The Stormcrow, A Superhero's Tale Options

[SubRosa]

As an Editorial Note, I have changed January's birthday to August 13th. I just discovered that was a Friday. So she was born on Friday the 13th.

I am also thinking of changing her friend Jack's name. The reason is that her great-grandfather Jack Parsons keeps coming up in conversations with Blood Raven. I don't want people to get confused about which Jack is which. So I might make her friend's name something like Jake (which I believe is Jack Black's real name). Or maybe I could go with a completely invented nickname, like her friends Rus and Kell have (their real names are Russell and Kelly).

I also need to think of what kind of car he drives, and Ryo too.

Okay, Jack (or Jake) has to drive this

Edit: I changed it to Jacob Schwarz. He was called Jack until he was about 5 or 6. Then the gang saw one of the Transformers TV shows, and he became Blackjack (A Decepticon). January sometimes calls him Jacktimus Prime however.

January herself has a nickname now too. She is Morning Star, after the first month in the Elder Scrolls calendar. While Avery is the OG of course, the Original Geek.

[SubRosa]

Acadian: January thought that being trans made her the skeleton in the family closet. Turns out Not! There are some real skeletons in there!

These last four episodes were difficult to write because they are essentially a big info dump of exposition. If this was a film, I would do a four or five minute series of flashbacks showing Nátthrafn up to all these dastardly deeds, with Blood Raven's voice narrating it. Like how the beginning of Fellowship Of The Ring has that prologue narrated by Galadriel, that explains what happened in the past to bring you up to where they were.

I looked at various ways I might try to write something like that. But nothing really worked. They all took us out of the moment, which is supposed to be about Blood Raven explaining to January why their bloodline is cursed. It wasn't about January any more, or her relationships to others. It had turned into the Nátthrafn show. Which is not my intent.

So I went with the present format, of Blood Raven doing a retelling. But I am purposely interrupting her at regular intervals with January's thoughts, and out loud questions. I am also breaking it up with descriptions of Blood Raven's lair, and her telling her own story while she is at it. Because I want this to be about her and January, and their struggle with their atavistic fears.

There are a lot more twists and turns to Nátthrafn's tale. Today we will finally learn them all.


treydog: There was a time when I would have said the same about Electronic... music. But after I gave it a chance, I do like artists like Moby and Orbital. The Orb was really my gateway drug into Electronica. It was great background music for gaming nights. (Along with George Clinton and Bootsy Collins, and the Mechwarrior 2 and Quake 2 soundtracks).

January has had the fortune of being raised in a relatively diverse environment, growing up her friends were all different from her, and she was different from everyone else. So she learned that different is not something to fear. She also learned that many of the creative people whose work she admired could be quite... problematic in other aspects of their lives. So like all of us, she has to grapple with balancing the value of their artistic creations, versus the kind of people they were in their private lives. She learned to admire certain things, but not agree with them.

One of the things writing this has really brought home to me is how old I really am now, and how much the world has changed since I was in high school. January's feelings are easy for me to relate to. Those are timeless. But she lives in a very different world than the one I grew up in, with CDs, mixtapes, Sony Walkmen, a news cycle that was only a half hour every day, and even then only on weekdays, the library being the only place to find books or do research, and so on.

January's To Do list is one of those timless ways that she can stay down to earth in her crazy superlife. She still has a mom after all. Which come to think of it, is something very few protagonists in any form of fiction have, especially films.


Renee: Blood Raven always considers her actions. But yes, she rarely bothers with trying to negotiate with her opponents. If she is getting involved, it has gone beyond the point where talking can make a difference. She leaves the talking and hostage negotiations to the police. That is their job, and she does not want to compete with them in doing it. The mass shooters and giant spiders are her territory. She has never killed innocent people, and it is not like it is something she does every day, or even every year. We will learn more about that in Chapter 5, when she is tempted to kill again.

It was not a real life necromancer in a book store. She wanted to find the Rauðskinna, and it literally appeared as if by magic. As if it was drawn to members of her bloodline. We will see more of that this episode.

Branwen/Blood Raven does find living in the present more difficult than the past. Before there were no photographs, no internet, no driver's licenses, no passports, no social security numbers, or the thousand other ways people are tracked and filed away now. In the 1790s you could walk from Boston and Philadelphia, say you are named Jane, and just start a new life there with no one to ever know that you were really Anne from Boston. Now it is a lot more difficult to navigate from one identity to another as the years roll by.










John Hancock

Public Universal Friend

Johannes Kelpius

Aleister Crowley and Thelema

Jack Parsons



Book 4.15 - Pride

"In any case," Branwen went on, "with that Nátthrafn returned to the world. In 1760 he came to Boston. There he called himself John Corbin, and made the pretense of being a scion of old English nobility, now fallen on hard economic times. That same year he was wed to my mother, Saoirse Scanlan. She was the daughter of an Irish shipwright, whose services were highly sought after. As such their family was moderately wealthy. Yet being Irish they were shunned by the polite society of Puritanical New England. For example, my grandfather was forced to swear an oath of allegiance to the Anglican faith."

"As John Corbin, Esquire, my father brought respectability and social status to the family. In turn he used their family fortune to invest in shipping. He quickly turned this to a substantial profit. Some say it was almost magical how his ships were able to weather terrible storms that sent others to the bottom. Or how they always managed to elude the customs cutters, no matter how vigilant the Royal Navy's watches. In any case, he soon owned several vessels, and built a small empire on the Triangle Trade of slaves, rum, and molasses."

"So my ancestor was a slave-trader," January murmured. "Wonderful."

"We should be counted as fortunate were that the worst of his sins," Branwen replied.

"My parents first made their abode in the North End, at the south-east corner of the North Burying Ground. What is now is called Copp's Hill. Across the cemetery was New Guinea, an enclave of emancipated Africans. It was not considered a fashionable neighborhood. But in 1762 they moved into a mansion on Marlbrough street, just a few houses down from the Governor. But my father still retained the old house in the North End. A year later I was born."

January noted that Branwen now referred to him as 'her father' rather than Nátthrafn. Suddenly it had become much more personal. He was no longer just a character in a story. He was someone real, someone close to her.

"However, my father's sorceries once again overshadowed the carefully woven tapestry of his life as a ship owner. Again dark rumors swirled around him. Many of the slaves his ships transported had a habit of vanishing while doing work in the North End house's basement. There were whispers of tunnels under the building, and secret ways leading to certain places beneath the city, and even hidden entrances to them from the bank of the Charles River. Still others claimed to have heard his voice issuing from the burying ground, even when he could not be seen there. Those who inquired too loudly about these things, and his apparent lack of aging, began to disappear."

"Some of these unfortunates were members of the Sons of Liberty, and friends of John Hancock. You may not realize this, but Hancock was one of the richest men in all the Thirteen Colonies. He lost quite a bit of money to my father in the Triangle Trade. He was especially incensed when one of his ships - The Liberty - was detained by customs officials in Boston Harbor. At the same time my father's vessels sailed freely, openly defiant of the Townsend Acts, and the other taxation acts to follow."

"Finally in 1775 Hancock secretly organized an effort against my father. His band of partisans included other Sons of Liberty, Freemasons, prominent landowners, and smugglers alike. Since they suspected my father was a necromancer, they enlisted the aid of Jemima Wilkinson, a powerful spiritualist of the day."

"If you do not know of her, well, of them, I suggest you research them," Branwen said. "I believe they were what is now known as a non-binary person. This was just a few years before they openly declared their gender preference - or non-preference if you look upon it that way - and took the name Public Universal Friend."

"Really?" January stared at the other woman in amazement. "I have never heard of her, um them. Great, I misgendered them to."

"They were a major force in the American spiritualist movement of the late 18th century," Branwen explained. "I never did have the opportunity to meet them. I should have very much liked to. I regret that far more than I do their assisting in the destruction of my father."

That would have sounded utterly insane under any other circumstances. But January could only nod, and silently agree.

"They raided the North End house at night, while my mother and I were at the Marlbrough mansion. In fact, I had never been to the North End house while my father was alive. He kept it for his private work. My father was prepared, and had raised up a number of the dead to stand as his bodyguards. While certainly no warrior, by all accounts it was the Public Universal Friend that put paid to these servants of darkness with her own spiritual abilities."

"With the battle going badly, my father attempted conjuring up a more powerful assistant, undoubtedly an Abyssal. Once again, it was the Public Friend who either banished it, or prevented the summoning. My father was finished off. Some said by Hancock himself, though I doubt that vainglorious popinjay had the nerve to even look my father in the eye."

"In any case, the house was closed up afterward. The entrances to the chambers beneath sealed, at least all those which could be discovered. My father's remains were buried within, hidden from any who might come prying."

"Afterward it was rumored that the Sons of Liberty had assassinated him. Just a few days later General Gage sent his men to march upon Lexington and Concord. Nothing ever came of my father's case after that. The Loyalists certainly had no more love for my father than the Patriots. The entire affair was simply eclipsed by the war and forgotten."

"So did you fight in the Revolution as well?" January asked, thinking of her Civil War uniform.

"Nay," Branwen shook her head. "At that time the thought never entered my head that I - a woman - could even dare such a thing. Besides, I was too young for most of it. I was only twelve when it began and eighteen when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown."

"Even if I had been older, I would not have known who to fight for," Branwen continued. "The Revolutionaries had killed my father, and at the time I knew not what a monster he truly was. On the other hand I felt no loyalty to the English. With my father dead, they no longer felt the need to obfuscate their racial prejudice toward my Irish mother and me. Yet in spite of all this I was an American. I had lived all my life in America. We had always collected our own taxes, defended our own lands, and managed our own institutions. Americans needed no king in London to tell us how to manage our affairs."

