What fun we had! Cutting and lopping and panting and puffing.

First we started removing all the branches that we could with the loppers in order to reduce the overall weight of the trees and to make room to get the saw in. I have plans for the cedar so I only cut it into manageable lengths rather than into short logs. My son might argue that my definition of manageable and his are somewhat different, but he was a real trooper and stayed with me right to the end.

You might notice that the tree is somewhat…larger…than we are. But I figured, even without a chainsaw, we could do it in oh…a few days or so. I had no idea my son would work so diligently. If there were a merit badge for perseverance, he would definitely have earned it. After we removed many of the smaller branches with the lopper, we still had to take the inch and a half to two inch branches off with the bow saw. The wood was green (okay red) so it wasn’t the easiest cut but it did go pretty smoothly, and we had most of the branches removed in about an hour.

Here’s a pic of us removing many of the branches near the base of the four trees.

Admittedly, they weren’t huge trees, only about as big around as our legs near the base, but when you only have a 24 inch long bow saw…they were big enough.  I realized after the trees were down that the roots were dead, and that there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done to save them…but you come explain that…I dare not try.

And one after we have most of the small branches removed.

Getting the stump out of the ground, even though most of the roots were dead, was the hardest part of all.  Teamwork, shovels, the lopper and a whole lot of grunting, eventually removed it, though we had to wait until Sunday when friends were over so that five of us could lift it and carry it into the woods.

 All that remains is the gaping maw that once held the roots…a reminder that I still have to fill in the hole, which incidentally is another thing my wife would like me to do.  In truth, she carted most of the branches away while my son and I carried the logs.  She also filled in much of the hole, though I’ll have to find dirt from elsewhere in the yard to fill it up the rest of the way.   This is now officially registered as project number 136 on my “Honey Do” list, which I put at around….June.  

“Oh, look at that tree in the backyard honey, you better do something to it before it falls over,” my wife said Saturday morning.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Maybe you could cut some branches off of it or something, it’s leaning pretty far,” she added.

“Uh-huh,” I added, wisely.

Four hours later, after working in the basement, framing some more shower walls, working on the pocket door, (whoever invented that modern space saving miracle is a genius, but not a proponent of “easy to assemble”), and generally doing everything except look at the tree, I wandered outside. It would be easy to say that I went outside to look at the tree, but in fact, I had forgotten completely about the tree.

I had actually gone out to get the roto-tiller from the shed and to try and start it. Since it is technically still winter and the roto-tiller hasn’t had a tune up yet, starting it was likely impossible (a theory that was eventually proved), but I did manage to stretch my right arm to be somewhat longer than my left. This is of course, what several hundred increasingly frustrated yanks on the starter cord of a mid-winter resting roto-tiller will create. That, and an absolute obliviousness to everything in close proximity.

So my loving wife, and, I should insert here in case she reads this, very wise woman that she is comes outside and asks “did that tree fall down?” (I emphasize down here because she didn’t really ask if it fell down, but whether it fell down). Now I hadn’t even noticed the tree, even though it was twenty-five feet long and lying horizontal on the grass not ten feet from where I was yanking on the roto-tiller cord, but her emphasis on down confused me. Helpful husband that I am, and confused over her question, I laughed and replied, “no sweetheart…the wind blew it down.”

“Really?” she asked.

“NO not really!” I said, “of course it fell down, what do you think?”

“I thought maybe you cut it down,” she said. I looked down at the roto-tiller. She has been known to hand me the flat tip screwdriver when I ask for a phillips…but cutting down a tree with a roto-tiller? More confusion. I looked up at her.

“I can’t believe that tree fell down,” she said. I love this woman! I looked at her. I looked at the tree. It was lying in the yard roots akimbo, never to reach up towards the sky again and she couldn’t believe it had fallen down.

“Well sweetheart,” I said rather mockingly (though with a great deal of love), “there it is! Proof that it fell down.” I smiled at her. She laughed, then she gave me that coy wife smile that is usually reserved for the “I’m not going to say I told you so but I told you so discussion…”

“See what happens when you don’t listen to your wife?” She walked away, leaving me staring at the four eight to ten inch thick cedar trees that spouted from the same root at about two feet above the ground…er beside the root.

I went to get the chainsaw to begin the hard labor of rendering the tree movable, but since it is technically midwinter and the chainsaw….OH NO…I’m not falling for THAT twice. I didn’t even bother trying. Instead, I went and got the next next best thing to a chainsaw…my fifteen year old son and a bow saw…what fun we had.

Pictures and the rest of the story to follow.

“I suppose I do look a little silly,” Grey said, still grasping for a plausible explanation. “I really just wanted to see how it fit. It was so comfortable, that I uh…forgot I was wearing it.” Grey quickly unbuckled the belt and set the scabbarded sword on the computer table in the outer office, hoping that they could get past the awkward moment. There had been a lot of awkward moments in Grey’s worlds in the last few days.

Kelly did not respond, but her single raised eyebrow indicated that she was skeptical of Grey’s answer.

“I bought it at the bazaar last weekend,” Grey explained further. She still stared at him in disbelief. “I got a really good deal on it too,” he added, hoping to get her off the topic.

“You must have,” she replied with a grave look. “There’s at least a pound of gold on that thing, and the belt looks like it’s woven from gold wire. What’s going on Grey?” She looked very serious.

“I don’t know what you mean Kelly. I just bought this from a guy in the bazaar, that’s it, end of story. Can we look at the reports now?” he said, reaching for the papers in Kelly’s hands.

She stepped back, putting the papers behind her back and eying Grey suspiciously. “What’s gold running these days Grey?” Grey looked at her blankly. “Something approaching a thousand dollars an ounce?” Grey’s eyes widened. Really? “Don’t act like you don’t know what that thing is worth, Grey. Something is terribly wrong here. I don’t know what you’re involved in, but…” She moved to the sword and ran her hand over it, clearly chewing on its significance.

“Kelly, I…” Grey tried, but found no words.

She continued staring at the sword, but did not look up. “This isn’t right.” She set the papers down on the desk and picked up the sword with both hands. “This is not South Asian, Grey, nor is it contemporary. It’s very old and,” she turned it over, “looks European sort of.”

Now it was Grey’s turn to look astounded at Kelly. How did she know that? She glanced up at him and he seemed to recall. Ah yes, Bachelor of Arts in Medieval History from one of the Ivy League schools, Grey couldn’t remember which at the moment. Great. Just great. Of all the people to find him with a sword in his office.

“It’s a longsword,” she continued, warming to her subject, “but incredibly balanced, and I can’t believe the workmanship on the gold fittings. They must have taken the goldsmith a year to craft.” She looked up from the sword. “Grey this sword is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars…maybe more.”

Grey looked at her and didn’t say a word.

“Did you find this on one of your trips?”

Grey hesitated. “Yes.”

“Did you pay someone for it?”

She would never believe him anyway. “No.”

She turned to look him fully in the eyes. She was trained to get information from people. “Did you steal it?”

Fair question, though how could she think that of him. “No. Look this isn’t going to get us anywhere…”

“Did someone steal it for you?”

“No, Kelly. No. I didn’t buy it, I didn’t steal it, I didn’t hire someone to steal it. It isn’t even real, it’s just.” Oh that was real smart, now what do you say? He knew he was displaying outward signs of mental panic, though he tired to keep himself in control. She would sense it as lying. This would not be good. All he needed was for her to call the Legal Attache’ and then there would be official questions.

“It’s just what?” Her eyes begged him for an explanation.

