Memoirs of a RAFian

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCII (1,302): "Site A" -- The RAFians raid Site A . . . and must contend with site enforcer called Agent Symbiote.

New chapter. Sorry about the brevity.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
You Started This, Cloak Ends It

Cloak said nothing more and raised his right index finger skyward, leaving the Tempest perplexed. His stance was probably more stiff and rigid than what was proper, but that wasn't the important part.

"That's it?" she said, knowing full well that he wasn't done - - that he had barely started, but her bravado was covering up her intimidation and reluctance to fight this creature. Anger made that easy. Made it easy to erode away the tangibke, seen parts of the incredible intimidation and hesitation she felt.

Cloak could have made a cutting quip or a sardonic reply, but he chose, instead, to say nothing. He just continued to point skyward, his amber eyes locked upon the Tempest's own. He never broke that glare. That almost-paralyzing glare she found more disarming and piercing than any attack, as if he could see right through her and her bravado and bluster.

She didn't realize what Cloak was doing because he did it very slowly at first, as to be nearly imperceptible. And it was misunderstood immediately by the Tempest, as Cloak had suspected that it might have been. But all things came in time -- he had to be sure the boundaries were set and that he didn't go . . . overboard.

It took Theresa far too long to get what was going on. Cloak, as Realm Walker, didn't really need to breathe -- not as much as humans, even enhanced humans, did. He was slowly siphoning all the air from this arena, not only to deprive the Tempest of a weapon, but disable her through benign hypoxia. Just enough to get her to lose consciousness, then he would immediately return the air to the arena. That was his intent. And he had hoped that he could do this without permanently harming the human, hence why he kept eye contact with the human female. Unfortunately, he couldn't use Earthsight to keep a tab on her vitals, to "see" if her heart is still pumping, as she was floating midair.

But soon she felt the early effects of hypoxia, and Cloak relented, allowing some air to seethe back into the arena, and allowed it all to seethe back into the arena when it became clear that Watoomb revoked his power and Waterfall from the girl. She hadn't a clue what happened during, fiinding herself spat out before where the Temple of Watoomb had once stood.

Cloak was left pondering on what the entire point of this was, and came off feeling as if he had been used in some capacity.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCIII (1,303): "He's Learned to Crawl" -- The RAFians must find and guide a boy who discovers an ability that could be easily abused.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
The Carnivore

Thurston Blud worked as a dentist. There he was moderately successful, though his clientele was a bit more on the stuffy, snot-nosed, affluent kind and he was a vulture of sorts, charging people of poorer backgrounds more for his services while offering discounts to his more . . . elite clientele. He excused this glaring disparity by saying that they were gold card-holding members, and offering it to people at ridiculously exorbitant prices.

This was, in part, used as a deterrent from poorer people "poisoning" his eclectic clientele list. He looked down on the working class schmucks, as he thought of them, and thought that his services were above them. As he came from a moderately affluent family, it's not too surprising. He deliberately set up his dentistry practice in an upscale part of the town, far enough away from the people he considered lower class.

But that wasn't all of it. He prided himself on his trophies, making outlandish claims about how he got each and every one. He thought his bravado and swagger was plenty of a facade to disguise how he really got these "trophies". His vainglorious tales of how he hunted these creatures, ostentatiously flaunting their mounted heads -- a tiger, a lion, two leopards, two jaguars, a cheetah, a puma, a twelve-point white-tailed deer, a grizzly bear, an American bison, a great white shark (which was fake), an African elephant, a red fox, a bighorn sheep, a black rhinoceros, and even a stuffed turtle -- insufferably proud of all of them.

But the stories were all lies. Grandiose fabrications of the highest order. He got all his trophies by, essentially, shooting animals in cages -- in order to ensure that they wouldn't get away. And these animals? They were raised from infancy for this fate. They had to fear of humans that they would have if they were born and bred wild. It was no challenge at all to kill them as brutally as Thurston preferred, despite what he would tell people who come into his home, which was decorated in gaudy opulence, whether or not they even inquired about it in the first place.

And the thing was that he was ridiculously proud of these trophies, and the falsified stories he had tied to them. Even though many of the species he had proudly displayed were endangered and protected, making him essentially a poacher. He didn't care what the schmucks beneath him labelled, he felt. He felt that their opinions were worthless and without any meaning.

It wasn't long before his secret was out, and all his breathtaking tales of going one-on-one with these beasts in tests of skill and strength were about as true as a two-dollar bill. He was less than pleased about this, and abruptly stopped inviting people to his home to view his beloved trophies. However, this basically just confirmed the stories about his illicit "hunting" (if you could even call it hunting) practices. Especially because the lion was actually wildly beloved (something he would vigorously and vehemently deny whenever brought up in causal conversation).

This led for the authorities -- the ones who refused to accept his attempts to pay them off (sadly, not an impressive number of individuals) -- to investigate his "hunting" activities. Naturally, he panicked (which actually further proved his ineptitude at hunting, as he didn't know panicking was always the worst thing for you to do when you're being hunted), and this just basically telegraphed his guilt.

He tried to run, but you can only run so far from your problems before they come back to haunt you once more. He stumbled into a strange ruin, one that seemed to call to him, to lure him like a moth to a flame. Hee navigated the hallways of this ruin until he came to a strange gauntlet, a fist pointing skyward. He reached out to touch it . . .

***

"Whosoever touches this Fearsome Fist shall possess the power of the Farallah! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . the ultimate carnivore!"

Wild heard these words, and his misgivings grew the more that he thought about it. He was very astute, and knew what the implications of what that phrase might mean. He was no expert in such matters per se, but he was knowledgeable enough to know it wasn't good news. For him personally.