January could not mistake the prickly sense of pride within Branwen's words. It was finally sinking home that she really had lived for two and half centuries. This was a woman who had been there at the dawn of her country's history, at least as an independent nation.

"With my father dead, my mother sold the Marlbrough mansion and the ill-fated abode beside Copp's Hill," Branwen continued. "We moved in with my grandfather, to his own house near the docks on North Street, in the North End."

"Life was, well, life. It was not easy going from the wealth and privilege we had once possessed to the life of a shipwright's granddaughter. Because it was rumored that the Sons of Liberty had killed him, most presumed that my father had been an informant for the Crown. That made life even more difficult. Being Irish of course, did not help either."

"Then there was the war too of course. The British occupation lasted less than a year. But their blockade continued for the entire war. For a city whose lifeblood was trade and ship-building, that was nigh a death sentence. They say the population shrank to one fifth its original size during the war, as people moved away to better prospects."

"Our family hung on however," Branwen said. "As I said, we are a stubborn bloodline. In 1785, two years after the Treaty of Paris, I married Experience Hopkins. He had served with the Continentals during the war. I was much taken with him, and his uniform, when he returned to Boston afterward. We had two children together, Ambrose and Constance."

Branwen's eyes took on a glazed look, as if she was not seeing January and the room around them. Rather it must have been a far different scene painted before her centuries-old eyes. January could not imagine what it must be like to live for hundreds of years, and see the present fade to the past like that, until it only remained a ghost of memory.

"Experience used the money my mother had put aside from selling the old property, and he started the Colony House. It was a public house on Orange Street. That is the main road through Boston Neck, that one must take to get into or out of the city. Many would say it was a tavern. But in those days, that did not simply mean a drinking establishment, or a place with rooms for rent. Mail was delivered there, political meetings were held, court was convened, and troops recruited by the military. It was really a central place in the community."

"It was a hard scrabble at first, and we nearly went bankrupt," Branwen said. "But we held on, and gradually people began to return to the city. By the 90s things were looking up, and business was good. I think that might have been the happiest time in my life. I had my husband, I had my children, and I had my mother. The dark stain of my father had faded into history, forever I thought, and the future seemed bright."

January looked back up at the genealogical chart. She saw that the date of Branwen's death was listed as 1793.

"Then a shadow came from my father's past," Branwen said. Her eyes snapped back to reality, and she followed January's gaze up the marble edifice, to the date of her death. "Yes, right there, in 1793. Johannes Kelpius, a correspondent of my father's, came to see why none of his letters were being returned. When he learned that my father was dead he became obsessed with discovering his secrets. Secrets which of course, we were incapable of imparting even had we a desire to do so."

"We learned that he was a vampire," Branwen frowned. "He killed my husband. He was slowly killing me, night after night, as a means of leverage to get what he wanted. My mother sent to Keziah Talmadge for aid, she who built the house you now abide within. She had been the midwife at my birth, and my mother trusted her."

"We laid a trap for Kelpius, and he fell into it. But it cost my life. It also made me a vampire, like him. Afterward I was forced to leave. My son Ambrose had walked into the room where I lay, not dead, not alive. But I did not see my son. I saw a banquet, and I was starving. If Keziah had not been there to stop me, I would have devoured him."

She spoke with firm words, and her face betrayed no sign of emotion. She might as well have been repeating a recipe for cookies. But January felt a wash of emotions roiling about the other woman in the astral. She could not discern exactly which was which, but she did not need to be a genius to guess.

She could also imagine that the very simple and brusque description of her death and resurrection as a vampire was greatly simplified for January's ears. Her writer's mind was certain that a much deeper story lay behind it all. But she was not going to pry into so sensitive subject. She did not have the right. Not yet at least.

"So I went away with Keziah, to the Witch House. There she taught me to control myself, and to use magic. In time she moved on, and left the house to me. For well over a hundred years I made my own way in the world, as best I thought able. Until your great-grandfather Jack came along."

"Jack Parsons," January said. "Why do I know that name?"

"Jack was one of the founding members of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory," Branwen explained. "He was one of the first inventors of rockets, along with Robert Goddard. He and Mr. Goddard were not on very good terms however. But Jack was also a great magician, a friend to Aleister Crowley. He led a lodge of Crowley's Thelema in California."

"The Beast?" January said. "I have heard of Crowley of course."

"The drug-addicted poser more like," Branwen snorted. "Crowley was a master of self-promotion, and little else. If he had spent even a tenth of his time on magic as he did upon seducing women, and men, and lying about his achievements, he could have been truly great. He was a pale shadow compared to your great-grandfather. A pale shadow compared to you."

January could not help but to feel a rise of pride at that. She had heard the same unflattering opinion about Crowley before of course. But he was still put on a pedestal by so many other modern esotericists. To be ranked above that. Well, it felt good. Of course by now she had noted that Branwen could be quite opinionated in her own right, and might not be immune from a certain bias in favor of her own bloodline.

"I was not keeping track of Jack, except when he made the newspapers," Branwen said. "I did not know that I had to. I was still in Europe after the Second World War when suddenly Abyssals began to appear in Los Angeles. Someone was calling them up, and turning them loose to their own devices. It was too late that I realized Jack was the one doing the summoning. He had discovered the Rauðskinna, and was following it step by step."

"Just like someone else is doing now," January nodded. Now things became clear. Now she could see why Branwen had suspected her. Why she had to suspect her. "That book is a trap. It comes to your father's descendants and ensnares them. It uses them to call him back, and kills them in the process. It's truly hideous."

"It is," Branwen frowned. "I raced back to America, to Jack's home. But he was dead by the time I arrived, lying in pieces in the middle of a ritual working. You have seen what I speak of. In his place I beheld my father, living once more."

"What did you do?" January wondered.

"I killed him," Branwen said. "He was summoning another Abyssal as I arrived, and anchoring it in our world. You know what that entails. I could not stand by. Not over my own grandchild's corpse."

January was about to ask how she could have done that, given how powerful Nátthrafn appeared to be. But then she remembered how easily Branwen had dealt with the djieien in the street. She had used its own blood to make it explode from the inside out, among other things. Her great-grandmother was truly not one be frakked with.

"Since then, I have learned what manner of creature my father truly was, truly is," she said. "I have learned that I must watch my descendants, and find others who have sprung from his loins. Our blood is cursed. It is his means of returning to this world, even after death, even after countless deaths."

"How does he do it?" January asked. "Cheat death like that?"

"Truly, I know not," Branwen sighed. "If I possessed the Grafes Thanatos, perhaps I might learn his secrets, but perhaps not even then. In these matters I am but a study witch. I am not willing to make it a part of myself. He has done something with his spirit, unfettered it from the normal processes of life and death. I suspect that he has become an Abyssal himself, though how I know not."

"So you think that it's all happening again?" January said. "Someone is summoning Abyssals, in order to build up to resurrecting him? Couldn't it just be some magician who stumbled upon this magic on their own, and is still figuring it out for themselves, completely separate from your father?"

"That may be," Branwen admitted. "I pray that be so. For if it is truly my father behind all this, his return would herald a darkness this world has never seen. He has spent long centuries beyond. I cannot imagine what terrors he might be capable of unleashing now. I only defeated him before because of Tunguska. He did not realize how much more powerful magic has become in our world. He was still using the old ways, the slow ways. Once he understands just how quickly and easily the power comes now, he might truly be unstoppable."

[Acadian]

Ahah, this episoded clarifies much and gives us a much better picture of the threat they face. Some unknown relative has been cursed by Rauðskinna to begin the suicidal cycle of resurrecting Nátthrafn.

Branwen also shares much about her life, including how/when she became a vampire.

I was fascinated by how effortlessly and effectively you wove real historical figures, such as John Hancock, into Branwen’s history.

In the episode before this one, you used January’s comments to both keep us ‘in the moment’ as well as lighten things up a bit and remind us of January’s modern way of thinking. In this episode you use her thoughts and comments to equal but different effect. Not only do you again keep us grounded in the moment but you use January’s observations to highlight the poignancy of the memories flowing from Branwen. Very effective, given Branwen’s rather stoic presence and manner.

’Her great-grandmother was truly not one be frakked with.’
- - Quoted for truth!


Nit: "We moved in with my grandfather, t his own house near the docks on North Street, in the North End." - - Perhaps the ‘t’ in front of ‘his’ is a stray?

[treydog]

3.15

Most excellent discussion of magic and the ways in which it can manifest.

Names... yeah, I always had to wonder about “Philander” though, considering the more current meaning. Well- actually- ALL the meanings, even going back to the original Greek. Given the Puritan and Victorian attitudes and also that it is a man's name....

Dora the Kneecapper

Had this image of the little cartoon girl running around with a double-bitted axe and chain hauberk....

4.1

Between 3.15 and here, Aunt Branwen becomes Aunt Ann? Okay, the note kinda clears that up- if Jan made a slip. But Anne's terminal “e” got disappeared....

4.2

The comic book moment between Jan and her mom was beautiful, as was the entire segment.

4.3

And more excellent relationship (and character) development with the ancient ancestor.

[SubRosa]

Acadian: It took a long time, but eventually we got to the meat and potatoes of what is going on.

Someday I intend to do an in depth story about how Branwen became a vampire. I have all the particulars down on pixels. It is just a matter of when it will be appropriate.

