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It's been a long time coming, but I've finally got the first part of The Chronicles of Weyard into a workable condition. I'd say this baby's about 99.9 percent away from publishablity (not a word), just gotta tweak some continuity stuff and get a new title.
Anyway, on with the show. I present to you The Chronicles of Weyard: First Companion...
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The village of Hambleton had always been a small one. It had one main street which was home to it's sole pub and inn on the south end, a stable, a single shop, some small homes, and a few branching roads that led to homesteads. Hambleton was a wholly un-remarkable town, except for the fact that it lied on a fairly well used trade route. Lying not too far from the western shores about two thousand miles north the Midline of the World, it was usually passed with little a care given to it. But today a new traveler appeared in town. Though a single soul, he carried himself as if the weight of many rested upon him. He was met with no welcome or dismissal, just the wind blowing from the north from where he entered. He wore a broad travelling cloak with a hood, and his tough boots puffed up small clouds of dust as he walked up the road. To his left, a single cow in a pen mooed at nothing in particular, and the figure looked at the beast and nodded slightly. It was the closest thing he'd gotten to a "hello" in quite a while, three weeks if it was a day. But, this wasn't all so bad. The solitary life had it's advantages: no one to look after, holding you back. No women to nag you. And no friends to die on you, he thought bitterly, and smiled. It was a pained smile. But, that was the past. This was the present. The hear and now. The only thing, he had learned over the years, that mattered. But the future quickly becomes the present, a voice from the past welled up, and with an attitude like that, it will most likely catch you unprepared.
Shut up, he thought. You're dead.
Not a smile this time, but a grimace.
He walked onward, towards the pub, the weight of the dead bearing down upon him.
***
It was about Six Strokes After Noon, as far as old Brom could tell, and the going was pretty slow. Not unexpected, seeing as it was just after Summer's Eve, and the last big call for brew before the harvest had just ended. The people of Hambleton were now either out reaping their fields or off restocking supplies. Not much use for a floaty head and a stomach full of ale. It seemed that the local town drunk and the single merchant that was passing through was the best buisness he was going to get that day. But, before he could utter the old Closing Rhyme, a new customer walked in. He was wearing an ample cloak, heavy boots, and his face was obscured by a hood. He wielded a staff (ironwood by the look of it), and a bag judging by the buldge on his back, but nothing more. He looked harmless...How he felt was a completely different matter. Brom wasn't one to buy into all that magick, mind-reading ho-jo, but all his years in bartending had taught him how to read people. Who tipped well, who was a sloppy drunk, who was a stout drinker...but most of all, who was trouble. This person didn't look like he wanted to start trouble, but that didn't mean he wouldn't, either. "Sorry friend. Bar's closing." The boy (he may have carried himself like man, but he was far too short to be of full manhood) made no movement back out. He just continued walking in. "I'd like a drink." His voice was like that of a young man's who's throat has gravel in it: low, rusty. But most of all, it sounded old; haggard. As if this young pup had seen far more than his years let on. Brom heard this, saw the way he held that staff, and suddenly became very nervous. Not now he thought. Not after the Eve. I'll never have enough money to pay for repair. "I'm very sorry, but the bar is closed." Brom said again, no cracking in his voice, but a perceptable uneasiness was in his voice. "Eh, whaddya mean Brom? Bar dosn' close unti-"
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, FRANSTON!" the barkeep bellowed at the drunk. Franston snorted what might have been disapproval, then went back to dozing on the table. Brom turned back to the boy, who was now right there at the bar. "Please," he said, his voice level and calm but leaving no room for argument, "I'd like a drink. I've traveled quiet a ways, and my flask is empty."
"I'm sorry, sir, but the bar is still-" It was at this point that Franston had decided to make his move, making to strike the boy with a bottle. Trying to rile our barkeep, eh? But, before the man could even begin to bring the blow down, the boy had already thrown back his cloak, knocked the bottle out of Franston's hands, smacked him in the jaw, and drawn his cloak back, all in one fluid movement. It was so fast Brom wasn't even sure what had happened until he saw the drunk lying on the ground screaming and clutching at his mouth. "Franston, you damn fool..." Brom moaned. He wanted to go make sure his friend was ok, even if he had been acting stupid. But Brom made no move to do so, not wanting to provoke this stranger any further. As if hearing his thought, the stranger spoke again; "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want a drink. And don't worry about him," he jerked his head towards Franton, "I only tapped him. He's just belly-aching." The stranger now turned down his hood. He had brown hair that was neck length and matted in the back. His features were slightly elven, with somewhat pointed ears, bright green eyes, and a smally pointed face. He was young (as Brom had expected) and fair (which he had not expected), but hard, like stone that has been blasted by wind and rain until smooth. But there was something else too...some exotic quality (even by Elven standards) that Brom could not place. It gave the boy a slightly fearsome look, like a slow-burning fire lay deep within him, and it could blow at any moment. "Now...about that drink?"
***
The sun was beginning to set. Franston had given up trying to garner sympathy (and maybe a free drink), the merchant had since retired to this room, Brom served the boy, filling his flask when he was beckoned, and the night had gone on rather uneventfully. The only point of interest had been when Brom questioned, rather tentatively, how the boy was to pay for this. The boy then rummaged within the bag slung on his back, and layed two gold coins on the counter. More than enough for the ale and brew the barkeep had...more than he had the change for. "I can't change this" he said. "It doesn't matter." The boy didn't even look up from his drink.
It was at about Nine Strokes After Noon (in a village with no Timekeeper or sundial, it was hard to tell precisely), that the other stranger came. He walked into the bar, seeming to be the antithesis of the first boy. His clothes, while they at one point may have been welcomed in an aristocrat's court, were now mud-stained and dirt-ridden shadows of their former selves. He was tall, muscular, of heavy build. His face was chiseled and handsome, like a knight out of a children's story. When he walked in, he was smiling, a thing that seemed to glow with it's own inner light in the gloom of the bar. "Can I help you, sir?" said Brom. "Oh, he gets a 'can I help you, sir'." The boy looked at this newcomer, grunted "Pretty boy", and went back to his ale. The newcomer didn't seem to notice. "Indeed you could help me, my good man." he said. His voice was strong but friendly, a pleasant sound, and he smiled as he spoke. It was the kind of smile that opened doors and garnered favors. "I've been traveling some ways, and I was wondering if you could direct me to an inn?"