He saw his would-be opponent. He wore skin-tight, black leather with bare arms except for the black leather rings and the fingerless skin-tight gloves. He had a wild mane of black hair, pronounced claws and fangs, the latter of which forced his mouth open, though never hindered his speech.

"Greetings, prey," he said. Wild thought it sounded rather pompous. "My name is Carnivore."

"'Carnivire'?" Wild repeated. This nomme de plume was enough to surmise and deduce this Exemplar's total powerset -- heightened strength, heightened speed, heightened agility, heightened endurance, heightened reflexes, heightened dexterity, enhanced senses, enhanced strength, and, likely, a healing factor. Granted, he didn't have proof to back this up, but his mind disregarded that and was concocting plan to deal with him, as he was sure that, even in his wereferret form, that he couldn't simply outmuscle this guy. He had to be smart. He had to be clever. All he had to do was outthink him.

 "And my patron commands that you -- hey!! Where do you think you're going?!"

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCIV (1,304): "Collocorpus Liability" -- An old foe seeks help to escape his rotting corpse of a body. . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
The Burrow

Wild had not listened to anything pass his name confirmation. When he got confirmation, he immediately turned around and began to burrow. The soil was fortunately soft and easy to dig through, due to a recent rain. If Wild had gotten a measure of this guy correctly, then he knew what he would do next.

But he felt something . . . visceral in his wereferrt form, burrowing through the ground. Despite knowing what he must do, he enjoyed himself with the burrowing. He deliberately made sharp turns in every direction and angle possible so as to make the tunnels more labyrinthine. If he could make it as confusing and unnavigable as possible, then his quickly-concocted plan might succeed.

In his wereferret form, he was much larger than Carnivore, and, as such, the tunnels were easy for him to transverse, but not navigate easily, if at all. Wild hoped that making so many crisscrossing tunnels that his scent would be everywhere, making it very difficult, if not impossible to track. At least that was his plan, anyway.

And were it to fail, he had managed to concoct a contingency plan. He hadn't managed to devise a contingency plan for the contingency plan, but he was really basically thinking on his feet at the moment.

Left. Left. Right. Left. All sharp turns.

He hadn't heard or otherwise sense Carnivore closing in on him yet, so he cautiously assumed that he was still navigating the tunnels. Wild had to make the tunnels an intricate labyrinthine lattice, making it difficult to tell which route would take you where. He had to make it easy to get lost in here.

Up at a fifty-three degree angle. Down at a eight degree angle. Upper left at an eighty-two degree angle. Lower right at a twenty-eight degree angle. Straight path. Straight path that curved upward at a fifty-five degree angle. Straight path that curved down at a fifty-eight degree angle before curling right back up again in a manner similar to a ram's horn.

He hoped that his plan had gained traction. He couldn't smell or sense Carnivore nearby, so maybe he had given him the slip. He knew that he was in the tunnel labyrinth that he was creating, as he broke into the tunnel he was travelling mere feet behind Carnivore, and then again when Carnivore turned his back. The Exemplar was getting frustrated with this maze, and this made Wild smile inwardly.

He was beginning to tire, the flurry of adrenaline and purpose failing him now, and he knew he had to surface. But he also knew he had to try to disguise it. Disguise the exit, so that Carnivore may be down there until whatever this contest was over. He did so, and reverted to his human form when he did.

Meanwhile, in the tunnels, Carnivore was seething. Everywhere smelled of his prey. He smelled its fatigue, heard its distant burrowing. He couldn't even found the exit that he entered this blasted maze through. It wasn't long before e sound of burrowing ended. His prey either surfaced or found a comfortable place to rest.

But that didn't matter if he couldn't find the blasted thing! His eyes were useless in this darkness, whatever light was down her was frustratingly dim. His sense of smell was worthless here as his prey's scent was everywhere, and he couldn't tell where it was the strongest or the weakest. His ears were of no help either as he couldn't echolocate.

All he could do, as he saw it, was just follow the singular path of this tunnel -- untangle the scent and find out where it was the strongest. It was a seemingly impossible task to undertake, but he didn't see another solution. He knew that he couldn't waste time -- that would displease his patron, and he didn't want that.

But perhaps, just perhaps, there was another solution to this conundrum.

[Cloak]

Sorry for the delay. It was a . . . shall we say, frustrating weekend at work.

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCV (1,305): "Binder" -- The Site A Director sends out an assassin to reclaim, or destroy, Site A's . . . "property".

New chapter.

CHAPTER NINETEEN:
The War Dance

Wild waited. He had hoped he wouldn't have to use the contingency plan as it was . . . kind of . . . silly. But perhaps the nonsensical nature of it could prove to be an excellent boon in his favor. But . . . still . . . it was rather risky . . .

He spent the time alert, but resting. If his labyrinthine tunnel plan failed, he would have to use his sillier contingency plan, and he never really used it before. At least, not in this capacity. Not in recent memory. He would be making a lot of assumptions if he were to go through with it. But every plan, every scheme, every course of action carried the potential to backfire either minorly or grievously. There was no telling which side this silly backup plan of Wild's would fall on.

He had to remain alert as he recouped the energy he expended. He had to recoup as much as he could. He would need if or when the time came. The wait itself was agonizing in its own way. The uncertainty. The apprehension and anxiety. The tension as he stayed guarded, despite resting.

