Khas-khem, 19, location unknown. (A LANCER story.)

Light.

That is the first thing Khas-khem realized was absent. She opened her eyes. Dark. Silent. She closed her eyes again. Listen.

Her body's own sounds where there. Heartbeat, pulse, breathing, the soft touch of linen underneath her fingers. Was she naked? No. That was strange. Dead? No, her body seemed to be working. She made fists of her fingers and curled her toes, releasing short and staccato exhales. She had control. She was in control. Good.

Relaxing into the linen, she began the warrior mantra. She was Khas-khem of the Yellow Sands clan, swimmer of the Red River, born and breed to be a protector of the land. Was this her trial? Had she been taken to the Fortress of Fire already? Was that not too soon?

Slow breathing in and out. Stretch out her limbs, uncurl her fingers and spread them out. The absence of light was annoying. Listen. No sounds but those she made herself.

A voice spoke.

"Sun Stealer."

Not too dark or high pitched, but a man for certain. Neither old nor young. Definitely not a warrior. A priest?

The voice continued.

"You have been chosen. I will guide you. I know you have questions, but listen, and do not interrupt."

The man paused, waiting for her reaction. Khas-khem kept silent, trying to determine where the voice was coming from. 

"I am not of your clan. I am not a warrior, nor a priest. I am what remains of Musim, long departed from this world."

Musim? Lancer pilot, legend, the reason the Southlings had not marched against Bakbak am Komf in anger. Everybody knew his tale. Was this a hologram?

"As you by now probably have guessed, I am a machine copy. I was made before my namesake did battle for the lordlings in the South. I am an echo of what was before, and I will guide you if you accept the burden of walking my path."

Khas-khem became very still. Lancer pilot. Only the very best of the best were selected, and the competition was fierce. But sending a warrior, gene-altered and structure-tailored... could they afford to sacrifice one of the Sans-sens-silt? So few had made it past the second organ implementation in her batch.

"Sun Stealer. I address you as a pilot. If you accept to this role, your life will be forever changed. You may never return to Bakbak am Komf and your clan. Your name will be forgotten, deedless. You will forever walk alone outside the embrace of the holy four. The Grateful Hate will chase your steps, the Drowning Despair will reach for you, the Forgotten Silence shun your shade, and the Consumer will try to claim your karta. It is a lonely life, full of peril and danger. You will struggle and fail, or rise to eclipse the Warm of Wrath herself. Do you accept this life?"

Khas-khem considered this. Leaving the others behind when there were so few of them left... Musin had not told her she could speak. In the dark she made the hand signal for "halt". The voice spoke again.

"Do you have questions? If so, you may speak them."

"What will happen to my blood-bonded?" Her voice sounded throaty and coarse in her ears, nothing like the melodious tone of Musim.

"They will continue on without you, as if you had died."

"Will there be a ceremony?"

"No. You will leave without warning. The customary answer will be given."

'Sailing the river of stars', Khas-khem thought. A sharp pain went through her heart.

"Why 'Sun Stealer'?"

"After the fall of the biological Musim, the Southlings gave him a title. Furious, his followers threatened to rebel and depart. The Southlings conceded and allowed the people the right to name their own. However, as Musin was dead, no title could be bestowed upon him. Whenever we send a potential pilot South to the lordlings for training, we equip them with a title, as to never let this happen again."

Khas-khem understood instantly. Titles were for the living, to offer one to the dead was to gain the attention of the dead, distracting them from the afterlife. She never expected she would have one herself.

"I accept."

Light. Blinding, all surrounding. Cold. There was no warmth in the light.

"Then welcome, Sun Stealer, to your new life. Your training begins immediately."

Celeste Lockwood, aka "Hammerhead", Dark Howler, Hell's Asshole.

Hell's Asshole. Appropriate name for a backwater out in the middle of nowhere. Way too hot, far too few bars, all glaring sunshine and no roses, even thorny ones. Celeste popped the seal of her mech, letting the cooled vacuum that existed inside hiss away into the open sky. Ah, well, that would have to been added once she was underway again. Thank fuck for cooling units and air condition units. She grinned. The Dark Howler had both, more as a byproduct of all the heat sinks built into it. A reverse fridge effect: hot on the inside, cool on the outside. Well, outside being the inside of her mech, so the analogy didn't work perfectly. Ah, shit on a stick, nothing was ever perfect.

The wide brimmed hat shielded her eyes as she gazed out into the desert. Heat was shimmering on the ground and blurring the horizon. It always did this time of day. Why Markus had said he'd be there and picked this spot was anybody's guess. If Celeste had to guess, it was because it was out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and no sane individual would travel this far into the desert without provisions, a good plan on how to get out again and an even better reason to be here in the first place. She shrugged. Markus could keep his reasons as long as she was payed for the job.

