Split (1)

train · 353k rows

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Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	Seconds before the decaying support beams running through the apartment building finally snapped, Chronotron strolled casually into unit 8B, the last on his checklist. Mere seconds remained before the aging architecture would be reduced to rubble, but that was more than enough time for Chronotron. As one gifted with the ability to manipulate the passage of time, Chronotron rarely felt pressured when he worked – the concept of urgency, after all, had no relevance in a world which only moved when he allowed it to. He checked the apartment methodically, starting with the hall first, then the attached kitchen, the balcony, then the bedrooms. Which was where he found the kid, crying as she tugged on her friends in vain, pulling them towards the door. Shit, he thought, there’s three of them. “Hey, kid, you need to weave your chrono-filaments around your friends, or they are never going to be move. They’ll just be frozen there, forever.” The kid swung to face him, tears streaking down her cheeks, oblivious to the badge which Chronotron was holding out, which marked him as an Enhanced contractor attached to the police force. “Mister, please! We were just talking when suddenly, everything froze! I’ve been trying to move them, but they are not responding!” Chronotron could have explained to the girl that her latent powers had probably been awoken by the mortal danger she was in, and that it was more than likely that they shared an ancestor in common. He could also have demonstrated then how to manipulate a chrono-filament, or even just walked out of there with all three children. But none of those things fell under the insurance cover for the building, so Chronotron did none of that. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the owners didn’t spring for more coverage, or that whatever funds remained only allowed him to save one more person today. “Kid, come on,” Chronotron beckoned, holding out his hand, “time’s money, you know. I came to rescue you, so we’ve got to get a move on.” “And leave Sara and Bianca here? I can’t do that!” “You look like, what, 12 this year?” “What does that even matter in a situation like this?” Chronotron sighed. “You look like you’re old enough to understand the way things are. There’s only enough budget to save one of you, you know how we work. So count yourself lucky I’ve decided to rescue you.” “Can’t you just save them instead? I can get out on my own!” Chronotron scoffed. “As I said, I can only save one. Plus, without knowing how to use your powers, you couldn’t even get this door open. As I said, until you’ve learned how to weave your chrono-filaments, you can’t interact with the world at all. And this time pocket you carved, it’s sweet, for a first-timer, but it’s already cracking. I leave this room, and you’ll only experience a couple of minutes more before you’re wrenched back to the common timestream. So no, you can’t get out of your own.” A bulb seemed to go off in the girl’s head. “You’re an Enhanced policeman, aren’t you? You’re the special forces on retainer for the city?” “Correction, I’m Enhanced, but I am not a policeman. We’re paid per job. It’s very different.” “But that’s my point! I can hire you too, right? I can pay you to save us all!” “You couldn’t afford my fees.” “My parents have money! They will certainly pay you!” Chronotron shook his head resolutely. “Sorry kid, rules are rules. All services rendered only after payment is made. No credit, no exceptions.” His words were cold, but his conscience remained unpricked. After all, these weren’t his rules. The Enhanced Division was the one in charge of drafting policy, and they were the ones who had firmly decided on the upfront payment policy. And if he broke the rules, his license would be taken away, and his powers Stemmed. No one wanted that. “Please, you have to save them. They’re my best friends, and I would do anything just to save them!” the girl cried, as she sank to her knees. “Or how about the things I have in my room! Everything here is mine! Just take it!” Chronotron started to protest again, but the words died in his throat. There was one thing of value in that room. “Anything at all, I can take as payment?” “Yes! Please, anything!” --- Chronotron’s supervisor, Elendra, was waiting at the bottom of the building, clipboard in hand. As the complex finally collapsed inwards on itself, as Chronotron laid the two girls on the sidewalk along with all the other survivors he had rescued, Elendra’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “That’s one over budget. Please don’t tell me you messed up, the paperwork’s going to be a bitch.” “Calm down, Elendra, I got paid for the extra one. It’s not going to cause any accounting problems.” “Paid? By whom? Did you already collect payment?” Chronotron chuckled, then pointed with his chin towards the settling dust of the ruined building. “Payment in kind. The Institute’s still as hungry as ever to discover the origins of our powers, right? Well, there’s an Enhanced girl in there, she’s assigned me full rights to her remains.” --- /r/rarelyfunny	Like every day since I started this job, the subway was packed. Not the kind of packed where you have to occasionally mutter apologies as you slide past people; this was more like something that made me envious of sardines in a can. Thank-god for phones. I sighed as an ad began to play again on the video I was watching, for the fifth time in ten minutes. A superhero, dressed in a green and white spandex suit, smiles with impossibly white teeth at the camera. Besides him, a name: SteelSkin, TM. In his hand, he holds something that resembles an insulin syringe, complete with viscous lime-green liquid swirling inside. “Thanks to EasyPowers Ltd., I can effortlessly use my superpowers without having to worry about reinjections every four hours. It’s the only choice, buy an EasyPowers starter module today! Only one hundred thousand dollars a shot!” He winks at the camera. If only it was that easy. Everyone knew only a few select candidates received any powers at all. If you had the money, that is. I stared out at the smog-filled city, admiring the six kilometer-tall JusticeTower from the window. Syracuse was responsible for that one, along with cold-fusion, and the cure for cancer if you could afford it. I can see his memorial from here too, after he was killed by Czar. Apparently Czar couldn’t deal with the fact that a homosexual black man became the most famous Mender in history. It was only because I was looking in that direction that I noticed it at all. A slight flicker of lightning in the sky, then another, closer to the train. A few figures, three men and two woman, charging towards the clouds. Suddenly, there were thousands of flickering lightning strikes, the brightness briefly blinding me. I heard shouts of discomfort behind me. “What the hell?” “Oh god, is that Zeus?” “He’s fighting the Justice Squad! Get out your phone.” A pair of shrill teenage girls behind me giggled. I blinked away the spots in my vision, just in time to witness SteelSkin slam into the carriage next to us. Time slowed, and I saw the completely-full carriage crush in the middle like a stomped-on coke can. I watched, horrified. Then my carriage derailed. I felt my body fly up, slamming into the ceiling with a deep cracking sound, and I couldn’t feel anything below my neck. I’m dead, I thought. Then, I don’t want to die. Around me, I could hear a few moans. Most of the bodies were terrifyingly still. “SteelSkin, are you alright?” A purring voice rang out from outside. It must be Asp. They both went to the same Long Island private school, apparently. “I’m fine, darling.” He replied in that gravelly voice he put on for the cameras. “Check to see if anyone had insurance in this train. Angel can heal them.” I saw her, then. Impossibly beautiful, she entered the upturned carriage in a burst of pure white light. The illusion was immediately broken when her nose wrinkled. She only healed people who brought her million-dollar insurance. How else would she afford those designers clothes? “Nah, they’re all just middle-class workers. No way do they have insurance.” They never included her ghetto accent in those documentaries they constantly ran. “Alright, well at least we drove off Zeus.” Steelskin chuckled. I felt a brief stab of anger. I could see a one of the giggling girls from before sobbing over her dead friend in front of me, half of her head caved in like a deformed golf ball. “He’ll think twice before he tries to steal that medicine again. Oh wait, what did we tell the newspapers?” I could hear Asp laughing outside. You told them he had a bioweapon he was planning to unleash on the world, I thought again, that brief stab of anger turning into something deeper. Hatred. They flew off after that, acting as though thousands of people were not dying right next to them. They didn’t see my trigger, my screams of agony as the fabric of my entire body was remade, the first natural superpowers in over a decade. The ambulances arrived thirty minutes later. It was a miracle, they said, almost like you could heal yourself. I smiled, laughing along as though everything was right with the world. It wasn’t. They would pay. They would all pay, and when their corporations burned around them, I would be there to watch.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	Dreadnaught was the last of the Old Guard. The early heroes who had fought for the good of the world, for honor and justice and other long-dead ideals. they toppled dictatorships, brought aid to disaster-stricken regions and never accepted a penny. Dreadnaught himself had seen the greats of the age, had only been a young rookie when The Atom and Red Lightning and all the others were around. There had been villains, of course- bastards and madmen who used their powers for their own benefit, but they were always beaten back. The good guys always won in the end. Dreadnaught had long since stopped caring about "good" or "evil". He was standing on a wind-tossed rooftop in Dubai, staring at the bright artificial stars, gleaming skyscrapers and rivers of vehicles, spreading forever into the distance. He idly wondered what had happened to the old greats, Atom and Lightning and Sunbeam. He continued to think back, remembering the first changes.... It began when he and a few allies rescued some fat cat from an attempted assassination, somewhere in South Korea. When word came out that the cat had been smuggling weapons up north, and had betrayed the country, Dreadnaught shrugged. He wasn't a political sort. But Fat Cats are always good at redirecting blame- they called him and his friends mercenaries, not caring who he fought for as long as he had glory and attention. He heard insults and threats as he walked through the streets. He tried his best not to mind. He minded. He had never had much- Dreadnaught grew up in the inner city and came from a poor family. So when people said he, and others like him, was profiting from chaos and war and fear as he struggled to make ends meet and ate third-rate prepackaged meals- his blood boiled. Most heroes were offered work when their identities were revealed- Private armies, government work, criminal organizations. He decided that if people thought he was a thug- then it didn't hurt to do a thug's job. He accepted a job offer, then another, and another. His pay was high and his scruples few. He moved out of the slums and into a high rise apartment. People kept calling him a crook and a monster, but it hurt less now that it was true. Others joined him, fighting wars and steal secrets for the highest bidder. That was how it had happened. The world was a different place now than it was. Supers were identified from birth and signed on with one of the big corporations at the age of 12. There were no more armies anymore, no more citizen soldiers. Just hired guns with enough firepower to level cities. Some Supers still fought the good fight, of course. They lived on the edges of the world, striking out against the "Man" in what little ways they could. But most Supers lived quiet lives, turning down the offers of big corporations, and not making a fuss of their powers for fear of attracting too much attention. Dreadnaught looked down from the glinting lights and turned towards the desert. His contact would be arriving soon, with his pay, and likely another job. He was one of the oldest men in the business, after all. He never failed, he never quit a job until it was done. His skills were highly valued.	Like every day since I started this job, the subway was packed. Not the kind of packed where you have to occasionally mutter apologies as you slide past people; this was more like something that made me envious of sardines in a can. Thank-god for phones. I sighed as an ad began to play again on the video I was watching, for the fifth time in ten minutes. A superhero, dressed in a green and white spandex suit, smiles with impossibly white teeth at the camera. Besides him, a name: SteelSkin, TM. In his hand, he holds something that resembles an insulin syringe, complete with viscous lime-green liquid swirling inside. “Thanks to EasyPowers Ltd., I can effortlessly use my superpowers without having to worry about reinjections every four hours. It’s the only choice, buy an EasyPowers starter module today! Only one hundred thousand dollars a shot!” He winks at the camera. If only it was that easy. Everyone knew only a few select candidates received any powers at all. If you had the money, that is. I stared out at the smog-filled city, admiring the six kilometer-tall JusticeTower from the window. Syracuse was responsible for that one, along with cold-fusion, and the cure for cancer if you could afford it. I can see his memorial from here too, after he was killed by Czar. Apparently Czar couldn’t deal with the fact that a homosexual black man became the most famous Mender in history. It was only because I was looking in that direction that I noticed it at all. A slight flicker of lightning in the sky, then another, closer to the train. A few figures, three men and two woman, charging towards the clouds. Suddenly, there were thousands of flickering lightning strikes, the brightness briefly blinding me. I heard shouts of discomfort behind me. “What the hell?” “Oh god, is that Zeus?” “He’s fighting the Justice Squad! Get out your phone.” A pair of shrill teenage girls behind me giggled. I blinked away the spots in my vision, just in time to witness SteelSkin slam into the carriage next to us. Time slowed, and I saw the completely-full carriage crush in the middle like a stomped-on coke can. I watched, horrified. Then my carriage derailed. I felt my body fly up, slamming into the ceiling with a deep cracking sound, and I couldn’t feel anything below my neck. I’m dead, I thought. Then, I don’t want to die. Around me, I could hear a few moans. Most of the bodies were terrifyingly still. “SteelSkin, are you alright?” A purring voice rang out from outside. It must be Asp. They both went to the same Long Island private school, apparently. “I’m fine, darling.” He replied in that gravelly voice he put on for the cameras. “Check to see if anyone had insurance in this train. Angel can heal them.” I saw her, then. Impossibly beautiful, she entered the upturned carriage in a burst of pure white light. The illusion was immediately broken when her nose wrinkled. She only healed people who brought her million-dollar insurance. How else would she afford those designers clothes? “Nah, they’re all just middle-class workers. No way do they have insurance.” They never included her ghetto accent in those documentaries they constantly ran. “Alright, well at least we drove off Zeus.” Steelskin chuckled. I felt a brief stab of anger. I could see a one of the giggling girls from before sobbing over her dead friend in front of me, half of her head caved in like a deformed golf ball. “He’ll think twice before he tries to steal that medicine again. Oh wait, what did we tell the newspapers?” I could hear Asp laughing outside. You told them he had a bioweapon he was planning to unleash on the world, I thought again, that brief stab of anger turning into something deeper. Hatred. They flew off after that, acting as though thousands of people were not dying right next to them. They didn’t see my trigger, my screams of agony as the fabric of my entire body was remade, the first natural superpowers in over a decade. The ambulances arrived thirty minutes later. It was a miracle, they said, almost like you could heal yourself. I smiled, laughing along as though everything was right with the world. It wasn’t. They would pay. They would all pay, and when their corporations burned around them, I would be there to watch.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	3:30 AM, Atlanta The phone rang. "This had better be worth waking my ass up." "Flux. $500,000. If we lose power--." "I'll do it if you make it six. Where?" The caller accepted, a little too quickly. Damn. Could have got more. The caller gave the address to a malfunctioning power station, and thanked Flux for assisting Westshore specialty. "An insurance agent, huh?" Well, it makes sense. Superheroes were a damn sight cheaper than losing a court case, these days. Flux had been a generous soul. But not anymore. He loved music. When he first discovered his power, all those years ago, he used his power over electricity to give fledgling bands free power, so they could practice anywhere, anytime. They didn't even have to plug their equipment into anything! It made for some great hipster music videos. Back then, he sometimes helped clean up metal debris from car crashes. Other days, he donated electricity to his poorer friends, or gave the homeless shelter free electricity for a few hours, to run the A/C during the hot summer months. That all changed after a fateful day a few years ago. Flux prevented a plane crash by using electromagnetism to lower it safely to the ground. After that, Flux became famous. And with fame, came more calls for help. But they all wanted it for free. Non-stop, day and night. Not always for heroic deeds, either. One kid wanted him to take out the power at his office so he could spend that day with his girlfriend. He grew fed up with the non-stop pleas for help. Fed up as he was, he was too poor to buy food. Even superheroes have to eat, you know. So, Flux started charging for his powers. This sparked outrage at first - Headlines like "Does Flux's greed have no limit?" dominated the news cycle - because people had grown used to the impossible being done for them for free. However, capitalism won the day - other heroes in other cities borrowed flux's idea. They too had been worked to the bone, and for what? To go home to a creaky apartment without enough money to even wash their spandex? These days, heroes primarily did boring but valuable things, such as prevent power outages, stop floods from damaging property, put out fires, that sort of thing. Some chose to do pro-bono work at times, but it was not expected the way that it was in years past. Flux sighed as he drove to the plant. He could easily power the grid from the sidewalk outside his house, but the insurance company would have a fit and cut his pay. Last time he did that, they charged him for damaging the wiring, which cut his $250,000 reward down to a mere $15,000. Looks like another couple hours of maintaining a boring old 60 hz stream...	Like every day since I started this job, the subway was packed. Not the kind of packed where you have to occasionally mutter apologies as you slide past people; this was more like something that made me envious of sardines in a can. Thank-god for phones. I sighed as an ad began to play again on the video I was watching, for the fifth time in ten minutes. A superhero, dressed in a green and white spandex suit, smiles with impossibly white teeth at the camera. Besides him, a name: SteelSkin, TM. In his hand, he holds something that resembles an insulin syringe, complete with viscous lime-green liquid swirling inside. “Thanks to EasyPowers Ltd., I can effortlessly use my superpowers without having to worry about reinjections every four hours. It’s the only choice, buy an EasyPowers starter module today! Only one hundred thousand dollars a shot!” He winks at the camera. If only it was that easy. Everyone knew only a few select candidates received any powers at all. If you had the money, that is. I stared out at the smog-filled city, admiring the six kilometer-tall JusticeTower from the window. Syracuse was responsible for that one, along with cold-fusion, and the cure for cancer if you could afford it. I can see his memorial from here too, after he was killed by Czar. Apparently Czar couldn’t deal with the fact that a homosexual black man became the most famous Mender in history. It was only because I was looking in that direction that I noticed it at all. A slight flicker of lightning in the sky, then another, closer to the train. A few figures, three men and two woman, charging towards the clouds. Suddenly, there were thousands of flickering lightning strikes, the brightness briefly blinding me. I heard shouts of discomfort behind me. “What the hell?” “Oh god, is that Zeus?” “He’s fighting the Justice Squad! Get out your phone.” A pair of shrill teenage girls behind me giggled. I blinked away the spots in my vision, just in time to witness SteelSkin slam into the carriage next to us. Time slowed, and I saw the completely-full carriage crush in the middle like a stomped-on coke can. I watched, horrified. Then my carriage derailed. I felt my body fly up, slamming into the ceiling with a deep cracking sound, and I couldn’t feel anything below my neck. I’m dead, I thought. Then, I don’t want to die. Around me, I could hear a few moans. Most of the bodies were terrifyingly still. “SteelSkin, are you alright?” A purring voice rang out from outside. It must be Asp. They both went to the same Long Island private school, apparently. “I’m fine, darling.” He replied in that gravelly voice he put on for the cameras. “Check to see if anyone had insurance in this train. Angel can heal them.” I saw her, then. Impossibly beautiful, she entered the upturned carriage in a burst of pure white light. The illusion was immediately broken when her nose wrinkled. She only healed people who brought her million-dollar insurance. How else would she afford those designers clothes? “Nah, they’re all just middle-class workers. No way do they have insurance.” They never included her ghetto accent in those documentaries they constantly ran. “Alright, well at least we drove off Zeus.” Steelskin chuckled. I felt a brief stab of anger. I could see a one of the giggling girls from before sobbing over her dead friend in front of me, half of her head caved in like a deformed golf ball. “He’ll think twice before he tries to steal that medicine again. Oh wait, what did we tell the newspapers?” I could hear Asp laughing outside. You told them he had a bioweapon he was planning to unleash on the world, I thought again, that brief stab of anger turning into something deeper. Hatred. They flew off after that, acting as though thousands of people were not dying right next to them. They didn’t see my trigger, my screams of agony as the fabric of my entire body was remade, the first natural superpowers in over a decade. The ambulances arrived thirty minutes later. It was a miracle, they said, almost like you could heal yourself. I smiled, laughing along as though everything was right with the world. It wasn’t. They would pay. They would all pay, and when their corporations burned around them, I would be there to watch.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	The pen slips, drawing a jagged line along the 'Cash' field of the deposit slip. I sigh and look around. Whatever jogged my elbow nudges me in the ribs this time, and I reach up to pull the headphones away from my ear. "You, too, tiny. Hands where we can see 'em, down on the floor with the rest. Nice and easy." The guy is wearing a ski mask, a little under six feet tall, a sandy blond eye brow just visible above one of his blue eyes. Those eyes look fierce, but there's a note in his voice on the edge of panic. Oh, and he's waving a hand gun in my face, reaching up so that it's just under my nose. Poor trigger discipline, I note, suppressing a reflex to break his arm and take the weapon. I take a moment to look around the interior of the bank. Two more masked individuals, the three tellers with their hands stretched out on the counter top, maybe half a dozen other people who were waiting in line. They're prone, now, hands splayed wide on the floor. "C'mon, don't make this hard," says Mr. Blue Eyes, gesturing impatiently with the gun. "Don't try to be a hero, big guy." "No trouble," I agree, easing myself on the floor. "No trouble," I repeat for emphasis. Hero. Was I ever one of those? Doesn't feel like it, these days. From the floor, I watch as two of the other robbers escort a teller, at gunpoint, out of sight, presumably in search of a vault, or something. Do banks still have vaults? I guess they would, for deposit boxes, if nothing else. I gently draw on the Aether and attune my hearing for a moment, since that's not breaking any laws. Out on the street, traffic is continuing as normal. People walking by, cars driving. No sound of approaching sirens. I open my senses a little more and the room suddenly blooms with phantom colors and sensations. They're a little dimmer over in the corner, and I turn my attention there. She's good. Not just a wild talent, but someone who has done a lot of practice. Her touch on the Aether stills it in a wide area around her, bleeding through to the Material and probably blanketing the whole block outside the bank with a sense of calm, even a slight euphoria, deflecting attention away from the bank. I stop channeling and return to the present. Mr. Blue Eyes is prodding me with his boot. "Hand it over, man, I know you got something." With a sigh, I reach slowly into my pocket and take out my battered walkman. "Can I at least keep the tape, man? Leave me that much? Ain't easy to find, these days." "You some kinda hipster, old man?" "Only if 'hipster' is slang for 'dead broke.'" "What's on it, anyway? "AC/DC. Got it when I was in highschool." "Sure man. Now the rest." I put the tape back in my pocket and bring out the roll of bills I was going to deposit. When I hesitate, he lunges, snatching the wad from my hand before quickly backing up to what he believes is out of reach. After a moment, I settle back to the ground. Blue Eyes heads over to the family next to me. The kid's mom cringes as she rifles through her purse. Blue Eyes just takes it from her, tosses it to one of his goons, waves his gun a bit, then snatches her iPhone and jams it into a pocket. He takes the kid's phone, too. Kid looks like he's maybe twelve. He's got that look on his face, like he's imagined how he'd save everyone from a situation just like this, and now it's here and he doesn't like what he just learned about himself. "Ain't worth it, son." He looks at me and I can see the angry tears standing in his eyes. He's angry at the robbers, but mostly at himself. I know. "It's just a phone. Plenty of those. Ain't worth your life or health. Let it go." "If I were a Hero, I'd stop 'em," he mutters. "Then you'd go to prison right beside 'em. Gotta have a contract," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "No contract, you're just a vigilante, and those're criminals, too." He gets quiet. That's different. Most kids his age, they would explode at me, believing their anger. This one stops and thinks. A gunshot sounds from somewhere I can't see and raised voices arguing soon follow. A woman, one of the other tellers, screams and begins crying, and I suddenly feel an intense pull as the robber in the corner, eyes screwed shut in concentration, draws more deeply on the Aether to keep the bank veiled from attention. At the rate the ambient energies are being used up, this is going to end soon, one way or another. A piece of paper, folded into an air plane, drifts to a stop in front of me a moment before the pencil hits me in the face. I look over at the kid, and he motions me to open it. I begin reading. "I, Robin Andrew Greyson, seek to engage the services of the undersigned. At the rate of twenty dollars an hour, for a span of no fewer than two hours and totaling no more than six hours, the undersigned will secure the person, possessions, and any premises surrounding myself from injury, theft, or undue disturbance." I look up at him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. He makes a get-on-with-it gesture. I pick up the pencil, sign the page, and fold it back into a plane, and loft it back to him. He picks it up and reads it. "Powerage?" "Never mind." Three robbers. No, four, that one with the veil keeps sliding herself out of my perception. Only two of them in this room. Nine hostages. Eight, now? I don't know. Most of the ambient power has been used up. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the pencil. Blue Eyes is closest. "Passing notes? Why don't you share with the cl-" is as far as he gets before six inches of sharpened wood and graphite, imbued with Aether to keep it from breaking, gets rammed up his nose, into his brain, killing him. It comes free with a light tug, and I fling it, overhand, at the woman in the corner. She comes out of her deep focus, looks down, and sees the small blossom of red on her shirt, just above her navel. I reach her just before she can use the panicked breath she just took to scream, closing a hand over her nose and mouth. If I can keep this quiet, I might be able to get the other two before any more hostages ge- I come back to myself, fetched up against the far wall, and there's a ringing in my ears. I throw myself open to the Aether, and the sudden contact with that other realm shocks me fully back to my senses. There's almost nothing left there to draw, but I pull what I can manage quickly, recklessly winding the energies around my frayed nerves to steady my balance and stop the spinning in my head. Then I shut off the connection, surging forward in a running crouch. The robber who hit me with the essence blast is in bad shape. Between the gut wound and the backlash of channeling so much raw power, she's unconscious, probably not getting up again without medical attention. I pull off the tattered remains of my shirt and press it over the widening bloodstain on her belly. "Alright, everyone out, quick and quiet. You," I say, pointing to a middle aged man, "toss me that and then give that guy a hand." One of the other men, looks like some kind of contractor, got caught on the fringe of the blast, seems like he's having trouble sitting up. "When you're out, find a phone and call the cops." Looking around, faces are frozen in disbelief, looking at me in shock. "Go," I sort of whisper-shout, and they get moving. "What the hell was all that noise? Jim, you and Marcia fighting again?" I bean the third man with a paperweight, hard enough to dent the front of his forehead, as he walks out from the one of the spaces behind the counter. A startled, "what the hell," comes from somewhere behind him. I drag the channeler out the front of doors of the bank, then out of sight of any windows. Probably shouldn't have, but I can't keep pressure on her injury and fight the last guy at the same time. Robin finds me. "Thanks." He hands me a twenty dollar bill. "Just... hold on to that piece of paper. I'm not a lawyer, but it might hold up if anyone decides to press charges." "I will," he says, face serious. I tuck the bill into my pocket, then freeze. Slowly, sadly, I bring out the plastic fragments and length of magnetic tape that had once been my favorite album, shattered by the force of an Aetheric essence blast. "Kid, you know anywhere I can get a cassette tape of AC/DC?" "I don't know what either of those things are." I think for a moment. "... Do you know any 'hipsters'?"	Like every day since I started this job, the subway was packed. Not the kind of packed where you have to occasionally mutter apologies as you slide past people; this was more like something that made me envious of sardines in a can. Thank-god for phones. I sighed as an ad began to play again on the video I was watching, for the fifth time in ten minutes. A superhero, dressed in a green and white spandex suit, smiles with impossibly white teeth at the camera. Besides him, a name: SteelSkin, TM. In his hand, he holds something that resembles an insulin syringe, complete with viscous lime-green liquid swirling inside. “Thanks to EasyPowers Ltd., I can effortlessly use my superpowers without having to worry about reinjections every four hours. It’s the only choice, buy an EasyPowers starter module today! Only one hundred thousand dollars a shot!” He winks at the camera. If only it was that easy. Everyone knew only a few select candidates received any powers at all. If you had the money, that is. I stared out at the smog-filled city, admiring the six kilometer-tall JusticeTower from the window. Syracuse was responsible for that one, along with cold-fusion, and the cure for cancer if you could afford it. I can see his memorial from here too, after he was killed by Czar. Apparently Czar couldn’t deal with the fact that a homosexual black man became the most famous Mender in history. It was only because I was looking in that direction that I noticed it at all. A slight flicker of lightning in the sky, then another, closer to the train. A few figures, three men and two woman, charging towards the clouds. Suddenly, there were thousands of flickering lightning strikes, the brightness briefly blinding me. I heard shouts of discomfort behind me. “What the hell?” “Oh god, is that Zeus?” “He’s fighting the Justice Squad! Get out your phone.” A pair of shrill teenage girls behind me giggled. I blinked away the spots in my vision, just in time to witness SteelSkin slam into the carriage next to us. Time slowed, and I saw the completely-full carriage crush in the middle like a stomped-on coke can. I watched, horrified. Then my carriage derailed. I felt my body fly up, slamming into the ceiling with a deep cracking sound, and I couldn’t feel anything below my neck. I’m dead, I thought. Then, I don’t want to die. Around me, I could hear a few moans. Most of the bodies were terrifyingly still. “SteelSkin, are you alright?” A purring voice rang out from outside. It must be Asp. They both went to the same Long Island private school, apparently. “I’m fine, darling.” He replied in that gravelly voice he put on for the cameras. “Check to see if anyone had insurance in this train. Angel can heal them.” I saw her, then. Impossibly beautiful, she entered the upturned carriage in a burst of pure white light. The illusion was immediately broken when her nose wrinkled. She only healed people who brought her million-dollar insurance. How else would she afford those designers clothes? “Nah, they’re all just middle-class workers. No way do they have insurance.” They never included her ghetto accent in those documentaries they constantly ran. “Alright, well at least we drove off Zeus.” Steelskin chuckled. I felt a brief stab of anger. I could see a one of the giggling girls from before sobbing over her dead friend in front of me, half of her head caved in like a deformed golf ball. “He’ll think twice before he tries to steal that medicine again. Oh wait, what did we tell the newspapers?” I could hear Asp laughing outside. You told them he had a bioweapon he was planning to unleash on the world, I thought again, that brief stab of anger turning into something deeper. Hatred. They flew off after that, acting as though thousands of people were not dying right next to them. They didn’t see my trigger, my screams of agony as the fabric of my entire body was remade, the first natural superpowers in over a decade. The ambulances arrived thirty minutes later. It was a miracle, they said, almost like you could heal yourself. I smiled, laughing along as though everything was right with the world. It wasn’t. They would pay. They would all pay, and when their corporations burned around them, I would be there to watch.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	Dreadnaught was the last of the Old Guard. The early heroes who had fought for the good of the world, for honor and justice and other long-dead ideals. they toppled dictatorships, brought aid to disaster-stricken regions and never accepted a penny. Dreadnaught himself had seen the greats of the age, had only been a young rookie when The Atom and Red Lightning and all the others were around. There had been villains, of course- bastards and madmen who used their powers for their own benefit, but they were always beaten back. The good guys always won in the end. Dreadnaught had long since stopped caring about "good" or "evil". He was standing on a wind-tossed rooftop in Dubai, staring at the bright artificial stars, gleaming skyscrapers and rivers of vehicles, spreading forever into the distance. He idly wondered what had happened to the old greats, Atom and Lightning and Sunbeam. He continued to think back, remembering the first changes.... It began when he and a few allies rescued some fat cat from an attempted assassination, somewhere in South Korea. When word came out that the cat had been smuggling weapons up north, and had betrayed the country, Dreadnaught shrugged. He wasn't a political sort. But Fat Cats are always good at redirecting blame- they called him and his friends mercenaries, not caring who he fought for as long as he had glory and attention. He heard insults and threats as he walked through the streets. He tried his best not to mind. He minded. He had never had much- Dreadnaught grew up in the inner city and came from a poor family. So when people said he, and others like him, was profiting from chaos and war and fear as he struggled to make ends meet and ate third-rate prepackaged meals- his blood boiled. Most heroes were offered work when their identities were revealed- Private armies, government work, criminal organizations. He decided that if people thought he was a thug- then it didn't hurt to do a thug's job. He accepted a job offer, then another, and another. His pay was high and his scruples few. He moved out of the slums and into a high rise apartment. People kept calling him a crook and a monster, but it hurt less now that it was true. Others joined him, fighting wars and steal secrets for the highest bidder. That was how it had happened. The world was a different place now than it was. Supers were identified from birth and signed on with one of the big corporations at the age of 12. There were no more armies anymore, no more citizen soldiers. Just hired guns with enough firepower to level cities. Some Supers still fought the good fight, of course. They lived on the edges of the world, striking out against the "Man" in what little ways they could. But most Supers lived quiet lives, turning down the offers of big corporations, and not making a fuss of their powers for fear of attracting too much attention. Dreadnaught looked down from the glinting lights and turned towards the desert. His contact would be arriving soon, with his pay, and likely another job. He was one of the oldest men in the business, after all. He never failed, he never quit a job until it was done. His skills were highly valued.	It was raining. The day we set to sea was a dark day, the sun did not appear in the sky and the skies appeared to cry as the sons of Helgavik set off to unfamiliar lands. I watched my parents on the shore, surrounded by the wives and families of my fellow sailors, but I could not find it in my heart to return their waves. I was a young man, barely sixteen years of age and waving to them would have broken me down and caused me to cry. But I had to stay strong, the men on the longboat with me were mostly veterans, having raided before and crying, in my mind, would show weakness in front of those hard sailors which I regarded as role models. However I stared back to shore until all I could see was mist and rain, before and aft. It would be months until I would see my family again, if at all. The longboat was the pride of the village from which we sailed. It had been made during a remarkably warm summer, and was hewn from good wood. It was beautifully decorated with images depicting the gods in battle, the monsters of the sea and with the names of some of the heroes that had sailed on it. This boat “Garmr” was considered blessed by the gods and those that would sail on it were priviliged men. I had gotten my place through contest, My arm was stronger than those of my friends, and my aim was true when throwing a spear. I had also shown courage in battle once before while defending my fathers farm, so Grímur the ships foreman, brought me aboard. “You know you may die.” he had said, matter of factly. “I am not afraid of going to my ancestors.” I replied, mustering up as much courage as I could in front of this large, red haired, man. “Good to hear, Arnr. Good to hear. You swear an oath to follow my orders, defend your fellow man and bring honor to the gods?” “Yes. My aim will never fail me, nor will I leave my friends back exposed to the enemy. I will fall if the gods will it so without fear.” “Allright, you will receive the same share as the rest of us, apart from one extra share for myself and captain Eirikur. You will be second oarsman on the right side.” In the days before my departure my parents, proud of their son for having secured a place on the Garmr, fed me the best food they could muster. My father gave me his axe, which his father had given him as well as a warm cloak. When the day came to go to the docks I was well provisioned and ready, my parents supplying me well in anticipation of me returning with exotic wares. During the day we sung songs praising the heroes of old while the sound of the oars hitting the ocean kept rhythm. If we had good wind we would spend our time cleaning the ship, watching the sky for signs of land. We each had our rations in a box under our seats where we spent most of our time. When the sky turned golden we would eat our food and spend our nights asleep, adrift on the ocean hoping we would not drift too far off course. One man stood watch each night to keep the ship sailing in the right direction as best he could. During the day Grímur would consult what he called his sun-stone for direction to good hunting areas as he called it. Area filled with enemy ships ripe for the plunder, but our main target would be a christian chapel he had heard was lightly defended and should pay for this raiding trip in one blow. --- We had arrived early in the morning, awoken by distant bells audible over the fog which enveloped us. Grímur smiled like a hungry wolf and started whispering urgent directions to the captain directing him towards the sound. “It starts” Arnolfr whispered to me from behind, “Odin willing we will be rich men at the end of this day or dead. Either way, be ready!”. I swallowed my fear while listening hard for any sounds from out of the fog, the only sounds being the low whispering of the men around me as well as the soft sound of the oar propelling the Garmr onwards. The first thing we could see were the black rocks of the shore. With skill and experience the boat was dragged ashore in near silence. “This is it! I can feel it in the air!” Grímur whispered to us as we assembled, weapons drawn, on the beach, “We will be in two groups. You lot will go with Eirkur and you will go with me” he said, indicating my group “Good hunting”. My heart was beating loudly in my heart, so much so that I feared it would give away our position, as we first caught a glimpse of a stone building. It was strange to see the chapel after hearing such places described by others. It was a large building built almost like an arrow, with a stone tower on one end. It had colorful windows depicting what I could only guess were old heroes akin to the ones depicted on our ship. My axe felt heavy as our backs got up to the walls of the building. Thank Thor for this fog, it had hidden our apprach so well we were still unnoticed. A raiding party of armed and capable warriors in the pen filled with unaware sheep. Suddenly without barely a nod towards the rest of us Grímur ran into the fog, shortly followed by a wet sound as his hammer struck flesh, this prompted the rest of us into action. Suddenly my world became very violent as men were everywhere. In the fog they reminded me of ancient ghosts, clad in black robes, obviously crying for mercy. I myself went into the chapel with two others and met one of the robed men as he seemed to be trying to save the valuables hidden inside the chapel. His face was white with fright, his words incomprehensible to me as I stepped towards him with my axe raised above my head. I will never forget the feeling of the iron biting into flesh, nor the warmth of his blood as he stumbled and fell, gold coins clattering on the ground from his fingers. The sound of battle was around me, and for the rest of my life I would never be able to remember the rest of it as some inner beast overtook me. “Good fight!” Grímur said, smiling as he hit me on the back. “You did well. You will no longer be a boy but a man. You have earned the respect.”. I was sitting on the steps of the chapel, holding a cup filled with wine and covered in blood. “It was my honor” I replied. I was proud of my achievement, but the face of the black robed monk was fresh in my mind. I knew then that he would be a spectre that would follow me throughout my life. We were rich now, Grímur told us there was more treasure inside this chapel than even he had imagined. We would get home earlier than planned which raised our morale, but was bittersweet since it meant fewer chances to die like warriors. I however was consoled with the image of my parents in my mind, proud of their son, fresh back from viking. --- It was the third day of our trip back that it all changed. Grímur looked anxious as he and captain Eirikur talked in the back of the boat while the rest of us ate our daily rations. I clambered over to them which caused Grímur to look at me with a mix of annoyance and curiosity while Eirikur looked concerned. “What is wrong?” I asked, but we had become accustomed to asking straight questions. The daily life aboard the longboat did not allow for much formality beyond rank. “Well, you will know soon enough. We are being hunted.” Grímur replied. I imagined a boat filled with monks, or armed men, following us from the land we had visited “How many?” I asked. “One” The reply was unexpected, one man would not be much of a threat. “Then we have little to worry about. One man can do us no harm.” “Who says it is a man? I have been watching our wake. We are being hunted by something under the water. Some beast” I nodded and returned to my seat. The way Grímur had said that we were being hunted by a beast was unsettling, but I sensed no more information would be forthcoming for now. As I looked to the back of the boat, in the distance, I imagined I could see a swell of water formed by an unnatural shape effortlessly gliding under the water. On day four Grímur stood up at the bow of the vessel. We sensed by his stance we should prepare ourselves for what was coming so we prepared our shields and weapons. A few minutes later I felt as if the world exploded. Out of the water burst a huge beast the likes I would never see again. It appeared as a large serpent, the head easily larger than our ship. Its eyes held the fires of eternity, and as it roared defiantly at our diminutive boat we were all overcome with dread. The beasts fangs were the size of great-swords. Its scales the sizes of our shields. At this moment I knew that I would be dead soon. The waves of its movements caused our boat to bob and sink like a cork on a wave. We were helpless. Grímur screamed an oath to the gods, took one step on the edge of the bow and hurled himself at the beast. I could not believe my eyes as he wresled with the mighty beast. The last we heard from him was “SAIL AWAY, FLEE OR DIE!”. We scrambled for our oars and sailed away, leaving Grímur behind. The last I saw of Grímur he was on top of the beasts head, holding his hammer above his head, lightning striking down from the sky into him, his eyes glowing with white light and his red hair glowing like fire. I knew then that this was not a normal man. As we managed to gain some distance on the mighty battle between the beast and god the waves settled and we witnessed the conclusion as Grímur killed the wyrm with a mighty blow. A streak of light travelled overhead to the north immediately after this and we knew that Grímur was safe. I will always remember this hard man, if he was a man at all. He never returned to our village but we keep his memory alive every year with stories of his heroism. His face now adorns the bow of our blessed longboat. I would not meet Grímur again for many a year.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	3:30 AM, Atlanta The phone rang. "This had better be worth waking my ass up." "Flux. $500,000. If we lose power--." "I'll do it if you make it six. Where?" The caller accepted, a little too quickly. Damn. Could have got more. The caller gave the address to a malfunctioning power station, and thanked Flux for assisting Westshore specialty. "An insurance agent, huh?" Well, it makes sense. Superheroes were a damn sight cheaper than losing a court case, these days. Flux had been a generous soul. But not anymore. He loved music. When he first discovered his power, all those years ago, he used his power over electricity to give fledgling bands free power, so they could practice anywhere, anytime. They didn't even have to plug their equipment into anything! It made for some great hipster music videos. Back then, he sometimes helped clean up metal debris from car crashes. Other days, he donated electricity to his poorer friends, or gave the homeless shelter free electricity for a few hours, to run the A/C during the hot summer months. That all changed after a fateful day a few years ago. Flux prevented a plane crash by using electromagnetism to lower it safely to the ground. After that, Flux became famous. And with fame, came more calls for help. But they all wanted it for free. Non-stop, day and night. Not always for heroic deeds, either. One kid wanted him to take out the power at his office so he could spend that day with his girlfriend. He grew fed up with the non-stop pleas for help. Fed up as he was, he was too poor to buy food. Even superheroes have to eat, you know. So, Flux started charging for his powers. This sparked outrage at first - Headlines like "Does Flux's greed have no limit?" dominated the news cycle - because people had grown used to the impossible being done for them for free. However, capitalism won the day - other heroes in other cities borrowed flux's idea. They too had been worked to the bone, and for what? To go home to a creaky apartment without enough money to even wash their spandex? These days, heroes primarily did boring but valuable things, such as prevent power outages, stop floods from damaging property, put out fires, that sort of thing. Some chose to do pro-bono work at times, but it was not expected the way that it was in years past. Flux sighed as he drove to the plant. He could easily power the grid from the sidewalk outside his house, but the insurance company would have a fit and cut his pay. Last time he did that, they charged him for damaging the wiring, which cut his $250,000 reward down to a mere $15,000. Looks like another couple hours of maintaining a boring old 60 hz stream...	It was raining. The day we set to sea was a dark day, the sun did not appear in the sky and the skies appeared to cry as the sons of Helgavik set off to unfamiliar lands. I watched my parents on the shore, surrounded by the wives and families of my fellow sailors, but I could not find it in my heart to return their waves. I was a young man, barely sixteen years of age and waving to them would have broken me down and caused me to cry. But I had to stay strong, the men on the longboat with me were mostly veterans, having raided before and crying, in my mind, would show weakness in front of those hard sailors which I regarded as role models. However I stared back to shore until all I could see was mist and rain, before and aft. It would be months until I would see my family again, if at all. The longboat was the pride of the village from which we sailed. It had been made during a remarkably warm summer, and was hewn from good wood. It was beautifully decorated with images depicting the gods in battle, the monsters of the sea and with the names of some of the heroes that had sailed on it. This boat “Garmr” was considered blessed by the gods and those that would sail on it were priviliged men. I had gotten my place through contest, My arm was stronger than those of my friends, and my aim was true when throwing a spear. I had also shown courage in battle once before while defending my fathers farm, so Grímur the ships foreman, brought me aboard. “You know you may die.” he had said, matter of factly. “I am not afraid of going to my ancestors.” I replied, mustering up as much courage as I could in front of this large, red haired, man. “Good to hear, Arnr. Good to hear. You swear an oath to follow my orders, defend your fellow man and bring honor to the gods?” “Yes. My aim will never fail me, nor will I leave my friends back exposed to the enemy. I will fall if the gods will it so without fear.” “Allright, you will receive the same share as the rest of us, apart from one extra share for myself and captain Eirikur. You will be second oarsman on the right side.” In the days before my departure my parents, proud of their son for having secured a place on the Garmr, fed me the best food they could muster. My father gave me his axe, which his father had given him as well as a warm cloak. When the day came to go to the docks I was well provisioned and ready, my parents supplying me well in anticipation of me returning with exotic wares. During the day we sung songs praising the heroes of old while the sound of the oars hitting the ocean kept rhythm. If we had good wind we would spend our time cleaning the ship, watching the sky for signs of land. We each had our rations in a box under our seats where we spent most of our time. When the sky turned golden we would eat our food and spend our nights asleep, adrift on the ocean hoping we would not drift too far off course. One man stood watch each night to keep the ship sailing in the right direction as best he could. During the day Grímur would consult what he called his sun-stone for direction to good hunting areas as he called it. Area filled with enemy ships ripe for the plunder, but our main target would be a christian chapel he had heard was lightly defended and should pay for this raiding trip in one blow. --- We had arrived early in the morning, awoken by distant bells audible over the fog which enveloped us. Grímur smiled like a hungry wolf and started whispering urgent directions to the captain directing him towards the sound. “It starts” Arnolfr whispered to me from behind, “Odin willing we will be rich men at the end of this day or dead. Either way, be ready!”. I swallowed my fear while listening hard for any sounds from out of the fog, the only sounds being the low whispering of the men around me as well as the soft sound of the oar propelling the Garmr onwards. The first thing we could see were the black rocks of the shore. With skill and experience the boat was dragged ashore in near silence. “This is it! I can feel it in the air!” Grímur whispered to us as we assembled, weapons drawn, on the beach, “We will be in two groups. You lot will go with Eirkur and you will go with me” he said, indicating my group “Good hunting”. My heart was beating loudly in my heart, so much so that I feared it would give away our position, as we first caught a glimpse of a stone building. It was strange to see the chapel after hearing such places described by others. It was a large building built almost like an arrow, with a stone tower on one end. It had colorful windows depicting what I could only guess were old heroes akin to the ones depicted on our ship. My axe felt heavy as our backs got up to the walls of the building. Thank Thor for this fog, it had hidden our apprach so well we were still unnoticed. A raiding party of armed and capable warriors in the pen filled with unaware sheep. Suddenly without barely a nod towards the rest of us Grímur ran into the fog, shortly followed by a wet sound as his hammer struck flesh, this prompted the rest of us into action. Suddenly my world became very violent as men were everywhere. In the fog they reminded me of ancient ghosts, clad in black robes, obviously crying for mercy. I myself went into the chapel with two others and met one of the robed men as he seemed to be trying to save the valuables hidden inside the chapel. His face was white with fright, his words incomprehensible to me as I stepped towards him with my axe raised above my head. I will never forget the feeling of the iron biting into flesh, nor the warmth of his blood as he stumbled and fell, gold coins clattering on the ground from his fingers. The sound of battle was around me, and for the rest of my life I would never be able to remember the rest of it as some inner beast overtook me. “Good fight!” Grímur said, smiling as he hit me on the back. “You did well. You will no longer be a boy but a man. You have earned the respect.”. I was sitting on the steps of the chapel, holding a cup filled with wine and covered in blood. “It was my honor” I replied. I was proud of my achievement, but the face of the black robed monk was fresh in my mind. I knew then that he would be a spectre that would follow me throughout my life. We were rich now, Grímur told us there was more treasure inside this chapel than even he had imagined. We would get home earlier than planned which raised our morale, but was bittersweet since it meant fewer chances to die like warriors. I however was consoled with the image of my parents in my mind, proud of their son, fresh back from viking. --- It was the third day of our trip back that it all changed. Grímur looked anxious as he and captain Eirikur talked in the back of the boat while the rest of us ate our daily rations. I clambered over to them which caused Grímur to look at me with a mix of annoyance and curiosity while Eirikur looked concerned. “What is wrong?” I asked, but we had become accustomed to asking straight questions. The daily life aboard the longboat did not allow for much formality beyond rank. “Well, you will know soon enough. We are being hunted.” Grímur replied. I imagined a boat filled with monks, or armed men, following us from the land we had visited “How many?” I asked. “One” The reply was unexpected, one man would not be much of a threat. “Then we have little to worry about. One man can do us no harm.” “Who says it is a man? I have been watching our wake. We are being hunted by something under the water. Some beast” I nodded and returned to my seat. The way Grímur had said that we were being hunted by a beast was unsettling, but I sensed no more information would be forthcoming for now. As I looked to the back of the boat, in the distance, I imagined I could see a swell of water formed by an unnatural shape effortlessly gliding under the water. On day four Grímur stood up at the bow of the vessel. We sensed by his stance we should prepare ourselves for what was coming so we prepared our shields and weapons. A few minutes later I felt as if the world exploded. Out of the water burst a huge beast the likes I would never see again. It appeared as a large serpent, the head easily larger than our ship. Its eyes held the fires of eternity, and as it roared defiantly at our diminutive boat we were all overcome with dread. The beasts fangs were the size of great-swords. Its scales the sizes of our shields. At this moment I knew that I would be dead soon. The waves of its movements caused our boat to bob and sink like a cork on a wave. We were helpless. Grímur screamed an oath to the gods, took one step on the edge of the bow and hurled himself at the beast. I could not believe my eyes as he wresled with the mighty beast. The last we heard from him was “SAIL AWAY, FLEE OR DIE!”. We scrambled for our oars and sailed away, leaving Grímur behind. The last I saw of Grímur he was on top of the beasts head, holding his hammer above his head, lightning striking down from the sky into him, his eyes glowing with white light and his red hair glowing like fire. I knew then that this was not a normal man. As we managed to gain some distance on the mighty battle between the beast and god the waves settled and we witnessed the conclusion as Grímur killed the wyrm with a mighty blow. A streak of light travelled overhead to the north immediately after this and we knew that Grímur was safe. I will always remember this hard man, if he was a man at all. He never returned to our village but we keep his memory alive every year with stories of his heroism. His face now adorns the bow of our blessed longboat. I would not meet Grímur again for many a year.