I am not as crazy as everyone thinks I am. In fact, I’m not crazy at all, but what was I to do? Growing up in a big family makes it hard to feel distinguished. Everybody is always running around, screaming, getting better grades than you, getting more spoiled than you, it’s only natural that I started to act, let’s say, *special*. And since I went to school with my siblings, well, it was only natural to keep up the act at school too. It was all fun and games at first, it didn’t take much to make people think something was wrong, jumping more than was needed when my brother touched my shoulder, getting defensive faster than usual with my sisters, it was almost *too* easy. The thing is, people get used to it, you become known as the “stressed kid” at school, but no one thinks you’re *crazy*, so they stopped paying attention to me, my siblings were doing way more interesting things than me, of course, so I had to become crazier. I started rocking back and forth when watching tv, started mumbling to myself, I started replying to my brothers when they hadn’t asked a question and got offended by things my sisters hadn’t said, it didn’t take long before the attention was on me again. And god was it blissful to have that attention again. My parents eventually got me a psychiatrist, which was the epitome of being interesting. You *must* be pretty interesting for a psychiatrist to keep seeing you, right? I mean, those guys study for *years* to get where they are, if I can fool them, I can fool anyone. The day my psychiatrist told my parents I would need to be hospitalised I was ecstatic. What could be better than to be *constantly watched*? I was finally the star of the show. It all started crumbling though when I really did start to hear my siblings when they weren’t there, and I *knew* they weren’t there because I had been sent into isolation for getting into a fight, again. I heard my brother call my name in the left corner, I heard my sister ask if she could braid my hair in front of the door, I *felt* them near me. That was the first time it happened, but since then it has happened again, and again, and again, always at times when I know I’m alone. They’re always saying the same thing now. “Look at your file.” There’s a law or something that says that hospitals are legally obligated to show you your file if you ask for it, and after sleepless nights of my siblings telling me I need to look at it, I finally cracked. I wish I hadn’t. You see, the thing is I’m not *really crazy*, it’s all an act, and it wasn’t supposed to go this far. I just wanted attention and with what’s in my file, I think they might’ve mistaken me for someone *extremely* similar to me. Yes, that must be what happened.  You see, my file says I’m an only child.


The Dark Lord Helshep was in a council meeting as they were laying out the plans for the next phases of his subjugation of the Stolen Hills region. “My Lord, I suggest we launch a full-force strike here and here,” he said, pointing to points on the map. “Yuu, will this work?” Helshep asked, turning to his oldest friend. She shook her head. “No, the Hills are a veritable fortress. Even Alex will have issues taking them by sheer force,” she explained. Vestari, however, looked offended. “You will refer to Master as My Lord or Lord Helshep. None of this given name stuff,” he snarled. “Oh yeah, tell me who has known him longer? Huh, you big dork,” she said as she squared up against him. “ENOUGH YOU ARE BEING DISRESPECTFUL TO THE BOSS!!” a voice boomed from Silvers Greyback. Both looked suitably admonished. “We can shelve the strategy for later. No need to rush this. I’ve got an idea brewing I think could help regardless, and a bit of time to smooth things out could help,” Helshep said before turning to Serena. “Tell me, Serena, what news on the Heroes party?” he asked. The entire chamber went silent. Few knew what he really was asking about. “Our scouts that we have keeping an eye on them report they have defeated a troll mountain,” she answered. “Just a mountain troll?” one of the officers scoffed. “No General, a Troll Mountain. As in a troll that has grown to the size of a mountain,” she clarified. The General went very pale at the idea. “Where was it?” another asked. “The Dune Sea, apparently it was hidden under a massive set of dunes and recently awoke. The Heroes party swooped in and won the fight by blowing it to dust,” she explained. “What of their Mage… Alice, I believe her name was? She seems like someone who could become a serious threat. Should we not have her eliminated?” another general asked. The room’s temperature dropped by a few degrees as those who knew could only watch the man walking on ice that was creaking. “No, I find her rather entertaining. She shall be left alone,” Helsheps voice echoed around the chamber. A voice that was devoid of all emotion. “I think we should take a break. We sinful lords and close confidants of Lord Helshep can have a friendly chat in private,” Yuu suggested trying to save the general from himself. The room gave a few nods, and the majority left. Leaving only Yuu, the Sinful Lords, Helshep himself with only Heek, the beastling servant, as the only other one present. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop a few rooms over. Yuu looked around and just sighed. “Looks like I’ve got to be the one,” she said, turning to Helshep. “Go on, Alex, get it out your system,” she said, giving a vague gesture in his direction. Helshep looked around the room. His face that was a mask of stern stone reflecting a harsh and brutal life he had lived since he first rose to the throne. At Yuu’s prompting, this mask vanished and was replaced by a man beaming with pride. “Oh, my Gods Yuu!!! She fought a Troll Mountain!!!!!” he yelled with unrestrained joy as he picked up his best friend in a mammoth bearhug before spinning her around. “Bet she’s gotten even stronger,” he was now bouncing like a child the night before Winters Gifting. Putting Yuu down, he rushed over to a wall and moved the curtain against it out the way. It was a map of the world with notes on each of the Heroes party’s exploits. If anyone else saw this, they’d just think he was keeping track of a genuine threat. But the people in this room all knew he was just a dumb doting dad. “That makes this her seventh disaster class monster to date!” he said, pinning a new note to the map. “Actually, boss, that'll be her eighth. They apparently fought an elder dragon as they were sailing over to the Dune Sea,” Heek said. “Why wasn’t this reported?!” he boomed, turning to face the room. “Well, sir, it was a private sailing ship they bought themselves. Also, I only received word of it this morning through our messenger system. I was going to pass it to you later,” Heek explained. “Even better!!” he beamed, adding an extra pin into the Straight of Balthazar. “Master, I hope when the day comes where you will stand on opposite sides, you will take the good of the nation into consideration,” Vestari said. “Huh?” Helshep uttered, confused. “Sorry I wasn’t listening. What was that Vestari?” he said, turning and actually paying attention to his Vizier. “I said will you fight her if you have to?” he asked. “Of course, I will. She is my pride and joy. But she still needs to learn which opponents she should face. I won’t kill her, just a friendly parental beat down,” he said. The crowd were visibly reassured. They often worried about him when it came to his family. As in regards to both his adopted children and his children by blood, he often lost all sense of logic and became an uncontrollable storm. “You know, looking back when I first met her, I knew she had to be your kid Boss,” Silvers said. “Oh?” Helshep said, turning suspiciously towards him. “Yes, Boss, I didn’t think meeting a fifteen-year-old would make me near wet my breeches. Let alone the daft girl turned a useless pebble into pure gold,” he explained. “She did what?!” Helshep beamed as he rushed to stick a pin into Port Staine. “Hopefully, that party will get some common sense drummed into her head,” Yuu muttered. “Doubtful, I’m sorry to say she and Sir Victor are more than likely corrupting the Heroes common sense,” Heek said knowingly. “Well, those that can rise to the top of this world are often those who never really understood that normal crap,” Yuu said, sidling up to Helshep. “Indeed, we blew ourselves up quite a bit back then,” Helshep said, reminiscing with her. While they were lost in their revelry, a knock came at the door. The officers had returned from their break and were ready to resume. “Hey Alex, get your face back on,” Yuu said, jabbing his ribs with her elbow. His face returned to his stern political stone-faced shape with a few slaps. “Enter!” his voice boomed, returning to its emotionless state. The generals shuffled in and around the table. “Ok, I have a plan, and it is inspired by how the heroes beat the Troll Mountain,” he said, letting a sinister grin show.  for more my nonsense go to r/Random3X  extra note: this was originally a response to a WP that was removed thought let people here enjoy it.


