Buried 2

I struggle to focus my eyes in Malta’s dank underbelly. Scotch’s effects blur both sight and mind, and my own doubts, not silent since the day I discovered the Ritter family’s betrayal, prevent me from fully absorbing the majesty laid out in these depths. In 1943, fleeing from Chelmno, the Ways had spat me out above here, on the Crusader’s Rock.

The humid Mediterranean air choked me then as it does now. I stumble now, as I did then, in a heartsick blur, Lanzettenblatt gripped in my fist. To my mind, the only difference was that in ’43, my only company were wraiths.

Sergeant Ethan Blackstone is the only wraith today. Besides Hans, I suppose, but I meant the term figuratively. A simile, I think the English phrase for it? A pity there’s no wi-fi down here. Seems like a good time to look up English terms for Poetic Devices.

I take a deep breath and cough wetly. The air down here is just as damp as above. I hear myself talking, trying to talk, with a person whose language is some dead form of Greek. Would that I had a gift for languages. Riley knew easily twenty. I’m annoyed that he died. It seems like an affront to his legend. It’s more annoying that I’d not mastered my craft thoroughly enough to mend him. I built ALAREC for you, Tinsmith. Return and appreciate your pupil’s magnum opus!

A thunder-crack pierces my ears, leaves residual whine. Did Lanzettenblatt misfire? Did someone shell us? Too early to relive my tenure with Rommel! North Africa, a Drecksloch even before war!


What’s happening? I jump through a door because I see my companions do it. I cough as rock dust mixes with the damp air and coats my lungs with a layer of cement. A crude howitzer fills the hall before us. Black powder death. I fumble for the mental steel and speed I knew in youth, the days when Skyfire solved everything. I cough, wetly. This damn air. If the air were only dry, I could breathe. I could think.

I scrawl a sigil of separation on the floor, funneling my essence to it. I feel the water in the air. I want it gone. I want to breathe. But where to send it? And do I have the power? The sigil thrums beneath my hand as black powder death approaches.

My father never adopted cordite firearms, dubious of its precursor, guncotton, after an Austrian factory explosion in 1862. Poudre Blanche and all its children burned even when wet. Poudre Blanche was invented in 1884. I was five. If they used smokeless, I could hex their gear to dust.

Odds that an ancient civilization of wizards and alchemists were using Poudre B or more modern in their ammo. Slim to none.

The previous Reichsgraf von Eisenberg took great pains to keep his powder dry.

And this water’s gotta go somewhere…

Captain's Log 2

10 Meters
So the goal is to get under the lip and avoid the cannon’s fire arpeture, correct?
Pretty much, yeah.
Fantastic, easy but innovative, with bonus points for remembering enough about the local physics to use them productively. Minor point however, murder holes right next to the big gun?
Working on it, color me innovating….
Any reasonable tactical analysis is coloring you finely diced.
And this is why we never trust consultants.

6 Meters
This is a freaking long corridor.
Time dialation is such a curious thing, I’m actually rather bored.
Thousand apologies. I’ll book a clown.
No need, we already have one, if you can get him to detonate more than statuary that would be lovely.
The current decor is a bit austere, but the explosive bit is a good idea. If I’m still alive in 11 seconds or so remind me to suggest it to him.

4 Meters
At least Suzanne isn’t here.
I’ve never understood why you care, she’s hardly important.
What is more impressive, the lion that says about waiting to be served or the mouse that roars?
She’s nothing but a shadow.
Perhaps, but then so are you.

1 Meter
Not to overstep, but murder holes… plan….
Yes, aware, thank you

0 Meters


I had to know. I always do. Damn it. Damn the illusory comfort of accumulated knowledge, damn my curiosity and damn my inherent psychic frailty. Damn my petty desires for something approximating a normal life.

I found Elsa’s note at Safehouse A. A simple tracking spell, Riley’s favorite, brought me back to the Cathedral. It stood grim and stark in the glowering orange of streetlamps, festooned in yellow tape. An easy no-see-me cloaked me as I entered. As I did, I felt a metaphysical snap, and I knew that I stood upon sanctified ground, not aligned to good or evil, but a stark, amoral unconcern. I stood in the Cathedral that Knowledge had built.

The paper pulled me to a room behind the altar, perhaps a priest’s quarters. My stomach sank as the letter tugged down. That was when I heard Hans.