A soft hum, almost a buzz, alerted her of an approaching mech. Too far off to see clearly, but loud enough to be man made. Celeste grinned. Markus was early.

Except it wasn't Markus. It was a Horus mech. Shitfuck and dumdump.

The thing had four legs, two arms and - horns? Horns on a mech? What the shitfuck? Yeah, that was a HORUS mech, all right, nobody else would think of putting horns on a mech. Moving fast, the bastard was, too. Celeste cursed again and quickly closed the hatch, sealing it tightly, flipping the switch that told the machinery to pretty please make it livable inside again. She had just thrown herself into the cockpit seat when...

"Hey, Hammerhead. That you?"

Celeste froze. Who the fuckshit just burst into people's coms? And how? The Dark Howler wasn't properly powered up yet, and coms had been offline.

"C'mon, Hammerhead. I know you're in there, you money grubbing grabbing wench, you."

Huh. So it was Markus, after all. In a Horus mech. Celeste checked her right hand. Nope, still nine fingers, mus'nt be dreaming. Slowly she grabbed the still-off microphone of the com station, looking at it with curious disgust before speaking into it.

"Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you just fine, Hammerhead. Don't worry, nobody around to tell you got hacked."

The voice came through loud and clear. Crystal. No static or background noise at all. Strange. Very, very strange.

"Hacked? Yeah, right. You got my gold?"

"Do you have my package?"

"I've got your package if you've got my gold."

"And I have your gold if you've got my package. C'mon, Hammerhead, ease up a little. Look, I'll exit first, carrying a big black box - that's your money, by the way - and then you can leave your crawling chaos whenever you feel like meeting me."

"All right - Markus."

The com station blinked online. Stickfuck on a dumpstick. Useless. Well. Coming out seemed scary, now.

The underbelly (underbelly? Had she really thought of it as the underbelly of a beast? It was a mech. A HORUS mech, but still a mech, and not alive.) hatch opened and a humanoid figure stepped out into the glaring sunlight. Grinning like an idiot, shades in place, three-day stubble, sandblast hair, dressed in brownish and greased working fatigues, carrying what looked like a mix between a chest and a briefcase. A heavy looking briefcase. Gold was heavy.

Celeste looked around inside. Where had she stashed the item? Rummaging through her spare items/junk draw her hands touched a cylinder six inches wide. Even wrapped in cloth it had this faint pink-purple-magenta glow to it. Probably dangerous. Dangerously stupid, or stupidly dangerous, considering who wanted it. Or maybe just stupid. Dumshit for sure, and dumshit her had been carrying that thing in the open. Had Markus said it was safe to touch? He had not not said it wasn't. Celeste grabbed the thingie and showed it into a pack. Outdoors again.

The seal of the mech hissed again as the climate control paused automatically - no use pumping cool air into an open casket. Funny word, that, casket. Celeste climbed up and out, bracing herself as her feet hit the sand. Markus stood there, maybe thirty or forty feet away from his machine. Even in the sunlight it looked - menacing. Beastlike. If it started making cow noises that was it for Celeste, money or no money.

Markus put down the briefcase/chest, giving it a soft thump as he placed a foot on top of it. Celeste opened the pack. It had a hole in it, a tattered hole. Some of the stitching must had come loose again. Time to grab another one back in town.

"One TTS 19 power ultra super container for personal use. Want me to put it down, or do you want to play catch?"

"Too valuable. Put it down, nice and easy, and we'll circle around, me to it, you to this." Markus patted the black chest/briefcase with his boot. "No double crossing, no tricks, just a simple exchange of goods and payment."

Celeste put the pack down. There was no hint of a glow, pink-purple-magenta or otherwise. She knelt down to open up the flap, revealing the item Markus had tasked her with getting. She could sense his stickdumb grin widening.

"Excellent. Move to the left, I'll do the same."

Celeste got up and started walking to the left.

"No, your other left."

Celeste sighed, rolled her eyes and started heading back to her other left. Only then Markus began to move, mirroring her pace.

Five minutes later the air conditioning and cooling units blasting full force as the Dark Howler rolled away from the meeting spot, one black chest/big briefcase with gold richer. Time to buy some upgrades, a shower and a shave, maybe a massage, and for fuck's sake a new backpack - the old one had ripped and teared in two as Markus had picked it up. Dumfuck had nearly lost his precious item and yelped, having barely caught it in time. Not her fault, that.

August vacation notes.

