The marketplace was bustling. Bustling. Doqz savored the word, rolling it over and over in his mind until it started to lose its meaning. There was something almost magical about it, the vague promise of new encounters, the indescribable undertones that made him remember the half-forgotten books of his childhood, full of adventures and intrigues that all started in the market or bazaar. The Writer let himself be pulled into the chaos that was the Waystation Market. The multitude of peoples surrounded him, the din deafened him, the smells assaulted his lungs and his thoughts vainly tried to maintain concentration as the hundreds and hundreds of wondrous wares were produced, shown, traded and stolen.

Awash in the sea of people, decked out in all possible and impossible costumes, Doqz drifted aimlessly, completely given in to the impressions that teased all five of his senses, until a strand of a random conversation caught his attention. Surprise jerked the writer out of his reverie and he furiously fought back against the crowd to get back to the place where he heard a familiar voice. Finally by some strange quirk of luck he succeeded and was shot out as bullet out of the milling mob, barely stopping in time as not to intimately introduce his head to the post of one of the tents.

As the Writer caught his breath, he looked around, getting his bearings and finding the object of his search. Almost involuntarily he grinned widely and held back waiting for the outcome of the masterful oratory that his friend was currently engaged in.

Some people might have called the process "haggling" but to Paradoqz, that wouldn't even begin to sound as a fitting definition of the furious and uncompromising battle of words, allegories, curses and exploration of family histories that was taking place before his eyes. The straw-headed, slim young man that was Doqz's target was apparently in the starting maneuvers of getting the beautifully crafted bracelet from a portly, Oriental-looking fellow. Who was currently furiously shaking the photos of his family at his customer and asking whether the "noble sir" wanted his kids to go hungry. Stifling his laughter, Doqz observed the seemingly enraged customer pull out his own wallet and let the scroll of pictures unroll until it hit the sand. Not fazed for a moment the vendor started to pull at his beard and call the wrath of the Prophet on the head of the infidel who would make a beggar of him.

Regrouping the young fellow, put his wallet back, and casting his eyes to the sky sent out a prayer to the Lady Scribe and the Trinity to keep him from resorting to violence, to which the vendor responded by tearing more of his sparse hair out...and so it went on, and on, and on. Eventually of course the foes came to an agreement and shook hands, parting on the best of terms, each fully convinced that he got the better of the other.

Judging the moment to be fortuitous, Paradoqz clapped a hand on the youth's shoulder. "Pop!"

The recipient of that energetic greeting appreciated the sentiment so much that he decided to demonstrate it by leaping straight up into the air. As the Law of Gravity gently reminded him of its existence, he came back to earth hitting the ground with a pained "Ow"! Apparently feeling that one "Ow" was woefully inadequate, Pop complimented it with a couple of others also throwing in a couple of "owies," "owchies," and "damn, this ground is firm..."

He finally straightened up and beating dust out of his clothes turned somewhat angrily to the cause of his inadvertent attempt at flying. However as he glimpsed the identity of the perpetrator, his eyes crinkled in genuinely happy smile, "Doqz, long time no see, man! Although you did scare the stuffing out of me..." Then suddenly with nary a warning, Pop punched the Writer in the face.

"Oomph! What wash shat for, you idiot?!!! I shink you broke my toosh! What are you nutsh or shomeshing?" While the surprised and less than ecstatic Writer splattered expletives at him, Pop calmly reached into the scabbard hanging on his back and produced a pump-action, double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun. Calmly following a rapidly retreating Doqz, he leveled the rifle, "Serves you right, you lousy, skimping, no damn good Writer-boy..."

"Hey, come on, Pop! Ish me...Doqz...what's with all the hoshtility?"

