(From an entry dated March 4th, 2013)
The problem with being the only man on a boat is that you have to sleep some time, and I’m not that good at doing this boat stuff. I didn’t want someone climbing aboard and eating me, so I stayed way offshore and used the anchor to keep the boat in place, after I found the owner’s manual—I did not expect to find it, but there it was so I read it—and carefully read up on how to do it right. I ate, I drank, I slept and woke up not eaten by a grue so I figured that I did something right.
I also woke up to see Ken waiting for me in the galley. This didn’t set right with me, so I walked in warily. He put down a bowl full of corn flakes, and that was enough for me to stick around. He told me of his encounter with Yuki.
She’s dead. Let’s get that out of the way. All of the endless winter stuff will soon abate and the natural cycle will reassert itself, I assume. Ken told me that he surprised Yuki, making her think that he was me just long enough to get the deciding blow: a knife in the throat. That didn’t stop Yuki from a long fight in an attempt to take him with her. Even with a blade stuck in her neck, and her powers over weather nullified, the full physical prowess she displayed—which I already saw glimpses of before I fled—made her out to be truly monstrous. Ken walked away bleeding and injured, but Yuki died.
Ken said nothing about the child, other than Yuki didn’t have it when he made his move, so I don’t live with any concern over the slaughter of a pregnant woman, however inhuman she was. No, what hurt was what he said next. “Yuki Onna? Yuki no Onna, the Snow Maiden? You had a bona-fide Japanese monster in your bed and you couldn’t figure it out?” He didn’t let up. “No wonder she flipped out over the zombies and me running around out there. She planned on setting herself up here, Queen of an Eternal Winter Wonderland, with you as her captive man-candy and eventually extort survivors for relief from the ice and cold- just enough to stay alive and pay her tribute.”
Sucker. He called me a sucker, and he was right. Played on my sympathy, timed things to make her move most effective, quickly turned on me and pulled classic abusive girlfriend maneuvers on me to mess with my head. Sneaking out, quite frankly, was the smartest move I did in this whole affair. But I’m not sure that it’s quite over yet. Ken’s sticking around me, and he’s not the idle type; I have every reason to believe that something yet unfinished is coming for me as a loose end, and Ken is using me as bait to get at it- and both of us know it.
Showing posts with label iron range. Show all posts
Showing posts with label iron range. Show all posts
Friday, November 29, 2013
Friday, October 25, 2013
To Split Rock Lighthouse-04
(From an entry written on February 15th, 2013)
Yuki’s knocked up. It’s been long enough to be as certain as it gets, and that happened to be on Valentine’s Day. I knew that there were some cultural oddities about body functions, but this took the cake; she’s been actively tracking her cycles for years, with notes and annotations. I’m a little squicked out about that.
Been talking with the FEMA operator lately, about once a day or so, and he’s filled me in as best he can about what’s going on. The disaster was world-wide, and apparently an act of terrorism unlike any before it. The ten cities, world-wide, with the largest population centers got nuked off the face of the Earth simultaneously. Then came a global tidal wave of blue-white fire, something no one ever saw before—not even in the most ancient of texts—and ruined much of what remained. Everyone that was topside is believed dead, or will be soon enough.
This squares with what I heard out of Duluth, down to the instant rise of marauding gangs that already resorted to cannibalism, until that guy either fled or got eaten. FEMA’s response has been tied down due to serious logistical issues and unexpected pushback from survivors, but they’re progressing steadily and should be able to get to us by the turn of Spring at the latest. This I welcome, as I wonder if this disaster might affect weather patterns and extend this Winter long past its ordinary duration.
(From an entry written on February 17th)
Yuki’s calling me her husband now, and she’s told me that she thinks that the baby will be a girl. She wanted to know what my mother’s name was, and what it meant in English. I humored her, as it’s kept her focused on the here and now and not on things outside her control. I asked her what her folks were like, and she told me that she was an Onna and thus had a great family that spanned all of Japan. I hadn’t filled her in on the true scope of the disaster, but she’s more or less decided on making a go at family life with me. She’s settled down emotionally, for which I am grateful, but damn if this all did not escalate quickly. I now understand why my uncles were such unrepentant deadbeat dads.
Yuki’s calling me her husband now, and she’s told me that she thinks that the baby will be a girl. She wanted to know what my mother’s name was, and what it meant in English. I humored her, as it’s kept her focused on the here and now and not on things outside her control. I asked her what her folks were like, and she told me that she was an Onna and thus had a great family that spanned all of Japan. I hadn’t filled her in on the true scope of the disaster, but she’s more or less decided on making a go at family life with me. She’s settled down emotionally, for which I am grateful, but damn if this all did not escalate quickly. I now understand why my uncles were such unrepentant deadbeat dads.
I’ve kept Yuki informed on FEMA’s activities, as much as I know of them, but she’s not that excited about it. She’s satisfied with staying here. I get it, but her stern tone has me thinking that she’ll resist removal, and she’s telling me that I ought to stick to my guns about making this a settlement and grow our own community here instead of going back with FEMA. I’m unsure about a lot of stuff about this now that FEMA’s involved, but there is one thing I am sure about: I never said one word about any of this to Yuki, so how did she learn what my plan was- is? She’s messing with my head.
Yuki’s knocked up. It’s been long enough to be as certain as it gets, and that happened to be on Valentine’s Day. I knew that there were some cultural oddities about body functions, but this took the cake; she’s been actively tracking her cycles for years, with notes and annotations. I’m a little squicked out about that.
Been talking with the FEMA operator lately, about once a day or so, and he’s filled me in as best he can about what’s going on. The disaster was world-wide, and apparently an act of terrorism unlike any before it. The ten cities, world-wide, with the largest population centers got nuked off the face of the Earth simultaneously. Then came a global tidal wave of blue-white fire, something no one ever saw before—not even in the most ancient of texts—and ruined much of what remained. Everyone that was topside is believed dead, or will be soon enough.
This squares with what I heard out of Duluth, down to the instant rise of marauding gangs that already resorted to cannibalism, until that guy either fled or got eaten. FEMA’s response has been tied down due to serious logistical issues and unexpected pushback from survivors, but they’re progressing steadily and should be able to get to us by the turn of Spring at the latest. This I welcome, as I wonder if this disaster might affect weather patterns and extend this Winter long past its ordinary duration.
(From an entry written on February 17th)
Yuki’s calling me her husband now, and she’s told me that she thinks that the baby will be a girl. She wanted to know what my mother’s name was, and what it meant in English. I humored her, as it’s kept her focused on the here and now and not on things outside her control. I asked her what her folks were like, and she told me that she was an Onna and thus had a great family that spanned all of Japan. I hadn’t filled her in on the true scope of the disaster, but she’s more or less decided on making a go at family life with me. She’s settled down emotionally, for which I am grateful, but damn if this all did not escalate quickly. I now understand why my uncles were such unrepentant deadbeat dads.
Yuki’s calling me her husband now, and she’s told me that she thinks that the baby will be a girl. She wanted to know what my mother’s name was, and what it meant in English. I humored her, as it’s kept her focused on the here and now and not on things outside her control. I asked her what her folks were like, and she told me that she was an Onna and thus had a great family that spanned all of Japan. I hadn’t filled her in on the true scope of the disaster, but she’s more or less decided on making a go at family life with me. She’s settled down emotionally, for which I am grateful, but damn if this all did not escalate quickly. I now understand why my uncles were such unrepentant deadbeat dads.
I’ve kept Yuki informed on FEMA’s activities, as much as I know of them, but she’s not that excited about it. She’s satisfied with staying here. I get it, but her stern tone has me thinking that she’ll resist removal, and she’s telling me that I ought to stick to my guns about making this a settlement and grow our own community here instead of going back with FEMA. I’m unsure about a lot of stuff about this now that FEMA’s involved, but there is one thing I am sure about: I never said one word about any of this to Yuki, so how did she learn what my plan was- is? She’s messing with my head.