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	The pen slips, drawing a jagged line along the 'Cash' field of the deposit slip. I sigh and look around. Whatever jogged my elbow nudges me in the ribs this time, and I reach up to pull the headphones away from my ear. "You, too, tiny. Hands where we can see 'em, down on the floor with the rest. Nice and easy." The guy is wearing a ski mask, a little under six feet tall, a sandy blond eye brow just visible above one of his blue eyes. Those eyes look fierce, but there's a note in his voice on the edge of panic. Oh, and he's waving a hand gun in my face, reaching up so that it's just under my nose. Poor trigger discipline, I note, suppressing a reflex to break his arm and take the weapon. I take a moment to look around the interior of the bank. Two more masked individuals, the three tellers with their hands stretched out on the counter top, maybe half a dozen other people who were waiting in line. They're prone, now, hands splayed wide on the floor. "C'mon, don't make this hard," says Mr. Blue Eyes, gesturing impatiently with the gun. "Don't try to be a hero, big guy." "No trouble," I agree, easing myself on the floor. "No trouble," I repeat for emphasis. Hero. Was I ever one of those? Doesn't feel like it, these days. From the floor, I watch as two of the other robbers escort a teller, at gunpoint, out of sight, presumably in search of a vault, or something. Do banks still have vaults? I guess they would, for deposit boxes, if nothing else. I gently draw on the Aether and attune my hearing for a moment, since that's not breaking any laws. Out on the street, traffic is continuing as normal. People walking by, cars driving. No sound of approaching sirens. I open my senses a little more and the room suddenly blooms with phantom colors and sensations. They're a little dimmer over in the corner, and I turn my attention there. She's good. Not just a wild talent, but someone who has done a lot of practice. Her touch on the Aether stills it in a wide area around her, bleeding through to the Material and probably blanketing the whole block outside the bank with a sense of calm, even a slight euphoria, deflecting attention away from the bank. I stop channeling and return to the present. Mr. Blue Eyes is prodding me with his boot. "Hand it over, man, I know you got something." With a sigh, I reach slowly into my pocket and take out my battered walkman. "Can I at least keep the tape, man? Leave me that much? Ain't easy to find, these days." "You some kinda hipster, old man?" "Only if 'hipster' is slang for 'dead broke.'" "What's on it, anyway? "AC/DC. Got it when I was in highschool." "Sure man. Now the rest." I put the tape back in my pocket and bring out the roll of bills I was going to deposit. When I hesitate, he lunges, snatching the wad from my hand before quickly backing up to what he believes is out of reach. After a moment, I settle back to the ground. Blue Eyes heads over to the family next to me. The kid's mom cringes as she rifles through her purse. Blue Eyes just takes it from her, tosses it to one of his goons, waves his gun a bit, then snatches her iPhone and jams it into a pocket. He takes the kid's phone, too. Kid looks like he's maybe twelve. He's got that look on his face, like he's imagined how he'd save everyone from a situation just like this, and now it's here and he doesn't like what he just learned about himself. "Ain't worth it, son." He looks at me and I can see the angry tears standing in his eyes. He's angry at the robbers, but mostly at himself. I know. "It's just a phone. Plenty of those. Ain't worth your life or health. Let it go." "If I were a Hero, I'd stop 'em," he mutters. "Then you'd go to prison right beside 'em. Gotta have a contract," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "No contract, you're just a vigilante, and those're criminals, too." He gets quiet. That's different. Most kids his age, they would explode at me, believing their anger. This one stops and thinks. A gunshot sounds from somewhere I can't see and raised voices arguing soon follow. A woman, one of the other tellers, screams and begins crying, and I suddenly feel an intense pull as the robber in the corner, eyes screwed shut in concentration, draws more deeply on the Aether to keep the bank veiled from attention. At the rate the ambient energies are being used up, this is going to end soon, one way or another. A piece of paper, folded into an air plane, drifts to a stop in front of me a moment before the pencil hits me in the face. I look over at the kid, and he motions me to open it. I begin reading. "I, Robin Andrew Greyson, seek to engage the services of the undersigned. At the rate of twenty dollars an hour, for a span of no fewer than two hours and totaling no more than six hours, the undersigned will secure the person, possessions, and any premises surrounding myself from injury, theft, or undue disturbance." I look up at him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. He makes a get-on-with-it gesture. I pick up the pencil, sign the page, and fold it back into a plane, and loft it back to him. He picks it up and reads it. "Powerage?" "Never mind." Three robbers. No, four, that one with the veil keeps sliding herself out of my perception. Only two of them in this room. Nine hostages. Eight, now? I don't know. Most of the ambient power has been used up. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the pencil. Blue Eyes is closest. "Passing notes? Why don't you share with the cl-" is as far as he gets before six inches of sharpened wood and graphite, imbued with Aether to keep it from breaking, gets rammed up his nose, into his brain, killing him. It comes free with a light tug, and I fling it, overhand, at the woman in the corner. She comes out of her deep focus, looks down, and sees the small blossom of red on her shirt, just above her navel. I reach her just before she can use the panicked breath she just took to scream, closing a hand over her nose and mouth. If I can keep this quiet, I might be able to get the other two before any more hostages ge- I come back to myself, fetched up against the far wall, and there's a ringing in my ears. I throw myself open to the Aether, and the sudden contact with that other realm shocks me fully back to my senses. There's almost nothing left there to draw, but I pull what I can manage quickly, recklessly winding the energies around my frayed nerves to steady my balance and stop the spinning in my head. Then I shut off the connection, surging forward in a running crouch. The robber who hit me with the essence blast is in bad shape. Between the gut wound and the backlash of channeling so much raw power, she's unconscious, probably not getting up again without medical attention. I pull off the tattered remains of my shirt and press it over the widening bloodstain on her belly. "Alright, everyone out, quick and quiet. You," I say, pointing to a middle aged man, "toss me that and then give that guy a hand." One of the other men, looks like some kind of contractor, got caught on the fringe of the blast, seems like he's having trouble sitting up. "When you're out, find a phone and call the cops." Looking around, faces are frozen in disbelief, looking at me in shock. "Go," I sort of whisper-shout, and they get moving. "What the hell was all that noise? Jim, you and Marcia fighting again?" I bean the third man with a paperweight, hard enough to dent the front of his forehead, as he walks out from the one of the spaces behind the counter. A startled, "what the hell," comes from somewhere behind him. I drag the channeler out the front of doors of the bank, then out of sight of any windows. Probably shouldn't have, but I can't keep pressure on her injury and fight the last guy at the same time. Robin finds me. "Thanks." He hands me a twenty dollar bill. "Just... hold on to that piece of paper. I'm not a lawyer, but it might hold up if anyone decides to press charges." "I will," he says, face serious. I tuck the bill into my pocket, then freeze. Slowly, sadly, I bring out the plastic fragments and length of magnetic tape that had once been my favorite album, shattered by the force of an Aetheric essence blast. "Kid, you know anywhere I can get a cassette tape of AC/DC?" "I don't know what either of those things are." I think for a moment. "... Do you know any 'hipsters'?"	It was raining. The day we set to sea was a dark day, the sun did not appear in the sky and the skies appeared to cry as the sons of Helgavik set off to unfamiliar lands. I watched my parents on the shore, surrounded by the wives and families of my fellow sailors, but I could not find it in my heart to return their waves. I was a young man, barely sixteen years of age and waving to them would have broken me down and caused me to cry. But I had to stay strong, the men on the longboat with me were mostly veterans, having raided before and crying, in my mind, would show weakness in front of those hard sailors which I regarded as role models. However I stared back to shore until all I could see was mist and rain, before and aft. It would be months until I would see my family again, if at all. The longboat was the pride of the village from which we sailed. It had been made during a remarkably warm summer, and was hewn from good wood. It was beautifully decorated with images depicting the gods in battle, the monsters of the sea and with the names of some of the heroes that had sailed on it. This boat “Garmr” was considered blessed by the gods and those that would sail on it were priviliged men. I had gotten my place through contest, My arm was stronger than those of my friends, and my aim was true when throwing a spear. I had also shown courage in battle once before while defending my fathers farm, so Grímur the ships foreman, brought me aboard. “You know you may die.” he had said, matter of factly. “I am not afraid of going to my ancestors.” I replied, mustering up as much courage as I could in front of this large, red haired, man. “Good to hear, Arnr. Good to hear. You swear an oath to follow my orders, defend your fellow man and bring honor to the gods?” “Yes. My aim will never fail me, nor will I leave my friends back exposed to the enemy. I will fall if the gods will it so without fear.” “Allright, you will receive the same share as the rest of us, apart from one extra share for myself and captain Eirikur. You will be second oarsman on the right side.” In the days before my departure my parents, proud of their son for having secured a place on the Garmr, fed me the best food they could muster. My father gave me his axe, which his father had given him as well as a warm cloak. When the day came to go to the docks I was well provisioned and ready, my parents supplying me well in anticipation of me returning with exotic wares. During the day we sung songs praising the heroes of old while the sound of the oars hitting the ocean kept rhythm. If we had good wind we would spend our time cleaning the ship, watching the sky for signs of land. We each had our rations in a box under our seats where we spent most of our time. When the sky turned golden we would eat our food and spend our nights asleep, adrift on the ocean hoping we would not drift too far off course. One man stood watch each night to keep the ship sailing in the right direction as best he could. During the day Grímur would consult what he called his sun-stone for direction to good hunting areas as he called it. Area filled with enemy ships ripe for the plunder, but our main target would be a christian chapel he had heard was lightly defended and should pay for this raiding trip in one blow. --- We had arrived early in the morning, awoken by distant bells audible over the fog which enveloped us. Grímur smiled like a hungry wolf and started whispering urgent directions to the captain directing him towards the sound. “It starts” Arnolfr whispered to me from behind, “Odin willing we will be rich men at the end of this day or dead. Either way, be ready!”. I swallowed my fear while listening hard for any sounds from out of the fog, the only sounds being the low whispering of the men around me as well as the soft sound of the oar propelling the Garmr onwards. The first thing we could see were the black rocks of the shore. With skill and experience the boat was dragged ashore in near silence. “This is it! I can feel it in the air!” Grímur whispered to us as we assembled, weapons drawn, on the beach, “We will be in two groups. You lot will go with Eirkur and you will go with me” he said, indicating my group “Good hunting”. My heart was beating loudly in my heart, so much so that I feared it would give away our position, as we first caught a glimpse of a stone building. It was strange to see the chapel after hearing such places described by others. It was a large building built almost like an arrow, with a stone tower on one end. It had colorful windows depicting what I could only guess were old heroes akin to the ones depicted on our ship. My axe felt heavy as our backs got up to the walls of the building. Thank Thor for this fog, it had hidden our apprach so well we were still unnoticed. A raiding party of armed and capable warriors in the pen filled with unaware sheep. Suddenly without barely a nod towards the rest of us Grímur ran into the fog, shortly followed by a wet sound as his hammer struck flesh, this prompted the rest of us into action. Suddenly my world became very violent as men were everywhere. In the fog they reminded me of ancient ghosts, clad in black robes, obviously crying for mercy. I myself went into the chapel with two others and met one of the robed men as he seemed to be trying to save the valuables hidden inside the chapel. His face was white with fright, his words incomprehensible to me as I stepped towards him with my axe raised above my head. I will never forget the feeling of the iron biting into flesh, nor the warmth of his blood as he stumbled and fell, gold coins clattering on the ground from his fingers. The sound of battle was around me, and for the rest of my life I would never be able to remember the rest of it as some inner beast overtook me. “Good fight!” Grímur said, smiling as he hit me on the back. “You did well. You will no longer be a boy but a man. You have earned the respect.”. I was sitting on the steps of the chapel, holding a cup filled with wine and covered in blood. “It was my honor” I replied. I was proud of my achievement, but the face of the black robed monk was fresh in my mind. I knew then that he would be a spectre that would follow me throughout my life. We were rich now, Grímur told us there was more treasure inside this chapel than even he had imagined. We would get home earlier than planned which raised our morale, but was bittersweet since it meant fewer chances to die like warriors. I however was consoled with the image of my parents in my mind, proud of their son, fresh back from viking. --- It was the third day of our trip back that it all changed. Grímur looked anxious as he and captain Eirikur talked in the back of the boat while the rest of us ate our daily rations. I clambered over to them which caused Grímur to look at me with a mix of annoyance and curiosity while Eirikur looked concerned. “What is wrong?” I asked, but we had become accustomed to asking straight questions. The daily life aboard the longboat did not allow for much formality beyond rank. “Well, you will know soon enough. We are being hunted.” Grímur replied. I imagined a boat filled with monks, or armed men, following us from the land we had visited “How many?” I asked. “One” The reply was unexpected, one man would not be much of a threat. “Then we have little to worry about. One man can do us no harm.” “Who says it is a man? I have been watching our wake. We are being hunted by something under the water. Some beast” I nodded and returned to my seat. The way Grímur had said that we were being hunted by a beast was unsettling, but I sensed no more information would be forthcoming for now. As I looked to the back of the boat, in the distance, I imagined I could see a swell of water formed by an unnatural shape effortlessly gliding under the water. On day four Grímur stood up at the bow of the vessel. We sensed by his stance we should prepare ourselves for what was coming so we prepared our shields and weapons. A few minutes later I felt as if the world exploded. Out of the water burst a huge beast the likes I would never see again. It appeared as a large serpent, the head easily larger than our ship. Its eyes held the fires of eternity, and as it roared defiantly at our diminutive boat we were all overcome with dread. The beasts fangs were the size of great-swords. Its scales the sizes of our shields. At this moment I knew that I would be dead soon. The waves of its movements caused our boat to bob and sink like a cork on a wave. We were helpless. Grímur screamed an oath to the gods, took one step on the edge of the bow and hurled himself at the beast. I could not believe my eyes as he wresled with the mighty beast. The last we heard from him was “SAIL AWAY, FLEE OR DIE!”. We scrambled for our oars and sailed away, leaving Grímur behind. The last I saw of Grímur he was on top of the beasts head, holding his hammer above his head, lightning striking down from the sky into him, his eyes glowing with white light and his red hair glowing like fire. I knew then that this was not a normal man. As we managed to gain some distance on the mighty battle between the beast and god the waves settled and we witnessed the conclusion as Grímur killed the wyrm with a mighty blow. A streak of light travelled overhead to the north immediately after this and we knew that Grímur was safe. I will always remember this hard man, if he was a man at all. He never returned to our village but we keep his memory alive every year with stories of his heroism. His face now adorns the bow of our blessed longboat. I would not meet Grímur again for many a year.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	I am not a good man. James looked down at the table, sipping his water. Always the same look when he's got something on his mind. "What're you ordering," he says with a low voice. "I hear the, uh, steak and fries are great." "Maybe just a coffee." I drummed the table lightly with my fingertips. "Look, J, I know that face. What's on your mind, man?" He hesitated, then looked up. His eyes were tired, dull bags underneath. I've never seen the guy look so old. "The, ah, warehouse explosion last night," His eyes turned hard. "That was you, wasn't it?" I chewed on my tongue for a bit, then sighed. "It might have been overkill, but the Stella's pay me well. Honestly, I think what I did preserved more lives. You know how an all-out war between them and the Callaghan's would turn out?" He rested his head in his palm, half-listening to my bullshit. "They're honestly talking about you, J. You've made yourself a name, fucking up their operations like this. They'll be out for you soon if you don't stop." I lowered my voice as the waitress approached. "What'll it be today, boys?" she said, her brown curls bouncing as she whipped out a pen and a smile. "Oh, Jamie, back again? I knew you couldn't get enough of us." "You know it. I think I'll have that famous steak-frites you guys make. Friend over here'll have a cup of coffee." He winked. "Now I hope you aren't planning to pay. You already do enough good for us. Hell, was it just last week you took care of that gang roaming the streets at night. Constant B&Es in a little street like this. Unbelievable." She scribbled on the pad in a practiced fashion, scampering back to the kitchen with that little smile of hers. James' face turned serious again. "We've had this talk plenty of times. You already know the spiel." I nodded, stifling a yawn. "And you know it's never too late." I shook my head. "James, I follow the money. We all do. Maybe your moonlighting as a hero makes you feel all warm-and-fuzzy inside, but warm-and-fuzzy doesn't pay the bill. Unless you're the Phoenix or Hothead, warm-and-fuzzy means you freeze to death, out in the cold, when winter hits." He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "It's not about the money. It's about making a change. All these changes start small. Grassroots. But when you get the idea into people's heads, they start to think 'Hm, maybe I can do good. Maybe good is what we need.'" I could tell he's been through this speech with others before. I could almost smell their rejection and skepticism wafting off his body. Yet I saw the fire in his belly. "James, this hero business. It's eating at you. I know you think you're doing the right thing, but the right things aren't always the right thing. This," I waved my hands for dramatic effect, "vigilantism doesn't fix anything. The Golden Age of heroes is over. For every one upstanding guy, two assholes would pop up. You know that's how actual bad guys work. They're attracted to conflict like mosquitos to flesh. The way we do it now...it's nice. It works." "It's selfish," James spat out. He looked away from me, out the window at the busy street. The trees were in full bloom, sunshine casting refulgent shadows along the noontime traffic. We sat quietly for a time, the food eventually arriving, piping hot. "I don't know what to do anymore," James whispered under his breath. "I can't do this alone." I leaned in, resting a hand on his shoulder. A small smirk fell on his face. "What're you trying to do, blow me up?" he said, chuckling lightly. I smiled back, stealing a handful of fries. "James, buddy. I'm just saying, being a hero isn't for me. I'm not sure it's for you either. I can give a good word to my boss. Start you on double pay. Do you really want to do this hero stuff though? It's just all swimming upstream." His face was solemn, like that of a statue. "Yes. Even if no one joins, yes. It is right." I sighed deeply, and fell back in my seat. He ate with a stony, distant look on his face. I finished my coffee, patted James on the shoulder, then slapped a twenty on the table. A smile broke onto his face. "Heh, it's complimentary, remember?" he said, shifting out of his seat. "It's...actually a tip. An apology, really." "What, to me? We might disagree, but you don't have to apologize." "No, it's an apology to the waitress. For what she's about to see." I snapped my fingers and walked to the door. A deep rumble echoed from James' stomach, and he fell to the ground, screaming. The smell of embers, of burnt esophagus and stomach lining slowly filled the room. He yelled, screamed, cried for his mother, writhing in a pool of saliva and blood, his fingers digging holes into the old diner floor. Smoke poured out of his belly in thick plumes. A guttural bellow of rage erupted from his scalded throat, as the patrons watched in horror as this man burned alive, from the inside out. It's the strongest ones that have the worst deaths. They can't just die quickly like normal people. I let out a ragged sigh, and walked out. Hands shaking, I lit myself a a cigarette with my fingertip, and got as far away from the diner as I could. "Fuck's sake, James," It was raining now. "I told you so." I am not a good man because all the good men are dead.	"I'm just going to talk to him," Rodgers says to himself, standing outside a house. It was the definition of suburban. A little garden out the front, a big oak tree and a novelty mailbox shaped like a salmon. He knocks on the door three times, to no answer, as it swings ajar. Rodgers walks inside, coughing as he does. Rotting food litters some of the floors, and a dozen broken bong's glass joins it. He carefully tiptoes around them all, lest he got an infection, and yells out. "Hello?" The words bounce around the walls, falling on deaf ears. "Jack?" Rodgers walks into the surrounding rooms to find nothing of interest, mostly more rotting food and massive quantities of narcotics. The stairs tease out to him, knowingly, as if to say 'Jack's up here.' They creak as he walks up, photos of a family not belonging to Jack neatly arranged on the wall. Once at the top, he stares down the hallway to see a door partially open. "Jack?" he says curiously and moves towards it. He pries the door open slightly and then immediately regrets that decision. Jack is sitting in a large chair with headphones on, his hand down his pants, and the TV blaring hardcore porn. Rodgers moves back into the hallway for a moment to collect himself, before thumping the door as loud as he can and moving inside. "Jack!" He yells, much to Jack's dismay. He jumps from his chair, throws the headphones off, but doesn't take his hand out of his pants. "Fuckin, what!" Jack yells, a furrowed brow and a bit of spit dripping out his mouth. "You ever heard of fucking knocking?" "I tried that," Rodgers remarks. "Fuck off," Jack says, getting back into his chair. With a touch of a remote, the porn turns off, and Jack breathes in deep. A small bong sits next to him which he lifts to his chest and prepares. "So what do you want Rodge?" "We've got a bit of a monster problem over in NYC. Destroying the whole place," "Yeah yeah, I saw that," Jack says, scooping some of his bowl into his cone piece. "Did you send Canary?" "She couldn't handle it," "Andromeda?" "He couldn't handle it," "Mech-zero?" Jack exclaims, now getting surprised. He lights the cone and begins to inhale deeply. "He died." Jack's eyes grow wide at the new bit of information, but still, continues to inhale. A few more seconds pass before he stops. "Aw fuck then," Jack says, talking while exhaling, "You really need bloody Jack then don't you?" A shit-eating grin blooms over Jack's face, as he stares up at Rodgers. "50 grand." "Deal." "Fantastic," Jack stands and looks at Rodgers, his erection flopping out his underwear. Rodgers stares at him for a few more pained moments before speaking. "Who's house is this," "Let's get going ay." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A heavily armored van is shifting through pedestrians with Jack inside. Chants from outside are thunderous in volume and full of joy. Eventually, the van comes to a stop. From outside, the cheering grows as a chaotic applause begins, no rhythm to its nature. "You ready Jack?" an unnamed soldier says, his hands fiddling with his gun. Jack grunts, finishes rolling his cigarette, lazily puts it in his mouth and walks towards the van's exit. He thumps on the side twice, and the door starts to open. "Probably not," Jack replies, pulling out a lighter and letting the nicotine hit his veins. The sunlight blurs his vision as he steps into the world, the cheers and claps immediately stopping. Sighing, he looks all around himself to see sad faces and angry civilians. "Are you not entertained!?" Jack yells, thrusting his arms above himself. He smiles, as the faces stare him down. He spins and spins, bathing in the glow of contempt, ecstatic in his self-indulgent joy. A roar in the distance breaks his attention. It's visceral and full of rage, a beast made of death waiting to dole out more. The crowd murmurs in fear, taking a collective step back. "Go get em, Jack!" A voice yells, a few more joining. It only took a few seconds before they were all cheering his name, and chanting for him to go. "Selfish buggers," Jack mutters under his breath. He takes a few steps forward, but The Beast beats him to it. With a crash, it descends just in front of him Jack. Wings made out of dark black, and a form made out of nightmares; it bubbles and seethes around as if it was a liquid. A thousand eyes cover it, all moving and changing shape at random, but all are staring at Jack. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Jack flicks it and lets it smolder into the ground. The crowd that was around only moments ago has fled, leaving Jack alone. The Beast swings, its horrendous claw slashing down at Jack. It rends the air as if it was mere paper, and slams down on Jack's head. As soon as it does, its whole body locks up. Its heartbeat slows, and it feels weary. The claw is embedded deep into Jack's skull, and he smiles. He places both hands on it and focuses. Slowly, the life drains out of The Beast and into Jack. Its knowledge burns into his consciousness, its desires flood his heart, and its unbound rage to his soul. The Beast collapses, dead; its life force now within Jack. A helicopter lands behind Jack a few minutes after The Beast's demise, and Rodgers steps out. "Good work," he says, holding his hand out to shake Jacks. "50 grand, straight to your bank account, just like you asked." "So Canary couldn't do this?" "No," "Andromeda?" "No," "Not even Mech-zero?" Jack picks up the cigarette he threw away and relights it. "Not even Mech-zero, Jack. You're a real hero." "100 grand." Jack inhales deeply and looks at Rodgers with a smile. "No deal," Rodgers says. "I wasn't askin'," Jack says, his smile fading. "I was tellin' mate. 100 grand. Or I'm going rogue on your ass." "That's suicide Jack," Rodgers remarks. "We'd have every superhero on you before nightfall." The last bit of ash drips out of the cigarette. Jack takes it from his lips, turns to The Beast, and throws the cigarette onto it. With a few steps, he passes Rodgers on his side and continues to walk. "They can try." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Check out /r/Rhysyjay for other neat stuff.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	Dreadnaught was the last of the Old Guard. The early heroes who had fought for the good of the world, for honor and justice and other long-dead ideals. they toppled dictatorships, brought aid to disaster-stricken regions and never accepted a penny. Dreadnaught himself had seen the greats of the age, had only been a young rookie when The Atom and Red Lightning and all the others were around. There had been villains, of course- bastards and madmen who used their powers for their own benefit, but they were always beaten back. The good guys always won in the end. Dreadnaught had long since stopped caring about "good" or "evil". He was standing on a wind-tossed rooftop in Dubai, staring at the bright artificial stars, gleaming skyscrapers and rivers of vehicles, spreading forever into the distance. He idly wondered what had happened to the old greats, Atom and Lightning and Sunbeam. He continued to think back, remembering the first changes.... It began when he and a few allies rescued some fat cat from an attempted assassination, somewhere in South Korea. When word came out that the cat had been smuggling weapons up north, and had betrayed the country, Dreadnaught shrugged. He wasn't a political sort. But Fat Cats are always good at redirecting blame- they called him and his friends mercenaries, not caring who he fought for as long as he had glory and attention. He heard insults and threats as he walked through the streets. He tried his best not to mind. He minded. He had never had much- Dreadnaught grew up in the inner city and came from a poor family. So when people said he, and others like him, was profiting from chaos and war and fear as he struggled to make ends meet and ate third-rate prepackaged meals- his blood boiled. Most heroes were offered work when their identities were revealed- Private armies, government work, criminal organizations. He decided that if people thought he was a thug- then it didn't hurt to do a thug's job. He accepted a job offer, then another, and another. His pay was high and his scruples few. He moved out of the slums and into a high rise apartment. People kept calling him a crook and a monster, but it hurt less now that it was true. Others joined him, fighting wars and steal secrets for the highest bidder. That was how it had happened. The world was a different place now than it was. Supers were identified from birth and signed on with one of the big corporations at the age of 12. There were no more armies anymore, no more citizen soldiers. Just hired guns with enough firepower to level cities. Some Supers still fought the good fight, of course. They lived on the edges of the world, striking out against the "Man" in what little ways they could. But most Supers lived quiet lives, turning down the offers of big corporations, and not making a fuss of their powers for fear of attracting too much attention. Dreadnaught looked down from the glinting lights and turned towards the desert. His contact would be arriving soon, with his pay, and likely another job. He was one of the oldest men in the business, after all. He never failed, he never quit a job until it was done. His skills were highly valued.	"I'm just going to talk to him," Rodgers says to himself, standing outside a house. It was the definition of suburban. A little garden out the front, a big oak tree and a novelty mailbox shaped like a salmon. He knocks on the door three times, to no answer, as it swings ajar. Rodgers walks inside, coughing as he does. Rotting food litters some of the floors, and a dozen broken bong's glass joins it. He carefully tiptoes around them all, lest he got an infection, and yells out. "Hello?" The words bounce around the walls, falling on deaf ears. "Jack?" Rodgers walks into the surrounding rooms to find nothing of interest, mostly more rotting food and massive quantities of narcotics. The stairs tease out to him, knowingly, as if to say 'Jack's up here.' They creak as he walks up, photos of a family not belonging to Jack neatly arranged on the wall. Once at the top, he stares down the hallway to see a door partially open. "Jack?" he says curiously and moves towards it. He pries the door open slightly and then immediately regrets that decision. Jack is sitting in a large chair with headphones on, his hand down his pants, and the TV blaring hardcore porn. Rodgers moves back into the hallway for a moment to collect himself, before thumping the door as loud as he can and moving inside. "Jack!" He yells, much to Jack's dismay. He jumps from his chair, throws the headphones off, but doesn't take his hand out of his pants. "Fuckin, what!" Jack yells, a furrowed brow and a bit of spit dripping out his mouth. "You ever heard of fucking knocking?" "I tried that," Rodgers remarks. "Fuck off," Jack says, getting back into his chair. With a touch of a remote, the porn turns off, and Jack breathes in deep. A small bong sits next to him which he lifts to his chest and prepares. "So what do you want Rodge?" "We've got a bit of a monster problem over in NYC. Destroying the whole place," "Yeah yeah, I saw that," Jack says, scooping some of his bowl into his cone piece. "Did you send Canary?" "She couldn't handle it," "Andromeda?" "He couldn't handle it," "Mech-zero?" Jack exclaims, now getting surprised. He lights the cone and begins to inhale deeply. "He died." Jack's eyes grow wide at the new bit of information, but still, continues to inhale. A few more seconds pass before he stops. "Aw fuck then," Jack says, talking while exhaling, "You really need bloody Jack then don't you?" A shit-eating grin blooms over Jack's face, as he stares up at Rodgers. "50 grand." "Deal." "Fantastic," Jack stands and looks at Rodgers, his erection flopping out his underwear. Rodgers stares at him for a few more pained moments before speaking. "Who's house is this," "Let's get going ay." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A heavily armored van is shifting through pedestrians with Jack inside. Chants from outside are thunderous in volume and full of joy. Eventually, the van comes to a stop. From outside, the cheering grows as a chaotic applause begins, no rhythm to its nature. "You ready Jack?" an unnamed soldier says, his hands fiddling with his gun. Jack grunts, finishes rolling his cigarette, lazily puts it in his mouth and walks towards the van's exit. He thumps on the side twice, and the door starts to open. "Probably not," Jack replies, pulling out a lighter and letting the nicotine hit his veins. The sunlight blurs his vision as he steps into the world, the cheers and claps immediately stopping. Sighing, he looks all around himself to see sad faces and angry civilians. "Are you not entertained!?" Jack yells, thrusting his arms above himself. He smiles, as the faces stare him down. He spins and spins, bathing in the glow of contempt, ecstatic in his self-indulgent joy. A roar in the distance breaks his attention. It's visceral and full of rage, a beast made of death waiting to dole out more. The crowd murmurs in fear, taking a collective step back. "Go get em, Jack!" A voice yells, a few more joining. It only took a few seconds before they were all cheering his name, and chanting for him to go. "Selfish buggers," Jack mutters under his breath. He takes a few steps forward, but The Beast beats him to it. With a crash, it descends just in front of him Jack. Wings made out of dark black, and a form made out of nightmares; it bubbles and seethes around as if it was a liquid. A thousand eyes cover it, all moving and changing shape at random, but all are staring at Jack. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Jack flicks it and lets it smolder into the ground. The crowd that was around only moments ago has fled, leaving Jack alone. The Beast swings, its horrendous claw slashing down at Jack. It rends the air as if it was mere paper, and slams down on Jack's head. As soon as it does, its whole body locks up. Its heartbeat slows, and it feels weary. The claw is embedded deep into Jack's skull, and he smiles. He places both hands on it and focuses. Slowly, the life drains out of The Beast and into Jack. Its knowledge burns into his consciousness, its desires flood his heart, and its unbound rage to his soul. The Beast collapses, dead; its life force now within Jack. A helicopter lands behind Jack a few minutes after The Beast's demise, and Rodgers steps out. "Good work," he says, holding his hand out to shake Jacks. "50 grand, straight to your bank account, just like you asked." "So Canary couldn't do this?" "No," "Andromeda?" "No," "Not even Mech-zero?" Jack picks up the cigarette he threw away and relights it. "Not even Mech-zero, Jack. You're a real hero." "100 grand." Jack inhales deeply and looks at Rodgers with a smile. "No deal," Rodgers says. "I wasn't askin'," Jack says, his smile fading. "I was tellin' mate. 100 grand. Or I'm going rogue on your ass." "That's suicide Jack," Rodgers remarks. "We'd have every superhero on you before nightfall." The last bit of ash drips out of the cigarette. Jack takes it from his lips, turns to The Beast, and throws the cigarette onto it. With a few steps, he passes Rodgers on his side and continues to walk. "They can try." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Check out /r/Rhysyjay for other neat stuff.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	3:30 AM, Atlanta The phone rang. "This had better be worth waking my ass up." "Flux. $500,000. If we lose power--." "I'll do it if you make it six. Where?" The caller accepted, a little too quickly. Damn. Could have got more. The caller gave the address to a malfunctioning power station, and thanked Flux for assisting Westshore specialty. "An insurance agent, huh?" Well, it makes sense. Superheroes were a damn sight cheaper than losing a court case, these days. Flux had been a generous soul. But not anymore. He loved music. When he first discovered his power, all those years ago, he used his power over electricity to give fledgling bands free power, so they could practice anywhere, anytime. They didn't even have to plug their equipment into anything! It made for some great hipster music videos. Back then, he sometimes helped clean up metal debris from car crashes. Other days, he donated electricity to his poorer friends, or gave the homeless shelter free electricity for a few hours, to run the A/C during the hot summer months. That all changed after a fateful day a few years ago. Flux prevented a plane crash by using electromagnetism to lower it safely to the ground. After that, Flux became famous. And with fame, came more calls for help. But they all wanted it for free. Non-stop, day and night. Not always for heroic deeds, either. One kid wanted him to take out the power at his office so he could spend that day with his girlfriend. He grew fed up with the non-stop pleas for help. Fed up as he was, he was too poor to buy food. Even superheroes have to eat, you know. So, Flux started charging for his powers. This sparked outrage at first - Headlines like "Does Flux's greed have no limit?" dominated the news cycle - because people had grown used to the impossible being done for them for free. However, capitalism won the day - other heroes in other cities borrowed flux's idea. They too had been worked to the bone, and for what? To go home to a creaky apartment without enough money to even wash their spandex? These days, heroes primarily did boring but valuable things, such as prevent power outages, stop floods from damaging property, put out fires, that sort of thing. Some chose to do pro-bono work at times, but it was not expected the way that it was in years past. Flux sighed as he drove to the plant. He could easily power the grid from the sidewalk outside his house, but the insurance company would have a fit and cut his pay. Last time he did that, they charged him for damaging the wiring, which cut his $250,000 reward down to a mere $15,000. Looks like another couple hours of maintaining a boring old 60 hz stream...	"I'm just going to talk to him," Rodgers says to himself, standing outside a house. It was the definition of suburban. A little garden out the front, a big oak tree and a novelty mailbox shaped like a salmon. He knocks on the door three times, to no answer, as it swings ajar. Rodgers walks inside, coughing as he does. Rotting food litters some of the floors, and a dozen broken bong's glass joins it. He carefully tiptoes around them all, lest he got an infection, and yells out. "Hello?" The words bounce around the walls, falling on deaf ears. "Jack?" Rodgers walks into the surrounding rooms to find nothing of interest, mostly more rotting food and massive quantities of narcotics. The stairs tease out to him, knowingly, as if to say 'Jack's up here.' They creak as he walks up, photos of a family not belonging to Jack neatly arranged on the wall. Once at the top, he stares down the hallway to see a door partially open. "Jack?" he says curiously and moves towards it. He pries the door open slightly and then immediately regrets that decision. Jack is sitting in a large chair with headphones on, his hand down his pants, and the TV blaring hardcore porn. Rodgers moves back into the hallway for a moment to collect himself, before thumping the door as loud as he can and moving inside. "Jack!" He yells, much to Jack's dismay. He jumps from his chair, throws the headphones off, but doesn't take his hand out of his pants. "Fuckin, what!" Jack yells, a furrowed brow and a bit of spit dripping out his mouth. "You ever heard of fucking knocking?" "I tried that," Rodgers remarks. "Fuck off," Jack says, getting back into his chair. With a touch of a remote, the porn turns off, and Jack breathes in deep. A small bong sits next to him which he lifts to his chest and prepares. "So what do you want Rodge?" "We've got a bit of a monster problem over in NYC. Destroying the whole place," "Yeah yeah, I saw that," Jack says, scooping some of his bowl into his cone piece. "Did you send Canary?" "She couldn't handle it," "Andromeda?" "He couldn't handle it," "Mech-zero?" Jack exclaims, now getting surprised. He lights the cone and begins to inhale deeply. "He died." Jack's eyes grow wide at the new bit of information, but still, continues to inhale. A few more seconds pass before he stops. "Aw fuck then," Jack says, talking while exhaling, "You really need bloody Jack then don't you?" A shit-eating grin blooms over Jack's face, as he stares up at Rodgers. "50 grand." "Deal." "Fantastic," Jack stands and looks at Rodgers, his erection flopping out his underwear. Rodgers stares at him for a few more pained moments before speaking. "Who's house is this," "Let's get going ay." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A heavily armored van is shifting through pedestrians with Jack inside. Chants from outside are thunderous in volume and full of joy. Eventually, the van comes to a stop. From outside, the cheering grows as a chaotic applause begins, no rhythm to its nature. "You ready Jack?" an unnamed soldier says, his hands fiddling with his gun. Jack grunts, finishes rolling his cigarette, lazily puts it in his mouth and walks towards the van's exit. He thumps on the side twice, and the door starts to open. "Probably not," Jack replies, pulling out a lighter and letting the nicotine hit his veins. The sunlight blurs his vision as he steps into the world, the cheers and claps immediately stopping. Sighing, he looks all around himself to see sad faces and angry civilians. "Are you not entertained!?" Jack yells, thrusting his arms above himself. He smiles, as the faces stare him down. He spins and spins, bathing in the glow of contempt, ecstatic in his self-indulgent joy. A roar in the distance breaks his attention. It's visceral and full of rage, a beast made of death waiting to dole out more. The crowd murmurs in fear, taking a collective step back. "Go get em, Jack!" A voice yells, a few more joining. It only took a few seconds before they were all cheering his name, and chanting for him to go. "Selfish buggers," Jack mutters under his breath. He takes a few steps forward, but The Beast beats him to it. With a crash, it descends just in front of him Jack. Wings made out of dark black, and a form made out of nightmares; it bubbles and seethes around as if it was a liquid. A thousand eyes cover it, all moving and changing shape at random, but all are staring at Jack. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Jack flicks it and lets it smolder into the ground. The crowd that was around only moments ago has fled, leaving Jack alone. The Beast swings, its horrendous claw slashing down at Jack. It rends the air as if it was mere paper, and slams down on Jack's head. As soon as it does, its whole body locks up. Its heartbeat slows, and it feels weary. The claw is embedded deep into Jack's skull, and he smiles. He places both hands on it and focuses. Slowly, the life drains out of The Beast and into Jack. Its knowledge burns into his consciousness, its desires flood his heart, and its unbound rage to his soul. The Beast collapses, dead; its life force now within Jack. A helicopter lands behind Jack a few minutes after The Beast's demise, and Rodgers steps out. "Good work," he says, holding his hand out to shake Jacks. "50 grand, straight to your bank account, just like you asked." "So Canary couldn't do this?" "No," "Andromeda?" "No," "Not even Mech-zero?" Jack picks up the cigarette he threw away and relights it. "Not even Mech-zero, Jack. You're a real hero." "100 grand." Jack inhales deeply and looks at Rodgers with a smile. "No deal," Rodgers says. "I wasn't askin'," Jack says, his smile fading. "I was tellin' mate. 100 grand. Or I'm going rogue on your ass." "That's suicide Jack," Rodgers remarks. "We'd have every superhero on you before nightfall." The last bit of ash drips out of the cigarette. Jack takes it from his lips, turns to The Beast, and throws the cigarette onto it. With a few steps, he passes Rodgers on his side and continues to walk. "They can try." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Check out /r/Rhysyjay for other neat stuff.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	The pen slips, drawing a jagged line along the 'Cash' field of the deposit slip. I sigh and look around. Whatever jogged my elbow nudges me in the ribs this time, and I reach up to pull the headphones away from my ear. "You, too, tiny. Hands where we can see 'em, down on the floor with the rest. Nice and easy." The guy is wearing a ski mask, a little under six feet tall, a sandy blond eye brow just visible above one of his blue eyes. Those eyes look fierce, but there's a note in his voice on the edge of panic. Oh, and he's waving a hand gun in my face, reaching up so that it's just under my nose. Poor trigger discipline, I note, suppressing a reflex to break his arm and take the weapon. I take a moment to look around the interior of the bank. Two more masked individuals, the three tellers with their hands stretched out on the counter top, maybe half a dozen other people who were waiting in line. They're prone, now, hands splayed wide on the floor. "C'mon, don't make this hard," says Mr. Blue Eyes, gesturing impatiently with the gun. "Don't try to be a hero, big guy." "No trouble," I agree, easing myself on the floor. "No trouble," I repeat for emphasis. Hero. Was I ever one of those? Doesn't feel like it, these days. From the floor, I watch as two of the other robbers escort a teller, at gunpoint, out of sight, presumably in search of a vault, or something. Do banks still have vaults? I guess they would, for deposit boxes, if nothing else. I gently draw on the Aether and attune my hearing for a moment, since that's not breaking any laws. Out on the street, traffic is continuing as normal. People walking by, cars driving. No sound of approaching sirens. I open my senses a little more and the room suddenly blooms with phantom colors and sensations. They're a little dimmer over in the corner, and I turn my attention there. She's good. Not just a wild talent, but someone who has done a lot of practice. Her touch on the Aether stills it in a wide area around her, bleeding through to the Material and probably blanketing the whole block outside the bank with a sense of calm, even a slight euphoria, deflecting attention away from the bank. I stop channeling and return to the present. Mr. Blue Eyes is prodding me with his boot. "Hand it over, man, I know you got something." With a sigh, I reach slowly into my pocket and take out my battered walkman. "Can I at least keep the tape, man? Leave me that much? Ain't easy to find, these days." "You some kinda hipster, old man?" "Only if 'hipster' is slang for 'dead broke.'" "What's on it, anyway? "AC/DC. Got it when I was in highschool." "Sure man. Now the rest." I put the tape back in my pocket and bring out the roll of bills I was going to deposit. When I hesitate, he lunges, snatching the wad from my hand before quickly backing up to what he believes is out of reach. After a moment, I settle back to the ground. Blue Eyes heads over to the family next to me. The kid's mom cringes as she rifles through her purse. Blue Eyes just takes it from her, tosses it to one of his goons, waves his gun a bit, then snatches her iPhone and jams it into a pocket. He takes the kid's phone, too. Kid looks like he's maybe twelve. He's got that look on his face, like he's imagined how he'd save everyone from a situation just like this, and now it's here and he doesn't like what he just learned about himself. "Ain't worth it, son." He looks at me and I can see the angry tears standing in his eyes. He's angry at the robbers, but mostly at himself. I know. "It's just a phone. Plenty of those. Ain't worth your life or health. Let it go." "If I were a Hero, I'd stop 'em," he mutters. "Then you'd go to prison right beside 'em. Gotta have a contract," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "No contract, you're just a vigilante, and those're criminals, too." He gets quiet. That's different. Most kids his age, they would explode at me, believing their anger. This one stops and thinks. A gunshot sounds from somewhere I can't see and raised voices arguing soon follow. A woman, one of the other tellers, screams and begins crying, and I suddenly feel an intense pull as the robber in the corner, eyes screwed shut in concentration, draws more deeply on the Aether to keep the bank veiled from attention. At the rate the ambient energies are being used up, this is going to end soon, one way or another. A piece of paper, folded into an air plane, drifts to a stop in front of me a moment before the pencil hits me in the face. I look over at the kid, and he motions me to open it. I begin reading. "I, Robin Andrew Greyson, seek to engage the services of the undersigned. At the rate of twenty dollars an hour, for a span of no fewer than two hours and totaling no more than six hours, the undersigned will secure the person, possessions, and any premises surrounding myself from injury, theft, or undue disturbance." I look up at him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. He makes a get-on-with-it gesture. I pick up the pencil, sign the page, and fold it back into a plane, and loft it back to him. He picks it up and reads it. "Powerage?" "Never mind." Three robbers. No, four, that one with the veil keeps sliding herself out of my perception. Only two of them in this room. Nine hostages. Eight, now? I don't know. Most of the ambient power has been used up. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the pencil. Blue Eyes is closest. "Passing notes? Why don't you share with the cl-" is as far as he gets before six inches of sharpened wood and graphite, imbued with Aether to keep it from breaking, gets rammed up his nose, into his brain, killing him. It comes free with a light tug, and I fling it, overhand, at the woman in the corner. She comes out of her deep focus, looks down, and sees the small blossom of red on her shirt, just above her navel. I reach her just before she can use the panicked breath she just took to scream, closing a hand over her nose and mouth. If I can keep this quiet, I might be able to get the other two before any more hostages ge- I come back to myself, fetched up against the far wall, and there's a ringing in my ears. I throw myself open to the Aether, and the sudden contact with that other realm shocks me fully back to my senses. There's almost nothing left there to draw, but I pull what I can manage quickly, recklessly winding the energies around my frayed nerves to steady my balance and stop the spinning in my head. Then I shut off the connection, surging forward in a running crouch. The robber who hit me with the essence blast is in bad shape. Between the gut wound and the backlash of channeling so much raw power, she's unconscious, probably not getting up again without medical attention. I pull off the tattered remains of my shirt and press it over the widening bloodstain on her belly. "Alright, everyone out, quick and quiet. You," I say, pointing to a middle aged man, "toss me that and then give that guy a hand." One of the other men, looks like some kind of contractor, got caught on the fringe of the blast, seems like he's having trouble sitting up. "When you're out, find a phone and call the cops." Looking around, faces are frozen in disbelief, looking at me in shock. "Go," I sort of whisper-shout, and they get moving. "What the hell was all that noise? Jim, you and Marcia fighting again?" I bean the third man with a paperweight, hard enough to dent the front of his forehead, as he walks out from the one of the spaces behind the counter. A startled, "what the hell," comes from somewhere behind him. I drag the channeler out the front of doors of the bank, then out of sight of any windows. Probably shouldn't have, but I can't keep pressure on her injury and fight the last guy at the same time. Robin finds me. "Thanks." He hands me a twenty dollar bill. "Just... hold on to that piece of paper. I'm not a lawyer, but it might hold up if anyone decides to press charges." "I will," he says, face serious. I tuck the bill into my pocket, then freeze. Slowly, sadly, I bring out the plastic fragments and length of magnetic tape that had once been my favorite album, shattered by the force of an Aetheric essence blast. "Kid, you know anywhere I can get a cassette tape of AC/DC?" "I don't know what either of those things are." I think for a moment. "... Do you know any 'hipsters'?"	"I'm just going to talk to him," Rodgers says to himself, standing outside a house. It was the definition of suburban. A little garden out the front, a big oak tree and a novelty mailbox shaped like a salmon. He knocks on the door three times, to no answer, as it swings ajar. Rodgers walks inside, coughing as he does. Rotting food litters some of the floors, and a dozen broken bong's glass joins it. He carefully tiptoes around them all, lest he got an infection, and yells out. "Hello?" The words bounce around the walls, falling on deaf ears. "Jack?" Rodgers walks into the surrounding rooms to find nothing of interest, mostly more rotting food and massive quantities of narcotics. The stairs tease out to him, knowingly, as if to say 'Jack's up here.' They creak as he walks up, photos of a family not belonging to Jack neatly arranged on the wall. Once at the top, he stares down the hallway to see a door partially open. "Jack?" he says curiously and moves towards it. He pries the door open slightly and then immediately regrets that decision. Jack is sitting in a large chair with headphones on, his hand down his pants, and the TV blaring hardcore porn. Rodgers moves back into the hallway for a moment to collect himself, before thumping the door as loud as he can and moving inside. "Jack!" He yells, much to Jack's dismay. He jumps from his chair, throws the headphones off, but doesn't take his hand out of his pants. "Fuckin, what!" Jack yells, a furrowed brow and a bit of spit dripping out his mouth. "You ever heard of fucking knocking?" "I tried that," Rodgers remarks. "Fuck off," Jack says, getting back into his chair. With a touch of a remote, the porn turns off, and Jack breathes in deep. A small bong sits next to him which he lifts to his chest and prepares. "So what do you want Rodge?" "We've got a bit of a monster problem over in NYC. Destroying the whole place," "Yeah yeah, I saw that," Jack says, scooping some of his bowl into his cone piece. "Did you send Canary?" "She couldn't handle it," "Andromeda?" "He couldn't handle it," "Mech-zero?" Jack exclaims, now getting surprised. He lights the cone and begins to inhale deeply. "He died." Jack's eyes grow wide at the new bit of information, but still, continues to inhale. A few more seconds pass before he stops. "Aw fuck then," Jack says, talking while exhaling, "You really need bloody Jack then don't you?" A shit-eating grin blooms over Jack's face, as he stares up at Rodgers. "50 grand." "Deal." "Fantastic," Jack stands and looks at Rodgers, his erection flopping out his underwear. Rodgers stares at him for a few more pained moments before speaking. "Who's house is this," "Let's get going ay." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A heavily armored van is shifting through pedestrians with Jack inside. Chants from outside are thunderous in volume and full of joy. Eventually, the van comes to a stop. From outside, the cheering grows as a chaotic applause begins, no rhythm to its nature. "You ready Jack?" an unnamed soldier says, his hands fiddling with his gun. Jack grunts, finishes rolling his cigarette, lazily puts it in his mouth and walks towards the van's exit. He thumps on the side twice, and the door starts to open. "Probably not," Jack replies, pulling out a lighter and letting the nicotine hit his veins. The sunlight blurs his vision as he steps into the world, the cheers and claps immediately stopping. Sighing, he looks all around himself to see sad faces and angry civilians. "Are you not entertained!?" Jack yells, thrusting his arms above himself. He smiles, as the faces stare him down. He spins and spins, bathing in the glow of contempt, ecstatic in his self-indulgent joy. A roar in the distance breaks his attention. It's visceral and full of rage, a beast made of death waiting to dole out more. The crowd murmurs in fear, taking a collective step back. "Go get em, Jack!" A voice yells, a few more joining. It only took a few seconds before they were all cheering his name, and chanting for him to go. "Selfish buggers," Jack mutters under his breath. He takes a few steps forward, but The Beast beats him to it. With a crash, it descends just in front of him Jack. Wings made out of dark black, and a form made out of nightmares; it bubbles and seethes around as if it was a liquid. A thousand eyes cover it, all moving and changing shape at random, but all are staring at Jack. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Jack flicks it and lets it smolder into the ground. The crowd that was around only moments ago has fled, leaving Jack alone. The Beast swings, its horrendous claw slashing down at Jack. It rends the air as if it was mere paper, and slams down on Jack's head. As soon as it does, its whole body locks up. Its heartbeat slows, and it feels weary. The claw is embedded deep into Jack's skull, and he smiles. He places both hands on it and focuses. Slowly, the life drains out of The Beast and into Jack. Its knowledge burns into his consciousness, its desires flood his heart, and its unbound rage to his soul. The Beast collapses, dead; its life force now within Jack. A helicopter lands behind Jack a few minutes after The Beast's demise, and Rodgers steps out. "Good work," he says, holding his hand out to shake Jacks. "50 grand, straight to your bank account, just like you asked." "So Canary couldn't do this?" "No," "Andromeda?" "No," "Not even Mech-zero?" Jack picks up the cigarette he threw away and relights it. "Not even Mech-zero, Jack. You're a real hero." "100 grand." Jack inhales deeply and looks at Rodgers with a smile. "No deal," Rodgers says. "I wasn't askin'," Jack says, his smile fading. "I was tellin' mate. 100 grand. Or I'm going rogue on your ass." "That's suicide Jack," Rodgers remarks. "We'd have every superhero on you before nightfall." The last bit of ash drips out of the cigarette. Jack takes it from his lips, turns to The Beast, and throws the cigarette onto it. With a few steps, he passes Rodgers on his side and continues to walk. "They can try." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Check out /r/Rhysyjay for other neat stuff.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	Dreadnaught was the last of the Old Guard. The early heroes who had fought for the good of the world, for honor and justice and other long-dead ideals. they toppled dictatorships, brought aid to disaster-stricken regions and never accepted a penny. Dreadnaught himself had seen the greats of the age, had only been a young rookie when The Atom and Red Lightning and all the others were around. There had been villains, of course- bastards and madmen who used their powers for their own benefit, but they were always beaten back. The good guys always won in the end. Dreadnaught had long since stopped caring about "good" or "evil". He was standing on a wind-tossed rooftop in Dubai, staring at the bright artificial stars, gleaming skyscrapers and rivers of vehicles, spreading forever into the distance. He idly wondered what had happened to the old greats, Atom and Lightning and Sunbeam. He continued to think back, remembering the first changes.... It began when he and a few allies rescued some fat cat from an attempted assassination, somewhere in South Korea. When word came out that the cat had been smuggling weapons up north, and had betrayed the country, Dreadnaught shrugged. He wasn't a political sort. But Fat Cats are always good at redirecting blame- they called him and his friends mercenaries, not caring who he fought for as long as he had glory and attention. He heard insults and threats as he walked through the streets. He tried his best not to mind. He minded. He had never had much- Dreadnaught grew up in the inner city and came from a poor family. So when people said he, and others like him, was profiting from chaos and war and fear as he struggled to make ends meet and ate third-rate prepackaged meals- his blood boiled. Most heroes were offered work when their identities were revealed- Private armies, government work, criminal organizations. He decided that if people thought he was a thug- then it didn't hurt to do a thug's job. He accepted a job offer, then another, and another. His pay was high and his scruples few. He moved out of the slums and into a high rise apartment. People kept calling him a crook and a monster, but it hurt less now that it was true. Others joined him, fighting wars and steal secrets for the highest bidder. That was how it had happened. The world was a different place now than it was. Supers were identified from birth and signed on with one of the big corporations at the age of 12. There were no more armies anymore, no more citizen soldiers. Just hired guns with enough firepower to level cities. Some Supers still fought the good fight, of course. They lived on the edges of the world, striking out against the "Man" in what little ways they could. But most Supers lived quiet lives, turning down the offers of big corporations, and not making a fuss of their powers for fear of attracting too much attention. Dreadnaught looked down from the glinting lights and turned towards the desert. His contact would be arriving soon, with his pay, and likely another job. He was one of the oldest men in the business, after all. He never failed, he never quit a job until it was done. His skills were highly valued.	