Grey took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. He needed her to see that he was telling the truth.

“I made it,” he said, plainly.

“You what?” she asked him shaking her head with incredulity.

“I willed it into existence,” Grey said. “I made the gold fittings with my imagination and put them into place on the scabbard. I suppose I overdid it with the gold, but never imagined that I would be bringing it back here.”

“That’s it,” she said, reaching for the phone, “I’m calling someone. I just don’t know whether it should be the LEGATT or the Med Unit.”

“Kelly don’t,” Grey said, putting his hand on top of hers. “Please. Listen.” She pulled her hand away.

“I’m listening.” She sat on the edge of the table and crossed her arms, waiting for an explanation.

“You know that BLOG I’ve been writing? The one about the imaginary world and the guy that moves between the real world and his fantasy world at will?”

She looked sideways at him. “Yeeessss.” She seemed to know what he was about to say.

“It’s real.” He let that register with her. “I don’t know how, or for how long, but there really is a nexus to my imaginary world.”

“Thrav-something?” she asked.

“Yes! Thraveon! Right,” Grey said. “It’s real. And I went there, and I came back with this sword, only everything is mixed up and I don’t know how to fix it and…” Kelly just sat there looking at him. “You think I’m crazy.” It wasn’t a question.

“Show me,” she replied flatly.

“What?” Grey asked.

“If it’s real,” she said “prove it.” There was mockery in her voice, but also a bit of curiosity. “That should be simple right? Just open up some, what do you call it, nexus portal and whoosh us through?”

Grey reached out and grabbed the sword with one hand and her right wrist with the other. He had to do this fast before he changed his mind. His worlds were falling apart around him. If he couldn’t convince her, he might end up in jail, or a mental institution, or who knew where.

“What are you doing?” she asked, surprised.

“Come with me, quickly.” he said taking three long steps back into his office.

“Grey this isn’t funny,” Kelly said. “Please let go of my wrist, you’re hurting me.”

Grey swiped at the air with the scabbarded sword, hitting a silvery line of threadlike light in mid-swing and opening the nexus into Thraveon. She could look inside, they would have a long talk about it and maybe, just maybe she could help him figure out what was going on.

The sounds of metal on wood and metal on metal instantly began to resound from the other side as Kelly stood there agape, staring into the nexus. The familiar pungent smell of Uruk filled the office as Grey looked once at Kelly, then once into Thraveon. Oh No!

“I have to help my friend,” he called, rushing through the opening. “I think I’ll be right back.”

Stonefist was desperately fighting for his life, swinging the massive battle axe in broad arcs around his head and midsection, deflecting the pounding blows of the Uruk warriors that surrounded him. Grey did a quick tactical scan as he rushed forward, a sinking feeling beginning to well up inside him. A month ago he could have banished these massive warriors with a quick thought, now he would actually have to fight them. Four of the creatures lay dead in various awkward positions around Stonefist’s feet, but seven more still pressed in on him. Seven! Grey dropped the scabbard as he ran, and swinging the sword overhead began to scream what he hoped was a confident battle cry, but what he feared was a strangled yelp.

Seven to two when one of the two was Stonefist weren’t bad odds, but Grey had never really done this without magical backup. True he put on armor on the weekends back at home and beat up his friends with fake swords, but this was clearly different. Two Uruk turned at his approach and began to swing their over-sized falchions at his head. He parried quickly and backed up a few steps.

“About time you got back!” Stonefist panted between swings. “I was beginning to think you had set these on me as some sort of test!” The dwarf swung upward quickly and caught an Uruk under the chin with the full force of the axe, sending the body up and back.
“Not much of a test by the looks of those on the ground!” Grey replied ducking an Uruk blade and thrusting forward with his own.

“Grey! A Rapier!” A familiar voice called out behind him.

A rapier? He sidestepped an Uruk’s overhead swing and turned to see Kelly standing at the edge of the clearing. She followed him? A rapier?

“I fence, remember? If you really can conjure things with your imagination, I can’t think of a better time.”

Grey blinked several times as he backed quickly away from his foes, trying to concentrate on everything at once. Kelly charged in towards an Uruk, ducking deftly under it’s swing and bringing her arm forward in a neat thrust to it’s eye. A newly crafted rapier sliced clean into the Uruk’s face and beyond. As she withdrew the blade and turned to face an oncoming Uruk she called out to Grey.

“I believe you.”

Where did the month go?   I can’t believe how hectic the past few weeks have been.   So much to catch up on…no time to write by the time I get home.  Snow today, mostly north of us, but I still had to drive through it.  I have no problem driving in the snow…many others who live here however…no, I best not start that rant.  “Oh look, a snowflake!  Let me drive my car into something…”

So I had several job interviews, and have another one tomorrow.  Why do they all keep asking me what I want to do?  Am I really supposed to know that by now?  Unfortunately making a choice about what my next job should be has never been something the Army has burdened me with.   Now I have to choose.  I think today however I was able to put a priority list together.   Proximity to home is the highest consideration (the two and a half hours of driving each day are getting old).  Next would be something I’m willing to do (even if it isn’t a perfect job) for more money.  Then, something I’d like to do for a bit less money.  Then (how I hope I don’t get all the way down here on the list), something in DC, that I don’t like doing, for not much money.

We had plumbers in the basement last week putting in pipes (which proves I put the wall back in the right place this time), so the luxury bath is roughed-in.  Now all I have to do is finish the ceiling framing and get the wiring in and we can get it all tiled and inspected for the final installation of fixtures.  We’ve decided to do a partial inspection and get the one room out of the way completely.  I’ll post pictures when it is all done.  Roman bath here we come…

Helped a friend build a basement room last weekend as well.  I am in a husbands co-op with two other guys.  One Saturday a month we spend a whole day working on the honey do list at one house (which is usually one major project).  We put in a hardwood floor one Saturday and built a room (framing, wiring and plumbing) last Saturday.  In March they”ll come here and help me with some project, most likely in the basement.  All the framing should be complete by then so perhaps we can finish wiring and putting up the canister lights.

I am very aware that I owe an installment or three on the Thraveon project.   Life continues to intervene.    If only I could slip as easily into the nexus as Grey Connor…

Popcorn.

Stonefist dropped his packs on the ground and leaned back against the cool green bark of the apuwah tree, sliding down it’s smooth surface to squat at its base. Long slender branches swept out eight feet from the trunk before extending into broad leafy tendrils that hung all the way to the ground. This circular wall of green leaves formed a spacious shaded area and provided Grey and Stonefist something of a natural barrier from the elements. Grey lay back on his pack without bothering to take it off, and lifted his feet onto one of Stonefist’s packs.

“What I don’t understand, if you don’t mind my saying,” Stonefist said, “is why we just don’t fly or magically appear, or something like that. You’re always coming and going by some strange means, can’t you just conjure us some transport?”

Grey lay with his eyes closed, listening to Stonefist’s question, and did not open them when he answered. “It’s possible. I might be able to lift us up in the air and walk on the wind. I know where all the ley lines are, so I could probably move us about fairly easily.”

“Lay lines?” Stonefist asked, puzzled.

“Come on! After all these years hanging out with wizards and sorcerers in parties that I bring to visit you, you never heard them talk about the lines of magic, the threads of power that hold this world together?” Grey turned his head to see Stonefist respond.

“Can’t say as I have,” Stonefist replied. “Fight that guy Stonefist, hit that monster Stonefist, cut off his head Stonefist,” he said while counting off the remarks on his fingers. He looked at his hand as if reviewing a list. “No sir. Nothing about lay lines there.”

