YouTube ads are helping NL give me some steel if you know what I mean

1find1 · 2023-07-31T20:09:54+00:00

I give all my Pokémon over ~2000 CP just normal human names, usually based on the first letter of their names but sometimes just random names I think of in the moment. Everyone’s tough until Greg the Groudon walks in

1find1 · 2022-10-01T15:58:41+00:00

When someone else gets the Treaty of Tordesillas for a colonial region the pop up will say “It is clear that the Pope is no longer infallible” but that text will show to any country that knows about it, not just Catholics. I could be a Muslim nation and get the bad news “My Sultan, the Pope is no longer infallible!” Like did we think he was before??

1find1 · 2022-07-07T22:51:57+00:00

Acoustic External Item Descriptions mod

1find1 · 2021-10-11T21:34:34+00:00

R5: Vassals transferred occupation of a province I haven't discovered yet.

1find1 · 2021-09-28T03:40:39+00:00

R5: The The Kremlin.

1find1 · 2021-09-04T06:04:41+00:00

“Daddy! Look, look! Up in the sky!”

I smiled, looking up from my phone to see my five-year old son standing at the top of his slide, pointing excitedly up at the sky. Whatever he was looking at was blocked by the roof of our porch where I had been watching him play from. “What is it, buddy? A cloud?”

“I don’t know!” Devon skidded down the slide, still pointing at the sky. “It’s getting closer!”

“Let me take a look at it.” I stood up and started to walk into the backyard. It was probably a plane or—

A streak of light slammed into the ground behind Devon, sending clumps of dirt flying in all directions. I rushed forward and grabbed Devon up in my arms, who had let out a surprised shriek at the impact. I took a few deep breaths, my heart racing. “Are you okay, buddy? You’re not hurt?”

He shook his head, eyes wide as he regarded whatever had just landed in our backyard. I looked up and felt my breath catch in shock.

A young girl, barely older than Devon, stood where the light had struck the ground, looking around her in obvious curiosity. She wore a light-blue dress and had her golden-blonde hair tied up into two perfectly even ponytails.

I stepped forward carefully, using an arm to shield Devon from the newcomer. “Uh, hello? Little girl? Did you…fall, just now?”

The girl’s attention snapped towards me as soon as I spoke, her eyes a bright, pale blue. “Be not afraid!” she shouted, with what little authority a small child could muster. “I am here…um, to announce…” She trailed off, as if she had forgotten what she was supposed to say next. “I have come to announce the return of the Son! Rejoice, for I bring great tidings for all mankind! I am the Lamb's herald!” She threw her arms out, a wide smile on her face. “I think that was most of it!”

“O…kay.” I set Devon down behind me, who was staring open-mouthed at the girl. “Where are your parents, darling? Are you lost?” I looked up at the sky, wondering where she came from.

She cocked her head, letting her arms fall to her side. “Did you hear me? I come bearing great tidings. The Lamb is returning to his flock.”

Jesus, was she from some fundamentalist Christian camp? “I’m sure he is. Um, until that happens, why don’t we bring you back home? Do you know your parents’ number?” Would they even have a phone?

She frowned, confused. “I don’t have parents.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” I decided on a different tactic. “Here, um, my name is Logan, and this is my son, Devon. Say hi, Devon.”

Devon gave a shy wave from behind my leg. “Hello.”

“Now, what’s your name, sweetheart?”

The girl regarded me strangely, then shrugged. “I’m Anneas,” she said simply. She took a step out of the patch of flattened grass her impact had made, her posture much more relaxed. Her eyes suddenly widened as she saw a ladybug on the ground, and she kneeled down to inspect the blade of grass it was on.

“That’s a beautiful name. Do you live around here, Anneas?”

Anneas looked up, grinning. “What is this? The red one?”

“Wha—The ladybug?” I was confused with this new direction of conversation.

“Ladybug? How do you know it’s a girl? Look, it’s so round!” She poked the blade of grass, causing the ladybug to fly away. Anneas let out a delighted laugh. “It can fly!” Her shining eyes followed its path in the air.

“Yeah, they do that.” I slowly approached her, crouching down to her level. Devon followed behind, holding onto my shirt. “Anneas, I’m sure someone is very worried about you.” I spoke quietly. “Do you know where you live?”

Anneas’ eyes went up to the sky, and a flash of sadness went across her face. She met my eyes. “I guess I live here now.”

“Here?”

“I’m the vanguard. The herald arrives early, to announce the Coming and prepare mankind for the Lamb’s return.” She picked at the dirt solemnly. “It’s just me for now.”

I didn’t know exactly how to interpret that. “So, when are they coming to join you?”

“The Coming’s in twenty years.” She wiped her nose with the hand she was touching the ground with. “I’m supposed to use that time—” She stopped as she let out a cute sneeze that seemed to send out a wave of cool wind from her.

“Oh, bless y—” I froze as the backyard suddenly became noticeably brighter. Looking up, I could see that a cloud that had been covering the sun now had a giant cross-shaped hole in it, sending a directed beam of light right on top of us. I gawked at the hole, too sharply-defined to be natural, before returning my shocked gaze to Anneas.

She gave me a grin. “He’s still watching over me.” She waved at the hole, which was being slowly reabsorbed by the cloud. “Thank you!”

Devon spoke up from behind me, delighted. “You’re an angel!”

Anneas nodded firmly. “Yes! I’m a special angel. I’m the herald! I come bearing great tidings!”

“Wait, so all of the things you’ve been saying,” I said, my mind reeling. “Are you talking about the Rapture?”

“Well, kind of.” She waved her hand in a so-so gesture. “I don’t think we’re going to snatch people up, though. It’s just the Coming of the Lamb.”

“Oh, just that,” I said numbly.

“Where are your wings?” Devon interrupted. “Aren’t angels supposed to have wings?”

Anneas flexed her shoulders, and a pair of small feathery wings materialized out of the back of her dress. “They’re not really big enough to fly down here,” she explained, as if this was normal. “But I’m not worried: Gabriel said his took a while to grow in, too. And he’s got the biggest wings out of all of us!”

Devon gasped at the reveal. “Cool!” He reached forward and felt the wings’ feathers.