I am not a good man. James looked down at the table, sipping his water. Always the same look when he's got something on his mind. "What're you ordering," he says with a low voice. "I hear the, uh, steak and fries are great." "Maybe just a coffee." I drummed the table lightly with my fingertips. "Look, J, I know that face. What's on your mind, man?" He hesitated, then looked up. His eyes were tired, dull bags underneath. I've never seen the guy look so old. "The, ah, warehouse explosion last night," His eyes turned hard. "That was you, wasn't it?" I chewed on my tongue for a bit, then sighed. "It might have been overkill, but the Stella's pay me well. Honestly, I think what I did preserved more lives. You know how an all-out war between them and the Callaghan's would turn out?" He rested his head in his palm, half-listening to my bullshit. "They're honestly talking about you, J. You've made yourself a name, fucking up their operations like this. They'll be out for you soon if you don't stop." I lowered my voice as the waitress approached. "What'll it be today, boys?" she said, her brown curls bouncing as she whipped out a pen and a smile. "Oh, Jamie, back again? I knew you couldn't get enough of us." "You know it. I think I'll have that famous steak-frites you guys make. Friend over here'll have a cup of coffee." He winked. "Now I hope you aren't planning to pay. You already do enough good for us. Hell, was it just last week you took care of that gang roaming the streets at night. Constant B&Es in a little street like this. Unbelievable." She scribbled on the pad in a practiced fashion, scampering back to the kitchen with that little smile of hers. James' face turned serious again. "We've had this talk plenty of times. You already know the spiel." I nodded, stifling a yawn. "And you know it's never too late." I shook my head. "James, I follow the money. We all do. Maybe your moonlighting as a hero makes you feel all warm-and-fuzzy inside, but warm-and-fuzzy doesn't pay the bill. Unless you're the Phoenix or Hothead, warm-and-fuzzy means you freeze to death, out in the cold, when winter hits." He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "It's not about the money. It's about making a change. All these changes start small. Grassroots. But when you get the idea into people's heads, they start to think 'Hm, maybe I can do good. Maybe good is what we need.'" I could tell he's been through this speech with others before. I could almost smell their rejection and skepticism wafting off his body. Yet I saw the fire in his belly. "James, this hero business. It's eating at you. I know you think you're doing the right thing, but the right things aren't always the right thing. This," I waved my hands for dramatic effect, "vigilantism doesn't fix anything. The Golden Age of heroes is over. For every one upstanding guy, two assholes would pop up. You know that's how actual bad guys work. They're attracted to conflict like mosquitos to flesh. The way we do it now...it's nice. It works." "It's selfish," James spat out. He looked away from me, out the window at the busy street. The trees were in full bloom, sunshine casting refulgent shadows along the noontime traffic. We sat quietly for a time, the food eventually arriving, piping hot. "I don't know what to do anymore," James whispered under his breath. "I can't do this alone." I leaned in, resting a hand on his shoulder. A small smirk fell on his face. "What're you trying to do, blow me up?" he said, chuckling lightly. I smiled back, stealing a handful of fries. "James, buddy. I'm just saying, being a hero isn't for me. I'm not sure it's for you either. I can give a good word to my boss. Start you on double pay. Do you really want to do this hero stuff though? It's just all swimming upstream." His face was solemn, like that of a statue. "Yes. Even if no one joins, yes. It is right." I sighed deeply, and fell back in my seat. He ate with a stony, distant look on his face. I finished my coffee, patted James on the shoulder, then slapped a twenty on the table. A smile broke onto his face. "Heh, it's complimentary, remember?" he said, shifting out of his seat. "It's...actually a tip. An apology, really." "What, to me? We might disagree, but you don't have to apologize." "No, it's an apology to the waitress. For what she's about to see." I snapped my fingers and walked to the door. A deep rumble echoed from James' stomach, and he fell to the ground, screaming. The smell of embers, of burnt esophagus and stomach lining slowly filled the room. He yelled, screamed, cried for his mother, writhing in a pool of saliva and blood, his fingers digging holes into the old diner floor. Smoke poured out of his belly in thick plumes. A guttural bellow of rage erupted from his scalded throat, as the patrons watched in horror as this man burned alive, from the inside out. It's the strongest ones that have the worst deaths. They can't just die quickly like normal people. I let out a ragged sigh, and walked out. Hands shaking, I lit myself a a cigarette with my fingertip, and got as far away from the diner as I could. "Fuck's sake, James," It was raining now. "I told you so." I am not a good man because all the good men are dead.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	3:30 AM, Atlanta The phone rang. "This had better be worth waking my ass up." "Flux. $500,000. If we lose power--." "I'll do it if you make it six. Where?" The caller accepted, a little too quickly. Damn. Could have got more. The caller gave the address to a malfunctioning power station, and thanked Flux for assisting Westshore specialty. "An insurance agent, huh?" Well, it makes sense. Superheroes were a damn sight cheaper than losing a court case, these days. Flux had been a generous soul. But not anymore. He loved music. When he first discovered his power, all those years ago, he used his power over electricity to give fledgling bands free power, so they could practice anywhere, anytime. They didn't even have to plug their equipment into anything! It made for some great hipster music videos. Back then, he sometimes helped clean up metal debris from car crashes. Other days, he donated electricity to his poorer friends, or gave the homeless shelter free electricity for a few hours, to run the A/C during the hot summer months. That all changed after a fateful day a few years ago. Flux prevented a plane crash by using electromagnetism to lower it safely to the ground. After that, Flux became famous. And with fame, came more calls for help. But they all wanted it for free. Non-stop, day and night. Not always for heroic deeds, either. One kid wanted him to take out the power at his office so he could spend that day with his girlfriend. He grew fed up with the non-stop pleas for help. Fed up as he was, he was too poor to buy food. Even superheroes have to eat, you know. So, Flux started charging for his powers. This sparked outrage at first - Headlines like "Does Flux's greed have no limit?" dominated the news cycle - because people had grown used to the impossible being done for them for free. However, capitalism won the day - other heroes in other cities borrowed flux's idea. They too had been worked to the bone, and for what? To go home to a creaky apartment without enough money to even wash their spandex? These days, heroes primarily did boring but valuable things, such as prevent power outages, stop floods from damaging property, put out fires, that sort of thing. Some chose to do pro-bono work at times, but it was not expected the way that it was in years past. Flux sighed as he drove to the plant. He could easily power the grid from the sidewalk outside his house, but the insurance company would have a fit and cut his pay. Last time he did that, they charged him for damaging the wiring, which cut his $250,000 reward down to a mere $15,000. Looks like another couple hours of maintaining a boring old 60 hz stream...	I am not a good man. James looked down at the table, sipping his water. Always the same look when he's got something on his mind. "What're you ordering," he says with a low voice. "I hear the, uh, steak and fries are great." "Maybe just a coffee." I drummed the table lightly with my fingertips. "Look, J, I know that face. What's on your mind, man?" He hesitated, then looked up. His eyes were tired, dull bags underneath. I've never seen the guy look so old. "The, ah, warehouse explosion last night," His eyes turned hard. "That was you, wasn't it?" I chewed on my tongue for a bit, then sighed. "It might have been overkill, but the Stella's pay me well. Honestly, I think what I did preserved more lives. You know how an all-out war between them and the Callaghan's would turn out?" He rested his head in his palm, half-listening to my bullshit. "They're honestly talking about you, J. You've made yourself a name, fucking up their operations like this. They'll be out for you soon if you don't stop." I lowered my voice as the waitress approached. "What'll it be today, boys?" she said, her brown curls bouncing as she whipped out a pen and a smile. "Oh, Jamie, back again? I knew you couldn't get enough of us." "You know it. I think I'll have that famous steak-frites you guys make. Friend over here'll have a cup of coffee." He winked. "Now I hope you aren't planning to pay. You already do enough good for us. Hell, was it just last week you took care of that gang roaming the streets at night. Constant B&Es in a little street like this. Unbelievable." She scribbled on the pad in a practiced fashion, scampering back to the kitchen with that little smile of hers. James' face turned serious again. "We've had this talk plenty of times. You already know the spiel." I nodded, stifling a yawn. "And you know it's never too late." I shook my head. "James, I follow the money. We all do. Maybe your moonlighting as a hero makes you feel all warm-and-fuzzy inside, but warm-and-fuzzy doesn't pay the bill. Unless you're the Phoenix or Hothead, warm-and-fuzzy means you freeze to death, out in the cold, when winter hits." He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "It's not about the money. It's about making a change. All these changes start small. Grassroots. But when you get the idea into people's heads, they start to think 'Hm, maybe I can do good. Maybe good is what we need.'" I could tell he's been through this speech with others before. I could almost smell their rejection and skepticism wafting off his body. Yet I saw the fire in his belly. "James, this hero business. It's eating at you. I know you think you're doing the right thing, but the right things aren't always the right thing. This," I waved my hands for dramatic effect, "vigilantism doesn't fix anything. The Golden Age of heroes is over. For every one upstanding guy, two assholes would pop up. You know that's how actual bad guys work. They're attracted to conflict like mosquitos to flesh. The way we do it now...it's nice. It works." "It's selfish," James spat out. He looked away from me, out the window at the busy street. The trees were in full bloom, sunshine casting refulgent shadows along the noontime traffic. We sat quietly for a time, the food eventually arriving, piping hot. "I don't know what to do anymore," James whispered under his breath. "I can't do this alone." I leaned in, resting a hand on his shoulder. A small smirk fell on his face. "What're you trying to do, blow me up?" he said, chuckling lightly. I smiled back, stealing a handful of fries. "James, buddy. I'm just saying, being a hero isn't for me. I'm not sure it's for you either. I can give a good word to my boss. Start you on double pay. Do you really want to do this hero stuff though? It's just all swimming upstream." His face was solemn, like that of a statue. "Yes. Even if no one joins, yes. It is right." I sighed deeply, and fell back in my seat. He ate with a stony, distant look on his face. I finished my coffee, patted James on the shoulder, then slapped a twenty on the table. A smile broke onto his face. "Heh, it's complimentary, remember?" he said, shifting out of his seat. "It's...actually a tip. An apology, really." "What, to me? We might disagree, but you don't have to apologize." "No, it's an apology to the waitress. For what she's about to see." I snapped my fingers and walked to the door. A deep rumble echoed from James' stomach, and he fell to the ground, screaming. The smell of embers, of burnt esophagus and stomach lining slowly filled the room. He yelled, screamed, cried for his mother, writhing in a pool of saliva and blood, his fingers digging holes into the old diner floor. Smoke poured out of his belly in thick plumes. A guttural bellow of rage erupted from his scalded throat, as the patrons watched in horror as this man burned alive, from the inside out. It's the strongest ones that have the worst deaths. They can't just die quickly like normal people. I let out a ragged sigh, and walked out. Hands shaking, I lit myself a a cigarette with my fingertip, and got as far away from the diner as I could. "Fuck's sake, James," It was raining now. "I told you so." I am not a good man because all the good men are dead.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	The pen slips, drawing a jagged line along the 'Cash' field of the deposit slip. I sigh and look around. Whatever jogged my elbow nudges me in the ribs this time, and I reach up to pull the headphones away from my ear. "You, too, tiny. Hands where we can see 'em, down on the floor with the rest. Nice and easy." The guy is wearing a ski mask, a little under six feet tall, a sandy blond eye brow just visible above one of his blue eyes. Those eyes look fierce, but there's a note in his voice on the edge of panic. Oh, and he's waving a hand gun in my face, reaching up so that it's just under my nose. Poor trigger discipline, I note, suppressing a reflex to break his arm and take the weapon. I take a moment to look around the interior of the bank. Two more masked individuals, the three tellers with their hands stretched out on the counter top, maybe half a dozen other people who were waiting in line. They're prone, now, hands splayed wide on the floor. "C'mon, don't make this hard," says Mr. Blue Eyes, gesturing impatiently with the gun. "Don't try to be a hero, big guy." "No trouble," I agree, easing myself on the floor. "No trouble," I repeat for emphasis. Hero. Was I ever one of those? Doesn't feel like it, these days. From the floor, I watch as two of the other robbers escort a teller, at gunpoint, out of sight, presumably in search of a vault, or something. Do banks still have vaults? I guess they would, for deposit boxes, if nothing else. I gently draw on the Aether and attune my hearing for a moment, since that's not breaking any laws. Out on the street, traffic is continuing as normal. People walking by, cars driving. No sound of approaching sirens. I open my senses a little more and the room suddenly blooms with phantom colors and sensations. They're a little dimmer over in the corner, and I turn my attention there. She's good. Not just a wild talent, but someone who has done a lot of practice. Her touch on the Aether stills it in a wide area around her, bleeding through to the Material and probably blanketing the whole block outside the bank with a sense of calm, even a slight euphoria, deflecting attention away from the bank. I stop channeling and return to the present. Mr. Blue Eyes is prodding me with his boot. "Hand it over, man, I know you got something." With a sigh, I reach slowly into my pocket and take out my battered walkman. "Can I at least keep the tape, man? Leave me that much? Ain't easy to find, these days." "You some kinda hipster, old man?" "Only if 'hipster' is slang for 'dead broke.'" "What's on it, anyway? "AC/DC. Got it when I was in highschool." "Sure man. Now the rest." I put the tape back in my pocket and bring out the roll of bills I was going to deposit. When I hesitate, he lunges, snatching the wad from my hand before quickly backing up to what he believes is out of reach. After a moment, I settle back to the ground. Blue Eyes heads over to the family next to me. The kid's mom cringes as she rifles through her purse. Blue Eyes just takes it from her, tosses it to one of his goons, waves his gun a bit, then snatches her iPhone and jams it into a pocket. He takes the kid's phone, too. Kid looks like he's maybe twelve. He's got that look on his face, like he's imagined how he'd save everyone from a situation just like this, and now it's here and he doesn't like what he just learned about himself. "Ain't worth it, son." He looks at me and I can see the angry tears standing in his eyes. He's angry at the robbers, but mostly at himself. I know. "It's just a phone. Plenty of those. Ain't worth your life or health. Let it go." "If I were a Hero, I'd stop 'em," he mutters. "Then you'd go to prison right beside 'em. Gotta have a contract," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "No contract, you're just a vigilante, and those're criminals, too." He gets quiet. That's different. Most kids his age, they would explode at me, believing their anger. This one stops and thinks. A gunshot sounds from somewhere I can't see and raised voices arguing soon follow. A woman, one of the other tellers, screams and begins crying, and I suddenly feel an intense pull as the robber in the corner, eyes screwed shut in concentration, draws more deeply on the Aether to keep the bank veiled from attention. At the rate the ambient energies are being used up, this is going to end soon, one way or another. A piece of paper, folded into an air plane, drifts to a stop in front of me a moment before the pencil hits me in the face. I look over at the kid, and he motions me to open it. I begin reading. "I, Robin Andrew Greyson, seek to engage the services of the undersigned. At the rate of twenty dollars an hour, for a span of no fewer than two hours and totaling no more than six hours, the undersigned will secure the person, possessions, and any premises surrounding myself from injury, theft, or undue disturbance." I look up at him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. He makes a get-on-with-it gesture. I pick up the pencil, sign the page, and fold it back into a plane, and loft it back to him. He picks it up and reads it. "Powerage?" "Never mind." Three robbers. No, four, that one with the veil keeps sliding herself out of my perception. Only two of them in this room. Nine hostages. Eight, now? I don't know. Most of the ambient power has been used up. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the pencil. Blue Eyes is closest. "Passing notes? Why don't you share with the cl-" is as far as he gets before six inches of sharpened wood and graphite, imbued with Aether to keep it from breaking, gets rammed up his nose, into his brain, killing him. It comes free with a light tug, and I fling it, overhand, at the woman in the corner. She comes out of her deep focus, looks down, and sees the small blossom of red on her shirt, just above her navel. I reach her just before she can use the panicked breath she just took to scream, closing a hand over her nose and mouth. If I can keep this quiet, I might be able to get the other two before any more hostages ge- I come back to myself, fetched up against the far wall, and there's a ringing in my ears. I throw myself open to the Aether, and the sudden contact with that other realm shocks me fully back to my senses. There's almost nothing left there to draw, but I pull what I can manage quickly, recklessly winding the energies around my frayed nerves to steady my balance and stop the spinning in my head. Then I shut off the connection, surging forward in a running crouch. The robber who hit me with the essence blast is in bad shape. Between the gut wound and the backlash of channeling so much raw power, she's unconscious, probably not getting up again without medical attention. I pull off the tattered remains of my shirt and press it over the widening bloodstain on her belly. "Alright, everyone out, quick and quiet. You," I say, pointing to a middle aged man, "toss me that and then give that guy a hand." One of the other men, looks like some kind of contractor, got caught on the fringe of the blast, seems like he's having trouble sitting up. "When you're out, find a phone and call the cops." Looking around, faces are frozen in disbelief, looking at me in shock. "Go," I sort of whisper-shout, and they get moving. "What the hell was all that noise? Jim, you and Marcia fighting again?" I bean the third man with a paperweight, hard enough to dent the front of his forehead, as he walks out from the one of the spaces behind the counter. A startled, "what the hell," comes from somewhere behind him. I drag the channeler out the front of doors of the bank, then out of sight of any windows. Probably shouldn't have, but I can't keep pressure on her injury and fight the last guy at the same time. Robin finds me. "Thanks." He hands me a twenty dollar bill. "Just... hold on to that piece of paper. I'm not a lawyer, but it might hold up if anyone decides to press charges." "I will," he says, face serious. I tuck the bill into my pocket, then freeze. Slowly, sadly, I bring out the plastic fragments and length of magnetic tape that had once been my favorite album, shattered by the force of an Aetheric essence blast. "Kid, you know anywhere I can get a cassette tape of AC/DC?" "I don't know what either of those things are." I think for a moment. "... Do you know any 'hipsters'?"	I am not a good man. James looked down at the table, sipping his water. Always the same look when he's got something on his mind. "What're you ordering," he says with a low voice. "I hear the, uh, steak and fries are great." "Maybe just a coffee." I drummed the table lightly with my fingertips. "Look, J, I know that face. What's on your mind, man?" He hesitated, then looked up. His eyes were tired, dull bags underneath. I've never seen the guy look so old. "The, ah, warehouse explosion last night," His eyes turned hard. "That was you, wasn't it?" I chewed on my tongue for a bit, then sighed. "It might have been overkill, but the Stella's pay me well. Honestly, I think what I did preserved more lives. You know how an all-out war between them and the Callaghan's would turn out?" He rested his head in his palm, half-listening to my bullshit. "They're honestly talking about you, J. You've made yourself a name, fucking up their operations like this. They'll be out for you soon if you don't stop." I lowered my voice as the waitress approached. "What'll it be today, boys?" she said, her brown curls bouncing as she whipped out a pen and a smile. "Oh, Jamie, back again? I knew you couldn't get enough of us." "You know it. I think I'll have that famous steak-frites you guys make. Friend over here'll have a cup of coffee." He winked. "Now I hope you aren't planning to pay. You already do enough good for us. Hell, was it just last week you took care of that gang roaming the streets at night. Constant B&Es in a little street like this. Unbelievable." She scribbled on the pad in a practiced fashion, scampering back to the kitchen with that little smile of hers. James' face turned serious again. "We've had this talk plenty of times. You already know the spiel." I nodded, stifling a yawn. "And you know it's never too late." I shook my head. "James, I follow the money. We all do. Maybe your moonlighting as a hero makes you feel all warm-and-fuzzy inside, but warm-and-fuzzy doesn't pay the bill. Unless you're the Phoenix or Hothead, warm-and-fuzzy means you freeze to death, out in the cold, when winter hits." He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "It's not about the money. It's about making a change. All these changes start small. Grassroots. But when you get the idea into people's heads, they start to think 'Hm, maybe I can do good. Maybe good is what we need.'" I could tell he's been through this speech with others before. I could almost smell their rejection and skepticism wafting off his body. Yet I saw the fire in his belly. "James, this hero business. It's eating at you. I know you think you're doing the right thing, but the right things aren't always the right thing. This," I waved my hands for dramatic effect, "vigilantism doesn't fix anything. The Golden Age of heroes is over. For every one upstanding guy, two assholes would pop up. You know that's how actual bad guys work. They're attracted to conflict like mosquitos to flesh. The way we do it now...it's nice. It works." "It's selfish," James spat out. He looked away from me, out the window at the busy street. The trees were in full bloom, sunshine casting refulgent shadows along the noontime traffic. We sat quietly for a time, the food eventually arriving, piping hot. "I don't know what to do anymore," James whispered under his breath. "I can't do this alone." I leaned in, resting a hand on his shoulder. A small smirk fell on his face. "What're you trying to do, blow me up?" he said, chuckling lightly. I smiled back, stealing a handful of fries. "James, buddy. I'm just saying, being a hero isn't for me. I'm not sure it's for you either. I can give a good word to my boss. Start you on double pay. Do you really want to do this hero stuff though? It's just all swimming upstream." His face was solemn, like that of a statue. "Yes. Even if no one joins, yes. It is right." I sighed deeply, and fell back in my seat. He ate with a stony, distant look on his face. I finished my coffee, patted James on the shoulder, then slapped a twenty on the table. A smile broke onto his face. "Heh, it's complimentary, remember?" he said, shifting out of his seat. "It's...actually a tip. An apology, really." "What, to me? We might disagree, but you don't have to apologize." "No, it's an apology to the waitress. For what she's about to see." I snapped my fingers and walked to the door. A deep rumble echoed from James' stomach, and he fell to the ground, screaming. The smell of embers, of burnt esophagus and stomach lining slowly filled the room. He yelled, screamed, cried for his mother, writhing in a pool of saliva and blood, his fingers digging holes into the old diner floor. Smoke poured out of his belly in thick plumes. A guttural bellow of rage erupted from his scalded throat, as the patrons watched in horror as this man burned alive, from the inside out. It's the strongest ones that have the worst deaths. They can't just die quickly like normal people. I let out a ragged sigh, and walked out. Hands shaking, I lit myself a a cigarette with my fingertip, and got as far away from the diner as I could. "Fuck's sake, James," It was raining now. "I told you so." I am not a good man because all the good men are dead.
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	Dreadnaught was the last of the Old Guard. The early heroes who had fought for the good of the world, for honor and justice and other long-dead ideals. they toppled dictatorships, brought aid to disaster-stricken regions and never accepted a penny. Dreadnaught himself had seen the greats of the age, had only been a young rookie when The Atom and Red Lightning and all the others were around. There had been villains, of course- bastards and madmen who used their powers for their own benefit, but they were always beaten back. The good guys always won in the end. Dreadnaught had long since stopped caring about "good" or "evil". He was standing on a wind-tossed rooftop in Dubai, staring at the bright artificial stars, gleaming skyscrapers and rivers of vehicles, spreading forever into the distance. He idly wondered what had happened to the old greats, Atom and Lightning and Sunbeam. He continued to think back, remembering the first changes.... It began when he and a few allies rescued some fat cat from an attempted assassination, somewhere in South Korea. When word came out that the cat had been smuggling weapons up north, and had betrayed the country, Dreadnaught shrugged. He wasn't a political sort. But Fat Cats are always good at redirecting blame- they called him and his friends mercenaries, not caring who he fought for as long as he had glory and attention. He heard insults and threats as he walked through the streets. He tried his best not to mind. He minded. He had never had much- Dreadnaught grew up in the inner city and came from a poor family. So when people said he, and others like him, was profiting from chaos and war and fear as he struggled to make ends meet and ate third-rate prepackaged meals- his blood boiled. Most heroes were offered work when their identities were revealed- Private armies, government work, criminal organizations. He decided that if people thought he was a thug- then it didn't hurt to do a thug's job. He accepted a job offer, then another, and another. His pay was high and his scruples few. He moved out of the slums and into a high rise apartment. People kept calling him a crook and a monster, but it hurt less now that it was true. Others joined him, fighting wars and steal secrets for the highest bidder. That was how it had happened. The world was a different place now than it was. Supers were identified from birth and signed on with one of the big corporations at the age of 12. There were no more armies anymore, no more citizen soldiers. Just hired guns with enough firepower to level cities. Some Supers still fought the good fight, of course. They lived on the edges of the world, striking out against the "Man" in what little ways they could. But most Supers lived quiet lives, turning down the offers of big corporations, and not making a fuss of their powers for fear of attracting too much attention. Dreadnaught looked down from the glinting lights and turned towards the desert. His contact would be arriving soon, with his pay, and likely another job. He was one of the oldest men in the business, after all. He never failed, he never quit a job until it was done. His skills were highly valued.	Seconds before the decaying support beams running through the apartment building finally snapped, Chronotron strolled casually into unit 8B, the last on his checklist. Mere seconds remained before the aging architecture would be reduced to rubble, but that was more than enough time for Chronotron. As one gifted with the ability to manipulate the passage of time, Chronotron rarely felt pressured when he worked – the concept of urgency, after all, had no relevance in a world which only moved when he allowed it to. He checked the apartment methodically, starting with the hall first, then the attached kitchen, the balcony, then the bedrooms. Which was where he found the kid, crying as she tugged on her friends in vain, pulling them towards the door. Shit, he thought, there’s three of them. “Hey, kid, you need to weave your chrono-filaments around your friends, or they are never going to be move. They’ll just be frozen there, forever.” The kid swung to face him, tears streaking down her cheeks, oblivious to the badge which Chronotron was holding out, which marked him as an Enhanced contractor attached to the police force. “Mister, please! We were just talking when suddenly, everything froze! I’ve been trying to move them, but they are not responding!” Chronotron could have explained to the girl that her latent powers had probably been awoken by the mortal danger she was in, and that it was more than likely that they shared an ancestor in common. He could also have demonstrated then how to manipulate a chrono-filament, or even just walked out of there with all three children. But none of those things fell under the insurance cover for the building, so Chronotron did none of that. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the owners didn’t spring for more coverage, or that whatever funds remained only allowed him to save one more person today. “Kid, come on,” Chronotron beckoned, holding out his hand, “time’s money, you know. I came to rescue you, so we’ve got to get a move on.” “And leave Sara and Bianca here? I can’t do that!” “You look like, what, 12 this year?” “What does that even matter in a situation like this?” Chronotron sighed. “You look like you’re old enough to understand the way things are. There’s only enough budget to save one of you, you know how we work. So count yourself lucky I’ve decided to rescue you.” “Can’t you just save them instead? I can get out on my own!” Chronotron scoffed. “As I said, I can only save one. Plus, without knowing how to use your powers, you couldn’t even get this door open. As I said, until you’ve learned how to weave your chrono-filaments, you can’t interact with the world at all. And this time pocket you carved, it’s sweet, for a first-timer, but it’s already cracking. I leave this room, and you’ll only experience a couple of minutes more before you’re wrenched back to the common timestream. So no, you can’t get out of your own.” A bulb seemed to go off in the girl’s head. “You’re an Enhanced policeman, aren’t you? You’re the special forces on retainer for the city?” “Correction, I’m Enhanced, but I am not a policeman. We’re paid per job. It’s very different.” “But that’s my point! I can hire you too, right? I can pay you to save us all!” “You couldn’t afford my fees.” “My parents have money! They will certainly pay you!” Chronotron shook his head resolutely. “Sorry kid, rules are rules. All services rendered only after payment is made. No credit, no exceptions.” His words were cold, but his conscience remained unpricked. After all, these weren’t his rules. The Enhanced Division was the one in charge of drafting policy, and they were the ones who had firmly decided on the upfront payment policy. And if he broke the rules, his license would be taken away, and his powers Stemmed. No one wanted that. “Please, you have to save them. They’re my best friends, and I would do anything just to save them!” the girl cried, as she sank to her knees. “Or how about the things I have in my room! Everything here is mine! Just take it!” Chronotron started to protest again, but the words died in his throat. There was one thing of value in that room. “Anything at all, I can take as payment?” “Yes! Please, anything!” --- Chronotron’s supervisor, Elendra, was waiting at the bottom of the building, clipboard in hand. As the complex finally collapsed inwards on itself, as Chronotron laid the two girls on the sidewalk along with all the other survivors he had rescued, Elendra’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “That’s one over budget. Please don’t tell me you messed up, the paperwork’s going to be a bitch.” “Calm down, Elendra, I got paid for the extra one. It’s not going to cause any accounting problems.” “Paid? By whom? Did you already collect payment?” Chronotron chuckled, then pointed with his chin towards the settling dust of the ruined building. “Payment in kind. The Institute’s still as hungry as ever to discover the origins of our powers, right? Well, there’s an Enhanced girl in there, she’s assigned me full rights to her remains.” --- /r/rarelyfunny
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	3:30 AM, Atlanta The phone rang. "This had better be worth waking my ass up." "Flux. $500,000. If we lose power--." "I'll do it if you make it six. Where?" The caller accepted, a little too quickly. Damn. Could have got more. The caller gave the address to a malfunctioning power station, and thanked Flux for assisting Westshore specialty. "An insurance agent, huh?" Well, it makes sense. Superheroes were a damn sight cheaper than losing a court case, these days. Flux had been a generous soul. But not anymore. He loved music. When he first discovered his power, all those years ago, he used his power over electricity to give fledgling bands free power, so they could practice anywhere, anytime. They didn't even have to plug their equipment into anything! It made for some great hipster music videos. Back then, he sometimes helped clean up metal debris from car crashes. Other days, he donated electricity to his poorer friends, or gave the homeless shelter free electricity for a few hours, to run the A/C during the hot summer months. That all changed after a fateful day a few years ago. Flux prevented a plane crash by using electromagnetism to lower it safely to the ground. After that, Flux became famous. And with fame, came more calls for help. But they all wanted it for free. Non-stop, day and night. Not always for heroic deeds, either. One kid wanted him to take out the power at his office so he could spend that day with his girlfriend. He grew fed up with the non-stop pleas for help. Fed up as he was, he was too poor to buy food. Even superheroes have to eat, you know. So, Flux started charging for his powers. This sparked outrage at first - Headlines like "Does Flux's greed have no limit?" dominated the news cycle - because people had grown used to the impossible being done for them for free. However, capitalism won the day - other heroes in other cities borrowed flux's idea. They too had been worked to the bone, and for what? To go home to a creaky apartment without enough money to even wash their spandex? These days, heroes primarily did boring but valuable things, such as prevent power outages, stop floods from damaging property, put out fires, that sort of thing. Some chose to do pro-bono work at times, but it was not expected the way that it was in years past. Flux sighed as he drove to the plant. He could easily power the grid from the sidewalk outside his house, but the insurance company would have a fit and cut his pay. Last time he did that, they charged him for damaging the wiring, which cut his $250,000 reward down to a mere $15,000. Looks like another couple hours of maintaining a boring old 60 hz stream...	Seconds before the decaying support beams running through the apartment building finally snapped, Chronotron strolled casually into unit 8B, the last on his checklist. Mere seconds remained before the aging architecture would be reduced to rubble, but that was more than enough time for Chronotron. As one gifted with the ability to manipulate the passage of time, Chronotron rarely felt pressured when he worked – the concept of urgency, after all, had no relevance in a world which only moved when he allowed it to. He checked the apartment methodically, starting with the hall first, then the attached kitchen, the balcony, then the bedrooms. Which was where he found the kid, crying as she tugged on her friends in vain, pulling them towards the door. Shit, he thought, there’s three of them. “Hey, kid, you need to weave your chrono-filaments around your friends, or they are never going to be move. They’ll just be frozen there, forever.” The kid swung to face him, tears streaking down her cheeks, oblivious to the badge which Chronotron was holding out, which marked him as an Enhanced contractor attached to the police force. “Mister, please! We were just talking when suddenly, everything froze! I’ve been trying to move them, but they are not responding!” Chronotron could have explained to the girl that her latent powers had probably been awoken by the mortal danger she was in, and that it was more than likely that they shared an ancestor in common. He could also have demonstrated then how to manipulate a chrono-filament, or even just walked out of there with all three children. But none of those things fell under the insurance cover for the building, so Chronotron did none of that. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the owners didn’t spring for more coverage, or that whatever funds remained only allowed him to save one more person today. “Kid, come on,” Chronotron beckoned, holding out his hand, “time’s money, you know. I came to rescue you, so we’ve got to get a move on.” “And leave Sara and Bianca here? I can’t do that!” “You look like, what, 12 this year?” “What does that even matter in a situation like this?” Chronotron sighed. “You look like you’re old enough to understand the way things are. There’s only enough budget to save one of you, you know how we work. So count yourself lucky I’ve decided to rescue you.” “Can’t you just save them instead? I can get out on my own!” Chronotron scoffed. “As I said, I can only save one. Plus, without knowing how to use your powers, you couldn’t even get this door open. As I said, until you’ve learned how to weave your chrono-filaments, you can’t interact with the world at all. And this time pocket you carved, it’s sweet, for a first-timer, but it’s already cracking. I leave this room, and you’ll only experience a couple of minutes more before you’re wrenched back to the common timestream. So no, you can’t get out of your own.” A bulb seemed to go off in the girl’s head. “You’re an Enhanced policeman, aren’t you? You’re the special forces on retainer for the city?” “Correction, I’m Enhanced, but I am not a policeman. We’re paid per job. It’s very different.” “But that’s my point! I can hire you too, right? I can pay you to save us all!” “You couldn’t afford my fees.” “My parents have money! They will certainly pay you!” Chronotron shook his head resolutely. “Sorry kid, rules are rules. All services rendered only after payment is made. No credit, no exceptions.” His words were cold, but his conscience remained unpricked. After all, these weren’t his rules. The Enhanced Division was the one in charge of drafting policy, and they were the ones who had firmly decided on the upfront payment policy. And if he broke the rules, his license would be taken away, and his powers Stemmed. No one wanted that. “Please, you have to save them. They’re my best friends, and I would do anything just to save them!” the girl cried, as she sank to her knees. “Or how about the things I have in my room! Everything here is mine! Just take it!” Chronotron started to protest again, but the words died in his throat. There was one thing of value in that room. “Anything at all, I can take as payment?” “Yes! Please, anything!” --- Chronotron’s supervisor, Elendra, was waiting at the bottom of the building, clipboard in hand. As the complex finally collapsed inwards on itself, as Chronotron laid the two girls on the sidewalk along with all the other survivors he had rescued, Elendra’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “That’s one over budget. Please don’t tell me you messed up, the paperwork’s going to be a bitch.” “Calm down, Elendra, I got paid for the extra one. It’s not going to cause any accounting problems.” “Paid? By whom? Did you already collect payment?” Chronotron chuckled, then pointed with his chin towards the settling dust of the ruined building. “Payment in kind. The Institute’s still as hungry as ever to discover the origins of our powers, right? Well, there’s an Enhanced girl in there, she’s assigned me full rights to her remains.” --- /r/rarelyfunny
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	The pen slips, drawing a jagged line along the 'Cash' field of the deposit slip. I sigh and look around. Whatever jogged my elbow nudges me in the ribs this time, and I reach up to pull the headphones away from my ear. "You, too, tiny. Hands where we can see 'em, down on the floor with the rest. Nice and easy." The guy is wearing a ski mask, a little under six feet tall, a sandy blond eye brow just visible above one of his blue eyes. Those eyes look fierce, but there's a note in his voice on the edge of panic. Oh, and he's waving a hand gun in my face, reaching up so that it's just under my nose. Poor trigger discipline, I note, suppressing a reflex to break his arm and take the weapon. I take a moment to look around the interior of the bank. Two more masked individuals, the three tellers with their hands stretched out on the counter top, maybe half a dozen other people who were waiting in line. They're prone, now, hands splayed wide on the floor. "C'mon, don't make this hard," says Mr. Blue Eyes, gesturing impatiently with the gun. "Don't try to be a hero, big guy." "No trouble," I agree, easing myself on the floor. "No trouble," I repeat for emphasis. Hero. Was I ever one of those? Doesn't feel like it, these days. From the floor, I watch as two of the other robbers escort a teller, at gunpoint, out of sight, presumably in search of a vault, or something. Do banks still have vaults? I guess they would, for deposit boxes, if nothing else. I gently draw on the Aether and attune my hearing for a moment, since that's not breaking any laws. Out on the street, traffic is continuing as normal. People walking by, cars driving. No sound of approaching sirens. I open my senses a little more and the room suddenly blooms with phantom colors and sensations. They're a little dimmer over in the corner, and I turn my attention there. She's good. Not just a wild talent, but someone who has done a lot of practice. Her touch on the Aether stills it in a wide area around her, bleeding through to the Material and probably blanketing the whole block outside the bank with a sense of calm, even a slight euphoria, deflecting attention away from the bank. I stop channeling and return to the present. Mr. Blue Eyes is prodding me with his boot. "Hand it over, man, I know you got something." With a sigh, I reach slowly into my pocket and take out my battered walkman. "Can I at least keep the tape, man? Leave me that much? Ain't easy to find, these days." "You some kinda hipster, old man?" "Only if 'hipster' is slang for 'dead broke.'" "What's on it, anyway? "AC/DC. Got it when I was in highschool." "Sure man. Now the rest." I put the tape back in my pocket and bring out the roll of bills I was going to deposit. When I hesitate, he lunges, snatching the wad from my hand before quickly backing up to what he believes is out of reach. After a moment, I settle back to the ground. Blue Eyes heads over to the family next to me. The kid's mom cringes as she rifles through her purse. Blue Eyes just takes it from her, tosses it to one of his goons, waves his gun a bit, then snatches her iPhone and jams it into a pocket. He takes the kid's phone, too. Kid looks like he's maybe twelve. He's got that look on his face, like he's imagined how he'd save everyone from a situation just like this, and now it's here and he doesn't like what he just learned about himself. "Ain't worth it, son." He looks at me and I can see the angry tears standing in his eyes. He's angry at the robbers, but mostly at himself. I know. "It's just a phone. Plenty of those. Ain't worth your life or health. Let it go." "If I were a Hero, I'd stop 'em," he mutters. "Then you'd go to prison right beside 'em. Gotta have a contract," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "No contract, you're just a vigilante, and those're criminals, too." He gets quiet. That's different. Most kids his age, they would explode at me, believing their anger. This one stops and thinks. A gunshot sounds from somewhere I can't see and raised voices arguing soon follow. A woman, one of the other tellers, screams and begins crying, and I suddenly feel an intense pull as the robber in the corner, eyes screwed shut in concentration, draws more deeply on the Aether to keep the bank veiled from attention. At the rate the ambient energies are being used up, this is going to end soon, one way or another. A piece of paper, folded into an air plane, drifts to a stop in front of me a moment before the pencil hits me in the face. I look over at the kid, and he motions me to open it. I begin reading. "I, Robin Andrew Greyson, seek to engage the services of the undersigned. At the rate of twenty dollars an hour, for a span of no fewer than two hours and totaling no more than six hours, the undersigned will secure the person, possessions, and any premises surrounding myself from injury, theft, or undue disturbance." I look up at him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. He makes a get-on-with-it gesture. I pick up the pencil, sign the page, and fold it back into a plane, and loft it back to him. He picks it up and reads it. "Powerage?" "Never mind." Three robbers. No, four, that one with the veil keeps sliding herself out of my perception. Only two of them in this room. Nine hostages. Eight, now? I don't know. Most of the ambient power has been used up. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the pencil. Blue Eyes is closest. "Passing notes? Why don't you share with the cl-" is as far as he gets before six inches of sharpened wood and graphite, imbued with Aether to keep it from breaking, gets rammed up his nose, into his brain, killing him. It comes free with a light tug, and I fling it, overhand, at the woman in the corner. She comes out of her deep focus, looks down, and sees the small blossom of red on her shirt, just above her navel. I reach her just before she can use the panicked breath she just took to scream, closing a hand over her nose and mouth. If I can keep this quiet, I might be able to get the other two before any more hostages ge- I come back to myself, fetched up against the far wall, and there's a ringing in my ears. I throw myself open to the Aether, and the sudden contact with that other realm shocks me fully back to my senses. There's almost nothing left there to draw, but I pull what I can manage quickly, recklessly winding the energies around my frayed nerves to steady my balance and stop the spinning in my head. Then I shut off the connection, surging forward in a running crouch. The robber who hit me with the essence blast is in bad shape. Between the gut wound and the backlash of channeling so much raw power, she's unconscious, probably not getting up again without medical attention. I pull off the tattered remains of my shirt and press it over the widening bloodstain on her belly. "Alright, everyone out, quick and quiet. You," I say, pointing to a middle aged man, "toss me that and then give that guy a hand." One of the other men, looks like some kind of contractor, got caught on the fringe of the blast, seems like he's having trouble sitting up. "When you're out, find a phone and call the cops." Looking around, faces are frozen in disbelief, looking at me in shock. "Go," I sort of whisper-shout, and they get moving. "What the hell was all that noise? Jim, you and Marcia fighting again?" I bean the third man with a paperweight, hard enough to dent the front of his forehead, as he walks out from the one of the spaces behind the counter. A startled, "what the hell," comes from somewhere behind him. I drag the channeler out the front of doors of the bank, then out of sight of any windows. Probably shouldn't have, but I can't keep pressure on her injury and fight the last guy at the same time. Robin finds me. "Thanks." He hands me a twenty dollar bill. "Just... hold on to that piece of paper. I'm not a lawyer, but it might hold up if anyone decides to press charges." "I will," he says, face serious. I tuck the bill into my pocket, then freeze. Slowly, sadly, I bring out the plastic fragments and length of magnetic tape that had once been my favorite album, shattered by the force of an Aetheric essence blast. "Kid, you know anywhere I can get a cassette tape of AC/DC?" "I don't know what either of those things are." I think for a moment. "... Do you know any 'hipsters'?"	Seconds before the decaying support beams running through the apartment building finally snapped, Chronotron strolled casually into unit 8B, the last on his checklist. Mere seconds remained before the aging architecture would be reduced to rubble, but that was more than enough time for Chronotron. As one gifted with the ability to manipulate the passage of time, Chronotron rarely felt pressured when he worked – the concept of urgency, after all, had no relevance in a world which only moved when he allowed it to. He checked the apartment methodically, starting with the hall first, then the attached kitchen, the balcony, then the bedrooms. Which was where he found the kid, crying as she tugged on her friends in vain, pulling them towards the door. Shit, he thought, there’s three of them. “Hey, kid, you need to weave your chrono-filaments around your friends, or they are never going to be move. They’ll just be frozen there, forever.” The kid swung to face him, tears streaking down her cheeks, oblivious to the badge which Chronotron was holding out, which marked him as an Enhanced contractor attached to the police force. “Mister, please! We were just talking when suddenly, everything froze! I’ve been trying to move them, but they are not responding!” Chronotron could have explained to the girl that her latent powers had probably been awoken by the mortal danger she was in, and that it was more than likely that they shared an ancestor in common. He could also have demonstrated then how to manipulate a chrono-filament, or even just walked out of there with all three children. But none of those things fell under the insurance cover for the building, so Chronotron did none of that. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the owners didn’t spring for more coverage, or that whatever funds remained only allowed him to save one more person today. “Kid, come on,” Chronotron beckoned, holding out his hand, “time’s money, you know. I came to rescue you, so we’ve got to get a move on.” “And leave Sara and Bianca here? I can’t do that!” “You look like, what, 12 this year?” “What does that even matter in a situation like this?” Chronotron sighed. “You look like you’re old enough to understand the way things are. There’s only enough budget to save one of you, you know how we work. So count yourself lucky I’ve decided to rescue you.” “Can’t you just save them instead? I can get out on my own!” Chronotron scoffed. “As I said, I can only save one. Plus, without knowing how to use your powers, you couldn’t even get this door open. As I said, until you’ve learned how to weave your chrono-filaments, you can’t interact with the world at all. And this time pocket you carved, it’s sweet, for a first-timer, but it’s already cracking. I leave this room, and you’ll only experience a couple of minutes more before you’re wrenched back to the common timestream. So no, you can’t get out of your own.” A bulb seemed to go off in the girl’s head. “You’re an Enhanced policeman, aren’t you? You’re the special forces on retainer for the city?” “Correction, I’m Enhanced, but I am not a policeman. We’re paid per job. It’s very different.” “But that’s my point! I can hire you too, right? I can pay you to save us all!” “You couldn’t afford my fees.” “My parents have money! They will certainly pay you!” Chronotron shook his head resolutely. “Sorry kid, rules are rules. All services rendered only after payment is made. No credit, no exceptions.” His words were cold, but his conscience remained unpricked. After all, these weren’t his rules. The Enhanced Division was the one in charge of drafting policy, and they were the ones who had firmly decided on the upfront payment policy. And if he broke the rules, his license would be taken away, and his powers Stemmed. No one wanted that. “Please, you have to save them. They’re my best friends, and I would do anything just to save them!” the girl cried, as she sank to her knees. “Or how about the things I have in my room! Everything here is mine! Just take it!” Chronotron started to protest again, but the words died in his throat. There was one thing of value in that room. “Anything at all, I can take as payment?” “Yes! Please, anything!” --- Chronotron’s supervisor, Elendra, was waiting at the bottom of the building, clipboard in hand. As the complex finally collapsed inwards on itself, as Chronotron laid the two girls on the sidewalk along with all the other survivors he had rescued, Elendra’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “That’s one over budget. Please don’t tell me you messed up, the paperwork’s going to be a bitch.” “Calm down, Elendra, I got paid for the extra one. It’s not going to cause any accounting problems.” “Paid? By whom? Did you already collect payment?” Chronotron chuckled, then pointed with his chin towards the settling dust of the ruined building. “Payment in kind. The Institute’s still as hungry as ever to discover the origins of our powers, right? Well, there’s an Enhanced girl in there, she’s assigned me full rights to her remains.” --- /r/rarelyfunny
Someone made a comment in another thread that made me want to see this sort of thing and some people replied saying I should submit it here. Here's a link to my [original post](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/62wgey/tifu_by_bricking_a_computer_with_rick_astley/dfq195a/) which has a little more detail about the sort of thing I was thinking of specifically, but feel free to run with the basic idea however you want.	[WP] A world where super heroes exist but act as mercenaries for hire instead of doing it out of the goodness of their hearts	3:30 AM, Atlanta The phone rang. "This had better be worth waking my ass up." "Flux. $500,000. If we lose power--." "I'll do it if you make it six. Where?" The caller accepted, a little too quickly. Damn. Could have got more. The caller gave the address to a malfunctioning power station, and thanked Flux for assisting Westshore specialty. "An insurance agent, huh?" Well, it makes sense. Superheroes were a damn sight cheaper than losing a court case, these days. Flux had been a generous soul. But not anymore. He loved music. When he first discovered his power, all those years ago, he used his power over electricity to give fledgling bands free power, so they could practice anywhere, anytime. They didn't even have to plug their equipment into anything! It made for some great hipster music videos. Back then, he sometimes helped clean up metal debris from car crashes. Other days, he donated electricity to his poorer friends, or gave the homeless shelter free electricity for a few hours, to run the A/C during the hot summer months. That all changed after a fateful day a few years ago. Flux prevented a plane crash by using electromagnetism to lower it safely to the ground. After that, Flux became famous. And with fame, came more calls for help. But they all wanted it for free. Non-stop, day and night. Not always for heroic deeds, either. One kid wanted him to take out the power at his office so he could spend that day with his girlfriend. He grew fed up with the non-stop pleas for help. Fed up as he was, he was too poor to buy food. Even superheroes have to eat, you know. So, Flux started charging for his powers. This sparked outrage at first - Headlines like "Does Flux's greed have no limit?" dominated the news cycle - because people had grown used to the impossible being done for them for free. However, capitalism won the day - other heroes in other cities borrowed flux's idea. They too had been worked to the bone, and for what? To go home to a creaky apartment without enough money to even wash their spandex? These days, heroes primarily did boring but valuable things, such as prevent power outages, stop floods from damaging property, put out fires, that sort of thing. Some chose to do pro-bono work at times, but it was not expected the way that it was in years past. Flux sighed as he drove to the plant. He could easily power the grid from the sidewalk outside his house, but the insurance company would have a fit and cut his pay. Last time he did that, they charged him for damaging the wiring, which cut his $250,000 reward down to a mere $15,000. Looks like another couple hours of maintaining a boring old 60 hz stream...	Dreadnaught was the last of the Old Guard. The early heroes who had fought for the good of the world, for honor and justice and other long-dead ideals. they toppled dictatorships, brought aid to disaster-stricken regions and never accepted a penny. Dreadnaught himself had seen the greats of the age, had only been a young rookie when The Atom and Red Lightning and all the others were around. There had been villains, of course- bastards and madmen who used their powers for their own benefit, but they were always beaten back. The good guys always won in the end. Dreadnaught had long since stopped caring about "good" or "evil". He was standing on a wind-tossed rooftop in Dubai, staring at the bright artificial stars, gleaming skyscrapers and rivers of vehicles, spreading forever into the distance. He idly wondered what had happened to the old greats, Atom and Lightning and Sunbeam. He continued to think back, remembering the first changes.... It began when he and a few allies rescued some fat cat from an attempted assassination, somewhere in South Korea. When word came out that the cat had been smuggling weapons up north, and had betrayed the country, Dreadnaught shrugged. He wasn't a political sort. But Fat Cats are always good at redirecting blame- they called him and his friends mercenaries, not caring who he fought for as long as he had glory and attention. He heard insults and threats as he walked through the streets. He tried his best not to mind. He minded. He had never had much- Dreadnaught grew up in the inner city and came from a poor family. So when people said he, and others like him, was profiting from chaos and war and fear as he struggled to make ends meet and ate third-rate prepackaged meals- his blood boiled. Most heroes were offered work when their identities were revealed- Private armies, government work, criminal organizations. He decided that if people thought he was a thug- then it didn't hurt to do a thug's job. He accepted a job offer, then another, and another. His pay was high and his scruples few. He moved out of the slums and into a high rise apartment. People kept calling him a crook and a monster, but it hurt less now that it was true. Others joined him, fighting wars and steal secrets for the highest bidder. That was how it had happened. The world was a different place now than it was. Supers were identified from birth and signed on with one of the big corporations at the age of 12. There were no more armies anymore, no more citizen soldiers. Just hired guns with enough firepower to level cities. Some Supers still fought the good fight, of course. They lived on the edges of the world, striking out against the "Man" in what little ways they could. But most Supers lived quiet lives, turning down the offers of big corporations, and not making a fuss of their powers for fear of attracting too much attention. Dreadnaught looked down from the glinting lights and turned towards the desert. His contact would be arriving soon, with his pay, and likely another job. He was one of the oldest men in the business, after all. He never failed, he never quit a job until it was done. His skills were highly valued.