It happened a moment later than he had been anticipating. Instead of exiting from the same entrance that Wild had, Carnivore had clawed his way to the surface, even though his claws weren't made nor designed for digging. This action dulled them, and made them less dangerous weapons. But Carnivore didn't seem to recognize this little factoid. He was too miffed about Wild's duplicitous labyrinth.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" he fumed.

"I've entertained the notion," Wild said, coyly. He was shifting back into his wereferret form, having rested up sufficiently enough for his contingency plan, though stupid and silly as it may have seemed.

"Well, enough of these games! I tire of them!" he raged. "Now it's time for you to -- what the hell are you doing?"

Wild was making a frenzied series of hops, sideways and backwards, often accompanied by an arched back and a frizzed-out tail. He was using the "weasel war dance" that domestic ferrets sometimes do when they capture a toy or some stolen object. He was notoriously clumsy in his surroundings during this dance and will often collide with or fall over objects. And since he was technically the size of a bear in this form, that could cost a lot of dough, hence why he doesn't do it often, even when the urge strikes him. It made him look either frightened or angry, depending on your disposition towards mustelid lycanthropes.

"What are you playing at? What purpose --" he began, but stopped abruptly midsentence. He was seemingly memorized by it, as if he were a rabbit and Wild's prey.
Perhaps aided by the clucking vocalization that Wild was making unconsciously.

He just stared at Wild's clumsy acrobatics, much like one would watch a lava lamp for hours on end. Wild was hoping that the true reasoning behind doing this would happen soon. He would tire soon, and he lacked a contingency plan beyond this. He knew full well that that was problematic, but his scope to take this guy on directly? Not very good in his favor.

But, as Wild had hoped, Carnivore's patron grew angry (remarkably fast, too) about how he was embarrassing him. He quickly revoked the powers he bestowed and Thurston found himself spat out from where the Temple of Farallah once was.

Meanwhile, Wild was left to ponder who was the Exemplar's patron, only to find that he couldn't with the information he currently possessed.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCVI (1,306): "Site B" -- The RAFians raid Site B, and have to deal with the site enforcer, Agent Absorption.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY:
The Bedlam

Ralph Grillen wasn't very smart, and he didn't know when to shut up or keep his opinions to himself. He never could conceive of his actions having negative ramifications on him. It was one of the most frustrating aspects about him. While he thought things he was saying were profound and thought-provoking, in reality, they were just some of the most stupid, inane, and asinine talking points that any one could conceive of.

He worked as a dishwasher at a hospital, but just on the weekends, by his own choice and volition. While he would tell his coworkers that if they needed him, to call him in at any time, but, conveniently enough, he was always doing something and couldn't come to the phone when the call came in. And he had a smartphone

And his annoying quirks didn't stop there. He would always turn off the dish machine when he felt that it wasn't in use, leading to confusion with the dishwasher that was their earlier as to whether or not there were dishes on the other side of the machine that needed to be removed from the machine's belt. Not to mention that he always tended to remove the near-completely dissolved soap block from the machine and put a new one in, instead of allowing the soap block to dissolve away on its natural course. Then there was the time he unwittingly harassed his coworker every weekend for months to adopt his disorganized way of doing things, apparently unaware of his coworkers' increasing frustration and hostility toward this. This and his constant, chronic tardiness worn on his coworkers' nerves, especially when one of hiscoworkers walked upwards of four miles to work every day, and Ralph struggled -- and he has and drives a car!

But his coworkers turned against him when he, in a pinnacle of selfishness and inconsideration, called out of work when they needed him to be there. He was using the massive amount of snow as an excuse to have the day off. He was essential personnel and he knew it. The hospital had accommodations for staff due to the inclement weather, but he opted out of that. It was because of this that everyone who worked that day, especially the coworker who walked eighty minutes in the snow and still got to work on time, began to shun him. Shun him and shoot dirty looks at him.

And, yet, he had the nerve to feel like a victim. This was the inevitable result, the inescapable consequence, the unavoidable ramification of the decision that he made. But he had yet to grasp this, thinking that just saying a noncommittal, insincere "I'm sorry" would be some miraculous cure-all, the perfected panacea, the ultimate catholicon to all social transgressions.

It wasn't. But he remained frustratingly oblivious to this fact.

Anyway, he was hiking in a forest (fortunately it was a very prudent distance from Cloak's meditation spot -- his hiking path was at least six hundred or so miles away), and he was planning on using that as an excuse for why he didn't come in that day, ignoring his job calling him. It was on this trail where he found something calling to him, and he soon found the Temple of Ikonn, where the Ivory Idol laid within . . .

***

"Whosoever touches this Ivory Idol shall possess the power of the Images of Ikonn! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . human bedlam!"

Yarin heard these words, and found himself curious. It sounded like something similar to that Juggernaut business a year or so ago. He knew full well if he had to go up against the Juggernaut directly, he would never win. At least, not outright, as the Juggernaut's helmet would protect him from his telepathic probes or attacks.

Then he turned and saw what was clearly supposed to be his opponent in this strange, Shadow Game-like arena. The person had an head that was larger in proportion to the rest of his thin, emaciated body to an exaggerated degree. It looked almost cartoonish, as if this person was way overcompensating for something that he was insecure about.
This feature was so prominent, that Yarin didn't take in any other details of his appearance.

"I am the unstoppable Bedlam," he said, trying to sound profoundly ethereal, and not quite succeeding. "And my patron, Ikonn, has requested your elimination."

He was sounding like a Pearl -- a servant to a higher power. A higher power that wanted, clearly, Yarin's death. But then why rely on a proxy, an Exemplar? Probably because of some asinine concept of being to above doing his or her own dirty work.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCVII (1,307): "Power Education" -- RAF files for accreditation.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:
An Impromptu Infinite Regression

"Your . . . patron, huh?" Yarin said.