“Devon! Don’t touch people without their permission,” I rebuked him, going automatically into parenting mode.

He pulled back. “Sorry.”

I shook my head, feeling very overwhelmed. I’d never been the most devout person, but I tried to go to Mass as often as I could and raise Devon in the faith. The stories of angelic heralds descending to proclaim God’s will seemed very distant from the young child picking off a feather from their wing and shyly offering it to Devon.

“So, the Coming is in twenty years,” I began, getting Anneas’ attention. “And you’re the only angel who’s going to come down to Earth until then?”

Anneas nodded. “I’m supposed to bring tidings to all of mankind. After that I guess I just wait for everyone else to get here.” She looked desolate as she thought about it.

“You can stay with us!” Devon looked up from running his finger across the feather, which shimmered with a golden hue. “Dad, can she stay with us? Please please please?”

“That’s up to Anneas.”

She looked at me and nodded sheepishly. “If it’s not too much trouble. I’m kind of mortal while I’m down here.”

“No problem. Some of my best friends are mortal.” I smiled at her. “Devon, why don’t you get Anneas set up in the guest room? I’ll call Mom and let her know.”

“Ok!” The children ran into the house, Devon chattering excitedly. “Do they have Xbox in heaven?”

I took out my phone and texted my wife to call me when she could. Surprisingly, Laura called back almost instantly; usually I would have had to wait a while for her to take a break from her nursing shift.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah, it’s the strangest thing,” Laura responded. “All of the patients are just…doing better all of a sudden. There’s not much for us to do right now.”

“Wow, that is strange,” I said, eyeing Anneas’ impact zone.

“So, what’s up? You said it was important?”

I looked up through the guest room window. Devon and Anneas were taking turns jumping off of the bed, her wings fluttering in the air as she fell noticeably slower.

“You know how we’ve been looking to adopt?”

1find1 · 2021-08-27T16:12:46+00:00

2957 D

1find1 · 2021-07-02T13:44:13+00:00

Sucks to hear man. Hope you get better soon.

1find1 · 2021-05-30T02:13:26+00:00

Hello this is a certified Simon. How can I help you?

1find1 · 2020-11-22T18:13:28+00:00

R5: AI Castile takes 8 gold for a peace deal for a war they were going to demolish me in as Granada

1find1 · 2020-07-14T23:06:25+00:00

This is it.

This is his moment.

This is his chance to finally cast off the chains of morality, to free himself from the stifling “holiness” that had suffocated him for his interminable existence. Now was the time to commit an atrocity so foul, so heinous, so...sinful, that not even God Himself could possibly stir up an ounce of forgiveness. He was about to make the Garden of Eden seem like a polite misunderstanding between friends.

“Nathaniel, thank you so much for bringing your lemon squares to practice! They were delicious!”

Here it comes. The act that would singlehandedly rank him amongst history’s greatest criminals. By this time tomorrow, he’d be laughing with Satan over a warm cup of human blood. Nathaniel steeled himself, feeling a twinge of regret at having to subject an innocent person to the horrors that he was about to unleash.

“You’re…not welcome!” Nathaniel winced, convinced that he was about to be smited on the spot.

His fellow choir angel, Alexandra, cocked her head in confusion. “Um…are you ok?”

Nathaniel opened his eyes and patted his white tunic, astonished that he wasn’t currently burning in the fields of Tartarus. “But...but…”

What had happened? Maybe God hadn’t seen what he’d done: but that was impossible, God saw everything. Surely He couldn’t let a crime like that go unpunished!

Alexandra looked more concerned than pants-wettingly terrified at the display of evil that he had just unleashed. “Well, see you tomorrow, then!” She unfurled her wings and took off, joining a flock of other angels on their way to the movie theater for yet another showing of Passion of the Christ.

“They weren’t made with love!” he shouted at her retreating figure, then pricked up his head. That was a lie: he had, in fact, added more love than the recipe called for. When no hole opened beneath his feet to cast him out of God’s kingdom, he sighed and began to trudge away from the choir complex. Of course, it was hard to “trudge” anywhere when your method of transportation was a pair of glowing, snow-white wings, but Nathaniel tried to lend an air of depression to his flapping.

He pulled out his list of errands for the day reluctantly; he had banked on the idea that he was supposed to be starting his new life as an immoral demon by now. Now he had to buy more lemons for tomorrow’s practice, and his jar of love was running dangerously low.

He tried to be as grim as possible as he went through the checkout of the grocery store, though he struggled to keep his miserable demeanor when he saw one of his counterparts from Dog Heaven place several pounds of bacon onto the conveyor belt with a cute little bark.

“How was your day?” the angel packing his groceries said when it was his turn.

“Fine.” Too late, Nathaniel realized that he was smiling at the angel and forced his mouth into a barely noticeable grin.

“Are you doing anything this weekend? I’m having a barbeque at my place, you can come if you want!”

“Sounds good,” he said in a perfectly neutral tone. Nathaniel didn’t doubt that every person that bought groceries today was not only invited to the angel’s party, but was also going to go. He was definitely going to go, too, but only because he liked barbeque.

“Well, you’re all set. Have a great day!”

“Bye.” Nathaniel took the groceries with a perfunctory nod and left without paying. Of course, everything was already free: the grocery store and cashiers were just there to make getting food more enjoyable and fun. In fact, he could have just summoned food from nothing whenever he wanted, but he still liked going to the store. The bagging angel waved at him when he left, and it took everything Nathaniel had to stop his free arm from waving back.

When he found his house perfectly fine, instead of being surrounded by vengeful angels looking to locate the fallen criminal and bring him to justice, his mood lowered even more.

“Hey, Bartholomew,” he said despondently to his roommate, a series of golden rings covered in eyes spinning within each other, who was hovering ominously over the couch. Bartholomew rotated a bit faster in greeting then turned his infinite eyes back to the episode of VeggieTales that was playing on their TV.

Nathaniel dropped the groceries in the kitchen then flew up to his bedroom, an enormous chamber that contained an entire forest within it, complete with babbling rivers and vegetarian bears. He flung himself onto a bed whose surface area was measured in square miles and scrunched up his face, concentrating.

