Plays With Matches (The Duelists)

The Duelists

A last dance

One last goodbye to the lover, one final kiss

And the piano and the saxophone lament goodbye

The people file out into the wet neon city

A wave farewell

The cab drives off through the yellow street lights

You slosh through the puddles, coat pulled tight

The chill augments as a red siren goes by

A phone call

“Hello?” As he speaks, silence; your voice would tremble

From all the hatred, all the sibling-akin love long ago

The time has come, you feel your firearms fastened close

A final walk

Screaming, crying, arguing, moaning sounds

The city’s life-blood is the people inside of it

You are but a virus in floating through the vein

A cemetery

Your final journey through a dewy night graveyard; you think

For every soul who dies a new one takes up arms

You suppose another soldier will be born in the morning

A stranger

A familiar silhouette blots out the lights of a bar

On the sidewalk you finally stop under a light

No traffic disturbs the stillness

A reuniting

It’s been a while I know You haven’t changed You have

How’s life been I missed you Me too Some things never change

I hate to do this We have no choice Let’s finish this

A showdown

The click-click BANG zoom BANG BANG

BANG BMM BANG -thud- -thud- -kack- thud-

Tck-tck-tck -thud- shatter…

A new morning

One pair of eyes close and the red turns to grey

One grins like a devil, one rests like an angel

One new soul is born into the world to take their place

A lesson

The survivor doesn’t matter, whichever one, be it him or you

They stand tall in the morning by shattered glass and blood

Over their enemy the duelist can still find no solace or peace

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Ten)

Friend continues to walk through the desert and stare at the grooves in the sand. Nothing else to do. No games to play with no company to play with. The desert wasn't so pretty here in the maze anymore. He missed his friend Roderick. What was there on earth to do now?

For the first time perhaps ever, he realizes, a fool contemplates destiny, standing in the sun upon a boulder in the shade of a canyon. For the first time perhaps ever, a fool is solumn.

Friend continues to walk through the desert and stare at the grooves in the sand. A fool no more.

---

Days later he happens to catch up to a wandering soldier, the puppeteer of the strange men. He wears the beginnings of a white beard, and his dust-filmed uniform's coat is slung over his shoulder as he marches onward.

"Where are you going to, might I ask?" Friend asks as he tugs on the man's belt line.

"To a perfect world... wherever it may be." His eyes are shut.

"A strange way to get there, might I say."

The man kneels down, opens his eyes and looks up at the humanoid's face: "I can take myself to any world, all I need to do is but imagine... but I may only go to one more place... and they I may never, ever go anywhere again. My travels will be over."

He stands up, and nobly looks down at the creature. "I remember you. You seemed a loyal thing. You may... come with me."

Charlemagne is worried, truth be told. For the first time he is depending on the company of another for protection. All his powers are spent, all but two. The rest he has lent to soldiers on the field of battle, in return for their autonomy, their souls, while the others have been wasted away. His gifts are no more. He has one shot to imagine himself into paradise, and to decide what that paradice is. The final gift? Nobody may know for certain.

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Nine)

By the time the Paxian forces arived, the sun was piercing through the black clouds, making the world down below look like an ancient painting. The scene the artist concieced was this:

In the horizon of the desert, desert in a surreal sky of browns and golds and blacks like an autumn puddle, desert of sand and stone, lay on one end a beautiful wall of cathedrals, while on the other side lay cliffs and craigs in a maze...

In the middle the sands are riddled with all sorts of strange beasts of unspeakable beauty, mangled horribly. One man in a bloodied white and gold Paxian uniform walks parallell to the city and the maze, down the center, away from the scene.

An army approaches from the maze, and a city guard led by a mighty priest approach from the city.

In the center of the painting is a small, disheveled creature, cradling the head of an officer. Their lips move, the tiny humanoid speaking in a panic and the officer in the calm of a dying man. As the officer's eyes close, he utters one word, and the creature appears to understand.

Father Aequitas in his ceremonial robes approaches from the left. Captain Mausser approaches from the right. They congradulate eachother for their sound victories, and pay special heed to the hero who led the fool and battled countless demons on the way.

The fool looks up at the two, Roderick's head in his lap.

"My name is not fool. My name is Friend."

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Eight)

The battle rages on and the skies of the desert outside the walls of the Cathedral darkens to deep gold with blackened clouds. The fool called Plague by the onlookers from the city walls tear apart the enemies oblivious to his presence. The torrents of motley benefactors regroup by the front gates, where the battlepriest swoops a great sword from a high craig. Amidst all the chaos are two men in uniform waiting for the storm of war to subside from the natural trench they lay in.

Charlemagne dreams of his grandfather and the red truck years and years ago... ages. He thinks of Kayla's face. He smiles. He doesn't want to remember the bad parts. He closes his eyes and drifts while the battle wages on, and a sea of green glass, filled with sentient golden artifacts and indescribable effigies moving with autonomy, and rose colored humanoids with amorphous sacs flowing behind them... a beautiful, deadly, and deafeningly loud scene above the trenches. He dreams of a world of his imagined perfection.

He doesn't notice it as a benefactor's root-like jade fingers penetrate the ribcage of Roderick, and his trance is broken only by the screaming of the poor man. Charlemagne snaps out of it in time to realized his lulled state from a many eyed plant-like benefactor. Things run slow...

