Chapter One

November 12

Nightfall upon Gaeline came early in the winter months and though the deep cold had not yet set in, the sun already disappeared in the late hours of the afternoon. At the time of the evening meal twilight had engulfed the city, and though life refused to die for many more watches, the streets cleared of life. With doors closed and windows covered, families began relaxing in the few remaining hours of the day. The drinking houses and other late amusements began to fill, and the night life awoke. The guard shifted. Soldiers who had been stationed in the street through the daylight hours moved to watch the roads leading in and out of the city. The gates did not close, but no longer could travelers pass through them without being able to explain clearly and to satisfaction their identity, origin, destination, and objective.
Lork Manor, like everything else in Gaeline, shifted with the coming of night. Shutters were barred, doors closed and locked. The guard never changed position, but areas which were left unwatched during the day were now watched with meticulous eyes. When the watch changed, it did so carefully, one man at a time. The old guards remained on station until their replacements arrived, and sat there, briefly summarizing what had gone on during their shift, even if nothing of interest had occurred. When the watch was set, men went from position to position, checking with each guard, gathering information, and finally returning with it to the head of security who, in turn, took it to the master of the Irithol, Gomarden Varyon who, sitting alone in his study, took some time to contemplate it, jotting down notes of a mysterious map which stretched over one wall of his study. He had gotten used to people asking what it was. “It’s a map of the manor,” he would explain. “You can’t understand it for the same reason no one else can. It shows everything about the manor; things that only I should know. That’s why I’m the only one who can read it.” He wrote in the ancient Gaelic tongue because, even though he could barely speak it, there were only about four other people in the city who could read it, and two of them lived in the manor. Of course, he realized that it wasn’t a fool proof plan. If someone really wanted to know what his map said they would find out, one way or another. But every bit helped. The important details he kept safe in his head.
The door to the study of the master of the Irithol opened, and Gomarden Varyon strode out. He was older now. Age might not say so, but only so many things could be measured in years. His mother had spawned him less than sixty years before, but time and experience had written upon his figure a much longer tale. Most who dared a guess landed around the eighty year range, though they would all agree that he was doing well for that age. Even at the appearance of eighty he still commanded a greatness which marked him out as a leader; not only of the Irithol, but of Gaeline. Gomarden made his way to the highest room of the manor which had been modified to rise a little above all the other roves and command a full horizon view, but more importantly, a three hundred and sixty degree view of the manor; not that there weren’t blind spots, but nowhere else showed the most ground from one place.
There were three guards in the crows nest. Every fifteen minutes or so, they traded off, two watching, taking opposite halves of the manor, and the other resting. Theirs was the most intensive watch because not only were they assigned to watching the manor, but also to watching the other guards and making sure they remained at their stations. If a guard failed to appear after a certain amount of time, then it was hoped that he was simply slacking.
“How does it feel tonight?” Gomar asked as soon as the door was open wide enough for all three of the men to see his face.
“Dead,” one of the guards muttered.
“Sleepy,” the other one said in much the same tone. “Nothing’s moving out there.”
Gomar nodded silently. Not that he really cared. This was procedure; all of it. Of course, he was concerned, but merely out of habit. He expected the answers he received. His trip to the crow’s nest and his questions were only a failsafe. If he didn’t get the answer he wanted then he would be forced to care. But at the moment all he wanted to care about was how soon he got to bed. Giving the guard a word of encouragement, he left, going back down the stairs. He would check in with the lady of the manor before turning in for the night. That too was custom.
