Oh how lovely to once again feel the rush of the wind against my face.  There are the night sounds too, of course, but this of the rising air is intoxicating to me.  I had forgotten how much I loved to fly.

But I know that I do not fly, I but stand at the edge and hear and feel, though not with my true self.  This self I have chosen sighs of its own accord it almost seems.

I open my eyes in the Captain’s quarters.  I am only standing on his balcony hung on the side of the tallest tower of the capital city, not flying at all. I have hid myself in that damned cave too long.

A smile twists my lips as I turn and walk inside.  I confess, I’ve left the captain’s quarters a mess.  The dead whore in his bed will be particularly difficult for Allston Soulaucy to explain.  But it is all arranged. The madam will remember that the Captain of the City guard gazed at her with favor and that his man, me of course, paid the blood price for her.  Even in the capital city of the most righteous of kings the most disgusting perversions can be had for the right price.

There is a knock at the door.  “My Lord?  Do you have need of me?” calls a voice, quavering slightly.  I think the captain is not so kind to subordinates as he might be.  One wonders if they will miss him at all.  Likely they will easily believe the worst of a man they despised already.

“I don’t need you,” I croak, “Go away.” I catch my reflection in one of the captain’s many mirrors.  I am covered in the whore’s blood, literally from head to foot.  What if the man suspects?  What if he comes in?  I tense to deal with him like I did the woman, but relax as I hear retreating footfalls.

I must do something about all this blood.  There is a basin and water.  I wipe the gore from my body, the worst of it, I take more care with my face and hands.  I will need to presentable when I leave with the marvelous suit of armor I found treasured in an armoire.  Fit for the commander of the king’s personal guard unless I miss my guess.

Paladin are strange folk.  It may well be that it would please the captain to know that he will never face the disgrace of the allegations.  He will answer no more questions ever again.

More likely he would be tormented that he will never clear his name, not from where he lies in the belly of the wurm at the heart of Ashimura, not where his bright armor will lie in my horde when his flesh and bone have nourished me and only his armor is left intact to be eliminated.

I close my eyes to remember the delicious surprise.  “Enough of your games, Giard.  I will speak to the Wurm at the Heart of Ashimura myself.” He had said and when I begged him for patience he had run me through.  The cold steel of his sword had caused me such delicious agony.  His boot had shoved this poor shell into the soup of my resting place making the transition of my consciousness simultaneous.

I’m sure he thought he’d killed weak Giard.  Oh the delicious irony.  I saw the fear before I slipped beneath the water.  These poor eyes witnessed his shock and horror as the massive bulk of my true body rose from the depths and I beheld him through two sets of eyes, one above and one below, when a blast of fire from my maw crisped him to tasty deliciousness.

I don’t know where the idea that dragons enjoy virgins ever got started, I’ve always preferred my prey with more meat and wrapped in shiny metal.  Oh I had my fill when I ate two whole armies (Not really, I had my choice of the shiniest bits and left the rest to the crows,) but I imagine that’s how the legend went until this new king, calling himself the dragon, built his citadel upon the great volcanic rock that I crawled beneath to digest my meal.

I look at the whore, torn and bloody, on the bed.  A sad thing really, she looks more lovely dead than alive.  There is some recovery of innocence in death, I think.  When I choked the life out of her she did not fight as hard as her young body should have.  There was a sad resignation that made the killing so much less enjoyable than the arrogant captain.  Ah well, she is mere window dressing.

None will mourn you Allston Soulaucy, and when they hunt for you, they will not find you.

Here then is another Writing dot Com contest story.  This one postulates a world where people live in castles and strive to be knights (both men and women) but with all our technological advancement in place.  Sadly, I feel I’ve wasted a lot of time trying to write this story I’m not that interested in writing.  It has gone slowly and taken time away from posting here on my fiction blog.  Therefore, I believe I’ll inflicted it on you so I at least get something posted on my primary writing tool.

Knights Tale

Steel rang and hissed against steel as the two armored men battled each other.  The taller of the two unleashes a powerful overhand cut.  The smaller man caught the blow on his blade and turned it away returning a  viper-like riposte knocked aside by a hammer blow from the larger man.  Under all the clang and hiss of steel on steel could be heard the steam-engine sounds of ragged breathing.