Charlemagne punches the stroking members of the benefactor out of his own face with his right hand, and then from the ribs of Roderick with his left, back now to the creature... throws himself backwards, crushing the eyes of the monster on the ground... It sends him images of peace... comfort... NOT IN THE DAMN MOOD, BURN IN HELL... Plucking out the eyeballs... planting his fingers inside the creature's sockets, and tearing apart the soft tissue inside the hardened jade...

Roderick clasped his hand over his chest, oozing blood, while trying to hold his stomach shut... "Get the fool here now", he pleaded to a half delirious man kneeling over a mangled monstrosity.

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Seven)

Roderick watched in awe as the team moved with stunning ease through the flanks of benefactors. These creatures in the wave seemed to pour together like a green, glassy water and pour themselves into their enemies. The ten men brought along with him showed no signs of fear as they unleashed strange, unheard of powers upon their opponents, each one a one-man battalion. Not to be ignored, the fool tore through ranks upon ranks with unnatural strength, killing legions of creatures that did not even heed his presence.

Besides them, there was of course Roderick, the overseer of the fool, and the strange man with the white hair, who seemed to be overseeing the squad of men. The two least powerful people here, by the looks of it.

"So which company are you from?"

"Shh- concentratin' ", said the man as he intently squinted and stared at the men. In his white Paxian uniform he looked a bit unkempt, although regal at the same time. Squinting in his white five o'clock, he looked like if he looked away all his men would just drop dead.

"Funny how we're the ones heading this troupe and we're the two who can't do a damn thing. Powerless, you know what I mean?"

"Huh?" The man looks confused at Roderick and at that moment the ten men suddenly stand idle and are promptly drowned by liquid Benefactors.

"Shit"

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Six)

The old Virginia Orphanage stood over the uneven landscape of the outskirts of the forest like a vulture over a cliff. The dilapidated red truck pulling up in front of the effigy breaks a young boy's reverie. Outside, a desolate scene of grey stormy skies threatening a storm was broken by the hint of pink in the clouds by a far off sunset. A strange man walks out of the red truck, the sole source of color in the boy's field of vision. He puts his nose against the glass, fascinated by what he sees.

A large, old man with a full beard and eyepatch pulls out an old wood cane and shambles towards the entrance. The red-cheeked fellow resembled a giant dwarf in a flannel shirt and farmer's cap. The small child sprints downstairs with anticipation and hope.

The man walks towards an apprehensive receptionist dressed in the same grey that covers the walls. A thick Scottsman's accent poured from the wily old man's lips, "Do you have the custody of a Charley Androwe?"

"Grandpa!", there was the young boy on the stairs. He was painfully thin, with a heart shaped face, large blue eyes, and was in light blue pajamas. It had to be his grandfather.

"Charley!," and the old man scooped up the boy with one arm. The two turned towards the door, as if that was that, when the receptionist said "Yes, this is Charlemagne Androwe, but we need to go through the procedures. You've never mentioned a grandfather, Charlemagne."

"But he has to be, he's the man from the dream!"

"Ma'am, I'll be taking the boy home today. Don't worry, I'm the real thing."

Some other staff approached from what seemed like nowhere all, and the commotion volume arose steadily as the man holding the boy begain to struggle away from the orphanage staff. Then the old man did something drastic:

Placing the boy down, from his now free hand he pulled out a revolver. They were all silent and placed themselves against the walls.. The two backed out and got into the red truck. The skies over the forest cleared up, letting the sunset through. On that beatiful evening, in only two, unexplained minutes, the staff of the Virginia Orphanage, nor the rest of the established world, would ever hear of the white-haired boy named Charlemagne again.

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Five)

The armor of a Gaunt is easily the most impressive and fearful thing that mankind has been able to produce in the realm of Paxia. Crafted from the bones of some long forgotten abomination, a marrow structure akin to natural chalk carves out a blasphemous effigy, augmented in effect by the obsidian peaking out of the cracks and openings in the bone layer. Like a great skeleton of destruction, walking briskly with a newfound youth and a royal purple cloak adorning the skeletonic armor, Battlepriest Aequitas' footsteps echo in the halls of the cathedral-city.

He stops when he reaches the front of a great and decorous chamber, where a motley of soldiers, refugees and residents of the city eagerly gather.

"Officer Grandamme. Approach," and the mob moves aside to create an aisle.

Meekness is something Roderick is not well known for, but for once he looks as fearful as Ridiculous following up behind him. "Yes, sir." He notices from the corner of his eye more of his own allied troops in their white uniforms. A few of them recognize the man from many a late night brawl or revel, and nodded to their comrade in arms.

"The scouts inform us that your figurings on the movement of the Benefactors are certainly true. We are preparing for battle, and now that the lay people are safely secure far into the city, I will be representing the Gaunt force for one final time."

Roderick's foot is tapping uncontrollably as he waits for bad news. "Yes", coming out of his mouth like a croak, he tries again. "Yes, sir?"

"I am to understand you are the last survivor of your squadron, charged with the duty of releasing the fool behind enemy lines, is that right?"
"Yes sir"
"And why the fool."
"Sir, benefactors only seem to plague humans. We believe that the fool, who is a fluke among them, may serve as an alternative fighter whom the enemies will not engage."

The poor fool is too confused to even be sure what his name is now.

"Regardless, officer Grandamme, the fight will be coming to us. We will not have any time to wait for your army.You and the fool are to await the oncoming wave of attack and serve as a special task force. You will travel on the parallell line of attack to our walls and round them to the front of the city, where we I will smash the rest of them. Understood?"

"Who is to accompany us, sir"

"We will" drone several voices in unison.