“Well, trust me,” Grey said chuckling, “the world is full of them. They run through this forest, through this tree, under our feet.” As Grey spoke, Stonefist began looking around, trying to see what he was talking about. “They aren’t visible my friend. You can’t see them. You have to feel them, sense them. This is how the magic users in Thraveon wield their powers. Wizards use a certain set of ley lines, sorcerers a different set, and conjurors another set altogether. Weirders are able to use multiple sets simultaneously.”

At the mention of wierders, Stonefist shuddered. “I’ll thank you not to mention those monstrosities if you don’t mind.”

“Sorry,” Grey said. “I forgot about your past associations with them.”

“Associations. Hah! Don’t get me started.” He paused a moment, then looked back towards Grey. What about you?” he asked. “Which set of lines do you use?”

Grey looked down at the ground and sighed. “Until recently, I used them all. More importantly until recently, I could alter them all. Add to them, shape them, take them away. After all, I…”

“Lemme guess, you put them there in the first place,” Stonefist finished.

“Yes,” Grey said, looking back at Stonefist. “But when I tried to follow a ley line to cross back through the nexus, it was like it didn’t go anywhere. When I tried to affect your mind, the ley lines that run to you seemed…I’m not sure of a good word…untouchable I guess. I couldn’t affect the line and therefore, I couldn’t affect you. Lines around me are still intact, but as they get farther away, I’m a bit unsure. So in theory, I could lift us up to altitude and speed us to our destination, but there is no certainly that the line wouldn’t just disappear somewhere over Thraveon.” Grey slapped one hand down onto the other to illustrate.

Stonefist shuddered at the thought.

“Couldn’t we just get horses?” Stonefist asked.

“What if I couldn’t control them and they disappeared while we were riding them?” Grey replied.

“I’ve been riding for several hundred years and I’ve never had a pony disappear under me yet,” Stonefist offered. “Well, that one time in Mawdor on the magic ponies the elves gave us, but that was a special case. If we just buy horses they should be no less stable than I am, not that everyone I’ve known would claim me to be stable mind, but that’s…”

“What did you say?” Grey asked.

“I said, not many I’ve known would say that I’m…”

“No. The other part. Did you say buy horses?” Grey sat up suddenly.

“Well…yes…that’s the way we normally do it your majesty…oh high and mighty lord of…”

“Stonefist you’re a genius! I’ve been thinking like the game master. What can I control? What can I make? What can I alter? I can buy horses for us! We don’t have to walk! We’re perfectly safe on a horse that is already in the world!” Grey rolled over to his knees and stood up quickly. “Let’s get to the next town before dark! Buy horses. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Okay…now you’re starting to scare me.” Stonefist said. “I liked you better when you were mostly all powerful but riddled with self-doubt,” he said, getting to his feet. “Why do I get the feeling there will be fewer breaks now?”

Grey laughed. It felt good to laugh. He had been so filled with worry and anxiety. Passing back and forth through the nexus without attempting to, not being able to return when he wanted, not having full control of his environment, it had been starting to get to him. The misplaced items were puzzling as well. No, puzzling was too weak a word. Stunning? Stupefying? Grey turned to Stonefist and waited for the dwarf to twist into his packs. He reached over to lend a hand and Stonefist cringed away in mock terror.

“Don’t touch me,” he said jokingly, “I might disappear.”

Grey shook his head at the joke and turned to part the curtain of leaves that hung down before him. “At the rate things have been going,” Grey said, “it’s far more likely that I would disappear.” He turned to step through the opening and looked down at the green leaves of the apuwah. He had never noticed before how closely the leaves resembled the color and pattern of his Army Combat Uniform (ACU). That was a subconscious choice if I ever made one, he thought. I don’t even like that pattern very much.

“What’s that?” Stonefist called from behind him.

“What’s that? Kelly Richardson called from his outer office.

Grey froze and looked over his shoulder to where his arm still held the portal open. Stonefist was fumbling with a leather strap across his chest, his massive battle axe balanced against his side. He struggled with two large hands to buckle the tiny brass buckle. “Be right there,” Stonefist called, “just hang on a moment.”

Grey looked back to and through the open doorway of his office. Computers sat on his desk and on tables in the outer office beyond. No spinning room. No nausea. No time or space or distance between the worlds. The nexus lay open between his reality and his imagination. This…can…not…be…happening, he thought.

“May I come in Grey?” Kelly called from the outer office, “Or do you have a visitor already?” Because of the various compartments of classified information, Kelly would not even look into Grey’s office without his go ahead. This was a courtesy practiced by most, but unfortunately not all of Grey’s coworkers at the embassy.

“Uh. Hang on a sec,” Grey called. Think fast. He looked down and found that he was wearing his ACUs, tan combat boots. Everything normal here. He stuck his head into the opening that still hung in mid air around his hand. “So then I’ll call you again a bit later okay?” He tried to say it loud enough to get Stonefist’s attention. “I have someone in my office now, so I have to go, okay?” Stonefist looked up from his buckling and stared open mouthed at the light pouring from the other side of the apuwah leaves. Grey gave Stonefist an urgent questioning glance. “Okay then. Great to talk to you. Have a good day. Out here.” Stonefist still stared dumbfounded as Grey pulled his hand into reality.

He took a deep breath to regain his sense of place and leaned quickly over his desk, picking up and then putting down the phone receiver loudly. “Sorry about that Kelly,” he called, “had to finish an important call.” He looked around his office quickly to ensure there were no anachronisms lurking on his desk or computer side table, then strode swiftly toward the office door, trying to instill confidence he wasn’t sure he had.

Kelly Richardson was a twenty-eight year old foreign service officer who had completed tours in Iraq and Washington before volunteering for a year in Kabul. As friendly and unassuming as she was intelligent and insightful, Grey had begun to look forward to their visits. She would drop by in the early morning and again in the afternoon whenever he was in the embassy and they would discuss classified reports, the insurgency, and increasingly, life in general. Her views on the world were often refreshingly different than his own, owing in part to the fact that she was a young African American woman navigating through a world that was dominated principally by older white men like Grey. He enjoyed her insights, her frequent irreverent comments about “the system,” and her youthful tendency to say exactly what was on her mind. Grey smiled as he approached her and reached for the papers she was carrying. She smiled back as she looked up from reviewing her reports, then she seemed to notice something unusual about Grey. Her eyes widened. Grey cringed inwardly as he realized what was wrong.

With her eyes fixed on Grey below his waist she asked, “Uhm…did I miss an invitation to a party or something?” She stared at Grey’s face for a reaction. Grey feigned momentary ignorance to buy himself time to think.

“Excuse me?” he asked. “Is that how we greet our friends now?” Think man, think. This could get ugly.

She fixed her stare on his eyes, her whole expression demanding an explanation. “It is when they are playing dress up in their offices,” she said. “Or do you have a better explanation for wearing that sword in the embassy?”

Pardon me for getting off track for a moment.  I suppose that first of all I have to give some excuse for not writing for days, busy week, busier weekend (putting up that darned misplaced wall again), blah blah blah.  Actually, maybe I don’t need to apologize, since it is my BLOG.  In any case, let me rant a moment, or not, as you prefer.  (If you choose, not, just go up to your browser and go to another favorite site).

House full of girl scouts tonight.  My son and I were able to escape most of it by going to worship at the temple of Home Improvement.  We bought wooooood, and naaaaaaaiiiiils.  Tomorrow, since he is out of school and I took a day of leave, we are going to finish framing the basement bathroom.  I just can’t wait to Blog about all of the mistakes I will probably make on the pocket door frame I’m going to install.  But, as usual, I digress.

