(7) Dark Phoenix v (18) Circus

[Ranger]

Despite the slow movement the sound that the snap of the whip made against the flesh of the young thief was delightful. It gave the warrior spirit a little spurt, which then translated itself as a smile and a glint behind the silver eyes of the drow. He could see the blood spray and follow the path of the bladed whip. Even as the light dissipated, almost instantly, the sight of the pathetic human bleeding was enough for Ranger to at least feel as if he had accomplished something in the fight.

A split second was all the drow needed to make his creation dissolve and once again wait on the edge of existence. The spell was always at the ready and took little out of the drow, and therefore happened to be one of his favorites. But what caught the eyes of the quick prophet was that the spell’s speed was not slowed as his movements were. Spells for the drow were divine, given and granted by the Thayne alone. Such spells were directly from the mind, to think of them was to create them. As such it was not at a physical alacrity that the spells were created, but at the speed of thought—veritably a speed faster then light itself.

Ranger’s ideas were flowing, his thoughts were moving faster then he could control them. As if to emphasize the fact, a barrier of pure light flashed before the drow. Seth had lost what emaciated grasp he may have had on sanity. His eyes were glowing with a threat from within. No longer did the drow feel like the boy before him had changed in any way for the better. Instead Ranger worried for Seth. The thief had been a nemesis of the past, true. But he had also been a team member of the Black Hand, albeit a perverted and broken off-shoot from the Red Hand.

Seth’s eyes were flashing with demons. He was swaying to a dangerous song, a lull of false promises and broken dreams. It was a razor’s edge that would be beneath his feet, a precarious perch upon reality that held him up. Below him were the demons, to either side where the demons and Ranger could not help but feel that Seth had already given in to them. But what was he to do? What could he do?

Seth Dahlios was not his partner. He was his adversary.

Even as the daggers points struck through the flickering wall of light, piercing it as if the wall was nothing more then a sheet of two inch paper, the drow felt only pitty. He was looking through the wall. It was not the gray eyes that he was forcing himself to look into but the very soul of the young thief. It was something that although frightening was also mesmerizing and gripping. “For honor alone I do this.”

The daggers had already pierced the wall. The force behind them and the rage filled anguish behind Seth combined to break the light. The wall would fail in seconds; it was merely a matter of tier at that point. The strength of the weapons metal was far superior to that of the drows shield. Though sparked. With the serenity of Rangers platinum eyes still focused on the complete odium of his opponents the shield fell. Even as it flickered away the blades finished their course, slamming into either shoulder of the drow.

But it was only a split second before the light that had formed the shield was transformed into a solid cylinder. The end of it, flat and not meant for anything more then bludgeoning, shot forward at Seth’s sternum. Not much momentum was behind it, but the head of the cylinder was fueled and raging. The light that formed it was glowing as bright as any flame and the heat was causing the ends of the drows now frenzied hair to sizzle.

At the same time Ranger fell away. His knees gave way at his command and he fell backwards, pushing himself the slightest bit to give room between himself and Seth. Even if the light did not push his opponent away the drow would need time to recover, time to think of something more. Unfortunately his arms had taken quite a deal of damage, with the daggers having punctured deeply into the spot directly above the underarm. Before that even was the spell from earlier though, it forced him to move slowly, not even be able to catch himself and save himself from gravity.

Disparity seemed to be the prophet’s only friend. At times he would be on top of the world, guided by the hands of the Thayne and striding in the light of their joy. At other times he would find himself no better off then he had been so long ago, only the shadows of the turned Thayne falling over him. The fight had quickly turned towards the latter, and Ranger could feel the warmth of his shoulders bleeding, the claret fluid as thin as the finest red wine.

“Damn you Seth Dahlios,” he mumbled despite his lips not following at the speed he spoke. “Damn you to whatever path you have taken upon yourself to follow. Damn you for giving up on not only yourself but all others too. Damn you for the demons you have allowed within…”


((For the record I had drill since Friday afternoon and was gone all weekend. Sorry for the inconvienence.))

