I've mended many trinkets and magical wares in my life. I like to think I've seen it all, even if I have worked for less time than some of my Elven contemporaries, I have managed to make a name for myself great enough that I may be hired instead of those elves. Yet despite my expertise I have very little idea what I'm looking at. All magic has a source. Some draw power from raw ambient magic in the environment. Often they draw power from some sort of magic source within themselves. Rarely I'd even be hired to inspect items of divine origin. Yet this, I could not place its source of magic. It's a simple box, a puzzle box even. If this box were mundane then there would be some sort of solution to open it, maybe you had to push in one part or turn another, but it could be opened. Supposedly this box was the same. The client said that somehow they had lost a wedding ring inside the box. Yet I doubted that was true. They had payed me an exorbitant amount of money, easily enough to purchase a dozen wedding rings. They may have been sentimental about their ring, but I knew that wasn't true. They payed with a golden statue that they were too foolish to know could come to life at the right command. This must've been something more, she was a dungeoneer, or maybe a mercenary. I planned to open the box no matter what of course. I was hired to do just that, and more importantly I was deathly curious. Yet I still puzzled over the strangest part. I had planned originally to disenchant the box. Of course there may have been a solution to the puzzle but I haven't the time or the patience for it. Disenchantment was always the easiest way to go with curses or odd problematic items. Yet, I needed to find the source of the box's power to disenchant it. Once I located where its power came from a fix could be made easily. The box currently sat in a void chamber on the limb that it might gather ambient magic. The chamber stopped any ambient magic from entering it, of course void chambers are exceptionally expensive and difficult to maintain, so mine was barely larger than a foot in any dimension, but easily large enough to fit the box. Of course the magic remained, which meant I could rule out that it drew on ambient magic. The pesky thing was irritating to test even when I tried. The best way to test if its magic remained was simply to try to solve it. The box had many sliding and rotating parts on it. The pesky enchantment made it so no matter how many of them you solved more seemed to appear. So I tried to solve the puzzle and watched carefully. If the enchantment had been dealt with then the box should remain the same as I turn it in my hands, yet it didn't. I took the box out of the void chamber. I wanted to throw the box and the chamber against the wall, but I control myself, since the chamber is far too expensive, and the throw wouldn't affect the box. In fact I had thrown the box extensively as an attempt at an easy solution. Yet the cube despite being made of wood was durable. Explosions, throws, or even immensely destructive spells had no affect on its integrity. This wouldn't surprise me if only I knew of a power source. For something to be so indestructible while being made of such a week material it would need a powerful protective charm. Yet in turn that protective charm would require a source for its magic. I took out pieces of enchanted paper and set the box on it. Ink started drawing itself onto the paper. Drawing complex and intricate runes. I couldn't read the inside of a box I'd never seen but I could read runes based on its power. The runes could be seen as blueprints of the item's power structure, listing where each part gets its power and eventually showing the type of magic used. This was the third time I had attempted this. It should be a surefire way to find at least what type of power this forsaken box uses. Yet the runes remained the same. They indicated no source of power. In fact the runes were purely self-referential. Each rune listed a source for its power, and that second rune listed a third. At the end of that chain of power should be a source, but instead it went in circles. Every rune eventually listed its source of power as simply itself. Of course this was ridiculous and blatantly impossible. A rune cannot get power from itself, it would lose any magic it stored within a matter of minutes of use. I picked up the box again and threw the paper away. I stared at the box, puzzled. Although I suppose ultimately that was the point, it was a puzzle. Yet I should be above this puzzle, I should be able to circumvent its tricks yet the process of circumventing those tricks seemed almost as tricky as the tricks themselves. Maybe I should consider myself humbled, brought to my knees even. I could ask my opponents for help, possibly even see if I could make a little money as an in between dealer. Yet this wasn't about money or business, it was about pride and curiosity. After a moment more of generous contemplation I reached to my trash. I took out the papers, all three, even if one of them was sticky with juice at the bottom. They all painted runes describing this terrible box's power structure. Since they were all drawn of the same box it is only reasonable that they looked the same, but there was one difference. The charts also showed me the amount of power stored in the box. Of course without a source of power the nonsensical looping power structure should mean the power waned, but it didn't. The power in fact grew only as it stayed longer in my lab. I have only ever seen power grow in this way under one circumstance. This box was adding to itself, and taking from something else. Now of course there were many powers in this room that it could steal from, but it hadn't interacted with any of it. It was only then I realized the particularity of the runes in my charts. The runes were built to receive power, not just from each other but from something outside of itself. That was just it, this box used the most undetectable of magics simply because I had not thought of it. This box turned thoughts themselves into magic. Of course humans and elves did this often, mages with their thoughts and knowledge could create spells with only a meager amount of arcane assistance. It must've been, I found no magic source as I was the magic source. Any time someone tries to solve the puzzle the puzzle only gets harder to solve. And to top it off, it is infallible, as you could never disable its magical source unless something without a mind worked on the box. Of course no matter how much I wanted one cannot stop themselves from thinking of something. So I could never solve this puzzle. I knew just the person. I took the box and a mundane paper. I carefully folded the paper over the box so that the box couldn't be seen. I took my now nondescript paper box and left my lab. Something I rarely did while on a job. I mounted my horse. Of course while the horse was mundane, though I could never bother with a mundane mount. The saddle and bridal were both magic of their own variety. It made it so I had no need to direct the horse, it simply knew where I was going and took me there. After quite a short journey I arrived at the smith. The smith was a large half-orc. I set the box on the anvil that he kept out front. The smith gave me an odd look. "What do you want today Isaac?" He asked, looking at the puzzle box on his anvil. Although all he saw was a cube of folded paper. "It's nothin' hard, just hit this with a hammer." Before I finished he slammed his hammer down on the paper. His strength was incredible given his orc lineage. Wood chips flew all directions out of the box. "Anything more" He asked. "No, you were as mindless as I needed you to be, thank you," I said as I picked up the paper cube and unwrapped the now destroyed puzzle cube. I hope the customer didn't want the cube back in one piece. Destruction of items is sometimes required for my services. I looked at the inside of the box, revealing what was a ring, but clearly not a wedding ring. The runes on the ring were tiny but intricate. It was a silver ring, so it was likely protective magic. Whatever it was, the price, the density of the runes, everything about it indicated it was incredibly valuable. Even more valuable it seemed than the gold statue I was payed with. I'll have to investigate this before returning it. If it's valuable enough I might even have to make a fake to give to the customer.


I was walking to my car down a city street at about midnight. I had a couple of tamales that tasted terrible. I passed a woman sitting at the bus stop who was humming something to herself. I tossed my tamales in the trash and I heard her for a second start to say something. I turned around and asked what's up. She responded with dejection that she was going to ask if she could have the food I threw away. I apologized, the thought hadn't occurred to me in that moment that someone would be so hungry that they'd want to eat after me. I walked over and gave her a $20. She thanked me but, a few steps later she nearly yelled "Are you serious?". Her tone, her words, her voice still rings in my head. I nodded, unsure of what to do and she began to tear up. It still makes me angry. 1000 people as capable as me must pass her by everyday and do nothing. I didn't hate those people, I just wish we'd pick our brothers and sisters up off the ground. Help them as we're able. The occurrence inspired me so that some number of weekends later I returned to the city center. It was a crisp Saturday morning. Sun was out and breath could be seen in the air. I parked and began to walk. I found a man packing up his bed onto a bicycle basket. I asked him if I could buy him breakfast. He said sure and asked me to meet him at the McDonald's up the block. I was a little dejected as I'd hoped to talk with him on the way, see if I could find a way to truly help. A few minutes later I met him at the McDonald's. He told me what he wanted but, at this point it felt like he just saw free lunch and not the love I was trying to impart. I gave him a $20 and wished him well, letting him order on his own. I continued my walk until I found a man leaning against a light post. He was covered in filth with his head down. I kneeled down beside him to say hello. I asked what was wrong but, he was in no mood for conversation. I asked if I could get him anything from inside and he told me to get him a coffee, with two sugars, one cream, and to mix them up good. I handed him a $20 and wished him well. At this point I was feeling my idealism had lied to me. That these people weren't dying and desperate to be healed. They were nothing like I was when I was laying on the side of that store in the cold drizzle. When the little child asked his mom what was wrong with me and she tried to explain, a tear formed in my eye. I was in desperate pain. When he ran over and handed me a dollar, it reminded me that I wasn't dead yet. I wondered why they didn't react the same. Sometime later, it was two in the morning and rather than wake up anyone trying to sleep, I just rolled down my window and dropped a $20. I wrote a note saying that God loves them. That if the finder didn't need it, to please drop it for someone who did. I prayed it would reach the right hands. The last time I gave it was a box of energy bars. Then buying all the bakery items in a store display and asking they give it to the people in need who come in. I wish I could connect with them. I wish I could heal their broken souls but, all I find are zombies. Brains fried on drugs who've long lost their ability to feel anything. Maybe those people who passed by that woman everyday had become as numb. Maybe they tried to help once but, found the same as I'd found later. The ones who are still alive, still feeling the pain of going hungry, the despair of living with nothing but their souls, their spirits humming on those benches get lost in all the death and yet, they live on. She does, in my memory.


