Excerpt from "Patron's War"

"Captain Kurtzwhile! A moment, if I may!"

The Captain arrested his pace, sighing quietly. He recognized the voice. Turning about, he adjusted the opaque monocle that perched protectively over the gaping socket his left eye once occupied.

"What do you need, Lord Corelli?"

The Devil Corelli wore a fine, grey vest and jacket- both slightly too long for his smallish frame. His entire head was encased in a featureless metal sheath, mesh grating over his eyes and mouth. Corelli's voice was hollow and echoed as if he were at the bottom of a well. He raised a white-gloved hand to greet the captain, his iron mask as unreadable as ever.

"Captain Kurtzwhile, I am glad to have caught you! How are you fairing in these darkening days?"

Kurtzwhile's one eye gazed coldly at the disfavored Devil. "I find myself well contented to remain in the good graces of the powerful, my lord," he replied, his scarred lips curling into a sneer.

"And yet you remain so poorly clad," the masked noble returned, resting his hand on the captain's shoulder. "Your shirt torn, your vest bloodied, and your medals tarnished. How shameful that such an important man should live in a genteel poverty."

At the word 'important,' Kurtzwhile glanced over his shoulder. His betrayal of the Rose had been too recent for some vindictive spy not to be close at hand. The captain wondered if Corelli was intentionally playing his fears or was merely too dense to appreciate the danger of this discussion. The Devils' Masque made seperating the schemers from the fools difficult to the uninitiated.

"What's your buisness?" the captain asked, his discomfort throwing his control, allowing a trace of vulgar accent show through.

"Merely this, dear Captain: were you aware that incursions from the Waste have gone up 300% in the last few weeks? A disturbing trend, I am sure you will agree," Corelli explained, his arms folded in front of him.

"Just chaos in the Gates, I'm sure. Nothing to get worked up about," Kurtzwhile responded, finger tips running over his balding scalp nervously.

"Perhaps, valuable friend. But I think we would all rest much better if our fine protector took some loyal troops to investigate?"

Kurtzwhile did not like the path the conversation had taken. "To what end?"

The masked devil chuckled dustily from within his iron shell. "I fear a storm approches our fine court. And when the pieces are well and truely shaken, an ambitious man might, say, cross the Rubikon?"

Kurtzwhile looked down at his tattered, rotting uniform, then back at the Devil Corelli. He nodded, slowly.

The King and the Bee

There was once a king who was much hated. He was not tyrannical or selfish. He was not unjust or faithless. The only explaination for his unpopularity might be on account of his age, for the king was little more than a boy, for all his wisdom. He did his best to placate his foes and to win friends, but no matter what he did or said, he found no respite from the rancor.

One day, while contemplating his sorry state, a simple bee flew into his chamber and alighted on the back of his hand, so casually outstreched at the time. At first, the boy did not notice the visitor. Gradually, he became aware of the creature and started with dismay, for he was deathly allergic to the sting of such beasts.

"Are you some assassin sent by my myriad enemies?" He questioned direly. "Or perhaps a manifestation of the hatred cultivated against me?" He wondered.

"I am no assassin, my Lord, for you see, I am a Queen myself," the small bee responded. "And am equally no manifestation, for I bear you no ill will."

The boy king marveled greatly, for it had been many years since he had met one who bore no secret ire toward him.

"Would you ever consider me a friend, small queen?" He asked, his heart welling with hope.

"You strike me as kind and noble, fair king," the bee responded. "I would like very much to be your friend."

And so the king found companionship in the Queen bee. Each day grew less unbearable, until the boy began to smile once more. He leapt from his bed in the morning and kept a favorable disposition, no matter what vitrol was thrown at him by his court.

The boy and the bee found that they shared a great many interests, and the King grew to love the bee exceedingly, even calling her "my Queen," for he had no human counterpart.

But, as seasons passed, the King found his Queen growing more distracted, more distant. He feared the loss of so close a friend, and felt himself exceedingly unworthy of the affection she had showed him in the past. What sort of friend was he, to let her suffer under a private burden? And so he resolved to confront her on the matter at once.

But their meeting that day was not to take place. She sent her regards, but explained that she could not meet with him on that day. The next day, a similar message was left, and the same on the day after that.

The King grew greatly anxious and depressed as his Queen's emotional distance transformed itself into a physical distance. The King began to blame himself for the bee's troubles, loathing himself far greater than any of his foes might.

It was in such a state that the Queen bee flew into his chamber one day, and landed on the back of his hand, once more.

"Why do you pine, my King?" she asked.

"I feel that I have driven you from me," he responded, "and you are more dear to me than even my life."

"I... understand," she responded, haltingly. "And... I am sorry."

"For what-" the King began, cutting off as he felt the Queen's stinger pierce his skin, her venom pumping into his bloodstream. Without a word, the bee flew out of his life, leaving no explainations to those left behind.

As the poison coursed through his body, the King sat stock still, twin trails of tears weeping over his flushed cheeks.

"Why?" the King asked of the empty air. And, in his pain, the King grew very wrathful.

"I showed her every consideration, every kindness!" he stormed, his tears not lessening for his anger. "How could she betray and abandon me thus? I will...! I will..." The King fumbled in his wounded declaration.

"I will destroy everything she holds dear, dooming all that she loves, even as she has doomed me!"

But, as the poison ran into his heart, the King sat back down with a heavy realization.

For he saw that love had done this to him. He had long hid behind friendship without ever truely considering his love for her, and hers for him. And love, he saw, was a madness of sorts, a contagious thing that seizes the mind and vanishes as quickly as it came.

The dying king knew he could have no revenge, for the woman who he loved no longer lived. She had died quietly one day, and another had taken her place.

