Rail-runners and Rats

Willow helped Ion prune the greenery until it flourished.

         “Help them grow,” Ry’llia advised. “Where their gardens are struggling, make them hale; bring as much abundance as you can.”

            Willow helped Ion prune just the right leaves from the greenery.  The young girl was eager to follow in the footsteps of her admired older brother.  She absorbed everything Willow had to show her. Before long, the Greenhouse was absolutely packed with ropes of vine, bushes of herb and fat roots to be dug up from the dirt.

As the days had passed with the moon waning slowly in the sky, they had set to their assigned task.  Though the humans had proven industrious on their own, the Fae still knew a thing or two about growing. When evenings fell, and dinner was complete, Willow would teach whoever wanted to learn how to use their pulp, petals and spare crumbs of leaves to make poultices and tinctures.

For her part, Gwydd discovered how it was that these outliers had managed to sustain themselves and rebuild out here on their own.  Nickel wasn’t just handy in a scrape, the pixie discovered.  The human girl also organized and managed small groups they called ‘rail-runners’.  These teams excavated the darker reaches of old subway and bus tunnels, in order to both map their areas as well as forage for supplies.

Rail-runners excavated old books and supplies.

Book and manuals were especially prized, since they provided the humans with enough knowledge to rebuild some basic commodities.  Xan, to their surprise, spoke a number of languages.  The young blonde hadn’t seemed particularly impressive at first but over time, Willow and Gwydd began to realize that he wasn’t so much aloof as much as simply had developed a habit of keeping his own council.  He also wasn’t quite as young as he looked; a lifetime of not ingesting chemicals had kept him well – all of them, compared to the City.

As their ostensible leader, skill in multi-linguistics helped bridge cultural gaps and settle disputes among pocket groups within the underground haven. Xan held regular study sessions to teach others, as well as to read stories brought back by the rail-runners, which Willow made a point of listening in on.

On this particular night, she stayed late as the other humans drifted back to their platforms, heavy-lidded and yawning.

“Xan?” her chin rested on her drawn knees, watching him re-shelve the books. “Why aren’t there any animals down here?  I haven’t seen so much as a fly since we arrived.”

Sliding the last book in the pile back into place, he sat on the edge of an adjacent chair, leaning elbows on knees.  “We presume it is because they cannot make it across the deadzone.”

“It’s only a couple miles.” Willow uncurled her legs, stretching them out and wiggling her toes causing Xan to smirk, which was about the most variation they ever saw in his serious expression. “If humans can make it, surely animals could.”

“It seems likely that they could traverse the distance, but with no food or water in-between, what would they find once out here that isn’t grown by us?”

Willow twined a long strand around her finger, in casual thought.  “Did you ever think that perhaps with your skill at languages, you might learn how to talk to them – the animals, I mean?”

If his face had been a foam toy, it would have been more wrinkly than a grumpy old man.  “What??” perplexity was the name of his expression but he didn’t shut the idea down.

“Sure,” Willow’s mind was clearly running with the ball.  “How do you think Hadron and Ion are so good with the plants?  Everything has a language, Xan.”

It wasn’t something he’d really considered before - the language of animals - but it made sense.  He didn’t have much experience with living creatures, none of the Outliers did.  What few animals still inhabited the world were either breed to be harvested and slaughtered, or scavengers of the cities.

Entertaining the idea, he queried further.  “To what ends would we get them, surely we’d have to care for and feed them?”

"Did you ever think with your skill in languages you could talk to animals?"

The gentle Weaver nodded.  “Did you know that you can teach rats to follow a trail, or navigate a maze to get to its food and water?  They are actually rather smart.  What if you used them to deliver messages between yourselves and the other shelters of Outliers? Then you wouldn’t have to risk the city every time you wanted to communicate.”

Xan stared at her with penetrating eyes, the implications of what she was saying sinking slowing in.  He hadn’t known you could teach animals anything, not in real life anyway.

“You know,” she continued, oblivious to his gaze. “like carrier pigeons, except underground.”

No, he didn’t know exactly, but he could grasp the concept and his mind was spinning with possibilities, if what she was saying were true. When he realized his mouth had been agape, he shut it promptly.

“Or…even a simple earthworm in your gardens would bring them vast amounts of nutrients compared to what they get now.”  Willow’s lavender eyes settled on him and she smiled softly, as if it were the most natural idea in the world.

