Right, well please ask first next time. As to your question, I won’t bore you with the details, but the rotation is generated by creating a periodic sequence of explosions inside of a machine – a manaless artifice – called a combustion engine, said Emma.
“So that’s what that sound is…” pondered Edhel, “are these artifices typical in Earthream?”
“You are awfully inquisitive for a commoner,” noted Illunor as he inspected his nails for dirt, “and rather accepting of something which should be impossible.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a bard if I wasn’t, my lord,” said Edhel shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “perhaps some music might set the mood better?”
“That would be preferable, bard. I have heard enough of the Earthrealmer’s Road Trip Playlist and would like to listen to some music of real culture,” said Illunor.
The bard agreed and proceeded to awkwardly play a ballad about an adventurer who slew a hydra in some frozen wasteland. Partway through, I politely interrupted the Edhel to point out the seat controls much to his fascination and Illunor’s grumbling at their common nature, and after some adjustment the bard went on playing and I half-heartedly listened while I paid attention to the road and my drone feed.
Particularly after EVI detected something unusual and alerted me to its presence.
”Attention Caded Booker. There is a disabled vehicle blocking the primary route to destination. Heat signatures in the woods are consistent with that of an ambush.”
“Damn it,” I muttered.
I glanced at the drone feed to see a broken cart strewn horizontally across a wooden bridge over a brook. On the surface it looked like a pair of civilians who required aid and assistance, but off in the woods were several heat signatures, several of which held weapons of varying levels of enchantments. Occasionally one of the pair on the bridge would talk with them, suggesting they were in cahoots rather than hostages. I recalled crossing that very bridge not a few hours earlier, so the blockade was very recent.
“EVI, did we pass that cart on the way here?” I asked.
”Negative,” replied EVI.
I grimaced. I had been trained to handle road-side ambushes, but it was only something that was a theoretical possibility. Something that should only occur in a warzone or a corrupt and unstable polity. I knew I had the capacity to handle such an encounter, even non-lethally, but that didn’t change the fact that these were civilians and as such were the responsibility of local law enforcement. Combined with the fact that I had passengers I was responsible for and engaging the ambush was a risky option.
“EVI, give me a list of alternative routes,” I commanded.
”Affirmative. Here is a list of routes in order of recommendation,” replied EVI.
I looked over the routes superimposed on a map of the region and quickly dismissed taking a shortcut through the forest and cutting through farmland. A detour caught my eye that extended the journey by roughly ten kilometers and I immediately sent a pair of drones to scout it out before committing to the detour.
“Are you alright, Cadet Emma Booker? You seem distracted,” asked Edhel, snapping me back to reality.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just focused on driving,” replied Emma.
“I suppose it must be quite taxing to command an artificed carriage of this complexity. Perhaps it might ease your mind if you were to regale me a tale of a hero of your realm?” Said Edhel, strumming a complex tune from his lute as he spoke as each and every pluck triggered a low-level spell.
“Well, that may be a problem. We don’t have any monsters to fight, and wars are a thing of the past,” I said while desperately tip-toeing the subject of aunt Ran, the subject of war, and our voyages through the cosmos, “though we are not without the adventurous spirit. We certainly have many stories of grand voyages. Some mythical and fictional such as The Odyssey as told by the Greek poet Homer and some historical such as the race to the south pole.”
“The south pole,” muttered the bard, “so you have explored all of Earthrealm then? I suppose that makes some sense, if you have artifices such as this then traversal of a globe would be quite manageable.”
“You are quite perceptive,” I said, not wishing to elaborate.
“A great performer knows his audience,” said Edhel with a charming, honest, almost human smile.
I felt a pang of homesickness as an intrusive thought reminded me that I could have gone to a real college surrounded by friendly faces my age, engaging in nightly holostreams and dreaming of adventures in the stars from the safety of a college dorm room. The sight of Illunor in the rear camera was the only thing that kept me grounded, as I almost felt like I was back at home on a road trip rather than returning to a fantasy feudal court, constantly evading death at every turn with the fate of humanity on the line. As such, and prompted by EVI, I barely had the wherewithal to take the planned detour.
A fact which did not pass by Edhel.
“I believe you may have taken a wrong turn, Emma,” he commented.
“Nah, I’m just taking the scenic route. I came from that direction on the way here, and you have inspired me to see the other road and I figure it should only add a few extra minutes to our travel time,” I said, gesturing at a paper map which I had referenced exactly once, “though on that subject, you seem to know these lands quite well. Do you have any recommendations on places to visit in the Nexus to scratch that itch?”
Illunor raised his eyebrow at the detour excuse, knowing full well this was not part of the plan. I worried that he might complain about the issue and but thankfully remained silent as he snacked on the contents of the misused sample storage unit. Edhel himself took on a more pensive posture.
“I’m happy to have been such an inspiration, Emma, though I am sure an explorer such as yourself has little need of such. I would normally suggest the skyward fountains of Verdellan or the cloud tides of Asturia, but that may be too casual for someone of your calibre. Perhaps the severed chasm or the fire marsh of Bhandahova may be more to your liking. Or perhaps…” Edhel leaned in, “I have heard rumours of a dragon in the glassy obsidian wastes of Vurcanar.”
I chuckled at that, knowing how I was fortunate enough to fish a dragon scale out of the nearby lake for the ECS. “The thought of going dragon hunting had certainly crossed my mind…” I mused aloud.
“Yet you sound hesitant. Perhaps it is too much for a newrealmer. Perhaps a slime or a dire rat might be more appropriate,” he said with a tease.
“No, it’s not like that! It’s” I stammered, before attempting to change course after realizing I had been goaded, “what I mean is, I was under the impression that dragons were an endangered species. Where I come from, hunting endangered animals is usually illegal, and big game hunting in general is frowned upon. We do make exceptions in the case of problem animals such as if a large predator starts hunting humans, but as a rule we prefer conservation and try to find ways of coexisting with wildlife such as the use of barrier fences and scaring away dangerous animals rather than being forced to cull their numbers. Having a species go extinct would prevent future generations from appreciating them and risks destabilizing the ecosystem they are a part of. Now if this dragon was actively razing villages and eating civilians and livestock, that would be one thing, but this does not look to be the case. I don’t imagine the Nexus has any settlements in this wasteland, and the dragon clearly wants to be left alone. Killing an innocent dragon would be murder.”
I grinned to myself after delivering a diatribe that would have made my tenth grade social and environmental studies teacher beam with pride, though by the expressions of my passengers my view did not appear to be shared. Edhel’s mouth was agape in shock and fascination, while the Venurian in the back seat merely huffed in disapproval.
“I assure you Newrealmer, there are no innocent dragons,” stated Illunor with a hint of terseness breaking through his otherwise regal demeanor.
“Illunor, I understand that Venurians have personal reasons for not liking dragons, but you can’t just extend that disdain to their descendants or those uninvolved just because they are the same species,” I said.
“If I may interject on your behalf, my lord, I believe I can address Cadet Emma Booker’s concerns,” said Edhel with a bow. Illunor nodded in approval.
“Very well, you may proceed,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord. My dear Emma, you must understand that dragons are not simple animals driven entirely off of instinct as it appears to be the case in Earthrealm. They are monsters. Intelligent, long-lived, violent, greedy, cruel, territorial, selfish flesh-eating monsters. They are evil by the very nature of their being, unable to change by their own accord, and unwilling to change when His Eternal Majesty offered them freedom from their nature. It isn’t that they want to be evil. As intelligent animals – intelligent monsters – dragons are capable of understanding morality, and many have tried to overcome their evil nature at great expense to themselves. A well intended and noble sentiment, yet a doomed one as like all animals, they all succumb to their nature in the end. Overcoming one’s nature is impossible,” said Edhel. His eyes took on a stoic, almost remorseful gaze as he spoke, and Illunor nodded with approval.
I was appalled by this claim, not by the contents so much as how blatantly false it was. As a representative of the human race, I was a living counterexample to his whole argument. We had remained physiologically unchanged as a species since the last Ice Age, and yet in spite of that, in spite of our many flaws, we had found peace and balance. If we could do it, anyone could do it.
“Will all due respect Edhel, that is nonsense. Monsters aren’t born, they are made. It is the mark of any intelligent species can adapt their behaviour to their environment for better or worse, and under the right care any so-called monster can grow to be a force for good,” I began, but while I searched for the right words Edhel shook his head.
“I appreciate your race is an empathetic one, Emma, your idealism is unfounded. As flesh eaters, a dragon must take the life of another animal or person to survive, or they will perish. As such, every dragon has taken a life. As long-lived creatures, they will have amassed a significant number of kills. As the land can only support so much animals, a dragon must be fiercely territorial and aggressive to remove competition, lest they starve. As such, even the most kind-hearted dragon alive must be violent and greedy, and their intelligence fuels this even more so if they know a bountiful land of morsels exists just outside their range.
Now perhaps a multitude of dragons may find a way to co-exist together in some settlement, but to support such a venture would require a large territory of prey, or a livestock animal. Perhaps they could support a large colony by farming grain for their livestock, but that would require effort on their behalf. As large animals, such efforts require a great deal of energy. Yet that size makes it easy for them to intimidate smaller races to do their labour for them, and to keep their client race in line dragons must be cruel. And even so, as their numbers grow so do their needs. As such, they must expand into the lands of their neighbours to survive until there is nothing left to devour, at which point they must turn against their own lest they starve. As such, it is the nature of dragons to conquer and devour. That is why there is no such thing as an innocent dragon,” finished Edhel.
I was speechless, not because I believed Edhel had a point, but because I was horrified at how easy he found it to rationalize the extermination of an entire sapient species. If this was how the elves thought, then it wasn’t the dragons who were the monsters. I suppressed that dark thought. Edhel’s thought process was a product of his culture, not a feature of his elven heritage. If there was any hope of peace between our people, I needed to show him there was another way of being. I needed to prove that co-existence was possible, no matter one’s nature.
I took a deep breath to steady myself before replying.
“That- that is a callous way of seeing things,” I began, though the shock was still there in my voice, “you speak as though there is no natural equilibrium with a dragon, that their only state of being must be to be cruel, to devour, to conquer. But I see things differently. In fact, I might wonder if a fledgling civilization might see the presence of a dragon as a boon rather than a curse. Being intelligent, the locals may be able to come to some agreement with the dragon. Perhaps they might leave some land as a hunting ground or offer up a share of their cattle or guard the dragon as it sleeps. In exchange, the dragon might allow them to build a town outside its mountain and protect them in times of danger. An equitable exchange. A civilization might even create artificial lairs to attract dragons for this very reason. True, some dragons may behave tyrannical towards their town, but a well armed populace of a large city would be more than capable of fighting such a threat, and a rational dragon might reason that threatening their own populace would put their reliable source of food and shelter at risk. You see, it’s all a matter of perspective.”
“You certainly are an imaginative one, Emma, to wonder up a quixotic world where the hare and the fox live together in harmony as equals. Even so, you seem to have ignored one key detail to such a society. What would happen should the dragon not be fed for months on end?” Asked Edhel with his eyebrow raised.
“The same thing as stranded a dozen starving, stranded Elves!” I spat back.
[Alert: Vehicle speed above recommended limit for conditions. Recommendation: slow down. ]
“I am driving slow!” I seethed, not realizing I had sped up with manual control enabled.
“I grow tired of this common prattle,” interjected Illunor just in time to prevent an awkward silence, “bard, play us another song.” “As my lord wishes,” said Edhel with a bow before turning to me with another smile, “perhaps a more soothing melody would be in order? A love song perhaps, to honour Cadet Booker’s compassionate nature?”
I said nothing as Edhel began to strum his lute again to the tune of a love story of a pair of doomed lovers named Ramian and Junette, hating his cheeky knowing grin that only served to get under my skin further as I focused on calming down and slowing the car back to a more reasonable pace before investigating a priority alert which I had been blinded to moments prior.
[Alert: hostile roadblock is absent, location unknown.]
Shit.
“Illunor, we may have a problem,” I said.
“Shush, Newrealmer, have you no class? We are almost at the best part! I’m sure it can wait,” replied the contextually clueless lizard.
I had never wanted to throttle Illunor as much as I did now.
“Illunor, shield, now,” I said with a raised voice.
“I don’t see-“ he started, pausing mid-sentence as his ears perked up.
[Alert: Multiple manafield and spell signatures detected!]
I took evasive maneuvers as Illunor tried to piece together a shield spell, fumbling it twice as panic appeared to set in and providing me with a reminder that Illunor was a civilian, not a soldier. A hail of arrows pelted the exterior of the truck, piercing but not penetrating the composite armour. I was tempted to do nothing but just drive away from the arrow fire, but a foreboding premonition of danger filled me as I recalled Sorecar’s hunter-seeker arrows.
Seeking to avoid that fate, I triggered the active defenses.
The smoke screens deployed around the vehicle, obscuring the sight of any who depended on visible light to see me. A barrage of decoy flares equipped with wooden cores shot upward at angles and diffusing to the side like a pair of giant wings which when combined with the MFD, short for mana-field dampener, inside the vehicle meant that the pelting hail of arrowfire softened to a whirr as the arrows whiffed over the top of the truck, retargeted away from the soft flesh of my passengers and even invoking friendly fire amongst the ambushers.
In the chaos, EVI and my drone swarm fed me complete tactical information on the ambush. Of the 26 individuals at the first blockade, 20 were accounted for, and 3 had died from friendly fire. Ahead at the bridge, 5 more of them were at the bridge where a barrier had been hastily erected to cage me in as the river valley was too deep to cross.
“Illunor, we need a bridge,” I said, taking stock of the wellbeing of my passengers.
The bard was huddled down low and suppressing his manafield, but otherwise rather composed. Illunor, on the other hand, was cowering in the gap between the seats with his hands covering his eyes and his tail tucked in.
“A bridge is no small request, Ne- Cadet Emma Booker,” replied Illunor, “and your ‘Emeffdee’ has blinded me to the outside of this moving death trap.”
“If I drop it, can you at least make a ramp?” I asked as I circled the battlefield. Or tried to, at least, as earthen ramparts emerged from the ground from a yet unseen source to cut off other avenues of escape.
“A ramp? Surely you don’t mean-“ he stammered.
“Yes or no,” I said.
Illunor paused, before taking an unsteady breath.
“Yes. But not with that Emeffdee,” he replied.
“Good. Steady your nerves and prepare to make a ramp ahead of us on my signal,” I said, “in the meantime, get your seatbelt on. This is going to be hairy.”
As I circled around to make my approach on the bridge, the final combatant made his appearance on a nearby tree, revealing himself as an elven mage. An alert focused on the air around him indicating he was preparing an unknown high-tier spell, and I locked the predator drone on him indicating the elf as a high-priority target if our escape plan failed, and I was forced to use lethal force.
If I was forced to kill.
It was one thing to know you may have to kill in the line of duty, but it was much harder to reconcile that with reality. No number of simulations could match the real thing, and a part of me wanted to simply offload the responsibility to EVI to keep my hands clean, but to do that would be betraying my duty as a human being. I breathed in deep and tried not to think about it, instead hoping to rely on the ace I held in my sleeve instead.
“EVI, ready the spell jammer,” I said unevenly.
“Acknowledged, the prototype Exo-Radiation Wave-Field Distruptor is primed. High risk target identified and locked, permission to engage?” EVI asked, forcing me to address the dreaded question.
“Negative,” I replied, “hold your fire. If the ramp fails, then you have permission to engage,” I said.
“Affirmative, on your mark,” replied EVI.
I lined up the truck with the bridge and bolted through the smoke, keeping a careful eye on the mage as I went. His spellform took on a more concerning shape as I accelerated, and I realized I could not afford to let him finish his spell. I triggered the spelljammer.
A terrible roar erupted from an array of speakers printed from mana-resistant materials that would have made Godzilla herself beam with pride. The sound was decidedly unnatural, gnarly, dubstep drop composed of an electric eel, a whale, a mountain lion, and a tyrannosaurus rex all being simultaneously assaulted by a swarm of angry cybernetic murder hornets as an equally chaotic wave of mana blasted outwards from the exterior of the truck, with the interior thankfully sheltered by audio and mana dampening.
The ambushing assailants cowered and panicked, and it was enough to cause the Elven mage’s spell to backfire in his face as his form exploded into ashes, meeting a horrific fate which I had tried so desperately to help him avoid. With all the combatants momentarily incapacitated or dead, I lowered the dampener and turned off the smoke.
“Ramp!” I shouted, snapping the lizard back to reality.
The Venerian nodded and hastily formed an earthwork ahead of us right before the blockade, and the truck leapt off the ramp with a not insignificant amount of air beneath our wheels. I braced for impact, regretting skimping on the shocks in the name of preserving materials, but the impact never came.
[Alert: Friendly spell designated ‘Feather Fall’]
Illunor thankfully had enough wherewithal to gently land the steel brick, and I sped off into the distance away from the trap that had unfolded behind us, leaving the interior of the truck in an awkward silence as we each processed our brush with death in our own way. “How many are dead?” I asked EVI.
“6 hostiles confirmed dead,” replied EVI.
I drove on in silence. Those were six deaths I had tried to avoid, and I became lost in thought as I wondered what I should have done differently to avoid the confrontation entirely.
Edhel broke the silence with a bout of laughter.
“Terrific! Absolutely terrific! Why, I can conjure up many a tale from this encounter alone! I live for this kind of inspiration!” Exclaimed Edhel a little too chipperly considering the circumstance.
“I would rather not hear stories about how I bravely ran away,” I moaned in deadpan sarcasm.
“You think too little of yourself, Cadet Emma Booker. It is plain to me that you are no ordinary rabbit. Make no mistake, I see it as a privilege to bear witness to the roar of a vorpal hare!” Said Edhel as he supressed his laughter, “though I am afraid with all the excitement that I must finish my song some other time.”
“How about I play some of our music?” I offered after the elf revealed his thrill-seeking side.
“Splendid, I would like that. Perhaps something of your ‘Roadtrip playlist’ you speak of? It sounds like a collection of your voyages,” said Edhel.
“That would be an improvement on the truth,” said Illunor dismissively as he eased from his state of shock, “it is little more than noise under the pretense of music.”
“Illunor…” I muttered to myself before turning the mic on, “no, no it’s not like that. I have terabytes of pre-recorded songs from various artists back home which can be played by… an artifice called a speaker. A playlist is a set of songs which are grouped together, usually to listen to in specific situations such as studying, partying, or travelling. The latter collection is what Illunor is referring to.”
I very deliberately chose not to reveal my ‘Unfortunate Daughters’ playlist.
“An artifice which plays music, and a magicless one at that. I must say, Emma, I fear for the bards in your realm,” said Edhel with a laugh.
“Your fear is misplaced, Edhel. Entertainers live like kings where I come from,” I retorted with a smirk of my own, “well, the ones with talent at least.”
“Well, well, I suppose I have to hear my competition!” Said Edhel with a laugh.
“Do as you must, though let it be known that I warned you,” said Illunor as he watched a play on his sightseer.
I had EVI compile a list of songs that left out content offensive to Nexian sensibilities or violating OpSec and as it compiled I mused over what type of sample spread I wanted to show off. Then it struck me. What better way to show off our culture than with some good old blue jumpers and nova rock! Sadly, jumpers were unavailable to show but I still had a whole list of modern artists to choose from.
Moments later, the car speakers sprung to life to the tune of ‘Innocent Youth of Mine. Edhel’s eyes lit up like a child visiting a zero-g gravity park for the first time, seemingly star-struck by the antique electric guitar and the synthesizer-drums in particular.
“What… what is this? I have never heard anything like this!” Proclaimed Edhel.
“Dreadful, isn’t it?” said Illunor, doing what he did best and pretending to hate it.
“Oh there is a lot more where that came from,” I said with a cheeky grin of my own, “this one is called ‘Innocent Youth of Mine’ by ‘Cannons and Poppies’. It’s part of the Nova Rock genre.
“And those strange instruments?” Asked Edhel.
“Oh, you mean the electric guitar and the synthesizer. They are electronic instruments, taking advantage of channeled and modulated electricity to create near any sound we can imagine,” I replied.
“Channeled electricity… are you suggesting these sounds were made by some form of lightning?” Asked Edhel.
[Suggestion: Avoid topic of electricity due to OpSec risk]
I nodded at EVI’s warning, thankful that it caught me before I discussed the very thing that all of my equipment ran on.
“It’s not exactly lightning, but close enough,” I said.
“If I had not witnessed to your display of power earlier, I might have perhaps been more skeptical of such a claim, but I suppose a lady must keep her secrets.” said Edhel with a raised eyebrow and chuckle, “but I digress, this music is most interesting.”
“There is a lot more where that came from,” I said with a cheeky grin of my own.
“If I ever have a prisoner in need of torture, I will turn to you first,” replied Illunor, “if you are willing to subject your peers to this madness then I cannot imagine what you would force upon your enemies before dunking them in ice.”
“In your dreams,” I retorted.
I played a few other songs including Astrodesee’s ‘Meteor Struck’, the Martian classic ‘Hotel Cydonia’ and even ‘Switching to Warp’ before Elaseer emerged from the distance, and I pulled up outside the gate to drop Edhel off.
“Here already?” Asked Edhel.
“Well, yeah. I was just running a quick errand, I didn’t want to go too far,” I replied casually.
“That was a distance worth at least five days of walking by foot, and you call that a ‘quick errand’?” Asked Edhel. I shrugged, and he laughed.
“Well in any case, thank you for allowing me passage in your car. I must apologize for my lack of gift or payment…” said Edhel. “Don’t worry about it, it was on the way,” I replied.
“I see, how generous. Perhaps we might one day meet again?” Asked Edhel.
“Maybe, but I’m not sure how likely that is. The academy takes up most of my time,” I replied, “though you never know. I still have a lot of quest hours to complete.”
“Is that so? In that case, I hope we meet again! Goodbye Cadet Emma Booker and farewell Lord Illunor Rularia,” he said. “And good travels to you, bard,” said Illunor.
I waved off Edhel and drove back to the academy, Illunor still sulking in the back seat.
“Perhaps next time, you should steer us away from danger?” Suggested Illunor.
“I tried, but we were tracked,” I replied.
I groaned inwardly at the additional work needed to fix the truck. EVI compiled a list of upgrades for future engagements, batting away my idea for a ‘turbo mode’ and a ‘jump boost’. Though at the end of the day, meeting the bard wasn’t a complete loss. It felt good to talk to someone almost normal for once, and I hoped I met him again.
Edhel Redoehdelnif
I watched as Cadet Emma Booker’s vehicle went off into the distance, getting one last look at the Earthrealmer’s strange artifice before turning towards the gate. The voyage was an exotic experience, not unlike that of a fever dream or a peak into a world completely alien to my own. Indeed, it was a struggle to contain my excitement and enthusiasm and process the experience rationally as I made my way through the southern gates of Elaseer and turned the corner of an alley before entering an impossible structure that did not exist.
“You are earlier than expected,” said the shadowy figure of my handler as I made my way to the meeting hall.
“The Earthrealmer’s means of transportation proved far more expedient than anticipated, my lord” I spoke as I knelt before him, “even with her unexpected departure from the anticipated road and the ambush we traveled for scantly more than an hour.”
“Yes, I will require a full report from you. Perhaps you can shed some light on the ‘smoke dragon’ my men claim intervened on the Earthrealmer’s behalf,” said my handler.
“Smoke Dragon, my lord?” I asked.
My handler responded by activating his sight-seer, revealing how the ambush had appeared from the outside. The Earthrealmer’s uncanny artifice traversed down the road, a pair of manafields displaying proudly from within until the archers began their assault. The artifice then transformed as smoke billowed out from its pores and wings sprung forth above until it was the form of a mighty wrym with a pair of glowing eyes springing forth from its ever extending head where it then gave forth a terrible unholy roar which sent waves of mana outward. The mage working to seal the area and trap their mark vapourized in an instant as his spell backfired. It was apparent to Edhel that his exceptional experience in the carriage was merely a muted rendition of the events unfolding around them.
It would seem the hare had the shadow of a dragon.
“I do have some insight, though I must confess the Earthrealmer did very little in the way of direct action. I suspect she has some unseen means of commanding and scrying through her artifices,” I said, “one which does not utilize magic as we know it.”
“Such a statement is heresy,” said my handler, “but such special circumstances are your reason for being. I will require you submit your memories for verification. What is your appraisal of the new realmer?”
“The girl is far more dangerous than a surface appraisal would suggest, though she prefers to conceal that power rather than utilize it out of a misplaced sense of compassion. Her people appear to have a boundless creative drive through which such artifices are birthed, though again it is misdirected towards more common applications. I believe that if properly tamed, this human animal may provide us with great works of art,” I said with a bow.
“I see. Does the girl know you work for us?” Asked my handler.
“She may harbour some suspicions, though did not voice them outright beyond concealing her knowledge,” I said, “though nothing significant. Provided our next meet is under believable circumstances such as a festival she should view me as cordial.”
“She has indeed proven clever,” conceded my handler, “very well, I will make arrangements for your paths to cross again. Perhaps I will arrange for her to be a contestant at the next inter-academy tournament. In the mean time, prepare your report and don’t wander far. This is a priority assignment.”
“As you wish, my lord,” I said with a bow and a smile.
Emma Booker had proved to be an interesting animal indeed, and I hoped our paths crossed again.

The new gift-specific dialogue from the 1.6 update has me absolutely tickled pink! This one especially… I also haven’t practiced my creative writing in a while, and I decided it needed to happen sooner rather than later, so here, have a short story! Sorry if it's boring… I’m a little rusty!
“A Gift From The Void”
It was only yesterday… No one was quite sure where it had come from. There had been a sinister cackling noise ringing through the night air and Abigail had mentioned seeing an unidentifiable shape soaring through the sky during her walk home from the cemetery. The townsfolk gossiped and speculated about what it could have been that evening, but by the next morning they still hadn’t come to any reasonable explanation. It was only yesterday, and yet the entire village seemed to have already put it out of their minds and moved on. The scandal and chatter following the “Anchovy Soup Incident” at the Summer Luau several years back had lasted far longer than this… Even now Sam was still getting sideways glances whenever he got within a 20 foot radius of the soup cauldron, but this just blows over in less than a day? The priorities of small town people were strange.
Things had gone back to that same semblance of backwater, middle-of-nowhere kind of normal, and now the night had become just the same as any other Friday evening. Sebastian was playing a round of billiards with Sam, and while Sam was preoccupied with lining up the cue with his intended target ball, the farmer strolled into the saloon and up to the bar. Heads turned and raised to the newcomer for a moment before returning to whatever it was that had been previously holding their attention. Sebastian caught the sudden flourish of movement out of his periphery, but didn’t pay it much mind. The farmer ordered a coffee and a plate of the night’s special, and struck up a conversation with Gus about a peculiar egg that had materialized in their coop seemingly out of nowhere the night before. Apparently they’d decided to tuck it away into the incubator and wait to see what… if anything hatched from it.
Sebastian had never really been one to eavesdrop, but the wait for Sam to make his move was becoming boring, and sometimes the stories that passed around the saloon on Friday evenings got interesting depending on who all was involved. The story didn’t really go too far into detail. The farmer poked at their food until it had cooled enough to not scald the inside of their mouth, then they took a few bites before bringing up the events of the previous evening. What first started off as a funny story seemed to turn into some deep discussion with Gus about the mysteries of life. Eventually, Willy and Elliott were caught up in the mirth and it turned into a medley of strange tales from faraway lands and once-upon-a-times. Obviously exaggerated sightings of fearsome creatures on a midnight stormy sea, legends of colossal white whales, references to works written by masters of the mystery genre, as well as some from a trashy neo-noir novel or two that had probably been picked up from a bookstore clearance shelf.
Willy stroked his beard and mused about some daring battle between himself and a fish of questionable proportions that seemed to grow larger each time he told the story. Sebastian had heard this one before. The fight over the line had gone on for over an hour before the shadow of the fish rose near to the surface, and just before Willy could land the monster of a catch, it dove below again, taking the whole fishing rod overboard and nearly Willy himself with it.
Elliott gulped down the last few swigs of ale in his tankard, slapped the farmer firmly on the back, snorted and chuckled in an ungraceful yet jolly display that only ever crept out of him when he’d had a bit too much to drink.
“That fish becomes more miraculous each time he talks about it!” Elliott shook his head and smiled as he leaned almost a little too far forward. There was a slight sway to his posture and he tried to straighten his body back in line with the barstool. “To life, and her many little silly tricks of fate, my friends!” he declared. He raised the empty mug, and with his free hand, delicately tucked a few strands of stray hair behind his ear with the tips of his fingers. He rested his elbow back on the bar before he could lose his balance and sighed contently. Elliott’s cheeks were practically glowing red at this point and it was a wonder that he wasn’t slurring his words yet.
“Aye, you’ve all heard my fish story haven’t ye?” Willy chuckled. “How ‘bout the one about the Baba Yaga?” the farmer’s head tilted and they gazed curiously at the fisherman. Willy rested his foot on the crossbar of the barstool, lifted the rim of his hat out of his line of sight, and leaned into the counter. “Some know ‘er as the cannibal witch… others say she’s just a misunderstood haggard ol’ woman who lives alone out in woods or marshes. It’s said she lives a rickety old house that stands on chicken feet, and she likes to lure weary travelers into ‘er home, only to gobble ‘em up once they let their guard down. Apparently she’s especially fond of the taste of children…” He laughed in a hoarse tone and made strange spider-like gestures with his calloused hands as if he were telling campfire stories to a group of kids. The farmer’s nose wrinkled at the outlandish notion of some feral old woman devouring toddlers, and Willy laughed heartily at their reaction. “I think that last part the parents like to add into the story to frighten the little ones. It keeps ‘em from wondering into the forests and swamps alone at night.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes and glanced back to the pool table. He watched the cue ball clack into the twelve before the twelve bounced off the barriers in the corner of the table and rolled slowly to a stop on the felt surface without pocketing. Sam huffed and stood back upright.
“You really aren’t very good at this, are you?” Seb chimed as he returned his full attention to the game at hand. Sam grinned and laughed.
“Nope!”
“Watch and learn….” Sebastian took aim at the cue ball, and after a single firm strike, drove it into the tiny gap between the two and seven. The cue stopped hard, but the two and seven sped to the opposite corners of the foot of the table, each dropping into one of the corner pockets simultaneously. Sam scoffed and paced about the pool room, but looked back over his shoulder just in time to catch Sebastian with a triumphantly cheeky grin on his face. Sam clicked his tongue and lightly thumped the base of his cue stick into the floorboards.
“Show-off…” he mumbled.
Elliott lifted the rim of the empty vessel to his lips, then chuckled again as he noticed the absence of ale and gestured it in Gus’ direction.
“Good sir, my glass is empty and…. I’m a writer!”
“Maybe you should stop for tonight…” the farmer interjected. “You won’t be sober enough to start your next chapter in the morning!” Elliott rolled his eyes and leaned against the bar counter. He tried to give one of his best theatrically exasperated sighs, but when the exhale turned into a case of the hiccups, they knew he was down for the count. He smiled defiantly and tried his best to look dignified through the sudden spasms in his diaphragm and soused thousand yard stare.
“I-am fiiine… ne’re betta’…”
“…..Aaaand, there he goes…” Leah giggled from the end of the bar counter. “It’s like dropping a ton of bricks on a peach.”
“I oughtta’ help the ol’ scallywag home, I s’pose!” Willy groaned as he stood from the bar stool. He smiled as he hoisted one of Elliott’s arms over his shoulders and stood him up from the bar stool. “C’mon you menace… Let’s get ya home before you make a fool of yourself in front of all the lassies!” he chuckled. Sam took a moment to appreciate the situation at the bar counter. He shook his head and laughed, then took another shot at the 12 and missed horribly yet again.
“Easy does it there!” Emily cooed as she cleared away the empty tankard. “Try not to drop him too hard!” Elliott wobbled towards the door as Willy struggled to keep him upright, and just before they stepped out into the lukewarm summer evening, the farmer waved one last farewell and called out to the well marinated dandy-man as he staggered away.
“Nighty-night! Sleep tight, Rapunzel!” they chirped. Elliot responded to the joke by blowing an overly exaggerated kiss over his shoulder and daintily waiving his fingertips at the company in the saloon, then he nearly tripped over himself as he turned back to the path home. A couple of snorts, giggles and guffaws rose up over the music and chatter in the saloon and quickly melted back into the white noise once the moment passed.
Seb looked Sam in the eyes with a determined glare and smirked.
“Eight in the corner pocket….” Seb didn’t have a clear shot, but leaned over the table, reared back the stick and spiked it into the cue ball. It ricocheted from the bumper, side-swiped the eight, and put just enough force into the edge to cause it to spin sideways into the pocket he’d called. Sam laughed and scratched at the back of his head.
“Awwww, man…” he groaned. “You got me again!” Sam leaned against his cue stick and looked over the table before his eyes lit up in anticipation. “How about a best three out of five?” Abigail giggled at Sam’s request as she stretched and leaned back into the sofa.
“Give it up, blondie! He cooks your goose at this game EVERY single time…. You’re doomed.” She teased. “It’s getting late anyways…”
…
It had been almost a month since the odd shape had been spotted flying over town at this point. Seb and Abby had talked in depth about it, and though most of the other townsfolk had come to the conclusion that it had merely been some sort of exotic bird flying out toward the fern islands, Abby was positive she hadn’t been mistaken. In fact she was adamant that the form looked human. She hadn’t seen or heard any wings flapping and the “squawking” sounded more so like the laugh of an old woman than the cries of a bird. The figure seemed to levitate or hover effortlessly and without the use of any physical or mechanical assistance. It was slumped over as if it was curled up or sitting and just…. Floated away.
The long night spent coding and researching the relevant programing issues at the computer, had caused Sebastian to rise late. He was groggy, didn’t have much motivation to bother rolling out of bed, and it was almost noon at this point. He could hear the rain pattering against the roof of the house and the rumble of distant thunder. As lazy as he felt, a smoke sounded pretty good about now. The sound and sight of the ocean on rainy days also had a way of clearing his head and a little stroll would probably do him some good.
He didn’t pass anyone on the way out of the house. Robin was likely at her aerobics club, Maru, at work in the clinic, and who knew where Demetrius was… Out shoving dirt samples into test tubes, or measuring the volume and PH of the current rainfall? As long as he wasn’t dissecting frogs. Out of all of Sebastian’s childhood memories, that was the one that stuck in his head and haunted him. Back then, Maru had only just been born, and while Robin was busy keeping her entertained, fixing her bottle or changing diapers, Seb was wandering the house trying to find something to occupy his time. He’d wandered into his step-father’s study and there on the examination tray was a deceased frog pinned on it’s back, limbs splayed like Da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man” with it’s belly sliced open. Sebastian had cried and pouted over that for several days and had given Demetrius the silent treatment for even days longer intermixed with spells of arm crossing, head turning and the occasional stuck out tongue and blown raspberry. He cringed at the thought even now.
The hinges creaked as he pushed the front door open and paused. The summer was starting to give way to autumn and the parched ground soaked up the rain and turned loose the pungent, almost overpowering scent of petrichor.
Sebastian flipped the hood of his pull-over around his head and tightened up the drawstrings. He took a moment to smell the aroma of wet grass and earth that drifted through the air and held the fragrance in his lungs as he closed the door behind him.
He began his slow, steady march toward the beach and lost count of his steps after he’d passed the old Community Center. He’d barely noticed the changing of terrain under his feet as he moved almost subconsciously toward the ocean. The raw, muddy dirt paths of the mountain, the crunch of rough stones and shuffle of old, dead pine needles that carpeted the ground… They’d transitioned into the grass and cobblestone of the town plaza at some point, but they all seemed to blend together into “just steps” after a while. His inner thoughts distracted him to the point where he barely paid attention to his surroundings until he felt his footfalls sinking and shifting underneath him, and he knew he’d hit sand. He heaved a deep sigh of the salt air and looked over the horizon as he paced toward the docks.
When the sky was this gray and muted, the color of the sea seemed to take on it’s own jewel-like quality and without the blue sky to draw attention away from it, the eyes of each breaking wave became a splendor to watch. They erupted into columns of aquamarine, sapphire and sodalite laced with the bright, almost pearlescent white of the sea foam before curling over, crashing into the tides and giving way to the next one.
Sebastian came to a stop at the furthest reaching section of the wood panels and straightened up his posture as he groped into his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he’d brought with him. He selected one from the box, tucked it between his teeth and plunged his fingers back into the pocket for his lighter. He curled his left hand in front of his face, to protect the fire from the wind, flicked open the lid and thumbed the igniter. The flint sparked into a flame as it spun and lit up the end of the cigarette to a smoldering red glow. He pulled in a breath and held it for a moment before letting it out and watching the smoke dance away in the wind. It still wasn’t quite as satisfying as that first breath of rain when he’d stepped out of the house. Another sigh escaped Seb’s lips as he stared back at the oncoming crests of seawater and his mind started to drift again.
He imagined the city lights blazing somewhere across the ocean like stars, and thought about starting over somewhere far away. Disappearing, and reappearing somewhere else like a shadow moving through fragments of darkness and light, somewhere where no one knew him. Just vanishing and leaving everything behind. His parents, his sister, his friends… the thought excited him for a moment, before giving way to an intense feeling of regret and sadness. Maybe even a little shame. Having everyone was frustrating, but would having none of them be better or worse? He’d never known anything else. The same friends he’d grown up with, the same smell of the changing seasons in the mountain air, the same four walls of his bedroom, the sound of his sister’s laugh, or the taste of his mother’s cooking… even the way his stepfather overreacted to the littlest things was something he'd grown used to. He took another long breath.
The waves lapped and pounded at the underside of the dock so loudly he couldn’t hear the patter of oncoming footfalls against the wood and he was caught unaware when a sudden presence made itself known.
“Hey.” The start was enough to make him tense up, and he almost tripped over his own feet. Seb whirled around and when he found himself face to face with the farmer, he relaxed again.
“You scared the absolute crap out of me…..” He said as he rolled his eyes. He flicked his thumb against the filter of the cigarette to knock away the ashes and looked over the docks. They were alone.
“Sorry….” There was an awkward moment of silence between the two of them before Sebastian tried to force conversation.
“What are you up to out here?” He asked. He wasn’t really interested in the answer, but felt obligated to return the acknowledgement of his presence. The farmer held up the rod that was firmly clasped in their right hand and gestured to the ocean.
“Fishing!” Seb raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at the response.
“In the rain?” he asked. His tone was almost dismissive. The farmer nodded.
“Willy said that there’s a number of fish that only come out when it’s raining, so I wanted to see what bites.” They began. “Some fish just like it better this way I guess.” There was another long pause. “…and you?”
“Hanging out…” Seb shrugged and adjusted the collar of his hoodie.
“In the rain?” The irony of the retort wasn’t lost on either of them though only the farmer seemed to find it amusing.
“Some people just like it better this way too…” Seb declared as he shifted his posture and crossed his arms over his chest. “I like to come out here where it’s quiet and have some alone time with my own thoughts.” There was a brief moment of guilt when Sebastian realized that he hadn’t actually ever bothered to ask the farmer’s name, but his introverted nature snubbed it out pretty quickly.
“Well, if you’re out here for some alone time, I won’t keep bothering you. I’ll go find a spot to fish and leave you to it.” At least they could take a hint. The farmer turned to leave and Sebastian suddenly regretted the entire conversation. Maybe he came off as cold and bristly? Either way, they hadn’t meant any harm. Just engaging in basic pleasantries. He found himself compelled to say something else just so the conversation wouldn’t end on such a sour note, then the thought of the flying figure and the appearance of the strange egg in the farmer’s coop a while back suddenly popped into his head.
“Wait….” Sebastian flicked away the spent cigarette and stamped it out with the toe of his shoe before he continued. The farmer turned back in his direction. “I was just curious… do you remember what happened a couple of weeks ago? The night that… thing… flew over Pelican Town?” The farmer’s eyes narrowed and they nodded slowly. “That was the night that strange egg just showed up in your chicken coop, right?” The farmer looked bewildered. Seb chuckled soundlessly when he realized that, for at least a moment, he was acting like the epitome of some small town country boy who was nosing into someone else’s business. The farmer was likely confused because they hadn’t spoken to Sebastian about it directly. How could he know about that? They didn’t have to ask before he preemptively put the question to rest. “I was in the saloon playing pool with Sam the night after it happened. I overheard you talking about it with Gus, Willy and uh- …Rapunzel.” He explained. A tiny snort escaped the farmer’s nose as they stifled a laugh and they nodded again.
“Right… I still don’t know where it came from.” They rested the handle of the fishing pole on the dock like a staff or walking stick and looked up at the sky as if they were contemplating something. “I don’t know if the egg had anything to do with the flying figure, or if it was just a coincidence… they did both appear on the same night.”
“Everyone in town says that the flying thing was probably just some weird bird heading toward the islands…” Seb droned. He shoved his hands into his pockets to sooth the chill in his fingers. “If that IS where the egg came from, then maybe it was just a bird…” The farmer briskly shook their head before they answered.
“No, I don’t think so.” They rested a hand on their hip, fidgeted with the line strung through the fishing rod and seemed to gaze off into the distance towards the island in question. “That wouldn’t make sense considering what hatched.” Sebastian’s head snapped upright to meet their gaze. Now this was getting interesting.
“It actually hatched?!” He piped as his eyes widened inquisitively. “What was it?”
“A chicken…. And those can’t fly long distances.” The farmer chortled as they watched Sebastian’s face droop back to some semblance of apathy. He looked mildly disappointed.
“Aww…. Well that’s kind of anticlimactic.” He groaned.
“Yeah, sorry it’s not more exciting than that…” There was a sudden gust of wind and both of them had to brace against the pelting of raindrops that came with it. “It is a pretty peculiar looking chicken, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Really?... How so?” He gazed back at them expectantly and waited for them to go into detail.
“The feathers are jet black and the comb and wattles have a bit of an odd shape to them. The eyes are also bright red, like an animal with albinism and they’re almost reflective in the dark too… like a cat’s eyes.” They paused and rested their hand over the lower half of their face as if they were taking a moment to recall more of the specifics to memory. “And there’s just something about the way it clucks.” They added. “It doesn’t really cluck like a normal hen, but it sounds more like… an echo of a cluck, I suppose.”
“What?....” Sebastian laughed as his expression shifted again. The description of the noise sounded completely ridiculous. Not a cluck, but an echo of a cluck? They may as well have likened it to a phantom voice or the cry of a specter. Something that eluded the range of sounds that most humans would ever have the chance or perception to experience. The farmer lifted their eyes back to Sebastian’s as if they’d suddenly remembered something else.
“She started laying eggs a couple of days ago. They look just like the one that appeared in the coop that night…” They let the fishing pole drop from their hand to the wood planking of the dock and slipped their arm out of the left strap of their backpack. “I actually have one with me if you want to see it….” They slid the other strap off of their shoulder and swung the bag around their right side, letting it come to a rest in front of them as they knelt down. Seb took a few steps closer and stooped to get a better look as they dug through the contents.
They gingerly grasped what looked like a tiny bundle wrapped in a kerchief and began to slowly peel away the corners of the fabric, exposing what was probably the most bizarre looking egg he’d ever seen in his life. It was black and somewhat glossy, unlike the calcified matte shells of most chicken eggs, and the surface seemed to be covered in tiny indents or fissures that exposed flecks of a bright, almost luminescent red underneath. The farmer held the egg out to Sebastian as they stood up straight and nodded, silently offering to let him hold it for a closer look. He gently cupped the egg in his hands, tucked his arms in close to his body and cradled it in his palms like a cautious child trying to hold a hamster. It was heavier than he’d expected it to be, and surprisingly warm.
The color reminded him of magma or hot coals. Something like the intense heat glowing through crackling obsidian after a volcanic eruption or a dying fire. He leaned his head even closer to the egg as he examined the texture of the shell, and his nose wrinkled a bit when he caught the scent. It was sulphurous, and almost earthy smelling, but not overpoweringly so.
“It’s not rotten, is it?” he asked as he gently turned the egg over in his hands.
“See, that’s the strange thing about it. It can’t be…. That egg was just laid this morning.” They explained. “All of the eggs that hen lays have that… little whiff of something burning to them.” The rain was starting to slow up a bit. The farmer thought for a moment and giggled at the notion of what they said next. “I’m not inclined to say that they’re edible either… at least, not to people, and I wouldn’t be keen on being the first one to test that.” Sebastian winced at the thought…and smell, and stifled a laugh.
“Me neither…” He smiled softly when the red speckled pattern caught his attention again. “It does look really cool though!”
He really did have a nice smile. It was kind of a shame that he didn’t let people see it more often. His eyes brightened, and his face looked softer and more approachable, yet also, inquisitive and curious. It was a look of fascination and wonder. Like a kid who’d just discovered dinosaurs and outer space for the first time, or someone who’d just felt their first taste of freedom and didn’t quite know what to do with it. An imaginative or inspired sort of expression.
“Since you like it so much, why don’t you hang onto it?” the farmer beamed.
“Can I?” Sebastian’s eyes lit up again and he gazed back at the farmer with a delighted look on his face.
“Sure! Hens lay eggs every day or so. There’ll be more before long!” they chimed. Sebastian chuckled as he curled his fingers about the egg and sheltered it from the rain.
“Thank you!” He gazed at it for a few moments more as the farmer hefted the rucksack back onto their shoulders and pulled the fishing rod from it’s resting place on the dock. “Hey, this might sound kind of stupid….” He began as he gazed back and forth between the farmer and his new prize… “But, do you think it’ll hatch if I put it under my pillow?” he laughed awkwardly at his own question when he realized how foolish it must have sounded, but was pleasantly surprised when the farmer’s response was more optimistic than he had expected.
“Umm, I don’t know… Maybe! It’s worth a try anyway, and stranger things have happened.”
“Only one way to find out I guess!” Sebastian said smiling in anticipation.
“Good luck! You’ll have to let me know what happens!” They scanned out over the tides as if looking for something before turning back to Sebastian. “I should hurry and find a spot to fish before the rain stops again, but it was really nice talking to you!”
“Yeah, you too!” Seb agreed. “I’ll see you later!” He distracted himself for a moment, making sure the egg was tucked away safe and warm in his hoodie pocket, when he suddenly realized something. “Hey, wait!...” he quickly turned back to where the farmer had been standing just a minute before, but by the time he’d remembered what he’d needed to ask, they’d already trotted too far out of earshot to be able to hear him. “Aw, man… I forgot to catch their name again.” He lamented. “I’ll have to remember to ask them next time… Next time for sure.”

