#god knew I'd be too powerful if allowed outdoors

[dr-peeber-hater]

"go touch grass" I CAN'T IM FUCKING

ALLERGIC

[preppernewstoday]

A Short Introduction A 1994 copy of Wired magazine contained a full-page illustration of Marc Thorpe, showing a radio-controlled tank and a chainsaw attached to its top. It was an advertisement for Robot Wars, which later became the BattleBots TV show you are probably familiar with. I thought, "I am made for this!" and went on to win many trophies. It's not bad for a software engineer. I found a Remote Area Medical DVD (RAM) while browsing DVDs in a local thrift shop last year. The one I bought was made in 2013. After spending just a dollar, and then spending 90 minutes of my time, I thought again after 27 years. Here's how I turned that desire into reality. Belmont, Nevada Every few years, I visit a hunting camp. It's very remote. It is impossible to get cell service, so I a can read b and listen to podcasts. I've found that I can hear stations from the east coast if I use the 1/4-wave antenna. This was again proven when I was listening to an old sermon from Dr. Gene Scott on WWZR, GA at 5935 KHz. He urged his church members not to just show up Sunday mornings, but to get involved in their local communities for the good of God. * Tonopah, Nevada I broke camp to go into town for breakfast. I arrived too early to get eggs and pancakes at the restaurants and too late to have lunch so I needed to rest my feet. After some delicious barbeque, it was time to get back on the road. I was flipping through FM stations and found "Pahrump’s only Country Music station." It informed me that there was a RAM event at the vocational school so "y’all come down." I then turned my radio off to call my wife. You won't believe it, but there is a RAM event at Pahrump. I'd like to volunteer." She said, "You go do it!" I changed my mind and hung up. I then turned on the radio again. It was all static. * I was in a dead spot and was not able to tune into that station again. Pahrump, Nevada I arrived at the school to find it was hosting an event. The event was quite ordinary, with the exception of the RAM 18-wheeler that was parked at the side and the scattered portable generators around the perimeter. It was already 2 PM, and there were many people in scrubs eating outside. They had surgical masks down to their chins. I approached them and asked where the volunteer check-in was. "You can enter the building through there (pointing at the doors), but you must wear a mask." I knew of the medical futility, and government control aspects to masking for the frauddemic. So I turned around and got into my Jeep. My brain prodded me* to get on the street. No mask necessary." I turned around and parked my car next to one the generators because I knew that there would be a door open to allow the power cables to pass through. In a Star Trek movie, James T. Kirk said "Learn how things works." Maskless, I presented myself at the volunteer check-in counter and offered my services as site security. "I have five years experience in church security. I am certified in both verbal de-escalation techniques and proportional escalation, if required. And I have all of my own gear." A co-sponsor of this event placed her hand on mine and said, "You are the answer to my prayer." I reported to the outdoors lead and was told that my shift would be from 8 to 10 am. These long hours have been done before, so I went to Wal-Mart to buy spare socks, Gold Bond powder to prevent inchiness, and 5-Hour Energy and Kind bars. I was able to make it to sunrise. Friday Night RAM exists to provide free medical care for those who can't afford it. Medical professionals are required to volunteer their services to a community that is in need. This is almost every community. These are the major focus areas. Dentistry Optometry General health Mental well-being Patients can check in at the gates at midnight. Services begin at 6 am. When I arrived at the gate, the cars were already lining up outside and 32 cars had been waiting when we opened it.