[Dissinger]

Seth growled as he saw the barrier of light. He was far beyond rational now as he fought, he wasn't even sure why he was fighting anymore. His mind had forgotten the wayward maiden, the spirit of generosity. The angel of mercy that sought to save him when he didn’t even want to save himself was now missing. His mind was a swirling mixture of frenzied emotions and rage at his situation as he hit the barrier hard. He could feel himself starting to puncture through it as he snarled before the cry of exultation resounded through the cage.

The predator had wounded its prey.

Soon however it seemed the prey hit him hard. A burning pillar of light forcefully scalding his skin as it dried the dripping blood on his chest sending a bit of steam. The punch while not powerful by any means, was unexpected as he was pushed back, snarling as the piston pushed him back. The demons within him raged for answers. He raged to gain vengeance upon the pitiful Drow as they drowned out the dimming voice of the thief. Gone was the morality, gone was the feelings of guilt for using such crude tactics.

Spite and Malice clattered to the ground as he was jarred by the impact, for a second it seemed he might have been knocked over as well. Yet still he persisted, trying to remain aloft born upon the wings of the Lavinian Demon as his foot slammed down, resounding through the arena and halting his backward momentum. He groaned as he looked at the Drow, the daggers long forgotten.

He had a second pair of daggers, deadly and cruel daggers...

The sound of metal upon metal could be heard as he closed his eyes. The setting of his teeth as he opened them, revealing nearly dead eyes showed renewed will. He refused to fall, not to this cleric. Not to this fool who sought to climb into a cage with a beast. The predator still had to sate its taste for blood, and so he growled as he drew daggers the twin pair that had caused many a death.

Ebony and Ivory had entered the fray as he stood at ready, waiting for the Drow to get up, knowing slow would release him soon enough.

[Nightsangel]

Sivienna's ears stung from the elephant's loud raucous voice. Pursing her lips, she sighed softly as the overwhelming scent of blood graced the boxed in cage. The slender hand that was gripping the cold metal of the cage tightened, once...twice...then a third time as her stomach begin to churn. Her plans to use the chains were slowly disappearing...her mind was slowly becoming what she despised..the thirst...the unbearable lust for blood was starting to overwhelm her. Her sense of smell was starting to become very potent, as she blinked focusing once more on the elephant. She saw that he had made his way to a horrified vendor, her lilac eyes narrowed as she caught the color of yellow and red. As the unmistakable smells of ketchup and mustard reached the vampire, she groaned as she moved to use the chains as a climbing rope.

Placing one leather boot against the cold unyielding metal of the cage, the vixen begin to painfully climb the rope. The ungiving coldness burned her hands as she could feel the sharpness of the metal dig into her fragile skin. As she heard the squirts of the bottle going off, she begin to swing the chain to her left and right. Bright arcs of yellow and red squirted at her, some hitting her back, the bright stain sinking into the soft material of her halter top. She winced in pain as the metal seared her skin violently, ignoring this she flipped upside down, so that she was like a monkey hanging from the ceiling of the cage. Looking at Chumley as he slashed the whip of hot dogs, she grinded her teeth as she hissed 'You silly little elephant! You really think food products will do any good against me?"

Wiping the ketchup off her of pale arm, she grins wide and fast as she murmurs softly "You'll see that your efforts, your so called goal is in vain!" She then gave in to her own inner demons, that soothing snake that was telling her to give in to her instincts to her wants, her desires. Holding out her bloodied hands, a purplish black aura begin to swirl around her slim frame. Slowly her hair darkened until it was almost black but in reality it was merely a dark shade of violet, her nails beneath her claws sharpened, as they begin to dig into the leather, Sivienna quickly pulled them off. Shortly after this her change was complete the dark aura swirled around her still, but she was smiling.