Friday, October 18, 2013
To Split Rock Lighthouse-03
(From an entry dated February 1st)
Yuki’s my girlfriend. She hasn’t said so. I haven’t said so. There’s been no one to say it to, so we don’t need to say a damned word. Actions are enough, and her crawling into bed with me after she got done crying was enough talk for both of us. She and I shared that bed thereafter, and she’s become quite insistent on my affection. I tell myself that it’s just a freak-out reaction to everything going to Hell, something stressful enough for me who’s born and bred here, combined with her being a foreigner that expected to go home come the end of the academic year. Now she’s stuck here for the rest of her life, with no friends or family, so I’m not surprised that something had to give.
That said, I’m still uneasy about it; I’m just a bit concerned that if I don’t she’ll hurt herself, or me, instead. I keep the guns locked away when I’m not using them, and I lock up the axes and other tools I use outside when I’m not using them, but the knives in the kitchen are still good enough to cut someone to death. As I told her, no one is out there coming to our rescue, so I’m on my own here and I don’t need someone of questionable stability near lethal weapons.
She’s become clingy, needy and pushy. None of this is a good sign. Neither is her seeming ability to handle the cold while under-dressed.
(From an entry dated February 7th)
Yuki’s mental state still worries me. She’ll flip from warm and personable to clingy and near-violent at the slightest provocation, so I’m on egg-shells around her all the time. It doesn’t help that she’s convinced that she’s pregnant. While probable, the stress of being a survivor of a collapse of civilization likely has a lot to do with her period being wacky. At least I’ve got Yuki to commit to doing some of the chores around the place that she can take as being “domestic”, including reading up on the way that wiring and plumbing works around here so she can handle some of this stuff.
I stopped trying to keep her from going outside without proper gear when she told me that the weather’s been so very pleasant since she arrived, with storms coming only at night and never being too much for them to deal with, and no negative effects to her at all (other than being a little cool to the touch until I warm her up). She’s fighting me less about this now that she thinks that she’s pregnant, but Yuki’s still happy about being outside at least during daylight hours.
At least one major development happened recently. The other day I checked the radio. The Duluth FM radio warning about the city is gone, and AM is still silent. Instead, there’s someone else claiming to be from FEMA on short wave seeking contact with others within broadcast range. I broke in, and FEMA’s coming here.
Yuki’s my girlfriend. She hasn’t said so. I haven’t said so. There’s been no one to say it to, so we don’t need to say a damned word. Actions are enough, and her crawling into bed with me after she got done crying was enough talk for both of us. She and I shared that bed thereafter, and she’s become quite insistent on my affection. I tell myself that it’s just a freak-out reaction to everything going to Hell, something stressful enough for me who’s born and bred here, combined with her being a foreigner that expected to go home come the end of the academic year. Now she’s stuck here for the rest of her life, with no friends or family, so I’m not surprised that something had to give.
That said, I’m still uneasy about it; I’m just a bit concerned that if I don’t she’ll hurt herself, or me, instead. I keep the guns locked away when I’m not using them, and I lock up the axes and other tools I use outside when I’m not using them, but the knives in the kitchen are still good enough to cut someone to death. As I told her, no one is out there coming to our rescue, so I’m on my own here and I don’t need someone of questionable stability near lethal weapons.
She’s become clingy, needy and pushy. None of this is a good sign. Neither is her seeming ability to handle the cold while under-dressed.
(From an entry dated February 7th)
Yuki’s mental state still worries me. She’ll flip from warm and personable to clingy and near-violent at the slightest provocation, so I’m on egg-shells around her all the time. It doesn’t help that she’s convinced that she’s pregnant. While probable, the stress of being a survivor of a collapse of civilization likely has a lot to do with her period being wacky. At least I’ve got Yuki to commit to doing some of the chores around the place that she can take as being “domestic”, including reading up on the way that wiring and plumbing works around here so she can handle some of this stuff.
I stopped trying to keep her from going outside without proper gear when she told me that the weather’s been so very pleasant since she arrived, with storms coming only at night and never being too much for them to deal with, and no negative effects to her at all (other than being a little cool to the touch until I warm her up). She’s fighting me less about this now that she thinks that she’s pregnant, but Yuki’s still happy about being outside at least during daylight hours.
At least one major development happened recently. The other day I checked the radio. The Duluth FM radio warning about the city is gone, and AM is still silent. Instead, there’s someone else claiming to be from FEMA on short wave seeking contact with others within broadcast range. I broke in, and FEMA’s coming here.
Friday, October 11, 2013
To Split Rock Lighthouse-02
(From a mid-January 2013 entry)
Keeping track of time is difficult now. I’m glad to have my watch, but tracking the days is quite difficult now. If I didn’t have the calendar, I’d be totally lost as to when in the season it is. Instead, I’m aware that it’s mid-January and Spring is just over six weeks away. Supplies are enough to make it, but it means eating a lot of soups and stews. Fishing is not an option right now, so hunting is all I have for getting fresh meat and there’s been just one deer close enough for me to take. Dressing that was a bit of a chore, but it’s done and the venison tastes great.
The light works, and I run it regularly just to keep it in working order. The machinery will work, for now, and keeping up maintenance is what I do to keep busy most of the time. The rest of the time I either check on the traps while hunting or I plan on what needs to be done once Spring arrives. There’s been no sign of life on the radio, and there is no Internet access, so I presume that the disaster’s effects are truly catastrophic. At this time, I presume that there is no help coming; anyone that comes here is a survivor, not a rescuer, if they are not a marauder.
If this is so, then I must commit to making the lighthouse my base of operations hereafter. The old world is gone forever.
(From a late January entry)
It’s been somewhat lonely here. I haven’t so much as a dog for company, and I’m so far north that anyone that could get here is likely fleeing a collapsed shelter from nearby—relatively speaking—and now seeks someplace more solid, as I did, in coming here. That changed today.
A co-ed from the Cities arrived, a foreign exchange student from Japan, who came here for a year abroad. Her name is Yuki, and she arrived during a snowstorm, by herself. Once I took her in, I saw that she’d gotten Frostbite and Hypothermia, but she seemed unaffected by either condition. I insisted on treating her, and she (wisely) relented when I explained the gravity of her situation. When she finally warmed up and recovered, I got her some stew and bread, and that got her talking.
Yuki explained that she had some friends with family in Duluth, and she was with them when the disaster struck. She tried fleeing south back to the Cities, but I-35 got cut off early on and then they couldn’t stay in or near Duluth so they fled north. They stayed ahead of things, fleeing Two Harbors just a week ago, but ran out of gas some miles south of here; she was in the best condition, so they told her how to get to the lighthouse.
When Yuki felt up to it, we got into the Land Rover and went after them. We found them dead of exposure and returned immediately. Yuki wept.
Keeping track of time is difficult now. I’m glad to have my watch, but tracking the days is quite difficult now. If I didn’t have the calendar, I’d be totally lost as to when in the season it is. Instead, I’m aware that it’s mid-January and Spring is just over six weeks away. Supplies are enough to make it, but it means eating a lot of soups and stews. Fishing is not an option right now, so hunting is all I have for getting fresh meat and there’s been just one deer close enough for me to take. Dressing that was a bit of a chore, but it’s done and the venison tastes great.
The light works, and I run it regularly just to keep it in working order. The machinery will work, for now, and keeping up maintenance is what I do to keep busy most of the time. The rest of the time I either check on the traps while hunting or I plan on what needs to be done once Spring arrives. There’s been no sign of life on the radio, and there is no Internet access, so I presume that the disaster’s effects are truly catastrophic. At this time, I presume that there is no help coming; anyone that comes here is a survivor, not a rescuer, if they are not a marauder.