"Do not try to play for time," he said. "My patron wishes your demise, and I must grant it. My reward for this is far greater than you could ever know."

"Reward, you say?" Yarin said, distracted by the feeling of this Bedlam character trying to telepathically claw his way into Yarin's mind. Fortunately, the telepathic barrier he had in place were holding. But this Bedlam person was tenaciously stubborn.

"Do not fight me," he said, with total confidence and certainty, "I shall get in and destroy you from within. I am more powerful."

Yarin didn't doubt the truth of that. He and his kind were powerful telepaths, but everyone had a limit that someone more powerful could surmount and surpass. He would have to distract him. The only thought that he could somehow get him into some sort of infinite regression. He may have powerful telepathy, but that didn't mean he was superintelligent.

"Are you?" Yarin said, trying not to sound as if he was grasping at straws.

Bedlam raised an eyebrow, and briefly stopped telepathically clawing into Yarin's mind. ". . . Yes. . . ."

"If power were a race, the quickest runner can never overtake the slowest, since the pursuer must first reach the point whence the pursued started, so that the slower must always hold a lead." Yarin said, hoping that what he said made sense.

"What?" Bedlam said, his obligation seemingly forgotten.

"If the faster runner allows the slower one a head start of a hundred meters, and supposing that each racer starts running at some constant speed (one very fast and one very slow), then after some finite time, the faster runner will have run a hundred meters, bringing him to the slower's starting point. During this time, the slowee one has run a much shorter distance -- say, ten meters. It will then take the faster runner some further time to run that distance, by which time the slower runner will have advanced farther; and then more time still to reach this third point, while the slower runner moves ahead. Thus, whenever faster runner arrives somewhere the slower runner has been, he still has some distance to go before he can even reach the slower runner." Yarin said, sure that what he was saying sounded like pure nonsense. But he didn't have an exit strategy or a strategy to put down Bedlam.

"That doesn't make any sense," he said, but Yarin saw his eyes become unfocused and glaze over a bit during his explanation.

"Well, a philosopher once said, 'That which is in locomotion must arrive at the half-way stage before it arrives at the goal'." Yarin said, hoping that Bedlam wasn't aware that the Nyac was improvising. "Would you agree that things that are equal to the same are equal to each other and the two sides of this triangle are things that are equal to the same, therefore, the two sides of this triangle are equal to each other?"

"I . . . um . . . yes," he said, clearly having no idea what was proposed to him. Yarin allowed himself to relax a little, but not visibly.

"Do you grant that thie might be a person who sees this as logically valid, as a sequence, while denying the former two arguments?" Yarin asked, the back of his mind trying to devise a more permanent solution, as he was just basically stalling right now. "That this person would accept that if the premises were true that the conclusion must be true, while rejecting and denying the premises as true?"

"Uh . . . sure." Bedlam said.

This might just work. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCVIII (1,308): "Buggy Phantoms" -- The RAFians must deal with ghost bugs, which can phase-burrow into host bodies.

New chapter. Sorry about the brevity.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:
Perplexing Confusion

"So, if we represent the premises as 'A' and 'B', and the conclusion as 'Z'," Yarin said, still trying to distract Bedlam. "So, if 'A' and 'B' are true, 'Z' must be true, right?"

"Yes," Bedlam said, still not understanding any of this. He was writing this down in the sand, using his telekinesis. It seemed as if he was doing this unconsciously.

"Then this would be 'C'," Yarin said, "assume this hypothetical person accepts 'C', but refuses to accept the expanded argument, citing that that's another hypothetical proposition -- 'D' -- if 'A' and 'B' and 'C' are true, then 'Z' must be true."

Bedlam said nothing. This was rapidly going over his head.

"And, just suppose, this hypothetical person accepts that 'A' and 'B' and 'C' and 'D' might be true, but rejects 'Z'," Yarin said, "this would be 'E'. Would it be still plausible?"

"I guess . . ." he said.


"And, again, just suppose, this hypothetical person accepts that 'A' and 'B' and 'C' and 'D' and 'E' might be true, but rejects 'Z'," Yarin extrapolated again, "then this would be 'F'. Would this still be possible? "

"Um . . . I think so," Bedlam said.

"And so, if this hypothetical person accepts that 'A' and 'B' and 'C' and 'D' and 'E' and 'F' might be true, but rejects 'Z'," Yarin said, playing for time, "then this would be 'G'. Would this still be possible?"

"Uh . . ." Bedlam said.

"So, continuing with this line of thought, if this hypothetical person accepts 'A' through 'G', but rejects 'Z'," Yarin said, relieved that all attempts to claw into his mind had ceased. "Then this would be 'H'. Would this still be even plausible?"

Bedlam said nothing, unwilling to say that he stopped following while ago.

"So, let's continue with this line of reasoning, if this --"

But, suddenly, Bedlam vanished. Ralph was spat out where the Temple of Ikonn once was, with no memory of being Bedlam.

Yarin surmised that whoever Bedlam's patron was, they got tired of him being distracted and not being clever enough to realize that Yarin was stalling him. It wasn't the solution that Yarin was expecting, but he'd take it.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCIX (1,309): "The Terminator's Rage" -- A old acquaintance becomes an hired gun and assassin, with a new body.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:
The Conquest

Connie Quest was a very combative, competitive, aggressive person. Whenever she was challenged, it was never enough to just beat them at their game -- she had to destroy them. She had to annihilate them. She had to humiliate them by beating them so badly in whatever game they wanted to play. As such, she didn't have many friends, close or otherwise, and those she considered her friends tended to avoid her, because they found being around her draining.