Weaving in real life events and objects is something I learned from reading HP Lovecraft. One thing he used to love was book porn - reeling off exhaustive lists of esoteric books in his villain's possession. He would put his fictional books like the Necronomicon in with real ones like the Golden Bough, and name drop fictional authors like Al-Hazred alongside real ones like Elphias Levi or Borellus. Likewise, he would incorporate real events into his stories, like the discovery of Pluto, right alongside the fictional stuff.

All of this intertwining of fact and fiction lent his works an air of verisimilitude that they otherwise would have lacked in a pure fictional setting. Or as grifters would say, weave in a little truth with your lies to make them more effective. Now that I am writing in the 'real world' I am embracing this as much as I can. That is why I deliberately looked for real people that I could write the story of Nátthrafn and Branwen around, like Kelpius, Hancock, Heinrich Kramer, Loftur, and so on. I am doing the same with the Abyssals whenever I can as well. hence making my giant spider a djieien, rather than some nameless entity from beyond. We will be hearing about Buggane's, Flying Heads, and even goblins in the future.

January herself is of course, what emotionally grounds this all into reality. This is ultimately her story after all. All of this stuff with her ancestors affects her directly, and will for her entire life. She will always be part of this struggle against Nátthrafn.



treydog: Both I and January also envisioned a little cartoon girl when I came up with the name Dora. But she is a Shadowrun character, so she would be wearing partial heavy armor and using her magical fists of kung-fu fury!

The comic books (more on them coming up) was a nice way for me to give a nod to the ultimate origins of all superhero fiction. As well as point out some of the very serious issues with it, that continue to this day.

It also got me some good mom-time. Protagonists in film or print rarely have mothers. At least not with a name, who play any part in the character's story. One of my goals with the Stormcrow fic is to actually have a protagonist with a relationship with her mother.

More of that ancient ancestor coming up, as January receives her first formal lesson in magic.




As always City Club can be found on the Stormcrow Map

Leland City Club

Bauhaus - Bela Lugosi's Dead



Book 5.1 - Crystal Death

June 1 - 9, 2019

Chad shut off Gilda Gadfly's podcast after he stepped into City Club. The last thing he needed to hear was more about the Blackbirds joining forces to fight for Metro Detroit. It was all anyone could talk about these days. Like the world needed more women pretending to be heroes. Sure they looked good. But really, everyone knew it was men who faced real danger and actually did things. Stormcrow and Blood Raven were just there to put on magazine covers, or serve as click-bait for websites.

City Club was in the basement of the Leland Hotel. It was a dark, brooding place filled with shadows and ghosts, including that of Jimmy Hoffa, if you went in for that sort of thing. The black paint on the walls was peeling off, and covered over in graffiti in many places. It was a 90s movie idea of what a post-vampire apocalypse bar would look like. Complete with lots of young, pretty Goths wearing tons of black makeup and piercings.

Chad went straight for the bathroom. He stopped to look both ways first. Then he went through the door and found an empty stall. No one was likely to recognize him here. But you could never be sure. If anyone did know him, they would try to stop him. He knew he should try to stop himself. But he couldn't, not even after two years of sobriety. Or maybe it was because of those two years, he just had nothing left to fight with?

He had simply been out walking. Then he had seen that guy in the parking lot, the guy with the ponytail. He had instantly known. He had known it was a dealer. And he felt it, that siren call of meth, that heavenly choir promising joy and freedom and energy and transcendence. He had been fighting that call for so long. He just could not fight any more.

The dealer's name had been Lonnie, and he had something special. Not your run of the mill meth, but something new, something even better. It was designer meth, and Chad could try it for free.

It was too much to resist. He had taken the little baggie of red crystals from the dealer. He had grabbed it, and a little leather case of works, and headed inside. Now he stood in the bathroom stall and laid out his treasures on the toilet seat cover.

He took the rubber hose first, and tied it around his arm. Pumping his fist in and out, he got a good vein going. Then he reached for the spoon, and spread out the ruby red crystals across its small basin. The dealer had said he would not need to heat it with a lighter. He said it would easily dissolve in water instead. He was right. In no time at all the red crystals melted and flowed into the water he had squirted on the spoon with the syringe.

Chad stared at the crimson liquid. It glowed, hot and bright, like something from a science fiction movie. It was like he had cracked open a neon sign and poured it out across the utensil. Chad stood there for long moments, entranced by the radiance. All he could hear was that sweet, sweet call of addiction rising higher and higher from within. Finally he could stand it no more, and he sucked up all that heavenly light into the syringe.

He barely felt it plunge into his arm a moment later. Most people smoked meth. It was easier. But it was slower, and lost so much of the potency. Smoking ruined the goods, and weakened what little of it actually got through. Only babies smoked. Besides, who wanted meth-mouth? No, injection was the only way to go, straight into the blood and right to the brain.

The rush hit him almost before he had finished squeezing the plunger all the way down. It was light, and sound, and pure, pure joy. There was no other way of describing it. Words had not been created that could describe it. It was beyond mundane, arbitrary things like labels. It was spiritual. It was godlike.

It was not like meth. Even if he could not wrap his brain around the terms to describe the feeling, Chad knew that much. This was so much better, so much stronger. He was so much stronger. He could feel the power, popping through his muscles. He heard his shirt rip as he flexed his arm. He was literally bursting with muscle and energy.

He turned to look back, and he could see through the thin metal door of the stall. He could see through the bathroom wall. He could see out onto the dance floor beyond. He could even see though the bodies of all those good little Goth girls and boys who gyrated to Bauhaus. He could see their veins, and see their bones. He wondered what they would look like, when he pulled them apart?

Chad pushed open the stall door, without bothering to undo the latch that locked it shut. It flew off its hinges and crashed into the mirror across the bathroom. Glass shattered into a million pieces, every one reflecting his glory. This must be how metas like Varg or Annihilator felt, like a god walking on Earth.

He would show the world what it meant to be a god. He crashed through the bathroom door, and leaped past rows of booths. Someone laid a hand his shoulder. He thought he heard his name. He turned and bared his teeth. How dare they lay a hand upon their Lord! He took that hand, peeled back the fingers until each one snapped, and laughed as someone screamed.

People gave way around Chad. Except for two men, who loomed ever nearer. They were big men, men who would have pounded him into a paste a minute before. But he was a meta now, and they were nothing, mere mortals. He would swat them like the flies they were. They had no right to live in the same world that he did. It was insulting! It was outrageous! His blood boiled at the thought.

They lay at his feet in mere moments. But as he prepared to trumpet his glory, something strange happened. The world crashed. He crashed. It felt like a great weight suddenly fell on his chest. He couldn't breathe. The light died, and he could not see through the ceiling anymore. Wait, through the ceiling? He was on his back. When had he fallen on his back? Why was it so hard to breathe? Where was that godly meta-human power?

It was slipping, slipping from his grasp. He tried to hold on. But it just slid away with the rest of the world. It seeped into a black pit of nothingness, until nothing was left of it, or of him…

[Acadian]

I thought of crystal meth as soon as I saw your title for this new chapter.

So Gilda's calling them the Blackbirds! Cool!

Chad shows his unattractive colors in the first paragraph. So seeing him get his head pumped up then promptly smacked onto his back was somehow gratifying.

Telling this from Chad’s perspective gave a neat, disorienting picture as his brain on drugs tried to blend real and not real.

It will be interesting to learn how this episode, with its drug connection, fits into the bigger picture.


Nit: Except for two men, who loomed every {ever} nearer.

[Renee]

Good, so she does get rid of her ageless, necromancing father. Gosh that's creepy... he's got his own undead working for him.

So if Branwen was born in 1763, this made her roughly 13 when Public Friend allegedly took care of her long-existing father. At that age, she's old enough to have learned a thing or two from him. But let's continue reading.

Ooops, 12, not 13. And she apparently received no instruction from her father. WHAT she dies in 1793!!!?? So she becomes a vampire at age 30? .... But somehow gets noted as deceased? I hope I got that right.

AH, and also, I see now why January got suspected. Goodness.

Ah, so Bauhaus. She's in Parties is my favorite. That whole album is incredible actually.

I finish this week's chapter later.

Funny, as soon as Chad's heading into that restroom I knew he was about to use. Bleah. I once lived catty-corner to an apartment full of meth heads. I knew nothing about it back in those days, I guess I was about 29 or so. Anyway, my roommate spent some time with them and then came up and told me "you gotta try this!" And for no real reason I was like "nah." And then later on that night, I was going to work and ALL of them were still up and partying. I worked nights. Came home in the morning, sun was fully risen. All of them were still up and partying. I realized... these folks never went to bed. I'm glad I said no instead of anything else! They eventually got busted by our absentee landlord.

I remember one guy was really into sidewalk chalk. He'd get his hit or whatever, and an hour later a portion of the sidewalk was coated in crazy colored chalk drawings. I also remember one time, I locked my keys in my apartment, which was on the second floor. One of the meth heads saw me stressing and said he could help. 30 seconds later he was in my apartment. He did this crazy acrobatic move off a fence, got sideways and upside down! ... But he got in, because we'd often leave our porch door open if weather was warm. But I mean, I think the drug must make these folks really fearless, or something.

Ha maybe Blood Raven got Chad. Guess we'll find out tomorrow.


This post has been edited by Renee: May 22 2020, 06:15 PM

[treydog]

Still reading- and enjoying immensely.

I have adjusted the choke on the Quot-a-matic ™ so it doesn't give the forum the whim-whams.

4.4

Do it, or do not. There are no other options."

"Did you just quote Yoda?" January asked.