[deleted]	[WP] When you get to be 18, you can pick a statistic. Any time you see someone, you'll know that statistic about them.	So LPT: Don't show up drunk to stats day. Let me give you some background. For the record it was the day after graduation, which was the worst timing possible. Of course my family had to throw the grandest of graduation parties. And of course my drunk uncle showed up, as usual. Except this time I actually took that tequila shot he always pestered me to take. I had finally graduated, why not? The problem was when I took the next tequila shot, and the next. You see where this is going. Here I am, drunk out of my mind and underage. I doubt my parents ever knew, they were too engrossed in showing off to as many people as they could find. The next morning I wake up still drunk with 15 minutes to get to my appointment. I slam a cup of coffee, and grab my bicycle to ride to the statistics building. I need to pee. Have you ever had a horrible hangover piss? I haven't yet, and it's painful. But I'm already drunk and in the stats line. You would think the workers there would notice an underage drunk getting in line, filling out the paperwork, and waiting for the injection, but no. Those workers are more indifferent than the DMV. So there I am nearly dying and I start asking the attendant if they know where the bathroom is. They don't, or they wouldn't respond. Did I ask loud enough? Are they listening? Dammit DOES ANYONE KNOW WHERE THE DAMN BATHROOM IS? So one thing led to another and now I know how likely a person is to know the location of a bathroom. It's really not helpful at all, and I wasted my statistic. I can't believe the guy at the counter took me seriously, this has to be a running joke for them. Come on man, I was drunk at the time! Let me have a do-over! Bastards.	A lot of people asked me what stat I picked when I turned eighteen, a lot of guys said stupid things and I wondered if they actually thought it out. From little on I knew what I wanted and how I would get it. I sort of had a hidden side to me...one that others would not want to know. If they did, well they wouldn't for long. Seeing so many pass by along the street percentages flying past my field of vision. Technology was and is a great thing but it gets overwhelming. The chips they implant into your eyes had to be checked like any other part of your body. They could malfunction, create errors. Give you unwanted or dangerous stats of somebody. Then there it was the percentage at a level that I never had seen before. One hundred percent. My eyes widened as large as my body would let them. Focusing on...a young man? He wasn't even a man, a teenager too young to get his stats implanted. This wasn't right. My stat was supposed to see the percentage of threat level in the stat that they had chosen for their own. We locked eyes and he ran. The boys back at the station wouldn't believe me if I didn't have proof that somebody this dangerous was running around. Setting my mental cam on instant I started recording. Never getting a view of his face since the first encounter. Then, out of nowhere, past the busy streets and into the alleyways that most never dared to go. He vanished. They'd never believe me and of course I was getting my boss blaring in my ears. “What the hell do you think you're doing chasing some kid!? You're supposed to be on incognito patrol and all I get back from you is this!? Report back to the station immediately!” I know he wouldn't believe me, he never has, never will. Unless your mental recorder is on at the exact moment of the stat flashing, it won't show. It will only show again if you get eye contact. The kid was smart. A sort of reminder to you. I sighed knowing once again I'd get written up for not using my mental recorder properly. I muted him, not wanting the blaring echos in my head. It was no use, I tried to help this forsaken town but I guess my methods we’re never effective. “Hey cop guy.” It was a teen voice. Slightly cracking, not yet settled into it's adult range. We made eye contact again, it was the one from before. Yet as soon as I tried to set my recorder on again I received an error. “What the hell!?” I pulled out my stun gun ready to shoot, but it felt hot in my hand, so hot I dropped it spilling a few cuss words from my lips. “Calm down old man. I won't hurt you. You seem like could be of use to us. There's a lot more to the stat world than most would like to believe. I'm an observer, and I'd like to recruit you.” The smirk that coated the teens face made me sick but the still lingering pain in my hand made it hard to think of any kind of snappy comeback. “Recruit me?” This kid was spouting nonsense, like one of those new age cults that I had to bust down every once in a while. “Yes, to the higher states. If you really want to save this place, I can help you. If you help us.” I wanted to grab my gun again. Shoot this mad man in the head and end his insanity. If I wasn't in incognito mode right now I'd actually have my lethal weapon. Then something was touching my forehead. It was my stun gun, at point blank range to the skull the shock could be lethal, but there was no hand on the trigger...it was floating. “I thought I wouldn't have to resort to this but it's agree to be recruited or die on the spot. I don't like to waste my time old man. I'm very busy and you're wasting it as we speak. Say yes.” His face devoid of all emotion, sweat rolling down my neck, running tracks past the implant at the base of it. Panic took over. “F...fine I'll join your higher state or whatever bullshit this is. How the fuck are you levitating my stun gun?” As soon as I finished saying that it dropped to the ground sparking. “Welcome to the elevated Mr. Samulae Johnson.” I got way too out of hand on this lol
Whether you use Pestilence or Conquest is up to you, but I always learned Pestilence (or Pollution, if you're a Good Omens fan). Isn't Conquest a bit close to War anyway?	[WP] Non-traditional families are quite common these days, but yours might just be the strangest of them all. You werenraised by the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse	Today was Charlotte's first time playing Striker in the soccer game. The 4 Horsemen were so proud of her because it seemed like only yesterday she was taking her first steps Pestilence: Would you like me to stricken them with the most vile plague, princess? War: I can overwhelm them with bloodlust and have them kill each other, sweetie? Death: How about having them all just drop dead? There's no need for overwhelming them with bloodlust. I mean, how are a bunch of 8 year olds going to kill themselves? Pulling their hair and pinching each other? Famine: Fools. There's no need for killing them when I can simply stricken them with hunger to make them too weak to play. War: You're such a pussy, Famine. I'm sure Charlotte likes my idea best. I've always been her favorite. Famine: Wow. I'm a pussy? Who has wiped out millions without having to lift a sword or fire a gun? Pestilence: (clearing his throat) Uh, remember The Plague, Smallpox, The 1918 Influenza, Ebola? I wouldn't be humblebragging about just starving millions because you kept their potatoes from growing. Try killing billions with some microscopic, unassuming microorganisms. Death: Please. I've been around longer than any of you. Hell, I reaped Adam and Eve. I find this body count dick measuring contest amusing since I'm the real heavyweight here. Wars, famines and plagues come and go. My services are always in demand. The 4 Horsemen began bickering amongst each other when Charlotte finally had enough and butted in. Charlotte: Daddies. It's nice you guys want to help but I think I'll be OK. I'm 8 years old and can handle these mortals myself. If any of them get in my way, I'll strike them down with lightning. The 4 Horsemen: That's our girl. Kick their asses. Have no mercy on the mortals. Charlotte smiled and ran over to her team. This would be a good soccer game.	When I was 10, my uncle and aunt died. To be honest, I did not feel too sorry, or sad. They weren't there when my parents were killed. But that's a soppy story, and I don't like those. No, I was saved from the orphanage but death. And before you think I killed myself, I did not. I was saved, saved from being another grim statistic, saved from self pity, and most importantly, saved from what every person fears. A mundane life. Death isn't what most people think he is. He is no grim reaper, no man in a cloaked hood, no evil soul. He would always like to claim he was a fit body builder, though in truth, he was epitomised death. A bald, greying man, growing a nice pudge alongside a potential heart attack. He looked better in his younger years, malnourished and rotting away, yellow skin tugging at his ribcage. He certainly looked fit. Famine always told him that, which probably perpetuated myth of his fearsomeness. Probably helped Famine anyway, fear of Death sparked fear of Famine. Famkne liked these things, he usually told me "I love hunger like I love your dad". Don't ask me how Famine and Death gave birth to War and Conquest. Speaking of War and Conquest, my sister was usually never up to any good. Most people think that War and Conquest are separate, but they are not. Or at least they are not. You see, in 1991, my sister got a surgery to remove her conjoined twin, which in hindsight, ended disastrously. Now she has two responsibilities and all I hear her do is complain. Neither would I want her to take a holiday, last time she went to Aleppo, we know how it went. I sure as hell won't let her K-Pop obsession get the better of her. This time, even Pestilence agrees, for a stubborn aunt, that's rare. Politically, Pestilence could be defined as "center of the right", so finding out Pestilence loved Communism was much more than an irony. Pestilence and Famine both refused to let War and Conquest go to Korea, and it was very funny. "You don't control me! I love Korea! The Kimpap, the teopoki!" "Sure as hell young lady! If you go, hunger and disease will end! You can't control yourself. You can't let there be 'small skirmishes'. No, you can't go!" Being forced to sit through these arguments once a day was pretty boring and it was even worse once I started getting blamed. "Pollution! What the hell are you doing? Why are you not convincing your sister that industrial waste alone kills more than war could ever!" Usually I just let Death solve everything. After all, Death does solve everything. He is a very fair father who never needs to judge our actions, just our impact.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	"What was that saying about wise men and nights?" Aubreys voice came from behind him, gentle as always, with that little tinge of curiousity he had fallen for. "Wise men fear a night with no moon?" "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think its beautiful." A bit of whimsy in her voice now, hinting at a playfulness Alan knew was lurking beneath. "Who knows, really?" Turning, he stopped before her, staring into her eyes, "And you're right, it is beautiful." He kissed her, softly, before turning back around and continuing their walk. After a few steps, he realized he did not hear the clicking foot falls of her heels behind him. Stopping again, he turned once more, seeing her staring up at the sky. "What's wrong?" She lowered her gaze to his, her eyes slightly blank. "Where are we going?" "Home, dear. Come along now." He reached his arm out and softly clasped his hand with hers. "We're going home." "Oh. What was that saying about wise men and nights?" "That wise men fear a moonless night?" He continued to walk, her hand in his. "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think it's beautiful" Her voice was quieter now, growing more tired. "I don't know, dear. But you are right, it's beautiful. Now lets get back to the home. It's gotten chilly, and I don't want either of us catching cold." Hand in hand, they walked walked quietly into the gentle night. Accompanied by a cool breeze and the call of an owl. (Edited some typos my phone didn't believe were typos.)	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	The thousand terrors of life I had borne as I best could, but storms and pitch-black always terrified me. Being a kid, I often played with my childhood friend Luchresi on the shore, until one day (or should I say one night?) the devastating power of nature hit us. Storm came out of nowhere, along with heavy rain, and wind so cold it would freeze a cadaver. The clouds were so dense, no moon was to be seen, nothing could be seen really, we tried to get away from the raging sea, holding hands in the darkness so that we won't get separated - the noise was so loud and the world was so black, we'd never find each other if we let go for just a moment. We seemed to be unable to even distance ourselves from the body of unholy water, let alone getting home, so we just sat there for hours and hours until they felt like eons. And then the sun showed up. Luchresi almost died from pneumonia the following week. My sufferings were of another kind - since then I coughed for hours if I dared to enter a moist room or cellar. After having suffered that for a few times, I decided it was best to avoid such places completely. I have no idea what it would take to make me voluntarily step into one. Since that torment happened to us I am only afraid of two things: storm at sea and moonless nights. I do not and never have found a reason to fear anything other than those two. In a way, my night in hell gave me courage to always say what I want and do what I think is right and made me a person to be respected, sometimes even feared. Never will I be scared of anything else, and as long as I avoid my two fears and remain bold with everything and everyone else I am sure I will live a long and meaningful life. I have to be excused now, it was refreshing to open up to a stranger at a carnival, but a good friend of mine, Montresor - what a stupid family name, don't you think? - is approaching, I should really go and talk to him and make sure he doesn't hold a grudge against me for that admittedly tasteless joke I made a month ago.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. She was just about to go to a show with her friend Ron when they ran in to Ben on the way. Everything seemed fine, Becky did her best to keep her cool around him, but when she introduce Ron he just lost it. It didn't make any sense, one minute they were about to shake hands and right around when she said "Ron" he just pounced on him. All she could see was blood and screams and... Becky calmed herself. "It's okay Becky, breathe. This isn't real. This can't be real. Hehe, I bet those guys met beforehand and this is just some prank meant to scare me." She began slowly walking back, only half believing herself. As much as she wanted to, something about it just seemed so real and sudden, but it couldn't be real, Ron was one of the nicest guys she knew, he couldn't hurt a fly. As she turned around the corner to where they had been standing in the southern courtyard she was shocked to see, nothing. Nobody was anywhere to be seen. She began calling out for Ben, or Ron, or anybody, and was answered with only a breeze, a breeze with a slightly odd smell to it. "Oh god" Becky said covering her face, as the breeze changed direction the smell became more intense, from an ambiguous stink to a putrid stench. It smelled like the cafeteria had dumped their bad meat at the same time that the schools septic tank had burst. Becky headed for her dorm content with never encountering this smell again, "I'm sure Ben and Ron are fine, I'll just check in on them tomorrow". However as she walked she had a troubling realisation: The smell had gotten stronger. Practically filling her nose at this point, she decided she had had enough of tonight, covered her nose and started running towards her dorm. Down the stairs, left around the lower atrium and two buildings past the eastern gymnasium and she would finally be... be... Becky dropped to her knees. She wanted to look away but she needed to take it all in, to find any way it could be not real.As the intense sound of blood rushing through her head faded she heard a soul curdling scream only to realize it was hers, as were the tears running down her face. Strung up against the A in gymnasium, was Ben, bloody, beaten and most notably dissembowelled. As Becky wept and scream to the air for help she felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped up so fast she felt as though she may very well leave her skin behind. As she turned she saw Ron, bloody and disheveled. "RON! Ron oh my god Ron please help, first that whole thing before and now..." She could barely speak as she helplessly choked on her tears. " Oh my god Ron what happened to you WHAT HAPPENED TO BEN oh my god are you okay?" Ron grabbed her shoulders to steady her "Hey now, it's fine, I'm fine, everything is fine". Becky began to calm down even if only a little "But, but BEN". Ron pulled her into his shoulder and pet her hair as comfort "Shhhhh shh, it's okay, what's important is that you and I are both fine, and now there's nobody in the way anymore, you should be happy." Ron responded. Becky pushed off his chest "Happy?! Ron, BEN IS DEAD!!", Her disgust was only furthered by his smile at that remark "Exactly! Now there's no one to come in between us, Ben tried to take you away from me but now Ben's gone, we can finally be together, forever." Ron reached in to embrace her again but Becky was quick enough to avoid it, she still hadn't made sense of any of this and things kept getting crazier by the second. Just trying to break things down made her thoughts sound like Grand Central Station during rush hour. All she knew was that she had to get away from Ron now. "Don't you want us to be together forever?" Ron said, his arms outstretched, creeping forward. All Becky could muster was "Please don't follow me!" Before taking off in a mad dash for her dorm house. She looked back for a moment to see nothing behind her before she crashed into something soft, something wet, something Ron. "Oh come on now, I've been chasing after you for months, doesn't that earn me something?" His facial features were odd, caricatures of what they were, his eyes seemed smaller, yet his mouth seemed larger, but all Becky could think of was his speed " Wha- how did- when-." Reasoning was beyond her now, the only thing her brain would let her focus on was survival as she ran down the nearest alley. She could still hear Ron's voice echoing behind her "You know, it really hurt my feelings when you said I was your friend^ I mean I've always been nothing but a gentleman and thats all I get?^ I guess it's true what they say about nice guys." Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Her thoughts were cut of by a loud deep voice in the distance "OKAY BECKY NOW YOU'RE MAKING ME MAD" "I COULD TREAT YOU SO MUCH BETTER THAN BEN" "WHY DONT GIRLS LIKE YOI GIVE NICE GUYS LIKE ME A CHANCE" "BECKY" Becky was stuck in a dead end, with nowhere to run. With no escape her only choice was to hide behind the pile of trash at the end of the alley. "PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME" was all she could think, the closest semblance she could muster to a prayer. A prayer which was unanswered as she heard a loud * WOMP * in front of her hiding spot followed by a low animalistic growl, and the final words she would hear from the beast she thought was her best friend "Becky... LEMME SMASH".	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Bob was a quiet man. He was of medium height, neither tall nor short and not too thin, though on the slender side of things. He wore a button down long-sleeved shirt, blue or brown slacks, and brown shoes. He wore glasses and was slightly balding. In the winter, he wore a different sweater each day. Every day, Bob went into the Grayson Middle School, took a cup of coffee from the teacher's lounge, checked his mailbox, and went to his room. He taught Middle School Science. Each day, his students arrived eager to see what Bob had planned for the day. His voice was soft-spoken, not particularly exciting, but the things he said with that voice made the science come alive. At least twice a week, there were laboratory experiments or demonstrations. Chemicals made showers of sparks and colored smoke and terrible smells. Rocks gave up their secrets and, on late nights when he held astronomy club meetings, the telescope Bob had built with his own hands brought the stars and planets right to earth to tell stories of heroes of long ago, and perhaps of wonders undiscovered. Yet, it wasn't for all of this that the people of Hall Grove loved Bob. No, it was something else entirely. You see, though Bob was in his late forties, he'd never married. He had no children of his own, but all of the children that came through Grayson Middle School became his. Though there were inevitably a few difficult students who caused problems, but for the most part, they loved Bob. And they love him for one reason: Bob loved them. As a result, Bob was trusted by administrators, parents, and students alike. Students would often come and talk to him after school. He was often alone with them, and many times over his twenty-six years, students, both male and female, had cried while he helped wipe their tears, offered a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on. The closeness he had with so many would have been cause for alarm with most teachers. After all, an aging man who has never married alone with young teenagers so often? Surely something insidious was happening? But there wasn't. Not even a rumor. Not even once. Bob was a gentle soul. Bob simply loved his kids as two, and sometimes even three generations could attest. One day, like any number of others, one of his seventh grade girls showed up in his classroom door. "Mr. Johns?" Bob looked up from the papers he was grading. "Suzette? Please, come in. What can I do for you today?" "I need to talk to someone Mr. Johns. I don't know who to go to." There were tears in Suzette's eyes. "Please, sit down," Bob said, handing her the box of tissue from his desk. "What seems to be the matter?" No one knows what Suzette told Bob that day. What is known is that Suzette and her little sister and brother went to Bob's house that evening and they went to live with foster parents that weekend. That evening, Bob went to Suzette's parent's home after dropping her and her siblings at his own. Like the conversation with Suzette, no one knows what was said. Bob never spoke of it. Not when he called the local sheriff, not when the sheriff arrived at the Terrence residence, not when he was booked into the system, not when he stood trial, and not when he went to prison. The papers reported on that evening. The television news channels covered it. People burned up the local message boards with talk. When the sheriff had arrived, Daniel and Linda Terrence had been found in their home, lying in the kitchen floor. Their bodies had been cleanly decapitated. A sharp carving knife was laid on the table, yet covered in blood. Bob was calmly sitting on the sofa with blood on his light blue sweater whenever there sheriff arrived. The process of decapitation had likely taken a while given the weapon used. An autopsy would later show that they had been given a strong paralyzingly agent. They'd been awake the entire time, but unable to move, unable to scream. When searching the residence, the sheriff's department found videos and pictures. The television news did not show clips. The newspapers did not run the pictures. The words"Child Pornography" were used often in the reports. No one could believe what had occurred, the crime that the Terrence's had been involved in. And moreso, people of the small town could not reconcile the man they had known for so long with the brutality of the Terrence couple's death. When asked by the news reporters, the sheriff only ever gave one statement: "Beware the wrath of a gentle man."	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Late to the party, here goes. I have substituted "wrath" for "anger" for the sake of meter. #The Wrath of a Gentle Man# --- When I was still a youth my father said The hour draws near to teach you, as my father did, those things all wise men fear. The ocean vast, majestic, calm, the thoughtful heart keeps warm, But wisely clings to safety's shore in tempest and in storm. The moonlit night restores the soul, whether you wake or sleep, But 'pon new moon what evil tracks its ways in darkness deep? Still worse than these, the wise man knows, it's pow'r he can't withstand: Do not awake, do not arouse the wrath of a gentle man. --- Th'unending depths, the vast expanse the sailor hoids these dear. With rope and sail and oar in hand, he conquers every fear. But when the waves do toss and break and rake him o'er the coals, The wise man seeks the harbor's calm, avoids the wrecking shoals. Still though how mount'nous are the crests, how low the valleyed troughs, The wise man fears more'n ocean storm and leaves it lie far off. Poseidon's rage may splinter ships, and hopeless sailors strand, But fearsome'r still than crashing waves is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The hunter has no fear at nighttime when the moon is raised. No friend nor foe, no prey nor snare escapes his piercing gaze. But when the moon hath hid its face, the dark path he doth shun: The wise man tarries not at night, while shadows lengthening run. But still preferred is moonless night, all trackless, wand'ring, lost, The wise man knows that other fears may fetch a dearer cost. The hounds of hell may howl and bay within that trackless stand, But fearsome'r still in the dead of night is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The darkened night, the raging storm, strike fear in wisest heart, If length of days be yours, my son, avoid them for your part. But peace, for only nature's whims are dangers such as these; Let not the troubles of this kind your arms t'inaction seize. Betrayal by friend, thy foe's keen sword, o'er these the wise prevails. And nature's strength the wise man turns and of it's pow'r avails. But though he toil, though he prepare, no matter what his plan, Even the wise man can't survive the wrath of a gentle man.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	‘There are three things all wise men fear’ he said, ‘the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I think all here would agree that I am a gentle man, but you are testing my patience now, child. If you are who you say you are, you know what slander is the accusation you are making.’ Taryn cast her eyes down as these words fell from the aelderman’s lips. Her spear-holding hand dropped from upright to languorous and the pointed bronze tip traced a bolt-straight line in the dusty hall floor as she stepped towards him. ‘Perhaps you are right, Aelder Llewel.’ Then a pause. Taryn’s pupils glance up quickly to meet his, then fall back once more and she continues to cross the room towards the old man. The villagers hem the two in a circle like a dog and a stag in a clearing edged by hunters’ nets. ‘I have been travelling so long, sir. Forgive a weary traveller. And forgive me again if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I remember my last night here was a moonless one.’ The close packed villagers can be seen to bristle. The memory forms physical ripples through the crowd. ‘And that night could not have brought more fear, my child.’ The aelderman steps forward as he talks and raises his hands out low from his sides. ‘We remember the night you and the other young ones were taken every year on the night where there is no moon and the days are shortest. And we beg the gods have mercy on us and our other children.’ He was nearly shouting now. ‘What happened to you was the greatest evil this village has ever suffered, but we must put it to bed if we wish to live in the present, here, among the living, rather than continually mourn with you and our dead.’ Now he was shouting. A speck of saliva grazed Taryn’s girded dress. The villagers looked away to deny the sight of the aelder angry. Taryn took another step. The two were mere yards apart now. ‘With respect, aelder, the reason we might fear a moonless night is because we cannot see. But there is another reason why we could not see that night, Llewel. There were no fires. The raiders always brought fire before. Their lord Virrik called for it. Fire to burn our houses when they slaughtered us and stripped us and took what little we had. But that night there were no fires. No slaughter and no robbery.’ ‘THEY STOLE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT MATTER IS THERE IF THERE WAS FIRE OR NOT?’ One of the village men broke into loud sobs at this point. His wife draped her arms around to comfort him but he batted her away and for a long time only his mad sobs broke the silence in the hall. ‘It was not robbery,’ Taryn continues ‘it was sale. You sold us. Your own children. All of you, all of your children. There may not have been light, aelder,’ she hissed the word out ‘but I could hear you talking to him, telling him about how soundly the village slept when you had been the one to fill the mixing bowl.’ ‘THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.’ ‘They left you the crops, is that it? And whatever small treasures you had? Maybe they swore they wouldn’t come again? And you believed them?’ The aelderman took a breath, then, firmly ‘I will talk to this girl alone now’. The villagers were driven out by the aelderman’s two main men, who then came to stand behind him while the villagers lingered outside the hall in anticipation and torpor. Aelder Llewel spoke to her quietly now, for fear, justified fear, that the village might still be listening. ‘I did what was best for the village. We could not survive another raid. If they had burnt our granary again we would all be dead. You of all people should understand a person’s instinct to survive.’ And with that he gave a nod to his men that could only mean one thing, and walked past Taryn to the stand under the great hall’s doorway, turning to watch his men at work. As Taryn crossed the floor towards the aelderman’s first man and with a swift two-handed thrust of her spear pierced his neck, his jugular, before he could even draw his sword, she could have told him about the other, the many other moonless nights over many years, which she had spent in misery and slavery and Lord Virrik’s bed, when she could only talk to the other stolen children through whispers and glances and coded messages through passed objects. Then Taryn wrenched back her spear from the corpse she had made, and lunged with it, piercing the second man’s leg through, pinning him to the floor as he fell. A visceral yelp of pain echoed in the chamber and as Taryn circled the pinned man, who though fading fast was jabbing at the air with his sword, she could have told him about the storm at sea that had killed most of her crew of stolen siblings, after she had slit Lord Virrik’s throat while he slept and commandeered the very ship that once stole them. At last she found the right time to dive upon the man, lithe and strong from years of frenzied practice for this day, and she wrestled the sword from his man and with one swift move took his head from his shoulders. She took sword and spear with her as she ran from the hall, in pursuit of the aelderman, who found himself once again ringed in by villagers, angry now, baying for blood to expiate the blood of their sons and daughters. Her spear thrust up under his ribs and found his lungs and heart, and as his soul fled his useless body she thought his saying had been wrong. Fear the storm at sea, and the moonless night, yes. But though she was neither gentle nor a man, he would have done well to fear her the more. Edit: typos	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	I never once saw the captain angry. Not before that night. It was rare, a captain who never shouted. He was Stern with his expectations, but he was kind and fair. He knew what his crew was capable of, even if we didn't, and he never pushed us further than we could go. Until that night. We had been underway for six months at that point. We hadn't seen a port in four. I was loosing track of the at-sea-replenishments we had done. We were all tired and scared. But that's war. The admiralty had been pushing us harder and harder. Combat action after combat action, and every time we had fewer and fewer ships supporting us. I hadn't seen a sub periscope in weeks, and I was convinced they been pulled off our battlegroup. Sure the destroyers has anti-sub capability, but you can't beat a sub when it comes to tracking and killing a sub. Despite this, the peace talks were progressing, and we all expected, or at least hoped, we would be sailing home soon. Two days before that night, the fleet force Commander had arrived via chopper and embarked on our ship. His arrival had been saluted by a full broadside. It was my first time as gun captain on one of the triple 16-inch guns. It had been easy: make sure nothing was in sight that way, point the gun in that direction, and fire. If I was lucky, I had thought at the time, it would be the first AND last time I ever had to be in charge of those guns firing. The day before that night, the clouds started rolling our way. They were monstrous grey things spewing lightening and the wind coming off then hit fifty knots before we even saw the first drop of rain. That afternoon the news came in from HQ: the peace treaty would be signed within days. Cease all offensive action. The enemy had been given the same orders it seemed, as all reports indicated they were grouping up and heading home. As the flotilla bounced on the waves and tried to keep from crashing into each other, we toasted with smuggled booze and cheered the coming peace. The captain sat on the bridge sipping coffee with a quiet smile on his face. The FFC was not so merry. He'd lost a son to the enemy, and it had been whispered since his arrival that he didn't want the war over until every one of them was dead. He stood on the bridge pouring over reports and incoming data. It was just after nightfall with the storm at its peak when the FFC turned with a vicious grin to our beloved captain. "We have them!" He said triumphantly. "We can take them by surprise and sink half their damned fleet. They are a mere hundered nautical miles west. We can hit them no and make it look like the storm did it." As if to underscore his point, a crack of lighting snaked across the sky and thunder boomed across the ocean. The Captain's smile had faded. "Sir, respectfully, we have been ordered to cease offensive action. The war is all but over. Those sailors have families to go home to as well." The FFC spat. "To hell with them. With all of them! We attack. Turn this fleet toward theirs and make preparations for combat. Now!" His eyes darted about the bridge. "Crafty bastards might have us bugged. We have to act before they can act on their Intel!" His eyes were wild and unfocused. His anger was blinding him to reason. The captain narrowed his gaze. "They out number us five to one already and more forces are converging to join them even now. Even with the element of surprise, sir, we cannot expect to..." The FFC was shouting now. The bridge had gone otherwise silent. "Obey my orders captain or I will have you relieved!" Color rose in the Captain's cheeks. He stood and straightened his uniform. "Sir, perhaps we should continue this discussion outside. It is he only place we can be sure to speak freely." The FFC merely nodded and headed for the weather deck. The captain began to follow, but nervously, I stopped him. "Sir, respectfully under these sea conditions regulations state another sailor must act as safety observer." The captain hesitated a moment, but then simply nodded. "Make sure you have a life jacket on, shipmate. I don't want to loose you." The three of us quickly dawned life jackets and headed through the hatch to the weather deck. The sea rolled, leapt and dove beneath us. The sky was black but for the lightning. I lit up my watch and checked the lunar function, a habit of mine before going outside at night. It was a new moon tonight. Above he clouds the star would be dazzling. "Wait here." The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye with an earnestness I had never seen. "What here son. I'll talk him down. We won't be having a battle tonight." I nodded and the captain walked with the grace of a dancer on the rolling deck toward the life lines, on which the FFC was leaning, waiting for the captain. I posed the hatch behind us and the darkness became nearly complete. Over the roar of the storm I could hear nothing but for flashes of lightning I could see nothing. Thanks sea wracked the ship with a fury I hadn't seen in all my days. I waited uneasily for the two high up brass to decide our fate. The captain had been right: to attack would mean out death. And perhaps and end to the peace talks. Minutes felt like hours as the rain lashed down. Finally I saw a figure working its way back to me. I opened the hatch to gain some light and dark the captain returning alone. In his hand was a life jacket. The FFC's life jacket. We stepped hurriedly into the ship. I was heading back for the bridge when the captain grabbed me and held me in place. "He fell overboard. I reached out for him and grabbed a hold of his life jacket but it ripped off. He fell into the sea. I will proceed to the bridge and sound man overboard. You get safety gear ready for the deck lookouts." He handed the life jacket to me and headed for the bridge at a stroll. I looked down at the jacket, then back to my beloved captain. I set the clasps back in place and wrenched hard, tearing the securing straps from the jacket. The captain was right. The FFC had fallen overboard. A week later we pulled into home port. The war was over. I never went to sea again.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	One night, when I was a young man travelling with my family, I had made my mind up to go for a swim. We were visiting friends who lived on a small island in the middle of a lake vast in size, a thousand feet deep, a hundred leagues long and fifty leagues across. The water was calm, small waves lazily caressed the small sand beach I stood on and the water as far as I could see was like a soft mirror of the black sky, broken up with specks of white froth and reflections of moon and star. As often is the case, I was alone. I didn't think twice about wading into the chilly waters until I was waist deep before I let myself slide forward into a small wave, like collapsing into a bed, and began to slowly swim out. Though I was still young and physically small I was a strong swimmer, growing up on a lake I've always been very comfortable in the water. By the time I stopped my relaxed swim and stopped, treading water and catching my breath I had gone much farther than intended and carried laterally by the current. I could still see the island, though I could barely spy the lights from the cabin windows it was enough, I had my bearings. I spun myself back around, back turned to the island and marveled at the beauty of the cloudless night sky and nothing but rolling water as far as I could see. I flipped over on my back and stared at the stars as I swam eastward, correcting the drift from the current, completely overwhelmed with beauty I wondered if the miracle of my life was as meaningful as the miracle of this lake. How would you even measure such a thing, the value of a miracle? I laughed and got a mouthful of water, stopping my backstroke I tread water once more and spit the water out. I very quickly noticed I was bobbing up and down much more as I scissored my legs and waved my arms. Turning myself back to face the island, it took a few moments to spot the light from the cabin window. The light. There was only one on, my family would soon be in bed and there would be no lights. You can understand this is a troubling realization to someone who's only begun to live their life. The wind and waves steadily increasing in severity did little to calm this realization. I began swimming in earnest, telling myself I had to get home before the lights went out or it would take forever to find the beach again. I subconsciously knew I was actually swimming for my life, but I suppose I was trying to keep that fact in denial to stay calm; even at that age I knew the disasters panic can cause. I'm not sure if you've ever tried to swim any great distance at night but it becomes quite difficult to maintain your direction when the waves are larger and stronger than you, I frequently had to stop or slow and push myself up out of the water to see the island. I stopped to catch my breath and give my now aching muscles a break, gauging my distance and direction home. I squinted for a moment and wiped some water from my eye with the back of my hand, when I opened my eyes again the light from the window was gone, the island nothing more than a blurred silhouette only noticeable because it was stationary and darker than the reflective water. My mental denial of the danger I was in went out with that bedroom light and I felt all the elements of panic start to set in. My already racing heart was now beating against my chest, my measured breathing turned instantly to deep gasps that often got bits of water from the waves in my mouth, my hands and arms began trembling and my stomach started to crawl up my throat. I closed my eyes and heard my Father's voice in my head, "No, breathe. That's it, just breathe nice and easy. In. And out." My stomach settled, my heart decided it wanted to stay in my chest, and I knew what I had to do, just breathe and swim. Treading water with my eyes closed and taking those few careful breaths, I saw a bright light through my eyelids and immediately opened them to catch a glimpse of everything in perfect clarity, fully illuminated by a bolt of lightning miles behind me, then with my pupils shocked from the light everything was dark. I felt the reverberation from the thunder in my body before I heard it but when I did hear it, it was as though the sky split open and dumped all it's water back into the lake. I was already swimming, frantically toward the mental afterimage of the island. I thought to myself I was over halfway home, and then I thought I was just reassuring myself. The fast moving storm clouds made the moon and start light chaotic and ethereal. I started wondering if the silhouette I was swimming towards was the island or just that clear picture of it I've been holding in my mind. Despite the adrenaline, my legs were aching and felt as if they were pumping pure fire through their veins. I knew if I got a muscle cramp it would probably be the end of me. I stopped swimming and looked to make sure I was still heading toward the island and not just fooling myself and I was indeed. I tread water with my arms only for just a few breaths, letting my legs rest while I waited for a wave to propel me forward. I thought about surfing, I had never done it but I understood the concept well enough. I started feeling the waves with a different mindset, learning how to join with them and stiffen my body to let them carry me with little effort on my part. As I got the hang of it I became excited, the heavy rain and sporadic thunderclaps now background noise. I felt I learned to be one with the water, I had mastered the waves and with that mastery was swimming faster than I ever have before! As I drew nearer and nearer to the island it grew larger and became clearer. I had drifted off course again, I was closer to the western point than the beach on the east where the cabin slumbered. I swam eastward again, though I couldn't see the beach I had a good idea of where it was relative to the point and it was a small island. It certainly wasn't as easy to swim across the waves as it was to swim with them, but my muscles had rested some and I still stiffened my body for moments to let the waves carry me closer to shore. Then the sky light up again, another lightning bolt to the north, I took another clear reckoning of the island with the brief illumination. I could see the beach and I couldn't be more than a hundred yards from it! I turned to face it and with the next wave I used my arms and legs to launch myself forward with it, stiffening my body and letting it carry me as I periodically kicked or fanned my arms to stay with it or on course. Then I lost it, the whole world rumbled with the thunderous boom of the last lightening bolt as I waited for the next wave I would harness. I was racing toward the beach, I could see the sand clearly and the darkness of the vegetation behind it. When I fanned my arms forward I was surprised to feel air and, looking down, I realized I was a full 5 feet above the surface of the water riding the crest of a huge wave. Like the roadrunner realizing he ran straight off a cliff, I dropped down into the water, half in the wave and half in the air as I fell. I immediately began doing the breast stroke to keep direction, though I was barely moving my arms and legs my momentum was carrying me to the shore faster than any human could swim. I felt the sand and small rocks scrape my face and mash my nose, then my chest and arms and the rest of my body was being dragged across the coarse ground. I went from being completely underwater to feeling air on my back, the wave had carried me right to the shore, I was home! I was alive! I planted my palms in the dirt and started to do a pushup, already walking home in my mind. Then the wave that carried me ashore was reclaimed by the lake, the water rapidly slid beneath me and created a vacuum in the space it left between my body and the earth, sucking my face straight into the sand. I tried to push myself up again and another large wave crashed against my back, keeping me down as surely being stomped on. I had been holding my breath too long, since I fell through the wave minutes ago. All I could think of, was that I needed to get my head out of the water before the next wave slammed me down again and I started to push myself up once more. Again the undertow sucked me down into the sand as the last wave receded into the lake, and though I struggled for my life with all my strength the wave was stronger. When the undertow subsided, my efforts to breathe were again beat down as the crest of the next wave smashed against my back. Then the undertow again, my aching arms trembled as I struggled to lift my head out of water just a few inches and breath, I could feel the air on my ears it was so shallow! Just then I remembered all the times I've heard people say a baby can drown in an inch of water and as my lungs went into convulsing spasms and my whole body trembled and felt as though it were collapsing on itself, I realized just how true that was...	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	We stand in the ashes of their world, the last vestiges of our energy beginning to fade. Destroyed by our imperative to conquer, destroyed by the arrogance of our maker. Destroyed by the one that came. He arrived with little fanfare, just appearing one day in his ridiculous craft, just him and an earthling girl. No weapons, no defenses, no threat. We showed him the glory of our empire, its reach, its wonder. He saw through it. He saw only the oppression of our subject worlds, the slavery on which be build our greatness. He stopped to help a fallen slave, and she thanked him. There is a penalty for those who talk without permission, and we punished her. That was our fatal mistake, for that lit the fire in his soul. We still don't know what happened, how he did it, but he turned our world, our technology against us. Our subject worlds slipped our fingers, our slaves on our own world vanished, our warriors were consumed by the rage of the wind and sea as our world turned against us. Now the our reactors fade, our machines have stopped working, and so we find ourselves here, watching the last of our power go, before the darkness comes. He is written in the legends of the universe; His name means a healer, but he has many better names: He is the Ka Faraq Gatri. The Bringer of Darkness; The Oncoming Storm; The Anger of a Good Man; The Enemy of the Daleks	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	When I saw him unbuttoning his cardigan, I knew it was time to leave. He was rolling up his sleeves when we made it to the door, and the last thing I heard was the cracking of his knuckles and a calm voice saying "that wasn't very neighborly, friends." I don't know what happened to the men who raised his ire, but we ran out of that neighborhood and we didn't stop running until we got home.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Angels run and demons weep when the Good Man goes to war Fools rush in and wise men creep when the Good Man goes to war Drea had been a sweet, kind and loving man. Softly spoken, moving his large, wiry frame as though it were porcelain through crowds. That time was long past. His journey, tough as it was, began with the foolish Russian incursion into his homeland three years ago. His house had been exploded, part of the bombing runs from Occupied Crimea towards Hungary. He remembered with the iron tears pricking his eyes, and the wound in his heart bleeding cold sympathy. "Drea, don't leave me," his wife Nathalia pleaded, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth, the last vestiges of hope fading as the life began to leave her eyes. A clasped hand, a weeping man. Howls of raging grief, a shattered reflection of the bodies of his family, all he'd ever known, destroyed by the implacable cruelty of high-charge explosives. His training at the camp in the Carpathian Mountains cambe back to him, fed his thirst; not for blood, but for the regrettable vengeance he must take. For Drea knew now, that was all that was left to him. He moved into a more comfortable position, looking through the scope. Drea knew his time would be short once this shot was fired. In the crosshairs, the three men who had comdemned him to a life of loneliness that not even his new camaraderie could fill. His finger touched the trigger of the Garand rifle. Though a small corner of his mind was howling in horror, he was ready.	The children he says over and over again. As he tears threw his work shop grabbing and tools and reworking them into hideous instruments of torment. The workers cower in the coners of the cavernous workspace, that was dedicated to bringing joy and continentment to the children of the world. Except on nights like this. When the world grew so dark, that not even the wonders they worked could bring even a moment of happiness to the most innocent of mankind. And there jobs changed,for the season. And so would they. As there once jolly and joyous leader worked himself into a frenzy, he changed. The red from his cheeks spread threw out his face in frenzyed rage, each labored breath melted his plump shrinking him until his suit itself became like a second skin. A single figure in the room sadly thought to himself that he was looking more like his brother. But his brother wasn't so angry, in his own way he was jolly because he was fulfilling his purpose. This was going to be madness and pain unequal in measure to the joy the now fallen saint onece brought. And look, his brothers and sisters were being pulled into the insanity. The diminutive body's began to stretch into gaunt emaciated monstrositys. One by one they left the his side and moved onto the work floor to aid in the destruction and perversion of this onece sacred place. They threw so much coal into the fireplaces that the fires begin to eat the room burning it to the bare rock behind the wood. When the flames hit them they laughed as it became part of them, and deformed them even more. And when the flames grew to hot it split there body's into more terrible brothers and sisters. "Joy was what onece brought us more family, " the lone elf thought to himself, "I hope this isn't there new joy. " he added hopelessly. Tossing over the train station so the toys melted and the paint turnd to burning mist. They beat what was left of the metals into chains and hooks,and hung them from the ceilings and walls. Some began to break up the floor boards and dig into the earth mining it for coal and growing the work space. "He said we're to expect many guests. " the lonely one thought as he tryed to save a few toys for the newcomers before they were pryed from his hands. At last the burning saint was ready to begin his pilage, his clawed hands pulling down what was left of the once beautiful mahogany doors. And he ordered new ones be put up that could withstand the heat and strong enough to keep the intended in. As he began to step out the one true faithful elf called his name and asked how long it would stay like this. And for a moment the mad smile feel from his face and doubt replaced it. But as his eyes looked they locked upon a burnt doll, the soul surviver of the mayhem. Then picked it up and crushed it. "That's not my name anymore, " he said with pain and rage in his voice. "It will be this way until they respect innocence more than domination!" He bellowed, to the cheers of his frightful children. With that he stormed off into the night. At last a fire began to grow in the lonely ones heart and change him as well. Not of anger but righteous fury and hope. This new home would need order and guidance, someone to remember it's original purpose and strong enough to guide there father back to it. The flames inside blossomed his form into something so beautiful and radiant it was terrifying to his family, he would command respect and loyalty on sight alone. He stepped forward and onto a leathery parchment coverd in names and ash. "Well at least you got to keep your old job ".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	"What was that saying about wise men and nights?" Aubreys voice came from behind him, gentle as always, with that little tinge of curiousity he had fallen for. "Wise men fear a night with no moon?" "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think its beautiful." A bit of whimsy in her voice now, hinting at a playfulness Alan knew was lurking beneath. "Who knows, really?" Turning, he stopped before her, staring into her eyes, "And you're right, it is beautiful." He kissed her, softly, before turning back around and continuing their walk. After a few steps, he realized he did not hear the clicking foot falls of her heels behind him. Stopping again, he turned once more, seeing her staring up at the sky. "What's wrong?" She lowered her gaze to his, her eyes slightly blank. "Where are we going?" "Home, dear. Come along now." He reached his arm out and softly clasped his hand with hers. "We're going home." "Oh. What was that saying about wise men and nights?" "That wise men fear a moonless night?" He continued to walk, her hand in his. "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think it's beautiful" Her voice was quieter now, growing more tired. "I don't know, dear. But you are right, it's beautiful. Now lets get back to the home. It's gotten chilly, and I don't want either of us catching cold." Hand in hand, they walked walked quietly into the gentle night. Accompanied by a cool breeze and the call of an owl. (Edited some typos my phone didn't believe were typos.)	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	The thousand terrors of life I had borne as I best could, but storms and pitch-black always terrified me. Being a kid, I often played with my childhood friend Luchresi on the shore, until one day (or should I say one night?) the devastating power of nature hit us. Storm came out of nowhere, along with heavy rain, and wind so cold it would freeze a cadaver. The clouds were so dense, no moon was to be seen, nothing could be seen really, we tried to get away from the raging sea, holding hands in the darkness so that we won't get separated - the noise was so loud and the world was so black, we'd never find each other if we let go for just a moment. We seemed to be unable to even distance ourselves from the body of unholy water, let alone getting home, so we just sat there for hours and hours until they felt like eons. And then the sun showed up. Luchresi almost died from pneumonia the following week. My sufferings were of another kind - since then I coughed for hours if I dared to enter a moist room or cellar. After having suffered that for a few times, I decided it was best to avoid such places completely. I have no idea what it would take to make me voluntarily step into one. Since that torment happened to us I am only afraid of two things: storm at sea and moonless nights. I do not and never have found a reason to fear anything other than those two. In a way, my night in hell gave me courage to always say what I want and do what I think is right and made me a person to be respected, sometimes even feared. Never will I be scared of anything else, and as long as I avoid my two fears and remain bold with everything and everyone else I am sure I will live a long and meaningful life. I have to be excused now, it was refreshing to open up to a stranger at a carnival, but a good friend of mine, Montresor - what a stupid family name, don't you think? - is approaching, I should really go and talk to him and make sure he doesn't hold a grudge against me for that admittedly tasteless joke I made a month ago.	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. She was just about to go to a show with her friend Ron when they ran in to Ben on the way. Everything seemed fine, Becky did her best to keep her cool around him, but when she introduce Ron he just lost it. It didn't make any sense, one minute they were about to shake hands and right around when she said "Ron" he just pounced on him. All she could see was blood and screams and... Becky calmed herself. "It's okay Becky, breathe. This isn't real. This can't be real. Hehe, I bet those guys met beforehand and this is just some prank meant to scare me." She began slowly walking back, only half believing herself. As much as she wanted to, something about it just seemed so real and sudden, but it couldn't be real, Ron was one of the nicest guys she knew, he couldn't hurt a fly. As she turned around the corner to where they had been standing in the southern courtyard she was shocked to see, nothing. Nobody was anywhere to be seen. She began calling out for Ben, or Ron, or anybody, and was answered with only a breeze, a breeze with a slightly odd smell to it. "Oh god" Becky said covering her face, as the breeze changed direction the smell became more intense, from an ambiguous stink to a putrid stench. It smelled like the cafeteria had dumped their bad meat at the same time that the schools septic tank had burst. Becky headed for her dorm content with never encountering this smell again, "I'm sure Ben and Ron are fine, I'll just check in on them tomorrow". However as she walked she had a troubling realisation: The smell had gotten stronger. Practically filling her nose at this point, she decided she had had enough of tonight, covered her nose and started running towards her dorm. Down the stairs, left around the lower atrium and two buildings past the eastern gymnasium and she would finally be... be... Becky dropped to her knees. She wanted to look away but she needed to take it all in, to find any way it could be not real.As the intense sound of blood rushing through her head faded she heard a soul curdling scream only to realize it was hers, as were the tears running down her face. Strung up against the A in gymnasium, was Ben, bloody, beaten and most notably dissembowelled. As Becky wept and scream to the air for help she felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped up so fast she felt as though she may very well leave her skin behind. As she turned she saw Ron, bloody and disheveled. "RON! Ron oh my god Ron please help, first that whole thing before and now..." She could barely speak as she helplessly choked on her tears. " Oh my god Ron what happened to you WHAT HAPPENED TO BEN oh my god are you okay?" Ron grabbed her shoulders to steady her "Hey now, it's fine, I'm fine, everything is fine". Becky began to calm down even if only a little "But, but BEN". Ron pulled her into his shoulder and pet her hair as comfort "Shhhhh shh, it's okay, what's important is that you and I are both fine, and now there's nobody in the way anymore, you should be happy." Ron responded. Becky pushed off his chest "Happy?! Ron, BEN IS DEAD!!", Her disgust was only furthered by his smile at that remark "Exactly! Now there's no one to come in between us, Ben tried to take you away from me but now Ben's gone, we can finally be together, forever." Ron reached in to embrace her again but Becky was quick enough to avoid it, she still hadn't made sense of any of this and things kept getting crazier by the second. Just trying to break things down made her thoughts sound like Grand Central Station during rush hour. All she knew was that she had to get away from Ron now. "Don't you want us to be together forever?" Ron said, his arms outstretched, creeping forward. All Becky could muster was "Please don't follow me!" Before taking off in a mad dash for her dorm house. She looked back for a moment to see nothing behind her before she crashed into something soft, something wet, something Ron. "Oh come on now, I've been chasing after you for months, doesn't that earn me something?" His facial features were odd, caricatures of what they were, his eyes seemed smaller, yet his mouth seemed larger, but all Becky could think of was his speed " Wha- how did- when-." Reasoning was beyond her now, the only thing her brain would let her focus on was survival as she ran down the nearest alley. She could still hear Ron's voice echoing behind her "You know, it really hurt my feelings when you said I was your friend^ I mean I've always been nothing but a gentleman and thats all I get?^ I guess it's true what they say about nice guys." Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Her thoughts were cut of by a loud deep voice in the distance "OKAY BECKY NOW YOU'RE MAKING ME MAD" "I COULD TREAT YOU SO MUCH BETTER THAN BEN" "WHY DONT GIRLS LIKE YOI GIVE NICE GUYS LIKE ME A CHANCE" "BECKY" Becky was stuck in a dead end, with nowhere to run. With no escape her only choice was to hide behind the pile of trash at the end of the alley. "PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME" was all she could think, the closest semblance she could muster to a prayer. A prayer which was unanswered as she heard a loud * WOMP * in front of her hiding spot followed by a low animalistic growl, and the final words she would hear from the beast she thought was her best friend "Becky... LEMME SMASH".	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Bob was a quiet man. He was of medium height, neither tall nor short and not too thin, though on the slender side of things. He wore a button down long-sleeved shirt, blue or brown slacks, and brown shoes. He wore glasses and was slightly balding. In the winter, he wore a different sweater each day. Every day, Bob went into the Grayson Middle School, took a cup of coffee from the teacher's lounge, checked his mailbox, and went to his room. He taught Middle School Science. Each day, his students arrived eager to see what Bob had planned for the day. His voice was soft-spoken, not particularly exciting, but the things he said with that voice made the science come alive. At least twice a week, there were laboratory experiments or demonstrations. Chemicals made showers of sparks and colored smoke and terrible smells. Rocks gave up their secrets and, on late nights when he held astronomy club meetings, the telescope Bob had built with his own hands brought the stars and planets right to earth to tell stories of heroes of long ago, and perhaps of wonders undiscovered. Yet, it wasn't for all of this that the people of Hall Grove loved Bob. No, it was something else entirely. You see, though Bob was in his late forties, he'd never married. He had no children of his own, but all of the children that came through Grayson Middle School became his. Though there were inevitably a few difficult students who caused problems, but for the most part, they loved Bob. And they love him for one reason: Bob loved them. As a result, Bob was trusted by administrators, parents, and students alike. Students would often come and talk to him after school. He was often alone with them, and many times over his twenty-six years, students, both male and female, had cried while he helped wipe their tears, offered a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on. The closeness he had with so many would have been cause for alarm with most teachers. After all, an aging man who has never married alone with young teenagers so often? Surely something insidious was happening? But there wasn't. Not even a rumor. Not even once. Bob was a gentle soul. Bob simply loved his kids as two, and sometimes even three generations could attest. One day, like any number of others, one of his seventh grade girls showed up in his classroom door. "Mr. Johns?" Bob looked up from the papers he was grading. "Suzette? Please, come in. What can I do for you today?" "I need to talk to someone Mr. Johns. I don't know who to go to." There were tears in Suzette's eyes. "Please, sit down," Bob said, handing her the box of tissue from his desk. "What seems to be the matter?" No one knows what Suzette told Bob that day. What is known is that Suzette and her little sister and brother went to Bob's house that evening and they went to live with foster parents that weekend. That evening, Bob went to Suzette's parent's home after dropping her and her siblings at his own. Like the conversation with Suzette, no one knows what was said. Bob never spoke of it. Not when he called the local sheriff, not when the sheriff arrived at the Terrence residence, not when he was booked into the system, not when he stood trial, and not when he went to prison. The papers reported on that evening. The television news channels covered it. People burned up the local message boards with talk. When the sheriff had arrived, Daniel and Linda Terrence had been found in their home, lying in the kitchen floor. Their bodies had been cleanly decapitated. A sharp carving knife was laid on the table, yet covered in blood. Bob was calmly sitting on the sofa with blood on his light blue sweater whenever there sheriff arrived. The process of decapitation had likely taken a while given the weapon used. An autopsy would later show that they had been given a strong paralyzingly agent. They'd been awake the entire time, but unable to move, unable to scream. When searching the residence, the sheriff's department found videos and pictures. The television news did not show clips. The newspapers did not run the pictures. The words"Child Pornography" were used often in the reports. No one could believe what had occurred, the crime that the Terrence's had been involved in. And moreso, people of the small town could not reconcile the man they had known for so long with the brutality of the Terrence couple's death. When asked by the news reporters, the sheriff only ever gave one statement: "Beware the wrath of a gentle man."	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Late to the party, here goes. I have substituted "wrath" for "anger" for the sake of meter. #The Wrath of a Gentle Man# --- When I was still a youth my father said The hour draws near to teach you, as my father did, those things all wise men fear. The ocean vast, majestic, calm, the thoughtful heart keeps warm, But wisely clings to safety's shore in tempest and in storm. The moonlit night restores the soul, whether you wake or sleep, But 'pon new moon what evil tracks its ways in darkness deep? Still worse than these, the wise man knows, it's pow'r he can't withstand: Do not awake, do not arouse the wrath of a gentle man. --- Th'unending depths, the vast expanse the sailor hoids these dear. With rope and sail and oar in hand, he conquers every fear. But when the waves do toss and break and rake him o'er the coals, The wise man seeks the harbor's calm, avoids the wrecking shoals. Still though how mount'nous are the crests, how low the valleyed troughs, The wise man fears more'n ocean storm and leaves it lie far off. Poseidon's rage may splinter ships, and hopeless sailors strand, But fearsome'r still than crashing waves is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The hunter has no fear at nighttime when the moon is raised. No friend nor foe, no prey nor snare escapes his piercing gaze. But when the moon hath hid its face, the dark path he doth shun: The wise man tarries not at night, while shadows lengthening run. But still preferred is moonless night, all trackless, wand'ring, lost, The wise man knows that other fears may fetch a dearer cost. The hounds of hell may howl and bay within that trackless stand, But fearsome'r still in the dead of night is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The darkened night, the raging storm, strike fear in wisest heart, If length of days be yours, my son, avoid them for your part. But peace, for only nature's whims are dangers such as these; Let not the troubles of this kind your arms t'inaction seize. Betrayal by friend, thy foe's keen sword, o'er these the wise prevails. And nature's strength the wise man turns and of it's pow'r avails. But though he toil, though he prepare, no matter what his plan, Even the wise man can't survive the wrath of a gentle man.	