[Ed. note--here’s the next batch of entries, which my office, the Ministry of Exotic Antiquity, has just finished translating. Given the controversy over how “the monopoly” may have ended, I’m afraid that we might be the only ones to ever read them. I understand that the church, or what’s left of it, has sued to keep these journals under wraps. Also, there are all sorts of interdepartmental inquiries going on, to find out who leaked their existence to the press, and to ensure they aren’t being used for political purposes. This is an election year, after all. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the royal family moved to seize all three journals. Parliament blocked it, it’s still being worked out in the high court. I don’t understand what they’re afraid of--sure, the Brutus/him alliance was referenced in the previous batch, and that’s a black eye for our nation’s supposedly-sterling history, but there’s nothing particularly damaging to them in this one. Granted, I’m still going through it. Anyway, we still aren’t allowed to transport the journals off the premises. Even with the public clamor to release all of it, instead of just excerpts, who knows how long it’ll take to be sorted out? The text itself is pretty self-explanatory. Some of the geography is obscure and/or doesn’t make sense, but this was before the mystical continental shift that sunk Italy and terraformed a good portion of the hemisphere, so you have to take that into account. It sounds like the Mediterranean, though.]


Saturday, June 5, 483 C.U.:


I’m far from a nostalgic creature, but I can still remember the first time I visited Akeros. [Pronounced “uh-KIR-ohse.”] It was somewhere around 1722 B.A., shortly after my Nation had completed its second expansion. I honestly can’t remember what business I had there. It was early in the winter, but it was a remarkably warm day. The sky was filled with black clouds--strangely, everyone could tell that they would not bring rain. A summerlike wind boomed across the coastal plains. My then-aides rode steeds of various colors, while I was atop a white bengal tiger, topped off with a black saddle. I remember coming over a cluster of hills and looking out over the squares of farmland that surrounded the city, with a glittering ocean bay just beyond. The architecture was different, at that point…the city had yet to go through occupations/renovations by certain Chinese dynasties, the so-called “New Judahites,” the porpoise-people that had lost their home to an undersea volcano, etc. But the Ottoman, Egyptian, and generic European influences were all there. What caught my eye was the shrine to Aker--the Egyptian god of duality and guardian of my Nation’s gateway, whom they obviously named the city after. Those ancient river-people had been the first to build, here, during an era when their empire was five times larger than their nation is now. They must have seen the future, as duality would play a great role in the city’s very being. And now that we’ve said our good-byes to those on the isle of New Troy, I’m returning to Akeros once again, to search out an old friend from whom I need a favor. In short: a new adventure awaits! Huzzah!

Now, there have been many discussions about which city is the jewel of a certain region--they say Atlantia (the capital of the late Atlantis) was the jewel of the west, St. Petersburg of the Steppes or Ilkibern of viking-country is the jewel of the north, Lorombo Mombo is the jewel of the south, and the newly-rebuilt Zipang [modern Tokyo] is the jewel of the east. What’s all too often left out of these debates is Akeros, which is clearly the jewel of the center. This historic city-state has Europa to the northwest, the remnants of the Ottoman Empire to the southeast, and Asia (in its on-again, off-again war with the Steppes, China has often won and extended its territory very far west) to the northeast. Directly south of the city is a sea that borders northern Africa and is incorporated into almost all regional trading routes. As would be expected, it’s very cosmopolitan, probably the most diverse place in the mortal plane. And since it’s a port city, it’s also a key strategic locale. Whenever there’s a war (they’ve been Crusades, as of late), it inevitably gets turned into a battlefield, as the various sides fight over it. And it’s perpetually occupied by the empire du jour. Throughout the millennia, it’s been controlled by no less than fourteen different foreign powers, rarely having a break in-between. Originally, the Egyptians ruled it; in current times, it’s gone back and forth between Christians and Muslims, with the Chinese or Africans occasionally seizing it.

Other than myself, Raggedy Anders was the only member of my party that had visited previously, so they were duly impressed. (We teleported straight there, not wanting to waste time.) There are crumbling pyramids, admittedly-majestic cathedrals, cylindrical towers topped off with gold onion-domes, white, columned Grecian buildings, temples and mosques, marble-tiled plazas with statuesque fountains, a manmade river, some vague, helmeted war god shrine, and hanging gardens. A [300-foot]-tall wall surrounds the city. Both the wall and the city are tattooed with a dozen overlapping strains of symbolism, relics from previous reigns, with hybrids (i.e., a cross combined with a crescent moon) having been hastily painted on walls by young vandal-artists. Likewise, the population is decidedly mixed. After my former employer perpetrated the unseemly Tower of Babel incident, humanity was scattered and prevented from easily communicating with each other. It was because of this that the individual races and cultures developed. (In the beginning, Adam and Eve possessed qualities of all the different races; only after Babel were those qualities split up. Granted, those two existed millions of years ago--the Genesis genealogies that the Church adheres to are ridiculously inaccurate, having epoch-sized gaps between several supposed fathers and sons. But that’s another subject.) Now, however, the races are coming back together, and the citizens I saw looked closer to the original design.

But, let me back up. My party was greeted respectfully (if nervously) at the city gates, and I made clear that I was just visiting temporarily, to re-establish contact with an old friend. The head guard asked me who that was, and I told him…he quickly let us in. We soon found ourselves awash in a sea of people. Dark-skinned, blue-eyed children selling fruit, knights and Arab warriors examining each other warily or sharing drinks, African sailors transporting cargo, belly-dancers lingering lustily in doorways, well-dressed men and women being transported in antique chariots, etc. Though most of the world uses the Common Unity dating system (starting with the signing of the Amended Magna Carta), Akeros is in 4 A.O.--After Occupation. Yes, after thousands of years under subjugation, they’re finally free. A soldier/ex-slave named Troican rallied the people, expelled the imperialists, and somehow held (and continues to hold) off all of their grasping neighbors with a much smaller force. I understand that he’s the greatest military mind in existence. Though they must keep a strong army out of necessity, he’s very much an idealist and practical isolationist. He was elected Governor of the city, and he’s now using economic and poltical levers to keep the empires that surround them in check. Troican himself is racially-ambiguous; even he does not know his true ancestry. He’s probably a mixture of any or all of the following: African, Arabic, European, Persian, Asian, Ring of Fire. I know all this because he sent a messenger to greet us and invited us to dine with him, at the palace. (There are actually many palaces in the city, more relics from the past, and most are too decrepit for the wealthy to purchase--they’re used as shelters or healing-wards, by his decree.)

Over an excellent noontime meal, he told us how, despite conflicting occupations, a unique Akerosian culture had developed. Though it took thousands of years, this shared culture eventually took precedence over race, religion, and nationality. Soldiers that had fought and lived here for most of their lives grew to think of the city as their true home, and deserted/defected accordingly, choosing its interests over the interests of their old homelands. This obviously presented some problems, since men that had once been enemies were now allies. The city had always had sectarian tension, but it was in the process of weakening. I must say that Troican is an incredible orator, inspiring and enthralling and all that. Gwyn was greatly taken with him, albeit in a platonic sense. And by no means did he try to take sole credit for winning over the occupying troops…as everyone now knows, the Crusades’ justification has been disproven. Both sides had claimed that items of power were hidden here, not that far from the Holy Land, and that they couldn’t allow their enemies to possess them. For the Christians, those items included the Holy Grail, Excalibur, and the Ark of the Covenant. I can’t recall the Islamic ones off the top of my head. At any rate, some of these items are entirely fictional, while others are real, but long since destroyed. Either way, they were all used as political decoys, and once that was discovered, the bottom fell out from this latest set of Crusades. The feudal lords and sheikhs may hate each other, but they hate those that used them even more.

Troican inquired as to the identity of this old friend I sought--I told him that it was none other than the Shifter. This most pleased him. Apparently, the two are friends. He informed me that the Shifter had taken up with a “new breed” of prophet, who lived and preached in the city. I thought this was marvelously fitting: a prophet and a shepherd; two of my former employer’s favorite types. (I neglected to mention that I needed him to help me break into the Garden of Eden.) Apparently, Shifter would not be available until tomorrow, due to his frequent trance journeys and his booked-up schedule. I’d anticipated this and incorporated it into my plans. After our Timberlands adventure, my camp needed a day’s rest, frankly. Troican offered us the guest wing of his palace, and I gratefully accepted. All in all, he treated me as he would any other person, which was a breath of fresh air. And unlike most leaders I encounter, he did not try to use me for his personal gain. He had only one request--that Raggedy Anders stay in the palace unless accompanied by myself. Anders was quite active in the Crusades, you see, working for both sides on a mercenary basis. But if he was given an order he did not agree with, he would happily butcher those who had given it to him, even if he’d already been paid. And if he found one of his Christian or Muslim allies engaging in immoral behavior (theft, terrorizing, rape, needless murder), he would gladly dismember them, as well. This has earned him many enemies, but that’s just how he prefers it, I’m afraid. It all makes his presence in this city slightly explosive.

I requested information regarding the local art museums from Troican, and learned that he had connections with the best one. They call it Ivory Hall, due to its Grecian nature, and he seemed eager to contact its curator, so he could tell her that an elemental artist--my dear Tessa, who was identified as such by the World Tree itself--was honoring Akeros with her presence. I helped her convert an unused guest bedroom into a studio, and we broke it in by feasting on each other’s loins. But after that, little of note occurred. Turk and Gwyn, tired from the events of the past several weeks, spent the rest of the day sleeping, as did most of my aides. (Gwyn, incidentally, is greatly anticipating the prospect of gaining access to the palace’s library. I initially feared that her thirst for knowledge was but a distraction from her true self--as you may recall, she was artificially created by magic, which means that she has no family, and her creator’s intentions for her were quite misogynistic--but, thankfully, my angelic senses tell me that her motivations are entirely healthy.) The servant-girl assigned to Col. Lindscott was most forward, and I’m afraid that I saw the two of them wearing robes and sneaking off to the baths, just a little while ago. Troican has taken a stand against what he calls “economic slavery,” and has thus abolished the practice of keeping harems…I’m told that some servant-girls can’t let their old habits die, though I’m sure Col. Lindscott was no passive bystander. Meanwhile, Rahj (sentient wooden soldier of Troy and friend to Raggedy Anders) is enjoying his venture into the outside world, though I understand he had to duel with some rather large pigeons, earlier in the day.

Romulus is being insufferable, however. Though he accepted my offer to non-violently unseat the Church in his homeland, this new fealty spell has him acting like a petulant child. My first attempt at placing a fealty spell on him didn’t go well, due to his half-god nature…but with some work, I was able to make him forcibly loyal. (I refuse to leave him to his own devices, even though he’s supposedly working with me. I simply don’t trust him that much.) I tested it by making the spell prevent him from eating meat--and surely enough, during our meal with Troican, he was physically unable to touch any of the lamb. He’s also prevented from harming anyone (self-defense notwithstanding), as he’s been quite the hooligan in the past. I undid the meat aspect of the spell, but he still hates me. He’s now acting spitingly formal and polite with everyone, thus mocking his unwilling civility; it’s the only form of aggression he has left. Lots of unnecessary bows, withering niceness, over-the-top parodies of thanks, etc. I laid out my Vatican plan to him and contacted the proper legal counsel, but he seemed uninterested. I imagine he’ll feel better once he’s back in control of Rome, albeit as my puppet. The current Pope is something of a mystery--he’s never been seen up-close, and his handling of the Church’s profit-gathering wing is allegedly masterful. He’s been able to use his influence with national leaders to collect great favors.

I must say, the palace wing they’ve loaned us is excellent. The furnishings and food are outstanding, though it appears that a workman of some sort accidentally left a carpentry tool in my personal suite. Such minor mistakes do not bother me personally, but Tessa or Gwyn could have stepped on it. At any rate, the best part is that we’re quite high up (fifteenth floor, is it?), so the view is incredible. The city, the sea, the bored, wealthy wives bathing on moonlit rooftops. When we first arrived, Turk was shocked to see such tall buildings, as they almost scrape the sky--he wondered how many stairs must be in each one. I told him that, rather than stairs, they use hollow vertical chambers with flying carpets in them, levitating up or down. “Levitators,” they call them; each floor has an access point. Oh, I should mention that I used my enchanted mirror to contact my Nation, today. Steward Dramicus told me that they’d sent a discreet message to the secret rebels in the neighboring avian kingdom, offering to help them with their coup. I rarely engage in this sort of foreign policy meddling, but I see great opportunity, here, and I believe it’s worth the risk. If this group--which is most ideologically similar to me--successfully seizes power, their country will be vastly improved. It’s merely a matter of allocating resources and…I’m sorry, one of my brain-trust men just ran by, and he looked both excited and panicked. It’s Bartlesby, my bespectacled, low-spirited archeologist. I imagine I should go see what this outburst is about, so that will have to be all for today.


Sunday, June 6, 483 C.U.:


Due to my name and the mythos that the Church has saddled me with (I’m looking into both libel and slander suits!), I’m often blamed for all the problems in the world. While that’s simply silly, it’s also inadvertantly true, in a sense. You see, long ago, when the Chinese were still having low-to-the-ground armored dino-saurs pull their warwagons, I ran afoul of their royal sorcerer. Which is to say that he misunderstood a certain dynamic between myself, his striking wife, and his even more striking daughter. He cursed me to always live in interesting times--and, as I’m immortal, the times have been most interesting ever since. I say all that to say this: due to the aforementioned curse, I must take some partial responsibility for what’s in all the broadsheets, today.

As I do not have need of my brain-trust all the time, I sometimes permit them to work on personal projects. Distance is no issue, since I can simply teleport them back, if I require their expertise. As such, Bartlesby was involved with the excavation of the non-submerged portions of Atlantis, believed to be the oldest human society in existence. It was discovered several years ago, when Bartlesby was just out of university--he’d been slightly disappointed that finding the so-called Alpha Civilization had been so easy. But during the artifact-inspection segment of the dig, he discovered something interesting painted on a vase. It was a pictogram that showed the journey to Atlantis, from some other, previous home. He’s assisted in the search for this precursor ever since, but, as he just learned last night, some drunken Western Isles navy captain beat him to it. This gentleman had just been divorced, as well as demoted from commanding a ship of the line to overseeing some obscure administrative position. He stole his old ship and, using very rudimentary “phantom crew” magic, single-handedly piloted it towards the gargantuan waterfall that leads to the next level down, where I stashed the Trojans. [Leaving Britain and going west, past the remains of Atlantis.] Suicide, of course, given that Earth Falls is a plunge of two thousand miles. But before he reached the falls, he became inebriated and got lost, nearly shipwrecking on either a large island or small continent. (Due to the powerful riptide that pulls ships over the Falls, no-one has risked exploring that far west. Except for that one Italian fellow, who found out about the riptide the hard way.)

At any rate, he came upon the ruins of an ancient civilization, and he remembered enough broadsheet information to recognize Atlantean sun-symbols when he saw them, even though these were more like rough, early designs. Quite naturally, he chose to relay this intelligence back home, rather than do himself in, and he was given the heroic treatment and promoted to Admiral. (Col. Lindscott doesn’t think much of him. Exact quote: “It’s rather similar to what they call the Peter principle. His career has consisted of these four steps, and they always repeat: he makes a mess of things without even realizing it, his superior gets blamed, he somehow avoids responsibility, and he gets promoted. His life is naught but dumb luck. But it’s difficult to be angry with him for that, as it’s all he has to rely on. Without it, he’d be utterly defenseless, like a turtle without a shell. I imagine he’d have gotten himself killed or ended up on the street years ago.”)

We discussed all this over breakfast with Troican and the fetching Greek woman who runs Ivory Hall. I didn’t catch her name, as I was slightly distracted by her chest. I fear that Troican has designs for her, however, so I imagine I must keep my distance. She and Tessa excitedly discussed their plans for her gallery debut. As a medium, wood had long been thought of as rustic and antiquated, and thus on the outs with the art community, but she’s doing some radical new things with it. Troican assured me that Shifter and his prophet-lover would be available to meet with us sometime in the afternoon. Turk, being the only one that knows about my upcoming Eden gambit, was fairly busting at the seams. I do not believe he’s told Gwyn, however. (She only ate with us briefly, before demurely running back to the library. She’s rather like a sponge--soaking up new information, and then finding connections and insights easily.) Speaking of that garden, Bartlesby was pressing me about it throughout the entire meal. Though I’ve long made it clear that I missed the first several million years of human development (after Eve, I focused on my Nation), he’s still convinced that I know more than I’m telling. Which is accurate in general, but not regarding this subject. He wondered how he could reconcile Genesis with both the other creation accounts and the scientific past that he knew to be true. (Atlantis’ ruins contradict the Church’s Eden timeline, which the Church has always been quite unhappy about. But, as I said, there are massive gaps in Genesis, including one between chapters which leaves out millions of years.) Being a logical thinker, he pointed out that my kingdom must have received the dead from both Atlantis and the true Alpha Civilization, so surely I had some intelligence on the matter.

I acknowledged the strength of his rationale, and I then launched into a long, dry speech intended to bore him to tears and dissuade him from asking about this matter in the future. I want my Eden plan to remain secret, and talking about the place won’t help. The following is what I told him. First--yes, it’s common for the dead to give accounts of their lives, and when they do, interpretation and the chasm between life and death both have parts to play. If you asked three people from a certain era to describe their nation and culture, you’d get a smattering of facts, a sea of radically different opinions, and often an ignorance of history and current events. Likewise, when dead, life seems distant and vague, so even if they’re educated, fully-informed citizens, they’re bound to have trouble recalling details. And, just as a life spent obsessing over death is quite unpleasant, so too is a death spent obsessing over life. I don’t encourage my subjects to dwell on the past. Second--there was a mighty Clash of Origins at the beginning of existence. Each pantheon and solo god has evidence showing that they were responsible for creating all or at least some of this, yet when taken together, the evidence seems to be mutually-exclusive. It appears to all be true, but how can that be possible? Perhaps the creation of humanity and the mortal plane itself was like the Europeans and Asians simultaneously discovering how to make magic powder, despite having no contact with each other. The gods might have all stumbled on the idea at once, thanks to the zeitgeist. And who’s to say that my former employer (or any “god,” for that matter) didn’t plagarize someone else’s design? He kept all of us (that is, his angels) secluded and cut off from other sources of information; perhaps someone else invented a prior incarnation of mankind, which is now gone, and he copied it in Eden. And who’s to say that humanity was the first species to inhabit this realm? The dragons have long claimed that they were the first, as have the dwarves. Would it be so surprising to find out that the gods did indeed create mankind, but lied about creating the mortal plane?

Immediately after my speech, I realized that I’d made a tactical error--though such a litany of theories and details would have put a normal person to sleep (indeed, the others at the table seemed uninterested in such historical minutiae), they could have piqued the interest of a scientific man. Bartlesby seemed oddly agitated by all this, however. I imagine it’s because he thought he’d cleared up the murkiness of his species’ past (as the Alpha Civilization has been discovered), only to have me create all sorts of new doubts with my speculation. But he chose to cross the bridge he’d come to, rather than the ones that awaited him, and requested that I teleport him to this island/continent, which the broadsheets simply call Alpha, so that he may get a head-start on things. You see, it will take at least eight months for the Western Isles to prepare an expedition and make the lengthy journey there. (The drunken navy captain was gone for an entire year--six months to get there and six months to get back, and that was in a mystical wind cycle, which increased his speed. Of course, he couldn’t just hang or drown himself, he had to steal supplies and a ship for a more epic form of suicide. Col. Lindscott says that’s just the kind of person he is, always inconveniencing everyone.) Bartlesby is a citizen of the Western Isles, and he’s worked with the Exploration Ministry before, so he believed they’d let him take point. He visited the Western Isles consulate, and they used an advanced, rare form of crystal-ball communication to contact the royal family, who approved of the plan. They don’t wish to wait forever to find out more about this place.

I required that Raggedy Anders go along with him, however, for protection. Who knows what traps or monsters may be hidden there? This was also for my own benefit. Anders has been climbing the walls, both literally and figuratively. He loves to fight, he’s in a city full of people who hate him, and he’s required to stay in the palace. The servant girls tried to “distract” him with a bath, but he had nothing of it; he’s never been particularly amorous. (I received the bath, instead. Their hands were most dexterous, and only one required deflowering. Huzzah!) Anders initially resisted the trip, but I told him that he’s fought mortals many times, while he might find a better variety of enemies on Alpha. Possibly something he’s never even seen before. This cheered him, and he agreed. Rahj went with them.

After breakfast, Troican apologized profusely, saying that, as Governor, he simply didn’t have time to personally entertain us. He said that he’d tried to hire a famed jester, who’d been the royal comedy provider during the last Christian reign, but he was nowhere to be found. I told him to think nothing of it; we would be fine, when left to our own devices. It was simply a matter of dealing with the idle time we had between now and the meeting with Shifter. Troican went off to deal with matters of state, both of great portent (a meeting with the Persian ambassador) and of every-day dullness (labor disputes within a great many guilds, which threatened to interfere with the city’s economy and convenience). Tessa and the Greek woman, with some help from the manservants, transported her art to Ivory Hall, and she spent most of the day there. Hearing that Shifter’s lover was prophesizing down in the marketplace, I dispatched Turk to pose as a bystander and listen in on what she had to say. This sort of street-level intrigue is something he excels at. As to where Shifter himself was during this time, I’ve no idea. He’s always been more of a private man, with backroom arrangements and the like. (But please don’t let the “backroom” connotation make you think of him as dishonest--he’s merely secretive, as am I.) I also had my spies infiltrate various communities within the city. After we found the Trojan colony, they had little to do, and relished the opportunity for new adventures. Whenever I stay in a city, I like to have my men keep their fingers on many different pulses, just as a precaution.

So, I was essentially stuck with Romulus for the late morning and early afternoon. He was still being overly-formal and dripping with false niceties. Complimenting people for ridiculous things (“Your ears are quite perfect, sir!” “I say, these paintings’ frames are finely polished. How do you do it?”) was his new favorite past-time. I don’t understand him, frankly. I know he doesn’t like having his life in my hands once again, but considering that I’m trying to get Rome back for him, you’d think he’d be more enthused. We met with an advocate for just that reason, in fact. I said that Romulus is the rightful king, and that the Church unfairly deposed the government left in place by Romulus’ ancestors. Crown law is quite a complex thing, and the man said he’d need more time to research it. He also promised absolute confidentiality. Not that I didn’t believe him, but I placed a spell of censorship upon him, just in case he’s captured and tortured or the like by the Church’s scoundrels. (Yes, it’s a walled, secure city. But they never expect the Spanish Inquisition.) Romulus came down with a case of cabin fever, and he wanted to go walking through the city. I went with him, curious to see what would happen. I’d been in naught but small villages, as of late; I wanted see how the crowd would react to my presence.

We made quite an odd pair. Romulus is burly and ridiculously tall, while I’m quite thin and only of medium height. He has a beard, which is not the style of young (or young-looking, in his case) white men, at this time. As it’s summer, some of the women wore belly-dancer tops and tight, light pants, while others wore burkas or traditional European dresses. We passed the shipyards, the hanging gardens, the various ancient buildings and monuments. (Romulus lingered by the helmeted war-god shrine. He claims he’s never met the god in question, but he was not convincing.) Of the masses we encountered, I’d say that roughly half kept their distance from me, obviously nervous, while one quarter was openly antagonistic, and the final quarter held the previous quarter back, suspecting my true power. Roughly one in twenty screamed or gasped loudly. Some had questions for me, others wanted me to heal them. In most cases, I performed simple magi-medicine that nonetheless astounded them. I fear they believe that my former employer has a monopoly on miracles. On the contrary, we live in an age of miracles, where we can reach out and make them for ourselves. And, yes, one elderly Christian woman wanted to know how I could be so evil.

I asked her--according to my former employer’s book (which, I’m pleased to report, is quite unoriginal; it runs out of ideas and repeats storylines in many places, and it also steals material outright from other sources), who was it that impregnated another man’s fourteen-year-old virginal fiancee? Who was it that cruelly toyed with Abraham’s emotions, demanding that he sacrifice his firstborn son? Who was it that made the Israelites carry out ethnic cleansing, commanding them to murder every man, woman, and child of a particular tribe? Who was it that kicked your species out of Eden, shattered your society at Babel, and used a flood to commit near-species-wide genocide for vague reasons that were never fully explained? Now, compared to all that, what have I done? Yes, I encouraged Eve to grasp for knowledge. Who would forbid something that will make one see the truth? And, yes, I tormented Job. I shouldn’t have done it, I know. My former employer practically dared me to, I was frustrated, and I took it out on him. Aren’t those my only two crimes? Isn’t the rest just hearsay and innuendo? Even in his book of propaganda, tailored to make him look heroic, my former employer’s body-count is still vastly higher than my own. If a man were to do what he did, would he not be executed? Look at the facts objectively: who is the villain? Do I deserve to be thought of as the most evil being that ever lived? The Gnostics agreed with me, blast it all!

I must have become impassioned during this speech, as their facial reactions told me that they were either shocked or sympathetic to my plight. But I was quite uncomfortable, and I retreated to the palace, dragging Romulus with me. Word must have spread quickly, because Tessa somehow heard about it…she took a break from her gallery business and did everything in her power to make me feel better. Several hours later, I had to concede that her power is quite considerable. I spent the last half-hour simply rubbing her nude, reclining body, while she half-stirred and smiled and moaned. Her curves are firm yet soft, and she’s braided her hair and piled it on top of her head, as it’s been getting in the way when she works. Not only had the woe-is-me incident been put out of my mind, but it had filled the time before the meeting with Shifter--the clock’s five bells told me that it was almost time to go. Turk knocked on the door, and Tessa invited him in, though she was yet to be dressed. (She likes to have several bouts of stretching, after she’s been with a man, and clothes only get in the way.) This made Turk most anxious. But he braved on and told me of what he’d learned about Shifter’s lady-love.

Her name is Yaneti, and she is African. I asked Turk to describe what she looks like; exact quote: “Little more’n thirty, maybe. She’s really--uh--built like Tessa, here, but taller. Nothin’ fancy about her clothes, just regular, south-of-the-sea stuff. But she has hair like I ain’t never seen. I mean, how it’s done up, it’s not made a’snakes or somethin’.” He said that she’s the exact opposite of the doom-saying prophets of old, as she preaches that the destruction of human civilization is not coming. Her message is particularly relevant for those on both sides of the Crusades, as they were manipulated by end-times fears. (Thus the great rush to obtain the fictional objects of power: armageddon is around the corner, we need them now! Balderdash.) Her logic is devastatingly brilliant. If we are to believe that an apocalypse is coming, then all that matters is following the forces of religion, who in turn want us to ignore non-epic problems that coincidentally benefit them or their allies. But if we have a future, then we must put aside these doomsday fantasies and focus on long-term planning for the betterment of the human race, which requires a level of realism and serious thought that her (and my) ideological enemies fear. She asked, how many generations have died thinking they would be the last? If they were wrong, and if you think the end is near, why are you not wrong, as well? This has made many reactionaries consider her a radical, as they don’t want their followers getting any new ideas.

Armed with new knowledge, I prepared and headed for the ball. This event had already been scheduled, with both Shifter and Yaneti invited--I hate incoveniencing people, so Troican suggested that I meet with Shifter at something he already had planned. It’s a charitable affair, raising money for soldiers and civilians injured in the Crusades. (In addition to attacking that problem with government, Troican has inspired and/or arm-twisted the city’s thriving private sector upper-class into being socially responsible.) Inviting a Hero and a prophet is simply a way of raising the event’s profile, and I imagine that my attendance helped spark interest, as well. Speaking of attention, Tessa and the Greek art woman spoke with many at the ball, creating awareness of her upcoming gallery opening. (They’re rushing to open it quickly; the Greek woman made a considerable donation to the charity, of course, as did I.) I’m proud to announce that I actually persuaded Turk to shave and wear fine clothes, which he’s usually resistant to do. (Once he saw that Yaneti was still dressed down, he wanted to run back to the palace and put on his normal, patchwork outfit, but Gwyn talked him out of it--she thought he looked dashing. And Gwyn was irresistable, in a black dress that perfectly matched her hair, but I resisted nonetheless, out of respect for my young ward. Gwyn was very impressed with Yaneti, incidentally. With no actual parental figures in her life, she’s able to be something of a free-ranger in this area.) I saw many of the rooftop-bathing bored wives at the ball; not wanting to create a scene, I only ravished a minimal number of them. Mild huzzah! A round-bottomed Italian/South African was the standout of the lot. Their husbands once became reasonably wealthy from war, but Troican made it so they became ridiculously wealthy from peace, and thus had an interest in preserving it. The city’s economy is better than it’s been in millennia.

Now, I should point out that we live in an age of Heroes, and there are many different kinds. You have your explorers and adventurers, your sorcerers, your other-realm soldiers and shapechanging spies…also, that Western Isles detective who was recently knighted. The Shifter belongs to a lesser-known category: first and foremost, he’s a shephard. He guides humanity through changing times and shifting para-digms. Of course, like all Heroes, he’s often called upon to fight…he battles those who would rudely arrest mankind’s progress. He’s known by his hooded robe, which has an intricate, navy and grey (with some black) pattern, and he carries a silver staff. A major part of his task is to empower mortals who can provide what humanity needs, in a given moment, and I suspect that Yaneti is of that group. The two of them (and I, I suppose) stood out like sore thumbs, at the ball. I hadn’t seen Shifter in quite some time, possibly not since the second Beowulf/Grendel clash. When I first found out he was in Akeros, I was unsurprised, as his work draws him to all sorts of culturally-transforming regions. Why, if not for him, the various Dark Ages (each culture has battled at least two, thus far) would have lasted much longer than they did. He said he was lucky to be dealing with a place that has a wise leader, this time…most are nowhere near as reasonable as Troican. (Who, for the record, has not asked anything of me. He’s the first leader I’ve encountered that has treated me fairly without expecting something in return.)