Moving to lick her hands clean, she slurped eagerly at the blood before she sighed and stared hungrily at the elephant. In a deep purring voice she stated "Mmmm this is divine...but its not enough...I need more...more.."

She then begin to stalk towards the elephant her eyes bright with her intentions. Moving to slash at his useless defense, she grinned her fangs gleaming and white.

Tonight for the first time, Sivienna Mizami had let her restrictions go and her own demons were ready and itching to taste the divine wine that for so long they had been denied....

[chumley]

Chumley watched with tear-filled eyes as the vampiress began her unholy transformation, shifting from a mere harlot to a veritable Whore of Babylon. The unparalleled pachyderm blanched at the horrible creature's approach, swinging his sausage whip in an futile attempt at self-defense. A noise like General Sherman's saber slicing through a watermelon heralded the destruction of the meaty defense. Chumley dropped the remains of the sausage whip and searched for some defense, like Jericho after the collapse of their walls, and found himself unarmed.

"By Ra's flaming eye!" Chumley bellowed, flailing his arms and trunk, spraying fountains of blood about him. "Your strategy might be winning this battle, but your tactics are not above reproach, you Satanic creature!" Chumley looked to the spot in the chains where the creature had hung only a few seconds ago, grinning at her miscalculation. The chains seemed as delicate as the gossamer latticework of the industrious spider, for they were beginning to slowly come unhinged from one another. Like the spaghetti of an Italian's greasy bistro, they slid over one another, unhinging from whatever malignant marionette strings held them in place, and falling to the ground like so many wet noodles. Only this time there was no mustachioed man who could spear the pasta with a well-placed parry of his fork. Alas, the entire cage was collapsing atop the warriors, and not even the steely resolve of the American spirit could delay the inevitable destruction.

"We have both met our match!" Chumley roared as the vampiress approached. She would be able to attack him before the entire arena fell upon them, like a mighty sequoia upon the logging tracks of California. Chumley saw no way out. He was, it appeared, doomed, but had time for one last hurrah. "I may die, but the American spirit shall never pass from this globe! Nay, it shall extend across and beyond it!" Chumley steeled himself for his fate, the loss of blood dizzying him beyond hope.

But then, with the luck of Fennimore Cooper's towering heroes, Chumley's salvation made itself known. The realization of salvation dawned over him, and Chumley reached within his jacket, pulling out Dahlios's bladed throwing weapon. He clutched the steel tooth of a weapon in a clammy hand, and shoved it at the vampiress's face as she came within arm's length of him.

"You wish to battle with blades, harlot? Then we shall battle with blades!" Chumely knew this was his last attack - his body was about to give out. Like an exhausted settler at the end of the Oregon Trail giving his last strength into the final half-mile to the coast, he shoved the weapon with his final fighting breath.

[Ranger]

The flash from the cylinder of light was like lighting a match mere inches from one’s eye. It left black spots in the vision of the drow. But that was only a piece of the wear of battle that was racking his body. His head throbbed viciously from the fall and he held little reservations that he had not cracked his skull. Platinum locks spread out around the elven prophet, giving him a pallid mane fit for the king of the jungle itself.

Blood.

As if he needed to remind himself what the smell was that filled his nose. It was strong and coppery. Claret rivulets ran from the front of the drow’s shoulder. He could see them if he cocked his head just right, could see either one with a bit of strain despite the black spots. The blood looked thin, like a watered down red wine. Ranger was impassive though as he let his head slowly fall again, straining muscles along his neck to support it so as not to injure it any further. The time had come; it was the other team that had taken the victory this time.

Overhead the clacking of the steel cage sounded like an ill-played concerto. A smile crept across his face without him knowing. His partner was indeed unique, summoning forth bands and dancers with its aspirations. Then came a snicker, at him instead though. Such a time to be dwelling on the past, however short of a past it was, was hardly appropriate.