Turning around, a new throng of Paxian soldiers stand in a line, all of them with a strange quality to their eyes.
Leading the pack is an officer with his cap on at a bad slant, hand on his hip, and a cocky grin, with white hair and badly burnt skin.

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Four)

The sun was way too hot for Dreamthief, who was sitting in a rock up on the cliff way too close to the gigantic high noon sun. His fair skin was starting to peel from sunburn down to his waist-- all he had on remaining were his pants and boots. Everything else just had to go. He tries to think straight for a moment.

The Prometheus gig isn't working anymore either. Same with the pressure cooker... even the damned birds forgot about me. I need to test something... Fireflies Journey.

Choosing a fairly useless Gift, a thousand small lights meander through the air out of his palm. Okay, now again. Nothing... Looks like I got one shot left with each. What the hell is happening? Okay I need to plan... get out of here alive. I've only got one shot left at getting out of this world and finding the right one.

Dreamthief. The one thing he wanted more than anything in the worlds was to find a perfect place. Everything back on Earth, the fighting with Kayla, growing up taking beatings from his grandfather... the accident... his grandfather dead but it seemed like such an accident... troubled... orphan... then streets... then underground where he found the old man... the promise... the responsibility... then crowned the Dreamthief... failing... losing Kayla... finally the one word to--

"ONE SHOT!! IS THAT ALL YOU GIVE ME, OLD MAN?! THAT'S WHAT IT COMES DOWN TO?! YOU TOLD ME I'D FIND IT!", Dreamthief begins to cry. Beautiful like a music box. A world of peace. Beautiful like Kayla. I'd rule there and we'd be back together. Or maybe I could be a kid again, when mom and dad would... No.

Today I'm here. Tomorrow I'm in tomorrow. Right now I'm still the Dreamthief in my book.

He reviews what's left in his bag of tricks as he jumps into the maze below. Perhaps for the last time ever to defy gravity... Damn I don't really have too much left-- I gave most of them to all the troops back-- when Dreamthief is hit with an idea. He recieves as well as he gives... in return for blasting powers into the Paxians, he took something in return. A part of their soul.

"Follow me."

Somewhere, surely, were a dozen soldiers, probably war heroes by now, who have been imbued each for unknown reasons (except to us) with untold powers. Somewhere, surely, they drop what they're doing and wander towards where they feel, in their hearts, a part of them saying Follow me. It is simply unresistable.

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Three)

Father Aequitas sits in a hall... a hall of shadow and crimson draperies engulfing cobwebbed statues of angels and saints, crucifixes and other such things, this small forgotten hall in a city of beauty.

Father Aequitas sits in a hall behind the congregation as he hears in the background an echoing of chains and handywork as the citylike Cathedral is fortified. The clicking of boots from behind draws his attention. A bushy eyebrow raises high on a bald head. "Oh, you're the soul who served as the messenger of salvation this morning."

"Roderick, sir," as the roguish officer gave a half-hearted salute. Immediately the priest stormed onto his own feet, drawn at full amazing height. Roderick could immediately see this man had been military and a high ranking soldier at that-- it bled at this moment from his very eyes, piercing eyes which demanded respect.

"Officer Roderick Grandamme reporting for duty, sir"

"That's better, my child", the kindly old man meekly returning to his seat. All this transition baffled and terrified poor Roderick, and his strange companion even more. The man was definitely one of the great battle-priests in the days of the Gaunt Force. Never did a world create finer soldiers, and never did any soldiers deal greater justice. But he looked so tired now... Roderick's pity was aroused, distracted mainly by the small creature peeking from behind his waist.

Aequitas closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, slumped in the wooden chair again: "So weary, Grandamme... have the slave there fetch me something, would you?"

Slave stood his ground, staring resiliently into the battle-priest's eyes.

"What is the meaning of this, does he only take orders from you?" bewildered by the odd behavior of a fool.

"He takes orders from whomever he pleases, sir. And he is no slave. He is a warrior." Warrior's grin was demonic, a strange play on a fool's innocent face, but then again, Warrior is a better name than Slave. He hoped that one stuck for a while.

"It's ridiculous, that's what it is." Damn. So much for nothing. The onslought of fatigue hit Aequitas again. "If... you are correct... If the war is headed West. This holy city will not stand."

Roderick looked around the old hall of the cathedral city, an environment quite alien to him "Sir, if you will. You seem to not have so much faith in this God of yours, that is--" He knew his mistake seeing Aequitas rise. Luckily a few other priests carrying a large chest entered the room and perhaps saved his life.

"Bullshit!", the very word shocking Roderick to hear. "I merely mean to say we won't just stand, we'll make sure the war ends in this very city. The benefactors can come to bring gifts of destruction, but I have no need to be given something I already have in abundance."

The chest opened and what Roderick and his companion saw filled them with awe.

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Two)

Dreamthief simply can't get his act together after the incident at the battlefield. Whatever happened took a toll on him, like he's been drained. Usually a few of his gifts would keep him on top of his game, but even they aren't enough this time. Damn, he thinks. All the power in the universe and it still feels like I have a hangover.
The benefactors seem to be changing route. The Paxians, he observes from a cliff, and the otherworldly beings alike are migrating west. He has been spotting a few outer-worlders mixed into the Paxian crowd now, and he can't help but marvel how receptive the people have been to accept they're not the center of the universe. They just don't realize how off center they were yet must be.

