With the worry that Lucrecia might be a more powerful spell caster than her sister, and the possibility that they might have had more powerful casters on their side, I have decided to encrypt my journal using a magical cipher. I will tell you explicitly how to unlock it, and anyone from my home should have little trouble unlocking it. Here goes:
- Whistle the theme tune to MASH.
- Using a directional light source, spell out the name of Maxwell Dillon’s alter ego in Morse Code. If you need a further hint: Spiderman.
- The number of the Beast, multiplied by thirteen, divided by three then converted to binary. Just write it on the page.
I apologize, Aurora, that you won’t be able to read beyond this point. Once the danger has passed, I’ll plan on unlocking it for you.
<Encoded text follows this point.>
Okay, so the truth is that I’m not all that worried about Lucrecia or one of her allies. I just don’t want to share the following with Aurora or any of my companions. The truth is that I think I may be going mad.
Evidence the first: My nightmares have gotten worse. I think they might have evolved from nightmares to full on night terrors. I have cuts on my palm where I was digging my nails into it by clenching my hand as I slept.
Evidence dos tequilas por favor: I’ve already mentioned that I saw something that no one else saw. Something that evidence suggested wasn’t there. I had written this off as a form of magic or simple nerves, perhaps exhaustion. But then, this morning, things got weird.
As I walked into the common room, I saw the light of dawn streaming through a window. Painted on the wall was some glowing orange text. It read, “Praise the Sun!” Of course, that was a reference to something I had known before. But I ignored it. It must be a coincidence. It must be.
I heard Aurora open the door to her room and turned towards her. Before my eyes, another set of orange text appeared. “Beware the amazing chest ahead.” I took a deep breath and figured I’d allow Aurora to mention it first.
She didn’t even seem to notice it.
These signs are almost everywhere now. Any time I spot something interesting, there’s bound to be an Orange Guidance Sign next to it. I have no idea where they’re coming from.
Don’t get me wrong. I have theories. I have a number of theories. Madness is probably the simplest. Time travel, or at least a future me sending magic back through time is another. Spell effects that are vague enough to allow my mind to fill in the blanks is also a good one.
Of course, there’s also the possibility that this is a feature of the virtual world I’m in. I’m not so sure. Heck, I’m not entirely certain that this is a virtual world. I mean, it makes sense in some ways, but there are others that don’t make any sense.
While a constructed virtual world and false memories certainly make more sense than FTL travel on the back of a monster and the actual existence of magic, there are other parts that bug the heck out of me.
I’ve been pretty open about where I’m from. Music I’ve shared with this world, music from home, has spread across the world. I’ve heard that it’s popular in places I’ve never been, places hundreds of miles from anywhere I’ve been. Why hasn’t anyone come to find me? The technology that creates our false memories can’t be that perfect.
Someone, somewhere, has to have a fragment of a memory. And when they hear the songs I’ve shared with this world, it has to strike a chord within them. So why haven’t any of them tried to contact me yet? I’m not sure I can believe that it’s possible.
There is only one possibility that I can think of that allows for the virtual world and accepts the likelihood of faulty technology. It is possible that I’m the only PC in this game.
Nope. I’m not going to accept that as a possibility. No solution that requires Aurora to not be a real person is something I’m willing to accept. Period. End of discussion. If this is a virtual world, then Aurora’s another PC. Saying otherwise to me will get you blown into tiny little pieces.
Another possibility that I haven’t mentioned assumes this is the real world. It is possible that Samantha is behind this. We spent an unknown amount of time – I suspect it was around a year, but it’s kinda hard to measure time when you’re hurtling through the depths of space – together with little to do but talk. I’ve told her everything about my hobbies back home. She knows about Dark Souls and the orange guidance soapstones. If she’s keeping an eye on me, she might find it amusing to mess with me. Not out of anything malicious, at least I don’t think so. No, it’d simply be because she thought it would be funny.
