(Part I , VI , VIII )
The twin cities of Edin and Burgh were superficially similar, Steffan realised, after he disembarked from the air ship and looked out at the view from the airport. It was magnificent, and shiny in the sun, despite all the traditional stone buildings. After the walk into the ctty proper, he realised that the differences were more in the work than the people. Where there would be musical academies and studios in Burgh you would find scientific institutes and laboratories in Edin. It was overwhelming and liberating, and scary and bewildering. Somewhere there would be music and art too, the essentials of thoughtful life.
In the city, he examined a holo-map of his immediate surroundings and worked out a route to a nondescript hostel his father had recommended. Then, mindful of his pennies, he walked to the hostel and dropped his bags. Then, emerging back into the grand and dank outdoors, Steffan considered what to do. His plans had been vague and unmotivated, driven by a need to know whether Octavius had told him the truth, his perception of the truth, or something quite quite different. And to do that, a journey to Edin had been essential, but what now? Where would the truth be?
Dissent and unrest were said to be propagating here in the grand scientific capital of the moon but to all outward appearances it seemed to be at peace and prosperous. Steffan set off to find food and become enmeshed in the life of the city for a few hours. There was no better way to settle into a city than to explore it by foot and this he did. He spent two days ostensibly wandering, looking for work, but really exploring it and chatting to people in the taverns and canteens. As those days went by, the absence of all the members of his profession became obvious. The pipers did not dare enter Edin. Why? And where was the unrest? Certainly not on the news or on the streets. Why would Octavius have tried to send him here for no reason?
The third day dawned prettily, and Steffan decided to go out into the country. The wonders of the city had held no interest for him, and the mystery of Octavius's quest had paled. The monorail deposited him in a town called Canterbury, named for a great holy place on Old Earth, and he rambled around, feeling more and more comfortable. Inside a cafe, a cup of tea had almost made it to his lips when a troop of armed men ran by outside the window. Steffan rushed outside, and barely noticed when the cafe owner locked and shuttered the door and window behind him. The troops were running down the street, toward the church.
The church was silent and deserted, as almost all churches were at that point in history. It seemed nonsensical until the first shot, the shot that changed it all. The shot that was witnessed by him, the troops, and by a piper.
To be continued...
Friday, 6 June 2014
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Out of practice
Blast, I'm out of practice. Rusty. Sometimes you can just sit at the keyboard and tap away easily and other times it becomes so forced as to become an almost meaningless exercise. There I was for several hours today, wondering what to write about and forgetting the maxim: 'Just write'. So let's go old school and write for a bit, about whatever pops into mind. That philosophy is the whole shaky basis for the whole Quirky Muffin, after all, apart from a long dormant baking odyssey and occasional mathematical natterings.
The twelve plus hours of travelling to get back to Nottingham were quite fun, especially as it was by coach. For reasons diverse I am quite converted to coach travel from my previously preferred train journeys. I wonder if there's an obscure overriding reason that will never be uncovered or if it's just that the luggage is safely stowed away and that you can see the driver is paying attention and not playing games on his smartphone. In any case I managed to skip through books two to four of The Belgariad and remembered why I loved it to begin with back in the halcyon days of the 90s. The Belgariad is an awesome little series, and surprisingly progressive in places. You could even recommend if for girls?
<stream interrupted>
Recovering a stream of consciousness is like paddling upstream towards a waterfall. It's not impossible but you have to try very very hard. Travelling to Nottingham reminded of course that it's almost holiday time. Wherever to go, whyever to go? And how to squeeze a boat trip into it? In an aside, the original 1954 'Godzilla' was pretty good but quite the downer, so approach with caution if you require a certain amount of leavening in your dramas or if you have a boat journey in the future. Never forget the importance of factoring in giant post-atomic monsters into your travel plans!
Apart from 'The Belgariad' there is also a reread of the ever incongruous Peter David 'Supergirl' comic book series in progress, the comics that together with the Giffen and DeMatteis 'Justice League' really defined what the medium was to me. There's really nothing like those series anymore, or the 'Sensational She-Hulk' that I retroactively added to the list. 'Supergirl' was fascinating, running for eighty issues, and transitioning from an 'Earth Angel' protagonist in the first fifty issues to a road trip quest in the next twenty four and then to a retro time travel and dimensional flip in the final six. The road trip was where I entered and is what is being reread, and remains an awesome little run. There might be more on this some other time...
