A few stories [Violence, Language]

[John Dyne]

This is a pair of stories I wrote awhile back, based on a dream a friend wrote about. If I could remember what they told me, I'd write it out, but the basic gist of it should be picked up from the two stories. I'd also want to get their permission.

Edit: Vel posted the dream. Yay, thanks Vel. Should make a little more sense now.

[John Dyne]

The people who live beneath the earth.. they are an atrocity to our people. A stain upon our God given land.

All through my childhood, the Father had preached to us of the sins of those that live below us. How they live lavishly and gorge themselves on fine foods. He spoke to us of how none of their children would mutate. I remember glancing uneasily about the church as he spoke these words, watching as a nurse closed the door to the infirmary. I saw my friend there, grasping his stomach and trying to scream. He was a mutant, and was dying to his mutation Those below us were immune.. those below us would never know the horror of having a family member die to a mutation.

Thinking of them makes rage well up in my stomach, a mutation all of its own. It burns at me.. and the Father tells us this is how it should be. Those below us are filth, afraid to live amongst us toplanders. And yet they always come above, as if to mock us.. they live amongst us for a week and cringe in disgust at the horrors they see: mutants, famine, death. They wrinkle their noses at the only food we have to survive on, and even refuse it if it isn't prepared as they wish.

We hear their parties sometimes, late at night.. the music and laughter echoing up through the pipes while I lay on the cold ground, an old revolver held to my chest for protection should I need it. The sound sickens me.. and I know it sickens the others. Even with a sane mind it's hard to not believe the laughter is directed at us up above.. why would they laugh at themselves down there? They're safe.. no radiation, no animals, no mutants or thiefs. They have no fear to steal their laughter.

But tonight, the Father has assembled us into his church. We come garbed in white shirts tucked into black slacks. Our knapsacks are lined against the wall when we arrive, and we all grin. The Father stands at his altar, a surly man well into his 50's. His beard is thick and black, but cropped sharply just above his chest. His hair is slicked back with its own grease, and he stands wearing a flowing black robe with a white collar. I feel a cheer welling in my throat.. and I know the other men feel the same. Only one thing comes from such a gathering..

War.

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The Father speaks vigorously.. angrily. His words stir even the most cowardly of us, and I believe if he did not hate those below so much that he'd be able to talk to them and turn them against one another.

"For far too long, those below us have taunted us, BELITTLED us, with their lifestyle. They laugh at us, and celebrate their safety.. but they are foolish. They believe themselves intelligent, but they are far too predictable. My sons, the week has come."

We growl and jeer, throwing comments of our hatred toward those below. The Father raises his hand and we fall silent.

"But, we will not attack them.."

Shouts of protest, but again the Father silences us with a wave of his hand.

"No, we will not attack them up here. They would flee and we would be out in the open, bringing too much attention from the crazed mutants. They think we cannot learn... they think we are as brainless as the lizards! But, my sons, they.. THEY.. are the brainless ones. One of their men came above, lusting after one of our women.." The Father brought his fist down on the podium, his eyes blazing. "Lusting after OUR women! He came above and foolishly let us learn how to open the gates into their home!"

We are stunned for a moment. We have found the way in. The door had always confused us... a metal barrier with a pad of strange symbols that the Father called 'numbers'.

But it sunk in. We had access to their pitiful world.. where they were defenseless agaisnt us, cornered. We leap to our feet as one and cry out in rage, in pleasure.. and most importantly, in victory.

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We impatiently wait for six days.. we could have attacked any day, any minute, but the Father demanded we wait until they are returning and unaware. They would notice us if we entered too early.

I am among the first group to enter.. we are the best of the sons. Fastest, smartest, strongest. Our backpacks are filled with the lead for our guns, blessed by our Father and his Lord, and we carry the Holy Book of our Father and our Lord. The book is a charm.. it protects us against the evils we would surely meet within their unholy world.

The Father opens the door, and we pile in and descend into their world.

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It's amazing.. beautiful, polished stone as far as the eye can see, elegant clothing and lush furniture where one could rest their weary body. The beauty of their world amazes me and makes my heart leap.. but rage grips my heart and fills me with jealousy and a thirst for blood. Above ground, my friend lies dying or dead on the rocky ground, unprotected against nature's whims. I glance around and see it in their eyes.. the same rage, the same jealously. One has bit his lip, a trickle of blood running down his chin as he tries to quell the hatred. We have been ordered to leave everything in tact, so they are caught unaware.

