While I continued to mechanically go through the motions of a day on the march, my mind had slouched into a dark place. My eyes fell on the mane between Graymire’s ears, but I didn’t really see it. I was replaying events stretching as far back as Zhalskrag, seeing every glaring mistake I’d made that led us here. It all hinged on one hasty moment in Gefrah. In one reckless decision, I’d set off down this road, and had sealed doom for the people at the Kestrel estate. Alternate images of them being cut down by steel and succumbing to the slow gnawing of hunger flashed through my mind. I didn’t know which fate had befallen them, but I was equally to blame for both. I lost count of days, and only gruntingly responded to Lenz when he pestered me. This only encouraged him to pester me more, so I finally forced my head up and looked at him. There was a worried expression on his face.
“You wanted something. Now what was it?”
“You weren’t responding.”
“Before that.”
“I don’t even remember,” Lenz said.
My unvoiced vitriol was cut off by the column’s sudden stop. It rippled through the army like a wave as each man noticed those in front of him had come to a halt. I broke formation and rode up to where Hengist was. Lenz followed. I didn’t care enough about his presence one way or another to say anything. I was just annoyed that our progress had been interrupted. Hengist had stopped at the ridge of a rise that gently sloped down towards a road. It was a slow incline of several miles across a patchwork of fields and pastures. Off to our left, the road ran straight as a rail past clumps of woodland before disappearing from view. Across the road, a tumbledown, cracked rock face rose steeply to above our current elevation. The river spilled down this slope and gurgled through the shallows before running down into the canyon on our right. The ruined pilings of a vanished causeway jutted up from the shallow water like cracked ribs. The road resumed on the far side of the river, spearing into rolling hills of waving grass.
Climbing up the rock face was a town of stout stone huts alongside a string of mills, a fraction of the river siphoned over their water wheels. Between us and the road glowered a massive stone face, part of a statue. The old dwarfen visage sat at an awkward angle, partly covered with turf and encrusted with moss and lichen. Birds had nested in its eyes, their droppings smearing down the cheeks like tears. Across the canyon, I spotted the feet of the statue, still attached to their plinth, and in better shape than the head. Where the intervening body lay, I could not tell, but ‘in the river’ seemed as likely an answer as any. Beyond the plinth, atop a broad hill, was an encampment ringed by a wooden stockade. A myriad of banners flew above the camp, but the most prominent were black with a rearing silver goat.
“Why did you stop?” I asked, trying not to snarl at the king.
“I wanted them to see our banners, so that we would avoid a misunderstanding,” Hengist said. Either I’d managed to control my tone better than I feared, or he had ignored it. With a motion, he started his squadron moving again. I waited for mine to catch up and fell in with them. There was plenty of time in the descent to the ford for our banners to be observed. There had been no need for Hengist to stop the whole column for that. The town of Altenheim looked abandoned, though few people would be comfortable with an army camped not far from their front door. The ford proper was more of a muddy slosh between the cataracts and the narrow waterfall. It was kept from being a true swamp by the motion of its waters. A rider from Freinmarkt-Ziegeberg’s army had come out and informed us that the markers indicating safe passages had been removed. He guided us across anyway, and we finally approached the camp. Cresting one of the lower hills, I spotted the body of the statue. It had gotten wedged in the canyon, almost at the very lip. Embedded into both walls of the crack in the earth, it looked as if it were holding them apart.
Footmen opened the gates of the stockade to let a small retinue ride out. I slouched and examined the pattern of mud on the ankles of the horse next to me to pass the time. There was nothing special about the mud, but the pattern looked funny.
“Prince Kord?”
I looked up to see Andrei Banik.
“They’re waiting for you up front.”
I scowled, but nudged Graymire into motion. He strolled up to where Hengist and Straub were waiting. I was unsurprised that Lenz followed me, but Johan and Soren tagged along as well. The head of the retinue that greeted us was an iron-haired man with an impressive moustache whose tips were waxed out to the width of his cheekbones. His armor was enameled in black and chased in silver. The steel image of a goat emblazoned across his breastplate left no doubt as to his allegiances. He looked me over, and I was sure I did not cut an impressive figure. Irritable and haggard, dirt-stained and sweaty, I was anything but immaculate.