She always concerned herself with being the best. If someone bested her in anything, she had a rather frustrating tendency to obsess over it until she could triumph over them. She seemed perfectly oblivious that most of the time, her temporary "rival" just threw the game just to get her to leave them alone. Or, if she did, she would just see this as another victory.

Victory . . . in her heart, that's all she truly cared about. Victory and winning. Nothing else mattered to her. Not finding a loving person to spend the rest of her life together with. Not starting a family. Not keeping her job, which she has gone through several of (and which she refuses to acknowledge, seeing the failures of which as "losing" that she couldn't do a thing about). Nothing mattered to her other than winning and triumphing over people, friend or foe.

When she started to lose someone, she always loses her cool, and allows her her frustration to get the better of her. This always made things worse for her, and she never understood that this is the precise reason why. Whenever she lost her temper, it was nearly always to her detriment.

When her "friends" -- and that was using the term in its loosest possible context -- challenged her to go into the Temple of Krakkan (but believed by the group to simply be a sppok, old ruin) to go inside, otherwise be considered a chicken, she felt the insatiable urge to prove them wrong and, in her view, validate herself.

She strode very confidently into the Temple, and found herself being pulled toward a certain direction. She didn't fight it, ironically enough, as she didn't recognize the attraction for what it was. She reached out for the Kestral Key of Krakkan . . .

***

"Whosoever touches this Kestral Key shall possess the power of the Chains of Krakkan! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . conquest incarnate!"

Cerulean was reminded of that Juggernaut hullabaloo a year or so ago. It was not a very good feeling -- he didn't want to deal with the Juggernaut. He wouldn't be able to do anything against him. Superhuman speed could only do so much to a juggernaut.

Then he saw his opponent. She wore scarlet armor with horns on the helmet, with strange tassels at the tips. She was also covered in various weapons, including swords, staves, batons, whips, shuriken, and daggers. She also still had the Kestral Key on her at all times.

"My name is Conquest," she said, "my patron has commanded me to provide you with a brutal death."

Then she cracked a malevolent smile. "And I intend to enjoy it."

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCX (1,310): "Site C" -- The RAFians raid Site C, whilst dealing with the site enforcer Agent Beauty.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
Shut Up and Die!!

"'Enjoy it'?" Cerulean asked .

"Immensely," she said, still with that malicious smile. Then she pulled a dagger out from the arsenal she carried with her, and threw it. From where she aimed it, it would have hit Cerulean's heart. She didn't want him to die immediately -- apparently she wanted to savor this, in an almost masochistic manner. The dagger would have hit hit his heart --

Would have.

Naturally, Cerulean wasn't about stand around allow it to hit him there. He used his superhuman speed to dodge the dagger which vanished into the shadowy walls of this Shadow Game-esque arena. Swallowed up by it.

"Yeah," Cerulean said, "forgive me, but I don't see that happening."

Her face contorted in to one of rage, but she had kept her composure. Due to the make up of this arena, she thought that he had teleported instead of using superhuman speed.

She snarled as she unsheathed a sword with a thin blade and a rather generic hilt, "Then allow me to open your eyes! Painfully!"

Then she swung, with more strength, precision, and skill than a layman sword wielder. But this wasn't enough of a match for Cerulean's superhuman speed. He easily maneuvered his way out of harm's slashing crescent. Compared to him, she moved like a snail in molasses in January.

This was child's play for Cerulean, and he knew it. He also knew better than to get complacent and overconfident-- he had learned that lesson the hard way during that Great Race business. He would never forget the humbling that he took on that day.

"Where are you?!" she demanded, upset and angry that her blade had tasted nothing but air, and had not bitten harshly into flesh. "Where are you?!"

 "You get frustrated easily," Cerulean said, roughly three-o'clock from her. "You know that, right?"

"Stand still!" she demanded.

"Nah," Cerulean said, sounding very flippant. In reality, he was analyzing this girl, this Conquest, for any tangible weaknesses. And, he believed that he had stumbled upon one, though not a physical weakness.

They continued this song-and-dance for a while, with Cerulean always keeping his cool while Connie was continually losing more and more of her composure and patience. Cerulean knew that keeping your mind well-organized and not giving into frustrations was probably his best way of taking care of this Exemplar.

If she was anything like the Juggernaut, he wouldn't be able to take her on directly. Her strength likely well eclipsed his own. Direct combat would likely prove to be fruitless, and detrimental to his prolonged wellbeing. True, dodging and evading wouldn't defeat her, but that wouldn't matter if she defeated herself.

"Stand still!" she demanded again.

"I'll pass," Cerulean said, irreverently.

"Stand still and die!" she roared. Her frustration was causing her to lose focus and causing her to start to lose some dexterity due to her shaking hands. While Cerulean had lost none of his composure and his mind remained clear.

"Tempting," Cerulean said, with overt faux contemplation, "but no."

She roared in frustration, proving Cerulean's assumptions and guesses bore some truth. As her body was shaking from infuriated frustration, her next chosen weapon actually vibrated in her hand, unnoticed by Conquest herself.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCXI (1,311): "The Zeta Surrogate" -- The RAFians must deal with an old foe who turned into an assassin.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
Sloppy, Very Sloppy

She jabbed with another sword, this one with a wider blade and a pinkish tint. But the thrust was sloppily executed and missed without even necessitating Cerulean to move. Cerulean could see that Conquest's frustration and anger was her biggest enemies, though she embraced her anger as if it were a close friend. Cerulean knew that that was never a good idea.