It was a good news/bad news situation, I’m afraid. The good--Shifter said that he’d be more than happy to help me breach Eden’s teleport-proof barrier. The bad--he feels that Akeros is at a key juncture in its historic road, and he fears that neglecting it, even for the scant few days it would take us to overcome my former employer’s safeguards, could be disastrous. So, I offered to help him with his work, as I’ve done so many times in the past. (Albeit from afar, usually, as I was preoccupied with my Nation.) I told him that I’d recently helped a backwards culture overcome bad mind-habits, so I was quite primed for such a similar task. With him, myself, Yaneti, and Troican, he felt that we had a real chance to make a significant, immediate impact. The four of us conversed casually, with the ribaldry of the party in the background. I must say, I love parties. Though many have villainized my life of leisure, I feel it’s far more healthy than work--which, I continue to contest, is most unnatural. I’ve thrown, and been a guest at, some wonderful affairs. Sersi once surprised me in my Nation, offering to throw a century-long bash to “liven the place up”…she always had the most dreadful sense of humor, but her beauty and dancing ability more than made up for it. I’ve never seen anyone else that could move their bottom in such a quick, athletic, and rhythmic manner. That said, none of my citizens have ever complained of being bored! Contrary to popular opinion, my Nation is not horrific, nor does it involve tedium or the absence of being. Existence goes on, just not life. (I do wonder what new developments have come about with the Timberlands royal family, who recently relocated there--though dead, they’re surely having all sorts of new experiences.)

I’m happy to say that my girls, if you will, shone throughout the evening. Tessa was the life of the party, impressing all with her elemental-artist prestige, and Gwyn was a prodigy, carrying on engaging conversations and proving that she was more knowledgeable than the vast majority of adults in attendance. (This is even more impressive when you consider that she had to withhold her extensive Trojan knowledge, as we’re keeping the specifics of our previous adventure a secret, out of respect for their privacy.) Taken with her sharpness, Yaneti invited Gwyn to spend the day with her and her disciples, tomorrow, and Gwyn most readily agreed. Also, though not of the female persuasion, Turk had a heroic night. As ever, he casually drew information from the servants, and his streetwise, always-on-guard eyes caught a remarkably important detail. Due to my many enemies, Turk is all too aware that spies will try to follow me, and he believed he saw one, in the form of an out-of-place-looking man who lingered by a doorway. He naturally reported this to me. I merely thought it was one of the mystery-Pope’s agents, and went back to admiring the Italian/South African housewife’s muscle tone. (Her husband was gushing about how much safer government contracts were now that the focus was on domestic policies, rather than foreign affairs, and he failed to notice either his wife’s slight perspiration or hardened nipples.) During this time, I saw the jester that had been unavailable to entertain us, earlier in the day. Struck me as a listless sort of fellow. He wore the gaudiest performer’s costume I’ve ever seen--it was all green and red checks, with upturned cloth boots and jangling bells on his…hood? Hat? I do not know what to call it. A thin domino mask covered his eyes, which was connected to his headpiece. I only include this because it greatly offended me, as a man of wealth and taste. Don’t misunderstand me, I can abide poor material, if one is economically-challenged. But poor design? No, never. I’ve heard that the pre-democratic regime was very kind to him; he must have fallen on hard times, since then.

It was now becoming late, and Shifter felt it was time to get down to business. He’s always been most focused on his work. He gathered myself, Yaneti, and Troican, and ushered us towards a private meeting-room that was just off the main dining hall. We were to discuss Akeros’ future, and Troican was wisely treating it with seriousness, approaching it as a meeting with a Hero (Shifter), a religious leader in the community (Yaneti), and an interested head of state (myself). Right as Shifter’s hand was on the knob, I realized that this was the door that the odd man had been lurking about, and I quickly teleported the meeting room (but not us) to an empty realm. Now, let me back up. I have non-human senses, you see, and even in an unoccupied room, I’m bound to detect something…temperature, objects, light or dark, plant life, etc. But this time, I detected absolutely nothing, as if it were a void…or as if someone were masking what was inside. This alarmed me greatly--and when combined with Turk’s reconaissance, it forced me to take my teleportation precaution. I explained this to the others, and, remote-viewing from the mortal realm, I mystically opened the door. There was a massive explosion, in that thankfully-uncreated place, and it would have been enough to take out the entire city. A trap, of course.

So, given that my foursome was planning to go in there, the question becomes: were they trying to kill one of us, some of us, all of us…or was their target Akeros itself? Each member of our unofficial quartet has no shortage of enemies, which is also true of the city itself, so I fear that this is going to be a maddening mystery. Tessa and Gwyn are both quite worried for me, while Turk is raging. I managed to slip away from the debriefings long enough to write all this, but now the Silver Sentries want to ask me the same questions yet again. It shall be a long night…


Monday, June 7, 483 C.U.:


Parallel conspiracies, all manners of intrigue, anonymous messages, shifting alliances, curious and sudden changes in character, a cast of thousands, a rogue’s gallery for the ages, old friends returning to help, suspicious players lurking on the fringes, more wild cards than I can keep track of…this was not how I wanted to begin my week. The broadsheets all carried the news, of course, though the vast majority of Akeros already knew, due to talk spreading like wildfire. Troican quickly gave a speech to calm the populace, as anger was high and rumors of war were circulating. He has many political enemies, and each faction of them denied involvement, while claiming to know who was behind the conspiracy--without fail, it would just happen to be a group or nation that the faction in question had been looking for a reason to go to war with. (Troican’s cautious, practical isolationism policy is quite unpopular with the adventurists, who already miss the bad old days.) According to them, it was the native rebels in the Steppes (what some call Siberia), who are angry that Troican will not help them defeat their Chinese occupiers. It was the financial elite of Europa, who fear the city-state’s burgeoning economic power. It was the mullahs of the fragmented Ottoman Empire or the Mystery-Pope ensconced within the armored fortress that is Vatican City, both of whom believe that Troican’s moderate liberalism is quite sinful. Many women, Africans, and spiritual people in the city believe that Yaneti was the true target; that her message of hope and belief in the future had made her a target. Of course, Shifter has acquired many enemies, during his long time on this plane, ranging from the Human Volcano (who hails from the Land of the Rising Sun) to the House of Creaugh (a Scottish ghost alliance). My main foe is self-explanatory, I should imagine.

Due to my (utterly untrue) reputation, I’m rather afraid that I was their first suspect. Whenever something bad happens, and the devil is nearby, you can guess who they blame first. That said--from their misinformed viewpoint, it must seem like common sense, so I hold no ill will. Troican’s security detail immediately separated the two of us, and attempted to interrogate me. This presented both legal and practical problems. In terms of the former: as a visiting head of state, I have diplomatic immunity, thank you very much, so you may not hold or question me if I do not wish it. In terms of the latter: interrogation relies on intimidation, and I’m afraid that mortals simply cannot do that to me. Agitated over my friends nearly being killed, I must admit to taking out my frustration on an interrogator that rudely grabbed my arm, but I stopped myself after the first bout of mystical pain-inducing. One bodyguard seemed to think I’d set the entire thing up myself, so I could “save” Troican and get on his good side. But many noble citizens and other interested parties (including Shifter and Yaneti) vouched for me, and I was quickly cleared, though some clearly distrust me. However, given that I’d been accompanied throughout the day, my alibi was excellent. In the morning, palace security watched over me; when I took my walk, many crowds saw me; at the party, I was always in the sight of conversationalists or unappreciated housewives. The only gap was when Tessa ravished me, in the late afternoon. (As a witness, she’s quite biased in my favor.) I soon learned that the dining hall’s meeting-room was normal (i.e., people had gone in and out of it) in the morning and afternoon; it was only in the evening that a servant-girl noticed that the door seemed to be locked. I’m afraid that our meeting was no secret--everyone knew we’d be at the charity ball, and most everyone suspected that if a meeting were to take place between us, it would be then. It was unclear as to who knew that that particular room would be used, however.

I’m afraid that today’s entry is going to be rather non-linear, as there are multiple threads to address, with varying degrees of importance. For instance: you may recall Bartlesby, Raggedy Anders, and Rahj deciding to explore the so-called “Alpha,” the oldest civilization yet discovered, which is near Earth Falls. In the afternoon, when I contacted them with my mirror, I made the mistake of telling them what had happened, and Anders insisted that he come back and slice his way through the taverns until he learned who was behind it. I reminded him that I was more than capable of defending myself, and that I had Turk (with his singing sword) and the Shifter around to help, in the unlikely event that I needed assistance. Bartlesby needs protection more than I. Speaking of which…despite being surrounded by wonders, Bartlesby was as melancholy as ever, I’m afraid. He said that they’d hiked from the shore into the first set of foothills, where they’d discovered some ruins. Though an archeologist, he also has an eye for architecture (and for moody, underage rich girls that string him along for what seems like ages, but that’s another matter), and he said he couldn’t help but notice that their buildings all had rounded edges. There was even a pyramid with rounded edges, including the tip, which he said he stood on. Most would have been shocked to see pyramids so far away from Egypt (or from where the Egyptian Empire had once existed; before the Avian/Roman War, pyramids dotted Italy’s eastern coast), but he’s seen the next level down on the mortal plane, where there are square pyramids covered with stairsteps. He said they’ve yet to encounter any sentient beings, and the animals are all small and non-threatening. According to him, it’s definitely a continent, perhaps the size of Australia. He was considerably more relaxed in this communique than in the one that took place later in the day.

Inspired by Troican’s practicality, my first order of business this morning was to pluck the memory of the suspicious man from Turk’s mind and mystically distribute it to the Silver Sentries--elite, armored guardsmen who patrol the city. (You’ll note I didn’t say “knights,” as the Sentries come from all different races and religions, and that term tends to be associated with the previous regime.) It’s a Chinese individual, at least forty, and well-dressed. His race/nationality means nothing; he could very well be a mercenary. I’m afraid that Turk was slightly distracted, at that moment, as he was thinking about Gwyn, and I learned far too much about her bedroom preferences before I found the correct memory. I must say…given how timid she is, I never would have thought that she was into that . Keeping my relationship with her strictly platonic will be slightly more challenging, now. None of the men recognized this lurker, I’m afraid, but they’re out searching for him even as I write this. Troican hypothetically assumed that he was the main target, and divided the possibilities into two categories: foreign and domestic. Though he won’t allow his political enemies to use this incident to justify the various wars they’ve been wanting, he readily admits that Akeros is a key port, economic center, and symbol, and that he could see one of their neighbors attempting an assassination or even a coup. (Speaking of coups, my own is going quite well. More on that later.) Also, the strength of their military makes the others in the region nervous. He’s assigned his various spies to look into these sorts of possibilities. I considered offering to let him use my own spies, but I feared he’d misunderstand why I had them in the city in the first place, so I kept that to myself.

As for domestic enemies, well, it’s rather predictable. The hardline Christians think he’s being too soft on Muslims, the hardline Muslims think he’s being too soft on Christians, etc. There’s tension between the Steppes exiles and the Chinese (I believe the Chinese are the smallest group, here), and some Africans distrust both the Christans and Muslims, as they recall their colonial pasts and/or presents. And that’s just race, nationalism, and religion, without getting into local cultural and political issues. How to best maintain the wall around the city, how to handle property claims when dealing with places that have no documents (destroyed in the wars), how much to tax the shipbuilding industry, which weapons are legal and which are illegal, all that sort of thing. Troican had to work exceedingly hard to achieve even a fragile unity, and he fears this incident may destroy it…which may very well be the point. These domestic rivalries play into the foreign affairs ones, as well. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that the Chinese citizens think that some Steppes natives are behind the assassination attempt, that the extreme Christians/Muslims are blaming Muslim/Christian nations for it and want to go after them, that a certain expatriate African tribe that was wronged by their home kingdom and given sanctuary by Troican thinks their homeland is behind the conspiracy, and so on. Any of these groups may very well be right, but it’s quite difficult to concentrate on the facts when previous agendas are in the way.

I’m now going to return to very early this morning--after I was questioned by palace security, but before I plunged into Turk’s memories, I returned to the guest wing for a short period of sleep. But as I made my way through the wing, I discovered that a chisel of some sort was sitting on a nightstand-like table in a hallway, and it had a note attached. It was written in English, and it said: “We didn’t do it. We’re on the Shifter’s side. We’ve always wondered, were you the one that spiked creation?” I have absolutely no idea what they’re referring to, I’m afraid. Keep in mind, this was the second tool I’d discovered, during our time here. (Speaking of my longtime friend, he spent the day teleporting all over the mortal plane, in addition to the higher and lower planes, tracking down his enemies and coercing admissions out of them. None seem to be responsible.) And that wasn’t the only puzzling thing that was awkwardly thrown into my path. Before, Romulus was apathetic about our plan to legally seize Rome in his name, as he disliked such non-violent methodology. But I could tell that he looked forward to the goal. Now, however, he’s taken the Brutus stance--he wants nothing to do with his old home. He’s quite displeased with the state of humanity (which, I think, is a good sign for humanity), and he doesn’t want to rule such a “soft” race. My spies tell me that he’s repeatedly visited that armored war-god statue, and I asked Gwyn to research it, to find out its meaning. Gwyn was with Yaneti, today, learning at her feet, and I think it went very well. She’s explored history and culture, and now she can explore philosophy. Yaneti has used the assassination attempt to show how short-term thinking plagues humanity. Assassination itself is the product of desperation; the knowledge that one cannot compete in the marketplace of ideas and/or the changing times, over the long haul.

At noontime, I went to visit Tessa, at Ivory Hall. Originally, out of respect for Troican and the national mood, she was going to postpone her gallery debut, which is scheduled for tomorrow night. But he told her to go on ahead with it. He said--and I agree--that the best way to react to this sort of thing is to go on with your everyday life, refusing to be terrorized. (That said, while that applies to civilians, Troican has the military on high alert, ready for anything.) I spent some time walking through the museum (strictly art, the history museum is in the pyramid), and I was vastly impressed with the quality and quantity of Tessa’s work. She spent countless hours turning ideas into reality during our Trojan sojourn, and that effort has clearly paid off. They’re technically wood-carvings, but they’re more like sculptures, really. Some are tiny, some are person-sized, and some are massive. She has quite a wide range…there are dark, twisted root-men that writhe in agony and beautiful odes to nature in the form of imaginary creatures. Some speak of the present, and some speak of pasts and futures that may or may not exist. They’re all exceedingly detailed, and some are so smooth and light that you can’t even tell they’re wood. I fear for her safety, of course, and I had one of my spies monitoring her…but then a splinter-agent (disguised as a mortal) of the World Tree approached me, and told me that he was watching over her. She’s expressing both her own soul and the World Tree’s, and it doesn’t plan on letting anything happen to her. So, I feel considerably better, in that regard. After eating bread and cheese, she and I made love, of course. The Greek woman who runs Ivory Hall watched from a distance, thinking herself unseen.

Later that afternoon--after I contacted Bartlesby via mirror--the Silver Sentries had a favor to ask. After awkward, probably non-genuine apologies about how they’d treated me last night and early this morning, they said they were having trouble tracking down one of the guests from the party. They thought he might have witnessed something important. I didn’t recognize his name, and I initially thought he was another masquerading agent of the World Tree, as he has a plant-related family name…but no, it was the jester. With all that had been going on, I’d forgotten a disturbing bit of illogic: if he was so down on his luck, in postwar Akeros, why did he turn down the chance to entertain me, which would have resulted in a large sum? Now, I didn’t think he actually saw anything--he seemed little more than a promoted village idiot, probably the oblivious type--I just wanted a break from all the complexity and seriousness. Yes, let’s go mock this washed-up relic who profited from the previous, corrupt regimes! So, I used a locating spell, and we tracked him to that location: being thrown out of a pay-for-play harem (non-revenue-generating harems are still illegal, however) while still wearing his costume. Though he became quite wealthy in the last Christian and Muslim reigns (both kept him around for amusement), he drank and gambled it away, in addition to living beyond his means and making foolish investments.

Upon seeing us, he became understandably agitated--the Sentries have a fierce reputation, and my own reputation is something that I’ve already touched on at length. He initially tried to run, but stepped in a cow-bucket and fell facefirst on the dusty street. Oddly, this provoked no laughter from the onlookers or even the Sentries…both groups seemed to pity him too much to laugh at him. He was once a celebrity, and I believe they’re embarrassed to have been involved with his popularity. At any rate, he took us to his shack of a home. I’m afraid that, despite living in a city with many languages, he hasn’t even mastered his native tongue; he’s ridiculously incomprehensible. He must feel some class insecurity, as he kept talking about some big new job that he has lined up. He became evasive when I asked why he wouldn’t entertain my group, though I imagine that he was just too stupid to see the opportunity. But, when I tried to explore his memory, I found that it was mystically blocked. This was most suspicious, and the Sentries went from treating him as a witness to treating him as a suspect. It turns out that his former regal employers put the block in, as they often had important conversations in his presence. But the Sentries are holding him for interrogation, just to be safe. Something about him seems extremely tense. If anything, I suspect that he overheard some cryptic reference from someone he used to work for/with, and misinterpreted it as having to do with the assassination. My thinking leans this way because, even with the mystic block in place, I can’t see any intelligent statesman talking about such an explosive idea in that man’s presence.

Now, it was getting to be time for the evening meal, and I had several loose ends to address, before regrouping with my allies. First, I used my mirror to communicate back to my Timberlands castle, where Lady Parston, her lady-love, and her lady-love’s maniacal little ones are living in domestic bliss. Castlesitting and all that, don’t you know. I told her to be on the lookout, in case the assassination was aimed at me specifically, and I added even more strength to the security spells in place, at the castle. I keep forgetting that not everyone has a horde of enemies wishing to do them in; she did not take it with valiance, as the idea is quite unusual to her. The guardian of my realm, Aker (whom the city is named after), has elite operatives under his command, and I transmuted some of them to three-dimensional forms, stationing them at the castle. I also spoke to Steward Dramicus, who told me that they’d heard back from the dissenters in [avian kingdom, unable to be translated], who were most open to the idea of a coup. Popular support is actually on their side and against the current government, so they believe it can be a bloodless affair. It’s now a matter of haggling over the arrangement--what sort of resources we shall give them, what sort of trade agreement or political influence they can give us in return, etc. Though my main quest is very much focusing on liberating a certain something from Eden, building up allies as I go cannot hurt. If I have the avians, if I can earn the loyalty of Akeros, and if I can re-insert Romulus into the Roman government, I shall be doing very well indeed. Instead of one friend (Limbo, ruled by The Exile), my Nation shall have four! Huzzah!

As long as I’m speaking of my mirror, after the hallway scuffle and dinner of revelations (more on both after this), I resumed contact with Bartlesby and Raggedy Anders, still exploring the mystery-continent. He was covered in dust, he had a bloody cut on his forehead, and he looked like he did after one of those Icelandic giants tried to use him as a toothpick. He informed me that they had, indeed, encountered resistance, as I’d predicted they might. They discovered what appeared to be a sun temple, which was quite similar in design to the ones found in Atlantis. Upon going in, they found a stone table that was blanketed with cobwebs, save for three perfectly-clear rectangular spaces. He presumed that something had been sitting there until very recently. Unfortunately, so did some guardian monsters, who accused the three of them (living toy Rahj was also along) of taking the unknown objects and set upon them. Bartlesby referred to them as solar golems--though not made by Judahites, they consisted of a transparent clay that had light inside, with crude sun-symbols on their foreheads. Despite being clay, the magic light hardened them to near-invulnerability, and they could also soften their hands and shape them into weapons. Raggedy Anders’ utterly-normal scimitar shattered on the first one he tried to kill.

Now, when Anders gave Turk his most powerful sword, he thought nothing of it, as he’s quite excellent in hand-to-hand combat, and doesn’t even really need weapons. In addition to fencing, he learned martial arts and acrobatics from fellow travelers in a Chinese circus (he was relegated to the freak show, back then). Everyone has seen the illustrated manuscripts where ninjas and slim women in robes sprint across treetops and duel with honor in mid-air…that’s quite similar to what Anders can do, except one needs to replace “honor” with “abandon” and possibly “sociopathic thrill.” He kept the solar golems occupied long enough for Bartlesby and Rahj to get clear, and then Bartlesby did something rather heroic. One of the golems punched through a wall while trying to get Anders, and a treasure-trove of artifacts laid beyond. Bartlesby searched for anything that might help. Among them was an odd weapon: it looked like the handle of a sword, but it had no blade. It did, however, have a swarm of midnight diamonds inside. Now, many parts of nature are sentient, and diamonds are no exception…midnight diamonds are like bees or a school of fish, able to come together to accomplish much. The diamonds inside this handle had been tamed by some alchemist of prehistory. Anders recognized it immediately, and had Bartlesby toss it to him. A scimitar blade grew from the handle, the diamonds conforming to the shape he wanted; they pressed together tightly so that it was solid. With these diamonds, which are sharper than almost anything in existence, he made short work of the golems, who were largely unthinking mystical automatons. But the question is, what is it that is missing, and who took it? I remotely scanned the island for the objects, and found nothing. Someone has taken them elsewhere.

After this mirror update, I heard a commotion out in the hall--Romulus was in the process of accosting some poor servant-girl, but my fealty spell kicked in and immobilized him. She then proceeded to do some kicking of her own, while the hapless godling lay on the floor. Valuing women as I do, I was quite irate, and tempted to subject him to another lengthy pain-inducing spell. But the previous ones had done little to improve his manners, so I decided to come up with an alternative punishment. I finally thought of something when I recalled the first time I interrogated him, wishing that I had something to blackmail him with…I quickly crafted and unleashed the spell, which had no visible effect. He wasn’t sure what was going on. After dismissing the girl and assuring her that he’d be severely reprimanded, I opened a world-window and allowed Romulus a peek at a women-only public bath. He tried to concentrate on that, only to become nervous: he hooked his thumb into the front of his waistband and tugged it loose, looking down his pants. His eyes widened. I’d turned him into a powder, you see; women now did nothing for him. Though such behavior was commonplace in his era, it doesn’t fit with his rigid idea of masculinity, and he was quite humiliated. He won’t act on it, of course. I told him that if he behaves himself and helps me take over Rome, I just may restore his sexuality, though it would certainly be amusing to leave him this way.

This inspired him to skip our royal dinner, which was fine by the lot of us. Col. Lindscott emerged from his bedroom for the first time all day, quite frankly shocked at what he’d missed and singing the praises of a certain servant-girl. (Strictly consensual, I assure you.) Shifter stepped out of a portal and admitted to having no success with his in-the-field interrogations, while Yaneti still couldn’t think of any personal enemies, though her religious ones were obvious enough. Gwyn asked Troican if the Silver Sentries had uncovered any evidence of an assassination plot against him, and he said yes. We were momentarily excited, but he regretfully added that they’d uncovered evidence of many such plots, most of which were either very early in the planning stages or simply pathetic and unrealistic:

A few low-level mercenaries, now out of work, had gotten drunk at a tavern and talked loudly about storming the palace and killing him, going so far as to buy cheap swords and shields, which wouldn’t have gotten them past the stout door-guards. A formerly-powerful Muslim businessman had considered unleashing a djinn to “liberate” the city from its racially-mixed Governor, but he had no idea where to purchase a bottle with such a creature in it, and he’d paid a local thief to find one for him, but the thief had spent the money on wine, women, and betting on whom their next war would be with. A well-meaning woman who idealized (but had never met) Troican was somehow furious that he didn’t understand their Bond of True Love, and was going to stab him, but she couldn’t get on the guest-list at any of his charity functions, despite consistent pestering of her aunt, who was a caterer for such events. And a member of the Knights Templar, recently released from prison, was trying to find financial support to start a band of rebels within the city, but the usual suspects seemed curiously uninterested.

Troican said that some of the key people in these low-rent conspiracies had yet to be tracked down, so it wasn’t known if they were simply away from their usual places, or if they’d been drafted into the more professional plot. And to make matters worse, an important visitor was coming to the city. If there’s one industry that Akeros is known for, it’s shipbuilding--they’ve been able to keep enemies at bay through economic leverage, especially where ships are involved. Historically, they’ve specialized in warships, as the various empires that controlled Akeros would use the industry to replenish and strengthen their own fleets. Now, they have the freedom to sell warships to whomever they wish, but they fear that if they do, they might be used against them. Early in Troican’s administration, all of their maritime research went into developing their own navy, out of self-defense. But now, they have their fleet appropriately built up (it’s anchored just off the coast, letting trade ships through and guarding against all others), so their shipbuilders have been focusing on civilian vessels. They’ve put together some masterpieces…lightweight messenger ships that have set new speed records, long-distance voyage ships that are luxuriously comfortable, cargo transport ships that can hold more weight than any previous models, etc. They’d never had the opportunity to focus their creativity on something other than dreadful do-or-die weapon-armada-building, but now, they can finally apply themselves. Buyers come from all the world over, don’t you know. Unfortunately, those buyers include foreign powers who believe they can dissuade Troican from his not-selling-warships policy. The Western Isles is sending an elite Navy man, and Akeros must let him down gently, without damaging their civilian ship trade agreement.

Tessa was all high spirits, as she finally finished setting up her gallery. I went to see it after supper, and it simply looks marvelous, easily the best I’ve seen in this realm. The iteration of it I saw at noontime was but a prelude to the final version. I imagine she’ll be exceedingly famous, after tomorrow. (The broadsheets have reported that there is a new elemental artist, but few details have been provided.) Her impending destiny has her full of nervous energy, however, which she sweated and rode out of her in our tenth-floor personal suite. We left the room dark and the window open, so warm ocean air blew in, rustling her hair. She was moving so hard that I feared she’d fall off and hit her head on the floor--I clutched her rear so tightly (both for protective reasons and selfish ones) that I actually left red-flushed handprints on her pale flesh. Huzzah! Afterwards, I stood behind her nude form on the balcony, wrapping my hands around her stomach and looking over the torchlit metropolis. But that was later. As requested, Gwyn researched the helmeted war-god statue that Romulus has been so interested in, and she told me (during supper) that it’s a representation of Undrasg, an obscure viking god of future war. Turk asked around for her, and learned that the statue had only appeared recently, and that no-one knew where it had come from. I shall interrogate Romulus on this matter tomorrow.

There are only two final things to add, really. I have my various spies and agents looking into the possibility that I was the main target of this assassination attempt, but they’ve yielded no results as of yet. And a third tool was left in the guest wing, with a note attached--this mysterious person or group wishes to meet with me tomorrow, at noontime. Questions will surely be answered…


Tuesday, June 8, 483 C.U.:


It’s a strange thing, to find one’s day full of events that carry cosmic portent. I was foolishly under the impression that today would be calmer than yesterday: with no new assassination attempts, and with Akeros’s sectarian tension having momentarily relaxed, a fragile stillness settled over the city, in the morning hours. Now, before I delve into more unusual matters, I want to say--in the interests of fairness--that not all of the citizens here are caught up in this silly feuding. I know, I’ve spent much time talking about those who are, due to both their political significance and their possible relation to the assassination attempt, but I’d say that a slim majority of the city simply ignore the hate-spouters. Troican’s political enemies try to divide everyone into black and white categories, creating an us-against-them atmosphere, but that’s becoming less and less feasible, as a strategy, as everything’s mixed together. If you go to a white man on the street and tell him that the Ottoman Empire is behind the assassination attempt and we must purge the Arabs from the city and wage war, for all you know, he may very well be half-Arab, or have an Arab friend or lover or employer, or be a Western Isles Muslim, or who knows what. The same holds true if you go to a Muslim and tell him that those evil Crusaders are behind all this. Additionally, you have the patchwork believers, a type that seems to dominate most religions--“patchwork” meaning that they buy into several parts of the belief-system, but not all, as they have personal experience with those the holy text says are always sinful and dangerous, and they know that simply isn’t true. Which is all a lengthy way of saying that these groups are spending a lot of time, money, and effort trying to villainize The Other, this different, supposedly-evil presence in our midst, but “other” is quickly becoming an antiquated notion. And when you take away their fearmongering, all they have left are nonsensical arguments and outdated beliefs. I write all this not because I love the look of my own penmanship (though I do), or because these men annoy me so very much (though they do), but because those I speak of tried a new approach, today, most likely out of desperation. But that came later, after a standoff that could have been the end of the world.

Yaneti and I were discussing the idea of the future over breakfast when Turk told me that I needed to come to one of the south-facing windows. (Turk looked somewhat worse for the wear; he’d been out gathering information, all night. This left Gwyn extremely worried, as she feared him being alone in such a volatile city. But he grew up on the streets, and he has the singing sword, so, no reason to worry, though I still do.) Before I could even leave my seat, I heard trumpets that were clearer than thought itself, and a distant chorus that chanted and sang in a language that was mysterious to most, but familiar to me. The daylight shifted and intensified. Through the window, I saw all the peoples of Akeros pouring out of their homes and workplaces, looking up at what could only be described as flaming, airborne chariots (several dozen of them, in fact), though they certainly didn’t resemble the conventional chariots one used to see in the Egypt and Rome of antiquity. All could hear the majestic music and ethereal singing. In the palace courtyard, there was a ripple in the crowd of soldiers (the military was on full alert, in case the assassination attempt was a prelude to invasion), some holding back and some ready to confront this new force head-on. Troican joined us, looking wary but nonplussed. He asked me if those we heard were the Voiceless Choir--I said yes. He asked me if those in the chariots were angels--I said yes. He asked me if my former employer had finally decided to destroy me and any who stood between us--I said perhaps.