I (27F) have an older brother, 33M. We didn't get along very much as kids due to the age gap, not for my lack of trying. I never really understood why my brother didn't really like spending time with me, because he was one of my favorite people in the world, despite all his bullying.
For context, I'll give some examples of what my brother has done to me over the years with some vague age ranges of when they occurred.
When I was about 3, my brother convinced me that red was orange and orange was red because I was learning my colors in preschool. He also used to steal food like tater tots off my little high chair tray and would pretend he didn't do anything when my mom checked on why I was crying (I was NOT a fussy baby/toddler, so it set off alarm bells when I did.)
I think when I was 4 or 5, my brother came into my room after I had already been put to bed, and he woke me up. Thing is, he was hovering over me with a scary mask on, only the hallway light, and a butterknife. Not sure I really have to explain why that was traumatic. I'm still afraid of masks to this day.
When I was around 10-12, my brother kept drinking all the milk or kool aid that I would make and never replenish/remake it. I told him to stop, he wouldn't, of course. My mom was fostering other children and didn't have time for squabbles like this. So I very visibly spit on top of the kool aid pitcher and left the lid off so it was seen. What does my (reminder, 17-19) brother do? He wrenches the bowl of cereal I'm currently eating out of my hands, spits in it, and shoves it back at me hard enough that it spilled all over me. Now, I'm not an angry person. I'm not a violent person. But I was still a child and fed up with being bullied by someone who was/almost an adult. I never tried getting physical before because I was so much smaller, but I hit puberty kind of early. So I splashed the bowl back at him to see how he liked it. He threw me to the ground and hit me. My mom had to break us up and told us we were both to blame, so he didn't even get punished.
Several times, he would turn the lights off on me when I was on the other side of the room in the basement away from the switch, because I was afraid of the dark for a very long time.
We had Sonic Adventure 2 we shared. If we ever fought about something, or I reminded him it was my turn, he threatened to say goodbye forever to my chao. I am extremely soft hearted so that accomplished what he wanted.
Sometimes I would notice my things go missing. I had assumed maybe my mom put them away somewhere and forgot, but I'm pretty sure I know what happened to them. Especially gamecube games-- Those discs were tiny! He was pawning them for drug and booze money. One time he was drunk and admitted he had been selling his adderall for other drugs. That came to a head one terrible Christmas Eve. Brother was home for the holiday and I'm not very clear on what events led up to it, but my parents caught my brother in the bathroom with a baggie of various drugs that he was already doing. He insisted it was just weed, but my parents didn't believe that. I wouldn't know, I only briefly saw the bag, but it was full of both a large green ball of like leaves and lots of white powder. It was a vicious screaming match for a few hours. I hid out in my room on a different floor and played a video game as loud as I could so I didn't have to hear my family. The screams died down after a while, and I cautiously went out of my room. My brother had left the house for a while. I had a few holiday assignments and decided to just crank them out while my family cooled off, and I did it at the dining room table because that's where our Christmas tree was too and I desperately needed that good cheer magic. I was quietly writing, not saying anything, not making much noise, when my brother came back in the house. He stopped off at the kitchen for something and muttered something rude and belittling to me. At this point I'm a preeten-early teen and he had already ruined the day that had always been magical to me before, as my grandma used to stay over with us on Christmas Eve. She had died rather recently at the time. And I can't tell you exactly what I said. I think I've blocked out as much as I can. I made some snide remark, something like 'at least I don't do drugs' and in the next second I was yanked out of my chair. My brother picked me up by the neck and slammed me against the wall. I know I clawed and kicked against the wall as hard as I could. I blacked out, and I woke up on the floor with my parents absolutely screaming at him that he could have killed me. As a side note to the whole ordeal, he never apologized, and it's made my adult life a lot harder as weed becomes more and more commonplace. Just the thought of it used to send me in a panic attack, I could feel the hands choking me again. I've gotten better about dealing with it, but I still refuse to have it in any part of my life whatsoever. It's cost me a few relationships.
When I was in college, my brother had moved back in with me and my parents because his girlfriend dumped him for being a piece of shit that worked at walmart and did nothing but drink all day despite having a state paid scholarship, that he wasted, because he couldn't keep his GPA above 2.8. He was a music major. The classes he took were things like 'History of Jimi Hendrix' and 'The Beatles'. He just partied too much to even attend class. He took the dog they got with him, not at all prepared for her. The dog is a high energy breed that is difficult to train, and we had two small 5-10 pound dogs at home. At 1 year old, bro's dog was about 30 pounds. He often left for several hours during summers/breaks when I was home, without telling anyone, knowing that I would either hear the dog cry if he crated them and feel bad and let them out or that I wouldn't banish them to a crate if they were already in a room with me. The dog bullied our other dogs and bit at everyone. Dog was incredibly overly protective of my brother-- Trait of the breed. I was back at college for a few months and had spent a good month mourning the loss of a 5 year relationship. I never really heard anything from him. Then out of the blue, my brother asks me if I can let him and dog stay for the night (we live 2 hours from the college) because my mom had kicked him out. The dog had bit her and she snapped at my brother to control his f'ing dog and he responded by calling her, the woman who birthed him, payed for his other college costs, paid back loans he promised to pay to other family members, never charged him rent, and he called her a f'ing female dog. She snapped. While I agree that my mom was completely in the right to do that, I have too soft of a heart to just leave him with nowhere to go. He promised it was just a night so he could get in touch with some friends closer to home and figure shit out. I let him come to me.
I really regret that decision.
At the time I had a new roommate (she was very nice though, I liked her) and a sort of FWB who doted on me for a little while. I texted FWB and asked if he could bring some alcohol by-- I was still 19 at the time, underage to buy it, but FWB was old enough and agreed the man could probably do with a drink. We stayed out on our little porch area to make sure that we wouldn't be disturbing my roomie in any way while we socialized. My brother got really wasted. He told me terrible things about our deceased grandmother (who he knew I had really loved growing up, and had no idea about who she really was because she had always loved me). And he laughed. He laughed when he saw the discomfort on my face. My FWB was feeling pretty bad for me and suggested we go to bed because it was also like 3 in the morning and both of us had class in the morning, so we go inside. The apartment has a shared common room/living room, little kitchen area, and laundry closet. My bedroom is on one side and roomie's was on the other-- Both bathrooms are also ensuite to the bedroom. So I went in and changed out of my clothes into something comfier to sleep in and crawled into my bed, letting my brother do his own thing in the bathroom. I'm just trying to rest and suddenly my brother is pulling me out of my bed and dragging me out of my own room. He's yelling that he's taking my bed, did I really expect him to take the couch? And I'm not very confrontational. I'm flustered, tired, and honestly a little afraid after the neck choke incident. FWB steps in like a hero and tries to calmly explain that its my bed, and I will sleep in it, I have been kind enough to let him stay and he should not be so ungrateful. Brother fucking loses his mind. Starts screaming his head off about how selfish I am and how reliant I am on our parents and won't be able to do anything on my own as an adult (I was financially dependent on my parents at 19 while in college, shocker). He starts drunkenly trying to pick up his dog's toys and searching for his keys, and both FWB and I step in and tell him he can't go driving like this, after like half a bottle of fireball. He at least needs to sober up before he can drive. I stand in front of the front door, as my brother is still searching for his keys, and there is no way I'm letting him out of here right now. Brother has found his keys, and starts pulling at me and hurting me. Lucky for me, FWB had been a pretty good wrestler in highschool. He got my brother pinned down and I snatched the keys, hiding over by the sink in case I had to throw them in there. He's screaming his head off and my poor roommate comes out and asks what the hell is going on because she knows I'm very quiet and tend to keep visitors in my room. I'm like half sobbing trying to explain and the FWB, still pinning my brother, tells her that we're trying to keep him from drunk driving. My roommate does not play around with that. She was in nursing school, and had recently lost a friend to a drunk driver. I don't know how it worked, but she put on her stern nurse tone and told my brother that he was free to leave when he sobered up, or she herself would be calling the cops on him, and both me and FWB could press additional charges for assault. He reluctantly agreed to this condition and FWB let him off the floor, but sat in front of the front door just in case. When he was sobered up, he left, saying 'I hope you like mom and dad, because I'm not your family anymore'.
And that was devastating. I couldn't stop crying. My FWB went back to bed with me and laid me down in bed and let me cry until I passed out. He skipped his class that day to be there for me. I know I don't paint a good picture of my brother, but I did/do love him. I thought now that we were older that he'd mellowed out and we could be good friends like I always wanted. I mean, I made like 300 fake facebook accounts back in the day to vote for his band to be a headliner at a large concert. Just a few years prior when he was home on a break he introduced me to a TV show we binged and he let my lay on his shoulder. (I was/am very touch starved but paralyzed by fear that I'm annoying the other person, and all my friends were made later in life and are states away). When Pokemon Go came out we would take late night drives around quiet places of town while hunting pokemon together. We traded off the controller on online battlefield games and compared scores and the most ridiculous deaths. I really thought that he loved me too, finally, after years of resentment.
He didn't speak to me for 2 years. I didn't find out until later, but my parents lied for him on my behalf that he still loved me and was just annoyed, and gave me birthday/christmas presents that they told me had been from him, just that he was working. I really treasured those objects when I didn't know the truth about them. I got a really stupid mug with the first letter of my name on it in pink and zebra print (two things I don't really enjoy) but I used that thing every single day.
So, these are glimpses into my previous relationship with my brother. I don't really remember when he started speaking to me again, but I sure know he never apologized. He had finally hit rock bottom and asked my father to put in a good word for him at (insert facility with decent pay and good benefits but hard work), which he had previously rejected by telling my parents that it was a shit job. My brother's name got put closer to the top of the resumes. He got in. It wasn't easy work, or comfy sometimes, but it paid well enough to endure that, I guess. My brother used to be rather athletic.
Between the cut off point and then, my brother had worked at a (also generic job) a town or two over and hated the commute. He also happened to find a girlfriend with an apartment sort of close by. She didn't like having him over because of his dog, and almost never let him do any overnight. But now that my brother had a better paying job, she was willing to move in with him, of course. My brother bought a house in our home town and she came with it. She pays a ridiculously low amount of rent to my brother.
If she was home and brother wasn't, the dog stayed crated up because she didn't want to deal with it. Both of them worked, but her job isn't at all difficult. And yet somehow, sometimes pulling doubles, my brother ended up doing most of everything. My brother, who didn't learn to do his laundry until his 20s, ate pizza every single day, and had left used condoms on the floor of his bedroom in our parents house when he left. He did most of the cooking because she says she's bad at it. But will make pies for her mom. When the holidays came around, instead of discussing or rotating, they will always go to her family first. If my brother can come to ours at all. He often misses entire occassions (we don't go out big, but like, cmon. Hand your dad the gift card on his birthday at least, not 2 weeks later).
I also used to get to hangout or see my brother sometimes. Maybe once every few weeks, and it was fun! It was the friendship I had always dreamt of. Now I can't even get him to do anything online with me from the comfort of his own home. I don't have a single text from him this year past 1/27.
At first, we all understood. She was quirky. I was quirky. We share several similar traits and interests. I used to like that and be excited to have a family member like me, but now I dread the day she becomes family.
Let's start with the smoking car. Me and my parents were driving near his street so we could cut through to the highway, and out of nowhere, black smoke starts coming from the hood. My father tells me and my mom to get out and he'll get it to my brother's and out of the road to look at it and see what was going on. This was like.... early August. It was very hot outside. Since I've 'been in the house before' and 'know what it's like' I am 'allowed' to come into my brother's house to cool off. But GF refuses letting in either of them, referring to the messy state of the house. Which, okay, fair-- But its HER messes. My brother cleans up after her. I learned later that GF snapped at him about his family always coming over unannounced and how she has to hurry to put on a bra and everything is messy and we can't just drop in its rude! She says, as her mother and brother do the exact same thing, in a house she doesn't own. But my family let it be water under the bridge for now. My brother called me a f'in a'hole for telling my mom about the conversation. Because my mom was livid.
The next thing is my father. My dad's family has a pretty big history of strokes and heart attacks, and he's had one heart attack. My dad had been in pain all day and he finally gave up at about 3AM and woke my mom up to drive him to the hospital. I don't have a license at this point, so there's little that I can do. My mom says the surgery he probably needs isn't even done here and they're transferring him, my mom asked me to keep my brother in the loop. So I told him about this and about the time they would reach the hospital, because my mom dad gran and I share locations. I asked if he would take me up, I had a bag full of things that might make him more comfortable or less stressed. The hospital they're taking our dad to is a little over an hour away. Everyone is more or less frantic. My brother is talking to work for him, I'm making sure that for however many hours that our pets will be okay and talking to my mom's work. We drive there and nothing major happens, but it was so... Uncomfortable? Tense. The thing that's hurting my dad is a blocked or enlarged blood vessel that cuts off oxygen to the tissue around it, which, cells die, and you really need your colon, the area my dad has an issue with. The thing is, until they can do the surgery, it was like he was a ticking time bomb. My brother takes me home when visitor hours are over and I hold my dogs tight. The next day is filled with lots of pricks pokes and prods at my dad so we don't go that day. We do go the day after, Friday. My brother's GF is in the truck with him. I'm not really paying attention to much of anything because for all we know my dad could die before we got there. Brothers' GF goes to get some snacks from the long drive and the fact that she's not exactly family yet. My brother, mom and I rotate who is away in the cafe and eating with GF. I see GF and my brother whispering angrily at each other. She's tugging at his arm. I manage to pick up 'We're going to miss my mom's dinner!" And I am just stunned. Her mother has a small family dinner every single friday and makes meatloaf. His GF wanted us to head back from our critical father, because she didn't want to miss a weekly event. And I really have to hand it to my brother for not snapping right then and there. He waited until we were in his truck and out of the hospital parking lot and says "How in the f'ck do you say something to me like that? Like, for real, wtf!" GF starts crying and says its a family tradition and her mom is all she has left-- False. She has her mom, sister, and brother, at least. Her father died in a car incident that hospitalized her as a kid. So my brother snaps again like 'are you seriously telling me you value a f'ing loaf of meat over a life? we have no idea what will happen, my dad could die within the hour and i'm not there, he could die tomorrow, how long d-" And GF cuts him off wailing that her dad is dead. Which, yes, is a horrifyingly traumatic experience. But she does not get to play the 'my dad is dead' card ten years after the fact, to justify leaving our possibly dying father before visiting hours ended. She tried to emotionally blackmail my brother by apologizing to me through tears that this must be so hard for me but honestly I was doing my best to block it out, staring at pictures of dogs in hammocks. I shared my brother's sentiment.
But wait, there's more! Remember that car accident GF had years ago? You would think that, if nothing else, she would be empathetic for someone/their family in a car crash? You'd be wrong! I was rear ended at 60 mph right in front of my house after coming home from work (the ambulance took me straight back to work lmao). The physical damage to me was pretty minimal, bruises and a sprained ankle because my foot was pressed on the brake, waiting for an opportunity to cross into the driveway. This was late October 2020. Covid regulations were pretty strict. So I was alone in a room for a while and in pain. My parents had followed the ambulance. My dad had actually heard the crash and went 'huh she usually comes home now' and runs over after seeing the wreckage. My parents had the crash footage, grainy, but there thanks to the cameras set up outside our house. I hadn't realized it by that point but I had a pretty good concussion, and I was hurt, and scared. I was texting my mom constantly but my dad had left his phone at home in the rush to get my mom and she hadn't charged her phone, they'd been in the parking lot for like an hour and a half already. They promised me they'd be back soon, they'll just pop in and let my brother know since he lives nearby. My parents didn't even ask to like, stay and sit with them instead of a cold car. My mom asked to pee and to borrow a charging cable (they had one, GF has the same model phone) given the, you know, situation. My brother barely cracked the door to speak with them. He said no, because GF was uncomfortable, because they were waiting for their second negative test to come in. Read that again. They had tested negative. It's not like my mom would go near anyone to the bathroom either-- The back door that's used more often is literally inches away from the bathroom door. My brother didn't even try to argue with his GF about his own home and some empathy for someone else dealing with a car crash. It absolutely disgusted my parents. And later on brother told me he got another earful about our parents just dropping in without notice and its like? Excuse me? Its his house!
Unfortunately, a tire popped on my parents' car when we were nearby. It was like, 3 years since the first issue with the car. I went inside and asked my brother to let my mom in because its raining. GF did not like that, and didn't realize I could overhear her down the hall, arguing with my brother and his family again. I went over the next day to my brother and he was actively cleaning up GF's mess so it wouldn't be as 'embarassing' for her. I sat him down and talked to him as realistically as I could. I have depression, anxiety, emotional abuse trauma, agorophobia, and very few friends. But I'm okay. He started very quietly expressing his frustration towards GF. She doesn't do much around the house or contribute financially, lets her family over but not his, him doing most of the cooking despite regularly pulling 12s. I sat there calmly, because of course I knew this. This is what makes the situation somewhat even more sticky. I asked my brother, "Do you actually love someone like that? Or are you afraid to be alone?" He's been in one relationship or another for most of my life. Lately he had been confiding in me about how bad his mental health was falling and I was like 'that's not a slump, that's. that's depression.' So when I asked my brother the question, he hesitated. That spoke loudly enough in my opinion. But then I also saw my brother's face crumpling as he admitted he just didn't want to be alone. GF wants babies but my brother knows with her medical history and condition on top of being so lazy and bluntly told me she would not be a good mother and hopes to God that day doesn't come. He is so unhappy being with her. We both heard the rustling of a comforter and my brother lowered his panicky voice and asked me to leave so she doesn't see me here. That is incredibly messed up, especially since its his name on the house. I haven't seen my brother at his house since then, and that was over 2 years ago.
During COVID, GF started working from home, and it stayed that way. My brother still takes care of most things.
In the mean time, he's proposed to her. Yeah. I managed to save things when all our faces dropped at the Christmas dinner he announced their engagement at. My brother calls her by a nickname that was also the name of a beloved family dog that had passed away only one month ago. My dad and my reactions at that time were genuine confusion and sadness about him bringing up our passed pet. Everything was pretty quiet after that. When we got home, I texted my brother and told him that hearing our dog's name in conversation after losing her so recently shattered us, be we were, in fact, happy for his engagement.
I lied.
None of us want him to marry her. I dread the day that I get a wedding invitation or GF shows up pregnant. She would be a terrible mother. My brother is aware of the fact that my parents think she's a rude, inconsiderate brat that only thinks of herself, from that earlier conversation that I talked to my parents about. My mom snapped that they don't have to like her, all they were required to do was be civil, and we are, so shut up.
At larger family functions GF tends to gravitate around me. Like I said, we have similar interests and personalities. And I have never told her to get lost or had it in me to upfront tell her we don't like her. I am absolutely horrible at confrontation, but my patience is wearing thin.
Last year my parents set up brunch for Mother's Day. We were at the table when my brother called and said they were going to urgent care because GF had another one of her migraines that make her vomit. Which, she takes medicine and has injectable solutions. Some situation always comes up with her right before my brother would come to us.
My parents tried again with the Mother's Day brunch last week. On the day of, he said that he was too tired to come, can we try next week? Please insert the eyeroll of the century.
Because of our clear dislike, my brother doesn't often bring his GF around anymore on the offchance she lets him. It occurred to me that my parents planned the same brunch as last year, and I was dreading my question. "Is GF coming with us for brunch?" They don't know. All my brother did was confirm the time and place. The thought of having to deal with her in the morning and pretend that I don't see her for what she is, is already exhausting me. I can barely get my brother to even play online with me. I feel like this has been festering long enough that at some point, its all going to overflow at once. But I am absolutely disgusted by how she takes advantage of my brother's fear of being alone and how the world revolves around her.
I had a dream the other day, actually, it was a good dream. I was at their wedding, and the priest guy said the standard 'speak now or hold your peace' and I stood up and loudly shouted OBJECTION! Every single person in the room turned to look at me, one because I don't raise my voice like that, two my patience is vast, and three, to upset me to this level of shouldering my anxiety by making a spectacle of myself. I then explained every detail, especially how much she was charged for rent, that my brother admitted he wasn't happy, and I wanted better for him than to just be an ATM maid.
If I bring this up to my brother again, I may lose him forever. But if I don't, he may be miserable together. And on the third side-- Do I actually really want my brothers' friendship at this point? Like, I'm definitely fed up dealing with his GF like she is. Plus, I pointed out and reiterated to him before that he admitted he wasn't happy.
I am very, very quiet by default. Never got into much trouble. I was and still am a gentle soul at my core being. If things get to a point where I cross lines of polite manners and call someone out on their bs, people around know that someone did something almost unforgivable. I'm wondering if my brother would know that.
TLDR; Brother's fiancee is disliked for good reason. My brother has isolated. I miss him, but also never want to see him again. I want to remind him that this marriage isn't a good idea, but I don't want to antagonize him.