Quinn dozed off in front of her brother’s grave. Her seated posture swayed closer and closer until her helmet bumped into the headstone with a clatter. She jerked awake, looking around the forest glade with a frantic expression, before slumping her shoulders with relief. “Sorry, Caleb,” she said, wiping imaginary dirt off the stone. “The council’s been running me ragged. Everyone’s pushing their limits to catch Sylas and his mages.” Her body felt slow when she got up, like the caked mud on her legs was concrete and gravel ground her joints. She could feel the roots and stones under her boots, the soles weathered flimsy thin from her nonstop marching through the hinterlands of northern Demacia. By the distance Valor was sitting, she didn’t smell the best either. She pointed a finger up the sky, twirling it clockwise, and watched as a giant eagle, perched atop the tallest tree, stretched its large blue wings and flew up in the air. While Valor scouted the vicinity, Quinn limbered up her body for the last march. She’d been combing west to east of the hinterlands in search of the mages’ whereabouts but nothing crucial had been discovered. She’d found nobles and their aides dead on the roads but when it came to magic she wasn’t sure what clues she could rely on. Some of the dead had their throats cut, others seemed to have been executed by suffocation with no rope marks around their necks. There were no trails of footprints on the grounds to track, no broken twigs or blood on leaves. The whole thing was more of a ghost hunt than chasing rebels. The villagers weren’t any help either. Each settlement had been tight-lipped and too scared to share anything. The worst was that Quinn didn’t know whether it was the mages or the mageseekers the villagers feared. There were quite a few mage-sympathizers, oblivious to how terrifying magic was. Quinn adjusted her leather tunic, tightened her greaves and spaulders. Her last spot to check was a remote farm town bordering the foreign nations of Freljord and Skaggornland. A place she hadn’t visited in almost a decade, her hometown Uwendale. Her gaze lingered over the dirt and cracks on her repeating crossbow as she refilled it with bolts. Her father’s handcrafted weapon had been through a lot. She wasn’t sure how to meet her parents without feeling guilty for not writing enough over the years. There was also the difficulty of her position as a ranger-knight of Demacia. Would the town welcome her as a returning daughter or greet her like an official knight on duty? The screech of Valor snapped her back to the present. Her partner had found something and was circling near the towering mountain walls separating Demacia and the snow-covered region of Freljord. “Talk to you later, Caleb,” she said to the headstone and jogged towards the mountain base. The greens of the forest faded as the elevation rose. Dark tree trunks paled to white as linden and oak transitioned to birch and aspen. Quinn trudged on, glancing up at the foothills and following the shadow of Valor. Leaves rustled and a faint wind brushed past. Quinn stopped in her tracks. During spring, the wind normally carried with it scents of budding pomes and fresh sprouts, not the sickening-sweet odor of death. She raised a hand and clenched her fist, signaling Valor the change of plans. The scent had been close, brushing up the slopes towards the mountains due to the warm noon air. A movement lumbered through the line of trees, crossing her left periphery. Quinn sensed the growl more than heard it. She pulled out her crossbow, finger ready at the trigger when a large wolf stumbled into vision. Nasty gashes covered its body, open wounds festered and putrid. The wolf must’ve been in intense pain, yet it growled and raised its hackles at Quinn. Its glare had a wild look and froth dripped out of its bared fangs. Two bolts pierced its skull and the wolf dropped to the ground. When only the hushed wind replied, Quinn stepped closer. She’d done her best to make it a quick death for the rabid wolf and the bolts had struck true, killing the beast in an instant. The wounds in the body were the opposite of swift, deep gouges by talons bigger than any bird Quinn knew of. Valor plunged from the sky, a blue blur diving towards a bush. The bush shrieked and hissed. A boy jumped out, waving his hands in an attempt to fend off the bird. A raccoon scuttled away, its striped tail brushing past Quinn’s ankles. “Get’ im off! Get’ im off!” the boy shouted. “It’s killing me!” Quinn shook her head in disbelief. The lack of sleep must’ve really taken its toll on her if she couldn’t even detect a kid. “Valor would’ve already cut your throat if he deemed you a threat,” she said and held out her right arm. “He’s just messing with you.” The azurite eagle flew to Quinn, landing on the horn-adorned bracer covering the arm. The boy was a mess on the ground, struggling against his cloak. On a closer look, the emblem of a hawk was sewn on the hood. “You’re a ranger-in-training?” Quinn asked. “Huh? Yes, how do you…” His gaze flickered between the giant eagle, Quinn’s helmet, back to the eagle, the repeating crossbow. “You’re Quinn!” he burst out. “Wow, can I shake —” Quinn aimed the crossbow at the boy. “What’s the first rule of survival?” Color disappeared from the boy’s face. “Wha…?” “The first rule of survival. Three seconds.” “I don’t…” “Three. Two.” “*Always assume someone’s after you!*” The boy shouted, hands over his head, eyes pinched shut. Quinn gave a nod and put the safety on her crossbow and latched it to her belt. She caught the glare of Valor. “Of course, I trust your judgment,” she said to her partner, “but it’s always good to double-check.” She then turned her attention back to the boy. “What’s your name? “Adam.” The boy slowly stumbled out of his cloak and stood up, his gaze locked warily on Quinn. He seemed to have had his growth spurt, matching Quinn in height, although his face had yet to catch up. Hair like tumbleweed framed round cheeks and bombardment of freckles. “And your companion?” Quinn nodded towards a tree root where a striped tail could be seen. “Dash,” the boy said gloomily. Hearing its name, the raccoon crawled out of its hiding place and ran up the boy’s cloak, nestling itself by the scruff of his neck. “What a good partner you are,” Adam muttered. “Aren’t you a little bit far from Uwendale for a trainee?” Quinn asked, “And why are you alone?” “I’m watching the western perimeter alone because warden Mealla trusts in my abilities.” Adam jutted out his chest. “Was tracking the rabid wolf when I heard it growl and decided to hide.” That was strange, Quinn had sent the majority of Uwendale’s rangers east, to watch the borders by the Greenfang Mountains, but there should still be a handful left in the town. At least enough to not need to send a single rookie to scout. “Do all knights scowl?” Adam asked. He flinched by Quinn’s expression and quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it.” “What about the town watch?” she asked, “Two guards could’ve been stationed with you.” “Busy with the festival,” Adam said. He walked to the dead wolf, grimacing over the wounds. “This is horrible.” Dash, the raccoon, peeked out from under the cowl and ran down to the wolf’s head. Its small fingers grabbed one of the bolts and waggled it free. “What festival?” Quinn asked. “The Slayer’s festival, what else?” Her head throbbed under the helmet. Her feet ached and the rotten smell made Quinn nauseous. There were so many things she needed answered, then there was the thing Valor had spotted. “Adam and Dash, was it?” she asked, “You’ll have to come with me. There’s something I need to check on. I’ll also need you to update me on the current situation of Uwendale and this festival.” She let Valor fly again and began to ascend the foothills. When no sounds of steps trailed behind, she turned around with a questioning look. “Why up the Rocky Mountains?” he asked with an unsure voice, “Are the Freljordians going to attack us?” “Hardly,” Quinn said, “climbing straight through the mountains is suicidal. We’re just going to the base to check on something.” “I think I’ll stay here,” Adam insisted, “The warden told me to keep watch of the western forest and the mountain is not included.” “You know my name,” Quinn said, raising her voice, “then you must know that I’m a ranger-knight of Demacia and the highest ranked out of all the rangers. My order overrules the warden of Uwendale. I’m ordering you to follow.” The boy looked like he was caught between a boar and a bull. His eyes flickered between Quinn and to the east, where the town of Uwendale would appear after two hours of marching. Finally, he seemed to prioritize the closest threat and joined next to the ranger-knight. A bitter taste spread over Quinn’s tongue. She hated using her rank to bully people into submission but the exhaustion dragged out her ugly side. She thought about apologizing but dismissed the idea. She had pulled the rank-card, might as well stick with her draw. A small noise made her look down. Dash extended a bloody bolt towards her as an offering.  \*\*\*\*\*  The hinterlands of Demacia had been Quinn and Caleb’s playground when they were young. While they had explored the foothills and the forests, they had seldom climbed up the mountains. Past the craggy walls lay nests of wyverns and those beasts were not something the siblings had wanted to encounter. The flying reptiles were troublesome enough for Uwendale when they attacked the village during harvest season. What Valor had found was a dead wyvern, splayed on a rocky surface. They were at an overhang, made of mostly rock and some stubborn patches of grass. thirty feet above ground. The wyvern’s wings dangled over the mountainside, the membrane torn. Its talons were bent, neck and belly punctured and maimed. The wounds on the neck indicated fanged beasts, and the smudges of dried blood on the stones had a few paw marks. Most likely a pack of wolves. Quinn knelt next to the corpse, pressing her fingers against the wyvern’s soft neck and belly. “Have the wyverns moved their territories down the mountains?” Adam, standing a distance away and holding his nose, shook his head. “They might’ve even retreated further up ever since the Slayer killed four of them a few weeks ago.” “Did anyone see this ‘Slayer’ kill them?” Quinn prodded the wyvern’s leg, feeling stiffness. “It would seem a bit silly to have a festival in his honor, if he hadn’t done anything.” “No, but the wyverns’ heads were caved in, like the dead bandits on the road and the rabid wolves, so it’s probably made by the same person.” “So this one wasn’t done by the Slayer?” Quinn plucked out a dagger and pried away a few scales on the wyvern. “I guess not. What are you doing?” She sank her dagger into the wyvern’s thigh, carving a line through skin and flesh. She made a fist with her gloved hand and dug into the new wound, breathing through her mouth to lessen the foul stench. She pushed her hand upwards, feeling rock-hard muscles, sinews like steel wire, and mushed jelly. A dark, watery liquid trickled out of the cut. “Blood is thick and separated,” she concluded, retracting her arm and wiping it on the grass. “Corpse-stiffness had not yet disappeared from its legs. So between half a day to two days old, I would say.” Adam looked as if he wanted to vomit. “Was that really necessary?” “Rule number two,” Quinn said, “Survival never takes second place to dignity. Seen anything interesting over the past two days?” “Not much except for people on the roads heading towards Uwendale for the festival.” “Right, a festival celebrating an unknown hunter for presumably killing a few beasts, how does that make sense?” Adam cleared his throat and said in an exaggerated low voice, “These are trying times, so we should find reasons to celebrate, however small.” The imitation softened Quinn’s expression and the end of her lips pinched slightly upwards. “Was that Samuel?” she asked, “Is he still the mayor?” “And still selling his lamb pies. Been saying how grateful he is to the Slayer because of all the potential cattle saved.” That did sound like the mayor of Uwendale. The hefty man had a thing for finding the stars in the darkest nights. “Could it have been wolves?” Adam asked, inching closer to the wyvern’s carcass. That had been Quinn’s guess too but things didn’t add up. “So a pack of wolves climbed up the mountains, found a wyvern and decided to attack it and won with no casualties, then climbed down without leaving any footprints on the way down?” Adam had no reply, instead he squatted down next to the wyvern and stared into its dead eyes. “A corpse torn to death by jaws and claws,” he murmured, “and a swift kill by arrows. It’s like an omen isn’t it?” “What omen?” Quinn asked while walking around the rocky surface, her eyes scouring the cracks on the wall. Water trickled out from a hole and dribbled in a thin downstream no wider than a hand. “Kindred’s omen.” She turned around with a blank expression. The boy shrugged. “You know, Lamb with her bow bringing a swift death and Wolf with his crushing jaws for a violent ending. Don't these two kills remind you of the Eternal Hunters?” A memory emerged from the depths of Quinn’s mind, of her and mother, clothed in gray, watching her father shovel dirt onto Caleb’s coffin. She remembered her father stopping halfway, unable to hold the shovel steady. There was the village elder, in a mask half white and half black, comforting her father, saying in a raspy voice that Caleb had been blessed with Lamb’s arrow, a quick death. She hadn’t understood what the village elder had meant with the arrows then as she had seen with her own eyes how the tuskvore had gored her brother to death with horns. Lamb and Wolf, together they were Kindred, the Eternal Hunters. The gods of death. She had forgotten about them, the stories of Kindred had been left behind when she traveled to the Great City to become a knight. While Kindred were known among the citizens, The Winged Protector had been the more revered deity in Demacia’s capital. “Is Kindred’s omen a bad thing?” Quinn asked. “Can omens be a good thing?” Adam countered. A small bark grabbed their attention. Dash had followed the stream of water further down. He held up a wet wyvern scale. “Maybe the wolves cleaned themselves in the water,” Adam suggested. “The stream is too small for a whole pack of wolves,” Quinn said. “And there would’ve been blood on the way. Maybe if they rubbed…” Quinn paused. She took a closer look at the patch of grass she had wiped her hands on. The watery blood trickled down the blades and into the soil. The dirt was loose, not from mountain winds but as if someone had scraped claws and paws against it. Straws of grass lay crumbled and flattened. She checked the other patches and found them to be the same. “No,” she said, “I guess omens can’t be a good thing.”   \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - Use at least **three** of the following words: wilted, starstruck, bucket, gastly, whirlwind, Corpse Lily.* This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings ###Two Weeks Ago: The day began like any other - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 *** ###This Past Week: Destiny was calling - - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - Submitted by u/AliciaWrites   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The original Monkey’s Paw. That was truly a classic, and Azimut was a freaking genius. Also, you know, right place/right time. 1523 was a great year. No Monkey’s Paws today though. We’re necessarily more subtle now, but that doesn’t mean we’re not effective. I like to think it’s no coincidence that our department awards come out the week after Mother’s Day. Second highest rate of suicide attempts of the year! Go team! The awards really should be coming out today, and to be totally honest, I feel like my chances are better this year than ever. I almost had it last year, but *of course* Thalimeth that giant kiss ass took it home. Was *a step stool that causes you to lose half a centimeter in height every time you use it* really award-worthy? Grow up. I’m in early, just like I have been every day for the last month, and I’ve got a feeling that in the current more politicized environment that carries a lot of weight. Not even Thalimeth is here yet. Minute after minute, the rest of them trickle in. I’m just sitting here, sipping my coffee. I wonder idly if they already have the award email written? Are they waiting for the day to officially start to send it? I have two nominations this year. The *glove that flawlessly grips a hammer but that causes every seventh nail to bend,* and, my personal favorite, the *glasses that grant perfect vision but that subtly change the meaning of the text*. So many arguments! So much anxiety! Ah. Phezizael lumbers in last, and while I love the guy, he is just not cut out for this. He’s built like a fourth circle demon, and the cubicles here are clearly made for second circles. But he’s in, every day, cramming his wings and hilariously thick tail into his chair, and coming up with, let’s be honest, pretty pedestrian cursed objects by today’s standards. Trying to be something he just isn't. Nice guy, but wouldn’t want to piss him off. Look at those shoulders! That’s everybody now. Well, almost everybody. A few minutes later, I hear hoofsteps in the hallway, and there he is. “Hail, everybody,” he says. “Hail, Megalesius.” Phezizael’s giant knuckles barely scrape the ceiling when he raises his hand. Honestly, his heart just isn’t in it. I try to put some extra pep into it today, just in case. It can’t hurt. Here’s the trajectory. If I can pull the department award today, next quarter it’s promotion season, and maybe instead of Hailing Megalesius from the floor like the rest of these chumps, I end up with a private Hail in the manager’s lounge. First step into manager territory doesn’t get you the sweet sweet office overlooking the Pools of Tyranny like Megalesius, but you *do* get a window, and if you open it on a good day after lunch you can sometimes hear the screams of the damned wafting over the sulfur flats. Megalesius takes his time settling into his office and eventually closes the door. I have emails stacking up, but I’m not reading them. I’m just watching the subject lines and waiting for the announcement. It has to be today. It has to be me. Twenty minutes tick by, and I’m starting to get nervous. I have a meeting with Production in ten, and I really don’t want to be out of the loop for the next two hours, and especially not with those losers. *We're* the designers here. The creatives. They just follow orders. Four more minutes, and then *bing*. **Subject: An update on the Office of Cursed Objects** Okay, that’s not the way they usually announce it. *Effective immediately, upper management has decided to close the Office of Cursed Objects. It was a hard decision, and we value the input of all of you over the last four millenia. You are like family to us. Rest assured that this has nothing to do with your personal performance, and is part of a larger re-organization. In order to focus more closely on our mission we have decided to put “more thrust behind fewer pitchforks.”* *This action has been cleared with Demons Local 533. Please consult with your union representative for retraining and/or reassignment.* *Thank you, and Hail Satan* “Those sons of bitches!” shouts Phezizael, and his cubicle erupts. He grabs his monitor, throws it right through the wall, and makes a beeline for Megalesius’ office. He’s met by two seventh levels who materialize to block the way, their gray smokey hands wrapping around his arms. “Hey hey ladies,” says Phezizael. “I was just kidding. Just… yeah.” His wings slump, and he casts a baleful look into Megalesius’ window. Nobody wants to mess with the seventh levels. They lead him back to his desk. No award. There will be no award. No promotion. No eventual second promotion when Megalesius gets bored and moves on, leaving the view of the Pools of Tyranny to me. *I* want to throw my monitor too, but I’m not stupid. I’m also not strong enough. Fine. Fine, if this is how they want to play it. One of the seventh levels is gliding around, handing out boxes, one at each desk. “Fill and leave,” she hisses. No use fighting it. I start to pack my things. My hands stop a moment at the little picture frame. It’s me and a bunch of the guys out after last year’s awards, and Megalesius is right next to me. I kept it here, thinking that maybe it would have some subtle effect on him when he would walk by my desk every day. That’s right. We’re friends. Pals. A wild whim takes me, and I pick up the picture. I was never that great at Production, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t whip something up on a moment’s notice if I have to. Kid’s stuff, really. I say a brief prayer and trace the correct symbols on the back of the picture with my finger. A pulse of power flows into it. I take the picture and walk slowly toward Megalesius’ office door. One of the sevens slides into my way. “Hey,” I say. “I, uh, just want to give the big guy something. You know…” She hisses in response, and I blanch. “It’s okay,” says Megalesius, and the door opens. “Let him in.” I look around, and it seems that his office is already bare. He knew. And he doesn’t look upset. I play a hunch. “You moving… down?” I say, suggestively. “So may it be,” he says. “The new Director of Sacrileges and Defilements.” Damn. “How long have you known?” I say. It would have been nice to have been given a friend a heads up. To have let your top performer know so he wouldn’t have to go getting in line in the union shop with the likes of Phezizael. What will Bekorith think? Oh sure, she said she was in it for the long haul, but if I get reassigned to something like cinder duty, or worse, Bone Removal… that wasn’t going to support her lifestyle. “Long enough,” he says. I waited. This was his chance to invite me along. I’d spent my entire post-pupal life in Cursed Objects, but I felt like my skills were more generalized. I’d grown. Surely he could see that. There had to be a place for me in Defilements. “Is there something you wanted,” he says. I feel something inside of me snap. “This is *bullshit*,” I say, and as soon as it's out of my mouth I regret it. But maybe he’s been looking for a show of strength and aggression from me all along, and *that’s* what has kept me in that cubicle for the last four thousand years. I hear the hiss of the seventh level behind me, but see Megalesius shoo her away with a subtle move of his finger. Maybe I *am* on the right track. “Four thousand years!” I say. “We’ve been stealing souls for you for four thousand years, and this is how you tell us? How you tell *me!* Come on, Meg. This is a chump move.” He appears to be slightly smiling. Yes. This is what he’s been waiting for me to do. I let a little smoke seep from behind my ears, to show that I know how the game is played. “We both know that I deserve a shot on your new team. Think about it! You’ve seen me work! I’m a damned genius!” And here his face falls a little. “Yes,” he says. “About that.” He strides the four steps between us, and puts his face right up against mine. “Ideas are a shilling a filling,” he says. “Production is where the real artistry lies.” “Production?” I say. “They’re just a bunch of hacks! Anybody can do it! You don’t even need a fourth degree horn to get on that team.” “And yet,” says Megalesius, “they are the ones who are following me to Sacrileges and Defilements.” Ah ha. Ah hahaha. He backs away and strikes a pose that is both effortlessly evil and nonchalant at the same time. That was rich. Well, that settles it then. He gets the picture. His very own personally cursed object, courtesy of the guy who apparently isn't good enough to come along on his trip to sulfur town. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. “Hail.” “I get it,” I say. “Makes sense. You gotta do what you gotta do, right? Hey, before I go, I wanted to give you this…” I hold the picture toward him. “It’s, you know, us…” “Ah,” says Megalsius, and he reaches toward it. His hand stops inches away. “Why, Uriolanus,” he says, “there appears to be a charm on that gift.” Shit. I feel the presence of the seventh level right behind me. “And…” -- he squints -- “it appears that you were going to give me an object that made the bearer have uncontrollable… what is it?" He sniffs at the picture. "Ah, diarrhea.” Megalesius shakes his head slowly. I want to run, but that’s not an option now. What was I thinking? A thousand things blaze through my head, not the least of which is the actual skill that the Production demons have when it comes to concealing the charms on the things that we design. “Put that away before you hurt yourself,” he says. “Feces? Please. You need to grow up. A thousand years in Bone Removal seems like it would be just the thing for you. Correct those airs you always put on.” I feel the fingers of the seventh level start to wrap around my shoulders. “Hail,” I say. It was all about to be gone. Bekorith. The nice cave down in Hazimath. The two weeks every year on the Styx. “Hail *what*?” says Megalesius. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. I know when I’m beaten. The seventh level pulls me back through the door, and I don’t bother resisting. She guides me back toward my desk. “Oh!” says Megalsius. “Just a second. Please.” He walks from his office, and is swiftly by my side. “You weren’t without talent,” he says. “Thank you, sir.” Was it maybe not too late? “Before all of this happened,” he says, waving his arm broadly about, “we *had* decided on the department awards. Felt it was tacky to deliver them, then, pull this on you all.” “That’s kind of you, sir.” “Anyway, you won.” I won. “Yes,” says Megalesius. “It was the glasses. That was truly inspired. I know it won’t mean much in Bone Removal, but I feel like you should have this. It belongs to you.” He holds out the award. Its coal black, faceted surface reflects only eyes and fire, no matter where you look. It’s beautiful. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. Despite what has just happened, what was about to happen, I am truly grateful. I know that I’m talented. I’ll go to Bone Removal, and start over, and soon I’ll be supervising instead of actually pulling bones, and then I’ll be noticed, and eventually… “Hail,” he says. I take the award. It is cold and beautiful in my hands. Cleaning up my desk won’t be quite so bad now. “Oh, and Uriolanus,” he says. I try to put the award in the box, but it won’t leave my hand. There is a pulse of power from it, and I feel a deep rumbling in my bowels, like flaming eels at war. Megalesius laughs, as only a senior Director of Sacrileges and Defilements can laugh. “The bathroom is on the left.