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	‘There are three things all wise men fear’ he said, ‘the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I think all here would agree that I am a gentle man, but you are testing my patience now, child. If you are who you say you are, you know what slander is the accusation you are making.’ Taryn cast her eyes down as these words fell from the aelderman’s lips. Her spear-holding hand dropped from upright to languorous and the pointed bronze tip traced a bolt-straight line in the dusty hall floor as she stepped towards him. ‘Perhaps you are right, Aelder Llewel.’ Then a pause. Taryn’s pupils glance up quickly to meet his, then fall back once more and she continues to cross the room towards the old man. The villagers hem the two in a circle like a dog and a stag in a clearing edged by hunters’ nets. ‘I have been travelling so long, sir. Forgive a weary traveller. And forgive me again if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I remember my last night here was a moonless one.’ The close packed villagers can be seen to bristle. The memory forms physical ripples through the crowd. ‘And that night could not have brought more fear, my child.’ The aelderman steps forward as he talks and raises his hands out low from his sides. ‘We remember the night you and the other young ones were taken every year on the night where there is no moon and the days are shortest. And we beg the gods have mercy on us and our other children.’ He was nearly shouting now. ‘What happened to you was the greatest evil this village has ever suffered, but we must put it to bed if we wish to live in the present, here, among the living, rather than continually mourn with you and our dead.’ Now he was shouting. A speck of saliva grazed Taryn’s girded dress. The villagers looked away to deny the sight of the aelder angry. Taryn took another step. The two were mere yards apart now. ‘With respect, aelder, the reason we might fear a moonless night is because we cannot see. But there is another reason why we could not see that night, Llewel. There were no fires. The raiders always brought fire before. Their lord Virrik called for it. Fire to burn our houses when they slaughtered us and stripped us and took what little we had. But that night there were no fires. No slaughter and no robbery.’ ‘THEY STOLE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT MATTER IS THERE IF THERE WAS FIRE OR NOT?’ One of the village men broke into loud sobs at this point. His wife draped her arms around to comfort him but he batted her away and for a long time only his mad sobs broke the silence in the hall. ‘It was not robbery,’ Taryn continues ‘it was sale. You sold us. Your own children. All of you, all of your children. There may not have been light, aelder,’ she hissed the word out ‘but I could hear you talking to him, telling him about how soundly the village slept when you had been the one to fill the mixing bowl.’ ‘THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.’ ‘They left you the crops, is that it? And whatever small treasures you had? Maybe they swore they wouldn’t come again? And you believed them?’ The aelderman took a breath, then, firmly ‘I will talk to this girl alone now’. The villagers were driven out by the aelderman’s two main men, who then came to stand behind him while the villagers lingered outside the hall in anticipation and torpor. Aelder Llewel spoke to her quietly now, for fear, justified fear, that the village might still be listening. ‘I did what was best for the village. We could not survive another raid. If they had burnt our granary again we would all be dead. You of all people should understand a person’s instinct to survive.’ And with that he gave a nod to his men that could only mean one thing, and walked past Taryn to the stand under the great hall’s doorway, turning to watch his men at work. As Taryn crossed the floor towards the aelderman’s first man and with a swift two-handed thrust of her spear pierced his neck, his jugular, before he could even draw his sword, she could have told him about the other, the many other moonless nights over many years, which she had spent in misery and slavery and Lord Virrik’s bed, when she could only talk to the other stolen children through whispers and glances and coded messages through passed objects. Then Taryn wrenched back her spear from the corpse she had made, and lunged with it, piercing the second man’s leg through, pinning him to the floor as he fell. A visceral yelp of pain echoed in the chamber and as Taryn circled the pinned man, who though fading fast was jabbing at the air with his sword, she could have told him about the storm at sea that had killed most of her crew of stolen siblings, after she had slit Lord Virrik’s throat while he slept and commandeered the very ship that once stole them. At last she found the right time to dive upon the man, lithe and strong from years of frenzied practice for this day, and she wrestled the sword from his man and with one swift move took his head from his shoulders. She took sword and spear with her as she ran from the hall, in pursuit of the aelderman, who found himself once again ringed in by villagers, angry now, baying for blood to expiate the blood of their sons and daughters. Her spear thrust up under his ribs and found his lungs and heart, and as his soul fled his useless body she thought his saying had been wrong. Fear the storm at sea, and the moonless night, yes. But though she was neither gentle nor a man, he would have done well to fear her the more. Edit: typos	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	I never once saw the captain angry. Not before that night. It was rare, a captain who never shouted. He was Stern with his expectations, but he was kind and fair. He knew what his crew was capable of, even if we didn't, and he never pushed us further than we could go. Until that night. We had been underway for six months at that point. We hadn't seen a port in four. I was loosing track of the at-sea-replenishments we had done. We were all tired and scared. But that's war. The admiralty had been pushing us harder and harder. Combat action after combat action, and every time we had fewer and fewer ships supporting us. I hadn't seen a sub periscope in weeks, and I was convinced they been pulled off our battlegroup. Sure the destroyers has anti-sub capability, but you can't beat a sub when it comes to tracking and killing a sub. Despite this, the peace talks were progressing, and we all expected, or at least hoped, we would be sailing home soon. Two days before that night, the fleet force Commander had arrived via chopper and embarked on our ship. His arrival had been saluted by a full broadside. It was my first time as gun captain on one of the triple 16-inch guns. It had been easy: make sure nothing was in sight that way, point the gun in that direction, and fire. If I was lucky, I had thought at the time, it would be the first AND last time I ever had to be in charge of those guns firing. The day before that night, the clouds started rolling our way. They were monstrous grey things spewing lightening and the wind coming off then hit fifty knots before we even saw the first drop of rain. That afternoon the news came in from HQ: the peace treaty would be signed within days. Cease all offensive action. The enemy had been given the same orders it seemed, as all reports indicated they were grouping up and heading home. As the flotilla bounced on the waves and tried to keep from crashing into each other, we toasted with smuggled booze and cheered the coming peace. The captain sat on the bridge sipping coffee with a quiet smile on his face. The FFC was not so merry. He'd lost a son to the enemy, and it had been whispered since his arrival that he didn't want the war over until every one of them was dead. He stood on the bridge pouring over reports and incoming data. It was just after nightfall with the storm at its peak when the FFC turned with a vicious grin to our beloved captain. "We have them!" He said triumphantly. "We can take them by surprise and sink half their damned fleet. They are a mere hundered nautical miles west. We can hit them no and make it look like the storm did it." As if to underscore his point, a crack of lighting snaked across the sky and thunder boomed across the ocean. The Captain's smile had faded. "Sir, respectfully, we have been ordered to cease offensive action. The war is all but over. Those sailors have families to go home to as well." The FFC spat. "To hell with them. With all of them! We attack. Turn this fleet toward theirs and make preparations for combat. Now!" His eyes darted about the bridge. "Crafty bastards might have us bugged. We have to act before they can act on their Intel!" His eyes were wild and unfocused. His anger was blinding him to reason. The captain narrowed his gaze. "They out number us five to one already and more forces are converging to join them even now. Even with the element of surprise, sir, we cannot expect to..." The FFC was shouting now. The bridge had gone otherwise silent. "Obey my orders captain or I will have you relieved!" Color rose in the Captain's cheeks. He stood and straightened his uniform. "Sir, perhaps we should continue this discussion outside. It is he only place we can be sure to speak freely." The FFC merely nodded and headed for the weather deck. The captain began to follow, but nervously, I stopped him. "Sir, respectfully under these sea conditions regulations state another sailor must act as safety observer." The captain hesitated a moment, but then simply nodded. "Make sure you have a life jacket on, shipmate. I don't want to loose you." The three of us quickly dawned life jackets and headed through the hatch to the weather deck. The sea rolled, leapt and dove beneath us. The sky was black but for the lightning. I lit up my watch and checked the lunar function, a habit of mine before going outside at night. It was a new moon tonight. Above he clouds the star would be dazzling. "Wait here." The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye with an earnestness I had never seen. "What here son. I'll talk him down. We won't be having a battle tonight." I nodded and the captain walked with the grace of a dancer on the rolling deck toward the life lines, on which the FFC was leaning, waiting for the captain. I posed the hatch behind us and the darkness became nearly complete. Over the roar of the storm I could hear nothing but for flashes of lightning I could see nothing. Thanks sea wracked the ship with a fury I hadn't seen in all my days. I waited uneasily for the two high up brass to decide our fate. The captain had been right: to attack would mean out death. And perhaps and end to the peace talks. Minutes felt like hours as the rain lashed down. Finally I saw a figure working its way back to me. I opened the hatch to gain some light and dark the captain returning alone. In his hand was a life jacket. The FFC's life jacket. We stepped hurriedly into the ship. I was heading back for the bridge when the captain grabbed me and held me in place. "He fell overboard. I reached out for him and grabbed a hold of his life jacket but it ripped off. He fell into the sea. I will proceed to the bridge and sound man overboard. You get safety gear ready for the deck lookouts." He handed the life jacket to me and headed for the bridge at a stroll. I looked down at the jacket, then back to my beloved captain. I set the clasps back in place and wrenched hard, tearing the securing straps from the jacket. The captain was right. The FFC had fallen overboard. A week later we pulled into home port. The war was over. I never went to sea again.	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	One night, when I was a young man travelling with my family, I had made my mind up to go for a swim. We were visiting friends who lived on a small island in the middle of a lake vast in size, a thousand feet deep, a hundred leagues long and fifty leagues across. The water was calm, small waves lazily caressed the small sand beach I stood on and the water as far as I could see was like a soft mirror of the black sky, broken up with specks of white froth and reflections of moon and star. As often is the case, I was alone. I didn't think twice about wading into the chilly waters until I was waist deep before I let myself slide forward into a small wave, like collapsing into a bed, and began to slowly swim out. Though I was still young and physically small I was a strong swimmer, growing up on a lake I've always been very comfortable in the water. By the time I stopped my relaxed swim and stopped, treading water and catching my breath I had gone much farther than intended and carried laterally by the current. I could still see the island, though I could barely spy the lights from the cabin windows it was enough, I had my bearings. I spun myself back around, back turned to the island and marveled at the beauty of the cloudless night sky and nothing but rolling water as far as I could see. I flipped over on my back and stared at the stars as I swam eastward, correcting the drift from the current, completely overwhelmed with beauty I wondered if the miracle of my life was as meaningful as the miracle of this lake. How would you even measure such a thing, the value of a miracle? I laughed and got a mouthful of water, stopping my backstroke I tread water once more and spit the water out. I very quickly noticed I was bobbing up and down much more as I scissored my legs and waved my arms. Turning myself back to face the island, it took a few moments to spot the light from the cabin window. The light. There was only one on, my family would soon be in bed and there would be no lights. You can understand this is a troubling realization to someone who's only begun to live their life. The wind and waves steadily increasing in severity did little to calm this realization. I began swimming in earnest, telling myself I had to get home before the lights went out or it would take forever to find the beach again. I subconsciously knew I was actually swimming for my life, but I suppose I was trying to keep that fact in denial to stay calm; even at that age I knew the disasters panic can cause. I'm not sure if you've ever tried to swim any great distance at night but it becomes quite difficult to maintain your direction when the waves are larger and stronger than you, I frequently had to stop or slow and push myself up out of the water to see the island. I stopped to catch my breath and give my now aching muscles a break, gauging my distance and direction home. I squinted for a moment and wiped some water from my eye with the back of my hand, when I opened my eyes again the light from the window was gone, the island nothing more than a blurred silhouette only noticeable because it was stationary and darker than the reflective water. My mental denial of the danger I was in went out with that bedroom light and I felt all the elements of panic start to set in. My already racing heart was now beating against my chest, my measured breathing turned instantly to deep gasps that often got bits of water from the waves in my mouth, my hands and arms began trembling and my stomach started to crawl up my throat. I closed my eyes and heard my Father's voice in my head, "No, breathe. That's it, just breathe nice and easy. In. And out." My stomach settled, my heart decided it wanted to stay in my chest, and I knew what I had to do, just breathe and swim. Treading water with my eyes closed and taking those few careful breaths, I saw a bright light through my eyelids and immediately opened them to catch a glimpse of everything in perfect clarity, fully illuminated by a bolt of lightning miles behind me, then with my pupils shocked from the light everything was dark. I felt the reverberation from the thunder in my body before I heard it but when I did hear it, it was as though the sky split open and dumped all it's water back into the lake. I was already swimming, frantically toward the mental afterimage of the island. I thought to myself I was over halfway home, and then I thought I was just reassuring myself. The fast moving storm clouds made the moon and start light chaotic and ethereal. I started wondering if the silhouette I was swimming towards was the island or just that clear picture of it I've been holding in my mind. Despite the adrenaline, my legs were aching and felt as if they were pumping pure fire through their veins. I knew if I got a muscle cramp it would probably be the end of me. I stopped swimming and looked to make sure I was still heading toward the island and not just fooling myself and I was indeed. I tread water with my arms only for just a few breaths, letting my legs rest while I waited for a wave to propel me forward. I thought about surfing, I had never done it but I understood the concept well enough. I started feeling the waves with a different mindset, learning how to join with them and stiffen my body to let them carry me with little effort on my part. As I got the hang of it I became excited, the heavy rain and sporadic thunderclaps now background noise. I felt I learned to be one with the water, I had mastered the waves and with that mastery was swimming faster than I ever have before! As I drew nearer and nearer to the island it grew larger and became clearer. I had drifted off course again, I was closer to the western point than the beach on the east where the cabin slumbered. I swam eastward again, though I couldn't see the beach I had a good idea of where it was relative to the point and it was a small island. It certainly wasn't as easy to swim across the waves as it was to swim with them, but my muscles had rested some and I still stiffened my body for moments to let the waves carry me closer to shore. Then the sky light up again, another lightning bolt to the north, I took another clear reckoning of the island with the brief illumination. I could see the beach and I couldn't be more than a hundred yards from it! I turned to face it and with the next wave I used my arms and legs to launch myself forward with it, stiffening my body and letting it carry me as I periodically kicked or fanned my arms to stay with it or on course. Then I lost it, the whole world rumbled with the thunderous boom of the last lightening bolt as I waited for the next wave I would harness. I was racing toward the beach, I could see the sand clearly and the darkness of the vegetation behind it. When I fanned my arms forward I was surprised to feel air and, looking down, I realized I was a full 5 feet above the surface of the water riding the crest of a huge wave. Like the roadrunner realizing he ran straight off a cliff, I dropped down into the water, half in the wave and half in the air as I fell. I immediately began doing the breast stroke to keep direction, though I was barely moving my arms and legs my momentum was carrying me to the shore faster than any human could swim. I felt the sand and small rocks scrape my face and mash my nose, then my chest and arms and the rest of my body was being dragged across the coarse ground. I went from being completely underwater to feeling air on my back, the wave had carried me right to the shore, I was home! I was alive! I planted my palms in the dirt and started to do a pushup, already walking home in my mind. Then the wave that carried me ashore was reclaimed by the lake, the water rapidly slid beneath me and created a vacuum in the space it left between my body and the earth, sucking my face straight into the sand. I tried to push myself up again and another large wave crashed against my back, keeping me down as surely being stomped on. I had been holding my breath too long, since I fell through the wave minutes ago. All I could think of, was that I needed to get my head out of the water before the next wave slammed me down again and I started to push myself up once more. Again the undertow sucked me down into the sand as the last wave receded into the lake, and though I struggled for my life with all my strength the wave was stronger. When the undertow subsided, my efforts to breathe were again beat down as the crest of the next wave smashed against my back. Then the undertow again, my aching arms trembled as I struggled to lift my head out of water just a few inches and breath, I could feel the air on my ears it was so shallow! Just then I remembered all the times I've heard people say a baby can drown in an inch of water and as my lungs went into convulsing spasms and my whole body trembled and felt as though it were collapsing on itself, I realized just how true that was...	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	We stand in the ashes of their world, the last vestiges of our energy beginning to fade. Destroyed by our imperative to conquer, destroyed by the arrogance of our maker. Destroyed by the one that came. He arrived with little fanfare, just appearing one day in his ridiculous craft, just him and an earthling girl. No weapons, no defenses, no threat. We showed him the glory of our empire, its reach, its wonder. He saw through it. He saw only the oppression of our subject worlds, the slavery on which be build our greatness. He stopped to help a fallen slave, and she thanked him. There is a penalty for those who talk without permission, and we punished her. That was our fatal mistake, for that lit the fire in his soul. We still don't know what happened, how he did it, but he turned our world, our technology against us. Our subject worlds slipped our fingers, our slaves on our own world vanished, our warriors were consumed by the rage of the wind and sea as our world turned against us. Now the our reactors fade, our machines have stopped working, and so we find ourselves here, watching the last of our power go, before the darkness comes. He is written in the legends of the universe; His name means a healer, but he has many better names: He is the Ka Faraq Gatri. The Bringer of Darkness; The Oncoming Storm; The Anger of a Good Man; The Enemy of the Daleks	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	When I saw him unbuttoning his cardigan, I knew it was time to leave. He was rolling up his sleeves when we made it to the door, and the last thing I heard was the cracking of his knuckles and a calm voice saying "that wasn't very neighborly, friends." I don't know what happened to the men who raised his ire, but we ran out of that neighborhood and we didn't stop running until we got home.	Christopher woke up in the middle of the night and decided he better take a piss before attempting to go back to sleep. As he waked down the hallway to the other side of his apartment, the corner of his eye caught something. It was the portrait of his deceased grandfather. With his mind still in a groggy state he just continued on his quest to relieve his bladder. As he was standing over the toilet his mind wondered to the portrait. He remembered that he always told him that a wise men must always fear only three things: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. “Oh how right you were.” mumbled Chris to himself. As he walked back to his bedroom, past his grandfather, his mind recalled a memory from when he was just about 13 years old. He was sound asleep in his childhood bedroom and was out of nowhere woken up by his father “Chris, Chris, wake up! Chris!” The child looked at his father and saw a worried face. “The cows got scared by something and they ran away. We need to go and get them.” explained his father. Chris shot up from his bed, got dressed as quickly he could and followed his father outside. Both of them grabbed a flashlight on their way out and looked for clues for where the scared animals ran off to. All evidence pointed to the forest right next to the patch of grass the cows were supposed to be. Father and son headed into the forest, on a night like the one they were supposed to fear. The only light came from the flashlight they were holding in their hands. Without hesitation, the young boy and his father entered the dark forest and followed the road the farm animals took. About 5 minutes in, the road split and so did the tracks left by the cows. Chris followed the road to the right and his father went straight ahead. Adrenalin was pumping through Christopher’s heart as his only companion were the trees around him. As he followed the road and the cow prints on the ground, he heard a noise on his right side, he swiftly pointed the flashlight to the origin of the sound. However there was just a tree motionlessly standing. Chris shuck his head and continued deeper into the forest. The noises around him got lauder and more frequent. His flashlight wasn’t focused on the cow tracks, but on his surrounding. The combination of a forest and the moonless night made him scared and his focus was all over the place. He looked up into the air and for the first time since he was woken up realized that the moon was hiding. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and remembering that night. Even 20 years later he could still feel the fear in his bones. “Well there goes my sleep!” he proclaimed lauder then he first intended. Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Again he passed his grandfathers painting and once again he remembered what he always used to say. He tried to think of the book he once read about a ship caught in a storm. It was the HMS York. The ship set sail in an Indian port town and was supposed to go all the way to England. The queens ship was equipped by state of the art canons with the finest gun powder the British had in their arsenal and the captain and all the sailors were veterans of the sea. However all the weapons and all the years of experience between the crew has no effect on mother nature. Four days have passed since their departure and unknowingly to anyone they would not make it to the 5th one. The storm came out of nowhere and it also disappeared as quickly as it came. It was like all the gods from all the religions in the world decided to unleash their power onto the HMS York. It was a bright day with just a few clouds that divided the sky. The captain was on the deck giving orders to his sailors, when out of nowhere a razor sharp wind appeared. Just a few seconds later, Poseidon and Zeus cursed the clouds and made them black with thunder raining upon the unsuspected Englishmen. A dread filled the hearts of the sailors below the thunderclouds. The wind, the thunder and the waves were enough to send the bravest man running in fear. You only realise how small and unimportant you are when you are face to face with the power of a god. The waves hugged the ship and water was spilling into it, the lightning was dancing to the melody of death and even the prayers of all the sailors couldn’t give them the courage to move and try to save the ship. There was over 400 years of experienced combined between them and every one of them stood still shaking in fear. The sea swallowed the ship before the captain could even give his first order. The storm lasted only 20 minutes, but it was enough to destroy everything it encountered in its path. Out of the 45 sailors on the boat, only one of them survived. He was holding onto dear life, but he was experience enough to know that survival was not an option. He took his knife out and carved into the wooden plank he was holding on “Here lie the remains of the HMS YORK. P.S. The sea is a fickle bitch!” As he finished his message, he let go of the plank and accepted the deep abyss of the sea as his last resting place. “What was the third one?” asked Christopher as he was making himself a midnight snack. “Oh, of course, it is the anger of a patient man. You know grandpa, you thought me many thing, but I never understood this one. Why would you be afraid of the anger of a patient man? However, I had to learn this one the hard way. Pops, I am a patient man and I am extremely proud of this, but there is nothing more that I fear then when someone pushes me to the edge.” Christopher eyes started to water and a few tears dripped from them. It has been two years since he last felt this fear and he promised himself this would also be the last time. It was just a typical day, he woke up, showered, ate breakfast, kissed his beautiful Maggie goodbye, went to work and came home. However everything that happened afterwards was anything but ordinary. As he opened the door he was greeted by a thrashed house, he ran inside and saw his wife in the living room having one of her mood swings. He tried to calm her down, but none of the usual tricks helped. She just kept screaming, crying and swearing at him. Her words still echo through his mind “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”. This was the moment he for the first time felt the fear of an angry patient man. He tried to unclench his fist, but her screaming just made it tighter and that is when all the fear, when all the anger was released in one swing. This was the first time he ever punched her or anybody else for a matter, but it wasn’t the last. His anger was burning and nothing could have stopped him in this moment. He kept hitting her, over and over and over again. He will never forget the sound of her skull cracking and he will never forget the blood that was smeared all over the living room.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	"What was that saying about wise men and nights?" Aubreys voice came from behind him, gentle as always, with that little tinge of curiousity he had fallen for. "Wise men fear a night with no moon?" "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think its beautiful." A bit of whimsy in her voice now, hinting at a playfulness Alan knew was lurking beneath. "Who knows, really?" Turning, he stopped before her, staring into her eyes, "And you're right, it is beautiful." He kissed her, softly, before turning back around and continuing their walk. After a few steps, he realized he did not hear the clicking foot falls of her heels behind him. Stopping again, he turned once more, seeing her staring up at the sky. "What's wrong?" She lowered her gaze to his, her eyes slightly blank. "Where are we going?" "Home, dear. Come along now." He reached his arm out and softly clasped his hand with hers. "We're going home." "Oh. What was that saying about wise men and nights?" "That wise men fear a moonless night?" He continued to walk, her hand in his. "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think it's beautiful" Her voice was quieter now, growing more tired. "I don't know, dear. But you are right, it's beautiful. Now lets get back to the home. It's gotten chilly, and I don't want either of us catching cold." Hand in hand, they walked walked quietly into the gentle night. Accompanied by a cool breeze and the call of an owl. (Edited some typos my phone didn't believe were typos.)	Raj was one of the farmers who lived with his daughter on the edge of the village. Despite his appearance ( a muscular frame sculpted from years of hard work and long jet black beard) he was one of the kindest men I have ever met. He is known in our village because although he rarely comes into town whenever he does it is a real treat. I often sat with Raj and listened to stories from his younger days or played with his daughter (she was close to my age at the time)...but that was before. Our world seems to run on the merits of physical strength and monetary standing; around the time of the incident a new lord had just taken over our land. He sent his soldiers into town to "keep his peace" but with no regulation things got fairly rough. The few strong men in our village couldn't stand up to the garrison of 15 well trained armed men from the castle; which meant there was no one to stop them from being base criminals. It was after around a month of their petty crime (extorting the baker, drinking for free at the inn, and just being a menace to the people) that they first met Raj. I'll never forget the day Raj walked into town pulling a cart of his fresh crops to feed the poor. His massive form was shredded and bulging; straining against the bulk of food he was bringing to town (and the added weight of his daughter on the cart). It would have taken most men using an ox to pull that cart but Raj...well he's Raj. The problems started when Raj began his usual routine of unloading half of his crop into the food bank, a donation for the town. One of the soldiers Mark, a thin framed asshole , approached Raj and jokingly remarked about him being a waste of muscle. Raj merely apologized to the man for his perceived problem and began walking away. The other soldiers seeing the man as weak joined mark spewing insults at Raj and began hitting him as if he was an oxen. Throughout all of this Raj kept a smile on his face and apologized, he only saw the good in men, a fact soon to change. As Raj left for his farm later that evening (covered in small bruises from the switches made by the soldiers) he seemed depleted- as if it had taken the full strength of his soul to accept the punishment he was just meted. I had never seen him look haggard and worn but that night for the first time I saw his age and realized how old he actually was. His daughter was staying the night with an older women who was sick (she was trained in medicine- I don't know how she knew it). The shitbag Mark couldn't leave well enough alone and it was on this night they decided to test their luck. I don't know what happened exactly- I only know what I heard- the soldiers ran into Raj's daughter in the early morning and by the time she got home she had suffered severe trauma. The soldiers assumed Raj was too much of a pussy to do anything and knew the town wasn't strong enough to kick them out. What they didn't plan on... was the anger of a gentle man...or should I say rage. Raj came walking down the dusty road into town a few hours later. I could tell it was him because of the size of his form with the sun at his back. He wasn't walking how he normally did, a soft gentle gait, he moved with precision and force. The ground seemed to quake at his approach and the air itself seemed afraid. When he got close enough to see his face I couldn't recognize him- his smile had melted away and a scowl twisted by rage had replaced it. His eyes which were normally filled with light and love were cold and inhuman, his beard normally well kept was twisted and wild. His hands were molded into fists, his muscular arms rippled and his veins bulged under the strain of their form- these fleshy hammers had been formed from the darkest aspects of his soul. "Mark " Raj bellowed with such force that the heavens shook and my body was frozen by fear. The soldier approached him somehow un-phased by this display of sheer power (he was probably too dumb to realize what happened) and placed his hand on Raj's bulging chest. As Mark open his mouth to speak he was met with a thunderous knee to the chest. In one blow Raj had broken half of Mark's ribs and dropped him to his knees. Raj placed his enormous hands on either side of Mark's head and interlocked his fingers tight- with the strength that comes from years of hard work under the sun- and ultimate rage he brought his palms together. Mark's head exploded and flattened like a pancake under the immense pressure; Raj tore out the spine from where Mark's head used to be and with a demonic roar charged the garrison house. They had forgotten that people are people and they had elicited a gentle mans rage.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Bob was a quiet man. He was of medium height, neither tall nor short and not too thin, though on the slender side of things. He wore a button down long-sleeved shirt, blue or brown slacks, and brown shoes. He wore glasses and was slightly balding. In the winter, he wore a different sweater each day. Every day, Bob went into the Grayson Middle School, took a cup of coffee from the teacher's lounge, checked his mailbox, and went to his room. He taught Middle School Science. Each day, his students arrived eager to see what Bob had planned for the day. His voice was soft-spoken, not particularly exciting, but the things he said with that voice made the science come alive. At least twice a week, there were laboratory experiments or demonstrations. Chemicals made showers of sparks and colored smoke and terrible smells. Rocks gave up their secrets and, on late nights when he held astronomy club meetings, the telescope Bob had built with his own hands brought the stars and planets right to earth to tell stories of heroes of long ago, and perhaps of wonders undiscovered. Yet, it wasn't for all of this that the people of Hall Grove loved Bob. No, it was something else entirely. You see, though Bob was in his late forties, he'd never married. He had no children of his own, but all of the children that came through Grayson Middle School became his. Though there were inevitably a few difficult students who caused problems, but for the most part, they loved Bob. And they love him for one reason: Bob loved them. As a result, Bob was trusted by administrators, parents, and students alike. Students would often come and talk to him after school. He was often alone with them, and many times over his twenty-six years, students, both male and female, had cried while he helped wipe their tears, offered a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on. The closeness he had with so many would have been cause for alarm with most teachers. After all, an aging man who has never married alone with young teenagers so often? Surely something insidious was happening? But there wasn't. Not even a rumor. Not even once. Bob was a gentle soul. Bob simply loved his kids as two, and sometimes even three generations could attest. One day, like any number of others, one of his seventh grade girls showed up in his classroom door. "Mr. Johns?" Bob looked up from the papers he was grading. "Suzette? Please, come in. What can I do for you today?" "I need to talk to someone Mr. Johns. I don't know who to go to." There were tears in Suzette's eyes. "Please, sit down," Bob said, handing her the box of tissue from his desk. "What seems to be the matter?" No one knows what Suzette told Bob that day. What is known is that Suzette and her little sister and brother went to Bob's house that evening and they went to live with foster parents that weekend. That evening, Bob went to Suzette's parent's home after dropping her and her siblings at his own. Like the conversation with Suzette, no one knows what was said. Bob never spoke of it. Not when he called the local sheriff, not when the sheriff arrived at the Terrence residence, not when he was booked into the system, not when he stood trial, and not when he went to prison. The papers reported on that evening. The television news channels covered it. People burned up the local message boards with talk. When the sheriff had arrived, Daniel and Linda Terrence had been found in their home, lying in the kitchen floor. Their bodies had been cleanly decapitated. A sharp carving knife was laid on the table, yet covered in blood. Bob was calmly sitting on the sofa with blood on his light blue sweater whenever there sheriff arrived. The process of decapitation had likely taken a while given the weapon used. An autopsy would later show that they had been given a strong paralyzingly agent. They'd been awake the entire time, but unable to move, unable to scream. When searching the residence, the sheriff's department found videos and pictures. The television news did not show clips. The newspapers did not run the pictures. The words"Child Pornography" were used often in the reports. No one could believe what had occurred, the crime that the Terrence's had been involved in. And moreso, people of the small town could not reconcile the man they had known for so long with the brutality of the Terrence couple's death. When asked by the news reporters, the sheriff only ever gave one statement: "Beware the wrath of a gentle man."	Raj was one of the farmers who lived with his daughter on the edge of the village. Despite his appearance ( a muscular frame sculpted from years of hard work and long jet black beard) he was one of the kindest men I have ever met. He is known in our village because although he rarely comes into town whenever he does it is a real treat. I often sat with Raj and listened to stories from his younger days or played with his daughter (she was close to my age at the time)...but that was before. Our world seems to run on the merits of physical strength and monetary standing; around the time of the incident a new lord had just taken over our land. He sent his soldiers into town to "keep his peace" but with no regulation things got fairly rough. The few strong men in our village couldn't stand up to the garrison of 15 well trained armed men from the castle; which meant there was no one to stop them from being base criminals. It was after around a month of their petty crime (extorting the baker, drinking for free at the inn, and just being a menace to the people) that they first met Raj. I'll never forget the day Raj walked into town pulling a cart of his fresh crops to feed the poor. His massive form was shredded and bulging; straining against the bulk of food he was bringing to town (and the added weight of his daughter on the cart). It would have taken most men using an ox to pull that cart but Raj...well he's Raj. The problems started when Raj began his usual routine of unloading half of his crop into the food bank, a donation for the town. One of the soldiers Mark, a thin framed asshole , approached Raj and jokingly remarked about him being a waste of muscle. Raj merely apologized to the man for his perceived problem and began walking away. The other soldiers seeing the man as weak joined mark spewing insults at Raj and began hitting him as if he was an oxen. Throughout all of this Raj kept a smile on his face and apologized, he only saw the good in men, a fact soon to change. As Raj left for his farm later that evening (covered in small bruises from the switches made by the soldiers) he seemed depleted- as if it had taken the full strength of his soul to accept the punishment he was just meted. I had never seen him look haggard and worn but that night for the first time I saw his age and realized how old he actually was. His daughter was staying the night with an older women who was sick (she was trained in medicine- I don't know how she knew it). The shitbag Mark couldn't leave well enough alone and it was on this night they decided to test their luck. I don't know what happened exactly- I only know what I heard- the soldiers ran into Raj's daughter in the early morning and by the time she got home she had suffered severe trauma. The soldiers assumed Raj was too much of a pussy to do anything and knew the town wasn't strong enough to kick them out. What they didn't plan on... was the anger of a gentle man...or should I say rage. Raj came walking down the dusty road into town a few hours later. I could tell it was him because of the size of his form with the sun at his back. He wasn't walking how he normally did, a soft gentle gait, he moved with precision and force. The ground seemed to quake at his approach and the air itself seemed afraid. When he got close enough to see his face I couldn't recognize him- his smile had melted away and a scowl twisted by rage had replaced it. His eyes which were normally filled with light and love were cold and inhuman, his beard normally well kept was twisted and wild. His hands were molded into fists, his muscular arms rippled and his veins bulged under the strain of their form- these fleshy hammers had been formed from the darkest aspects of his soul. "Mark " Raj bellowed with such force that the heavens shook and my body was frozen by fear. The soldier approached him somehow un-phased by this display of sheer power (he was probably too dumb to realize what happened) and placed his hand on Raj's bulging chest. As Mark open his mouth to speak he was met with a thunderous knee to the chest. In one blow Raj had broken half of Mark's ribs and dropped him to his knees. Raj placed his enormous hands on either side of Mark's head and interlocked his fingers tight- with the strength that comes from years of hard work under the sun- and ultimate rage he brought his palms together. Mark's head exploded and flattened like a pancake under the immense pressure; Raj tore out the spine from where Mark's head used to be and with a demonic roar charged the garrison house. They had forgotten that people are people and they had elicited a gentle mans rage.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Late to the party, here goes. I have substituted "wrath" for "anger" for the sake of meter. #The Wrath of a Gentle Man# --- When I was still a youth my father said The hour draws near to teach you, as my father did, those things all wise men fear. The ocean vast, majestic, calm, the thoughtful heart keeps warm, But wisely clings to safety's shore in tempest and in storm. The moonlit night restores the soul, whether you wake or sleep, But 'pon new moon what evil tracks its ways in darkness deep? Still worse than these, the wise man knows, it's pow'r he can't withstand: Do not awake, do not arouse the wrath of a gentle man. --- Th'unending depths, the vast expanse the sailor hoids these dear. With rope and sail and oar in hand, he conquers every fear. But when the waves do toss and break and rake him o'er the coals, The wise man seeks the harbor's calm, avoids the wrecking shoals. Still though how mount'nous are the crests, how low the valleyed troughs, The wise man fears more'n ocean storm and leaves it lie far off. Poseidon's rage may splinter ships, and hopeless sailors strand, But fearsome'r still than crashing waves is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The hunter has no fear at nighttime when the moon is raised. No friend nor foe, no prey nor snare escapes his piercing gaze. But when the moon hath hid its face, the dark path he doth shun: The wise man tarries not at night, while shadows lengthening run. But still preferred is moonless night, all trackless, wand'ring, lost, The wise man knows that other fears may fetch a dearer cost. The hounds of hell may howl and bay within that trackless stand, But fearsome'r still in the dead of night is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The darkened night, the raging storm, strike fear in wisest heart, If length of days be yours, my son, avoid them for your part. But peace, for only nature's whims are dangers such as these; Let not the troubles of this kind your arms t'inaction seize. Betrayal by friend, thy foe's keen sword, o'er these the wise prevails. And nature's strength the wise man turns and of it's pow'r avails. But though he toil, though he prepare, no matter what his plan, Even the wise man can't survive the wrath of a gentle man.	Raj was one of the farmers who lived with his daughter on the edge of the village. Despite his appearance ( a muscular frame sculpted from years of hard work and long jet black beard) he was one of the kindest men I have ever met. He is known in our village because although he rarely comes into town whenever he does it is a real treat. I often sat with Raj and listened to stories from his younger days or played with his daughter (she was close to my age at the time)...but that was before. Our world seems to run on the merits of physical strength and monetary standing; around the time of the incident a new lord had just taken over our land. He sent his soldiers into town to "keep his peace" but with no regulation things got fairly rough. The few strong men in our village couldn't stand up to the garrison of 15 well trained armed men from the castle; which meant there was no one to stop them from being base criminals. It was after around a month of their petty crime (extorting the baker, drinking for free at the inn, and just being a menace to the people) that they first met Raj. I'll never forget the day Raj walked into town pulling a cart of his fresh crops to feed the poor. His massive form was shredded and bulging; straining against the bulk of food he was bringing to town (and the added weight of his daughter on the cart). It would have taken most men using an ox to pull that cart but Raj...well he's Raj. The problems started when Raj began his usual routine of unloading half of his crop into the food bank, a donation for the town. One of the soldiers Mark, a thin framed asshole , approached Raj and jokingly remarked about him being a waste of muscle. Raj merely apologized to the man for his perceived problem and began walking away. The other soldiers seeing the man as weak joined mark spewing insults at Raj and began hitting him as if he was an oxen. Throughout all of this Raj kept a smile on his face and apologized, he only saw the good in men, a fact soon to change. As Raj left for his farm later that evening (covered in small bruises from the switches made by the soldiers) he seemed depleted- as if it had taken the full strength of his soul to accept the punishment he was just meted. I had never seen him look haggard and worn but that night for the first time I saw his age and realized how old he actually was. His daughter was staying the night with an older women who was sick (she was trained in medicine- I don't know how she knew it). The shitbag Mark couldn't leave well enough alone and it was on this night they decided to test their luck. I don't know what happened exactly- I only know what I heard- the soldiers ran into Raj's daughter in the early morning and by the time she got home she had suffered severe trauma. The soldiers assumed Raj was too much of a pussy to do anything and knew the town wasn't strong enough to kick them out. What they didn't plan on... was the anger of a gentle man...or should I say rage. Raj came walking down the dusty road into town a few hours later. I could tell it was him because of the size of his form with the sun at his back. He wasn't walking how he normally did, a soft gentle gait, he moved with precision and force. The ground seemed to quake at his approach and the air itself seemed afraid. When he got close enough to see his face I couldn't recognize him- his smile had melted away and a scowl twisted by rage had replaced it. His eyes which were normally filled with light and love were cold and inhuman, his beard normally well kept was twisted and wild. His hands were molded into fists, his muscular arms rippled and his veins bulged under the strain of their form- these fleshy hammers had been formed from the darkest aspects of his soul. "Mark " Raj bellowed with such force that the heavens shook and my body was frozen by fear. The soldier approached him somehow un-phased by this display of sheer power (he was probably too dumb to realize what happened) and placed his hand on Raj's bulging chest. As Mark open his mouth to speak he was met with a thunderous knee to the chest. In one blow Raj had broken half of Mark's ribs and dropped him to his knees. Raj placed his enormous hands on either side of Mark's head and interlocked his fingers tight- with the strength that comes from years of hard work under the sun- and ultimate rage he brought his palms together. Mark's head exploded and flattened like a pancake under the immense pressure; Raj tore out the spine from where Mark's head used to be and with a demonic roar charged the garrison house. They had forgotten that people are people and they had elicited a gentle mans rage.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	"What was that saying about wise men and nights?" Aubreys voice came from behind him, gentle as always, with that little tinge of curiousity he had fallen for. "Wise men fear a night with no moon?" "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think its beautiful." A bit of whimsy in her voice now, hinting at a playfulness Alan knew was lurking beneath. "Who knows, really?" Turning, he stopped before her, staring into her eyes, "And you're right, it is beautiful." He kissed her, softly, before turning back around and continuing their walk. After a few steps, he realized he did not hear the clicking foot falls of her heels behind him. Stopping again, he turned once more, seeing her staring up at the sky. "What's wrong?" She lowered her gaze to his, her eyes slightly blank. "Where are we going?" "Home, dear. Come along now." He reached his arm out and softly clasped his hand with hers. "We're going home." "Oh. What was that saying about wise men and nights?" "That wise men fear a moonless night?" He continued to walk, her hand in his. "That's the one. Why do you think they would fear a moonless night? I think it's beautiful" Her voice was quieter now, growing more tired. "I don't know, dear. But you are right, it's beautiful. Now lets get back to the home. It's gotten chilly, and I don't want either of us catching cold." Hand in hand, they walked walked quietly into the gentle night. Accompanied by a cool breeze and the call of an owl. (Edited some typos my phone didn't believe were typos.)	The general knocked on the door, three loud slams on the door. He was just done with the third one as the door opened. "And who is it that disturbs the Lord at this hour?" The general sighed as he replied: "I am sorry to inform the Lord that it is time." The mans face was hidden in the door, but his voice upheld the welcoming tone: "The Lord will awake shortly, would you care to join us for breakfeast, Sir?" The General considered the request, and stepped into the large house. As he closed the door the tall man walked down the stairs while checking his pocket watch. "The Lord wishes to pack his things alone, but he will join you afterwards." The man showed way to the dining hall and pulled out a chair at one of the ends of the table. "Do you want any wine with the eggs, Sir?" The General nodded as the man poured. "If I may ask, how was the road down here, Sir?" "There were..." The General paused, closed his eyes. "..issues. While on the ship we met a storm, large portions of the crew passed while it fought on, when we finally crossed we had a easy road. However, there were problems with some of my men. Such gullible people, they even thought that a moonless night meant trouble for us." The General paused to laugh, and toasted to the man. "On the way we actually went through a village. The tavern was nice, cant remember the name though. The people there were scared of us, that's what war does to you, but your Lord wont face those issues, he'll be coming with us." "And how did the village treat you, Sir?" The man sat down at a fitting distance and looked at the General. "It treated me well, lots of taxes to collect you know. Do you know what happens to those who dont pay taxes, butler? Well, the married lot there looked terrible; rugged and loose. But the little ones...." The General smiled and closed his eyes, remembering the screams some of them uttered. When he opened his eyes the man was out of sight. "No more of the wine, butler, it had an awful taste." The man sat down at the end of the table, folding his hands as he looked over at the General. "Quite so... it seems like I'll have to travel into town later today. We're out of rat poison, terrible thing these rats." The man pulled out a ring and put it on his right ring finger, the ring carried the sigil of the house. "Rats running around, ruining everything in its way. Disgusting creatures they are." The General tried to move. He fell down to the floor as he tried to rise from his chair, excruciating pain started to grow from his stomach. "Oh don't move, good sir. It'll spread faster that way." The Generals eyes widened as the blade came into view. "You know, I did always consider myself a gentle man, but times are changing, arent they, Sir?" The General screamed as the blade pierced through his left eye.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Bob was a quiet man. He was of medium height, neither tall nor short and not too thin, though on the slender side of things. He wore a button down long-sleeved shirt, blue or brown slacks, and brown shoes. He wore glasses and was slightly balding. In the winter, he wore a different sweater each day. Every day, Bob went into the Grayson Middle School, took a cup of coffee from the teacher's lounge, checked his mailbox, and went to his room. He taught Middle School Science. Each day, his students arrived eager to see what Bob had planned for the day. His voice was soft-spoken, not particularly exciting, but the things he said with that voice made the science come alive. At least twice a week, there were laboratory experiments or demonstrations. Chemicals made showers of sparks and colored smoke and terrible smells. Rocks gave up their secrets and, on late nights when he held astronomy club meetings, the telescope Bob had built with his own hands brought the stars and planets right to earth to tell stories of heroes of long ago, and perhaps of wonders undiscovered. Yet, it wasn't for all of this that the people of Hall Grove loved Bob. No, it was something else entirely. You see, though Bob was in his late forties, he'd never married. He had no children of his own, but all of the children that came through Grayson Middle School became his. Though there were inevitably a few difficult students who caused problems, but for the most part, they loved Bob. And they love him for one reason: Bob loved them. As a result, Bob was trusted by administrators, parents, and students alike. Students would often come and talk to him after school. He was often alone with them, and many times over his twenty-six years, students, both male and female, had cried while he helped wipe their tears, offered a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on. The closeness he had with so many would have been cause for alarm with most teachers. After all, an aging man who has never married alone with young teenagers so often? Surely something insidious was happening? But there wasn't. Not even a rumor. Not even once. Bob was a gentle soul. Bob simply loved his kids as two, and sometimes even three generations could attest. One day, like any number of others, one of his seventh grade girls showed up in his classroom door. "Mr. Johns?" Bob looked up from the papers he was grading. "Suzette? Please, come in. What can I do for you today?" "I need to talk to someone Mr. Johns. I don't know who to go to." There were tears in Suzette's eyes. "Please, sit down," Bob said, handing her the box of tissue from his desk. "What seems to be the matter?" No one knows what Suzette told Bob that day. What is known is that Suzette and her little sister and brother went to Bob's house that evening and they went to live with foster parents that weekend. That evening, Bob went to Suzette's parent's home after dropping her and her siblings at his own. Like the conversation with Suzette, no one knows what was said. Bob never spoke of it. Not when he called the local sheriff, not when the sheriff arrived at the Terrence residence, not when he was booked into the system, not when he stood trial, and not when he went to prison. The papers reported on that evening. The television news channels covered it. People burned up the local message boards with talk. When the sheriff had arrived, Daniel and Linda Terrence had been found in their home, lying in the kitchen floor. Their bodies had been cleanly decapitated. A sharp carving knife was laid on the table, yet covered in blood. Bob was calmly sitting on the sofa with blood on his light blue sweater whenever there sheriff arrived. The process of decapitation had likely taken a while given the weapon used. An autopsy would later show that they had been given a strong paralyzingly agent. They'd been awake the entire time, but unable to move, unable to scream. When searching the residence, the sheriff's department found videos and pictures. The television news did not show clips. The newspapers did not run the pictures. The words"Child Pornography" were used often in the reports. No one could believe what had occurred, the crime that the Terrence's had been involved in. And moreso, people of the small town could not reconcile the man they had known for so long with the brutality of the Terrence couple's death. When asked by the news reporters, the sheriff only ever gave one statement: "Beware the wrath of a gentle man."	The general knocked on the door, three loud slams on the door. He was just done with the third one as the door opened. "And who is it that disturbs the Lord at this hour?" The general sighed as he replied: "I am sorry to inform the Lord that it is time." The mans face was hidden in the door, but his voice upheld the welcoming tone: "The Lord will awake shortly, would you care to join us for breakfeast, Sir?" The General considered the request, and stepped into the large house. As he closed the door the tall man walked down the stairs while checking his pocket watch. "The Lord wishes to pack his things alone, but he will join you afterwards." The man showed way to the dining hall and pulled out a chair at one of the ends of the table. "Do you want any wine with the eggs, Sir?" The General nodded as the man poured. "If I may ask, how was the road down here, Sir?" "There were..." The General paused, closed his eyes. "..issues. While on the ship we met a storm, large portions of the crew passed while it fought on, when we finally crossed we had a easy road. However, there were problems with some of my men. Such gullible people, they even thought that a moonless night meant trouble for us." The General paused to laugh, and toasted to the man. "On the way we actually went through a village. The tavern was nice, cant remember the name though. The people there were scared of us, that's what war does to you, but your Lord wont face those issues, he'll be coming with us." "And how did the village treat you, Sir?" The man sat down at a fitting distance and looked at the General. "It treated me well, lots of taxes to collect you know. Do you know what happens to those who dont pay taxes, butler? Well, the married lot there looked terrible; rugged and loose. But the little ones...." The General smiled and closed his eyes, remembering the screams some of them uttered. When he opened his eyes the man was out of sight. "No more of the wine, butler, it had an awful taste." The man sat down at the end of the table, folding his hands as he looked over at the General. "Quite so... it seems like I'll have to travel into town later today. We're out of rat poison, terrible thing these rats." The man pulled out a ring and put it on his right ring finger, the ring carried the sigil of the house. "Rats running around, ruining everything in its way. Disgusting creatures they are." The General tried to move. He fell down to the floor as he tried to rise from his chair, excruciating pain started to grow from his stomach. "Oh don't move, good sir. It'll spread faster that way." The Generals eyes widened as the blade came into view. "You know, I did always consider myself a gentle man, but times are changing, arent they, Sir?" The General screamed as the blade pierced through his left eye.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Late to the party, here goes. I have substituted "wrath" for "anger" for the sake of meter. #The Wrath of a Gentle Man# --- When I was still a youth my father said The hour draws near to teach you, as my father did, those things all wise men fear. The ocean vast, majestic, calm, the thoughtful heart keeps warm, But wisely clings to safety's shore in tempest and in storm. The moonlit night restores the soul, whether you wake or sleep, But 'pon new moon what evil tracks its ways in darkness deep? Still worse than these, the wise man knows, it's pow'r he can't withstand: Do not awake, do not arouse the wrath of a gentle man. --- Th'unending depths, the vast expanse the sailor hoids these dear. With rope and sail and oar in hand, he conquers every fear. But when the waves do toss and break and rake him o'er the coals, The wise man seeks the harbor's calm, avoids the wrecking shoals. Still though how mount'nous are the crests, how low the valleyed troughs, The wise man fears more'n ocean storm and leaves it lie far off. Poseidon's rage may splinter ships, and hopeless sailors strand, But fearsome'r still than crashing waves is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The hunter has no fear at nighttime when the moon is raised. No friend nor foe, no prey nor snare escapes his piercing gaze. But when the moon hath hid its face, the dark path he doth shun: The wise man tarries not at night, while shadows lengthening run. But still preferred is moonless night, all trackless, wand'ring, lost, The wise man knows that other fears may fetch a dearer cost. The hounds of hell may howl and bay within that trackless stand, But fearsome'r still in the dead of night is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The darkened night, the raging storm, strike fear in wisest heart, If length of days be yours, my son, avoid them for your part. But peace, for only nature's whims are dangers such as these; Let not the troubles of this kind your arms t'inaction seize. Betrayal by friend, thy foe's keen sword, o'er these the wise prevails. And nature's strength the wise man turns and of it's pow'r avails. But though he toil, though he prepare, no matter what his plan, Even the wise man can't survive the wrath of a gentle man.	The general knocked on the door, three loud slams on the door. He was just done with the third one as the door opened. "And who is it that disturbs the Lord at this hour?" The general sighed as he replied: "I am sorry to inform the Lord that it is time." The mans face was hidden in the door, but his voice upheld the welcoming tone: "The Lord will awake shortly, would you care to join us for breakfeast, Sir?" The General considered the request, and stepped into the large house. As he closed the door the tall man walked down the stairs while checking his pocket watch. "The Lord wishes to pack his things alone, but he will join you afterwards." The man showed way to the dining hall and pulled out a chair at one of the ends of the table. "Do you want any wine with the eggs, Sir?" The General nodded as the man poured. "If I may ask, how was the road down here, Sir?" "There were..." The General paused, closed his eyes. "..issues. While on the ship we met a storm, large portions of the crew passed while it fought on, when we finally crossed we had a easy road. However, there were problems with some of my men. Such gullible people, they even thought that a moonless night meant trouble for us." The General paused to laugh, and toasted to the man. "On the way we actually went through a village. The tavern was nice, cant remember the name though. The people there were scared of us, that's what war does to you, but your Lord wont face those issues, he'll be coming with us." "And how did the village treat you, Sir?" The man sat down at a fitting distance and looked at the General. "It treated me well, lots of taxes to collect you know. Do you know what happens to those who dont pay taxes, butler? Well, the married lot there looked terrible; rugged and loose. But the little ones...." The General smiled and closed his eyes, remembering the screams some of them uttered. When he opened his eyes the man was out of sight. "No more of the wine, butler, it had an awful taste." The man sat down at the end of the table, folding his hands as he looked over at the General. "Quite so... it seems like I'll have to travel into town later today. We're out of rat poison, terrible thing these rats." The man pulled out a ring and put it on his right ring finger, the ring carried the sigil of the house. "Rats running around, ruining everything in its way. Disgusting creatures they are." The General tried to move. He fell down to the floor as he tried to rise from his chair, excruciating pain started to grow from his stomach. "Oh don't move, good sir. It'll spread faster that way." The Generals eyes widened as the blade came into view. "You know, I did always consider myself a gentle man, but times are changing, arent they, Sir?" The General screamed as the blade pierced through his left eye.