Straub spoke, saying, “May I present Erbprinz Kord Grosz von Karststadt-Salzheim.”
“I was not expecting you, or the Knights of Gefrah,” the man with the moustache said.
“I came to aid Herzog Hubert. Where is he?”
“Ziegeberg.”
“What,” I said, flatly.
“My father is all but blind and requires a cane to stand. However sharp his mind may be, campaigning in the field is beyond his faculties.”
“My apologies,” I said, “Our introductions were not fully completed.”
The man bristled, his annoyance creeping into his voice as he spoke. “I am Erbprinz Gebhard Freinmarkt-Ziegeberg, Captain-General of this army.” I couldn’t see any family resemblance between Gebhard and Hubert, but Hubert had been rather fat, while Gebhard looked fit and trim.
“Again, please accept my apology. I came here to lend aid.”
Gebhard released a long breath. “I will not turn away additional men, especially when they are the Knights of Gefrah. I will also need to hear what his majesty has to say regarding events in Zesrin.”
***
With ready access to water, I was finally able to wash up. While this helped my appearance, it did not help my mood. The stockade around the camp was not regularly shaped, but there was a more or less circular nexus within it that was the heart of the camp. In the middle of this area was a pavilion striped in white and black. The tent had sat in the same place long enough for them to put down some sort of floor and cover it with rugs. A low table in the center held a crude mockup of the area around Altenheim. There were cushions ringing the space, but no chairs. The semi-recumbent lounging posture some of the others took looked horribly uncomfortable, so I sat cross-legged. Other than those who’d come with me, the only face I had a name for belonged to Gebhard.
“To correct any rampant rumors,” Gebhard said, “The war in Zesrin has not gone well, but not as catastrophically as some of the comments I have overheard. We suspect that most of the King’s supporters are alive but are laying low. This does mean that they will have no further impact on the coming fight. This is, however, the reason that our scouts have only just now spotted the Iokathran forces. He has been confirmed as moving in this direction, finally. We are trying to get a better idea of the composition of Stefak’s forces, but early indications are that he outnumbers us. So, holding him at the ford has become essential.”
I was under the impression holding the ford had always been the plan. Nothing Gebhard said seemed all that insightful. I didn’t bother to bring this up, as there didn’t seem to be any good that would come of it. The conversation slid quickly into a debate over the best disposition of the available forces, and how to rotate out units without giving Stefak an opening to break through. I had nothing to contribute, and no one was surprised when I remained silent. Why was I even in this tent? I paid enough attention to be polite, but it was clear that the brunt of the plan fell upon the infantry. Choking a bottleneck was really a job they were best suited for. And with the markers removed, Stefak would not send his cavalry to try to force the issue. Maintaining momentum through the shallows and mud would be difficult enough without the random sinkholes and hidden boulders. At worst he would send one cavalry charge, find out what a bad idea that was, then try to push us back with his infantry. My attention was not wholly engrossed in the planning, and it wandered to the serving girl bringing us drinks. She was simply attired, with a plain face and dark hair. In most circumstances, I would not have noticed her. But I hadn’t seen a girl since we’d left Freinmarkt, and that felt like an eternity ago. As she filled my cup, her lips smiled, but her eyes did not.
Still, I accepted the drink and downed it in hopes she’d come back around sooner. This was a futile hope, and I was left watching a debate about the best siting for pike squares and archers. As far as I could tell, the conversation went in circles as the day ran away and night fell upon us. My hopes of a break for dinner were dashed when food was brought into the tent and disbursed to the officers trapped with me. The food was fresh, with meat recently carved off the spit and bread that had been baked that day. By their very nature, the cheeses were older, but complemented the rest of the meal nicely. I probably ate more than was polite, as I could tell myself that this food hadn’t been taken at swordpoint from the farmers. Part of me knew it was a lie, but it was a comforting lie.
The drinks girl was back, but she did not smile as she poured my cup. In fact, she looked a little sad. Still, I ginned up a grin as I accepted her libations. The warm, mulled wine settled into an overfull stomach, generating twangs of protest from my innards. They were displeased with my behavior, and could not be mollified by apology. The air in the tent started to feel hot and cloying as my guts knotted. I fought back a grimace and tried to avoid drawing attention to myself. The discussion had resumed on the topic of whether or not to employ skirmishers, and the key people were intently absorbed into it.
