[Actual Play Report] Fiasco: Saturday Night '78

When the mob hitman punched the undercover cop in the police station parking lot, I knew we had a fiasco on our hands.

The Setup

There were six of us, all veteran gamers, and all new to Fiasco except me (only by a hair's breadth, though) so I stepped back to facilitate the others. Saturday Night '78 won out over Flyover and News Channel Six. I was secretly happy because if we were gonna play Flyover I wanted in on the action, dammit!

I don't know if it we were trying too hard to connect everything at the beginning or if we just got a Setup that was more nonsensical than most, but there was an early speedbump in trying to get a coherent starting situation going. We got there eventually, but we had dry-erase markers and relationship maps drawn up, which made me wonder about getting through the game in two hours (hint: we were not done in two hours).

The situation was complicated enough at the start that 2 of the guys just used their real names for their character names. We had:

• Mitch, playing Mitch the mouthy dance club boss, a has-been former rival of
• Todd, playing Jackie the breakout disco star, coked-up daughter of a New York state senator. Her last dance partner, secretly an undercover cop assigned to protect her, was killed, and now her new dance partner was
• Matt, playing Karl Correia, an undercover cop assigned to protect Jackie, but who was still sweet on
• Ben, playing Tammie, secretly pregnant lover of Karl and
• Joe, playing Joe, mob hitman employed by Mitch to kill Tammie's twin sister, who was Jackie's dancer partner as well as an undercover cop.

Whew.

Act I

Real early on, we set up a rivalry when Joe punched Karl in the police station parking lot. Everyone got arrested, Tammie let slip she was pregnant, and most importantly, Joe's car got impounded with Tammie's dead sister in the trunk. Karl got assigned to protect Jackie and as they started training for the Discocentennial dance party to be held in Mitch's club, Mitch started plotting against Jackie. See, she was the actual target. Joe fucked up and killed Tammie's sister, Sammie, instead. Mitch gave Karl and Jackie some doctored coke but it went all wrong for Mitch. The two dancers performed like nothing anyone had ever seen, leading Mitch to start obsessing over recreating this disco super-soldier coke. Oh, and he also sent Joe to kill the right person this time.

Joe knocked out Karl on the steps of Jackie's brownstone and dragged him and the seriously impaired Jackie inside. He didn't even bother to tie her up, she was so wasted. Joe just set fire to the house and walked back to his car. Karl had come around, coaxed Jackie into fishing in his pants for his penknife, freed himself, and crashed out the window carrying Jackie - right onto the hood of Joe's car! Joe got out to flee but Tammie came out of nowhere driving Joe's car (recently freed from the impound), Sammie's corpse riding shotgun. She tagged Joe with the front fender and sent him to the pavement. That left crazy pregnant Tammie with three unconscious or incapacitated people. What to do, what to do...

Apparently what to do was take everyone to an abandoned slaughterhouse, tie them up, and start torturing them until someone told Tammie who killed her sister. It was Sammie's idea. Joe was first, since Todd was still playing Jackie as completely useless and drugged out of her mind and Karl was a cop. It was interesting here that this was Karl's scene. He had us establish it, and most of the early interaction was between Joe and Tammie, but Karl finally got all those stereotypically great lines like "You don't want to do this!" and "It'll be worse for you if you kill him!" and "It won't bring Sammie back!" Inside, Karl was wrestling with his duty as a cop to save Joe's life. Joe, the scumbag who had been banging Tammie behind his back. Tammie took bolt cutters to Joe's pinky finger and Karl made up his mind. He reached his leg up and managed to reach the ankle holster. There were two shots, then screaming, then end scene.

Jackie had the last scene of Act I, and we learned that Tammie lived but lost the baby, Joe and Karl never made it to a hospital, and Jackie was still going to dance in the Discocentennial celebration. Especially if she could get more of Mitch's crazy coke.

The Tilt

Confusion, followed by pain

A dangerous animal (possibly metaphorical) gets loose

Act II

It was really, really late when we begun Act II. All the attempts to maintain continuity and our longer-than-normal setup phase were dragging us into the wee hours, so we made a group decision to just do one scene per player for Act II. Joe started it off duct-taped to Karl's car, his hand roughly bandaged, while Karl tried to set up a meeting with Mitch somewhere public, like a zoo. Mitch just hung up (dammit, no rampaging elephants!), Karl had Joe start driving over to Mitch's club at gunpoint.

Tammie's last scene was a flash-forward. She was in court, and Jackie and Karl were there near her. All she asked them was, "Can you ever forgive me?"

Karl replied, "You need to start by forgiving yourself."

Jackie just said, "Of course I forgive you!" We weren't sure Jackie knew where she was or even what she'd been doing the last couple scenes. Or ever, really.

Then it was back to the present and Mitch's club, which was packed with people. Some of them were even there for the Discocentennial. As things progressed, however, it became apparent that most of them were undercover cops or people working for Jackie's father, Senator Wolfe (there's your dangerous animal). What happened next had the "confusion followed by pain" covered. Karl tried to accost Mitch, but Mitch had several cops on his side in his VIP room. Plus, Karl's tape recorder had been pickpocketed on his way up to Mitch. He had nothing he could use to touch Mitch. Mitch, who was Senator Wolfe's biggest drug supplier. It was the 70s, man.

Aftermath

We were all amazed at how prescient the Aftermath table results were. Even though Mitch tried his damndest to "win" in the narrative, most of the other players picked up on the strategy of poisoning a player's dice pool with mixed dice. Meanwhile, Todd (Jackie) wasn't really doing anything to antagonize anyone, either in-game or out, so although Jackie ended up with a small pile of dice, it was a monochrome pile.

• Mitch (white 2): Mitch failed at disco dancing, and with the heat and suspicion brought on by the Discocentennial debacle, he failed at being a drug dealer. Mitch could never move on, though. Year after year, he'd travel to more and more backward countries as disco died, trying to recapture his heyday and failing every single time.
• Joe (white 6): Joe avoided jail time because there was no conclusive evidence that he'd killed Sammie. He learned an important lesson about doing work for drug addicts, however, and kept his head down after that. A little smarter, a little older, and with nothing to show for his efforts, Joe kept on in much the same way he always had as the 1980s crept over the horizon.
• Tammie (white 2): Tammie was convicted for the murder of her sister and went to fucking jail, where he still saw Sammie's corpse from time to time. Sometimes it rocked a small bundle in its arms.
• Karl (white 5): Karl got thrown off the force for good and ended up manning a tollbooth. His existence was so banal he almost didn't notice that the latest guy to drive through the tolls was missing his pinky finger. Karl looked up in surprise and recognition, but the man was already gone.
• Jackie (white 11): Jackie danced her way to the Discocentennial championships and won. Her coked-up meandering through life (and the lottery of being born a senator's daughter) ensured she never pissed anyone off so badly that they tried to kill her again.