Emmerlay too was about the mansion. Sometimes she felt like a caged animal within its walls, always being watched, though from a distance. It was then that she would try to get into other people’s business. If she did not she would go crazy. It didn’t matter if it was rearranging her daughter’s room on her, or doing something nice and unexpected for one of the servants, or booting Gomar out of his study while she organized the place. Just as long as it was something that made her feel like she was accomplishing an objective.
“So how is the bill going?” Emmerlay asked, sorting through the clutter which seemed to have grown over the desk. “You know, the one for the new sewage system on the east end of the city?”
“Still dealing with unhappy mice and greedy men who would much rather see the gold in their pockets than in a clean sewer,” Garawain grinned. She was across the room, making her bed; ironic, considering that she intended to crawl into it in a matter of moments.
“Of course,” Emmerlay mused. Isn’t that how it always is?”
“Politics.”
“Will they come around?”
“Of course they will,” Garawain laughed dryly. “I’m the queen. I can do whatever catches my fancy. The trick is pampering them as much as I can while I’m doing it so they don’t insight riots against me.”
“Have you considered taking the high road and killing them all off?”
“What?” Gail abandon the making of her bed, turned and flopped down on it. “Like Ekron? You remember what happened there. Ancients, I saw what happened there. All their officials killed off in a Fwackniersh attack. Yewrod wanted to stabilize the country. Stability is what he got; after open rebellion and weeks of war in the streets, on the very steps of the palace. Killed his empress, alright he did, and replaced her. And now look where he’s at. He’s got a dictatorship on his hands and he hates it more than I hate my democracy.”
“Justice; can’t live with or without it. How is Yewrod anyway?”
“How should I know? We don’t exactly keep in touch. All I get is the rumors that come through the council. Rumor has it he’s looking at disbanding the imperial army because it causes too much tension. Of course, what he’ll have on his hands is several thousand citizens looking for work in their one profession of proficiency. The Queran will have their hands full with law enforcement. But all the better, maybe.”
Emmerlay nodded without saying much of anything. “Speaking of rumors,” she said after a moment when the conversation seemed to have killed itself. “I heard that a group of radicals in Fwackniersh are spreading quite the hype over the face of Groschen which they allegedly saw in the skies over the city.”
“Reports from Fwackniersh say that he’s become quite the god amongst his loyal followers,” Gail laughed. “I wonder how he feels about that.”
“I would imagine he has more pressing concerns populating his minds,” Emmerlay replied. “Besides, no one talks to him. He doesn’t get any news. He doesn’t know about the radical groups. A shame for him really.”
“What?”
“Well, if I were a god I think I would want to know about it.”
“What did that last report say?” Gail asked. “I never got the chance to look at it.”
Emmerlay picked a document up off the desk and scanned over it for a moment. “He’s doing well,” she reported finally. “Whatever that means. He’s putting on weight, growing out his hair, and learning to sew.”
“Ouch. That’s not going to go over well with his radical friends.”
“Yes, but I don’t think they’re going to hear about him any more than he’s going to hear about them. How many do know about him anyway?”
“From here?” Gail thought for a moment. “You, me, and Gomar. Freigen knows, and I expect Leocil too. Maybe one or two others. We kept Yewrod and even Glordesh out of the entire affair.”
“What about that Vatelin girl? Does she know?”
“Bekil?” Gail broke out into laughter again. “Trust me, if the princess of Carn knew that her mortal enemy was still alive the statement would no longer be true. He remains safe because she believes that he perished in the Poorake.”
“Perhaps he wishes he had.”
“Maybe. I intend to go to Fwackniersh and visit him when things settle down and I can go to obscure cities without drawing attention to myself…”
“I am sure he will appreciate it,” Emmerlay turned around to find that her daughter was climbing into bed. “Get what rest you can,” she advised unnecessarily. “Tomorrow always comes too soon.”
“Goodnight, mother,” Garawain replied, closing her eyes and promptly blocking out the world.