We find a room off to the side.. a morturary. Their dead are thrown here carelessly, naked and without respect. The Father is on the verge of tears. The greed and heartlessness of these people has gotten to him, and I would cry as well, if I were not his son and raised to be strong. I sit and rest my back against the wall, next to an old dead woman. I hug the Holy Book to my chest and shut my eyes, trying to let myself sleep.

It comes, and my dreams are haunted with my own hate and jealousy. I dream of being one of these people.. I dream of wiping them out, and the above grounders moving in. It never occurs to me that this may be a cycle.. these people may have been above grounders once, and they may have fought down here for the same thing.

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We awaken to the sound of them returning.. celebrating and sharing stories of the horrors they had seen above. Their laughter burns at my heart.. but in some voices I am surprised to hear remorse.. but their words still enrage me.

We rise, and peer out of the small cemetary. We are the team furthest in.. another group is closer to the entrance. The Father smiles wanly and nods at us, and we all holler at once, something that makes the laughter and commotion outside cease. A moment later.. we hear screaming, and pile out of the graveyard. Several of us are armed with sharpened steel, and a lucky few of us carry guns. I have one tucked into my pants, but I am wielding the leg bone of one of the undergrounders. I gave no blessing for the skeleton I ripped it from.. it deserves none. It is heavy in my hand and dry.. and a fitting tool for the job that must be done.

They're herded to us like animals, and we wade into them, screaming and swinging. A man, his eyes filled with panic, runs right into me, and I bring the club down upon his skull with a crunch. His legs give instantly under him, and he falls onto me. I shove him away and his body causes others to stumble, letting my brothers slay them. But we do not kill many.. they flee through canals and tunnels that were hidden before.

The Father steps before us, his face red and blood splatted on his robe. He bellows at us, sounding younger than ever, his eyes ablaze with passion and fury.

"My sons, you have seen how pitiful these fools are! They are trapped and defenseless! We will rid the world of their scourge once and for all!"

We cheer, and give chase.

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The house's beauty stole my breath as we emerged from the tunnel. It was large and beautiful, with pillars of marble and a massive porch. A garden surrounded the house, filled with beautiful roses and flowers and lit by an artifical sun affixed to the cavern's ceiling. How could something so beautiful be unholy?

The Father stepped ahead of us, his eyes set with sorrow. "This is their final stand, my sons.. and I regret that such a beautiful home will be our place of slaughter. But what must be done, must be done. I am proud of you, every one.."

We bowed our heads as the father came around and kissed our foreheads, hugging us and speaking to us in a tongue he called 'Latin'. I had momentarily felt that what we were doing was wrong.. but the Father loves us too dearly to make us do wrong.. doesn't he?

I feel my fingers loosen on my club momentarily, but the roar of my brothers snaps me back. I raise the club and take charge, and begin to march across the beautiful field.

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The door is battered down easily, and a small crowd stands waiting for us. We are caught off guard.. we didn't expect them to stand and fight. One of them levels a rifle at us, and I flinch at the report. I turn my head towards a scream and see one of my brothers clutching his shirt, stained red with his blood. He lets forth a single sob before he collapses, and the below grounder's eyes are wide, unbelieving in what he has just done.

I feel my rage well within me, and my roar awakens by brothers from their stupor. The underground soldier panics as he tries to pull the bolt back on his rifle, and I swing my club and feel my arm jolt as it smashes against his cheek, giving a satisfying crack. The man collapses and his allies panic, dropping their weapons. My brothers fill the room and I stare down at the man, his eyes open and rolled back. He is still breathing, but his cheek is mangled horribly. I kneel down and bring the end of my club against his temple, averting my eyes. I felt soft and weak.. showing him mercy.. but I didn't care. I dropped my club onto his chest and grabbed his rifle, doing as the Father had instructed me to load it with his blessed lead.

My brothers had begun to fan out, and I heard the sounds of combat echoing throughout the house. I heard the crack of gunfire and I knew it wasn't from the hands of my brothers. The Father stood in the center of the room, tending to those who returned wounded, and I gazed about the room. Such splendor and such beauty.. beautiful paintings and sculptures, and electric flame overhead. What pacificism I had in me was quickly killed, and I readied the rifle, charging blindly into the room.

