In ages past, the earth and sky were held firm by a tall, strong pillar.  Spread out before the pillar’s feet were all the lands of the world. Hung upon the pillar’s shoulders was the firmament from which shone Sun and his friends, the stars. Sun held nothing but disdain for Pillar, whose roots were in the earth.  Sun strode confidently across the sky, and Pillar was content to ignore his posturing, for Pillar’s domain was the world.

Mountains looked upon Pillar with awe and dreamt of being tall.  The plains looked upon Pillar in admiration, and dreamt of being strong.  In all the world, the lands envied and marveled Pillar, for he was unequaled in strength or resilience.  At the sound of his voice, the earth stood still, as the power of it thundered across the plains and buffeted the mountains.  For many ages, the world turned and Pillar was content, for he was master of all beneath him.  He was respected, he was just, and his power made him proud.

It would be to the sound of beautiful laughter that Pillar’s world would shift.

One night, high in the heavens, a vision of beauty unknown to Pillar appeared.  Her figure was slender, yet full, and upon the sky she danced.  All the world was aglow with her beauty, which shone brightly from her for all to see.  The mountains and plains arose from their slumber and turned their eyes upon her.

Pillar too, was enchanted, yet the pride of long ages warred with his awe for this new beauty.

“Turn away from her, dear mountains and plains!” Pillar’s voice thundered across the world and into the night sky.  The mountains and plains, long accustomed to Pillar’s temper flinched at the power of his words.  Some turned away from the sky dancer, but most remained transfixed as she turned slow pirouettes across the sky.

Anger boiled deep within Pillar and turning to the newcomer, he set the power of his voice upon her.  “Cease your dancing!  Who are you to turn my loyal friends from me?  Who are you to claim the night sky which rests upon my very shoulders?”

The dancer paused at the power of Pillar’s voice and he smiled, for even this heavenly dancer must heed the power of his words.  Pillar’s smile faded as the dancer began swirling across the night sky once more.  He opened his mouth to shout the dancer down from the sky, but was stopped by the sound of beautiful laughter.

“I am Moon,” said the dancer between laughs.  There was mirth in her laughter and no small amount of mockery.  This enraged Pillar, but he was troubled, for each soft peal of laughter from Moon seemed to twist around his stomach.  Moon’s glow was like a soft caress, her laughter sent shivers along Pillar’s body.  Still, his pride would not let him succumb to Moon’s beauty.

“I am Pillar,” he announced proudly.  “All the world is held firm beneath me and the sky rests upon my shoulders.”  Having stated this, Pillar felt his composure return, for he knew his words to be true.  Emboldened by his returning spirit, Pillar spoke his mind.  “You are beautiful Moon, more beautiful than all the lands beneath me or all the stars in the sky.”

At this, Moon laughed again, but Pillar thought he heard a little less mockery and a little more genuine mirth this time.

“I am pleased that you find me beautiful, Pillar, but I see the lie in your words,” Moon replied.  “You wish to keep me as your own, but I dance where I wish.”  At this, Moon began to slowly dance away from Pillar, further across the night sky.

All sense of reason left Pillar.  Panic and rage surged through him in its place.  “You will not deny me, Moon!  I will continue to hold the sky for you, but only if you dance for me and me alone!” Pillar’s voice smote the sky and rent deep cracks throughout the earth.

Nimble as Moon was, even she was thrown off balance at the rage in Pillar’s voice.  She was scared, yet her own stubborn nature would not let her give in to Pillar’s childish tantrum.  Her retort was scathing.

“You would drop the sky, crushing the earth and all you hold dear?  The sky is vast, Pillar, and I would find other places to dance.”  Moon said.  Even through the musical lilt of her voice, it became clear that Moon’s voice held power as well, and Pillar realized he would not be able to shout her down.

For the first time in his life, Pillar was humbled.  He could not reach into the sky to grasp Moon without dropping the sky and crushing all he held dear in the world.  He could not leap into the sky to catch her, for the world would collapse in his absence, and shatter upon his return.  Pillar saw that he had been a fool, one unfit to lead the mountains and plains.  In his heart grew the heaviest truth, that he would uphold the sky, and keep firm the world no matter what.  He planted his feet, and the earth ceased trembling.  He squared his shoulders, and the sky swirled steadily overhead once again.  Pillar looked above, seeking to apologize to Moon, but she was already gone.  In her place was Sun, who looked down upon Pillar in anger.

“You would threaten the sky which is my home and the home of my children?  You dare to try and shout down Moon, my most beloved sister?  You will never have her, Pillar, I will see to that!”  At these words, Sun raced across the sky, pursuing his beautiful sister, who held all the sky and world in awe.

Left in quiet contemplation, Pillar saw that his tight control of the mountains and plains had been kind, but unfair.  Carefully, and ever so slowly, Pillar loosed his grip on the earth.  Slowly, the world began to spin, and the mountains and plains ambled where they wished.  In time, the very face of the earth would change, as the land beneath Pillar’s feet roamed where it wished.  At times, Pillar’s friends would clash, and great earthquakes and eruptions would result, but Pillar would set them right and calm them.  And always, Pillar would look to the sky, hoping for a glimpse of Moon and her beautiful dance.”

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Kellen set aside his lute and took a deep drink from his glass.  At some point, Casper had swapped his mug of water out for a glass of wine, which suited Kellen just fine.  After all, he was telling a story from times long gone.  The stillness of the room drew his eyes up from his glass.  The room was packed, yet the dozens of patrons were hardly breathing, and every eye in the room was upon him.  Searching for a particular set of green eyes, Kellen found Leah’s face in the crowd and gave her his sauciest wink.  She grinned and stuck her tongue out at him, but motioned for him to pick his lute back up.  So, she was just as eager as the rest of the crowd for him to finish the story.  Very well then, thought Kellen, he was never one to disappoint an audience.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Moon was as good as her word, as Pillar would soon find out.  She danced across the sky each night.  Each night she turned her radiant face further and further away from him, until he could only see the faintest outline of her against the dark of the sky.  In desperation, Pillar called out to Moon.  He spoke to her of his long vigil, of the burden of supporting the sky and safeguarding the earth.  He spoke to Moon in a voice rich with power but devoid of malice, pride, or fear.  He spoke to Moon the truth in his heart and hoped that she would hear the sincerity in his words.

The next night, Moon did not appear.  Despair and regret filled Pillar.  His foolish pride had cast away the one beautiful thing he had ever truly wanted.  He had opened his heart to Moon and she had turned away completely.  The day after Moon’s disappearance was the worst of Pillar’s long life.

“She has chosen to dance elsewhere, Pillar,” Sun gloated.  “She will never be yours and you have all your long years to contemplate how her decision was due to your own rash action.”  Sun strutted away across the sky, leaving Pillar miserable as the sky turned dark.  Even Pillar’s friends were hesitant to approach him, and could only watch from a distance as Pillar stood with his head bowed, with the sky spinning slowly overhead.

And then came the first glimmer.  It was faint at first and Pillar fought against the rising hope that threatened to burst forth from his chest.  Against the eastern sky, a sliver of pale light appeared.  Moon had indeed returned and was slowly dancing her way across the sky.

Pillar wanted nothing more than to rush to her, to hold her tight against his chest and tell her all the hopes and fears held deep within his soul.  Instead, he stood firm upon the earth and kept his shoulders square against the sky.  He did not call out to Moon, but simply watched her, and knew that she was aware of his watching.

The next day, Sun’s strut seemed a little stiffer than normal and he did not gloat as he passed by Pillar.  Pillar tried to keep a close guard on his excitement, but the earth rumbled underfoot with the thundering of his heart.

Over the next few nights, Moon would appear and dance her way slowly across the sky.  Her dance was the unhurried and carefree movement of someone who does not care who is or is not watching.  It was a dance done because walking was not enough.  Moon danced, and Pillar watched, happy to hold the sky as Moon turned in slow, spinning steps.  Each night, Moon turned her face a little further out of shadow.  As the nights sped by, Pillar could slowly see more of the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle outline of her brow, and the graceful slope of her neck.