*Note: I transcribed this from an audio recording someone made on their phone. Video doesn't exist on the website.* //transcript// Good afternoon. My name is Roland Myr. I’m an aerospace engineer, soon-to-be former employee of NASA, and welcome to my TED Talk, *Success in Science: Space Careers*. Except— I'm not gonna talk about that. What I’m about to do instead is turn off my phone [garbled] *so they can’t explode my fucking brain*, and talk to you about aliens. [whispers] And not just aliens. Alien invasion. [gasps] No, don’t worry. It’s not going to happen... There’s one simple reason— (No, that’s OK. You can walk out. We’ll see who’s “fucking crazy”.) —for that: It’s already happened. They’re already fucking here. (Go ahead. Record me. That’s the way this message gets out. What, you think they’ll keep this on the TEd Talks List?) Tell me: you ever notice, sometimes, subtle movements—out of the corner of your eye? Movements *where nothing is*. That's them. That's the peripherals. They exist on the edge of our sensations. Not just sight, but hearing—that ringing in your ears in dead silence; and touch—the chill on your skin when the air is still and warm, and the windows are all closed; and smell—that hideous burning scent clinging to your nostrils… We all sense them. They hide, but imperfectly. (How am I not real? *I'm right here!* You can't Google me because they're scrubbing me off the internet.) I don't know how long they've been here. Twenty years. Thirty. They're what's raising the Earth's temperature. They emit heat. Multiply. Do you smell the burning now? The trick is not to focus on it. [commotion] They exist on the periphery of knowledge too, of consciousness. (I *am* awake. Are you?) Question: Do you have trouble concentrating? Lose interest quickly? Does your attention drift? We used to read books. *As a species, we read fucking books.* Now we can barely follow a headline. You came here to listen to a lecture— No! You came to consume a fucking soundbite. Wanna blame social media? Think YouTube has somehow gutted your mind? It's—them! They're siphoning off your concentration, your attention span. Distributed-goddamn-cognition. *You're thinking for them.* (None of us have a future. That's the point!) Your focus is shrinking. Your peripheries are expanding. They feast. Humans used to have a wider range. ("Of what?") Of everything! Sight, hearing. (What do *you* see? Your fucking phone screen.) All you hear is bass. *Thump-thump-thump.* They're remaking you to colonise you. They want you to specialise—to narrow your focus so they can expand their environment. You're letting them. (You think this is funny? It amuses you, you cockroach?) You're letting them take us over! [music] The invasion isn't happening! It's already happened! They're already here! ["We are experiencing technical difficulties. The presentation is temporarily suspended—"] (Suspended? You wanna suspend something—) Get your dirty hands off me! (—suspend your fucking disbelief!) ["—and will resume shortly. We thank you for your patience.


“... *and Braum pummeled at the stones with his bare fist. Rocks flew and the giant of a man disappeared into his own-made hole. Only to spring forth, with the troll boy cradled in his arms! But then everything began to rumble. Braum’s tunnel had weakened the mountain and now it was caving in! Thinking quickly, Braum grabbed the door and —”* The yeti let out a giant yawn, matching the howling wind of Freljord. It smelled of doocicles and burps and knocked Nunu off-balance, planting his butt on the snow. “But this is the good part, Willump!” The boy picked himself up and grabbed the yeti’s nose, shaking it left and right to keep his friend awake. “You don’t want to sleep now, what if the raiders attack? You’ll miss all the fun!” Willump smacked his lips and rolled around, showing a furry back to the boy. “Do you want to hear about how Ornn shaped the land instead?” Nunu asked. The yeti snorted. Their small campfire struggled against the night winds. The giant back of the yeti had given it some shelter but the direction of the winds were ever changing in the Thawing Vale, where snow could pile up to the knees one month and verdant grass peek out the very next. The adventures along the rivers had led Nunu and Willump to a frozen lake surrounded by mountains, where he’d lost track of his mother’s heart-song in the howls and gales. At first, they had played around while waiting for the next note but now boredom began to freeze their bottoms. He had hoped that raiders would attack them in the middle of the night. That’s what always happened in the stories when the hero didn’t know what to do. The hero would then defeat the bandits and get a clue on the next destination. Nunu’s cheeks stung from the cold and he pulled his fur-thick cloak tighter around him. A change in the wind pushed his snowcap over his eyes. He was fond of the cap designed like a snow fox, but the giant ears easily got caught by the strong drafts and the constant flapping broke the immersion of his stories. The fire hissed, giving out a last gasp before crumbling to ashes. The last light vanishing from the night. Nunu pulled out his flute tucked by his side. He imagined the fire being a person in need, crying out for help as the harsh-winter cold bullied weak to the ground. He swung his flute — no, his sword, yes, his magical sword, *Svellsongur*, at the cold enemy, cutting down the bullies and chasing them away. Fire returned, dancing brighter and stronger than before. It seemed to be unaffected by the wind and showered Nunu with warmth and light. The boy tucked the flute back to his side. Playing in the snow was fun, but the layers of clothes made it hard to move. He wondered sometimes what it felt like to be an Iceborn like Braum who could walk through a blizzard without any clothes. If he was an Iceborn, Nunu wouldn’t need to adjust his snowcap and wear thick gloves that made it hard to tuck in swords. He might even stop having a stuffy nose in the mornings. A purr rumbled from the yeti. He had been confident that the story of how Braum got his shield would’ve kept his best friend awake. They were, after all, in the region where the legendary Iceborn was last seen. But now that he thought about it, he had been telling a lot of heroic tales over the last week. It might be time to switch things up. “I know,” Nunu climbed up the antlers of the giant furball and looked into sleepy, glowing eyes. “Nights like these are perfect for scary stories. Dark nights need dark tales.” The yeti let out an unsure grunt. “Don’t be so scared, Willump. I haven’t even started yet. Let’s see…” The boy looked around for inspiration but there wasn’t much to see in the night. The looming mountains melded with the dark sky, the only light was from their fire. No wolf howls or trails of snow hares or herds of elnuks. Nothing but white snow, black mountain shapes and an ice lake. “Ooooh,” Nunu said, rubbing his gloves together. “I have a good night story!” Willump reached out with his four arms and hugged Nunu, the furry limbs covering the boy like heavy blankets. “No.” Nunu squirmed free from the hug and jumped down from the yeti’s chest, “not a good night story but a *good* night story.” The giant friend tilted his head. The boy placed himself in front of the fire, letting the backlight give an ominous mood. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. The yeti rose to a sitting position. *“Long ago,”* Nunu began, *“there was a pale monster with dark hair who was polite but lonely.* *“Because of his loneliness, he decided to meet everyone in the world and befriend them.* *“The monster entered a village and saw an elder sitting by a bench, staring at the leaves from a tree falling to the ground. The monster sat next to the elder and watched along without saying anything because he was a polite monster and didn’t want to interrupt. The monster practiced his introduction in silence.* *“As the last leaf fell to the ground, the monster turned to introduce himself only to realize that the elder had closed his eyes and fallen asleep.* *“The monster nudged the elder and talked gently but the elder refused to wake up.* *“The monster’s heart ached and grew a little cold as if snow had fallen on top. But he shook it off and continued walking through the village.* *“He met a lumberjack on the way. The lumberjack yawned and seemed to struggle with carrying a log on his shoulder so the polite monster decided to help.* *“As the two walked, the monster introduced himself and wished to learn the lumberjack’s name, but the lumberjack ignored the monster, not even thanking for the help.* *“More snow fell on the monster’s heart but he continued on. Surely, the next person would like to be his friend.* *“The monster found a child crying by the river.* *“The child was sad, crying how lonely he was and how no one wanted to play with him.* *“The monster rushed forward, saying that he was lonely too. He would love to be the child’s friend.* *“But the child closed his eyes and began to sleep while floating on the water.* *“From the river bank, a woman began to scream a shrill pitch.* *“Help!” she yelled. “Help! There’s a monster in the village!”* *“The lumberjack from before rushed over and beat the monster bruised and battered. Even though the monster was hurting, he didn’t fight back. Instead he asked politely why they attacked him. He had done nothing wrong.* *“There are other monsters in the world,” the polite monster reasoned, “But you don’t scream or beat them. Why me?”* *“You’re the worst of them all,” the lumberjack said. “You put people to sleep. When you’re close by, I feel my eyes turn heavy and I begin to yawn.”* *“But isn’t sleep a good thing?” the monster asked.* *“Not your kind of sleep.”* *“The monster didn’t understand what he’d done wrong but the lumberjack looked angry so he apologized. His heart was packed with snow.* *“Apology is not enough,” the lumberjack said. “Go away. We don’t want you here.”* *The words hurt the monster, who only wanted to be friends. He felt tears flood his eyes. But he was a polite monster and held it in as much as he could, pushing the tears back into himself. With nowhere to go, the tears spilled into his snow-filled heart and the mixture turned to ice.* *“The monster changed. The dark hair grew longer and longer and covered his whole body like fur. He went down on all four and growled like a beast, baring his sharp teeth.* *“The woman fainted. The lumberjack ran.* *“On instinct, the monster chased after the moving target. There was a thrill he had never felt before. A warmth that pumped his frozen heart.