Without warning the weight of the world seemed to slowly fade away, its extra pull had fallen away just as quickly as it had come. Luckily for the drow it was not as painful departing the body as it was entering. Ranger sat up quickly, throws of pain lapping against his conscious. Time had not passed nearly as quickly as he had thought. Seth was looking at him.

Chumley was dancing with his odd grace, but instead of a weapon he was wielding linked sausage. Such an odd and yet inspiring partner. His foe, the vampiress Sivienna, was not anything like her opponent, and that was exactly what Ranger had been counting on when he had allied himself with the elephant. The drow grimaced as he stood up, his left arms was beyond useless. The blade had sunk deep into a nerve, leaving not only the limp numb but nothing more then dead weight. His right was tingling, stinging like a fresh frostbite but ready for use, if not a little weakened.

The right hand dropped the dagger that had found itself imbedded deep in his muscular shoulders. The wound instantly opened a little wider, spilling a little blood from the already slowly healing wound. The left blade was to remain. If it was in a spot as Ranger supposed then it would be best not to remove it, for fear of a great loss of blood (beyond what he had already lost) and an almost intolerable pain.

“Seth Dahlios.” Ranger’s voice was cold, pained. The first step of the crumbling infrastructure that was the cage fell. From overhead a single ring of steel dropped at the exact center of the ring, the tip of the dome the beginning of the break. As it hopped up and down the drow continued. “I forgive you.”

Though it was quite close to the lines of ‘human cliché’ that he had always prided himself on staying away from, Ranger felt it necessary. The battle meant more to him then any other probably would, unless more of his past began to appear from fight to fight. Before the ravaged eyes of his opponent the prophet lifted his head. He took a final look at Chumley, mentally noting to thank him for his help and to fulfill the ‘team aspect’ of the tournament fully in the coming rounds. He took in the face of the vampiress, noting to remember that face for the future. And finally his platinum eyes caught Seth’s once again.

“Vi num’er villae,” he muttered under his breath. It was the first drow he had spoken in years. It was an old phrase, ‘to the end’, and was the first rule to follow in the old drow military. Ranger was a warrior first, a fighter and competitor before all. Deep down, in that miasma that formed his past memories before Pelor, before the Red Hand even, that warriors spirit always dwelt. It seemed as appropriate a time as any to brush away the dust of those memories. The Lornius Corporate Challenge was before him and it called to him.

With a nod the drow crouched into a defensive stance. There would be one more attack, if even that, before the roof of the cage came crashing down upon the helpless combatants. One last attack till the first round would be determined and whatever determined the victors would be worked out. The right hand was held up, sharp pain tearing through the elves shoulder as he did so. His left remained limp. The prophet sighed.

“Vi num’er villae…”

[Dissinger]

Seth watched as the Drow slowly peeled himself from the floor, the daggers sticking out of his shoulders as a testimony to the damage they had done. As the Drow reached up and clutched Malice, he let it clatter to the ground, the obsidian daggers clattering and sliding a bit across the floor. The Drow however left Spite, the Dragon Bone dagger made from Rath'gylmak the dragon from the Theater of War.

So much history in those two daggers, and yet they paled to the brutal history of the twins in his hands. Ebony and Ivory, twin prevalida daggers had begun life as the daggers that slew his best friend Thomas. They had killed many people, and eventually his parents. These daggers had taken everything from him, and so he reluctantly wielded them.

Until now.

Now they were pulled and he looked upon Ranger. His eyes spoke of determination. The years that had passed since the Black Hand had tempered both of them, and yet he had surpassed the Drow that had fought him in the mine long ago. As Ranger stood Seth saw the determination that despite the fact he was beat, to push on. He could almost respect that out of the Drow, except for three words spoken before the bout even began;

"I forgive you"

It enraged him, made him feel weak and pathetic. It roused his anger more wholly than anything said before. He wasn't a person begging forgiveness. He wasn't some small child needing to atone. He was an adult. He made his bed and was lying in it, and for a man he never felt had that right, to say he forgave him? It was too much.