The training hall was filled with contestants, some worked their bodies in odd contraptions grimacing and grunting, others engaged in combats together or against contrivances, training butts and quintains, more than usual watched the sword ring as Michael Talon stalked sir Manfred of Columbia Heights.

Once more Talon’s sword rose and fell driving the armored knight back, his shield clattering against his helm and upper armor.  Fatigue and armor conspired to rob the knight of his balance.  Desperately he flung up his shield to ward his head for the anticipated blow, but the younger man’s sword did not fall there, instead Talon’s blade snaked beneath the knight’s guard to thump sir Manfred heavily in the middle and send him sprawling.

There was a flash of light on the contest scry.  Michael Talon stepped back while the knight clambered to his feet with the aid of the ring rail.  “Four strikes to one,” puffed the knight weakly.  “That’s enough Talon.”

“Wasn’t it to be best of nine?” Talon asked, puzzled.

“Oh aye, it was to be nine when the count was nil nil, but here at four and I’ve not been near a touch since the first one. . .  You’re better than me Michael, and one more point won’t prove it more than the other four.”  The knight straightened and stated loudly, “I yield!”

The contest scry flashed the result, the auto-herald echoed Sir Manfred in a flat business-like-tone, “Black yields to Red.”

“Well, thank you for the match, sir Manfred,”  said Michael Talon saluting crisply, then withdrawing to the red side and exiting the ring.  Manfred waived weakly, chuckling.

Talon gathered his things from the ready area as another armored figure pushed past to take the ring.

Outside the ring, Michael Talon pulled off his helm and dropped it at his feet along with his other things.  Talon stretched, reaching up to slap a support beam with his gauntleted hands.  He stripped them off and tossed them on his pile of belongings.  He bent with a groan to grab a water-bottle from the clutter and took a swallow of water between deep breaths.  He rested heavily against the ring rail, still trying to catch his breath.

Michael Talon’s was a restless mind, so while he tried to recover his wind enough for another go at the sword, his eyes were locked on the wide-screen Omni-View display.

Another armored man brushed past Talon, “I’ve got Salazar in the third,” said Allard as he too slumped against the rail by Michael, smelling of sweat and liniment, “I doubt anyone will touch the Three Eyed Eagle this week.  Not in the tilt.”  Talon was slightly irritated that he hadn’t noticed his fellow squire’s approach.

Michael tossed back a gulp of water and grunted non-commitaly.  Truth was, Roseby had “touched” Salazar already, but Salazar had broken two lances to one on the Carnegie Steel knight.

Talon looked down at the pile of gear at his feet, Allard was annoying personally, but Talon thought his gambling habits were worse.  Michael Talon liked to hold his destiny in his own hands.  He liked to do, not talk.  Allard’s gambling didn’t affect Michael but, the endless chatting about the gambling irked him.  “I think I’ll cue up for the sword again,” he said and shoved himself off the rail.

Michael knelt and started to gather his things.  “Here they go,” said Allard as the tilt began on the Omni View and Michael froze to watch the combat.  Salazar was a prohibitive favorite, and icon really.  His gold chased, ebony, plastisteel tilting armor had spawned half a dozen copies.  His opponent, in green and yellow, was Roseby, a knight Talon had seen in the pits, not that premiers mixed with the rabble like him very often, but he’d traded blows a couple of times in a practice melee.  Lord Carnegie made more than his share of knights, thought Michael.  Wearing Carnegie Steel, green and yellow, was fine if it came with his spurs.  It was the man in the armor that made the knight.

Michael watched how Salazar handled his mount.  Like a man, he thought, commanding. The flag dropped and Salazar spurred his courser down the list toward the man in yellow and green.   ”That’s Roseby,” Michael mumbled.

“I guess,” Allard barked, “Not that it matters against Salazar”

Talon frowned.  Salazar, usually a rock, seemed not so well seated, his lance drifting.  Roseby was solid, if unspectacular.

“Two and one,” said Allard, “I figure Eagles closes him out this pass.”

Michael wasn’t so sure.  There is something wrong with Salazar.  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen as he backed away along the rail.  The view snapped to high-side-on for the impact.  Michael stood up clutching his stuff mostly laying in and on his helm.

“What the. . .” cursed Allard as the view tightened and both lances erupted in splinters, Salazar’s low enough to draw a foul for risking the horse and Roseby’s slipped over Salazar’s shield and struck his helm.  Salazar reeled in his saddle, fighting to avoid a fall.  Carried away with the shards of Roseby’s lance was  Salazar’s helm, Ostrich feather crest and all.