The fictive's eyes widened and a bloodthirsty grimace stretched his face, "Oh, you haven't seen hostility yet." *Bang* "I'll show you hostility." *Bang* "You...you.." *Kchk* "I'll murdurlize ya..." *Bang *

"All right!" Doqz, cornered and with no visible means of escape, raised his hands in gesture of surrender. "I can see shat you are upshet," the trapped Writer spat out blood and gamely went on, "Wanna talk about it?"

Pop just raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Me? Upset? Whatever gave you that idea?"

Doqz watched him methodically reload the gun and felt his legs go weak. It's all well and good when others talk about Writers' practical omnipotence but when one is looking down the twin barrels of a very big gun -- one's thought process tends to get impeded. Or maybe that's just Doqz. Finally, observing less than productive effect that the calm attitude had on Pop, Paradoqz snapped and screamed in a desperate voice, "Whatta hell ish wrong wish you, man?"

Pop, carefully lining up the gun with the Writer's forehead, replied severely, "You skipped out on the bill. Nobody skips out on my bill and gets away with it!"

Doqz, forgetting for a minute about his impending demise, lowered his hands and looked at Pop in complete stupefaction, "Excuse me? When?!"

Pop incensed by this question, in turn put down his gun and waved his fist under the Writer's nose, "For the tour! You left without paying for the tour!"

Doqz suddenly paled. "Oh my God. That's right, I did."

"Oh it's coming back to ya now, is it?" Pop muttered sarcastically, picking up the shotgun again.

"I am shorry, Pop, I really am!"

"Sorry won't pay the bills."

"I just forgot, man. Come on!"

"Yeah, riiiight. You forgot. Could your excuses be any lamer?"

"I had a concussion!"

"How convenient."

Doqz decided to try the reasonable approach, again. "Hey Pop, what do you shay you cut out the 'Mob Collector' routine and I go buy you a drink?"

Pop smiled at the Writer dazzlingly and pulled the trigger.

When Doqz finally got up the nerve to cautiously open his right eye and look around he observed the smirking Pop holding a gun with a little red flag protruding from it. The white writing on the flag said, "Bang!"

The Writer looked at the flag for a long time, then at the fictive's grinning face, then at the gun again. Eventually he looked at the Pop's face again and snorted disgustedly, "Aaah shut up, you."

"Gotcha. Now for that drink?"

There is only one street framed by wooden houses, wide enough for two carriages and unpaved. Just ground and dust. In winter months, after the rains, the dust turns to mud, making even the trips to the bar and taverns an act of unparalleled heroism. Soap is a priceless commodity for obvious reasons. The street is reasonably straight and goes through the whole town culminating in the Market Square. Like almost everything in the Waystation, the Square's name is self-explanatory. Practical people are Stationers, not given to the flights of fancy.

As small as Waystation is it is still by far the greatest settlement in these parts and because of that it became a natural meeting place for traders and caravans. Oh, perhaps it's the other way around, who knows? Fairs are the event that is known and prepared for. Not much excitement in those parts, you understand. Except of course for surviving, but that's true for all of Subreality. Besides, it gets old real fast.

The Waystation's nightspots are easily described. There are none. Well, except for the not-so-rare occasions when Old Ben gets drunk and starts calling the Judge out. There are bars and inns but those are mostly for the times when the Fairs are in town. Otherwise the alcohol is your own affair. It gets scarce around every five years and then it's every man/woman/intelligent species for itself. The Great Guinness/Whiskey War is still fondly remembered.

The only place that's always open is the Green Tavern (I warned you about the names didn't I?). It's a greenish, two-story building with a bar, a reasonably edible and unreasonably priced food and a couple of rooms to rent. Doqz have been staying there for a week now and he still winced every time he saw the bed. It reminded him of the rack. He and Pop settled behind one of the many free tables, vacated by the usual customers who went to the Fair.

"So what brings you in this heck of the dust and nowhere?" Doqz asked curiously, coming back from the bar with two steaming cups and sandwiches. He had to wait as Pop nodded gratefully and bit into one of the snacks.