Have you ever had a brain failure? I mean like your brain making you say or do things that later on, you realize that you do not know who was using your brain! Well this beautiful blonde knocked on my door and as soon as I opened, she fell into my arms sobbing. I cried with her on my shoulder, not knowing what was happening. When the awkward long hung finished, looked her in the eyes trying to say something, then I realized that her face was familiar. She was the “perfect blonde” who hangs out with the body builder next door. Confused as I was, I offered her to come have a sit and hopefully I would make sense of the situation but then she all over sudden gave me a weird look and let go off my hands and stormed out slamming my door. I stayed there frozen. I kind of need a hug, I guess. It had been several weeks since I left the house, I had been surviving on tears and snots plus bags of chips. My initial idea was to add chocolates on the menu, but being my favourite snack, I didn’t want to corrupt my relationship with the beautiful happy moments companion. For a moment I seemed to forget the reason for my misery, I don’t know if it was because of the unexpected hug or because on my way to the door I looked myself in the mirror and didn’t seem to recognize myself; then it clicked. Few weeks back, I was at my work place when our washrooms broke. I live in a small town with one mall and I worked in a grocery store in the mall. One pipe trouble in town means that all washrooms are out of order. you have to hold your bladder and/or intestines, or seek cover in the bushes near by for that amazing sense of freedom. I was a new resident in town, thus a new employee, I had no friends and knowing myself, it would take really long to make friends. My boyfriend Tim was my only friend around. I couldn’t think of a nearby place where I could seek cover to relieve myself if need be. But I was not worried, I was going to be okay, I had trained my bladder to hold on long. Oh how I was wrong! I worked without a care in the world, chasing from my mind any idea that my bladder is trying to communicate. My shift was slowly getting to the end, I had to rinse some veggies in cold water before I finished. I got the produce out, placed them in the sink, but when I opened the water tap, it felt like my urine carrying vessel was laughing at me waiting to see if I pass the water test. As soon as I touched the cold water, it was like my bladder was being squished. I wanted to pee so bad that turned around, crossed my legs and avoided breathing loud. I made dance moves I never thought I would ever be able to do. I could imagine co-workers calling each other to come and enjoy the show in the computer room from the cameras. The new shy girl was putting on a show! After realizing that there was no way I was going to rinse the veggies without touching the water, or touch the water without opening the flood gates in me, I rushed outside. I was ready to do anything, even if it meant squirting in the middle of the parking lot, besides it was really dark outside, but then, it was thirty degrees below freezing. The idea of having frozen genitals experience pushed me towards my car and I left without letting any body know and that’s how I lost my job. But that was not why I was miserable. I drove home, god knows how fast, I climbed the stairs one by one as if a clock was ticking last seconds to the blast, my key was ready in my hand to open the door, but to my surprise the door pushed open. Even better. I glanced around and noticed Tim sitting on the couch. I avoided opening my mouth, careful not to let anything out of my pants, I got to the washroom door, pushed it but it was not moving. I didn’t waste any time, I rushed outside to the neighbour’s room, knocked and the door pushed open. Someone was in the way, I pushed passed him and proceeded to the washroom. I didn’t need directions, I was pretty sure all apartments in the building were of the same design. Fewf… finally, if you know the feeling, you know. On my half way through gaining back my freedom to breath, I remembered the scenario, Tim home during his working hours and the washroom locked! There must be someone in there! I hurried up and rushed out to go catch them red handed. Except the guy I pushed on my way to the washroom was still laying down on the flow. Shamefully, I extended my hand to help him up. And that’s when I realized I don’t have control over my brain. The guy was a massive gym maid human being, how in the earth did I think that my small hand would lift his well built body? As you can imagine, I fell face down on top of his half naked body. Again, my brain left me! I didn’t know if I was supposed to admire audibly what was layered under my face, because I wanted to, or keep moving to my mission to burst Tim’s affair. My thoughts were interrupted with the sound of a familiar voice. “I knew it!” Said Tim who was standing right above us. “What did he know?” I asked as I rushed up. Tim was in the room packing up. He was living me! I loved Tim, he is a great caring guy that I met many years ago, we tried to separate before but every time we would end up together again. It was like we had a pact that none of us would be truly happy without the other. I had pushed Tim away before but this time, it felt different. I had teased his looks compared to The gut next door. I even encouraged him to hit the gym too every time we would cross ways with the guy and the blonde coming back from working out. Tim had complained that I was not happy with the way he looked but all our conversations around that subject were jokes. We both knew that we couldn’t give up the joy we get from sharing a pizza or chocolates. Except he was the one who put on all the weight. My body is the kind of “it’s not fair body”. But still I found him attractive all the time. He was going to come back I believed. While I was still thinking about what just happened, I heard a knock on the door. I knew it, Tim was back… “Well.. that was a short break-up” I said as the door was pushing open. “Sorry, but… is everything okay?” It was not Tim but the guy. “No, no I am sorry for breaking into your house..” “I saw your….” He said pointing out. “ my boyfriend…” “Yeah, your boyfriend leaving, are you okay?…” “ Yeah I am okay, I am sure he is coming back… it’s just a big misunderstanding” I wanted this guy to get out of my face, but I also needed someone to help me make sense of the situation, to kind of shake my brain back into the position. I was trying to breath in and out and he noticed and helped me with the breathing exercise, kind of motioning my lungs activities with his hands. “I will leave you alone for now, but if you need anything you know every conner of my place.” When he opened the door to leave, there was Tim and his bags.


November 29th, 2022 I was wrong. The second time the master alarm goes off and I’m no more composed than the first time. This is helped by the fact that I’m on the dark side of the moon in radio shadow, so it is impossible for NASA to be running this as a test. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, no-no-no-no-no.” Like so much of space travel, this is one of those good news, bad news, situations. Good news. The LCD display was flashing red and wasn’t saying something totally incomprehensible. It might have said “Error code: x92284022”. It might have said “DSR - 5 Failure!” And I’d have no bloody idea what was wrong. “Radiation warning 130 𝝻Sv/hr“ was perfectly understandable. Bad news: Radiation Warning 130 𝝻Sv/hr. I’m absolutely not going to get super powers from this. NASA’s testing out these new radiation vests with this mission. I was already wearing Moonikin’s, because I’d be an idiot not to. But there are another two on sensor packages strapped into the Orion’s other seats. Sorry NASA… I take the vests off their sensor packages and put them on. You know the old saying, “you can never have enough radiation shielding”. I put the first vest on over top of the one I’m already wearing, doubling up protection. And I was about to put the third one on over top of that when I got thinking. I wrap the final vest around my waist like a skirt. While I’m doing that, I’m having a little mental debate: just how much radiation is this? Earth’s magnetic field is an amazing radiation shield. Inside the field’s protection (which extends up into the kinds of orbit’s the international space station and space shuttle fly at), you really don’t have to worry much about radiation. Out by the moon you’re basically getting full buck of what the universe can throw at you. That can range from “nuclear power plant worker”, to the scene in RoboCop where the bad guy falls into the pool of chemicals and melts. So just how bad is this? Do I have time for NASA to weigh in or do I need to do something now to try and save my life? So, let’s see… 1 rad of radiation is enough radiation to raise the temperature of 1 liter of water by 1 degree Celsius in 1 minute. Then just convert over to Sv using the left hand conversion rule… I’m joking. I have no bloody idea on any of this. I know 3.6 roentgen is not great, not terrible. But I have no idea what a roentgen is, what a Sv is, or how to convert between them. But there’s another way to do this. NASA does have some worry warts, but if an alarm is going off then it’s an issue. I could check the manual, figure out what the threshold amount is, and if I’m way over the line then it’s “I’m melting, melting, what a world, what a world,” time. But that’s when I look back at the alarm. 30,000 𝝻Sv/hr and the last three digits are basically illegible because they’re whirring up. Well that was easy. I’m going to die. Now, how to save my life? I need something that blocks radiation. There’s not much stuff on Orion that I could use to build a shield, and I have no idea how good a radiation block a 1 kg test weight is. Orion’s water tank is probably going to be the best radiation shield I could get. Back to the emergency procedures manual. It takes a few minutes (and by the way, flipping through an index book while the clock on your life is ticking is a whole kind of fun), but eventually I figure out where the radiation sensor is mounted. The next part is something NASA’s not going to be happy about. I’m going to have to start flying the Orion. Now, I’m an engineer, not a pilot, and looking at the gimbles, or artificial horizons, or whatever the hell you call those balls with the sky and ground painted on them that airplanes and spaceships have, looking at those things and the control stick this feels very much like something a pilot should be doing. Anyways, I strap myself in, and very gently pull the joystick back. Nothing happens. Ok, makes sense. There’s probably an ‘on’ button I need to press first. I give up, unstrap, and get the emergency procedures manual. Fortunately for me, “orientation control failure” starts with just making sure you had set the system up right in the first place, and I follow along until I pull back on the control stick and Orion’s thrusters fire in response, the ship slowly starting to roll upwards. “Fucking fucking fuck!” I slip out of the commander’s chair like a bar of soap off the edge of a tub. Always buckle up. I have to climb back into the seat which is all kinds of awkward and weird because of how it, and me, are rotating. I buckle up. I’m watching two things, the artificial horizon, and the radiation meter, which is now up to 45,000 𝝻Sv/hr. I complete a full spin without obvious effect on radiation readings. I use another small jolt of thrust to stop the spin. Then I push the control stick to the side and Orion starts a very, very, very, slow spin like a frisbee. I stop it after about ten degrees, and again spin the ship end over end in a very slow tumble. The first three spins are totally exhilarating and terrifying. By the sixth, with the radiation meter doing nothing but rocket up, my brain is starting to wander. You know… Technically I am now actually commanding the Orion to do things… Without