The check-in procedure is to get the name and need of the patient and line up their vehicle. It's that simple. It's to manage the limited resources and time available. My heart quickly changed from a slightly procedural tone to one of compassion as I began this task. Have you ever had to wait four hours for someone to come up to you and tell them that they don't use meth. But not me. But I was there all night, right up to the dawn, as their first point of contact. I began to get to know people and learn about their lives. A friend of mine in Alberta Canada lost most of her garden to a hailstorm. She was trying to grow food for her family. As I listened, laughed and smiled with these people, I thought to my self "The right kind of hailstorm in mine would place me in the same circumstance." But that hasn't happened yet. I was ready to serve by my willingness and my talents. The medical providers had already seen 233 patients by the time I left on Saturday morning at 10:01 AM and provided the equivalent of more than $101,000 in services. The same co-organizer was there as I was on my way to take a shower and get some sleep before heading home. "You were great. "I hope you're coming home tonight for day two." That was something I hadn't thought of. So I moved to the side and called my wife once more. "They considered me an asset and asked me to continue working tonight." "What do they think?" "I believe that I'm here, it's working and I should do it. Dan, I knew you would. * So I said yes. Saturday Night I was back at 8 PM. Although the line was shorter, I did recognize some of them. In fairness and to help as many people as possible the patients who had been there the night before were offered the option of either vision or dental service, but not both. Many people returned to the hospital the next night to be treated in the specialty that best suits their needs. In the gym of the school of dentistry, there were 20 bays. There were many instruments, sutures and numbing agents. Four autoclaves were even used to reprocess instruments. I felt that all of the dentistry was well supervised. It was 3:00 AM, and I decided to take some photos and pray over the areas. Asking God to make the decisions and skills of the doctors and the patient outcomes a success made me feel a little more awake. Many smiling faces returned to their cars, with many gauze-covered mouths. For the second crowd, the check-in process was slightly different because many people had arrived by word of mouth rather than following the official announcements on radio and Facebook. Although it didn't feel as busy, the numbers by Sunday noon were much higher with 394 patients and $172,000 of services. Also, I learned that the fancy 18 wheeler contained machines that could grind custom lenses for patients. So on Sunday, many people were returning to get new glasses. Free of charge. Only a small part of the team was working all night. I learned that there was an increase in people seeking mental well-being. This is evidently due to the sociopathic fear our governments have placed on people over the past 2 years, the conflict with Ukraine, as well as the rising costs of food, fuel and rent. Driving home There was a lot I could reflect on. I was an introvert so constant interaction with people took a lot from me. I was already charged up from the two days of camping. But I also took in the glimpses into other people's lives I was given. It wasn't about spreading joy; they came because they were in desperate need of it. I was able to help the team. If you are still able to fog a mirror, I encourage you to sign up for RAM events. These funding options will help you cover the cost of transportation and lodging. Cancel Netflix/Disney+/Amazon Prime (they are all evil corporations anyway) For six months, stop drinking Starbuck's coffee Stop drinking alcohol for six months Make a budget for it now. Sign up to volunteer

It is hard work. It is hard work if done correctly, but it is worth it when God comes alongside you to help you. The RAM people are great. I've volunteered to teach Sunday School, to drill water wells for Honduras, and to serve on a medical mission in Haiti. There is nothing like helping fellow Americans in need. So, go! Never forget the mission. All comments will be replied to: JustExecute@proton.me Footnote * These asterisks detail instances where God worked in my life, and without any doubt, during these two days. You can say the most powerful prayer you ever make is "Lord here am I" like Samuel, the young prophet.

[lizzieart]

Hey!! As much as I'd enjoy the idea I doubt I'm worth that much to you, but I'd love to hear about the characters you've created and if they are based upon anyone you know or knew for the ideals behind them. Hope you get this soon I'm interested in your stories.

Well first of all bless you, and second you are already worth that much to me because you took the time out of your day to send me a message!  Seriously, thank you.  I am a lonely garbage can.  And third, yes, some of my characters are loosely based on people, but most are just based on traits I relate to and/or admire.

I’m going to put the rest of this answer under a read more; if you choose to read it, buckle up, ‘cause there’s a huge fucking wall of text below.

It all started with a homebrew one shot my friend Cait was running in the winter of 2013.  I had never played a tabletop RPG before (I’ll still say tabletop even though she was running it online), but I had always been interested in her worldbuilding and characters; it was a frequent topic of discussion for us.  Plus, I trusted her pretty much explicitly with my sensitivities, so even though I was anxious, I agreed to join up.  The campaign didn't start for a few months after, so I spent plenty of time asking Cait as much as I could (without spoilers) about her world.  After all, I was (and still am) a person who completely overthinks every little detail of something I’m into (yay special interest fixation).

Just some background on the setting; there are two groups of people in this world, magi and non magi.  Magi were heavily persecuted (like at the threat of death) for hundreds of years, but not so openly in present time (although this can depend on region).  The Havens is a city built almost exclusively by mages, for mages.  It was a fortress that provided sanctuary to mages during wars long passed, and in more peaceful times turned into one of the largest universities of the arcane in the Uplands.  There are other countries/continents other than the Uplands, but those have not been planned out at this time (to my knowledge).  Anything else world related I should be able to answer as we go along in the rest of this text (or if you send me another ask; though we’ll see if you want to after this lmao).