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I reeled and clenched my teeth in pain as I felt the bullet sear through my shoulder. The bodies of my brothers lay near the entrance of the room, while one man knelt behind an large overturned table. They had been hit and hard charged, and met their doom. I snarled as I raised the rifle, firing and dropping him. His scream chilled my blood, and as I lowered my rifle I cried out and place my hand against my shoulder. When I looked at it, it was damp with blood, and I bit my tongue to hold back tears of pain. I could not curl up and die over one wound.. I could not give up.

I tossed the rifle aside and drew the revolver from my pants, loading six shells into the chamber. The rifle was too heavy and would hurt my shoulder if I fired it, and I need my mind cleared of all but the concept of victory. I glanced down the corridor near the overturned table and raised my pistol, wincing at the report as I shot an undergrounder in the shoulder. He wheeled towards me and one of my brothers closed in and finished him, decapitating him. I worked at moving the table and circled around it, kicking the door and darting in.

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The room was filled with women, huddled and scared of myself and my brothers. I levelled my gun and scowled, glancing about the room. Their eyes were large with fright and wet with sadness.. their men were dying behind me, and now one of the men they feared stood before them, poised to kill.

The hammer of my gun fell back with a click, eliciting a sob from one woman. My scowl faded, and I felt my eyes sting with tears as my hand trembled. Why did I hate these people? Because they were cowards? Because they taunted us and hated us?

Their men had fought as valiantly as my brothers and I.. behind me lay the husband or brother or father of one of these women, slain by my hand. Here they hid, huddled and scared from their attackers, yet many stood bravely and ready to die first.. perhaps to charge me when I had to reload and hope to slay me. Our sisters were the same when we were attacked.. when we were busy with the crazed mutants and a wolf had reached them. We lived in fear of the world... these people lived in fear of us.

I lowered my gun and felt tears streaming down my face. The book in my hand thumped to the floor and one of the women wailed, while the others looked at me warily. I was wrong. We were wrong. We were slaughtering innocents for what? Jealousy? Revenge? These people had not slighted us, but yet we loathed them.

I shut my eyes and turned away from them, lacking the will or heart to look at them. I let the backpack slip my shoulders and I shoved it away with my foot, turning away from them.

A sudden bolt of pain went through my stomach and I screamed, my eyes fluttering open. I felt something cold against my innards and I glanced down, seeing the sword that had been thrust through my stomach. I was dead. I had faltered and now one of their men has slain me. I raised my eyes to those of my killer and I felt my blood turn cold.

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His eyes were those of one of the crazed mutants.. bloodshot and pupilless. His face was wrenched into a horrible gleeful mockery of humanity. His voice trembled, but it was still the same as all the times I had heard it before.

"My sons do not falter or hesitate when commiting acts of the Lord.." The Father shoved his blade further in me and I grunted and bit back a scream. "You have failed me, my son. You have sympathy for the devil.. but I wish for you to be redeemed. Witness their death, and pray with me.. pray for your salvation in death."

He planted his hand against my chest and shoved me back while pulling on his blade. My feet tangled together and I fell on my back, pain shooting through my abdomen as I landed on the exit wound. My teeth clattered in my head and I looked up at the Father, my blood darkening and shining on his blade. What showed of the blue-steel gleamed in the light, and I felt my world begin to fade away. He stepped over me and began to speak in his Latin tongue, and the words felt heavy and evil on my ears.

I glanced to my right and saw my gun. I tried not to scream as I rolled over onto my stomach, and I tried not to look at the pool of blood that had formed when I landed on my back. I grasped the gun and raised it, my vision doubling and the edges of the world turning black. My voice seemed distant and caused my vision to tremble.

"Forgive me, Father, for my sin."

I bit my tongue hard, bringing my world back into focus. The Father stopped and turned slightly at my voice, and I pulled the trigger.

The women screamed at the report, and the Father's left eye disappeared in a gout of blood. He dropped to his knees with a short, breathless scream and collapsed before me, his sword clattering on the marble floor. I felt the strength flowing from my body and I lowered my forehead to the floor, feeling the cool stone against my forehead. My breath hitched to cry and I felt pain shoot through my body, and black flowers bloomed through my vision.

I had sinned. We all had sinned. But had I made up for it?