So, my choices are madness, a mildly sadistic prank and a hyper-competent secret organization. Of course I’m having trouble deciding. It feels like my devil danced with his demon and the fiddler’s tune is far from over.
I’m still unconvinced that my “virtual world” theory is likely. It would make this place easier to stomach if it were true, but I fear that I’m not that lucky. I fear that this world is proof of just how awful a place the universe can be and, perhaps more than that, I fear that it’s only going to get worse from here on out.
But, while it’s not likely, doesn’t mean it’s not possible. I’ll lean on that crutch as much as I have to. I have to remain strong. Or at least, I have to pretend I’m coping. I can do that. Pretend, I mean. Everyone hides who they are at least some of their time. Sometimes you bury that part of yourself so deeply that you have to be reminded it’s there at all. And sometimes you just want to forget who you are all together.
As an aside, should I be worried that I keep finding myself quoting a serial killer? Even if he’s fictional?
Returning to topic. I have to keep hiding what I’m going through. The others are worried about me. Especially Aurora. She looks at me like she is afraid that I could collapse into a quivering pile of tears any moment. And those looks of pity and perhaps of fear, well those are sins I just can’t forgive myself for.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not so macho as to believe that I can’t be protected by a girl. It’s just that she’s not a shrink. I’m not sure she’s equipped to handle complex psychological problems brought on by being thrust into a horror world after a sheltered, American standard upbringing. She doesn’t know what to do or what to say, and I can see the frustration in her eyes. So I need to protect her from that, as best I can.
Now, on the other hand, if I ever find myself being chased by a forty foot tall rabid weasel? I’ll be screaming her name at a volume and pitch usually reserved for small female children and startled dramedy sidekicks. I’m looking at you, Burton Guster.
But this is something I may have to do on my own. At least until my hallucinations bring me a friend to talk to. I’m hoping she’ll be hot. Maybe a green-eyed, red-headed lass with a nice Irish brogue. And dimples. In a green dress, if you’re taking requests.
When I awoke this morning, in the wee hours, I found waiting a sealed document binder waiting for me. Opening it, I found that someone had given me a copy of Magrim Emberaxe’s report on Orik’s unit’s mission for the day. It was very, very, VERY boring. It was also written with a phonetic spelling for all the words as the author would pronounce them. Which is like a drunk Scotsman, because, again, dwarf.
What follows is a cleaner version, and I’ve jazzed it up a bit. The depiction that follows is my dramatic interpretation based on the information in the reports, which was sparse and clinical, so I had to make a lot of it up. Trust me, it’s a lot better this way, and it still contains all the relevant information. I will not be phonetically writing in how people should sound. Just imagine the dwarves as you are prone to imagine them. You’ll probably be right, since “Our Dwarves are all the same”. It’ll be in a third person style, since why not? Also, I only have the names of anyone who scored a giant kill, so most of these names are made up. I know very little about them, so I’m mostly pulling crap out of my ass.
It was hot. It’s always hot in Varisia. The brave men and women led by Orik Vancaskerkin had set out to hunt a giant. They were good at it. Even before Orik had come along, they had specialized in taking care of the more “size enhanced” threats. Orik was simply a good leader and meshed well with the crew.
His lieutenants were a pair of dwarves. The first was named Belgren Blackhammer. He was a small bundle of concentrated spitfire and hatred for giants, pickled in a dark beer. The other was Magrim Emberaxe. He likes three things the most. The first is his religion. The second is killing giants. The third is fire. He’s most happy when he can combine all three.
Under Belgren’s command was a pair of human giant hunters. The first was Mixos, monk master extraordinaire. Okay, actually no, he was more like that guy on Kung Pow, Wimp Lo, so that’s what I’m going to call him. They had trained him wrong, as a joke. He thought he could fight a giant with his bare fists. He was wrong. His job was mostly as comic relief and a distraction so the enemies wouldn’t see Belgren’s attacks coming.