"Who?" Branwen wondered.

And the whole 21st C. slang discussion caused me to nearly spray tea onto my monitor.

4.5

… statues or it didn't happen.

Or historical markers that tell it in a way that is... pleasing to the ones who created them.

She was glad that being challenged was over for the day, and she could go back to being her ordinary self.

And although I did the teaching thing, I admire ANYONE who can stand in front of a group of small children and engage with them. I would have flailed miserably, despite my love for comic books.
Good luck with that.

[SubRosa]

Acadian: When I was looking for a name for my new killer drug, I wanted to be topical, so I went with a variation on meth rather than one of the older standards like heroin. Besides, meth is similar in that it at least gives people a ton of energy. The Germans gave it to their troops in WWII so they could fight for 3 days straight without sleeping. It is one of the things that made their 1940 Blitzkrieg through Belgium happen.

Gilda is now firmly ensconced within the Crow-verse. We will be hearing from her more this chapter, and every one that follows, keeping her finger on the pulse of the nation.

Chad was originally going to be less repulsive. But I don't want it to seem like January is living in some sort of paradise. Bigotry is something she deals with every day. So I used Chad as an example of the misogyny she has to face. He is basically an Incel. I named him Chad out of a sense of irony. (Google the two terms if you don't already know them).

Unfortunately everything that Chad experienced was real. We will be learning more about that in today's episode.

This chapter will be a departure from the magic stuff. Though we will get back to the overall Summoner/Nátthrafn story arc in Chapter 6. I will roughly alternate between it and the mundane threats in a super world every chapter, until it finally wraps up.


Renee: Blood Raven/Branwen's father kept her completely out of the 'family business' of necromancy, the same with her mother. As Gandalf told Saruman, the Dark Lord does not share power. They were just a means to an end for him, a way to father more descendants that he could someday use to resurrect him if he was killed again.

You read that right. Branwen died when she was 30. She rose afterward as a vampire. He death could not be kept a secret. Especially since she had to be separated from temptations while she learned to control her new nature.

Yep, that is meth alright. Militaries use it for exactly the reasons you described. As I mentioned to Acadian, the German Army was big into it, using a brand name of meth called Pervitin.

Blood Raven did not get Chad. The same drug that gave him powers laid him out, as we will learn this episode.


treydog: I have had to work hard on my slang, both from today, and from 200 years ago. I have text files with terms so I don't forget.

January has some experience in public speaking, thanks to being a martial arts instructor. But that is not the same as speaking in front of the kids. It is just one piece of her evolution in dealing with the public. We will be seeing more of that in the future.





January's Backyard

Midtown/Lane State

The Whitney

The Michigan State Police Emergency Response Team is real, I just changed the name slightly



Book 5.2 - Crystal Death

January soared across I-94. The wind caressed her face, and danced across her wings. More than ever before, she felt like a bird. She almost wanted to flap her wings. But of course, they did not work that way. Still, she felt less like she was gliding, and more like she was actually flying than ever before.

Lighthammer had told her that she needed to keep working on her flying mojo, and she certainly had been. Between their regular training sessions at the Packard Plant she had taken whatever time she could in the evenings to practice her flying. All she had to do was walk out of the back door of the Witch House and into the woods beyond. There was a nature trail back there, winding along the Clinton River. The trees were so thick that there was no way for pedestrians to see her soaring above the green canopy. Besides, the dense branches gave her an added incentive to remain airborne.

Now she winged over a forest of concrete and steel, rather than the bucolic Sterling Heights park system. Below her stretched out a patchwork of apartment blocks, small businesses like pizzeria's and phone stores, and fairy tale chateaus that were either privately owned mansions or part of Lane State University. Speaking of the latter, the entire area was filled with the school's many classroom buildings, sprawled out across block and after block of the cityscape.

Unlike Macomb Community College, which had its own self-contained campus, Lane State was simply a hodge podge of buildings thrown across Midtown. It reminded January of dice scattered across the table on gaming night. Here was an alumni house next to a gas station, there was a party store beside a classroom building. It was a jumbled, chaotic mess. But January found that as much as she had liked MCCs neatly manicured lawns and cloistered atmosphere, Lane State's casually tossed-about nature felt more lively, and in touch with the real world. In contrast MCC had sometimes felt like that fabled ivory tower of academia everyone talked about, albeit a very small tower.

Perhaps she should go here for Fall Term after all?

Her earpiece dinged, and her heart instantly doubled its pace. That was for Official Business only. Carefully, so as not to disrupt her aerodynamics too much, she touched a finger to the side of her helmet to answer the call.

"Stormcrow," she said. She hoped she sounded confident, but not emotionless. She had been working on subduing her perky phone voice after all. She had to sound more professional, at least when she was caping.

"It's Trooper Mercado," a woman's voice said in her ear. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"Emilia!" January exclaimed in her perky phone voice. "It's so nice to hear from you again. Did you want to try playing Shadowrun after all?"

"That's not what I was calling about," January could almost hear the laughter in the Puerto Rican woman's voice. "This is more of a work thing."

"Oh yeah, work thing," January murmured. "So what is up?"

She soared above a tall, cylindrical apartment building that reminded her of the iconic Capitol Records building in Los Angeles, except on a smaller scale. She was tempted to set down on its roof and use it to leap frog back into the air to regain altitude. But she was almost where she wanted to go anyhow, and winged past it instead.

"Have you heard of crystal death?"

"No," January shook her head, which of course Emilia could not see on the phone. She was so used to Skype. Why did people even use phones for talking anyway? "But I am assuming it is like meth?"

"It looks like it, except that it is red," Emilia replied. "But in actuality, they are nothing alike. It gives people meta-human abilities, but only temporarily."

"What?" January almost lost control of her flight and crashed into the bronze cap of church steeple that had been green with verdigris for at least a century. "I didn't think that was possible?"

"It is now," Emilia sighed. "The abilities people manifest seem to be random. But what is consistent is that does something to the brain every time. It makes people angry, violent, and filled with delusions of grandeur."

"Which all go great with meta abilities," January noted.

"Oh, it gets better," Emilia continued. "The drug only lasts a short while. When it finally crashes, it takes the rest of the brain with it. It causes seizures, strokes, heart attacks, and massive brain damage. Half the people who have taken it are dead, the lucky ones who survive end up in a persistent vegetative state. Some of them never even get the meta abilities. They just go straight into a coma."

"Who would want to take that?" January said. Then she caught herself. "What am I saying, I bet people are lined up for miles."

"I'm sure they would be, if they knew about it," Emilia said. "The state police are keeping this quiet. All that the news knows is that it's a form of tainted meth that's killing people. They are hoping to find the source and stop it before the meta-human part gets out. But that's just one MeTube video away from happening."

"Why the secrecy?" January wondered. "Are they afraid that the demand for it will go through the roof?"

She was nearing her destination, and losing altitude rapidly. She skimmed over the flat rooftop of a long apartment building beside Woodward. Then she came to roost amid the gables, bays, chimneys, and dormers on the roof of the Whitney mansion. The grand, three-story Romanesque masterpiece was constructed from pink jasper. It was a majestic Old World statement among the modern apartments, fast food restaurants, and school buildings that surrounded it.

January wondered if she would ever have the money to eat inside. For the elegant manse had long ago been turned into an upscale restaurant. It was the kind of place where if you had to ask how much it cost, you could not afford it. But January always had to ask how much it cost. That was just the life of a young person in the 21st Century.

"No, there has actually been very little of this stuff on the street," Emilia said. "In fact, it almost looks like someone is testing it a little at a time, and tweaking the formula in between. Every time it gets more potent, and the aftereffects more devastating."

"So why the cover up?" January asked.

"No one will say it right out, but I think the real reason for the secrecy is that they want to keep capes out of it," Emilia explained.

"You mean Blood Raven," January sighed. She did not know who to be more exasperated at. Her many times great-grandmother for alienating the police, or the police for being too proud to ask for help from Detroit's only superhero. Well, maybe not the only one anymore.

"No, she's the least of their concerns," Emilia said. "They are afraid either foreign agents or some meta mastermind is going to get their hands on this. With it, they could create an army of superpowered foot soldiers. Assuming they can get it to work more reliably than it has so far."

January imagined that the CIA or Department of Defense would love to get their digits on it too. But she kept that to herself.

"They've got the Emergency Response Team on this one," Emilia explained. "But they aren't really detectives, even though their leader claims to be. They're more like a state police SWAT team. That's why me and all the other community resource officers are spending all of our time on social media looking for any clues that might lead us to the Death Dealer."

"The Death Dealer?" January whistled. "That's a catchy name. Sounds like a Frank Frazetta painting, or a Metal band."

"It's probably both," Emilia said. "But that's what everyone is calling whoever is making this stuff."

"So how do you want to work this?" January said. "Should I meet up with this Emergency Team?"

"No, no, no," Emilia said emphatically. "This is supposed to be a secret remember? I'll be lucky to just be fired if they find out I am talking to you. I'll probably go to prison."

"Are you sure you want to stay in this then?" January asked. "I can take it from here. Leave you completely out of the rest, so you have deniability. You don't have to put everything on the line like this."

"The last idiota to take this stuff went on a rampage in a club downtown. He put three people in the hospital before his brain turned to gumbo and he dropped dead," Emilia said. "It's just a matter of time before an innocent person gets killed, or a cop. I can't sit on my pompis and do nothing. Not if I can do something about it."

January could not fail to notice how familiar that sounded.