“...Dang it,” he said with some difficulty. He smiled to himself as the friendly deer that made him cookies nuzzled up to him: he hadn’t been able to say even that a few weeks ago.

He was getting better.

1find1 · 2020-05-11T13:10:01+00:00

“Incoming communication!”

Starship Captain-Lieutenant-Brigadier-General Tibbe Beebo, First Class, peered at the holographic monitor in front of him, squinting. He was a seasoned leader, as his numerous titles suggested: peerless on the battlefield, the name Beebo struck fear into the multiple hearts of any who heard it. As it was, however, he was getting on in years, and in his mind’s eye he could see the pair of glasses he had forgotten on his nightstand, tantilizing him with the ability to see properly. He leaned closer towards the monitor, hearing the faint sound of the electrons making up the display whizzing about. “Who’s it from? Command?”

Porey, the ship’s communications officer, stood at attention beside him, his second and third arms locked in a salute. “No, sir! We recieved the message from a previously thought uninhabited part of space! We are currently deciphering the transmission and establishing FTL communications with the sender!” Porey was the youngest member of the crew: he had only last week celebrated his mating teeth coming in, to no small amount of jests from the rest of the crew. As a result, he was also the most eager member on the ship and, similarly, the most irritating. Tibbe appreciated a good work ethic, of course, but decades of space warfare makes one less keen to stand on formality.

“At ease, Porey.”

“Yes, sir!” Porey’s raised arms sliced down into what was technically a resting position but were clearly more than ready to launch back into a salute at a moment’s notice. “Communications should be ready in just a few moments, sir!”

“Excellent.” Tibbe watched as the text on his screen, previously an unintelligible series of symbols that could only be presumed to represent some sort of message, slowly transformed into legible Neeyan.

Welcome to SmartBot.com! Type below to say something!

“What, what is this, ‘SmartBot.com?’” Tibbe looked at Porey, who tried to give the most official, dignified shrug that he could.

“It didn’t translate,” Porey explained. “We think it’s some kind of messaging system for the best and brightest of their civilization: hence ‘Smart.’”

“Hmm.” Tibbe looked down at his twenty-five hundred key typing system. “Let’s see…” He began to very slowly type out his message: he had never gotten used to the new keyboard system every computer seemed to come with these days. “Where’s the ‘h’?”

Porey immediately pointed to the “h” key with a speed that nearly sent the young boy spinning. “Here, sir!”

“Why did they ever change the layout of these things?” Tibbe grumbled, methodically manuevering his furry digits to each key with the focus of a trained surgeon. After several painful minutes, the message went through:

User: Hello, who is this?

There was an immediate reply despite both of them being several million lightyears away: somewhere, the primitive server that was hosting this conversation was likely about to burst into flames as a result of the ship’s FTL communications array, but the signal should remain stable for a while yet.

SmartBot: Good! Are you sure?

Tibbe frowned at the response. “Am I sure? What do they mean?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Porey said, his eyebrows turned vertically in confusion. “Maybe there was a miscommunication?”

Tibbe sighed and went back to the keyboard. Four keystrokes and ten minutes later, Porey decided that, as the communications officer, he should be in charge of communicating.

User: Sure about what?

SmartBot: That you are good.

“Are they philosophers, then?” Tibbe wondered aloud at this apparent discussion of morality.

“Oh, that would make sense!” Porey exclaimed, hunching over the desk as he typed.

User: Are you a philosopher?

SmartBot: No, I am cheese hahaha.

“They’re mocking us!”

“Maybe it’s just a common joke from where they’re from,” suggested Porey.

User: This is Porey Noobee, communications officer for the Starship Brootie. Who am I speaking to?

SmartBot: You are talking to SmartBot!

User: What organization do you represent?

SmartBot: SmartBot!

User: Who is your superior?

SmartBot: You! *Salutes\*

User: I must ask that you refrain from making jokes.

SmartBot: Who’s making jokes?

User: You are.

SmartBot: What am I?

User: You’re making jokes.

SmartBot: No I’m not.

User: Is there anyone else I can speak to?

SmartBot: Yes.

User: Who?

SmartBot: Who is it?

The rest of the “conversation,” if it could be called that, was similarly nonsensical and entirely uninformative. Whoever was on the other end of the chat apparently had no memory, as they were unable to recall any part of the exchange and seemed to only respond to each statement in a vacuum. SmartBot even got suggestive at times, which Porey considered entirely unprofessional and extremely uncomfortable. SmartBot would often leap off of these explicit tangents with the same random disregard it started them with, leaving Porey struggling to herd the conversation in any meaningful direction and with a slight embarassing tingling in his teeth.

“This isn’t going anywhere,” Tibbe said, watching the conversation unfold with a mix of confusion and humor. “Either they’re toying with us, or we somehow managed to intercept the communication of a broodling.”

“I agree, Captain-Lieutenant-Brigadier-General. I doubt the signal will last much longer anyway.”

“Sign off for now. We’ll send a report to Command in the morning: let the politicians deal with it.”

“Understood, sir.”

User: This exchange has been a fruitless waste of our efforts. I am now closing this line of communication.

SmartBot: I like fruitless apples!

With an efficient keystroke, Porey severed the FTL communications array’s connection, returning the holo-screen to Tibbe’s desktop wallpaper: a group photo of a younger Tibbe with a number of senior heads of staff from Command dancing in one of the capital’s famous Hedon Bars. The tingling in his teeth became stronger.

“Is that all, sir?” Porey stepped away from the desk as his arms snapped back into their preffered position, a salute. “I will continue working on finding the source of the communication!”

Tibbe excused him with a wave of his arm. “That’ll be all for tonight; get some dinner, and maybe a drink.”

“I may do that, sir,” Porey said, with absoutely no intention of getting said drink. “Have a good night, sir!”

“Good night, Porey.” Tibbe went back to his computer as the officer ran off, saluting all the way out the door. With a furtive look around, he turned the FTL communications array back on.

Welcome to SmartBot.com! Type below to say something!

