Wisdom in the Flame

by Solar Jedi

"The Gods are mighty, indeed.." Grandfather explained. The campfire behind him burned brilliantly and with vigor, and the strong northern winds whipped embers high into the cold, black sky above. The acrid smoke burned in my nostrils, but not so strong as to erase the scent of blood - both my own and that of my quarry.

"But there are immortals in the multi-verse.." he continued. "Not far-removed from us like the Gods.. but ever-present, and ever-watching us." this last part he emphasized by driving the butt of his stout, wooden staff into my shoulder. I hardly felt it, in fact I hardly felt anything on that side of my body. My fight with the desert beast was fierce and violent. When I did not whimper or cry or flinch at my grandfather's touch, the wrinkled and weathered old man - my namesake - continued.

"There are those whose influence spans not across rivers and mountains, nor across the plains, or entire continents.. but across planets, across galaxies!" I understood the concept of what a planet was.. our planet, at least. But that there were other planets, orbs of rock, water and wind like ours, high in the sky, was something I could not fathom. And the word galaxy was not one I recognized at all. I wasn't sure then that I believed in any of it. But Grandfather certainly did, and with a fierceness I had seen in no other man so long as I had lived.

"Overlord Ze-qaht is one such immortal." I could tell it pained him to speak the name, he quickly spat it out like so much spoiled milk. The moon above, normally an opalescent blue, reflected no light this night, and as I watched my grandfather stare into the star-filled sky above, I knew what he would say next, and I muttered it quietly along with him.

"It is written, that from the darkness Ze-qaht arose, and from the darkness He rules All." I knew that where there was pure evil in this world, or any world, that it paled in comparison to that of the immortal Great Overlord Ze-qaht. Grandfather had told me many times over, none were known that could challenge Him and what was His. I could not understand how the Gods could allow anyone such power. At the time, I never guessed I would experience the Overlord's relentless, merciless grasp first-hand. My Grandfather knew differently, I suspected, for he was a wise man, the oldest and wisest I ever knew. A true master in the art of scrying, glimpsing with clarity events from the past, present and future. I never thanked him for all he did to prepare me.  And I could never have fully prepared myself for what was to come.

Litany of the Zain-kin

by Solar Jedi

At dawn’s first breath, Centurion Grawl One-Horn of House Vedrius crouched naked in the red dust of the canyon floor, ash smeared from brow to belly in jagged draconic runes. Before him, the sacrificial burning pit still steamed with last night’s offering — a pack of wild tusk-hounds brought down by his own hand and tooth. The tall ape-man's armor, rough bronze and scaled hide, reeked of sweat and devotion. He recited a prayer under his breath to remind the flame god that he was listening. That he was ready. Doubt had no place in him. Hunger, yes. Rage, certainly. He served the will of Mournclaw — not just the living wyrm, but the divine flame reborn in his flesh, the god Baphotet-Kor returned. In Grawl’s world, there was no room for mercy. There was only service.  

Behind him was a traitor from House Zamosh, bound in irons, gagged, and wide-eyed with terror after long weeks in confinement. The condemned Zain-kin had once worn the red of House Zamosh and served as Drakemaster, but betrayal had stained him. With reverence, Grawl chanted aloud the blessed Litany of Scales, then spun fast and drove his obsidian blade deep into the traitor’s heart, holding the dying ape-man upright so the blood could arc toward the rising sun — a gesture meant to “feed” the watching spirit of Mournclaw, curled unseen in his lair beyond the cliffs.  A hush then fell over the crowd, while the guard drakes watched on and licked their lips with forked tongues, hopeful for scraps. 