Finally, Moon turned her face enough towards Pillar for him to see her expression.  The glint of mischievous intelligence shone in her dark eyes.  But what truly made Pillar’s heart skip was that he could see the hint of a smile on her lips.  Before she had left, she had indeed heard the truth of his words.  He had offered her the gift of his heart and she had accepted, dancing her way back to him.  Chased by Sun and all his friends, Moon had chosen Pillar over all others.

Sun was furious.  His words roared forth with heat and rage that scorched the earth and turned the ground around Pillar to cinders.  A younger Pillar would have heaved against the sky, sending Sun tumbling away, never to be seen again.  Pillar had changed and grown.  Instead of responding with violence, he merely shrugged away Sun’s fury.  The effect sent ripples across the sky and Sun lost his footing.  Threatened with falling from the sky, he skipped backwards instead.  Immediately, Pillar felt the heat from Sun lessen, and green things began to grow upon the earth once again.  Too stubbornly proud to retrace his lost steps, Sun cursed and raged from his new spot in the sky, but refused to come closer.

Each night, Pillar and Moon would talk and each night she would move a little closer, turn her face a little further towards his own.  Having seen countless ages spin across the sky and pass underfoot, days and nights were nothing for Pillar, yet he longed to see Moon the moment she was gone from his sight.  Moon felt much the same, but the light of her dance was needed throughout the sky, no matter how much she had grown to care for Pillar.  He in turn had come to realize this, and did not seek to hold what must not be caged.  She had chosen him and that was more than enough.

Thus it is that the moon dances through the night sky.  Thus it is that the earth turns.  Thus it is that the moon ever comes back and turns her gaze to the earth.  Immortal Pillar, who safeguards the earth and shoulders the firmament above.  Immortal Moon, the radiant beauty whose presence brings hope and love even in the dark.  Two lovers, ill-met but well-fated, a boon and example for all lovers in the night.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Kellen’s words hung in the air of the tavern and the last notes from his lute sang sweetly after them.  The audience was motionless for a long moment, then movement slowly became evident as people sat back from the edge of their seats, or remembered to blink or breathe.  The applause started quietly, almost timidly at first, but soon swept through the tavern in a thunderous roar, accompanied by pleased hoots, whistles, and laughter.  Kellen grinned and nodded to the crowd, but refrained from bowing.  Bowing was for showing off and bragging, both of which Kellen supported when the purpose of a story was to increase his reputation as a bard.  This story was for the audience, for the men and women whom had already started pairing off to find comfortably private corners in the tavern to hold back the chill of the night with each others’ company.

Speaking of which, Kellen thought, as he scanned the crowd.  A pair of silk-gloved hands slowly entwined their way around his shoulders from behind, and the subtle scent of lavender and cinnamon accompanied Leah’s embrace.

“Did you like the story?” he asked.

“It was alright,” she teased back.

Kellen snorted.  “You know full and well that the story was good.  You just won’t give me the satisfaction.”

He cleared his throat as she nibbled on one of his pointed ears.  “Oh, it was a wonderful story, Kellen.  As to the satisfaction, well that’s up to you.”

The End.

Setting the mug aside, Kellen flexed his hands, relishing the crackling sensation as the nimble and slender digits popped lightly.  Taking up his lute from its resting position in his lap, he made a show of tuning the instrument, but really he was eying the crowd, gauging its collective mood.  Kellen let his eyes wander, trusting in his sharpened bardic instincts to filter out the relevant cues that would influence his next performance.

The tavern was thick with patrons, and as Kellen had rightly guessed, the tavern was in an area safe enough and close enough to the residential district that a fairly balanced mix of males and females were now present.  Casper Lark, the proprietor of the tavern was merrily chatting with several regulars by the bar.  Even as he talked, he quietly pushed drinks into the newcomer’s hands and took their offered coin, seemingly as an afterthought.  Kellen smiled inwardly.  Lark was a man who knew how to work a crowd, something Kellen could always appreciate on a professional level.

Kellen well knew that in a few bells time, the men and women present would have enough liquid courage in them to try their hand at dancing.  For now though, he would help ease them into their mugs with a story.  And here Kellen was faced by a crises he had long grown accustomed to.  What story should he tell? A sad story would get the crowd deep into their mugs, and on a cold, dark night like tonight, the liquor was sure to pour.  The deal Kellen had with Casper would ensure him a percentage of the night’s sales, and even though Kellen had recently acquired a rather decent windfall, he was never one to turn down honest coin for an honest night’s work.  He wasn’t much for turning down dishonest coin for dishonest work either, but the crowd needn’t know that.

He could spin a raucous, and ever so slightly lewd tale, one that would have the patrons laughing at the story as they reflected on how the characters in the story mirrored their own lives.  A slight, impish grin spread across Kellen’s face.  He knew a particularly good tale involving a donkey and a cheese wheel that he’d been dying to tell.  Still, the story didn’t quite fit the mood.  Not yet, at least.

A glimpse of a silk-gloved arm in the crowd decided Kellen’s mind.  There was only one woman he knew that would come rub elbows with modestly wealthy traders and shop owners while wearing exorbitantly expensive silk gloves.  Even in the muted light from the tavern’s lanterns and the fire in its twin hearths, Kellen guessed that those gloves were dyed a very distinct yet tasteful lavender.  Leah, his lover and economic windfall had a debilitating weakness for silk gloves and that particular color.

Knowing full well that his harp was ready to leap into vell asul, joyful noise, at a moment’s notice, Kellen ceased twiddling with the tuning pegs.  A novice bard might have strummed a loud chord to gain his audience’s attention, but Kellen was no street-side minstrel.  No, Kellen Pock, bard to kings and queens, gnomish adventurer and daring-doer needed no mean trick to gain an audience’s attention.

Adjusting his posture, Kellen became still.  A deer in the forest, sensing danger, will become still.  A man, poised between that point of salvation and a precipitous fall to his doom will become still.  Two lovers, ensnared in the fire of passion will catch the others’ eye, stopping all thought, motion, and breath.  This was the nature of Kellen’s stillness.  It spread out from him in a slow wave, like the cold of the world’s deepest lake.  As it passed from patron to patron, conversation dwindled and ceased.  Slowly, all eyes turned to Kellen as a hush fell over the crowd.  The world itself seemed to balance upon a razor’s edge, not daring to breath, not daring believe.  To the sound of vell asul, Kellen began to speak.

Finally, the herbs in the mortar had achieved the proper consistency and Kobek carefully poured the grounds into a carefully labeled container.  As he tightened the lid on the container and moved to put the container on a neatly organized shelf, Kobek finally addressed the newcomer.

“I’m glad you came to visit, Arjan.”

A distinctly feral sounding grunt sounded from behind Kobek.  A voice then filled Kobek’s shop that evoked images of landslides, sandstorms, and gravel crunching underfoot.

“Be glad it was me, Kobek.  If I had been a street tough I could’ve had a blade nuzzling your spine a dozen times over by now.”

Kobek’s mouth twisted into what approximated a smirk for a Dragonborn.  It was rather convincing.  Turning to face his oldest friend, Kobek’s smirk quirked even higher as he took in his friend’s appearance.  As expected, Arjan’s impressively large frame sat straddling one of the chairs from Kobek’s waiting room.  The back of the chair faced Kobek, putting added defense between Arjan’s stomach and any potential attacks.  Even with his friends, Arjan retained his pragmatic fighter sensibilities.  Also, straddling a chair built for humans saved Arjan the awkward task of trying to find a comfortable place to put his scaly tail.

The two Dragonborn males looked at each other for a few long moments.  Kobek noted a handful of new scars that Arjan had collected on his impressively muscled frame; undoubtedly obtained in his new duties as one of the Queen’s handpicked elite.  Kobek watched his old friend look him over in turn.  Although his friend tried to hide it, Kobek could see the guilt in Arjan’s eyes as he glanced at the clockwork replacement that took up the space his left leg had once occupied.  The wound had happened years ago in a war Kobek was glad to have made it out of.  More importantly, he knew that he owed Arjan his life.  Unfortunately, he knew his friend didn’t see things the way he did.

Kobek’s mouth twisted slightly at his own choice of words.   Arjan’s right eye was a natural color for a Dragonborn, but his left eye seemed to shimmer with a ghostly silver light in the fading evening sun.  A gift from the Raven Queen, Arjan’s patron Goddesss of Death, no doubt.  Stifling a shiver, Kobek knew that Arjan had come for conversation, and getting words out of him was like digging up precious metal from the earth.