Turk drew his sword, but I had him put it back in the sheathe. I politely requested that Troican’s military do much the same; I informed him that I was more than capable of handling such a trifle on my own. Several of the flaming chariots landed in a plaza near the city square, which quickly emptied. Despite this apocalyptic turn of events, Yaneti was perfectly calm, her faith in a future as strong as ever. I instructed all of my aides to stay behind, warned them not to contact Raggedy Anders about this, and then took the levitator down to the ground floor. Now, whenever I pass by anyone, people step back…but today, they kept even more distance than usual. Once I was outside, I saw that the sky was reflecting daylight in the same way that the ocean reflects moonlight: wobbling, warping strands of brightness that dance and contort, contract and expand. (Strictly a side-effect of passing between realms.) Crowds parted before me, otherworldly music swelled, and I walked briskly through the disparate cultures and styles of architecture, my walking-cloak flowing in the summer breeze. This particular area of the city square was quite Grecian, it was all powder-white: ridged columns, wide stairs, and tiled walkways, with each tile being large enough for several people to stand on. The no-longer-flaming chariots were in an area with statue-fountains and backless stone benches. That was where I saw [angelic name, unable to be translated, but angel simply means “messenger,” so we’ll use that], who looked much less confident than one might expect, given his aerial force and omni-powers.

My kind hadn’t changed at all, since I’d been cast down: albino, androgynous (with voices and mannerisms that are neither male nor female, but something else entirely), quite taken with wearing ornamental crimson body-armor (no helmets), unused to the weight and clunkiness that are part of the physical realms. I was changed considerably when I was excommunicated, you see. We exchanged our standard cultural greetings, and he offered me a seat--there was a narrow pool, [distance roughly equal to ten feet] long and [one foot] deep, which was more for decoration than anything else, and we both sat crosslegged upon the water, never getting wet, facing each other from opposite ends. He complained of the weak spectrum of light, and I readily agreed with him. It’s rather like being in a painting that’s made of nothing but whites, greys, and blacks; this “sun” method simply isn’t impressive. Heaven is a world without shadows, where light is an omnipresent fact of life--not many know that my kind’s language has no word for “opaque.” Walls are pointless; translucent biologies shine through skin. Long ago, Messenger was a lightsmith, a master-alchemist who helped establish the very foundations of the universe. (As opposed to the lifesmiths, who were creature-creators.) Like me, he’s an aloof aristocrat, but he seems much less purposeful, now. I asked him why he’d come, and he asked me why I’d poisoned the Pope.

I assured him that I’d done nothing of the sort! But he opened a world-window and showed me cardinals and bishops discussing the Pope’s ill health, and claiming that I was behind it. He said that I should heal the Pope immediately, as my former employer was not behind the assassination attempt, and there was no need for me to take revenge on a kindly (Ha!) old man. Indeed, my former employer is much too obvious for any exploding-room trickery; he’d have used a tidal wave or somesuch. I’d ruled him out from the beginning. I once again denied having done anything to the Pope, as I hadn’t, and Messenger immediately believed me, as he knows I do not lie. (This I have in common with another legendary man often believed to be evil.) However, he told me that the sickness was indeed mystical in nature. I reminded him that the Church has enemies other than myself; I’m merely the top player in their rogue’s gallery. Perhaps the fading Ottoman royalty had a djinn inflict some other-realm plague on him. Or, knowing the Pope’s amorous ways, perhaps he’d slept with a female entity he should not have slept with, and had caught a metaphysical social-disease. Messenger now looked slightly embarrassed, as if we were talking about someone he did not wish to be associated with, but had to be. I asked him why this Pope was so reclusive, and he did not answer me. Messenger then issued an unimaginative threat of force, should I make a move against my former employer, and I couldn’t help from laughing. I kindly requested that he stop pretending.

What I told him made him turn even more pale, if such a thing is possible. Several centuries ago, my spies had determined that my former employer had abandoned my kind and acquired new helpers. You may recall that a New Heaven and New Earth were promised to mankind, and that Christ told his followers they would would see them within their lifetimes. As you probably surmised, something went wrong, which is why they were never revealed to humanity. My kind had arguments and disagreements about minute details, things so meaningless that my former employer--short-tempered as he is, though he claims otherwise--simply gave up on them and left. (This, I must admit, is partially my fault. I took some of the best lightsmiths when I rebelled, long before any of this happened. So, they didn’t have the best personnel to work with, while my Nation is full of marvels!) There was a childish blame-game over whose fault it was he left, which evolved into a civil war. New Earth is empty and half-finished; Old Heaven has been turned into a battlefield, as they don’t want to disturb the willfully-oblivious comfort found in New Heaven’s cities, which are partitioned by faction. It’s a war that’s virtually never spoken of by those at home, the dragon in the room that everyone avoids. This mortal species and the world it inhabits represent many things, but, to us, it’s the product of earlier, more idealistic times. We helped build it when we were practically children: looking at it now is both precious and painful. A creator should not walk in his own work, and yet, here I am. At any rate, Messenger has inherited a godless heaven--rife with bloody doctrinal infighting and enthusiastic denial.

I asked Messenger if he would like a station in my kingdom, and he said no. I asked him what his goals were, and he said he wanted to end the war and win back my (excuse me, our) former employer. I asked him if he was truly certain that our former employer had had nothing to do with the assassination attempt, and he said yes. I asked him why he was still bothering with any of this, and he said he did not know.

It was just then that we realized that the Voiceless Choir and soaring music had been carrying on the entire time, but we’d tuned it out, so very used to it. It reminded us of other eons, other friends, other near-wars. We rose and stood atop the water, creating clashing ripples, and exchanged our standard cultural good-byes. He and his heavenly host (who had remained close by) climbed aboard their chariots, flames suddenly kicking up from them. They, and the rest of the aerial force, vanished into the horizon within the span of a second. The light became normal once again, and silence swept over Akeros. A crowd of mortals had surrounded the plaza, watching the affair, and I approached them, asking if there were a broadsheet man in the audience. Several stepped forward. I asked that they publish the following quote in my name: “Neither my former employer, his current forces, or his former helpers are responsible for the attempted assassination. And, contrary to what the Vatican may be saying, I did not poison or otherwise curse the Pope. Should he request it, I’ll gladly do all in my power to heal him, in exchange for certain considerations. Thank you.” The awe-struck expressions on their faces (inspired by the strange visitors) reminded me that he who controls majesty, controls the world. My former employer has certainly proven that, as has Troican--if you can make people feel that they’re part of something epic, something larger than themselves, they become most receptive to whatever you say. All mortals desire to feel that way, I imagine.

I returned to the palace and briefed the others on what had transpired. Turk asked how closely we’d come to a world-ending war, just then, and Yaneti correctly pointed out that it’s never as close as they want us to think. I must admit to being slightly melancholy, after this, as seeing Messenger dredged up many memories. Tessa sensed this and soothed me as best she could, though she was kept busy with last-minute gallery preparations. Troican told me that the investigation still had no prime suspects, and that they’d been forced to release the mind-sealed jester, as he has powerful friends in the community. If anything, they believe him to be a witness, rather than a suspect. Turk told me that a new rumor is floating through the city’s taverns and shops--the jester had some major announcement to make, today. The topic was quite secret. I dispatched him to discover the time and place of this proclamation, and attend it discreetly. The Shifter returned from his nightly trance-state (which is why he was absent during the city’s heavenly encounter), and told us that he’d detected two forces moving against us, each working independently of the other. He believed that one was behind the trap, and the other was doing something else. I was about to request more specifics when a group of people burst into the room.

Shifter immediately used his staff to mystically pin them to the wall, demanding that they identify themselves. Troican waved him off--they were his domestic ministers. (Some of whom, incidentally, are quite distrustful of me. They fear my presence is somehow damaging Troican’s reputation.) Even before Shifter had set upon them, they’d looked terrified, frankly. Troican ordered them to explain their actions. In a frantic, roundabout way, they eventually made it clear that something strange was happening, throughout Akeros. They acted as if this information should shock us, and I mentioned, with some sarcasm, that it had been hard to miss the flaming chariots and disembodied orchestra. But they meant something else entirely. A two-headed calf had been born, in the royal stables. One well’s water had turned a blinding shade of purple. Some children spoke in tongues, others claimed they’d had dreams that told them of things to come. Symbols somehow appeared on skin. Several areas of the city were plagued with hauntings, and the citizens were avoiding those areas as best they could. One mansion’s mirrors reflected souls, rather than bodies, which delighted some and terrified others. Troican requested my expertise, and I told him that they sounded like signs. But I confessed to not being sure which prophecy was in the process of being fulfilled. Gwyn volunteered to research this, and I gave her access to my Library of Infinity--a single book that contains the copied text of my entire library, back in the Nation of the Dead. Physically, it’s the size of a thousand-page book, but just under a billion pages have magically been put into it. She wished to read about signs, and the book opened itself up to just that section.

I had some time before I had to meet with the mystery-party that has been leaving me notes, so I used my mirror to check in with my spies and agents, who told me that, thus far, the enemies of mine they’d checked on were occupied with matters that had nothing to do with me. After that, I personally followed up on what was happening with Alpha, the newly-discovered far-west continent, teleporting there myself. Bartlesby, Raggedy Anders, and Rahj were all glad to see me; my timing was most fortuitous, as they’d hit something of a wall, both literally and figuratively. They’d come across the largest set of ruins yet, the remains of a once-great city. At its center was a pyramid/palace of some sort. After penetrating its armored doors and dodging an array of deathtraps, they found that the inner chamber was sealed off with a glowing golden energy, which even Anders’ midnight diamonds could not pierce. The magic was most masterful, it took me a good half-hour to figure out how to counter it. Inside was naught but fine furnishings…or so it seemed. Hidden behind a tall drape was a huge, rectangular pane of glass. Not a window, mind you. Bartlesby was initially confused, but I told him that all spells are based on information (verbal, written, or thought), and information can be transmuted to a special kind of light, and that light can in turn be stored in a special kind of glass. It was a knowledge-keeper, if you will. One must touch the “screen” in a certain way to call up the knowledge. I gave him a language blessing so that he could read it, and showed him how to activate it and maneuver within its contents. It sounds more complicated than it is; it’s simply a matter of choosing between increasingly-specific categories. If you hit “wars,” it shall give you a list of wars, and if you hit a certain war, it shall let you choose between a map, a timeline, a list of people, nations, or weapons used, etc.

Upon my return to Akeros, I ate a quick noontime meal, mystically disguised myself as a mortal, and left for the meeting. Though I’m by no means ashamed of who I am, and though my reputation for deception is most overblown, I must say, I relish these little anonymous jaunts. It allows me to see humanity when it’s in its element, rather than when it’s preoccupied with my presence. The directions I’d been given led me to a Londonlike neighborhood, all gloomy homes and stoic businesses, portly men in dark suits despite the summer heat. I should say that the sun was quite glaring, by now. Most kept their gaze fastened on the ground, and if they looked up to offer you a nod that acknowledged your existence, it was done through a stifling white-yellow haze. I soon discovered that the address I’d been given was that of an abandoned-looking mansion, surrounded by a high wall. A wrought-iron gate had been left slightly ajar, and I entered through it, dropping my illusion once I’d closed it behind me. I was on guard for a trap, of course. Separate me from the others, lure me to an odd location--it was all too perfect. On the other side was a ridiculously overgrown garden, with vines engulfing everything in sight and greenery shooting up through the cobblestone paths. It all felt very cramped. A dry fountain was overflowing with skeletal, twisted leaves, remnants of who knew how many previous winters. I had to step over weather-damaged toys. The mansion was set back very far from the street, so it took time to arrive at its main entrance.

Now, I’ve never been particularly susceptible to atmospheres. Oh, I can enjoy them, if I wish, but when I will otherwise, I cannot be affected by them. On the other hand, I’ve seen mortals utterly overtaken by locale-inspired moods…drunk with sunlight in a beautiful park, quietly pondering things by a winter sea, excited by the energy of the crisp night air. But what affects them the most is when things are ever-so-slightly off-kilter; when everyday situations stop being predictable. The specific instinct I’m thinking of is a holdover from their nomadic days, I suspect: they go to a place where people should be present, but none are, and the place begins to feel overwhelmingly large, and they become nervous, and wonder why no-one is there, and if they themselves should be there. You know, the pack mentality and all that. It can happen in a home, a church, or a business. For all their complaints about how life is dull, when you change one tiny aspect of things (solitude where it should not be), they panic and wish for reassuring boredom. In fairness, it’s in those sorts of narrow windows between bouts of regular life that dangerous things can happen. That’s how it was in the mansion. By no means did the mood intimidate me, but I detected it easily enough. Upon letting myself in, I saw peeling paint, dusty furniture, and dimly-lit hallways. The air was stale and lukewarm. Persian rugs were crooked or all bunched together, and faded Romanticist paintings hung on the walls. However, there were no cobwebs in sight, which indicated that the building wasn’t as unoccupied as it might seem. I briefly considered that the meeting was genuine, but some enemy of mine had gotten here first, and turned it into a trap. But that was when I saw her.

It was the Grecian woman that runs Ivory Hall--wearing a tight-but-flowing white dress that made her somewhat dark skin seem to glow. This beauty is in her thirties, with long, impossibly curly hair, shapely hips, and heavy, heavenly breasts. A thin film of heat-induced sweat covered her. (I thought this was most curious, due to the middling temperature in the place.) Her dark, orblike eyes sized me up as best they could, and then she told me that some friends of hers had sent me the messages, and were using her as a go-between. I was too embarrassed to ask for her name. She led me through winding, narrow halls and down a corkscrew staircase that seemed to go on forever. But eventually, we arrived in what was apparently an underground forest, somehow below sea-level. I’d heard of these existing in Asia, but not here. It was ridiculously humid, and there was [a foot or two] of water in many places. Bright, garishly-patterned frogs leapt from branch to branch. Since these types of plants do not need sunlight to survive, they were different colors--the bark was pale tan instead of dark brown, and the leaves and grass were a dusty red, rather than a vibrant green. A rocky ceiling was above us. The light came from mystical, non-flaming torches that were setting on stands. After allowing me to take it all in, the Grecian woman took a torch and led me along a half-hidden-by-water path that ended in a clearing, which was also a house-wide island. A tea-table, white chairs, and several well-dressed gentlemen were waiting for us, all of them soaked from the ankles down.

It turns out that they’re members of an obscure (to the mortal mainstream) fraternal order called the Masons--which explained the tools that were left with the notes. The Akeros wing is affiliated with the Grecian woman through the museum, as some are trustees and benefactors. Now, the Masons have long been thought of as just another craftsmen guild, but they’ve always been more than that. Those of us in the know have heard all the stories…how they designed Atlantis, Solomon’s temple, the Darkness’ ancestral castle (which is in one of the nocturnal realms), etc. In addition to being innovative builders, they have a good deal of political and financial influence. Though Akeros has been controlled by many empires, throughout its existence, the Masons were always the common denominator. Each new power would require their services, what with all the war damage the city was constantly experiencing. As such, they were able to force past rulers to be somewhat consistent and reasonable, while discreety nurturing a shared culture that transcended race, religion, and nationality. When Troican came along, they immediately aligned themselves with him, believing him to be the city’s best option. The Grecian woman was their go-between with Troican, as well. Their leader told me that they had two questions and one favor to ask.

They told me that something lies deep and dormant within every mortal mind--a universal set of fantastic designs, which have rarely been tapped into. Architecturally, pyramids would be the most obvious example, as nations that had never known of each other had separately come up with the same idea. (Not to be confused with the zeitgeist.) But the Masons had discovered other similar ideas hibernating in the collective unconscious; designs for buildings, cities, and society itself. They’d spent the last several thousand years trying to make these radical notions commonplace, and they’d secretly assisted Shifter in doing much the same. This was the subject of their two questions: they wanted to know if I’d been the one to “spike” mankind with these cultural schematics, as they’re quite progressive and imaginative in nature. I said I had not. They then asked if I knew of who had, and I said I did not. I realized that, if they were correct, I must have had a secret ally, back then…not one that joined my rebellion, as they would have told me, but one that stayed behind. Or perhaps one that altered humanity from outside of Old Heaven, without my former employer’s approval or knowledge? The favor they requested was predictable enough: they wished for me to protect Troican, his government, and Akeros itself, until this mystery-threat has passed. Also, I was to continue to assist Shifter, who’s practically their idol. I gladly offered to do so, of course. The Grecian woman was remarkably happy about this, and after the Masons had gone, she removed her sweat-soaked white dress (nothing underneath) and spread her legs for me on the springy red grass and later in a shallow pond. Her nipples are tiny, dark, vaguely slanted ovals. Huzzah!

Now, as I’m wont to do, I’m going to take a brief detour from the more interesting parts of my day and bore the lot of you to tears. But this needs to be said, and it seems an opportune time to interject it. Because of my polyamorous nature, some think that I have a low opinion of the female sex, or that I somehow “use” them. Nothing could be further from the truth! If I could be said to worship anything, it would be women. Those who callously manipulate women for their own selfish needs are quite reprehensible, in my book. I view them as amazing creatures that are to be revered, marveled at, and, yes, enjoyed. I believe them to be superior to men in almost all respects. In terms of exclusivity (or lack thereof), yes, my relationships may seem shallow, but in terms of friendship and emotional support, they’re deeper than the searealm. I appreciate all aspects of my lovers, both body and mind, and I try to encourage and reward both. My role is to help build them up to where they can recognize their power and love themselves, so they can succeed in all areas of life. So, yes, I have Tessa several times a day, and the servant-girls, and that round-reared Italian/South African housewife who has very nearly killed herself out of boredom, and Lady Parston and her lady-love (via teleportation), and now the Grecian woman…but none wish for more than I can give, and all appreciate what I bring to their lives. I do my best to bless them with attention and affection, care and consideration, healing their emotional pain and doing all I can to enrich their lives. Yes, I’m not a fan of legally-entrapping monogamy; I tire of those who dismiss my (frankly brilliant) opinions just because of that fact.

Moving on--as soon as I’d returned to the palace, Col. Lindscott came rushing up to greet me, excitedly telling me about some new visitor. Apparently, the Western Isles navy man that was being sent to negotiate with Troican had arrived. As we’d been told, trying to purchase warships from Akeros was futile, but they were making an attempt nonetheless. Troican had asked Col. Lindscott to greet him, telling him that he could be found in the royal banquet hall…but when he took me there, the man was nowhere to be found. Both of us immediately suspected foul play, but no, my senses picked him out easily enough. He was hiding under a table and sucking his thumb like an infant. I pulled aside the long tablecloth and helped the poor man get to his feet. My presence frightened him even more, and Col. Lindscott recognized him. He said that he was an Admiral, though I thought he looked like a frightened old man wearing his son’s uniform. It was then that I recognized his name: it was the failure of an officer that, in a lengthy, overly-elaborate attempt at suicide, had inadvertantly discovered Alpha and been given a reluctant promotion. Upon realizing that I meant him no harm, and upon his “old friend” Col. Lindscott bringing out his more lucid side, he told us that he believed the military had sent him here in the hopes he’d be killed (someone else had been scheduled for the visit, but after the assassination attempt, they’d told him to do it--he has no experience in business negotiation whatsoever, and isn’t remotely suited for the task). He’d been paired with a former officer that was another non-favorite of the brass--some sort of blue-blooded type--but this man had abandoned him as soon as they’d entered the city gates. We didn’t know if he was reasonably or unreasonably paranoid; it certainly seemed logical that they might view him as more expendable than most. When we related all this to Troican, he felt pity, and had the man put under guard and treated like a king. Of course, Troican had a major bit of news for us…

You may recall the suspicious Chinese man that Turk saw, lingering by the doorway of the exploding room. I’d plucked the memory from his mind and distributed it to the Silver Sentries. Well, after a day and a half of searching, they’d finally located him. He’d been captured trying to bribe a wall-guard, in the hopes of escaping the city. Though captured, this man had two distinct advantages: first, he was an accomplished professional, unresponsive to all civilized interrogation techniques. And second, he had a protection blessing about him, which sealed off both his body and mind, thus ruling out uncivilized interrogation techniques. (Akeros subscribes to the Amended Magna Carta, so Troican wouldn’t allow that sort of thing, anyway.) Thus, in addition to being impervious to harm, his mind was safeguarded against mystical probes. I found this out after Troican requested that I search his memory to find out whom he was working for. Troican immediately saw a connection between this man and the mind-locked jester, which made sense on the surface, but I told him that the two types of magic were quite different, and I did not believe the same person had done both. Running out of options, I chose to confront him personally (I’d attempted to read his mind from the next room over).

As hardened as he was, he was quite shocked to see me--most mortals are. However, he was not fearful, as he knew for a fact that nothing on any plane could pierce his aura. I told him that he was quite right; I couldn’t get past it if I wanted to. He was shackled to a metal chair, while I opted to pace the room. Knowing that it was unnecessary to introduce myself (one of the few perks of being me), I began by asking him a series of questions, and requesting that he refrain from answering until I’d issued all of them. Paraphrase: “You are not immortal, are you? Do you believe that this special aura of yours will transcend your natural lifetime? What will happen when you become merely another subject of my domain? Do you wish to anger someone who will have power over you when you become powerless? Are you a true believer in whatever cause you’re working for, or was this simply a job? Wouldn’t it be easy enough to find another job?” Whenever possible, I only ask questions that I already know, or strongly suspect, the answers to. He proved me right on each count, and wished to negotiate an arrangement. The mercenary told me everything, with two conditions. First, I had to promise to leave him alone, after he died. And second, I had to bring back a deceased lover of his, who had committed suicide to get away from him. I agreed to both. He told me that he’d been hired by “aggressive” individuals within the current Chinese dynasty, who feel threatened by Akeros’ strength and wish to attack pre-emptively. But the Emperor knows Akeros is no threat, and their hold over the Steppes is tenuous as it is, so he’s forbidden any such war. This cabal has him gathering information on Akeros’ military buildup, in the hopes that it will frighten the Emperor into action. However, some mysterious party--a shadowy figure wielding an odd sceptre--had contacted him and given him both a weapon and a plan, saying that they shared enemies. His government would never know, Akeros would be destroyed, and his benefactors would reward him greatly. All he’d had to do was hang a strange amulet around the room’s door; the amulet vanished, and the room became rigged to explode.

But before he told me all this, he spent several hours making me go through the specifics of our arrangement, all the stories about “deals with the devil” making him quite neurotic. We specifically defined both conditions and all words and terms involved, i.e., when I brought his dead lover back, it wouldn’t be in the form of a monster that wanted to eat him, it wouldn’t be in a place where he could never go, it wouldn’t be her at a much younger or older age, etc. There was much talk about what it meant to leave him alone once he was dead, and he required proof that I could not destroy or remove his aura while he was living. But, of course, I always intended to honor the conditions. Afterwards, as promised, I gave an oath that I would never harm him once he was in my domain, and I brought his lovely lover back. He was quite happy, and it lasted for almost ten seconds. You see, he’d misinterpreted something--yes, I couldn’t breach, weaken, or dissipate his aura. But I could make his aura constrict, crushing him from the outside in. Still, his dead lover had returned to life (as he’d expected, she hated him, but he’d thought he could eventually win her back), and I did nothing to hurt him after he died. However, as he was not under the flag of my Nation, he became trapped in one of the more horrific death-realms. I did nothing to help him, as that had not been part of our arrangement. Deceptive? No. In the details? Absolutely. His last moments were spent watching his lady love bend over for me in appreciation, as she was happy to be alive in a world where he was dead.

While Troican scoured his library for any references to strange sceptres, I had Gwyn help him by looking in my own Library of Infinity. (She was slightly agitated with me; she was still researching signs. Exact quote: “Is there anything else you wish for me to look up?” I fear I’ve taken advantage of her intellectual curiousity overmuch, I’ll have to make it up to her tomorrow. Perhaps a romantic oceanside dinner for she and Turk on New Troy? It’s been far too long since I’ve gotten to cook, don’t you know. I was recently struck with an idea for a wonderful new way to prepare golden goose.) Speaking of Turk--soon after this, he returned to the palace, having listened in on the jester’s major proclamation. He said that the jester was now a “front man” for several anonymous groups of private citizens, who have naught but one thing in common: they all oppose Troican’s policies. The jester claimed that he was going to run against Troican in an “emergency election” that his backers would bring about, as he claimed that the future of Akeros is at stake, and Troican is too “reluctant” to launch into war. It’s quite unusual for such an election to take place, as I understand it. Though not sensitive to verbal finesse, it was clear to Turk that the jester’s platform is a muddled, contradictory affair. The people backing him apparently have mutually-exclusive beliefs, as his various arguments seemed to cancel each other out. He spoke of shrinking the government and cutting the charity programs, in the name of fiscal restraint, but then he spoke of greatly increasing the government so that it could monitor “questionable citizens,” though how it would be determined that one was questionable was never explained. Likewise, he has ties to both (wealthy) Christians and (wealthy) Muslims, who clearly have opposite agendas. And his cause wasn’t helped by his lack of language skills. Exact quote: “What’s best for our childrens?” All that said, when Turk was listing his various supporters, it felt like some logically-to-be-included group was missing. I’ll have to give this some thought.

(Also, while on his way back from the speech, Turk was approached by someone who wished to be paid for information. Several broken teeth later, this individual told him that someone had been going around to the taverns and asking questions about me. The mysterious person in question was a haggard-looking individual who wore expensive but filthy clothing. I’ve detached one of my spies to look into the matter.)

It was at last time for Tessa’s gallery debut at Ivory Hall. The security had to be increased, of course, since all the major players would be there. Tessa still had doubts about having a social affair so soon after the assassination attempt, but Troican insisted, wanting to show both his subjects and foes that life in Akeros would go on uninterrupted. The World Tree’s agents attended in the guise of mortals, and I made certain that Turk and Gwyn used the night to take a break. There was a meal--Shifter and I repeatedly, mystically checked to ensure it was free of poison--and then Tessa’s wing was unveiled. As for the gala: the Admiral was treated as a hero, but he was quite obviously terrified for his life. I saw some of the Masons, but treated them no different than I would any other stranger. The Grecian woman offered me a polite nod from across the room. Raggedy Anders, Bartlesby, and Rahj were back for a visit; Anders was sternly patrolling the room, Bartlesby looked quite rumpled while being domineered by strong-willed debutantes half his age, and Rahj was often riding about in Tessa’s cleavage. Huzzah! Everyone was talking about the heavenly host that had descended on the city that morning (they kept asking me about my conversation with Messenger), the recent spate of signs, and the jester’s oddly-timed campaigning. Denouncing your opponent two days after someone tried to kill him? All agreed that it was the height of rudeness. The shrewder politicos pointed out how odd it was for Troican’s enemies to go from pushing for their various retaliatory wars to suddenly combining forces in the form of this village idiot. And, yes, I must call up the cliches: Tessa was ravishing, sparkling, thriving. Art is clearly her calling, as it makes every part of her overflow with energy and life. Her eyes alone reduced more than one middle-aged man to a quivering mass, and her chest and body caused more than one middle-aged man’s wife to attack her spouse (for admiring, of course).

Under the cover of socializing, I had two key conversations during this time. First, representatives of the non-violent Avian insurgency (their kingdom borders mine, in the Skyward Realms) met with me to discuss the possible coup. It’s my hope that their current government can be legally overthrown by these individuals, so their nation can cease their antagonistic ways and become more enlightened, thus giving me a better neighbor. (It’s ironic, I know--I’m defending Akeros from rebels, while assisting rebels in another nation.) The Avians posed as humans, and though it may sound illogical, this was actually safer than meeting in, say, a completely inhabited realm. If anyone finds out they attended, it can be written off as interest in this new elemental artist. But if they and I met alone and we were found out, what’s actually happening would be much more obvious. What kind of support I shall give them, and what I shall get in return, was what we discussed. This was slightly complicated by the fact that my Nation uses no monetary system of any kind--quite dangerous stuff, if you ask me, though I have holdings of it in other realms (including this one) by necessity--while theirs has a conventional economy. We instead bartered, which is actually much underrated. For instance, my Nation has unique crops that feature properties found in no other food, while their kingdom has a certain mineral that I may have use for in the future. This is but a simple example; I shall not go into the more complex ones. I will say, however, that we wrote the usual “We won’t attack each other, we shall defend each other” pact.

The second conversation was with Romulus, whom, you may recall, I mystically changed into a powder, as comedic punishment for his laying hands on an unwilling servant-girl. As of late, he’s been spending all his time putting on an overly-masculine front, while fighting his retroactively-true nature. He’s still remarkably apathetic about our plan to sue the Vatican for rightful rulership of Rome (he’s the originator of its now-faded royal bloodline), and I must say, I’m having second thoughts. My conversation with Messenger seemed to restore our friendship, and attacking his erstwhile ally might seem a slap in the face, or even deceitful, since I neglected to mention it this morning. Then again, he’s obviously embarrassed of the man--perhaps reducing the Church’s political power would bring in a leader who was not interested in power at all. At any rate, I confronted Romulus with the information that Gwyn had provided for me: I told him I knew that the statue he likes to visit is a depiction of the viking deity Undrasg, the god of future wars. [“the god of war future” may be a more correct translation.] Taking advantage of the fealty spell, I compelled him to tell me the truth. It turns out that Undrasg communicates with him through the statue, and he’s appealed to him (that is, Romulus) for help. Undrasg believes that his preferred type of war--namely, epic, worldwide affairs--is becoming antiquated, as everything is so inter-related, now. You can’t attack your foe because they have something you need, or something an ally needs, or because it’s more profitable to leave them alone. Nations have more and more to lose by engaging in conventional wars (due to the sheer size and power of modern armies, and due to the worldwide economy), so diplomacy is becoming more and more prevalent. Undrasg described it as a complex web that strangles the opportunity for “legendary” behavior. Romulus said he used the word “self-interest” at one point, and I must say that this struck a chord of familiarity in me, but I do not know why. Since Romulus’ father was Mars, the Roman god of war, Undrasg figured that they’d be natural allies, each interested in doing away with modern, war-weary civilization. But the fealty spell prevents him from taking such violent steps, as does something else, which I shall explain tomorrow. I shall have to confront Undrasg tomorrow, as well.