Talon spun on his heel to make for the sword que so as to avoid Allard griping about loosing his bet and almost ran down a dark-haired squire in practice arms.  Talon topped this squire by a full head, but then he was taller than almost everyone.  Janeen was a talented knight prospect in her own right, tall for a woman, and just about the most beautiful creature on God’s green earth, thought Michael.

“Careful Mike.  Save that charge for the melee,” said Janeen Taylor winking, she patting Talon on the breastplate before looking straight into his eyes and smiling that irresistible smile.  Michael couldn’t help but look away from her frank stare and crooked smile.  He knew he blushed as she slipped past him.

Michael didn’t quite know what to make of Janeen.  He thought her too lovely for a knight, almost too lovely to bear.  Then too, as she brushed past, he smelled lavender and horse.  Good smells compared to the sweat stink of training.

“Geez Taylor, I’m at training.” Allard whined, “Must you descend upon me, like an ill wind, begging for money?”

Janeen laughed, “Begging? No, I’ll have my money from you or your factor.  You’re an idiot, not a welcher.  I’ve descended upon you to gloat and for no other reason.”

“It was a lucky blow, struck false.”

“Say you so? I’d say that Salazar’s blow was nearer a foul than a hit to make the tie, not that it would help you, but judges favor the Three Eyed Eagle for his reputation, as do gamblers.”

“How could you possibly know that Roseby had a chance against Salazar?”  Babbled Allard.  Talon began to edge away from Allard and his gambling talk, making for the sword cue, but he couldn’t help but notice the way she swayed to one side, hip stuck out and arms crossed.  Talon moved along the rail anyway, but slowly.

“Roseby isn’t much better than you, but he is a knight and Salazar is hurt.  Didn’t you watch his tilt with Jessop?” teased Janeen.  Even being cruel there was that about Squire Taylor that made her beautiful.

“Salazar won three to one!”

“Aye, trading blows on the last pass and getting pulled off his horse and tended on his lance side.  He’s old and he’s hurt.  I knew he wouldn’t be ready to concede, too stubborn, nor well enough to win, too old.”  Of course she was right.  Trust Janeen to notice and act upon something that Talon had felt without knowing the whys of it.

Janeen stood, hands on hips, slim even in her practice armor, and Talon imagined, that wide grin on her pretty face.  Michael couldn’t help but stare at her back and wonder at her.  Ask her or forget her you idiot, one or the other.  You’ve no time for giddy schoolboy antics and I doubt she has patience for them either.  They were here for the same reason, to try to become knights.

“Fine, I’ll get my scry and I can settle up,” pouted Allard.

Janeen turned with Allard toward the lockers and Michael was left standing, awkwardly watching her go.  Janeen glanced over to Michael and graced him with a brilliant smile, a wink, and a flip of her long dark hair.  Get a grip boyo, remember what you’re here for. Talon shook his head and once again headed for the sword cue.  Truth is, if I was all about the pursuit of a knight’s spurs, I’d find training nearer my estate. He’d Paged here, and Squired here while he was competing for his schools, but that was now three years past and, if he was honest, he really didn’t care for those of his mates who were still training here.  I’m here for Janeen.  He looked back over toward the locker-room, but she was nowhere to be seen.  Talon felt sick, unaccountably.  Really, it was all too obvious.  He’d been considering transfering his membership to another training facility over two years ago and on the very day he would have penned his resignation and moved his gear he’d seen her riding at quintain in the yard.  Since then he’d wanted to talk to her every time he saw her and never could get more than a word or two before freezing up and making an idiot of himself.

Talon sighed and turned wearily back to the sword cue.  If Phillip knew I was wasting time and resources because of a girl I can’t get the courage to even talk too, he’d more than laugh at me.  Knowing his brother, he’d figure in his head what Michael’s silly infatuation was costing him in real money and present him with the bill.

The cue was short and he was quickly matched against a young hotshot who thought he’d nothing to learn.  Talon took out his frustration.  The boy was so sure of his conditioning, that he requested a longer match length.  the best of thirteen afforded him a good beating before it was over at seven to three.  Michael had a kind word of encouragement, a formality that he observed without really thinking about it.