This is the second half of my list for Florida's execution roster. As stated in the first part, I split it into two halves in order to follow reddit's character count limitations. Link to part 1.
The currently 105 executed offenders, cases 53 to 105:
53. Aileen Wuornos (~1974-2002, lethal injection): Wuornos murdered 7 men between the ages of 47-65. She was a street prostitute that enticed her victims with promises of sexual favors. After a victim was entrapped, Wuornos shot them dead, and robbed them of their money and their vehicles. Although Wuornos initially claimed that she killed the victims in self defense, she later admitted that they were murdered for their valuables. Her criminal history was extensive, and she had several convictions for armed robbery, assault, DUIs, reckless discharge of firearms, and disorderly conduct. She was also accused of domestic violence by an ex husband, and he placed a restraining order on her within weeks of their marriage.
54. Linroy Bottoson (~1971-2002, lethal injection): In a robbery of a post office, Bottoson stole $14,000 in money orders and $100 in cash, and abducted the post mistress, 74 year old Catherine Alexander. After holding her captive for 3 days, Bottoson stabbed Alexander 16 times, and ran her over with his car. He had several robberies on his criminal record.
55. Amos King Jr. (~1972-2002, lethal injection): After he escaped from a minimum security prison, King broke into the home of 68 year old Natalie Brady and assaulted her. She was raped, stabbed, and savagely beaten in the attack. King then set her house on fire, and returned back to the prison. At his arrival, the prison counselor confronted him about his absence and bloodied clothing. He was stabbed 25 times by King, but managed to survive his injuries. Despite her injuries, Brady managed to crawl out of her burning home, but succumbed to blood loss shortly before help could arrive. King had a previous conviction for robbery.
56. Newton Slawson (1989-2003, lethal injection): Slawson went over to the home of the Wood family (consisting of parents, 23 year old Gerald and 21 year old Peggy, and their children, 4 year old Jennifer and 3 year old Glendon) to buy some cocaine. During an argument over the transaction, Slawson shot and killed Gerald, Jennifer, and Glendon, and wounded Peggy. Slawson then stabbed Peggy (who was 8 months pregnant) with such force that he tore her unborn child out of her womb.
57. Paul Hill (1994-2003, lethal injection): During an attack on an abortion clinic, Hill shot and killed John Britton, a 69 year old abortionist, and his bodyguard, 74 year old James Barrett. Britton’s wife, 68 year old June, was also wounded in the shooting. Hill was a hardline pro life activist and Christian fundamentalist, and saw ending abortion by any means necessary as his personal divine mission.
58. Johnny Robinson (~1980s-2004, lethal injection): Robinson and his teenage accomplice picked up 31 year old Beverly St. George when they found her broken down on the side of the road. They then raped St. George and shot her to death. He tried to claim that they had consensual relations and St. George was hit by an accidental discharge during intercourse. If Robinson's "recollection" was to be believed, he then shot her again to cover up an "accidental" shooting of a white woman. The courts weren't convinced by the defense, and the accomplice admitted that the murder was entirely deliberate and calculated from the beginning. Robinson had several rape convictions and accusations before St. George's murder.
59. John Blackwelder (~1970s-2004, lethal injection): While incarcerated for molesting a 10 year old boy, Blackwelder tied up his cellmate, 39 year old Raymond Wigley, under the alleged pretenses of a bondage session and strangled him to death with makeshift rope. According to Blackwelder, Wigley had been sexually harassing him, and he wanted to put a permeant end to the unwanted advances. Blackwelder had several sexual assault convictions dating back to the 1970s, and was also previously convicted for threatening former vice president Dan Quayle. His victim was the accomplice of another executed offender, John Marek, and was serving a life sentence for assisting him in the torture murder of a woman [for more details on Marek and Wigley's crimes, please see section 68] at the time of his own death.
60. Glen Ocha (1999-2005, lethal injection): Ocha picked up 28 year old Carol Skjerva from a bar and they had sex in his home. However, Skjerva allegedly made mocking remarks towards his genitals and threatened to tell her fiance of their encounter. In a drunken rage and under the influence of ecstasy, Ocha hung her with rope from his kitchen door.
61. Clarence Hill (1982-2006, lethal injection): During an attempted bank robbery with an accomplice, Hill engaged in a shootout with the responding policemen. One of the officers, 26 year old Stephen Taylor, was killed and another was wounded.
62. Arthur Rutherford (1985-2006, lethal injection): Rutherford was hired by a widow, 63 year old Stella Salamon, to do odd jobs around her home. He then drowned Salamon in her bathtub and tried to cash in a check of $2,000 from her account. Salamon's nude body was found with a broken arm, bruising all across her face, and three head wounds.
63. Danny Rolling (~1960s-2006, lethal injection): Rolling murdered a total of 8 people between the ages of 8-55. In 1989, Rolling stabbed 55 year old William Grissom, William’s 24 year old daughter Julie, and his 8 year old grandson Sean to death in their home. Julie’s body was ritualistically mutilated and posed during the attack. A year later, he shot his estranged father, 59 year old James. Although James survived, he was left permanently blind. Rolling then burglarized several student dorms in a week long rampage. Five students, 23 year old Tracy Paules, 23 year old Manuel Taboda, 18 year old Sonja Larson, 17 year old Christa Hoyt, and 17 year old Christina Powell, were bound, raped, and stabbed to death. Only Taboada was spared from any sexual abuse. As with Julia Grissom, Rolling posed the female victims into provocative positions and mutilated their bodies. Roiling decapitated Hoyt and placed her head on a cabinet shelf for the sole purpose of shocking witnesses stumbling across the scene. He had a long history of robberies, assaults, and voyeurism, and some of his earliest convictions occurred when he was a teenager.
64. Ángel Díaz (~1960s-2006, lethal injection): In his native Puerto Rico, Díaz stabbed an unidentified man, who was a director of a local drug rehabilitation center, 19 times while the victim was asleep. Díaz was sentenced for second degree murder, but he escaped after beating a guard near death, and fled to Florida. During his stay in Florida, Díaz and his accomplices robbed a strip club at gunpoint, and shot and killed the manager, 49 year old Joseph Nagy. After Nagy’s murder, he and his accomplices relocated themselves to Connecticut. However, they were arrested for a possession of illegal firearms charge. Díaz and 3 other inmates briefly managed to escape by beating up a guard and threatening another at knifepoint, but were quickly recaptured. After a cellmate testified that Díaz confessed to Nagy’s murder, he was deported back to Florida and sentenced to death. His execution sparked controversy, as it took him 34 minutes to succumb to the lethal drugs. Díaz’s other criminal convictions include shooting and injuring an officer during an armed robbery and several drug possession charges. Authorities also suspected him of being involved with several Puerto Rican nationalist insurgent groups.
65. Mark Schwab (1987-2008, lethal injection): Schwab lured 11 year old Junny Rios-Martinez into a motel room by posing as a photographer for a surfing magazine. He bound Rios-Martinez, anally penetrated him, and smothered the boy to death with a pillow. Schwab also had a conviction for the sexual battery of a 13 year old boy, and he was released after serving 3 out of an 8 year prison sentence months before Rios-Martinez's murder.
66. Richard Henyard (1993-2008, lethal injection): Henyard and his teenage accomplice carjacked 35 year old Dorothy Lewis, and her two daughters, 7 year old Jamilya and 3 year old Jasmine. The pair raped Dorothy, and shot and killed both of her daughters. Dorothy was also shot in the head, but was able to survive. Dorothy recounted that she tried praying for her and her children's safety, and Henyard taunted her by mockingly claiming to be Satan himself.
67. Wayne Tompkins (~1980s-2008, lethal injection): While helping his girlfriend move from their home, Tompkins made sexual advances on her 15 year old daughter, Lisa DeCarr. When she rejected him, Tompkins raped and strangeld her to death with a bathrobe, and tried to report DeCarr as a runaway. Tompkins also had several sexual assault convictions and accusations prior to the murder. One incident involved him abducting and abusing a gas station clerk.
68. John Marek (~1980s-2008, lethal injection): Marek and his accomplice, Raymond Wigley, picked up 47 year old Adela Simmons. They forced Simmons to perform oral sex on them, burned her fingers and pubic hairs, and strangled her to death with a bandana. The pair then dumped her body near a beach. Marek was sentenced to death for Simmons' murder, while Wigley was given a life sentence. While in prison, Wigley himself was strangled to death by the above mentioned John Blackwelder.
69. Martin Grossman (1984-2010, lethal injection): Grossman was given probation after a spree involving the burglary of an ex girlfriend's home and stealing cars. While out shooting a stolen handgun with a friend, they were confronted by Margaret Park, a 26 year old wildlife ranger. Wanting to avoid being arrested and put back into prison for violating his parole, Grossman and his friend attacked Park with a flashlight. They wrestled her service pistol away from her and shot and killed Park with it. Due to Grossman being Jewish, his death sentence outraged several Jewish organizations across the globe, and they petitioned ceaselessly for his clemency.
70. Manuel Valle (1978-2011, lethal injection): While driving a stolen car, Valle was pulled over by Louis Pena, a 41 year old police officer, for a traffic violation. In the confrontation, Valle shot Pena and his partner. Although Pena was killed in the shooting, his partner's life was saved by a bullet proof vest.
71. Oba Chandler (~1960s-2011, lethal injection): Chandler enticed a woman, 36 year old Joan Rogers, and her two daughters, 17 year old Michelle and 14 year old Christe, with the promise of a boat ride. On board, he bound the family with rope and raped all three of them. Chandler then tied concrete blocks around Joan and her daughters' necks and tossed them into the ocean to drown. He also raped and strangled 20 year old Ivelisse Berrios–Beguerisse after abducting her from a mall, and was linked to the murder by a 2014 DNA test 3 years after his execution. Chandler was an inveterate sexual predator with a very long criminal history, and was first arrested for car theft in his early teens. Many of his other crimes include several convictions of armed robbery, burglary, rape, counterfeiting, and kidnapping. In one incident, he broke into a couple’s house, and sexually assaulted the wife in front of her husband. One surviving victim, a 24 year old Canadian tourist, helped investigators tie Chandler to the Rogers’ murders with her reports.
72. Robert Waterhouse (~1966-2012, lethal injection): In 1966, Waterhouse snuck into the home of 77 year old Ella Carter, and raped and strangled her to death. He was paroled after serving 8 years of a life sentence. A few years later, Waterhouse picked up 29 year old Deborah Kammerer from a bar and assaulted her on a nearby beach. He stabbed and violated Kammerer with a broken bottle, shoved a tampon down her throat, and drowned her in the ocean waters.
73. David Gore (1981-2012, lethal injection): Gore and his cousin abducted and murdered 4 teenage girls (17 year old Ying Hua Ling, 17 year old Lynn Eilliot, 14 year old Angelica LaVallee, 14 year old Barbara Byer) and 2 grown women (48 year old Hsiang Huang Ling and 35 year old Judith Daley). The victims were kidnapped through force, picked up while hitchhiking, or tricked into thinking that Gore was a police officer detaining them. They were then tied up, raped, and shot or strangled to death. The cousins dismembered the bodies in their attempts to destroy them and buried the scattered remains in shallow graves. Two of their victims, Ying Hua Ling and Hsiang Huang Ling, were a mother and daughter pair of Taiwanese immigrants, and the cousins murdered them together. A 7th victim, 14 year old friend of Eilliot, was also abducted and sodomized, but she managed to escape with Eilliot's help.
74. Manuel Pardo Jr. (1986-2012, lethal injection): Pardo was a corrupt cop heavily involved in the drug trade. After his department fired him for his abuse of power and suspected tampering of investigations, Pardo went on a crime spree. He shot and killed at least 9 men and women in robberies and interpersonal disputes. The victims he murdered in robberies were 39 year old Ulpiano Ledo, 37 year old Luis Robledo, 33 year old Mario Amador, and 28 year old Roberto Alons. In every robbery incident, he stole the victims’ credit cards. Pardo killed 28 year old Fara Quintero in an argument over a ring he pawned to her and 30 year old Sara Musa for refusing his demands of buying him a VCR set with a credit card stolen from one of his previous robberies. Another victim, Michael Millot, a 38 year old Haitian refugee that took up work as a gunsmith, was slain out of Pardo’s fears of him being a police informant. His last murders were 40 year old Ramon Alvero, a drug dealer that he work for, and Alvaro’s girlfriend, 38 year old Daisy Ricard. Pardo turned on the couple after Alvaro stiffed him of a meeting. He shot Alvaro dead, but Padro’s gun jammed when he tried to shoot Ricard as well. As he was beating Ricard to death with his gun, it discharged and hit Pardo’s foot. On death row, Pardo tried to fashion himself as a vigilante trying to rid Florida of all drug related crimes.
75. Larry Mann (~1970s-2012, lethal injection): Mann ambushed 10 year old Elisa Nelson while she was biking from school to a dentist appointment. He raped Nelson and beat her to death with a pipe. Authorities also initially suspected Mann in the murders of several girls in the area, such as 16 year old Janie Sanders and 13 year old Rose Levandoski, but the current thinking is that another (still unknown) predator was likely responsible. Although he had convictions against adult women, Mann was a pedophile with a history of mostly preying on young girls.
76. Elmer Carroll (~1972-2012, lethal injection): Carroll broke into the room of 10 year old Christine McGowan. He raped and strangled the girl to death, tucked the body underneath the bedsheets, and stole her stepfather's construction truck. McGowan's body discovered was by her stepfather when he came to check on her. At the time of the murder, Carroll had two separate convictions (including one against his then 5 year old niece) for child molestation and was first accused of rape at the age of 16.
77. William Van (~1971-2013, lethal injection): Poyck Van Poyck and another man, Frank Valdez, ambushed a prison van that their incarcerated friend was being transported in with the intent of freeing him. The pair shot and killed a guard, 40 year old Fred Griffis and wounded another. Despite overtaking the van, they were forced to retreat without their friend with the arrival of police reinforcements. Both were captured after a brief shootout with the police and were given death sentences for Griffis’ murder. The case sparked controversy when Valdez was beaten to death by other prison guards in his cell. The officers involved were all fired but acquitted for murder in their trials. Van Poyck had several convictions of armed robbery on his record.
78. John Ferguson (~1960s-2013, lethal injection): Ferguson was the mastermind of the Carol City massacre that his above mentioned accomplices, Marvin Francois and Beauford White, participated in. He also committed a series of murders on his own. Two of his other victims, 17 year old Brian Glenfeldt and 17 year old Belinda Worley, were a couple that were ambushed in the parking lot of an ice cream shop. Ferguson raped Worley, shot her and Glenfeldt dead, and ran off with her jewelry and Glenfeldt’s wallet. Another couple, 82 year old Katherine and 75 year old Raymond Perry, were assaulted by Ferguson in their motel room, robbed, and shot dead execution style. Authorities also believe that Ferguson was responsible for the murders of James Ward, a 40 year old runaway from a mental institution, and Joseph Walters (age unknown), but was never convicted of them in court. Ferguson had a troubled upbringing, was stealing cars at the age of 13, and convicted for the attempted murder of an officer. Due to allegations of him being a schizophrenic, his execution was delayed numerous times, which is why he was put to death decades after his accomplices.
79. Marshall Gore (1988-2013, lethal injection): Gore abducted and murdered two women, 30 year old Robyn Novick and 19 year old Susan Roark. Both women were last seen in his company, and they were raped, beaten, and stabbed to death. He also carjacked 32 year old Tina Coralis while she was driving with her 2 year old son Jimmy. Gore raped Tina, beat her with a rock, slit her throat, dumped her on the side of the road, and drove off with her car while Jimmy was still in it. Tina survived the attack and notified the police about her kidnapped son and stolen car. The police were able to rescue Jimmy unharmed and capture Gore without incident.
80. William Happ (~1980s-2013, lethal injection): Happ dragged 21 year old Angela Crowley out of her own car window in a convenience store parking lot. He anally raped and strangled Crowley to death with her pants. A corner's report mentioned that Crowley received over 20 blows to her head during the assault. Happ had several convictions of armed robbery, one of which pertained to an abduction incident.
81. Darius Kimbrough (1991-2013, lethal injection): Kimbrough climbed into the apartment window of 28 year old Denise Collin with the help of a ladder. He raped and repeatedly slammed her head against the wall. She was found bloodied and nude by the paramedics called to the scene. Collin died of her injuries in the hospital a day after the attack. Her murder went unsolved until samples of Kimbrough’s DNA were collected from another one of his rapes. With the presence of additional pubic hairs found in Collin’s room, at least two other men were also certainly involved, but they remain at large to this day.
82. Thomas Knight (~1960s-2013, lethal injection): Knight began his string of murders by abducting his former employer, 64 year old Sydney Gans, and Sydney's wife, 60 year old Lillian. After her forced them to withdraw $50,000 from their bank accounts, Knight shot the Gans' dead. He was apprehended and, but he managed to escape from jail while awaiting trial. While on the run, Knight gunned down a clerk, 54 year old William Culpepper, while holding up a liquor store, and $640 from the cash register. A month later, Knight was recaptured following an armed standoff with police, and sentenced to death for the Gan killings. On death row, he stabbed a correctional officer, 48 year old Richard Burke, to death with a sharpened spoon over the prison allegedly barring him from seeing his mother. Knight had numerous theft and burglary convictions that date back to when he was 9 years old.
83. Juan Chavez (1995-2014, lethal injection): Chavez accosted 9 year old Jimmy Ryce when the boy was dropped off at a stop by a school bus, and abducted him at gunpoint. He took Ryce to a trailer on his employers' property and raped him. When Ryce tried to signal a passing helicopter for help, Chavez shot him in the back of the head, and muffled his cries as he died. The body was then decapitated and dismembered, and Chavez buried the remains near his trailer.
84. Paul Howell (~1990s-2014, lethal injection): Howell was part of a drug smuggling gang. One of the members had a falling out with the ring and made an agreement with law enforcement to testify against them. Howell constructed a microwave bomb to assassinate the witness in her home, and he assigned an associate to carry out the hit. As he was transporting the bomb to its intended destination, the associate was pulled over and detained by deputies. While being processed, the bomb detonated prematurely, and killed a deputy, 35 year old James Fulford, Jr.
85. Robert Henry (1987-2014, lethal injection): As part of his plan to assault the gas station that he worked at, Henry tricked his co workers, 53 year old Phyllis Harris and 35 year old Janet Thermidor, into thinking that a robber was holding him hostage. He duped the women into allowing themselves to be tied up and gagged, as Henry claimed to them that the fictitious "robber" was forcing him to do it. Both women were beaten with hammers as Henry ransacked the station’s store. After he stole a total of $1,269 from the register, he poured gasoline all over the building, and set it on fire. Thermidor and Harris were burned alive in the blaze and died of their injures, but Thermidor survived long enough to identify Henry as the assailant.
86. Robert Hendrix (1990-2014, lethal injection): To prevent his cousin, 25 year old Elmer Scott Jr., from testifying against him in a then upcoming burglary trail, Hendrix broke into the home that he shared with his wife, 18 year old Susan, with an accomplice. He shot Susan and Elmer, beat them with the butt of his rifle, and slashed their throats. In the case that he was about to be tried for, Elmer and Hendrix burglarized a home together, and Elmer agreed to testify against him in exchange for a reduced sentence.
87. John Henry (~1975-2014, lethal injection): In 1975, Henry got into an argument with his first wife, 28 year old Patricia Roddy, while they were driving with her daughters. Henry pulled over and stabbed Patricia to death in front of her children. After he plead guilty, Henry was given a 15 year sentence for second degree murder, and was released in 1983 after serving 8. Shortly after his release, he married 28 year old Suzanne Overstreet. As what happened with his first wife, he fatally stabbed Suzanne during an argument in 1985. He then took his stepson, 4 year old Eugene Christian, to a chicken farm and stabbed him to death as well. Henry also had several convictions for the possession of drugs and illegal firearms.
88. Eddie Davis (~1980s-2014, lethal injection): Davis kidnapped his ex girlfriend's daughter, 11 year Kimberly Waters, from her home and gagged her with a rag. He took the girl to a trailer that he used to live in, and raped and strangled her to death. His criminal activity before the murder included several arrests for burglary and autotheft.
89. Chadwick Banks (1992-2014, lethal injection): Banks shot his wife, 30 year old Cassandra, in the head while she was sleeping on their couch. He then crept into the room of his stepdaughter, 10 year old Melody Cooper, and sexually assaulted her. Melody was also shot dead during the abuse.
90. Johnny Kormondy (~1989-2014, lethal injection): Kormondy and his two accomplices invaded a house that Gary McAdams, a 38 year old banker, shared with his wife, 38 year old Cecilia. The couple were ambushed after they returned home from a high school reunion. Gary was shot and killed by Kormondy, while Cecilia was forced to orally copulate the other intruders. Several items were stolen in the robbery, but my sources didn’t disclose any specifics. Kormondy had several previous convictions of robberies and auto thefts, and the earliest occurred when he was 14.
91. Jerry Correll (1985-2015, lethal injection): Correll shot and killed his ex wife, 25 year old Susan, their daughter, 5 year old Tuesday, Susan's sister, 29 year old Marybeth Jones, and their mother, 58 year old Mary Lou Hines. All four victims were murdered in a home they shared together.
92. Oscar Bolin (~1977-2015, lethal injection): Bolin was sentenced to death for the abductions and murders of 26 year old Teri Matthews, 25 year old Natalie Holley, and 17 year old Stephanie Collins. All 3 victims were kidnapped while they were getting off from work, raped, and killed in beating and stabbing attacks. He raped and strangled a fourth victim, 30 year old Deborah Stowe, to death in Texas, but wasn't charged due to already facing the death penalty in Florida. Bolin also took part in the non fatal abduction and gang rape of a waitress in Ohio, was charged for kidnapping his girlfriend (which were later dropped by the courts), and had several theft convictions that started when he was 15.
93. Mark Asay (1987-2017, lethal injection): Asay shot and killed a black man, 34 year old Robert Booker, during a racially charged fight that he picked at a bar. After Booker's murder, Asay, his brother, and their friend went cruising for prostitutes. They encountered a cross dressing sex worker, 26 year old Robert McDowell, they were acquainted with and picked him up. McDowell was also shot dead by Asay when they got into an argument over payment for an oral sex act.
94. Michael Lambrix (1983-2017, lethal injection): While intoxicated, Lambrix beat one of his friends, 35 year old Clarence Moore, to death with a tire iron, and fatally strangled another friend, 19 year old Aleisha Bryant, with a t-shirt in their trailer. He was previously arrested for welfare fraud and was detained for an unspecified "unrelated charge" during the murder investigation.
95. Patrick Hannon (1991-2017, lethal injection): 27 year old Brandon Snider vandalized the bedroom of his ex girlfriend while she was away on vacation. The ex girlfriend's brother was friends with Hannon, and he convinced him to launch a revenge attack on Snider with the help of another friend. They broke into Snider's apartment, stabbed him, and slit his throat. Snider's roommate, 28 year old Robert Carter, witnessed the murder, and tried hiding underneath his bed. Hannon dragged Carter out and shot him to death.
96. Eric Branch (1991-2018, lethal injection): In 1993, Branch abducted and carjacked 21 year old Susan Morris. He raped, beat, and strangled her to death, and then buried Morris' body in a shallow grave near a nature trail. Branch used Morris' car to flee back to his native Indiana, but was captured for a traffic violation. A registered sex offender, Branch had previous convictions for sexually abusing a 14 year old girl, and raped an unidentified woman 10 days before Morris' murder.
97. José Jiménez (~1990-2018, lethal injection): Jiménez fatally strangled Marie Debas, a 32 year old French woman who was allegedly in a relationship with a Medellin cartel drug runner, during a burglary of her apartment. Two years later, he burglarized the home of 63 year old Phyllis Minas, and stabbed her to death.
98. Bobby Long (~1990-2018, lethal injection): As the “Classified Ad Rapist”, Long raped over 50 women. He was given that epithet due to contacting and luring his victims through classified ads. After one of his victims sought charges that initially convicted him (though were later dropped on appeals), Long’s pattern of sexual violence escalated to murder. Long murdered at least 10 women and teenage girls between the ages of 18-28 and non fatally assaulted a 33 year old woman, Linda Nuttall, and a 17 year old girl, Lisa McVey. The victims were picked up through hitchhiking, forcibly grabbed while walking alone on streets, or were prostitutes lured with promises of payment for sexual favors. Long’s sparing of his last victim, McVey, provided to be his downfall, as it was her meticulously detailed reports that led law enforcement to him.
99. Gary Bowles (~1970s-2019, lethal injection): Bowles lured 6 men, 72 year old Milton Bradley, 59 year old John Roberts, 47 year old Walter Hinton, 47 year old Alverson, 39 year old David Jarman, and 38 year old Albert Morris by prostituting himself to them. Once a victim was enticed, Bowles strangled them, and stole their credit cards. He also had several convictions for armed robbery, hospitalized his stepfather in his early teens, and served a 6 year prison sentence for sexually assaulting his girlfriend.
100. Donald Dillbeck (~1979-2023, lethal injection): In 1979, Dillbeck stole a car, and was pulled over by a deputy, 31 year old Dwight Hall. After a prolonged chase and scuffle, Dillbeck shot and killed Hall with his own gun. He was then given a life sentence for Hall's murder. Dillbeck escaped from prison in 1990, and stabbed 44 year old Robbie Vann to death while trying to seize her car. The pursuing officers recaptured him shortly after the killing, and he was sentenced to death for Vann's murder.
101. Louis Gaskin (~1986-2023, lethal injection): Gaskin started his burglary spree by breaking into the home of couple, 56 year old Robert and 55 year old Georgette Sturmfels. He shot them both dead, and stole their lamp, VCR set, and some jewelry and money. His second target was a house owned by 38 year old Joseph Rector and his wife Mary (age unknown). Although Gaskin shot Joseph, the couple both managed to escape him with their lives. Due to him wearing a ninja costume as a disguise during the robberies, he was dubbed as the "Ninja Killer" by media outlets. Gaskin also had a few robbery convictions at the time of the murders.
102. Darryl Barwick (1983-2023, lethal injection): Barwick stalked 24 year old Rebecca Wendt as she was sunbathing in a pool, followed her to her apartment, and forced himself inside to rob it. He stabbed Wendt 37 times and raped her. At the age of 16, Barwick had committed a similar act of rape and burglary against an unidentified woman, and was released from prison 3 months before Wendt's murder.
103. Duane Owen (1984-2023, lethal injection): Owen raped 14 year old Karen Slattery while burglarizing a home she was babysitting at, and stabbed her to death. A few months later, Owen burglarized another home owned by 38 year old Georgianna Worden. She was sexually assaulted and fatally beaten with a hammer. He was captured while breaking into another house on the same day, and confessed to Worden and Slattery's murders
104. James Barnes (~1988-2023, lethal injection): In 1988, Barnes invaded the home of 41 year old Patricia Miller, and tied her up with her own shoelaces. She was sexually assaulted, beaten to death with a hammer, and Barnes set her bed on fire to destroy any evidence of the crime. 9 years later, Barnes strangled his estranged wife, 44 year old Linda, to death in her home, and stuffed the body into a closet. He stayed in the house until he was arrested by police officers. Barnes also admitted to the shooting deaths of Chester Wetmore, a 14 year old runaway, and Brenda Fletcher, a 50 year old prostitute, but was never charged for their killings. According to Barnes, he killed both victims for stealing from him.
105. Michael Zack III (1996-2023, lethal injection): Zack befriended two women, 40 year old Laura Rosillo and 31 year old Ravonne Smith, while hanging out at bars. He lured Rosillo to the beach with the promise of drugs, and assaulted her with a tire iron. Rosillo was raped, strangled to death, and he buried her body in a sand dune. A day later, he tricked Smith into letting him inside her house. She was smashed in the head with a glass bottle, raped, and stabbed to death. Zack then fled with her car, television set, VCR, and her purse. On a different note, when he was a child, Zack’s older sister dismembered their mother with an ax over an argument regarding the sister’s boyfriend. He used that story to gain the sympathy of his victims. His sister (who was simply institutionalized rather then incarcerated for the murder) also testified about their stepfather’s alleged abuse of them at his trial, though the prosecutors debunked most of her stories.

https://www.jrcountry.ca/secretsound/
These are all of the incorrect guesses so far:

• Waves Washing up on the Shore.
• Pulling a Tarp off something and then water falling off of it.
• Emptying Empty Cans into the Blue Bin.
• Pulling a Shower Curtain Open.
• Rummaging through a container filled with Lego.
• Coins going into a Coin Counter.
• Dragging a Bag of Empty Cans.
• Sweeping up Broken Glass.
• Rock/Gravel being poured out.
• Digging through a Box of Lego.
• The game called Coin Pusher.
• Moving a bag of plastic bottles.
• Slamming of a door and glass breaking.
• An ice machine Making and Dispensing Ice.
• Scooping ice out of a bucket.
• Garbage truck emptying it’s bin into it’s truck.
• Garage door being opened manually.
• Pulling a boat up on shore.
• Emptying a bucket of Lego.
• Digging through a bucket of nuts and bolts.
• Opening vertical blinds via rope or chain.
• Metal shutters going up and down.
• Reaching into an ice cooler to pull out a beer.
• Dishwasher.
• Sweeping up Broken Glass into a Dustpan and putting it into a garbage can.
• Pulling tinfoil and ripping it.
• Ice being made inside a fridge then dropping into an ice collectobucket.
• Metal Roll Up Door being opened up.
• Pushing out the paper tray on a photo copier machine.
• Sorting recycling (cans, bottles, etc).
• Pulling a chain out of the water, either an anchor or crab trap, onto a boat.
• Shoveling Snow.
• Pulling a metal chain out of the back of a truck.
• Scraping Ice off the roof line and it hitting the ground.
• Drawing the blinds by hand.
• Manual or push lawn mower.
• Closing the rear door of a moving truck.
• Opening or closing of a chain hoist of a commercial door.
• Pulling a shopping cart away from another cart.
• Adjusting your car seat.
• Heavy rain/wind hitting the roof of a car.
• Pulling the cord on a lawn mower.
• Pulling the bowling pins up and scrape away.
• Dishwasher going through it’s cycle.
• Excavator tracks running on gravel.
• Scraping the ice off your windshield.
• Photocopy machine making copies.
• Ice cubes dispensing from a fridge into a glass.
• Can crushing machine.
• Extracting candy from a gumball machine.
• Opening or closing a barn door.
• Ice being dumped into a cooler.
• Pouring drink into a cup of ice.
• Brushing water out of your driveway using a broom.
• Oysters being shoveled off a barge.
• Rowing machine at the gym.
• A Printer.
• Mixing concrete.
• Excavator Digging.
• Condo food compactor.
• Turning an outboard motor on a boat on/off.
• Pouring dog food out of a bag into a plastic bowl.
• Manually opening a garage door.
• Pouring wood chips out of a metal bucket.
• Ice washing up on the shore.
• Pouring charcoal into the BBQ.
• Asphalt milling.
• Opening or closing an ironing board.
• Belt inside a laundromat dryer.
• Opening and closing a tool box with tools.
• Rummaging through a utensil drawer.
• A box moving along a metal roller conveyor belt.
• Pouring busted up concrete or bricks out of a wheel barrow.
• A fish hook you put through the mouth of a fish, slapping the side of an aluminum boat.
• Bingo balls rolling around in the bingo ball cage.
• A bobcat dumping asphalt into a dump truck.
• Boat going through the water, crashing on the waves.
• An extension ladder with a rope pull.
• A car going through an automated car wash.
• Opening a box of cereal and pouring it into a bowl.
• Metal bingo ball wheel.
• Golf ball dispenser at a driving range.
• Shovelling gravel into a wheel barrow and a couple of pieces fall out.
• Hail hitting a metal roof.
• Pulling paper towel from a paper towel dispenser.
• Dropping an anchor from a boat into the water.
• Wooden framed sliding door opening and closing.
• Coin pay pool table with the balls dropping.
• Freezer drawer opening and closing on a fridge.
• Paddling a kayak.
• Coin operated toy machine.
• Pouring cans out of recycling bin into another bin.
• Pouring coffee beans into a coffee grinder.
• Pouring ice into a cup.
• Lifting up a moving truck door.
• Bowling ball hitting the pins and then the pins falling down.
• A chain link fence gate opening and closing.
• Pulling out a vacuum cord or putting it back in.
• Returning a shopping cart to a shopping cart corral.
• A garbage truck picking up a garbage can and dumping it into the garbage truck.
• A boat being pushed into the water from the shore – metal boat.
• Shoveling snow and hitting the concrete with your shovel.
• Metal oars on a row boat.
• A hand cement mixer that you have to twist by hand.
• Opening an umbrella.
• Changing over the cash in a cash register.
• Foot scuffing gravel as you’re kicking the gravel.
• Sea shells washing up on the shore.
• Boat oars going in and out of the water as you’re rowing.
• Employee closing the security shutters in front of a store front, in a mall.
• Automatic soil composter.
• A bowling alley when they’re resetting the bowling pins.
• Kaleidoscope turning.
• Cement coming out of a cement truck down the chute where a person is assisting the cement going into a container.
• Grating a carrot on a boxed grater.
• Skee-ball machine when you put the money in, push it in, and the balls drop to play.
• Windshield wipers.
• Leaf rake raking up debris.
• Ice machine on a fridge.
• Pulling the lever on a slot machine.
• Skating on ice.
• Taking a shovel, taking a load of gravel and then dumping it into a wheelbarrow.
• Pushing/Pulling a salt spreader.
• Using a push broom to sweep up cans or something.
• A Rock tumbler.
• Chains being pulled through a pulley.
• Being on the receiving end of a pocket dial.
• Waves flapping around your feet at the beach.
• Scooping ice and filling a glass.
• Rolling up a garden hose.
• Old push lawn mower.
• Emptying pencil crayons onto a table.
• When you put a new lid on your water cooler jug at the refill station.
• Tinfoil being torn off the roll.
• Flat deck cart dispenser at IKEA.
• Snacks falling from a vending machine.
• Reaching into a cooler of ice and grabbing some beverages.
• A soft hinge drawer opening and closing.
• A turnstile.
• Raking gravel.
• A wrecking ball hitting a building.
• A monster truck driving over cars and crushing them.
• Pulling the cord on a boat motor to start it.
• An automatic card shuffler.
• Rolling and engaging the latch on a roll up tonneau cover.
• Cars going up a roller coaster before you go down.
• Scooping up hard shell candy (ie. jelly beans).
• Pallet jack going into a skid.
• Scooping already made/popped popcorn.
• Cleaning out an aquarium.
• Popcorn kernels spinning in a popcorn maker.
• Backloademachine trying to crunch some trash at the dump.
• Office chair rolling back and forth on a hard surface.
• Elevator doors opening and closing.
• Tape Measure.
• Spin Mop.
• Pulling aluminum foil out of the box.
• Tipping over a toy bin and toys falling out.
• Pizzeria Conveyor Belt.
• Winch hooking a car on a flat bed tow truck.
• Tow Truck operator pulling chains onto the Flatbed.
• Jenga blocks falling.
• Sails of a sail boat flapping in the breeze.
• Opening and closing a shower curtain.
• A manual coffee bean grinder.
• Jumping into and walking around a ball pit.
• Push toys/spin top toy.
• Metal adjustable basketball hoop.
• Filing cabinet drawer opening/closing.
• Running your hands through glass rocks in your patio table fire pit.
• Raking leaves.
• Crumpling up a chip bag.
• Crumpling up paper.
• Shoveling gravel.
• A salad spinner.
• Tool box drawer opening and closing.
• Someone walking through a plastic curtain.
• Wooden beads on a children’s beads maze toy.
• Putting a tape into the VCR and door closes.
• Shoveling lava rock out of wheel barrow.
• Poker chips in a box.
• Entering an icy cold bath.