"Actually..." *Gulp* "...ever since our Tour, for which you will still pay me or else, I have a fairly steady supply of customers. I mean, I am the guy who survived the Bureau. Plus Mortimer put me on retainer. So, in any case, one of the Fisks sent me down here looking for this..." He casually threw the necklace on the table and continued destroying the lunch. Gulping with the speed that would do any Quicksilver proud, he squinted at Doqz quizzically, "What about you? What's your excuse?"

Paradoqz took a little sip from his cup and shrugged ambiguously. "No particular reason, just shanghaiing."

Pop raised one eyebrow in a laudable imitation of Spock's patented gesture. "Eh?"

Taking another careful drink, Doqz waved his hand airily. "Well you know, walkabouting, looking around." He put the cup down and shrugged again. "Besides it's beastly cold in RL right now, so..."

"You decided to take a hiatus in Subreality?" Pop finished the sentence and the cup in one fell swoop. Doqz nodded.

"Yep. That's about it."

Pop threw his Writer a keen look. "Dangerous game you are playing, you know..."

"What?"

"Oh come on, if you ended up here you've been in Subreality a loooong time."

"So?" Paradoqz demanded belligerently, biting his own sandwich.

"Be careful is all I am saying, many a Writer neglected the RL too much and stayed here forever. Not a pretty proposition that, not pretty at all... Phil will take care of you but his protection will only go so far."

Doqz looked at his companion with a puzzled expression. "Whose protection?"

Pop, smiled sardonically. "Funny, man. Real funny. But I wouldn't quit your day job just yet."

Doqz shook his head slightly. "Yeah, whatever. Pop, I think you been out in the sun too long. I have no idea what are hell are you talking about. Who is Phil?"

"Oh you know, the short, slightly hairy guy? Drunk a lot, likes to brawl, old, unfriendly. Sitting right behind ya?"

The Writer gave his fictive a long hard look and then unable to resist the temptation looked. Finding, as he expected, nothing there. Which he proceeded to explain to Pop in less than diplomatic language.

Pop looked flabbergasted for a moment, then shrugged. "Eh, I never could figure the little guy out. Guess he doesn't want you to see 'im or something..."

"Yeah, right, I am being followed by a Logan look-alike and you are the only one who can see him. Get hit in the head much?"

"Heh, look who is talking."

Paradoqz moved his jaw biting back an acid reply and winced as pain lanced through the recently punched appendage. "Ow. Dammit, you didn't have to hit me so hard, you know!"

Pop smirked openly. "Nope, but what fun would it be then?"

Abandoning the serious tone, both began to reminisce about their adventures and pumping each other for information and news. Time passed but neither felt like commenting on it. The day was still young and in one of those rare quirks of Fate and Fortune everything from weather to atmosphere to the music, the sounds of which drifted through the windows from the Square, seemed to have conspired to keep the mood genial and bright. And so they let the seconds crawl and the music and warm Eastern wind wash over them, talking and drinking, happy to just...be. Of course like all such moments, this one too had to come to an end.

Pop got up regretfully. "Well as fun as this was I gotta split." He stretched, the bones creaking, like a snapping tree branches, causing Paradoqz to wince in sympathy. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he tensed looking with a great interest at something behind Doqz' back. Intrigued the Writer turned, half expecting to see nothing there and this being simply a prelude for some gag, like salt being poured in his tea. Instead he saw a most unusual pair occupying the table right behind his own.

Of the two...persons sitting there, it was indisputable who would grab the attention of any curious observer. No doubt about it. Definitely the Ogre. Well maybe he wasn't an Ogre but he certainly looked the part in Doqz' opinion. Even sitting he was towering at seven feet easy; the height was more than complimented by the girth. "Impressive" was the only word that came to mind, also the least likely to get the speaker torn apart. His garb was simple. An unadorned leather pants and vest were apparently all that was considered necessary by the owner. The mottled fur covering him from head to toes probably provided more than enough protection from the natural elements. The face had a definite canine quality to it, mostly because of the powerful, Brando-ish jaws and a pair of protruding fangs. Long fangs. And sharp. Powerful limbs, reminiscent of tree-trunks and a club the size of a not-so-small tree was all the weaponry visible to the onlooker. That is not to say it didn't look impressive, mind you. The overall effect was offset however, by the small (for him) but friendly blue eyes that seemed to constantly sparkle with suppressed mirth.