No issues with luggage this time. Love how every other Friday is sea shanties and pirate music now, and that the entire S&S crew are doing it. A strange and unexpected, but welcome unity. Guzzling sparkling water, listening to AI rock, reading image books for children in Deutsch - life is good. Ich spechen Deutsch das Klingon Weg!

Seine Sticks verwirbeln stumm,

Staub und Dreck um ihn herum,

Bumm bumm tschakk und tschakk tschakk bumm,

nu für sich, kein Publikum!"

Indoor breeze is the best in shade.

CSD in Frankfurt. Wore a hat. Eat Indian. Party in the evening.

Sunday: sleep, more sleep, nap time, much resting, Thai chicken and pineapple sweet and sour, outdoor evening walk (WARM).

Spice sick. Nursing duty. "It's a thing, about the fact..." Books came. Thunder and lightning and wet laundry, because heavy rain. House Edelving created.

Phantasia Land. Largest new car ride to date. Why is there a dragon in Berlin? Feeding bees. Glad for wearing trousers. Danslo taking form. River Quest: Soaking wet. Much laughter.

Something changed. No dogs with tentacles, please. The German countryside is beautiful. Kebab with lamb.

Mech ideas and compositions contemplated. Vacation photo taken. Kashkin/Kasrkin? Big day tomorrow. "Of all the men  the drunkard is the foulest.  The thief when he is not stealing is like another. The extortioner does not practice in the home. The murderer when he is at home can wash his hands. But the drunkard stinks and vomits in his own bed and dissolves his organs in alcohol." (Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls.)

No confirmation of dog, child or sleepover. Prep work smooth. Outfit fancy level lowered to practical summer wear. (Still looking very nice, of course.) When you walk past the bunnies and they ignore you, you know you are accepted by them. Dress makes me feel like a Star Trek the Original Series woman in uniform. Party went well: old friends, new friends, friends made at the party, friendly not-quite-friends-yet. Sausage jokes, none eaten.

Lovely morning after and relaxed (late) beginning of the Sunday. Righteously bragging to my people and my group. Good feedback, too. Slow day.

Vacation but daily life task day.

The golden age of leather rang the doorbell. Delightful smell. Grimm brothers birth city visited. Homemade Italian evening meal (not pasta nor pizza).

Spice sick. LANCER art and creativity. Cultural background assumed the same proven incorrect.

Long uncomfortable night of scratching.

Please do not throw the snot paper into the bunny pen. The fruitbat, accompanied by much swearing, went under the bed. Lots o' Helluva Boss. Owlin Wizard, Divination.

Journey back.

Kihn-Ae le'Foergee, 18, Kalterborn Academy, planetside Danslo, Tantssvir system. (A LANCER STORY.)

 Kihn-Ae le'Foergee remembered the first time she experienced rain. It was the first time she had been planetside. Stepping out of the shuttle, taking a deep breath, feeling the water hitting her face, taking note of how different it was. The smell, the texture, the strange freshness of it. Kihn-Ae, having spent her entire life up to this point aboard a space station, the Zemler Hold Starbase on Firedark, felt foreign to this world. If such a small thing as water from the sky hitting your face, what else was in store for her down here?

The journey from Yellow Chair Landing was uneventful. Kihn-Ae would have described it differently. The vast open space, the color of the sky and the ground, the sound the rain made against the shuttle before it took off, all unfamiliar to her. Sooner than she expected they were flying over Fjellheim, the capitol of Danslo, where the Kalterborn Academy was located. It would be her home for the next year or so. Assuming she survived.

As the day came to an end Kihn-Ae felt tired, both inside and the outside. The gravity of the planet was a bit more than first expected - her muscles were screaming from the pull and additional wear and tear. As for information, the constant bombardment of sensory input seeking to overwhelm her. She knew training would be hard. She was already standing out due to her height. Most spaceborn were tall and could be described as lanky, but she was far from spindly, having been trained since childhood to be able to step on planets without artificial aid. Slim and sleek underneath her matt black clothing, unruly dark brown hair, piercing green eyes, and an expression that gave resting bitch face a new interpretation - Kihn-Ae knew she was not beautiful, but beauty had never been her goal. Form and function over aesthetics. Practical. Just as her heraldry would be - pure black.