If this is so, then I must commit to making the lighthouse my base of operations hereafter. The old world is gone forever.
(From a late January entry)
It’s been somewhat lonely here. I haven’t so much as a dog for company, and I’m so far north that anyone that could get here is likely fleeing a collapsed shelter from nearby—relatively speaking—and now seeks someplace more solid, as I did, in coming here. That changed today.
A co-ed from the Cities arrived, a foreign exchange student from Japan, who came here for a year abroad. Her name is Yuki, and she arrived during a snowstorm, by herself. Once I took her in, I saw that she’d gotten Frostbite and Hypothermia, but she seemed unaffected by either condition. I insisted on treating her, and she (wisely) relented when I explained the gravity of her situation. When she finally warmed up and recovered, I got her some stew and bread, and that got her talking.
Yuki explained that she had some friends with family in Duluth, and she was with them when the disaster struck. She tried fleeing south back to the Cities, but I-35 got cut off early on and then they couldn’t stay in or near Duluth so they fled north. They stayed ahead of things, fleeing Two Harbors just a week ago, but ran out of gas some miles south of here; she was in the best condition, so they told her how to get to the lighthouse.
When Yuki felt up to it, we got into the Land Rover and went after them. We found them dead of exposure and returned immediately. Yuki wept.
Friday, October 4, 2013
To Split Rock Lighthouse-01
(From the journals of Daniel Hosterman)
It’s been two weeks after the disaster hit. The Internet is down. No sense checking the TV then, since it’s down too, and the landline is dead also. No cell service, so no wi-fi either. Satellite radio is off the air. Terrestrial radio had nothing but a recording by one of the DJs in Duluth saying that it’s gone and no one should approach. There’s no government presence. None of the folks or made it. I’m on my own.
I’ve got to move. This bug-out spot wasn’t for anything long-term, so the couple of weeks of supplies that we cached here are about gone. No sense trying to make this spot a long-term either. The networks are gone, so there’s no reason to protect this spot; what I’m leaving behind is now very pricy and fragile paperweights. I’m packing up what’s left, throwing it all in the Land Rover and making for a spot I’m certain is still all in one piece: the Split Rock Lighthouse.
I’m going there because it’s a known landmark and it’s close to here. Some others will go there, and I hope that we can build a long-term survival settlement out of it, using the lighthouse as a citadel. The place uses older tech, so if we can keep it running we’ll be able to handle ourselves well enough for long enough to stabilize the area and build up anew. But first, I need to clear the path to the road.
(next entry)
I’m now at the Lighthouse. Digging out the path took a while. The weather cooperated, as far as winter does that up here, but I had to pace myself to make the most of my supplies. Getting out to the road took longer than I expected, but fortunately the Land Rover didn’t get stuck. My caution seems excessive now, but it likely was why I got out as fast as I did. The roads weren’t plowed because no one was left to do it, so going was slow there too.
No one came out when I arrived. At least one ranger should be here. This bugs me. One of the residences for the keepers wasn’t locked, so I parked the Land Rover and unloaded. I grabbed the shotgun and checked the rest of the site. I found the rangers—both of them—dead, along with a couple of other corpses, outside another residence. All of them had head wounds, and the rangers had bite marks. I think that the rangers shot the others, and then killed themselves. I took the corpses outside and burned them, just in case. The stench was awful.
I secured the site as best I could, but that doesn’t mean much. If I can get the light working, then I’m sure that I can make it through the rest of the winter just fine. I’m already more worried about other survivors than I am about my own chances, and I don’t need weird shit happening.
It’s been two weeks after the disaster hit. The Internet is down. No sense checking the TV then, since it’s down too, and the landline is dead also. No cell service, so no wi-fi either. Satellite radio is off the air. Terrestrial radio had nothing but a recording by one of the DJs in Duluth saying that it’s gone and no one should approach. There’s no government presence. None of the folks or made it. I’m on my own.
I’ve got to move. This bug-out spot wasn’t for anything long-term, so the couple of weeks of supplies that we cached here are about gone. No sense trying to make this spot a long-term either. The networks are gone, so there’s no reason to protect this spot; what I’m leaving behind is now very pricy and fragile paperweights. I’m packing up what’s left, throwing it all in the Land Rover and making for a spot I’m certain is still all in one piece: the Split Rock Lighthouse.
I’m going there because it’s a known landmark and it’s close to here. Some others will go there, and I hope that we can build a long-term survival settlement out of it, using the lighthouse as a citadel. The place uses older tech, so if we can keep it running we’ll be able to handle ourselves well enough for long enough to stabilize the area and build up anew. But first, I need to clear the path to the road.
(next entry)
I’m now at the Lighthouse. Digging out the path took a while. The weather cooperated, as far as winter does that up here, but I had to pace myself to make the most of my supplies. Getting out to the road took longer than I expected, but fortunately the Land Rover didn’t get stuck. My caution seems excessive now, but it likely was why I got out as fast as I did. The roads weren’t plowed because no one was left to do it, so going was slow there too.
No one came out when I arrived. At least one ranger should be here. This bugs me. One of the residences for the keepers wasn’t locked, so I parked the Land Rover and unloaded. I grabbed the shotgun and checked the rest of the site. I found the rangers—both of them—dead, along with a couple of other corpses, outside another residence. All of them had head wounds, and the rangers had bite marks. I think that the rangers shot the others, and then killed themselves. I took the corpses outside and burned them, just in case. The stench was awful.
I secured the site as best I could, but that doesn’t mean much. If I can get the light working, then I’m sure that I can make it through the rest of the winter just fine. I’m already more worried about other survivors than I am about my own chances, and I don’t need weird shit happening.
Friday, September 20, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-12
“You expected otherwise?” Ken said as Gabriel walked into view from nowhere.
Gabriel approached, but Ken felt no fear. He tore off an ear and chewed on it.
“Oh no.” Gabriel said, “But you did surprise me with your earnest attitude. No whining, no moping, no ‘But I’ve got to do this boring old shit that I hate’ crap that I’m so used to sweeping away to get a monkey to do what I want.”
“Just needed a second opinion is all.” Ken said, cracking open the skull and getting at the brain, “Some super-powerful guy shows up out of nowhere, talks like something out of an old movie and has me wanting to screw over his buddy- and I’m supposed to just go with it? You’ll forgive me if I’m a wee bit skeptical.”
Gabriel clapped his hands and smiled. “It’s been a very, very long time since I found myself a monkey that finally got what’s going on.”
Ken finished chewing some brains. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Gabriel now got close to Ken. “Maybe the old man was right about your kind after all.”
“I figured that there was something you weren’t telling me about this.” Ken said, “That’s why I got that second opinion. Deeds don’t exist in vacuums, especially something that crosses streams like some dude using a European name and talking angels and demons wanting little old me to take on some ancient monster of a First Nations’ mythology. Once I got up to speed about this hunt you wanted me to do, I figured out that context.”
Gabriel took a seat across from Ken. “Go on. This should be amusing.”
Ken swallowed the eyes whole, one after the other. “I found it quite interesting that you’d send me against an ancient entity whose legendary prowess, and hunger, was so similar to my own. That’s when I recalled your words, that you still served loyally despite what you thought of Mankind, and put that together with something else I recalled from many years ago.”
“Which was?”
“The enemy can’t create, only imitate—only repurpose, rectify, remix—and therefore imitations can’t be better than the original.”
Gabriel nodded. “True, true. Go on.”