His lips curled in a snarl he ignored the collapsing cage as he spoke, "Save your forgiveness for the afterlife! I didn't ask for it!" He then sped forward and tried to bring his arms out to kill the Drow, twin daggers slashed outwards to slit the throat of the Priest.

(Ranger feel free to post a reply. We should at least finish our part asap since it closes soon...)

[Ranger]

Reality, it is said, drifts away from one before they die. In the case of warriors it comes as a vision from whatever they hold most dear. The homesick see their families calling them home, the greedy see the hallucination of the riches they crave, and the devout see the god they serve or the King they serve telling them ‘good work’ and releasing them. It changed due heavily on the life led and what the deteriorating spirit held most dear till the end. However different the final delusion is, however unique they are to the individual, it is generally agreed they all relay the same message: “The fulfillment of your dreams and you life have come. Leave that world behind and enjoy them.”

The prophet’s visions were a little different.

To the left a skittering figure caught his eye. When he turned it had vanished. To his right an ethereal hand brushed gently across his face. Despite the drumming of his head it snapped to the side, looking into the face of the ghost of his wife. ‘Father,’ the drow turned again to see his son, holding a wooden blade with a smile on his face. ‘You said you would teach me when I grew big enough, is now such a time?’ But both visions faded almost instantly.

In their place was a light, no six lights, coming at him from all sides. Fear and apprehension dawned across his visage. No one would know what he was looking at; he could not even tell them if he had wanted to. It was the Thayne. They had come at his parting, they where what he held most dear at heart. A momentary sense of pride burst from him, but was quickly subdued when the death induced delirium began to push him away. ‘Your place is on Althanas, not with us yet,’ the voices cried. ‘Your time and mission have not been completed and failure is not acceptable.’

“In the afterlife it will be too late.”

Ranger mumbled his response with a tone of immense distance. His voice had gone hollow, his eyes were wide and the fog of death had begun to glaze them over. It was the end and he could feel it. The enraged Seth charged Ranger. Overhead the clatter of the cage began to sway violently began to shift its network of steel, bow and bend in rather forbidding ways. It was all over and there was but one move to make for the two of them.

The boy’s footsteps were heavy, pounding in the sharp ears of the drow almost as much as the headache itself. He would not finish the fight with Seth yet out of control. As his opponent reached within a meter distance, his arms cocked and ready for the final thrust, the haunted eyes gripping the drow’s neck, Ranger lunged. Though it may have not been quick enough or was expected, Ranger hoped he had caught his opponent off-guard.

His right hand grabbed the blade yet wedged into his shoulder. With a roar it was torn from the shoulder, enveloping the drow in a sheet of searing pain and flashes of light. But the drow pushed through. It arched upwards, aimed with near perfection as the base of the sternum with enough upward momentum to crush it and get to the heart. There was no way to dodge the sweeping daggers that were aimed at his neck, and in truth he had little intentions of doing so. He would die with his throat slit open almost through, but Seth’s own dagger would find its place in his cold heart too.

Even before the blade would connect Seth's daggers would find their place. Ranger could already see the world fading. His vision was cloudy and his head was spinning. It would possibly be a draw between the two combatants, a draw that would translate almost definitely into further hatred of the drow within the young human's mind.

We will meet again...

Then it was over. The battle had come with an unimpressive ending.

[Nightsangel]

Sivienna's eyes widened in startled surprise as the red stained dagger made a beeline straight for her pale but beautiful face. Sweat beaded her brow as she realized that the swift strike was too speedy for her to dodge. Knowing that if the knife dug into her skull she would be unable to move, or for that matter live....She pivoted, doing a half waltz twirl as the dagger whistled cleanly through the soft air. Sweat beaded down her brow in small droplets as she prayed that she had moved just enough for the dagger to strike a less vital area of her face.

A slight shudder of pain passed through her fragile body as she felt the cold metal dig into the soft flesh of her cheek. Still seeped in her darkness the pain barely registered but it was there, and the pain was enough to shock the night vixen out of her bloodlust.