The second was a ranger. He was like Aragorn, but with stubble so hard that you could grate rocks on it, an eyepatch and testicles of cast adamantine that he can use to crush walnuts. He kills giants with arrows, or by the simply glaring at them until they explode. I’m going to call him Joe.
Commanded by Magrim was another pair of giant hunters. The first is a grizzled old veteran from the Mana Wastes. He carries a pistol and wheels around a double hackbut. He also squints so hard you can never see his eyes. It’s possible he doesn’t even have eyes. Good fashion sense, though, since he wears a simple brown duster and other gunslinger looking gear. I’m calling him Clint.
The other is the manliest of all, a female sorceress who masters the power of the cold. She has a twin brother who also serves the PRL. The two of them aren’t allowed to serve together. Last time that happened, forty-seven thousand babies grew beards spontaneously. Her name is Marissa and she once soloed an entire hive of Theriae who had been encroaching on human lands. Her report on the incident consisted of four words. “Too easy. Send napkins.”
The crew of the ballista carriage follows Orik’s direct command. The driver is known only as Tim. It is said that anyone who learns more of him dies three days later. The ballista gunner is known as Roy. He is old. This was his last mission before retirement. For anyone else, I’d be worried, but Roy is one tough hombre. He’ll probably be fine.
They began by following giant tracks in the forest. During one stop, they heard a rustling in the woods. Wimp Lo tried to sneak up on whatever was hiding so he could grab it. Naturally, he did this by slamming cymbals together to hide the sound of his footsteps. Naturally, the ogrekin in the brush took off running. Everyone with a quiet weapon fired at the fleeing thing, but failed to bring it down.
Seeing his men’s failure, Orik bit down on a cigar, which burst alight by sheer power of his will. “We’re going to have company soon. Let’s move to more advantageous ground.” Somewhere, a virgin suddenly found herself nine months pregnant and in labor. She gave birth to a fully bearded Orik Junior.
Not too long afterward, a number of ogres charged at the site where the mercenaries had decided to make a stand. The first was about forty feet ahead of his allies. For his trouble, he found himself in the sights of Roy’s ballista. A second later, he was nailed to a tree, a ballista bolt having pierced the empty space between his eyes. “That was left handed,” Roy said, his beard spontaneously growing its own beard.
The two behind the first ogre hesitated. This was their mistake, because almost immediately, Orik and Belgren were on them. Belgren used his war picks to climb up one, gouging its eyes out while standing on its head. Orik cleaved the other clean in two with his bastard sword.
Taking a puff from his cigar, Orik spoke. “Scalp them,” he said. The bounty on giant scalps in the PRL is half their weight in gold, so they are careful to get the whole thing. I hear that the PRL’s leader eats dinner seated on a chair covered in the dried scalps of a dozen giants.
They continued tracking their giant and heard something in the woods several hundred feet away. It was another group of ogres, paralleling their path. Leading them was a stone giant.
“Wait until they exit the trees and we’ll use the open terrain to our advantage,” Orik told everyone. They followed the other group for a short while until reaching the open area leading into the Valley of Broken Trees.
Orik and Belgren charged. Magrim opened with a fireball, bringing down four of the bastards. Wimp Lo almost took a hit to the face, but Orik blocked it by jumping between him and the stone giant. The giant was suitably impressed. The rest went down quickly. Orik and Magrim killed two more ogres. Roy hit another one with a ballista.
Belgren crushed both of the stone giant’s knees with his picks and bit out its throat. After a bit of scalping, Magrim healed everyone’s wounds just in time to spot another stone giant, highly wounded, and several ogres fleeing from something in the valley straight towards our heroes. They reloaded and began firing. One of the ogres ran right past them, fleeing into the forest.
“Stand fast!” Orik shouted. “Don’t let the rest escape!” I grew a beard just picturing it. I bet you did too.
From the Valley came a hill giant, followed by a pair of dire wolverines. They flanked the stone giant and attacked the stone giant. “I’m no one’s slave!” the hill giant shouted as he swung at his giant foe. Surrounded, the ogres and stone giant had no chance. They managed to bring down a wolverine, but fell under the combined onslaught.