We traipsed through the gallery, being both amazed and healed by Tessa’s art. This was just what the doctor had ordered--pieces that inspired a wide range of emotions, in a relaxed setting, enjoying it in an utterly normal way. Of the various carvings, some produced feelings that were mirrored in our own lives, while some brought about a sensation of the completely unknown, and some did both. (I imagine that my mirrored feelings were others’ unknowns, and vice-versa.) As I said earlier, the carvings are of people, animals, various scenes, indescribable things, and of all different sizes. Mingling went on quietly in the background. The Shifter was perpetually surrounded by small crowds, who went from being resistant to nodding along with the conversation, while Yaneti had dignified business magnates sitting at her feet, listening to her talk about the future of Akeros and the future in general. She spoke of death by a thousand sunrises: for those who do not believe in a future, each new day is another crack in their ideological dam. Every supposedly-looming armageddon becomes outdated in the face of continued existence. As I listened, I thought of the two separate, mysterious forces that, according to Shifter, are conspiring against us. So, I ended my day much as I began it, listening to Yaneti talk about the future. Progress was made, and complexity was increased…such is life; I love it as much as I love my Nation of the Dead.


Wednesday, June 9, 483 C.U.:


I awoke this morning to discover an array of flowers, fruit-baskets, and other gifts filling the lobby of the palace wing that had been loaned to my party. More came throughout the day, to the point where there was barely any room to move. They fell into two categories: some were for Tessa, to congratulate her on a successful artistic debut, and some were for me, to thank me for some unspecified act of healing. At the time, I had no idea what I’d done to warrant such praise. The Shifter mystically checked all of them, to ensure they weren’t somehow trapped, cursed, or poisoned, of course. Right after I first discovered these tokens, a tiny figure emerged from Tessa’s bedroom--it was none other than Rahj, everyone’s favorite toy solider/compatriot of Raggedy Anders. Tessa was right behind him, her silk robe undone, white-blonde stripe peeking out. Upon seeing me, Rahj stopped in his tracks, looked at her, looked back at me, and asked if I were going to destroy him. I knelt down and asked if he’d done everything in his power to please her and otherwise make her feel good, and when he answered in the affirmative, I congratulated him on a job well done. More power to the both of them, frankly. I’ve never been one for these gender double-standards. After we figured out whose gifts were whose, I made a request to one of the Silver Sentries (thanks to my firm handling of the Chinese spy affair, some had come to trust me), asking him to find out what I was being thanked for. All of mine had been sent from artists, manuscript writers, and other creative figures, most of whom had attended last night’s gala. (We’d all slept in--and, speaking for myself, I’d slept with the Italian/South African housewife, who had a favor to ask of me, which led to an interesting revelation. More on that later.)

Before breakfast, Troican called me into his private wing, requesting that we talk about some secret matter. Upon my arrival, I saw the Grecian woman, who was smoothing her clothes and hastily walking out. (I’m happy to say that I finally discovered her name--Col. Lindscott informed me on the matter. It’s none other than Sephone [presumably short for Persephone, pronounced SEF-un-ee].) At any rate, it seems that he had a dream, last night (well, very late this morning, if you want to be technical about it), and he wished for my help in interpreting it. While he only remembered three portions of it, they were quite distinct, which helped. At first, there were giant objects in the sky, and though he’d never seen anything like them, he believed them to be toys. They grew cocoons and reluctantly shed them for new forms, though they wished it hadn’t happened. Then, a race of “helpers” (whom he described as being similar to my kind, at least in terms of their nature--like us, they’d been created to assist and deliver messages for some more powerful being) cried out to him, wanting him to tell me something very important. Finally, two windows were closing, and many were trying to get through. I freely admitted that deciphering the dream would take time, and he understood completely. But I immediately pointed out the coincidence (some do not believe in coincidence, but I’ve met Chance, and not only is she real, she’s the greatest gambler in all the realms; she and Sersi get on famously) of two separate forces working against us, two windows, and the city of Akeros being named after a god of duality. He agreed, reissuing his belief that the city’s identity was rapidly becoming that of interconnected separateness--people and ideas that are utterly disparate, but nonetheless related and merging.

Now, I realize that trying to reduce a world to words is a futile task, but even so, I’ve tried to be as comprehensive as possible. Still, there are areas I’ve neglected. Take Tessa and Gwyn’s friendship. Though I’ve said nothing about it since leaving New Troy, they’re closer than ever. With Tessa’s newfound fame and success, it would be easy for Gwyn to return to her insecure ways, but she’s perfectly proud of her less-public fulfillment and accomplishments. She continues to describe herself as a “disciple of everything,” studying philosophy, art, history, politics, culture, and everything else under the sun. Whenever I see her, she’s had some new realization that she’s anxious to discuss. And Yaneti has only helped this. Gwyn has become quite the strong believer in her pro-future worldview, though that isn’t the only worldview she subscribes to. Troican’s politics of hope have inspired her, and Shifter’s practical world-changing has made her think. Of course, she’s still sedate and retiring, but nowhere near as much as when we first met her. Her sister-like relationship with Tessa and romantic relationship with Turk have strengthened her, and she’s proven to be an invaluable resource for me. If I need something researched, she can do so expertly, and she has a sharp mind and excellent instincts, making her a good party to discuss matters with. For instance, when I told her about those three missing objects in Alpha’s sun-temple, which left rectangular marks in the dust, she suggested that they might be tablets. And after much reading, she informed me that no known prophecy matched the signs that were (and are) occuring throughout Akeros. I told her that, as thanks for her service, I’d be cooking a romantic meal for she and Turk, this very night, in any locale she chose.

Over breakfast, Troican updated us on new signs that had taken place--they were mostly tropical in nature, such as pineapple trees springing up in odd places, flocks of brightly-colored parrots creating odd symbols in the sky, and the ocean becoming even clearer than usual, to the point where you could barely tell that it was there, it looked like the ships were floating on shadow-clouded air. We stood on the city’s wall to see this last effect (the city has two gates, a land one and a sea one, to allow access for the navy and trade ships; it has something of an artificial bay for them), and the watchtower men told us that no enemies had been spotted, though the city’s military was still on full alert. Given the tropical aspect, Troican wondered if the signs had something to do with the islands known as the Ring of Fire. But he was content to leave the signs business to me, while he worked at domestic diplomacy, trying to deflate sectarian tension. I must admit, I’d become dulled to Akeros’ beauty, but seeing it from that high vantage point…simply amazing. The clashing styles of architecture, the majestic cityscape, the manmade river flowing through it all. Troican admired it alongside me, and I saw how much he cared about it, and wished for it to prosper. I asked him what he thought about the jester running against him, and he said he had nothing but pity for “that poor man.” He thinks the anonymous coalition’s plan is to use the jester to get him (that is, Troican) out of the way politically, and then abandon the jester and fight amongst themselves for control of the city. The jester probably thinks he’s some sort of leader or hero. As for the likelihood of the coalition forcing an emergency election, Troican said it wasn’t that good, as the courts are quite wise. I was about to reply when Turk mystically contacted me (I have such spells in place, in case of emergency), warning me that Raggedy Anders was in a situation that required my oversight.

You may recall that Anders fought for and against both sides in the Crusades, and has many enemies. One of the reasons I sent him to Alpha was to keep him away from those who wished to settle grudges with him, or vice-versa. But he, Rahj, and Bartlesby returned for a well-earned break, seeing Tessa’s exhibit and spending the night here. As I’d expected, he’d fought his way through the taverns and back alleys of Akeros, for both vengeful and information-gathering reasons, dragging Turk along in the process. What he didn’t know was that I’d told Turk to accompany him, so he could contact me if things went too far. The good news--they uncovered several more assassination plots. Though the plots were low-level and unrealistic in the bigger picture, the Silver Sentries were able to use the threat of harsh punishment to get information on other crimes from these people. The bad news--Anders had gotten into a ridiculous number of brawls, battering a goodly number of what he called “smalltime war-profiteers” (uncharacteristically, he did not kill them, as he respects Troican’s military authority, and doesn’t want to bring the city’s lethal past into its more peaceful present). This unfortunately inflamed some of the city’s communities. But there was also very good news. After I teleported to where they were, I found that he was swinging around on a whip made of midnight diamonds (his new sword can take any shape, from shields to whips to every kind of blade in existence), kicking his enemies in the head. As I’d later learn, this fight was much more vicious and prolonged than the others had been, which was partially why Turk contacted me. But there was also a more interesting reason.

After allowing him to floor a roomful of rowdy individuals--he does love to put on a show, it must be a habit he picked up from the circus--I requested that he refrain from slaying them. He reluctantly agreed, and then led me to Turk, who was standing by a woman that was unknown to me. She was a Celtic lovely: her country dress, freckles, and fiery hair looked utterly out of place amid streetwise soldiers and racially-ambiguous ragamuffins. Turk told me that her name was Marie, and she had information about a strange man with a sceptre. Given the setting (a tavern), I unfortunately assumed something about her career, but no, she’s merely a barmaid, like my dear Tessa had once been. On the previous night, she said she’d seen a man with a sceptre, albeit in shadow and from a distance…apparently, he’d been walking in circles in an empty lot. She saw him while looking out the window of the flat she shares with her sister, a mere half-mile away from the tavern. Though we fully compensated her for this information, she was none too happy with Raggedy Anders, as he’d brutalized much of the establishment’s clientele. And while she had no interest in me, she was quite affectionate towards Turk, who mutteringly rebuffed her advances, awkwardly informing her that he was “romantically involved” with someone. This was the first time I’ve ever heard him use any variation of the word “romance,” and I nearly swooned from shock. But Anders was now bored, and wanted to take a look at this mystery-lot, so the three of us set off for it.

By no means was it hard to miss. As we approached, a beam of darkness (which was the exact size of the lot) “shone” down on it from some high point in the sky; it looked like an infinite tower. Silver Sentries rushed in to surround it, because creatures from the nocturnal realms were intermittently streaming out and frightening the populace. They looked not unlike deep-sea fish: blind (but with other senses that made up for it), protruding teeth, spiky fins, bizarre colors--it was all quite primeval. These creatures were fearful and confused, the light providing more warmth than they’d ever known. I commanded the Sentries to keep their distance…not because the animals were particularly ferocious (though they were certainly capable of acting in self-defense or out of fear), but because of a medical issue. Mortals and nocturnal realm species have virtually never encountered each other, and both carry illnesses that are quite alien to the other. I feared a plague-level outbreak. Thankfully, the Sentries had already evacuated the area, so I summoned the Shifter, and we mystically sealed off the blocks that surrounded the lot. The mortals had wisely fled upon seeing the creatures, so none had been infected, thankfully. Raggedy Anders, Shifter, and myself then set about rounding up the lot of them. (Though it greatly angered him, Turk had to be on the other side of the seal, as he was as susceptible as the rest of the mortals.) Anders fashioned his midnight diamonds into a remarkably odd kind of whip--it had something of a noose on the end; he’d twirl it around and then ensnare the creatures in it. (The diamonds can be smooth, as well as impossibly sharp.) With much work, we managed to guide them back through the beam-portal, and then Shifter and I combined forces to do away with it. We also cleansed the area of any lingering germs.

After that was handled, we reported the details back to Troican--his domestic ministers had already made him aware of the basic situation. I told him that I believed it was yet another sign, and that someone was artificially inducing these signs. (He asked why anyone would do so; I suspect they’re trying to trigger a prophecy--certain things must happen before the prophesized event can happen, and they became tired of waiting, so they’re attempting to kick it into action, if you will.) I speculated that the culture the mystery-prophecy originated in was not only tropical, but also one that hated darkness. We could just picture the release of “creatures of the dark” being threatened in such a prophecy. Unfortunately, though darkness is entirely neutral, as a force, pretty much every culture in the world has villainized it (I can relate, and have thus felt sympathy for it), so it didn’t narrow down the possibilities. Troican asked the logical question: given that the assassination attempt is related to the man with the sceptre, and the man with the sceptre is related to one of the signs, does that mean that the would-be assassins are somehow connected to the signs? I said this was probably so, though I admitted that I had no idea what the connection could be. I’d plucked the memory of the man with the sceptre from the badmaid’s memory, and it was a distant, hazy thing at best, offering no details on either the man or the sceptre. The Silver Sentries were now on the lookout for this man, but their chances of finding him seemed small, as I suspected that he had a good deal of magical power, certainly enough to walk about unnoticed. After briefly doing a few things in my private suite, I was told that my Italian/South African beauty had been by looking for me. Had I known what our conversation would lead to, I would have gone to her immediately, but I thought she merely wanted romancing, and I put it off until later in the day.

I sought out Bartlesby, in order to draw from his archeological expertise--I hoped he might be able to match these signs with the appropriate ancient culture. He was in the royal gardens, between the outer wall and the actual palace itself, and he wasn’t alone. The Admiral was with him, still in his uniform, but now considerably more relaxed, almost happy. He was no longer the panicky wreck that Col. Lindscott and I had found in the banquet hall. (The Colonel was spending much time with him, as he felt bad for his situation, but he was currently off catching up on his sleep.) Bartlesby was going over something with him, clearly hung over from last night’s gala at Ivory Hall, and acting distracted, as if thinking about Elizabeth (I believe that’s her name, I just met her yesterday), the latest in a long line of vulnerable-looking, secretly-domineering girls to capture his lust. During the conversation, she walked through the garden, idling away her time while she waited for her new lover to return to her side. She’s roughly sixteen, she has brown, blonde-tinged hair, and she’s quite beautiful. Her face, hair color, and body-structure reminded me of one of the bored housewives I saw bathing on rooftops, and I later discovered that she’s this woman’s daughter. In truth, this woman is actually divorced, and she’d be a more age-appropriate paramour for Bartlesby (she’s slightly older than he), but that dynamic has never worked for him. Though intelligent, he’s quite immature, and he invariably ends up with girls that are much younger, and considerably more mature, than him. Her mother is of the wild sort (but it’s that Western Isles mild flavor of wild), so you’d think she’d be fine with it, but I fear she may disapprove--I’ve taken it upon myself to intervene on Bartlesby’s behalf, should he run into trouble.

At any rate, Bartlesby and the Admiral were talking about Alpha, the far-west continent. Its discovery was the Admiral’s claim to fame. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gone as far inland as Bartlesby’s party, so he hadn’t had a chance to see the three now-vanished objects that had left rectangular imprints in the dust. Judging by all the evidence, we could only assume that the objects had been taken just a day or so before Bartlesby arrived, presumably by someone with teleportation or flying abilities, since Alpha is so far away. Bartlesby was trying to figure out if anything else had changed between the time of the Admiral’s visit and his own, comparing their experiences to do so, but it didn’t seem to be the case. It was only then that I made the obvious connection: could the prophecy be from Alpha? It was tropical; it was a precursor to Atlantis, meaning it was a heliocentric (sun-worshiping) society that hated darkness; it was previously undiscovered, which would explain why Gwyn’s prophecy research had turned up nothing. This most excited Bartlesby, and he and his party rushed back through the secure portal I’d made for them. Talk of the prophecy made the Admiral’s newfound mental state wear off, he was back to being his usual nervous self. He said he didn’t wish to think about the horrifying midnight monsters that everyone was so keen to discuss. As I left, Elizabeth approached me, congratulating me on my “act of healing.” I inquired as to what she was referring to, thinking she might mean how I staved off an other-realm plague--but no, she meant how I’d healed all the sick people at Tessa’s gallery debut. I did not recall this, though it certainly accounted for the flowers and gifts I’d received from artists and the like.

Now, rather than speculate on the sceptre-man/signs/Alpha conspiracy, I imagine that I should explain what’s been going on with Romulus. Since the Undrasg/statue affair has been the only mysterious aspect of his life, that’s all I’ve been focusing on--but an interesting change has been going on, in the background. Starting at the point when I brought him back from the dead, he’s gone through three distinct periods. First, he was thrilled at the prospect of regaining his kingdom, and though he wished my plans were more violent, he was ultimately willing to work with me. Then, he became disillusioned with the modern world, as Undrasg made him fear that war had a tame, glory-lacking future…this was when he was spiteful, bitter, and quite frankly depressed. (It was during this time that I turned him into a powder, to teach him not to put hands on unwilling servant-girls. But as thanks for his cooperation, I undid that, last night, at the gala. I believe I neglected to mention it in yesterday’s entry.) Today was the first day of his third period, though I can now see that it had been building up ever since we arrived here, parallel to his second period sufferings. In the simplest possible terms, the modern world is starting to “subvert” him. He likes the new (to him) kinds of food, he likes some of the art and architecture, he likes the conveniences, and though he’s still mildly racially-prejudiced (he has antiquated notions about Arabs and Africans, dating back to when he ran his empire), he’s discovered that non-white women can be quite satisfying, and because of that, cracks are starting to seep into his firmly-held beliefs about their peoples.

In short, I should have undone my powder spell sooner; it was a tactical mistake on my part. Yes, it was poetic justice, but it slowed Romulus’ social development. Sex--specifically, civilizations with a relaxed/reasonable attitude toward it--is historically known to foster progress. Earlier, I mentioned how everyone in Akeros is becoming more connected, and thus inadvertantly overcoming racial and cultural barriers…as the most direct form of human connection, sex is the vanguard of this sort of thing. One can spend years trying to philosophically or intellectually convince someone that their beliefs are too rigid, only for it to come to no good, but if you get them away from their fellow acolytes and insert them into a festive atmosphere, they’ll quickly figure out for themselves that (admittedly selfish) fun is much more rewarding than harsh doctrine. It’s like that old north-wind-battles-the-sun affair. Romulus’ will could never be broken outright, and that stubborn fool refuses to respond to logic, but pleasing things are powerfully convincing, and it’s hard to make yourself hate something when you’re secretly enjoying it. Comfortable clothes, fine wines, constant celebration, and the casual smile of a woman not yet a quarter of a century old can change a man in a way that no other external force ever could. But, I ramble.

It was around noontime that I had two key conversations. First, I spoke to the Shifter about Troican’s dream, hoping he could help me interpret it. Of the three parts Troican remembered, I had one figured out, one that I had some hard theories on, and one on which I was helplessly confused. I posited that the two closing windows that many were trying to get through meant two soon-to-vanish opportunities or situations, and the Shifter agreed most readily. We both feared that one of those windows would turn out to be peace and safety in Akeros. As for the race of helpers that wanted Troican to tell me some unremembered message, I listed the various servant-races that assist the various gods, including my kind and their replacements. But Shifter pointed out a hole in my thinking: why did it have to be a god? Several non-deities have helpers, such as the World Tree’s splinter-agents, and the Mran-yao family, those mystical Asian warriors that command the Jade Soul power, who have devoted their lives to assisting the Darkness bloodline in all the realms. On the subject of the giant, bizarre toys in the sky, however, we made no progress. Shifter offered to go to Alpha and talk to Raggedy Anders and Rahj, as they’re the only toys we know. Perhaps they’ll have some insight. It’s a shot in the dark, I realize.

The second conversation was with my Italian/South African beauty, whom, I just realized, I have not properly described to you, Diary. She’s Italian on her mother’s side and bi-racial on her father’s. Her curling brown hair is just a shade darker than her skin, and she has powerfully brown eyes to match. I must say, her rear is what stands out the most about her (no pun intended), with healthy hips to match. And while her breasts aren’t as large as, say, Tessa’s or Sephone’s, they’re perfectly-formed and complemented by her lean frame. She’s had several children, though you could never tell. Her husband is one of the men that’s profited from Akeros’ peacetime economy, and it was he she came to talk to me about--she needed a favor. It turns out that her husband has been receiving suspicious visitors, often late at night. Exact quote: “Well-to-do men who avoid attention and skulk about.” As she had only limited opportunity to eavesdrop, she wasn’t able to find out much, but she gathered that these men are trying to talk her husband into something. They were telling him that he, and Akeros, would be more prosporous in some other set of circumstances. It was then that she realized they were part of the anonymous coalition backing the jester’s campaign. She’d heard the rumors about the violent-overthrow advocates on the fringes of that group, and she fears for her husband’s safety, should he continue to resist their requests for funds and other forms of support. I promised to help, but, at the time, other priorities were at the front of my mind, and I unfortunately put it off for later. I really wish I wouldn’t have, as the conversation with him made me realize something about Troican’s dream.

Afterwards, I took a walk through the marketplace, wishing for time to clear my mind and focus on these insanely-complicated conspiracies. But I’m afraid that it wasn’t as uneventful as I’d wished. I stumbled upon Yaneti giving one of her standard “walking talks,” which tend to attract many onlookers and other interested parties. I was quite enjoying her talk until one such interested party sprang from the crowd--it was the jester, who challenged her to a debate. But before we get to that, let me say this: you may have noticed that I haven’t spoken much of Yaneti’s personality or beauty. Let me assure you that she has both. However, as with many who devote themselves to a cause or message, she’s put her own self on the back-burner, ignoring her wants and needs in order to further her unique gospel. I’ve quite literally never heard her say anything selfish, or even anything related to herself. She’s an ideal human being, in my view, and she occasionally reminds me of Tessa, though she’s far more restrained. But both are endlessly, realistically positive, both are passionate about something, both are compassionate yet not weak. And as for beauty, well, that is overflowingly present, as well. She has enigmatic eyes and a halo of curly hair, which frames a striking face. I could spend several weeks in her cleavage, I tell you. I saw her nude just once, accidentally; she was rubbing herself with a towel after her bath, and she wore nothing but a thin gold chain around her waist. Her long torso, the curve of her back and hips--and the way her bountiful rear jutted out and defied gravity--were spectacular. But I try not to think of her that way, as I fear my natural inclinations will destroy my friendship with the Shifter.

At any rate: though the jester must overcome Troican to win the general election, Yaneti has a considerable following in the community, and must be reckoned with, as well, ideologically speaking. It wasn’t much of a debate, in all truth. She asked him which parts of her philosophy he disagreed with, and why, and he responded with rehearsed statements that had been made to sound logical on the surface, but made no sense whatsoever. And much of it was contradictory. For instance, he spoke of threatening and using force to ensure that Akeros’ neighbors were moderate (and thus not dangerous), while preaching extremism and fundamentalism for Akeros itself. Also, many of his backers’ beliefs were in opposition to his other backers, which led to some interesting paradoxes in his platform. And whenever he went “off-message,” his verbal incoherence would take over. Instead of merely mangling the words that had been given to him by his backers, he’d create sentences that were more mindbendingly confusing than the labyrinth. But he stuck to his swords, ignored all contradictory evidence, and continued repeating the same lies over and over. Eventually, most of the crowd filtered out, the winner of the debate being obvious. I wondered why they’d chosen him at all, but later, it came to me--they didn’t want someone with actual beliefs, as such a person might disagree with them. No, they merely wanted a front-man that who was willing to regurgitate the company line, no matter how much it made him sound like the village idiot. The jester was familiar with public humiliation, and he’d lived close enough to power to know its culture, while at the same time being no threat to his backers. That said, I have to agree with Turk, it felt like something was missing from his platform. I didn’t find out what until later.

From there, I headed for Ivory Hall. Tessa was understandably exhausted from both her nonstop artistic work and the opening, so she slept well past noon (briefly awakening to look at her gifts and have breakfast), which is why she’s been somewhat absent, in today’s entry. But by this point, she’d gotten up, let some naïve-but-thankful squire of Troican’s bathe her, and gone over to Ivory Hall as well, so she could have a talk with Sephone. I was surprised to run into her--I thought she’d still be resting. I’d gone there to reestablish contact with the artists I’d met last night, in the hopes of finding out about this healing I supposedly did. Now, you may not know this, but there’s a link between creativity and illness. Mortals who live in other worlds, mentally speaking, tend to end up having their physical bodies deteriorate, and are thus sickly and such. (Tessa’s a notable example to this phenomenon.) At any rate, a few were loitering about in the messy aftermath of the gala, and I mystically looked them over, finding no clue as to who’d healed them. One artist had a most interesting theory, however--he suggested that “his kind’s” sudden healing was somehow connected to the Pope’s recent mystery-illness. Something not unlike karma, given that the Pope is a glorified Italian godfather. (The Church uses its church-as-state authority to profit from land deals, wars, etc. But I’m evil because I’m exceedingly sensual, don’t you know!) I hadn’t thought to make a connection between those two events. Oh, I should say that Tessa was remarkably happy. She’s deluged by radical new ideas for wooden sculptures, and she says that they’re improving all the time, thanks to her increasing experience. Sephone told her that the gallery debut was a huge success, and I’ve yet to find anyone who disagrees. I’m ridiculously proud of her. As for Sephone…she wished for a secret rendevous, in the evening.

Meanwhile, the official investigation into the assassination attempt had hit a wall. The sceptre-man hadn’t been seen meeting with anyone other than the now-deceased Chinese spy, and there were no more sightings of him relating to the tropical signs. Of the lesser conspiracies to kill Troican, almost all of their players had been cleared of any involvement in the actual attempt. Akeros’ spies had found no evidence of a serious foreign plot to kill him or us, and my own agents had turned up nothing of value. Some of my people were in the city, keeping their ears to the ground, and some were in other parts of the world or other realms entirely, ruling out various enemies of mine. At this juncture, I was becoming increasingly convinced that, of the two separate forces moving against us, one had to be the anonymous coalition behind the jester. They certainly wanted a war (or rather, several wars at once), and some mystery-enemy killing Akeros’ governor--coincidentally the main check on any rash military actions--would have been exactly what they’d been hoping for. I doubt that the sceptre-man has a direct connection to them, however; given that Shifter saw two separate enemies in his trance, it was probably mere “luck” that an enemy of Akeros did something that worked to their political advantage. I suspect that, when the sceptre-man’s trap failed, they rushed their scheme involving the jester to the forefront, wanting to take advantage of the public’s angry mood. But then you have the other, more powerful half of the puzzle: the sceptre-man’s apparent inducing of signs that may or may not be related to Alpha. I must say, this man is very wise…the only person he met with didn’t even know him, let alone his true goals, whatever they may be. His conspiracy is quite sealed off. As for the three elements of Troican’s dream--the bizarre toys, the two closing windows, and the unidentified “helpers”--I’m certain that one of them will end up breaking things wide open.

On the subject of major discoveries…let me preface this by saying that I was once asked to take part in the so-called “life form” debate. You know, trying to figure out which structure life is: a river, a maze, a battle, a path, what have you. I insisted that it’s the exact opposite of those little shell-toys you find throughout Asia--the ones that have increasingly smaller figurines inside, with each figurine being a hollow shell. Essentially, every time one breaks through to a deeper level of comprehending life, one finds that everything is grander and larger. Think of knowledge as a large, dark room. You start in the center, and gradually go exploring, setting up candles to illuminate all you find. You reach what you believe to be limits, and you take in the apparent entirety…but another discovery makes the limits vanish, you realize that you’re a tiny, brilliant dot in the middle of darkness the size of a continent, and your consciousness expands appropriately. While this should be a glorious event--discovering that there’s more to discover is better than being under the illusion that it’s somehow possible to be done--some mortals (and some immortals, to be fair) don’t take well to it. Bartlesby, sadly, is a prime example of this.

When Shifter called me to Alpha, alerting me that Bartlesby had made a breakthrough, I arrived to find a most curious situation. It was stormy, in that part of the world, with a charcoal-smudge sky and a fierce wind. Massive waves shattered against rocky coasts. They were on a cliffside which overlooked the ocean, with Shifter’s robes blowing, while Bartlesby sat on the ground like a child. The air was soaked with tension and uncertainy. I heard an overwhelming chorus of windchimes--the Alphans used crystal, rather than metal, so rust was irrelevant; long after their civilization had fallen, the chimes continued to musically sparkle. Raggedy Anders and Rahj were in the distance, standing on the steps of a square pyramid. Before Shifter could explain what was going on, Bartlesby launched into a frighteningly-casual monologue, telling me what he’d learned about Alpha from the information in the lightscreen. Their culture, their religion, their battles, their kings, all their highs and lows. Quite normal. But upon his return from Akeros, he’d found something else…something that had utterly broken him. I thought it had to do with the three mystery objects, but that was not the case. Given the ridiculous amount of content packed into the lightscreen, Bartlesby had but scratched the surface, and it was some time before he found a section that had to do with the earliest parts of their history. It told of how, ages ago, people on many levels of the mortal plane (remember, it’s something of a stair-step affair) had dreams that summoned them to Alpha, telling them how to use mystical gateways to access it. This level had yet to be touched by mankind. In short, “Alpha” was not the Alpha Civilization, it was not the first--there were more, further back in time. Even with an array of gods as (hostile?) witnesses, the human race still could not locate its starting point.

Bartlesby had wanted to be the one to discover that point, and though he was disappointed that someone else had found the continent we called Alpha, he was thankful to have an apparently-firm beginning to extrapolate from. But he certainly did not want to be the one that pulled the rug out from under his own people yet again. It had happened in Atlantis, as he found evidence pointing to “Alpha,” and now it had happened here. Back in Akeros, I pondered my advantages. While I do not like my kind’s beginning, I know it, which is more than mankind can say. Using a mystical dating system, Shifter had found that “Alpha” existed right around the time that the older gods claimed to create mortal life. But if the lightscreen material was accurate, and mortals existed long before then, the stories would no longer hold up. Akeros is going through a turbulent time as it is; I cannot tell if this revelation will make things easier, harder, or both. I was in deep thought about all this, walking the palace grounds, when a visitor arrived to see me.