"So how do we do this?" January mused aloud. "You funnel information to me, and I go out and do the legwork? Hopefully we find this guy before the Emergency Response Team does?"

"Something like that, yes," Emilia said. "I'll send as much your way as I can. But my access is limited. You are going to be on your own for most of it."

"Wonderful," January breathed. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I'm not a detective like you. This should be the two of us, side by side, right out front. It's going to be harder. I'm going to have to bring in Gadget for starters. Don't worry, he won't leak anything about you."

"I expected you'd need the computer backup," Emilia said. "And believe me, I wish this was above-board. I've waited my entire life as a cop to do something like this. I don't want to do it in the shadows any more than you."

"What about Blood Raven?" January asked. She knew the other heroine was a sore spot with Emilia. But there was no dancing around it. She might need the help. "Let's face it, she's a lot better at this than I am."

"Bring her into this if you have to." Now it was Emilia's turn to sigh. "But I'm hoping it doesn't come to that. That would really be a slap in the face to some people if she's the one who brings the Death Dealer in."

"Ok, only if I have to." January frowned. She did not like any of this. Why did all these people have to put their egos above doing the right thing? She made a mental note to make sure that she did not let herself fall into that same trap. She only hoped that she remembered it when the day came that her vanity threatened to exceed her actual ability.

"I'm sending what I have to that share drive Gadget set up for us to use," Emilia said. "I'll be in touch if anything more comes through."

"Thanks Emilia," January said. "I appreciate you reaching out to me like this. I won't let you down."

The state trooper ended the call, and January took a moment to just breathe. Great, she had to do a secret investigation into a mad scientist making metas, all behind the back of the state police. What was she going to do after breakfast? Maybe solve climate change? Or create world peace?

She closed her eyes, and reached down for the mana inside her. She coaxed up that cool river of energy, and allowed it to flow gently through her body. She visualized it washing away her anxiety, and leaving her clean and calm. She let her breath synch with the energy, in and out, and soon found that her heart was beating slow and steady once more.

[Acadian]

‘She had been working on subduing her perky phone voice after all.’ - -

A very well-crafted set up for the Stormcrow’s next quest. A notable challenge with numerous constraints. Looks like this one’s gonna take speechcraft and guile. I can imagine Gadget will be essential here.

My reaction to the drug at first was the same as Jan’s. If some people are stupid enough to commit suicide by drugs, what’s the problem? But, like Jan, after a couple moments of thought, problems do arise. Like those three folks Chad put in the hospital. Or the thought of someone spiking a cop’s jelly doughnut. Or a team of terrorists with no regard for their own lives. Yup, we got a problem here.

[Renee]

Yes, I think I remember reading Hitler himself was basically using meth at some points. Same with Jim Jones, once he moved his cult down to South America. He'd get wired and spend hours yelling over loudspeakers about how the outside world was coming to get them all! I went though a Jim Jones mega-obsession-read a couple years ago.

I have adjusted the choke on the Quot-a-matic ™ so it doesn't give the forum the whim-whams.

We can adjust that thing? I better find that instruction manual.

"Stormcrow," she said. She hoped she sounded confident, but not emotionless. She had been working on subduing her perky phone voice after all. She had to sound more professional,

I love that part. Even while gliding high over the populaces, something most folks would be over-excited about, she's concerned about sounding professional.

Oh my gosh! She wants to play her game, so her perky phone voice returns! So much for professionalism.


There was some book I read years ago. I'm not going to remember its name. But it had a similar plot with some sort of super-drug making users super high for a short while, except it would make them super-intelligent if I remember correctly. It would mess up peoples' brains, of course. I can't remember how though.

Heee hee "MeTube"

e put three people in the hospital before his brain turned to gumbo and he dropped dead,

I get it. So nobody stopped that guy when he wigged out, The drug's effect simply ended.

Looking forward to more Crystal Death. I'm hoping this set of chapters was easier for you to write about than ... Boris the Spider.

[SubRosa]

Acadian: Jan's perky phone voice will continue to vex her in her career as a superhero.

You are quite prescient that this one is going to take a lot of Speechcraft and guile. Unfortunately, Jan has still not spent enough experience points on the first. But she does have Gadget!

Crystal Death is kind of like a bomb in the form of a pill. Someone could easily walk into any place, take one, and cause untold horrors.


Renee: Hitler was incredibly strung out on a complicated cocktail of drugs all put together for him by his personal physician. Something he and Elvis had in common. Behind The Bastards talked about it, I think in this episode. But it could have been in their two parter on his sex life (He had something like seven girlfriends in his life. All but one committed suicide. Great guy!)

You're Wrong About had a good episode on Jim Jones too. As you pointed out, he was a real disaster by the end too. Obviously!

Jan definitely takes superheroing seriously, and wants to be seen as such. But it does not always work out!

The whole "deadly drug makes people super" has been done several times in various comics and superhero shows. It gives a writer a convenient way to make what might be an otherwise disparate group of people super, often in a chain one after another. So that gives you fodder for multiple issues/commercial breaks. It also creates some sort of mastermind behind it all. Basically everything you need for a 'standard' superhero story arc. I decided to use it in order to tie into a real life event here in Michigan, and give it a different dimension.

Yes, it was the drug itself that stopped Chad, not any cops or supers. My original draft of this chapter did not even have the scene with Chad at all. I put it in after I started going over it, because I realized I needed to show just what Crystal Death did to people.

Google must think I am a lunatic. One week I search the heck out of spiders and Native American mythological monsters, the next week it is abusing illegal drugs, then neo-fascists, then Chinese actresses...








Fire Lieutenant Randy


Fire Captain Henderson


Devil's Night In Detroit




Book 5.3 - Crystal Death

January opened her eyes with a smile, and looked across Woodward to Engine 66 of the Detroit Fire Department. The fire station was a two story affair, made from red and tan brick. A pair of huge, roll up doors were set to each side of the rectangular building. In the center of them was a pedestrian door of darkened glass, flanked by a planter overflowing with greenery, and a bench for people to sit on.

January felt for her power, and this time sent it into her legs. She crouched down, and pictured herself leaping across the wide boulevard. Her mana poured into that image, and she sprang into the air. She felt herself propelled higher and farther than she had ever leapt before. She could not resist throwing in a somersault halfway across Woodward, and dropped to her feet in front of the fire station a moment later. She stuck the landing out of habit.

Blood Raven had told her that she had been unconsciously using magic all this time. This was an example of what she could do when she intentionally focused her will. She knew that she could do so much more.

Cars honked their horns as they passed by. January paused to look and saw a car load of people waving at her. She smiled and waved back. Being a cape was not all angst and challenges. For once it was nice just to be appreciated for what she did.

She strode into one of the open bay doors, and threaded her way around an ambulance parked within. One wall of the garage was lined with firefighting equipment such as coats and helmets. Hoists hung from the ceiling over each lane. A tool chest decorated with stickers sat by another wall, along with a large American flag. It was cluttered, but not a mess. Everything was clearly in its place, and used on a regular basis.

A fold up table was set up behind the ambulance, and there January found a trio of firefighters. They were fiddling with a stack of smoke detectors, and had several of them taken apart. They looked up as she stepped into view, and their eyes nearly popped out of their heads.

"It's you!"

"It's me," January breathed. She tried to play it cool at professional. The way Blood Raven would do it. That lasted for less than a second. She could not conceal a grin that probably looked as goofy as she felt.

"She showed!" Another voice emanated from a doorway in the back of the garage. January saw that it was the lieutenant she had met the night of the Flying Dutchman fire. He was the young one, with bright blue eyes and what she now saw was short blond hair. He was followed by a pair of other firemen, both of whom looked twice his age.

"Of course I showed," January said, "you think I can afford to pass up on a free lunch? I didn't know you guys lived across from the Whitney. Is that where we're going to eat?"

"Oh hell no!" an older firefighter laughed. "Fredo's cooking up the fettuccini right now. You know he's serious about his sister right?"

"The one with the ah…." January let her words trail off suggestively.

"That's the one," a third firefighter declared. "I've seen 'em too. They should be declared a national treasure."

"Nicholas Cage might steal them then," January remarked, which brought a chorus of laughs. The next thing she knew, cameras were produced, and she was taking selfies with the crew. More of the crew came along, including Captain Henderson, with his salt and pepper mustache and craggy features. They gave her a coat and helmet, which she put on for more pictures with them, including one with the entire station's crew.

Afterward they gave her a tour of the station. January was crushed to learn that they did not have a pole to slide down from the second floor, or a Dalmatian sidekick. The lieutenant put the lack of both down to budget cuts.

"So is Blood Raven actually coming too?" one of the firemen asked as they sat down for an early dinner in the dining room.

"I asked her twice. But I don't think so." January shook her head. Blood Raven had most emphatically refused each time, but January was trying to be diplomatic.

"I think she's more the dark avenger lurking on Gothic steeples type of person," January explained, trying to make light of it. "She's not the Italian feasting and laughter kind."

"But you are?" the blond lieutenant asked - January thought his name was Randy.

"Oh, give me pizza every day for the rest of my life!" January exclaimed.

"I still remember the first time I ever met Blood Raven," the captain said as a very young fireman went around and filled with plates with steaming hot fettuccini alfredo and grilled garlic bread. January wondered if he was even younger than she was, and imagined that he was the newest, and thusly lowest, man on the firehouse's totem pole. "I was younger than Stevie here, and barely on the job a week when Devil's Night rolled around."

"Over 800 fires in one night," Captain Henderson's eyes glazed over, as if he were reliving the event once more. "It was a nightmare. All night, all the next morning, we were running from one fire to the next. The one's we could get to at least."