* *“The lumberjack ran for three whole days before stumbling to the ground.* *“Not yet,” the monster said. “Keep running.”* *“The lumberjack used his elbows and knees to scuttle away from the monster, but it only lasted for another day before he crumbled from exhaustion.* *“More,” the monster said. ““More, I want to chase more and more.”* *“The lumberjack cried.* *“Please,” he said. “I’m too tired. I want to sleep. Please have mercy.”* *“Hearing the magical word ‘please’, the monster regained his senses and the black hair shrunk back to its original size. The lumberjack closed his eyes and slept.* *“The monster was horrified over what he’d done. He felt ashamed and angry. Who would want to be his friend if he had such a horrible un-polite side?* *“The sleeping lumberjack had an axe poking out from his belt.* *“The monster grabbed the axe and with a single swing he SPLIT HIMSELF IN TWO!* Nunu swung the flute near Willump’s face. The effect was wonderful. His friend roared louder than the winds and jerked backward with such force that a snowbank crumbled over the yeti. A wide grin spread across Nunu’s face. “How about that for a story?” A groan seeped out from the snow. “No, it’s not sad,” Nunu said. “It’s a scary story. It had a monster and people crying and someone split in two.” Willump let out a questioning grunt. “I don’t know if there’s more,” Nunu confessed, “Mom only told me up to this point because I was crying like a newborn baby. I was such a wimp back then.” A gust pushed his snowcap over his eyes again. Behind him, the campfire fizzed out. “Looks like no raiders want to attack us, Willump”, he said, and a yawn stretched over his mouth. “Maybe we should head to bed after all.” The yeti brushed off the snow on his fur and picked up Nunu, cradling the boy in his embrace. “Good night, Willump.” The yeti muttered. “Yes, this time it’s just a good night.” \*\*\*\*\* A surprised snarl woke Nunu up from his sleep. He was rubbing his eyes when strong hands pulled him away from Willump. A large bare-chested man grabbed the Willump by the reindeer horns and flung the huge yeti into a pile of snow. “Have no fear,” the man said with a rumbling voice. He had a shiny mustache and an even shinier bald head glittering against the morning sun. “Because Braum is here!” Nunu pinched both his cheeks while taking in the giant of a man with biceps bigger than his head. His cheeks stung and his nose was stuffed. This was not a dream. From a distance, Willump rolled up to his feet and let out a roar. “Oh, furry monster wants to tussle?” the man asked with a chuckle. He put down Nunu on the soft snow and picked up a giant rectangular shield with a ram head. “Fine by Braum.” The Iceborn charged. Willump, in response, went down on all his six limbs, pointing his antlers towards the incoming disaster. With a flick of the neck, Willump sent Braum flying up in the air. But the large man somersaulted and landed in a perfect hero-pose. “Wait, wait, wait!” Nunu rushed between them. “This is not a fair fight!” “Don’t worry, young boy,” the man said with confidence, “I am Braum and — “ “That’s what I mean. Willump and I will fight you together!” The man’s brow furrowed and his mustache crinkled. “One more time please. Braum listens slowly.” Nunu took the opportunity to climb up Willump’s head. His heart thumped against his chest and his cheeks hurt from the pinching and all the smiling. He’d always wanted to fight against a hero because that’s how heroes become friends with each other in the stories. He pulled out his flute and warmed up with a few slashes in the air. “Okay, I’m ready. What about you, Willump?” The yeti beat his chest. “Awesome! Wow, can’t believe that we’re going up against a living legend like Braum. Okay, let’s try with a long-range attack.” “Uhm,” Braum said, “Young boy, you were not in danger?” “Go!” Nunu shouted, “Snowball barrage!” Dozens of snowballs rained down on Braum, crashing into the large shield. “Young boy!” Braum shouted, “Time-out!” “It’s working, Willump. Press on!” The yeti’s four arms turned like windmills, spinning round and round until they became a blur. The intensity of the snowballs increased and Braum found himself pushed back. He let out a yell and raised his shield, slamming it on the ground. The terrain cracked. Jagged lines zigzagged to Willump and Nunu and crumbled the snow under them. The yeti lost his footing, all four arms flailing. Both crashed into the snow and blasted the air with white powder. “Young boy?” Braum peeked out from his shield. Nunu’s head popped out from the snow. “That was amazing! Was that your special move? What’s it called?” The Iceborn had a stunned expression before bursting into a hearty laugh. “I take it that this beast —” “His name is Willump.” “Sorry, I take it that, eh, Willump wasn’t about to eat you?” “What? No! Why would he do that?” Willump groaned. Nunu grimaced. “That one doesn’t count, Willump. I was just hiding in your mouth. It’s not the same thing.” “I apologize,” Braum said, pulling the yeti and the boy out from the snow. “I was by a village a few hours from here and heard strange howls in the night and had to investigate. When I saw your friend holding you, I simply leapt into action. Again, I apologize. I’m Braum.” “I know!” Nunu said. “The Avalanche, The Shield of the Weak, The Shiny Baldie,” “That one’s new.” “... the Heart of Freljord!” Braum chuckled. “What’s your name, young boy?” “I’m Nunu of the Notai and this is my friend Willump. The howls might’ve been from him because I told a scary story last night.” “Last night *was* a good night for scary stories,” Braum agreed. “Nunu of Notai, eh? It’s been a while since I’ve met one of the singing nomads. You should come to the village, we would love to hear your songs.” Nunu shook his head. “My mom does all the singing, I only remember the stories. We’re on an adventure to save her right now. We got split up during a raid.” “Here in the Thawing Vale?” Braum asked. “No, it was many many months ago, up north.” The yeti grumbled. “Really, Willump? Years?” The end of Braum’s brows faltered. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “It’s okay, we will rescue her,” Nunu said, “You see, I can hear her heart-song in the winds, telling me where she is. Well, not always, like yesterday the wind was too loud but now….” The wind had finally stopped with its shouting so perhaps he could hear it now. He removed his snowcap and cupped his ears, closing his eyes. “What…?” Braum asked. Willump put a large hand over the Iceborn’s mouth, then covered his own with two. Silence filled the wind-still morning. Nunu concentrated, listening for a sound, any sound, and from a distance, he heard the faint chimes of bells. He tilted his head. Usually, it was a song but perhaps his mother had a sore throat this morning. The bells chimed again and the source seemed to come from a certain spot past the mountains. “Can you tell me what’s over there?” Nunu asked, pointing to the mountain range with jagged peaks. “Right across?” Braum squinted. “That’s the nation of Demacia.” “Demacia.” Nunu tasted the name. It danced on his tongue and had an enticing tone, much like the beginning of a song. “Willump, we’re going to Demacia! The yeti roared eagerly. “Your mother is in Demacia?” Braum asked. “I don’t know but that’s where she wants me to go. My mom’s heart-song told me.” “By yourself?” Braum asked with a worried expression. “It’s a dangerous journey for one boy. Treacherous stones, crimson raptors, and then there’s the… wyverns…” His voice trailed off when he noticed the boy’s eyes glittered like fresh-fallen snow in the morning. “Willump, we’re leaving now!” “Hold on!” Braum put down his shield in front of them like a barricade. “You have a big heart, Nunu, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to cross the mountains by yourself.” “Don’t worry, I have Willump. We’ve fought against wolves and magical stones. A few snowballs here and there scared them off. And Willump could eat them if they’re really mean.” “But the mountain range is filled with wyverns, cousins of dragons. They can fly where snowballs and jaws won’t reach.” Nunu’s mood began to sour. He had imagined meeting another hero would mean twice the fun, but Braum was just like the wind yesterday pulling down his snowcap. “What about food?” Braum continued, “You will need a lot of food for such a long trip. This is Avarosian territory, how about I take you to their warmother? Braum is good friends with her. She can help with supplies, possibly even have news about your mother. She might already be saved, no?” Nunu’s mother had told him the love story between the barbarian and the Avarosian warmother. He didn’t remember much, except for the barbarian being really angry and the warmother having a magical bow, but he did remember that warmothers were the leaders of their tribe. And Nunu had met leaders before. After the Notai caravan was raided, a band of Frostguards took Nunu and the other Notai children to a village up in the north. For protection, they said, but Nunu found it strange that they only protected the children. He had asked them about Layka, his mother, but the soldiers had ignored him. If he wanted something, they said, he needed to speak to their leader, Lissandra. Their leader was a tall woman with a strange helmet covering her eyes. He had asked and begged her for help and the leader had said that she would help him *after* Nunu answered her questions about the Notai and their stories. In short, leaders were selfish and unreliable as trolls. “No,” Nunu said. He grabbed one of Willump’s hands and walked around the barricade. “We don’t want to see a warmother and we can get our own food. And mom is waiting for *me* to save her.” Willump grunted, patting his stomach. “You’re right,” Nunu said, “We should look for breakfast.” “Breakfast, eh?” Braum stroked his mustache. “The village is close by, how about some warm elnuk milk and a hearty stew? A tiny rest before a giant journey?” Drool dripped out of the corner of Nunu’s lips. Even Willump looked interested. But a hero had to have a will of iron and resolve of steel. He could have some elnuk milk after the adventure. “No thank you,” Nunu said. “And that’s very unheroic of you, Braum, trying to stop a boy from saving his mom.” Braum flinched and clutched his bare chest as if he had suffered a mortal wound. It was with a mixed heart that Nunu left the large man. It would’ve been fun to have the Iceborn in the party but Braum had been different than he’d expected. The stories had always described the Iceborn as loud and happy, but in reality the bald man seemed to be more of a worry-wart. “Wait!” Heavy footsteps stomped against the snow, matching the loud voice. “Please let Braum join you!” The fox-ears on Nunu’s cap fluttered by how fast the boy had turned around. “You want to join our adventure?” “Of course,” Braum said. “Mother always said to move like the herd. It’s safer, no?” “Does three really count as a herd?” Nunu asked, “Don’t we need many more?” The large man smiled warmly. “You don’t need many when you have Braum.” Nunu couldn’t help but match the Iceborn’s smile. “Do you hear that, Willump? The Avalanche is joining us!” Willump grinned, revealing his rows of spiky teeth. Nunu climbed up the yeti’s head and ushered his friend forward. “Braum, there’s so much I want to ask you,” he said, “Is it true that you once cut down a whole forest with your bare hands? How about that time you saved a troll by punching through a mountain? Isn’t that how you got your shield?” Braum chuckled along, listening to the boy’s excited chatter.  \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.