"Stand still!"

"No."

"Stand still and die!!"

"No."

"Die!!!"

"No."

"Fight me!!!!"

"I am," Cerulean said, calmly keeping his composure. He saw now that she evidently had no self-control, as she had lost any and all pretense of it.

"Stand and fight me!!!!! I am Conquest! Exemplar of Krakkan! I conquer all!"

Cerulean got an idea. He goaded, "Oh, are we fighting? I thought you were just getting warmed up."

 She said, with clenched teeth, " I was . . . "

Cerulean easily dodged and evaded each of her thrown weaponry. "Is that all you got? Man, Krakkan will make anyone his Exemplar nowadays!"

Cerulean didn't know how true that last statement actually was. He expertly dodged a few more of her thrown weapons, which sunk through the shadowy walls of this shadow Game-esque arena.

"'Conquest'? More like 'Thoughtless'," Cerulean said, knowing full well the weakness of this insult.

But it was enough to stoke Conquest's anger. Cerulean dodged more of her thrown weapons, which would have been more prudent to hold onto. But frustration and anger is a toxic ****tail that tends to distort rational thoughts.

"Sloppy," Cerulean said, as she threw her last weapon -- other than the Kestral Key -- through the shadowy wall. "Very sloppy."

She thought that she had finally cornered Cerulean, and snarled, "Nowhere to run now, you little smartmouth!"

"You've already lost this battle," Cerulean said.

"Are you insane?!" she roared. "you haven't thrown a single blow!"

Cerulean gestured to her depleted arsenal, "No, but you have. Now you see the folly of having no self-control."

"Why you little piece of sh--" she began, but she vanished. Evidentally, Krakkan found this whole thing as too much of an embarrassment and rescinded his power, and Connie was spat out from the Temple of Krakkan, seeing that her "friends" had ditched her. She had no memory of her brief time as Conquest.

Meanwhile, Cerulean let out a long sigh, and took a moment to catch his breath.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCXII (1,312): "Portal Ring" -- A former antagonist finds a very special ring.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
The Inferno

Pyrra Fawkes held an unnatural fascination with fire and heat. As a child, she would light matches and marvel at the colors of the flame, the way it danced down the matchstick, and come to enjoy the smell of it. But,  as this was seen a taboo in society, she squirrelled away this fascination and would not tell anyone of her fascination. Not even through the anonymity of the internet.

She had often wondered if there was something wrong with her, because of this fascination, because of her pyromania. But she couldn't help but get entranced by the subtle undulations and mesmerizing flickers of a glowing flame. . . . She reasoned people enjoyed it when it was inside fire places, grills, or campfires, so why couldn't she be allowed to appreciate them without criticism and scrutiny. Without people assuming that she's some kind of arsonist.

But that's precisely what she became during the substantial drought of full on battles within the city brought on upon the RAFians fighting whatever alien danger of the day. She had originally consented to just "camping" to excess. But soon campfires were not enough to satiate her growing fascination . . . and other interests, regarding fire.

Fortunately, she wasn't interested in immolation, but not for the moral reasons that most people would be. She found those flames to be muddied and tainted, preferring to watch, with pyromaniacal glee flames gobble down wood and other such materials. It wasn't long before she graduated to full-on arson.

She was emboldened after she managed to get away with the first one, a small dilapidated house that was vacated decades, maybe even centuries, beforehand. She watched the place burn with maniacal reverence and exuberance. She didn't get caught for this first act of arson, so she inevitably did it again. Two acts of arson, in which she was never caught, soon became four.

in her fifth act of arson, she became more complacent and apathetic to the consequences of her actions, that she videotaped it. She careless spoke on it, and she had a rather distinct, recognizable voice. She didn't think anything of it, didn't think anything of speaking, of praising the fire, the arson.

So, naturally, she lost this tape and it was found by the police. They immediately came for her, and she fled. She managed to elude them, but just barely. She dodged them by ducking into the Temple of Balthakk. But when the doors shut, she found herself drawn to . . . something . . .

***

"Whosoever touches this Blinding Brazier shall possess the power of the Baleful Bolts of Balthakk! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . a human inferno!"

Estelore heard this and she was reminded of the story she was told back when the RAFians had to fight the Juggernaut. If she recalled correctly, the Juggernaut was really a child. She wasn't intimidated by it, but scarcely anything could intimidate her. That solar energy sucker, and Galactron . . . they scared her, even though they were gone now. She blithely looked round and saw the owner of the voice.

It was a woman wearing gold armor, which the joints that it didn't cover was glowing with energy resembling Kirby Dots, except her mouth, which was the only part of her uncovered and still flesh. On her helmet, she had a decorative ornament that loosely resembled a television antenna. She also had spikes on her shoulders that issued this same energy. She had two scarlet "^" markers, where her eyes would be, were parallel to each other.

"I'm Inferno," she said, "and my patron had commanded me to kill you."

Estelore raised her eyebrow of her avatar.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCXIII (1,313): "Air of Authority" -- A fragrant spray can give a target an "air of authority".

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
Estelore Has Flash Fire

Estelore's eyebrow remained raised, but she said nothing. She had her hands folded in front of her sundress, with her big floppy sunny-colored hat undulating with each movement of her head.

"Stand still," Inferno said, "and this will be over quick."

"You have no clue what I am, do you?" she asked, calmly and in an almost careless manner.

"Do not resist," she said. Her infliction was rather monotone. "You will not like the results. Resistance is futile."

"You stole that from the Borg," Estelore said, with a mirthless chuckle.