It was the husband of my Italian/South African beauty--the wealthy investor who’d been approached by the anonymous coalition behind the jester. He was a square-jawed, barrel-chested man, plain in look and thought. I imagine you know the type, the self-made individual of modest beginnings. I did not know how much he knew about her and I, or, if he knew, what he thought. At any rate, he told me what she already had, and then moved onto new details. He named those who’d come to visit him, for instance, and speculated on others in this secretive coalition. I naturally promised to protect him from reprisals. But after that, he simply rambled, and I began to fear that he had nothing more of value…until he admitted something to me. He described himself as a follower, a conformer. Self-interest guided him. During the war, he’d simply gone with the flow of things, as it was safer and more profitable. In peacetime, going with a different flow was safer and even more profitable, so he adapted. Throughout the old days, he’d felt guilty about the empire he’d collaborated with. But now, he was inadvertantly doing good things, even though his motivations were still self-centered. The husband described that as the brilliant trap hidden within Akeros, the secret to Troican’s success: he’d made it so that it was personally advantageous to do things that benefited the city as a whole. Troican had taken self-interest and transformed it from a problem into a solution. It was then that I finally realized which group was missing from the coalition: those who are driven by selfish motives. The elite materialists, the curiously religious social Darwinists who preach self-preservation above all, and all others that are primarily concerned about themselves or their groups, and are not willing to follow true believers of any sort off of a cliff, even in the name of Empire. Normally, their interests line up with those of the coalition, but not this time.

I realize how terribly muddled that must sound, so please let me explain. I’ve seen this phenomenon over and over again--I should have recognized it much sooner. It begins when some person or party gains power by taking advantage of self-interest. They explain how it would be good for the people to vote for them, as they shall do this, that, and the other thing, all of which is beneficial. And that is fine for a time. But as circumstances change, so do best interests. Eventually, the helpful things the leaders introduced cease to work, becoming irrelevant, antiquated, or even harmful. But the ideas behind them have become so engrained, so “common sense,” that it’s difficult for the people to realize that. And the leaders, who are profiting from this illusion of making things better, rather than worse, are terrified that the people will wake up, find that their interests lie elsewhere, and act accordingly. The war is a perfect example of this. When Akeros was controlled by the empire du jour, yes, its people were often forced to repel invaders or outright start wars. It was considered little more than a military asset, with the population not being relevant--if the occupiers thought they would lose the city, they would sooner torch it than see it in enemy hands. And since the enemy wanted the port, rather than the people, they were content to slaughter recklessly to get what they desired. As such, Akeros developed its quick-to-draw-the-sword fighting instinct, which was necessary to survive. But now, in this time of independence, when shared interests make war something that hurts all parties involved, and thus something to avoid at all costs, those old, reactionary beliefs about what is necessary to survive still linger. Oh, I’m sure they shall once again be needed, someday…but for the current situation, they only add danger, rather than stability. Unlearning such historically-reinforced beliefs is quite the Herculean task, let me tell you.

And so, after much resistance, certain groups give in to reality. The “invisible hand” materialists, the “Akeros first” crowd…though traditionally allies of those in the coalition, they ultimately care about results, as well as their home’s best interests. Nationalistic ideology can only sway them so far. They made their fortunes by being aware of what works and what doesn’t, and they see that things have changed. Oh, they are still arrogant, they are still self-serving, they are still out of touch with the common people…but they can read circumstances with the best of them. This, I’m positive, is one of the two windows that were closing, as seen in Troican’s dream: actions taken in perceived self-interest being exposed as counterproductive. There was a time when the coalition could have bullied them and pushed them to support something, but the realization has been made, the opportunity lost. Though many claim that generic evil is responsible for most of the problems in the various worlds, I’ve long held that most of the damage is done by those convinced they’re acting in the name of self-interest or self-defense, while unknowingly doing the exact opposite.

After updating the others on what I’d learned (regarding “Alpha,” the identities of those in the coalition, and the dream-window), it was now time for supper, and I was keeping my promise to Turk and Gwyn--out of thankfulness for their service, I’d personally cook them a meal, and they could eat wherever they chose. They ended up going with one of my favorite portions of Limbo, which I’ve often spoken of--the Sidirchi, or “Orange Desert.” Muted orange sand, an exotic starscape like nothing on the the mortal plane, the air rife with the smell of spices humans had never before encountered. I did myself up as a servant and revealed course after course: bread that produced a rising, almost ascendant sensation in those who ate it, fruits and vegetables that had been deemed too strange by my former employer to mass-produce as reality, pasta with a glittering sauce whose main ingredient was a byproduct that came from two souls merging as one, light meat that came from an ancient, underwater predator, cake in colors that did not exist on the mortal plane, and silvery wine containing the essence of wisdom, health, and longevity, which I always slip to my mortal friends. Afterwards, I mystically created a dancing floor, and they waltzed under pale purple moons. As I watched them celebrate their love in a similarly-sinuous way, also on the open-air floor, I sensed that Sephone was looking for me back at the palace, and teleported her here. We sat on a blanket on a dune, the desert vista laid out before us. I shall not go into details--but the simple truth is that, though she enjoys our time together, she wishes to be with Troican, and she doesn’t want to play Guinevere to my Lancelot, if you will. She cares about Akeros far too much to see it brought down by a pitifully-predictable love triangle. Though I shall miss her, it’s her life, and I must respect her decision. I hope that she and Troican have a long, happy life together, whether they get married or not, and I greatly appreciate the experiences I had with her.

And so here I sit, mentally piecing together the various strands of the conspiracy. (Well, conspiracies, to be semantically accurate.) One of Troican’s aides told me that the coalition’s attorney lost the emergency election hearing, but is vowing to try again, hoping to oust Troican and insert their idiotic hand-puppet. My Akeros-based attorney had a colleague file papers in Rome, today, claiming that Romulus is the rightful ruler of that nation, and I understand that it created quite a stir, though the news is still in the process of spreading. Tessa and I made love, and then she went off to burn the midnight oil, wanting to jot down some ideas in case she forgot them during the night. Troican is personally going over all intelligence gathered in the field, hoping to find a clue or pattern, as the state’s enemies are surely continuing to plot. Turk and Gwyn are now back at the palace, asleep in their bedroom. I’m afraid that Raggedy Anders and Rahj had no idea what the toys in Troican’s dream meant; they said it’s not as if they’re in some club or the like, where they all talk to each other. Sephone will still be my go-between with the Masons, as things weren’t awkward at all between us, after our talk. The bloodless coup in the avian realm shall soon be under way--my arrangement with those who shall soon be in power has been finalized, with both sides being happy. Much progress was made, today, in all areas, and I’m quite pleased about [first letter of next word is “t,” and then the pen veers wildly]

I’m sorry, Diary, but something odd is happening, so I’m mystically transcribing this from elsewhere in the palace. There was a flash of light, but it did not subside…though it’s after midnight, it’s as clear as day, outside, and the sky is crackling with sun-yellow energy. I fear it’s another sign, perhaps the mightiest one yet. Everyone is running about in their nightclothes. (Save for Shifter, I fear he has naught but a collection of identical hooded robes.) Troican simultaneously barks orders and calms those he encounters. Those who live in Akeros’ outlying areas (farmers, ranchers, villagers) are streaming through its armored gateway, fearing for their lives. I just used a summoning spell to fetch my island men: Rahj is ready to help in any way he can, Raggedy Anders has his midnight diamond scimitar drawn, and Bartlesby is bitter-drunk out of his mind. Turk has his singing sword out, and Gwyn is only wearing a pajama top, panic making her forget about her shyness. Tessa obviously fears that her newfound utopia is about to perish, while Col. Lindscott is both thrilled and terrified to be back in a war. Suddenly, Shifter and I feel a presence trying to teleport into the city from another realm, and though we cannot stop it entirely, we divert it beyond the city walls, so it does not “land” in a densely-populated area. It’s a legion of light-creatures of some sort, perhaps fifty thousand strong…and it’s being led by the man with the sceptre. Oh, my. He has a white, gold-trimmed robe, gold jewelry (necklaces, bracelets, rings), and a tall, ornate hat. It’s none other than the Mystery-Pope. He’s hunched over, as if seriously ill, but he’s commanding much magic. Though mostly out of it, Bartlesby recognizes the creatures as being from the “Alphan” religion.

Before I finish today’s entry and get to work on this situation, I have one last thing to add. After Bartlesby finished speaking, Shifter had a vision. He said that one of the people responsible for all of this has been in the palace for several days. Shifter darted away, and myself, Troican, Raggedy Anders, Col. Lindscott, and Turk all followed him, as he honed in on this individual. We ran up stairs, around pillars, through servant-girls’ dressing rooms, and even used secret passages, until we ended up in a remote section of the east wing. It was once used as quarters for the royal family, but since that doesn’t apply to Troican, it’s sat empty for several years. In a small, bookless library, we found a man curled into a fetal position in a corner. Though he’d soiled himself, tears of joy were streaming down his face. It was none other than the Admiral. Col. Lindscott could scarcely believe that such a pathetic man could be part of something so momentous. Whimpering, British-accented exact quote: “I--I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. But it doesn’t matter whether you kill me or not…I’ll still win.”


Saturday, June 12, 483 C.U.:


I realize that it’s been several days since my last entry, Diary, but there’s been quite a lot going on. End of the world and all that. Though I have much ground to cover, let me begin by saying this: yes, all of the mysteries were solved, each and every one. The Pope’s secret identity and the cause of his illness, the Admiral’s role in all this, the meaning of Troican’s dream, the objects that vanished from “Alpha,” the coalition’s ultimate plan, the hidden motivation behind the Pope’s prophecy-inducing, and so on. Looking back, I chide myself for not seeing the more obvious connections. Before it was over, three more of my enemies would move against me (including the greatest Villain of the Age), I’d be surprised by someone the Admiral and Turk had alluded to previously, more than one member of my party would step to the fore and do something that amazed everyone, and my former employer would do a wonderful thing at a most inopportune time. But before all that--on early Friday morning, when Akeros should have been dark, but was instead flooded with yellow light that eclipsed even the blue of the sky--I felt a strange sensation. If I had to compare it to something on the mortal plane, I’d say that it was not unlike the creaking sound that large ships make, when under mighty stress. Except this straining emanated from the fourth dimension. I can honestly say that I heard the famed city-state known as Akeros groan under the weight of its own history, and of the history that was about to be made.

The city was surrounded, of course. The light creatures were the exact opposite of the nocturnal beasts that had previously run loose: they were perfectly suited for luminous environments. All were made of a sort of organic crystal that breathed light, just as mortals breathe air. The crystal itself was blinding, pulsing yellow, with dark blue fissures/veins set deep inside, and dark blue eyes to match. I initially feared that their shells were diamond-hard--which would make things quite difficult for Troican’s forces--but, thankfully, they were oddly fleshlike. Some of the creatures were humanoid, some looked like a cross between a crab and a scorpion, and some combined elements of each of the other two incarnations, like a centaur. The humanoids and centaurs had fantastic versions of conventional weapons…swords and shields, bows, maces, staffs. When I remotely viewed the Mystery-Pope and his forces, I realized that his sceptre differed from the memories I’d plucked from the barmaid, as well as the Chinese spy’s description…it was laced with a disguising spell to keep people from being able to accurately recollect it. But now, seeing it firsthand, it looked remarkably familiar. Also, I thought it was strange that, as powerful as this Pope seemed to be, he did not have an aerial force to assist him.

Now, I normally restrict my narrative to what I’ve personally witnessed, only using second-hand accounts when something important or radical happens outside of my presence. But I’m going to momentarily veer away from that, as this is simply too delicious to pass up. In the first few moments of the reaction to what was going on, a man was running through the city, his focus directed strictly inwards--amazingly, he did not realize what was happening in the world around him. As the Silver Sentries and the rest of Akeros’ military took up positions on the city’s wall, he waded through panicked, stampeding crowds. People were screaming, people were crying, people were looking up in awe at the sun-colored sky while their loved ones yelled at them to get back inside, people were grabbing weapons, people were doing the Numfarian dance of joy because they thought it was time for them to go to a hopefully-glorious afterlife, etc. But this one man was uniquely oblivious to the waves of danger and emotion that were crashing all around him. He tripped over children, ducked under people carrying crates of weapons, food, or medical supplies, pushed maidens aside, and finally made it to the palace. Troican had ordered the guards to the wall, so no-one stopped him. (I’d just put a protective spell over the palace, but he was not a threat, so it also did not stop him.) He eventually found the lot of us, up on the top floor. This was right after the Admiral had told us everything he knew. The man sprang out of nowhere and screamed nonsensically at us, so Raggedy Anders leapt across the room, kicking him in the forehead in the process, thereafter pinning him to the floor. It was none other than the jester. His voice full of fear, he informed us that his own allies were trying to kill him, and we needed to devote our full attention to him. He was shocked--shocked, I tell you--to learn that other challenges were afoot.

But, let’s get back to the Admiral. This is all hideously complicated, so please do bear with me. After we found him hiding, we had to get him to talk--I couldn’t simply borrow his memories, as a certain portion of his mind was shielded, though it was a type of shielding that could not be easily detected. After some prodding, we found out that he’d told us the truth about Alpha…he’d just left out several major details. The Admiral had gone further inland than he’d originally claimed, and he’d stumbled across the building that contained the mystery-objects. As Gwyn had speculated, they were in fact tablets, which contained promises, prophecies, and proclamations of doom. It was a new covenant that had been set up by their god; the covenant introduced a superior version of their religion’s old afterlife--it could be reached by following the new commandments. (Incidentally, this was long after a contingent of them had left to go exploring: they went on to found Atlantis.) Unfortunately, the tablets were teleported into the temple during a time when the “Alphans” were suffering from a particularly fierce disease. The priests were among the first to perish, which meant there was no-one to make new priests, which meant that no-one could go behind the temple’s forbidden curtain to get the trio of tablets. Ridiculous, I know. The disease finished off their culture, and they had to settle for a less-impressive afterlife, while the new and improved one sat empty. (Their god didn’t bother to help them out with the illness, apparently. Typical.) The continent remained undiscovered, so there wasn’t anyone to read the commandments. But then the Admiral pierced the veil, touched the tablets, found that they’d been mystically translated and entered into his mind, and realized that there was an empty paradise with his name on it. He took the tablets outside, shattered them, and threw them off a cliff, into the ocean. Why share an eternal utopia when you don’t have to? His plan was simple…he’d become comfortable in life by making a major archeological discovery, and comfortable in death by following commandments that were secret to everyone else.

Unfortunately for him, during his return, a visitor suddenly appeared on his ship. On naught but an impulse, I showed him a mystical image of the Pope, and he identified him as the man, but he said he wore a dark brown hooded cloak. The Pope said that he’d found him through a “search pattern spell,” and that he wanted to know about the tablet-prophecies he’d absorbed into his mind. (It’s the prophecies, commandments, and memories relating to them that are shielded by ancient magic. Apparently, what happens behind the forbidden curtain stays behind the forbidden curtain.) The Pope told him that he was going to use the prophecies, and the sun-god himself, to bring about “the end”--he was remarkably upfront about this. The Admiral initially refused to tell him, but the Pope somehow knew about the uninhabited heaven and claimed he could destroy it, so the Admiral gave in. Upon his return, the politically-promoted Admiral was immediately assigned to go to Akeros, and he thought his strange ally/enemy was behind it, though he did not know why. He feared it was some sort of double-cross.

The Admiral said that the only way to save the world would have been to follow the tablet’s commandments, which were irrelevant, meaningless duties…leaving offerings of bananas and pineapples, lighting memorial bonfires, leaving a line of colored pebbles around some holy bay, and so on. But, since these commandments hadn’t been followed, the “Alphan” god was going to destroy the universe and condemn us all to eternal suffering or somesuch. (Overreact much?) The signs were supposed to occur naturally, after a certain time-period, as warnings for humanity to get its act together; if the signs were not heeded, his armageddon would be activated. (This presumed that they’d multiply, spread their gospel, and warn the entire population about what would happen if their god was not worshiped. But he’d figured that they could handle the disease on their own, and gone into a millennia-long sleep, awaiting the day when he would usher his people into the afterlife. Though he discovered what had happened upon his return, it made no difference to him. As with the law, ignorance is no defense, apparently.) The Pope used magic to prematurely trigger the signs and thus wake up the god, wanting to get down to business. With the obligatory warnings out of the way, the “Alphan” god was ready to use his army to punish all those who did not obey him, which was almost literally everyone, I’m afraid. (At the time, we didn’t know why he was starting with Akeros.)

Now, while the Admiral was spilling this information out of him, much was going on. Troican was quietly issuing orders to his top aides and generals, Turk and Gwyn were having a heated conversation, the jester was trying to get people to pay attention to his alleged plight (to no avail), Shifter and I were discussing strategy, Yaneti and Tessa were helping to organize and calm everyone they encountered, Col. Lindscott knocked back several mugs of ale to numb himself for what was about to happen, and Raggedy Anders was leaping about in giddy joy and play-brandishing his midnight diamond scimitar, giggling about bloody entrails or somesuch. Troican’s armor was brought out of storage, and a suit was found for Turk, as well. Due to the warm climes of the region, alchemistic metalsmiths had long ago been forced to fashion a more breathe-able, lightweight armor, as old-style armor is insufferable in even moderate heat.

Though the man is unconcerned with such things, I must say, Troican’s armor is remarkably stylish. It’s gleaming silver, with black chainmail joints. It has a black, T-shaped visor, and a triangular shield is attached at each wrist; both have a black T emboldened on them. (Each side of the triangle is the same length. I know that there’s some mathematical term for that, but, trifle.) In the beginning of his career, Troican started out as a shield-bearer, or “shieldsman,” if you will. Their purpose in combat was, obviously, mainly defensive. The shields were used as crude clubs, if anything. But Troican forever redefined the position. He was the first to switch from circular to triangular shields, as the edges made for excellent impact. And his martial training enables him to lash out with his feet while occupying an attacker with his shields. But his signature move is to throw his shields and hit opponents with them. The most amazing part is that, nine times out of ten, they ricochet off surfaces and return to his grasp. One account has it that Troican actually took out a dozen men with one throw and five ricochets. As such, though there are many shieldsmen, if you refer to “the Shieldsman,” people will automatically assume you’re referring to Troican. Though he hasn’t seen combat since being elected Governor, he’s kept his strict training regimen. (This is where his quality of character factors in. Obviously, governors do not normally suit up for combat, that’s the practice of kings and princes. But just as Troican refused to be made king, he also refuses to sit in an office when the city he calls home is on the line. So he has all the risks of royalty, and none of the perks. I can see why Sephone is attracted to him.)

I must confess, war has never been a particular interest of mine. As such, my attention had briefly wandered--I believe it was focusing on Yaneti’s perfectly lean-but-full bottom--when my angelic senses alerted me to a situation. (Granted, the masses that were screaming throughout the city did much the same.) Several thousand crystalline arrows were arcing over Akeros’ protective wall, mere moments away from killing countless citizens. The Shifter and I responded decisively, combining our power to reduce the tidal wave of projectiles to a mere shower of ash. Given the distance they were at, and the height of the wall, no human archers could have succeeded in that gambit, but these arrows were oddly gravity-resistant. (And, yes, gravity is still hotly contested among some who follow my former employer. I understand that they want alternate theories to be taught alongside it, giving preference to neither.) Troican’s longbowmen lined the city’s walls--having the high ground as their advantage, they were able to push back the foremost wave of creatures, though few casualties were achieved. Akeros prepared its siege engines--catapults, wheel-mounted rapid-fire crossbows, cauldrons of burning liquid--but the Mystery-Pope’s forces had none. Using remote-viewing magic, I saw no ladders, no wheeled towers, no battering rams.

It was at this point that Troican became slightly agitated with me--given the swashbuckling adventure that was about to take place, I was mystically searching for more appropriate attire (it’s been some time since I had the opportunity to dip into the combat section of my wardrobe), and I believe he felt that he didn’t have my full attention. I ended up settling on a pink, musketeer-like outfit, with a wide-brimmed hat that had a blast of bright blue plumage jutting out of it. It sat upon my brow at a jaunty angle, naturally. At any rate, Troican was wondering why they weren’t simply charging--the Mystery-Pope and sun-god would surely be able to use magic to pierce the city’s walls, or teleport in. He suspected, and I agreed, that they appeared to be waiting for something, or perhaps someone. And, not to sound egotistical, but I imagine that my presence may have created some reluctance in them. It’s all well and good when one only has to worry about slaughtering mortals, but when someone of my legendary stature and power is present, well, perhaps one should consider things more carefully.

Now, while Akeros is no stranger to sieges--I imagine that, historically, it’s experienced more of them than any other city in the mortal realm--I felt that its citizens were in particular danger, this time around. When godlike beings clash, there’s bound to be a goodly amount of destruction. Using the time that their hesitation had bought us, I summoned Sephone to the palace (which is to say, I teleported her directly), and asked her to make a request of our mutual Masonic friends. I’d long been aware of certain metaphysical qualities found in classic Egyptian architecture (designed, of course, by early Masons), and though I respected their wish to remain a secret society, I’m rather afraid that circumstances simply had to take precedence. One of the unused pyramids in Akeros has an interior that transcends three-dimensional space, and could operate as a shelter for quite literally all of the women, children, and elderly in the city. After clearing my plan with the Masons, I requested to Shifter that he speak to the minds of all those in Akeros, alerting them to where they needed to go. I’d have done it myself, but, sadly, many would not have trusted me, and risked death as a result. (Later, I realized that the Masons didn’t need to come into the light at all. I simply claimed that I’d mystically changed the pyramid.) Soon, crowds buffeted the pyramid on all sides, gradually trickling in. It was all the Silver Sentries could do to prevent people from being trampled, as everyone desperately rushed to safety. The pyramid had long-collapsed protection spells about it, which I resurrected and reinforced.

Immediately after I did that, I heard a blow land, as Raggedy Anders had struck the jester. Well, slapped him, I suppose--and even though Anders had been relatively gentle, the jester fell down in fright nonetheless. You see, Anders had been trying to hand him a sword, so that he might aid in the defense of the city he was so eager to lead. But, despite advocating an aggressive foreign policy, I’m afraid that the thought of combat terrified him, and he was most desirous to stay inside with Tessa and Gwyn. Also, he kept babbling on about this alleged conspiracy against him. But I was busy listening to Troican, who was telling me the details of his plan. His generals and civilian infrastructure already knew what they were to do, but he’d also formulated a plan for those of us with more unique talents. Before he could finish explaining, however, a new threat emerged--and I’m sad to say that it was at least partially my fault.

For the second time in three days (this crisis began shortly after midnight, early Thursday morning), the city’s sky was filled with otherdimensional activity. Only this time, instead of my former colleagues, it was a group of rebels from [avian kingdom, unable to be translated]. Airborne crowds of these winged humanoids eclipsed the bright yellow sky. As it turns out, the bloodless coup was a success, but a tiny percentage of their military--say, twenty thousand of them--weren’t happy with how things turned out. Knowing it would be impossible to win in a civil war, they’d decided to come after me, as my involvement in the affair had been made public knowledge. Which is an equally-suicidal plan, but, despite their warlike nature, they’ve never been known for long-term strategy. At any rate, the Mystery-Pope had somehow found out about this and timed his arrival to coincide with theirs. Considering their fierce fighting nature, I knew that even a relatively small number of them would be formidable. Troican had contingencies in place for this type of attack, however. From the distance, hundreds of dots could be seen swarming out of the onion-dome towers. They were men on flying carpets--desert warriors and knights, primarily--wielding scimitars, broadswords, and bows. The sheer spectacle of it emboldened the rest of Troican’s forces. The two forces clashed in midair, with ringing metal and blood and feathers. Unfortunately, they struggled against the avians, as this was not their primary element. Dozens of the flying carpet masters were slaughtered in the first thirty seconds of combat. At the same time, the Mystery-Pope’s ground-forces charged, surging towards the city’s walls. The Shifter was able to prevent them from teleporting directly in, but we could do nothing to stop the Mystery-Pope from using magic to blow massive holes in the city’s wall.

I realize that this is all dreadfully exciting, but I feel I should suspend the narrative, just for a moment, to clear something up. You may be wondering what Akeros’ Christian population thought of the Pope attacking, especially when considering that Troican counted myself amongst his friends. Would they not think that this was a sign of the end times, and feel more loyalty to their religion than to their government? Well, keep in mind, just several days earlier, an actual host of my former colleagues had been on full display. (Mind you, they’re no longer working for my former employer, but, trifle.) As such, they thought they knew what such an invasion would actually look like, and this did not resemble what they’d previously seen. Also, at the time, the Pope’s involvement was only a rumor--no-one but Troican’s inner circle had seen him directly, which had been done through mystical remote-viewing. After everyone had gotten into the pyramid-shelter, the rumors spread, and, yes, there was tension and conflicting interests to be found. But when they learned that the Pope was allied with a pagan light-god and his army of monsters (I placed my spies in the shelter, and had them subtly manipulate certain parties to maintain order), well, their vaunted book never mentioned that, so it must not be the end of the world after all. They thought he’d been possessed or somesuch.

But, back to the rousing city-siege. Light-creatures poured through the city’s damaged walls, surging into the city’s mortal forces. Though their crystal shells were fleshy and organic, and thus able to be damaged, the creatures were incredibly ferocious. Volleys of arrows went back and forth. It was classic city combat, with various individuals ducking into alleys, using deep doorways as cover, and using rooftops as the high ground. Troican’s original plan had been for me to teleport him, myself, the Shifter, Raggedy Anders, and Romulus into the midst of their forces. He, Anders, and Romulus would battle the light-god, while myself and Shifter would assail the Mystery-Pope. However, due to the avian invasion, changes had to be made. After passionate goodbye kisses were exchanged--myself and Tessa, Turk and Gwyn, myself and that servant-girl with the particularly dark nipples, Troican and Sephone, myself and Sephone (Troican knew it was just friendly), the Shifter and Yaneti, myself and Tessa again--we teleported into the fray.

The Shifter assaulted the Mystery-Pope by himself, staff striking upon sceptre, while I surprised the avians by invoking the powers that go with an obscure title of mine. I am--among many, many other things--Master of the Air, and this does not merely refer to the celestial nature of my Nation. Standing atop the palace’s foremost spire, I unleashed a flurry of snake-zephyrs: sentient gusts of wind that coil around their enemies and crush them, as a prelude to devouring them alive. (Invisible teeth, don’t you know.) I also called down a flock of giant vultures to assist. The avians were taken aback by these new enemies, and it momentarily evened the odds for Troican’s aerial forces. (There were only several hundred flying-carpet masters, compared to roughly fifteen thousand avians.) The snake-zephyrs are quite primeval and savage; it took all of my focus to keep them under control, as they’d have more than happily feasted on Troican’s men and my vultures, as well.

Meanwhile, the light-god was leading a pack of his creatures through one of the city’s many gardens. It was quite the beautiful place, with huge trees that were topheavy with leaves, blindingly-white blooms that had been brought down from the Far North, and vines that pulsed rhythmically. (Incidentally, for the entirety of this siege, I was remote-viewing all of the key areas and individuals involved. This included those in the palace--Tessa, Gwyn, Col. Lindscott, Yaneti, the jester and the Admiral, and all the various governmental officials. Yes, a detachment of Silver Sentries was guarding them, as was a covert agent of the World Tree, but I’ve always been naturally wary…and justifiably so, I should say.) I imagine I should take a moment to describe the light-god, whose name I never did quite catch. Granted, he may very well predate the notion of names. He was about [seven feet] tall, and, like his creatures, he had a glowing yellow crystal shell and dark blue eyes (though he had three, rather than two). However, instead of legs, he possessed an odd, bunched-up mass of navy tendrils, which allowed him to slither about. He was hunched over, like someone who hadn’t stood fully upright in millennia, and being in a city must have been new and strange to him, as his expression was one of alien confusion. But he was moving forward steadily, apparently having some destination in mind.

While I was using my snake-zephyrs to assist the aerial forces, the light-god and his chief underlings came across a group of civilians that hadn’t yet made it to the pyramid. Two of the centaur-like beings advanced on them, intending to clear the path…but a triangular shield flew out of nowhere, shattering their swords, ricocheting off a fountain, and returning to none other than Troican himself. He was joined by Raggedy Anders, who launched himself into the thick of the creatures, lopping off heads and limbs with his midnight diamond scimitar. Between the two of them, they made short work of the light-god’s entourage. Typically arrogant, the deity attempted to reduce Troican to mere ash with a high-spectrum blast, but his shields held up--they’re made of meteorite metal, I believe. And while the light-god was focused on the city’s not-quite-king, Romulus lunged in from the side and tackled him, proceeding to hack at him with a ridiculously huge ax. The light-god did not completely fall, however, as it’s difficult to knock someone down when they have a wide base of tendrils, rather than legs. Unsurprisingly, Romulus chose to go after those, next, slicing off sizable chunks at a time--but they kept growing back. The light-god then blasted Romulus away. Following that, he emitted a wave of light that flattened everything within a [fifty-foot] range, save for Troican and Raggedy Anders, who’d changed his scimitar into a shield. The wanton destruction of beauty (flora, in this case) greatly angers me, I must say. Thinking he’d successfully held them off, he turned his back…only to be jumped once again by a bloody-nosed Romulus (half-gods are quite hard to kill), who screamed in some obscure classical dialect and punched him a goodly distance, sending him crashing into a mosque. He has a great deal of preternatural strength, don’t you know.