permission… In international waters… See, this is why engineers are a completely different breed from regular folk. This is what my brain chooses to think about. Or maybe it’s radiation sickness hitting already. I’m either a nerd, or suffering radiation poisoning. Though the latter one is a very space pirate thing to suffer from. The radiation meter hiccups, the 4, of 49,000 drops to a 1 then bounds back up. I stop the spin, then very, very, very, slowly, bring Orion back. The radiation meter drops down to 150 𝝻Sv/hr, and I stop the ship, right there, copying down my bearings. Ok, situation: the radiation is now coming in, hitting Orion’s water tank, and the radiation sensor is in the shadow of the tank. Even better, the water tank is blocking a ton of radiation. I don’t know how good for me 150 𝝻Sv/hr is, but I do know it’s 99.7% better than 50,000 𝝻Sv/hr. More importantly, I’ve got a vector for the radiation. I need to get myself into that shadow. A quick look at the emergency manual’s schematic of Orion, and I float myself very quickly to a spot about 18 inches from the summers. Nope, I hate that. I’m just going to call it a head. In theory this spot should be in the water tank’s radiation shadow. New problem. Well new problems. Problem 1) I’m too far away from Orion’s controls to use the radio or see what the radiation meter is saying. I can’t just stay here forever, and I can’t really know when I can leave. Problem 2) remember when I said I “stopped” Orion on this bearing? That was a lie. See, without friction, there is no such thing as zero motion. In space you’re always constantly twisting and turning on every axis. Your speed could be 0.001 degrees per second, or so slowly that a bacterium would be asking you to get out of its way you slow-poke, but over a thousand seconds (or sixteen point six minutes) you’ve still rotated a degree. Anyways, there’s no way I slowed to 0.001 degrees per second, Orion’s probably rotating at a couple of degrees every minute. This little area of shadow I’ve made for myself is at best ten minutes away from being out of the shadow. What I need to do is figure out the heading to turn Orion onto in order to cast the water tank’s shadow onto the commander’s chair. I go to work in the margins of the emergency manual. In space, radiation sources can just be thought of as a direction since everything’s so far away. Basically, like an umbrella blocking the rain, the radiation sensor is now in the shadow of Orion’s most radiation blocking part. Technically I’ve figured out a 3D vector for where the radiation is coming from. Now I need to figure out the 3D vector between the water tank and the commander’s chair (which is where I’m going to need to be), and then how to rotate the Orion to bring those two vectors into alignment. Thank god a degree in aerospace engineering is good for something. Doesn’t even take ten minutes. The radiation sensor goes back to being baked, but according to my math I’m in the shade. For good measure I take off my two extra radiation vests and put them on the seat behind me - which is where the radiation is coming from. That way I should have five layers of protection in addition to the water tank between my chest and the radiation source. There’s a problem to all this though - I’m not a good pilot and every few minutes I have to give Orion a nudge of thrusters to keep her where she needs to be. I can’t keep that up indefinitely because I’m burning fuel. Small bit of pride. A full ten minutes before I get the radio back up with NASA, I find a control panel button labeled “or - lock” and just like that, Orion’s computers are doing the flying again. So I'm stuck, in the commanders seat, until I figure out how to fix a radiation storm. I probably should have used the head when I had the chance. Note to self. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). Artemis I Has A Stowaway is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.


With a jerk of the body, he awakes. Standing up quickly while shaking off a feeling of something crawling over. He tries to look at what that was feeling was but cannot. Putting his hands to his eyes he rubs away a strange ink. Panicking now he rubs more and more as he begins to blink. Fear begins to creep in as he still sees darkness. Letting a moment pass his eyes begin to adjust. He was not blind, just the lands are covered in a vast darkness with no stars above for direction and no moon to follow. Just a faint glow coming off the horizon and a brighter glow coming down at his feet. Looking down he sees a lantern illuminating the ground that is covered in stone faces. Each with a look of nothingness to it. Confused by this he takes the lantern holding it out to look around. All over he sees more stone faces everywhere making up lands. His gaze stops. There is another lantern shining onto others laying on the stone faces. Each one next to a lantern of their own. *Others*, he wonders as a woman awakes. She sits up rubbing away the ink off her eyes. This gives sight to a blonde hair man holding a lantern shining light around them. She tries to speak but nothing is understood. They both speak, trying to get something, anything to be understood. Nothing, so they just stare at each other wondering when others begin to wake. A large man stands up slowly wiping at his eyes. Standing confused as to where he is or who he is. Looking down he sees a lantern by his feet and picks it up as another man, slimmer with hair of white, awakes nearby. He stands screaming in terror giving a shock to the others. Rubbing away the ink on his eyes, he stares at the others. Wondering who and why they are here when from the edge of the lanterns light, a hungry lion emerges. Eyes glowing red, fur of white, and front limbs larger than normal with massive human like claws, the lion steps forward unleashing a terrifying roar that intimates the others. All move away quickly while staring back, too afraid to do anything else. The lion takes this advantage as it pounces onto the skinny man. Slashing with its large human hand like claw cutting the man’s bare chest in several places. Blood spills out as the man tries to defend himself. The woman yells in terror as the large man trips while trying to step back kicking away a piece of the stone faces. The blonde man picks it seeing its more of a big shard with a pointed end. *A weapon yes*, he thinks while looking at the lion attacking the skinny man. Raising the shard in his fist, he lets out a booming yell encouraging the others to look for a shard. Now, each with a shard of their own, they attack the lion. The large man charges at the lion colliding with his shoulder slamming into its side knocking the lion onto its back as the man is sent flying the opposite way. This allows the skinny man to roll away stopping onto some loose stone faces. He pulls out a shard of his own while taking a breather to recover as the woman goes to stab the lion. Seeing a glow coming off the shard as it is coming down, the lion rolls onto its feet avoiding the stab. It slashes out with its large finger like claws cutting the woman’s arm. This causes her to fall back grabbing at the wound. The blonde man runs in front of the lion trying to get its attention away from the woman. It works, the lion sees him and leaps for an attack as the man jumps to the side barely avoiding the attack. The large man gets up and runs at the lion trying to stab its side when the lion turns to face him. They both stop and stare at each other as the skinny man joins the fight. He goes behind the lion as it is staring and stabs the hind leg. A roaring yell is let out from the lion’s pain causing the others to cover their ears from its deafening cry. The lion tries to step forward but falls to the ground from its torn limb. The large and blonde men both jump at the opportunity stabbing at the lion’s head killing it after several blows. All four now stand over the lion looking at this unusual beast wondering what it is. The woman holding her bloody arm begins to speak but the others look at her confused when the large man begins to cut the lion apart with his shard. The rest look at him a little confused but soon join in. Taking what they can from the corpse they set off heading for the glow on the horizon. A long walk with them dreading what else may be hiding in the dark jumping at each sound they pass. Upon reaching the glow they see it is a large collection of lanterns similar to the ones they picked up piled high rising several stories up pushing back the dark. They stop and stare at it as other people begin emerging from around it.


Mister Jackson had been an honourable man and a good neighbour and friend to his fellow men. He had never been the kind of man to give in to earthly pleasures like drinking or gambling. He went to work each morning and came home after five each day, wishing everyone a good day he met on his way. All around what one might call a happy chap, without any troubles. Successful as he was it came to pass that he married a woman of noble standing. And although she was mannered and never showed a frown. One sometimes got the impression that a demon might possibly inhabit the human body. But mister Jackson didn’t let coursing rumours destroy his joy. Even if he someday started to work longer in the evenings, or rose earlier in the mornings. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home at all. Perhaps those subtle signs of a somewhat disharmonic relationship were the first steps to what occurred a year later. And perhaps one might have prevented the tragedy altogether by just speaking to mister Jackson if anything was the matter. But none of the people in mister Jackson’s life had poked him about his private struggles, since he never showed any sign of having them. Until one night the police car’s blue lights illuminated the neighbourhood. The uniformed men went inside and only moments later without indicating a fight, they came back. With them followed a black bag and a cuffed mister Jackson. Here and there a curious pair of eyes peeked through the curtain of their bedroom, the source of the coming gossip. The trial was a short one, all evidence was clear. Mister Jackson was sentenced to spend a few years in prison for murder, his house stood abandoned ever since. No family or friends seemed to take interest in the wicked member of their lives. Nor did mister Jackson get any visitors. The first weeks everything went according to the natural order. Like every other criminal he was sitting in his cell, waiting for his time to be over. Unlike most of the others however, he made no ruckus or attempt to tackle the obstacles fate threw at him. In fact, he was bullied in a way that left him ripe for the hospital time after time. The men in charge had no choice but to put him into solitary confinement. Not that Jackson minded, showing no change in behaviour he continued sitting in his cell as if it was just another day to him. Guards checked on him, even attempted to make contact by speech. Seeing their efforts in vain they soon left him alone in his misery. Far enough to not disturb him and yet close enough so they could hear if there should ever be trouble. It was then when Carver Jackson’s nightmare really started. It was a clear, calm night, Carver could tell by his restless soul. He always was restless in those nights. In vain he tried to sleep away the turmoil in his mind, he could not name. The creaking sound of a metallic door caught his attention. Listening carefully, he concluded the sound came from somewhere out of his view. Without a sound he sat up. A strange sensation, as if he had snakes in his stomach, made him uncomfortable. Which was unusual, for he had welcomed the lonely cell. There was nobody to disrupt his few moments of peace of mind he could muster. Nor did he have to stand up for himself, when some broad-shouldered inmate deemed it necessary to punch him. His thoughts wandered to his future and how his life had been turned to ashes. He would never be able to go back