The giant's companion was almost unnoticeable in comparison. Dwarfed by the imposing figure accompanying her, she appeared to be nothing but a wisp of a girl. Also blue-eyed, but in her case much less softer, more like twin sapphires with a definite hint of ice. Blonde, shoulder-length hair was braided and thrown over a shoulder. Dressed casually in a tee shirt, and a flannel shirt, with a strange pendant glinting under the random sunrays. Snug jeans and running shoes. A slim sword lay near to her hand, its hilt lovingly wrapped with wire and showing signs of use. All in all a very pretty girl...in a White Queen kind of way. Still Doqz failed to see what could so ruffle Pop's feathers.

He turned to ask, right in time to see his companion shaking his head as if saying "No way!" Pop shook his head again and grinned. "You know, I think you are right, I have been out in the sun too long. For a second there I could've sworn it was... Nah!"

"Who?" Doqz asked intrigued despite himself.

"Nobody. It can't be her. Forget it."

The Write pursed his lips disgustedly. "No way you are leaving without telling me. Whatta hell kinda stunt is this, dropping vague hints like that and then go?"

"Oh, all right! Keep your panties on." Pop muttered irritably and the bent to Doqz' ear, whispering a name that caused the Writer to whip his head around for another look. "No way!"

"Exactly, so don't go and get yourself all excited."

"You sure?" Paradoqz was still peering at the pair through his glasses as if a secondary glance would help him obtain their identities.

"Absolutely sure," Pop collected his things and raised his head in salute. "Well it's been fun, see you later." Suddenly growing serious, he tapped the edge of the table. "Remember what I told you: don't linger too long."

"Yeah, yeah, okay Mother." Doqz was still grinning as he observed Pop exit the Tavern and start down the westbound tract. He sighed, realizing that he was left with paying the bill and went to settle with Mama Tess, the owner of the Tavern.

The Writer then proceeded to his room, gathered his scant belongings, and was just about ready to leave when once again he was distracted by a fragment of a conversation.

"No, Brokkk."

"You don't seriously think that you'll win this argument do ya, Khali, my gel?"

"I am very much sure that I will. As I am sure that you will do as you are told."

The giant moved, sending all kinds of tremors through the dining hall of the tavern, leaning across the table he looked straight into the girl's calm eyes. "Doncha take that tone with me, girlie. I still remember you short enough to walk under the tables. And if I think ya need it, I'll still throw you over my knee."

The girl's lips moved into an almost imperceptible smile. Even that gesture, small as it was, seemed to light up her face and highlighted her beauty. Shaking her head ruefully she whispered something unintelligible, but judging from the self-satisfied smirk on the Brokkk's face, she acquiesced to his demands. Neither noticed Doqz standing behind them, his lips silently wording the word "Khali."

Half-closing her eyes in concentration, she began to draw runes on the ground, murmuring incantations, that seemed to send palpable ripples through the air in rhythm to the Fair's music. Suddenly she stopped and her head snapped towards the Market Square. Her features relaxed into an enigmatic smile and springing on her feet in one fluid motion she set off in an easy sprint towards the Gathering. Brokkk sighed heavily, sounding like a rumbling volcano and muttering into his beard, followed her.

Khali was forced to stop as she reached the edge of the crowd; only Brokkk's massive frame succeeded in parting the sea of people. The pair, following Khali's direction made their way to a modest tent sitting in the southern end of the square.