Blinking as she shook her head from side to side, she blinked astonishingly as she stared around the chained cage. Something...something was different...the pristine gossamer chains were no longer snaked around the wire of the cage. They were dangling like tantalizing snakes in front of her face. A distinct rumble could be heard, like that of a large brick building tumbling down. Running a hand through her damp and cold hair, the vampiress turned away from her dying foe. She could already tell that the annoying overly loud elephant was passing on to the netherworld. The scent of his blood was too strong; his wheezing choking gasps were her most obvious signs.

Pursing and moistening her dry lips, the vixen's lilac eyes fell on the crumpled form of the animal. Taking one step forward, she finally felt the warm liquid that ran caressingly down her pale skin. Sighing as she felt it she murmured softly but coyly 'Last attempt elephant? Hahaha it looks like it failed!" Peering at him, her violet locks of hair covered her face briefly shadowing it as she purrs "While you pass into the netherworld, I'll get out of this crumbling hellhole and blink myself to safety." Grinning as she did one small half turn she murmurs "Maybe next time you'll get lucky elephant...but for now its time for this vampiress to make her exit!"

Sivienna then slowly sauntered back from Chumley's form. Wincing as a broken chunk of wire clattered in front of her face, she held up her hands as she chanted quickly. Her aura pulsed...once...twice...three times. More pieces of the cage fell like slivers of metal rain around her. However lucky for Sivi none of the hazardous pieces struck her. slim fragile form. Soon a blackish-purple portal had formed behind her. Now while this portal would safely teleport her out of the crumbling cage. It would do no more then teleport her to the safety of the path that led to what would soon be a ruined cage.

Thinking only of her safety the night beauty stepped swiftly into the darkness. Moments later she was standing on the clean white path, with small drips of blood staining the white softness a dull red. Looking at the falling wreckage, she shudders as she thinks softly That could of been me...I could have been buried by the wreckage that is falling.... Wiping her sweaty brow Sivienna was glad she was safe, however, she could still see her partner...Seth locked in mortal combat...Frowning heavily Sivienna's eyes locked on Seth's form as she prayed that he would get out safely. If he didn't she knew she'd have to dig him out so that she'd have his help when the next round of the Lorinius Corporate Challenge came about.

[Dissinger]

The feeling of the twin prevalida blades through their victim's flesh was a wondrous feeling to the delusional man. As he felt them however, so did he feel a sting. The blade that had been wedged was placed deeply inside his chest, piercing the heart of the thief. He jolted to a halt as he met eyes with the dying Ranger, seeing the look of desperation, and perhaps a trace of victory in his eyes. He grinned as he coughed, a bit of blood escaping his lips as he said softly, "You think its over don't you?"

Feeling his life fading he gripped for the gift, only to look down in horror. The gift was out of his reach, and the counter was his own clumsy stupidity. The dragon bone Spite, the antitheses of his very corruption, was lodged in his chest, and while he tried desperately to clutch the gift of the magi, it was obvious while spite was inside he could not heal.

Another wet cough filtered out of him as he sagged, the blade stuck in his chest. Had he of taken the dagger out before, he could have healed and all this would have been a moot point. But the pride of trying to show even the most lethal wound would not stop him, had been his downfall. It had been a long time since his pride had undone him, and yet here it was again, tripping him up at the finishing line.

He no longer tried to hold himself up as he fell to a knee. He knew he was done for, he didn't even wish to try and prolong the inevitable. A soft chuckle escaped him as he said softly, "Looks like it’s a draw again..."

Falling to his side he began to let himself go as the cage began its final collapse, the structure that had looked so sound at the beginning falling apart with the greatest of ease. Seth however was already within death's clutches, long before the grand finale to the fit, leaving only Sivienna, and perhaps the foolish pachyderm, but resoundingly ending the fight with the period.

