Rested, Radiantly Running Royals Roar

Today was an adventure.

Rocinante and I were...procuring some information out of what had once been a locked shed in the backyard of a man who is currently on vacation. Rocinante stood just inside the door, ready to take off if need be. It is a good thing that the shed was a very large one, or else the both of us might not have been able to get in there.

I was just about to pack up and go when a powerful voice said, "Put it down." I stopped moving, but kept all of my things in my hands. The voice spoke again.

"Put. It. Down." Something compelled me to drop the bag. I nearly hit myself later. Why did I drop the bag? Why?

"Now, turn around. Slowly."

I put my hands upon my head and turned until I could see my attacker.

It was a policeman. He was slightly rotund, had light stubble, and a bit of dandruff on his shoulders. The light he held in his left hand was traveling around the shed, and the gun in his right was pointed at a spot directly between my eyes and backwards a little.

"Dispose of your guise," said Rocinante. The policeman laughed, shimmered, and changed.

He was tall, about as tall as me. His hair was jet-black and slicked back as if with grease. Other than that, his cara was bare. His lips were thin and pale, as was the rest of him - the man's skin was as white as, perhaps, a vampire's would be. His eyes were a light red color, almost pink, but with even less color in them than that. The man wore a long black leather coat, had on a black turtleneck, black leather pants, black leather boots...I suppose he's very devoted to black leather. A silvery chain hung around his neck, but I did not get to see what was on the end of it.

The most interesting thing about the man was the sickle he had in his hands. It was long, and gleamed even in the clouded sunlight that broke through the shed's decaying planks.

"Yes, O Knight," said the man. "I like olden weapons myself." The sickle's blade dropped to the ground with a clink and a thud, but the man still gripped its handle well. It was attached with a chain, some sort of sleek mechanism. Coming after the chain in the great journey towards the ground was a small can. It was unmarked, though it looked as if it had once contained coffee.

"Now." He gestured with the sickle, or the handle, anyway. "Pick it up." I nodded and bent down. The can of gunpowder was already peeled open. All I would have to do is rip it back.

"Spread it around." I nodded again.

Then I threw the can at him.

We were out the door in seconds. I heard the man's horrid laughter behind me. "You can't hide!" he screamed. "You can run, but you can't hide!"

The shed exploded. The lawn caught; the house, no doubt, burned. But we were miles away when any officials - any real officials - showed up.

Recuerda, recuerda, el cinco de noviembre,
Pólvora, traición y complot.
No veo un razón porque traición de la pólvora
Debería ser olvidado nunca.

Quirky Quixotic Quilts Quack Queens

The hardware store across the road sells televisions. They have their display set up in the window so you can watch sixteen or so different screens of the exact same channel at the exact same time.
 
The manager changes it on a schedule. At six a.m. he puts on the news. At ten he switches to sports. At one in the afternoon, it's cartoon time. At two, you can watch crime shows. At six it's back to news, and at eight he turns the TVs off while the night passes.

At seven thirty one in the evening I saw something that scared me. I didn't really catch any of the names, save one. I don't much care about names anymore. And in the end, I don't care to retell the whole story.

Girl. Young. Had a life to live. Disappeared. Cross-country killing spree. Not detected. Until now.

What she saw during her travels was so bad that she would rather mutilate herself than see it again. She would rather stab out her own eyes than -

And I thought I had it bad.

Her hospital room - she's not quite dead yet - is being guarded, said the anchorman. I'm sure I could make it to Arizona, but...I'm afraid. I'm afraid of getting in another scrape with the police. I'm afraid of being helpless. I'm afraid of making it worse.

I'm afraid of what I might see. I'm afraid that I might see some small remnant of her nightmares, and I'm afraid I wouldn't ever be able to stop running.

But I still have my mind and heart and soul and body, and blood still passes through my veins, and I would say a thousand prayers that I might not be guilty, that I might not have a pained conscience.

Poor Lea Ritter.

El techo, el techo, el techo está en llamas 
El techo, el techo, el techo está en llamas
No necesitamos agua
Deje al hijo de puta quemar
Quema, hijo de puta
Quema

49

smiled gently. "It'll be all right." Her face shone like the morning sun.