“And you could teach me this language?” Xan leaned closer, drawn in by possibility.  “How would we get them?”

Tossing the strand back over her shoulder with a flick, she nodded, “Oh sure, of course.”  Her chin tilted with a natural grace, “I would imagine that you can get some rats out here if you lured them with food, across the deadzone.  Earthworms are easy…they are all over the forest floor.”

Slowly, like sunrays breaking through the cover of brooding clouds, a smile spread across Xan’s face.  “Now that, Willow, is a purely genius idea.”

Willow couldn’t recall ever witnessing him genuinely smile. Charming!

To be continued...

The Withering

Gwydd helped Hadron do the dishes,
drying as he handed them over to her.

           Gwydd helped Hadron do the dishes, drying as he handed them over to her.  She stood with her backside against the counter, wiping off the plates.  In part she wanted to keep him distracted from watching as Willow spoke with Ry’llia but she also wanted the chance to speak with him in private.

            A full belly did wonders for demeanor, but the gravity of what played on her mind weighed down her mood.  At first, she hadn’t felt terribly bad about what she wanted to ask, but the more Hadron carried on in his relaxed way, genuine to the core, the guiltier Gwydd felt.

            “Hey…hellooo…earth to Gwydd…” He poked her shoulder with a sturdy index finger bringing her around.  “You were a million miles away – what’s up?”

            The muscle in her rounded jaw-line tensed, belying that something was playing on her mind.  Gwydd turned and draped the towel over the edge of the sink and glanced at up at him sidelong – or at least what she could see though his neatly disheveled hair.

            “I need to ask you to do something.”

            He lifted his brow, “Okaaaay….”

            “I don’t want to hurt you...” For all her battle composure, she was still a pixie, and the thoughts zipped out of her like the nervous buzz of wings.  “I’m notreallysure whoelse to ask, and we can definitelygotolengths to purifyyouafterward, but it mightbedangerous, I promiseI’dprotectyou.” 

Hadron looked down where the slender pixie squeezed his arm intently, with more strength than a creature her size ought to have, he thought.  “Gwydd.”  He steadied his blue eyes on hers.  “What *is* it?”

“Snowdust.” There it was, all wrapped up in the avalanche of that one word.

“The pharmaceutical?” The young gardener cocked his head. “You want me to take Snowdust?”

"...if we don't find the cause, we are all doomed to a
slow, withering death."

Gywdd only nodded, she was pretty sure if she opened her mouth words would spill out in a rush again.

“Hm.” he turned and rested against the edge of the counter, looking across at Willow who seemed to be whispering into her bowl.  “Why?”

Suddenly Gwydd was unsure how much of fae politics she was supposed to share.  There had been times that humans had sought to take the fae, kill the fae, enslave the fae.  To be fair, this time they were helping.  She decided to trust him with at least a little.

“We need to understand what is causing the Withering.”

He turned his attention at her again.  “What’s that?”

“It’s what we call the…drying up of…well, magic I guess.  First it happened to the land, sapping the life out of everything – and then it began with the people.  Both yours and ours.  If the Lockdown had never come, we would surely have been extinct but when the cities began to recede we were able to help the forests grow again, outside the walls.”

“And you think that Snowdust has something to do with this…Withering.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.  What I do know, is that the shards of the world spirit that are within every living thing, began to shrivel and die when the megatropolises began to rise.  And that seems to coincide with certain things – like pharmaceuticals – becoming prevalent in your world.” Gwydd looked up at him with an intensity no mere girl could have mustered.  “All I know is that if we don’t find the cause – we are all doomed to a slow, stagnating death.”

Even amidst the gravity of her explanation, Hadron was able to smile reassuringly.  “Listen, we’ve all made an alliance here.  If you need something, I will do my best to help you and I’ll have to trust that you are going to do the same for us.”  He took her hand from his arm, giving it a quick squeeze.  “I’ll do it.  You make your arrangements.”

Gwydd mirrored his smile, if conservatively.  She was relieved that her hunch to trust him had proven right.

To be continued...

Hunllef: The Bleak Queen

Even spectres dared not trespass the moats
of Castle Aisling.

           Razor-sharp fingertips clicked ominously on the dusty table.  Upon the elongated surface, ash veins streaked through cold, pale marble.  Metal finger-points drummed again, this time louder, sending dust-moths fluttering up into the stolid air.

            “Drink!”