Grawl, still holding the dead ape-man high with one muscular arm, turned his eyes to the east, where the first golden light touched the jagged peaks that ringed Parhok. Mournclaw nested there — not like a beast, but like a god on his throne of bones. Grawl had seen him breathe once, just once, and still dreamed of it: the emerald fire, the stink of melting flesh and stone, the roar that ended speech. The dragon had never spoken in words, yet his commands were etched into the marrow of every Vedrius soldier. Serve. Obey. Burn the unbelievers. And yet, when Grawl looked too long at the fire, there was something in it that whispered of endless hunger, vast and nameless. He crushed the uninvited thought like a beetle underfoot, and let the limp body fall.  The Centurion stepped back from the altar, letting the blood dry on his arms like a mantle or second skin, and faced his legion, all kneeling now in the dust. Raising the green-obsidian blade skyward, he cried out in a primal voice that rang out clear and sharp to his brothers: “Mournclaw sees! Hears! And hungers!” 

The Litany of Scales 

as spoken by the faithful of House Vedrius 

"By scale and fang, by fire and bone—
I bleed the unworthy to feed the throne.
O Baphotet-Kor, reborn in flame,
Let this death be offered in thy name.
Mournclaw sees. Mournclaw hears. Mournclaw hungers." 

Excerpt from a Time Travel Story

 by Solar Jedi

“I’m from the future,” he said, his words maniacal and super-ceded by constant laughter.  And I believed that he meant it.  His eyes were wide and bloodshot as he moved purposefully across the empty room, towards me.  His bright leathers were gaudy and offensive, his stench even worse.  My head was pounding now, from probably multiple concussions, and it was difficult to focus.

In a dash, he leaped at me.  I was too tired, battered and beaten to ward him off.  His skill at grappling belied his crazy appearance, and with just a few movements he soon held me in a tight choke-hold.  Now, I at his mercy, he went on to explain that he was sent back, to kill me.  I knew there was more to it than that.

And so I stood, my neck squeezed firmly in the massive grip of his arms, awaiting the signal from outside.  And then it shot up, as if on cue, a yellow flare, high into the night sky and easily visible from every watchpost within several miles.  I smiled, and he must have seen it.  As he pressed the barrel of his gun firmly to my head, I saw everything in my life at once - good memories and sad, challenges, victories, failures, hardships, friends and foes - one after another in astonishing detail.  Things I hadn’t even attempted to remember in years were now as clear as day, right before my eyes.  Some things, I did not want to see.  It hurt too much.

So, with blood and sweat in my eyes, grit in my teeth and the taste of oil and bile in my throat, I stoically pressed the button, hidden well in the fold of my sleeve.

“I loved you..” I spoke, and for a moment it confused him.  He must have guessed I wasn’t talking to him, and as the gunman’s finger tensed on the trigger, there was a nearly inaudible click.  With memories of Her in my head, there was a tremor, followed by an explosion that shattered the silence and sent the floor and walls flying in pieces in all directions.  Everything turned white and hot, and it was all done.

Trash Man

by Solar Jedi

Trash Man #01: The Heist at Midtown Labs  

The neon skyline of the city buzzed with life as Sergeant Oscar Gerald Rouch finished his shift. As one of the most respected officers in the precinct, Oscar had seen it all—gang wars, corporate corruption, mutant rats in the sewers, and most recently alien war machines! But nothing compared to, or prepared him for the day his life changed forever.  

It was three years ago when a chemical spill at Midtown Labs forced him to chase a fugitive scientist through a maze of radioactive refuse. The scientist had tipped over barrels of glowing sludge in an attempt to escape. Cornered, Oscar was left with no choice but to subdue him by diving straight into the rancid, bubbling trash, his quarry tightly in hand. In the ensuing struggle, much of the fetid debris got into his mouth and was ingested. It tasted like pure death.  

He only narrowly survived, and hadn’t been the same since. The scientist died while en route to the hospital, his knowledge of the greater threat seemingly lost to the grave. 

Now, Oscar lived a double life. By day, he was the dependable and gritty Sergeant Rouch, dubbed "O.G." by those loyal to him. But when trouble arose and the city needed a hero, he embraced his strange new power. Certain kinds of garbage — aluminum cans, plastic bottles, coffee cups, newspapers, even certain moldy foods — infused him with incredible bursts of super strength and intelligence! He could bend steel with his hands, burst through brick walls, calculate a criminal's escape route in seconds, and lead his squad with an unparalleled precision that left criminals trembling.  