As my world faded to black, I heard a woman speak to me, and as I heard her blessing, a single image went through my head. The image of the garden outside, lush and beautiful, and how I would have loved to lay in the grass and feel the cool dew on my skin.. and I smiled.

[John Dyne]

How had this happened? How had they gotten down here?

The madmen from above.. the religious fanatics.. had found their way in. They had somehow figured how to work the keypad, and were now down below, slaughtering us like cattle. I huddled up to my bride-to-be and lowered my eyes, listening to the voice of the mad priest that lead those boys off in the distance. They were coming. I cast my eyes to the floor and winced when the matron spoke.

"Who among us knows how to fight? Use a gun, a sword? Stand and make yourselves known."

I stood, turning my eyes to the matron and away from my fiancee. I knew there would be a sad, torn look in her eyes, and I knew that face would make my will falter. I clenched my teeth and stepped forward with the other men. We all stood proud and tall before the matron, while the other men cast their eyes down in shame. I don't blame their cowardice.

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We spread out within the house. I was lucky to take one of the rooms further back from the door, and I was given a long barreled rifle, along with ten shells. Rationing the ammunition was difficult.. too much for the front, and we give them what we have. Too much for the back, and the front may be outgunned.

The silence made my hair stand on end. But as soon as I heard the first shot and the first scream, I longed for it. I couldn't tell who had fired and who had been hit, but a cry went out through the house, and I heard the sound of trampling feet as both sides charged. I stood firm, checking my rifle and swallowing hard.

The fighting was far ahead of me, and the women were in a room nearby. I turned one of the matron's tables over and knelt behind it, laying my rifle over the edge of the table, and I thought of my fiancee, sitting in fear in a room two doors over. I clenched my teeth and wondered why these men hated us. Why haven't we struck at them before this? I felt anger burn into my mind, thinking of the women and children in the room near me, frightened to death. I could hear the wail of a baby over the sound of battle ahead, and my hands trembled with rage. How could they put any human through this? How?!

I snapped back to focus as I noticed the white and black blur ahead of me. I blinked away my tears and ducked to the side as the boy fired at me. I heard the shell hit the table and heard the wood splinter, and winced as I ducked back up and fired. The top of his head disappeared and he stood there, dumbfounded, before collapsing. I crouched back behind the table and vomitted.

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I stood and came from behind the table, discarding my jacket to cover the mess I had left. I felt ashamed that I had done that, and felt sad for the boy. But I had no time to be sad. I stood beside the door and glanced down the hall, jerking back and wincing as a gunshot glanced the doorframe. I held my rifle round the corner and fired blindly, turning my head and shutting my eyes.

I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to kill anyone. I didn't want this to ever happen.

I heard the boy drop and felt bile rise back into my throat. I swallowed hard and moaned, shaking my head. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all.

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Thirty minutes passed.


The assault began to fall back and their vigor waned, and I knew why. I heard the voice of that madman, the priest, as he entered the house and yelled in some tongue. I didn't know have to know the language to know what it meant. He was ready to enter the battle himself.

I threw my rifle to the floor. I was out of shells and it was useless to me. I clenched my fists and lowered my eyes. I had volunteered for this.. I had sworn to fight for more than my life, but the lives of others. If I could catch one of them and wrench their weapon away or knock them out..

My concentration was shattered by the screams of the women nearby. I went ramrod straight, feeling as if electricity had run through my body. The others had failed and I had gone lax, letting them get to them. I felt blood trickle into my palms as I clenched my fists harder, in anger at myself and the above landers.

But my thoughts betrayed me again. I thought I was quick. I thought I was ready. But I heard the mad man's voice. He was in their room. I felt glued to the spot. I was strong, but fearful. And now my cowardice would allow the matron to die.

I turned to flee but I heard another voice.. this one more youthful, and filled with vengance and sorrow. Immediately after, there was a gunshot. That freed my legs and I bolted down the hall, ignoring the wounded and fallen.

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I stood there, shocked at what I was seeing. The priest lay on the floor, dead, and at my feet lay one of his boys, also dead but smiling. I stood there for a moment before my fiancee tugged me into the room, startling me.

"What happened?! What's going on here?" I demanded of her, of everyone in the room. The others remained silent, but the matron spoke, looking sadly at the boy.

"The boy there came in to kill us, but something, I don't know what, made him change. He dropped his religious instruments and turned, and was struck down by this other man.. but as the man came for me, the boy asked forgiveness for his sin, and killed the priest."