I felt relieved at first. Surely he had survived! His more embarrassing affectations aside, he remained amongst my inner circle since he reached majority in the late ’50s. I called out to him. He manifested.

A shade. Nothing more. The man was trying, but he hadn’t deserved death.

“Hans,” I said, and gave him a nod.

“Guten Abend.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

He gave a brief rundown of his last moments, and then added: “I miss Elsa. Where is Elsa?”

I glanced at the parchment, tugging insistently at the floor. “There,” I said, gesturing towards the floor. I mistook the pain on his face for simply the death of Elsa Ritter, but there was more. I tucked the detail away for later analysis.

“What are you waiting for,” he said. “Get her out!”

I settled down to perform an inelegant earth-moving ritual, the reverse of a spell I’d used far too often.

Minutes later, as sweat beaded on my brow, decay’s reek greeted me as I breached the mass tomb. The sight stirred memories. Memories of a man I wasn’t. Memories I desperately wished would remain dormant, until the day I died.

I covered my nose with a handkerchief and averted my gaze. The wrecked meat that had been Hans, Elsa, and Sam, my driver and the two women I’d grown to regard as lieutenants, lay down there. Little comfort that they suffered only briefly.

“Get her out from there,” Hans insisted again.

I found myself at a loss. Though in youth I’d cut my teeth purging the Black Forest of necromancers, I’d never actually interacted with ghosts that weren’t actively looking to repurpose my face as leather for its Masters’ jackboots.

I called Manuel. A real Voodoo holy man, he’d know what to do. An hour later, I’d picked him up and returned.

“You got a Veil?” Manuel asked. His eyes flickered back and forth. “No good, me being ’round an active crime scene.” I felt for him. No more prison for you, Manny. Not as I live and breathe.

“Manuel and Kasimir, entering as spectators.” The spell construct wobbled like a bowl of Jello before I snapped it down into place. My Evocations hadn’t recovered after The War.

Inside, Manuel regarded the excavation.

“So, you want to talk to them?” he asked.

I felt my throat tighten. “What would I say?”

“I miss Elsa,” Hans interjected.

I missed her too.

Manuel shone his flashlight down into the hole, then scrutinized my face. “How many bodies’re in there?”

“Three,” I said automatically, before my eyes followed the beam all the way down. A whole lot more than three bodies shared that grave, all in varying states of decay. And right under Hans’s room. I felt my gorge rise as Manuel turned to our ghostly companion.

“Hans? Who else is down there?”

“Elsa and Sam. Get them out.”

“Who else, Hans?”

“No one important,” the ghost responded.

“Hans, who were they?” Manuel asked. I felt myself suddenly not wanting to know. Not wanting to hear this. Hans’ shade cared little for my squeamishness.

“We brought Elsa up right. I had to protect my little girl. And she was busy. She did well.”

I felt tears sting my eyes as the postmodern world faded.

Winter 1942. Chelmno Extermination Camp, Nazi-Occupied Poland.

“Behind you,” I yelled. Riley ducked. I shot left-handed and got lucky. The guard’s brains sprayed the utilitarian concrete. Lanzettenblatt’s ice-hot fury shielded me from the stranger’s psychic death-scream.

“So much for stealth,” Riley said with a smirk, and brushed a bit of dust from my cheek.

I scowled back. “Master, do you forget why we’re here?” I felt little but Lanzettenblatt’s anger, crooning in my ears.

Riley’s affection turned to spurned fury, and then immediately softened. “Stiff upper lip. The part that’s hurting. Break it off. Hurt won’t let you think clearly.”

I broke gazes with my mentor, took a deep breath, walled off the part of me worried about my wife and boys. I returned his gaze once I’d mastered myself and knuckled his shoulder. “Right then, let’s go.”

Riley glanced down at my white-knuckled grip around Lanzettenblatt. “Kass, after this, we need to talk about that weapon…”

“After,” I replied.

We wove between the buildings, eventually losing our mortal pursuers. A foreboding pall hung over the whole area, making it difficult to see ahead as Riley used one of my wife’s earrings to track her whereabouts. It led us behind the meager residences, out into a blasted area still within the fences. A sudden stench assailed us and we both recoiled.