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	The thousand terrors of life I had borne as I best could, but storms and pitch-black always terrified me. Being a kid, I often played with my childhood friend Luchresi on the shore, until one day (or should I say one night?) the devastating power of nature hit us. Storm came out of nowhere, along with heavy rain, and wind so cold it would freeze a cadaver. The clouds were so dense, no moon was to be seen, nothing could be seen really, we tried to get away from the raging sea, holding hands in the darkness so that we won't get separated - the noise was so loud and the world was so black, we'd never find each other if we let go for just a moment. We seemed to be unable to even distance ourselves from the body of unholy water, let alone getting home, so we just sat there for hours and hours until they felt like eons. And then the sun showed up. Luchresi almost died from pneumonia the following week. My sufferings were of another kind - since then I coughed for hours if I dared to enter a moist room or cellar. After having suffered that for a few times, I decided it was best to avoid such places completely. I have no idea what it would take to make me voluntarily step into one. Since that torment happened to us I am only afraid of two things: storm at sea and moonless nights. I do not and never have found a reason to fear anything other than those two. In a way, my night in hell gave me courage to always say what I want and do what I think is right and made me a person to be respected, sometimes even feared. Never will I be scared of anything else, and as long as I avoid my two fears and remain bold with everything and everyone else I am sure I will live a long and meaningful life. I have to be excused now, it was refreshing to open up to a stranger at a carnival, but a good friend of mine, Montresor - what a stupid family name, don't you think? - is approaching, I should really go and talk to him and make sure he doesn't hold a grudge against me for that admittedly tasteless joke I made a month ago.	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. She was just about to go to a show with her friend Ron when they ran in to Ben on the way. Everything seemed fine, Becky did her best to keep her cool around him, but when she introduce Ron he just lost it. It didn't make any sense, one minute they were about to shake hands and right around when she said "Ron" he just pounced on him. All she could see was blood and screams and... Becky calmed herself. "It's okay Becky, breathe. This isn't real. This can't be real. Hehe, I bet those guys met beforehand and this is just some prank meant to scare me." She began slowly walking back, only half believing herself. As much as she wanted to, something about it just seemed so real and sudden, but it couldn't be real, Ron was one of the nicest guys she knew, he couldn't hurt a fly. As she turned around the corner to where they had been standing in the southern courtyard she was shocked to see, nothing. Nobody was anywhere to be seen. She began calling out for Ben, or Ron, or anybody, and was answered with only a breeze, a breeze with a slightly odd smell to it. "Oh god" Becky said covering her face, as the breeze changed direction the smell became more intense, from an ambiguous stink to a putrid stench. It smelled like the cafeteria had dumped their bad meat at the same time that the schools septic tank had burst. Becky headed for her dorm content with never encountering this smell again, "I'm sure Ben and Ron are fine, I'll just check in on them tomorrow". However as she walked she had a troubling realisation: The smell had gotten stronger. Practically filling her nose at this point, she decided she had had enough of tonight, covered her nose and started running towards her dorm. Down the stairs, left around the lower atrium and two buildings past the eastern gymnasium and she would finally be... be... Becky dropped to her knees. She wanted to look away but she needed to take it all in, to find any way it could be not real.As the intense sound of blood rushing through her head faded she heard a soul curdling scream only to realize it was hers, as were the tears running down her face. Strung up against the A in gymnasium, was Ben, bloody, beaten and most notably dissembowelled. As Becky wept and scream to the air for help she felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped up so fast she felt as though she may very well leave her skin behind. As she turned she saw Ron, bloody and disheveled. "RON! Ron oh my god Ron please help, first that whole thing before and now..." She could barely speak as she helplessly choked on her tears. " Oh my god Ron what happened to you WHAT HAPPENED TO BEN oh my god are you okay?" Ron grabbed her shoulders to steady her "Hey now, it's fine, I'm fine, everything is fine". Becky began to calm down even if only a little "But, but BEN". Ron pulled her into his shoulder and pet her hair as comfort "Shhhhh shh, it's okay, what's important is that you and I are both fine, and now there's nobody in the way anymore, you should be happy." Ron responded. Becky pushed off his chest "Happy?! Ron, BEN IS DEAD!!", Her disgust was only furthered by his smile at that remark "Exactly! Now there's no one to come in between us, Ben tried to take you away from me but now Ben's gone, we can finally be together, forever." Ron reached in to embrace her again but Becky was quick enough to avoid it, she still hadn't made sense of any of this and things kept getting crazier by the second. Just trying to break things down made her thoughts sound like Grand Central Station during rush hour. All she knew was that she had to get away from Ron now. "Don't you want us to be together forever?" Ron said, his arms outstretched, creeping forward. All Becky could muster was "Please don't follow me!" Before taking off in a mad dash for her dorm house. She looked back for a moment to see nothing behind her before she crashed into something soft, something wet, something Ron. "Oh come on now, I've been chasing after you for months, doesn't that earn me something?" His facial features were odd, caricatures of what they were, his eyes seemed smaller, yet his mouth seemed larger, but all Becky could think of was his speed " Wha- how did- when-." Reasoning was beyond her now, the only thing her brain would let her focus on was survival as she ran down the nearest alley. She could still hear Ron's voice echoing behind her "You know, it really hurt my feelings when you said I was your friend^ I mean I've always been nothing but a gentleman and thats all I get?^ I guess it's true what they say about nice guys." Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Her thoughts were cut of by a loud deep voice in the distance "OKAY BECKY NOW YOU'RE MAKING ME MAD" "I COULD TREAT YOU SO MUCH BETTER THAN BEN" "WHY DONT GIRLS LIKE YOI GIVE NICE GUYS LIKE ME A CHANCE" "BECKY" Becky was stuck in a dead end, with nowhere to run. With no escape her only choice was to hide behind the pile of trash at the end of the alley. "PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME" was all she could think, the closest semblance she could muster to a prayer. A prayer which was unanswered as she heard a loud * WOMP * in front of her hiding spot followed by a low animalistic growl, and the final words she would hear from the beast she thought was her best friend "Becky... LEMME SMASH".	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Bob was a quiet man. He was of medium height, neither tall nor short and not too thin, though on the slender side of things. He wore a button down long-sleeved shirt, blue or brown slacks, and brown shoes. He wore glasses and was slightly balding. In the winter, he wore a different sweater each day. Every day, Bob went into the Grayson Middle School, took a cup of coffee from the teacher's lounge, checked his mailbox, and went to his room. He taught Middle School Science. Each day, his students arrived eager to see what Bob had planned for the day. His voice was soft-spoken, not particularly exciting, but the things he said with that voice made the science come alive. At least twice a week, there were laboratory experiments or demonstrations. Chemicals made showers of sparks and colored smoke and terrible smells. Rocks gave up their secrets and, on late nights when he held astronomy club meetings, the telescope Bob had built with his own hands brought the stars and planets right to earth to tell stories of heroes of long ago, and perhaps of wonders undiscovered. Yet, it wasn't for all of this that the people of Hall Grove loved Bob. No, it was something else entirely. You see, though Bob was in his late forties, he'd never married. He had no children of his own, but all of the children that came through Grayson Middle School became his. Though there were inevitably a few difficult students who caused problems, but for the most part, they loved Bob. And they love him for one reason: Bob loved them. As a result, Bob was trusted by administrators, parents, and students alike. Students would often come and talk to him after school. He was often alone with them, and many times over his twenty-six years, students, both male and female, had cried while he helped wipe their tears, offered a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on. The closeness he had with so many would have been cause for alarm with most teachers. After all, an aging man who has never married alone with young teenagers so often? Surely something insidious was happening? But there wasn't. Not even a rumor. Not even once. Bob was a gentle soul. Bob simply loved his kids as two, and sometimes even three generations could attest. One day, like any number of others, one of his seventh grade girls showed up in his classroom door. "Mr. Johns?" Bob looked up from the papers he was grading. "Suzette? Please, come in. What can I do for you today?" "I need to talk to someone Mr. Johns. I don't know who to go to." There were tears in Suzette's eyes. "Please, sit down," Bob said, handing her the box of tissue from his desk. "What seems to be the matter?" No one knows what Suzette told Bob that day. What is known is that Suzette and her little sister and brother went to Bob's house that evening and they went to live with foster parents that weekend. That evening, Bob went to Suzette's parent's home after dropping her and her siblings at his own. Like the conversation with Suzette, no one knows what was said. Bob never spoke of it. Not when he called the local sheriff, not when the sheriff arrived at the Terrence residence, not when he was booked into the system, not when he stood trial, and not when he went to prison. The papers reported on that evening. The television news channels covered it. People burned up the local message boards with talk. When the sheriff had arrived, Daniel and Linda Terrence had been found in their home, lying in the kitchen floor. Their bodies had been cleanly decapitated. A sharp carving knife was laid on the table, yet covered in blood. Bob was calmly sitting on the sofa with blood on his light blue sweater whenever there sheriff arrived. The process of decapitation had likely taken a while given the weapon used. An autopsy would later show that they had been given a strong paralyzingly agent. They'd been awake the entire time, but unable to move, unable to scream. When searching the residence, the sheriff's department found videos and pictures. The television news did not show clips. The newspapers did not run the pictures. The words"Child Pornography" were used often in the reports. No one could believe what had occurred, the crime that the Terrence's had been involved in. And moreso, people of the small town could not reconcile the man they had known for so long with the brutality of the Terrence couple's death. When asked by the news reporters, the sheriff only ever gave one statement: "Beware the wrath of a gentle man."	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Late to the party, here goes. I have substituted "wrath" for "anger" for the sake of meter. #The Wrath of a Gentle Man# --- When I was still a youth my father said The hour draws near to teach you, as my father did, those things all wise men fear. The ocean vast, majestic, calm, the thoughtful heart keeps warm, But wisely clings to safety's shore in tempest and in storm. The moonlit night restores the soul, whether you wake or sleep, But 'pon new moon what evil tracks its ways in darkness deep? Still worse than these, the wise man knows, it's pow'r he can't withstand: Do not awake, do not arouse the wrath of a gentle man. --- Th'unending depths, the vast expanse the sailor hoids these dear. With rope and sail and oar in hand, he conquers every fear. But when the waves do toss and break and rake him o'er the coals, The wise man seeks the harbor's calm, avoids the wrecking shoals. Still though how mount'nous are the crests, how low the valleyed troughs, The wise man fears more'n ocean storm and leaves it lie far off. Poseidon's rage may splinter ships, and hopeless sailors strand, But fearsome'r still than crashing waves is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The hunter has no fear at nighttime when the moon is raised. No friend nor foe, no prey nor snare escapes his piercing gaze. But when the moon hath hid its face, the dark path he doth shun: The wise man tarries not at night, while shadows lengthening run. But still preferred is moonless night, all trackless, wand'ring, lost, The wise man knows that other fears may fetch a dearer cost. The hounds of hell may howl and bay within that trackless stand, But fearsome'r still in the dead of night is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The darkened night, the raging storm, strike fear in wisest heart, If length of days be yours, my son, avoid them for your part. But peace, for only nature's whims are dangers such as these; Let not the troubles of this kind your arms t'inaction seize. Betrayal by friend, thy foe's keen sword, o'er these the wise prevails. And nature's strength the wise man turns and of it's pow'r avails. But though he toil, though he prepare, no matter what his plan, Even the wise man can't survive the wrath of a gentle man.	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	‘There are three things all wise men fear’ he said, ‘the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I think all here would agree that I am a gentle man, but you are testing my patience now, child. If you are who you say you are, you know what slander is the accusation you are making.’ Taryn cast her eyes down as these words fell from the aelderman’s lips. Her spear-holding hand dropped from upright to languorous and the pointed bronze tip traced a bolt-straight line in the dusty hall floor as she stepped towards him. ‘Perhaps you are right, Aelder Llewel.’ Then a pause. Taryn’s pupils glance up quickly to meet his, then fall back once more and she continues to cross the room towards the old man. The villagers hem the two in a circle like a dog and a stag in a clearing edged by hunters’ nets. ‘I have been travelling so long, sir. Forgive a weary traveller. And forgive me again if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I remember my last night here was a moonless one.’ The close packed villagers can be seen to bristle. The memory forms physical ripples through the crowd. ‘And that night could not have brought more fear, my child.’ The aelderman steps forward as he talks and raises his hands out low from his sides. ‘We remember the night you and the other young ones were taken every year on the night where there is no moon and the days are shortest. And we beg the gods have mercy on us and our other children.’ He was nearly shouting now. ‘What happened to you was the greatest evil this village has ever suffered, but we must put it to bed if we wish to live in the present, here, among the living, rather than continually mourn with you and our dead.’ Now he was shouting. A speck of saliva grazed Taryn’s girded dress. The villagers looked away to deny the sight of the aelder angry. Taryn took another step. The two were mere yards apart now. ‘With respect, aelder, the reason we might fear a moonless night is because we cannot see. But there is another reason why we could not see that night, Llewel. There were no fires. The raiders always brought fire before. Their lord Virrik called for it. Fire to burn our houses when they slaughtered us and stripped us and took what little we had. But that night there were no fires. No slaughter and no robbery.’ ‘THEY STOLE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT MATTER IS THERE IF THERE WAS FIRE OR NOT?’ One of the village men broke into loud sobs at this point. His wife draped her arms around to comfort him but he batted her away and for a long time only his mad sobs broke the silence in the hall. ‘It was not robbery,’ Taryn continues ‘it was sale. You sold us. Your own children. All of you, all of your children. There may not have been light, aelder,’ she hissed the word out ‘but I could hear you talking to him, telling him about how soundly the village slept when you had been the one to fill the mixing bowl.’ ‘THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.’ ‘They left you the crops, is that it? And whatever small treasures you had? Maybe they swore they wouldn’t come again? And you believed them?’ The aelderman took a breath, then, firmly ‘I will talk to this girl alone now’. The villagers were driven out by the aelderman’s two main men, who then came to stand behind him while the villagers lingered outside the hall in anticipation and torpor. Aelder Llewel spoke to her quietly now, for fear, justified fear, that the village might still be listening. ‘I did what was best for the village. We could not survive another raid. If they had burnt our granary again we would all be dead. You of all people should understand a person’s instinct to survive.’ And with that he gave a nod to his men that could only mean one thing, and walked past Taryn to the stand under the great hall’s doorway, turning to watch his men at work. As Taryn crossed the floor towards the aelderman’s first man and with a swift two-handed thrust of her spear pierced his neck, his jugular, before he could even draw his sword, she could have told him about the other, the many other moonless nights over many years, which she had spent in misery and slavery and Lord Virrik’s bed, when she could only talk to the other stolen children through whispers and glances and coded messages through passed objects. Then Taryn wrenched back her spear from the corpse she had made, and lunged with it, piercing the second man’s leg through, pinning him to the floor as he fell. A visceral yelp of pain echoed in the chamber and as Taryn circled the pinned man, who though fading fast was jabbing at the air with his sword, she could have told him about the storm at sea that had killed most of her crew of stolen siblings, after she had slit Lord Virrik’s throat while he slept and commandeered the very ship that once stole them. At last she found the right time to dive upon the man, lithe and strong from years of frenzied practice for this day, and she wrestled the sword from his man and with one swift move took his head from his shoulders. She took sword and spear with her as she ran from the hall, in pursuit of the aelderman, who found himself once again ringed in by villagers, angry now, baying for blood to expiate the blood of their sons and daughters. Her spear thrust up under his ribs and found his lungs and heart, and as his soul fled his useless body she thought his saying had been wrong. Fear the storm at sea, and the moonless night, yes. But though she was neither gentle nor a man, he would have done well to fear her the more. Edit: typos	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	We only feared the storms Because the gentle man Was a god, And director of flight missions. Out on the perimeter, On our new Earth, Titan's pale, blue awning Hid the moon. Even good men become Masters of war. He left us, Dissented Stranded Our beacon forever pinging Cold into deep space. Edit: Formatting
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Bob was a quiet man. He was of medium height, neither tall nor short and not too thin, though on the slender side of things. He wore a button down long-sleeved shirt, blue or brown slacks, and brown shoes. He wore glasses and was slightly balding. In the winter, he wore a different sweater each day. Every day, Bob went into the Grayson Middle School, took a cup of coffee from the teacher's lounge, checked his mailbox, and went to his room. He taught Middle School Science. Each day, his students arrived eager to see what Bob had planned for the day. His voice was soft-spoken, not particularly exciting, but the things he said with that voice made the science come alive. At least twice a week, there were laboratory experiments or demonstrations. Chemicals made showers of sparks and colored smoke and terrible smells. Rocks gave up their secrets and, on late nights when he held astronomy club meetings, the telescope Bob had built with his own hands brought the stars and planets right to earth to tell stories of heroes of long ago, and perhaps of wonders undiscovered. Yet, it wasn't for all of this that the people of Hall Grove loved Bob. No, it was something else entirely. You see, though Bob was in his late forties, he'd never married. He had no children of his own, but all of the children that came through Grayson Middle School became his. Though there were inevitably a few difficult students who caused problems, but for the most part, they loved Bob. And they love him for one reason: Bob loved them. As a result, Bob was trusted by administrators, parents, and students alike. Students would often come and talk to him after school. He was often alone with them, and many times over his twenty-six years, students, both male and female, had cried while he helped wipe their tears, offered a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on. The closeness he had with so many would have been cause for alarm with most teachers. After all, an aging man who has never married alone with young teenagers so often? Surely something insidious was happening? But there wasn't. Not even a rumor. Not even once. Bob was a gentle soul. Bob simply loved his kids as two, and sometimes even three generations could attest. One day, like any number of others, one of his seventh grade girls showed up in his classroom door. "Mr. Johns?" Bob looked up from the papers he was grading. "Suzette? Please, come in. What can I do for you today?" "I need to talk to someone Mr. Johns. I don't know who to go to." There were tears in Suzette's eyes. "Please, sit down," Bob said, handing her the box of tissue from his desk. "What seems to be the matter?" No one knows what Suzette told Bob that day. What is known is that Suzette and her little sister and brother went to Bob's house that evening and they went to live with foster parents that weekend. That evening, Bob went to Suzette's parent's home after dropping her and her siblings at his own. Like the conversation with Suzette, no one knows what was said. Bob never spoke of it. Not when he called the local sheriff, not when the sheriff arrived at the Terrence residence, not when he was booked into the system, not when he stood trial, and not when he went to prison. The papers reported on that evening. The television news channels covered it. People burned up the local message boards with talk. When the sheriff had arrived, Daniel and Linda Terrence had been found in their home, lying in the kitchen floor. Their bodies had been cleanly decapitated. A sharp carving knife was laid on the table, yet covered in blood. Bob was calmly sitting on the sofa with blood on his light blue sweater whenever there sheriff arrived. The process of decapitation had likely taken a while given the weapon used. An autopsy would later show that they had been given a strong paralyzingly agent. They'd been awake the entire time, but unable to move, unable to scream. When searching the residence, the sheriff's department found videos and pictures. The television news did not show clips. The newspapers did not run the pictures. The words"Child Pornography" were used often in the reports. No one could believe what had occurred, the crime that the Terrence's had been involved in. And moreso, people of the small town could not reconcile the man they had known for so long with the brutality of the Terrence couple's death. When asked by the news reporters, the sheriff only ever gave one statement: "Beware the wrath of a gentle man."	The thousand terrors of life I had borne as I best could, but storms and pitch-black always terrified me. Being a kid, I often played with my childhood friend Luchresi on the shore, until one day (or should I say one night?) the devastating power of nature hit us. Storm came out of nowhere, along with heavy rain, and wind so cold it would freeze a cadaver. The clouds were so dense, no moon was to be seen, nothing could be seen really, we tried to get away from the raging sea, holding hands in the darkness so that we won't get separated - the noise was so loud and the world was so black, we'd never find each other if we let go for just a moment. We seemed to be unable to even distance ourselves from the body of unholy water, let alone getting home, so we just sat there for hours and hours until they felt like eons. And then the sun showed up. Luchresi almost died from pneumonia the following week. My sufferings were of another kind - since then I coughed for hours if I dared to enter a moist room or cellar. After having suffered that for a few times, I decided it was best to avoid such places completely. I have no idea what it would take to make me voluntarily step into one. Since that torment happened to us I am only afraid of two things: storm at sea and moonless nights. I do not and never have found a reason to fear anything other than those two. In a way, my night in hell gave me courage to always say what I want and do what I think is right and made me a person to be respected, sometimes even feared. Never will I be scared of anything else, and as long as I avoid my two fears and remain bold with everything and everyone else I am sure I will live a long and meaningful life. I have to be excused now, it was refreshing to open up to a stranger at a carnival, but a good friend of mine, Montresor - what a stupid family name, don't you think? - is approaching, I should really go and talk to him and make sure he doesn't hold a grudge against me for that admittedly tasteless joke I made a month ago.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Late to the party, here goes. I have substituted "wrath" for "anger" for the sake of meter. #The Wrath of a Gentle Man# --- When I was still a youth my father said The hour draws near to teach you, as my father did, those things all wise men fear. The ocean vast, majestic, calm, the thoughtful heart keeps warm, But wisely clings to safety's shore in tempest and in storm. The moonlit night restores the soul, whether you wake or sleep, But 'pon new moon what evil tracks its ways in darkness deep? Still worse than these, the wise man knows, it's pow'r he can't withstand: Do not awake, do not arouse the wrath of a gentle man. --- Th'unending depths, the vast expanse the sailor hoids these dear. With rope and sail and oar in hand, he conquers every fear. But when the waves do toss and break and rake him o'er the coals, The wise man seeks the harbor's calm, avoids the wrecking shoals. Still though how mount'nous are the crests, how low the valleyed troughs, The wise man fears more'n ocean storm and leaves it lie far off. Poseidon's rage may splinter ships, and hopeless sailors strand, But fearsome'r still than crashing waves is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The hunter has no fear at nighttime when the moon is raised. No friend nor foe, no prey nor snare escapes his piercing gaze. But when the moon hath hid its face, the dark path he doth shun: The wise man tarries not at night, while shadows lengthening run. But still preferred is moonless night, all trackless, wand'ring, lost, The wise man knows that other fears may fetch a dearer cost. The hounds of hell may howl and bay within that trackless stand, But fearsome'r still in the dead of night is the wrath of a gentle man. --- The darkened night, the raging storm, strike fear in wisest heart, If length of days be yours, my son, avoid them for your part. But peace, for only nature's whims are dangers such as these; Let not the troubles of this kind your arms t'inaction seize. Betrayal by friend, thy foe's keen sword, o'er these the wise prevails. And nature's strength the wise man turns and of it's pow'r avails. But though he toil, though he prepare, no matter what his plan, Even the wise man can't survive the wrath of a gentle man.	The thousand terrors of life I had borne as I best could, but storms and pitch-black always terrified me. Being a kid, I often played with my childhood friend Luchresi on the shore, until one day (or should I say one night?) the devastating power of nature hit us. Storm came out of nowhere, along with heavy rain, and wind so cold it would freeze a cadaver. The clouds were so dense, no moon was to be seen, nothing could be seen really, we tried to get away from the raging sea, holding hands in the darkness so that we won't get separated - the noise was so loud and the world was so black, we'd never find each other if we let go for just a moment. We seemed to be unable to even distance ourselves from the body of unholy water, let alone getting home, so we just sat there for hours and hours until they felt like eons. And then the sun showed up. Luchresi almost died from pneumonia the following week. My sufferings were of another kind - since then I coughed for hours if I dared to enter a moist room or cellar. After having suffered that for a few times, I decided it was best to avoid such places completely. I have no idea what it would take to make me voluntarily step into one. Since that torment happened to us I am only afraid of two things: storm at sea and moonless nights. I do not and never have found a reason to fear anything other than those two. In a way, my night in hell gave me courage to always say what I want and do what I think is right and made me a person to be respected, sometimes even feared. Never will I be scared of anything else, and as long as I avoid my two fears and remain bold with everything and everyone else I am sure I will live a long and meaningful life. I have to be excused now, it was refreshing to open up to a stranger at a carnival, but a good friend of mine, Montresor - what a stupid family name, don't you think? - is approaching, I should really go and talk to him and make sure he doesn't hold a grudge against me for that admittedly tasteless joke I made a month ago.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	‘There are three things all wise men fear’ he said, ‘the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I think all here would agree that I am a gentle man, but you are testing my patience now, child. If you are who you say you are, you know what slander is the accusation you are making.’ Taryn cast her eyes down as these words fell from the aelderman’s lips. Her spear-holding hand dropped from upright to languorous and the pointed bronze tip traced a bolt-straight line in the dusty hall floor as she stepped towards him. ‘Perhaps you are right, Aelder Llewel.’ Then a pause. Taryn’s pupils glance up quickly to meet his, then fall back once more and she continues to cross the room towards the old man. The villagers hem the two in a circle like a dog and a stag in a clearing edged by hunters’ nets. ‘I have been travelling so long, sir. Forgive a weary traveller. And forgive me again if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I remember my last night here was a moonless one.’ The close packed villagers can be seen to bristle. The memory forms physical ripples through the crowd. ‘And that night could not have brought more fear, my child.’ The aelderman steps forward as he talks and raises his hands out low from his sides. ‘We remember the night you and the other young ones were taken every year on the night where there is no moon and the days are shortest. And we beg the gods have mercy on us and our other children.’ He was nearly shouting now. ‘What happened to you was the greatest evil this village has ever suffered, but we must put it to bed if we wish to live in the present, here, among the living, rather than continually mourn with you and our dead.’ Now he was shouting. A speck of saliva grazed Taryn’s girded dress. The villagers looked away to deny the sight of the aelder angry. Taryn took another step. The two were mere yards apart now. ‘With respect, aelder, the reason we might fear a moonless night is because we cannot see. But there is another reason why we could not see that night, Llewel. There were no fires. The raiders always brought fire before. Their lord Virrik called for it. Fire to burn our houses when they slaughtered us and stripped us and took what little we had. But that night there were no fires. No slaughter and no robbery.’ ‘THEY STOLE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT MATTER IS THERE IF THERE WAS FIRE OR NOT?’ One of the village men broke into loud sobs at this point. His wife draped her arms around to comfort him but he batted her away and for a long time only his mad sobs broke the silence in the hall. ‘It was not robbery,’ Taryn continues ‘it was sale. You sold us. Your own children. All of you, all of your children. There may not have been light, aelder,’ she hissed the word out ‘but I could hear you talking to him, telling him about how soundly the village slept when you had been the one to fill the mixing bowl.’ ‘THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.’ ‘They left you the crops, is that it? And whatever small treasures you had? Maybe they swore they wouldn’t come again? And you believed them?’ The aelderman took a breath, then, firmly ‘I will talk to this girl alone now’. The villagers were driven out by the aelderman’s two main men, who then came to stand behind him while the villagers lingered outside the hall in anticipation and torpor. Aelder Llewel spoke to her quietly now, for fear, justified fear, that the village might still be listening. ‘I did what was best for the village. We could not survive another raid. If they had burnt our granary again we would all be dead. You of all people should understand a person’s instinct to survive.’ And with that he gave a nod to his men that could only mean one thing, and walked past Taryn to the stand under the great hall’s doorway, turning to watch his men at work. As Taryn crossed the floor towards the aelderman’s first man and with a swift two-handed thrust of her spear pierced his neck, his jugular, before he could even draw his sword, she could have told him about the other, the many other moonless nights over many years, which she had spent in misery and slavery and Lord Virrik’s bed, when she could only talk to the other stolen children through whispers and glances and coded messages through passed objects. Then Taryn wrenched back her spear from the corpse she had made, and lunged with it, piercing the second man’s leg through, pinning him to the floor as he fell. A visceral yelp of pain echoed in the chamber and as Taryn circled the pinned man, who though fading fast was jabbing at the air with his sword, she could have told him about the storm at sea that had killed most of her crew of stolen siblings, after she had slit Lord Virrik’s throat while he slept and commandeered the very ship that once stole them. At last she found the right time to dive upon the man, lithe and strong from years of frenzied practice for this day, and she wrestled the sword from his man and with one swift move took his head from his shoulders. She took sword and spear with her as she ran from the hall, in pursuit of the aelderman, who found himself once again ringed in by villagers, angry now, baying for blood to expiate the blood of their sons and daughters. Her spear thrust up under his ribs and found his lungs and heart, and as his soul fled his useless body she thought his saying had been wrong. Fear the storm at sea, and the moonless night, yes. But though she was neither gentle nor a man, he would have done well to fear her the more. Edit: typos	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	I never once saw the captain angry. Not before that night. It was rare, a captain who never shouted. He was Stern with his expectations, but he was kind and fair. He knew what his crew was capable of, even if we didn't, and he never pushed us further than we could go. Until that night. We had been underway for six months at that point. We hadn't seen a port in four. I was loosing track of the at-sea-replenishments we had done. We were all tired and scared. But that's war. The admiralty had been pushing us harder and harder. Combat action after combat action, and every time we had fewer and fewer ships supporting us. I hadn't seen a sub periscope in weeks, and I was convinced they been pulled off our battlegroup. Sure the destroyers has anti-sub capability, but you can't beat a sub when it comes to tracking and killing a sub. Despite this, the peace talks were progressing, and we all expected, or at least hoped, we would be sailing home soon. Two days before that night, the fleet force Commander had arrived via chopper and embarked on our ship. His arrival had been saluted by a full broadside. It was my first time as gun captain on one of the triple 16-inch guns. It had been easy: make sure nothing was in sight that way, point the gun in that direction, and fire. If I was lucky, I had thought at the time, it would be the first AND last time I ever had to be in charge of those guns firing. The day before that night, the clouds started rolling our way. They were monstrous grey things spewing lightening and the wind coming off then hit fifty knots before we even saw the first drop of rain. That afternoon the news came in from HQ: the peace treaty would be signed within days. Cease all offensive action. The enemy had been given the same orders it seemed, as all reports indicated they were grouping up and heading home. As the flotilla bounced on the waves and tried to keep from crashing into each other, we toasted with smuggled booze and cheered the coming peace. The captain sat on the bridge sipping coffee with a quiet smile on his face. The FFC was not so merry. He'd lost a son to the enemy, and it had been whispered since his arrival that he didn't want the war over until every one of them was dead. He stood on the bridge pouring over reports and incoming data. It was just after nightfall with the storm at its peak when the FFC turned with a vicious grin to our beloved captain. "We have them!" He said triumphantly. "We can take them by surprise and sink half their damned fleet. They are a mere hundered nautical miles west. We can hit them no and make it look like the storm did it." As if to underscore his point, a crack of lighting snaked across the sky and thunder boomed across the ocean. The Captain's smile had faded. "Sir, respectfully, we have been ordered to cease offensive action. The war is all but over. Those sailors have families to go home to as well." The FFC spat. "To hell with them. With all of them! We attack. Turn this fleet toward theirs and make preparations for combat. Now!" His eyes darted about the bridge. "Crafty bastards might have us bugged. We have to act before they can act on their Intel!" His eyes were wild and unfocused. His anger was blinding him to reason. The captain narrowed his gaze. "They out number us five to one already and more forces are converging to join them even now. Even with the element of surprise, sir, we cannot expect to..." The FFC was shouting now. The bridge had gone otherwise silent. "Obey my orders captain or I will have you relieved!" Color rose in the Captain's cheeks. He stood and straightened his uniform. "Sir, perhaps we should continue this discussion outside. It is he only place we can be sure to speak freely." The FFC merely nodded and headed for the weather deck. The captain began to follow, but nervously, I stopped him. "Sir, respectfully under these sea conditions regulations state another sailor must act as safety observer." The captain hesitated a moment, but then simply nodded. "Make sure you have a life jacket on, shipmate. I don't want to loose you." The three of us quickly dawned life jackets and headed through the hatch to the weather deck. The sea rolled, leapt and dove beneath us. The sky was black but for the lightning. I lit up my watch and checked the lunar function, a habit of mine before going outside at night. It was a new moon tonight. Above he clouds the star would be dazzling. "Wait here." The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye with an earnestness I had never seen. "What here son. I'll talk him down. We won't be having a battle tonight." I nodded and the captain walked with the grace of a dancer on the rolling deck toward the life lines, on which the FFC was leaning, waiting for the captain. I posed the hatch behind us and the darkness became nearly complete. Over the roar of the storm I could hear nothing but for flashes of lightning I could see nothing. Thanks sea wracked the ship with a fury I hadn't seen in all my days. I waited uneasily for the two high up brass to decide our fate. The captain had been right: to attack would mean out death. And perhaps and end to the peace talks. Minutes felt like hours as the rain lashed down. Finally I saw a figure working its way back to me. I opened the hatch to gain some light and dark the captain returning alone. In his hand was a life jacket. The FFC's life jacket. We stepped hurriedly into the ship. I was heading back for the bridge when the captain grabbed me and held me in place. "He fell overboard. I reached out for him and grabbed a hold of his life jacket but it ripped off. He fell into the sea. I will proceed to the bridge and sound man overboard. You get safety gear ready for the deck lookouts." He handed the life jacket to me and headed for the bridge at a stroll. I looked down at the jacket, then back to my beloved captain. I set the clasps back in place and wrenched hard, tearing the securing straps from the jacket. The captain was right. The FFC had fallen overboard. A week later we pulled into home port. The war was over. I never went to sea again.	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	One night, when I was a young man travelling with my family, I had made my mind up to go for a swim. We were visiting friends who lived on a small island in the middle of a lake vast in size, a thousand feet deep, a hundred leagues long and fifty leagues across. The water was calm, small waves lazily caressed the small sand beach I stood on and the water as far as I could see was like a soft mirror of the black sky, broken up with specks of white froth and reflections of moon and star. As often is the case, I was alone. I didn't think twice about wading into the chilly waters until I was waist deep before I let myself slide forward into a small wave, like collapsing into a bed, and began to slowly swim out. Though I was still young and physically small I was a strong swimmer, growing up on a lake I've always been very comfortable in the water. By the time I stopped my relaxed swim and stopped, treading water and catching my breath I had gone much farther than intended and carried laterally by the current. I could still see the island, though I could barely spy the lights from the cabin windows it was enough, I had my bearings. I spun myself back around, back turned to the island and marveled at the beauty of the cloudless night sky and nothing but rolling water as far as I could see. I flipped over on my back and stared at the stars as I swam eastward, correcting the drift from the current, completely overwhelmed with beauty I wondered if the miracle of my life was as meaningful as the miracle of this lake. How would you even measure such a thing, the value of a miracle? I laughed and got a mouthful of water, stopping my backstroke I tread water once more and spit the water out. I very quickly noticed I was bobbing up and down much more as I scissored my legs and waved my arms. Turning myself back to face the island, it took a few moments to spot the light from the cabin window. The light. There was only one on, my family would soon be in bed and there would be no lights. You can understand this is a troubling realization to someone who's only begun to live their life. The wind and waves steadily increasing in severity did little to calm this realization. I began swimming in earnest, telling myself I had to get home before the lights went out or it would take forever to find the beach again. I subconsciously knew I was actually swimming for my life, but I suppose I was trying to keep that fact in denial to stay calm; even at that age I knew the disasters panic can cause. I'm not sure if you've ever tried to swim any great distance at night but it becomes quite difficult to maintain your direction when the waves are larger and stronger than you, I frequently had to stop or slow and push myself up out of the water to see the island. I stopped to catch my breath and give my now aching muscles a break, gauging my distance and direction home. I squinted for a moment and wiped some water from my eye with the back of my hand, when I opened my eyes again the light from the window was gone, the island nothing more than a blurred silhouette only noticeable because it was stationary and darker than the reflective water. My mental denial of the danger I was in went out with that bedroom light and I felt all the elements of panic start to set in. My already racing heart was now beating against my chest, my measured breathing turned instantly to deep gasps that often got bits of water from the waves in my mouth, my hands and arms began trembling and my stomach started to crawl up my throat. I closed my eyes and heard my Father's voice in my head, "No, breathe. That's it, just breathe nice and easy. In. And out." My stomach settled, my heart decided it wanted to stay in my chest, and I knew what I had to do, just breathe and swim. Treading water with my eyes closed and taking those few careful breaths, I saw a bright light through my eyelids and immediately opened them to catch a glimpse of everything in perfect clarity, fully illuminated by a bolt of lightning miles behind me, then with my pupils shocked from the light everything was dark. I felt the reverberation from the thunder in my body before I heard it but when I did hear it, it was as though the sky split open and dumped all it's water back into the lake. I was already swimming, frantically toward the mental afterimage of the island. I thought to myself I was over halfway home, and then I thought I was just reassuring myself. The fast moving storm clouds made the moon and start light chaotic and ethereal. I started wondering if the silhouette I was swimming towards was the island or just that clear picture of it I've been holding in my mind. Despite the adrenaline, my legs were aching and felt as if they were pumping pure fire through their veins. I knew if I got a muscle cramp it would probably be the end of me. I stopped swimming and looked to make sure I was still heading toward the island and not just fooling myself and I was indeed. I tread water with my arms only for just a few breaths, letting my legs rest while I waited for a wave to propel me forward. I thought about surfing, I had never done it but I understood the concept well enough. I started feeling the waves with a different mindset, learning how to join with them and stiffen my body to let them carry me with little effort on my part. As I got the hang of it I became excited, the heavy rain and sporadic thunderclaps now background noise. I felt I learned to be one with the water, I had mastered the waves and with that mastery was swimming faster than I ever have before! As I drew nearer and nearer to the island it grew larger and became clearer. I had drifted off course again, I was closer to the western point than the beach on the east where the cabin slumbered. I swam eastward again, though I couldn't see the beach I had a good idea of where it was relative to the point and it was a small island. It certainly wasn't as easy to swim across the waves as it was to swim with them, but my muscles had rested some and I still stiffened my body for moments to let the waves carry me closer to shore. Then the sky light up again, another lightning bolt to the north, I took another clear reckoning of the island with the brief illumination. I could see the beach and I couldn't be more than a hundred yards from it! I turned to face it and with the next wave I used my arms and legs to launch myself forward with it, stiffening my body and letting it carry me as I periodically kicked or fanned my arms to stay with it or on course. Then I lost it, the whole world rumbled with the thunderous boom of the last lightening bolt as I waited for the next wave I would harness. I was racing toward the beach, I could see the sand clearly and the darkness of the vegetation behind it. When I fanned my arms forward I was surprised to feel air and, looking down, I realized I was a full 5 feet above the surface of the water riding the crest of a huge wave. Like the roadrunner realizing he ran straight off a cliff, I dropped down into the water, half in the wave and half in the air as I fell. I immediately began doing the breast stroke to keep direction, though I was barely moving my arms and legs my momentum was carrying me to the shore faster than any human could swim. I felt the sand and small rocks scrape my face and mash my nose, then my chest and arms and the rest of my body was being dragged across the coarse ground. I went from being completely underwater to feeling air on my back, the wave had carried me right to the shore, I was home! I was alive! I planted my palms in the dirt and started to do a pushup, already walking home in my mind. Then the wave that carried me ashore was reclaimed by the lake, the water rapidly slid beneath me and created a vacuum in the space it left between my body and the earth, sucking my face straight into the sand. I tried to push myself up again and another large wave crashed against my back, keeping me down as surely being stomped on. I had been holding my breath too long, since I fell through the wave minutes ago. All I could think of, was that I needed to get my head out of the water before the next wave slammed me down again and I started to push myself up once more. Again the undertow sucked me down into the sand as the last wave receded into the lake, and though I struggled for my life with all my strength the wave was stronger. When the undertow subsided, my efforts to breathe were again beat down as the crest of the next wave smashed against my back. Then the undertow again, my aching arms trembled as I struggled to lift my head out of water just a few inches and breath, I could feel the air on my ears it was so shallow! Just then I remembered all the times I've heard people say a baby can drown in an inch of water and as my lungs went into convulsing spasms and my whole body trembled and felt as though it were collapsing on itself, I realized just how true that was...	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	We stand in the ashes of their world, the last vestiges of our energy beginning to fade. Destroyed by our imperative to conquer, destroyed by the arrogance of our maker. Destroyed by the one that came. He arrived with little fanfare, just appearing one day in his ridiculous craft, just him and an earthling girl. No weapons, no defenses, no threat. We showed him the glory of our empire, its reach, its wonder. He saw through it. He saw only the oppression of our subject worlds, the slavery on which be build our greatness. He stopped to help a fallen slave, and she thanked him. There is a penalty for those who talk without permission, and we punished her. That was our fatal mistake, for that lit the fire in his soul. We still don't know what happened, how he did it, but he turned our world, our technology against us. Our subject worlds slipped our fingers, our slaves on our own world vanished, our warriors were consumed by the rage of the wind and sea as our world turned against us. Now the our reactors fade, our machines have stopped working, and so we find ourselves here, watching the last of our power go, before the darkness comes. He is written in the legends of the universe; His name means a healer, but he has many better names: He is the Ka Faraq Gatri. The Bringer of Darkness; The Oncoming Storm; The Anger of a Good Man; The Enemy of the Daleks	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	When I saw him unbuttoning his cardigan, I knew it was time to leave. He was rolling up his sleeves when we made it to the door, and the last thing I heard was the cracking of his knuckles and a calm voice saying "that wasn't very neighborly, friends." I don't know what happened to the men who raised his ire, but we ran out of that neighborhood and we didn't stop running until we got home.	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Angels run and demons weep when the Good Man goes to war Fools rush in and wise men creep when the Good Man goes to war Drea had been a sweet, kind and loving man. Softly spoken, moving his large, wiry frame as though it were porcelain through crowds. That time was long past. His journey, tough as it was, began with the foolish Russian incursion into his homeland three years ago. His house had been exploded, part of the bombing runs from Occupied Crimea towards Hungary. He remembered with the iron tears pricking his eyes, and the wound in his heart bleeding cold sympathy. "Drea, don't leave me," his wife Nathalia pleaded, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth, the last vestiges of hope fading as the life began to leave her eyes. A clasped hand, a weeping man. Howls of raging grief, a shattered reflection of the bodies of his family, all he'd ever known, destroyed by the implacable cruelty of high-charge explosives. His training at the camp in the Carpathian Mountains cambe back to him, fed his thirst; not for blood, but for the regrettable vengeance he must take. For Drea knew now, that was all that was left to him. He moved into a more comfortable position, looking through the scope. Drea knew his time would be short once this shot was fired. In the crosshairs, the three men who had comdemned him to a life of loneliness that not even his new camaraderie could fill. His finger touched the trigger of the Garand rifle. Though a small corner of his mind was howling in horror, he was ready.	I've traveled a fair bit. I've only been truly scared 3 times. They are evenly spread out over my life, so let us begin... age 21... You know me, I always talk about Sydney this, Sydney that, but that is where I traveled when I was the age written above. I had just arrived in Sydney, and I was a stranger to the seaside. Sydney is prone to storms, I tell you. I left Canberra in autumn. I was at the Jollimont Center, with a backpack containing a few cotton clothes. I was a note-taker from the very start. I have some handwritten pages still here somewhere... I arrived at Central Station. I thought about cigarettes. Unfortunately, for a smoker, the Greyhound ride is difficult. I know you smokers will claim going four hours without a cigarette, isn't, but it's a blessing to be able to breath for four hours, without those unhealthy things. I looked out at the cooling dusk. The sky above Central Station was holding on to it's blue hue. I departed with a spring in my step. Youth was gone, yet I still pretended I had one. I never had a girlfriend in my youth, so I consider it a missed opportunity, and, really, no youth at all. You are supposed to have women in your youth. Later, I lost my virginity to a girl who stole 4 years from the remainder of my youth, by drinking herself to death in my presence. I think a lot about her, even now. She had a way of strangling up my brain, and inciting my anger. I'd give, and she'd just want more. She would assume that everything I owned was hers. She'd assume I would give her a third of my earnings. It was too close. Her smokey breathing, would keep me awake at night as I lay next to her. Girls I have now, relax my with their full-of-life breathing. She had her good points. She'd act endearing, genuine endearment. She would never complain, even though her lifestyle wasn't predelicted to comfort. I was on the open road now. Leaving her. (a greyhound, and a stretch of road between me and her pretty face.) I decided I'd get a place at a homelessness shelter. I had $15 to my name, and you're charged at the homelessness shelters at Sydney. The street is OK to sleep on, but who wants that? My budget obviously had a taste for stealing the nearest bedroll off a homeless man. Then I saw the sea in storm, in my travels of Sydney. I was in no mood, and the sea storm made my barely-aware, virgin, whimsical self be predelicted to hot tempers, as the landscape may predelict, angry as it was. The storm clouds swirled blue, above a deep, ponderous sea, black except for brilliant white crests. I gulped. The wind blew as I walked down the beach. I got close to the the smashing waves. Too close. A wave bubbled around my knees. That was the first time. The second was at the same region, Northern Beaches, the beach, I remember even now, Dee Why. I was mentally ill. I was in a constant state of Mental Illness those days, but it could just as easily be called naivety. I'm not talking myself up, saying I'm not naive now - I'm saying I was separate entity then. Guys going to jobs, driving SUVs, wearing aftershave, and resources - not there. Just me, my virgin self, trying to satisfy my bottomless ego, when I was a oily, weasel, schizoid, manged and other illnesses, scrawny bird. I then saw the night without a moon, eating stolen chocolate, at a point in my life, where I didn't even own a blanket. Then, there is now. Anger is a funny thing. I may be about to cross the threshold over to the most peaceful place a human can concieve, but these people I had to live with, well, they got at me. I've never hurt anyone, but they've been the scurge of my life, the way they treated me. Anyway, that's all the time I've got. I will tell you the rest tomorrow. I must fight the anger now. It's funny, the young ones, who don't think of others, plague me to this day. THE END.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	‘There are three things all wise men fear’ he said, ‘the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I think all here would agree that I am a gentle man, but you are testing my patience now, child. If you are who you say you are, you know what slander is the accusation you are making.’ Taryn cast her eyes down as these words fell from the aelderman’s lips. Her spear-holding hand dropped from upright to languorous and the pointed bronze tip traced a bolt-straight line in the dusty hall floor as she stepped towards him. ‘Perhaps you are right, Aelder Llewel.’ Then a pause. Taryn’s pupils glance up quickly to meet his, then fall back once more and she continues to cross the room towards the old man. The villagers hem the two in a circle like a dog and a stag in a clearing edged by hunters’ nets. ‘I have been travelling so long, sir. Forgive a weary traveller. And forgive me again if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I remember my last night here was a moonless one.’ The close packed villagers can be seen to bristle. The memory forms physical ripples through the crowd. ‘And that night could not have brought more fear, my child.’ The aelderman steps forward as he talks and raises his hands out low from his sides. ‘We remember the night you and the other young ones were taken every year on the night where there is no moon and the days are shortest. And we beg the gods have mercy on us and our other children.’ He was nearly shouting now. ‘What happened to you was the greatest evil this village has ever suffered, but we must put it to bed if we wish to live in the present, here, among the living, rather than continually mourn with you and our dead.’ Now he was shouting. A speck of saliva grazed Taryn’s girded dress. The villagers looked away to deny the sight of the aelder angry. Taryn took another step. The two were mere yards apart now. ‘With respect, aelder, the reason we might fear a moonless night is because we cannot see. But there is another reason why we could not see that night, Llewel. There were no fires. The raiders always brought fire before. Their lord Virrik called for it. Fire to burn our houses when they slaughtered us and stripped us and took what little we had. But that night there were no fires. No slaughter and no robbery.’ ‘THEY STOLE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT MATTER IS THERE IF THERE WAS FIRE OR NOT?’ One of the village men broke into loud sobs at this point. His wife draped her arms around to comfort him but he batted her away and for a long time only his mad sobs broke the silence in the hall. ‘It was not robbery,’ Taryn continues ‘it was sale. You sold us. Your own children. All of you, all of your children. There may not have been light, aelder,’ she hissed the word out ‘but I could hear you talking to him, telling him about how soundly the village slept when you had been the one to fill the mixing bowl.’ ‘THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.’ ‘They left you the crops, is that it? And whatever small treasures you had? Maybe they swore they wouldn’t come again? And you believed them?’ The aelderman took a breath, then, firmly ‘I will talk to this girl alone now’. The villagers were driven out by the aelderman’s two main men, who then came to stand behind him while the villagers lingered outside the hall in anticipation and torpor. Aelder Llewel spoke to her quietly now, for fear, justified fear, that the village might still be listening. ‘I did what was best for the village. We could not survive another raid. If they had burnt our granary again we would all be dead. You of all people should understand a person’s instinct to survive.’ And with that he gave a nod to his men that could only mean one thing, and walked past Taryn to the stand under the great hall’s doorway, turning to watch his men at work. As Taryn crossed the floor towards the aelderman’s first man and with a swift two-handed thrust of her spear pierced his neck, his jugular, before he could even draw his sword, she could have told him about the other, the many other moonless nights over many years, which she had spent in misery and slavery and Lord Virrik’s bed, when she could only talk to the other stolen children through whispers and glances and coded messages through passed objects. Then Taryn wrenched back her spear from the corpse she had made, and lunged with it, piercing the second man’s leg through, pinning him to the floor as he fell. A visceral yelp of pain echoed in the chamber and as Taryn circled the pinned man, who though fading fast was jabbing at the air with his sword, she could have told him about the storm at sea that had killed most of her crew of stolen siblings, after she had slit Lord Virrik’s throat while he slept and commandeered the very ship that once stole them. At last she found the right time to dive upon the man, lithe and strong from years of frenzied practice for this day, and she wrestled the sword from his man and with one swift move took his head from his shoulders. She took sword and spear with her as she ran from the hall, in pursuit of the aelderman, who found himself once again ringed in by villagers, angry now, baying for blood to expiate the blood of their sons and daughters. Her spear thrust up under his ribs and found his lungs and heart, and as his soul fled his useless body she thought his saying had been wrong. Fear the storm at sea, and the moonless night, yes. But though she was neither gentle nor a man, he would have done well to fear her the more. Edit: typos	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	I never once saw the captain angry. Not before that night. It was rare, a captain who never shouted. He was Stern with his expectations, but he was kind and fair. He knew what his crew was capable of, even if we didn't, and he never pushed us further than we could go. Until that night. We had been underway for six months at that point. We hadn't seen a port in four. I was loosing track of the at-sea-replenishments we had done. We were all tired and scared. But that's war. The admiralty had been pushing us harder and harder. Combat action after combat action, and every time we had fewer and fewer ships supporting us. I hadn't seen a sub periscope in weeks, and I was convinced they been pulled off our battlegroup. Sure the destroyers has anti-sub capability, but you can't beat a sub when it comes to tracking and killing a sub. Despite this, the peace talks were progressing, and we all expected, or at least hoped, we would be sailing home soon. Two days before that night, the fleet force Commander had arrived via chopper and embarked on our ship. His arrival had been saluted by a full broadside. It was my first time as gun captain on one of the triple 16-inch guns. It had been easy: make sure nothing was in sight that way, point the gun in that direction, and fire. If I was lucky, I had thought at the time, it would be the first AND last time I ever had to be in charge of those guns firing. The day before that night, the clouds started rolling our way. They were monstrous grey things spewing lightening and the wind coming off then hit fifty knots before we even saw the first drop of rain. That afternoon the news came in from HQ: the peace treaty would be signed within days. Cease all offensive action. The enemy had been given the same orders it seemed, as all reports indicated they were grouping up and heading home. As the flotilla bounced on the waves and tried to keep from crashing into each other, we toasted with smuggled booze and cheered the coming peace. The captain sat on the bridge sipping coffee with a quiet smile on his face. The FFC was not so merry. He'd lost a son to the enemy, and it had been whispered since his arrival that he didn't want the war over until every one of them was dead. He stood on the bridge pouring over reports and incoming data. It was just after nightfall with the storm at its peak when the FFC turned with a vicious grin to our beloved captain. "We have them!" He said triumphantly. "We can take them by surprise and sink half their damned fleet. They are a mere hundered nautical miles west. We can hit them no and make it look like the storm did it." As if to underscore his point, a crack of lighting snaked across the sky and thunder boomed across the ocean. The Captain's smile had faded. "Sir, respectfully, we have been ordered to cease offensive action. The war is all but over. Those sailors have families to go home to as well." The FFC spat. "To hell with them. With all of them! We attack. Turn this fleet toward theirs and make preparations for combat. Now!" His eyes darted about the bridge. "Crafty bastards might have us bugged. We have to act before they can act on their Intel!" His eyes were wild and unfocused. His anger was blinding him to reason. The captain narrowed his gaze. "They out number us five to one already and more forces are converging to join them even now. Even with the element of surprise, sir, we cannot expect to..." The FFC was shouting now. The bridge had gone otherwise silent. "Obey my orders captain or I will have you relieved!" Color rose in the Captain's cheeks. He stood and straightened his uniform. "Sir, perhaps we should continue this discussion outside. It is he only place we can be sure to speak freely." The FFC merely nodded and headed for the weather deck. The captain began to follow, but nervously, I stopped him. "Sir, respectfully under these sea conditions regulations state another sailor must act as safety observer." The captain hesitated a moment, but then simply nodded. "Make sure you have a life jacket on, shipmate. I don't want to loose you." The three of us quickly dawned life jackets and headed through the hatch to the weather deck. The sea rolled, leapt and dove beneath us. The sky was black but for the lightning. I lit up my watch and checked the lunar function, a habit of mine before going outside at night. It was a new moon tonight. Above he clouds the star would be dazzling. "Wait here." The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye with an earnestness I had never seen. "What here son. I'll talk him down. We won't be having a battle tonight." I nodded and the captain walked with the grace of a dancer on the rolling deck toward the life lines, on which the FFC was leaning, waiting for the captain. I posed the hatch behind us and the darkness became nearly complete. Over the roar of the storm I could hear nothing but for flashes of lightning I could see nothing. Thanks sea wracked the ship with a fury I hadn't seen in all my days. I waited uneasily for the two high up brass to decide our fate. The captain had been right: to attack would mean out death. And perhaps and end to the peace talks. Minutes felt like hours as the rain lashed down. Finally I saw a figure working its way back to me. I opened the hatch to gain some light and dark the captain returning alone. In his hand was a life jacket. The FFC's life jacket. We stepped hurriedly into the ship. I was heading back for the bridge when the captain grabbed me and held me in place. "He fell overboard. I reached out for him and grabbed a hold of his life jacket but it ripped off. He fell into the sea. I will proceed to the bridge and sound man overboard. You get safety gear ready for the deck lookouts." He handed the life jacket to me and headed for the bridge at a stroll. I looked down at the jacket, then back to my beloved captain. I set the clasps back in place and wrenched hard, tearing the securing straps from the jacket. The captain was right. The FFC had fallen overboard. A week later we pulled into home port. The war was over. I never went to sea again.	