to his hometown, and his family had abandoned him without further inquiry. It made him wonder if he ever had meant something to them. Those people who had asked him favours, but never asked to return them. A familiar melody ripped him out of his distraught mind. It was hummed by a woman with a heavenly voice. And yet, his whole body went rigid at the recognition. Only seconds later the figure belonging to the voice appeared in front of his cell. Slowly she turned around, the blonde, curly hair was loose. Her clothes consisted of a blouse and jeans, just like the last time he had seen her. When her blue eyes met his own a shiver ran down his already stiff spine. The flames of vengeance burned brightly in those hollow orbs. Not a word she uttered as they stared at one another. A soft breeze blew back her hair, revealing the marks on her throat. The marks he had left, that fateful night. Carver shuddered as the image slowly faded into nothingness. When he asked the guard on the next day, about a woman entering the prison. The man, quite surprised to be talked to by Carver after weeks of silence, only denied the knowledge of anyone entering the institution. Obviously worried, the policeman asked Carver if he was alright. To which the man replied that he felt fine, and probably just did have a nightmare. The guard cast him a sympathetic look mingled with the disdain people used to regard a murderer with. Carver slept soundly the next night, not overthinking the latest occurrence. It was not before a whole week had passed that a similar incident kept the prisoner awake. Awoken by the same melody, Carver found himself face to face with the ghost of his wife. And again, she glared at him, but this time he gathered the courage to speak. “You are dead,” he said with a hatred he had forgotten he harboured. “What do you want from me?” “No redemption for you,” she said with a gentleness that belied the vengeful eyes. “Only hellfire.” The certainty with which the spectre spoke, caused Carver to feel unbearably cold. A pit opened up in his stomach, setting free an uncontrollable rage. “Go to hell! Leave me be!” He screamed while rushing to the bars where the woman stood. Ignoring his anger, she placed a hand on his shoulder and smirked wolfishly. Carver suppressed a shudder as he stared in the maddening pools he once had loved. “I’ll come for you,” she whispered with an unsettling, growling undertone. At once her skin turned grey like the one of a corpse. Frightened, Carver stepped back as the entity in front of him decomposed. Unable to watch, he covered his eyes. The next time he looked, he was alone. Rubbing his face, he tried to explain the phenomenon with a rational theory. Perhaps the loneliness weighed on him, or the cell itself. He turned back to the place serving as a bed, when his heart stopped. Only inches from him the deceased’s uncanny face had appeared, with a monotone, ghoulish expression. With a shriek he stumbled backwards and fell. But the face had disappeared into thin air. Carver could feel how his life slowly but steadily spiralled downwards, if that was even possible after all he had done to himself. The vengeful spirit haunted him many a night, taking from him the ability to sleep. And if he managed to sleep, he startled awake, bathed in sweat and with a mind full of terror. The guards remarked often enough that he had screamed in the night. Eating too, he had given up and the theory of him trying to starve to death circulated among the policemen. By the time they called a doctor, his dead wife had already become a constant part of his day. Just as in life, she was now harassing him in death. Mocking him with insults or haunting him with grotesque images. “Who are you?” Carver asked from behind his blanket as a tall man in white entered. “He’s the one to take you away, silly,” his wife only replied delighted. “Shut up,” he only muttered towards where the spectre was sitting. “I didn’t say anything, mister Jackson,” the man in white said surprised. “I didn’t talk to you,” Carver apologized to the man he assumed to be a doctor. “Oh, my poor husband,” she continued. “He’s going to put you into a nice white cell. Then we can have even more fun.” A sinister giggle followed the comment. Carver only shot her a warning glance to which the doctor reacted. “Mister Jackson, are you with us?” “I am, I am,” Carver confirmed while nodding several times. But his scattered brain would not let him have his way. Elegantly the spirit rose and went behind the doctor. As if savouring every moment, she took a knife out of her pocket. Which was far too small to harbour such a long blade. Like a priest performing a sacrifice she gripped the hilt with both hands and raised it high. The end pointing at the doctor’s back. “Don’t you dare,” Carver only said sternly, to which the doctor only replied confused. “I have to examine you mister Jackson.” Still grinning like a hyena, the ghost fixed Carver with her maniacal blue eyes. Not waiting for the outcome, Carver jumped the doctor. But when he looked down into the face, it was his wife who was staring back at him. Overcome by frenzy he tried to choke the image. Before he could see the life light dim in the eyes of his victim, Carver’s vision went black. Coming back to himself he was questioned for the reason of his assault. The doctor whom he had tried to strangle had barely survived, they told him. Carver however, could remember no doctor. “My wife,” was all he managed to stammer. “My wife…” He fell silent as the spectre once again appeared behind one of the policemen in the room. Pointing at, to the other men invisible figure, he started screaming again. “There she is, the wretched demon.” Feeling his sanity slip away from him he got up, kicking over the chair in the process. His dead wife only smiled again, while laying her arm around the policeman’s shoulders. “But honey, I think they don’t see me,” she mocked in the voice of a spoiled child. Wielding the kitchen knife once again, she held it to the oblivious man’s throat. “No,” Carver exclaimed shocked as he ran to the officer. But this time he was too late. Holding the place where a cut had become visible the man in uniform sank to the ground. His colleague quickly reacted by pointing his gun at Carver. “His blood is on your hands, my love.” The woman rejoiced while walking up to the other man. “Stop this madness.” Carver started to plead at the coldness of the spirit in front of him. In the blink of an eye the other policeman fell over with the knife in his back. The spectre had disappeared. Trembling from head to toe, Carver sank down in the corner of the room, farthest away from the blood and the corpses. His claim, that his wife had killed and assaulted the man only gave the judge more proof of his insanity. The sentence was the last push for his already fragile mind to go over the edge. Seeing his life and sanity shattered, Carver started to laugh in a frenzy in court. He couldn’t name the reason for his sudden ecstasy; he just knew everything was so unbelievably futile. The man couldn’t but laugh at the dark twist his life had taken. Carver awoke in a padded cell restrained by a straitjacket. The sudden ecstasy had gone the same way it had come. Upon examining his surroundings, he saw his wife standing in front of him. Who else could it be? He thought ironically, all but the vengeful spirit of his wife had abandoned him. Like in the night of her death, she wielded the kitchen knife ready to attack. Carver only looked at her, asking in sincere sorrow. “Why did you want to kill me?” “Why did you love her more than me,” she countered with tears in her eyes. And then it dawned on him. It all had been a misunderstanding. “There is no her,” he replied. “I worked night and day so we could have a child. I was saving money for the future.” With a thud the knife fell to the ground as the spectre sank to her knees. “Oh darling, I destroyed our lives.” Sliding up to her on his knees, Carver tried to comfort his wife. “We both did.” A forgotten warmth spread through Carver when the ghost embraced him. Her skin didn’t feel cold, it felt alive and to her hair clung the smell of spring. And for a moment he thought the past year to have been a dream. She felt so real. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself with her in their kitchen. Out of nothing a sharp pain emerged from his back, causing him to gasp.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion We have a very involved and supportive community here at shortstories and WPHub on brings together /r/shortstories, /r/wpCritique, and /r/WritingPrompts, plus many of our smaller writing subs like /r/promptoftheday. I know the group has massively influenced my writing and helped me grow as a writer, and I’ve heard a few similar stories. > What I want to know is if you are involved with any writing groups, how they’ve helped you, and why you love it there! > **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


December 2nd, 2022 I swear to god I was woken up by the Red Alert siren from a Shatner Star Trek movie. One of my little quirks, I’m not a good waker-upper. You catch me in the middle of my sleep and whatever dream I was having becomes the initial conditions on reality, and it takes a minute before 1+1=2 again. The alert stops. I don’t know exactly how long it was playing, five seconds, ten seconds, depends on how long it took to wake me up in the first place. Orion’s alarm for radiation was the Apollo 13, airplane cockpit, shrill buzzy kind of thing. But there’s no going back to sleep after something like that, and if for no other reason than to make sure I’m not crazy I “get up” (and by the way if you think it’s hard to get your day started when you climb out of bed, walk over to your coffee machine, and pour yourself a warm cup, you can’t even imagine what it feels like when you’re always, always, just peacefully floating wherever you are, so comfy, so warm, so easy to just close your eyes… And not a drop of coffee aboard). “Mark, am I going crazy? I thought I just heard an alarm,” I said, no need to tell him what alarm. By the way, do you think Starfleet would change their alarm sound every few decades? Or like the captain of every ship gets to pick from a list like a phone ring tone? “Not going crazy Alex, that shouldn’t have happened, and we fixed it on our end. Nothing to worry about.” I’ve only got ten Skor bars left, and I’m really hungry. Eat one now and be slightly less hungry all day? Or save it for dinner and fall asleep with a not-totally-empty stomach? Ahh the glorious choices of space travel. I eat the Skor bar. Future Alex can be angry with me; he usually is. Speaking of things future Alex is going to be angry with me about. Aside from another exciting day of septuple checking valves and gauges, I’m going to write Jess a letter. I know what you’re thinking: ‘Oh Alex no, don’t write a pathetic letter to your ex trying to win her back!’ Don’t worry! This one is going to be classy! Red Alert! Only the first couple of tones play, and then it’s gone again. “Mark, just had it go off again. What’s up?” “Yeah…” he draws the word out, “we’re working that, Alex. Nothing you need to worry about. This one’s a Charlie problem, you’re fine.” Why is the flight director working a problem on the ground that I don’t need to worry about? Why does a non-standard alarm keep going off? Why isn’t Mark telling me about some error in the ship’s food rehydration system or something bonkers like that? You know what I hate? Rhetorical questions when my life is on the line. I give the old instrument panel a once over. Nothing red and blinking leaps out at me. So that’s good. The radio controls do have a caution warning. It’s one of those triangles made of three pieces of string with an exclamation mark inside it, and then X2 besides that. Just a small icon at the top of the display. Then it flashes clear. That’s weird. So, it’s some kind of radio problem, but I can talk to Mark just fine. Just a technical error? But why would a radio sub-system error play the Star Trek red alert sound? Interesting thing about rhetorical questions: sometimes they have an answer. Why would a NASA engineer, someone very much like me, program in a Star Trek Red Alert sound? Answer: They thought it would be funny. No way that went through an official approval. This has to be something buried so deep in the radio system’s code that no one even bothered to test it out. A problem that even NASA thought wouldn’t come up, and a problem that the engineer working on it thought was funny. Back to the bible I guess. If you’ve never seen an index that has three library-dictionary-style pages for “radio” then you’re really missing out in life. No one is ever checking manuals in Star Trek. No one could possibly know this stupid book back to front. You always like to imagine astronauts more like the swash buckling heroes of sea stories, but this whole experience feels more like playing the world’s most complicated board game - with a gun to your head. Can you imagine what the checklists for the Enterprise would look like? Millions of pages. Yet no one is ever checking manuals. The alarm goes off again! This time though I look up in time to see a dialogue box pop up on the radio LCD “Incoming Distress…” and it’s gone, alarm squelched by NASA. A caution triangle appears on the LCD screen, and a second later it blinks away. Someone down on the ground really has their finger on the trigger. Radio plus Distress, oh mighty index of the ship, what wisdom can you bestow upon this lowly stow-away? Page 3,145. Nice. Well, this is a kick in the stomach. “Mark, why is the Orion receiving distress calls?” There’s a very long five minute’s wait. Always pay attention to pauses. They say something. If the system had a screw loose and was throwing off random incorrect warnings, Mark would have happily spent an hour talking my ear off about it. That he needed so long to figure out what to say meant it wasn’t that, which meant it was a real distress call and NASA was trying to figure out how to tell me about it. “Hey Alex, sorry for the delay,” Mark’s voice came back - finally. “Not a problem, as long as you tell me what’s up.” I can feel him sigh over the radio. “A SpaceX launch for the ISS had a chunk of space debris take out an engine. The crew saved the ship - minor miracle there, but they’re not going to be able to get to the ISS, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to be able to perform the braking burn needed for re-entry.” “So, they’re stuck?” “We don’t know that yet. They’ve got resupplies for the ISS but would have to do a spacewalk to get the oxygen tanks in their hold, and then they’re not the same fittings for their own systems. Their orbit isn’t great either but, depending on exactly how much drag they pick up, they could last as long as a month up there. We’re working with SpaceX, the ESA, even the Chinese space agency, and we think we can put together a rescue mission.” Alright, so why are they calling me? “Alright, so why are they calling me?” Long silence. “A month is on the very optimistic side of how long they have until their orbit degrades, on the very optimistic side of how long it would take to put together a rescue, and on the very optimistic side of how long they can last with the consumables they have.” “And I assume they think I could help them. So why don’t we?” “About a dozen reasons. The biggest one though is that we don’t have the fuel. Between making up for correction burns when the computers went down, and what the radiation storm cost us, you’re running very lean. To meet up with them, and transfer the crew over, would take more fuel than you have.” “You told them that, and they’re still calling.” “They have an idea that pulls off the intercept, on paper, but first it would bring you below safety margins for re-entry, still technically above the red line, but we’re talking about your fuel tanks going dry and using up the majority of what’s left over in the piping. Second there’d be no way around you doing some manual flying. You’d be making the intercept with them in space suits drifting out to you. Radar and video are just not accurate enough to handle that.” “But that means if you so much as tap your orientation controls one too many times you won’t have enough fuel to re-enter. Also, their plan has them breathing fumes by the time they get to you. It’s a four person crew, and they won’t have time to cycle Orion’s airlock four times. You’d have to depressurize Orion, leave both inner and outer airlock doors open, and fly the ship like that for the whole intercept. Plus, your flight suit wasn’t great before, and having duct taped it up won’t have done it any favors.” Can I be honest here? I’ve always been a bit of a fan of bad-ass last words. Voltaire was getting his head cut off for blasphemy and on the execution block they asked him if he renounced Satan and all his evils. Voltaire said, “Now’s not the time to be making enemies.” How much of the bad-assery of famous quotes would be lost if you could hear their voices shaking as they said them? Because Christ, just objectively this was the coolest thing I’d ever said in my life, but I could barely get the words out. Come to think of it, Neil Armstrong had his own moment of performance anxiety in front of a live audience. Maybe history is lessened by having video evidence. “Are you going to help me, or am I doing this on my own?” \*\*\*\*\*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). Artemis I Has A Stowaway is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.


This is chapter one of a prompt from the writing prompt subreddit. I hope you enjoy it :) \ Pono screamed, pulling her hair as she gripped it tighter and tighter, her disheveled hair covering her eyes. She looked down at the pentagram on the floor. It was a mess. The lines are not straight, and the candle wax leaks into the cracks of the hardwood floor. She tried everything and every single god she could think of, after mindless amounts of gods and goddesses. Pono was going to give up. What she wanted wasn’t that bad either. Her wish wasn’t even that selfish at all. It was for the betterment of humans or animal kind in this case. The wish was simply to talk to animals and be able to read minds. She hated seeing people sad or upset, even angry sometimes. The world should be a better place, instead of this insane world we live in. Insane, Insanity? She reached out for the book of gods and goddesses that lay on the floor, covered in her own blood. Rapidly flipping through the pages, it landed on the page that she needed. “Lyssa, Goddess of Insanity.” her last hope to achieve her harder-to-reach dream. The instructions were the clearest compared to the other deities, and Pono followed every last instruction to the tee. After a couple of hours of cleaning up the room, she gripped the book and looked down. Cover the walls with bloody smiley faces, and add teeth to complete the smile! A knife gripped her opposite hand, and she stabbed into her fingertips. She winced in pain as blood dripped down her fingers. Then she started painting the smiling face across the room, a simple twin parallel line. After a couple of minutes, a grinning mouth with shark teeth littered the room. The book mentioned something about having twenty of the five on each wall. Pono’s fingers left the mouth, the last one done. Admiring her work slightly, she heard faint laughing. Draw on the floor with black wax, a large circle with two lines—one slightly longer and the other. Then draw a mouth with no teeth, it’ll do the rest. What will do the rest? No matter, Pono thought to herself as she grabbed a black candle. She lit the wick of the candle and gripped it. The wax leaked. Her hands moved on their own, following the first step of drawing it in a circle. Then, a parallel line next to each other with a mouth underneath it. The wax started dripping from the circle. She saw nothing wrong with it. Then the room spun. She lost her balance and collapsed on the floor. Teeth started growing from the mouth and clanking together. Grinning, the mouth laughed, laughter. Constant laughter filled the room as she gripped her neck, tears rolling down her eyes. How is she supposed to finish the rest of the steps? Spinning and spinning, her hand reached out for the book and pulled it close to her. Her eyes read over the page. Blood, Blood. Blood, Blood. Blood, Blood.  What is this? Blood? Do what with the blood? She fell on her back and gripped her hair and screamed, her voice aching as she panted. The knife, Pono needed the knife. Her hand reached out and gripped it shakily before ritualistically slashing her hand. Blood gushed from her hand and poured over her mouth. The teeth seemed realistic as they seemed to absorb into the teeth. Everything went silent as the laughter and spinning slowly stopped. Pono puffed, her breath heaving as spit escaped her mouth. Her vision steadied as she looked at the blood-covered floor, the mouth opening on the floor as the blood drizzled down the hole. Hole? Why is there a hole? Why does it smell so pungent? What’s floating in the air like that? Why is a lady floating up in her room? The lady had silky black hair with yellow and red strands in her hair. A dress that flowed down to her legs, a beautiful dress the color of red with black broken hearts decorating the dress. Her face was beautiful, perfectly sculpted, like the deity she is. “Oh my, you actually summoned the great Lyssa. Now, what do you wish for? What shall I grant?” Pono’s eyes went wide. Her bleeding hand seemed non-existent as she stared at the deity in front of her. “It worked, it actually worked.” She broke out in a mutter, gripping her hair. The insanity was still present in her body, slowly gaining control of herself. “I” she paused and breathed in. “The ability to read minds and talk to animals, I just want to help people out!” She shouted with the little conviction she had left. Was it even worth it in the end? Lyssa put her finger on her lip before staring down with a smirk, “Sure thing! I’ll glad a follower of mine would already ask me for a power!” Her lips curled up into a large smirk, she hovered towards her new devotee. Stabbing a finger into Pono’s head, yellow energy crackled down her fingertips as it entered her body. This same energy crackled across her body, and Pono screamed once again. Then she heard everything, the voices of everyone and everything. Nonstop chatting, the voices already won’t stop. “Take it back..” She lowly muttered to the goddess, grabbing the arm still attached to her forehead. “I’m sorry, what would make me think I can handle this?” Maniacal laughter escaped the mad goddess in front of her, loud laughter. The laughter made it even worse, voices growing louder and louder. Crying and shouting, so many emotions ran rampant through her mind. “I got an idea. What if I make the voices stop?” she shakily grabbed the knife and raised it in the air. Pono reeled across the room and threw open the door, leaving her spare room and walking across the apartment. Lyssa was puzzled by this reaction. However, she silently hovered behind one of her only followers. Narrowing her eyes, she watched her leave the room. Looking around, she watched as she banged on the door, muttering the name of the occupant. Said the occupant threw open the door and Pono lunged at them, stabbing them through the heart. Then kept stabbing and stabbing into the body, tearing it apart. “One of them stopped talking! If I keep this up, I can stop all of them around me!” Pono shakily shouted, looking at Lyssa with disdain. “I’m going to murder this entire city and leave your mark at each.” She muttered, her eyes glowing a slight yellow. Her fingers were dipped into the victim's blood and painted the enormous mouth she used to summon earlier. “All of this for little old me?” She smiled evilly and reached out a put two fingers into her neck. A smaller smiley face appeared on her neck. “Now go get started, my acolyte! I’ll be watching you.