The le'Foergee family was not considered proper nobility. An off-shoot from the now extinct nele Forrageeh bloodline, her ancestors had been in charge of building what eventually would become the Zemler Hold Starbase. Back then it had been Lightbase 1 to 8. Before the Bombardment. Before the attempted invasion. Now only Zelmer Hold Starbase stood where Lightbase 4 had once been, named for the man who hold the line against the invaders. A local, a simple man, not of the blood, had risen and taken control of the defenses. His sacrifices had let the few remaining people to hold out on Firedark as one by one, the other Lightbases grew dark and unresponsive. His daughter married the son of the last member of house nele Forrageeh, and declared that their descendants would forever hold the name le'Foergee and be considered apart from the main bloodline. At the time there was no longer any prominent house nele Forrageeh members alive to object.

Kihn-Ae wondered if anybody outside of scholars even remembered house nele Forrageeh. Her fellow students would not care, and to them she was simply Blacklight. 

Celestine Nenano foij gerr Edelving, 17, Kalterborn Academy, Fjellheim, Danslo, Tantssvir system. (A LANCER STORY.)

The woman woke before sunrise. Celestine - not yet fully awake, still thought of herself as Celestine - stretched, her toes accidentally hitting the end of the bed. With a start, the woman known as Half-Cat opened her eyes, a sour frown spreading over her face. She had to start thinking about herself as Half-Cat. Celestine would have awakened back in her private quarters in Kneip Castle, overlooking the morning-sun side of Fjellheim. If she was lucky, she could have seen the first rays of sunlight hit the mountain Kneip Castle was built into, rising to bathe the walls of stone with glittering light. Even on an overcast day she could spot the moment the sun would have filled her windows with light, as the room itself changed subtly. Half-Cat didn't have any windows in her room, nor was it her room. These quarters were shared with her fellow classmates, all potential graduates of Kalterborn Academy. Half-Cat groaned softly to herself. She hated to share a room with anybody, and they were 27 in total: 16 women and 11 men, 13 from the provinces, 11 from the city proper, two from Zemler Hold Starbase and one from Bakbak am Komf. Sons and daughters of the nobility, most of them landless and obscure branches far from the main bloodlines, more than willing to pour their young at the alter of sacrifice for the state and crown. Only Half-Cat herself was a proper member of House Edelving, and her family branch was not even close to the true power. Nevertheless, she was a member of House Edelving, born of the blood, the highest ranking of her class. Not that it brought her special privileges. In fact, it served as the complete opposite - she had to prove herself twice as hard as everybody else because she was of the old and ancient blood. The last time an Edelving had failed to graduate from the Kalterborn Academy it had resulted in exile, and not just for the unlucky candidate. Dying as part of the training was acceptable, as people did perish from time to time, for any number of reasons. Half-Cat did not intend to become one of them.

Her eyes having adjusted to the darkness of the room, she rolled out of bed, feet on the stone floor. At least that was familiar. The sounds of near thirty people snoring and moaning, breathing and turning, asleep or trying to, would never not become unnatural for her. Thrown together in a barracks as common serfs, all for the sake of proper teambuilding. That was the official reason her instructors had stated, but Half-Cat was sure there was more too it. Three unofficial couples had already formed, and the fourth and the fifth were in the making. Bonding over the shared toil of hardship, the makings of an exemplar, a hunter or maybe even an infiltrator. Not for her. She was expected to fill the position of the leader, for better or worse.

None of her classmates had tried to kill her in her sleep - yet. Honor duels were forbidden, and may Passacaglia come back to shield you if you got caught causing the death of another student. Brawls and minor skirmishes were fine up to a point - the Academy guards kept close eyes on potential and established rivals. Since a spot in the shadows was denied her, she had to relay on her words and allies. Alas, none of the other houses were particularly indebted house Edelving, and Celestine - no, HALF-CAT - had learned that it was lonely on the top. A group of three, all from the same province, also tied by blood and house, were potential allies, staying so far from the intricate politics of Fjellheim. Perhaps they considered associating with her as a means of carrying favor. When they finally did decide to approach her, should she be honest of her place in the hierarchy, or be vague on purpose? She had to make up her mind and quick.

Luckily, she did have other options. The short one from Zemler Hold Starbase had displayed some interest of getting closer, and the Green River clan-member from Bakbak am Komf continued to look at her with eyes of naked ambition. Either of them would do well as a bond-mate, having displayed skills in close quarter combat already. Not the top of the class, but enough for her needs as a muscle to her mind. Not that her form was frail, her strengths simply lay in her words and her brain rather than her body. The physical training of the Academy had relieved her of anything not already hardened and trimmed when she got here. Despite being more petite and slim, Half-Cat knew she could punch above her weight.