That moment cost. Glowing blue runes arced around us in a circle just as a cacophony of guns clicked. Ambushed.

“Well, well,” gloated an Aryan poster-child commandant. “Allied intruders? Here I was expected the Bears.”

“Ah, Helmut,” Riley said. “Good to see you again. Up to your old tricks, I take it?” He gestured cavalierly towards the circle we shared with the corpses.

“New ones,” Helmut said, gloating. “You White Councillors, always so gull—”

I struck without warning, electric from Lanzettenblatt’s infinite capacitor. The bolt pierced the circle and slammed into Helmut. I did it four more times, just to be sure. Necromancers can’t be killed too hard.

A weave of air propelled my voice to Helmut’s cronies. “I am Reichsgraf Kasimir von Eisenberg. Disarm. Sit opposite the pit from us. Keep hands visible. Do so, and you may live.” I gestured towards Helmut’s smoldering body. “Care to guess what your other choice is?”

“God above, Kass. You killed him. You broke the First Law.”

“I’d go that far for them, but ask yourself. Is a necromancer still human?”


My eyes narrowed. “You a Warden now?”

“Apprentice, these things, they. are. not. done.”

Helmut’s scorched remains scrabbled at the dirt, then righted itself. Riley turned and emptied his revolver into the necromancer.

“No Lawbreaking there,” I observed. I didn’t get the Laws, but I obeyed them. At least… I had. I felt out Lanzettenblatt: its satisfaction after blasting Helmut, its anticipation of more violence. I grew uneasy.

Riley shrugged. “No harm, no foul. But remember, we’re better than shit like him.”

“Did you lose the tracking spell?”


Riley followed the earring. Followed it down into the pit. My stomach lurched. Steel flashed amongst the guards. I heard a bang. Riley fell, rich red blood spurting from a chest-wound. I reacted, too late, with an air evocation slamming into the guard’s chest.

Riley’s eyes were already glazing over. The earring fell from his hand and rolled, settling by a decomposing woman. It took me several breaths to recognize her. I felt Lanzettenblatt thrumming in my grip. The urge to kill nearly unmade me.

“No Lawbreaking today,” I murmured and marginally relaxed my grip on Lanzettenblatt. Louder, I growled out, “Who did this?”


“Who did this?” I yelled louder, gesturing at the pit.

One of the guards balked at me. “We… we were just following orders…!”

“Cogo! Calligo!” I spat. The guards crunched together, and as I dragged my gripped left fist towards me, they fell into the pit.

“Adhuc,” I intoned, and they were bound still.

I repurposed Helmut’s circle, and then re-empowered it. Bent stone to my will. The earth swallowed the too-obedient soldiers and their victims alike, leaving nothing to indicate their passing. I only stopped once I’d reinforced the stone to my exacting standards.

In due time, Science did Magic’s dirty work for it.

I shook my head, clearing away the unwanted memories and an even more unwanted bout of nausea. Protein spill on the crime scene. No, thanks!

“Could you at least get my bones out?” Hans pleaded.

Manuel said something about active crime scenes, something that made good sense.

“Too big of a risk,” I seconded, and, with that too well-practice spell, sealed the grave. Let the lion lay with the lamb and all that. I took savage glee in Hans’ discomfiture. With Manuel’s instruction, I disappeared any traces from the scene. I dropped him off at his place and then returned to Safehouse A.

Home. A first story apartment in Sammamish. Home now. My manor, even were it still standing, would hold nothing but painful memories.

I’d returned home in time for Venture Brothers. I flicked on the TV, which promptly blew out. Right. Hexing. I had maintenance to do…

…and no inclination to do it. I stared at the blank screen, feeling suddenly, inconsolably alone. Everything I’d built since the end of the War, the false comforts I’d contrived. Gone. Not just gone. Slain with memories tarnished beyond repair.

Gah! People! Why fight monsters when people are enough?

I should have known. Hadn’t I seen humanity’s callous depravity not once, but twice in one century? Forget monsters. People suck. If you don’t believe me, just read Youtube comments sometime!

I think, somewhere along the line, I forgot that when I left the hidden world behind, I didn’t leave the darkness in man behind too. And truly if there is evil in this world, it lies in the heart of man.

Damn it.

Where’d I go and put that scotch?