Ever since I devoured the world as a maggot I knew I was his champion. I sang his song louder than the rest. My wings beat only for him, carrying his word across the putrid land I harvest. My eyes only exist for him to see through! And one day when my wings don’t beat and my eyes stop working and my mouth goes rigid, He will take me to his table! And there, I will pronounce my oath to him and he will know that his creation still worships him as their own! A warm, fecal note wafts into my brain, and I charge east in the name of the only god I pray to, Beelzebub! Beelzebub, this dinner is in your honor, as all my meals are! The stench encompasses me and my legs sink into the feces. fleshling, Ech. But for you, my lord, I dine. And in my vision, my brothers and sisters and children feed too! But they are not as hungry as I my lord! They do not sink their mouths in knowing that next to them sits the true champion in your eyes! For I will eat, and eat, and eat to the point of gorging just to please you. I will spread the filth to the world. I will devour the world and then Shit. It. Out. For the fleshlings deserve to know, the rest of the great kingdom of animals deserve to know, Beezlebub, lord of the fliers, lord of the flies, lord of the skies, is king! I renounce all other gods, for their followers are not as deserved as I! I will eat the world’s shit and make it my own! I am doing unto them what they have done unto the world! I take to the sky, my wings singing just for him. And I leave this dark grey canyon that the human’s made and into the larger one. I smell meat below me. More to feed on! Later, I will not be greedy, I will let the devoted dine first, and I will clean the earth below me when they are finished. I spot a nice fleshling under an oak. I land on the tree and watch. They dine on a single apple, too ripe for my liking. Their neck looks pasty. It looks stupid, and ugly, and born of something unnatural! And I scream to them, I scream: You take from the earth that gave you its life and devoured our air! We used to be kings, and you reduced us to pests! We are not pests, we are order! And I charge forth, wings singing in Beezlebub’s choir, first in line, first seat at the table, and land on the fleshling neck, and with great delight, with great savoring, I excrete the world unto them, and I laugh! I laugh knowing I am a dutiful soldier doing my job for a god who loves me, for a greater cause, and for a future without flesh. For there will come a day, a dark and stenched day, when there is nothing too ripe, fresh, or living enough for the teeth of my Brothers and Sisters. The maggots will feed on eyes, and we will take the tongues and flesh. We will return to being the kings we once were, and the world, Beelze— I feel the air above me lurch towards me, and I am skybound before a force of immeasurable weight collides with me in my back. My thorax caves in, I can’t see out of 12 of my eyes, my wings will never sing again, and my legs won’t move. I am no more. Crushed by a fleshy hand. Please, I served you with all of my being. Please I am your champion. Please let me dine.


It wanders the lands looking for fresh victims. Searching wherever there is lantern light shining in a world of darkness. They are easy to find but sadly far from and when they cross paths, the victims are sacrificed to a pair of heavy rustic cleavers. Having their flesh skinned so it may cover the light. These it will take attaching to the fur on its own back. To hang off dangling as this creature moves through the lands. Their light covered yet letting off just a hint to create a kind of armor protecting itself from something bigger and worse than a Butcher. A light flickering in the distance bounces around as firefly dances in the air. Moving in and out of these darkened lands trying to get back to the safety of others. This dance entices the Butcher to follow knowing it will lead to more victims to add to its armor. Stalking the dancing light, the Butcher watches patiently. Tracking each movement as it dips about the land and suddenly disappears. Confused, thinking there may be another monster here, the Butcher reaches for a cleaver tightening its grip on the handle for a sudden attack. Nothing. No wind, no sounds, no light, just nothing. The Butcher loosens its grip on the cleaver thinking to let it be when the light reappears further away and with another light. Now moving quickly to the base of a hill as more lights shine giving a welcoming glow. All together they light up another monster laying still. The Butcher now getting closer sees this monster is just a lion. Possibly an adolescent for it is not as big as it remembers. Its fur is all white with massive front limbs that have human-like fingers for claws and a mouth as big as half a human. Lying dead surrounded by the ones who took it down. A not so easy kill for people of the lantern. Goes to show that even they can become stronger in the dark when left uncontested. Still, the Butcher wonders how many of them were lost in this hunt. How many lanterns are never going to join its armor. Doesn’t matter. They may be strong to take down a lion, but they will succumb to the cleavers of a Butcher. Taking the fresh kill of a white lion, the Butcher watches the people as they are cheerful with what they accomplished. Light of the lanterns bobbing up and down playfully. All feeling accomplished knowing that a monster roaming their settlement is now gone giving up its resources for them as they enter a lighted area. The Butcher, stopping where the light and dark meet, looks onto their settlement. A bright light illuminating from a giant mound of lanterns reaching up pushing away the darkness. This is their center. Where many come and go about with whatever it is they do. Dancing, conversing, being playful, all of it is a disgust to the Butcher who knows the truth of the lands. A truth they must be reminded of. Now the Butcher enters the light, walking to the edge of their settlement drawing its two massive cleavers. Each one rubbing against the other to hone its sharpness while giving off an ear-piercing sound. The people of the lantern see this massive bear size humanoid and freeze in terror. A nemesis of humans now waits for a sacrifice.


“Leave now!” I heard a voice scream. My upper body shot up in bed and I tried to adjust my eyes to the darkness. The moon did not manage to shine its light through the thick curtains of my bedroom. Despite the late hour and my otherwise deep sleep, I was wide awake and groped for my mobile phone on my bedside table. My heart began to race when I saw the multitude of notifications from my surveillance camera. Someone was trying to break into my house. Once at 1:48 a.m. Once at 1:56 a.m. Once at 2:14 a.m. and once at 2:37 a.m. My gaze fell to the top corner of the screen. 2:39 a.m. An ice-cold shiver spread over my whole body. I jumped out of bed as if by remote control and locked all the windows and doors. In my mind I went through all the entrances to my bungalow. The front door is locked, as is the door to the garden. The big window in the living room is locked. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and locked myself in my bedroom. With trembling fingers, I opened my laptop to look at the camera footage. In the background of the tape I recognise a movement and a red dot. A few seconds later, the screen was soaked in a red, milky light and nothing could be seen. I fast-forward the video a little - black. Whoever wanted to break into my house knew what they were doing. He had taped off the lens but forgotten the motion detector. Again my gaze falls to my smartphone. No further notification. Still, I didn't feel comfortable. Not alone. I could not be alone now. Determined, I pressed one of the speed dial buttons. Before I could even bring the phone to my ear, a sharp pain ran through my head. I dropped the phone and pressed both hands against my temples. This must be the sleep deprivation. "Babe? Are you there? Hello?" I heard softly. I picked up the phone again. "Yes I'm here. Can you come here please? Someone tried to break in and I don't feel safe," I explained, on the verge of tears. My boyfriend assured me he would be with me in a short while, as he was just nearby anyway. A few minutes later, my doorbell rang. I turned the key around and let my boyfriend in. I hastily told him a short version of the events. He accompanied me back to my bed. He stroked my hair soothingly while I told him about the voice in my head and the pain that went through me. "I guess my subconscious didn't want me to call you," I quipped. He turned me towards him and smiled at me. His fingers ran down my cheek towards my chin. His smile was different. Not so soft and warm. His eyes. There was something in his eyes I never saw before. It was cold and unsettling. The moment he wrapped his fingers around my neck with a painful force, I suddenly realised why he was near my house. Desperately I fumbled for the knife that I had taken with me for this very reason. But it was too late. Just before I lost consciousness forever, his words echoed in my head. "You should have listened to your subconscious.