The sounds of the room was changing. More people were waking up. She turned to look at the bed next to hers where Dillan slept soundly, Krau with an arm draped over his chest. At least they had been quick last night and not kept her from sleep longer than needed with their panting and moaning and groaning and... Half-Cat sighed. It was natural for people to form bonds, she reminded herself, and if sex kept your bond-mate close it was worth it. The fact that all of them were teenagers, the youngest just having passed 16 and the older ones on cusp of 19, most bodies filled with hormones natural or concocted in a lab, all of them prime physical and mental specimen of their bloodlines made sex a constant and ever-present contender. While it was considered gauge and faux par to form a bond with a house or bloodline not favorably viewed by your own, it was tolerated for the purpose of bringing the ruling elite of Danslo closer together and reinforce the understanding that while they remained planet side, internal politics matter - but out there, in space and inside a mech, you were just another nobody from a backwater planet not worth mentioning in the same breath as the favorite pet of the youngest child of the major house yours served. Perspective mattered, and so it was important to think ahead, long term, not just here and now. There was, after all, a life awaiting once you graduated from Kalterborn.

Half-Cat rose as silently as she could and tiptoed over to the washing bin by the door. Some serf had already changed the water, fresh from the river, freezing cold to the touch. The cold didn't bother Half-Cat. Better to have early access instead of having to struggle for a splash of water rushing to class, late already. No, get up early, take your time, observe and calculate, plan for the day, that was her way.

A shadow moved next to the door and became a shape. Taller than her, short hair, strong arms coming out of the darkness with grasping hands, as claws of the sky-demons made manifest, searching for her. Half-Cat knew in instant this was a fight she would lose. Grabbing the water basin she sloshed half of it over herself, causing wetness, hoping it would make her slippery, before using it as a shield to smash into the hands. A howl made muffled by clasping teeth and a shut mouth revealed that her attacker had high pitched voice. Either girl or gelded, and that did not help her right now. Keeping the basin between herself and the enemy - she had to think of this person as an enemy, not a fellow classmate, not a nobleborn - she rotated until she had her back to the door. Water dripped from her sleepwear, adding to the already spreading pool on the floor. Time to play it big.

With a half-thrust, Half-Cat feinted an attack, causing her enemy to take a step back. Then she threw the basin as hard as she could into the stone floor. It shattered in broken pieces with a clashing noise, causing several of the sleepers to jolt awake. Now the battlefield had changed. Voices of confusion filled the room, some angry, some upset, some scared. It did not matter. Half-Cat stepped forward, biting her teeth together as she stepped on a sharp piece of the destroyed water basin, sweeping her leg out, low and quick, to drop her attacker. With a second clash, Makmet hit the floor, surprised as Half-Cat rammed a handful of debris in her face, a yell of pain as pointy shards poked her eye out. With a roll, Half-Cat was out of reach, on her feet, backing away. The light turned on. Makmet's screams of anguish blended in and dominated the room, drawing attention. Footsteps outside the door, running, boots. Blood mixed with the water on the floor, pink against the white stone. She looked up, trying to spot a friendly face out of those approaching.

Dillan, Krau in tow, stepped around Makmet and put an arm around her. She shook it off, casting a glare at him colder than any river water could ever hope to reach. Krau's grey eyes widened as she pulled Dillan back a step. The boy had reacted with care and affection, and some part of Half-Cat appreciated that, but it made her look weak in the eyes of the others. Krau understood. Makmet stopped screaming and began gurgling. Fresh blood was sprayed in a coughing fit. Some of it hit Half-Cat's naked feet.

One thing was certain. Neither Makmet nor her classmates would forget this.

So I have a type.

I play many characters in many different settings and systems. Still, a common theme is easy to point at.

- Deathwatch: Assault Marine with jetpack and chain sword (traded out the chain sword for an upgraded non-chain sword). Melee was his bread and butter. Raven Guard Moritat, if you must know.

- D&D 5e: Traded out my Warlock for a Paladin with a Battleaxe and a whip. Plus, the Paladin can do Smite damage, but only with melee weapons. Oathbreaker turned Vengeance. Difficult to work with.

- Pathfinder: the S&S campaign. Barbarian Tiefling with a Battleaxe and shield. Bite damage that scaled and became better than her axe/main weapon at some point. Singlehandedly guilty of most of the Infamy points of the group.

- Starfinder: Ysoki Soldier with a melee build. Knife and stab-stab-stab, fast-fast-fast, having the next weapon upgrade to be a Doshko (sci fi sword on fire). Surprisingly very nice to her friends.

- Lancer: after a prolonged oneshot played over several sessions the group decided to start a campaign. Now, wanting to trade out the previous character I find myself looking at the Blackbeard mech with Chain Axe, a murderous NHP (Sekmet) and thinking that speed might be a key feature to get into range for some hack and slash and chain axe goes violently brrrrrrrrrrrr... yeah.