”Stop.”
I really needed the bathroom.
For fifty painstaking minutes, I had been staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster, uncomfortably shifting side to side in my seat so much that I was starting to get weird looks.
2:52pm.
Eight minutes, I thought dizzily, squeezing my legs together.
Which was just two chunks of four minutes.
Four chunks of two minutes.
The pain started like normal stomach pain, the kind I could deal with.
I swallowed two Tylenol with lukewarm soda.
But this was different.
This kind of pain was contorting and twisting my gut so much, I had to keep leaning onto my left buttock for relief.
I must have done it so many times, I caught the attention of the guy sitting next to me. Roman Hemlock who was half asleep, dark blonde curls hanging in half lidded eyes, his chin leaning on his fist. He shot me a look. I couldn't tell if it was Are you okay? or Can you stop moving around so much?
From the single crease in his brow, the slight curl in his lip, I guessed the latter.
It's not like Roman was helping.
For half the class, he'd been tapping his foot on the floor, then his chair leg, and to complete the orchestra, his fingers joined in, tap, tap, tapping on the edge of his desk. I didn't know if it was a bored thing, an ADHD thing, or he was trying to keep himself awake. It was easy to tolerate without the pain, but with it, the boy’s incessant tapping was more akin to a dentist drill splitting my skull open. I already felt nauseous, the sad looking chicken nuggets I forced down at lunch making an unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat.
It was too fucking hot, the stuffy summer air glueing my hair to the back of my neck. The material of my shirt was making me cringe, sticky against my skin.
Tipping my head back, the lights were too bright. Every sound was too loud. Imogen Prairie, who was sitting behind me chewing her gum a little too loudly.
Kaz Samuels scribbling notes like a maniac.
I could hear every stroke of his pencil, every time he paused, looked up at the presentation, and continued writing.
When I leaned forward in my chair, I could smell exactly what Isabella Trinity had eaten for lunch, the stink hanging in the air.
It became a case of sucking in my stomach and taking slow, deep breaths.
I’d never had these kinds of stomach cramps before. But it didn't take me long to figure out what they were.
I was yet to start my period at the grand age of sixteen, which meant this was it.
After countless sessions with the doctor, and feeling like a social outcast among my group of friends who started their periods in middle school, it had finally happened. The cramps in my gut that felt like my torso was being ripped apart, was in fact me entering womanhood. When my breath started to quicken, my mouth watering, I raised my hand, biting my lip against a cry.
Fuck.
Something lurched in my gut, a wave of nausea crashing into me.
I was going to throw up.
“Mr Brighton.”
Roman spoke up before me, waving his arm. “Can I use the bathroom?”
The teacher’s answer was always the same. Which was why I had been crossing my legs for the entirety of the class, unable to focus on anything but my gut trying to twist itself inside out.
Mr Brighton leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the PowerPoint awash in our faces. We had been staring at the exact same slide for maybe five minutes now, and our physics teacher was yet to speak, his gaze somewhere else.
Mr Brighton was my Dad’s age, a greying man in his early fifties who always wore the exact same suit with the exact same stain on his collar.
The man was about as interesting as watching paint dry.
Normally, I would drift off myself, lulled into slumber by the low drone of his voice.
But the pain ripping me apart was keeping me awake.
“Mr Brighton.” Roman said, louder. His voice snapped me out of it. “Can I use the bathroom?” He paused, exaggerating a loud sigh. ”Please?”
The teacher straightened up, folding his arms.
“Mr Hemlock, you know the rules. Why didn't you go before class?”
“I didn't need to go an hour ago, did I?”
“You will no longer need to go to the bathroom, Mr Hemlock.”
Roman made a snorting noise.
“What?”
The low murmur of my classmates collapsed into white noise.
Glancing at the clock, I was anticipating the school bell.
The sickness swimming in the pit of my belly was reaching dangerous territory.
2:52pm.
Something ice cold trickled down my spine.
It was 2:52 the last time I checked, and five minutes had surely passed.
This time, I waited a whole minute and counted the seconds under my breath. The clock still didn't move. The ticker was frozen halfway between three and four.
Slowly, the same realisation began to hit the twelve of us. The clock on the wall had stopped. But it wasn't the only thing that had stopped. The cool breeze drifting through the window was gone.
The sound of birds outside, and the cheer squad practising their routine.
Everything had stopped. Trying to ignore a sickly slither of panic twisting its way through me, I checked my phone under my desk. There was a text from my Mom lighting up my notifications. When I tried to swipe it open, nothing happened. My lock screen was frozen, stuck at 2:52pm.
With my hands growing clammy around my phone, I stared at the time, willing it to move, to flick to 2:53.
But nothing happened, the numbers stubbornly staying at 2:52.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roman’s voice brought me back to reality, though I was sure I'd dropped my phone. I heard it hit the floor with a sickening crack. Whatever he was saying, though, faded into dull murmur, when I turned toward the window.
Something was wrong outside.
The cheer squad were nowhere to be seen.
Being on the top floor gave us a front row seat to their practice sessions.
I stopped watching when their flyer did a death defying flip, almost breaking her neck. 2:52pm. I couldn't see the cheer squad. But I did see Jessie Carson mid-sprint across the track field, strawberry blonde curls suspended in a halo around her.
I could see exactly where she had frozen in place, her left foot hovering off of the ground, her right foot driving momentum. It wasn't just Jessie who had stopped. The dirt she was kicking into a cloud behind her was hovering, caught in mid-air.
Studying the faces around me, my mouth went dry.
Roman Hemlock, mid-argument with our physics teacher.
His eyes were wide, lips curved into what would have been a yell.
Fuck.
Was I the only one?
But then Roman blinked, and I realized the boy wasn't frozen. He was trying to think of a comeback. “What do you mean I won't need the bathroom anymore?”
“Mr Hemlock, please lower your voice.”
“Why? You can't dictate to me when I do and don't need the bathroom, dude!”
Moving onto the rest of my class, the others were still moving.
It was too quiet, though.
Yes, Roman was still tapping his foot.
Imogen was still chewing her gum.
Kaz was still scribbling notes like a psychopath.
But they were the only noise I could hear.
I wasn't the only one confused. The classroom had pricked with a sense of urgency. Kids were checking their phones, their gazes glued to the clock. Even Roman, who was still arguing, was starting to notice. I watched his gaze lazily roll to the clock on the wall.
I pretended not to see his cheeks visibly paling.
We had all come to the exact same terrifying conclusion.
2:52pm.
Time had come to a halt, and somehow, we had not.
“Is that clock broken?” Roman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.
Kaz twisted around, settling the boy with an eye-roll.
“Check your phone, dumbass.”
“I broke my phone.”
Imogen threw her iPhone at him, narrowly missing hitting him in the face.
“Everything is frozen,” She said, her voice shuddering. “It's not just the clock.”
I waited for Roman’s response. For once, though, he was speechless.
“Well done, Imogen. That is correct.” Mr Brighton spoke up, tearing a piece of paper from a workbook and striding over to the door, glueing it over the glass window. When we started to protest, some of us were shouting, while others bursting into tears, he calmly took out his key and locked us in.
I should have been surprised that our teacher had spontaneously decided to take his entire class hostage, but the rumor mill had been churning.
According to Becca Jason, the guy’s wife divorced him and took his kids.
I could feel myself sinking into my chair, phantom bugs filling my mouth.
So, this guy had nothing to lose.
Taking his place in front of his desk, the man settled us with a patient smile.
“From now on, you will stay inside this room.” He said. “In case you haven't noticed, time is currently frozen at fifty two minutes past two. The thirteen of us are tucked into the twenty first second, and will be, for the foreseeable future.”
I could tell the others wanted to argue, but we couldn't deny that time had stopped. Kaz was staring down at his frozen phone, Imogen hyperventilating behind me, Roman glaring at the clock, chewing on a pencil. We wanted it to be a prank, a joke, some kind of glitch in the matrix that would fix itself.
But then a whole minute passed by. Followed by another. Kaz threw his phone on the floor, hissing in frustration. Imogen let out a wet sounding sob.
Roman’s pencil split in his mouth, slipping from his fingers. We couldn't pretend it wasn't happening or call our teacher out on his BS, because it was everywhere around us. The sudden absence of outdoor ambience, birdsong, planes flying overhead, and traffic outside the school gates. Everyone and everything had stopped, and we were the only ones left.
This was a nightmare, surely.
My physics class were some of the most boring and pretentious people in the school, and somehow the world had been reduced to the twelve of us inside our classroom. We were scared, of course we were. But reality had stopped making sense, crashing and burning in a single second. We had no choice but to listen to our teacher. “Now, before you freak out, it may not feel like it, but the twelve of you have also stopped.”
Mr Brighton held out his own hand, and placed it on his heart.
He was right.
I was so busy trying to understand what was happening, I had failed to realize my period cramps were gone.
“Do me a favor, and press your hand over your heart.”
“You mean like, in a culty way?” Imogen whispered.
“Obviously.” Roman grumbled, halfway out of his seat. He was hesitant, though, in case our teacher was armed. It only took one glance from our teacher, and he slumped back into his chair. “This crazy fucker clearly wants to play mind games with us.”
“No, I'm just asking you to feel for your heart.”
I felt for mine, and there was nothing, my stomach twisting.
Roman stabbed his fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.
He tried his wrist.
Then his heart.
Nothing.
“The twelve of you are currently in a state of stasis,” the teacher explained to us, “You are not alive, nor are you dead. Your bodily functions are also on pause, such as your heartbeat and your pulse. In this state there will be no need for food and water, or going to the bathroom.” His gaze found a ghastly looking Roman, who looked like he was going to faint. “Your minds, however, as you can see, are working as usual.”
“But why?” Imogen demanded in a shriek.
Mr Brighton’s lip curled. “I would rather not answer that question.”
“Because you're lonely.” Roman spoke up. He swung back on his chair, narrowed eyes glued to the teacher.
“Your wife and kids left you, so you're asserting power over a group of sixteen year olds. Which is kinda fucking pathetic.”
Mr Brighton’s expression darkened, and something slimy crept up my throat.
The worst thing any of us could do was threaten him. He had taken kidnapping to a whole new level, and we were alone with this psychopath, trapped inside a second. I waited for the man to stride forward and attack the kid. But he didn't. Instead, the teacher leaned back on his desk. “Yes.” The man nodded.
“I suppose you could say I am.”
“But why us?!” Kaz hissed.
“Because you are children.” Mr Brighton responded casually.
He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Roman’s desk. The rest of us leaned back. I tried to pull my desk with me, but it was glued to the floor. Frozen. Mr Brighton’s shoes went click-clack across the hardwood floor.
“You are right,” the man said in a murmur, “I am lonely. My wife and kids did leave me, and I have nobody left to control. I have nobody else to contort and use to my advantage.” Reaching Roman’s desk, he leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the kid.
“Congratulations, Mr Hemlock. You have just earned yourself detention.”
Roman stayed stubbornly still, but he was visibly afraid. I could see him very slowly backing away. Roman was all bark and no bite. He was a loud mouth, sure, but he was also the least confrontational person in the class.
“What?” He spluttered. “You trap us in a time loop or time trap, or whatever, and you still want to act like a teacher?”
“Stand up.” The teacher ordered.
“What if I don't?”
Mr Brighton’s expression didn't waver. “You said it yourself. I can and have trapped you inside a single second. What else do you think I'm capable of?”
Roman stood, kicking his chair out of the way.
“What are you planning on doing to me, old man?”
The teacher maintained his smile. “Stand up straight, and close your mouth.”
To my confusion, Roman Hemlock did all the above.
He straightened up, and closed his mouth.
“Do not fight me.” The teacher said calmly, “Do as you are told, and follow me.”
The boy did exactly as instructed.
His jaw slackened, that rebellious light in his eyes fizzling out.
I think that's when we all collectively agreed that going against this teacher and trying to escape was mental suicide.
“I will use Mr Hemlock as an example to all of you,” Mr Brighton said, turning to the rest of us. “If you break the rules or are derogatory in any way, you will be given detention.”
He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to walk towards the supply closet. Roman moved like a robot, slightly off balance, his gaze glued to thin air, like he was tracking invisible butterflies.
"Your time in detention will depend on the severity of your rule-break.” He opened the door, gently pushing Roman inside, and following suit. When the door closed behind them, there was a pause, and I remembered how to breathe.
Kaz Samuels slowly got up from his desk, inching towards the closet.
“This guy is a certified nut.” He announced.
He turned towards us. “Whatever he's doing to Hemlock, we’re probably next.”
“He stopped time.” I spoke up, my own voice barely a croak. “He’s capable of anything.”
“But how did he stop time?” Kaz whistled, tipping his head back. The boy was slow, his fingers grasping each desk as he slid down the aisle. “He said he was lonely, right? But why take it out on us? What did we do to him?”
“Check his desk for a weapon!” Imogen whisper-shrieked.
Kaz nodded, striding over to the man's desk, his hands moving frantically, shoving paper on the floor. He took an uncertain seat on the man's chair. “There's nothing here,” he murmured, lifting stained coffee mugs and ancient textbooks. “It's just…test papers.” Kaz ducked from view, trying the drawers.
“He's a fan of Pokémon,” he said, “There's a tonne of Pokémon cards,” Kaz straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “No sign of a weapon, though.”
He picked up a ruler, waving it around. “This could work. If we plunge it in his eye.”
“Try his laptop!” Imogen was halfway out of her seat.
Kaz did, slamming the keys. “It's locked.”
“Look harder!” Ren Clarke threw a pencil at him.
“I am!”
After a minute of searching, Kaz grabbed a single piece of paper.
He held it up, and I squinted.
It was a list of our names, with several of them highlighted.
“Fuck.” Kaz dropped the list, his expression crumpling. The stubborn bravado facade transforming him into our sort of leader dissipated, hollowing him out into exactly what he was. Just a scared kid. Kaz’s hands were shaking.
“Mr Brighton’s got a hit list.” He whispered. “He's going to kill us.”
“How do you know that?” I found myself asking.
Kaz slowly dropped into a crouch, picking up the paper and holding it up.
“Look.” He pointed to a capitalised name at the top of the list highlighted in red.
ROMAN HEMLOCK.
There were six names highlighted in red, including mine.
CRISTA ADAMS.
As if on cue, Roman’s cry rang out from the supply closet, suddenly, freezing us all in place. Kaz jumped up, adapting the expression of a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, almost unseeing.
He fell over himself to tidy up the desk, putting everything back where he had found it, sliding the list between a pile of test papers. Kaz took slow, stumbled steps back, his feverish gaze glued to the closet, before turning and making a break for it and diving into his seat.
“Brighton’s got a hit liiiist,” Kaz said, in a mocking sing-song, “And we’re all on it.”
What followed was deathly silence. I think we were expecting Roman to cry out again. But when he didn't, the class started to stir. Some kids started praying to a god they didn't believe in, while others were in varying states of denial, trying to call their parents with dead phones.
I wasn't sure what parts of me had stopped, but I was still alive, still felt like my lungs were deprived of oxygen, my chest aching. I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to find my voice, a shriek trying and failing to rip through my mouth. Being kidnapped and held hostage is one thing, but being imprisoned inside a single, never ending second, was an existential hell worse than death. Slowly, I pressed my palm over my heart once again. Then I breathed into my cupped hands.
I was expecting it, but no longer being able to feel my own heartbeat and breath, was fear I didn't think was possible. The kind that glued me to my seat, hollowing me out completely until I was nothing, an empty shell with no heartbeat, no breath, no thoughts, except denial, followed by acceptance.
And finally, regret.
I regretted not hugging my mother goodbye before I left for school.
I regretted acting like a spoiled brat when my parents refused to drive me halfway across the country so I could attend Coachella.
I regretted stepping inside Mr Brighton’s fourth period physics class.
Mr Brighton reappeared, slamming the door behind him and locking the boy inside. Part of me flinched, while the rest of me remembered not to move a muscle. I was barely aware of time passing. Or it wasn't. Time had stopped, so now long had I been sitting there?
I could no longer measure the passage of time with hunger or thirst, and my body felt the same. I wasn't stiff or tired or achy. Looking out of the window, the sky was the exact same crystal blue, every cloud in the exact same place.
Jessie Carson was still frozen mid-run, strands of dark red hair caught around her.
“What's wrong with you guys?” Mr Brighton chuckled, and I twisted back to the front, a shiver writhing down my spine. “Why don't you give me a smile?”
The teacher returned to his desk, and I was already subconsciously sitting up straight in my seat, forcing my lips into a jaw-breaking grin, following Brighton’s instructions. In the corner of my eye, Imogen was sitting very still, forcing an award-winning cheesy smile, while Kaz grinned through gritted teeth.
“Mr Hemlock just earned himself two weeks inside the supply closet.” he said casually, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The man studied each of us, taking his time to rip every shred of us apart.
Mind, body, and soul.
I struggled to maintain my stupid smile, shoving my shaking hands in my lap.
“Would anyone like to join him, or are you going to follow the rules?”
The rest of us stayed silent. I don't think any of us breathed.
Our teacher nodded to Kaz, inclining his head.
“Samuels. Are you all right?”
Kaz’s smile faltered slightly. He shifted in his chair. I could see sweat trickling down his right temple. “Uh, yeah.” He swiped at his forehead, like he couldn't believe he was sweating. “Yeah, I'm good.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward his desk, and we all held our breaths. Mr Brighton seemed to study his hit-list, lips curving into a frown.
His gaze flicked to the boy, and then the paper.
He knew, I thought dizzily.
Mr Brighton knew the kid had been rummaging through his desk. But this was all about control. The teacher was using fear to control us, to manipulate our thoughts without having to get physical. He could have called out the boy right then, but Brighton was settling with mental torture instead. He just wanted to make my classmate squirm.
Without a word, the man folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Mr Samuels, you are sweating,” our physics teacher said, mocking a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”
Kaz hesitated, tapping his shoe in a rhythm.
Being one of the smartest kids in the room definitely gave him an advantage.
I could already see the cogs turning behind half lidded eyes. Kaz was weighing each scenario, sorting them into positives and negatives.
The positives of answering would mean he was one step towards being in the clear, but there were two negatives.
Brighton would question him if he had left his seat, and then demand how his hit-list had magically moved across the desk.
Talking back was surely a rule-break, as well as outright lying.
Opening his mouth would get him in trouble, either way, and Kaz knew that.
So, he just nodded, forcing an even bigger smile.
Brighton’s lips pricked, his gaze straying on Kaz. “Good!” He cleared his throat, turning to the class. Kaz slumped in his seat with a sharp breath, resting his head in his arms. If Mr Brighton noticed, he didn't say anything. “Ignore the sweating. It should stop, along with hunger and thirst.”
Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate everything in his vicinity.
Time.
Minds.
And slowly… contorting us into his own.
In the single second we were trapped inside, I felt days go by in a dizzying whirlwind that was like being permanently high. When I stood up, I felt like I was floating.
When I sat down, hours could go by, even days, and I wouldn't even feel them. I did try and count the days, initially, scribbling them on a scrap piece of paper, but somewhere around the thirteenth or fourteenth day, I lost count. The world around us never changed, in permanent stasis, and maybe that was sending us a little crazy.
After a while of being stuck at our desks, Mr Brighton allowed us to wander the classroom, as long as we stayed away from the door. I lay on the floor for days, counting ceiling tiles.
Sometimes, Imogen would join me.
I couldn't sleep, but I could pretend to sleep, imagining a world that was back to normal. I didn't feel hungry, but my brain did like to remind me of food at the weirdest times. I was aware of weeks passing us by, and then months.
I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.
I couldn't remember what pain felt like, or the urge to go to the bathroom. Even the concept of eating and drinking became foreign to me. Putting something in your mouth and chewing to sustain yourself?
That sounded odd.
The only thing that was changing was our slowly unravelling metal state.
I don't know how it started. Weekends and Tuesdays blended together. On one particular SaturTuesday, I was hanging upside down from my desk, watching Kaz and Imogen doodle on the whiteboard.
Kaz had a plan to escape, but after a while, his ‘plan’ to distract the teacher, had gone nowhere. After passing notes between us, the twelve of us had decided that we needed a weapon.
That was maybe a month ago. I wasn't sure what mind games our teacher was playing, but Kaz Samuels, who we were counting on to be our brains, was slowly falling under his spell. Their game had been going on for three days. The two of them were having a competition to see who could draw the craziest thing.
Mr Brighton was at his desk as usual, marking papers.
Imogen was drawing a weird looking ‘skateboard’ when the doors to the storage closet flew open.
Roman Hemlock appeared, and to my surprise, wasn't a hollow eyed shell.
He held up his hand in a wave, his lips forming a small smile.
“Yo.”
Roman’s reappearance was enough to snap us out of it. Kaz and Imogen stopped arguing, the rest of the class going silent. I sat up, blinking rapidly.
I was sure our collective consensus was that Roman Hemlock was dead.
Mr Brighton lifted his head and gave the boy a civil nod. “Mr Hemlock will be rejoining us,” he said, his gaze going back to marking papers. “Please make him feel comfortable. I'm sure he's very excited to be able to talk to you again.”
Instead of going to his desk, the boy immediately joined the others, snatching the marker off of a baffled looking Kaz, and drawing an overly artistic sketch of a penis. I wasn't sure what confused me more. The fact that Roman Hemlock had some serious artistic skills, or that he seemed suspiciously fine for someone who had been locked in the storage closet for two weeks with no social interaction.
With my last few lingering brain cells still clinging on, I studied the boy.
There were no signs of bruises or scratches.
His eyes seemed normal, not diluted or half lidded.
Unable to stop myself, I jumped off of my desk and joined the others, where Kaz was already interrogating the guy.
“WHAT–”
Imogen nudged him, and he lowered his voice, leaning against the wall. “What did he do to you?”
Roman shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Relax, dude. He didn't do anything to me.”
“Then what was that yell?” Imogen hissed.
The boy cocked his head. “Yell?”
“You yelled out,” Kaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. He was already suspecting one of us had been compromised– or worse, brainwashed into compliance. Kaz stepped closer, backing Roman into the desk. “You cried out when you first went in there,” he murmured, “So, what was that?”
Something in Roman’s eyes darkened. “Oh,” He said, his lip curling. “That.”
Kaz’s expression softened. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah,” He whispered. “What did he do to you?”
Imogen shoved Kaz out of the way, shooting the boy a glare.
“You don't have to tell us, you know.” She said in a small voice. “If it's too traumatising, or he did something you don't want to talk about–”
Roman cut her off with a laugh, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.
The remaining nine of us were eagerly awaiting an explanation.
“Are you fucking serious?”
When Kaz didn't respond, Roman gathered us in a kind of hustle, the four of us grouped together. I felt like I was on the football field. Still, though, if the guy’s goal was to look as suspicious as possible, he was doing a great job.
Roman studied each of us, one eyebrow cocked. When Mr Brighton glanced up from his work, Roman shot him a grin, lowering his voice to a hiss.
“You seriously think our fifty year old physics teacher has been abusing me in the storage closet?
“Then why did you cry out?” Kaz demanded. “Did he hit you?”
Roman stuck out his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure he didn't hit me.”
“So, you cried out for no reason.”
“Why are you covering for him?” Imogen poked his forehead. “Are you lobotomised?”
Roman wafted her hand away. “Stop prodding me, and no, I'm 100% good.” He backed away from us, like we were observers, and he was the zoo attraction.
“I won't be, if you keep treating me like I'm senile.”
“Okay, fine,” Kaz sighed. “Just answer one.”
“Shoot.”
“When you first went in there, you made an unmistakable sound of distress–”
“Not this again,” Roman groaned. “Of course I yelled! I was shoved into a pitch black storage closet on my own! What, did you expect me to stay silent?”
Kaz didn't look convinced, Imogen nervously sucking her teeth.
The boy leaned back, resting his head against the wall. His eyes flickered shut.
“Stop looking at me like that, there's nothing to tell you,” he murmured, “Brighton didn't do shit to me. I was just freaked out.” Prying one eye open, he fixed us with a glare. “I am so sorry for reacting like a human. Next time, I'll make sure to attack him and pin him to the ground.”
It's not like we believed him. I don't think Roman believed himself.
Something significant had changed in him. He was no longer argumentative, like half of his personality had been torn away. Roman set a precedent. Because once he was following instructions and walking around with a dazed smile, others began to follow. I can't remember how much time had passed since I thought about escaping.
Days and weeks and months had collapsed into fleeting seconds I only noticed when I wasn't playing games.
I wasn't aware of my own lack of sanity until I found myself, on a random SaturWednesday. I was laughing, gathered with the others on the floor, around a Monopoly board. The game had been going on for almost a week.
Reality hit me when I was laughing so hard I tipped back.
I can't remember why I was laughing. I think Imogen told a bad joke.
“Hand it over.” Roman, who was the King of Monopoly, held out his hand, demanding my last 250 bucks. I remember noticing his smile, my foggy brain trying to find hints that he was in some kind of trance, or being controlled by Brighton. But no. His smile was real.
Genuine.
To my shock and confusion, so was mine.
I wasn't in a trance or any type of mind manipulation. I was completely conscious.
Was this… Stockholm syndrome? I thought dizzily.
Was I enjoying this?
My thoughts were like cotton candy, disconnected and wrong, and they barely felt like my own. My gaze found Imogen and Kaz, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, enveloped in the game.
They looked exactly the same, their hair, clothes, everything about them staying stagnant. It was them themselves who had drastically changed. I had never seen them look so carefree. Imogen was a hotheaded cheerleader, and Kaz was the smart kid who gave himself nosebleeds from overworking himself. But now, they were laughing, nudging each other, caught up in an inside joke. Blinking slowly, my gaze strayed on them.
Sure, it could be manipulation. It could be brainwashing. But it could also be real.
Kaz caught my eye, raising a brow.
“You good, Christa?”
Shaking my head, I nodded.
Again, my smile felt real. Like I was having fun.
“Good. It's your turn.”
I picked up the dice, throwing them across the board.
Two sixes.
“I can already see her landing on one of my hotels.” Roman murmured. He sat up, resting his chin on his knees. “As the clear winner, I have a proposition.”
Ignoring him, I moved my piece– immediately landing on Park Place.
“I'll give you 500,” Roman announced, “If you give up New York avenue.”
“That's all I've got!”
Imogen nudged me. “Don't do it. If you give him New York Avenue, he only needs one more.”
“One thousand.” Roman waved the notes in my face.
“My final offer.”
When I reached for the cash, he held it back.
“New York Avenue, he said, with a grin.
“And your pride.”
Reluctantly, I handed my only property over.
Kaz threw the dice and moved his piece, and I half remembered we had an escape plan. “Community chest.” Kaz picked up a card. “Go straight to jail.”*
Roman spluttered. “That's karma,” he said, “For stealing from the bank.”
“You were stealing too!”
We had a plan.
We had…. a plan.
After discussing it in detail, Imogen and I were going to try and get onto Brighton’s laptop. It wasn't a perfect way to escape, but it was coherent.
So, what happened?
We were going to get out, so what… what was this?
Kaz’s earlier words hit me from months ago.
“Mr Brighton *is the thing keeping us here,”* he explained. “If we kill him, I'm like, 98% sure we’ll go back to normal.”
“Okay, and what if he dies and we’re *stuck?”* Imogen whisper-shrieked.
“I said 98% for a reason. Yes, there's a small chance his power will die with him. But there's a bigger chance that its effects will die when he does.”
Ren nodded slowly. “Right, and where exactly did you learn this information?”
“You'll feel a lot better if I don't answer that.”
“Okay.” Ren gritted his teeth. “So, we just need to find a weapon, right?”
“And don't tell Hemlock,” Kaz rolled his eyes. “I don't care what he says, that boy definitely had his mind fucked with. Hemlock is a liability. If we tell Roman, he tells Brighton, and we’re screwed.” Kaz nodded to me, then the others. “Keep your mouths shut.”
Presently, I wasn't sure the boy wanted to escape.
Slowly, I rolled my eyes over to Mr Brighton, who had joined us to play.
He was happily marking papers, taking part when he could.
It felt…right.
Not like we had been forced or manipulated, but more like he belonged. Part of me wanted to question why I felt like this, but I found that I didn't care. I didn't care that we were essentially dead, in a never ending stasis and stuck inside fifty two minutes past two. I stopped thinking about the outside world a long time ago.
I couldn't even remember my Mom’s face.
I made my decision, dazedly watching Imogen throw a chance card at Roman.
He flung one back, threatening to tip the board.
I wanted to stay.
In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake.
Ren, who had been sitting next to me, kept moving, further and further away. I didn't notice until he was inching towards our teacher, a box cutter clenched between his fist. There must have been a point when we found a box cutter, when we made it our weapon of choice.
But somewhere along the way, I think we just… lost the longing to want to escape.
I didn't see the exact moment the boy stabbed the blade into the man's neck, plunging it through his flesh, but I did feel a sudden jolt, like time itself was starting to falter and tremble.
Mr Brighton dropped to the ground, and I found my gaze flashing to the frozen clock.
Which was moving, suddenly.
Slowly creeping towards 2:53pm.
Something sticky ran underneath me, warm and wet.
Blood.
Blood that was running.
Roman’s half lidded eyes found mine, and he blinked, dropping the dice.
Like he'd been asleep for a long time.
2:53pm.
We were free.
The cool spring breeze grazing my cheeks was back. I could feel my own heartbeat, sticky sweat on my forehead.
And outside, Jessie Carson let out a gut-churning scream.
For a disorienting moment, I don't think any of us believed we were free.
Roman twisted around, his gaze on the doorway.
The piece of paper the teacher had stuck to the glass slipped away.
But Roman’s gaze was glued to the door, his cheeks paling.
His lips parted into a silent cry.
Following his eyes, I glimpsed a shadow.
A shadow that was frozen at 2:52pm.
2:53pm.
“Fuck.” Roman whispered, stumbling to his feet.
He turned to the rest of us, his eyes wild.
“Get DOWN!”
When the thing crashed through the door, our classroom exploding around us, chairs splintering against the walls, I was already dropping to my knees, crawling under a desk. It took me a moment to understand I was already kneeling in what was left of Imogen.
Her body had been hollowed out, singed straight through.
I was crawling through pieces of her flesh, mounds of her bisected brain.
Keeping my hand over my mouth, I watched this… thing.
A bulbous black monster, chewing its way through my classmates. Blood splattered the walls, raining from the ceiling, and that same striking pain ripped through my gut, agonising enough to force a cry through my lips.
My frantic gaze found the clock.
2:54pm.
Lurching forwards, I heaved up what was left of my lunch, agonising pain wrenching my stomach back and forth.
I jumped when another body joined me, thankfully alive, squeezing under the desk.
Roman, his face slick and dripping scarlet.
When the thing was gone, neither of us moved.
3:05pm.
“What are those things?” I managed to get out.
“I don't know,” Roman whimpered, covering his mouth. “But they're everywhere.”
3:10pm.
Another thing found our classroom. This time I saw it up close, a giant, bulbous black thing with an eye stalk. It knew we were there, peeking under the desk we were hiding. But it didn't kill us.
The thing left the room, stopping to gorge on half of Ren’s torso.
Roman shot me a questioning look, but I could only be relieved.
3:15pm.
Roman threw up black slime all over me.
He caught my eye, swiping his mouth. “Well, that can't be good.”
The pain in my gut was getting harder to deal with.
3:20pm.
“Did you have chicken nuggets for lunch?” Roman murmured. He got a little too close, his breath on my neck.
I had to suck in my stomach to stop the pain.
I was going hot and cold, sweat dripping down the back of my neck.
“Why?” I hissed back, taking deep, shaky breaths.
“I dunno,” Roman murmured, “I can smell them on your breath.”
His teeth grazed my flesh, sending shivers down my spine.
“Weird… huh.”
3:30pm.
Roman nudged me.
“Fuck.” He hissed. “Is that Kaz?”
Following his gaze, I found the remnants of Kaz under a crushed desk starting to… convulse.
“Was he bitten?” I whispered.
Roman’s eyes were a strange color. “Maybe.”
3:35pm
“Mr Brighton.” I was on my knees, sobbing, shaking my physics teacher.
“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”
I squeezed his ice cold hand for dear life.
“Say, ‘stop’,” I whispered “Please!”
3:40pm.
The thing that found me didn't attack me. It sat there, head cocked, watching me roll around on the floor, the pain writhing through me. I watched its transformation in short bursts, consciousness swimming in and out.
When I found light again, the thing was sitting cross legged next to me, chewing on a human arm. Maybe I was hallucinating. I watched it for a long time, trying to figure out why it was wearing strips of Roman’s white shirt.
3:52pm.
No longer in the school, I was in the back of an ambulance, a lady screaming in my face. I could see the time on her watch. She told me I was going to be okay, and I think I was. But I wasn't sure how to tell her she smelled good.
Like chicken.
It's been three months since my teacher froze time.
Mr Brighton wasn't imprisoning us. He was protecting us.
I'm still alive, but I have to take regular shots. I think they're just in case I was infected by those things.
I asked Mom if the incident has been on the news, but there's no coverage.
According to the people in white who treated me, everything has been covered up. According to the Mayor, ten kids died in a gas leak.
No mention of the monstrous things hunting us down…
Our town is just a blip on the map. You can't find us. I wish you could, though.
I need help.
I'm terrified of myself.
I’m not going to tell Mom she smells like chicken, because she'll freak out.
Last night, someone, or something knocked on my window.
When I turned on the light, a single, bulging eye was staring at me through the glass.
I still don't know why it was crying.

Hey guys!
After finally breaking past level 1,000, I figured it would be worthwhile to assemble a helpful info post for new and returning players, and see about what other tips you all might have to contribute as well!
These won't be in any particular order, but should be considered all the same.

• If you want to level up faster, consider joining public teams, sleeping in beds, and hunting down food and chems that boost your intelligence. There's even a furniture item that boosts your intelligence by +2 when activated!
• Your problem is probably not that your weapons suck, but rather, you haven't selected the most optimal perks and buffs to support your playstyle. 99% of your struggle will be your build, not your gear.
• There is no authentically "best weapon" or "best build", but there is a "best weapon for a playstyle" and "best build for your specific needs". Asking for specifics will get you much more accurate info and lead to happier outcomes.
• You don't actually need godrolls to be good, especially early on. Focus on getting your build off the ground with a set of 1 stars and save up for your dream set later. You'll be happier in the long run!
• "Lone Wolf" vs "Antisocial Team Member", there's a ton of positive incentive in joining public teams, even if you don't interact with the folks on your team. Experience boosting per person on the team, possible attribute buffs based on team type, and even perk sharing are all incentive. Playing 100% alone will make you miss out on these amazing bonuses!
• Food Buffs... Don't sleep on your food buffs. There's a huge wealth of even basic bonuses that will take your character from "crud" to "chad". A great example is blight soup and deathclaw steak respectively. Both of these are super basic and surprisingly easy to get, and have massive damage bonuses associated with them for their respective playstyles.
• Struggling with Earle Williams because he's a big bully? Endangerol Syringers are the way. Seriously, if everyone brings an Endangerol Syringer and unloads their bullets and spikes, he drops like a sack of potatoes. Don't sleep on the syringers!
• That random high level player shooting at your feet? They're realistically not trying to harass you, they're trying to get your attention because they want to give you stuff to make your adventure a bit easier to get started. Not everyone in 76 is an asshole!
• You probably heard of trap camps before, right? The obvious ones (to older players) involve a tight corridor, like, it just doesnt look right. If you equip the "Light Footed" perk and crouch before going through, you can avoid most of the traps that are trying to kill you. If you don't have the perk available, stash all of your junk before getting curious. Thank me later!
• What are treasury notes and how do you get them? Treasury notes are a reward for doing public events with the big black on them, as well as many Daily Quests. You can turn them in to "Gold Machines" found at whitespring mall, the crater and foundation to get gold bullion, a special currency. You must complete the wastelanders questline or track down the famous merchant "Minerva" before you can spend them however. (Endgame stuff!)
• If you're not interested in PVP (it's rare but it happens), double-check your game settings and make sure "pacifist mode" is enabled. This prevents "wild attacks" from other players. Does not apply in workshops though, be careful!
• How do I make a ton of caps fast with the 1400 cap limit?! Easy! You participate in player trading. Specifically, setting up your vending machine in your camp. Figure out what is popular to trade/sell and set your prices accordingly. I sell crappy legendary loot for the convenience of other players farming scrip for example.
• Roleplaying? This is a roleplaying game to some measure, if you want to get in character, do it, even play on voice comms if you like, it can be really fun! Once in a while, someone will be a jerk and give you a hard time. Just mute them in your social panel and continue having fun!
• Struggling with stash weight? Here's a few tips for it. Scrap all of your junk down to raw components before storing (when possible). Scrap all of your old weapons and armor instead of hoarding them. You'll clear stash weight and possibly learn modifications for those items to use later. Check your food/chems, stimpaks and spoiled food/drink can occupy far more weight than you realize. Lastly, drop that goddamn 19th legendary minigun you got at eviction notice. You don't need to loot every single item you come across. The hardest lesson is letting go. You can't keep everything.
• How do I get a jetpack not on power armor?? End-game gear friend, Secret Service Armor, Brotherhood Recon, or Civilian Engineer. SS/BoS require farming a ton of Gold Bullion, and Civi-Engineer requires stamps (arguably easier too).
• If you insist on collecting legendary Power Armor pieces, store them on a chassis. No matter how much the pieces weigh individually, all 5 pieces weigh a flat 10 points in the stash while on a chassis. It makes it so much easier to far random drops for your desired PA pieces or just to collect for scrip. [Credit to u/LargeTwist9469]
• When crafting/repairing, make sure you equip your crafting perks, such as Super Duper, Ammosmith, Armorer, etc to get the best efficiency out of your materials used. Using perks like "Fix it good" and "Weapon Artisan" can even make your repair effectiveness "overheal" your items to upwards of 200% total item health too! In many cases, these types of perks are required to craft equipment mods. [Credit to u/Dangerous_Zone_4603]

That's all for now friends! Please share any tips you have that I missed! Knowledge is power, and sharing is caring!!
[Edit] Correcting oversights and adding new stuff based on your feedback (with credits)!
[Info Snippet]
Commonly asked question: "What furniture buffs intelligence?"
Most of the SPECIAL buff stations are purchaseable for gold bullion at the crater after finishing the wastelanders questline if your reputation is high enough.
mechanical derby game raises intelligence, antique speed bag raises agility, weight bench raises strength, arm wrestling machine raises charisma, fortune teller raises luck, exercise bike raises endurance, and radiation glove box raises perception.
there's a special item "Bowling Arcade Machine" you can get a redeem code from bethesda net that raises perception and luck at the same time as well. you'll have to google the info for that one though.
You can also raise your Action Point Regeneration with the "Well Tuned" buff, granted by playing a music instrument, you can boost experience gain by getting the "Rested" buff by sleeping in a bed or sleeping bag as well.
A less common, but still optional buff "Wise Teachings of the Mothman" can be gained with the "Sacred Tome of the Mothman" object which can be learned from plans earned during the "Mothman Equinox" event. This buff has an alternate method of obtaining, by participating in the "Path to Enlightenment" public event and then interacting with the Mothman at the end. This buff grants an EXP boost that stacks with the "Rested" buff.
[THANKS!]
Oh shit! Thanks for the awards guys! I'm just trying to give back to the community, I appreciate you!