Ken finished the last of the soft bits, and now broke down the stripped skull into chip-sized bits. “I also recalled that you lot don’t reckon time as we do. ‘Wibbley-wobbley, timey-whimy’ as some of us call it, so I figured that the imitation and the original need not appear in the same place in linear time.”
“Go on. This is good.”
“This was a set-up alright, but not about me and the Necromancer. This is about the big picture, about long after I’m done here. I needed something that he had to complete myself, from your point of view.” Ken said, mixing the bone bits with some water and drinking it down, “And now, that’s done. By consuming Wendigo, I take on the curse and—because I’m the original—I fix it into a strong trait that makes myself into a subrrace that breeds true. I’m now, potentially, the father of a race of Men.”
Gabriel smiled, and took back his sword.
“Correct. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“You’re still a dick, Gabby.”
Gabriel approached, but Ken felt no fear. He tore off an ear and chewed on it.
“Oh no.” Gabriel said, “But you did surprise me with your earnest attitude. No whining, no moping, no ‘But I’ve got to do this boring old shit that I hate’ crap that I’m so used to sweeping away to get a monkey to do what I want.”
“Just needed a second opinion is all.” Ken said, cracking open the skull and getting at the brain, “Some super-powerful guy shows up out of nowhere, talks like something out of an old movie and has me wanting to screw over his buddy- and I’m supposed to just go with it? You’ll forgive me if I’m a wee bit skeptical.”
Gabriel clapped his hands and smiled. “It’s been a very, very long time since I found myself a monkey that finally got what’s going on.”
Ken finished chewing some brains. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Gabriel now got close to Ken. “Maybe the old man was right about your kind after all.”
“I figured that there was something you weren’t telling me about this.” Ken said, “That’s why I got that second opinion. Deeds don’t exist in vacuums, especially something that crosses streams like some dude using a European name and talking angels and demons wanting little old me to take on some ancient monster of a First Nations’ mythology. Once I got up to speed about this hunt you wanted me to do, I figured out that context.”
Gabriel took a seat across from Ken. “Go on. This should be amusing.”
Ken swallowed the eyes whole, one after the other. “I found it quite interesting that you’d send me against an ancient entity whose legendary prowess, and hunger, was so similar to my own. That’s when I recalled your words, that you still served loyally despite what you thought of Mankind, and put that together with something else I recalled from many years ago.”
“Which was?”
“The enemy can’t create, only imitate—only repurpose, rectify, remix—and therefore imitations can’t be better than the original.”
Gabriel nodded. “True, true. Go on.”
Ken finished the last of the soft bits, and now broke down the stripped skull into chip-sized bits. “I also recalled that you lot don’t reckon time as we do. ‘Wibbley-wobbley, timey-whimy’ as some of us call it, so I figured that the imitation and the original need not appear in the same place in linear time.”
“Go on. This is good.”
“This was a set-up alright, but not about me and the Necromancer. This is about the big picture, about long after I’m done here. I needed something that he had to complete myself, from your point of view.” Ken said, mixing the bone bits with some water and drinking it down, “And now, that’s done. By consuming Wendigo, I take on the curse and—because I’m the original—I fix it into a strong trait that makes myself into a subrrace that breeds true. I’m now, potentially, the father of a race of Men.”
Gabriel smiled, and took back his sword.
“Correct. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“You’re still a dick, Gabby.”
Friday, September 13, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-11
Ken smelled Wendigo’s foul essence as the cracks in the sarcophagus worsened, and soon became so palpable that he could taste it. He did not hesitate to attack, rushing it and thrusting Gabriel’s sword through one of the cracks. Within came a primal howl of pain, sending Wendigo into a frenzy that fueled his efforts to burst free of his prison. Knowing that his advantage soon would be gone Ken thrust the sword through more cracks, wounding his prey again and again before he had to fall back. As he got clear, the last blows from within shattered the sarcophagus- Wendigo was free.
The old demon, his long-dessicated corpse burning in places, locked eyes with Ken and saw that Ken wielded Gabriel’s sword. Words in a tongue long lost to time flew from Wendigo’s mouth as if they were hurled stones, but still both could not escape the similarity between them: both white as snow, both apex predators, both with inescapable drives and the means to satisfy them. Had Wendigo been fully in his power, as he was in life, only being a hirsute giant would meaningfully differentiate the two.
Ken and Wendigo now circled each other, like rival predators fighting over territory often do when they challenge each other, and both knew that this would not be a fight over status. This was for life itself, to true and eternal death, as neither would allow the other to survive. Despite similarities, Ken and Wendigo noticed fundamental and irreconcilable differences. All this they both knew without a doubt within a moment’s consideration, and that is why both of them pounced to attack.
Wendigo, still quite weak and already wounded, nonetheless struck hard against Ken and bloodied him bare-handed. Ken, once more filled with strength beyond previous expression, cut deep into Wendigo and flame licked at the wound. Wendigo picked up a club and used it against Ken, forcing him to block; Wendigo kept Ken on the back foot, slamming that club at him relentlessly, backing him up until Ken dodged an overhead blow while backed against the ruined sarcophagus and took off that hand.
Wendigo punched Ken and sent him reeling, giving the fiend time enough to pick up his severed hand and reattach it as it nothing happened, and then turning to cave in Ken’s skull with the club. Again Ken got out of the way, and this time Ken took off a leg at the knee. Wendigo fell over face-first, and this time Ken torched the severed limb, burning it to ash. Wendigo got up on his one remaining leg, but already Ken was upon him. First his arms, and then his other leg, got cut away and burned to ash in turn at Ken’s hands.
Wendigo howled, knowing what this meant for him. Desperation and defiance, mixed together into a horrific scream of pathetic tones, nearly deafened Ken as he stalked towards Wendigo’s limbless form. Off came Wendigo’s head, and Ken consumed its bits.
“Well done, monkey.”
The old demon, his long-dessicated corpse burning in places, locked eyes with Ken and saw that Ken wielded Gabriel’s sword. Words in a tongue long lost to time flew from Wendigo’s mouth as if they were hurled stones, but still both could not escape the similarity between them: both white as snow, both apex predators, both with inescapable drives and the means to satisfy them. Had Wendigo been fully in his power, as he was in life, only being a hirsute giant would meaningfully differentiate the two.
Ken and Wendigo now circled each other, like rival predators fighting over territory often do when they challenge each other, and both knew that this would not be a fight over status. This was for life itself, to true and eternal death, as neither would allow the other to survive. Despite similarities, Ken and Wendigo noticed fundamental and irreconcilable differences. All this they both knew without a doubt within a moment’s consideration, and that is why both of them pounced to attack.
Wendigo, still quite weak and already wounded, nonetheless struck hard against Ken and bloodied him bare-handed. Ken, once more filled with strength beyond previous expression, cut deep into Wendigo and flame licked at the wound. Wendigo picked up a club and used it against Ken, forcing him to block; Wendigo kept Ken on the back foot, slamming that club at him relentlessly, backing him up until Ken dodged an overhead blow while backed against the ruined sarcophagus and took off that hand.
Wendigo punched Ken and sent him reeling, giving the fiend time enough to pick up his severed hand and reattach it as it nothing happened, and then turning to cave in Ken’s skull with the club. Again Ken got out of the way, and this time Ken took off a leg at the knee. Wendigo fell over face-first, and this time Ken torched the severed limb, burning it to ash. Wendigo got up on his one remaining leg, but already Ken was upon him. First his arms, and then his other leg, got cut away and burned to ash in turn at Ken’s hands.
Wendigo howled, knowing what this meant for him. Desperation and defiance, mixed together into a horrific scream of pathetic tones, nearly deafened Ken as he stalked towards Wendigo’s limbless form. Off came Wendigo’s head, and Ken consumed its bits.
“Well done, monkey.”