"And the Raven was there through all of it. Pulling people out of fires just like you did at the Flying Dutchman. She was rounding up arsonists too, mostly young punks. I heard she even stopped a double-murder that night. She'll always have a place at my table, even if she never comes to sit at it."

That was her litmus test, January mused, the bar she had to live up to. She might not do it Blood Raven's way. But she would do it nonetheless.

"So how many fires did you have last year before Halloween?" January asked.

"Five," the Captain said with a smile.

The fettuccini nearly dropped from January's gaping mouth.

"Since Mayor Archer started the whole Angel's Night thing back in the 90s, things really changed," one of the older firefighters explained. Thousands of volunteers were out every year, patrolling the streets. It kept the arsonists and vandals away."

"They finally cancelled Angel's Night last year, because it's such a non-event," the captain said. "Now the 4th of July is our big day."

"Now that fireworks are legal in Michigan, lots of folks celebrate Independence Day by burning down their houses with 'em." Another firefighter piped up.

January learned more about fighting fires in the next half hour than she had in the entire life beforehand. They were putting the plates away when the alarm went off. The firemen literally dropped everything and scrambled out of the dining room for the garage below. Captain Henderson paused at the door to look back at January.

"Well, you coming or what?"

"Oh frak yes!" January grinned. With one leap she was past the captain and into the hallway outside. She spilled down the stairway with them to the ground floor and burst out into the garage. They grabbed their gear and were out the door in less than a minute. January piled into the first truck, next to the captain.

It turned out to be far less dramatic than the Flying Dutchman fire. Instead it was a little home in a residential neighborhood. Apparently there had been a grease fire in the kitchen and someone had thrown water on it. That had led to consequences as spectacular as they were unfortunate.

The family had evacuated the house by the time they arrived. There had been little for January to do. She was able to rescue a cat that had been hiding under the bed in the parent's bedroom. Much like the dog she had pulled out of the Dutchman, it had not been a fan of crows like herself. She had barely managed to hang on to it as she raced it out of the house. By the time she had gotten out on the front lawn it was climbing up the back of her head. She was thankful for the hagfish armor that Gadget had so presciently built for her. It saved her from a mauling. She did not hand over the cat to the homeowners, so much as they rescued her from him.

"President Chips is usually such a nice kitty," the mother breathed.

"President Chips?" January found herself wondering aloud.

"He's the commander-in-chief of the couch," the father laughed.

She went back inside to help with the fire. But she mostly just stood around, and watched how the real firefighters worked. She was tempted to use a fire suppressant grenade. But she only had one, and did not want to waste it. Not when the men of Engine 66 had things so clearly under control.

When all was said and done they filed out of the house with most of it not only still intact, but untouched by the fire. The kitchen was a disaster of course. But the rest of the place looked livable to January's admittedly untrained eye. She was about to climb back aboard the fire engine when the sound of police sirens wailed in the distance.

She waved goodbye to Captain Henderson and his men. Then she leaped into the sky. She had more work to do.

[Acadian]

January’s struggle with ‘perky voice’ is simply one of her quirks that serve to just make the young cape more endearing to readers.

Stormcrow’s mana-assisted spectacular launch in the opening scene shows us yet another significant advance to her flying. That she 'stuck' the landing is a nice tribute to her martial/gymnastics skills.

January’s nature and natural insights serve her well when it comes to tact and speechcraft. A stellar example of this was how she made Blood Raven’s apologies for not joining them.

Captain Henderson’s accounting of Blood Raven’s actions during Devil’s Night made me want to cheer for the older super heroine. I’m glad to see it also had a powerful effect on Stormcrow.

I could not help but think of Julian of Anvil during the cat rescue.

A nice interlude here that shows the Stormcrow building relationships with some of Detroit’s first responders. In this area, she is wise to forge her own way rather than follow the more. . . scorched earth example of Blood Raven.


Nits:
’In the center of them was a pedestrian door of darkened glass, flanked by planter overflowing with greenery, ‘ - - Perhaps ‘a planter’ or ‘planters’?
"But you are?" the blond lieutenant - January thought his name was Randy.’ - - This sentence seems to be calling for a speech tag like ‘said’ or ‘asked’ somewhere I think.

[Renee]

Hey, thank you for the Jim Jones link there. That really is a gift, I mean, I got really obsessed with that guy until I couldn't read anymore ... because. After awhile, it gets to be too much. He was a horrible man, but also oddly, he also did a lot of good things too, early on. Especially with civil rights for blacks, that really fascinated me, because there are all sorts of interviews on the 'net from 'minorities' who joined his cult early on.

She's trying to act professional again! I love all that!

January paused to look and saw a car load of people waving at her. She smiled and waved back. Being a cape was not all angst and challenges. For once it was nice just to be appreciated for what she did.

She's a kinder, friendlier sort of cape.

Oh gosh, more selfies. I wonder if I was a millennial if I'd be a smartphone owner myself? Obsessed with picture after picture, putting them all online.

Sorry. Sidetracked again.

Is she standing there eating pasta with her superhero gear on? Either way, it's a good thing Blood Raven isn't there, maybe. She would probably disapprove heavily.

In general, it is interesting to see January working through her identity. She's frequently comparing herself to Raven, deciding what is right and what is wrong. Unsure in some ways if she's to follow directly in her great x20 aunt's footsteps, or go her own way.

This post has been edited by Renee: Jun 4 2020, 01:04 PM

[treydog]

4.6

He had never even heard of Babylon 5, and you can just forget Farscape.

Firefly and appreciating Tom Waits on first hearing are among my “tests.”

And the Junior Stormcrow reminds us why Jan does what she does.

And she is also still dealing with the fact that whatever she does as Crowgirl is suddenly significant in all sorts of ways- not all of them positive. And that conversation did a wonderful job of showing not telling.

4.7

Spiders were not supposed to be bigger than an SUV!

No. Just... not. We had a wolf spider in the house for a while- and when you see something that big, with that many legs- that runs toward you....

Earth give me the strength of the mountain.

January focused all of her power on that image, of a mountain standing tall. She became that mountain: immovable, impervious, inviolate.

4.8

Having a Gadget in one's ear is a great help- and shows that strength comes from teamwork.

[SubRosa]

Acadian: I love Jan's perky phone voice. As you said, it is one of the things that keeps her down to earth.

Stay tuned for some even greater advances in January's flight later this chapter.

January is definitely committed to her goal of reaching out to people rather than trying to be a Lone Wolf. That won't always succeed of course.

Thank you for catching those nits. Having a proofreader helps immensely.


Renee: January will keep trying to act cool and collected and a consummate professional. You can probably guess already that is not going to work out...

These days life is all about posting pictures online. People live on social media as much as they do in the physical world. And social media is all about subtly one-upping all of your friends by showing how cool and perfect your life is. So it becomes more important to show that you were at the Lady Gaga concert with pictures on Twitter, than it is to actually enjoy the show. It is one reason I avoid all forms of social media.

She was sitting there eating pasta with her super outfit on. Like you said, at times that has to feel silly. But under the circumstances, there really was no other option except not show up at all. The life of a superhero...

January is definitely working on her identity, and defining who she is, and who she is not. Blood Raven plays a huge role in that, as she has been Detroit's only superhero for over 50 years. There was one other back in the 20s and 30s who fought the Purple Gang, but I have not even figured out his name yet. I keep circling around something like Model T. There are capes elsewhere, like the Sentinels in Chicago, but Blood Raven is the one January actually knows. So in many ways she is what Jan compares herself to.


treydog: The Junior Crow was inspired by a scene in the Supergirl TV show, where the gang all went to see a school play, in which all the kids were dressed up at Supergirl. James Olson whispered into Kara's ear: "They don't want to be you, they are inspired by you." I wanted to do something similar, and show a person inspired by January's example.

A spider was not my first choice for the monster in Pride. But the more I thought about it, the more and more it sounded like the ideal choice for our introduction to the Creatures of the Abyss. There is just something so altogether wrong and sinister about something with that many legs and eyes.

January would not get far without Gadget. He's as much a super as she is. Eventually he will come out of the shadows and suit up alongside her.









Midtown Apartments, church, and Lodge Freeway

University Foods



Book 5.4 - Crystal Death

"Frak girl, when you do lunch, you really don't mess around," Gadget's voice came over her headset.

"What do you have?" January replied. Her eyes scanned to either side as she winged toward the wail of the sirens. She soared west above the side street that the house with the burning kitchen had been on. She came to a Baptist church and an apartment complex. Beyond that the ground flattened out in a freeway.

She was not sure if she had enough lift to glide across the numerous lanes of traffic. So she came down on top of one of the apartment buildings and disengaged her wings. She ran for a few steps along the shingled roof, then rocketed back into the sky once more. Her wings snapped back out and caught air once more. By now this was all second nature.

All those weeks of practice with Lighthammer were really paying off. He had said that he could not understand how she did it. Her glide ratio was completely wrong for a person in a wingsuit. Thanks to meeting Blood Raven, she now knew that it was because of magic. Her magic was holding her aloft, far beyond what should be possible for the glider wings that Gadget had built into her cape.

That meant that one of these days she would be able to do more than just glide, but actually fly. Maybe someday she would do it without Gadget's wings at all. After all, magic was about reshaping reality. All she had to do was change the law of gravity, at least where it pertained to her.

No problem.

She soared across the John C. Lodge freeway. It was a sunken highway, cut down into the earth like the Death Star trench. As always it was a river of cars that screamed along at breakneck speeds. She would sooner take on Whitewater Security again than chance riding her motorcycle on it. Every day down there was the Grand Prix.