Oh, comic books, why do we all have to outgrow you? And 'Star Trek' novels too? How unfair, and frustrating in the grander scheme of things. It's quite the problem in many media now as I have simultaneously gotten a teensy bit older while television and cinema has sunk its audience target almost to kindergarten level when it comes to genre stories. How annoying. Fortunately there's a wealth of archive television and cinema to loot, but it would be nice to have a modern author in addition to Jasper Fforde. Jasper is lovely but he can only write so much. Brandon Sanderson is occasionally good (see 'Mistborn') but also so very grim. And I've run out of bookmarks.
Where have all the leather bookmarks gone? There used to be some at every landmark and tourist attraction in the country and now none anywhere. Is it a conspiracy? Please world, I need more bookmarks!
O.
The twelve plus hours of travelling to get back to Nottingham were quite fun, especially as it was by coach. For reasons diverse I am quite converted to coach travel from my previously preferred train journeys. I wonder if there's an obscure overriding reason that will never be uncovered or if it's just that the luggage is safely stowed away and that you can see the driver is paying attention and not playing games on his smartphone. In any case I managed to skip through books two to four of The Belgariad and remembered why I loved it to begin with back in the halcyon days of the 90s. The Belgariad is an awesome little series, and surprisingly progressive in places. You could even recommend if for girls?
<stream interrupted>
Recovering a stream of consciousness is like paddling upstream towards a waterfall. It's not impossible but you have to try very very hard. Travelling to Nottingham reminded of course that it's almost holiday time. Wherever to go, whyever to go? And how to squeeze a boat trip into it? In an aside, the original 1954 'Godzilla' was pretty good but quite the downer, so approach with caution if you require a certain amount of leavening in your dramas or if you have a boat journey in the future. Never forget the importance of factoring in giant post-atomic monsters into your travel plans!
Apart from 'The Belgariad' there is also a reread of the ever incongruous Peter David 'Supergirl' comic book series in progress, the comics that together with the Giffen and DeMatteis 'Justice League' really defined what the medium was to me. There's really nothing like those series anymore, or the 'Sensational She-Hulk' that I retroactively added to the list. 'Supergirl' was fascinating, running for eighty issues, and transitioning from an 'Earth Angel' protagonist in the first fifty issues to a road trip quest in the next twenty four and then to a retro time travel and dimensional flip in the final six. The road trip was where I entered and is what is being reread, and remains an awesome little run. There might be more on this some other time...
Oh, comic books, why do we all have to outgrow you? And 'Star Trek' novels too? How unfair, and frustrating in the grander scheme of things. It's quite the problem in many media now as I have simultaneously gotten a teensy bit older while television and cinema has sunk its audience target almost to kindergarten level when it comes to genre stories. How annoying. Fortunately there's a wealth of archive television and cinema to loot, but it would be nice to have a modern author in addition to Jasper Fforde. Jasper is lovely but he can only write so much. Brandon Sanderson is occasionally good (see 'Mistborn') but also so very grim. And I've run out of bookmarks.
Where have all the leather bookmarks gone? There used to be some at every landmark and tourist attraction in the country and now none anywhere. Is it a conspiracy? Please world, I need more bookmarks!
O.
Monday, 2 June 2014
In the park
(Posted a day late)
Parks are wonderful,
and country parks even better. If there is one thing that we surely
have more of than anywhere else in the world then it must be the
gentile parks, estates and green space of all descriptions. It is the
greatest legacy of all those generations of noble and aristocratic
families that we now get to enjoy those wonderful spaces all over the
country (for a fee of course), with the multitudes of nature trails
and paths that make them little holidays of exploration on every
visit. Do you think those generations of landowners would approve? I
certainly do, having spent so much time at Gelli Aur, Pembrey and
even University Park at Nottingham. (Also, Longleat.)
Was that serious
enough? Is it time to move on? Are the purists happy? Good. This post
is being written in Newstead Abbey, historical home of the
legendarily wild Lord Byron. I must at this point categorically state
that there are no giant Lord Byron robots stalking the grounds and
occasionally doing duck walks. That is absolutely not happening, and
any such news reports are certainly wrong. As part of 'responsible
person' training, imposed by the municipal authorities after being
caught dancing round streetlights in the rain, I am in Nottingham
visiting my leafdaughter (atheistic goddaughter) for a couple of days
and once again being reminded of the various Nottingham-related
things left behind long ago. It's fortunate that Aberystwyth is much
prettier as a town than the city here is!