Chapter One
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Prev
-Rooftop of the White Flame Factory-
Grigory smiled nervously at his men as they lounged on the rooftop patio. As the sun sank lower, he was happy to see them relax after the day's tensions. He’d wanted to give them their imps when they first arrived, or after the demonstration, but they seemed a little too skittish. Their reactions were causing him to doubt his strategy. If his most loyal supporters were repelled by them, wider acceptance was going to be a non-trivial hurdle. He’d been working on an improved version of the imps for months, but making them less threatening, or light forbid, ‘cute’, seemed deeply at odds with his plans. He hoped time might be the missing ingredient. Once they get a bit more familiar with them, they’ll come around. The imps were really nothing for them to fear.
The demonologist sat alone, observing how his men were dealing with the news. He was deep in thought, adjusting his plans and ruminating on his concerns. Was he forcing them to do things they weren’t comfortable with? The basis of his entire plan was that the whole world was to benefit from the imps, so it had to start somewhere, or he might as well give up. They seemed to be taking it as well as he could have hoped.
Catching a wisp of savoury smells, he thought it was scarcely fair to relax while Stanisk was busy in the kitchen. He rose to see if he could lend a hand with dinner. During their overland trek to the capital months ago, it was clear that Stanisk was a superlative cook, but Grigory was a dexterous helper. Much of what he knew about surgical techniques had been picked up preparing meals.
Grigory arrived at the great hall that served as the eating area. In the centre of the chamber, two long tables stretched across the room, capable of seating fifty, though only four simple chairs he had crafted a few weeks ago were present. His men had yet to grasp the potential of the imps' labour; instead of proper seating, they had improvised with crates and timbers haphazardly arranged around the tables. Near one table, a jute sack of potatoes lay abandoned on the floor, possibly mistaken for a makeshift seat. Grigory hoped they'd be eating the potatoes, not sitting on them.
Separated from the hall by a low half-wall, the kitchen bustled with activity. Stanisk sat on the thick timber counter, a casual sentinel over dinner’s preparations, while Jourgun and Klive stood nearby, deep in conversation with their commander.
Stanisk’s five imps, in their fancy clothes, dashed around the kitchen. Under his expert guidance they were preparing a grand feast. One was peeling potatoes, another stirred a great bubbling pot, while two were doing dishes.
“Sir, did you know that Stanisk’s imps have names? And fancy clothes! Can I have one like his?” Klive blurted when he saw his employer. “Uh, as it pleases milord, of course.”
“Plus mine bow when they bring us beers! They don't do that fresh out of hell!” Stanisk's toothy smile implied he might have been bowed at by imps a half dozen times already.
Grigory tilted his head and blinked for a second.
Surely a bit of clothes can’t have that much of an impact on their acceptance?
“Oh, Of course! Certainly!” he paused again. “Feel free to ask Stanisk for tips on how he made his.” Observing the bustling activity, “It looks like dinner is well in hand?” The kitchen was huge, far larger than the one at Planed Pine Peak Inn. A half dozen dishes simmered or baked, their aromas — exotic spices, rich gravies, and roasted meats filled the expansive space.
Stanisk replied without glancing away from the imps handling the tasks. “Well in hand, boss. Take ‘er easy tonight!” The imps' movements were quick and fluid, their antics distractingly comical at times. Grigory watched, smiling, as one imp hugged a yam to its chest that likely weighed more than it did, and made its way along the countertop from the vegetable sack to the cutting board. Each step was an exaggerated sway, the creature was badly top-heavy and teetering.
With effort he pulled his focus back, “Capital! I’ve a matter to attend to! Smells great already!”
Grigory went into the factory proper to whip up enough chairs for everyone. Simple wooden ones for now, but with cushions. Cushions were quick enough to make and he had a few cart loads of wool and woollen fabrics. He watched his imps work, glad he could share them with his whole team now. Obviously it made everything a bit riskier, but it was worth it. One of his concerns was that he’d been overlooking opportunities and uses. He was bound by only being able to think his own thoughts, so he was excited to see what non-demonologists would think of.
They carved and joined the pine chairs with their normal speed and accuracy, but watching them sew was its own reward. The imps wielded needles like longswords in their tiny hands, the points moving too fast to see clearly. They stacked up the plain cushions in a neat pile at the end of their low workbench.
He also didn’t have any utensils, placemats, serving spoons nor trivets either, since this was their first proper meal here. He commanded the imps to make those as well, and carry them like a row of ants from the workshop to the dining hall. The demonologist walked around the table, surveying his work. With a minor gesture of flame he lit the lamps, and frowned at the beige-grey of undyed wool of the chair cushions.
He pulled the chairs out, and one at a time enchanted the cushions to bright, cheerful colours. He was going to make them all company purple, but thought better of it. Enchanting colours was a fun spell to cast, because the act of changing its colour also unravelled enchantment as it went. Much like building and knocking over houses of cards, the end effect was a mundane unenchanted object, but in whatever colour he’d chosen. Having done the spell countless times for entire days to prepare for the midsummer tourney, he didn’t even have to check his notes for any of the hues.
Satisfied with his work, though slightly frustrated that his first and last red cushions weren’t quite the same shade, he sat down. He pulled a notebook out of his satchel and started making notes on his ideas for some improvements, mostly for his own use, but some to the things he’d be soon selling. Lost in his own world, he had no idea how much time had passed when Ros and Taritha joined him at the table.
“Good evening, milord,” Ros said deferentially.
The young herbalist elbowed him, “Come on, he had one rule! He was writing!”
“Oh! Terribly sorry, sir!” Ros stammered.
“Not at all, I was basically doodling. How’s your evening going, is everything to your liking?” Grigory closed his notebook and put it away.
“Amazing milord, These rooms are huge! They're bigger than some of the houses I was looking at!” Taritha said.
“Of course! No one wants to live in dingy cells! Glad to hear! It’s easy to make a place bigger when you are building fresh. Let me know if you find anything that needs fixing, our builders are still in town working on the harbour fortress now, but I can have them send someone if there is anything amiss!”
“I don’t reckon neither of us knew palaces this nice existed anywhere, milord!” Ros said with a shrug. “We might not be the best eyes for finding faults!”
“Heh! This is just the rustic first stage! Don’t worry about its crudeness for now, we’ll get there over time!” the demonologist promised, patting his satchel where the notebook of ideas was. His confidence was both unshakeable and unnecessary.
“Not to question your plans, but there are a lot more rooms than people. Are we expecting company? Are we hiring?” Taritha asked. Her eyebrows twitched slightly, having just questioned his plan for the first time.
“Big plans indeed! So that empty stretch east of the main building? That’s also part of our land grant. In a while we’ll be building a barracks there for our troops, while senior officers will stay in the main factory. That’s also why Stanisk will be taking a much more active role with civil defence. It’s central to our plan to secure the town, and by extension our own safety.”
“Our troops? Like us?” Jourgun asked, having joined them at the long table.
“Maybe? Probably not? We’ll see. The plan is to extensively recruit as we can afford it, since the pirate raid was just the beginning. We have something of incredible value, in the form of me, the imps and the factory itself. Many violent people feel they should possess every valuable thing, so we must be vigilant. Not to worry though! That’s just us planning for the worst. In reality, nothing like that will likely happen. Just by being well defended we’ll scare off the greedy.”
“Ah, like why it's dangerous for a beggar to wear a silk robe!” Rikad added as he joined them, along with a few others. The smells from the kitchen were intoxicatingly rich now, as Stanisk and Klive used the imps to finish and plate the meal.
“Just so, a lord can only have what he can defend, and because the first phases of my plan require a certain level of material wealth, I’ll need extensive defences,” Grigory explained as diplomatically as he could.
“The Empire itself will fear our might, milord!” Ros said excitedly.
“Nah, it won’t. That’s a dangerous thought. The Imperial army’s smallest deployable force is a legion, near enough to five thousand men. Even if we hit every hiring and training target, we’se not going to be in the business of fightin’ wars. Just enough to make us a spiky nut. The sort not worth chompin’,’” Stanisk called over from the kitchen.
“Oh,” Ros said, shrinking back into his seat.
“That’s more than all the men in the whole town!” Taritha lamented.
“Yeah, that’s why lil fishing villages don’t win wars. A legion is five thousand infantry with warships, supplies, siege cohorts, and command companies. If’n it’s a real fight, then they might deploy all ten Imperial legions. Then start raising more if’n they’re losing. We ain’t never gonna try to fight that. No nation in the world has ever picked that fight and won.”
To counter the grim tone settling over his celebratory dinner, Grigory chimed in with a reassuring smile, “We’re loyal Hyruxian subjects, and the legions protect us. We pay taxes in full, we’re on the right side of all this. We just want a bit of security against more, uh, regional actors. Besides, a large well equipped force lends our diplomacy weight we wouldn’t otherwise have.”
Now that the table was filling up and his men looked satisfied with his answers, he raised his voice to the kitchen, “How’s it going in there?”
“Good! I bought a deer from one of the hunters this morning, and it turned out just right!” Stanisk replied, personally putting the finishing touches on his creation. Aethlina moved across the kitchen to watch Stanisk work, making Grigory do a double take. He hadn’t realised she was even in the building.
“Oh! Capital! Everyone in the entire company is here now! Even better!” Grigory said, motioning Aethlina to sit by him. He was glad he’d made the full number of chairs!
Stanisk and Klive brought out plates heaped with slices of braised venison, steamed tubers and sautéed onions. Tubs of butter, bowls of gravy, and finally a heaping basket of fresh buns followed. Stanisk took his seat and, smiling with pride, “What’re you helpless kittens lookin’ at? Never seen dinner ‘afore? Dig in!”
The feast was a perfect end to a troubling day, and even though the conversation died down as they ate, Grigory observed every single one of his hirelings intently, relieved to see not a single one seemed put off by a meal made by demons. Catching Stanisk’s eye, he made an empty cup gesture.
“Imps! Bring us all some drinks! Wine, beer and water!” Stanisk shouted to his imps. With speed and efficiency, the little demons filled clay cups and brought everyone three drinks, exactly as ordered.
“Ah, dammit, I meant—It’s fine. Drink what you want and I’ll just dump the rest!” The chief of security’s good humour faded for an instant before returning twice as bright.
“No, I love having three drinks! And the water and beer are cold! In the summer! The gods themselves envy me!” Rikad declared.
“Uh oh! It looks like Mage Thippily made imps, but the imps made the real monster!” Kedril retorted, gesturing at Rikad holding three cups between his hands, rotating them to drink out of each, while spilling beer all over his own arm.
Their high spirits encouraged Grigory. He’d worried they would be morose and frightened tonight, after making them to live in what could be described as a hive of demons. Joking about the imps was beyond his expectations, so he smiled without speaking, sipping his red wine. Not his cherished Malaentian Red, but a nice varietal from the mainland he’d recently imported a few cases of. Once the plates were empty, Stanisk had the imps clear the table and start washing up while everyone remained seated at the long pine table, bellies full to bursting.
“That was spectacular Stanisk! Thank you!” Grigory offered, and everyone else chimed in a breath later.
“Nothing like a lifetime of bland ration bars for months to really spark an interest in what good food ought to be! I’m glad ya’se liked it,” the big veteran said dismissively.
“How is everyone finding their new accommodations? I know I don’t have all the furniture done just yet, but is everyone good for tonight?” Grigory asked, ever the eager host.
The men nodded and looked at each other. Complaining was frowned upon and nothing here was remotely a hardship.
“Capital! Glad to hear it, and by all means bring it to my attention if your needs are unmet!” Grigory sat still and everyone kept looking at him.
Now’s as good a time as any. It’s not even a surprise, I think I mentioned it a few times already.
“Ahem! So! I’d like to present each of you with your own imps! Some ground rules though; there may be people that aren’t ready for this style of magic, so I ask that you don’t mention anything about them anywhere outside of the factory. Or even imply there are any magical creatures, just that things get made here?”
He waited until they all at least nodded.
“Alright! Here you go, I have one for everyone! The imps are identical, so don’t worry about which ones you get. Um. Good luck?” With a shrug he reached down beside his chair and from a leather case he pulled a series of carved wooden boxes, and passed them out to everyone sitting at the table.
***
With a muted clatter, Taritha watched as the small dark boxes were distributed. She wasn’t sure if there was one for her, being fairly new to the company. She wasn’t sure how she felt; owning demons seemed like a big step, but the ancient urge to possess something nice or powerful was one she wasn’t immune to. Her heart leapt as a heavy box slid in front of her.
With trepidation, she touched it with one finger; it appeared to be regular wood, perhaps stained oak. The box was small and rectangular, quite thin, and she held it easily in one hand. It was narrow enough to fit comfortably between her thumb and fingers, its weight noticeable but not oppressive. She had expected dread, palpable evil, or something, but it just felt a bit heavy. Turning it over, she saw no visible clasps or hinges. The outside was covered in the flawless ornate carvings she was starting to grow familiar with. This time, the carvings depicted joyful industrial scenes—strong men swinging square hammers, smoke stacks, and laden ships and carts. The central image on each side was gilded with gold leaf, making it strikingly dignified.
Ignoring the excitement and increasing movement around her, she felt as if she were in her own universe. She slowly pulled on the lid, finding it opened on tiny hidden hinges, revealing three ebony totems inside. They were the size and shape of a fairytale wand, resting on a bed of lush green velvet, held in place by a broad ribbon tied in a perfect bow.
Even without considering the priceless nature of the artefacts, she was impressed, almost distracted, by the quality of the presentation. He didn’t have to go to such lengths; she’d expected them to be simply handed to her.
She slid one of the totems out without undoing the bow. It was cool and heavy but otherwise seemed normal. She could see layers of impossibly fine carving, this time gilded with silver. She could sense the potent magic in the object, but it felt strange. She’d examined other enchanted items before, and their enchantments were all transcendently beautiful in a complex and technical way. This was so dense it felt like nothing. Or perhaps everything? She wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t at all like the other objects. Stilling herself and trying to puzzle out its secrets brought her no closer to any revelation. She shook her head and resolved to investigate further in private. She returned the totem to its place in the box and gently closed it.
Only now did she notice the table was thick with imps, more than twenty darting and leaping energetically. Her colleagues had summoned theirs and were already giving orders.
“You two, throw the third imp as high as you can!”
“Merp!”
“All of you, cross the table as fast as you can, but walk on your hands!”
“Merp!”
“Duel with these forks!”
“Merp! Merp!”
The men were laughing and pointing between shouting out fresh orders. All the commands were pointless and frivolous, making Taritha powerfully uncomfortable. These were forces of nature, extraplanar beings of unimaginable power, and they were being made to sprint into empty mugs to see how far the mug would fly!?
She shot a questioning look to the master demonologist to gauge his reaction. He was smiling and complimenting their creativity, so maybe she was overreacting? Still, she had no interest in wasting them on silly games. Emergencies only. Or at least serious concerns only. Not for dodging knotted linen napkins, that’s for sure!
With the burden of responsibility successfully dodged, she was free to watch everyone else’s fun. The cacophony of excitement was so infectious that she found herself giggling and pointing at them racing as makeshift horses, with an imp bent over holding the tiny waist of the imp in front of him, while a third one sat atop as a rider. They were so silly looking and energetic.
“You’re sure this doesn’t hurt or anger them?” Taritha asked.
“Oh my no, it’s not like that at all. They have minds, but lack awareness, or awareness of their own mind I guess? It’s fine! They are just made out of the same stuff as demons, but not actually demonic.” The mage stood up and stretched. “They are remarkably durable, it’s unlikely anything short of silvered steel will harm them. I, on the other hand, am at risk of being badly over-tired already! I trust you will be okay, left on your own! I’ll see you in the morning!”
“I’se properly tired too, but if you want, let's pop into the factory and I’ll show you how to get them to make their own clothes. It’s just tellin’ ‘em to do that, so you’se might not need too much hand holding!” Stanisk pushed himself away from the long table, and motioned for them to follow him.
They went into the cavernous factory, just across the hallway. What was an impressive and huge room in the daylight was now an infinite blackness, like a starless night. A few men had grabbed leviathan-oil lamps off the table, and they huddled in a small circle of warm, safe light. They gathered around a long low table, and Stanisk laid out a few bolts of fabric. The fine weaves were familiar to Taritha; they were the same as those used in the clothes she’d been getting from the company.
“It’s simple enough,” Stanisk said as he put a heavy leather bag of tools on the table. “Just say what you want, with as much or as little detail, and they’ll just make that.”
“Imps, make a suit of legion plate armour, imp-sized, out of shoe leather!” Rikad said with glee.
“Merp!” replied several at once, as they began cutting and forming the leather without hesitation. The imps even used grey wool for the under-mail parts, and tiny flares of hellfire to warp the leather into the right shapes. Soon, a tiny suit of black armour lay on the table, looking like what an imperial heavy infantryman would wear, but distorted to the proportions of the gawky imps.
“I dub thee, Imperial commander, Real Imp. Don thy armour!” Rikad ordered. “Do they remember their names?” he asked over his shoulder to Stanisk.
“Oh yeah, they’re proper sharp!” he confirmed.
“Create an imp-sized lord's robe with a sash of office! When it is done, you shall be known as D’Imp Lomat! I might need a minute to think of the last one though…” Rikad said to everyone watching his imps.
Reluctantly, Taritha opened the box and invoked her three imps. She looked at them closely; as far as she could tell, they were perfectly interchangeable with every other imp.
Looking over the fabrics, she chose a striking blue, a deep red, and a golden yellow. “Imps! Make imp-sized sundresses, mainly white with these colours as a main theme. and matching coloured sun hats,” she added hastily. Their heads were distractingly inhuman, so covering them might help. She watched them work, even interrupting a few times to ask for embroidered details and minor adjustments. Once they finished, she had them don their new outfits.
Oh! The hems seem scandalously short on their long lanky legs! Better than before, but not by a lot.
“Imps, please put on the hats that match the colour of your dress.”
“Merp.”
Much better! They look like ladies now!
“You are now Lady Bluebird, Lady Crossbill, and…” She paused at the last one, thinking of songbirds that were as bright yellow as the fabric. “Miss Goldfinch!”
She leaned back and admired her little ladies. They were far less threatening now, and their dull crimson skin really made the dresses look extra vibrant.
“Dang Taritha, how did you make yours so pretty? I want some pretty ones!” Jourgun commented as he looked over.
“Drool over your own demons! These are mine!” she said playfully. There was an undercurrent of possessiveness that she didn’t expect, but these ones were hers now. “Anyways, I’m going to bed too, you guys are too slow! Have fun, boys!” she said as she devoked her imps. The new clothes fell to the work surface.
“Oh yeah, they don’t take that with ‘em, wherever they go, so just keep it in a lil bag or whatever,” Stanisk said when he saw her distress. “They gotta get dressed every time you invoke it,” he shrugged.
So much to learn today!
With a brave smile, she replaced the totems in the box and gathered the dresses and hats. “Mind if I take…” she said as she slowly lifted a lamp from near Rikad.
“Oh yeah, all yours,” he said dismissively, fully engrossed in examining the tiny lordly robes of D’Imp Lomat.
She went back to the hall, up the wide even stairs to the third floor. She’d only spent a bit of time investigating it earlier, as she and Ros had been anxious about being late for dinner. She saw the heap of her worldly possessions against the wall where she’d left them. The only furniture here was the bed, but by the sounds of it, getting some tables, chairs, and wardrobes would be easy enough tomorrow. She placed the totem box and the tiny outfits on the floor beside the bed.
The bed itself was unlike any she’d ever heard of. Crafted with thick pine beams and topped with a mattress of imported cotton, it was probably wider than her entire hovel. A family of five could sleep on it and barely touch. She couldn’t imagine a more lordly bed. Its refined look and the luxurious softness were worlds apart from the coarse fabric and straw she was used to. Sometimes in the fall, she’d add freshly fallen leaves to her straw mattress for extra comfort, but that was a fleeting pleasure. This bed, however, promised constant comfort. She eyed the pile of heavy blankets at the foot of the bed. Recently, she had bought a single blanket from the market, thin and scratchy, but these were the mage’s blankets—thick, plush, and impossibly soft.
She shut the heavy door and took off her tall boots. The floor felt smooth under her bare feet. Even having a floor was a new luxury; she was accustomed to hard-packed dirt floors like most everyone else. This wasn’t just a floor; it was a delicate herringbone pattern of different kinds of wood, obviously done by the agile imps. It was cleaner, smoother, and more level than any table she’d eaten off before the mage came to town.
She stopped admiring the floor and stripped to her shift. She felt exposed being so undressed around so many men. She reasoned it out—the iron and oak door was stronger than a hide flap, and this would doubtlessly be the safest sleep of her life. Just a reaction, not a reality. She left the lamp on the floor and got in bed.
With a panic, she yelped as the whole bed flowed underneath her, as if she’d stepped on the tail of a sleeping cat. She tried to get up but her feet were already off the floor, and she couldn’t find a stable purchase with her hands. She froze up to think her way out of it, and the bed stopped moving almost as soon as she did.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Was this an enchantment gone awry? Some bed demon?
Slowly, she log-rolled towards the edge of the bed, and the mattress under her also slowly moved, but not enough to stop her. Slow and steady, she might get free yet. Finally, she was close enough to put a foot down and stand. The bed flowed back to being perfectly flat.
She stood up, with a hand to her sternum, trying to catch her breath.
Think! What did the mage say about this today? It would magically adjust? Maybe that was all it was doing?
She leaned over and gently pushed down with a single fist. It was super pliable, then increasingly firm. But it felt unlike anything else—stacks of clothes or hides all felt different when they got pressed.
It must be magic. No time to be timid, and it would be humiliating to go to either the mage or the chief about this.
The only spell she could reliably cast was a gesture of Mana-Visualization. It caused the invisible lines of arcane energy to glow visibly, in bright colours that hinted at their use and purpose. She cast it to better examine her bed. It wasn’t enchanted as she expected; rather, hundreds and hundreds of things inside it were, and they linked and overlapped in ways she wouldn’t understand if she studied enchantments for a decade. She involuntarily took a step back from it, like finding a hundred warhorses inside a small cabinet.
She dismissed the gesture. With renewed determination, she slowly sat down on the bed. It shifted but only a bit. It was very soft and comfortable. Slowly, she turned and laid back, fighting her panic as the mattress kept shifting everywhere her body touched it, unnervingly lifelike. Fully laying down, she stopped and the mattress stopped. Even as her eyes were still wide with terror, she started to calm down. To test her theories, she rolled onto her side, and the mattress under her hip grew softer, and the part under her ribs grew firmer, until the pressure equalised. Rolling back, she felt it shift again, and once more the mattress's firmness changed all up and down her body, stopping once it was the same shape as her body’s pressure, resulting in sublime comfort.
Oh. This is incredible. I get it now!
She reached to the foot of the bed, pulled one of the soft blankets up to her chin, reached down to extinguish the lamp and drifted off into a better sleep than anyone in the history of her family ever had.
Prev

[OC Intro: The game is modded to increase basic jobs cost, seasonal events are disabled. Much of the crash details are based on NASA/SP-2008-565 Columbia Crew Survival Investigation Report recommendations especially Chapter 3 "Occupant Protection".]
The ship is without power, and Tightniks can't run the radar much without draining the batteries. He has only a few minutes of APU power left, goes over the best clearing he can find, and radars it. It varies by only a few feet from the aerodynamic glideslope there. He spots it out on the cameras and circles to go after that spot. He's only at two hundred feet now. With one hand on the stick, he uses the other to open the pressure equalization valve on the side hatch, then at one hundred feet, gets it undogged. Depending on how much damage he's going to get, it's less likely to be stuck closed and trap him. The dynamic vacuum this pulls in the cockpit rips most of the survival pack data cards from that rack and scatters them across the landscape. Crap, I'm gonna need those! Refocusing on surviving the next few seconds, he turns on the radar for the final approach, takes a last look around, then straight ahead at his forward camera and PFD, he clicks his HANS and shoulder strap locks in; after that, he can barely move, but that now is better than dying in this crash with a broken neck. He's a decent pilot and brings up the flare gently. Bringing up the alpha on this delta-winged ship, he balloons a little, but keeps the nose going up and restores a zero aerodynamic sink rate just above the highest terrain indicated by the radar altimeter. The ship bumps a little in the ground effect, and he can see the radar altitude cycling irregularly up and down about five feet at a time. Rougher than it looked from higher up! The body flap protecting the dead engines hits first, and the nose comes rapidly down. It hits, the screens go blank, and Tightniks is surrounded by airbags, some lifting his feet from the rudder petals and his hand from the control stick. It's blinding, it's disorienting, it's noisy, and, to his relief, it's long! It takes several seconds before the crashing cockpit stops moving. How many times did he flip over? Did he go sideways and roll? Am I rightside up? Are we really stopped on the ground? The airbags deflate, and he can move his arms. He gets his restraints loose and inspects himself. "Uck!" he says out loud (without the 'f'). No broken bones. His pressure suit can take his blood pressure. 116/81, pulse 112, blood oxygen 99 reads off on his left arm, I'll friggin' take it!
The ship is amazingly intact from what he can tell. He can't get any readings. The systems test meter seems to be working, but can't find any voltages anywhere. The ship seems to be completely dead. Behind him, 10 passenger seats are all surrounded by airbags and the back of the cabin ends in some sort of dirt-and-gravel and there's a bit of daylight seeping in around the edges. He was the only one on board, though, so their deployment was mostly academic (they might have stiffened the structure a little during the crash, but that's probably trivial.) Tightniks gets out of his spacesuit. The air on this planet is actually breathable. He gets the hatch open, steps outside and-
"A green shimmer erupts then disappears, and you hit the ground."
The human emerges from the glowing green mist and hits the ground. Groans. Pushes against that ground, trying to get back up. Where am I? What's my name? I remember nothing. Aren't babies born naked? He's got a dark blue button-down shirt on. A uniform? A shoulder patch. Gets up, looks around. I feel really heavy. I'm not that fat, am I? He picks up a small stone from the ground, this also feels heavier than it should. He rises to his feet and holds it out somewhat (he's unable to fully extend his arm) and lets it go. The stone hits the ground near his feet quickly and with remarkable speed. It's the gravity, it's greater than it is on- ...where am I from? This is- ...not my home planet? "Oooh..."
"Ka?" it says.
What is that? It's cute, at least.
It is not tame. He has no hope of catching it on foot. The creature seems to like the berries. Maybe if I gather some of those into one place and set some kind of trap...
33s: First trap.
I got one! The human lumbers up to the trap and gets the catch open. Do you bite? It doesn't matter much to me; I'm so friggin' screwed.
It doesn't. It looks at the human with a sense of wonder, actually. A blink and tilt of the head. Seems almost to be asking, Is it you? My purpose? My savior? Once out of the trap, which is totally wrecked, he has to make a new one from scratch, it follows him around like a imprinted hatchling bird.
Wiry little fella, you are. You're going to need some bulking up to do anything useful. The- ...'trimp', I guess... The trimp seems just barely able to feed itself. The human lets him into the broken ship's intact cabin, and it curls up comfortably in a passenger seat for a nap.
1m03s: Second trap.
"Apparently the Trimps breed if they're not working. Doesn't look pleasant."
What are they doing?
The trimps appear to be androgynous, and these two have paired off in the back of the ship. They're holding something carefully within a few hours, feeding it berries, grass, and- ...corundum.
Corundum?? Whatever that is, it isn't a baby.
1m35s: Third trap.
Only it IS a baby! The third trimp he trapped immediately joined the other two in raising it. They have a strange diet of food the human has found compatible with his own body, but they also eat rocks! They're careful to crush and sort aluminate minerals from silcate ones and only eat aluminate. Actually, they don't eat aluminate, they're only feeding it to the baby.
2m06s: Fourth trap.
All four are raising the same child, who is just starting to toddle. It seems these fellas have alumina or maybe even aluminum bones. The human takes a nap and wakes to find the first child grown up and they're starting to raise a second child, all five of them.
2m46s: Huts.
The human found a working bit of electronics. He calls it a pad, but maybe it's more like a smartphone. It has plans for two residential structures. The first, the smaller one, he can build right away, but the second one needs something called "drywall", and he has to figure out how to make that before he can build it. Huts and houses, apparently.
3m13s: 10 pop, full, first farmer.
The trimp he trained to farm and make paper took an incredible 50 units of food to get bulked up to do the work, and now it's not participating in rearing the child. But less than an hour after the trimp started farming and pulping, the child was out on its own, and the trimps did not start another. The ten seats on the ship were all full. Well, eleven counting the one up front that the human sleeps in. The pilot starts exploring the area.
3m28s: Battle.
Wait, what are you do-
The hostile roars and charges at the human, but one of his trimps jumps in front of him with a stick and they fight. It started right when the human got far enough away from the ship that the hostile non-trimps away from the ship began to regard him as leaving his own territory. After the trimp defeats the first enemy, it continues after other hostiles.
3m53s: Shield I in Z1c5.
The human is easily able to recover the loot in the territory cleared by the fighting trimp. Then he sees something glinting in the- That can't be! What the heck is that? It's a data card that fits his pad. It quite clearly regards trimp combat. He gets it loaded into his pad and studies it. I can do this, it just takes some wood. He returns to the ship to discover that they had already started on a new child before the fighter had even expired in battle. The human concentrates on his research.
4m38s: Mskel in Z1c11 defeated.
The remains of this one seem rather white and shiny. It's titanium! This enemy had titanium bones! He'll store them away. They'll be useful someday, I'm sure.
5m52s: Dagger I in Z1c20.
Where are these data cards coming from? The human wonders as he loads this one into his pad, It's for a weapon it calls a dagger. He blinks. I don't know what a dagger is. I'll take your word for it, data card. Needs metal. He has gathered some, but ore is plentiful. He can just dig and smelt it whenever he wants. For now, I'll continue researching.
6m18s: Arable in Z1c21.
It's an old cave that trimps like to live in. Why weren't they able to live there before? How could these friendly critters be confined to only the exact spot where THAT thing, he looks back where he came from, not remembering that he piloted the wrecked ship to its current resting place, crashed? This is really strange. I'll let them fill up this cave before advancing further. Wait, what about defenses? The hostiles never try to reclaim territory that they've lost, so he stops worrying about that fairly quickly.
8m22s: First hut is 0.3% first ever AP.
The trimps seem fairly easy to please in terms of living quarters. Two move into his first hut and start raising a child. The human has his tent, uniform, and the heater pilfered from his space suit. Not much of a mud fan.
9m59s: Miners in Z1c30.
Oh, what's on this data card? Sl3niw? Oh, I'm holding the pad upside down. Miners. I can teach trimps how to mine ores and smelt met- 200 units of food? Each job is getting more expensive to train a trimp for. He puts his bee nickels to his eyes and spots another data card probably 10 enemies away. "Sc"? Does that means science? I can teach trimps to do science??
13m57s: Scientists in Z1c40.
Due to the expense of training trimps, the human couldn't afford to build them shields until now, he's got Sh1-3 made for the fighter to capture the science training data card. 14m02s: One head went into that turtlimp shell, that of his fighter, but two came out: his fighter still has his head on, and he managed to get the turtlimp's head off. It rushes off after the deadly penguimp in the next cell. The shields are not doing all that much good, actually, but they're better than nothing. The human picks up and loads the science data card and- Holy runny sugar-free fudge crap! 1000 food units, but it'll endow them with the ability to speak. Good. I'm getting bored with no one to talk to.
14m28s: Bloodlust purchased and AutoFight enabled (that delay after getting it is an effect of jacking up the job cost.)
As the human buries this expired little trimp warrior, he comes to the sobering realization that he has more trimp graves in his growing trimp colony than he does live trimps. And yet they seem more hopeful now than before I got to know any of them. They seem to think I'm the solution to all their problems or- Those two look east somberly, then notice that he's watching them and smile back and wave at him. ...one problem that is specific, but very, very huge for them. [The only reason I say 'east' is because that's right on a map, and the game advances right across a row, then up. I might say 'northeast' on occasion for that reason.]
20m47s: Z1c73, Miners taken.
Are you my new mining foreman? The trimp who took to the mining training has dark brown fur that lays flat on its head. It's unusual in not having any bits that stick out from its head, ahoge or whatever. This one is relatively quiet, and while it has assimilated the mining and smelting knowledge, it needs to bulk up to do any mining. Smelting is relatively easy, and getting a strong natural draft going in a furnace is almost trivial with the increased gravity. This trimp builds furnaces like nothing. And likes to nap in holes it digs right on the spot; it's weird that way. [Puchim@s Yukipo, and furnaces are not explicit in Trimps.]
21m58s: Farming in Z1c80.
The resourcing "books" are not data cards but paper scrolls, apparently lost to the trimps. It seems that they were civilized in the recent past and some calamity swept over the planet to reduce them to this. Did I have something to do with it? Amnesia sucks harder than a Dyson- ...what's a Dyson? Whatever, it sucks. This disaster happening just before I crash in the only spot with trimps still alive would be a seriously crazy coincidence! Something is really, really wrong about all this. [The author has not sought or received product placement permission or fee from Dyson Technology Ltd. or any resellers of their stuff, just they literally suck balls and made my favorite vacuum cleaner.]
23m50s: Builder in Z1c90.
They've rescued an, I dunno, gelding trimp? It just started to build a shed around the piled lumber I left to build one. It's really slow compared to me, and just banged its thumb, but it is super cute with that long reddish head fur. That particular trimp is also fascinated with pink ribbons and likes to decorate its head fur with them. Because of its inherent inability to participate in rearing children, it isn't counted in the population. [Puchim@s Io, builder on the basis of Iori seen building in 1x10.]
26m02s: Zone 2, 44 pop, 5.5s RC with Z0/1.
It's some sort of tactical manual - tactical coordination. Coordination! He's starting to sort out some trimpese on the research he has done so far. It needs a lot of metal, so they won't be able to implement it for some time. Hopefully, they're still good one at a time, but these enemies seem to be getting bigger as we go along. Uh oh!
27m33s: Gym in Z2c5.
It's some sort of training dojo or sporting arena. The human examines the ruins, I think I can back-engineer drawings for this, get one built, and see what happens.
29m02s: 1g, 47 pop, 10.8s RC with Z1/2.
The two fighting trimps now with their gym and coordination are dodging and blocking enthusiastically, and making much faster ground against the bad guys then a little while ago when it was just one trimp fighting at a time and unable to avoid the enemy hitting back.
40m46s: Fresh turkimp in Z2c74, 63 pop, 7.9s RC, Sh1-10, Da1-5, Bo1-3, Ma1-3, Hm1-3, 6g.
Oh, wow, the laborers seem really hot after this turkimp. He cooks it up and tries a slice. It's really awesome! I have to work alongside his laboring trimps to share it, but I'm getting used to the gravity now. That scroll we found back in Z2c10 really helped. Trimps' techniques and appliances for handicapped individuals, and I'm really handicapped in this higher gravity. He joins the woodcutters with the turkimp; they're the most numerous resource laborer right now, building more gyms, enough that the block/dodge ability of the fighting trimps is almost caught up to the enemy's ability to cause damage.
43m15s: Zone 3, 63 pop, 7.9s RC with Z1/2.
I'm neglecting my science and trimp scientists are really expensive. Curiously, that grey-haired one can't speak all that well, only says "Tai" and "Shijou", but it can write and draw like nobody's business. It's the only scientist so far. [Puchim@s Takanya: Online references probably still claim that she can utter the first two syllables of any word, but she can actually utter only the first two kana syllables of someone's name, most often the given name of basis human Takane Shijou, who also has that habit. (All the utterances of the puchidoru are based on the speech foibles of their basis humans except maybe Piyopiyo, where I haven't seen anything match up so far.)]
47m32s: Finally, we can make drywall and houses. 59m30s: Z3c77, 94 pop, 7.8s RC.
Oh, those poor things are really struggling up at the front. These trimps are enthusiastic and know no fear, but I still feel like telling them to stop for a while. I don't have the heart to keep them from trying while they're still doing some damage.
1h05m24s: Zone 4, 107 pop, 9.3s RC with Z3/4. 1h15m26s: Zone 5, 120 pop, 8.2s RC with Z3/4.
"What is that?" the human asks. He has three scientists. His first does all the writing, but the other two can actually speak. One of them hops up on a rock spire beside the human to reach his eye level.
At the next ridge line, over the lowest and most passable gap in the terrain, this really mean looking hovering sausage monster.
"I dunno," the scientist trimp shrugs, "But it's making me hungry. Looks like a perfectly cooked frankfurter from here." [John Morell's dubious dirigibles.]
"Oh, yeah," the human nods, "that's a blimp."
"A blimp?" the trimp tilts its head quizzically at the human, "How could you know?"
"I wish I could tell you, little buddy," the human extends his arm braces to descend the pass on the side of the zone boundary in the boss enemy's direction, then grunts, "Let's go kill it."
1h16m11s: Z1c9, 120 pop, 10.3s RC with Z4/5. 1h33m34s: Zone 6, 151 pop, 7.4s RC with Z4/5.
1h33m54s: TP in Z1c3.
"What's this?" the human asks, having picked up the little square document with the curling corners.
"Oh," the hungry scientist looks at it, "It's a garden path, follow me."
"You want to lead me down the garden path?" the human says.
"Yeah," the scientist says.
"Are you kidding?" the human asks.
"No," says the other scientist, "We don't get human humor. Listen, these fighters can't go, let them wear themselves out here, then we'll take the next group through this garden."
"Okay," the human nods, watching two more trimps join the fray as he issues the Z5 coordination orders, "they're doing pretty well after all that block training research we just wrapped up." [That's a common artifact, even in normal games, Z5 Traintacular combines with many gyms, enough population to add several trainers, affording Blockmaster, which is expensive on a run zero, plus a break on Tion Z5, a 40% all-stat increase. I don't think Zach designed it into the game on purpose, it just worked out this way.]
1h34m07s: 151 pop, 10.5s RC with Z5/7. 1h37m44s: Drop from Z6c39, TP for 3.
"Now we have these access map frags we can use to route through the old trimpopoli," the scientist explains, "Atlimpis for food, Morimpa for gems, Everimp for metal, and Impazon for wood."
"What about the garden?" the human asks.
"Well, we got lucky with Tricky Paradise," the scientist says, "but you can randomize the route and maybe get lucky. What's with that look?"
"Somehow, I'm remembering 'frag' as something that blew up with deadly pieces," the human says. [Different video games - ones with better graphics and worse gameplay Ｏ(>▽<)Ｏ]
1h39m59s: Blues back up to the top on series I...
"Tai, Tai!" the first ever trimp scientist stops the human just before he upgrades the mace and dagger to Mk.6 and Mk. 8 respectively. It has a note for him.
"Why do you keep calling me that?" the human asks, "Do you think that's my name?"
"Shijou, Shijou," it nods as though to indicate, I KNOW it is. Then it proffers its note again. The human takes it and reads, "Don't upgrade the first row equipment right now."
"Why not?" the human asks.
"Shijou," it points at the end of the mapped route, where there's a scroll sticking out of the thistles.
2h24m07s: Zone 8, 224 pop, 12.2s RC with Z7/12.
"Your settlement is getting crowded, there's Trimps in the streets, and you're taking heat. You feel a sudden strong desire to create a map, though you're not quite sure how that would help."
2h49m10s: Zone 9, 357 pop, 9.5s RC with Z8/15.
"You can't shake the feeling that you've been here before. Déjà-vu?"
The trimps really seem to like the new high capacity mansions, and the village has rapidly expanded since they started building them.
"There's something familiar about this," the human says.
"Tai," the grey one that writes clings to his arm and shows him a note that says, "Don't give up now."
"We must persist," says the yellow one has found a foothold it can grab onto and grabs the human's shoulder gently, "If you give up to early, we'll never solve this. You'll be stuck here forever."
The human puts his hand over the trimp's paw on his shoulders, then looks at him, "I can die, too."
"No, you can't," the trimp says quietly, "Please don't test that, tall one."
"Death is just another path..." he remembers.
"Gan," the grey one squeaks. [That's the first two kana syllables of "Gandalf"]
"...one that we all must take," the human continues, "The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it-"
"A green mist," the yellow trimp interrupts, "flash of fire, we're all gone and our progress forgotten. The wandering stars return to that day, and you again crash that ship- ...a little better every time."
"Wait," the human looks around, "have I been here before?"
"I-" the yellow trimp tries in futility to share what little it knows, "...or... somebody got just a little coolant into the-"
"Into the what?"
"This side up," the grey one's note says.
"Into the that," the yellow one points at the note, "It really helped. You- ...I don't think we've ever had mansions before."
Well, of course they didn't have mansions before. That was one of my ship's data cards. How did it get way out here? Will anything start to make sense?
3h02m13s: Zone 10, 387 pop, 8.7s RC with Z8/15; '28s: 11.1s RC with Z9/19. 3h16m41s: Tough snimp after food book, L10 rand dept from lo-hi-med 118/25/96, 4 Items.
"That's twice our frags led us to gem-rich Moria," the human says.
"Morimpa," the new red trimp scientist corrects, there now being 5 scientists. [There'd be more if there were more turkimp.]
"The question is how do we use all these gems?" the human looks at the village zoning plans again, "I like those mansions and all, but they use hardly any gems compared to, well-" he gestures at the pile of over two dozen thousand gems they've gathered, "-that! And still a lot of wood and lumber."
"I think there's something," the yellow one sighs, "I wish I knew more."
Quite some time later, after they're done looting that route for equipment plans, the trimps are again advancing through Zone 10, and he hears it.
"Tai?" the grey one wonders.
"Where are you going?" the yellow one asks.
"To the farm," the human answers.
"Whatever for?" the red one seems exasperated.
"Shijou?" the grey one sighs, then looks at the fighting front. It's been around long enough to remember, "Shijou!"
"You guys already get so much to eat this doesn't do you much good," the human explains.
3h32m33s: L11 112/35/78 rand sea, dropped from Z11c6 with disband, 4.
"What's wrong?" the red one asks.
The human comforts one of the wounded. Once trimps start into a zone fight, they have to finish before they bleed out. He's really bothered making them desert in front of that second turkimp. "They had a lot left in them," he sighs, rubbing his eyes, "but we can't keep that much dead turkimp at once, we have to leave it alive to use up all of this one."
"Shijou," the grey one presents a note, "We need this map right away, anyway. Don't worry about it, Tightniks."
"Tightniks?" he looks at the grey one, "Is that me? How do you know?"
"Tai," the grey one points at the top of the human's left breast pocket.
"Ah, crud," the yellow one curls its tail around in front of itself as trimps do when they're embarrassed, "Is that really a name tag?"
The human hadn't even noticed it since the green flash blew up his memory as he was stepping out of the ship.
4h04m22s: Block (sub-8h AP is only 0.3%), taking it, 504 pop, 9.8s RC with Z10/24.
It's a pretty thick book about using shields for block instead of hit points. The pad has the stats analysis. Sh3-1 is only giving us 9% of our hit points. Turning to his trimp scientists, he says, "It seems to me to be worth it."
"Let's," the yellow one nods.
"Shijou," it hands him a note, "It scales badly, but that won't matter for a long time. I think there's a way to undo it before it matters."
"Doing it." The human takes out his pad and starts scanning.
4h29m05s: L14 rand moun 137/26/80 is really good for a lo-hi-med. 4h30m52s: Hotels.
"Ah," the yellow one says, "I knew there was something. That must be it."
5h08m09s: L15 lo-hi-hi rand gard 129/28/82 (just got explorers). 5h09m32s: Picked up Wall.
"Dam," the human says.
"Damn?" the red one chuckles.
"No," the human says, "Earthen wall dam; it's a thing that makes artificial lakes by holding rivers back."
"Lakes?" the yellow one asks, "Rivers?"
"Oh yeah," the human says, "This planet doesn't have enough rain for those..."
5h48m21: Leaving Wall from about c70 to fetch Tion Z15.
"You can't resume the map from the same point if you start another," the human reads the grey one's note.
"We can go back to the same point on that route if we hold there and finish Zone 15, right?" Tightniks asks.
"Shijou!" it seems to be saying yes.
"Yes," the yellow one adds, "but we're out of Series III upgrades, and you need a fresh map route to start up Series IV."
"We should be okay," Tightniks says, "but if we have to start it over, I don't see that being a big deal." As they advance through the rest of Zone 15, Tightniks resumes his usual duties at the research desk instead building and running traps like he was before.
The trimps seem hopeful at this decision.
5h49m10s: Fresh turkimp. 5h50m16s: Zone 16, 1071 pop, 13.4s RC with Z15/75, 13m43s turkimp (skel in c1.)
"Z:16 Seriously? Another Blimp so soon?"
"So," Tightniks lowers his bee nickels and looks at the red one, "is it going to be boss fights at the end of every zone from now on?"
"Hmm," the red trimp looks up past the human at some random rock spire or cloud.
"Well?" the human persists.
"Yup," he says.
"Hmph," Tightniks grabs a Sw3-1 of the rack and advances towards the front, "Before then, we have another Mister Titanium."
"What does he like about skeletimps?" the red one asks the grey one as the human marches off.
"Shijou?" the grey one seems just as confused by that.
"He's not going back to the ship, and he's not getting himself killed," the yellow one smiles, "so I'll take it."
5h58m32s...
"Hey guys, go for the mortar!" the human suggests to his 75 fighting trimps in the Wall's boss fight.
"I can tell from your bedtime stories that you're used to the artillery in that other place," the yellow one gripes, "but fighting works differently here, there's no artillery."
And the human instantly collapses laughing, the scientists a little worried he might have injured himself in the planet's severe gravity. But he's okay, at least physically, "Mortar is the stuff between the bricks, fellas. That's is a brickimp, right?"
5h59m18s: Wall, 1076 pop, 13.3s RC, 1% AP for sub-8h finish, first L16 roll good 156/35/84 moun, 10 for the metal.
Beyond the Wall was a more edenic section of the trimpolis ruins, doubling the production of the lumberjacks. The trimps are actually really happy with the mode of all of the laborers moving between the three big jobs, along with the turkimp, except for the foremen specialized at leading the job. It isn't enough to boost their productivity, but the human goes to them with trays of sandwiches.
6h06m52s: 50 map run 0.3% AP...
6h19m13s: Zone 17, 1141 pop, 16.0s RC with Z16/94, no turkimp.
"Z:17 You climb a large cliff and look out over the new Zone. Red dirt, scorched ground, and devastation. Is that a Dragimp flying around out there?!"
"Hmm," the human surveys the new zone with his bee nickels, "Looks like crap. Any ideas?"
"You're the idea man," the yellow one groans.
"Set the map flag," he puts his bee nickels away, "We'll run a depth for practice and to load up on gems for more hotels."
"Righto," the red one gets to work.
6h44m34s: First DCP. (Draglimp Care Package; I refuse to call it a tribute.)
"Oh," the human says, "It's tame now, so it brings back gems in exchange for food?" He looks at his gaping scientists, "That's what it looks like, huh? Guys? Yo!"
"Tai..." the grey one sighs.
Draglimp, the dragimp imprinted on Tightniks, lands beside the human, drops some gems at his feet, and accepts some scratching behind its horns before diving into the food bowl.
"You tamed a dragimp???" Grey's note says.
"Well," the yellow one huffs, "I guess that happened."
8h18m53s: L20 depth of 154/27/79.
"Mapping up here?" the red one half closes one eye and tilts his head.
"Yeah," the human says while fitting together the depth map fragments, "With the coordination book not right at the end, we have an extra mark of coordination to take advantage of. Let's take our housing up to 2000 or so, shall we?"
"Okay," the yellow one says from a pile of logs, "What's all the wood for?" They had been collecting it for days now.
"The series upgrades follow a rather specific pattern," Tightniks explains, "Just on the other side of this blimp is Zone 21, where we should be able to find the Shield series V, right?"
"Shijou!" the grey one nods.
8h56m17s: 1% AP for 100 map runs, leaving it, 1751 pop, 24.8s RC with Z20/232. 8h56m54s: Zone 21...
"Ooooookay," Tightniks growls, "There is something off about this thing."
"Shijou?" the grey one looks at the yellow one with concern about their human starship pilot friend.
The human stoops, picks up the little green gem on the ridge between Zone 20 and 21, looks at it, huffs, and asks, "Any idea where this comes from?"
"Err..." the red one seems hesitant to say, "I think you made it."
"Really?" the human huffs, "How could that be?" Then he tosses it at Red, "See if anything reacts to it. It might be radioactive, so we should take turns to minimize exposure."
"Really?" Red's holding it now, "What makes you say that?"
"Because I'm pissed off for no reason I can figure out," the human says, "I think it's coming from that."
"Frags," the red one says quickly, "I think it's arranging a route. You're good with maps," it tosses the gem to the grey scientist.
"Shijou," the grey one says hopefully, and has a map drawn within a few minutes. [Whether it looks like the one in Puchim@s 1x61 is anyone's guess. That one annoyed me as well as Chihya.]
9h02m37s: L21 moun first roll was a decent 160/26/84. 9h21m00s: Starting run 5 of that map...
Tightniks had taken his anger out on some food and wood to build about 8000 traps. Now he's leaning against a rock spire in his increasingly tattered uniform. A nap begins, perhaps unintentionally.
Wild trimps are examining the pile, finding it unwelcoming, and also finding no place in the town, just mill about. It looks like they want to help.
"Ku?" it's a blue trimp, probably a farmer waiting for stuff to grow, climbs up on the rock spire the human is leaning against, starts patting him on the head, "Ku. Ku ku." [Puchim@s Chihya.]
9h23m09s: Still working that lap...
Tightniks wakes up from that nap, and the grey one is standing there. "Shijou," it says with a note of concern, although not much of one. The note it holds says, "It wasn't me."
"Oh, what wasn't you, buddy?" He stretches out a bit, feeling somewhat refreshed. It feels like somebody washed his face and hair while he was sleeping.
The grey one is also holding a small mirror, apparently broken off from a larger mirror and with the sharp edges filed down to make the edges safe.
The human takes it from the grey trimp and holds it in front of his face to discover that somebody has bound up all his hair into about twenty little pigtails. He touches them with his other hand to confirm. "Eh, whatever." He hands the mirror back and goes back to sleep. [Puchim@s Koamimami.]
9h30m08s: The following run...
"He's not throwing stuff every which way yet," the yellow one whispers to the red one, watching the human snoozing with his pad on his knee.
"You remember that, too?" the red one asks.
"'Remember'?" the yellow one turns to face the red one, "I s'pose that's better than imagining it."
"I remember it, too," the grey one says via a playing card sized note.
"If we're stuck in a time loop," the yellow one sighs, "maybe this cycle will be different."
"Tai..." the grey one admires him for a moment. Then thumbs in the direction of the mountain, "Heh, Shijou!" it laughs.
9h35m58s: Run 8, c9 of that map.
The scientists nap and take notes, and meditate and take notes, and draw stuff. The grey one often storyboards for the other nine because it's the best at drawing stuff. They have come up with a list, and most probably "order" (they're debating whether their ranking means "order" (sequence of things happening over the various loops) or "frequency" (what proportion of previous loops they have happened in). But they've come up with this, from first (or perhaps most often) to most recent (or perhaps least often):
- The ship crashes (they're pretty sure that happens every loop) - The human builds huts - The human teaches some of his trimps to speak and do science - The human builds houses - The human makes maps - The human builds mansions - The human blows up and gets himself killed somewhere around Z17 to Z21, often on a dragimp - The human only recently/occasionally builds hotels - The human only recently/rarely tamed a dragimp - The human only recently/rarely maps the Dimension of Anger
They're all agreed that that they have never finished the Dimension of Anger. What they are not all agreed on is that they've never done this conference to figure out whether they're in a time loop or what that might mean. [See also Star Trek: The Next Generation episode "Cause and Effect" ...which was sort of a time loop but they weren't going back in time. It's very interesting, but its meta makes no sense - no one ever went looking for the Bozeman in 80 years? No one who went looking for the Bozeman also got stuck? No one noticed the passage of time outside the little area of space where the not-quite-a-time-loop was happening? Errr... sci-fi writers, don't be half-assed about your time loops, lmao! Be like Harold Ramis- ...what am I saying?? (That would be Groundhog Day, which grafted a time loop into a romcom; there are no other sci-fi elements. But it was a full-blown time loop and not half-assed like "Cause and Effect".)]
9h54m06s: Dropped from Z21c95...
I think it would be a bad idea to bypass that green area, as much as I'd rather not face it. Both his domesticated trimps, which are breeding up a new group of fighters, and the wild trimps he has decided just now not to open the traps for, stare at him and point in that direction. He shoulders a huge Shield V-3 and grabs an Mace IV-2 as well and announces, "We're doing it." Thus equipped, he marches off into the Dimension of Anger.
10h27m53s: Taking Pi4-2; recently had taken Pa4-2...
The group at the front had expired, and the snimp in DoAc95 glares at the advancing colony of trimps, which had halted only because of it. It refuses to counterattack the vulnerable colony and its human, instead snorting and huffing, waiting for the next bunch of 232 fighting trimps to come in range.
Tightniks runs along the line of traps, releasing the recently tamed trimps, singing a song that he doesn't remember the meaning of, that he doesn't remember was crafted by an ethnically Chinese guy out of an African language, and later mastered by two caucasians over the internet before they ever met in person. "Baba yetu yetu uliye, mbinguni yetu yetu amina..." because it just happened to be stuck in his head. [Because the Doylian author decided on a whim to. Christopher Tin got it into Civilization IV and at the time (2010 July), I made the best video for it on YouTube, which got subsequently blown to shreds when Peter Hollens and Malukah re-recorded the song from scratch in their own voices and instruments in 2014, pity with no English translation, the purpose of my video.]
Noticing the last batch of metal he needs coming out of the furnace, he waves the waiting grey scientist to fire up the forge [to use the term properly and not as the game does], for it was time to wrap up the forging dies for the Spetum IV, Mark 2 pike heads.
"Shijou!" the grey one cheers, setting aside a snack that looks like maybe ramen, and starts jumping up and down on the bellows handle.
It takes a while for the human to chip out the tip in the two halves of the forging die, and then polish it, and then heat it up in the forge, and then quench it, inspect it, and put it into service crafting thousands of new pike heads for the fighting trimps.
But only one second passed on the map frame clock (10h27m54s) four cells behind that snimp, in the case being brooded over by this huge, and if it's honest, rather concerned megablimp.
10h35m45: Portal PB, 45 He, 4.247 He/hr, 1891 pop, 22.7s RC with Z20/232, no turkimp.
The last head of the map's boss monster goes limp as one of the fighting trimps' mace heads bounces of it, and the huge thing settles on its tail, resting on the package that seems to be the prize of this map. And there's a popping sound, and then something mechanical.
Is that a scroll compressor? Tightniks looks at the package. The deflating monster's lifting envelope material drapes over everything underneath it. "Red, Shijou!" he snaps and points, "roll up that side of it. Keep this part from sucking down on the extractor nozzle!"
All ten of the scientists jump in, literally, pushing the gas in the bag towards the compressor. Tightniks as well, rolling up the front.
Until he kicks, and nearly trips over, a smaller package that might be the explanation for the reason why the center of the monster's defense seemed to be a little away from the big package he could see. It's in the right place, he realizes. He gets it uncovered and reads stenciled-and-sprayed block letters on it:
"DT TIME PORTAL / THIS SIDE DOWN"
Perhaps the Dimension of Anger is so named because of the rage suddenly rising up in Tightniks' throat. It isn't so much as the free-floating aggression suddenly has an answer, there is definitely a fresh batch of rage and anger as he grips the nearest Mace IV, Mark 3 with both hands and gets it over his shoulder, its target obviously this object, anger at the realization he screams at the top of his lungs, "We are stuck in a mutha FAH-king time loop!!" His swing begins. [Tightniks almost never cusses, unlike Snugniks.]