“Honestly, I haven’t had much in the way of trouble recently.  Crime in the city is low, even here in the Lower Wards.  Now that King Iskar has his Blades patrolling the city streets at night, only the dumbest or ballsiest of Temeria’s criminals roam the streets.”

Arjan’s toothy maw twisted into a Dragonborn equivalent of a sneer.  Like Kobek’s smirk, it was quite convincing.

“The man has my greatest respect as a warrior and a strategist, but taking in street urchins and vagabonds in order to train them to be hardened soldiers?  It seems preposterous.”

Kobek pulled a bottle of Hoshfield Whiskey from its hiding place on one of his shelves.  With it, he pulled down two plain glasses which he kept with the whiskey for just such a visit.  It was a ritual between Kobek and Arjan, that they could and would talk about anything.  Inevitably they would bicker, but they would remain honest and open, something that Kobek was very good at and something Arjan seldom felt comfortable attempting.

Kobek motioned Arjan back to his study.  Arjan stood and followed him, the chair he had just occupied creaking with relief.  As the two  stepped through the doorway and past the curtains that separated Kobek’s shop from his study, they passed an attractive Dragonborn female.  Seeing Kobek, she smiled a friendly, professional greeting, but upon seeing Arjan’s looming bulk, she froze in mid-stride.  Embarrassed for his friend, Kobek addressed the female.

“Arjan this is Revva, one of my star pupils and an indispensable asset to the running of my store.  Ms. Revva, this is my good friend Arjan, whom I believe I have spoken of.”

To her credit, Revva collected herself quickly and gave Arjan a polite and disarming smile.  “Master Kobek speaks highly of you, Master Arjan.  He had mentioned you were impressive in person, but even his description of you does not do you justice.”

Arjan surprised Kobek by gently taking one of Revva’s scaled hands and bowing slightly over it.  “You give me far more praise than I’m worth, Revva.  On the other hand, Kobek has neglected to mention you at all, although I can hardly fault him for trying to keep you a secret.”

Small patches of scales near Revva’s cheekbones shifted subtly, the Dragonborn equivalent of blushing.  She excused herself from Kobek and Arjan’s presence, but not before glancing once over her shoulder.  Kobek stood with his jaw agape.  Arjan studiously ignored him and took a seat on one of the stools by the small dinner table in his study.  Still slightly dumbfounded, Kobek followed him and set down the whiskey and glasses as Arjan surveyed the room.

Kobek’s study was a fairly spacious room lined on two walls with book shelves stocked with tomes of varying age.  Most dealt with alchemical and medicinal topics, but a few involved some of Kobek’s unusual hobbies, chief of which was sailing.  A work table near the far wall held a leather satchel of tools, some of which Kobek had designed himself.  A dusty canvas cloth and a few blueprints were carelessly thrown over the work table, but other than that Kobek’s study was meticulously organized.

Pouring two Dragonborn-sized fingers full of liquor in each glass, Kobek finally found his voice.  “Since when did you start flirting, scale-brother?”

Arjan took a small, appreciative sip of the Hoshfield Whiskey before answering.  “I suppose I’ve spent too much time with the King.  He’s hopelessly devoted to the Queen, but he’s also a compulsive flirt.  Also, my time with a certain gnomish bard has likely colored my experiences.  It probably doesn’t hurt that Revva has excellent scale-tone and good teeth, both qualities I like in a female.”

Kobek simply shook his head in amazement.  A decade ago, Arjan would have barely registered that females existed.  Now he was being so bold as to point out Revva’s teeth.  In a very human gesture, Kobek cleared his throat to note a shift in subject.  “In the other room we were discussing the merits of King Iskar’s new fighting force, the King’s Blades.  While I share your concern about the background of some of these recruits, you have to remember that the kingdom has a history of vagabonds-turned king.  It might be that the skills and circumstances that make successful rogues also make for excellent leaders and warriors.”

Kobek sipped at his own glass of whiskey as Arjan mulled over his next words.  Finally, he spoke.  “I dont’ doubt the skill of the King’s Blades.  And if you’d see some of the so called training that the King puts the recruits through, you’d understand that it requires a sort of psychotic dedication to stay in the group.  Still, I worry that the dregs of this city may well be the spearhead of the Queen’s army in the coming war.”

The two males sat quietly drinking for several minutes.  As the last rays of sunlight faded from the study windows, the sunlamps in Kobek’s study turned on.  With a few gestures, Kobek slightly dimmed the ones closest to the table where he and Arjan sat and brightened those at the far corners of the room.  The effect was startling close to a perpetual sunset.  Setting his glass aside, he refilled his and Arjan’s glasses as he made his response.

“I am a skilled healer, Arjan.  From firsthand experience, you know that I am not overstating my abilites.”  Arjan nodded his agreement, and Kobek continued.  “I could have set up shop in the Upper Wards or taken a position as a contract physician for the nobles in the Queen’s court.  Instead, I took my job as a healer here in the Lower Wards where I could do the most good for those most in need.”  Kobek took a sip of whiskey before continuing.  “Thug or innocent, I do not turn away patients, even if I know they cannot pay much or any of my standard fees.  I have seen the best and worst that this city has to offer, and I tell you, while life in the Lower Wards is better than most slums in other cities, it is still slum life. Up in the Silver Spires, it’s hard to see the dirt, but trust me my friend, the people that live down here are fiercely independent because they have to be.  Every day is a struggle and every day the Silver Spires gleam upon the mountain this city was carved out of, a beacon of all that is unobtainable by those in the Lower Wards.  Those dregs you scoff at are going to fight the hardest because they have the least to lose and the most to gain.”

Kobek lapsed into silence, somewhat shocked by the vehemence in his own voice.  Once, he had taken up a sword and shield to defend Arjan in battle, but those years, his warrior years, were long done.  His was a path of peace, and while he wasn’t concerned when a bit of his old spirit showed up, he was occasionally surprised by it.  The two quietly sipped their whiskey for a time.

“Do you remember the fight at Scree?”  Arjan finally asked.  The questions surprised Kobek, as he had been sure the force of his last statement would have incited Arjan to retort on principle.

“Of course I remember Scree.  It was my first battle.  I was was so scared my scales were rattling.  The sun was brilliant on the desert sand and the air shimmered with the heat.”  Arjan nodded at Kobek’s words to acknowledge that he remembered the same setting.  Arjan spoke next.

“I remember it was just another battle for me.  One in a long line of missions taken on by the Gray Company.  I was Lieutenant by then, tasked with keeping a batch of mercenary field doctors alive as they ran around collecting and patching up wounded Hruli warriors.  I remember the stink of fear in our troops and the ache for battle settling in my bones.”  Arjan lapsed into silence.  Kobek took the opportunity to top off his friend’s glass.

“What happened after the first contact with the enemy, Kobek?”  Arjan asked.

For Kobek, the first major clash he witnessed between the Hruli tribesmen and the Temerian Infantry was something he’d never forget.  In the chaos of the engagement, Kobek distinctly remembered soiling himself.  “I was scared.  More scared than I’d ever been in my entire life.  I got cut off from my squad and lost my sword when I tumbled down a sand dune.  There was sand swirling everywhere from the force of the engagement, and it was hard to tell whether the clumps of soldiers fighting around me were mostly Hruli warriors or mostly Temerians.  Then suddenly the sand cleared and I was standing facing a dozen Temerian Infantry.”  Kobek paused to take a sip of his whiskey.

“That’s when you came roaring out of the blinding sand and into the clearing, your sword flashing brilliantly in the sun.  You felled one of the Temerians with your initial charge and scattered the rest.  Then you turned to me and yelled, ‘To me, runt!’ and charged the next nearest Temerian.”  Kobek lapsed into silence, remembering the stark terror he had felt at that moment.  He had been torn between two conflicting decisions.  One was to duck back into the blinding sand, hopefully escaping the fight.  The other was to defend the roaring Dragonborn warrior that had undoubtedly saved him from a quick death at the hands of the Temerian squad.