With only the stone giant remaining, Orik commanded his men to continue pressing the attack. The hill giant was the one they had been hunting, and the price on his scalp would be measured in platinum. The hill giant responded by trying to club him in the face. In fact, he did club him in the face, but Orik was fine. In fact, I bet it made him prettier.
The hill giant was the last to fall. Belgren overswung with one of his picks, launching himself directly up into the creature’s colon. With a violent explosion, he burst forth out of the giant’s chest, its still-beating heart in his teeth. He bit down and the giant collapsed.
They took their prize and sought a place to dry out the scalps for preservation until they could return to Magnimar. Spotting the smoke from when we had burned down the Graul farm, they sent a report to their man in Turtleback Ferry. We make for the fort late this morning.
After reading the report, I decided to lay back down and get a bit more sleep. It would seem my subconscious has a sense of humor. Earlier, I asked for an Irish lass to talk to and my insanity delivered. I went to sleep and almost immediately found myself in a lucid dream. I was in a Japanese park I had seen in a number of animes. Really, the location is inconsequential. It’s just a place a lot of my better dreams start.
Sitting on one of the benches was an extremely beautiful young woman wearing a nun’s habit. Again, a number of my better dreams had begun this way, though the nun’s habit was unusual. The outfits were usually more revealing. In her hand, she held a Lilium Candidum, a Madonna Lily. On spotting this, I looked immediately to her throat. On a chain around her neck was a familiar symbol, a silver cross made to look like it was woven from reeds. I had one just like it hanging from my bedside lamp back on Earth.
Well, I had asked for an Irish lass to talk to, though I had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be the type of dream I first thought it would be. “Hello, Saint Brigit,” I said in greeting. I guess it was fitting to see her. She is said to give patronage to many different groups, among which I could be counted as a blacksmith, a traveler, a scholar, Irish and perhaps as a poet.
She responded in a beautiful Irish brogue which I am not going to bother trying to mimic here, as writing accents is a pain in the ass. I’m also going to alter more archaic words into ones more modern and recognizable. “Hello, lost lamb.”
“Come to give comfort to one long missing from the flock?” I asked.
She smiled. “You have wandered far. Perhaps further than any before you.”
“You know that’s right,” I said, almost proud. I held out my hand and Shawn Spencer materialized for a moment to give it a fist bump before dematerializing. Being in a lucid dream has its benefits.
“So tell me,” she said, “What troubles you, child?”
“It might take too long to share with words.” But perhaps there was another way. I focused and materialized a long USB cable. I tossed one end to Saint Brigit. “Put that in your ear,” I said. It was my dream, so maybe these things would work on my rules. She looked puzzled, but I insisted. She plugged in her end and I did the same with mine. “MAID GUY COPY!” I shouted, willing all the information I wanted to share to download directly into her head.
She gasped, startled as it worked. She took a few moments to process all of the memories I shared with her. “Sweet son of a rabid goat!” she swore. Actually, what she said was much longer, much more colorful and quite frankly not something I should repeat. So we’ll go with that.
“So, yeah, that’s what I’ve been going through.” I’m not sure what happened to the USB cable. I never willed it away, it just vanished at some point.
“I shall pray for you.”
“Only pray?” I asked. I might as well get it out of the way.
She laughed. “You and I both know that isn’t going to happen. Even if I am nothing more than a dream, you’re too good of an Irish lad to have those kinds of dreams about me.”
I laughed as well. “True, but you have been known to point a man in the direction of a beautiful maiden from time to time.”
“You need only look over there,” she said, pointing.
I followed the direction of her finger and saw Aurora, lying on another bench seductively, wearing her flimsy nightgown. “No!” I protested. I hadn’t had any truly naughty dreams about her and I wasn’t going to start now. I wanted to be with her, but not like this. I wanted our first time, real or no, to be a joint decision. For now, I was satisfied that my naughtiest dreams of her were basically guest appearances on Dead or Alive: Xtreme Beach Volleyball. Though I guess the one night reliving that flimsy nightgown hug might be considered naughtier. Probably down to personal taste.