Clearly, I have a type. And I'm honestly fine with this. *smiles*

Context is important.

The dream begins with me sitting at the computer. Suddenly, I notice that there is a commotion coming from the other room. It is two people changing the toilet. Finding this odd, I confront them. One of them is the handyman of the building. He explains that it needed to be done, as the toilet is from the sixties. Finding no fault in this logic, I notice that I am naked and try to hide my private areas as much as I can. I return to the computer to try to reach somebody I have an appointment with and explain that the web cam call must be postponed. Internet is glitching in and out - probably because of the work being done in the bathroom. I notice I'm part of a large voice chat group in Discord that have gathered for RP. I do not know what sort of RP, nor why I would be present, so I leave the chat, feeling I should know about this. I reach the person in question, explaining my situation by text, and receive multiple random pictures and memes. This confuses me slightly. Once done with the toilet, the workers fix the lock on my door, too. At this point I'm looking for my small dog, a Chihuahua, beige in color.

The dream changes.

We are at the bottom floor of the building, near its garage/working area. A car, a green Range Rover Defender, stands there, packed with stuff I assume - and later confirm - is mine. The handyman explains that I need to take the car and drive it back to the designated parking space, and that is not here. I get into the car, trying to put stuff in a more convenient way so I can gain access to the driver seat, but before I'm able to do that, the car starts and I'm forced to make due. I reverse out of the garage/working area, trying to find the breaks and the gas. Luckily, I'm able to keep the car on the road and not crash. I drive down a hill, passing a person who's job it is make certain children cross the street unimpeded. Passing her by, she calls out the name of my dog, who I at the time believe is at the back of the car in its transportable cage. The name she yells out is Bonnie. I continue on my way, take a right to the strange road that goes up and around, knowing for sure I have taken a wrong turn.

The dream ends.

Now, some context.

Both the Chihuahua and the Bonnie are dead dogs.

I cannot drive.

The car I drove was packed with luggage making driving said car even harder.

For some, this might have been a pleasant dream. For me, it was a nightmare.

Notes, random.

 "You fucked my eyebrow away!"

German jewelry store clerk speaking norsk, Deutsch and English.

Viking ring Monday. Red dresses, blue jeans diesel punk work wear.

Full moon curse, first time Spice overserving. More vampire characters.

Pill treatment begun.

Bus for train ride to the airport and back.

"Vampires should not sparkle in the sunlight!" Ring critique.

Days without rush, haste or anything else. Calm, collected, relaxed. Bad dream night to Monday. Waking up next to one another as responsible and reasonable adults. What's my name?

Sitting on a bench outside beneath a tree eating freshly baked goods in good company. Decreasing of painkillers, both in intensity and consumption. "I... that appears to have become the narrative, despite my attempts to correct it, so I'm just going along with it." Perfect English indignation.

Greek Goddess day of early morning shower and a brief return to the realm of the IT crowd (Have you tried turning it off and on again?) and RATATATA, friendly words and 311 postings, a mix of past outfits (black and gold). The soft and meditating sound of your love asleep. And Guilliman would of course retire to become a farmer in an alternative happy ending 40k. The Eisenhorn books (XENOS, MALLEUS, HERETICUS & THE MAGUS - Eisenhorn the Omnibus) were a good read. Now that is a role Henry Cavill would do great in.

First Exalted March for Spice. A mixture of emotions for me. Political Pride. Not for me. Made me want to revisit the first Pride speech draft I wrote. Purple perfume, purple pen with silver name. Spice looks good in red. I like my berries non-synchronized.

Once Spice was dropped off at the airport, I went to the international arrival location. Sort of wanted to begin the visit anew. I'll be back in Frankfurt later this month.

. . . . .

Un-marked Exalted March, as it was in my adopted hometown, and thus not a proper march to me. Is this going to screw up the numbering of the Exalted Marches? Yes. Do I care? No.

I think I'm one of those rare people who, after having two wisdom teeth removed, can think back on the experience with fondness and appreciation. The procedure went well, easy even, and took no time at all. Just two pricks of anesthesia on one side, insert tool, pull it out and that's that for that side. Got asked if I wanted to do the other side or not, answered yes. Then again two pricks of anesthesia, wait until it sets in, then insert tool and pull once more. Whoosh, that's that, you're all done.

My biggest gripe with the experience was how the taste of blood was ruined because of the taste of the anesthesia, the second issue how expensive the procedure was.

Still, I cannot explain how lucky I must be after all the horror tales surrounding wisdom teeth removal.