"Well, you're in luck, young master. This is not only the sole pub, but the sole inn in town!" said Brom. "Splendid!" said the newcomer. He walked up to the bar and reached into his breast pocket, producing a gold coin. "Will this cover a room?" Brom, astounded that he was making more this day then he usually did the entire season, just gaped and nodded, then went up to prepare the room. The stranger took a seat next to the boy and looked around, surveying the bar. It was a fair sized room, with 3 tables towards the front door, the bar in the back. To the left of the bar was a narrow stairway, which, one could assume, led to the inn rooms. Behind the door to the right of the bar was the kitchen. As he was looking around, the boy was taking in the stranger. Feeling him out. Having had to hone his abilities of perception to near perfection living out in the wilds (not to mention in what most called "civilization", just another form of wild to the boy), he was usually able to get a good feel for people when he met them; what kind of person they were, what they were, and most importantly, did they present a threat to him? This stranger was obviously royalty from his clothes, but the boy could also tell from the way he carried himself, and the glow of charisma he seemed to give off. Why he was apparently wandering in the wilderness was a mystery, however. Probably got bored inside the palace walls, the boy thought with disdain. Got tired of always doing what Mommy Duchess and Daddy Baron told you to, so you decided to peal off? See the world, wrap it around your tiny finger and then come back, a big strong man? Sour news, friend: the world has you wrapped up, chewed up, and by the looks of you, you're about to get spit out. Pleasing as this thought was, he didn't really think it was true. This new comer, despite his obvious noble heritige, had something about him...something not unlike the boy's something, that exuded power, and a warning to all those who would think of crossing him. Nice and polite when you meet, but this was not a person who's bad side you wanted to be on. And there was, as with the boy, something else as well. Something...feral was the only word that could describe it. Something that seemed put a wild look in the stranger's otherwise pleasant and friendly gaze. And, as with the boy, a heavy sadness; this was again someone who had seen more than their years let on. The stranger saw the boy staring at him, if only with peripheral vision (which, with the boy, was just as good as staring wide-eyed), and beamed that winning smile at him. The boy wasn't fazed. "Hile, friend. You do know it's impolite to stare?" The boy didn't offer a return hile, just sipped at his ale and said, "I'm not your friend."
Not abashed by this rudeness, the stranger replied, "Well, if I can not call you friend, mayhap I can have your name?" That feral glint in his eye seemed to brighten slightly. The boy, still not looking directly at the stranger, took another swig of ale and thought. What harm could giving his name be? After all, he'd have to eventually to get a room, and he'd be gone by the morn. His trackers would hardly know he'd been through.
"Adan." he replied, short and simple.
"Adan?" the starnger asked. "Is that so?"
"Yes. Why? Do you know another by that name?"
"No. Few would, I venture. A name of the Old Tongue of Men, isn't it? Spoken no more in most of the world."
"Not for over a thousand years." said Adan, not very interested in the conversation. The stranger was right, his name was from the Old Tongue, which had not been spoken since the War (as it had come to be known) had tarnished the World and broken friendships of old. So it goes, they (and Adan) said. "So it goes."
Adan took a large sop of his ale, finishing off the stein. "And what might your name be?"
"Artos," the stranger offered happily. He had the look of a dog who has been long without a friend or master that was just offered some meat. Someone who has been on the road along time, and wasn't fond of it. Too rough, too hard...and not enough food. That's what's wrong with him. He looks hungry...and it doesn’t look like a joint of beef will quench it. Adan suddenly felt it prudent to excuse himself to his room. Best to distance himself as much from this "Artos" before he revealed his true nature. "Barkeep," Adan said, "I'll be taking a room."
"Will that be out of your previous pay, sir?" said Brom, taking Adan's empty stein.
"Yes."
Brom nodded and rummaged behind the bar for a key. He had since grown tired of trying to ignore Adan and had just accepted that this boy was staying. Two gold coins didn't hurt either. Adan stood up from the bar without another word to Artos or Brom, and climbed the stairs to the Inn. It was totally average, a hallway snaking in a square around the building, with rooms on either side of the walls. Adan's room was on the east side, facing out towards the rising sun. He opened the door, made a quick scan of the room for escape routes (the medium sized window looking to be the best option), and laid his sack down by the side of the bed. Laying his head down on the pillow, he drifted off into the light and dreamless sleep of the paranoid.
***
It was about Three Strokes later that Adan was awakened. Nothing perceptible had stirred in the room, but he sensed danger never the less. Trouble brewing. Raking the room with his eyes told him that nothing was a miss there. He went to the window, which looked out towards the forest and a road leading to a small farm. The moon was only a quarter-full and shrouded by clouds, and the stars were faint. It was hard to see out into that inky darkness, but not impossible. Adan was lucky enough to have inherited his father's elven eyes, and the low light was not a hinderence to him. For a few minutes he didn't see anything. That's it...I'm finally losing my mind... Then he saw it. Nothing more than a lighter shadow among darker ones, but it was man-sized, and moving. Moving towards the farm...towards food. Towards blood.
"Looks like Artos couldn't hold his gut back any longer.." Adan slung his bag over his shoulder, and gripped the knife on his belt. It looked like it was going to be a long night.
***
One would think that a man of Artos' size would not be able to move about as stealthly as he did. Acute readers, though, will have deduced that Artos was no man. Oh, he was once a man, but no longer was that title fitting for him. That part of the tale, however, will be told later. Now Artos was slinking through the brush of the forest bordering a farmstead east of the village. He was hungry, so very hungry. Many days out in the forests in the north had taken their toll. There was no good game out there. Birds and mice and rabbits, maybe even a deer or two if he was lucky. But nothing as good as pig or steer or sheep. Nothing that was soft and warm. He had hardly been able to contain himself when he first stumbled upon Hambleton, but restraint was a talent he'd had to learn fast. He'd had to learn to hold back his more beastly urges. Learn how not to stare at people's jugulars when he looked at them. Learn how to repress that constant, incessant, gibbering madness that even now still whispered in his ear softly like a lover.
Food feed feed lust hunt lust feed must feed we have to feed need to feed hunger thirst warm hot thirst need to quench it need to fill it fill our belly feed feed feed...
He closed his eyes tight and screwed his face into a grimace of concentration, pushing down the ghoulish voice in his mind. Years of training and noble stock were all that kept him from bolting outright to the scent of running blood. He had gone three, maybe four weeks without soft meat. He was not about to ruin this golden opportunity at a good hot meal.