We all loved Fiasco. What I'd probably do next time is, now that we have several people in the group who have experience with it now, is split any future games into 3 or 4 player chunks, as they recommend in the books. I also wouldn't worry so much about keeping internal consistency, because that really dragged the time out. Shorter scenes, more dialogue, less attachment to the characters. There's a very strange effect that happens where you know going into Fiasco that the dude you're playing is not going to make it out in one piece, but goddammit, you try anyway. You try like hell.

Actual Play: Fate Core (Highway to Hell)

I've been running a Fate campaign about monster-hunting bikers for a year or two now. We started with the Dresden Files RPG, then converted over to Fate Core when that Kickstarter took off. This was our 15th session, and effectively a season 2 finale.

A bit of background: I use the Dresden Files bestiary in most respects, but politically the supernatural world is more like the TV show Supernatural, with small nests or cells of monsters instead of secret nations like in Dresden (although there is room for some government conspiracy).

In this session, our heroes start to use and then completely ignore John Rogers' excellent Crimeworld supplement from the Fate Core Worlds in Shadow book, we bring in every character any player has played in the campaign, and I kill a PC.

Pretty much.

The "serious business" name for the campaign is "Highway to Hell", but my group just calls it Dresdenatural.  Here we go.

Session 15 - The Windy City (Season Finale)

Reward: Phat Lewt (and lots of it!)

Who was there?

Scott Specter, "Mean Motherfucking Servant of God".

Carter Mews, "Arcane Acquisitions Expert".

Clayton Haycock James, "Marine Recon Biker".

Ajaz Gurt, "Relentless Nephilite".

Rick Eagle, "Avenging Roadie".

THE ROAD SO FAR

Last time, the gang captured Magog’s denarius and acquired up-to-date intel on their nemesis, the denarian Pantagruel, and the corporate offices of Crowley-Lampkin he was currently using as his base of operations. It was time to put down the demon and rip off his vault full of magical artifacts. The only snag was that the gang had Magog’s denarius in hand. I set up this session to open with a hard choice - do they take the time to properly secure the denarius but potentially lose their intelligence advantage against the vault’s defenses, or do they go straight to Chicago but carry the cursed coin with them?

As it turns out, Bill Stockburn’s player canceled at the last minute. It was disappointing, as Bill used to be host to Pantagruel and I really wanted him there to face down his nemesis, but you play the hand you’re dealt. I decided that the group entrusted the denarius’ removal to Bill, allowing them to hit Crowley-Lampkin immediately without the temptation of a fallen angel hovering over them.

The All or Nothing Box

The gang planned the heist / assassination in their usual spot - a threadbare room at the Hacienda Courts motel chain outside Chicago. They were calling all their contacts, cashing in all their favors, and holding nothing back. Going in with nothing less than their full resources would be foolhardy.

Luckily, we had a new player! Rick Eagle was a roadie for a metal band that was slaughtered by a demon. As the most likely suspect, Rick Eagle (SCREECH!) traded his old life for vengeance and righteous monster-slaying mayhem, teaming up with Scott and Clay to take down his band’s killer. Rick didn’t bring a lot of occult experience to the gang (“Has the Will But Not the Skill”), but as a roadie, he was an expert pyrotechnician and all around handyman.

Someone knocked at the door. Jimmy Pale Wolf stood there, six-packs in both hands. This was my replacement for our normal round of Create Advantage rolls - every player character we ever had or any suitable NPC contact on friendly terms could be called in to help on the job. A few of the help would be compels due to reliability issues, and all of them would require a cut of the take. That said, however, each contact or favor called in could cover parts of the heist that would be time-consuming or boring to have a PC handle.

Little by little, the motel room started to get pretty crowded:

• Jimmy Pale Wolf, “Shaman Vigilante”. Jimmy’s player was an intermittent attendee but our schedules were such that he only ever played Jimmy once, back in the second session.
• Kathryn Bryant, “Hot Slice of P.I.”. Kathryn’s player was at college, but Kathryn had been a valuable member of the gang, and more recently, possessed Bonney’s Bane, a magic bullet that made her immune to gunfire.
• Joseph “Josey” Wales, “High Plains Drifter”. Carter’s player, Scott’s player, and I visited our friend in Austin, and I ran a session for those three guys. Josey was our Austinite friend’s character, a shooter somewhere between Michael Biehn in Tombstone and Norman Reedus in the Walking Dead.
• Lucy Collins showed up next, and the “Goth Witch Antichrist” was the first helper for whom I offered compels. This wasn’t because of Lucy herself - Lucy was more or less a team player, in the same way Wolverine is a team player when he’s with the X-Men. No, the compel was for Bad Car, the evil black Charger Lucy half-stole, half-created from their run-in with some backwoods hillbilly orks.

Next up were a few NPC contacts:

• Carter tracked down Warfield and got in touch with the former Crowley-Lampkin thug. The gang helped Warfield escape from a corrupt SWAT team back in Vegas in return for him cluing them in on Houdini’s Key, which they swiped from under Pantagruel’s nose in Austin. Warfield was down with giving his former employers a black eye.
• Finally, Clay called up the Scooby Gang, a group of junior monster hunters who had encountered the PCs in Kansas City and again in Louisiana - Fred Bundy, Sonny Falco, and their pet Black Shuck. This was another opportunity for compels, as Fred and Sonny were only borderline competent, but they did have a van. Vans are great for carrying lots of stuff, such as the contents of magical vaults.

Next, we went over what the PCs actually knew about Crowley-Lampkin’s security, the vault contents, and Pantagruel. I had written up the loot on 3x5 index cards and placed them picture-side-up in front of everyone. Carter took point on the Overcome roll, aided by a few created advantages or boosts. They decided to use Jimmy Pale Wolf’s’ occult knowledge here as well, and were able to identify roughly a third to half of the items. The gang figured they wouldn’t be able to bring all of the artifacts with them. There was a rowboat and a guillotine, for example. Furthermore, they didn’t want some of the items left in anyone’s hands. The plastic candy bowl, for example, or the Shroud of Lazarus. Rick Eagle could handle demolitions work, claiming it was easier than pyrotechnics. When you did pyro for rock shows, you didn’t want to actually blow anything up.

I Don’t Think This is a Brains Kind of Operation

The players entered their planning stage. We were all pretty gun-shy when it came to planning in RPGs after some real time-wasters, so the group was fairly efficient at tossing out overcomplicated but safe plans, focusing on plans that were simple, loud, and dumb.

They decided to split the party.

Kathryn and Warfield would handle Crowley-Lampkin’s lobby and any initial security response from inside the building, then Warfield would move outside to assist Lucy and Bad Car with the frightfully entertaining but dangerous task of holding off the inevitable police response. Clay, Scott, and Ajaz would head up the executive elevator, lock it down, and try to kill Pantagruel in his office. Josey would be in position on a neighboring building with a .50 caliber rifle, covering the windows in case Pantagruel attempted to simply break through the glass and fly away. As a secondary role, Josey would keep police helicopters out of the area.