The tent was not small; made from more practical mammoths skins instead of silk, it wasn't adorned either inside or outside. The only furniture that was visible was several long benches and a sort of stage. The stage was empty except for a few stools, but the benches were crammed full of people and more were standing outside clamoring to get in. Protected by Brokkk, Khali managed to find herself a seat while he stood near her glowering at anyone foolish enough to contest her ownership of the space.

Suddenly a whisper ran through the crowd. A short, portly fellow in the clothes of Seefan nobility excitedly elbowed Brokkk in the ribs; not even noticing the latter's surprised look, the man whispered agitatedly, "It's Them. They are here. OOOH!" Brokkk hrmphed and followed the guy's gaze. Coming through the crowd that appeared to magically clear a passage for them were several people.

Each was carrying a musical instrument. Each was different in appearance, manner and dress and yet each exuded a quality that was similar to his companions. As if they all shared a secret no outsider could ever hope to glean. Quietly the group went to the stage and started tuning their instruments, each sound clear and shockingly loud in the hush that fell over the crowd and seemingly the entire fair. Finally the troupe appeared to be ready as two men came forward, one carrying a guitar, the other a harp.

The harpist was a tall, redheaded man with a tired green eyes; with a questioning look at his counterpart he freed his harp from it's casing and took a seat. The recipient of that look was also a tall man, dressed in a 14th century garb, bronze-haired and blue-eyed. He seemed to exude carelessness, laughter, and joy of being alive. With a grin that seemed oddly fitting to his features, he offered the harpist a small piece of paper. "How about this for a change of pace, Thom?"

Thom, glancing briefly at the offered page, smiled. "Uh, but of course, Bertran. What a marvelous choice."

Bertran turned to the rest of the minstrels, shrugged and smiled wryly as several members, grumbling, reached into their pockets. As the money changed hands, most of the conversations were too low for the audience to hear. Except for one. "My, my, my. What a positively glorious day. An abundance of riches, I must say. Lady Luck favors me tonight."

"Ah, be quiet Robinton. It's painful enough as it is."

"Never bet against a Perner, m'boy. Not smart that, uh-uh...not smart at all."

Impatiently waiting for the bets to be settled, Brokkk chanced to look at his charge. One look was all it took for him to freeze in utter amazement. Not since before the War, not since her childhood had he seen her so openly eager. Her face defenseless in a childlike anticipation of a favorite but rare treat. His observation was interrupted by the Bertran's voice.

The troubadour turned to an old man, seating not too far behind him, holding an ancient but beautiful harp. "Ramir," he said with a fond respect clear in every word, "would you start us off?"

The gray-haired minstrel nodded silently and with gentle familiarity touched the strings. Carefully plucking the cords, he led the others deeper and deeper into the song.

The rest of the troupe gingerly followed his lead and soon the notes began to meld, weaving a strange melody, haunting and crystally brilliant, seeming to reach out to everyone within the earshot. The tune continued to rise until every breath in the audience was held in anticipation of something they weren't even sure was going to happen. Ramir held the song on this rise, several more impossibly long seconds until when the tension reached an explosive levels, Thom and Bertran suddenly started to sing.

Brokkk didn't understand the language; he doubted anyone in the audience did. But there was also no doubt whether they understood the song. In his long life, Brokkk had been in many wars and more battles. The songs, be they hymns or dirges, held no wonder for him any more. Until today.

The song took him back, reminded him of the old friends, of the tranquil nights beside the campfire, the quiet talks and shared secrets on the eve of the battle, that could be anybody's last. Brokkk held no illusions about wars any more. Organized murder is all it was... But it did brought out the men's souls...brought out the worst or best in them, like nothing else.