Saoirse was a real diamond in the rough for a while.  I knew my babe was in that mess of ideas somewhere, but it took a bit to figure it out.  I decided on a name first (I had been aching to use the name Saoirse), and I drew quite a few pictures of her before I settled on a design, but even that changed over time as I grew accustomed to drawing literally anyone else besides other white people.  I had educated myself and knew what nasty tropes to stay away from and made her a person.  She's a confident, powerful, mentor figure, and her exuberance for life and love of her family has gained the adoration of colleagues and friends alike.  She has her faults; she tends to overextend herself trying to help people or gets caught up in her work; but it all stems from a place of great compassion; she is dedicated to making the world a sweeter place.  To be honest, somewhere along the way Saoirse turned into everything I want and hope to be.  She has a family and friends who she is close to and love her dearly.  She never has to hide her feelings or work to earn their love.  She just has it.  Saoirse is a child of love in its purest form.  And she brightens up my life every day.

Brennya started out as one of Cait's NPCs, but a relationship grew between her and Saoirse after the events of the one shot.  Cait and I aren't always in contact due to life issues and school and work, but she let me keep writing interactions between Brennya and my other characters regardless (thank you).  Also, while it is a side note, have I ever mentioned that Cait’s absolutely brilliant?  She double majored in English and Geology and then got accepted into grad school right after that.  I love her.  So even though I can't (and wouldn't out of respect) claim Brennya is purely my character, I was allowed to continue writing for her.  And the way I write Brennya is honestly pretty personal.  Brennya is closer to the person I am currently... and have been in the past.  Brennya is loved now too, but Brennya was not born into love.  Love was conditional, a commodity contingent on success; personal worth built on actions and achievements, not being.  She grew to be a successful scholar nonetheless, but success rings hollow when you have no one to share it with.  She can be deeply cynical of the intentions of other people and readily manipulative of others (getting what she can from them before they have the chance to do the same to her).  She expects deceit and is truly thrown off guard when confronted with an honest person (like Saoirse).  She wants things like family and connection and truth, but has a hard time believing they exist for a person like her.  So she pretends that she is impervious to those feelings; that wanting those things is trivial in the span of existence; until she can no longer deny it.  When she meets Saoirse, it's not easy at first.  Being truly cherished at no expense of your own is difficult to understand for someone like Brennya (and for someone like me), but it is a truly beautiful thing if you can accept it.  Meeting Saoirse’s family is overwhelming for her at first too; they are an intense bunch; but they accept her almost immediately, simply because she makes their daughter happy.  Brennya acclimates eventually.  

Personally, though I’m still not in a great situation, I have healed from of a lot of bitterness I used to hold.  Seeing them happy inspires me to do better in my own life; realizing that while it may take time, it will ultimately be worth it.  And that someday I will be able to love and trust fully.

Anyways, the rest of them are a little more lighthearted in nature, I swear!!

Aoife is Saoirse’s sister and the middle child of the Keir siblings.  She’s the fun, flamboyant sibling; always jovial, super pretty, and damn good at making others feel welcome.  Aoife sees everybody as a potential friend.  Gods help you if you mistake her good nature for weakness though; she’s a powerful force to be reckoned with.  She’s a vital part of the Bluewater Town Guard, and she loves her work, preferring busy places like the town square or the docks, where her nature as both a protector and people person can flourish.  She also adores the town’s children and always makes time for them.  She lives in a house on the Keir property with her wife Mazneen.

Mazneen is my newest character, so forgive me for not having a lot on her yet (I’m trying to do something new while being culturally sensitive).  I also think it’s important for me as her creator to state explicitly somewhere down the line that she is a trans woman (representation is a high priority for me), but with the really angry and reactionary culture of tumblr these days, it’s really hard to create trans characters without someone getting upset (watch, someone will write a really angry callout for me not ‘performing her gender right’ or something…  well guess what buds, there’s no one right way for a trans woman to be trans!  BEGONE TERF!).  What else I can tell you is that she is outgoing and so incredibly sweet, and loves helping people see the beauty inside themselves like she sees in herself.  Mazneen is also a savvy businesswoman and trader originally from the Havens, and has family, friends, and business contacts there (I just haven’t gotten that far in her writing).  She currently lives and works in Bluewater with Aoife’s mother, Meirna, in her tailoring business (accounting and supply are her specialties).  They mostly make clothing suitable for cold climates like Bluewater, but occasionally produce some finer pieces on commission.  Their regular clothing is really popular amongst the whalers and even gets shipped to other parts of the Uplands.  They’re basically running something like a fantasy L.L. Bean if that makes any lick of sense.

