The Clock, the Vault, and the Sword of Kings

[Jack Callahan]

The Vault Knight: Chapter 1



http://i177.photobucket.com/albums/w226/inokungfulolz/BigBen-1.jpg


I’m running out of time, he thought.

The hour chimed, Big Ben’s hands blending together into a single limb directed toward heaven. Twelve tolls of the bell – that was the sound of midnight over the River Thames. It was cool that evening, a heavy mist pouring up and over the walls of Westminster and slithering across the skin of the water, clinging to its surface like a slowly churning sea of serpents. Even though the blackness of night had long since fallen over London the city itself still managed to seem gray – that is, at least it did to Jack. Setting there, legs dangling off the side of the ledge from which he was perched, the American youth’s green eyes were drawn to the only sight in all the world that seemed to contain any substance, any color: the illuminated face of the clock tower. Nothing else within the panorama could fight through fog, no lights capable of clawing through the strangling veil. Perhaps it was the tower’s height that afforded it such a station over the rest of the world. Then again, it could have been Jack’s – he was atop a four story building opposite the river, after all. Regardless, the luminescent face of time was a beacon to his eyes, drawing his attention without compromise.

His thought was a bit of an epiphany, really. Jack had been riding through life on a cocktail of God-given talent and the opportunities his parents had afforded him. All he needed were thirteen measly credits to complete his degree – courses that were so easy they’d atrophy the mind. But he’d quit. He had simply thrown in the towel. Why? He had been asking himself the same question for the past three nights and had come to his conclusion just then, peridot eyes locked upon the moon-like face of Big Ben. The clock was ticking, each second a reminder that he wasn’t living a life he gave a shit about.

Jack had no direction. He had no purpose. And, as such, he simply had no motivation. In his mind he knew that his decision was one of the worst he would ever make, his better judgment having berated him violently for three nights now. He felt sick. Within his chest, though, his heart beat with a lighter rhythm. No longer did he wear his yolk of pretending to want the same things his folks did. All Jack wanted was to live a life that wasn’t so complicated, so tiring. This, it seemed, was the first painful step.

It wasn’t even that Jack Callahan wanted to do less. What the hell would he do with a degree in history or English, anyways? What could he accomplish with that? Be a professor? A life so mundane, so irrelevant made him even more nauseous – and firmly reaffirmed his decision. He wanted to achieve something with real merit within his lifetime. Still, that answer left his mind with another, even more daunting question:

What the fuck am I going to do, now?

He glanced downward, his black and white sneakers swaying back and forth idly, the frayed edges of his jeans billowing, suspended as they were over forty feet of nothing. A long, pensive sigh passed his lips, every fiber of every muscle relaxing across his frame. He reached up a hand, pushing its digits through his hair, tugging at a handful of the auburn stuff near the base of his neck. For the briefest moment Jack had honestly considered leaping from that perch. The thought was fleeting, though, and had really been more academic than anything – he couldn’t do something like that. That would be the coward’s choice; and Jack wasn’t a coward. Still, it was the only option he’d come up with so far. His lack of creativity frustrated him to no end as he sat atop his corner throne, overlooking the sleeping city sprawl below.

“Huh?” he asked aloud, startled as he was shaken from the thoughts that consumed him. He was quivering. Instinctively he reached out to either side, taking a hold of the brick ledges that flanked him, intending to use the edifice to sturdy himself. That was when he realized that it was the building that was shuddering. With his senses slowly acclimating to their full use, his ears caught the muffled sound of whirring – perhaps a muted shout – and the building beneath him began to tear. Confusion lanced through his unprepared mind as he scrambled up and away from the building’s ledge. The roof beneath his feet began to splinter, buckling upward; mortar spewed forth as if from geysers. Rays of white-blue light – blinding in their potency – shot through the gaps, searing through the night sky with so much intensity that Jack stumbled backward, an arm raised to shield his eyes. His foot slipped; his body lurched; and Jack felt himself begin to tilt backward, begin to fall.

And then there was nothing. No sound. No sight. Nothing.

[Jack Callahan]

Jack knew that he had woken even before he opened his eyes. Water – he could smell it before anything else. It was a refreshing, cool scent; the quintessential smell of the purity of nature. He breathed deep of the stuff, the mild chill it contained caressing his lungs. He moved to stretch, his arms brushing across hundreds of blades of feathery grass. It was surreal, the sensation, so peaceful and perfect a scene without even opening his eyes. Slowly he let his lids crack, peering heavenward to look upon a gray sky.

Well, he thought, I’m still in London.

Slowly he stood up, attempting to discern his location. The first thing he noticed was a massive weeping willow, gnarled and ancient. That willow stood as a lone sentinel over a perfectly circular pond, its sterling waters so still they could have easily been mistaken for a huge mirror. Mist – the heaviest Jack had ever seen – pervaded the area, waltzing in thin wisps across the water but congregating with such volume around the glade that he couldn’t see further than the pond’s edge in any direction. The sight was one part mystifying, one part serene.

Or not.

By force of habit he stuffed his hand into the left front pocket of his jeans, tugging out his phone and bumping a button on the side. Doing so forced a quizzical look to etch its way across the youth’s visage, a single auburn brown quirked upward. Thirty-one seventy-two? The bold white numbers of the digital clock echoed in his mind before bubbling up and out of his mouth, riding there on a sudden wave of confusion. Whatever had happened, his phone was clearly broken -- and just as clearly had no reception.

Well, shit, he mentally swore, his grip on the phone tightening as he looked back up to the scene of the pond. His mind raced, churning and burning in attempt to find clarity in his circumstance, to figure out where he was. Where had he been before? He had been looking out and over the cityscape, sitting on top of…

I fell. The remembrance was a jarring realization, stunning him – frightening him to the point that his vice grip upon the phone produced an audible crack. His mind leapt, eyes cutting down to examine the phone. The sight of his touch screen shattered and the phone’s entrails dangling from between his fingers seemed to somehow confuse Jack even more. How could this happen? Was he dead? Was this some sort of afterlife? Was it Hell?

“Fuck!” he barked, impulsively hurling his broken phone out and across the pond. Its destroyed plastic vanished beneath the surface, no audible plunk or ripples to show for his efforts. Oh, this is definitely Hell, seared the bitter thought through his mind. I can’t even have the satisfaction of a fucking splash. Furious, his fists clenched white-knuckle, Jack turned heel and started marching off toward the heavier fog that bordered the never-changing pond.

“Please do not go into the mists,” came a voice from behind him. Without looking Jack knew that it belonged to a woman – an older, beautiful woman. He didn’t know how, but something about the intonation, the cadence of it spoke of such. So gentle was the sound that she didn’t even startle Jack. Regardless, her words made him halt and take a look back.

Before him was a lady – to have called her a mere "woman" would have been a terrible injustice. Delicately thin and splendidly pale she was, shrouded in a diaphanous, gossamer gown that clung to her frame in the most exquisite way. There was little (if anything) that he needed to imagine, as she was bare beneath the wisp of cloth; its soaked state further adding to its transparency. The only other article she wore was a double belt made of black leather, its bottom half weighted at her hip by the scabbard of an ivory-hilted sword. For all the world, though, Jack did not feel attracted to her. In fact, he was not aroused at all. Truthfully, the best way to have described the youth’s state would have been entranced – and it was more than likely due to the lady's eyes. Large, almond-shaped pools of amethyst peered at him, vaguely shrouded by the alabaster tresses that formed her bangs. So enamored was he that he failed to notice her golden-white hair was immaculately dry; its tremendous body spilling out and over her shoulders, down her back, and trailing on until it vanished into the pond behind her.