Suddenly the song ended, leaving the giant feeling bereft and a little lost. Looking around, he saw some people crying others still lost in the reverie. Brokkk didn't know for sure but he doubted all of them saw the same thing in their dreams. Suddenly he felt a tugging on his sleeve; looking down he saw Khali gesturing impatiently for him. He looked at her questioningly but had no time to voice his query as she waved her pendant opening a Path and drawing him in. Their departure went almost unnoticed in a furious, standing ovation. Up on the stage, two singers looked at each other and smiled.

Bertran, carefully putting his guitar in a case, looked up. "Same time, next time, my friend?"

Thom, slung his harp over the shoulder and turning toward the door, nodded his assent, "Same time, next time. As always."

As the troubadours were leaving the tent, Brokkk and Khali were negotiating the storms of the Paths. Pictures seemed to flicker through the walls of not-quite-tunnels they were travelling through. Some beautiful and full of light and laughter. Other darkly horrifying. Some Brokkk never've seen before, others vaguely familiar. Without any warning the Path came to an end and they returned to solid ground again.

Fighting a mild case of nausea, Brokkk straightened up and looked around. As far as he could tell their destination was nothing more than a small, rocky islet, with no population and less vegetation. He gave the surroundings a second look in vain hope that he missed something with the first one. Confirming his first impression he turned to his companion, who in contrast seemed invigorated by their journey and the point of arrival. "Umm...Khali? What are we doing here?" he queried plaintively, sharply missing his warm house and dinner.

Khali smiled happily at him. "I am staying, you are leaving." Not fazed by her sure expression, he frowned down at her. "Now see here, we already went over..." He was interrupted in the middle of his sentence by her trilling laughter. "Oh give it a rest, Brokkk. Look around you, there is no danger here, and you should be home with Tasha. On this Eve of all times."

Brokkk didn't surrender immediately of course, but he did give in eventually. Although he absolutely refused to leave until she promised to let him know as soon as she got back to Subreality. Smiling slightly, Khali watched him step into the Path, grumbling about stubborn little minxes. After the Path disappeared, she turned around and gazed at the setting sun, waiting and enjoying the chilly wind as it blew in her face and raffled through her clothes. She stood there for some time, until she heard a slight noise behind her. Frowning slightly she turned around, ready to reprimand Brokkk, but instead she came face to face with someone she never expected to see here and now.

"You!" She didn't bother to hide her disgust as she took in the sight.

"Why, mother dear, is that any way to greet you favorite offspring? I do not think so, do you, pal?" Sardonic grin-grimace playing on his lips, Daemon leisurely questioned the writer he currently had in a chokehold; with a knife held to his throat Doqz wisely remarked "Afg akfgh shgy" before his air supplied was cut off again. Daemon smiled brilliantly at his mother. "My, aren't we dressed down today. It's a pity that you will have die wearing these tacky dregs. Not!"

Calliope, the Queen of Muses and the curator of the Imagination Collegium, looked at her son with the icy, imperious gaze well known to her subordinates and colleagues. "I am not in the mood for your little games today. Let him go and leave this place. Now!"

Daemon Hunter, continued to grin although some of the mirth had gone out of the expression. His grip tightened around the Writer's neck, causing the latter's eyes to bug out another millimeter and his face to turn a lovely shade off indigo. "I do not think so, Mommy dearest. I think I'll kill this one. It's been a long time since I offed a
Writer...as I remember, it's quite a rush. Him first and then we'll dance our dance again. What do you say?"

Calliope's steel gaze never wavered. Whispering in a barely audible voice she gestured with her left hand, still holding the pendant. She calmly looked into her son's eyes as he was dragged into a vortex opening beneath him. "Not today, Daemon. Not today."

"Brugh gha khagh!" Doqz, unceremoniously dumped on the rocky ground by the Daemon Hunter in the latter's last moments on the island, struggled to get air back into his lungs. All for naught, since as Calliope stern gaze fell on him he suddenly considered that Hunter's grip was not that bad after all. Starting to sweat under her scrutiny the Writer felt his mouth open and the words come out, without any directive from his brain. "I didn't mean to follow you, Your Majesty. Honest! Well, just a little to the tent, maybe. But that Portal or whtchamacallit dragged me and then this guy with the knife and stuff...I'm sorry. I'm reaaaally, really sorry. I'll never do it again. I promise."