"It doesn't feel very all right." The man was angry. He was tired, and scared, and sad, but mostly he was angry.

"That's because it's not the end." The new voice came from behind. Something

51

The man awoke from the so-called unending slumber for the umpteenth time. Once again he had no memory of his past but for a few fragments - those fragments that would turn out to be the most important parts. Tiny seeds planted themselves in his head, urging him to go forward and recover his memories. He had known this would happen again, and so decided to leave reminders for himself scattered about, in the hope that he could find what had been lost.

Little did he know how hard it would be, but that wasn't the issue just now. The issue now was getting his bearings, and dealing with the Giant standing on the horizon line.

The man looked down at himself. He wasn't high up in a tree this time, or way down below the ground, or face-planted in a ditch. He wasn't completely out of the woods, though, in more ways than one - he was slumped up against the base of a huge fir. He wasn't wearing much - pants and an undershirt, and hiking boots. But to his left was a large black duffel bag. He looked inside and saw a strange assortment of items.

A long spear, almost like a knight's lance, but not quite. More like a pike. Its tip glowed faintly in the shadows of the afternoon light. Underneath the pike was an old and worn, yet sturdy, wooden crossbow, just the right size to be held in one hand in an emergency, its tips fashioned out of the same material as the pike - perfect for hooking and smashing. A smaller, reinforced leather satchel within the duffel bag seemed to contain several dozen crossbow bolts. The man couldn't be sure, but he thought that they were made of the same strange metal-like substance. Lastly there was a wallet and a Kevlar vest, which he quickly put on. Better to be safe than sorry.

The man zipped up the bag and looked around again. He was just about to get up when there was a barking noise from somewhere behind him. A huge St. Bernard quickly trotted out of the woods and began licking him about his face. The suitably huge keg of brandy around its neck got in the way some, but the man didn't mind. He tried to ask what her name was, but found that he couldn't - he had no tongue.

But the dog seemed to understand. It composed itself, then, very slowly, said, "Don't be scared."

When the man showed no sign of running away the dog continued. "I don't remember anything either. But we're a part of each other." The man nodded - the dog seemed to feature very prominently in what little memories he had left. "Now. Let's go get him."

The man nodded again and got up. The dog crouched down, offering her back for him to ride, and they rode off toward the Giant in the distance. Or was it a windmill? Something about it was spinning around, for sure.

They arrived within seconds. There It was, in all Its horrible glory. Its tentacles stopped twirling about and the Giant leaned down as if to talk to the man.

The man found he could speak with the dog inside their minds - simple thoughts, but it was enough. He could talk through her when needs must.

"Are you my goal?" asked the man, through the dog.

The Giant said nothing.

"Are you my god?" continued the man.

The Giant said nothing.

"Are you my gallows?" asked the man, and then the Giant nodded.

Yes, said the Giant. 

The man, though overcome with a furious rage, patted the dog on its neck, and they rode away without a backward glance, looking for some trace of civilization.

While they rode into the night, the man tried to make sense of it all. What should I do? he wondered.

Almost immediately another voice answered. Find the hammer, said the voice.

The man pondered this for a moment. And who am I? he inquired.

The voice took a while before it answered. When it finally did, it wasn't very helpful.

You are many things, and many men, said the voice. You were. But now?

The voice did not continue until the dog finally tired and they had to rest for the night.

You will have no name. You are the Knight-Errant.

4

a pretty stupid thing to ban," the man said. He took a swig from his brandy flask, and dozed off.

The truck driver shook him awake some time later. The man looked around and saw that they were at a small but efficient rest stop. He got out of the truck and turned to thank his friend, but the truck had disappeared. There were no tracks behind him on the road, and no tracks ahead - this left the man feeling very confused, but it was apparent from the setting sun that they had gone quite a ways.

The stop had a convenience store, a gas station, and a Bed and Breakfast. It was at the latter of these that the man checked into, as he had plenty of money left over. He chatted with the landlady awhile, doing his best to get some hold on current events, but he didn't manage much. She was rather isolated out here in little corner of peace, but the rates were good and the sheets were clean, so there was nothing to complain about.