            Queen Hunllef’s voice resounded through the banquet hall with such an authority as to set the crows nested in the disused chimney to rustle their ebon wings.  Beyond the wooden doors with their peeling frames, quickly shuffling movements could be discerned.

            The tall entrance creaked open to allow a dilapidated waif of a creature to enter.  Tattered robes hung like loose skin over its skeletal frame and though it walked, it never seemed to take and actual footstep so much as float over the ragged carpet.

            “DRINK!”  The cry of the Bleak Queen caused the waif to recoil in pain, now that it was standing just at the corner of the table.  “You spineless imbecile, can’t you see my guests thirst??”

In fact, the hollow-backed servant could not see her Majesty’s imaginary guests.  This feasting hall was nothing but cobwebs and ashes.  Stale chunks of bread were strangely stacked upon tarnished silver serving caddies as if they were fresh as baked scones.  Fruit cups held corpses of shriveled grapes and bowls of cream had moldered over until only a carpet of spores lined their inner curve.

Deathsight was a natural to the Sluagh, but even the specters of those passed on dared not trespass the moats of Castle Aisling.  On this evening of Samhain, it would have even been likely that some attended her meal, but there were none. It was echoed through the low-creeping fogs of their burial mounds and yards that to breach her domain was to risk final consumption.

The feasting hall was nothing but cobwebs and ashes; stale bread was
strangely stacked on tarnished caddies as if they were fresh scones.

One iron fingertip scraped discordantly along a porcelain plate, chipped around the edges.  The Bleak Queen turned her quarry in her finger tips, as if speaking to it through her black gaze.  Her bladed wings scissored together, in a self-sharpening flap, shearing the upholstery of the high-backed chair further.  Hunllef didn’t notice.

The waif glided silently by her toward the far end of the banquet table. With a vicious sneer, Hunllef hurled the dried carcass at the exposed spine of the Sluagh.  From the front it had a ghostly beauty, but from behind it’s back was skinless and the Bleak Queen wanted to see if the fowl-bones would fall through its preternaturally limber frame and hit the floor.

Shaking with the physical pain of both her Majesty’s voice as well as her physical assault, the Sluagh grimaced and clenched its teeth through translucent lips.  Urn clattered against goblet as the waif tried to feign pouring steadily into the dry glasses.

As it drew nearer to the head of the table, where the Bleak Queen herself was seated, the fear gnawing at the place where a stomach should be was churning and devouring itself in an endless cycle of tightening pain.

Tipping the funeral-carafe all the way this time, one drop, then two…three.  Three drops of dark glamour curdled forward into her vessel, swirling like a rainbow in grey-scale.

"Then. We. Shall. Find some." Her abyssal gaze turned upon the Sluagh
and it felt engulfed in darkness as she spoke. "Ready the bey-hounds."

Hardly had the pouring commence when the Bleak Queen screeched and flew up from her seat. Hunllef’s hands pounded down on the table once as she leaned in close to the waif’s pallid face and hissed venomously.

“What is this bile!?” Mere drops!” Reseating herself, she focused again on her spectral banquet and waved a hand regally. “More wine!  How can we feast on this night of the thin veil without libation?!”

For a moment she seemed to have forgotten the Sluagh was still standing by the arm of her tattered, claw-foot chair.  The Bleak Queen turned a dark eye upon the waif, who finally managed to speak.

“The cask…” it made a dusty, choking sound that seemed to clear its throat, and then whispered simply.  “The casket is empty, Your Majesty.”

The Bleak Queen flung her arm in a rage, back-handing her onyx goblet across the room.  It shattered against the hearth with a crash, causing the Sluagh waver with pain.  The waif’s sunken face seemed to recede even further under protruding cheekbones at the admonition.

            “Donors are scarce, Madame.”

            “Then. We. Shall. Find some.” That abyssal gaze turned now at the Sluagh, who was no stranger to the otherworld, and seemingly engulfed it in darkness as she spoke.  “Ready the bey-hounds and saddle my nightmare.”

To be continued...

Mith'en Cistern at the Citadel

The silver infused water was transformed
into Mith'en.

[Previously]On the way back Gwydd stayed by Willow. Gwydd hugged her companion and whispered softly. "What does a journey begin with? How many does it take to start a change? One step, Willow. One Person. Talk to Ry'llia, her wisdom will guide us."  

         Showers drizzled through the rafters ceiling of the long hall, filling the cistern with natural rainwater.  Each night when the moon drifted past and touched the wide pool, the silver infused water was transformed into mith’en.  The sound of thousands of droplets rushing to course together in the pool was soothing to Ry’llia.