So, Newstead Abbey, a
typical country park and estate. What are the best things to do in
these places? In general there are gardens and nature trails and
occasionally deer or birds of various unusual kinds. Again, there are
not usually Lord Byron robots bearing down on you with laser light
building up in their glowing giant buttenhole flowers. That's just a
nonsense. Also, the tufted ducks were not genetically manipulated by
aliens to confuse us all into submission. In country parks the best
thing to do is to stumble around and follow the various coloured
trails until there is nothing left to see and your legs are so tired
that you have to collapse on the grass and watch the clouds drift
over without end until everything feels better. After that you can
then go to the cafe and not buy any thing due to it all being cake
and look fruitlessly for bookmarks in the shop before preferably
going home. I wish places still sold bookmarks. It's sad they're
gone. You used to be able to get a leather bookmark from everywhere!
Oh, pointless nostalgia, I slay you now.
Of course all country
parks and rural retreats are harder to access for non-driving
individuals. In opposition to all things written here I horribly
haven't visited a country park or been able to for many years.
Perhaps the proximity of so many to Nottingham is one of the few
things that Nottingham and its area can truly hold over Aberystwyth.
That and having a Wilkingson.
O.
PS At some point it
would be nice if someone wrote a series of novels about a space
travelling Lord Byron, the scourge of the cosmos, and his
misadventures and scandals travelling the spaceways in search of
inspiration.
Saturday, 31 May 2014
Story: 'Oneiromancy, VIII'
Long ago, in the
ancient and classical societies, divination by visions and dreams was
already happening. In those times the oneiromancers were hailed as
prophets and oracles, who prudently used their shreds of dreams of
future and past events to ensure their own survival and prosperity.
Together they formed a fragile and widespread network of dreamers,
spread over the whole world but barely aware of its own existence.
The chatter of the
dreamline, never resolving to anything better than fragments of
events and dreams mixed up in the yoghurt of human experience, left
many if not most of the dreamliners in ignorance or denial of their
gifts. This status quo continued for thousands of years, memories and
legends passing up and down the line like fanciful harbingers of what
would be Jung's notion of the collective unconscious. If even one
person could have interpreted something truly meaningfully then
futuristic wizardry could have advanced the world beyond all measure,
but of course it was too early and people didn't understand.
With respect to our
narrative, silly as it may be, there are three telling points about
the history of the dreamline: Never did people appear in others
dreams directly, never had two dreamers lived in such close proximity
as Helen Ostrander and Stanley Simonson, and finally never had there
been so many missing links in the time sequence as there were now.
***
In the shared dream,
Helen and Stanley stood on the raft beached on the darkened island in
the middle of the sunny blue ocean and watched as the shadowy figure
emerged from the shack, waved, and started to pick its way down to
the beach. The domino pagoda lay forgotten at their feet, its message
ignored. The pebbles on its top rearranged into a warning but they
paid no attention.
The figure shambled as
all apparently good shadowy things must, and puffed a little as she
touched down on the beach. She pulled herself together, looked around
and then down at what she was wearing. “Decent this time, thank
goodness. No more tweeds. Hi there, folks. Still in decent sleep
mode, eh?” Their rapt expressions attested to their abstraction.
“You sleepers are so dull. I had almost missed you dummies. Welcome
to the prison.”
Helen and Stanley
couldn't wake up. Trapped.
To be continued...
Friday, 30 May 2014
Stars
You can reach up and touch the stars. They can feel so close that all the possibilities of the world are within your reach, that if you wanted you could turn slightly and shift between worlds on the back of a speck of dust, in the blink of an eye.
The stars have inspired humanity for millennia, only losing their influence now due to the fact we can't see them anymore through the light pollution common to humanity. Societies imagined diagrams linking the various stars, inventing powers that were said to influence us in our day to day lives, and then using those pictures to navigate the world. Even when we were exploring Earth we looked up at those celestial bodies and wondered. Now the stars are all that are left to explore, if we can only get there.