Her lips, so pallid and full, perked into a subtle, heart-wrenching smile.

“We haven’t the time it would take to bring you back here if you were to get lost amidst the mists,” she continued, her voice as angelic as its owner.

Jack was dumbfounded. It took him more time than would ever be acceptable to find his tongue again, and another equal moment to remember how to use it.

“Who are you?” he finally whispered, both terribly perplexed and wonderfully awed.

“I am the Keeper of the Vault,” she replied, her response so cool and sweet – as if he should know such a thing already.

The Vault? he pondered, his expression immediately turning sour.

“Is… Is this Hell?”

The lady gave a brief, perfectly musical laugh, again offering the youth a gentle smile. “No,” she chided him softly, “This is not Hell.”

“Then where am I?” he asked, his concerns only somewhat eased by her answer.

“The Vault, of course,” she stated.

Jack had no idea what was going on. It felt like only twenty minutes ago his greatest worry in the world was how he’d tell his parents that he’d dropped out of college. Now he was face to face with the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, trapped in some sort of placid limbo. The fact that his host wasn’t forthcoming with an explanation didn’t ease his worry, either.

Taking his silence as cue the Keeper again lifted her voice:

“Jack Callahan, you currently reside within my domain – the Astral Vault. It is where the Old Gods forged the tools for their respective Wielders; as well as where the tools were stored once they had fulfilled their purpose. I was charged with keeping watch over them once they returned to the Vault so that they may never be used for the purposes of Men.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. The Old Gods?

“So,” he hesitantly responded, “this place is some sort of divine armory?”

“Yes,” came her reply, succinct and true.

“Then… why am I here?” The young man’s green eyes were locked upon the unblinking gaze of the nymph-like creature before him.

“Because I need you,” she smiled, her visage softening further. She lifted her hands from where they’d been clasped before her, using a single, feather-like finger to daintily slip a stray lock of platinum hair behind her ear. Jack could feel his heart begin to race.

“If you’re a goddess, then what could you possibly need me for?” said Jack, his eyes narrowing, suspicious in his lack of understanding.

“Oh, Jack!” she laughed again, her admonishing smile pearlescent between her lips, “I am no goddess. I am but a servant – like you. That is why I need you.”

“You need help, then?”

“Yes. You see, Men were never meant to travel between the Realms and Planes. You, however, were brought here through a hole – a hole that Men tore open with their machines. And just as you slipped here through the tear they tore, so did the weapons fall from where they'd been kept. It was all I could do to keep them returning to your Plane.” The lady’s hand strayed slowly to the sword at her hip, her fingers lacing about the ivory handle casually.

“But you have one there,” Jack stated, gesturing to the woman’s side.

“It is the last,” she frowned, violet eyes darkening their hue with sadness. Seeing her so snapped every one of his heart strings, wrenching him to his core. With all of his being he wanted to go to her, to embrace her and tell her that he’d help. If he hadn’t been so confused, still, he might have.

“Jack,” she sighed, her words a humble whisper, “You must enter the world upon which the Weapons of Old fell. You must find them and keep them from being used by Men to undo that world or any other.”

At that very moment Jack Callahan came to a realization unlike anything else he had ever experienced:

This is real.

He was not dead. He was not dreaming. No, the Keeper who stood before him was pleading for him to do something tremendous – something she could not do for herself. She wanted him to save a world. Hell, it wasn’t even his world that she was begging him to rescue. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

“Why me?” spilled the words from his lips.

“You are the descendant of Wielders past,” she replied, her grip tightening upon the weapon at her side. “Within you sleeps the blood of kings, of warriors, and of heroes.” A melancholy smile slipped across her lips. “You have Lugh’s green eyes; I can see Fionn in the way you stand. You are a hero, Jack Callahan – you simply need a purpose for which to fight. That is why you must become the Vault Knight.”


Jack had no idea what to say. Could this woman peer into his heart, see into his soul? Every word she spoke struck against his mind like a smith’s hammer against the anvil. And then, amidst the cloudy, tumultuous sea of uncertainty which formed his spirit, there was clarity. His jaw set, his eyes lifted, his resolve steeled.

“I’ll do it,” he said, taking a step toward her.

“I know,” she replied. At that moment the lady looked down, eyeing the prize which she wore about her waist. The Keeper contemplated the sword for a brief moment. Then, with all the suddenness of thunder she snatched upon its handle, flinging the weapon free of its mundane leather scabbard. The sword's sterling blade erupted with the most glorious light, immediately wreathed in white and golden flame. Slowly the blade was lowered from where it had been held aloft, the lady’s gaze following its razor edge until the weapon’s point was directly before Jack’s eyes, opalescent flame licking at his cheeks.

He didn’t know why or how -- he simply knew that he must reach out and take it. His blood cried out for him to do so! And so he did, gripping the weapon by the blade; its keen edge biting into his flesh. Just as the pain of doing so began to register within his mind the weapon exploded with sheer brilliance, the white-hot light blinding him, forcing him to look away. Agony pulsed through his hand, writhing tendril-like up his forearm and searing across his chest. And then, once it had found its way to his heart, it stopped.

Behold, Wielder! spoke a man’s voice, commanding in its power and age. It resonated within him, echoed within his very soul. I am Dyrnwyn, sword only to the worthy, right hand of Rydderch the Generous King, wreathed in flame.

As he blinked, his vision returning, Jack looked down to his hand. The sword was gone and his flesh unmarked.

“Now you are armed,” spoke the woman again. “Now you are ready.”

The Lady of the Lake stepped forward, reaching out and clasping Jack upon either side of his face. Her touch was so gentle, her palms so soft and warm and wonderful that he found himself incapable of thinking, of feeling, of doing anything. He closed his eyes, content to relish it.

And the world fell silent once more.

[Jack Callahan]

The cool kiss of a damp cloth brought Jack mercifully out of unconsciousness. Each gentle caress across his forehead eased his mind, told him not to open his eyes just yet – to feign sleep so that he could keep the sweet dream for as long as possible. It was a woman’s touch, for sure. That notion piqued his curiosity, said vice gripping his mind, wrenching it from the blissful lull of slumber and shoving it to the forefront of wakefulness. A single eyelid ventured to crack, widening to look upon a bleary kaleidoscope of green, gold, and blue.

Suddenly Jack’s body was thrown upward, tossed just high enough from his place of rest to cause a painful landing. Immediately he was aware of motion; the perpetual, rhythmic squeak of wagon wheels mentally colliding with the physical jostling to bring the world around him to life. He grunted a modest complaint, cursing reality’s raid upon his tranquility. His head shifting to the side, muscles tensing in a body-wide stretch. Again he attempted to open his eyes.

“Pa! I think he’s wakin’ up!”

Above him was a sea of tan cloth, the tarp held aloft by thin metal arches. Glancing to his right brought a few stacks of baskets into view, each made of age-cracked wood. Every one of them was filled to the brim with an assortment of produce, their colors varied and bright. That vibrancy eased the melancholy the youth felt for leaving such a heavenly rest. He rolled his shoulder, throwing his right arm over his chest and planting it on the floor beneath him; pushing upon the surface with strength and speed comparable to a babe. With a dramatic tremor he failed in his attempt, haphazardly flopping over onto his stomach.