Where the hell are those damned birds? He sits on a lofty peek as high noon sets in, waiting for his entourage of messengers. For the first time in a long time the heat of the sun makes his thick costume iritate his skin and make him sweat. This does nothing to ease his already poisonous mood. Those birds should be here by now and... is that a headache?

Over the ledge he can practically smell the shady air. Yes, it had a smell, of copper or metal, of blood. Not to be metaphorical that there was a war far below, just simply that cold draft on stone makes an irony scent, which is far better than the scorching heat up here, which smells something awful. Like... humus that's been sitting out too long.

The first freaking bird I see... I swear to--

Women made of yellow-hued glass lift up delicately from the desert sands, looking like heat vapor in the sun. They surround him, a dozen perhaps, and link hands and begin to dance seductively for him. A scout group of benefactors. The most obvious choice against the porcelain Maidens would be his little pressure cooker trick (truth be told not all his gifts have proper names, some are just too much fun)...

At the snap of his fingers, the Maidens, who have been gradually dancing faster and faster, closing in... continue their dance. No no no, don't back out on me now! Another power proves useless and in desperation, before he is crushed by the whirling glass dancers, throws a quick jab straight into the fray, remembering the Tidings of Prometheus. A flaming arc melts down the circle like a blowtorch on ice.

While catching his breath (another first-timer for him) a solitary bird, a quail, begins to perch on his shoulder. Without removing his gaze from the horizon line straight ahead, he reaches across and squeezes the thing to death with one swift movement.

OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part One)

Situated by the desert mazes of Paxia is a city which is untouched, to this very day, by the often warring peoples of the nomadic tribes and feudal kingdoms.

The church is of a soft warm glow that seems to fill the stone and the stale air with a softness, an almost liquid quality, of which memories nest inside of, augmented further by the haze of incense. The glow of a small chapel, not common to be found in the great cathedrals of the capitol, and perhaps this is why the people chose this place as the Holy Seat. Father Aequitas lurches foward in his pulpit, the slackened body seeming to contrast his piercing eyes and gaunt face.

"You have asked, people, why we can have beings of other worlds descend upon us and live in harmony with them, how they may exist, if we and only we have been created in God's image. Such things look nothing human, and so how is it that they worship the same God of all Creation? Because it is not through image of the flesh, but through image of the--"

Not many things can cause a stir in the Holy Cathedral, and certainly during a sermon of Aequitas, but a Paxian officer with a large fool on a leash charging towards the front altar certainly may. Thousands in the pews whisper amongst themselves as they wonder as to what the nature of this visit is.

Roderick, suddenly self-conscious when he realizes the slight inconvenience he seems to be causing, at least politely bows before the altar before he leaps over the railing and charges up the pulpit steps. A few words are exchanged, and under the officer's suggestion, and to the people's bewilderment, all entrances to the cathedral are securely locked by deacons as another priest makes for the shrine, to acquire something the good Father will be in need of.

For this place is to soon be the site of a great war.

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Intermission)

(I recommend playing the attatched song to help deliver the picture more clearly: "Sailing" by Carter Burwell. Turn off your lights, and try to remember the most beautiful dreams you have had, ones not even a Dreamthief would dare touch)

Midnight blue...

It is only a dream... but the most beautiful dream. This one means something. It has significance. Something is different now. Something tonight is going to last. Something new.

Anna can feel it, and in her nightgown the young girl's small feet crunch through the snow, the snow which isn't so harsh on her feet as snow should be, as she leaves small footprints in her wake. The stars look just as cold... a light cold, a kind cold.

She looks about, finding herself in a small enclosed garden, surrounded by ruins of white walls and a solitary lamp light which isn't shining at all. Dead trees, soothing statues of angels reaching ahead, with pious lips and blank eyes. Snow capping everything.... a stone bench where she sits and waits.

She looks behind her to a frozen pond, and beneath the ice she sees something move, sublime and resplendent, for just a moment... something far larger than the garden, as though the pond was just a small window to something far, far greater beneath. She tears herself away from the small pane ice, as the beautiful scales in the great abyss almost break the illusion. And yet... Anna sees herself in the surface of the frozen pond, older and tragically beautiful. A sorrowful smile.

"Child", a meek voice askes from behind. An old friend she has never known. A perfect being, if there could be one, in the perfection of his face. He humbly holds a top hat in two hands to his chest and a soft purple velvet jacket elegantly clothes him, coat tails softly brushing on high boots of white. Upon closer inspection, he seems a bit too perfect, and then one may see that his skin appears more like material than skin, a pale white knit of fine silk, and his eyes dark and ponderous like obsidian marbles. As if he isn't real.

"Don't fret about the pond, Anna. There are better things, kinder things", and a grin spreads ear to ear, showing an unnatural nature to his face, which is even more comforting. Drawing her in, and making her smile,"Don't I know you?"

"All children do. Now come with me, Anna.", he walks away, facing her, his roguish grin haunting, long blonde locks like a wig spilling on his shoulders. "I have wondrous things to show you", and he turns through a small alley she didn't notice before, which leads into the midnight.

Overture to Nocturn (Part Ten)

The winding path around the sides of the desert maze may seem to be the safest route, but by far it is the most dangerous. When the Benefactors come to offer their services there's nobody to help you, there's nobody to snap you out of it, there's nobody to remind you they're the enemy.

Except this little runt of a humanoid... thing.

There were perks, though, big perks-- for example how it was named anything it was called... for example-- "Hey!"
"Yes?"
"Tell me your name again?"
"You insist it's Fezziwig Heinybutts, sir"

See?