He fell asleep easily under woolen patchwork quilts depicting scenes of victory and great men and women of history - Solomon? George Washington? Betsy Ross? Was that - yes, it was - Jesus.

The man pulled the soft cloth over his eyes

Perilous Proxies Preach Pixellated Potions

In short, we located this girl and went with her to battle these men to save this boy.

But the entire story...well, it's a bit longer than that.

It was easy to discover where Candle was hiding. It was easy to get into the motel room, and it was easy to convince Trinity to trust us. But it was hard to point my weapon at the traitor to humanity, and it was harder to walk away. I vowed once to be ruthless. To dispose of Its servants whenever possible. But I suppose it just wasn't, today.

Candle tells the truth, or close enough to it. I believe he got some of Rocinante's Latin wrong, and perhaps he was a little unfair in his description of me, but I can't blame him. And he makes jokes, anyway - just a defense mechanism - they do not harm me. Sticks and stones. In any case I could not knowingly kill Candle when it would mean Trinity's death, a near-certainty at the hands of the monstrous Kobold. That would be - would be as unforgivable as giving up, another of my many vows. But when I walked away, I did so without looking back, or I might not have been able to resist.

I don't have a driver's license in any state; at least not one anyone's decided to tell me about. But I'm a competent enough chauffeur, though I hesitate to use the word. Rocinante rode in rear of the pick-up, with Trinity and Timothy by her side, catching up on their rather eventful past couple of weeks and asking my long-time companion questions when they thought of them, though she could not usually answer. I sat alone in the cab.

We stopped once on the way home, to buy ice cream. I decided to spend my dwindling reserves on the children - after all, they needed something comforting after all they'd been through. Trinity had a vanilla shake, Timothy a king-size Butterfinger; and I had nothing, and Rocinante had nothing, as we're used to hunger.

We were able to arrive at the Mansion without difficulty. As the children had others to take care of them, I did not plan to stay long, but the keeper of their home - Mystery - insisted we stay some nights.

Well, it can't hurt.

Operation Osprey Orders Old Officers

Well, we've arrived, and done some scouting. Now to get inside...

No New Narrows, Nectar, Nebulas

We don't know Its true name, either. I don't really think that "Slender Man" is it.

I've got somewhere to be; there are people in need of my admirably accommodating assistance. Rocinante and I ride north in the morn. I shall update in some days, when we arrive.

Many Molehills May Make Mountains

And many men may move them.

If there was one thing I ever tried to do it was helping people. I never managed it, really, so I'm glad I get the chance now to redeem myself.

After all, you know what they say: better late tha̴͘͜n̴̡͟ ̸̛͝n̸͘͟e͏̢̧̧́v̶́̀e̴̶̕r̶̨̡͞

There once was a man who, after a long and hard ordeal, was given a choice: accept the advice of a man named Eight and escape the pains of this life, or pull a lever and let himself out of his cage, thereby continuing to suffer. The man toiled over the choice, and it was many days and nights before he could decide. The man had lost nearly everything by that point, and he was ready to move on into the next world. Little did he know it wouldn't last.

But the moral of the story is: Better Eight than lever. Even if the man didn't stay dead like he was supposed to.

3

the phone, but the man reached over the counter and grabbed his arm before he could even lift it off its hook.

"Please," said the man. "I'm desperate. I have the money." He searched in the clerk's eyes for some flicker of understanding, but nothing came. The clerk shook his arm free and snatched up the phone before the man could say another word, dialing what the man assumed to be the police. The man nodded his head unhappily and tried to block out the voices telling him to grab it and run, but he couldn't - not completely. He shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a fistful of cash, and, dropping it on the counter, the man grabbed the laptop, stuffing it carelessly into his rucksack.

Once outside, the man flagged down a passing truck driver who seemed to be going out of the city. He hopped in the cab and asked, "Where you going?"

"East," said the truck driver. "How far you going?"