Captain's Log

Sorry about the title, it borders on the unforgivable, but when life hands you lemons, etc. For now, at least, I have other concerns. I still adapt to this new situation, my public persona is ridiculous, but surprisingly useful, and on some levels metaphorical. I have never loved this Shadow, it thinks rather too highly of itself, but with Amber no more perhaps it’s hubris is justified. If there is no home to return to then this is where I must live, as opposed to simply exist as I have before.

And so the dancer begins to see the coreography, and not simply the movement.

A thousand pardons gentle mistress, it is often difficult to properly appriciate a creative endevor when one is unaware of the stage until the curtain rises.

You’re lecturing me on the ethics of human manipulation?

Touche, but my commentary is less about ethics and more about efficiency. If you’re going to use me, at least respect me enough to be good at it.

Practice makes perfect

How reassuring. In any case, I have other things to concern me in the immediate frame. Poor planning of the German mage aside, he cannot be the first to have attempting something that audacious. He did not succeed because of great ability, he succeeded because something used him. This feels…manufactured. The research we are doing on containment of these beasts seems wise, I suspect we will have more issues on this front. The city is still balancing itself after the Beyonders devastation, too many eyes are watching and we don’t need this level of public drama.

Loci are also forming, the natural reaction of the Pattern to rising events. It is no coincidence that individuals have been drawn to me to form a group capable of responding.

All about you, is it?

Don’t be naive, as a Scion of the Blood I’m a convienent nexus point…. think of it like gravity, bearing the Pattern makes me heavier. As Corwin’s pattern pursues it’s natural course toward greater Order, meta-entities that align with that configuration are drawn to my greater weight. It’s about as personal as calculus.


Suddenly so attentive, so often the case when I speak of Pattern.

I’m a big proponent of personal growth, knowing is half the battle and all that.

Assuredly, and I have nothing but respect for your efforts at self improvement. Your agenda however, somehow that is less transparent.

After everything I’ve done to help.

Largely appreciated, although you’re aesthetics remain somewhat in question. But a team is most effective when all members understand their role and objectives. Trust is a two way exchange, my lady.

There are contingencies, ways that must be followed…. Your Pattern, would not a straight line be simplier? Yet the nature of things, the way reality defines, require the elegance of curves. We… I… am also defined by the lines of how things must be. Yes, trust is an exchange; but sometimes, only sometimes, it can also be a gift.

The Presumption of Malignity

Dear Diary,

I’ve had an interesting past few days.

Chamiel transported us to the previous site of my manor and engaged Raziel. As I stood there, at the back of a four-person team, I wished that I’d had the foresight to install secret entrances to my basement. Alas, it felt too Bond Villain-y to do at the time. There were better uses for investment capital.

As I thought that, the earth caved in and I landed, unharmed, on the floor of my basement. The mantel to my fireplace upstairs, and Lanzettenblatt, had fallen right next to my big sink and bucket. Lanzettenblatt’s wards were still active.

I breathed deeply, and felt that this was my home. Despite the strain of the past few hours, a wave of perfect calm enveloped me, ruffled only by what I knew about the Devil’s Device that I planned to take up and use. A wise man fears a weapon for what he might do with it. I am not wise, but even fools fear Lanzettenblatt. I took it up, then mixed a saline solution in hopes that I could enhance the conductivity of a target by splashing them with the salt solution. Then I renounced my worship of Raziel, just to make it explicit.

He appeared before me. My heart stopped. At that moment, I could feel Lanzettenblatt’s own baleful will push against my mind, grasping for dominance.

And then the smug bastard restarted my ticker. I spat an insult at him and brandished Lanzettenblatt, but he’d already returned to the battle against Chamiel. I gave chase up the ladder, but I’d forgotten the timeline I’d been working with. The others had already slain the Messiah, and Raziel was gone.

Screw it, I thought, and returned to my basement, sealing the roof above me. I briefly considered returning upstairs to hex the Cultist’s weaponry, but finally, I decided that it was not my problem. I kept Lanzettenblatt close, fighting its demoniac pull, and waited.

Eventually, the Warden found me. I’ll abbreviate: For now, I’ve gotten away with simply a cheesy Hollywood Hero monologue about what will happen if I ever endanger her Seattle ever again. Her speech struck my heart, so reminiscent of my own protection of Dresden’s citizenship. She may one day know what I do, that not all risks can be mitigated. I’d never thought I might represent that risk to another Wizard.