The farmstead itself was not much to speak of. A thousand like it could have and probably did dot the countryside. A single floored, thatch-and-stone house, most likely three rooms. A small smoke house for curing meat, an outhouse for curing other things. All of these inconsequential to Artos. He was there for one thing and one thing only; the barn...the pen. It was of medium-size, could probably hold no more than a few bails of wheat or other crop, and only one cow. He saw the door was locked though, and did not really feel like taking the time to pick the lock, nor risk being caught by smashing it. So he snuck around the back, and there was what could have been the Holy Grail for all he cared...
The pigpen.
"Oh, thank Heironeous," he said in a hoarse whisper. There before him were four fat, content pigs and an assortment of young piglets. It was a veritable feast after the gutter-food of the forest. Thirty feet were all that separated him from a temporary reprieve from the gibbering madness of hunger. Artos could not contain himself any longer. Besides, what harm could befall him now, so close to his prize?
Five minutes later the carcasses of what were once pigs lay piled near the edge of the pen. Artos had not tried to hold back the barbaric, visceral efficiency of his rending hands and teeth. The sooner this business was over, the better. He loathed it. The feel of the blood on his lips, the stench of cold and lifeless flesh, the primal pleasure it brought him to kill these creatures. He went to the well near the pen and drew some water, washing off his face and shirt. As he bathed, he contemplated for the umpteenth time taking his own wretched life. How easy it would be to just take the cold steel of a dagger and slit his throat, finally end that squalling in his mind. He did not, obviously. Our story would be cut quite short if Artos had folded then. He pushed those thoughts from his mind. No good could come of them. As long as he could still fight off the urge, there was still hope. Hope that he could free himself...that he could return home...that his brother's death would not be in vain.
It was little more than the rustle of a few leaves, but it was a mistake on Adan's part and it cost him the advantage of stealth. Artos was up like a shot, ready to fight. "Who's there? Show yourself!" No longer having his slender leverage, Adan jumped down from the trees, and arrow knocked in his longbow, aimed squarely at Artos' heart. "The ranger from the bar..." Artos said confounded. In all the time he had been doing this, hardly anyone had ever been able to track him, and those who did quickly found themselves dead.
"A little late for a stroll in the country side, wouldn't you say?" said Adan. He slowly approached the vampire, bow still pointed at the heart. Artos hardly looked as worried by the arrow as he did dumbfounded by Adan's presence all together. Finally, words came. "Do you intend to kill me?" Adan just looked at Artos with an unreadable expression. "I wouldn't be pointing a tip at your chest if I didn't intend to use it."
"And can that slay a vampire?" The time for pretense had obviously passed. Adan motioned his head towards the tip, which caught and reflected the moonlight briefly. "Silver-tipped. Poison to your kind. For just such an occasion." Artos knew from the scent that Adan wasn't bluffing. If that arrow pierced him, it would melt his heart as surely as butter melted in a pan. Even the vampire's healing couldn't save him from a wound like that. "But why? I've done nothing to harm you, or the people of this village. Why kill me?" Adan stepped in a little closer, closing the gap between him and Artos in case the vampire tried to run, and nodded towards the farmhouse. "Because you might do something to them. You start with pigs now, and then it's a beggar or traveling merchant, and pretty soon you'll have sucked the whole village dry." Of course, that wasn't his real concern. A vampire has to eat, just like a bear, or fox, or even one of the Common Folk. That means killing a few people every once in a while. No sane vampire would ever go and devour an entire village, even one as small as Hambleton. No, Adan was really worried about being tracked. He thought he had thrown them off back in the forests, but there was no way to be sure. No way to ever really be sure. His followers could employ any number of spies (they had before, after all), and vampires, while not inherently evil, could easily be swayed into service for some exotic blood. But if that was the case...why did he go for the pigs? Why not the sweeter juice of the farmer's family?
"Look, you probably thin-" Artos began, before a look of abject fear washed over his face. His nose began to twitch, and his face became flushed. "No...no, it can't be."
"What? What can't be?" Adan demanded. He didn't like that frightened look in Artos' eyes. If whatever he smelled was enough to spook a vampire, it couldn't be good.
"The Order of the Hand...They're here. They found me..."
Adan didn't have time to respond before the sound of horses and the cries of men stole his attention from Artos. He looked back out to the fields in front of the farmhouse, and saw a group of armored soldiers atop pale colored horses. Each bared a torch in one hand, and a sword on their belts. They're armor was clean and brushed, shining in the moonlight. Emblazoned on each of their breasts was a white human hand against a light blue back, and their banner-carrier bore the same on his flag. Their leader's helm was long and swept back, like an exotic bird's crest. He looked out and saw Adan and Artos.
"BEAST!" the leader cried out. "Abomination! We've finally caught up to you!" He gave a command, which Adan could not hear, and they began to advance on the two boys in the field. "Shit. I have to get out of here," muttered Adan. He was fairly certain there wasn't a bounty on him from the Hand, but the scars from his last ordeal with them reminded him that staying close to their query was most often just as good as being an accomplice. "Y-yes, as do I," said Artos just as Adan made a break for it. The Order's troops of course didn't fail to see Adan run, and a few broke off from the main flank to pursue, but their large warhorses would be slow moving through the forest to pursue Adan.
Adan was turning south, continuing on his aimless path. He wouldn't be able to use the road or go into a town for a few days now that the Order was going to be looking for him, but at least he had enough supplies in his pack to last...
His pack. Back in the room. Back in the village.
"Shit."
He had to go back for it. That pack had everything in it. His bedroll, his flask, his flint...but more importantly, it had the pendant. The only thing he owned other than his weapons with any real worth. The only thing he had left that connected him to her. The one thing of her left in this world. Adan cursed himself as he turned back, silent as a cat on silk. Why had he been so careless? Why had he taken it off? Of all the times to take it off, he had to pick the moments just before he ran off to face a vampire and get himself tagged by the Order of the Hand. It would have taken all of three seconds to pick it up. And now he might just get killed getting it back, be dead over a stupid mistake.
Then again...how would that be different from any other day?