Arjan set down his whiskey glass and looked levelly at Kobek.  “I knew you would fight by my side.  Once I called you to my side, you had no choice, really.  In the end it was a glorious, brilliant moment of carnage.  I was a spinning blade of destruction, and at every turn you had your shield at my back, knocking away blows that might have otherwise gutted me.  All told, over a dozen Temerians lay dead or dying.  It was a perfect moment.”

Arjan glanced significantly at Kobek.

“Until I threw up,” said Kobek.

“Until you threw up,” confirmed Arjan.

The two were silent for a moment before bursting into laughter.  Kobek’s laughter of cracking pebbles mixed with Arjan’s thunderous eruption of laughter, making a cascading rumble that echoed through the store.  It was some time before the two regained their composure.

A sudden thought occurred to Kobek.  “Arjan, why bring up Scree?”

Arjan peered into his whiskey for a long moment, an uncharacteristic uncertainty passing momentarily across his face.  When he spoke, it was in a quiet, serious tone. “After the Battle of Scree, the Gray Company folded in the ragtag survivors of the various mercenary groups the Hruli had employed.  You and the handful of field surgeons that survived were among that group.  In the upper echelons of the Gray Company, we often called you all the dregs of the company.  Over the next three years however, as the war dragged on and the weaker members of the Company’s command were weeded out, it was the dregs that became the heart of the Gray Company.  Over three long years of constant, brutal fighting, the Gray Company was broken and reforged by testing itself against Temeria’s finest.”  Arjan downed the last of his whiskey and Kobek split the last of the bottle between their glasses.

“Now,” Arjan continued, “the last of the Gray Company has come to roost in Temeria, to swear itself to the Temerian cause against a new enemy.”  Arjan eyed Kobek before continuing.  “I brought up Scree because the Gray Company became one of the fiercest fighting groups in the Temeria-Hruli War because the Company’s dregs were constantly pitted against the Temerians.”  Arjan took a long drink of his whiskey.  “And now King Iskar’s gone and made a fighting force of Temerians that have fought against other Temerians their entire lives.”

Kobek finally saw where Arjan’s thought process had lead them and finished for him.  “You’re not worried if the King’s Blades will be effective.  You’re worried that the King’s Blades will be overly effective,” Kobek said.

Arjan simply nodded, and slowly swirled the last bit of whiskey around in his glass.  The two Dragonborn sat in quiet contemplation for some time, lost in their own thoughts but pleased with the other’s company as only good friends can be.  Finally, Arjan stood and stretched which Kobek took as a sign that his friend must be leaving.

“Before you leave, scale-brother I need to give you your gift,” Kobek said.  Arjan looked as if to interject, but Kobek held up a hand to cut him off.  Standing, Kobek made the heroic effort of not wincing as the stump of his left leg settled into the artificial leg he had designed for himself.  In a quick stride, he stepped over to the workbench and drew back the canvas cloth to reveal what was underneath. Intrigued, Arjan stepped closer to examine what Kobek had gotten him.  Arjan’s sharp intake of breath was all the confirmation that Kobek needed.  His friend was most pleased with his gift.

“Scale-brother, I cannot-” Arjan began, before Kobek again silenced his hulking friend with a wave of dismissal.

“I have little use for it, as my talents have turned me away from needing things such as this.  You, on the other hand, are in constant conflict and may very soon be involved in an all out war with a neighboring nation.”  In spite of having little use for the item on the worktable, even Kobek was having a hard time not marveling it alongside Arjan.

“It was a gift from an extremely wealthy Pantheon Trading Guild member, as partial payment for a replacement arm I artificed for him.  When I told him I had little use for the thing, he told me that it was worth a fortune and was the best he could offer in repayment for being able to use his right arm again.  When I still refused, I found it sitting in my study later that day, and I’ve been unable to contact the man since.  I believe however, that he was an acquaintance of our mutual Tiefling friend, Felmont.”  Kobek shrugged, yet another decidedly human mannerism.  “Regardless, it’s yours now.”

Arjan was quiet as he picked up the item from the worktable.  It was as heavy as it looked, but that didn’t bother Arjan.  Its length was etched with intricate filigree and one end, the dangerous end, was worked into a stylized dragon’s head.  Arjan cradled the Magefire Handcannon like a mother might hold a newborn babe, or a man might hold a long lost lover.

“Does it have a name?”  he whispered.

“Not that I know of,” replied Kobek.

“She deserves a name,” whispered Arjan.

“Well, what do you suggest?”  asked Kobek.

There was a pause and then a sly, dangerous smile crept onto Arjan’s face.

“I think…  I think I’m gonna call her Revva.”

“Dearest daughter, while I appreciate the fervor you possess in your nightly studies, I do not wish them to interfere with your daily duties.”  Sabine Ruzanna was every inch a lady, and although she was no longer a young woman, she wore her years well.  Much to Scarlett’s relief, her mother also wore an expression of slight reproach mixed with knowing amusement.  As head Spymistress for her niece’s kingdom, Sabine was no doubt well aware that her own daughter’s “nightly studies” involved gallivanting across the city’s rooftops with an urchin boy named Wormsworth.

Scarlett had learned from a very young age that lying to her mother was often as painful as it was fruitless.  It was always best to address her with tact, respect, and honesty.  “I’m sorry mother.  I got so wrapped up learning about the history of the city’s port district that I must have lost track of time.” Sabine arched a brow at her daughter, but refrained from chastising her further.  Instead, she turned her attention to Governor Ormand, whose estate the Ruzanna family were having breakfast at.

Scarlett breathed a slight sigh of relief as her mother’s attention focused elsewhere.  She had told the truth, really.  Wormsworth, or Worth as Scarlett had grown to know him, had spent the night telling her stories that he himself had heard down by the docks and in dockside taverns.  Worth had an endless supply of stories that Scarlett, with her noble upbringing, had little firsthand experience with.  Stories of harlot-queens, and mad-kings, stories of vagabond urchins who turned out to be wandering princes in disguise.  Worth was a collector and skilled teller of tales, and paid little mind to Scarlett’s social status or half-elven lineage, both reasons why she found him so endearing.

A slight nudge against her knee brought Scarlett back to the present.

“Happy birthday, Lil’Stick,” Carrec Ruzanna whispered conspiratorially to his little sister, as he passed a small wrapped bundle to her beneath the table.  Instinctively, she found his hand without looking and he pressed the gift into her palm.  Scarlett glanced down the table to where her mother sat conversing with Governor Ormand.  He was saying something about the new fountain he was installing in his garden and Sabine was doing her very best to look interested.  Perfect.

Scarlett removed the bit of ribbon and cloth wrapping from the gift.  Inside was a small, polished disk of metal, about twice the size and thickness of a gold sovereign coin.   It was surprisingly light, and Scarlett guessed that it might be hollow.  Running her gloved fingers over the metal disk, Scarlett tried to guess what it might be.  Without looking at him, Scarlett could feel Carrec’s growing amusement.  Carrec loved doting on his little sister at least as much as she enjoyed the gifts he found for her.  They almost always carried a riddle, a puzzle, or hidden use.  Scarlett pushed her brother’s amusement from her mind and focused.

The disk was seamless, with no visible openings or markings to note where or if it opened.  While the weight and coloring suggested hollowed copper, something told Scarlett that the disk was actually solid, but made of a surprisingly light metal.  Although metalworking was not one of the subjects she was strong in, her father had made sure she knew the basic elements of metallurgy and smithing.  Using that knowledge, Scarlett guessed that what she had in her hands was some sort of alloy, a composite mix of several types of materials.

Still, having a good idea of how the object was made didn’t give Scarlett any idea of what its use was.  Surely Carrec wasn’t being so cruel as to give her a metallic disk with no quality other than being unusually light?  Scarlett glanced at Carrec, to find him studiously examining the contents of his soup bowl.  A slight growl of frustration threatened to bubble up from Scarlett, but she clamped down on it.  She would not admit defeat, not on her birthday.

The rest of the morning meal at the governor’s house was spent with Carrec growing ever more twitchy as he tried not to burst into laughter.  Meanwhile, the tips of Scarlett’s pointy ears kept turning redder and redder as she fought to ignore Carrec’s growing mirth at her frustration.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

“Alright, Carrec!  I demand to know what this gift does!”  The words fairly flew out of Scarlett’s mouth as soon as she and Carrec were back on the family’s estate and out of their mother’s earshot.