A sharp, stabbing pain shot through me as if someone had sunk a heated blade in my guts. A groan escaped me as I clutched my midsection. Staggering for the tent flap, I tripped on the edge of the rug and stumbled outside. Cool night air sliced an icy chill across my skin, but the inner furnace had sweat pouring off my face. A few steps more and I tripped over my own foot, landing on all fours. Unable to hold it in, I upended my dinner upon the ground. The acrid stink of stomach juices and bile filled my nostrils, and I vomited again.
The world swayed and staggered about me as I retched a third time. Only a few mouthfuls of blood dribbled past my lips. Something, a distant, rational part of my mind, said that overindulgence shouldn’t bring up blood with the food. I couldn’t hear it, as I had slumped to the side, crumpling to the ground beside the puddle I’d made.
***
The fact that I woke up told me I wasn’t dead. The cloth being mopped across my brow felt like ice, though it was likely only tepid. The words I tried to utter spilled from me in an incomprehensible series of semi-syllables until I slumped back into unconsciousness. When I came around in a more coherent manner, my first thought had nothing to do with how I’d ended up where I was, or the state of my health. It was annoyance that I was shirtless. True, I’d been clearly running a monstrous fever, and they needed to cool me down, but that didn’t satisfy the irritation.
“Is he awake?” Lenz asked.
“Maybe,” another voice said. I didn’t immediately recognize it. When I opened my eyes I saw a forgettable face with deep-set eyes and untidy brown hair. It was the surgeon the Order of Gefrah had brought with them. I don’t think I ever learned the man’s name.
“I’m awake,” I croaked. Lenz handed me a cup of water. I hadn’t realized I wanted some, but I downed the drink eagerly. “What happened?” I asked.
“You collapsed,” Lenz said.
“I was awake for that part. What made me collapse?”
“As best as I can tell, a fever you caught from the biting flies. They have been known to carry pestilence, and you were rather beset by them.”
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the surgeon said, “The exact ailment still eludes me. So, we treat your symptoms and do what we can.”
I sighed, then blinked as I tried to get Lenz into focus. “Might I at least have my glasses?” These were found, and in short order I could see properly again.
“The consensus is that you will have to sit out the battle.”
“How long until the fighting starts?” I asked.
“That depends,” Lenz said, “On when Stefak decides to try to force a crossing.”
“So he’s here?” I asked.
“And posturing while he sizes up what he’s facing.”
Taking a look around the tent I was in, it was clearly not the one I’d been using for the march. There was no way the three of us could have fit in that one. It appeared to be one that had already been in the encampment. It was still sparse, and the cot I was on was just canvas on a wooden frame. There was a shirt within arm’s reach, so I put it on.
“You need to rest,” the surgeon said. I ignored him as I found my boots and put those on. I tried to wobble out of the tent, but Lenz caught me before I planted my face in the dirt.
“I don’t think you’re really up to walking around just yet,” Lenz said.
Straightening up, I regained my balance.
“I still don’t want to be stuck in here.” Disentangling from Lenz’s grip, I took deliberate strides out of the tent. The surreal absence of activity within the camp prickled my skin, even though I knew to expect it. Row after row of abandoned tents, a ghost town in potentia. And then Vogel was in the corner of my vision, seeming for all the world as if he’d stepped out of thin air.
“What are you doing here?” I snapped.
“I am no soldier, Herr Prince,” Vogel said, a cruel smirk upon his lips.
“But what are you doing here, specifically?”
“His majesty wished to know if Sir Castor was going to sit out the battle.”
“Lenz?” I called, knowing the fabric would not have blocked our voices.
“I was sort of worried about you missing out.”
“The surgeon wants me to get my rest. You’re worried about me missing out. Why don’t we just prop a chair on the plinth where I’ll have a great view of it all?”
I had meant the remark sarcastically, but Lenz lit up and ran off in search of a seat. I just groaned and trudged towards the gate. The more I moved, the less uncertain my muscles became. I was moving almost normally when a boy in red and black stopped me with a call of, “Prince Kord.” He jogged towards me, an oversized sword on his shoulder.