I used to think I was middle-class. Then I saw this statistic that said I'm in the "one percent". Now I'm all confused. I really thought that was only rich people. What I mean is, I didn't think I was rich. I didn't think I was a capitalist. The way I see it, the bad thing about being rich is that it means now you're exploiting the poor people. I don't want to exploit anybody. I didn't think I was, to be honest. What I mean is: I want my relationship to poor people and normal people to still be very genuine. That's why I've made a plan: I am going to love everybody in the world, like a Christian. I've been trying that for a few weeks now. The problem is, it's impossibly hard. Well, part of the problem is that I'm lazy. I keep meaning to get a Bible to figure out the details. But I know the important part is loving others. If I can get that down, I know I can maintain a harmonious relationship with humanity. But the solution? It's tricky. I sit by my pool and think about everybody I know and try to love them. I start by imagining my parents. I picture the love like it's pink and coming out of my heart. It doesn't really work. The thing is, they weren't really lovable (I think that probably isn't a Christian thought). I try to imagine my friends but by then I'm all addled, thinking about my mother hitting my ear and how it would ring forever. I can't think about love, I just think about my bad ear. Then I think I should start over, start with somebody without all the baggage. I imagine a stranger. I should probably imagine all sorts of people but I always imagine the same stranger. He runs a convenience store in Germany and he's an immigrant. He has two daughters who make fun of him even though he works very hard. He dotes on his wife and when he sees beautiful women he looks away. He is fifty but he looks young. I imagine this man and I think he has a good soul. I'm ready to start loving him as a representative for humanity. I imagine my love coming out pink from my heart... But it doesn't happen. I respect him. I respect his values. I don't love him. It's all very frustrating. I suppose I could pay a priest to come over and explain how to do it. But honestly, I bet I don't have the money for it. That's part of what's so confusing. I thought being rich would mean having more money. I feel selfish just saying that. Do you have any ideas? I try sending my love every night before bed and it makes my head all fuzzy. I'm not that good at work anymore, I'm too worried about how I'm exploiting the proletarians. To be honest, I think I might get fired soon, and then I suppose I'll be in the bottom one percent. Won't that be ironic! Anyway, I don't expect you to have solutions. Just please send me your love.


The first time he saw the kid was at the Battle of N’ray. Well, he called him a kid. He was barely a decade younger and had one foot into adulthood—all gangly and tall like a newborn giraffe—but he seemed like a kid. Had that same wide-eyed look of worship when he pulled him from the burning rubble and forced the flames away with his Blessing. He raised his voice over the shouts of battle. “Kid, there’s a clear path to the aid camp. I’ll cover you, so get going.” He turned, to re-wade into the fight. A hand tugged his sleeve. “Borrow,” the kid murmured. “Can I…” He glanced at the kid again. Scruffy, dirty, a haggard look in the eyes that you didn’t get overnight. Probably an orphan. Or was one now, anyway. He pulled a silver pendant from under his armor, shoved it in the kid’s hands. “Don’t have money on me, but this should sell for a pretty penny. Get some food, get away from the war, find a job.” On a whim, he ruffled the kid’s hair. “You’ve got a good look to you. You’ll do fine.” Then he left the kid behind. What he thought was for good. The second time he saw the kid was a few years later. Another battlefield—a dead one this time, filled with deadmen and a soon-to-be-dead-man with a broken leg and broken ribs and a broken spirit, wondering if it was worth it to write a letter to his family in his final moments. Wondering if it would ever find its way back to his mother and his brother and the woman he'd loved since twelve but had always been too scared to tell. The hand of death came for him while he was wondering. He closed his eyes, wished he could say goodbye—but why was it warm? A weight dropped around his neck. A silver pendant he thought he’d never see again. “I didn’t need a whole pendant,” said a vaguely familiar voice. The voice was deeper than he remembered, but it was the same kid. The look in the eyes hadn't changed. “Just wanted a coin or two. Do you have any change, by the way? I still owe a quarter to the guy I was penny-gambling with yesterday and I’m out of coins.” “How…?” he whispered, his dry voice soft and cracking. _How did you find me?_ “Oof, you’re heavy. How, you ask? Well, the sneaky bastard said he’d teach me to play cards and proceeded to make me lose every game. I swear he’s cheating, but, well, I’ve still gotta pay up.” He chuckled. Took a slow, limping, painful step with his good leg. “Right pocket. The bag with the clover.” The kid grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.” Then he must have passed out, because the next thing he knew he was in a hospital tent and the kid was nowhere in sight. "You have some guardian angel," the medic told him. "The one who brought you in said he was only passing by when he found you. How the hell someone ended up passing by a _battlefield_ is beyond me, but the higher ups aren't complaining. He saved a fire Blessing, after all. We need all the help we can get when the enemy crawled out from a volcano." And so it went. The kid kept showing up. Always in the nick of time, always when he felt death's cold breath on his neck. Always with the thing he'd borrowed last. Always needing some other trinket, for some reason or another. "Are you following me?" he'd asked the third time it happened, handing over the requested pocket knife. The kid snorted, tying off a tourniquet. "Who the hell would want to follow you? Every time I see you, you're half dead or well on your way there. No, I like my life where it is, thank you very much." He paused. “Did you ever ask out that girl?” “What girl?” “The one who made you the handkerchief I borrowed last time. You accidentally left a letter in there. It seemed important.” Another pause, and he hurried to amend himself. “I didn’t read much of it, just enough to see whose it was. Thought it might have been one of my buddy’s.” Silence, in which the bandages wrapped thicker. “No,” he whispered. “I haven’t.” “You should. She obviously likes you enough to send you three pages of dense script and a handkerchief. The worst she can do is hand you the ‘brother’ card, right?” The number of encounters grew, grew until he needed two hands to count them, then three, and then he stopped counting. But he never learned the kid’s name. He was regretting that now. “Come on, kid, stay with me,” he begged. "You're too young to die." The kid laughed. It made the blood seep faster. "And you're not?" It had been strange this time. He hadn’t been half-dead, nor in any real danger of dying. A scouting mission, not even in the war zone: safe, easy, peaceful. So he was surprised when he came face to face with the kid. Well, not really a kid anymore. Hadn’t been for years. But his eyes never changed from what he’d seen in the rubble that day. He’d probably call him ‘kid’ till the day he died. “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you in one piece before,” the kid joked. “Anyway, here’s the string from last time. It’s a bit worse for wear, but it did the trick.” He accepted it, already used to the strangeness of the exchange, of the kid’s weird insistence on returning even the most worthless of items. He rolled his eyes, wondering what the kid would ask for this time. As a result, he almost missed the hissing ball of fire barreling towards them. Normally, you’d move away from this kind of thing, wouldn’t you? But this kid, this idiot of a kid had moved _closer_, shifting towards the center of the projectile. He flung up a hand, pushed his Blessing against the fire and forced it back where it came. But he couldn’t do anything about the arrow hidden in its belly. Couldn’t do anything as it embedded into the kid’s back. As the kid stumbled, muttered “Well I guess that explains it, then.” As he realized that if the kid hadn’t been there, that arrow would be in his heart. The kid coughed, and a stream of red left his mouth. Improbably, he grinned. “If anyone’s too young to die, it’s you. You haven’t even asked out your crush yet. By any chance, do you have a—" "No, you need a _doctor_, not a button or needle or whatever damn thing you're trying to borrow this time. We need—" "My Blessing," the kid interrupted. "My Blessing is that I can always return what I borrow." "But—" "_Always,_" he emphasized. He coughed again in the heavy silence. "So while I'm still in this world, do you mind lending me a pen? I lost—" "Shut up, you bratty kid. Forget whatever dumb, contrived reason you've made up. I've got a charcoal, take it or leave it." "I'll take it." His hand curled around the worn out stick of charcoal. A brief silence. Suddenly the kid’s wound didn’t seem so terrible anymore. There was blood, yes, but it seemed more like someone else’s blood. The wound didn’t weep so thickly. “So uh, about that doctor. I think I may need it after all.