At the sound of Scarlett’s imperious tone, Carrec drew himself up to his full height.  The boyish smile that made him look younger than his seventy-odd years was replaced by the regal features that looked so natural on their elven father.  “Demand, is it?  Do you forget that you are addressing-,” Carrec cut off as a playful slap from Scarlett hit him in the shoulder.

“Carrec.  Perea.  Ruzanna.  You are teasing me, and I will not have it.  Not on my birthday!”  It was Scarlett’s turn to imitate one of their parents, although this time it was Sabine’s frosty, disciplining tone that was used.  It worked equally well on interrogated prisoners and misbehaving dinner guests.  Carrec’s boyish grin returned as quickly as he had made it disappear, and Scarlett couldn’t help but grin back and soon both were clutching their sides with laughter.

“Okay, okay.  Okay.”  Carrec drew in a steadying breath in between laughs.  “Take out the disk and place it on your palm.  Oh, and take off your glove first.”

Scarlett daintily removed her left glove, making a show of it, as if she had all the time in the world and was not the least bit excited about finding out what Carrec’s gift did.  She then produced the metal disk, which she had secreted away in one of the several pockets she had sewn into all of her dresses.  With the disk balanced in the palm of her hand, Scarlett looked at Carrec expectantly.

“Alright, remember these words and remember them well.  Now, repeat after me.  Hearts spin tales and tales spin lies.  I spin truths and see them plain.” Carrec recited.

Nearly breathless with anticipation, Scarlett repeated Carrec’s half-intoned phrase. “Hearts spin tales and tales spin lies.  I spin truths and see them plain.” No sooner had the last word left her mouth, did the disk in her hand start slowly spinning.  Scarlett was startled, but was more intrigued than alarmed.  The cryptic nature of the phrase only added to her curiosity as she watched the disk slowly spin in a clockwise motion.  Although it was in contact with her skin as it spun, the disk produced no heat and did not cause uncomfortable pressure.  All Scarlett could sense was a slight pressure and a subtle half-sensed tingle of magic in her palm.  She looked up at Carrec.

“I have a few guesses, but what exactly is it and what does it do?”  She asked her brother.  Carrec grinned at her and said, “I’m the eldest son of my house, I love my sister, and my mother occasionally scares the crap out of me.”

Scarlett gasped as the metal disk leapt into sudden, swift motion.  It spun in a blur, but still remained cool and comfortable in the palm of Scarlett’s hand.  “It’s a lie detector!” Scarlett exclaimed with delight.  As she said this, the disk spun even faster.  Testing out her new gift, Scarlett slowly turned her left palm over.  Without holding onto the disk, it remained in place, even when suspended upside down from her hand.  Scarlett felt a rush of excitement and happiness, Carrec had really outdone himself.  Using her right hand, she pulled the disk from her left palm.  Rather, she tried to.  Instead, her fingers twisted awkwardly as the disk spun and she was forced to let go.  Next, she tried to pry her fingers underneath the disk, but again her fingers were turned away.  Looking at Carrec, she was alarmed to see a worried frown on his face.  “Carrec… how do I get this thing off my hand?”

Carrec clawed his fingers through his hair and looked despondently at Scarlett.  “I’m sorry Lil’Stick, I don’t know.”  In response, the disk suddenly slowed, almost stopping completely.  Scarlett and Carrec exchanged glances, and the look of fear on Scarlett’s face quickly switched to indignation and finally angry amusement.  She took a menacing step towards Carrec.  “Carrec, I’m going to murder you and enjoy doing so.”  The disk began to speed up at her words.  Carrec held up hands in mock surrender.

“Whoa, easy Scarlett.  That thing can actually be a bit dangerous to others if you get it spinning too fast.  Alright, to remove the disk repeat after me again.  “I spun my truths and I lie still.”

Scarlett held out her palm and repeated Carrec’s phrase.  “I spun my truths and I lie still.”  There was a noticeable alleviating of pressure as the disk ceased spinning.  Scarlett gingerly plucked the disk from her palm.  Seeing that it was in fact removable, Scarlett let out a sigh of relief.  Grinning, Scarlett hugged her big brother.  “It’s an amazing gift, Carrec.  Thank you.”  In response, Carrec merely grinned and ruffled Scarlett’s fiery hair.  It was something she hated, but knowing she would never break her brother of the habit, she merely grinned and slugged him in the shoulder.  As Carrec turned to leave, Scarlett called after him.

“Carrec… something like this must have cost you a fortune.  What I really wonder is, who did you get it from?”

Carrec grinned an even bigger grin.  “It’s certainly worth a fortune, but I didn’t buy it.  I stole it from a faery princess.”  With that, Carrec ducked behind a row of bushes and Scarlett knew that she’d never catch up to him, at least not in a dress.  With Carrec’s sense of humor it was impossible to tell sometimes when he was being serious, joking, or making light of something serious.  Scarlett glanced down at the immobile disk in her hand, which she hadn’t had activated when Carrec gave his response.  “Well, darn.  Now I’ll never know.”

From several hedge rows over came the sound of Carrec’s laughing reply, “Probably not.  Happy birthday, Scarlett!”

End.

Humble looked down at the child.  The child looked through Humble.  A single, quiet sob escaped from Humble’s lips.  Would that he could save everyone.  But alas, he was only one man.  One exemplary, powerful man, but one man nonetheless.  For this child, all of Humble’s power was for naught.  He had arrived too late.  The spark of life was gone.

Humble took the child in his arms, brushed away the trash and dirt that had accumulated around the child’s body.  The child’s eyes stared up, accusingly empty.  While you fight your demons, others suffer, the child’s eyes seemed to say.  Where is the justice in this? The eyes lashed fire through Humble, yet stir they did not.  Humble took a deep, steadying breath.  As he did so, he brushed back some of the hair from the child’s forehead.  Thinking long and hard, Humble finally spoke.

“It easy to get lost in the world.  Hold out your open hand and imagine that all you know, all that you are is held within that outstretched hand.  Now close that hand into a fist.  Clench it tight, until the color drains from your fingers and the bite of your fingernails hurts your palm.  Do you notice something?  The harder you clench, the more pain you feel.  And the less you’re able to hold.”

The sound of Humble’s voice rumbled like slow thunder down the alley where he and the child sat.  The stones of the buildings around them stood like silent spectators to this macabre conversation.  Humble pressed on, hoping to find answers to his own questions as he spoke.

“When we lament about how busy our days are, it is because we feel the time allotted to us slipping away.  Humanity is given a finite number of days.  That is why we rage against the little things that conspire to steal our time from us.  Precious is every moment, and few indeed are the ones we spend doing exactly as we wish.”

The child’s eyes gazed up through Humble, into the heavens.  Is there really nothing more to life than struggle, the eyes seemed to ask.  Humble followed the child’s eyes and looked up to the heavens as well.

“I find that it is seldom rewarding to look to the heavens for answers.  The heavens hold more questions than answers, as is always the case when we struggle to touch infinity.”

Humble looked down at the child.  A moment of confusion swirled around Humble.  The child’s eyes were closed, yet he could not recall closing the child’s eyes.  The child’s voice echoed in Humble’s head.  But aren’t you from the heavens?  Don’t you know where we come from?  Humble bowed his head, and something very close to despair settled on his features.

“Have you never wondered why God would want to create?  We are the answer to a question, a question posed by power beyond human comprehension.  What happens when God strives for more than what was?  We are the answer, child.”

A faint, peaceful smile seemed to grace the corner of the child’s lips.  We are the answer to God’s questions.  And we are full of questions and answers of our own.  Yes, I can appreciate the idea that we are each an answer to each other’s questions.  I have only one more question.  Humble stood, lifting the child’s body in his arms as he did so.  He then lowered his arms, but the child’s body remained suspended in the air.

“Ask your question, child.”

Do you know why we have to die?

Humble took a deep breath, but could only shake his head in the negative.

A warm golden glow suffused the child’s body.  That’s okay, friend.  I’ll go and find my own answers now.”  When the glow faded, the child was gone, and Humble was left alone with his own thoughts.

When he finally left the alley, he was whistling a sad, sweet tune.