“What is it?”
“This got put into the wrong armorial pavilion,” he said. “I think it’s yours.” One glance at the weapon confirmed it. The overwrought jet and nacre plumage on the Roc, the blue and white, silk-wrapped grip, the gilt steel ox pommel – it was the oversized longblade Otto had given me. I lifted it off of the boy’s shoulder, and instantly it was as if he stood a foot taller. The blade was wrapped in a travel scabbard for protection. The blade was too long to draw from such a sheath while wearing it. Staring at the thing, I wondered if there existed a scabbard that would allow the sword to be borne into battle and only drawn when needed, as with shorter blades. Pushing the thought aside, I rested the sword on my shoulder and left the camp.
Lenz arrived grinning, a folded curule chair slung over his shoulder. We ascended the stairs to the great stone boots, and he unfolded the backless seat. I set myself upon the canvas platform slung between the bars of the frame.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Lenz asked.
“Better than everyone down there,” I said, gesturing towards Altenheim. From this distance, the blocks of troops bore an eerie resemblance to the markers on the table in the pavilion. Banners caught the breeze and fluttered jauntily, irritating my sour mood. In a glance, hours of strategic quibbles resolved into a single plan. The bulk of our force was arrayed along the near edge of the river, blocking both the passable and impassable portions. Other contingents were formed up on the reverse slope of the nearby hills, out of view from Stefak’s side of the river. Some flew banners that poked above the ridge line. Others flew no banners. Some banners were being flown where no troops stood. All to confuse the enemy as to our actual disposition.
Across the river there was a more diverse motley of colors flying above the massed troops of the Iokathran King. Except, something was off. The King of Iokathra flew a banner of three crowned sea-horses on a field of vertical blue and green stripes. This pennant also hung from the banner-poles of many of his subsidiary forces. A second ensign flew on many others. It flew alone on the eastern flank of his army. Red-ochre and bearing a skull pierced by two curved, golden blades, it was the emblem of the King of Zanthas. With my memory of the layout of the Five Kingdoms refreshed, I knew Zanthas was east of Iokathra, having no border with Zesrin, and possibly none with Quendaverus either[38]. What was the name of the King of Zanthas? Tabris IV, I think. Beyond the name, I knew nothing of the man, Zanthas was just too distant from Ritterblume.
The snap of signal flags and roll of drums marked the start of the Iokathran advance. Pike squares and lines of archers detached from the main body and pushed towards the ford. Lenz found his horse and galloped for his designated position, leaving me to observe the impending carnage alone. With ample time to pace out the lay of the land, Gebhard knew exactly when the pikemen were in bowshot. A yellow flag with a black bow and arrow snapped up high. An instant later, volleys of bolts and flights of arrows darkened the sky over the ford.
Needing both hands for their long spears, the pikemen had no shields, and their armor was insufficient to protect them from the falling missiles. The screams of scores of men smeared together into a single awful cry. Our front ranks lacked the reach of the pikemen in melee, but they had tall shields that sheltered them from the worst of the fire from Stefak’s archers. Shirtless skirmishers with shortblades and javelins scurried through the shallows around the reeling pike squares. Using their lack of a packed formation to avoid drawing fire, they slung their spears and scarpered. Running, they hurried back to their line to pick up new javelins. With shields held high to fend off arrows, the legs of our front ranks were exposed to the javelins. New cries of pain joined the cacophony.
I spotted Stefak as he gestured to his vassals. An armored man on an armored horse, there was nothing about him that said he was our enemy save the colors of his livery. More and more blocks of infantry detached from the orderly ranks and funnelled into the bottleneck of the crossing. It looked as though he intended to push through our arrows through sheer weight of numbers. The initial pike squares fell back in an orderly march, passing through their advancing fellows with a drilled precision that spoke of professional soldiery. Most of the pikemen fell back into line in front of the Iokathran cavalry, all except one group. That last formation used the advancing infantry to screen its turn west. I stared in confusion as a whole company of pike marched in good order away from the battle under the gaze of their king.