Roderick grins in complacency... this isn't so bad after all. By far my best assignment yet, he assures himself. They continue to trail their way around the field of battle towards the officer's objective.

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Ten)

The Dreams of Fire. Curse of a Thousand Shards. Blessing of the Eternal Voice. Visions of Clarity. Passion of the Paladin. Candle-flames. Zephyr of the Soul. Song of an Era. The Creator's Touch. Glass Tourniquet. Chaotic Rift. Conflagration of the Storm. The Ten Plagues.

All of these are floating at the tips of the Dreamthief's fingers, today, or from the base of his palm. Soldiers are shocked at their new-found gifts. The energy flowing withing them, and out of them... one poor man falls straight into shock. He is the lucky one.

When the winds change, he just may take back what he lent out. Unless he enjoys what he took in return.

As for today, it was more enjoyable to challenge himself. Just a simple gun and bravery. Things were no fun even against these Benefactors when you had so much power. The only one who puts up a good fight is Leah. Ouch, that thought hits a sore note. Why the hell did he give that gift to her for free? It was a damn good one, at that, for what? So some old turncoat friends could--

PaiN SurGEs THRough The DReamthIef's BOdy anD for a MOmenT evERYthing aRound HIm sEEms to FALL aPart.

...

His eyes squint open on an infirmary bed. "oooh..." He feels pain. And an upsetting absence of pain. A nurse rushes nearby, boots click, shoes shuffle, and a crowd of medics and makeshift nurses fill his field of vision. Lots of words and questions. He looks around. Damn, his arm's in pretty bad shape. The other one isn't even there... They're running through files to identify him. What a headache...

The infirmary is a very sterile green, and leaves lots of room for aesthetic touch. Just a narrow corridor of thin paper curtains filled with metal beds... Dreamthief concentrates. Channels one of his gifts... A translucent, dirtied window starts to crack. The curtains' gentle swaying stops completely... a few noses start to bleed. Pressure is rising... good, good... almost... A few other patients heads crack open and cave in... medics flee, clutching bleeding ears, and the crowd is gone. He lets go and lightens the Pressure Field, sitting up in bed. The room looks a lot nicer when it's in ruins.

Now to take care of these limbs. Must have been that shock of pain, making me let my guard down and then I was snagged by some crossfire, perhaps? Maybe a Benefactor took my limb to offer another wounded soldier? Who knows... war is an weird thing to be in. Twilit sparks flashing in his remaining hand, as he recrafts himself an arm. This time he'll build it to last... there. The scars fade away, and, brushing a pressure-crushed remain of an employee aside with his foot, looks in the mirror. Good as new. Now what next...

Realizing he'd left all of his recipients on the field of battle, the same way one realizes they're naked, he walks briskly out back into the salvo of good and evil to take back all his gifts he'd thrown among the Patians. A wandering shade of grey amongst the harsh black and white battlefield of the soul.

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Nine)

Weapon was finding ways of keeping himself occupied on the road. On the leash tied to Roderick wsan't very entertaining. He was only let off the leash when the Benefactors come. That isn't fun either.

One thing he did was rub his nose a lot. His bones in there crackled and crinkled, then he'd tilt his head back and sniff. The dust in the desert smelled funnier that way.

Now he's jumping from sunny-patch to sunny-patch , making sure he never douches the shadows Roderick refuses to play any games with him. Just keeps pulling alone, and Weapon keeps hopping and rubbing his nose.

Sucking the water your mouth makes is another thing to do on the road. Then when your head goes back to smell the funny-dust you breathe out real hard and it sounds like blowing bubbles, so much that--

"Alright, enough!" Shouts Roderick, pulling the creature foward on his leash. "You're driving me insane, Vermin!"

Vermin sulked his way on, wondering why anybody ever called this officer a roderick or what that meant. This was a very long walk indeed.

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Eight)

Four miracles happen today.

The first miracle, today, is that Damian is still alive. The cancerous blithe that wracks his body makes him resemble a bleached corpse, with sunken eyes of faded jade. When he reaches his hand out to someone from his bed, it is to say one last goodbye.

The second miracle, today, is that Damian's wife, Charlotte, is still beautiful. She shares her partner's onerous malady, but the light of her soul could feed the candle-flame of her life a few more weeks (perhaps). Nobody lets themself remember that it has always been her husband's smile that made that light shine. When she reaches out to someone from her bed, it is to reach out for one final life to touch.

The third miracle today is that Leah came home. She came home with a smile that beamed hope and poured sorrow, on this golden-sun morning in the city. When she reaches her hand out to someone from her bed, it is to grab the hand that can pull her out of hell.

The fourth miracle is why I tell you this tale of what has happened today, in the golden-sun morning in the city. The hospice workers open the knocking door and let in a most peculiar, most haunting woman. She disregards their questions, and enters the apartment's living room. Gaunt Damian's face gets blotchy with excitement, and flustered, weakly stammers, "They say she needs her rest, I need Charlotte, they say she needs rest not me", as Leah is taking his outstretched hand.

Minutes later, the gold sun is covered in cloud, making Charlotte's room take on a shade that would threaten rain. She hears commotion from the hospice people, plus two voices that sound strangely familiar, but this means only one thing, and that is death. Damian is gone. She leans back in the bed, and the beautiful creature prepares to die, eyes closed, hand reaching out for one final life to touch: an angel's.

Darkness falls.

Life's termination brings the strangest dreams, the dream that an angel takes her hand, though Charlotte knows her hand must be cold and level on her breast. That angel is Leah, and behind her is Damian's soul, shining in the golden-sun morning in the city. It will be only a little time before she realizes this is no dream, and this is no death.