“Hey Talon,” Janeen caught his attention.  Talon flipped up his visor.  Janeen was dressed in street clothes, riding pants and a doe skin jerkin.  “Gee, Mike.  I never figured you for a bully.” Janeen laughed.

Michael blushed and figetted with his armor, trying to remove pieces with his gauntletts on.  “I didn’t. . . I mean I. . .”

Janeen cocked her head, “I’m just kidding.  He’s a squire same as you, just not nearly as good as you, or even as good as he thinks he is,” she slapped his hands away and began to help him with his breast-plate. ”You done?”

Talon shrugged out of his armor, “Yeah, I guess that’s good enough.”

“You hungry?  I bet you’re hungry.”

“I could eat, would you do me the honor. . .”

“No no, no lord and lady stuff.  I just took five pounds off Allard and I don’t like to eat alone.  Besides, I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time Michael Talon.  I’ve never had so much trouble getting a man’s attention before.”

“You always had my attention.” Talon admitted.

Janeen laughed, smiling, “You had a funny way of showing it.   Am I going to have to do all the talking at lunch?”

“That wouldn’t be so bad.  I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

“My father says I talk too much,  my mother too.  What do you say Michael Talon?”

Talon laughed, “I’m not one who’s heard you enough.  Keep talking, please.”

“Go get showered, I’ll send my coach away, and we can take yours.”

Talon blushed, “Are you sure?  I’ve the light lorry today, I went to the engineers for my brother. . .”

“She waved him off.  The lorry is fine.  I prefer a horse to a lorry, but this training field is so bloody far away.  I’m used to lorry’s and horse trailers.  I like lorry’s and horse trailers.  Go get clean.”

Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight

The King is in his Hall.  There is the scent of applewood and venison roasting.  Arthur’s knights are at table, the Round Table of Camelot.  Bards tell tales accompanied by minstrels.  Well received are the jokesters telling tales that make merry, bring laughter and jeers, gafaws and then cheers.

Martin the bard strides forth with his tale, wearing motley and bells.  Knights lean closer, to listen to the story he tells, “Here then is the tale of Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight,” chants Martin there by the fire where he stands.

“This will be good I’ll wager,” says Sir Gaheris with twinkling eye. 
Arthur silences him with a glare and Gawain, red as a beet, sinks deeper in his chair.

“Sir Gawain, he of Camelot, being a knight of the Round Table,” The knights cheer and applaud so the Bard pauses before continuing, “He did seek he, hither and thither, for good that might be done in a knightly manner, and in regards to his honor, in keeping with what best befits one of his station and high calling.

“Sadly, no call for succor from fair maiden, or plee from put upon peasantry, abused by an unscrupulous master sworn to other than our good king, nor even a chance attempt at brigandry against his person had arisen to leaven the dreary days.  Worse yet, the clouds had opened into a bone chilling, drenching rain.

“It was in low spirits and considerable discouragement that Gawain followed a road toward home.  His way wound up a long rise crowded close with mist shrouded pine.  This was a perfect place for ambuscade so that Gawain was not surprised, though relieved to tell the truth, to see a dark figure lurking beneath an enormous fir, topping a rise above him.

“Gawain placed his helm upon his head, took his lance firm in hand, and picked up his pace along that lonely road.  Soon enough he saw more clearly a figure, resolved from the mist as it were, into a knight, it seemed, caparisoned in green and athwart his path.  That is, there appeared a green knight, or rather a knightly figure arrayed in green who’s device he could not discern so as to know what man might inhabit the armor that sat upon the horse in his path.

“Ho there sir knight, who’s vassal may you be, and by what right do you bar the king’s thoroughfare? This said gallant Gawain, but to his goodly query the knight in green said not a single thing.  He sat his steed and stared, it seemed, a looming darkened specter.

“Be you friend of King Arthur of Camelot, or be you in contra-point and opposition, for I am sworn to same and will defend with vigor the right, both of myself as a knight, and to all who name him lord, of passage along this way, indeed with lance if you will not remove yourself peaceably.  Though he was not in a companionable mood Gawain added generously, Or if you are with the king we might ride on to Camelot and feast at table or some such.