            The Citadel was not only under cover of natural overgrowth, but there were a series of overlapping spells that had been cast upon the location, ensuring that it stayed camouflaged.  While it set the minds of the residents within at ease, it only served to constantly remind the noble lady that vigilance could never lapse, not for a second.

            In the forest, no one was safe from the eyes of the Bleak Queen.  Her power slipped through branches and limbs, playing hop-scotch amongst the shifting shadows of leaves.  When the less defended fae had started to disappear mysteriously, unrest grew amongst their population.  Who would harm the common brownie?  Yet they seemed to be getting plucked off by the droves until one-by-one they straggled to find the Cal’edhellen.

            Although every fairy had their own sort of magic, the high elves have refined and mastered the ars naturae.  There was no greater magic than what flowed in their halls.  By the codica neuma they were obligated to protect those with less - and there was no way the simpler fae could stand up to the might of the Bleak Queen to protect themselves.

            “What troubles thy brow, Amin Ry’llia?” the calm voice came from somewhere behind arched beams, here in the cistern turret.  She recognized it by sound and was unalarmed.

Even in this last bastion against the Bleak Queen
the Fae are being glamour-starved to death.

            Her finger tapped the surface of the aquasilver pool, sending a shimmering ripple to the other shore.  “What few risk their lives to reside with the resistance,” she swept her arm across the open room, “even in this last bastion against the Bleak Queen, they are glamour-starving slowly to death.”

            “Not even the greatest seers in the Verdant Forest were able to foretell these events.” offered the hidden companion.

            “It doesn’t change the fact that the Withering is killing us and we have nothing next to a clue to explain why.”  Ry’llia drew herself into composure, sitting more still than the latent ripples in the mirror-pool.  “As long as the Bleak Queen is able to sustain her dark glamour, while ours yet thins with every cycle of the moon, we all atrophy toward extinction – even she.”

            This last fact seemed particularly disturbing to the nobella.

            “The Tuatha say that the great always seek opportunities to help others.”

            “If we do not fast learn from whence her power is sourced, our shields will falter and she will kill us all for traitors to her throne.”  Tucking a caramel-roan braid behind a pointed ear, her words were very clear even in the shadows. “Murdered, we shall be able to help no one.”

To be continued...

Charlatans and Shenanigans

Packets of powder exchanged possession with small hands...

           Gorm hurried into the market as fast as his hobbled legs would carry him.  The thin line where his mouth should be was twisted into a lipless grin.  Nothing gave the deformed cyin more pleasure than making Master Vørst happy and Gorm was good at his job - and of course he had his own little secret.

That’s why he’d been chosen after all, for being the smartest.  As a cyin, he might be at the bottom of the rung of the societal ladder, but he was at the top of his own class.     

Gorm operated his rat’s nest network of information, in part, through the uncountable urchins that roamed the city streets and markets.  He paid them in pharmaceuticals, the candy-man of Snowdust.  In a different world, it might be immoral to start get them hooked so young but Gorm didn’t care. Kids were cruel, and even worse to him because of his malady.

            Only other cyin could begin to understand the life of a grotesque, plagued by ridicule, spat on and loathed – and for no other sin than being born distorted.  Sometimes Gorm wondered what it would be like to have perfect features, or power like Master Vørst – a trait he deeply admired.  Deep inside himself, a surge of disdain roiled like acidic bile in his chest.

            Perhaps if the urchins or citizens ever had to spend a year in his life, he would feel worse about dispensing Snowdust to the under-aged.  As it was, Gorm cared more for the rats than those nasty pockmarks of the back alleys.

            In fact, it was exactly because of the Snowdust that intelligence on the Outliers had been funneled to him.  Apparently, they were buying it now, and from the description of the girl that his urchin had passed on to him, she was one of the group that was in collusion with the newcomers.

            Packets of powder exchanged possession with small hands, and Gorm was promptly directed toward a darkly curtained stall, where a shrouded woman sat before a card-table in back.  She was ruddy huge, and how?! Maybe she ate urchins for dinner he thought.

Gorm decided that approaching with caution was prudent – he didn’t want to be mistaken for an urchin, though anyone who hardly saw his stunted gait would make such an error.  Who knew?  She was probably blind in one eye and crazier than a funhouse clown.