“Ugh…” he grunted, suddenly aware of just how weak he was -- so aware, in fact, that the voice he’d heard was relinquished to the back of his mind. His skin throbbed, forearms and ribs stinging as if he’d been set upon by a colony of fire ants. Without the strength to look himself over he turned his thoughts inward, attempting to discern why it was he was so drained. With appropriate timing his belly let loose a fearsome growl, making Jack very aware of just how void of food it was. He closed his eyes again, wishing he’d get to the part where he knew what the hell was going on.

The wagon slowly came to a halt, the stop accompanied with the neighing protests Jack had subconsciously expected. The sound of movement – of rustling clothes and dirt-pounding steps – filled his ears, the wagon rocking slightly with all of the commotion. Light suddenly and violently invaded the space in which he’d been sleeping, turning the cool, dark respite his eyelids brought into a personal crimson hell. Before he could even bring a hand up to defend himself he was accosted by a gruff, weathered voice:

“S’bout time ye be wakin’ up, boy,” he shouted, the volume of his speech brutal upon the youth’s already pain-wracked mind. “We don’t give no free rides ‘round here.” Jack felt some sort of cloth being torn from atop him – a blanket he didn’t even know he’d been under. “C’mon!” he prodded, the wagon rocking wildly as if to punctuate the unseen assailant’s demands.

“Oh, Pa!” chided the same sweet voice from earlier, “Leave the poor soul be! He’s been ‘sleep for two days, now, an’ you’re actin’ like he’s one of your lazy oxen.” Jack felt a tender hand take rest upon his brow, its thumb gently brushing back against his hair. “You know what kinda’ condition we found him in. S’a wonder he’s still alive. C’mon, Pa – have a heart.”

It was more than he could bear – Jack had to know what was going on. In spite of his extreme discomfort the youth opened his eyes, craning his neck to the side. At first the light was too much for him, overwhelming his vision and causing all the world to appear as brilliant blurs interrupted with sparse silhouettes. As he slowly grew accustom to daylight the figure that had attempted to rouse him became apparent: a short, middle-aged man, his broad shoulders easily filling the rear opening of the covered wagon. His face was the leathery brown of a man who’d lived a laborious life beneath the sun, his mouth concealed behind a thick black beard that made him seem even more stern than Jack already perceived he was. Eyes the color of iron glittered down at him, scrutiny and distrust so obvious within that the exhausted youth felt obliged to apologize -- for what he wasn't sure.

After a long, silently judgmental moment the rough-hewn man spoke again, his voice no more quiet and his tone no less irritated. “So,” he asked, “What do they call ye, boy?” So loud were his words that Jack instinctively allowed his head to drop back down to the wagon’s floor, complaining with a heavy sigh.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck?” scoffed the older man, “What kinda’ name s’that? Why, if I didn’t know any better I –“

“No, no,” Jack groaned, cursing himself inwardly for having such a foul mouth. “It’s Jack. My name’s Jack.” Determined to get past this ordeal and get some answers - or at the very least some food – he steeled his resolve, summoning the strength to sit up. The tender touch upon his head protested at first, yet fell away with his persistence. It was a trial, pulling himself to a seated position, and at the end of it he wasn’t sure whether or not to clutch his ribs or his arms in agony.

“Jack. That’s a nice name – ain’t it, Pa’?” chimed the sweeter voice from behind.

The older man harrumphed, his moderate belly jumping beneath his ochre tunic as he did so, shaking the wagon in the process. “Ye ain’t helpin’, Aine. Not one bit,” he muttered, turning and dropping out of the opening. The angry shuffling and stamping of feet ensued shortly thereafter, the sound of it cuing the girl who had been taking care of Jack to dash out to join her father. As she bolted past him Jack could barely catch sight of a dark green dress, nothing more.

He could hear them arguing, the man and his daughter apparently oblivious to how little the cloth canopy muted their voices. It was an odd juxtaposition, Jack thought: the gravelly, bitter voice of age and experience versus the sticky-sweet sound of trust and naivety. He didn’t even know the girl – Aine, if that was her name – but he was fond of her already. For a moment Jack wondered if she would be as beautiful as the Keeper, her voice vaguely reminiscent of how gentle the lady’s was. The man's furious shouting brought him back from his thoughts.

“Aine Marie, I don’t trust him!” he roared, anger capitalizing each word, “An’ you shouldn’t neither! Look at what he’s wearin’. Ye ever seen anyone with clothes like them yonder, huh? An’ how we found him…” His tirade paused and Jack could feel the tension in the air, a tangible humidity that brought a bead of sweat to his brow. In the distance a bird sang a brief, shrill song. When the man spoke again his voice had lowered, some control returning as impatience fled. “Normal folk don’t go getting’ tied to trees an’ have shrines built ‘round ‘em, Aine. S’just how it is.”

Jack didn’t have time to consider what he’d heard, his attention torn away by the token sniffle bought by a young girl’s tears. “B-but Pa’,” she defended feebly, “I just wanted to help him.”

A woman’s tears can spur any man, no matter the circumstance, into action; and Jack Callahan was no different. Ignoring the pain as best he could he rose to his feet, catching hold of a nearby crate to steady his enfeebled legs. He hissed, attempting to vent his discomfort past his teeth. Each step towards back of the wagon was a chore. Regardless, he had to get out there and stop the fight – he owed that much to the girl who’d saved his life. Reaching the edge Jack looked down, a hard packed dirt road not three feet below. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and stepped out – and promptly fell on his face.

“God damnit,” he swore, the sound muffled by the red dust in his mouth. Although doing so hadn’t been his intention, the sound of his exit had done the deed he had desired: the argument was over, the two of them audibly rushing to where he lay sprawled out in the middle of the path. Sliding his hands up and to either side of his chest Jack clenched his teeth, willing himself back to his knees. The swift assistance of a calloused, burly hand brought him to his feet, instead; steadying him as well.

“Are ye daft, boy?” came the harsh reply, even as the man brushed the dirt off of his chest. Jack was suddenly aware of the fact that he didn’t have his shirt on; a realization that forced him to immediately look down and ensure that the rest of his person wasn’t disrobed as well. He bodily relaxed upon seeing his jeans, filthy and worn but definitely present. The youth spat a glob of red muck to the side and wiped his lips on the back of his still-stinging arm.

“Nah,” he coughed, “Just figured I’d drop in on the argument.”

It took a moment, but the rough-faced man’s beard split, baring a smile that softened his hard, chiseled features. A rough slap on the back followed – one that almost made Jack bite off the tip of his tongue.

“Hah! ‘Drop in’, huh? Ye hear that, Aine?” he chuckled, words riding a rumbling wave of laughter as he looked to his daughter for approval. “Jack here s’got a sense of humor!” He felt the man’s grip on his arm drop away as he lumbered off towards the front of the wagon, repeating the pun to himself in either humored admiration or sarcastic spite, Jack wasn't sure. Without the rough hand to steady him, however, Jack immediately looked about from something nearby to grab hold of -- while his entrance had afforded him some unintentional success he wasn’t looking to repeat the incident any time soon. He turned about, snatching a hold of the wagon and dragging his useless feet to it; eventually finding his way to sit upon its ledge.