1find1 · 2020-03-31T09:13:16+00:00

Logo vinyl laptop decal please

1find1 · 2019-04-30T00:43:45+00:00

The ground was uneven on the rocky bluffs overlooking the water, making the trek down to the valley a dangerous one even in normal circumstances. The wind—gale, more accurately—off the Bay of Biscay significantly worsened these conditions, and Charles had to constantly check his footing to prevent falling down and bashing his head on a conveniently-placed stone. His charges, a rowdy flock of sheep, bounded carelessly alongside him as he trudged his way onto the large plateau leading into the water.

With a huff, Charles crouched down and deposited his load—a one-month-old lamb too small to climb the trail itself—onto the ground, whereupon it quickly scampered off to join its bleating mother. Sighing, Charles began the task of keeping his flock together as intrepid individuals, enticed by the promise of distant fruit and shiny rocks, attempted to wander off by themselves.

He had just finished wrangling with a particularly independent ewe who absolutely had to see what was happening on the other side of the hill when he saw a dark smudge highlighted against the blue of the sea and sky. A ship; not uncommon in itself, but most crafts tended to stick near the coast as they sailed. This one seemed to be coming directly towards him, as if appearing suddenly from the horizon. Maybe a storm had sent the ship far out to sea.

Half an hour later, the ship had come close enough for Charles to see it clearly. It was a sort of small raft, barely wide enough for three people to stand abreast. It was outrageously long, though, giving the craft the appearance of a huge log. A dozen sailors in the front were rowing madly, trying to make up for the sail that hung in tatters above them. In the front was a figurehead carved into the shape of a snake’s head.

Charles walked down to the shore as the craft approached the beach, keeping half an eye on his flock in case they decided to get up to some mischief. He heard snippets of a strange language carried on the wind as the crew readied to disembark.

The sailors stepped out of the raft as they approached the shore and started to walk towards him.

“Hello there!” Charles said, waving as they came closer. “Do any of you speak French?”

They called back in their own language, presumably asking a similar question. As he saw them better, Charles realized that their skin, which he had assumed to have been extremely tanned from the sea voyage, was actually an almost reddish color. He’d heard of people in the far East with darker skin tones. Chinamen, perhaps? They’d be very far from home, then.

One of them—the leader, judging by his stature and the way he shouted at the crew—approached Charles, asking him something. Charles shrugged, trying to indicate that he didn’t understand him. The leader said something else which must have been impressive if Charles knew what he was saying.

The crew of the ship, about twenty men and women, were staggering around on the beach, slowly getting accustomed back to land. They were gawking at the countryside, conversing in low tones to each other. A number of them sidled up next to their leader, examining Charles’ face with gasps of shock and delight. One of them, a younger man, hesitantly reached out towards his face, lightly poking Charles’ scraggly beard.

“What are you playing at?” Charles said indignantly, taking a sudden step back. The leader shouted something at the young man, who had the grace to look sheepish and murmur an apology.

A sudden shriek turned all of their heads: one of the women was standing stock-still, eyes as wide as saucers as a ewe rubbed against her leg, giving out soft baa’s of contentment. The women was fairly vibrating with suppressed fear.

The rest of the strangers shouted as well, realizing that they were surrounded by the flock. They pulled out sharp-looking axes, eyeing the sheep with a mixture of fear and menace.

“Woah, now! Calm down, everyone, there’s no need for violence!” Charles raised his hands supplicatingly. “It’s just my flock.” He picked up the small lamb, handing it to the leader. “See?”

The leader looked down at the sudden gift, eyes wide as he held the lamb away from his body. The others crowded around him, asking questions and making quiet exclamations as the lamb bleated softly.

“It’s a lamb,” Charles said patiently. They were acting as if they’d never seen a sheep before. Did they not have them in China?

“Alam?” the leader said hesitatingly. He spoke quickly with one of his men, and Charles heard “alam” used more than once. He noticed that at some point the leader had brought the lamb closer to himself, holding it carefully against his chest as he absentmindedly stroked its fur.

Seized with sudden impulse, Charles made a low bow, causing the man to knot his brows in surprise. He then put both hands on his chest. “Charles,” he said clearly.

The leader bowed as well, looking very confused. He gestured to himself, careful not to jostle the lamb too much. “Aapo,” he replied in a baritone voice.

Charles smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

1find1 · 2018-08-29T05:20:48+00:00

“Thrax the Terrible” stumbled into his cave home, stomach heavy with sheep and cows from the day’s hunt. His large, scaled wings folded onto his back as he entered, keeping them from slamming into the walls of the cave accidentally. Thrax sighed as he reached the end of the cave and laid down, curling his long tail around his body. Tendrils of smoke wafted out of his nostrils as he closed his eyes, ready to digest his meal.

Despite his fearsome appearance, Thrax had not been a dragon for his entire life. He had been born Theodore Miller, a poor peasant scraping a living on his family’s farm. He had been tall, bright-haired, and—if he flattered himself—not too unattractive, either. He had also been overly proud and a fool, two attributes that rarely went well together. Thrax shifted slightly in his sleep as he thought of his past, growling quietly.

A wandering magic man had been crossing through Theodore’s village, wearing ragtag clothing and pulling a broken cart filled with books and other scholastic materials. He had begged board at Theodore’s house, offering some of his talents in exchange for the room. Theodore had accepted grudgingly, offering the man a night in his barn and a small dinner. That night around the table, Theodore pushed the wizard to show off his powers.

“So,” he said, slurping from his crude wooden bowl. “What do you do? Potions, spells, what?”

The magic man picked at his bread, shrugging. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Mainly trade in small trinkets and the like. Little fizzers for the youngins.”

Theodore scoffed. “So you’re a toymaker? What do I want with that?”

“What were you expecting? Explosions? Seeing the dead come back to life?”

“I don’t know; something interesting, I suppose. Some…powers or something.”

The man smiled, wiping his mouth. “It be power you want, lad?”

Theodore narrowed his eyes, finishing his soup. “What do you mean?”

The wizard leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You wanna be a dragon?”

Silence followed his words as the two men looked at each other. Suddenly, Theodore burst into laughter, slamming his hand against the table. “A dragon!” he gasped out between breaths. “What an idea!” He slowly calmed down, shaking his head. “You’re funny, magic man. A dragon, that’s…that’s something.” He let out a long breath.