My mind reeled. Their leader was dead in this room, killed by the hand of one of his own.

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The other men were called back during the lull in combat, or as many as we had. Many of the wounded cursed and demanded they be left to fight and die, and we allowed them.

"We need to make them flee from this place, and never return. Give them a show of force." One of the men who had decided not to fight. He was suddenly filled with courage after the death of their leader. I bit back a growl and stared at the floor, thinking.

"But they outgun us three to one! If you had been out there you would know this!" The frantic voice of a spectacled man twice my age.

"So what? Look what we did here! We did fine!"

"They killed more of us than we killed of them!"

I glanced over to the priest's body as the men argued and my eyes went wide. I stood up suddenly, knocking my chair over, and grinned about. The two men fell silent and looked at me, puzzled by my sudden behavior.

"I have an idea.. it may seem grim, but this may well be the only way to deter them."

I spoke, and they listened.

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I grunted as I and the spectacled man carried the large tarp upstairs. The men there saluted us and smiled wanly as we made our way to the front balcony. We lowered the bag and crawled to the balcony ledge, tying a length of rope to the side. He began tugging on the rope as I stood, bellowing down at the boys below to get their attention. Guns and eyes turned up to me, and I felt my courage fade momentarily.

"Boys from above our world! I demand that you leave this place! You face only death here!"

The crowd protested me, cursing and taunting me. I turned to the man behind me and smirked, turning back to continue addressing the crowd.

"You were fools to attack us! Witness, and realize the fate of all your 'heroes!'"

I turned suddenly and hefted the body, hurling it over the side with strength I never knew I had. The body swung back and hit the side of the house before swinging back and forth with the noose around its neck. Below, I heard several cries of terror as they saw their leader hanging before them.

"You are defeated! Leave and never come again!"

Several fled, while others stood in shock of what they saw. I growled and gripped the balcony edge, leaning over and roaring at them.

"LEAVE! NOW!"

They snapped back to reality and turned, dropping their weapons and running off, screaming. Several fell and were trampled by the crowd, and I felt a sick satisifaction within my gut. I turned back to the man and began to speak, but I felt the color drain from my face as I collapsed.. I felt mentally and physically exhausted.

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We rested wearily that night, the leader's body hanging before the house as a silent testament any of the boys who dared attack.

None did.

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Today we have buried most of our dead and most of our wounded are healing in the pools. I stand next to the matron, a little dazed at the ceremony going on around me.

Earlier we had cut the leader's body down, and we burned his body, scattering his ashes into the ventilation system so they would spread above ground. We don't want his taint down here.

The matron turns to me and snaps me back to attention, and I lean forward as a medal is slipped around my neck. The fabric is made from the priest's robe, and the star itself is from his sword. I am honored, but I decline to speak. The glory of our victory is not mine.. it belongs to the other hero we are now celebrating.

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We all step outside, where the final cermeony is taking place. The boy who saved us.. who had only two days before been a merciless killer under the priest's control, had given his life, be it purposefully or on accident, and saved us.

The women had dressed his wounds and bathed him, dressing him in our finest garments. Around his neck he wore a medal made from his own bible's cover and the fabric of his old shirt. He lay in a coffin of our finest wood, something only the richest of us could afford. The matron stood at the head of the coffin and spoke.

"This boy.. once our foe.. is now a hero to us. He could have killed us all, but he didn't... he could have laid there and expired as his evil mentor slaughtered us.. but he didn't. His final words begged for forgiveness of his sins, and today we shall forgive him. Today, in death, he is one of us."

The matron smiled sadly as she spoke, laying her hand on the boy's pale forehead. He would have been a handsome young man..

I sigh and lower my eyes to the ground as several other men slide the boy's casket into a clearing we had cut in the wall. I close my eyes as they grunt, lifting a stone to seal the tomb, and I wonder.. was this boy's sacrifice worth it? Were we at peace now?

I feel my fiancee kiss my cheek and I smile faintly, but the thought haunts me. Is this over? Could it ever be?

Somewhere, deep inside, I don't think it is.

[Evil_Gondi]

That's really good.

[Jennivere]

I agree. More more!

[Velenka]

This is a pair of stories I wrote awhile back, based on a dream a friend wrote about. If I could remember what they told me, I'd write it out, but the basic gist of it should be picked up from the two stories. I'd also want to get their permission.

