Chapter IV: In which Werewolves enjoy Tasty Candy

The campfire crackled loudly into the night, obviously proud of itself. Oren tried to look outside the area lit by the unyielding, ever-reaching yellow flames, but could discern only the gathering darkness. His lightly pointed ears twitched as they searched for unwarranted noises in the gloom. Only one day on the road to Georgia and already Oren wished he were home in his minimalist room, staring at the blank ceiling, counting imperfections in the wall until he fell asleep (just like a regular person). The prisoner -- Tacks, he thought the name was -- was sitting up, reading a spellbook or something. Arcane runes littered the sides. As Oren stared at them, they seemed to huddle back into the corner of the page, trying to escape his watery gaze -- damn, that fire was hot. Oren grew immediately frightened and suspicious; "That's not a... a handbook, is it?" Handbooks were something people like Oren had, and if this Tacks character possessed one also...

Tacks was engrossed in the book. He had only some slight idea what any of those little squiggles meant, but damn if they didn't look pretty. The mage academy, he remembered, had tried and failed to interest him in the actual meanings of the magical runes cluttering the otherwise blank page. Tacks imagined for a moment how fun it would be to doodle in the blank spots. He wished he had a pencil. Oren had asked him something, hadn't he? Looking up from the book and closing it with the resounding snap of an exceptionally learned man, he replied "You know, that's how I got my nickname. Everyone wanted me to memorize what these little dealies meant, but I always had more fun just tackin' the spell-sheets together and seeing what happened."

Oren breathed a sigh of relief. "So it's just a spellbook, then." Assuaged, he resumed his scan of the perimeter, as Tacks blathered on. "My parents spent a lot of time and money to ensure I made it through preliminary school... but I always felt I disappointed 'em when I got into the academy on a full scholarship and didn't even finish two years." Oren's ear twitched as his breath held and his stomach sank; gurgling was coming from that tree, approximately fourteen yards away and in a steady rhythm. Trees didn't gurgle -- he was quite sure of it. A deft movement, an unzipped pack, and the Bishop was ready to go and pointed squarely at the tree.

Seemingly oblivious, Tacks carried on with his story. Oren wished he wouldn't... it was hard enough to concentrate with all those little sounds like the fire and night noises of the Kentucky fields, flowery and unsuspecting. As the nightmarish figure of a werewolf dropped from the tree, barely rustling the leaves as it passed and landing without a sound, Tacks continued: "I was always messin' with my instructors," (Oren dodged the fiend as it charged maniacally into a more helpful tree than the origin) "at first it was workin' but then my luck just kinda went downhill--" (The wolf was fast... Oren was pressed into a defensive position straight out of a textbook) " U.S. jobs were hard to find, and then once they started registering Chaos Mages" (The werewolf fell directly onto Oren, too solid to go unnoticed) "everything went downhill 'cause nobody would hire me."

"Are you sure this is the best time to be talkin' about this?" Oren heaved between breaths, trying to push the werefiend off of himself. This particular werewolf had a spiteful yellow in its eye. Most werewolves refrained from attacking strangers -- unless, of course, they had candy. Werewolves love candy. Probably, Oren decided, this werewolf assumed if they were rich enough to have packs and a fire they must be carrying lots of the sweet, sugary stuff. As the wolfian jaws neared Oren's face, he spotted bits of candy between its teeth... "We don't have any candy! I promise you!" Oren gasped into the face of his assailant. At this precise moment, Oren struck a counter blow, causing the beast's intestines to spill onto the ground, the wolf's face frozen in an expression of mingled horror and surprise... Oren couldn't help but think how much the intestines resembled spaghetti.

Wordlessly, Oren returned to the fire, his ears twitched slightly resuming their perimeter scan, and he pulled a pot from his pack and some spaghetti noodles. For a moment, he fished for a can of sauce. Then, he remembered, people don't fish in packs and tried searching it for the sauce can. Moments later, the only sound came from the bubbling water and the fire. Tacks indicated the spaghetti bowl and asked Oren, "So, what's your story? You're an Order Warrior, I can tell from your stance, but something's a bit off about you. Gotta have an interesting story in there somewhere," he concluded, indicating Oren's pack.

Five minutes later, having received no answer from Oren, Tacks' grin faded and he went back to the book. "Well, just tell me whenever you feel like it," he muttered, as loud crackling pervaded their ears once again.

--

Chapter 5: In which Plain and Ordinary Water tries to commit Personal Truth-based Homicide

Oren extricated his handbook from the pots and pans. "Water falling from the sky. Simply put, rain." Closing the dampening book and observing the buckets pouring down from above in waves, Oren felt that the handbook was being rather polite about the whole situation. His pack was soaking, droopy and about twenty pounds heavier from the constant sheets of water falling upon him, his prisoner, and the former campfire -- now lying dead on the ground, with noone to mourn it but those who had exploited it in life.