The girl scouts had a late gift exchange, you know, for Christmas?  Tonight.  So one girl got something I’ve never seen before called Moon Sand, which, according to the package “never dries out.”  Okay, this is my rant.  First of all, if that is true, if it NEVER dries out, isn’t that kind of creepy?  I mean, everything dries out eventually right?  I could buy some moon sand today and when I’m ninety and shriveled up and hunched over because my joints are drying out and my bones are brittle, the moon sand would still be wet?  Isn’t that wrong somehow?

The truth is it probably will dry out, and probably within the first few months after it’s opened.  Which leads me to the second part of this –  how many advertising slogans are there that as soon as you see them on a package you KNOW absolutely that the company is lying.  Here are the handful I can think of right off the bat.  These slogans have all been laboratory tested (in my home) through practical trial and error.

Won’t make a mess.  Doesn’t leave stains.  Never needs ironing.  Lasts six months.  Tastes just like the real thing.  Has no unpleasant odor.  Food won’t stick.  Easy to assemble.  Never dries out.   Simple and fun.  Adheres instantly.  Fast acting.  No side effects.  Dries in minutes.

Ready for your additions….

The hot water of the shower coursed down Grey’s body, rinsing away the sweat and easing some of his tension. He knew it would only last for a minute, maybe two, as the small water heater under the sink in his modified shipping container could not supply more than a few gallons of hot water at a time. Just over fifteen feet by six feet, the small apartment had a micro-shower, a toilet, a sink, a television and slow but adequate internet access. All the comforts of home crammed into one hundred square feet. Because he was a full Colonel, Grey did not have to share the container with anyone else and was able to use the top mattress of his metal bunkbeds as storage. Others were not so lucky. More than one married couple at the Embassy lived in similar containers, testing the true meaning of togetherness.

Grey twisted the stainless steel handle to shut off the water as soon as he felt it coming in cold, grabbed his towel from a hook over the toilet, and tried to towel off without leaning against any of the four wet shower walls. His five-foot ten athletic frame did not squeeze so well into the two foot by two foot space, but he knew he had it better than most of the US military training Afghan soldiers in the provinces and far better than any of the special forces guys who were out hunting Taliban and Al Qaeda. Except that none of them are having out of body experiences, he thought. He wondered for a moment which would be worse, getting shot at by the Taliban, or being stuck again in his imaginary world.

He stepped through a small door to the main area of the “apartment” and opened the tiny wall locker that stood in the corner. His eye happened upon the golden dog tag resting on the desk in front of the television. That can’t be real. He looked through the wall locker for his grey suit, a white shirt, a maroon tie. He had to be at the Ambassador’s apartment in fifteen minutes for a meeting with an Afghan Minister and didn’t want to be late. I know it’s real, but it shouldn’t be here. How could it have ended up here? Perhaps I picked it up thinking it was a coin?

While he dressed, Grey tried to recall picking anything up in the embassy compound this morning but could think of nothing. In any case, while many cats roamed free on the compound and ate scraps thrown by sympathetic cat-loving Americans, there were no dogs. Grey had seen pie-dogs in the streets and alleys of Kabul from time to time, but had never noticed a license on any of them. He didn’t even know if the Afghan government had an animal control agency. Doubtful.

Ensuring his weapon was securely in the concealed holster in his waistband, he buckled his belt and attached a few extra magazines to it behind his back. The SIG Sauer nine millimeter was invisible to the untrained eye once he had his suit jacket on, but he turned and checked in the wall locker mirror to be sure. It was like the wild west here. Everyone in uniform was visibly armed; soldiers, marines, security guards, police. Everyone not in uniform was either carrying concealed weapons or was being escorted by someone with visible or concealed weapons, or both. Whenever he ate a meal with a foreign Attache’ in a Kabul restaurant, Grey wondered what would happen if the Taliban attacked. Would I be hit by a Taliban bullet, or a stray from tables three, six, or nine?

Grabbing his keys, his business cards, and his Embassy badge, Grey turned to exit his hooch. He stopped at the door and reached back for the dog tag. Best not to leave it here, he thought. The walk from his hooch door to the Ambassador’s elevator in the housing building was less than five minutes. He greeted several colleagues waiting for the elevator and got a warm response from both of them.

“Another day, another dollar,” said Sally Romero, the Ambassador’s political counselor. Sally was career foreign service officer, a tough, intelligent grandmother who had volunteered for the one year assignment to Kabul.

“More like a dollar-fifty, with our Kabul per diem,” replied Peter Swanson, the Legal Attache’. Pete had served twenty-three years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation before volunteering to spend a year away from his wife and college aged kids serving Uncle Sam abroad. Grey marveled at the patriotism and selflessness that surrounded him every day. In the military you came to expect that kind of behavior, but it surprised you to find that it was prevalent in a lot of government agencies. More proof that stereotypes were usually wrong.

“What dollar-fifty? Did I miss a sign-up sheet?” Grey joked. They all chuckled. None of the quips were new, just part of the routine. I’m here, you’re here, we’re still alive, everything is fine. The smiles slowly melted away as elevator protocol took over. Quiet during the approach to the Ambassador’s residence.

The three of them rode up in the elevator in silence, each contemplating their own agency, office and personal problems. Each seemed to bear a burden of the day’s issues but they were too professional to share what may have really been bothering them in public. I’m sure they aren’t dealing with issues like mine, Grey thought. He reached into his pocket and found the tag, and was both comforted and troubled that it was still there.

As the elevator doors opened the three agency heads came to life, putting on business faces and turning on their professional extroversion. There would be fifty or more guests at the reception tonight and there was much business to attend to. A broad corridor led them from the elevator to the Ambassador’s residence, a stately multi-roomed apartment befitting the Ambassador Plenipotentiary and Extraordinary of the United States. Grey loved the official title but knew that the Ambassador loathed it even more than he loathed being called “your Excellency” by foreign dignitaries. From time to time Grey would refer to “his Excellency” within earshot just to watch the Ambassador’s eyes roll. It was a private joke shared by two professionals, but Grey never pushed his luck. “His Excellency” was the boss and could send him, well, just about anywhere he wanted.

“Colonel Connor, good to see you!” the Ambassador called across the room with a slight raise of his scotch glass. Sally and Pete took that as a cue and moved in opposite directions to find colleagues and guests scattered throughout the crowd. As he approached the Ambassador, Grey quickly made a mental note of the location of each of the Embassy Protection Detail agents on duty that night. He gave a quick smile or head bob of recognition to each, unremarked by anyone but the agents themselves. Another professional courtesy, they knew that Grey would ensure that he never obstructed their line of sight to the Ambassador. Everyone has a job to do. Grey smiled as he approached the Ambassador, shook his hand and said, “Good evening sir.”

“Minister,” the Ambassador began, “have you met Colonel Connor, our Defense Attache’?”

The Minister was tall for an Afghan, and wore a charcoal pinstripe suit that looked custom made. “I have not had the pleasure,” he said, thrusting out his hand towards Grey. Grey took it and returned a firm but warm handshake as he looked into the Minister’s eyes.

“Salaam alaikum, sir. Shoma chitor hasten?” Grey said in fluent Dari. He only spoke a few words, but those he knew were pronounced with absolutely no American accent.