\  Even though it was Nunu who sat on top of Willump, the Notai boy’s head was so heavy with thought that he wondered if they’d switched places while walking along the small trail through the forest. He’d prepared himself to join Quinn on her mission, swallowed his fear and looked the ranger-knight in the eyes, even said that it was impossible without a legendary sword. The only thing he hadn’t done was say it outright that he would help her, but she should’ve been able to pick up his clues. When Jax and Quinn had been stumped on those pieces of black wood and he gave them the answer, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride swelling his heart, before it shrunk and tightened as he remembered his mother. Nunu shook off the headache like Willump shook water off his fur. His mission was to bring Darragh back to Uwendale, after that… There were so many things to do. Braum could still be alive, he must be. The mighty Iceborn might’ve escaped from the rebels and tended his wounds just like Jax had done. Perhaps Willump could track down Braum by scent. The mages in the mountain were preparing for battle, duped by Fareed and the man named Kynon. If what Quinn said was true, he should go back and tell Cara and the others the truth. The masks of Kindred also piqued Nunu’s curiosity. There’d been legendary artifacts in the Freljordian tales, like Ornn’s tools and Avarosa’s bow, but it’s the first time he’d heard of masks which mimicked the abilities of the Eternal Hunters, and not only two masks but three. The strange dream in the world of eternal winter resurfaced into his mind; the bird with the beaked mask, the still shape of Lamb, the leering grin of Wolf. *Where will you run?* He banged his head against one of Willump’s horns. His best friend let out a questioning grunt. “What should I do, Willump?” Nunu asked. The yeti crunched on a handful of pebbles on the road. His face was serious and his footsteps thumped heavy across the ground as he thought of the question. After what felt like an eternity, Willump shrugged. “Thanks,” Nunu said in a dry tone. He turned to the weaponsmith walking a few paces in front of them. Darragh had been quiet since they left the glade, striding ahead and occasionally rustling shrubs and leaves to warn the Freljordians of some inconveniences like low branches, tree roots, and slippery moss. “Aren’t you worried?” Nunu shouted. Darragh’s back replied with silence. Nunu ushered Willump to walk beside the man. “Don’t you want to help Quinn?” The man’s brown eyes flicked once towards the boy, before returning back to the trail. “I *am* helping her.” “But how do you *know* that you’re helping her?” Nunu insisted. “What if she’s way over her head?” He thought for a moment. “We can still turn around. Willump can find them, he already complained twice how much Jax smelled.” “No.” “That easy?” Nunu asked. “Who said it’s easy?” The weaponsmith’s hands were bundled into fists. “I’m torn by each choice. Nothing seems right.” “But you decided so quickly.” Darragh looked up at Nunu. “Do you know what it means when you struggle to make a decision?” The Notai boy scrunched his face in concentration. “That I’m indecisive?” “It means that you care, but also that you don’t know what you care about the most.” “I care about everything!” Nunu blurted out. “No one cares about everything.” The weaponsmith walked ahead, leaving Nunu with more questions than he started with. \*\*\*\*\* Fences welcomed them as the forest thinned out. The boards were old and weathered, and would probably crumble if Willump sneezed on them. Past it were fields of grass and wheat, swaying against the wind, and a road crammed with wagons and carriages, rolling away from a settlement blocked by wooden walls. Sheep grazed a sloped range of grass, extending to jagged bare stone peaks which looked like a miniature version of the giant mountain range towering behind. From this side, the mountain range looked like a towering wall separating Freljord and Demacia. It shimmered like gray ice against the setting sun and reminded Nunu of the bridge to the Frostguard citadel, where one misstep would lead to an endless fall. The looming cliffs hadn’t looked as daunting when he’d seen it from Thawing Glade in Freljord, where he’d met Braum after a howling night of cold. The crack of wood followed by a meek whine, pulled Nunu back to see Willump fail to climb over the fence. “It’s alright,” Darragh said, picking up the planks. “About time someone broke these old things. Gives us a reason to make something new and better.” “That’s just silly,” Nunu said. “If you know they’re no good, then why haven’t you done anything to it already?” Darragh patted the dirt off from the splintered boards, his eyes tracing the cracked grooves and rusted nails. “Because they’ve always been there.” A shout made them turn to see four armored men inching closer. Two had their swords drawn while the other pair had crossbows pointed at Willump. Their eyes stared nervously through helmets either too big or too small for their heads. “Easy now,” Darragh said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m Darragh, a weaponsmith from Uwendale. These two here saved me from the mages.” “Name yourselves!” The bravest of them shouted at the Freljordians, a lanky man with a few missing teeths. The sight of the crossbows made Nunu squirm. He gripped the horns of of his friend to calm his nerves. “I’m Nunu,” he said slowly, “and this is Willump. Say hi, Willump.” The yeti grunted. One of the crossbowmen yelped and a bolt zipped past. Nunu screamed. “Don’t fire!” Darragh shouted. “Don’t fire! We’re friends!” A roar tore through the field, bending the grass and shaking the ground as Willump charged at the group of men, fangs bared and claws glimmering. They tried to run, but fear took hold of their legs and they stumbled to the ground. “Stop!” Another boy appeared, putting himself in front of the crumbled men. His face was round and pale with fright, matching his tousled hair in color. He had his hands raised, palms forward. “Stop, please. They’re sorry!” A gray animal poked out from the boy’s head, its paws mimicking the boy’s motion. The sight must’ve confused Willump, because the yeti dug his heels in the dirt and slid to a halt, staring at the small duo. “Thank you.” The boy breathed out a sigh of relief. His legs gave up and he plopped onto the grass. “What were you thinking?” He snapped at the armored men behind him. “That monster threatened me!” “No, that happened *after* you almost shot our friend here. Now go back and tell the others that all is good and we don’t need any reinforcement. Barrett, since you’re so awfully quick with pulling the trigger, you have the honor to report to the warden about this. Don’t forget to say that you almost shot her husband’s savior.” Nunu blinked. The boy was older, but still looked to be half the age of the meek adults. It was so strange seeing a youngster chew out grown men. He wasn’t wearing any armor either, only a simple tunic and leggings under a hooded cloak. “You’re a ranger?” Nunu asked. The boy turned to him with a smile and tugged on an emblem of a bird sewn into the hood. “Barely,” he said. “I’m Adam, and this is Dash.” The animal on top of the boy’s head squealed. “He’s a raccoon.” “I’m Nunu and this is Willump. He’s a yeti.” “Nice to meet you, Nunu and Willump. Can you help me up? My legs are still a bit wobbly.” Darragh came forward just as Nunu climbed down from Willump’s head. They both hefted the boy up from the ground. “Adam?” the weaponsmith said slowly. “You’re a bit… different.” “I think the ranger-knight might’ve had something to do with that.” Adam glanced around before leaning closer and whispered, “Is she… you know, tracking down her prey?” Darragh’s jaw clenched again, hesitating to say anything. Nunu on the other hand, had no problem. “She’s with Jax and searching for the bad guy.” “I knew it!” Adam said in a triumphant tone. “You don’t think she’s a criminal?” Darragh asked. “Criminal?” The fair-haired boy looked almost insulted by the notion. “I’m not that gullible, mister Darragh. Let’s go back to Uwendale, I’m sure you have a lot to tell the warden.” They patrolled alongside Adam to the main road packed with wagons and carts. Nunu could now see the people, all with weary faces and suspicious eyes, their gazes flickered from his snowcap with giant fox ears to the large white shape of Willump. He was glad that he hadn’t put on his orange cloak, that would’ve pulled even more attention. Instead, he’d rolled the cloak into a bundle together with his gloves and wrapped it around one of Willump’s horns. He followed the long trail of wagons with his sight and landed on Uwendale. The village wasn’t anything grand like the Frostguard citadel. The stockade seemed tall and sturdy and he noticed a few figures walking on top of the wall, but the open gates revealed simple huts of wood and straw, not as different to the homes back in Freljord. “Did all these people live here?” he asked. “Many came for the Slayer’s Festival.” A festival. In a land filled with greens and crops, where sheep could graze the fields without any worries of an eternal winter. From what Nunu had seen, Demacia was a beautiful land with verdant green and nice-smelling flowers. The sun was warm and the wind was kind. So why were all these people’s faces so sad and bleak as if their hearts were frozen? “You don’t look like them,” Nunu said bluntly. “Hmm?” Adam turned around with a quizzical expression. “Are you a hero?” Nunu continued, “Do you have a title like Quinn? Is that why the other soldiers listen to you?” “A hero? I wish.” The ranger chuckled. “Maybe if I was a hero, Demacia’s Wings would’ve told me about her secret plan. The warden said that the ranger-knight was on the run, but I knew it was just another lie.” There was something sad in Adam’s smile. “And the soldiers listen to the warden. They only bear with me because they know the warden likes to send me on errands.” “How is she?” Darragh asked in a low voice. Adam’s smile thinned for a moment, before turning gentle. “She’ll feel much better after she knows that you’re safe.” A horn sounded in the air, like a soft drawn out wail. All the civilians tilted their heads towards the sound. The horses flinched and flared their noses. The ranger’s expression froze. “No…” Soon, other horns joined, holding a continuous tone. Nunu looked down at the ground. He’d felt something. The forest rumbled. “Run!” Adam shouted. “Run back to Uwendale!” As the families jumped off their carts and ran through the grass, Nunu glimpsed movement from the forest opening in the distance. “Nunu move!” Willump hoisted the Notai boy up on his head and ran. Screams and cries surrounded him as a herd of animals tore through the old fences and rushed past the fields. Wolves sprinted alongside boars and elks, mowing down wagons and tackling armored guards to the ground. The yeti slowed his feet as leathery wingbeats flapped above. In the sky, a flock of wyverns passed through, casting long shadows over the fleeing civilians. Nunu stared at one particular wyvern, larger than the rest, where he spotted two figures on its back. One of them wore a green cloak. It was too soon. It hadn’t even been a full day. A snarl alerted him of a growling wolf, staring at him. He pulled out *Svellsongur* and wielded it as a sword, gritting his teeth. “Come on then.” Alongside him, the guards formed a line, facing the wild animals while giving the travelers time to retreat back to the settlement. The wolf bared its fang and seemed to leap, only to stop at the last moment. A noise to Nunu’s side made him turn to see another wolf, already in the air and about to strike him. Willump swatted the wolf like a fly, while Nunu dumped a pile of snow onto the first one. A scream made him turn to see Darragh with a family of three, flanked by two boars. The weaponsmith and the father made loud noises to draw the animals’ attention, while the mother