Of lesser importance, a karmic trade. I yielded the Engelnetz Lore to Rashid, the Gatekeeper. In return, the Universe granted me a low-stress look at the Ordo Malleus’ data on Angels. I offloaded them into ALAREC, under the Engelnetz project, just prior to writing this entry, with no intention of using the knowledge in the next century or three.

Oh yeah, I also got to go to a party featuring Queen Titania herself as an honored guest. I did my best to be nice, but I was tired, and probably not at my best. I was also paranoid about my own assumptions. Sixty-five years of country clubs, school board meetings, opera, publisher’s parties, investor’s banquets, and so on, should have prepared me for the Hidden World’s social scene as something other than the White Council’s Dog of War.

In mortal affairs, one presumes benignity. In the hidden world, one must presume malignity. I, foolishly, believed in a parity between mortal social affairs and the occult, and innocents paid. I find myself personally culpable for the damages Raziel has done, and will do. Those lives bow my shoulders.

I’ve returned to my basement. Instant coffee’s steaming in the cup as I snack on a microwaved Hot Pocket and model the Cathedral above me with CAD. It’s time for it to go. Leaving it be is letting that bastard angel win. Besides, what is the purpose of my power, if I am unable to strike a blow against those who would impose their will upon humanity?

If I pull out the core of each wall so that only the outer inch remains, it’ll give the police the illusion that a ‘true cathedral’ never stood here. It should dovetail nicely with Gabriel’s spin doctors’ story. The remainder, I’ll have trucked away. Mundane reconstruction of my manor will keep prying eyes off the site. Or at least so I hope.

Are Elsa and Sam alright? My texts may as well be flying out into the ether! I am not a quarter of the Wizard without their logistical aid.

And without their aid, maybe I should trust my judgment less! But who do I consult? Not the Warden, surely. Never ask a cop. Maybe Gabriel? No. Might as well just tell the Warden at that point.

Perhaps Manny. Manny can be discreet. And he’d let me know if what I propose is a madman’s plan.

Manny it is.

Cosmic Candles

Dear Diary,

Today, I think to you as I’m sitting with my hands in cuffs behind my back. It’s a nostalgic, if vile experience, reminiscent of old wars and battles fought by a different Kasimir.

You’re probably wondering why the present state of affairs has come to pass.

It all started with a Rabbi and a golem. The blessed bot nearly tore my head off, but I used the clay to track its master down, and let the local Warden handle the “diplomatic effort”.

Needless to say, Warden justice is not proactive. She let him go since no lawbreaking had been done yet. She let the Scheisseunfold go free! I should have known better. Cops can’t stop a murderer, they punish him afterwards. Problem is, justice never helps the victim.

Even so, I’d gotten a pretty good read on the Rabbi. He wasn’t a man of enormous power. He had to have a sponsor. All I needed that sponsor’s name.

I got home early the next morning.

“Oh Elsa,” I said as I passed her and Sam in the foyer. They were helping Hans pack for Germany. He was leaving tomorrow. “Would it be crazy if I summoned an Archangel for a chat?”

“God, Kass! You fucking crazy? What’ve you been smoking?”

One of these days, I need to clue her in. Her acuity is unbelievable and her discipline unwavering. A pity she wasn’t born Gifted. In ways, she reminds me immensely of Riley. The same measured, reasoning calm permeates them both.

I grinned at her and went downstairs, confident that I had things under control.

On ALAREC’s main monitor, I began to pull my notes on Engelnetz. I’d shelved the project in the 80s due to inadequate processor power and numerous stack overflow errors. Its purpose? To answer the auspicious questions: What’s an Angel’s energy reserve as measured in Joules? What’s their Wattage? How much energy to summon one? How much to trap it?

It took me most of the night to update the codebase and get the simulations back. By morning, I’d drawn up the Medium Circle with extra protective measures, cycled the energy into it, and empowered it with a force far in excess of its radius. I began the ritual.

At first I felt triumphant as Archangel Raziel’s corpus filled the circle to twenty, then forty, then a hundred percent of his projected output. And then it doubled, and then that tripled, and then that quintupled… you get the idea. It quickly dawned on me that I’d summoned a kleiner Gott.