And what revenge might he visit upon a stranger? Indeed, it was no surprise to have been stung by this new Queen, for was the boy not hated by All?

So, the King concluded, his breath coming in fractured gasps, perhaps it was best this way. For what is life without your Queen? And the boy king died, his wounded hand clutching his chest, just over his poisoned heart.

Meditations on Hatred

We first learn to hate from a sense of powerlessness in the face of percieved injustice. As we become aware of our selves and our surroundings, we begin to develop a sense of justice and "right," even if our early conceptions are very mono-centric. When the world fails to live up to this definition, we become aware of how helpless we are in the face of natural operation. We lash out at injustice and our own weakness in a mutually destructive rancor- hate.

If hate stems from weakness thought, it is certainly nurtured by fear. More than anything else, people fear what they do not understand, what is different or alien. It is far easier to hate differences in others than to ammend intolerence in the self. This fear and rejection give hatred a new outlet, but fundamentally keep it in the realm of ignorance.

The final maturity of hate is, paradoxially, love. Love is a maddening, infectious, subtle thing that weds sacrifice and destruction to nobility and tenderness. In understanding the scope of devotion and love, we expose ourselves to betrayal, heart break, rejection, and scorn. Even more insidious, love breeds isolation and envy, which corrupt the heart and the mind. We learn to hate when we are young, but we do not understand hate until we feel love's talons tearing into our brains and hearts.

Love is a sick and mad thing. Hatred follows as swiftly and surely as love's own shadow. How many are condemned to stand in that unhappy shade for the interum of their lives by a careless word or a thoughtless gesture, repeated and multiplied a thousand times by a thousand people?

Excerpt from "Patron's War"

The stench was overwhelming. It was the kind of miasma that crawled into your nostrils even if you held your breath. It was an odour that paralyzed the other senses. It crippled the mind. It hung in the air and settled on every surface in an almost tangible film. It was omnipresent.

The Devils of the court squirmed in their fine, formal clothes, each trying to appear unaffected by the reeking wind that nearly oozed from their patron, the boy-king Indulgence. From his too-large throne, the Sin slid a haunch of flesh into his gaping maw, seemingl oblivious to the discomfort of his masked servants. To the disproportioned child, the Devils that filled the lavish hall might have been statuary or discarded play-things. The Devil nearest to Indulgence shifted. The man wore a crecent moon mask of pale bone that hid half of his face and throat. He smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his pressed ivory suit and adjusted the cuffs of his crimson silk shirt.

"Master Indulgence," he prompted.

"Lord Saul," the child whined, "I am eating at the moment. What is it?"

"Master," Saul pressed, "your sister has been waiting on you outside the hall for nearly a day now. Should you not send for her?"

Indulgence scrunched his face up. "Not that terrible Resent, I hope."

"No master. Your sister Hubris."

Indulgence waved dismissively, his anxiety soothed. "Let her in if you wish, Lord Saul. I surely have no better use for my time than to listen to my big sister's pleas for ever more resources."

Saul nodded curtly at the shackled fallen angels who stooped in deep self-pity by the grand double doors of the feast hall. The broken exiles slunk to the golden ringed handles and, with a back-breaking effort, the slaves managed to pry the barrier open.

Standing patiently, the full eight feet of Hubris seemed- to all appearences- content to wait another week, if needed.

"Mistress Hubris!" Lord Barr called out from under his bug-eyed, frog-faced mask.

Hubris' lip curled up slightly as she regarded the sychophantic flesh filling the room. The metal talons of her prostetic hands dug into her palms as she forced her fingers from digging into the Devils, to improve them. Clouds of black soot began to belch from the curving smoke stacks that rose from her back as she moved into the chamber. She strode foward briskly, if somewhat stiffly, her tattered lab coat billowing out behind her.

Indulgence tossed his silverware into his mouth with a hollow, metalic crunch and waved his food away. Leaning forward eagerly, he balled his long, spindly fingers into fists and rested his head on them.

"What gifts has my favorite sister brought to her loving brother?" the child asked with possessive glee, emphasising 'loving' a touch too long. The tip of his tongue licked his lips expectantly.

Hubris made a 'tch' noise in the back of her throat, and a spasm of polluted flame licked the top of her smoke stacks.

"Unlike some," she sneered with condescending disdain and an empty voice, "I can look beyond the purely carnal. I have, in my infinite comprehension of science, torn back the veil of ignorance and fear the creator has blinded men with, and begun to decode the mysteries of Heaven's Butchers."

Indulgence settled backward, stroking the patchwork fur of his rich mantle. "And I must suppose you need MY help?"

The half of Hubris' face that still wore skin twisted in bemused disbelief. "Help? Ah ha, no. This is far beyond anything you might understand. I need only your fallen Angels. The batch I rounded up earlier did not quite make it through the initial tests."

The fallen Angels of Heaven- the "Lords" of Hell- shuddered in their place by the doorway.

Euphoria

"Ah..." she sighed, basking in the feeling. It had been ages since she felt this good. Her fingers tapped out a little pattern against her thigh while her knee bounced to the music humming through her head.

"Ah..." she sighed again. Again, the smile came to her face; her lips drawn apart by the smile, revealing the white teeth that lightly rested atop one another. The bouncing of her foot sent minor vibrations through her body, like little tremors of muscle and skin. Her hair swayed to the rhythm, bangs falling over her eyes like a fine veil.

"Ooooh...!" She murmured, her back arching in a cat-like strech, while her arms went out to either side, hands balled into small, trembling fists. She could feel her spine cracking in appreciation and waves of pleasure radiated through her body, mixing with the soothing bask of her happiness. She could not imagine a place she'd rather be; indeed, it was difficult to imagine any thing at all. Her senses were simply overwhelmed.