***
Spencert Malback, Lieutenant of the Order of the Hand and leader of the Order's presence in the Harrow-Dale area, was a shrewd and ruthless commander. He was also a stalwart believer in the Order's principals. His favorite uncle having been murdered at the hands of lycan half-breeds and having dedicated his adult life to their eradication, he knew more than most the danger such sub-human scum represented. Some would have called the order to sack Hambleton over-kill and cruel; Malback knew it was simply precaution. "If the folk of this hamlet are pure and did not assist the abomination, then Heironeous will spare them and they have nothing to fear. If they burn...Well, the wrath of Gods can be brutal. Perhaps in death they can cleanse their souls." If the half-breed mockery - the so-called "dark Paladin" - had tainted this place with his presence, better to purge it with flame then let the people succumb to it's rot. Some of the villagers tried to run from the mounted soldiers as they tore through the high street. Most however simply cowered in the shadows, knowing there was nothing they could do to stem the will of these zealotous men. Adan burst through the forest's border just in time to see the inn's roof erupt in flames from one of the Order's bows.
"Damn," he spat as he ran and dived through one of the pub's windows. The heat from the roof's blaze was beginning to fill the building, and Adan could just see the dazed barkeep Brom in the dark and haze. "If you've got a back door, I suggest you take it and try to hide." Brom took the advice and made a quick exit through the kitchen. Adan bounded up the stairs and into the blaze. Smoke and heat pressed in around him as he groped through the hall to his room. Adan gave the door a solid kick and the entire frame came crashing down, almost striking Adan on the head. He scanned the room quickly for his pack, and grabbed it just as the bed it was placed upon caught in the fire. Unable to turn back, Adan had one option for escape: the window. He took only a second to screw up his will, and then blasted out of the window, flying through the air and grabbing a low tree branch to slow his decent. He landed with a soft thud and a shoulder roll, spitting out another "Damn!" as he leapt to his feet. Adan quickly picked himself up and surveyed the surroundings. The night was bathed in orange glow from the burning village. The Order's riders were galloping about looking for Adan and Artos. Adan knew he should just turn south and be on his way, the people of this hamlet were not his concern, and he'd have a lot easier time of escaping. Still...
Damn, he thought as he knocked his bow.
As Adan ran out into the high street, one of the Order's riders spotted him. "There's one of them now!" he shouted, and bore down on Adan with a spear. Adan let his arrow fly, and felled the rider as it landed in his chest. The other horsemen began to turn towards Adan, and he knocked and shot as quickly as possible, but even his elven speed couldn't hold all of the Order's agents back. Adan leaped just in time to avoid being trampled by a charger, but was grabbed by the rider. The soldier tried to grapple Adan, but soon found the young ranger's curved knife in his belly. Without anyone at the reins, the horse took fright at the fire and bucked madly, throwing Adan into a post. Adan tried to rise as the Order circled around him, but he had taken a major blow to the head and was losing consciousness fast. The obvious leader of the troupe sauntered up to Adan. "Vermin", he said, and was about to cleave Adan's head with his sword. Suddenly, there was an inhuman scream of rage, and the rider's turned to escape. Adan saw one of them knocked from his horse by what looked like a human missile, spraying a torrent of blood. "Vamp-" he mumbled, then slipped into blackness.
***
The forest floor was layered in morning mist. Streaks of golden light fell through the canopy, and Adan was walking back to the hovel with the day's supply of holly and mistletoe. It had to be picked at dawn. That's when the magic hour was, or so she claimed. Adan suspected that it didn't matter when the plants were picked, but she knew a lot more about this type of thing then he did. Besides, it was worth getting up just to see the sunrise through the trees, and Adan liked to have breakfast ready for her when she woke up. Apperantly she had already woken up though, because he could hear her voice calling him.
"Adan...Adan..."
A cloud passed low over the sun, and Adan became uneasy. The gentle breeze became cold and wistled weirdly. The trees, which were green and alive, suddenly looked twisted and dying. And in Adan's ear, her voice changed into a barely human growl.
"Adan...Adaaaan..."
When he turned around to view the source of the voice and wind, a great fear took him, and he saw -
"ADAN!"
Adan sprung with a start, driving his toned legs into Artos' chest. Artos recoiled, gasping and clutching at his breast. Before he could catch his wind, Adan had him pinned against a tree with his curved knife at Artos' throat. "Well, I hope you don't expect me to make you any lunch now," Artos said calmly.
Adan, panting and covered in a fine cold sweat lowered the knife and backed away from Artos, never taking his eyes off the vampire. He slumped down against a tree, catching his breath and taking stock. Besides his sore head he seemed to be fine, and he obviously hadn't been unarmed. His armor and clothing were still intact, and his other supplies lay close by his side. They were in a small break of trees, and a brook ran in a corner. Adan moved over and drank deeply from it, a great thirst coming upon him.
"You're welcome, by the way." said Artos.
"I didn't thank you." Adan responded through gulps.
"Yes, I noticed. I was seeing if maybe you had forgotten."
Adan wiped his mouth and looked over at Artos suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"
Artos looked at him with an air of growing annoyance. "Well, what I have been doing was making sure you didn't die for the last day and a half, and now I'm talking to someone who seems to be very ungrateful for the kindness."
Adan continued to eye Artos. "I'm grateful for the help, I'm just wondering what you want."
"Good health and happiness." Artos replied with a grin. Adan didn't find the flippancy very funny. "Look, I can't give you anything in return for what you did. You've probably noticed I'm not exactly wealthy like you. So...thank you." He grabbed his pack from where he had lay and, surveying the sun, turned south again. Artos took up step next to him.
"Oh, I'm not wealthy...At least, not anymore. And besides, I wouldn't expect payment anyway. It was simply a good deed for a person in need. Taking payment wouldn't be the paladin way."
"A paladin? I didn't think your kind could take the oaths."
Artos' jovial air suddenly diminished. "I have not always been a...I have not always been this way." Adan kept looking forward, giving no signal to his feelings on the matter. "What I figured was, since we're both being sought after by the Order of the Hand, we could travel together."
"No, you're being 'sought after' by the Hand. I'm just walking."
"Wrong, Adan. You are being tracked. And they'll dedicate even more resources to finding you now that you've been connected to me."
"Great, so I should stick with you to make their hunt easier. Brilliant idea, prince." Artos grabbed Adan and slammed him against the tree with a strength even his size wouldn't belay.
"Do not call me that again." he whispered. Adan didn't look very worried, but struggled to say "Why not? I mean, you are a prince, right? Where else would you get those clothes and that haughty tongue?"
Artos suddenly looked both embarrassed and sad, and let released Adan's throat. "I'm sorry. It's just...I'm not a prince anymore. I was banished from my home for...certain crimes."