[chumley]

The exhaustion of mortal combat had sapped the noble Chumley's emotions, and he could not bring himself to even feel disappointment at the failure of his attack. His sinewy opponent twisted to the side with a slimey craftiness unseen since Delilah sheared Samson's flowing locks. A tired man's moan groaned from his throat as he fell to his knees, expecting the final death blow. "I shall at least face the end like a man... and an American." Chumley thought to himself. "Though I fought an enemy as duplicitous as these Irish, no one who saw this battle on this day shall mark me as at their lowly level." Unexpectedly, however, the final blow never came. Chumley slumped to the side, holding himself up by one arm, and watched the witch leave him and conjure up a diabolic spell before her.

"Were only we in Salem, witchfiend," Chumley whispered. He found his throat, as Webster and Haynes must have after their valorous oratorical duel, hoarse and slow to speech. He could barely force out the final scathing insult of the battle as the sorceress disappeared. The cacophonous clash of chains about him undoubtedly masked the quiet jab. As the cage collapsed, Chumley looked slowly about him, his head as heavy as a sack of grapeshot. The vendor had fled in terror. His opponent had disappeared. From what he could see, his partner had fared no better than he. Chumley was overwhelmed with sorrow at the fact he had not even tried to help the priest. How could he have been so flippant, so dismissive, and so egotistical that he did not even think of helping the sorry soul fight Dahlios, the most dreadful ne'er-do-well upon whom G-d had ever frowned? "Forgive me, Lord!" Chumley silently prayed. Although the smashing sounds of the collapsing cage surrounded him, filling his fading hearing, the flailing metal falling around his darkening eyes, Chumley thought that, somewhere, the Good Lord was answering him. The soothing sounds of the righteous Battle Hymn of the Republic seemed to float in the air, and that was all the reassurance the honorable elephant required.

Seemed? Why, it did not seem. It could be heard, ever so barely over the terrible tumult of metal against metal. A heavy chain slammed down upon Chumley's sprawled leg, but he did not feel it. His spirit rose at the tremendous tune, which began to rise in volume, even louder and faster than the disintegrating cage, until even through his paling, near-useless ears, Chumley could hear it as clearly as a bell. Around the remains of the cage, standing in awe, removing their hats and placing them over their chests, were the crowd that had gathered as Ranger had entered the arena. Few of their eyes were dry, and few mouths were still. Creatures as bizarre as were ever found in the imaginations of the German folklorists mingled with men as plain as the farmers of Missouri. They stood, transfixed at the sight of the elephant, prone before them, who had battled so fiercely against opponents so dour, underhanded and distasteful that they would surely be remembered with distress for years. The combined voices rolled across Chumley, reminding him that, despite his failings, he had made one success during the battle. They sang words they had never heard before, calling upon the Almighty to preserve their way of life against all obstacles. Chumley found his eyes as moist as theirs, and his spirit as moved.

"Remember!" he bellowed with a strength that could not come solely from his dying body, "Remember for what principles I fought!" As the crowd moved into a final, reverberating refrain, Chumley raised a bloody arm in the air. "Remember!" And then, the crash of chains, and nothing.

******

Chumley! The voice called to him, indistinct in the distance. Chumley! it repeated, more clear this time. The elephant roused his head, a heavy bar of metal falling from his crown, and blinked slowly. All about him was dark, and a dusting of ash had fallen over the remains of the cage. But, in the distance, the only spot of light he could see, a figure grew. It slowly gained a more corporeal form, although its luminescence seemed to be the only thing holding it together, as if Chumley could see through it if there was anything but darkness behind it. The form was a man's, standing in loose robes, a beard on his chin and a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Abe?" Chumley rapsed, confused. And it was, indeed, His Excellency, Abraham Lincoln. "Abe?"

"You will go to Haidia!" The figure called to him.

"Haidia?" Chumley responded, even more confused.

"There you will learn from Stephen Douglas - the oratorical master who instructed me." Abe responded. And then, all was darkness again.