Perhaps there was a fifth miracle today, and that is the beautiful flock of birds, in every flying variety and every colour, flying through New York. They circle around one apartment complex, then fly off towards the golden sun; the golden-sun morning in the city.

...

Tomorrow there will be an identical flock in Patia, gathering in a desert maze. They will land all around a solitary man who's eyes refuse to close as the night brings on an orchestra of memories and prophecies in the open sky. The earth is his bed. When Dreamthief reaches out to someone from that bed, it is to give or to recieve, to create or to destroy. Tomorrow will be a beautiful morning in those lands... a golden-sun morning. But you already knew that, didn't you?

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Seven)

Castles of casualties line gutters, no higher than to the top of a combat boot, yellow lights in reflections of the puddles of a cobblestone cityway at night.

Roderick wakes up with a start from his strange dream, without realizing he's already cocked his gun and aimed before he'd fully woken up. He was fully conscious by the time he shoots his first victim with the rifle.

A victim would be a bad term, because that implies what just died is something that had actually existed. There's your first, the voice in him speaks up, the same from the dream, and it won't be the last Benefactor to snuggle up to you. He looks at the thing, a paperthin twist of green, luminous metal, mounting to a cumbersome glass, amorphous orb of rainbow, implying a head. A final cap of green metal spikes out on top of this glass... amazing how Roderick is entranced by just the very beauty of the pile of debris in his bed. A succubus. He'd been a lucky one.

Good job Roderick, just keep your head on straight. I'll look out for you. The dream voice reassured him. He meditates on this newfound comfort as he pours himself some coffee. No need to hurry.

Outside the tent set up in a corner of the cliffmaze, as the sun begins to rise early morning, are a few more tents and a makeshift fence that close a large rusty metal cylinder into the corner. Three times his height and secured with ropes and wheels , the Weapon was the most unsuspecting piece of wartime trash. He sipped his coffee as he looked around for his campmates.

One more was still alive Don't panic Roderick and he calmly watches the man die... a Benefactor isnourishing the poor trooper, stuffing food in the man's delighted face as his abdomen is splitting, as the victim engorges on all the Nectar the creature has to offer. It Don't get close, don't let it feed you doesn't notice Roderick as he lethargically loads his gun. The nectar is expanding inside his fellow officer, glasslike seed oozing out of all his pores.

The trooper, between mouthfulls from the spoutlike Benefactor's Nectar, smiles At the contraction of the muscles, even the ears and eyes ooze. "Come mffff on, Roderkkkhhh the froodsss grfffeat, mffff!" Rapid fire from the rifle, and he shatters yet another Benefactor (this one shaped more like a woman, and while still luminous green, has a spoutlike fixture as a head) then takes out the poor soldier, the hardened Nectar shattering like clay.

Amazing how he could take this all so calmly, he thought of thinking Forget Weapon, you're safe, leave now. Leave"SHUT UP!!! YOU'RE NOT ME!!!", he finally tears a handsized fleshy creature half out of his back, feeling a strange shock when thin hairlike members are pulled out from between his own spinal disks. "SHIT, DIE, MY GOD MY GOD, GET OFF!!!", the rest of his round of ammo spilling into the small creature.

He'd come so close to falling for their tricks. The Benefactors... even in war they'll speak so kindly into your ear. He struts over to the giant... bucket, the best word for it, back to his common overconfident gusto. Roderick grabs a rope and tips it over.

Roderick's head tilts when he sees what is inside.

...

"So you're Weapon."
"If you say that I am.", the threadbare fool meekly puts.
"Come with me."

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Six)

Benefactions of Benefactors, horizon like a Benefactory
Creams and greys, forgotten days, missile path's trajectory

Once upon a rampart we watch, we gaze
A husband is lost, a wife is won
to the cold copper, the blistering heat
-of a gun-

Incertainly the Incinerators, repenting in Insynergy
Glass and haze, forgotten ways, skeleton of a clergy

Once upon a deep shore we fight, we die
A dear friend is lost, a child is won
to the kindly barrel, the impartial bullet
-of a gun-

Engineers shall soon Engender, machinations they Engenerate
Burn and blaze, forgotten maze, a face they can't confiscate

Once upon a desert we build, we fall
A people is lost, tradition is won
to the dark of the metal, the light of the flash
-of a gun-

--Ballad of the Benificent Day, Commen Patian Minstrel Song

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Five)

Leah wishes Dreamthief would, for once, tell her what is happening. All of this couild really get somebody killed. She is cold, and wants to go home. Why is she doing this again? Right. People depend on her.

Because otherwise her life is transient. Nothing.

"The Benefactors will be here soon," says he, scaring Leah into a shriek. "Why are you afraid? You're the most dangerous thing here. Next to me, of course."
"That's why I'm nervous."
"Naturally. Sit patiently, and your turn will come. So what have you been up to today?" He sits next to her under the stars, behind the moon. From this angle, to Leah, the moon apears a nocturnal halo behind him.

"I took the bus. Visited them in the hospital." A frown. This is good, she thought. He speaks up. "How are they?"
"He's probably dead. Chances were he wouldnt' last the day. As for her, she's hanging on."

Dreamthief is silent, staring at the desert sand on this craig. Leah puts an arm around him. "They missed you. All of them do. They're worried."
"You're concerned about all of them, aren't you?"
"They're dying. They don't want any favors. They just miss you."