Meirna, who I mentioned earlier, is the Keir siblings’ mother and the wife of Roarke.  She is a woman of great intelligence, tact, and grace; people used to tell her that had she not married a whaler she could have been a favorite of the Havens elite.  But she chooses to completely disregard this, and to this day she is more than happy with her life; she is still in love with her husband Roarke, runs her own well-known business, and has three very successful children.  I also have the inclination to make her deeply spiritual in some way; the Uplands actually has a few religions with a decent pantheon of gods, but I haven’t quite figured out the details of that yet.   Regardless of spirituality (or lack thereof), people look to her for comfort and guidance.

Roarke is the father of the Keir siblings and Meirna’s husband.  He’s a retired whaler but still an active part of Bluewater’s whaling guild.  Being retired certainly doesn’t keep him from being out on the water though; he just fishes for a lot smaller catch these days.  He loves the outdoors and has a fire for life that just can’t be tempered.  But he’s also a MEGA DAD.  Like the best Dad I imagine one could hope for.  He loves his family so much and he’s so proud of his kids and all their achievements.  Intense honestly just isn’t strong enough to describe the way he lives his life.  Roarke is the epitome of ALL THE TIME ALL THE TIME.  Just a huge dude with an absolute heart of gold.  Where else could Aoife have gotten it from?

Arlen is the youngest of the Keir siblings, and takes after his mother more.  His intelligence and patience are unrivaled; and his charismatic and comforting presence gives him the perfect bedside manner as a physician.  He studied at the Havens like Saoirse and Brennya, but with a focus on medicine instead of arcane arts and archaeology (Saoirse and Brennya's concentrations, respectively).  He’s an accomplished healer and has been instrumental in improvements made to Bluewater’s current health awareness and services.  He spends time every year to make trips to Snowshower, the large city northeast of Bluewater, and sets up a free clinic in the impoverished areas of the city.  He eventually ends up in a relationship with Rory after some time (still working on those details).

Rory also started out as an NPC.  He was originally the character that was Saoirse's call to action; a former student in a spot of trouble, and Saoirse just didn't have the heart to turn him down.  Except that the trouble he was in was, in fact, much more trouble than originally stated; a large debt with a notorious Poppyport (a city on the southernmost coast of the Uplands) crime syndicate, Redbloom (also can you guess their specialty lmao).  After the events of the job, Saoirse finds out that she's only thirded his debts.  Turns out he's got some serious impulse control issues and formed a gambling habit that, as you can probably imagine, got way out of hand.  He has an intense need to impress people with flashy displays, always trying to one up himself and others, but quite often these gestures fall flat.  Rory was chasing that dream of being famous and left Bluewater a few years back, only to become known as a fool.  And even though it was free publicity, bad publicity is only just publicity until you owe a crime lord his debts.  So Saoirse takes a risk and flees Poppyport, making her way back to Bluewater with Rory in tow.  Redbloom has no ties to a whaling town like Bluewater, it isn’t profitable enough.  So now he’s stuck in Bluewater for his own safety, and it would have driven him nuts if it weren’t for befriending the Keir family.  He still isn’t a huge fan of life in Bluewater, but his work and friendships keep him well grounded.  He eventually starts dating Arlen sometime into the timeline, but I haven’t written any of that yet; it’s only a series of ideas right now.  I do also want to look into writing a resolution with the whole Redbloom debt, but we’ll see where the story goes.  He’s always been…  A little all over the place.  He was a mandatory character and I really had to think about a way to work him into the story, and even now I’m still not completely satisfied.

I guess my main point is that I’m not nearly finished yet; I’ve only just begun getting bits of my story down, but I’m dedicated to expanding this family and their world and I just really love them all to bits.  And apart from their main story I’ve got some alternate universes I like to work on too, like their Dragon Age AU.  I’ve actually written quite a bit of meta and dialogue, and even drawn some for that one.  I haven’t really shared it with anyone yet though; haven’t figured out a delivery method that feels quite right yet.  I tried starting a blog for it, but it got stuck in the development phase a few months back.  Maybe I’ll try and figure that out soon.  I’ve just got so many ideas!  Anyways sorry for the wall of text and thanks for hanging in here with me with I figure shit out!  If you have any more questions I’d love to answer them! 

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt IV: Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'