That left Carter and Rick Eagle to hit the 13th floor where the vault was. Because Crowley-Lampkin had a team on site to research the growing number of artifacts, the vault was open during daytime hours. A few human guards, a very sophisticated cloud-based video surveillance system, and a few magical traps protected the treasure. Stealth wasn’t really on the table, so Rick decided he could bring a few barrels of explosives up with them to destroy any magical items they couldn’t take with them or decided were a threat.

Finally, the Scooby Gang would be waiting in their van, ready to transport the loot to a safe location. The PCs didn’t really trust them with anything else, and there would be gang members in the van during the escape, to make sure Fred and Sonny didn’t doublecross them.

A Plan is Just a List of Things That Don’t Happen

The plan relied on speed and violence, which are two areas the gang excelled at. Additionally, I didn’t want to compel too much at this point, because it was honestly a pretty good plan, and took the group’s weaknesses into account as much as their strengths. Besides, I like heists, and why would I want to stomp all over this one right as it started? So the gang took the lobby and split up like clockwork. There was no attempt at stealth, so Pantagruel and his top henchmen were immediately alerted. The denarian immediately started gathering magical power (Creating Advantages for the inevitable throwdown or potential escape) and started packing a large duffel with books and a laptop and some other files. The PCs hadn’t even made it to his floor yet and Pantagruel, thanks to his “Starscream Syndrome” aspect, already had one foot out the door.

When the elevator door opened onto Pantagruel’s library and office floor, two men bull-rushed their way into the car! Mr. Rosdower and Mr. Troy were Pantagruel’s youngest but most combat-capable henchmen, and they turned the elevator car into a mess of elbows and headbutts. Unfortunately, they got the elevator car carrying Clayton Haycock James, and Clayton Haycock James wasn’t fazed by elbows. Scott locked down the elevator once Clay got the two assailants out into the library floor. It was a close match until Clay and Ajaz managed to land some consequences, then the free invocations turned the tables against Rosdower and Troy. The PCs left the henchmen unconscious and battered but breathing and went to corner Pantagruel.

Upstairs, Carter and Rick Eagle opened their elevator doors onto a pair of security guards who clearly weren’t expecting two bikers hiding behind a hand-cart full of explosives. The presence of the pyrotechnics made the guards hesitate long enough for Rick and Carter to bum rush them and, despite some surprisingly good rolls on the unnamed minions’ part, knock them the hell out. The thief and the roadie figured the vault itself would have protection as well, so Carter climbed up into the ventilation shafts while Rick rolled the explosives down the corridor towards the vault. As part of his reaction to heavily-armed monster hunters blowing through his corporate headquarters, Pantagruel sat his most experienced henchman on the vault. Mr. Ransom should have been accompanied by Mr. Bale, but since the PCs had locked down both elevators, Bale was relegated to using the stairs and wouldn’t arrive for a while. That left Ransom on his own, who noticed Carter sneaking through the vents. A brief but furious firefight ensued, with Carter falling out of the ceiling and Rick once again using explosives as cover, but I compelled everyone to run out of ammo. The gunfight turned into a fistfight, which turned into an odd sort of standoff with everyone kind of sitting down, exhausted, and thinking real hard about the life choices they had made that got them into this whole mess. Rick Eagle broke up the quasi-professional moment of understanding between Carter and Ransom by knocking Ransom out. Carter and Rick high-fived and Carter got to work cracking the vault door.

D.A.R.E. To Keep Kids Off Denarii

One level below the fracas at the vault, Clay, Scott, and Ajaz were prowling through Pantagruel/Alex Abel’s library. Step one: force Pantagruel to take his denarian form by setting off the fire suppression system. They had thought ahead and were all wearing firefighter-style SCBA masks, because any fire suppression system meant to work in a library would probably work by smothering the oxygen, not spraying water everywhere, and a lack of oxygen would more than likely flush the demon out.

Sure enough, the hunters heard Josey Wales’ radio chatter confirming Pantagruel about to burst through his office windows and escape. Several .50 caliber rifle rounds tore through the library level a moment later, narrowly missing our heroes but forcing Pantagruel back inside and right into their path. The denarian unloaded a terrifying lightning blast powered by his stored advantages, dealing Severe consequences to Scott and Ajaz but only a Mild to Clay - between dumb luck, some fate points, and some well-chosen stunts, Clay fought through the sizzling energy and buried a trinitite shiv in Pantagruel’s belly. After his alpha strike, the demonic librarian was on the ropes against the party’s three close combat experts. They traded hits but Pantagruel was taking on consequences like the Titantic took on water. Ajaz was a “Relentless Nephilite”, Scott was a “Mean Motherfucking Servant of God”, and Clay “Fights Like an Engine”. There was no way they would let Pantagruel live, but… Scott was also “Driven By Redemption”. He might let Alex Abel go, if the CEO gave up Pantagruel’s coin.

Pantagruel’s feathers sloughed off and he shifted back into a battered and limping human. The denarius bounced along the floor and rolled right at Ajaz. I miscalculated here - I knew Scott wouldn’t pick it up and Clay was too paranoid, so I figured Ajaz would be the weakest link, but I forgot what he was good at. Ajaz wasn’t bad in a fight, but he had willpower out the ass and even had a special stunt, “Defiance”, that gave him a +2 against supernatural coercion and fear. He was the perfect party member to pick up the coin. Also, he never really touched it, since he always wore fireproof gloves when handling his flaming whip. Score one for the good guys!

We essentially negotiated Alex Abel’s concession from combat. He was losing his company and his denarius, and was crossing over into the Nevernever courtesy of the one magic item they let him keep - ruby slippers. The fact that the area around Crowley-Lampkin’s vault connected with the Nevernever via an insanely dangerous ur-dungeon colloquially known as Undermountain was not lost on the players. Abel was trading certain death by monster hunter for an uncertain but very likely death on the other side, and the PCs were okay with that.

Kill Things and Take Their Stuff

Outside, Kathryn, Lucy, and Warfield were up to a three or four GTA wanted level. The gang didn’t have much time before their hired help would have to bail. Scott, Clay, and Ajaz met up with Carter and Rick in the vault, and I revealed all the artifacts I had prepared for the session - including the final intrusion countermeasure. Hydra’s teeth, planted in the tasteful interior landscaping around the vault and adjacent office space, erupted out into giggling, gibbering skeleton warriors!

Why are skeletons always the most jovial of the undead? I blame Army of Darkness.

I treated the onrushing skeletal horde as a round-by-round Overcome action against an ongoing difficulty of 2. Characters could choose to attack the horde (destroying a skeleton on a success and two with success with style), defend another character (destroying 1 skeleton on a success with style but otherwise stopping harm from coming to someone else regardless), or take another action (like help Carter crack the vault, set the explosive charges, load up loot, or create advantages to help the heavy hitters take down the horde). Failure typically meant taking stress equal to the margin of failure. Mechanically, this worked really great, and I’d totally use it again for a Challenge-type situation with a little more bite to it than a simple set of three rolls, but where a conflict against mooks wouldn’t call for fully-opposed rolls. The gang also protected Mr. Ransom from the skeletons, earning the now-former henchman’s professional respect. They’d part without animosity, even if they wouldn’t be exchanging Christmas cards.