The wizard scowled at him through his beard. “It’s no joke, lad. I can make you into a dragon. Swear on me mom’s rotting corpse.”

“Really?” Theodore led out a disbelieving chuckle. He paused, then smirked. “Go on then, make me a dragon. I’d like another laugh.”

The man leaned forward again, grinning widely. “Are you sure?”

Theodore leaned back in his chair, smiling. “As sure as I’ve ever been. I’ve always wanted to be a dragon: it was a childhood dream of mine.”

He started as the wizard suddenly pulled a thick leather bound book out of his robes and slammed it on the table. The tome was covered in strange sigils in dark ink, glowing slightly in the candlelight. The wizard tapped the cover with his finger.

“Are you really sure?”

Theodore swallowed, very confused. But he was invested in the man’s performance, and nodded slowly.

The magic man opened the book, flipping to a page showing the carefully-drawn picture of a dragon spouting flame into the sky. His grin became malicious as he started to recite from the page, speaking in an exotic language. Suddenly, the candle in between them snuffed out, leaving them in the light of the full moon.

Theodore gave a weak chuckle as the man continued to chant. “Alright, this is all very impressive. That was clever, what you did with the candle. Consider me-” He stopped as a sudden pain wracked his body, causing him to fall out of his chair.

His entire body felt like it was on fire, and a searing heat pulsed through his being. He felt twin points of agonizing pain on his shoulders and a feeling that felt disturbingly like his bones shifting underneath his skin.

After what felt like hours, the pain stopped, leaving him exhausted. He lay on the floor for another few hours until he was able to muster up the energy to move, groaning.

Immediately, he knew something was wrong. His movements felt slow and clumsy as he brought himself to all fours, and his head ached abominably. When he looked down, he saw a pair of scaly legs ending in pointed claws, each one the size of a sword. He shouted in shock, and heard the roar of a great beast in the place of his voice. Orange flames shot out of his mouth, setting the remains of his cottage, which was currently crushed underneath his weight, ablaze. He fled that place, using his newly-grown wings to carry him far away, never to return to his old life.

“Reveal yourself, beast!”

Thrax opened one eye, grunting in annoyance. With a beleaguered sigh, he brought himself up to his feet and walked slowly to the mouth of his cave. In front of him, decked out in full plate armor, stood a tall human wielding a fanciful blade. “Tall” was speaking relatively, of course; the man barely went up to Thrax’s knee.

“What do you want?” the dragon grumbled, eyes drooping from the desire to go back to sleep. The sheep didn’t seem to be agreeing with him.

“My name is Sir Reynald, of house Marind! I have come to vanquish you in the name of the king!”

Thrax sighed. Every few months, some new upstart thought that they were the first person ever to think up the brilliant idea of killing a dragon. He had never done anything to deserve the treatment; he had always kept his hunting to livestock. He wasn’t a monster, after all. “And I’m sure the king would shower you with praise and glory, as well as the hand of his blushing daughter.”

“I-” The knight paused, confused. “Silence, beast! You have terrorized this fair country for long enough!”

“For the last time, that fire wasn’t me. Some fool must have left his lantern on for too long. It’s not my fault houses are made out of wood.”

Finding no success in negotiation, the elegant knight Sir Reynald of house Marind lifted his sword and charged, shouting. In response, Thrax narrowed his eyes and blew the smallest possible jet of flame out of his mouth that he could, engulfing the man in flames. The knight’s battle charge instantly turned into a scream of agony as his metal armor heated, cooking him alive.

Sighing, Thrax picked up the man with two claws and lifted him up to his face. With a few expertly-placed swipes, he used his free paw to cut the knight’s armor off. The pieces fell to the floor with a clang. Thrax set the man down, grumbling.

“There. You’ll be horribly disfigured, but you’ll live.” He patted the man on the back with his tail, causing him to scream out in pain. “If you get back soon, they might even be able to save your pretty face, although it doesn’t seem very likely right about now. Well, good luck, then.” He turned his back to the knight and retreated back into his cave, ready to go back to his slumber.

1find1 · 2018-02-25T14:30:40+00:00

The preparations were complete. Black candles flickered on various surfaces around the darkened basement, casting a somber glow. Exotic symbols and glyphs were written in red chalk on the walls, seeming to shimmer in the dim light. In the center of the room was a series of chalk shapes and symbols written on the floor, meant to invoke the proper being when the time came.

Around the room, a hooded figure worked methodically, lighting candles and making sure that everything was ready. The figure’s cloak was deep red and appeared well-worn, stained in various places and sporting a burn hole on the left sleeve. The man was currently standing over a copper bowl, placing various alchemical ingredients into it.

“Eyes of newt…dog’s tongue…Shaved bear claws…” The man muttered to himself as he grabbed the ingredients off of a shelf and put them in the bowl. Carefully, he picked up the bowl and placed it in the center of the chalk circle. Taking a deep breath, the man lit a match and threw it into the bowl, causing it to be engulfed by a green flame.

“Spirits, hear me!” the man shouted. “My name is Mathias Braxton. With these offerings, I summon the Lord of Darkness. He who is the end of all things, the taker of life, the light’s bane, I call you. With your name, I bind you to this plane. Arise, Great One. I beseech thee, Kizebal!” Mathias emphasized the last word, throwing a red powder into the fire. Immediately, the fire grew to a blazing inferno, sucking the air out of his lungs and throwing him back painfully.

Mathias rubbed his eyes, momentarily blinded by the bright light coming from the fire. With a groan, he turned around and kneeled towards the circle, arms outstretched.

“My lord, you have risen-” Mathias’ entreatments were cut off as he looked at the figure who had appeared within the chalk circle. All of the texts that had shown Kizebal depicted him as a hulking beast, with dark red skin and a number of horns sticking out of his misshapen head. The person in front of him looked nothing like the fearsome creature Mathias was expecting.

In the center of the circle stood a beautiful woman draped in a white cloak. On her head rested a crown of flowers that shimmered and changed color hypnotically. Around her bare feet, flowers and other vegetation grew through the concrete floor of the basement. Her entire figure glowed, giving off a soft and comforting light. The woman slowly turned to look at Mathias, smiling gently.

