Pestilence. The Plague of Paralysis. This is the price of being deemed unworthy. The Prize is aware, and knows it is pursued, and will only allow a worthy suitor to possess it. Every season of war brings a day when all are judged by the Prize. The conflict changes. The Plague separates the weak from the worthy.
On the Western sea, a small boat floats aimlessly in still water. The sailors accepted their fate some time ago, recognizing that they had little prepared or planned for combat, and were not equipped to threaten any foe.
The Barony was a complete mockery, failing in its initial hopes of supplanting the dominance of the Western Banner. A sharper contrast could hardly have been imagined. The Master and his Assassin had demonstrated overwhelming dominance of the entire region. The Barony had demonstrated incompetence and weakness at nearly every turn.
Kw-Uhnx-Wa had faltered, but not truly failed. It was never believed that this technology masquerading as religion would capture the Prize. The true goal of the displaced force was to grow, to develop, to continue a transformation from what was to what will be. They are not there yet. But the wings of the Thunder Bird will grow, and fly again, and cast a shadow on the wars of days yet to come.
The Totemic Tribes gathered again in the neutral territory just as they had before the war began. No boastful proclamations were made this time. No torches were raised. No tribe had set itself above any of the others, and all had failed to rise to the level worthiness. There were many injured warriors. Had the Reptile, the Bear, the Wolf, and the Stag all found dissatisfaction with their followers? Were the gods punishing the tribes for some transgression not rectified? The Pestilence would allow them time to ponder, and pray, and hope for redemption.
Elsewhere, the Superhero and the old General watched another year fall off of the calendar without new glory. They found no need for words. No need to summarize or eulogize the war nor the army that now slept against its will. They simply walked away from one another, without animosity, and with a mutual and ingrained understanding of the steps to take when the Plague had lifted.
The Family was embarrassed. Their plans had not been well executed. Some of them maybe talked a little too much before they had done anything. People outside of the Family were questioning the wisdom of the Don. At the very least, they had taken a step back in reputation. At worst, they blew their chances of luring King James into the fold. But at best, the embarrassment will make the Family eager to restore their rep. That could make them dangerous.
The sun was setting behind the tall rows of corn. Miller looked out the window from the booth at which he sat, trying not to admit to himself that he had been waiting since the sun was high in the sky above. He had already eaten, drank coffee until he lost count of the refills, and looked at his watch probably once for each loose granule of sugar that had spilled upon the table. He asbsent-mindedly toyed with a spoon and folded pink packets of sweetener. He sighed. His friend was not going to show up. He knew when he sat down six hours earlier that it was a possibility. Now it was certain. The Legend would not be seen today. Miller thought back to the day many months ago when he tried to lift his friend's spirits. Today, he had only hoped to say he was sorry.
Monta looked at the fat man. Disgusting, he thought, as he watched the bloated fool fall on his back. He was naked except for his white underwear and clutched a jug of beer that was nearly empty. He was trying to sing some unintelligible song and was probably only a few minutes from passing out and vomiting in his sleep. Mad Jack approached Monta as if to speak, but could not take his eyes off of the pathetic display from their chief. "I know one thing" said Monta. "I was clearly not the problem." Then silence and stillness seized them all.
Dazzlin' D'Antoni had locked the jet packs and the rest of the high-speed gadgets away in the chrome trailer. He had given some consideration to moving on, finding yet another town to ply his trade. It wasn't going to happen though. He hadn't done a lot that would be recognized as helpful for these guys of the 7th Second Chance, but he had one accomplishment that he felt proud of. He was still here, but the Clown was gone forever.
Nothing at all had gone well. Almost every spell cast failed. Arenas had sat out almost every encounter, and Grand Mage Edd was banished. The library was in shambles. The Chamber had been desecrated by army after army. The bonds between the Sorcerers would need much work to be strengthened again, but that work would not be able to begin for some time.
In a way, the dead always sleep. Though these corpses had tendency to be more animated, their repose would be extended for longer than they had grown accustomed. He had not had the resolve to do it sooner, but the necromancer was once again presented the opportunity to burn these maggot-ridden bodies into nothingness. The difference this time was that he had far longer to grow comfortable with such an idea.
*****
thank goodness it's back for the playoffs
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