Rick Eagle does good work.

With Rick Eagle’s explosives in place and the desirable artifacts packed up, the gang headed back to the elevators and down to the Scooby Gang’s van. The NPCs running police interference scattered as Josie Wales covered their escape from his rooftop, then the Texan gunslinger used a wingsuit of all things to glide to safety. The gang divided up the take in the back of the van, got back to their bikes, and scattered. They would meet back up later after the heat died down, which gave me the perfect window of opportunity to kill Carter Mews.

Get Carter

A bit of backstory for the overly dramatic previous sentence: Carter’s player had been thinking about a new character for a while, and we had talked it over together. This session was a great breakpoint to switch characters - Alex Abel and Crowley-Lampkin were primarily Carter’s nemeses and they were now going to be relegated to background threats after the thrashing they just received.

Carter split off from the gang to secure his take at one of his Chicago safe houses. He had just about finished when he heard the light scratch of slippers on concrete behind him. Alex Abel stepped out of the shadows, gun in hand and worse for wear, ruby slippers twinkling on his feet. The former CEO knew Carter’s old safe houses and made it out of the Nevernever just in time for a brief monologue and some murder.

Carter spun, his own pistol raised, and both men shot each other. As Abel lay dead beside him, Carter felt his spirit slipping away, pulled from his body by supernatural forces. Carter woke up in a noose with an angry sunset blazing behind him. He was trapped inside the painting he had stolen from Nick Van Owen’s house in session 12! The eldritch artwork acted like a phylactery, trapping the soul of the owner should that person die. Carter’s meager thanks (after all, he WAS still in a noose) was cut short as a spectral centaur flickered into unlife before the gallows. The creature’s face was covered by a luchador mask, and ribbons festooned his biceps in the style of the Ultimate Warrior. This was a compel I’d been waiting to drop ever since Carter stole the gold from some centaurs in Hades, preventing them from crossing the River Styx. He had subsequently paid off all but one during a battle with some backwoods orks. This last luchador ghost centaur had refused Carter’s payment, opting for the slow burn of vengeance instead of paradise.

His quarry was a ghost now, same as him, and trapped in a gallows to boot. Justice would be served.

Use your imagination for the horse half. You're welcome.

Season Finale

Well, that’s pretty much it. We actually played this session 3 months ago, and the recap was compiled over several weeks as my memory got hazier. Ajaz Gurt’s currently the keeper (but not wielder) of Pantagruel’s coin. Crowley-Lampkin is in the wind, its supernatural collection destroyed or stolen, and its mundane dealings under intense federal scrutiny following the discovery of a dead CEO in a storage unit outside Chicago next to a notorious thief. Although the gang gave away a lot of the stolen items to their allies as part of their take, their collective power level’s jumped up thanks to the artifacts they decided to keep. Project BLACKBOX will be hunting the PCs more seriously now, since Crowley-Lampkin and BLACKBOX had several backdoor government contracts in place. The Denarians are still a threat as well - perhaps a greater one than ever, since the gang took out two of their number within a few days. Ajaz Gurt learned of an ancient conspiracy seeking the destruction of all nephilim - they killed his parents, and will no doubt come for him in due time. Finally, Carter’s player’s new character brings new enemies to the table as well.

Story Time: Hall of the Mountain Lord pt 4

Continuing from Part 3, here is the fourth part of the ongoing story: enjoy!

***
With nothing more to do or say there, Adara and Hamim quickly finished their bread and tea, and made their way back out into daylight. The wind had finally died down a bit, and the gold of the sun and the azure sky could now be seen in their glory.

Adara mounted on the camel with Hamim walking alongside, they were still within visual distance of Lacan's home when they noticed a lone figure running after them.

Adara stopped the camel mid-trot with a well placed mark of her riding-stick, while she and Hamim awaited this vision to catch up with them. It was clear from his speed, as well as his reddish cloak, that the runner was the boy Zorab well before the sight of his face made this point completely obvious.

After a minute or two the racing figure of Zorab finally met up with the two travelers. Panting for breath in the desert heat, he said: "Whew! Thank you for stopping. You two move quickly!"

"How can we help you, Master Zorab?" asked Hamim.

"Ah!" said Zorab "You speak! But you ask the wrong question. It is I who have come to offer my help to you."

"Help?" asked Hamim "What help might you give us?"

"Hamim" rebuked Adara, gently. "Please, Master Zorab. Please do explain yourself."

"My Master is wise" noted Zorab, "..but wisdom is not all in this world. I think that together we can save your brother,"

"How?" inquired Adara, her breast now refilled with an abandoned hope.

"What?" asked Hamim: "Who are you now? We just spoke to your teacher and master, and he told us the very opposite! Who are you to fill our ears with such promises?"

"Mister Hamim" said Zorab gravely, looking the serious boy now straight in the eye:

"Please do not underestimate me due to my manner. I have seen such things the likes that mortal men pass off as mere legend. I have dispensed with such horrors that your very nightmares dare not even generate. I assure you that this sort of thing- exactly this sort of thing, actually- is the very territory by which I live, the very air that I breathe. And I should ask you not to question me in such matters."

Something about the boy's gaze made Hamim shudder, and now fall silent.

"But" interjected Adara "Your Master said that it is impossible..."

"And as I said just now- he is very wise" confirmed Zorab, "As is your Imam. But wisdom is not all in this world. Wisdom is simply the knowledge of the past, applied to the present. To see the world in wisdom is to see with the eye that sees itself. But one cannot see the whole world, with only this one eye."

He continued "To find your brother, we must follow his path. You will need me to find this path, I think. And I will need you to take me to him, as you two are associated. The link that refuses to let him go is the link that shall redeem him."

"Well..." he said, now sounding a tad less confident - "In theory. But we should definitely give it a go! So.....how about it?"

"We place ourselves in your hands, Master Zorab" said Adara "I can trust that we can trust you?"

"Of course!" said Zorab, enthusiastic. "It shall be a grand adventure! I am sure that we will do well. We should not dawdle- meet tomorrow morning? I suggest that you pack for four-days journey, just in case."

"Wait," said Hamim, awoken from his spell "Milady, we are really going to trust this....boy?"

"Yes, we are. And I do" she confirmed. "Zorab, I am putting my faith in you. Where and when shall we meet again?"

"By the town well, at first light tomorrow" stated Zorab "We will go to the place of Shamal's summoning, which I assume that you know. We should go on foot, so carry only that which you truly need; I will make sure to do the same."

"First light then" she affirmed. And with that, Zorab headed back to his Master's house, and Adara with Hamim to the house of her father.

----------------------------------------------------------

The moon stood high in the sky, bathing the valley in the hue of it's pale fire.