A light sensation of being woozy still remains, but the fuzziness could be explained due to the lack of sleep last night. Already taken one of the much stronger than usual (for me) prescribed painkillers.

Wirtu Aretes.

I was the child of an emperor. Golden and purple was my armor. Underneath my personally crafted helmet, silvery locks of hair hid, to flow freely down my neck and to my shoulders when I showed my naked face. My beautiful, unblemished face, free of scars, with piercing green eyes - the otherwise only color in stark contrast to my pale flesh - gazing forever forward, proud of the past glories, and embracing the promise of future deeds of greatness. I was the child of an emperor. Harken to my tale of loss and defeat.

It began long before I was born. My early teachings told of the past of my world, a once beautiful place, now struggling to feed those who inhabited it. Hardship and surviving, the hallmarks of desperation, the losses of those left behind, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year. Until He came. Tales of progress, of beauty, of production quotas met and exceeded - a people united not in fear or necessity, but by choice. How could such a being not rise to become the emperor of our world?

Those were the good times. I was but one of many sons and daughters of the emperor, and He loved us all. And when He was plucked to travel to the distant birthplace of our race, and returned with a need for warriors to follow him, there were not one who would not willingly ask for the privilege. Yet, out of all those who could serve Him, a select few was chosen for unimaginable greatness. For when He returned to us, Angels followed in His footsteps, and we who were compatible were to rise to this role, to be forever warriors by His side.

I was one such individual.

I recall little of the process, and what I remember I will not speak of. But when I emerged out of the melding of flesh and crafted anew as a weapon, a perfection of what could become, I was given a new name - the name you now know me as.

Wirtu Aretes.

GREEN PINEAPPLE FISH

Up at an early hour: 06:30. Bus for train, waiting at the station, train to the airport, pink-purple suitcase sent as special luggage due to shiny sparkling. Never had that issue before. Department from D7, my favorite Klingon starship. Bottle (not battle) of sparkling water: Check. Outfit: Black coat, blue jeans, Spice's scarf. Didn't bother adding more nail polish, the chipped cracks looks fashionable fine. I keep checking my wristwatch. But for what? I know the time. Am I nervous? Probably. What awaits me in around four to five hours is seeing Spice again. 12 days since last time. And now we'll spend longer than that together. Of course I'm nervous. Eager. Waiting.

The Story of O is a good book, but must be sampled in small portions.

Alas, gate changed to D11. The usual one at the end, not surprising. Still, I don't think the KDF had a D11 commissioned. Seat was also D11. Funny, that. Didn't even consider the later flight offer for 250,- EURO: wanted and needed to see and hold Spice again. Without delay.

And without delay we are underway. My thoughts fly ahead of me and the plane. Thoughts of caress and kisses, of images from the book come to life, of the soft ticking of time, time immemorial, of the tone and language of expression. How the warm air inside the airplane is of a temperature pleasing to me. How this marks a change.

Plane landed early, luggage delayed, Spice stuck in traffic.

Change of plans due to evilness on behalf of the relationship. Proper greeting back home, then gifts, bath (Spice is the best) and packing far into the night.

Nail polish: removed.

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Up ungodly early again. Luggage weighted and redistributed. Breakfast at the lovely Frankfurt train station. Bus delayed. Warm yawning breath on cold hands. Most of the journey was spent in attempted sleep. Slowly getting warm again. Sun and old radio music.

The police passport control took me off guard, but Spice explained this was commonplace when not crossing the border by car. She also nailed her language lesson (of course).

We walked from the central station (Who's heard about Amsterdam anyway?) with luggage, found the hotel (Thanks, Google!) and ended up with a small room with a view of the canal. Dinner at the hotel.

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Tuesday we debated whom farted most like a lady. My debit card stopped working.

Rotterdam experiences were limited and brief, other focuses took president. There was also reading, and a bowl of fruit for breakfast dessert. Tonight we could not spot the full moon due to cloudy skies.

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Cruise ships seems to come in at night, stay for the day, and leave in the evening. Not a particular interest to either of us. Good talks, croissant for breakfast (again), hot water and fruit dessert bowl (pineapple, grapes and melons), time spent in bed, quick grocery store run. Sparkling water.

The daywalker went out during the day, I went out during the early evening, catching the last of today's sunlight. Places to dine were discovered by us both. Goth outfits, wonderful meal, lots of cute, small dogs noticed.

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Revenge of the Nose: The Pierced Septum.

Day spent in bed, talking. Italian spaghetti, steel collar, shopping and location finding. Conversation with waves underneath. Bridge crossing. Dark and disturbing topics put at ease.