In the heart of the city, something foul blew in on the wind.  The scent of it reached Humble and a flutter of distaste passed over his features, gone so quickly a passerby would have thought they imagined it.  A few miles from the hospital where he had met Dr. Mehra, two police cars stopped alongside Humble.  He was not surprised to see shadows in the hearts of the four men who climbed out of the cars, and neither was he surprised to find that they were tasked with arresting him.  And while the four men could have done little to force the issue if he had chosen otherwise, Humble allowed himself to be handcuffed and set in the back of one of the cruisers.  The two squad cars pulled away from the curb and turned the corner at the end of the street in a swirl of newspapers and city grit.  A fierce wind had come to the city, and hidden in its whirlwind eddies was the breath of a beast.

—

Many miles from where Humble was apprehended, young Timothy DeWitt turned in his sleep.

He had always had vivid dreams.  Most times he dreamt of the stories his mother used to tell him.  Some nights he was a giant slayer.  Some nights he would steal golden dragon eggs from evil witches, and rescue beautiful princesses from their tower prisons.  Seldom did he have nightmares, and more often than not, his nightmares would turn at some point, and Timothy DeWitt would find his way back into the comfort of pleasant dreams.

On this night, Timothy dreamt of Humble.  He was just how Timothy remembered him.  Tall, wearing a dark brown leather jacket, and radiating strength and comfort.  He was sitting in a small room with only a couple of uncomfortable looking chairs and one, cheap looking table in it.  The room was poorly lit and Timothy saw that while there was one man sitting at the table across from Humble, there was another man partially hidden in the shadows behind him.  The man in the shadows was quiet.  Something about the man in the shadows seemed wrong to Timothy, but he wasn’t afraid.

The man in the chair across from Humble was loud.  In the dream his words were muffled, so Timothy couldn’t make out what he was yelling, but he could tell the man was angry.  Timothy glanced behind Humble.  The wall behind Humble had a large mirror, which reflected everyone in the room.  It suddenly occurred to Timothy where he’d seen a room like this before.  When he was younger, Timothy’s  dad hadn’t always been able to find a babysitter, and Timothy had spent many a night playing with “Uncle Ron” or “Uncle Steve” or “Aunt Janine” at the police precinct his dad worked at.  For some reason Timothy couldn’t fathom, Humble was in a police interrogation room.

In the reflection of the one-way glass, Timothy saw the angry cop leap out of his chair and strike Humble.  Timothy’s eyes widened in shock and he started to spin around, to try and dream the bad cop away from Humble.  Something brought him up short.  In the reflection in the glass, Timothy could clearly see Humble and the cop.  Timothy’s reflection was missing, and he could instead see the opposite wall, but Timothy was used to that.  What had brought Timothy up short was that the man in the shadows wasn’t just in the shadows.  He was made of them.

—

Humble blinked slowly.  Although he could easily have willed the pain away, he let it linger.  Pain was a fairly new sensation after all, and Humble sorted how it felt.  The cop’s open-handed slap had left a slight ringing sensation in his ears and Humble’s face felt hot and sore where he had been struck.  He decided he didn’t care much for pain.  The cop across from him was red-eyed.  The veins in his neck were bulging with the rage building in his body.  To any other person, he would have been an intimidating sight.  Instead of being intimidated, Humble ignored the cop and focused on a point behind the left shoulder of the cop.  In the shadows, something stirred.

Timothy was a brave boy, but the Shadowman that lurked at the back of that room was no man.  No, it was old.  Older by far than the city he lived in, older even than the country he called home.  Timothy knew this instinctively, and felt a knot of dread build in his stomach.  He had to get Humble away from the thing in the shadows.  Closing his eyes tight, Timothy started to wish.

In the interrogation room, time froze.  Humble looked across from where he was seated, into the eyes of the creature that rode into the city on the wind.  When he spoke, he did not speak words as mortals knew them.  He spoke truly, and in his words was the twin essence of creation and destruction.  The creature scowled upon hearing the first syllable.  By the end of Humble’s first sentence, it was hissing.  As the cadence of Humble’s voice filled the room in the third and final sentence, the creature burst apart in a small eruption of shadow and then collapsed in on itself until nothing remained of it.

Humble took a deep breath.  A bead of sweet trickled down the right side of his forehead and he wiped it away before it could sting his eye.  Sitting back, he sipped the too-cold coffee he’d been offered by the cop.  Setting his coffee cup down, Humble looked at the still frozen cop leaning across the table at him.  He could quite literally walk out the front door of the police station before anyone realized he was missing.  Still, that could cause all manner of unpleasantness in the future.  Whatever was to happen, was just going to have to happen.  Humble smiled a slight smile and shrugged his shoulders.  As he did so, the cop unfroze and the last half of an expletive echoed in the room.  The cop blinked and looked around, as if startled by the sound of his own voice.  A confused expression crossed the cop’s face and he rubbed at his temples as if trying to ward away a sudden headache.

“Wha-What was the last point we were discussing?”  The cop asked.

“I believe, Detective Mitchell, we were discussing whether or not I need to stay here the rest of the evening.”  Humble took another nonchalant sip of his too-cold coffee.  Across the table, Detective Mitchell slowly leaned back from his aggressive pose and sat down in his chair.  Looking for case notes or some clue as to why he was in this interrogation room with this man and finding nothing, simply confused Mitchell further.  Being confused made Mitchell uncomfortable, and being uncomfortable made Mitchell fall back on instinct, which was to get angry.  The color in Mitchell’s face started escalate back towards the red spectrum, but right as he opened his mouth, the door to the interrogation room opened.  A younger officer poked his head in.

“Detective Mitchell, Chief says your ward’s free to go.  Says no one knows who he is or why he was brought in in the first place, and we’re too busy to interrogate someone we don’t have anything on.”  Saying his piece, the younger officer ducked back out, but made a point to leave the door to the interrogation room open.  Outwardly, Detective Mitchell didn’t seem pleased, but Humble could read the relief in his eyes.

With all the gruff command of a four star general, Detective Mitchell growled at Humble to find his own damn way out.  Humble gave a slight bow and excused himself.  Less than a minute later, he was back on the street and walking through the city’s pre-dawn light.  A light, playful wind tugged at the collar of his jacket, as playful as a puppy.  Smiling, Humble puckered up his lips and tried something he’d never done before.

Many miles away, the frown of concentration slowly smoothed out on Timothy’s face.  Wishing takes a lot of a young boy, as does worrying about friends.  In his dream, Timothy saw Humble safely leave the station and begin whistling a sad, sweet tune as he walked down the street.  The dream faded, and Timothy was off to easier dreams of rescuing princesses from Shadowmen and stealing their golden dragon eggs.

Snoring contentedly, Timothy DeWitt smiled in his sleep.

What a commercial.  I love the fear-mongering.  Even if the core message is trying to reduce the national debt and rampant government spending, it’s the fear of a foreign power taking control of U.S. independence that makes up the core of the ad.  As much as the Citizens Against Government Waste or CAGW is trying to promote a justifiable campaign, it’s approach is… well, let’s just say it’s lacking in taste.

Fundamentally, the fear mongering present in this ad repeats a message that’s been around almost as long as Chinese and other Asian immigrants have been coming to the United States.  That message is, “It’s not the national debt that’s the enemy, it’s unscrupulous slanty-eyed, white-woman-stealing foreigners that are the enemy.”

I have to be clear, I’m not overstating this.  There’s a long and sordid history involving opium trade, the Chinese and British, war, and the subsequent near-fetishization of opium harems.  These harems were almost invariably run by seedy Chinese men, who offered paying men all types of women, with the rare delicacy being the captured white-woman sex slave.  It’s kind of like Joe Francis of Girls Gone Wild fame, except no one turns a blind eye.  I hazard the guess that there are far more loveless white-couple marriages wherein white women are emotionally and physically abused than there ever were white women trapped in Chinese opium harems.

Anyway, if you want to know more, look up Opium War in Wikipedia.  Mind you, there were two, apparently the world powers of the time thought it was kind of important.  Putting aside opium, it’s important to note there’s long been the fear of Asians taking over good American jobs.  In more recent years, that fear has soared due to the fact that China holds a rather unsettling amount of the United States’ national debt.  Furthermore, many U.S. business interests are tied up in Chinese markets, and the semi-volatile political nature of our trade partners across the sea makes a lot of investors nervous.  It also makes me want to bang my head against a wall, as the people that put those business interests in China were the predecessors of those nervous investors.  Oh, and we’re still doing it.  So, kudos America.