"I see. Was one of those crimes being a vampire?"
"Half-vampire. And no. But it's one of the reasons I can't go home. I...I don't want to talk about it."
Adan shrugged. "Fair enough." He continued walking again.
"So," Artos began conversationally, "why can't you go home?"
Adan stared at Artos from the corner of his eye. "Don't have one to go to."
"Are you running too?"
"You could say that."
"From what?" Artos pressed on.
Adan stopped then, and his body was tense with what could have been anger, frustration, or fear. Artos couldn't tell facing his back. "It's not your concern. My business is my own. You wouldn't want to get wrapped up in it."
"I've got the whole Order of the Hand chasing after me. How bad could the thugs chasing you be."
Adan smiled that bitter smile again. "You'd be surprised." He turned to look at Artos with eyes that closed the subject. "I'm not having you tag along. Find your own way."
As he walked, Adan heard Artos' footsteps behind him still. "I thought I said you're not traveling with me."
"Oh, I'm not. But my road is heading south, just the same as yours. So, until our paths divide, it looks like you and I sharing the road."
Adan shook his head. "This is the last thing I need."
And so Adan Aiuruloki and Artos Kinslayer set off into the world together, on the road fate laid before them. |
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Biiiiiiiig update coming. I mean huge. The end of the first leg of the Chronicles of Weyard Book I, a short story entitled "First Companion". Then after that, I'll have it edited, and the final version of The Chronicles of Weyard: First Companion will be posted on The World of Weyard bloggy-journal-thingy. Yes. All goes according to plan. Today, the blogosphere. Tommorow...WoW! And then maybe the world. Takes a while to get to Lvl. 60, though.
Anyway...LOOKIT THAT!
*runs*Current Mood:  energetic Current Music: Cows With Guns, Dana Lyons |
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Well, you know why we're here...
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One would think that a man of Artos' size would not be able to move about as stealthily as he did. Acute readers, though, will have deduced that Artos was no man. Oh, he was once a man, but no longer was that title fitting for him. That part of the tale, however, will be told later. Now Artos was slinking through the brush of the forest bordering a farmstead east of the village. He was hungry, so very hungry. Many days out in the forests in the north had taken their toll. There was no good game out there. Birds and mice and rabbits, maybe even a deer or two if he was lucky. But nothing as good as pig or steer or sheep. Nothing that was soft and warm. He had hardly been able to contain himself when he first stumbled upon Hambleton, but restraint was a talent he'd had to learn fast. He'd had to learn to hold back his more beastly urges. Learn how not to stare at people's jugulars when he looked at them. Learn how to repress that constant, incessant, gibbering madness that even now still whispered in his ear softly like a lover.
Food feed feed lust hunt lust feed must feed we have to feed need to feed hunger thirst warm hot thirst need to quench it need to fill it fill our belly feed feed feed...
He closed his eyes tight and screwed his face into a grimace of concentration, pushing down the ghoulish voice in his mind. Years of training and noble stock were all that kept him from bolting outright to the scent of running blood. He had gone three, maybe four weeks without soft meat. He was not about to ruin this golden opportunity at a good hot meal.
The farmstead itself was not much to speak of. A thousand like it could have and probably did dot the country side. A single floored, thatch-and-stone house, most likely three rooms. A small smoke house for curing meat, an outhouse for curing other things. All inconsquential to Artos. He was there for one thing and one thing only; the barn...the pen. It was of medium-size, could probably hold no more than a few bails of wheat or other crop, and only one cow. He saw the door was locked though, and did not really feel like taking the time to pick the lock, nor risk being caught by smashing it. So he snuck around the back, and there was what could have been the Holy Grail for all he cared...
The pig pen.
"Oh, thank Heironeous," he said in a hoarse whisper. There before him were four fat, content pigs and an assortment of young piglets. It was a veritable feast after the gutter-food of the forest. Thirty feet were all that seperated him from a temporary reprieve from the gibbering madness of hunger. Artos could not contain himself any longer. Besides, what harm could befall him now, so close to his prize?
Five minutes later the carcasses of what were once pigs lay piled near the edge of the pen. Artos had not tried to hold back the barbaric, visceral efficiency of his rending hands and teeth. The sooner this business was over, the better. He loathed it. The feel of the blood on his lips, the stench of cold and lifeless flesh, the primal pleasure it brought him to kill these creatures. He went to the well near the pen and drew some water, washing off his face and shirt. As he bathed, he contimplated for the umpteenth time taking his own wretched life. How easy it would be to just take the cold steel of a dagger and slit his throat, finally end that squalling in his mind. He didn't obviously. Our story would be cut quite short if Artos had folded then. He pushed those thoughts from his mind. No good could come of them. As long as he could still fight off the urge, there was still hope. Hope that he could free himself...that he could return home...that his brother's death would not be in vain.
It was little more than the rustle of a few leaves, but it was a mistake on Adan's part and it cost him the advantage of stealth. Artos was up like a shot, ready to fight. "Who's there? Show yourself!" No longer having his slender leverage, Adan jumped down from the trees, and arrow knocked in his longbow aimed squarly at Artos' heart. "The ranger from the bar..." Artos said confounded. In all the time he had been doing this, hardly anyone had ever been able to track him, and those who did quickly found themselves dead.
"A little late for a stroll in the country side, wouldn't you say?" said Adan. He slowly approached the vampire, bow still pointed at the heart. Artos hardly looked as worried by the arrow as he did dumbfounded by Adan's presence all together. Finally, words came. "Do you intend to kill me?" Adan just looked at Artos with an unreadable expression. "I wouldn't be pointing a tip at your chest if I didn't intend to use it."
"And can that slay a vampire?" The time for pretense had obviously passed. Adan motioned his head towards the tip, which caught and reflected the moonlight briefly. "Silver-tipped. Poison to your kind. For just such an occasion." Artos knew from the scent that Adan wasn't bluffing. If that arrow pierced him, it would melt his heart like butter in pan. Even the vampire's healing couldn't save him from a wound like that. "But why? I've done nothing to harm you, or the people of this village. Why kill me?" Adan stepped in a little closer, closing the gap between him and Artos in case the vampire tried to run, and nodded towards the farmhouse. "Because you might do something to them. You start with pigs now, and then it's a beggar or travelling merchant, and pretty soon you'll have sucked the whole village dry." Of course, that wasn't his real concern. A vampire has to eat, just like a bear, or fox, or even one of the Common Folk. That means killing a few people every once in a while. No sane vampire would ever go and devour an entire village, even one as small as Hambleton. No, Adan was really worried about being tracked. He thought he had thrown them off back in the forests, but there was no way to be sure. No way to ever really be sure. His followers could employ any number of spies (they had before, after all), and vampires, while not inherently evil, could easily be swayed into service for some exotic blood. But if that was the case...why did he go for the pigs? Why not the sweeter juice of the farmer's family?