One of the fascinating things about stars, the suns of far off solar systems, is that they aren't really there anymore. The distances are so fast that even light travels for hundreds and thousands of years to reach our eyes and the stars we perceive are merely shades of what used to be, that have transformed and moved across the sky far from where we think they are. The astronomical reality is that the planet spins on its axis, the planet also rotates about the sun, the solar system is ploughing around the galaxy and the galaxy has its own motion. The sky is constantly changing but on so slow a timescale that we see nothing happen. Even the axial wobble that is going to lead to the North Star no longer being the North Star occurs on a cycle twenty six thousand years long.
Despite all the astronomy and the science and the navigation the stars are still romantic. You can, if you have the opportunity, go out there and gaze up at the sky and think about your true love, or the massive and wonderful world, or compose poems of intense cheesiness for your own satisfaction. You can go out there and wonder, wonder at the immensity of space and the possibilities of whatever might be out there. Those are all incredibly romantic things, and maybe that's why people don't talk about them any more. Maybe the stars being hidden by excess light is a perfect incidental complement to the cynicism of the world that shuns romanticism. We hide the emotional truth by excessive illumination. Such irony!
We can still do it though. We can wonder and think and dream. It's all possible if we can only see.
O.
Note: Some potential for disruption in the Quirky Muffin as I visit Nottingham for a few days. Here's hoping it works out anyway!
The stars have inspired humanity for millennia, only losing their influence now due to the fact we can't see them anymore through the light pollution common to humanity. Societies imagined diagrams linking the various stars, inventing powers that were said to influence us in our day to day lives, and then using those pictures to navigate the world. Even when we were exploring Earth we looked up at those celestial bodies and wondered. Now the stars are all that are left to explore, if we can only get there.
One of the fascinating things about stars, the suns of far off solar systems, is that they aren't really there anymore. The distances are so fast that even light travels for hundreds and thousands of years to reach our eyes and the stars we perceive are merely shades of what used to be, that have transformed and moved across the sky far from where we think they are. The astronomical reality is that the planet spins on its axis, the planet also rotates about the sun, the solar system is ploughing around the galaxy and the galaxy has its own motion. The sky is constantly changing but on so slow a timescale that we see nothing happen. Even the axial wobble that is going to lead to the North Star no longer being the North Star occurs on a cycle twenty six thousand years long.
Despite all the astronomy and the science and the navigation the stars are still romantic. You can, if you have the opportunity, go out there and gaze up at the sky and think about your true love, or the massive and wonderful world, or compose poems of intense cheesiness for your own satisfaction. You can go out there and wonder, wonder at the immensity of space and the possibilities of whatever might be out there. Those are all incredibly romantic things, and maybe that's why people don't talk about them any more. Maybe the stars being hidden by excess light is a perfect incidental complement to the cynicism of the world that shuns romanticism. We hide the emotional truth by excessive illumination. Such irony!
We can still do it though. We can wonder and think and dream. It's all possible if we can only see.
O.
Note: Some potential for disruption in the Quirky Muffin as I visit Nottingham for a few days. Here's hoping it works out anyway!
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
"Love isn't a feeling, it's an ability"
There are quite a few quotes you can lift from 'Dan In Real Life', almost all of which are vulnerable to the lethal blow of 'cheesy nonsense' that is ever hovering just beyond stage left. Fortunately my editor is away at the moment, being busily imaginary, and so I can just throw out quotes from little romantic movies without recourse to hiding under the desk or wearing the aluminium foil armour* designed to deflect patent cynicism. Anyway, love is both a feeling and an ability, inextricably linked and intertwined much like the snakes on the caduceus or the grand Gordian Knot. (See also: Ouroboros.)
<Blatant change of topic>
After a few days of intense gloominess only exacerbated by marking, it is time to cherish the freedom of being able to get down to some research! Oh, if only the absolute darkness of the glum could be averted always, and not just by carefully timed haircuts as in this case. For those interested, the Reverse Samson Hypothesis is still plausible.
Marking is such fun. Generally, it proceeds in the following manner for each script: You first look at the cover briefly to ascertain any pertinent details or clues about how capable the student was. If there's an extra booklet attached, your estimation goes up, as does the potential for endless reams of nonsense. If they're forgotten to put their ID number on the front, then hope takes a small beating until the contents are revealed. Upon opening the booklet the level of neatness or messiness of the workings gives you your first impression, which you then contrive to hold on to as long as possible if positive. If necessary you go away and have a long and comfortable bath just to avoid ruining the said positive impression a particularly neat exam has given you. Finally you go on and mark...