Realizing that he was babbling and even worse sounding almost exactly like the time he was called to the Principal's office, Paradoqz with a supreme force of will shut himself up and dared a peek at Calliope's face. He immediately had to struggle with a sigh of relief. The Queen Bitch was looking at him and smiling.

Not that Oh you are in Shit-Pot of trouble now, boy and I am NOT kidding grin that was a primary cause of at least seventy-five percent of Collegium nightmares. No, this was a small, slightly amused grin Doqz seen before. Mostly on his sister's face, when he made a fool out of himself but she was in a good enough mood to let him of the hook. Calliope observed the boy digging himself in deeper and deeper with every word and finally took pity on him. "Your name is Paradoqz, isn't it?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Most people call me Do...yes, Ma'am."

"You are new to Subreality, if I am not mistaken," Calliope continued, in the tone clearly suggesting that she was NEVER mistaken.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Yes, I remember your file, you haven't met a muse yet...yes?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

Calliope looked at him curiously. "Can you say anything else?"

"Yes, Ma...I mean I can, sure."

"Aha! Well, don't now. Be quiet and watch, you may not know it yet but today just might be the luckiest day of your life."

"Whatever you say, Your Majesty. Umm... if you don't mind my asking what am...are we waiting for?"

"Today is the last day of the millennium, Paradoqz."

As the Writer shifted slightly, Calliope's tone took on an even more amused tinge. "Yes, I am well aware that the January first was celebrated several weeks ago. As I am aware that the 'true' Millennium will come next year. It never ceases to amaze me how ethnocentric you mortals can be. Not only you try to measure the end of the Millennium by the canons of one peculiar religious sect, but you do not even pause to take into considerations other species. Such arrogance!" Calliope shook her head in wonderment, her eyes never leaving the horizon. "Well, here and now is when the true millennium ends. Time in Subreality is a strange thing, even to me, so I doubt you will ever understand the phenomenon. I will not waste time trying to explain it to you. Just watch and try to understand."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Shhh, it is starting."

Before Paradoqz could make an inevitable mistake of asking what was starting, his question was answered in full. Just as the sun reached the setting point there was a bright flash that blinded the Writer for a moment. When his vision returned Doqz wasn't sure that his sanity had. He wiped the glasses and took another look, confirming that he indeed was seeing two suns in the sky. The light sea-breath that was but a minor inconvenience to him a moment ago, suddenly gathered force and soon the Writer and the Muse found themselves standing in the eye of a raging typhoon.

Strangely Calliope showed not the slightest sign of worry; firmly beating down his mind's desperate attempt to talk him into retreating into the gibbering terror, Doqz followed suit. The last thing he remembered seeing before the terrible wind died was Calliope raising arms and shouting words, that rang some long-forgotten note in his mind. Waking the memories of ages past and legends long forgotten. Tagging at the corners of his mind, tantalizingly close but dancing out of his reach every time he thought he was going to grasp their meaning.

And then he forgot about them as the storm died and he was in the middle of a battlefield. Everywhere he looked he saw beings beautiful beyond description fighting each other with no quarter asked or given. Once he thought he glimpsed Calliope herself crossing swords with someone who could have passed for her mirror reflection, but then he was carried away to witness other combats and other deaths.

As unexpectedly as he was plunged in the middle of this battle, Paradoqz was rudely jerked out of it as everything around him suddenly was hidden in imperceptible fog. All he could see was Calliope, standing on the cliff not far from him, her hair unbraided and flying in the wind, her shirt and sword lying forgotten on the ground at her feet. She was still looking as if she could see the scenes of the terrible battle being played out before her very eyes. Her eyes. They all of a sudden leaped out at Paradoqz.