It took everything I had to hold my calm, and I am a man known for no small reservoir of discipline. I managed to extract an oath that he’d behave as a guest under the Accords. Shortly after extracting the oath, I broke the my circle broke.

He then proceeded to behave in a most unguestlike manner.

He says he has slain God, and that he is the new God. He has a Messiah now. And before he left me, he told me the Rabbi’s sponsor. Chamiel.

So I am sitting, as of this thinking, handcuffed by a Warden, in the Circle Room of Gabriel’s Estate.

I hope that Hans and his morning flight kept Elsa and Sam at the airport while that happened… and that they got the nice werewolf’s text.

They bicker about me as I sit here shamed. But I hate shame. It has no purpose. And their bickering is but heatless smoke. As they argue, Raziel brings Levitican judgment upon the world. It must be stopped.

The White Council, as usual, squats in Edinburgh like a hibernating toad, and no stick will dislodge them from the Scottish mud.

It’s down to Suzanne, Gabriel, Manny, the werewolf, and a certified moron to stop Neo-God and Hitler-Jesus. I wish I’d not sealed Lanzettenblatt. Subtlety seems off the table in this scenario. Angels have no documented weakness either.

Wait. If Raziel has attack God, is he Fallen? Could he be cast into the pit? Do Fallen Angels have a different set of weaknesses and powers? I must ask the others when there’s a lull in the bickering. I wish I could reach my phone and remote into ALAREC, although my documentation on Fallen is about as sparse as my data on Angels.

UPDATE 1: I’m uncuffed. We’re going to summon another Archangel to fight it. Chamiel. The Hebrewser’s sponsor. I may be having a heart attack.

UPDATE 2: Well, we summoned him… He’s a little more forgiving than what we need, I think. We should have gone smitier. It’s not too late for me to call in one of the Big Four, is it?

On the upside, having now summoned two Archangels (two more than any other Wizard I’ve read of!) I’m convinced I made a math error.

Empirically quantified, Archangelic energy is on the order of Supernovae. Type Ia.

Somewhere, Ceiling Cat is mocking my small-mindedness.

Fucking Pigs are the same..

Some things never change. I mean not that Nazi dude was in the right, but what a pig fuck the fucking warden turned out to be. Don’t talk, don’t think, give me all your stuff. Hey what the fuck? I have never seen such a finger pointing waste of fucking time. Boss seemed to have kinda the right idea, except he just couldn’t seem to keep his eye on the ball. Hate to say it, Jesus-freak-boy has got to go. Never seems to be an end to some dickhead thinking they got the right idea and should get to call the shots, whether it is some Angelic Asshat, or a religious freak or an uptight warden, who put you assholes in charge? Easy answer, no-one. Kraus, Garcia and the Boss are the only ones that have not set off my fuck-you-ometer. Well other wolves are not bad for a couple of butt-pirates. I was hoping to not have to do it, but I may just have to take that sniper rifle and do what probably shoulda been done with the first messiah, just one hole between the eyes, forget the palm nonsense. In fact the palm myth fails when you think about it. Ever actually seen someone hung by spikes in their palms? I have. Turns out all those little bones in the hand can’t support the weight of a whole body so well, so lots of bleeding and screaming later..well you get the picture.
Damn, now I’m hungry.

Tales of a Metalcrafter #5

Left arm, two scars, one on either side, parallel to the bones.

His face is right in mine, bald head encrusted in tattoos, eyes wide and bloodshot, mouth contorted in a death’s-head grin. Pain courses up my left arm where he has rammed a giant knife in between the bones. I push the pain aside and summon my power, ramming him away and forcing him to release the knife. His unplanned flight ends at the far wall of the hovel, knocking over the small table full of drug paraphenalia and the pile of skulls of his victims (mostly human). In a flash, I whip out my Glock 26 and try to plant three rounds in his center of mass one-handed. I am marginally successful. At least one must have landed near his heart given how quickly the rushes on the floor appear to be soaking up blood. One must have nicked his spine considering his PCP-saturated brain still can’t seem to bring him back to his feet. I missed entirely with the third. Oh well.

Right hand. Small finger doesn’t bend.