Through chattering teeth, Oren and Tacks said simultaneously "We've got to get under a roof." Together, packs flapping behind them in the wind and water, they ran until they saw what seemed to them a castle but turned out to be a manor. "Manor," Oren read aloud from the simple placard, "Certifiably Guaranteed Not A Castle." Looking up at the towers stationed oddly at three corners of the manor, a thought struck Oren. Reeling from the blow, shaking his head to clear it, Oren muttered "Seems odd to have all these towers with no one manning them." In disbelief, Tacks followed his gaze and stared for a moment. The towers were completely deserted.

"They look horribly lonely," Oren said, seemingly to noone. Then, his hair falling into his eyes, and blurring his vision, he decided it was time to get into the manor, regardless of abandonment or decay or whatever he'd find there -- at least it wouldn't bring irritating personal truths to light, like the rain wanted.

The double doors burst inward, cleaving large clouds of dust into the air where they lingered momentarily and then resettled. The general impression Oren got was that the room had been abandoned long ago, but the spotless bed and the clean-shaven old man sitting up in it belied this thought. "Everything since I started this journey seems to be strange and unusual," Oren complained. Oren pointed angrily at the old man. "So, what is it you want? Some sort of quest, or last request, or something?"

"Don't have any, don't want any, but I am scheduled to die in a few minutes," the old man gasped in a parched tone. Oren stepped back, horrified. "What do you mean by that?" he almost screamed.

The old man was coughing terribly, almost between every word. "Nothing can happen but everything must. You are the lost fabled warriors we found years ago and then didn't want. You are insignificant and everything you do will matter. In the grand scheme of the universe I hate you."

Oren was reeling. "STOP IT, STOP IT!" he cried. His head was shaking so much he began shaking the room itself, slightly. The walls recoiled in shock, but jumped back to where they had been before anyone noticed.

Relentless, the dogged old man said "I'm leaving you Rain. It is neither weather nor an element. His purpose is onefold and many and he is just as important as you."

This statement was the final straw. The man simply wasn't making sense anymore. "You simply aren't making sense anymore!" Oren was inches from the man's face now yelling at the top of his lungs.

"It's OK," Tacks said, "I think he looks kind of cool." Oren looked up, and shook his head. Tacks was pointing at a blank wall. Looking into Tacks' face, he saw the eyes looking elsewhere and following them, saw Rain. At least, he assumed it was Rain.

A humanoid resembling a man stood there, gaunt and erect in the pale moonlight, pale despite its freshness  streaming through the window. It had no face, no discerning features, and was colored a very light brown. It took up a post next to Tacks and was silent. It moved lithely despite its size and composition.

Oren turned to look at the old man, possibly to question him further, but he lay dead. "Well, at least one of us has some sense of timing and" -- Oren sniffed the air in a very elfish way -- "schedules."

-------

Chapter the Sixth Chapter: Which Absolutely Does Not Occur During a Snowstorm, Guaranteed


The gardener crawled up the hillside like molasses didn't. His face sported a happy-go-lucky
look, and his wardrobe was rugged. At first glance, he seemed down to earth, but it was
probably just because crawling tends to occur at a point very low to the ground. To Oren,
the man seemed to be an oversized worm. The gardener, one Itnak by name, accused them of
ecocide. Before Oren could open his thought processes to formulate a worthy rejoinder, the
arrest was over and trial in the court of public opinion commenced.

Oren and Tacks found themselves handcuffed to a sturdy wooden bench. The Bishop lay
uncomfortably far out of reach in the court basement. Rain refused to enter the court
building, and when officious officials and paper-bearing bureaucrats tried to force him in
they found he halted at all the doors and could not be budged, as though the doorways held
an invisible barrier for one such as he. In retort, the people had plastered the unmoving,
faceless humanoid from head to toe with yellow tape reading "CAUTION: DO NOT CROSS,"
"WARNING: FACELESS HUMANOID THING" and most importantly, taped at the top of the golem like
a crude hat, an official "Form Q-33-ZK0875582, Ecocide-based Hazardous Person or Substance
or Whatever."

Inside the spotlessly white halls leading to the courtroom, a throng -- that is to say, a
crowd wearing naughty underwear -- had gathered. They had heard tales of two men who had
plotted with the faceless object buried under the tape outside to destroy the planet. "We
all have to live here," a woman repeated over and over to herself, her eyes cast downward at
the floor. The floor stared mercilessly back, unwavering. Some floors became squeamish when
confronted with one too many stares, but this was a historic floor, hardened by daily battle
with the inhabitants of the court building. The throng came to a hush and even the floor
stood at attention for a moment -- wounding three people while doing so -- as Oren's
piercing voice rent the air.