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New day, sunlight through the window, breakfast, trying out outfits for various settings (not found the one for the Rebirthday party just yet). Purple for the hot German summer.

Lots of reading out loud, lots of pretty preparation, lots of conversation and bed time stay. We've not been very good tourists. The bread in the restaurant may be present at breakfast! I shall ask for it, as it was delicious. Today, Friday, was a special day for another reason, too, but that's personal. Always look on the bright side of life. hums Always look on the bright Syde of life.

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Sometimes people have piercings in their juice. And sometimes the thing you know how to say in German is "I don't know" - because that's funny - and sometimes a waistcoat is just a vest. My coworker in the local department proved to be a disappointment - twice. Tourist stuff was planned for tomorrow. I'm looking forward to having the restaurant brown bread for breakfast again.

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The day of the funeral of the boots. Beloved, worn, faithful, we thank you for your service. For providing fashion and proper protection for our feet, we salute you. Goodbye, boots. You will be missed. Also, no brown restaurant bread for breakfast today, but special Easter breakfast tomorrow. With bunnies!!

We crossed the bridge together again, as an end of tourist stuff - one highlight was greet-petting a small dog of five months that loved humans. No open church, sadly. We reveled in the pleasures of the flesh. Apple tart, coffee, blood orange ginger beer, freshly housekept hotel room, industrial electronic base on loudspeaker, thoughts of Red Alert soundtrack, packing yet to be done. Another late night packing session, but this time it was my fault (I blame the alien). Tomorrow there might be bunnies for breakfast.

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Disappointing "special" breakfast, no brown restaurant bread, no bunnies, but at least a competent member of staff present. Slow walk to the bus stop, cold, bus on time, no passport control (miffed about that), long time travel, one bought book almost read through, warm welcome  home, Easter gifts, pizza (with pineapple, of course) for dinner, early evening for me after pacing and eating.

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Unexpected and unwelcomed wakening during the night. Late rising, two cups of warmth, outfits and clothing tried on, Rebirthday party wear suggested. Read out the first bought bus-travel-book, started on Sugar's gift. Good book.

Gift of blood given. Pictures taken. Place of worship visited (without Alistair sugar radio voice - Spice laughed so hard that a random passerby smiled at us). An unfair move by the witch. Double chung-chung before washing and making ready for public appearance. The library remains cozy. Library evening study time even cozier. Night shift mode activated, pleasant human interaction sub-routine running.

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Rebirthday. Breakfast at the place, massage (Thai), ink expert and general wonderful human being consultation, lunch at the German witch on a broomstick chain, Hugh Grant inexperienced at a calling center, aka Captain. Hazbin Hotel, card game (won 3 of 4 rounds). A good day.

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Earth colors worn, future outfits debated, golden yellow-orange spring/autumn dress in my mind, but not with black high boots. In the library I positioned myself to view the river flowing away around the bend. No blood amulet nor blood pendant today, a chain of silver and a golden necklace with a timepiece attached hanging from our necks. Murmurs of humans and unconfirmed plans for shopping. Audible wind and rain. I move position to a power outlet suitable for phone charging after a bathroom visit. My seat remains comfortable orange. Third position, same couch as second, after lunch and shopping (no rain at the time), more electricity siphoned. Sunlight made me miss sunglasses and a smile on behalf of Spice's fondness for it. And then back to the constructed greenery sitting near the librarian interaction desk by the entrance/exit for visiting fans of the written word.

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Dressed in an attire worthy of an Apollo worshipping priestess in Ancient Greece, I came bringing gifts of food without ill intent - a promise fulfilled. Being a representative of the Sun was amazing. And another pair of shoes now mine, also a gift. Next door coffee in drinkable cups, three: one for the librarian, one for the part-time trainee, and one for the visitor.

Hair dresser experience with the nails after breakfast. Frankly further.

And then, because of an untimely death in the family, all plans became paused. It's been a while since I've been at a hospital, first time as an outsider to a tragedy, observing the pain of loss, myself unaffected. Wrong. Instantly one is pulled into a potential family feud with a legal battle on the horizon. The evening was spent in support of the one left behind.

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Rebirthday party. Purple shades, sun and warmth on the balcony, blood pendant the only jewelry besides the three word ring. Cake and colors. Stark contrast clashing with yesterday's sudden event.

I am happy. I am accepted. And my superpower does not clash with anybody else's.

Will formulate an e-letter to the writer next week.

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I'm a chicken, what do I know of the bomb? Looking through the salad for sausages. Agent of misfortune. Playboy, drinker, bad swimmer.

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The journey home.

But it's not home. Home is where the heart is. My heart belongs to somebody else.

I'm already missing my bun-bun.