Pyrra did not know what the Borg was, and, so, she ignored that comment. She raised her right hand, palm out, which began to glow and pulse with light and heat. "Prepare to meet your final conclusion."

"So, you choose to continue on with this folly," Estelore said, shutting her eyes, with a heavy sigh, "then so be it. Let us commit to this foolishness."

Inferno blasted Estelore with a bolt of heat and light. Estelore didn't only tank the shot, she absorbed and metabolized the shot. She did so without even so much as a flinch from the the impact. She didn't even move or lose any of her poise. It didn't even push her backwards any.

Inferno was not daunted by this, choosing to believe that she ever so slightly missed Estelore. She was a stubborn sort, but whether that was the Inferno persona or Pyrra herself remained unclear.

"Oh, dear," Estelore said, with sad disappointment in her voice, despite her language still being polite. "You still want to exercise this imprudent act despite the evidence you've seen."

"My patron has decreed your death," Inferno said, still in keeping with her emotionless, monotone voice. "I am obliged to acquiesce."

She fired two bolts now, one from either hand, and it met with the same result. Estelore wasn't pushed backwards at all and she had absorbed both bolts without any difficulty, and not so much as a flinch.

"Are we done with this farce, miss?" Estelore said. "To be frank, I do have other things that I rather be doing at the moment."

"My patron . . . my patron's will must be done," was her reply.

"Must it?" Estelore sighed, with a bite of impatience in her voice. She was finding this whole thing tiresome and monotonous. And she was getting bored. "Could you please explain to me as to why his will dictates my murder?"

And, of course, she couldn't. All she could do was say, "My patron --"

"Has ordered my death," Estelore finished, with an impatient snap to her voice now. "Yes, yes, we've already established that. Well established it."

Inferno said nothing, and kept what little of her face that was visible inscrutable, so it was hard to tell, outwardly, what she waz feeling. But her body language was different, despite being ever so slight. She was intimidated by Estelore, who hadn't any interest in murdering her -- but Inferno didn't know that.

 "M-my . . . my p-patron . . ." Inferno choked out.

"Yes, dear," Estelore said, her impatience tinged with exasperation now. "We've established that already. What we haven't established is the why."

Inferno's lips quivered, as she felt the fear. This was not what the RAFian intended.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCXIV (1,314): "One Extreme" -- The RAFians must face a telepath that can trigger catatonic episodes in others.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:
What Are You?!

Inferno seemed to work up nerve again and launched a more power balls of light and heat at Estelore, who was completely unaffected by them. She, again, wasn't even pushed backward from the attack.

"I was under the impression that you understood that that wouldn't work," Estelore said, voice tinged with disappointment.

"My patron has demanded your expiration !" she said. "Balthakk's will must be done!"

Estelore took note  the name before commenting, "You still have yet to explain why this must be so."

Inferno fired missiles of heat and light at Estelore, which met, again, with the same result. Estelore remained unmoved form the inertia of the attack. Only now, Estelore was getting truly annoyed.

"Can we move beyond this futile exercise?" Estelore said, her tone becoming rather waspish. "We've already proven just how pointless power fisticuffs is. That was already established --"

Then Inferno raised her hands up, summoning a huge ball of light and heat, as if she was simultaneously using Terra Destroyer and the Spirit Bomb. Estelore wasn't intimidated, not at all. In fact, she just looked annoyed and inconvenienced. And, as expected, it didn't do anything to Estelore.

"What ARE you?!" Inferno demanded.

"I'm a self-aware stellar entity within a human avatar," Estelore said, deciding that Inferno might outright reject the idea of a sentient star.

"What?"

"A star -- a luminous celestial body composed of plasma (particularly hydrogen and helium), with a roughly spherical shape -- that attained sentience and self-awareness."

" . . . What?"

"Oh, never mind," Estelore said, with a frustrated sigh. She swore she could have more scintillating conversations with a brick wall. "Let's just go back to the question at hand."

But they never did. Why? Because Krakkan decided to pull the plug on this precisely at this moment. This surprised Estelore by opening a new avenue of annoyance that she had been unaware of previously.

"Well, a question for later, I guess," she said, patiently, as she saw this Shadow Game-like environment lift, and she sedately walked towards the others.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCXV (1,315): "Site D" -- The RAFians raid Site D and must deal with the site enforcer, Agent Lightning.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:
Octessence REACT

"You're doing it all wrong!!" Watoomb snarled , as he watched the Tempest being defeated by Cloak by using all the bestowed power she had from his basketball-sized orb. "You're not using the fullest extent of the powers I gave to you!"

"Do something! He is right over there! No, there, you nitwit!" Farralalah roared, through his own basketball-sized viewing orb, as he watched Wild connive and trick the Carnivore. "Why are you watching dancing? He's right there, you idiot! Kill him!"

"What are you doing?!" Cyttorak raged, watching the Juggernaut being defeated by Underseen in a basketball-sized orb. "He's there! No, you idiot! RIGHT! THERE!"

"You're not trying hard enough!!" Balthakk roared, as he watched the Inferno not being able to do anything against Estelore via his "viewing globe" device. "It's so easy, you incompetent lump!! Why are you struggling!?!"

"What are you . . ." Krakkan said, watching Conquest's battle against Cerulean via his "viewing globe" device. "Those are your weapons, you idiot!! Why are you throwing them away like that!! Get ahold of yourself, you moron!!"

"Stop listening to his nonsense, you moron!" Ikonn seethed, as he watched Aquilai distract the Bedlam from his own "viewing globe". "Who cares what arguments he uses?! He's clearly trying to distract you!!"