Before I had even started to ask where they were going, I saw the answer. I was sitting on its plinth. Hundreds or thousands of tons of stone wedged between the walls formed a decent bridge across the canyon, whether it was carved in the shape of an armored dwarf or not. The pikemen were moving to take it before we realized the crossing was unguarded.
[38] Zanthas does border Quendaverus. In fact, counting the Rustshade Mountains, Zanthas had the longest border with Quendaverus of any of the Dwarfs’ neighbors at the time.
If you want your own copy, the whole book is available from Amazon in eBook, Paperback, and Hardcover variants.
Is this where Graymire comes galloping in to save the day? 😃🐴
🤔 Isn’t that a job for Mighty Mouse?
Mighty Mouse didn’t have a horse.
Check the context again
So… all my readers are off elsewhere.
Some, I suspect, began reading it here, then bought it and devoured it because they couldn’t wait to find out what happens.
Yo.
tarran!!!
Hey there. I may not be commenting much, but I am lurking. 🙂
Aye. I read the first couple of installments, purchased it and devoured it in short order.
The mailbox isn’t replacing itself. Waiting for rain to stop to finish up.
I refuse to read it because the author didn’t sign my book.
You didn’t bring it!
I can’t sign air.
Have you ever tried?
Keats’s name was writ on water.
A thousand pardons. Another day of moving stuff to the storage. Then a short wedding anniversary celebration.
Can’t I just issue a blanket pardon rather than signing that many individual ones?
Yes.
thanks for the installment
It really is just a bridge between plot points (pun intended)
+1
The bridge isn’t unguarded, it’s rigged to blow!
We’re way overdue for some big explosions.
-James Cameron
🧨…💥
I would have to establish something like that long beforehand.
Not Michael Bay?
It’s waaaaaay too late for an explosion for a Bay production.
They all look alike.
“Irritable and haggard, dirt-stained and sweaty, I was anything but immaculate.” Hey, it worked for Grant. (Yes, another reality, other factors considering.)
I’ve forgotten many things adrift for a girl’s attention, including what Kord did. *shrug* I read that with the salt-water, gut-prediction intended(?). Foolish lads, all (mostly) alike.
So, who has two thumbs and spent a few hours in the emergency room today?
This guy!
Slipped in my shop while my leg decided to move wrong, fell and cracked my head open. Ended up getting three “stitches”, and it is definitely going to leave a scar. Get to go to my normal doc and see if I have a concussion.
Yeah me.
At least you still have both your thumbs! When it started “slipped in the shop”, was thinking it was going to be another SawStop testimonial.
At last he didn’t use past tense, reference to the thumbs
Having two thumbs is over rated. If some eccentric millionaire pulls the Stephen King? Twilight Zone? (I forget which it is) wager that you’re lighter will fire on one click, take it. Just make sure they actually have the money.
I don’t like to hear news like that. Sounds like you are on the way to recovery though.
Stitches or staples?
Get any pain medication?
You’ll feel better after a night’s sleep.
Neither, glue. And no pain meds, as i didn’t seem to need them. Still don’t, and not a fan anyway.
I am gonna have one heck of a lump on my noggin.
Bigger than Fetterlump?
All my deepest sympathies. (But hey, chicks *do* dig scars.)
I hope a level above ‘stitches’ on your skull isn’t ‘staples.’ Doing that to ‘patients’ would round up near Mengele’s territory. (They weren’t ‘bad’ with my leg.) Hopefully just.. BIG stitches!
I’m glad you’re outta there and ya certainly seem mentally ok. Hope all issues end well and with haste. *fist bump*
*fist bump*
My wife thinks Massie killed his wife. Mostly inadvertently with something he brought home to repurpose.
Go on….
That she lived there all of the time but he was gone exposed to her to any number of chemicals from his tinkering.
Absent anything evidence at all, that’s a pretty distasteful accusation.
So, what crazy shit is this theory?
A candlestick?
In the observatory, naturally.
Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
In the days since, various conspiracy theories have circulated online related to Rhonda Massie’s passing. The lawmaker shared that he at first reacted with “indignation” towards the gossip, but now is amused because “Rhonda would have laughed.”