"Away," said the man, "just away." The truck driver nodded his head in solemn agreement and pulled back onto the road without any further questions. They had been driving for about two hours when the man thought to ask the truck driver what city they had just left.

"Salt Lake," said the driver. "Salt Lake City. Utah."

The man made no gesture, but instead went on to ask, "And the date?"

The driver had to think for a moment before replying. "January seventeenth," he said. "You know, it was this day in nineteen twenty that the Prohibition act began."

"Prohibition, eh?" Like all his general knowledge facts, the man could see a faint outline of its meaning, but he couldn't quite get at it in its entirety.

The driver looked over at him, seeing his puzzled expression amongst a myriad of others. "Alcohol ban. Lasted nearly fourteen years."

"Alcohol ban, huh? Sounds like

1

The first thing he knew was that his head hurt.

The man raised his eyes and immediately was forced to shade them against the bright sun coming down from the treetops. He stepped forward and immediately tumbled to the ground from his high perch. That didn't help stop the pain. He vaguely remembered that he had climbed the tree to escape from a pursuer, but he couldn't recall any of the details.

When he had managed to lift himself out of the dirt - now with a newly scraped knee and a ringing in his ears - he got his first good look at the mess there was at the base of the tree. Strewn around his feet were various items that looked as if they could be helpful - a rucksack, a compass, a book of road maps, a wallet, and a single half-empty flask of brandy.

"Some party," mumbled the man, and clutched his head again, waiting for the pain to pass.

There were no cards or IDs inside the wallet, just a few twenties and one check for three hundred dollars. Most of the writing was illegible in his daze, but the man could tell that the signature and the amount of money were written by different people. Someone had given him a blank check - who? Why?

The man shrugged and packed it all into the rucksack. He hefted it over his shoulder and began walking towards the line of buildings he could see on the horizon. Something told him he'd be there soon.

Something was nagging at him in the back of his mind, though. Some vital piece of information. The man stopped in his trek and focused on the thought, willing it to come forward where he could see it, and it molded itself into a voice - the first of several. "Do not worry," said the voice. "You just have to

Loud, Lazy Lads Loathe Love

Time to tell a tale? No, not a tale. How about some detail? Time dar detail? That is what I deduct.

Perhaps - yes, that will do nicely. My place of sleep is luckily nowhere so horrid as a Dumpster or in abandoned Metro tunnels, although it still is less than ideal. No, I rest my head some nights in an arboretum, a collection of coverage of the tree persuasion. It is a very nice arboretum, and one that I can take wherever I go, as it is made not out of material things but instead by some very talented amigos I know, who come with me to many places, though indeed not everywhere. I stay in this arboretum as opposed to an acceptable place of residence such as an inn or a hotel or even a tent, because I wish once again to confront the Slender Man as I did in days of deadlier darkness.

Yes, I speak Its name openly, as I do not temo It or Its name or Its presence anymore. Names have power, and miedo de un nombre only increases miedo de la cosa itself.
There's also something I've got to try.
Rocinante and I rest rather easily in the arboretum. I keep my weapon close and my helm closer - though no shield do I have. (I rather think I should locate one.) And the best part of it all is that it costs me nothing but effort to use, as I have very little to no money most of the time and would not be able to sustain myself during extended periods of time with no sleep. I dare not sleep in the open as I may be ambushed, something that has happened to all of us too many a time to count, though perhaps not always violently or even physically.

No; that's not all true. I do not speak the Slender Man's name any more than I taste the coffee that I sometimes treat myself to in the mornings. It is devilishly difficult to do so without a tongue.

Killer Kangaroos Kick Kindly Kings

No, not the nail, but instead its hammer, and a mighty majestic hammer it is, too. The don was light of step and quick of leg when he set out into the cold and uncaring waters, waiting, watching, 'til he came across a sandbar. 'Twas not a big sandbar, but it was the one where he needed to be. I anchored my vessel and leaped overboard into the old, opinionated ocean. At that point it was only a short swim to the sandbar itself, and some scraping around in the sand with the bottom of my boot revealed a sprig of wood, a twig that had broken off of what was - likely - my goal, in the crash. Dulcinea's cara intensified in my mind's eye, and I could see her, but only her, and only her, and thank God, only her, until the moment moved on. It was my own mistake that I had left the shovel at home, and so I began to dig with my hands.