As the door found its latching and the lock clicked into place, Gomarden came down the staircase at the end of the hall. Emmerlay turned, awaiting, knowing that he would want to speak to her. He approached, but rather than come to a standstill outside the queen’s bed chamber, he stepped past her, turning so that she would feel comfortable falling into step beside him. She did this wordlessly.
“Several city brats tried to climb the wall into the garden this morning,” Gomarden ventured. “They gave up before the guard deemed them serious enough a threat to address.”
Emmerlay nodded silently.
“I’m putting the new recruits on their first shifts tomorrow; the third fourth and fifth watches will all have recruits watching the garden wall. I suggest you have a body guard if you decide to go out there.”
Emmerlay nodded again. She knew how ridiculous it was to think that a recruit was enough reason to make a bodyguard tail her. But even more than this she knew how ridiculous it was trying to argue with Gomar. She let him speak his piece, gleaning what useful information she could from it. “How have they performed in their practices?” She asked disinterestedly.
“Above and beyond expectation,” Gomarden replied. “All except the youngest. But he has a good heart and good hearts will turn to good heads. He’ll come along. They always do.”
Emmerlay once again nodded her silent consent. They were at the end of the hallway when the shutter snapped.

Outside three guards patrolled the garden. One was on the roof of the manor, seated on a tiny balcony set into the steeply sloped roof which commanded the best view of the garden wall. The second was on the wall itself. His was the most dangerous position because the wall was only about half a meter wide and from the posts corner to corner he must walk out in the open, with only his balance to keep him there and only his intuition to keep him safe from any hostile threats which might seek entry to the mansion. That was why he spent most of his time in the tower at one corner. There he could sit down and take cover from elements and whatever else might force itself against him. The third guard was down in the garden itself. He patrolled the path, acting as a backup for the wall guard.
The shift was slow and monotonous on this night. It seemed to drag itself out, every moment stretching as long as it could to make the entire affair seem far more tedious than it normally was. Every half hour or so the guard on the wall ceased his pacing along the stone expanse to rest in the tower and the one in the garden went over to check on him.
“How are the gold fish?” the wall guard muttered quietly, leaning out of his chair to peer down the three meter wall, grinning to prove that he recognized a greater enemy than his well-off friend.
“Fish will be fish,” the other guard muttered. “How’s the cool night breeze?”
“Chock with ice and knives. I’m out of water.”
“I’ll get someone to bring some more.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make it to the end of the shift. Bats to the next guy.”
“I like your mind,” the garden guard laughed. “Take care of yourself.” He turned back to his path and the tedium of another half-hour.
“Don’t drown in the pool.” The wall guard muttered, trying for a moment to sound vehement. Standing up, he abandon his shelter for the pacing of his narrow charge. About half way out he looked up at the rooftop where his other comrade crouched in his balcony. All he could see was the shadow of the other man leaning out over the railing. There was a slight gesture and he nodded back, continuing to the end of the wall and bracing himself on the gargoyle which decorated the corner post as he turned. He checked on the garden guard again who had stopped for a drink in the pool. He returned his gaze to the balcony. It was empty. He froze. His eye caught movement under the edge of the eaves. Something was moving there, hanging. Where was the guard? He turned back towards the tower, ready to ring the alarm, and stopped short as a shadowy figure mounded the skinny wall in front of him. Vaguely doglike, it grappled with the stone work, digging in cruel talons to keep itself in place. A gaping mouth opened before him in silent snarl. He turned, ready to scream to his friend down in the garden, only to find him slumped over the pool, another of the monsters tearing at his neck with teeth and claws. He whirled back on the beast at hand just as its gaping maw closed over his head. His last memory was of razors crushing his scull and neck.