Now, you have to understand that being of the slanty-persuasion myself tends to (ahem) color my view a bit.  Understand that the last thing I want to see is this great country fall under sway of a foreign power.  I like my personal freedoms and non-MSG laden foods too much to want otherwise.  At the same time, I see ads like this one by the CAGW and I can’t help but see a perpetuation of outdated racial stereotypes.  Fear is an excellent motivator.  It is also wantonly destructive if used improperly.  Having a single, readily identifiable people attached to your fear message?  That sounds somewhat familar. Even the title of the video, “Chinese Professor” bears the banner of scary foreign imperialism, while in the video evokes scary, Orwellian imagery and Chinese flags super-imposed over American iconography.  They took our jobs, they took our well-being.  Hell, at 39 seconds in, they even took our iPads.  The nerve!

I’m not saying the CAGW is an allegory for Nazi Germany.  I am saying that their message needs a less backwater approach.  It comes off as ignorant and in poor taste.

It’s almost like the CAGW is saying, “What kind of debase, opportunistic people would take advantage of another country’s economic weakness?”  Well, China certainly does come to mind.  Odd thing though, so does America.  We do have a history of it after all.  Let’s get a little less shocked and a little more proactive.  I’m not an economist, I like history.  Generally speaking, if I have a question about good ways to proactively fix the national debt in a timely and efficient manner, I’d ask one of my friends that are economists.  What I do know is that mixed messages like this do little to engender a  sense of mutual respect for Americans in the eyes of our foreign neighbors, and it’s high time we start acting like responsible adults, instead of promoting childish, fear-the-dark mentalities.

~Shortfold

“Captain America, please don’t suck.”  These words, or words similar to them are the mantra that comic nerds and fan boys have been uttering since the news first broke that there was going to be a Captain America movie.  As the final piece to the upcoming Avengers movie puzzle, I am happy to announce that Captain America doesn’t suck.  In fact, it’s easily one of the best super hero movies to date.  A bold statement, I know.  Follow me back a few years and I’ll explain why the Cap’n had me so enthralled.

With the advent of Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man movie in 2002, I developed the basic expectation that a super hero movie was going to be a entertaining, if somewhat flawed undertaking.  As the years have marched on and the studios behind the burgeoning super hero movie franchise have gained experience and more versatile directors, my expectations for super hero movies have grown.

The problem with comic book-based super hero movies is that there will always be a broad gap between the viewers; those that know and follow the comics, and those whom do not.  With one group of viewers, there is often massive amounts of existing lore to deal with, lending expectations to how a story and character is going to develop.  With the other, uninitiated group there’s the need to explain things well enough so that they aren’t completely lost.  Thus, the advent of the backstory or origin movie.  We’ve seen this with both DC and Marvel comics heroes, with varying degrees of success.  I won’t belabor this point too much more, as you’ve either been keeping up with super hero movies up to this point or you haven’t.  What’s important to keep in mind is that directors and writers of these new super hero movies have two distinct camps to cater to, and the balance can be perilous, especially when dealing with particularly popular or iconic characters.

Now, back to Captain America.  I’ve already stated that this movie is easily one of the best super hero movies to date.  Without giving away the important parts of the movie, here’s what you can expect.  Almost the entirety of the movie is set in the 1940′s, with World War II sweeping into full swing.  Not content to let others fight his battles for him, a young, impressionable, and sickly Steve Rogers attempts to enlist multiple times.  Turned away each time, Rogers doesn’t give up hope that he’ll get a chance to do his part.  Circumstances align, destinies are altered, and sickly Steve Rogers, a no-name kid from Brooklyn is enlisted into an experimental super-soldier program designed to combat a group of men so evil even the Nazis don’t want to play with them.

There’s a good bit more to the story, but that’s enough to get you up to speed.  Now on to why the movie works.  First, I have to again commend Marvel its casting.  Chris Evans is astounding as Rogers/Captain, Tommy Lee Jones is brilliant in every frame, the supporting cast is superb and Hayley Atwell is stunning as Peggy Carter, a resilient and capable British agent and Captain’s main love interest in the movie.  The acting is superb, the musical score is pitch perfect, and the direction is very matter of fact.  I happened to watch the film in 3D and it works quite well with the movie, although I will assert that the movie stands up under its own merits without falling back on 3D gimmicks as a crutch.

Not only is Captain America a good summer super hero movie, it’s just a plain good movie.  Captain is depicted as a true hero, an honest and good guy.  While the patriotic overtones of the character are evident, the core of what makes Captain such an interesting character is that at his core he is a good man.  I love the serious, brooding nature of The Dark Knight, but it’s refreshing to see a super hero movie featuring a classic character who does his best to do what’s right because that’s what he should do.   Vengeful, brooding heroes with dark pasts and darker nemesis are wonderful.  It’s just nice to see a super hero movie now and then who’s not ashamed to stand in the light.

Human Torch who? Chris Evans shines as Captain America.

Trumping my fears and in many cases exceeding my expectations, I want YOU to go see Captain America.

Anila took pride in her skill and hard work, but on this night, no fewer than four people under her care had died.  One gunshot victim, two car crash victims hit by a drunk driver, and one attempted suicide.

Double door after double door opened and closed automatically as Anila passed through them.  She was trying to get outside.  She desperately needed a smoke break.

Anila was cursed with a compassionate streak, and of course she had come to learn the stories of each of the deceased.   The side exit of the hospital let out near the ambulance motor pool.  Technically she wasn’t supposed to smoke so close to the building.  Screw ‘em, she thought.  If she killed someone with her cigarette smoke tonight, it’d just be the icing on her malpractice cake.  She took out a cigarette and her lighter.  It only took her one try to get the cigarette lit.  Heh.  Guilty conscience and still the hands move so self-assured.  Must be nice to be so guilt free.

The gunshot victim had been shot in a dispute between her and her two lovers.  The car crash victims had died soon after they were admitted.  Aside from a few nasty cuts and bruises, the drunk was going to be fine.  The suicide victim had broken almost every vertebrae, partially ruptured several internal organs, and yet managed to cling to life long enough to die on Anila’s operating table.  The taste of ashes in Anila’s mouth had nothing to do with the cigarette in her hand.  Angrily, she flung it away and the petulance in that gesture broke down the final wall.  She sank down onto the pavement and wept.

A shadow passed over Anila, blocking out the bright lights from the motor pool.  Horrified that one of her colleagues had witnessed her crying, and angry that some part of her desperately needed someone to talk to, Anila kept her face buried in her arms.

“Fuck off,” she said.  A few moments passed, but the shadow didn’t move away.  Great.  That meant it was John Porter, one of the other doctors that worked the night shift.  He was a nice enough guy, and had been trying to chat her up for weeks.  He must have followed her out here to try and console her.  Just what she needed, but exactly what she didn’t want.  Finally, realizing that the situation wasn’t going to resolve itself, Anila forced herself to look up.

Well, it wasn’t John.  It was, well she didn’t know who the hell he was.  He was tall and while his presence had been noticeable even when she wasn’t looking, Anila wouldn’t exactly describe him as looming over her.  He was just there, in a very solid way.  He seemed to exude comfort.  Instead of taking some of her hurt and lessening it by sharing it, he simply seemed to banish it by proximity.  Anila could literally feel the dull ache behind her eyes lessen and the sick tension in her stomach un-knot.  She had read texts on sympathetic hypnosis for the treatment of emotional discomfort, but if that was what she was experiencing, this man was good.  Damn good.  Wiping her face with the sleeve of her coat, she was met halfway up by a sun-darkened hand.  Ordinarily she would have dismissed such a gesture, but instead she took the offered hand.  She gasped involuntarily, as an electric tingle coursed through her arm as the man helped her to her feet.

She let go as quickly as she could without seeming ungrateful.  As she did so, the electric sensation lessened, although the palm of her hand still felt tingly.  She got a good look at her compassionate helper.  He was about six feet to six-foot-two.  Dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and tanned complexion.  Possibly Caucasian, most definitely male, but there seemed to be hints of any number of mixed bloodlines.  Attractive, but in a utilitarian kind of way.  Not very rich by the cast of his clothes.  None of that explained the electric touch or the sympathetic emotional waves though.  Anila glanced down.  The man was offering her a clean handkerchief.  She shook her head in amazement, but accepted the handkerchief.  Next he’d be pulling a “Cheer Up!” Hallmark card out of his coat.