"Ok, I got it," Gadget declared. "University Foods just got robbed. It's just west of the Lodge from you."

January saw the red and blue lights of police cars, and banked hard right toward them. She lost some altitude in the maneuver, but still had plenty of lift remaining beneath her wings to get where she needed to be. She lined up on the supermarket and little strip mall beside it, and a moment later she soared over the rectangular buildings.

The parking lot spread out before her. The service drive to the freeway was directly to the right. Straight ahead across Warren Avenue was a gigantic parking lot for Lane State's football and baseball fields, which sprawled out even farther beyond.

The lot beneath her was a kicked over anthill of activity. Police cars blocked the only exits, with their lights flashing and doors hanging open. Police officers took shelter behind the vehicles, and aimed their guns into the lot. People were running everywhere through the area, or likewise taking shelter behind cars or trucks.

A rusted white minivan came to a screeching halt in front of one police car. January noted that all of the cops had their weapons pointed at it. She banked slightly to turn herself once more, in order to close in on the van. All she needed was a few more seconds, and she would be on top of it.

Then it lurched backward, and began to careen through the parking lot in reverse. It weaved its way drunkenly through the lines of cars, nearly shearing off bumpers or staving in quarter panels on more than one occasion.

Clearly, this was not going to end well.

January triggered off her wings and dropped to the pavement. She hit the asphalt and turned her momentum into a forward roll, and sprang back to her feet. The van was coming right for her now. Her elemental mantra sang in her mind, and she concentrated upon Earth.

Earth give me strength, keep me grounded, protect me from harm.

But the old rust-bucket veered off at the last moment. Whether that was because the driver had seen her, or if it was just by accident, January could not even guess. She could see that its new course would send it careening into a Honda which an old man and a young girl crouched behind.

January could easily see events play out in her mind. The van would crash into the Honda. It in turn would be sent flying backward, and crush the two bystanders into the broad body of the Lincoln just a foot behind them. It took only an instant for this disturbing image to play out in January's head. That left her plenty of time for action.

Rather than earth, she became water. She flowed, and then she crashed. It almost seemed as if the world reshaped itself around her. For a moment later she was between the van and the Honda. She absentmindedly noted the bumper stickers on the back of the Chrysler. One proudly proclaimed that the driver's student was on the Honor Roll, while the other implored January to Coexist.

She stretched out her hands, and caught the back doors of the oncoming vehicle. She felt herself being shoved back by the mountain of steel. But now she was stone, she was the mountain, she was adamant. Her feet became part of the earth, and the earth did not relent. The Chrysler minivan shuddered and ground to a halt. January heard loud thumps from inside, as if several large objects had been thrown backward through its interior.

"Either a soccer mom decided to rob the grocery store, or that van is stolen," Gadget said in her ear. "DMV says it's owned by Alicia Washington, a 50 year old from the East Side."

The minivan's tires ceased to strain against the asphalt. January warily let go, ready to grab the vehicle again if it began to move once more. She spared a quick glance back to the old man and the young girl behind her, between the Honda and the Lincoln.

"This would probably be a good time to relocate," January suggested gently. She turned back without waiting to see if they complied. She did not like taking her eyes off the van for even a second. There was no telling what might happen.

Looking through the rear window of the Chrysler, she could see green dollar bills scattered everywhere. Some still fluttered down through the air like the particles within a snow globe. Someone was sprawled across the driver's seat, and another person had fallen between the passenger seat and the long bench seat in the middle of the van. Both were clawing their way back up. She noted a gun in the hand of the one in the back.

She tried to think of her options. She could try opening the back door of the van and going inside after them. But then the driver could still take off and ram the innocent bystanders behind her. The same if she simply tried going around to either side of the vehicle. She could go for the driver and subdue him, then put the car in park. But that would give the passenger free reign to use his gun.

The van, or the gun, which was the bigger threat?

"See if you can get a flash grenade in there," Gadget suggested.

January fumbled at the back door. She could have just ripped it off, but this was clearly not the robber's van. She did not want to destroy what was probably someone's only way to get back and forth to work, and everywhere else. She knew that it was taking her too long. She was giving the thieves time, too much time. But she saw no other option.

She had the door open just in time to find both barrels of a sawed off shotgun in her face. Her Krav Maga training instantly took over. She grabbed the shotgun with both hands and pivoted the barrel up in the air. She would have kicked the gunman in the knee at the same time, but that just was not possible inside the minivan. Instead she shoved the gun back into his face, and slammed the steel barrels into his forehead.

He staggered, and let go of the weapon. She yanked it from his hands, and cracked it open while he was still seeing butterflies. A red plastic shell fell out of each of the barrels. She tossed the now harmless weapon down to the blacktop behind her. The gunman was coming back around by the time she was finished. Before he could get his bearings, she grabbed both his wrists and pulled them around a seatbelt that hung from the ceiling. With a zip tie from her utility belt, she bound his wrists together around it.

He snarled like a caged beast, and actually tried to bite her. January paid him no mind however. He was done. She turned her attention to the driver, who bolted out his door as soon as she clapped eyes upon him. But the van was still in reverse. January felt it instantly begin to creep backward, toward the Honda, and the two people that for all she knew were still hiding behind it.

She was air. She sprang through the back of the van, over the bench seats in the middle, and went head-first into the driver's seat. Her passage disturbed the money scattered everywhere, and kicked it up into a shower of green bills. She slammed down hard on the brake with one hand, and brought the van to a halt. Then she reached up and grabbed for the gear shift with the other hand, and jammed it into Park.

She felt the man in the back fumbling at her ankles. She absentmindedly sent a kick his way. She held back, as she always did to avoid killing people. But she still felt flesh give under her heel. She did not bother looking back to appraise her handiwork. Instead she scrambled out of the open door. She allowed herself to fall face first into the pavement. She turned that into a forward handspring, and bounced back to her feet.

She found the driver just a few feet away, hands grabbing for the clouds. Three Detroit Police officers had their guns trained upon him. In defiance of the adrenaline that rocketed through her veins, January forced herself to relax. She eased herself out of her fighting stance, and showed the police her open hands. She was not going to give them an excuse to shoot her. As a Queer person, she had learned that lesson long before donning the cape.

But the police were less interested in her, and more in searching and handcuffing the driver. They had him face down on the asphalt in moments, and pulled a handgun from one of his pockets, and a knife from the other. January glanced back, and saw more cops reaching into the minivan to take the second thief into custody. From the red mess in the middle of his face, she could see that his nose was broken. She wondered if that was from smacking the shotgun back into his face, or the kick she had sent his way later?

"That was quick thinking Stormcrow, catching the van like that," one of the cops said to her. "That could have hit someone."

"I'm just glad I could help," January murmured. She knew that sounded lame. It was the stock answer every athlete gave when they were interviewed after a game. But the truth was that she had no idea what to say. People complimenting her was not exactly something she was used to. The Detroit Police doing so even less so. Obviously they were not all like Captain Feldercarb, from the night of the Flying Dutchman fire.

She took a moment to find the old man and young girl she had protected, and learned that she was indeed his grandchild. As seemed to be the post-battle tradition, she took selfies with them and the police. She could just imagine Blood Raven rolling her eyes, especially at the latter. But while she certainly respected the older superheroine, January knew that she was going to do things differently than she did.

[Acadian]

I enjoyed Jan’s musings about her flying ability and especially her realization that she had not yet reached the limits of her envelope.

'The lot beneath her was a kicked over anthill of activity.'
A wonderful description that I’d expect from an aviatrix.

’The van was coming right for her now.’
Having carefully followed January’s growth since the beginning, I was pleased that this was all the clue I needed to know her plan – become earth and physically stop that van. And with a slight unexpected veer, that’s what she did!

"This would probably be a good time to relocate," January suggested gently.'
Jan's calm, quirky manner of phrasing here ever so much reminded me of Blood Raven’s first words to Jan at that big fire. The same old world courtesy and unusual choice of words that characterizes Blood Raven’s speech. Superbly done!

And how ‘January’ to open the stolen van’s back door instead of just ripping it open/off out of consideration for its owner.

This whole incident in the parking lot showcased Stormcrow’s skills, caring nature and sound judgment under fire. She certainly banked some cred points with Detroit’s finest here. You continue to show us how alike and different she is from Blood Raven. Both have the courage to forge their own paths. . . but those paths are not at all identical.


Nits:
’One proudly proclaimed that the driver's student was on the Honor Roll, while the {other?} implored January to Coexist.’
’She would sooner take on Whitewater Security again that {than?} chance riding her motorcycle on it.’

[Renee]

What are Lighthammer and Blood Raven's opinions of each other? Maybe this has been mentioned before but I can't remember.

You have Coexist bumper stickers in Michigan too.

"I'm just glad I could help," January murmured. She knew that sounded lame.

Probably sounded professional though, without forcing her voice!

More comments later. Time for dessert on this lovely summer day.

This post has been edited by Renee: Jun 8 2020, 12:40 AM

[SubRosa]

Acadian: There will be a lot more flying later this chapter, and Jan exceeding the limits of her envelope.

I don't have to tell you that the world looks different from hundreds of feet above it. I do have to remind myself, and put myself in that bird's eye view. Google Maps/World helps, since I can use it to see the world from high up.

I worked a lot on that "relocate" line, and went back and forth to get it right.

It is so very Jan to think about not breaking things. She would not be allowed in the Marvel movie universe with an attitude like that.