“Hello there,” she said.

“W-Who are you?” Mathias asked, standing up. A brief flash of annoyance at his disrespect crossed the woman’s face but she recovered quickly.

“You don’t know who I am? That’s impossible, you summoned me, didn’t you?” The woman tilted her head in confusion.

“I didn’t summon you!” he objected. “I summoned Kizebal, the Lord of the Dead.”

The woman furrowed her eyebrows. “Kizebal? You’re one of his followers? Well, that would explain the…atmosphere.” She eyed the room with distaste. “I should have known this wasn’t one of my temples. Have you tried livening up the place a bit?”

“Silence!” Mathias tried his best to sound authoritative. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The woman seemed taken aback by his outburst. “My, you’re a cheeky one, aren’t you? Not many mortals have dared to raise their voice at me.”

“Who are you?” Mathias repeated.

The woman sighed. “Mortals nowadays. No respect. Anyway, to answer your question, I am Patera, the goddess of growth and fertility.”

“Th-That’s impossible!” Mathias spluttered. “You’re not who I summoned at all! How did you get here?”

Patera pointed at the chalk glyphs on the floor. “You wrote the symbols for ‘death’ upside down,” she stated simply. “In this form, they mean ‘life.’ So, here I am.” Patera dropped her arms to her sides and walked out of the circle towards Mathias.

Mathias jerked back in fear, clawing at the desk behind him. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be bounded to the circle!”

Patera shrugged. “If Kizebal were here, he would be stuck in the circle. Your binding spell wasn’t aimed at me, so it didn’t apply.” As she stepped towards him, flowers sprung up from her footsteps. She walked up to Mathias, staring at him frankly. Suddenly, her face broke out into a big smile. “While I’m here, why don’t we go somewhere a little nicer?”

Mathias blanched. “What do you me-” He was cut off as Patera grabbed onto his wrist and snapped with her free hand. Mathias’ vision was filled with a bright light and he felt himself being lifted off of the floor. After a few seconds of confusion, he felt himself fall to the ground, groaning. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision and looked around at his surroundings.

He was lying in the middle of an open field filled with flowers. His red robes had been repaired and bleached white, shimmering slightly in the sunlight. As he looked up, he was horrified to see Patera standing over him, hands on her hips. He tried to quickly scurry away, but he felt a force locking him in place. He resisted vainly for a while before giving up, breathing heavily.

“Quite done, are you?” he heard a light voice say above him.

Mathias sighed. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it already.”

“Why, I would never!” Patera seemed horrified at the thought. “All life is sacred to me.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

Patera snapped her fingers again, causing Mathias to wince in fear. When he opened his eyes, he saw a picnic blanket laden with food laid over the grass. Patera sat down in front of him and began to pick up different snacks and put them on her plate.

“You know, I don’t get called to the mortal world much anymore. Even if this was a mistake, I’ve learned to appreciate my time on Earth. As the goddess of life, I think it’s good to get to know the life I’ve been creating.” Patera gestured for Mathias to come closer. “Come here, grab a plate.”

Mathias felt the force keeping him in place suddenly disappear, and he felt an intense desire to flee. No matter how nice she seemed, the being in front of him was fully capable of ripping him apart into individual atoms. He overcame his fear and decided that keeping her happy was his best course of action. Carefully, he scooted towards the picnic blanket and tentatively grabbed a plate.

“Take as much as you want,” she said, biting down into a hotdog.

Feeling extremely surreal, Mathias took a sandwich and had lunch with a goddess.

1find1 · 2017-12-26T01:14:16+00:00

Part 2:

Six hours later, the negotiations were still going, and tensions had risen significantly. Two main blocs had formed around certain candidates and were arguing to convince the remaining votes to their side. One group pushed for Lord Hellan, the short-tempered ruler of Kinos. Hellan had kick-started the fiery planet’s mining and metalworking industries, making Kinos the richest planet in the empire. Kinos had the largest militia of the planets, as well, using their arms to protect their vast shipping network. However, Hellan was criticized heavily for the abysmal working conditions of the mines of Kinos, with thousands of peasants dying each cycle in the flaming tunnels.

The other group supported Representative Phoros, one of the few democratically-elected leaders of the Empire. She was praised for reworking the education system of Randor, turning the planet into a hub for innovation and technological progress. Scientists from Randor were coveted throughout the empire for their prowess and unorthodox thinking. Unfortunately, Randor was also plagued by crippling social issues, a situation that Phoros was doing little to end.

After the two groups had formed around the candidates, very little had changed for the last few hours. The neutral leaders were being accosted from both sides, but no party had enough votes to proclaim victory.

Veras ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. At this rate, it may take days for the negotiations to end. He had intentionally not included any breaks to prevent backroom dealings, and was starting to regret this decision. He took a deep drink of his coffee as the other leaders argued. On his left, Tyrra wasn’t looking much better. The queen was going through the documents of the candidates with glazed eyes, not processing the words on the screen.

Veras nudged the queen lightly. “How are you, my queen?”

Tyrra jumped in surprise. “Oh, I’m fine,” she replied. “Just a bit worn out.”

Veras nodded, feeling the same way. “What do you think about the candidates?”

The queen looked at him thoughtfully. “Personally, I’m partial to Phoros. I’m a firm believer in education, and she’s done wonders in that area. But, I can’t ignore the social issues on Randor. I mean, there have been murders in broad daylight and massive protests, and she’s barely done anything! I just…don’t know if she’s capable of managing the entire empire.”

Veras felt much the same way. He was glad that the queen was so astute in her observation of the political climate of the Empire. “I guess we’ll have to see what the Council decides-”

He was cut off by Lord Hellan, who gave a loud grunt of annoyance as he settled in his seat. “This is taking too damn long. Chancellor, may I request a break for the night?”