His temper breaks, as he springs up. "GHOSTS! That's what they are to me, Leah, ghosts!.... I wish I could see them. But I will never return to Earth again. Not after all that's happened."

"You're selfish, and that's all there is to it."
"No, I simply hurt, that is all. I was hoping... that we would have a share in this battle, then face off ourselves over the ruins. It would have been fun. Wouldn't you say, Leah?"

She is disgusted with him. Powerful as he is, Dreamthief is in many ways just a child.

"Leah? Come here", he holds out his hands. Taking them, energy pulses within her. "This is the Gift of Recay. It will reverse all signs and effects of bodily decay. I would like you to have it, and give them my regards."

She can't meet his gaze, becasue she can tell: he knows this is what she came for. Another favor.

Proud, angry, and sad all at once, Dreamthief holds his head high and watches the soon-to-be field of battle in the desert maze below. Behind his shoulder Leah fades away with yet another of the Dreamthief's gifts. She has never felt so much sorrow in her life.

...

A mist behind what appears to be a glass sheet anounces the Benefactors are here. The horizon draws near. Beneath is the flotsam of camp where the Patian peoples await their enemy, and where Dreamthief assumes the form of yet another cream-color uniformed officer.

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Four)

Sounds of drumming. Sounds of marching echo in this giant metal bucket. This would hold lots of soapy-water. Drumming. Who's drumming? Do fools drum? Are they allowed to? Subject is putting his ear to the side of the bucket. It jostles and he hits his head. But he could drum. He can keep time, he thinks smugly. He can keep time to a drum, and time could drum if he got confused. But it didn't matter if fools could drum.

He is a test now, he thinks while he stretches out, then trying to lie down inside the rolling bucket. No yellow aprons, no, now a blue pretty-suit. It felt good being a he, not an it. A test, not a fool. Subject, not Trash. But these were only vague thoughts in Subject's tiny head. He was busy wondering where the soapy-water was.

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Three)

A sunset of red gently kisses a night sky. Stars poke holes in the darkness, giving us a glimpse of the light beyond. Beneath the dark blue sky is dark blue rock, or at least the dry desert appears so tonight. Natural canyons, graigs and cliffs turn this place into a beautiful nightime maze. On the highest point of the highest, most inaccessable cliff, two feet gently touch the ground.

These feet belong to a singular looking man. He is clad in a deep grey Asian shirt, which reaches down to his knees, unbottened at his waist, and thick leather pants and boots make several silvery blades stand out from his belt. Upon closer inspection one will observe the silvery substance is platinum, lining almost everything he wears, making his pale face and platinum hair turn his image into a monochrome effigy. Underneathe his marble skin lies a quality of darkness, like white painted over purple.

The greys of his eyes (for indeed to call them 'whites' would do no honor) outline steely blue irises that possess a luminescent air. He faintly smiles. His hair gently moves to a sudden breeze. Turning around, he faces a woman. "I thought you would never come."

She is very much the same as the man, except her eyes, and clothes, are a deep crimson, which is also to be seen in a solitary shock through her black hair, and her outfit just as outlandish as his, although by far more refined. She walks to him and they both look down to the desert, littered with scattered tents and capfires. She asks, "Where are we?"

"Kingdom of Bernhardt, in the land of Patia. On the eve of war. I thought you might like to see it unfold, yes?"

"Is this place feudal?", she asks, eyeing the various faction-camps below. While her crimson eyes are a tad unsettling, her eyes are white and her porcelain skin lacks the uncanny darkness her companion has, making her much more comfortign to behild-- however possible this is. While he goes on explaining the land-- such things like how their technology is much like 'back home on Earth', and such, niught fully blooms, and the sunset touch to the sky leaves for another day's end.

She frowns: "What about Dmitri?"

The man gently laughs. "Leah, you worry for him? We'll return to him in a few days. He needs time. Let his story unfold."
"But still--"
"No buts, Leah. Do not interfere with him." Silence reigns for a short whjile, and the woman sulks. Then she looks back at the man.
"Are we in danger here?"
"Not at all. I will protect you."

...

And she almost felt safe. What could be more dangerous than Dreamthief? Leah looked as the night's performance prepared to begin. She didn't want to be here. But with him guiding her, what harm would ever come to her?

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Two)

"Damned if I knew how", the old, dark cowboy drags on a ciggarette. "But he's just a novelty at best."

Captain Mausser watched his aging mentor from his desk with an air of disgust. "You mean 'it' is just a novelty."

Finally losing his temper, Mausser slams both fists on his desk, and the nameplate falls off onto the carpet. "Damn you, old man, IT says its name is Trash, IT! Now get on out of here, I though I'd have something you would be interested in, but you're only wasting my time."

For a brief moment the cowboy's eyes gleamed in the most threatening and serious way possible: "You seem to have forgotten that I made you what you are and I can take it all away any time I choose. You're wasting my time just by speaking, captain." Then immediately the cowboy's famouis grin spreads again, wild eyes twinkling. "Now why does our small friend call himself Trash?"

Mausser's fingers keep stumbling around a fountain pen, as it clumsily slips on the wood again and again. "We understand that fools are born without names. They simply have no need for individuality. Maybe they don't understand it. Once they have been assimilated into living among us--" He pauses while the old man puts a finger to the side of his nose and blows, then nodding a 'please continue' "-- er, once this happens they seem to take anything we call them as a name."

"Mhmm"
"Yes", affirms Mausser.
"Well?"
"Excuse me?"
"Anything else?"