The Minister’s eye widened immediately. “Alaikum salaam! How am I? I am amazed to meet an American who speaks Dari! Pleased to meet you Colonel…?”

“Please call me Grey, sir. And I’m afraid I speak but a few words of your beautiful language. The Ambassador keeps me very busy.” The Ambassador loved the fact that Grey could put just about anyone at ease, it made having difficult conversations easier. “Do I remember that you are the Minister of Communications and Information Technology, sir? I seem to recall a picture from a ministry brochure.”

The Minister turned to the Ambassador with a broad smile. “You train them well Mr. Ambassador! He speaks Dari and knows the ministers on sight. Can you spot a Talib as well, Grey?” he asked, looking back for a response.

“Let’s hope I don’t have to show you that skill tonight sir,” Grey quipped. The Ambassador laughed.

“Very good, Grey. I hope as well.”

“Minister Adbullah says that the fiber optic cables for the national telecommunications network should be complete by the end of the year, Grey.” The Minister nodded. “The only problem is moving several large pieces of equipment from Bagram to the west. I was hoping you could work with him to find a reasonable solution.” Missions came twenty-four hours a day, sometimes via telephone, sometimes over a glass of scotch in the Ambassador’s residence. This one would be challenging, but hardly beyond Grey’s capabilities. Pulling a business card from his inner suit pocket, Grey extended it to the Minister with both hands.

“I’d be happy to call upon you whenever you have the time sir. We can discuss the details of your dilemma and possible solutions.” He pointed to the number at the bottom of the card. “This is my mobile number, you can call me any time of day or night.”

“Thank you Grey, I will call you tomorrow if you don’t mind,” the Minister responded. He handed his own card to Grey, who pocketed it quickly and smiled at the Minister.

“Certainly sir,” Grey replied. He took a slight step backwards, allowing the Minister to move on to other guests if he so desired, without actually severing the conversation. The Ambassador took this as an opportunity.

“Excuse me Mr. Minister, I must attend to other guests,” the Ambassador said, while backing away and turning adeptly towards another group of people.

The Minister did not take the opportunity to leave, but instead turned to face Grey head on. “Might I ask you a question Colonel Connor?” Minister Abdullah asked.

“Yes sir, of course.” Grey said with a smile.

“I notice the Ambassador has a nice collection of antiques and paintings from the United States, and several pieces from Africa and Europe as well,” the Minister said, looking about the large living room.

“Yes he does,” Grey said as he turned to look as well. “He has picked up items of interest at most of his former duty locations.”

“I was wondering if you knew the origin or background of any of them? I am something of a collector myself,” the Minister said.

“I know that mask on the wall is from Burundi, his last duty station, and I think that vase is from China, but I’m afraid I’m no expert. I could ask the Ambassador if you like,” Grey offered.

“I was wondering about the piece on the piano actually. Have you looked at it before? I can’t say as I’ve ever seen anything like it.” The Minister moved towards the grand piano in the corner of the Ambassador’s living room and gestured towards the large candelabra that sat upon it. The multi-tiered candelabra was so covered with verdigris, that Grey could not tell from a distance if it was copper, brass or bronze. More than thirty green metallic arms radiated out at varying heights from a central stand and each held a small white candle, making the whole appear more like a fanciful tree than a piece of formal furniture. Grey slowed as he approached it.

“It is really exquisite,” the Minister remarked, “perhaps you can ask him about it later for me? We have nothing like it here in Afghanistan.”

“I can certainly ask him sir,” Grey replied helpfully. He glanced again at the candelabra then turned to face the Minister. Oh no!

The Minister’s face began to melt and stretch as the room began to spin. Grey knew that The metal that comprised that candelabra was not brass, bronze or copper, but viridium, a rare element of greenish hue that could be found only in Grey’s imagination. He had seen that very candelabra before in the dining room of the High King of Mawdor. He first saw it when he created it, placed it, and described it to players in his world. It could not be here. It can not be here.

Grey tried to concentrate on the Minister’s face, but it had become part of the massive swirl of color and sound that assaulted Grey’s vision. He could feel pressure at the back of his neck and heard a keening sound in his ears. He felt as though his stomach was being pressed into his backbone as some unseen force pushed him rapidly backwards. All sense of time and location vanished and Grey found himself floating gently in a warm pool of water. After the severe shock to his system, it was comfortable to just lie motionless in the water, free from Embassy troubles, from Taliban attacks, from disturbing anachronisms in his alternate realities. Perhaps he could just lie here a while and contemplate the problems he was facing. Just a few minutes.

” You going to lie there all day lad?” Stonefist asked. “We’re not getting any closer to the coast with you lying about in the tall grass.”

Grey opened his eyes and saw the dwarf standing over him, peering down and tugging on his braids with a large grin. Dirlonian sweet grass waved all around him and tickled his bare arms and legs. He could smell the warm, slightly metallic smell of Dirlonian soil beneath him and saw that the sun had progressed several hours across the sky.

“Oh no.” He didn’t move to get up.

“Well, you almost caught the thing. Too bad it was faster than you.” Stonefist extended his hand to help his friend up and Grey took it. “I picked up your things when you ran off,” he said, “though I really wish you’d try to keep your trousers on. At least promise you’ll not do that when we are in towns…” Stonefist was still grinning.

“I have to get my powers back under control,” Grey said.

“Why, so you can get back through your Nexus?” Stonefist asked.

“No,” Grey replied, taking his things from the grinning dwarf, “So I can shut you up!”

Grey couldn’t believe what was happening. He should have complete control. He shouldn’t have slipped so suddenly into Thraveon in the first place. He shouldn’t have arrived somewhere that he hadn’t planned to visit. He certainly shouldn’t have arrived half-dressed. He glanced once more at his clothing and equipment.

“Do I look different to you in any way?” he asked the dwarf.

“Blessedly so I would say,” answered Stonefist, “now that ye have clothes on.” Stonefist chuckled at his own joke.

“No. Seriously. Is there anything unusual about me?” Grey asked.

“No. Nothing unusual about ye at all. Ye take me away from fighting and adventuring - the only things I’ve ever really enjoyed or known aught about, ye bring me to an empty field and cause this inn to appear out of thin air, then ye set me up as proprietor where suddenly I know everything there is to know about running a business. Ye pop in from time to time out of nowhere and on the rare occasion when you are under-dressed, why you wriggle your nose, or wave your hand, or I don’t know what…and you’re fully dressed and fat with gold to boot. Oh you’re a normal one alright. Nothing unusual at all.”

“You finished?” Grey asked with a tone reserved for displeased parents.

“Yes,” Stonefist replied, unremorseful. “You had that coming, however.”

“Fine. You’re right. I had it coming. Now look again please. I’m serious. Is there anything about me that is different than the last time you saw me? I think there is something terribly wrong, though I cannot fathom what.”

Stonefist stared at Grey’s face, his posture, his clothing. He walked around him in a slow deliberate circle. Once behind Grey he inhaled deeply, as if surprised. “Ahhhhh.”

“What?!” Grey asked. “What is it? Do you see something?”

“You’ve put on some weight haven’t ye?” Stonefist asked. Grey turned and glared at the dwarf. Stonefist chuckled again. “Look lad, I don’t mean to be difficult, but the only thing that seems different to me is that ye’ve let me crack several jokes without shutting me up. Even folks that don’t have the ability to conjure often…”

Grey cut him off. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re putting on weight.”

“No, after that. About not shutting you up,” Grey replied.

“Lad. I always crack jokes and you always let me get away with one, maybe two, but then ye do that thing where I can’t talk any more and I…”

“I can’t control you?” Grey asked. “I didn’t even realize I did that to you. Keep talking.”