"What are you doing?! Why are you listening to him?" Raggador said, watching the Stonecutter listening to Aquilai's critques in a serious way through his own basketball-sized orb. "He's lying to you, dolt! Why would he help you kill himself? Come on! Be serious!"

"Why are you letting him psychoanalyze you?" Valtorr said, watching the Decay listen to the Spectre's psychoanalytic diatribe though his own "viewing globe". "Destroy him, you idiot! He's just a touch away!"

They all stood in a circle, facing outward, with Shenecron in the center. He wasn't watching it through some "viewing globe" thing. That wasn't necessary. He was more than confident that Demos's stooge friends would take care of the Exemplars for him. He knew that each one that he set up against an Exemplar (without their knowledge or consent) was specifically picked be cause they could counter their abilities in some way, or that they could just straight up overpower the Exemplars, as in the case of Estelore and Cloak.

He smiled inwardly (while keeping his expression placid externally) when he saw all eight, in the span of a moment's breath, rescind the fraction of their power that they doled out to the Exemplars, putting them all back to where they were before they entered their respective temples, wiping their memories in the process.

"The Wager is forfeit," Cyttorak said, bitterly. "That Exemplar was more unworthy than I thought."

"They all were," Ikonn spat, matching his fellow's embittered feelings. "Now the Wager must wait once more for more suitable vessels of our power."

"Which might take a while," Krakkan said, showing some temper. "Accursed rule of passivity and noninterference of free will. . . ."

"In order to enact the Wager, we need Exemplars," Raggador said, "we cannot settle our dispute any other way."

Fools, Shenecron thought scathingly, doddering old fools. All that power, and they waste it on childish quibbling on who's stronger and who's more powerful. There are bigger schemes and plans at play, and they don't even realize it.

"So, my fellows, we should depart until the time that we can complete the Wager is upon us again," Balthakk said.

"Just a moment," Shenecron said, "there is still a little something hasn't yet been addressed."

He took out a paper signed by all eight of them. A paper that all eight of them forgot and didn't think anything of. A paper that they all signed without scrutinizing.

Big mistake.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCXVI (1,316): "Swords of Power" -- Eighteen swords are found by souls with powerful convictions.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY:
This Is Why You Always Read The Fine Print

"No," Ikonn said, "no, I think our business here has been concluded. Total waste of time for everyone involved."

"I'm afraid there's one more issue to resolve first," Shenecron said, showing the contract that all eight signed, floating in from of him, as if this was a video game with limited graphical assets. " Namely, the stipulations of the contract you signed. You first must honor that."

"Contract? I didn't sign any stinking --" Valtorr said, abrasively.

"But you did," Shenecron said, not losing his cool and oozing confidence. He gestured to the parchment that curled forward at the top and curled backward at the bottom. "Remember when I asked if you wanted to put your wager down in paper? I did, and I made it official, with several stipulations if you failed to slay my chosen champions."

"But your champions didn't kill our unworthy former Exemplars!" Farallah protested hotly. "The agreement is null and void until the next Wager!"

Shenecron allowed himself a small smile, "Perhaps, next time, you should read any document you sign. That was not a stipulation of the contract. It didn't matter that my chosen champions didn't kill your former Exemplars, the contract didn't stipulate that as an obligation."

"What are you on about?" Cyttorak sniped.

"The contract stipulated that your Exemplars must have killed my chosen champions," Shenecron said, calmly. He was clearly savoring this. "That was, indeed, an obligation of the contract. One that was failed to be honored, failed to be followed through on."

Balthakk attempts to destroy the contract, as if that would absolve them of any contractual mandates, but it failed.

Shenecron smiled slightly a bit broader, "You see? It's iron-clad and completely unbreakable."

All eight looked as if they all had misgivings about this. But how bad could it be?I

"Failure to live up to your end of the bargain . . ." Shenecron said, clearly enjoying this and drawing this out, ". . . results in some punitive measures to be undertaken at my digression."

"What are you getting at, Hell Prince?" Ikonn asked, suspicious now of his motives.

"Oh, its nothing, really," Shenecron said, deciding on the spot to make a whole production of this. He loved the theatricality to it. "Just failure on your part means you have to bequeath just some little bobbles that you'll never even miss."

 He waited a beat, before continuing on in this monologue. "The Fist. The Vial. The Idol. The Ruby. The Kestral Key. The Waterfall. The Brazier. The Ringed Ruby. They're now mine. My property."

"You can't do that!" Watoomb complained.

"I did, and I claim dominion over them," Shenecron said, enjoying seeing them squirm. He tapped the contract, and said, "Ironclad, binding, and perfectly legal. It's your OWN fault for not scrutinizing the parchment before signing."

Shenecron only waited for another beat.

"But not only that, this contract also affords me something else from you, something that you owe to me," Shenecron said, getting to the most important bit. "By forfeiting the Wager, you forfeit your power."

"WHAT?!" all eight roared.

"This is why you always read the fine print," Shenecron said, smiling broadly now.

"What if we refuse?" Krakkan demanded.

"This isn't the kind of contract that you can breach," Shenecron said. He was really enjoying this too much. "Besides . . ."

Shenecron held up a clenched fist, and immediately power was being siphoned from the eight. Forcing them to adopt more humanoid forms. They were very shaky after this, as Shenecron put the powers in a small jewelry box, that bore a very minor resemblance to Pandora's box. Now wasn't the time to use it. Maybe when he consolidated . . . things to consider later.

"Now," he said, "I'd like to show you my little garden . . ."