Tonight's Trouble  

Oscar slid into his pride and joy, a matte-black 1970 Charger with a custom engine he built himself. Its growl as he turned the ignition was a symphony of power, a perfect match for its owner. His wife, Tamara, always teased him about the car.  

 “You love that thing more than you love me,” she said just this morning, grinning as she handed him his badge.  

He would lean in and kiss her cheek. “You know that’s not true. But... it’s close.” She would allow him the small jest, having loved one another faithfully for nearly ten years, since high school in fact.  If ever Oscar had a weakness, she was it. 

Oscar’s police scanner crackled to life, snapping him back into reality as he cruised down the freeway.  

“All units, we’ve got a break-in at Midtown Labs. Suspects armed and dangerous. Requesting immediate backup.” Oscar gritted his teeth. That lab was a magnet for trouble. He revved the Charger, cutting through traffic like a hot knife through butter, and arrived at the scene in minutes. The lab was a mess — smashed windows, overturned shelves, and glowing green barrels scattered everywhere. A fire had begun, the smoke creating a potentially toxic threat. 

A team of high-tech mercenaries in sleek black armor, wearing masks with built-in air purifiers, was loading crates into an unmarked truck. Their leader, a towering figure with a plasma rifle, barked orders with a sharp European accent.  

“Move it! We’re on a timer!”  

Oscar took a deep breath and scanned the area. He spotted a tipped-over recycling bin nearby. Jackpot.   

Feeding the Power  

In a flash, Oscar grabbed a fistful of trash, smashing a can easily in his hands before tossing it into his mouth like popcorn. He followed that with a crumpled cup that still tasted of burnt coffee, before downing a stained pamphlet that could have been a bus schedule or a map to the local alcoholics' group.  Oscar never knew, considering the speed in which he consumed the trash. Then that familiar surge hit him — his muscles bulged, his mind sharpened, and a faint green glow emanated from his eyes. 

The Trash Man had arrived.  

He charged forward, a wrecking ball of justice. The first mercenary didn’t even have time to turn before Oscar plucked his rifle away and twisted it into a pretzel. Another tried to fire, but Oscar hurled the heavy, ruined weapon with pinpoint accuracy, knocking the weapon from that enemy's hands while simultaneously throwing the first opponent into the stone wall with more than enough force to knock him out cold, his body crumpling. 

The leader stepped forward, his plasma rifle humming ominously. “You think you’re tough? Let’s see how you handle this!”   

Oscar smirked. “You picked the wrong night to take out the trash.”  

The mercenary fired, but Oscar had pulled the body armor loose from the fallen mercenary, using it as a makeshift shield. The armor absorbed the blast, glowing red-hot in his hands, but Oscar didn’t flinch. With a roar, he threw it like a frisbee, smashing the plasma rifle and sending the leader sprawling. The remaining mercenary fell to his knees, throwing his hands up in defeat. 

Cleanup and Cooldown  

As the mercenaries were cuffed and hauled away, the lab’s head scientist approached Oscar.  

“Thank you, Sergeant Rouch. You’ve saved us again. But I have to ask... how do you always seem to know when to show up?”  

Oscar grinned, wiping what looked like mustard from a discarded sandwich off his sleeve. “Let’s just say I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing.”   

Later that night, back at home, Tamara was waiting for him with dinner on the table. “Another late night?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.   

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he replied, pulling her into a hug.   

“Try me,” she said.  He knew he could trust her.  He just couldn't bear to endanger her. 

He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Maybe someday. For now, let’s just eat something that’s not trash.”  

As they sat together, Oscar couldn’t help but smile. The city was safe for now, and tomorrow would bring another clue to the nature of the Mercenaries and their attack.   

The city was full of trash.  And where there's trash, there’s always the Trash Man.