“About what?” Stonefist asked.

“I don’t care. Tell me about your business. Anything,” Grey responded.

Stonefist began to talk about the recent shipment of Dirlonian white wine that had turned sour in the casks on the way to the Spilled Chalice. While he spoke, Grey concentrated on him and tried to make him stop. It should only take a glance. Stonefist kept talking. “I could’ve killed that merchant, but he was a fast talker. He sold me the wine at half price as vinegar. Said I’d get my shipment of wine next week at a reduced price.” Stonefist stopped talking. “I guess it’s not working, eh lad?”

Grey sighed, “no it’s not. I don’t know what’s wrong. I can conjure gold, and clothes. He willed himself a longsword in a dark green leather scabbard. It appeared in his outstretched hands. “With gold fittings,” Grey said. The scabbard instantly became more elaborate. “And a golden belt to hang it from.” He felt it wrap snugly around his waist.

“That’s still a handy trick if ye ask me,” Stonefist said, tugging at the loose grey whiskers of his beard. “Personally, I’d be conjuring wenches, but…” he trailed off, realizing his joke wasn’t really amusing his friend.

Grey considered the facts. He couldn’t affect Stonefist for some reason, but he could still conjure items. He looked around the inn and then at Stonefist. “What do you think about the layout of the Chalice?”

“Honestly?” Stonefist asked.

“I can’t seem to have it otherwise,” Grey remarked blandly.

“Well, I’ve often thought that whoever designed this place, no offense mind you, but whoever designed this place had no mind for the proper running of an inn. The hearth is too narrow and too short to be of great use to the cooks, and doesn’t put off much heat in winter.”

Grey looked at the east wall of the inn where the fireplace stood and had to admit it seemed undersized for the scale of the inn. It began to stretch to the left and right and the mantle began to raise until it almost filled the entire wall. Above the inn, the chimney grew appropriately to vent the volume of smoke that would now be produced. Grey looked back at Stonefist who stood nodding in satisfaction.

“The keg rack is smaller than it ought to be considering the number of tables that we have in here.” Stonefist smiled and rubbed his hands together.

Grey looked behind the bar at the four kegs. He stretched the inn wall, added four oaken kegs of the same size and one of linden in gargantuan proportions.

“Giantish Ale!! However did ye…” Stonefist looked back at Grey. “You’ve still got it laddie. You’ve still got it.”

“Some of it, it seems,” Grey agreed. He looked around at the empty inn. He needed to test the limits of his control, and he needed to figure out how to get back through the nexus. Who knew what was going on with his body in the real world. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he really was sick and had passed out. Perhaps he was sleeping at his desk in the embassy and this was all a dream. Hopefully the Ambassador hadn’t wandered in to find him unconscious. He would have to find someway to wake up.

“Can you close the inn for a few hours Stonefist? I need some help. ”

“Close the inn?” The dwarf looked dumbfounded. “It hasn’t been closed since ye put me here. What if a customer comes?

“Put up a sign. Say you are on vacation.” The dwarf looked at Grey with uncertainty. “I can’t force you it seems. But I really do need your help old friend. I think the nexus is broken.”

Stonefist gaped. “The way ye bring the out-worlders in? It’s broken?”

“It could be. I think so. I’m not sure really. I just don’t know. Will you help me?”

“Of course. But if you think I’m heading off in the world in an apron, you’ve got another thing coming…” Stonefist ventured.

Grey took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He imagined Stonefist as he had once appeared to so many groups of adventurers; well muscled and middle-aged for a dwarf, armored head to toe in dwarven chain, and wielding an oversize double-bladed battle-axe. Grey opened his eyes and Stonefist stood before him grinning from ear to middle-aged ear in full battle regalia. Stonefist hefted the massive axe in one hand while pulling deliberately at one of several dark brown braids that composed his beard with the other.

“If all my equipment is this new again,” he said, “I’ll go wherever ye need, for as long as ye need. Lookout world, here I come!” He began to swing the axe around his head in mighty arcs as he sang a Dwarven war song about Oakheart the Unforgettable. Grey backed to the edge of the room, pondering out loud.

“I can change my physical situation but I can’t will myself home. I can change your physical situation and even your attributes, but I can’t get you to shut up…” he considered.

Stonefist kept swinging the axe as he moved about the inn, careful not to hit any furniture. “Ye could ask politely. I might shut up.” Grey looked up and met his gaze. “Then again,” the dwarf said mischievously, “I might not.”

Grey shook his head. It was hard to get mad at his friend, regardless of the severity of his situation. Better to keep his sense of humor anyway. He’d need it if he woke up with the Ambassador standing over him.

“Pack us some food and drink while I put up a sign,” Grey said, placing several packs and bags on the tables.

“You can conjure food whenever we need it,” Stonefist argued, “Why carry the weight? And where are we going, anyway?”

“I don’t want to waste what little control I may have on conjuring food if we can carry it with us,” Grey replied. “And I don’t know where we are going. We’ll have to play it by ear.” He thought signs onto the outer doors of the inn that were written in a rough hand: “Closed for an unforeseeable incident. Be back as soon as possible. Trespassers will be tracked down and roughed up severely.” Grey then mentally nailed all but one of the doors shut.

“Ready,” Stonefist said, loaded down with several bulging packs.

“I can carry one of those,” Grey offered.

“And waste this energy and stamina?” Stonefist laughed, “not on your life! You worry about your problem and let me do the carrying.”

Grey allowed the dwarf his gesture. They departed the inn and as they stood in the street before it, Grey barred the door from within. Stonefist sighed as he took in the fresh late-morning air. “Just like old times,” he said wistfully.

The sun was approaching mid-day as they turned from the inn to head south towards the coast. It was still autumn in Dirlon, so the air was cool without being cold. Leaves had begun to change from bright green and dark green to yellow and amber. A lone greyhound crossed the road about thirty meters in front of them. Grey stopped.

“What was that?” he asked.

Stonefist looked at him querulously. “A dog perhaps?” He glanced sideways at Grey, waiting for the rest of the joke.

“What kind of dog?” Grey said, moving more quickly down the road.

“How should I know what kind of dog?” Stonefist replied, moving quickly to keep up with Grey. The packs began to jostle and bounce as he endeavored to keep up with Grey’s increasing pace. “When I offered to carry the packs I didn’t know we’d be in a race,” he said.

“I think that was a Greyhound,” Grey explained.

“Grey, black, brown, what does it matter? A hound is a hound,” Stonefist panted as he fell farther behind.

“Not a Grey hound! A greyhound! Don’t you see?” He spun quickly around once, running backwards while looking back at the dwarf. “I never put any greyhounds in Thraveon! That dog shouldn’t exist!”

“Well…that may be,” Stonefist panted, “but there….it goes…again!” He pointed behind Grey.

Grey spun back around and saw the dog, a sleek greyhound with a glossy coat, it’s muscular head pointed forward and down as it began to pick up speed. “What are you doing here?” Grey whispered to the air as he watched the hound run. “How did you get in my world?” He took deep breath. “My world,” he said. “This is my world. I created every rock and tree and creature in it. The air is mine. The earth is mine. ”

Grey Connor mentally shook off his equipment as he began to run forwards after the dog. Gone were the sword and breastplate and heavy boots. In their place was a loincloth and soft leather boots of the type worn by the Cords, the fastest humans in Thraveon. Grey focused on the hound ahead of him as he picked up speed, his feet hitting the earth lightly and sending him forward. He chanted to himself as he ran, “My world. My path. My speed. My air. ” He began to gain on the hound as the world passed by him in a blur, his feet pounding harder and more rapidly as he ran.