A frigid wind rushed through the hallway, bringing with it a terror that would not translate itself into word or thought. Gomarden and Emmerlay turned with one movement, watching as it seemed to stretch and expand. They looked at each other, recognizing and hating what they saw. Gomarden lunged into a run down the hallway and Emmerlay followed as closely behind him as she could.
From somewhere in the manor there was a scream. In an instant it seemed as if there were shouts everywhere, echoing through the halls as guards ran here and there, asking what was going on, yelling, “It’s down there!” “Look out!” “Ancients, what is that thing!” There were more screams. Then the monster appeared. It came down the staircase in two great leaps, its claws tearing away two boards on the steps. They fell clattering behind him as he skidded on the floor of the hallway. Splinters of wood flew around his talon feet and he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Half way down the hall, Gomar and Emerlay did the same.
“Shades!” Gomar muttered. “What is that?” The creature snarled, showing an impressive jaw full of canine teeth grossly enlarged to slightly larger than proportion. It might have been a dog but by far the ugliest one ever to set foot in Lork Manor. Its hindquarters were about half the size of what they should be compared to the rest of it, but they still seemed to work fine. Its back legs were splayed slightly and angled back; ideal for great lunges. Its feet were more like claws, nearly hairless and well fingered with a toe sticking backwards and cruel claws. Its ears were short and stubby and its fur was rough and unkept. Its eyes were piercing. Upon recalling them many of the manor staff said that they glowed red, but Gomar realized now that they had no glow to them, but it was hard to say, so unforgettable were they. The monster snorted, sizing up the enemy which refused to run like it had expected. It glanced between them and the closed double doors in front of them, stuck in indecision. The moment stretched out until it could not possibly stretch any further, and then snapped. The monster bolted, leaving great gouges in the floor as it raced towards the door. Gomarden ran too. He charged, even though he had no weapon. Cursing his luck and the politics which discouraged bearing of arms in times of peace, he scowared his mind for the nearest possible weapon. It would be in the queen’s room.
The monster leapt onto the wall as it reached the door. Its talons dug in and it hung on, splayed out. Its huge head leaned back and came smashing down on the doors, shattering the closer one off its hinges. The creature leapt through the provided gap, launching itself off the lentil. Gomar redoubled his pace, trying desperately to close the gap between him and the monster.
The room was silent. The monster’s force fields had contained the noise of the smashing door; something Gomar had failed to notice. The queen slept on, peacefully wrapped in her blankets after a long day’s work. The intruder approached on suddenly silent paws until it stood directly over her. It took a moment to confirm what it was looking at. This was the one it had come for. It opened its mouth to snap up the life.
“Garawain!” Gomarden cried desperately from the door as he entered the room. It was the only thing he could think to do.
The queen’s eyes shot open. Her pupils dilated to pinpoints and her body went rigid. One hand emerged from the edge of the covers, fingers extended. Morroward was mounted above the fireplace in a wood case bound with iron and a glass front crossed with steel bars and locked securely. There was a moment of tension. Then the casing exploded with the sheer force exerted upon it. Amid the barrage of broken steel, wood and glass, Morroward flew free, turning end over end, the pommel striking her palm. Even as her fingers closed about it, the fire between them was ignited. Streams of light linked them, shooting down the length of the sword, then webbing about her fingers, her hand, her arm. In only a moment it covered her entire body, wrapping away her face. The second sheet of power covered her in translucent blue, flowing like icy liquid and seeping into the already livid fire. Above her, the monster raised his head, ready to strike. One claw swept in sideways, ready to snatch away her life. Her eyes, now barely visible, squeezed shut. As the claw swept open space, Morroward leapt out clamping onto the bed and invading. The surface on which she lay dissolved and she fell backwards into her sword’s embrace. The surface of the bed closed over her, worked over by the raw power from her sword. The monster screamed in rage as its paw came up empty.
Gomarden had not been idle. He ran into the room, fervorantly seeking a weapon of some kind. Gail’s bow and quiver lay on the hearth, left there by the queen in a moment of laziness. Gomar lunged for them. It was a good weapon, well made. The only distinguishing mark on it to set it apart from anything else on the street was the gW cut into the handle, the defining mark of the Geldrin School of Warfare in Kanedon. According to the queen, the bow had been given to her by Leocil Geldrin herself. Gomar doubted if that were true, but the weapon was certainly genuine. In one fluid movement, Gomar picked up the bow and strung an arrow. He drew it to full length. The weapon was of surprising weight; none to heavy for him, but extreme for what he would have expected its owner to be able to handle. Only so much aim was required at this range. He lined up his sights with the soft spot below the monster’s shoulder and let arrow fly. One great claw shot out, knocking it out of mid air at full reach. Lightning reflexes.