"Look, you probably thin-" Artos began, before a look of abject fear washed over his face. His nose began to twitch, and his face became flushed. "No...no, it can't be."
"What? What can't be?" Adan demanded. He didn't like that frightened look in Artos' eyes. If whatever he smelled was enough to spook a vampire, it couldn't be good.
"The Order of the Hand...They're here. They found me..."
Adan didn't have time to respond before the sound of horses and the cries of men stole his attention from Artos. He looked back out to the fields in front of the farmhouse, and saw a group of armored soldiers atop pale colored horses. Each bared a torch in one hand, and a sword on their belts. They're armor was clean and brushed, shining in the moonlight. Emblazoned on each of their breasts was a white human hand against a light blue back, and their banner-carrier bore the same on his flag. Their leader's helm was long and swept back, like an exotic bird's crest. He looked out and saw Adan and Artos.
"BEAST!" the leader cried out. "Abomination! We've finally caught up to you!" He gave a command which Adan could not hear, and they began to advance on the two boys in the field. "Shit. I have to get out of here," muttered Adan. He was fairly certain there wasn't a bounty on him from the Hand, but the scars from his last ordeal with them reminded him that staying close to their query was most often just as good as accomplicement. "Y-yes, as do I," said Artos just as Adan made a break for it. The Order's troops of course didn't fail to see Adan run, and a few broke off from the main flank to pursue, but their large warhorses would be slow moving through the forest to pursue Adan.
Adan was turning south, continuing on his aimless path. He wouldn't be able to use the road or go into a town for a few days now that the Order was going to be looking for him, but at least he had enough supplies in his pack to last...
His pack. Back in the room. Back in the village.
"Shit."
He had to go back for it. That pack had everything in it. His bedroll, his flask, his flint...but more importantly, it had the pendant. The only thing he owned other than his weapons with any real worth. The only thing he had left that connected him to her. The one thing of her left in this world. Adan cursed himself as he turned back, silent as a cat on silk. Why had he been so careless? Why had he taken it off? Of all the times to take it off, he had to pick the moments just before he ran off to face a vampire and get himself tagged by the Order of the Hand. It would have taken all of threes seconds to pick it up. And now he might just get killed getting it back. Be dead over a stupid mistake.
Then again...how would that be different from any other day?
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As per usual, this is a rough draft that probably has a bunch of continuity errors and spelling mistakes in it. But hey, you get what you pay for, chumps. The conclusion of Chapter I is coming soon, I promise.Current Mood: artistic Current Music: Nothing Else Matters, Apocalyptica |
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In gearing up for the big post (it's a-coming, keep your britches on...all three of you), I've decided to spruce the place up a bit with some much-needed background color. Dragons rock, I rock...it seemed like a logical combination.
It's late. Time to get in my two hours of sleep.Current Mood:  tired Current Music: The Sounds of 1:58 A.M, by Existence |
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Yeah yeah yeah...I know. I haven't been posting. At all. For weeks. But you know what? Fuck you, little kid. It's hard work writing this thing, and sometimes it doesn't flow. You can't force creativity, turn it on and off like a faucet. Sometimes inspiration is there and sometimes it isn't. Just the way it is.
That does not mean, however, that our intrepid hero (that is, me) has been slacking off completely. I've got quite a few projects on the burners, but The Chronicles of Ra is the one that's been taking up most of the fore-front as of late. While Chronicles is near and dear to my heart, it is by no means my oldest or greatest work. No, that title would have to go to a little diddy I can only call The One Saga, named as such because it is my over-arching story, my would-be Magnum Opus, my Dark Tower (winks heavily at his internet friends). It's the center of my literary universe. Almost every work of fiction I write can be, in some way, traced back to it, even Chronicles.
Now, I'm not going to give you major details on One, because that's not what this blog's about. It was made for Chronicles, and by god, it's going to stay about Chronicles. But, as I've stated before, I'll be going off on tangets every once in a while. This happens to be once in a while.
The One Saga is your fairly classic story of ancient forces of good and evil at war with each other, using us mortals as mere pawns in their elaborate games. I've come up with a number of short stories that tie into the universe I've created for the characters and events to inhabit, elaborating on it, giving it a real sense of life. This is the introduction to one of my favorite of these short stories. Tara, this one's for you, babe.
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"That's what the minstrels sing
Join in the horrible screams
Take part in murderous deeds
Renowned be the lion-hearted
Join in the minstrelsy
Wailing in endless grief
It eagerly longs for more
Broken bodies lay down on the ground"
-Blind Guardian
"There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world"
-Ian McKellen, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
While it is true that the eternal war of Abyss and Existence has shaped a large part of human history, not all things have been direct results of the Dark Power's influence. Our Earth, existing on one of the most heavily guarded Planes has been fairly free to carve it's own niche and forge it's own history. Some foolish parties might be quick to blame the Abyss for all of man's problems. The sad fact is that a large portion of our misery has been self-inflicted, and our enemies have merely taken advantage of good opportunities. Perhaps one of the greatest examples of this was the stain on human history known as The Crusades. For over a century the Roman Catholic Church and most of Western Europe made war with it's brothers and sisters in the Middle East in an attempt to "reclaim" the Holy Land. This the story of one of those wars, and how it had dire effects on the course of history, for Mortal and Ancient alike.
For when hate reigns, the servants of the Abyss are never too far...
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Ok, that's your taste. Now get outta here. I've got a whole lotta nothin' that needs my immediate attention.
P.S. A big Chronicles update to come soon. Promise.
P.P.S. Only a 8 more days as of midnight tonight until Star Wars: Episode III: Anakin Flips Out and Kills Shit
P.P.P.S. If you haven't seen the teaser trailer for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe yet, get your filthy unwashed heathen ass over to moviefone.com and watch it.
Ok, seriously, now I'm leaving...Current Mood:  blank Current Music: Vampires Will Never Hurt You, My Chemical Romance |
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The Chronicles of Ra
By Sean T.R.