The woman that sat before him stared into his eyes as though they had already met...perhaps in another life, or dimension. Her pensive gaze penetrated the depths of his soul and she paused a moment before she addressed him in a meditative, yet intense manner.

Just as a word escaped her rouge-caked mouth, she threw her head back, grasping the table in a white-knuckled grip.  If Gorm had been able to jump ten feet high, he would have, shocked into staring at her.

“Ohhhhhh! Me mind – in the name of Dol, what would possess all-seeing Ursüla!” suddenly, her eyes rolled up into her head, gripping him in only a milky-white gaze. 

He was so taken aback, he barely managed to get the question out: “Uh, great Ursüla…I ah…seek a girl…”

The woman that sat before him stared into his
eyes as though they had already met...

Again the woman was wracked with convulsions, and Gorm was sure that at any moment she’d fall to the floor, frothing at the mouth.  “Ask the great oracle and ye shall find!”  Her head slumped forward, abruptly silent.

 Siobhan had rushed the Outliers out before Gorm had seen them, but Gwydd turned to Xan. "I can stay and protect her."

Kif pushed her along, choking on a bit of nervous laughter. "That Hag can protect herself! Let's move!"

When Gorm came in, Siobhan was ready for the best performance of her life. That intensity she held was one of sheer madness. "Gorm! I – all-seeing Ursüla have beheld a vision! Upon he who’s crown sits the full moon!” Rocking back and forth in her flimsy chair, the lady-seer’s eyes flew open and refocused on Gorm’s bald head.

“No…” She gave a moan as if she would die, clutching at her breast, then whispering dramatically. "No... this cannot be! How can one sooooo lowly rise to a place so high!”

Siobhan gasped suddenly, eyes rolling up into her head, gripping him in a cataract gaze, "Gorm of the Cyin. You will find what you seek!  You alone shall rise above…master of them all!" 
She was proud of herself for keeping the most serious face on that charlatan act that she had ever had.  With a crazed gleam in her eyes, Siobhan eventually redirected the deformation toward the Playground.  She chuckled to herself, pretty sure he’d find a girl there.

+++++++++++

Xan gathered them and started to make their way out of the Market. They made sure to gather the supplies that they needed before heading back to the Greenhouse, as quickly as possible.

On the way back Gwydd stayed by Willow. The spell-weaver could not help the tears that fell and she spoke to her fellow Fae in the old tongue, so the Humans could not understand. "What have they done to themselves? Our elders thought that the hundreds of generations before them were bad, what would they say of them now? How are we to help them? We must head back, we cannot do this alone."

Gwydd hugged her companion and whispered softly. "What does a journey begin with? How many does it take to start a change? One step, Willow. One Person. Talk to Ry'llia, her wisdom will guide us."

To be continued....

Biovael and the Outliers

Xan smiled that charming grin and pulled the fae close. 

          [Previously...“Snowdust.” Kif read the question on Willow’s face, puffed out his chest and adopted his mock commercial-voice. “Pharmaceutical powders that you dissolve your drink!  Flavors for every ache, pain and pleasure that you can imagine. Fizzy candy for your fix - excellent for parties, pick-me-ups, relaxing, recreation and medicinally – brought to you from Biovael, YOUR drugstore.”

           Willow blinked at Kif. "They cannot possibly be good for a person. Nothing in this market seems natural, good or whole. It all just seems to be mild to..." She gestured to the powder packs. "...not so mild poisons."

“It used to be a prescription thing,” Kif bowled through the crowd as if they were no more than wooden pins, “Then Snowdust got legalized for mass-market production.”

Willow seemed in shock for a moment until Nickel roused her with a touch to the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Keep moving before they try to sell you something."

Up ahead, Xan had waited, pulling them aside between two booths. Towards the back was where they traded. A rather large red haired woman was behind it, who smiled when she saw the group of humans, and when she noticed the two additions, she gasped softly.

"Xan... are they... are they the ones?"

Xan smiled that charming grin and pulled the fae close. "Siobhan, meet Willow and Gwydd. Siobhan is our inner-city ear to the ground, as it were."

As the group made their rounds of introduction, Kif hung back on the excuse of watching the door.  The truth was that he preferred to avoid that red-headed she-devil.  Every time he came around, she made fancy eyes at him.  It was plain too much.

Siobhan and Xan wasted no time trading news.  Cyin were nosing around, cautioun advised – Biovael had its spies everywhere but it was unclear what had caused the surge in activity.  Willow asked how long ago that had started and discovered had been a week or two.  That was disconcertingly close to the time of the meeting at Stone Circle.