“You’re gonna’ have to forgive Pa’,” the girl sighed as she approached him, a sad smile resting upon her lips. She was pretty, Aine, with large, bright blue eyes and fair skin that was singed a honey-baked brown in most places. Dark freckles were spattered across her round, child-like cheeks; a testament to the time she’d spent beneath the sun’s loving kisses. Her hair was the epitome of dirty blond, streaked with an array of colors from light to dark and pulled behind her hair in a short ponytail that bobbed and swayed as she drew near. She was short, thin, and daintily garbed in a sleeveless forest green dress that stopped just above her knees. Jack didn’t think he had ever seen a girl who embodied the word “pretty” so well as she did.

“He ain’t the trustin’ type – ‘least he ain’t these days,” she continued. “Ever since the Rangers went to war ‘gainst the rest of Corone all sorta’ bad stuff s’been happenin’. With all their attention tied up fightin’ the lords in Radasanth they can’t afford to patrol the forest like they used to.” Aine paused to lick her thumb, reaching out to rub an umber smudge off of Jack’s cheek. The act visibly lifted her spirits, as if doing something so simple gave her a tangible measure of hope and confidence. “Don’t worry, though. I doubt we’ll come across anythin’ on the way to Underwood!”

While Jack sincerely appreciated the girl’s explanation and encouraging words, those same words made him painfully aware of just how alien he was to this world. Rangers? he questioned mentally, the inward reflection translating into a furrowed brow. So I’m supposed to find these weapons while a war is going on all around me. That’s great. Taking the confused expression that had slipped across Jack’s visage as a cue Aine started to speak again.

“You… ain’t from ‘round here, are you, Jack?” Jack couldn’t help but smirk, even allowing himself to give a half-chuckle beneath his breath.

“No, I’m not,” he replied. Not “no” but “hell no.” Taking a moment to consider the implications that answer might bring, he decided to lie – for her sake, hopefully. “I’m not really sure where I’m from.”

That answer brought a mask of concern over the daughter’s face. She tsk’d, pity in her brilliant blue eyes as she cupped Jack’s cheek in her little hand.

“You poor fella’. You don’t remember nothin’?” she sighed, shaking her head in a way that caused her short ponytail to flick back and forth like its namesake. “Not even how you got all tied up, huh?”

Jack suddenly remembered that dialogue from earlier – something about being tied to a tree with a shrine built around him. He wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with the Keeper dropping him into this world; but if it did he was definitely going to have words with her the next time they met. Instinctively he looked down to his arms, rubbing at the red stripes of cord-bitten flesh. Rope burn is such a bitch.

“I don’t remember a thing, Aine.” There – that wasn’t a lie. The first untruth had been a difficult one to muster considering the kindness and honesty with which the girl had treated him. Truth be told, he was probably alive because of her. Jack told himself that he’d tell her the truth one day, promised himself he would make it up to her. That oath gave him some relief.

She huffed, blowing a runaway wisp of a bang from her face in the process. “We were comin’ up from Yarborough. Not half a day’s ride into Concordia Forest s’when we found you, strung up on an’ old tree with all sorta’ odds an’ ends put up ‘round you. Pa’ says it was some kinda’ shrine but it looked more like a buncha’ trash to me,” she explained, punctuating the last word with a cute, reassuring smile. When she continued her voice was hushed, her whispering obviously intended to keep her father from hearing. “Pa’ wanted to leave you there. He said you were a ‘bad sign’ an’ that we should keep goin’. But I know if I was in your shoes I woulda’ wanted somebody to save me.” At that she beamed, a beautiful smile spreading across her petite face. “So I rescued you!”

At the mention of shoes Jack glanced down, making a mental note of how odd his footwear must have looked. While the farm girl and her father both sported a pair of travel-worn leather boots he was wearing black Chuck Taylors. God, I stick out like a sore thumb, he thought, looking back up to his dainty savior with a weary smile.

“Thanks, Aine. I ‘preciate it.”

“No problem!” she chirped, spinning about and flitting off with the same mercurial livelihood of a sparrow. She couldn’t have been much younger than him but had the de facto spirit of a fey.

Jack took the time he was afforded to finally examine where he was. Before him stretched the age-worn path with which he was now so intimate, the gritty, earthen taste of it still in his mouth. Bordering the road on either side were identical seas of viridian green and grayish brown; thousands upon thousands of hearty, monolithic trees that must have seen at least a few hundred years of life each. A breeze danced through their branches, teasing their manes and making a spectacle of serenely dancing shadows and lights across the trail. That same merciful gust urged up against Jack, carrying with it the definitive chill of autumn. The sun was high in the sky, but whether it was rising or setting he couldn’t tell. Whichever it was, the day had already been long enough. Another hunger pang threatened to impale him, forcing him to hunch over at the waist with a grimace.

“Ye hungry, son?” Jack had almost forgotten the old man existed until he reappeared, thick, gnarly arms folded over his barrel chest.

“You have no idea,” he said, the phrase barely making it from his throat before choked by another wince.

The old farmer examined him with a ponderous eye, scrutinizing him once more. After a moment he gave a reluctant sniff, turning to the wagon and reaching into one of the bushels of foodstuffs. He shoved an apple in Jack’s face – the biggest, most beautiful scarlet apple he had ever seen. Jack had taken a bite before the fruit had even traded hands.

Panting, finally allowing himself to breath once little more than a core was left, Jack glanced up at the gruff old farmer. He had been watching him eat. As disconcerting as such a notion was, Jack figured the fellow was only doing what was natural. Aine had told him that the area he was in was being torn by two sides to some war, after all. For all the man knew Jack could have been a spy. Well, just as long as spies wear Converse tennis shoes, he smirked.

“That’s the best damn apple I’ve ever had,” he said, appreciatively wiping his mouth of the sticky runoff.

“Yeah, well, ye ain’t getting’ another one,” the farmer snorted, disappearing around the side of the wagon once more.

Asshole.

Jack sighed, deciding to not let the old man’s fickle attitude keep his spirits down – especially now that he no longer ached from starvation. Taking one last look at the new world in which he found himself he spun, climbing into the back of the wagon and situating himself between stacks of goods. Aine followed him shortly thereafter, hopping up and plopping down beside him in rapid succession. She gave him a smile (and another apple) before crawling to the front of the wagon to sit with her father, doing so without saying a single word. With a crack of the reigns and an irritated neigh the wagon began to trundle along the path once more.

The next few hours passed with relative silence, the sound of a squeaky wheel and the songs of a few birds acting as the world’s pulse -- they reminded Jack that it was all alive and real. By the time the sun had dropped just below the tree line it had painted the sky a wondrous palette of red, orange, purple and lavender. It's reassuring to know that this place follows at least some of the same rules as Earth, he mused.

[Jack Callahan]

Before night had fallen the trio had pulled the wagon off the beaten path and into a small vale. There they unhooked the horse – a stubborn, impressive black mare by the name of Harriet – and started a small campfire. Aine busied herself setting up a metal stand on either side of the pit, eventually hanging what looked to be a salt-cured pork shank from that stand. It wasn’t long before the aromatic smoke filled the entire dell, bringing everyone to the fire’s edge as they waited for the meal to come.