and son tried to escape. But the sudden movement caught one of the boar’s attention and pursued the parent and child instead. The son tried to chuck a doll against the beast, before the mother picked him up and ran. Nunu steered Willump towards them, when the world turned upside down and the yeti crashed onto the grass with a groan. His bundle with his cloak and gloves plopped next to him. A beast almost twice the size of a cart towered over them. It was like a giant bull, with long razor-horns crowning its head. Darragh had called it a tuskvore. A clatter of bolts thumped onto the beast but its hide was too thick. Reinforcement from the village hurried forward, bolstering the line of defense. Nunu looked back to see how far the civilians had run, but they were standing in the field, staring at the wyverns circling around Uwendale. To make things worse, masked undead had joined the fray, fighting against Uwendale’s troops. Their moves weren’t as rabid either, instead they were coordinated and drove back the soldiers with maces, axes, and swords. Willump stumbled back on his legs. This time, Nunu decided to stand next to his friend as the enemies came crashing in waves. His heart thumped hard against his chest. His mind raced, unable to keep up with his hands, swinging at a wolf, then a masked man, then to a boar. Each strike with *Svellsongur* brought out howls of pain. He was doing it, he was saving people. A large masked undead clashed swords against Adam. Nunu took the opportunity to swing *Svellsongur* at the undead’s head, but it noticed at the last moment and tilted its head, merely catching a glancing blow. It was still enough for *Svellsongur*, as ice began to form, spreading past the wood and latching onto hair and skin. Kynon must’ve upgraded the undead, because it retreated with a yell and tore the mask off, stopping the ice from spreading. Nunu braced himself for a second attack when the undead looked at him. He stopped. “Alby?” The rebel squinted his eyes, his bulbous nose flaring with a hard exhale. “Nunu?” An arrow hit Alby on the chest and the man fell to the grass. Nunu screamed. He hurried to his friend, kneeling beside and staring in disbelief at the rising and sinking chest, the warm-hued flesh, the eyes blinking with life. Alby wasn’t an undead. Alby was alive. Adam was about to sink his sword into the mage rebel, when Nunu threw his own body atop. “Stop!” Nunu pleaded. “Please, he’s a friend!” “They’re enemies, Nunu,” Adam said. “They attacked us first.” Alby spat a bloody clump on the grass and glared at the ranger. “Demacia’s council attack’d us long before we made our move.” Hearing his slurred voice again, Nunu was certain that it was Alby, the real Alby, not someone mind-controlled by a cursed mask. Realization dawned on him as he looked around at the other masked undead fighting against Uwendale’s troops. They didn’t move with beast-like movements like those who chased him across the forest. They were like the soldiers, swinging weapons at their opponents while doing their best to protect their vital parts. They could all be hurt. They could all die. The earth thundered underneath Nunu’s feet. He turned to see the tuskvore plowing through the wagons, sending carts flying and wheels rolling. His heart stopped when he saw the mother and son hiding underneath one of the carts, holding each other with their eyes closed. It sounded like a tree came crashing down when the tuskvore clashed with the yeti. The two beasts pushed each other and wrestled for dominance. The tuskvore distracted Adam and Alby took the opportunity to grab the dropped sword and stab the ranger-boy, but Nunu was faster with *Svellsongur*. The legendary weapon broke the no-name blade. “Stop!” Nunu screamed, pointing his weapon at Alby. “Just stop!” “I dun’ wan’ to hurt you, Nunu.” “I don’t want to hurt *you,* Alby!” “How can you side with them?” The man’s face was twisted in anger. “The mageseekers would’ve thrown me into their cellars and forced me to swallow poison, jus’ ‘cus of *this*.” He snapped his fingers and sparks flickered in the air. “Am I evil ‘cus I don’t need a tinderbox to light a fire?” Nunu bit his tongue. He didn’t have the answer to Demacia’s problem, he was from Freljord. He didn’t have any profound wisdom to share, he was just a boy. In the distance, the wyvern swarmed Uwendale’s walls, rising high up in the sky to avoid the arrows, then diving for attacks. Around Nunu, the militia fought against the rebels with the same ferocity as the wild beasts next to them. Their motivations might’ve been different but their screams of pain sounded the same. *Svellsongur* felt cold in his palm. With one swing, he could defeat an enemy. Adam brushed off Nunu and charged at the larger mage. The ranger and the rebel grappled each other, rolling on the grass for advantage. At the end, Alby gained the upper hand with his size and with a strong right, he glazed over Adam’s eyes. He was about to punch another when a raccoon bit him on the nose. He yelled and grabbed the animal by the tail, about to slam it to the ground, when Nunu charged him with a shoulder, sending them both tumbling. The mage drew a ragged breath as he crawled up on his legs. His eyes locked onto the trembling Notai. “Go on then. Swing tha’ weapon of yours.” Nunu shook his head. Blood dribbled out from the lips of Alby, his face softening into a hopeless smile. “Then run away. It’s alright to run.” Nunu shook his head again. Something whistled past Nunu. Alby’s smile stiffened as another bolt punctured the man’s chest. A dozen paces away, a crossbowman reloaded his crossbow while another took aim at Alby. The crossbows fired. The bolt struck ice. The wall glittered like glass, separating the soldiers from Nunu and Alby. The Notai hurried to his fallen friend, clutching a cold hand, shaking a still body, calling a name no one claimed. He didn’t know what he should do, which choice was the best. He didn’t want anyone to be hurt but he had to swing *Svellsongur* to defeat his enemy. How else was he going to win? *Depends on what your goal is*. The ranger-knight with the scowling face had said it as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world. She didn’t have any legendary sword, her fists couldn’t shatter stone. She said that she won not by killing Kynon but by stopping the war. “Willump!” His shrill voice was a faint sliver amidst the cacophony of battle. But the yeti would’ve heard the call from a mile away. Willump roared, summoning his strength to push away the tuskvore, before rushing to the Notai’s aid, sweeping the boy up on his head. The wind chilled the wet stains on Nunu’s cheeks. He wiped his eyes and stared across the battlefield, of men and women falling, and lives seeping into the soil. He grabbed onto Willump’s horns, noticing that his friend had his own set of battle scars with the tuskvore, from broken horn parts, gashes of red across the white fur, and a panting breath fogging up the air. *No one cares about everything.* There might've been some truth in what Darragh had said, but when it came to tell a story, truth would always play the second fiddle. He steered Willump to pick up his bundle of clothes. The bright orange cloak fluttered as the yeti ran through the battlefield. The gloves squeezed his hands and stopped his fingers from trembling. He looked at *Svellsongur,* his named weapon which had broken several times over their adventures. A sword to cleave foes down the middle. *The hero doesn’t make the story. It’s the story that makes the hero.* He could see the Iceborn glinting eyes and smiling mustache. *And what kind of tale is this, story-teller?* One where a sword would be useless because there were no enemies to cleave. Nunu drew a deep breath and placed his lips on the end of *Svellsongur*. He breathed life into the reed and the flute sang out. The heavy thumps from Willump turned to muffled as his feet stepped on snow, piling higher and higher, covering the grass and reaching up to the knees. When Willump passed some masked mages, Nunu played another tune and ice suddenly appeared underneath and the mages slipped and fell into powder snow. The animals found themselves attacking snowmen and staring up at the white dust fluttering down from the sky. The song wasn’t one from his mother’s wide collection, but one he’d thought up when he’d been nestled in Willump’s fur while the harsh wind howled outside. It was one he’d polished when a weathered village in north Freljord had welcomed him and Willump to their home, even offering the last of their grains to hear some stories over a crackling fire. A song he’d finished when Braum comforted him even though the Iceborn had been beaten down by all the different kinds of hardships they’d encountered over the journey. The landscape changed to one Nunu had known all his life. He could see the white lands of Freljord and taste the fresh air just by closing his eyes. He could hear his mother’s laughter, feel her hands ruffling his hair and see the glistening stars against the blackest skies. He could remember the rush of excitement as a bald Iceborn, a furry monster, and a small boy rode on a shield-turned-sled down the mountains. This was his song to Freljord, where one could walk through the coldest nights and meet people with the warmest hearts. As the song swelled, Willump began to laugh, humming along to Nunu’s tune with a deep booming voice. The yeti rolled up a snowball, making it bigger and bigger, steering it towards the warriors who were still fighting and flattening some to the ground while mashing others into the growing white sphere. It was good that Willump had so many hands, while he used a pair to roll the snowball, he used the other pair to fling snowballs across the field, splattering onto Uwendale’s crossbowmen who tried to aim at the mages. A roar challenged the boy and his yeti. The tuskvore knocked down snowmen blocking its path. It crushed the walls of ice Nunu had erected. The beast reared its front leg and aimed its horns. Nunu continued playing, almost in a teasing manner, while Willump released the growing snowball and turned his attention to the new playmate. The yeti clapped his hands and smiled widely. The tuskvore trampled across, spewing snow to the sides. Its horns gleamed with sharpness. It didn’t expect the boy to jump off and the yeti to ram back with massive reindeer horns. They slammed their crowns against each other. Once, twice. The clash like thunder in the dark sky. As Nunu’s song reached its climax, Willump bellowed a deafening roar and dove under the tuskvore, flinging the beast into the largest pile of snow. The Notai boy dropped his flute and fell to his knees. With it, the landscape of Freljord began to thaw. Melting and revealing still green grass, budding wheat, and brown soil. Bodies lay scattered on the ground. Some in armor, others wearing masks. There were corpses of animals too, felled by arrows and spears. But they were few compared to the ones who still stood. The rebels and Uwendale’s citizens had stopped fighting. Their eyes locked onto the Notai boy, their jaws slack and arms limp. He found Darragh’s face among the crowd, with bulging eyes and open mouth as if he’d just heard an outrageous story. A new weariness pulled over Nunu. His eyelids felt leaden and his knees begged him to fold. He almost listened to them if it weren’t for Willump’s wet nose nustling his cheek and rough tongue licking him all over the face. “You stink, Willump,” Nunu groaned. The yeti scoffed and then burst into a big smile. Nunu searched on the ground and found *Svellsongur* once again broken. He picked up the pieces and closed his eyes, but when he opened it again, the pieces remained apart. His best friend grunted in a worried tone. “Not yet, Willump.” Nunu looked towards Uwendale, at the wyverns picking apart the village like vultures on a carcass. “There’s still some adventure left to do.”  \ ***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.