The hound looked back over it’s shoulder once took off suddenly in a burst of energy and speed. Grey knew in the real world he would have no chance of catching the dog. Greyhounds could reach speeds in excess of forty-five miles and hour. No human being could achieve even half that. But here in Thraveon Grey could do anything, almost anything, he corrected himself. He increased his speed effortlessly. So did the hound. He stretched the length of his stride and the greyhound appeared to do the same instinctively, pulling farther and farther ahead of him. Grey was beginning to get discouraged as more distance grew between the two of them.

“My world,” he thought. “In my control.” He continued to run forward as fast as his two legs would carry him. TWO LEGS! Of course!! He leaned forward suddenly and willed himself into the shape of a massive black greyhound, bounding forward in a series of long powerful strides. “My world,” he thought. “In my control.”

Grey raced forward, gaining rapidly on the speeding hound. The surprised dog looked back at Grey and there was a sudden look of slight acknowledgment in it’s eyes, not-quite a surrender, but an understanding. Grey came abreast of the hound and paced it for several strides, locking eyes with the other. There was a message there, but Grey could not fathom it. He tried to sense the creature’s thoughts, but could ascertain nothing.

The two continued to run, side by side across the plains as the sun rose higher in the sky and Grey began to think the hound would never tire. A message? A clue? He looked again at the tag and collar. Tag and collar? There were no dog tags in Thraveon! He lunged at the throat of hound with his human hand as he changed form, grasping the metal tag and wrenching it from the small ring that held it to the collar. Man and beast tumbled over and over on the ground as they slowly came to a stop in a twisted jumble of canine and human limbs. Grey closed his eyes to protect them from the cloud of dust the sudden stop was creating and rubbed his hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat from his brow as he tried to regain his breath. Sweat? He didn’t sweat in Thraveon! And he certainly didn’t get out of breath. This day was getting worse and worse.

He opened his eyes to untangle himself from the dog and found himself wrapped around the bars of the treadmill in the embassy gym. He was panting from exertion and dripping with sweat as he heard the motor of the treadmill winding down beneath him. His legs moved forward methodically, numbly, achingly, sweat pouring down his legs to wet the athletic socks and Nikes he was wearing.

“Never seen anyone put that thing on high before sir,” the marine guard said as he swung his arms and legs back and forth to the rhythm of the elliptical machine. “certainly not for as long as you were on it.”

Grey looked over at the Lance Corporal and smiled vacantly. “Long?” he asked. “How long have I been running?”

“How long?” the marine asked. “Man sir, you are a machine. You got on it just before lunch and you’ve been running the whole hour! Can’t believe you didn’t even time yourself.”

Grey only half heard the answer. He was too busy focusing on the metal tag in his hand. It appeared to be made of solid gold and was neatly stamped with the name “Argus.”

“Wonderful,” Grey thought. “Odysseus’ dog. As if things weren’t confusing enough.”

Colonel Grey Connor was having a bad day and it didn’t look like it was going to get any better. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes in hopes of relieving the pressure that was building there. I have enough headaches to deal with, he thought, I don’t need a migraine as well. He exhaled deeply and looked back at the notes in front of him. Ambassador Forrest had given him four separate tasks in as many minutes, the movement control officer had called to say that all seven of the rotator flights had been shifted one hour behind schedule, and the Afghan Minister of Defense wanted to see him later that afternoon. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet and his day was turning out to be a challenge. Well, he thought, at least no one is shooting at me.

His day had started out routine enough, meetings with his office staff, a short update briefing to the Ambassador, more meetings with agency heads. In the past five minutes he had taken three phone calls that were going to change the course of his day, and he hadn’t even begun to check email yet. Who knew what wondrous challenges lay waiting within that helpful box on his desk? There were times when he really wished that email hadn’t even been invented yet. How much simpler life would be. He looked out the window of his third floor embassy office and caught a glimpse of two birds, hawks perhaps, making wide circles under the rising sun, coming at times, within meters of him. They flew close enough that he could see the outlines of several golden brown feathers, but his mind immediately twisted the image. He smiled as he imagined them to be golden dragons, circling each other over the peaks of Ered Glemor, far above the routine of normal life, and literally worlds away in his imaginary Thraveon.

He felt himself slipping into the nexus. How easy it would be to just let his mind wander there. More and more often he found himself sliding easily from this world of protective vests and improvised explosive devices, IEDs, to one of his own creation. Thraveon. The game world and system he had created as a young man more than twenty years before. How many friends had joined him there for a few hours, or a full day, or that glorious three day weekend gaming extravaganza a few years back. How many hours of excitement and thrills had he led his friends through. Now, stationed here in Afghanistan, he used his imaginary world as a crutch.

Grey had always had a wild imagination and a fairly vast talent for telling stories. He would look around the room, or the shopping mall, or at the world around him, and his eye would select several objects at random to weave into a story. Within moments, what he had seen in the real world would instantly become something different, sometimes something very different and extraordinary in his imaginary world of Thraveon. Now, more than twenty years after this game had begun, Grey’s mind contained the descriptions and details of every map, every kingdom, every mountain, and every major character in his world. All his creations, all his children, he could mold them in his mind at will, and change them as necessary to meet the needs of whatever group was gaming with him at that moment in his life.

With no gaming group at his disposal in the embassy, he had begun to turn to Thraveon for his own amusement and in difficult moments. He hated flying in helicopters, was adverse to certain roads known to be littered with IEDs, and abhorred boring meetings absolutely. When those instances occurred, as they did too frequently, he would mentally identify a few objects or people in the real world and use them to craft a portal that opened the nexus into Thraveon. Just a few minutes in his imagination and all his mental wounds were healed, all his fatigue drained away, and his spirit renewed.

Most recently, he had begun to post blogs on a personal website, describing the manner in which he created his world, and although he surprised himself by doing so, openly discussing the nexus. He had never shared that part of his mind with anyone before. Certainly, his friends knew that he had created a game world and that he had a decent imagination, but he wondered if any of them had ever guessed that the world of Thraveon was made completely and wholly out of the fabric of the real world around them. Life was the raw material and his mind the factory that churned out imaginary places and politics, monsters and maidens, heroes and wizards. How many former bosses in real life had Grey turned into one-eyed ogres or evil wizards or foul giants? Too many to recall really.

Colonel Grey Conner chuckled to himself at the thought. How many of his colleagues thought him to be a serious soldier, a professional to be emulated, an officer to be looked up to? If they only knew the truth, he thought. He had enlisted in the army because he had procrastinated too long to be accepted into any colleges or universities. Once he learned that he tolerate any pain the drill sergeants dished out by slipping into Thraveon, he found himself mistakenly being labeled “tough,” and “resilient.” He was promoted rapidly to sergeant.

Soon discovering that enlisted men actually have to work for a living, whereas officers get to sit unmolested for hours at a time thinking “big thoughts,” Grey took the tests that would get him into Officer Candidate School and away from a life of hard work. His plan had backfired somewhat as he found that once people believed that you were “tough” or “smart” or “hard-working” they expected behavior that would allow them to continue believing it. So when he was assigned to a unit he worked as efficiently as he could all day so that he could have his evenings and some weekends free to let his mind run free.