On the other side of the city, the Shifter was standing on one rooftop, and the Mystery-Pope on another, exchanging mystical blasts from their staff and sceptre, respectively. Buildings and monuments crumbled in their wake. Below them, Akeros’ army was being smothered by the mass of light-creatures, hip-deep in corpses and debris. Above them, the city’s aerial forces were dwindling in number, despite my assistance. (In addition to their numerical advantage, the avians also had a natural one, as they’d been born to fly, while it was artificial and awkward for the humans.) Throughout the city, fleeting, airborne cobwebs of both mortal blood and sparkling blue lifejuice could be seen, each one existing just for a moment, in a different pattern each time. The Mystery-Pope was quite obviously afflicted with some unknown ailment, but still ridiculously powerful. It was clear to me that he was not a mere sorcerer. He let loose with an energy that seemed to fold reality in on itself, nearly crushing the Shifter in a bizarre, six-dimensional geometric construct. Shifter, of course, shifted sideways through existence, eluding the attack and firing back with an ice-blue beam that drained energy from the Mystery-Pope, who broke the connection soon enough, and didn’t seem to be affected by the loss. I say this because he proceeded to animate the building on which Shifter was standing--upon coming to life, the rooftop turned into a mouth. It wrapped concrete lips around him, pulling him down into its depths and attempting to tear him apart with fine marble teeth.

Now, you may be wondering where Turk has been in all this. I sternly forbade him from taking on the light-god or the Mystery-Pope, and instead had him assist in the evacuation efforts. There were many stragglers who’d gotten lost or delayed, and he was helping them get to the pyramid. Some were fine once given directions, others needed to be personally escorted. There was one wealthy woman who absolutely refused to leave her expansive wardrobe behind (Turk had to perform a bit of “redistribution of wealth” to force her to come along), and one poor woman who was nearly forced to leave her crippled grandson behind (Turk snatched the child up and carried him to the pyramid). Of course, with the singing sword at his disposal--and Raggedy Anders’ fencing lessons engrained in his mind--Turk was more than able to handle himself against the occasional light-creature. At one point, a humanoid light-creature managed to knock his sword away, but it had never been in an East End streetfight, before: Turk threw sand in its eyes, kneed it in its groin, hit it with a brick, and then killed it with its own spear. Resourceful lad--he has much in the way of fortitude. While on one of these evacuation “runs,” he glimpsed a purple figure, who was just vanishing into a narrow alleyway. Normally, he’d have followed such a suspicious individual, but he was escorting a group of (most grateful) young women, so he was not able to give chase.

From my position on top of the palace, I could see that Akeros’ ground forces were gradually being pushed back. Five holes in the city’s walls meant five fronts, not counting the aerial battle, and they were being stretched thin. I’m confident in saying that, had Troican, Anders, and Romulus been there to assist them in combat (instead of being occupied with the light-god), they would have been faring much better. As it was, I saw that it fell to me to mind the gap. Now, I mentioned earlier that I’m often associated with darkness…and yet, the name Lucifer means “light-bringer.” Just as I can bring, so too can I take away. After mentally warning Akeros’ forces of what I was about to do, I caused the sky to turn from yellow to black, absolutely shocking the light-creatures, most of whom had never even realized that darkness existed. If anything, it was thought of as an abstract notion. I lit every torch in the city at once, giving the mortals enough light to fight by--but the relative gloom mentally crippled their opponents. I also mystically erased the necks of various humanoid and centaur-like opponents, causing blood-squirting heads to abruptly fall onto Akeros’ dusty streets, but, trifle. Mind you, I was comfortably sipping tea throughout this portion of the battle.

Romulus, on the other hand, was quite more savage. The light-god did not fear darkness, nor was he weakened by it, so their struggle proceeded apace. They traded blows outside of a cathedral, the impact shattering the stained glass and drenching them in a shower of rainbow shards. A blast of pure light removed a chunk of Romulus’ shoulder, while his fist left a dent in the god’s jaw. The god used his tendrils to trip him up, but a triangular, meteorite-metal shield ricocheted off the god’s head, its molecular density hurting him. While he lunged towards Troican, Raggedy Anders jumped on him, impaling him through the brain with his midnight diamond scimitar. The light-god spasmed and thrashed, knocking him off, while blasting solar energy in many directions at once. Before the god had a chance to heal, Romulus--now back on his feet--made his move. Ignoring the painful blasts, he ran up to him, grabbed him by the wrists, and planted one of his feet on the god’s midsection. He stretched his leg rigid, pulled, and ripped both arms from the light-god’s body. Unsurprisingly, he then proceeded to beat him with the bloody stumps. New arms grew back fairly quickly, but it was an impressive feat nonetheless. Romulus battered him, Anders sliced him, Troican served as a distraction and helped where he could…but the light-god was becoming more frantic, and more difficult to contain.

Elsewhere in Akeros, a building exploded--it was the one that the Mystery-Pope had animated, giving it a monstrous mouth and tasking it to devour the Shifter. My old friend emerged from the rubble only slightly scathed, firing a silvery energy from his staff. The Mystery-Pope did the same with his sceptre, and the two oldtree-sized beams met and struggled against each other, emanating waves of tension in the process. Several square blocks around them were decimated in the process. I saw that the Shifter’s power was slowly being overwhelmed, due to the seemingly infinite mystical might that the Mystery-Pope possessed. Even with this advantage, the Mystery-Pope launched an additional attack--he mystically summoned a form of liquid intelligence, which slithered across the shattered ground and attacked the Shifter, hungry for the exotic life-chemicals found in all humanoid minds. He quickly created a white-hot forcefield to shield himself, causing the liquid intelligence to evaporate on contact. (Several days later, an odd rain fell in Persia, gifting an entire village with intelligence and creativity. I understand they’ve since vanished; it’s rumored that they’ve made some key realization about life and reacted accordingly.) But this momentary diversion was enough, and the Mystery-Pope’s energy overwhelmed Shifter’s, blasting him backwards, despite his forcefield.

By this point, the city was essentially evacuated of all non-combatants (please note that I didn’t say all non-civilians), and Turk had turned to assisting Akeros’ forces in resisting the siege. They quite needed the help. Debris was being catapulted onto the light-creatures, and the wheel-mounted, rapid-fire crossbows and cauldrons were being used--but despite these technological advantages, the mortal forces were wearing down. Part of this was due to sheer numbers, and part of this was due to the fact that things were going especially badly in the sky, as plummeting waves of corpses tend to stifle morale. Not to gloat, but, I can fairly say that the only reason that Akeros’ aerial force hadn’t been slaughtered entirely was because of my help. A thousand of them versus twenty thousand avians, etc. Certainly, I could have judged it by the numbers, allowing them to be killed so that I could focus completely on what was going on below, but controlling the high ground (in this case, the sky) is key in any melee. If they extinguished all opposition above, they could simply pick off those underneath. Incidentally, it may not seem like I’m doing all that much, at this juncture, but if not for my sustained blocking spells, several dozen thousand more light-creatures would have teleported into the mortal realm. But, I digress. Turk was using the singing sword to even the odds in one of the more hectic areas when he saw none other than the jester run by. Being more jaded about humanity than I (perhaps because he is one), he was more than content to let the gaudily-dressed dunce get killed…but then he saw decidedly non-crystal arrows trailing after him.

Now, whenever one fights any sort of battle, one must take both stupidity and unexpected developments into account. My dear reader may be wondering why the jester would leave the mystically-protected palace. As I said earlier, perceived self-defense/self-interest, not evil, is the most dangerous, destructive force in all the realms. The jester had become convinced that, in the fog of war, Troican would have him killed, to prevent the planned special election. Nevermind that such petty matters were far from Troican’s mind, at that moment. The jester is squarely the center of his own universe, and he presumes that he’s at center of everyone else’s universe, as well. Likewise, he was afraid that the coalition that was backing him was somehow involved in what was going on, and he didn’t want to take the chance of being put on trial. (To their credit, they actually weren’t involved. Not knowingly, anyway.) So, unsure of whom to side with, he escaped from the palace and ventured out into the open, even though some mysterious party was allegedly trying to kill him. Well, strike that “allegedly.” Turk wisely tackled the jester, as arrows went flying over them, shot by Arabic hitmen of some sort. Turk fired back with a wide blast from the sword, taking out the rooftop their attackers were standing on. One of the men’s bodies slid down on a tide of fresh rubble, and the jester recognized the man as one of his personal bodyguards, which had been provided by his wealthy backers. However, before the unlikely duo could react, they were set upon by a new foe.

But, before I get to that, let me clear up this coalition business once and for all. As I’ve said, in keeping with their past tendencies, they’d chosen the jester to be their frontman…they like the affable, pliable sort. You’d like to sit down and have a mug of ale with him, now, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately for him, he’d actually believed that they respected him as a leader; he had no idea he was being used. Since they couldn’t match Troican’s military accomplishments, they hoped to outpace him in sheer, psychotically adventuristic zeal. They’d spent much time setting up their plan to use the jester to unseat him. Initially, they thought the assassination attempt was a blessing, as it would be the perfect rationale for the politically-beneficial war they’d been wanting. However, they found that challenging someone that had nearly died was not a winning strategy, which forced a change in course. They hadn’t been able to use Troican’s near-death to justify the war, so they were going to use the jester’s actual death, instead. They’d plant evidence that implicated one of Akeros’ many neighbors and go from there. The attack by the Mystery-Pope was the perfect cover for doing so. (For the record, sections of the Mystery-Pope’s criminal organization were involved in the coalition, with money going back and forth, but neither realized the full extent of the other’s plans. The Mystery-Pope was behind both the assassination attempt and the siege, while the coalition was simply trying to take advantage of the aforementioned events. Sort of an interlocking pair of conspiracies, if you will.)

Now, I’ve previously mentioned my old friend (and, I confess, occasional lover) Chance, who is the luckiest being in all existence. Gambling, good fortune, perfect timing…she has it all. But, being who I am, I’ve long believed in balance (is there any real difference between karma and “you reap what you sow”?), and if someone like Chance exists, I know all too well that there must be an opposite, somewhere out there. Someone so utterly luckless that they might as well be cursed. As it turns out, Turk and the jester were being attacked by this very individual. He was armed with some sort of enchanted whips, which wrapped around the singing sword and blunted its sonic power. Momentarily stymied, Turk examined the man, and found him to be vaguely familiar. He had slightly long, messy brown hair, a scraggly beard, and expensive clothing that was dusty and torn…when Turk had last seen him, his face had been bare, his hair shorter. It was none other than Lord Parston. I’d met him during my previous adventure, when I needed some coffins that had been in his possession. (They’d contained Brutus and Romulus.) I’d ended up helping his wife escape from their miserably normal marriage; she now lived in my Timberlands castle, exploring a new side of herself by romancing a churchgoing female friend of hers. I still watched them bathe and copulate, from time to time. There was nothing bad about him at all, he was simply a regular, boring man. But when he found out about my involvement in his estranged wife’s actions, he set his mind upon revenge. I understand that the news of his wife’s new sexuality has made him a laughingstock, and hampered his business prospects. With all that was going on, he, like the coalition, saw an opportunity to make his move. (You may recall that a blue-blooded former military man--whose name couldn’t be recalled--had accompanied the Admiral to Akeros as a diplomat, only to vanish. Also, a rough-looking individual had been asking about me in the dusky tavern underworld. Both were none other than Lord Parston, who’d come to gather information on what I was up to.) At any rate, this was the last thing we needed, given everything else that was going on.

But, once again, bad luck struck Lord Parston. Just as he thought my allies and I were at our weakest, the tables were turned. A new presence--which Troican had seen in his dream--made itself known, and in the process, it exposed the Mystery-Pope’s identity. Granted, he turned out to be more dangerous than we’d ever imagined, but it certainly kept things interesting. It was all exquisitely exciting, I tell you! Huzzah!

A rolling thunder overtook Akeros, to the point where nothing else could be heard. At first, it sounded like huge wings flapping, but my giant vultures (which, along with my snake-zephyrs, were helping the aerial forces) weren’t nearly that loud. Then, I realized that it sounded like a combination of both wings and the noise that pages make when one rapidly thumbs through them. A sky cavalry of horse-sized, purplish-black ravens descended out of the darkness I’d created, devouring the [avian humanoids]. Some of them continued down to the ground, snatching light-creatures in their talons or taking human shape and joining the fray. When human-looking, they were exceedingly pale, wearing all black, with purplish-black hair, exotic piercings, and skin-art. I recognized these ravens immediately…they were the servant-race of the Chronicler of Stories. Upon seeing them, the Mystery-Pope was so distracted that the Shifter was able to get a “free hit” in on him. In moments, the air-battle was over. The avians simply couldn’t withstand my creatures, the flying-carpet men, and now the ravens. But the Mystery-Pope dropped his disguise, taking his true form. A deep brown, hooded robe, ragged wrappings around his arms and legs…he was the Chronicler. A maniacal, out-of-control cosmic office-holder, with power at his disposal that rivaled my own. Yes, his servants had rebelled against him, but we were still in for a challenge. Freed from thinking defensively, I readied my attack. In the moment before I carried it out, thoughts about Bartlesby and Yaneti broke through my consciousness, and the pieces fell into place, as I realized the overpowering reason behind all this.

Forget, for a moment, the layers of subterfuge, the numerous players, and the epic warmaking, and picture a river in a vast land. Clear your mind; nothing exists but this river. It has many tributaries that feed into it, and many new rivers that branch off of it. No one beginning, no one ending. Now, consider Bartlesby, and his frustration over being unable to pinpoint a single origin for his species. Consider Yaneti, and her prophecy that, despite the many endings mankind has to choose from, none will ever come. What if each newly-discovered beginning is set further back in time, and each supposed ending is shoved further into the future? How can one manage a story that is nothing but a perpetual middle? It’s linear, yes, but both ends of the journey are out of reach. Confronted with a such a situation, this Chronicler simply snapped. The chance for a definitive beginning is gone forever, yes. But not such an ending. He realized that, with each passing day, a worldwide war--the sort of conflict required to trigger ancient armageddon prophecies--is becoming less likely to happen. Look at Akeros, and how interconnected everything is. He realized that this was his last, best chance to give humanity, and himself, an ending. To spark an apocalypse: any apocalypse would do. The Chronicler looked into the future and saw himself enslaved by a new kind of story--one whose beginnings and endings were multiplying like mad and growing out of control--and he took action. When the assassination attempt (on the faultline of the various major civilizations) failed to spark such a war, he fell back on a contingency plan, which involved a less direct approach--manipulating conditions to enable an end-of-the-world situation. The light-god just happened to be convenient.

I focused mine energies on the Chronicler and let loose. The first explosion blew him into an empty pyramid; the second demolished the pyramid and caused him to actually fall down. The third, he deflected with his sceptre, responding with frantic, ill-aimed cosmic blasts that flew in every direction, sadly killing dozens of Troican’s men in the process. Though he was weaker than a normal Chronicler--the mystery-illness that plagued him was related to how the “story” he was supposed to guide was evolving into something beyond his control--he was as ferocious as a cornered animal, as he had nothing left to lose. I casually teleported near him and placed a hand on his arm, gifting him with ten thousand generations’ worth of pain. When mortals die and enter my Nation, I see to it that they’re liberated from the pain they experienced in the previous half of their existence. I keep it stored away for just such an occasion. A Chronicler’s scream is a fascinating thing, I must say. It echoes on every level of existence, and each individual interprets it differently. Troican told me that he saw spiked chains come out of the Chronicler’s mouth, which coiled around the man, squeezing bright blue energy out of him. At any rate, while he was occupied with infinite waves of pain, the Shifter blasted him with his staff. Knowing I had the situation well in hand, he then turned to face the light-god.

By this point, Romulus and the light-god were covered in blood (both their own and each other’s), in addition to dirt, mud, bits of leaves and plaster, and the occasional bone fragment or patch of sinew. Though he had no authority to do so, Romulus had ordered Raggedy Anders and Troican to go shore up the Akeros defense forces, as they needed help more than he did. Romulus was, distressingly, naked, though you couldn’t tell, as he was covered in so much detritus. His clothes and skin had been burnt off by solar blasts. Though his skin had grown back, the pungent smell of burnt flesh emanated from him, and could be detected at fifty paces. The two of them were fighting on top of what could reasonably be described as a hill of light-creature corpses. This mass of bodies had been created when the light-god had become afraid, mentally commanding his creatures to help him escape, but Romulus refused to let it happen. They were grappling with each other when a beam from the Shifter’s staff tagged the light-god in the head. He tumbled down the hill of corpses, landing roughly on the dusty streets. Upon getting back up, the primordial deity saw a sky full of ravens, myself taking on his ally, and two enemies that were about to pounce, and in his panic, he gave something away. He expectantly glanced towards the palace, which loomed in the distance.

I took note of this, but I was slightly occupied, at that specific moment. The Chronicler was fighting through the pain and unloading cosmic energy on me, which largely glanced off my aura. I took that opportunity to glide backwards, as if I wished to put distance between us. In truth, I wanted to maneuver our battle to take place in the midst of a horde of light-creatures, so that the fallout would affect them, rather than Troican’s men. This was most wise, as the Chronicler’s next attack left a huge crater around me, though I myself was unharmed. I kept my composure throughout this affair, of course. I do not run or duck, engage in fisticuffs, become angry, or dirty my clothes…it simply isn’t gentlemanly. In fact, I was still unhurriedly sipping my tea. The Chronicler tapped into the vast flow of the ideasphere and summoned an array of Core Archetypes to assail me--the Mad Prophet, the Warrior Without A Country, the Enigmatic Temptress, and hundreds more. While spells of undoing made quick work of each individual archetype, they kept reappearing, as they’re ideas, and are quite impossible to permanently destroy. With destruction ruled out as an option, I instead cut them off at the pass. When they’d try to reform after being eradicated, I’d establish dominion over them (if I so choose, I can have dominion over any dead being, even if the death lasts but for a moment) and refuse to let them reconfigure themselves, trapping them as pure energy and blasting them at the Chronicler. Fiction has its own wavelength, if you will, and there was a good deal of bizarre feedback when like clashed against like. But with my attention focused on the Chronicler, the light-god was able to summon another legion of his creatures, which I’d previously been keeping out of this realm. They flooded through the holes in the city’s walls. (We still didn’t know why they were focusing on Akeros, rather than somewhere else, but I’d begun to suspect.)

Throughout the city, avian-people corpses were falling like rain. Huge ravens and vultures picked off light-creatures at will. When Troican had joined his men in battle, a cheer had gone up; when Raggedy Anders had joined them, the light-creatures had frozen in terror. With Troican on the scene, the military’s efforts were more organized, more tactically-effective. Instead of a back-and-forth struggle, they began to hold their ground, and even make the occasional advance. With the new reinforcements, the numbers were more against us than ever, but my darling snake-zephyrs wound their way through the skirmish, devouring light-creatures as they went. Anders separated the creatures from their heads, limbs, and occasionally torsos, saving many soldiers’ lives in the process. At one point, a wave of light-creatures was bowled over by their flailing master. Romulus had backhanded him a [half-mile], and was briskly running to catch up with him. Swords and spears shattered against Troican’s shields, while he felled light-creatures with throat-crushing kicks and elbow jabs. Archers on both sides traded lethal volleys. Though not prone to romance, Raggedy Anders was particularly impressed with one of the female ravens, who, when posing as a human, was quite eerily beautiful, I must say. She and her kind wielded three-pronged, talon-like sais. All of the ravens were doing well, but she stood out among them in majesty, grace, and frozen rage.

Moving away from archetypes, the Chronicler next attacked me with information itself. He unleashed the mystically-recorded history that he and the previous Chroniclers had stored away, over countless millennia. His strategy was to overwhelm my mind with the sheer volume of facts, ideas, and maddening paradoxes. Unfortunately for him, my consciousness is quite resilient; it’s managed to behold all sorts of notions that would have shattered anyone else’s psyche. (I should point out that he coupled this mental attack with unimaginative physical ones: endless cascades of cosmic energy that would have been capable of destroying islands or even small continents, and easily Akeros itself, had I not counteracted them with my own power. But, trifle. That said, I understand that the two of us destroyed most of the Greek section of the city during this exchange.) I responded by enveloping him in a strain of light that I’d designed personally--the Morningstar Spectrum, seven radiant, entirely new colors that seared his very being to its core. This sent him smashing into a glossy stone plaza. Before I could move in and finish things, however, the Chronicler’s self-defense spell took over our surroundings. It was based on symbolism and metaphor, and it was of the reality-altering sort. Dropped swords ceased being mere weapons and became representations of pure martial combat, full of history and the life of all those who had ever fought in war, and they flew towards me and attacked. A nearby temple grew huge, stone-block arms and legs, becoming a living example of the repressed rage that comes from the impossible quest for holy perfection, taking its anger out on me. My own teacup grew into a headless, fine-china humanoid that was sociopathically determined to remain calm and civil, ignoring all uncultured obstacles, though it was most willing to assail me. All throughout Akeros, the meaning that had long been pregnant in various objects exploded into existence, causing them to swarm around me and batter my aura from every side.

But, back to Turk, the jester, and Lord Parston for a moment. When we last left them, Lord Parston had chosen a most inopportune time to reveal himself--right as the ravens’ sky-cavalry arrived. The spectacle of this distracted him so much that Turk was able to pull the singing sword free from his enchanted whips, thereafter blasting him with sonic energy. His clothes were torn away in the process, and it revealed a most interesting sight (no, Lady Parston said it was merely passable): his entire body was wrapped in the pair of enchanted whips, almost making him look like a mummy of old. As the whips are quite durable, it was like having a protective second skin. The whips were also alive in a snakelike way, for the record. He “shot” one of them to a ledge, swinging clear of Turk’s second blast, and had the whips cover his head, so only his eyes peeked through. (He did this not a moment too soon, as debris from the second attack would have knocked him unconscious.) It was a strange sight, with his body covered in slithering, writhing rope-creatures. Knowing that a mortal had poor chances in facing me, he’d armed himself, you see. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it’s the audacity that counts, I suppose. At any rate, he used the whips to swing about and fling debris and other objects at Turk, who parried them with the sword. (The jester was hiding throughout this escapade.) But, as I pointed out earlier, Lord Parston is quite unlucky. For, just as he was feeling confident about holding his own, a stray blast from the Chronicler hit him in mid-air, sending him crashing through one fourth-story window and out the other. Turk pursued him, wanting to remove any possible wild-cards from the affair. (Unfortunately, one was lurking nearby, waiting to spring. The Greatest Villain of the Age, even! And, no, I’m not referring to myself. Insidious propaganda!)

Meanwhile, the light-god was caught in a storm of huge ravens, desperately fending them off, while Romulus and the Shifter also attacked him. Romulus was using weapons he’d taken from light-creature corpses--crystal swords, crystal spears, that sort of thing--and throwing them at the light-god as if he were a pincushion. He looked like something of an inverted porcupine, with blunt ends sticking out and sharp ends sticking in. The Shifter used the energy he’d absorbed from him earlier, combining it with his own power and blasting away, sending the light-god crashing through a Western Isles-like clocktower, which toppled. The primordial deity landed on a pond-sized patch of black liquid; he didn’t know what to make of it, and didn’t realize that they’d wanted him to land there. Moments later, Troican’s archers fired flaming arrows at him, and the liquid produced a massive explosion, with Shifter mystically containing the fire. (I understand that it’s a more potent version of the stuff that mortals use to cook with; Akeros is unlucky enough to be sitting on a large quantity of something that has no practical use.) Scarred and flaming, the light-god stumbled out of the debris and into Romulus’ punches, while the Shifter continued to shoot him with his staff. He repelled Romulus with a solar burst and lunged at the Shifter, who shifted to an intangible state and allowed him to pass through. The Shifter then swiped at him while intangible, which created great pain in the god’s innards.

While I was being assailed from all sides by living metaphors, the Chronicler had started to glide towards the palace, which was several dozen blocks away. Given that my Nation is quite the opposite of regular existence, my being is partially made of what some men of science have called “negative matter,” and a mere sliver of it was more than enough to annihilate my attackers. I then teleported myself between the Chronicler and the palace. This was, I must admit, a new state of affairs for me. No-one is foolish enough to invade my Nation, so I never have to play defense, if you will--I’ve spent most of my life engaging in a very subtle, almost insidious form of offense. Thinking defensively awoke a raw feeling of protectiveness in me that had been long gone. Oh, my secret plan is certainly geared towards liberating mankind and defeating my former employer, but it was always more of an intellectual reality, rather than an emotional one. Standing for someone other than myself reminded me of those early, pre-creation days, when we engaged in passionate debate about which scenarios would be best for our then-hypothetical, free-willed species. At any rate, the Chronicler unleashed a dozen energy-attacks on me, and I deflected them, absorbed them, dissipated them, or redirected them. In response, I let loose with a bevy of spells designed to stop forward momentum and prevent an individual from reaching their destination. The Wall of Pain, Cartwright’s Obfuscation and Misdirection, the Vertigo Vixens (siryns who disorient as much as lure), and a smattering of force-shields and energy-tsunamis. Nonetheless, he kept struggling onwards, conquering one block at a time. Like the light-god, he was clearly interested in the palace, and I’m ashamed to say that it would not be me who figured out why this was.

Eclipsed by events of greater magnitude, Lord Parston had been blasted through a building, fallen four stories, and landed near the extra-dimensional pyramid that we were storing Akeros’ populace in. After several minutes, his whips pushed down on the ground and helped him achieve a standing position. His plans of revenge were frustrated, for, as far as he knew, I’d yet to even notice him. (He did not know of the world-windows I’d tasked to all of the key players; when he became separated from Turk, Turk’s window split in two--in my mind, mind you--and the other window followed him.) Still, important things were happening all over Akeros, and he hoped to be in position to affect their outcome, preferably in a way that hurt myself and my allies. He’d seen the crowds running towards the pyramid, and I imagine he thought that if he damaged its exterior, he could lure me there. Turk had a goodly distance to cover to catch up with him, and he hadn’t yet arrived. There were, however, guards that Troican had posted, and I’m sad to say that Lord Parston dispatched them easily, his invulnerable whips decapitating heads and reducing shields to metal splinters. Afterwards, while Lord Parston used his whips on the pyramid, shattering stone blocks (the protection spells I’d given it were wearing thin), someone shot him in the back of the head. The whip-mummification blunted the impact, though I suppose it must have left quite the welt. He turned to see the fabled Masonic 7--elite, immortal guardians of the realm. Each of them wielded a long-handled sledgehammer; the handles fired crossbow-like bolts. Their bodies were normal enough (their black clothing had symbols of tools that no longer existed), but instead of heads, they had floating pyramid-capstone-like things, each of which had a single eye. Energy beams fired out of those eyes, and he was sent tumbling head over heels. They then rushed in and started hammering him.

The light-god’s wails echoed in the visible spectrum, rather than the audible one. The cries of pain that emanated from his mouth caused light to waver and ripple. He’d taken an incredible amount of damage from the Shifter and Romulus, and he was still partially on fire and lumbering about awkwardly. The Shifter had moved in close, swinging his staff at him while intangible, so that it passed through him and caused more internal damage. Romulus continued to batter him, be repelled, and go charging right back in. The reserves the light-god had called in weren’t having the overwhelming effect he’d hoped for…though they still greatly outnumbered us, they were blunted by the ravens, my vultures and snake-zephyrs, Troican’s expert strategy, and Raggedy Anders himself, who slaughtered dozens in each five-minute span. It was clear that the god had no more extra forces to call upon. I must say, Romulus was smiling more than ever. A seemingly-unkillable enemy was his idea of utopia, for that way, the fun would never end. And then the smile abruptly vanished. Romulus, the veteran of a thousand battles, sensed that something had changed. A new tide was about to come in this siege of reality. Positioning himself just so, and giving the Shifter a look that informed him not to interfere, Romulus stood still and gave the light-god a free run (or rather, fast-paced slither) at him.

A remarkable amount of things happened in the next several seconds. The god rushed the godling, Romulus was pushed onto his back…and then he planted a foot on the light-god’s stomach and pushed off, using both the god’s momentum and his own strength to send the tentacled deity flying towards a majestic conflagration in the distance. It was the storms of energy that were being exchanged by the Chronicler and I. My own reputation and power should speak for itself, and the Chronicler is the Third Person, a cosmic office-holder…even a god could not survive being caught in that particular crossfire. Upon landing amidst clashing, infinite might, he was incinerated on the spot. I suppose his weakened condition had something to do with it, in all fairness. Perhaps he could have survived if he’d been at full strength. Nonetheless, his underlings had no idea what to do, though they fought halfheartedly in his absence. Really, that’s one of the downfalls of monotheism…once you’ve been dispatched, there are no other godly compatriots to stand in for you.

Following this victory, the Shifter and Romulus did not pause for breath or congratulate themselves…no, they plunged right back into the scrum. Troican, Raggedy Anders, Akeros’ military, and its armed citizens were fighting alongside the ravens and my pets, but the numbers were still against them, so they needed all the help they could get. (The two of them initially desired to help me, but I mentally instructed them to help the mortal forces.) The light-creatures were leaderless, in an artificial dark, and had watched many of their kind fall, but they refused to give up. So too did the resistance. Raggedy Anders crouched atop a bareback horse, grabbing its mane with one hand and holding his midnight diamonds weapon (which he’d changed into a staff with prong-like blades at each end) with the other, screaming in Cantonese and decapitating those who opposed him as he raced down the streets. Divisions of Akeros’ troops were grateful to see swaths of enemies felled by the Shifter’s energy blasts or Romulus’ increasingly-creative maulings. Troican had maneuvered a cutoff of several groups of light-creatures, isolating them for slaughter and thus disrupting the larger force’s push into the city. Oceans of arrows periodically flickered across the sky. The light kept changing, due to my radiant battle with the Chronicler, the Shifter’s various attacks, and the way the light-creatures flashed in the moment of their demise. Later, several soldiers told me that their shadows would be stubby things in front of them, suddenly stretch to one side, and then vanish entirely or resume a normal size in yet another direction.