As ever, thank you for being my proofreader.


Renee: It is funny you mentioned Blood Raven and Lighthammer's views of one another, because they are both going to appear in a few more episodes, and that will be main eminently clear.

We do have Coexist bumper stickers here too. My guess they are everywhere. I wanted some sort of cue that the van probably did not belong to an armed robber. That and the honor roll student bumper sticker seemed like good hints.











Book 5.5 - Crystal Death

A few days later January stood in the Gadget Cave. The eponymous owner of the basement workshop sat at a long table. He had one of those giant, illuminated magnifying glasses strapped to his forehead, making him look every inch the mad scientist that he was. Her Stormcrow armor was spread out along the table, and he took his time, sewing, screwing, and otherwise attaching new pieces of gear to the original woven fiber material of the suit.

"Gilda Gadfly here folks, with the latest cape update."

January glanced over to see the blonde reporter on one of Gadget's many monitors. A moment later she was replaced by a series of pictures of January in her Stormcrow armor, with an agitated cat crawling all over her head and shoulders.

"It seems our loveable Crow is not a cat-person, as these pictures taken a few days ago from the scene of a Detroit fire reveal. She went in to rescue the cat, but in the end it looks like she was the one who had to be saved from the feisty feline. Maybe she's more of a dog-person. But that's ok Crowgirl, we still love you anyway!"

"I thought you said Gilda was nothing but shallow tripe?" January noted.

"She is," Gadget insisted. "But you have to admit, those videos of you and the cat are hilarious."

"Well, I guess if I am not saving people, I may as well entertain them," January breathed. Not that she really minded. It was good to laugh, and if one of her misadventures made people happy for a little while, so much the better. There was so little to be happy about in the world these days…

"So have you thought about what you are going to do for school this fall yet?" Gadget wondered aloud. "The registration deadline must be coming up soon."

"I've been thinking about that," January frowned. She turned from the table where Avery tinkered away on her suit. She walked over to the Blob, and laid an affectionate hand upon the old punching bag's duct-taped leather surface. "There's no point going back to the community college anymore. They don't offer an English degree. My mom wants me to go to Michigan State, like she did. But that's all the way out in Lansing. It's too far to commute, and I don't want to live in a dorm."

Not being trans, January thought, but did not say. It made life hard enough as it was. But trying to living communally? That was a just begging for abuse.

"You could look for a single-room dorm," Avery offered up, as if reading her mind. "Not sure about the bathrooms though."

"Most are communal, I checked," January frowned. "They say there are some single use bathrooms. But that means waiting for how long every time I need to take a shower? No thanks."

"Okay, what about Lane State?" Avery asked. "It's a lot closer. Ryo's going there. If your classes line up, you could ride down there with him."

"I like Lane State," January admitted. "I've been down there in Midtown a couple of times now. It's a lot cheaper than MSU too."

"So what do you want?" Avery paused what he was doing, and spun around on his stool to look at her.

"To be honest, I am not sure that I even want to go to school anymore." January plopped down on the tattered old couch in the center of the basement. She cradled her face in her palms, and frowned. "What's the point? Just so I can say I have a degree? I don't need one to be a writer, or to be a martial arts instructor. Sometimes I think I'm just doing it because my mom wants me to."

"I thought you liked going to college?" Avery scratched his head. His hand looked gigantic when it passed behind the magnifying glass. Like a space monster attacking his face.

"I do," January felt no urge to laugh at how silly he looked. That was how serious this felt. "It's nothing like high school. Or should I say hell school? The classes I've taken in just the last year have exposed me to books I never would have read otherwise. I've learned so much, even from the stories I didn't particularly like."

"But it always comes down to money," January sighed. "It's not like we live in Doctor Heisen's technocracy, where school is free for everyone who can make the grades. You know I'm not rich, now less than ever. And when can I make the time with work at the dojo, my physical training, my magical training, my writing, and this whole cape thing? I'll have to drop out of gaming night again, like I did last semester."

"I want to start writing now, for real, and start selling my stories. Maybe even make a comic," she said. "Then I could quit the dojo. That would give me more time for training and supering. Look, I've been waiting all day to show you this!"

She bounced to her feet, and pulled out her phone. She worked her thumbs on the Hamsung's relatively small screen, and proudly turned it to Avery. The slender black man rose to his feet and took the phone in his hands. His smile literally lit the room.

"This Spell For Hire!" he crowed. "You scruffy nerf-herder, you did it! Your first book is for sale. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I wanted it to be a surprise," January said. She did not also mention that she did not want to jinx it by talking about it before hand. Or that even she did not believe that it was possible, until she actually saw it in pixels herself.

"It's not a real book though," she admitted. "I had to self-publish online. But you can get it on Amassona.com, or Bartleby and Aristocracy."

"It's as real as any other book," Avery insisted. "I can't wait to read it."

He handed her back the phone, and pulled out his own nerdcore communication device. It looked like an I-Phone from the outside. But January knew that the plastic case was the only thing it had in common with anything sold by Apple.

"You already have," January said. "I decided to scrap that Seven Samurai idea I was working on. I went back and adapted one of the stories I wrote last year, the fantasy detective one."

"The one where Aela and Loria have to stop the assassin?" Avery mused. "I liked that one."

"I went over it again, did some updates, and changed the setting to use the world I created for the samurai story," January mused. "I like how it turned out, and it gives me a lot of room for more stories. I can make an open-ended series out of this if I want to."

"There," Avery said, "you just sold a copy. And at $3.99, it's a steal."

"Well it's not a full novel," January admitted, "only about 30k words. Maybe I can write something longer in the future. But then again, I see a lot of shorter stories like this online. It's the perfect place. I can charge less, since I don't have to worry about printing costs. Now I just need to get people to buy it."

"No problem," Avery said. "I'll be done in a few minutes. You can get suited up, and I'll take some pictures of Stormcrow reading the latest in fantasy fiction. I'll have them all over the web faster than you can say 'influencer'."

"I couldn't do that!" January was aghast. "That's, that's…"

"Capitalism?" Avery offered up. "Being poor isn't noble. It just stinks. There's nothing wrong with being able to pay your bills. Look at Thunderbolt and Riven. They sold their wedding photos to Person magazine! I will bet you that new fusion power plant Stinger and Zero Point are building for Chicago is going to net them some change as well. Besides, it doesn't have to be that blatant, just a pic of you reading the story on your tablet."

"I don't know…" January found herself biting her lip. She stopped. She didn't want to get lipstick on her teeth.

"You know, you really can be too Lawful Good sometimes," Avery shook his head. He returned to his worktable, and went back to giving her armor his tender loving care. "There is a point where it becomes Stupid Good you know."

"I know," January murmured, "I know. I guess I could. I just don't want to be selfish, you know? Too many people in this world don't stop to think about how their actions affect others. They just want to get rich now, and don't care about the consequences."

"Well, you are hardly Leopold II, or Enron," Avery insisted. "It's not like you're cheating people. Your writing is good. Everyone who reads it, likes it. You bring some joy into people's lives, at least for a little while. That's worth spreading the news about. Besides, every time a celebrity or podcaster does an interview it is to pimp their latest project. They always plug their movies, or books, or websites at the end. Seriously, it's ok to toot your own horn once and a while."

January could not help but wonder if King Leopold II said the same thing to the people of the Congo? Not that she thought of herself as a genocidal colonialist. But when did shameless self-promotion become, well, shameless?

She wished there was a giant spider around to smash. That would be a lot easier to grapple with.

"So what's this about a comic?" Avery said. From his tone, she knew that he was pretending to be nonchalant. But really, he was incredibly excited.

"It's an idea my mother gave me," January said. "I've worked it out. I have a character, and a basic story. Artemis Argent, aviatrix of the Republic of New Orleans, or maybe Haiti. I still have a few details to hammer out."

"Artemis Argent?" Avery said. "That is like the coolest name ever. Is she any relation of Cleopatra Jones?"

"Well, she is a person of color," January could not stop herself from blushing, "and she does kick booty. She's got an artificial arm made from silver, or titanium, or something silvery at least. She flies an airship. It's steampunk, set in an alternate 1800s."

"How are you going to do the whole, you know, comic part of the book?" Avery wondered.

"I'm going to talk to Rus about illustrating it. He did my cover for This Spell For Hire." January said. "I know he doesn't want to work at his dad's tool and die shop for the rest of his life. His art is good. Better than a lot I see in mainstream comics."

"What if he says no?" Avery asked. "He might not be able to, you know."

"Then I write it as prose and self-publish on the internet," January declared. "I can go either way. Honestly, it would be easier just doing it as a novel. But I like the idea of doing a comic. It would be stretching, a challenge."

"Careful, you're starting to sound like a motivational poster," Avery chuckled. "But I agree. I think it would be great if you two could step outside your comfort zones a little, and make it work. You might be the next Neil Gaiman."

"Just don't say anything to Rus about it yet," January insisted. "I don't want to go to him until I have my drek together."

[Acadian]

After Gilda’s review, I’d recommend Jan consult with Julian of Anvil about rescuing cats.

"I thought you liked going to college?" Avery scratched his head. His hand looked gigantic when it passed behind the magnifying glass. Like a space monster attacking his face.’
- - Such a perfect bit of background for this scene that adds some welcome levity to a serious discussion of Jan’s choices regarding college.

This Spell For Hire! The scruffy nerf-herder sure kept her book a secret from Avery! A perfect title for an Aela and Loria adventure. It is so nice to see Jan moving her writing along.

Ah yes, that point where Lawful Good becomes Stupid Good.