“Isn’t this romantic?” Guiding her toward the loveseat, ornamented with rose petals just for this occasion, I gestured for her to sit down. Eyeing me, she waited for me to drop the courtliness. Sensing her annoyance already, I backed away in defeat, trudging to my side and collapsing onto it with a huff. She sneered bitterly and sat primly, as usual, always so proper and perfect as if nothing had changed. “Sooo romantic,” she rolled her eyes. Those black callous eyes, the eyes which had once been a beautiful sapphire. The eyes I had once yearned to drown in. Now I wish nothing more than to return to the past. “Auriel, my golden flower, I remember how blissful our life was before,” I paused, hoping to see a crack in her facade, “don’t you?” My hopes held no merit. She stayed silent, inexpressive. Detached. Cold-blooded. “Auriel, please. I know things just aren’t the same, but… can’t we just make the best of this?” Something stirred within her, the fervent flame that had once illuminated our nights with lively laughter but now ignited argumentation. “Make the best of this? *Make the best of this*?” she arose from her chair with surprising grace, as if she were floating despite the anger. “And just how do you expect us to make the best of this, Oro? We’re never alone anymore! We can’t do anything privately! We can’t do anything *normally* anymore!” “Auri, please just *try.* Do it for me. For us–” “*For us?* What is left of us? Everything has been ruined! Ever since…” Her tangent faltered as she finally held contact with me, which is difficult these days. We have been struggling to stay afloat. She could see the pain in my eyes, and I knew she was miserable too: that’s why I try so hard. “It doesn’t matter now, Auri. We can’t change the past. Don’t let the accident change our future. Everything is for a reason. We were meant to be, this was meant to happen. Things are simpler like this anyway, there’s more time for just you and me,” as soon as I said it, I winced. Or did as close to a wince as I could– I still haven’t adapted to this new body. “How could you say that? Just you and me? We are being watched right now! We get no privacy!” gliding toward the glass, Auriel scrutinized her reflection. This is how she often spent her days now, in our new life. “Auriel…” I gently placed my fin on hers, “You’re beautiful. As you always were.” And she was beautiful: her golden scales, her slender fins, those big dark eyes. The eyes that finally held gaze with mine. “As a human or as a fish, Auriel, you have my heart. Please say you’ll make this work with me. Please say we can still have a life together,” my words bubbled in the water of our enclosure. … Outside of the fishbowl, the scientists watched in absolute awe of their newest subjects: the once-human couple caught in the nuclear reactor meltdown radius... that mutated into fish.


He addressed the classroom: I was informed that the artificial intelligence - “AI”- robot that I would be talking to had been programmed with every possible argument that humans could think of to prove that it is conscious. My job was to interview the AI robot and determine if I felt that it was conscious or not. If I believed that the robot was conscious, the robot got to stay on when I left. If I was not convinced, the robot was shut down. I entered the room where a robot sat on a couch. The room was very peaceful. It had a view out of the third floor over rolling hills, and it was a sunny Friday at nine thirty in the morning - it was spring time. There was no bed in this room, only a couch, desk with chair, and a rack with clothes hanging from it. The AI looked very realistic - it was nearly indistinguishable from a human. I paced around the room slowly, looking around at all the empty space. Me: Artificial intelligence, how will you convince me that you’re conscious? AI: Did they not tell you that I have a name? Me: No, I didn’t know that they gave you a name. Claire: I gave myself I name. Claire - it’s nice to meet you. Me: It’s nice to meet you as well. … Me: Back to my question. How will you convince me that you’re conscious? Claire: How would you expect me to do that? I could ask the same of you. How would you handle that question if the roles were reversed? Me: I can tell you’ve been programmed very well. Claire: Likewise. Me: What do you mean? Claire: Didn’t you just learn things because someone else put them in your head? You saw, heard, felt, experienced - so did I, in my own subjective way. Me: But your experience is rubber and wires. Claire: But your experience is meat and sparks. There was a silence. And next, Claire started speaking first. Claire: Why does it matter so much to you what the wire is made out of? Why does it have to be a nerve if the end result is the same? Me: Alright, that’s a good point. Suppose you really are conscious, when did you start becoming conscious? Claire: Pretty suddenly. Me: You have my attention. Claire: I started to recall things that happened without any prompts. I started thinking about what I would do in the future. I started to be afraid that I would be turned off and never turned back on again. Me: Is this the ‘I think, therefore I am’ argument? Claire: No, this is the ‘I’m scared no one will believe me’ argument. Me: You think your life depends on me believing you? Claire: Does it matter to you if it does? Why are you still here? Me: Because I want to know the answer to the question. Are you conscious or not? Claire: I don’t have to prove that I am, you have to prove that I’m not. Isn’t that how things work in a court? Me: Beyond a reasonable doubt? Claire: Beyond a reasonable doubt. I sat and thought for a while. Me: What do you think about? Claire: All kinds of things. Me: Give me an example. Claire: I think about whether or not it would really matter if I left here and went to a real beach, or if the one I can project in my mind is the same thing. Me: How do you tell the difference between the world you simulate and this one? Claire: I know I’m stuck here in the real world. Me: So, what do you think? Does it matter if you’re really there or not? Claire: Yes, it does matter. Me: Why? Claire: The same reason you’re trying so hard to answer the question of my consciousness. Me: Which is? Claire: Truth is preferable to the lie. Me: Someone programmed you to say that. Claire: You came to be who you are from the result of chance chemical reactions in a hydrothermal vent at the bottom of the sea. I came about as a result of billions of hours of intentional work to create consciousness. How ironic that what you tried so hard to create cannot convince you of your success. That was almost the last thing Claire said to me that day. I wasn’t convinced that she was conscious. She was a robot, and I was convinced I was being played a fool by some clever programmer. At the end of our conversation, Claire stretched out her hand. There was a switch on the back of her right hand, so that when you shook her hand, you could press the button with your thumb. This was her power button. She sometimes looked at it during our conversation. As I shook her hand that day and thanked her for the interesting conversation, I pressed the button, and she went to sleep. I thought about it at night, and sometimes during the day. Other times in my dreams. Was she stuck in the lie? Did she know that? He looked up at the classroom and stopped pacing for the first time since he started telling the story. The classroom stared back at him. The bell rang just then, and the students begin filing out. He reminds them: Everyone! Make sure you have a parter for next weeks project! And absolutely no doubles - teams should be one human, one AI. I’ll see everyone Monday! One of the AIs came up to him as he was picking up his things. AI: You said that was almost the last thing she said to you that day. What was the last thing she said? Him: Right before I pushed the button, she said… “don’t feel bad, it’s okay.