“So what’s your name?” Jack asked, making a modest attempt at breaking the ice that was between him and his rough-edged benefactor. The youth glanced over from where he sat, cross-legged, stoking the fire with a piece of kindling.

“Rowan,” muttered the farmer, his steely gray eyes focused upon the fire in a way that only a man lost in thought can accomplish. His hand was wrapped about the hilt of a short sword he wore about his waist – one that Jack clearly remembered him not having earlier in the day. The man’s calloused thumb worked the pommel like a worry stone.

“Well, Rowan, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Jack quipped, following his gaze to the fire. The aroma was so rich and wonderful that he could taste it.

“Aine – Go get s’more of them apples, dear,” mumbled Rowan, still entranced by the light of the flame. Being the sort of daughter she was the girl bounded off spritely, doing as her father asked.

“She told me how you found me,” Jack spoke, taking the opportunity to do so whilst he was alone with the man. “I know she couldn’t have pulled me down from that tree by herself.”

Rowan remained silent.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” the youth stated mostly beneath his breath. He took a moment to look up to where the half moon lit the sky. “For everything.”

“Yer welcome.”

Aine returned just a while later with a small bucket of apples. The three ate their fill of the wood-smoked roast, taking turns afterward using Rowan’s sword to cook the fruit over the fire. With stuffed stomachs and lifted spirits they prepared for bed, the daughter concealing her mat within the back of the wagon and Jack’s placed near the fire. Rowan ensured that his own bedroll was between the other two.

Still sore from events he’d never remember Jack laid down on the thin mattress, clasping his hands behind his head and staring up at the night sky. For the first time since all of this began he wasn’t confused, wasn’t worried. Honestly, Jack Callahan was the happiest he had been in as long as he could remember. He was, in a word, content.

“So many stars,” he muttered to no one, eyelids growing heavy and mind dimming with sleep.

[Jack Callahan]

Jack didn’t know what woke him first, the intensified ache in his right forearm or the death of the fire. The evening chill was a bit harder to bear with no flame to warm him and no shirt to cover his chest – the only blanket the other two owned was being used by Aine in the wagon. Still, the hurt he experienced in that arm was strange, almost arthritic in how it stiffed his joints. He sat up, rolling his wrist sorely.

Then he heard it. Jack had no idea how he’d missed it up to that point, but the noise was clear – distant, but more than audible. At first it was just some strange, nonsensical dissonance ringing in the back of his brain; but slowly it became clear. There were voices – a number of them – and they sounded like someone was taking a barbwire bow and using it to play a chalkboard violin.


“Smish an’ smash!
Kick an’ bash!
We’ll hang ya’ by your silky sash!
Scream an’ shout!
Run about!
We’ll beat ya’ dead with rotten trout!
Kill your hogs!
Eat your dogs!
Beat in your face with fiery logs!
We be goblins, fierce an’ strong,
Shake an’ cry an’ fear our song!”

Fuck. That was it – just a single curse. Jack was so baffled, so paralyzed by lack of recognition, lack of belief that he couldn’t do more than swear. Hell, he couldn’t even say it out loud. By the time he’d focused his mind enough to force himself to his feet he could see the creatures begin to pour through the underbrush on the far side of the glen.

They couldn’t have been taller than three feet, the monsters, with dark green skin and lemon-shaped heads that were broader than their shoulders. Their entire frame was a conundrum, so inappropriately proportioned, with pointed, canine ears and miniscule, beady red eyes. Their noses were little more than another bump on their mottled flesh, vastly dwarfed in size by their maw – a mouth that was large enough to make their appearance oddly puppet-like, save for the rows of viciously sharp teeth boasted therein. Each of them wore tattered rags and animal pelts that barely covered the important portions of their child-like frames; and each wielded a rusted, pitted blade that looked more like a machete than a sword.

As the host began to enter the vale – some twelve goblins still singing with terrible harmony and laudable gusto – Jack realized that they hadn’t yet noticed his presence. Silently he thanked whatever god watched over this world for putting out the campfire before easing himself onto his belly, crawling back towards where the wagon was situated. He needed to let Rowan know what was happening.

“Lookit, lookit!” shrilly shouted one of the creatures, pointing a grubby finger at the camp. The eleven others skillfully ignored him, occupied as they were: one, specifically, had sat down and begun to chew on his largest toe. Irate, the observant one stomped over and smacked his comrade on the back of the head; that action promptly causing the recipient of said slap to gag on his own foot and vomit. He whirled about (somehow doing so while still sitting) and threw his wiry arms into the air.

“Whathefuck!”

Jack was mesmerized. He couldn’t decide whether he should panic or burst out laughing. The goblins were morons – nothing like the things he’d read about all his life. Even so he made his way to where the old farmer lay sleeping and reached out, giving his shoulder a firm shake. The farmer greeted Jack with a swift punch in the arm, quickly followed by a barely audible “Shhhh!”

The goblin troupe had apparently moved far enough into the glade that their attention spans could no longer prevent them from noticing the wagon and the horse. Eight of the goblins immediately started running toward the wagon, chanting ”Plun-der, plun-der!” at the top of their lungs. The other four sprinted in a similar fashion towards Harriet, mimicking the others with a less humorous “Kill it! Kill it!”

That was when Rowan stood up, springing into action with an alacrity that Jack would have never given him credit for. The old farmer was running and yelling, his short sword brandished high above his head, easily cutting off the goblins that had headed directly toward the mare. Upon seeing this the four goblins tripped, stumbled, and scattered, scurrying away in the same eclectic manner that mice do. One shouted “Please, don’t!” as it fled.

Well, if it’s that easy, Jack reasoned as he hopped to his feet. He winced as a new wave of pain lanced through his arm. Doing his best to dismiss it he rushed out to meet the miniature horde, letting loose as intimidating of a roar as he could muster. The effect was more than he could have ever hoped for: every one of the goblins came to a halt, pointing and screeching at him as if he were the most terrifying thing they’d ever set their tiny red eyes on. Some even dropped their make shift swords, dashing away and diving to ram their oversized head beneath a log or in a stump.

“Run away! Run away!”

“It’s the Dreamer! Run!

“Don’t kill us, Dreamer! Please!

“He’s going to eat me!”

“He Who Dreams for the Gods! Gah!”

“Not in my eye – don’t get me in me eye!”

Jack was confused. What the hell? he thought, his fearsome visage dropping only to be replaced with a puzzled one. These little fuckers know me somehow?

“What are the lil’ blighters talkin’ ‘bout, Jack?!” yelled Rowan as he stood between Harriet and the now senseless rabble of terrified scavengers.

“I don’t know!” he shouted back. It was the truth: Jack had no idea what the goblins were shouting and crying about. Nothing had ever been terrified of him before. He had intimidated some people, sure, but that was always an intentional act -- nothing like this. He almost felt bad for the band of little green things. His pity was fleeting, however, as his entire mind was abruptly alight with agony.

“Fucking shit!” Jack gasped, grabbing his right arm at the wrist. It hurt so bad. The pain overwhelmed him almost immediately, taking his knees out from beneath him, forcing him to kneel. Never before had he ever felt such a torturous, grievous sensation. It felt like the muscles in his arm had been set upon by an army of syringes, stabbing him over and over, each piercing far enough to bounce off the bone before doing so again. It floored him, winded him, leaving him wide eyed, panting and senselessly staring at the grass below.