Friday, September 6, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-10
The next step, as Ken saw it, was to make his way into the mine. Down there were certain to be more of The Necromancer’s undead thralls, including the last of the more intelligent leader thralls. Ken knew that he was expected, and this would not be nearly so easy to execute as his antics on the surface. He expected that he would find a more dangerous opposition down there, one that needed no light or fresh air, and the constricted corridors of the old mine made his mobility moot. This time it was a fight of might, not maneuver.
Ken’s expectations got met on the way down. A far more aggressive response met him early, and Ken in turn demonstrated that he knew how to handle a longsword in confined quarters. Once he saw that the sword’s flames didn’t burn him, or that the blade didn’t cut him, Ken laughed long at the enemies before him. As their severed limbs and torsos caught fire and burnt to ash—some falling down the shaft, reduced to ash before impact—Ken heard the dull roar of more of them awaiting him below, and the laughter grew louder. He felt no fear.
Ken came out of the shaft swinging, cleaving through the undead and rotting flesh and burning them to ash before they could get a withered claw on him. Fury uncommonly expressed energized his form, and he continued to laugh at the absurdity as he hewed through the undead horde as if they were so many bales of hay. When the horde attempted to flank him, he quickly hewed his way out and then resumed the assault. They tried and failed multiple times, so at last the leader compelled their retreat and Ken eagerly pursued them- cutting them down without mercy.
As he reached the very bottom of the mine, where the thralls worked anew at long-dead veins to create underground a ritual space around which they unearthed a massive sarcophagus of silver that shown as if it were reflecting a full moon on a cloudless night. Before him now stood a great and large abomination that once was an ordinary man, now distorted into a caricature formerly seen only in the fiction of the Old World. On its face Ken felt the great presence of The Necromancer pushing down upon him like a giant bearing down on his very soul.
Ken drew the sword, blue-white flame flaring in The Necromancer’s presence, high over his head as he readied to strike. The Necromancer, directly possessing his amalgamated thrall-gestalt, did not waste words and charged Ken. Ken severed an arm, but still got spun about and tumbled off his line. As the severed flame burned to ash, a new one grew in its place. Ken, seeing how this would go, drew deep into his inner strength; with uncanny speed, Ken dodged the monster and severed limb after limb until he sliced the thrall down to no flesh at all.
The sarcophagus cracked.
Ken’s expectations got met on the way down. A far more aggressive response met him early, and Ken in turn demonstrated that he knew how to handle a longsword in confined quarters. Once he saw that the sword’s flames didn’t burn him, or that the blade didn’t cut him, Ken laughed long at the enemies before him. As their severed limbs and torsos caught fire and burnt to ash—some falling down the shaft, reduced to ash before impact—Ken heard the dull roar of more of them awaiting him below, and the laughter grew louder. He felt no fear.
Ken came out of the shaft swinging, cleaving through the undead and rotting flesh and burning them to ash before they could get a withered claw on him. Fury uncommonly expressed energized his form, and he continued to laugh at the absurdity as he hewed through the undead horde as if they were so many bales of hay. When the horde attempted to flank him, he quickly hewed his way out and then resumed the assault. They tried and failed multiple times, so at last the leader compelled their retreat and Ken eagerly pursued them- cutting them down without mercy.
As he reached the very bottom of the mine, where the thralls worked anew at long-dead veins to create underground a ritual space around which they unearthed a massive sarcophagus of silver that shown as if it were reflecting a full moon on a cloudless night. Before him now stood a great and large abomination that once was an ordinary man, now distorted into a caricature formerly seen only in the fiction of the Old World. On its face Ken felt the great presence of The Necromancer pushing down upon him like a giant bearing down on his very soul.
Ken drew the sword, blue-white flame flaring in The Necromancer’s presence, high over his head as he readied to strike. The Necromancer, directly possessing his amalgamated thrall-gestalt, did not waste words and charged Ken. Ken severed an arm, but still got spun about and tumbled off his line. As the severed flame burned to ash, a new one grew in its place. Ken, seeing how this would go, drew deep into his inner strength; with uncanny speed, Ken dodged the monster and severed limb after limb until he sliced the thrall down to no flesh at all.
The sarcophagus cracked.
Friday, August 30, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-09
Ken figured that The Necromancer would have a presence on the surface waiting for him, and he was right. As he approached the old mine, he saw many patrolling undead marching in close order. These pickets patrolled in concentric circles, starting a mile out, and alternating in direction. The sheer size of the undead presence told Ken that his taunt made its mark, and the more life-like behavior told him that one of those more dangerous minions likely monitored this presence so the big man didn’t need to do it all himself.
Ken sat in a tree, downwind, and watched. Stealth seemed the obvious approach; sneak in, get the leader, the cohesion collapses and then create plenty of chaos to inhibit recovery before moving on to the next phase. However, Ken didn’t want to seek out his target; instead, he wanted the target to come to him. That’s why Ken drew the sword and dropped down on the patrol passing beneath him, reducing it to blue-flamed ash piles within seconds. He ambushed patrol after patrol, destroying each in turn, and soon knowing that there was a gaping hole in the outer defenses that could not be ignored.
As Ken expected, the remaining security patrols flooded down his way, but they did not arrive in any manner that could contain him. He went from one to the next, his laughter getting louder as more of then burned to ash before him, and none of The Necromancer’s undead thralls could so much as get a touch on Ken. He kept on cutting them down and burning them to ash, knowing that soon his target had to appear to salvage the situation. By the time that one could see ash piles all about for a few hundred yards, Ken’s expectation got fulfilled.
The leader, arriving with a bodyguard of a score of corpse-men, was indeed life-like as Ken expected. So was his bodyguard, and all of them armed with crude clubs—likely debris picked up from around the mine’s entrance—that showed them as being a more significant threat. Yet, once they saw Ken and the sword in his hands, they showed fear. That fear meant hesitation, and hesitation gave Ken an opening so Ken attacked.
This was not Ken’s first time fighting the life-like legionnaires of The Necromancer, as he’d been part of a raid upon the Necropolis itself some years before and encountered such minions then, so he had a firm idea of what to expect from them. Before they could regain composure, Ken already struck down a quarter of their number. Even then, and with supernatural will imposing itself upon them to attack, they still could not wholly commit. This sliver of a difference was all that Ken needed to put them all down.
Ken soon had the leader at his mercy. Armless, legless, backed up against a tree- helpless now against a foe stronger than expected. Ken took off the leader’s head and said “You can’t stop me, Necromancer.”
Ken sat in a tree, downwind, and watched. Stealth seemed the obvious approach; sneak in, get the leader, the cohesion collapses and then create plenty of chaos to inhibit recovery before moving on to the next phase. However, Ken didn’t want to seek out his target; instead, he wanted the target to come to him. That’s why Ken drew the sword and dropped down on the patrol passing beneath him, reducing it to blue-flamed ash piles within seconds. He ambushed patrol after patrol, destroying each in turn, and soon knowing that there was a gaping hole in the outer defenses that could not be ignored.
As Ken expected, the remaining security patrols flooded down his way, but they did not arrive in any manner that could contain him. He went from one to the next, his laughter getting louder as more of then burned to ash before him, and none of The Necromancer’s undead thralls could so much as get a touch on Ken. He kept on cutting them down and burning them to ash, knowing that soon his target had to appear to salvage the situation. By the time that one could see ash piles all about for a few hundred yards, Ken’s expectation got fulfilled.
The leader, arriving with a bodyguard of a score of corpse-men, was indeed life-like as Ken expected. So was his bodyguard, and all of them armed with crude clubs—likely debris picked up from around the mine’s entrance—that showed them as being a more significant threat. Yet, once they saw Ken and the sword in his hands, they showed fear. That fear meant hesitation, and hesitation gave Ken an opening so Ken attacked.