<Exact details of marking withheld due to squeamishness, wisdom, the rules, and a terrible memory. There was an atomic yo-yo and some screaming, which is all that is recalled.>
Upon completing marking, the marker usually has to unwind and forget about the whole process, if only to stop themselves from ripping up all the scripts and then throwing the shreds around the room in what is commonly referred to as 'Berzerker Assessment Fallout' (BAF). BAF was first identified and classified by Dr Lars Earbush in the early 1950s, in the aftermath of his being found hanging by his feet from a monorail in Seattle. Dr Earbush's subsequent studies resulted in no decisive conclusions whatsoever but did afford the dedicated academic and maker of plaster casts of balloon animals some much-needed respite. BAF has been estimated to last between five minutes and three days in most cases, and most conferences are designed to counteract any potential extended BAF by forced biscuit intakes at regular intervals.
Finally, after BAF has subsided, comes the exam board, whereupon the results of the exam and overall marks are considered carefully and then corrected to more accurately reflect the performance of the students. Such corrections range from the addition of a small raisin to their scores, to wholesale fabrication and then deportation of said class or lecturer to the Shetland Isles. In the latter case all concerned are awarded 10 extra marks on the condition they never show their faces again.
O.
* Said armour currently in patenting process.
PS Yes, the title was a decoy. Gotcha.
<Blatant change of topic>
After a few days of intense gloominess only exacerbated by marking, it is time to cherish the freedom of being able to get down to some research! Oh, if only the absolute darkness of the glum could be averted always, and not just by carefully timed haircuts as in this case. For those interested, the Reverse Samson Hypothesis is still plausible.
Marking is such fun. Generally, it proceeds in the following manner for each script: You first look at the cover briefly to ascertain any pertinent details or clues about how capable the student was. If there's an extra booklet attached, your estimation goes up, as does the potential for endless reams of nonsense. If they're forgotten to put their ID number on the front, then hope takes a small beating until the contents are revealed. Upon opening the booklet the level of neatness or messiness of the workings gives you your first impression, which you then contrive to hold on to as long as possible if positive. If necessary you go away and have a long and comfortable bath just to avoid ruining the said positive impression a particularly neat exam has given you. Finally you go on and mark...
<Exact details of marking withheld due to squeamishness, wisdom, the rules, and a terrible memory. There was an atomic yo-yo and some screaming, which is all that is recalled.>
Upon completing marking, the marker usually has to unwind and forget about the whole process, if only to stop themselves from ripping up all the scripts and then throwing the shreds around the room in what is commonly referred to as 'Berzerker Assessment Fallout' (BAF). BAF was first identified and classified by Dr Lars Earbush in the early 1950s, in the aftermath of his being found hanging by his feet from a monorail in Seattle. Dr Earbush's subsequent studies resulted in no decisive conclusions whatsoever but did afford the dedicated academic and maker of plaster casts of balloon animals some much-needed respite. BAF has been estimated to last between five minutes and three days in most cases, and most conferences are designed to counteract any potential extended BAF by forced biscuit intakes at regular intervals.
Finally, after BAF has subsided, comes the exam board, whereupon the results of the exam and overall marks are considered carefully and then corrected to more accurately reflect the performance of the students. Such corrections range from the addition of a small raisin to their scores, to wholesale fabrication and then deportation of said class or lecturer to the Shetland Isles. In the latter case all concerned are awarded 10 extra marks on the condition they never show their faces again.
O.
* Said armour currently in patenting process.
PS Yes, the title was a decoy. Gotcha.
Monday, 26 May 2014
Story: 'Wordspace', X
(Part I , IX , XI)
The Silly Stone was still, and had been for ages. Then he quivered, laughed maniacally, and wandered off to look at one of the walls of his little pocked of university. Mystery followed him and tried to examine the wall without his eyes watering from the grinding impossibility of what he was seeing.
"You come from an ordered universe, a world defined by immutable concepts. Progress is made by those of you who embody concepts dedicated to neither order nor chaos. Those of you with the capacity to choose. Outside of your... space of words... things are not so simple." The wall of the pocket universe looked so normal but also ridiculous. A solid barrier that represented the last vestiges of where they were. What was on the other side of the barrier that looked like nothing at all? Mystery reached out to touch it.