After what seemed like hours but was probably only half of one, I uncovered the handle of the hammer I had sought. Now, having a hammer and lugging around a lance, each separately, would do me no good; I jerked the weapon out of the sand it had buried itself in, and brought both it and myself back to the boat. Back on land, I brought the two remnants of my past to a junkyard vendor I knew; the man was said to take old junk and let it stew until it put itself back together in new ways. I didn't have the time it usually took him to do his business, so I demanded, rather daringly, that he bring the two together on the spot. It still took him about an hour, but I was rewarded with a dashing weapon worthy of a knight such as myself. Such as I am.

I remembered what I had lost, or at least part of it. I remembered carving strange symbols into the bark of trees and waiting, wanting something to happen. I remembered dragging my toes through the dirt, wanting to locate the answer I had been so desperately searching. I remembered sitting alone in a coffee shop and contemplating my next move, much as I do now. I remembered Rocinante, and I remembered our cardinal run-in; we were allies as soon as we met.

And then I remembered my duty, and I wait, now, as I most often do, until I am needed again, until I can remember what I have lost.

Jubilantly Jumping Jabberwocks Jog Jaggedly

The daring don does now reside in the District of Columbia, after a long lark back home. He has some more things to take care of, yes, but he thinks he's earned an easy existence at the immediate time.

Yes, the don waits while worried allies go about their daily business...he waits until he is needed, or until he locates a lead to a remnant of his remembering. Perhaps next is the nail? Or maybe a mark on a certain wall...

Intrepid Idealists Infer Incorrupt Interruptions

No unkind adventure did take place on that night, though a team of officers of the law did endeavor to deter the don due to a bad misunderstanding, and it is that which has kept me away. But now I update my loyal allies after being updated myself.

'Twas nearing midnight when we went inside the reaches of the trees, keeping a sharp eye out in search of It or Its Hollowed. I knew the location of the tree I was going towards, but I took a long winding route through the woods, waiting to be ambushed by some unpleasant power. None came, though Rocinante growled quite a couple times. Luckily I had alcohol to calm my nerves, and calm them it did.

When we reached the tree - or, should I say, when we reached the spot where the tree used to be, there was an immediate sense of sadness and incurable corruption. Not something very strong, no, but enough to be detected by both the don and his docile darling dog. The thing we wished to locate was underground, it would appear. In but moments we had dug it out; we've gotten good at digging. There it was; a shard of the shell of some long-abandoned egg. In that moment I remembered, and had a sudden experience akin to that of awakening after a long, restless rest.

Unfortunately it would seem that, though the signs were apparent, the don didn't realize he was trespassing, and a guard quickly chased him away. So now Rocinante and I ride upon rocky roads to our next destination, trying to remember, trying to locate the long-lost life I led.

Hollow Hearts Have Harrowing Hazards

It took a time to ride here, but the don doesn't tire during such an important quest, no! We rest in the city of salt lakes, waiting to walk into the woods and retrieve the reminder I must have left there...a more detailed account will come shortly; tonight, we ride amongst the trees! Hopefully nothing bad will happen there.

Garish Gentleman Gallop Gallantly, Giddily

Rest reassured - she shouldn't suffer more. No, not, never - in truth, the scream slipped by my senses sneakily. It didn't dwell indeed, no; it wasn't an actual, authentic aural attack! It was a remnant of my remembered reality, an imagined echo with explosive accuracy. Which reminds the don - there are some things I've disremembered, but something speaks swiftly to me that there are things I've thought to leave behind, big bad winking whispers and warnings of my lost thoughts! So the don does design a disposition with which to win my way through the trials and tribulations ahead. He shall still save suffering allies, but only on the avenue of mine own adventure - to recover my non-remembered recollections!

And so it is with heavy heart and huge hope that the don discards his instrument of inhibitions and voyages on the vessel of verisimilitude! The don does deem it dead on to disembark primarily in the primary place of records.