Throughout all this, the Chronicler continued to slowly advance on the palace, though I slowed him down greatly. Now, you may be wondering how my various ladyfriends (and other allies) at the palace were doing. I did not mean to leave them out of this narrative--I’m not one who thinks that women should be kept from combat. Why, my darling Lilith (who was exiled from history for the high crime of attempting a non-submissive sexual position; my former employer may claim to hate divorce, but his first attempt at fostering a relationship certainly didn’t end up as a loving, long-term partnership) fought beside me in the early days of my rebellion, and she did remarkably well. (That insufferable prig Gabriel still has a limp, as I understand it.) But most mortal realm women are not yet ready for such a task, I’m afraid. Also, I view men as a common commodity, while women are artistic marvels who must be given special privileges and guarded for posterity. At any rate, the palace had taken in all those who could not get to the pyramid shelter, and Tessa, Gwyn, Sephone, and Yaneti were helping to coordinate things. Some of the refugees needed medical attention, some needed food and water, and some merely needed a blanket or someone to talk to. While Akeros has survived many sieges, it was different, this time--not just because of the power and destruction involved, but because they thought they’d put all this behind them. The ladies’ task was made more difficult by the presence of the Admiral, who frightenedly scampered about in the background. So too did the jester, who was recently returned from the field of combat. (After Lord Parston made his move, the jester hid, and I personally teleported him back inside the palace.) For his part, Col. Lindscott was trying to both contain the Admiral and give advice to the military personnel on-site.

It was at this point that a badly-hung-over Bartlesby came charging onto the scene, his domineering young flower in tow. She was inexplicably wearing a scandalously low-cut wedding gown. (I later learnt that, with the seeming end of the world and all, she’d demanded that he marry her--and if not for his breakthrough, he probably would have given in.) He launched into a speedy, confusing explanation about some “Alphan” text he’d just translated, eventually telling them that he’d figured out why Akeros had been targeted first, and why everyone in the palace was in great danger. (Mind you, as he said this, they could hear the explosions and see the flashes of power related to my battle with the Chronicler, so it seemed more than a little redunant.) Before he could go further, however, several random mortals lurking in the background suddenly changed shape. There were screams, and the Silver Sentries that had been tasked to guard my inner circle prepared to fight, but they revealed their true, jagged-wooden forms, and Tessa shouted for the Sentries to stop. They were the World Tree’s splinter-agents, who’d secretly been guarding Tessa. Like Bartlesby, they informed all present that they were in peril, but it was from an entirely separate source. This was when the purebred Aryan vampyres crashed through the wall.

Once again, I’m going to briefly pause our narrative, and I do apologize for that. But I must say a word on faith. It’s entirely germane to the ironically Germanic matter at hand, I assure you. I’ve long been surprised at how many people continue to put faith in my former employer, even after he’s let them down oh so many times. And, of course, the type of person known to have faith in me is at best a fringe character, caught up in the propaganda ideas associated with me, rather than the actual reality. But, on this day, someone did put a measure of faith in me. It was someone who believed that I’d defeat the Chronicler, and wanted to mine its corpse before the office passed on to its next holder. All sorts of exotic alchemical compounds are present in the more powerful beings, don’t you know. What would happen if you infused yourself with a Chronicler’s blood, or ate a stew made of a Shaper’s brain and heart? This individual, who thinks of himself as quite the renaissance man, wanted to know. He’s an aristocratic warlord who rules a small chunk of eastern Europa. He’s a master of both alchemy and the conventional sciences. In fact, he used alchemy to change and ostensibly improve himself, extending his lifespan and possibly giving himself other gifts, as well. This race-monger’s life has become about elevating his family’s name to mythic heights, and as such, I will not help him by repeating that name in this story. I will simply refer to him as the Baron.

The Baron had secretly done business with the far fringes of the Church’s criminal empire, and in interacting with the Mystery-Pope, he’d deduced his true identity. His plan had been to simply hide, wait, and steal the Chronicler’s body, presuming I’d kill him. But the World Tree had detected his presence and acted accordingly.

The splinter-agents unleashed a flurry of wooden shards at the vampyres, but they did not fall. After their tribe had been conquered by the Baron--it had previously been ruled by some “Impaler” fellow--these vampyres had been bred and cross-bred over the span of centuries, until they were “pure” and perfect. The albino creatures were much stronger and more resilient than normal vampyres, and they’d been well-trained in the art of war. (The Baron is a military mind on par with Troican, and a swordsman on par with Raggedy Anders.) They wore bear skins and carried broadswords or clubs. All the civilians present ran, while the Silver Sentries and splinter-agents formed a circle around the vampyres. There were only two dozen of them, but they had deceptive power. And in their midst was the Baron himself. He wore a purple, black-striped mask, which had a gold headband around it. His single-breasted uniform was also purple and black, with tufts of white, black-flecked fur around the shoulders. I’d say that he envisions himself as quite the displaced royal, given his extensive use of purple. The Baron drew an alchemically-hardened sword and barked orders in German, which resulted in his vampyres surging outwards, devouring Silver Sentries as they went.

While I was occupied in my struggle with the Chronicler--which, by this point, had flattened a good third of the city--I saw that those in the palace required assistance. After mentally informing the key players of what was transpiring, I teleported Romulus, Shifter, Turk, and Raggedy Anders to the palace. Of course, in doing so, I weakened our fight against the remaining light-creatures. As such, I called in a favor that I’d previously been holding back as a contingency plan. Just as I balance out my former employer, so too are there balances for other forces. If one cosmic office-holder goes too far, another will often step in to help…but if they do not, there are still other remedies. Take, for instance, the World Tree. It is but one manifestation of the All-Axis, which binds and balances the entirety of reality. The World Tree was not particularly thrilled about the Chronicler’s plan, but it was more than content to bide its time until it was forced to step in. With the Baron’s arrival, that time had come, and I called in the favor that it had extended to me on my previous adventure.

At the palace, the vampyres were taken aback by the new arrivals. Romulus, armed with naught but his fists, launched himself into their midst. Their preternatural strength was close to his own, and they battered each other mercilessly. The Shifter blasted several of them through a wall, while also teleporting civilians to a distant, safe part of the palace. Raggedy Anders cartwheeled towards the Baron and landed on his feet, his sword striking the Baron’s. Both were thrilled to be fighting each other. Tessa, Gwyn, Bartlesby, Bartlesby’s wedding-gown-clad paramour, and a smattering of refugees tore through cavernous marble halls, two stray vampyres hot on their heels. Bartlesby knew exactly why the Chronicler wished to get into the palace, but he didn’t exactly have time to tell the others. They soon found themselves cornered in a salon, and one of the vampyres salivated, opening his mouth ridiculously wide. I was mystically monitoring the situation, and I quickly told Tessa how to handle it. She calmly reached into the folds of her garments and pulled out a small, wooden object--it was none other than Rahj, the wooden soldier that had tagged along with us since New Troy. He’d been unfortunately sidelined from the battle, due to his size, but his time had come. Tessa (who, you may recall, was originally something of a tomboy, growing up in the country with her brothers) heartily threw him into the vampyre’s gaping mouth. These strictly-bred vampyres had dense skin, which prevented wooden stakes and the like from getting through, but their insides were common enough. Once in, Rahj slithered down the creature’s throat, punctured a lung, and leapt onto its heart, stabbing it with a tiny wooden sword until it burst, thus reducing the vampyre to ashes. The other vampyre was cut in two by a bursting-in Turk, who’d been chasing after the group.

Outside, Akeros’ forces were beginning to feel overwhelmed--their most powerful allies had been dispatched to the palace, and the numbers against them were starting to sink in. Then, with no warning, the ground shook, and fissures opened throughout the city. The stench of corpses and smoke was suddenly overtaken by springlike, dizzyingly-pure oxygen, which blasted through the cracks in the ground. Dim colors of war were replaced by a far more vibrant spectrum: sentient green vines the size of auldwood trees reared above buildings and came down on swaths of light-creatures, smashing them. Grasping, razor-sharp branches shot out of the dirt, reduced light-creatures to bloody pulp, and pulled their twitching remains underground to finish them off. Bipedal, dinosauria-like venus flytraps came charging in, eager to devour their enemies. Splinter-agents swarmed. Wounded soldiers were enveloped in flowerlike cocoons, where herbal vapors and rare plant-chemicals could work on healing them. Petrified forests sprang up, trapping light-creatures, interrupting their strategic maneuvers, and then bombarding them with natural poison and psychotropic mists. For one shining moment, the World Tree turned its invisible eye towards Akeros, and an army designed to end the world could not stand its glare.

Atop the shelter-pyramid, Lord Parston was starting to hold his own against the Masonic 7. He’d managed to snag one of their ankles with his whip, and he was swinging the fellow around, using him as a human mace. This gave him time to recover from the severe hammer-beating they’d given him during the initial moments of their confrontation. His whip-mummification helped to muffle impact, but it only went so far. Then, something hit him in the back of the head, and it caused him to loosen his whip’s grip on the man, inadvertantly sending him flying. It wasn’t one of the bolts that their hammers fired; no, he was used to those…this had been something larger and denser, and thus more painful. He turned to see none other than Troican, who’d somehow snuck up on him. Troican was armed with both of his triangular, meteorite-metal shields. Before Lord Parston could react, Troican bluntly backhanded him with one of the shields, and he tumbled down one of the pyramid’s sloping walls. Troican then curtly requested that the Masonic 7 assist Akeros’ forces in the fight against the remaining light-creatures. They complied, leaving him with a charging Lord Parston.

Now, these two men have an amazing amount of combat experience between them. Lord Parston had engaged in front-lines colonial combat in Africa and India, while Troican had spent the majority of his adult life fighting for Akeros’ independence. Both were decorated veterans and both were afforded great valor. And while getting hit with one of Troican’s shields was like getting hit with a battering ram [estimated 9.5 on the Krichtner Invulnerability Scale, mystery-metal may have absorbed inertia, magnified it, and released it on contact], Lord Parston’s whips were certainly more versatile. Nonetheless, I do not believe it will spoil the drama to inform you that it was not much of a contest at all. While Lord Parston was an excellent soldier, Troican is simply a legend. Continuing to duel atop the pyramid, Troican engaged in a flurry of short-range attacks. Using his shields as clubs, he hit Parston in the stomach, the back of the neck, the ribs, the side of the knee, his kidneys…I believe there was an uppercut somewhere in there, and at one point, one shield’s angular tip caught Parston squarely in the forehead. Lord Parston’s whips flailed and tried to catch onto Troican’s person, but he was simply too quick. One whip did manage to get ahold of his shield, but it was firmly anchored to him, and he used the opportunity to flip Lord Parston head over heels, causing him to land flat on his back in a most awkwardly-painful position. And once he was prone, Troican did a shield-applying elbow-drop that knocked the breath out of the man.

After that, well…I haven’t the heart to tell you what Troican did to that poor person, who, I must admit, was once my friend. Ironically, the protection of the whip-mummification worked against Lord Parston, as he’d have died or been rendered a non-threat much sooner without it, and thus spared further pain. But due to its armorlike nature, Troican had to inflict a great deal of violence to finally remove him from the game. Afterwards, when Lord Parston was merely a spasming, semiconscious mass, Troican informed him of how pathetic he was. The universe was on the line, and Lord Parston had prioritized revenge over that? Parston attempted a response, but it was mumbled and confused, though very hateful-sounding. Then, one of his whips acted of its own accord, shooting out to the nearest building (which was quite a distance) and swinging his limp body away. Troican shouted to an archer--the city’s forces had begun fighting light-creatures around the pyramid towards the end of this affair--and had him shoot Lord Parston down. Several flaming, explosive arrows hit him, and his unmoving, blazing silhouette fell into the chaos of battle.

Now, you may have noticed that I haven’t spoken of my battle with the Chronicler in some time. I did this to spare my dear readers from the monotony of this type of magic. Unless one wants to read an endless list of defensive spells, it simply isn’t that interesting. I was slowing his progress towards the palace, but it was progress nonetheless. (By this point, my architectural protection spells had been overwhelmed--the Baron and his men had been able to gain entry to the palace, and the pyramid had taken damage from Lord Parston. As such, I was forced to block the Chronicler’s attempts to teleport into the palace.) Deciding that it was time to have Ms. Cake and eat her too, I stopped being conservative and launched new offensive attacks on our favorite sceptre-wielding madman. A storm of reality-shards (summoned from a broken universe) cut through him. A negatives spell momentarily turned his skin into a rigid endoskeleton and reduced his bones to jelly. An army of flea-sized, soul-eating bacteria, which I’d created on a lark one day, invaded his body and gifted him with the most intimate form of pain. A yin/yang warp threw off his existential equilibrium and shewed him every reality at once, making him forget which one he was in, and which incarnation of himself he was, and returning to normal was as shattering as a multiple-personality individual having their mind collapse on itself.

On the palace’s top floor, Raggedy Anders and the Baron were engaging in the most intense duel I’d ever seen. Aside from their respective fantastic swords, it also involved chandeliers, staircase railings, tipped-over tables and other furniture, and yanked-out rugs. Not content with a fair fight, the Baron used a most curious device. It was like a small crossbow, but it had no actual bow, though it did have a trigger. The thing shot out some form of acid, either chemical or alchemical. Anders had to spin most awkwardly to dodge it, though his inhumanly flexible, doll-like limbs easily allowed him to continue dueling. The Shifter and Romulus were exhausted from their battle with the light-god, but they inflicted great deals of damage on the vampyres, most of whom refused to go down. (The splinter-agents had broken off to help evacuate the civilians who’d been staying in the palace.) Elsewhere in the palace, Bartlesby was excitedly telling Turk, Tessa, Gwyn, his underaged not-quite-fiancee, and a small gathering of weary, befuddled civilians why the Chronicler (and the villainous light-god, whose soul is currently held captive in my domain; the fun we shall have!) was so interested in the palace. You see, it was all about the Admiral. According to the prophecy, the army of light-creatures was supposed to escort the “true believers” to the afterlife, and only then could the world (universe?) be destroyed. Even with the light-god and his forces dead, that aspect of things was still in place. As long as the sole believer was alive, the actual apocalypse couldn’t be triggered. But if he achieved the afterlife, either via chaperone or murder, it was over. They looked ‘round for him, but he was nowhere to be found.

As such, I’m most distressed to inform you that the fate of countless lives rested on the shoulders of a fool who very much wanted to be king: the jester himself. He, the Admiral, Col. Lindscott, Sephone, and Yaneti had been separated from the other half of my inner circle, when the vampyres attacked. They were running through the palace, doing their best to stay ahead of a vampyre. The vampyre had been ordered to clean up any loose ends; he did not know that killing the Admiral would result in an existence-engulfing explosion of lethal light. The group darted into a large, ornate prayer room, hoping the religious iconography would keep the creature out. There was no one perfect hiding place, so they were forced to split up, and the Admiral ended up next to the jester, in a dusty corner behind a stand with a vase on it. The vampyre entered the room--symbols did not bother it--and sniffed in a satisfied way. It could tell that mortals were present, but not exactly where. Before it started tearing apart the room, it heard the nervous chattering of teeth--the jester, of course. The stand was pushed aside, the jester shrunk back and slid on his bottom against the wall, and the creature grabbed the Admiral by the upper arms.

It was at this point that time itself froze. The Admiral and the other mortals in the room were free from the effect, though he was still held tight by the now-rigid vampyre. Surprisingly, I was not behind it…instead, it was none other than my former employer himself. I jest you not. A consciousness-splitting voice spoke to their minds, and informed them that they could be saved. Then, a shimmering doorway opened in the fabric of reality, and what laid on the other side could not be interpreted by three-dimensional optic nerves. They did not have to perish by vampyre; they could pledge allegiance to him and be spared. I must admit that I did not witness this via a world-window, my former employer blocked my view, and I only discovered the details afterwards. (I was so occupied with the Chronicler that I could do nothing to help.) Now, in the days before I defected, I’d long suggested that he be more involved and merciful. But this was not the best situation for it. If the Admiral took the deal, he’d technically be dead, and the universe would be consumed by light. Sephone, convinced that Troican and I would find a way to get us out of this, did not step forward. Col. Lindscott, having given up on my former employer due to events that happened in the fog of war, did not step forward. The jester was immobile due to terror, and did not step forward. The Admiral was just about to step forward. Yaneti herself stepped forward, but it was not for the reason one might suspect. She physically blocked the doorway and addressed my former employer, present but not present.

A paraphrase of what she said: “This is what you love, isn’t it? Waiting until someone’s only two choices are either you or certain doom, and then swooping in and playing hero. If you’re so merciful, where were you before this? For all your crowing about free will, what you do is nothing but extortion. You give people the ‘option’ of doing what you say or facing eternal death. I’ve read your book, I’ve seen how you break people--or wait until they’re broken. Why are you afraid of us when we’re at our strongest? Why only come after us when we’re vulnerable? Well, I know why, it’s because it’s easier to manipulate us, then. All cult leaders do that. You need an exaggerated foil to make yourself look good, to distract people from your crimes against humanity. And your concept of heaven…don’t get me started. Do you actually think that our idea of paradise is an eternity spent loving and praising you? That’s something a self-centered child would come up with. Oh, am I hurting the big egomaniac’s feelings? Would wiping out another pair of powder cities make us feel better? You rely on an imminent, frightening ending more than anyone, don’t you?”

I must admit, upon first hearing about this, I giggled for a good long time. But, in the interests of a linear narrative, I shall continue with our palace scene. Her monologue had given the Admiral something to think about, and he hesitated. My former employer was quite vexed at this, but before he could do anything, the jester lunged towards the doorway, deciding that this was his best opportunity to escape. In doing so, however, he knocked over the vase on the stand, which had been moved over. The vase was full of holy water, and it splashed on the vampyre, melting off his arms and a good chunk of his chest. The jester tripped in the process, and before he could get back up to make a second dash for the doorway, Sephone kicked him in the groin. Seeing the incapacitated vampyre, the jester weakly declared himself a hero. Frightened by not having a foil to make himself necessary, my former employer was distracted long enough for me to make a move. The Chronicler was still occupying me, so it was a bit off, however. I meant to prevent my former employer from being in that specific governmental building at that specific moment, but I accidentally prevented him from being in any at all for all time. Given the high levels of power I was casually wielding against the Chronicler, I suppose it was only natural that I underestimated the strength of the spell. Pained by this new curse, my former employer absconded, unable to take his revenge against Yaneti. (And he would never have another opportunity to do so; more on that later.)

Outside, the combined forces of Akeros, the World Tree, the ravens, the Masonic 7, and my creatures were finishing off the last of the light-creatures. The Chronicler was a mere several blocks away from the palace, though I was giving it my all to stop him. Inside, Turk’s group found Yaneti’s group, and Turk prepared to do whatever was necessary to defend the Admiral. (And also Gwyn, but I imagine that goes without saying.) Romulus and Shifter continued to battle the vampyres, while Raggedy Anders continued dueling with the Baron. Then, there was a blur, and it knocked the Baron’s legs out from under him. Lying on the floor, he narrowly parried a blow from Anders that would have taken his head off. The blur--a shield--ricocheted and returned to Troican. I don’t mean to be melodramatic, but, three of the greatest combatants that ever lived, in the same room…quite a marvelous affair. Backed against a wall, the Baron held his sword in one hand and his acid-device in the other, and on the latter hand, an alchemical shield grew out of a wristband, hardening instantly. Obviously, the Baron had no love for a mixed-race leader, and he’d long wished for a chance to test Troican’s mettle. Yes, the Baron was outnumbered, but he was fresh, while Raggedy Anders and Troican had been battling for hours.

It happened far too quickly for most to follow. First, the Baron shot a stream of acid at Troican, which was blocked via shield, and then lunged at him sword-first. Troican’s other shield met the Baron’s blade, and Troican lashed out with an elbow, which the Baron blocked. Raggedy Anders leapt into the scene, but the Baron parried his midnight diamond scimitar with his newly-made shield. With both opponents close to him, he backflipped away, casually dropping an orb filled with explosive alchemicals in the process. Troican muffled the blast with his shields, but Raggedy Anders was blown into a wall. The Baron went after him immediately, going in close rather than taking the chance of shooting acid and missing, and Anders--embedded in a wall, mind you--punched him in the throat and slashed at his upper arm with his sword. The Baron recoiled, rolled, and came up shooting acid in every direction, tossing a few more orbs as well. Leading with his shields, Troican cannonballed through the fresh explosions and crashed into the Baron. On his knees, the Baron punched Troican through a wall--remember, the Baron has improved himself through alchemical experimentation. His cut was already healing.

Anders charged at the Baron, who expected another fencing match. But right before their weapons made contact, Anders changed his sword into a razor-sharp, spiked-chain whip, ducked under the Baron’s sword, and used the whip to smash the Baron’s acid device. The Baron hesitated, as he hadn’t been aware of Anders’ weapon’s true nature. Anders lashed out again, tearing the Baron’s shirt and yanking some flesh off. The Baron created distance between the two of them using explosive orbs, and dodged a stray energy beam from Shifter, who was still fighting vampyres alongside Romulus. Relocating his prey, Anders swung his whip once again, but the Baron, being insane, caught it (despite the fact that it reduced his hand to bloody shreds), yanked with all his strength, and swung Anders out the nearest window, his whip trailing behind him. (Remember, they were on the top floor of the tallest building in the city.) A split-second later, one of Troican’s shields cracked the Baron’s skull. The Baron dropped his sword, and the two men began brawling. Though the Baron had the strength of ten men, Troican could block and hit with his shields. I’d estimate that the Baron got one unblocked hit in for every five that Troican delivered. The sharp or blunt edges of his shields hit the Baron in the forehead, the stomach, the thighs, the shoulders, the groin, the eyes…the Baron eventually managed to kick Troican off him, scrambled across the floor, and grabbed his sword.

The two men circled each other in a manner that was far too casual. By lights, Troican should have been exhausted to the point of simply collapsing. A mere mortal who had been in the thick of combat--usually against great numbers and/or beings that were more powerful than himself--for hours. He hadn’t slept or eaten. Troican was strong, intelligent, dedicated…this did not line up with the Baron’s beliefs about the “lower” races. If he lost, and this Troican won, it would mean that he was wrong. In his view, that obviously couldn’t happen. Not couldn’t be allowed to happen, but couldn’t happen, period. It was impossible. Did this cause the Baron to underestimate him? Quite possibly. The Baron and Troican clashed once again, sword versus shields. Troican used sweep kicks and shield-slams, the Baron used sword-thrusts and explosive orbs. Though the Baron had more combat experience (he’d lived for hundreds of years, thanks to alchemical immortality), Troican had learned martial arts secrets. He struck at pressure-points and created great nerve-ending pain in the far stronger man. Then, Anders suddenly swung back into the room, doubling his feet and kicking the Baron in the side of the head. The Baron rolled with it and tumbled away, coming up in a crouching position and pulling out a thick candlestick-like object. It was the same sort of thing his shield was; alchemicals shot out of both ends of the stick and hardened, becoming a two-headed spear.

Spinning the spear, he parried Raggedy Anders’ scimitar, and used his sword to parry Troican’s shields. He leapt, rolled across a table, and--once Anders was on it with him--pushed down on his end, catapulting him. The Baron ducked one of Troican’s shield-thrusts and stabbed him through his armor, in the side. Troican responded by uppercutting him with his other shield, kneeing him in the ribs, and catching the Baron’s head between both of his shields, boxing his ears. The Baron stumbled backwards, only to have his arm chopped off at the shoulder by Anders. His shield and spear clattered onto the floor. Off-balance, the Baron parried Anders’ next blow, but was clubbed by Troican. Pushing off with powerful legs, he leapt to safety. The arm that was on the floor dissolved, and a new, baby-pink one grew back in its place. The Baron’s fallback weapon was lying in a pile of organic ash on the other side of the room, he did not have another acid device, and he was out of explosive orbs. Just then, vampyre carcasses whistled past him, and the Shifter and Romulus backed up their two friends, having won their background battle. The Shifter shot energy at him, but the Baron’s sword absorbed it and redirected it at Romulus, who was knocked head over heels backwards. Anders once again charged, and his sword met the Baron’s…but this time, the midnight diamonds wrapped around the Baron’s sword and yanked it out of his hand, sending it flying high across the room. Wanting to end it, the Shifter turned intangible and strode towards him, intending to simply pull his brain out.

Desperate, the Baron used the last weapon he had--one he’d held back for a very good reason. Taking a small, smoky orb out of his clothes, he smashed it on the floor, and everyone in the room, including him, collapsed in a heap. It was a gas that caused biological beings to lose control of their bodies. The Baron had immunized himself to all of his other chemical and alchemical weapons, but there was only so much he could do against this one. He was able to crawl, while the others were sprawled helplessly. One of the vampyres had been a weapons-carrier, and there were explosive orbs in his satchel. If he could just get to it and roll them towards the others, he’d win. He could still steal the Chronicler’s body, he was sure of it. Right as he was about to lay his hand upon the satchel, he was impaled from behind by a broadsword, which had been taken off one of the fallen vampyres. The petite figure of Gwyn loomed over him, wide-eyed but willing to carry out the command I’d mentally given her. You may recall that Gwyn is an artificial mystical construct…she convincingly mimicks biological functions, but she’s pure energy underneath, and as such, the gas did not affect her.

The Baron’s humiliation showed through his masked face. Despite that, through sheer force of will, he pushed himself to a standing position. The gas and the sword that stuck through his torso made him wobbly in a most undignified way. He lurched towards Gwyn, who narrowly sidestepped him. But she then tripped over Romulus’ prone form, landing flat on her back. The Baron picked up a sword and took a step towards her, drawing his arm back for the kill, only to be blasted through a wall and out of the building. Turk, holding the singing sword and standing beyond the cloud of gas, had delivered the sonic blast. One of my snake-zephyrs arrived to dispel the gas, and Turk bravely peered through the hole the Baron had made. There was a small crater where he’d landed, far below, but his body was gone.

As I prepared additional defenses and attacks to use against the Chronicler, now a stone’s throw from the palace, the truth came to me at last. I’d been using the intrigues and mysteries of Akeros to distract myself from the real issue. This place…this place had been a lesson for me. In it, I saw all the cultures of the world, and all of its history, packed into a single tableau. Remember, I returned to the mortal plane only fairly recently. For a long, long time, I was quite the isolationist, keeping to myself in my Nation. I saw the tragic aftereffects of life and yet did nothing about the root cause. But here, I was confronted with the trials and tribulations that humanity had gone through, the wars and suffering and cultural strife, and I wondered if any of it could have been prevented. This was not the future that I and my like-minded compatriots had envisioned, when we were helping to design reality. After losing the battle, we’d withdrawn from the war, and this madness was the result. I’d allowed my former employer and others like him to have all the influence, instead of supplying that most necessary balance. As I said, in ruling my Nation, I had to deal with those who came into death having already been broken by life. Victims of an unjust, illogical universe that stayed the same merely because of cultural inertia and a willingness to put up with injustice. I’m ashamed to say that it took witnessing both the citizens of my Nation and the citizens of Akeros to finally make me realize what the stakes were. And just when I thought I had a handle on the truth, a larger truth descended on me.

I realized what the third aspect of Troican’s dream had meant--the toys that were growing cocoons, emerging in new forms, and wishing nothing had happened. Look at Akeros. A radical social experiment that was novel in culture and government, yet plagued by the problems of old. We lived in a brave new world that was acting like the past, going through its motions out of habit…an adult era that wished to pretend that the simplicity of youth still applied, rather than be forced to face reality and make hard choices. Akeros reminded me of my long-stalled maturing, and it meant the same for humanity. I realized that there was only one thing left to do, one thing that so many had secretly wished for. It had to be done, to get it out of mankind’s system once and for all. It was time to give the Chronicler what he wanted.

After letting loose with the attacks and defenses I’d been building up, I sent a mental message to those in the palace. It shocked many of them. Raggedy Anders, of course, was the one who acted on it. He threw his scimitar straight at the Admiral, quickly and painlessly lopping off his head. Just beyond the universe, there was a bulging, explosive pocket of light, ready to break through the febrile dimensional membrane and fulfill the light-god’s apocalypse.

While the Chronicler was recoiling from my new onslaught, I made my final move. I teleported both of us into the empty, Uncreated realm I’d used to foil the assassination attempt. Then--using my innate control over light--I harnessed the surge of explosive illumination before it pierced the mortal realm, and I rerouted it to that same empty dimension. Naturally, I directed it at the Chronicler. Before he could teleport away, he was hit by a universe-sized tidal wave of power. This was not a brief impact, mind you…imagine being run over by something infinitely large and wide. Hovering in the nothingness, the Chronicler leaned forward and tried to fight his way through the storm of energy. He called upon all the shields and mystical defenses found in history and fiction, but each shattered in the face of the armageddon blast. [Too much energy-interference to teleport?] His sceptre held firm, but the man holding onto it was like a paper doll in the wind. The Chronicler’s body would wither to almost nothing, reconstitute itself, and wither again. I was not entirely certain how long he could survive this, so I sped up time. The blast lasted for weeks, and eventually, the Chronicler did not heal himself, disintegrating completely. The light-tide gradually died down. I saw the sceptre free-floating, resetting itself and desiring a new master.