Then, ever so slowly the light of Eos - the sun's first rays- rose in the east, staining the eastern sky in it's royal crimson and gold. It was in this new light that Adara and Hamim, accompanied by their one camel, found themselves at the well. Hamim drew from it's waters, mostly operating by touch and memory in the semi-darkness. 

And so they waited, as the light continued to rise triumphant in the sky, banishing the moon into obscurity for another day. Soon would be dawn's Call to Prayer, which would stir the entire village to waking.

"Where is he?" wondered Hamim aloud. "Has he forgotten us? We stole away from home in silence- a shameful thing - and he does not have the decency to come?"

"He will be along shortly" said Adara. But her voice ended in a note of uncertainty now.

Then, finally, a small figure appeared on the horizon, moving not particularly quick in their direction. The figure became clearer and clearer as he moved ever more close; first the red of his cloak, then his blondish head, then his brown and handsome face, then his heavy lidded eyes. 

Seeing Hamim and Adara waiting, he waved, yawned, and smiled at them weakly - saying: "Good morrow to you."

"Good morrow" replied Adara.

"You are late", scolded Hamim. 

"Ah! Yes. Sorry!" apologized the boy, looking bashful in his tiredness. "I was up all night thinking what all I needed to bring. I got started out a bit late, I am afraid. But I am sure that I have everything."

"What all do you have?" asked Adara, curious. 

"I packed much of it half-asleep, so I am not 100% certain about all of it. Hmmm..." he said, rustling through his pack. "Many scrolls. Bread- important! Tea leaves; water. And....ummm...ah? What's this?" he asked aloud. He reached in with his hand, then pulled it out carrying a brass bell of foreign-make.

"Oh, that's pretty!" noted Adara.

"Why would you bring such a thing?" asked Hamim "You told us to pack light."

"It is a brass bell of Qinyan make" explained Zorab. "And I can't recall why I brought it now. It made sense last night...."

"If you cannot recall, how do you know that you need it?" asked Hamim, somewhat exasperated. 

"Oh, I do my best thinking half-asleep. That's when my Dreaming Eye is most alert. I am sure there is good reason to have it."

Then, "Speaking of which- why is there a camel? I recall saying that we should travel on foot."

"It is half a day's journey" said Hamim. "I would not let her ladyship travel on foot that long! Should she blister her feet, like some nomad?"

"Ah, no. I see your point there...I suppose we will simply have to look after the camel as well, somehow." He seemed to think on this a moment, then said "We will make do. So....shall we get going?"

"Yes, please" said Adara. And so they began their way to the hills of Shamal's last sighting, Adara on the camel's back now, with Hamim and Zorab walking alongside; the town soon tiny in the distance. 

Adara knew that it was now time for the Call to Prayer, but however strong the lungs of the cryer, no matter how she strained to listen she was unable to hear the voice.

"I have not missed the Call since I was very young, or very sick", noted Adara with regret. 

"The Goddess is forgiving", noted Zorab. "We shall meet her again, when her disc is at it's zenith in the sky."

And so they made their way along, deeper into the wilderness, as the little town disappeared completely behind a dune.

--------------------------------------------------

End Part 4

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Story Time: Hall of the Mountain Lord pt 3

A continuation of the short story Hall of the Mountain Lord; in this episode our two travelers visit the home of the aged Lacan, who is rumored to be a wizard....

After two hours journey, they came upon the dwelling of Lacan.

It was set not far from a pool, but the home itself was set in the sand. Lacan's dwelling was unusual; in fact, remarkably so. Rather than a tent, or a house of mud-brick, Lacan lived in a house carved out of rock; a rock buried into the very earth itself.

It was said that the unusual house with the unusual design once belonged to the diminutive nomads known as the Iiyesi, but no one really knew for sure. What was known was that Lacan had made this place his home for as long as anyone now living could recall.

Hamim tied their camel to a post outside the door, then helped Adara to dismount. The baroque door itself was round, it's wood well-weathered by the sand, which filled every crack and crevice in it's frame.

Hamim rapped his staff upon the door, and awaited an answer. When none was forthcoming, he swung his staff to knock again; but at that very instant, the door flew open!

Hamim and Adara now looked upon a young man, seemingly about their same age as themselves. He wore a coat of burnt-red, his shirt beneath, in contrast, the shade of curdled cream. His skin was a shade lighter than Hamim's, and his eyes shone a pleasant green. His hair, interestingly enough, showed blonde; especially on top where it had been bleached by the sun.

Adara noted the boy's handsomeness, at this first viewing.

"Ah!" said the boy. "Good day. And who might you be?"

Adara lowed her veil, letting him see her face. "I am Adara, daughter of Yasser. I have come to speak with the master of this house."

"Peace be upon you, Adara" said the boy. "I am known as Zorab."

Then: 

"Master!" he yelled back into the house: "There is a pretty girl here to see you!"

"Now see here...!" started Hamim, indignant.

"Oh", said the boy called Zorab, to Hamim: "My apologies."

"A pretty girl" he shouted back "...and her camel-driver, are here to see you!"

"I am not interested in pretty girls, or camel-drivers!" said the voice within. "Ask them to please move on."

"Alas," explained Zorab: "my Master speaks the truth. Well...about the girls, at least. He might be in need of good camel-driver, at some point."

Adara looked the boy in the eye, and speaking calmly - but firmly - stated:

"Hamim here is a trusted and faithful servant of my house, and not a mere camel-driver, and this is not a social-call; and certainly not a marriage-offer! I am here to seek the aid of Master Lacan, who it has been said is magi, and a great scholar."

"Oh?!" exclaimed Zorab. "Master! She says..."

"I can hear well enough, Zorab- stop yelling everything back" complained the voice within. "And stop being rude to our guests and invite them in for food and drink, already."

"My apologies" said Zorab, sincerely, while opening the door for his guests; "Please, please- do come in!"

The space within was dimly lit, and seemingly poorly organized- at least it seemed to Adara, who toiled daily to keep her father's home clean and tidy.

Scrolls were everywhere - some tied closed, others unfurled- many covered with a light layer of dust. All manner of clay jars stood on shelves, and some atop the single table that was to be found in the center of the room. The boy Zorab dusted the table quickly, arranging the jars in the center, and removed an open scroll, laying it aside on a corner bench. He pulled up some cushions, motioning for the guests to sit.

Adara and Hamim sat at the table, both looking a bit uncomfortable (Hamim, if fact, looking very uncomfortable) as their eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of the room. Zorab made some noise in the kitchen, and soon emerged with a serving of za'atar bread and nice, hot pot of strong tea, which he placed on the table for the two visitors. Neither touched either the offered food or beverage.