If only he understood quite where that was...

Explosive Energies Excite Enervated Enemies

The don departs. It is time to travel on the trail of no tears, the road of no regret, the route of no return. Ah, but the don doesn't disremember that the thoughtful trooper should smile and saunter boldly, braving Death as though he were an old acquaintance. So should he purposelessly parade on the path of pessimistic poignancy? No! He carves his own causeway, weaving words like a warm winter's wind.

I avail myself of the Star's humble, hospitable home. I need no longer to live by lingering, and imposing on her indulgence to aid. I am a roaming rival of that repulsive reprobate, Death, that despicable, dirty, deplorable desperado. I am the ingenious gentleman, Sir Thighpiece, of the Mancha!

Where I am needed, I will near; where I am wanted, I will wander. All who require remedies or have an urgency and are in need of aid, you need no more than to ask, and the don and Rocinante will rush rapidly to your relief, asking no reward but a gracious grin and a gleeful guffaw.

I promise I won't pass by any person, nor leave without laboring to lift their load. But now, I will walk on the wind and swim in the sea, ready to race or rescue.

I will discover again my Dulcinea.

I've caught a cry in the city. I go. I shall regale you all with stories of the scene soon.

Do Deadly Devils Despise Darkness?

Don't despair - the once-distressed damsel is now dandy and recovering rapidly. However...I suppose I should tell the tale. It is not a long one or a dramatic one, but it is true to the trials I trudged through yesterday.

Upon arrival in the city I made sure I had a home in which to lodge once I had rescued the Star. After a quick period of rest and recuperation, I strode stoutly into the trees. It did not take long to become lost. Of course I had to become lost; how can you search if your target is not lost? And how can you imagine how lost the target is if you yourself are not lost? No matter; as I was saying...

After a time, Rocinante picked up a trail. We rushed like we had never rushed before, and came to a dark clearing. The despicable devil, Cheshire, stood, staring, still. He was so deep in his work that he did not hear the whistling of my bolt as it dashed towards him, nor the clinking of my lance as it came down on his thorny crown. (Speaking of which, his hat had hopped off his head sometime during the battle. The Star is keeping it locked up.) He turned, and no longer was there a smile on his wicked cara. But before he could retaliate, Rocinante roared and ran at him. Her gnashing jaws and whirling claws scared him off, methinks. He disappeared, slowly, as if evaporating. The last thing to go was his smile, his evil grin.

Kathleen Schrödinger, the Star, the most marvelous of well-wishers, was there. Curled up into a ball on the ground, whimpering, crying dry tears.

She is injured, my allies. She has lost the smallest digit on her left hand, and her cara is bloody and beaten. Her left ankle, as well, is twisted and hurt. But no worries! She is, as I have said, recovering rapidly. No doubt she will be singing again soon.

I will stay with her a time, but I am a roamer. I must return to my roving sooner or later.

Cute, Curious Cats Can't Cease

The Star seems sad and strained, so the daring and dashing don doesn't deem it smart to stay still! No; he removes his reservations, loosens his noose, and rushes to her rescue, riding Rocinante as rapidly as a rabid rabbit.

The don divines that he will dismount in but two days. Until then, thine thoughts should travel truly to the lovely lady, the damsel in distress.

Bereaving Bloody Battles Bodes Badly

When all is well on the western way, the daring don will deem it not so deadly to depart the eastern shores...but will he depart indeed? The slippery slopes of shining seas simmer and slink away at the thought of departure. Therefore I designate this doorway to death condemned, and none shall pass through without the express permission of yours truly. So, dearly departed, I wish you well in your wayfaring throughout the windy and willful walk of the next world.

Animals, Assemble Around Any Area

And any intelligent man accepts an announcement of the sort. I ride Rocinante rapidly to the appointed spot. And I, the dubious don of delegated destructive dynamism, disclose doubly devilish dirges to the animals at the appointed area of assembly.

The meeting is to make a method of attack with which we will win over the Giants. And before you ask - the don has checked. They are most certainly not windmills.