Mind you, only a few minutes had passed, back in the mortal realm. Essentially all of the light-creatures were all dead, and the civilians hiding in the Masons’ pyramid were starting to trickle out. A good portion of the city-state had been destroyed, and corpses--exotic and otherwise--littered the streets. A bizarre, impromptu forest had entangled itself with Akeros, thanks to the World Tree. As far as the military could tell, the Chronicler and I had simply vanished. Had we wiped each other out? My inner circle knew I’d been planning something, but, given that I was nowhere to be found, had it gone wrong? Then, out of nowhere, the dark sky was replaced by cerulean blue. Ethereal music--the sort of epic trumpets associated with my kind--began to drift in from all directions. A portal opened high above the palace, and double-helix staircases drilled down, lightly touching ground in the courtyard. I rode one of them, and upon seeing me, and realizing the battle was at last over, the people of Akeros cheered. Calling it a “cheer” doesn’t do it justice, though, as it nearly drowned out my accompanying music. (That’s an ability I rarely have use for, but this situation certainly seemed to call for it.) The ghosts of those who had died in noble defense of their home, and of those caught in the crossfire, rose and went towards the stairs. I’d reserved a place of honor for them in my Nation, if they so chose it. Later, I’d liberate the “Alphans” from their low-rent heaven and dead god, and offer them a superior retirement, if you will.

My inner circle emerged from the palace’s front doors. Tessa ran to me, of course, and we embraced. Other embraces included Turk and Gwyn, Troican and Sephone, Tessa and Gwyn, Shifter and Yaneti, Romulus and some housewife, Tessa and that one servant-boy, myself and Sephone, Col. Lindscott and the Admiral’s headless corpse (I did bring him back to life, though I really shouldn’t have; if only I could perform mass resurrections), the jester and an extremely annoyed Silver Sentry, Bartlesby and his young lover, etc. Similar scenes were taking place throughout Akeros. I ruffled Turk’s hair, while Troican and I simply shook hands. (I healed him, of course.) The World Tree gathered himself into the closest he could come to human form--a massive face carved into an urban forest--and smiled inhumanly at us. His splinter-agents bowed regally at Troican’s feet. Raggedy Anders and that one female raven-warrior talked excitedly about the battle. Her compatriots, and my vultures and snake-zephyrs, descended and settled on buildings or the ground. The Masonic 7 had vanished back into the shadows.

More happened on this day, diary, but I’m quite drained from its events, and I shall recount them later. There’s only one detail left to address. When we’d finally had a chance to catch our breath, and were wondering what to do next, the Chronicler’s sceptre re-entered this reality. There was a moment of panic, as we feared that the Chronicler might have somehow survived. It made an orbit around the city, going lower each time, slowing down and then speeding up. Finally, when it was directly over my inner circle, it stopped and fell straight down. Unthinking, Yaneti reached up to catch it, and found herself empowered. The sceptre had chosen a new wielder, one who wouldn’t fall prey to the existential weaknesses that had afflicted its previous one. A Chronicler of Stories who was perfectly fine with the fact that the story she guided had no beginning and no ending, and too many beginnings and too many endings. Yaneti found herself covered by a light brown hooded robe, the gleaming, golden sceptre throbbing in her hand. The Shifter was hilariously surprised, but also wonderfully happy. Huzzah!

As the honored dead rode the moving staircases up to my Nation, triumphant music swelled in the background, lovers and family reunited, and the forces of anti-civilization retreated or lay dead, I must say, I couldn’t stop smiling. It’s good to be back.


Sunday, June 27, 483 C.U.:


[preceding page blotted out by my own blood; “more on that later,” as the dainty one would say] posing as a mortal shipbuilder all this time! His name is Leikr, and he’s virtually a legend amongst his people, who call themselves the Ausgardians. They’re something of an offshoot of Norse mythology--they left their great halls and settled above Australia several million years ago, as I recall. At any rate, Leikr was the genius behind the Horizonless, the Crystal Gale, and other such legendary vessels. His play-acting as a human was quite convincing, but some of his past design elements have crept into his modern work, and I recognized him thusly. (It’s interesting, how a master shipbuilder, the Masons, and artists like Tessa have all flocked to Akeros.) He was initially reticent regarding my generous offer--he pointed out that he hadn’t built such a ship in thousands of years; indeed, no-one had. However, after some convincing, he was perfectly willing to comply. His mortal lover is most agitated about the whole affair, mind you. But the simple truth is that Eden is a goodly distance away, and a flying ship would greatly help matters, as teleportation is unfortunately out of the question. Oh, dear…I am, as ever, getting ahead of myself.

I must once again apologize for the two-week gap between entries, Diary, but much has happened since the siege ended. Reconstruction, speedy trials for various offenders, plans being modified, major life-choices, that sort of thing. It all culminated in the christening (if you will permit me to use such a word) ceremony of this evening, which, as I write, has just now wrapped up. Even from my high window, I can see revelers happily wandering the streets, intoxicated by the change the city has just gone through. Our bags are packed, goodbyes have been said, and the ship--I do not believe Leikr has yet named it--is oriented towards its destination. The ship has been an object of fascination and speculation for much of the last week. (Once the World Tree provided the materials, it took no time at all to complete, albeit with a little mystical help from myself.) The Silver Sentries assigned to guard it (a mere formality, protection-spells are in place) have had to shoo away many swarming tykes, who wish to get a closer look at the ship before it launches for our secret destination. We’ll be leaving at daybreak, mere hours from now.

I suppose I should get the bad news out of the way. A third of Akeros’ military perished in the conflict (of the survivors, over half were moderately or seriously wounded), and the majority of the citizen-soldiers--that is to say, civilians who took up arms in defense of their home--died. So, many widows and orphans were left in the siege’s wake. But thanks to the pyramid-shelter, hardly any non-combatants were lost. In the end, most of the city itself was destroyed, including its walls, its residential areas, and its various places of business. Homelessness and joblessness loomed for most. In the hours immediately following the victory, this did not seem so pressing, as being alive was all that mattered. But as things settled down, it was clear that there was much work to be done. Taking care of the wounded, reuniting families that had been separated in the chaos, trying to get the government back up and running, and securing the city (what if one of Akeros’ enemies pounced on it, in its weakened state?). This was a time when everyone was forced to do things normally out of their realm. Tessa cooked in a shelter, Turk used wound-cleaning/bandaging skills he’d been taught only hours before, Gwyn helped organize the distribution of water, Raggedy Anders kept the children entertained (this most annoyed him), etc. I can honestly say that I healed several dozen thousand people in the first 48 hours; whatever mistrust the people had of me had evaporated, or perhaps I seemed less threatening after what they’d just gone through.

Troican met with his commanders and government ministers--I was present, albeit in astral form only--to prioritize their problems. The three major ones were the diminished state of their military, the well-being of their people, and the damage done to the city itself. First, Troican politely asked the World Tree to provide temporary shelter for those who’d lost their homes--soon after that, wooden cottages sprang out of the ground, furnished by wooden furniture. By no means were they anything fancy, but they’d get the job done for the near future. Akeros’ government had an economic surplus from its shipbuilding and other exports, and he tapped into it to take care of the war widows and orphans, both official and otherwise. This most angered one of his more fiscally conservative ministers, who claimed that they needed to “get over it” and solve their own problems; Troican very nearly throttled him. Military outposts were set up around Akeros, often in the ruins of the wall.

Now then: facing issues such as mass unemployment, the condition of the military, and rebuilding, Troican, being strategically clever, chose to play these problems off of each other. The Masons had already approached him, willing to help mastermind the rebuilding of the city they called home--though they readily admitted that they’d need a huge workforce to do so. Troican asked them to have guild instructors sent to Akeros, as he’d soon have all the able bodies they’d ever need. Using broadsheets to spread the message, he told the hundreds of thousands who’d lost their jobs and homes of a “new deal” he was offering: if you become a tradesman or soldier, you and your family will be taken care of. Once the city is rebuilt and secure, you can go back to your old jobs, or stay in your new ones. This, I suppose, was the continuation of Troican’s new social-contract, which involved charity for those who couldn’t take care of themselves and opportunities for those who could. The reaction to this was spectacular. Craftsman classes are going day and night, and construction should begin before summer’s end. I’ve seen the Masons’ ideas for the new look of Akeros, and they’re quite radically modern, I must say. Streets set on a grid, many tall buildings, and new architectural styles that are free of the city’s painful past.

The military refurbishing, on the other hand, is slightly more complicated. Please do not think me callous by saying this, but, in the big picture, the ground-troops who died were easier to replace than the commanders who died. With Troican’s new deal, there are all sorts of men willing to be trained, but not many experienced leaders to train them. To this end, Col. Lindscott has abandoned all forms of imbibing and asked to leave my employ, so that he might help out in this task. Col. Lindscott befriended many soldiers during his time here, and the siege changed his entire outlook. He’d once thought that he had nothing more to offer the world, and was more than happy to idle away his retirement having adventures…but now, he sees that he’s needed. I happily granted his request, and Troican happily accepted him into the fold. He’s been given a new room in the palace, and he’ll be taken care of by that one certain servant-girl. Another positive factor in this department is that, while the siege was obviously a catastrophe for most, it was the combat experience of a lifetime for some. Good soldiers became great soldiers, and some civilians found that they have a high aptitude for combat. These individuals are ready to be put in positions of minor leadership, which will greatly help, in an infrastructure sense. Raggedy Anders and the female raven-warrior, whose name is Erianna, have also been helping with training.

Now, the entire world knows that the people of Akeros helped save reality, and accordingly, one would think that relief and charity would be flowing in, even from their ostensible enemies. Well, that was not immediately the case. The Masons, having a vast fortune of truly old money, did what they could through well-disguised third-parties, and I too tapped into some of my mortal realm accounts. The [avian kingdom], thankful for my help in their revolution, sent supplies. As for those that didn’t help…well, being an optimistic Romanticist, I’ve long believed in giving people the chance to improve their personal character. As such, I was more than happy to teleport-visit certain foreign leaders and impress upon them the joy they’d receive by helping their fellow man. Soon thereafter, debts were forgiven, grain was sent, trade agreements were relaxed, and so on. Troican was most thankful, though he eyed me in a bemused fashion whenever he’d learn that King so-and-so had inexplicably discovered that he had a conscience after all.

The destruction of the city had some interesting side-effects, I must say. Take, for instance, the matter of population-density. As a walled city, Akeros could not spread out as it grew. It grew “up” to a limited degree, but the city was still quite cramped and crowded. Most of its buildings were two or three stories tall, and now that they’ve been destroyed, people have had to spread out, even beyond the remains of the wall. Some of the coastal farmland that once surrounded Akeros was trampled by the light-creatures, and is now unusable, so tents were pitched on it, and World Tree huts soon followed. The military moved their outposts further, well, out to compensate. The initial plan was to rebuild the wall where it had stood, and after what I just described, they were going to stretch its boundaries…but now, it looks as if the wall shall not be rebuilt at all. It’s simply too costly, with all the other expenses they have. There are other, more modern defenses that the city can employ in its protection. Besides, half the men are getting intensive military training, and the city is now associated with beings like myself, the new Chronicler, and the newly-returned Aker, whom I shall get to in a little bit. After fighting off a Chronicler and a god, will anyone really mess with it anytime soon? Troican initially clung to the idea of restoring the wall, but I told him that after how close they’d come to death, their population was bound to explode, and any wall they erected (pun intended) would crumble in the face of the siege-inspired baby boom and the greater territory it would require.

Gwyn has had a most interesting two weeks. She volunteered along with the rest of us in the first few days after the siege, but she seemed somewhat preoccupied. I thought it was fear--left over from her confrontation with the Baron, or for Turk and his life-risking actions during the siege. But I quite underestimated her. Before I continue, I feel I should stress that Gwyn’s demeanor and physical bearing are still exactly the same. She’s prim and proper, a frail, timid-looking creature, all dark hair, pale skin, and doe-eyes. Though she’s always been a voracious reader, it was to my amazement that I found her flipping through my former employer’s tome. She said that I was missing something, and she intended on fulfilling it. I quite naturally had no idea what she was talking about. She contacted many broadsheet men and invited them to hear her speak on some unknown subject in the remains of the park. As she’s a member of my party, they came. Turk accompanied her, having no idea what she was up to. Many of Yaneti’s followers, familiar with her, also showed up.

It was in the park that this quintessential good girl, speaking in her virginal voice, announced that she was forming a group of disciples devoted to me. Or rather, devoted to always hearing both sides of the story. “disciple” merely means “learner,” and she still intends on being a disciple of everything, if you will. I’m merely a rallying point. I suppose one could call it a quest for a more even-handed form of analysis, free of the assumptions and exaggerations of conventional history. Something of an enlightenment. Once the right questions are asked, changing the world will take care of itself. At any rate, due to my slight heroism and healing, she had quite a few converts on the very first day. In the past, groups centered around me have been more about the propaganda than the reality, but not this time. I’m quite proud of her, as is Yaneti, who has been watching her from afar. She now does what Yaneti did, going on walks in the public square and giving casual talks that attract many. She’s a natural leader. Of all the criticisms I have for my former employer, his early organizational structure was most innovative, with its subversive cells and idea-spreading strategy. I’m glad that Gwyn is copying it. And like me, she greatly enjoys messing with the expectations that travel with her. People think of her as harmless and immature; playing the unlikely radical is a perfect fit. She’ll be accompanying us to Eden, but she’s left other disciples in her wake, who can carry on in her temporary absence.

Speaking of Eden…while our time in Akeros has been tremendously important, it started out as something of a side-quest. I originally came here to regain contact with the Shifter, and then to help this city overcome its issues, so he’d be free to help me break Eden’s mystical barrier. I still have the map that shows the way, which I acquired from the underground colony of New Troy. It’s quite far away, which is why I had Leikr--and some mortal helpers--make the ship for us. When I told him where it was (under a spell-vow of silence), he was most shocked. It’s the last place anyone would have expected to look. While the rebuilding has been going on, the Shifter has been working to pierce Eden’s barrier, and he’s come up with a number of strategies to get us in and out. But he wishes to stay in Akeros and oversee its progress. He’s a societal shepherd, not an explorer, so he’s quite right in wanting that. At the same time, he’s been busy helping Yaneti adjust to her new cosmic office. The ravens, who had wisely turned against the previous Chronicler, have since re-allied themselves with her. Well, all but one, anyway. Erianna, feeling that she should have done more to stop him before the siege, has resigned from the Chronicler’s service. Raggedy Anders invited her to come along with us.

Romulus left earlier in the evening, heading off with a caravan bound for Vatican City. Since the Mystery-Pope’s demise, the Church’s criminal empire has fractured and gone to war with itself. It appears that no-one knew of the Mystery-Pope’s secret identity--I suspect they were too blinded by his skill at extorting nation-states and brokering profitable agreements. With no clear leader to replace him, it’s been hilarious anarchy. The nation of Italy is in roughly the same state; without the Church pulling its strings, it doesn’t know what to do. This is the perfect time to make our legal move, so Romulus shall go to court and attempt to regain control of the land he once ruled. Under my long-distance supervision, of course. Romulus remains seduced by the modern world and its various trappings, and I believe that a good deal of anger and violence was expunged from his system during the siege, so he should be less problematic for a while. Armed with fine clothes, legal strategies, and lusty maidens eager to see the world, Romulus’ last words to me were along the lines of how he no longer thought that modern civilization was boring. (The other members of my party, quite frankly, were not sad to see him go, though Raggedy Anders held a certain limited respect for his skill in combat.)

Once the coalition’s war-scheming was revealed--specifically, how they attempted to use the assassination attempt and uncertainty that followed to their own advantage, and how they planned to kill the jester to give themselves a martyr to their piecemeal cause--the lot of them were very nearly hung on the spot, and Troican had to issue speedy trials for their own protection. All were found guilty of various crimes and sentenced to life in prison, but spared execution. In short, Troican was a good deal kinder than I would have been. The jester was put under house arrest in the palace, also for his own safety, and he actually had to share a room with the Admiral, which was high comedy. Speaking of the Admiral…well, it was roughly the same situation. He’d gone from suicidal failure to international hero to hated villain, as everyone now knew of his plan to keep the “Alphan” paradise for himself and deny it to the rest of humanity. He’s yet to be formally convicted of anything, but he knows his life is essentially over. Col. Lindscott still visits him daily, trying to keep his spirits up. He’s more weak than evil, though there isn’t always a difference. Like many minor men who triggered major events, he suffers from both fear of his own power and hatred for how helpless he feels. Additionally, the husband of the full-bottomed Italian/South African woman, who told us about the coalition’s true plans, has been approached by Troican. He has no wish to establish a one-party state, but at the same time, the replacements for the coalition must be moderate and competent, rather than crazy. The husband will attempt to take a leadership role and drag them back towards the center. His wife physically thanked me for keeping her husband safe from his former allies, and with that, our brief affair concluded. One might argue that, by bathing on the rooftop across from the palace, she knew she’d attract my attention--and thus be able to ask me to help her husband. Had I been used? If so, it was most pleasant.

According to both my intelligence and Troican’s, the Baron is once again secluded in his Eastern Europa mountain fortress, guarded by vampyre tribes, scientifically re-animated corpses, and mortal forces. I imagine he can’t be too happy with how things turned out, and I’m sure he’d like to get revenge against Troican and Anders, and Turk and Gwyn…well, the former can take care of themselves, and the latter are under my protection. Had I not been so occupied with the Chronicler, I’d have reduced the Baron to ash with but a glance. If he indeed ever tries anything against them, he shall live, and die, to regret it. I have a special dungeon in my Nation, where I see to it that certain truly evil individuals are made to suffer for all eternity. (That’s one part of my former employer’s propaganda that I never quite understood. If I am supposed to be evil, and if only evil people end up in my Nation, and if my Nation is only a place of suffering…why don’t I ally myself with these evil people, rather than make them suffer? It’s quite mutually-exclusive. In truth, my realm is morally neutral, containing the 99% of humanity that did not excessively pander to my former employer’s ego. I do mete out some punishment, but it’s surprisingly rare.) As for another wild card from the battle: Lord Parston’s body was never recovered. Blasted through a building and made to fall a great distance by Turk and the singing sword, jumped by the Masonic 7, thrashed by Troican, shot down and set on fire by flaming arrows…I doubt he survived, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility. More likely, his carcass was tossed into one of the light-creature-burning piles. Just to be safe, I double-checked the security of my Timberlands castle, where Lady Parston, her lady-love, and her lady-love’s ragamuffins reside. I’m pleased to report that no mortal could get in, due to its invulnerable walls and locked doors. I posted guards there after the assassination attempt, and I shall have them hold their positions for the time being.

On a lighter note, I seem to have once again inadvertantly conquered the fashion world. There’s something of a clothing shortage, and I was in a unique position to help. I dragged some of my wardrobes out of otherdimensional storage and played St. Nick, tossing old, unused outfits to and fro. As such, the population of Akeros as a whole looks considerably more flamboyant and foppish. The pastel colors, giants hats and scarves, and animal prints work better on women than men, though they’ve had to bring the chests and hips out. (As it turns out, I’m more petite than even most women, so that’s made things a bit difficult.) It’s quite amusing to be walking down the street and see an embarrassed craftsman wearing a white sloth fur coat that was given to me by one primordial warlord or the other. Many parents have ordered their sons not to wear my gifts, fearing some dangerous lifestyle effect. Pandapiddle! Number one, I’m living proof that one can be non-traditionally masculine and still have the urge to romance women, and number two, clothes have no effect on the biological quirk these parents are thinking of. It’s merely an evolutionary safeguard against overpopulation, which I snuck in when my former employer wasn’t looking. But, I digress.

Bartlesby has been spending most of his time on the far western continent, which will be called “Columbia,” out of respect for that foolish explorer who died after going over Earth Falls. He’s been helping a multinational group of explorers set up, there--I opened a permanent portal to the continent, so they’ll be able to go back and forth even after we’ve left. Though Bartlesby’s initial reaction to the infinite nature of the past was depressive, his initial reaction to everything is that way, and he’s since reined in his various neuroses. It’s actually worked to his advantage, somewhat. Despite being an archeologist, Bartlesby is always looking for the next, the new. Whenever he makes a major discovery, his elation is soon followed by boredom and restlessness, as he’s ready to move on to something fresh. Had he actually discovered the fabled Alpha, the original civilization, he probably would have killed himself by now, as he’d have nothing further back to look for. But once he got over his need for a concrete starting point, he realized that the reality suits him perfectly. There will always be a society further back in time, a previous chapter of history that we did not know about, something new for him to get into. As Yaneti--excuse me, as the Chronicler said to me, the other day, the book of reality begins in the middle, and it writes itself both backwards and forwards. And, as my dear reader may have surmised, Bartlesby’s engagement did not last beyond the siege. His strong-willed, not-quite-legal paramour certainly tried to make it last, as did her attractive (and currently unmarried) mother, who approached Bartlesby with a peculiar offer. I do not know the specifics, but I do know that Bartlesby is most anxious to leave Akeros alone.

Turk, Raggedy Anders, and even Romulus received medals of valor for their actions during the siege, with Troican giving them the highest non-military honors possible. I must say, Turk’s view of the world has expanded greatly. Initially, he was completely unaware of the world beyond London’s East End, but the experience he’s gained in our travels has strengthened his understanding. And after seeing what the true stakes are--how close we came to the end of everything--he’s become much more withdrawn and cerebral. He’s always had a wary protectiveness about him, but now, it’s couched in a quiet disguise, rather than being obvious. And his manners and speech have become more refined, though I’d venture to guess that he still feels out of place in upper-class (or even middle-class) settings. You could say that he’s gotten good at pretending; he has a stoic, low-key public persona, while looking at the world through the eyes of a paranoid ex-pickpocket. He’s enjoyed his time in Akeros, however, as this sort of rowdy city is the universe he’s most familiar with. (I fear for his reaction to the vast wilderness of Eden.) Also, he and Gwyn are still going strong. He’s largely stayed out of her disciple initiative, as I suspect he feels that she should have something that’s hers and hers alone. I cannot recall if I mentioned this or not, but Turk has occasionally played the role of second-story man, and I had him commit several discreet break-ins to ensure that Troican’s political enemies are behaving.

I’m pleased to report that Ivory Hall survived the siege intact--Sephone moved most of the art to an underground location, just to be safe, but the building was never touched. So, Tessa’s carvings are perfectly fine. You may have noticed that I hadn’t really mentioned her, up to this point. Well, I’m afraid that she’ll be staying behind. She feels that Akeros is the best place for her to further her art, and I have to agree, it’s perfectly situated to be a cultural mecca. This is obviously the right decision for her, though I’ll miss her greatly. As such, the last two weeks have been quite difficult, especially for Gwyn. Tessa has repeatedly and profusely thanked me for the opportunities I gave her…since we met, she’s gone from being a poor barmaid with a carving hobby to a famous, wealthy artist. I pointed out that she was already an elemental artist, she merely needed someone to help unlock her talent and give her the debut she was worthy of. We’ve already had our final lovemaking sessions, and she made me promise to come back and visit, but if my Eden gambit goes poorly, I suppose it’s possible that I could never see her again. On a more positive note, she’s done her level best to keep Turk and Gwyn’s relationship strong. She’s always given sexual advice to Gwyn, and she finally got tired of merely explaining it. One morning, an overwhelmed Turk stumbled out of her bedroom, and the next, an overwhelmed Gwyn did much the same. Both are now more aware of how to please each other, I’d imagine. My life seems much dimmer without her as my personal sun, but it’s time for both of us to do what we must.

Well, I’ve since moved my locale, Diary. Final goodbyes have been said, and we’re now aboard the ship. I am the captain--phantom crew magic can do the rest. Turk has just told Gwyn where we’re going, Raggedy Anders and Erianna are fencing, Bartlesby is writing in his own journal and taking medicinal vapors for his weak blood, Rahj has created a personal kingdom on his regular-sized bed, and the jester is hiding in the pantry. Troican was getting tired of having him around the palace, and I offered to drop him off in a place where he’d be safe. It’s always good to have a pawn around, as pawns have a unique way of looking at the world, sort of an idiot savant dynamic. Also, we might need a sacrifice at some point. Additionally, Leikr and his mortal lover are along for the ride. She seems to hate me most passionately. Another new addition is a sentry from my Nation, who will take over Col. Lindscott’s role as security advisor. His name is Morrow. He is native to my realm, which is to say that he was never alive--this is his first time in the living world. Light, sound, and matter are new concepts for him, and he’s been forced to wear shaded blinders that trappers use when on the arctic plains or in vast deserts. In the hold, I have several bundles of energy that, according to the Shifter, will enable us to pierce Eden’s mystical barrier. (I shall be getting to its precise location in just one moment, I assure you.)

I’m mystically transcribing once again, as I make final preparations for our launch. I suppose I should explain what I meant by “christening,” earlier. You see, four days ago, there were reports that some sort of monster was loose in the city. It was a large, long lion, with a head at both ends, and many legs, like a centipede. It could change its size and length at will. I calmed the Silver Sentries that had been called to combat it, as it was Aker, whom the city was named after. Aker was once the guardian of the [word meaning both “entrance” and “exit”] of death, i.e., my Nation. He was also the ancient Egyptian god of duality. He’d been far away when he’d heard about his old city being in danger, and he’d come as quickly as he could. The populace was transfixed by his presence. He offered to stay as a guardian, until Akeros gets its military back on its feet. As such, we’re able to leave earlier than we’d originally planned, as I did not feel right abandoning the city when it was still comparatively weak. He did have a request, however. Akeros has always been about the past, and he feels that it needs a new beginning. As such, he gave permission for them to rename themselves. The new name mirrors half the spirit of the original--yes to duality, no to the death aspect of things. In reflecting their omnicultural nature, they’ve gone with Panopolis. Huzzah!

I have only three more surprises left up my sleeve, Diary. (At least, for today.) The first involves the Garden of Eden. Well, it’s been growing unchecked for the last several million years, so I suppose it’s more of a Jungle of Eden, now. I haven’t been there since the Adam and Eve affair (pun once again intended), but I know for a fact that it will have ruins, which should please Bartlesby, and it may even have a thriving civilization or two. I fear that humanity was only told the first chapter of its long and storied history. You may recall that one of my kind, with a flaming sword, was posted to guard it and keep Adam and Eve out. Well, I’m afraid that’s both a metaphor and a reality. There was indeed an angel with a flaming sword, and he did indeed engage in an action to keep future generations out, but it wasn’t by merely standing there like a rock. He stabbed his sword into the ground and created a network of volcanoes, which spat lava high into the air, instantaneously creating a dome that covered Eden. Lava also flowed down its sides, creating another dome underneath it. Yes, underneath. Eden was something of a sky-island, you see, and now, it’s a vast red sphere. Mortals call it “Mars.” [What the…!?] I’m told that it looks exactly the same on the inside--or underground, if you will--due to mystically-produced sky, weather, and air. An ostensible paradise, the size of a supercontinent, has been preserved and hidden there for all eternity.

Now, there are those who say that earth is a “planet,” and that Mars is another such object. I’m afraid not. The world is flat, and the darkness you see above is not a vacuum, but merely unlit sky. There are round chunks of rock called sky-islands, and Mars was made to look like one of those. (If you doubt me, please, go read my former employer’s book and tell me where it says that Eden is on earth. I’ll wait.) My former employer has little use for it, these days. But I have a plan which involves it, which is my second surprise. Between them, Adam and Eve only ate one apple, but it still expanded their consciousness tremendously, the effects of which are still felt today, millions of years later. Imagine if one were to eat such an apple every day! My former employer has a virtual monopoly on cosmic awareness, but humanity could be made to learn all that he knows. All I need to do is breach the mystical barrier, teleport through the red-rocked façade of Mars, access Eden, and steal some apple-seeds. The monopoly, I tell you, shall be broken at last! Last time, humanity thought it lost paradise because of the apple, but this time shall be quite different. Trust me.

There’s much commotion as I’m transcribing this, for I’ve just told them where Eden is, and I’m about to reveal my third and final surprise. As our destination is high in the proverbial heavens, I had to commission a special sort of ship. The Ausgardians once roamed the cosmos in flying, solar-sail vessels such as this. Among the crowd assembled to see us off, I can spot Troican, Sephone, the Shifter, the Chronicler, Aker, the Italian/South African housewife whose name I always forget, various Masons, and, of course, Tessa. The ship is moving, and it has just lifted off, breaking contact with the water. Gwyn is laughing breathlessly, Bartlesby has taken his flask out, and the jester just now soiled himself. I’ve asked everyone to stay below deck until things even out; such trifles do not bother me, however, and I am commanding the wheel in the open air. Clouds are blurring by, and I’d imagine that only white and blue flickers can be seen through the portholes. Below, I see the stairstep nature of earth, with falls or mountains separating each plane. We’ve now plunged into the darkness, with only the solar-sail to light our way. Waves of blind, freakish, deep-sky birds are scattering before us. Good-bye, Akeros! Good-bye, dear old earth! Onward to the Jungle of Eden! Onward to glory!

[Ed. note--end of Volume 2; Volume 3 is upcoming. I’ve been shot. There’s a conspiracy to cover up the true location of Eden--I don’t know if it’s the government or the church or both, but they’re after me, and they’re after the Diaries. I had to steal them, to keep them from falling into the wrong hands. I’ve been on the run for just over twenty hours. I’m not an action hero, I work for the Ministry of Exotic Antiquity, for god’s sake. The most exciting my life ever got was DVD shopping. I should be safe here, for at least a while. The bullet went right through, and I’ve got it decently bandaged. But I’m afraid to go to sleep…not just because of the conspiracy, but because of the dreams. I keep seeing him. I don’t think this is just history, I think he’s doing something now…]


Next: A special third-person-narrated TDS #2.5, starring Lord Parston and the Baron! Then, regular narration returns for TDS #3, the epic conclusion to the trilogy!