The man called Lacan emerged from the gloom, carrying a walking stick, which he leaned on ever-so-lightly. Adara noted that particles of dust danced around him, where shafts of light illuminated his form. His face was the texture of brown stone, weathered by decades of dust and sun. What had once been a rich head of black hair was now a few retreating strands of grey, One eye showed clear and black- alert- and the other covered by a white cloud, now dead. His robes were simple and brown, and showed signs here and there of many mendings. Not the trappings of a rich man, to be sure. But they had come to see a magi, and this Lacan looked every bit the part.

"Now" said Lacan, taking his seat with leaden groan. "Ah. Well, then. We are seated now, yes? So- you are Adara, daughter of Yasser?"

"Yes, Master Lacan" she affirmed. 

"And this handsome boy?"

"I..." started Hamim.

"He is Hamim, and he is servant to my house" interrupted Adara. 

"Oh?" started Lacan. "You would share a table with your slave? You traveled alone with him as well, I gather?"

"I trust Hamim above all others, as does my Father" insisted Adara. "And he may sit at any table that I do. Perhaps you feel otherwise, Master Lacan?" she asked, a small portion of her anger showing in her voice.

The old man looked more amused than anything. "Oh no! My table is open to all visitors, regardless of station. As is my pantry; so please... Please! Do eat! Zorab there may look - and, sadly, act - rather foppish, but he is a capable cook. I think that you will find the tea and bread to your liking."

"Thank you, but we have come here for a grave purpose, Master Lacan..." interjected Adara.

"I see this" said Lacan, stopping her midway. "And important matters should not be discussed on an empty stomach. Zorab, would you be so kind as to pour some tea for your Master as well?" he inquired "Unless you think that I am not worthy of service, in my own home?"

"Ah!" said Zorab. "Oops! Yes, let me find you a cup, Master." He quickly found a cup, and dutifully poured the tea for his Master.

The boy and girl ate their bread, and drank their tea- both were in fact, delicious - while the old man watched them, slowly sipping the rich beverage from his own vessel.

Finally, he said "Please, now- tell me why you traveled so far to see me today."

So Adara told her tale, as she had for the Imam, answering Lacan's brief questions. She told of the Moon, the bell, how she was somehow dreaming while awake; unable to move. Unable to save her only, her beautiful little brother. A few unwanted tears appeared again, the boy Zorab handing her a cloth to wipe them away.

Lacan let her say all that she had to say, and finally asked: "And you told all of this to the Imam, already, right? To Dhakir."

"Yes" she said. She then bit her lower lip- hard enough to hurt, draining the color, and said "He told me to just give up on him! That he belonged to the Jinn- to the spirits- now!"

"The Imam is a wise man" concluded Lacan " Although wisdom is not often well-received."

"Adara," he paused "...Adara. You are a kind soul, and a brave one, I am sure. I can see that you truly love your brother, and all of this must be painful for you. I understand that your own mother has passed on?"

"Yes" confirmed Adara. "Shamal never knew her."

"Ah" said Lacan, now seeing the full picture "Then you have been as a mother to Shamal as well. I see. That makes what I am about the say all the more difficult, I suppose."

"Adara?" 

"Yes?" she said.

"The Imam was correct, I think. Shamal has been called into the land of Air Spirits, and no longer belongs to this world- which is called 'Midworld' in the Grand Cosmology. You should go about your life, and have your own children. Think well of your brother. You can recall him forevermore, as he was."

"That is unacceptable!" she cried. "I should simply abandon my brother? Why become Imam, why join the world of the magi- if you cannot DO anything? What is the point of wisdom if it just means that you know yourself to be useless? Surely, there is something more that can done than this?! Than nothing?!"

"Indeed" said Lacan. "Indeed, I shall never become so old that I cannot be rebuked by the words of the young, I suppose. I apologize for my uselessness, young lady. I suppose I should rest these old bones now, so I should take my leave of you. Peace be upon you- please enjoy your fill before making your journey back home."

And with that, he left the table and the two young people on their own. 

---------------------------

End Part 3
Continued in Part 4
Part 1
Part 2

Character Highlight: Daemon in a Bottle

Per Tom Tyson's request from a post on Google Plus, here is the bottle daemon from Hall of the Mountain Lord via Fate and DC Heroes. :-)

Bottle Daemon (FAE)

• Aspects:

High Concept: Tiny and ancient daemon of the Second Creation
Trouble: Habitual deceiver
Other Aspects: Trapped in a bottle; I have seen the fall of my kind; What is it that you desire?

• Approaches:

+3 Sneaky
+2 Clever, Careful
+1 Quick, Flashy
+0 Forceful

• Stunts:

- Because I am a Skillful Manipulator, I gain +2 to Sneakily Overcome when attempting to ascertain the aspects of others.
- As I am a Firsthand Historian, I gain +2 to Cleverly Create an Advantage when my knowledge of ancient lore might be of use.
- Since I am Always One Step Ahead of my opponents, once per session I can declare or edit a situation aspect as long as this can be justified by my knowledge of magic.

• Refresh: 3
• Stress: OOO

Consequences:

• Mild (2):
• Moderate (4):
• Severe (6): 

***

Bottle Daemon (DC Heroes)

• Motivation: Thrill Seeker
• Occupation: Corrupter of the Innocent & not-so-Innocent
• Wealth: 0

Dex: 04 Str: 01 Body: 06*
Int: 08 Will: 07 Mind: 10
Infl: 12* Aura: 10 Spirit: 08
Init: 24 Hero Points: 75

• Powers: Invulnerability - 6*, Magic Sense - 7
• Skills: Occultist - 12*
• Advantages: Area Knowledge (Hell); Gift of Gab; Iron Nerves; Scholar (Ancient History); Sharp Eye
• Disadvantages: Catastrophic Irrational Attraction to Creating Trouble; Miscellaneous Drawback: Trapped in a Mystically Sealed Bottle; Attack Vulnerability to White Magic (-2 CS)

*Linked to attributes Body and Influence, respectively 

***

Story Time: Hall of the Mountain Lord pt 2

Continuing my earlier Story Time post, here is part 2 of Hall of the Mountain Lord.

Adara, Hamim, and Adara's father now sat in audience with the Imam.

Adara sat in silence, looking towards to floor with eyes still red and puffed from shed tears. A cup of coffee sat in her hands, almost hot enough to burn. She didn't mind the little bit of pain it caused- it helped to keep her focused, in a way.

The Imam put down his now empty cup of coffee, which a young serving boy instantly refilled with the steaming beverage. He took another sip, and now looking at Adara, he spoke to her:

"Adara: tell me what you told your Father- about your dream."

"It was just a dream, Teacher" she said.

"No dream is just a dream, daughter of Yasser" he replied. "Tell me what it was that you saw in your dream."

Hands shaking a bit, she took a sip of her coffee - it was strong and bitter, and she hated the flavor, but it gave her a moment to collect herself. Then she spoke:

"I saw...I saw my brother- I saw Shamal", another tear escaped down her cheek, which she brushed away with her sleeve. "I saw him in the moonlight. I...couldn't move. In the dream- outside the dream - I could not go to him. I couldn't go." Her single tear was now doubled, now trebled, and she struggled to wipe away their evidence as they fell without heed.