"No! Never the jabberwockey! Have you never had the anchovies? Reverse the thrusters, pilgrim!" The Silly Stone grabbed him with one of his strange appendages and rolled back to his little safe space in the centre of small but large pocket. That was when Club happened, launching onto the Stone and battering him to the ground. The Stone just lay there, taking it and sobbing until, Mystery managed to dispel his associate's protective tendencies. And for your information, those tendencies were great indeed.
The Silly Stone bounced up as if nothing had ever happened and began talking to a nearby rock, before realising it was just a rock. Then a funny looking creature with huge floppy things on its head appeared in an instant, before vanishing. The Stone started chattering away, then flopping and wiggling, before starting into an apparent conversation before waving an appendage and vanishing the creature to some other continuum. He turned around.
"Hello! How are you then?"
"How are we? We were just having a chat and then you dragged me away from the edge of reality, Club engaged you in fisticuffs, before you went off to talk to a newly appeared floppy thing over there!" Mystery was somewhat agitated. This wasn't mysterious so much as nonsensical!
"Ah, of course! You're the wordy fellows! I was just about to... Ah, of course..." The Silly Stone gathered itself. "Time flows a bit funnily in the different parts of wherever this is. I used to have a name, but now it's gone as if it was never there. Just a leaf on the wind really." The odd assemblage of syllables and solids and ever more bizarre things seemed to peer directly into Club's soul for a moment before turning to Mystery fully.
"In all my experience here, that I can remember at least, no-one has ever come here and forced me to do anything. Never. Until this hostile that entered your world. There is danger here, much danger. I don't know about the destructives in your world but now there is a new force from outside in your world."
Mystery stood very still and asked the question they hoped would dissolve the mystery into fact. "Who? What?"
"In your language you would call him War, or perhaps worse Armageddon. Someone who destroys without compunction." It was indeed the worst that could have happened.
To be continued...
The Silly Stone was still, and had been for ages. Then he quivered, laughed maniacally, and wandered off to look at one of the walls of his little pocked of university. Mystery followed him and tried to examine the wall without his eyes watering from the grinding impossibility of what he was seeing.
"You come from an ordered universe, a world defined by immutable concepts. Progress is made by those of you who embody concepts dedicated to neither order nor chaos. Those of you with the capacity to choose. Outside of your... space of words... things are not so simple." The wall of the pocket universe looked so normal but also ridiculous. A solid barrier that represented the last vestiges of where they were. What was on the other side of the barrier that looked like nothing at all? Mystery reached out to touch it.
"No! Never the jabberwockey! Have you never had the anchovies? Reverse the thrusters, pilgrim!" The Silly Stone grabbed him with one of his strange appendages and rolled back to his little safe space in the centre of small but large pocket. That was when Club happened, launching onto the Stone and battering him to the ground. The Stone just lay there, taking it and sobbing until, Mystery managed to dispel his associate's protective tendencies. And for your information, those tendencies were great indeed.
The Silly Stone bounced up as if nothing had ever happened and began talking to a nearby rock, before realising it was just a rock. Then a funny looking creature with huge floppy things on its head appeared in an instant, before vanishing. The Stone started chattering away, then flopping and wiggling, before starting into an apparent conversation before waving an appendage and vanishing the creature to some other continuum. He turned around.
"Hello! How are you then?"
"How are we? We were just having a chat and then you dragged me away from the edge of reality, Club engaged you in fisticuffs, before you went off to talk to a newly appeared floppy thing over there!" Mystery was somewhat agitated. This wasn't mysterious so much as nonsensical!
"Ah, of course! You're the wordy fellows! I was just about to... Ah, of course..." The Silly Stone gathered itself. "Time flows a bit funnily in the different parts of wherever this is. I used to have a name, but now it's gone as if it was never there. Just a leaf on the wind really." The odd assemblage of syllables and solids and ever more bizarre things seemed to peer directly into Club's soul for a moment before turning to Mystery fully.
"In all my experience here, that I can remember at least, no-one has ever come here and forced me to do anything. Never. Until this hostile that entered your world. There is danger here, much danger. I don't know about the destructives in your world but now there is a new force from outside in your world."
Mystery stood very still and asked the question they hoped would dissolve the mystery into fact. "Who? What?"
"In your language you would call him War, or perhaps worse Armageddon. Someone who destroys without compunction." It was indeed the worst that could have happened.
To be continued...
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