Chapter 1
The village of Hambleton had always been a small one. It had one main street which was home to it's sole pub and inn on the south end, a stable, a single shop, some small homes, and a few branching roads that led to homesteads. Hambleton was a wholly un-remarkable town, except for the fact that it lied on a fairly well used trade route. Lying not too far from the western shores about five hundred miles north the Midline of the World, it was usually passed with little a care given to it. But today a new traveler appeared in town. Though a single soul, he carried himself as if the weight of many rested upon him. He was met with no welcome or dismissal, just the wind blowing from the north from where he entered. He wore a broad leather poncho with a hood, and his tough boots puffed up small clouds of dust as he walked up the road. To his left, a single cow in a pen mooed at nothing in particular, and the figure looked at the beast and nodded slightly. It was the closest thing he'd gotten to a "hello" in quite a while, 3 weeks if it was a day. But, this wasn't all so bad. The solitary life had it's advantages: no one to look after, holding you back. No women to nag you. And no friends to die on you he thought bitterly, and smiled. It was a pained smile. But, that was the past. This was the present. The hear and now. The only thing, he had learned over the years, that mattered. But the future quickly becomes the present, a voice from the past welled up. And with an attitude like that, it will most likely catch you unprepared.
Shut up, he thought. You're dead.
"They're all dead..."
Not a smile this time, but a grimace.
He walked onward, towards the pub, the weight of the dead bearing down upon him.
***
It was about Six Strokes After Noon, as far as old Brom could tell, and the going was pretty slow. Not unexpected, seeing as it was just after Summer's Eve, and the last big call for brew before the harvest had just ended. The people of Hambleton were now either out reaping their fields or off restocking supplies. Not much use for a floaty head and a stomach full of ale. It seemed that the local town drunk and the single merchant that was passing through was the best buisness he was going to get that day. But, before he could utter the old Closing Rhyme, a new customer walked in. He was wearing an ample cloak, heavy boots, and his face was obscured by a hood. He wielded a staff (ironwood by the look of it), and a bag judging by the buldge on his back, but nothing more. He looked harmless...How he felt was a completely different matter. Brom wasn't one to buy into all that magick, mind-reading ho-jo, but all his years in bartending had taught him how to read people. Who tipped well, who was a sloppy drunk, who was a stout drinker...but most of all, who was trouble. This person didn't look like he wanted to start trouble, but that didn't mean he wouldn't, either. "Sorry friend. Bar's closing." The boy (he may have carried himself like man, but he was far too short to be of full manhood) made no movement back out. He just continued walking in. "I'd like a drink." His voice was like that of a young man's who's throat has gravel in it: low, rusty. But most of all, it sounded old; haggard. As if this young pup had seen far more than his years let on. Brom heard this, saw the way he held that staff, and suddenly became very nervous. Not now, he thought. Not after the Eve. I'll never have enough money to pay for repair. "I'm very sorry, but the bar is closed." Brom said again, no cracking in his voice, but a perceptable uneasiness was in his voice. "Eh, whaddya mean Brom? Bar dosn' close unti-"
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, FRANSTON!" the barkeep bellowed at the drunk. Franston snorted what might have been disapproval, then went back to dozing on the table. Brom turned back to the boy, who was now right there at the bar. "Please," he said, his voice level and calm but leaving no room for argument, "I'd like a drink. I've traveled quiet a ways, and my flask is empty."
"I'm sorry, sir, but the bar is still-" It was at this point that Franston had decided to make his move, making to strike the boy with a bottle. Trying to rile our barkeep, eh? But, before the man could even begin to bring the blow down, the boy had already thrown back his cloak, knocked the bottle out of Franston's hands, smacked him in the jaw, and drawn his cloak back, all in one fluid movement. It was so fast Brom wasn't even sure what had happened until he saw the drunk lying on the ground screaming and clutching at his mouth. "Franston, you damn fool..." Brom moaned. He wanted to go make sure his friend was ok, even if he had been acting stupid. But Brom made no move to do so, not wanting to provoke this stranger any further. As if hearing his thought, the stranger spoke again; "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want a drink. And don't worry about him," he jerked his head towards Franton, "I only tapped him. He's just belly-aching." The stranger now turned down his hood. He had brown hair that was neck length and matted in the back. His features were slightly elven, with somewhat pointed ears, bright green eyes, and a smally pointed face. He was young (as Brom had expected) and fair (which he had not expected), but hard, like stone that has been blasted by wind and rain until smooth. But there was something else too...some exotic quality (even by Elven standards) that Brom could not place. It gave the boy a slightly fearsome look, like a slow-burning fire lay deep within him, and it could blow at any moment. "Now...about that drink?"
***
It was now 9 Strokes After Noon, and the sun was beginning to set. Franston had given up trying to garner sympathy (and mabey a free drink), the merchant had since retired to this room, Brom served the boy, filling his flask when he was beckoned, and the night had gone on rather uneventfully. The only point of interest had been when Brom questioned, rather tentatively, how the boy was to pay for this. The boy then rummaged within the bag slung on his back, and layed 2 gold coins on the counter. More than enough for the ale and brew the barkeep had...more than he had the change for. "I can't change this" he said. "It dosn't matter." The boy didn't even look up from his drink.
It was at about 9 Strokes After Noon (in a village with no Timekeeper or sundial, it was hard to tell precisely), that the other stranger came. He walked into the bar, seeming to be the antithesis of the first boy. His clothes, while they at one point may have been welcomed in a bearucrat's court, were now mud-stained and dirt-ridden shadows of their former selves. He was tall, muscular, of heavy build. His face was chiseled and handsome, like a knight out of a children's story. When he walked in, he was smiling, a thing that seemed to glow with it's own inner-light in the gloom of the bar. "Can I help you, sir?" said Brom. "Oh, he gets a 'can I help you, sir'." The boy looked at this newcomer, grunted "Pretty boy.", and went back to his ale. The newcomer didn't seem to notice. "Indeed you could help me, my good man." he said. His voice was strong but friendly, a pleasant sound, and he smiled as he spoke. It was the kind of smile that opened doors and made friends. "I've been traveling some ways, and I was wondering if you could direct me to an inn?"