The Dream:


I live in an underground society of extremely well-cultured individuals, ruled by a middle-aged elegant woman. We are always immaculately dressed, in tuxes and ball gowns, unless we make one of those trips to the surface to interact with the native peoples there.

Underground, there are elaborate architectural wonders, miles of polished marble, and hottubs. The hottubs exist in the hospitals actually, where a thick layer of glass separates the pools from the open air. When needed, the glass covers are removed and people can climb in and be healed.

There are parties all the time. Think Grace Kelly. Think Sinatra. Think top hats. Think classy music and good wine, and that was our culture. Most everyone is caucasian or asian. There are definitely rifts between say, the Irish and the Italians, or the French and the Americans, but nothing too serious.

Above ground, it's hot, sunny, and barren. The people live in ruins of rusted metal and crumbling stone. There are mutant children born more often than not. Those who can, live in tents. They farm the barren landscape and somehow manage to make do. Once a year, everyone from the underground has to live for a week above ground. You would think that the folks on the surface would kill us, but they do not. They welcome us in and help us survive. Some archaic agreement between the surface and the below.

I go up with my fiance at the time, a man with long, dark, curly hair and a brooding stare. We race across the open landscape until we come across a small collection of tents, where we are greeted by a family. Someone we have an agreement with. Everyone is tan with dark hair. The men are absent, foraging perhaps. The women seem to know we were coming, and have prepared a large meal to celebrate. Grains, beans, strange textured meal that we find out later are dried and ground insect eggs. My fiance and I exchange a look over the food, but we eat, and surprisingly, it's delicious.

Most of the nice folks on the surface are not white. There are a few nice whites here, but most of the folks of caucasian decent up here are a part of a surface-dwelling religious order bent on destroying those who live below, in luxury. Fortunately, we do not run into any of them while we're up here.

My fiance stays with the family in the tents, and I strike out with one of the older daughters to explore the ruins a couple miles away. Crumbling stone, twisted metal, flaking paint, and bad smells. The first building we enter is surprisingly, a nursery. Wasted, tired looking mothers no older than 20. Babies swaddled in rags and on makeshift beds. The women birth in old bathrooms, where there is still running water that they can boil. There are shelves of old romance novels.

I chat with some of the women, and go to hold one of the infants. Poor thing. Has eyes, no nose, and the smallest hole in it's face for a mouth. No arms nor legs or neck, the child is more like an elongated bean. A miserable bean. I cradle the poor thing and I can feel it's perfect spine in my hands. The mother flits nervously at my side, trying to excuse the child's deformity, and that too makes me extremely sad. I sit holding the child for the rest of the evening, talking softly to the women in the nursery.

Somehow a week has passed and it's time for me and my fiance to head back below. On arrival, we are welcomed by our old friends and family. We wash up, dress up, and go back to one of the many myriad parties and balls. Friends share their experiences of the surface with outraged laughter and squeals of dismay. I fake it. I can't get that child out of my mind. My fiance grips my hand tight, in understanding.

A cry goes up, people are screaming. I look around, and in one doorway I see a mad mob of the religious fanatics form the world above. Someone calls them Jesuits but they look more like the Mormons who go door to door, but damned if they're not more like born-again Baptists with their fire and brimstone. Black slacks, white shirts, bibles under one arm, backpacks. A mad mob rush begins and my people begin to stream out of one doorway into the underground hallways to get away. There, too, are hundreds of them. Trapped between the two, my people go crazy and begin diving into the canals and sneaking through pipes.

I have no idea how I got away, but the majority of us (a small number, apparently) make it to an enclosed area where we lock ourselves up and away from the mad mob. Our leader, the eloquent woman, is in her robe and slippers, having been roused from bed. I believe it's in her house that we're collected.

Strange details remembered. Her robe is an elaborate orange and red silk printed thing, with more sashes than I could count, and big trailing sleeves. Her blond hair is up in a messy bun, and 4 mismatched earrings of copper, gold, and bone dangle from her ears.

"Who among us knows how to fight? Use a gun, a sword? Stand and make yourselves known." Her voice echoes throughout her big receiving chamber. Maybe a quarter of the people in the room stand. My fiance is one of them. I know he's a tough fighter, because he had stones and mortar fall on him and he survived.

There are rumblings outside of the chamber from the mad mob.