This was not Ken’s first time fighting the life-like legionnaires of The Necromancer, as he’d been part of a raid upon the Necropolis itself some years before and encountered such minions then, so he had a firm idea of what to expect from them. Before they could regain composure, Ken already struck down a quarter of their number. Even then, and with supernatural will imposing itself upon them to attack, they still could not wholly commit. This sliver of a difference was all that Ken needed to put them all down.
Ken soon had the leader at his mercy. Armless, legless, backed up against a tree- helpless now against a foe stronger than expected. Ken took off the leader’s head and said “You can’t stop me, Necromancer.”
Friday, August 23, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-08
When the sun rose, and Ken awoke, he saw the “gift” still lay cradled in his arms: a sword, firm in its scabbard, just like out of the stained-glass windows of Old World temples. He got to his feet, and after he stretched himself out of his lingering slumber he took up that scabbard and drew that sword. In a tongue dead millennia before the Old World’s destruction, a tongue that Ken knew from studies done in his life before now, he read the inscription put into the sword’s cross-guard: “Cast in the Name of God, Ye Not Guilty.”
“An executioner’s sword.” Ken said, and it became clear now what Gabriel thought of him: a slayer, sanctioned by powers beyond mortal comprehension, of those deemed beyond redemption. As he examined the sword, he noticed another inscription—in an even more obscure tongue—on the blade itself. Ken eyed that inscription with great care, and then held the blade as far away from himself as he could before speaking that word. The blade erupted in flames, blue-white flames just like those that he saw destroy the Old World, and now Ken comprehended the matter fully: to destroy Wendigo utterly, he be consumed by the uttermost fire of Creation itself.
Ken extinguished the flames by a repeated utterance, and then put away the sword. Ken broke camp, such as it was, and then made his way back to the open pit mine. Unlike last time, Ken ambushed the patrols instead of evading them. He destroyed them faster than the leaders could react, and then he moved inward and cleaved his way through the corpse-laborers mindlessly hacking away with rusted pics. Then, when the leaders finally reacted he cleaved his way through the ad-hoc militia of dead men and made his way to those leaders- or, rather, leader. The other two he previously saw were not there.
Without effort he hacked apart that leader—first arms, then legs—and then beheaded the now-limbless corpse-man. He picked up the severed dead head and stared into its lifeless eyes.
“I’m in your digs, gankin’ your mans, and I’m gonna get your treasure. You think you can stop me? Come at me, bro.”
Then he tossed the head aloft and carved it in half before it hit the ground. If that didn’t get The Necromancer’s attention, then Ken had no idea what would. To be certain, Ken scoured that open site and destroyed every last undead thing that he found. He burned what he destroyed, incinerating them and reducing them to ash. Once satisfied that he utterly destroyed The Necromancer’s presence at this old open-pit mine, he walked away from the scourged site and let his senses guide him to the next site- and the one that he knows will be more dangerous to handle: the old underground mine that formerly was a historical preservation site during the waning days of the Old World.
Ken felt a malevolent presence. This was the place; now’s the time.
“An executioner’s sword.” Ken said, and it became clear now what Gabriel thought of him: a slayer, sanctioned by powers beyond mortal comprehension, of those deemed beyond redemption. As he examined the sword, he noticed another inscription—in an even more obscure tongue—on the blade itself. Ken eyed that inscription with great care, and then held the blade as far away from himself as he could before speaking that word. The blade erupted in flames, blue-white flames just like those that he saw destroy the Old World, and now Ken comprehended the matter fully: to destroy Wendigo utterly, he be consumed by the uttermost fire of Creation itself.
Ken extinguished the flames by a repeated utterance, and then put away the sword. Ken broke camp, such as it was, and then made his way back to the open pit mine. Unlike last time, Ken ambushed the patrols instead of evading them. He destroyed them faster than the leaders could react, and then he moved inward and cleaved his way through the corpse-laborers mindlessly hacking away with rusted pics. Then, when the leaders finally reacted he cleaved his way through the ad-hoc militia of dead men and made his way to those leaders- or, rather, leader. The other two he previously saw were not there.
Without effort he hacked apart that leader—first arms, then legs—and then beheaded the now-limbless corpse-man. He picked up the severed dead head and stared into its lifeless eyes.
“I’m in your digs, gankin’ your mans, and I’m gonna get your treasure. You think you can stop me? Come at me, bro.”
Then he tossed the head aloft and carved it in half before it hit the ground. If that didn’t get The Necromancer’s attention, then Ken had no idea what would. To be certain, Ken scoured that open site and destroyed every last undead thing that he found. He burned what he destroyed, incinerating them and reducing them to ash. Once satisfied that he utterly destroyed The Necromancer’s presence at this old open-pit mine, he walked away from the scourged site and let his senses guide him to the next site- and the one that he knows will be more dangerous to handle: the old underground mine that formerly was a historical preservation site during the waning days of the Old World.
Ken felt a malevolent presence. This was the place; now’s the time.
Friday, August 16, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-07
“The Creator—God, if you prefer—intended for what you call ‘The Azure Flames’ (how poetic!) to be much less destructive than what it was. However, there are plenty of those who defy him-“
“Like you?”
“Oh no, monkey-boy, not at all.” Gabriel said, “While I don’t know why your kind has his favor, and I still think that you’re not worthy of that favor, I am still loyal and do as I am told.”
“This ought to be good.” Ken said, and he bit into another piece.
“As I said, God has his enemies. Your kind has words for them, and those monkeys that they swayed to their cause. These enemies are of my kind, and so work differently from what your minds can comprehend.”
“Fallen angels and demons,” Ken said, “and their human cultists, right?”
“You’ve been paying attention! Good monkey.” Gabriel said, and patted Ken on the head, “The other entities—the spirits that some of your kind deal with—are lesser than my kind, to put this into a context that monkey-brains can comprehend, so we are talking about the primal powers of Creation.”
Ken didn’t hear, smell or taste any lies from Gabriel, yet.
“The enemy had two groups of cultists, spread across a great many subsets. One was a rather ordinary group of power-obsessed individuals who loved like monkeys often love this world, the sort you so often slaughtered in great numbers in your old life. The other group, the older one, trafficked with—and congressed with—the enemy regularly for the sort of power that monkeys can otherwise only steal by guile or raw will.”
Ken nodded, watching Gabriel pace around him as he often stalked prey.
“The monkeys got out of hand, and when their big attempt to steal the power unleashed at God’s hands when—against my expectations—a critical mass of you monkeys actually proved to be as good as expected and thus proved yourselves ready for the next step that cascaded into ‘The Azure Flames’. What you’re seeing now is the cleaning of that great mess.”
“Interesting.” Ken said, “Let me guess: The Necromancer is meant to clean out the humans not sufficiently up to standards, and then I’m here to clean him out when he’s done?”
Gabriel clapped, slowly. “Very good! You’re one clever monkey, but that’s not quite all of it. Far beyond this place, and this time, there are others who have vital roles to play. Some of them will be villains, as your kind sees things, and some will be heroes. All I can say for you, specifically, is that you’ll never do your job by yourself; it’s too big and will take too long.”
Ken mulled over those words. “I thought so. Now, about Wendigo in particular.”
“Ah, yes.” Gabriel said, “The moment at hand. You reflect him. This is no accident, monkey. Yet he is beyond your might, and outside the plan.”
Gabriel dropped a blanket before Ken.
“Use this. Do your job.”
“Like you?”
“Oh no, monkey-boy, not at all.” Gabriel said, “While I don’t know why your kind has his favor, and I still think that you’re not worthy of that favor, I am still loyal and do as I am told.”
“This ought to be good.” Ken said, and he bit into another piece.