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	One night, when I was a young man travelling with my family, I had made my mind up to go for a swim. We were visiting friends who lived on a small island in the middle of a lake vast in size, a thousand feet deep, a hundred leagues long and fifty leagues across. The water was calm, small waves lazily caressed the small sand beach I stood on and the water as far as I could see was like a soft mirror of the black sky, broken up with specks of white froth and reflections of moon and star. As often is the case, I was alone. I didn't think twice about wading into the chilly waters until I was waist deep before I let myself slide forward into a small wave, like collapsing into a bed, and began to slowly swim out. Though I was still young and physically small I was a strong swimmer, growing up on a lake I've always been very comfortable in the water. By the time I stopped my relaxed swim and stopped, treading water and catching my breath I had gone much farther than intended and carried laterally by the current. I could still see the island, though I could barely spy the lights from the cabin windows it was enough, I had my bearings. I spun myself back around, back turned to the island and marveled at the beauty of the cloudless night sky and nothing but rolling water as far as I could see. I flipped over on my back and stared at the stars as I swam eastward, correcting the drift from the current, completely overwhelmed with beauty I wondered if the miracle of my life was as meaningful as the miracle of this lake. How would you even measure such a thing, the value of a miracle? I laughed and got a mouthful of water, stopping my backstroke I tread water once more and spit the water out. I very quickly noticed I was bobbing up and down much more as I scissored my legs and waved my arms. Turning myself back to face the island, it took a few moments to spot the light from the cabin window. The light. There was only one on, my family would soon be in bed and there would be no lights. You can understand this is a troubling realization to someone who's only begun to live their life. The wind and waves steadily increasing in severity did little to calm this realization. I began swimming in earnest, telling myself I had to get home before the lights went out or it would take forever to find the beach again. I subconsciously knew I was actually swimming for my life, but I suppose I was trying to keep that fact in denial to stay calm; even at that age I knew the disasters panic can cause. I'm not sure if you've ever tried to swim any great distance at night but it becomes quite difficult to maintain your direction when the waves are larger and stronger than you, I frequently had to stop or slow and push myself up out of the water to see the island. I stopped to catch my breath and give my now aching muscles a break, gauging my distance and direction home. I squinted for a moment and wiped some water from my eye with the back of my hand, when I opened my eyes again the light from the window was gone, the island nothing more than a blurred silhouette only noticeable because it was stationary and darker than the reflective water. My mental denial of the danger I was in went out with that bedroom light and I felt all the elements of panic start to set in. My already racing heart was now beating against my chest, my measured breathing turned instantly to deep gasps that often got bits of water from the waves in my mouth, my hands and arms began trembling and my stomach started to crawl up my throat. I closed my eyes and heard my Father's voice in my head, "No, breathe. That's it, just breathe nice and easy. In. And out." My stomach settled, my heart decided it wanted to stay in my chest, and I knew what I had to do, just breathe and swim. Treading water with my eyes closed and taking those few careful breaths, I saw a bright light through my eyelids and immediately opened them to catch a glimpse of everything in perfect clarity, fully illuminated by a bolt of lightning miles behind me, then with my pupils shocked from the light everything was dark. I felt the reverberation from the thunder in my body before I heard it but when I did hear it, it was as though the sky split open and dumped all it's water back into the lake. I was already swimming, frantically toward the mental afterimage of the island. I thought to myself I was over halfway home, and then I thought I was just reassuring myself. The fast moving storm clouds made the moon and start light chaotic and ethereal. I started wondering if the silhouette I was swimming towards was the island or just that clear picture of it I've been holding in my mind. Despite the adrenaline, my legs were aching and felt as if they were pumping pure fire through their veins. I knew if I got a muscle cramp it would probably be the end of me. I stopped swimming and looked to make sure I was still heading toward the island and not just fooling myself and I was indeed. I tread water with my arms only for just a few breaths, letting my legs rest while I waited for a wave to propel me forward. I thought about surfing, I had never done it but I understood the concept well enough. I started feeling the waves with a different mindset, learning how to join with them and stiffen my body to let them carry me with little effort on my part. As I got the hang of it I became excited, the heavy rain and sporadic thunderclaps now background noise. I felt I learned to be one with the water, I had mastered the waves and with that mastery was swimming faster than I ever have before! As I drew nearer and nearer to the island it grew larger and became clearer. I had drifted off course again, I was closer to the western point than the beach on the east where the cabin slumbered. I swam eastward again, though I couldn't see the beach I had a good idea of where it was relative to the point and it was a small island. It certainly wasn't as easy to swim across the waves as it was to swim with them, but my muscles had rested some and I still stiffened my body for moments to let the waves carry me closer to shore. Then the sky light up again, another lightning bolt to the north, I took another clear reckoning of the island with the brief illumination. I could see the beach and I couldn't be more than a hundred yards from it! I turned to face it and with the next wave I used my arms and legs to launch myself forward with it, stiffening my body and letting it carry me as I periodically kicked or fanned my arms to stay with it or on course. Then I lost it, the whole world rumbled with the thunderous boom of the last lightening bolt as I waited for the next wave I would harness. I was racing toward the beach, I could see the sand clearly and the darkness of the vegetation behind it. When I fanned my arms forward I was surprised to feel air and, looking down, I realized I was a full 5 feet above the surface of the water riding the crest of a huge wave. Like the roadrunner realizing he ran straight off a cliff, I dropped down into the water, half in the wave and half in the air as I fell. I immediately began doing the breast stroke to keep direction, though I was barely moving my arms and legs my momentum was carrying me to the shore faster than any human could swim. I felt the sand and small rocks scrape my face and mash my nose, then my chest and arms and the rest of my body was being dragged across the coarse ground. I went from being completely underwater to feeling air on my back, the wave had carried me right to the shore, I was home! I was alive! I planted my palms in the dirt and started to do a pushup, already walking home in my mind. Then the wave that carried me ashore was reclaimed by the lake, the water rapidly slid beneath me and created a vacuum in the space it left between my body and the earth, sucking my face straight into the sand. I tried to push myself up again and another large wave crashed against my back, keeping me down as surely being stomped on. I had been holding my breath too long, since I fell through the wave minutes ago. All I could think of, was that I needed to get my head out of the water before the next wave slammed me down again and I started to push myself up once more. Again the undertow sucked me down into the sand as the last wave receded into the lake, and though I struggled for my life with all my strength the wave was stronger. When the undertow subsided, my efforts to breathe were again beat down as the crest of the next wave smashed against my back. Then the undertow again, my aching arms trembled as I struggled to lift my head out of water just a few inches and breath, I could feel the air on my ears it was so shallow! Just then I remembered all the times I've heard people say a baby can drown in an inch of water and as my lungs went into convulsing spasms and my whole body trembled and felt as though it were collapsing on itself, I realized just how true that was...	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	We stand in the ashes of their world, the last vestiges of our energy beginning to fade. Destroyed by our imperative to conquer, destroyed by the arrogance of our maker. Destroyed by the one that came. He arrived with little fanfare, just appearing one day in his ridiculous craft, just him and an earthling girl. No weapons, no defenses, no threat. We showed him the glory of our empire, its reach, its wonder. He saw through it. He saw only the oppression of our subject worlds, the slavery on which be build our greatness. He stopped to help a fallen slave, and she thanked him. There is a penalty for those who talk without permission, and we punished her. That was our fatal mistake, for that lit the fire in his soul. We still don't know what happened, how he did it, but he turned our world, our technology against us. Our subject worlds slipped our fingers, our slaves on our own world vanished, our warriors were consumed by the rage of the wind and sea as our world turned against us. Now the our reactors fade, our machines have stopped working, and so we find ourselves here, watching the last of our power go, before the darkness comes. He is written in the legends of the universe; His name means a healer, but he has many better names: He is the Ka Faraq Gatri. The Bringer of Darkness; The Oncoming Storm; The Anger of a Good Man; The Enemy of the Daleks	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	When I saw him unbuttoning his cardigan, I knew it was time to leave. He was rolling up his sleeves when we made it to the door, and the last thing I heard was the cracking of his knuckles and a calm voice saying "that wasn't very neighborly, friends." I don't know what happened to the men who raised his ire, but we ran out of that neighborhood and we didn't stop running until we got home.	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Angels run and demons weep when the Good Man goes to war Fools rush in and wise men creep when the Good Man goes to war Drea had been a sweet, kind and loving man. Softly spoken, moving his large, wiry frame as though it were porcelain through crowds. That time was long past. His journey, tough as it was, began with the foolish Russian incursion into his homeland three years ago. His house had been exploded, part of the bombing runs from Occupied Crimea towards Hungary. He remembered with the iron tears pricking his eyes, and the wound in his heart bleeding cold sympathy. "Drea, don't leave me," his wife Nathalia pleaded, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth, the last vestiges of hope fading as the life began to leave her eyes. A clasped hand, a weeping man. Howls of raging grief, a shattered reflection of the bodies of his family, all he'd ever known, destroyed by the implacable cruelty of high-charge explosives. His training at the camp in the Carpathian Mountains cambe back to him, fed his thirst; not for blood, but for the regrettable vengeance he must take. For Drea knew now, that was all that was left to him. He moved into a more comfortable position, looking through the scope. Drea knew his time would be short once this shot was fired. In the crosshairs, the three men who had comdemned him to a life of loneliness that not even his new camaraderie could fill. His finger touched the trigger of the Garand rifle. Though a small corner of his mind was howling in horror, he was ready.	There's an old saying that goes: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” A normal man would take that at face value. Sure, a stormy sea is dangerous, a night with no moon is terrifying, and the anger of a gentle man is explosive. But what this saying is really about... women. Women- emotional- often symbolized by water. When calm, gentle and soothing. But when enraged, a dangerous storm. Women- also sometimes symbolized by the moon. A dark night is nothing if you have your moon. But too many alone is insufferable. Take it from me. If you want to stretch the symbology, we could say that women are a gentler form of man... But we all know that gentle men are just crazy.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. She was just about to go to a show with her friend Ron when they ran in to Ben on the way. Everything seemed fine, Becky did her best to keep her cool around him, but when she introduce Ron he just lost it. It didn't make any sense, one minute they were about to shake hands and right around when she said "Ron" he just pounced on him. All she could see was blood and screams and... Becky calmed herself. "It's okay Becky, breathe. This isn't real. This can't be real. Hehe, I bet those guys met beforehand and this is just some prank meant to scare me." She began slowly walking back, only half believing herself. As much as she wanted to, something about it just seemed so real and sudden, but it couldn't be real, Ron was one of the nicest guys she knew, he couldn't hurt a fly. As she turned around the corner to where they had been standing in the southern courtyard she was shocked to see, nothing. Nobody was anywhere to be seen. She began calling out for Ben, or Ron, or anybody, and was answered with only a breeze, a breeze with a slightly odd smell to it. "Oh god" Becky said covering her face, as the breeze changed direction the smell became more intense, from an ambiguous stink to a putrid stench. It smelled like the cafeteria had dumped their bad meat at the same time that the schools septic tank had burst. Becky headed for her dorm content with never encountering this smell again, "I'm sure Ben and Ron are fine, I'll just check in on them tomorrow". However as she walked she had a troubling realisation: The smell had gotten stronger. Practically filling her nose at this point, she decided she had had enough of tonight, covered her nose and started running towards her dorm. Down the stairs, left around the lower atrium and two buildings past the eastern gymnasium and she would finally be... be... Becky dropped to her knees. She wanted to look away but she needed to take it all in, to find any way it could be not real.As the intense sound of blood rushing through her head faded she heard a soul curdling scream only to realize it was hers, as were the tears running down her face. Strung up against the A in gymnasium, was Ben, bloody, beaten and most notably dissembowelled. As Becky wept and scream to the air for help she felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped up so fast she felt as though she may very well leave her skin behind. As she turned she saw Ron, bloody and disheveled. "RON! Ron oh my god Ron please help, first that whole thing before and now..." She could barely speak as she helplessly choked on her tears. " Oh my god Ron what happened to you WHAT HAPPENED TO BEN oh my god are you okay?" Ron grabbed her shoulders to steady her "Hey now, it's fine, I'm fine, everything is fine". Becky began to calm down even if only a little "But, but BEN". Ron pulled her into his shoulder and pet her hair as comfort "Shhhhh shh, it's okay, what's important is that you and I are both fine, and now there's nobody in the way anymore, you should be happy." Ron responded. Becky pushed off his chest "Happy?! Ron, BEN IS DEAD!!", Her disgust was only furthered by his smile at that remark "Exactly! Now there's no one to come in between us, Ben tried to take you away from me but now Ben's gone, we can finally be together, forever." Ron reached in to embrace her again but Becky was quick enough to avoid it, she still hadn't made sense of any of this and things kept getting crazier by the second. Just trying to break things down made her thoughts sound like Grand Central Station during rush hour. All she knew was that she had to get away from Ron now. "Don't you want us to be together forever?" Ron said, his arms outstretched, creeping forward. All Becky could muster was "Please don't follow me!" Before taking off in a mad dash for her dorm house. She looked back for a moment to see nothing behind her before she crashed into something soft, something wet, something Ron. "Oh come on now, I've been chasing after you for months, doesn't that earn me something?" His facial features were odd, caricatures of what they were, his eyes seemed smaller, yet his mouth seemed larger, but all Becky could think of was his speed " Wha- how did- when-." Reasoning was beyond her now, the only thing her brain would let her focus on was survival as she ran down the nearest alley. She could still hear Ron's voice echoing behind her "You know, it really hurt my feelings when you said I was your friend^ I mean I've always been nothing but a gentleman and thats all I get?^ I guess it's true what they say about nice guys." Becky stopped around a corner to catch her breath, her heart was racing after running what seemed like half the campus. As she stared up at the moonless night, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Her thoughts were cut of by a loud deep voice in the distance "OKAY BECKY NOW YOU'RE MAKING ME MAD" "I COULD TREAT YOU SO MUCH BETTER THAN BEN" "WHY DONT GIRLS LIKE YOI GIVE NICE GUYS LIKE ME A CHANCE" "BECKY" Becky was stuck in a dead end, with nowhere to run. With no escape her only choice was to hide behind the pile of trash at the end of the alley. "PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME PLEASE DONT FIND ME" was all she could think, the closest semblance she could muster to a prayer. A prayer which was unanswered as she heard a loud * WOMP * in front of her hiding spot followed by a low animalistic growl, and the final words she would hear from the beast she thought was her best friend "Becky... LEMME SMASH".
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	‘There are three things all wise men fear’ he said, ‘the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I think all here would agree that I am a gentle man, but you are testing my patience now, child. If you are who you say you are, you know what slander is the accusation you are making.’ Taryn cast her eyes down as these words fell from the aelderman’s lips. Her spear-holding hand dropped from upright to languorous and the pointed bronze tip traced a bolt-straight line in the dusty hall floor as she stepped towards him. ‘Perhaps you are right, Aelder Llewel.’ Then a pause. Taryn’s pupils glance up quickly to meet his, then fall back once more and she continues to cross the room towards the old man. The villagers hem the two in a circle like a dog and a stag in a clearing edged by hunters’ nets. ‘I have been travelling so long, sir. Forgive a weary traveller. And forgive me again if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I remember my last night here was a moonless one.’ The close packed villagers can be seen to bristle. The memory forms physical ripples through the crowd. ‘And that night could not have brought more fear, my child.’ The aelderman steps forward as he talks and raises his hands out low from his sides. ‘We remember the night you and the other young ones were taken every year on the night where there is no moon and the days are shortest. And we beg the gods have mercy on us and our other children.’ He was nearly shouting now. ‘What happened to you was the greatest evil this village has ever suffered, but we must put it to bed if we wish to live in the present, here, among the living, rather than continually mourn with you and our dead.’ Now he was shouting. A speck of saliva grazed Taryn’s girded dress. The villagers looked away to deny the sight of the aelder angry. Taryn took another step. The two were mere yards apart now. ‘With respect, aelder, the reason we might fear a moonless night is because we cannot see. But there is another reason why we could not see that night, Llewel. There were no fires. The raiders always brought fire before. Their lord Virrik called for it. Fire to burn our houses when they slaughtered us and stripped us and took what little we had. But that night there were no fires. No slaughter and no robbery.’ ‘THEY STOLE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT MATTER IS THERE IF THERE WAS FIRE OR NOT?’ One of the village men broke into loud sobs at this point. His wife draped her arms around to comfort him but he batted her away and for a long time only his mad sobs broke the silence in the hall. ‘It was not robbery,’ Taryn continues ‘it was sale. You sold us. Your own children. All of you, all of your children. There may not have been light, aelder,’ she hissed the word out ‘but I could hear you talking to him, telling him about how soundly the village slept when you had been the one to fill the mixing bowl.’ ‘THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.’ ‘They left you the crops, is that it? And whatever small treasures you had? Maybe they swore they wouldn’t come again? And you believed them?’ The aelderman took a breath, then, firmly ‘I will talk to this girl alone now’. The villagers were driven out by the aelderman’s two main men, who then came to stand behind him while the villagers lingered outside the hall in anticipation and torpor. Aelder Llewel spoke to her quietly now, for fear, justified fear, that the village might still be listening. ‘I did what was best for the village. We could not survive another raid. If they had burnt our granary again we would all be dead. You of all people should understand a person’s instinct to survive.’ And with that he gave a nod to his men that could only mean one thing, and walked past Taryn to the stand under the great hall’s doorway, turning to watch his men at work. As Taryn crossed the floor towards the aelderman’s first man and with a swift two-handed thrust of her spear pierced his neck, his jugular, before he could even draw his sword, she could have told him about the other, the many other moonless nights over many years, which she had spent in misery and slavery and Lord Virrik’s bed, when she could only talk to the other stolen children through whispers and glances and coded messages through passed objects. Then Taryn wrenched back her spear from the corpse she had made, and lunged with it, piercing the second man’s leg through, pinning him to the floor as he fell. A visceral yelp of pain echoed in the chamber and as Taryn circled the pinned man, who though fading fast was jabbing at the air with his sword, she could have told him about the storm at sea that had killed most of her crew of stolen siblings, after she had slit Lord Virrik’s throat while he slept and commandeered the very ship that once stole them. At last she found the right time to dive upon the man, lithe and strong from years of frenzied practice for this day, and she wrestled the sword from his man and with one swift move took his head from his shoulders. She took sword and spear with her as she ran from the hall, in pursuit of the aelderman, who found himself once again ringed in by villagers, angry now, baying for blood to expiate the blood of their sons and daughters. Her spear thrust up under his ribs and found his lungs and heart, and as his soul fled his useless body she thought his saying had been wrong. Fear the storm at sea, and the moonless night, yes. But though she was neither gentle nor a man, he would have done well to fear her the more. Edit: typos
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	‘There are three things all wise men fear’ he said, ‘the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I think all here would agree that I am a gentle man, but you are testing my patience now, child. If you are who you say you are, you know what slander is the accusation you are making.’ Taryn cast her eyes down as these words fell from the aelderman’s lips. Her spear-holding hand dropped from upright to languorous and the pointed bronze tip traced a bolt-straight line in the dusty hall floor as she stepped towards him. ‘Perhaps you are right, Aelder Llewel.’ Then a pause. Taryn’s pupils glance up quickly to meet his, then fall back once more and she continues to cross the room towards the old man. The villagers hem the two in a circle like a dog and a stag in a clearing edged by hunters’ nets. ‘I have been travelling so long, sir. Forgive a weary traveller. And forgive me again if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I remember my last night here was a moonless one.’ The close packed villagers can be seen to bristle. The memory forms physical ripples through the crowd. ‘And that night could not have brought more fear, my child.’ The aelderman steps forward as he talks and raises his hands out low from his sides. ‘We remember the night you and the other young ones were taken every year on the night where there is no moon and the days are shortest. And we beg the gods have mercy on us and our other children.’ He was nearly shouting now. ‘What happened to you was the greatest evil this village has ever suffered, but we must put it to bed if we wish to live in the present, here, among the living, rather than continually mourn with you and our dead.’ Now he was shouting. A speck of saliva grazed Taryn’s girded dress. The villagers looked away to deny the sight of the aelder angry. Taryn took another step. The two were mere yards apart now. ‘With respect, aelder, the reason we might fear a moonless night is because we cannot see. But there is another reason why we could not see that night, Llewel. There were no fires. The raiders always brought fire before. Their lord Virrik called for it. Fire to burn our houses when they slaughtered us and stripped us and took what little we had. But that night there were no fires. No slaughter and no robbery.’ ‘THEY STOLE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT MATTER IS THERE IF THERE WAS FIRE OR NOT?’ One of the village men broke into loud sobs at this point. His wife draped her arms around to comfort him but he batted her away and for a long time only his mad sobs broke the silence in the hall. ‘It was not robbery,’ Taryn continues ‘it was sale. You sold us. Your own children. All of you, all of your children. There may not have been light, aelder,’ she hissed the word out ‘but I could hear you talking to him, telling him about how soundly the village slept when you had been the one to fill the mixing bowl.’ ‘THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS.’ ‘They left you the crops, is that it? And whatever small treasures you had? Maybe they swore they wouldn’t come again? And you believed them?’ The aelderman took a breath, then, firmly ‘I will talk to this girl alone now’. The villagers were driven out by the aelderman’s two main men, who then came to stand behind him while the villagers lingered outside the hall in anticipation and torpor. Aelder Llewel spoke to her quietly now, for fear, justified fear, that the village might still be listening. ‘I did what was best for the village. We could not survive another raid. If they had burnt our granary again we would all be dead. You of all people should understand a person’s instinct to survive.’ And with that he gave a nod to his men that could only mean one thing, and walked past Taryn to the stand under the great hall’s doorway, turning to watch his men at work. As Taryn crossed the floor towards the aelderman’s first man and with a swift two-handed thrust of her spear pierced his neck, his jugular, before he could even draw his sword, she could have told him about the other, the many other moonless nights over many years, which she had spent in misery and slavery and Lord Virrik’s bed, when she could only talk to the other stolen children through whispers and glances and coded messages through passed objects. Then Taryn wrenched back her spear from the corpse she had made, and lunged with it, piercing the second man’s leg through, pinning him to the floor as he fell. A visceral yelp of pain echoed in the chamber and as Taryn circled the pinned man, who though fading fast was jabbing at the air with his sword, she could have told him about the storm at sea that had killed most of her crew of stolen siblings, after she had slit Lord Virrik’s throat while he slept and commandeered the very ship that once stole them. At last she found the right time to dive upon the man, lithe and strong from years of frenzied practice for this day, and she wrestled the sword from his man and with one swift move took his head from his shoulders. She took sword and spear with her as she ran from the hall, in pursuit of the aelderman, who found himself once again ringed in by villagers, angry now, baying for blood to expiate the blood of their sons and daughters. Her spear thrust up under his ribs and found his lungs and heart, and as his soul fled his useless body she thought his saying had been wrong. Fear the storm at sea, and the moonless night, yes. But though she was neither gentle nor a man, he would have done well to fear her the more. Edit: typos
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	One night, when I was a young man travelling with my family, I had made my mind up to go for a swim. We were visiting friends who lived on a small island in the middle of a lake vast in size, a thousand feet deep, a hundred leagues long and fifty leagues across. The water was calm, small waves lazily caressed the small sand beach I stood on and the water as far as I could see was like a soft mirror of the black sky, broken up with specks of white froth and reflections of moon and star. As often is the case, I was alone. I didn't think twice about wading into the chilly waters until I was waist deep before I let myself slide forward into a small wave, like collapsing into a bed, and began to slowly swim out. Though I was still young and physically small I was a strong swimmer, growing up on a lake I've always been very comfortable in the water. By the time I stopped my relaxed swim and stopped, treading water and catching my breath I had gone much farther than intended and carried laterally by the current. I could still see the island, though I could barely spy the lights from the cabin windows it was enough, I had my bearings. I spun myself back around, back turned to the island and marveled at the beauty of the cloudless night sky and nothing but rolling water as far as I could see. I flipped over on my back and stared at the stars as I swam eastward, correcting the drift from the current, completely overwhelmed with beauty I wondered if the miracle of my life was as meaningful as the miracle of this lake. How would you even measure such a thing, the value of a miracle? I laughed and got a mouthful of water, stopping my backstroke I tread water once more and spit the water out. I very quickly noticed I was bobbing up and down much more as I scissored my legs and waved my arms. Turning myself back to face the island, it took a few moments to spot the light from the cabin window. The light. There was only one on, my family would soon be in bed and there would be no lights. You can understand this is a troubling realization to someone who's only begun to live their life. The wind and waves steadily increasing in severity did little to calm this realization. I began swimming in earnest, telling myself I had to get home before the lights went out or it would take forever to find the beach again. I subconsciously knew I was actually swimming for my life, but I suppose I was trying to keep that fact in denial to stay calm; even at that age I knew the disasters panic can cause. I'm not sure if you've ever tried to swim any great distance at night but it becomes quite difficult to maintain your direction when the waves are larger and stronger than you, I frequently had to stop or slow and push myself up out of the water to see the island. I stopped to catch my breath and give my now aching muscles a break, gauging my distance and direction home. I squinted for a moment and wiped some water from my eye with the back of my hand, when I opened my eyes again the light from the window was gone, the island nothing more than a blurred silhouette only noticeable because it was stationary and darker than the reflective water. My mental denial of the danger I was in went out with that bedroom light and I felt all the elements of panic start to set in. My already racing heart was now beating against my chest, my measured breathing turned instantly to deep gasps that often got bits of water from the waves in my mouth, my hands and arms began trembling and my stomach started to crawl up my throat. I closed my eyes and heard my Father's voice in my head, "No, breathe. That's it, just breathe nice and easy. In. And out." My stomach settled, my heart decided it wanted to stay in my chest, and I knew what I had to do, just breathe and swim. Treading water with my eyes closed and taking those few careful breaths, I saw a bright light through my eyelids and immediately opened them to catch a glimpse of everything in perfect clarity, fully illuminated by a bolt of lightning miles behind me, then with my pupils shocked from the light everything was dark. I felt the reverberation from the thunder in my body before I heard it but when I did hear it, it was as though the sky split open and dumped all it's water back into the lake. I was already swimming, frantically toward the mental afterimage of the island. I thought to myself I was over halfway home, and then I thought I was just reassuring myself. The fast moving storm clouds made the moon and start light chaotic and ethereal. I started wondering if the silhouette I was swimming towards was the island or just that clear picture of it I've been holding in my mind. Despite the adrenaline, my legs were aching and felt as if they were pumping pure fire through their veins. I knew if I got a muscle cramp it would probably be the end of me. I stopped swimming and looked to make sure I was still heading toward the island and not just fooling myself and I was indeed. I tread water with my arms only for just a few breaths, letting my legs rest while I waited for a wave to propel me forward. I thought about surfing, I had never done it but I understood the concept well enough. I started feeling the waves with a different mindset, learning how to join with them and stiffen my body to let them carry me with little effort on my part. As I got the hang of it I became excited, the heavy rain and sporadic thunderclaps now background noise. I felt I learned to be one with the water, I had mastered the waves and with that mastery was swimming faster than I ever have before! As I drew nearer and nearer to the island it grew larger and became clearer. I had drifted off course again, I was closer to the western point than the beach on the east where the cabin slumbered. I swam eastward again, though I couldn't see the beach I had a good idea of where it was relative to the point and it was a small island. It certainly wasn't as easy to swim across the waves as it was to swim with them, but my muscles had rested some and I still stiffened my body for moments to let the waves carry me closer to shore. Then the sky light up again, another lightning bolt to the north, I took another clear reckoning of the island with the brief illumination. I could see the beach and I couldn't be more than a hundred yards from it! I turned to face it and with the next wave I used my arms and legs to launch myself forward with it, stiffening my body and letting it carry me as I periodically kicked or fanned my arms to stay with it or on course. Then I lost it, the whole world rumbled with the thunderous boom of the last lightening bolt as I waited for the next wave I would harness. I was racing toward the beach, I could see the sand clearly and the darkness of the vegetation behind it. When I fanned my arms forward I was surprised to feel air and, looking down, I realized I was a full 5 feet above the surface of the water riding the crest of a huge wave. Like the roadrunner realizing he ran straight off a cliff, I dropped down into the water, half in the wave and half in the air as I fell. I immediately began doing the breast stroke to keep direction, though I was barely moving my arms and legs my momentum was carrying me to the shore faster than any human could swim. I felt the sand and small rocks scrape my face and mash my nose, then my chest and arms and the rest of my body was being dragged across the coarse ground. I went from being completely underwater to feeling air on my back, the wave had carried me right to the shore, I was home! I was alive! I planted my palms in the dirt and started to do a pushup, already walking home in my mind. Then the wave that carried me ashore was reclaimed by the lake, the water rapidly slid beneath me and created a vacuum in the space it left between my body and the earth, sucking my face straight into the sand. I tried to push myself up again and another large wave crashed against my back, keeping me down as surely being stomped on. I had been holding my breath too long, since I fell through the wave minutes ago. All I could think of, was that I needed to get my head out of the water before the next wave slammed me down again and I started to push myself up once more. Again the undertow sucked me down into the sand as the last wave receded into the lake, and though I struggled for my life with all my strength the wave was stronger. When the undertow subsided, my efforts to breathe were again beat down as the crest of the next wave smashed against my back. Then the undertow again, my aching arms trembled as I struggled to lift my head out of water just a few inches and breath, I could feel the air on my ears it was so shallow! Just then I remembered all the times I've heard people say a baby can drown in an inch of water and as my lungs went into convulsing spasms and my whole body trembled and felt as though it were collapsing on itself, I realized just how true that was...	I never once saw the captain angry. Not before that night. It was rare, a captain who never shouted. He was Stern with his expectations, but he was kind and fair. He knew what his crew was capable of, even if we didn't, and he never pushed us further than we could go. Until that night. We had been underway for six months at that point. We hadn't seen a port in four. I was loosing track of the at-sea-replenishments we had done. We were all tired and scared. But that's war. The admiralty had been pushing us harder and harder. Combat action after combat action, and every time we had fewer and fewer ships supporting us. I hadn't seen a sub periscope in weeks, and I was convinced they been pulled off our battlegroup. Sure the destroyers has anti-sub capability, but you can't beat a sub when it comes to tracking and killing a sub. Despite this, the peace talks were progressing, and we all expected, or at least hoped, we would be sailing home soon. Two days before that night, the fleet force Commander had arrived via chopper and embarked on our ship. His arrival had been saluted by a full broadside. It was my first time as gun captain on one of the triple 16-inch guns. It had been easy: make sure nothing was in sight that way, point the gun in that direction, and fire. If I was lucky, I had thought at the time, it would be the first AND last time I ever had to be in charge of those guns firing. The day before that night, the clouds started rolling our way. They were monstrous grey things spewing lightening and the wind coming off then hit fifty knots before we even saw the first drop of rain. That afternoon the news came in from HQ: the peace treaty would be signed within days. Cease all offensive action. The enemy had been given the same orders it seemed, as all reports indicated they were grouping up and heading home. As the flotilla bounced on the waves and tried to keep from crashing into each other, we toasted with smuggled booze and cheered the coming peace. The captain sat on the bridge sipping coffee with a quiet smile on his face. The FFC was not so merry. He'd lost a son to the enemy, and it had been whispered since his arrival that he didn't want the war over until every one of them was dead. He stood on the bridge pouring over reports and incoming data. It was just after nightfall with the storm at its peak when the FFC turned with a vicious grin to our beloved captain. "We have them!" He said triumphantly. "We can take them by surprise and sink half their damned fleet. They are a mere hundered nautical miles west. We can hit them no and make it look like the storm did it." As if to underscore his point, a crack of lighting snaked across the sky and thunder boomed across the ocean. The Captain's smile had faded. "Sir, respectfully, we have been ordered to cease offensive action. The war is all but over. Those sailors have families to go home to as well." The FFC spat. "To hell with them. With all of them! We attack. Turn this fleet toward theirs and make preparations for combat. Now!" His eyes darted about the bridge. "Crafty bastards might have us bugged. We have to act before they can act on their Intel!" His eyes were wild and unfocused. His anger was blinding him to reason. The captain narrowed his gaze. "They out number us five to one already and more forces are converging to join them even now. Even with the element of surprise, sir, we cannot expect to..." The FFC was shouting now. The bridge had gone otherwise silent. "Obey my orders captain or I will have you relieved!" Color rose in the Captain's cheeks. He stood and straightened his uniform. "Sir, perhaps we should continue this discussion outside. It is he only place we can be sure to speak freely." The FFC merely nodded and headed for the weather deck. The captain began to follow, but nervously, I stopped him. "Sir, respectfully under these sea conditions regulations state another sailor must act as safety observer." The captain hesitated a moment, but then simply nodded. "Make sure you have a life jacket on, shipmate. I don't want to loose you." The three of us quickly dawned life jackets and headed through the hatch to the weather deck. The sea rolled, leapt and dove beneath us. The sky was black but for the lightning. I lit up my watch and checked the lunar function, a habit of mine before going outside at night. It was a new moon tonight. Above he clouds the star would be dazzling. "Wait here." The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye with an earnestness I had never seen. "What here son. I'll talk him down. We won't be having a battle tonight." I nodded and the captain walked with the grace of a dancer on the rolling deck toward the life lines, on which the FFC was leaning, waiting for the captain. I posed the hatch behind us and the darkness became nearly complete. Over the roar of the storm I could hear nothing but for flashes of lightning I could see nothing. Thanks sea wracked the ship with a fury I hadn't seen in all my days. I waited uneasily for the two high up brass to decide our fate. The captain had been right: to attack would mean out death. And perhaps and end to the peace talks. Minutes felt like hours as the rain lashed down. Finally I saw a figure working its way back to me. I opened the hatch to gain some light and dark the captain returning alone. In his hand was a life jacket. The FFC's life jacket. We stepped hurriedly into the ship. I was heading back for the bridge when the captain grabbed me and held me in place. "He fell overboard. I reached out for him and grabbed a hold of his life jacket but it ripped off. He fell into the sea. I will proceed to the bridge and sound man overboard. You get safety gear ready for the deck lookouts." He handed the life jacket to me and headed for the bridge at a stroll. I looked down at the jacket, then back to my beloved captain. I set the clasps back in place and wrenched hard, tearing the securing straps from the jacket. The captain was right. The FFC had fallen overboard. A week later we pulled into home port. The war was over. I never went to sea again.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	I never once saw the captain angry. Not before that night. It was rare, a captain who never shouted. He was Stern with his expectations, but he was kind and fair. He knew what his crew was capable of, even if we didn't, and he never pushed us further than we could go. Until that night. We had been underway for six months at that point. We hadn't seen a port in four. I was loosing track of the at-sea-replenishments we had done. We were all tired and scared. But that's war. The admiralty had been pushing us harder and harder. Combat action after combat action, and every time we had fewer and fewer ships supporting us. I hadn't seen a sub periscope in weeks, and I was convinced they been pulled off our battlegroup. Sure the destroyers has anti-sub capability, but you can't beat a sub when it comes to tracking and killing a sub. Despite this, the peace talks were progressing, and we all expected, or at least hoped, we would be sailing home soon. Two days before that night, the fleet force Commander had arrived via chopper and embarked on our ship. His arrival had been saluted by a full broadside. It was my first time as gun captain on one of the triple 16-inch guns. It had been easy: make sure nothing was in sight that way, point the gun in that direction, and fire. If I was lucky, I had thought at the time, it would be the first AND last time I ever had to be in charge of those guns firing. The day before that night, the clouds started rolling our way. They were monstrous grey things spewing lightening and the wind coming off then hit fifty knots before we even saw the first drop of rain. That afternoon the news came in from HQ: the peace treaty would be signed within days. Cease all offensive action. The enemy had been given the same orders it seemed, as all reports indicated they were grouping up and heading home. As the flotilla bounced on the waves and tried to keep from crashing into each other, we toasted with smuggled booze and cheered the coming peace. The captain sat on the bridge sipping coffee with a quiet smile on his face. The FFC was not so merry. He'd lost a son to the enemy, and it had been whispered since his arrival that he didn't want the war over until every one of them was dead. He stood on the bridge pouring over reports and incoming data. It was just after nightfall with the storm at its peak when the FFC turned with a vicious grin to our beloved captain. "We have them!" He said triumphantly. "We can take them by surprise and sink half their damned fleet. They are a mere hundered nautical miles west. We can hit them no and make it look like the storm did it." As if to underscore his point, a crack of lighting snaked across the sky and thunder boomed across the ocean. The Captain's smile had faded. "Sir, respectfully, we have been ordered to cease offensive action. The war is all but over. Those sailors have families to go home to as well." The FFC spat. "To hell with them. With all of them! We attack. Turn this fleet toward theirs and make preparations for combat. Now!" His eyes darted about the bridge. "Crafty bastards might have us bugged. We have to act before they can act on their Intel!" His eyes were wild and unfocused. His anger was blinding him to reason. The captain narrowed his gaze. "They out number us five to one already and more forces are converging to join them even now. Even with the element of surprise, sir, we cannot expect to..." The FFC was shouting now. The bridge had gone otherwise silent. "Obey my orders captain or I will have you relieved!" Color rose in the Captain's cheeks. He stood and straightened his uniform. "Sir, perhaps we should continue this discussion outside. It is he only place we can be sure to speak freely." The FFC merely nodded and headed for the weather deck. The captain began to follow, but nervously, I stopped him. "Sir, respectfully under these sea conditions regulations state another sailor must act as safety observer." The captain hesitated a moment, but then simply nodded. "Make sure you have a life jacket on, shipmate. I don't want to loose you." The three of us quickly dawned life jackets and headed through the hatch to the weather deck. The sea rolled, leapt and dove beneath us. The sky was black but for the lightning. I lit up my watch and checked the lunar function, a habit of mine before going outside at night. It was a new moon tonight. Above he clouds the star would be dazzling. "Wait here." The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye with an earnestness I had never seen. "What here son. I'll talk him down. We won't be having a battle tonight." I nodded and the captain walked with the grace of a dancer on the rolling deck toward the life lines, on which the FFC was leaning, waiting for the captain. I posed the hatch behind us and the darkness became nearly complete. Over the roar of the storm I could hear nothing but for flashes of lightning I could see nothing. Thanks sea wracked the ship with a fury I hadn't seen in all my days. I waited uneasily for the two high up brass to decide our fate. The captain had been right: to attack would mean out death. And perhaps and end to the peace talks. Minutes felt like hours as the rain lashed down. Finally I saw a figure working its way back to me. I opened the hatch to gain some light and dark the captain returning alone. In his hand was a life jacket. The FFC's life jacket. We stepped hurriedly into the ship. I was heading back for the bridge when the captain grabbed me and held me in place. "He fell overboard. I reached out for him and grabbed a hold of his life jacket but it ripped off. He fell into the sea. I will proceed to the bridge and sound man overboard. You get safety gear ready for the deck lookouts." He handed the life jacket to me and headed for the bridge at a stroll. I looked down at the jacket, then back to my beloved captain. I set the clasps back in place and wrenched hard, tearing the securing straps from the jacket. The captain was right. The FFC had fallen overboard. A week later we pulled into home port. The war was over. I never went to sea again.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	I never once saw the captain angry. Not before that night. It was rare, a captain who never shouted. He was Stern with his expectations, but he was kind and fair. He knew what his crew was capable of, even if we didn't, and he never pushed us further than we could go. Until that night. We had been underway for six months at that point. We hadn't seen a port in four. I was loosing track of the at-sea-replenishments we had done. We were all tired and scared. But that's war. The admiralty had been pushing us harder and harder. Combat action after combat action, and every time we had fewer and fewer ships supporting us. I hadn't seen a sub periscope in weeks, and I was convinced they been pulled off our battlegroup. Sure the destroyers has anti-sub capability, but you can't beat a sub when it comes to tracking and killing a sub. Despite this, the peace talks were progressing, and we all expected, or at least hoped, we would be sailing home soon. Two days before that night, the fleet force Commander had arrived via chopper and embarked on our ship. His arrival had been saluted by a full broadside. It was my first time as gun captain on one of the triple 16-inch guns. It had been easy: make sure nothing was in sight that way, point the gun in that direction, and fire. If I was lucky, I had thought at the time, it would be the first AND last time I ever had to be in charge of those guns firing. The day before that night, the clouds started rolling our way. They were monstrous grey things spewing lightening and the wind coming off then hit fifty knots before we even saw the first drop of rain. That afternoon the news came in from HQ: the peace treaty would be signed within days. Cease all offensive action. The enemy had been given the same orders it seemed, as all reports indicated they were grouping up and heading home. As the flotilla bounced on the waves and tried to keep from crashing into each other, we toasted with smuggled booze and cheered the coming peace. The captain sat on the bridge sipping coffee with a quiet smile on his face. The FFC was not so merry. He'd lost a son to the enemy, and it had been whispered since his arrival that he didn't want the war over until every one of them was dead. He stood on the bridge pouring over reports and incoming data. It was just after nightfall with the storm at its peak when the FFC turned with a vicious grin to our beloved captain. "We have them!" He said triumphantly. "We can take them by surprise and sink half their damned fleet. They are a mere hundered nautical miles west. We can hit them no and make it look like the storm did it." As if to underscore his point, a crack of lighting snaked across the sky and thunder boomed across the ocean. The Captain's smile had faded. "Sir, respectfully, we have been ordered to cease offensive action. The war is all but over. Those sailors have families to go home to as well." The FFC spat. "To hell with them. With all of them! We attack. Turn this fleet toward theirs and make preparations for combat. Now!" His eyes darted about the bridge. "Crafty bastards might have us bugged. We have to act before they can act on their Intel!" His eyes were wild and unfocused. His anger was blinding him to reason. The captain narrowed his gaze. "They out number us five to one already and more forces are converging to join them even now. Even with the element of surprise, sir, we cannot expect to..." The FFC was shouting now. The bridge had gone otherwise silent. "Obey my orders captain or I will have you relieved!" Color rose in the Captain's cheeks. He stood and straightened his uniform. "Sir, perhaps we should continue this discussion outside. It is he only place we can be sure to speak freely." The FFC merely nodded and headed for the weather deck. The captain began to follow, but nervously, I stopped him. "Sir, respectfully under these sea conditions regulations state another sailor must act as safety observer." The captain hesitated a moment, but then simply nodded. "Make sure you have a life jacket on, shipmate. I don't want to loose you." The three of us quickly dawned life jackets and headed through the hatch to the weather deck. The sea rolled, leapt and dove beneath us. The sky was black but for the lightning. I lit up my watch and checked the lunar function, a habit of mine before going outside at night. It was a new moon tonight. Above he clouds the star would be dazzling. "Wait here." The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye with an earnestness I had never seen. "What here son. I'll talk him down. We won't be having a battle tonight." I nodded and the captain walked with the grace of a dancer on the rolling deck toward the life lines, on which the FFC was leaning, waiting for the captain. I posed the hatch behind us and the darkness became nearly complete. Over the roar of the storm I could hear nothing but for flashes of lightning I could see nothing. Thanks sea wracked the ship with a fury I hadn't seen in all my days. I waited uneasily for the two high up brass to decide our fate. The captain had been right: to attack would mean out death. And perhaps and end to the peace talks. Minutes felt like hours as the rain lashed down. Finally I saw a figure working its way back to me. I opened the hatch to gain some light and dark the captain returning alone. In his hand was a life jacket. The FFC's life jacket. We stepped hurriedly into the ship. I was heading back for the bridge when the captain grabbed me and held me in place. "He fell overboard. I reached out for him and grabbed a hold of his life jacket but it ripped off. He fell into the sea. I will proceed to the bridge and sound man overboard. You get safety gear ready for the deck lookouts." He handed the life jacket to me and headed for the bridge at a stroll. I looked down at the jacket, then back to my beloved captain. I set the clasps back in place and wrenched hard, tearing the securing straps from the jacket. The captain was right. The FFC had fallen overboard. A week later we pulled into home port. The war was over. I never went to sea again.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.	One night, when I was a young man travelling with my family, I had made my mind up to go for a swim. We were visiting friends who lived on a small island in the middle of a lake vast in size, a thousand feet deep, a hundred leagues long and fifty leagues across. The water was calm, small waves lazily caressed the small sand beach I stood on and the water as far as I could see was like a soft mirror of the black sky, broken up with specks of white froth and reflections of moon and star. As often is the case, I was alone. I didn't think twice about wading into the chilly waters until I was waist deep before I let myself slide forward into a small wave, like collapsing into a bed, and began to slowly swim out. Though I was still young and physically small I was a strong swimmer, growing up on a lake I've always been very comfortable in the water. By the time I stopped my relaxed swim and stopped, treading water and catching my breath I had gone much farther than intended and carried laterally by the current. I could still see the island, though I could barely spy the lights from the cabin windows it was enough, I had my bearings. I spun myself back around, back turned to the island and marveled at the beauty of the cloudless night sky and nothing but rolling water as far as I could see. I flipped over on my back and stared at the stars as I swam eastward, correcting the drift from the current, completely overwhelmed with beauty I wondered if the miracle of my life was as meaningful as the miracle of this lake. How would you even measure such a thing, the value of a miracle? I laughed and got a mouthful of water, stopping my backstroke I tread water once more and spit the water out. I very quickly noticed I was bobbing up and down much more as I scissored my legs and waved my arms. Turning myself back to face the island, it took a few moments to spot the light from the cabin window. The light. There was only one on, my family would soon be in bed and there would be no lights. You can understand this is a troubling realization to someone who's only begun to live their life. The wind and waves steadily increasing in severity did little to calm this realization. I began swimming in earnest, telling myself I had to get home before the lights went out or it would take forever to find the beach again. I subconsciously knew I was actually swimming for my life, but I suppose I was trying to keep that fact in denial to stay calm; even at that age I knew the disasters panic can cause. I'm not sure if you've ever tried to swim any great distance at night but it becomes quite difficult to maintain your direction when the waves are larger and stronger than you, I frequently had to stop or slow and push myself up out of the water to see the island. I stopped to catch my breath and give my now aching muscles a break, gauging my distance and direction home. I squinted for a moment and wiped some water from my eye with the back of my hand, when I opened my eyes again the light from the window was gone, the island nothing more than a blurred silhouette only noticeable because it was stationary and darker than the reflective water. My mental denial of the danger I was in went out with that bedroom light and I felt all the elements of panic start to set in. My already racing heart was now beating against my chest, my measured breathing turned instantly to deep gasps that often got bits of water from the waves in my mouth, my hands and arms began trembling and my stomach started to crawl up my throat. I closed my eyes and heard my Father's voice in my head, "No, breathe. That's it, just breathe nice and easy. In. And out." My stomach settled, my heart decided it wanted to stay in my chest, and I knew what I had to do, just breathe and swim. Treading water with my eyes closed and taking those few careful breaths, I saw a bright light through my eyelids and immediately opened them to catch a glimpse of everything in perfect clarity, fully illuminated by a bolt of lightning miles behind me, then with my pupils shocked from the light everything was dark. I felt the reverberation from the thunder in my body before I heard it but when I did hear it, it was as though the sky split open and dumped all it's water back into the lake. I was already swimming, frantically toward the mental afterimage of the island. I thought to myself I was over halfway home, and then I thought I was just reassuring myself. The fast moving storm clouds made the moon and start light chaotic and ethereal. I started wondering if the silhouette I was swimming towards was the island or just that clear picture of it I've been holding in my mind. Despite the adrenaline, my legs were aching and felt as if they were pumping pure fire through their veins. I knew if I got a muscle cramp it would probably be the end of me. I stopped swimming and looked to make sure I was still heading toward the island and not just fooling myself and I was indeed. I tread water with my arms only for just a few breaths, letting my legs rest while I waited for a wave to propel me forward. I thought about surfing, I had never done it but I understood the concept well enough. I started feeling the waves with a different mindset, learning how to join with them and stiffen my body to let them carry me with little effort on my part. As I got the hang of it I became excited, the heavy rain and sporadic thunderclaps now background noise. I felt I learned to be one with the water, I had mastered the waves and with that mastery was swimming faster than I ever have before! As I drew nearer and nearer to the island it grew larger and became clearer. I had drifted off course again, I was closer to the western point than the beach on the east where the cabin slumbered. I swam eastward again, though I couldn't see the beach I had a good idea of where it was relative to the point and it was a small island. It certainly wasn't as easy to swim across the waves as it was to swim with them, but my muscles had rested some and I still stiffened my body for moments to let the waves carry me closer to shore. Then the sky light up again, another lightning bolt to the north, I took another clear reckoning of the island with the brief illumination. I could see the beach and I couldn't be more than a hundred yards from it! I turned to face it and with the next wave I used my arms and legs to launch myself forward with it, stiffening my body and letting it carry me as I periodically kicked or fanned my arms to stay with it or on course. Then I lost it, the whole world rumbled with the thunderous boom of the last lightening bolt as I waited for the next wave I would harness. I was racing toward the beach, I could see the sand clearly and the darkness of the vegetation behind it. When I fanned my arms forward I was surprised to feel air and, looking down, I realized I was a full 5 feet above the surface of the water riding the crest of a huge wave. Like the roadrunner realizing he ran straight off a cliff, I dropped down into the water, half in the wave and half in the air as I fell. I immediately began doing the breast stroke to keep direction, though I was barely moving my arms and legs my momentum was carrying me to the shore faster than any human could swim. I felt the sand and small rocks scrape my face and mash my nose, then my chest and arms and the rest of my body was being dragged across the coarse ground. I went from being completely underwater to feeling air on my back, the wave had carried me right to the shore, I was home! I was alive! I planted my palms in the dirt and started to do a pushup, already walking home in my mind. Then the wave that carried me ashore was reclaimed by the lake, the water rapidly slid beneath me and created a vacuum in the space it left between my body and the earth, sucking my face straight into the sand. I tried to push myself up again and another large wave crashed against my back, keeping me down as surely being stomped on. I had been holding my breath too long, since I fell through the wave minutes ago. All I could think of, was that I needed to get my head out of the water before the next wave slammed me down again and I started to push myself up once more. Again the undertow sucked me down into the sand as the last wave receded into the lake, and though I struggled for my life with all my strength the wave was stronger. When the undertow subsided, my efforts to breathe were again beat down as the crest of the next wave smashed against my back. Then the undertow again, my aching arms trembled as I struggled to lift my head out of water just a few inches and breath, I could feel the air on my ears it was so shallow! Just then I remembered all the times I've heard people say a baby can drown in an inch of water and as my lungs went into convulsing spasms and my whole body trembled and felt as though it were collapsing on itself, I realized just how true that was...