Pop It’s funny how little noise dislocating a finger makes. The pain, however, is mind-boggling. I try to choke down the scream, but I really can’t – it rips out of my throat despite my wishes. The other vampire floats into my field of vision beyond the tears. “Tell me where the White Council’s West Coast Base is and I can end the pain for you, Warden Baker.” I try my best to shove the pain aside. I find all that I can really do to respond to him, though, is to simply glare and grit my teeth. “Very well.” He nods to someone outside of my field of vision and I feel the pressure increase on my dislocated finger. I almost pass out when the first bone segment shatters.

Left temple. Scar running back into hair.

zzziiiPP-CRACK I didn’t even hear the crack, really. I usually add it in my memory because… well… probably because Gabriel showed me too many action movies. My head is ringing. My sight returns to a view of the sere Arizona desert and my blood soaking into the sand around my head. I can’t hear. My eyesight is wavering. I feel dizzy. I know, however, that there are two ghouls somewhere uphill from me. One of them evidently has a high-powered rifle. I draw as much of my power as I can even though my focus wavers so savagely that I can barely control it. I am able to create a wall of fire six feet tall and over twenty feet wide. I push hard and, with what seems like the last of my will, I thrust the wall uphill. As it proceeds, I watch the glass solidifying in its wake until two charred, distorted skeletons appear. I relax my grip on the power and the wall disappears. The plunge into weariness catches me by surprise. As my vision narrows down to a pinhole, I consider that I may have used too much power on that wall.

Bite marks on left calf – werewolf.

Burn scars on right torso – idiot warlock playing with fire.

Three claw marks on left hip / buttock – surprise attack by an outsider during training for new Wardens.

Am I nothing more than scars now?

I must be new

So jail sucks. I guess I failed walking the line between what I thought I should say and what I actually wanted to say. Getting beaten while handcuffed is really not that much fun by the way. I think Jeremy got it a lot worse than I did,(in fact he looked pretty beat to hell when he finally did get back to the boat). I may just have to pay each of those shitheads a more individual introduction to pain at some point down the line.

You know what sucks worse than jail? The ride home, feeling like my face was trying to get pushed through a cheese-grater was, well that shit hurts. Dad said hello by the way(just prior to police car sinking cheese-grater-ness). I am pretty sure he figured car crash would not kill me, so really unclear on just what the message was(pretty sure he does not do love taps).

When something is so broke, well I guess it takes someone like me to fix it, on that note, someday I will become President. I know start small, but it is now officially of my list of things I WILL do. Making the rounds speaking publicly at nearby community centers, mixing in equal bits of fear and awe, seems to be moving along well enough, I think a few induced heart attacks should really stir up the fear part of my campaign.

Knight of the cross, and real honest to Wizard Warden have shown up, funny I like the Knight way more than the Warden, White Council has only impressed me in what seems to be an ability for douchebaggery and that is about it. Seems like people around here really DO care when evil like Nicodemus Archleone come to town(can I call him Uncle Nick?). Micheal thinks I may be a lever and that both sides may want to see if they can either use or break the lever, which makes me feel like the cat in the rocking chair factory…

My favorite question of the night “Are you new?”(asked by the Knight). Why yes, yes I am and hold on kiddies cause I am just about to get started…

I am not a Special Snowflake

So got a visit from one of Dad’s top dogs, being called one of many of Dad’s “get” well I guess truth can hurt sometimes. I was told by Nicodemus that I would die violently, felt like a second skin settling over me when he said it, odd. Seeing as The Order of the Blackened Denarius want to bring about the Apocalypse, that puts us on opposing sides….shit time to move. Dad never specifically told me what Nicodemus’ achilles heal was, but if I know my dad..we all have one. I know I can’t beat him, probably can’t outsmart him, here’s hoping I can out bluff him. My dad is known as the father of all lies after all…

What a difference, in hell you never got a second to yourself(well seemed like it), always screaming, chaos, something. Here I find myself spending most of my time sitting, waiting for something…anything to happen. Feels like everyday is opposite day, back home it was outright terror, panic, horror followed by brief moments of calm, here it feels like unendurable moments of nothing followed by the occasional, “wow that kinda sucked”. I feel more like the totally ignored not even plucky sidekick to a group that seems to have almost no cohesion, I mean I guess I kinda get that, as I can’t be betrayed if no-one is around…but as most of us back home thought of people as kinda like ants, I would expected some kind of team something.

Ohh, gotta run, looks like the police are here….this should be interesting…


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