"I could not GO", she lamented.

"I understand, my child" said the Imam. "Please now- tell me more. What else do you recall?"

"I heard the sound- of a bell? Like the Moon itself was calling. But....but....the call was not for me...", she recounted.

"The Moon? It was the Moon that called?"

"I don't know, Imam", she said. "That is how it seemed in the dream. I saw Shamal- in the dream, I saw him- walk towards the rock above our camp, towards where the Moon's light shone brightest. Towards the sound of the bell."

"Teacher- can you tell us what the dream means?" asked Adara's Father, Yasser.

"Mmmmm" said the Imam, stroking his black beard. "Mmmmm. Was there anything more to the dream, Adara?"

"No, Imam"

"And you searched everywhere the following morning, right? No sign at all of him? Nothing taken from the camp?"

"Nothing- just the clothes on his back" said Hamim. "And we searched the area, calling for him, many times. There was no trace at all."

Hamim paused then, a pained look overtaking his countenance. "No trace at all", he repeated.

The Imam seemed lost in thought for a moment, taking a another sip from his coffee. Then he said, "Yasser?"

"Yes, Teacher?" said the other man.

"Yasser...." he paused before continuing "My friend. My dear friend.." he trailed off, and then said, gravely:

"You need not seek your boy any further, I am afraid. Based upon all that I have heard today, we must assume that he has been spirited away by the Jinn. I am very sorry."

"No" said Yasser, quietly. "No- by The Creator, please no. He...he is my only son."

"I am sorry, Yasser" said the Imam "I am so very, very sorry. There are simply things that are beyond our control and understanding in this world. There is nothing to be done."

Adara looked up to see a veil of despair fall over the face of her Father. She looked the Imam in the eye and said:

"Nothing?" she questioned. "Why have we come here then? You are our wise teacher and protector! You tell us that we can do nothing now?"

"Adara" cautioned her Father. "Please, do not be unseemly. The Imam is trying to help us."

But he continued, addressing the Imam, who he had known since a boy, now by name: 

"Dhakir- are you certain that there is nothing to be done? Do you know at least that he is safe, if he is truly among the Jinn now?"

"It is..." started the Imam. "Well, many things are said. But no one knows, really. I am truly, deeply sorry, my friend. I do not know. He is, as always, in the hands of Allat, Mother of All."

Adara had broken into sobbing again, and her father had taken her trembling body into his arms. He stroked her head with his right hand- she, now the last of his issue remaining to him.

"Thank you for seeing us today, Dhakir" said Yasser, quietly. Hamim noted that his voice cracked then, just a little.

-----------------------

The next dawn broke cool and dry, the only sound beyond the cock's crow being the restlessness of the camels, and the whipping of an early wind; forecasting a blustery day ahead.

As usual, Adara awoke early and prepared breakfast for her Father. She was to go to the well and the market that day and, also as usual, Hamim was to go with her as well- as her helper and protector.

As they set upon the road, however, she said to Hamim:

"Let us go north first, to see Lacan."

Now, the man called Lacan was an old man, blind in one eye, who was known as a hermit (though nowadays he lived with a young ward, said to be his nephew). He was also a scribe, and known to be scholar; very learned, it was said - maybe as much as the Imam himself.

It was also whispered in low tones- usually among the older folk- that he was not a scribe and a scholar only; it was murmured among those that murmur that he was also Magi- a wizard!

Hamim looked over at Adara, but she would not meet his gaze.

"Mistress" he said, imploring.

"I won't give up on him, Hamim. I won't!" she said, still facing forward. "A thousand Imams can tell me a thousand times no first. I will find him, if it takes all my life to do so."

Life had taught Hamim humility, and the futility of arguing with his Mistress when her mind was set to a task. So he simply said to her:

"Very well, but please cover your face; the wind is moving the sand much today."

---------------------------

End Part 2
Continued in Part 3
Part 1
Part 4

Story Time: Hall of the Mountain Lord pt 1

I think that at some level every GM imagines himself or herself a writer (which maybe should be the subject of another article...). If this is true, then this poster certainly is no exception.  

Submitted for your enjoyment is part one of my short story-in-progress, The Hall of The Mountain Lord.

It is said that in the days before the Prophetess - Peace Be Upon Her Name - that in the city of Ur there was a scholar that kept a daemon which he had trapped - or at the very least, had become trapped - within a bottle. 

Now this scholar had a young apprentice, whom he had sternly instructed never to speak to this daemon, lest the creature lead him into peril. 

But the apprentice, being a young man and inherently curious- why become a scholar otherwise?- eventually ignored his master's order and began conversing with the creature whenever his master was away. 

This daemon told the young man of all sorts of wonders- of midworld before The Fall, of the mirror world of the spirits, and of the jinn, marid, dragons(!), and of all manner of beasts common and uncommon throughout the worlds. 

The young man thrilled to the tiny creature's many tales and anecdotes. One day, he asked the daemon: 

"What is it like living only within a bottle?" 

To which the daemon replied, shrugging it's tiny shoulders: 

"One has to live somewhere, I suppose." 

"So then- have you always lived in a bottle?" asked the young scholar. 

"Oh no!" said the daemon. "No, young one. I have seen many worlds, and much of yours as well."

"I have wondered at the halls of the Ymir; vast and forbidding- I have gazed upon the sunrise from atop the great ziggurat- now destroyed- called Etemnananki. I have been to the very depths of hell- and felt the cold, cold - oh-so very cold!- touch of the Black Flame within. I have seen generations of your own kind pass in both wisdom and folly."

"I have done and seen so very much, my companion, before you have found me here." 

The youth stood in silence for a moment; then he spoke, in tones of awe:  

"You have been to so many places, and seen so many things, little daemon. Where as I have barely been outside the walls of this city." 

"Well," asked the daemon "then what can I tell you about living within a bottle that you do not already know?"

- From the 1001 Tales, library of Madinat as-Salam

 

Hall of The Mountain Lord

by Michael Lindsey

The sun was starting to set over the Zagros Mountains to the east, when Hamim suggested that they make camp in the shadow of a rocky hill.

Hamim was but a servant of her household; but Adara, his young mistress, had come to trust in his cautious ways. Plus, she was traveling with her little brother Shamal, and the day's journey had clearly been taxing on his young form.

So they broke and set up their tents (Adara and Shamal each had their own tent- even though brother and sister, a boy and girl would not share a tent). Hamim, as usual, was to sleep beneath the stars.

Hamim cooked them their supper- simple rice with a hint of butter, very lightly spiced for flavor, and brewing a pot of chai as well- a veritable feast in the wilderness. All three youngsters ate to their fill with relish.

Adara sipped the hot chai slowly; enjoying the strong, spicy flavor. She had just recently reached her 15th year; marriage-age, by any estimation - but her father had not found any favor with the suitors that had reached his tent, at least thus far.