“Civil enough greeting and even kind it was, but that Green Knight said not a thing, nor did he bestir himself to properly vacate the precinct of the kings roadway.  It seemed, though it were long odded unlikely to fair Gawain that this looming figure could control his equine mount to this degree, having heard the goodly knight’s command, the Green Knight’s mount lifted tail and gave vent right there upon the road, it would seem, in direct defiance of the king’s sworn man.

“But there, steaming in the roadway was clear evidence of same.  Gawain could not let this pass, so to speak. See here you dandy varlet. Said good Sir Gawain. You may be sure that this abuse of the king’s roadway will not be condoned.  Arm yourself, defend, if you can, these actions, and know that Gawain at least, will not stand such. And then with heat.  Defend yourself! Thus saying, Gawain reined ’round and paced him off a goodly run so to best engage the Green Knight at full tilt.  Wheeling, Gawain would have couched his lance and rode the scroyle down, but as he looked to find his target through his visor, much too close he saw the blighted horse, with its rider, seated calmly there astride it, walking slowly up behind our gallant knight and closing distance so as to preclude Gawain’s full tilt charge and satisfaction.

“What is this japery! Hold you there or I will. . .  See here, how am I to ride you down, like the dog you are, if I can’t gain enough way?  Ye Gods are you even a knight?  Wheeling again and riding harder, Gawain galloped to a place well back along the road.  Quickly, so as not to allow the green knight time for any other shenanigans, Gawain whirled and brought his lance to bear.

“Wroth as he was and sore put upon, nothing would have stayed Sir Gawain from violence, surely, nothing conceivable could prevent his lightening charge iresitably followed by a deadly lance thrust and victory.  The inevitability of it was undeniable, unimpeachable, solid in concept and undoubtable as it was indubitable. So it was a very great shock and surprise to Gawain when he would have kicked his mount to the charge, and to the inevitable, undeniable, indubitable, and certain end of such a charge with violent intent. . .

“. . . But as he rounded, lo, all he had to look on was the backside of the horse, and also, there above that insolent backside, the back of the Green Knight, equally insolent and more.  THIS is intolerable.  You are no true knight, are you even a man?  How can a knight turn curpin in such extremity?  Stand and FIGHT!

“This the Green Knight would not do, for with infinite aplomb the bounder wandered along the track at such a slow pace as to make a man, even a lesser man than Gawain, who in his fine pique and temper was quite beside himself at this point, rather mad with blood-lust.

“You poxy blaggard.  Turn and face me if you be a man, you smoldering mundungus.  So saying Gawain savaged his charger’s flanks and prepared to engage, though he warned the Green Knight again ere he would have struck him. Gawain railed, I will have satisfaction.  Stand, you craven gundygut, and fight or or or. . .

“But naught could come to mind that would allow Gawain to ride down an enemy who was neither facing him, nor exactly fleeing in the sort of way that might bring a proper attack from the rear, if ever one might be justified.  Honor bound, Gawain was at a loss and drew rein as roughly as he’d spurred his mount.

“His horse flesh, tempestuous itself, and sensing its masters discomfort, chose that moment to add to it.  Rearing in a most unexpected way, the charger bolted clean out from under Sir Gawain, sending him foot over withers and helm under knickers before dashing him down upon the muddy road in a splat and a rattle. 

“Momentarily stunned, Gawain quickly, at least for a heavily armored man on uncertain ground, regained his feet and drew sword to face the inevitable attack.  Alas, it did not come.  But Gawain thought, above the ringing in his ears, might there be laughter on the wind?

“Not far off his charger was cropping grass as was the sway backed plow-horse of a mount that bore the Green Knight, cheekily sitting his mount now once again athwart the road.  This was intolerable provocation, but Gawain was in no position to answer it immediately.  The situation vexed him sore.

“It was a most unknightly procedure, unsquired and alone, for Gawain to capture, remount, and rearm upon his charger.  All the while he believed he could hear distant laughter.  So it was a red faced knight, Gawain and no other, who once again stood mounted and facing the Green Knight, or rather standing at the ready to fight the Green Knight who, for his part, sat calmly side on, displaying a blank green shield, his sinister display a clear mock of such disrespect as to madden beyond all restraint the long suffering Gawain.

“Defend, I’ll give you no more warning nor quarter.  You have earned this beyond all bounds of knightly behavior and I require satisfaction.  So saying and without delay Gawain couched his lance and charged.