While they spoke, Gwydd edged toward Nickel and exchanged a quiet conversation.  The human girl nodded intermittently and then slipped back into the Drug Market.

“So, if the Greenhouse is self-sufficient, why even venture into the city?” Willow tucked a platinum strand behind a pointed ear but when Siobhan raised a brow, she covered it back up.

“There is sort of a secret ‘council’ of outlying communities.” Xan elaborated, running a hand through his purposefully messy hair. “There was talk awhile back of trying to unify, maybe start a movement of some sort – that’s what started us going inner-city.”  His face darkened in perplexity. “No one is particularly sure how though, so the idea has been sitting.”

 "I don't understand." Willow took a deep breath and asked the big question. "What is everyone so afraid of?"

Siobhan absently made a sign against evil and Xan just whispered it. "The Man."

Nickel came running in past Kif with a battle-ready face on. "We got issues..."

*****

"Tell me, Maeve, what comes to my city?"

Montague had moved from his visionaries. He walked into his private quarters with an unhappy look to his face. There was a soft tinkling, like tiny bells, from movement and he gave a wry smile. "Tell me, Maeve, what comes to my city?"

His footfalls led him to a bed, curtained in sheer black panels. A thin, iron chain hooked to the bedpost. Something moved behind the curtain and it pulled the chain tighter within.

A soft voice spoke, raspy, haunted. "Here within these walls of sin, Enter freely, my own kin. Rise they will and bring your fall, down comes the Giant, City and all..."

Vørst's face contorted in anger and he growled, loudly. He turned and moved back out to his club. "Cyin! I want them found! I want them brought to me! Go now!"

To be continued...

Drug Market: Snowdust

Between jutting scrapers & smoggy skies, day or night
was impossible to discern.

Obscured by the construction zone around the opening, the party emerged from an unused man-hole cover and up to the street.  Neon lights buzzed and flickered like a motel in a bad “b” movie.  Between jutting scrapers and smoggy skies, day or night was impossible to discern.

Gwydd rubbed her arms as if trying to brush off the pollution that clung to her skin.  It was like trying to rinse off the film from cheap, detergent shower-soap.  No wonder everyone covered as much skin as possible.

            Nickel gave her a sympathetic side-nod as if to confirm that yes, the air was suffocating.  “Come on, we have people to meet at the market.”

Willow kept her breaths shallow, looking for Gwydd for guidance. This adventuring thing was all new to her, and she was quite sure she was not cut out for it.

“Market?” She asked, thinking for a moment she might have found something she was familiar with in this nightmarish landscape. “Like where you sell fruits and vegetables and things?"

Nickel and Xan shook their heads sadly. “Nothing fresh is ever sold here, I'm afraid.” Xan replied.

"...that's what makes us so lucrative.” Nickel's 
eyes gleamed under electric billboards.

            “At least not currently – that's what makes us so lucrative.” Nickel's eyes gleamed under electric billboards.  “Right now, we trade with underground colonies similar to ours.”

            Kif nodded, “Usually things like seeds, parts, vitamins, supplies – news and gossip…you get the idea.”

             Gwydd stayed close to Willow, trying hard to be as strong as she was fierce. They followed the rag tag crew into the depths of the Market. It was crowded, sweltering, and quite frankly, smelled worse than a Goblin Horde a day before bath time.

Nickel looked at the Fae and smiled. "Don't eat it if it's offered to you, and don't eat it if you don't know what it is. Nothing is safe. Unless, of course, ya grew up eatin' it." She chuckled and moved to a booth, trading something for a bowl of what Willow could only describe as filth and garbage. Even Kif made a face as Nickel popped a large spoonful of the stuff into her mouth. Xan shook his head. "That's just gross."

Nickel just laughed as they made their way back to a booth, nearly hidden among the others. 

            The old refrain passed through Gwydd’s mind, an eerie track on whispering repeat:

            “We must not look at goblin men,
            We must not buy their fruits:
            Who knows upon what soil they fed
            Their hungry thirsty roots?"

We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits

           Commerce in this unearthly market was foreign. Stalls were packed with prattling teeth and bartering hands.  Goggles, gloves, ultra-violet body make-up, artificial fruits injected with “nutrients”, rodent-skull trinkets, and liquid meal vacuum pouches.