Two twin pools of deepest blue. No more ice, just eyes... soft as those of a scared doe. Eyes brimming with tears unshed for millennia, with sorrow and regret. Wise and tired. Her lips moved and though he could not her the words Paradoqz knew with quiet certainty what they were:

"Rest. My sisters, by blood or oath. Goodbye and may your path be forever without thorns. On the other side we'll meet and sing paeans again as we did not so long ago."

Just as fog seemed to get thicker, Paradoqz was suddenly pushed from behind. Swiftly turning around, he lost his footing and sat heavily on the ground, coming face to face with a dragon.

Strangely enough, he wasn't scared. Later, he rationalized that he'd probably been probably in shock, but at the moment all he felt was curiosity. He stretched his hand out, almost touching the muzzle of the great creature.

The dragon gave him a indulgent look and, putting its head in the Writer's reach, it almost purred. It then stretched his neck, putting its head right before the Writer's eyes.

Later, drinking in the Writer's Café, Doqz would often tell the story, and although some details changed with each retelling, one never did. He never described what it was like looking into the dragon's eyes. His own eyes would just haze over and in a strangely wistful way he would say that there was nothing quite like that before or since.

He didn't know how long the moment lasted, he came to just as he felt a warm sensation of a wet, rough tongue licking his face. The dragon's breath smelled of sea and brimstone and Doqz could have sworn that when the creature withdrew it winked at him.

As the Writer was struggling to comprehend what was happening, the Dragon turned its head to Calliope. "Take care of Flame. Remember the Pact."

The Muse's eyes grew steely again; " I have yet to break my word, Fire-Kin."

The Dragon nodded and with a trumpeting call it seemed to fade, soon after its disappearances the fog covering the island also slithered away.

Instinctively the Writer's eyes traveled upward to check for the double suns. He didn't find them, but instead was treated to a no less incredulous vision. Calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, there in a cloudless sky sat a man. Seemingly a giant he was nonetheless young, no older then 25. He was dressed only in jeans and a white free-hanging silk shirt with a ridiculous-looking sombrero sitting on his head at a jaunty angle. His bare feet were crossed around one of the legs of his stool. He seemed to be deeply immersed in painting the canvas that stretched before him. Almost as if he heard something he turned his head right in time to see another man that appeared out of nowhere.

The newcomer was a mirror image of the artist, carrying a pallet and a large piece of paper, rolled in a tube. The recent arrival raised his eyebrows and tapped his watch in an impatient gesture. Acquiescing, the previous occupant of the stool got up and collecting his things started to leave. In mid-stride though, he looked down at the two tiny figures that were gazing at him from a small island below.

Rolling up his just-finished picture, the artist waved to the Paradoqz, grinning a little as the Writer waved back uncertainly. Turning his head slightly the artist gave Calliope a long look, shaking his head ruefully. Sneaking a look, Paradoqz was amazed to see that the Muse was actually blushing and guiltily looking down, drawing a little circle in the sand with her foot. The guy, still grinning and shaking his head, winked at the Queen and disappeared. Leaving only a trace of whisper hanging in the air. "And so it begins anew..."

That was all that Doqz remembered before jerking up in his bed, as the alarm clock woke him for another day in Greater Washington.

"You called for me, You Majesty?" he queried respectfully, as he straightened up from the customary bow.

"Yes. I would like to review the Paradoqz file. See to it."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The concept of Subreality Cafe was created by Kielle, let us give thanks:)
Flame is Farli's muse, who of them belongs to whom is sooooo not the matter I want to get involved in...
Daemon Hunter was created by Jesse Willey, who graciously loaned him to me for the duration.
Calliope was introduced by Yasmin, and has been making life difficult for Muses ever since...
Ganymede's origins are a mystery to me, sorry for using him without permission.
The rest is all mine, all mine! Mwahahaha...yes, I am seeking help, why?