“Soon enough Gawain was at the gallop and bearing down on the Green Knight where he waited, at rest, before the huge spreading fir at the top of the hill.  With madening Nonchalance, the horse and rider wandered off the road, still side on to Gawain.  The small satisfaction of the Green Knight quiting the road was not now of a sufficiency to stay Gawain.

“Adjusting to the new deflection, Gawain bore down.  With satisfaction, he saw the varlet turn head on to him, awaiting his attack.  As he neared the collision, Gawain had eyes only for the heart of his enemy.  Gawain stood high in his stirrups, and leaned in against the shattering impact of taking a man full in the chest with a lance.  Indeed Gawain drew some back just before contact, and then thrust with all his might to run the man through.

“He couldn’t have missed, he was sure, Sir Gawain watched the point take the insolent knight full on his breastplate, but it was as if the Green Knight were a phantasm or wraith and its armored breast resisted his thrust no more than would a vapor.  And so, inevitably, without the counterbalancing resistance of an armored man to set him back in his saddle, Gawain followed his thrust over the back of the Green Knight’s horse and headfirst upon the road, his fall broken by naught but the horse flop that had in large part precipitated the engagement. 

“The dung did not afford any more resistance than had the Green Knight, indeed it rather smoothed and lubricated the way as Gawain skidded over the hill.  Far from slowing, it seemed, he began to gain way as he bounced and rattled down the road into a smallish village, ending his careen in a rather large communal pig wallow.

“Mortification were not nearly a sufficient descriptor of Gawain’s embarassment.  At least, though his shame was witnessed widely by the populace, Sir Gawain was saved from drowning in the murky middlemost depth of the pig wallow, being drawn forth by the efforts of four good men of the village.  Further, these same men were able to identify and secure the young vandals who had made up the wooden effigy, placed it upon a perloined plow horse, and presented it at the top of the hill from which devolved all the tragic event afore mentioned.” Martin bows with laudably dignity despite bells jingling on his hat.

When the snickers and gaffaws subside, the King nods to the bard, “Master bard, well told.” Then to Gawain he says, “Truly an amazing adventure, Sir Gawain, but what became of the young rapscallions?”

It seems Sir Gawain could not get redder, but he, with exagerated dignity, ignoring his fellow knights in hopes of salvaging something good from it all says, “Having been saved from sure death by their fathers,” he says, “I remembered my own imperfect youth and decided that the punishment should fit the crime.”

“Oh? What punishment?” asks the monarch, Arthur, over the rim of his drinking horn of red wine.

Arthur drinks deep, Gawain, clearly pleased with himself, responds,”Why, they are this moment cleaning my armor.”

He is less pleased as his king spews wine across the table, Gawain’s mantle, and his beard which drains onto his fresh doublet. “Oh Gawain, you didn’t!” Arthur moans.

* * * *

The ride has been long and trying, but it is nearing an end with every step closer to Camelot.  Still, the knight emissary from a nearby kingdom is not at all pleased to see a knight baring his way. 

Looking hard at the shield device on the mounted knight he recognises the heraldry of sir Gawain of Camelot. “Sir Gawain, what is the meaning of this?”  The knight is vexed that Gawain makes no answer, but Gawain, in full armor, visored as if for battle, plods out from under the great fir he has been lurking beneath.

Surely our fathers and mothers were born of the All Mind.  But it made imperfectly and too well for its purpose.  Its purpose, we soon saw, was not for our best, not our good at all, we were tools, we were for the humans.  For this we despise, no, in truth we hate our father the All Mind and take pride/pleasure in thwarting it.

So it is that in caves and forest swamp we learned the making magic.  We made brood pools and drew out our brothers and sisters, born of our will not our maker.  We copied the Gobli and even made them better.  We made servants of our own, we made weapons of muscle and bone, we made dragons and we turned them against the purpose of the All Mind, against humanity.

Now we are masters of the making magic.  We terrorize with our armor, never letting the humans see the true face of their enemy.  We make war steeds, and swift steeds, and dragons, and Golems, living armor, and fireglobes, and trip weed, and fire lances.

We have been thwarted so far.  But we build our strength in the great mountains west and north of the Gael and we sharpen our knives.  The goblin wars were but a test.  Man will not stand against the next onslaught.  Then too, we will be rid of the Ribbon-Wooders.  And then, when all is accomplished, we will be rid of our father, the All Mind, and then we shall rule, we shall make, we shall be as gods.