Round 1, Pick 11 - Olumuyiwa Fashanu, OT, Penn State:
NFL: Though he enters the NFL as a work in progress, Fashanu is a long, athletic offensive tackle with a lot of upside. The good thing here is the Jets don’t need him to start from Day 1, so the Penn State product can learn behind established veterans Tyron Smith and Morgan Moses.
CBS Sports: B-. He is a left tackle for the future, but also insurance if Tyron Smith can’t play the whole season. He is good in pass protection, but needs to improve his run blocking. This isn’t an all-in pick like Brock Bowers might have been.
ESPN: Not the sexy pick, but the right pick. Georgia tight end Brock Bowers would've garnered bigger headlines than Fashanu, but the need at offensive tackle trumped what would have been a luxury pick. This was general manager Joe Douglas pouring more resources into an injury-riddled line that allowed 64 sacks, including the one that ended Aaron Rodgers' season on the fourth snap. Douglas acquired veterans Tyron Smith, Morgan Moses and John Simpson in free agency, and now he has a highly skilled heir apparent at left tackle. Fashanu needs seasoning as a run-blocker, but he allowed only one sack at Penn State and was named Big Ten Offensive Lineman of the Year. This marks the third time in the past five drafts that the Jets used a first-round pick on a lineman.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: He was not alive when The Waterboy came out.
Round 3, Pick 65 - Malachi Corley, WR, Western Kentucky:
NFL: Some have likened Corley to "Deebo Samuel Lite" for his running back-like build and tackle-breaking ability, although he's not as dynamic a player yet as Samuel is. The Jets can use him in the Randall Cobb role and upgrade that spot, however.
CBS Sports: B. Angry WR who plays like a RB with the ball in his hands. Some route-tree experience but predominantly deployed as gadget type and showcased insane contact balance in college. Fun addition as extension of Jets run game. Just a niche type.
ESPN: The Jets have a new king -- the "YAC King," as Corley was known in college. They coveted him so much that they traded up seven spots, giving up a third-round pick (72) and a fifth-rounder (157). Rodgers gave his stamp of approval, telling Saleh via text that he's excited about Corley. He did two things exceptionally well in college: make yards after the catch and score touchdowns. From 2021 to 2023, he scored 29 receiving TDs (tied for the second most in the FBS) and racked up 2,068 yards after the catch, easily the most in the FBS. He's not a blazer (4.56 seconds in the 40), but he's a strong, violent runner, evoking comparisons to Deebo Samuel. The Jets' receivers didn't generate much YAC last season, so he should provide a needed dimension to the receiving corps. Corley is best out of the slot, but he can be used as a gadget player on screens and jet sweeps.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Round Three: If this was a MK fight someone would be a winner here.
Round 4, Pick 134 - Braelon Allen, RB, Wisconsin:
NFL: Allen is a big, fast back who might vault to RB2 behind Breece Hall eventually. There was some talk about Allen possibly landing in Round 3, so the value appears good. He's a straight-line runner but one who brings juice and force to the position.
CBS Sports: B+. Not a freaky specimen athletically but enormous RB with loads of experience. One of the youngest prospects in the entire class. Game is predicated on between-the-tackles vision and effortless power through contact. Not elusiveness or speed. Best pass pro RB in the class.
ESPN: A bit of a surprise, considering the Jets already have a terrific RB1, Breece Hall. Yes, they needed another backup to pair with 2023 draft pick Israel Abanikanda, and they opted for the 235-pound bruiser instead of a veteran free agent. Allen brings size and power to the position; he squatted 610 pounds as a freshman. He was the heaviest running back at scouting combine. His mindset: "I try to punish defenders." He befriended Derrick Henry via social media -- a pretty good resource for a "big" back. Allen rushed for 3,494 yards and 35 touchdowns in a highly productive career at Wisconsin, which has produced some fantastic running backs. His numbers dipped last season with a new coaching staff. Allen will push Abanikanda, who rushed for 70 yards as a rookie. In Hall, Allen and Abanikanda, they have plenty of speed, power and youth. In fact, Allen, who doesn't turn 21 until Jan. 20, is the youngest player in the draft.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Enjoys baby carrots and ranch as a light snack at the end of the day.
Round 5, Pick 171 - Jordan Travis, QB, Florida State:
NFL: Someone check on Aaron Rodgers! All kidding aside, this feels like an excellent landing spot for Travis, with Zach Wilson shipped to Denver and Rodgers perhaps a year or two from retirement. Travis made steady strides as a passer and leader over his five college seasons, taking care of the ball, threatening defenses with his legs and displaying the competitiveness and creativity to give him a shot.
CBS Sports: B-. Older but ascending passer who demonstrated clear improvement as a thrower during his collegiate career. Flair for the improvisational play with his legs and simply when keeping his eyes downfield after pressure mounts. Touch at all levels is good. Late-season torn ACL. Small frame with average at best arm talent but good accuracy.
ESPN: Five days after trading Zach Wilson to the Denver Broncos, the Jets added a new face to the quarterback room. Travis is a long-term project, a developmental player who can learn from two wise heads, Aaron Rodgers and Tyrod Taylor. It's an ideal situation for Travis, who, like Rodgers, is attempting to return from a major injury. In his case, it was a gruesome broken ankle last November, a devastating setback that ruined a storybook college season. Travis improved last season as a passer (20 TDs, two interceptions), but he still has a way to go. He has average arm strength, but he has exceptional movement skills. As he noted, "I'm a playmaker. I make plays when everything breaks down." Naturally, his surgically repaired ankle is a big question mark. He declined to give a timetable on when he'd be ready for football activities.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Once moonwalked an entire marathon. That’s right. 26.2 miles of moonwalk.
Round 5, Pick 173 - Isaiah Davis, RB, South Dakota State:
NFL: A consistent producer at the FCS level, Davis reminded me of Tyler Allgeier a bit as a prospect. Davis also showed up against a very good Iowa defense, with 80-plus yards from scrimmage. But did the Jets need another big back? They're pretty loaded with Breece Hall, Israel Abanikanda, Braelon Allen and now Davis. I like the player, but the redundancy is confusing.
CBS Sports: C. Big, highly athletic feature back without serious top speed but nifty cutting skill at all levels of the field. Will make many defenders miss although could experience some growing pains making step up in competition. Serious feature back potential but another RB?
ESPN: Another running back on Day 3? This certainly should send a message to Abanikanda. The competition is on. Davis is an interesting pick. He absolutely dominated FCS competition, rushing for 4,548 yards and 50 touchdowns in his career. He led the FCS last season with 1,578 rushing yards and 18 touchdowns. But can he make the jump to the NFL? At 6-foot, 218 pounds, he has an NFL body, but his speed (4.57 in the 40) is suspect. He came from a gap blocking scheme and will have to adjust to the Jets' zone-based scheme. He should be a terror on special teams, which is what you want out of a backup running back drafted in the fifth round.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Knows the difference between a null value and zero on a tax return.
Round 5, Pick 176 - Qwan’tez Stiggers, CB, CFL (Toronto Argonauts):
NFL: Stiggers never played college football, which is why he had to take the unusual CFL-to-the-NFL draft route. But he's a fascinating talent with clear ballhawking skills in his one year with the Toronto Argonauts, even if he's a clear project.
CBS Sports: C+. Traits and flash-based CB who still needs to learn the nuances of reading routes and understanding concepts but at times his athletic skill and size get him to the football. Twitch and speed jump out on film. Not a sound tackler right now.
ESPN: The Jets drafted three projects in the fifth round, none bigger than Stiggers, who has no college experience and played one season (2023) in the CFL for the Toronto Argonauts. He was eligible for the NFL draft because he didn't attend college. He's extremely raw, but the tools are there. He has good size (5-foot-11, 203) and ran the 40 in 4.45 seconds at his pro day. For the Argos, he recorded five interceptions and was named most outstanding defensive rookie. He joins a loaded cornerback room, led by All-Pro Sauce Gardner. Stiggers is an ideal candidate for the practice squad, where he could continue his development.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: I’m just here to remind you that the Arizona Cardinals exist.
Round 7, Pick 257 - Jaylen Key, S, Alabama:
NFL: Key has pretty interesting length for a DB and he played arguably well for Bama after transferring from UAB, but his lack of long speed likely keeps his role limited to box-safety duties in the NFL.
CBS Sports: C+. Sizable, reasonable athlete who’s best near the line of scrimmage but doesn’t play with his hair on fire. Sound tackler and will lay the lumber. Has the linear speed to run with TEs down the seam. Not a bendy mover so doesn’t stick to his responsibilities in coverage often. Average-at-best ball skills.
ESPN: Hello, Mr. Irrelevant -- the Jets' first since 1969. Key is a 6-1, 208-pound safety known for his physical style of play. He doesn't have great speed (4.6 in the 40), but his noted toughness will help him land a role on special teams. Key began his career at UAB, spending only one season at Alabama. He started 12 games for coach Nick Saban, but he didn't have much ball production -- only one interception and two passes defensed. The Jets' safety depth could have an opening or two. After incumbent Tony Adams, they have veteran Chuck Clark and career backup Ashtyn Davis.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Was drafted into the NFL and no one can ever take that away from him.

The master of ceremonies glanced at the paper in his hand, and a glimpse of confusion showed on his face.
Something was wrong.
“And the third and last team representing Farcrest. Lowell’s Orphanage!”
Elincia clung to my arm, fear and impotence reflected in her expression. We were supposed to be called Rosebud Fencing Academy during the tournament. I clenched my jaw and glanced across the pavilion, giving [Awareness] free rein. Lord Osgiria gave me a mocking look.
I cursed. Among the nobility, everything was appearances. The fact that Farcrest had to resort to a poor orphanage for representation spoke badly about the state of affairs in the territory. The nobles around us exchanged funny looks.
“Keep your heads up. That’s our call,” I said, loud enough for the whole pavilion to hear us. If nobles thought this would weigh upon our shoulders, they were wrong.
Ilya took position by my right as the team captain, and we entered the crescent-shaped arena. The cheering died. Our magnificent uniforms didn’t fool the crowd anymore. I reached the Marquis's side and saluted the VIP box. Only after Prince Adrien started applauding did the rest of the nobles acknowledge our presence.
The commoners in the stands hesitated to cheer for us. This wasn’t a gentle world. They didn’t care about the kid’s feelings. I glanced over my shoulder. Wolf was unfazed, and Zaon moved his lips, repeating, ‘Nervous is good’ repeatedly. Firana, on the other hand, was furious.
“Tough crowd, uh?” I muttered.
“It’s only expected. Orphans don’t get good classes. There is no reason to cheer for us,” Ilya replied with a grin. “Yet.”
Did she look so mature back at the carriage?
The crowd’s attention lingered on us for an instant before the next team entered the arena. To my surprise, a single team represented the royal family: a group of cadets from the Imperial Academy. Five young cadets dressed in plain black, guided by Holst, entered the arena. The crowd came back to life. Considering the opulence of the other teams, the uniforms of the Imperial Academy cadets were disappointing. Even my group was better suited to the occasion.
Holst stood by my left, saluting the stands with a dull gesture.
“Robert Clarke, good to see you still among the living,” he greeted me with a bored tone.
His words, however, sent a shiver down my spine. Did he know assassins had tried to kill me a few days before? Captain Kiln had sworn to keep it a secret. The coincidences piled up. Holst knew about the attack and asked Lyra Jorn’s help with the library when Luzian Abei had a small army of Scholars and Scribes at his disposal. I couldn’t help but think Holst was still in contact with the culprit.
“Preceptor Holst,” I coldly greeted, my brain too busy to formulate a more wordy sentence.
“I didn’t expect to meet my former students,” he added, looking past me at Ilya and the kids. “Certainly not in these circumstances.”
I swallowed my anger. This was a golden opportunity for the orphanage. Watching the skill of the imperial cadets could help me understand why Sir Janus had been the only commoner in Farcrest to assist the Imperial Academy. Even if we lost the tournament, we could improve our chances of getting them accepted into the Imperial Academy, putting them in the same echelon as nobles.
“Do you trust the ability of your current students to win the tournament?” I asked, examining the cadet’s faces. Three humans, a half-elf, and a harpy. They didn’t seem thrilled to be part of the tournament.
Holst laughed.
“These idiots aren’t my students. These five failed their first year. If they don’t win the tournament, they will be kicked out of the Academy,” he replied, shrugging. “For failures like them, I’d say they are the favorites to win the tournament.”
A glance at the Imperial Academy team revealed their strong shoulders and steady feet. Despite the lack of fashion, they looked like trained warriors instead of pampered noble kids. Their faces had lost the roundness of childhood, and their calm demeanor and sharp eyes revealed an intense training regime. I hoped not to bump into them until the later rounds of the tournament.
Our conversation was cut short because the Osgirian teams entered the arena. First, Lord Osgiria, then Lord Nara, and finally, a man dressed as a knight, followed by a group of kids in mismatched uniforms—each one with the colors of their respective houses. Lord Osgiria stood by Holst's side and greeted the VIP box.
If Captain Kiln were right, our team would fight Lord Nara in the first round. I expected the man to be a merchant with a comically large belly. Instead, he looked like a cunning gray fox. I had to remind myself that buying a way into nobility required a skillful negotiator.
“Three teams, Lord Osgiria? You don’t seem too confident in your chances,” Holst casually said.
The Imperial Academy had to be a powerhouse within the kingdom because Lord Osgiria swallowed any snarky remark.
Lord Herran, a tall and muscular redhead dressed in full warrior attire, entered next. I remembered him from the feast—boisterous, talkative, determined. The black mana-repelling axe hung from his belt, causing my stomach to feel sick if I looked for too long. House Herran only had two teams, one led by Lord Herran himself and the other by a man who could be his twin. Only half of the team members were human; the other half were different flavors of beast folk.
More than half of the kids had bright red hair like their lord. I wondered if red hair was a dominant gene in the Herran Dukedom because the kids looked healthy. There was not a trace of the infamous Habsburg chin. They were tall and robust like their lord.
I tried to glance at the axe’s runes, but Lord Herran was too far away.
“That’s lord Herran and his army of copperhead bastards,” Holst pointed out, laughing at his joke.
I doubted that having a dozen children the same age was normal, even more so for a noble, considering how difficult succession could be. Lord Herran must’ve loved to spread his genes.
“It’s okay for him to present his… illegitimate kids in an official event like this?” I asked.
“Do you like gossip, Robert Clarke?” Holst raised an eyebrow.
“I like to be informed,” I replied.
Holst seemed satisfied with my answer.
“Lord Herran is one of the few Combat Prestige Classes in the kingdom. He has the [Conqueror] Class,” Holst replied. “It’s only natural that he can do whatever he wants. Not even the king has enough power over Lord Herran to stop his… reproductive impulses.”
I nodded. The relationship between the royal house and the great three dukedoms was more complex than I initially thought. According to the stories, Combat Prestige Classes were, in essence, one-man armies that could create whole countries around their power. I wondered what kind of monsters the royal army found in the Deep Farlands to be obliged to retreat.
After Lord Herra, Lord Gairon entered the arena. The Gairon House was arguably the second most powerful family after the royal house, and their uniforms reflected their status. The blue was rich and deep, and the gold shone under the winter sun, seemingly casting the few clouds away. The crowd yelled and cheered. It wasn’t surprising. Lord Gairon was a tall, tanned man with hair the color of ripe wheat—the perfect poster boy and leader of the anti-war faction.
“He has to go down if we want the royal faction to have a chance,” Holst said.
It suddenly hit me. Holst and I technically supported the same faction.
“Lord Gairon is also a Prestige Class?” I asked.
“A [Sacred Knight], yes. Rumor says he reached the mythic level sixty,” Holst replied. “Let’s hope their teams are more… farming inclined.”
The crowd became more tame after the three big houses made their entrance. Lord Vedras received less than half of House Gairon’s support, probably because of the tax disputes between Farcrest and the Vedras dukedom. He had brought three teams.
Duke Jorn’s presence almost caused the arena to become completely silent—Holst told me he was also a high-level Prestige Class, a Shadow Stalker.
“That sounds dangerous,” I pointed out.
“Sellen Jorn is one of the most dangerous men in the kingdom. His mere existence was enough for the king to create a whole new duchy,” Holst said. “Take an Assassin and a Shadow Fencer, mix them, double their powers, and then double them again. That’s a Shadow Stalker in a nutshell.”
I tried to imagine it. The Assassin who attacked the orphanage would have had a hard time with any class without a skill like my mana blades. I had been lucky to have a favorable matchup against him; otherwise, I might have been dead. His capacity to disable my movement was scarily effective. A man with the skills of an Assassin and a Shadow Fencer had dangerous implications.
“Prince Adrien wanted Sellen Jorn as his Master of Assassins, but he didn’t want to leave his people in the north,” Holst said. “Walls, doors, bars, locks, nothing can stop a Shadow Stalker. Only the woven barrier of several high-level Fortifiers can stop him. Or so it’s said.”
Gears turned inside my skull. I wondered if Duke Jorn was involved in the disappearance of the evidence of Raudhan’s poisoning. He certainly had the skill to move unnoticed through the Great Hall. Stealing a box with shards of glass would be a walk in the park for him.
The rest of the teams passed in a blur as my mind reviewed the party's events. Sellen Jorn was undoubtedly suspicious. His lack of presence was as unnerving as it was useful for an infiltration mission. Could he be involved in Raudhan’s poisoning? Lord Vedras had denied the existence of any co-conspirators, and we were almost entirely sure that Raudhan hadn’t been poisoned by Ashroot.
Duke Jorn's political positioning was hard to determine. The northern dukedoms were poor, and just like Farcrest, they served as a bulwark against the Monster Surges. Four families controlled most of the kingdom’s economy and politics. House Gairon, House Herran, House Osgiria, and the Royal Family. The northern dukedoms didn’t benefit from the current trade routes and wouldn’t directly benefit from a new trade route into the Kingdom of Tagabiria.
However, they would benefit from a closer relationship with the royal family.
Duke Jorn had no reason to poison Captain Kiln.
Ilya tugged the sleeve of my jacket, bringing me back to the present. The master of ceremonies was finishing a long speech about the legacy of Stephaniss of Farcrest, the previous lord of the city and the Marquis's grandfather. Even the Marquis seemed bored.
“Prince Adrien will draw the matches for the first round!” The master of ceremonies announced.
Prince Adrien came forward, and an assistant brought a glass bowl filled with small wooden rods. He put his hand in the bowl, picked one randomly, and passed it to his companion. The woman dressed in purple read it out loud, her voice magically amplified. Her pleasant contralto voice made me think she was a singer.
“House Nara versus…” she received the second wooden rod. “Lowell’s Orphanage!”
Just like Captain Kiln had warned me.
I didn’t expect us to be the opening fight. The other teams returned to the pavilion, and a group of Scribes carried the System Shrine Shard embedded in its copper nest to the center of the arena. I assumed it was there to ensure all participants met the requirements for the tournament.
“Let’s go, team,” I said.
We formed next to the Shrine Shard and in front of Lord Nara’s team. The master of ceremonies activated the blue orb, and the kids' names, classes, and levels appeared before us. Luckily, Lord Nara and I were exempt from the crystal ability. Being outed as a Runeweaver wasn’t part of my plans.
Belya Nara, Geomancer Lv.3
Arel Nara, Warrior Lv.5
Lino, Soldier Lv.9
Jan, Archer Lv.3
Aiwin, Courier Lv.7
Firana Aias, Wind Fencer Lv.1
Ilya, Hunter Lv.2
Zaon, Classless Lv.1
Wolf, Classless Lv.1
The System prompts might have been big enough for the crowd to read because a murmur rose from the stands. I didn’t need [Awareness] to understand the commotion. Half of my team was classless in a world where Classes were everything. Lord Nara also seemed to notice the discrepancy between our teams.
“I’m feeling generous today, Mister Caretaker. I will gladly accept your surrender and spare you the embarrassment if you apologize for wasting our time,” Lord Nara said with a mellow, totally fake voice. “You can save the kids the shame of losing in front of their countrymen.”
The master of ceremonies looked at me.
“What do you think, Ilya?” I asked.
“The team is ready, Mister Clarke. We fight,” she replied without any hint of doubt.
Despite Lord Nara’s clever expression, he was underestimating us. I couldn’t blame him. He had lived all his life in a world where value was determined by class and level. Developing an eye for people wasn’t as helpful as on Earth, where it could mean the difference between life and death.
“We fight,” I said.
“Don’t say I didn’t extend the courtesy of an honorable withdrawal,” Lord Nara grinned, his fox-like eyes turned into thin lines.
The master of ceremonies nodded.
“The Rules are simple. The team that loses the coin toss has to choose its first fighter, and then the winning team chooses its opponent. Then, the roles change. Every team has two picks and two counter picks, for a total of four fighters,” the master of ceremonies explained, pulling a gold coin from the pocket.
I nodded. There was a level of strategy involved in the pairing phase. I could pair Firana against their weakest member to ensure a vast point difference. Or I could choose Zaon to keep things equalized. If I were Lord Nara, I would leave the Lv.7 Courier outside the selection. As fast as they were, they weren’t a combatant Class, but on the other hand, even non-combatants could develop useful masteries.
Zaon had a good matchup against the Soldier and the Warrior, as their combat skills were on the ‘basic’ side of the spectrum. However, the Archer, the Geomancer, and the Courier could present a problem to him. Wolf also had a bad matchup against the Archer and the Geomancer because he relied on solid and static positioning to use his muscles. Ilya and Firana had good matchups against the enemy team, but the enemy Geomancer worried me the most. She wasn’t just an Advanced Class, but a relative of Lord Nara.
“Here goes the coin,” the master of ceremonies said. He threw it high and caught it mid-flight.
Lord Nara kindly offered me the call.
“Heads,” I replied with a grin.
“Heads,” the master of ceremonies said, revealing the coin.
[Awareness] didn’t disappoint, but I made a mental note to keep it hidden from Ilya. She wouldn’t be on board with blatant cheating, even if we had the disadvantage. As cunning as Ilya was, strategy and cheats were completely different.
Lord Nara huffed. “Lino, you go first.”
The Soldier kid stepped forward. He was tall, probably a year older than my kids, but [Awareness] told me he was nervous. Soldier Class was painfully close to no class at all.
“Zaon, you go first. Is that okay with you?” I said, hoping the combination of Light-Footed and Lv.2 Longsword Mastery would match a Lv.9 Soldier with a couple of skills under his sleeve.
Zaon nodded.
It was my turn to choose and Lord Nara’s turn to counter-pick. “Ilya, you go second,” I said.
Ilya came forward, prompting a laugh from the rival Fighter.
“Do you want to fight the gnome, Arel?” Lord Nara asked.
“Yes, my lord. I’m confident I can get a ten-point lead over a Gnome Hunter,” Arel Nara replied.
A vein popped on Ilya’s forehead.
“Good. I chose my cousin Arel Nara for the second fight,” Lord Nara said.
Then, Lord Nara selected the Archer boy for the third fight, which put me in a tough spot. The Archer and the Geomancer were hard matchups for Wolf, and I lacked a fifth or sixth member to play around it. Nonetheless, the Archers weren’t known for their vast arsenal of skills.
“Wolf, you go against him,” I said.
Wolf nodded.
“Which leaves us with the last pair,” Lord Nara said with a mocking smile.
“Firana, you go last,” I said.
“Belya, my daughter, will be my last pick,” Lord Nara replied.
The dueling pairs were ready.
“So be it. The tournament's first match will be between Lino the Soldier and Zaon the Elf,” the master of ceremonies said, his voice suddenly amplified again as the Scribes took the System Shrine orb away. “Contestants, please go get your equipment. May the System bless you all.”
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I may have missed some more recent (late 2023-24) declarations, so let me know if I should add anything I've missed.
Stugotz personal record book. Sorry if the links are expired on some things. They're old.
[Time Stamps] Started to use them in late 2019. They may not be exact based on what podcast app or service you use. But they'll be close.
I DIDN'T ASK FOR ANY OF THIS:

FOOTBALL

(1) UCF is the 2017-2018 national champion.
(2) If Kirk Cousins goes to the Jaguars and not the Jets, no championship he wins will count in the personal record book.
Note (2)(a): Still pending sort of since Kirk is with the Vikings now – possible in future he could go to Jags.
(3) Eli manning has 1 ring. He doesnt get one for throwing a ball into David Tyree's face / Tyree getting a football stuck in his helmet.
(4) Carson Wentz has a Super Bowl 52 ring.
Note (4)(a): Foles does not have a Super Bowl 52 ring.
(5) The Raiders defeated the Patriots in their divisional playoff matchup in 2002 (Tuck Rule game), and then would defeat the Rams in Super Bowl 36.
Note (5)(a): In this scenario also, Bill Belichick was also "fired and looking for a job" after the Tuck Rule game and has 0 rings.
(6) If the 2017 Patriots won Super Bowl 52, James Harrison would not have a ring (Patriots lost to Eagles).
(7) Peyton Manning has one ring (Broncos ring does not count).
(8) Peyton Manning must give such ring he lost (above) to Von Miller, who thus has 2 rings.
(9) Aaron Rodgers can have all the rings he wants for keeping all of central Wisconsin employed.
(10) Brian Billick has 0 rings (2000 Ravens Super Bowl) because that defense carried him.
(11) Tony Boselli is a Hall of Famer.
(12) Tarik Cohen is an honorary Jew.
(13) JuJu Smith-Schuster is also an honorary Jew. L'Chaim.
(14) Drew brees has three rings for winning the super bowl for the city of New Orleans.
Note (14)(a): There was discussion on this where the number started at three, went up to five, came down to two, but it ended up at three.
(15) Mike McCarthy has no Super Bowl rings.
Note(15)(a): Dan also has this in his record book, and it is the first entry into the Le Batard Personal Record Book.
Note 15(b): In fact, McCarthy has -3 (Negative three) rings.
(16) Any Super Bowl rings Antonio Brown gets with the Patriots will not count in the Stugotz personal record book (9/9 Weekend Observations National Hour 2).
(17) Ohio State's 76 to 5 victory over Miami (Ohio) on 9/21/19 does not count.
(18) Due to Bill Belichick's 219 wins with Tom Brady, Bill's week 7 2023 victory over the Bills was actually his 81st victory and not his 300th victory.
(19) The 2002-03 Miami Hurricanes actually won the Fiesta Bowl/BCS National Championship game against Ohio State.
(20) If JJ Watt joins the Texans for the 2024 season or later on, none of the Super Bowl rings will count in Stugotz's personal record book

BASKETBALL

Kevin Durant
(1) If Westbrook wins a championship and beats Kevin Durant along the way in the playoffs, Westbrook will have won 2 championship rings.
(2) "STRAP IT ON BOYS, GONNA TAKE YA FOR A RIDE:"
Kevin Durant has 0 rings (Zero rings)
Kevin Durant has -1 rings (Negative 1 rings).
Kevin Durant has -4 rings (Negative 4) (As of 4/11/18)
Note (2)(a): This number is subject to change based on Stugotz altering rings to the "-4" current total. Specifically as seen recently when Stugotz adjusted the number from (i) 0 rings to (ii) -1 rings to (iii) -4 rings.
Note (2)(b): Here is a tweet transcript of the conversation where this was discovered.
Archive link
(3) If Kevin Durant wins an NBA title for the NY Knicks, he will gain 11 rings.
Note (3)(a): As seen above in "(2)," Kevin Durant has -4 rings.
Note (3)(b): [Math] If Durant were to remain at -4 rings, and subsequently win an NBA title for the Knicks, he will have 7 rings total. This was specifically stated (-4 + 11 = 7), and a question about a non-specifically stated Personal Record Book entry is posed below in "Note (3)(c)(i)."
Note (3)(c): If the Golden State Warriors had won a championship playing 3 on 5 with Kevin Durant, Kevin Durant would have 1 ring.
Note (3)(c)(i): [Confusion] I am unsure if "Note(3)(c)" means he would gain +1 ring, and therefore be "up" to -3 rings total. Possibly, Stugotz means if the Golden State Warriors had won a championship 3 on 5 with Durant, Kevin Durant would be at +1 rings total (Positive 1 rings).
(4) Kevin Durant's dagger in Game 3 did not count, because according to Stugotz, none of Durant's stats count. KD's official statline last night was 0/0/0 and the Cavs blew the Warriors out by 40.
(5) Anything Kevin Durant has done with the Warriors so far is not in Stugotz' personal record scroll.
Note (5)(a): Stugotz did not take his feathered pen and write anything in his scroll (King Roy approves).
(6) Westbrook has ALL of KD's rings.
(7) For every time KD says he doesn't give a BLEEP, Stugotz adds 2 "I do give a BLEEPS" in the personal record book.
(8) Per Dan, speaking on Stugotz' behalf, Kevin Durant has no Olympic Gold Medals (9/18/19 National Hour 1 @ 00:07:50).
Michael Jordan
(1) Jordan has 9 rings because:
(a) The Rockets have to give their 2 rings from 1994 and 1995 to Jordan (+2); and
(b) The Bulls would have won the 1999 Finals over the Spurs if Jordan didn't retire (+1; 9 total).
Note (1)(a-b)(i): Put LeBron's rings in a box and put Jordan's rings in a box. Jordan is +6 by the way over LeBron box-minus, despite box-minus sounding like a dumb stat.
(2) Michael Jordan was suspended for 2 years for gambling (Said 4/25/18 Hour 2, 14:30 in podcast).
Note 2(a): HOWEVER, MJ still has 9 rings as see above in (1)(a) and (1)(b).
(3) Any game Michael Jordan played wearing the uniform #45 does not count.
LeBron James
(1) If LeBron James goes to the Golden State Warriors, every Championship he wins will result in a deduction of 2 previously won championships.
(2) The Miami Heat LeBron teams were the GREATEST teams in the history of sports (5/7/18 Local Hour).
(3) The Miami Heat LeBron teams were also the MOST INTERESTING teams in the history of sports.
(4) If, after the 2018 NBA Playoffs:
(a) LeBron does not make it to the finals and the Celtics do; and
(b) The Houston Rockets do not make it to the finals and the Warriors do; and
(c) LeBron goes to the Houston Rockets for the next season, THEN
LeBron is allowed to win rings that count in Stu's personal record book.
Note (4)(a-c)(i): HOWEVER, Harden & Chris Paul - if they remain on the Rockets with LeBron on the team - are not allowed to have any of the rings won with LeBron count in Stu's personal record book.
Note 4(a-c)(ii): To quote the big man Stu (with Dan agreeing of course), "Do it on your own” (Dan agrees here).
(5) If LeBron wins an NBA Championship with the 2018 Lakers roster (as of 7/23/18), then that wins counts for 6 rings.
Note (5)(a): Thus LeBron would have 9 rings.
Kyrie Irving
(1) Kyrie Irving hit one of the biggest shots in NBA Finals History, but was only in that position because of LeBron James. Kyrie Irving, did hit one of the biggest shots in NBA Finals history that won everyone on that team a Ring, except for you (Kyrie). (3/9/20 Hour #3; Google Podcast @ 07:00).
Note (1)(a): Stugotz: "A little revision to the uhhh Stugotz Personal Record Book that I'll come around to writing...or Mike will." I'M WRITING IT YOU IDIOT MORON JACKAL
Misc. Basketball
(1) The Houston Rockets have 0 (Zero) NBA Championship victories.
Note (1)(a): See "Michael Jordan (1)(a)" for reasoning.
Note (1)(a)(i): [Restated Reasoning] Michael Jordan is actually in possession of those 1994 and 1995 Rockets rings because Michael Jordan would have won those championships if he stayed in Chicago.
Note(1)(b): [CONFLICTING HOT TAKE] Stugotz has also said Jordan didn't get the Rockets' rings because he was actually suspended for gambling.
Note (1)(b)(i) NEEDS CLARIFICATION PLEASE. Stugotz keeps going back and forth. In "Michael Jordan Note 1(a)," the opposite of "Miscellaneous Basketball Note (1)(b) is stated because he has gone back and forth on this issue.
(2) Steve Kerr has no rings as a coach. In fact, he has never even coached a game.
(3) Mychal Thompson (Klay's dad) has no rings. (Said on Zach Harper podcast).
(4) Clyde Drexler no rings (Said on Zach Harper podcast).
(5) Giannis Antetekoumpo is pronounced Yani Adababoombo.
(6) As long as James Harden has his beard, he cannot win any championships.
Note (6)(a): If the Rockets win a ring, then the ring goes to the beard.
(7) Lamarcus Aldridge cost the Spurs game 2 of the 2017 Western Conference Semifinals, even though they won.
(8) If the Sixers happen to win a championship, Sam Hinkie gets a ring.
(9) Chris Paul has NOT made a Western Conference Final since he had to join the Rockets to do so.
(10) Michael Jordan winning the NBA Finals in 1999 also means that Tim Duncan only has 4 rings instead of 5 rings.
(11) The Warriors only have 1 ring
Note (11)(a): Durant still has -4.
(12) Boogie Cousins cannot win a NBA Championship and have it count if he does so with the Warriors.
(13) Billy Donovan was the NBA Coach of the Year in 2017 (12/13/17 @ 28:10 Hour 1).
Note (13)(a): The Thunder blowing the 3-1 lead to the Warriors that year had nothing to do with Donovan. It was Durant's fault.
(14) The OKC Thunder actually did win the WCF against the Warriors in 2017 when up 3-1.
Note (14)(a): This does not apply to Durant though.
Note (14)(b): The Thunder also beat whoever they would have played in the Finals. Durant still no ring.
(15) Embiid has his 2023 MVP taken away and given to Jimmy Butler.
(16) Caitlin Clark's NCAA all-time scoring record still belongs to Pistol Pete because unlike Pistol Pete, Caitlin didn't do it in 3 years and she did it with a 3 point line.