“As I said, God has his enemies. Your kind has words for them, and those monkeys that they swayed to their cause. These enemies are of my kind, and so work differently from what your minds can comprehend.”
“Fallen angels and demons,” Ken said, “and their human cultists, right?”
“You’ve been paying attention! Good monkey.” Gabriel said, and patted Ken on the head, “The other entities—the spirits that some of your kind deal with—are lesser than my kind, to put this into a context that monkey-brains can comprehend, so we are talking about the primal powers of Creation.”
Ken didn’t hear, smell or taste any lies from Gabriel, yet.
“The enemy had two groups of cultists, spread across a great many subsets. One was a rather ordinary group of power-obsessed individuals who loved like monkeys often love this world, the sort you so often slaughtered in great numbers in your old life. The other group, the older one, trafficked with—and congressed with—the enemy regularly for the sort of power that monkeys can otherwise only steal by guile or raw will.”
Ken nodded, watching Gabriel pace around him as he often stalked prey.
“The monkeys got out of hand, and when their big attempt to steal the power unleashed at God’s hands when—against my expectations—a critical mass of you monkeys actually proved to be as good as expected and thus proved yourselves ready for the next step that cascaded into ‘The Azure Flames’. What you’re seeing now is the cleaning of that great mess.”
“Interesting.” Ken said, “Let me guess: The Necromancer is meant to clean out the humans not sufficiently up to standards, and then I’m here to clean him out when he’s done?”
Gabriel clapped, slowly. “Very good! You’re one clever monkey, but that’s not quite all of it. Far beyond this place, and this time, there are others who have vital roles to play. Some of them will be villains, as your kind sees things, and some will be heroes. All I can say for you, specifically, is that you’ll never do your job by yourself; it’s too big and will take too long.”
Ken mulled over those words. “I thought so. Now, about Wendigo in particular.”
“Ah, yes.” Gabriel said, “The moment at hand. You reflect him. This is no accident, monkey. Yet he is beyond your might, and outside the plan.”
Gabriel dropped a blanket before Ken.
“Use this. Do your job.”
Friday, August 9, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-06
Ken culled another zombie from The Necromancer’s uncounted horde of undead thralls, sneaking in under cover of darkness and ambushing a sentry lurching about its patrol of a dig site. After he dragged the lifeless corpse away, and then began consuming it, Ken also mulled over a plan. Ken knew that The Necromancer, whatever else that villain was, was not a fool; it was wise to presume that The Necromancer would be wary of Ken intervening.
Ken chewed on the flesh of his meal. Even now, The Necromancer’s presence—through his horde—felt palpable to him. That presence, if it focused itself upon Wendigo, would be more than he could handle. Somehow, Ken must separate his target from his enemy and keep them apart long enough to put Wendigo down for good. Then there was that ally of his enemy, the one whose very presence radiated power beyond mortal means, and yet did not seem so dissonant as his enemy.
What of this thing that allied itself to The Necromancer? Would he—it—intervene? If it did, what would it do and how would it do that? Why did it look like a young Christopher Walken from some Old World horror film? Ken tossed the now-meatless bone aside, and heard it hit something other than a tree, rock or dirt- and then felt that same eerie presence.
“You’re a curious monkey.”
Ken leapt to his feet. Out from the darkness he saw a man-like figure appear—approach—him.
“Would you prefer a more familiar form?”
The figure changed its shape, appearing as that now-dead actor, and now Ken remembered.
“Gabriel.” Ken said, “That is your name, isn’t it?”
“In your tongue, so that’s good enough.” Gabriel said.
Ken took in a deep breath, drawing in through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, flexing himself without thinking as if he prepared for a fight. He smelled stale incense barely masking a rot off of Gabriel.
“Your kind calls mine ‘angels’.” Gabriel said, “Yes, the monkey I look like mimicked me well, and I must say that inspiring your kind can be quite entertaining. The story, however, I made up.”
“You’re not here to chat over dinner.” Ken said.
“True.” Gabriel said, “I’m here because I caught your little trick the other day. The ‘see-through-another’s-eyes’ trick that you did I found very interesting. I had to know what new monkey came up with this stuff. I’ve been following you now for weeks.”
Ken gave Gabriel a disbelieving look.
“Time doesn’t work the same way for us as it does for you.”
“So,” Ken said as he assessed Gabriel’s body language, “if you’re watching me, then why talk to me now?”
“Because you’re about to do something rash and stupid, and—as much as I’d love to watch you do your monkey-thing and fail spectacularly—I have my orders.”
“Which are?”
“There’s more to what’s going on than you’ve figured out—that you could ever figure out—on your own.”
"Tell me."
Ken chewed on the flesh of his meal. Even now, The Necromancer’s presence—through his horde—felt palpable to him. That presence, if it focused itself upon Wendigo, would be more than he could handle. Somehow, Ken must separate his target from his enemy and keep them apart long enough to put Wendigo down for good. Then there was that ally of his enemy, the one whose very presence radiated power beyond mortal means, and yet did not seem so dissonant as his enemy.
What of this thing that allied itself to The Necromancer? Would he—it—intervene? If it did, what would it do and how would it do that? Why did it look like a young Christopher Walken from some Old World horror film? Ken tossed the now-meatless bone aside, and heard it hit something other than a tree, rock or dirt- and then felt that same eerie presence.
“You’re a curious monkey.”
Ken leapt to his feet. Out from the darkness he saw a man-like figure appear—approach—him.
“Would you prefer a more familiar form?”
The figure changed its shape, appearing as that now-dead actor, and now Ken remembered.
“Gabriel.” Ken said, “That is your name, isn’t it?”
“In your tongue, so that’s good enough.” Gabriel said.
Ken took in a deep breath, drawing in through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, flexing himself without thinking as if he prepared for a fight. He smelled stale incense barely masking a rot off of Gabriel.
“Your kind calls mine ‘angels’.” Gabriel said, “Yes, the monkey I look like mimicked me well, and I must say that inspiring your kind can be quite entertaining. The story, however, I made up.”
“You’re not here to chat over dinner.” Ken said.
“True.” Gabriel said, “I’m here because I caught your little trick the other day. The ‘see-through-another’s-eyes’ trick that you did I found very interesting. I had to know what new monkey came up with this stuff. I’ve been following you now for weeks.”
Ken gave Gabriel a disbelieving look.
“Time doesn’t work the same way for us as it does for you.”
“So,” Ken said as he assessed Gabriel’s body language, “if you’re watching me, then why talk to me now?”
“Because you’re about to do something rash and stupid, and—as much as I’d love to watch you do your monkey-thing and fail spectacularly—I have my orders.”
“Which are?”
“There’s more to what’s going on than you’ve figured out—that you could ever figure out—on your own.”
"Tell me."
Friday, July 12, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-02
Ken looked through the eyes of the thrall he’d slain and consumed, sifting through memories of life and undeath, and saw The Necromancer standing before him. He didn’t see his enemy address the thrall directly, but rather the thrall’s superior—some man named “Bell”—and Ken concentrated to mark what was said.
“Bell,” The Necromancer said, “you know the lands and native peoples of North America well?”
On bended knee, the rotting man said “Yes, master. In life I was one of the few experts on the First Nations, and I specialized on the peoples of the Great Plains and the Midwest.”
Ken noticed another living force, easily as powerful as The Necromancer, besides that villain. He appeared to be Christopher Walken, as that actor appeared in the first Prophecy film many years before the fall of the Old World. This figure scanned the assembling group, and then whispered into the ear of The Necromancer, who then nodded.
“Bell, you are to go north to the Iron Range. There are old mines there, iron mines. With this work detail I assign to you, you shall join with two others I’ve already sent ahead. You shall reopen the mines. The iron you shall send back, but that is not your objective.”