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	One night, when I was a young man travelling with my family, I had made my mind up to go for a swim. We were visiting friends who lived on a small island in the middle of a lake vast in size, a thousand feet deep, a hundred leagues long and fifty leagues across. The water was calm, small waves lazily caressed the small sand beach I stood on and the water as far as I could see was like a soft mirror of the black sky, broken up with specks of white froth and reflections of moon and star. As often is the case, I was alone. I didn't think twice about wading into the chilly waters until I was waist deep before I let myself slide forward into a small wave, like collapsing into a bed, and began to slowly swim out. Though I was still young and physically small I was a strong swimmer, growing up on a lake I've always been very comfortable in the water. By the time I stopped my relaxed swim and stopped, treading water and catching my breath I had gone much farther than intended and carried laterally by the current. I could still see the island, though I could barely spy the lights from the cabin windows it was enough, I had my bearings. I spun myself back around, back turned to the island and marveled at the beauty of the cloudless night sky and nothing but rolling water as far as I could see. I flipped over on my back and stared at the stars as I swam eastward, correcting the drift from the current, completely overwhelmed with beauty I wondered if the miracle of my life was as meaningful as the miracle of this lake. How would you even measure such a thing, the value of a miracle? I laughed and got a mouthful of water, stopping my backstroke I tread water once more and spit the water out. I very quickly noticed I was bobbing up and down much more as I scissored my legs and waved my arms. Turning myself back to face the island, it took a few moments to spot the light from the cabin window. The light. There was only one on, my family would soon be in bed and there would be no lights. You can understand this is a troubling realization to someone who's only begun to live their life. The wind and waves steadily increasing in severity did little to calm this realization. I began swimming in earnest, telling myself I had to get home before the lights went out or it would take forever to find the beach again. I subconsciously knew I was actually swimming for my life, but I suppose I was trying to keep that fact in denial to stay calm; even at that age I knew the disasters panic can cause. I'm not sure if you've ever tried to swim any great distance at night but it becomes quite difficult to maintain your direction when the waves are larger and stronger than you, I frequently had to stop or slow and push myself up out of the water to see the island. I stopped to catch my breath and give my now aching muscles a break, gauging my distance and direction home. I squinted for a moment and wiped some water from my eye with the back of my hand, when I opened my eyes again the light from the window was gone, the island nothing more than a blurred silhouette only noticeable because it was stationary and darker than the reflective water. My mental denial of the danger I was in went out with that bedroom light and I felt all the elements of panic start to set in. My already racing heart was now beating against my chest, my measured breathing turned instantly to deep gasps that often got bits of water from the waves in my mouth, my hands and arms began trembling and my stomach started to crawl up my throat. I closed my eyes and heard my Father's voice in my head, "No, breathe. That's it, just breathe nice and easy. In. And out." My stomach settled, my heart decided it wanted to stay in my chest, and I knew what I had to do, just breathe and swim. Treading water with my eyes closed and taking those few careful breaths, I saw a bright light through my eyelids and immediately opened them to catch a glimpse of everything in perfect clarity, fully illuminated by a bolt of lightning miles behind me, then with my pupils shocked from the light everything was dark. I felt the reverberation from the thunder in my body before I heard it but when I did hear it, it was as though the sky split open and dumped all it's water back into the lake. I was already swimming, frantically toward the mental afterimage of the island. I thought to myself I was over halfway home, and then I thought I was just reassuring myself. The fast moving storm clouds made the moon and start light chaotic and ethereal. I started wondering if the silhouette I was swimming towards was the island or just that clear picture of it I've been holding in my mind. Despite the adrenaline, my legs were aching and felt as if they were pumping pure fire through their veins. I knew if I got a muscle cramp it would probably be the end of me. I stopped swimming and looked to make sure I was still heading toward the island and not just fooling myself and I was indeed. I tread water with my arms only for just a few breaths, letting my legs rest while I waited for a wave to propel me forward. I thought about surfing, I had never done it but I understood the concept well enough. I started feeling the waves with a different mindset, learning how to join with them and stiffen my body to let them carry me with little effort on my part. As I got the hang of it I became excited, the heavy rain and sporadic thunderclaps now background noise. I felt I learned to be one with the water, I had mastered the waves and with that mastery was swimming faster than I ever have before! As I drew nearer and nearer to the island it grew larger and became clearer. I had drifted off course again, I was closer to the western point than the beach on the east where the cabin slumbered. I swam eastward again, though I couldn't see the beach I had a good idea of where it was relative to the point and it was a small island. It certainly wasn't as easy to swim across the waves as it was to swim with them, but my muscles had rested some and I still stiffened my body for moments to let the waves carry me closer to shore. Then the sky light up again, another lightning bolt to the north, I took another clear reckoning of the island with the brief illumination. I could see the beach and I couldn't be more than a hundred yards from it! I turned to face it and with the next wave I used my arms and legs to launch myself forward with it, stiffening my body and letting it carry me as I periodically kicked or fanned my arms to stay with it or on course. Then I lost it, the whole world rumbled with the thunderous boom of the last lightening bolt as I waited for the next wave I would harness. I was racing toward the beach, I could see the sand clearly and the darkness of the vegetation behind it. When I fanned my arms forward I was surprised to feel air and, looking down, I realized I was a full 5 feet above the surface of the water riding the crest of a huge wave. Like the roadrunner realizing he ran straight off a cliff, I dropped down into the water, half in the wave and half in the air as I fell. I immediately began doing the breast stroke to keep direction, though I was barely moving my arms and legs my momentum was carrying me to the shore faster than any human could swim. I felt the sand and small rocks scrape my face and mash my nose, then my chest and arms and the rest of my body was being dragged across the coarse ground. I went from being completely underwater to feeling air on my back, the wave had carried me right to the shore, I was home! I was alive! I planted my palms in the dirt and started to do a pushup, already walking home in my mind. Then the wave that carried me ashore was reclaimed by the lake, the water rapidly slid beneath me and created a vacuum in the space it left between my body and the earth, sucking my face straight into the sand. I tried to push myself up again and another large wave crashed against my back, keeping me down as surely being stomped on. I had been holding my breath too long, since I fell through the wave minutes ago. All I could think of, was that I needed to get my head out of the water before the next wave slammed me down again and I started to push myself up once more. Again the undertow sucked me down into the sand as the last wave receded into the lake, and though I struggled for my life with all my strength the wave was stronger. When the undertow subsided, my efforts to breathe were again beat down as the crest of the next wave smashed against my back. Then the undertow again, my aching arms trembled as I struggled to lift my head out of water just a few inches and breath, I could feel the air on my ears it was so shallow! Just then I remembered all the times I've heard people say a baby can drown in an inch of water and as my lungs went into convulsing spasms and my whole body trembled and felt as though it were collapsing on itself, I realized just how true that was...
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	Father tells of the three times Man learned to fear. The first time was in the night and darkness, when Man looked around and found no ally, just the terror of the pitch blackness and the fury of all the night’s beasts. When Man found no silent guardian in the sky, just the unblinking and uncaring stars. The night was silent then, and man wished for the sound of the tides to guide him home. And so man learned to fear the moonless night. The second time Man learned to fear was on the cloudless seas, when Man as thrown into the arms of the tides. The waves were swords then, the winds razorblades that cut into his face, and the great uncaring tides raged like the gods themselves. That was the time that Man learned to fear the sea in a storm. But it was when Man had had enough, when he boiled the oceans in his rage, when he set the sky ablaze as his guardian had left it, when he stoppered the winds in a bottle and put the nights beast in cages that he looked at all he had done and wept. And it was then that all from the lowly beast to the wisest man to the highest god learned to fear the wrath of a gentle man.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	My name is Nathanael Osmond Durant, son of Mary and Michael Durant, nostromo of the Buonaventura II, and this is my dying confession. I write it now, while the air congealing into great snowflakes has not yet turned my fingers blue, or my eyes glassy, while the last tide still beats at the foot of this rocky, cavernous outcrop instead of swallowing it whole in foaming anger, while there is yet life beside my own in this wretched valley that we used to call home. I write not so that my sins be absolved, for they are many and great indeed, and the most recent is the greatest sin that could be, and beyond forgiving. I write not for my successors, for how could there be any, after the events that transpired? I write, and I am amazed myself at writing this, in hope. As a shipwrecked man would cast a bottled letter to sea, I will be leaving this account, wax-sealed in the oilskin case of my astrolabe (a wonderful, compact model I bought from Amsterdam ere six months, a lifetime ago in another world). I hope some sort of creature endowed with reason, and a soul, will find it, and learn from it, and remember. There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. I am not wise. I foolishly braved the first, foolishly forgot about the second, and foolishly provoked the third. This, then, is my tale, and I swear, for all that my word may be worth, that I saw the old gentleman weep as his trembling hands traced doom and untold horror in the wet sand.	As I walk through the fields of ash and fire I shudder, did I actually do this? All of this? Death... because they took everything from me? I shudder and fall to my knees, sobs wracking my frame. It's not right, what I did. A scream tears me out of my thoughts, a person! I have to help them. I rush towards the sound and see a young child burned and scarred. "Are you alright young one?" I ask reaching my hand out with a smile on my face. The child starts looking at me with eyes that were slowly widening in fear and horror. "Monster!" The child screams face full of pain and tears, "Demon! Get away from me! Don't hurt me!" I startle and retract my hand, his words hurt. "My child, I am no monster I-" "Liar!" The child screams shrilly, "I saw you! The look on your face as you trapped everyone in the town hall! The look on your face as the hall erupted in flames! You have no remorse for their deaths!" I shake my head in denial, "That is not true! I do have remorse for their deaths!" The child's face then morphs into an angry scowl, "Then why are you smiling?" I bring my hands up to my face and touch my lips. A smile. Why am I smiling?
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	We stand in the ashes of their world, the last vestiges of our energy beginning to fade. Destroyed by our imperative to conquer, destroyed by the arrogance of our maker. Destroyed by the one that came. He arrived with little fanfare, just appearing one day in his ridiculous craft, just him and an earthling girl. No weapons, no defenses, no threat. We showed him the glory of our empire, its reach, its wonder. He saw through it. He saw only the oppression of our subject worlds, the slavery on which be build our greatness. He stopped to help a fallen slave, and she thanked him. There is a penalty for those who talk without permission, and we punished her. That was our fatal mistake, for that lit the fire in his soul. We still don't know what happened, how he did it, but he turned our world, our technology against us. Our subject worlds slipped our fingers, our slaves on our own world vanished, our warriors were consumed by the rage of the wind and sea as our world turned against us. Now the our reactors fade, our machines have stopped working, and so we find ourselves here, watching the last of our power go, before the darkness comes. He is written in the legends of the universe; His name means a healer, but he has many better names: He is the Ka Faraq Gatri. The Bringer of Darkness; The Oncoming Storm; The Anger of a Good Man; The Enemy of the Daleks	As I walk through the fields of ash and fire I shudder, did I actually do this? All of this? Death... because they took everything from me? I shudder and fall to my knees, sobs wracking my frame. It's not right, what I did. A scream tears me out of my thoughts, a person! I have to help them. I rush towards the sound and see a young child burned and scarred. "Are you alright young one?" I ask reaching my hand out with a smile on my face. The child starts looking at me with eyes that were slowly widening in fear and horror. "Monster!" The child screams face full of pain and tears, "Demon! Get away from me! Don't hurt me!" I startle and retract my hand, his words hurt. "My child, I am no monster I-" "Liar!" The child screams shrilly, "I saw you! The look on your face as you trapped everyone in the town hall! The look on your face as the hall erupted in flames! You have no remorse for their deaths!" I shake my head in denial, "That is not true! I do have remorse for their deaths!" The child's face then morphs into an angry scowl, "Then why are you smiling?" I bring my hands up to my face and touch my lips. A smile. Why am I smiling?
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	When I saw him unbuttoning his cardigan, I knew it was time to leave. He was rolling up his sleeves when we made it to the door, and the last thing I heard was the cracking of his knuckles and a calm voice saying "that wasn't very neighborly, friends." I don't know what happened to the men who raised his ire, but we ran out of that neighborhood and we didn't stop running until we got home.	As I walk through the fields of ash and fire I shudder, did I actually do this? All of this? Death... because they took everything from me? I shudder and fall to my knees, sobs wracking my frame. It's not right, what I did. A scream tears me out of my thoughts, a person! I have to help them. I rush towards the sound and see a young child burned and scarred. "Are you alright young one?" I ask reaching my hand out with a smile on my face. The child starts looking at me with eyes that were slowly widening in fear and horror. "Monster!" The child screams face full of pain and tears, "Demon! Get away from me! Don't hurt me!" I startle and retract my hand, his words hurt. "My child, I am no monster I-" "Liar!" The child screams shrilly, "I saw you! The look on your face as you trapped everyone in the town hall! The look on your face as the hall erupted in flames! You have no remorse for their deaths!" I shake my head in denial, "That is not true! I do have remorse for their deaths!" The child's face then morphs into an angry scowl, "Then why are you smiling?" I bring my hands up to my face and touch my lips. A smile. Why am I smiling?
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	The sails stopped billowing and the ship sat still, on a sea as dark as wine. Christian touched a finger to his tongue, and held it out into the night. Nothing. Not even the slightest breeze. "The calm before..." he heard one of his men murmur. The moon was bright and stars were scattered over the sky like flowers sprinkled on a grave. > They hoisted up the flag; the skull waved furiously in the strong wind. Ahead, the tiny ship bobbed like a twig on the endless sea. They rapidly closed in on it. The captain gave the orders for the men to board. Christian couldn't pass up on the opportunity; they needed fresh water, food and of course, anything valuable would be a welcome addition. "Captain," said Jonathan, "Should I get the men to row? We can only be a da-" "Hush!" commanded Christian. "Listen! Do you hear that?" "I don't hear-" Jonathan began, before his face dropped. "I hear it. It hangs in the air like a bird of prey. It's him, isn't it?" Christian slowly shook his head. It couldn't be. They were almost a week away from him now. If he was still alive, he was too far away for them to hear his playing. > There was a single man on board. He was calm, even in the face of a cutlass. Perhaps he wanted it ended. They took what few supplies he had, and the two wedding bands he had in his pocket. They would be worth something. They put the man in a launch boat - a tiny vessel with two oars. They gave him three days worth of water, perhaps more if he rationed well, and half a dozen biscuits. "Please," he asked Christian, "my fiddle. Let me play for my wife one last time. Agatha loved the sea. I come every year to play for her." The story meant nothing to Christian, but the fiddle was cheap and scratched and worth nothing. Christian let him have it. Then, they burned his ship and set him adrift in the tiny boat. Darkness came as quickly as if someone had closed a curtain. Christian looked up, hoping for a glimpse of the moon behind a cloud. But there were no clouds, no moon, and no stars. The sky was empty. Dead "Captain," said Jonathan, his voice uneasy and as creaky as the ship, "It's the fiddler. We should have killed him." There was a chorus of agreement from the other men on deck. A single droplet of rain fell on Christian's hand. Under the ship's dim lantern light, he could see the rain was the same colour as the juice of a blood orange. Another drop fell on his neck and trickled down spine. He shivered. > It had been a week since the pirate ship had abandoned him. Two days since they had taken his rings. "I'm sorry Agatha," he whispered into the night, "I've let you down." He was long out of water and food, and his lips were more cracked than whole. The wind whispered a reply, play for me, it said. "Agatha?" Play for me. He picked up the fiddle with his withered, ruined hands, and he played her song. The storm came out of nowhere. A tempest of red rain rattled the boards of the ship whilst wind ripped at the sails and whistled through the bow. And behind the dreadful storm, still the rising and falling in the night like a wave of panic, the fiddle played. The music washed into Christian's bones and through his very soul. There were screams from his crew, and he steadied himself against the wind and fought his way to the aft. He saw what they were afraid of. A huge hungry maelstrom swirled and bubbled behind the boat, pulling it ever inwards, towards its centre. A bedlam of water swirled and swished and ripped at the fabric of the sea. Men jumped overboard, as Christian ran to the wheel and furtively tried to fight the irresistible tug of the sea. > The pirate ship was not seen again. But it is said that on the calmest nights out on sea, if you listen carefully and cock an ear to the wind, you might hear the furtive notes of the fiddle player, as he sails the sea, forever looking for his love. And if you do hear him, God help you.	As I walk through the fields of ash and fire I shudder, did I actually do this? All of this? Death... because they took everything from me? I shudder and fall to my knees, sobs wracking my frame. It's not right, what I did. A scream tears me out of my thoughts, a person! I have to help them. I rush towards the sound and see a young child burned and scarred. "Are you alright young one?" I ask reaching my hand out with a smile on my face. The child starts looking at me with eyes that were slowly widening in fear and horror. "Monster!" The child screams face full of pain and tears, "Demon! Get away from me! Don't hurt me!" I startle and retract my hand, his words hurt. "My child, I am no monster I-" "Liar!" The child screams shrilly, "I saw you! The look on your face as you trapped everyone in the town hall! The look on your face as the hall erupted in flames! You have no remorse for their deaths!" I shake my head in denial, "That is not true! I do have remorse for their deaths!" The child's face then morphs into an angry scowl, "Then why are you smiling?" I bring my hands up to my face and touch my lips. A smile. Why am I smiling?
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Angels run and demons weep when the Good Man goes to war Fools rush in and wise men creep when the Good Man goes to war Drea had been a sweet, kind and loving man. Softly spoken, moving his large, wiry frame as though it were porcelain through crowds. That time was long past. His journey, tough as it was, began with the foolish Russian incursion into his homeland three years ago. His house had been exploded, part of the bombing runs from Occupied Crimea towards Hungary. He remembered with the iron tears pricking his eyes, and the wound in his heart bleeding cold sympathy. "Drea, don't leave me," his wife Nathalia pleaded, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth, the last vestiges of hope fading as the life began to leave her eyes. A clasped hand, a weeping man. Howls of raging grief, a shattered reflection of the bodies of his family, all he'd ever known, destroyed by the implacable cruelty of high-charge explosives. His training at the camp in the Carpathian Mountains cambe back to him, fed his thirst; not for blood, but for the regrettable vengeance he must take. For Drea knew now, that was all that was left to him. He moved into a more comfortable position, looking through the scope. Drea knew his time would be short once this shot was fired. In the crosshairs, the three men who had comdemned him to a life of loneliness that not even his new camaraderie could fill. His finger touched the trigger of the Garand rifle. Though a small corner of his mind was howling in horror, he was ready.	As I walk through the fields of ash and fire I shudder, did I actually do this? All of this? Death... because they took everything from me? I shudder and fall to my knees, sobs wracking my frame. It's not right, what I did. A scream tears me out of my thoughts, a person! I have to help them. I rush towards the sound and see a young child burned and scarred. "Are you alright young one?" I ask reaching my hand out with a smile on my face. The child starts looking at me with eyes that were slowly widening in fear and horror. "Monster!" The child screams face full of pain and tears, "Demon! Get away from me! Don't hurt me!" I startle and retract my hand, his words hurt. "My child, I am no monster I-" "Liar!" The child screams shrilly, "I saw you! The look on your face as you trapped everyone in the town hall! The look on your face as the hall erupted in flames! You have no remorse for their deaths!" I shake my head in denial, "That is not true! I do have remorse for their deaths!" The child's face then morphs into an angry scowl, "Then why are you smiling?" I bring my hands up to my face and touch my lips. A smile. Why am I smiling?
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	The sails stopped billowing and the ship sat still, on a sea as dark as wine. Christian touched a finger to his tongue, and held it out into the night. Nothing. Not even the slightest breeze. "The calm before..." he heard one of his men murmur. The moon was bright and stars were scattered over the sky like flowers sprinkled on a grave. > They hoisted up the flag; the skull waved furiously in the strong wind. Ahead, the tiny ship bobbed like a twig on the endless sea. They rapidly closed in on it. The captain gave the orders for the men to board. Christian couldn't pass up on the opportunity; they needed fresh water, food and of course, anything valuable would be a welcome addition. "Captain," said Jonathan, "Should I get the men to row? We can only be a da-" "Hush!" commanded Christian. "Listen! Do you hear that?" "I don't hear-" Jonathan began, before his face dropped. "I hear it. It hangs in the air like a bird of prey. It's him, isn't it?" Christian slowly shook his head. It couldn't be. They were almost a week away from him now. If he was still alive, he was too far away for them to hear his playing. > There was a single man on board. He was calm, even in the face of a cutlass. Perhaps he wanted it ended. They took what few supplies he had, and the two wedding bands he had in his pocket. They would be worth something. They put the man in a launch boat - a tiny vessel with two oars. They gave him three days worth of water, perhaps more if he rationed well, and half a dozen biscuits. "Please," he asked Christian, "my fiddle. Let me play for my wife one last time. Agatha loved the sea. I come every year to play for her." The story meant nothing to Christian, but the fiddle was cheap and scratched and worth nothing. Christian let him have it. Then, they burned his ship and set him adrift in the tiny boat. Darkness came as quickly as if someone had closed a curtain. Christian looked up, hoping for a glimpse of the moon behind a cloud. But there were no clouds, no moon, and no stars. The sky was empty. Dead "Captain," said Jonathan, his voice uneasy and as creaky as the ship, "It's the fiddler. We should have killed him." There was a chorus of agreement from the other men on deck. A single droplet of rain fell on Christian's hand. Under the ship's dim lantern light, he could see the rain was the same colour as the juice of a blood orange. Another drop fell on his neck and trickled down spine. He shivered. > It had been a week since the pirate ship had abandoned him. Two days since they had taken his rings. "I'm sorry Agatha," he whispered into the night, "I've let you down." He was long out of water and food, and his lips were more cracked than whole. The wind whispered a reply, play for me, it said. "Agatha?" Play for me. He picked up the fiddle with his withered, ruined hands, and he played her song. The storm came out of nowhere. A tempest of red rain rattled the boards of the ship whilst wind ripped at the sails and whistled through the bow. And behind the dreadful storm, still the rising and falling in the night like a wave of panic, the fiddle played. The music washed into Christian's bones and through his very soul. There were screams from his crew, and he steadied himself against the wind and fought his way to the aft. He saw what they were afraid of. A huge hungry maelstrom swirled and bubbled behind the boat, pulling it ever inwards, towards its centre. A bedlam of water swirled and swished and ripped at the fabric of the sea. Men jumped overboard, as Christian ran to the wheel and furtively tried to fight the irresistible tug of the sea. > The pirate ship was not seen again. But it is said that on the calmest nights out on sea, if you listen carefully and cock an ear to the wind, you might hear the furtive notes of the fiddle player, as he sails the sea, forever looking for his love. And if you do hear him, God help you.	The man, about 30 years of age, stood in the midst of the group, a young girl at his side, attempting to hide from the arc of people jeering and laughing at her appearance. "Please, everybody, this is not right," the man said calmly, "There is no need to treat a young girl like this!" "You call that a girl with that horror of a face?" A voice called, followed by the laughter of the other 20 or so. Ignoring the taunt, the man knelt down beside the girl, asking if she was okay. She shook her head, tears flowing down her eye. The crowd now surrounded them, leaving no gap for an easy exit. Words came from all directions, taunts that were all directed to the lonely pair in the middle. The man kept talking, attempting in vain to defuse the situation. Then somebody in the crowd threw a rock at the girl, just barely missing her head. And the man became mad. From the depths of his coat came a dagger, and with beast-like speed and ferocity, he launched himself at the crowd, mercilessly slaughtering the people who had done that small girl harm. Within a few seconds only one remained, the one who threw the stone. He tried to escape the massacre, but was easily jumped on by the man, who plunged the knife into the man's chest, and began repeatedly stabbing him, the fire in his eyes burning. And then, it all stopped. The man froze, the knife dropping from his hand onto the freshly stained floor. He observed the aftermath, his eyes going from each body until they rested on the girl, frozen in what looked like fear and horror. And the man wept.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" Everyone paused. "What? Thomas? What's wrong?" "THERE'S NO MOON! THERE'S NO FUCKING MOON!" Thomas stood staring at the sky. Everyone shook their heads. Brian took the lead. "So what, Thomas? Come on, we're gonna be late for the party." "NO, FOR GOD'S SAKES MAN, CAN YOU NOT SEE? THERE IS NO MOON! OH, DEAR LORD, THE HUMANITY!" The other ones exchanged looks. Thomas being Thomas again… "Thomas, who cares if there's no moon? Come on, the open bar ends at one, we're late already." "OH DEAR GOD WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE WHERE'S THE MOON!?" Thomas took Angela by the collar of her shirt. "WHERE IS THE MOON, WOMAN, WHERE IS IT!?" He started shaking. "Bro, get your shit together." Finally, they drove off. Thomas shivered and mumbled to himself the whole way, eyes out the car window at the sky, searching. They arrived at the party. It was a luau. Thomas managed to calm down when Jerry pointed him the moon behind some clouds. "Oh, there she is, cool," he said. He took a red cup and sipped. "Man, this party is awesome. I wish I –" he paused. "Thomas? What's wrong?" His eyes were locked behind Jerry's shoulders. Jerry turned, then turned back. "Thomas?" "The ocean, Jerry," Thomas said. "There's a storm." "Yeah. Probably gonna be good for surfing tomorrow, right? I think –" "JERRY FOR GOD'S SAKES THERE'S A STORM IN THE OCEAN OH DEAR JESUS WE'RE DOOMED!" Everyone turned. Thomas was on his knees, sand dripping from between his fingers onto the ground, pleading eyes to the sky. "OH MERCIFUL GODS, PLEASE SPARE US!" "The fuck is wrong with that dude?" someone asked. "shrooms, probably," another replied. "THE SEA IS IN STORM, YOU FOOLS!" Thomas bellowed. "THE SEA IS IN STORM! RUN!" Brian shook his head. "Why do we keep bringing Thomas to these things?" "OH THE PAIN AND THE MISERY AND THE HORROR! THE ABSOLUTE HORROR!" "And now the girls are leaving. Nice going, Thomas." "DEATH AND DESPAIR AND BEYOND!" "And the police is coming." "Let's get out of here." They left. Thomas stayed behind, kneeling on the sand. A police officer approached. "Hey, buddy, you all right?" Thomas looked up, eyes red with tears. "Officer… I'm sorry… I'm just… so afraid." "It's okay, buddy. Come on, let's get you to the station and you can sober up." The officer helped Thomas off of his feat. Thomas was shaking and very agitated. "I just need you to stop screaming, okay? Can you do that? Can we go quietly?" "Yeah, no, I'm okay," Thomas said, still avoiding looking at the sea and the sky. "I'm fine. I'll be gentle. I'm a bit angry but I'll be gentle." The officer stopped on his feet. "What?" "I said I'll be gentle." A second went by in silence. The abandoned bonfire hissed. The wind flapped the flames. The sky shifted and shuffled its clouds. "OH DEAR LORD AN ANGRY GENTLE MAN!" The police officer bellowed, because he too was wise like Thomas and also because I didn't know how else to end this story. _____ /r/psycho_alpaca for more stories that end disappointingly.	The man, about 30 years of age, stood in the midst of the group, a young girl at his side, attempting to hide from the arc of people jeering and laughing at her appearance. "Please, everybody, this is not right," the man said calmly, "There is no need to treat a young girl like this!" "You call that a girl with that horror of a face?" A voice called, followed by the laughter of the other 20 or so. Ignoring the taunt, the man knelt down beside the girl, asking if she was okay. She shook her head, tears flowing down her eye. The crowd now surrounded them, leaving no gap for an easy exit. Words came from all directions, taunts that were all directed to the lonely pair in the middle. The man kept talking, attempting in vain to defuse the situation. Then somebody in the crowd threw a rock at the girl, just barely missing her head. And the man became mad. From the depths of his coat came a dagger, and with beast-like speed and ferocity, he launched himself at the crowd, mercilessly slaughtering the people who had done that small girl harm. Within a few seconds only one remained, the one who threw the stone. He tried to escape the massacre, but was easily jumped on by the man, who plunged the knife into the man's chest, and began repeatedly stabbing him, the fire in his eyes burning. And then, it all stopped. The man froze, the knife dropping from his hand onto the freshly stained floor. He observed the aftermath, his eyes going from each body until they rested on the girl, frozen in what looked like fear and horror. And the man wept.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Angels run and demons weep when the Good Man goes to war Fools rush in and wise men creep when the Good Man goes to war Drea had been a sweet, kind and loving man. Softly spoken, moving his large, wiry frame as though it were porcelain through crowds. That time was long past. His journey, tough as it was, began with the foolish Russian incursion into his homeland three years ago. His house had been exploded, part of the bombing runs from Occupied Crimea towards Hungary. He remembered with the iron tears pricking his eyes, and the wound in his heart bleeding cold sympathy. "Drea, don't leave me," his wife Nathalia pleaded, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth, the last vestiges of hope fading as the life began to leave her eyes. A clasped hand, a weeping man. Howls of raging grief, a shattered reflection of the bodies of his family, all he'd ever known, destroyed by the implacable cruelty of high-charge explosives. His training at the camp in the Carpathian Mountains cambe back to him, fed his thirst; not for blood, but for the regrettable vengeance he must take. For Drea knew now, that was all that was left to him. He moved into a more comfortable position, looking through the scope. Drea knew his time would be short once this shot was fired. In the crosshairs, the three men who had comdemned him to a life of loneliness that not even his new camaraderie could fill. His finger touched the trigger of the Garand rifle. Though a small corner of his mind was howling in horror, he was ready.	The man, about 30 years of age, stood in the midst of the group, a young girl at his side, attempting to hide from the arc of people jeering and laughing at her appearance. "Please, everybody, this is not right," the man said calmly, "There is no need to treat a young girl like this!" "You call that a girl with that horror of a face?" A voice called, followed by the laughter of the other 20 or so. Ignoring the taunt, the man knelt down beside the girl, asking if she was okay. She shook her head, tears flowing down her eye. The crowd now surrounded them, leaving no gap for an easy exit. Words came from all directions, taunts that were all directed to the lonely pair in the middle. The man kept talking, attempting in vain to defuse the situation. Then somebody in the crowd threw a rock at the girl, just barely missing her head. And the man became mad. From the depths of his coat came a dagger, and with beast-like speed and ferocity, he launched himself at the crowd, mercilessly slaughtering the people who had done that small girl harm. Within a few seconds only one remained, the one who threw the stone. He tried to escape the massacre, but was easily jumped on by the man, who plunged the knife into the man's chest, and began repeatedly stabbing him, the fire in his eyes burning. And then, it all stopped. The man froze, the knife dropping from his hand onto the freshly stained floor. He observed the aftermath, his eyes going from each body until they rested on the girl, frozen in what looked like fear and horror. And the man wept.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Angels run and demons weep when the Good Man goes to war Fools rush in and wise men creep when the Good Man goes to war Drea had been a sweet, kind and loving man. Softly spoken, moving his large, wiry frame as though it were porcelain through crowds. That time was long past. His journey, tough as it was, began with the foolish Russian incursion into his homeland three years ago. His house had been exploded, part of the bombing runs from Occupied Crimea towards Hungary. He remembered with the iron tears pricking his eyes, and the wound in his heart bleeding cold sympathy. "Drea, don't leave me," his wife Nathalia pleaded, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth, the last vestiges of hope fading as the life began to leave her eyes. A clasped hand, a weeping man. Howls of raging grief, a shattered reflection of the bodies of his family, all he'd ever known, destroyed by the implacable cruelty of high-charge explosives. His training at the camp in the Carpathian Mountains cambe back to him, fed his thirst; not for blood, but for the regrettable vengeance he must take. For Drea knew now, that was all that was left to him. He moved into a more comfortable position, looking through the scope. Drea knew his time would be short once this shot was fired. In the crosshairs, the three men who had comdemned him to a life of loneliness that not even his new camaraderie could fill. His finger touched the trigger of the Garand rifle. Though a small corner of his mind was howling in horror, he was ready.	The sails stopped billowing and the ship sat still, on a sea as dark as wine. Christian touched a finger to his tongue, and held it out into the night. Nothing. Not even the slightest breeze. "The calm before..." he heard one of his men murmur. The moon was bright and stars were scattered over the sky like flowers sprinkled on a grave. > They hoisted up the flag; the skull waved furiously in the strong wind. Ahead, the tiny ship bobbed like a twig on the endless sea. They rapidly closed in on it. The captain gave the orders for the men to board. Christian couldn't pass up on the opportunity; they needed fresh water, food and of course, anything valuable would be a welcome addition. "Captain," said Jonathan, "Should I get the men to row? We can only be a da-" "Hush!" commanded Christian. "Listen! Do you hear that?" "I don't hear-" Jonathan began, before his face dropped. "I hear it. It hangs in the air like a bird of prey. It's him, isn't it?" Christian slowly shook his head. It couldn't be. They were almost a week away from him now. If he was still alive, he was too far away for them to hear his playing. > There was a single man on board. He was calm, even in the face of a cutlass. Perhaps he wanted it ended. They took what few supplies he had, and the two wedding bands he had in his pocket. They would be worth something. They put the man in a launch boat - a tiny vessel with two oars. They gave him three days worth of water, perhaps more if he rationed well, and half a dozen biscuits. "Please," he asked Christian, "my fiddle. Let me play for my wife one last time. Agatha loved the sea. I come every year to play for her." The story meant nothing to Christian, but the fiddle was cheap and scratched and worth nothing. Christian let him have it. Then, they burned his ship and set him adrift in the tiny boat. Darkness came as quickly as if someone had closed a curtain. Christian looked up, hoping for a glimpse of the moon behind a cloud. But there were no clouds, no moon, and no stars. The sky was empty. Dead "Captain," said Jonathan, his voice uneasy and as creaky as the ship, "It's the fiddler. We should have killed him." There was a chorus of agreement from the other men on deck. A single droplet of rain fell on Christian's hand. Under the ship's dim lantern light, he could see the rain was the same colour as the juice of a blood orange. Another drop fell on his neck and trickled down spine. He shivered. > It had been a week since the pirate ship had abandoned him. Two days since they had taken his rings. "I'm sorry Agatha," he whispered into the night, "I've let you down." He was long out of water and food, and his lips were more cracked than whole. The wind whispered a reply, play for me, it said. "Agatha?" Play for me. He picked up the fiddle with his withered, ruined hands, and he played her song. The storm came out of nowhere. A tempest of red rain rattled the boards of the ship whilst wind ripped at the sails and whistled through the bow. And behind the dreadful storm, still the rising and falling in the night like a wave of panic, the fiddle played. The music washed into Christian's bones and through his very soul. There were screams from his crew, and he steadied himself against the wind and fought his way to the aft. He saw what they were afraid of. A huge hungry maelstrom swirled and bubbled behind the boat, pulling it ever inwards, towards its centre. A bedlam of water swirled and swished and ripped at the fabric of the sea. Men jumped overboard, as Christian ran to the wheel and furtively tried to fight the irresistible tug of the sea. > The pirate ship was not seen again. But it is said that on the calmest nights out on sea, if you listen carefully and cock an ear to the wind, you might hear the furtive notes of the fiddle player, as he sails the sea, forever looking for his love. And if you do hear him, God help you.
A Quote from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss	[WP] “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”	Angels run and demons weep when the Good Man goes to war Fools rush in and wise men creep when the Good Man goes to war Drea had been a sweet, kind and loving man. Softly spoken, moving his large, wiry frame as though it were porcelain through crowds. That time was long past. His journey, tough as it was, began with the foolish Russian incursion into his homeland three years ago. His house had been exploded, part of the bombing runs from Occupied Crimea towards Hungary. He remembered with the iron tears pricking his eyes, and the wound in his heart bleeding cold sympathy. "Drea, don't leave me," his wife Nathalia pleaded, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth, the last vestiges of hope fading as the life began to leave her eyes. A clasped hand, a weeping man. Howls of raging grief, a shattered reflection of the bodies of his family, all he'd ever known, destroyed by the implacable cruelty of high-charge explosives. His training at the camp in the Carpathian Mountains cambe back to him, fed his thirst; not for blood, but for the regrettable vengeance he must take. For Drea knew now, that was all that was left to him. He moved into a more comfortable position, looking through the scope. Drea knew his time would be short once this shot was fired. In the crosshairs, the three men who had comdemned him to a life of loneliness that not even his new camaraderie could fill. His finger touched the trigger of the Garand rifle. Though a small corner of his mind was howling in horror, he was ready.	"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" Everyone paused. "What? Thomas? What's wrong?" "THERE'S NO MOON! THERE'S NO FUCKING MOON!" Thomas stood staring at the sky. Everyone shook their heads. Brian took the lead. "So what, Thomas? Come on, we're gonna be late for the party." "NO, FOR GOD'S SAKES MAN, CAN YOU NOT SEE? THERE IS NO MOON! OH, DEAR LORD, THE HUMANITY!" The other ones exchanged looks. Thomas being Thomas again… "Thomas, who cares if there's no moon? Come on, the open bar ends at one, we're late already." "OH DEAR GOD WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE WHERE'S THE MOON!?" Thomas took Angela by the collar of her shirt. "WHERE IS THE MOON, WOMAN, WHERE IS IT!?" He started shaking. "Bro, get your shit together." Finally, they drove off. Thomas shivered and mumbled to himself the whole way, eyes out the car window at the sky, searching. They arrived at the party. It was a luau. Thomas managed to calm down when Jerry pointed him the moon behind some clouds. "Oh, there she is, cool," he said. He took a red cup and sipped. "Man, this party is awesome. I wish I –" he paused. "Thomas? What's wrong?" His eyes were locked behind Jerry's shoulders. Jerry turned, then turned back. "Thomas?" "The ocean, Jerry," Thomas said. "There's a storm." "Yeah. Probably gonna be good for surfing tomorrow, right? I think –" "JERRY FOR GOD'S SAKES THERE'S A STORM IN THE OCEAN OH DEAR JESUS WE'RE DOOMED!" Everyone turned. Thomas was on his knees, sand dripping from between his fingers onto the ground, pleading eyes to the sky. "OH MERCIFUL GODS, PLEASE SPARE US!" "The fuck is wrong with that dude?" someone asked. "shrooms, probably," another replied. "THE SEA IS IN STORM, YOU FOOLS!" Thomas bellowed. "THE SEA IS IN STORM! RUN!" Brian shook his head. "Why do we keep bringing Thomas to these things?" "OH THE PAIN AND THE MISERY AND THE HORROR! THE ABSOLUTE HORROR!" "And now the girls are leaving. Nice going, Thomas." "DEATH AND DESPAIR AND BEYOND!" "And the police is coming." "Let's get out of here." They left. Thomas stayed behind, kneeling on the sand. A police officer approached. "Hey, buddy, you all right?" Thomas looked up, eyes red with tears. "Officer… I'm sorry… I'm just… so afraid." "It's okay, buddy. Come on, let's get you to the station and you can sober up." The officer helped Thomas off of his feat. Thomas was shaking and very agitated. "I just need you to stop screaming, okay? Can you do that? Can we go quietly?" "Yeah, no, I'm okay," Thomas said, still avoiding looking at the sea and the sky. "I'm fine. I'll be gentle. I'm a bit angry but I'll be gentle." The officer stopped on his feet. "What?" "I said I'll be gentle." A second went by in silence. The abandoned bonfire hissed. The wind flapped the flames. The sky shifted and shuffled its clouds. "OH DEAR LORD AN ANGRY GENTLE MAN!" The police officer bellowed, because he too was wise like Thomas and also because I didn't know how else to end this story. _____ /r/psycho_alpaca for more stories that end disappointingly.
	[WP] You've been calling your SO's phone once a week for 3 years to hear their voice once more after they perished in a car accident. One day, their prerecorded message changes, and what it says horrifies you.	The lady in front of me was counting pennies. I shot the cashier a sympathetic look. Or a glare. Hard to tell, since I'd just waited through a line eight customers long on a Tuesday morning to be delayed by a literal penny pincher. I would have stormed out. I should have stormed out. But I needed my coffee, so I just kept glaring. Dumb broad ordered five drinks, forgot her stamp card, and paid in coins. Pennies. By the time I had gotten my drink, I was late for the shuttle, so I had to take the bus. The shuttle is for my company's employees and takes us to work in about half an hour. The bus ride, which takes about an hour, is for those down on their luck, and while I do not harbor any grudge towards that particular demographic, they tend to neglect personal hygiene. It lurched and bumbled down the streets, stopping every other intersection, giving the pungent individuals ample time to board and wordlessly sit next to me, coughing and scratching their greasy hair, causing a rain of dandruff to roll off their Wal-mart brand insulated jacket and soak in the remains of my coffee. My phone buzzed. Mom. And of course she'd call me when I'm on public transportation. Just to shout at me about this or that. Why does she have to be so arrogant as to demand that I immediately forsake whatever I'm doing and give her my full attention? I'd block her, but my phone was running low on saved messages anyway. I clutched it tight, as if to shut her out. I did not need this today. But of course she left a message anyway. Hate filled woman. I let a few minutes pass. Take a few deep breaths that I instantly regret. The man next to me smells like old mustard. At times like these, I have a small escape. A number I can dial. To remind me of a life before all of this. "Hi, this is Alex, I'm not available to take a call right now-" ", so please leave your name, number, or email." I completed for him, rolling my eyes. "so please leave your name, number or email." The phone repeated, as it had countless times. "End beep." I muttered. But the phone continued. "Oh, and Sam? You should really listen to your mother's call." End beep. Shit. Did that just happen? I dial the number again. "Hi, this is Alex, no seriously listen to your mother's call." End beep. Never before had I felt so alone in a crowded bus. I dialed it one last time to be sure. "She's your mother." End beep. I listened to my last message. "Samantha, please come home. The accident wasn't your fault. We spoke to Alex's parents, and they don't blame you. It's been three years, Samantha. I don't know how many messages I've left." Her voice broke. "We forgive you. We forgive what you did with your grades, your career, your future. We forgive everything you've said. You're right. We don't understand. But please come home. We can start over. We'll pay for you to go back to school. We have enough saved up. We were wrong to say what we did. We just want our little girl back. We're sorry, Samantha. We're so, so sorry." I don't know when I started crying. By the time I'd stopped, I had missed my stop. Well, guess that solidified my decision. Before calling in my two week's, I dialed another number. "Hi, this is Alex, I'm not available to take a call right now, so please leave your name, number or email." End beep. "Thanks."	One might believe three years is long enough to move on. I haven't saddened myself with their thought in too long a time to remember. The accident, the funeral, our families constantly reminding me of my worth to them, all finally done. As to our agreement, all proceedings had been held at our house. Only our house. I watched specifically from our kitchen window as her coffin was left in the backyard. But memories cannot replenish the feeling that overcame me with her voice. Unknown to anyone, aside my phone company and myself, I have paid for her line simply for the memory of her final remaining words. "Yeah, it's Jaime, leave me a message and I'll try to call you back soon!" Rather plain, but the only living piece left. I left her for another week, allowing her message to become fresh again on our next meeting. On the next Saturday, I called her again. "Yeah, it's Jaime. If you ever get out, call me and we'll catch up, okay?" The message had changed. Astounding. Had someone tampered with it? I called ten more times, and again I heard the new message. This was, of course, the act of some hooligan. They were surely laughing about this somewhere miles afar. I peered outside the front window, and remarked something about my surroundings: Time stood still. The same cars and pedestrians I had been observing since her death had not moved. It then occurred to me that they hadn't moved in three years. Even during Jaime's funeral, only the attendees moved as real beings. I stepped to the front door, surely one of them could explain themselves. However, the door could not be opened. Looking through the glass, my reflection reminded my of the moment of impact. Even then, I looked into my reflection for help. I saw her face in the car mirror, Jamie's skull cracking against the steering wheel as I fruitlessly pressed the brake... I hadn't left the house in three years, hadn't stepped into the paradise that lay before me. Perhaps this seclusion prevented my wife from answering? I believe she is out there. I need to go to her. --- If you enjoyed what you read, I've got more over at r/fireark760writesstuff !
	[WP] Most people have a shoulder angel and devil advising them. You have a shoulder robot and Elder God.	I didn't think the demon and angel thing was literal until I turned 13, when the depths of my subconscious summoned them to my shoulders to sit there for every one of my waking moments. I stilk don't think the demon and angel thing is literal. You see, I have a robot and an elder god sitting on my shoulders. A Hal 9000 and Cthulhu kind of deal. Less Pure and Evil than media represents, more lawful neutral and chaotic neutral. It's been nine years since they started giving me the worst advice possible, and somehow I'm still alive. Not just alive, but in college. Like a real person that isn't batshit crazy. I sit up in my bed and rub my eyes. First day of spring break, time to get a coffee and see what the gang is planning. Then it hits me that I'm not in my bed. I'm naked on Sonder's kitchen floor, and I have an awful headache. YOU WERE VERY DRUNK AND MADE A LOT OF POOR DECISIONS MY WORD WILL GUIDE YOUR MANY SPAWN AND I WILL REIGN OVER A NEW ERA OF HUMANITY. HE NEXT GENERATION WILL UNDERSTAND PAIN. I spoke to them in my head as I grabbed a soda from her fridge and went to look for my clothes. "Hal, who was there? C, what did I mess up?" 'THE GANG' AND ABOUT 60 TOTAL STRANGERS WERE HERE YOU MATED WITH FOUR WOMEN, COUNTING SONDER TWICE. THE OTHER TWO ARE TOTAL STRANGERS AND YOU WILL NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN "Alright, I can work with that. Now shut up while I talk to real people." I found my or someone else's underwear on the couch and found Pollux lying in the bathtub texting someone. "Where's everyone else?" He ran his hand through his messy dark hair and sighed. "Sonder brought Castor and Azero with her to get us all fast food. I think J is puking outside. Glad you finally managed to cover up your junk." YOU WILL HAVE TO DISCUSS YOUR SEXUAL ACTIONS WITH SONDER OVER BREAKFAST WITH THE GANG, OTHERWISE THERE WILL BE AWKWARD TENSION AND THE GROUP WILL COLLAPSE "Cool, I'm starving. You need me to grab you anything from the living room?" I offered. Pollux took up the offer quickly. "Yeah, I want my white jacket from under the stool. Don't mind that the stool is in like five pieces, it'll be fine." As I walked out of the bathroom, Pollux crawled out of the bathtub. I threw him his jacket and put on my shirt, wedged in the cushions near where my underwear was. THEY ARE HERE Sonder unlocked the door and held it open for Castor and Azero to carry J inside. They set them on the ground and went back to grab the bags of food from the sidewalk. "What did you get me?" A bag came flying in from the door at me and I managed to catch it, seeing that it was Castor who tossed it at me. I flipped him off as Sonder responded. "Just a burger. I didn't know if you were going to puke at food like J is, so I got something anyone else can eat if you didn't want it." I pulled the coffee table to the center of the room and sat down, unwrapping the excessive amount of packaging on ny food. "Anyways, while Pollux and Castor might still be too drunk to remember this, did we bang last night?" Her face turned red and Castor replied first. "I'm a borderline alcoholic, you can count on me remembering this conversation like any other." Sonder stammered out a reply. "Did- I uh- are you... alright with that? We were both drinking a lot and uh it just kind of led to that I swear I'm on the pill so-" "It's cool. Tightens up the group more than anything. Although it does feel weird that Azero would have to sit that out, I totally would've been down for a-" "Don't bring me into this, jackass." YOU ARE AN IDIOT. YOUR LIFE IS CRUMBLING AND YOU KNOW IT. SAVE THIS CONVERSATION OR YOU WILL END UP LOSING EVERYTHING AND DROPPING OUT OF SCHOOL I sighed and ignored the assholes on my shoulder again. "Can someone pass me a drink? I've got a headache like hell."	#Purpose &nbsp; At the age of thirteen everyone is said to get a physical manifestation of good and evil on their shoulders. One for good and one for evil. It is said that depending on the personality of the individual, those manifestations can be different. &nbsp; I've always wondered who I am and what my purpose was, excited to see what those manifestations would become. One day it came, my thirteenth birthday. "Awaken my child." A voice came from aside of me. "It is time you saw the balance of your own self." I groggily awoke, the clock said 02:23. The exact time it is said that I was born, thirteen years to this date. &nbsp; "YES HUMAN. AWAKE." A more mechanical voice said from my other side. I rubbed my eyes and turned towards them. On one side of my bed there hovered a light, warm and crisp... On the other a small robot that looked like it was built from a webcam and some old parts. &nbsp; "You have a question my child?" The glowing bright light said to me. I thought for a moment, how does one phrase the question that they have always wanted to ask? Who am I? What am I supposed to do? "What... What is my purpose?" I asked the light. Silence fell for a few seconds. "Your purpose? My child, we don't have purposes predefined by others, our purpose it to find our own purpose, as it were. Some may call that family, others adventure. However I suppose some of do have a predefined purpose..." The light said turning it's direct light to his robot counterpart. &nbsp; "I PASS THE BUTTER." &nbsp; --- ^Thanks ^for ^reading, ^this ^was ^a ^short ^one ^simply ^leading ^up ^to ^a ^silly [^reference.](https://youtu.be/ekP0LQEsUh0?t=53s) ^Any ^edits ^are ^for ^grammar. /r/Camel_Writes

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