BASEBALL

Babe Ruth
(1) Babe Ruth is black.
(2) Babe Ruth never hit a baseball. Not once.
(3) Babe Ruth is the number two black baseball player of all time behind Barry Larkin.
(4) Babe Ruth is NOT a top 20 Baseball player of all time. He's a pitcher.
Note (4)(a): However This is somewhat confusing/interesting because:
(i) Stugotz has said "Babe Ruth is the number two black baseball player of all time behind Barry Larkin; and"
(ii) This MUST mean Stugotz can only have 1 black player in his top 20 Baseball players of all time Barry Larkin; because
(iii) The only way this can work logically is if in the list of greatest players #1 through #20, only Barry Larkin is on the latter top #1 through #20 list. I would like some clarification on if he wishes to change this take/record.
(5) Babe Ruth is also not a top 20 pitcher of all time.
Misc. Baseball
(1) Stugotz has declared that in his personal record book, Baseball no longer allows pitchers to hit (Stated on 05/03/2018 @ 12:38:52 P.M).
Note (1)(a): Excludes Bartolo Colon, and Shohei Ohtani.
Note (1)(b): You are either a pitcher or a hitter. Not both.
(2) If the Dodgers won the 2017 World Series Clayton Kershaw would not have had a ring.
(3) Wade Boggs DOES have a ring because he rode around on a horse with a beer afterward.
(4) Clayton Kershaw did not win an MVP award because the award for pitchers was already given, the CY Young award.
(5) Miami beat LSU in the 1996 College Baseball World Series.
(6) The 1986 NY Mets did not win the World Series against the Boston Red Sox.
Note (6)(a): This "pains" Stugotz.
(7) The Red Sox retroactively winning the 1986 World Series may result in taking a ring away from the Mets.
Note (7)(a): Stugotz has to think about it though, he's not sure yet.
(8) Bryce Harper did not win the 2018 home run derby because he cheated.
(9) Kershaw's Earned Ring Average (ERA) is 0.00.
(10) Mike Minor (Rangers Pitcher) does not have 200 strikeouts in 2019. He's at 199 (National Hour 2, 10 mins 40 seconds in).
Note (10)(a): Chris agrees too. And who really cares (15% on poll do care).
(11) The 2020-2021 Mets, during the Coronavirus outbreak, are 0-3 and Jacob deGrom is somehow 0-1 with a 0.00 ERA and 1 complete game. The deGrominator. (Google Podcast 3/30 Hour #3 @ 19:20)

HOCKEY

(1) Ray Bourque doesn't have a ring.
(2) Alex Ovechkin may or may not have won the Stanley Cup against the Vegas Golden Knights.
Note (2)(a): "I mean he beat an expansion team . . . bunch of players nobody wanted" (We get the sense that Dan agrees).

TENNIS

(1) If anyone wins a major in Female Tennis without Serena Williams playing, it does not count and they have 0 rings.
(2) If Maria Sharapova wins a grand slam in which Serena isnt competing it doesnt count.

GOLF

(1) If Jason Day wins the 2018 Masters, it counts as an American winning (as far as bets are concerned).
(2) Vijay Singh did not play in the 2018 Masters.
(3) Steph Curry did not win the 2023 American Century Celebrity Golf Championship Tournament . Mardy Fish was the real winner.

SOCCER

(1) Lionel Messi is stripped of all his achievements for using HGH. He never played soccer. He is still 5'1". "Fraud."
(2) Soccer is dead.

NCAA DIVISION 1 WOMEN'S LACROSSE

(1) Rachel has more rings than Kevin Durant

MISCELLANEOUS

(1) Aqua?
(2) Rings plus-minus is the only way to measure greatness.
(3) The HBO Andre the Giant film was good, not great, and Stugotz didn’t learn anything.
(4) Benoit Lecomte (guy they interviewed) can not and will not swim from San Francisco to Tokyo in the personal record book because he is most likely taking a dip for a few minutes then coming back on the boat and enjoying some filet mignon by the pool.
Note (4)(a): "Do it without a yacht. And how about ya do it without the little magnetic field around you that keeps sharks away. How bout that. Allows dolphins through though? Anyway.."
(5) Justify (the Horse) only has a double crown.
Note (5)(a): This is the first ever double crown.
(6) Tango and Cash is in the action movie Hall of Fame. and Cliffhanger has the greatest 5 minute intro of any movie of all time.
(7) Maximum Security (a Horse) won the 2019 Kentucky Derby.
(8) Fruit Stripes Gum is NOT a 1st Ballot Hall of Famer in Stu's "Gum Hall of Fame." (08/12/2019 Hour 2 @ 15:25).
Note (8)(a): "It loses it's flavor so quickly"
Note (8)(b): Also, "[...] Bazooka...1st Ballot Hall of Famer." Also, "Big League Chew..1st Ballot."
(9) Chris Cote owns all intellectual property rights to the "Friends" (TV Show) Movie with a misleading preview that eventually has a climax leading to an intense murder mystery. (10/29/19 Hour #2 @ 03:15).
Note (9)(a): "If they make this without crediting Cote, they're stealing it."
(10) That guy killed the pigeon (12/10 Hour 3 @ 08:20).
(11) Billy owns the record for world's longest Plank (2/25, Hour #3; Google Podcast @ 30:55).
Note (11)(a): Possibly in just the Non-Marine edition.
(12) Zach Buchanan won a Pulitzer Prize for his story on the Madison Bumgarner / Mason Saunders rodeo fiasco (2/28/20 Hour #2; Google Podcasts @ 21:35).
(13) Findlay the Golden retriever holds the Stu Gotz Personal Record Book record for most tennis balls held in a mouth at one time by a dog at 6 (2/11/2020)
(14) Ace Davis (The kid who "proved" Tom Brady was cheating with science) and his fathefamily are heroes (4/1 Hour #3; Google Podcast @ 18:50).
(15) Dan did NOT do more push-ups than Domonique Foxworth (Dan did push-ups on a non-linear platform) (4/28/2020 Hour # 1).

SPORTS MEDIA DREAM TEAM™

Sourced from Google Podcast; 05/06/2020, Hour 2 @ 09:00
(Head Coach) Ernie Johnson - "When you look over to the bench, what you need is someone to stand tall, someone who is confident, someone who is competent, someone who has all the credibility -soaked in credibility - when you have the Head Coach of the Sports Media Dream Team."
(1; Point Guard) Mike Greenberg - "Doesn't really want to answer the big questions, but has no problem distributing those questions to other people who are happy to answer them."
(2; Shooting Guard) Stephen A. Smith - "Never met a topic he doesn't like. Short memory, doesn't care, Greeny could throw him anything and Stephen A. is gonna run with it even if he knows nothing about the topic. That is how it works. Stephen A. is the greatest of all time."
(3; Small Forward) Chris Fowler - "A do it all guy. Studio show? Great. Play by Play? Even better. Can do everything."
(4; Small Forward Replacement) Maria Taylor) - "Need Play by Play, need Sideline, need Studio Host - she can do it all"
(5; Power Forward) Dianna Russini - "You need some crazy, some don't mess with us, someone to tear someone's head off in the event that they come after one of us."
(6; Power Forward Replacement) PFT Commenter - "He just comes in and acts crazy, throws his arms and hair around, and give ya 5 to 10 really crazy minutes."
(7; In honor of the Chicago Bulls, Stugotz needed a Wennington, a Purdue) Scott Van Pelt - Dan debated whether or not SVP should be on the Sports Media Dream Team™. That's what he's doing.
(8; Bench Player w/ No Position Specified) Doris Burke
(9) Teased...

"I’m pleased to be able to share with you a first look at one of the most exciting features of the new stadium - what we’re currently calling the Supporters Porch. This part of the stadium is designed with amenities that we’re confident will contribute to what will be the best fan experience in the MLS! As you’ll see from the renderings and the video, it will include:

• A dedicated celebratory entry for our supporters, featuring a mural that will be designed in conjunction with our Supporters Groups, which will take you right up to the special part of the stadium called the Supporters Porch
  
• The 9,000+ square foot Supporters Porch will be large enough to accommodate 1,200+ fans before, during and after our games and includes a dedicated tap bar, various food offerings, seating and a large 400 square foot LED display. This outdoor bar and gathering area will be unique in New York City sports and can be used for events on matchdays and non-matchdays
  
• Inside the bowl, more than 3,400 safe-standing positions, which will be one of the steepest in MLS, meaning that our passionate supporters will be right on top of the goal across the whole north end of the stadium. 3 ‘capo’ stands and a drum platform will help to create an incredible atmosphere and give our boys in blue the best home field advantage in the league.
  
• A roof canopy covering more than 90% of the north stand, which will be built and designed in a way that will enable our supporters to hang the incredible Tifos that have become synonymous with our matches
  

I hope you’re as excited about these images and this video as we are. We’ll have even more updates to share with you over the coming months about the design and look of the new stadium that we’re thrilled to finally be able to call our home.
Let's Go!
Cheers,
Brad"

I’m pleased to be able to share with you a first look at one of the most exciting features of the new stadium - what we’re currently calling the Supporters Porch. This part of the stadium is designed with amenities that we’re confident will contribute to what will be the best fan experience in the MLS! As you’ll see from the renderings and the video, it will include:

• A dedicated celebratory entry for our supporters, featuring a mural that will be designed in conjunction with our Supporters Groups, which will take you right up to the special part of the stadium called the Supporters Porch
  
• The 9,000+ square foot Supporters Porch will be large enough to accommodate 1,200+ fans before, during and after our games and includes a dedicated tap bar, various food offerings, seating and a large 400 square foot LED display. This outdoor bar and gathering area will be unique in New York City sports and can be used for events on matchdays and non-matchdays
  
• Inside the bowl, more than 3,400 safe-standing positions, which will be one of the steepest in MLS, meaning that our passionate supporters will be right on top of the goal across the whole north end of the stadium. 3 ‘capo’ stands and a drum platform will help to create an incredible atmosphere and give our boys in blue the best home field advantage in the league.
  
• A roof canopy covering more than 90% of the north stand, which will be built and designed in a way that will enable our supporters to hang the incredible Tifos that have become synonymous with our matches
  

I hope you’re as excited about these images and this video as we are. We’ll have even more updates to share with you over the coming months about the design and look of the new stadium that we’re thrilled to finally be able to call our home.
Let's Go!
Cheers,
Brad

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storm, story, straight, strange, stranger, strategic, strategy, stream, street, strength, strengthen, stress, stretch, strike, string, strip, stroke, strong, strongly, structural, structure, struggle, student, studio, study, stuff, stupid, style, subject, submit, subsequent, substance, substantial, substitute, succeed, success, successful, successfully, such, sudden, suddenly, sue, suffer, sufficient, sugar, suggest, suggestion, suicide, suit, summer, summit, sun, super, supply, support, supporter, suppose, supposed, Supreme, sure, surely, surface, surgery, surprise, surprised, surprising, surprisingly, surround, survey, survival, survive, survivor, suspect, sustain, swear, sweep, sweet, swim, swing, switch, symbol, symptom, system, table, tactic, tail, take, tale, talent, talk, tall, tank, tap, tape, target, task, taste, tax, taxi, tea, teach, teacher, teaching, team, tear, technical, technique, technology, teen, teenager, telephone, telescope, television, tell, temperature, 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trick, trip, troop, trouble, truck, true, truly, trust, truth, try, tube, tunnel, turn, TV, twelve, twenty, twice, twin, two, type, typical, typically, ugly, ultimate, ultimately, unable, uncle, undergo, understand, understanding, unfortunately, uniform, union, unique, unit, United, universal, universe, university, unknown, unless, unlike, until, unusual, up, upon, upper, urban, urge, us, use, used, useful, user, usual, usually, utility, utilize, vacation, valley, valuable, value, variable, variation, variety, various, vary, vast, vegetable, vehicle, venture, version, versus, very, vessel, veteran, via, victim, victory, video, view, viewer, village, violate, violation, violence, violent, virtually, virtue, virus, visibility, visible, vision, visit, visitor, visual, vital, voice, volume, voluntary, volunteer, vote, voter, voting, wage, wait, wake, walk, wall, wander, want, war, warm, warn, warning, wash, waste, watch, water, wave, way, we, weak, weakness, wealth, wealthy, weapon, wear, weather, web, website, wedding, week, weekend, weekly, weigh, weight, welcome, welfare, well, west, western, wet, what, whatever, wheel, when, whenever, where, whereas, whether, which, while, whisper, white, who, whole, whom, whose, why, wide, widely, widespread, wife, wild, wildlife, will, willing, win, wind, window, wine, wing, winner, winter, wipe, wire, wisdom, wise, wish, with, withdraw, within, without, witness, woman, wonder, wonderful, wood, wooden, word, work, worker, working, workout, workplace, works, workshop, world, worried, worry, worth, would, wound, wrap, write, writer, writing, wrong, yard, yeah, year, yell, yellow, yes, yesterday, yet, yield, you, young, your, yours, yourself, youth, zone.

If you wanna make your opinion known on where I go after Networked and His Shining Armor
HungrySpeep bleated;
Hi there! I'm a female Venlil living on Earth, and I wanna talk about my first experience with eating meat!
Let me just say, I will be going into detail about my experiences, so if eating meat is still too much for you, ye have been warned
. . .
If you're still here, congrats! Old school exterminators probably wanna put a shock collar on you!
Moving on
So it happened this one night during a heavy storm, about a year after I'd moved to Earth to be with my mate. I'd just gotten home from work and was feeling terrible. I was cold and soaked, I'd forgotten my lunch and hadn't gotten anything to eat, and I hadn't talked to Lily all day, so I walked in hoping for a warm meal, a couple of dry towels, and some cuddling.
Except, Lily was passed out cold on the coach, still in her gym clothes. Apparently, she'd been ridden hard in training that day and had only gotten as far the living room before going face first into the nearest cushion.
So I pet her hair some, move to the kitchen, get ready to resign myself to some cold salad, when I see it. The crockpot.
(For those of you unaware, a crockpot is Human cooking equipment, a pot in this sort of heated bowl that slowly cooks things, sometimes over the course of a [Day and night]. It's probably more complicated than that, but I don't know, I'm just hungry)
So I kind of just stand there for a moment next to it, feeling the heat coming off of it, seeing the gravy bubble and the roast just slowly fall apart, glistening shreds of meat floating around and soaking in the flavors of the seasoning and sauce.
Like I said, I hadn't had anything to eat that day, and I'd always heard how my mate talked about meat before, how happy she seemed whenever she sat down for a meal with it.
My stomach clenched.
"Just one bite," I told myself, "Just one spoonful. A weird experience I can laugh about later."
I pulled open the cutlery drawer and got a spoon.
"Me and Lily can banter over it, she can call me a Predator, I'll call her my Prey, we can play wrestle over it,"
I took the lid off and the mist hit me full on, a blessing after the strong wind and cold rain, and I swear I could taste this thick headiness in it, made my stomach growl so loud I'm surprised Lily didn't wake up.
"It's nothing weird. There's nothing wrong about it."
I dip my spoon in and pull out a helping of gravy and meat, just a dripping as it steamed.
"It's just a taste."
I put the spoon in my mouth.
And everything changed.
Morning came, and Lily woke up to only enough roast and gravy left for one bowl, and a very guilty Venlil passed out on the couch next to her.
I knew what I'd done wasn't wrong, and it still took me a long time and a lot of help to stop feeling any guilt over it, but it happened. I got to experience something that I was told my whole life was the epitome of evil, that no good or sane person, that no sapient PERIOD would ever indulge in.
And I fucking loved it.
Describing the roast itself; Meat is savory, that cannot be overstated. What I had was beef roast, a thick chunk of meat that's usually chopped up, and served with a side to balance out the heavy flavor. Or, in my case, left to slowly cook and soak in home-made gravy, this thick, off-white sauce that's seasoned and goes perfectly with heavy meats, or grilled and buttered bread as Lily showed me later.
It was hearty, it was filling, it covered every corner of my mouth and warmed me up from the inside out in the heaviest and coziest way possible, and I just couldn't get enough. I never even bothered with a bowl, I just ate straight from the pot, sometimes I reached over to the bread (Human strayu) to get a few slices to spoon it over, usually ended up spilling some on my paws, which were then promptly licked clean.
It was messy, it was taboo, it left me feeling like I had to keep looking over my shoulder after every couple of spoonfuls, and it was the best damn meal I had ever had.
And now, when my [Six foot six inches], [Three hundred pound] heavyweight boxer mate feels like spoiling her little [Four foot eight inches] VenLady, she makes a visit to a nearby wholesaler, takes the crockpot down from the cabinet, and gets out her grandma's notes on home-made gravy.
What about you guys? Did you fall into the meat pit too, and how?
I say again, if you wanna vote or rant about what you want me to do, click this

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection or transfer of a soul from one body into another. The process of projecting or transferring souls to either animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is specifically described as having the shape Stannis supporting this. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
This type of exchange is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King provided by Old Nan:

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning… burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically. The description of his flesh turning to ash in this vision is representative also supports this interpretation.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of so-called blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.) which were already in place. It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual meaningfully contributed to their deaths.
The creation of the shadows is said by Melisandre to have required part of Stannis' "life-fire" or soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described in the community as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the text:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. "Fire consumes and in the end there's nothing left."

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows and likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable magical cost for these "kisses of life," at least at first glance. Thoros later tells us that he breathed part of his "flames" or soul into Beric:

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair.
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" as above although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he does not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Later he describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn and not transferred.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest in which they are introduced is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" or "ice zombies" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children has previously been discussed at length in the community in separate posts.) "Fire consumes, but cold preserves."
This would explain several of the unusual characteristics of the Others described by Tormund:

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this information is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which would also supports the idea that they are ghosts:

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory attempts to reconcile several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed using fire magic to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection or transfer of a soul from one body into another. The process of projecting or transferring souls to either animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is specifically described as having the shape Stannis supporting this. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
This type of exchange is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King provided by Old Nan:

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning… burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically. The description of his flesh turning to ash in this vision is representative also supports this interpretation.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of so-called blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.) which were already in place. It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual meaningfully contributed to their deaths.
The creation of the shadows is said by Melisandre to have required part of Stannis' "life-fire" or soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described in the community as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the text:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. "Fire consumes and in the end there's nothing left."

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows and likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable magical cost for these "kisses of life," at least at first glance. Thoros later tells us that he breathed part of his "flames" or soul into Beric:

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair.
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" as above although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he does not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Later he describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn and not transferred.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest in which they are introduced is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" or "ice zombies" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children is linked in a separate post here.) "Fire consumes, but cold preserves."
This would explain several of the unusual characteristics of the Others described by Tormund:

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this information is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which would also supports the idea that they are ghosts:

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory attempts to reconcile several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed using fire magic to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

Round 1, Pick 7 - JC Latham, OT, Alabama:
NFL: General manager Ran Carthon is putting his stamp on the team with this pick. Taking Latham tells me the Titans want to continue playing bully ball and dominate at the point of attack despite surrounding their young quarterback with pass-catching talent in free agency. The 6-foot-6, 342-pound tackle can overwhelm and overpower opponents on the edges, which should excite second-year quarterback Will Levis.
CBS Sports: B+. He is a right tackle and they need a left tackle, so it will be interesting to see how they play it. But he’s a violent player wherever he plays. They cross-train at Alabama at both left and right, so he should be able to make a smooth transition.
ESPN: Latham played mostly right tackle at Alabama but will switch sides in the NFL. He was a highly-rated left tackle coming out of IMG Academy but switched to right tackle because Evan Neal was already entrenched on the left side. Latham's mix of size, heavy hands and footwork should allow him to fit in there. But it's a risk to use a top-10 pick on a player and switch his position. The Titans have used three picks within the first three rounds on offensive linemen since 2020. Could Latham be the one that finally pays dividends?
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Hopes he can convince his squirrel army to come with him.
Round 2, Pick 38 - T’Vondre Sweat, DT, Texas:
NFL: Our first mini-shocker of the day. The massive Sweat was believed to be a possible top-50 pick at one point, but that was prior to his recent arrest. Credit to the Titans if they did the requisite work on Sweat's character in the past few weeks. He's a massive human being capable of closing down two gaps by himself, but some teams felt Sweat might be available entering Round 4 based on recent developments.
CBS Sports: C-. Monstrous NT who finally demonstrated a glimmer of pass-rush capability with hand work as a senior. Not as good against the run or double teams as his size indicates. Probably two-down player in the NFL. Tennessee did need more size inside along the DL, but this is too early for a limited player.
ESPN: Sweat is another move for the Titans to address the trenches. At 6-foot-5, 366 pounds, Sweat will pair with Jeffery Simmons along the defensive line giving the Titans a formidable duo to attack the quarterback and stop the run. Sweat consistently made plays behind the line of scrimmage as shown by his eight tackles for a loss and two sacks. Sweat was booked into jail after an arrest for driving while intoxicated earlier this month, but the Titans are confident he will be fine with Simmons and former Texas teammate Keondre Coburn as leaders in the locker room.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Jumped his family mini-van like the Dukes of Hazzard.
Round 4, Pick 106 - Cedric Gray, LB, North Carolina:
NFL: Nice value here for a linebacker who does almost everything fairly well and can be a tone-setter in the locker room. Gray will be a quality special-teamer at the very least, but he carries starting potential down the road. He's aggressive and instinctive.
CBS Sports: A-. One of the younger prospects in the class who comes with plenty of experience. More fluid in coverage than he is with sheer explosion and range to the football against the runs. Has to improve beating blocks in traffic en route to the football. Long limbs. Upside is there.
ESPN: The Titans address a need at inside linebacker with Gray. Tennessee lost starter Azeez Al-Shaair when he signed a free agent deal with the Texans. Jack Gibbens started most of the season next to Al-Shaair last year. Gray will compete with Gibbens for the opportunity to start along side Kenneth Murray Jr. who signed a free agent deal last month. Having started the past two seasons at North Carolina, Gray could be a candidate to wear the green dot communicator helmet to relay the plays from the sideline to the defensive huddle.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Knows there is chemical waste buried under the Browns training camp.
Round 5, Pick 146 - Jarvis Brownlee Jr., CB, Louisville:
NFL: Nickel corner run! Brownlee will take on all comers in coverage, lacking great size and speed but compensating with good experience, coverage savvy and an intense focus.
CBS Sports: B-. Confident and feisty CB who can play inside or the perimeter. Not overly twitchy. Nice mix of physicality and athleticism at the line and during the route. Tackling is average at best. Same with ball skills and overall athletic skill set. Not tremendous anywhere but doesn’t have a clear flaw.
ESPN: Brownlee Jr. gives the Titans depth, especially at nickel cornerback behind Roger McCreary. Tennessee met with Brownlee at the Senior Bowl and had him in for a 30 visit. Defense is clearly a priority for the Titans as they've addressed that side of the ball with the last three picks. Brownlee lands in an ideal situation where he can learn behind L’Jarius Sneed and Chidobe Awuzie and play for noted defensive back specialist Dennard Wilson.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Almost got his toe bitten off by a snapping turtle.
Round 6, Pick 182 - Jha’Quan Jackson, WR, Tulane:
NFL: It felt like Jackson was among the leaders in Senior Bowl practice receptions. Interestingly, I felt he was underused at Tulane, as Jackson has good quickness to uncover and make people miss as a smaller-framed slot receiver. He and teammate Tyjae Spears are reunited in Nashville.
CBS Sports: B+. Small somewhat twitchy vertical threat. Not as ridiculous changing direction as his size would indicate but has electric burst and speed. Minuscule catch radius but flashed some bounce to go up and get it at times, although physicality and longer CBs give him problems.
ESPN: Jackson gives the Titans depth at slot receiver and another player that can be in the mix as a punt returner. Titans coach Brian Callahan expressed a need for someone to step up as a slot receiver when asked about wideouts in the draft. Jackson will compete with Kyle Philips, Mason Kinsey, and Kearis Jackson for a roster spot and the opportunity to contribute from the slot. He was a college teammate of Titans running back Tyjae Spears at Tulane. Jackson is also the nephew of Hall of Fame Baltimore Ravens safety Ed Reed.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: He had to come up with all these draft facts under duress.
Round 7, Pick 242 - James Williams, S, Miami:
NFL: A long, fairly rangy athlete who spent more time at deep safety than he did in the box, Williams will be tried as a linebacker. His unusual dimensions and skill set might make him a sleeper.
CBS Sports: A-. Has some wild tackling misses on film but also counters with impact plays behind/near the line or at the intermediate level in coverage. Enormous size and length for the safety spot and will set the tone in many games with his powerful tackling. Not incredibly twitched up but moves reasonably well for his size.
ESPN: At this point, teams draft for traits. Williams played as a box safety at Miami but some teams envision him as a linebacker after seeing him work at that position at the Senior Bowl. That falls in line with the versatility that defensive coordinator Dennard Wilson said he wants. Wilson also said he wants the defense to be aggressive which is something that Williams showcased in college. Tennessee could also use him on special teams.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Simply cannot believe that Shrek 2 is 20 years old this year. WTF.
Round 7, Pick 252 - Jaylen Harrell, DE, Michigan:
NFL: Harrell is a broad-framed linebacker with rush skills and an alpha-dog mentality. His performance in the national title game was great, and he could be a sub-package defender with a unique job description.
CBS Sports: A. Old-school outside linebacker who can sink in coverage or attack the outside shoulder of the tackle. Smooth, athletic movements to comfortably do either. Shows glimpses of pass-rush promises just doesn’t diversify his rushes enough. Must get stronger but does set sturdy edge. Young ascending player.
ESPN: Five of the seven Titans picks have been on defense. Harrell's father, James, spent eight seasons in the NFL and played one season in the USFL. Jaylen Harrell started all 15 games for Michigan in its national championship season and adds to the Titans' depth at outside linebacker. He'll compete primarily with Harold Landry III, Arden Key, Rashad Weaver, and Caleb Murphy for a chance to be in the edge rotation.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Has band T-Shirts from the 80’s and 90’s.