“Get up, you miserable sods!” rumbled a voice too deep to be human. It belonged to the silhouette that stepped from the shadow of the tree line. Its shady figure, yet featureless, was one of the most imposing Rowan, Jack, or Aine would ever see. The height of a tall man and half again it was, the giant dragging a weapon behind it that by virtue of size alone could cleave a horse in twain. In hardly any time its monstrous gait brought into the moonlight, exposing its grisly image to all present.

He was even broader and more heavily muscled than Harriet – a full-blooded work horse – whatever he was. The behemoth was masked with mercilessly smashed and asymmetrical features, bald save for a single awkward tuft of black hair off to the side. His eyes were small – far too small to be human and black as night, no whites or irises to be seen. Most prominent was his jaw, twice as wide as the rest of his skull, the lower lip that hung from it equally deformed in its width and girth. Naked save for fur-lined boots and a bear’s hide stitched about his waist, the monster’s pallid, grotesquely blue skin shone in the moonlight; countless scars making it impossible to tell where old wounds ended and sinew began.

“I said get up!” he roared, booting one of the goblins with a gargantuan, pelt-wrapped foot. The goblin squealed as it was sent soaring clear across the vale, thwacking against a tree with sickly clarity. With a fearsome heave he brought his weapon to bear, his broad, flat teeth gritting with the effort: an oaken wagon’s tongue with a shield shoved edgewise into its width. The giant had beaten the once-armor flat and crudely sharpened its edge, crafting a makeshift weapon that was more appropriate to his size.

Even in the midst of his suffering Jack noted the goblins’ master. Fear and anguish comingled in his stomach and rushed up his throat, forcing him to hurl onto long dead fire before him.

“B-but Boss, he’s the one we were tellin’ ya’ about!” one of the shrieking goblins argued, the creature having hid behind the only stone large enough to do so. “He dreams for the gods!”

“Phah!” snorted the behemoth of a man, pointing a finger at Jack that was easily the size of his cohort’s arm. “This runt? How can he have a god’s tongue? He barely comes to my waist!” He scoffed again, striding closer to the camp.

“Hold, ogreblood!”

Rowan stepped into his path, waving his steel before him like a viper’s head.

“Hold?” the giant laughed, glancing back at the band of goblins, giving them their cue to follow suit. A cacophony of weak, half-willed laughter followed. The monstrous humanoid walked over to the aged farmer, his gait causing the earth to tremble at such a distance. “For you?”

With a single swipe of his gigantic arm Rowan was swatted through the air, his sword tumbling to the grass before his body ever landed.

“Gharok holds for no man!”

“Pa’!” The girl’s scream cut through the wall of pain that surrounded Jack’s brain, forced him to look up again. She had been hiding in the wagon, following the instructions she'd been given all her life to the letter. The sight of her father being harmed, however, had broken her heart -- and her reason, too. She leapt from the back of the wagon and started running to where Rowan lay crumpled some thirty feet away.

And she ran right into the ogrekin’s grasp.

“Oh, ho, ho!” he boomed, the mock laughter so deafeningly loud that the forest refused to echo it. “What have we here? A girl?” The giant’s hand was sizeable enough to wrap completely about Aine’s waist, his grip from the moment he caught her enough to make her scream. “Oh, I’m gonna’ have some fun with you.”

Jack couldn’t bear it – it was all too much. The smoldering, mind-numbing pain felt like it had broken past his brain and was now crushing his soul. His only friends in this new world – a world he didn’t know, couldn’t fathom – were about to be slaughtered by a freakish giant straight from the pits of Hell. He was surrounded by creatures he still wasn't sure were real; and those same creatures were sure to kill him now that their boss had arrived. How the fuck am I supposed to find weapons if I’m dead? he cursed, snaring a handful of grass and dirt in the process.

No. I’m not doing this. Fuck the quest. Fuck the Keeper. Fuck it all. This is going to stop – now.

A moment of clarity swept over Jack, allowing him to push past the pain and shove himself onto his feet. His brow was knit, his face a dark, glowering mask of rage. Green eyes peered up at the ogreblood, lit with the same fire that boiled Jack’s blood, that grit his teeth and clenched his fists.

“Put her down.”

The command was potent in its simplicity, immediately demanding the behemoth’s attention. His beady black eyes turned to the human, an ugly grin marring his already hideous features. Aine began to cry.

“And why should I do that, runt?” snarled Gharok, more beast than man.

“Because if you don’t you’ll be shitting your teeth for weeks,” Jack spat, cold as ice.

“Hah!” jeered the giant. He dropped the girl to the side like a toddler would a toy he was bored with, his attentions now focused on something new and entertaining. Gharok hefted his crudely crafted axe, setting it atop his mountain-like shoulder as he started to walk towards Jack. “Big talk for a tiny man.”

I’m going to whoop your ass, Jack thought, moving to meet the ogre half way. He didn’t care if it was impossible. He didn’t care if he died in the process. This monster needed to be put down and Jack was the one who was going to do it.

At that moment the pain in Jack’s arm stopped, the sweet relief ushered in by a brilliant, blazing white light. Jack’s forearm had caught ablaze, suddenly wreathed in flame – the same flame that he’d witnessed upon the Keeper’s sword just before he was brought here. Its opalescent, gilded light illuminated the dell like a second sun, causing the goblins to screech and squeal and flee into the forest. Harriet whinnied, startled by the sudden brightness. The giant, on the other hand, grinned even further, the expression casting garish shadows in the newfound luminescence.

“A mage, huh?” he chortled, reaching out to take hold of his brutish weapon with both gargantuan hands. “Don’t think your light show scares me, runt. I love smashin’ mages!” Gharok stepped forward, his grin suddenly turning into a malformed mask of exertion. He grunted, allowing the voice of effort to quickly evolve into a barbaric roar as he heaved his fearsome axe out in a wide horizontal arc. With the power he’d put behind the swing the giant could have felled any tree in Concordia Forest.

But he was too slow.

Reflexes caused Jack to dash forward, years of fighting having translated into a wealth of muscle memory – a wealth he spent generously. He ducked low, the wind moaning as the misshapen axe sailed overhead, missing him completely. Just shy of tackling Gharok he stopped; planting his feet, wrenching his hips, and hurling all of his gathered momentum into a single, sledge-like uppercut. White and gold flame burst in a glorious nova as Jack’s fist made contact with the beast's torso, Dyrnwyn's titanic blow more than sufficient to lift the ogreblood off the ground and instantly fold him over at the middle.

Shock was the last thing Gharok felt, tiny black eyes forever held wide as each and every one of his ribs was shattered by the Vault Knight’s strike. He held himself on his hands and knees only long enough to spew a stream of crimson ichor from his deformed lips, then collapsed to the side – dead before his form sent thunder through the vale.

Jack gave his foe a single, lingering gaze of spite, shaking the sting from his knuckles as the flames of the enchanted weapon flickered and died. A heavy thock echoed from within the wood as it grew dark once more, the oversized axe having whirled through the air until it planted itself three-quarters of the way through a nearby oak.

Jack turned, hurrying to join Aine where Rowan had fallen.