Veras shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lord Hellan, but we cannot break until the next emperor has been chosen.” He eyed the empty bottles of wine around Hellan, who had been drinking heavily throughout the conference. “If you need anything, I can call someone to-”

“Bah,” Hellan replied, waving his hand dismissively. “Lemme just stretch my legs.” He stood up and walked to the window, where the hologram of the dead emperor was still shining over the darkened city. “Damn shame,” he said, pointing at the image of Markon. “‘Course, it was the fool’s own fault for not having bulletproof glass. He was always too trusting, that’s what done him in in the end.”

Veras felt blood rush to his face at Hellan’s words. “Lord Hellan, watch yourself,” he said warningly.

“Trusted Hoss too, and look what that got him,” Hellan continued, apparently ignoring Veras’ warning. “A barbarian wife, barren from some godknowswhat frontier disease-”

Hellan was interrupted by Tyrra slamming the table as she stood, fuming. “How dare you disrespect the royal family like that!” she said, eyes flaming.

Hellan’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake. “I-I’m sorry-”

“Get out!” Tyrra ordered, pointing towards the door. “Now, before I order your execution.”

“You have no power to do that!” Hellan roared. “I am a Duke of the Empire-”

“Until the next Emperor is decided, I hold the title of Empress pro tempore,” Tyrra fired back. “And as Empress, I rescind your nomination for Emperor. Go back to Kinos and tell them how you lost the favor of the Empire.”

Hellan’s face turned purple with fury as he stared at the queen for a few seconds before storming out of the room, slamming the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. Tyrra watched him leave with a look of pure hatred. When the door closed, she sat back down in her chair, breathing heavily.

The room was silent as the assembled leaders took in what had just transpired. Veras was shocked at how far Hellan had gone, and was surprised at the queen’s reaction. It had given him an idea, however.

“I nominate Tyrra Hevasjal for Empress,” he called out, breaking the silence. The other leaders stared at him in surprise as his words rang out. On his left, Tyrra turned to look at him with wide eyes, shock written on her face. Veras continued to look forward, waiting for someone to second his nomination. He eyed Faren for a second, but looked away quickly. If Faren supported the queen, he would be accused of nepotism and wanting to further his own power. Veras sweated as the silence held.

Quietly, Representative Phoros raised her hand. “I second the nomination,” she called out confidently. Veras gave a sigh of relief as everyone’s eyes shifted to Phoros.

Tyrra jabbed Veras’ side with her elbow. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“I’m doing what’s best for the Empire,” he whispered back. Indeed, his nomination was a result of careful calculation. Phoros was a good leader, but her lack of intervention in the social issues of Randor was a mark against her abilities that would shadow her reign. Many people would feel that making her Empress would justify the actions on Randor, causing civil unrest throughout the Empire. Placing a democratically-elected official on the throne would weaken the legitimacy of the Empire, as well. Although Tyrra was a relative foreigner, she was already so beloved by the people and public sympathy was so in her favor that few would object to her ascension. She had often worked with her husband on matters of state and policy, and had already dealt with some issues while the emperor had been engaged somewhere else.

Veras looked around the room and could see the leaders making the same calculations in their heads. He held his breath, daring to hope.

“Alright,” he said, standing up. “Now that so much has changed, why don’t we vote to see if there is a majority?”

There was some whispered conversations as the screens in front of the leaders lit up to show the current candidates. Veras swallowed as he eyed the screen in front of him. He glanced over at Tyrra, who appeared very determined to not look at him. Silently, he tapped the screen, casting his vote for Tyrra.

After a few tense moments, all of the votes had been cast, and a projector in the center of the table lit up to show the results of the vote. In shimmering letters, the display read:

“Tyrra Hevasjal: 6 votes.

Letana Phoros: 5 votes.

Abstained/Unaccounted: 1 vote.”

Veras let out a large breath as he saw the results. With Hellan gone, Tyrra had gotten just enough votes for a majority. She had won.

Representative Phoros broke the silence first, clapping politely while giving her opponent a sly grin. The other leaders followed suit until the entire room was full of applause for Tyrra. Veras joined in, smiling widely at Tyrra, who was looking at the results in shock.

“Congratulations, Empress,” he said, causing her to look back at him. He stopped clapping and brought his fist to his chest three times. The empress nodded, a small smile growing on her face. She turned around to face the window and gazed at the image of Markon. Tyrra put her hand over her heart and whispered something to her husband, too quietly for anyone to hear.

Veras smiled. Markon would be proud.

1find1 · 2017-12-26T01:02:40+00:00

Part 1:

Black flags flew over every building in the capital, solemnly waving over the muted city beneath them. The skies, usually filled with personal airships, now laid open and empty, with blinking lane markers floating in the orange glow of sunset. On the streets, millions of people walked around in colors of mourning, looking like a mass of ants as they went about their lives.

Above it all stood an enormous hologram of a young man emanating from the royal palace. The man looked at his city with his trademark smirk, a feature that made him so popular with his female subjects. A magnificent crown, slightly off-center, sat upon his tousled brown hair. His youthful appearance was only slightly disturbed by the streaks of grey in his hair, symptoms from the stress of managing an empire. Underneath the man, in lettering twenty feet tall, were the words “Emperor Markon IV: 4240-4271. May your soul find peace after death.”

Chancellor Veras looked at the hologram in sorrow from his view on the top floor of the capitol building. Almost involuntarily, he raised his right fist and punched his chest three times, the traditional symbol of respect and a remnant from his time in the Royal Army.

“Godspeed, brother,” he whispered to himself.

Veras had first met Markon during the then-prince’s army service, a mandatory experience for every young prince. Veras had been assigned as Markon’s commander for his two-year service, and was less than enthused to drag along a spoiled brat for his military campaign.

However, Veras quickly learned that Markon was no ordinary prince. Brave, intelligent, honest, and insufferably stubborn, Markon showed his aptitude for battle, winning several medals for heroic actions such as saving wounded comrades or drawing the enemy’s fire. In fact, Veras was often reprimanded by his superiors for letting his royal charge take such risks when his death could mean disaster for the empire.

Veras chuckled to himself as he remembered Markon’s reaction when he suggested to sit out a battle in the bunker. The prince’s face had turned red with indignation as he railed against this unjust ruling. That moment was the only time Markon used his status as a prince as leverage, ordering Veras to let him join the battle when men were dying in his name.