Aurora disappeared and appeared again, this time seated upon the bench, wearing an outfit I can only describe as “Sexy Librarian” in nature. From the way she was seated, I could easily guess the scenario being offered. “How about this?” Saint Brigit asked me.
“This I can live with,” I said. “Tell me, are you real? Or just another figment of my imagination?”
The saint shrugged. “I’m as real as you need me to be,” she said before fading away.
I sat down next to Aurora and then laid my head upon her lap, looking up at her and the sky above. She smiled softly and began running her fingers through my hair, humming. I closed my eyes and relaxed. I recognized the song she was humming. It was the lullaby I had sung to her when she was going through the worst of her withdrawal symptoms as we dealt with her alcoholism shortly after we first met. I held her head just like this and ran my fingers through her hair much in the same way she was doing for me now. I doubt the real Aurora remembers any of that, much less the song itself.
I don’t know how long I lay like that, nor when she disappeared, but in time, I realized I had dozed upon the bench and “woke up” alone. I was first aware she was gone when I stopped smelling lilacs. I’m not sure how, but she always smells of lilacs, even though she uses the same plain soaps I do and wears no perfume. I’m not complaining, mind you. It just perplexes me.
At that point, it was time for my regularly scheduled nightmare. I heard the ghouls before I saw them. It’s one of several recurring nightmares I have, and that’s how it always starts. I’m alone somewhere and I hear ghouls, followed shortly by seeing and then smelling them.
I would fight as best I could, but it was always hopeless. There were simply far too many of them. This time, however, I knew I was dreaming. Some rules could be bent, others could be broken. I willed into existence a flare gun with the words “Gondor Calls for Aid” written on it. I pointed it skyward and squeezed the trigger.
Suddenly, I heard singing. Appearing near me, three women with various musical instruments were putting on a performance. Nerina was playing bass, a woman in a mask was playing the drums. On the guitar, dressed in a flowered kimono that looked vaguely familiar to me, was Fleur De Lis, my female alter ego from when Chadwick and I had that little argument so long ago.
They were performing “Holding Out for a Hero”.
“Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need.
I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the end of the night
She’s gotta be strong
And she’s gotta be fast
And she’s gotta be fresh from the fight
I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the morning light
She’s gotta be sure
And it’s gotta be soon
And she’s gotta be larger than life!”
And just like that, the sound of hoof beats thundering, there she was. Aurora, atop Starbrite, cut a path through the rampaging ghouls. Starbrite took a couple hits, so she had him retreat and we fought back to back against the surrounding ghouls as the music continued to play.
The dream escalated and not only were we facing ghouls, but now an influx of ogres and ogrekin. I fired another shot from my flare gun and my other companions, along with the remaining Black Arrows, joined us.
A few more escalations happened, mostly unremarkable. At one point, some pugwampis showed up. My flare resulted in the arrival of Lucky – yes, the cereal mascot – who knifed each of them in turn with a sharpened umbrella for some reason.
The dream continued its escalation, from giant ants to waves of those giant bugs from Starship Troopers to armies of the undead to flights of black dragons. My responses destroyed each of them. The final act saw me standing on the wall of a fortress, watching the approach of an undulating swarm of millions of xenomorphs – the creatures from Aliens – searching for an option to destroy them short of unleashing a monster of my own.
So it was that I stood with a C-10 canister rifle, using it to paint a target just outside the range that would kill us. In my earpiece, I heard the comforting words “Nuclear Launch Detected!” and decided to sing. Dozens of space marines joined in and our chorus filled the air.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.
Then, as we sang the Battle Hymn of the Republic, nuclear fire filled the sky and I awoke. We had work to do and a fort to clear. But before all that, breakfast and some strange orange signs awaited me.
Koi koi.