"We haven't even left Kentucky yet!" he admonished someone -- perhaps himself, or perhaps
the judge, jury and multitudinous throng. "Besides, this guy --" he gestured helplessly
towards Tacks -- "is a Chaos Mage!" Oren's eyes bulged slightly wider than normal as he
shouted "They're illegal! I gotta take him down t' Georgia and get him some of them
shackles!"

The judge, behind his thick and lengthy beard and mustache, gave a quick cough and said, in
a low drone, "Your prisoner is not what brings us here today, Master Oren. Do I see an
elfish widening in your eyes?"

Oren quickly checked himself, taking several deep breaths to calm down, as he gasped out
"No, sir, I am not an elf."

"Really, Master Oren, if rules and regulations permitted, I would ask you the follow up
question if you are at all of elfish descent." Oren began to visibly perspire. "However,
this is not the case."

A pause followed. Everyone turned to stare at it. Looking up from its book, the pause
started, cast frightened glances at the people, and then quietly let itself out of the room.

Oren relaxed, until he saw Tacks. The mage was staring at the shackles holding them to the
court bench, visibly panicking. If the law in the room held out for much longer, the mage
might resort to magic -- and get them both killed, or worse. Oren couldn't think, off the
top of his head, what was worse than killing but he was sure the court could find something.
The judge continued, seemingly unabated. "We are here today to judge ye, Oren, Tacks, and
your humanoid construct of indeterminate origin -- not present in this court today due to
failure to complete the processes necessary to enter, but nonetheless to be judged -- for
crimes relating to, above, below and behind ecocide -- and possibly in front of it as well."

"Excuse me," Tacks said in a loud, clanging, hypertensive, quavering voice. He then
continued in a faux-cockney accent "but wha's ecocide enny-way?"

"Plots and machinations," the judge responded testily, "to destroy the planet's environment.
You may call the first witness."

A helmeted figure, swathed in darkness and, thankfully, also swathed in clothing, stepped up
to the witness bloc. "I, the Dark Warlord, prosecutor and executioner, do hereby call the
Multitudinous Throng to witness."

Several members of the throng began handing religious pamphlets to Oren and Tacks and
explaining that games and music were evil.

"That's not what I meant!" exclaimed the Warlord.

"Ohhhhh," the multitudinous throng said, as a whole. Itnak the gardener crawled into the
bloc, and began accusing them of crimes against the environment. "Global warming!"
"Aqueducts!" "Tree-felling!" "Global cooling!" "Plant trampling!" "Immodest senses of pride
in their culinary skills!" Several other damning evils were mentioned as the gardener went
on.

When the gardener finally finished, the judge blinked twice, and his bushy eyebrows crept
upward so he could look at Oren and Tacks, disheveled, upset, and a bit worse for wear. "I
hereby find you guilty of these numerous and damnable crimes against the environment, and
sentence you to no less than death by--"

"Wait just a cotton picking second." Oren's eyes blazed with a bright fury. "I'm all for
upholding the law and due process and everything. But I couldn't make a dent in the planet
Hell, all o' ya'll couldn't make a dent in the environment. Have you ever TRIED destroying
the planet?"

The multitudinous throng responded with catcalls, and shouts of "Of course! We litter, and
eat food, and destroy planetary objects every day!"

Oren looked outside, and said "I hate the planet. Always have. Tryin' to kill me since the
day I was conceived. An' yet, as a kid, I'd go out and kick the thing. Never did me any
good."

Tacks looked with unexplainable awe at his travelling companion. "I knew this would lead me
to interesting places," he proclaimed to a rather addled-looking televangelist in the crowd.
"Now, I got no desire to die today, and by gum I simply refuse to die 'til I've got this guy
safely in the hands of the law in Georgia. An' if you're gonna stop me..." Oren took a deep
breath, finding his calm as his father had taught him long ago, "... you're going to have to
do it without these." With a mighty grunt and heave, Oren pulled the chains up by the roots
in one fell motion, and began running alongside Tacks as the chains, the multitudinous throng,
and the judge -- who had given up his bench for a scooter -- followed close behind.

Two hours later, under a bridge, Oren and Tacks caught their breath and waited as the
multitudinous throng became distracted by another anger-filled trend, and the judge had to
go home strictly at 3 so as not to get through too many cases per day.
Just as they were standing up to leave, Rain dropped down from above them and began
following them again. Oren was too tired to care, and Tacks was still bereft of breath until the next day.