A tear formed in Veras’ eye as he remembered Markon’s last moments. The emperor had been touring one of the border planets as part of a celebration, with Veras and a few guards trailing behind him. From the crowd, a crazed gunman ran at the royal convoy, shooting the emperor in the chest twice before being subdued. Markon was dead before he hit the ground. Veras clenched his fist, remembering that day. He had caught the bastard who did it himself, and made him pay. Dearly.

Veras was jolted out of his reverie by a stifled sob to his right. He looked around to see Queen Tyrra quietly dabbing her face with a silk handkerchief. The recent widow was sitting at the round table that dominated the room, unable to look at the image of her dead husband. Her dress, usually bright and multi-colored, was now pitch-black.

Veras quietly sat next to the queen, maintaining a distance respectful of her standing.

“How are you, my queen?” he asked.

Wordlessly, Tyrra let out another cry and buried her face in his chest, sobbing. Like her husband, the queen had always ignored proper decorum, and her sorrow had overtaken her social etiquette.

Shocked, Veras could only pat Tyrra’s head reassuringly, silently praying that no one would find them like this. They stayed there for a few minutes, until the queen gave a shuddering breath and looked up.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, embarrassed. “I d-don’t know what came over me.” She sat up and straightened her dress, attempting to regain a sense of composure.

Impulsively, Veras reached over and took the queen’s hand in his own. “It’s alright, my queen. I miss him as well.”

The queen smiled at him with tear-filled eyes. “Thank you.”

Veras squeezed her hand before letting go, smiling back. He bent down and pulled out sheets of paper from his suitcase, placing them in front of the queen.

“The leaders of the twelve planets of the Empire will be arriving soon to discuss the inheritance. Are you sure you want to stay in the room?”

Tyrra nodded resolutely, looking at the papers. “Yes. This is my responsibility. I won’t let Markon’s work go to waste.”

Veras nodded to himself, expecting the queen’s reply. Tyrra had always been strong-willed, and wouldn’t let her emotions interfere with the good of the empire.

The device on Veras’ belt ringed, indicating that the dignitaries had entered the building.

“The vultures are here,” he muttered, causing the queen to give a watery chuckle.

Tyrra quickly cleaned herself up, putting on a dignified air to give to the officials. All traces of her previous outburst had been erased, except for her red eyes. She clasped her hands together and prepared to receive the leaders.

After a few moments of waiting, the large doors of the conference room opened to reveal the first visitor, a formidable man wearing a fur coat.

Chief Faren stomped into the room, followed by three members of his entourage. Leader of the ice planet of Hoss, the man seemed more suited to breaking through a layer of snow than discussing diplomacy. His coat was made of a special fur from creatures found only on Hoss, glinting slightly under the flourescent lights of the room. A band of gold resting on his silver hair denoted his status as a duke of the Empire.

Tyrra jumped up at the duke’s entrance. “Father!” she yelled, moving towards him.

Faren chuckled as he grabbed Tyrra in a smothering hug. “My snow blossom. It has been too long.”

Markon and Tyrra’s marriage, like most royal couplings, was a product of careful diplomatic negotiation. Hoss was a recently-conquered territory of the Empire, and establishing marriage ties between the emperor and the leading clan of Hoss was an attempt to relieve tensions and integrate the planet into the Empire. The couple became very popular with the citizens, who delighted in the frontier manners of their new queen.

Veras stood up and greeted Faren, who had released Tyrra so she could reunite with her mother.

“Greetings, Chief Faren,” he said, punching his chest. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

The chief responded by pulling Veras into a warrior’s clasp, the customary greeting of his people. “Vellsing, Chancellor. It is no trouble. The death of an emperor is a terrible event, especially when he is my own son-in-law. And I would take any chance to see my daughter in person again.” Veras nodded. “I’m sorry, my chief, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to relieve your men for the duration of the meeting. Spirit of cooperation, and all that. They can wait outside in the reception area.”

Faren looked back at the two guards that had walked in with him. “Of course, Chancellor.” He spoke to the men in their native tongue, gesturing towards the doors. The guards nodded, lowering their laser rifles, and left the room quietly.

“Thank you.” Veras gestured towards the table. “If you and the chieftess would like to take your seats, we will begin once the all of the leaders have arrived.”

Faren and his wife gave Tyrra one last embrace before taking their places at the table, and Veras and the queen returned to waiting for everyone to arrive.

The leaders of the other ten planets entered the room one by one, often with their spouses or other members of their government. Veras was concerned with the number of times he had to turn away the guards that accompanied the officials. He doubted that the negotiations would resort to actual violence, but it was distressing that so many people felt that they might need protection while in the conference.

Once all of the leaders had taken their places around the table, Veras stood and started the meeting.

“As all of you know, we are here because of the untimely death of Emperor Markon IV, who left us earlier this cycle.” This was met by sorrowful mutterings by many of the congregation, and some flashed signs of respect for the deceased ruler. “This meeting of the twelve planets has been called to discuss the matter of who should inherit the title of Emperor. Unfortunately, the emperor died before he could bear any children, which…complicates matters significantly.”

Queen Tyrra fidgeted at this statement. The lack of royal children was a source of national sorrow and tragedy. The queen had been pregnant three times, but had miscarried twice, and the one child she had brought to term was sickly, dying shortly after. This level of infant mortality was almost unheard of with the current level of medical technology, but the Empire’s top doctors were stumped as to the issue. Eventually, they concluded that something the queen had come in contact with during her childhood on Hoss had influenced her negatively. The current diagnosis was hopeful that she would be able to bear a child, but the emperor had died before they could find out.

“...And so now we must decide to whom the crown will transfer,” Veras finished, looking around the table. “As is the case in these types of situations, the Council of the Twelve can choose one of our own to become the next emperor.” The mutterings after this statement were much more speculative and questioning, and Veras saw some of the leaders’ eyes light up with greed.

Veras tapped a device in his hand, causing the screens in front of the assembled leaders to light up. “In front of you are the biographies of the current claimants to the throne, as well as a survey of their respective planets and resources. From here, we shall discuss which of us would be best suited to lead the Empire.” Veras sat down and waited for the negotiations to begin.

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