All in line with someone who lost someone. YMMV of course. I have seen people laugh, cry, get extremely mad, and sit silently…only for the next weeks or months to exhibit extremely different behavior. Death is not our normal state of emotions, regardless if it is part of life.
Agree 100%. I’m not the one who thinks he murdered her.
While I did read your Shadowboy books, I’ve only skimmed these and I have come to the conclusion that you (and many other fantasy writers) write just to come up with weird names – Zanthas, Quendaverus, Rustshade, Stefak, Altenheim, Lenz, Gefrah, Gebhard , Zesrin….Etc…Etc…
I write to tell stories. And you pick odd examples for “weird” names.
Lenz is a real like nickname for Lorenz, which is the name that Lenz’s father refers to him by.
Stefak and Gebhard are also real-life names.
Altenheim is german for “high home”
*sorry, Altenheim is Norse for “High home”, German for “Old home”
Meh, a few of your imaginary names just happen to be used in real life, blind squirrel-broken clock. I still say you fantasy writers get your rocks off by making up names. Is there a fantasy world/series where everyone is named Miller and Smith?
Your trolling is weak.
Coming up with names is the least fun part of the process. So I steal real words.
Go write your Miller Smith fantasy story. We’ll read it.
One of the worst writers for ‘weird’ names I found to be Patricia McKillip. I think she enjoyed coining them. In one of her books one of her characters was called Iff of the unpronounceable name.
On the opposite side Robert Howard of Conan fame was known for making many characters’ names similar, leading to confusion.
I used the Frisian surname Gjaltema for a character. The running joke is nobody knows how to pronounce it, so they just call him “the Hollander.” It’s a setup for a contemporary book in my universe.
Did he speak softly and Carry a big gun?
I’m unfamiliar with that media.
That’s okay, giant stompy robots are not for everybody.
It was just a bad joke.
That is how I felt reading Battle Royale. I guess the names aren’t similar if you’re Japanese but I had a lot of trouble with them.
*quietly sits in the back holding both opinions… Meh:*
I think the more ‘unusual/not-modern’ naming makes it more difficult for folk to explore. They have to dive into maps/info, rather than test toe-dip for style. It’s not insurmountable. Altenheim I understood, but Stefak, Lenz and (even) Zanthras are easy enough for sure. I grew up in the (especially) Tolkien, CS Lewis and whatever I could find, but some of those others are hard to figure out.
I think naming ‘conventions’ becoming more unusual resulted from many/most ‘usable’ names have been ‘taken,’ and much Creativity Time is spent on distinct naming alone. (Can quickly become poetry.) And The Author has cause and backstory to the naming, accents and style+ of the folk depicted.
Quendaverus is obviously the token black character.
It’s the name of a plateau and a dwarf province.
Did the old man survive the Ravens shitting the bed while he was in enemy territory?
Some of my fantasy character surnames:
1. Sevensby
2. Larjaunt
3. Ashwelles
4. Brownwise
5. Yggsmith
6. Rholmes
7. Aldsuth
8. Berrydown
9. Crowpepper
10. Draves
I don’t know why, but Vye has always stuck with me as a surname I enjoyed. Not fantasy but surely NF from the Return of the Native. Weird how things stick with you.
*Comes up for air* Well shit, the world is still here. Guess work is on the menu tomorrow.
Ah shit. Work. *sigh
I have bitten off more than I can chew with this “I can build a game with my boys” nonsense. Outside of the awesome experience of hearing the creativeness of them, I have a dude holding a flashlight programmed. Teen #1 is responsible for level design and narrative. Teen #2 is sound and what he has sent is excellent. Teen #3 is play tester and is anxiously awaiting….nothing. I have nothing.
I have nothing to offer other than encouragement. I hope you guys kick some ass. Win or lose, it’s going to be something you guys will be talking about 50 year from now.
Part of it is for my oldest’s therapy. The kid has turned 180 and seeking positive outlets. I thought, why not something we can all do together, even if we fail, we did it with fun and not a care to win. His outlook is “lets do it and take the feedback and keep going”. Way different than a few months ago. Him in Cali and me across the country, it is what I can do for him while he works out his demons.