Without so much as batting an eye towards the leader of the Irithol, the monster returned to the task at hand. It rose to full height above the bed, its concentration fixed on the face beneath it, still visible between the lines of pulsing power. The claw came up, muscles knotting into springs, and fell, its ark aimed directly at the queen’s chest.
Morroward leapt up to greet the foreign intruder. The barrier rippled momentarily and charged. The claw struck it at the surface of the bed and came to a dead stop. Morroward leapt into the monster’s arm, tearing it apart with unaccustomed ferocity. The creature screamed, trying to wrench itself away from the awful force. Morroward clung on as long as it could, tearing and searing. When the beast escaped it was less half an arm and bleeding profusely.
Gomar had another arrow on the string, the bow pulled back. Seizing the moment, he focused on the exposed flesh at the end of the intruder’s arm and released. The arrow flew true, striking with a resounding thud. The monster screamed again. He glanced at Gomar, then looked again at Morroward’s protective shield. It bristled with offensive power. The monster spun around, nose towards the door, and ran. Snatching up several more arrows, Gomar followed.
The chase that ensued lasted for only a couple of minutes but left Gomar more drained than even when he had faced the Duragon. Navigating the corridors of Lork Manor at a dead run, he tried to catch the beast, stringing an arrow at dead bolt and shooting true. But the monster was fast and outdistancing him. On the main staircase three guards blocked the beast’s way. Without so much as pausing, it rushed through their number, knocking them aside. One fell down the stairs receiving a bump to his head. Another was thrown over the railing and had three broken ribs before he made impact. The third lost his head to the quadruped which refused to touch ground again until he hit the floor of the banquet hall below. Gomar stopped at the top of the staircase. Leaping up on the railing for a shot above the chandelier, he prepped the bow to shoot. He never fired the shot though for at that moment a second beast birthed from the hall from which he had just come, this one undamaged save for the blood on his claws and face. He too was at a dead run. As soon as he saw Gomar, however, he changed his path, turning straight towards the Irith. Gomar swung around, his bow lining up like a machine, and released his arrow straight into the creature’s muzzle. His attacker quailed but came on, his charge unhindered. Gomar set another arrow and released it. This time the beast knocked it away with a flick of his paw and lunged. Dropping the bow, Gomar fell backwards off the railing just in time to escape the assault which, he knew, he would not survive. Time opened up for him to fall through along with space. The trip from the second story railing to the first story granite took an age, but it was over all too soon. He made impact. It felt as though every bone in his body had broken and he almost wished they had. He thought he would black out, but he didn’t. Somewhere near him, he felt the monster strike lightly.
Gomarden rolled himself over, struggling to set palm to floor and push himself up. A matter of ten paces away, the beast broke the arrow from its muzzle and turned to face him. To this point they had seemed only concerned with one thing; the queen. This one, however, had taken a different mission. Perhaps, he mused, they were only trying to kill the things they recognized as threats. That was good news from him. Clenching his teeth against the scream that tried to rise out of him, he pushed himself up.
The monster charged. Gomar could feel his conscience narrowing as he searched feverishly for some way of saving himself and nothing presented itself. The beast loomed in the center of his collapsing vision and time which had so eagerly opened for him before seemed sluggish. He bawled up his fists, knowing that it would do no good. But then a spear pierced the shadows at the edge of his mind and struck the beast behind its shoulder. It charged Gomar, suddenly aware of time’s paramount concerns. Gomar rolled to the side at the last possible moment. His hands closed over the spear as the monster blew through his ghost and he yanked it free. Both spun around to face each other.
A sword swept in, rushing suddenly at the monster’s flank. Gomar glanced over just enough to see its master; Niredol. Then his attention was swept back. The beast charged on. Gomar held back as long as he could. Then, when his attacker was too close to change its course, he rolled to the side, clear of the attack. As he came up, his hands closed over the spear handle and he pulled it free.
The monster skidded around on the stone floor and looked back and forth between the two Irithol closing on it. It hesitated for a moment, and then decided to run. Spinning about, it lunged towards the door, but a line of guards rushed in to block its path.
“No!” Gomarden screamed. “Let him go!”
Confused, the guards scattered. The monster ran free, disappearing into the night. There was a moment in which it could not be seen but its paws could be heard beating against the steps. Then there was nothing but silence.
“Are you alright?” Niredol asked. He was leaning over his broadsword and breathing hard.
“I’m fine,” Gomar replied, “But we’ve got a problem upstairs.