Anila found that is pretty much impossible to discreetly blow one’s nose after a good cry, so she just laid into the handkerchief.  The resulting honk echoed loudly in motor pool, and she snorted in amusement at the sound.  A wry chuckle from the man, and she giggled back.  Oh my god, did I just giggle?  I did.  She apologetically offered the handkerchief back to the man.  He grinned and held up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.

“Keep it.  I have plenty of others.”  His smile was genuine, and took any sting out of his words.  Anila found herself smiling back, in spite of herself.

“Thanks,” she said.  “I’m… that is, um… thank you.”

The man smiled and extended his right hand.  “No worries Ms. Mehra.  My name is Humble.”  Anila was slightly alarmed that the man knew her name, until he indicated her lab coat with his eyes.  There on the left lapel, her name tag was clearly visible.

“Oh, right.  Yeah, I forget that it’s even there sometimes.  Wait, did you say your name was Humble?”

Humble looked at Anila Mehra.  They continued to converse, and he was in fact giving her his full attention, but he was also delving along her emotional pathways.  She was a proud, strong, and attractive woman.  She had a healer’s touch and a compassionate soul, which she hid under a frosty, professional exterior.  The constant war between her compassion and her professional demeanor had worn her down until this night, when too many losses in too short a time had finally cracked through the armor she had built around herself.

“I just… I don’t like losing people,” she said.

Humble nodded.  “It’s never easy losing people close to us.”

Anila shook her head.  “What?  That’s not what I meant.  I meant losing patients.”

Humble nodded again.  “And are you not close to your patients?”

She shook her head.  “That’s also not what I meant.  I can’t afford to be close to my patients, and yet I still check on them out of personal interest, beyond the realm of necessity.  I feel good when I succeed and some part of me feels like it dies a little each time I fail.”

Anila needed another cigarette.  As if reading her thoughts, Humble offered her one.  She accepted it, lit it with her own lighter and promptly took the cigarette out of her mouth to inspect it.  It was the single best cigarette she had ever tasted.  If tobacco were grown in joy and watered with ambrosia, this might be how cigarettes would taste.

“That’s… that’s a damn good cigarette, Humble,” Anila said with awe.

He smiled at her.  “It is tobacco as it should be.  Free of impurities and utterly sublime in its flavor.  It is in fact so subtle that its taste is different to each person, but is ultimately perfect for every smoker.  If smoking is their inclination, of course.”

A long moment stretched between them, as Anila simply looked at Humble.  Occasionally, she would take a delicious drag on her cigarette.  “You’re not what you seem, are you?”  She finally asked.

Humble looked at her, and while it was obvious she felt the power in his regard, she didn’t flinch.  “What is it that I seem to be?”

Her answer was immediate.  “You are more than human.  In my faith, you are what I would call a deva, a godling.”

Humble cocked an eyebrow at this, and a mischievous smile danced on his lips.  “That must have been some cigarette, for you to think so highly of me.”

Anila stuck her tongue out at Humble.  What am I doing?  She thought.  That was uncharacteristically juvenile of me.

“Not juvenile.  Emotionally honest,” said Humble.  Anila stared at Humble, at this sympathetic mind reader who had shown up on the night she needed someone exactly like him.  She took a last drag on the cigarette, finishing it off.  Humble took the cigarette butt from her hand and flicked it out into the darkness beyond the motor pool.  The cigarette burst into flame, and in its place was a scattering of fireflies, dancing in the night air.

Anila made her way back inside.  As she passed through a set of double doors, John Porter came running up to her.  Something in her face must have given him pause, because he stopped short.  “Are you okay, Anila?”  He asked.

“Yeah.  I really think I am, John.”  Anila said.

Humble wandered through the night, accompanied by the dancing lights of fireflies.

It was late morning, but not quite afternoon on a Thursday.  In the windowed corner of a little coffee shop, Humble had found a man reading a newspaper and drinking coffee.  The man stopped reading and glanced up as Humble came to a stop by his table.

“Is this seat available, sir?”

The man gave a small shrug, causing his charcoal suit to shift subtly at the shoulders.  “I don’t know.  I suppose it could be.  Try sitting and we’ll find out.”

Humble smiled and sat down.  The man across from him was old.  Very old.  His naturally dark skin tone had weathered the suns of countless summers, causing the skin to age and burnish, taking on the hue of blackened shoe leather.  What hair the man had left was sturdy, and made a well-trimmed gray fringe around the crown of the man’s head.  Still for all his age, the old man across from Humble hadn’t lost that spark of vitality that is discernible even from a distance.  Humble in truth, was somewhat in awe.  The span of mortal years this man must have witnessed, it was inspiring.

A young waitress appeared.  Humble ordered a plain, regular coffee with one cream, which the waitress ran off to get.  Within a few minutes, she reappeared with Humble’s coffee, and after checking that the two men had what they needed, wandered off to check on the other customers in the coffee shop.  The entire time, the old man had simply looked over his newspaper and Humble had been content with watching the people on the street passing by the shop’s window.

The old man finally set his newspaper down.  Tilting his head to the side, the man regarded Humble from behind his glasses.  Humble calmly looked back at the man, and the two measured the other’s worth.  Quite a few moments ticked by, but the man finally seemed to relax and leaned back in his seat.  Humble sipped his coffee and waited for the man to speak.

“It’s come down to this, then?”  The old man asked.  Humble, in the middle of sipping his coffee, took his time in answering.

“It’s always been like this, to some extent.”  The old man looked out the window.  Humble looked down at the coffee table.  Silence stretched between the two.  From afar the scene might have seemed uncomfortable.  In truth, the two men were merely lost in thought.  Like two children at opposite sides of a tunnel, they eventually wound their ways through their unique perspectives and met in understanding at the middle.

The old man was the first to speak again.  “Trouble’s coming, then.  I’ve had a lifetime of troubles.  More than I care to recall.  More than I can recall, in some cases.”  The old man took a sip of his own coffee, then continued.  “I lived through an era where the pride of men, the vindictive need to be right nearly doomed the entire world to destruction.  With the power of the atom, man nearly unmade this world.  And to what gain?  So one man could have dominion over another?  What cost, glory, when the alternative to peace is extinction?”

Humble sat, listening to the old man.  His hands were clasped in front of him like a supplicant’s and he rested his chin on his knuckles in contemplation.  You speak of the excesses of men.  But my friend, this trouble is not man made.  This trouble comes from the heavens itself.

The old man seemed to guess the cast of Humble’s thoughts.  “I wonder what awaits me.  Over the years I have witnessed such change in the world as I would never have imagined.  I have watched loves and dearest friends pass from this world, and yet I linger.  To say I don’t fear death would be a lie.  Still, it’s lost some of its menace as the years have gone by.”  The old man’s back straightens slightly, as if his memories had the power to bolster his resolve.  “I’ve lived a long, and full life.  I have children and grandchildren however that have not had that luxury yet.  And I would see that they stand a chance to do so.  If there’s something left in these old bones that can help, just let me know.”

Humble bowed his head.  He was amazed by the old man’s selflessness.  After a while, Humble found the words to use.

“My friend, against what is coming, no one can hope to stand against it.  The Words have been inscribed upon the Indelible Stone.  The fate of this world is sealed.”

The old man nodded at these words, as if he had heard them before and had expected to hear them now.  With a wry smile, he spoke.  “What you have to understand about us my friend, is that just because something is impossible won’t keep us from doing it.”  The old man folded his newspaper and pushed his chair back from the table.  “I have weathered decades of injustice, war, love and loss.  I have seen the lives and deaths of many things.  But never have I witnessed the death of hope.”

The old man stood up from the table.  From the wall beside him, the man picked up a thin metal cane, which he then extended to its full length.  Settling his dark-tinted glasses squarely on his nose, the blind man tapped his way around the counter of the coffee shop and out the door.

For some time, Humble sat staring into his cup, as if trying to discern the future from the swirls in his coffee.