“Is he alright?” he asked, skidding to a stop beside her. There was a haze in the old farmer’s eyes, one that Jack wasn’t familiar with and didn’t like the looks of. Combined with Aine’s gentle crying he was instantly worried. He hesitated, not knowing what to say, ask, or do. He's dead, he thought, jaw clenching. I failed. He placed a hand on her shoulder. But a moment later Jack knelt, dropping his stranger's reservation and tugging the girl into a somber embrace. She wept quietly, face buried against his chest for the longest time.

“Come on,” Jack finally whispered, urging the girl up. He hated the idea, asking her to do anything in her grief – he despised it, even. He felt guilty as sin. Logic, however, dictated that these woods weren’t safe, commanded that they move else they meet a fate similar to Rowan’s. “Come on, Aine. We need to go.” Jack didn’t know where. Hell, he wasn’t even from this planet. He just knew that Aine needed to get back on her feet for Aine’s sake. So he put on a strong, stoic mask and stood, pulling the girl from her knees in the process.

Red-eyed and weary, Aine gave him a slow, reluctant nod – glancing back at her father’s broken body where it had been strewn in the grass. Jack knew what she was thinking without one word from her. Giving the farm girl's hand a brief, firm squeeze he walked over, scooping Rowan’s lifeless form into his arms. He carried it back to the wagon, gingerly placing it on top of Aine’s bedroll and covering it with a blanket. The daughter busied herself soothing and gathering Harriet, securing her to the wagon once more.

Bitterly she climbed into the driver’s seat, taking up her father’s reigns. Jack sat beside her, unable to think of anything he could say to make what had happened any better.

“I lied to you,” he whispered somberly. “About where I’m from.”

“I know,” Aine replied.

With a snap of her wrists the wagon began to shakily make its way back to the main road. The moon’s reign over the sky was yet far from its end; even so the pair pressed on toward Underwood. One silently asked the gods to guide Rowan’s spirit. The other vowed to a different god to avenge him.

[Jack Callahan]

Hours passed, the road to Underwood paved in grim silence. Early enough to silence the roar of crickets and their kin yet too early to purchase the songs of birds, the only sound in all of Althanas seemed to come from the squeaking metronome of the wagon’s wheels. Jack couldn’t bring himself to speak. The pain of the girl beside him was palpable, pressing down on his chest, weighing his heart, and stilling his tongue. Incapable of doing anything else, the Vault Knight spent the hush of the ride focused inward, reflecting on what had transpired.

Rowan -- that is where his thoughts began. Jack had spent three days with the farmer and had barely gotten more than distrustful scowls from him. What little he had achieved – a laugh at a half-assed pun, he recalled – was brief; yet revealing enough of the man’s character that Jack knew he had been a good man. Hell, he could tell as much from the quality of daughter he’d produced: spirited, strong-willed, compassionate, and more full of life than anyone the youth had ever known. Regret took hold of Jack. Guilt assailed him.

I should have saved you.

If I had been faster, he thought. If the pain had fled sooner; the flame arrived more quickly. If only…

Jack pushed a hand back across his scalp – a hand whose knuckles were torn, caked in blood. His digits dug trenches through his hair, the stuff having turned a dark cherry color from the grease the past few days had garnered. He tugged a handful at the base of his neck as he was wont to do; allowing his peridot eyes to roam, idly glancing across his filthy skin. An earthy red clung to him, the patches turning his untanned skin ruddy in places, blurring the black ink letters etched across his breast.

Laochra. The word was Irish for “warrior” – an identity Jack had fancied himself as not four days prior. But he wasn’t a warrior; at least, he wasn’t the kind with any real merit. Even though he’d gotten the tattoo just a few months ago Jack felt like he’d been young, then -- ignorant. He hadn’t understood what the word meant; and he damn sure didn’t deserve to wear it over his heart, branded in the language of his forefathers. Forefathers like Lugh Lamhfhada, he reminded himself, shamed further beneath the shadow of a figure he’d never match.

“It looks like magic,” Aine said.

Jack hadn’t noticed the girl staring at him. The swelling that told of the night’s events had left her brilliant blues, leaving the girl’s face peppered with freckles and natural beauty once again. She had been watching him, it seemed, her gaze having followed his. Aine let the mare ahead trod along untended, letting loose of one of the reigns to place a hand over Jack’s chest. Slowly and contemplatively she brushed the grime away with that same tender touch he’d grown to trust.

“It isn’t,” he mumbled back, content to avoid eye contact. Jack wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to bear that burden yet.

“But that is,” stated the girl, the dutiful brush of her digits transforming into an accusatory finger, prodding against the “C”, directly in the center of his breast. It took a moment for Jack to understand. Once he did he clasped his own hand around hers, tugging it away – still unable to match her stare.

“Aine, your father—“

“Don't,” she snapped, a forceful whisper. In shock Jack finally lifted his gaze, the hues of forest and sky meeting in that moment.

“Pa’ died protectin’ me,” explained the farmer’s daughter, her voice much softer than the instant before. “He died protectin’ a lotta’ people. Don’t cheapen it, Jack.”

Don’t cheapen it, Jack. Those words reverberated within his mind, beating his spirit senseless for the arrogance it harbored. So fixated was he upon her gaze that the Vault Knight forgot to blink.

“We’re gonna’ take Pa’ an’ these supplies to the Rangers in Underwood,” she continued, mercifully breaking eye contact with Jack. “S’what he woulda’ wanted.”

“He was a hero,” Jack stated, looking ahead as well.

“He is a hero,” Aine corrected.

“And so are you.”

The slate of morning split, shattered by the radiant hammer of dawn. Glorious, beautiful light set the horizon before them aflame. Underwood lay ahead, a waking silhouette that promised hope and a future.

But I'm running out of time, he thought.

[Sagequeen]

First off, let me say I really enjoyed this! I liked your story very much, but it wouldn't be helpful if I spent all my time telling you why. I'll point out the extra special things as well as pointing out where, in my opinion, you can improve.

Plot Construction ~ 23/30

Story ~ 8/10 - Very good story – it had what was needed, a definite beginning, middle, and end. There were plenty of elements therein that kept it interesting and compelled me to continue reading. It flowed. You introduced your protagonist, Jack, and his antagonist is not mere goblins or giants, but time itself (not only in the beginning, but also as the circumstances so abruptly changed). I think it is particularly fitting that Jack is juxtaposed, in your first post, to his enemy that has a face. That he is upon a perch, somewhat level with the clock, foreshadows he is capable. His goal is clear: to recover the weapons, all lost but one which he now wields. The only issue I had was that your opening sentence set me up to believe Jack is running out of time, but the story never completely delivered that sense, especially in the beginning, in London.

Strategy ~ 8/10 - Your character – or rather at this point, who he is, drives the story. I appreciated Jack and his sword. That he instinctively knew to grasp the blade with his hand, a blood oath, from the lady in the Astral Vault, was poignant, and lent truth to the lady's claim his was the blood of kings and heroes. When it disappeared with no trace, that element fit well with the quality of the setting. When evil was afoot, his burning and painful arm was very appropriate. The relief of unleashing Dyrnwyn was beautiful. I just wish you had better described the sword itself once wielded. See Clarity section for details.

Setting ~ 7/10 - Your description of London and the Astral Vault are breathtaking. Top quality. I just wish you had treated the Concordia with the same care to detail, but I understand at that point you are focusing more on character interaction. However, I had no idea you were in a forest other than the passing comment Aine made about being a half-day's ride into Concordia. The description of the forest that followed seemed, at least to me, like an afterthought, especially since Jack had been in the forest from the time he regained consciousness, and had indeed already been out of the wagon. I think that as you become more acclimated to Althanas, you'll rock this category royally.