The Necromancer waited for Bell, or anyone, to question him but they did not.
“There is something underneath the Iron Range, Bell. Something ancient, beyond the reach of the rebels’ memories or archives, that is rightfully mine- and I want it restored to me. You will find it, and you will recover it in my name, Bell.”
Again, The Necromancer paused. This time, Bell spoke.
“Master, what I am to seek?” Bell said.
“You need not worry, Bell. I will know when you find it, and thereafter I shall instruct you as to how to deal with it. Now go.”
Ken saw his meal follow Bell out of the Great Necropolis, marching without fatigue north to the very open pit now nearby. There he saw Bell talk with two others, whom Ken figured by their actions to be similar expert thralls. Some of the undead host went south and west, and some went north and east, but the bulk of the host stayed here at the Mesabi Range. The rest is a blur of days and nights, hot and cold, digging and shoveling dirt and ore.
“Hmmm,” Ken thought, “that makes this a treasure hunt. I need to know more.”
Knowing that the Necromancer’s thralls won’t be done anytime soon, Ken slipped away from the open pit mine and made for a lake nearby. There, he took forth a small bag from around his neck and shook it over the water as it lapped the shore of the lake.
“Spirits of old, kin to the First People, I ask your aide.” Ken said, “There is a thing that the Great Death desires, and I know only that it is ancient and desired.”
A watery humanoid figured appeared. “Death seeks Wendigo.”
“Bell,” The Necromancer said, “you know the lands and native peoples of North America well?”
On bended knee, the rotting man said “Yes, master. In life I was one of the few experts on the First Nations, and I specialized on the peoples of the Great Plains and the Midwest.”
Ken noticed another living force, easily as powerful as The Necromancer, besides that villain. He appeared to be Christopher Walken, as that actor appeared in the first Prophecy film many years before the fall of the Old World. This figure scanned the assembling group, and then whispered into the ear of The Necromancer, who then nodded.
“Bell, you are to go north to the Iron Range. There are old mines there, iron mines. With this work detail I assign to you, you shall join with two others I’ve already sent ahead. You shall reopen the mines. The iron you shall send back, but that is not your objective.”
The Necromancer waited for Bell, or anyone, to question him but they did not.
“There is something underneath the Iron Range, Bell. Something ancient, beyond the reach of the rebels’ memories or archives, that is rightfully mine- and I want it restored to me. You will find it, and you will recover it in my name, Bell.”
Again, The Necromancer paused. This time, Bell spoke.
“Master, what I am to seek?” Bell said.
“You need not worry, Bell. I will know when you find it, and thereafter I shall instruct you as to how to deal with it. Now go.”
Ken saw his meal follow Bell out of the Great Necropolis, marching without fatigue north to the very open pit now nearby. There he saw Bell talk with two others, whom Ken figured by their actions to be similar expert thralls. Some of the undead host went south and west, and some went north and east, but the bulk of the host stayed here at the Mesabi Range. The rest is a blur of days and nights, hot and cold, digging and shoveling dirt and ore.
“Hmmm,” Ken thought, “that makes this a treasure hunt. I need to know more.”
Knowing that the Necromancer’s thralls won’t be done anytime soon, Ken slipped away from the open pit mine and made for a lake nearby. There, he took forth a small bag from around his neck and shook it over the water as it lapped the shore of the lake.
“Spirits of old, kin to the First People, I ask your aide.” Ken said, “There is a thing that the Great Death desires, and I know only that it is ancient and desired.”
A watery humanoid figured appeared. “Death seeks Wendigo.”
Friday, July 5, 2013
The Treasure of the Iron Range-01
Ken reached the greatest of the old mines of the Iron Range—the Mesabi Range—ruined by the Coming of the Azure Flames that destroyed the Old World, well north of the Great Necropolis of the Necromancer. Ken looked down at the open pit before him, where once great machines sifted through earth rent asunder by means now lost to those yet living- but not to the dead. An army of the dead, working without rest or reason, now to the work of those now-destroyed machines and their lifeless flesh produces the same results in the same time.
“This is it.” Ken thought, “But why? What need does the Necromancer have with these old mines?”
The stench of rotting flesh came over him with a shift of the wind. Ken grinned. He knew that being downwind of them would make it difficult for the Necromancer to detect him. From the smells, Ken deduced that some of these zombies weren’t recent. Even for the Necromancer, one can arrest the decay of dead flesh only so long.
“So,” Ken thought, “those old trappers weren’t wrong. The dead dig for iron.”
Ken’s eyes, no less keen than his nose, picked out an oddity amongst the undead horde of diggers below. He focused upon a trio of man-like figures, working around a tripod-mounted device of some sort, one out-of-place for a mining operation. Even for his eyes, this was too great a distance to be certain of what he saw, so he produced a pair of binoculars and again looked at the odd things and their apparatus.
“This is no hunt for iron.” Ken thought, now seeing in detail who they are and what they’re doing.
Below, though clearly long-dead and half-rotted, he recognized that these three minions were not overseers of a mine. The map, the tripod and their discussions—which Ken, too distant, could not hear—made Ken think of another intensive pursuit that often involved massive digging and careful map consultation: archaeology.
“They’re looking for something. The iron is a bonus, something to make this dig seem reasonable to onlookers. What they’re looking for is something else, something that no one but those long dead could know.”
Ken felt a shiver.
“Something is down there. The Necromancer is after something precious, something valuable, something older than known history- something from before the last Ice Age. I need to know more.”
Ken took off, circling around the pit until he spied a hapless zombie digger all by his lonesome. He rigged up a rappel line, pounced down upon the corpse-thing, cracked its skull open with a hatchet and severed it from the body with a machete. With severed head in hand, Ken quickly climbed back up and out of the pit. He ran out of sight, and then he devoured the brain of the slain zombie, satisfying his hunger for all things unnatural as he sought useful information.
“There!” Ken thought, “I knew it! You bastard.”
“This is it.” Ken thought, “But why? What need does the Necromancer have with these old mines?”
The stench of rotting flesh came over him with a shift of the wind. Ken grinned. He knew that being downwind of them would make it difficult for the Necromancer to detect him. From the smells, Ken deduced that some of these zombies weren’t recent. Even for the Necromancer, one can arrest the decay of dead flesh only so long.
“So,” Ken thought, “those old trappers weren’t wrong. The dead dig for iron.”
Ken’s eyes, no less keen than his nose, picked out an oddity amongst the undead horde of diggers below. He focused upon a trio of man-like figures, working around a tripod-mounted device of some sort, one out-of-place for a mining operation. Even for his eyes, this was too great a distance to be certain of what he saw, so he produced a pair of binoculars and again looked at the odd things and their apparatus.
“This is no hunt for iron.” Ken thought, now seeing in detail who they are and what they’re doing.
Below, though clearly long-dead and half-rotted, he recognized that these three minions were not overseers of a mine. The map, the tripod and their discussions—which Ken, too distant, could not hear—made Ken think of another intensive pursuit that often involved massive digging and careful map consultation: archaeology.
“They’re looking for something. The iron is a bonus, something to make this dig seem reasonable to onlookers. What they’re looking for is something else, something that no one but those long dead could know.”
Ken felt a shiver.
“Something is down there. The Necromancer is after something precious, something valuable, something older than known history- something from before the last Ice Age. I need to know more.”
Ken took off, circling around the pit until he spied a hapless zombie digger all by his lonesome. He rigged up a rappel line, pounced down upon the corpse-thing, cracked its skull open with a hatchet and severed it from the body with a machete. With severed head in hand, Ken quickly climbed back up and out of the pit. He ran out of sight, and then he devoured the brain of the slain zombie, satisfying his hunger for all things unnatural as he sought useful information.
“There!” Ken thought, “I knew it! You bastard.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)