He had graduated first in every class of every military school he had ever attended, not because he was motivated to be the best, but because he wanted to get back to his game as quickly as possible. Labeled a “good student,” he spent more than twice the number of years as most officers attending military schools for advanced training. At the same time Grey learned, those who tested out of a subject at the beginning of a block of instruction were given the time back to use at their discretion. Grey studied hard the night before every pre-test and was given a lot of discretionary time. The sooner all requirements were completed, the sooner he could be back inside Thraveon.

What he never quite realized was that the real joke was on him. The years of work and creativity and imagination that he had put into building Thraveon, coupled with the years of study he done to get out of classes had actually made him a fairly knowledgeable and creative officer as Army officers go. He was always concerned that his colleagues and supervisors might learn the true nature of his lack of military motivation, so he tried to be as friendly as possible with those he liked, to build consensus when he could with those he didn’t, and to take care of his subordinates so that they would take care of him by getting the job done. What he didn’t know, or failed to see, was that these behaviors and attributes created an aura of leadership that made others look up to him in good times and tolerate him in bad. For all intents and purposes, he was being what the Army expected him to be.

He turned away from the window and glanced back at the notes on his desk. Prepare to brief the Congressional Delegation - CODEL, request an office call with a new Deputy Minister, request some information from the Norwegian Defense Attache; it was going to be a busy day. He moved his notebook across the desk as he turned in his chair to begin checking email and noticed the remains of a broken pencil on the edge of his desk. He briefly recalled stepping on it last night while leaving, but he thought he had picked it up and thrown the pieces in the trash. Now, the longest part of the pencil, with the point still intact, looked like an arrow from…STOP! Grey blinked and shook his head. He had work to do. Thraveon would have to wait. He admitted a slight concern that he was having greater difficulties keeping his two worlds separate. It was just a pencil, ordinary in every way except for the slight greenish corona that encased it and…greenish corona? Grey blinked again and looked harder at the pencil fragment. It still glowed a subtle luminescent green.

“I’ve been playing too many computer games,” Grey said out loud.

“Did you say something sir?” asked his Operations Coordinator from the next room. Chief Andrew Rhodes was an Army Warrant Officer, a good one, very professional, and very attentive.

“No Chief,” Grey called out, “Just talking to myself.”

“What did I tell you about that sir?” Chief Rhodes answered. “The girls don’t like guys that talk to themselves.”

“My wife likes me just fine Andy. You stop worrying about me and I’ll stop talking to myself,” Grey quipped.

“You stop talking to yourself, and I’ll stop worrying about you sir!” Andy replied. He stuck his head in Grey’s door. “I’m going to go grab a soda sir, you want anything?” he asked.

“No Chief, I have to watch my figure. The girls don’t like guys with big guts!” He looked at the Warrant Officer’s bulging waistline and smiled.

“Ouch! That was a low blow sir! Guess I better make it a diet soda!” He chuckled as he departed the office.

Grey closed his eyes and reached for the pencil. It was just a pencil, nothing more. He opened his eyes. Just an ordinary, number two yellow pencil. An ordinary, number two yellow pencil with a corona of green light emanating from every facet! He threw it at the wall and watched, amazed, as it stuck like an arrow in a target. It vibrated slightly for a few seconds then stopped, but it still glowed green. Grey turned in his chair and began to rise, then stopped suddenly and sat back fully to stare at the over-sized map of Afghanistan on his office wall. Every province had been shaded in a different color by the mapmakers, but Helmand Province in the South of Afghanistan was clearly glowing green. He stared at the map a second then looked around the office completely. His coffee cup, his protective vest, his boots… all glowed green.

What could it mean? A virus? A biotoxin? Maybe he should ask Chief when he returned. No, that would be asking for a whole round of crap. Maybe he was just tired. He had been out very late the night before with the Spanish Attache, maybe this was some bizarre after affect of eating too much Manchego cheese and drinking too many sangrias. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The nexus never came like this; bright green and glowing with light rushing past him on all sides. It was normally a subtle shift of his imagination from the real world to his fantasy world, completely controlled by his conscious efforts, not a stomach wrenching race on a twisting roller coaster of green strobe lights. This was not normal. He felt the room begin to spin and wondered if he had in fact picked up an infection of the inner ear. He had suffered these vertigo effects before during a sever bout of Dengue fever. He could feel his heart racing and thought he could hear himself gasping for breath. He was about to vomit. He leaned forward and reached out for his office trash can as he opened his eyes, afraid that he might hit his head on the desk in front of him.

As quickly as the nausea had come, it vanished, though he could feel a cold sweat on his forehead as he took in his surroundings. He was in an inn, one he knew well, an ale-filled mug sat before him on a thick oaken table. He closed his eyes to return through the nexus, but the ale called to him. He picked up the mug and drank deeply.

“Oakheart Stout,” the dwarven innkeep called to him, “your favorite. Just be sure to be paying me this time.”

“Stonefist!” Grey exclaimed, happy to see an old friend, in spite of the confusion of the moment. Grey had taken the aging dwarf out of action several game iterations ago and made him proprietor of the Spilled Chalice Inn in Southern Dirlon. Once a great dwarven warrior and in-game companion to players in Thraveon, he was now relegated to waiting tables and passing on the occasional rumor to those who happened to enter the Chalice. Grey looked up at Stonefist, who seemed to be busy cleaning up a mess from the evening before. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Stonefist. I hadn’t planned on visiting, I just…”

“O course you didn’t lad. If ye had planned to visit, you wouldn’t be sitting at my table in breastplate and boots now would ye?” The dwarve pointed at Grey and raised his eyebrows. He let out a loud belly laugh. “Chasing the ladies at Mare’s End were ye?”

Grey looked down and realized he was wearing nothing but trousers, boots and a breastplate of polished steel. Where were the rest of his clothes? He never entered the nexus like this. Something was definitely wrong. He closed his eyes and willed a shirt, a tunic, a belt and money pouch. They came easily, though no one seemed to notice.

“I’ll never understand why I can see you all the time and others only sometimes lad,” Stonefist said.

Grey looked at him with discomfort. They had been through this a dozen times before. Now was not the time.

“Let’s just say I have special powers, shall we?” Grey asked.

“Obviously,” Stonefist replied, eying Grey’s new clothing. “You staying long this time?”

“Actually, I have to leave right away,” Grey said, flipping a silver coin from his pouch towards the dwarf. Stonefist caught it, bit it, and placed it in a bowl on the counter. “See you again soon old friend.” Grey said. He closed his eyes and willed himself back through the nexus. He felt the mental shift, began the slide from fantasy to reality and sensed that he had come back into his frame of reality, a simple passage he had made thousands of times before. He sighed relief and opened his eyes.

“I thought you were going back,” Stonefist said. “Did ye want another ale perhaps?”

Simple Bargain.  Ten comments from ten people are all I need, one word per person each, then I’ll enter the nexus and tell you how it goes.  I’m a bit concerned since I haven’t been back in a while, but I do have to venture inside to prepare for this weekend.  With several chosen coming to the house, I have to put some threads back in place.  I fear they may begin to notice the wear and tear, the slight unraveling.

Will you help me?   Ten comments….ten words.  These will help me weave the spell to open the portal to Thraveon…

First Post:  A Color

Second Post: An animal

Third Post: A household object

Fourth Post: A Gender  (this is the easy one, you only have to pick from two)

Fifth Post:  A number under ten

Sixth Post: Any English Word

Seventh Post:  A weather event
Eighth Post: A Medieval weapon

Ninth Post: A foodstuff

Tenth Post: An occupation

I await the magic words…