Characterisation ~ 23/30

Continuity ~ 8/10 - Yay! You know there's a civil war going on, and what's more, your NPC's are involved in it by helping the Rangers! You are also geographically correct in having your farmer bring produce from the farming region of Corone. Excellent! Pa's outburst was a little off, but I will go into detail below. The events were logical (if being ripped from one world and planted into another is logical :) )

Interaction ~ 7/10 - The highlight of this category was what happened when Jack tossed his crushed phone into the pool at the Astral Vault. You did very well with Jack interacting with his surroundings, dirt, sun and all, except for the characters acting like they were in a forest. I wouldn't have known it, even when they camped at night. The light you described seemed to have more of an 'out in the open' quality to it.

The interactions among the characters was good as well; they were flavorful and didn't seem forced, except for the one 'pun' that caused Pa to break character for me. See below.

Character ~ 8/10 - Okay – there's something that bothered me about Pa. I see him as the Everyman of Corone, introducing both Jack and your reader to its people; he is hard, experienced, and distrustful, but not without compassion. (He did save Jack from death, which you conveyed very well.) You said it yourself: 'the gravelly, bitter voice of age and experience.' My problem was that strange outburst he had when Jack fell out of the wagon and made a pun. That seemed totally out of character for him. It would be different if you played it up as sarcastic (which you did touch on), instead of an abrupt look up the skirt at Pa's softer side. A man like Pa doesn't quickly change, and has a shell that will show fault lines and crack over time through the jostling of your story. Or, it will crack completely at a major event and more or less stay gone. Once Pa has decided to trust and like Jack, that doesn't quickly change; he is not mercurial. I am all for character development, but since Pa dies, you don't have that chance to explain why he had the outburst, and I am left with too big a blank to fill myself. He needs to be treated as a one-dimensional character, for the sake of his function in your story and how he is presented. Now contrast that with Aine, who seems very one-dimensional in the beginning, but reveals herself to be something much more in the way she dealt with her father's death, and the 'don't cheapen it' line. That was an unexpected look at her that leaves a door wide open for development. (On a side note, I had a little trouble with her age in the beginning; it might have been nice to know sooner she was around Jack's age, but that's not a huge thing.)

Back to Pa, I know you address his laugh later in the story: 'What little he had achieved – a laugh at a half-assed pun, he recalled – was brief; yet revealing enough of the man’s character that Jack knew he had been a good man.' Doesn't the fact that he didn't leave Jack to die in spite of strong misgivings say the same thing more powerfully?

And now, for Jack. Poor guy! It must've been a Monday.

I couldn't figure out why Jack was so pressed for time in the beginning. You say he is, but I don't get that sense of urgency. It seems to me like he's just taken a big step to coast how own way. He quit college to have a more quiet life, right?

I think with the events that occurred, Jack reacted appropriately: most of us would be like 'WTF,' and he was, but that his is the blood of kings and heroes shapes his reaction to many of the events. And that's what Jack is through most of the story: reactive, with the major exception of acquiring and wielding the sword. I liked Jack in this story (despite his potty-mouth ^^), and I look forward to seeing him once he's past his WTF experience and has more bearing, when he's more proactive and his personality shines through. I think a person, or in this case a character, will act and react differently, if that makes sense.

I appreciated the periods of reflection where Jack messes with his hair and stares out across the landscape. The first time, as we meet Jack on Earth, he is reflecting on his decision to quit college and wanting something very different that what he has. The second time, in Althanas, after his battle with the giant, he has what he wanted -- a chance to really matter. As he realizes the gravity of it, and as a result of Pa's death, he doubts himself. Nice use of the tattoo to convey that.

Writing Style ~ 22/30

Creativity ~ 9/10 – Listen - you flat out blow me out of the water with your use of metaphors, etc. I don't need to hound you about that at all; I can tell you have roots in poetry. I mean that as a high compliment. I truly appreciate the freshness you bring, and how you avoid trite devices like the plague. (See what I did there?)

There was one case I caught of a mixed metaphor 'riding life like a cocktail.' I had a mental image of a guy straddling a wine glass with a bright, paper umbrella over his shoulder – probably not what you intended. :) One other was a little confusing: 'suddenness of thunder.' Perhaps if you described the quality of thunder - nearby and piercing - I'd get a better aural image. Also 'The next few hours passed with relative silence, the sound of a squeaky wheel and the songs of a few birds acting as the world’s pulse' didn't really make sense to me. Pulses are steady and bird songs sporadic. Perhaps you could use the wheel squeak and horse's footfalls to accomplish the pulse; it would be rhythmic as they are not speeding up or slowing down. (On a side note, I realize you did that later in the story. It might be nice to connect the two in some way, like you did with Jack's hair-tugging reflections. Also, this is bordering on personal preference, so take it as you will.)

Other than that, the being sucked out of one realm to another isn't that original, though it was well done. Heck, my character is an elf, born and raised Althanian, and yours is more interesting than that. :) The Lady of the Lake character is very known, but it's an interesting twist that she's the Keeper of the Vault; it's a different look at a common character. The sword origin, acquisition, and wielding was very nice though.

Mechanics ~ 7/10 - Not riddled with mechanical errors, and not enough that they made it difficult to read your story. There were a few word misuses, like 'yolk' for yoke, or 'setting' for sitting. I found few punctuation and grammar errors, and a sentence fragment or two; these things are easily overlooked when revising. I would advise you as I have been advised: read it out loud. That makes you pay more attention.

If you want more detail on this let me know, but I think a writer of your obvious skill simply overlooked them and would catch them rather easily yourself.

Clarity ~ 6/10 - The sword. I had to read, and re-read, then finally read your character registration to understand it. I couldn't visualize it from what you wrote in the battle scene, and I needed help to realize your vision. It distracted me from the action. In all honesty, the only thing I know for sure is that his arm is wreathed in flame; I don't even know if the sword, which disappeared, has become visible again. I am assuming it hasn't. Since this is such a major theme of your story, it's a big deal.

I am not sure what you meant here: 'It was all I could do to keep them returning to your Plane' in the Vault post. Typo?

I get what you mean, but this sentence seems a little garbled: 'Early enough to silence the roar of crickets and their kin yet too early to purchase the songs of birds, the only sound in all of Althanas seemed to come from the squeaking metronome of the wagon’s wheels.'

In the following exchange, did you mean that Jack called Aine a hero, or was this Aine telling Jack he is also a hero?


“He was a hero,” Jack stated, looking ahead as well.

“He is a hero,” Aine corrected.

“And so are you.”

Wildcard: 9/10

You were kinda tough to judge. I kept getting swept away in your story and forgetting that I actually needed to pay attention so I could give a criticism! Your writing is very enjoyable, and your imagery rather exceptional. You had a very clear voice and style throughout the story, and it was my privilege to judge this.

What a wonderful first quest you've shared with us! Keep this up and you'll level in no time – and have to update your character sheet with new abilities! I think I speak for more than myself when I say we're very happy to have you as a part of Althanas. Can't wait to read more of your writing!

Total ~ 77/100

Jack receives 1047 EXP and 170 gold!

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.