But she was a lovely girl; her skin fair, and without blemish. Although her habib covered her long, luxurious black head of hair, her dark eyes and her lovely mouth could be seen by all who gazed upon her.

For his part, her younger brother Shamal shared her beauty, but in boyish form; he was now just in his 11th year, and had the mixture of uncertainty and rambunctiousness common to most boys his age. Regardless of any faults he might have, Adara adored the boy above all of the jewels in all of the Earth.

Hamim was sixteen, and had the gangliness of boy who had grown very tall, very fast. He himself was of dark complexion with light brown eyes and a thin mouth, which seemed locked into a permanent frown. Ever present with him was his shepherd's staff, which he used as both a tool and a walking stick. Somehow, the staff and his demeanor seemed to give him a certain authority that belied his station.

The three ate in silence, only the sound of their feasting rising above the crackling of the fire. The rich dinner and the drink had given life back to Shamal, it seemed; for after their meal was finished, and as the moon rose into the sky, he said unto Hamim:

"Hamim- let's fight!"

He continued, "I can be Antarah ibn Shaddad, and you can be a wicked Ifrit!"

"Young Master" said Hamim, "We have had a long journey. Perhaps it would be better if we all would rest?"

Then Adara suggested: "Maybe Hamim should be the brave warrior, and you the Ifrit instead?"

Shamal frowned, his full little lips making a perfect pout, and replied: "I want to be Antarah ibn Shaddad! Fight me Hamim!"

Hamim sighed, and said: "Very well. Grab a stick- but be careful. This is just for pretend."

"OK!" said the boy, with enthusiasm. He grabbed a stick from their pack that seemed suitable; light enough to wield, and it made a satisfying 'swish' sound when he swung it forcefully through the air.

Hamim held his staff in the defending position, waiting for the boy to make the first move. Shamal, however, would have none of this, and declared:

"You are the villain- you have to attack first!"

Hamim swung the stick with speed, but carefully telegraphed the blow so that his young opponent could easily defend against it. Shamal blocked the faux-attack, and shouted:

"I see that you attack me, foul beast! Prepare thyself for my vengeance!"

Shamal began swinging his stick swiftly, wildly - Hamim blocking every strike with minimal effort. Seeing an opening, Hamim struck the boy, lightly- so light that it could barely be felt- on his left arm.

Shamal cried out: "Foul, foul, treacherous creature! Thou hast wounded me; but I shall best thee still!"

Shamal then began a full assault, lashing out with full force; blow after blow being blocked by Hamim's skilled staff. This seemed to only anger his youthful rival, and Shamal resorted to swift and random hits; now high, now low, now in Hamim's midsection.

At last, Hamim blocked one of Shamal's attempted assaults; but Shamal's polished wooden staff slipped past the block, and struck Hamim in the face; hard. Shamal looked at Hamim in shock and awe for a moment- then a warm trickle of blood began to run down Hamim's cheek.

"Oh!" said Adara, seeing that Hamim had been struck. Then she saw the blood.

"My word!" swore Adara, unwrapping the scarf that she wore upon her neck, and pressing it against Hamim's now bleeding cheek. "Shamal, what have you done?"

Shamal stood now silent, frozen in place with the stick still in his hand.

"My lady" said Hamim, blushing beneath his dark pallor as Adara, his mistress, stood so close- her hand upon his cheek - "this is nothing. Please..."

"Shamal!" said Adara, "Apologize to Hamim! Is this how you treat a servant of our house, who has done us no wrong?"

Shamal stood still -frozen, but tears began to roll down his plump cheeks. "I didn't mean to... we were playing..." he said.

"Playing?" she asked "I saw you- you wanted to strike Hamim! This is not how we have raised you, brother."

"I'm..." the boy began blubbering now in earnest. "I'm sorry! We were playing! It was an accident!"

"Milady" said Hamim, taking the scarf from Adara's hand, the blood still in his face, her scarf now dyed red with the same. "I will be fine. Please- see the young master to bed. I will treat this little, minor wound myself. Thank you for your kindness; I am hardly worthy of it."

"No- thank you Hamim" said Adara. She touched her servant, briefly, but tenderly, on his shoulder. "Please do take care of your wound."

Then to Shamal she said: "Brother- let's see you to bed now. We have had a long day." She then kissed the young boy on his forehead, and watched as he made his way to his little tent, and hopefully soon after - slumber.

Adara asked after Hamim, who again insisted that all was well, while holding a rugged cloth to his face to soak up the blood from the still weeping gash.

"Please- do take your rest, milady" he insisted. "I myself cannot sleep until I know that you are also in the land of nod. Tomorrow we must start out early, before the heat of the day is upon us", he reminded.

"Alright" said Adara. "Thank you, Hamim."

"You embarrass me" said Hamim, truthfully. "Please rest well." He then saw her to her tent, careful not to gaze upon her as she entered. He lowered the flap behind her, and then walked back to the fire.

When he was sure that the bleeding had finally stopped, he crawled into his own bedroll and fell asleep beneath the stars.

-------------------

Shamal heard the tinkling of a bell.

He was sure that's what it was; although he was in darkness, and the sound was heard from so very far away, it was clearly a bell. A bell that he was meant to hear.

Rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes, Shamal emerged from his tent. The moon was full in the sky; illuminating the desert with a bluish light. Shamal then looked upon the face of the moon itself; so bright and beautiful in the sky. The Imam taught that this was the manifestation of Destruction; Shamal wasn't sure about that, really. He thought that the Moon was very lovely, himself.

He looked over the horizon. Somehow, even asleep and in darkness, he had known what was the source of the sound. The rock, over yonder; standing like a temple- like some primitive mosque- in the moonlight.

The bell tinkled again in the distance- calling him, summoning him over. The sound was- it was- like the moonlight itself? Shamal could not describe it, even if asked to do so. He looked over at his sister's tent, at Hamim's bedroll, looking like just a clump of cloth beneath the stars. Clearly neither one had heard the call. It was for he alone.

Again the sound! He felt it in his breast, if not in his ears. Like the Call to Prayer, but stronger; pre-verbal.

The light of the moon marked the path. He set out in the cool night air towards the rock, towards the summoning tinkle.

Climbing now- climbing over the rocks, over the sand, over every minor barrier - following the tone of the bell; louder and louder still it rang.

He now stood atop the embankment and looked back towards the camp, now yards away; the campfire a fading, a flickering light in the distance. He thought of his sister now, and a little pain formed in his heart. He knew not why.

Then he turned about. The moon seemed to make a line in the rock- to form a path- and a door appeared before him; a door of moonlight, pale and blue and mysterious.

And still the bell rang; it's source now obvious; it rang now from within the stone itself. Beyond the glowing door.

He looked back toward's the camp, one last time. He thought of Hamim; serious, bloody. And his sister- so beautiful- and so angry.

The bell continued to ring, impatient. Shamal walked towards the light.

-------------------------------------
End Part 1
Continued in Part 2
Part 3
Part 4