Five Eleven

You've never seen the sun until you're a vampire; not really. And no I don't mean that whole bit about having your skin turned into a viscous material while it's still on your body. And you can forget all those movies because the movies are all made by some guy, probably age 35 who hasn't done anything original in three months and spent all of one afternoon researching vampires before he pounded out a script while saying screw it, vampires are subjective. I'll make them be whatever I want, dangit! The honest truth is... well, screw the truth. The truth is unimportant. What is important is the sun. Yes I'm sure you've noticed it once or twice, but then again you're not a vampire so... no you haven't you've just been going about your life for the past 1-87 years, probably making numerous stops at a certain fast food restaurant and adding bit by bit to that expancious gut of yours, all the while glancing up at tht light and thinking how it makes seeing your fancy little FREE video game that resets every five minutes hard to see. Give it up man, it's only tetris. You have better things to do with your life; like being a vampire... but that's a discussion for another time. Right now we're thinking about the sun. Close your eyes with me and imagine that you're five foot eleven. Unless of course you ARE five foot eleven. In that case you can step out of the room. Now assuming that you have any sort of imagination at all you should all be outside of the room. The two or three of you left are the ones who despite my saying "imagine that you're five foot eleven" are still thinking to themselves; "But I'm not five foot eleven. I'm six foot three" or "I'm three foot six" or "I don't know how tall I am"... Out in the hallway the larger portion of the group are standing around imagining that they are five foot eleven and thinking what a coincidence it is that so many people in one room could be the same height while straining to see over and under the people around them. Back in the room I'm calmly cooking pop tarts in a microwave oven and singing "Daisy daisy, give me your answer do" quietly to myself, musing that I narrowly missed that one seeing as I am precisely five foot eleven and a half and my imagining instruction was not detailed towards myself. Honestly I've got enough on my imagining plate as is. I've contrived this entire affair.
Meanwhile, back a the ranch, your parents are, of course dying of thirst, having drank up the pond in the back yard and exhausted the well. They would have taken the cattle's water as well but it's still frozen up from that cold spell yesterday. your parents are sitting underneath the kitchen table with the frozen veggies out of the freezer waiting for the excess ice to thaw when I stroll in, still whistling "daisy, daisy" and announce, "Mr. and Mrs. McNovachuckler, your son finally grew a whole negative three inches!" Hearing this they leap upon the table and do a victory war dance. You however, are not there to hear it. You're still standing out in the hallway being five foot eleven and thinking how there might be something phony going on here because you're resting your chin on the top of your girlfriend/boyfriend's head and both of you are standing straight and tall at five foot eleven.
Just then I blow in with a grin splitting my face and a platter stacking high with steaming pop tarts. That's when you realize you MUST be dreaming because you're not wearing any pants. I hand you a pop tart, making a passing comment about your hair style and whisk away into the five foot eleven crowd.
Meanwhile back at the ranch (oh how I love that saying) your parents are thrown into a sheer panick as a helicopter tries to knock their house down. They pelt the overbearing maching with egg whites and strips of uncooked bacon, but to no avain. The cattle come on the scene in search of more water and promptly fall assleep. This didn't help the copter driver who flew into a wild rage and then flew back out with napalm in one hand and you in the other. "Wait a minute," you scream. "Why was I in the wild rage? How did i get there?" I calmly explain it to you as I stirfry more poptarts. You put yourself there when you realized that the entire thing was a fraud and you weren't REALLY the same height as your boyfriend/girlfriend. By the way, do not read this IN the company of your said companion as it will cause conflict of imagination. You cannot BOTH be taller than the other, I explain, or else you would be infinitely taller, each growing a bit taller by the moment until you were too tall to fit in the hallway and the copter roters would chop your head off making it impossible for you to imagine this scenario. The wild rage came upon you when you realized the pop tart was really a bananna split and you got brain freeze because you took too large of a bite.
Anyway, the ranch is destroyed, the cattle are deceased and you're stuck in the pilot's iron fist, all the while screaming to the world that you were not in the wild rage so how did he get a hold of you when he flew in there? Your temper quickly turns to the dark side and YOU fly into a wild rage, sucking allong the pilot and his aircraft because his grip is just too strong. There you encounter a rabid meercat who tears the pilot limb from limb and then proceeds to treat you similarely.
"It's all a ploy," I explain. You see I know about your algebra test tomorrow and I've been commissioned by the school board to make you loose sleep tonight so you'll do poorly and fail the test, the course, and the semester, therefor having to retake it all and increasing their salary. You scream as you fall, the pilot's lifeless hand still clenched about you, and land in the pond with a great splash. "Wait a minute," you say. "I thought there wasn't any water on the ranch."
"You're right," I reply. "Very good. You can stop imagining now. You open your eyes and find yourself back in the room, sitting calmly in your seat. For a single moment you think everything is going to be alright. I'm standing at the front of the room, perfectly quiet with no sign of food of any kind anywhere near me, and your boyfriend/girlfriend who is once again significantly shorter than you is sitting peacefully beside you and licking your toe. For a moment this seems perfectly natural to you. That's when you realize that the copter pilot's fist is still wrapped tightly around you. You scream again and try to get up. The sunlight vanishes and you sit bolt upright in your bed, rising out of a pool of sweat and throwing your tangled blankets off your midsection. It's 5:11 in the morning and the sun is just beginning to peak over the hill where the cattle like to graze. You role over onto the dry side of the bed and go back to sleep. That, my friend is the thing about vampires. They never sleep so how could you be one...

"Okay I'll take idiots and the workplace for $200 please."

"This clasification of human begin begins a blog, makes a lot of promises, has a lot of good ideas, but never fullfills them and updates said blog once about every six months."

*Smashes buzzer*

"Yes, Mr. Webb"

"What is an unpublished writer with a day job."

"That is correct."

once upon a microscope

I've been back to writing off and on again. I'm slugging my way through annals between trying to sell Garawain to a REAL publisher. It's about time the year of my life that went into writing that book paid off... Of coures it was fun... but that's not the point. The point is my day job is killing my writing career and i want this ridiculous hoby to pay my bills... or at least some of them.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, I think thatstorysite is going in for some revamping. You should see the "Coming soon" messages that have been up for the past year starting to disappear... maybe... I'm pretty braindead right now and I think that's all the news I have. Good day/month/year to you all.... oh and by the way, Happy New Year.