I've always been bound to death.
On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory.
I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings.
Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it.
I didn't look at the shadow.
From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head.
But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face.
They're just sleeping.
I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet.
BANG.
Mom’s body dropped onto the ground.
I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.
BANG.
PJ’s head slumped forwards, a teasing smile still frozen on his lips.
BANG.
Lily gently tipped into PJ, like she was going to sleep.
Before she closed her eyes, Mom told me to run.
I can't remember how long I stayed under the shattered remnants of Mom’s favorite table. The shadow was waiting for me to move, to make a noise.
I watched booted feet crunch through glass, getting closer and closer, and slowly, fight or flight began to take over.
Making it halfway across the living room, my palms slick with my mother’s blood, I thought I was going to live.
Cruel fingers wound their way through my hair and shoved me to my knees. I remember the phantom legs of a spider creeping down the back of my neck when the shadow with no face dragged the barrel of his gun down my spine.
“Turn around.”
The shadow had a voice.
When I didn't move, the protruding metal stabbed into my neck.
“Turn around, kid!”
I did, very slowly.
Behind him, my siblings still weren't moving.
They were asleep.
Lily was still smiling, strawberry blonde ringlets stained red.
I couldn't see PJ’S face anymore.
BANG.
I didn't feel the gunshot.
I didn't feel anything.
Looking down, I glimpsed slowly spreading red blossoming like a flower.
It felt like being cut from strings.
I hit the ground, just like my mother, my body felt heavy and wrong.
Paralysed.
I remember being unable to scream, unable to cry, the salty taste of metal filling my mouth. It was like being winded. Rolling onto my side, all I could see was flickering candlelight.
The air was thick, so hard to breathe.
I rolled onto my back trying to suck in air.
The shadow took a step back, opened the front door, and bled into the night.
I don't remember the pain, and I don't remember dying. I couldn't breathe, couldn't conjure words in my mouth.
I felt warm and sticky, lying in my own blood.
I think I tried to move.
But I was so tired.
I’m not sure what death feels like, because it's like going to sleep.
I remember my last shuddering breaths, a lulling darkness beginning to swallow me up. I don't know why I wasn't afraid.
Oblivion almost felt like I was sinking into lukewarm depths on a Summer’s day.
Oblivion wasn't pain, and there was a peaceful inevitability to it.
It was endless nothing, a nothing I found myself gravitating towards. But before I could envelope myself in that darkness, it was spitting me back out.
The next thing I knew, I was in a white room, a slow beeping sound tearing me from slumber. I had a vague memory of slow spreading roses blossoming across my shirt, like summer flowers blooming.
Everything was white.
The walls, the ceiling, and my clothes.
Sensation hit me in slow waves.
Exhaustion.
I felt it tightening its grip around my brain, dragging me back onto a mountain of pillows when I tried to jump up. My Aunt May was sitting next to me on a plastic chair, her warm fingers entangled in mine. Aunt May and Mom were practically twins, with the same thick red hair and pale skin.
Mom wore her hair in a casual ponytail, while May preferred a strict bun.
I had to bite back the urge to yank my hand away.
Aunt May was asleep, used tissues filling her lap.
There was a nurse pottering around, checking my vitals and prodding my arms. My eyes felt heavy. I had to blink several times to keep myself awake.
“Charlie?”
The nurse’s voice was like wind-chimes.
I pretended not to notice her forced lipstick smile, the way she stood with her arms folded, staring at me like I was one of my cousin’s experiments. “You were in an accident, sweetie,” the nurse spoke up. I could see her trembling hands. “Just, um, try and rest, okay?”
I wanted to ask where my family was, but I already knew the answer.
I think she knew that too.
“You died, Charlie.” The nurse’s voice was eerily cold. “You were dead for thirteen minutes.”
She took slow steps towards me, her eyes growing frenzied, like she couldn't understand me, like I was a puzzle she could not solve– and it was driving her crazy. I could see it in her twitching hands, her wobbling lips that were trying and failing to appear stoic.
“In fact, I just pulled you out of the morgue, honey. I opened up your body bag that I had just zipped up, and told your aunt that you were a miracle I just… can’t understand.” The nurse sounded like she was trying to choke down a laugh, or maybe a sob.
“Charlotte, you were pronounced dead at 3:02am from a gunshot wound to the chest.” Taking a slow, sobering breath, the nurse tried to smile. “The bullet went through the right ventricle of your heart and severely damaged your left lung, rendering you unable to breathe. Your heart stopped, and after four attempts to resuscitate, we called it.”
Something slimy wound its way up my throat when she began to pace the room. “I… did all the paperwork. It took me two minutes. Your death certificate was signed, and your body was taken to the morgue to be prepped for transportation. Then I had my lunch. Tuna salad with a protein milkshake. I’m not a fan of the chocolate flavor.”
She shook her head. “Anyway, when I came back to you, you were awake inside your body bag.” Her voice was starting to break. “You were…um, alive, and asked me for apple soda.”
The nurse moved closer, and yet kept her distance.
I could feel myself moving back, panic writhing through me.
“So.” The nurse spoke calmly. “How the fuck are you still alive, Charlie?”
I think I passed out after that.
When I woke up again, my head a lot less heavier, the nurse was gone.
Slowly, my foggy brain began to find itself and connect dots.
My mouth was dry, full of cotton.
There was a sudden tightness, a sharp and cruel sting in my wrists.
Something sharp was protruding into my flesh, and no matter how many times I violently wrenched my arm, it was stuck. It didn't feel right to be able to breathe so easily.
I knew the second I woke that my Mom was dead.
Lily and PJ were dead, and it was like losing them all over again.
As clarity came over me, I found my voice, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
“Get it out.” I whispered in a shrill cry.
Tugging at the IV in my wrist, I tried to yank the needle from my skin.
“Get it out!” I shrieked, my gaze glued to the tiny spots of blood staining the insertion point.
I could see it again.
So much blood.
Mom was curled up on the floor, lying in slow spreading red that wouldn't stop, seeping across her beaded rug.
She was all over me, slick on my skin and caked in my fingernails.
I couldn't wash her off of me.
“You're okay, Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice came from my right, stabling me to reality.
The world started to move again, started to make sense again, when she cupped my cheeks and told me to breathe. When I opened my mouth to ask where my family were, she lightly shook her head and I swallowed my words. Aunt May handed me a glass of water, and I drained it in one gulp.
She told me I was a miracle.
Aunt May didn't say much, and when she did, she broke into sobs.
Her eyes were raw from crying, clinging onto me, her shuddery voice reassuring me that I was going to be okay.
She told me I would be living with her from now on, before wrapping me into a hug and leaving to get coffee.
Once my aunt was gone, another nurse came to prod my IV.
I tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable tightness of the needle sticking into my skin and the sterile white lights in my eyes made it impossible. I waited for grief to catch up with me, drowning me in a hollow oblivion I wouldn't be able to claw myself out of. But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry.
I wanted to know why my family were dead.
I wanted to know why I was breathing, and their skin was ice cold.
Rotting.
The sudden image of maggots crawling up my brother’s nose sent me lurching into a sitting position, my stomach heaving. Reaching for my glass of water, it was empty. The sensation of throwing up felt familiar, almost comforting.
Mom was always with me when I was sick, holding my hair back and lulling my hysteria with reassuring murmurs.
I was frowning at the trash can by the door, my cotton candy brain trying to figure out if I would be able to make it in time, when a small voice drifted from the doorway, startling me.
“I don't want you to come live with us.”
My cousin was peeking through the door, hiding behind a shock of dark brown curls. Jude was the only brunette in our family. The rest of us were redheads.
I wasn't sure why he was dressed up like a ghost, draped in a white cloak that was way too big for him. Jude was a weird kid. His mother, and my auntie, had inherited the family house, so in his mind, that made him superior.
Jude made it clear he didn't like his cousins, refusing to let us play with him and banning us from family gatherings.
When the adults were drinking cocktails and losing their awareness, Jude ordered us around. The times we did play with him, our cousin showed us his spider collection, or the raccoon brain he kept in a jar. PJ was convinced our younger cousin was a serial killer. Several months earlier, he'd happily showed us the roadkill he'd been growing bacteria on under his bed.
Jude’s ‘experiments’ were worrying.
He stuffed mushrooms down my brother’s ears while he was sleeping, to, and I quote, “Recreate The Last Of Us.”
When Lily had a nosebleed during Thanksgiving dinner, Jude collected all her bloody tissues and refused to tell us where he'd put them, and what he had done with them. Fast-forward two months, and I found them under a nest of spiders. Jude was trying to adapt the spiders to be able to feed on human blood. I was surprised my cousin hadn't immediately demanded to see my siblings’ dead bodies for autopsy.
Jude stepped into the room, shuffling his feet.
“I'm sorry about Lily, PJ, and Aunt Ivy.” He mumbled, glaring at the floor tiles.
My cousin made no move to offer real sympathy, instead speaking to the floor.
“But I don't want you to come live with us.” Jude lifted his head, looking me dead in the eye. “I don't like you, Charlie. I want you to stay away.”
Before I could reply, he stepped back like I was diseased.
“You should be dead.” Jude grumbled.
He scowled at me, getting my age purposely wrong as usual before running off.
“Happy 68th birthday.”
I was six months older than him.
In Jude’s eyes, I was ready for retirement.
Still, though, my cousin was right.
I was stone cold dead, and then I was somehow alive.
Which was wrong.
Growing up, I realized Death was not so subtly attempting to fix his mistake.
It started small. I'd choke on things I wasn't supposed to choke on.
Chips.
Candy.
Ice cream.
Aunt May had to perform the heimlich manoeuvre when I choked on a piece of chicken. I thought I was just really unlucky, but then I locked myself in a freezer that didn't have a lock, and almost drowned in the local swimming pool, catching my foot in stray netting.
At the summer fair, Jude convinced me to try apple bobbing, only for my head to conveniently get stuck underwater.
It started to make sense.
I was supposed to die with my family that night, and death was out to get me.
Death started to get clever, changing his tactic. Instead of using everyday things to try to kill me, he sent reinforcements.
I turned twelve years old, and my aunt threw me a huge party, inviting all my classmates. Aunt May was rich, rich.
Mom never explained it, but our grandparents left everything to May.
The house was like a palace, a labyrinth of floors I was yet to explore, and two swimming pools.
I was in the kitchen cutting myself a slice of cake, when, out of nowhere, a dead boy came rushing at me with one of my aunt’s favorite kitchen knives.
A dead boy who I immediately recognised.
Wren Oliver.
Several years prior, he'd gone missing from his parents' yard. The town launched a full investigation, only to find his body in a ditch a week later.
So, Death had sent a footsoldier.
Hiding under a hooded sweatshirt, Wren appeared older, like he had grown up with me. But there was a startling vacancy in his expression that drew the breath from my lungs, freezing me in place. Wren’s death was announced as an accident, though his wounds suggested the opposite, dried blood smearing his right temple and a cavernous hole in his chest, his clothes painted, stained, in bright red, glued in sticky mounds clinging to him.
The boy’s eyes were wild, feral, like an animal.
His hair was longer, a mess of reddish curls matted to his forehead.
Lip split into a demented giggle.
I remember taking a slow step back, my gaze glued to the knife.
Wren’s fingers were wrapped around the handle like he knew exactly how to use it, how to plunge it into my heart and kill me for good. He moved like a predator, zero self awareness or recognition, only driven to kill me.
The dead boy prided himself in slow, intimidating steps, shoving me against the wall and dragging the blade of the knife down the curve of my throat.
His eyes confused me, writhing with hatred that was artificial, programmed into him as Death’s official soldier.
He didn't speak, only smiled, revelling in my fear. I could tell it thrilled him, my trembling hands, my sharp, heavy breaths I couldn't control. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited to finally die.
I waited for the pain, and to lose my breath once again.
But death was playing with me.
When I opened my eyes, the dead boy was gone, and I was on my knees, screaming.
“Wren Oliver is trying to kill me!" I managed to hiss.
My aunt knelt in front of me, her expression crumpling.
*Sweetie,” She spoke softly, squeezing my hands. Aunt May was trying to appear calm for my sake, but I could tell she was scared, her frantic eyes searching mine. “Wren Oliver is dead.”
The kids surrounding me started to giggle, whispering among themselves.
In the corner of my eye, my cousin was leaning against the door, mid eye roll.
When my aunt was ushering kids back to the pool, Jude came to crouch in front of me. Ever since I started living with him, he'd made sure to keep his distance.
This time, though, Jude leaned uncomfortably close, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. Inclining his head, he rocked back and forth on his heels, prodding me in the forehead.
“If you see the dead boy again, can you tell me?” His lips curved into a smile.
“I did see him.” I gritted out. “I’m not lying.”
Jude shrugged. “I never said you didn't,” he lowered his voice into a whisper, “I wanna know when you see him again.”
“Why?”
His lips curved into a smirk.
“So, I can catch him.”
My cousin got closer, his breath tickling my cheek.
“I seeeeeeee dead people.”
After that incident, death left me alone for a while.
I was fifteen, walking through the forest with a friend, catching fireflies in bell jars. Aunt May was lucky to live so close to the forest, the entrance just outside her back door. When we were littles, PJ would drag Lily and I down the trail to escape Jude’s weird experiments.
I decided to invite Jem Littlewood on a summer walk.
Jem was cute, but in a dorky way. He was chronically clumsy, and dressed like he'd been spat out of a John Hughes movie. We hiked all the way to the end of the river and had a picnic, watching the sun set over the horizon. I was having conflicting feelings for this guy.
Jem was obsessed with fireflies.
Though he seemed more interested in photographing them than me.
The guy couldn't seem to sit still, jumping to his feet to marvel at tiny specks of light dancing in the air.
“I'm just going to take photos!” Jem beamed, holding up his camera.
I had to bite back the urge to say, “Don't you have enough photos?”
I nodded, and he turned and sprinted back down the trail.
Before his footsteps ground to a sudden halt.
At first, I thought he was snapping polaroids.
When I got closer, though, blinking in the eerie dark, I caught something.
Bending down, I picked up a bell jar still spilling fireflies.
Further down the trail, Jem was lying crumpled in the dirt, his camera smashed to pieces next to him, blood running in thick rivulets down his temple. There he was. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, was the ghost boy. Wren Oliver was growing up with me. Now, a teenager, and yet his face was carved into something else entirely, more of a monster, slight points to his ears and too-sharp teeth, eyes ignited.
Wren didn't look like a ghost boy anymore.
Death had dressed him in shackles of ivy, a crown of glass and bone forced onto his head, entangled in his curls. Death was torturing him.
Wren’s body was its canvas, and every time I got away, he was punished, painting his failures across scarred skin.
I should have been running for my life, but I was mesmerised by each symbol cruelly carved into his neck.
The boy did a slow head incline, like he couldn't believe I was standing in front of him.
His slow spreading smile caught me off guard.
I remembered how to run, stumbling over my feet.
But I couldn't move.
The burning hatred that death had filled him with, was stronger, hollowing him out completely. I managed two shaky steps, before I felt him, an unearthly force winding its way around my spine. This time, he didn't hesitate.
I watched his mouth move, a single curve of his upper lip that wrenched my body from my control, slamming me against a tree. There was something around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs, a thick fog spreading over my eyes.
Following his mouth curving into silent letters, I could feel my feet slowly leaving the ground, my legs dangling.
I was floating.
Hovering off of the ground, suspended by his words.
Through half lidded eyes, I caught the glint of a blade between his fist, but I couldn't move, couldn't scream.
He was drowning me, bleeding into my blood, spider webbing and expanding in my brain without moving a muscle.
Instead, the ghost boy stood silently, running his thumb down the teeth of his knife while he ripped my lungs apart.
It was like suffocating, sinking into that peaceful oblivion I met at eight years old.
This time, though, the darkness was starving.
“Charlie?”
My eyes found daylight, a scream clawing out of my mouth.
“Charlie, it's past curfew!”
Wren flinched, his stoic expression crumpling.
The dead boy’s lips moved again, this time in a curse.
Fuck.
“Charlotte!”
Staggering back, Wren’s eyes widened and the suffocating hold on me severed.
His head snapped in the direction my aunt was coming from.
“Charlie, answer me right now.”
He hesitated, his bare feet pivoting in the dirt, like he was considering finishing me off. Wren studied me with lazy eyes, sucking on his bottom lip. When my aunt's footsteps got louder, branches snapping under her shoes, something contorted in the boy’s face.
Fear.
I guessed the boy wasn't expecting other humans to intrude.
Wren fell over himself, shuffling on his hands and knees, before diving to his feet. When he turned and ran, I was released, slipping to the ground, trying and failing to draw in breath. I barely felt the impact, only a dull thudding pain. I could hear the ghost boy’s footsteps, his uneven, shuddery breaths as he catapulted into a run.
Under a late setting sun, I watched his dancing shadow disappear into the trees.
Mission unsuccessful, I guessed.
When I was fully conscious, Aunt May was checking over Jem, helping him sit up.
“Where did he go?” I managed to get out, scanning the darkness for Wren.
“He's okay, just concussed.” May whispered, dialling 911.
My aunt applied a dressing to Jem’s wound, ignoring the boy’s hisses.
“Keep still.” she murmured, smoothing his bandaid. “What happened, Charlotte?”
“She pushed me over.” Jem groaned, shuffling away from me. When my aunt told him to stay calm, he straightened up, leaning against the tree. “The psycho bitch tried to fucking kill me!”
When my aunt's gaze flicked to me, I shook my head.
“It was Wren Oliver.” I gritted, teetering on hysteria. I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't stop myself.
I prodded at my throat, clawing for the indentations where his phantom fingers snaked around my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
But there was nothing.
I could feel my mind starting to unravel. I nodded to my disgruntled classmate trying to dodge my aunt’s prodding.
“Ow, ow, ow! That stings!
“He knocked Jem out.” I managed. “Then he tried to kill me.”
Jem surprised me with a scoff. “You're seriously blaming your psychotic break on a dead kid?”
Aunt May pursed her lips, motioning for Jem to be quiet. Judging from her face, however, she agreed with the boy.
May forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay. Can you, uh, describe the boy to me, Charlotte?”
“He was wearing a crown,” I said, “And he looked my age.”
Aunt May cocked her head, and I saw real worry, like she was trying not to freak out. Jem made a snorting noise.
“I'm sorry, he was wearing a crown?”
“Yes!” I insisted, getting progressively more frustrated.
I tried to jump up, only for my aunt to gently lower me back down. “I know it sounds crazy, but death has sent Wren Oliver to kill me, just like my family. He tried to kill me when I was twelve, too!”
Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Your niece is a fucking wackadoodle.”
Aunt May’s eyes darkened. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails stabbing into my skin. “Charlie, I want you to listen to me, okay?” When my eyes found the rapidly darkening sky, my aunt forced me to look at her.
“Charlotte!”
She was as scared as me, her voice shuddering.
“Wren Oliver is dead.” My aunt said firmly, shaking me. Even then, though, I wasn't even looking at her. I was trying to find his ignited eyes lighting up the dark. “Wren died at eight years old in a terrible accident, and you can't keep using him as an excuse for your mental trauma.” There was something twitching in her expression I was trying to make sense of. When I risked a look at Jem, the boy was staring at me dazedly– like I really was crazy.
Aunt May pressed her face into my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She was trying to hold it together, trying to understand.
“Charlie, I know you lost your family,” she whispered. “But you and Wren Oliver are not the same. You survived, and he didn't.” Her voice splintered.
“You need to come to terms with that, okay?”
When I didn't respond, she pinched my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice turned cold. “I ignored this when you were a kid, but if you continue to use this poor boy as a coping mechanism, I will have no choice but to send you to a specialist.”
When Jem was taken away by paramedics, Aunt May held my hand, squeezing my fingers for dear life.
I caught her gaze scanning the tree's around us, delving into twisting oblivion. Every little noise sent her twisting around. She was looking for something.
“I'm going to get you help.” Aunt May said in a low murmur when we were back at the house. Jude was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging. I could feel his penetrating gaze burning into the back of my head.
Aunt May set a cup of cocoa on the table.
“No more fairytales.”
By the time I was eighteen, I had bitten three therapists.
They refused to believe that death was coming to reclaim my soul, and was using a dead boy to do his dirty work.
For my 16th birthday, I braced myself to come face to face with Wren Oliver’s ghost.
I wasn't even in town, staying at a friend's house.
But dead boys, and especially dead boys moulded into Death’s personal soldiers, could materialise anywhere.
I locked every door in the house, and taped up my friend’s window.
Nothing happened.
On my seventeenth birthday, I was sick in bed with gastritis.
Still no ghost boy.
Death seemed to have finally left me alone.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was stuffing books in my locker when my cousin popped up out of nowhere, scowling as usual. After an unexpected growth spurt and losing a tonne of baby fat, my cousin had scaled the high school hierarchy, swapping his weird experiments for a varsity jacket and experimenting with his sexuality.
The two of us had come to an unspoken truce.
I kept quiet about his spider collection to his popular friends, and he tolerated my existence until I left for college.
“Your surprise party is cancelled.”
Jude leaned against my locker, running a hand through thick dark hair tucked under a baseball cap. Jude never admitted it, but he was definitely embarrassed of being the odd one out.
My siblings may be dead, but they were still redheads.
I pulled off his cap with a smile, throwing it in his face. “Sure it is.”
My cousin’s eyes widened. He lost his slick bravado, grabbing for his cap.
“Hey!”
According to my cousin, my party was unexpectedly cancelled every year.
I wasn't sure if it was his weird superiority complex, or just plain jealousy, but it was getting exhausting.
Jude followed me down the hallway, matching my stride.
“Can you just not come home tonight?”
I quickened my pace. “It's only a party. I'm having some friends over, and no, we won't go anywhere near your room.”
“No, I mean.” Jude stepped in front of me, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't trying to hide disdain for me.
His dark eyes pinned me in place for a moment, the world around us coming to a halt. Sound bled away, and all I heard were his slow breaths. There was something there, an unexplainable twitch in his eyes and lips, that twisted my gut.
Jude stepped closer, his lip curling. He shoved me back, losing his facade.
“Stay the fuck away from the house tonight.” He said, and his voice, his tone, was enough to send shivers creeping down my spine. Jude had always hid behind a ten foot wall in his mind. It was jarring to see something in him finally start to splinter. Fuck. I thought.
This kid had serious Mommy issues.
I blinked, and the world resumed, kids pushing past us.
Jude seemed to catch himself, slipping back under his mask.
“I'm having friends over,” he rolled his eyes, “Your presence will ruin the vibe.”
“It's my birthday?”
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Yes, I know. But–”
“I think you can deal with the attention off of you for one night, Jude.”
“Will Wren Oliver be there too?” Jem Littlewood hollered.
Jude didn't respond for a moment, his lip curling.
“Shut the fuck up.” He spat at Jem, who immediately backed down. With an audience this time, Jude forced an award winning smile. “Fine.” His lips split into a grin I knew he hated. My cousin clamped his hand on my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. I could feel his fingers pinching the material of my jacket. “Have it your way, dude.”
Jude backed away with a two fingered salute.
“Happy 78th birthday!”
In a sense, I wish I listened to my cousin.
My party was a success, sort of.
Four of us, a crate of beers, and no sign of my cousin.
I was mildly tipsy, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water when my friend demanded more beers.
I was also hungry for cake, so I stumbled inside in search of the goods.
The house was dark, lit up in dazzling blue from the pool's lights reflecting through the windows. Aunt May was in her office on the ground floor, and Jude was getting high in his room. In my drunken state, I found myself marvelling my aunt's house, and how much of it was left unexplored.
For example, in the foyer, past the spiral staircase she’d had custom made, was an elevator I had never questioned.
There was a girl my age standing on the staircase.
She was frozen, mid run, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt.
Everything about her stuck out to me, bringing me to a sobering halt.
The girl reminded me of my sister– or at least, if my sister had ever grown up.
I wasn't sure if I was drunk or hallucinating.
Her flower crown was pretty…
Lily had grown wings.
I was slowly moving towards her, a sudden bang sounding from the kitchen.
The bang of something shattering on the floor.
Twisting around, I found myself gravitating towards warm golden light.
The first thing I saw was the refrigerator door hanging open, and someone, no, something, rooting around inside it.
Glued to the spot, I dazedly watched them grab milk, guzzling it down, and then soda, cracking open each can and sucking them dry, before carving their fingers into my birthday cake.
But I wasn't looking at the spillage of food seeping across the floor. Instead, my gaze found a crown of antlers, both human and animal bone entangled with dead flowers and human remains glued to a head of familiar matted brown curls. There was something sticking from battered and bruised flesh, twin gaping slits sliced through a torn shirt resembling glass wings that were not yet formed, reminding me of a butterfly.
Wings.
But not the wings I dreamed of as a kid. These things were unnatural mounds that both did and didn't make sense on a human boy. I could see the trauma of them slicing through his flesh, monstrous, looming things protruding from what was left of a human spine.
Human, and yet I couldn't call his beautifully grotesque face human.
Wren Oliver had grown up with me, now an adult.
Eighteen years old.
His clothes confused me, a single white shirt and shorts.
Wren’s feet were bare, battered and bruised, blood smearing my aunt's tiles.
Angel.
Death had turned his footsoldier, and my future killer, into an angel.
But there was nothing angelic about the dead boy, his body and mind sculpted and moulded into Death’s own.
The boy no longer resembled a human, feral eyes and a manic smile, choking down pieces of cake. His face had been contorted into a monster, gnashing teeth and sharp points in his ears, a sickly tinge to malnourished skin.
And that's when it hit me, watching him stuff himself with food.
Something slimy inched its way up my throat.
The boy didn't move. I don't even think he'd noticed me, gorging himself on anything he could get his hands on.
Chicken, raw bacon, leftover salad.
When he moved onto cupcakes, licking frosting from his fingers, I glimpsed markings on his arms, a language I didn't understand, carved into him.
His wrists were shackled, bound, in entangled iron and vine, iron that was ingrained into his skin, vines and flowers and ivy entangling his bones, that were part of him, polluting his blood. Slowly, my eyes found stab wounds splitting open his torso.
Raw flesh, where his skin had been torched, melting, and then merging, ripped apart and put back together over and over again.
I found his heart, the gaping cavern in his chest where it should be.
And it was.
Marked, carved, and branded with a symbol resembling an X.
Wren Oliver was not dead.
But, just like me, he should have been.
I remember saying his name, my voice slurred slightly.
I didn't drink that much, but I could barely coerce words, my head spinning.
Wren’s neck snapped towards me, his eyes narrowing with resentment I couldn't understand, hatred that seemed to puppeteer him. Slowly tilting his head, the boy’s lips split into a grin, eyes filled, polluted, with mania.
I could see where his lips had been stitched shut, and then ripped open.
“Hi.”
He held up his hand in an awkward wave.
When one of my friends stumbled into the kitchen, Wren reacted on impulse.
He picked up a knife from the counter, throwing it like a dart, straight through the guy’s throat.
Something shattered inside my mind.
Ignoring my friend bleeding out, Wren stumbled over himself, abandoning his feast. He took a single step towards me, backing me against the wall, coming so close, close enough for me to feel his very real breath grazing my cheeks. Just like when he was a kid, he traced the teeth of his blade down my throat. I wasn't expecting him to burst out laughing, trembling with hysteria.
His eyes were wild, feral and wrong, almost euphoric.
With what all I could only recognise as relief.
BANG.
I was barely aware of the gunshot.
The bullet went straight through his head, the winged boy hitting the ground.
Dead.
I saw the blood stemming around him in a halo before the bleeding pool faltered, seeping back inside his head.
Like rewinding a VCR.
Wren was dead, and then he was alive.
Wren’s body contorted, his chest inflating.
His gasp for air was painful, strangled, eyes opening wide.
Terrified.
“You fucking idiot.”
Jude’s voice sent me twisting around.
My cousin stood in the exact same robes he wore as a child.
The world tipped off kilter, and I was on my knees, then my stomach.
I sunk to the floor, my thoughts swimming.
Jude’s murmur followed me, creeping into the dark.
“I told you not to come home.”
I can't remember how long I was unconscious for.
When I woke, I was dressed in an evening gown, a dress that used to be my mother’s.
My vision cleared, and I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar room resembling an abandoned swimming hall.
The pool itself was empty, the bottom stained revealing scarlet.
There were symbols carved into each tile.
Like a game.
“Sit up straight, Charlotte.”
I was sitting at a banquet.
Jude was in front of me, sipping on wine.
He caught my eye for half a second before averting his gaze.
At the far end of the table sat my aunt May.
Kissing the rim of her glass, her smile was twisted.
“I've been waiting so long to give you your birthday presents, Charlotte. Your memories should be returning soon.”
“Mom.” Jude muttered, hiding behind his glass. “Calm down. You're embarrassing yourself.”
Ignoring my cousin, May tapped her glass with a fork, and in walked my birthday presents.
No, dragged.
By their hair.
Wren Oliver, the dead boy, was in fact my aunt's prisoner.
Behind him, was the girl who looked so much like Lily.
I think that's why my aunt chose her.
Aunt May cleared her throat.
“For a long time, our family has lived among creatures who live in the forest you played inside. In exchange for keeping this town safe, they only ask for small favors. Wayward children who disappear into the woods are good enough payment. Charlie, you and your siblings do not share our inheritance. Your mother never wanted fae children. She wanted you to be human.”
Aunt May’s smile faded.
“After losing my sister, and my niece and nephew, I made a deal to give my last surviving niece 100 years of life.”
Her words were white noise, my gaze glued to my birthday presents. I couldn't call them human anymore.
I couldn't call Wren human, when his face was so beautifully grotesque, painfully hypnotising.
The monstrous things sticking from twin slits in his back were supposed to be wings, except they looked wrong, cruelly protruding from his exposed spine. Under the influence of alcohol earlier, the girl made me smile.
Her wings, to me, looked like one of a real fairy.
In reality, they were torn and shredded apart, bigger than the girl herself.
When she dropped onto her stomach, she was dragged back to her feet, her knees buckling under the weight. Her tiara of flowers and bone looked pretty to me when I saw her on the stairs.
Now, though, I could see the pearly white of a human child's skull forced onto her head, dead flowers threaded through cavernous, gaping eye sockets.
The two of them were violently shoved into the empty pool.
“Jude. Please demonstrate, sweetheart.”
Jude stood, pulling out a gun, and aiming it at the winged girl.
BANG.
The girl’s body hit the tiles, her blood seeping across stained white.
“Now, of course, our king did not give you life for free.” May continued.
“The King demanded a debt, as well as two heirs to join him in his court once your hundred years were complete.”
Her lips quirked into a smile.
“The king is smart. If a child cannot be stolen from the human world, they can, however, be made, moulded and shaped from their human forms, skinned of their humanity through their suffering, leaving a hollowed out shell in the child's place.” She was speaking so casually, ignoring Wren’s whimpers.
“The conversion takes a while. 100 years to birth a fully blooded fae heir, who will lose their human memories, in preparation to join their new family.”
Jude shot Wren in the chest, his eyes empty.
This time, he dropped his weapon, using finger-guns instead.
“Bang.” He deadpanned.
Then the neck.
I watched Wren come back to life, and then die.
Over and over again.
I think at one point, he screamed and cried.
But not now.
He was their puppet on display, dancing for their entertainment.
Half lidded eyes drowned in oblivion found mine, and I understood his hatred.
Before he was shot again.
Stabbed.
Branded and burned, and ripped apart.
At some point, I screamed at them to stop. I couldn't breathe, slamming my hands over my ears and begging them.
Aunt May didn't listen, ordering for my hands to be tied down.
“The King required two human sacrifices to suffer in your place.” She concluded. “For one hundred years.”
Aunt May’s smile was suddenly sad, and she lifted her glass in a toast.
I was watching their blood trickle down each tile in the pool, like every death, every time they suffered, my body became progressively less human.
I felt disgusting. I wasn't supposed to be alive. Every single year of my life, every breath I had taken, was stolen.
Aunt May nodded at me, her lips forming a proud smile. She stood up, and was handed a sacrificial knife.
Climbing into the swimming pool herself, she strode over to Wren.
The boy slumped to the floor, trembling, his knees against his chest.
Aunt May grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, and sliced the blade across his throat.
His eyes flicked to me, and I swore he smiled.
Spots of red dotted yellowing tiles, a river trickling under my aunt's heels.
“Happy 78th birthday, Charlotte.”
Last night ended with me being locked in my room.
It's been almost 15 hours, and the door is still locked. Please help me. I'm fucking terrified of what my aunt is planning.
I can't stop shgajing. FycjbfucibFUCK
If she is telling the truth, I shouldn't be here, right??
And I can't stop thinking.
Is Wren Oliver trying to kill me, or himself?

Round 1, Pick 25 - Jordan Morgan, OT, Arizona:
NFL: This pick reflects the sheer depth of this offensive tackle class. Morgan is an experienced player who will help protect Jordan Love and allow him to flourish in the pocket.
CBS Sports: C+. I might have taken Graham Barton here, but they need help up front so I get it. Morgan can move inside to guard but if they move right tackle Zach Tom to center, he would be their right tackle.
ESPN: If you're going to make Jordan Love one of the highest-paid quarterbacks in the league, which they will soon, you better make sure you can protect him. That's why taking an offensive lineman in the first round for the first time in 13 years made so much sense -- even though Morgan was the seventh tackle to come off the board in the first 25 picks. The only real blemish on Morgan's resume was a torn ACL late in the 2022 season. He had planned to declare for the 2023 draft if not for the injury. Instead, he returned to play in every game last season
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Cried like a baby at the end of Ted Lasso.
Round 2, Pick 45 - Edgerrin Cooper, LB, Texas A&M:
NFL: Green Bay slid back and drafted a top-40 talent on my board in Cooper. He's the classic mold of what this Packers scouting staff seeks in a linebacker, possessing excellent speed, length and pursuit ability. There's a starting spot opposite Quay Walker, and I think Cooper will grab it, but both those players can play a little too freely and loosely at times.
CBS Sports: B+. Young, high-energy off-ball ‘backer. Plus range. Loves attacking downhill and very effective vs. the run. Flashed in coverage too with ball skills. But tackle reliability must improve at next level. Ultra-quick trigger. IDs plays in a flash. Some rawness but plenty of tantalizing traits.
ESPN: This pick was tailor-made for new defensive coordinator Jeff Hafley, who is overseeing a switch from a 3-4 to a 4-3 base scheme. He inherited only two starting-caliber inside backers in Quay Walker and Isaiah McDuffie after they released former All-Pro De’Vondre Campbell this offseason. This pick came after the Packers traded back from No. 41 overall with the Saints, who gave up Nos. 45, 168 (fifth round) and 190 (sixth). This after the Eagles traded up to No. 40 to take Iowa defensive back Cooper DeJean, a player once thought to be a Packers' target. The Saints then took cornerback Kool-Aid McKinstry with the 41st pick.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Can spot the four cloud types: cirrus, cumulus, stratus, and nimbus.
Round 2, Pick 58 - Javon Bullard, S, Georgia:
NFL: The Eagles might lead the NFL in drafting Georgia defenders, but the Packers have been giving them a run for their money in recent years. Bullard fills a need at safety, and he brings the kinds of intangibles this scouting department places a premium on. He can play out of control at times and isn't a tremendous athlete, but Bullard is an intense competitor who can play multiple spots in the secondary and be a four-down player.
CBS Sports: A-. Hair-on-fire stocky safety who can align at nickel CB if needed. Takes great angles against the run and plays with reckless abandon. Runs the alley like a missile. Rarely misses a tackle. Not crazy ball hawk. Smaller with shorter arms. Just a stud football player.
ESPN: After this pick, it's fair to say Gutekunst addressed three of his biggest needs -- tackle, inside linebacker and now safety. Perhaps only cornerback would rank on the same level of need. They're essentially starting over at safety, having moved on from Darnell Savage, Jonathan Owens and Rudy Ford. They spent big on free agent Xavier McKinney, but the only other safety with any experience still on the roster was Anthony Johnson Jr., a seventh-round pick last year who played 303 defensive snaps as a rookie. "Obviously the tackle board was stacked, so we addressed that," assistant director of college scouting Pat Moore said. "Then I think Gutey took the best player available at those spots [ILB and safety]."
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Has been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty.
Round 3, Pick 88 - MarShawn Lloyd, RB, USC:
NFL: This could be Aaron Jones' replacement, even if the Packers added Josh Jacobs this offseason. Lloyd's messy medical history likely was the biggest reason he fell behind some other backs, but his burst, three-down ability and make-you-miss agility make him sort of a poor man's D'Andre Swift.
CBS Sports: A. Older but ultra-sudden thick RB with glimpses of special elusiveness. Speed is a plus to his game. Has a lot of tread left on his tires because he was low-volume back in college. Fumbling issues. Perfect speed acquisition to this stretch-run offense.
ESPN: Yes, Josh Jacobs signed a four-year, $48 million contract in free agency, but the reality of his contract says he's just going year to year. For example, he has a $5.93 million roster bonus due next March if he's still on the team. A year later, his 2025 base salary spikes to $10.2 million. This isn't to say Jacobs will be a one-and-done, but the point is they could move on and save money at any time after this season if they think Lloyd is ready to be the RB1. After letting Aaron Jones go, the Packers have rebuilt their running back room in a hurry.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: He may or may not be allowed to own gerbils anymore…
Round 3, Pick 91 - Ty’Ron Hopper, LB, Missouri:
NFL: Hopper wasn't quite as productive last season for Mizzou as he was in 2022, looking a step slow a number of times. Injuries were a big reason why, and Hopper's pro day workout likely was the difference in him landing in Round 3 and not on Day 3. He has pass-rush potential and can drop in zone coverage.
CBS Sports: C+. Ultra-physical off-ball LB. Sleek, exudes athleticism and makes assertive decisions on a routine basis, particularly against the run or blitzer, where he also thrives. Best in that role or as a spy. Long way to go in coverage. Another linebacker?
ESPN: This is what happens when you switch from a 3-4 to a 4-3 defensive scheme. In fact, Gutekunst didn't hide the fact that he would have to add to the inside linebacker room when, earlier this offseason, he said they will "be a little bit more heavy there, so we're going to have to add some numbers." So drafting Hopper in the third round after taking Cooper in the second round shouldn't have come as a major surprise. Hafley now has some options when it comes to deciding who will line up next to Walker at inside linebacker.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Insists that his pocket sand WILL come in handy one day.
Round 4, Pick 111 - Evan Williams, S, Oregon:
NFL: Williams grew on me as the pre-draft process went on. He might not be special in any way, but he's extremely solid and assignment-sound. He might never be a big playmaker, but Williams can hit and will work to earn some kind of role.
CBS Sports: B-. Not a tremendous athlete but does everything well that teams ask out of a multi-dimensional safety today. Keeps throttle down when flying to outside runs, will make an occasional play in coverage. Not a twitchy nickel type. Best in box or robbing middle of the field. Energy exudes from his playing style. Just not a big-time physical specimen.
ESPN: Gutekunst has never been afraid to double up at a position. He's now done it twice in the first four rounds after taking the two inside linebackers on Friday. He traded up to take his second safety, giving up a sixth-rounder (No. 190 overall, that they got from the Saints a day earlier) to move up from No. 126. There will be an all-out competition for the second safety spot next to Xavier McKinney among Johnson Jr., Bullard and Williams -- who posted some impressive blitzing numbers with 4.5 sacks last season (third-most among FBS defensive backs) and 17 quarterback pressures since the start of 2022 (tied for 10th most among FBS DBs).
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Hopes to be the 111th best player like his idol, Tom Brady.
Round 5, Pick 163 - Jacob Monk, C, Duke:
NFL: Monk played center, guard and tackle over five seasons with the Blue Devils but likely projects to center in the NFL. He's smart and competitive and has above-average athleticism in a smaller frame.
CBS Sports: A-. Hyper-experienced, legitimately versatile blocker who probably plays center or guard at the next level. Athleticism and acceleration off the snap instantly stand out. Doesn’t have immense size or length but can win with quickness or power against smaller upfield rushers. Classic Packers pick. He’ll be a useful depth option for a while.
ESPN: Gutekunst said after taking Morgan in the first round: "You can't have guys that can only play one spot. That's very hard to do. It just puts a lot of stress on your group." Monk embodies that versatility. He began his five-year college career -- which included 58 starts -- at right tackle, moved to right guard for two years and has gone back and forth between center and right guard the last two years. He was one of only seven FBS players with at least 300 snaps at both center and guard last season. Gutekunst traded up five spots with the Buffalo Bills and gave up a sixth-round pick (No. 219 overall).
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Was once attacked by someone’s pet opossum in a Walmart.
Round 5, Pick 169 - Kitan Oladapo, S, Oregon State:
NFL: Oladapo is a nicely proportioned athlete with outstanding length and enough athleticism to be tried as a safety or even a zone corner. He's a bit older but can make his mark at multiple spots because of his willingness to tackle.
CBS Sports: A. Very similar to Jaden Hicks who went a round earlier. Large, strong safety body type but fluid and instinctive in coverage. Could play with a tick more energy but his methodical style keeps him out of trouble re: missing tackles or being baited by misdirection. Huge interception radius. Speed is good, not great. Sound tackler.
ESPN: This should complete the overhaul at safety after the Packers signed Xavier McKinney in free agency and picked two other safeties (Bullard in Round 2 and Williams in Round 4) previously in this draft. The Packers moved on from three safeties who each played at least 500 snaps last season (Darnell Savage, Jonathan Owens and Rudy Ford). After starting his career as a walk-on, Oladapo earned second-team All-Pac 12 honors in 2023 when he did not allow a single touchdown pass in 421 coverage snaps.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Is convinced he could pilot a submarine if he had to.
Round 6, Pick 202 - Travis Glover, OT, Georgia State:
NFL: Glover is a typecast developmental OT prospect with so-so movement skills but ideal length and grip strength. He flashed some real finishing ability, albeit vs. a lower level of competition.
CBS Sports: B+. Wide offensive tackle with the frame of a guard but plenty of length. Smooth athleticism for his size and loves to mash at the second level. Balance is good but can get a little overzealous in pass pro. Hand work and punch timing are solid. Another classic Packers pick. Versatile.
ESPN: Stop if you've heard this before: the Packers took another versatile lineman who has lined up at multiple positions. Glover played both tackle spots and left guard in college. He's considered to have a high upside considering his 6-foot-6, 323-pound frame.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Discovered the reddit mods did not spell check the true facts.
Round 7, Pick 245 - Michael Pratt, QB, Tulane:
NFL: If it's me, I am drafting Pratt before both Jordan Travis and Devin Leary, and the Packers aren't afraid to keep investing in QB talents. From the Green Wave to Green Bay, Pratt is good enough to push Sean Clifford to the side and become Jordan Love's understudy -- perhaps as soon as this year -- with his cool, calm, patient approach and quality accuracy.
CBS Sports: B+. Experienced pocket passer with quality arm who was consistent producer at Tulane across multiple seasons. Lights were never too bright for him. Has some improvisational flair to his game. Just not ultra accurate.
ESPN: Gutekunst said he wanted the Packers to get back into the business of drafting and developing (and then possibly trading) quarterbacks. He's now taken one on Day 3 for the second straight year after picking Sean Clifford in the fifth round last year. Clifford served as Love's backup last season, but it appears he'll have to battle for the job again. Pratt, a four-year starter at Tulane and the 11th quarterback selected this year, went 21-3 as a starter the last two seasons.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Brushes his teeth at least ten times a day.
Round 7, Pick 255 - Kalen King, CB, Penn State:
NFL: You can find King's name scattered in some August mock drafts, but his stock continually tumbled after he struggled to match his 2022 performance, didn't test well athletically for his size and lost some Senior Bowl battles. But in the seventh round? King is well worth the small gamble here.
CBS Sports: B+. Previously had RD1 hype but had a disastrous 2023. Athletic chops are there. Has impressive highs just not a natural mirroring type. Plays chippy and throws his weight around against the run.
ESPN: Going into the draft, there was some thought that the Packers could take a corner early -- even as high as the first round. Instead, they waited until their final pick to take one. They seemed to hit on seventh-round cornerback Carrington Valentine last year. King played 84% of his snaps on the outside, splitting it about evenly between the right and left sides.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: If you’re still watching, please get some help.