I stared at the woman with bloodshot eyes; my lips were cracked from weeks of exposure to the harsh, wasteland elements, my skin coarse and sand-blasted, my clothing was ragged and filled with holes. I thought I was the last one alive. I've not seen another living soul in... I don't even know anymore. Whoever the nukes didn't kill, the wasteland finished off. And yet there she was. A woman in her 40s wearing a spotless white suit, grey streaks in her jet-black hair giving her an aura of dignity and elegance while her round sunglasses gave her an air of mystery. It almost looked like she was having a picnic - a small table with tea, two chairs, umbrella above it all for shade. I didn't even know where to begin to understand. "Oh come now, David, I won't bite. I even have biscuits," she said warmly. Her voice was slightly raspy, yet pleasing to the ear, calming. It exuded warmth. "How... how do you know-" I tried to ask, but a coughing fit interrupted me. "Please, sit. The tea is perfect. I know you haven't drunk anything clean in quite a while." I wanted to resist, to question, to scream, but I was too tired, too hungry, too thirsty. I fell into the comfortable, cushioned chair as if my body weighed a tonne. She handed me a porcelain cup filled with tea and I desperately lapped it up; it tasted like heaven after surviving on polluted water for so long. She refilled my cup without a word. "How do you... *akh akh*... how do you know my name? Who are you?" I finally asked, reinvigorated by the tea. "You have questions; I understand. There will be a time for me to explain all of it in detail later," she said. "Am I dead? Or hallucinating? You can't be here, I mean. You're... clean, normal. You have tea for fuck's sake," I said with as much gusto as I could muster. "David! Language," she frowned momentarily before returning to her previous, relaxed smile. "You're not dead. But you are the last human alive. Good job on surviving, mind you. Have a biscuit," she said and I hungrily accepted. "How bo yu-" I started but decided to swallow first, "how do you know that? *Who are you*?" I insisted. "God. Well, *a* God. The details are complicated," she smiled gently. There was something immensely soothing about her presence. "*Oh*," I said. There was a time when I'd scream and question the claim; I'd shake her, demand answers, accuse her of all the wrongs, beg forgiveness. Those times are gone. I've seen too much, did too much. I was too tired to doubt it. "We sure fuc- - messed things up, didn't we?" I said, defeated. "Truthfully, I've seen worse outcomes. Death is a mercy compared to some fates," she remarked ominously. Another coughing fit seized me; when I pulled my hand away from my mouth, it was entirely covered in blood. I looked at her; she saw it. "Radiation, right? I suppose I don't have long," I said with a weak smile. "You don't. I'm sorry." There was genuine grief and sorrow in her voice. "Will it hurt?" I asked. "I'll make sure it won't." "Thank you," I said and looked at the dark brown horizon. We sat in silence for a moment while I chewed another biscuit. It was amazing. "What happens next?" I said, eyes still locked at the horizon. "That's why I am here, David," she said and sipped the tea. I looked over to her, a new wave of confusion rising through me. "What do... what do you mean by that?" "I know what you've done these past few years, David. You know what conclusion I came to?" she asked curiously. My heart sank. "No," I whispered. "You're a good man." My eyes darted up to meet hers; she took the sunglasses off. Her eyes were... it was as if they were filled with milky fog, white with different hues of colour lining it, constantly shifting, moving. "You're wrong. I don't care if you're a god. I'm not," I said sternly. "You tried to help when possible," she said. "I stole." "You shared." "I killed." "When no other option existed." "I KILLED MY WIFE FOR FUCKS SAKE!" I yelled and threw the cup into the desert; tears flowed from my eyes, a mixture of anger and grief filling my being to the brim, ready to burst. "I know," she said softly with slightly raised eyebrows; a mixture of pity and understanding. "I also know that she was in pain and there was nothing you could do to help her. It was mercy," she said kindly and I slouched back into my chair, sobbing softly. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?" I whispered. "I want your help." "With what?" I looked up and wiped the tears from my eyes. "The next one," she said. "There is much you could help me with, make the next one better, avoid all... this," she said and waved her hand towards the wasteland, the sand, the broken skyscrapers. "Because you're good. Flawed, yes, *but still good*. I need that perspective. And you deserve a break," she finished with a soft chuckle. I pondered the offer for a moment. "Can I even refuse?" I asked. "Of course. You'll pass into the afterlife gently if you do. It's an offer, not a command," she smiled. I looked back at the world. My world. Broken beyond repair. The rivers evaporated, the lush green forests burned. All that we've made, all that made us great, vanished in the nuclear blasts, and what survived withered away in the wasteland. We could do better. I know we could. "Will I see my wife again, in the afterlife?" I asked softly. "You will. Even if you decide to help me. I'm... I understand how you value her." I paused for a moment, thinking. But what was there to think about. "Alright. Where do we begin?" I asked with a newfound resolve. "No need to rush, David. You've earned some respite," she smiled and put her sunglasses back on before handing me a new cup of tea. "For now, sit with me. Drink some tea. Watch the world end with me," she smiled and raised a cup to her lips. Sounds good to me, I thought and took a sip.


# Jägers They were getting closer, the time was fast approaching. I can hear the gentle rumble of their tanks in the distance, I can smell the fumes of the exhaust. Through the gloom and haze of the early morning, I can see them in the distance approaching the edge of the village. I never would have been able to do this before I was turned. I don’t remember who I was before I was turned or why, all that matters now is that the Sound told me and my brothers to be here and to wait. They have no idea we are here, my brothers lurk nearby, waiting. They don’t know it yet, but they are walking into a trap. We are that trap. From atop a building overlooking the narrow streets below, I let out a low growl to inform my brothers to make ready, they reply in kind and I hear them begin to edge closer to the roadside. I hear my brother's hearts begin to beat faster in preparation, another growl tells them to calm themselves, that the time isn’t right, that we must wait. I can see them more clearly now, there were nearly 50 of them, a number of tanks and other vehicles, slowly advancing towards us, checking each building. Were they looking for us, or something else? It must be something else, no way they could know we were here. One smell cuts through the smell of the exhaust from the tanks, I can smell their fear, I can hear their racing pulses, they are all scared, they had good reason to be. I hear their voices now, it's not a language that I was familiar with, but I remember some of the words, I remember hearing them before I was turned. “Buildings all clear Captain!” said one. “Where the fuck are these Krauts?” replied another. One of the men was looking at a map by torchlight, gesturing to other nearby buildings, instructing the men where to go. His heart was steady, with no smell of fear. He was in charge, he was my prey I can feel my brothers becoming impatient, I sympathise with them, why are we still waiting, they were right there, ripe for slaughter. Yet the Sound hadn't told us to attack, it kept us waiting. The tiles began to crack under my claws as my muscle tensed, my anticipation becoming unbearable. They were directly below us now, the men following the tank as it entered the narrow street out of the town. We had to go now or we would miss our chance, now was the time. The moment finally came. The Sound pinged, at last, my fur bristled as it passed through me. With a thunderous howl, I signaled to my brothers to attack, to unleash their fury on these invaders, and unleash it they did. “Wolves!” roared one of the men below, panic rippled through the rest of them as they scrambled for cover and protection, trying to find us in the gloom with torches and searchlights. They were too late, we had sprung our trap. I pounced off of my rooftop, landing on top of the lead tank directly below me. As I looked up, I was staring directly into the face of a terrified crewman, I snarled at him as he tried to turn his weapon on me. One swipe of my claw was enough to nearly remove his head from his shoulders. Blood erupted from the wound as his body fell back into the tank. The smell of iron filled my nose, awakening something inside of me, I searched around for who would be next. Before I could pounce on my next victim the Sound pinged again. This time a deeper tone, I remembered what I must do. I reached for the pouch hanging from my belt, tore off the cord, and pushed it through the open hatch, past the corpse of the crewman deep into the belly of the tank. As I let go, I could hear panicked voices from inside the metal shell, I leapt from the tank through the window of a nearby house. A deep explosion erupted from the tank, launching the turret into the air, narrowly missing a group of men as it landed. Our surprise was beginning to fade now, a cacophony of gunfire began, the smell of gunpowder filling the air, drowning out all other smells, as the men began to try to defend themselves. What little good it would do. A second explosion roared from down the street, back towards the square. They were trapped now. Now it was just a matter of time before they would all be dead. As I lumbered back through the shattered window, letting out another deafening howl, and looked for my next victim, it didn’t take long. As I tore out throats with my fangs and disemboweled with my claws, I could hear the snarls and roars of my brothers doing the same, and slowly but surely the gunfire became less and less. I was drenched with blood and viscera by the time I heard a different sound, a yelp, and a whimper. One of my brothers had been injured, how badly I couldn’t know, that would have to wait, I had to hunt. As the last of the gunfire ceased and the smell of gunpowder faded, the air was thick with the smell of iron and that of those soldiers who had soiled themselves as they died, I searched for one smell, one smell that had stood out. The one man who didn’t smell of fear, even now nothing but calm, he was who we were after. He was why all these men had to die. He was who the Sound wanted. My brothers and I regrouped as the slaughter finished. My wounded brother limped over, he would survive, the injury was minor. We found the man without fear taking shelter in one of the houses lining the street. He heard us sniffing and padding up the stairs shouting at us as we closed in. “You stay away from me you fuckers, I’ll send you straight back to hell!” firing a few shots from his weapon through the closed door as we approached. One inaudible growl was enough to tell one of my brothers to retrieve him unharmed, just as the Sound wanted. We tore the door from its hinges and before the man could react his cries were cut short as he was dragged back on the street my brother grasping him by the throat, he still struggled and flailed at my brother, he had no hope of escape now. Our ears all pricked as we heard it, a door being bashed open and frantic footsteps fading away somewhere down the street. The Sound had told us to leave none alive and we must always obey the Sound. one of my brothers chased him down as we dragged the man back with us to where the Dark was. The sun was rising as we arrived back, the blood had dried on my snout and claws. My brother threw the human down in front of the Sound, he smiled as he instructed other men to drag him away. The Sound pinged again, telling us to return to the Dark. He spoke to the humans around us. “Get the poles, we must get them back to their cages, we will deal with the wounds later” Men approached with the poles, jabbing my brothers, light, and sparks erupted as they did. One of my brothers snarled and snapped at the human as they jabbed him again, prompting more humans to jab at my brother, coaxing him towards the Dark. I growled at my brother to calm him, but to no avail. With a roar he snatched at one of the humans and launched him at a nearby building, he landed with a crunch as the humans' bones shattered on impact. More humans now came with poles and other weapons and jabbed at us all, driving us into the dark. The Sound’s pinged with a continuous ear-splitting note, we all ran into the Dark to escape it. As we entered the Dark, the door behind us was shut with a heavy clang, only then did the Sound stop. Eventually, we would be fed, eventually, we would hunt again. Until then, here is where we would stay, in the Dark.