"Well, you're in luck, young master. This is not only the sole pub, but the sole inn in town!" said Brom. "Splendid!" said the newcomer. He walked up to the bar and reached into his breast pocket, producing a gold coin. "Will this cover a room?" Brom, astounded that he was making more this day then he usually did the entire season, just gaped and nodded, then went up to prepare the room. The stranger took a seat next to the boy and looked around, surveying the bar. It was a fair sized room, with 3 tables towards the front door, the bar in the back. To the left of the bar was a narrow stairway which, one could assume, led to the inn rooms. Behind the a door to the right of the bar was the kitchen. As he was looking around, the boy was taking in the stranger. Feeling him out. Having had to hone his abilities of perception to near perfection living out in the wilds (not to mention in what most called "civilization", just another form of wild to the boy), he was usually able to get a good feel for people when he met them; what kind of person they were, what they were, and most importantly, did they present a threat to him? This stranger was obviously royalty from his clothes, but the boy could also tell from the way he carried himself, and the glow of charisma he seemed to give off. Why he was apperantly wandering in the wilderness was a mystery, however. Probably got bored inside the palace walls the boy, thought with disdain. Got tired of always doing what Mommy Duchess and Daddy Baron told you to, so you decided to peal off? See the world, wrap it around your tiny finger and then come back, a big strong man? Sour news, friend: the world has you wrapped up, chewed up, and by the looks of you, you're about to get spit out. Pleasing as this thought was, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. This new comer, despite his obvious noble heratige, had something about him...something not unlike the boy's something, that exuded power, and a warning to all those who would think of crossing him. Nice and polite when you meet, but this was not a person who's bad side you wanted to be on. And there was, as with the boy, something else as well. Something...feral was the only word that could describe it. Something that seemed put a wild look in the stranger's otherwise pleasant and friendly gaze. And, as with the boy, a heavy saddness; this was was again someone who had seen more than their years let on. The stranger saw the boy staring at him, if only with peripheral vision (which, with the boy, was just as good as staring wide-eyed), and beamed that winning smile at him. The boy wasn't phased. "Hile, friend. You do know it's impolite to stare" The boy didn't offer a return hile, just sipped at his ale and said "I'm not your friend."
Not abashed by this rudeness, the stranger replied "Well, if I can not call you friend, mayhap I can have your name?" That feral glint in his eye seemed to brighten slightly. The boy, still not looking directly at the stranger, took another swig of ale and thought. What harm could giving his name be? After all, he'd have to eventually to get a room (something, he noted somewhat annoyed, Brom had not asked of this newcomer), and he'd be gone by the morn. His trackers would hardly know he'd been through.
"Adan." he replied, short and simple.
"Adan?" the starnger asked. "Is that so?"
"Yes. Why? Do you know another by that name?"
"No. Few would, I venture. A name of the Old Tongue of Men, isn't it? Spoken no more in most of the world."
"Not for over a thousand years." said Adan, not very interested in the conversation. The stranger was right, his name was from the Old Tongue, which had not been spoken since the War (as it had come to be known) had tarnished the World and broken friendships of old. So it goes, they (and Adan) said. "So it goes."
Adan took a large swig of his ale, finishing off the stein. "And what might your name be?"
"Artos," the stranger offered happily. He had the look of a dog who has been long without a friend or master that was just offered some meat. Someone who has been on the road along time, and wasn't fond of it. Too rough, too hard...and not enough food. That's what's wrong with him. He looks hungry...and it dosn't look like a joint of beef will quench it. Adan suddenly felt it prudent to exuse himself to his room. Best to distance himself as much from this "Artos" before he revealed his true nature. "Barkeep," Adan said, "I'll be taking a room."
"Will that be out of your previous pay, sir?" said Brom, taking Adan's empty stein.
"Yes."
Brom nodded and rummaged behind the bar for a key. He had since grown tired of trying to ignore Adan and had just accepted that this boy was staying. Two gold coins didn't hurt this either. Adan stood up from the bar without another word to Artos or Brom, and climbed the stairs to the Inn. It was totally average, a hallway snaking in a square around the building, with rooms on either side of the walls. Adan's room was on the east side, facing out towards the rising sun. He opened the door, made a quick scan of the room for escape routes (the medium sized window looking to be the best option), and laid his sack down by the side of the bed. Laying his head down on the pillow, he drifted off into the light and dreamless sleep of the paranoid.
***
It was about 3 Strokes later that Adan was awakened. Nothing perceptible had stirred in the room, but he sensed danger never the less. Trouble brewing. Raking the room with his eyes told him that nothing was a miss there. He went to the window, which looked out towards the forest and a road leading to a small farm. The moon was only a quarter-full and shrouded by clouds, and the stars were faint. It was hard to see out into that inky darkness, but not impossible. Adan was lucky enough to have inherited his father's elven eyes, and the low light was not a hinderence to him. For a few minutes he didn't see anything. That's it...I'm finally losing my mind...Then he saw it. Nothing really than a lighter shadow among darker ones, but it was man-sized, and moving. Moving towards the farm...towards food. Towards blood.
"Looks like Artos couldn't hold his gut back any longer.." Adan slung his bag over his shoulder, and gripped the knife on his belt. It looked like it was going to be a long night.
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This is the first half of the first chapter in the first book of an ongoing novel series, entitled the Chronicles of Ra. It takes place in Weyard, a world that was once steeped in deep magic, where the Five Races claimed dominion and the Dragons guarded over peace and good. But a great cataclysm some centuries ago sundered this world, and now the "magic folk" dwindle in number, and the Dragons begin to recede from the world. Ra is a location central to Weyard and to Adan, the lone ranger who is the center of this tale. What Adan's quest in Ra is and what it has to do with the fate of Weyard will be revealed in time.
I hope you enjoyed. And now, rest...
Mar. 9th, 2005 @ 08:20 pm
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Ahoy hoy. If you're reading this, you're not blind. CONGRATULATIONS!
This is The World of Weyard, a spot where I plan on keeping track/dumping entries in my current work-in-progress, The Chronicles of Ra. This is not a personal blog. You will not be hearing me bitch about work, school, girls, politics, or why I beat myself with a rubber hose. This is just about my book...and rants. I'll rant a lot. Funny stuff, at least to me.
Feel free to send feed-back on the book. Unless it's negative. Then you can cram it up your ass sideways.
P.S. The screen name I intended to put was Sean A_R, but due to my being inattentive, it's now T_R. I'll try and remedy that as soon as possible.
Mar. 9th, 2005 @ 12:22 pm
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