The captain rises from his seat and takes a step around his desk to retrieve the nameplate while choosing his words carefully. The cowboy impatiently shifts from one foot to the other in the silence. Polishing the nameplate on his jacket and returning to his seat, Mausser begins. "This one is special. A fine specimen, muscle tone bordering that of a human, and while a fool nonetheless, he seems to bear a degree of intelligence. Craves a name more than the others. But that's not all."

He rises to pull aside the curtain to a window that is easy to miss, and gazes out. The light doesn't seem real. "This one is the only fool that I've ever seen or heard of to make eye contact."

The old man ruffles his unkempt white hair, curls his mustache: "That's not all. Usually you would kill a fool in a second. You'll say 'good boy' to a dog but not even admit this fool's a 'he'. So it's not that you feel this one is more human. What's eating you, then?"

"He's the only fool to not obey an order by a human", silently cursing himself for not referring to the fool as an 'it' as he turns around to face the old man. "It took three strong officers to drag him away from scrubbing the floor, which was covered in another fool's blood."

"Fools kill?", his ears perk up.

"This one did. Usually they will only attack if death is imminent. It happened right after a soldier roughted the two up. Something else made him snap, though."

"How'd he do it?"

"Tore... tore the other one limb from limb, neck broken, jaw ripped off. So any one of those." "Damn... A man after my own heart!"

Mausser forgot how disturbing the cowboy's presence was. The old man continued: "Well I have no interest for a defective subhuman. Put him in your troops, though."

"Preposterous! Fools don't fight, and fools will do anything they're told, regardless what side of the battlefield you're from."

"Apparently this one doesn't. Just think about it. I have work to do. Take care, and be a good girl."

...

With that he turns around, trench coat flitting about behind him, leaving only the clicking of boots and a plume of ciggarette smoke to reassure the Captain he didn't dream up the ludicrous idea he was now toying with.

OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part One)

Worthless continues to scrub the floors of the quarters it had been allotted today. Dunking a wrinkly-wet hand into the bucket of soap-water, he pulls out a dripping rag, and the warmth of the water, the sound of drops spilling back into the bucket from the rag, provide a degree of comfort. Sensations Worthless feels so much every day.

Worthless and a handful of other fools continued to clean up the quarters they had been allotted today. With their usual confused, sluggish stupor. Their matching aprons, their matching caps. Yellow. Worthless was special, though, you never named a fool. He had been named. The officers called him Worthless once.

From his hands and knees on the damp tiling of a just-scubbed floor, the fool saw a handful of soldiers move through the quarters. They towered a foot or so above the fools. They were men. Contemptuously grimmacing at their species-cousins, they left boot tracks all along the puddles of soap, making Worthless cry.

The other fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Floors had to be clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? Worthless cried. It was special, though. Named. The officers did. And dirtied floors.

"OUT OF MY WAY, TRASH!" shouted an officer as he bashed another fool's head into the wall. Worthless wasn't special anymore? The fool named Trash giggled as the bruise burst into blood. It was named. The officer looked at Worthless: "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, TRASH? STOP DROOLING, GET TO WORK!" Kicked Trash-- he was now Trash as well.

Alone, the fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Trash stared and drool, holding its side where it had been kicked. The other trash giggled and cried, nursing his wounded face. Trash-that-had-been-Worthless hobbles to Trash and decides there cannot be two of one.

The other Trash understands, the kind giggling fool offers an "I WILL", not fully understanding.

So trash begins the process, throwing it towards the favourite soapy bucket. Starts to push Trash's head into the bubbles. "NO I WON'T, I WON'T, NEVER MIND" Trash protests simply in words that do not convey its panic. Begins to resist.

Trash-that-had-been-worthless feels a pain shoot through its body as a now-soapy, giggling Trash punctures its skin somewhere with something sharp. Now in a primal defense, Trash-that-had-been-Worthless flies into a rage. Red.

Trash continues to scrub up the floors of the quarters it had been allotted today. It is crying. But it is special. Only he has a name. Nobody's named the other fools. Red. Must clean the floors. Clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? A crowd gathers in horror around the floor-scrubbing fool while the others go on cleaning.

PRELUDE to Nocturn

Loading his gun, Dmitri forces himself to fight the gag reflex. -Click- Holstering his gun, he loses control and begins to spew all over the pavement. For some reason this makes him cold. Spitting out the last few bits of phlegm, he stumbles onward.

Back up the road is one of those damned dogs, bleeding out onto the pavement, making it reek. Took a whole round of revolver fire to put it still-- something about the dogs, lately, Dmitri muses. Something about the whole city in general lately. Was he the only one to see it? Hell. No use in chasing aimlessly through the neighborhood. Conrequiet was not the place for that.

Eyeing around through shades of midnight blue and black on the uniform white of the city, he eventually spots some tones of warm yellow light down an alley. His only choice, he follows the light and arrives into a fairly nice corner of the town, mainly a closed-in set of shops. The light above one door explains the source of the glow. A shop clerk most assuredly sees a fair skinned man in dark clothes draw to the glass door... Everything on him is dark, really: eyes, hair, expression... The clerk definitely sees the desperation on this stranger's face. Of course he opens the door, appearing gilded gold under the solitary light. In a tremulous voice the clerk asks: "What can I do for you, sir?"
Dmitri, never breaking eye contact, reaches into his jacket...

...

"I'm looking for my wife", as he pulls out a photograph of the most hauntingly beautiful woman the shop owner will ever see.