The early parts are always where it doesn’t look like much. I have coded games in college, and the “we have a bunch of parts that don’t fit together yet” stage is discouraging.
Keep at it, it’ll come together.
Its a GameJam so not supposed to be a polished game so we have that going for us. Solid idea we thing since its Halloween based and a theme of ‘grave digging’. So going old school first person Doom like that incorporates digging some graves. Like 5 minutes of game play.
Is it something we can play when you guys are done? I’d love to give it a go.
Hope is Tuesday we have a product to put out for 24 hours prior to final submission. So will post it here or on forums
👍👍
It’s that time again.
Get up and feel the joy!!!
⏰☕😁🍩
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=CZXLLMbJdZ4
🎶🎶
We’re setting records here for lack of rain ☔.
Good morning, Sean, Teh Hype, Ted’S., Stinky, and rhy!
Morning, GT. How goes?
Very well, thanks! My head cold seems to be virtually gone (::knocks wood::) without going through the stage with the nasty lingering cough! (🤞) How are you?
I didn’t get as much sleep as I’d have liked, even for the time I went to bed. But I did get a scene written (sent you an email)
I did get the trash to the curb, and connected to work, but have to figure out breakfast.
Got the email – thanks! I thought it best to wait until I’m fully awake and able to give it my conscious, undivided attention before reading and commenting on the scene.
Good idea, I’m probably not awake enough to understand the feedback yet anyway.
Can’t hear that song without So I Married an Axe Murderer popping into my head.
My gf still hasn’t recognized that I put new wheels on my car. 😕
She’s been in and out of it multiple times since.
And you don’t notice her hair cuts.
Prediction/wager for you Black pilled doomsdayers – Mrs. Harris wins and four years from now you still have your guns , you aren’t in any camps, and your day to day life will be pretty much the same. Sure gov. spending will increases and they’ll pass some bullshit regulations (just like Mr. Trumps administration will if he wins) but for the most part we’ll just keep chugging along as usual. Of course this wont stop people from claiming that the 2028 election will be TMIEOOL™ and if Mrs. Harris is re-elected she’ll then go “Full Commie”* just like she wanted to but couldn’t when she had another term to try and win.
*For the sake of any wagers we will need to hash out exactly what qualifies as “Full Commie”
So I guess we’ll see the cities continue to deteriorate, crime to keep on keeping on, inflation to increase.
I agree that not much will change, particularly on the upside.
People will have more and better stuff, medicine will get better, technology will improve. Things generally get better over time, I see no reason why at this point in time it’s going to be different. As to crime increasing we were basically bottomed out since the 2010’s the up turn is probably just a return to normal. Even with the recent increase we still have a lower crime rate than we did for most of my lifetime.
Hype, any 4 year wagers with me would be iffy, problematic.
It would be a bad wager for anyone… If I lose we are in camps and the world’s in flames so there’s no way to enjoy what ever winnings I might have to give.
Three grams of bug rations?
Wow, way to harsh my mellow.
The only significant change would be rate of decline.
Maybe a world war?
At least trust in legacy media and election integrity will continue to decrease.
How about if she has both houses of Congress?
…J6 folk will stay in prison, we take on another 8 to 10 trillion dollars in debt, we start sending actual American troops to Ukraine, and possibly Iran…
…Health crisis lockdowns…
Considering they just EO’d a ban on resale, you’re going to need a particularly lax definition of “have”
Got a link to more info?
Oh noes, how will we propagandize now?
https://apnews.com/article/liechtenstein-radio-funding-referendum-b295cb13ae8f6f0543d52528ea2320ed
Looks like the funding was axed because they were serving up garbage but they stayed on the air because of state backing. Good vote fellas.
Somehow the government schools stay in business with the same results. Once the special interests get invested it’s next to impossible to eliminate a project.
Whatever happened to “Build Back Better’? I’m guessing the funding rolls on. Global cooling? Warming? Climate change?
suh’ fam
whats goody
Since Im heading to Syracuse-ish for the week…….TALL EMPIRE CANS!
Enjoy the 315. Or possibly 607.
No, no, Syracuse is and will always be 315.
He said “Syracuse-ish”. I am Syracuse-ish – at least according to the channels on my TV – and it’s 607.