People jostled shoulder-to-shoulder everywhere.  No matter where she looked, one item was ubiquitous.  Vendors had racks of white packets with multi-colored labeling that were reminiscent of dead-sea salts.  An army of kids seemed impossibly busy trying to keep the racks from going empty as the baggies constantly churned in sales.

            “Snowdust.” Kif read the question on Willow’s face, puffed out his chest and adopted his mock commercial-voice. “Pharmaceutical powders that you dissolve your drink!  Flavors for every ache, pain and pleasure that you can imagine. Fizzy candy for your fix - excellent for parties, pick-me-ups, relaxing, recreation and medicinally – brought to you from Biovael, YOUR drugstore.”

To be continued...

Vørst: The Ice Caves

His penchant for always dressing in 
an impeccable white pin-stripe suit
 had earned him the moniker “Frost Giant”

           Montague Vørst was a man of enormous proportions.  Rising to seven feet, three inches he towered over everything and everyone around him – and he liked it that way.  The sheer terror that his imposing size struck in meeker creatures was a delicacy to his palette.  Thor beware should Vørst raise his voice here on the ground, it would quake like thunder on earth.

His penchant for always dressing in an impeccable white pin-stripe suit had earned him the moniker “Frost Giant”, though no one dared call him that to his face.  It added to the image that he was the owner of an exclusive night club called the Ice Caves.  It was a chilled, underground sensation.  Considering the parched and polluted city above the streets, the cool atmosphere down here was worth paying for.

That wasn’t what made the Ice Caves elite though.  It was the dream shows. Most nightclubs had Visionaries that conjured up images according to the evening’s theme. Usually they were journeys around spectacular architecture.  Some were a fantasy wandering through M.C. Escher’s structures or around a surreal Seussical garden with swirling trees and tufted beasts.

Not at the Ice Caves though.  Here, the Visionaries were allowed to dream free-form – with a varying stimulus applied to them as the night went on.  The end result was usually a cacophony of twisted images never before seen.  The more eccentric, the better and if you made it as a Visionary at the Ice Caves, you could get a job anywhere in the city – if there was anything left of your mind’s eye.

The Ice Caves nightclub was elite for its dream shows.

Tonight, Vørst was trying not to yawn at the displays on the frozen walls of the VIP Cavern around him. Someone scurried up to him, from his size he could easily be mistaken for a child. Once you saw his bearded face, sunken eyes and yellowish skin, it was obvious he was one of the Cyin. They were an offshoot of humans, offspring of those badly deformed by the radiation.

The cyin awaited his master's acknowledgement before speaking. With a wave of his hand Vørst bade him speak, although he refused to look upon the creature.

The Cyin were human offspring,
badly deformed by radiation.

"Sir, I saw some of the outliers go topside, they had women with them. Pretty ones, I did not recognize them - and trust me - bodies like that I would remember." He hissed slimily.

Vørst’s eyes shifted down to the lump of a creature blathering at him.  Sheer revulsion distorted his huge face into a Goyan monster. Whether his disgust was aimed at the cyin, or the cyin’s apparent libido, was uncertain.  A safe gambler would just say likely both.

He grew tired of sitting as the creature yammered at him and rose from his lounge chair. It was positioned like a star in a crescent moon so that he could watch all the Visionaries at once.  Strolling the scythe of unconscious bodies around him, he studied their sleep with a chillingly clinical eye.

Waitresses would apply various stimulants to
the REM volunteers.

They lie on anti-gravity chairs, each with EEG electrodes taped to their faces and head.  At every station was a medical trolley equipped with sensory implements of every imaginable kind.  Feathers, spurs, sandpaper, moleskin, essential oils, electric wands, tweezers, wire brushes, dental dam, straight-razors – it was all there. 

As the Visionaries drifted in their pill-addled sleep, waitresses would tend to them, applying various stimulants to the R.E.M. volunteers. The nightmarish visions that this produced were then projected straight from their brains onto the walls of the Cavern for Mr. Vørst and any elite guests he may entertain, to watch.  For the average club-goer down on the main dance floors, the residual aural colors lit the ice walls in a brilliant color show.

“Outlying scum crop anew everyday.”  Montague’s voice rumbled like an avalanche in the chest of the deformed, little man. “How are these ones any different?”

Looking down at the miniature grotesque as he waited for its answer, it occurred to him that clinical study was one of his favorite reasons for keeping it around.

To be continued...